Don’t Mess with Judah

by Eliezer Segal

It’s one of the tensest and most climactic moments of the biblical Joseph saga. Judah has been placed in a hopeless predicament. The viceroy of Egypt Zaphnath Paaneah (who has not yet revealed himself as Joseph) has been accusing Jacob’s sons of espionage and incriminated Benjamin by planting a royal cup among his bags. Furthermore, Judah guaranteed their father Jacob that Benjamin would be returned safely to his home; and pledged that he would substitute himself for his brother if matters should reach that desperate point. In a régime that is absolute and tyrannical, there is not the faintest hope that Benjamin will be found innocent or pardoned.

It is at this point that Judah launches into a lengthy speech before the viceroy. 

What was the purpose of that speech?

In their “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” Tim Rice and Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber accompany the speech with a chorus repeating the word “Grovel!” and that, it would appear, is an accurate understanding of Judah’s intention. Powerless before the viceroy’s authority and with no expectation of persuading him of their innocence, all he can do is throw himself at the mercy of the court and repeat his version of how the innocent brothers were cast into this tragic situation, emphasizing the cruel suffering it would cause to their aged father (“ye will bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave”).

Some interpreters discerned in Judah’s words a more subtle strategy, in which he was attempting to argue as compelling a case as he could without openly contradicting his powerful accuser. This was evident in the way he enhanced the pathos of Jacob’s suffering in order to elicit compassion. 

Thus, according to one midrashic comment, Judah hinted that there was something suspicious about the way the ruler singled out for interrogation this particular Hebrew family from among the visitors from many lands who had come to purchase food in Egypt. Furthermore, Judah “reminded” Zaphnath Paaneah that he had expressed a wish to “set mine eyes upon” Benjamin—which seemed to imply a commitment to his personal safety. 

Perhaps no scholar was so appreciative of Judah’s argumentative skills as the fifteenth-century Italian author Rabbi Judah Messer Leon. He was immersed in the ethos of Renaissance humanism which drew inspiration from the masterpieces of ancient Greek and Latin civilizations. In addition to his commitments to philosophy and science, Messer Leon was especially fascinated by the discipline of rhetoric, as professed by Cicero and Aristotle (according to the attributions and interpretations current in his day). Messer Leon’s best-known book, entitled “Nofet Ṣufim” [Honeycomb] was devoted principally to expositions of those works, but from a distinctly Jewish perspective. Whereas the standard non-Jewish treatises culled their examples from Greek and Latin texts, Messer Leon strove to prove that the most perfect examples of rhetorical elegance are to be found in the Hebrew scriptures.

It was in this connection that the Nofet Ṣufim cited Judah’s oration to Joseph as an object lesson in how to apply the techniques of rhetoric to the crafting of a persuasive oration. The speech begins by ingratiating the speaker to his audience, eliciting the listener’s affection and compassion by means of self-deprecation and flattery (for instance, by praising the viceroy as equal to Pharaoh). Judah selected the details of his narrative very carefully so as to anticipate potential questions or arguments (but without disagreeing explicitly). Like all well-crafted lectures, this one concludes with a succinct recapitulation of its main argument. 

By demonstrating the perfect conformity of the Hebrew Bible to classical literary aesthetics, Messer Leon wished to enhance the enjoyment that Jews may derive from reading their holy scriptures.

When you read Judah’s speech through Rashi’s traditional commentary, you get a very different picture of its meaning and of the relationship between the protagonists. Judah is neither grovelling nor restraining himself with tactical caution. Quite the contrary, Rashi understands every word that leaves Judah’s lips as an expression of confident—even threatening—assertiveness.

Thus, when Judah began by saying “Let not thine anger burn against thy servant,” it was not because he was afraid of offending his superior. Just the opposite—he was ordering him to calm down. And when he compared the viceroy to Pharaoh, he was evoking the precedent of that earlier Pharaoh who suffered divine punishment for abducting Sarah. Judah was actually challenging his opponents to a showdown: “If you challenge me, then I’ll kill both you and your boss!”

Rashi acknowledged that these interpretations were not supported by the literal sense of the biblical text, but were found in the Midrash. For the sages of the Midrash, the characters in scriptural narratives are not one-time historical or literary personages but embody recurring concepts and religious values. The figure of Judah, ancestor of the Davidic royal dynasty, symbolized the nation’s pride in its dealings with the other nations of the world. During the era of the Midrash, this would have reflected Jewish pride vis à vis their Roman occupiers. 

These differing attitudes might underlie a second-century rabbinic dispute about our text: “Rabbi Judah says: He approached ready for combat… Rabbi Nehemiah says: He approached him for conciliation… The Rabbis say: He approached in prayer…” Several sages enlarged on Rabbi Judah’s premise, insisting (based on ingenious interpretations of the biblical wording) that Judah and his brothers were physically powerful enough to overpower the Egyptians if Benjamin were not released. 

Rabbi Eleazar concluded that each one of the options might be a valid one, depending on the circumstances. As Rabbi Bahya ben Asher observed: “Judah had in mind all three possibilities… He took the attitude of one who approaches fully armed, prepared for battle, and then declares: “Take your choice: Do you prefer to have recourse to legal adjudication, to conciliation, or to battle?”

The Jewish nation continues to find itself in situations where we must choose between these same options. 

Hopefully, we will find the wisdom to make the correct choices.

• First publication:
  • The Alberta Jewish News, December 19, 2023, p. 15.
• For further reading:
  • Bonfil, Robert. “The ‘Book of the Honeycomb’s Flow’ by Judah Messer Leon: The Rhetorical Dimension of Jewish Humanism in Fifteenth-Century Italy.” Jewish History 6, no. 1/2 (1992): 21–33.
  • Hughes, Aaron W. “Translation and the Invention of Renaissance Jewish Culture: The Case of Judah Messer Leon and Judah Abravanel.” In The Hebrew Bible in Fifteenth-Century Spain : Exegesis, Literature, Philosophy, and the Arts, edited by Jonathan Decter and Arturo Prats, 259–94. BRILL, 2012.
  • Leibowitz, Nehama. Studies in the Book of Genesis in the Context of Ancient and Modern Jewish Bible Commentary. Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, Dept. for Torah Education and Culture, 1972.
  • Rabinowitz, Isaac, ed. The Book of the Honeycomb’s Flow: Sēpher Nopheth Ṣuphim. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983.
  • Twiss, Paul. “An Overlooked Aspect of Judah’s Speech in Genesis 44:18-34.” Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 65, no. 3 (September 2022): 457–71.

My email address is: [email protected]

“When the Wicked Greek Empire Arose…”

by Eliezer Segal

The familiar Hanukkah story begins with the emperor Antiochus IV “Epiphanes” outlawing the practice of the Jewish religion and compelling the Jews of his domain to observe heathen rites devoted to Greek deities. 

This narrative is found in the most detailed chronicle of the events, the works known as the Books of Maccabees, and in its general outlines it is consistent with other ancient versions. 

And yet it is precisely that aspect of the story that historians have found baffling. 

Why should Antiochus have wanted to tamper with Judaism in the first place?

If you learned about Hanukkah in a traditional Jewish setting, then this question might strike you as superfluous. Isn’t it obvious that disdain for Jews and Judaism is built into the fabric of gentile culture? Haven’t idolatrous nations always felt threatened by the ethical monotheism that challenges their immoral lifestyles? In these respects there is no difference between Antiochus and all the other malevolent oppressors of history.

