Every age in the history of Judaism has had its own division into rival sects and movements, each of which claimed to be the sole bearer of the authentic interpretation of the Torah—and that its opponents were hopelessly mistaken or deceitful.
During the Middle Ages the sectarian division in many Jewish communities was between Rabbanites and Karaites. The former label applied to those who followed the religious leadership of the rabbis, which claims to be founded on an oral tradition that was consolidated into the Talmuds; The latter group denied the validity of that tradition and accepted only the Bible itself as authoritative. Though the Karaites are today a marginal group amounting to a few thousand adherents, they were once a force to contend with, comprising up to forty percent of the world’s Jewish population.
It was natural for the medieval Rabbanites, when attempting to formulate a policy toward their current rivals, to seek guidance in the ancient rabbinic texts. The Mishnah had denied admission to the next world to those who reject the supernatural authority of the oral Torah or to the “Epicureans.” The Talmud defined the heretical Epicurean as someone who derides the rabbis and their teachings. The Karaites fit these definitions precisely.
In the twelfth century, Rabbi Moses Maimonides, the quintessential champion of theological rationalism, was drawn in some respects to a universalism that transcended sectarian or ethnic parochialism. But on the other hand, precisely because he attached such decisive importance to correct theological beliefs, he was impelled to deal most strictly with those who espoused unacceptable ideas. In his multiple roles as rabbi, jurist, commentator, philosopher and community leader, we sense the difficult task he faced in trying to steer a proper course in defining a normative policy toward the Karaites.
In his earlier works, when confronting with the issues from a more theoretical standpoint, he was more likely to echo the very harsh talmudic denunciations of heretics and dissenters. In fact he extended those condemnations into an actual directive to execute the traitorous heretics without due process, such as by casting them into pits—or where circumstances do not permit that—to contrive more roundabout methods for the elimination of the sinners. Maimonides cited an ancestral tradition to the effect that executions of this sort had been carried out in the “lands of the west.” The culprits were not being punished as sinners; rather, they were being eliminated preemptively as imminent threats to the Jewish people.
But there was also a kinder, gentler and more tolerant Maimonides who peeks out from the pages of some of his other writings. It is clear that his views about Karaites underwent a drastic change during the course of his lifetime.
For example, in one of his responsa he wrote about Karaites and Rabbanites praying in the same synagogue. Although he ruled that the Karaites may not be counted as part of the quorum (since they reject the rabbinic liturgical framework), they need not be expelled—let alone executed.
In his responsum he advocated a permissive policy of acceptance and cooperation with regard to the biblical precepts that the Karaites did observe, such as circumcising their sons and drinking their wine. Some scholars were certain that the Maimonides who had elsewhere taken such a hard line on the Karaites could never have expressed such a liberal attitude, and therefore were impelled—incorrectly—to deny that he was this document’s true author.
Maimonides’ reversal of attitude left visible traces in the manuscripts of his earlier works, in which he continued to insert textual revisions throughout his life. In some of those emendations he insisted that the harsh measures he had previously advocated for dealing with the Karaites and other heretics applied only to the movements’ founders who had wilfully rebelled and rejected the authentic Torah tradition. We must, however, adopt a more forgiving attitude toward their latter-day descendants who were reared in that faith and cannot be held culpable for their deviant beliefs.
In justifying his position, Maimonides adduced talmudic categories such as that of “a child who was taken captive by gentiles” and grew up without any knowledge of Judaism, and hence their transgressions cannot be viewed as deliberate; or “they are merely following their ancestral traditions,” a classification originally used to explain how gentiles outside the holy land did not really worship their idols. Even after being exposed to rabbinic teachings, their Karaite upbringing had prejudiced them against giving them a fair hearing. Such misguided Jews should be approached amicably in hope of returning them to the fold of rabbinic Judaism—but in any case, violence should be scrupulously avoided.
It might be that Maimonides was simply mellowing with age; but there is good reason to suppose that his change of heart was influenced to the differing historical and social realities in the various localities to which he was relating.
Thus, in his epistle to the Jews of Yemen, he instructed them that a lenient policy was warranted only in Egypt where the Karaites did not pose a serious threat to the well-educated Rabbanite community; but that in Yemen, where there were fewer qualified rabbinic teachers and hence the youth were more vulnerable to heretical influences, there might be a call for more drastic measures—including assassinations.
Relations between the sects were very rancorous in Andalucia and Morocco where Maimonides spent his formative years. Indeed, he draws a crucial distinction between those Karaites who followed their own traditions peaceably but acted respectfully toward other Jews (as was apparently the case in Egypt, where the two communities cooperated on communal matters and frequently intermarried) and those who actively attacked and ridiculed their Rabbanite opponents. The former “should be treated with respect and dealt with honestly; relations with them should be conducted in humility and in the path of truth and peace.”
I am hesitant, to say the least, to draw practical conclusions from this historical episode for our contemporary situation in which the profusion of Jewish denominations and ideologies is at once more fragmented and more nebulous. For many of us, the theological controversies that generated modern Jewish movements now appear out of sync with the challenges that really confront us today as Jews and as humans.
As Maimonides came to appreciate, a personal acquaintance with our flesh-and-blood neighbours can sometimes overcome the most rigid of ideological barriers.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 16, 2015, p. 9.
For further reading:
Baron, Salo W. “The Historical Outlook of Maimonides.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 6 (1934): 5–113.
Blidstein, Gerald J. Authority and Dissent in Maimonidean Law. Sifriyat “Helal Ben-Ḥayim.” Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2002. [Hebrew]
———. “The Karaites in Maimonidean Law.” Teḥumin 8: 501–510. [Hebrew]
Faur, José. Studies in the Mishne Torah: Book of Knowledge. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1978. [Hebrew]
Goitein, S. D. A Mediterranean Society; the Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967.
Halkin, Abraham S., and David Hartman. Crisis and Leadership: Epistles of Maimonides. 1st ed. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1985.
Heinemann, Isaak. “Maimuni und die arabischen Einheitslehrer.” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 79 (1935): 102–148.
Heschel, Abraham Joshua. “Maimonides.” New York, NY: Fall River Press, 2012.
Kraemer, Joel L. “Maimonides: The Life and World of One of Civilization’s Greatest Minds.” 1st ed. New York: Doubleday, 2008.
Lasker, Daniel. From Judah Hadassi to Elijah Bashyatchi: Studies in Late Medieval Karaite Philosophy. Brill, 2008.
