Jewish thinkers have long been puzzled by the rabbis’ choice of the book of Kohelet [Ecclesiastes] as the designated reading for the Sabbath that falls during Sukkot. Many regard the book as a bleak meditation on the meaningless of life, an idea that is hardly consistent with the character of Sukkot as the quintessential “season of our rejoicing.”
I personally have never subscribed to that pessimistic reading of Kohelet. Quite the contrary, I feel that its main message is that we should—if only temporarily—stop taking ourselves too seriously. We are urged to enjoy a break from our striving to eradicate all the world’s imperfections, and recognize that individuals may not immediately resolve all of society’s inequities, let alone overcome the limitations of human mortality. Kohelet recommends that we ought to take a few spiritual health days to forget our existential angst and appreciate the delights of the present moment. And what better setting for such contentment than the serenity of a sukkah!
Jewish tradition ascribes the book of Kohelet (as well as the Song of Songs and the book of Proverbs) to King Solomon, about whom the Bible says that “he was wiser than all men.” There is a virtual consensus that Kohelet was the product of Solomon’s old age, when it is normal “to utter words of vanity” (or perhaps: “cynicism”).
In the second chapter of Kohelet, the author recounts his futile quest to find satisfaction in physical and material diversions. His list of acquisitions includes the obscure Hebrew words “shiddah and shiddot,” for which the Talmud cites two main explanations. One refers to the king’s mastery over male and female demons (“shedim” and “shedot”); whereas a tradition stemming from the land of Israel derives it from an Aramaic cognate that normally designates a box or chest. Rashi interpreted it as “a coach for ladies or princes.”
Rabbi Joseph Ḥayyim of Baghdad, renowned as the “Ben Ish Ḥai” (1835–1909), found this explanation unsatisfying. In a marginal addition to his commentary on the Talmud, he expressed amazement: “does this really encapsulate the wisdom of King Solomon—that he could construct a coach?!” We might have been more legitimately impressed by the king’s ability to subjugate demons to do his bidding; that indeed would attest to extraordinary wisdom. But why take such pride in building a vehicle, even one suitable for nobility or for ladies?
In another of his commentaries, the Ben Ish Ḥai related an intriguing question that had been addressed to him by an unnamed interlocutor: if King Solomon was really so smart, why couldn’t he have invented all the technological wonders that we enjoy in modern (nineteenth-century) times? As an example he mentions the “chemin de fer ” (railroad train). How is it conceivable that the great King Solomon would not have devised a locomotive engine?
In response to that challenge, the Ben Ish Ḥai concluded that the wise monarch had indeed invented a demon-fast railroad train (powered, presumably, by a steam engine) for exclusive use by his queen (perhaps all of his thousand wives and concubines) and himself—Rashi’s “ladies and princes”; and that the ancient rabbis were aware of this technological milestone. That however begs the question: why did the locomotive have to be re-invented many centuries later?
The answer, he declared, epitomizes the difference between true wisdom and mere technological knowhow. A wise person will realize that with great power comes great responsibility, and some scientific discoveries are best kept under wraps because of their potential for damage and destruction. Thus Solomon, foreseeing that the nations of the world might put them to pernicious use–and even direct them against the Jewish people—concealed them.
The Israeli Torah scholar Rabbi Isaac Zilberstein cited the Ben Ish Ḥai’s discussion in connection with a practical problem in Jewish religious law. A certain person (evidently an Israeli) had been involved in numerous traffic accidents; and out of frustration over the harm caused by reckless drivers, he rashly swore an oath never again to ride in one of those newfangled vehicles. The person now regretted the oath and was seeking grounds to annul it. Rabbi Zilberstein observed that if automobiles are not an innovation of the last century and a half, but already existed in the days of King Solomon, then the oath was based on a mistaken premise, and accordingly was not technically binding.
In a similar vein, the Ben Ish Ḥai interpreted a statement in the Talmud about David’s nemesis Doeg the Edomite whom the rabbis depicted as an erudite scholar who “mastered three hundred laws involving a container that hovers in the air,” as they relate to arcane issues of ritual purity or travel on the sabbath.
The Baghdadi sage stressed that this was no mere instance of fanciful talmudical speculation, but that the ancients might well have mastered the technology of aviation, which was subsequently lost until modern European scientists rediscovered it. He referred in Arabic to “markab al-hawa” (airships), and it would appear that he had in mind balloons rather than airplanes.
A passage in the Talmud tells of a fire that once “fell” in the courtyard of Joseph ben Simai on Shabbat. The Ben Ish Ḥai took note of this unusual Hebrew mode of expressing a fire’s outbreak. He found in this phraseology an allusion to the use of a lightning rod to draw down the incendiary force of thunderbolts. (The scientific basis of lightning rods is widely credited to Benjamin Franklin.)
In recent years, many in the ultra-orthodox camp have asserted that the great Torah scholars of the past, along with their expertise in religious law, must have been gifted with quasi-supernatural scientific and technological expertise. (Some of those claims are reminiscent of the Cold War Soviet propaganda that took credit for the invention of radio, television, lightbulbs, airplanes and anaesthetics.)
Gross, Michael. Ben Yehoyada: Studies in Rabbi Yosef Chaim’s Interpretations of Talmudic Aggadoth. Edited by Avi Wengrover. Sifriyat Hegyonot. Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2019. [Hebrew]
Slifkin, Natan. Rationalism Vs. Mysticism: Schisms in Traditional Judaism. Jerusalem: Gefen Publishing House, 2021.
Tzoreff, Avi-ram. “Between Tanzimat and Emancipation: Competing Discourses of Modernity in the Writings of R. Yosef Hayyim of Baghdad.” Jama‘a 25 (2020): 233–52. [Hebrew]
As we’ve been learning from the January 6th Investigating Committee, it has become fashionable to “take the Fifth,”.
The legal principle that persons cannot be compelled to incriminate themselves first entered English common law (according to the prevalent theory) in 1637 at the trial of one John Lilburn, accused of importing heretical books. The defendant was initially convicted for his refusal to take an oath or to reply to questions about his religious opinions whose answers would compromise his legal position. However, Parliament subsequently reversed that verdict, concluding that it constituted a violation of Lilburn’s liberty. This likely reflected a more general antipathy to the intrusive oaths and tortures that were being employed in the sectarian disputes of those days.
Although freedom from self-incrimination is often expressed in an impressive Latin maxim “Nemo tenetur seipsiem ;prodere” (no one is required to incriminate himself), it is not attested in ancient or medieval European sources. Lilburn adduced scriptural support from Jesus’s refusal to confess to the seditious statements that were attributed to him at his interrogation. (Perhaps Lilburn assumed that the trial was conducted according to Jewish norms).
The American Fifth Amendment of 1791 states similarly that “no person shall be compelled in any case to be a witness against himself.” It is a privilege granted to witnesses or defendants if they choose to make use of it. In many instances, as we have seen at the January 6th hearings, a decision to “take the fifth” is stigmatized as tantamount to an admission of guilt.
In talmudic jurisprudence, the rule that a person cannot incriminate himself is attributed to the fourth-century Babylonian teacher Rava. It was derived from the premise that close relatives may not testify about each other because they lack objectivity. This assumption was combined with the observation that “a person is his own closest relative.”
The earliest rabbinic discussions appear to accept the rule as normative and do not try to ground it in biblical prooftexts or other authoritative traditions. In cases where the rule is applicable, it is not subject to the choice of the witness or defendant, but rather the court itself is expected to disregard any self-incriminating testimony. Consequently, invoking it does not imply an admission of guilt.
The Talmud invokes the rule principally when assessing the acceptability of witnesses. Normally, a person who has committed a crime or religious transgression, especially one that calls into question their ability to resist bribes or physical threats, would be disqualified from serving as a witness. However, if the only evidence for the witness’s ineligibility stems from his own confession, then the rule forbidding self-incrimination kicks in and his testimony is accepted by the court. According to the prevalent view, even where the confession incriminates another person, it will be accepted with regard to that other person, but not to the witness himself.
