All posts by Eliezer Segal

Peril on the High Seas

Peril on the High Seas

by Eliezer Segal

The recent popularity of the new Pirates of the Caribbean film has stimulated some curiosity about the place of pirates in Jewish history. As it happens, historical documents from several eras speak of Jews as victims or piracy–and there may even have been a few Jewish buccaneers as well.

As long as Jews traveled the seas or were involved in maritime commerce, they were as likely as anyone else to fall into the clutches of pirates. This was particularly true in the Middle East and the Mediterranean basin during the Middle Ages, as we learn from documents in the Cairo Genizah. The society described in those texts was a quintessentially capitalistic one in which entrepreneurs invested their money in international commerce, especially in the thriving trade with the Far East. Piracy on the high seas formed a continual threat to the lives, liberty and profits of the merchants and sailors.

While piracy could be practiced as a form of private enterprise, it was often linked to international conflicts, with the buccaneers attacking the ships of one belligerent nation on behalf of another. During the Crusades, Muslim and Christian pirates were encouraged to plunder each other’s vessels. However, by the eleventh century, there was enough internal sectarian division within the Islamic community that Sunnis and Shi’ites were committing acts of piracy against the ships of fellow Muslims as well. The notorious eleventh-century pirate Jabbara even switched his allegiances from the Shi’ites to the Sunnis in mid-career. Letters of Jewish travelers preserve some vividly detailed descriptions of assaults on their ships, as well as heartfelt expressions of gratitude to the Almighty for allowing them to pass safely through perilous waters. 

Of course, Jewish merchants, although not really parties in these struggles, were just as likely to be victimized by the pirates. Their cargos made lucrative targets, either as plunder or in order to be ransomed back by their owners. Just to be on the safe side, merchants tried to attach themselves to large convoys that sailed with military escorts. The captured travelers were often put on the market as slaves. The pirates made a point of treating their victims with extreme cruelty, not only out of sadistic malice, but also in order to terrify the victims into coughing up larger ransoms. In accordance with talmudic guidelines, Maimonides issued a responsum (preserved in the Genizah) in which he set strict limits to the amounts that could be paid to pirates, so as not to inflate the prices of future ransom demands. However, such efforts were not always successful, and extravagant sums were nonetheless paid out.

In spite of the daunting prospects of pirate attacks, the Jewish merchants felt it was all worth the risk. The sunken cargos and the expensive ransoms were regarded as acceptable business risks for enterprises that were, in the long run, immensely profitable. 

Judah ben Jacob, a Jewish trader in Mangalore, India, wrote to his brother-in-law Mahruz after being abandoned in India following his capture by pirates. After learning about the adventure Mahruz wrote to Judah: I praised God and thanked him, when I heard that your life was saved. ‘O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness!’ (Psalms 107:8). Everything can be replaced except life…Do not be sad, God will restore your loss to you soon; you will live, if God wills, and God will compensate you many times. 

A famous legend, found in the chronicle Sefer Ha-Kabbalah (the Book of Tradition) by the Spanish philosopher and historian Rabbi Abraham Ibn Daud, traces the proliferation of medieval rabbinic centres to the activities of a pirate. For centuries prior to the tenth century, Jewish religious leadership had been concentrated in the hands of the Ge’onim, the rabbinical leadership in Babylonia. Within a very short time afterwards, the influence of the Ge’onim was drastically diminished, as autonomous centres of Jewish scholarship began to arise in different localities in Europe and North Africa. 

Ibn Daud explained this abrupt development by telling the tale of the Four Captives: Four rabbis were on their way from the port of Bari, Italy, on their way to attend a kallah, a rabbinic convention of the Babylonian academies, when their ship was attacked by the notorious pirate Ibn Ruhamis who was harassing sea routes on behalf of King Abdur-Rahman an-Nasir. The sages, who did not reveal their identities or their scholarly credentials to their captors, were subsequently sold or ransomed in various ports: Alexandria, Tunisia, Cordoba and an unidentified locality. Each of the four scholars rose to a position of leadership, and became the founder of an illustrious rabbinic academy in the place to which he was taken. The spread of Jewish learning among so many different centres took its toll on the Babylonian academies, which now had to compete for funds with the newer institutions. The prestige of the Babylonian Geonate never recovered from that pirate attack.

We see, then, that Jews could be the target of piracy. Were any of them involved actively in the infamous profession? 

It’s hard to put one’s hook on specific examples. In ancient times, for instance, we have the case of Aristobulus, the Hasmonean leader who was involved in a power struggle with his older brother Hyrcanus. When the rivals brought their respective cases before the Roman general Pompey, Hyrcanus accused his brother of conducting acts of piracy on the seas. Josephus does not express any personal judgment about the genuineness of the charge.

And then there was the case of Jason, whose Second-Temple tomb is a favorite tourist attraction in Jerusalem’s Rehaviah district. One of the decorations on the building’s interior walls consists of crude drawings of three ships. The more conventional interpretation of this motif is that Jason had been a merchant who had shipped cargos by sea. However, the third ship is a warship, with an archer standing at its prow, and this inspired some writers to infer that it was a depiction of Jason, who was now taking posthumous pride in his career as a pirate in hot pursuit of the other two vessels in the drawing.

Perhaps the best-known pirate with a claim to a Jewish pedigree was the notorious Jean Lafitte who dominated the waters of the Gulf of Mexico in the early nineteenth century from his private kingdom of Barataria in the Louisiana Bayou. Lafitte’s pirate army earned the gratitude of the American government for the services they rendered in attacking British vessels in the War of 1812. He was afterwards expelled from Louisiana, and reestablished himself in Galveston Texas, where he continued his marine warfare while reigning over his kingdom of Campeche. The pirate king was pressured to leave in 1821 after one of his captains attacked an American merchant vessel. Disney World’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride sets sail from a Lafitte’s Landing.

Lafitte’s published diaries tell about his being raised in Hispaniola by his Jewish grandmother, Zora Nadrimal, who instilled in her family vivid and detailed memories of her escape from the clutches of the Spanish Inquisition. Evidently Lafitte’s wife was Cristiana Levine, a Jew from Denmark.

The problem is that the document containing Lafitte’s memoirs is of extremely dubious authenticity. It was not discovered until the 1950’s when a translation of it was published by an obscure, unsympathetic and secretive individual who claimed to be Lafitte’s great-grandson, and to have discovered the lost text in a trunk left by his grandfather. Some facsimiles of the original manuscript and of various other letters with corroborating documentation were included in a 1952 publication, but it was difficult to prove their veracity, moreso after items from the archive were destroyed in a series of house fires. The alleged Lafitte journal is now in the possession of the Sam Houston Library in Huntsville, Texas, and its authenticity–which extends to the question of Lafitte’s Jewish origins–is still being debated. My impression is that recent research has been warming up to those memoirs. The paper and writing materials have been demonstrated as being from the right time period, and the text contains details that a falsifier is unlikely to have gotten right.

But alas (or should I say: arggh!?) scholars have to be very cautious before committing themselves with absolute certainty to any hypothesis. After all, historical research is a most perilous undertaking.


  • First Publication:
    • as: “Argrgh, matey’s” [sic!], The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, July 6, 2006, p. 14.
  • For further reading:
    • Cohen, Gerson D., ed. A Critical Edition with a Translation and Notes of the Book of Tradition (Sefer Ha-Qabbalah) by Abraham Ibn Daud. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1967.
    • ________. The Story of the Four Captives. Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 29 (1960-1961): 55-132.
    • Goitein, S. D. Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974.
    • ________. A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. 6 vols. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967.
    • Sharfman, I. Harold. Jews on the Frontier: An Account of Jewish Pioneers and Settlers in Early America. Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1977.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

The Ibn Ezra Code

The Ibn Ezra Code

by Eliezer Segal

Yom Kippur, as it was celebrated in the Jerusalem Temple, was full of pomp, ceremony, and a most elaborate sequence of sacrificial offerings. For me, the ritual that best expresses the quintessential theme of the day is that of the scapegoat: the High Priest confessed the sins of the people while laying his hands on the head of a goat, which was then sent out to Azazel in the wilderness.

The word Azazel is what philologists call a hapax legomenon. It is unique, found only in this passage; and therefore, its meaning cannot be easily deduced by comparing it with its usage in other places. The word sounds vaguely like a proper name, similar to names of supernatural beings that appear in Jewish mystical texts. 

A most intriguing attempt to explain the text is provided by Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra. In his commentary to the passage, he addresses his readers as follows:

And if you were capable of grasping the mystery that emanates from the word Azazel, then you would know its secret and the secret of its name, for it has equivalents elsewhere in the Bible. I shall reveal to you a portion of the mystery, only by way of an indirect hint. When you reach thirty-three you will know it. 

At this point, it would appear that I should be checking your IDs to make sure that nobody under the age of 33 is let in on this momentous Ibn Ezra Code–which Ibn Ezra himself has nothing more to say about, not even in encoded or cryptic language.

I have no clear idea what Ibn Ezra had in mind. However, there are people much wiser than I who do claim to understand his allusion, and are willing to divulge it. (…or is this just a diversionary tactic to distract us from the real meaning of the verse?)

