All posts by Eliezer Segal

The Priestly Kings of Salem

The Priestly Kings of Salem

by Eliezer Segal

Among the measures introduced by the Hellenistic authorities in their efforts to suppress the Jewish religion, the Talmud tells of an edict that outlawed any mention of God’s name in legal documents. Following the success of the Maccabean revolt, the new Hasmonean rulers repealed that offensive decree, and ordained that the standard formula for recording dates should henceforth be in the X year of Yohanan, High Priest to the Most High God. However, the sages objected to this practice, fearing that it would lead to the desecration of the holy name, since people might casually discard their old bills and unthinkingly toss them onto the trash heap, divine names included. So delighted were the sages at their success in abolishing the new practice that its anniversary, the third day of Tishrei, was ordained as a minor festival on which fasting was prohibited. (We no longer observe that date in a festive manner; instead, it is kept as the Fast of Gedaliah.)

Historians have proposed diverse reconstructions of the issues and events that underlay the talmudic story, drawing analogies from other documents of that era, and observing how the writing of dates functioned in ancient politics. They note, for example, that in the Hellenistic world, the prevailing system for numbering years began the count from the Battle of Rafah in 310 or 311 B.C.E., the historic milestone at which Alexander the Great’s empire was carved up among his three generals. This dating system, known to scholars as the Seleucid Era and in Jewish sources as the documentary reckoning [minyan ha-sh’tarot], was the only one sanctioned by talmudic law; and it remained in force in Arabic-speaking Jewish communities (especially in Yemen) until quite recently. The Hasmoneans understandably chose to abolish that Greek system, preferring to count the years from the time of their newly achieved freedom. Their introduction of this practice is mentioned in the Book of Maccabees and by Josephus Flavius, who ascribe the change to Simeon the Hasmonean.

The Talmud is the only source that mentions the problem of using God’s name on Hasmonean documents or coinage, and the numismatic evidence does not corroborate the claim. Recent scholarly discussions have expressed less interest in the question of the divine name than in the honorific title into which it is embedded: High Priest to the Most High God. 

In order to appreciate the full significance of these phenomena, it is useful to review some of the political and religious challenges that were being faced by the Hasmonean leadership in their quest for recognition as the legitimate leaders of the Jewish nation. 

Much of the sectarian and political factionalism that proliferated during the final generations of the Second Commonwealth can be traced to a single contentious issue, namely: Were the Hasmoneans justified in assuming royal and priestly authority?

After leading the Jews to their spectacular victory over the Seleucid armies and purifying the Temple from its profanation at the hands of the Hellenists, the family that spearheaded the revolt assumed the roles of kings and high priests. In keeping with the prevailing traditions, there were fundamental religious objections against their claims to each of these titles. Kings of Israel shoule be descendants of David from the tribe of Judah, and High Priests must hail from the line of Zadok. The Hasmoneans possessed neither qualification.

The Hasmoneans and their propagandists turned to the Torah to justify their claims to legitimacy. They sought scriptural precedents for the possibility that a person could be recognized as a monarch or High Priest without belonging to the Zadokite or Davidic aristocracies.

It is probably in this context that we should understand several passages in which the Hasmonean ruler referred to himself as priest of the most high God. This peculiar expression evokes an enigmatic episode from the book of Genesis (14:18-19) wherein Abraham, returning home from battle after rescuing his nephew Lot from his captors, was welcomed by a local ruler:

And Melchizedek king of Salem brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high God. And he blessed him, and said, Blessed be Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth.

By conferring upon themselves the title that had been applied to the biblical Melchizedek, the Hasmonean rulers were implicitly directing people’s attention to the fact that the holy Torah, the ultimate source of all religious legitimacy, had acknowledged an out-and-out gentile as a rightful king and priest. Furthermore, Melchizedek was not just any local potentate– he was the king of Salem, which was assumed to be identical with Jerusalem. If the Torah could recognize a non-Jew as a high priest and king of Jerusalem, there could hardly be any serious objections to the Hasmoneans, who were good Jews of priestly (albeit not Zadokite) lineage, laying claim to the same titles!

When we compare these traditions with other Jewish writings from the same era, we observe that the Hasmoneans were actually quite reserved in their interpretation of the Melchizedek episode. Other groups painted him in awesomely supernatural colours. 

A document from the Dead Sea Scrolls anticipates the return of Melchizedek in the future as a heavenly judge who will pronounce a divine verdict against the wicked, and then proceed to execute the final judgment against them. This attitude was apparently inherited by some members of the nascent Christian church. The New Testament Epistle to the Hebrews designates Jesus as a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek, while assigning him the same decisive role in executing the final judgment. 

These traditions were inspired not only by Melchizedek’s inscrutable appearance in Genesis, but also by a perplexing passage in Psalms 110 that mentions a strange figure who sits at God’s right hand on the day of divine wrath as he judges the nations and crushes kings. The Almighty assures this figure that he is a priest forever [or an eternal priest] after the order of Melchizedek. It is not altogether surprising that some ancient readers understood this as a reference to an immortal member of the heavenly entourage who will share sovereignty with the creator in the end of days. For reasons analogous to those of the Hasmoneans, the Christians had a stake in claiming that the archetypal priestly king did not need to claim descent from the Hebrew priestly dynasty.

When compared with the overblown expectations that some of their contemporaries pinned on the figure of Melchizedek, the Hasmoneans come across as refreshingly modest and realistic. Notwithstanding the magnitude of their triumph against overwhelming odds, they did not regard or portray themselves as divinely appointed redeemers, and did not equate their reign with the apocalyptic end of days. According to the Book of Maccabees, Simeon the Hasmonean made it clear that his assuming of priestly and political authority was a pragmatic measure that would only remain in effect until a true prophet should arise. 

This sense of unassuming realism puts him a cut above so many of our leaders, past and present, who could settle for nothing less than messianic ambitions, and who have left the highway of Jewish history strewn with disappointment and demoralization. 

Indeed, this might be one of the reasons why the victory of Hanukkah continues to be celebrated long after many other exploits have been relegated to obscure historical footnotes.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December 15, 2005, p. 22.
  • For further reading:
    • Flusser, David. Judaism and the Origins of Christianity. Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988.Noam,
    • Goodblatt, David. The Monarchic Principle: Studies in Jewish Self-Government in Antiquity. Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1994.
    • Noam, Vered, ed. Megilat Ta’anit: Versions, Interpretation, History. Jerusalem: Yad Yitshak Ben-Zvi, 2003.
    • Schwartz, Daniel R. Studies in the Jewish Background of Christianity. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1992.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection Sanctified Seasons, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Professional Privilege

Professional Privilege

by Eliezer Segal

Paying taxes does not rank high on most people’s lists of enjoyable activities. Our politicians have been adept at exploiting this mind-set as they try to seduce us with promises of tax cuts. This antipathy to taxpaying is even more pronounced in undemocratic regimes, where the citizens have no voice about the uses to which their contributions will be channeled. 

In talmudic Babylonia, the Jews chafed at the many taxes levied by the absolutist Persian monarchy, particularly the k’raga, the onerous poll tax. Some of rabbis were vocal in their insistence that they were entitled to an exemption, even though this would ultimately require the rest of the Jewish community to compensate for the revenues that were thereby lost.

When the Exilarch, the political head of Babylonian Jewry, insisted that the rabbis contribute their share of the communal obligation, Rav Nahman bar Isaac retorted in indignation that such a policy would constitute a violation of the Torah, the Prophets and of the Holy Writings–though, to be sure, the ingenious proof texts that he adduced for his case were hardly likely to convince any impartial readers.

It remains unclear how successful the Jewish sages were at persuading the community and its leaders that they were entitled to tax-exempt status. However, what could not be achieved through official legislation could sometimes be arranged by private negotiations.

Such was the case of Rav Pappi. He once issued a judicial ruling in favour of a certain Bar Hama who had been accused of murder. Rav Pappi’s disqualification of the prosecution witnesses led to the exoneration of the defendant. Bar Hama was so delighted at the outcome that he kissed the rabbi’s feet and gratefully pledged to pay his poll-tax for the remainder of his years. Underlying this story is the assumption that, had it not been for Bar Hama’s enthusiastic gratitude, rabbis were expected to pay their taxes like everyone else.

The principle of rabbinic tax-exemption was accepted in theory by the medieval Jewish halakhic authorities, though there were major disagreements about how to apply it to real-life situations. At the root of the controversy were differing perceptions of the vocation of “rabbi” and how rabbinic functions related to other professional pursuits or to other segments of the populace.

The prevalent norm in many Sepharadic lands was that the rabbinate constituted a professional class whose members were clearly distinguishable from the laity. Reflecting this situation, Rabbi Isaac Alfasi proposed a definition of who qualified as a rabbi for purposes of the tax exemption: “one whose craft is Torah.” In its most restrictive interpretation, this criterion excluded any scholar did not pursue talmudic studies on a full-time basis, as well as anyone who had additional sources of income. Rabbi Moses Nahmanides went so far as to stipulate that if a rabbi took payment for providing religious instruction, he would thereby forfeit his tax-exempt status. 

However, other Sepharadic authorities were more liberal about extending the tax breaks to rabbis who pursued other occupations, as long as religious scholarship remained their chief vocation. This attitude followed logically from the approach espoused by Maimonides, who castigated any scholar who used the rabbinate as a source of financial gain. Maimonides’ view was instrumental in promoting a model of rabbinical vocation according to which scholars, unable to accept payment for their religious activities, were expected to support themselves by pursuing an additional profession.

In the same spirit, Rabbi Meir Abulafia of Toledo cited the talmudic tenet that a life of Torah study, if it is not combined with commitment to a work ethic, will inevitably lack stability. He deduced from this that an extracurricular career is an indispensable component of the rabbinic vocation, and therefore should not weaken his claim to scholarly exemption, as long as his profane activities did not exceed his sacred activities. Rabbi Abulafia insisted that this would remain the case even if the rabbi amassed considerable wealth in his business dealings. A clause to that effect was inserted into official Certificates of Exemption that were issued by some of the Spanish rabbinic authorities.

