Your Roots Are Showing

by Eliezer Segal

In one of their typically theoretical academic discussions, the rabbis of the Talmud speculated about the physiological process of hair growth: Does it proceed from the tips or from the roots?

The question had some obscure application to the biblical regulations related to the Nazirite vow, and the rabbis approached it with their characteristic thoroughness by citing proof-texts the Mishnah and other authoritative religious works. 

However, none of these citations was able to resolve the matter to their satisfaction. In the end, faced with the inconclusiveness of the literary evidence, the rabbis appealed (as they so rarely do) to empirical data, referring to a phenomenon that was presumably a familiar one: When old men dye their beards, it is the roots that turn grey, and not the ends. This demonstrated irrefutably that the new growth issues from the scalp.

I find that their choice of example is quite remarkable. When called upon to come up with an everyday instance of dyed hair, the first case to pop into the rabbis’ minds was not the stereotypical one of a beauty-obsessed woman, but that of a grey-bearded man trying to conceal his age. Evidently, cases of the latter sort were frequent and familiar.

Now, if we were to judge purely from the official pronouncements of the biblical and Talmudic sources, we would have expected such phenomena to be extremely rare, if not non-existent. The sources demonstrate clearly that the ancient Jewish sages disapproved of men who attempted to improve their appearance cosmetically or acquire synthetic youthfulness. 

Undoubtedly, those rabbis would have recoiled at our society’s relentless advertising campaigns intended to persuade men to reverse the irreversible, whether by restoring lost hair, darkening its colour, or otherwise eliminating the visible signs of natural maturing.

According to an interpretation found in the Talmud, the Torah’s prohibition “Neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment” extends to any use of cosmetics by males. Some commentators even go so far as to prohibit the removal of scars and scabs, if the purpose of the procedure is esthetic rather than medical.

Indeed, the Midrash (in a well-known comment quoted in Rashi’s commentary to the Torah) took young Joseph to task for exhibiting the frivolous behaviour of a vain adolescent: “He would fix his hair and play with his eyes, in order to appear more attractive.”

Rav Assi went so far as to declare that “when the evil inclination observes a man making up his eyes, fixing his hair or lifting his heels, it declares: “Such a one is in my clutches.”

In spite of the sages’ general antipathy towards expressions of male vanity, there are several passages in the Talmud that suggest that not all men were able to resist the temptation to look more youthful.

One intriguing passage relates to a ruling in the Mishnah that prohibits sellers from misrepresenting their merchandise by “painting men, cattle or utensils.” As an illustration of what it means to “paint a man,” the Talmud relates a charming anecdote about a resourceful slave who ventured to enhance his market value by dying the hair of his head and beard in order to make himself appear younger. He was eventually hired by Rav Pappa bar Samuel.

This unservile servant (it is not clear whether or not he was Jewish) was clearly cut from the same cloth as those impertinent slaves in the comedies of Plautus, Menander or “A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the Way to the Forum.” When Rav Pappa ordered him to perform menial services appropriate to a young man, the slave conveniently washed out the hair colouring and appeared before his employer in the full dignity of his hoary hair and beard, berating him for not showing proper respect for his seniority: “See, I am older than your father!” 

At that point, Rav Pappa realized he had been hoodwinked.

In more recent times, the male concern for embellishing one’s youthfulness and attractiveness has been attested by questions that have been posed in the Responsa literature concerning the halakhic implications of toupees. 

Among the diverse topics dealt with by rabbinical authorities like Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, we encounter such puzzlers as: Does a man fulfill the obligation of covering his head by wearing a hairpiece? 

Though Rabbi Yosef strongly discourages the practice, he reluctantly permits it as a last resort–more readily so if the rug is so crude as to be easily identifiable.

Similar doubts were raised with respect to the donning of tefillin on a toupeed head. Since Jewish law normally insists that there be no foreign objects interposed between thetefillin and the head, would the wig have to be removed prior to commencing the morning prayers?

Rabbi Yosef indeed requires that the hairpiece be removed; but he stipulates that if this will occasion embarrassment to the worshipper, then he should at least recite the relevant prayers with uncovered pate in the privacy of his home, before proceeding to the synagogue.

For purposes of our current discussion, the learned halakhic decisions are of less interest than the very fact that such questions were raised in the first place. They demonstrate that, in spite of Judaism’s official assertions that concern one’s physical appearance is unmanly, not all Jewish men have been able to maintain such a high-minded approach. 

Whether their motive was to enhance their market value, their attractiveness, or their self-esteem, it is clear that there have always been men who felt it necessary to improve on their natural endowments. 

As for the rest of us mid-lifers, we are perfectly content in our conviction that nothing becomes a man more than the mature dignity of a grey beard and a receding hairline.

Of course, these look more attractive in a shiny red sports car.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 22, 2003, p. 16.
• For further reading:
  • Preuss, J. Julius Preuss’ Biblical and Talmudic Medicine. Translated by Fred Rosner. 2nd ed. New York: Hebrew Publishing Company, 1978.
  • Urbach, Ephraim Elimelech. “The Laws Regarding Slavery as a Source for Social History of the Period of the Second Temple, the Mishnah and Talmud.” In Collected Writings in Jewish Studies, ed. Robert Brody and Moshe D. Herr, 56-95. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The High Road and the Low Road to Sinai

by Eliezer Segal

Jewish tradition celebrates the holiday of Shavu’ot as the anniversary of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. It is therefore appropriate that the designated scriptural reading for the festival is the passage in the book of Exodus that describes that event. 

The Hebrew text of the “Ten Commandments”; is unique in the cycle of Torah readings, in that it appears in the Jewish Bibles and festival prayer books with two different sets of cantillation signs (trope). Many older editions have the two sets written or printed together, one of them above the line of text, and the other below the line. For this reason, they have come to be designated as the Upper Trope and the Lower Trope. Other editions attempt to lessen the confusion by printing out the complete text twice, one for each of the respective cantillation systems.

As you may be aware, the cantillation markers are a form of rudimentary musical notation that indicates the traditional manner of chanting the Bible in the synagogue. Like any good musical rendering of a text, the cantillation reflects the meaning and logical structure of the sentence, and hence it should be viewed as an important form of textual interpretation.

The differences between the Upper and Lower versions of the trope affect both esthetics and content. The Upper Trope reading is a fancier and more dramatic one, with a greater concentration of elaborate melodic patterns.

More significant, however, are the differing approaches that the two systems take to the division of the text into verses.

Notwithstanding the Torah’s explicit designation of this revelation as the Aseret Haddibberot, the Ten Statements (or: Decalogue), the Lower Trope version divides up the divine message into twelve verses. This is done by disregarding the number of Statements or Commandments, and instead creating verses that conform to normal biblical standards of length. In some instances, this involves the subdivision of single precepts into multiple verses, such as the four verses that are assigned to the Sabbath. At the other extreme, the multiple prohibitions of murder, adultery, stealing and bearing false witness are combined into a single verse.

The Upper Trope system, on the other hand, corresponds precisely to the division into ten Statements according to the traditional classification. 

In the Upper Trope version, the Sabbath section has been amalgamated into a single, extended verse; while murder, adultery, stealing and false witness are sliced up into separate units of unprecedented shortness: Some of them consist of only two Hebrew words apiece. 

Thus, when they are read according the Upper Trope, our passage comes to include both the shortest and the longest verses in the entire Bible. 

