Talking Clean, Talking Dirty

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: January 1992 — Canadian politicians use foul language in attacking one another in Parliament.

As bland and inept as they may be in other respects, recent verbal outbursts in Ottawa have proven our Canadian politicians to be among the most foul-mouthed of their breed. The notion of “foul language” is in itself an intriguing one. I find it curious how different societies define certain words as obscene or dirty, whereas other words having the same objective connotation are nonetheless deemed respectable.

The Talmud makes a conscious effort to maintain standards of dignified and clean expression. While there are no topics that were so delicate as to prevent their being discussed, our sages avoided lewdness through the widespread use of euphemisms, which they termed lashon neqiyyah, “clean language.” Thus, when we read the Torah in the synagogue it is customary to replace certain explicit expressions with more “polite” equivalents. A similar practice governs the wording of talmudic texts. Sometimes the euphemisms are so succesful that we remain unsure what they are replacing. A favourite circumlocution, “davar aher” (“something else”) is used in so many different contexts that students of the Talmud may frequently experience some confusion as to whether it is being employed to mask sexual activity, pork, idolatry or…something else.

On the whole, Hebrew does not lend itself readily to obscene expressions. This is a fact that was recognized by Maimonides. The distinguished Jewish philosopher, consistent with his opinion that Hebrew is a natural language without any inherently mystical qualities, was called upon to explain why the Talmud refers to it as “the holy tongue.” The reason, he argues, is that Hebrew lacks a vocabulary for describing the baser bodily functions.

An Egyptian acquaintance recently asked me about Arabic words that had entered into Hebrew. I hesitantly volunteered that Arabic constituted a rich source of obscenities and curses, in which Hebrew itself was lacking. To my relief, my acquaintance was neither offended nor surprised. Arabs recognize that this is one of the distinctive characteristics of their tongue. It is likely that Maimonides, a proficient Arabic-speaker, was conscious of this difference between holy and profane languages.

While Israel’s parliamentary culture can hardly be considered more civilized than Canada’s, I cannot recall anyone in the Kenesset being censured for obscene language per se. There is however an episode that springs to mind that may reflect a distinctly Jewish slant on the propriety of political discourse. It concerns an incident some years ago in which an individual was brought to trial for directing an obscene gesture against the head of Israel’s Labour Party (consisting of the upward pointing of the middle finger) which is referred to in English as “giving the finger,” and in Hebrew–for unexplained reasons–as the “oriental gesture.” This case extends the limits of obscene language to include non-verbal forms of communication–appropriate to a people that is noted for accompanying verbal speech with impassioned gesticulations.

By the way, this venerable gesture has a long history to it. According to the Jewish mystical classic the Zohar, it expresses profound metaphysical mysteries, and was used by Moses himself in the battle against the Amalekite foes.

We should note that the same Kenesset has recently had to cope with another uniquely Jewish question of verbal propriety in politics in its recent decision to ban the use of curses and blessings in election campaigns. This phenomenon arose among religious political parties who promised their supporters the blessings of pious rabbis, and the equally efficacious maledictions of these rabbis against those who would (God forfend!) vote against them. The curses in question were of course of the “respectable” variety, and bear no resemblance to the “curse-words” being hurled across the benches of the Canadian House of Commons.

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The Huppah: From Eden to Today

by Eliezer Segal

The most distinctive feature of any Jewish wedding is the “huppah.” This term is taken from the Talmudic stipulation that a marriage does not take legal effect until the bride has entered the “huppah.” We are all of course familiar with the object being referred to. It is a canopy-like structure consisting of a piece of cloth, sometimes a talit, that is held aloft on four posts, and beneath which the couple stand during the religious wedding ceremony.

While this might be obvious to us today, the definition of the huppah was not always so clear. As one reads through medieval works of Jewish religious law it becomes evident that our rabbis entertained serious uncertainties about what precisely the Talmud was thinking of when it spoke about the huppah. 