Lasker, Daniel J. “Maimonides and the Karaites: From Critic to Cultural Hero.” In Maímónides y su época, edited by Carlos del Valle Rodriguez, Santiago Garcia-Jalon de la Lama, and Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala, 311–325. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales, 2007.
———. “The Influence of Karaism on Maimonides.” Sefunot 20, no. n.s. 5 (1991): 145–161. [Hebrew]
Shapira, Yaacov. “The Jewish Law Perspective on Karaites—Policy and Tradition in Jewish Law.” Bar-Ilan Law Studies 19, no. 1 (2002): 285–362. [Hebrew]
Sinai, Yuval. “Maimonides’ Contradictory Positions Regarding the Karaites: A Study in Maimonidean Jurisprudence.” Review of Rabbinic Judaism 11, no. 2 (2008): 277–291.
Stroumsa, Sarah. Maimonides in His World: Portrait of a Mediterranean Thinker. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011.
When biblical authors, such as the prophet Jeremiah and the author of Psalms, were articulating blessings suitable for bestowing on those who place their faith in the Lord, they offered the comforting assurance that “he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, that spreads out its roots by the river.”
These scriptural passages appear to furnish the basis for a teaching by Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah in the Mishnah’s “Tractate of the Fathers” (Avot) in which the tree’s roots and branches are made to symbolize, respectively, a person’s good deeds and scholarly attainments: “Anyone whose wisdom exceeds his deeds, to what may he be likened? To a tree whose branches are abundant but whose roots are few. When the wind comes and uproots it, it can topple it… But one whose deeds exceed his wisdom—to what may such a person be likened? To a tree whose branches are few but has many roots. Even if all the winds of the world were to come and blow against it, they could not make it budge from its place.” Though the Mishnah did not cite biblical proof-texts from Psalms or Jeremiah, they were attached in the printed editions, and thereby attracted the attention of latter-day commentators.
Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah’s teaching is consistent with several other statements in Avot that downplay scholarship in favour of such moral values as fear of sin or common decency (derekh eretz). The nineteenth-century Ukrainian exegete Rabbi Meir Malbim is perhaps typical of scholars who had difficulty accepting that deeds could be given a priority over wisdom. In his explanation of the Mishnah he stressed how, unlike trees, human beings derive their principal nourishment—our spiritual and intellectual sustenance—from above and not from the soil beneath us. Indeed, he adduced the fact that our “roots” are situated in the upper parts of our bodies, rather than at the bottom, as proof that humans differ fundamentally from plants. This shows that nature did not design our species for mere biological subsistence, but that we have a loftier vocation.
At any rate, Rabbi Malbim conceded that there is something to be learned from the fact that the scriptural analogy is specifically to trees rather than to other kinds of plants like grass or herbage. Grass has no apparent purpose to its existence other than its own survival during a relatively brief growing season. This contrasts sharply with trees, which are long-lived and produce nourishing fruits, medicinal leaves, and other beneficial products. To be sure, there are people (Rabbi Malbim assumes that such people make up the majority of humankind) who are no better than common grass, in that their entire existence is confined to nothing more than taking care of their survival and physical comforts; but this is not the path prescribed by the Torah. Jews are instructed to devote their lives to nurturing the world around us with moral and spiritual fruits.
Talmudic interpreters also found it significant that in describing the blessed faithful as “a tree planted,” scripture did not employ the usual Hebrew word for planting (naṭa‘), but chose instead a more specific root: “shatal” that actually refers to trans-planting. Whereas most plants are allowed to remain permanently in the soil where their seeds first take root, it was standard practice to remove seedlings or saplings of fruit-trees from their initial nurseries and replant them elsewhere in order to make them healthier and more resilient.
Malbim observes how the image of transplanted trees is a very apt simile for highlighting a fundamental difference between the righteous and wicked personalities. The wicked remain forever entrenched in their mundane reality and never aspire to elevate themselves beyond the satisfaction of their basic material needs; whereas virtuous souls devote their sojourns on earth to transcending their earthly situation, preparing to “transplant” themselves to a higher spiritual level in the afterlife. In this respect the righteous, who maintain simultaneous residences in the present world and in the world to come, are comparable to transplanted trees rather than to stationary plants who spend their lifetimes entrenched in perpetuity in the same old rut.
It is in this context that Malbim understands the Bible’s apparent preference for deeds over wisdom. What is being disparaged, he argues, is not Torah scholarship but secular wisdom. While he acknowledges that non-Jewish philosophers are on the right track insofar as they strive to conduct their lives according to standards of justice and compassion in quest of a higher purpose, nonetheless their rationally derived values are inevitably prone to human error— unlike the divinely ordained path of the Torah.
Malbim’s contemporary Rabbi Israel Lipschutz of Danzig was arguably more faithful to the spirit of the original texts. Lipschutz understood the metaphor of the tree not as an advocacy of spirituality over materialism, but on the contrary, as a warning against excessive indulgence in intellectual or metaphysical abstractions.
Rabbi Lipschutz granted that a person’s wisdom may be his crowning glory, even as branches and foliage embody a tree’s splendour. However, it is the observance of the Torah’s commandments that constitutes the solid foundation of the “tree of knowledge.” When a tree has to distribute its nutrients through a vast internal vascular network that has to extend to very high branches, it is diverting vital resources from its base. “Similarly, a person who behaves in this manner, branching out his intellect and applying his intelligence to the examination of esoteric metaphysical principles, will thereby be diminishing the roots of piety in his heart.” These factors can bring about an uprooting of simple faith, and cause people to topple from their spiritual steadfastness.
The Talmud records a teaching from the school of Rabbi Yannai that applies the metaphor of the transplanted tree to the realm of Torah study in a different way: just as a sapling thrives best if it is transplanted to a new location, so too must students try to transplant themselves from one teacher to another in order to sample a variety of different scholarly approaches. “Whoever learns Torah from only one teacher, his studies will never be blessed with success.” (This is similar to the advice that we standardly dish out to graduate students, not to take all their degrees at the same institution.) The Maharal of Prague explained that a single teacher cannot provide a comprehensive outlook, but by learning Torah from several teachers the student acquires a broader range of divergent points of view. This instructional model is seen as a precious pedagogical and religious blessing.
The talmudic passage proceeds to relate the unfortunate experience of the Babylonian sage Rav Ḥisda who ventured to cite Rabbi Yannai’s teaching in the presence of his own pupils. As he anticipated, those students reacted by deserting him and setting off in search of a different teacher.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I must inform my readers that there are other authors whose writings you might want to read and learn from (though I can’t really imagine why). Of course, you are welcome to meander around to experience differing points of view; but try not to let the perplexing diversity of that scholarly forest obstruct your ability to see the most fruitful trees—wherever they happen to be planted.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 30, 2015, p. 11.