In reality, however, the historical context of Hanukkah is quite distinct. The hellenistic régimes that ruled the Mediterranean basin had an admirable record for respecting their subjects’ religious traditions. This was true of the Ptolemaic dynasty centred in Egypt, which governed Judea in the third and second centuries B.C.E.; and more so of the Seleucids, based in Syria, who dominated from the early second century. Antiochus III, father of the Hanukkah villain, actively supported Jewish religious institutions (as a reward for their backing him against his Ptolemaic rivals); he channelled resources for the upkeep of Jerusalem and its temple, and granted the Jews a large measure of political and cultic autonomy.

At any rate, Antiochus IV’s aggressive religious persecution marked a radical departure from any previous imperial policy, and it is not explained satisfactorily by the ancient historians.

It has been suggested that Antiochus’s eccentric personality is enough to account for his anti-Jewish policies without having to seek any deeper reasons. In ways that call to mind the bizarre antics of Roman emperors like Caligula or Nero, he had a reputation for mingling among the commoners and bestowing elaborate gifts on complete strangers. 

There are some scholars who see Antiochus’s persecution of Judaism as a natural outgrowth of the ideology of hellenism which was driven by a missionary urge to civilize the barbarian peoples. Unlike other subject nations, the Jews did not possess a pantheon of gods that could be conveniently grafted onto the Greek pantheon. That fact would have vexed Antiochus.

Some scholars have proposed that economics furnished the main motive for Antiochus’ strange policy. Pressures on the royal treasury were exacerbated by debts to Rome, by a lengthy military campaign by the Seleucids against their Ptolemaic rivals, and by Antiochus’ own extravagant lifestyle. This impelled him to support factions in the Jewish community who were ready to tolerate his pilfering of sacred treasures of the Jerusalem temple, and to ruthlessly suppress traditionalists who resisted such sacrilege.

Antiochus might even have absorbed some of his attitudes during a period that he spent as a political hostage in Rome, where he could have observed Roman policies like the outlawing of certain religious cults or the forcing of hellenism on some ethnic minorities.

One hypothesis goes so far as to suggest that the whole story of Antiochus’s persecutions should be treated with skepticism, because the Hasmonean propagandists who composed the books of Maccabees  might simply have been recycling a standard motif of Babylonian royal propaganda that liked to depict the current monarch as the restorers of the ancestral religion that had been suppressed by their predecessors.  

One of the most popular theories was formulated eloquently by the eminent twentieth-century historian Elias Bickerman. He insisted that the impetus for Antiochus’ suppression of traditional Judaism is not to be sought in Seleucid ideological or political interests, but rather, the king was drawn into the sectarian infighting of Jewish factions in Jerusalem. There were influential groups, led by prominent members of the priesthood, who were determined to modernize their religion so as to integrate better with the cosmopolitan hellenistic culture that defined civilization for much of the world. Their radical ideology aroused so much opposition among the Jewish traditionalists that its proponents had to solicit support from the Seleucid government.

The preceding scenario finds strong support in the narratives of the books of Maccabees and in the biblical book of Daniel, which reflects the concerns of traditionalists on the eve of the Hasmonean revolt. 

Howsoever we might choose to assess the merits of Bickerman’s theory, it has been called into question for another reason: the historian was accused of anachronistically imposing his personal perspectives on the historical facts. In particular, his descriptions of the assimilationist forces in ancient Jerusalem seemed significantly shaped by the experiences of the radical Jewish reformers in Germany (as well as of Jewish communists in Russia) who had sought futilely to gain acceptance by abandoning Jewish beliefs and practices. The fragmented Jewish communities were therefore unable to offer effective resistance to the rising Nazi party.  

It did not help Bickerman’s credibility that a very similar equation of ancient hellenists with modern reformers had been proposed by a prominent nineteenth-century theological apologist for Jewish orthodoxy, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch.

Academic scholars tend to be very suspicious of attempts to view the events of the past through contemporary lenses. Nevertheless, there is no denying that human nature remains constant over the ages; so it does not seem inherently implausible that internal communal discord could render us vulnerable to attacks from our enemies. Recent experiences confirm, of course, that  irrational hatred of Jews and Judaism is indeed a persistent historical phenomenon.

Bickerman’s enthusiastic praises for the Maccabean resistance to oppression, in a work published in 1937, offered encouragement to Jews suffering under the Nazi persecutions.

So too, we might find legitimate encouragement in the historical lesson of a united Jewish nation successfully combating the onslaughts of our haters and oppressors.

• First publication:
• The Alberta Jewish News, November 22, 2023, p. 38.
• For further reading:
• Baumgarten, Albert I. Elias Bickerman as a Historian of the Jews A Twentieth Century Tale. 1st ed. Vol. 131. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010.
• ———. “Elias Bickerman on the Hellenizing Reformers: A Case Study of an Unconvincing Case.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 97, no. 2 (2007): 149–79.
• Bickerman, E. J. The God of the Maccabees: Studies on the Meaning and Origin of the Maccabean Revolt. Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity, v. 32. Leiden: Brill, 1979.
• Cohen, Shaye J D. “Elias J Bickerman: An Appreciation.” The Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 16 (1984): 1–3.
• Gruen, Erich S. “15. Hellenism and Persecution: Antiochus IV and the Jews.” In The Construct of Identity in Hellenistic Judaism: Essays on Early Jewish Literature and History, 333–58. Deuterocanonic and Cognate Literature Studies. De Gruyter, 2016.
• Heinemann, Isaak. “Wer veranlaßte den Glaubenszwang der Makkabäerzeit?” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 82 (N. F. 46), no. 3 (1938): 145–72. [German]
• Himmelfarb, Martha. “Elias Bickerman on Judaism and Hellenism: Jewish Past Revisited: Reflections on Modern Jewish Historians.” In The Jewish Past Revisited: Reflections on Modern Jewish Historians, 199–211. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998.
• Momigliano, Arnaldo. “The Hellenistic Discovery of Judaism.” In Alien Wisdom: The Limits of Hellenization, 74–96. Cambridge University Press, 1975. 
• Rappaport, Uriel. “Elias Bickerman — Historian of Hellenization and Antiochus’ Religious Persecutions.” Cathedra: For the History of Eretz Israel and Its Yishuv, no. 149 (2013): 143–52.
• Schwartz, Daniel R. “Hitler and Antiochus, Hellenists and Rabbinerdoktoren: On Isaak Heinemann’s Response to Elias Bickermann, 1938.” In Strength to Strength: Essays in Appreciation of Shaye J. D. Cohen, edited by Michael L. Satlow, 611–29. Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2018.
• Tcherikover, Victor. Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews. Translated by Shimon Applebaum. Peabody, MS: Hendrickson Publishers, 1999.Weitzman, Steven. “Plotting Antiochus’s Persecution.” Journal of Biblical Literature 123, no. 2 (2004): 219–34.

My email address is: [email protected]

Need for the Needy

by Eliezer Segal

I have long been bothered by the passage in Deuteronomy that declares “the poor shall never cease out of the land.” Back in the days when my youthful idealism was more uncompromising, I really did expect that Jewish tradition, if implemented fully, should produce a utopian society that entirely eradicates poverty, hunger, homelessness and exploitation. 

And indeed the Torah is not lacking in texts that seem to promote a very radical economic program. This is not confined to its repeated exhortations to donate generously to the poor and not to abandon the widows, orphans and strangers.. There are specific regulations about cancellation of debts, restoration of ancestral property to families who were pressured to sell it, and generous severance packages for those unfortunates who are forced into personal servitude. In light of all this, one might legitimately imagine that a Torah-based society would ultimately stamp out poverty altogether.

To further complicate the matter, another verse seems to envision the exact opposite scenario: “There shall be no poor among you.”

An intriguing solution to this contradiction was suggested many years ago by a Muslim imam of my acquaintance who allowed me—I was still at an early stage of my career—to benefit from his community’s charity [zakat] fund earmarked for the Muslim poor. When I protested that I did not really qualify as “poor,” he argued that the definition of poverty might have to be revised in the context of Canadian affluence. Indeed, perhaps poverty should be defined in relation to the general economic level of the society.