The evidence indicates that what we have here is a conflation of two independent traditions for reading the Torah. The Upper Trope originated in Babylonia, and the Lower in the Land of Israel. For this crucial reading, the Tiberian system of Masorah, which has been adopted by all Jewish communities, preserved both options.

By the Middle Ages, the Ashkenazic communities developed their own way of dealing with the dual traditions. Since the story of the revelation at Mount Sinai is read from the book of Exodus twice each year, once as part of the weekly cycle of Torah readings, and again on the festival of Shavu’ot, the Lower Trope was used for the regular Sabbath reading, and the Upper for the holiday reading.

The respective divisions into verses have some minor impact on the intonation of the words, since the pronunciation of some vowels and consonants is subject to change when they are at the beginning or end of a clause. These changes are slight, but they can lead to a crowding of the page with tiny diacritical marks that are likely to confuse readers who are not well versed in the intricacies of biblical grammar.

Such confusion was rampant in some eastern European Jewish communities, and it aroused the ire of the influential 16^th-17^th-century halakhic authority Rabbi Benjamin Slonik. In one of his responsa, he was asked to explain the mysteries and apparent inconsistencies of the two different cantillation systems. 

While acknowledging that they might have some more mysterious esoteric significance, Rabbi Slonik took pride in his ability to account for all the apparent anomalies in a logical manner. 

He accepted the premise that “the custom of Israel is to read the …Decalogue on Shavu’ot…in order to honour the day on which the Decalogue was given, and for this reason it is read with the grander cantillation [i.e., the Upper Trope], which reflects the division into ten Statements.”;

After presenting an orderly outline of the relevant information, Rabbi Slonik launched into a vehement diatribe against the Torah readers of his day who (he charged) were incapable of reading the passage correctly. Because the congregations selected their cantors based on their vocal artistry and their repertoires of gentile melodies, rather than their competence in Hebrew grammar, the Torah readers were constantly mixing together elements from the two distinct Trope traditions. This produced a meaningless hodgepodge, and the congregation that heard such a chanting did not fulfill the minimum standards of proper scriptural reading for even a single verse! 

“And in truth,” Rabbi Slonik lamented bitterly, “I have discussed this matter at such unnecessary length because I was inspired by zeal for God’s great and blessed name, in these lands, and in this generation, because the great majority of cantors do not know their right from their left when it comes to reading the Torah properly.” 

It is easy to sympathize with Rabbi Slonik’s frustration with a community whose commitment to the Torah did not extend to a thorough study of its language and correct reading. 

One would hope that his admonition was taken to heart, and that subsequent generations of cantors and Torah readers have been instilled with a more methodical mastery of their sacred craft.

If for some reason that has not been the case, then Shavu’ot, the time of the giving of the Torah, seems like very appropriate opportunity to begin.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 5, 2003, pp. 10-11.
• For further reading:
  • Breuer, Mordechai. “Dividing the Decalogue into Verses and Commandments.” In The Ten Commandments in History and Tradition, ed. Ben-Tsiyon Segal, 291-330. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1990.
  • Ofer, Yosef. Upper and Lower Cantillation Marks on the Ten Commandments. Bar-Ilan University Faculty of Jewish Studies et al., 1998. Accessed Web page. Available from http://www.biu.ac.il/JH/Eparasha/shavuot/ofe.html.
  • Shulman, Nisson E. Authority and Community: Polish Jewry in the Sixteenth Century. Hoboken and New York: Ktav and Yeshiva University Press, 1986.
  • Urbach, Ephraim E. “The Place of the Ten Commandments in Ritual and Prayer.” In The Ten Commandments as Reflected in Tradition and Literature Throughout the Ages, ed. Ben-Zion Segal, 127-45. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1985.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Tool Time

by Eliezer Segal

Whether it is in the context of television comedies or of comic strips, our popular culture would have us believe that the most insidious source of strife between neighbours is the borrowing of tools.

In fact, this impression finds considerable support from the Talmudic tradition, which relates many examples of disharmony and litigation that were precipitated by borrowed tools. Of course, these ancient sources do not speak of fancy power-tools, but of humble spades, sickles and axes.

So frequent were those squabbles that the rabbis used them as proverbial examples for a variety of social evils.

To mention one such instance, our sages were convinced that the gruesome plagues that afflict the walls of people’s dwellings, as described in the book of Leviticus, were punishments for moral transgressions. Prominent among these offenses was the “evil eye,” referring to the meanness of spirit that impels some people to resent the good fortune of others, or to enviously strive to undermine their happiness.

When called upon to illustrate this negative behaviour, Rabbi Isaac mentioned the case of a person who, when approached by his friend to borrow an axe to chop down a tree, was brushed off with the excuse “I do not own one.’

The Torah states that, once the priest has diagnosed the house as having been infected with the plague, he should command that the owner’s possessions be removed and taken outside. At this point, the Talmud notes, all the neighbours will witness that, contrary to his disingenuous protestations, the miserly owner did in fact possess an axe, and his meanness will thereby be exposed to public censure. 

A similar pattern is observable when the rabbis came to define the Torah’s prohibitions against taking vengeance and bearing grudges.

Vengeance is characterized in the Talmud by the following case: Reuben refuses to lend Simeon a sickle. The following day, Reuben requests the use of Simeon’s axe, but is told “I will not lend it to you, just as you refused to lend me your sickle.” 

Grudge-bearing, however, is a more subtle phenomenon. It would occur if, in the previous story, Reuben had originally denied Simeon the use of his axe; and when he subsequently asked to borrow an article of clothing, was told “Sure, here it is. I am not a tightwad like you!”

Neither form of behaviour is countenanced by the high-minded morality of the Torah. Significantly, both offenses are illustrated by examples of tool-borrowing.

Similarly, when called upon to provide examples of problematic vows, the Talmud finds it convenient to describe the case of an individual who tries to brush off his neighbour’s request to lend him a spare tool by vowing “Let this spade be forbidden me if I own another one” or “Let all my property be forbidden me if I possess any spade besides this one.” 

Presumably, these examples were taken from the realities of daily life; and requests to borrow tools, as well as attempts to evade those requests, were common occurrences. 

So compelling was the temptation not to lend out tools that generosity in this realm was sometimes treated as an extraordinary virtue. 

The Talmud relates, for instance, that a plague that arose in the Babylonian town of Sura miraculously excluded the neighbourhood, where Rav dwelled. The citizens were informed in a dream that this wonder should not be attributed to the merits of their saintly rabbi, but rather to an anonymous individual whose saving grace was his willingness to lend out his shovel and spade for burials.

The borrowing of tools raised frequent legal issues that had to be dealt by the judiciary.

A typical question dealt with by the Talmud had to do with the right of the lender to retract his offer and demand the tool back before the borrower had used it. Rav Huna ruled that once the borrower has used the axe to chop a piece of wood, then the designated period of the loan has taken legal effect, and the borrower has assumed a quasi-legal ownership, so that the owner has relinquished his right of retraction until the conclusion of the loan period.

Other rabbis claimed that the right of retraction is forfeited from the moment when the borrower takes possession, even before the instrument had been put to any use. 

When it comes to the borrower’s liability for damage to the article, all the authorities seem to concur that it took effect from the time when it was physically handed over. From that point on, the borrower bore responsibility even for unavoidable accidents. 

