All Cows Go to Heaven

by Eliezer Segal

Of all the awkward theological questions that can be provoked by real-life crises, few are as poignant as the need to determine the afterlife destiny of a beloved family pet. Sometimes the most convenient solution to the predicament is a facile assurance that Fido is now enjoying a blissful existence in Doggy Paradise.

Jewish tradition has not been very clear on this question. 

The few ancient rabbinic texts that raise the issue take the position that animals have no expectation of eternal life. This premise forms the basis of a midrashic homily on Ecclesiastes 3:18-19: “For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other.” From the biblical comparison, the midrash deduced that “just as beasts are fated for death and do not merit life in the world to come, so too the wicked are fated for death and will not merit life in the world to come.” 

A very different position was taken by Sa’adia Ga’on, the tenth-century scholar whose Book of Doctrines and Beliefs< was one of the pioneering works of systematic jewish theology. 

Sa’adia deals with the fundamental question of why the Torah commands us to sacrifice innocent animals as an act of worship. After explaining that God has ordained matters in such a way that the time of an animal’s slaughter is metaphysically equivalent to the natural life-span of a human, Sa’adia ponders whether death by the slaughterer’s knife really causes the beast more suffering than a natural demise. To this he replies that if that were the case, then the all-knowing and perfectly just God would certainly reward the beast for the suffering that was inflicted upon it. 

This view was discussed by Maimonides in his Guide of the Perplexed, though he did not attribute it to sa’adia. instead, he ascribed it to the Mu’tazila, one of the important theological schools of Islam, a school that did in fact exert a powerful influence upon Sa’adia Ga’on.

Initially, Maimonides characterized the Mu’tazila position as “disgraceful,” and poked fun at the notion of dead fleas, lice or mice enjoying their rewards in the next world. Later on, he conceded that the Mu’tazila were motivated by a legitimate concern, that no injustice or wrongdoing be ascribed to the Almighty.

Nevertheless, the prospect of Doggy Paradise was not a valid option for Maimonides. His concept of the afterlife was a profoundly intellectual one, in which eternal life was the exclusive privilege of those who were capable of contemplating eternal truths. He accepted Aristotle’s thesis that humans, by virtue of their intelligent minds, were subject to individual divine providence. Dumb animals, on the other hand, benefit only from a general providence that guides the survival of entire species.

A very different perspective on the issue was introduced by the Kabbalah, and especially by the rise of the Hassidic movement in eastern Europe.

One of the most bitter struggles waged by the Hassidim against the Jewish establishment had to do with the mechanics and administration of ritual slaughter. Not only did they appoint their own shohetim, but they also insisted on the use of specially sharpened knives. 

On one level, the Hassidic position was motivated by their suspicion that the communal authorities, who had come to rely on the taxes paid to the slaughterers as an important source of revenue, would not be stringent enough about disqualifying meat that was halakhically unfit. 

There was, however, an additional dimension to the controversy, one that derived from their distinctive beliefs about the destiny of the soul.

Like many adherents of the Kabbalah, the Hassidim believed in the doctrine of gilgul, the transmigration of souls. According to this belief, those persons who are not quite ready to be admitted to Paradise are sent back into the world until they succeed in repairing their spiritual state. The souls of sinners have to rise through the stages of inanimate objects, plants and animals before being allowed to resume their human status. Kosher animals, such as cattle and sheep, are the penultimate stage in the scale of spiritual ascent, such that the slightest flaw in the slaughter can prevent the soul from achieving its final restoration.

By building on this theological premise, Hassidic ideology was able to offer a compelling new reason to be exceedingly scrupulous about the procedures for slaughtering. That poor cow whose neck is stretched out under the knife might well house the soul of a repentant sinner, whose last chance for eternal serenity depends on the performance of the slaughter according to the strictest standards of Jewish religious law! 

This idea was promoted with especial vigour by students of Rabbi Israel Ba’al Shem Tov, such as the Maggid Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezritch. For this reason, manuals for the use of professional slaughterers would include calls to repentance and special prayers, in which the slaughterers expressed the hope that they were spiritually worthy of the awesome metaphysical responsibility that they bore. 

Hassidic folklore told bloodcurdling tales about the dreadful punishments that awaited negligent slaughterers in the next world, such as the one who was doomed to spend the afterlife standing on a rooftop, slashing his own throat until he dropped to the earth, and then rising again and repeating the bloody pattern for all eternity.

It would clearly be preferable to live your life properly the first time around, and find yourself a place in Gan Eden. 

When you do arrive there (after 120 years), you should be prepared to set aside a few moments from your eternity for walking the dog. 

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary,  June 6, 2002, p. 11.
• For further reading: 
  • Aptowitzer, Viktor. “The Rewarding and Punishing of Animals and Inanimate Objects: On the Aggadic View of the World.” Hebrew Union College Annual 3 (1926): 117–55.
  • Berman, Jeremiah Joseph. Shehitah; a Study in the Cultural and Social Life of the Jewish People. New York: Bloch, 1941.
  • Malter, Henry. Saadia Gaon; His Life and Works. New York: Hermon Press, 1969.
  • Segal, Eliezer. “Judaism.” In Life after Death in World Religions, edited by Harold G. Coward, 11–30. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1997.
  • Shmeruk, Chone. “The Social Significance of Hassidic Slaughter.” Zion 20, no. 1 (1965): 47–72.

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German translation as: “Mit Fiffi ins Paradies,” ˆJüdische Allgemeiner, August 31, 2006.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Tong of Tongs

by Eliezer Segal

The rabbis of the Mishnah compiled various lists of items that they claimed were created “at twilight on the eve of the first Sabbath.” Most of those items are associated with spectacular biblical miracles, such as the mannah, Balaam’s talking donkey, and the fissure that opened to swallow up Korach and his rebellious congregation.

Maimonides argued plausibly that the lesson underlying this tradition is that God’s true greatness is manifested in the unchanging laws of nature, and not in the ability to arbitrarily suspend or abrogate those laws. Accordingly, even wondrous events that appear to us as contraventions of the natural order were in reality programmed into the structure of the universe at the time of its creation.

The Maharal of Prague explained that the concept of “twilight” is to be grasped as a metaphor for the subtle metaphysical dimension in which miracles originate. Just as the visible twilight is no more than an indefinable moment in the subtle transition from day to night, so are we to understand that the creation of miracles occurred in a realm that is outside of time, in the infinitesimal present moment that is forever sandwiched between the past and the future. Within this moment lies a dynamic potentiality for change and improvement in response to constantly changing circumstances. 

At any rate, not all the phenomena that the rabbis portrayed as having been created on that first Friday evening relate to high-profile miracles. According to Rabbi Judah bar Ilai, the list should also include… the first pair of blacksmith’s tongs.

Among the ancients, the ability to fashion metal into tools and weapons was often enveloped in an aura of mystery, or even fear. In primitive cultures, blacksmiths were perceived as masters of occult lore, and pagan mythologies sang of divine smiths who forged weapons for the gods.

However, as the Talmud explains it, Rabbi Judah’s reasoning was based on much more prosaic and rational considerations. When a blacksmith fashions a pair of tongs in the forge, the only way he can handle the red-hot metal is with tongs. Since we are speaking of the manufacture of the first pair of tongs, this possibility did not exist. Ergo, the first pair must have been provided directly by the Creator himself.