It will probably come as no surprise to discover that the solemn pronouncements of the rabbis about their entitlement to fiscal privileges were not automatically accepted by the laity and leadership, who would have had to compensate their communities from their own purses. 

Evidence of hostility from the laity can sometimes be inferred from incidental comments in the writings of the rabbis. Thus, Rabbi Abulafia himself was so persuasive in persuading a correspondent of his inalienable entitlement to a tax exemption that the latter decided to join him in Toledo, where rabbis seemed to receive more respectful treatment. Upon hearing of this, Abulafia cautiously advised that this might not, after all, be such a good idea, applying to him the prophet Amos’s metaphor about a man who flees from a lion only to run into a bear. Evidently, Rabbi Abulafia’s outspoken and confident pronouncements about the consideration that was due to rabbis were not grounded in the concrete reality of his own community.

The Jews of medieval Germany and France held different assumptions about the position of the rabbi in the context of Jewish society. For one thing, the successful dissemination of Torah learning among broad segments of their populace was not consistent with the emergence of a distinct rabbinic caste or professional class. Furthermore, Ashkenazic piety was characterized by an exaggerated reverence for the Jewish sages of antiquity. Compared to those legendary titans of yore, few of their own contemporaries had the audacity to classify themselves as “rabbis” in their idealized sense of the title.

At a later stage, it became the practice of Austrian Jews to grant tax exemptions only to the heads of yeshivahs. A prominent scholar explained that his community’s reluctance to expand the scope of the privilege was a consequence of the fundamentally nebulous character of Alfasi’s criterion “one whose craft is Torah,” since it ultimately became a question of individual attitude that could not be measured by objective benchmarks, and could lead to abuses of the system. 

This question erupted into a political crisis in the 1560’s in Safed, when a communal leader named Rabbi Judah Aberlin tried to reverse the prevailing practice and require the rabbis to pay their share of the community’s tax obligations. Shortly after his arrival from Salonika, Aberlin was successful in implementing his policy in his own Ashkenazic community, and tried to persuade the Sepharadic leadership to adopt a similar regulation. However, after three years of his regime, he was outflanked by the concerted opposition of rabbis from Safed and neighbouring lands, who ultimately prevailed in their campaign to overturn his reforms. 

Possibly the most extreme dispute over tax exemptions was the one related in the Talmud, about the citizens of third-century Tiberias, who pleaded with the Patriarch Rabbi Judah that the rabbis be required to share in the responsibility for paying the oppressive Roman taxes. When the townspeople’s request was denied, half the populace got up and abandoned the city. When the remaining citizens repeated their demand, the Patriarch persisted in his refusal; and they also fled, leaving Tiberias with only one solitary taxpayer, a hapless garment-presser. 

When it dawned on him that he would now have to bear the sole responsibility for the city’s tax assessment, he also flew the coop.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 12, 2006, p. 11.
  • For further reading:
    • Beer, Moshe. The Babylonian Amoraim: Aspects of Economic Life. 2nd expanded ed. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1982.
    • Funk, S. Die Juden in Babylonien, 200-500. Berlin, M. Poppelauer, 1902.
    • Benayahu, Meir. “The Decision in Safed to Exempt Scholars from Taxes and Rabbi Judah Aberlin’s Attempt to Abolish It.” Sefunot 7 (1963): 103-17.
    • Beer, Moshe. “On the Question of the Exemption of the Babylonian Amora’im from Taxes and Customs Duties.” Tarbiz 33 (1964): 247-58.
    • Lieberman, Saul. “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries.” Jewish Quarterly Review 36 (1945-1946): 329-370; 37 (1946-1947): 31-54, 423-424.
    • Newman, Julius. “The Agricultural Life of the Jews in Babylonia between the Years 200 C.E. And 500 C.E.” Oxford University Press, 1932.
    • Ta-Shma, Israel. “On the Exemption of Scholars from Taxes in the Middle Ages.” In Studies in Rabbinic Literature, Bible and Jewish History: In Honor of Prof. Ezra Zion Melamed, ed. Itzchak D. Gilath, Howard I. Levine and Zvi Meir Rabinowitz, 312-322. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1982.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Problems with the Preacher

Problems with the Preacher

by Eliezer Segal

The traditional Jewish wedding ceremony is usually accompanied by at least one sermon on a religious theme, and sometimes by several of them. Depending on the customs of the community, the learnedness of the participants and the patience of the guests, the festivities might be graced by erudite discourses spoken by the bride and groom, by their friends, by the presiding rabbi, or by other participants. A well-drafted wedding d’var Torah will weave together appropriate passages from the Bible and Talmud in order to illustrate such themes as the importance of the Jewish family, the sanctity of marriage, and the conjugal bliss that awaits the new couple.

While Jewish wedding discourses can differ considerably with respect to their structures, contents or delivery, you can usually be quite certain that they will try to avoid controversial subjects. Nevertheless, in some rare instances, they have been known to provoke heated disputes.

Such was the case at a wedding ceremony that was held in Montpellier, in southern France (which was then known as Provence) in the early fourteenth century. The scholar who rose to address the assembly on that occasion devoted his exposition to the idyllic marriage of the very first Jewish couple, Abraham and Sarah. In that connection, the preacher cited the talmudic legend about Rabbi Bana’ah who had entered the cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron and was treated to an intimate glimpse of the affectionate couple enjoying their eternal rest, as Abraham snuggled in Sarah’s arms, and she gazed admiringly at her husband’s head.

Unfortunately, the eminent speaker did not leave the matter there. He went on to argue that the Bible and Talmud should not be understood in their literal sense, as speaking about the familiar historical figures from the Bible. Instead, he insisted that Abraham and Sarah are really abstract allegorical symbols for metaphysical teachings, representing the Aristotelian concepts of matter and form, in accordance with the prevalent teachings of medieval science and philosophy.

For several of the individuals in attendance at the wedding, this liberal reading of the classic Jewish texts was too much to bear. At least one guest stood up before the crowd and indignantly castigated the preacher for publicly denying the literal truth of the biblical narrative and of the rabbinic traditions, and for sowing doubts in the minds of naïve Jews about the validity of their faith and traditions.

So incensed was the community’s spiritual leader, Rabbi Abba Mari Astruc, that he decided that the time had come to put a complete stop to the public preaching of philosophical ideas. Realizing that he would need some powerful rabbinic muscle to fight a trend that was solidly entrenched in Provence’s Jewish culture, he turned to one of the most renowned Spanish scholars of his generation, Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret of Barcelona, known familiarly by his acronym Rashba. 

Rashba was even more hostile than Abba Mari to the indiscriminate dissemination of allegorical homilies. He observed that sermons of that sort were usually delivered by the young and the ignorant, who gave themselves airs as if they were accomplished scholars and leaders, and allowed themselves to concoct unheard-of interpretations. 

Most distressing to Ibn Adret was the fact that this type of discourse tended to neglect the most important value of traditional Judaism: the obligation to observe the commandments. To make matters even worse–if the allegorical method were to be applied extensively to the mitzvot, and people would come to view them as mere symbols of philosophical ideas, then many Jews would draw the conclusion that there was no longer any meaningful purpose to the literal observance of the precepts after their deeper symbolism had been grasped. This would lead inevitably to a widespread breakdown of ritual standards.

In spite of his fundamental sympathy for Abba Mari’s cause, Ibn Adret was reluctant to meddle in the affairs of the Provençal community, and he feared that the locals would resent his interference. He did, however, consent to take the initiative in issuing a ban in his own town, Barcelona, against the study of non-Jewish philosophical works by people under the age of twenty-five. Hopefully, the existence of that precedent would make it easier for Rabbi Abba Mari to impose a similar enactment in Provence.

However, the Provençal Jewish philosophers beat Abba Mari to the punch. Before he had a chance to impose his ban, they declared one of their own, in which they solemnly excommunicated any person who complied with the Barcelona ban. When Abba Mari and his supporters went ahead with their counter-ban, the community was thrown into a deadlock. 

Contrary to appearances, the struggle that was embroiling the Provençal Jewish community was not really over the legitimacy or permissibility of philosophical study. Such a struggle had taken place in earlier generations, following the publication of Maimonides Guide of the Perplexed and its translation into Hebrew by Samuel Ibn Tibbon of Marseilles. Since that time, the philosophical approach to Judaism had emerged as an unshakable feature of Jewish religiosity in Provence.

The Jews of France and Provence still recalled with horror how their denunciations of Maimonides’ philosophical works had set in motion a process that culminated in 1244 with the public burning of the Talmud itself by the Dominicans. Rabbi Abba Mari was himself an advocate of rationalism, and he believed that metaphysical contemplation, in the manner of Aristotelian philosophy, was a vital religious imperative for Jews. Like many of his contemporaries, he was convinced that the ancient Greeks had acquired their rationalist tradition from Hebrew teachers, though exile and persecution had afterwards caused those teachings to be forgotten by most Jews. Therefore, the Jewish pursuit of philosophical study was actually a repatriation of our native heritage of theological wisdom. 

Abba Mari’s opposition was not to philosophy as such, but only to its dissemination among the unsophisticated masses, at venues like that infamous wedding sermon. Even Maimonides himself had been acutely aware of the subversive potential of unrestricted philosophical speculation. Because most people possess neither the intellect nor the intense training that is required for proper metaphysical investigation, exposure to philosophical ideas might undermine their faith. Thus, it was precisely because of their commitment to the fundamental validity of the philosophical approach that Rabbi Abba Mari and his supporters were wary of popularizing it among the Provençal masses.