According to many authorities the huppah was the groom’s house, or at any rate an actual room or building other than the bride’s parental home. By entering it the woman was declaring her official independence from her family and accepting the protection of her husband. Various rabbinic scholars debate whether for this purpose an actual house is required, or whether the requirement can be fulfilled through some sort of symbolic structure or act.

Much of that original function of the huppah has now come to be embodied in a separate portion of the marriage procedures that we call “yihud,” (“isolation”) which involves leaving the newly-weds alone in a room together after the conclusions of the public celebrations, so as to visibly demonstrate their new status as a couple.

In most early sources it was this secluding of the bride and groom that was designated the “huppah,” and attention used to be paid to ways of physically indicating the groom’s “ownership” of the chamber, often through special ornamentation. R. Isaac ben Abba Mari or Marseilles, writing in the twelfth century, relates that it was customary to decorate the designated room with colourful cloths and tapestries, or to fashion a kind of sukkah adorned with myrtle leaves and roses. 

Rabbi Isaac also mentions another custom–one of which he disapproves–namely that of spreading a cloth or a talit over the heads of the couple during the recitation of the marriage blessings. This closely approximates our current practice, though R. Isaac did not consider it acceptable. By the sixteenth century we encounter the earliest references to the four-posted huppah with which we are now familiar. Initially it was accepted with some reluctance, but it is now in universal use among Ashkenazic Jews.

In addition to its technical function in the formalizing of the marriage the huppah was endowed with many beautiful symbolic associations. For example, the midrash relates how the very first wedding in history was accompanied by a huppah–in fact, according to one legend, God himself made ten huppahs for Adam and Eve, each of them fashioned of gold and precious gems, while the angels entertained the first couple in song and dance.

There was one event in Jewish history which was considered the paradigm of all weddings: the revelation of the Torah at Mount Sinai. In the biblical account of the marriage between God and the people of Israel our sages also discovered allusions to the presence of a huppah, whether in the enveloping cloud of darkness that hovered over the people, or in the fact that the Israelites, about to enter into their marriage with God, were made to stand “beneath the mountain“–just as the bride stands beneath the sheltering huppah on her wedding day.

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First Publication:

• Jewish Free Press, Feb. 14 1992.

For further reading:

• S. J. Zevin, ed., Talmudic Encyclopedia, vol. 16, Jerusalem, 1980.

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Oy Vey!

by Eliezer Segal

We can learn a lot about people from how they give expression to feelings of shock or sorrow. Different cultures have formulated a variety of quasi-verbal ways of instinctively reacting to distressing situations. In some cases it will be through an obscenity or blasphemy. Among Jews however there are two expressions which are most familiar to us. Ashkenazic Jews will cry “Oy vey!” whereas Sepharadim will blurt out the very similar-sounding “Way, way!”

The “vey” component of “oy vey” exists in German as well (“weh“), and might have entered Yiddish from there–though, as we shall observe below, this is not necessarily so. The “oy” however does not seem traceable to any outside source. This seems to hold true as well of the “Way” of North African Jews, which does not (insofar as my inquiries have revealed so far) show up in the vernacular languages of their Muslim neighbours. These facts invite further investigation.

“Oy” is actually an old and authentic Hebrew word. It appears with some frequency in the Bible, where it is usually rendered in English as “woe!” It is not always spoken by Jews, and hence we find such scenes as that in 1 Samuel 4:7-8, in which the Philistines are depicted as crying “Oy!” in confused anticipation of an Israelite attack.

In the book of Ecclesiastes we find a variant of this interjection, pronounced “Ee!” as in: “Ee to him that is alone when he falls” (4:10). This form seems to have become the prevalent one by the time we get to the era which produced the Mishnah (1st to 3rd centuries C.E.), and appears in such phrases as “Ee to me whether I speak or remain silent!” and “Ee to the wicked and to his neighbour!” [By the way, you won’t find this form in the normal printed editions of the Mishnah, which replaced the strange-sounding “ee” with the more familiar “oy.” The quotations listed above are from reliable manuscripts].

