Balaam the Prophet

by Eliezer Segal

Based on the information supplied by the Bible, it is not immediately apparent why Jewish tradition has been so hostile to poor old Balaam.

Admittedly, at his worst moments, he comes across as a pathetic, almost comical creature, a weak-willed man who is subjected to a humiliating argument with a talking ass.

Yet the same individual is acknowledged to be an authentic prophet who obeys the directives of the God of Israel, in whose name he blesses Israel with some of the Bible’s most inspired poetic outpourings.

In light of the above considerations, it is hard to comprehend why the Bible considered him such a formidable antagonist that he had to be executed.

Our understanding of this non-Hebrew prophet has been enriched in recent years by a remarkable inscription that was unearthed in 1967 in archeological excavations at the Deir ‘Alla site in Jordan, not far from the scene of Balaam’s activities in the book of Numbers. The text in question, which was probably composed around 700 B.C.E., was written in Aramaic (or Ammonite) on plaster slabs that might have formed part of a sanctuary or cultic monument. From it we learn of the existence, some six hundered years after Balaam’s lifetime, of a religious movement that continued to revere Balaam as its great prophet and spiritual mentor.

Several features in this memorial reveal uncanny resemblances to the familiar Biblical story of Balaam, whose role is depicted in terms that are reminiscent of the Hebrew prophets.

Thus, “Balaam bar Be’or” is said in the inscription to be a “seer of the gods” and is the one to whom those gods reveal their intentions in “visions of the night.”

The names of the gods who speak to the pagan prophet are also familiar to us from the Bible, including “El” and a council of deities called “Shaddayin” (mighty ones). Balaam is informed in a dream that the people are about to be punished by darkness, drought and other natural disasters, and he must urge the people to placate the angry divinities.

It is clear however that these surface similarities to Jewish religious concepts only serve to enhance the fundamental contrast between the pagan seer and the Prophets of Israel.

We must not lose sight of the fact that Balaam’s gods are referred to in the plural, signifying a world governed by disharmony and conflict. In fact some scholars have suggested that the Bible, in order to prevent any confusion between the divine epithet “Shaddai” and its profaned use among the pagans, deliberately altered its pronunciation, turning it into “shed[im],” the common word for “demons.”

The most glaring differences between the perceptions of prophecy in the Torah and in Balaam’s cult become apparent when we read in the inscription how the heathen leader responded to the warnings of doom.

Now, we are all familiar with the typical Jewish responses to impending catastrophes: The people are urged to examine their spiritual states, and to take special care to improve their standards of morality, social justice and the welfare of the poor.

Not so Balaam. Although the concluding lines of the inscription have been poorly preserved, and several different conjectural reconstructions have been proposed for the Aramaic text, one very persuasive interpretation reads that Balaam exhorted his people to placate their gods by deepening their commitment to the promiscuous activities that were carried out, with the assistance of sacred prostitutes, in the name of the local fertility cult. According to this theory, it is likely that the structure that once housed the inscription had been just such a cultic brothel.

If this hypothesis is correct, then it also sheds light upon the Biblical account of how, immediately following the Balaam episode, the Israelites were enticed into commiting harlotry with Moabite and Midianite women. That transgression, which brought divine punishment upon the people, is ascribed by Jewish tradition to Balaam.

From the Deir `Alla inscription we learn that from Balaam’s perspective such behaviour might not have been intended as a deliberate affront to God, so much as it was a pious pagan “mitzvah.”

All these details might help explain why Balaam, ostensibly speaking in the name of the same god, but representing a religious world-view diametrically opposed to Jewish moral values, came to be regarded as such a serious threat to the Biblical ideals of spirituality.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Tales from the House of Jacob

by Eliezer Segal

I am not normally a credulous or naive individual, and I usually react with a healthy dose of skepticism when I am confronted with alleged reports of supernatural occurrences. Nevertheless there have been times when I found myself experiencing events that were so extraordinary that they set even a doubter like myself to wondering.

Several such experiences have befallen me over the years, especially in the course of my activities as gabbai at Calgary’s Orthodox synagogue, House of Jacob-Mikveh Israel. Here I shall describe two such episodes precisely as I recall them. You are free to draw your own conclusions and interpret them as you choose.

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Tale #1: A Dream from Mother

We have a congregant at our synagogue who is, to put it diplomatically, not very meticulous about attending the regular Sabbath morning services, although he is very dutiful about observing the yahrzeits of his parents.

Several years ago I noticed this congregant seated in the synagogue. As I greeted him, I commented to him that I presumed he had a yahrzeit that week. He replied matter-of-factly that although today was not a yahrzeit, he did have a special reason for coming to shul today.

It seems that he had a dream on the previous night in which his late mother had appeared to him and instructed him to attend synagogue and recite Kaddish on her behalf.

Now, the shul kept a calendar in the office on which the Rabbi recorded the dates of all the congregants’ yahrzeits. I happened to go in later to check the calendar and noticed that there was indeed a listing of a yahrzeit for this congregant in question, penned in our Rabbi’s handwriting.