Talmudic law applies this rule to sins that involve capital or corporal punishment, but not to monetary claims or civil litigation. In the sixteenth century, Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra explained the religious distinction between those two legal domains: although people exercise full ownership over property, this is not true for our lives and bodies, which ultimately belong to the Almighty. Therefore, humans are not authorized to forfeit their lives or the integrity of their bodies by subjecting them to judicial execution or flogging; however, the court can accept an admission of a debt or other financial obligation. Indeed a talmudic maxim declares that “an admission by a litigant is equivalent to the testimony of a hundred witnesses.”
Maimonides understood that the prohibition against a Jewish court’s imposing capital or corporal punishment based on a confession is a categorical decree of the Torah. True, he was aware that the Bible contains examples involving Joshua and David that seem to contradict this rule; but he dismissed these as rare exceptions that were necessitated by political exigencies. Under normal circumstances, however, a Jewish court should not punish or disqualify a person if the only proof of guilt is their confession.
Notwithstanding its status as a divine decree, Maimonides proposed his own psychological explanation for why we should not grant credence to confessions: “This might be a mentally disturbed individual, one of those who suffer from suicidal depression, who jab swords into their bellies or leap from rooftops. It is possible that this person is one of those wretches, and is now confessing to a crime he did not commit in hope of incurring a death sentence.”
In some respects this diagnosis recalls Maimonides’ description of his own prolonged bout with debilitating depression following the death of his beloved brother David in a shipwreck.
There have been attempts to argue that the seventeenth-century English jurists who adopted this proposition did in fact learn it from Jewish sources. Advocates of this theory note that the study of Hebrew language and rabbinic literature achieved considerable popularity at that time among “Christian Hebraists” who found those Jewish texts useful for explicating the New Testament—but were not prepared to openly reveal their reliance on the Talmud.
But times change. In the 1996 verdict of the American Supreme Court that mandated the requirement of “Miranda warnings,” Chief Justice Earl Warren argued for the antiquity of its underlying principle by citing Maimonides as evidence that “Thirteenth century commentators found an analogue to the privilege grounded in the Bible. ‘To sum up the matter, the principle that no man is to be declared guilty on his own admission is a divine decree.’”
Overlooking the fact that Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah belongs to the twelfth, century, it is still puzzling how Justice Warren was employing the Jewish precedents. Even if we allow that his “divine decree” comment reflects Maimonides’ view, not his own, it is still perplexing why the learned jurist, consistently committed to separation of church and state, felt obliged to cite the Bible as a source.
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Cohn, Haim H. “The Privilege against Self-Incrimination under Foreign Law: Israel.” The Journal of Criminal Law, Criminology, and Police Science ;51, no. 2 (1960): 175–78.
Enker, Arnold N. “Self-Incrimination in Jewish Law.” Diné Israel: Studies in Halacha and Jewish Law ;4 (1973): 107–24.
Glaser, Joseph B. “A New/Old Look at the Fifth Amendment: Some Help from the Past.” Jewish Law Association Studies ;1 (1985): 29–40.
Goitein, S. D. Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders. ;Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974.
Halberstam, Malvina. “The Rationale for Excluding Incriminating Statements; U.S. Law Compared to Ancient Jewish Law.” In Jewish Law and Current Legal Problems, edited by Nahum Rackover, 177–90. Library of Jewish Law. Atlanta: Jewish Law Association Studies, 1984.
Kirschenbaum, Aaron. Self-Incrimination in Jewish Law. New York: Burning Bush Press, 1970.
Lamm, Norman. “The Fifth Amendment and Its Equivalent in the Halakha.” Judaism ;5, no. 1 (Winter 1956): 53–59.
Levine, Samuel J. “7. An Introduction to Self-Incrimination in Jewish Law, with Application to the American Legal System: A Psychological and Philosophical Analysis.” In Jewish Law and American Law, by Samuel J. Levine, 127–46. Academic Studies Press, 2018.
———. “Rabbi Lamm, the Fifth Amendment, and Comparative Jewish Law.” Tradition (New York) ;53, no. 3 (2021): 146–54.
Levy, Leonard Williams. Origins of the Fifth Amendment: The Right against Self-Incrimination. New York: Oxford University Press, 1968.
Lorberbaum, Yair. “Two Concepts of Gezerat Ha-Katuv A Chapter in Maimonides’ Legal and Halakhic Thought, Part II: The Jurisprudential Sense.” Diné Israel ;29 (2013): 101*-137*.
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Rosenberg, Irene Merker, and Yale L. Rosenberg. “In the Beginning: The Talmudic Rule against Self-Incrimination.” New York University Law Review ;63, no. 5 (1988): 955–1050.
One of the most revered figures in Jewish memory was the Patriarch Rabbi Judah I ben Simeon. Talmudic tradition singled him out for his unique integration of Torah and greatness—whether political or financial—in a single personality. Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nasi (aka: “Rebbi,” or “our holy teacher’) is best known as the scholar who brought order to the confusion of oral traditions by composing the Mishnah, which organized the material into a logical, topical compendium.
In his capacity as the Nasi (prince, patriarch), Rabbi Judah occupied the highest political office, serving as the representative of the Jewish community before the Roman occupation government. His administrative term coincided with the aftermath of the ferocious Bar-Kochba uprising and its brutal suppression. Yet in his days, relations with Rome became perceptively calmer; to the point that Jewish legend created a special literary genre consisting of respectful conversations on diverse philosophical and theological questions between Rabbi Judah and a high-ranking Roman official referred to as “Antoninus.” That name ostensibly belonged to one of the emperors from the Antonine dynasty, though Rebbi’s reign actually coincided with their more tolerant successors, the Severans, so “Antoninus” might well have been Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Caracalla (188–217).
The Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds both record some unconventional rulings in Rabbi Judah’s name. These include a report that “Rebbi bathed in the spring of Sepphoris on the seventeenth of Tammuz, and he wanted to uproot the Ninth of Av; however they did not allow him to do so.”
It is most surprising to read that rabbinic Judaism’s most prominent leader would consider abolishing fast days that commemorate the destructions of the Jerusalem Temples as well as several other national tragedies.
And indeed, a different tradition claimed that Rabbi Judah’s position had been considerably less radical. A specific question arose on an occasion when the Ninth of Av coincided with the sabbath, when fasting is not permitted. Though the normal practice would be to postpone the fast to Sunday, Rebbi took the position that it might as well be cancelled altogether. Either way, his colleagues rejected the Patriarch’s ruling.
Although the Talmuds clearly accept the “corrected” version limiting the controversy to sabbaths, modern historians were more comfortable with the first version according to which Rabbi Judah wanted to completely remove the Ninth of Av from the ritual calendar. No doubt this would produce a more dramatic story, especially for scholars who are themselves sympathetic to flexibility in Jewish religious law. There is also some plausibility to the argument that later editors were likely to try to blunt the edge of an original story that was disturbing to their religious sensibilities. In any case, the sabbath-postponement version of the story receives very little attention in academic historical studies.
Thus, one eminent historian declared that Rabbi Judah’s opposition to the observance of Tishah be-Av was “doubtless because it lent itself admirably to the delivery of subversive sermons.” He feared that such preaching might provoke listeners to take up arms against the Temple’s destroyers; whereas the Jews should have learned their lesson about the terrible consequences of revolts against Rome.
A midrashic passage had Rebbi (though the reading is uncertain) expounding the words of the biblical Isaac as a prophecy: “the voice of Jacob cries out on account of what the hands of Esau (=Rome) did to him at Bethar,” referring to the last stronghold of the Bar Kokhba revolt.