Indeed, the argument sounds irrefutable.

In its modest and whimsical way, Rabbi Judah was employing the same method of proof that was adopted by the great philosophers in order to speculate about such weighty questions as the origins of the universe or the existence of God. For each observable phenomenon, these thinkers would persist in asking what was its cause or what set it into motion. Eventually, as it was no longer possible to keep posing such questions ad infinitum, they were forced to posit the existence of an Unmoved Mover, an Uncaused Cause, or a similar hypothesis, in order to account for the existence of the world. 

Nevertheless, there were sages in the Talmud who challenged the cogency Rabbi Judah’s reasoning. It was possible, they argued, that the person who made the first tongs did so simply by first making a tong-shaped mold, and then filling it with molten iron. 

For the Maharal, the significance of placing the tongs at the end of the Mishnah’s catlogue of prefabricated miracles lies precisely in the fact that they are the least supernatural item in the list The mention of the creation of the first tongs alongside the more dazzling wonders of the biblical past serves to underscore the lesson that God’s concern for human needs does not always manifest itself in the spectacular pyrotechnics of split seas or burning bushes.

A similar approach was advocated by the 17^th-18^th century author Rabbi Jacob Culi whose Judeo-Spanish compendium Me’am Lo’ez is one of the most beloved commentaries among Sepharadic Jews. 

From the rabbinic discussion about the origins of the tongs, Rabbi Culi derives a profound moral insight into the divine plan for creation. 

He argues that people should not be disheartened by the fact that they were created with imperfections and moral shortcomings. On the contrary, the example of the tongs teaches us that the Almighty will always furnish us with any articles that are truly necessary to correct the deficiencies of the human situation. 

If this is true with respect to the material advantages inherent in a simple blacksmith’s tongs, how much more does it apply to the religious realm; so that we can be confident that the Almighty will always equip us with powerful spiritual resources that will allow us to overcome our temptations and limitations.

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• First Publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 20 2002, p. 6.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Kaddish for a Cowgirl

by Eliezer Segal

In a Jewish graveyard in California lies one of the legendary gunfighters of the Wild West 

This is not meant to imply that Wyatt Earp was Jewish. The interment of his earthly remains (he was in fact most un-Jewishly cremated) in the Hills of Eternity cemetery in Colma was at the request of his widow, who was one of the more colourful personalities of the American frontier.

As is often the case with cowboy sagas, the precise details of Josie Marcus Earp’s life are difficult to untangle from the many embellishments that grew up around them. The biographer’s task is further complicated by the fact that a supposed autobiography entitled I Married Wyatt Earp was to a large extent a work of creative fiction.

At any rate, there is some consensus about the main outlines of her life story. Josephine Sarah Marcus was born in 1861 in New York city to a family of Jewish immigrants from Germany who transplanted themselves to San Francisco when Josie was six years of age. The Marcus family was traditionally observant, and Josie was given elementary training in the Hebrew prayers. 

In those years of the Gold Rush and westward expansion, the attractions of the frontiers could be more powerful than those of the family hearth, and Josie left home at the age of eighteen, to enlist in a traveling theatre troupe that she had seen performing the “H.M.S. Pinafore.” 

Eventually the company found its way to Tombstone, Arizona, where Josie moved in with Johnny Behan, a disreputable cowboy.

In Tombstone, Josie first made the acquaintance of another distinguished resident of the town, Wyatt Earp, who was employed at the time as an armed guard for the Wells Fargo company (and possibly as a deputy U. S. Marshall), in addition to his partnership in a local saloon.

Earp and Behan were political adversaries in the 1881 elections for Sheriff of Tombstone. They were also rivals for the heart of Josie Marcus. Behan emerged victorious in the election, but it was Earp who won the lady’s affections. Although Earp already had a wife (his second), he now married Josie, and their marriage endured for fifty years, until his death.

According to some historians, the romantic rivalry was one of the factors that led to the infamous gunfight at the OK Corral, as Behan hired a gang of thugs to eliminate his adversary. 

When the shooting began, Josie heard the gunfire from her house. Aware that a showdown was being planned, she hitched a ride on a passing wagon, and hurried to the corral. She was relieved to find that her spouse was only slightly wounded.

Like a modest Jewish wife, she later recalled how she had been worried about what people would think of her after she had dashed out without a bonnet! 

In 1882, Wyatt and Josie left Tombstone in pursuit of riches and adventure, and to avoid criminal prosecution for the carnage at the OK Corral or in the various acts of retaliation that followed in its wake. He was assisted by a Jewish banker named H. Solomon who offered to pay his bail, and supplied him and his companions with arms. Wyatt was never actually indicted by a court of law. 

The Earps’ travels brought them to many of the new towns that were sprouting up like weeds in the course of the Gold Rush, in Colorado, Idaho, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, and even as far as Alaska. The Earps invested in the mines and real estate, as well as in saloons, and became quite wealthy through their enterprises. For a brief period they returned to the Jewish ambiance of Josie’s family home in San Francisco. 

Wyatt’s last years were spent in Los Angeles in virtual respectability living off the proceeds of their racehorses, oil, real estate speculation and other types of gambling. 

The legendary gunslinger was able to make it in Hollywood society, and even served as an advisor for some cowboy films that were produced there. This provided Wyatt and Josie an ample opportunity to shape his own legend, a task that Josie continued after her husband’s demise. 

And so, in 1929, at the age of eighty, the hero of the OK Corral died peacefully in Los Angeles. His ashes were buried at the Marcus family plot in the Little Hills of Eternity Jewish cemetery in Colma, California, where he would be joined in 1944 by Josie herself.

From this brief survey of the exploits and adventures of Josephine Sarah Marcus Earp, it becomes undeniably clear

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, July4, 2002, pp. 10-11.
• For further reading:
  • Earp, Josephine Sarah Marcus, and Glenn G. Boyer. I Married Wyatt Earp: The Recollections of Josephine Sarah Marcus Earp. Tucson, Ariz.: University of Arizona Press, 1976.
  • Marcus, Jacob Rader. United States Jewry, 1776-1985. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989.
  • Rochlin, Harriet, and Fred Rochlin. Pioneer Jews: A New Life in the Far West. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1984.
  • Schoener, Allon. The American Jewish Album: 1654 to the Present. New York: Rizzoli, 1983.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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All’s Well That Ends Well

by Eliezer Segal

Amidst the excesses of depressing disasters that monopolize the news media these days, there was something especially uplifting in the report about the July 2002 rescue of nine miners who had been trapped for three days in a flooded shaft in Somerset, Pennsylvania. Some of the accounts noted that prayer played a crucial part in maintaining the spirits of the miners and their anxious loved ones during the ordeal.

In Jewish sources, being stuck at the bottom of a pit or well is a hazard that has vexed people at least since the time of Joseph. The likelihood of a successful rescue was often correlated with the victims’ righteousness or faith.

The Talmud records an incident involving a certain Nehunia whose daughter fell into a deep well. The calamity was reported immediately to the saintly miracle-worker Hanina ben Dosa. 

To everyone’s surprise, Hanina displayed no alarm whatsoever, and declared with confidence that the girl was alive and well. 