When I approached the gentleman with this information, he assured me that there must be some mistake, since he definitely did not have any yahrzeit scheduled for several months.

I have never established who was right and who was mistaken in this episode: Had the congregant forgotten the correct date of his mother’s yahrzeit (in which case the dream might have been a reminder issuing from the subconscious levels of his memory); or had an inexplicable error somehow crept into the synagogue calendar?

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Tale #2: Back at Sinai

The revelation of the Decalogue at Mount Sinai is recited twice in the course of the annual Sabbath Torah-reading cycle: first in the book of Exodus, and later as part of Moses’ final exhortations to the people in the section Va’et-hannan in Deuteronomy Chapter 5. The latter account does not have the full dramatic build-up of the former, but it does also describe the momentous scene of how God spoke the words “in the mount, out of the midst of the fire, of the cloud, and of the thick darkness, with a great voice.”

The passage about the Sinai theophany makes up the fourth `aliyah of the morning’s Torah reading.

When the turn for reading of Va’et-hannan came up two summers ago the sun rose to dominate one of those wonderfully clear Calgary skies, and continued to shine through the beginning of the service.

However even as the third reader was approaching the reading platform, the sky above was starting to darken forbiddingly. In a few moments it had taken on become a dark grey and claps of thunder resounded in the background.

Just before the commencement of the fourth `aliyah I made a lighthearted observation to the congregation about how appropriate the natural sound effects were to the contents of our Torah reading. As if in reply, there came a sudden flash of lightning. The darkness, the thunder and the lightning remained with us through to the conclusion of the `aliyyah, and then gradually set to dissipating.

By the conclusion of the Torah service, the sky had been restored to its original blue and not a cloud remained. There remained no visible indication of the remarkable commotion that had dominated the heavens just a few minutes earlier. Furthermore, throughout the entire display of pyrotechnics not a single drop of rain had fallen.

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I repeat: both the above stories were presented here precisely as I recollect them. I shall leave it to my wise readers to speculate on their significance.

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• First publication: 
• Jewish Free Press, September 6 1995, p. 14.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Repentance of Nineveh

by Eliezer Segal

The choice of the Book of Jonah as the Torah reading for the Yom Kippur Afternoon Service undoubtedly stems from its universal lessons about the power of repentance.

To the prophet’s exasperation, the Almighty accepted the people of Nineveh’s sincere commitment to turn from their evil ways, and canceled his threat to destroy the city. Jonah himself, in his shortsighted determination to avert the rescue of Nineveh, does not come across in a very favourable light.

The ancient Rabbis, especially in the Babylonian Talmud, studied the Biblical description of the Ninevites’ change of heart, citing it as a paradigm to be emulated by all persons who wish to repair their relationships with their Creator.

Surprisingly, in some of the ancient Rabbinic works composed in the Land of Israel, we encounter a very different assessment of the events. These texts accuse the people of Nineveh of staging an elaborate deception, of feigning their repentance, and even of impudently threatening to cause suffering to innocent beasts unless God will agree to exercise compassion.

As for the people’s declaration “Let every one turn from his evil way and from the iniquity which is in his hands,” the midrashic sources read this in a narrowly legalistic manner: Only those ill-gotten items that were literally in their hands at the time did they agree to restore–but articles that were kept in chests and coffers were excluded from the commitment.

Why did the Jewish sages go to such pains to discredit the Ninevites, in blatant disregard for the apparent meaning of the Bible text?

It would appear that here, as in many similar instances, the Rabbis were responding to an ideological challenge. For the repentance of Nineveh had become a focus of the fierce polemical exchanges that typified Jewish-Christian contacts during the early development of the church.

In some of the Gospels, utilizing an idea that appears in Jewish preaching as well, Jesus compares himself to Jonah, who succeeded in influencing the gentiles while failing to achieve equivalent success among his compatriots :

“The men of Nineveh shall rise up in the judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: for they repented at the preaching of Jonah.”

Viewed in light of such charges, Jonah came to be depicted by the Midrash as a virtual national hero whose devotion to his people impelled him to refuse his mission in order to prevent future generations of Jews from being subjected to the unflattering contrast. In doing so, Jonah was joining a respectable line of prophets, including Moses himself, who were ready to put their own souls on the line to protect the interests of their people.

This interpretation would be repeated in the commentary of the 3rd- and 4th-century Church Father Jerome, who lived in the Holy Land and studied extensively with Jewish teachers. Echoing the Rabbinic traditions, Jerome has Jonah bemoaning his fate: “I alone was selected from among all the prophets, so that in bringing salvation to others, I shall herald the ruin of my own people.”

Another Christian writer, Efrem the Syrian, told how the grateful Ninevites wanted to escort Jonah back to his homeland, but the prophet put them off, ashamed lest the heathen guests witness the sinfulness of his own people.

In a possible reaction to the strong influence of Jewish practices and ideas in the Syrian Church, Efrem did not pass up this opportunity to berate the Jews for their reliance on the merits of their forefathers, and for valuing the Law more than the God who gave it. Efrem concluded his account by having the people of Nineveh praise God “for humiliating the Jews by means of the gentiles.”