It is when we reach the period of the Talmud and Midrash (3rd to 6th centuries) that Jews begin using a new expression in order to give vent to their pain and tribulation: the familiar “vay‘ or “way!” This word appears in dozens of passages in rabbinic literature, as the equivalent of its older cousins “oy” and “ee.” “Vay“ (or “way“) was apparently not considered a distinctively Jewish expression at the time, since the same word was in use in both Greek (“ouai”) and Latin (“vae”), carrying precisely the same meanings as their Hebrew counterparts. 

Thus for example, the midrash relates the following charming anecdote about Rabban Gamaliel who blessed his daughter on the birth of her first child with the rather upsetting prayer “May the word `vay” never budge from your lips.” When his daughter voiced her dismay at receiving such a “blessing,” the doting zeydeh explained his real intention: His wish was that she might have many occasions to lament about such domestic “troubles” as “Vay, my baby won’t eat! Vay, my baby doesn’t want to go to school!” Rabban Gamaliel astutely perceived that there are certain types of parental torments that we learn to prefer over the alternatives.

And just so that you should not be mistaken into supposing that Jews only knew how to suffer, we should make it clear that talmudic literature knows also of an appropriate interjection for joyous occasions: “Wah!” The similarity between the sounds of way and wah often furnished occasions for elaborate word-plays, which hinted subtly at just how fragile the borderline between sorrow and joy often is.

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Nisan: the First Month

by Eliezer Segal

For most of us, the approaching Hebrew month of Nisan derives its distinctiveness from its association with Passover. Although we now think of it as the seventh month, we should not forget that for most of our history Nisan was counted as the first month, and the foremost among them.

Earlier generations regarded the first day of Nisan as a special occasion in its own right which was celebrated in a variety of way. This was especially evident during the era of the Second Commonwealth, an age noted for the proliferation of different Jewish sects.

An intriguing example can be found among the “Dead Sea Scrolls,” in a document known to scholars as the “Temple Scroll.” This manuscript consists of a lengthy paraphrase of the Torah, interspersed with many additions of laws peculiar to the sect which produced it. According to the fragmentary remains of this document the first day of Nisan was to be observed as a full-fledged festival with special sacrificial offerings similar to those of Rosh Hashanah.

Several of the books which were held sacred by the Dead Sea sect made a point of identifying events in the lives of the Hebrew patriarchs and other biblical figures as having occurred on the first of Nisan. One of these, the Apocryphal “Book of Jubilees” relates how Noah had celebrated that date as a holiday precisely according to the sacrificial regulations that are set down in the Temple Scroll. The same date was said to mark other events in the lives of the Hebrew patriarchs.

None of these sources ascribe the importance of the first of Nisan to its associations with the Egyptian exodus. More relevant for them was the fact that the inauguration of the Tabernacle and the ordination of the first priests had commenced on this date. 

Rabbinic Judaism treated the eight-day ordination ceremony that had been observed in Moses’ time as a one-time affair. For the Dead Sea sect however this was a fixed holiday that was ordained to be celebrated every year through special sacrificial offerings.

Though (unlike the Qumran sectarians) the Talmudic rabbis did not accord it full festival status, they did have another special reason for celebrating the first of Nisan: This was the day in which the Temple began to purchase offerings from the new annual fund of shekels. For the Pharisaic sages the way in which the Temple’s needs were financed was more than a fiscal question. By insisting that each Jew throughout the world pay an equal share each year, and that no individuals be permitted to purchase public sacrifice out of their own pockets, they were actively asserting the equality of all Jews in worship, a position which aroused concerted opposition among the aristocratic priests of the Sadducee party.

According to the ancient work known as “Megillat Ta`anit” the first eight days of Nisan were designated as a time of rejoicing precisely because they commemorate the victory of the egalitarian Pharisaic position over the elitist view of the Sadducees. We still acknowledge this festive quality through the omission of the penitential “Tachanun” prayers during these days.

