Sin appears to be enjoying a recent surge of popularity, and not just among the religious. From Oxford University Press's popular series on the seven deadly sins to Alan Jacobs's Original Sin: A Cultural History,Footnote ² these books address a contemporary ambivalence about the traditional religious language of sin, even as they make a case for the continuing relevance of historical conceptions of sin. To this body of literature, Gary Anderson's Sin: A History is a distinguished addition. Like the books mentioned above, it is written to be accessible to a lay audience. Unlike them, however, it is much more explicitly theological and built on a much deeper scholarly foundation. While Anderson's title is provocative, it is possibly misleading. The issue of sin is protean, and much of the recent literature has focused on the moral psychology of sin. That is not Anderson's area of concern. Rather, his focus is specifically on the operations and implications of a key metaphor for describing the relationship that sin creates between a person and God. The metaphor in question is that of sin as debt. The history that Anderson traces is the emergence and development of this metaphor both in Jewish and in Christian theology and religious practice.

Almost as important as the subject matter of the book is the method that Anderson develops in his investigation of sin as debt. As he explains in the first chapter, Anderson takes his cue from two approaches to the study of metaphor, Paul Ricœur's hermeneutical investigation in The Symbolism of Evil,Footnote ³ and the cognitive theory of metaphor as originally developed by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson in Metaphors We Live By.Footnote ⁴ Despite this starting point, the book is not particularly interested in engaging in reflection on theories of metaphor per se. What Anderson draws from both of these approaches is a conviction that generative metaphors have cognitive power. Humans simply cannot think about any number of important matters without the use of metaphors that map (and even create) the cognitive terrain. In a manner similar to Lakoff and Johnson's account of metaphorical entailments, Anderson demonstrates how the central metaphor of sin as debt generates a systemic account of other concepts and relationships connected to sin (e.g., punishment, forgiveness, atonement). What distinguishes Anderson's project from a number of explorations of particular biblical metaphors, however, is the long historical trajectory that he traces, from the beginning of Second Temple Judaism to Anselm's Cur deus homo, with an occasional look forward to the debates over sin and grace in Reformation theology. Despite the book's culmination in a discussion of an issue in Christian theology, Anderson devotes significant attention also to the centrality of the metaphor of sin as debt in rabbinic thought. In tracing the development of the metaphor, Anderson transcends the limitations of cognitive theory and draws his inspiration from Paul Ricœur's dictum that “the symbol gives rise to thought.” That is to say, Anderson is able to show how larger narratives and philosophical investigations are also made possible by the generativity of this key metaphor. In a unique fashion Anderson has combined metaphor analysis with a history of consequences.

Despite the evident productivity of Anderson's approach, one wonders at times if it is too narrowly linguistic. Anderson himself seems aware of this danger and distances himself from what he calls a linguistic determinism, in which thought about a topic would be seen as rigidly controlled by the implications of a metaphor. Nevertheless, Anderson's inquiry remains a history of ideas with surprisingly little exploration of the social and economic realia that a metaphor of sin as debt would seem to invite.

The “history” of sin to which Anderson's title refers is primarily the decisive shift in the central metaphor for sin, a change that he dates to the sixth century B.C.E. He describes this transition in Part One, “Introducing the Problem.” During the period of the First Temple two common metaphors for describing the effects of sin can be identified: sin as a stain that must be washed away (as in Ps 51:4) and, more commonly, sin as a burden to be borne unless it can be lifted off or borne away. Depending on the context, the same Hebrew verb, , can refer to the sinner's carrying of the burden of sin or to someone's carrying off the burden of sin and so releasing the sinner. Indeed, Anderson interprets the symbolism of the ritual of the Day of Atonement in Leviticus 16 in just such a fashion, with the high priest's laying of his hands upon the goat's head as a symbolic transfer of the burden of sin, which the goat then bears away into the wilderness, away from the presence of God. Anderson's claim certainly raises the larger question of the nonverbal ways in which cognitive metaphors may be encoded in behaviors and practices. There is no indication, however, that the potential for “acting out” the removal of sin envisioned as burden was ever exploited more generally. The same might be said for the metaphor of sin as stain, though this is not a topic that Anderson explores. Although the frequency of lustration rituals in biblical, Qumranic, rabbinic, and Christian practice certainly suggests the deep association of water with the capacity to cleanse and purify, the explicit association of these rituals with cleansing from sin is quite rare (possibly at Qumran, where ritual impurity and moral impurity tend to be conflated, and in Johannine and Christian baptism). In contrast, as Anderson shows in a later chapter, the metaphor of sin as debt generated a variety of practices that were consciously and explicitly linked to the conception of sin as debt. Why this metaphor generated concrete practices in a way that the others did not is difficult to say, though Anderson suggests that it is linked to the richer systematic potential of the metaphor of sin as debt. It has, as Lakoff and Johnson would put it, more entailments to be teased out.