This was not the reason that motivated Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret in Spain. He was the foremost disciple of Rabbi Moses Nahmanides, and a follower of his teacher’s Kabbalistic approach to Judaism. Ibn Adret was altogether opposed to philosophy, which he dismissed as a foreign intrusion into realm of authentic Torah. 

Only after he had thrown his lot in with Ibn Adret did it begin to dawn on Abba Mari that his Spanish ally did not really share his theological outlook. At this point he sent him a letter asking for reassurance that his objections were only to extreme heresies, but not to legitimate philosophy of the Maimonidean variety. He never received a reply to that letter. 

The ideological conflagration that was sparked by that imprudent wedding discourse continued to divide Provençal Jewry for several years, until their internal squabbles were eclipsed by a more urgent crisis: the order of expulsion that was issued against French Jewry in 1306.

No doubt, there are many profound lessons to be derived form this affair, about the subtleties of Judaism, its theology and its communal politics. 

At the very least, we might infer that it is not always advisable to take wedding sermons too seriously.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, February 9, 2006, p. 17.
  • For further reading:
    • Ben-Shalom, Ram. “The Ban Placed by the Community of Barcelona on the Study of Philosophy and Allegorical Preaching: A New Study”. Revue des Etudes Juives 159, no. 3-4 (2000): 387-404.
    • ________. “Communication and Propaganda between Provence and Spain: The Controversy over Extreme Allegorization (1303-1306)”. In Communication in the Jewish Diaspora: The Pre-Modern World, ed. Sophia Menache, 171-224. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996.
    • Halbertal, Moshe. Between Torah and Wisdom: Rabbi Menachem ha-Meiri and the Maimonidean Halakhists in Provence. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2000.
    • Halkin, A. S. “Why Was Levi Ben Hayyim Hounded?” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 34 (1966): 65-76.
    • Kaufmann, D. “Hoshen Mishpat des Simeon ben Joseph”. In Jubelschrift zum neunzigsten, ed. Das Curatorium der Zunz-Stiftung, 2, 142-174. Berlin: Louis Gerschel Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1884.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Stepladders and Stable-Hands

Stepladders and Stable-Hands

by Eliezer Segal

When the ancient Jewish sages retold stories from the Bible, they occasionally added details that are not found in the original text. In most instances, it is possible to recognize that these additions were suggested by the rabbis’ characteristic approach to reading scripture, which led them to pay close attention to tiny details, apparent redundancies and contradictions, or to analogies drawn from other parts of the Bible. These exegetical techniques are all part of the method known as Midrash.

There are, however, some cases where the normal rules of midrashic interpretation are not adequate to explain all the peculiar embellishments that the rabbis inserted into the biblical narratives. 

For example, in the book of Esther, when we get to the scene where the irate Haman is commanded to lead his arch-enemy Mordecai through the streets on a royal steed, some rabbinic sources state that Mordecai trod on Haman’s neck as he was mounting the horse. There is nothing obvious in the biblical text from which this detail could have been deduced. 

However, the rabbis’ description of Haman’s humiliation bears an uncanny resemblance to a story related by some ancient Christian writers about the Roman emperor Valerian. That unfortunate monarch, after being captured in battle by the Persian emperor Shapur I in 260, was reported to have had his neck used as a stepladder whenever Shapur wished to mount his horse. 

Most historians have treated the story about Valerian as a pious Christian fabrication –a fitting, but fictitious, retribution for Valerian’s cruel persecution of the Christians in his empire.

However, the appearance of this motif in the Midrash suggests that the ancient Jewish homilist was making an oblique allusion to an event that was well known to his audience. This could be construed either as a case of mutual borrowing between Christian and Jewish sources -or as evidence for the veracity of the tradition about Shapur’s stepping on Valerian’s neck. That story would have been so familiar to Shapur’s Jewish subjects in Persian Babylonia that a preacher could safely allude to it as part of his Purim sermon.

A similar phenomenon occurs in connection with another episode from the Purim story.

When the Talmud comes to recount the story of Vashti’s refusal to obey the king’s order to appear before the guests at the royal banquet, it wonders what she could have said to him to provoke him to such intense anger. Rava claims to provide us with the precise words of her insolent refusal: You are the son of my father’s stable-keeper!

This passage is consistent with the widespread rabbinical tradition that Vashti was the daughter of Belshazzar, whose throne had been usurped by Ahasuerus. This identification allowed the rabbis to portray Vashti’s unfortunate fate as the embodiment of the downfall of Babylonia, in fulfillment of the prophets’ oracles against the destroyers of the holy Temple.

But what is the point of Vashti’s stable-keeper quip? What was there in the Biblical sources that could possibly have suggested to the sages that Ahasuerus had once served in this capacity?

This odd remark takes on significance if we survey some events in the history of Babylonia. The emergence of rabbinic Judaism in Babylonia towards the beginning of the third century C.E. coincided with a major régime change in that part of the world. Until that time, the Babylonian territory was ruled by the Parthians, a relatively tolerant dynasty with Hellenistic leanings, who allowed their subjects, including the Jews, a great deal of self-determination in conducting their internal affairs. This situation came to an end in 226 with the advent of the Sassanian dynasty, who were committed to promoting Persian culture and nationalism. The Sassanians actively enforced Persian law throughout their empire, and zealously strove to advance the dualistic faith of Zoroastrianism. This policy created tensions with the Jewish community that occasionally found expression in the Babylonian Talmud.

Not surprisingly, the dynasty’s founder, Ardashir I, became the subject of legendary stories that were related by later generations. One popular tale spoke of Ardashir’s spectacular rise from humble origins. He attracted the attention of the Parthian royal court thanks to his equestrian skills, which were greatly valued in that culture. One day, while participating in a hunt with the nobility, he got into an argument with the king’s son, which brought him into royal disfavour–resulting in his demotion to a lowly stable-hand who was forbidden to ride horses. 

This reprimand did not necessarily mean that Ardashir was physically reduced to shoveling horse manure like one of those characters in the Wizard of Id cartoons. The position of royal stable-master might well have been an administrative title in the hierarchy of the Parthian bureaucracy. Nevertheless, this position was situated way down at the bottom of the administrative pecking order, and was undoubtedly regarded as a degrading one. The Talmud reflects this dismissive attitude towards the office when it extols the wealth of Rabbi Judah the Prince by declaring even his stable-master [that is to say, the humblest post in his court] was wealthier than King Shapur… 

Ardashir’s humiliation provoked him to rebellion. He led an uprising against the Parthian monarch, slew him, and usurped the throne (and, according to some traditions, married his beautiful daughter).

It would appear, then, that in turning Ahasuerus into a royal stable-hand, Rava was not responding to any stimulus from the text of the Book of Esther; rather, he was inserting a topical reference into his exposition. 

As is the custom of preachers through the ages, the talmudic homilists liked to illustrated scriptural narratives with motifs taken from their contemporary or local reality, as a way of enhancing their relevance to their congregations. Ahasuerus was thus presented as a prototype for the Sassanian dynasty under whom they were living. Although the legend about Ardashir’s demotion to the imperial stable does not show up in written sources until a considerably later time, the talmudic source suggests that it was current in the fourth century.

In our own communities, some of us tend to get irritated if our rabbis seem to be expounding the newspaper headlines more than the religious texts. However, as we can learn from these examples, this practice can claim some ancient and respectable precedents. When the ancient Jewish sages retold stories from the Bible, they occasionally added details that are not found in the original text. In most instances, it is possible to recognize that these additions were suggested by the rabbis’ characteristic approach to reading scripture, which led them to pay close attention to tiny details, apparent redundancies and contradictions, or to analogies drawn from other parts of the Bible. These exegetical techniques are all part of the method known as Midrash.

There are, however, some cases where the normal rules of midrashic interpretation are not adequate to explain all the peculiar embellishments that the rabbis inserted into the biblical narratives. 

For example, in the book of Esther, when we get to the scene where the irate Haman is commanded to lead his arch-enemy Mordecai through the streets on a royal steed, some rabbinic sources state that Mordecai trod on Haman’s neck as he was mounting the horse. There is nothing obvious in the biblical text from which this detail could have been deduced. 

However, the rabbis’ description of Haman’s humiliation bears an uncanny resemblance to a story related by some ancient Christian writers about the Roman emperor Valerian. That unfortunate monarch, after being captured in battle by the Persian emperor Shapur I in 260, was reported to have had his neck used as a stepladder whenever Shapur wished to mount his horse. 

Most historians have treated the story about Valerian as a pious Christian fabrication –a fitting, but fictitious, retribution for Valerian’s cruel persecution of the Christians in his empire.

However, the appearance of this motif in the Midrash suggests that the ancient Jewish homilist was making an oblique allusion to an event that was well known to his audience. This could be construed either as a case of mutual borrowing between Christian and Jewish sources -or as evidence for the veracity of the tradition about Shapur’s stepping on Valerian’s neck. That story would have been so familiar to Shapur’s Jewish subjects in Persian Babylonia that a preacher could safely allude to it as part of his Purim sermon.

A similar phenomenon occurs in connection with another episode from the Purim story.

When the Talmud comes to recount the story of Vashti’s refusal to obey the king’s order to appear before the guests at the royal banquet, it wonders what she could have said to him to provoke him to such intense anger. Rava claims to provide us with the precise words of her insolent refusal: You are the son of my father’s stable-keeper!

This passage is consistent with the widespread rabbinical tradition that Vashti was the daughter of Belshazzar, whose throne had been usurped by Ahasuerus. This identification allowed the rabbis to portray Vashti’s unfortunate fate as the embodiment of the downfall of Babylonia, in fulfillment of the prophets’ oracles against the destroyers of the holy Temple.

But what is the point of Vashti’s stable-keeper quip? What was there in the Biblical sources that could possibly have suggested to the sages that Ahasuerus had once served in this capacity?