For further reading:
Feliks, Yehuda. Agriculture in Eretz-Israel in the Period of the Bible and Talmud: Basic Farming Methods and Implements. 2nd revised. Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1990. [Hebrew]
———. Fruit Trees in the Bible and Talmudic Literature. Vol. 1. Jerusalem: Reuben Mass, 1994. [Hebrew]
———. Nature and Man in the Bible: Chapters in Biblical Ecology. London and New York: Soncino Press, 1981.
Lau, Binyamin. The Sages: Character, Context and Creativity. Vol. 4: From Mishnah to Talmud. Jerusalem: Eliner Library of the Jewish Agency for Israel, Department of Zionist Jewish Education and Beit Morasha Jerusalem, 2012. [Hebrew]
An unusual feature of Purim is that it is observed on either of two dates. Most localities keep the holiday on the fourteenth of Adar, but “cities that were encircled by walls in the days of Joshua son of Nun” observe it on the fifteenth of the month as did the Jews of Shushan where the struggle extended a day longer. This criterion remained valid even if the city in question had subsequently lost its wall.
Since the reference point is to events in the thirteenth century B.C.E., the second date is only of academic interest to most diaspora Jews, especially those of us who reside in the New World.
An inquiry was directed to a medieval Babylonian Ga’on concerning towns in the diaspora that possess walls of undetermined antiquity. The resultant responsum stated that the Megillah should be read on the fifteenth of Adar only when there is a substantial tradition to support it, otherwise we should presume that the wall was erected later than Joshua’s time and the residents should observe Purim only on the fourteenth of the month.
The land of Israel, on the other hand, is blessed with both a long history and persistent historical memories. Several towns in antiquity possessed traditions to the effect that they had been walled at the time of Joshua’s conquest. The Mishnah names eight such places as examples, and Rabbi Joshua ben Levi in the Talmud added a few more names; though later generations were not always certain exactly where those towns were located. The medieval geographer Isaac Estori Ha-Parḥi remarked that several sites were explicitly identified in the Bible as fortified cities at the time of the Israelite conquest. On the other hand, Rabbi David Ibn Abu Zimra (Radbaz) noted that any name that appears in the Torah’s list of Levitical cities could not have been walled, because they also served as “cities of refuge” for those who had committed unintentional manslaughter, and therefore had to be open and accessible to those seeking sanctuary.
The Talmud mentions some towns whose status was uncertain, and states that in those cases the rabbis ordained that the Megillah should be read on both dates. This became the standard practice for later generations. Rabbi Ḥayyim Joseph David Azulai (Ḥida) mentioned Hebron as a place where the Megillah was read on the two days. A nineteenth-century geographer reported that all Jewish settlements in the holy land were keeping two days of Purim except for Jerusalem regarding which nobody ever questioned its having been surrounded by a wall in Joshua’s days. Commentators tried to reconcile this approach with the position of the Radbaz that excluded several towns from that category.
A question however arose about how to treat the blessings that normally accompany the performance of precepts. The general rule in such cases is that we do not “waste” blessings on doubtful precepts. The mainstream position therefore held that in those instances where Purim was being observed for two days because of uncertainty, no blessing should be recited on the second day, though one should be recited on the first day in recognition of the statistical probability that the locality in question was part of the vast majority of towns that were not walled in Joshua’s time. A dissenting opinion, that of Rabbi Jehiel ben Asher, argued that since both dates are doubtful, the blessings should be omitted on both. While many authorities were scrupulous in recording Rabbi Jehiel’s position (which was cited in his brother Jacob’s influential Ṭur code), it was clearly a minority view that did not gain acceptance.
A fascinating discussion on this topic was preserved by Rabbi Issachar Ibn Sousan, a Moroccan-born scholar who resided in Safed during the city’s heyday in the sixteenth century. One of his most important works was devoted to topics in the liturgical calendar, with special reference to the customs of the diverse Jewish communities that coexisted in the holy land in his days.
Rabbi Ibn Sousan accepted the dominant position that in cities of doubtful status they should read the Megillah on both days, while reciting the blessing only on the first day (rejecting the position of Rabbi Jehiel). He noted that this was the policy in Safed as well in all the other towns and villages of the land of Israel that were of doubtful status.
However, he was concerned about a related question: should the designated Torah reading, which also involved the recitation of blessings, be included in the service on the fifteenth of Adar in Safed and the other communities where the obligation was questionable. He reported that this was in fact the well established practice “among all the Musta‘rabs who reside in the region of Safed in the northern Galilee and in the villages of Biria and Ein al-Zaitun, and we have also heard that it is customary in Gaza and Damascus.”
The Musta‘rabs were the “native” [“Arabized”] Jewish populace who resided in Israel prior to the major wave of immigration that was precipitated by the expulsion from Spain and Portugal. Their origins in some cases could be traced back to ancient times. Nonetheless, the new Iberian arrivals were dismissive of the local practice which they deemed blatantly inconsistent: how could they omit the blessing over the Megillah while reciting it over the Torah? Accordingly, the Sephardic congregations refrained from taking out a Torah scroll on the second day of Purim, arguing that it would require a blessing over what might be a superfluous reading.
Rabbi Ibn Sousan tried to demonstrate that both approaches were based on valid considerations (he explained in intricate detail how the blessings over the Megillah and the Torah can be seen as having decisively different pusposes); and consequently neither faction possessed the authority to impose its custom on the other, “and particularly where newcomers in the land are trying to alter the practice of veteran residents… This is so obvious that it does not require any proof. All the more so where the [natives] possess an ancestral tradition from their early forebears that stems from the days of our sages and the foremost early scholars of the land.”
In 1559, the Musta‘rab synagogue of Safed erupted in a renewed controversy. On the fifteenth of Adar the cantor refused to take out the second Torah scroll, explaining that he had observed this practice among the Sephardim and that he preferred to avoid reciting a questionable blessing. As the congregation waited impatiently, Rabbi Ibn Susan ordered the cantor to take out the scroll and to observe his own community’s rite rather than the Sephardic practice. Some dissatisfied congregants reported the incident to the great Sephardic luminary Rabbi Joseph Caro, hoping that he would be scandalized and insist on overriding the local custom—but they were to be disappointed. In fact, Rabbi Caro declared that he personally preferred the Musta‘rab custom, but did not have the authority to overturn the established Sephardic practice.
