Veiled Threats

by Eliezer Segal

Of late, the liberal democracies have been in a state of much agitation about how to maintain their multicultural ideals in the face of challenges from traditional Muslim ladies whose religion requires that they keep their visages concealed under a veil or burka. In Canada, questions are being raised about hijabs in high school sports, identification at voting booths, and photos on drivers’ licenses. 

Judaism, of course, has its own traditions of female modesty that restrict aspects of their wardrobes, whether it involves covering the hair of married women or concealing other limbs from public view. For the most part, the women who maintain those standards resign themselves to the limitations that they create.

Is it conceivable that a Jewish woman might also claim a religious duty to conceal her visage under a veil? Notwithstanding the impressions created by some Hollywood biblical epics, that prospect seems unlikely.

References to veils are quite rare in classical Jewish documents. A case in point is a passage in the Mishnah that is concerned with defining normal clothing that may be worn outside the house on the sabbath, as distinct from more exotic accessories whose use would be classified as carrying and thereby constitute violations of the prohibition against carrying burdens outside the home.

In this connection, the Mishnah declares: Arabian women may go outside while veiled, and Median women may walk outside with their cloaks buttoned around their shoulders.

Fending off the obvious question about why the Mishnah is concerned with the behaviour of Arabian women, Rashi explains that the law is actually referring to Jewish ladies who live in Arabia where they follow the local custom of wearing veils.

Rashi goes on to provide additional details about veils: It is the custom of Arab women to keep their heads and faces wrapped, except for their eyes. In Arabic this practice is designated by the verb R’L–the same unusual root that is employed by the Mishnah. It is not clear where Rashi, living in northern France, acquired his proficiency in Arabic, but evidently his assertion is correct. The cognate root in Arabic has the meaning of a kind of veil of which a part hangs down in front.

Rashi also sends us to a biblical text where the same root appears among assorted ostentatious ornaments and attire worn by the shameless daughters of ancient Zion. The prophet Isaiah assures them that those extravagances will be taken from them when God gives them their inevitable comeuppance. The biblical expression is usually translated as a scarf or shawl.

At any rate, the implication of the Mishnah, as elaborated by Rashi, is that veils were not an everyday spectacle among the Jewish populace of Israel. The only place where they were likely to be found was in the far-off reaches of Arabia where the Jewish ladies presumably conformed to the local dress codes.

Indeed this is consistent with a pattern that would become common in medieval and modern times. The daughters of Israel were often expected to adhere to the social expectations of their non-Jewish sisters. Thus, in Islamic societies like Ottoman Smyrna, though Jewish women were not required to don the veil, they often chose to wear long white sheets with black veils that completely covered their faces. In Turkestan they concealed their features behind thick rigid veils woven from horse hair that extended from forehead to waist. 

Because the veil was considered a sign of dignity and respectability, some medieval societies forbade Jewish women from wearing them, or insisted that they use different colors in order to be recognizable. In the thirteenth century Jewish women in much of Europe were ordered to wear two stripes on their veils. In Persia, Jewish women had to wear black veils in public, as distinct from the white ones of the Muslim women, 

In another Sabbath-related discussion in the Mishnah, the rabbis set out minimum quantities of forbidden items that must be carried outside before one is in violation of the law. With respect to mascara, the amount is defined as enough to apply to one eye. The sages of the Talmud were understandably perplexed, since minimum amounts in such instances are usually defined in terms of quantities that can be put to a legitimate use, and there is no obvious reason why a person would apply cosmetics to a single eye.

The solution proposed in the Talmud is that there are Jewish women who are so modest that their veils leave an opening for only a single eye. Evidently, even those modest maidens were not above enhancing their visible assets for better effect.

Arguably, Jewish tradition’s most famous veiled woman was Tamar, Judah’s widowed daughter-in-law, who disguised herself as a harlot in order to seduce Judah. And she put her widow’s garments off from her, and covered herself with a veil, and wrapped herself, and sat in an open place… When Judah saw her, he thought her to be an harlot; because she had covered her face.

The rabbis in the Babylonian Talmud found some of these details incongruous. Though the simple sense of the story would seem to be that Tamar’s veil was intended to disguise her identity from Judah, Rabbi Eleazar preferred to read the detail as if it were part of her harlot’s attire. This raised an interpretive difficulty, in that your standard working girl is unlikely to be wearing such modest wrappings!

In the face of this difficulty, Rabbi Eleazar proposed a different way of reading the story. He suggested that Tamar did not wear the veil while seducing Judah; rather, it was an indication of her demure habits while residing in Judah’s household. Because she had scrupulously kept her face covered at all times, Judah did not recognize her when he had his liaison with her on the road to Timnath. Rabbi Eleazar interpreted this as a praiseworthy quality.

It should be noted that some later commentators found it perfectly reasonable that harlots would ply their trade with veils on their faces. For example, Nahmanides reported that this was the common practice in his own locality, medieval Gerona, where the ladies would enhance their mystique by covering part of their face while applying makeup to their eyes and lips. In this way, some of them maintained separate identities as respectable, albeit desperate, housewives. This is what the harlots do still today in our lands, and when they return to their towns they can keep their secret.

In the midrashic compendium Genesis Rabbah, the rabbis derived an entirely different lesson from this episode. Rabbi Aha cited it as evidence that a man should familiarize himself with the appearances of the females in his household, in order to avoid awkward situations. In support for his observation, he adduced the case of Judah who mistook Tamar to be a harlot because she had covered her face while in Judah’s household.

Though this interpretation is based on the same exegetical premises as Rabbi Eleazar’s in the Talmud, it derives a completely opposite lesson. Unlike Rabbi Eleazar, Rabbi Aha focused on Judah’s mistake, and deduced that excessive modesty in the home can lead to potentially fatal wardrobe malfunctions.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, December 14, 2007, p. 10 [as: “When Jewish women wore the veil”].
• For further reading:
  • Green, Ruth M., and Zena Flax. A Brief History of Jewish Dress. London: Safira, 2001.
  • Rubens, Alfred. A History of Jewish Costume. New and enl. ed. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1973.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Memory-Go-Round

by Eliezer Segal

The shtetls of eastern Europe did not provide a very welcoming enviromnent for those artistic spirits that tend to blossom in any normal society. The harsh economic realities that beset those Jewish communities would have stigmatized creative passions as little more than impractical, self-indulgent extravagances; and the austere mood of the prevalent religious outlook would insist on channeling their energies towards more respectable pursuits. Those creative individuals who insisted nonetheless on seeking outlets for their talents often found niches for themselves within the acceptable bounds of Jewish religious life, through the fashioning and decorating of items for ritual use.

Some of that creative energy was directed into a distinctive east-European artistic tradition of wooden synagogues with elaborately carved ornamentation. Very few of those original structures survived the Holocaust, but their memory has been preserved to some degree in the form of drawings and photographs. Some North American synagogues were modeled after prototypes from the Old Country. 

Variegated motifs of iconography evolved in those old European wooden synagogues. Some of the images were deeply rooted in Jewish tradition; for example, the tablets of the covenant, the crown of the Torah, the priestly hands stretched out in blessing or the lions of Judah. Other favourite images had more tenuous connections to standard Jewish iconography, such as the depictions of myriad beasts, birds, foliage, fruits and other natural or mythical wonders that inhabited the synagogues’ walls and ceilings. Though it might be possible to link those images to passages from the Bible, Midrash or Kabbalah, it is hard to escape the suspicion that they really stemmed from the artists’ inborn personal fascination with the glories of creation.

We know virtually nothing about the identities or biographies of the gifted artisans who contributed their inspired skills to the beautification of the eastern European Jewish houses of worship, except for a tiny handful of individuals who made their ways to the New World where they found opportunities to continue their crafts and were able to record for posterity some of their prior experiences in the Old Country. 