The midrashic defamation of the Ninevites is therefore recorded only in sources that emanate from the Land of Israel, where Christianity was making successful inroads in the wake of the various tragedies that were besetting the Jewish nation.

It is against this background, of Christian apologists making unflattering comparisons between the sincerity of the pagans and the stubbornness of the Jews, that we ought to appreciate the Rabbinic vilification of the Ninevites and their admiration for Jonah’s solidarity with his people. The prophet, they felt, had foreseen the destructive uses to which his mission would one day be put by Israel’s rivals.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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I’m Bein’ Followed by a Moonshadow…

by Eliezer Segal

The seventh day of Sukkot, which we refer to as “Hoshana Rabbah,” was originally associated with the seasonal prayers for abundant precipitation in the approaching rainy season. The critical importance of rain for the Israeli ecology, combined with the powerful themes of divine judgment still reverberating from the previous weeks’ holidays, have lent to Hoshana Rabbah many of the features of Yom Kippur itself. Thus it is often depicted as the occasion when the year’s verdicts are finally and irrevocably sealed.

This idea is underscored in some of the day’s synagogue practices: e.g., the cantor wears a white “kittel” and chants some of the day’s prayers to the melodies associated with the “Days of Awe.”

The metaphysical stature of Hoshana Rabbah was progressively enhanced over the centuries, so much so that its original agricultural roots were virtually obliterated in the popular consciousness. This pattern was particularly pronounced in the Jewish mystical tradition, the Kabbalah, and has had far-reaching effects on Jewish folk beliefs and practices.

The foremost classic of Jewish mysticism, the  Zohar, describes how on Hoshana Rabbah, the verdicts that were decreed on Yom Kippur are officially distributed to all mortals.

An eerie variation on this motif is encountered in the influential thirteenth-century Biblical commentary of Rabbi Moses ben Nahman (Nahmanides). In his explanation of a peculiar Hebrew expression that is employed in the Torah to describe the defenselessness of Israel’s enemies–“their protection [literally: their shade] is removed from them” (Numbers 9:14)–the “Ramban” suggested that “Scripture might be alluding to the well know fact that on the night of the `sealing’ [of the divine decree] the head of a person who is fated to die during the approaching year will project no shadow in the moonlight.”

A later Jewish Biblical exegete, Rabbi Bahya ben Asher, ascribed a figurative meaning to Nahmanides’ tradition: A shadow symbolically marks out the place that a being occupies on the earth, and accordingly its removal demonstrates that that being no longer occupies a fixed or designated place in the sublunar world.

Many subsequent writers speak of this tradition, namely that in the moonlight of Hoshana Rabbah no visible shadow will be cast by the heads of individuals who are destined not to live out the year.

As we frequently find when investigating superstitions of this sort, it turns out that the medieval Jews were echoing beliefs that was widely held among their non-Jewish neighbours in northern and eastern Europe. However the Christians, of course, associated the phenomenon with their own holidays.

One Jewish scribe gratefully recorded in a manuscript colophon that “on the night of Hoshana Rabbah of [1556] I observed the shadow of my head in the moonlight. Praised be God, for now I am assured that I shall not die this year.”

Rabbi David Abudraham of Seville, in his fourteenth-century commentary to the Jewish prayer-book, tells disapprovingly of some people who were accustomed on Hoshana Rabbah to venture outside, draped only in a sheet, which they removed after having chosen a spot where the outline of their shadow would be clearly distinguishable in the moonlight. These individuals would check not only for the dreaded missing head, but also for fingers and limbs whose absent shadows would surely foretell the imminent demise of close relatives and loved ones.

Rabbi Moses Isserles, the sixteenth-century Polish rabbi whose glosses on the Shulhan Arukh are a central pillar of Ashkenazic religious law, recorded that several prominent halakhic authorities discouraged this practice on the grounds that it appeared to invite misfortune. –And in any case “most people are not sufficiently expert in these matters.” He counselled that people ought generally to avoid delving into the future.

A more recent halakhic authority, Rabbi Barukh Epstein, summarized the theological issue succinctly: “God forbid that Jews should indulge in such speculations, when an instant’s repentance has the power to overturn any unfavourable decree. We would do much better to place our trust directly in our Heavenly Father.”

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Cherub’s Sword and the Wrath of Zeus

by Eliezer Segal

Where is Paradise?

I expect that many of my readers, if confronted by this question, would reply simply: Between Saskatchewan and the Rockies. Alternatively, they might begin to describe some sort of heavenly abode inhabited by harp-strumming angels.

For Jews, the matter involves some further complications. The Hebrew equivalent of “Paradise” is “Gan Eden,” the Garden of Eden which is where the souls of the righteous are privileged to enjoy Eternity–at least until the time of the Resurrection.

Now where is this wonderful garden? The Torah provides us with specific geographical coordinates, identifying it as the source of four important rivers. Although we have not yet succeeded in identifying the location, the story in Genesis presumes that it lies somewhere in our terrestrial world–for otherwise it would be difficult to account for the stationing of a cherubic guard at its entrance to fend off intruders.