The sixteenth-century preacher Rabbi Ephraim Solomon Luntschitz did actually understand that poverty can be eliminated (allowing for some rare exceptions) in the land of Israel if the society governs itself in accordance with the divine plan. However, in diaspora communities (whose disobedience is demonstrated by the very fact of their failure to return to their homeland), poverty will indeed persist. It was in this context (explained Rabbi Ephraim), that the Torah was admonishing the residents of the holy land to give priority to the needs of their own community and not be overly considerate in distributing charity to poor Jews from abroad. This is quite a remarkable opinion, coming from somebody who often criticized the stinginess of the wealthy in his own diaspora community. 

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch in nineteenth-century Germany took a similar approach, asserting that economic imbalances are the natural byproduct of human diversity, but that the divine laws that govern Jewish society in our homeland can eliminate or minimize them.  

A midrash cited by Rashi said that the Torah is placing two options before us: if Israel carries out God’s will by implementing the social measures set out in the Torah (especially the amnesty on debts in the sabbatical and jubilee years), then there will be no poor among us, and hence no need to observe the laws of charity. If however, the nation does not live up to those ideals, then poverty will remain a fixture of communal life that will have to be dealt with through philanthropy or by regulating the treatment of debtors. As pointed out by Ibn Ezra and Bahya, in a society that is completely equitable and affluent, nobody will need to borrow, and hence the laws regulating the treatment of debtors would become irrelevant.

According to the twelfth-century French commentator Rabbi Joseph Bekhor-Shor, the Torah’s assertion that “there shall be no poor among you” was not a categorical prediction, but only a general observation; (and our ancient sages recognized that such generalizations often have exceptions). What the Torah meant is that you should not automatically assume that particular poor persons are being penalized for their moral or religious failings. Quite the contrary—perhaps this homeless beggar is really a righteous saint who is being allowed to serve out the penalty for his few sins in his lifetime, so that he may enter the next world with a completely clean slate. Don’t try to second-guess the Creator’s plans, but just fulfill your obligation to treat the poor compassionately. 

An extraordinary story appears in the Christian Gospels: A woman carrying a precious alabaster vial of expensive perfume burst into a dinner in which Jesus was participating, shattered the container and poured its contents onto his head. The observers were indignant at her wastefulness, protesting that the price of the perfume could have been used for the support of the poor. But Jesus retorted that they should leave her alone, “for you will always have the poor with you, and you can help them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me.” 

Jesus then insisted that “wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.” And yet this episode (which seems central to their claim that Jesus was “the anointed one [Mashiaḥ]”) is almost never quoted by Christian writers. That might have something to do with how it conflicts with the widespread (but questionable) image of Jesus as a champion of the poor.

In one of his novels, S. Y. Agnon wrote about a city in which all the Jews were affluent, so there were no poor persons upon whom to bestow charity. When Rabbi Anshel, a needy vagrant, passed through there, they rejoiced because he provided them with an occasion to perform a cherished mitzvah; and upon his departure, they felt deprived of the opportunity. Therefore they established a “Rabbi Anshel fund.” They all hung charity boxes in their homes for Rabbi Anshel, who would return every year to collect his donations.

If we ever do achieve an ideal society in which everybody can live in comfortable affluence, I might consent to forgo the privilege of performing that particular precept. 

In any case, I expect that there will always be a few impecunious scholars and newspaper columnists around, who would benefit from the community’s generosity.

First Publication:

• Alberta Jewish News, October 25, 2023, p. 22.

For further reading:

• Ben-Sasson, H. H. “Wealth and Poverty in the Teaching of the Preacher Reb Ephraim of Lenczyca.” Zion 19, no. 3/4 (1954): 142–66. [Hebrew]
• Chertok, Ted. “Person, Family and Community: The Individual and the Collective in Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch’s Biblical Commentary.” Jewish Studies Quarterly 18, no. 4 (2011): 402–20.
• Hornsby, Teresa J. “21. Anointing Traditions.” In The Historical Jesus in Context, 339–42. Princeton Readings in Religions. Princeton University Press, 2009. 
• Nachshoni, Yehudah. Studies in the Weekly Parashah: The Classical Interpretations of Major Topics and Themes in the Torah. Translated by Schmuel Himelstein. 1st ed. Vol. 3. 5 vols. ArtScroll Judaica Classics. Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah Publications, 1988.
• Sagiv, Yonatan. Indebted: Capitalism and Religion in the Writings of S. Y. Agnon. Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press/University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016.
• Segal, Eliezer. “Rabbi Eleazar’s Perutah.” Journal of Religion 85, no. 1 (January 2005): 25–42.
• Urbach, E. E. “Political and Social Tendencies in Talmudic Concepts of Charity.” Zion 16, no. 3–4 (1951): 1–27. [Hebrew]

My email address is: [email protected]

Altar Ego

by Eliezer Segal

The Mishnah offers us a stirring description of the Sukkot celebration during the days of the second Jerusalem Temple. As is still the practice on joyous festivals, it was customary to recite the chapters from the book of Psalms that are designated “Hallel” [= praise] while the priests encircled the altar—once on each of the first six days, and then seven times on the seventh day.

The rabbis focussed on one particular verse in the Hallel, the one that goes “I beseech thee, O Lord! Save now! I beseech thee, O Lord, send now prosperity!” At this point the Mishnah inserted an alternative version: “Rabbi Judah [ben Ilai] says: “Ani Vaho, please save us!” 

In order to better understand this odd passage, it is helpful to explain a few basic facts about Hebrew usage and the norms of English translation. For one thing, the convention of rendering the divine name as “Lord” reflects traditional Jewish religious practice, but is not exactly what the Hebrew says. The original text employs the four-letter name of God [the “Tetragrammaton”] that is deemed so sacred that it is not pronounced, for which reason we substitute a less sublime epithet, usually “Adonai” [= Lord]. If somebody were to utter the actual four-letter name, it might have sound something like Rabbi Judah’s “Vaho.”

The standard English Bibles employ a rather cumbersome phrase “I beseech thee” to convey the Hebrew particle “anna,” which usually has the simple meaning of “please” or another such expression indicating a request or entreaty. Apparently, it is identical to the more common shorter form “na.” However, “anna” also sounds like the Aramaic pronoun for “I.”

If we combine all these factors, it appears as if Rabbi Judah was playing with the sounds of the Hebrew Psalm to produce a statement along the lines of: “I and he” or “me and him, please save us!”

What in Heaven’s name did he mean by this?

Rashi resorted to numerological mysticism to explain Rabbi Judah’s words. He calculated that the prayer was numerologically equal to the words in Psalms. Furthermore, he found in those words an allusion to the “seventy-two names of God,” an array of three-letter combinations derived by combining letters from three consecutive verses in the Torah (Exodus 14:19-21). Each of these verses contains exactly seventy-two letters. This obscure bit of arcane mysticism played a significant part in the spiritual and magical lore of medieval Ashkenazic Jewry, and was also known to Spanish scholars like Abraham Ibn Ezra.

A midrashic work taught that the seventy-two-letter name of God was the means through which the Almighty will redeem Israel. From ancient magical papyri and occult manuals, we learn that a similar name could be derived through graphic permutations of the four letters of the Tetragrammaton. Tales of its miraculous powers circulated in the medieval Babylonian schools, but the Ga’on Rav Hai advised that those reports should be treated with skepticism.

The Tosafot, not satisfied with Rashi’s verbal intricacies and apparent arbitrariness, proposed an alternate explanation that was far more poignant emotionally and theologically: The words, read as “me and him save please!” imply that God suffers personally in exile alongside his beloved people, and therefore is equating our redemption with his own — a boldly touching sentiment that had numerous precedents in the Bible and in rabbinic homilies. 

