Cannibals in Canaan

by Eliezer Segal

A recent news story reported that villagers in a remote Fijian community staged an elaborate ceremony of apology for the relatives of a British missionary who had been killed and eaten there 136 years ago.

This bizarre item got me to thinking about an odd problem in talmudic interpretation that has been puzzling me for quite a while.

At the root of my predicament are several traditions, reported in the Talmud, concerning individuals who fell into the hands of beings known as “Ludim.”It is clear in each of these cases that the victims were very distressed, and wanted desperately to extricate themselves from their predicament. 

On one occasion when a disreputable person had sold himself to these Ludim, Rabbi Ammi laboured to come up with a pretext for ransoming him, in spite of the fact that the victim was a notorious sinner with a predilection for consuming non-Kosher food. In the end, the rabbi was compelled to concede that a person of such low character had relinquished his rights to assistance from the community.

Underlying Rabbi Ammi’s dilemma was the assumption that the sinner’s association with the Ludim placed his life in imminent peril.

The sinister character of the Ludim serves as the background to the plight of Rabbi Simeon ben Laqish who also sold himself to them. This story had a more fortunate outcome, as the resourceful scholar made ingenious use of his captors’ offer of a last wish to ambush them and escape from their clutches.

Here too, the mysterious Ludim were portrayed as people whose acquaintance is likely to shorten one’s lifespan.

Who exactly were these Ludim who struck terror in the souls of the ancient Jewish sages?

The simplest explanation seems to be that they were ludarii, from the Latin term for gladiators or organizers of gladiatorial spectacles. The stories of Rabbi Ammi’s reprobate and Rabbi Simeon ben Laqish both make perfect sense if we assume that the protagonists had been forced by their poverty to join the ranks of gladiators, a profession that was not known for promoting longevity among its practitioners.

However, several of the traditional commentators proposed a more sensational identification of the  Ludim. An interpretation cited by early authorities insisted that the reference was to a nation that practiced cannibalism. 

Rabbi Nathan ben Jehiel of Rome, in his influential Talmudic lexicon the Arukh(eleventh century), described the Ludim as a people who had nothing to eat but each other. 

This bizarre claim was upheld by the most authoritative of Talmud commentaries, that of Rashi.

These exegetes seem to be equating Ludim with the Lydians, the ancient nation who inhabited Asia Minor (present-day Turkey). However, I am aware of no other source that ascribes to them the practice of cannibalism.

Some scholars, in the determination to make sense of Rashi’s assertion, allude to Herodotus’ report that the Lydians had a reputation for fastidiousness and gluttony. 

With all due respect, an appetite for gourmet cuisine still seems a far cry from cannibalism.

A possible clue to Rashi’s intentions might be contained in the fact that he provides a French translation for Ludim, utilizing a word that should probably be reconstructed as “Chenelieu.” This was the medieval French term for “Canaanite.”

At first blush, this only exacerbates the confusion: What do Canaanites have to do with either cannibalism or Lydians?

With respect to the former question, at least, we may point out that there was an ancient Jewish tradition that accused the Canaanites of precisely that dietary preference. 

This allegation is found in the work known as the Wisdom of Solomon, which was composed around the second century B.C.E. and survived in Greek translation. It is related there (12:5) that “the ancient inhabitants of thy holy land were hateful to thee for their loathsome practices… ruthless murders of children, cannibal feasts of human flesh and blood.”

It is likely that the author derived this detail from a careful reading of the report of the spies who informed Moses that the land of Canaan was “a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof” (Numbers 13:32).

It remains to be demonstrated how these Canaanites could have ended up in Asia Minor. However, some other legends that were in wide circulation in the ancient world could offer useful clues for unraveling the mystery.

The riddle is most readily solved if we posit a confusion between Lydians and Libyans. According to a persistent belief that shows up in several Byzantine authors, the ancestors of the Libyan Moors had been Canaanite refugees who fled to Africa to escape the Hebrew armies under the leadership of “that bandit Joshua.” This bizarre sounding claim finds some support in the fact that Libya was heir to a strong Semitic cultural heritage, dating back to the days of its colonization by the Phoenicians. 

So deeply rooted was this tradition that the church father St. Augustine, who lived in the North African town of Hippo, related that local peasants were wont to describe themselves as “Chananaei”–Canaanites.

A similar tradition is preserved in rabbinic literature, where it is the Girgashite nation who evade Joshua’s onslaught by migrating to Africa. 

The same assumption underlies the Talmudic tale about “Africans” who once came before Alexander the Great to accuse the Jews of stealing the Canaanites’ homeland. 

Although we may have become habituated to “unaligned” nations meddling in other people’s affairs, especially where it involves condemnations of the Jews, this African championing of the Canaanite cause makes little sense unless we accept the premise that they regarded themselves as the heirs to the biblical Canaanites.

A variant of this legend, preserved in the apocryphal Book of Jubilees, claimed that the original Canaan, Noah’s accursed grandson, had disobeyed the divine command to migrate to Africa, and had chosen instead the occupy the more attractive Lebanese coast, the territory of the Phoenecians. Some historians trace this story to a Jewish-Phoenician propaganda war that raged during the era of Hasmonean expansion.

The site of present-day Beirut was once known as “Laodicea of Canaan,” an epithet that was bestowed on it briefly by Antiochus IV in recognition of the link between the Phoenicians and the Canaanites. Under his reign, coins were minted with the inscription “from Laodicea, a metropolis in Canaan.”

Given the vagaries of Hebrew vowels, this opens up the possibility that Rashi’s reference might not have been to Lydians or Libyans, but to Laodiceans. 

I confess that I am unable to map out a precise trajectory through which our story traveled and evolved on its course from biblical Canaan to medieval France.

Any scholar who wishes to trace this circuitous path will undoubtedly find it to be full of unexpected twists and detours, with some dangerous surprises lurking around every bend. 

For those of you with appetizing ammounts of meat on your bones, I issue an urgent travel advisory: Avoid any unnecessary stopovers in Lydia, Libya or Laodicea.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December 4, 2003, pp. 6, 17.
• For further reading:
  • Blondheim, D. S. Les Gloses Françaises dans les Commentaires Talmudiques De Raschi Johns Hopkins Studies in Romance Literatures and Languages. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1937.
  • Kohut, Alexander. Supplement to ‘Aruch Completum. Jerusalem: Makor, 1970.
  • Levy, Johanan Hans. Studies in Jewish Hellenism. Translated by J. Amir. 2nd ed. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1969.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Yesterday’s Hero

by Eliezer Segal

The spark that ignited the revolt against the persecutions of Antiochus was when the elderly priest Mattathias beheld the shocking spectacle of a Jew offering up heathen sacrifices at an altar in Modi’in. 

According to the author of 1 Maccabees,

When Mattathias saw this, he burned with zeal and his heart was stirred. He gave vent to righteous anger; he ran and killed him on the altar. At the same time he killed the king’s officer who was forcing them to sacrifice, and he tore down the altar. Thus he burned with zeal for the law, just as Phinehas did against Zimri son of Salu.

The appeal to the biblical precedent of Phinehas was appropriate for the circumstances. According to the book of Numbers, Aaron’s grandson Phinehas, upon seeing an Israelite leader and his Midianite consort openly participating in the licentious cult of Baalpeor, impetuously took up arms and executed the sinners. 

In a similar spirit, the author of 4 Maccabees, when recounting the stirring tale of the widow who allowed her seven children to be killed by the Greeks rather than bow down to idols, wrote that the mother invoked Phinehas as an inspirational model for their heroic self-sacrifice. 

Rabbinic texts that were composed after the destruction of the Second Temple indicate in diverse ways that they associated Phinehas’ violent impetuosity with the typical attitudes of the Second Temple era, especially during the period extending from the Hasmonean revolt to the destruction of Jerusalem Temple in 70 C.E. 

This correlation is implied in their expositions of an enigmatic passage in the Mishnah: “If one has relations with an Aramean woman, zealots attack him.” One opinion in the Talmud associate this tradition with the episode of Phinehas, while another tradition attributes it to “the court of the Hasmoneans.”