Although Jewish legend has dwelled lovingly on the wonders of an other-worldly Garden of Eden, some of our sages have insisted that it is still to be found in its earthly location. A powerful case for this position was made by the medieval Talmudist, exegete and mystic Rabbi Moses ben Nahman (Nahmanides). In his treatise on the afterlife, he claimed support not only from the plain sense of Genesis, but also from the testimonies of non-Jewish travellers who claimed to have seen the Garden somewhere below the Equator.

One of the tales that he cites involves a team of medical researchers led by an ancient Macedonian scholar named Aesculapius who entered Gan Eden while touring the Orient in search of medicinal plants. Unfortunately, their discovery of the Tree of Life tripped off an alarm–the angelic flaming sword that ignited the entire delegation.

Nahmanides cited this story in the name of the the 6th-century medical treatise of “Asaph the Physician,” where it can indeed be found. In Asaph’s story, the tale is adduced in order to resolve a difficulty in medieval medical historiography: How was it that the legendary wise men of primordial times, especially the Egyptians, were in possession of remarkable healing treatments, but their successors in the classical age were forced to resort to experimental research? The solution lies in the tragedy that befell the over-ambitious party of  Aesculapius and his companions whose sudden deaths brought about an immediate interruption in the transmission of ancient medical lore, compelling later doctors to resort to the less efficient methods of clinical experimentation.

But the story’s origins predate even Asaph the Physician. Readers familiar with classical literature will recognize its roots in Greek and Roman mythology. Aesculapius (or Asclepius) son of Apollo was the Greek god of healing. In the Greek version of the story Asclepius discovered the secret of reviving the dead [Warning: Don’t try this at home. It requires quantities of Medusa’s blood]. When he used his skill too liberally, Zeus himself struck him down with a thunderbolt.

When Jews retold the story they demoted Asclepius from a deity to a human physician and replaced Zeus’ thunderbolt with the Biblical sabre. It followed naturally that the most suitable setting for the events was the unapproachable Garden of Eden.

Thus, Nahmanides inadvertantly used a pagan myth to prove the existence of the earthly Gan Eden.

Subsequent authors expanded the significance of the story, making it serve as an explanation of how the original wisdom of the ancient Greeks–which the medievals believed to have been derived from Hebrew sources–had come to a sudden end, to be replaced by the misguided rationalism that typified later philosphical thinking.

The 13th-century mystical classic, the Zohar, gave a different twist to the tradition, claiming that the victims of the fiery sword were the disciples of Plato and Aristotle in the time of Alexander the Great. This was the reason why later Greek philosophy was inferior to the thought of earlier generations (which were closer to their Jewish origins).

Yet another variation on the legend located the entrance to Paradise in the Makhpelah cave in Hebron, the tomb of the Patriarchs. Since the burial cave itself houses the gateway to Gan Eden, it is believed that all those who attempt to enter it will be smitten by the Cherub’s sword–even as Aesculapius fell victim to the lightning of Zeus’ wrath.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Shabbat Candles:

To See or Not to See

by Eliezer Segal

The lighting of the Shabbat candles on Friday evenings can be one of the most moving spiritual experiences of Jewish life, and it is not surprising that it continues to enjoy widespread popularity even among those who have few other connections to traditional Jewish observance.

The original function of Shabbat candles, as enjoined by Talmudic law, was a more practical one. They were intended to enhance the enjoyment of the day by improving visibility. The sages realized that the domestic peace (shalom bayit) appropriate to the holy day would be diminished if members of the household were constantly stumbling over one another in the darkness.

Given this prosaic rationale, some of the familiar features of the candle-lighting ceremony are not immediately understandable. In particular, what is the significance of the number of candles that are kindled? I have never seen anyone light fewer than two candles, and many customs have increased the numbers–to seven, or the number of one’s children, etc. Some even insist on permanently adding candles to make up for occasions when they neglected to light.

The practice of lighting two Shabbat candles is first recorded in the twelfth century, among Ashkenazic Jews, and it was not adopted by their Sepharadic coreligionists until quite recently.

A popular symbolic explanation for the practice links it to variations in the wording of the Sabbath commandment that is included in the Decalogue: In Exodus we are told to “Remember the Sabbath day,” while in Deuteronomy it says to “Observe” it.

Rabbinic discussions focus on more technical aspects of the practice. Several of them remark that the introduction of the second candle was intended to emphasize its special ritual dimension, to make it clear that the candles are not merely intended to provide physical illumination.

Several authorities go so far as to compare the second candle with the Hanukkah “shamash,” whose role is to make sure that members of the household do not actually derive any benefit from the obligatory candles, which have been devoted to a sacred purpose. Towards this end, a custom existed of making the extra candle out of tallows that were legally unfit for Shabbat use.

This last point is very surprising, since the halakhic functions of Shabbat and Hanukkah candles are really quite opposite, with the former being explicitly designated for use and enjoyment, as outlined above. Nevertheless, the unanimous testimony of medieval Ashkenazic sources demonstrates that, in the popular perception, Shabbat candles were to be set aside in a holiness that precluded the deriving of benefit from them.