This odd remark takes on significance if we survey some events in the history of Babylonia. The emergence of rabbinic Judaism in Babylonia towards the beginning of the third century C.E. coincided with a major régime change in that part of the world. Until that time, the Babylonian territory was ruled by the Parthians, a relatively tolerant dynasty with Hellenistic leanings, who allowed their subjects, including the Jews, a great deal of self-determination in conducting their internal affairs. This situation came to an end in 226 with the advent of the Sassanian dynasty, who were committed to promoting Persian culture and nationalism. The Sassanians actively enforced Persian law throughout their empire, and zealously strove to advance the dualistic faith of Zoroastrianism. This policy created tensions with the Jewish community that occasionally found expression in the Babylonian Talmud.

Not surprisingly, the dynasty’s founder, Ardashir I, became the subject of legendary stories that were related by later generations. One popular tale spoke of Ardashir’s spectacular rise from humble origins. He attracted the attention of the Parthian royal court thanks to his equestrian skills, which were greatly valued in that culture. One day, while participating in a hunt with the nobility, he got into an argument with the king’s son, which brought him into royal disfavour–resulting in his demotion to a lowly stable-hand who was forbidden to ride horses. 

This reprimand did not necessarily mean that Ardashir was physically reduced to shoveling horse manure like one of those characters in the Wizard of Id cartoons. The position of royal stable-master might well have been an administrative title in the hierarchy of the Parthian bureaucracy. Nevertheless, this position was situated way down at the bottom of the administrative pecking order, and was undoubtedly regarded as a degrading one. The Talmud reflects this dismissive attitude towards the office when it extols the wealth of Rabbi Judah the Prince by declaring even his stable-master [that is to say, the humblest post in his court] was wealthier than King Shapur… 

Ardashir’s humiliation provoked him to rebellion. He led an uprising against the Parthian monarch, slew him, and usurped the throne (and, according to some traditions, married his beautiful daughter).

It would appear, then, that in turning Ahasuerus into a royal stable-hand, Rava was not responding to any stimulus from the text of the Book of Esther; rather, he was inserting a topical reference into his exposition. 

As is the custom of preachers through the ages, the talmudic homilists liked to illustrated scriptural narratives with motifs taken from their contemporary or local reality, as a way of enhancing their relevance to their congregations. Ahasuerus was thus presented as a prototype for the Sassanian dynasty under whom they were living. Although the legend about Ardashir’s demotion to the imperial stable does not show up in written sources until a considerably later time, the talmudic source suggests that it was current in the fourth century.

In our own communities, some of us tend to get irritated if our rabbis seem to be expounding the newspaper headlines more than the religious texts. However, as we can learn from these examples, this practice can claim some ancient and respectable precedents. 

At the very least, we might infer that it is not always advisable to take wedding sermons too seriously.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 2, 2006, p. 11.
  • For further reading:
    • Herman, Geoffrey. “Ahasuerus, the Former Stable-Master of Belshazzar, and the Wicked Alexander of Macedon: Two Parallels between the Babylonian Talmud and Persian Sources.” AJS Review 29, no. 2 (2005): 283-297.
    • Lieberman, Saul. Hellenism in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission, Beliefs, and Manners of Palestine in the I Century B.C.E. – IV Century C.E. 2nd improved ed. Texts and Studies of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1962.
    • Segal, Eliezer. The Babylonian Esther Midrash: A Critical Commentary. 3 vols. Brown Judaic Studies. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection Sanctified Seasons, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Family Feuds

Family Feuds

by Eliezer Segal

For Judaism, the transition into the Middle Ages was marked by a sea-change in the religious character of the non-Jewish surroundings. In the previous situation, the one that was presumed throughout the Bible and Talmud, Israel was the lone drop of monotheism in a heathen ocean. But as they entered the medieval era, most of the world’s Jews were living in host societies that not only professed devotion to the one God, but actually shared many specifically Jewish historical and literary traditions.

While at first this might seem like a vast improvement, religious antagonisms were sometimes exacerbated by the rival claims to a common heritage–whether we choose to compare the contention to a sibling rivalry or to an Oedipal complex. The fact that Christians and Muslims were claiming to preserve the authentic prophetic message, or to constitute the true Israel, sometimes made the Jewish situation more awkward than it had been when they had been dealing with outright pagans.

The bottom line was that there was almost no way to justify one’s own distinct religious identity that did not involve discrediting the claims of others. Since Jews were a vulnerable minority in medieval societies, they found few opportunities to openly argue their case against the majority religions. The Christians were continually condemning Jews as demonic deicides, while the Muslims accused them of distorting their prophetic revelation. Under the circumstances, it is remarkable how many examples have survived of forceful Jewish critiques of Christianity and Islam.

The attitudes of Moses Maimonides epitomize the tensions faced by an educated Jew living in an Islamic environment. His own theology of Judaism was thoroughly permeated with the ideas of Muslim philosophers, and he never doubted the legitimacy of Islamic monotheism. In fact, it might be argued that his positing of pure monotheism as the ultimate criterion for distinguishing between religion and idolatry was itself a borrowing from Islamic discourse. In this respect, he was more favourably disposed towards Islam than towards Christianity, with its awkward trinitarianism.

On the other hand, Maimonides himself had been a victim of Muslim extremists who forced his family to flee from Spain to Egypt; and as a leader of the Egyptian Jewish community he had to deal with similar persecutions. This reality may have influenced some statements in his writings that are less than sympathetic to Islam, such as the responsum in which argues that Christians are closer to Jews because they at least accept the text of our Bible.

For all his intellectual sophistication, Maimonides’ critique of Islam sometimes boils down to we’re right and they’re wrong. Moses was the greatest of prophets, so Muhammad must have been an imposter if he claimed primacy. Where the Qur’an agrees with the Hebrew Bible and Jewish tradition, it opens itself to accusations of plagiarism.

Muslim tradition tells movingly how Muhammad, after receiving his first revelations, was deeply plagued with severe doubts about his sanity. Perhaps it is this tradition that Maimonides has in mind when he dismissively referred to the Muslim prophet as the Meshugga, the crazy one. 

A tale that circulated in the early Middle Ages had it that among Muhammad’s earliest followers were ten Jewish sages who taught him Torah and (according to one version of the story) were initially convinced that he was the messiah. When they realized their error (after seeing him eat camel meat), they did not dare to openly renounce him, fearing reprisals against themselves or the Jewish community. Instead, they offered to compose a scripture for his new religion; however, they planted some bloopers in the documents, and secretly inserted their names into the text of their work–the Qur’an–as well as an encoded message disclosing their involvement in the project. 

None of these Jewish polemical writings could compare even remotely with the vicious anti-Muslim slurs that were invented by Christians during the Crusades. Some of those slanders eventually found their way into Hebrew works that were composed centuries later in Christian lands.

A particularly nasty collection of stories about Islam’s founder was included in the chronicle Seder Eliyahu Zuta by the sixteenth-century author Elijah Capsali of Candia, Crete. Crete at that time belonged to the maritime empire of Venice, which was involved in an ongoing rivalry with Ottoman Turkey. Although Capsali was generally sympathetic to the Turks, who were very hospitable in their treatment of Jewish refugees from Spain and Portugal, his work recycles affronts to Islam that were current in the Venetian environment. Almost all of these can be traced back to Christian writings from the times of the Crusades.

Thus, we read in Seder Eliyahu Zuta that Muhammad began his career as a Christian–as a Catholic Cardinal, no less. He was sent out to sundue the orient in the name of Christendom, in return for which he was promised a promotion to the position of Pope. After successfully carrying out his military mission, Muhammad returned to discover that the agreement would not be kept; so he decided to rule over his dominions on his own authority. In order to enhance his eminence among his subjects, Muhammad passed himself off as the prophet of a new revelation. He performed various magic tricks, such as training a dove to fly down to him and appear to whisper in his ear, as if conveying a prophetic message. 

Like earlier Jewish polemicists, Capsali had no particular objections to the content of Muhammad’s teachings, other than their lack of originality. He dismissed the Qur’an as little more than a pastiche of quotations from the Bible.

Early Muslim traditions told of a Syrian Christian monk named Bahira who had first recognized the future greatness of the yourhful Muhammad while he was still employed as camel-driver working for his uncle. Capsali repeats a twisted version of this story that had circulated in the Crusader polemics. In this account, Bahira–referred to as Hayya– was Muhammad’s favourite counselor and lover, a fact that provoked the envy of the prophet’s other companions, and especially that of Abu Bakr, depicted here as the opportunistic son of the Jewish Exilarch. In order to get rid of his rival, Abu Bakr is said to have gotten Muhammad drunk and then murdered Hayya, planting the bloodstained sword in Muhammad’s hand. When the prophet sobered up, he was convinced that he had killed his companion. This, the story claimed, was the reason why Muslims were forbidden thereafter to drink wine. Malevolent stories of this sort went on to achieve some currency among later authors, such as the Divre Yosef chronicle by the Egyptian scholar Rabbi Joseph Sambari (1640-1703).

Even in the intolerant culture of medievalism, not all Jewish depictions of the prophet Muhammad were so malicious. A diametrically different attitude is evident among Jews who lived in environments governed by the Ismaili Shi’ites. 

Ismaili teachings speak of an evolutionary sequence of prophetic revelations, which will culminate in the era of the messianic Qa’im who will unite all humanity in acknowledging the one God. Ismaili doctrine acknowledged that a single universal religious truth lies at the root of the different religions; and that each of the historical revelations plays a role in preparing the path for that universal truth.

There were Jews who accepted this model of religious pluralism, leading them to view Muhammad as a legitimate prophet sent to preach to the Arabs, just as the Hebew prophets had been sent to deliver their messages to Israel.