An additional example of how the rabbis associated Phinehas’ exploits with the zealotry of the Second Commonwealth may be discerned in an ostensibly trivial detail that they injected into their retelling of the biblical narrative. When Phinehas took his spear to execute Zimri, the rabbis stated that he concealed the blade under his cloak in order to avoid detection as he entered the tent.

This interpretation vividly evokes the image of the “Sicarii,” the extemist Zealot faction in the great revolt against Rome who derived their name from their notorious practice of concealing daggers [Latin: sica] under their garments, with which they assassinated their opponents, both gentile and Jewish.

On the whole, the rabbis were quite accurate in their perception that Phinehas’ hotheaded zealotry was emblematic of the late Second Temple era, a time when devotion to the Israelite covenant often took the form of armed resistance to Hellenistic or Roman authority, or to fellow Jews who were judged to have deviated from the true path. 

Evidently, the rabbis were aware that the attitude of those earlier generations was different from their own.

In their retelling of the story of Phinehas and Zimri, the rabbis went out of their way to introduce supernatural elements that had the effect of making Zimri’s offense unmistakable to the crowd of observers, so that no factual doubts could be raised about the sinners’ guilt. 

By linking the Torah’s approval of Phineas’ violence to a sequence of uniquely miraculous circumstances, the Talmud was implicitly declaring that it could not serve as a precedent for denying due process in similar situations in the future. 

Rabbi Judah ben Pazi went so far as to assert that Phinehas’s contemporaries would have placed him under a ban of excommunication had the Almighty not intervened personally on his behalf. 

Rabbi Johanan declared that that he would never instruct a person to emulate Phineas’ behaviour. In fact, latter-day zealots who ventured to do so might face prosecution for murder, while their targets would be vindicated for killing them in self-defense. 

These rabbinic interpretations demonstrate an unmistakable shift in attitude vis à vis the dominant values of Second Temple documents, all of which extolled Phinehas’ zeal as a model to be emulated, and as a hero whose resolutely violent response to sacrilege and immorality earned him divine commendation. 

The upshot of the expositions in the midrashic and talmudic sources was to relegate the episode to the past, if only as recent a past as the Second Commonwealth. 

The talmudic sages may well have been reacting to the violent excesses that had led to tragic consequences in the previous era, excesses that they ascribed to the “baseless hatreds” of religious fanaticism and factionalism. The roots of the zealot ideology could be traced back to the Hanukkah story, and its ongoing cultivation had helped create the conditions for the destruction of Jerusalem.

The annals of history are full of heroic liberators and rebels who failed at the mundane tasks of peacetime leadership. The Hasmoneans, whose brilliant victory degenerated into despotism and factionalism, might well fit this characterization. 

The rabbis’ marginalization of Phinehas may be read as an expression of their disenchantment with the culture of extremism that undermined the initial promise of the Hasmonean triumph.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December 18, 2003, pp. 20-1.
• For further reading:
  • Hengel, Martin. The Zealots: Investigations into the Jewish Freedom Movement in the Period from Herod I until 70 A.D. Translated by David Smith. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1989.
  • Klassen, William. Jesus and Phineas: A Rejected Role Model. Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 25 (1986): 490-500.
  • Lurie, Benzion. Megillat Ta’anith with Introduction and Notes. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1964 [Hebrew].
  • Nikiprowetzky, Valentin. Josephus and the Revolutionary Parties. In Josephus, the Bible, and History, ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata, 216-36. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1988.
  • Smith, Morton. Zealots and Sicarii: Their Origins and Relations. Harvard Theological Review 64 (1971): 1-19.
  • Stern, Menahem. Zealots. Encyclopedia Judaica Year Book, no. 1 (1973): 135-52.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Children’s Questions at Heart of Passover

by Eliezer Segal

At first glance, it seems like a trivial, silly custom. A broken piece of matzah, (the unleavened bread that is the staple dietary item of the Jewish Passover) is set aside and hidden. In some families, the parents are the ones who conceal the matzah, and the children are responsible for finding it; in others, the youngsters purloin it and later ransom it in exchange for gifts.

The practice of matzah-snatching is recorded in ancient Jewish documents, where it is given a rationale that is remarkable in its simplicity: “To keep the children from falling asleep.”

The concern with involving the children actively in the Passover celebration is reinforced in several of its customs. Ultimately, it is the children who define special character of Passover within the spectrum of Jewish values and observances. 

If it were merely a historical commemoration of the liberation of the ancient Hebrews, then it would be difficult to justify the institution of Passover as an annual festival. After all, the motifs of slavery and liberation permeate every aspect of the Jewish experience. The Torah invokes that memory in diverse contexts, such as when commanding compassionate treatment of strangers or the observance of a weekly day of rest. 

Verbal mentions of the Egyptian exodus are incorporated into the standard prayers that are repeated each day. 

If these memories accompany the Jew through every moment and situation, what need is there for an additional holiday devoted to the same familiar theme?

Clearly, what is unique to Passover is its association with the precept set down in Exodus 13:8: “And you shall tell your child on that day, ‘It is because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.'” 

As the children are exposed to the numerous profound and exotic customs of the holiday, their curiosity is expected to provoke them to inquire about their meanings. 

We may therefore appreciate how important it is that the telling of the Exodus story must be initiated with youngest person present asking “Why is this night different from all other nights?” 

Jewish tradition assumes that the message of Passover cannot be transmitted in a uniform version. Rather, every child must be addressed in his or her unique individuality. There are self-motivated and gifted children for whom a slight nudge of parental guidance is enough to set them in the proper direction of independent learning and appreciation. 

However, other children challenge the tradition with a rebellious hostility, requiring a forceful or confrontational response. 

And then there are those children who do not even realize that there are questions to be asked. Jewish tradition insists that in such cases, the parent or educator must initiate the conversation, so that the children will be able to partake in the historical memory of their people. 

When it comes to the instilling of religious values, it is not enough to recite texts and facts mechanically. The Passover ritual includes tangible reenactment of the story, through the use of symbolic foods, actions and other means that allow the participants to experience the degradations of slavery and the exhilaration of freedom. It is assumed throughout that only those who have experienced oppression can truly appreciate the value of liberty. This is a message that bears repeating in our own country, as many of us no longer appreciate how precious freedom is. 

Passover holds some universal lessons for the numerous cultural and religious communities that contribute to the tapestry of our society. The beauty and wisdom of these cultures will not survive into the next generation without an intense commitment from their present custodians. Without this determination, they will continue to be blended into the shallow globalized mush that is daily overtaking us.

The successful transmission of our memories and values to the next generation demands that we engage the spirits and minds of the next generation.

As a society, we will be unforgivably impoverished if we fail to keep our children from falling asleep at the table.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Calgary Herald, April 19, 2003, p. OS12.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

An Embarrassment of Riches

by Eliezer Segal

If God had merely killed their firstborn, but not given us their wealth, it would have been enough for us. These words appear in the Dayyenu segment of the Passover Seder, and are usually sung with gusto by the participants.

As with several of the other stanzas in that passage, we should be exceedingly careful about accepting this statement at face value. A broad survey of the relevant biblical texts would indicate how crucial it was for the divine historical plan that the Israelites make their departure from Egypt with great wealth. 

This detail was foretold to Abraham, and repeated to Moses at the outset of his career. On the eve of the exodus, the Hebrew slaves were given explicit instructions to ask their Egyptian neighbours for goods. The construction of the lavish sanctuary in the wilderness would have been incomprehensible without some explanation of how a ragtag band of freed slaves had come into possession of such immense amounts of gold, silver, textiles and precious stones.

The precise details of how the Israelites acquired the Egyptian wealth have proven problematic to Jewish interpreters and apologists. God instructs Moses Speak now in the ears of the people, and let every man borrow of his neighbour, and every woman of her neighbour, jewels of silver and jewels of gold (Exodus 11:2). As translated here (according to the King James Bible), our ancestors were being told to participate in a divinely authorized scam. Although they knew that they would soon be fleeing from Egypt, and had no expectation of returning the valuables, they disingenuously approached their neighbours on the pretext that this was merely a temporary borrowing.

The moral difficulties inherent in this narrative were acutely evident to Jews throughout history, and hostile gentiles were quick to cite it as evidence for the Torah’s questionable ethical standards. 