Indeed, the thorniest legal questions arise when a tool is damaged while in the possession of the borrower. The Jewish legal system strove to define the precise limits of the user’s liability in such events. 

Already in biblical times we encounter the story of Elisha, who accompanied a group of apprentice prophets as they ventured to build a dwelling for themselves in the Jordan valley. While they were chopping timber for the project, the blade of one of the axes flew off its handle and sank into the river, causing the acolyte to panic because the tool was borrowed. 

Fortunately, Elisha was able to perform one of his miracles and caused the metal to float conveniently up to the surface. 

In a case that was adjudicated by Rava, a borrowed axe was broken, and Rava ruled that if the borrower could produce witnesses that the axe had not been put to any unconventional use, then he was exempted from compensation. 

However, if witnesses could not be procured, the borrower was placed in a legally vulnerable position, and usually had to pay for the damage.

Even in this matter, there existed differing views about how the payment should be made. 

In a case that was brought before him for judgment, Rav declared that the defendant was obligated to replace the broken axe with a functioning one. 

However, when his disciples, Rav Kahana and Rav Assi, heard this decision, they challenged it, taking the position that it was sufficient for the borrower to return the damaged article and make up the reduction in its value. 

Rav did not respond to their question, and the Talmud declared in favour of the students.

In light of all the numerous complications and neighbourly spats that are occasioned by the borrowing of tools, it is hardly surprising that, in talmudic parlance, one of the most common metaphors that is used to describe the refutation of a rabbi’s opinion is “an axe has been thrown at it.” 

This corresponds precisely to the modern English image of “throwing a monkey-wrench into the works.”

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 19, 2003, p. 10.
• For further reading:
  • Segal, Eliezer. Case Citation in the Babylonian Talmud: The Evidence of Tractate Neziqin Brown Judaic Studies. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Ask a Stupid Question…

by Eliezer Segal

Among the many educational fads and fashions that enjoy episodic popularity at our university, the current enthusiasm for “inquiry-based learning” is one that strikes a sympathetic chord. 

I imagine that most teachers are acutely aware of how important it is to encourage students to ask questions. In spite of our frequent reassurances that “there are no stupid questions,” sometimes it requires extraordinary amounts of self-discipline to keep from brusquely dismissing a query that seems utterly inappropriate, incomprehensible or wrongheaded.

The encouragement of free exchange was a crucial feature of Talmudic culture, where the preferred mode of instruction involved intensive debate and argumentation, and every statement had to be defended against challenges by colleagues and students.

Occasionally, the Talmud relates that a rabbi intentionally introduced flawed argument, in hope of provoking his students to point out the errors in the reasoning. On such occasions, the Talmud explains that the scholar in question employed specious logic “in order to sharpen the students.”

In the course of a Talmudic discussion, the Babylonian teacher Rav Pappa once presented an argument that was so weak that it provoked his hearers to laughter. Rav Pappa was not upset by this reaction, but observed calmly that it is preferable to pose a flawed question than to sit in passive silence. 

Rashi explained astutely that the rabbis who made intentional use of unsound arguments expected their students to emulate their teachers’ openness, and not be inhibited by the fear of embarrassing themselves beforre their fellows. 

The important thing was that they should feel free to raise as many questions as were needed to elucidate the topic.

The rabbis’ encouragement of inquisitive students is evident in the unfortunate experience of Rav Kahana who had to flee from Babylonian to Israel, and made a penitential vow that he would refrain from raising objections against Rabbi Yohanan. Thanks to his reputation as a resourceful “lion” of Talmudic debate, he was admitted to the prestigious first row of the academy. 

As he sat in silence through the discussions, his scholarly reputation was progressively diminished, and the erstwhile lion was pushed back row after row, until he was dismissed to the last row with his status reduced to that of a mere “fox.” The only way he could redeem his credentials was by aggressively challenging Rabbi Yohanan with objections and difficulties.

Nevertheless, some rabbis managed to try the patience of their colleagues by pushing the limits of acceptable questioning.

For example, the Talmud reports that after the death of Rabbi Meir, Rabbi Judah instructed his disciples not to admit Rabbi Meir’s disciples to enter his academy, “because they are disputatious and do not come to learn Torah.” 

One of these quarrelsome students, Symmachus, forced his way into the study hall and tormented Rabbi Judah with a provocative question. This prompted Rabbi Judah to berate his disciples for their laxity in keeping out the troublemakers. 

He was convinced that pupils like Symmachus were not really committed to the sincere promotion of scholarly truth, but merely to inflating their egos at the expense of their teachers and fellow-students.

A notorious troublemaker of the Talmudic academies was the fourth-century sage Rabbi Jeremiah. He had a special proclivity for questioning the rationality of the various quantitative measurements that were used to define the limits between different categories in Jewish religious law. 

To take a modern analogy, Rabbi Jeremiah’s objections might be comparable to a sharp-witted attorney who defends a client against a speeding charge, by arguing that the speed limits are unfairly arbitrary. The lawyer might dwell rhetorically on the absurdity of differentiating between fifty and fifty-one km per hour: Is it logical that one should be legal and the other punishable? 

The rabbis who opposed Rabbi Jeremiah took the position that without such fixed measurements there would be no practical way of formulating or enforcing laws.

Eventually, Rabbi Jeremiah’s colleagues completely lost their patience with his exasperating questions.

The momentous incident occurred during a discussion of the Mishnah’s rule that when a young pigeon is found on the ground, if it is within fifty cubits of a dovecote, we presume that it came from the dovecote, and hence must be returned to the dovecote’s owner; but if the distance is greater than fifty cubits, the pigeon is assumed to have come from elsewhere, and hence the finder is entitled to take possession of it.

Against this law, Rabbi Jeremiah posed the following question: If the pigeon was found positioned so that one of its feet was inside the fifty-cubit range and the other beyond it, who could claim it? 

The Talmud reports laconically: “It was on this occasion that they removed Rabbi Jeremiah from the academy.”

According to Rashi, what snapped the rabbis’ patience in this case was the fact that Rabbi Jeremiah was wasting their valuable time with such a farfetched and foolish question. 

However, Rashi’s grandson, Rabbi Jacob Tam, pointed out that the Mishnah itself went on to deal with a similar case, where the pigeon was found exactly equidistant between two dovecotes.

Rabbenu Tam concluded, therefore, that there must be a more fundamental theological issue underlying the rabbis’ extreme reaction to Rabbi Jeremiah’s query: By challenging the coherence of the Mishnah’s fifty-cubit criterion, Rabbi Jeremiah was in effect calling into question all the measurements that are cited in the rabbinic legal tradition. Because measurements occupy such a central place in the halakhah, Rabbi Jeremiah’s brand of skepticism might potentially undermine to the entire structure of the Torah’s legal system.

Eventually, Rabbi Jeremiah realized the error or his ways. 

During the period of his expulsion from the academy, the scholars were stumped by a certain problem in the laws of testimony and, perhaps as a last resort, they requested his assistance to resolve their doubts. The tone of his response indicated his humble contrition: “I am not worthy of having this enquiry addressed to me, but your disciple is inclined to the following opinion…”

The outcome of this change of heart was that Rabbi Jeremiah was re-admitted to the academy. 

He had now learned to appreciate the difference between serious questions that are intended to promote understanding, and those that are merely designed to irritate or provoke. 

The lesson of this episode seems perfectly clear.

