Keeping the Ball in Play

by Eliezer Segal

Analogies taken from the world of ball-playing are in frequent use in our society, whether they are being employed to describe aggressive business campaigns or romantic conquests. So widespread was ball-playing during the talmudic era that the Jewish sages could not avoid the use of such imagery. 

In his philosophical and moralistic writings, the ancient Roman philosopher Seneca made skillful symbolic use of ball-playing analogies. He found them especially appropriate for illustrating the most effective forms of charitable giving. 

By means of the example of the ball-game, Seneca was able to demonstrate that the donors must not only give according to their means and abilities, like skilful pitchers, but they must also bear in mind what the recipient is capable of receiving: Like a good game of catch, successful philanthropy depends of careful coordination of the strengths, weaknesses and individual qualities of each of the players. 

In various passages in his writings, Seneca extended this metaphor in order to elucidate such topics as the most gracious way to return a favor, how to judge the quality of good givers who are prevented by external circumstances from carrying out their philanthropy, and so forth.

Characteristically, they were most concerned with illustrating values related to the study and observance of the Torah.

“The words of the wise are like goads,” taught the wise Ecclesiastes (12;11). The Hebrew word that is translated into English as “like goads” is kedorbonot, and to the astute ears of the rabbinic preachers this suggested a word-play on the expression of kadur banot, a girls’ ball. 

This verbal association inspired the rabbis of the Midrash to examine the parallels between a ball game and the transmission of the Jewish oral tradition, from its first revelation at Mount Sinai to Moses, down to their own times in the first and second centuries of the Common Era.

…It is just like a ball among the girls. Just as the ball is caught as it passes from hand to hand, and it eventually comes to rest in one hand–even so did Moses receive the Torah at Sinai, and hand it to Joshua, and Joshua to the elders, and the elders to the prophets, and the prophets to the men of the Great Assembly.

The ball-game that is described here is one that seems to involve no throwing, but merely handing the ball from one person to the other. Just as this description does not seem to fit most of the ball games that are played today, it contradicts the information we possess about ball-playing in the ancient world.

The most popular forms of ball games among the Greeks and Romans were variations on “pitch and catch.” The players would toss the ball back and forth, trying to keep it continually aloft.

When compared with these familiar games of throwing and catching, the rabbinic parable that we cited above is striking in its exclusive focus on the perspective of the receiver, rather than of the passer. 

If we focus upon the metaphoric use of this image, we can evidently deduce that the midrashic author held that the most crucial role in Torah scholarship is played by the learner, the recipient of the tradition. The transmission itself is depicted as a very cautious and painstaking passing from hand to hand, in which more daring long-range passes are assiduously avoided.

A subtle change in the phraseology may be discerned in a different midrashic collection:

…Said Rabbi Berakhiah: It is just like a girls’ ball, like this sphaira [the Greek word for “ball”] of young girls, which they toss about. One of them throws it here, and another one throws it here. 

In this way, the sages enter the house of study and occupy themselves with Torah. One proposes his interpretation, and the other proposes his interpretation… 

In Rabbi Berakhiah’s version of the metaphor, good throwing is the key to a successful ball game. The role of the sages is not limited to passively accepting the teachings of previous generations, but rather it involves acts of creative originality, as they continue to enrich the tradition with their novel interpretations. 

Another crucial variation on the parable is found in yet a third midrashic source: 

…It is just like a ball among the girls. Just as the ball is rolled from hand to hand and never falls to the ground, so “not one thing has failed [literally: fallen] of all the good things which the Lord your God spoke” (Joshua 23:14).

The Biblical proof-text, cited from Joshua’s charge to the people upon entering the Promised Land, places its emphasis neither on the creating of the tradition nor on receiving it, but on the importance of keeping it “in the air.” This implies that the oral Torah, by its essential nature, can endure only as long as each living generation conscientiously passes it to its successors. Any fumbling of that transmission will cause an irretrievable loss.

This version expresses a similar attitude to the one we encountered in Seneca’s allegory about the process of philanthropical giving. Both sources agree that a ball-game should not be equated with one particular player, but represents the totality of all of their contributions. 

Aside from reflecting more accurately the goals of actual ball playing, our midrashic author has made astute use of the sports imagery in order to call for a concerted team effort, as the best strategy for perpetuating the Jewish religious heritage.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, May 17, 2001, p. 6.
• For further reading:
  • Krauss, S., 1910-2, Talmudische Archaeologie, Leipzig
  • Schwartz, Joshua, 1995, “Ball Play in Jewish Society in the Second Temple, Mishnah and Talmud Periods,” Zion 60 (3):247-76

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Baldness, Bears and Bottled Water

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: May 2000. Pollution in the water-supply of Walkerton, Ontario, leads to the spread of the e-coli bacteria, resulting in widespread illness, and several deaths. One year later, in April-May 2001, residents of North Battleford Saskatchewan discover that their water supply is infected with the deadly cryptosporidium parasite contained in their water supply.

In so many ways, the world seemed a simpler place back when I was an undergraduate. The Good Guys and the Bad Guys were much easier to recognize, and it was not just a matter of the colours of their respective yarmulkes. 

Take, for example, the environmental movement. In one corner we had the idealistic Common Folk struggling to keep their lakes and rivers clean. Opposite them were the nefarious forces of Big Business, ruthlessly lacking all ideals or responsibility, and willing to pour endless barrels of industrial waste into our air and water for the sake of a few pennies more profit.

In recent times, the contrasts have become much harder to distinguish. There is hardly a major corporation that is not insisting that its products are the most easily recyclable and the friendliest to the environment. Where it was once considered fashionable to avoid the polluted liquids that flow from our faucets in favour of bottled spring-water, it is now becoming evident that much of that bottled water is no purer than the kitchen-sink variety.

In Israel, where each year’s economic fortunes are bound tightly to the levels of its rainfall, urgent cries are heard seasonally to hurry up and invest in alternative water sources before the next major drought. In response, we are assured that this is no more than an artificial panic that is spearheaded by Big Business interests who stand to profit greatly from the subsidized construction of huge and inefficient desalination plants. 

In Canada, our news reports are increasingly filled with accounts of communities being poisoned or infected by their local drinking water.

All of this environmental confusion comes to mind when we look at an odd midrashic passage in the Talmud. It involves the prophet Elisha, one of the more enigmatic and vexatious of Biblical heroes. 

As related in the Book of Kings, the first mission to which Elishah was summoned after the departure of his mentor, Elijah, was to solve a water shortage that was plaguing Jericho at the time. In his typically inscrutable fashion, the prophet ended the crisis by pouring salt into the local spring. This unorthodox procedure achieved excellent results.

