Swift Vengeance

by Eliezer Segal

It must reveal something disturbing about my age and psychological makeup, but I confess that one of my favourite forms of humour has always been the species of joke known as the “Tom Swifty.” For those ever-increasing numbers of readers who are too young to recall their brief period of popularity in the `60’s, before they were trampled by herds of elephant jokes, the “Tom Swifty” (or: “Swiftly”) follows the following simple pattern: “[Quotation],” said Tom [adverb-]ly,” where the humour is produced by a double-entendre between the adverb and the content of the quotation.

My family was recently reminded of this neglected form of humour when we were given a copy of the book The Globe Challenge, an anthology of entries from the popular column in the Toronto Globe and Mail, one chapter of which was devoted to Tom-Swifties. Reading it aloud on a Friday evening, our family got into the spirit and–as frequently occurs–we went a bit overboard […said Jonah officiously…] in producing our own collection of infuriating puns and word-plays on assorted Biblical and Jewish themes. Some of the less esoteric efforts are reproduced below.

Since a joke that has to be explained is not worth telling, I have not provided any explanations to these gems. Several of them would benefit from being recited out loud. The really outrageous ones should be blamed on my children. Here goes:

• “Send that lowly Hebrew slave down to the dungeon!” said Pharaoh condescendingly.
• “I didn’t do anything!” Adam lied fruitlessly.
• “Well, I’ll have to consider whether I’ll help build the Tabernacle,” said Bezalel tentatively.
• “You mean I was supposed to sacrifice an ox?” said the priest sheepishly.
• “Sure! You expect me to believe that my youngest son will rule over all of us!” taunted Jacob jokingly. [Say this one out loud very slowly.]
• “Everybody stay away from the mountain!” shouted Moses commandingly.
• “I would do anything to find a proper wife,” said Boaz ruthlessly.
• “I can’t wait till the flood is over so we can finally have some real food,” said Noah ravenously.
• “You want Mordecai to ride on a …what?!” gasped Haman hoarsely.
• “This is exactly how I want the people to encamp in the wilderness,” ordered God intensely.
• “No arguments. On Passover you eat only matzah,” said God flatly.
• “I can’t figure out what to name this baby,” said Pharaoh’s daughter emotionally. [Say this one.]
• “You mean Rahab is a …what?!” said Joshua, horrified!
• “You mean this little guy is going to succeed Moses as leader?” said Tom joshingly.
• “I have a message for you Eglon,” Ehud said stabbingly. [See Judges 4:20-21.]
• “There must be another reason why you can’t eat the thigh vein,” said Tom insinuatingly. [See Genesis 32:33.] 
• “`Interest,’ `increase,’…I really don’t care what the difference is,” said Tom disinterestedly. [See Leviticus 25:36.]
• “Come on, just one more sip, Dad,” Lot’s daughters urged him incessantly.
• “I really shouldn’t do the b’rit without my glasses on,” said Tom circumspectly.
• “I don’t bother to prepare hot food before Shabbat,” said Tom nonchalantly.
• Okay, I’m sure you can do better. (You could hardly do worse!) If you think you can, then send in your own Judaic Swifty. I’m sure the editors will be happy to offer a car or model home to the winning entry.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Rabbi Nahman, Napoleon and Other Messiahs

by Eliezer Segal

As they mourn the passing of their beloved Rebbe in 1994, the Lubavitch Hasidim were also struggling to interpret the impact of their loss on the conviction upheld by many of them that Rabbi Schneerson was the Messiah. It was still too early to discern what directions the movement was going to be taking in the coming days.

This is not the first time in history that Hasidic groups have been convinced of the Messiah’s imminent advent. The best-known precedent was that of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, an enigmatic figure whose life was filled with torment and controversy. Rabbi Nahman is most vividly remembered for his legacy of allegorical stories, several of which involve quests for lost princesses, exchanged infants and other images of a reality that has been knocked out of joint. The plots of the tales revolve around attempts to correct the respective anomalies that symbolize the exiles of the Jewish people and of the divine presence, the Shekhinah. Some of the stories lack endings.

Most historians now believe that Nahman saw himself as the messianic figure who, through his arduous spiritual struggle, would succeed in setting right the dissonances of the Jewish fate. The devotion of his adherents was so intense that, when he died in 1810, they refused to transfer their allegiance to any successor. To this day the Bratslav Hasidim acknowledge Rabbi Nahman as their only Rebbe, and are known as “the Dead Hasidim.”

