Apocalypses and apocalyptic: A response to Benjamin E. Reynolds

Abstract

The Semeia 14 definition of the genre apocalypse (1979) is a landmark in the study of early Jewish and Christian apocalyptic literature. In a recent article in this journal, Benjamin E. Reynolds argues that scholars have over-emphasized the definition’s temporal component against its spatial component, and the eschatology of texts against their form. This imbalance has resulted in the misidentification of the genre and the misapplication of the label “apocalyptic” in the literature. He proposes to return to the strict use of the definition and thus a restoration of the centrality of its spatial component and generic form. While Reynolds’s attempt to restore balance is welcome, his methodology is problematic. For example, although his solution relies on a strict application of the definition, he uses its components selectively. In addition, his distinction between eschatology and apocalyptic is based on a categorical error and is not reflected in the ancient evidence. Both issues impair Reynolds’s use of the definition to detect false positives (works that have been improperly labeled apocalypses or apocalyptic) and false negatives (texts that are not normally regarded as apocalypses or apocalyptic but which in fact are). Most importantly, the genre apocalypse as defined in Semeia 14 is a weak diagnostic category. As such, the genre cannot adjudicate the application of the label “apocalyptic” across its myriad expressions.

Semeia 14 (1979) is a landmark in the study of early Jewish and Christian apocalyptic literature. Its definition of the genre apocalypse dispelled the categorical confusion that marked scholarship for much of the twentieth century. The definition was formulated by the members of the SBL Genres Project, led by John J. Collins. It consists of four components:

An “apocalypse” is a genre of revelatory literature (i) with a narrative framework, in which a revelation (ii) is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both (iii) temporal, insofar as it envisions eschatological salvation, and (iv) spatial as it involves another, supernatural world. ¹

Although the genre is a modern category, insofar as there is no evidence to indicate that an ancient author ever set out to compose “an apocalypse,” ² the definition brought a small group of early Jewish and Christian texts into sharp focus. It also functioned as a yardstick by which other texts could be rejected as apocalypses. In these reciprocal tasks, the Semeia 14 definition has proven to be so useful that it is now synonymous with the genre. ³

In a thoughtful and tightly argued article in this journal, Benjamin E. Reynolds contends that scholars have over-emphasized the definition’s temporal component against its spatial one, and the eschatology of the texts against their form. The imbalance has “narrow[ed] the definition of apocalypse and dismiss[ed] some texts that reflect non-eschatological features of apocalypses.” ⁴ Greater attention to the spatial aspects and the form of a text, he suggests, opens new possibilities for the appreciation of the apocalyptic character of works such as Jubilees and the Gospel of John.

According to Reynolds, the imbalance is rooted in the “cognitive prototype approach” by which the Semeia 14 definition was formulated. ⁵ Rather than starting with a blank slate, the members of the Genres Project selected a few baseline texts, including Daniel, 1 Enoch, and 4 Ezra, from which they identified common or recurrent features. The set of these features became the “master paradigm” of the genre, which was used as a template to identify other specimens of the genre. This paradigm, however, gave proportionally far greater weight to the temporal elements of the genre. It also led to the sense that identifying an apocalypse or apocalyptic work was simply a matter of checking off items from a list. Both features, Reynolds adds, are reflected in Table 1 of Collins’s influential book, The Apocalyptic Imagination, which goes even further in omitting all reference to spatial content. ⁶ Hence the present situation, where any text “that is dualistic, pseudonymous, and mentions angels and judgment could be called ‘apocalyptic,’” and where the hope for “eschatological judgment alone can earn a text the ‘apocalyptic’ descriptor.” ⁷ In effect, Reynolds concludes, “we have returned to the pre-Semeia 14 ‘chaos,’ when we use lists or specific features to declare a text ‘apocalyptic.’” ⁸