Maimonides cited a similar interpretation in the name of some Ge’onim—this is quite surprising, in light of his firm rejection of any notion that imputes human emotion or weakness to the Supreme Being. Indeed, in his Guide of the Perplexed he explained that when rabbinic texts mention lengthy names of God, they have in mind sublime metaphysical teachings; and only fools or charlatans would read them as magical formulas. 

Maimonides cited commentators who explained that “I” and “He” should be read as abbreviated biblical quotes that serve as epithets for God. He suggested that they were based on verses like “See now that I myself am he!” which appears in Deuteronomy in a promise of deliverance, making it an appropriate way of addressing a prayer for divine salvation.

Rabbi Joseph Engel derived a remarkable insight from the notion that “I” is a name of God. He noted that among the sages of rabbinic literature, Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, [= “Rebbi,” the redactor of the Mishnah] had a distinctive custom of beginning his statements with the words “I say.” For other persons this might be taken as a symptom of self-importance, and yet the Talmud states in several places that Rebbi was renowned for his extreme humility! 

Rabbi Engel therefore concluded that what Rebbi really meant was that he was not presenting his views as indisputable facts, but only as his tentative personal opinion, analogous to expressions like “in my humble opinion.” It is possible to understand Rebbi’s usage in light of a Hasidic teaching that spiritual giants do not speak by virtue of their own authority, but rather from the divine force—the “I”—that permeates them. Perhaps what he meant was: I cannot claim personal credit for the correctness or wisdom of my teachings, but attribute them to the divine “I” who speaks through me.

Rabbi Samuel Edels (Maharsha) objected that previous interpretations did not explain satisfactorily why Rabbi Judah related only to the Sukkot rites and not to other occasions when Hallel is recited. He therefore argued that the crucial factor here was the encircling of the altar. This, he noted, recalls the battle of Jericho where the Israelites also encircled the city once on each of six days, and then seven times on the seventh day. The ritual thus serves as an archetype of divine protection (for the Israelites, not the Jerichoans), as expressed by the psalmist: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.”

We can surely use all the protection we can get, as we are enveloped in the physical and spiritual shelter of our frail sukkahs.

My email address is: [email protected]

Vital Organs

by Eliezer Segal

Traditional Jewish theology affirms the belief in an omniscient deity. As formulated in Maimonides’ thirteen articles of faith, the creator “knows all the deeds of human beings and all their thoughts.” 

In the idiom of biblical Hebrew, one of the most common ways to express the idea that God has access to our innermost thoughts and desires is by means of expressions like Jeremiah’s “I the Lord search the heart, I test the kidneys.” 

Those readers who are more familiar with the classic King James English version might be better acquainted with the wording “I try the reins.” That, however, is not an allusion (figurative or otherwise) to the straps that are used to restrain a horse, but is rather an obsolete synonym for the kidney, derived from the Latin “renes,” the same root that gives us English derivatives like “renal,” and even “adrenalin.”

The premise that underlies those expressions is that the kidney, like the heart, is a locus of thought, emotion and especially moral judgment—a conception that may have originated in ancient Egypt. Of course, scientific physiology has long since reassigned those mental functions to the brain, which did not figure very prominently in that capacity in ancient literatures; although it is the cardiac blood-pump that continues to provide the favourite metaphors for love in valentine cards, bumper stickers and emojis.

Perhaps it is possible to write off those scriptural phrases as nothing more than convenient examples of interior parts of the human anatomy, an approach that was indeed favoured by Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra. The rabbis of the Talmud, however, were clearly of the opinion that the expressions were to be understood with literal precision. In a passage that enumerates the functions of the various human organs, no distinction is made between biological, mental or emotional functions, and the power of counsel is ascribed to the kidneys. A midrashic homily speculates that Abraham, who had no access to human teachers in his heathen environment, must have learned the Torah from the wisdom that was housed in his own kidneys. 

More specifically, the Talmud taught: “A person possesses two kidneys. One of them advises him for good and one advises him for evil. It stands to reason that the good one is on one’s right side and the evil one on the left, as it is written, ‘A wise man’s heart is at his right hand; but a fool’s heart at his left.’” I like to imagine them as those little figures of a halo-topped angel and a pitchfork-wielding devil who argue out moral decisions in cartoons.

Most rabbinical scholars in the medieval Sephardic and Italian realms received a thorough medical or philosophical training; so it would eventually come to their attention that the prevailing scientific theories did not support the traditional Hebrew understanding of the kidneys’ functions. 

As a rule, discrepancies of this sort did not provoke severe theological dilemmas among the faithful. After all, Maimonides had long since declared that the scientific pronouncements of the ancient rabbis should not necessarily be accepted dogmatically, since they were not essential parts of the received Torah tradition, but merely reflected the sages’ personal opinions or the scientific theories that were current in their environment. However, this solution could not be easily invoked for the kidney question, since its earliest source was not in the Talmud or Midrash, but in the Bible itself. We therefore find that several rabbis had to make special efforts to uphold the claim that the kidneys are a source of human thought and counsel.

This problem became particularly acute in Renaissance Italy. New experimental methods in medical research were overthrowing the long-entrenched systems of Aristotle and Galen.

Rabbi Moses Provençal of Mantua (1503–1576) was asked how to reconcile the rabbinic statements about the kidney with the tenets of contemporary physicians and biologists who spoke of the brain as the centre of intellect and judgment. In his responsum, the rabbi submitted that in this case the teaching of the Jewish sages is to be preferred. To be sure, the scientists may be forgiven for getting it wrong; after all, unlike the sages of Israel, they do not enjoy the benefits of an unbroken chain of tradition that extends back via the biblical prophets and elders to the divine revelation at Mount Sinai.

In a very similar vein, his contemporary Rabbi Isaac Lampronti observed that even though the achievements of medical science might appear very impressive to us, their work is of necessity limited to observable phenomena; but as long as they are unable to grasp every aspect of the innumerable details that constitute reality, they will not have truly penetrated into the deeper meanings of the processes they are describing. As regards the specific topic of human biology, the secular scientists do not fully understand the systems of nourishment and growth, or the sources of bodily strength and vigor. 

Rabbi Lampronti therefore viewed the purely empirical knowledge of the scientists as essentially superficial, to be contrasted with the profound wisdom of the Jewish sages who were privy to the divine secret of creation. “Anyone who is intimately familiar with it will be capable of achieving wonders that are far more numerous than what the scientists can boast—wonders that they can accomplish by means of the science of alchemy or through natural magic.”

Rabbi Lampronti noted that of all the internal organs, the kidneys are the only ones that come in pairs. This ties in neatly with the Talmud’s statement about how they serve to advise the lone heart to pursue either virtuous or sinful options. The Talmud’s linking of the two kidneys with the good and evil inclinations supports those interpreters who regard the kidneys’ impact as rooted in sexual desire—which can take the form either of participation in wholesome family life or of destructive promiscuity. 

On further reflection, the linking of thoughts and moods with internal physical organs does not strike me as inherently irrational. True, for centuries western thinking was dominated by the doctrine of “Cartesian dualism” (named for French philosopher René Descartes) and its conviction that the human mind is an abstract entity that is essentially independent of the physical body that houses it. However, traditional religious thought, especially the kind that found expression in medieval Jewish moralistic writings, maintained a more nuanced approach, observing that the health or illness of one’s body can exert a powerful influence on a person’s intellectual abilities. Rationalists like Maimonides insisted that we must follow a strict moral discipline in order to rein in biological urges that are constantly tempting us away from our spiritual or intellectual missions.