That is, of course, unless you still have some questions …

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, July 4, 2003, pp. 12-13.
• For further reading:
  • Albeck, Ch. Introduction to the Talmud, Babli and Yerushalmi. Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1969.
  • Heger, Paul. The Pluralistic Halakhah: Legal Innovations in the Late Second Commonwealth and Rabbinic Periods Studia Judaica. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003.
  • Kadushin, Max. The Rabbinic Mind. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1952.
  • 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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Spreading Like Wild Fire

by Eliezer Segal

As I write these lines, the Calgary sky is surrealistically discoloured with ash and cinders from a series of intense conflagrations that have been consuming the forests of western Canada. A few weeks ago, I had occasion to view the smoldering haze that obscured the vistas of central British Columbia, and to gaze upon stark mountain peaks from which smoke was issuing in ways that made me half-expect to see a bearded prophet descend with stone tablets.

Our ancestors were acutely aware of the devastating potential of fire, and this reality permeates many aspects of Jewish law and lore.

The civil law of the Torah (Exodus 22:6) deals with the case of a person who starts a fire that subsequently spreads through thorns until it consumes a neighbour’s property. In such instances, the person who caused the blaze must pay in full for all the damage that was caused.

The rabbis laboured to define what it is that makes fire unique among the various other agencies that can cause damage or destruction.

They noted that a basic characteristic of fire is its propensity to travel and spread from its point of origin. Although a flame may have been kindled within a person’s private domain, it has the power to move to adjoining property. This sets fire apart from other causes of damage, such as a pit, which is entirely inanimate; or an animal, whose ability to cause harm is compounded by some measure of willfulness.

Another distinctive feature of the combustion process is that it can only succeed when there is a combination of factors, such as fuel and oxygen, feeding the fire. The Mishnah discusses a scenario where one person ignited the initial flame, but another supplied the fuel that allowed it to spread. Which of the two is considered legally culpable for the ensuing damages? 

The rabbis concluded that the responsibility rests with the second person, since neither the flame without the tinder, nor the tinder without flame, is capable of causing destruction alone. Therefore, only the individual who combined the two components must pay restitution.

Some of the sages disputed whether fire should be treated as if it were as an extension of the perpetrator’s body. or as their property. On the one hand, a flame has no intrinsic value, so that it does not really qualify as “property.” On the other hand, it can spread independently of the person’s control, and therefore is not a straightforward extension of one’s body or actions.

Talmudic law also took into account that some situations are so unpredictable that the initiator of the conflagration cannot reasonably be held responsible for them. It the person took reasonable precautions against the spread of the flame, but it nonetheless succeeded in causing damage, then this is deemed an act of God for which there is no legal recourse. 

Thus, if a safe distance was maintained between the fire and the victim’s property line, then the person who kindled the flame is not held responsible when it unexpectedly jumped a wall or a stream to reach the neighbour’s property. 

Similarly, in determining the culpability of the person who ignited the fire, the Talmud makes a fundamental distinction between flames that are fanned by ordinary or extraordinary winds.

Consideration for the unpredictable results of a blaze also comes into play when assessing the extent of loss that was caused by the fire. According to an established principle of Jewish law, a person who has caused a fire is exempt from paying for valuables that would not normally have been stored in the place that was burned down; e.g., if the owner had buried a chest of precious jewels in a cornfield or barn.

The awesome destructive might of fire made it a apt symbol for other forms of destruction, and the ancient Jewish prophets and sages employed this image metaphorically to portray the manifestation of divine wrath against wicked nations.

In describing the defeat of the Egyptians at the Red Sea, the Song of Moses (Exodus 15:7) states “thou sent forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble.”

The rabbis paid careful attention to the details of this analogy. What is it about stubble that makes it a more appropriate metaphor than wood or other flammable materials? 

They pointed out that the crackle of burning stubble can be heard from long distances, just like the laments of the Egyptians. Moreover, the comparison with burned stubble underscores the completeness of the Egyptian defeat; as distinct from wood, which leaves behind substantial amounts of ash or residue. 

The moral depravity and worthlessness of the Egyptians comes across when we observe that the Bible figuratively compares the destruction of other nations to the felling of cedars or other lofty trees, rather than to lowly stubble.

Jewish tradition has always regarded the liberation from Egypt as a model for the future redemption; and the prospect of an all-consuming flame was particularly suitable for describing the anticipated fates of evil empires in the messianic future. This metaphor was employed to good advantage by the prophet Obadiah to describe the divine retribution that will befall Edom/Esau (1:18): “And the house of Jacob shall be a fire, and the house of Joseph a flame, and the house of Esau for stubble, and they shall kindle in them.”

The sages of the Midrash, for whom Esau symbolized the despised Roman Empire, interpreted Obadiah’s metaphor in terms of familiar situations in a village marketplace. A blacksmith and a goldsmith (Jacob and Joseph) were initially distressed at the sight of heaps of thorns (Edomites) being brought into the town. However, an insightful bystander reminded them that the eyesore could be eliminated instantly by a few opportune sparks from their forges.

In the same way (concludes the midrashic preacher), the Almighty reassures Jacob’s descendants that the overwhelming might of Rome is no more than a glorified heap of thorns or stubble that will be obliterated in a moment when the time arrives for Israel’s redemption.

The esoteric traditions of the Kabbalah took the imagery of fire to bold new heights, attaching to it a cosmic spiritual dimension. 

As described by the pseudonymous author of the Ra’ya Meheimana(Spain, 13^th-14^th century), the basic categories of damages in the Torah’s system of civil law–ox, pit, fire and human–should be understood allegorically as a demonic quartet of metaphysical evil, constituting a negative counterparts of the four angelic creatures of Ezekiel’s holy chariot.

In that gruesome foursome, fire represented the queen of the malevolent demons, the infamous Lilith. She (with the help of her partner Samael) was responsible for the burning of our holy Temple and its altar, leading to the cessation of divine worship, and the exile of the divine presence, the Shekhinah.

In this brief sampling, we have seen how Jewish scholars have tried to understand fire from diverse perspectives: as an issue in civil law, as a metaphor for an eschatological cataclysm, and as mystical allegory of metaphysical evil. 

In spite of all the differences between them, each of these approaches reflects in its own way the awe and wonder that are inspired by this mysterious and formidable force of nature.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September 5, 2003, pp. 14-15.
• For further reading:
  • Albeck, Shalom. General Principles of the Law of Tort in the Talmud. Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1965.
  • Lachower, Yeruham Fishel, and Isaiah Tishby. The Wisdom of the Zohar: An Anthology of Texts. Translated by David Goldstein. 3 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Horn of Plenty

by Eliezer Segal

The familiar practice in virtually all Jewish communities is to sound the Shofar one hundred times during the course of the Rosh Hashanah services. 

This elaborate ritual evolved from more modest beginnings. 

Since the Torah uses the word teru’ah three times in connection with the Rosh Hashanah festival, the raqbbis took this to mean that there is a requirement to make the sound known as “teru’ah” three times during the day. This was understood to correspond to the holiday’s three main themes: God’s sovereignty, God’s remembrance of humanity, and the motif of shofar itself.

The problem was that the rabbis were not entirely certain what the Torah had in mind by teru’ah. According to one view, it represented a vibrating, sobbing voice, like the sound that we now refer to as teru’ah, consisting of nine rapid-fire notes. Others believed that the Torah’s teru’ah simulated a sigh, represented musically by three medium-length notes (the pattern that is currently designated as shevarim). A third opinion insisted on intoning both the sigh and the sob sounds.