By Rabbi Judah’s time, Rome was weakened by its campaigns against Persia and a deteriorating economy, making its leaders more amenable to moderation and compromise. Peaceful détente with the imperial authorities was achieving better results for the empire’s Jews. Under the Severan emperors, Jews were permitted to observe their religion and were granted legal recognition that had been denied them under the previous regime. There were even synagogues dedicated to the emperors.
It has accordingly been argued that Rabbi Judah’s determination to do away with the historical fast days was fuelled by his determination to bring the Jews and Romans closer together by diminishing grounds for mutual resentment and distrust.
Some texts suggest that Rabbi Judah and his supporters even regarded the peace and prosperity of their times as the fulfilment of biblical prophecies of redemption. This was a model that differed immensely from the apocalyptic visions that had inspired the bloody insurrections of previous generations. Sages from Rabbi Judah’s circle compared the redemption process to the dawning of a new day—beginning gradually but becoming increasingly bright as the day progresses.
Some sages expounded biblical texts in ways that equated Rabbi Judah with a king of Israel, or the messiah. Rabbi Ḥiyya once applied to him the scriptural epithet “the breath of our nostrils, the anointed of the Lord.” It was in Rebbi’s days that we first encounter traditions tracing his family’s ancestry back to King David, thereby satisfying a necessary qualification for a legitimate Jewish monarch.
In particular, several discourses from around Rabbi Judah’s time associated him with the biblical king Hezekiah, one of the few Hebrew kings who generally comes across as a pious and righteous leader. (One rabbinic discourse observed that, though Hezekiah deserved to be appointed messiah, he was ultimately disqualified by his pride.)
Rabbi Judah’s grandson Hillel went so far as to declare that Israel has no reason to expect a future messianic age, since they already reaped its benefits during the reign of Hezekiah. If Hezekiah’s name is being used here to allude to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, then perhaps Hillel meant to imply that it couldn’t get much better than the prevailing conditions of peace, stability and religious freedom; and so the Jewish people should set their sights on pragmatic objectives, rather than squander their energies on unrealistic and ruinous dreams of vengeful triumph over their enemies.
The Jewish nation continues to confront these contrasting visions of redemption even as we continue to observe the fasts in commemoration of the loss of our holy Temple.
Aberbach, Moshe. “Hezekiah King of Judah and Rabbi Judah the Patriarch — Messianic Aspects.” Tarbiz 53, no. 3 (1984): 353–71.
———. “King Hezekiah and Judah Hanasi: Messianic Links.” In Jewish Education and History: Continuity, Crisis and Change, edited by David Aberbach, 52–56. London: Routledge, 2009.
Alon, Gedalia. The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age, 70-640 C.E. Translated by Gershon Levi. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1980.
Büchler, Adolf. “La conspiration de R. Nathan et R. Méïr contre le Patriarche Simon ben Gamaliel.” Revue des études juives 28, no. 55 (1894): 60–74.
———. “The Conspiracy of R. Nathan and R.. Meir Against the Patriarch R. Shimeon b.. Gamaliel.” In Studies in Jewish History; the Adolph Büchler Memorial Volume, edited by Israel Brodie and J. Rabbinowitz, Vol. 1. Jews’ College. Publications, new series. London: Oxford University Press, 1956.
Herr, Moshe David. “Moshe David Herr, “The Historical Significance of the Dialogues between Jewish Sages and Roman Dignitaries.” Edited by Joseph Heinemann and Dov Noy. Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 [Studies in Aggadah and Folk-Literature] (1971): 123–50.
Jacobson, Howard. “Antoninus and Judah the Prince.” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 67, no. 1 (2001): 179.
Krauss, Samuel. Antoninus und Rabbi. Wien: Israel-theologische Lehranstalt, 1910.
Levine, Lee I. “Teḳufato shel Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nasi.” In Eretz Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest, edited by Zvi Baras, Samuel Safrai, Yoram Tsafrir, and Menahem Stern, 1:94–118. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Tsevi, 1982. [Hebrew]
Lévi, Israël. “L’origine davidique de Hillel.” Revue des Etudes Juives 31, no. 62 (1895): 202–11.
Meir, Ofra. Rabbi Judah the Patriarch: Palestinian and Babylonian Portrait of a Leader. Sifriyat Helal Ben-Ḥayim. Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1999.
Stern, Sacha. “Rabbi and the Origins of the Patriarchate.” Journal of Jewish Studies 54, no. 2 (2003): 193–215.
Tabory, Joseph. Jewish Festivals in the Time of the Mishnah and Talmud. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1995. [Hebrew]
Urbach, Efraim Elimelech. The Sages, Their Concepts and Beliefs. Translated by Israel Abrahams. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.
There is a brief passage in the book of Numbers that is uniquely enclosed by special symbols, backward versions of the Hebrew letter “nun.” The words chosen for this treatment are familiar ones: “Whenever the ark set out, Moses said: Rise up, Lord! Let your enemies be scattered, and let those who hate you flee before you. And when it rested, he said: Return, Lord, to the many thousands of Israel.” These same words are chanted during the synagogue service as the Torah scrolls are removed from and returned to their ark.
But why did Jewish tradition decide that those nuns should be inserted here?
Historical scholarship has pointed out their similarity to marks that were used by Alexandrian Greek textual editors when redacting older literary works. They employed arcane signs and abbreviations to indicate problematic readings and possible emendations. The ancient philologist Aristarchus of Samothrace introduced a symbol called the “antisigma,” resembling a backward “c,” to indicate lines that were in the wrong order and should be transposed. This dovetails with an opinion cited in several rabbinic sources, to the effect that the “Rise up, Lord!” verses are not in their proper place, but really belong in an earlier passage that describes the order of the Israelite tribes arrayed during their treks through the wilderness—including the Levitical families charged with transporting the ark of the covenant. Indeed, such a context would provide a logical setting for Moses’s words.
But why were those verses relocated to their current place in the Torah?
The Talmud suggested that this was intended to provide some breathing space between two episodes with negative and incriminating associations for the people of Israel. The chapter immediately following tells how the Israelites’ griping provoked a divine conflagration that consumed many of the people.
Regarding the preceding section, which tells of the people’s departure from the mountain of the Lord, the unfavourable connotations are not as obvious. By means of some Hebrew wordplay, the sages interpreted that verse as if it was saying that “they turned from after God and hurriedly fled Mount Sinai.” Commentators invoked a striking image from the Jerusalem Talmud: “like a child who takes flight after leaving school, so did they flee from Mount Sinai for three days after learning much Torah there”!
Presumably, in an ideal future world when such accusations will no longer be relevant, the verses will be restored to their proper place.
Another function of the editorial marks employed by ancient philological scholars was to indicate divisions between textual units. Rabbi Judah the Prince read the Torah’s nuns in that spirit,as implying that the enclosed passage constitutes a separate book. The Talmud adduced support for that odd statement in the words of Proverbs: “With wisdom she built her house, she carved its seven pillars”; which was expounded as an allusion to the division of Numbers into three volumes, producing a total of seven books in the Torah!
The notion of a two-verse biblical book fascinated commentators and they expanded the idea in numerous ways. A late midrashic compendium paraphrased that “it is a distinct book and nignaz.” The Hebrew nignaz can mean that the book “was hidden away,” because it was deemed heretical. It was understood in that sense by the author of a text discovered in the Cairo Genizah: “The sages declared: The entire Torah is devoted to the prophecy of Moses except for these two verses that originated in the prophecy of Eldad and Medad. For that reason they were designated with a curved nun and appended to the Torah.” Scholars understood this as an allusion to an apocryphal work, otherwise unknown, ascribed to the two figures who were temporarily inspired to prophesy in the wilderness. Some discussed its implication that there might be verses in the Torah that did not originate from Moses.
As it happens, the translation of nignaz in terms of suppression or censorship is questionable. A simpler understanding of the talmudic quote is that the brief passage, consisting of eighty-five letters, is deemed substantial enough to require burial like any sacred text that has fallen into disuse. Thus, 85 letters defines the minimum size of “book” that must be treated with reverence.
