Service Interruption

by Eliezer Segal

People have occasionally remarked (not always in a laudatory way) about my skill in pounding on the tops of tables and lecterns. This unusual talent is not a relic from my Cold War childhood, but a requisite of my position as a synagogue “gabbai.” Especially (but not exclusively) at those moments during the service when one is not supposed to speak, a resonating blow on the lectern serves to draw the congregation’s attention to important matters, such as seasonal additions to the liturgy, an unacceptable noise level, or an imminent declaration by the rabbi.

In current practice, such interruptions of the service are designed primarily to enforce the authority of the community. However, through much of our history, it was just as likely that individual congregants would be the ones pounding on the table-tops in order to give public expression to their grievances against their leaders. The right of wronged parties to interrupt public worship in order to plead their cases is one that was respected in both European and Middle Eastern Jewish communities. There is reason to suspect that its beginnings go back to the Land of Israel during Talmudic times. In Islamic countries, the right to interrupt services seems to have been based on the legal assumption that the community as a whole, assembled in the synagogue, was in principle the highest tribunal; in accordance with the Biblical notion that “the people shall judge” (Numbers 35:24). Thus, to plead before the congregation was equivalent to addressing the highest court of appeal.

In documents from the Cairo Genizah, this practice is designated “calling the Jews for help.” The proper time for such appeals was just before the reading from the Torah, as the scroll was lying on its table and the complainant had the power to stall the reading until the case had been heard. One writer even speaks of his intention to lock the ark until he was allowed the satisfaction of confronting his adversary. In the surviving records, the complainants are often women or girls, though they were probably represented by males. One touching petition was submitted on behalf two orphan girls whose older siblings had driven them out of their house. The matter was dealt with within a day of the complaint.

A virtually identical procedure, known variously as “interruption of worship,” “closing the synagogue,” or even “the suspension of the daily offering,” was entrenched in the customs of the German and French Jewish communities from the earliest days of their documented history. The privilege is presupposed in one of the enactments attributed to the celebrated Rabbenu Gershom of Mayence, the celebrated “Light of the Exile,” which had to set some practical limits to its use. According to the enactment, the complainants are initially given opportunities to voice their grievances at the conclusion of the synagogue service (or, according to some interpretations, at the more leisurely Evening service]. Only if satisfaction is not achieved after three such occasions may they now proceed to interrupt the communal prayers. A century later, an exception was made to the earlier enactment in a new statute that was issued by Rabbi Jacob Tam, responding to a frequently occurring problem: If the issue involved accusations before the gentile authorities, which threatened to remove the matter entirely from the jurisdiction of the Jewish court, then the complainers would be permitted to “interrupt the worship” immediately without going through other procedures.

In Fuerth, Germany, any individual was entitled to protest against abuses by the community by standing up in the middle of the service and calling out “ich klame!” Several liturgical compendia speak of the interruption preceding the morning invocation of the “Barkhu” as if it were a routine part of the morning prayers.

These interruptions could be serious matters. An extreme instance was the protest in Cologne that stretched out so long that it was completely impossible to read the Torah on that Sabbath, forcing the community to postpone the reading until the following week. The list of situations that justified the suspension of prayers is long and diverse. Examples range from poor tenants seeking to embarrass their hard-hearted landlords wielding eviction notices, to indignation at a community’s attempt to cancel a committee meeting. Not surprisingly, this democratic institution lent itself readily to abuse through excessive and frivolous overuse. Such a predicament was acknowledged in the bylaws issued by the Jewish community of Candia, Crete, in the 13^th century, which decreed that all public protests must first be cleared with the community’s leaders, the contestabile–a change that must often have defeated the original purpose of the institution. In a similar vein, the Rhineland communities restricted the number of prayers that could be interrupted to less crucial ones, thereby diminishing the complainant’s leverage against the congregation. The medieval Book of the Pious expressed what must have been a widespread ambivalence with regard to interruption of the prayers. In one chapter it tells of a powerful community leader who was denied divine compassion at the end of his earthly life, in spite of a distinguished record of philanthropic activity, because he had been the occasion for several synagogue protests. “Because you,” God reprimanded him “cause me delays in the prayers and Torah readings, you must bear your iniquity.”

Other chapters in the Book of the Pious are less enthusiastic about the interruptions. The author advises worshippers to stay home and study , or to find an alternative minyan, rather than frequent a synagogue service that will be dragged out by announcements of grievances. Similar distaste were expressed by Rabbi Ephraim Luntshitz in 17-18^th century Poland, who argued that the practice was offensive to God and brought public ridicule upon the Jewish community. I expect that our local synagogues will be reluctant to reinstate this venerable relic of populist democracy, not only because our congregants are so satisfied with their communal leaders, but principally out of fears that undue prolongation of the services would scare away worshippers.

Come to think of it, it might produce the opposite result. A parade of disgruntled congregants airing their complaints against each other and against their leaders might be just what we need to fill our pews and compete with the television talk shows.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, December 28 1998, p. 8.
• For further reading: 
  • Abrahams, I. (1969). Jewish life in the Middle Ages. New York, Atheneum.
  • Baron, S. W. (1977). The Jewish community : its history and structure to the American revolution. Westport, Conn., Greenwood Press.
  • Finkelstein, L. (1972). Jewish self-government in the Middle Ages. Westport, Conn.,, Greenwood Press.
  • Goitein, S. D., P. Sanders, et al. (1967). A Mediterranean society; the Jewish communities of the Arab world as portrayed in the documents of the Cairo Geniza. Berkeley,, University of California Press.
  • Grossman, v. (1981). The Early Sages of Ashkenaz: Their Lives, Leadership and Works (900-1096). Jerusalem, Magnes Press.

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German translation as “Moment Mal!”, in Jüdische Allgemeine, November 16, 2006.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Minimizing Your Assets

by Eliezer Segal

In our materialistic and competitive society it is normal for people to want to appear more affluent than they are, even if it requires them to get into debt. A reputation for financial stability is, of course, advantageous when they are trying to attract investors, to maintain a healthy credit rating.

There are however situations when it is preferable to seem poor. The example that springs most readily to mind is at tax time.