The greatness of a Jewish religious leader was not the only factor that could give rise to the conviction that the Messianic era was about to arrive. At times this perception was ignited by momentous historical events. Such were the upheavals of the Napoleonic wars, especially his conquests of Poland and Russia.

In the eyes of some Hasidic leaders the French Emperor himself was identified as the vehicle through whom God would accomplish Israel’s final redemption. It is not difficult to understand how such a belief could have arisen, as the Corsican soldier swept through country after country tearing down the walls of the ghettos and removing the civil and social inequalities under which Jews had hitherto been living. Napoleon had even restored the glory of the ancient Jewish council, the Sanhedrin–though, to be sure, the assembly was exploited as a self-serving means of manipulating his Jewish citizens. He had even marched into Jerusalem proclaiming his desire to reestablish Jewish sovereignty over the Holy Land.

So taken was Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav by Napoleon’s greatness that he was moved to argue that his common-born soul had in reality been substituted for one of more regal or aristocratic origins. Hasidic legend related that the image of another prominent Hasidic supporter of the French emperor, Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Rymanov, could be seen beside Napoleon during his victorious battles.

Most of the Eastern European Jewish leadership–including the founder of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady–opposed the French ruler, whether out of loyalty to their local rulers or because they feared the breakdown of traditional values that would result from the spread of the ideals of the French Revolution.

Wherever their sympathies might lie, the rabbis believed that the terrible campaign between France and Russia was the “War of Gog and Magog” that would precede the ultimate deliverance. This restless mood of impending cataclysm among the Hasidic leaders forms the background of the remarkable historical novel Gog und Magog (translated into English as For the Sake of Heaven) by the young Martin Buber.

The Messianic expectation of those days was reinforced by the imaginative use of numerical calculations (gimatrias)based on appropriate Hebrew texts, to prove that the Messiah’s arrival was preordained for the year 1810 [=the Hebrew year 5570, as intimated in the words “Sound (TeQa` ) the great horn for our liberation”], then 1812, then 1814. Napoleon’s opponents discerned an allusion to his defeat in the sounds of his name, which evoked the Hebrew root for “fall” “napol.” It was told that the foremost Hasidic masters of the generation once assembled in order to channel the spiritual power of their combined prayers towards the hastening of the redemption. They even declared that the Ninth of Av would henceforth be transformed from a day of grieving to one of joyous celebration.

Historical hindsight tells us that the apocalyptic fervor and anticipation of that age did not bear fruit. As always we continue to hope that our own generation will enjoy more substantial success.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Dead Sea Dud

by Eliezer Segal

Coming from someone who makes his living from the study of ancient Jewish texts, it might surprise some readers when I declare my conviction that the Dead Sea Scrolls are not all that important, and that their impact has been inflated out of all proportion by the media and various interested parties. 

The intense public fascination with the Qumran scrolls was fueled by the expectation that documents contemporary with the beginnings of Christianity would provide valuable–or even revolutionary–new insights into the origin of that religion. The Christian scholars who controlled much of the research into the scrolls made every effort to uncover allusions to Christian concerns, and tiny fragments were fancifully pieced together so as to produce theological statements about divine or suffering messiahs. The archeological site at Qumran was even described as if it had housed a medieval European monastery.

These dubious conclusions have been utilized both as confirmation of Christian tradition and as refutations of its uniqueness or originality. Either way, they succeeded in transforming the esoteric world of Dead Sea Scroll scholarship into a lucrative industry whose potential market included much of the Christian world.

Not surprisingly, almost none of these alleged Christian links find factual support in the evidence of the scrolls. The simple truth is that the scrolls contain a representative sample of the diverse literature that Jews were producing during the latter part of the Second Temple Era, a time marked by factionalism and ferment in the Jewish community of Eretz Yisrael. As such, they reflect typical Jewish concerns, most notably in the area of halakhah, Jewish religious law, which, then as today, ignited the most virulent controversies between competing sects. These simple and obvious facts rarely get mentioned in the popular representations of the scrolls.

The scrolls do enrich our knowledge of a very complex time in Jewish history, though much of this knowledge is of value only to scholarly specialists, and even their more substantial contributions (in such areas as the development of the Hebrew language and Jewish legal exegesis) are unlikely to sell a lot of newspaper tabloids or TV sponsorships. 

The hoopla surrounding the Dead Sea Scrolls appears even more irksome when we contrast it with a far more important manuscript find that has remained largely unknown even among Jews, precisely because it could not attract the interest of large Christian audiences.