The security leak in this case comes from Rabbi Moses Nahmanides, the Ramban. He justifies his indiscretion by claiming that Ibn Ezra’s mysterious secret is not a secret at all, and merely refers to an interpretation that was well known from the Talmud and Midrash. According to the Ramban, the thirty-three does not designate a minimum age, but rather the number of verses that we are instructed to count until we arrive at the key to the solution. Do the math, and you will arrive at Leviticus 17:7: And they shall no more sacrifice their sacrifices unto the satyrs, after whom they go astray.

Most of the Jewish commentators accepted Nahmanides’ solution to the Ibn Ezra Code, but there appears to be a fundamental disagreement about how to interpret his intention.

One approach, represented most prominently by Ramban himself, and by Kabbalistic commentators like Bahya ben Asher, equates both Azazel and the satyrs with tangibly demonic forces of evil. Azazel = satyr = goat = Se’ir = Esau = Sammael = the lord of metaphysical wickedness. Hence, the Torah is advising us that, though at all other times of the year we are supposed to be occupied in a relentless war against Azazel and his evil minions, only on the Day of Atonement, has God commanded us to buy them off with a generous offering of a sin-bearing goat, because the goat is Sammael’s favourite animal. 

A second approach to solving the Ibn Ezra Code draws a diametrically opposite conclusion. Advocates of this interpretation note that the substance of Leviticus 17:7 is an uncompromising condemnation of the practice of sacrificing to satyrs. What sense does it make, then, to claim that the Torah is allowing a concession to satyr-worship on the most solemn day of the year? The lesson must be the reverse: it is an admonition that the Yom Kippur scapegoat should not directed to a demonic being.

The latter interpretation finds support in the ways that several of the foremost commentators prefer to read Azazel as an adjective or as a name reflecting its function. Thus, Rashi (following the midrash Sifra) derives it from the root ‘izzuz, meaning strong; and he explains that it is the name of the mountain cliff from which the goat was sent to its death, in keeping with the Talmud’s interpretation of the ritual. Rabbi David Kimhi takes a similar approach, though his etymology is different from Rashi’s. In his view, Azazel is a combination of the words ‘ez and azal, and the mountain is so called because the goat–ez in Hebrew– goes there, and the Aramaic for go is azal

Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) claims that Azazel is nothing more than a pleasant goat-land to which the scapegoat was set free to graze peacefully and live happily ever after in the prairies. This novel interpretation should provide much consolation to those of us who are disturbed by the prospect of an innocent animal being sent to a macabre death.

Rabbi Nissim ben Abraham of Marseilles applied Kimhi’s etymology of Azazel as ez azal — the goat went–to Ibn Ezra’s interpretation, in the sense that the people are now demonstratively renouncing their former perverse practice of sacrificing to satyr-goats. While Rabbi Nissim accepts the typological equation of goats with satyrs and demons, he insists that this does not reflect any objective reality, but is merely the perspective of those ignorant satanist priests who erroneously believed in the existences of demons, and directed their cults to the worship of such beings. The imaginary demons usually appear to their priests in the guise of satyrs, whether in dreams or while awake, in shadows in the dead of night and darkness. This is because those people give credence to the existence of demons.

Rabbi Nissim’s explanation was inspired by Maimonides’ discussion of the topic, as found in the Guide of the Perplexed. Maimonides stressed that the main reason for sending the goat to perish in the wilderness was to make it unmistakably clear that the animal was not being offered up as a sacrifice; therefore, it was not slaughtered or burned on the altar, but instead was sent away far from Jerusalem. Similarly, the imagery of transferring the sins of the people onto the head of the goat is nothing more than a metaphor. No one has any doubt that sins are not objects that can be transferred from the back of one entity onto that of another. Rather, all these actions are symbols designed to elicit an image in the soul, in order to motivate us to repent: we have freed ourselves from all our former deeds, cast them behind our backs, and removed them to an extreme distance. Rabbi Nissim explains the imagery more precisely: And just as the Lord will never again remind the sinner of his sins, so too the sinner will no longer consider them, and he will not bring them to his memory again by reverting to his sinful ways.

In reviewing the history of this exegetical dispute about how to understand the Ibn Ezra Code, my initial reaction was to dismiss it all as an arcane historical curiosity, a conflict between obsolete mythic and Aristotelian outlooks, which have little, if any, relevance to modern ideas. On further reflection, however, I am becoming increasingly persuaded that we are still struggling with those same questions, though we might express our perplexities in a somewhat different conceptual terminology.

Fundamentally, it has to do with how to envisage the evils in our world. I am not referring here to the well-trodden theological questions about how an omniscient and beneficent deity can permit evil and injustice in the world– but rather to the immediate confrontations with evil that come with reading newspaper headlines.

There is a part of me that is sincerely convinced that evil is nothing more than a conceptual shorthand for a multitude of factors from the realms of economics, politics, technology, ideology or biology, which converge periodically to produce tragic sufferings. In some respects, this is Maimonides’ approach. He denies the existence of evil as a separate reality, and castigates those puny mortals who have the chutzpah to pass judgment on the ultimate goodness of the universe, based on our limited understanding of a universe that is infinitely vast.

In its main outlines, this is an interpretation of evil that was cultivated in all those high school and undergraduate history classes where we were required to explain how major events resulted inevitably from their long-range and short-range causes. The outlook also bears a resemblance to what Hannah Arendt called the banality of evil, a realization that came to her while observing the Eichmann trial, that the greatest of human evils are carried out by dull grey bureaucrats. 

Although these kinds of explanations might be rational and defensible on a theoretical level, there are times when they just don’t seem adequate for the real world. There are occasions when rational descriptions of disconnected facts are insufficient to account for the visceral feeling that we are confronting a horror of demonic proportions that transcend rational explanation. As moral beings, the only way we can fight effectively against evil is by giving it a hideous face and by relating to it as a personal affront. This, I believe, is what Ramban was doing when he invoked crude imagery to portray the powers of evil in luridly graphic colours. 

While Maimonides’ nuanced analysis of a subtle conceptual abstraction might produce a more accurate account of the world’s inequities, it does not inspire us to rise up and do battle against them. For that purpose, it helps to give evil an identifiable personal face and name, such as the satyr-king Azazel, or Sammael. 

On the other hand, an overly personal or mythic personification of evil might drive us to apply simplistic solutions, lashing out in blind frustration by dropping bombs (for conservatives) or by pouring money (for liberals) on the complex problems that beset the world. 

Perhaps both the rationalist and the mythic interpretations of Azazel are essential to our functioning as moral human beings; as each approach serves to curb the excesses of the other. In dealing with any particular situation, it is our personal responsibility to decide which is the most appropriate approach to follow. 

By coming up with the appropriate response for each challenge, we may discover the ultimate solution to the mystery of the Ibn Ezra Code.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September 21 2006, pp. 21, 30.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

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

The Price of Oil

The Price of Oil

by Eliezer Segal

Charitable institutions often have to deal with the legal and ethical question of whether money that was donated to a specific fund or cause may subsequently be diverted to a different purpose. Several cases of this kind are discussed in the Talmud; and some of the examples that are cited in those discussions involve donations of lamps and candlesticks to synagogues. 

In some of the incidents, the donors were pagans, and the sages pondered whether a gentile was likely to object more vociferously than a Jew if the synagogue’s administrators were to decide to redirect his gifts. An Arab named Sha’azrak is mentioned as the contributor of a lamp to the synagogue headed by Rav Judah in Babylonia. 

When you think about it, it is perfectly understandable that lamps should figure among the most popular forms of contributions to synagogues. Until the advent of the electric light bulb, the oil lamp was the only way to illuminate the interior of a building, and somebody had to foot the bill for this essential service to the community. Presumably, considerations of this sort motivated the Jewish queen Helene of Adiabene to bequesth a chandelier to the Jerusalem Temple. In a similar spirit, the sages of the Talmud and midrash credited Deborah (or, according to an alternative tradition: her husband) with fashioning wicks for the sanctuary at Shiloh. This detail was suggested to them by the Bible’s statement that she was the woman (or: wife) of Lapidoth: torches.

Donors of lamps and oil are mentioned in several formulas of the blessings (mi shebbeirakh) for community benefactors that are recited in the synagogue.

The documents of the Cairo Genizah preserve extensive details related to the illumination of medieval Egyptian synagogues, including monthly accounts of expenses for olive and linseed oil; and references to numerous types of lamps, chandeliers and implements in assorted shapes and materials. An account by Solomon ben Elijah records On the eve of the New Year I took a loan of seven dirhems from the money of the wife of Farah, given in trust to me by the Nagid, for the purchase of 10 pounds of olive oil for the synagogue of the Palestinians.