Talmudic law deals with several cases in which this latter assumption is accepted, that people have intentionally tried to make their economic conditions appear less rosy than they really are.

Take the following example: A dying man admits to an otherwise unknown debt that is still outstanding. 

In normal cases of deathbed declarations, Jewish law tends to forego the legal formalities, in recognition of the fact that a person approaches such occasions with great seriousness. In the present instance, however, the Talmudic rabbis state that the sum should not automatically be paid to the alleged creditor because we suspect that “a person is likely not to make himself appear sated”; i.e., he might be trying to misrepresent his financial status, or that of his heirs. 

The standard commentaries to this Talmudic passage suggest that a person might act in this manner in order to evade the envious clutches of the Evil Eye; however it is easy to imagine other motives.

To judge from the incidental references that are sprinkled throughout rabbinic literature, the soil of Israel was veritably saturated with buried treasure. Talmudic jurisprudence has to deal with cases where valuables were unearthed in a newly purchased field or in the wall of a building, with the old and new owners both laying claim to them.

In narrative settings, a hero’s unexpected and fortuitous discovery of a treasure often provides an author or preacher with a convenient means of creating an instant upturn in their fortunes, usually to supply a happy ending, or a supernatural reward for virtuous deeds. These contrived plot twists are familiar to us from the comedies of Terence or Plautus, who were active at about the same time as the Talmudic rabbis.

As usual, the ancient prachers ascribed the same kinds of behaviour to the personalities of the Bible. For example, the gold, silver and precious stones that were amassed by Joseph when he was viceroy of Egypt were prudently buried in four different places. Jewish Legend had it that two of the troves were eventually discovered by Korah and the Roman Emperor Antoninus, respectively; the remainder will remain in concealment until they are enjoyed (tax free?) by the righteous in the Messianic era. 

All these stories are grounded in the same social reality, where individuals who had amassed nest-eggs preferred not to advertise the fact, lest they become targets of the rapacious Roman tax-collectors, or of long-lost poor relations. 

Later Jewish folklore is replete with stories of Elijah the prophet appearing to unsuspecting individuals in the guise of a poor beggar in order to test how charitable they are towards insignificant strangers. Those who pass the test are likely to be blessed with a suitable reward, such as a promise of offspring who will grow to become celebrated saints and Torah scholars.

Another situation when it is advantageous to seem poor is when it entitles a person to receive charity. In the sophisticated welfare system of Talmudic law, strict standards were established to define who was allowed to benefit from the donations. The Mishnah states that a person who possesses 199 zuz may collect welfare, whereas the privilege is forfeited as soon as their income reaches the two hundred mark.

In connection with this law, the Jerusalem Talmud tells us of a disciple of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi whose assets amounted to precisely 199 zuz, which earned him regular stipends form his teacher, while at the same time arousing the envy of his classmates, who used the evil eye to tamper with his income. To the student’s chagrin, he found himself cursed with affluence, raised to a higher tax bracket. At that point his benefactor was compelled to withdraw his support.

Recognizing the source of the unfortunate young man’s predicament, Rabbi Judah ordered the students to take their fellow out to eat, and to have him pay the bill. This brought his income down to 199.75, and enabled the student to get back on the dole.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, January 21 1999, pp. 12, 14.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Ransom Notes

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: October 1997 – January 1998. Calgarian oil company executive Norbert Reinhart offered himself as a hostage in place of an employee who had been capture by Columbian leftist guerillas. Government officials in Canada and Columbia expressed their misgivings at Reinhart’s independent negotiations with his captors leading to his eventual release.

The recent release of local hero Norbert Reinhart, who volunteered to take the place of one of his employees and submit himself to captivity at the hands of Colombian kidnappers, has served to draw our attention to the frequency of hostage-taking as a widespread commercial enterprise in many countries of the world.

Such indeed was the norm through much of the world’s history, a situation that is amply reflected in Jewish law and literature.

In the days of the Talmud, which were often characterized by economic instability and political unrest, many individuals were forced into criminal pursuits as a result of expropriation from their land, extortionate taxation or discharge from the army. Bands of such ruffians, usually identified in rabbinic texts by the Greek word “leistes” –bandits– roamed the highways in search of plunder. Seizing hostages for ransom was a relatively easy way to ensure quick profits, and the compassionate Jews had a reputation for being soft touches always ready to buy back the victims.

Matters reached such a crisis that the rabbis were moved to issue ordinances that discouraged efforts towards their release. The Mishnah tried to set strict limits to the sums that could be paid to the outlaws. 

The reasoning behind this rule was sound: Giving in to the kidnappers’ exorbitant demands would, in the long run, confirm the lucrativeness of the practice; whereas, if the victims refused solidly to pay the ransoms, then the bandits would eventually have to turn their energies to more remunerative pursuits.

Although it would cause anguish to many individual hostages, the policy, if followed consistently, would provide long-term benefits. 

As we know well from other instances where the authorities proclaimed their solemn refusal to negotiate with terrorists or to capitulate to illicit demands, it proved next to impossible to maintain solidarity in the face of the imminent suffering of the captives and the tearful pleading of their families.

A distinguished exception was the thirteenth-century Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg, who was imprisoned by the Emperor Rudoph when he attempted to emigrate to the Holy Land in escape the rapacious monarch’s oppressive regime. Rabbi Meir issued strict orders that the Jewish community should not pay extortionate sums that were demanded for his release. As a result, the sage passed the remainder of his days imprisoned in the fortresses of Ensisheim and Wasserberg. 

In spite of his frequent apologies for not having access to a library, Rabbi Meir’s encyclopedic erudition allowed him to continue his prolific literary output of responsa and commentaries. 

It must also have been difficult to enforce another enactment that is recorded in the Mishnah, one that prohibited all attempts to rescue the hostages. Though this rule was introduced in order that the captors would not be required to impose excessively restrictive conditions on their victims, it is hard to imagine anyone who would pass up an opportunity for hastening the escape of a prisoner.

Charitable collections earmarked for the redemption of captives continued to be a major expense on community budgets in virtually every time and locality. 