At this point, we should have expected the local citizenry to be overflowing with gratitude for their benefactor. While this might have been the attitude of the general adult population, it did not extend to the local children, who were more concerned with taunting the prophet about his bald head. 

Unfortunately, Elishah was not the sort of person whom you should antagonize in this way. As the Bible goes on to recount, “he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And there came forth two she-bears out of the wood, and tore forty-two children of them.”

Now, this was obviously an overreaction to a few juvenile insults. Predictably, the rabbis of the Midrash tried to interpret the story in a way that was more religiously and morally palatable. 

They approached this task in a variety of ways. Some of them, for example, shifted the blame onto the adults who had rudely allowed their distinguished guest to leave town without an appropriate escort. Others proposed more creative ways of reading the Hebrew text, and derived from it that Elisha’s taunters were not children at all, but wicked and faithless adult delinquents, people with unsavoury backgrounds who were guilty of an assortment of heinous sins. 

As to their making fun of his baldness, this detail was also understood by the rabbis in unexpected ways. According to some of Talmudic sages, they were really jeering at Elisha and saying “Go away, because you have made this place ‘bald’ for us.” 

The background to this episode, as elucidated by Rashi, is that certain business interests were making a handsome profit from the environmental crisis. As long as the water shortage continued, there was a lucrative market for the bottled water that they were selling. By cleaning up the rivers, Elisha had dealt a serious blow to the interests of the Bottled Water lobby. This was what the Jericho Chambre of Commerce really had in mind when they picketed the prophet and accused him of destroying the mainstay of the local economy, leaving the town metaphorically “bald.”

I think the story has great cinematic potential. I envision agent Elisha played by Steven Seagal or Arnold Schwartzeneger, aided by his well-trained team of bear commandos, battling hired goons in the pay of the multinational bottled-water cartel.

Incidentally, this story became the basis for one of the most picturesque, but misused, expressions in modern Hebrew. 

In its efforts to magnify the miraculous dimensions of the Elisha’s exploits, one of the rabbis in the Talmud claimed that the prophet had done far more than cause the bears to emerge from the forest and gobble up their victims. In fact, according to this sage, prior to Elisha’s curse not only were there no bears in the vicinity, but there was not even a forest! Both elements were supernaturally conjured up specially for the occasion, a miracle within a miracle! Rashi tersely incorporates this idea into his commentary on the Biblical passage: “No bears and no forest.”

In modern Hebrew the expression “no bears and no forest” was misconstrued as if to imply that the whole episode never actually occurred. It is the most widely used way of expressing total denial, in a sense that is analogous to such English idioms as “No way José!”

This is precisely the kind of dismissive response that has often greeted the alarmists who voiced their concerns for the safety of our water supply. 

We can only hope that the problem has not yet reached a state where it can only be solved by a miracle. If some of our policy-makers have their way, we might see the day when there are not bears, no forest and no water.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, May 31, 2001, pp. 8-9.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Preparing for a Prophet

by Eliezer Segal

The prophet Elisha was an itinerant miracle-worker who wandered about the Galilee, seeking opportunities to assist those in need. One of the persons who benefited most from his acts of supernatural kindness was an anonymous woman from Shunem who offered hospitality to the prophet, and eventually persuaded her husband to build Elisha a room of his own in their small house. 

The Shunamite woman would later be rewarded for her kindness, as Elisha blessed her with a cure for her prolonged childlessness; and later succeeded in restoring her son to life after he had been given up for dead.

The rabbis of the Talmud displayed a surprising interest in the technical details related to building Elisha’s guest-room. A dispute arose between Rav and Samuel, two of the foremost Babylonian sages of the third century concerning the precise nature of the renovations that were introduced into the hosts’ humble home. 

One rabbi claimed that the project consisted of adding a wall to an existing hallway, thereby dividing it into two separate chambres. 

The other rabbi insisted that there had been a walled area on top of the house, to which the hosts added a roof, thereby providing Elisha with a sort of penthouse. 

If we take the trouble to read the biblical passage that they are expounding (2 Kings 4:10), then the dispute strikes us as most peculiar. After all, the Hebrew text is speaking quite clearly about the “attic of a wall,” and it is seem reasonable to assume that such a structure contained both walls and a roof! And yet the Talmud understands that the argument between the rabbis was polarized: Either Mr. Shunamite built only a wall, or only a roof. 

Even if we allow that the wording of the biblical verse is sufficiently ambiguous to tolerate either interpretation (after all, Hebrew employs similar roots to designate both a wall and a ceiling), it is still difficult to account for why the Talmud took such an intense interest in this particular issue. At the most, we seem to be dealing with an academic controversy over an obscure question of archeology. On other occasions, the rabbis were accustomed to dismiss such questions with the expression “What happened, happened!” implying that we should not be wasting our precious time on a matter that is of no practical relevance to us today. 

Rabbi Solomon Eidels, the “Maharsha” (16^th -17^th centuries) was willing to entertain the idea that the passage cried out for explanation. However, he objected to the Talmud’s assumption that the explanations ascribed to Rav and Samuel were mutually exclusive. What prevents us from assuming that in constructing Elisha’s guest-room, the Shunamite couple added a roof and a wall to the attic. 

In the end, Maharsha reasons that this kind of renovation could not work in your average attic, since once you have made allowances for the space occupied by the staircase, there would not remain enough area for two usable rooms. 

Nevertheless, the talmudic discussion still appeared too mundane and prosaic to satisfy some of the other traditional commentators. An objection along these lines was registered by Rabbi Jacob Ibn Habib, the sixteenth-century compiler of the ‘Ein Ya’akov, the definitive anthology of Aggadah (non-legal material) from the Talmud. 

In his commentary to the relevant passage, Rabbi Jacob lamented: “It would be useful to know what issue of principle underlay Rav and Samuel’s disagreement. For what practical difference could it make whether they added a roof to the attic, or whether there was a hallway? It is unacceptable to suppose that the rabbis were simply concerned with explaining the meanings of the words.”

For a commentator wannabe like myself, this comes across as a personal challenge to supply a symbolic interpretation of the dispute between Rav and Samuel. One possibility that suggests itself is that they might have been proposing alternative paradigms for the ideal of a “holy man.” The interpretation that focuses on the construction of a wall wishes to emphasize the “vertical” dimension of Elisha’s sanctity, thereby demonstrating that it was his relationship to his Creator that was his foremost priority. Conversely, the rabbi who accentuated the “horizontal” building of a roof was stating thereby that holiness has more to do with how the righteous prophet interacted with the society around him.