In our age of globalization, we have not been very successful at ensuring the survival of small, local traditions in the face of the vast uniformity of international mass media. Similar developments have been impoverishing the world of Jewish practice, as the erstwhile richness of regional customs has been pushed to the margins to force conformity to a few privileged traditions.
In light of this situation, I find myself cheering for those scrappy Musta‘rabs in the sixteenth-century as they waged their small fight for independence from the liturgical imperialism of the arrogant newcomers.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, February 20, 2015, p. 12.
For further reading:
David, Abraham. “The Jewish Settlement in Palestine at the Beginning of the Ottoman Empire (1517-1599).” In The Jewish Settlement in Palestine, 634-1881, edited by Alex Carmel, Peter Schäfer, and Yossi Ben-Artzi. Beihefte Zum Tübinger Atlas Des Vorderen Orients. Nr. 88, Reihe B. Wiesbaden: L. Reichert, 1990.
———. To Come to the Land: Immigration and Settlement in Sixteenth-Century Eretz-Israel. Translated by Dena Ordan. Judaic Studies Series. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1999.
Goldman, Israel M. The Life and Times of Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra: a Social, Economic and Cultural Study of Jewish Life in the Ottoman Empire in the 15th and 16th Centuries as Reflected in the Responsa of the RDBZ. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1970.
Rozen, Minna. “The Position of the Musta‘rabs in the Inter-Communikty Relationships in Eretz Israel from the End of the 15th Century to the End of the 17th Century.” Cathedra 17 (1980): 73–101.
A most intriguing work of rabbinic literature is the volume known as Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer. Although it ostensibly consists of midrashic discourses by Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrkanos, a prominent sage from the generation following the destruction of the Second Temple, it is clear from its contents—for example, in its references to Muhammad and his wives—that it cannot have been completed before the medieval era. Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer has been of especial interest to students of Jewish ideas and practice because it preserves numerous traditions concerning mystical beliefs and obscure liturgical customs.
The author of this work devoted several chapters to an expanded retelling of the story of the golden calf. Like many Jewish exegetes, he was deeply troubled by Aaron’s complicity in this terrible lapse into idolatry, and he combed the scriptural text for clues that Moses’ brother was trying all the while to subvert the idolatrous project and doom it to failure. One such clue was embedded in the wording of the scriptural text when the people approached Aaron demanding new gods to lead them: “And Aaron said unto them: Break off the golden earrings which are in the ears of your wives, of your sons and of your daughters, and bring them unto me.”
Now Aaron might easily have issued a simple and generic request for gold and silver. Had that been the case, the Israelites would have donated generously (as Jews may always be counted on to do when approached for a fundraising campaign). By singling out the jewelry of their wives and family members, however, Aaron had reason to hope that the women would be so attached to their adornments that they would put up effective resistance to the fashioning of the idol.
And in the end, concludes our author, this was precisely how it turned out. The ladies refused to relinquish their beloved ornaments and tried to convince their spouses of the folly of investing their wealth in an ineffectual image.
Although their refusal was not sufficient to completely thwart the building of the golden calf—since the men had no compunctions about contributing their own earrings—the midrash observes that the women of Israel did merit divine rewards for their efforts, both in this world and in the next. In the next world, it was promised that they may look forward to being restored to their pristine youthfulness, as described by the Psalmist: “He satisfies you with good, so that your youth is renewed.” As for this world, it was ordained that ladies should observe New Moons [ Rosh Ḥodesh] in a more intensive manner than the males.
The notion that females observe New Moons more rigorously than males is one that finds expression in some earlier sources. The Jerusalem Talmud enumerated several occasions on which women were known to refrain from work; some of these occasions were acknowledged as legitimate customs to be upheld, whereas others were dismissed as inauthentic and baseless. Not working on Rosh Ḥodesh is on the “approved” list.
There are passages in the Bible that indicate that Rosh Ḥodesh was observed as a full-scale festival. Indeed, it is unmistakable that many Jews were treating the New Moon as a day of rest throughout the Second Temple era, as we find in Apocryphal works like 1 Maccabees or the Book of Jubilees. Yet several talmudic sources seem to state explicitly that there was no prohibition of labour.
A tradition that is cited in the Babylonian Talmud posits a correlation between the number of individuals who are called to the reading of the Torah and the concern that the resulting prolongation of the service might eat into people’s work schedules. It follows from this premise that on days when people do not normally work there is time for lengthier Torah readings with more readers. In this connection, the Talmud designates the New Moon as one of the days when people would not be missing out on work.
Rashi explained that this was not to be understood literally as an allusion to a Sabbath-like forbidding of labour. What the Talmud meant to say was that though there is no full-scale prohibition of working on Rosh Ḥodesh, we still must take into account that half the populace—namely the females—would not be performing their jobs on this day; and hence less inconvenience would be occasioned if a few extra blessings or scriptural verses were added to the service. (There some irony in this proposed linkage between the Torah reading, in which women were unlikely to participate, and the female exemption from work on the New Moon.)
Rashi cited the tradition about women resting on Rosh Ḥodesh in the name of “my venerable teacher”; and a gloss inserted in his commentary supplied the proof-text from Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer.
The Tosafot commentary objected to the way that the Talmud seemed to be treating Rosh Ḥodesh as a work-less day, when a tradition quoted elsewhere in the Talmud stated the opposite—that it should be classified as a day on which work is permitted. They resolved the apparent inconsistency by asserting that it all depends on whether you are approaching the matter from a male or a female perspective.
In his important treatise on Jewish liturgical customs Sefer HaManhig, the twelfth-century Provençal scholar Rabbi Abraham ben Nathan ha-Yarḥi insisted that Rosh Ḥodesh should be defined as a workday, and that the contrary custom observed by women does not alter that fundamental premise.
The story about the golden calf in Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer did not really provide an explanation of why the ladies’ reward should be associated with the New Moon. The Sefer HaManhig and other commentators found an answer to this question in an indirect implication of that story.
The women’s stubborn refusal to participate in the offense is contrasted with the extreme eagerness that they exhibited when called upon to do donate to the construction of the Tabernacle, as recorded in the Torah (and as interpreted by the rabbis): “And the men caught up with the women, as many as were willing-hearted, and brought bracelets, and earrings, etc.”