Perhaps the most remarkable exploit to emerge from this world of biographical obscurity was that of Marcus Charles Illions, whose artistic oeuvre bridged the transition between the Russian shtetl and the American melting pot. While Illions’ saga might be the best documented instance of this trajectory, his story should probably be regarded as typical of other anonymous Jewish craftsmen whose lives followed similar courses.

Illions spent his childhood in Russia where his father traded in horses and where he was first imbued with his characteristic familiarity and fascination with the equine form. At the tender age of seven, he was apprenticed to a woodcarver in order to cultivate his impressive talents. He fled Russia at the age of fourteen and eventually found his way to America where he was hired by a number of synagogues to carve decorative Torah arks. Several examples of his work have survived–whether intact, in part or in photographs–and they attest to his faithful transmission of the familiar motifs from the European synagogues, including Grecian columns, tablets, crowns and lions.

But oh those lions! These were not the staid, mass-produced two-dimensional beasts that can be seen on the ark curtains and Torah mantels of many of our current synagogues. These were spirited animals graced with cascading manes, waving tails and fiery gazes, whose limbs and sinuous torsos reveal the artist’s stunning attention to anatomical detail. There can be no question but that Illions was drawing upon his intimate familiarity with the beloved horses of his Russian childhood.

Even the massive wave of Jews who immigrated to America from the 1880s to the 1920s could not provide stable, long-term employment for synagogue artists. However, an unexpected opportunity presented itself to them at this stage of history owing to a fortuitous combination of social and technological developments. The hardworking American urban populace was in need of some form of cheap and unsophisticated leisure entertainment, and that demand could be satisfied through the proliferation of mechanized amusement parks whose clients could now be whisked to the fair grounds on trolleys and other novel means of affordable rapid transit.

In their lively competition to attract paying customers to their enterprises, the operators of these parks provided plenty of work for the immigrant wood-carvers who were now being hired to supply the parks with magnificent colour and flamboyance. A centerpiece of the new amusement parks was the modern carousel, on which the huddled urban masses could pretend that they were freely riding horses or yet more fabulous steeds. That illusion was enhanced by technological innovations that allowed the animals to be rotated by steam power and to gracefully rise and fall in a credible imitation of equine leaps and gallops. 

Marcus Charles Illions made a name for himself as a leading fashioner of carousel horses, initially in the employ of the acclaimed workshop of Charles I. D. Loof, and later as the master of his own studio. His carousel animals are considered the finest exemplars of the “Coney Island Style,” energized by an animated realism that was combined with gaudy ornamentation and glitter. The purveyors of that style included several other Jewish immigrants, such as Solomon Stein, Harry Goldstein and Charles Carmel who very likely spent part of their formative childhood years in eastern Europe daydreaming about the exotic creatures that they saw carved on the Torah arks of their wooden shuls.

When a recent exhibition at New York’s American Folk Art Museum juxtaposed Illions’ synagogue lions with his carousel horses, it left no room for doubts about the existence of a shared artistic ancestry and a consistent aesthetic vision that permeated the sacred and profane realms of his work. 

It is intriguing to ponder the profound thematic symbolism that brought us full circle from the wonders of creation, through the imperial lions of the Torah arks, to the spinning, galloping steeds of a Coney Island carousel.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 12, 2009, p. 9.
• For further reading:
  • Fraley, Tobin. The Great American Carousel: A Century of Master Craftmanship. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1994.
  • Fried, Frederick. A Pictorial History of the Carousel. New York,: A.S. Barnes, 1964.
  • Manns, William, Peggy Shank, and Dru Riley. Painted Ponies: American Carousel Art. Millwood, NY: Zon International, 1986.
  • Zimiles, Murray. Gilded Lions and Jeweled Horses: The Synagogue to the Carousel, Jewish Carving Traditions Brandeis Series in American Jewish History, Culture, and Life. Waltham, MA and Hanover, NY: Brandeis University Press and University Press of New England in association with American Folk Art Museum, 2007.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Debatable Dates

by Eliezer Segal

Thanks to such distinguished institutions as the University of Chicago’s “Great Latka-Hamantasch Debate,” the literary genre of debates about the superiority of Hanukkah has achieved some recognition among the general public. In reality, disputations of this sort have deeper roots in older customs and writings associated with the Jewish festival cycle.

A modest example of the genre appears in the “Mahzor Romaniah,” the venerable liturgical rite of the Greek Jewish community. The author of this rhymed debate, whose identity is revealed in an internal acrostic, was Rabbi Solomon ben Elijah Sharvit-Hazzahav–the impressive Hebrew family name translates as “the golden scepter.” Rabbi Solomon maintained a relatively obscure profile in the realm of Hebrew letters. He lived in the fourteenth century in Turkey and Greece, where he composed assorted works of religious polemic, astronomy, grammar and literary theory. Several of his poems were included in the Mahzor Romania.

Among Sharvit-Hazzahav’s surviving liturgical poems is one entitled “Debate between the Sabbath and Hanukkah.” It was probably intended to be read, or sung, on the Saturday that falls during Hanukkah.

The choice of such a subject initially strikes us as very odd, given the ostensibly unequal relationship between the two holidays. After all, Shabbat is a fundamental biblical institution with profound theological significance and elaborate laws and rituals; while Hanukkah is a relatively minor post-biblical historical celebration.

In fact, Rabbi Solomon probably did not conceive of this poem as a separate creation, but rather as an addendum to an earlier work by one of his favourite medieval poets, Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra. Ibn Ezra had composed a more ambitious “Debate between the Sabbath and the Festivals” that dealt with all the other holidays of the Hebrew calendar. For whatever reason, Hanukkah had been omitted from that poem, so Rabbi Solomon took it upon himself to fill in the lacuna by composing his own poetic dispute according to the same formal conventions that were used by Ibn Ezra.

As was the normal convention in Hebrew liturgical poetry, the text of this debate is replete with biblical quotes and indirect allusions to scripture. The author takes the role of the judge of the dispute. The personified holidays approach his bench as litigants, each claiming to be the most important.

The Sabbath proudly introduces itself as the most ancient of holy days, commemorating God’s creation of the universe. It dismissively contrasts its distinguished pedigree with that of the upstart Hanukkah, the most recent addition to the Jewish calendar.

Anticipating a line of argument that is used nowadays to argue why Hanukkah is superior to Christmas, Hanukkah counters with the fact that it extends for a full eight days, in comparison with the measly one day of the Sabbath. Furthermore, Hanukkah’s joyful status is recognized by the fact that the Hallel psalms are recited on all eight days, a practice that has no counterpart on Shabbat.

To those arguments, the Sabbath counters that the Torah honoured it with the special Musaf sacrifices that were offered in the Temple, as well as the corresponding Additional Service in the liturgy.

Hanukkah then retorts that Jewish law gives precedence to its lamps over those of the Sabbath, since on Friday evening the Hanukkah lights must be kindled before the Sabbath ones. Of course, this argument might easily have been used to support the opposite position; since the ultimate reason for this law is that, once the Sabbath has been initiated through the act of kindling, its greater sanctity would prohibit the lighting of a lesser fire on the holy day.

On the other hand, Hanukkah asserts that its candles are assigned a higher degree of sanctity according to religious law. As long as they are burning, we are strictly forbidden to derive any personal benefit from them because they have been devoted to the sacred purpose of publicizing the miracles of the holiday. In this respect they differ from the Sabbath candles, which are designed primarily to promote domestic harmony by providing light to guide the movements of the residents of the household. In the poem, this contrast is depicted metaphorically as the difference between an aristocratic lady who is there to be served by others, and a lowly servant who labours for others.

In a reversal of this imagery, the Sabbath takes proud satisfaction in the fact that it occurs in frequent weekly intervals, just as a man’s legitimate wife consorts with him on a constant basis. By contrast, a festival that falls only once a year is analogous to a sordid liaison with a mistress or concubine whose relationship must be pursued in sporadic and surreptitious rendezvous.