Rabbi Jacob Ibn Habib offered his own attempt at a scenario, one that has practical implications for the setting of ethical priorities. 

In his reading of the story, both of the rabbis concerned were in agreement that the fundamental objectives of the Shumanite woman and her husband was to provide Elisha with a modest habitation that would allow them to partake of proximity to the prophet’s holiness. 

Where the rabbis disagreed, however, was in determining at what stage the guest’s nearness starts to infringe on their privacy.

Viewed from this perspective, the rabbi who claimed that the Shunamites divided their own living space in order to provide living quarters for their visitor was, in reality, making a point about the importance of hospitality as a religious value. For the sake of a guest, one should be prepared to make substantial sacrifices; especially if, as a consequence, the hosts will be privileged to bask in the aura of a great saint.

On the other hand (argues Rabbi Ibn Habib), the rabbi who insisted that Elisha dwelled in an attic was striking a blow for privacy. Hospitality, he implies, is normally a fine virtue, but it must be weighed against other considerations. It should not be stretched to such extremes that it prevents the hosts and the guests from conducting their lives within acceptable bounds of modesty and discretion.

Esteemed readers, I trust you to derive your own edifying interpretation from the Bible story and its talmudic discussion. 

The important thing is to realize that, from a Jewish perspective, even the most humdrum of home renovation projects can serve as an opportunity for deriving moral and spiritual lessons.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, June 14, 2001, p. 10.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Taking Leave of Our Census

by Eliezer Segal

Last month I had the honour of participating in the latest Canadian census. Finding myself yet again among the minority who were invited to labour over the time-consuming “long form” with its tediously detailed questions, I could readily sympathize with the longstanding Jewish antipathy towards counting people.

That there is something wrong with conducting a census is clearly implied by the orders issued to Moses in Exodus 30:

When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel after their number, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto the Lord, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them…

In spite of the obscurities of the wording, the verse clearly assumes that counting the population could potentially result in a plague, unless something is done to “ransom” the vulnerable souls. The solution to the conundrum, as set out in the subsequent verses, is that rather than conducting a head count, each person should contribute a uniform sum–half a shekel–to the Tabernacle building fund. In this way, the census-takers would not have to actually count the people, but merely to total up the money and perform the appropriate calculations. The Torah also states that the shekels themselves, as donations to a sacred cause, serve as “atoning money” to avert the fearsome consequences of the census.

Subsequent episodes in the Bible serve to reinforce the feeling that head-counts can be injurious to our health. When King David ordered one, evidently for the purposes of assessing his military potential, the nation was visited by a plague that took seventy thousand lives. Some of the traditional Jewish commentators were at a loss to explain how the astute monarch could have disregarded the warnings that were set down so unmistakably in the Torah.

Other leaders of Israel took a more prudent approach to their census-taking. King Saul appears to have enumerated his people at Bezek, in preparation for his war against the Ammonites, and again at Telaim, prior to the campaign against Amalek. However, the rabbis translated the passages so that “bezek” meant “potsherd” and “telaim” meant “lambs,” referring to the objects that were counted in lieu of the actual people. 

Later, during the reign of King Joash, the High Priest Jehoiada recommended that the old method of shekel-counting be restored, though in that instance the campaign was motivated not so much by an interest in demographic statistics as by the need to raise funds for renovations in the Temple. The same procedure was followed by the returning Babylonian exiles who built the Second Temple.

Even in post-biblical times, the Talmud relates how the officials in the Jerusalem Temple, when they had to choose teams of volunteers for work assignments, took care to count raised fingers, rather than the actual priests.

The reluctance to count people is still in evidence in our synagogues in the diverse ways that have been devised to count available worshippers for a minyan. The preferred methods include assigning each person one word in a ten-word biblical verse; or the more picturesque practice of employing negative numbers: “not one, not two, not three…”

The Torah does not explain the reasons for its negative view of census-taking, and the traditional interpreters took differing views on the question. 

I have yet to find in our sources anything analogous to the attitudes of those stalwart French peasants who resisted their nation-state’s first attempts to conduct a national head-count, because of their deeply held belief in a citizen’s right to remain unknown to the rapacious government. 

This attitude is not entirely different from the one demonstrated by some recent arrivals from former Communist countries, whose past experiences still makes them reluctant to identify themselves as Jews in the Canadian census, for fear that the fact will be used against them in in a discriminatory manner.

Rashi believed that the census threatens to provoke the “evil eye,” that ubiquitous power of metaphysical envy that is aroused when people are too open about flaunting their good fortune. Perhaps this image can be read as a metaphoric warning that census data is likely to be utilized by the tax collectors.

Rabbi Obadiah Sforno reasoned that the periodic need to count populations is, after all, really a way of measuring the mortality rate. Since, from a theological perspective, death is occasioned by sin, the census should impel us to seek atonement.

Several Jewish commentators indicated that the census was antithetical to the ideal of national solidarity, and served to elevate the individual above the common good. Thus, Rabbi Bahya ben Asher argued that, by assigning to each person a separate number, the census prevents the individual from benefiting from the collective merits of the nation. This renders them more vulnerable to potential calamities. 

Rabbi Solomon Alkabetz derived a similar lesson from the Torah’s stipulation that each person contribute a half shekel, rather than a full one. This comes to underscore the incompleteness of the individual when removed from the group.

Based on my own experiences with impersonal bureaucracies, I would prefer to read the symbolism in the reverse direction, as a protest against the temptation to reduce people to mere numbers. By opposing census-taking, the Torah is upholding the sanctity of the individual against the inroads of oppressive collectivism.

This sentiment is not entirely without support in the talmudic sources. The rabbis stated in several places that true blessing cannot be found in things that are counted or measured. 

Furthermore, they drew a thematic connection between the ban on censuses and the assurances that were made to Abraham that his progeny would be multiplied like the dust of the earth, the sand on the shore and the stars in the heavens. 

In comparing the relevant scriptural verses in which this promise was formulated, the Jewish sages insisted that there is a crucial distinction to be made between cases when a total is merely too large to count, and where it is essentially uncountable. 

Accordingly, they concluded that the prospect of a huge numerical increase for the Jewish people constituted a relatively low order of blessing, one that does not require complete moral or spiritual perfection. 

However, the truest and most complete blessing in store for Abraham’s descendants, if they should be found truly deserving, is that they will be placed entirely outside the realm of quantification–as each individual soul is appreciated for its own infinite sanctity, and not as a digit in a statistical total.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, June 28, 2001, pp. 10-11.
• For further reading:
  • Nachshoni, Yehudah, 1988, Studies In The Weekly Parashah, translated by S. Himelstein, 5 vols, Vol. 2: Sh’mos, Mesorah, New York: ArtScroll.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Pushing Torah

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: July 2001. Canada became the world’s first country to regulate the use of marijuana, as legislation came into force which allows people with serious illnesses to possess marijuana.