I am referring to the Cairo Genizah, a vast repository containing hundreds of thousands of discarded Jewish texts and documents that was maintained since the 13th century but which contains much earlier material as well–including at least one work that would later be unearthed among the Dead Sea Scrolls!

Individual items from this collection began to circulate during the latter half of the 19th century, but their historic value and point of origin were first noted in 1896 by Solomon Schechter, (then teaching at Cambridge University), who promptly had the remnants of the Genizah transported from Egypt to Cambridge where they remain today.

The Genizah has revolutionized every area of classical Jewish studies. Not only does it preserve the most accurate versions of ancient Jewish works like the Talmud, Midrash and liturgical poetry–including several that had become lost over the generations–and a rich selection of medieval scienctific and theological works, but even its more mundane documents (letters, bills and private correspondence) have allowed us to piece together a vivid and intimate portrait of Jewish life in the Mediterranean basin (including the Land of Israel) in all its social, economic and spiritual diversity. What was considered a century ago to be a “dark age” in our history has now become one of the most familiar.

Compared to this wealth of cultural and historical information, the conjectural and fragmentary evidence of the Qumran library presents a pathetic picture.

This situation should alert us to the fact that in our sensation-obsessed society, what passes for scholarship is coming more and more to be defined by marketablity rather than by intrinsic value. We must be careful not to be taken in by this trend, especially when it involves our own history and tradition.

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• First Publication: 
• Jewish Free Press, Aug. 25 1994, p. 9.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Piyyut: The Poetry of Worship

by Eliezer Segal

One of the many features that contribute to the uniqueness of the New Year’s season is the abundance of poetic additions to the standard prayers. These passages are known in Hebrew as “piyyut,” from the same Greek root that gives us the English words “poetry” and “poet.”

Although in our synagogues the recitation of piyyutim has become almost the exclusive prerogative of the High Holy Days, many communities include them on other special occasions as well. The term “Mahzor,” which we usually associate only with Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, actually translates as “cycle,” and originally included prayers–primarily the poetic elaborations–for the entire year, especially the holidays.

Our knowledge about the purpose and history of piyyut has been immeasurably enriched by manuscript discoveries over the last century, especially from the Cairo Genizah (which I mentioned in my previous column). The Genizah preserved thousands of poetic creations, and the analysis and appreciation of those works has become one of the most exciting areas of recent Judaic scholarship.

From this new evidence we have been able to paint a vivid picture of how central piyyut was to synagogue life in the Land of Israel during the Talmudic and early medieval eras. It was on native soil that this art-form thrived. The ancient Rabbis encouraged innovation and improvisation in public worship to counterbalance the mechanical recitation of fixed texts. In keeping with these sentiments, the original piyyutim did not appear as additions or embellishments to the fixed liturgy–as they do in our rites–but as replacements for them.

Indeed, the prolific cantors of old were able to compose original poetic versions of the prayers for each and every Shabbat, as well as for the festivals. In those piyyutimthe motifs of the Shema and Amidah would be ingeniously meshed with topics from the day’s Torah and haftarah readings.

This was no small achievement if we recall that in ancient Israel the reading of the Torah was not completed in a single year as it is now, but in three and a half years. Thus a paytan might have to compose a mahzor of almost two hundred different renderings of the Shabbat and holiday services before he could revert back to old material.

The complexity and erudition of classical piyyut is utterly astounding. To take as an example the renowned poet Yannai, we note that he specialized in a particular type of piyyut known as the “Kedushta” which gave poetic form to the first three blessings of the Shaharit service for Shabbat and festival Amidah (In those days the “Kedushah” was not recited outside the Morning Service). Every one of Yannai’s Kedushtas was composed of nine separate sections, each of which had to conform to strict formal rules that dictated the metre and number of lines and stanzas, rhyme, acrostic structures (i.e., the initial letters of lines would spell out the author’s name or be in alphabetical order), the incorporation of verses from the day’s Torah and Prophetic readings, etc.

Within this confining structure, Yannai and his colleagues worked their poetic magic. Their creations are stamped with masterful scholarly erudition in their frequent allusions to the full range of Biblical and Rabbinic literature and in the creative liberties they take with the Hebrew language. Alongside these learned and didactic qualities, the finest piyyutim succeed in poignantly and movingly evoking the sublime emotions of religious awe and the unrelenting longing for national redemption from the yokes of Rome and Byzantium.