After each of the holy days has had its chance to present its case and to refute that of its opponent, the dispute is left to the final decision of the author/judge. In keeping with the holiday spirit, the judge magnanimously declares that it would be inappropriate to exacerbate the differences by pronouncing a victory of one over the other–especially when the debate is taking place on the occasion when the two beloved holy days have converged.

Although he concedes that the Sabbath has a clear edge in terms of age and holiness, the matter should not be treated as a confrontational dispute. Instead, he commands them to set aside their hostilities, and to come together in love and harmony.

The author concludes with the timely observation, that it is only through mutual respect and concord that Israel can look forward to their imminent redemption.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 30, 2007, p. 19 (as: “When Hanukkah debates the Sabbath”).
• For further reading:
  • Cernea, Ruth Fredman. The Great Latke-Hamantash Debate. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2006.
  • Kohn [Kahana], David, ed. Rabbi Shelomoh Sharvit Hazzahav, Liḳuṭe Ḳadmonim Ḳovets Shire Meshorerim Ḳadmonim. Warsaw: Achiasaf, 1893.
  • Meiseles, Isaac. “The Song of Rivalry Betwen Shabbat and Chanukah by R. Solomon B. Elijah Sharvit Ha-Zahav.” Bar-Ilan Annual 13 (1976): 223-232.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Turning Over a New Leaf

by Eliezer Segal

After the destruction of Jerusalem, the prophets of Israel consoled the people with stirring visions of how the holy city would be rebuilt to achieve a glory beyond anything it had known previously. Some of them spoke of a spring or river that would issue forth from the Temple to convey vitality and blessings to the world. 

As envisaged by Ezekiel (47:12), the banks of the river will sprout all sorts of trees that will renew their fresh fruit each month. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing. 

The Hebrew root that is translated here as healing–t’rufah–is a familiar one to speakers of modern Hebrew who casually accept that their everyday word for medicine is derived from the root rafo, the word for healing. According to philologists, however, that etymology is far from obvious. The noun is unique in the Bible and seems to derive from a different root,. 

The translation of t’rufah as healing was upheld by Rabbi Yohanan in the Jerusalem Talmud. In support of his translation, he compared the word to the similar-sounding Greek expression therapeia that has the same meaning (as do its cognates in English). 

The Jewish sages offered diverse suggestions about which ailments can be cured by Ezekiel’s wondrous leaves. Rabbi Yohanan himself, perhaps responding to Ezekiel’s juxtaposition of leaves for healing to fruit for eating, understood that the leaves serve as an aid to digestion. When a person sucks the leaf, the food is digested. A later midrash made more ambitious claims about the leaf’s efficacy, stating that the leaves were capable of curing any wound that a person might be suffering. 

Other rabbis preferred to solve the puzzle of Ezekiel’s t’rufah without recourse to foreign tongues, making use of Hebrew puns and wordplays. The most common approach involved treating the word as if it were a contraction of the phrase lehatir peh: to release the mouth. This still left ample room for divergent opinions about which mouth it is that is being opened by the therapeutic leaf. 

Several talmudic rabbis explained that the marvelous leaves are indeed capable of enabling mutes to speak. A midrashic exposition applied this theme to the story of Moses. At the outset of his career he was suffering from a speech defect that rendered him unfit to confront Pharaoh, but he later proved himself an eloquent orator and national leader. 

The midrash credited that transformation to Moses’ devotion to Torah study, or to the impact of receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. Said Rabbi Eleazar: Yesterday he was stammerer, whereas now ‘these are the words which Moses spoke to all Israel’… Said Rabbi Aha: If your tongue is heavy, strengthen it with words of Torah and it will be cured.

Some rabbis associated this motif with the image of Ezekiel’s river, perceiving it as a symbol for the therapeutic powers of Torah. However, you don’t have to be a Moses to enjoy the benefits of the therapeutic leaf: Anyone who is mute and chews from it, his tongue will be healed and immediately polished with words of Torah. 

An alternative interpretation that appears in the Talmud and Midrash speaks of the leaves opening the lower mouth, that is to say, curing the heartbreaking barrenness that afflicted biblical heroines like Sarah and Hannah. When read in this manner, Ezekiel’s vision can be understood as an assurance that the blessings that will flow from the rebuilt Jerusalem Temple will generate fertility and maternal fulfillment. 

Visions of the fabulous wonders that await us in the redeemed world were effective in elevating the spirits of simple Jews in times of hardship and oppression. However, more sophisticated thinkers found some of those descriptions problematic or embarrassing. For Jewish intellectuals who were more inclined towards spiritual and metaphysical interpretations of Judaism, it was impossible to accept at face value those texts that stressed the physical or material advantages of the messianic epoch. Therefore, those authors preferred to read the ancient texts as metaphors or symbols for profound theological ideals. 

The Maharal of Prague provided an ingenious exposition of the healing leaves and the rabbinic traditions about their curative powers. His interpretation contains a fascinating blend of kabbalistic mysticism and perceptive insights into the human psyche. 

The Maharal’s discussion is rooted in his distinctive understanding of the metaphysical role of the Jerusalem Temple; it is the sacred bridge that joins heaven and earth, the conduit that allows divine blessings to descend into our world. The flow of God’s goodness into the lower realms is symbolized in Ezekiel’s image of the river that issues from the Temple. 

The blossoming of the trees and their leaves is an apt metaphor for the dynamic nature of reality, as conceived in the Maharal’s philosophy. It is not so much that God bestows gifts on his creatures–more significantly, he allows us to actualize and release our own inborn potential. 

In this context, the imagery of opening the lower mouth alludes to the full actualization of our material and physical potentials. As long as humanity is still in an imperfect phase of its spiritual evolution, we cannot yet reach the state of actualization that will prevail in the redeemed future.

Furthermore, the rabbis’ image of opening the upper mouth refers, in the Maharal’s exposition, to the attainment of intellectual perfection. For philosophers, rationality was usually equated with the uniquely human capacity to utter coherent speech. Hence, muteness can serve as a suitable metaphor for a mind that has not reached its full potential. This may be the universal human condition at present; however, Ezekiel’s prophecy foresees the day when the spiritual power that is embodied in the Temple will, at long last, release its sublime spiritual energy and allow us to perfect our highest intellectual powers. 

This is quite an ambitious claim for an herbal remedy, even if it is a metaphoric one! 

And to the best of my knowledge, it does not have any dangerous side-effects.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 18, 2008, p. 11.
• For further reading:
  • Preuss, J. Julius Preuss’ Biblical and Talmudic Medicine. Translated by Fred Rosner. 2nd ed. New York: Hebrew Publishing Company, 1978.
  • Segal, Eliezer. From Sermon to Commentary: Expounding the Bible in Talmudic Babylonia, Studies in Christianity and Judaism = Études Sur Le Christianisme Et Le Judaïsme. Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier University Press for the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion / Corporation canadienne des sciences religieuses, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Snap, Gragger, Pop!

by Eliezer Segal

For some of us, the most satisfying Purim customs are those that involve the symbolic blotting out of Haman’s name in ways that can serve as an annual escape valve for all sorts of pent-up frustrations. The usual methods for accomplishing this goal involve noise-making, most commonly by swinging the mechanical device known in Yiddish as the gragger at each mention of the arch-fiend’s name during the reading of the Megillah. Those of you who are more resourceful may have experimented with alternative ways of producing thunderous noises at the appropriate moments–whether as by hammering, by raising the volume of an electronic speaker system, or by some other imaginative contrivance. 

Jews have invested so much energy in the metaphoric eradication of our ancient foe that a distinguished folklorist was able to devote an entire volume to the history of How Did They Strike Haman?Limitations of space compel me to confine my scope here to just a few instructive examples. 