Nethanel al-Fayyumi of Yemen was the twelfth-century author of Bustan al-Uqul (Garden of Intellects), a treatise that formulated a Jewish version of the Ismaili doctrines. Like the Ismailis, he argued that God sent different prophets to the various nations of the world, containing legislations suited to the particular temperament of each individual nation. Each people should remain loyal to its own religion, because the universal teaching was adapted to the specific conditions and experiences of each community. 

Unfortunately, this idyllic tale of mutual tolerance proved ephemeral. Within a generation, Nethanel’s son Jacob was compelled to turn to Maimonides, asking urgently for counsel on how to deal with a new wave of religious persecutions and forced conversions that was threatening the Jews of Yemen.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 23, 2006, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Fischel, W. J. A Chapter from Sambari’s Chronicle ‘Divre Joseph’ on the Beginnings of Islam. Zion 5, no. 3-4 (1940): 204-213.
    • Friedman, Mordechai Akiva. Maimonides, the Yemenite Messiah and Apostasy. Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002.
    • Jacobs, Martin. Exposed to All the Currents of the Mediterranean–a Sixteenth-Century Venetian Rabbi on Muslim History. AJS Review 29, no. 1 (2005): 33-60.
    • Mann, Jacob. A Polemical Work against Karaites and Other Sectaries. Jewish Quarterly Review 12 (1921): 123-150.
    • Schwabe, M. 1930. Mohammed’s Ten Jewish Companions. Tarbiz 2 (1):74-89.
    • Setton, Kenneth Meyer. Western Hostility to Islam: And Prophecies of Turkish Doom Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society V. 201. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1992.
    • Shtober, Shimon. Muhammad and the Beginning of Islam in the Chronicle ‘Sefer Divrey Yoseph’. In Studies in Islamic History and Civilization: In Honour of Professor David Ayalon, ed. Moshe Sharon, 225-235. Jerusalem and Leiden: Cana and E. J. Brill, 1986.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

A Kinder, Gentler Pharaoh?

A Kinder, Gentler Pharaoh?

by Eliezer Segal

It is hard to find anything good to say about the Pharaoh who enslaved our ancestors. Although at times the Bible can be adept at depicting subtle nuances of personality and giving the bad guys redeeming virtues or sympathetic qualities, is it really possible to salvage the reputation of a tyrant who, without any evident provocation, overlooked the immense benefits that Joseph had bestowed upon the Egyptian nation, and reduced the innocent Israelites to arduous slavery?

Nevertheless, there was at least one distinguished Jewish commentator who seemed to be looking for ways to mitigate Pharaoh’s negative image.

A Jewish commentators were faced with a thorny philosophical question when they interpreted the story of the Egyptian exodus: Could Pharaoh really be held accountable for his evil policies? After all, it had been foretold to Abraham generations earlier that his descendants would be enslaved in a strange land. Conceivably, therefore, Pharaoh could have defended his actions before the court of history by pleading I was only following orders in helping to carry out a divinely preordained scenario. 

Not surprisingly, Jewish commentators dismissed that defense. Maimonides stated flatly that God never compelled Pharaoh or any of his countrymen to oppress the Hebrews, and therefore the Egyptians were fully accountable for their crimes.

However, Rabbi Moses Nahmanides, the Ramban, differed from Maimonides on this point, and was actually willing to grant some legitimacy to the following orders defense. What made Pharaoh culpable, Ramban explained, was the fact that his treatment of the Israelites went far beyond mere enslavemen and extended to brutal subjugation and an attempt at genocide. Nahmanides conceded, however, that if Pharaoh had done nothing more than turn our ancestors into slaves, he would have been justified in claiming that he had done so in order to carry out the divine plan. 

Throughout his discussions about the Egyptian enslavement of the Hebrews, in connection with God’s predictions to Abraham (Genesis 15:14) and Moses’ first confrontation with Pharaoh (Exodus 10:1), Nahmanides avoids mention of Pharaoh’s name, and substitutes generic references to the Egyptians, though the Torah itself is quite explicit about Pharaoh’s being the initiator of the infamous decrees. 

Nahmanides argues furthermore, that once Pharaoh became convinced that the Israelite multitudes constituted a potential threat to Egyptian security, he refrained from taking the most direct form of action, of actively slaughtering the entire nation. Compared to what he might have done, the policy that he actually adopted, of ordering the midwives to do away with the newborn boys, was a model of restraint. He chose that course out of deference to the policies of the previous Pharaoh, and in recognition that an overt attempt at ethnic cleansing would not be condoned by the Egyptian masses. These are hardly the sorts of considerations that we would usually ascribe to a sadistic arch-villain. 

There are, indeed, several indications that Nahmanides had a soft spot for the ancient Egyptian sovereign. 

Perhaps the strongest reason for holding Pharaoh culpable for his misdeeds was the simple fact that he had been duly warned what would happen if he persisted in his refusal to free the slaves. Moses and Aaron approached Pharaoh in the name of the Lord, and before each plague they alerted him to the consequences of his obstinacy. Pharoh knew exactly what he was letting himself in for–or so it would appear.

Not so, according to Nahmanides. He suggests that at least some of the fault lay with Moses. Because Pharaoh was basically a reasonable man, who knew about the God of Israel and his absolute power, he would not have intentionally disregarded Moses’ threats if Moses had argued his case in a more persuasive manner, and if it had been demonstrated clearly that Moses was speaking on God’s behalf. If Moses had been more insistent, Pharaoh would have realized that he was left with no alternative, and he would have capitulated earlier in the game.

On several occasions, Nahmanides pointed out how Pharaoh treated Moses and Aaron with fitting honors, how he came to respect Moses’ credibility, and that the courtesy was reciprocated. 

All in all, Nahmanides’ Pharaoh comes across as a more pleasant person that is suggested by either the Bible or the midrashic tradition.

Scholars have suggested that, Nahmanides’ depictions of ancient royalty were coloured by his personal experiences with royalty. The rabbi had been acquainted with King James (Jaime) I the Conqueror of Aragon since as early as 1232, when the monarch sought his advice concerning an explosive dispute that was splitting the Catalonian Jewish communities, over the study of Maimonides’ philosophy.

James was generally well disposed towards the Jews of his realms. He was generous in offering them land and positions in the civil and diplomatic services, often preferring them to their more ambitious Christian counterparts. He went so far as to provide contractual guarantees of the Jews’ right to observe their holy days, build synagogues, and conduct their communities according to their own laws. He tried to attract Jews from other lands by offering them land and tax incentives.

Nahmanides’ most momentous involvement with King James, who sat upon the Catalonian throne throughout the rabbi’s adult life, occurred in connection with the famous disputation of Barcelona in 1263, at which the Jewish sage defended his religion against the apostate Pablo Cristiani. It was the king himself who urged Nahmanides to participate. And unlike many other medieval disputations, where the Jewish spokesmen were under intense pressure not to argue their case too aggressively, James took an active part in the proceedings in order to allow the rabbi freedom of speech. 

Following the disputation, James took the unprecedented step of visiting the synagogue and delivering an address there. Although the discourse was, of course, a Christian missionary sermon, Nahmanides was allowed to respond openly, and the exchange was conducted in a spirit of respectful civility, perhaps even warmth.

Alongside this idyllic picture, the Jews of Catalonia were also being subjected to diverse forms of discriminatory legislation, initiated by Catholic monastic orders whose influence was growing, especially during the later decades of James’ reign. The very fact that the Barcelona disputation was held, albeit under relatively liberal circumstances, is an example of the darker side of James’ reign, as were a 1263 edict ordering Jews to attend Dominican missionary sermons, the confiscation of a work by Maimonides that was considered blasphemous to Christians, and the nominal conviction of Nahmanides on charges of blasphemy. 

Perhaps Ramban suspected that, just as the anti-Jewish edicts in Catalonia had been initiated by the Dominicans and Franciscan lobbies and not by the king, so had Pharaoh’s enslavement of the Israelites been instigated by hostile parties among the Egyptian populace. This paradigm of royalty shaped Ramban’s reading of Pharaoh’s motives.

In his interpretations of biblical events, Nahmanides was fond of invoking the talmudic maxim that the deeds of the ancestors serve as paradigms for the fate of their descendants. 

In this case, arguably, it was the experiences of the latter generation that shaped the Ramban’s understanding of biblical history.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 24, 2006, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Assis, Yom Tov. The Golden Age of Aragonese Jewry: Community and Society in the Crown of Aragon 1213-1327 Littman Library of Jewish Civilization. London and Portland, Oregon: Vallentine Mitchell, 1997.
    • Baer, Yitzhak. A History of the Jews in Christian Spain. Translated by Louis Schoffman et al. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1961-1966.
    • Chazan, Robert. Barcelona and Beyond: The Disputation of 1263 and Its Aftermath. Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford: University of California Press, 1992.
    • Mack, Hananel. From the Eyes of Nahmanides: His Attitude to Pharaoh of Egypt and Jewish Status in the Kingdom of Aragon-Catalunia. Sefunot 22 (1999): 33-47.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection Sanctified Seasons, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

My Aching Back

My Aching Back

by Eliezer Segal

I have reached an age where my everyday movements are accompanied by occasional creaks and groans, and I have to be careful not to flout the law of gravity by standing or sitting too abruptly. My lower back seems to be the most vulnerable to abuses.

While I am hardly suggesting that back problems are a distinctly Jewish complaint, it has not escaped my notice that our ancestor Jacob suffered from sciatic pains and a permanent limp, inflicted upon him by a mysterious supernatural figure in that enigmatic wrestling bout at the Jabbok river. That incident was the source of the name Israel in the sense of one who strives with God and men and prevails, and is subject to countless levels of profound symbolic and mystical interpretations; but it might also serve as a precedent for a hereditary sensitivity in the lumbar regions. Several figures in later Jewish history would struggle with disorders of that sort. 