As the hours elapsed, Hanina continued to astound his audience with his inexplicable assurances of the child’s safety. After three hours had passed, he announced that the girl had certainly been rescued. And of course, he was proven right.

When Hanina ben Dosa was asked about the source of his clairvoyance, he was quick to dismiss any suggestions that he possessed supernatural powers. He claimed to be neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. Quite the contrary, it was simply inconceivable to him that this particular girl could meet her doom in a well.

Her father, Nehunia, was, after all, a well-digger by trade. In fact, he is listed in the Mishnah as an employee of the Jerusalem Temple, and one of his chief responsibilities was the provision of water for the pilgrims who came to worship at the holy sanctuary.

Given this background (Hanina explained), it was impossible to imagine that the daughter of a man who devoted his life to digging wells for pious purposes should come to an untimely end through the agency of a well! Ergo, there could be no doubt that the young lady was safe and would shortly be pulled out unharmed. 

Just how was the girl freed from her plight? The Babylonian Talmud relates that she was extricated from the well by a mysterious old man leading a ram.

Such an enigmatic detail presented the commentators with an irresistible challenge: Who was that mysterious figure, and what did he represent?

The Tosafot cited a tradition from the Jerusalem Talmud according to which the mysterious elder was none other than Hanina ben Dosa himself, who had somehow beamed himself (or perhaps a doppelganger) to the site, notwithstanding his protestations of not having supernatural abilities. 

Actually, in the known versions of the Jerusalem Talmud neither Hanina ben Dosa nor Nehunia appear in the story. A virtually identical episode is related there involving an unidentified well-digger and Rabbi Phineas ben Yair, a saint who flourished several generations later. To add to the pathos, in that version the girl was on the way to her wedding when she stumbled.

For Rashi, the presence of the ram was an unmistakable clue that the mysterious old man must be Father Abraham, whose unflinching devotion to his Creator is symbolized by the ram that he sacrificed in place of his beloved Isaac. The merits that were credited to the great patriarch continue to bring protection to his descendants throughout the generations.

As the Maharal of Prague developed this theme, Abraham’s act of selfless devotion and unconditional love serves as a model for us all, and through emulation of the patriarch’s virtues some of us can become worthy of special divine providence.

The Maharal proposed an additional allegorical interpretation. He explained that the ram represents the rigidity of strict justice, while the elderly stranger symbolizes God’s gentle compassion. In this way, the story comes to teach us that the ideal balance is created when the power of justice is subjected to the guidance of divine mercy. In our daily lives, we can emulate this model by letting our compassion rouse us to act with courage and decisiveness to come to the assistance of those in need. 

Not all the Jewish sages were as confident as Hanina ben Dosa and Phineas ben Yair about the imperviousness of the righteous to harm. Some rabbis in the Talmud were scrupulous to report that Nehunia the well-digger had a son who perished from thirst. This unfortunate incident was ascribed to the principle that God judges the righteous according to stricter standards than he applies to others, and punishes them (as well as their offspring, it would seem) for even trivial infractions. 

The commentators expended a great deal of effort in trying to resolve the apparent inconsistencies between the fortunes of the two siblings. For example, one author proposed that Nehunia collected merit points for the wells, because he had done the digging; but he could not claim credit for the water, which filled the cavity without Nehunia’s direct assistance. Hence there is no real unfairness in the fact that the daughter was saved from the well, but the son died from lack of water.

On the whole, I am not convinced by these attempts at harmonization. It seems far more plausible that the differing stories reflect a fundamental theological conflict among the rabbis about how much we ought to rely on supernatural assistance and protection, and whether people should put their faith in divine miracles. 

Although it is always nice to have the unwavering faith of a Hanina ben Dosa on one’s side, this should probably not be viewed as an alternative to more practical precautions. If I ever find myself at the bottom of a well or mine shaft, I would prefer that the authorities summon a team of well-trained rescue engineers with lots of heavy equipment. 

And of course, it would be very convenient if Lassie were in the neighbourhood.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, August 22, 2002, pp. 12, 14.
• For further reading:
  • Blenkinsopp, Joseph. “Miracles: Elisha and Hanina ben Dosa.” In Miracles in Jewish and Christian Antiquity: Imagining Truth, ed. John C. Cavadini, 57-81. Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999.
  • Büchler, Adolph. Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety: From 70 B.C.E. to 70 C.E.: The Ancient Pious Men. Jews’ College. Publications. Farnborough UK: Gregg, 1969.
  • Frankel, Yonah. ‘Iyunim Be-‘olamo Ha-ruhani shel Sippur Ha-aggadah Sifriyat Helal Ben-Hayim. Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1981.
  • Freyne, Sen. “The Charismatic.” In Ideal Figures in Ancient Judaism: Profiles and Paradigms, ed. John J. Collins and George W.E. Nickelsburg, 223-258. Chico: Scholars Press, 1980.
  • Urbach, E. The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs. Translated by I. Abrahams. Cambridge, Mass. and London, England: Harvard University Press, 1987.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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A Binding Disagreement

by Eliezer Segal

Of all the biblical themes that are recalled on Rosh Hashanah, the most significant is probably the story of the “Akedah,” the binding of Isaac. This poignant episode was designated as the Torah reading for the second day of the festival, and is alluded to in many ways in the prayers and rituals of the holiday. 

By relating how our ancestors Abraham and Isaac were ready to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to prove their total devotion to God, Jewish tradition found reassurance that subsequent generations of Abraham’s descendants will be able to draw upon the merits that were earned by the patriarchs. This conviction is particularly important in this season of judgment, when we do not always feel certain that our individual merits are adequate to ensure a favourable verdict. 

According to ancient interpretations, the sounding of the shofar is intended to evoke the memory of that “ram caught in a thicket by his horns” that was offered up in Isaac’s stead.

When we consider the centrality of the Akedah for the Jewish religious outlook, it is hardly imaginable that any mainstream Jewish thinker could entertain doubts about whether the story actually occurred.

And yet there were some distinguished rabbinical authorities who raised precisely that question, suggesting that Abraham and Isaac’s trek to Mount Moriah was nothing more than a symbolic vision that had no objective reality outside of Abraham’s mind.

Such an approach was alluded to by the twelfth-century exegete and philosopher Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, who classified the binding of Isaac, alongside the story of Jonah and the fish, as illustrations of his theory that all biblical prophecy consists of visions and dreams, whose only existence is in the consciousness of the dreamer. 

Ibn Ezra introduced his interpretation with an assurance that he was initiating his readers into a deep secret. Nevertheless, subsequent commentators were eager to advocate his approach openly in their published writings.

One of the most interesting of these authors was Rabbi Nissim ben Moses of Marseilles, a fourteenth-century scholar whose mastery of the biblical and rabbinic traditions was combined with an avid commitment to the rationalistic approach advocated by the school of Maimonides.

Citing Ibn Ezra, Rabbi Nissim concluded that “everything that is said and everything that is done in the story, including the ram that appeared caught in a thicket by his horns, should be understood as falling under the category of ‘signs.'” 

“Signs” is a technical term that Rabbi Nissim coined to indicate symbolic dreams that appeared to the prophets.