The Canadian government’s recent decision to permit the medicinal use of marijuana brought to mind a jarring experience I had several months ago when, in the course of my daily routine of Talmud study, I stumbled across the following passage:

Rav instructed his son Hiyya: Do not take drugs.

My initial reaction was to presume that I had mistranslated the crucial term. However, a perusal of Rashi’s commentary confirmed my first reading. Rashi paraphrases Rav’s instruction as: “Don’t learn to take drugs, because they will become a habit, and eventually turn into an obsession, until you end up spending all your money on them.” 

Rabbenu Hananel of Kairowan explained the matter in a similar spirit: “Because your body will become habituated to them.”

Now I am not suggesting that Hiyya had a problem with narcotic addiction. Rav’s advice does not seem to be directed at substances that were inherently injurious or debilitating, and I am not aware of such substances being mentioned in the traditional sources. In fact, although the Talmud makes occasional reference to cannabis, it seems to know only of its usefulness for the manufacture of hemp. 

Rav’s concern was for excessive reliance on legitimate medications. The medieval halakhic authority Rabbi Menahem Ha-Me’iri placed Rav’s admonition within the context of other warnings against overindulgence in physical pleasures. Such worries are rooted in the fear that after being initiated into those delights, a person will eventually become unable to give them up. 

Rashi’s grandson Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) spelled out the practical implications of Rav’s statement: Even as part of medical treatment, one should try to avoid drugs if an alternative form a therapy is available.

An alternate interpretation proposed by Rashi formulates the issue in slightly different terms, citing a talmudic saying to the effect that most foods that are normally beneficial are likely to have harmful side-effects.

Indeed, the Jewish sages were well aware that medicine must be taken with caution, and that indiscriminate consumption of drugs might prove injurious or fatal. This premise formed the basis for some powerful symbolic interpretations in the Midrash.

For example, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi noted that in the well-known verse in Deuteronomy (4:44) “And this is the Torah which Moses set before the children of Israel,” the Hebrew verb that is translated as “set” is sam, a homonym of the noun denoting “drug.” This word-play becomes the basis for a bold analogy: “If the one who receives it is deserving, then the Torah becomes a life-giving medicine. If however the person is not deserving, then it becomes a poison [literally: “a drug of death”]. 

Rabbi Joshua’s homily may have originated in a polemical context, and might be aimed at Christians or other heretics who (from the rabbis’ perspective) had appropriated for themselves the text of Israel’s Torah, but had in reality perverted its spirit. Such people, the rabbi admonishes, will derive no benefit from the sacred scripture; on the contrary, it will be the source of their undoing.

It is also possible to interpret Rabbi Joshua ben Levi’s words as a denunciation of Jews who study the Torah without the proper religious intentions or motivations. Accordingly, he reminds his audience that even the holy Torah is not an unfailing panacea for every spiritual illness. Much depends on the condition of the patient. Just as people who swallow the wrong prescriptions may well end up forfeiting their lives, so too the study of Torah by those who do not have the adequate spiritual qualifications can lead to fatal consequences.

The same brand of imagery underlies the seemingly bizarre behaviour of a certain peddler in ancient Sephoris who used to circulate among the surrounding villages announcing “Whoever wants to buy a wonder-drug, come and get it!” 

When Rabbi Yannai tried to take him up on his offer, the seller assured him that the sage had no need for the product. 

Eventually, after he saw that Rabbi Yannai was not about to relent, the “pusher” reluctantly showed him his merchandise. He pulled out a volume of Psalms and began reciting the chapter that opens “What man is he that desireth life, and loveth many days, that he may see good? Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile.” 

Yes, the wonder-drug that this dealer was hawking was a moral virtue, the ability to guard one’s tongue and refrain from gossip or slander. 

Rabbi Loeb of Prague (the Maharal) expanded upon this theme, citing several rabbinic sources that equate human life with the uniquely human power of rational speech. It follows, therefore, that a person who desists from evil speech can be said to be in possession of a life-giving medicine. On the other hand, those who abuse that power by indulging in inappropriate talk are poisoning their spirit with dangerous drugs; as it says in the book of Proverbs “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” 

These metaphoric expositions of the phenomenon of drug use give novel meaning to Karl Marx’s assertion that “religion is the opiate of the people.”

Of course, the militant atheist had no idea how close his words came to capturing the rabbis’ profound insights into the power and perils of spiritual learning.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Atoning for Esau

by Eliezer Segal

In our days, Yom Kippur is observed primarily as a day of fasting and synagogue prayer. In ancient times, however, what defined this holy day was the sequence of unique rituals that were performed by the High Priest in the Jerusalem Temple.

Among these rituals, surely one of the most awe-inspiring was that of the scapegoat. The High Priest would set aside two goats, and then cast lots to determine their fates. One of them was assigned “to the Lord,” and sacrificed as a sin-offering. The other was designated “for Azazel.” The Kohen confessed the transgressions of the entire people as he pressed his hands on this goat’s head. Then the goat was sent away into the wilderness to perish, symbolically bearing with him the sins of Israel.

The sages of the Midrash examined every aspect of the scapegoat ritual in order to extract from it subtle lessons and symbols. One of their favourite methods was to seek out thematic comparisons with similar images elsewhere in the Bible.

Basing themselves on a halakhic stipulation that the two goats that were subjected to the lottery must be identical in their appearance, size and value, some of the rabbis drew an analogy to those prototypical twins, Jacob and Esau. The former, the progenitor and representative of the Jewish nation, was set aside “for the Lord,” whereas his demonic sibling, the symbolic ancestor of the wicked Roman Empire, was doomed to perish in a spiritual and eschatological wasteland. In the polarized universe of rabbinic preaching, Esau bore not only his own iniquities, but also those of Israel, who was thereby totally cleansed of all moral stains.

This kind of unrestrained vilification of Esau was standard fare in midrashic discourse, and reflected the frustrations felt by ancient Jews at the relentless triumphs of their evil conqueror. 

However, not all the rabbis were as willing to rejoice unconditionally at the downfall of their spiritual archenemy.

An extraordinary exposition of the scapegoat rite is found in a midrashic work known as Seder Eliahu Zuta, a work whose dates and place of composition remain uncertain.

Seder Eliahu‘s interpretation seems at first to be identical to the one that we have been describing so far. The midrash begins by developing the theme of how God will take away Jacob’s sins and load them all upon Esau.