There was also a consensus that whichever of these sounds was the correct one, it must be preceded and followed by the prolonged blast known as the teki’ah.

In order to cover all their bases, the Talmud reports that Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea instituted the procedure of exercising all three options for each of the three required soundings. 

Do the math: Since each instance consisted of three sounds (the sound itself sandwiched between two teki’as), and each was performed three times, and in three different ways, 3 x 3 x 3 = 27. Add an extra three to satisfy the opinion that combines the shevarim and the teru’ah and we emerge with thirty distinct shofar-units. Double that total to cover the two different shofar services during the daily worship– after the Morning Service and during the Musaf prayer–and we arrive at sixty. 

This was getting close enough to the round number of one hundred that various traditions found ways to add the extra forty blasts to fill out the total. 

This elaborate shofar symphony blossomed out of the mere three blasts that were originally commanded by the Torah.

Some later rabbis found it hard to accept that a crucial Jewish ritual had originated because of uncertainties about the interpretation of a biblical precept. This admission of doubt was a source of profound theological irritation for a religious outlook that often justified its authenticity by appealing to its unbroken historical tradition.

Apparently, it was this uneasiness that provoked the Jews of Kairowan, Tunisia, to address an inquiry to the Babylonian scholar Rav Sherira Ga’on (10^th-11^th centuries), head of the great talmudic academy of Pumbedita. They requested guidance from the distinguished rabbi in explaining various questions that had arisen concerning the development of the Rosh Hashanah customs: How did people blow the shofar before the time of Rabbi Abbahu? Which of the various interpretations of teru’ah is the authentic one — after all, only one of them can really be true.

Rav Sherira answered impatiently that these were not sincere questions, but merely provocations designed to challenge the tradition. It was clear to him that all the different interpretations of teru’ah were equally valid and acceptable: “The matter is correct and clear, a three-fold inheritance in our possession, handed down as a tradition from fathers to sons, uninterrupted, throughout the generations of Israel, since the days of the prophets and until the present.”

Rav Sherira argued that the prevalence of the current custom should be construed as retroactive proof that this was exactly the same practice that could be traced all the way back to Moses at Sinai.

Some historians have argued plausibly that the sages of Kairowan who posed the question were responding to the taunts of the Karaites, who found in this case convenient proof for their contention that the rabbis’ beloved Oral Torah was built on very flimsy foundations. This premise helps account for Rav Sherira’s annoyed dismissal of the question.

A most audacious approach to the matter is evident in the Jewish esoteric tradition, as expressed in the Kabbalistic masterpiece the Zohar. Like Rav Sherira, the Zohar‘s author refused to entertain any insinuation that a venerable Jewish ritual could have arisen because of an uncertainty over the interpretation of a biblical expression.

Quite the contrary, argued the Zohar, the differentiation between the sobbing teru’ah and the sighing shevarim is crucial to the mystical meaning of Rosh Hashanah. The respective sounds represent the two different divine qualities that exercise judgment on humanity. The sobbing symbolizes the strict standard of celestial justice that is usually withheld from Israel. The sighing or groaning denotes the gentler kind of judgment that is associated with the divine presence in the lower realms. 

On Rosh Hashanah, Jews hope and pray that the verdicts issued by our compassionate Judge will be of the lenient type symbolized by the shevarim.

Recognizing that this explanation contradicts the explicit testimony of the Babylonian Talmud about the ambiguities that led to the different shofar sounds, the author of the Zohar declared that it was the talmudic rabbis who had missed the point: 

“These Babylonian rabbis do not know the mystery of the sob and the sigh, and they do not know that both are essential… They do not understand what they are doing when they blow both sounds, but we do understand.”

The Zohar takes the same approach in accounting for another Rosh Hashanah rule that seems to have originated because of doubts. 

According to the Talmud, the fact that Rosh Hashanah is celebrated for two days, though the Torah assigns it only a single day, is a consequence of uncertainties about its precise date. Because in ancient times the date of Rosh Hashanah was determined by the testimony of witnesses who had observed the astronomical new moon, it could happen that the witnesses arrived towards the end of the day and the Sanhedrin only became aware retroactively that the day had been a holiday. 

In order to prevent confusion in the observance of the festival laws, the sages decreed that the first possible day should always be observed tentatively as a holy day, a practice that was continued even after the publication of a calculated calendar that did not rely on the testimony of witnesses.

In this respect too, the Zohar rejected the Talmud’s account, and stated instead that both days of Rosh Hashanah are fundamental to the holiday’s mystical purpose, since they symbolize the two celestial tribunals that converge for the Day of Judgment: the upper court of harsh justice, and the lower court of lenient justice.

Clearly, the proponents of this world-view looked to Judaism for a source of immutable stability. They insisted that Judaism had existed in an unaltered form from time immemorial until the present, and that the Jewish customs of their own generation were identical in every detail to those of the biblical and talmudic eras. This brand of fundamentalism allows for far-reaching symbolic interpretations of religious laws and rituals.

For all its attractions, I believe that this approach runs counter to the dominant spirit of Jewish tradition. The classical Jewish texts preserve the record of an ongoing dialectic between the divine revelation and the imperfect humans who struggle to understand it and actualize its values in a changing world. 

This tradition is not one of abstract metaphysical certainty, but rather is mediated by mortals who are occasionally subject to doubts, disagreements and errors.

It is imperfect beings like these who are in need of the shofar’s call to spiritual renewal.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September 25, 2003, pp. 22-3.
• For further reading:
  • Ben-Sasson, Menahem. The Emergence of the Local Jewish Community in the Muslim World: Qayrawan, 800-1057. Jerusalem: Magnes, 1997.
  • Katz, Jacob. “Halakhic Statements in the Zohar.” Tarbiz 50 (1981): 405-22.
  • Lachower, Yeruham Fishel, and Isaiah Tishby. The Wisdom of the Zohar: An Anthology of Texts. Translated by David Goldstein. 3 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989.
  • Lewin, Benjamin Manasseh, ed. Igeret Rav Sherira Ga’on, Mi-Tequfat Ha-Ge’onim. Jerusalem: Makor, 1971.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Waving at the Winds

by Eliezer Segal

In the agricultural environment of ancient Israel, the significance of the festivals was often defined in terms of hopes and prayers for a bountiful agricultural yield. Because the sustenance of the Land of Israel is so dependent on the arrival of generous rainfall or dew in their proper seasons, it was natural that the religious observances associated with the annual holidays should be interpreted as requests for rain in the winter and dew in the summer.

A typical example of this kind of symbolic exegesis may be found in a statement by Rabbi Yosé bar Hanina concerning the rituals of Shavu’ot, when the Torah stipulates (Leviticus 23:17) that two loaves of bread are to be waved in the Temple. The act of waving was understood to involve moving of the bread back and forth, and then up and down. Rabbi Yosé explained this procedure metaphorically. The horizontal waving of the loaves was intended to avert harsh winds, while the lifting and lowering was in order to fend off “harmful dew” (perhaps an ancient precursor of acid rain?).

The Babylonian sage Rava extended the same rationale to the waving of the lulav on Sukkot, which is performed in a similar manner.