His solution is to return to the strict use of the Semeia 14 definition and thus restore the centrality of its spatial element and generic form to the investigation. He contends that the balanced nature of the definition, with its spatial and temporal components, makes it the ideal tool to “guide our use of the adjective ‘apocalyptic.’” ⁹ In other words, the genre apocalypse should become the primary taxonomic category and, in this capacity, adjudicate all applications of the label “apocalyptic.” The utility of the Semeia 14 definition in this role, he asserts, is confirmed by its ability to detect false positives (texts that have been identified as apocalypses or designated apocalyptic, but which in fact are not) and false negatives (texts that are not normally regarded as apocalypses or apocalyptic, but which in fact are). ¹⁰

Overall, Reynolds is to be commended for underscoring how the scholarly focus on the temporal content of texts has biased the identification of apocalypses and apocalyptic in early Judaism and Christianity. The issue is foundational to how one construes these labels and thus identifies specimens in the evidence. Seek, and one shall find (Matt 7:7), but those who seek apocalyptic texts solely through the lens of eschatology will find only eschatological texts, which may or may not be apocalyptic. The study of apocalyptic literature requires diagnostic glasses with two lenses, one temporal and the other spatial. ¹¹

Reynolds also rightly cautions against the “checklist” approach to the identification of apocalypses, where texts are measured against a list of typical features. ¹² Beyond the reasons that he cites, the larger problem is that the features of such lists inevitably reflect those of their sample sets. ¹³ Too often, the characteristics of either a small collection of works or even a single text like the Revelation of John are presumed to stand for the general category, resulting in a hasty generalization. Similarly, welcome is Reynolds’s advice that scholars should unpack the category of spatial content and recognize the diversity of otherworldly beings and otherworldly regions in the early Jewish and Christian apocalyptic texts. ¹⁴

Most importantly, Reynolds’s proposal is one of the rare studies that autopsies apocalypses and apocalyptic from the “inside out.” Most scholarship that begins with the genre apocalypse applies the label apocalyptic with little or no thought given to bridging the heuristic gaps that are inherent in this action. This is natural: an apocalypse, one might reasonably think, must be apocalyptic. ¹⁵ From there it is only a short step to the supposition that the genre can mediate what is apocalyptic.

Reynolds, however, deconstructs the genre by dismantling the definition, untangling its threads, identifying scholarly biases, and advancing a proposal that is comprehensive in its scope yet so tightly knit that it occupies only ten pages. The originality of his article resides not in the model but the mechanism. ¹⁶ As a heuristic category, the genre apocalypse is now over fifty years old, as is the supposition of its ability to define apocalyptic phenomena. The originality is the mechanism that he proposes: a return to the Semeia 14 definition, rigorously construed and, as he sees it, correctly applied.

My response should be understood in this light. I have argued elsewhere that the apocalyptic worldview (apocalypticism) is the core category that mediates the designation apocalyptic, and it would be disingenuous not to state this up front. ¹⁷ My purpose here, however, is to engage with Reynolds’s proposal on its own terms, following its own reasoning, and testing its arguments and assumptions within the pale of its internal logic.

To this end, my objective is not to make a case for what is or is not apocalyptic, or to measure Reynolds’s arguments against mine or those of other scholars. Rather, it is to determine, from the “inside out,” whether his mechanism is diagnostically strong enough to support his proposal. His false positives and false negatives are presented as proof of principle of the soundness of this mechanism. If they are shown to rest on faulty methodology, the mechanism is defective, and the model does not work. Similarly, if any of the four components of the Semeia 14 definition is shown to be diagnostically weak, this calls into question his proposal that the genre can adjudicate the application of the label apocalyptic. Indeed, as I will demonstrate, all four components fail the test.

Faulty false positives and false negatives

Reynolds contends that a stricter use of the Semeia 14 definition can eliminate the serial mislabeling of early Jewish and Christian works as apocalyptic (his false positives) or not apocalyptic (his false negatives). But a closer examination reveals that what he regards as strict is in fact selective.