During the Middle Ages, as the Babylonian rabbinate strove to assert its dominance against the Palestinian religious leadership, the use of piyyut came under heavy attack. The Babylonians preferred uniform and standardized rituals and were wary of the spontaneity that piyyut embodied. Nevertheless the ancient Palestinian tradition was kept alive, especially in the Jewish communities of France and Germany whose founders had originally migrated from the Holy Land. Many of the most illustrious Ashkenazic scholars were also accomplished poets whose creations still adorn the pages of our Mahzor.

Recent generations have been uneasy about the inclusion of piyyut in the service for various reasons: Some argue that they distract from the mandatory prayers; others complain that they unduly prolong the service, and that few Jews are now literate enough to appreciate them. Though all these arguments might have merit, it would be a pity if they were to result in the abandoning of some of our most precious literary and religious treasures.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Exploding Cow and the Jewish Question

by Eliezer Segal

For several years now, my better-paid colleague Dave Barry has been trying to alert the world to the dangers of exploding cows. In his columns, the Pulitzer prize-laureate has reprinted several newspaper reports about the imminent dangers posed by spontaneous bovine combustion.

Like many, I initially reacted to those articles with smug complacency. As an urban dweller and as a responsible citizen–even in a purported “Cow-town”–I considered myself immune from that particular plague. Now, to my chagrin, it turns out that the phenomenon has had a pernicious and divisive effect on the world Jewish community.

The current crisis originates in the digestive systems of the cow, in a condition known to veterinary medicine as “displaced abumasum.” What this means is that acids released by the displacement of one of the cow’s stomachs can lead to its being filled with gasses. The potentially lethal consequences of this condition are best left to the imagination.

Before you call in the bomb squad, be assured that the problem only affects one cow in 250.

Fortunately for the gentle beasts and for anyone who might find themselves in close proximity to them, there is a medical solution to the problem in a surgical procedure that attaches the errant stomach to its proper place.

Thus, all would have lived happily ever after were it not for the hyperactivity of the New York Jewish rumour-mill. In the middle of August this year–which coincides with the penitential month of Elul, word had it in Monsey and Boro Park that the surgical process included the stapling of the stomachs. This, argued the pious gossips, would place the cows in the halakhic category of “tereifah,” suffering from a life-threatening injury. Therefore the animal itself could not be kosher, nor could any of the dairy products that were derived from it.

As you might well imagine, this rumour ignited udder panic in the observant Jewish marketplace. No dairy item that was certified “kosher” could now be trusted to be so. Shops and restaurants that depended for their livelihoods on the sale of these products suffered severe financial losses.

On the other hand, dairies that could produce special certification that they used only non-volatile cattle that had not been subject to the offending medical treatment might now charge premium prices for that valuable assurance.

The Jewish religious community was set astir. The August 26 issue of the Yiddish weekly Algemeiner Journal devoted to the crisis a front-page headline, two editorials and a cartoon–not to mention the paid official pronouncements by the Orthodox Union and other rabbinical organizations that decorated the pages. This, I might add, was in a newspaper that included not a single reference to the lesser crises in Rwanda, Bosnia or Cuba.

At the convention of the distinguished Association of Orthodox Jewish Scientists many important topics were discussed–but the one that attracted a packed house was a clinical discussion by Rabbi Dr. Moshe Tendler (who is considered to be the leading authority on medical halakhic matters) about–you guessed it–the Cow Controversy.

Rabbi Tendler assured his audience that this was a non-issue, a problem that had been discussed and resolved by Jewish legal authorities hundreds of years ago. The farfetched allegations could only be accounted for as the results of sheer maliciousness, profound ignorance of the workings of Jewish law, or a blind determination to seek novel stringent rulings in the halakhah. 

I am informed that the Jewish public is still suffering from shortages of certified kosher milk and dairy items.

Thus we are provided with yet another reminder of how intricately our spiritual fates are entwined with those of our ruminant friends and their digestive problems, as was observed by the wise Solomon: “For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them.”

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• First Publication: 
• Jewish Free Press, Sept. 29 1994.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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A Talmudic “Quiz Show”

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: 1994— In his film “Quiz Show” director Robert Redford evokes the scandals surrounding the rigged television quiz shows of the 1950’s.