Such was the quality of Second Temple Judaism with its many competing interpretations of just about every aspect of Judaism. It makes one wonder: With all these reasons for celebrating, where did our ancestors find time for their Passover cleaning.

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That Remarkable Kid

by Eliezer Segal

The central precept of Passover is to transmit the message of the Exodus to our children. Our rabbis have traditionally invested much thought and energy into making sure that those children remain awake during the seder. Two of the most effective means towards this goal are the stealing of the afikoman and the rousing songs that are sung at the end of the evening.

At our house, there is has never been much serious competition for the title of Favourite Seder Song. The award goes easily to the Had Gadya, which we sing to a lively variation on Moishe Oysher’s brilliant mixture of klezmer and Dixieland tunes. The singing of the Had Gadya certainly provides a sufficient incentive for young and old alike to keep our eyes open, and a stirring jolt for anyone who might have nodded off by then.

Like several other songs that have found their way into the Haggadah, Had Gadya has no obvious connection to Passover, nor does it constitute an essential component of the liturgy. The current version first appeared in the Prague printing of the Haggadah in 1590 and its popularity was for a long time confined to Ashkenazic Jews. We are not very certain when, where or why it was first composed, or even in what language. Like several other parts of the Haggadah, it is recited in Aramaic rather than Hebrew. According to one theory, though, it was originally written in Yiddish (in which language it appears in an old manuscript), and afterwards translated into Aramaic in order to make it easier to imitate the Yiddish rhymes. Although this theory is supported by the poor quality of the Aramaic, other scholars have pointed out that Aramaic versions of the song are attested as far back as the thirteenth century in Avignon, southern France, where Yiddish would not have been known.

The familiar version of the song begins with a cat eating a kid and culminates with God destroying the Angel of Death. There were however some interesting variations on this theme. In several versions it was a mouse–a rather formidable little rodent it would seem–who gobbled up the kid! In fact the earliest text of the Had Gadya relates the sad story as an unending series in which “the cat came and ate the mouse who ate the rope that bound the ox who drank the water that extinguished the fire that burned the the stick that beat the dog that ate the kid.” The next page is missing in the manuscript, but it is likely that the cat went on to be devoured by the dog, setting the whole circle in motion again!

Although many modern scholars like to regard Had Gadya as no more than a frivolous bit of doggerel, analogous to such folk songs as “the House that Jack Built” or “the Farmer in the Dell,” some of our rabbis, as well as several Christian writers, approached it with immense respect and tried to uncover its secret meanings. Most commentators saw it as a parable about Jewish history, in which one evil empire after another arises to oppress the defenceless Jewish “kid.” This pattern will end in the messianic era, when God himself will do away with our oppressors and banish death itself.

The reverence in which the Had Gadya was held is exemplified by an incident that took place in the eighteenth century when a certain brash individual dared to make fun of the song and was immediately placed under a ban of excommunication by an irate observer. The episode was brought before the renowned Rabbi Hayyim Joseph David Azulai (known as the “Hida”) who was thoroughly incensed that anyone should make light of a hymn that is recited by thousands of Jews and accepted by great rabbis. As evidence of the sanctity of the Had Gadya, the Hida tells of one eminent scholar who composed more than ten different commentaries to the song according to the different levels of mystical interpretation. The Hida, himself a seasoned Kabbalist, entertained no doubts that the Had Gadya does indeed contain deep mysteries.

Whether your concern is to delve into its mystical dimensions or merely to keep your children alert during the seder, I hope you all have a wonderful time singing the Had Gadya this year.

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Obadiah the Proselyte

by Eliezer Segal

The festival of Shavu’ot is the day on which Judaism honours its converts. This theme is most pronounced in the reading of the book of Ruth, which relates the story of how a Moabite woman chose to cast her lot in with the Jewish people and was destined to become the great-grandmother of King David.