A responsum by Rabbi Nissim of Gerona concerned itself with the distribution of a donation among the charitable funds that existed in Perpignan: for Torah study, for the sick, for the poor, for burial, and for illumination. This reflected the typical situation in medieval Spanish communities, where a volunteer Ma’or (illumination) society took upon itself the responsibility for supplying oil and any other items necessary for providing light to the synagogue and study hall. The reason why this function was delegated to a volunteer association may perhaps be inferred from a responsum of Rabbi Asher ben Jehiel, who was called upon to deal with residents of a community who refused to pay their share of the synagogue lighting expenses, arguing that they did not personally benefit from it.

The obligation of supplying oil to the synagogue acquired the status of a full-fledged religious obligation. This emerges dramatically from the records of the Spanish Inquisition. Jews who had accepted Christianity under duress during the persecutions of 1391 were afterwards subject to investigation by the Inquisition for lapsing back into their old religion and reverting to the dead law of Moses. As long as unconverted Jewish communities continued to exist in Spain–that is to say, before the Edict of Expulsion of 1492–these Conversos could maintain contacts with the local Jewish communities. Alongside the accusations of observing Jewish holidays, dietary laws and the like, dozens of Inquisitional cases make references to the crime of giving oil for the synagogues. Because the Jewish communities at this time were often reduced to poverty, they would turn for support to friends and relatives who had accepted Christianity under duress. Collectors of alms on behalf of the synagogues and other Jewish institutions would routinely knock on the doors of Conversos. This situation greatly irked the church authorities. There is evidence that the Conversos of Ciudad Real continued to maintain a virtual Ma’or society that aggressively raised funds for the provision of oil for the synagogues.

The donations normally came in the form of cash or containers of oil; but sometimes people would donate wine so that it could be sold for the purchase of oil. This calls to mind a comment by Maimonides that a person acquires most of his wisdom by nocturnal studying. Profiat Duran cited a wise man who contended that the main reason for his outstanding intellectual achievements was that he spent more on oil than the others wasted on wine. 

Some of the contributors among the Spanish Conversos preferred hands-on participation in performing the virtuous deed; they would actually enter the synagogues to clean the lamps, prepare the wicks and pour the oil. Evidently, the Conversos, especially the women, attached special significance to the practice of donating oil. According to an Inquisitional record, Elvira Ruíz of Escalona, testified that her mother had left her strict instructions about the importance of giving oil to the synagogue. In one case, the oil was offered (simultaneous with a contribution to the churches) when a woman’s son was stricken by an illness. Similarly, one transcript records that a synagogue fund-raiser approached the Conversa Maria Alvarez of Guadalajara on the day before Yom Kippur to ask her for oil. The special connection to Yom Kippur crops up in other cases as well.

The timing of these episodes is consistent with assertions by several of the defendants that they had donated oil in order to save their souls and that they would be granted forgiveness for their sins. 

As the price of oil and other utilities continues to rise and create burdens on our synagogues, it might be time to revive the old Ma’or societies in our own communities to defray those onerous expenses. As history teaches us, dedication to this cause is not only a way or securing a physical energy resource, but it can also be a powerful expression of spiritual illumination.Charitable institutions often have to deal with the legal and ethical question of whether money that was donated to a specific fund or cause may subsequently be diverted to a different purpose. Several cases of this kind are discussed in the Talmud; and some of the examples that are cited in those discussions involve donations of lamps and candlesticks to synagogues. 

In some of the incidents, the donors were pagans, and the sages pondered whether a gentile was likely to object more vociferously than a Jew if the synagogue’s administrators were to decide to redirect his gifts. An Arab named Sha’azrak is mentioned as the contributor of a lamp to the synagogue headed by Rav Judah in Babylonia. 

When you think about it, it is perfectly understandable that lamps should figure among the most popular forms of contributions to synagogues. Until the advent of the electric light bulb, the oil lamp was the only way to illuminate the interior of a building, and somebody had to foot the bill for this essential service to the community. Presumably, considerations of this sort motivated the Jewish queen Helene of Adiabene to bequesth a chandelier to the Jerusalem Temple. In a similar spirit, the sages of the Talmud and midrash credited Deborah (or, according to an alternative tradition: her husband) with fashioning wicks for the sanctuary at Shiloh. This detail was suggested to them by the Bible’s statement that she was the woman (or: wife) of Lapidoth: torches.

Donors of lamps and oil are mentioned in several formulas of the blessings (mi shebbeirakh) for community benefactors that are recited in the synagogue.

The documents of the Cairo Genizah preserve extensive details related to the illumination of medieval Egyptian synagogues, including monthly accounts of expenses for olive and linseed oil; and references to numerous types of lamps, chandeliers and implements in assorted shapes and materials. An account by Solomon ben Elijah records On the eve of the New Year I took a loan of seven dirhems from the money of the wife of Farah, given in trust to me by the Nagid, for the purchase of 10 pounds of olive oil for the synagogue of the Palestinians.

A responsum by Rabbi Nissim of Gerona concerned itself with the distribution of a donation among the charitable funds that existed in Perpignan: for Torah study, for the sick, for the poor, for burial, and for illumination. This reflected the typical situation in medieval Spanish communities, where a volunteer Ma’or (illumination) society took upon itself the responsibility for supplying oil and any other items necessary for providing light to the synagogue and study hall. The reason why this function was delegated to a volunteer association may perhaps be inferred from a responsum of Rabbi Asher ben Jehiel, who was called upon to deal with residents of a community who refused to pay their share of the synagogue lighting expenses, arguing that they did not personally benefit from it.

The obligation of supplying oil to the synagogue acquired the status of a full-fledged religious obligation. This emerges dramatically from the records of the Spanish Inquisition. Jews who had accepted Christianity under duress during the persecutions of 1391 were afterwards subject to investigation by the Inquisition for lapsing back into their old religion and reverting to the dead law of Moses. As long as unconverted Jewish communities continued to exist in Spain–that is to say, before the Edict of Expulsion of 1492–these Conversos could maintain contacts with the local Jewish communities. Alongside the accusations of observing Jewish holidays, dietary laws and the like, dozens of Inquisitional cases make references to the crime of giving oil for the synagogues. Because the Jewish communities at this time were often reduced to poverty, they would turn for support to friends and relatives who had accepted Christianity under duress. Collectors of alms on behalf of the synagogues and other Jewish institutions would routinely knock on the doors of Conversos. This situation greatly irked the church authorities. There is evidence that the Conversos of Ciudad Real continued to maintain a virtual Ma’or society that aggressively raised funds for the provision of oil for the synagogues.

The donations normally came in the form of cash or containers of oil; but sometimes people would donate wine so that it could be sold for the purchase of oil. This calls to mind a comment by Maimonides that a person acquires most of his wisdom by nocturnal studying. Profiat Duran cited a wise man who contended that the main reason for his outstanding intellectual achievements was that he spent more on oil than the others wasted on wine. 

Some of the contributors among the Spanish Conversos preferred hands-on participation in performing the virtuous deed; they would actually enter the synagogues to clean the lamps, prepare the wicks and pour the oil. Evidently, the Conversos, especially the women, attached special significance to the practice of donating oil. According to an Inquisitional record, Elvira Ruíz of Escalona, testified that her mother had left her strict instructions about the importance of giving oil to the synagogue. In one case, the oil was offered (simultaneous with a contribution to the churches) when a woman’s son was stricken by an illness. Similarly, one transcript records that a synagogue fund-raiser approached the Conversa Maria Alvarez of Guadalajara on the day before Yom Kippur to ask her for oil. The special connection to Yom Kippur crops up in other cases as well.

The timing of these episodes is consistent with assertions by several of the defendants that they had donated oil in order to save their souls and that they would be granted forgiveness for their sins. 

As the price of oil and other utilities continues to rise and create burdens on our synagogues, it might be time to revive the old Ma’or societies in our own communities to defray those onerous expenses. As history teaches us, dedication to this cause is not only a way or securing a physical energy resource, but it can also be a powerful expression of spiritual illumination.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October 19 2006, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Asis, Yom Tov. Welfare and Mutual Aid in the Spanish Jewish Communities. In Moreshet Sepharad: The Sephardi Legacy, ed. H. Beinart, 1, 318-345. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992.
    • Baron, Salo Wittmayer. The Jewish Community: Its History and Structure to the American Revolution. 3 vols. Morris Loeb Series. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1942.
    • Goitein, S. D. A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. 6 vols. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967.
    • Melammed, Renée Levine. Heretics or Daughters of Israel?: The Crypto-Jewish Women of Castile. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999.
    • Oppenheimer, A’haron, Benjamin Isaac, and Michael Lecker. Babylonia Judaica in the Talmudic Period. Weisbaden: L. Reichert, 1983.

German translation as: “Erhellende Erkenntnis,” in Jüdische Allgemeine, Dec. 7, 2006.


My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Is the Pope Catholic?

Is the Pope Catholic?

by Eliezer Segal

Not that it takes much effort these days to become a target of Islamicist indignation and threats–but Pope Benedict XVI has succeeded in doing so with extraordinary swiftness. He incited the kind of intense fundamentalist rage that is normally reserved for Jews. 