Reynolds cites the book of Jubilees and the Gospel of John as examples of false negatives, that is, works that are not usually considered apocalypses or apocalyptic but are. ¹⁸ Jubilees is a revelation that is mediated by an otherworldly figure and received by the human figure of Moses. ¹⁹ Scholars remain undecided whether the work is an apocalypse or even apocalyptic. ²⁰ For Reynolds, the formal generic elements of Jubilees, in tandem with its spatial and temporal aspects, are enough to confirm that the work is an apocalypse. In this, he is correct by the standards of his proposal, since Jubilees fulfills all the criteria of the Semeia 14 definition.

The Gospel of John is a different matter. According to Reynolds, references to heaven and otherworldly beings in John are conspicuous indications of its spatial content. Thus, even though John “does not contain obvious eschatological content,” its “alignment . . . with the form and content of apocalypses should allow us to call its revelatory form ‘apocalyptic.’” ²¹ But spatial content is only one component of the Semeia 14 definition. Another is the specification that the revelation in an apocalypse is “mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient.” Where in John does such otherworldly mediation appear? Although Jesus imparts revelatory information to his disciples or the people, such passages are scattered throughout the Gospel and are quite unlike the revelatory visions of Daniel 7-12, 1 Enoch, and 4 Ezra. In those apocalypses, the revelation constitutes the entire text and is mediated by an obviously otherworldly figure that often interprets the vision to the single pseudonymous human recipient.

In short, the Gospel of John may or may not be apocalyptic (I think that it is), but Reynolds’s position on the issue cannot be considered determinative. If the Semeia 14 definition is to regulate all applications of the adjective apocalyptic, one cannot insist on one component (spatial content) while ignoring another (otherworldly mediation). If John is to be designated apocalyptic, it must be on grounds other than the definition. This in turn casts doubt on the definition’s ability to determine false negatives.

Reynolds cites the War Scroll (1QM) and Mark 13 as cases of false positives, that is, works that are often considered apocalypses or apocalyptic but are not. ²² He argues that although the War Scroll and other sectarian documents from the Dead Sea share several features with the formal apocalypses, they cannot be called apocalyptic “merely because they relate conflict between good and evil and judgment of the wicked.” After all, he asserts, “even the psalms and prophets from Israel’s Scriptures reflect this conceptual structure.” ²³

This statement violates Reynolds’s prime directive that the genre apocalypse, as defined in Semeia 14, is the sole mediator of the label apocalyptic. The genre must define apocalyptic eschatology, apocalyptic soteriology, and so on. The reverse must also be true: apocalyptic eschatology is the eschatology of the apocalypses. Here, Reynolds follows Collins, who states, “The debate over the definition of the genre leads us back to the question of apocalyptic eschatology. The touchstone here must be the kind of eschatology that is found in the apocalypses.” ²⁴ What, then, is the eschatology that is found in the formal apocalypses?

Eschatological expectations in the early Jewish and Christian apocalypses number in the hundreds. But the parameters of the question determine the answer. In the apocalypses, the imminent judgment that ends the conflict between good and evil is imagined as a supra-historical and otherworldly event that is preceded by a resurrection of the dead. The one-time resurrection and eschatological judgment of the dead is the hallmark element of every specimen of the genre as identified in Semeia 14, including the paradigmatic apocalypses Daniel, 1 Enoch, and 4 Ezra. ²⁵ The combination of resurrection and judgment is an essential feature of apocalyptic eschatology, if the genre is the arbiter.

There is no evidence of this hallmark element among the “psalms and prophets.” Even if one hews to the contested view that Isa 26:19 refers to a resurrection of the dead, the passage lacks the expectation for a final judgment. Similarly, while Ezekiel 40–48 envisions eschatological salvation as occurring beyond normal time and space, the passage does not refer to either resurrection or eschatological judgment.

It is vital not to lose sight of the point here. Although I disagree with the premise that the genre apocalypse defines apocalyptic eschatology (see below), it is essential to Reynolds’s proposal. The “conflict between good and evil” and “judgment of the wicked” might be reflected in some psalms and prophets, but are not the defining features of the eschatology of his core category, the apocalypses, and thus are not determinative. ²⁶ In short, the War Scroll may or may not be apocalyptic (it probably is, despite its fragmentary state), but Reynolds disqualifies it as apocalyptic in a manner that violates his own methodology. This in turn casts doubt on the mechanism by which he contends that false positives are identified.