For example, the records of the Cairo Genizah tell of a girl who was redeemed for an exorbitant sum from a Crusader in the Holy Land, and subsequently brought to Egypt to try to recoup the expenses from charitable donations. In 1533, the Jewish community of Candia voted to sell synagogue equipment to finance the release of captives. 

A medieval legend traces the founding of the prominent centres of rabbinic scholarship to the exploits of a group of captives who had been seized by pirates, and subsequently ransomed by coreligionists in Spain, Tunisia and Egypt. 

If forced confinement was an intrinsically unpleasant fate, it had considerably more severe implications for women. Jewish law, basing itself on sad experience, presumes that all female hostages have been sexually violated by the captors, unless the contrary can be proven. For this reason, the Ketubbah, the mandatory marriage contract, had to include clauses that affirmed the husband’s obligation to ransom his wife, and afterwards to continue the marriage without attaching any stigma to her.

However it appears that not all Jewish women were completely adverse to the possibility of being taken captive. In comparison to their humdrum daily routines, some housewives might have dreamed of being abducted by a romantic Valentino from out of the desert. The Talmud mentions one such brigand-king named Papa bar Naser. Some historians identify with him with Odenathus, fabled ruler of desert kingdom of Palmyra.

In a noteworthy passage from the Babylonian Talmud, when Rav Judah insisted categorically that all kidnapped women are to be treated as helpless victims, his colleagues countered by telling about certain ladies who were accustomed to providing food to the bandits, and even supplying them with arrows. Rav Judah nonetheless insisted that all these incriminating acts might have been motivated by fear of reprisal, and should not be regarded as proof of real sympathy for the brigands.

In the end, even Rav Judah conceded that he must draw the line at cases where the women chose to remain with their captors after they had been rescued.

Another Talmudic authority went so far as to give the benefit of the doubt to a woman who gave explicit instructions to leave her captor alone, and declared that she would have voluntarily paid for his attentions. After all, argued the rabbi, the unfortunate lady was not in control of her emotions at the time. 

As with many peculiar Talmudic discussions, it is difficult to decide how much of it is purely academic, and how much reflects actual events.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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And May the Best Man Win

by Eliezer Segal

The beginnings of married life can be a very expensive proposition. The furnishing of the new household and the wedding celebration can place formidable pressures on the budgets of the couple and their families. Among the various instruments that society has evolved to soften the blow is the widespread practice of bestowing gifts upon the bride and groom.

In western secular and Christian society, the obligation to bring gifts to a wedding is treated more as a matter of social etiquette than as a formal requirement. Questions about returning presents after a failed engagement or cancelled wedding are more likely to be dealt with in newspaper advice columns than in the courts. In Talmudic sources, on the other hand, the practice is treated as a full-fledged legal responsibility.

In this connection, ancient Jewish tradition assigned a special role to the groom’s confidant, who is designated to by the Hebrew word “shoshbin,” a word of apparent Akkadian origin which often appears in Aramaic in the sense of “a close friend.” In many respects, the shoshbin’s role bears a close resemblance to that of the “Best Man” at gentile weddings, a close companion of the groom who is expected to provide assistance and moral support 

Underlying to the institution of the shoshbin is a sort of mutual pact between young men of a similar age to assist one another at their respective weddings. 

The practice is described succinctly by Maimonides: “It is the prevailing custom in all lands that when a man gets married, his comrades and acquaintances send him money in order to help him defray the expenses connected to the marriage. Those same friends and acquaintances who sent him the gifts are then entitled to come eat and drink with the groom during the week of the wedding festivities…Those who sent the money or gifts are referred to as shoshbins.” 

As with the contemporary Best Man, the choice of a shoshbin was an indication of the most profound friendship, so much so that some rabbis in the Mishnah declared that a person who had served in that capacity was disqualified to testify in court about matters involving the groom.

We have seen that in accepting the honour of being a shoshbin, a person is also assuming a financial obligation, since the Best Man was expected to confer generous gifts upon the groom. In the short term, some of the expense could be written off against the pleasures of being invited to wine and dine at the wedding festivities. However, it was of greater significance that the shoshbin could count on recouping his capital more completely on the occasion of his own marriage. 

The Mishnah rules that the obligation to repay the wedding presents is enforcable by law. If the favour were not returned when the Best Man himself got married, he was entitled to sue for the original costs. Jewish law therefore had to adjudicate cases in which the weddings of the two comrades were of unequal cost; and the rabbis discussed whether the obligation to recompense the wedding presents could be inherited if the original shoshbin died before ever collecting it. 

Although halakhic texts tend to focus on the legal entanglements that arise from the office, it is clear that there was a meaningful moral dimension to the honour as well, and hence the selection of a shoshbin was not to be made lightly. Rav Pappa advised that, though it might be appropriate for a man to choose a bride who was his social inferior, he should strive to choose a shoshbin who is of a higher station. Indeed, the bride was also expected to have her own shoshbin to support and attend her through the wedding.

Some sources suggest that the shoshbin was deemed to be a kind of protector or godparent of the marriage, who played an ongoing role in soothing frictions between the couple. This assumption underlies many midrashic depictions of the covenant between God and the people of Israel, which is often portrayed as a marriage, albeit an occasionally stormy one. 

In this setting, the task of the shoshbin was performed by no less a figure than Moses, who even in his last days devoted his energies to upholding the fragile relationship between Israel and the Creator: 

…It was analogous to the case of a king who had take a wife, and she had a shoshbin. Whenever the king would lose his temper, the shoshbin would calm him down and restore harmony between the king and queen. When the shoshbin was approaching his death, he began to beseech the king, saying: I beg of you, take care for your wife…

In acting as Israel’s figurative Best Man, Moses was following a most distinguished precedent. The Biblical account of the creation of the first woman states that the Almighty himself “brought her to the man”; from which the Talmud deduces that “the Holy One Blessed Be He acted as shoshbin for the first man. From this we may infer that it is proper for a more distinguished person to act as shoshbin for a lesser one without feeling slighted.”

Indeed, the awareness of such an illustrious exemplar gives powerful new meaning to the expression “Best Man.”