Let us begin with the only allusion to Haman-bashing that is actually mentioned, albeit cryptically, in the Talmud. The topic turns up in connection with a discussion about the Torah’s admonition “you shall not let any of your seed pass through the fire to Moloch.” The Babylonian sage Rava tried to illustrate the precise choreography of ritually passing a child through fire by comparing it to a custom known as “Purim-jumping” 

Though the Talmud itself did not take the trouble to explain this obscure practice, the medieval commentators are quite helpful at supplying the missing details. As described by one of the Babylonian Ge’onim, it was customary in the lands of Babylonia and Elam for Jewish lads to fashion an effigy of Haman which they would then hang from their roofs for four or five days before Purim. When the holiday arrived, they kindled a bonfire and cast the effigy into it, as they stood around dancing and singing. To add to the merriment, they would leap from one side of the fire to the other while grasping a ring that was suspended over it. Rashi adds that the fire was placed inside a pit. Other authorities mention that the celebrants liked to fling salt onto the fire so that it would make a fine crackling sound. It’s a good thing they did not yet know about gunpowder, because I am certain they could not have resisted the temptation to produce some serious explosions if they could. 

As noted previously, in our own time the sole custom that reigns supreme from among all those numerous possibilities of jumping, stomping, stoning, hitting or hammering at Haman and his despicable memory is the good old gragger. Sounding it at the pronouncement of Haman’s name has been a perpetual source of annoyance to community rabbis, who fear lest it prevent their flocks from fulfilling the halakhic requirement of clearly hearing every word in the Megillah. 

The Jews probably adopted the use of the graggers from the Catholic churches in medieval Greece, where the instruments were used for somewhat different purposes. The implement that is now universally designated the gragger was originally known by many different names among the Jews of central and eastern Europe. The word seems to have evolved from the Latin word crecella, an onomatopoeic name that was in use in the early Catholic church. Other dialectical variants include krikl, kraker, krikiler and graker. 

Bear in mind that Purim falls close to the Christian Easter season. It was customary in some regions of Greece to sound a colossal gragger from the local church tower in order to summon the faithful to services during the last four days of their Holy Week, prior to Easter Sunday. Though normally the church bells would be tolled for that purpose, a tradition evolved of silencing their chimes during those pre-Easter days. A charming legend related that the bells chose that time to go on pilgrimage to Rome. During the bells’ days off, the beadles installed a large gragger in the church tower, and its sound would reverberate throughout the village to proclaim the commencement of the prayer services. 

Once this booming noise-making technology had been introduced, it did not take long for the Christian children to get hold of their own individual noisemakers and find appropriate occasions for using them. The most popular of these occasions was strikingly similar to our own custom of blotting out Haman’s name, except that the Catholic youngsters would direct their earsplitting wrath at Judas Iscariot, the apostle who had betrayed Jesus to the Romans. They would make the rounds of the streets and churches with graggers in hand on a spree of “hitting Judas” Inevitably, adults wanted to get in on the fun as well. The monks would strike Judas with larger graggers, or by sounding gongs with large iron sticks. 

Other European communities knew of local variations on both the Jewish and the Christian practices. In Hungary, for example, a sixteenth-century author describes children banging on the synagogue benches to make the requisite racket at the pronouncing of Haman’s name. Their Christian counterparts in Seged would strike the floors on Good Friday and declare that they were “hitting Pilate” Others would draw pictures of Pontius Pilate on their writing-slates for the purpose of beating him. The practice of hitting Pilate was actually incorporated into the standard church services during Holy Week. The priest, while reading the festival hymns, would beat the steps of the altar with his prayer book, which would launch the congregation into their own brief frenzy of bench-beating. It probably did not take long for the local Jewish children to come to the realization that a relatively simple change of the victim’s name would provide them with an effective way to liven up the reading of the Megillah in their synagogues. What was good enough for Judas Iscariot or Pontius Pilate must certainly be worth applying to the wicked Haman. 

Every now and then, respectable Jewish community leaders were moved to prohibit the practice of Purim noise-making, whether because it prevented the congregants from hearing the Megillah or because the rowdy conduct was deemed inappropriate to a house of worship. An edict to that effect was issued by the overseers of Amsterdam’s Portuguese community in 1640, stigmatizing the custom as barbaric and uncivilized. Evidently, the ban was not particularly effective, and it had to be repeated thirty years later with a more severe fine. 

A more vocal response accompanied the issuing of a similar decree at London’s Bevis-Marks synagogue in 1783. However, fourteen congregants openly defied the ruling, and the police had to be summoned to restore public order and to combat the disturbance of the peace.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 14, 2008, p. 14.
• For further reading:
  • Horowitz, Elliott S. Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence, Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006.
  • Kaplan, Yosef. Bans in the Sephardi Community of Amsterdam in the Late 17th Century. In Exile and Diaspora: Studies in the History of the Jewish People Presented to Professor Haim Beinart on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, edited by Aaron Mirsky, Avraham Grossman and Yosef Kaplan, 517-40. Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1988.
  • Lewinsky, Yom-Tov. Keitsad Hakku Et Haman Bi-Tfusot Yisra’el? Tel-Aviv, 1957.
  • A. Scheiber, Remazim Rishonim ‘al Minhag Hakka’at Haman Be-Hungariah, Yeda-Am 15: 1971, 23-4. 
  • Sperber, Daniel. Minhage Yisra’el: Meqorot Ve-Toledot. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1989-.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Seder Swordplay

by Eliezer Segal

The core of the Passover Haggadah consists of interpretations by the ancient rabbis of biblical passages that relate the story of the exodus. Instead of adopting the most obvious strategy, of reading the story straight out of the first half of the book of Exodus, the rabbis who compiled the Haggadah ordained that we should focus our attention on the passage in Deuteronomy 26 (5-9) that was recited by the pilgrims to Jerusalem as they carried their first fruits up to the Temple. The most common strategy in this exposition is to elucidate the words of the first-fruits declaration by matching them with relevant expressions in Exodus. 

It is not immediately obvious why our sages preferred this roundabout approach to telling the tale. It might have something to do with the simple fact that the Deuteronomy text is more compact, and therefore lends itself more efficiently to recitation at the seder. At any rate, the practice of eliciting explanations by comparing passages from different parts of Scripture is a familiar one in rabbinic discourse, and it served as the basis for many of the sermons that are preserved in midrashic literature. If nothing else, it helped reinforce the perception that the diverse corpus of the Bible constitutes a homogeneous totality in which each unit sheds interpretative light on the rest. 

One of the pivotal verses in Haggadah narration is Deuteronomy 26:8: And the Lord brought us forth out of Egypt with a mighty hand, and with an outstretched arm… The vague metaphor outstretched arm invites a more precise definition; and in keeping with the aforementioned exegetical method, the Haggadah tried to clarify its meaning by matching it up with another biblical text in which the word outstretched appears. For that purpose it chose a passage in 1 Chronicles that recounts an ill-fated census that was conducted by King David. The illicit act provoked a deadly retribution from the Almighty, who initially sent an angel into Jerusalem to destroy the city, but in the end held back from carrying out that catastrophic sentence. In connection with this story, the Bible relates And David lifted up his eyes, and saw the angel of the Lord standing between the earth and the heaven, having a drawn sword in his hand stretched out over Jerusalem. 

At least one interpreter understood that this supernatural sword is mentioned in the Haggadah because it was also brandished at the Israelites at the time of the Exodus. According to this reading, the sword accompanied an admonition to the Hebrews to never forget that the only reason they were being taken out from Egypt was in order to receive the Torah and accept its commandments. If, however, they should prove unfaithful to their sacred duty, then they must beware of the menacing sword suspended over their heads. 

Nevertheless, in keeping with the main thrust of the Passover story, most authorities understood that the weapon in question was aimed at the story’s villains, the Egyptians. The problem, of course, is that among all the plagues and torments that were inflicted on Pharaoh and his hosts, it is hard to locate an instance in which swords or sabres played any part in the exodus story. The traditional commentators rallied to find solutions to that puzzle. 