Similarly problematic is Reynolds’s claim that Mark 13 is neither a formal apocalypse or even apocalyptic. ²⁷ His rationale is that “Jesus’s discourse in Mark 13 is an eschatological discourse and not an apocalyptic discourse.” ²⁸ This distinction, however, is the result of a category error. ²⁹ Eschatology and apocalyptic are not commensurable categories. They cannot be compared or contrasted, any more than eschatology can be compared or contrasted with millennialism. ³⁰ Eschatology is the study or doctrine of the last things, of which there are many varieties. ³¹ Apocalyptic eschatology is simply one kind of eschatology, just as prophetic eschatology is another. ³² Although they share many features and expectations, key assumptions distinguish apocalyptic eschatology from other kinds of eschatology. ³³

In short, Mark 13 may or may not be apocalyptic (I think that it is), but Reynolds’s argument on the issue cannot be considered determinative. As categories, apocalyptic and eschatology are related but not commensurate. The only method by which the designation apocalyptic may be applied or withheld from a text with reference to its eschatology is to demonstrate that its eschatology is or is not apocalyptic. This in turn undermines his methodology for determining false positives.

Eschatology and apocalyptic

The distinction that Reynolds draws between eschatology and apocalyptic is not new. In 1967, Rudolf Bultmann proposed the same, albeit on different grounds, ³⁴ in response to his student Ernst Käsemann’s precept that apocalyptic is the “mother” of Christian theology. ³⁵ While the impulse to quarantine eschatology from apocalyptic does not concern us here, the nature of the relationship between the two categories does. It is a question of the first order, since it informs how one construes “apocalyptic” and thus how one explains its origins, contours, and social functions.

To begin, Reynolds’s distinction between eschatology and apocalyptic further undercuts his claim that the Gospel of John is apocalyptic even though it “does not contain obvious eschatological content.” It is important to be clear. The point is not whether John does or does not have an eschatological component (I think that it does), but that Reynolds’s statement that John is not eschatological violates his prime directive. The Semeia 14 definition states that an apocalypse must have a temporal aspect and that this aspect “envisions eschatological salvation.” That is, an apocalypse must have an eschatological dimension. Therefore, if one claims that John is not eschatological, it cannot be apocalyptic according to the definition of the genre. It is difficult to reconcile this logic with Reynolds’s argument.

More serious is the implication that eschatology is not an essential component of apocalyptic literature. The pitfall here is obvious: without a temporal dimension, potentially any revelatory text, regardless its content, may be labeled apocalyptic. This result is neither an abstract thought-experiment nor an argument reductio ad absurdum but forms the central part of Christopher Rowland’s approach to apocalyptic literature.

Rowland defines apocalyptic, which he uses as a noun, as “the revelation of heavenly mysteries.” ³⁶ He argues that revelatory content is expressed along two axes: the eschatological or horizontal axis, and the cosmological or vertical axis. These axes are functionally analogous to the temporal and the spatial dimensions of the Semeia 14 definition. Where Rowland differs from Semeia 14 is his assertion that eschatology is not a necessary component of apocalyptic. On this matter, he is unambiguous. “In our attempt to ascertain the essence of apocalyptic,” he writes, “no place was found for eschatology in our definition.” ³⁷ And again:

. . . a dominant feature of the mysteries revealed to the apocalypticists is the secret of the future, particularly with regard to Israel. To say that, however, is not the same as saying that eschatology is a constitutive feature of apocalyptic. An apocalypse often does contain much eschatological material, but it need not. ³⁸

Rowland’s position on apocalyptic and eschatology informs Reynolds’s own. He writes,