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press,February 25 1999, p. B6.
• For further reading: 
  • Friedman, M. A. (1980). Jewish marriage in Palestine : a Cairo geniza study. Tel-Aviv, Tel-Aviv University Chaim Rosenberg School of Jewish Studies.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Troubles at Court

by Eliezer Segal

The story might well have been lifted from the pages of “Ivanhoe,” if not from the Book of Esther itself.

Somewhere in France during the eleventh century, a Jewish woman was invited to go riding in the entourage of the local aristocracy. Presumably, such invitations were very rare, and it would have been a pity to forego such a festive occasion. Perhaps a refusal would even have been perceived as a rude insult to her blue-blooded hosts. 

The problem was, that the outing was scheduled for the eleventh of Adar. While this is not, strictly speaking, a Jewish holiday, such were the vicissitudes of the calendar that year that the eleventh of Adar was observed as the Fast of Esther.

Normally the fast is kept on the thirteenth of the month, immediately preceding Purim. That year, however, Purim fell on Sunday, and since it was not feasible to fast on the sabbath, the fast had to be moved to a different day. Friday (the twelfth) was considered inconvenient because it would interfere with Shabbat preparations. Therefore, the tradition had been established, under such infrequent circumstances, of observing the Fast of Esther on the Thursday preceding Purim, the eleventh of Adar.

So what to do about the invitation to the riding party, whose physical exertions would require some prior nourishment?

The case was brought before Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, renowned as “Rashi,” the leading halakhic authority of the day. On the surface, the religious obstacle did not appear overwhelming. It was not, after all, the real day of the fast, only a substitute. And the lady was not planning to avoid fasting altogether; she was merely asking whether she could postpone it to the next day.

Rashi’s answer, however, was a flat refusal. The day, even in its transplanted date, was to be treated as a full-fledged statutory fast that could not be trifled with.

In issuing his ruling, the distinguished rabbi himself called attention to the questionable status of the Fast of Esther. It is mentioned neither in the Bible nor in the classical works of the Jewish oral tradition. It is a custom whose only known roots are in popular practice. However for Rashi, as for most French and German halakhic authorities, popular customs were an incontestable foundation of Judaism.

Did we say that the fast has no source in the Bible? But does’t the book of Esther relate how the Jews of the Persian empire fasted before the heroine approached Ahasuerus unannounced? Rashi argues that that fast had nothing to do with the one that we currently observe on the day before Purim. The Biblical fast lasted three days, and took place in the month of Nissan, during Passover.

Rashi was aware that some commentators had tried to anchor the custom in the words of Esther 9:13, where Esther issued a decree concerning “the matters of the fastings and their cry.” He refuted that proof-text. The verse plainly means that the annual holiday of Purim commemorates the tribulations and fastings of the ancient Persian Jews, not that Jews are to continue to fast every year. Otherwise, to be consistent, we would have to also “cry” on Purim, which is very obviously not done.

In light of the strong case that Rashi made for the non-Biblical and non-Talmudic status of the Fast of Esther, we might well ask why he was so intransigent about accommodating the lady’s innocuous request.

His answer is a simple one: Communal solidarity. It is unacceptable for individuals to maintain separate practices or to withdraw from the observances of the larger community. This is a fundamental axiom that governs much of classical Jewish law, especially in medieval Europe.

Rashi’s criticisms were not limited to those who tried to omit or reschedule established practice. He also censured individuals who, out of excessive piety, insisted on observing a second fast day on the Friday, in order to place it closer to Purim. This practice overstated the importance of the fast of Esther by elevating it to Biblical status, and hence was equally unacceptable.

It is clear that Rashi’s argumentation falls within the standard parameters of halakhic discourse, as he bases his position on the relevant Biblical and Talmudic sources and legal principles, without relating to the specific personalities or historical circumstances involved in the case.

I am nevertheless tempted to speculate whether there might have been additional motives behind his attempt to prevent the lady from socializing with royalty. The story of Queen Esther notwithstanding, the blurring of accepted social and religious barriers could sometimes lead to unfortunate results.

A notorious instance occurred a century later, and not very far from Rashi’s home. In the northern French community of Blois, a Jewish woman named Polcelina became a frequenter of the court of Count Theobald, a connection that eventually developed romantic overtones. For as long as Polcelina was able to maintain her favoured status among the nobility, she became accustomed to lording it over her fellow-Jews, who realized their growing dependence on her political influence.

Eventually, however, the Count’s affection for Polcelina began to diminish. She was taken prisoner at the behest of her political rivals, strictly forbidden to communicate with Count Theobald, for fear that her charms might again allow her to return to favour. Her fall from grace was initially welcomed by many members of the Jewish community, where her overbearing ways had succeeded in arousing considerable resentment.

Matters took a tragic turn in the spring of 1171, when a Christian servant, aware of his master’s current distaste for the former object of his affections, incensed perhaps by the vilification of the Jews that was a stock ingredient of the seasonal preaching, and provoked by the fact that that his horse had recently been frightened by a Jew, seized the opportunity to spread a baseless charge of ritual murder against the Jewish community of Blois.

The results were catastrophic. The irate count, deaf to the bribes that usually succeeded in averting such incidents, had more than thirty Jews burned on May 26 1171. It was Rashi’s own grandson, Rabbi Jacob Tam, who issued an enactment declaring the twentieth of Sivan as an annual fast day for the Jewish communities of France and the Rhineland. “It is fitting,”he wrote, ” that this date should be established as a day of fasting for all our people, more important even than the Fast of Gedaliah son of Ahikam, for it is a true day of atonement.”

It is tempting to imagine that, in setting up halakhic obstructions to a Jewish woman’s socializing with the French nobility, Rashi had anticipated a calamity just like the one that would be precipitated by Polcelina of Blois.