It is true that the tendency to locate biblical stories in the realm of psychic visions was particularly stressed in the writings of Maimonides, who often employed this approach in cases that involved supernatural apparitions and angels. Accordingly, he denied the historicity of such episodes as the visit of the three angels to Abraham, and Jacob’s struggle with the mysterious figure at the ford of Jabbok. 

Some support for this non-literalist way of thinking could be found in the words of the talmudic rabbis who had, for example, debated about whether Job was merely a fictional character.

Maimonides’ stand on the historicity of the Akedah was the focus of an intensive correspondence between two Italian scholars in the late thirteenth-century. 

Rabbi Zerahiah Hen, originally of Barcelona, was firm in his conviction that the miraculous events in the Bible should be read as allegories or as visions; and he invoked the authority of Maimonides in support of this position. 

This claim was challenged by Rabbi Hillel ben Samuel of Verona, who was apparently disturbed by its potential for undermining the historical claims of the Bible. 

Rabbi Hillel’s arguments have not come down to us in their original form, but only via Zerahiah’s refutations. The evidence suggests that he dealt with the question at considerable length, and that he wavered between diverse views. 

Initially, Rabbi Hillel conceded that Maimonides had relegated the entire narrative about the journey to Mount Moriah to the realm of prophetic vision, but he was reluctant to accept the radical implications of such a hypothesis. 

In the end, not only did he opt for a literal understanding of the biblical story, but he also ascribed this view to Maimonides. This aroused the ire of Rabbi Zerahiah, who accused his colleague of obscurantism and slandering the rationalistic credentials of the great philosopher. 

Against the background of such discussions we may appreciated how, when the Zohar expounded the episode of the binding of Isaac, it quickly dismissed the Torah’s assertion that God was testing Abraham, arguing instead that the real subject of the trial was Isaac, who was an adult at the time. As an alternative, the Zohar proposed an allegorical interpretation of the story, involving a mystical confrontation between the divine qualities of lovingkindness (represented by Abraham) and justice (Isaac). 

The question of the historical truth of the Scriptures was often blurred among the Kabbalists, for whom many biblical personalities were perceived as symbolic embodiments of divine attributes. 

Although Rabbi Nissim was not the first Jewish commentator to challenge the historicity of the Bible, it is hard to think of any others who argued the case with such zeal and boldness. The familiar episodes that he treats as philosophical parables or prophetic dreams include: Adam and Eve’s activities in the Garden of Eden, the conflict of Cain and Abel, the revelation in the burning bush, Balaam’s talking ass, and many more. 

Arguing a position that would surely have branded him as heretical in today’s Orthodox milieu, Rabbi Nissim even suggested that the Torah was not the product of a word-for-word dictation by God, but rather the outcome of a more general philosophical inspiration or enlightenment. The Bible’s frequent use of expressions that imply literal divine speech should be understood as mere salves for the crude masses who are more easily impressed by the book’s divine origins than by its sublime spiritual content.

For Rabbis Zerahiah of Barcelona and Nissim of Marseilles, the profound lessons of Abraham’s achievement are unrelated to the question of its historicity. The ideal that is embodied in the story is a pure and absolute love for the Creator that moves a person to go beyond all earthly considerations. Viewed in this manner, argues Rabbi Nissim, it is almost trivial to concern ourselves with whether we read the Bible as fact or as edifying fiction. Rabbi Nissim speaks derisively of the ignorant masses who read the Bible “merely” as a record of the virtuous deeds of our ancestors. 

Transcending all these disagreements, these diverse Jewish thinkers were united in their conviction that the importance of Torah lies not in what it tells us about the past, but in how it shapes our minds and values for the present and future.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September6, 2002, pp. 22-23.
• For further reading:
  • Eisenstein-Barzilay, Isaac. Between Reason and Faith:. Anti-Rationalism in Italian Jewish Thought 1250-1650 Publications in near and Middle East Studies, Columbia University, ed. Tibor Halasi-Kun etal. The Hague: Mouton & Co., 1967.
  • Kreisel, Haim. “The Torah Commentary of R. Nissim Ben Mosheh of Marseilles: On a Medieval Approach to Torah U-Madda.” The Torah u-Madda Journal10 (2001): 20-36.
  • Sirat, Colette. A History of Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages. Cambridge [UK]; New York; Paris: Cambridge University Press; Editions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1985.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Torch Songs

by Eliezer Segal

The Sukkot festivities that were celebrated in ancient Jerusalem were incomparable in their joy. The Mishnah, which usually confines itself to the dry technicalities of Jewish religious law, waxes poetic as it describes the jubilation that radiated from the Temple courts filling the city with unceasing music and light.

Among the more surprising details included in that description is the fact that pious and prominent religious leaders would dance before the crowds with flaming torches in their hands . The Talmud provides specific details, informing us that the Patriarch Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel was accustomed to take hold of as many as eight torches, which he would fling into the air, catching them one at a time, without their ever colliding.

The Talmud goes on to relate that Rabban Simeon was not the only rabbi who was proficient at juggling. Other outstanding sages were known to juggle eight knives, eight cups filled with wine, or eight eggs.

Indeed, the ability to keep this many objects in motion is one that was attested rarely, if it all, in the recorded history of juggling. An ancient Chinese text tells of an individual who succeeded in juggling seven swords, even as medieval Norse myth knew of someone who could keep seven knives in the air simultaneously. Balls, knives and torches appear to have been among the most popular juggling props in early times.

A certain Tagatus Ursus (53-117), a Roman who was a slightly younger contemporary of Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel, boasted on his epitaph that he was the first to juggle glass spheres.

Medieval talmudic commentators were intrigued, or even disturbed, by the fact that distinguished scholars seemed to be wasting their time in trivial activities.

Maimonides, ever the paragon of respectability, suggested that the sages and scholars did not attach any real value to such displays of amusement. Nevertheless, by performing the acrobatics themselves, the rabbis were taking the initiative out of the hands of the rabble, and thereby preventing the holiday mirth from getting out of hand. In Maimonides’ depiction of the Sukkot festivities, the commoners were confined to the role of passive observers.

In a similar spirit, Rabbi Henokh Zundel ben Joseph, a prominent commentator on midrashic texts, warned that we should not take the Talmud’s words at face value, as if these saintly teachers were indulging in mere stage tricks. There must be a deeper meaning to what they were doing.

A number of commentators looked for significance in the choices of objects to be juggled. Maharsha (Rabbi Samuel Edels) observed that torches would make very appropriate props for the Sukkot festivities, since the celebrations took place at night. As for the knives, cups and eggs, Maharsha states that they were selected because they made the spectacle so much more dramatic, whether on account of their fragility, or because of the danger that they appeared to present to the juggler.

Several commentators were intrigued by the recurrence of the number eight in the enumeration of the juggled props. Some, like the Maharsha, proposed utilitarian explanations for that number. Eight is the number of spaces between the fingers of two hands, explaining how the sages could keep the items under control. Maharsha concedes that this explanation does not work well for torches, since the Mishnah states that all eight were clasped in one hand, not two.

Others writers found a symbolic significance in the number eight. For example, Rabbi Jacob Reischer alluded to a talmudic passage that speaks of eight precepts that were observed during each day of Sukkot prior to the commencement of the merriment: (1) the daily morning offering, (2) the morning prayer, (3) the Additional (Musaf) sacrifice, (4) the Musaf prayer, (5) the study of Torah, (6) the festive meal, (7) the afternoon prayer, and (8) the daily evening offering.