The Spanish commentator Rabbi Yom Tov Ishbili (Ritva) offered a simple solution. He proposed that this sword should not be construed as a literal weapon, but rather as a metaphor for the power of divine retribution. The Maharal of Prague developed this theme in a more systematic manner, observing that the sword symbolizes God’s active involvement in the world, as distinct from the passive withdrawal of his providence, which was embodied in the ten plagues. 

It appears, however, that most of the commentators were determined to locate an actual sword somewhere in the Exodus narrative. Rabbi Simeon ben Zemah Duran pointed out that there is only one incidental mention of swords in the Torah’s account of the liberation from Egypt, and it does not refer to punishment of the Egyptians. It occurs in the passage that describes Moses’ and Aaron’s first confrontation with Pharaoh, when they implored the monarch to allow the Hebrews to worship their God in the wilderness lest he [God] fall upon us with pestilence, or with the sword. Rabbi Duran suggested that the verse should not be understood literally as expressing what would befall the Hebrews if they failed to worship their Lord in the proper manner–in fact, they had no real reason to fear that God would harm them if they were not allowed to offer their sacrifices. That threat was in reality directed against Pharaoh, only it was formulated euphemistically in deference to the honour due to royalty. Thus, when the Haggadah mentioned the sword, it had in mind the ultimatum that had been made to Pharaoh in his first encounter with Moses. 

Exegetes of a more mystical inclination asserted that the Haggadah’s sword was an allusion to the secret magical name of God that had been revealed to Moses, and which enabled him to perform great wonders and exploits in Egypt. Treatises about the mysterious Sword of Moses were in wide circulation during the Middle Ages.

Several of the commentators who dealt with this question claimed that literal swords were unsheathed during the final plague, the slaying of the first-born. This interpretation required them to creatively introduce new details into the narrative by appealing to obscure midrashic traditions. 

One such tale described how the Egyptian first-borns, realizing that they were doomed by their monarch’s stubborn defiance of God’s demands, pleaded with Pharaoh and with their parents to save their lives by capitulating and freeing the Israelites. However, Pharaoh was so obsessed with his personal vendetta against Moses that he disregarded their pleas and persisted in his intransigence, writing off the deaths of the first-borns as an acceptable price to pay for the continued subjugation of the Hebrews. The first-born Egyptians were therefore left with no alternative but to rise up in an armed insurrection that left a toll of six hundred thousand deaths.

In support of this legend, the Midrash cited the words of Palms 136:10 that give thanks to Him that smote Egypt in their first-born. The rabbis pointed out that the Hebrew wording of this passage can be read as if it were saying that the Egyptians were smitten by their firstborns. 

Some interpreters cited Exodus 12:33, which describes the panicked reaction of Pharaoh’s subjects: And the Egyptians were pressing the people, to send them out of the land in haste; for they said: We are all dead men; as if to say: even those who were not firstborns recognized that they were destined for destruction at the Red Sea. This realization, it was argued, took the same form that it did for King David: a vision of an angel wielding a sword in his outstretched hand. 

The preceding is just one example of the lively debates that can be inspired by the familiar words of our Passover Haggadah. Ideally, your own seders will contribute to the ongoing multi-generational conversation, and each new interpretation will be incisively argued and sharply honed.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 20, 2008, p. 20.
• For further reading:
  • Katzenellenbogen, Mordecai Leib. Hagadah Shel Pesah Torat Hayim. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook, 1998.
  • Kasher, Menachem M. Hagadah Shelemah: The Complete Passover Hagadah. Third ed. Jerusalem: Torah Shelema Institute, 1967.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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On Solid Ground

by Eliezer Segal

Much of biblical and talmudic law is rooted in the assumption that Jews are an agricultural folk who live on the land. Hence, the normal way of guaranteeing legal obligations was by pointing to a parcel of land from which the creditor could collect in the event of defaulted payment. So pervasive was this assumption that people who did not possess real estate, even if they held other forms of wealth, were considered “poor.” 

This agrarian social structure, and the institutions on which it was based, continued to prevail until well into the third century C.E. At that time, the Land of Israel was undergoing far-reaching economic changes. The oppressive burdens of Roman taxation were forcing many Jewish farmers to sell their ancestral lands to gentile landowners. By the fourth century, much of the land, even in territories with a predominantly Jewish populace, was in the possession of non-Jews; while the Jews were becoming increasingly urbanized. 

These changes in economic status were reflected in several discussions about legal topics, as the rabbis pondered whether movable property could be assigned the same privileged status that had traditionally been given to land. 

For example, according to classic Jewish law, creditors are entitled to collect debts from their debtors’ heirs only if the estate includes land; but they cannot collect from movable property. In some communities, it was accepted that certain objects were so highly esteemed that they could be treated as virtual real estate: copper and plates in Syria, perfume in Arabia, and so forth. Such cases, however, were treated as incidental exceptions that did not alter the general policy. 

By the early fourth century, individuals were inserting clauses in their loan contracts that specifically permitted collecting debts from movables. The rabbis at that time disputed whether such clauses should be encouraged, allowed, or recognized de facto. The conventional law held that the creditors could only collect those debts from land–an option that was becoming uncommon as Jews were increasingly relinquishing their rural estates and migrating to the towns. 

The economy of Babylonian Jewry followed a different timeline. In the fertile valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates, agriculture remained a profitable occupation throughout ancient times. This situation ended not because of persecution or fiscal mismanagement, but rather on account of the opening up of lucrative new commercial vistas. With the rise of Islam and the transformation of Iraq into the hub of a mighty international empire, the Jews of the Middle East and the Mediterranean basin were actively caught up the entrepreneurial spirit that inspired that civilization. 

Towards the end of the eighth century, this change in the Jewish economic structure was given official recognition in an enactment by the leadership of the Babylonian rabbinate. The Ga’on Rabbi Moses ben Jacob was asked concerning the possibility of collecting a ketubbah (the obligations stemming from a marriage contract) or other debts from movable property. In his responsum, he noted that, though most people did not insert clauses in their contracts that explicitly allowed collection from movables from the estates of deceased debtors, the rabbis had issued an enactment that allowed it in all cases. This was in recognition of the fact that most Babylonian Jews did not possess land, and the rabbis were determined not to limit the availability of credit, as well as to enhance the rights of women to their ketubbahs. 

Recognizing that some conservatives would object to such a radical departure from the conventions of talmudic law, Rabbi Moses affirmed that the sages responsible for this revision “modeled this enactment on earlier legislation that was issued by the rabbis of old in each generation.” He characterized the halakhah as a living entity that has continually been adapted to keep up with changing circumstances. 

The Ge’onim were insistent that their enactment be enforced, and they threatened that any judge who refused to comply would be removed from his office. 

A somewhat different solution to a similar problem may be found in several responsa of the same era. It is based on the premise that the procedures for transferring title to land are more flexible than those for movables, in that title to land can be transferred by means of written deeds, whereas moveables usually require a physical act such as lifting or moving it. However, talmudic law stated that movables can be viewed as “appended” to land for purposes of a transaction, enabling the parties to transfer the ownership of the movables by means of written documents. This option was crucial for merchants who could thereby buy and sell property by means of written directives–the pre-modern equivalent of writing a cheque–even when they were at a geographic distance from the merchandise. However, this convenience could only be applied if they actually owned land to which the wares could be appended. 

Our ingenious rabbis found a way to extend the process even to individuals who are ostensibly landless–by invoking a principle to the effect that every Jew is entitled to at least four cubits of land. The medieval authorities suggested several different ways of understanding this concept. Some regarded the four cubits as a generic measure of personal space to which each body is entitled, while others understood it as an allusion to the area that will eventually be occupied by a person’s grave. However, what emerged as the prevalent interpretation was the proposition “there is no Jew who does not own four cubits of land in the Land of Israel.” The acceptance of this rule turned all Jews theoretically into land-owners. This formula was promulgated during the early Ge’onic era and it quickly gained acceptance throughout the Jewish world. Nonetheless, some Ge’onim found this legal fiction a bit too contrived and would not allow it; they still insisted that the parties must possess tangible and identifiable real estate. 