Christopher Rowland . . . noted that eschatology, while being important to apocalypses, is not what makes apocalypses distinctive. Spatial content and various other mysteries are revealed in apocalypses, and it is this revelation and disclosure of heavenly mysteries, mysteries that include temporal content, that is central to apocalypses. Rowland has been accused of contending that eschatology is absent from apocalypses, but his point is that eschatology is not central to apocalypses and should not therefore dominate our understanding or description of them. ³⁹

Rowland’s position is unsupportable both in its method and in view of the ancient evidence. From the standpoint of method, its underlying definition is too baggy. While “the revelation of heavenly mysteries” accurately describes what occurs in an apocalyptic text, it also describes what occurs in many other kinds of revelatory works. Consider the vision of the writing on the wall in Daniel 5. The revelation is heavenly, since it is communicated by means of an otherworldly hand that inscribes the message for its intended audience. The content of the message is a mystery, since only the wise Daniel can interpret its meaning. While these two criteria satisfy Rowland’s definition, it is hard to see how the designation apocalyptic applies to Daniel 5. Its four-word revelatory message about the fate of Belshazzar and his kingdom (5:25) is a simple political prophecy of a type that was common across the ancient Near East and the classical world. ⁴⁰ With Daniel 5, as in all such cases, Rowland’s definition is unable to distinguish apocalyptic disclosure from prophecy or potentially other kinds of revelatory works such as dream-visions and oracles.

From the standpoint of the evidence, the position that eschatology is not an essential component of apocalyptic is without basis in the ancient literature. In a recent paper on “revealed things” in apocalyptic texts, I conclude that

In the final analysis, every apocalyptic text has an eschatological dimension. No type, kind, or category of apocalyptic writing is without an eschatological component. Any heuristic approach to “apocalyptic” that presumes an absolute distinction between eschatological and non-eschatological texts is contradicted by the literary evidence, including the early Jewish apocalyptic texts that are held to be exemplary of such approaches. Apocalyptic speculation can include many things besides eschatology, but it is never anything less than eschatological. ⁴¹

In sum, whereas not every eschatological text is apocalyptic, any text that lacks an eschatological horizon cannot be apocalyptic.

Apocalypses and apocalyptic

The diagnostic utility of the Semeia 14 definition is extremely strong in its intended capacity. The moment, however, that the definition is used to guide the use of the adjective apocalyptic, this utility plunges. There are multiple reasons for this. Those that refer to apocalyptic speculation in its historical and global contexts (which are the most germane) are beyond the scope of this response. ⁴² Instead, I present three arguments that focus on early Judaism and Christianity and thus bear directly on Reynolds’s proposal and its mechanism. The first argument audits the individual components of the Semeia 14 definition, the second considers the definition in its totality, while the third focuses on the genre apocalypse as a literary genre. There is some overlap among the arguments, since they have a common premise and conclusion, but they are contextualized differently. While each argument is determinative, as a group they are conclusive.

(1) The Semeia 14 definition consists of four components: (i) a narrative framework; (ii) an otherworldly mediator figure; and what Reynolds calls the (iii) spatial and (iv) temporal aspects of the genre. Functionally, these components are criteria. A work of revelatory literature is an apocalypse if it satisfies all four criteria. The work is not an apocalypse if even one criterion is unsatisfied. This is the basis of Reynolds’s argument, particularly his attention to the spatial aspect of the Semeia 14 definition, by which he identifies false positives and false negatives. In this manner, the definition operates as a yardstick against which revelatory works are measured. If the work fits the measure, it is an apocalypse.

None of the four components of the Semeia 14 definition is diagnostically robust enough to regulate the designation of the label apocalyptic. The first criterion is an obvious illustration. A narrative framework is inconsonant with non-literary expressions like art or music (except some lyrics) ⁴³ or with social groups. Even within the realm of literature, does this criterion mean that non-narrative genres such as rule texts, hymns, prayers, or letters are automatically excluded from consideration?