We do not usually think of ourselves as a missionizing people. During the Middle Ages, when Jews lived precariously under the heavy yokes of Christianity and Islam, the seeking of converts could be a perilous undertaking. And yet, in spite of the severe penalties that were sometimes inflicted upon both the converts and the communities which accepted them, Judaism never ceased to attract a small but steady stream of proselytes.

In this article I would like to speak of one such proselyte, a figure who lived in Italy during the eleventh century. The individual in question only came to the attention of scholars during the last generations, as fragments of a detailed biographical chronicle were pieced together from the tattered manuscripts of the Cairo “Genizah.”

The chronicle tells of a young Norman priest named Johannes whose study of the Bible gradually convinced him that it was the Jews who faithfully continued the ways of the ancient Hebrews. Johannes was also an eyewitness to the First Crusade and was impressed at how heroically Jews faced the murderous attacks of the rampaging Crusaders. He had heard of the Italian archbishop Andreas of Bari who had adopted Judaism, a decison which forced him to flee to Constantinople to to escape the wrath of his former coreligionists. Inspired by Andreas’ deeds, Johannes took on the Hebrew name Obadiah and set to wandering among the Jewish communities of the Middle East.

The name Obadiah seems to have been reserved for proselytes. This accords with the talmudic tradition which states that the biblical prophet of that name had been a convert. A different “Obadiah the Proselyte,” who lived somewhat later, was the recipiant of a famous responsum by Maimonides. 

Obadiah’s chronicle is a source of extraordinary glimpses of events of the time. He describes the battles of the crusaders and the sufferings of the civilians in besieged cities. He tells of the beginnings of the first discriminatory laws which were imposed on the Jews of of Aden (including heavy taxes and distinguishing dress regulations).

One theme which recurs constantly in Obadiah’s chronicle is the intense messianic fervour that pervaded the times. No fewer than three self-styled Jewish messiahs are mentioned in the brief fragment. The Jews of the time, no doubt sensing that the war between the Christians and the Muslims must have cosmic significance, placed their complete faith in these pretenders, and after the hoped-for redemption failed to materialize they became a laughingstock to their Muslim neighbours.

One of Obadiah’s writings holds a special fascination for us. It preserves a set of liturgical poems which he had heard in the synagogues, and which he had recorded according to the precise system of musical notation that was in use among Christian Europeans, but which was as yet unknown to Jews. It is perhaps more than coincidental that one of these poems was composed for the Shavu’ot. Several years ago I had occasion to hear it performed in concert in Jerusalem, and it was a powerful feeling to hear these lost voices chanting from out of the Jewish past.

No less impressive is the glimpse which Obadiah gives us into daily lives of the Jewish communities among which he lived. Whether in Baghdad or Damascus, Israel or Egypt, the new convert was invariably welcomed by the local Jews, who would give him food, shelter and religious schooling, in spite of the difficult circumstances to which they were subjected.

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A Bird in the Hand

by Eliezer Segal

In the course of my readings of ancient rabbinic texts I was recently surprised to encounter a familiar-sounding proverb which translates roughly as “A bird in the hand is better than a hundred in flight.” This quotation, so similar to a common English one, was employed by the midrashic author to illustrate a quintessentially Jewish idea, inspired by a passage from the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes (4:6): “Better is a handful of quietness than both the hands full of labour and striving after wind.” 

Typically, the rabbis of the Midrash applied this sentiment to the world of Torah study, observing that “a person who has studied a small amount of halakhot, but has mastered them, is preferable to one who has studied large quantities of halakhot and Midrash, but has not truly mastered them.”

Intrigued by the parallels between the midrashic proverb and its English equivalent, I turned to Bartlett’s Familiar Quotation. Here I was able to unearth a number of variations on the saying. As expected, there was no mention of either the Midrash or the book of Ecclesiastes. 

Some of Bartlett’s references were to sixteenth-century English authors who used the proverb in manners that were very unlike the Jewish sources. Not surprisingly, the lesson was applied most commonly to affairs of the heart. Thus, in Thomas Lodge’s Rosalynde, the love-struck Rosader is advised to turn his romantic attentions to the shepherdess Aliena, who is already favourably disposed towards him, rather than to the fairer Rosalynde who does not know he is alive. “One bird in the hand is worth two in the wood,” he is counselled; “better possess the love of Aliena than catch furiously at the shadow of Rosalynde.” 