The striking change in the dominant metaphor for sin is one that Anderson pinpoints in time (the sixth century B.C.E.) and for which he gives a simple explanation: “the influence of Aramaic” (p. 27). As Anderson demonstrates, the semantics of debt and the semantics of sin are essentially the same in Aramaic. Thus, as Aramaic came to be one of the primary languages of bilingual Jews and perhaps the only language for some Jews, so the metaphor of sin as debt displaced the metaphor of sin as burden in freely composed texts, even though the older metaphors retained some degree of presence through the citation of earlier biblical texts. The evidence Anderson assembles is ample and persuasive. The Our Father prayer in the New Testament, even though extant only in Greek, presupposes in its Matthean version (Matt 6:12) the Aramaic idiom of forgiveness of sin as remission of debt. In the rendering of Hebrew texts in the Targumim, the metaphor of sin as debt regularly substitutes for the Hebrew expression “to bear the weight of his sin.” And the new metaphor also predominates in rabbinic Hebrew. Even in texts from Qumran, where the authors attempt to write in biblical idiom, the new metaphor slips in (see CD 3:10–12) and even underwrites the possibility of a new interpretation of the forgiveness of debt in the Jubilee year (Lev 25:13; Deut 15:2–3) as forgiveness of sin in 11QMelchizedek.

While this much seems amply demonstrated, Anderson never asks the question of how the metaphor emerged in Aramaic and whether it was an innovation of Aramaic-speaking Jews or had currency also among pagans. Of course, the state of the evidence may make this an unanswerable question, but even some unanswerable questions are worth asking. The Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon project attests the use of as “incur a debt” already in Official Aramaic. The derived meaning, having to do with sin, however, is attested no earlier than in Qumran Aramaic and appears to be found only in Jewish and Christian sources. Where else might one turn for evidence of the prehistory of sin? The most likely source of additional evidence would be in the linguistic, cultural, and religious interface between Aramaic and Akkadian during the Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian periods. If one could find evidence of the metaphor in Akkadian, then it might also be possible to learn more of the impetus for the development of the metaphor itself and whether it was facilitated by practices related to Mesopotamian religious institutions. Whether or not one can uncover the origins of the metaphor, one might also inquire as to the conditions that cause it to thrive and spread. There is no evident reason why Aramaic speaking Jews might not have transferred their Hebrew idiom into dialects of Jewish Aramaic, though his does not appear to have been the case. (The Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon lists only and meaning “to carry, forgive” in Samaritan Aramaic.) Thus it is worth asking if there were conditions during the early Second Temple period that might have given the metaphor of sin as debt a kind of evolutionary advantage. While certainly relationships of indebtedness are as old as human civilization itself, is it just a happenstance that the spread of this metaphor appears to be coincident with the monetarization of the economy under the Persian empire? These questions are, in any event, the kind of socio-economic inquiries that would complement an analysis of the textual evidence that Anderson provides.