Current medical science is more cognizant of how human behaviour can be influenced by the activities of various glands, hormones or drugs that are secreted or processed by internal organs. While there is no evident indication that the kidneys are counted among the organs that affect our reasoning, there was no prima facie reason for pre-moderns to rule such ideas out of hand.

Judah Halevi touched on this matter briefly in his Kuzari arguing that the relationship between the kidneys and human intelligence is analogous to the impact of physiological masculinity on men’s cognitive functions. In a definitive expression of chauvinism and political incorrectness, Halevi did not make reference, as a modern writer would likely have done, to testosterone-inspired belligerence or violence, but rather to the indisputable fact (according to the science of his time) that eunuchs are observably less intelligent—even when compared to creatures of limited intellectual capacity, such as… women (who also happen to be incapable of growing beards)!

Somehow I have a gut feeling (on the right side, of course) advising me that I should not accept such views unquestioningly.

My email address is: [email protected]

This article is included in the collection: Teachers, Preachers and Selected Short Features, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019.

This Little H1N1 Stayed Home

by Eliezer Segal

The spread of the lethal H1N1 influenza virus is a cause for concern, as new cases continue to crop up locally and around the globe.

The forces of political correctness have made it difficult to attach a name to the disease. The earliest occurrences stemmed from Mexico, and therefore it was understandable that it could be designated “Mexican flu”; however, the Mexicans took offense at this approach..

The new virus strain evolved from strains that were originally restricted to the pig family, leading to the the widespread adoption of the name “swine flu.” This, however, provoked vocal protests from the meat industry since it creates the impression that the disease can be contracted by eating pork products, which is not really the case. Several European or international bodies have opted for neutral names like “novel influenza”; and the Canadian news media have generally adopted the cryptic term “H1N1 flu” that is being promoted by the World Health Organization–though in unguarded moments the reporters often slip back into the more comfortable terminology of “swine flu.”

Israel injected its own distinctive spin on the debate over the naming of the illness, owing to a public declaration by Yaakov Litzman, the country’s Deputy Minister of Health. Litzman, who belongs to the Gur Hasidic sect and represents the Agudat Israel faction of the hareidi “United Torah Judaism” party, could not stomach the prospect of a prominent epidemic being named after a notoriously non-kosher animal. He therefore issued a pronouncement to the effect that the sickness should be officially referred to as the “Mexico flu.” This led to a flurry of diplomatic exchanges, as both the Mexican ambassador to Israel and the Israeli envoy to Mexico lodged indignant official protests with the Israeli foreign ministry, who subsequently denied that they had any intention of getting into the business of naming viruses.

As it happens, Litzman was following a time-honoured tradition of avoiding mention of the prohibited animal. Some ancient rabbinic texts preferred to sidestep the objectionable word (as well as several other terms that they considered unseemly) by substituting the circumlocution “davar aher“–“something else.” Nevertheless, in the present context some observers have noted that it might have made more sense for the Deputy Minister to emphasize the unsavoury association with the non-kosher animal as a way of discouraging Jews from partaking of what many Israelis enjoy illicitly as “the other white meat.”

In fact, not all our sages believed that we should be viscerally disgusted by the thought of swine-flesh. A well-known midrashic teaching states that the prohibition of pork should be accepted as an inscrutable divine decree that is not based on any logical reasoning or aesthetic repugnance. “A person should never say ‘I have no desire to eat swine flesh.’ On the contrary, one ought to say: ‘I would really love to eat it, were it not for the fact that my heavenly father has decreed that I may not.'”

Maimonides harmonized the apparent dissonance between the two approaches, writing that the “I would love to eat it” attitude is an appropriate one to adopt when dealing with ritual prohibitions whose primary purpose is to reinforce our internal discipline and obedience. We should, however, try to instill within ourselves an instinctive revulsion for things that are ethically or morally distasteful.

Talmudic law taught that in response to a real or potential disaster Jewish communities should declare public fast-days in which we express our contrition by refraining from physical pleasures and by participating in special penitential prayers. Drought, war, plague or infestations of wild beasts were enumerated as appropriate occasions for convening a communal fast. In principle, only the affected locality is expected to fast; however, if there is a solid reason to fear that the danger might spread, then the obligation would extend even to places that have not been directly affected.

The Talmud reports that the third-century Babylonian sage Rav Judah was once informed that a pestilence had broken out among the swine, and he thereupon declared a communal fast. The Talmud, assuming that the rabbi was not really concerned for the welfare of the pigs, inferred initially that Rav Judah must have subscribed to the general view that diseases can spread between different species, and therefore he anticipated that humans were also in imminent peril. In the end, they modified that conclusion, stating that even if we were to assume that diseases cannot be passed on to humans from other animal species, there is nonetheless a more substantial reason for anxiety in the case of pigs “because their intestines resemble those of humans.” Indeed, Aristotle made a similar observation about the resemblance between the human and porcine internal organs; and it is a fact that the current variety of “swine flu” does contain two strains of the influenza virus that are normally endemic in pigs.

The Tosafot commentary to that passage in the Talmud draws the conclusion that Jewish communities should observe fasts if they hear of outbreaks of disease among their gentile neighbours. This is not so much an expression of universalistic solidarity as it is a matter of straightforward Jewish self-interest: for after all, if the Talmud found reason to fear that humans might be infected by a disease that is plaguing a completely different species, then there must be a far greater likelihood that an epidemic could spread between two ethnic or religious communities.

The notion that swine are inherently unhealthy is one that has a long history among the Jewish commentators. The most definitive statement on the topic is that of Maimonides. In his Guide of the Perplexed (3:48) he argued that all the animals prohibited to Jews by the Torah are in fact injurious to our health, or at least they are lacking in nutritional value. Pork, writes the great physician, suffers from an excess of moisture and superfluous matter. In fact, our contemporary nutritionists concur in including bacon and pork among the meats that contain “empty calories.”

In this matter, Maimonides was tacitly contradicting his hero Hippocrates who had written that “of all kinds of flesh, pork is the best,” provided that one knows how to select the right cuts and serve it in the proper healthy manner.

Maimonides goes on to argue that the Torah’s antipathy to pigs derives not so much from the meat itself, but from the general culture that surrounds them. Because the creatures are so filthy and love to wallow in uncleanness, any community that cultivated them would necessarily be transformed into a disgusting swamp of grime and mud. “Their marketplaces and even their homes would be filthier than toilets, as you can see for yourself in the lands of the French”!

Maimonides’ medically based rationales for the biblical dietary laws have not fared well among more recent commentators. After all, it would seem to follow from his assumptions that if the animals can be raised and processed under hygienic, disease-free conditions, then the ritual prohibitions against them could be rescinded–an option that no Jewish traditionalist wants to seriously contemplate.

Whichever opinion you might hold with regard to the relationship between swine and sicknesses–the important thing is, of course, that you should all be healthy!

My email address is: [email protected]

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This article is included in the collection: On the Trails of Tradition: Explorations of Jewish Life and Learning, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2011

Shorter by a Head: Kosher Crime in the Roaring ’20s

by Eliezer Segal

When the concept of racketeering was first introduced into the American legal vocabulary in 1927 to describe the infiltration of criminal elements into the labour movement, the list of industries to which the term was applied included: construction, laundry and… kosher food. Evidently, the complexities of the production process and the vulnerabilities of the immigrant Jewish community to which it catered made the kosher marketplace especially attractive to nefarious interests. 

According to the report that was issued in 1929 by an American federal government investigating committee, a trade union bearing the impressive name the Official Orthodox Poultry Slaughterers of America had for some time been conspiring with gangsters to exploit the kosher chicken industry for purposes of extortion. The principal targets of their schemes were the operators of the New York chicken markets. 