A responsum by one Ga’on explored in fascinating detail the nature of the Jewish claim to a chunk of their ancestral soil. He vehemently rejected his interlocutor’s suggestion that the reference was merely to four cubits that are set aside for eventual burial, and insisted that the reference is to actual territory in the Land of Israel. The sages had in mind land that is to be lived in, not just space for dying. 

Our author anticipated somebody objecting that this abstract invocation of ancient land claims cannot be treated literally as a legal argument, inasmuch as the territory of Israel has for many generations been in the hands of foreign occupiers. To this objection he retorted simply that, according to Jewish law, robbery can never effect a transfer of title to land, and therefore the Jewish people have never relinquished their rights to their ancestral homeland. 

In a speech delivered at a Jewish National Fund event in 1930, Chief Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook appealed to those rabbinic sources as evidence of the Jewish people’s inalienable rights to its homeland. 

Nevertheless, Rabbi Kook conceded that ethical and political considerations should impel us not to rely solely on our mystical, historical or legal rights. He commended the JNF for making the effort to acquire territory by means of universally recognized modes of acquisition, by purchasing it from the current legal owners. By taking the moral high road, the Zionist movement would be fulfilling the words of Isaiah (26:2) “Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth faithfulness may enter in.”

Although hindsight shows Rabbi Kook to have been naïve in his confidence that world opinion would endorse the righteousness of the Jewish national claims, he was astutely correct in his perception that that the strength of a nation is ultimately rooted in the citizens’ conviction that their country’s policies are just and lawful.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 9, 2008, p. 16.
• For further reading:
  • Abramson, Shraga. Inyanut Be-Sifrut Ha-Ge’onim. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kuk, 1974. 
  • Asaf, S. Tequfat Ha-Ge’onim Ve-Sifrutah. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1967. 
  • Elon, M. Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles. 3 vols. Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1973. 
  • Ginzberg, Louis. Geonica. [2d ] ed. New York: Hermon Press, 1968. 
  • Ginzberg, Louis, ed. Genizah Studies in Memory of Doctor Solomon Schechter. Vol. 2: Geonic and Early Karaitic Halakhah, Texts and Studies of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Jerusalem: Makor, 1929. 
  • Rakover, Nachum. The Jewish Law of Agency in Legal Proceedings Faculty of Law of the Hebrew University Legal Studies. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1972. 
  • Sperber, Daniel. Roman Palestine, 200-400: The Land: Crisis and Change in Agrarian Society as Reflected in Rabbinic Sources Bar-Ilan Studies in near Eastern Languages and Culture. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 1978. 
  • Tykocinski, Chaim. Takanot He-Ge’onim. Jerusalem and New York,, 1959.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Poetry in Motion

by Eliezer Segal

Jewish scholarship is justly famous for the rich tradition of biblical exegesis that it has spawned, a natural outgrowth of its intense commitment to the Bible, and especially to the Torah. Many of us are familiar, to varying degrees, with the learned interpretations by the ancient sages of the Midrash, by Rashi, and by other prominent commentators who contributed significantly to our understanding and appreciation of the Hebrew scriptures. 

A lesser known resource for Jewish biblical interpretation is the genre of liturgical poetry–piyyut–that played a central role in the congregational worship of many early Jewish communities. Especially in those rites that followed the practices of the land of Israel, the foremost cantors were also talented lyricists who were capable of crafting intricate versions of the Sabbath or festival prayers that blended the standard prayers with the specific themes of the designated biblical texts. The authors of piyyut literature often drew inspiration from associations with similar-sounding phrases that appear elsewhere in the Bible. Their sensitivity to the patterns and cadences of the Hebrew words led them at times to suggest uniquely nuanced possibilities of interpretation. 

A case in point is the following example, taken from a poetic version of the Shavu’ot prayers. The identity of this piyyut‘s author is unknown, but all the indications suggest that he belonged to the earlier generations of synagogal poets. 

As is appropriate for a Shavu’ot poem, this one focuses on one of the proudest moments in biblical history as recollected by Jewish posterity: the occasion when Moses read the freshly revealed Torah to the people, and they eagerly responded with the words Na’aseh ve-Nishma’–we shall do and we shall hear (Exodus 24:7). 

The Jewish homiletical tradition regarded that simple response as the quintessential expression of devout faith, a demonstration that the Hebrews were willing to commit to doing the demands of their covenant with the Almighty even before hearing the details of its contents. 

To judge from some anecdotes preserved in rabbinic literature, this episode provided some skeptics with a convenient opportunity to ridicule Jews who were excessively demonstrative or irrational about their spirituality. Thus, the Talmud tells that Rava used to get so absorbed in his studies that he would grind his fingers under his feet until they bled. This prompted a certain heretic to scornfully taunt the Jewish sage saying You Jews are an impulsive people whose mouths ran ahead of your ears! Even now you persist in your irrational behaviour. It would have made more sense to have listened first; and only after determining whether you were capable of handling it, then accepting the Torah. An identical response was provoked from a heretic (presumably a different one) who witnessed Rav Zera hurriedly using a makeshift rope bridge to cross a river on his way to the land of Israel because he was too impatient to wait for a proper ferry. 

Predictably, the anonymous author of our piyyut had nothing but praise for the Israelites’ leap of faith at Sinai. As he put it, their words ‘we shall do and we shall hear’ were most pleasing to the Holy One. He went on to demonstrate that their response had reverberations of cosmic proportions. 

This insight was revealed with the help of a word-play, always a fruitful source of inspiration for Hebrew liturgical poets. The words we shall do evoked a similar expression that was used in connection with the origin of humanity back in the first chapter of Genesis, when the Almighty introduced the creation of the first human with the declaration Let us make man in our likeness. The Hebrew text there employed the same word Na’asah that was uttered by the Israelites upon receiving the Torah. 

The plural form of that verb has been a persistant source of perplexity for Jewish interpreters and apologists, since it seems to imply that the Creator had a partner when he fashioned the first humans. So disconcerting was the expression that talmudic tradition imagined that, when seventy Jewish sages were commissioned to translate the Torah into Greek for the emperor Ptolemy in Alexandria, they deliberately sidestepped a literal rendering of that verb, presenting it instead as a singular I shall make so as not to provide a pretext for heretics to question the Torah’s commitment to monotheism. In reality, the Greek Septuagint version did retain the plural form; to the irritation of Jews, the verse is still cited as a proof text for trinitarian theological doctrines. 

The rabbis offered their own interpretations of the plural usage. One of the more popular of these was that God, prior to this climax of the creation process, consulted with the angels, if only to serve as a lesson to us fallible mortals about how wise it is to seek advice before commencing an important undertaking. This approach would later be adapted by the Gnostics to prove that our flawed world was the product of imperfect angels, and not of the supreme deity. 

Our poem paraphrased the rabbinic explanation in a question-and-answer format, as if a pupil were asking his teacher whom it was that God was addressing when he declared his intention to create a human being. To this the teacher retorted by urging the student to seek the correct answer in the words of the Jewish sages, that the Holy One was conversing with the angels. 

By building this textual bridge between the two instances of Na’aseh–in the creation story and at Sinai–the poet has underscored his penetrating theological insight that God’s ultimate motive for creating our species was to bestow the Torah upon us. Accordingly, the revelation at Mount Sinai is to be seen as the true culmination of the creation. When they are allowed to illuminate each other, those two passages that would otherwise have been fraught with theological difficulties are transformed into powerful arguments for the centrality of the Torah to the divine purpose. 

Our poet followed a similar method to elicit profound new meaning from the Nishma‘ (we shall hear) portion of the Israelite response at Sinai, this time by reading in conjunction with what is arguably the Torah’s most famous allusion to hearing, the Shema’: Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord (Deuteronomy 6). From this comparison we are led to conclude that when Jewish worshippers proclaim twice daily their exclusive devotion to the one Sovereign of the universe by reciting the Shema’, they are fulfilling the commitment that they undertook at Sinai to hear and obey the divine covenant. 