At any rate, the story does serve to teach us that it is not always a welcome development when a Jewish women attracts the heart of a gentile ruler. Although it can be the occasion for the festive celebration of Purim, it might also lead to fasting and lamentation.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, February 25 1999, pp. 12, 14.
• For further reading: 
  • Chazan, R. (1973). Medieval Jewry in Northern France : a social and political history. Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press.
  • Chazan, R. (1973). “The Blois Indicent of 1171: A Study in Jewish Intercommunal Organization”. Proceedings of the American Academt for Jewish Research 36 (1968), 13-31.
  • Solomon ben Isaac, c. R., I. Elfenbein, et al. (1943). Teshuvot RaSHI. New-York.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Prophets, Protests and Pepper-Spray

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: Vancouver, November 1997: The Canadian Government was accused of employing excessive violence to stifle protesters at the Asia Pacific Economic Summit in Vancouver. In order to avoid a diplomatic embarrassment to the Canadian government, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were authorized to spray pepper-spray in the eyes of protesters demonstrating against Indonesian tyrant Suharto who attended the conference.

The city was being honoured by a delegation of distinguished visitors. However, not all the citizens were enthusiastic in welcoming the guests. Led on by their impassioned youth, the townspeople crowded together in a mob in front of the place where the visitors were lodging. The throng was becoming more and more unruly. 

The host tried to defend his charges, arguing to the crowd that such behaviour would violate civilized standards of hospitality; but the demonstrators responded with insults and indignation. Before long the mood became even uglier, and the horde began to press against the entrance threatening the guests with violence and molestation.

At this point the imperiled visitors could be protected only be quick action. In a moment, the disorderly mob was stricken with temporary blindness, rendering them unable to reach the entrance. In this way disaster was averted. 

Such was the story narrated in the book of Genesis about the two angelic beings who visited Abraham’s nephew Lot in the depraved city of Sodom. When the crowd tried to break down the doors to do harm to Lot’s guests they were afflicted with a sudden and mysterious blindness.

The Bible does not provide us with a detail description of this supernatural marvel, which is expressed through a very rare Hebrew word: “sanverim.” Most of the traditional commentators translate the passage as I did above, as denoting a state of temporary, but complete, loss of eyesight. 

Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra adds that the plague may also have included “blindness of the heart”; i.e., a loss of mental faculties. Rashi characterizes the affliction as “when one can see but does not realize what it is that one is seeing.” As a later exegete observed, Rashi’s interpretation is supported by the fact that that the mob were unable to find their bearings even by means of their sense of touch.

Modern research has called our attention to the affinity between “sanverim” and the Akkadian word “shunwurum” that has the meaning “having extraordinary brightness”; this suggests that the assailants were suddenly blinded by a dazzling light.

Nevertheless, I would not entirely rule out the possibility that archeologists excavating the remains of Sodom might unearth the remains of some very ancient pepper spray.

The rare word “sanverim” appears in only one other place in the Bible, in a story about that master miracle-worker Elisha the prophet.

In the exploit related in the Book of Kings, the king of Syria had been informed that Elisha was somehow using his prophetic abilities to tap into his most clandestine military plans. The king was assured by his advisors that Elisha presented such a formidable security threat that he could, if he wanted, “tell the king of Israel the words that thou speakest in thy bedchambre.” Upon hearing this, the Syrian ruler sent a military force to capture this dangerous intelligence agent. By nightfall, well-armed troops were surrounding Elisha’s village.

When the predicament became apparent, Elisha’s servant was understandably distressed. The prophet, however, remained inexplicably unperturbed. Just like Lot’s guests, Elisha was being approached by a throng with the most hostile of intentions.

And indeed, like the angels in Sodom, Elisha called upon the Almighty to smite the entire enemy army with sanverim. In their helpless state, it was a simple matter to lead the Syrian soldiers to the Israelite capital in Samaria where they were now at the mercy of the Israelite king.

This stratagem of inducing temporary blindness seemed so effective that the rabbis of the midrash were wont to introduce it into several stories where the Bible did not mention it. For example, a suspenseful midrashic legend had it that Moses was put on trial by Pharaoh for killing the Egyptian taskmaster, and was actually at the stage of execution when one of those opportunely ubiquitous angels arrived to inflict blindness upon Pharaoh’s retinue.

Another Jewish legend, speaking of events during the time of the Biblical Book of Judges, relates that Kenaz, father of Othniel, ventured alone against a host of Amorite foes. Kenaz’s heroism and military prowess were supplemented by assistance from the angel Gabriel who showed up conveniently to strike the Amorites blind, so that they would begin massacring their own comrades and leave the Israelites in peace. 

A similar tradition about the same era tells how the wicked judge Jair attempted to compel seven righteous men to worship Baal. When Jair’s servants were about to have the men burned alive for blaspheming their idol, the Almighty sent down an angel to extinguish the flames, and to strike all those present with sudden blindness, so that the good guys could make an easy escape.

From all these stories we may deduce that the inflicting of sudden blindness can be a most effective means to control hostile crowds and armies.

This is information that might someday prove useful to our government or to the RCMP.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press,March 11 1999, p. 12.
• For further reading: 
  • Ginzberg, Louis. 1909-39. The Legends of the Jews. Translated by H. Szold. 7 vols. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America.
  • Speiser, E. A. 1964. Genesis. Edited by W. F. Albright and D. N. Freedman, The Anchor Bible. Garden City: Doubleday.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Back to Egypt

by Eliezer Segal

I have been told that Egypt has now become a popular destination for Jewish Passover tourism. In the present political circumstances, that fashion might be seen as foolhardy or ironic. However previous generations of Jews found such a situation problematic primarily because of the explicit Biblical prohibitions against returning to that land that was infamous for its idolatrous immorality.

It is nonetheless an undeniable fact that since the days of Moses, Jews have found themselves dwelling in Egypt for a variety of reasons. Thanks to the ancient papyri scattered in the silt of the Nile and the medieval fragments of Cairo Genizah, we probably possess more complete and continuous documentation of Egyptian Jewry than of any other branch of the tribe. 

Among our earliest records is that extraordinary archive of Aramaic documents from fifth century B.C.E. unearthed on the island of Elephantine, near Aswan. On that strategic site overseeing traffic and commerce along the Nile, a garrison of Jewish mercenaries was stationed by the Persian colonial government. 