Come to think of it, the prospect of a Jewish Pope is not as absurd as it might sound at first. After all, the first Bishop of Rome, St. Peter, began his career as the Galilean fisherman Simeon. A Jewish work that circulated during the early Middle Ages even claimed that Rabbi Simeon remained a sincere Jew throughout, and that he only pretended to impersonate a Christian after being assured that he would thereby save his people from a threatened pogrom.

A more popular legend about the Popes came into wide circulation later in medieval times. This tale has survived in both Ashkenazic and Sepharadic versions, in Hebrew as well as in Yiddish. The broad outlines of the story are more or less identical in all of the traditions, though there are significant differences between the accounts in several matters of detail. 

The heroes of the Ashkenazic versions are the liturgical poet Rabbi Simeon ben Isaac, who lived in Mayence during the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, and his son Elhanan. Indeed, Rabbi Simeon’s poem Melekh Amon, which is included in the morning service for Rosh Hashanah, contains an acrostic spelling out the message Elhanan my son, may he merit eternal life. Amen. The Sepharadic versions are about Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret of Barcelona (the Rashba, c. 1235-1310) and his son.

In all the accounts, the son was abducted by Christians and enrolled in theological seminaries, where he excelled as a student (of course!) and made his way through the ecclesiastical ranks, until he was elected Pope, under the name Andreas. Some of the authors invoke biblical precedents for this achievement, comparing him to Joseph, Daniel or Esther; who demonstrated how easy it can be for talented Jews, if they are so inclined, to find success in the highest echelons of gentile society. Eventually the son was reunited with his father and, once his identity was revealed, sought an appropriate manner to atone for his apostasy.

The differences that emerge within this general narrative pattern are fascinating. Some of the versions stress the Pope’s excellent Jewish pedigree as a scion of the Davidic royal line. 

The simplest version of the legend has the son, kidnapped as a young child, summoning his father as soon as he becomes aware of his true identity. In the Sepharadic accounts, it is providence that orchestrates matters so that the Rashba is chosen to travel to Rome in order to negotiate with the Pope regarding matters related to his community. According to the intricate tale preserved in the Yiddish Mayse Buch, it is the Pope himself who initiates his reunion with his father by issuing a decree of persecution against Mayence’s Jews, knowing that his eminent father will be chosen as the community’s delegate to plead his people’s case in Rome. Before revealing his identity to his father, the two participate in a lively theological disputation that leaves Rabbi Simeon very impressed with his opponent’s wisdom and erudition.

Most of the stories culminate with the Pope performing an act of martyrdom, as the only response capable of atoning for such a severe profanation of God’s name. The sacrifice is carried out in the presence of a public assembly of church notables. The modes of execution range from a fatal leap from a high tower, or a dive into a bonfire, to a more elaborate procedure of tying a noose around his neck, then jumping from a high elevation onto a sharp sword that is positioned in a fire–thereby submitting himself to the full assortment of capital punishments recognized by Jewish law. Only in the Yiddish version does the father reassure the son that no extreme gesture of self-sacrifice is demanded, because the Lord lovingly accepts all sincere penitents. 

All the versions culminate with the Pope proudly declaring the truth of Judaism and the spuriousness of Christianity, before a high-level gathering of church officials. The Yiddish tradition goes a step further, and has the Jewish Pope compose a written refutation of Christian doctrine, with instructions that it should be read carefully by all subsequent occupiers of the office.

Perhaps the most intriguing variations between the accounts relate to the clues that lead to the identification or verification of the hero’s identity. In the Spanish story, the Rashba volunteers the sad tale of his lost son to the Pope, who quickly senses that this Jew is his father, and he asks the rabbi whether his lost son had any distinguishing physical marks. This prompts the Pope to disrobe in order to reveal that his body bears the correct birthmarks. 

However, one version of the Yiddish legend introduces a uniquely novel vehicle for divulging the Pope’s Jewish origins: a chess game. Recalling his father’s enthusiasm and ability when it comes to the game, the Pope challenges the rabbi to a match, and then proceeds to trounce him soundly. The rabbi now recognizes that the pontiff’s winning gambit was one that he taught his own son while still a young boy.

We may readily appreciate the attraction that such a fantasy would have held for Jews whose daily life was shadowed by ongoing oppression and Christian triumphalism. Though these stories are clearly legendary, they invite questions about whether there is any factual basis to the story. While the background details are generally consistent with the atmosphere of medieval Mayence or Barcelona, and Elhanan son of Rabbi Simeon was a real historical personality who might very well have been converted to Christianity, there is still a long way to go before turning him into a Pope.

The truth is, however, that there was at least one Pope who was Jewish; or, at least, was from a formerly Jewish family that had converted to Christianity. The individual in question was Pope Anacletus II, who assumed the papal throne in 1130. Previously he had been known as Pietro Leonis, and he was the grandson of the convert Benedictus (that is: Baruch) Christianus, who came from a distinguished Roman family of Jewish financiers. Notwithstanding Anacletus’s sincere devotion to Catholicism, his reign was a controversial one, and some cardinals refused to recognize his title, electing in his place a rival Pope, Innocent II. Innocent circulated racial slurs against his opponent, along with false accusations of all sorts of corruption, from embezzlement and robbing churches, to incest. After three generations of faithful Christian observance, the prospect of a leader with Jewish genes could not yet be digested by the Catholic community. This ecclesiastical split persisted until his death in 1138 when Anacletus’ successor chose to abdicate. The Pierleonis continued to be one of Rome’s most influential families.

It is not hard to imagine how the popular Jewish imagination was led to dream whether maybe, just maybe, the head of the Christian church might eventually see the error of his ways and publicly vindicate his ancestral faith. As long as an authentically Jewish Pope did not exist, it was all but inevitable that we would invent one.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 9 2006, p. 10.
  • For further reading:
    • David, Avraham. Beirurim Be-‘Inyanah Shel Aggadat Ha-Afifyor Ha-Yehudi. In Yad Le-Heiman: The A.M. Habermann Memorial Volume, ed. Z. Malachi, 19-25. Lod: Habermann Institute, 1983.
    • Grossman, Avraham. The Early Sages of Ashkenaz: Their Lives, Leadership and Works (900-1096). Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1981.
    • Keats, Victor. Chess in Jewish History and Hebrew Literature. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1995.
    • Krauss, Samuel. Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen. Berlin: S. Calvary, 1902.
    • Lerner, David Levine. The Enduring Legend of the Jewish Pope. Judaism 40, no. 2 (1991): 148-170. 
    • Prinz, Joachim. Popes from the Ghetto: A View of Medieval Christendom. New York: Horizon Press, 1966.
    • Sherman, Joseph. The Jewish Pope: Myth, Diaspora and Yiddish Literature. Oxford: European Humanities Research Centre, 2003.
    • Stroll, Mary. The Jewish Pope: Ideology and Politics in the Papal Schism of 1130 Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History. Leiden: Brill, 1987.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

From Calves to Kittens

From Calves to Kittens

by Eliezer Segal

Rabbi Judah the Patriarch was sitting one day before a synagogue in Sephoris, concentrating on his studies, when he was approached by a young calf. The unfortunate beast was on his way to be slaughtered, and was evidently aware of his predicament. He began to moo pathetically to Rabbi Judah, as if crying out Save me!

The great sage was unimpressed, and perhaps irritated about having his studies interrupted. He shrugged the matter off and remarked to the animal What can I do for you? This was what you were created for. 

The narrators of the story had no particular problem with the notion of a great Jewish sage conversing with a dumb quadruped; they were, however, disturbed by the contents of that exchange. 

At this point in his life, Rabbi Judah began to suffer from severe toothaches that continued to plague him for thirteen years of his life, and Jewish tradition decided that the affliction was imposed upon him as a punishment for his unsympathetic treatment of the helpless calf.

In those days of primitive dentistry, a chronic toothache was as painful an experience as an individual could dread to have. When we combine that fact with the classic Jewish beliefs in the atoning power of suffering, and in the influence that great saints and community leaders can exert on the fates of their contemporaries, we arrive at the intriguing conclusion that Rabbi Judah’s anguish was beneficial for the Jews of his generation. The Talmud relates that throughout those thirteen throbbing years, not a single woman in the Land of Israel miscarried, or even experienced pains during childbirth. Rabbi Judah’s pain was everyone else’s gain.

Years later, a rodent happened to scamper past his daughter–or, according to an alternative version of the story, a household servant found a rat while cleaning the house. By this stage of his life, Rabbi Judah had become sensitized even to the situation of filthy (and non-kosher) little critters, and he ordered the lady not to kill it, invoking the words of the Psalmist (145:10) his tender mercies are over all his works. The Babylonian Talmud relates that this display of humane compassion earned him relief from his ailment, though this fact is not stated explicitly in all the versions of the tale. 

I find it interesting that Rabbi Judah’s retort to the calf took the form of a quote from an earlier sage, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai. The full text of Rabban Yohanan’s adage, as preserved in Pirkei Avot, was: If you have learned much Torah, do not take credit for that achievement, since that was what you are created for. 

On one level, Rabbi Judah’s implied comparison may have been a kind of motivational pep talk addressed to the calf, urging the beast to welcome his destiny as the performance of a valued bovine mitzvah. Nevertheless, there was a whimsical cynicism in the equating of the two conditions, implying that it is as normal for a Jew to learn Torah as it is for an ox to be slaughtered. 