But the story does not end there. 

In this version, Esau is permitted to plead his case before the Almighty: “Master of the universe, what strength do I possess, that you should heap upon me all of Jacob’s sins?”

At this point, God is persuaded by the reasonableness of Esau’s plea, and agrees to find a different destination for the unloading of Jacob’s sins. Ultimately, God takes Israel’s sins upon himself, causing the divine robes to be stained crimson. 

This, says the Seder Eliahu midrash, is the significance of Isaiah’s powerful prophecy “Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah?…Wherefore art thou red in thine apparel, and thy garments like him that treadeth in the wine-vat?”

Although Isaiah seems to be describing how God will exact bloody vengeance upon the despised Edom/Esau, our midrashic author has completely transformed the metaphor’s significance. In the new version, God is actually showing compassion to Esau by retracting his original plan to burden him with Israel’s sins, and consenting to bear them upon himself. 

In fact, the Seder Eliahu has added a new character to the allegorical drama. In addition to the two goats who symbolize Israel and Esau, we now have the third figure who ultimately assumes the sins of the other two. In order to fit this into the cast of biblical characters, the midrash attaches new importance to a figure who goes virtually unnoticed in the Torah’s account. 

According to the regulations set down in Leviticus 16:21, the scapegoat must be led into the wilderness “by the hand of a fit man.” This individual has no apparent function in the story other than the technical one of making sure that the goat exits the Temple and makes it to its final, fatal destination.

However, in the Seder Eliahu the role of this obscure character has undergone a major redefinition. From a minor supporting part barely more important than a stagehand, he has been elevated to a starring role, as the representative of the Almighty himself! From an exegetical perspective, this interpretation helps clarify the Torah’s enigmatic statement that the person who leads the scapegoat is required to wash his clothes after completing his mission . This makes sense if we presume that those clothes have been stained with the people’s iniquities. 

This midrashic shift in meaning would be remarkable if only for the uncharacteristic sympathy that it demonstrates towards the despised figure of Esau. However, from a theological perspective , it confronts us with even greater grounds for amazement: The representation of God, portrayed in human terms, taking upon himself the sins of Israel and the nations, is one that has familiar associations that we would not normally expect to find in a kosher Jewish discourse.

And in fact, we find that an interpretation on very similar lines was proposed by one of the most outstanding Christian homelists of antiquity, Origen of Caesarea. Origen identifies the figure who guides the scapegoat as Jesus who has allegorically assumed “garments” of flesh and blood.

Now, Origen was both a neighbour and a contemporary of several of the foremost Jewish talmudic sages. From his base on the Israeli coast, he respected the Jews’ mastery of the Hebrew scriptures, and his commentaries make frequent references to interpretations that he had learned from Jewish teachers. Modern Judaic scholarship has come to value Origen’s writings as an important source of authentic midrashic traditions, some of which were not preserved in our standard compendia. 

In most of the instances of similarity between Origen and the rabbis, it seems clear that the Church Father is borrowing from a prior Jewish tradition. However, in the present instance there are powerful reasons for suggesting that the borrowing might have been in the opposite direction.

We have already alluded to the strikingly Christian theology that is implied by the theme of God assuming human sins. To this we should add the unusually sympathetic consideration that is given to the image of Esau as the scapegoat. In almost every other presentation of Esau in midrashic literature, he is painted in the most negative of colours, a figure of unqualified moral and metaphysical depravity. 

The universalistic outlook conveyed by the Seder Eliahu Zuta would have seemed astonishing if it were alluding to the pagan Roman Empire. The implications would be doubly astounding if we could date it after the fourth century C. E., after Constantine had converted the empire to Christianity and initiated a systemic persecution of Judaism.

In fact, a similar sentiment is expressed explicitly in the “sister” work known as Seder ‘Eliahu Rabbah. In explaining how a woman, Deborah, was able to rise to such a preeminent status as a judge and a prophet, the author of Seder ‘Eliyahu Rabbah declares: “I call upon heaven and earth to witness: Whether Greek or Jew, whether male or female, whether slave or maidservant; In all cases, it is according to one’s deeds that the holy spirit comes upon them.”

Whether or not the midrashic preacher was conscious of the fact, his egalitarian affirmation was really a paraphrase of the words of St. Paul in his Epistle to the Galatians (3:28) in the New Testament.

The possibility therefore suggests itself that our uncommon midrashic exposition is offering us a glimpse into a different aspect of interfaith relations in the ancient world. Evidently, there were settings in which Jewish and Christian scholars dwelled together in a more open and relaxed atmosphere, treating one another with a measure of respect, and were occasionally ready to learn from each other. 

Amicable social relationships may have allowed individuals to transcend their religious differences and to view the drama of divine forgiveness as a universal hope that is not restricted to a single nation or religion.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, September 13, 2001, pp. 22, 24.
• For further reading:
  • Halperin, David J. “Origin and Seder Eliyahu: A Meeting of Midrashic Trajectories?” In Agendas for the Study of Midrash in the Twenty-First Century, ed. Marc Lee Raphael, 18-41. Williamsburg, VA: Dept. of Religion College of William and Mary, 1999.
  • Hirshman, Marc G. A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity. Translated by Batya Stein Suny Series in Judaica. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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On the Other Hand

by Eliezer Segal

Rabbi Yohanan and Rabbi Simeon ben Laqish were among the most distinguished Jewish scholars of the third century, and in keeping with the argumentative spirit of talmudic discourse, their relationship was often characterized by animated controversies and debates.

Rabbi Simeon, who had been a gladiator prior to turning his energies to Torah scholarship, had a tendency to run afoul of the authorities. He was particularly outspoken when it came to criticizing the Patriarch (Nasi) who held the highest administrative position in the Jewish community.

On one occasion, Rabbi Simeon’s anti-authoritarian diatribes succeeded in offending the Patriarch to such a degree that the latter dispatched a troop of mercenaries to arrest him. Rabbi Simeon escaped and went into hiding.

Shortly afterwards, the Patriarch decided to pay a visit to Rabbi Yohanan’s academy in Tiberias. The visitor soon noticed that his host did not seem interested in lecturing, and eventually he prodded the rabbi to commence expounding words of Torah.

Rabbi Yohanan started clapping with one hand.

When the Patriarch expressed his bewilderment at Rabbi Yohanan’s strange and ineffectual behaviour, he had in fact been set up for the delivery of the punch-line: 

To attempt to study Torah without his usual study-partner, said Rabbi Yohanan, was as unproductive an enterprise as trying to clap with one hand.

The Patriarch conceded the point, and agreed to give the delinquent Rabbi Simeon another chance.