Another author of the time, Thomas Lodge, adds sardonically that such advice is “better for the birders, but for birds not so good”…

The same proverb reappears not long afterwards in Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Here too it is proffered as a piece of romantic advice, only this time it comes from the hero’s loyal companion Sancho Panza, as he urges Don Quixote not to delay in declaring his love for his cherished Dulcinea.

It should be noted parenthetically that Cervantes may have had some Jewish connections. An entry under his name appears in the Encyclpedia Judaica which reviews a number of theories to the effect that the Spanish novelist stemmed from “New Christian” (i.e., converted Jewish) stock. Such claims should not be taken too seriously however, since they tend to be made about almost every important figure in modern Spanish history. Even if were to concede that Don Quixote’s creator was of Jewish ancestry, it is inconceivable that he would have been familiar with obscure midrashic texts. 

The conviction that “a bride in the hand” should be snatched up, rather than waiting indefinitely for a better candidate, does appear in talmudic sources. A succinct formulation of the idea is ascribed to the Babylonian sage Samuel, who expresses it in characteristically halakhic terms: “A man should betroth a woman even on the Ninth of Av, lest another suitor beat him to her.”

None of this really helps explain how a maxim from a fourth-century Jewish text resurfaced in sixteenth-century England or Spain. Such uncharted wanderings are however quite common in the history of proverbs and sayings, which are usually transmitted by mouth rather than by the written word, and express fundamental human truths that are common to all nations and cultures.

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Into the Depths of the Sea:

Tashlikh in Jewish Law and Lore

by Eliezer Segal

Rosh Hashanah suffers from no lack of diverse prayers, laws and customs. I personally have a special fondness for the Tashlikh ceremony. Taking a brief respite from the long hours in synagogue and around the table, the community gathers in the afternoon at the Glenmore reservoir to enjoy some fresh air and to metaphorically divest ourselves of our sins. The widespread practice in most communities today is to turn one’s pockets inside-out, jettisoning of some lint or, at most, a few crumbs that might be taken along for the occasion. The ceremony is symbolic of our determination to free ourselves from our sins and shortcomings during this special season.

The ritual of Tashlikh is not mentioned in either the Bible or the Talmud, and yet its origins are believed to go back to antiquity. Perhaps the earliest reference to it is preserved in a passage from Rashi’s commentary to the Babylonian Talmud. In explaining an obscure talmudic word “parpisa” Rashi, basing himself on the writings of the Babylonian Ge’onim, describes a custom of filling baskets with beans during the weeks before Rosh Hashanah, rotating them over the heads of each family member to “absorb” their transgressions, and then casting the baskets into the sea. The practice, a variant on the familiar “kapparot” rite, indicates that the origins of the two customs are probably very close. Some scholars have connected the word “parpisa” with the Latin “propitio,” propitiation.

As we have noted, current custom does not attach too much emphasis to the objects that are to be cast into the waters, nor for that matter to the precise bodies of water that are to be visited. Subject to availability, I have seen Tashlikh performed at anything from a beach to a well to a bathtub. The residents of Safed would stand on their rooftops facing the Sea of Galilee, whereas the Kurdish Jews did not feel suitably purified unless they actually jumped into the river. 

Medieval writings present a decidedly different picture of the folk practice. In the popular consciousness it was crucial to bring along substantial quantities of foodstuffs, and some insisted on going directly from the dinner table with the remains of the festive meal. It was equally important to go to a body of water with visible fish, so that one could actively feed them. Watching the fish was perceived as an important element in the ceremony. 