Alternatively, the number could allude to the eight persons who are supposed to be included in the rejoicing of a festival, according to Deuteronomy 16:14: “And thou shalt rejoice in thy feast, thou, and (1) thy son, and (2) thy daughter, and (3) thy manservant, and (4) thy maidservant, and (5) the Levite, (6) the stranger, and (7) the fatherless, and (8) the widow.”

Rabbi Henokh Zundel ben Joseph interpreted the juggling as a celebration of the Torah. In fact he linked the festivities to the medieval institution of Simhat Torah, and pointed out that the name “Simhat Beit Ha-She’uvah” (the rejoicing of the water-drawing) was linked by the Talmud to the verse (Isaiah 12:3) “with joy shall ye draw [u-she’avtem] water out of the wells of salvation.” The verse, Rabbi Henokh Zundel explained, alludes to drawing inspiration from the teachings of the Torah. This association is consistent with the use of torches in the rejoicing, since light is a favourite rabbinic metaphor for Torah.

Seen from this perspective, the number eight can represent eight distinct disciplines of Torah study that were listed by the Talmud: (1) Bible, (2) Mishnah, (3) Talmud, (4) Aggadah, (5) received traditions, (6) scholarly debate, as well as (7) the secret doctrines surrounding the Creation story, and (8) Ezekiel’s vision of the mystical Chariot.

Pursuing this imagery, Rabbi Henokh Zundel observed that the juggling of torches served as a demonstration of how the scholar had mastered (grasped in his hands) all eight disciplines. Tossing them into the air represents the spiritual and intellectual elevation that comes through study. The fact that the torches never got confused symbolized the sages’ ability to apply the distinct mode of learning that is appropriate to each area, without mixing them up into an indistinguishable mess.

This manner of symbolism was easily extended by Rabbi Henokh Zundel to the other forms of juggling mentioned by the Talmud. Knives, of course, represent the rabbis’ well-honed analytical skills. The juggling of eggs or wine-cups likewise conveys the idea that, although there might be eight separate disciplines, in a profound sense they are as alike as eggs or drops of a liquid, since they all derive from the same divine source.

For our sages, even a frivolous-looking balancing trick could became a never-ending source of profound spiritual speculations. Indeed, the possibilities of interpretation are so numerous that it seems to require a major feat of intellectual juggling just to keep them in order.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September19, 2002, pp. 8-9 [as “Sukkot and the joys of juggling”].
• For further reading:
  • Conway, Andrew, A History of Juggling 1994 [cited, Available from http://www.juggling.org/papers/history-4
  • Lewbel, Arthur, Research in Juggling History 1995 [cited, Available from http://www.juggling.org/papers/history-1/
  • Safrai, Shemuel. Pilgrimage at the Time of the Second Temple. 2nd revised ed. Yerushalayim: Akademon, 1985.
  • Ziethen, Karl-Heinz, 1981, 4,000 Years of Juggling, Sainte-Genevieve, France: M. Poignant

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Mosaic Musings

by Eliezer Segal

Unlike any other day in the Jewish festival calendar, the Torah does not provide a clear reason for celebrating Rosh Hashanah. It merely designates the date, the first day of the seventh month, as a “memorial of blowing of shofars,” without revealing the purpose for the sounding of the ram’s horn on this occasion. It was left to the Jewish oral tradition, and to the ingenuity of our sages, to propose diverse symbolic associations for the ritual.

Arguably the most prominent of the shofar’s thematic associations is with the ram that was offered by Abraham after he had demonstrated his willingness to sacrifice his cherished son Isaac in obedience to God’s command. At the very last moment, an angel called out to Abraham not to harm Isaac; and immediately “Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns.” The ram was offered up as a sacrifice in place of Isaac. 

The tale of the “binding of Isaac” was designated by our ancient sages as the appropriate Torah reading for the Jewish New Year.

In keeping with the understanding of Rosh Hashanah as the Day of Judgment on which our fates are decided by the Heavenly Court, the sounding of the shofar inspires us to recall that our holy forefathers were prepared to make the supreme sacrifice. As the theme is developed with power and artistry in the poetry of the holiday liturgy, we pray that the merits accrued by Abraham and Isaac will be credited to us if we ourselves are found not to be deserving of a favourable verdict.

Just how meaningful the story of the binding of Isaac was to Jewish worshippers throughout history can be gauged by its prominence as a motif in synagogue decoration. One of the most memorable representations of the story is the mosaic floor of the sixth-century synagogue that was excavated in Beit Alpha in the Galilee.

As with other ancient synagogue mosaics, the Beit Alpha floor included an assortment of images associated with Jewish ceremonies, especially with the holiday cycle. Among these were a lulav, an etrog, an incense shovel and menorahs.

At first glance, the shofar seems conspicuous by its absence –that is, until we realize that in actuality a separate picture of the binding of Isaac serves as an elaboration of the shofar’s ritual significance.

That mosaic depiction is touching in its naïveté. Its crudely fashioned figures resemble the drawings of a five-year-old child, with snake-like limbs and rigid facial expressions. The entire cast of characters and props is crowded into the scene, including not only Abraham and Isaac, but also the hand of God, the servants, the donkey and the ram.

This particular ram is not merely “caught in the thicket” as the Bible describes, but actually appears to be suspended vertically by his horns from a tree, with his legs dangling above the ground.

Since the discovery of the Beit-Alpha mosaic in 1928, scholars have been trying to account for this unusual rendering of the familiar story. Initially, it was ascribed to the artists’ bad planning, which forced them to squeeze the ram’s image into the only remaining free space in the mosaic, which happened to be an inappropriately vertical area, creating an illusion of its hanging from a tree.

However, the most plausible explanation for the origin of the “hanging ram” emerged when the Beit Alpha depiction was compared with other portrayals of the binding of Isaac, as they appeared in Christian art of the Byzantine era. As it turns out, the motif of Abraham, Isaac and the hanging ram shows up in sculpted sarcophagi from the fourth century and onwards.

From the perspective of Christian theology and iconography, it is perfectly obvious why the ram was represented as suspended from a tree. In keeping with their tradition of reading their “Old Testament” as a foreshadowing or “prefiguration” of their own sacred history, the binding of Isaac had long been interpreted by the church fathers as a prototype of Jesus’ crucifixion. Interpreted in this manner, the ram symbolized the “lamb of God” impaled on the cross. In a typically “midrashic” word play, an ancient Christian exegetical tradition equated sebakh, the Hebrew word for “thicket,” withshebak, an Aramaic root that can mean “forgive.” 

This conjecture should not be misunderstood as an attempt to accuse the artists of the Beit Alpha mosaic of subversive or heretical leanings. There is no reason to doubt that Marianos and his son Hanina (as the craftsmen identify themselves in dedicatory inscriptions) were devout and loyal Jews who sincerely wanted their art to enhance the experience of synagogue worship. It is probable, however, that these rustic artisans, in their quest for effective ways to render the biblical story, had innocently copied some of their ideas from Christian portrayals of the same scene, without being aware of their deeper theological implications. 