Similarly defective is the criterion that the revelation must be mediated by an otherworldly being. While such figures are a signature feature of Daniel 7–12, 1 Enoch, and 4 Ezra, they are not the only means by which heavenly revelation is imagined in early Jewish and Christian works. It also can be transmitted via human oracles (like the Sibyls), deathbed testaments, and unmediated visions or dreams, as well as hidden tablets, books, and other relics of the past on which heavenly information is purported to have been recorded. Are we to conclude that apocalyptic testaments and oracles are mislabeled because their revelation is not conveyed via an otherworldly mediator? A definition that insists on a single vehicle of otherworldly revelation disqualifies itself from adjudicating an adjective whose literary expressions include a host of other vehicles.

Diagnostic weakness also overshadows the last two components of the Semeia 14 definition, the presumption of a supernatural world and the expectation for eschatological salvation. Each criterion is too nebulous to be useful. For instance, most religious systems presume the efficacious presence of a supernatural world. The Hebrew Bible is replete with examples that demonstrate the point, whether in the form of prayers or psalms to God or as part of larger conceptual structures such as the Deuteronomistic theology of history. Tellingly, however, not one prayer or psalm in the Hebrew Bible is apocalyptic. ⁴⁴ Many religious systems also anticipate eschatological salvation, as in the descriptions of the Nahuatl underworld (Mictlān), or post-mortem recompense or retribution for one’s deeds on earth, as in the Japanese Buddhist “Hell Scrolls” (jigokuzōji). These are only a few illustrations of a common phenomenon.

One might counter that generic definitions should be deployed more as an approximate template (recipe) than a precise yardstick (blueprint). From this perspective, literary genres are better described as a loose constellation of features than defined as a fixed set of components. ⁴⁵ Following the tenets of modern genre theory, one might also recognize how the fluidity of literary genres operate in kinship with other genres. ⁴⁶

But this is not how Reynolds construes the genre. His argument turns on a rigorous interpretation of the definition. It is the mechanism that stands behind his proposal. Nor is it the way that the definition is deployed in Semeia 14. That the definition identifies a mere forty-odd examples of the genre across eight centuries of ancient Judaism and Christianity testifies to the precision of its intended function. Although a more fluid definition and a less precise application would identify apocalypses, quasi-apocalypses, proto-apocalypses, and apocalypse-like works, such a nebula of indeterminately related categories would undermine the stated purpose of the SBL Genres Project, that is, to identify apocalypses and isolate them from other genres of revelatory literature and identify its specimens. Above all, the presumption of generic fluidity does not obviate the necessity of definitional functionality. The failure of even one component in a constellation-style definition is enough to undermine its diagnostic usefulness. If it does not, that component is not essential to the definition. ⁴⁷

Even so, for the sake of argument let us assume that Reynolds’s proposal is better served by a more elastic view of literary genres and a less rigorous application of the Semeia 14 definition. In this case, the stipulation of otherworldly mediation could be jettisoned. It is the definition’s weakest link and the spot where the cognitive prototype approach of the SBL Genres Project is most conspicuous. But does a constellation approach to genres offer a viable alternative when every component of the Semeia 14 definition is diagnostically unsound? How fluid is too fluid? If we reject the stipulation of otherworldly mediation, can the narrative descriptions of a soul’s journey through the otherworldly levels of Mictlān be called apocalyptic, since they satisfy the other three criteria? Recall the issue is not whether the definition is well formed but whether the genre thus defined can regulate the adjective apocalyptic across the full range of its potential expressions. It is impossible to escape the conclusion that the genre apocalypse is unable to function in this capacity when all four components of its formal definition are weak.

(2) Scholars have identified between thirty and forty apocalypses in early Judaism and Christianity. ⁴⁸ Some authorities (incorrectly, in my view) also recognize the genre in classical Greece and Rome, the Rabbinic corpus, or ancient Zoroastrianism. ⁴⁹ Whether every one of these works is an apocalypse according to the Semeia 14 definition is not under scrutiny here. Rather, as a group, these forty-odd apocalypses must be weighed against ten times that number of early Jewish and Christian apocalyptic works that appear in other literary genres, including hymns, psalms, prayers, rules, Gospels, testaments, oracles, letters, tractates, and commentaries of all types. Indeed, if we accept that Christianity is an apocalyptic religion and has been since its inception, every known Christian text since the earliest letters of Paul is apocalyptic in some elemental way. ⁵⁰