A later rabbi derived from this statement a profound lesson about the power inherent even in relatively insignificant precepts. According to rabbinic law, the waving is not an indispensable condition for the fulfilment of the respective biblical commandments, and its omission does not disqualify the ritual. Nevertheless, it has the capability of influencing the forces of nature.

The Talmud reports that Rav Aha bar Jacob, as he waved his lulav back and forth, used to announce “This is an arrow in Satan’s eye.”

Rashi interpreted this proclamation as a flaunting of the fact that Jews cannot be dissuaded from their determination to observe God’s commandments, even when tempted by the seductions of the “evil inclination,” which is often identified with Satan.

The Talmud, however, rejects Rav Aha’s practice as being a bit too brash in provoking the forces of evil. As Rashi suggests, the personified evil inclination might view such taunting as a challenge to lead the person into temptations that he ultimately cannot resist.

Following this line of reasoning, some commentators, especially those who were influenced by the esoteric doctrines of the Kabbalah, explained the Talmud’s statements about winds and dew as allegorical allusions to metaphysical evils. Accordingly, the waving should have the power to ward off the threats from Satan and the sinful urges. Nevertheless, those malevolent forces were still regarded as so dangerous that it was prudent not to provoke them unnecessarily. 

As the Rabbi Solomon Eidels (Maharsha) suggested, even if you are thinking about defying Satan, it is safer not to speak such thoughts out loud. 

Other authors faulted Rav Aha’s practice for the fact that he was claiming complete credit for the ability to resist Satan, when in reality it is only by means of divine assistance that we can remain steadfast in our religious commitment. 

On the other hand, some commentators pointed out that Rav Aha bar Jacob had a unique right to issue an open challenge to Satan, since he was a saintly man renowned for his personal piety, and had even been deemed worthy to have miracles performed on his behalf. Lesser mortals, however, should refrain from speaking with such self-assurance.

In fact, the Talmud is not as clear as we might have hoped in describing the correct manner of waving the lulav. While the text initially refers only to bi-directional frontward and backward movements, it goes on to connect them to the imagery of the four winds. This ambiguity is reflected in the testimonies of various medieval writers, who describe differing customs for performing the precept. While some communities waved their lulavs only in two horizontal directions, others added sideways motions as well.

A careful study of the rabbinic discussions reveals that there was more at stake than a technical question of talmudic interpretation. This can be deduced from the impatient tone with which Rabbi Isaac ben Abba Mari of Marseilles dismissed the arguments of people who sought to give literal expression to God’s mastery over the four winds by waving their lulavs in four different directions. 

Rabbi Isaac sardonically reminded those people that the same God who rules over two directions also rules over four directions! “Furthermore,” he added, “a person who is punctilious about waving to the north and south [in addition to east and west] has been infected by heretical ideas.”

“Heretical”? This is very strong language to describe what seems to be a legitimate variant in custom. On first hearing, it seems as if Rabbi Isaac is overreacting.

On further reflection, however, it does not take much ingenuity to figure out what was bothering him: The practice of waving to the front and back, and then to the right and left, bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the Christian manner of making the sign of the cross. This association was just too suggestive for some Jews who dwelled in Christian lands; and they were prompted to redefine their practice in order to avoid possible misunderstandings.

There were, however, some rabbis who viewed the matter in a completely different way. Rabbi Asher ben Jehiel (the “Rosh”) spoke dismissively about people who were so obtuse that they could not tell the difference between a Christian trinitarian symbol and the Jewish proclamation of God’s universal sovereignty. 

Furthermore, the Rosh observed pointedly, the addition of up-and-down waving to the ritual makes all the difference in the world. As long as Jews are waving their lulavs in six directions, there is no serious danger of their action being mistaken for the four directions of the cross gesture. On the contrary, it is those who confine themselves to two horizontal and two vertical movements who really appear to be making the Christian sign 

If I may allow myself to take Rabbi Asher’s argument a step further, I might point out that we ought to be paying more attention to the positive values of our own traditions, rather than negating those of others.

Nevertheless, underlying all these controversies is an important insight that can apply to all appeals for assistance: Whenever we find ourselves in need of blessings, whether of an earthly or supernatural kind, we should be very careful which directions we turn to for help.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October 9, 2003, p. 12.
• For further reading:
  • Lerner, M. B. “Ba-Shamayim Uva-Aretz Uve-Arba’ Ruhot Ha-‘Olam.” In Sefer Ha-Zikkaron Le-Vinyamin De-Fris, edited by E. Z. Melamed, 101-9. Jerusalem, 1969.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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It’s Witchcraft…

by Eliezer Segal

The Torah, as is well known, is not very sympathetic to witches, and classifies the practice of sorcery as a capital crime. However, the Bible is not very informative in describing what activities constitute witchcraft, or why witches are considered so objectionable.

In our culture, of course, the word witch, er, conjures up images of wart-infested hags in black robes and pointy hats chanting around cauldrons. 

Indeed, most of the assorted witches who make their appearances in the literature of the Talmud and midrash used their magical powers for malevolent ends. 

Simeon ben Shatah was able to arrest eighty witches in Ashkelon. In his ingenious sting operation, his disciples were able to gain entry to the coven’s cave by masquerading as a contingent of marriagable sorcerers. The love-starved crones could not resist the temptation. 

The agents were able to neutralize the witches by lifting their feet off the ground, thereby deactivating their magical powers, and making them easy to arrest.

Medieval Jewish writers had diverse approaches to the phenomenon of witchcraft. Maimonides and other scholars who lived in the scientifically advanced Arab culture were wont to write it off as a subset of idolatry, in which practitioners fraudulently ascribed supernatural powers to physical objects, rather than to the Creator of the universe.

On the other hand, the Jews of Europe shared with their Christian neighbours an intense belief in an endless variety of witches, demons, monsters and other ethereal things that go bump in the night. These eerie beings inhabit the pages of works like the Book of the Pious, the magnum opus of the Jewish pietist movement that flourished in medieval Germany.

A particularly intriguing interpretation of witchcraft may be found in the works of Rabbi Moses Nahmanides, the Ramban, the celebrated thirteenth-century exegete and Talmudist who lived in Gerona Spain.

Nahmanides’ view of witchcraft presupposes a distinctive theory of the structure of the cosmos. He derived his interpretations from his studies of astrology, as found in works like the Book of the Moon, an occult manual for manipulating supernatural energies in our world. In keeping with the widespread view at the time, this esoteric lore was ascribed to the wisest of mortals, King Solomon. Diverse formulations of this doctrine of “astral magic” were current in the medieval world in the tradition of “Hermetic” teachings ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus. 

These ideas had enjoyed popularity in the ancient world, and again became influential in the early medieval era, when they were translated into Arabic. The theory of astral magic was championed by some of the foremost Jewish thinkers, including Rabbis Judah Hallevy, Abraham Ibn Ezra, and others.

The universe of the astrologers operates along decidedly hierarchical patterns. The Creator established a permanent infrastructure of celestial bodies whose unchanging operations produce the eternally valid laws of nature. 

To supervise the stars and constellations, God appointed a class of heavenly beings, referred to variously as “angels,” “princes” or “archons.” These beings are authorized to manipulate the heavenly bodies, in order to produce specific effects on our lower world. According to Nahmanides, it is these beings who are designated in rabbinic literature as God’s “Celestial Household.”