Another clue to the non-Jewish origins of the artists’ ideas is the halo that radiates from behind Abraham’s head in the mosaic. The convention of attaching disk-like haloes to biblical saints was not native to the Jewish iconographic tradition, though it is of course a mainstay of Christian art. Here too, Marianos and Hanina apparently copied the idea from a Christian source without seeing anything problematic in it; even as they were not disturbed by the blatantly mythological images that they included in the zodiac wheel in another section of the mosaic.

Furthermore, although the actual laying of the mosaic stones seems to have been executed from right to left (as indicated by the fact that they did not leave enough space to complete the picture of the donkey on the left edge), its narrative logic flows from left to right, as appropriate to a Greek archetype, not a Hebrew one.

This is not to suggest that it was always the Jewish artists who borrowed their creative ideas from foreign sources. Quite the contrary—it is now widely believed that the earliest Christian illustrations of the Bible were based on Jewish exemplars that often incorporated embellishments based on the teachings of the midrash.

As a possible instance of this pattern, we might note that in some early Christian representations of the binding of Isaac story, the ram tries to attract Abraham’s attention by tugging at the patriarch’s garments with his mouth or foreleg. 

It has been suggested that this narrative detail was added in the spirit of a midrashic exposition that tells how Satan was determined to distract Abraham from the presence of the ram in order to prevent him from offering his sacrifice, and suggests that this was the reason why the ram “was caught by his horns between the trees” to prevent Abraham from noticing it. At this point, the midrash explains, “what did the ram do? He stretched out his hand to Abraham’s robe, so that Abraham glanced up and noticed the ram…”

If the evidence has been interpreted correctly, then it would appear that the Christian artists were making use of motifs that had originated in rabbinic teaching.

The impression that emerged from the above examples, which testified to a free exchange of artistic and religious ideas between Jews and Christians in the Byzantine era, marks a sharp contrast to the official attitudes expressed by the rabbis and theologians of the time, whose principal concern was to establish barriers between the two communities. The evidence suggests that, on the person-to-person plane, as acted out in rural villages like Beit-Alpha, interfaith relations were more casual and unselfconscious. 

When all is said and done, there is a satisfying appropriateness in associating universalistic sentiments with the story of the binding of Isaac. For the Torah itself emphasizes that the ultimate reward for Abraham’s devotion is that “in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.”

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• First Publication:
  • Ha’Atid, the Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Elul-isan 5763, September 2002-April 2003 (5:4:20), pp 11-12.
• For further reading:
  • Bregman, Marc. “The Riddle of the Ram: Genesis Chapter 22: Jewish-Christian Contacts in Late Antiquity.” In The Sacrifice of Isaac in The Three Monotheistic Religions: Proceedings of a Symposium on the Interpretation of the Scriptures Held in Jerusalem, March 16-17, 1995 41, ed. Frédéric Manns, 202, [9]. Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1995.
  • Bregman, Marc. “Seeing with the Sages: Midrash as Visualization in the Legends of the Aqedah.” In Agendas for the Study of Midrash in the Twenty-First Century, ed. Marc Lee Raphael, 84-102. Williamsburg: Dept. of Religion College of William and Mary, 1999.
  • Schubert, Kurt. “Jewish Pictorial Traditions in Early Christian Art.” In Jewish Historiography and Iconography in Early and Medieval Christianity, 3, xviii, 307. Assen and Minneapolis: Van Gorcum and Fortress Press, 1992.
  • Sed-Rajna, Gabrielle. Jewish Art. New York: H.N. Abrams, 1997.
  • Wilken, Robert Louis. “Melito, the Jewish Community at Sardis, and the Sacrifice of Isaac.” Theological Studies 37 (1976): 53-69.

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My e-mail address is [email protected]

Freshly Baked:

A Matzah Mystery

by Eliezer Segal

It is the afternoon before Passover. The last crumbs of bread were set aflame in the morning. The walls and counters are scoured to a gleaming shine. The regular dishes have been hauled down to the cellar, and the special holiday utensils now sit proudly in the kitchen cupboards. Stacked in the corner are boxes of crisp matzahs ready to be consumed at the Seder.

At last it is possible to relax in anticipation of this evening’s festive meal. 

What is wrong with this picture?

If you were a Jew living in the early medieval era, the obvious answer would be: those boxes of prepared matzah. 

According to the consensus of most authorities on Jewish law and custom at that time, it was strictly forbidden to make use of matzahs that had been baked earlier than the day preceding the Seder, the fourteenth of Nisan.

The prohibition against advance baking of matzah was expressed most uncompromisingly by the rabbis of Ashkenaz (Germany) in the tenth and eleventh centuries. For them, the ban extended even to matzah that was baked on the morning of the fourteenth of Nisan–and even if the leaven had already been completely removed from the household. 

Initially, most authorities insisted that matzot that were baked too early were completely invalid; though a few were ready to permit them after the fact. 

The Ashkenazic authorities proposed several theories to explain the origins of the prohibition. Some regarded it as an instance of the talmudic principle “a mitzvah is more beloved when it is performed at its proper time.” The invocation of this principle is, however, decidedly awkward, since it is usually cited in order to encourage the early performance of a precept, not postponing it to the last minute. 

A more significant objection to this explanation lies in the fact that the “mitzvah” of matzah is not the baking, but in the eating, This is readily demonstrated by the fact that there is no blessing prescribed for baking, though there is one recited before eating the matzah at the Seder: “Blessed are you…who has… commanded us to eat matzah.”

Indeed, it is precisely on this point that the elders of medieval Ashkenaz appear to have had a distinctive understanding of the religious status of matzah-baking. 

From the extensive discussions in the halakhic literature of the time, we learn that they did regard the baking of the matzahs as a commandment in its own right.

It is only if we accept this assumption that we can appreciate why they frequently invoked a ruling from the Talmud that forbids the eating of matzah before noon on the eve of Passover, treating it as analogous to the Passover sacrifice, which could only be offered up from the afternoon and onwards. In practical terms, this meant that the baking could not commence until about 1:30 p.m. 

The celebrated French commentator Rashi treated the prohibition of earlier baking as Torah-based, and he refused to compromise even in those bothersome situations occasioned by Saturday-night Seders.

The solution to this puzzle may lie in a better understanding of the origins of early Ashkenazic religious customs, a phenomenon that is closely related to the question of the community’s historical origins.

As has become increasingly evident to historians of rabbinic literature, the roots of many peculiar Ashkenazic customs can be traced to the Jerusalem Talmud and to other documents that preserve the religious norms of the ancient Jewish communities of the Holy Land. 

This phenomenon is undoubtedly a reflection of the ethnic origins of German Jewry’s founding fathers, many of whom had come to central Europe from Italy, whose Jewish community continued for many centuries to accept the authority the Israeli leadership. Much of the analytic hairsplitting that typifies rabbinic scholarship in medieval Germany and France can be credited to their attempts to create a harmony between their own time-honoured customs and the authority of the Babylonian Talmud, which had subsequently been accepted universally by mainstream Judaism.

Now, if we study what the Jerusalem Talmud has to say about our controversy, we will soon observe that it takes a very different approach to the preparation of objects for ritual use. 