Based on this juxtaposition, several medieval authorities (some of them claiming to cite a dubious “midrash”) pointed out that the official inauguration of the Tabernacle took place on the Rosh Ḥodesh of Nissan. Hence it was deemed appropriate that the virtuous ladies should be rewarded in a manner that was linked to that date—and by extension, to all the New Moons of the year. Rabbi Simeon ben Ẓemaḥ Duran cited an interpretation he had heard from his brother Judah to the effect that the beginnings of the twelve months had originally been apportioned among each of the twelve tribes of Israel; but when the men of those tribes sinned with the golden calf, those dates were reassigned to their blameless wives.
Rabbi Simeon observed that the women were selective in determining which tasks to perform and which to avoid on the New Moon. Thus, they refrained from spinning but allowed themselves to sew and do similar crafts. He linked this detail to the story of the Tabernacle, where the Torah singled out spinning as an activity in which the women excelled.
Though all the sources that have been cited thus far agree that refraining from labour on the New Moon is an exclusively feminine prerogative, there were some authorities who tried to allow the guys some share in the privilege. Rabbi Isaac of Dampierre, one of the leading figures in the Tosafist school, ruled that when it comes to strenuous agricultural labours like ploughing and sowing, even men should not be performing those activities on Rosh Ḥodesh. He derived this ruling from the biblical precedent of Jonathan son of King Saul who contrasted Rosh Ḥodesh with a “day of activity,” which was translated in the ancient Aramaic Targum by a term that normally carries the connotation of a working day.
Ultimately, Rabbi Simeon Duran declared, men have no right to determine how the women ought to observe Rosh Ḥodesh. “This is the Torah of the women. We must consult with them and inquire of them regarding their manners of observance; and we must ever be accepting of their customs.”
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 6, 2015, p. 12.
For further reading:
Adelman, Penina V. “The Golden Calf Jumps Over the New Moon: Mythmaking Among Jewish Women.” Anima 16, no. 1 (1989): 31–39.
Bloch, Abraham P. The Biblical and Historical Background of Jewish Customs and Ceremonies. New York: Ktav, 1980.
Elwell, Sue Levi. “Reclaiming Jewish Women’s Oral Tradition? An Analysis of Rosh Hodesh.” In Women at Worship: Interpretations of North American Diversity, edited by Marjorie Procter-Smith and Janet Roland Walton, 111–126. Louisville: Westminster / John Knox Press, 1993.
Epstein, Isidore. Studies in the Communal Life of the Jews of Spain; as Reflected in the Responsa of Rabbi Solomon Ben Adreth and Rabbi Simon Ben Zemach Duran. 2d ed. New York: Hermon Press, 1968.
Feldman, Ron H. “‘On Your New Moons’: the Feminist Transformation of the Jewish New Moon Festival.” Journal of Women and Religion 19 (2002): 26–51.
Friedlander, Gerald. 1981. Pirkê De Rabbi Eliezer = (The Chapters of Rabbi Eliezer, the Great): According to the Text of the Manuscript Belonging to Abraham Epstein of Vienna. 4th ed. Judaic Studies Library. New York: Sepher-Hermon Press.
Novick, Leah. “The History of Rosh Chodesh and Its Evolution as a Woman’s Holiday.” In Celebrating the Moon: A Rosh Chodesh Anthology, edited by Susan Berrin, 13–22. Lanham MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2006.
Saidel, Rochelle G. “Rosh Hodesh as a Woman’s Holiday.” Jewish Bible Quarterly 32, no. 1 (2004): 58–61.
Tabory, Joseph. 1995. Jewish Festivals in the Time of the Mishnah and Talmud. Jerusalem: Magnes Press.
Zevin, Shelomoh Yosef. 1999. The Festivals in Halachah: An Analysis of the Development of the Festival Laws = [ha-Moʻadim Ba-Halakah]. Trans. Uri Kaploun and Meir Holder. ArtScroll Judaica Classics. New York: Mesorah Publications.
Jews have long had a special relationship with the Aramaic language. Though it bears a strong family resemblance to Hebrew, Aramaic came to be perceived as a quintessentially foreign tongue. During the latter part of the biblical era it became the language of international communication for the Assyrian and Persian empires, and proficiency in it was considered a prerogative of the Hebrew aristocracy. After the Babylonian exile its status was transformed and it became the day-to-day vernacular of Jewish communities in Babylonia, the Galilee and other localities. Passages in Aramaic were included in the biblical books of Ezra and Daniel. By the third century C.E. Hebrew had ceased to be a spoken language and collections of Talmud and Midrash were then composed largely in Aramaic. All of this attests to an attitude of respect and affection for Hebrew’s sibling language.
It therefore seems natural that when the fourth-century sage Rabbi Eleazar ben Pedat paid visits to the sick, he would sometimes offer a brief petition on their behalf in Aramaic, the vernacular tongue. And yet the rabbis of the Talmud found this practice problematic. They cited statements by prominent sages that one should never pray for one’s needs in the Aramaic language. Indeed, the great Rabbi Yoḥanan stated that “those who pray for their needs in Aramaic, the ministering angels will disregard them because the ministering angels do not recognize the Aramaic language.”
In order to justify Rabbi Eleazar’s practice, the Talmud had to posit that the gravely ill are an exceptional case, because the divine presence abides directly with them, so there is no need for ministering angels. At any rate, it would appear that for any other prayers the ban on Aramaic remains in force.
Rashi’s commentary, reflecting the typically medieval credence in angelic (and demonic) powers, took the talmudic text at its face value. He described how the ministering angels are normally responsible for conveying our prayers past the heavenly “partition” into the divine inner sanctum. The Tosafot were troubled by the claim that angels could be ignorant of any language, but had no serious objection to the notion that they serve as intermediaries for our prayers.
Now Rabbi Yoḥanan’s statement in the Talmud was disturbing to many students and scholars. How could angels not know Aramaic? And more importantly—why should it make a difference? Since when do Jews direct their prayers to angels? Have we not always prided ourselves that we have a direct line to the Almighty? The Jerusalem Talmud contrasted our relationship to God with the complex and roundabout bureaucratic procedures that were necessary before one could hope to gain access to a human government official; and concluded: “but the Holy One of Israel is not like that. He says: Whenever you are facing difficulties, do not call out for help to Michael or to Gabriel. Call on me directly and I will respond directly.”