The first stage in that unfortunate process was when the union elected as its representative an individual named Charley Herbert, a known criminal who had never actually worked as a slaughterer, kosher or otherwise. Charley was in partnership with his brother Arthur Tootsie Herbert, another convicted felon, who had applied similar tactics to the teamsters unions. 

Enforcers in league with the Herbert brothers would confront the sellers in the name of the Greater New York Live Poultry Chamber of Commerce and demand from them one penny for every pound of kosher poultry that was sold. In some instances, the merchants were pressured to hire superfluous union members to help with the loading. Sellers who refused to pay their share would coincidently find themselves plagued by labour problems as members of the slaughterers and teamsters unions would suddenly refuse to work for them. If necessary, physical violence was also directed against their persons or property. 

As the federal prosecutor characterized the situation, The conspirators made it as much as a man’s life was worth to go down to Washington Market in defiance of their regulations and attempt to buy poultry. For many, it was an offer they could not refuse. 

Those pennies added up, and at the height of the corruption the organizers were raking in up to $16,000 a week–hardly chicken-feed in those days. The Orthodox Poultry Slaughterers union found it convenient to sanction this activity, not only through their authorization of Charley Herbert but also by participating in the walkouts. 

When the case was finally brought before Judge John C. Knox of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, eighty-four defendants were charged with the federal crime of organizing a conspiracy in restraint of trade. In order to accommodate such a swarm of defendants, special bleacher seats had to be erected, lending the trial the atmosphere of a public sports match. 

When the trial was over, the Official Orthodox Poultry Slaughterers of America, along with sixty-six assorted defendants, were found guilty, but the sentences that were handed down were not particularly severe. The leadership of the slaughterers union received suspended sentences. The punishment for gangster Charley Herbert amounted to no more than two weeks of hard time and fine of five hundred dollars that was subsequently suspended. The presiding judge voiced his hope that some day, somehow, some one high in the Jewish community of this town will take the poultry industry in hand. 

Not surprisingly, that slap on the wrist was not effective in halting the illicit activities of the Herberts, who quickly resumed their manipulation of the kosher poultry industry. In 1935 it was again necessary to remove them, but a year later they again seemed to be doing business as usual. It was not until 1937 that concerted prosecution succeeded in removing them completely from the scene. 

The involvement of felons in Canada’s kosher food business at that time did not, as far as I can tell, occur at the initiative of rapacious gangsters. On the contrary, the stimulus may well have been a clash between the egos of two imperious rabbis. Be that as it may, criminal elements and violent acts were an inescapable factor in the story. 

The background to these episodes was the chapter in the history of Montreal’s Jewish community known as the Kosher Meat Wars. Rabbi Hirsch Cohen had recently founded Montreal’s Vaad Ha’Ir, the Jewish Community Council, to serve as the umbrella organization for the manifold religious and educational institutions that existed in the immigrant community. A group of dissident ritual slaughterers refused to accept the authority of the Va’ad Ha’Ir and established their own supervisory framework under Rabbi Yudel Rosenberg’s auspices. Throughout the Kosher Meat War of 1922-25, the rival rabbis were certifying different butchers and creating serious impediments to the viability of the nascent and vulnerable Community Council. 

Though the skirmishes in this war usually took the form of financial, verbal and printed attacks, they also extended to physical violence. Shohetim who accepted the authority of the Vaad Ha’Ir were told that harm would come to them unless they desisted from their work. According to Rabbi Cohen, the dissidents were hiring goons to persuade the proprietors of various butcher shops to either close or remain open. 

Rabbi Rosenberg and persons who were presumed to belong to his faction were subjected to assaults on the street. On one occasion, an unruly mob pelted stones at Rabbi Rosenberg just before Yom Kippur, until he personally confronted them to shame them into withdrawing. A police report from 1923 related that a dissident butcher from Rabbi Rosenberg’s camp ambushed a competitor in the employ of the Vaad ha-Ir, striking him on the head and leaving him unconscious with serious injuries. Charges of attempted murder were brought against three officers of the Jewish Butchers’ Association. 

At one point in the struggle, the Vaad slaughterers had letters delivered to their homes informing them: If you will go and slaughter for the Canadian Packing Company, you will be shorter by a head. This served as written confirmation for verbal threats that had previously been pronounced in the slaughterhouse by a shohet attached to the opposing faction. 

Around that time, Montreal’s Keneder Odler newspaper reported that the dissident association had hired gangsters to remove their opponents, and threatening letters were sent to members of the Jewish Community Council. Rabbi Cohen published a dramatic indictment of the horrible things being perpetrated by the dissidents which no fantasy could eclipse. With the approval of certain rabbis, the slaughters had hired gangsters to clear away the competition. Mutual boycotts of the rival butchers and slaughterers became a standard feature of Montreal’s kosher marketplace for several years. Each faction urged the consumers to avoid purchasing kosher meat from their thuggish competitors. Typical of these entreaties was a handbill that was circulated in Montreal in 1933 and chronicled an incident in which a gang of butchers attacked innocent customers at a rival establishment, causing several of them to be hospitalized. The handbill pleaded Do not eat any meat. The meat is dripping with human blood! 

Thankfully, incidents of that kind belong to a distant past when organized crime was spreading its sinister net over much of North American society. As far as I know, you are no longer risking your life by paying a visit to the neighbourhood kosher butcher shop or deli –provided, of course, that you are not a chicken.

My email address is: [email protected]

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This article is included in the collection: On the Trails of Tradition: Explorations of Jewish Life and Learning, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2011

Non-Profit Prophet

by Eliezer Segal

Our ancient sages seemed to have an inordinate interest in Moses’ financial situation. At first glance, this seems to be a superfluous concern. After all, whatever material goods the people might have taken with them from Egypt, even if they amounted to considerable riches, would have been largely irrelevant in a desert where there was nothing to purchase, and where their sustenance was provided directly by the Almighty.

And yet the rabbis of the Talmud and Midrash insisted on embellishing the Torah’s narrative with detailed accounts of Moses’ affluence.

Take for example the following interpretation of the scriptural assertion that the man Moses was very humble (Numbers 12:2). The Midrash specified that this description refers only to his personality, but not to his economic circumstances; in that area, he was in fact quite well-to-do, as indicated by Exodus 11:3: Moreover the man Moses was very great…

The rabbis insisted that Moses had an independent source of income. This had come to him as a byproduct of his receiving the tablets of the covenant at Sinai. God instructed Moses (in connection with the second set of tablets, in Deuteronomy 10:1): Hew for yourself two stone tablets. The Hebrew word p’sol that is translated as hew is related to the word p’solet meaning waste, and this suggested to the rabbis that Moses was being authorized to keep for himself the chips or flakes that remained from the carving of the tablets.

Now, the rabbis related that the stone from which the tablets were made was not your garden-variety brand of worthless rock. No indeed. The holy commandments were inscribed on precious gemstone–sapphire to be exact. The sages arrived at this conclusion by creatively juggling several different scriptural texts. One verse (Exodus 32:16) stated and the tablets were the work of God, and another (24:10): and they saw the God of Israel: and there was under his feet as it were a paved work of a sapphire stone. Ergo, the work embodied in the tablets must also have been composed of sapphire! Thus, it was evident that the Almighty had allowed Moses to keep those priceless scraps for his personal use.

An alternative tradition, motivated perhaps by the rabbis’ discomfort with the notion of Moses making private use of the sacred tablets of the law, stated that God had actually revealed to Moses the location of a diamond mine that was conveniently situated beneath his tent.

The Torah itself provides us with some clues as to why the rabbis went to so much trouble to establish that Moses was wealthy. At the end of the book of Exodus, after the lengthy narration of the building of the Tabernacle, there is a time-consuming review of the accounts of the tabernacle… as they were rendered according to the commandment of Moses. Later, when Korach and his minions challenged Moses’ leadership, the prophet insisted I have not taken one ass from them, neither have I hurt one of them. Episodes such as these imply that suspicions were making the rounds that Moses had been skimming from the public funds that were entrusted to him.