Historians are in disagreement about when the military outpost was first established. Some date it as far back as the reign of king Manasseh of Judah in the seventh century B.C.E.. It is likely that the community’s population was augmented by a wave of refugees fleeing the Babylonian conquest of Judea in 587.

The puzzle of colony’s origins is complicated by a remarkable letter that was preserved, albeit in fragmentary form, in the Elephantine archive. This letter was sent by an individual named Hananiah, apparently from Jerusalem, in “the fifth year of king Darius” (419 B.C.E.).

The tattered letter, invoking the authority of the Persian imperial authorities, informs the addressees, “Jedaniah and his colleagues, “that they are to keep the festival of Passover on the fourteenth day of Nisan. From the fifteenth until the twenty-first of that month they are to keep the Festival of Unleavened Bread, avoiding work on the first and last days of the holiday, and studiously avoiding the consumption of any leavened products during that period. During those days, any hametz that remains in their possession is to be sealed off in a room.

Historians have been perplexed by the utter obviousness of the message. Is it conceivable that a Jewish community should have to be officially informed, under governmental auspices, of basic rules of Passover that are set out so clearly in the Torah?

The various attempts to explain this difficulty have generated diverse speculations about its historical context.

Some scholars have indeed drawn the conclusion that the Elephantine Jews had not previously been observing Passover, or at least not in the manner prescribed in the letter.

Several historians have argued that the directive was designed to lay down a uniform date for Passover, in contrast to the diverse practices that existed previously. Perhaps (they suggest) the colonists had hitherto been following an early form of Hebrew religion, according to which the date of Passover was determined by agricultural stages rather than by a date on the calendar. Other scholars speculate that some of the soldiers had been observing Passover according to the Northern Israelite date, which was a month later than that of their Judean cousins.

It is tempting to identify the letter’s sender, Hananiah, with his biblical namesake, a relative of Nehemiah who was active in the political affairs of the restored Jerusalem, and may have been appointed Nehemiah’s successor. Just as Ezra and Nehemiah had worked hard to impose the authority of the Torah upon the Jewish populations of Jerusalem and the Babylonian diaspora, it is possible that Hananiah was now extending that process to Egyptian Jewry. In fact, it is possible that the main thrust of the letter was to assure the soldiers that they had the full support and encouragement of the Persian government in their observance of the festival.

One topic that seems to have been delicately avoided in the letter was the matter of the paschal offering. According to the normative Jewish policy, which is emphasized most strongly in the book of Deuteronomy, no sacrifices are to be offered outside the Temple in Jerusalem. However, we know that the colonists at Elephantine maintained their own sacrificial temple. This has been taken by some as evidence that the colony was founded before King Josiah adopted the religious reforms that abolished all sacrificial worship outside of Jerusalem.

Though we would expect the Jerusalem leadership to state their condemnation of the illicit sanctuary, Hananiah’s letter does not seem to deal at all with that touchy issue, other than by omitting any explicit mention of it. The fragmentary character of the evidence does not permit us to draw firm conclusions on this matter.

At any rate, the matter became moot a few years later, when the Temple at Elephantine was destroyed in a native uprising that took place in 410. 

Even after the rebellion was suppressed, order restored, and the perpetrators punished, the Persian authorities were reluctant to authorize the Elephantine temple’s rebuilding; and requests for support from the Jerusalem leadership were never answered. In the end, the governor consented to replace the sanctuary only if animal offerings would be forsaken.

The issue that kindled the anger of the Egyptian rebels was more religious than political. In fact it was a problem that goes back to the roots of the Passover story, to the days of Jacob and Joseph. 

Already then, the Israelites were careful not to advertise that they were shepherds because this was considered an offense to the Egyptians. A venerable midrashic tradition makes use of this premise to explain why a lamb was chosen for the Passover sacrifice: It was precisely because sheep were worshipped by the Egyptians; so that the Hebrews’ fearless preparation and slaughtering of that animal in full view of their pagan neighbours would be the ultimate display of their newfound spirit of liberty. 

This was precisely the situation in the days of the Elephantine sanctuary. Many Egyptians at that time were devoted to the worship of Khnum the ram-god. Hence, in their eyes the Jewish sacrifices of lambs, on Passover and on other occasions, would have been viewed as an offensive blasphemy, provoking the violent attack that put an end to the Jewish sacrificial cult at Elephantine.

Thus, in true Passover spirit, this colony of Jews who had returned to the soil of Egypt, found themselves reliving the very same conflicts that their forefathers had experienced in the days of the original exodus.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, March 30 1999, pp. 22-23.
• For further reading: 
  • Ginzberg, Louis. 1909-39. The Legends of the Jews. Translated by H. Szold. 7 vols. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America.
  • Modrzejewski, J. (1997). The Jews of Egypt : from Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian. Princeton, Princeton University Press.
  • Porten, B. and Archives from Elephantine Archives from Elephantine : the life of an ancient Jewish military colony. Berkeley.
  • Porten, B. (1990). “The calendar of Aramaic texts from Achaemenid and Ptolemaic Egypt.”Irano-Judaica 2: 13-32.
  • Raphael, C. (1972). A feast of history : the drama of Passover through the ages. London.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Counting the Days

by Eliezer Segal

The Torah does not stress the connection between the beginning of the ‘Omer counting and the commemoration of the Exodus on Passover. Nor does it identify Shavu’ot, at the conclusion of the ‘Omer count, as the anniversary of the revelation of the Torah at Sinai. It was the Jewish oral tradition that interpreted the counting as extending from the second day of Passover until the sixth of Sivan, thereby spanning those two momentous historical milestones. 

Nevertheless, the sages of the Talmud and Midrash interpreted the ‘Omer-related rituals in their original Biblical sense as expressions of thanksgiving for the grain harvest, and as preconditions for consumption of the new crop

It was left largely to the medieval rabbis to redefine the ‘Omer count in a manner appropriate to its historical associations.

A simple, but classic, explanation in that spirit was offered by Maimonides. In his Guide of the Perplexed, he writes that the obligation to count the days from Passover to Shavu’ot teaches us that the liberation from Egyptian slavery acquires full spiritual significance only if it is perceived as a prelude to the giving of the divine law of the Torah. Thus, Shavu’ot is clearly the most important of the festivals, and we accordingly count the days until its arrival “just as one who is expecting his most intimate friend on a certain day counts the days and even the hours.”