It is probable that the origins of this novel perception have their roots in the geographical realities of central European Jewry.

As we Calgarians will readily appreciate, Summer days in northern climes can be very long. Our medieval ancestors usually adapted themselves to this situation, as most of us do, by following the halakhic option of adding to the Shabbat and ushering it in several hours before sunset.

This led to a situation in which candles were often kindled in the middle of the afternoon, when they did not provide any visible illumination. If their purpose was not a practical one–so people reasoned–then it must be a sacred and spiritual one. Eventually this attitude was translated into an actual prohibition against benefiting their light.

Medieval Rabbinic literature deals with several issues that arose from this ritualizing of the Shabbat candles. For example, it became common to light them inside the house (or in the synagogue) and then eat dinner outside in the courtyard, or for the candles to burn out long before dark. In either of these instances, the presence of the candles served no practical purpose.

Jews living in southern latitudes continued for much longer to hold on to the original understanding of the candles as an enhancement to the Sabbath’s enjoyment and domestic harmony.

At any rate, the spiritualization of the Shabbat lights has by now become an inseparable part of the day’s atmosphere, imbuing Jewish households with a unique glow of peace and sanctity. 

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Informing and Creating:

Historical Perspective on Jewish Journalism

by Eliezer Segal

It is hard to believe that five years have elapsed since I graced the premier issue of the Jewish Free Press with an article about the tradition of Jewish journalism. On the occasion of this anniversary it appears fitting to return to that topic, surveying some of the roles that have been filled by Jewish periodical publications since their inception.

According to most bibliographers, the title of “First Hebrew periodical” goes to a collection entitled “P’ri Etz Hayyim” (the fruit of the tree of life) whose first issue appeared in 1691 under the auspices of Amsterdam’s renowned Etz Hayyim Yeshivah. It is hardly surprising that the pioneering Jewish publication, representing the values and interests of a traditional religious society, should have been a scholarly journal that served as a showcase for the yeshivah’s rabbinical students and their erudite discussions of Jewish law and exegesis.

Almost a century would pass before journalism would become a major force in Jewish public life. The movement for Jewish Enlightenment, under the guidance of Moses Mendelssohn and his disciples in central Europe, found in the periodical format an effective vehicle for the promulgation of their ideological objectives.

Mendelssohn and his followers took particular care to establish digests for the education of the masses. In their pages, simple Jews would be introduced to Hebrew summaries of the latest achievements of European culture and science. It was hoped that this educational enterprise would inspire the readers to seek out a more thorough involvement in the cultural life of their home countries, equipping them for the responsibilities of citizenship in the modern world.

The constraints of this medium came to be felt before long. By 1839 the distinguished Reform ideologue and scholar Abraham Geiger, though extolling the importance of Jewish magazines as expressions of the collective spirit of their time, and as miniature communities or social movements, admitted that Hebrew journals no longer had much to offer in the way of scientific education for the masses. The ancient tongue was poorly equipped to deal with modern technical subjects, and by Geiger’s time most of his Jewish compatriots were able to access such resources in German. He concluded that Jewish journalism, especially in the Hebrew language, would make a more valuable contribution if it confined itself to exploring specifically Jewish issues.

Indeed, the next phase of Jewish journalistic endeavour excelled in the exchange of ideas and scholarly advances in the fields of Jewish literature and culture. A milestone was reached in 1856 with the appearance of the first Hebrew daily, Ha-maggid. in Lyck, East Prussia. Under the editorial direction of David Gordon, a remarkable figure equally at home in traditional Judaism and European culture, this publication was initially intended to provide European Jews with information about the world at large, but it quickly evolved into a forum for debate and discussion of the weighty questions confronting the Jewish community.

The choice of Hebrew as the newspaper’s language of discourse was at first justified on pragmatic grounds, as the only means to maintain bonds with Jews throughout the Diaspora. However Ha-maggid‘s “scholarly” supplement became an important instrument in the revival of Hebrew nationalism, which had been suffering grave setbacks under the ethos of the German Reformers. Ha-maggid‘s pages even hosted the first Hebrew novels (by Abraham Mapu and others), setting in motion a process that would facilitate the revival of Hebrew as a modern spoken language. Between 1860 and 1863 many new Hebrew newspapers began to proliferate throughout the Jewish world, including: Ha-mevasser in Galicia, Ha-karmel in Vilna, Ha-melitz in Odessa, Ha-levanon in Jerusalem.

In varying degrees, each of these journals underwent the same transitions in the perception of their editorial mission: Beginning as simple instruments for education and information, they took on the role of Jewish town halls for the communication of opinions on the controversies of the day. The zenith of their success was achieved when they became (sometimes unwittingly) active contributors and participants in the creation of a dynamic new Jewish culture.

It is to be hoped, that in its own modest way the Jewish Free Press will follow in the classic traditions of Jewish journalism, providing not only accurate news reports and a place for communal debate, but actually participating in the fashioning of the Jewish culture of future generations.