The Semeia 14 definition cannot adjudicate the adjective apocalyptic with respect to these other literary genres. This is not a matter of whether the definition’s components are faulty, as I discuss in the previous sub-section, but the incapacity of the definition in its totality. Take Sibylline Oracle 3 as a test case. As its name suggests, it is an oracle, which is a genre of revelatory literature. Following Reynolds’s argument, if Sibylline Oracle 3 aligns with the four components of the Semeia 14 definition, it should be labeled apocalyptic—that is, it is an apocalyptic oracle. Yet, if Sibylline Oracle 3 aligns with the definition, it must also be an apocalypse—by the same definition!

The mechanism is clearly defective. The issue is not whether Sibylline Oracle 3 is an apocalyptic oracle (I think that it is) or has an apocalyptic eschatology (I think that it does), but whether an oracle or any other literary genre can be designated apocalyptic by the yardstick of the genre apocalypse. The Semeia 14 definition measures whether a text is an apocalypse. If the measurement registers positive, the text must be an apocalypse. The definition cannot measure whether other literary genres are apocalyptic. Using it to determine whether an oracle or any other genre of revelatory writing is apocalyptic is like using a yardstick to measure a foot, meter, cubit, or any other unit of measurement. It is the wrong tool for the job.

The flip side of the argument is equally faulty. If we apply the Semeia 14 definition in its strict sense, as Reynolds intends, Sibylline Oracle 3 in fact cannot be designated apocalyptic because its revelatory information is communicated by a human mediator, a Sibyl. But by the same criterion, neither can the Delphic oracle in classical Greece or the oracle of Zeus-Ammon in ancient Libya. A definition that intends to differentiate apocalyptic texts from non-apocalyptic texts yet cannot distinguish Sibylline Oracle 3 from non-apocalyptic oracles is again, but for different reasons, the wrong tool for the job.

(3) Ultimately, no literary genre can serve in the capacity that Reynolds proposes, whatever the mechanism. The arguments that disqualify the Semeia 14 definition from mediating the adjective in its literary expressions also preclude its use in describing concepts such as apocalyptic anthropology, historiography, epistemology, eschatology, sociology, and soteriology, and in clarifying the relationship between apocalyptic and related categories such as fundamentalism, gnosticism, messianism, millenarianism, millennialism, mysticism, and prophecy.

One example illustrates both problems. Several texts that are preserved among the Nag Hammadi codices and related manuscripts are apocalypses according to the formal definition. Frances T. Fallon identifies several of these “gnostic apocalypses” in his contribution to Semeia 14. ⁵¹ The eschatology of most of these apocalypses, however, is not identical to the eschatology of the early Jewish apocalypses that are identified by the Semeia 14 definition. For example, the eschatology of the Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3) differs from that of 4 Ezra, which is one of the prototypical apocalypses. This is readily demonstrated by contrasting the premises that inform their end-time expectations. ⁵² What this means is that the Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter and the other gnostic apocalypses do not exhibit an apocalyptic eschatology. In other words, these apocalypses—identified as such in Semeia 14—are not apocalyptic.

A paradox suggests that one’s premises and/or reasoning is awry. In this case, it is the premise. The paradox is resolved when we recall that both 4 Ezra and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter (ancient documents) are apocalypses only in the light of the Semeia 14 definition (a modern category). By itself, the paradox poses no problem. Not every prophecy, for instance, has a prophetic eschatology or an eschatological horizon, yet “prophecy” and “prophetic literature” remain useful categories. The paradox is disruptive only when one deploys the genre apocalypse to arbitrate the applications of the adjective apocalyptic, which places it in conflict with the hard evidence of the eschatology.