The sensitive ear of the poet, by allowing the sounds of similar Hebrew expressions to resonate against each other, has succeeded in mapping out a spiritual trajectory that spans from the dawn of human history, through the revelation at Mount Sinai, to the achievement its true fulfilment in Israel’s daily rededication to the oneness of God.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 30, 2008, p. 14.
• For further reading:
  • Elizur, Shulamit. Poem for Every Parasha. Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook, 1999 [Hebrew]. 
  • Fleischer, Ezra. On the Antiquity of the Qedushta. Hasifrut, no. 2 (1971): 390-414 [Hebrew]. 
  • Kister, Menahem. Some Early Jewish and Christian Exegetical Problems and the Dynamics of Monotheism. Journal for the Study of Judaism 37, no. 4 (2006): 548-593. 
  • Mirsky, Aaron. The Origin of Forms of Early Hebrew Poetry. 2nd ed. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1984 [Hebrew].

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Seventy-something

by Eliezer Segal

In a well-known passage from the Passover Haggadah, the Jewish sages are discussing the obligation to speak about the exodus from Egypt at night. Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah observes that he was unable to locate a source for that obligation until his colleague Ben Zoma came up with a clever bit of scriptural exegesis to prove that the Torah does indeed contain such a requirement. 

Deuteronomy 16:3 explains that that we were commanded to eat only unleavened bread during Passover in order “…that you may remember the day when you came forth out of the land of Egypt all the days of your life.” Ben Zoma reads the wording of the Hebrew verse with midrashic precision: “the days of your life” might have referred only to the days, but the addition of the extra word “all” must come to teach us that the obligation extends to the nights as well.

The passage’s inclusion in the Haggadah seems to imply that Rabbi Eleazar ben Aazariah and Ben Zoma were conversing about the obligation to speak about the exodus on Passover night, at the seder. This reading is reinforced by its placement immediately following the account about the great Jewish sages who were reclining (the prescribed posture for the Passover meals) in B’nei B’rak, one of whom was indeed Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah. 

Nevertheless, those of us who are more familiar with rabbinic literature will recognize that our text is actually a separate citation from the Mishnah, and that its original context has nothing directly to do with Passover. It is taken from the tractate Berakhot and deals with an issue involving the weekday liturgy. 

The question that occupied the rabbis in this passage related to the structure of the morning and evening liturgies. It is customary to follow up the recitation of the morning and evening Shema sections with a blessing related to the theme of the Egyptian exodus, focusing on the song of Moses and climaxing in our confident acknowledgment that God will continue to act as the “redeemer of Israel.” 

Now the inclusion of this theme was understandable for the morning service, where the Shema concluded with a reading of Numbers 15:37-41, which speaks about the commandment to attach zizit, ritual fringes, to the corners of garments. The section concludes “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt to be your God. I am the Lord your God.” This biblical allusion to the Egyptian exodus invites a natural segue to the liturgical blessing that develops that idea.

However, no such obvious transition existed for the evening service. In the ancient rite of the land of Israel it was not customary to include the zizit paragraph as part of the Shema, because the obligation was not deemed to apply at nighttime (or at least to night-clothes). Under the circumstances, what grounds were there for inserting the blessing about the exodus into the evening prayers? Ben Zoma came to the rescue with his ingenious exegetical insight that was so satisfying to Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah.

The precise translation of Rabbi Eleazar’s statement in both the Mishnah and the Passover Haggadah is: “Behold, I am now as one who is seventy years old, but I was never able to demonstrate that the exodus should be mentioned at night.” Those ever-precise sages of the Talmud could not quite swallow the sloppiness of his phrasing. Was the good rabbi seventy, sixty-nine, seventy-one…or what? Why equivocate with a Hebrew idiom “ke-ven shiv’im shanah” that carries the connotation of “like, seventy” or “seventy-ish” or some other expression that is more appropriate to a teen chat-room than to a learned compendium of religious law?

Our sages could not resist the temptation to link this passage to a tradition about a famous incident from the rabbinic politics of the late first century CE. At that time, the academy of Yavneh was headed by the Patriarch Rabban Gamaliel II. When Gamaliel was ousted for his public humiliation of his colleague Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah, the sages turned to Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah to serve as his replacement, at least until the dispute was resolved. The Talmuds report that Rabbi Eleazar was only a teenager at the time when he was drafted to the prestigious office of the Nasi, charged with presiding over the reconfiguration of Jewish religious life in the aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple: a mere sixteen years old according to the Jerusalem Talmud, eighteen according to the Babylonian. 

The story in the Jerusalem Talmud implied that the shock of hearing about his appointment caused his entire head to fill with white hair. The Babylonian version of the story put a more positive spin on the developments. Rabbi Eleazar’s wife initially balked at the invitation that her spouse serve in such an important position, fearing that the elders would not submit to the authority of such a young colleague. Subsequently, a miracle was performed for his benefit when eighteen rows of his hair turned white, lending him a mature appearance that was suitable to the dignity of the office.

The Babylonian rabbis saw in that episode the key to understanding the vague-looking wording in the Passover Haggadah. Rabbi Eleazar uttered the sentence around the time of his appointment at Yavneh, and what he meant to say was “Behold, my white hair has given me the appearance of a seventy-year-old, even though I am still of a youthful age.”

In its discussion of the mishnah dealing with the mentioning of the exodus in the evening service, the Jerusalem Talmud inserted the following observation about Rabbi Eleazar’s reference to his age: “Even though he acceded to a high office, he nonetheless went on to live a long life. This suggests that high office [normally] shortens a person’s days.” 

This remark only makes sense if we assume that the number seventy was intended literally (even if not precisely). If Rabbi Eleazar was sixteen years old when he was appointed to the leadership at Yavneh, somewhere around 80 CE, then he would have been about 70 in the mid-130s, during the turbulent years of the Bar Kokhba uprising–a ripe old age by the standards of the ancient world. It was at that advanced age that he submitted his observation concerning the mentioning of the Egyptian exodus at night. 

According to this reading, he chose to round off his age as an alternative to referring to something like “sixty-eight and two thirds” whose mathematical exactitude would have been superfluous and distracting for the point that he wanted to make at the time. 

Though most historians seem to lean towards accepting this chronology, some express their puzzlement that Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah does not in fact appear as a colleague or interlocutor with any of the prominent rabbis of the second century whose teachings and discussions are so extensively documented in rabbinic literature.

As for the whitening of his hair–this is a well-known medical phenomenon known as “poliosis,” diagnosed as a decrease in melanin that can be attributed to a broad range of causes. The Jerusalem Talmud seems to associate Rabbi Eleazar’s transformation with a sudden psychological trauma, and this evokes similar tales that attach to figures like Marie Antoinette or Thomas More whose hair reportedly turned white overnight as the consequence of their sudden imprisonments. Those cases are dismissed with much skepticism by modern medicine–certainly when it comes to claims of an instantaneous or overnight transformation, which is simply impossible given the gradual rate of hair growth, so that white roots would not become visible for at least a few weeks. Nevertheless, some concede the existence of an obscure condition called “diffuse alopecia areata” that could produce similar effects under highly unusual circumstances.

Most commentators follow the Babylonian Talmud’s lead in interpreting Rabbi Eleazar’s condition as an outright miracle intended to enhance his dignity as a scholarly leader. However, some of them prefer more naturalistic explanations. Maimonides, for example, argues that the young scholar threw himself into a frenzy of uninterrupted study by day and night, until he became enfeebled and his hair turned white, so that he now appeared to have aged beyond his actual years.

There might be a valuable cautionary lesson here for those of you who don’t know enough to take an occasional respite from your labours.