Because I do not get to attend very many first-run movies, I have not yet had an opportunity to see the highly praised new film “Quiz Show.” Though you would not believe it from looking at me, I am old enough to remember (but only barely!) the scandal that is dramatized in that film. I was one of those many viewers who were initially filled with adulation for the fraudulent “geniuses” whose spurious erudition was earning them huge fortunes on television quiz shows, until it was revealed that they were being provided with the answers in advance.

The story called to my mind an incident that is related in the pages of the Talmud, in which an ancient rabbi had to be provided with the answers to a quiz to which he was about to be subjected.

The episode occurred around the middle of the second century in the aftermath of the catastrophic Bar Kokhba uprising. The leaders of that generation were faced with the difficult task of reconstructing Jewish morale and religious institutions that had been shattered in the wake of the revolt and its ruthless suppression by the Romans.

The official head of the Jewish community at that time was the Nasi Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel who served as the head of the Sanhedrin, the council of sages that was acknowledged as the supreme authority for the interpretation and implementation of Jewish law.

Although he was a well-known scholar and heir to a dynasty of Patriarchs that traced its origins to the illustrious Hillel, Rabban Simeon seems to have been a less assertive leader than most of his princely forebears–or than his son, the renowned Rabbi Judah the Prince. Eventually his authority became a source of dissatisfaction among his colleagues.

We do not know precisely what the issue was that gave rise to the questioning of Rabban Simeon’s leadership. The Talmud ascribes the conflict to his introduction of ceremonies and protocols that did not give suitable recognition to the senior sages of the Sanhedrin.

Whatever their motives, two of the prominent rabbis on the Sanhedrin became disgruntled with the Nasi‘s leadership and looked for a way to force him out of office.

They hit upon the idea of quizzing him about an obscure and rarely studied area of Jewish law known as “uktzin” (dealing with the purity status of the stems and handles of various plants and foodstuffs). If things went according to plan, then it was virtually certain that the Patriarch would be caught unprepared and would be unable to answer the questions that were posed to him.

The plotters hoped that the resulting humiliation would force Rabban Simeon to resign.

Fortunately for the Nasi one of his supporters, Rabbi Jacob ben Korshai, got wind of the conspiracy. On the night preceding the planned confrontation, Rabbi Jacob (in what might be the first documented use of subliminal teaching procedures) stationed himself outside Rabban Simeon’s room and set himself to reciting the texts that would form the basis for tomorrow’s “quiz.” The Nasi, though puzzled at this exotic choice of subject matter, began to suspect that something might be afoot and decided to spend the night brushing up on the material. 

Rabbi Jacob’s stratagem accomplished its purpose. When the session convened the next day, the Patriarch breezed through the quiz to the amazement of the assembled rabbis, and to the distress of his opponents. The Nasi‘s authority was reinforced and the rebels were disciplined.

When the full story came to light, it was recognized that the principal blame lay not in Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel’s actions, but in his rivals’ readiness to disgrace the authority of the Patriarchal office.

Unlike the television quiz-show scandal, there is no suggestion that either party in the Talmudic dispute was motivated by greed, financial gain or personal ambition. As has often happened in the course of Jewish history, the animosities arose over differing perceptions about the proper honours that are due to the Torah and its representatives.

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• First Publication: 
• JFP, Oct. 13 1994.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Angel’s Slap

by Eliezer Segal

An intriguing legend from the Talmud and Midrash describes how a child, while still in its mothers womb, is taught the entire Torah to the glow of a supernatural lamp that allows it to see to the ends of the earth. It is only at the moment of birth that an angel appears and imposes upon it an oath to live a righteous life, and then slaps the youngster on the mouth or the nose, causing it to forget all that it has learned.

According to this tale the process of learning in later life does not involve the mastering of new information, but only a “review” of teachings that were once known, but have subsequently been forgotten.

As several scholars have been quick to point out, this depiction of learning as recollection bears an uncanny resemblance to a myth that was recounted several centuries earlier, in the concluding pages of Plato’s Republic. In Plato’s well-known myth, the souls stand ready to enter their new lives with the accumulated experiences of prior existences, but are ordered to drink from waters that induce forgetfulness.

Unlike the rabbinic legend, the Greek story posits a doctrine of transmigration of souls, so that the unborn child’s wisdom is acquired in the course its prior lives, not by being instructed in the teachings of the Torah. It is also significant that the Jewish soul is commanded to make a moral choice, whereas the fatalistic Platonic soul can only “choose” to continue a destiny whose course was determined by its previous incarnations.