Ezekiel 40–48 is another illustration of the point. It fulfills all four stipulations of the definition: its revelation (i) is set within a narrative framework, (ii) is related by an otherworldly being (40:3–4), (iii) is spatial in that it involves a supernatural world, and (iv) is temporal in that it culminates with the expectation of eschatological salvation. Therefore, by the yardstick of the definition, Ezekiel 40–48 is an apocalypse, even though, as explained, its eschatology is not apocalyptic. The paradox is resolved when one discards the premise that the genre can mediate the application of the label apocalyptic. While the Semeia 14 definition can suggest the shape of apocalyptic eschatology, it cannot define it. The same holds true for apocalyptic anthropology, epistemology, historiography, sociology, and soteriology.

More challenging are social groups. By what measure can any social group or movement be understood as apocalyptic? Is every millenarian group apocalyptic or do all apocalyptic groups espouse a millennial outlook by definition? Is fundamentalism a characteristic marker of apocalyptic groups? Potentially every element is in play in such questions: a group’s literary output, its other media expressions, its self-identification (verbal and non-verbal), its patterns (rules, rituals, and other behaviors), and so on.

The issue is not whether apocalyptic communities exist (they do), or whether such questions can be answered (they can). Rather, it is whether the Semeia 14 definition can bridge the heuristic gap that permits a literary genre to designate social groups as apocalyptic. Consider, by means of example, the group or groups that are known to us from the Dead Sea Scrolls and other ancient manuscripts from the Judaean Desert. Scholars often refer to these groups as “apocalyptic,” while acknowledging that there is no evidence that their members ever composed a formal apocalypse. This fact alone should cause one to pause before promoting the genre apocalypse as the primary taxonomic category. The same argument applies to early Christianity. ⁵³ Did apocalypticism in Christianity only appear with the first Christian apocalypses?

In the final analysis, the Semeia 14 definition lacks the diagnostic strength to function as Reynolds proposes. The definition distinguishes an apocalypse from other types of revelatory genres, but it cannot reliably separate things that are apocalyptic from things that are not apocalyptic. Any investigation that proceeds from the definition of the genre to larger phenomena moves from the specific to the general, rather than the other way round. It is like defining a tree based on a description of one of its branches, rather than understanding that the branch is only one part of the tree.

Conclusion

As scholarship stands today, no approach to “apocalyptic” can answer every question that might be asked of the evidence in all its complexity. Each approach has its strengths and weaknesses. Fifty years on, the Semeia 14 definition has now become

. . . one among several useful approaches to the investigation of “apocalyptic” and apocalyptic literature. This situation reflects the current academic climate, with renewed attention and engagement with methods and critical theory from elsewhere in the humanities and social sciences. Here the Semeia 14 definition retains its heuristic value, but in the sense that it was originally intended, as a tool that scholars can opt to use, as the case suggests—or perhaps to use in tandem with other tools in one’s belt. ⁵⁴

While there is truth in this quotation, it is a conditional truth. The “toolkit” method is best for questions that require only a working appreciation of apocalyptic phenomena. From this perspective, it is the fruit that counts, not the root. The generic approach better explains the character and purposes of Daniel and 4 Ezra, while Rowland’s approach sheds more light on apocalypticism in the New Testament. ⁵⁵ The utility of any approach is measured by the quality of its results.

From the global perspective, however, I agree with Reynolds that the label apocalyptic can and must be applied precisely. As the pioneering naturalist Carl Linnaeus observed, the first step of science is to know one thing from another. ⁵⁶ The precision of scientific enquiry, to be sure, is not possible in a field where genre, eschatology, and worldview are categories and where the evidence is incomplete and open to bias and interpretation. Every social-scientific model or approach will encounter a few outliers that do not fit.

That said, any robust approach will explain the bulk of the relevant evidence in a meaningful fashion. It will also identify what constitutes evidence. Apocalyptic is a root category, in that it can be applied to a wide range of phenomena that must be differentiated from other kinds of phenomena. It is not possible to grasp the distinctive nature of apocalypticism or its revolutionary influence in early Judaism and Christianity without a clear and sharp definition of apocalyptic. The blade of the Semeia 14 definition is too dull to serve in this capacity.