A distinguished roster of Jewish exegetes–including such luminaries as Sa’adiah Ga’on, Hananel of Kairowan, Abraham Ibn Ezra, David Kimhi and Samuel ben Meir–tried to counter this accusation with the help of some scholarly lexicography. They pointed out that, although the Hebrew root Sh’L can sometimes have the sense of borrow, its basic meaning is simply ask. In the present context, therefore, we must presume that the Hebrew slaves had not approached their neighbours under false pretenses, but had made it clear to them that they were asking for permanent gifts. The Egyptians (with some supernatural prodding) were favourably disposed towards the Hebrews, and were sincerely generous with their farewell gifts.

A few years ago, the newspapers reported that an Egyptian jurist was launching a lawsuit against Israel calling for the return of this ill-gotten wealth (to be multiplied exponentially to cover three thousand years of inflation). Readers familiar with traditional Jewish literature were overcome by a feeling of déjà vu. According to the Talmud, an identical scenario unfolded long ago, in the days of Alexander the Great, when the Egyptian people took the Jews to court to recover their ancestors’ fraudulently extracted wealth. The ancient lawsuit was withdrawn when the Jewish pleader began to compute the total wages accruing to 600,000 slaves for 240 years of unpaid labour. Realizing that a good chunk of salary was still owing, the plaintiffs quietly abandoned their litigation.

Whether or not such a trial was ever brought before Alexander, historians have observed that the issues in the talmudic tale accurately reflect attitudes that existed during the Second Temple era. The Book of Jubilees, composed early in the Hasmonean era, states clearly that the Israelites despoiled Egypt in return for the forced labour that was imposed on them. In a similar spirit, the first-century C. E. commentator Philo Judaeus of Alexandria, was impelled to point out that the Egyptians were reimbursing the Hebrews for their services, their suffering, and for the deprivation of their liberty. Philo, who resided in Egypt, indicates that he was responding to charges raised by his contemporaries.

Don Isaac Abravanel introduces another factor to this argument. According to his reading of the Exodus narrative, the Hebrews must have owned substantial property of their own, which had been abandoned when they fled Egypt, so that the riches that they took away with them on their departure was nothing more than a fair reparation for what they had lost. 

It is hard to escape the suspicion that Abravanel’s interpretation of the events in ancient Egypt was influenced by his personal experiences, as an affluent courtier who was forced to relinquish his property when the Jews were banished from the Iberian peninsula in 1492.

Philo provided yet another justification for the Hebrews’ seizing of Egyptian property: In effect, Israel and Egypt were in a virtual state of war. It was the universally acknowledged right of a victor to plunder a vanquished enemy. Had the sandal been on the other foot, the Egyptians would have been the last to question the validity of that convention; even though the Geneva Conventions no longer allow us to presume, as previous generations did, that to the victor go the spoils. 

Philo’s writings were not preserved or studied in subsequent Jewish tradition, so that, his argument about the victor’s right to take booty found almost no echo among the standard Jewish commentators. An intriguing exception was Rabbi Obadiah Sforno, the sixteenth-century Italian scholar and exegete whose commentary on the Torah enjoys an honoured position on the pages of the standard editions of the Rabbinic Bible. Sforno was not troubled in the least by the premise that the Hebrews had asked the Egyptians for only temporary use of the precious vessels. Evidently, they were perfectly sincere at the time in their readiness to return the goods to their owners at some unspecified future time. The situation was decisively transformed, however, when the Egyptians reneged on their commitment to let the Israelites leave peacefully, and began to pursue them towards the Red Sea. This was an unprovoked declaration of war, and, as Sforno reminds us, those who are attacked have the right to plunder their attackers, as is the acceptable custom in any war.

Steeped as he was in the classical scholarship of Renaissance Italy, Rabbi Sforno might have been familiar with Philo’s similar arguments many centuries previously. One is tempted to characterize his affirmation of spoils of war as Machiavellian. And in fact, Sforno was a younger contemporary of the famous political philosopher, so it should not strike us as all that surprising if he shared some of the attitudes that were current in Renaissance society. 

As always, this survey of traditional Jewish scriptural interpretation has revealed to us a dynamic world of insightful scholarship, ideological diversity and cross-cultural conversation. These spiritual riches may well prove to be of more lasting value than the precious metals and jewels that our ancestors carried out of Egypt.

---

• First Publication:
  • Destiny: Quarterly Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Melbourne, Australia, Issue 5 (Adar – Tammuz 5766 / March – June 2006, p. 21.
• For further reading:
  • Blidstein, Gerald J. Studies in Halakhic and Aggadic Thought. Beersheba: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2004.
  • Lévi, Israel. La Dispute entre les Egyptiens et les Juifs. Revue des Etudes Juives 43 (1912): 211-215.
  • Levy, Johanan Hans. Studies in Jewish Hellenism. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1969 [Hebrew].

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

The Sounds of Sinai

by Eliezer Segal

It was Saadiah Ga’on who provided us with what is probably the most exhaustive enumeration of themes and associations that are evoked by the shofar. His catalogue of ten reasons for sounding the shofar on Rosh Hashanah is familiar to many of us by virtue of its inclusion in many companions and commentaries to the festival prayer book. However, it would appear that not all the items in his Top Ten list are of equal consequence; some of them have acquired a more central position than others in the popular Jewish consciousness.

The most familiar association is probably with the ram that was substituted for Isaac in the story of the “binding of Isaac,” a motif that inspires so much of the festival liturgy. We also hear frequent mentions of how the shofar blasts awaken us from our moral lethargy and of their resemblance to the sound contrite sobbing. On the other hand, some other items on Saadiah’s list–such as the associations with prophecy, the destruction of the Temple and the future resurrection–are mentioned only peripherally, if at all, in the prayers and sermons of the New Year season.

The third theme on Saadiah’s list is the revelation at Mount Sinai that was accompanied by “the voice of the shofar exceeding loud.” Saadiah comments briefly that “we should accept upon ourselves what our ancestors accepted upon themselves: ‘we will do, and we will hear.'” This is undoubtedly a worthy sentiment, but not one that has an obvious relevance to Rosh Hashanah; and it is hard to escape the impression that it might have been included in the list as padding in order to round the total up to ten.

And yet a survey of Jewish commentators and thinkers over the ages reveals that a surprising number of them regarded the evocation of the giving of the Torah as the main theme of Rosh Hashanah.

This was certainly the case for Philo of Alexandria, the first-century Jewish philosopher who left us a magnificent collection of allegorical expositions of the Torah in Greek.

In his treatise “On the Special Laws” Philo refers to Rosh Hashanah as “the festival of the sacred moon” (because it occurs on the new moon) or the “true feast of trumpets .” He proposes two reasons why the Torah commanded us to sound the shofar during the Temple service, one that is of specific relevance to Jews and one that is of more universal significance. 

The Jewish reason is to recall the revelation at Mount Sinai whose momentous importance was underscored by the sounding of a mighty shofar from the heavens. The shofar’s universal symbolism, on the other hand, lies in its associations with warfare, conflict, destruction and assaults against nature. “For this reason the law has named this festival after an instrument of war, in order to express the fitting gratitude to God as the bestower of peace who has abolished all disorder in cities, and in all parts of the universe.”

It might appear rather startling that Philo does not speak at all about what we would now regard as Rosh Hashanah’s most important motifs: judgment, repentance and contrition. We should however bear in mind that none of those themes are actually mentioned in the Torah in connection with the holiday. And for that matter, Shavu’ot–which came to be celebrated as the anniversary of the revelation at Sinai–is not identified as such in the Bible, so that it is not unreasonable to see Philo assigning that theme to Rosh Hashanah.

Nevertheless, the affinity between the shofar and the giving of the Torah was pivotal for some later Jewish thinkers as well. 

In his philosophical classic Sefer Ha-‘Iqqarim [the Book of Fundamental Principles], the fifteenth-century Spanish thinker Rabbi Joseph Albo argued that the main teachings of Jewish theology can be reduced to three basic doctrines: (1) that God exists, (2) that he reveals himself to his creatures, and (3) that he treats us justly, eventually rewarding the righteous and punishing the wicked. 