The angel’s smack in the Talmudic legend produces total amnesia for all, but in the Greek theory of “anamnesis” the souls quaff varying quantities of the oblivion-inducing potion. The clever souls drink no more than they have to, which makes for an easier job of learning and recalling during their coming lives. Only the foolish and short-sighted souls make the mistake of rashly and greedily gulping down excessive doses, dooming them to lives of ignorance and dull-wittedness.

The theme of the angel’s slap was a favourite in Eastern European Jewish folklore. In most versions the slap becomes a tweaking (shnel) of the nose, which is responsible for creating the furrow beneath the nostrils. The story provides a satisfying explanation of the sublime and innocent wisdom that adorns the countenances of newly born infants; they are, according to this theory, still enjoying the residual effects of their prenatal schooling.

Furthermore, the Jewish world had its share of child prodigies and geniuses who mastered the Talmud at a tender age (such a person is known in Hebrew as an “Illui“). This phenomenon could be ascribed to the soul’s evading the angel’s slap, whether by accident or design.

The popular Yiddish writer Itzik Manger composed a delightful novella, The Book of Paradise, based on the premise that a mischievous young spirit named Shmuel Abba succeeded in sidestepping the shnel, and then, after he was born, regaled his audiences with a hilarious series of reminisces about the doings of the righteous in Paradise.

My most unlikely encounter with the legend occurred a few years ago while watching a television late-show movie. The film was the 1948 production Key Largo, which starred Humphrey Bogart as a disillusioned and battle-weary cynic who found himself among a group of hostages in the power of a desperate gangster. In an otherwise forgettable piece of banal philosophizing whose connection to the plot now escapes me (Unfortunately, my memories of post-natal experiences tend to be very hazy), Bogie began to expound the story of the angel’s slap. The legend was related there in its midrashic version, though its Jewish origins were not identified.

Plato, the Talmud and Humphrey Bogart… Hmm? With three such diverse and unimpeachable witnesses attesting to its veracity, the story just might be true. In fact I seem to recall something similar happening to me when I was very young…

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• First Publication: 

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Academic Tenure: The Halakhic Debate

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: October 1994 — The Ministry of Advanced Education of the Province of Alberta issued its “White Paper on Adult Learning” which dealt, among other things, with the roles of the universities and its faculty members. One of the topics that it raised was the sensitive question of academic tenure.

The Alberta government’s recent “White Paper” on adult learning has again spotlighted the issue of academic tenure at post-secondary educational institutions. Although universities were not a part of the traditionalal Jewish landscape, questions of job security were dealt with in the Talmud and its commentaries, usually with reference to elementary school teachers.

The principal focus for all discussions on the topic is a ruling by the fourth-century Babylonian teacher Rava, who stated that an inferior teacher should not be replaced by a better one lest it lead to indolence. The Talmud records a dissenting view of Rav Dimi of Nehardea who argued to the contrary, that “the jealousy of scribes increaseth wisdom,” and hence competition would lead to better performance.

The commentators are not in agreement about exactly whose perspective is being discussed: that of the original teacher or that of the replacement.

Rashi explains that it is the possible indolence of the new, better teacher that is of concern to us: Rava fears that the replacement “will become arrogant in his heart and confident of his unequaled superiority, leading him to behave indolently towards his pupils, since he will have no fear of being dismissed.” Rav Dimi, on the other hand, is arguing that the mere knowledge of how his predecessor had been removed would continue to keep him at his best behaviour. As Rashi puts it: “He will take special care to teach well, since he will be afraid that his colleague [the teacher whom he replaced] will continue to bear him a grudge for his dismissal, and will constantly be looking for opportunities to embarrass him before the townspeople.”

A different commentary on the Talmudic passage takes the view that the Rava and Rav Dimi were speaking from the perspective of the original teacher, the one who was faced with the possibility of dismissal. According to this interpretation, Rava is arguing that the apprehension that one’s job is always under threat of termination whenever a talented competitor appears on the scene could drive a teacher to a state of despondency that would deter him from any effort to improve himself, or even to maintain his level of competence. Rav Dimi’s view, on the other hand, is that constant awareness of the threat posed by competition will spur a good worker to be ever improving himself, which will ultimately work to the advantage of the educational system.

According to either of the above explanations, the dispute between Rava and Rav Dimi is about whether “academic tenure” should be perceived as a means of perpetuating idleness and incompetence, or as a source of psychological security that would enable responsible instructors to devote their full attention to their teaching.