I Recently had occasion to quote the above story when called upon to say farewell to a valued university colleague who had decided to give up his academic career and join a Buddhist monastery. Rabbi Yohanan’s metaphor conveyed aptly how much I had been enriched over the years through my continuing exchanges and debates with my colleague, and how the intellectual atmosphere of our department would suffer from his absence.

Of course, my choice of this particular talmudic anecdote was also influenced by its use of the distinctive imagery of “one hand clapping.” That enigmatic expression is arguably the Buddhist teaching that is most widely known among non-Buddhist.

The question “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” is a quintessential example of a “koan,” a brief meditational saying by means of which Zen Buddhist masters test the enlightenment of their students and of each other. Koans often try to express spiritual intuition by making use of non-rational, paradoxical language, as a way of pointing to a reality that transcends logical discourse.

The “one hand clapping” koan is ascribed to Hakuin Ekaku (1686-1769), one of the most celebrated masters of Zen Buddhism in Japan. Hakuin is credited with bringing about a renaissance in Japanese Buddhism after three hundred years of decline. As a teacher, he placed special emphasis on the study of koans, as a most effective path to spiritual enlightenment. 

Apart from my chauvinistic interest in pointing out that the Jewish use of the paradox predated the better-known Buddhist one by 1500 years, I believe that it is particularly instructive to observe how a single metaphor can be put to such extremely diverse uses.

However, we must be careful not to interpret these differences as constituting an essential contrast between the supposed other-worldliness of Buddhism and the scholarly dialectics of Judaism. 

The truth is that both these religious traditions can boast of rich and variegated heritages that have accommodated broad ranges of spiritual expression, including ecstatic visionaries, worldly pragmatism, and exacting rationalism. Some Buddhist monasteries encourage intense debate over fine points of logic, reminiscent of the arguments of yeshivah students. Conversely, Jewish mystics have resorted to paradox and symbolism in order to point to spiritual realities that cannot be encompassed by conventional language.

It is intriguing to speculate whether the remarkable metaphor of one hand clapping wandered along some inscrutable route from third-century Israel to eighteenth-century Japan, or if there was an earlier, lost source, from which both traditions drew. Although it is impossible to determine such questions with any degree of certainty, it seems most likely that Rabbi Yohanan and Hakuin fabricated their respective expressions, er, single-handedly.

The ingenuity of both sages deserves our admiration. Perhaps this would be most effectively expressed in the form of prolonged rounds of mute applause.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, October 11, 2001, p. 12.
• For further reading:
  • Waddell, Norman, ed. Wild Ivy: The Spiritual Autobiography of Zen Master Hakuin. 1st ed. Boston: Shambhala, 1999.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Right Vampire?

by Eliezer Segal

In that 1967 film classic “the Fearless Vampire Killers,” there is a memorable scene in which a lady tries in vain to fend off the vampire Shagal by waving a cross at him. The creature of the night, with an unmistakable Yiddish intonation, retorts “Boy have you got the wrong vampire!”

Indeed, the literary and cinematic depiction of vampires, from Dracula onwards, has been so strongly imbued with Christian symbolism that the very idea of a Jewish vampire makes an easy target for such comedic moments; notwithstanding the tragic medieval blood libels that charged Jews with using Christian blood in the preparation of Passover matzah.

Nevertheless, the study of medieval Jewish texts teaches us that a belief in vampire-like creatures was very intense in certain Jewish communities. Not surprisingly, this belief tended to surface in settings where it was also prevalent among their non-Jewish neighbours. That the concept was of foreign origin is also indicated by the non-Hebrew names by which the fearsome creatures were designated.

Most of the Jewish references to vampires are contained in the writings of the Hasidei Ashkenaz, a mystical pietistic movement that flourished in thirteenth-century Germany. The monsters were usually female, and were referred to as estries. The term is French, and derives from strix, a Latin word for a night-owl. The ancient Romans believed that the owls consume human blood, and Petronius tells a scary tale about a certain Cappadocian who was snatched away by a strix, and later found dead. The striges were said to be terrible women who could turn themselves into dreadful birds of prey, with huge talons, misshapen heads and breasts full of poisonous milk. In medieval folklore, they continued to be associated with screech owls

Cannibalistic behaviour typified the medieval German estries, who were believed to have a special fondness for the flesh of children. During the Middle Ages, the striges were given a Christian interpretation, and they were perceived as servants of Satan and his demons. They were usually portrayed as witches who practiced sorcery and flew through the air. 

Several chilling stories about them were preserved by the Hasidei Ashkenaz, especially in the most important collection of the group’s lore, Rabbi Judah the Pious’s Sefer Hasidim.

According to Sefer Hasidim, the Talmud was referring to estries when it spoke about beings who were created at twilight on the first Friday, and whose bodies were not completed when God ceased working at the onset of the Sabbath. 

A different theory was proposed by the fifteenth-century commentator Rabbi Menahem Zioni. Basing himself on midrashic sources, he claimed that it was the builders of the Tower of Babel who were transformed into vampires, werewolves, wood- and water-spirits, and sundry monsters. 

The same author speaks of men and women who, by anointing their bodies with special oils, are able to fly. They must, however, return home before the break of dawn.

The sixteenth-century exegete Rabbi Obadiah Sforno speculated that supernatural beings like demons could not consume normal food. It follows, therefore, that their diet consists of the most subtle and spiritual substance, and this must be blood, which the Torah equates with the power of life. By extension, humans who desire to befriend the spirits will offer them blood; while those who aspire to partake of supernatural powers are likely to consume blood themselves. 

In one story that appears in Sefer Hasidim, a woman who was an estrie fell ill, and was watched over during the night by two unsuspecting ladies. When one of the guardians dozed off, the patient suddenly stood up and began to unravel her hair. In true Dracula-like style, the estrie tried to fly off and to suck out the blood of the slumbering lady. Fortunately, her alert companion managed to cry out and wakened her, and the two of them were able to seize the estrie and prevent her from carrying out her nefarious scheme.

The Sefer Hasidim had no doubt that the estrie‘s survival depended on her success in slaying her victim. If prevented from doing so, the estrie perished. “This is because a being who was created from blood needs to swallow blood from flesh.”

The medieval texts prescribe several different ways to restrain the estries–none of which involve crosses, holy water or wooden stakes. They could be controlled by the imposing of an oath upon them. Furthermore, since their powers were somehow dependent on the loosening of their hair, they could be rendered harmless if the hair was somehow held in check. And if a known estrie was included in the prayer for the sick that is recited in the synagogue, then the congregation was cautioned not to respond “Amen”!