The rabbis offered their own reconstructions of what some Hebrews were saying about their illustrious leader. When Moses would enter the Tent of Meeting to commune with the Creator, all the people rose up, and stood, every man at his tent door, and looked after Moses (Exodus 33:8). Rabbi Hama read this passage as a classic instance of talking behind a person’s back, with all the negative connotations that normally attach to such situations: They would taunt: ‘Look at his neck, look at those legs! He is eating the Jews’ goods, and drinking the Jews’ goods, and in fact everything he owns was taken from the Jews.’ And his companion would respond: ‘When a person is in charge of the construction of the Tabernacle, wouldn’t you expect him to become wealthy?!’

Evidently, the Babylonian rabbis found these comments so shocking that, when they cited the tradition, they buried the insulting accusations under an ellipsis. Rashi filled in the missing quotes from other sources. At any rate, the rabbis believed that it was in response to those insinuations that Moses insisted on ordering a full public audit of how he had disposed of the goods that were donated to the Tabernacle building fund.

Rabbi Joshua ben Levi went so far as to insert a suspenseful moment into the story, when Moses panicked at not being able to account for a certain expenditure of 1,775 shekels–until God himself reminded him of the purchases for which they had been used. In a similar vein, some of the sages observed that it would normally be perfectly acceptable for a manager to charge the costs of donkeys or other means of transportation to their expense account for use in the performance of their duties; but Moses had to be unusually scrupulous in this matter because of the allegations that were being made against his integrity.

Whenever we find a midrash taking such liberties with the literal facts of a biblical narrative, it is natural to inquire after its motives. The most plausible reason is that the ancient homilists were trying to make the scriptural text relevant to their own situations. Of course, for as long as there have existed organized communities, there have been ambivalent relationships between their leaders and their constituents. There is an advantage to appointing leaders who are independently wealthy, or to paying them generous salaries, in order to remove the temptation to pilfer from the public coffers. Furthermore, the ancients were far less embarrassed than many of us are by affluence, and few would have questioned the assumption that wealth was a desirable virtue in an ideal leader. The house of the Nasi, the Jewish Patriarchate, was famous–or notorious–for its ostentatious wealth, provoking criticisms that are echoed in the pages of rabbinic literature. In fact, most of the rabbis who were so concerned with expounding the details of Moses’ financial policies flourished in chronological and historical proximity to the centres of patriarchal authority.

It is therefore probable that the rabbis were projecting onto Moses the same kinds of tensions that prevailed in their own communities, where rabbis often took upon themselves the reins of leadership and earned much popular resentment for their efforts. They were trying to convince both themselves and their flocks that they were following in the steps of the noble prophet and faithful shepherd of his people. Accordingly, the criticisms to which they were subjected could be viewed as a latter-day incarnation of the incessant whining of those faithless and malicious Israelites in the time of Moses.

At the same time, the ancient sages were offering some very practical recommendations about how to avert potential frictions in the community–by pursuing a policy of fiscal transparency and honest bookkeeping.

My email address is: [email protected]

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This article is included in the collection: On the Trails of Tradition: Explorations of Jewish Life and Learning, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2011

A Heavenly Herald (… and Some Housework)

by Eliezer Segal

It is well known that the Shabbat preceding Passover has been given the special designation Shabbat Ha-Gadol– the great sabbath. Although numerous explanations have been proposed for that grandiose epithet, I tend to prefer the most prosaic of them, the one that links it to the concluding words of the special scriptural reading (haftarah) from Malachi in which the prophet promises his people Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord. Based on Malachi’s vision, Jewish tradition has embraced a belief that the great day will first be heralded by a reappearance of Elijah; and this may have contributed to the widespread customs that give the prophet a role at the Passover seder.

These beliefs about Elijah’s coming in advance of the Messiah formed the basis of an intriguing technical discussion in talmudic law. The rabbis examined the case of a person who vows to become a nazirite (which includes abstention from wine) while adding the stipulation that the vow will take effect on the day when the son of David arrives.

Though this case is treated as an academic one, some scholars have argued that Jews in antiquity were accustomed to undertake such vows of pious self-denial as a means to hasten the coming of the Messiah.

Because we are never quite certain when the son of David will make his appearance, the rabbis declare that, just to be safe, the person who uttered such a vow must refrain from wine on any date for which there is exists some possibility of the Messiah’s arrival. Accordingly, though the prohibition must be observed on most normal days, the author of the vow is nevertheless permitted to drink wine on sabbaths or festivals.

The Talmud demanded a clear and precise explanation why the sages could beso sure that the Messiah will not come on those days. As a starting hypothesis, it proposed to link the assumption to the restrictions against traveling on holy days. After all, the Messiah is presumably coming from somewhere far-off, and Jewish law would prevent him from doing so on a Saturday or festival.

This hypothesis, however, proved to be more problematic than it appeared initially. For one thing, we are not all that certain what mode of transportation the Messiah will choose to make his entrance. Of course, if he were limited to conventional forms of ground transportation then there would be no question that these would be prohibited on sabbaths or holidays. However, a Messiah might well have other options available to him; indeed, who is to say that he will not choose to make his entry by flying–and not necessarily in an aircraft?

Legends about a flying Messiah were current among ancient Jews. The apocalyptic work known as Fourth Ezra described him as a mighty warrior who soars out from the sea to perch atop a great mountain, from which he will smite his foes with a stream of fire that issues from his mouth. Rabbi Joshua ben Levi stated in the Talmud that if Israel proves worthy, they will rejoice in the fulfilment of Daniel’s scenario of a redeemer who arrives on the clouds of heaven.

The rabbis, however, were interested primarily in the legal implications of the event. If it could be established that the Messiah may not travel on holy days even by air, then it would resolve an ongoing controversy about whether the halakhic restrictions on travel apply above the ground. Given the typical rabbinic reluctance to resolve juicy questions of that sort, they chose to approach their question from a different perspective.

The Talmud now suggested that it was simply out of the question for the Messiah to show up without warning. After all, did not Malachi state categorically that we will be notified in advance by Elijah! Presumably, to be of any use, that notification would have to take place at least one day earlier–and (as some of the commentators add) Elijah would not postpone his announcement unnecessarily after his arrival. Therefore, as long as we have not heard of the prophet’s arrival on the previous day, our dubious nazirite may confidently sip some sauvignon.

However, once the Elijah factor was injected into the discussion, it did not take the Talmud long to realize that it could undermine their entire premise; for if the Messiah’s arrival must be preceded by that of Elijah, then we may be confident of his non-arrival on any other day of the week or year unless we have actually heard reports of Elijah’s appearance!

Upon rethinking the matter, the discussants were inclined to dismiss the entire issue of Elijah’s advance arrival; since it is quite conceivable that he did show up but did not make his presence known immediately to the general public. From the rabbis’ perspective, it made better sense to assume that the prophet would first present his credentials before the Sanhedrin, the Jewish religious court, while leaving the general populace temporarily unaware of his presence. If we accept this premise, then the immanence of the Messiah’s arrival can be effectively divorced from our knowledge of Elijah’s coming.

So again the Talmud must reconsider its original question: what grounds are there for our certainty that the Messiah will never arrive on a sabbath or festival?

Unlike the rabbis’ previous suggestions that were based on subtle legal hairsplitting or procedural considerations, the answer that they now came up with was sublime in its simplicity: Israel have been duly guaranteed that Elijah will not arrive either on the eves of Sabbath or on the eves of festivals–out of consideration for the extra work that would be involved! Simply put, it is inconceivable that Elijah would show up on a busy Friday or on the day preceding a festival; which makes it impossible for the Messiah to arrive on the following day.