Subsequent halakhic authorities were not always in agreement over which of the two Talmudic views is to be followed. The most widely followed code of Jewish law, the Shulhan Arukh, sided with Rav Dimi and against the ideal of tenure. However this position was not held universally.

Thus, Rabbi Menahem Ha-Me’iri (southern France, 13th-14th centuries) states that “Wherever the community has appointed a full-time schoolteacher… he may not be replaced by another during his lifetime, unless for idleness, or because of some other gross negligence on his part, such as excessive beatings, etc.”

At around the same time, Rabbi Asher ben Yehiel, the “Rosh,” responded to an inquiry about a man who wanted to dismiss a private tutor in favour of a superior teacher. The Rosh replied that since the teacher had been contracted for a fixed period of time, he could not be dismissed without due cause.

The noted Egyptian Rabbi David Ibn Zimra went so far as to forbid such a dismissals even if the teacher were guaranteed employment in a different field. He also raised the issue or severance pay.

At the other extreme, authorities like Rabbi Yehiel Michel Epstein, have argued that teachers–who should not be treated differently from any other employees–can be fired without specific grounds in favour of better qualified candidates even in mid-term, for (he reasons) if it were not during the term of the appointment it could hardly be considered a dismissal!

The debate that has been conducted in the pages of Talmudic codes and responsa is much more complex than can be conveyed in a short article. Nevertheless, this cursory overview should suffice to demonstrate how much of the contemporary debate was anticipated by the Jewish sages of previous generations.

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• First Publication: 

• Jewish Free Press, Nov. 15 1994.

• For further reading: 

• S. Warhaftig, Jewish Labour Law, Jerusalem, 1982.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Heroes, Hammers and Hanukkah

by Eliezer Segal

What would Hanukkah be without the heroism of Judah the Maccabee! His exploits in spearheading the military revolt against the Seleucid armies and their Jewish collaborators are meticulously detailed in the ancient books that bear that name: the Books of Maccabees, which have been preserved in Greek.

And yet, for all his importance for the subsequent destiny of Judaism, we do not really know the meaning of the name “Maccabee” that was attached to him. In fact, we are not even certain how to correctly spell it. 

Unlike his father Mattathias, Judah is not mentioned by name in any ancient Hebrew sources like the Talmud of Midrash, nor even in the Hanukkah prayers. The earliest Hebrew documents that speak of him date from the Medieval period and were probably derived from Greek or Latin sources.

The “k” or hard “c” sounds of European languages can have two equivalents in Hebrew, the kaf or the kof . Therefore “Judas Maccabæus”‘s original Hebrew epithet might have been spelled with either letter. The difference is of course a significant one in reconstructing the meaning of the name “Maccabee.”

Modern Hebrew has generally preferred the version with a kaf, a tradition that can be traced as far back as the tenth-century Hebrew compendium of Second-Temple historical fact and legend known as the Yosippon.

This spelling furnishes support for an explanation that many of us were taught in school, that the name Maccabee is an acronym for the Biblical verse Mi kamokha ba’elim Hashem, “Who is like unto thee among the mighty, O Lord!” As generations of schoolteachers have told the story, Judah carried these inspiring words upon his standard as he marched off to battle.

As attractive as this story is, it can hardly be justified on historical grounds. It is not mentioned in any early sources, and Hebrew acronyms of that sort were not to come into common use until later generations.

Furthermore, it appears that the “cc” in the Greek version of the name “Maccabæus” is far more likely to represent a Hebrew kof than a kaf, since the latter is normally represented by the letter chi. If that is correct, then we must set out in search of a different etymology.

The most widely circulated explanation for this spelling connects the name to the Hebrew word makkebet or makkaba, which appears in the Bible and Talmud in the sense of “hammer.” This of course conjures up the idea of the mighty warrior “hammering” and crushing his foes. This dramatic explanation is not an unreasonable one, though it too is no more than a hypothesis.

Some modern scholars, less concerned with drama and heroism than they are with historical precision, have proposed some variations on the “hammer” motif.

One theory which has always appealed to me calls our attention to a passage in the Mishnah that lists various blemishes and deformities that would disqualify a priest from serving in the Temple. One of the disqualified types is designated a “makban,” interpreted as one whose head is shaped like a mallet or hammer.

Thus, argues the proponent of this explanation, the great Judah Maccabee was not being named for his fierceness on the battlefield, but rather he was being singled out for the peculiar shape of his skull.