Although an estrie could be injured by a physical blow, the effect of the blow could be undone if she was allowed to eat bread and salt belonging to her assailant. Conversely, bread and salt also worked as an antidote to injuries inflicted by the estrie. 

At first glance, it is hard to imagine how anyone would be stupid enough to offer bread and water to an estrie after taking the trouble to attack her. However, we must bear in mind that the creatures were capable of morphing themselves into different forms, and therefore were not easy to recognize. Rabbi Zioni described this ability in detail, and noted that they had a special propensity for turning into cats.

Sefer Hasidim records a case of a suspected estrie who had assumed feline form. However, a certain Jew recognized her true identity (the source does not indicate how), and struck her. On the following day, a lady asked him for some bread and salt, and the imprudent Jew would have complied, had it not been for an old man who appeared on the scene and warned him of his folly. 

As with our familiar vampires, the malevolent power of the estries did not cease with their deaths. For this reason, it was important to examine their corpses very carefully. Rabbi Eliezer Rokeah states that if the estrie has her mouth open when she is buried, you may be certain that she will continue to devour children for a year after her death. In order to curtail such anti-social behaviour, it is crucial to stuff her mouth with earth.

Most of the Hebrew descriptions of estries seem to assume that the creatures were not Jewish. However, at least one story implies otherwise. 

Thus, we read in in Sefer Hasidim about some students who wanted to inflict capital punishment on women who were accused of baby-eating. The rabbi reminded them that, while in exile, Jewish courts did not have such authority. He did, however, suggest that an announcement be issued in the synagogue, in the presence of the suspects, that if any harm should befall the children, then they would have their teeth filed on the stones surrounding the well. If the accused were in fact guilty, then the ordeal would result in their inevitable deaths.

Of course, the fact that the estries in this story attended synagogue proves that they were Jews–and observant Jews at that!

To the best of my knowledge, Jewish sources have not recorded any vampire sightings for several centuries now. Nor is there any truth to the widespread rumours that the blood-suckers have been recruited as fundraisers for the United Jewish Appeal.

Nevertheless–purely as a precaution–parents are advised take some precautions the next time a sweet old bubbeh tells them that their precious infant looks “sweet enough to eat.”

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, October 25, 2001, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Dan, Joseph. The Esoteric Theology of Ashkenazi Hasidism. Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1968.
  • Trachtenberg, Joshua. Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion, Temple Books. New York: Atheneum, 1970.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Birth-rite

by Eliezer Segal

Excessive politeness can sometimes lead to tragic consequences.

This sad lesson is illustrated by a story in the Talmud, involving three third-century rabbis who were about to participate in a feast celebrating the birth of a child. When they arrived at the entrance to the hall, each one of the scholars refused to be the first to go through the door, insisting on bestowing that honour upon one of his colleagues. 

Before they could sort out the proper etiquette and protocols, the unfortunate infant was mauled by a cat.

This story has a lot to teach us about the hierarchical structures of rabbinic society, about feline temperaments in ancient Babylonia, and about excessive concern for formalities. In the present article, however, I wish to focus on an incidental feature of the story; namely, the occasion for which the ill-fated feast was convened.

The Talmud gives us two different versions of this detail. It was either a Shavua Ha-Ben [“week of the son”] or the Yeshua Ha-Ben [“redemption of the son”]. Rav Hai Ga’on interpreted the former possibility as a circumcision feast, which is normally held on the seventh day following the child’s birth. The second term he equated with the Pidyon Ha-Ben ceremony, usually held when the baby is one month old, when the father ritually redeems his offspring from the Cohen. These identifications were accepted by most subsequent commentators.

The “Week of the Son” is mentioned briefly in a handful of passages in rabbinic literature, without providing much tangible information about its purpose. One source includes it–alongside engagements and weddings, funerals and mourning-houses–in a list of life-cycle commemorations that occupied the busy schedules of Jerusalem’s virtuous residents. 

Other texts state that the Roman decrees against Jewish religious practices explicitly singled out the Week of the Son or the Salvation of the Son as proscribed rituals. A liturgical poem by Eleazar Qallir listed such a decree among the anti-Jewish edicts issued by Antiochus in the Hanukkah story. 

As the Tosafot pointed out, these traditions about religious persecution help us to understand the following cryptic talmudic quote: “The sound of the millstones in Bourni means: ‘The Week of the Son! The Week of the Son!’ The light of the lamp in Beror Hayil means ‘There is a feast! There is a feast!'” 

Evidently, Jews upheld these religious celebrations faithfully even when their observance was punishable by government edict. Because they could not be announced publicly, secret signals were devised for the purpose, alluding to Jeremiah’s admonition (25:10) “I will take from them the voice of mirth, and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom, and the voice of the bride, the sound of the millstones, and the light of the candle.” Rashi suggests that the millstones were used to grind medicines for the circumcision.

As noted above, the overwhelming majority of the traditional commentators seemed to agree with Rav Hai Ga’on and Rashi that the talmudic “Week of the Son” referred to a circumcision banquet. A rare dissenting voice was that of Rashi’s grandson Rabbi Jacob Tam. who suggested that the “salvation of the son” was in fact a separate festivity in which the parents expressed thanksgiving for the safe and healthy birth.

In fact, there is a very decisive piece of information that argues strongly against the majority interpretation. A talmudic tradition preserved by the Spanish authorities Rabbi Isaac Ibn Ghayat (eleventh century) and Rabbi Moses Nahmanides (thirteenth century) makes explicit mention of a “Week of the Daughter” (Shavua Ha-Bat) alongside the Week of the Son. Clearly, neither the circumcision nor the redemption rituals are applicable to females. Hence, it would appear, we are forced to seek alternative explanations that are gender-inclusive.

Several such explanations have been proposed by modern scholars. Some suggested that the allusion is to a naming ceremony that was held, for male and female alike, at the conclusion of the child’s first week. Others found in this ancient custom the earliest source for the widespread medieval practice among Ashkenazic Jews of holding a “Wachnacht” vigil for the week-old child, staying awake all night to fend off malevolent demons who are particularly hazardous on that night. 

It would appear most likely, however, that the Week of the Daughter \ Son refers to a seven-day period of celebration following the birth of the child. This would bring it into line with other Jewish life-cycle transitions, which were often observed in similar ways. Thus, to take a familiar example, not only are Jewish weddings and funerals both followed by seven-day periods of public camaraderie, but the prayers and blessing that were formulated for these two occasions were also very similar. Therefore, it is reasonable to suppose the same paradigm would have been applied to the other main event of the life-cycle, childbirth.

Although this practice has long since been abandoned, and its memory all but eradicated from our written texts, it continues to exert a definite attraction.