The central themes of the Rosh Hashanah Additional [Musaf] Service correspond to those three concepts: Malkhuyyot enthrones the Almighty as the sovereign of the universe, Zikhronot tells of the divine judgment, and Shofarot attests to our faith in the divine revelation of the Torah. It is therefore eminently appropriate, says Albo, that the Shofarot segment of the liturgy opens with the words “You were revealed in the cloud of your glory upon your holy people to speak unto them, from the heavens you sounded your voice.” He traces a trajectory that extends from the revelation at Sinai–which was confined to the nation of Israel–to the revelation in the messianic future that will be received by all of humanity. The connection between those two events is expressed in the prophet Zechariah’s vision that at the time of the future revelation “the Lord God shall blow the shofar.”

As for the more widespread tradition that sees the principal purpose of the shofar in the evocation of the sacrifice of Isaac, Albo acknowledges that he has read about such an interpretation, but he rejects it outright, pointing out that the binding of Isaac is not mentioned at all in the text of the Shofarot segment of the liturgy, but only in the Zikhronot. Albo insists that this is no more than a peripheral, technical matter whose sole function is to teach that a ram’s horn (rather than that of another animal) is the preferred one for performing the ritual; however, it is not the real source or reason for the command to sound the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Centuries later, the relevance of Sinai to the theme of judgement on Rosh Hashanah was illustrated in a poignant parable by the great Hasidic master Levi Isaac of Berdichev. 

The Berdichever told the tale of a king who lost his way in a forest, but found that none of the rustic locals knew enough about the lifestyles of the rich and famous to guide him back home to his palace. At length, a wise man appeared who was able to escort the king back to his residence. In appreciation, the king appointed the man to a high office, clothing him in precious robes and consigning his old commoner’s garments to storage. Eventually the wise man committed an offense against the monarch and as he was about to be sentenced, he submitted a final desperate request: that he be permitted to wear the discarded old clothing that he had worn during their first encounter in the forest. The king consented, and the sight of the man dressed in those old garments evoked memories of those gracious earlier times. This moved him to deal mercifully with his subject and to restore him to his high office.

This parable poignantly illustrates the role of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah as it was conceived by Rabbi Levi Isaac of Berdichev. As we all stand trembling before the omniscient judge and supreme king of the universe, none of us can expect to be exonerated on the basis of our own merits. However, like those discarded garments in the story, the sound of the shofar summons up the memory of the halcyon days of the relationship between God and Israel, when our ancestors were unique among the nations of the world in their willingness to joyfully accept the Torah and thereby proclaim God as our sovereign and allow his holiness to penetrate into the world. 

Rabbi Levi Isaac summarized the tale’s lesson in stirring words:

“For this reason we sound the shofar and dress ourselves in the same clothing that we wore when the Torah was given, when we received the Torah and with the shofar we crowned him as our king, as it is written ‘And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Moses spoke and God answered him by a voice.” 

However we may choose to understand the purpose of the shofar, is it not amazing to reflect how the foremost Jewish thinkers of diverse ages and places continued to grapple with the sublime message that was sounded so long ago at Mount Sinai!

Let us all hope that, inspired by the shofar’s reverberations, we may all become worthy to hear the answering voice to all our most cherished prayers for the coming year.

---

• First Publication:
  • Destiny: Quarterly Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Melbourne, Australia, Issue 14 (Tishrei – Nisan 5771 / September 2010 – April 2011), p. 8.
• For further reading:
  • Bettan, Israel. “The Sermons of Isaac Arama.” Hebrew Union College Annual 12 (1937): 583-634.
  • Hoenig, Sidney B. “Origins of the Rosh Hashanah Liturgy.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 57. New Series (1967): 312-331. 
  • Lewinski, Yom-Tov, ed. Sefer Ha-Mo’adim. Vol. 1. 8 vols. Tel Aviv: Dvir for the Oneg Shabbat (Ohel Shem) Society, 1956.
  • Wilensky, Sarah Heller. The Philosophy of Isaac Arama in the Framework of Philonic Philosophy. Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik and Dvir, 1956.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Was He Pushed?: A Simḥat Torah Mystery

by Eliezer Segal

Although Hasidism has long since come to be perceived as a branch of Jewish Orthodoxy—or even “Ultra-Orthodoxy”—this classification was hardly one that would have been agreed on during the movement’s early days. Their penetration into established communities was often an occasion for fierce conflicts as the unconventional teachings of the new sect offended the exponents of traditional talmudic values. Respectable Jews could feel threatened by Hasidism’s appeal among the poor and the ignorant who might well regard this form of populism as a license to indulge in rowdiness, drunkenness and even mob violence.

Typical of the controversial figures who led early Hasidism was the charismatic Rabbi Jacob Isaac Horowitz (c. 1745-1815), known to posterity (but not apparently to his contemporaries) by the reverent title “the Seer (Ḥozeh) of Lublin.” 

On October 6 1814, on the night of Simḥat Torah, Rabbi Horowitz fell from his second-story window and sustained mortal injuries that led to his death nine months later, on the fast day the Ninth of Av. Beyond these bare facts, the circumstances of the episode were the subject of intense disagreements, and scholars have despaired at arriving at the objective truth.

Our task as historical detectives is to fill in the details and uncover the precise circumstances that brought about the fatal mishap. Unfortunately, the evidence is full of contradictions and the witnesses are not always quite credible.

The earliest surviving testimony of the “Seer”‘s accident is an anti-Hasidic satire composed by one Samson Halevi Bloch, known as an associate of several prominent Jewish intellectuals of the time. Bloch’s “Book of Purity and Self-Restraint” was composed very close to the time of the events, during the period between Rabbi Isaac’s injury and his death.

After we have removed the substantial layers of acerbic parody, crude name-calling and polemical innuendo, the underlying factual foundation of Bloch’s account is that in the course of the holiday festivities—which were lubricated in typical Hasidic fashion by liberal intake of alcohol—the rabbi had excused himself to go to his second-storey bedroom. There he stood up on the window-sill in order to relieve himself into the area overlooked by his room, a lot that routinely functioned as a public latrine. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground where his injured body lay in a pool of filth until he was discovered some time later by passers-by.

Needless to say, the opponents of Hasidism leapt eagerly at the opportunity to exploit this humiliating event for purposes of discrediting the revered “Seer” (they noted ironically how this seer could not see clearly enough to keep from plummeting from his window), as well as to pillory Hasidism in general, with its dubious reputation for drunkenness, uncleanness and blind faith in disreputable charlatans.

References to Rabbi Horowitz’s fall turned up in several additional anti-Hasidic tracts, and from these we can learn something about the Hasidic responses to the mysterious event. For instance, a lampoon published in 1845 ascribes to the Hasidim the belief that their leader, while cloistered in his bedroom, had been involved in an epic celestial struggle against the demonic forces of evil in an attempt to hasten Israel’s redemption, a struggle that took a fatal toll when he was hurled through that window. Indeed, one legend depicted him as leaping intentionally from the window in the expectation that the messiah would be flying by at that precise instant to carry him away

This fanciful theory might have some foundation in the known facts about the Seer’s  spiritual life. He had reputedly been involved in a bitter controversy with other members of the Hasidic leadership over the religious significance of the Napoleonic campaign in Russia. Rabbi Jacob had taken the position that this war should be viewed as the cataclysmic battle prophesied by Ezekiel (“the war of Gog and Magog”) that is supposed to usher in the imminent final redemption, in keeping with traditional Jewish eschatological teachings. That dispute about how to construe the Napoleonic war would later provide the background for the historical novel Gog und Magog[For the Sake of Heaven] by the young Martin Buber.

Well, my fellow detectives, what do the Hasidim themselves have to testify regarding the the death of the Seer of Lublin?

It was not until nearly a century after the Seer’s fall that alternative interpretations of the episode, reflecting the Hasidic perspectives, began to appear in print, though several of these had been circulating in oral versions. The delay might have something to do with the fact that Rabbi Horowitz did not produce his own dynasty or sect of followers to defend his honour. Understandably, these legendary accounts do not inspire much trust among serious scholars—though if you consult Wikipedia, you will find that the entire entry about Rabbi Horowitz (like most of the entries related to Hasidism) consists of hagiographic legends and miracle tales, with no references to credible academic scholarship.