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• First Publication:
• The Jewish Free Press, November16 1995, p. 8.
• For further reading: 
• G. Kressel, “Attempts at World Listings of Hebrew Periodicals,” Proceedings of the Sixth Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem 1977, pp. 425-35.
• Yosef Salmon, “The Emergence of a Jewish Collective Consciousness in Eastern Europe During the 1860’s and 1870’s,” AJS Review 16 (1991), pp. 107-32 .

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Ethnic Vote: Duisburg 1910

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: October 1995 — Following a very narrow defeat of his referendum calling for separation of Quebec from the Canadian confederation, separatist Premier Jacques Parizeau immediately placed the blame on “the ethnics and the money.” Jews and other non-French minorities felt very offended and threatened.

The recent Quebec referendum campaign and its inconclusive results have left Canadians with an unpleasant aftertaste. Jews in particular felt alarmed at Premier Parizeau’s accusations of betrayal by “les ethniques.”

We should recall that there have been similar situations in Jewish communal politics, where the interests of the “established” citizenry were not identical to those of the more recent immigrants. In such instances, Jewish communities have not invariably been altruistic in choosing the highest good.

A case in point: The cultured “native” Jews of Germany in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were notoriously contemptuous of the uncouth “Ostjuden” cousins who had migrated recently from Eastern Europe, bringing with them the traditional religious outlooks and mannerisms of Polish and Russian Jewry. The clash became even more acerbic when agitated by the emotions of nationalism. The modern German Jews had long defined themselves as a purely religious grouping whose undivided political allegiance was to their European fatherland; whereas the Eastern Jews cultivated deep commitments to Jewish national solidarity.

The spread of Zionism to Germany at the turn of this century challenged many of the ideological assumptions of the liberal Jewish establishment who aspired to complete acceptance and assimilation into the host society. Predictably, the philosophic dispute carried over into the arena of Jewish communal politics, which in Germany were kept under the vigilant watch and enforcement of the state.

In several communities, the Zionist activists came to the realization that the only hope they had of obtaining political power in the “Gemeinden” was by forming alliances with other disenfranchised groups. This resulted in electoral cooperation between secularist Zionists and Orthodox traditionalists„in a dynamic not unlike the coalition politics common in Israel, where socialist politicians don yarmulkehs and seek to pass themselves off as defenders of religious traditionalism. The hybrid came to be viewed as a “conservative” party.

In several communities the strategy proved effective, and the conservative lists took over the local community councils. The established Jewish leadership became desperate to hold on to their power base.

The initial reaction was a familiar one: The liberals complained that the balance of power was unfairly held by the Jewish “ethniques,” the recent arrivals from the East who did not share the interests and loyalties of “real” German Jews. They appealed to the government to disenfranchise all Jews who did not hold full German citizenship. The local Zionists were quick to assail the insensitivity of their liberal opponents.

A confrontation of this kind in the tiny Jewish community of Duisburg, Prussia, exploded in 1909-10 to became a model for similar struggles throughout central Europe. Reacting to the unexpected electoral successes of the Orthodox-Zionist allies, the liberals petitioned the government to have the results overturned on a technicality, arguing that the chief Zionist representative did not satisfy the residency requirements. The governor’s decision to disqualify the one candidate without cancelling the whole election frustrated both parties. The veteran residents were barely dissuaded from seceding fro the Jewish community council by the local Rabbi, a liberal himself, who valued communal solidarity above partisan interests.

By the time of the next round of elections in Duisberg in 1912, the “conservative” faction captured all eight vacant seats on the assembly. The defeated liberals again sought vainly to have the civil authorities overturn the results. They accused the Orthodox (falsely, it was eventually shown) of buying votes. But more importantly, they argued that their opponents “mostly immigrated in recent years and stand apart from their native coreligionists.” It would be unthinkable to allow those foreigners “whose hearts cannot beat in unison for Germany” to decide the future of a loyal German Gemeinde. Furthermore, they claimed that the naive immigrants had been stirred into a panic by exaggerated charges of the radical reforms that would be introduced into traditional religious life if the liberals were to control the council.

Most significantly, the liberals pointed out that the margin of victory had been paper-thin, less than twenty votes. Clearly, if only the “true” German Jews had participated the results would have been different!

The Zionists for their part were quick to capitalize on their rivals’ utterances, accusing them of being more despicable and depraved than the gentile antisemites. More moderate and responsible Jewish liberal organizations were discredited by the rash behaviour of their comrades in Duisburg, as the factions throughout Germany became increasingly polarized.

There might be some reassurance in knowing that the “ethnics” were ultimately vindicated: The Prussian Interior Minister declared on May 4 1914 that full membership in the Jewish community organizations must be extended to all resident Jews, whatever their citizenship.

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, December 1 1995, pp. 14, 17.
• For further reading: 
  • Jack Wertheimer, “The Duisberg Affair: a Test in the Struggle for ‘Conquest of the Communities’,” AJS Review 6 (1981), pp. 185-206.