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• First Publication:
  • Destiny: Quarterly Magazine of the Melbourne Hebrew Congregation, Melbourne, Australia, Issue 5 (Nisan – Elul 5770 / March – September 2010), p. 21.
• For further reading:
  • Friedmann, Meir. 1895. Me’ir ‘Ayin ‘al Seder Hagadah Shel Lele Pesah. Vienna: Moritz Knepfelmacher.
  • Ginzberg, Louis. 1941. A Commentary on the Palestinian Talmud. Vol. 1. 4 vols. Texts and Studies of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America 10. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America.
  • Lieberman, Saul. 1955. Tosefta Ki-Feshutah. Vol. 1. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America.
  • Rosner, Fred. 1995. Medicine in the Bible and the Talmud: Selections from Classical Jewish Sources.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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First Nations

by Eliezer Segal

In recent days, significant progress has been made toward acknowledging the injustices that were perpetrated by the Europeans on the native American population. 

From the Jewish perspective, it is interesting to recall that there was a time when many people, Jews and Christians alike, were convinced that the first nations of the New World were descended from the lost tribes of Israel. 

The heyday of this theory was in the mid-seventeenth century, a time that was singled out by many Jews and Christians as an apocalyptic era ripe for eschatological redemption. Not surprisingly, members of the Bible-based religious communities were concerned to situate the unprecedented new discoveries of the Age of Exploration within a framework that confirmed the accuracy and relevance of revealed scripture. In a manner that may be comparable to current speculations about the religious status of extraterrestrial life forms, pious Jews and Christians then sought to understand where the American natives fit into the rather limited list of nations that were enumerated in the early chapters of Genesis. 

From the Christian perspective, there were a variety of interests that stimulated their theorizing about the Israelite origins of the American Indians. The mid-seventeenth century contained several dates that were singled out to be the End of History As We Know It (especially the temptingly numbered year 1,666) according to creative computations from several biblical proof texts. An important motif of much Christian eschatology was that their redeemer’s second coming would be preceded by the conversion of the Jews–a scenario that could most easily be fulfilled if those elusive Jews could actually be conveniently located. Another widespread belief held that Jews would be strewn throughout the farthest reaches of the world. Now that the known world had become much larger than it had been for previous generations, it was natural that a Hebrew presence should be established in the freshly discovered continents across the ocean. 

The most influential work (but hardly the only one) to argue the Jewish Indian theory was published in 1650 by a missionary named Thomas Thorowgood, and it bore the subtle title Jewes in America, Or: Probabilities that the Americans are Jews. 

Preachers were fond of citing the Apocryphal book known as 2 Esdras, which told how the ten Israelite tribes had eluded their Assyrian conquerors by going forth into a further country where never mankind dwelt, that they might there keep their statutes, which they never kept in their own land. 

And of course, we must not forget all those busy missionaries who were in desperate need of funding for their good work among the savages; missionaries such as the Rev. John Eliot, known as the Indian Apostle, who made lucrative use of the Jewish Indian story when soliciting contributions for his noble cause. They knew that their prospective sponsors would be more forthcoming in their generosity if they believed that their efforts were directed towards the salvation of those blind and stubborn Jews. 

The Jewish argument for the case was most eloquently stated by Rabbi Menasseh ben Israel, the preeminent spokesman of the Marrano community in Amsterdam. Like many of his coreligionists, Menasseh was deeply impressed by the catastrophic dimensions of the Iberian expulsion, and by the kabbalistic messianic fervor that it generated. He devoted a special work, The Hope of Israel, to the argument that the ultimate redemption was imminent. His eschatological doctrine required that Jews be distributed to far-flung territories, from which they would be gathered back to their native land under the leadership of the Messiah the son of David.. 

One particular passage in Menasseh’s treatise had a profound impact on subsequent developments. The volume opened with his report of his 1644 meeting with a Jewish traveler named Antonio Montezinos (aka Aaron Levy) who informed the rabbi of his encounter with a group of South American natives who were familiar with the Shema Yisra’el, and claimed descent from the tribe of Reuben. Menasseh insisted that his informant formalize the testimony in a notarized affidavit, which he promptly circulated among prominent English millennialists. The Hope of Israel, which the author dedicated to the British Parliament, achieved popularity among British Puritans, and Latin and English versions of the book became best-sellers. 

In addition to Menasseh’s understandable eagerness to bring an end to the exiles and sufferings of his people, he had a specific political purpose in promoting his theory among the English Christians. It became part of his compelling argument for the readmission of the Jews to England from which they had been legally expelled in 1290. After all, if the British empire was already in control of vast domains inhabited by the remnants of ancient Israel, then it did not make much sense to forbid their entry into England itself. True, the Christian support for this argument was motivated by a missionary theological agenda that was antithetical to the Jewish interests; but then as now, Jewish leaders were willing to ignore that fact when forging a pragmatic alliance with their gentile supporters. 

Descriptions of the Jewish character of the American natives had previously been reported by Spanish travelers. It was not difficult for them to come up with a few similarities between the vocabularies of Hebrew and the native languages–and this dovetailed nicely with the fashionable notion that all human language had evolved out of the primordial Hebrew. Observers pointed out that the Indians possessed a tradition about a great flood that resembled the biblical account. While some authors concluded from these similarities that those people were of ancient Hebrew origin, others surmised that it was Satan who had implanted those traits (as well as their incomprehensible languages) in order to impede them from accepting the gospel truth. The classifications of Jewish characteristics and customs could at times be very flexible, even contradictory. For example, they included both uncleanliness and frequent bathing rituals, an inclination towards prayer and spirituality as well as crass materialism. 

An allusion to the practice of scalping one’s enemies was ingeniously read into the words of the Psalmist (68:21): But God shall wound the head of his enemies, and the hairy scalp of such a one as goeth on still in his trespasses. In a similar vein, Thomas Throwgood cited the scriptural admonition that the sinful Hebrews would be reduced to cannibalism, and noted that this dietary preference was in fact observed by the American savages. 

Nevertheless, there were a few skeptics who dared to challenged the thesis and the evidence brought in its support. Sir Hamon L’Estrange published a tract called Americans no Jewes, or Improbabilities that the Americans are of that race, in which the author took apart Thorowgood’s arguments one by one. Some writers proposed an alternative biblical theory, that the Indians derived from Canaanites who had fled Joshua’s invasion. 

With the elapse of the seventeenth-century deadlines that had been set for the messianic redemption, the Jewish Indian theory lost much of its initial urgency and attractiveness; and it was superseded by alternative doctrines like that of the British Israelite movement, which claimed that the British themselves were the true heirs to the ancient Hebrew pedigree. Until the emergence of our next trendy conspiracy theory, I suppose that the figure of the Jewish Indian (complete with heavy Yiddish accent) will stay relegated to the domain of Hollywood comedy.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, July 4, 2008, p. 12.
• For further reading:
  • Abrahams, Lionel. Menasseh Ben Israel’s Mission to Oliver Cromwell. Jewish Quarterly Review 14, no. 1: 1-25. 
  • Glaser, Lynn, ed. Indians or Jews? An Introduction to a Reprint of Manasseh Ben Israel’s the Hope of Israel. Gilroy, CA: R. V. Boswell, 1973. 
  • Hyamson, Albert Montefiore. The Lost Tribes, and the Influence of the Search for Them on the Return of the Jews to England. Jewish Quarterly Review 15, no. 4 (1903): 640-676. 
  • Jowitt, Claire. Radical Identities? Native Americans, Jews, and the English Commonwealth. The Seventeenth Century 10, no. 1 (1995): 101-119. 
  • Popkin, Richard H. The Rise and Fall of the Jewish Indian Theory. In Menasseh Ben Israel and His World, ed. Yosef Kaplan, H. MÈchoulan and Richard H. Popkin, 63-82. New York: E. J. Brill, 1989. 
  • Sturgis, Amy H. Prophesies and Politics: Millenarians, Rabbis, and the Jewish Indian Theory. The Seventeenth Century 14, no. 1 (1999): 15-23.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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