The most elaborate of these legends, published in 1907, portrays the Seer as one who did indeed foresee his doom and had explicitly asked his wife and followers to watch over him when he went up to his room on that fateful Simḥat Torah night. As is standard in such stories, other Hasidic rabbis were also shown portents foreshadowing the Seer’s accident, and the fact that he was not killed immediately by the impact was ascribed to the intercession of a recently deceased Hasidic master. Rabbi Horowitz conveniently arranged to die on a fast day in order to deny his opponents the satisfaction of toasting his demise.

Additional elements were inserted into the story in order to transform the rabbi’s fall into a full-scale miracle. The window was now elevated to a height where a person could not climb up to it by normal means, and the sill was populated with wine glasses that remained intact after the mishap. None of these remarkable details were mentioned in any of the earlier reports.

But we haven’t yet consulted the psychiatric reports. Indeed, according to recent scholarship there is another factor that might well account for the Seer’s strange behaviour. There are indications that he had been displaying symptoms associated with suicidal depression. These clues are discernible in some of the tales about his early career, and his self-destructive tendencies might have been exacerbated by his recent disappointments regarding the anticipated advent of the messiah.

And so, fellow detectives—it is now up to you to decide which is the true story of the Seer of Lublin’s tragic accident. Did he stumble through his window in a spell of festive drunkenness? Was he hurled there by a demonic force as a result of his mystical struggle to hasten the redemption? Or was this the despondent behavior of a psychologically afflicted personality?

Whatever your verdict, this might be an object lesson for restraining your revelry on future Simḥat Torahs.

---

• First Publication:
  • Destiny: Quarterly Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Melbourne, Australia, Issue 26 (Tishrei – Nisan 5777 / September 2016 – April 2017), p. 9.
• For further reading:
  • Assaf, David. “One Event, Two Interpretations: The Fall of the Seer of Lublin in Hasidic Memory and Maskilic Satire.” Polin 15 (2002): 187–202.
  • ———. Untold Tales of the Hasidim: Crisis & Discontent in the History of Hasidism. Waltham, Mass: Brandeis University Press, 2010.
  • Buber, Martin. For the Sake of Heaven. Westport, Conn: Greenwood Press, 1970.
  • Dynner, Glenn. Men of Silk: The Hasidic Conquest of Polish Jewish Society. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006.
  • Elior, Rachel. “Between Yesh and Ayin: The Doctrine of the Zaddik in the Works of Jacob Isaac, the Seer of Lublin.” In Jewish History: Essays in Honour of Chimen Abramsky, edited by Ada Rapoport-Albert and Steven J. Zipperstein, 393–455. London: Peter Halban, 1988.
  • Kauffman, Tsippi. “Corporeal Worship in the Writings of R. Jacob Isaac, the Seer from Lublin.” Kabbalah 16 (2007): 259–98.
  • Mark, Zvi. “Madness, Melancholy and Suicide in Early Hasidism.” Kabbalah 12, no. 1 (2004): 27–44.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Reading Palms

by Eliezer Segal

A statement in the Talmud advises against accepting deposits from minor children, since you cannot always be certain that the deposit was acquired legally, and you might inadvertently find yourself trafficking in stolen goods.

What, then, should people do if they have already accepted such articles from a minor? The rabbis proposed that they be kept in a trust fund, so that their value will be safeguarded until child reaches adulthood.

This naturally invites the question: What is considered a safe investment for this purpose? The Talmud records two different answers to the question: Rav Hisda advises that a Torah scroll be purchased with the sum, while Rabbah bar Rav Huna suggests that it be invested in a date palm.

Our initial reaction to this disagreement is to marvel at the extreme contrast between the two approaches. 

While it is to be expected that a rabbi would promote the spiritual benefits of Torah study, does this suggestion really serve the practical objective of protecting the monetary value of the deposit? 

On the other hand, doesn’t the date palm seem like an overly narrow and arbitrary choice for a financial portfolio?

On further reflection, however, it appears that the two interpretations might not be as dissimilar as they appeared at the outset.

A Torah scroll, in addition to its infinite spiritual worth, is after all a marketable commodity with a tangible monetary value. 

In our days, the prices of kosher scrolls fall in the five-digit range–which makes it difficult to visualize how such a sum would have come into the hands of a minor child. We must keep in mind, however, that scrolls must have been far more common in those pre-Gutenberg days, when the ability to produce presentable handwritten Hebrew was a requirement of basic literacy, and not an esoteric skill limited to a narrow caste of professional scribes, as is the case today. Accordingly, the necessary inks, pens and parchment could be obtained at the ancient Judean equivalent of the corner stationery shop. 

Nevertheless, Rav Hisda’s explanation amounts to a sensible recommendation to invest in education. As Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) stated in his commentary to the talmudic passage, the scroll can be used repeatedly for purposes of study, without causing significant depreciation of the principle. 

In this straightforward way, the purchase of a Torah scroll can be considered a sound investment for the present world, apart from the benefits it promises for the World to Come.

This is the same kind of reasoning that recommends the date-palm as a most desirable way to protect the value of a deposit. 

Here too, it is helpful to understand the situation in its original historical context. In an economy devoid of stock markets or mutual funds, the range of possibilities for potential investors was limited. It might have been possible to purchase shares in trade ventures, which could produce high yields; however, these were very precarious enterprises, subject to the vagaries of storms, pirates and price fluctuations. Investment in conventional agricultural land might be safer, but still vulnerable to natural disasters; it was, at any rate, highly labour-intensive.

Compared to the alternatives, the date palm emerges as a solid, conservative investment, with reasonably high yields, low maintenance and labour requirements, and minimal depreciation. As Rashbam put it, “the tree remains intact while the fruits can be eaten.”

The cultivation of dates was especially widespread in ancient Babylonia, as it continues to be in present-day Iraq. The economic advantages remain the same: In the well-irrigated network of canals between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the date palms require a small capital outlay and little upkeep.

The yields of the date palms could reach proportions that were proverbial, if not legendary. The Talmud reports for example that Rabbah and Rav Joseph once sat beneath a single date palm whose annual crop was sufficient to pay the owner’s poll tax for an entire year.

As the sacred scroll of the Torah can have a monetary value, so the date palm can have spiritual significance, at least in a metaphoric sense. The Bible employs the image of the palm tree to symbolize various spiritual virtues, and the rabbis of the Midrash expanded on the precise implications of these comparisons.

For example, the Psalmist (92:13) declared that “the righteous shall flourish like the palm-tree.” The rabbis noted that the comparison is apt for a number of reasons: The palm tree stands straight and smooth without superfluous protrusions, just as the path of righteousness is direct, without deviousness. 

So too, the tall palm-tree casts its shade to great distances, even as the righteous perform their good works with the realization that they can expect no reward in this life, but only in the next world.

Our sages were impressed how every part of the date-palm has its use. Some can be employed for practical benefits, such as the nourishing fruit, or the leaves that can be fashioned into brooms; other parts of the tree are utilized for the fulfillment of religious precepts, such as for lulavs, or the s’khakh that covers the sukkah. In a similar manner, the virtuous person should strive to lead a life in which no deed or moment is ever wasted. 

In the preceding analogy, no single part of the tree could be given exclusive credit for achieving complete efficiency; this feat was only accomplished through the combined contributions of the diverse parts. 

From this fact the rabbis derived a profound insight into the religious vocation of the Jewish people. Each and every individual contributes his or her share in proportion to their distinctive skills. The organic collective has an integrity that is greater than the sum of its parts. 

In their allegorical expositions, the midrashic preachers pointed out that, unlike most other trees, the palm does not branch out into multiple limbs, but rather consists of a single stalk ascending heavenward. In various ways, this feature was taken to represent the single-minded devotion of the pious, or of the idealized people of Israel: As the palm directs itself upward, so the hearts of the righteous incline constantly toward the their Creator. 

The Talmud used this idea to explain why the prophetess Deborah used to hold court under “the palm tree of Deborah” (Judges 4:4): By doing so, she exemplified the lesson that, just as a palm tree has only one heart, so did Israel in her generation have only one heart, devoted to their heavenly father. 