Maimonides included among his “thirteen articles of faith” the dogma that we should direct our worship to no one other than God alone— “not to stars, celestial spheres or angels.” Such beings, exalted though they might be, have no independent will and must not be addressed as intermediaries to God. Why, then, should Rabbi Yoḥanan or the Talmud care which languages the ministering angels understand? Many Jewish authors who were influenced by Maimonides’ rationalist approach objected to the premises that seemed to underlie the Talmudic passage. Indeed, Maimonides omitted Rabbi Yohanan’s ruling about not praying in Aramaic from his law code, though it was included in other authoritative codes such as the Shulhan ‘Arukh.
These questions perplexed the Jews of Kairowan, North Africa in the eleventh century, and they turned for guidance to Rav Sherira Ga’on, the head of the Babylonian academy, noting that the academy itself had authorized many prayers composed in Aramaic. In his responsum, Rav Sherira cited numerous texts from the Bible and Talmud in which angels are described as acting on their own discretion, so that it is not unreasonable to petition them separately in one’s prayers or to try to placate them, even as it customary to influence them by means of magical amulets and incantations. The Ga’on also pointed out, however, that several stories in the Talmud have those same angels speaking Aramaic! In the end, based on the texts and on his own experiences, Rav Sherira determined that Rabbi Yoḥanan’s statement was not taken very seriously by the rabbis, and that the prevailing attitude in the academy opposed it. He could find no logic in the premise that the same angels who are able to fathom people’s innermost thoughts were somehow incapable of mastering a simple language.
Among those who were upset by the theological implications of Rabbi Yoḥanan’s statement was Rabbi Jacob Ibn Habib of Thessalonica. In the spirit of Maimonides, he found it unacceptable that Jews should direct their prayers to go-betweens or that the angels’ assistance should be a necessary step for ensuring that the prayer arrives at its destination. In light of all these difficulties, Rabbi Ibn Habib decided that Rabbi Yoḥanan’s statement cannot be understood literally, but must be interpreted as an allegory about the appropriate attitudes toward prayer. The angels symbolize faith in the power of our prayers to overcome all the cosmic and spiritual obstacles that stand in the way of their success. For prayer to be a truly transformative experience it must be recited with sincere fervour, symbolized by the holy Hebrew tongue, the language in which the world was created. Only then will the metaphoric angels convey our words to the presence of the Almighty.
If, however, the act of praying is reduced to a mechanical ritual performed without real thought or serious intention—symbolized here by the use of the everyday vernacular, Aramaic—then those “ministering angels” will filter out the meaningless words and not carry them through to their fulfilment. This, according to Ibn Habib, was what Rabbi Yoḥanan really meant to teach when he invoked the image of the angels disregarding or not understanding Aramaic prayers.
There were however other ancient Jewish sages who assigned the angels a very precise role in the channeling of prayers to the divine throne. One midrash noted that Jewish congregations hold their services at different times of day, so that a special angel is responsible for waiting until they have all finished, then compiling the individual prayers and fashioning them into crowns or wreaths to place atop the head of the Holy One.
The mystical tradition identified this compiler as Sandalfon—the very same angel who inspired a remarkable tribute by the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told …Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?…
From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer From the hearts that are broken with losses, And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red…
It is but a legend, I know— A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more.
What a poignant and moving spiritual yearning is given voice here!
But then again, Longfellow composed his verse in American English, not in Aramaic.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 20, 2015, p. 11.
For further reading:
Appel, John J. “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Presentation of the Spanish Jews.” American Jewish History 45 (1956 1955): 20–34.
Arvin, Newton. Longfellow, His Life and Work. Westport, CN: Greenwood Press, 1977.
Ginzberg, Louis. Legends of the Jews. Edited by Paul Radin. Translated by Henrietta Szold. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2003.
Liebes, Yehuda. “Hebrew and Aramaic as Languages of the Zohar.” Aramaic Studies 4, no. 1 (2006): 35–52.
Malkiel, David. “Between Worldliness and Traditionalism: Eighteenth-Century Jews Debate Intercessory Prayer.” Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal 2 (2003): 169–98.
Poirier, John C. The Tongues of Angels: The Concept of Angelic Languages in Classical Jewish and Christian Texts. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testamen
We all know that Passover is devoted to the commemoration of our exodus from Egyptian slavery. Central to this purpose is the recitation of the Haggadah. The hero of the story, as it is recounted in detail in the Torah, was Moses.
From all this it follows naturally that Moses should occupy a position of honour in the Passover Haggadah. All this makes irrefutable sense.
And of course it is not true.
Moses’s name is resoundingly absent from the pages of the Haggadah—an absence that has inspired considerable discussion among scholars.
To be precise, the prophet’s name is not completely forgotten. It shows up in one spot, in a discussion where various rabbis tried to outdo each other in calculating how many miracles were performed in Egypt and at the Red Sea. Rabbi Yosé the Galilean, in order to show that the splitting of the sea is designated as a “hand” and therefore was five-times more miraculous than the divine “fingers” that were evident in the Egyptian plagues, adduced the scriptural proof-text: “and Israel saw that great ‘hand’ which the Lord did against Egypt: and the people feared the Lord, and believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses.” That quotation, however, is missing in several manuscript versions of the Haggadah.
Now, I am not altogether certain that it is proper to look for literary or theological consistency in the Haggadah, a work which is, after all, a compilation of diverse rabbinic passages spanning several centuries. And even if we should choose to regard it as a unified document, it is possible that Moses’s exclusion was not intentional, but it just so happened that there was no occasion to mention him.
In keeping with a widespread convention of rabbinic expositions, the Passover Haggadah is not constructed as a direct commentary on the book of Exodus where Moses’s life and personality are described at length. Instead, the Jewish sages chose to expound two different scriptural passages that contain concise summaries of Israel’s deliverance from the lowliest depths to the heights of freedom. One of these passages (from the book of Deuteronomy) is the thanksgiving speech recited by pilgrims when they come bearing their first-fruits to the Temple; while the other is from Joshua’s last charge to the nation. Both these texts survey Israel’s history tracing it back to the days of the forefathers, and they present the exodus from Egypt as a work of God rather than the achievement of any mortal leader. Viewed in this light, it becomes more understandable that the authors of the Haggadah might have inadvertently skipped over Moses’s role in the exodus.
Though this explanation might sound plausible, it must be noted that the Joshua passage does in fact contain a verse in which the Almighty says, “I sent Moses and Aaron.” The fact that this text is neither cited nor expounded in the Haggadah suggests a conscious intention to leave Moses out of the story.