Take for example the case of Levi bar Sissi, a talmudic sage who lived in the Land of Israel during the early third century. In the course of his studies, Levi learned the tradition about Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel, who performed remarkable acrobatic feats while celebrating Sukkot during the days of the second Temple. 

After juggling eight torches, Rabban Simeon had been able to stoop down, supporting his weight by pressing his thumbs into the ground, then kiss the earth, and finally straighten himself and resume his standing posture. This act of gymnastic prowess was portrayed as a rare ability in his generation, though it had been a common form of obeisance in biblical worship, designated by the Hebrew word kidah.

As part of his interactive learning of the tradition about Rabban Simeon’s acrobatic feat, Levi been Sissi volunteered to replicate it himself before his teacher, Rabbi Judah the Prince. Unfortunately, Levi’s body was not quite up to the strain that was thereby placed on his hips, and he emerged from the demonstration with a persistent injury to his back.

In relating this episode, the Talmud is bothered by the fact that another rabbinic tradition ascribes a different cause for Levi’s ailment. According to that version, Levi’s limp was not occasioned by a physical activity he had undergone; rather, it had been inflicted on him as retribution for a spiritual indiscretion: 

Once, during a time of drought, Levi convened a communal fast, and was so moved by the plight of the people that he challenged the Almighty in an accusatory tone: Master of the universe, you have ascended and settled yourself in the highest realms, and no longer pay attention to your children. Although the passionate prayer did achieve its goal of bringing rain, a rabbinic tradition related that Levi’s physical affliction was imposed on him as punishment for his chutzpah.

In the end, the Talmud concludes that there is no real contradiction between the two accounts of Levi ben Sissi’s injury. As Rashi explained it, once the verdict was decreed against him for his impudent way of addressing his Creator, it was just a matter of waiting for an appropriate occasion to carry out the sentence. The occasion was eventually supplied by Levi himself when he invited trouble, as it were, by contorting his lower back for his classroom demonstration.

An interesting piece of rabbinic lore would have it that a human spine transforms itself into a snake seven years after the person’s death. The Talmud is quick to qualify this odd biological claim by noting that this change only applies to individuals who, during their lifetimes, were not meticulous in bowing, as is customary when reciting the passage we give thanks unto you, Lord [modim anahnu lakh] during the daily prayers. 

The traditional commentators expanded in various ways on the profound spiritual symbolism of this text. 

A particularly elaborate interpretation of the talmudic passage was suggested by the Maharal of Prague. He pointed to the fact that the serpent in the Garden of Eden was punished by being made to crawl in the dust. This implies that until that point he must have been capable of standing upright, a quality that is otherwise unique to humans. 

From this premise, the Maharal derived the edifying lesson that the dignity of upright stature is bestowed upon humans on account of our readiness to acknowledge our reliance on divine grace. However, those individuals who deny or make light of this relationship, as signified by their refusal to bend their backs in subservience to their creator, are emulating the sin of the primordial serpent and thereby foregoing their right to a distinguished position in the spiritual hierarchy. 

The Maharal concludes that the Jewish sages were expressing this analogy figuratively by means of the bizarre image of the spine being mutated into a snake–a creature whose entire skeletal structure, after all, consists of not much more than a spine. 

In the previous examples, spinal and sciatic disorders were attributed to lapses into sin or irreverence. Sometimes, however, the aches and pains can be the consequence of pious behaviour. Even that most revered of Jewish activities, the pursuit of religious study, could be the cause of back problems–or, at least, they might serve to exacerbate the discomfort.

This may have been the case for Moses Mendelssohn of Dessau, the pioneer of Jewish emancipation in eighteenth-century Germany. As is well-known, Mendelssohn suffered from a hunched back, a condition that originated in a childhood illness that had left him with a curvature of the spine.

In his adult years, Mendeslssohn was accustomed to blame his plight, at least in part, on the great philosopher Moses Maimonides. An excellent new edition of the Guide of the Perplexed had recently been published (the first in almost two centuries) with the approval and support of the local rabbinical authorities. The young Mendelssohn quickly became so devoted to the study of the medieval philosophical classic that (so he would suggest many years later) it weakened his body’s ability to resist the illness that caused his disability.

An unfortunate situation, to be sure; but I suppose it could have been worse. At least Mendelssohn did not go in for demonstrations of torch-juggling acrobatics. I have reached an age where my everyday movements are accompanied by occasional creaks and groans, and I have to be careful not to flout the law of gravity by standing or sitting too abruptly. My lower back seems to be the most vulnerable to abuses.

While I am hardly suggesting that back problems are a distinctly Jewish complaint, it has not escaped my notice that our ancestor Jacob suffered from sciatic pains and a permanent limp, inflicted upon him by a mysterious supernatural figure in that enigmatic wrestling bout at the Jabbok river. That incident wass the source of the name Israel in the sense of one who strives with God and men and prevails, and is subject to countless levels of profound symbolic and mystical interpretations; but it might also serve as a precedent for a hereditary sensitivity in the lumbar regions. Several figures in later Jewish history would struggle with disorders of that sort. 

Take for example the case of Levi bar Sissi, a talmudic sage who lived in the Land of Israel during the early third century. In the course of his studies, Levi learned the tradition about Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel, who performed remarkable acrobatic feats while celebrating Sukkot during the days of the second Temple. 

After juggling eight torches, Rabban Simeon had been able to stoop down, supporting his weight by pressing his thumbs into the ground, then kiss the earth, and finally straighten himself and resume his standing posture. This act of gymnastic prowess was portrayed as a rare ability in his generation, though it had been a common form of obeisance in biblical worship, designated by the Hebrew word kidah.

As part of his interactive learning of the tradition about Rabban Simeon’s acrobatic feat, Levi been Sissi volunteered to replicate it himself before his teacher, Rabbi Judah the Prince. Unfortunately, Levi’s body was not quite up to the strain that was thereby placed on his hips, and he emerged from the demonstration with a persistent injury to his back.

In relating this episode, the Talmud is bothered by the fact that another rabbinic tradition ascribes a different cause for Levi’s ailment. According to that version, Levi’s limp was not occasioned by a physical activity he had undergone; rather, it had been inflicted on him as retribution for a spiritual indiscretion: 

Once, during a time of drought, Levi convened a communal fast, and was so moved by the plight of the people that he challenged the Almighty in an accusatory tone: Master of the universe, you have ascended and settled yourself in the highest realms, and no longer pay attention to your children. Although the passionate prayer did achieve its goal of bringing rain, a rabbinic tradition related that Levi’s physical affliction was imposed on him as punishment for his chutzpah.

In the end, the Talmud concludes that there is no real contradiction between the two accounts of Levi ben Sissi’s injury. As Rashi explained it, once the verdict was decreed against him for his impudent way of addressing his Creator, it was just a matter of waiting for an appropriate occasion to carry out the sentence. The occasion was eventually supplied by Levi himself when he invited trouble, as it were, by contorting his lower back for his classroom demonstration.

An interesting piece of rabbinic lore would have it that a human spine transforms itself into a snake seven years after the person’s death. The Talmud is quick to qualify this odd biological claim by noting that this change only applies to individuals who, during their lifetimes, were not meticulous in bowing, as is customary when reciting the passage we give thanks unto you, Lord [modim anahnu lakh] during the daily prayers. 

The traditional commentators expanded in various ways on the profound spiritual symbolism of this text. 

A particularly elaborate interpretation of the talmudic passage was suggested by the Maharal of Prague. He pointed to the fact that the serpent in the Garden of Eden was punished by being made to crawl in the dust. This implies that until that point he must have been capable of standing upright, a quality that is otherwise unique to humans. 

From this premise, the Maharal derived the edifying lesson that the dignity of upright stature is bestowed upon humans on account of our readiness to acknowledge our reliance on divine grace. However, those individuals who deny or make light of this relationship, as signified by their refusal to bend their backs in subservience to their creator, are emulating the sin of the primordial serpent and thereby foregoing their right to a distinguished position in the spiritual hierarchy. 

The Maharal concludes that the Jewish sages were expressing this analogy figuratively by means of the bizarre image of the spine being mutated into a snake–a creature whose entire skeletal structure, after all, consists of not much more than a spine. 

In the previous examples, spinal and sciatic disorders were attributed to lapses into sin or irreverence. Sometimes, however, the aches and pains can be the consequence of pious behaviour. Even that most revered of Jewish activities, the pursuit of religious study, could be the cause of back problems–or, at least, they might serve to exacerbate the discomfort.

This may have been the case for Moses Mendelssohn of Dessau, the pioneer of Jewish emancipation in eighteenth-century Germany. As is well-known, Mendelssohn suffered from a hunched back, a condition that originated in a childhood illness that had left him with a curvature of the spine.

In his adult years, Mendeslssohn was accustomed to blame his plight, at least in part, on the great philosopher Moses Maimonides. An excellent new edition of the Guide of the Perplexed had recently been published (the first in almost two centuries) with the approval and support of the local rabbinical authorities. The young Mendelssohn quickly became so devoted to the study of the medieval philosophical classic that (so he would suggest many years later) it weakened his body’s ability to resist the illness that caused his disability.

An unfortunate situation, to be sure; but I suppose it could have been worse. At least Mendelssohn did not go in for demonstrations of torch-juggling acrobatics.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 4, 2006, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Altmann, Alexander. Moses Mendelssohn: A Biographical Study. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1973.
    • Meir, Ofra. 1999. Rabbi Judah the Patriarch: Palestinian and Babylonian Portrait of a Leader. Edited by M. Ayali, Helal ben Hayyim Library. Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad Publishing House.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

First Fruits and Forefathers

First Fruits and Forefathers

by Eliezer Segal

According to the talmudic tradition, the season for bringing the first fruit offering (bikkurim) to the Jerusalem Temple begins on Shavu’ot. The ceremony included not only the physical conveyance of the fruits in baskets to the priests, but also the recitation of an obligatory declaration of thanksgiving whose text is set down in the book of Deuteronomy (26:1-11). The declaration (which was also adopted as the basis for the standard Passover Haggadah) recounts the sufferings and wanderings of our Hebrew forebears, contrasting those unfortunate circumstances with their later happiness as a nation living on its fertile native soil. It is in appreciation of this privilege that we were commanded offer up the first fruits of each year’s bounty to the Almighty.