For all the benefits that are associated with the date palm, it also presents some hazards. The normal procedure for harvesting dates requires scaling the tall tree, and therefore carries with it the danger of plummeting to one’s death. The ascent itself can be risky, since the tree is protected by sharp, spiked foliage. 

The Jewish sages discovered in this fact an allegorical lesson about the dire fate that awaits anyone who would dare do violence to the righteous. “Just as the date-palm produces both dates and thorns, and anyone who wishes to gather the dates must deal with the thorns–so it is with those who do not treat the righteous with the appropriate deference.”

In a similar adaptation of the metaphor, they inferred that any heathen nations who might attempt to assault Israel would be punished for their arrogance by being hurled ignominiously to the earth.

The relationship between the Torah scroll and the date-palm emerges as far more intricate than was evident at first. Both can be viewed as sound investment opportunities by conventional economic criteria; but each of them can also have a deep spiritual significance.

An additional perspective on the matter is provided by the Talmud’s tale of the itinerant sage Ulla, who once paid a visit to the Babylonian town of Pumbedita. When he discovered how cheaply dates were being sold there, he exclaimed sardonically “A basketful of honey can be acquired for a zuz here, and yet the Babylonians do not spend more time studying Torah!”

Ulla’s perspective changed that night, when his immoderate consumption of the fruit transformed itself into an excruciating stomach ache.

Now he groaned “A basketful of lethal poison can be acquired for a zuz here, and yet the Babylonians still manage to study Torah!”

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 22, 2004, p. 12 [as: “What’s the best investment? Date palms or Torah scrolls?”].
• For further reading:
  • Beer, Moshe. The Babylonian Amoraim: Aspects of Economic Life. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1974.
  • Feliks, Yehuda. Mixed Sowing Breeding and Grafting: Kil’ayim I-Ii, Mishna, Tosephta and Jerusalem Talmud, a Study of the Halachic Topics and Their Botanical-Agricultural Background Bar-Ilan University Series of Research Monographs in Memory Memory of…Pinkhos Churgin. Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1967.
  • ________. Trees: Aromatic, Ornamental, and of the Forest, in the Bible and Rabbinic Literature. Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1997.
  • Loew, Emmanuel, Die Flora der Juden, Hildesheim, George Olms, 1967.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Marriages of Convenience

by Eliezer Segal

“Married Jewish male seeks company of Jewish single female for purposes of short-term marriage.”

According to a report that appears in two places in the Talmud, the equivalent of the above personal advertisement was published by two distinguished third-century Babylonian rabbis, Rav and Rav Nahman, in the course of their travels. 

The former, when journeying to Dardashir, and the latter when going to Shekhansib, would announce: “Who will be my wife for the day?” in order to arrange for temporary marriages that would be in force only for the duration of their sojourns.

From discussions that are preserved in the Talmud itself, we can sense that the ancient scholars and editors were not entirely comfortable with the conduct ascribed to these great sages. A serious concern was that the offspring of such unions, unaware of the identities of their absentee fathers, might inadvertently end up wedding their half-siblings. 

In response to such potential problems, the Talmud was prepared to modify some of the details or implications in the accounts of Rav and Rav Nahman: One-day marriages were only permitted to prominent celebrities–i.e., rabbis–because we can presume that their children will proudly mention the identities of their distinguished fathers. 

The Tamud even allowed for the possibility that the “marriages” in question were limited to platonic companionship, but did not involve physical contact. According to this view, the mere availability of a consort was enough to satisfy the emotional needs of the traveler, since “a person who has bread in his basket cannot be compared to one who has no bread in his basket.”

This was still not enough to reassure the later commentators. Medieval moralists found it inappropriate that religious leaders, who should have been models of otherworldly spirituality, could not survive a few days on the road without attending to the pleasures of the flesh.

Modern scholars appear more concerned that the behaviour of the ancient rabbis might reflect poorly on the moral standards of Judaism. 

Furthermore, the scenario of hiring a woman for a temporary liaison– even if the relationship was sanctified with the full apparatus of a religious ceremony, marriage contract and eventual divorce–struck the commentators as disturbingly similar to more sordid types of sexual solicitation. 

The sheer diversity of their explanations testifies to their desperate determination to justify the conduct of the talmudic rabbis.

There were some who argued (basing themselves on Rashi’s innocuous use of the plural when referring to the “days” of the rabbis’ sojourns) that the Talmud was not speaking of casual one-time encounters, but rather of arrangements where the rabbis would be returning to the towns with some frequency, and therefore wanted to maintain permanent domiciles. 

After all, travel in those days, even for relatively short distances, was a prolonged affair that could easily keep a person away from home for months at a time.

The maintaining of families in multiple localities is still quite common today in polygamous cultures. I recall, for example, an Arab bookshop that I used to frequent in East Jerusalem, whose owner kept additional branches in Amman and Cairo, each of which was reputedly administered by a different wife.

Some commentators proposed that the rabbis’ main objective in contracting short-term marriages was to give public affirmation to the centrality of that noble institution. According to this interpretation, many Jews in the remote frontiers of Babylonian settlement were not bothering with the formalities of halakhic weddings; and therefore the rabbis staged weddings for themselves with the explicit purpose of demonstrating to the yokels how indispensable a legal marriage is, even for an ostensibly temporary union.

A more elaborate rationalization for the temporary marriages was based on a story that is recounted elsewhere in the Talmud,(A.Z. 76b) about two Jews who were entertained by King Shapur of Persia. According to a tradition preserved by Rashi, the monarch honoured his guests by offering them women for the night. 

Given the existence of such customs, it has been suggested that Rav and Rav Nahman arranged fictitious marriages for themselves in order to provide themselves with convenient excuses, should they be subjected to an embarrassing offer of that kind; as if to say: Sorry, Your Excellency, I would gladly accept your generosity, but my wife is in town with me.

Evidently, there is some historical truth to the premise that temporary marriages were a conventional feature of Persian culture in Babylonia.

Subsequent to the talmudic era, the institution of temporary marriage, known as mut’a, had a notoriously controversial history among Muslims. The Arabic term comes from a root meaning “pleasure,” and might delicately be translated as “marriage of convenience.”

An ambiguous verse in the Qur’an was understood to sanction mut’a, provided that the woman is provided with a respectable dowry. Though mainstream (Sunni) Islam withdrew its official approval of the practice by the ninth century, it is still accepted by the Shi’ites, who introduced, many Persian elements into the Muslim religion. In fact, the issue of mut’a marriage is arguably the most persistent and definitive dispute between the two sects.

Echoes of this controversy can be discerned in Jewish writings emanating from Islamic lands. For example, Sa’adia Ga’on’s Arabic translation of the Bible employs a cognate of mut’a to render the Hebrew qedeshah (Deuteronomy 23:18), usually translated as “harlot.” 

While discussing adultery his Arabic commentary on the Decalogue, Sa’adia explicitly designates mut’a marriage as a form of illicit relationship, though of relatively minor severity. 

Sa’adia proceeds to characterize Judah’s liaison with Tamar as an instance of a mut’a arrangement, though it was legitimized by a marriage contract, legal witnesses and a formal betrothal. 

When compared to the conventional reading of the story, in which Tamar disguises herself as a roadside pick-up, Sa’adia’s interpretation has the advantage of giving a slightly more respectable status to the tryst, which produced the dynasty of King David and the Messiah.

A similar interpretation had been proposed by the ninth-century Karaite scholar Daniel al-Kumisi, who distinguished between two modes of qedeshah. The first of these consists of merely hiring a woman for a fixed period of time, without any commitments or contractual obligations. “This is what they do in India, and they regard it as marriage.” 

The second type of qedeshah relationship is a temporary marriage that is regulated by law. This is the relationship that Judah had with Tamar, and it might have been deemed acceptable in the days before the giving of the Torah. 

“This is what the Muslims do sometimes,” writes al-Kumisi, “and they call them ‘marriages of convenience’ [mut’a].”

By classifying temporary marriages as illicit relationships that are subject to the Torah’s disapproval, Sa’adia may also have been trying to discourage Jews who would otherwise have been tempted to adopt the gentile society’s tolerance of the institution (especially it it seemed to be practiced by rabbis in the Talmud).