This concern for the precise fate or destination of the food does not seem relevant if our desire is merely to rids ourselves of our sins. Some modern scholars have therefore suggested, with some justifications, that the original practice had a different purpose, that of buying off the forces of evil whose abode was believed to lie in the depths of the sea and to whom the fish would eventually carry these “offerings.” In this connection, several medieval authorities cite the midrashic tradition of how Satan took the guise of a river in order to prevent Abraham from sacrificing Isaac.

However most rabbis were scrupulous to avoid such mythic or superstitious explanations of the Tashlikh ritual, and discouraged the practices with which they were associated, particularly those which gave the appearance of feeding the demonic forces. They preferred to emphasize more orthodox motifs, like the casting away of sins, or of beholding God’s greatness in the vastness of the sea. Several commentators dwell on the symbolism of the fish. Like the Almighty, their eyes never close. Like man, they are ever vulnerable to death’s inexorable net.

As with much of Jewish practice, our tradition has provided here us with a set of powerful symbols which can be interpreted in an infinite variety of ways, and can therefore effectively convey their message to the hearts and minds of each and every one of us.

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Hosanna

by Eliezer Segal

It usually comes as no great surprise to encounter Hebrew words which have become part of the English language. In almost all such instances the word in question will be part of the vocabulary of the Hebrew Bible which is of course a foundation document of Western civilization, revered and studied by Christians as well as by Jews.

An exceptional case is that of the English word “hosanna” which is defined in English dictionaries as “an exclamation of praise, acclamation or adoration.” Underlying the English form is the Hebrew “hosha’ na,” which expresses a request for salvation. This precise form of the expression is not actually found anywhere in the Bible, nor does its meaning fit the dictionaries’ associations with praise or acclamation.

Most readers will of course recognize the word from its use in the daily processions that are an important part of the daily services during the Sukkot holiday. Waving our lulavim we circle the synagogue reciting prayers with the repeated litany of “Hosha’ na,” “God save us!” as we beseech God for bounteous and rain-filled year and for a speedy national redemption. On the seventh day, known as “the Great Hoshana” (Hoshana’ Rabba) the ceremony is performed repeatedly and with great solemnity. The “Hosha’ na” formula originated as the Aramaic rendering of the Hebrew “Hoshi’a na” in the Hallel (Psalms118:25). The Talmud reports that in colloquial Aramaic the word became synonymous with willow branches, on account of their use in the special processions of Hoshana Rabbah, in accordance with ancient traditional practice.

The rituals described above, though central to Jewish observance, are not prescribed explicitly in the Torah, which speaks only in general terms of taking the “four species” and rejoicing before God seven days (Leviticus 23:40). How then did they become part of the English language?

The answer to this question is to be sought in Christian scriptures. The New Testament writers describe how Jesus’ last entry to Jerusalem was accompanied by enthusiastic crowds shouting “Hosanna!” in expectation of the Messiah. Some versions add that the greeters were carrying palm fronds. Possibly it was precisely because the literal rendering did not fit the narrative context, where it expresses triumph rather than beseeching, that the Greek writers of the New Testament intentionally left the expression untranslated–a circumstance which made possible its eventual acceptance into English. Those of us who are familiar with rabbinic midrash will however recall that the taking of the lulav is indeed described there (following the Greek convention) as a gesture of victory, as the Jewish people emerges triumphant from its judgment on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

There are several ironies and difficulties in the New Testament’s description of the incident. The account seems to suppose that it took place on or around Sukkot, although the events are generally supposed to have occurred on Passover. Furthermore, we have seen that the Hoshanna ritual is a typical example of Jewish Oral Tradition, and not part of the Written Torah. This is precisely the kind of observance that Jesus himself would probably have rejected as an unacceptably human creation. And yet the symbolism of the procession came to occupy a central place in Christian belief and practice (It is of course the source for the feast of Palm Sunday).

The episode is one of many in Christian scriptures which are more likely to be appreciated by Jews than by the average Christian. Not only does it present vivid testimony to an ancient Jewish practice, but the text of the adulatory song captures the rhythms of the “Hoshanna” hymns which we still recite (The hoshanna poems are among the oldest and most moving examples of Hebrew liturgical poetry, and inspired the efforts of many of our foremost synagogal poets).The story also contains several clever “midrashic” expansions on the verses of the Hallel which would have been sung by Jews on the festival, then as today.