The astrological world-view to which Nahmanides subscribed claimed that mortals also possess the capacity to understand and alter the heavenly powers, through an understanding of the courses of the stars, and through the performance of magical activities, such as the offering of incense to the respective angelic overseers.

The mastery of this lore is condemned by the Torah as “witchcraft” (kishuf). 

According to Nahmanides, the Jewish antipathy towards witchcraft is based largely on the fact that it allows humans to override the cosmic hierarchy, by changing the laws that were intended to be inexorable.

Unlike those rationalist thinkers, like Maimonides, who dismissed astrology as unscientific and fraudulent mumbo-jumbo, Nahmanides was fully persuaded by empirical claims of its accuracy and validity.

Central to Nahmanides’ understanding of the universe was the premise that every species in our physical world has a prototype in the metaphysical realm; a perception that probably has its roots in Plato’s doctrine of the world of ideas. Though it is possible to create new combinations of species, doing so will cause fundamental confusion in the higher world, and amounts to an arrogant rejection of the divine scheme of creation.

Rabbi Pinhas Hallevy of Barcelona, author of the Sefer Ha-Hinnukh, utilized the elements of Nahmanides’ philosophy to formulate a remarkable new characterization of witchcraft and its evils. 

When the Almighty set the universe into motion, he did so in the most perfect manner possible, so that every element would operate harmoniously for the maximum benefit of his creatures. 

The witch violates that primordial order by fashioning illicit mixtures. Even though, the omniscient divine will is that these mixtures can ultimately be introduced into the world successfully, the act of sorcery causes momentary imbalances in the celestial structures, and expresses a human arrogance that cannot be tolerated. 

For all his impassioned invective against witchcraft, Rabbi Pinhas allows for a significant exception to the prohibition: The manipulation of natural elements may be used for the manufacture of substances that have proven medical effectiveness. Obviously, the Torah did not intend to prohibit the use of such materials, which can contribute towards the alleviation of suffering or the extension of people’s life spans.

If we eliminate the archaic scientific and cosmological concepts in which their discourse is couched, we are left with some startlingly relevant issues about humanity’s place in the universe, the wisdom of tampering with nature, and the ethics of biological research.

It seems clear that the witches who were discussed by Nahmanides and Rabbi Pinhas Hallevy should not be imagined in black robes, pointy hats and bubbling cauldrons, but rather in the white coats and sterilized test-tubes of the experimental scientist or genetic engineer.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October 23, 2003, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Gollancz, Hermann, ed. Sepher Maphteah Shelomo (Book of the Key of Solomon): An Exact Facsimile of an Original Book of Magic in Hebrew with Illustrations. London: Oxford University Press, 1914.
  • Henoch, Chayim. Nachmanides: Philosopher and Mystic Torah La-‘Am. Jerusalem: Harry Fischel Institute, 1978 [Hebrew].
  • Idel, Moshe. “Hermeticism and Judaism.” In Hermeticism and the Renaissance: Intellectual History and the Occult in Early Modern Europe, ed. Ingrid Merkel and Allen G. Debus, 59-76. Washington and London: Folger Shakespeare Library and Associated University Presses, 1988.
  • Novak, David. The Theology of Nahmanides Systematically Presented Brown Judaic Studies. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992.
  • Schwartz, Dov. Astral Magic in Medieval Jewish Thought. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1999 [Hebrew].

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Adding Insult to Injury

by Eliezer Segal

The expression pain and suffering has been bandied about great deal in recent months in news reports and public forums, in connection with attempts to lower insurance premiums. Various levels of government in Canada and the United States are being encouraged to limit awards for pain and suffering for minor or questionable injuries. 

Advocates of the reforms point to the excessive sums that are being paid out for trivial sprains and strains, and how this practice can lead to higher premiums for the public at large.

Opponents of the proposed changes are voicing their concerns that deserving victims will be left without compensation for legitimate suffering, and are convinced that the insurance companies are merely seeking a way to recoup their bad investments at the expense of their customers.

Students of Jewish tradition will feel quite familiar with much of the discourse on the subject. The category of pain and suffering (tza’ar) for personal injury is dealt with in considerable detail in the classic texts of Jewish religious law.

The Talmudic rabbis taught that the obligation to compensate for pain is rooted in the Bible. When the Torah sets out that the perpetrator of an injury must give…eye for eye… burn for burn, wound for wound (Exodus 21:25), they read the each item in the list as a mandate for a different category of monetary compensation. 

Thus, in order to explain why burns had to be mentioned separately, rather than subsumed under the broader category of wounds, the rabbis proposed that the expression came to include forms of pain that do not leave visible wounds or scars, such as burns on the sole of the foot. Based on this principle, they extended the rule to require compensation in such cases as, for example, where a person was burdened with a painfully heavy load. 

The rabbis were well aware that the intensity of pain can vary from person to person. They noted that people with delicate habits or fragile constitutions might have a lower threshold than sturdier individuals. In the apparent redundancy of the expression a burn for a burn, the Talmud was able to find an authorization to take these individual circumstances into account when calculating the amount of compensation.

Our sages were sensitive to the difficulties involved in placing a monetary value on suffering. Other forms of reimbursement, such as medical expenses, reduction in market value or loss of salary, could be computed in a relatively straightforward manner. But how does one go about determining the appropriate payment for pain?

The Mishnah proposes that an estimate be made of how much money it would take to persuade a person of similar constitution to voluntarily undergo the same degree of pain.

The sages of the Talmud realized that this calculation could be more complicated than it appeared on the surface. For one thing, is anybody so stupid that they would consent to undergo painful injuries or suffering for any amount of money? 

(But, of course, those naïve sages lived long before the days of reality television!)

How are we to imagine a case in which the pain and suffering can be isolated from the other effects for which indemnification is being sought, such as depreciation or medical expenses? This was another question that occupied the scholars of the Talmud.

After extensive casuistic argument, and the elimination of some hypothetical possibilities, they arrived at a rather cumbersome (and gruesome) formula: Imagine that a person was going to have his arm amputated by an unchangable royal decree. Now that the loss of the limb is no longer in question, the court can now make a calculation of how much this unfortunate individual would be prepared to shell out for the benefit of being anesthetized during the procedure. This is the sum that may be recovered for pain and suffering. 

Jewish law recognizes that humiliation is a special class of suffering that also deserves compensation. The appropriate monetary reparation for this kind of claim was even more difficult to estimate, since there were so many variables that had to be taken into consideration. 

In the stratified societies of antiquity, the degree of humiliation would normally fluctuate in accordance with the social standing of the victim. A slap on the face of an aristocrat would presumably result in a more generous award than if the same act were inflicted on a beggar. 

If follows from this line of reasoning, that it is more disgraceful to be insulted by one’s social inferior than by someone who stands above you in the hierarchy. Accordingly, some rabbis insisted that all these factors must be borne in mind when assessing the compensation due to the victim.

A very different approach was advocated by Rabbi Akiva. He insisted that there are no class distinctions among the Jews. As the progeny of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, we all enjoy the status of nobility. This fundamental metaphysical truth is not altered in the slightest by the fact that some of us may have fallen on hard times.

Rabbi Akiva’s principles were put to the test on one occasion when he ordered a generous award to a woman who had suffered the disgrace of having her head-covering removed in public. 

The defendant subsequently devised a stratagem to place the woman in a compromising situation, after which he tried to persuade Rabbi Akiva that a person with so little self-respect was not subject to humiliation.