If this should strike us as an unbecoming manner of referring to a national hero, we should recall that in earlier days, before the widespread adoption of family names, individuals with identical given names had to be told apart somehow, and a distinctive physical characteristic, even if unflattering, often served that purpose effectively.

This practice was especially common in ancient royal dynasties, where the same name could repeat itself over many generations. Thus, one of Judah’s contemporaries was known as Ptolemy the Fat-Bellied, and a successor to the infamous Antiochos of the Hanukkah saga was referred to as “the Hook-Nosed.”

Many innocuous-sounding family names that are now in common and unobjectionable use originated in physical epithets of just that sort. And when you think of it, does the name “Judah the Hammerhead” really sound any worse than “Norman Schwartzkopf”?

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Calendar Conundrums

by Eliezer Segal

Jews are well accustomed to the fact that our religious calendar marches to a completely different rhythm from the one that is in common use in the surrounding society. There is however a conspicuous exception to that pattern: The day on which we begin to pray for rain in our daily prayers (introducing the Hebrew formula “Ten tal umatar“) is defined in the Siddur by a date in the “civil” calendar, the 4th (or sometimes the 5th) of December.

The origins of this anomaly go back to ancient times, when the Rabbis of Babylonia decreed that rain should not be requested prior to the sixtieth day after the Autumnal Equinox. The significance of this date is not explained in the Talmud, and some scholars have suggested that for the Babylonian farmers rainfall was considered a nuisance before the conclusion of the date-harvest. Whatever the reason, it is clear that the equinox, as a phase in the cycle of the sun, is most conveniently calculated by the civil calendar, which is a solar one.

In the course of the Middle Ages the Babylonian practice came to be accepted–though not without a struggle–by all Jewish communities outside the Holy Land. Israel itself follows a different, earlier date, defined according to the Jewish calendar (the 7th of Heshvan).

Initially many Diaspora communities followed the Israeli custom, but eventually the powerful Babylonian Rabbinate succeeded in asserting its authority as the supreme authority for religious practice. 

Thus, as an eminent contemporary halakhist has observed, normative practice has rejected the more reasonable precedents of praying for rain either when it is beneficial for our own climate, or when it is required in the Holy Land–in favour of the unlikely option of linking it to the climate of Iraq (the current inhabitant of the land that was formerly called Babylonia).

But the peculiarity of the situation does not end there. The Autumnal Equinox actually occurs on the 22nd of September, so that the sixtieth day following should come out on November 20, not December 4!

The discrepancy originates in the methods that we employ for calculating the solar year. The Talmud assumes that a year consists of precisely 365 ¼ days and halakhic practice bases its calculations on that premise.

The calculation is very close, but it is not fully accurate, since an astronomical year falls eleven minutes and fourteen seconds behind that estimate. The margin is admittedly a tiny one, but when stretched across the centuries of Jewish history the minutes begin to add up. Every 128 years the Jewish reckoning pulls a full day ahead of the astronomical equinox.

The Catholic Church, aware that their traditional Julian calendar (based on the same assumptions as the Talmud’s) had lost touch with the facts of nature, corrected the situation through the introduction of the Gregorian calendar in 1582, which involved turning the clocks ahead eleven days to adjust for the discrepancy! The Gregorian calendar cleverly regulates the frequency of leap-years in order to keep the equinoxes in astronomic proportion. It has now become the accepted standard for most of the world.

Because the Jewish world has never introduced an equivalent adjustment, the cumulative error over the centuries now amounts to fifteen full days.

And the gap will continue to widen. Even as Siddurim published a century ago instruct the worshippers to begin reciting “Ten tal umatar” on December 3 or 4, so in the year 2100 will the dates shift to Dec. 5 or 6–gaining three days every four hundred years.

If left uncorrected this will lead to some bizarre consequences, as the season for reciting “Ten tal umatar” keeps shrinking. Eventually it will advance all the way to Passover, which marks the termination of the rainy season, and will not be recited at all. Although this is a mathematical inevitability, don’t hold your breaths. It is not scheduled to happen yet for another 35,000 years.

As often happens, the halakhic world tends to prefer its own traditional rules and definitions over ones that issue from the outside world. Some Rabbis have taken note of the problem, but are reluctant to tamper with traditions. Almost none have discerned any cause for alarm.

After all, they argue, we live in faith that the Messiah will appear at any moment. Surely he will arrive before matters get out of hand, so why don’t we just wait and let him deal with the problem!

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My email address is: [email protected]

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