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The Maccabees’ Menorah and Titus’ Menorah

by Eliezer Segal

When the victorious Maccabees returned to the desecrated Temple they found that much of its wealth and splendour had been plundered by the Greeks. Among the artifacts that had been stolen by Antiochos was the golden candelabrum, likely the same one that had been fashioned by the returning Babylonian exiles in the time of Ezra and Nehemiah. Until a new candelabrum could be crafted, the soldiers improvised a makeshift device out of hollowed spearheads. Only later was a new golden replica manufactured, which was probably lit at the official rededication of the purified Temple, the first Hanukkah.

The last Hasmonean king, Mattathias Antigonos (40-37 B.C.E.), chose to place an image of the Menorah on the coins minted under his régime. The symbolism was quite appropriate: In addition to its associations with the Temple (the coins proudly proclaimed Mattathias’ position as High Priest), the Menorah served as a reminder of the heroic exploits that had brought his family to power as liberators of their people.

The representation of the candelabrum on the Hasmonean coins provides us with our oldest picture of the Menorah. One notable feature of that depiction is that it seems to be standing on a sort of tripod. This would agree with the evidence of the Talmud (which speaks of an indeternminate number of “legs”), as well as with the three-legged Menorah images that were incorporated in much of Jewish art in later centuries.

This portrayal of a Menorah supported by a tripod base is not the one that springs most naturally to our minds. Most of us imagine the Menorah with a broad, solid base, like the one that appears in the official seal of the State of Israel. The source for this image is the Arch of Titus, erected around 81 C.E. to commemorate the Roman triumph over the Jewish insurrection. On that Arch we can see a meticulously detailed relief of the spoils of Jerusalem Temple being carried through the streets of Rome, and the Menorah is perhaps the most prominent of the treasures. However the base of Titus’ Menorah is not a tripod, but the now-familiar two-tiered hexagonal structure.

There are many factors that testify to the authenticity of the depiction in Titus’ arch: In general, Roman triumphal arches were designed as historical documents and towards that end strove to be as accurate as possible. In this case, almost all the details demonstrate to the sculptors’ intimate knowledge of the Temple’s vessels as described in the Bible and other Jewish sources. Moreover, the proportions of the candelabrum, with its oversized base, are in such blatant conflict with the classical notions of aesthetic form that it is inconceivable that a Roman craftsman would have invented them.

How then are we to explain the discrepancy between these two different renderings of the Menorah

Some clues to this mystery are suggested by the ornamental designs that appear in Titus’ Menorah. Though the images have been eroded over time, it is possible to discern vestiges of such figures as eagles and fish-tailed sea serpents or dragons. A similar base has been excavated from a Roman temple at Didymus, now in southern Turkey.

The eagles were, of course, the best-know symbol of Roman sovereignty. The dragons were a popular decorative motif in Roman art, and the whole candelabrum seems to testify to the strong Roman influence.

There are however some striking difference between Titus’ candelabrum and its pagan counterparts. The Didymus lamp, for example, features a human figure, a water-nymph, seated on the back of the monster. It also portrays this creature with spiky rills issuing from its neck, an image that was explicitly prohibited by Talmudic law. Both these features are lacking in the image of the Temple Menorah. While both these facts argue for its Jewish origins, they cannot offset the strong Roman influence perceptible in the design.

As some scholars have observed, this mixture of a positive disposition towards things Roman, mitigated by a Jewish antipathy towards pagan images, fits the personality of King Herod, the despotic monarch whose prolonged and unpopular rule over Judea was made possible by his slavish obedience to his Roman masters. Throughout his career he tried to impose Roman social and religious institutions upon his reluctant subjects.

It is thus entirely characteristic of Herod’s approach to introduce into the Temple itself a candelabrum that was adorned with the symbols of Roman authority and values. As in similar cases, Herod was unable to completely ignore the popular resistance to human images or explicitly pagan motifs.

If this is correct, then the Menorah that was plundered by the Roman legions was not the symbol of religious freedom that had been created by the Maccabees, but a despot’s monument to foreign oppression. 

This fact might account for the absence of the Menorah from the coinage of the Jewish rebellions in 69-70 and 135, which made much use of other symbols from the Temple worship.

When the Menorah did regain popularity as a decorative theme in Jewish art from the third century onwards, it was the original three legged lamp that was chosen by the Jewish craftsmen as a symbol of religious pride and messianic hope.

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• First Publication:
• The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December15 1996, pp. 14, 17.
• For further reading: 
• Dan Barag, “The Menorah as a Messianic Symbol during the Late Roman and Byzantine Periods,” Proceedings of the Ninth Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem 1986), pp. 59-62.
• Daniel Sperber, An Early Meaning of the Word Shapud,” Revue des Etudes Juives 124 (1965), 179-84.
• Daniel Sperber, “The History of the Menorah,” Journal of Jewish Studies 16 (1965), pp. 135-59.