Thus, in contrast to the Babylonian norm, the rabbis of the Land of Israel prescribed special benedictions to be recited over the fashioning of tzitzit, t’fillin a sukkah or lulav, as well as other items that are used for the fulfilment of biblical precepts. The familiar Babylonian practice is to recite the benedictions only when the commandment is actually being performed (e.g., by wearing the tzitzit or t’fillin, sitting in the sukkah or taking hold of the lulav during the festival).

It would appear that this approach to the performance of mitzvot provides us with the key to understanding how the early Ashkenazic rabbis were moved to equate the time-limits for the Passover sacrifice with those of the baking of matzah. For them, the preparation of the matzah was as inseparable a part of the precept as the act of eating it at the Seder.

From the twelfth century and onwards, as the authority of the Babylonian Talmud became progressively more pronounced in the academies of France and Germany, we observe a very gradual erosion of the prohibitions against early baking of matzah. 

The demographic growth of the Jewish populace also played a part in weakening the authority of the older practice. As families and communities became larger, the prospect of baking an ample stock of matzah in time for the Seder became very unlikely. Of course, this difficulty became more severe in years when the baking had to be done on Saturday night, leaving insufficient time to conduct the Seder, since the afikomanhad to be consumed before midnight, and it was important that the children remain alert for the recitation of the Haggadah. 

Baking on a festival also raised some thorny halakhic questions regarding the separation of the priestly portion of the dough (hallah), normally prohibited on holy days, and the cleaning and disposal of the equipment.

As a result, commentators began to speak of the last-minute baking, not as an indispensable requirement, but merely as a recommended practice; and they were more amenable to setting aside the old practice when Passover occurred directly after the Sabbath. 

Some texts confined the restrictions to the three matzot that are obligatory at the Seder, and not (as in the earlier discussions) to all the matzot that are consumed during the holiday week. Eventually, some rabbis were emboldened to reject the prohibition outright, on the grounds that it was not found in the Babylonian Talmud. 

The insistence on last-minute matzah-baking eventually came to be viewed as an act of extraordinary piety rather than an inflexible norm. The fifteenth-century Bohemian authority on liturgical custom Rabbi Jacob Moellin (Maharil) summarised that the sages were split on the matter between those who preferred that the baking take place just before the Seder (even on the second night!), and those who would rather have the matzahs ready in advance.

Although the permissive approach eventually prevailed among most European Jews, the ancient practice persisted tenaciously, especially in the Rhineland communities. As late as the seventeenth century, communities like Frankfort a/M continued to bake their matzah on the fourteenth of Nissan.

The study of Jewish customs, their reasons and origins, always provides for fascinating discussion of symbolism, values and halakhic reasoning. 

But there is a unique value to studying these customs as historical artefacts. Because of their tenacious determination to continue the traditional practices of their ancestors, those early Ashkenazic Jews have succeeded in preserving valuable clues to obscure mysteries of the Jewish past.

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• First Publication:
  • Ha’Atid, the Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Summer 2002 (5:3:19), pp 11-12.
• For further reading:
  • Marcus, Ivan G. Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of Medieval Germany Études Sur Le Judaisme Médiéval, ed. G. Vajda. Leiden: Brill, 1991.
  • Ta-Shma, Israel. “When Should Passover Matzah Be Baked?” In Jubilee Volume in Honor of Moreinu Hagaon Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, ed. S. Israeli, N. Lamm and Y. Raphaei, 2, 1286-96. Jerusalem and New York: Mosad Harav Kook and Yeshiva University, 1984.
  • Ta-Shma, Israel M. Early Franco-German Ritual and Custom. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992.
  • Ta-Shma, Israel M. Ritual, Custom and Reality in Franco-Germany, 1000-1350. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1996.
  • Tabory, J. “‘Al Afiyyat Massah Be-‘Erev Pesah.” Sinai 84 (1980): 83-5.
  • Zevin, Shelomoh Yosef. The Festivals in Halachah: An Analysis of the Development of the Festival Laws. Translated by Meir Holder and Uri Kaploun Artscroll Judaica Classics. New York and Jerusalem: Mesorah Publications and Hillel Press, 1999.
  • Zimmer, Eric. Society and Its Customs: Studies in the History and Metamorphosis of Jewish Customs, ed. I. Gafni et al. Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar Le-Toledot Yisra’el, 1996.

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My e-mail address is [email protected]

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Accounting for Accountability

by Eliezer Segal

Following his people’s disgraceful lapse into the worship of the golden calf, Moses removed the Tent of Meeting, the tangible symbol of God’s presence among his unworthy nation, and pitched it outside the camp. The Torah describes with pathos how the people would watch from behind as their leader entered the tent that no longer stood in their midst: “The people rose up and stood and looked after Moses until he was gone into the tent” (Exodus 33:8)

Although we might be justified in expecting that the entire people had by this stage been stricken with remorse about their grave offense, some rabbis in the Babylonian Talmud stated that the verse should be read in a derogatory manner, as an indication that they were disparaging Moses even now. 

The Talmud does not quote the accusations that the malcontents were making about the great prophet. In fact, Rashi notes that their slanders were so offensive that the talmudic sages were loath to repeat them. Nevertheless, he refers us to some passages in the Midrash that were less squeamish than the Talmud about filling in the disquieting remarks. 

According to those sources, as the Hebrew wags watched Moses walking by, one would quip to another “Look what fat legs and neck Amram’s son has!” The cynical companion would reply: “What else can you expect? When a person is in charge of the construction of the Tabernacle, is it not to be assumed that he would emerge from the project with great wealth!”

According to the sages of the Midrash, it was upon hearing such malicious accusations that Moses decided to order a full audit, in order to show his critics how he had disposed of every penny of the contributions to the Tabernacle building fund. The result was a lengthy (and, some might say, tedious) recapitulation of the Tabernacle’s inventory that was appended to the end of the book of Exodus. 

Such scrupulousness was not required by the Almighty, who declared his confidence that Moses was “faithful in all mine house.” It was, however, crucial to fend off the suspicions of human critics.

The importance of a complete and honest audit was appreciated by the traditional commentators. A special sensitivity to the issue is perceptible in the words of Don Isaac Abravanel who served as the minister of finance for the governments of Portugal, Spain, Naples and Venice. 

Abravanel drew upon his professional expertise to solve a thorny old exegetical difficulty in the interpretation of Exodus Chapter 38: Why is Aaron’s son Ithamar singled out for special mention in the review of those who worked on the Tabernacle and its vessels, when there were so many other priests and Levites who participated in the project? 

Abravanel’s plausible answer is that Ithamar was appointed by Moses to conduct the final audit of the project, to be based on data provided by the artisans who had actually used the materials.

The ancient sages were acutely conscious of how important it is to avoid even the remotest grounds for suspicions of misappropriation. The Mishnah ordained, for example, that individuals who wished to deposit coins for the various Temple funds should take care not to wear long sleeves or any other kinds of clothing that might give rise to charges that they had secretly pilfered from the box and hidden the loot in the folds of their garments. 

In later Jewish law codes, these examples formed the basis for several regulations governing the collection of charitable funds on behalf of the community.

The metaphor of a final audit is of course familiar from the Hebrew liturgy and moralistic writings. Central to the imagery of the New Year prayers is the idea that the deeds of each and every person are recorded in a metaphysical ledger that is reviewed annually by the supreme judge. 