The concept of compressing meaning into 85 characters proved fascinating to a Canadian Jewish poet who initiated the “85 project” in which passages from a variety of works are transformed into 85-letter blocks of text.
As noted previously, the signs that surround the special verses in current Torah scrolls take the form of inverted nuns. However, mediaeval authorities on the biblical text (Masorah) and on talmudic literature pointed out that nuns are barely mentioned in classic sources. This point was argued most famously by the sixteenth-century scholar Rabbi Solomon Luria [Maharshal]. He observed that the main discussion in the Talmud mentions only undefined signs [simaniyyot]; and that some scribes inverted nuns inside words rather than embedding paragraphs between them. He argued that the Talmud was merely stating that the verses should be placed between spaces and line breaks, in keeping with the normal convention for separating sections of the Bible. In Maharshal’s view, the reference to nuns had probably resulted from misreadings by later students. On those grounds, he would have disqualified for ritual use all of our Torahs, were it not for the fact that the nuns were expounded in the kabbalistic classic the Zohar, which he believed was of ancient provenance.
Though Rabbi Luria’s position did not gain wide acceptance, it set the tone for intensive discussion among prominent authorities such as Rabbis Jedidiah Norzi, Ezekiel Landau, Meir of Lublin and many others.
Maharshal noted that some ancient rabbinic works made references to dots, horns, spaces, “isolated nuns” and other alternatives to the nuns. Furthermore, Rabbi Luria counted at least a dozen different ways he had found of drawing the nuns.
Of course we all realize now that Moses could have achieved his purpose more effectively by inserting an appropriate emoji.
Adler, Elkan Nathan. Ginze Miẓrayim. Oxford: H. Hart, 1897.
Betzer, Zvi. “Accents and Masora in Rabbinic Responsa.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 91, no. 1/2 (2000): 1–15.
Heschel, Abraham Joshua. Heavenly Torah: As Refracted Through the Generations. Translated by Gordon Tucker and Leonard Levin. New York: Continuum, 2005.
Huot, Marie Claire, and Robert Majzels. 85. 4 vols. Toronto: Moveable Inc., 2013.
Leiman, Sid Z. “The Inverted Nuns at Numbers 10:35-36 and the Book of Eldad and Medad.” Journal of Biblical Literature 93, no. 3 (1974): 348–55.
Levine, Baruch A. “More on the Inverted Nuns of Num 10:35-36.” Journal of Biblical Literature 95, no. 1 (1976): 122–24.
Lieberman, Saul. Hellenism in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission, Beliefs and Manners of Palestine in the I Century B. C. E.-IV Century C. E. Texts and Studies of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, v. 18. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950.
Schironi, Francesca. “Tautologies and Transpositions: Aristarchus’ Less Known Critical Signs.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 57 (2017): 607–30.
In an after-dinner conversation between two Babylonian sages, Rav Naḥman invited his colleague Rabbi Isaac to share a Torah insight. Rabbi Isaac responded by quoting an astonishing declaration in the name of Rabbi Yoḥanan: “Our forefather Jacob never died!”
Rav Naḥman retorted by pointing out how this assertion contradicted the explicit words of the Bible which details the very elaborate funeral and mourning rites that were performed for Jacob, and his burial in the ancestral Machpelah tomb. Rabbi Isaac dismissed those problematic texts and said that he had was expounding a scriptural verse of his own, from the prophecy of Jeremiah: “Therefore fear thou not, O my servant Jacob, saith the Lord; neither be dismayed, O Israel. For, lo, I will save thee from afar, and thy seed from the land of their captivity.”
Although it is clear that the name “Jacob” is being employed in very different ways in the two passages—in one as the name of an individual, and in the other as the nation of his descendants six centuries later—Rabbi Isaac insisted that the Bible wants us to draw a direct comparison: just as Jeremiah assured the exiled people of Israel that they shall survive and be restored to a peaceful existence in their homeland, so should we infer that Grandpa Jacob was given a divine assurance of his immortality.
Rabbi Isaac’s homily is as puzzling as it is uplifting. Such interpretative comparisons usually work in the opposite direction, with the virtues of the ancestors providing a source of inspiration for the later generations. And in any case, the Talmud’s story does not make clear what we are supposed to conclude regarding the apparent death and funeral of the patriarch.
Rashi found justification for a literal reading of the statement of Rabbis Yoḥanan and Isaac in a precise reading of the Torah’s account of Jacob’s demise: “He expired, and was gathered unto his people.” That verse does not use the normal Hebrew word for dying (vayyamot).
Naḥmanides and other commentators objected that the word for death is indeed found in several other places in the story; but suggested that those instances may not convey the objective facts but only the perspectives of the characters, including Jacob’s sons, and even the patriarch himself (“Israel said unto Joseph: behold, I die”) who might not have been cognizant of —or was too modest to mention— that he was destined for immortality. Rabbi Josiah Pinto speculated that Jacob’s immobile body remains secured against natural decomposition until the time of resurrection.
This episode brings to mind the legendary exchange between the first-century philosopher Apollonius of Tyana and a court clerk prior to Apollonius’ trial before the emperor Domitian. The philosopher supposedly revealed that he planned to maintain silence, as Socrates had done at his trial. When the clerk reminded him that Socrates had in fact been sentenced to death, Apollonius retorted enigmatically, “He did not die; the Athenians only thought he did.”
Nahmanides’ disciple Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret concluded that the statement must have a secret meaning, noting that Jacob was the first of our biblical ancestors whose progeny were entirely worthy, untainted by the likes of an Ishmael or an Esau.
The thirteenth-century Italian scholar Rabbi Isaiah di Trani cited this passage in support of his insistence that midrashic homilies should not be confused with actual exegesis. The consummate divine Author who composed the Torah instilled in it a single primary meaning, but (as is to be expected even from mortal authors) allowed for multiple levels of secondary interpretation. Accordingly, Rabbi Isaac should be understood as saying “Yes, I am perfectly aware that Jacob died, but my intention was to interpret the verse in every possible manner, even if it clashes with its literal sense. It likely contains an allusion to the teaching that ‘the righteous are deemed to be alive even after their deaths,’ in that their renown, their memories and their deeds are everlasting.”
In addition to his commentaries to the Bible and Talmud, Naḥmanides was an exponent of the esoteric doctrines of the Kabbalah. In his hands the Talmud’s puzzling statement about Jacob’s not dying became a vehicle for expounding a fascinating belief about the soul’s nature and its destiny following death. The souls of “normal” righteous individuals are removed from our world and relocated directly to paradise (the “garden of Eden”) until the time of the resurrection. There is however a class of the holiest souls who continue to hover about our world, especially around their graves. To them are given ethereal spiritual garments which they can don in order to make periodic appearances in the mortal realms. Some later kabbalists explained that Jacob belonged to an exclusive group who kept their ethereal garments on at all times so that they could always be available to benefit the lower world by drawing down divine mercy.
The Zohar teaches that every person receives a spiritual garment in the next world, one that is woven from the good deeds and intentions that we amass during our lifetimes. In Jewish literature, the earliest mention of this garment of good deeds is found in the tenth-century Arabic collection of inspirational tales, the Book of Comfort by Rabbi Nissim Ibn Shahin of Kairouan. Some scholars trace this notion, which has no known equivalent in ancient Jewish sources, to ideas from the Persian Avesta where the reward for a virtuous life takes the form of a maiden whose charms increase in proportion to one’s righteousness. It also echoes themes from the concept of Karma in Mahayana Buddhism. Even philosophically orientated commentators like Rabbis Isaac Arama and Manasseh ben Israel favoured this approach, regarding it as consistent with Plato’s belief that the soul is essentially independent of the body (in opposition to the Aristotelian theory that body and soul make up an inseparable unity).