Some of the commentators to the Talmud were uncomfortable with the assumptions that seemed to underlie the story. After all, as long as nobody was proposing that we all adopt vegetarianism (and, in spite of some recent efforts to draw the tale in this direction, this does not seem to be a credible reading of the evidence), Rabbi Judah’s remark was a perfectly honest, albeit a tactless, one. As such, it does not seem to deserve such a cruel retribution.

Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz formulated this difficulty in stark terms: Rabbi Judah was correct in what he told the calf, since it is indeed a privilege for a dumb beast to be elevated in its status by being allowed to become part of a human diet, helping to strengthen the limbs of its superior on the food chain. Under normal circumstances, if the person who was going to partake of the calf’s flesh had been an upstanding citizen, then Rabbi Judah’s retort would have been beyond reproach, and the beast should have jumped at the opportunity to be digested into the body of a rational being. 

However, according to Rabbi Horowitz, the owner of this particular animal happened to be a boorish glutton whose ranking in the spiritual hierarchy was no higher than that of an animal. Consequently, in this case Rabbi should have acknowledged that the calf was justified in trying to make a break for it; and his unfeeling dismissal of the plea for help was indeed deserving of punishment. 

In a similar vein, Rabbi Samuel Edels (Maharsha) tried hard to identify details in the story that would justify Rabbi Judah’s attitude. He argued that cattle, since they are kosher beasts, actually occupy a relatively aristocratic rank on the zoological scale, and therefore merit some respect. Furthermore, it was simply untrue for Rabbi Judah to suppose that the slaughterer’s knife is the inevitable fate of the entire species. In the normal course of events, a healthy young calf could anticipate a satisfying career pulling a plough, before his eventual retirement to the abattoir. The rabbi’s response was therefore inexcusably flippant; and the ensuing affliction could not be removed until he had shown respectful compassion for one of the lowliest and despised creatures in nature, a rat or a weasel.

This last aspect of the story also has its peculiar twists and turns at the hands of later narrators. In the diverse traditions of the tale that are preserved in talmudic and midrashic literature, the critters to whom Rabbi Judah extended compassion in the end are variously identified as rats, weasels, or generic creeping things. However, somebody recently quoted to me a version of the tale in which the reference was to kittens. Subsequent investigation revealed to me that the kittens version was in rather widespread circulation on that great repository of authentic Jewish wisdom, the Internet. I have not yet succeeded in tracing the ultimate source for this peculiar modification of the story’s plot.

At any rate, the variation might be symptomatic of the limitations of our own compassion. Unlike Rabbi Judah, who eventually learned to be considerate even of disease-spreading vermin and rodents, the author of the tale’s sanitized version was probably convinced that modern readers are still unable to extend their kindness to embrace anything more repellent than a cuddly little feline.

Speaking for myself, I consider it most advisable to ensure that my dental plan is up to date.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 30 2006, p. 14.
  • For further reading:
    • Cohen, Noah J. Tsa’ar Ba’ale Hayim: The Prevention of Cruelty to Animals: Its Bases, Development and Legislation in Hebrew Literature. 2d ed. Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1976.
    • Friedman, Shamma. La-Aggadah Ha-Historit Ba-Talmud Ha-Bavli. In Saul Lieberman Memorial Volume, ed. S. Friedman, 119-164. New York and Jerusalem: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1993.
    • Meir, Ofra. Rabbi Judah the Patriarch: Palestinian and Babylonian Portrait of a Leader Helal Ben Hayyim Library, ed. M. Ayali. Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad Publishing House, 1999.
    • Schochet, Elijah Judah. Animal Life in Jewish Tradition: Attitudes and Relationships. New York: Ktav, 1984.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Natural Light

Natural Light

by Eliezer Segal

On the face of it, there is no Jewish holiday whose theme is as unambiguous as that of Hanukkah. The specific historical events that are commemorated on this festival are subject to a rare consensus of the rabbinic and the external records. The Talmud, the traditional liturgy and the Books of Maccabees all describe how, on the 25th day of Kislev, the Temple was purified after its defilement by the Hellenists.

And yet, I suppose, there are always some people who are intrinsically suspicious of anything that seems too straightforward. The scholarly milieu (of which, I must confess, I am not always proud to be a member) has a tendency to dismiss the obvious, and to seek out innovative and unlikely theories. Admittedly, the most outrageous hypotheses about the origins of Hanukkah were promulgate almost a century ago; nevertheless, several of them still pop up occasionally in the scholarly literature

At one time it was very fashionable to approach all religious phenomena through the lens of classical anthropological theory. This discipline likes to reduce human culture to its primitive fundamentals. Noting that most of the biblical holy days commemorate agricultural stages as well as historical events, it was widely assumed that the earliest form of Israelite worship was focused on nature, and that the historical themes were grafted on at a later stage in the development of the religion. For some scholars, consistency demanded that the same pattern be applied without exception to all the holidays. Consequently, they argued, the same pattern must be true for Hanukkah: Before it acquired its familiar meaning as the anniversary of the victory over Greek religious oppression, it must have previously existed as a nature festival.

Furthermore, the theory went, there is something fishy about the date of Hanukkah. According to the Book of Maccabees, 25 Kislev was not only the day on which the Jews offered their sacrifices on the new altar–but it was exactly the same date on which it had been originally profaned two years previously.

While the ancient chroniclers were suitably impressed with the appropriateness of the timing, more recent scholars found in it grounds to doubt the whole story. After all, neat coincidences like this never occur in real life, do they? Obviously, this must be a literary flourish by later writers who wanted to show the symmetry of divine justice. The date must have had a previous importance that was now being reinterpreted.

It now became possible to turn the whole question on its head: The primary importance of Hanukkah was not defined by the Hasmonean victory at all, but by Antiochus when he originally chose the date to impose the heathen cult in Jerusalem. Perhaps he was the one who attached religious significance to that date. It would have been even more convenient for his purposes if he could choose a date that already had some importance among the Jewish peasantry. 

All this served to reinforce our skeptical scholars in their conviction that Hanukkah originated as a pagan celebration. Once they were committed to this approach, virtually every detail could be construed as a confirmation of the theory, even if it involved some very circular reasoning.

If we buy into the assumption that Hanukkah was a pagan-style nature festival, then what exactly was it supposed to be commemorating? The answer to this question is a simple one. The date it reasonably close to the winter solstice (which falls around Dec. 22 in the Gregorian calendar). Ergo, that must have been Hanukkah’s original purpose. It therefore represents the shift in the relationship between light and darkness. Until the solstice, the days were becoming shorter and the nights longer. From this point onwards, the light begins to overtake the darkness. 

Of course, we have to make a few allowances for the fact that the traditional Jewish calendar uses lunar months, so that the dates will not dovetail with precision–and Hanukkah would not necessarily coincide with the solstice. But such an attractive theory should not be broadsided by such petty objections. Quite the contrary, we know that the Roman Saturnalia, which came to be observed as a winter solstice festival, became associated with December 25 (though its original date was on the 17th) and was celebrated with lights or torches, as were the rituals of many other peoples of the world for various solstices and equinoxes. For the anthropologically inclined, this provided another neat example or a pagan holiday that was later transformed into a historical commemoration.

And if that was not enough to clinch the argument, how about the following argument?: Unless we assume that Hanukkah was a solstice holiday, we would be forced to assert that no celebration existed for this important milestone in the annual Jewish calendar–though we do have Passover and Sukkot to mark the spring and autumn equinoxes. Such an omission in the Jewish calendar is unimaginable! 

Josephus Flavius, writing in the latter part of the first century, mentions that Hanukkah was known as the festival of light; but seems uncertain why. This would imply that in his time the holiday was not yet associated, as it was for the rabbis, with the Temple menorah or the miracle of the oil. Our scholars were, of course, quick to jump on this detail as proof that Hanukkah’s connection with light had nothing to do with lamps or candelabra, but rather with the variations in the course of the solar cycle.

For others, the association of Hanukkah with the solstice provided a handy explanation for the well-known dispute between the schools of Shammai and Hillel, about whether the lamps should be kindled in decreasing or increasing sequence. Both positions could now be viewed as preserving a piece of the full original ritual: Until the solstice, the number of lamps would decrease from one day to the next, to reflect the shortening of the daylight hours; and afterwards, the number would increase as the days grew longer. Isn’t it obvious, once you think of it? 

Some Christian scholars were impelled by additional considerations. There is something embarrassing about the conventional historical claim that the Roman church, as late as the fourth century, borrowed the date for its commemoration of Jesus’ birth from an earlier pagan holiday, such as the Saturnalia or the feast of the Invincible Sun. Therefore, 

a considerable amount of scholarly energy was devoted to demonstrating that in this matter the church was rooted in an ancient Jewish practice; and that Jews of pre-Christian times had already been observing a mid-winter festival with messianic overtones. The older solstice celebration of the triumph of light over darkness suggested motifs of spiritual transformation; and the Hasmonean adoption of this date to glorify their own claims to the throne of Israel provided a fitting paradigm for the development of Christmas. One influential scholar even suggested in all seriousness that the name Hanukkah was rooted in the biblical figure of Hanokh (Enoch), who was one of the most popular heroes in Apocalyptic visions of the ultimate redemption! 