In our generation, which often feels frustrated in its search for authentic Jewish ways for celebrating the births of daughters, a revival of the ancient “Week of the Daughter” might bring us a step closer to that elusive goal.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free PressNovember 8 2001, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Abrahams, Israel. Jewish Life in the Middle Ages. New York: Atheneum, 1969.
  • Hoffman, Lawrence A. Covenant of Blood: Circumcision and Gender in Rabbinic Judaism, Chicago Studies in the History of Judaism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996.
  • Lieberman, Saul. Tosefta Ki-Fshutah, New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1973-
  • Löw, Leopold. Die Lebensalter in Der Jüy;dischen Literatur: Von Physiologischem, Rechts-Sitten- und Religionsgeschichtlichem Standpunkte Betrachtet,Beitraege zur Juedischen Alterthumskunde. Szegedin: S.Burger, 1875.
  • Trachtenberg, Joshua. Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion, Temple Books. New York: Atheneum, 1970.

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German translation as: “Es lebe das neue Leben,” Jüdische Allgemeine, Septermber 14, 2006.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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A Megillah for Hanukkah

by Eliezer Segal

Although Hanukkah was established in order to commemorate a momentous exploit in Jewish history, the traditional documents of Jewish religious literature do not really say much about the historical events that are being celebrated. 

The Maccabean revolt occurred too late to be recorded in the Bible; and the Talmud and Midrash speak only in vague terms of the Hasmonean triumph over the Greeks, the purification of the Temple, some cases of martyrdom, and the famous miracle of the oil cruse. 

Arguably, it is possible to be an observant and knowledgeable Jew without having any familiarity with the major battles or heroes of the Maccabean revolt.

For many Jewish communities during the Middle Ages, this deficiency was offset by the availability of an account of the Hanukkah story that usually circulated, under the name “the Scroll of Antiochus,” though it was also known by such diverse titles as “the Scroll of the Hasmoneans,” “the Scroll of the Greeks,” or “the Scroll of Hanukkah.” The best-known text was in Aramaic, but Hebrew and Arabic versions were also in existence.

There is no agreement about when the Scroll of Antiochus was composed. The most extreme claim for its antiquity was that of the tenth-century teacher Sa’adia Ga’on, who claimed that the scroll had been written down close to the time of the events that it recounts; i.e., in the middle of the second century B. C. E. An eighth-century compendium of Jewish law known as Halakhot Gedolot ascribed the work to the elders of the Houses of Shammai and Hillel, sometime in the first century C.E.; however this claim is not found in all the manuscripts of Halakhot Gedolot; An analysis of the scroll’s Aramaic dialect seems to point to the Talmudic era (2^nd – 5^th centuries), but this phenomenon has been explained away as an instance of the author’s imitating the style of earlier texts. 

In the absence of clear-cut evidence for the scroll’s ancient origins, most historians have taken a cautious position, dating it to the early medieval era, close to the beginnings of the Arab empire. 

In order to explain why it should have been composed at this particular time, several scholars tried to draw conclusions from Sa’adia Ga’on’s attitude towards it.

Sa’adia was renowned as an aggressive champion  of the rabbinic oral tradition, a tradition that was being challenged in his time by the Karaites, a Jewish movement that rejected the Talmud and relied exclusively on the authority of the Bible. 

Hanukkah, a holiday with no biblical source, was a  convenient target for the Karaite polemical assaults on rabbinic tradition. It was in response to such charges that Sa’adia was impelled to make exaggerated claims about the scroll’s antiquity and authority. 

In addition to the above-mentioned assertion about its early date, Sa’adia found many ways in which to treat the scroll as if it were a full-fledged biblical book, with a status similar to that of Esther. In one of his commentaries, he cites a proof-text from the Scroll of Antiochus as if it were a biblical verse. He also mentions that it was customary to copy the scroll with vowels and cantillation signs, and to divide it into parshiyot, practices that were rarely applied to texts outside the biblical canon. Sa’adia even composed an Arabic translation to it, complete with a learned preface, just as he did for the books of the Bible. 

Sa’adia’s efforts on behalf of the Scroll of Antiochus led to its widespread acceptance by many Jewish communities, including those of Spain, Italy, Yemen and Persia. Its text was included in many manuscripts and early printed editions of the Bible, as well as in prayer books. Several medieval rabbis report that the Scroll was read publicly as part of the Hanukkah services, usually on the Sabbath that occurred during the holiday. 

Differing customs existed as to when the scroll should be chanted in the synagogue: Some localities did so prior to the Haftarah on the Saturday morning of Hanukkah, or immediately following it; others read it late in the afternoon, at the end of the Minhah service. Arabic-speaking communities normally recited it to the accompaniment of Sa’adia’s Arabic translation.

The Italian Rabbi Isaac Di Trani the Elder discusses whether a blessing is required for the reading of the Scroll of Antiochus.

Although the Scroll of Antiochus agrees in most respects with the story that is told in the Books of Maccabees or in the works of Josephus Flavius, it also contains some interesting differences. For one thing, it includes the talmudic tale about the jug of oil that burned miraculously for eight days, a legend that is not found outside of the Babylonian Talmud. The scroll speaks of Judah Maccabee falling in battle during the lifetime of his father Mattathias; whereas all the other records claim that Mattathias died before the outbreak of the revolt.

No doubt, the addition of a mandatory recitation of a Hanukkah Megillah into our own holiday prayers would go a long way towards increasing our knowledge of the Maccabean revolt and its significance. Nevertheless, I fear that our congregations will not take kindly to any further lengthening of a synagogue service that is already distinguished by special additions like the Hallel and the Al Ha-Nissim.

Perhaps the public reading of the Scroll would appear more attractive if congregants were encouraged to respond with catcalls and noisemakers to every mention of the name “Antiochus.”

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, November 22 2001, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Atlas, S., and M. Perlmann. “Saadya on the Scroll of the Hasmoneans.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 14 (1944): 1-23.
  • Fried, Nathan. “Nosah ‘Ivri Hadash Shel Megilat Antiokhos.” Sinai 64 (1969): 97-140.
  • Golinkin, David. “Hanukkah Exotica: On the Origin and Development of Some Hanukkah Customs.” Conservative Judaism 53, no. 2 (2001): 41-50.
  • Kaddari, M. Z. “Megillat Ant9iokhos Ha-Aramit.” Bar-Ilan Annual 2 (1964): 211-3.
  • Rosenthal, F. “Saadyah’s Introduction to the Scroll of the Hasmoneans.” Jewish Quarterly Review 36 (1945-6): 297-302.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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