As with other aspects of religious observance, the rabbis set precise parameters to the obligation of bringing the first fruits. Their careful reading of the relevant scriptural texts taught them that not every Jew was qualified to participate fully in the commandment. For example, when the Torah states that “the first of the first fruits of your land you shall bring into the house of the Lord your God” (Exodus 23:19), the halakhah interpreted that this excludes from the obligation individuals who are not the legal owners of the land on which the produce was grown.

The same mode of reasoning gave rise to a ruling in the Mishnah that a person who has converted to Judaism is required to bring the first-fruits, like native-born Jews, but that he may not recite the accompanying thanksgiving declaration. The reason offered for this restriction is because he is unable to honestly pronounce the required formula “…I have come into the land which the Lord swore to our fathers to give us,” since the proselyte’s ancestors did not take part in the original division of the Land of Israel.

Not content with this discriminatory treatment of the proselyte, the Mishnah goes on to point out that the same logic would demand that converts introduce alterations into the texts of the traditional prayers. When the standard liturgy addresses “the God of our ancestors,” the proselyte should substitute the wording “God of the ancestors of Israel” when praying in private; or God of your ancestors in a setting of congregational worship. 

Since these interpretations were set down in the Mishnah, the most authoritative compendium of ancient rabbinic religious law, we have good reason to expect that they would be accepted by the subsequent codifications of halakhah. Remarkably, this was not the case. In Maimonides’ commentary to the Mishnah, as well as in his Mishneh Torah, in the section that enumerates who is obligated or exempted with respect to the bringing of the first-fruits, he dismisses the Mishnah’s ruling. In its place, he writes that “a proselyte brings them and recites the declaration, since Abraham was told ‘you shall be the father of a multitude of nations’ (Genesis17:4). This means that he is the father of all those who come under the shelter of the divine presence.”

In fact, Maimonides was not really the first to dissent from the Mishnah’s ruling. His interpretation appears in the Jerusalem Talmud, where it is ascribed to the second-century sage Rabbi Judah bar Ilai. Rabbi Judah explained that the divine promise to Abraham about becoming the father of a multitude of nations should be read as follows: “In the past you were only the ancestor of Aram, but henceforth you shall be the father of all nations.” The Talmud goes on to report that two later rabbis, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi and Rabbi Abbahu, issued rulings in support of Rabbi Judah and in opposition to the Mishnah. Maimonides undoubtedly relied on their precedents when defining his own position.

Nevertheless, several authorities viewed Maimonides’ decision as very problematic, because there was a passage in the more authoritative Babylonian Talmud that appeared to support the Mishnah.

Indeed, Maimonides’ involvement in this question was not restricted to the theoretical or academic planes. In one of his responsa, he was called upon to offer guidance to an actual proselyte, a certain Obadiah. Maimonides addressed Obadiah in formulas that reveal the immense respect that he had for his interlocutor: “our master, our teacher, the enlightened and insightful Obadiah.” 

Obadiah had asked Maimonides whether he should follow the instructions in the Mishnah and avoid the standard liturgical formulas that imply the worshipper’s descent from the biblical patriarchs. Maimonides used this opportunity to make it unmistakably clear that membership in the community of Israel is not a racial or genetic phenomenon, and that our relationship to Abraham is not merely biological. Far more significant is the fact that Abraham instructed his followers in pure monotheistic belief. According to the rabbinic tradition, Abraham actively sought disciples from among all peoples, not only within his family. Therefore, concluded Maimonides, any person in any generation who is a sincere follower of Abraham’s ways can legitimately be considered his descendent.

When referring to events from the Jewish historical past, Maimonides advised Obadiah that it might technically be more accurate to observe the Mishnah’s instruction and employ phrases like “…who has taken Israel [instead of ‘us’] out of Egypt; however, there would be no meaningful advantage to doing so. After all, once a proselyte has come under the shelter of the divine presence, he or she is entirely undistinguishable from any born Jew. Furthermore, the Hebrews who were liberated from Egypt, although they were physically descended from Abraham, were at the time so steeped in idolatrous superstition and heathen practices that they had to undergo a virtual conversion. In this sense, all Jews are ultimately the progeny of converts.

Maimonides’ approach was readily accepted by most subsequent authorities insofar as it dealt with the matters of the Abrahamic heritage and participation in Jewish sacred history. There remained, however, one technical obstacle that seemed to prevent proselytes from reciting the declaration over the bringing of the first-fruits: the passage included the words “I have come into the land which the Lord swore to our fathers to give us,” a claim that could not be made honestly by converts. This objection was raised by Rabbi Judah Rosanes of Constantinople in his commentary to Maimonides’ Code.

A solution to Rabbi Rosanes’ predicament was proposed by Rabbi Moshe Ibn Habib. He noted that the problematic verse did not refer to “the land which the Lord gave to our fathers”; rather, it speaks of the divine promise to give us the land, an assurance that extends into the future. Accordingly, even though the proselytes may not have participated in the original division of the holy land in biblical days, they will be given their full shares in the future redemption.

This, concludes Rabbi Ibn Habib, is confirmed by the words of the prophet Ezekiel (47:21-22) “So you shall divide this land among you… as an inheritance for yourselves and for the strangers who reside among you and have begotten children among you. They shall be to you as native-born sons of Israel; with you they shall be allotted an inheritance among the tribes of Israel.”

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 25, 2006, p. 10.
  • For further reading:
    • Bamberger, Bernard Jacob. Proselytism in the Talmudic Period. Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1939.
    • Halkin, Abraham S., and David Hartman. Crisis and Leadership: Epistles of Maimonides. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1985.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection Sanctified Seasons, the Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Artistic License

Artistic License

by Eliezer Segal

According to a recent news report, the members of an Alberta Hutterite colony successfully protested a new regulation that cancelled their privilege to carry driver’s licenses without photographs. The Hutterites justified their position on grounds of religious freedom, citing the words of the second commandment (Exodus 20:4) You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. A literal reading of that passage would effectively rule out most forms of graphic representation, including photographs of human beings.

While the public discussion of that issue has focused primarily on matters of multicultural policy and church-state relations, I think that Jews reading about this episode would be justified in feeling some uneasiness. We are, after all, speaking about a commandment from the Torah, our most sacred religious text. Why, then, has this never become a Jewish issue? You would think that meticulously observant Jewish groups would prohibit photographs or other forms of visual art. Experience, however, tells us that this is not the case. 

To be sure, there were individuals like the twelfth-century Rabbi Eliakim of Mainz who ordered the removal of stained glass windows from the synagogue in Cologne because of their depictions of lions and serpents; or the illuminator of the medieval Bird’s Head Haggadah who replaced all the human faces with birds or animals; or Rabbi Abraham Palagi of 19th-century Smyrna who refused to place in his synagogue a portrait that was sent by Sir Moses Montefiori. However, the overwhelming tendency has been to allow depictions of human forms. Traditional Jews, especially Hasidim and other sects who cultivate charismatic leadership, have a particular enthusiasm for displaying pictures of great rabbis and pious saints of the past and present. How can they defend this in light of the explicit prohibition uttered at Mount Sinai?

To be fair, the biblical verse in question is open to at least two different interpretations. The maximalist position would read it as an absolute and unconditional commandment. However, it is also plausible to argue that the prohibition must be modified by the passage’s continuation: You shall not bow down to them or serve them, which seems to imply that images that are not intended for worship are acceptable.

The ambivalence of the biblical text finds expression in a puzzling historical fact: The extensive archaeological remains of Second-Temple Judaism testify to the uncompromising enforcement of the ban against graphic imagery, with decorations confined to geometric or floral patterns. This policy is confirmed by ancient historians, who speak of the Jews’ incomprehensible antipathy towards visual art and their willingness to submit to martyrdom rather than tolerate the placing of images in Jerusalem. Talmudic tradition states that all kinds of images could be found in Jerusalem except for human faces; though the archaeological remains suggest a more restrictive policy.

This austere picture stands in glaring contrast to the evidence from the era following the destruction of the Temple. Not only did the mosaic floors and painted frescoes of ancient synagogues contain elaborate illustrations of episodes from the Bible, but they even made use of overtly pagan motifs, portraying the sun as Helios riding his chariot, or the seasons as their mythological personifications.

As the evidence began to accumulate, scholars suggested diverse explanations for these violations of the strict Jewish rejection of visual art. An influential theory inferred from this evidence that the Jews who produced and enjoyed art were not particularly religious, at least not according the stultifying and unaesthetic standards demanded by those soul-less Pharisees and their successors, the rabbis. The rabbis whose views were later collected into the Talmud did not reflect the authentic spirituality of the Jewish masses, who pursued a mystical synthesis of Judaism and universal religion that encouraged creative expression. When the legalistic rabbis imposed rules to ban representational art, they were just talking to themselves, and their outlook had little impact on the common folk. 

As attractive as this thesis might sound initially (especially to persons who are negatively disposed towards the modern rabbinate), it suffers from one fundamental flaw: It is based on a stereotypical caricature of a rabbinic orthodoxy, rather than on what the literary sources actually say. Anyone who studies the relevant talmudic discussions concerning idolatrous art will recognize that the rabbis’ approach to figurative art was generally quite liberal. 