Part Two, “Making Payment on One's Debt,” contains several more or less chronological chapters illustrating the way in which the metaphor is played out in biblical, rabbinic, and early Christian texts. In examining the difficult passage in Isa 40:2 that refers to Zion's iniquity () being accepted (), Anderson identifies a facilitating semantic and conceptual link in the use of as denoting the acceptance of well-being, free will, and thank offerings. These types of sacrifices are, in essence, “a form of economic exchange” between the worshiper and the deity (Anderson, 51). The offering's being accepted is equivalent to its being credited to the worshiper's account. What one can see happening in Isaiah 40 is the spread of the metaphor to the area of atonement for sin, where it had previously not been operative. Anderson identifies the same nexus of punishment construed as an accepted repayment for a debt against God in the interpretation of exile one finds in the latest redactional levels of Leviticus 26 (vv. 33b–35, 39–45). “Devastation of the land is no longer just a punishment but a means of securing enough years of nonuse so that the land can pay back what it owes for the Sabbath years it has not observed” (Anderson, 66). Anderson, notes, but is somewhat dismissive of Milgrom's suggestion that it was the lack of cultic modes of atonement during the time that the temple was destroyed that explains the development of this metaphor (“although there may be some truth to this observation…”), noting that the appearance of the idiom “does not require the absence of the temple” (p. 66). But the absence of the temple may well be a crucial reason why the newly available metaphor found such purchase in the earliest texts of the Second Temple period. The cultural life of metaphors is best explained through the intersection of intralinguistic and sociological factors.

The interpretation of the exile as repayment for unobserved sabbatical years in Leviticus 25 was reinterpreted in the book of Daniel to cover the entire period from the exile to the time of the Antiochene persecutions in 167 B.C.E., and Anderson argues that here and in similar texts the metaphor draws into its nexus of associated meaning verbs like , , and , which are drawn from the sphere of commerce and debt and refer to the accrual and discharge of debt. While not all of the exegetical discussions are equally persuasive, the general case seems strong. Certainly, when he examines the evidence from the rabbinic period, the evidence is overwhelming that the metaphor of sin as debt is not only the central metaphor but also was being exploited for its full range of entailments, often in clever and creative analogies between the world of commerce and the world of religious obligation.

Anderson is not simply writing as a historian of religion on the track of an interesting aspect of the religious imagination, however. He is also someone who cares deeply about inter-religious understanding. Thus in this section of the book he shows that the stereotypical Christian critique of the rabbinic understanding as a “ledgerlike” understanding of sin and redemption is far from the truth. Rather, the metaphor of sin as debt allows for rich set of ways of envisioning divine grace as generous and unmerited forgiveness of debt. Anderson is also one of the few biblical scholars whose interest in reception history runs as strongly to the resources of Syriac Christianity as to the writings of the Greek and Latin West. Since the early Syriac theologians were writing in an Aramaic dialect, it is not surprising that they make extensive use of the possibilities of the metaphor of sin as debt. In the chapter on “Early Christian Thinking on the Atonement,” Anderson shows that this metaphor can be elaborated in quite different ways. The common element is the assumption that the human race's original sin has created a “bond of indebtedness.” But different theologians are divided as to whether Satan holds the bond and loses control when he demands the death of the one innocent human, Jesus (so Narsai); or whether Christ (as part of the godhead) repays the human bond owed to God in a gesture of grace (so Jacob of Serug).

One of the most interesting parts of the book is Part Three: Balancing Debts with Virtue, an investigation of how the metaphor of sin as debt created both conceptual and practical links that associate virtue with credit. Obviously, this elaboration is one of the rich entailments of the generative metaphor, and thus it is an indication of one reason why this metaphor may have squashed its rivals as a satisfying account of sin and its consequences. It is easy to see how a commercial metaphor about sin as debt would generate the mirror image of virtue as credit. What is remarkable—and here Anderson does engage in some social analysis—is the extent to which this conceptual link had profound consequences for the actual transfer of resources for the care of the destitute. Early on in the book Anderson recounts how the pagan emperor Julian (fourth century C.E.) was concerned by the fact that Christians were practicing such generosity toward the poor that it put the pagan cults to shame. Although he attempted to institute a comparable practice, the problem was that there was no religious obligation within paganism to care for the poor, a task that was considered the responsibility for the state (Anderson, pp. 10–12). Here, perhaps with the utmost clarity, one can see the far-reaching, concrete consequences of the extrapolation of the metaphor that sin is debt to God. One can discharge that debt by means of acquiring merit through alms to the poor. While theoretically any number of virtuous actions ought to be able to create a counter-balance to the weight of sinful debt, the logic of the commercial metaphor is bound to make almsgiving the pre-eminent virtue, since it most concretely involves money or its equivalent. Thus Anderson is able to explain what has often seemed inexplicable, why “righteousness” (Heb ) comes to be distinctively associated with almsgiving. Anderson locates the logic of this connection already in the wisdom literature of Proverbs and shows decisively that it is operative in the Hellenistic era narrative about Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel 4 and is especially prominent in the book of Tobit. So powerful was the appeal of almsgiving as religious expression that both Christianity and Judaism had to consider the nature and limits of heroic almsgiving.