The rationalist Maimonides thus remains true to form in his subordination of political liberty to the spiritual and moral enlightenment that is embodied in the Torah. His explanation seems to utterly ignore the more concrete, agricultural components of the Biblical command, both the waving of the barley sheaf at the start of the count, and the offering of wheaten loaves at its conclusion, though some other interpreters note that spiritual purification can be likened to separating grain from chaff.

Several commentators preferred to express the Israelites’ feelings of anticipation through parables and symbols. The influential fourteenth-century Spanish liturgical authority Rabbi David Abudraham cited an otherwise unknown midrash comparing the Hebrews’ situation to that of “a person who was incarcerated in a prison, who cried out to the king to set him free and give him his daughter in marriage. He continued to count until the awaited time.” Though the situation is patently contrived, the sheer chutzpah of the prisoner’s demands aptly expresses the polar contrast between the dire predicament from which the Hebrews had been rescued, and the exalted state to which they were aspiring. 

The mystical imagination of the medieval Kabbalistic masterpiece, the Zohar, built upon similar ideas in order to weave the counting theme into an intricate fabric of symbols. 

The author alludes to another instance where the Torah speaks of an obligation to count days, namely in measuring the period of impurity before a woman is permitted to resume relations with her husband. This, declares the Zohar, is an appropriate metaphor for the state of the ancient Hebrews, who had been immersed for centuries in the absolute depravity of Egyptian heathenism, and were now required to undergo a severe process of purification in order to ready themselves for their ultimate spiritual encounter with the Almighty at Mount Sinai. 

This bold erotic imagery is typical of the Kabbalistic portrayals of the divine-human encounter. The Shekhinah, God’s presence among the exiled Jewish people, is often personified as a princess who has become tragically separated from her royal lover.

In comparison with Maimonides’ interpretation, which has a decidedly theoretical and historical quality, as a declaration of religious priorities or as the reliving of a past event, the Zohar’s explanation expresses a vivid immediacy. For the Jewish mystic, we are not merely recalling an event from our collective past, but each of us is personally reliving the spiritual longing for our own Sinai experience.

The commentators we have cited do not raise the question of why, if its purpose is to express impatient anticipation, the counting does not take the form of a “count-down” of the number of days remaining until Shavu’ot. Indeed, the latter possibility would seem to be precluded by the fact that the Israelites were apparently not notified in advance on which day they would be receiving the Torah. 

This unusual fact is consistent with the Torah’s general reticence about the date and historical significance of Shavu’ot. An incisive interpretation of this puzzling phenomenon was offered by the famous Polish Jewish preacher Rabbi Solomon Ephraim Luntshitz (d. 1619) in his K’li Yaqar commentary to Leviticus 23:26, in a charming explanation of why Shavu’ot, uniquely among the annual festivals, is not assigned an identifiable date on the calendar. 

…This is so because the Torah must remain as new for each person every day as it was on that day when it was received from Mount Sinai. For the Lord chose not to define a specific date, since on each and every day of the year it should appear to us as if on that day we received it from Mount Sinai…

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free PressApril 29 1999, p. 16.
• For further reading: 
  • Leibowitz, N. (1982). Studies in Vayikra (Leviticus). Jerusalem, World Zionist Organization Dept. for Torah Education and Culture in the Diaspora.
  • Segal, E. (1992). “The Exegetical Craft of the Zohar: Towards and Appreciation.” AJS Review 17(1): 31-49.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Tennis, Anyone?

by Eliezer Segal

In sixteenth-century Italy, tennis was all the rage. In its tortuous wanderings since ancient times, the game had spread from Egypt, through the Middle East and medieval Spain, to the cloisters of French cathedrals. It was in Italy in 1555 that Antonio Scaino composed the first detailed treatise on the game, “Trattato del Giuoco della Palla,” carefully outlining its rules and regulations. 

The Jews of Italy, who were so deeply immersed in the culture and mores of the Renaissance, were no strangers to the game. This was especially true in the prosperous community of Mantua, whose Duke had extended a warm hand of hospitality to Jews, decreeing in 1545 that they should be “as free and secure in pursuing their business and professions in our City and Duchy as Christians.”

As is often the case, comfort and affluence can give rise to religious problems. And so it was that in 1560, the colourful and controversial Rabbi Moses ben Abraham Provencal had to respond to a halakhic query “whether or not it is permissible to play ball on sabbaths and festivals.”

Rabbi Moses’ responsum on the topic, in addition to its importance as a precedent for Jewish religious law, provides us with valuable glimpses into the daily life of Renaissance Jewish society.

The responsum deals with several variations of the game of tennis. In addition to a description of the familiar flat tennis racquet netted with gut and string, reference is made to scooped implements like those used in lacrosse or pelota; and to handball-like games in which no racquets were used at all.

In fact, this was not the earliest discussion of such games in rabbinic literature. The medieval Talmudic commentators had focused on the question of whether a ball qualifies as a vessel or utensil so as to allow its carrying on the sabbath or festivals. 

The Tosafot, reflecting the custom in France and Germany, noted that it was common to play pelota in public on festivals, showing that the use of a ball for play is a legitimate reason for considering it a utensil. 

From the Rabbu Provencal’s halakhic give-and-take we learn that special buildings and courts were constructed too house tennis clubs. The fact that those buildings had windows underlies the concern lest the balls bounce out from a private house into the public domain, thereby violating a sabbath prohibition.

In making his decision, Rabbi Provencal took into account the motivations for which the players were pursuing the activity. Differentiations were made between those who played for sport, for relaxation or friendship, and those who played for stakes.

The ensuing discussion reveals much interesting information about the diverse frameworks in which young Italian Jews could participate in amateur or professional sports, and the different arrangements that were devised to pay for the maintenance of the tennis courts. 