What a remarkable understanding of the Jewish redemption is embedded in this discussion! When Elijah finally comes to herald that magnificent milestone for which our people’s hearts have yearned throughout the centuries of the exile, he will arrange the scheduling so that that it will not interfere with our domestic preparations.

As the Talmud is quick to point out, if Elijah cannot come on a Friday or a festival eve, then presumably neither can the Messiah himself. This should ostensibly free up those dates for drinking wine. Why, then, did the rabbis not draw that inference with respect to the nazirite vow?

But no, the Talmud retorts, there is an essential difference between Elijah’s arrival and that of the Messiah. While the former, as a mere harbinger of the redemption, does not institute any substantial changes, the latter’s appearance will have a far-reaching impact in our status as a nation. Specifically, it means that once Israel is redeemed, we will be relieved of some of the drudgery of our household preparations, because these will now be delegated to heathens.

Some interpreters (though assuredly not all of them) were uncomfortable with this chauvinistic image of Jews lording it over other peoples in the redeemed world. Rabbi Joseph Hayim of Baghdad, the renowned Ben Ish Hai, took care to explain that the gentiles would not be serving their Jewish neighbours under any form of servitude, but would choose to do so voluntarily upon learning to appreciate the spiritual nobility of the Torah’s teachings.

All this might prevent the prophet Elijah from participating in our seder, at least on the year of the Messiah’s arrival. I confess, though, that this might be an eminently fair price to pay for the seductive convenience of having someone to assist in cleaning the house, hauling out the Passover dishes and preparing the festive table.

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 4, 2008, p. 17.
• For further reading:
  • Faierstein, Morris M. Why Do the Scribes Say That Elijah Must Come First ? Journal of Biblical Literature 100 (1981): 75-86.
  • Friedmann, Meïr, ed. Seder Eliyahu Rabbah. Jerusalem: Wahrman, 1969.
  • Milikowski, Chayim. Trajectories of Return, Restoration and Redemption in Rabbinic Judaism: Elijah, the Messiah, the War of Gog and the World to Come. In Restoration: Old Testament, Jewish, and Christian Perspectives, ed. James M. Scott, 265-280. Leiden: Brill, 2001.
  • Patai, Raphael. The Messiah Texts. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1979.
  • Urbach, E. The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs. Translated by I. Abrahams. Cambridge, Mass. and London, England: Harvard University Press, 1987.

My email address is: [email protected]

This article is included in the collection: For Signs and for Seasons, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2011.

Flocks, Fighters—and Forgiveness

by Eliezer Segal

The solemn liturgical poem “Untanneh Tokef,” chanted as part of the High Holy Days service, epitomizes the mood of momentous dread as the Sovereign of the universe sits in judgement over his creatures: 

“Like a herder leading his flock, who passes his sheep beneath his staff. So shall you cause to pass, count, measure and reckon the lives of all living beings.”

The source for this simile is in the Mishnah which describes the mood on the annual day of judgment when “all the denizens of the world pass before him like b’nei meron.”

I have left this last expression untranslated because its correct translation is indeed a matter of considerable doubt and controversy. Philologists, sages, lexicographers and poets have interpreted the words in very diverse ways.

The physical shapes of Hebrew letters tolerate a certain degree of ambiguity. Specifically, the letters that represent  the vowels “i” and “u” are easily confused; and it is not clear whether the text should be read as one or two words. As regards to  the correct reading in the Mishnah, there are two main options: “ki-ve-numeron” and “ki-vnei meron.”

According to the first possibility, humankind parades before their Creator like a “noumeron” — a military cohort being inspected by their commander. The Greek “noumeron” and its Latin cognate “numerus”  both denote military divisions; so that the Mishnah’s simile is of a contingent of soldiers undergoing an inspection before their commanding officer. The Babylonian sage Samuel specified that the comparison was not just to some generic army—but to the Hebrew soldiers under King David’s command. 

The other variant of the Mishnah’s text was subject to its own diverse readings and interpretations. The Talmud states that in Babylonia it was customary to explain “meron” with reference to a similar-sounding Aramaic word connoting sheep. Rashi explained this image with reference to the procedures for tithing livestock, when the  animals are paraded single-file through a narrow gateway and every tenth lamb is designated for sacred use. This analogy was employed by the author of the Untanneh Tokef.

Other talmudic teachers envisaged different situations that would necessitate squeezing through narrow spaces. Rabbi Simeon ben Lakish adduced the “Ascent of Beit Horon,” a strategic site that was the scene of military actions during the Maccabean and Roman eras. Rabbi Aha described it as a small, narrow mountain range that could only be traversed in single-file.

Saadyah Ga’on, author of the first known Hebrew dictionar, included an entry for “maron,” which he equated with an Arabic root that means “march past” or “pass in review,” especially in a military context.

The liturgical poet Yannai, who lived in Galilee during the Byzantine era, incorporated both interpretations in his poem for Rosh Hashanah. In one place he writes, “As we are passed under the staff like sheep by the one counting them, you will appoint for us an advocate.” A few lines further down it says, “The king will cause all the denizens of the world to pass before him like a noumeron.” 

Several medieval manuscripts of prayer books and liturgical poetry contain the vowel “u,” indicating “noumeron” —even though the word is split into two parts (as “kivnu-meron”). Though there is considerable debate and hesitation about the question, this has become the generally preferred reading in scholarly circles.

Moving beyond the lexicographic and academic questions raised by these texts, several authors strove to elicit spiritual insights from the different interpretations. 

Rabbi Samuel Edels (Maharsha) equated the three interpretations with the three classes of people who stand in judgment before the divine tribunal: The sheep, destined for slaughter, stand for the confirmed evildoers. The heroic soldiers symbolize the perfectly righteous. And those struggling to keep their balance along the perilous trail represent the average flawed individuals who strive to maintain their moral balance.

Rabbi Hayyim Joseph David Azulai and Rabbi Joseph Hayyim of Baghdad (the “Ben Ish Hai”) found in the three categories allusions to the Supreme Judge’s desire to tip the scales to the advantage of the Rosh Hashanah defendants. Thus, comparing us to sheep, who are utterly lacking in intelligence, allows us to plead that fundamentally we are no better dumb animals, and hence not of sound enough mind to deserve punishment. The Ben Ish Hai explained, “Even when sheep cause damage to the foliage, the owners do not hold them liable. And so it is with respect to Israel— even though they sin, the Holy One treats them like sheep.”

As regards that image of an ascent through a precarious mountain trail flanked by deep gorges on either side—this also works to the benefit of mortals, as a factor that would mitigate a severe verdict. It evokes the picture of an Everyman who is plodding cautiously, clinging to a narrow path enclosed on either side by barriers. Rabbi Azulai explained this imagery in the sense that, from one side, the physical constitution of our bodies impels us to pursue the vanities of the material world, while on the other side we are continually bombarded by temptations from the evil inclination (“The devil made me do it!”). 

The Ben Ish Hai noted that Jews are particularly vulnerable to negative influences when living amidst impure foreign cultures. Samuel’s analogy to the warriors of King David’s army also works to our advantage by urging God to give us some credit for our ceaseless daily battles to eke out honest livelihoods for our families. Furthermore, the merit of righteous ancestors like David can be invoked even if our personal virtues are not adequate for the purpose.

The preachers and poets who crafted these scenarios had to steer a cautious course. On the one hand, their audiences must be alerted to the grave consequences of their transgressions. And yet the prospect of severe judgment must not cause them to despair of repentance. 

Hopefully, we will all emerge from the experience with gleaming fleeces or spotlessly groomed uniforms, as the case may be—worthy of enjoying a blessed new year.

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