Indeed, aspiring to the exquisite robes of righteous souls like Jacob’s became a powerful motif in Jewish legend —truly a garment to die for.
Brinner, William M., ed. An Elegant Composition Concerning Relief After Adversity by Nissim Ben Jacob Ben Nissim Ibn Shahin. Yale Judaica Series 20. New Haven: Yale University Press, New Haven, Conn: Yale University Press, 1977.
Dan, Joseph. “The Concept of Evil and Demonology in Ben Israel’s Nishmat Hayyim.” Edited by Joseph Dan and Issachar Ben-Ami. Folklore Research Center Studies 7: Studies in Aggadah and Jewish Folklore. Presented to Dov Noy on his Sixtieth Birthday. (1983): 263–74. [Hebrew]
Elbaum, Jacob. Medieval Perspectives on Aggadah and Midrash. Sifriyat Dorot 68. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2000. [Hebrew]
Frydman-Kohl, Baruch. “‘Hazut Qashah’: Faith, Felicity and Fidelity in the Thought of Yishaq Arama.” D.H.L., The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2004.
Harris, Bruce F. “Apollonius of Tyana: Fact and Fiction.” The Journal of Religious History 5, no. 3 (1969): 189–99.
Kushelevsky, Rella. “Intercultural Encounters in Collective Narratives: The Transition of ‘The Shining Robe’ from North Africa to Ashkenaz via Provence.” Medieval Encounters 19, no. 3 (2013): 259–73.
Scholem, G. “The Paradisic Garb of Souls and the Origin of the Concept of ‘Haluka de-Rabbanan.’” Tarbiz 24, no. 3 (1955): 290–306. [Hebrew]
Segal, Eliezer. “Midrash and Literature: Some Medieval Views.” Prooftexts 11, no. 1 (1991): 57–65.
Wineman, Aryeh. “Metamorphoses of the Hidden Light Motif in Jewish Texts.” Hebrew Studies 60 (2019): 323–32.
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.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 9, 2018, p. 13.
For further reading:
Diamandopoulos, Athanasios, Andreas Skarpelos, and Georgios Tsiros. “The Use of the Kidneys in Secular and Ritual Practices According to Ancient Greek and Byzantine Texts.” Kidney International 68, no. 1 (2005): 399–404.
Ruderman, David B. “Contemporary Science and Jewish Law in the Eyes of Isaac Lampronti of Ferrara and Some of His Contemporaries.” Jewish History 6, no. 1–2 (1992): 211–24.
———. Jewish Thought and Scientific Discovery in Early Modern Europe. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.
Langermann, Y. Tzvi. “Science and the ‘Kuzari.’” Science in Context 10, no. 3 (1997): 495–522.
Leibowitz, Yeshayahu, Daniel Kahneman, and Yoram Yovel. Mind and Brain: Fundamentals of the Psycho-Physical Problem. Edited by Yoram Yovel. Sidrat Heḳsherim. Jerusalem: The Van Leer Jerusalem Institute and Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2005.
Maio, Giovanni. “The Metaphorical and Mythical Use of the Kidney in Antiquity.” American Journal of Nephrology 19, no. 2 (1999): 101–6.
Preuss, Julius. Biblical and Talmudic Medicine. Translated by Fred Rosner. Northvale, NJ: J. Aronson, 1993.
Slifkin, Natan. “The Question of the Kidneys’ Counsel.” Rationalist Judaism, 2010. http://www.rationalistjudaism.com/2010/12/question-of-kidneys-counsel.html.
We live in a culture where many of the basic beliefs and documents of Judaism are shared by most of the largest religious communities. For this reason it might require a special effort to imagine what things were like when the religion of the Israelites made its first appearance thousands of years ago.
It was not just a question of how many gods one was prepared to worship, or even of the contrast between the universal scope of God’s dominion and the local jurisdiction of the competition. For the concept of monotheism carried with it some radically new understandings about the roles of God, of human beings, and of the world.
When we think about what we know about the various polytheistic religions–whether our frame of reference is the artistic sophistication of ancient Greece and Rome or the contemporary mythologies of Africa or America– it becomes clear that the supernatural powers that are central to their faiths are usually associated with the powers of nature: the sun and moon, the winds, the earth and the rain. Religion often consisted of gaining the favour of those forces, especially by offering them gifts, which was the original purpose of sacrifice.
Ultimately, of course, the place of humans in that scheme was not a very important one. For nature really takes little notice of us puny little creatures. The greatness of the natural forces lay precisely in their cyclical and unchanging character. You could count on the sun to rise every morning and set every evening. You could be sure that the seasons would follow a consistent course every year, and that the stars would travel along predictable paths in the heavens.
Compared with such mighty and eternal powers, the gods had little reason to concern themselves with the trivial affairs of mortals. Occasionally, of course, one of them, especially in the Greek myths, might become infatuated with a particularly attractive human creature; or, as was related in the ancient Babylonian tradition, their celestial repose might be interrupted by the loud noises coming from the terrestrial abodes impelling them to wipe out humanity with a great flood. But such instances were exceptional, and in the majority of cases nature and its divine representatives were expected to pursue their inexorable course, maintaining aloofness over the lower realms.
The God of the Torah is of course a very different matter. For one thing, he is not the embodiment of any single natural force, or even of their totality. Rather he is described as being outside of nature altogether. He called the natural world into being and set it into motion.
Jewish thinkers have not always agreed about the extent of God’s continuing involvement in the processes of nature since the pressing the proverbial “start” button at the creation. Some teachers have tried to minimize his active participation, believing that the world was fashioned so efficiently that it is self-running and self-perpetuating, except for those rare occasions when a suspension of the normal processes–a miracle–is required. Some even went so far as to assert that the miracles too were pre-programmed into the creation, a belief which, according to Maimonides, was expressed metaphorically in the Talmudic legends about certain miraculous items, like Balaam’s donkey and the pit that swallowed up Korach’s followers, having been created at dusk on the final day of creation. For scientific minds like Maimonides, God is best appreciated through an intensive study of the natural sciences which leads us to admire the infinite harmony and regularity of the universe and its author.
At the other extreme are those religious figures who see the uniqueness of God precisely in the fact that he is not confined to the natural or physical laws to which lesser creatures are subject. Adherents of this view prefer to emphasize God’s personal concern for each individual raindrop or blade of grass, regarding each moment as a new miracle produced by the divine will.
Whether we choose to adopt one these approaches, or one of the many intermediary options, it remains clear that God is not perceived as part of nature, but as above it.
A more significant difference between the religion of the Torah and that of ancient paganism has to do with the place of humanity within the large picture. Contrary to the pagans’ feeling that their gods are capricious beings who are indifferent to the deeds of mortals, Judaism placed morality at the centre of the religious agenda. We are so accustomed to the equation of religion and morals that it is easy to forget how radical a notion it was when first introduced by the religion of Israel. According to the Bible, God has a personal concern for the behaviour of human beings, as individuals and as members of communities and nations. Much of the Bible consists of historical narratives in which the authors perceived a close connection between ethical conduct and the destiny of the Israelite nation. God manipulates nature in order to measure out rewards or punishment in accordance with the actions of the people.
The stage upon which nature unfolds is that of space. Insofar as the natural processes were felt to be unchanging, history was usually not an important concern of pagan religion. In most instances, time was viewed as circular: The same agricultural seasons would repeat themselves from year to year, and the same life-events from birth to death would recur from generation to generation.
By contrast, Judaism saw history as the testing ground for moral life. For the Torah, history consists not merely of eternal annual and generational repetitions, but it is lineal: It had a beginning, and it will one day reach a culmination, when humanity will be judged, current inequities will be corrected, and the world will finally be established in accordance with God’s ideals.
The opposition between these two world-views has been observed by several thinkers. One of the most eloquent was Abraham Joshua Heschel, who composed a beautiful tribute to the Jewish Sabbath based on the premise that, as distinct from the physical shrines and artistic masterpieces that were encouraged by Western civilization, the religious genius of Judaism expressed itself in the crafting of “cathedrals in time”–through the sanctification of historical events, of days and life-stages, of words and music.