In addition to the yearly audit, the sources speak of a final review of our lives when we pass on to the next world. The words of Job (37:7), “He sealeth up the hand of every man,” were interpreted to imply that God requires each person to sign an exhaustive transcript of all the good and bad deed that were performed during one’s lifetime. 

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot exhorts us to be ever aware that one day we shall have to submit a full report before the supreme sovereign of the universe.

In Modern Hebrew, the Mishnaic expression, “din ve-heshbon” (usually abbreviated as the acronym “dua”ch“) has become the normal way to designate a commercial or administrative report. 

Several commentators have called attention to the illogical phrasing of the Hebrew expression, which translates literally as “a judgment and an account.” Would it not make better sense, they ask, to reverse the order, so that the judgment or assessment comes after the submission of the factual data?

In fact, they reply, this is precisely what our sages wanted to teach us: that at the time we are performing our actions and reviewing our deeds, we should never for a moment lose sight of the fact that they must conform to the demanding moral and religious standards of the all-knowing absolute judge. Those who do not worry about ethical concerns until after the report has been composed are inviting tragedy.

This is a lesson that can be profitably learned by many of our Wall Street CEO’s and accounting firms.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October8, 2002, p. 8.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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And May God Bless...

by Eliezer Segal

The traditional synagogue service strives for a large measure of uniformity. The standardized prayers approach the Creator in precisely fixed Hebrew phrases, and in the name of the entire community, without adapting the liturgical formulas to the specific personalities or identities of the worshippers .

A rare exception to this norm of standardization is the Hebrew blessing that begins Mi shebberakh: “May the God who blessed our ancestors… bless So-and-so.” This formula, most often recited by the gabbaion behalf of someone who has participated in the reading of the Torah, identifies the beneficiaries of the blessings by their Hebrew names and the names of their fathers (and sometimes their mothers) as well indicating their status as Kohanim or Leviim. 

Diligent gabbaim will strive to record, whether in their memories or on paper, the Hebrew names and pedigrees of all their congregants. Alternatively, they will pause their rapid-fire declamation at the appropriate moment in the blessing to ask the person in question to supply the relevant information.

The earliest direct evidence we have for the recitation of personalized blessings are in passages like the Aramaic Yekum Purkan, a prayer for the welfare of the talmudic academies in Babylonia and the Land of Israel, and for the Babylonian Exilarch [Resh Galuta]. This prayer is designated to be proclaimed before the Torah scrolls are returned to the ark during the Saturday morning service. 

It is characteristic of the Jewish reverence for tradition that this prayer continues to be recited in most communities, in the arcane Aramaic tongue, long after the institutions to whom they are directed have passed from the earth. 

In fact it was not until late in the twelfth century that the Yekum Purkan made its first appearance, in French and German prayer books. Ironically, this was at the time when the institutions of the Babylonian Gaonate and Exilarchate were on the verge of extinction.

Shortly afterwards, a similar blessing was composed in Hebrew, on behalf of those who volunteer their time and possessions for the welfare of the community. Versions of that blessing became popular in France, Germany and Spain.

These congregational Mi Shebberakhs provide a fascinating window into the workings of a typical congregation. The tasks that were singled out for communal gratitude and blessing are indeed a representative sampling of the innumerable acts of sacrifice and voluntarism that go into the functioning of a well-oiled Jewish society. 

In addition to the obligatory mention of those who have contributed money or property to the synagogue funds, we find for example that Italian communities inserted the following Mi Shebberakh into every Sabbath service: “He who blessed our mothers Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, may he bless every daughter of Israel who fashions a mantle or a scarf in honour of the Torah, or who prepares a lamp in honour of the Torah. May the Holy one Blessed Be He pay her a reward and grant her a full recompense. Amen.”

The lamps that are mentioned in the above blessing are akin to the “Eternal Light” that is suspended before the Torah arks in the synagogue. In our electronic world, when illumination is achieved through the simple flick of a switch or the changing of a bulb, we do not always appreciate how different matters were in the age of oil lamps, and how much dedication was needed to make sure that those lights were always fuelled and kindled. 

The same observation applies to the lighting of the synagogue itself, which demanded regular donations of oil and wicks, and is acknowledged frequently in the Mi Shebberakh blessings. 

One old Mi Shebberakh text itemizes the diverse religious articles that can be contributed to the congregation during ones lifetime or as a bequest after death. The list mentions: Torah scrolls, wrappings and crowns; oil for the Eternal Light, money for the local and foreign poor; dowries for orphaned brides, salaries for teachers of poor children, mikvahs, yeshivahs, and books for study. 

Items that were omitted from that list can be filled in from other Mi Shebberakhs. Some examples are: the support of burial and free loan societies, taking on penitential fasts; abstaining from ritually doubtful wines or from idle chatter in the synagogue, and the upkeep of the pious scholars in the Holy Land. Conversely, some Jerusalem congregations offered blessings for the Jews of the Diaspora. 

For good measure, it was customary in Rhodes to bless the upright tax assessors; while the Jews of Carpentras also recited a Mi Shebberakh in honor of the Pope and the cardinals.

The catalogue of deeds for which Mi Shebberakhs were composed can serve as an exhaustive inventory of the essential tasks that must be fulfilled in order to maintain the communitys viability and vitality: Attending services, studying Torah and performing mitzvot, donating to charities, constructing the synagogues, furnishing lamps, wine and provisions for guests.

There is a close resemblance between the oral recitation of Mi Shebberakhs and that other venerable Jewish practice, of acknowledging the generosity of donors and volunteers by means of plaques and inscriptions. In some cases, the connections are nothing short of astounding. 

Take for example the mosaic inscription that was found on a synagogue floor in Jericho, dating from the Byzantine period. Its Aramaic text states “Let them be remembered for good, the holy congregation, great and small, who, with Gods help, devoted themselves to work on the mosaic. May He who knows their names and the names of their children and wives, inscribe them in the Book of Life along with all the righteous saints, Peace to all Israel. Amen.”

Imagine the surprise of scholars when they discovered that virtually the same formula resurfaces more than a thousand years later in Mi Shebberakhs in prayer books from localities as diverse as Aleppo (Syria), Persia, Crimea, Cochin (India) and Kaifeng (China).

But perhaps there is no real reason for surprise. After all, what we have here is an instance of some elemental human qualities that find their most admirable expression in religious communities. 

These qualities include the willingness of the volunteers to contribute time and property for the common good, and the communitys readiness to give public acknowledgment their gratitude.

The combination of these blessings can serve as a guarantee for the continued flourishing of Jewish communities in all times.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October17, 2002, pp. 12, 15.
• For further reading:
  • Foerster, Gideon. “Synagogue Inscriptions and Their Relation to Liturgical Versions.” Cathedra 19 (1981): 11-40.
  • Horowitz, Avi. “Synagogue Inscriptions–Linguistic Aspects.” Cathedra 19 (1981): 41-3.
  • Wieder, Naphtali. “The Jericho Inscription and Jewish Liturgy.” Tarbiz 52 (1983): 557-9.
  • Yaari, A. “The Mi Shebberakh Prayers; History and Texts.” Kirjath Sepher 33, no. 2-3 (1957-1958): 118-30, 233-50.
  • Yahalom, Yosef. “Prayers for the Community in Synagogue Inscriptions.” Cathedra 19 (1981): 44-6.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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