Though some clubs were supported through user fees paid by the players, others were run as gambling establishments, with the owners taking a percentage of the prize money. Rabbi Provencal lamented that this latter situation called into question the ethical permissibility of the game. Whereas earlier generations might have been satisfied with nickel-and-dime wagers to add a bit of spice to the competition, in his own days people were risking extravagant sums of money, eliminating its tennis’ right to present itself as an innocent diversion. 

The propensity to bet money on the match’s outcome controverted the religious prohibition against doing business on the day of rest. Rabbi Provencal’s responsum notes that clever sportsmen tried to circumvent the law by measuring their stakes in terms of commodities, especially food, rather than cash. However, the rabbi noted with misgivings that this legal subterfuge was patently disingenuous since the units were immediately afterwards translated into their cash values.

As if all this were not enough, the responsum went on to observe, with understandable consternation, that the matches were often scheduled to coincide with the delivery of the sermons in the synagogue!

In light of all the above, it is surprising to note that Rabbi Provencal does in the end decide that tennis playing can be allowed on Shabbat, provided that certain strict conditions are observed. 

In addition to the elimination of betting, he declared that racquets could not be used be used at Saturday games lest a player be tempted to mend a snapped string, which would be in violation of the sabbath. This stricture was not as radical as it strikes us today, since the use of racquets had at that time not yet become an inseparable part of tennis. 

And for God’s sake, urged the rabbi, don’t play tennis during the sermon.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, May 13 1999, p. 18.
• For further reading: 
  • Bonfil, R. (1990). Rabbis and Jewish communities in Renaissance Italy. Oxford [Oxfordshire] ; New York, Published for the Littman Library by Oxford University Press.
  • Henderson, R. W. (1935). “Moses Provençal on Tennis.” Jewish Quarterly Review` 26: 1-6.
  • Rivkind, I. (1930). “Teshuvat harav moshe provencialo ‘al mis-haq ha-kadur.” Tarbiz 4: 366-76.
  • Roth, C. (1965). The Jews in the Renaissance. New York, Harper & Row.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Going to the Ants

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: 1998-9. DreamWorks’ “Antz” and Disney-Pixar’s “A Bug’s Life,” two animated features about the insect world, are among the most popular films and video releases of the year.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.

Such was the exhortation of the wise King Solomon in the biblical book of Proverbs.

To judge from the shelves of the video shops, many of us have been following his advice, and have developed a sublime fascination with the personal lives of talking animated insects. The complex social structures of ants, gnats and beetles have fired up our imaginations, as we strive to visualize in human-like terms the workings of those miniature communities.

According to Jewish legend, Solomon himself mastered the ability of communicating with the beasts, to the extent that he appointed a special prince–appropriately, a lion– to oversee the animal kingdom.

A medieval Hebrew work, evidently translated from an Arabic original, relates how one day, while travelling about on his flying carpet, Solomon overheard an ant calling to its fellows to hide themselves lest they be trampled by the Israelite armies. The king landed and angrily ordered that the impudent speaker be brought before him. The bug in question, who was in reality none other than the queen of the ants, explained that she had made her announcement out of fear that her subjects, in their eagerness to catch a peek at Solomon’s hosts, be distracted from their more important duty of praising the Creator.

Impressed by her diplomacy, King Solomon asked the ant queen to answer a question for him. However, she refused to do so until he consented to pick her up in his hand and raise her to the level of his head. Only after he had done so was he allowed to pose the question “Is there anyone else in the world as great as I?”

The impertinent insect answered simply “Yes. I am.”

When called upon to explain herself, she reminded him who it was that was carrying whom. The proud king flew into a rage until the clever ant succeeded in humbling him with reminders of his frail mortality.

Notwithstanding his alleged encounter with the Ant queen, Solomon had praised the ants in Proverbs for conducting their complex society in spite of their “having no guide, overseer, or ruler.”

It was told of the second-century Rabbi Simeon ben Halafta, who had a reputation for seeking empirical verification of such claims, that he devised an experiment to examine the political regimes of ant-dom. According to the Talmud, Rabbi Simeon visited an ant-hole on a hot mid-summer day, when no self-respecting ant would show its face. He spread a cloak over the area, making it appear that it was night time. When the first ant emerged from the nest, Rabbi Simeon tagged it for subsequent identification. Mr. Ant then returned to the nest to report to his fellows that it was safe to venture outside since it was now shady. When the ants started coming up en masse, the rabbi removed the cloak, exposing them all to intolerable sunlight. So angry where they at the hapless scout that they fell upon him forthwith and lynched him.

From this instance of uncontrolled mob justice, Rabbi Simeon wished to deduce that ants do not have any ruler, confirming the statement in the Book of Proverbs. Other rabbis however found this proof less than convincing, since the evidence could be explained according to alternative hypotheses: perhaps, some suggested, the king might have been present in the mob; or there might have been a standing royal protocol for dealing with such cases; alternatively, the incident might have occurred during a temporary interregnum.

Some of the rabbis claimed intimate familiarity with the personal conversations of insects. Thus, Rav Pappa once cited a popular adage about how Mrs. Gnat held a grudge against her spouse for seven years, after he had taken a juicy bite from one of the plump citizens of Mahoza who had just come out from bathing–but had not invited her to the feast! 

This domestic tragedy (which lends new meaning to the expression “seven-year itch”) was also cited as evidence in a rabbinic scientific dispute, since it appeared to contradict the generally held hypothesis that a gnat’s life-span is only one day. The proof was ultimately rejected by the sages, since the story might have been speaking in “gnat years.”

All in all, these Talmudic vignettes about the inner workings of the insect kingdom are both instructive and entertaining. I hope that some of my enterprising readers, who are assuredly no sluggards, will appreciate their potential, and turn them into animated movies before Disney or DreamWorks beat them to the box office.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free PressMay 27 1999, p. 10.
• For further reading: 
  • Ginzberg, L. and B. Cohen (1968). The Legends of the Jews. Philadelphia, Jewish Publication Society of America.
  • Jellinek, A. (1967). Ma’aseh bi-Shelomoh ha-Melekh. Beit ha-Midrash. A. Jellinek. Jerusalem, Wahrmann. 2: 86-7.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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