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A Coat of Many Cultures

by Eliezer Segal

An outstanding Hebrew example of this genre of expanded Bible is a work entitled Sefer Hayyashar, first published in Venice in 1625. In retelling the stories of the book of Genesis, the unnamed author weaves into the Biblical text all manner of supplementary traditions derived from the Midrash, ancient apocryphal works, and other sources.

One episode that clearly caught the author’s imagination was Joseph’s stalwart resistance in the face of his employer’s wife’s attempts to seduce him. Whereas the Bible speaks only of an anonymous “wife of Potiphar,” the  Sefer Hayyashar gives her a name: Zuleika.

Against the Biblical narrator’s terse and suggestive account, Sefer Hayyashar paints a vivid portrait of an woman pathologically obsessed with Joseph’s physical beauty. She continually urges Joseph on, whether by enticement. threats or trickery, and her passion ultimately brings upon her a suicidal state of physical depression. 

The Sefer Hayyashar illustrates these themes by means of the following episode: In response to the Egyptian women’s berating her for her lack of self-control, Zuleika invited them to a banquet at which oranges were served. Joseph entered as the women were peeling the oranges, and they became so distracted by his beauty that they cut right through their hands drawing blood. This, Zuleika stated, was the kind of temptation she had to put up with day after day!

The name “Zuleika” is not mentioned in either the Bible or Midrash. As to the incident of the oranges, its origin is unclear. Similar episodes (with variations in the menu) are included in some medieval midrashic anthologies, but the earliest datable attestation is in Muslim tradition: The twelfth chapter of the Qur’an, known as “Surat Yusuf,” is in itself an elaborate midrash on the Joseph story incorporating many elements from the Jewish aggadic tradition.

The name “Zuleika” also seems to emanate from an Islamic source. Epic poems on this theme circulated widely in medieval times, of which the most popular was Persian Yusuf and Zulaikha composed in 7000 Persian couplets by the fifteenth-century poet Jami. The author was a Sufi who regarded the story of Joseph’s temptations as an allegory for the mystical striving after divinity.

Scholars are not in agreement about the chronology of the tradition: Were the Jewish authors of works like Sefer Hayyashar borrowing Muslim traditions that had originated in earlier Arabic or Persian novels. Or were they in fact repatriating ancient Jewish legends that had for some reason been excluded from the standard compendia of Midrash?

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Joseph and Asenath

If the situation of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife inspires an intrinsic fascination, there is a more urgent difficulty posed by the other woman in Joseph’s life: His wife, Asenath.

Asenath is identified in the Bible as the daughter of an Egyptian priest–a yihus that comes into conflict with the Jewish prohibition against mixed marriages.

This discomfort was felt most acutely by the Jews of ancient Alexandria, Egypt. While participating in a vibrant and cosmopolitan centre of Greek culture, this community was ardently committed to their ancestral religion. Furthermore, they had a special reverence for Joseph, whom they regarded as the founder of their own community.

It is against the social background of 1st-century Alexandria that we are to appreciate the composition of “Joseph and Asenath,” one of the most remarkable literary creations of Hellenistic Judaism.

At one level, the Greek story provides a simple solution to the fundamental religious problem: It relates how the chaste Asenath learned to reject her idolatrous upbringing and underwent a sincere conversion to the faith of Israel.

However the “Joseph and Asenath” does not stop there. It makes use of all the conventions and devices of Greek literary art to fashion a readable romantic novel that conforms to the esthetic tastes of Hellenistic culture. The resulting tale includes such ingredients as love at first sight, a struggle against the unwanted attentions of Pharaoh’s son, plenty of swashbuckling swordplay between Joseph’s brothers and the royal rivals, and more.

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Joseph and his Brothers

Some years ago I participated in an engagement dinner hosted by one of Jerusalem’s most eminent Rosh Yeshivahs. As is the custom at such occasions, one of the Yeshivah students delivered a learned discourse on the blessings of marriage. In his d’var Torah the student made references to several “rabbinic” embellishments to the Biblical stories about Jacob and Joseph.

At the conclusion of the discourse, the Lithuanian Rosh Yeshivah asked the student if he could identify the source of a midrash he had just cited (Some 25 years later, I no longer recall its precise content). The student sheepishly replied that he had heard it at a previous engagement dinner, and did not know its original source.

The learned Rabbi smiled and pointed out that the tradition in question is not found in any traditional Jewish text. As far as he could tell, its earliest source is Thomas Mann’s historical novel Joseph und seine Brüder.

I admit that I was struck initially by the sage’s erudition– noting that there are probably few among his younger collleagues who could have made the identification. On a more profound level, however, I was most impressed by the Rabbi’s attitude. At no point did he suggest that the story’s foreign source should be construed as grounds for rejecting it.

I suspect that he saw this as yet another instance of Judaism’s genius for drawing upon the esthetic sensibilities of surrounding cultures, in order to uphold the vitality and relevance of the Torah.

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January2 1966, pp. 6, 8.
• For further reading: 
• John D. Yohannan, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife in World Literautre, New York 1968.
• C. Burchard, ed., “Joseph and Asenath”; in: J. H. Charlesworth, ed., The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Garden City and New York, 1985.

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