And it is not just a question of omissions. There is another passage in the Haggadah that appears as if it were intended to minimize Moses’s role in the Passover saga. Commenting on the verse in Deuteronomy, “the Lord brought us forth from Egypt,” the Haggadah infers: “not by means of an angel, not by means of a seraph, not by means of a messenger—but rather the Holy One by himself.”
No messenger indeed? What was the point of the encounter at the burning bush if not the appointment of Moses as God’s agent for bringing the Israelites out from Egypt?
Most current texts of the Haggadah confine the “not by means of a messenger” line to the specific context of the slaying of the Egyptian first-born; but this was not the reading in some older versions according to which no messenger or agent was involved in any stage of the process of bringing the Israelites out of Egypt.
This emphasis on the Almighty’s direct personal role in rescuing his people was also in evidence in the ancient Greek version of Isaiah (63:9) where the Masoretic Hebrew text reads “In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them”; but the Greek has: “out of all their affliction not an agent, nor an angel, but he himself saved them.”
In instances like this, when texts seem to be going out their way to introduce novel interpretations, scholars often try to explain the anomalies by introducing historical considerations. In the sectarian milieu of ancient Judaism, this often leads to the hypothesis that our sages were trying thereby to preclude unacceptable theological or exegetical positions that were current at the time.
In that spirit, a theory that once enjoyed popularity was that the rabbis were lowering Moses’s profile as a reaction to the Samaritans who reputedly elevated the great prophet to supernatural or quasi-divine stature.
And as long as we are worried about groups who were deifying humans, then why not argue that the Haggadah’s authors were worried about Christianity? Scholars had no difficulty assembling quotes from early Christian writings—including such famous episodes as the “Transfiguration” narratives—that placed Jesus in the company of Moses, and might have provoked the editors of the Haggadah to keep Moses out of the narrative.
A comparable attitude is evident in the commentary of Rabbi Elijah the “Ga’on” of Vilna who applauded the Haggadah’s authors for insisting that the redemption had been achieved by God alone, and not turning Moses into some sort of charismatic miracle-worker. The Ga’on had clearly found in this editorial policy a welcome precedent for his own fervent opposition to the wonder-rabbis of the emerging Hassidic movement.
There appear to be no bounds to such historically based conjectures. One theory, for example, traces an anti-Moses sentiment to the political ideologies of the Hasmonean era when there was widespread resentment of the priestly Hasmoneans’ usurpation of monarchic authority that should properly be reserved for descendents of King David from the tribe of Judah. Some of that resentment might have trickled down to Moses, who was both a Levite and the ruler of his people.
However, based on explanations of this sort we might have expected to find a more consistent demoting of Moses’s roles as liberator and miracle-worker. Why was he removed only from the Passover Haggadah and not from other midrashic retellings of the exodus?
One interesting proposal argues that the Haggadah’s authors were not targeting any particular sect or rival religion, but rather they were objecting to a pervasive tendency that they discerned in their own times, the over-readiness of Jews to rally around charismatic messiahs who promised to lead them to victory against Roman tyranny. As long as Moses was being lionized as a heroic freedom-fighter who achieved liberation against an oppressive regime, then the Jews were doomed to repeat their self-destructive cycle of failed insurrections and their demoralizing aftermaths. Thus, by removing Moses from the story, the people were implicitly being urged to wait patiently for divine redemption instead of putting their faith in a mortal champion no matter how eminent.
Well, take your choice. The question of Moses’s absence from the Passover Haggadah remains a mysterious and bewildering puzzle with numerous possible solutions. It would indeed be wonderful if we had a learned scholar at our seder table who could guide us through the maze of competing theories.
For that purpose I can’t think of a more suitable seder guest than our teacher Moses.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 2, 2015, p. 8.
For further reading:
Arnow, David. “The Passover Haggadah: Moses and the Human Role in Redemption.” Judaism 55, no. 3–4 (2006): 4–28.
Avioz, Michael. “Moses in the Passover Haggadah.” Horizons in Biblical Theology 31, no. 1 (2009): 45–50.
Daube, David. He That Cometh: Lecture Given October 1966. St. Paul’s Lecture 5. London: Diocesan Council for Christian-Jewish Understanding, 1966.
———. “Two Notes on the Passover Haggadah.” Journal of Theological Studies 50, no. 197–198 (1949): 53–57.
Finkelstein, Louis. “The Oldest Midrash: Pre-Rabbinic Ideals and Teachings in the Passover Haggadah.” The Harvard Theological Review 31, no. 4 (1938): 291–317.
Goldin, Judah. “‘Not by Means of an Angel and Not by Means of a Messenger.’” In Religions in Antiquity; Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, edited by Jacob Neusner, 412–24. Studies in the History of Religions (Supplements to Numen) 14. Leiden: Brill, 1968.
Goldschmidt, E. D. The Passover Haggadah: Its Sources and History. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1969. [Hebrew]
Heinemann, Joseph. Aggadah and Its Development. Sifriyat Keter. Jerusalem: Keter, 1974. [Hebrew]
Henshke, David. “‘The Lord Brought Us Forth from Egypt’: On the Absence of Moses in the Passover Haggadah.” AJS Review 31, no. 1 (2007): 61–73.
Kasher, Menahem. Hagadah Shelemah: The Complete Passover Hagadah. Jerusalem: Torah Shelema Institute, 1967. [Hebrew]
Meyer, Franz E. “Die Pessach-Haggada und der Kirchenvater Justinus Martyr: aus der Frühzeit der Jüdisch-Christlichen Kontroverse.” In Treue zur Thora: Beiträge zur Mitte des Christlich-Jüdischen Gesprächs : Festschrift für Günther Harder zum 75. Geburtstag, edited by Peter von der Osten-Sacken, 84–87. Veröffentlichungen aus Dem Institut Kirche und Judentum 3. Berlin: Institut Kirche und Judentum, 1977.
By now, this heraldic symbol is so familiar that it seems as if it has been there forever. At the centre of a blue crest stands a seven-branched menorah, flanked on both sides by leafy branches, with a simple Hebrew caption underneath: “Yisra’el”—Israel.
The reborn state of Israel did not come into existence with a ready-made coat of arms (whereas to some extent, it did already have a design for the national flag in the blue and white banner that had long since been adopted by the Zionist movement). It therefore remained for the fledgling state’s parliament, the Knesset, to devise an appropriate symbol that would be placed on national monuments, diplomatic correspondence, official stationery and other ceremonial venues that required a visual representation of Jewish statehood.