It should be noted that the association between Hanukkah and the winter solstice did find its way into traditional Jewish writings as well, at least as a secondary theme. The Maharal of Prague calculated in meticulous detail that, since rabbinic chronology equated the creation of initial light, on the first Sunday of the world’s existence, with the 25th of Elul (so that the first humans would be fashioned on Friday, Rosh Hashanah)–it follows that the primordial winter solstice would have fallen on the 25th of Kislev. 

Maharal dwells at length on how this cosmic symbolism provides a fitting metaphor for the rededication of the Temple, the divine instrument through which spiritual light radiates through the murky ignorance of the world.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December 14, 2006, p. 14.
  • For further reading:
    • Finkelstein, Louis. 1931-1932. Hanukkah and Its Origin. Jewish Quarterly Review 22:169-173.
    • Gaster, Theodor Herzl. 1953. Festivals of the Jewish Year: A Modern Interpretation and Guide. New York: Morrow.
    • ——. 1950. Purim and Hanukkah in Custom and Tradition: Feast of Lots, Feast of Lights. New York: Schuman.
    • Morgenstern, Julian. 1947. The Chanukkah Festival and the Calendar of Ancient Israel. Hebrew Union College Annual 20:1-126.
    • Rankin, Oliver Shaw. 1930. The Origins of the Festival of Hanukkah: the Jewish New-Age Festival. Edinburgh: T & T Clark.
    • Tabory, Joseph. 2000. Jewish Festivals in the Time of the Mishnah and Talmud. 3rd expanded and revised ed. Jerusalem: Magnes Press.
    • Zeitlin, Solomon. 1938. Hanukkah: Its

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

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

Student Unrest

Student Unrest

by Eliezer Segal

My own undergraduate education coincided with the exhilarating years of student unrest of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Now that I myself am a university professor, I find myself with ambivalent feelings towards my current students, who are, on the whole, less rebellious and more pragmatic than we were at their age. There is a part of me that views confrontations between youthful idealism and stodgy professors as an indispensable part of the college experience; however another part eventually reminds me that I myself am now securely ensconced among the ranks of those stodgy fossils.

Considering the place of honour that learning has always occupied in Jewish tradition, and the efforts that were made to channel our Best and Brightest to advanced talmudic scholarship in yeshivahs, it was to be anticipated that frictions should arise periodically between students, teachers and administrators.

In the generation following the destruction of the second Temple, the scholarly leadership of the nation assembled at the academy at Yavneh on the Mediterranean coast, where they tried to re-establish the Jewish religious institutions in the aftermath of the catastrophe. The Patriarch Rabban Gamaliel was an overbearing figure who would not tolerate any challenge to his authority. This put him in conflict with the community of rabbinic scholars who cherished their tradition of open debate. Gamaliel succeeded on several occasions in asserting his authority over his colleagues; eventually, however, an incident arose that incited the scholars to revolt. Ostensibly, it was over a technical ritual question, whether or not the evening prayer service should be treated as obligatory or optional; however, since the formulation of a standardized liturgy was one of the main accomplishments of Gamaliel’s regime, he was understandably determined to implement his reforms without opposition. 

The Talmud relates that Rabban Gamaliel subjected the gentle Rabbi Joshua, who had held an opposing view, to a humiliation before the entire academy, even after Rabbi Joshua had dutifully submitted to the Patriarch’s authority. This behaviour provoked the scholars to rebellion. Gamaliel was overthrown, and was forced to yield some of his powers. In contrast to the tight rein that Patriarch had hitherto maintained over who could be admitted to study in the academy, access was now granted to broader segments of the populace. 

Various medieval documents mention associations of students in yeshivahs. The twelfth-century Book of the Pious states that the students have the right to establish and enforce penalties for such offenses as speaking out of turn or arriving late to a class or prayers without a satisfactory explanation. The penalties could take the form of either fines or corporal punishment. In later times, yeshivah student societies tended to concentrate more on providing mutual support and social welfare.

Tensions between rabbis and students are occasionally mentioned in responsa and commentaries. A recurring bone of contention was curriculum reform. Some leading rabbis during the sixteenth century were opposed to the pilpul method of talmudic study, an approach that encouraged displays of contrived casuistry over serious analysis of the texts. The pilpul method enjoyed considerable popularity among the students, and they offered stubborn resistance to teachers who sought to eliminate it from the curriculum. This conflict likely forms the background for a comment by one of the most eminent reformers, Rabbi Solomon Luria (Poland, sixteenth century), who lamented the presence of students who are rebellious and insolent towards me.

Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin (the Neziv) of Volozhin (Lithuania, 19th century), was an imperious personality who had no qualms about striking his students over minor transgressions of the yeshivah’s religious ethos. On at least one occasion, when he slapped a youth for trimming his side-curls, the students organized a strike to protest this violation of the lad’s dignity. 

Outbreaks of hostility between students and faculty were recurrent events at Volozhin. Sometimes, the students would torment unpopular teachers by whispering sh-sh-sh when the teacher entered the study hall. A more obnoxious variation on this practice had the students lifting and lowering their desktops as they proceeded with their learning. In some cases this escalated into virtual riots of window-breaking, hurling of insults and threats.

Towards the close of the nineteenth century, as the Jewish world became increasingly fragmented, and as European students were involving themselves in intense political activity, the walls of the eastern European yeshivahs were not insulated from those developments. The yeshivah students created clandestine associations to smuggle in illicit literature and promote new ideas. 

An initial response of the Telshe yeshivah in 1896 was to appoint a firm disciplinarian, Rabbi Leib Chasman, to keep a tight rein over manifestations of Zionism, Enlightenment and other heresies that were blamed for student unrest. The students at Telshe were relatively young and impressionable, and maintained close contacts with the local townsfolk. Rabbi Chasman was a disciple of the Musar moralistic movement, and exploited his authority to impose his ideology at all levels of the curriculum. A delegation of students complained to the head of the yeshivah, Rabbi Eliezer Gordon, that Chasman was sowing sectarian divisions among the yeshivah students, and forcing down their throats a religious outlook that was alien to the institution’s true objectives. In a reversal of the roles that we normally assign to the parties in such confrontations, the students were the ones who were resistant to innovations that were being initiated by the administration. 

Though they had some sympathizers among the faculty, the students’ demands were at first rejected. The students reacted by convening secret meetings and initiating an active propaganda campaign. The majority were eventually persuaded to participate in a walk-out from their classes in January 1897. Rabbi Gordon was physically and emotionally shaken by the experience. While he accepted the students’ demand to suspend Rabbi Chasman for his excessive zeal in imposing his outlook on the yeshivah, he also expelled twelve of the student ringleaders. In response to subsequent student pleas for clemency, six of the expelled students were afterwards reinstated, and the remaining six were provided with generous severance packages. However, the tensions continued to simmer for several years.

A student strike in 1905 (a year when Russia was rife with student unrest) forced a closure of the Telshe yeshivah for half a year, leading again to the resignation of a controversial spiritual advisor and the contingent of Musar-inspired students whom he had imported from the Slobodka yeshivah. The strikers themselves had been diligently maintaining their own underground study network for the duration of the strike, and the compassionate head of the yeshivah had compromised his own bargaining leverage by surreptitiously handing out money to strikers who were in dire straits because of the suspension of their official stipends.

In the yeshivah environment, as in the universities, it was clear to discerning educators that the same critical acumen that made students excel in their studies could ultimately bring them to loggerheads with their institutions. 

Thus, when somebody pointed out to Rabbi Gordon of Telshe that the Slobodka yeshiva was more receptive to soliciting student participation in policy decisions, the sage retorted dismissively that the rival yeshivah had no students worthy of the name. They are mere blocks of wood. If their rabbi told them to jump in the lake, they would all jump in. In our yeshivah, however, each of our boys has a mind of his own.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 9, 2007, p. 18.
  • For further reading:
    • Alon, Gedalia. The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (70-640 C.E.). Translated by Gershon Levi. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1980.
    • Assaf, Simha, and Shmuel Glick. Meqorot Le-Toledhot Ha-Hinnukh Be-Yisra’el. new revised and expanded ed. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2001.
    • Breuer, Mordechai. Oholei Torah (the Tents of Torah): The Yeshiva, Its Structure and History. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2003.
    • Stampfer, Shaul. The Lithuanian Yeshivah. Monographs in Jewish History. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1995.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

For Adults Only

For Adults Only

by Eliezer Segal

A student once informed me that he was unsure whether he was fully Jewish, since he had never had a bar mitzvah. 

On a different occasion, when I was teaching some Catholic students about Judaism, the first question to be posed to me at the end of my lecture was why is the bar mitzvah such an important ceremony for Jews?