The intricate talmudic sources that discuss the status of graven images introduce numerous distinctions that must me taken into consideration before we may determine whether or not an image is permissible: between fashioning a new image and finding an existing one; between celestial bodies and terrestrial objects; between the faces that appeared on Ezekiel’s mystical chariot–the lion, ox, eagle and human–and those of other creatures; between images that were normally worshipped by pagans and those that were not; between flat, relief, and three-dimensional figures–and many other factors. 

Although the Talmud mentions some unusually pious individuals who refused to gaze at images, or even to use coins, these are more than offset by accounts of rabbis who allowed mosaics, or even statues of the king, to be placed in their synagogues. 

Furthermore, the chief beneficiaries of these artistic endeavours were not isolated from the rabbinic establishment. They included sites that had strong associations to the Jewish Patriarch (Nasi), such as the synagogue at Hamat-Tiberias and the patriarchal burial caves at Beit She’arim. 

In light of these factors, an alternative hypothesis was proposed to account for the permissive attitudes that prevailed after the destruction of the Temple: By the end of the first century CE, paganism was no longer considered a real threat to Jewish belief. Centuries of philosophical criticism had brought about a situation wherein belief in a universal divinity was widespread, and few Greeks or Romans maintained a literal belief in the mythological exploits of their traditional gods and goddesses. 

Under these new circumstances (the thesis argues), the rabbinic leadership was prepared to exercise greater flexibility in applying the second commandment. In doing so, they were also responding to an urgent social need. As the pagan foothold in Israel became more prominent after the suppression of the rebellion against Rome, increasing numbers of Jews found themselves in communities with gentile majorities. Jews who earned their livelihoods from the manufacture or distribution of consumer products were expected to decorate those products according to the fashions of the time, which usually involved pictures with mythological themes. Recognizing that those motifs no longer reflected sincere heathenism, the rabbis were willing to relax the earlier stringencies in order to allow Jews to earn a living. Ultimately, this flexibility found expression in the incorporation of Bible illustrations and mythological ornamentation into synagogue decoration. 

In later generations, Jewish attitudes towards figurative art tended to reflect those of the surrounding societies. Whereas Jews in Islamic lands often shared the Muslim avoidance of all but geometric or calligraphic decorations, the prevalent Ashkenazic approach permitted most art, short of full three-dimensional human images. 

Until drivers’ licenses start to include three-dimensional holograms, most of us should not have reason for panic. And then again, some would argue that the average driver’s license photo bears no discernible resemblance to a human image.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 15, 2006, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Bland, Kalman P. The Artless Jew: Medieval and Modern Affirmations and Denials of the Visual. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000.
    • Goodenough, Erwin R. Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period. 13 vols. Bollingen Series ; 37. New York: Pantheon, 1953.
    • Gutmann, Joseph. The Second Commandment And the Image in Judaism. Hebrew Union College Annual 32 (1961): 161-174.
    • Roth, Cecil. Introduction. In Jewish Art: An Illustrated History, ed. Cecil Roth and Bezalel Narkiss, 18-36. Greenwich, Conn.: New York Graphic Society, 1971.
    • Urbach, Ephraim E. The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Fact. In Collected Writings in Jewish Studies, ed. Robert Brody and Moshe David Herr, 151-193. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.

Hollow Victories

Hollow Victories

by Eliezer Segal

Whether the headlines are about politicians escaping impeachment by the skin of their teeth, or about a Hollywood celebrity’s narrow brush with a prison term, you have probably been made aware recently of the exasperating gap between real innocence and a legal verdict of not guilty.

This all-important distinction is aptly illustrated by a story from the Talmud about the Babylonian sage Rava (Nedarim 25a). Rava once adjudicated a litigation between a creditor and debtor. The defendant declared solemnly that he had already returned the sum; and in keeping with the accepted procedure, Rava imposed a judicial oath on him. However, this debtor devised a clever ruse to beat the system. He brought a rod, which he had hollowed out and stuffed with the disputed coins. When the time came for him to take the oath, he hobbled into the courtroom on his precious cane. Because Talmudic law demanded that oaths must be administered while holding a Torah scroll, he casually handed the cane to the complainant while he was reciting the oath. 

In this way, since the creditor was (albeit unknowingly) in physical possession of the money while the debtor was swearing that he had returned it, the oath was technically a true one, even if it the circumstances of the case rendered it completely fraudulent.

Fortunately, the plot came to light when the plaintiff lost his temper and smashed the cane, causing the telltale coins to fall on the floor.

Rava’s cane (kanya de-Rava) thus became a proverbial talmudic prototype for a plea that is literally accurate, but deceptive in its intent. In order to avoid such trickery, the rabbis required that the court issue a declaration, before administering judicial oaths, that we are not imposing this oath on you according to your understanding, but rather according to our understanding and that of the court. Nevertheless, some sages in the midrash were so apprehensive about the potential for abusing the system that they discouraged the swearing of all oaths, even those that were entirely true and sincere. 

The earliest documented appearance of the hollowed cane motif predates Rava by several centuries, and can be traced to a treatise by a Roman grammarian named Konon who lived during the first century B.C.E. In Konon’s account, a traveler from Miletus, fearing the unstable political situation at home, left property with his host in Sicily for safekeeping. When the danger had passed, and the traveler asked the host to return his property, the latter insisted that he had already done so. He melted down the gold and poured it into a hollowed-out rod, pretending that he needed to lean on it for support. As in Rava’s case, the culprit handed it to his accuser while he took the judicial oath. The indignant victim angrily hurled the cane to the ground, lamenting the lack of integrity in the world. When the cane broke and the culprit was exposed as a fraud, he hanged himself in disgrace. 

A tradition reported by the Babylonian Jewish sages in the medieval era introduced a significant new factor into the story, one that was not mentioned in the talmudic or midrashic accounts. A ninth-century work speaks of a wondrous chain that was found in the courtrooms of earlier generations. The divine name was engraved on it, thereby imbuing it with the ability to serve as a veritable lie detector, capable of distinguishing between true and false oaths. Litigants who swore oaths in court were asked to take hold of the end of the chain. Those who were telling the truth were able to touch the chain; but it would always propel itself beyond the reach of the liars. 

The hollow cane stratagem managed to confuse even that marvelous chain, bringing its powers into disrepute. Rav Hai Ga’on observed that the severe oaths that were administered during Talmudic times, which required that a holy Torah scroll be held during the ceremony, had been discontinued because of the proliferation of clever liars who were adept at twisting the facts without technically perjuring themselves. The episode of the gold-filled cane and the polygraph chain contributed to the eventual abandoning of the older procedure. 

An Islamic legend preserved a similar tradition about the miraculous chain. According to the judge and historian Mujir ad-Din al-Hanbali, the chain was situated in Jerusalem during the reign of King Solomon, and it was in its honour that the Qubbat al-Silsilah, the dome of the chain, was constructed in front of east entrance to Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount. In the Muslim tale, the chain was suspended between heaven and earth, and allowed the judge to distinguish between truthful and the deceitful parties. 

On the day when the hollowed rod was brought into courtroom, the observers were amazed to see that both litigants were able to place their hands on the elusive chain, in spite of the fact that their claims were mutually contradictory. The defendant could truthfully claim he had returned the money as long as the cane was in the plaintiff’s hands; while the plaintiff could honestly deny it after he had returned the cane to the defendant. From that day onward, the legend concludes, the chain vanished because of evil human nature and cunning deceit. 

In an ironic twist, a medieval Christian version of the gold-in-the-cane story cast a Jewish moneylender as the innocent victim of duplicity. When the Jewish creditor sued his Christian client for not repaying his debt, the debtor resorted to the coins-in-the-cane hoax.

In that version, as told by the thirteenth-century hagiologist Jacobus of Voragine, the trickster was overcome by a sudden weariness as he was walking by a crossroads on his way home from his successful court appearance. A speeding wagon ran him down, killing him and causing the cane to spew forth its treasure. When the Jew happened by the scene of the accident, he was so impressed by this instance of divine intervention that he refused to benefit from the fruits of his vindication. He vowed that he would take back his money only if the swindler were restored to life through the grace of St. Nicholas. As is to be expected in a Christian legend, this is precisely what ensued: the corpse was resurrected, and the Jew submitted eagerly to baptism.

This tale in praise of St. Nicholas enjoyed widespread popularity in the literature, art and architecture of medieval and renaissance Europe. One of the best know versions appears towards the end of Cervantes’ Don Quixote(2:45), when that shrewd Sancho Panza, now ruler of the island of Barataria, presides over just such a dispute. As far as I know, Cervantes’ version is the only one where the judge figures out the hoax by himself, after his suspicions have been aroused by the defendant’s unusual conduct in handing his cane to the plaintiff. Sancho Panza also acknowledges that he had once heard a similar story in the preaching of his village curate. 

The universality of this story should not surprise us, I suppose. As much as the law strives to establish norms and procedures to determine the truth, there will never be a lack of clever swindlers who will figure out ways to subvert them. Such characters can deftly weave their way through the intricate grey zones that separate legality from immorality–even if they sometimes need to support themselves on hollow canes.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, July 6, 2006, p. 9.
  • For further reading:
    • Englard, Izhak. The Stick of Rava, the Altar of St. Nicholas and the Chain of King David. Tarbiz: A Quarterly for Jewish Studies 52 (1983): 591-609.
    • Epstein, Jacob Nahum. Ma’aseh De-Shushilta De-Vei Dina. Ha-‘Olam 1 (1908): 306-308.
    • Faur, José. Don Quichotte: un talmudiste au passé souillé. Pardes 29 (2000): 159-168.
    • Scheiber, Alexander. The Story of ‘Rava’s Rod’ in Reformation Literature. In Studies in Aggadah, Targum and Jewish Liturgy in Memory of Joseph Heinemann, eds. Petuchowski, Jakob J., and Ezra Fleischer, 172-174. Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Hebrew Union College Press, 1981.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection A Meeting-Place for the Wise: More Excursions into the Jewish Past and Present, Alberta Judaic Library, 2008.