Anyone unfamiliar with the living practices of Jewish congregations would necessarily miss the point of the passage.

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Praying for the Government

by Eliezer Segal

There is nothing quite like an election campaign to bring home to us the complex responsibilities that are imposed upon us by the democratic system. In earlier times government was a simpler business. There was a king who did as he pleased, and the common people had little say in choosing either the sovereign or his policies.

Some echoes of the transition from absolutism to democracy are preserved in the Jewish prayer-book. Since medieval times it has been customary to include in the Sabbath services an official prayer for the king. The earliest mention of this custom is found in the Rabbi David Abudraham’s commentary on the liturgy, composed in fourteenth-century Spain. He describes the custom of including a blessing, a mi shebberakh attached to the Torah-reading, in which the congregation expressed its hope that the monarch be victorious in battle and merciful in his treatment of the Jews. The standard “Prayer for the King” which is recited in most Ashkenazic communities continued to develop those themes, always referring to the local monarch.

With the decline of monarchy in the western world, the printers of prayer-books generally left the traditional text intact, merely substituting the name of the highest officer of government for the “king” in the original. Thus, many American siddurim direct the blessing (whether in English, Hebrew or Yiddish) to the President and perhaps the Vice President. One author who lived under less stable administrations advised the printers of the prayer-books to avoid mentioning their rulers by name, lest the next coup d’étâtresult in the banning of the book.

All in all, those of us who do not have contact with royalty and nobility will not appreciate the full significance of the “Prayer for the King.” I was made aware of this fact while I was living in Oxford, England in 1977-8. It was customary there for the benediction to be recited by the local noble, the late Lord Samuel Segal of Wytham (no relation). Lord Segal would make a point of entering the sanctuary after the reading of the Torah, so that the gabba’im would not feel obligated to call him to an aliyyah as a Levi. To his otherwise traditional recitation of the text he would introduce one change: Instead of the phrase “and Israel shall dwell in security” at the end of the passage, he would invoke the blessing upon “Israel and Esau.” It is the kind of liberty that a lord can take.

My own synagogue uses a precisely formulated version of the prayer which appears to have been composed by a team of experts in constitutional law. It meticulously itemizes the levels of “original and delegated authority” to which the blessing is intended to apply. In recent months some subtle alterations have been introduced into the prayer. I have not been able to fully appreciate the significance of these changes, but I suspect that they emanate from a desire to exclude certain elements of the government, such as bureaucrats or appointed senators.

This phenomenon raises some intriguing questions about the wisdom of our praying for just any government. Should we not be more discerning about which legislators really deserve divine favours? To put it another way: How corrupt does a regime have to be before we stop including it in the congregational prayers?

Some interesting conclusions can be drawn a study of the ancient sources from which the “Prayer for the King” was derived. The prophet Jeremiah urged his fellow Jews to seek the welfare of the Babylonian empire to which they were being exiled, in spite of the fact that this very empire had destroyed their homeland and Temple. A similar sentiment was expressed in the Mishnah by R. Hanina the Deputy Priest: “Pray for the welfare of the government, since were it not for the fear of it, people would swallow each other alive.” Rabbi Hanina was presumably referring to the same Roman government which, during his own lifetime, destroyed the second Temple in which he himself officiated. Any government, he seems to be saying, is better than none at all.

These views were not shared by all the Jewish sages. Rabbinic literature is replete with condemnations of the Roman “kingdom of wickedness,” the antithesis of the “Kingdom of Heaven” to which we must give our exclusive allegiance. The sources reflect a continuing controversy over the relative merits of resisting or cooperating with tyranny.

Fortunately, we do not have to worry about such issues. In our free and democratic society our prayers should ultimately be for ourselves, that we be granted the intelligence to cast our votes wisely.

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