I suppose that it is those kinds of misconceptions about the inflated importance of the bar mitzvah rituals that provoke us to respond with insistent denials of the institution’s importance or historical roots. It is not unusual for scholars to make claims such as: The commemoration of a boy’s becoming bar mitzvah is strictly a modern development, and only in America did it become an occasion for festivities. Although there is some truth to this generalization, the like of which has occasionally issued from my own lips, the matter is not quite so straightforward. 

A careful reading of Jewish documents indicates that several key features of the bar mitzvah can at least be traced back to the early Middle Ages.

What has come to be known as bar mitzvah actually encompasses several distinct elements, each one of which lends itself to a separate examination. These elements include: the designation of the ages twelve (for a female) and thirteen (for a male) as the transition to religious adulthood; the identification of that age as the appropriate one to begin wearing t’fillin; the marking of the transition by calling the youth to the formal reading of the Torah in the synagogue; the celebration of the event with a festive meal; and the recitation of a special blessing by the parents. 

With regard to the definition of the age of majority, our ancient sources discussed a broad range of ages for beginning adulthood, depending on the context. Such discussions were relevant to: marriage, the obligation to perform assorted biblical or rabbinic rituals, imposing penalties for transgression of religious prohibitions, and the validity of legal acts such as purchases or sales. 

The significance of the ages twelve and thirteen as the start of adulthood derived from the assumption that by those ages the children will normally have attained physical maturity. As in several other instances, where later Jewish law strove to eschew individual or subjective criteria in favour of uniform standards, the medieval communities gravitated towards the adoption of fixed ages. This approach was acknowledged in the commentary of Rabbenu Gershom of Mainz in the eleventh century.

The precept of wearing t’fillin (phylacteries), which has come to have a special association with the bar-mitzvah milestone, was not originally linked to any specific age. The Talmud states that a child should begin observing the commandment when he is mature enough to take care of them properly and to treat them with the proper reverence and cleanliness. This would normally imply an age considerably younger than thirteen years. Indeed, that policy persisted well into the medieval era, and it is not easy to pinpoint the precise time when thirteen years came to be perceived as the correct age for t’fillin.

The blessing barukh she-petarani, which is recited by the parents to acknowledge that they no longer bear liability or responsibility for their child’s transgressions, was first documented in connection with an eleventh-century German authority, Rabbi Judah ben Baruch, who pronounced it when his own son was first called to the reading of the Torah upon reaching the age of thirteen years. In the late twelfth century, Rabbi Isaac ben Abba Mari of Marseilles recorded that it was customary to recite this blessing in several localities. This combination of the aliyah to the Torah reading and the barukh she-petarani (as a full, formal blessing, and not in the abbreviated version that has become common in many contemporary rites) brought together several of the key components that make up our typical bar-mitzvah observances.

In almost all current rites, the assuming of adulthood is demonstrated communally through participation in the reading of the Torah in the synagogue. When the occasion is observed on the Sabbath, it is considered preferable to read the haftarah, the section from the Prophets, in combination with the concluding passage from the Torah portion, the maftir. It is widely perceived that the maftirhaftarah combination carries a higher status than other scriptural readings.

This, in fact, is contrary to the way that these matters were understood in our classic sources. The Talmud assumes that the invitation to read from the Prophets is of a decidedly lower standing, to the point that the reader of the haftarah might be insulted if he were not compensated with an additional invitation to lead some of the prayers. This approach remained in force during the Middle Ages, when the chanting of the haftarah was the only part of the Torah service that could be assigned to minor children. 

It followed from this premise that reading the haftarah could not really serve as a suitable symbolic expression of a person’s entry into adulthood. For this reason, the older custom recommended that the demonstration of maturity take the form of a standard reading from the Torah. The common practice today, of focusing on the Prophetic haftarah reading, thus marks a 180-degree reversal of the traditional ritual as it was known to the early authorities. 

The earliest explicit reference to holding a festive meal to celebrate a youth’s becoming bar-mitzvah is mentioned in connection with a certain Rabbi Avigdor of Vienna in the early thirteenth century, who wrote of holding a banquet for his son on his thirteenth birthday.

Yet, the Kabbalistic tradition implies that such feasts were known in ancient Israel. The Zohar Hadash, a miscellany of mystical texts collected by the 16th-century Safed Kabbalists, found an allusion to the practice in the words of the Song of Songs (3:11) Go forth, o ye daughters of Zion, and behold king Solomon with the crown wherewith his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals. The Zohar Hadashapplied this verse to the rejoicing on a lad’s thirteenth birthday, for on that day it is incumbent on the righteous to be merry in their hearts, as if on the day that they enter the marriage canopy.

It follows from this exposition that, just as Jewish weddings are invariably accompanied by joyous banquets, the same should hold true when a youth assumes the responsibilities and privileges of spiritual maturity.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, February 15, 2007, p. 21.
  • For further reading:
    • Ta-Shma, Israel. The Earliest Literary Sources for the Bar-Mitzvah Ritual and Festivity. Tarbiz 68 (1999): 4.
    • Marcus, Ivan G. Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1996.
    • Rivkind, Isaac. Bar Mitzvah, a Study in Jewish Cultural History. New York: Shulsinger Brothers, 1942. [Hebrew]
    • Weinstein, Roni. Childhood, Adolescence, and Growing-up in the Jewish Community in Italy During the Late Middle Ages. Italia 11 (1995): 77-98 [Hebrew].

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Haggadah Hoppers

Haggadah Hoppers

by Eliezer Segal

At many seders, especially those where young children are present, the most conspicuous element in the telling of the exodus might well be an episode that only gets a one-word mention in the text of the Haggadah.

I am referring to the frogs, the second of the ten plagues that were inflicted on the Egyptians. There is something irresistible about the vision of swarms of hopping, croaking little creatures as they “go up and come into thine house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy kneading troughs.”

The plague is commemorated in lively children’s songs (“…frogs on his head \ and frogs in his bed”), as toys, and in illustrated or animated Haggadahs.

Our fascination with those biblical jumpers has a long history. 

The rabbis of the Midrash rarely passed up an occasion to magnify the dimensions of biblical miracles, and they found that the plague of frogs fit that tendency quite nicely once the scriptural text was subjected to their distinctive methods of interpretation.

For example, the biblical account relates how Moses warned Pharaoh that “the frogs shall come up both in thee, and in thy people.” Rabbi Aḥa in the Midrash interpreted this with the utmost literalness, inferring that frogs were spontaneously generated inside the Egyptians‘ bodies from droplets of drinking water. 

The rabbis spelled out in imaginative detail the diverse ways in which the frogs bedeviled the Egyptians. Whenever an Egyptian would pour a liquid into a cup, it would instantly be filled with frogs, and when an Egyptian woman would try to knead dough or heat up a stove, the cold-blooded creatures would drop into the dough and cool it off, or enter the stove and get stuck to the bread (Yummy!). This would later be invoked as a source of inspiration for Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah in their readiness to risk martyrdom when Nebuchadnezzar cast them into a fiery furnace. 

Rabbi Akiva was famous for finding significance in every letter and particle of the Torah’s wording. This method enabled him to identify biblical sources for many novel teachings of Jewish religious law. In one instance he tried to apply his hermeneutic approach to the plague of the frogs. He noted that the Hebrew text used a grammatically singular form to designate the frogs. Less inventive exegetes would have written this off as merely a collective form designating the whole species. However Rabbi Akiva inferred from this detail that the plague originated with a lone frog that spawned rapidly until its progeny inundated the entire land of Egypt. (Remember that Rabbi Akiva was also the person in the Haggadah who succeeded in multiplying the original ten plagues into fifty—or even two hundred and fifty.) 

An alternative version of this interpretation describes how the Egyptians, by smashing one frog, would cause it to spew numerous new ones. The image has been compared to Hercules’ battle against the Lernaean Hydra. (Caution: This kind of Whac-a-mole game might not be advisable at your family’s seder table.)

Rabbi Akiva’s colleague Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah had little patience for such fanciful inventions and remonstrated him: Akiva, you are just not cut out for homiletical expositions. Give them up and confine yourself exclusively to the intricate technical topics of ritual impurity in which you really excel. 

Rabbi Eleazar proposed a different explanation of the singular grammatical form of “frog.” He conceded that the plague had begun with a single frog, but not in a way that violated the laws of biology. In his version, the lone frog sounded a tweet that immediately summoned an enormous swarm of fellow-frogs to Pharaoh’s realms. Some commentators suggest that Rabbi Eleazar felt the need to curtail the miraculous proportions of the plague in light of the Torah’s report that the Egyptian court magicians were able to reproduce the trick with their sleight-of-hand. 

The Torah relates that when Pharaoh eventually conceded defeat, “Moses cried unto the Lord about the matter [d’var] of the frogs.” Now the root meaning of the Hebrew word ‘d’var” is really “speech” or “word.” Some rabbis regarded this as an indication that the frogs’ voices played a significant part in the plague. “The noises that issued from the frogs were as agonizing as the physical damage that they inflicted.”