What may be a wholly positive value in the practical world of religious charity, however, can raise questions as to the theological adequacy of the metaphor, which is what the theologians of the reformation charged when they argued that the traditional views amounted to “salvation by works” that eviscerated the power of the grace of God. To be sure, the very concreteness of the practices did lead to abuses rooted in institutional cupidity and theological distortion, as in the sale of indulgences in the Middle Ages linked to projects designed to rebuild St. Peter's in Rome. Anderson acknowledges all of this but mounts a robust theological defense of the traditional understanding, drawing particularly on Eastern theologians such as St. Ephrem, who understood the hand of the poor as the equivalent of the sacrificial altar. Almsgiving is the response of faith to the gifts of God, just as was the sacrificial service.

Anderson concludes his study with a chapter on St. Anselm's theological treatise Cur deus homo, demonstrating the deep biblical roots of Anselm's reasoning. In contrast to the proponents of the Christus Victor model of the Atonement, which Anderson shows is also a logical extrapolation from the underlying metaphor, Anselm understands God, and not Satan, to be the holder of the bond of indebtedness incurred by human disobedience. Since humans lack the currency to discharge the bond, their lot is hopeless. God, however, chooses to become incarnate, living a sinless life and going beyond the obligation to God by voluntarily surrendering his life. The extraordinary merit generated by this act is not needed by Christ but is given to those who approach God in his name. The death of Christ is thus not punishment exacted but an act of extraordinary charity, the giving of something not owed. A similar logic, Anderson demonstrates, is at work in the rabbinic exploration of Isaac's state of mind in the Aqedah. The rabbis concluded that Isaac voluntarily chose to be sacrificed, and in so doing created a fund of merit that could graciously be used to cover Israel's debts. While neither the rabbinic midrash nor Anselm's argument is explicitly “there” in the biblical texts, Anderson is correct in showing that both are logical developments from the fundamental metaphor of debt as sin. As he aptly cites Paul Ricœur, “The symbol gives rise to thought.”

What Anderson accomplishes in this deceptively simple book is truly remarkable, not only in tracing the history of a generative metaphor for sin and its extraordinary consequences for theology and the religious life but also in demonstrating how much conceptual common ground exists between and Christian thought and among the Orthodox, Catholic, and Protestant versions of Christianity. What other types of research might follow from and build upon Anderson's work? For one thing, it would be very interesting to know whether the metaphor of sin as debt continues to have currency—consciously or unconsciously—either in contemporary constructive theology or in popular religious language and practice. I suspect it is still deeply informative of popular piety but probably less so of contemporary theological reflection. In this regard it is worth remembering that, as important as the metaphor of sin as debt may be, it is only one part of the larger religious language concerning sin. The logic of debit and credit may map the territory of the consequences of sin, but the very nature of a commercial metaphor has a limited affective range (mostly in the area of anxiety and gratitude). Moreover, the metaphor of sin as debt has limited ability to explore the nature of the wrong. For these matters the religious language of the Bible has a rich range of other tropes. Many are relational metaphors: sin as rebellion, as adultery, as refusal to heed, as abandonment or rejection. Other metaphors explore the nature of the failure: sin as crossing over a boundary, as wandering from a path, going astray, missing the mark, erring. Some focus on the cognitive dimensions of sin: sin as failure to listen, failure to understand. Another set exploits the logic of the crooked and the straight, seeing sin as something that deviates from a norm. One could continue indefinitely.

As a complement to Anderson's historical inquiry into the life of a single metaphor, one would like to see a cross-cutting inquiry into the language of sin in the Bible, a study that engages more of the potential of the cognitive theory of metaphor, in order to investigate whether the various metaphors for sin are simply a jumble of ad hoc perceptions or whether they might exhibit what Lakoff and Johnson call “complex coherences” that together serve to delineate the concept of sin in a rational and consistent fashion. It is altogether irresistible to conclude by saying that scholarship is deeply indebted to Anderson for his excellent inquiry into the history of sin and that it is to his credit that he has presented the results of his scholarly research in such an accessible fashion.