Heschel’s book makes provocative and compelling reading. However it does not take too much reflection to realize that the truth is much more ambivalent than that. For the Torah, there is never an either-or choice between history and nature, between time and space.
Nowhere are these complexities more evident than in the holidays that we celebrate. Several of the important Biblical festivals have a dual nature: They celebrate milestones in the unfolding of the seasons and agricultural development, as well as commemorating formative events in our history.
Thus, while no one would deny that the principal theme of Passover is the commemoration of our liberation from slavery in Egypt, the Torah also reminds us that must be observed in the Spring; and the seasonal connection is recalled in the requirement to have a green vegetable at the seder. Commentators have sometimes pointed out how the two themes complement one another–that the “liberation” of nature from the bonds of winter forms a fitting background for the festival of national freedom.
On Sukkot we relive the wanderings of our ancestors in the Sinai wilderness as well as giving thanks for the completion of the ingathering of the crops. In this case the connection to the historical events is less clear than the agricultural themes. The Jewish oral tradition transformed it into a time of supplication for abundant rainfall in anticipation of the approaching winter season.
Shavu’ot is associated in the Bible with the harvests of wheat, barley, and the ripening of the summer fruits, while the Talmudic rabbis viewed it as a commemoration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai.
Even the Sabbath has a double meaning. It proclaims God’s sovereignty as the Creator of the natural world, as well as serving as a memorial for the freedom from slavery when it commands us to grant a day of rest to all our employees.
Some historians have argued that the Torah was not inventing new holidays, but rather it was injecting new meaning into days that were already being observed as nature festivals by the ancient residents of the Middle East. What is significant is that the earlier nature holidays were not abolished, nor were their original purposes obliterated. Rather, history and nature were allowed to co-exist and complement one another.
In order to better appreciate how profoundly Judaism is tied in the agricultural and seasonal cycles, it is instructive to compare it with Islam, a religion that shares many traditions and values, but which diverges from Judaism precisely in the place that it assigns to nature.
For example, in calculating their respective calendars, Muslims, like Jews, preserve the original significance of a “month” as the length of time that it takes for the moon to go through all its phases: Approximately 29 1/2 days (in practice, they alternate between 29- and 30- day months). Indeed, the two communities usually observe Rosh Hodesh on the same date. A “year” consists of twelve such months, adding up to 354 days.
Now 354 is close to the 365 1/4 days of the solar calendar, but it is not identical. If no adjustment were made, then the lunar calendar would very quickly lose touch with the solar year that forms the basis of the agricultural seasons. In Judaism this cannot be allowed to happen, because Passover must occur in the Spring, Sukkot in the Fall, and Shavu’ot at the outset of the Summer. The discrepancy is compensated for by periodically adding extra months into the year.
Not so for our friends the Muslims. They have few festivals at all in their calendar, and none of these are associated with crops or seasons. Unlike the Torah, the Qur’an does not assume that its audience consists of peasants or farmers, but rather of merchants whose livelihood is not bound to the agricultural times. Therefore there was no need to correlate their lunar calendar with the solar one, and they continue happily to fall 11 1/4 days behind the civil calendar, to the great distress of those of us who might be called upon to translate between Islamic and other dating systems without the assistance of a computer.
By way of comparison we see, then, that Judaism does not focus on history and morality to the exclusion of nature, but that the two realms exist side by side.
Unlike some other cultures and ideologies, the Torah makes it very clear that humans are not on the same level as other natural beings. Our superiority is expressed in the Bible’s account of how we were the last ones to be formed on the sixth day of the Creation. Although we are forbidden to cause unnecessary destruction or suffering to God’s other creatures (as illustrated, for example, in the prohibitions against wantonly cutting down trees, or against taking chicks in the presence of the mother bird), there is no question that humans, created in God’s image, are more important.
Furthermore, in keeping with Judaism’s tendency to deal with concrete specifics rather than with general categories, much of the “nature” that is presupposed in our religious observances is the specific nature of the Land of Israel. This fact finds expression in several different contexts.
For one thing, the Bible itself made reference to the fact that the very climate of Israel lends itself to the promotion of religious faith. In the book of Deuteronomy, as Moses is preparing the people for their entry into the Promised Land, he points out to them the decisive difference between Egypt and Israel: Whereas Egypt can always rely on the Nile River to bring the water that will irrigate their fields and nourish their crops, Israel has no permanent source of water. Life and death depend on the rain falling in its proper season, subject, of course, to the will of God. Therefore those who dwell in that land will be made constantly aware of their subordination to the will of a Creator who wields the power to send rain, or to withhold, it in accordance with their diligence in observing the commandments. The threat of drought was one that was often invoked by the Hebrew prophets, and we can assume that the people, familiar with its deadly consequences, learned to take it very seriously.
The differences in climate between Israel and some Diaspora communities sometimes gives rise to anomalies that serve to underscore the perception that this is not our real home. Observant Jews in Calgary are confronted with such situations whenever Shabbat or Tish’ah Be’av conclude at almost eleven o’clock on a Summer’s night, when we have to dig through snow to get into our Sukkah, or when we wonder why the prayers for rain should be limited to the Winter months.All in all, however, by celebrating the natural cycles of Israel in our day-to-day lives, we are forced to maintain a consciousness of our place in nature, even if we happen to be exiled to cold, large cities where the sight of greenery is a rarity.
If you are not yet aware, the environmentalist movement has not been very sympathetic to the Torah, and some would go so far as to blame it for our entire environmental crisis. As tends to happen in such cases, the critics focus on a single passage, and utterly ignore the hundreds of Biblical passages that attest to a community living in close harmony with nature.
The offending passage is Genesis 1:28, where God instructs the first human beings “Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that creepeth upon the earth.”
Truly, the language of subduing and dominion conjures up images of the industrial revolution, of arrogant human beings laying waste the environment for our short-sighted selfish interests.
Of course such a reading is anachronistic. Subduing is not equivalent to destroying, and after all the praise that the Torah has heaped upon the creation in the preceding chapter–culminating in the declaration that “God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good”–it does not make much sense to argue that he was authorizing us to despoil that very creation. At any rate, it is only in very recent times that humanity has possessed the technological power to inflict serious devastation upon the natural environment.
No, the meaning of the passage is undoubtedly far more innocent than its critics would have it: It grants permission to the human species to cultivate the earth and produce food through agriculture and the domestication of animals, and asserts that, as beings imbued with the divine image, we have precedence over lesser creatures. The implications are spelled out with greater clarity a few verses later on (Genesis 2:15), when God installs Adam in the Garden of Eden “to cultivate and to preserve it.” It seems to me that these two tasks are interconnected: Unless we take care to preserve the land, there will remain nothing to cultivate. This conclusion follows from simple common sense and long-term self-interest and requires no special ideological stance towards nature of the environment.
Of course there are groups who would still condemn such attitudes as “species-ism” and view it as unwarranted arrogance for our species to elevate itself above any type of creature. With such philosophies we must agree to disagree.
Nevertheless, our sages were conscious that our supremacy within the natural order is not necessarily absolute, that it is conditional upon our caring for nature in a responsible manner.
The rabbis expressed this idea, as was their custom, in the form of a midrashic wordplay. In Genesis 1:26, immediately after it states that Adam was fashioned “in our image, after our likeness,” God goes on to declare that humans will “have dominion” over the other species of nature. The Hebrew verb expressing that idea is “Yirdu” which differs only by one invisible vowel from “Yerdu,” meaning “they shall go down” or “fall.” Basing themselves on this verbal association, the Midrash cites the following traditions:
Said Rabbi Haninah: If they prove themselves deserving, they will “have dominion”; but otherwise they will “fall.” Said Rabbi Jacob of Kefar Hanan: Those who are truly “in our image, after our likeness,” shall hold dominion. Otherwise they are doomed to “fall.”