The Muslim version of the temporary marriage could be terminated without a formal divorce. The Jewish religious leaders were undoubtedly concerned that, if Jews would start emulating the Islamic model, they might also dispense with the need for a get, and thereby allow the women to remarry into unions that were adulterous according to Jewish law, and whose offspring would be stigmatized with the grave consequences of illegitimacy.

If their intention was to eradicate temporary marriages among Jews, then they succeeded fully; so much so that the Talmud’s stories of Rav and Rav Nahman strike us now as bizarre and incomprehensible incidents from a far-off past.

Indeed, the conceptual chasm that separates us from those ancient practices illustrates some of the complex changes that marriage has undergone over the ages. Attitudes towards marriage have been affected by numerous factors, including not only religious teachings, but also changing moral sensibilities about family and sexuality, receptiveness to foreign cultures; not to mention the advances in transportation that speed the traveler’s return home.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, Febrary 12, 2004, pp. 16, 23.
• For further reading:
  • Beer, Moshe. The Babylonian Amoraim: Aspects of Economic Life. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1974.
  • Freidenreich, David M. “The Use of Islamic Sources in Saadiah Gaon’s Tafsir of the Torah”. Jewish Quarterly Review 93, no. 3-4 (2003): 353-95.
  • Friedman, Mordechai A. “Halacha as Evidence for the Study of Sexual Mores among Jews in Medieval Islamic Countries: Face Coverings and Mut’ahMarriages”. In A View into the Lives of Women in Jewish Societies: Collected Essays, ed. Yael Azmonah, 143-60. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1995.
  • Gafni, Isaiah. “The Institution of Marriage in Rabbinic Times”. In The Jewish Family: Metaphor and Memory, ed. David Kraemer, 13-30. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989.
  • Margulies, Reuven. ‘Man Havia Leyoma”. Sinai 21 (1947): 176-9.
  • Krauss, Samuel. “Man Havia Leyoma”. Sinai 22 (1948): 299-302.
  • Satlow, Michael L. Jewish Marriage in Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001.
  • Zucker, Moses. “Rav Saadya Gaon’s Translation of the Torah: Exegesis, Halakha, and Polemics in R. Saadya’s Translation of the Pentateuch Text”. and Studies in Memory of Dr. Michael Higger. New York: Feldheim, 1959.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

Wall-to-Wall Purim

by Eliezer Segal

Purim is the only Jewish festival for which the Bible assigns two alternative days on which it may be celebrated, the fourteenth and the fifteenth of Adar. 

It should be made clear that we are not dealing here with one of those extra days that were added to festivals for diaspora communities because of uncertainties in the determining the precise date of the New Moon; or the Second Passover ordained for people who are unable to celebrate at the proper time. In the case of Purim, the dual dates are part of the holiday’s original format.

The book of Esther recounts that, when the Jews of the Persian Empire were granted permission to defend themselves against their adversaries, the residents of the capital city of Shushan needed an extra day to complete their mopping-up operations. For this reason, it was established as a permanent feature of the festivity that future generations should also commemorate their victory one day later.

Jewish tradition has extended the second-day observance to other walled cities in addition to Shushan itself. The rabbis inferred this rule from the fact that the Megillah speaks of the first day of Purim being observed by “the Jews of the villages, that dwelt in the unwalled towns.” It the first day was kept in unwalled towns, then it followed that the second day should be observed in walled cities, and not only in Shushan.

What exactly is considered a walled city for purposes of Purim observance? Is it essential that the wall exist at this moment, or is it enough that it existed at some previous time in history?

Rabbi Joshua ben Korha in the Talmud took the reasonable-sounding view that the operative date should be the time of the Purim story itself, during the reign of King Ahasuerus.

However, the prevailing opinion among the Talmudic rabbis held that the cut-off date was the time of the conquest of the holy land under the leadership of Joshua. 

The Babylonian Talmud justifies this peculiar ruling by pointing to a correspondence between the Hebrew word for “unwalled” [perazim] and the Torah’s mention of the cities of the “Perizites,” one of the nations that inhabited Canaan at the time when the Israelites entered the land.

For those of us who might be reluctant to accept a religious law based on such fanciful wordplay, the Jerusalem Talmud offers a more substantial rationale for focusing on the generation of Joshua rather than that of Mordecai and Esther: The sages were concerned to uphold the dignity of the Land of Israel. 

During Ahasurerus’ reign, the holy land was in a state of devastation, and it would have been impossible to find cities with their walls intact. Since the status of “walled city” carried with it connotations of splendour and prestige, it would have reflected poorly on our beloved homeland if no such cities were found to qualify for the privilege of keeping “Shushan Purim.”

An interesting anomaly that emerges from this definition is that, by the Talmud’s own assumptions, Shushan itself did not have a wall in Joshua’s days, and hence would not qualify to observe “Shushan Purim”! The rabbis of course recognized that it was an exceptional case; and since it was the actual scene of the miracle, they declared that its Jews must observe Purim on the fifteenth of Adar, in accordance with the explicit Biblical command.

If the rule about walled cities was intended primarily to enhance the prestige of the Land of Israel, it should not surprise us to learn that a controversy arose among the commentators about whether Shushan-Purim could ever be observed in the diaspora (other than in Shushan).

In support of the position that it could be observed outside of Israel, several medieval authorities cited a passage from the Talmud, wherein it is related that Rav Asi read the Megillah in the town of Huzal on both the fourteenth and the fifteenth of Adar, because he was uncertain whether or not that town had been walled in the days of Joshua. 

Huzal is identified in several places in the Talmud as a Babylonian locality. Obviously, if Shushan Purim could only be observed in Israel, such a doubt could never have arisen.

Other authors countered that this did not constitute a decisive proof, since some Talmud manuscripts refer to the town not simply as “Huzal,” but as “Huzal of Benjamin,” implying that this was a different town, that could have been located in the tribal territory of Benjamin, in the Land of Israel. 

However, in the absence of any records or remains of an Israeli town of Huzal, it now seems quite clear that the Talmud was referring to the well-known Babylonian Huzal. The association with Benjamin likely derives from the fact that its Jewish residents traced their origins back to the tribe of Benjamin, when they were exiled during the reign of Jehoachin in the early sixth century B.C.E.

In contrast to the controversies surrrounding diaspora cities, there exists a virtual consensus that in contemporary Jerusalem, Purim should celebrated on the fifteenth of Adar as a walled city. 

When you think about it, this is not at all a self-evident conclusion. The municipal boundaries of Israel’s modern capital extend far beyond the walls of the Old City; and, for that matter, the present Old City is not situated in the same place as the ancient Jebusite town that existed in Joshua’s time. 

According to Talmudic law, surrounding villages or suburbs can be treated as parts of a walled city, provided that they are either nearby or visible simultaneously with the city. It is difficult to imagine how most of the neighbourhoods of west Jerusalem would satisfy either of those conditions. 

Nevertheless, the Israeli rabbinate has resolved that all districts of Jerusalem should observe Purim on the fifteenth of Adar. In coming to this decision, they take into account the fact that there is contiguous habitation throughout the old and new cities, and that they are all served by the same religious and municipal facilities.

Some interesting possibilities are created by the proximity of towns that observe Purim on different dates. The classic sources, composed at a time when inter-urban travel was a time-consuming process, tended to focus on defining the status of individuals from unwalled towns who find themselves spending the holiday in a walled city, or vice versa. In our age of automobiles, it might take only minutes to zip back and forth between the two kinds of localities, especially at Israeli driving speeds. In effect, this makes it possible for individuals to choose which of the dates to observe.

For most of us, this could easily be interpreted as an invitation to spend two consecutive days indulging in Purim merriment. 

On the other hand, some individuals might approach the choice with a different attitude. I am reminded of a curmudgeonly Jerusalem professor, who allegedly planned his Purim itineraries carefully so that he would always be in a place where Purim was not being celebrated on that day.