Some of the rabbis’ depictions of the plague imbued the frogs with considerable skills in strategic planning, and even some sort of verbal ability. When Rabbi Yoḥanan expounded that a frog was created every time a drop of water landed on soil (perhaps he was basing himself on an ultra-literal reading of the verse in Psalms: “Their land brought forth frogs in abundance”), Rabbi Hezekiah objected that the wealthy Egyptians who dwelled in structures of solid, waterproof marble might thereby be impervious to the plague. He therefore concluded that the frogs negotiated with the marble to allow them access through cracks in the walls and floors.

As noted previously, some rabbis deduced from the wording “the frogs will come in thee, and in thy people” that the plague actually penetrated into the bodies of the Egyptians. Combining this with the legend about making cracks in the marble edifices, they deduced that chips from the split stone pierced and maimed the Egyptians’ private parts. (This reminds me of the scene in Aristophanes’ comedy The Frogs in which the exasperating chorus of croaking frogs provokes Dionysius, on his visit to Hades, to complain crudely about the pains they were causing to his suffering bottom.)

But not everyone held such disdainful opinions about the tonal aesthetics of croaking. The Hebrew mystical compendium “Pereḳ Shirah,” devoted to the theme that all of nature is intoning songs of praise to the creator, begins with an enchanting legend about King David. When the monarch published his book of Psalms he boasted that nobody in the world could produce poetry of comparable grandeur. At this point he met up with a frog who scolded him for his arrogance, claiming that his own lyrical oeuvre was greater than David’s both in its quantity and in the profundity of its message.

Indeed, the frogs’ role was not confined to destruction and harassment. The Jewish sages found some positive aspects to the episode. It exemplified the valuable lessons that no species in creation is superfluous or redundant, and that no person is irreplaceable. For when prophets from Moses to Jonah tried to refuse their missions, the Almighty berated them, arguing: If you don’t accept the assignment, do you imagine that I will not find find a replacment? Even a frog can be recruited to do my will!

According to some teachers, the plague even contributed to international peace. They noted how God instructed Moses to warn Pharaoh that ”I will smite all thy borders with frogs.” Now, the usual connotation of “borders” as political divisions between two states is hardly relevant when speaking of a natural plague. Frogs do not carry passports and are unlikely to turn back at a customs station or concrete wall.

The rabbis therefore concluded that these particular frogs did respect international boundaries, and that fact was an essential component of this unique miracle. The border line between Egypt and neighbouring Ethiopia had been the subject of an ongoing dispute; and therefore, when the infestation of the frogs was seen to stop at specific places, both sides acknowledged that this was supernatural confirmation that Egyptian territory (“thy border”) ended at those places. The Egyptians and Ethiopians could now abandon their hostilities and resume peaceful relations. 

As far as I know, the Ethiopians never agreed to pay for a border wall.


  • First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 19, 2019, p. 13.
  • For further reading:
    • Beit-Arié, Malachi. “Pereḳ Shirah: Introductions and Critical Edition.” Ph.D., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1966. [Hebrew]
    • Ginzberg, Louis. Legends of the Jews. Translated by Henrietta Szold. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 2003.
    • Heinemann, Isaak. Darkhe Ha-Agadah. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1970. [Hebrew]
    • Heschel, Abraham Joshua. Theology of Ancient Judaism. 3 vols. London, UK and New York, NY: The Soncino Press, 1962. [Hebrew]
    • Mann, Jacob. The Bible as Read and Preached in the Old Synagogue; a Study in the Cycles of the Readings from Torah and Prophets, as Well as from Psalms, and in the Structure of the Midrashic Homilies. The Library of Biblical Studies. New York: KTAV, 1971. [Hebrew]
    • Segal, Eliezer. Beasts That Teach, Birds That Tell: Animal Language in Rabbinic and Classical Literatures. Calgary: Alberta Judaic Library, 2019.
    • Shinan, Avigdor, ed. Midrash Shemot Rabbah, Chapters I-XIV. Jerusalem: Dvir, 1984. [Hebrew]
    • Slifkin, Nosson. “Sacred Monsters: Mysterious and Mythical Creatures of Scripture, Talmud and Midrash.” Brooklyn, N.Y: Zoo Torah, 2007.
    • ———. “Tzefardeaʻ: Frogs or Crocodiles?” Jewish Bible Quarterly 38, no. 4 (2010): 251–54.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Verify Your References

Verify Your References

by Eliezer Segal

Researchers in academia are fond of quoting the maxim If you steal from one author it’s plagiarism; if you steal from many it’s research. Few of those who cite this bon mot take the trouble to refer to its author, the American dramatist Wilson Mizner. Nevertheless, the obligation to cite one’s sources remains one of the few values that is cherished and enforced in the university milieu. 

Jewish tradition traces this sacred tenet back to the story of Purim. In the book of Esther, shortly after our heroine’s induction into Ahasuerus’ royal household, Mordecai learned about a conspiracy against the king that was being hatched by Bigthan and Teresh. Fortunately, the Jewish courtier was able to make use of Esther’s presence in the palace to convey this vital intelligence to Ahasuerus. He told it to Queen Esther, and Esther told the king in the name of Mordecai (Esther 2:22). Based on this incidental detail, a rabbi in the Talmud derived an important lesson: Rabbi Eleazar said in the name of Rabbi Hanina: Anyone who cites something thing in the name of its author brings redemption to the world. 

As will become evident later on in the biblical narrative, Mordecai’s role in saving the king’s life contributed significantly to Haman’s humiliating debacle. Nevertheless, it is not immediately obvious why is was so essential for Esther to identify her source when reporting the matter to the king. It was therefore logical for the talmudic sages to infer that the author wished thereby to convey a general lesson about the momentous importance of quoting one’s sources. 

Apart from the exegetical issues that were posed by the biblical text, we may plausibly assume that Rabbis Eleazar and Hanina were sensitive to the importance of accurate attribution in their own scholarly culture, which was founded on the transmission of oral teachings across generations. In the discourse of Jewish religious law, the identity of a saying’s author is frequently the chief criterion for deciding between conflicting opinions. For this reason, the rabbis applied the words of the Torah (Deuteronomy 19:14) You shall not move the landmarks of your neighbor, which the former ones set in the inheritance to individuals who confuse the names of the authors of halakhic statements. As the commentators explain, the imprecise attribution of a Torah tradition constitutes an illicit moving of the landmarks of the Almighty, which were carefully set by the ancient talmudic authorities.

Rabbi Hanina’s advocacy of intellectual property raises an interesting conundrum. While he flourished in the early third century, his insight into Esther’s behaviour had previously been noted by Rabbi Josiah, a scholar who lived several generations earlier. Rabbi Josiah pointed out that, according to the account in the Torah, Eleazar the priest was careful to preface his instructions to the Israelite armies with the acknowledgment This is the ordinance of the law which the Lord commanded Moses (Numbers 31:21). This served as a legal precedent for citing sayings in the names of their authors, in the same way that it says ‘and Esther told the king in the name of Mordecai.’ The eighteenth-century scholar Rabbi David Pardo explained that the Bible’s explicit attribution of Eleazar’s words to Moses would otherwise be superfluous, since we automatically presume that all the teachings of the Torah were taught by Moses. For this reason, the Midrash understood that the Torah was teaching us a universal principle, which was also understood by Esther.

In fact, a similar teaching about identifying sources is found in yet another early source, a passage appended to the end of Pirkei Avot (6:6), where no author is named! Therefore, it is not clear whether R. Josiah should be viewed as the original author of the dictum, or if he was merely transmittings an older tradition. Either way, there is no little irony in the fact that the Pirkei Avot version should bring this particular statement without identifying its earliest author, and that the Talmud should in turn present it as a teaching of Rabbi Eleazar in the name of Rabbi Hanina without referring to the older versions. 

Rabbi Eleazar himself had his own run-ins with plagiarism. In one episode recorded in the Talmud, he neglected to stipulate that a statement he uttered in the academy had been heard from his teacher Rabbi Simeon ben Lakish. When Rabbi Simeon heard about this, he was understandably irritated, and tried to embarrass Eleazar in the academy by hurling difficult objections at him. Eleazar humbly accepted the rebuke and did not attempt to resolve the objections. Eventually, Rabbi Simeon was appeased, and he calmed down.

On another occasion, it was Rabbi Yohanan who was offended because Rabbi Eleazar failed to reference him. Rabbi Yohanan’s indignation was not placated until another scholar pointed out to him that everybody knew how close was the master-disciple relationship between these two rabbis, and therefore it was universally understood that anything the student taught had to be based on what he had learned from his teacher.

We are all sensitive to the harm that is caused by sloppy and inaccurate reporting. I don’t know whether the raising of journalistic or scholarly standards will be enough to bring deliverance to the world–but at any rate, it is most unlikely that any redemption will be forthcoming until, like Queen Esther, we begin to pay closer attention to the sources of our information.


  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 8, 2007, p. 8.
  • For further reading:
    • Jaffee, Martin S. Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism, 200 BCE-400 CE. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001.
    • Schneider, Israel. Jewish Law and Copyright. Journal of Halacha and Contemporary Society 21 (1991): 84-96.
    • 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.