It seems to me that these comments aptly summarize the point: The exalted place that Judaism assigns humans in the natural order shoule not be regarded as a privilege, but as a challenge and a responsibility. Unless we are diligent in performing our tasks as custodians of this God-given world, we will inevitably hurl both it and ourselves down to a state of chaos.
Talk presented to the Seniors’ Summer Lecture Series, Calgary Jewish Centre, July 15 1997.
1 The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, 2 Send you men, that they may spy out the land of Canaan, which I give to the children of Israel: of every tribe of their fathers shall you send a man, everyone a prince among them. 3 Moses sent them from the wilderness of Paran according to the commandment of Yahweh: all of them men who were heads of the children of Israel. 4 These were their names: Of the tribe of Reuben, Shammua the son of Zaccur. 5 Of the tribe of Simeon, Shaphat the son of Hori. 6 Of the tribe of Judah, Caleb the son of Jephunneh. 7 Of the tribe of Issachar, Igal the son of Joseph. 8 Of the tribe of Ephraim, Hoshea the son of Nun. 9 Of the tribe of Benjamin, Palti the son of Raphu. 10 Of the tribe of Zebulun, Gaddiel the son of Sodi. 11 Of the tribe of Joseph, namely, of the tribe of Manasseh, Gaddi the son of Susi. 12 Of the tribe of Dan, Ammiel the son of Gemalli. 13 Of the tribe of Asher, Sethur the son of Michael. 14 Of the tribe of Naphtali, Nahbi the son of Vophsi. 15 Of the tribe of Gad, Geuel the son of Machi. 16 These are the names of the men who Moses sent to spy out the land. Moses called Hoshea the son of Nun Joshua. 17 Moses sent them to spy out the land of Canaan, and said to them, Go up this way by the South, and go up into the hill-country: 18 and see the land, what it is; and the people who dwell therein, whether they are strong or weak, whether they are few or many; 19 and what the land is that they dwell in, whether it is good or bad; and what cities they are that they dwell in, whether in camps, or in strongholds; 20 and what the land is, whether it is fat or lean, whether there is wood therein, or not. Be of good courage, and bring of the fruit of the land. Now the time was the time of the first-ripe grapes.
Exactly thirteen years ago, on this very parashah that we read today, I spent my first Shabbat in Calgary. I recall how, on that Saturday morning, I miraculously found my way to the Calgary Jewish Centre, where our congregation held services prior to the completion of its own building. When I arrived, I was greeted by the synagogue president, who welcomed me as a newcomer, even as he informed me that the rabbi was home sick, so that I would have to deliver the sermon.
Not too long ago I was informed by our current president that I would be giving this week’s sermon while our rabbi is at the hospital at the side of his wife and new-born daughter.
Back then it was easy to improvise a topic. The subject-matter of the week’s Torah reading, about how Moses sent spies to scout out the new land, lent itself naturally to an appreciative discourse on how a newcomer should investigate a new Jewish community.
Perhaps it would have been appropriate this week to offer my retrospective about the wisdom of the move, analogous to the Biblical spies’ kvetching about all the difficulties and shortcomings of the Promised Land. The truth is that we have been very pleased with our Jewish life in Calgary.
Instead, I would like to focus on some difficult, even disturbing, comments that Rashi makes about the opening words of the parashah.
The first of his comments relates the Hebrew phraseology of the verse in which God tells Moses to send ou the spies. The passage states Sh’lah lekha, which literally translates as “send you” or “send for yourself.” Rashi cites the following midrashic interpretation, according to which God is saying:
[Send the spies] If you want to–I am not ordering you. If you wish to, then send them.”
This strange comment implies that there was something morally or religiously unacceptable about Moses’ decision to send out spies. As several commentators have noted, that is a difficult premise to accept. Nahmanides observes that the gathering of military intelligence is a normal practice before a military invasion. In spite of their expectations of divine assistance, the people had no reason to expect that the Canaanites would be overcome through an instant miracle. Joshua’s armies would be fighting real battles, and therefore they should make use of the best military tactics available, including the sending of spies.
Indeed, the very fact that later Joshua did send out his own team of spies (as we read in today’s haftarah reading), and that their mission was ultimately successful, demonstrates that there was nothing inherently improper about sending spies.
[The contrast between the two missions raises the possibility that if Moses, instead of instructing his spies to bring back fruit samples, had sent them directly to the house of Rachab the harlot, their report would have been much more favourable, and the people would have been spared forty years of wandering in the wilderness…]
Rashi proceeds to cite the following midrashic source:
The people has approached Moses saying “Let us send men before us, that they may search the land for us” (Deuteronomy 1:22)…
Moses took counsel with the Divine Presence… By their lives! I shall give them an opportunity to make a mistake with regards to the words of the spies, so that they shall not inherit the land…
This story is very troubling, suggesting as it does that a vindictive Moses was indulging in what the lawyers call “entrapment” in order to get the Israelites into trouble.
I wish to propose a somewhat different reading of the Biblical passage, and of Rashi’s comments.
The first thing I wish to observe is that Moses had every reason to expect that the mission of the spies would lead to a successful outcome.
In many ways the cards were stacked in Moses’ favour. As was noted by a midrash cited by Rashi, the timing of the incident, immediately after Miriam was punished for slandering Moses, should have provided insurance that the people would not be quick to fall into the same error.
He made his orders very specific, issuing a precise list of questions for which they were to bring back answers. He left them virtually no room for error.
Moses was careful to choose the finest, most upstanding representatives of the people, to participate in the reconnaissance mission. Rashbam argues that the word “nasi,” used here to designate the station of the agents, does not carry its normal meaning of “princes,” but indicates that they were volunteers, accepting their task out of strong motivation.
Furthermore, when Moses told the spies to get some of the fruit of the land, he could be confident that “the time was the time of the first ripe grapes” and that the spies would carry back impressive evidence of the land’s bountiful produce.
In short, the circumstances were arranged in such a way as to guarantee that the spies would confirm Moses’ assessment of the glories of the Land of Israel.
Somehow, however, things turned out differently.
In fact, the whole of Moses’ career can be seen as such a series of disappointments and good intentions gone wrong.
When we think about it, this is a fundamental feature of the human situation. All our careful planning can never guarantee that events will turn out as we planned them.
Those of us who are teachers are repeatedly stunned when we get back examinations, and discover that our students managed to misconstrue statements that were completely clear and unambiguous.
One can imagine that by this point in his life Moses would have been overwhelmed with frustration: Why should I bother to make any efforts, when there does not seem to be any correlations between my intentions and the final outcome?
These are feelings that each of us can identify with. It can be very disheartening to discover how little control we have over the consequences of our actions, even after we have invested great efforts in their planning and implementation.
It was in response to such expressions of despair that the Almighty reassured Moses “Sh’lah lekha” — “Send for yourself.” All that I expect of you is to do the best you can, according to your understanding of the circumstances.
As Rabbi Tarfon taught in Pirkei Avot:
“It is not up to you to complete the task. But neither are you free to refrain from it.”
This was a lesson that Moses took to heart. When he finally resolved to send out the spies, he made it clear to them that he was doing so in full awareness that, in spite of all his careful preparations and forethought, the outcome might be different from what he expected. “By their lives! I shall give them an opportunity to make a mistake with regards to the words of the spies.”
This does not mean, as we initially understood, that Moses maliciously wanted the Israelites to respond blasphemously to the spies’ report– but only that he was open to the possibility that such a tragedy could occur. In spite of that daunting prospect, he could not forsake the responsibilities of leadership, and so he dispatched the spies nonetheless.
This is a lesson that must be taken to heart by all of us who hold positions of leadership and responsibility in the workplace, the community or the family. We must not be paralyzed by the uncertainties of life, nor demoralized by unexpected turns of events.