In this matter too, so much depends on which side of the proverbial wall you are standing.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 4, 2004, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Eshel, Ben-Zion. Jewish Settlements in Babylonia during Talmudic Times. Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1979.
  • Gaster, Theodor Herzl. Purim and Hanukkah in Custom and Tradition: Feast of Lots, Feast of Lights. New York: Schuman, 1950.
  • Goodman, Philip. The Purim Anthology. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1973. 
  • 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. N

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---

On the Fast Track

by Eliezer Segal

Where would the science fiction staple of intergalactic space travel be if Einstein had not introduced his obscure concepts of time-warps and worm-holes? Without these handy amendments to the laws of physics, we would have to forsake all dreams of close encounters with beings beyond our solar system, in deference to the vastness of the universe and the finite lifespans of the human organism. 

It is much more convenient to deal with the instantaneous beaming of a spacecraft into a sector millions of light years away than to ponder the millions of years required for a trek across conventional space. 

Worm-holes and space-warps have their analogies in Jewish tradition. Take, for example, the passage in the Torah where Jacob journeys from Beersheba to Haran (Genesis 28:10-11) After mentioning his final destination, the narrative immediately reports that he stopped on his way at Beth-el, to experience his dream about the angelic ladder. 

The Talmud interpreted the itinerary in a strictly literal sequence, as if to say that the patriarch had already arrived at Haran, but was snapped back instantly to Beth-el when he realized that he had neglected to offer his respects at that ancestral shrine. 

The Hebrew idiom of the Talmud states literally that “the land jumped up for him.” Rashi explains that the road folded itself up for Jacob’s sake. In other words: It warped. 

Similar exploits were told of individuals through subsequent eras of Jewish history, and a special term was coined to denote it: kefisat derekh, literally: the leaping of the road. 

Often, the objective of the teleportation was to bring the individuals home in time for Sabbath or a festival, or to allow them to perform an urgent religious precept. 

At times, the instantaneous travel was related to momentous historical events. 

For example, a tradition that was current among the Jews of Spain traced the origins of rabbinic learning in their land to a snap visit by the Babylonian Gaon Rav Natronai in the ninth century. 

“It is a well-known and undisputed fact among the people of Spain, and a tradition handed down from their ancestors, that Rav Natronai came to them from Babylonia by means of a ‘leaping of the road.’ He taught Torah, and then returned. He was not seen to travel in any caravan, and nobody observed him on the road.”

A century afterwards, when the incredulous Rav Hai Gaon was asked to express his opinion about this story, he dismissed it, suggesting that some imposter might have been passing himself off as the eminent scholar.

Tales of this sort were very popular among the Jews of medieval Germany. A typical example speaks of a delegation of Christian priests who challenged the saintly Rabbi Samuel the Pious to a competition at wonder-working. Rabbi Samuel dared his rivals to download for him a book that he was eager to read, that was currently in the possession of a scholar in another town. 

The Christians offered to go him one step further: One of them would fall into a trance, allowing his disembodied spirit to soar off and take care of the interlibrary loan.

Though the priests were able to live up to their commitment, Rabbi Samuel trumped them by obstructing the spirit’s return to its body until they had publicly acknowledged the superiority of his supernatural powers.

It was related concerning Rabbi Eleazar of Worms, one of the foremost teachers of the medieval German Jewish pietistic circles, that he mastered the secrets of flying on a cloud or teleporting himself across the supernatural airways, in order to perform urgent missions. On one occasion, the omission of a detail from the procedure caused him to tumble from his low-flying cloud, and left him with an incurable limp.

Later generations expanded on this tale in order to explain another milestone in the intellectual history of Spanish Jewry: the introduction of Kabbalah. 

The legend told how the pioneering Spanish Kabbalist, Rabbi Moses Nahmanides of Gerona, had been initiated into the secret lore by Rabbi Eleazar of Worms. Rabbi Eleazar had been dismayed to learn in a heavenly vision that Nahmanides was ignorant of the esoteric lore. The Jews of Gerona also needed rescuing from an evil prince. In order to remedy these problems, Rabbi Eleazar decided to pay a quick visit to Spain on the day before Passover. For good measure, he brought with him some freshly baked matzah, which was still warm on his arrival.

Rabbi Eleazar, whose identity was unknown to Nahmanides and his neighbours, was able to accomplish a great deal during his brief visit to Spain. Ignoring his host’s advice, he maneuvered to have himself arrested for entering the town’s red light district. Just as he was about to be executed for his indiscretion, he caused his body to be magically exchanged with that of the wicked prince, who perished on the pyre in his stead. Rabbi Eleazar was then able to show up at Nahmanides’ seder in time for Kiddush, and to offer him intensive instruction in the teachings of the Kabbalah.

It was widely assumed that the secrets of teleportation were known to all the leading Kabbalistic saints. Thus, some claimed that Rabbi Isaac Luria had employed that mode of transportation when he immigrated to the holy land. 

It happened once, on a Friday, that Rabbi Luria invited his students in Safed to accompany him to Jerusalem. The naïve disciples politely declined the invitation, assuming that they would not be able to complete their journey before the onset of Shabbat. Unfortunately, they did not realize that their master had in mind his unconventional technique of traveling to the holy city. 

Kabbalistic tradition had it that these hapless students, through their myopic lack of faith in their master, bore the guilt for delaying the final redemption.

The power of kefisat derekh was also attributed to the seventeenth-century mystical messiah Shabbetai Zvi. On one occasion, an Arab horseman showed up at the yeshivah of Gaza bearing a message addressed to its rabbi. Upon reading it, the rabbi told his students not to wait up for him. Then he mounted a horse, and was instantly whisked off to a magnificent encampment far off in the Sinai desert, where Shabbetai Zvi was holding court in regal style. Shabbetai Zvi dispatched the rabbi on a quest for magical stones that gave supernatural confirmation to his messianic claims, and set the stage for the resurrection of Jews who had perished at sea.

Teleportations are best known as a mainstay of the hagiographic legends surrounding the great Hasidic masters, especially the movement’s founder, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov. 

A prototypical format of the Hasidic tales would have the master or disciples set off, often on a Friday afternoon or Saturday night, in a coach driven by a gentile driver. The unsuspecting chauffeur would doze off, as the horses took off into the air at warp-speed towards their destination. In this way, the Baal Shem Tov or his agents were able to arrive punctually at a variety of distant weddings and circumcisions, or to escape pursuers, avert anti-Semitic decrees, save lives, or rescue tainted souls from perdition.

Access to miraculous teleportation is not necessarily limited to humans. A touching story by Nobel Laureate S. Y. Agnon tells of a goat that would vanish mysteriously, and return afterwards with her udders filled with the sweetest of milk. When the owner’s son decided to follow the animal, it led him to a vast cave. When he finally emerged from the other end of the cave, he found himself in a landscape of lofty mountains, luscious fruits and sparkling streams. 

It soon became apparent that the cave was nothing less than a marvelous worm-hole extending from the diaspora to the mystic hills of Safed. The son decided to remain in the holy land, but sent the goat back to his father with a note inserted in her ear containing instructions about how to follow her to the cave.

Unfortunately, the father did not find the note until after the goat had been slaughtered. Neither he not anyone else was ever able to unearth that wondrous cave.

A tragic ending, it would seem. However, on further reflection, I wonder whether it did not really all turn out for the best.

Considering the heavy volume of inter-dimensional traffic, it is quite likely that, if he had been able to zip through the cave, the father might have become involved in a fatal collision with one of the numerous travelers speeding across the space-time continuum–perhaps with the Baal Shem Tov’s coach …or maybe even the Starship Enterprise.

---

• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 18, 2004, pp. 8-9.
• For further reading:
  • Asaf, S. Tequfat Ha-Ge’onim Ve-Sifrutah. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1967.
  • Dan, Joseph. The Esoteric Theology of Ashkenazi Hasidism. Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1968.
  • ________. The Hasidic Story–Its History and Development Sifriyyat Keter: Sifrut, ed. S. Halkin. Jerusalem: Keter, 1975.
  • Mintz, Alan L., and Anne Golomb Hoffman, eds. A Book That Was Lost and Other Stories by Shmuel Yosef Agnon. New York: Schoken, 1995.
  • Nigal, Gedalyah. Magic, Mysticism, and Hasidism: The Supernatural in Jewish Thought. Northvale, N.J.: Jason Aronson, 1994.

---

My email address is: [email protected]

---