Rabbi Akiva would have none of this. He argued that a Jewish woman’s inborn dignity is fundamental to her identity, and is not diminished by her personal conduct.

In practice, the judges of the Talmudic courts were not always called upon to work out the complex mathematical computations to determine the penalties for pain, suffering or embarrassment. Precedent and custom assigned standard price-tags to specified offenses, such as slapping faces, pulling ears, plucking hair, or spitting.

Because all these penalties were to be paid by the offenders themselves, and not by an insurance company, they usually served as effective deterrents to potential offenders. However, the deterrent value of the payment could be severely diminished if the fine was regarded as too small.

Take for example the case of a certain Hanan, a notorious scoundrel in Talmudic Babylonia. 

The belligerent Hanan was once declared guilty of slapping somebody’s ear. The normal penalty for this minor offense was half a zuz to cover the humiliation.

True to type, the ruffian had only a single worn-down zuz coin in his purse, and nobody was willing to give him change.

For a rogue like Hanan, the solution was a simple one: 

He gave the plaintiff a second slap, and happily paid the full zuz.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 6, 2003, pp. 10-11.
• For further reading:
  • Albeck, Shalom. General Principles of the Law of Tort in the Talmud. Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1965.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Meeting in Mecca

by Eliezer Segal

The polygamous households of our biblical forebears were not always blessed with domestic harmony.

For example, the relationship between our matriarch Sarah and her servant Hagar, whom she had given to Abraham as a concubine, was a source of particularly intense strife. The Torah relates (Genesis 16:6) that Sarah treated Hagar so harshly that the latter was compelled to flee into the desert to escape her mistress’s wrath.

It took the intervention of an angel to persuade the pregnant Hagar that she should return home, and that her suffering would eventually be rewarded by the birth of a son, Ishmael. 

The scene of the encounter between Hagar and the angel is identified by the Torah as “a fountain in the road to Shur.” It is further stated that this fountain was situated “between Kadesh and Bered.” All these names point to a location in the Sinai desert, somewhere near the Egyptian border.

It is therefore quite astonishing that Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, whose commentaries are normally distinguished by their scrupulous adherence to the textual facts, was impelled to add that Hagar’s well is the scene of an annual pilgrimage by Ishmael’s descendents, to whom it is known as the Zamzam.

The Zamzam spring is of course a well-known sacred site in Islam, an important station in the Hajj, the annual pilgrimage to Mecca that is a central pillar of Muslim devotion. It is indeed customary for the pilgrims to drink from the waters of the Zamzam spring, which they identify as the same well that appeared to Hagar and Ishmael when they were banished to the desert by Sarah, following Isaac’s birth (Genesis 21).

While the agreement between the Jewish and Muslim traditions is intriguing, there is an obvious difficulty that arises from Ibn Ezra’s interpretation: Mecca, the site of the Zamzam spring, is located in the heart of the Arabian Peninsula, and not in the Sinai, where the Bible seems to situate it. 

The attempt to harmonize the conflicting stories requires Ibn Ezra taking to take extreme liberties with the geographical data. 

Actually, Ibn Ezra was not the first Jewish scholar who attempted to relocate Hagar to Arabia. He was evidently preceded in this matter by Rav Sa’adia Ga’on, the tenth-century rabbinical leader whose Arabic translation of the Bible enjoyed unchallenged authority and popularity among the Jews of Muslim lands. 

When he came to translate the passage that speaks of the appearance of the angel to Hagar on the road to Shur, Sa’adia rendered the word “Shur” by an Arabic phrase that means “at the rock of the Hijaz.” 

The Hijaz is the district of Arabia that contains Mecca. The Arabic word that Sa’adiah uses for “rock”–hajr–is the same one that is standardly used to designate the black rock that is housed in Islam’s holiest shrine, the Ka’abah at Mecca. 

Other occurrences of “Shur” in the Torah were left untranslated by Sa’adia, or identified vaguely as a place in the Sinai. However, in this particular episode, it seems as if he chose to defy the plain meaning of the biblical story in order to create a connection to the Muslim tradition. 

A similar tendency to unearth biblical references to Islam and its prophet is discernible in some earlier Jewish texts as well. The pseudipigraphic midrash entitled Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer paints Ishmael as a sort of prototype of Muhammad, and inserts an story involving Abraham’s encounters with Ishmael’s two wives, who are named Aisha and Fatima. The tradition about Ishmael’s wives was also incorporated into one of the popular Aramaic translations of the Torah. 

Undoubtedly, the authors of these works, as well as their targeted audiences, were aware that Islam’s prophet had a wife named Aisha and a daughter named Fatima. 

None of these deeply Jewish works can be suspected of assimilationist or heretical tendencies, nor were they concerned with currying the favour of a Muslim readership. Quite the contrary, Sa’adiah Ga’on and Abraham Ibn Ezra were both renowned for their uncompromising application of rigorous scholarly standards in their commentaries. It is therefore especially puzzling why in this exceptional case they deviated from their usual patterns of philological precision. 

One possible explanation that comes to mind is that their interpretations might not have been proposed deliberately, but were simply inadvertent reflections of the versions of the story that were current in the popular culture of the time. 

As a minority living in a civilization that was predominantly Muslim, it should not surprise us that even devout and knowledgeable Jews would sometimes read their Bible through Muslim spectacles.

This state of affairs might be compared to the influence that our own popular culture frequently exerts on how we envisage biblical events and personalities. How many of us habitually imagine that the ancient Israelites spoke the English of the King James Bible, or that Moses resembled Charlton Heston? It sometimes requires a determined effort to dissociate ourselves from these widespread preconceptions.

We should also consider the likelihood that the medieval Jewish exegetes looked to these Muslim traditions as confirmations of their own religious and historical claims. 

The argument would go as follows: If the contemporary Arabs, who presumably had no direct acquaintance with the traditions of the Hebrew Bible, nevertheless subscribed to similar accounts about Hagar and Ishmael and the ancestry of the Ishmaelites, it was plausible to suppose that those accounts had been faithfully preserved among the Arab tribes over the generations since biblical times. 

As an independent corroboration of Jewish historical tradition, this Arab tradition could be conveniently cited in interfaith disputations, as irrefutable proof for the veracity of the Bible and of Judaism. 

This argument could function as a very useful refutation of Islamic accusations that the Jews had tampered with the original text of their revelation.

When approached in this manner, the Jewish case could be argued more effectively by stressing the common features of the Jewish and Muslim accounts, than by accentuating the differences between them.

However we choose to explain its origins, there is no denying the existence of a Jewish exegetical tradition that set Hagar and Ishmael off on the road to Mecca.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 20, 2003, pp. 4-5.
• For further reading:
  • Firestone, Reuven. Journeys in Holy Lands: The Evolution of the Abraham-Ishmael Legends in Islamic Exegesis. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990.
  • Freidenreich, David M. ‘The Use of Islamic Sources in Sa’adiah Gaon’s Tafsir of the Torah,’ Jewish Quarterly Review 93, no. 3-4 (2003): 353-95.
  • Perlmann, Moshe. The Medieval Polemics between Islam and Judaism. In Religion in a Religious Age, ed. S. D. Goitein, 103-38. Cambridge Mass: Association for Jewish Studies, 1974.
  • Shinan, Avigdor. The Embroidered Targum: The Aggadah in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan of the Pentateuch Publications of the Perry Foundation for Biblical Research in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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