We must acknowledge realistically that, like Moses our Teacher, there are times when the best we can do is “send for ourselves.”
Sermon delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, June 12 1999.
23 You shall make a table of acacia wood. Two cubits shall be its length, and a cubit its breadth, and one and a half cubits its height. 24 You shall overlay it with pure gold, and make a gold molding around it. 25 You shall make a rim of a handbreadth around it. You shall make a golden molding on its rim around it. 26 You shall make four rings of gold for it, and put the rings in the four corners that are on its four feet. 27 the rings shall be close to the rim, for places for the poles to carry the table. 28 You shall make the poles of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold, that the table may be carried with them. 29You shall make its dishes, its spoons, its ladles, and its bowls to pour out offerings with. Of pure gold shall you make them. 30 You shall set bread of the presence on the table before me always.
Parashat Terumah describes in painstaking detail the implements that were fashioned for the Tabernacle in the wilderness. So precise are these descriptions that it would probably be preferable to show pictures of the respective items rather than trying futilely to capture them in words. If some kind of automatic clock could be devised in order to overcome the shabbat restrictions, then perhaps a slide show would be the ideal solution.
The exact measurements and lists of building materials are not the usual fare of Jewish religious scholars. The story is told of one Eastern European rabbi who delved into the topic with such vigour that he came to fancy himself an expert in carpentry and building construction. When a member of his flock informed him of his plans to build a new house, the rabbi forbade him to seek out an architect. “I’ve been studying Parashat Terumah carefully with Rashi and the other commentators, and I know I can design the perfect house for you!”
The Jew yielded to his rabbi’s enthusiasm, and before long an impressive structure had been erected on his lot.
Everything looked quite fine –that is, until a few days later, when the entire structure collapsed into a pile of wood and rubble.
The Jew approached his rabbi and described what had occurred, challenging him to account for the catastrophe. Hadn’t the blueprints been certified according to the Torah and Rashi’s commentary?
The aged scholar wrinkled his brow in concentration and began to consult several of the volumes from his shelf. Eventually the rabbi’s eyes lit up with a look of triumph, as he turned to his congregant and announced:
“Amazing! The Tosafot raise precisely the same objection against Rashi’s interpretation!”
Indeed, some of us are more comfortable dealing with theory than with the more concrete aspects of the Torah’s teachings. Many of the traditional commentators have sought to find symbolic meanings to the structure of the Tabernacle, and to its furnishings.
For the most part, the scholarly energies have been channelled towards the more dramatic items that are described in the Torah reading; such as the holy ark that housed the Moses’ Tablets of the Law and symbolized righteousness; the altar that served as the focus of worship; or the menorah with its mystical radiance, representing the light Torah. By comparison, relatively little is said about that most prosaic of furnishings, the table.
I suspect that many of the commentators were put off by the apparent similarity between this feature and the customs of pagan shrines. One of the main purposes of pagan cults was to provide nourishment for their deities; and the sight of the priests laying twelve loaves of “showbread” upon the Tabernacle’s table could very easily be misinterpreted as having such a purpose.
Perhaps it was some such trepidation that underlies the reluctance expressed by Maimonides, who was not usually inhibited when it came to proposing rationales for even the most abstruse of the Torah’s commandments, including the mysterious law of the Red Heifer, which Talmudic tradition had already declared to be unfathomable to the mortal intellect.
And yet, when discussing the function of the table, the same Maimonides declares openly that he has no idea what the purpose of this ritual could possibly be!
Ramban is aware of the possible misreading of the ritual, and notes that its main purpose was to demonstrate precisely the opposite of the pagan assumptions: The Torah commands that the loaves are to be removed intact every Saturday, as the new ones are brought in (and then shared among the priests). This was intended to provide clear evidence that we do not believe in a God who needs to be fed.
This is indeed consistent with the ancient Talmudic demythologizing of the incense offerings in the Tabernacle, such as the one that accompanied the Showbread. The Torah states that the incense was to provide a “reiah nihoah” –usually translated as a “sweet smell”– before the Lord. The sages of the Talmud connected this expression to the Hebrew concept of “nahat ruah” –satisfaction– in order to teach that, rather than deriving physical or sensual pleasure from the aromas of the incense and sacrificies, God is, in effect, “shepping nakhos” from the fact that his children are obeying his statutes!
The Jewish homiletical tradition, from the Talmud onward, has been relatively consistent in interpreting the table as a symbol for the ideal Hebrew monarchy. In our democratic world, I would easily translate that royalist terminology to the more general category of “government” –though I acknowledge that I am somewhat more reluctant to do so after having walked to synagogue from my hotel this morning, and passed by the Provincial Legislature and the statue of Queen Victoria in all her scowling benevolence.
At any rate, as one who comes from the small and fragile Jewish community of Calgary, I am particularly impressed when visiting Victoria, a kindred community. I am fascinated by the dedication and devotion that make possible the survival and flourishing of Jewish life in the far-flung reaches away from the larger Jewish centres. I hope that my exposition of the symbolism of the table might provide some useful lessons for the Jewish communal leadership of Victoria.
The link to that theme is created by the mention of the “zer,” the “crown” that encompasses the table. While traditional interpreters are in disagreement over the precise description of this border (Rashi records the Talmudic disputes about whether it was a border that protruded above the table’s surface, or a brace to secure the legs below), the verbal association was sufficient to inspire them to seek lessons about the nature of good government.
The eleventh-century North African commentator Rabbenu Hananel discerned such lessons in the dimensions of the table. It was one cubit by two cubits, producing a circumference of six cubits. Multiply that by its 1.5 cubit height and we arrive at the number nine. Nine is the number of commandments laid down for the king in Deuteronomy 17.
If one examines these laws, one notes that they are all designed to limit royal authority, to prevent oppressive demonstrations of power, such as the amassing of horses; and to make sure that that power is subordinated to religious ideals. Therefore the king is required to write his own Torah scroll and to carry it with him at all times. I am certain that these are lessons that are appropriate to anyone who occupies a position of leadership, whether at the national or local levels.
The symbolism of the zer can also be understood in that way, as setting limits to the power of the leader. Rabbenu Hananel cites many examples from Biblical history of how the monarchs never exercised absolute power, but were subject to the reprimands of their “special prosecutors,” namely the sages and prophets of their generation who were quick to chastise them for the slightest moral or spiritual lapses.
As we have noted, the main function of the table was to hold the twelve loaves of the “showbread.” This, say our commentators, aptly symbolizes the main role of the government, which is to care for the material well-being of their populace. This, of course, teaches us another lesson that can profitably be emulated in all human societies: Whatever ideals and ambitions a government might set for itself, the bottom line is that people must enjoy basic physical welfare and security.
The Ramban adds a further dimension to this idea. Noting that the presence of the bread on the table was, in some mysterious way, supposed to draw down divine blessings of sustenance upon our world, he poses the question of why such a procedure, which smacks of magic, is necessary in the first place? Does God really need a physical catalyst, such as the bread, in order to provide bounty to humanity?
Ramban resolves the difficulty by noting that this is indeed the normal pattern of Biblical miracles, that since the original creatio ex nihilo, God has always chosen to perform wonders by increasing and multiplying existing objects, rather than by creating things out of utter nothingness. For this reason, Elisha asked for a jug of oil before proceeding to increase the quantity manifold.
This theological insight contains a valuable lesson for our community leaders. They should not behave like that proverbial individual who protested to the Almighty that, in spite of years of prayers, he had never been allowed to win the lottery– only to have it pointed out that he had never actually purchased a ticket!
Quite the contrary, we should be the first to acknowledge that the miraculous vitality of small Jewish communities is a mutual affair. God provides his blessing only after we have arrayed our table with the Showbread of work, time and dedication.
But once we have done our part, miracles are truly possible.
Sermon delivered at Congregation Emanu-El Victoria British Columbia, February 21 1999.