As a first step in the process, the provisional government published an advertisement on February 11 1949 inviting proposals for the national coat of arms. In a manner reminiscent of Henry Ford’s statement that his customers could purchase their automobiles “in any colour as long as it’s black,” the announcement specified that submissions should be blue and white and include both the seven-branched candelabrum and seven six-pointed stars; it then went on to state that the prospective designers were free not only to add more colours, but also that the adjudication committee would give consideration to other suggestions or ideas. The announcement attracted 450 entries from some 164 participants.
Though the choice of the menorah to be the national symbol is not particularly surprising (albeit not as obvious as you might have expected), the mention of a seven-stars motif now strikes us as odd, to say the least. The reference was to a suggestion that had been made by the visionary of political Zionism Theodor Herzl in his seminal pamphlet der Judenstaat in which he declared proudly that the greatest contribution of his utopian state would consist of its giving the world a seven-hour work day; hence the stars on its flag would symbolize “the seven golden hours of our working day.”
It would appear that the initial proposal to include both the Menorah and the seven stars reflected some sort of compromise or trade-off between proponents of religious and secular-socialist perceptions of the Jewish state’s mission. As we shall see, tensions between these two ideologies continued to make themselves evident throughout the process of negotiating the Israeli coat of arms. In fact considering the depth of the division between the camps, it is quite surprising to observe how the menorah—a key artifact of the cultic worship in the holy Temple of Jerusalem—was accepted by a virtual consensus as the preferred symbol for the state of Israel (though a few of the competing submissions included such religiously rooted alternatives as the lion of Judah, the dove of peace or the tablets of the ten commandments).
The menorah won out as a uniquely recognizable Jewish symbol that was deeply entrenched in traditional Jewish iconography and popular consciousness; and yet it also remained amenable enough to secular interpretations as a symbol of enlightenment and freedom.
The candelabrum that appears on the official Israeli seal is based on the depiction on the Arch of Titus in Rome, where it is being borne prominently among the glittering spoils looted by the victorious Imperial legions. Even after it had been accepted that there should be a menorah on the Israeli emblem, it was far from obvious that that version was the best choice. In ancient Jewish synagogue mosaics and coins, as well as in the descriptions in rabbinic texts, the menorah is portrayed somewhat differently; especially with respect to the shape of its base. The Arch of Titus places it on a solid, tiered foundation whose decorations include un-Jewish symbols like eagles and dragons; whereas most Jewish representations place it on a stand with three or four legs. Religious spokesmen, including Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi Isaac Herzog, objected because it did not conform to the descriptions in the Talmud. Furthermore, Titus’s arch perpetuated a moment of immense tragedy and humiliation for the Jewish nation, and for that reason alone it deserved to be rejected. It is therefore understandable that some designers proposed different renderings of the menorah, including stylized minimalist drawings in the modern spirit that all but eliminated any associations with ancient religious artifacts.
On the other hand, there was one suggestion, inspired profoundly by motifs from ancient Jewish art, that came very close to being adopted. Alongside the menorah and the seven stars, this proposal also displayed two venerable Jewish ritual symbols: a shofar and lulav. The caption beneath the menorah read “Shalom ‘al Yisra’el— “peace upon Israel,” a very popular concluding formula in ancient Jewish dedicatory inscriptions. The graphic was set inside a rounded rectangular shape after the manner of ancient seal rings. The advocates of this design noted that the text (from Psalms 125:6) was of no mere antiquarian interest, but served as a programmatic declaration of the state’s fundamental commitment to seeking peace with its neighbours.
The style and combination of motifs in this proposal bore an unmistakable resemblance to the mosaic images that adorned the synagogue floor from Byzantine Jericho. This was no coincidence. A prominent member of the official Coat of Arms committee was the renowned archaeologist Eleazar Lipa Sukenik of Jerusalem’s Hebrew University who was very familiar with the findings at the Jericho synagogue that had first been excavated in 1936.
Prof. Sukenik is regarded as the virtual founder of a discipline of “Jewish archeology” that he envisaged as an invaluable tool for evoking the continuity between Israel’s ancestral soil and the reborn Hebrew nation. In a 1923 article, writing about the limestone menorah unearthed at Hammat Tiberias, he had declared with palpable excitement that “every interpreter of the Bible must take into account the image of this menorah that was buried in the past, during a period of danger, and revealed to us in the first Hebrew excavations in the land of Israel.”
Even scholars and nationalists who had no sympathies for traditional religion realized early in their enterprise that the archeology of Jewish life in late antiquity would necessarily focus on the evidence of synagogue sites that preserved symbols of indisputably Jewish provenance.
In the final version of the Israel coat of arms, the textual reference to peace was removed from the caption (which was now limited to the single word “Israel”) and transformed into a graphic symbol of olive branches on the two outer edges. In addition to its association with peace, the image of the olive branches was also likely—though this was never stated explicitly—to evoke the vision of the prophet Zechariah of a candlestick flanked by two olive trees, representing the religious and civil leaderships that sustained the Jews in their return from the Babylonian captivity.
As for the decision to portray the candelabrum as it appears on Titus’s arch rather than according to the Jewish iconography, this was apparently due to the influence of Transport Minister David Remez who persuaded the committee that it could thereby serve as a forthright refutation of the Roman boast that their legions had put an end to the national aspirations of the Jewish people.
I hope that this provocative in-your-face demonstration of Israel’s national vitality has indeed induced Titus, along with any other obstinate ancient Romans, to finally see the light.
First Publication:
The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 24, 2015, p. 12.
For further reading:
Fine, Steven. “The Old-New Land: Jewish Archaeology and the Zionist Narrative.” In Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology, by Steven Fine, 22–34. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.
Hachlili, Rachel. Ancient Mosaic Pavements: Themes, Issues, and Trends: Selected Studies. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009.
———. Ancient Synagogues – Archaeology and Art: New Discoveries and Current Research. Brill, 2013.
———. “The Menorah, the Ancient Seven-Armed Candelabrum: Origin, Form, and Significance.” Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 68. Leiden: Brill, 2001.
Mishory, Alexander. “Designing of the State of Israel’s Official Emblem.” Cathedra for the History of Eretz Israel and its Yishuv 46 (1987): 169–87. [Hebrew]
Shavit, Yaacov. “‘Truth Shall Spring Out of the Earth’: The Development of Jewish Popular Interest in Archaeology in Eretz-Israel.” Cathedra for the History of Eretz Israel and its Yishuv 44 (1987): 27–54. [Hebrew]
Sperber, Daniel. “History of the Menorah.” Journal of Jewish Studies, no. 16 (1965): 135–159.
