The One that Got Away

by Eliezer Segal

The third-century Babylonian Jewish scholar known as Rabbah bar bar Ḥana used to travel back and forth between his native land and the land of Israel, serving as a conduit for the transmission of teachings of the foremost sages of the holy land to the Babylonian academies. Dozens of his teachings spanning a wide range of religious law fill the pages of the Talmud. 

In spite of his respectable scholarly accomplishments, Rabbah is probably best known to posterity for a unique series of stories that were ascribed to him—and which the Talmud appended to a technical discussion about the laws for purchasing boats. In those tales Rabbah related fantastic sights and exploits that he experienced in the course of his travels to exotic places on land and sea. Some of those stories link to episodes from the Bible, while others have no obvious purpose other than (so it seems) to hold us spellbound by their astounding details.

Included among those tall tales is the following episode: “Once, as we were voyaging in a ship, we observed a certain fish. Its back was coated with sand out of which grass had sprouted. Assuming that it was dry land, we climbed up on its back, and set about baking and cooking. But when its back got hotter it turned over—and had our ship not been lying nearby, we would have drowned.”

Whatever we might think about the veracity of the rabbi’s report, we should note that similar legends about sailors who were confounded by island-sized fish were in wide circulation in the ancient world, among the Greeks and the Romans as well as in Iranian myths that could have been familiar to Jews in Babylonia. The pioneering Latin naturalist Pliny the Elder collected numerous reports—of varying degrees of scientific credibility—about giant sea creatures and monsters such as the “Physeter” and the “Pistris” that made a powerful impression on the imaginations of his readers. The satirist Lucian of Samosata, in a parody of the genre of fanciful travel memoirs, included an episode in which the narrator’s ship was swallowed up by a sea-creature so immense that its insides were populated by a thriving urban community.

A very similar tale was included in a Christian work known as the “Physiologus.” Scholarly opinions about the date of its original Greek text range from the second to the fourth centuries, after which it enjoyed immense popularity in translations to Latin, Ethiopic and numerous other languages. It took its name (which was apparently not its original title) from the fictitious premise that it was a scientific lexicon based on the teachings of a learned naturalist. The work is in reality a fanciful bestiary of mythical and actual creatures; it identifies traits of those creatures that lend themselves to moral or allegorical expositions.

The passage from the Physiologus that concerns us provides far more extensive detail than the Talmud’s terse story, as it describes a sea monster that is known in Greek as the “aspidochelone” [meaning: “asp-turtle”]. This beast is a giant whale and its skin has the appearance of a sandy beach like that on a seashore. For that reason, when it swims with its back floating above the surface of the water, sailors mistake it for an island and are enticed into parking their vessels and venturing ashore to enjoy a respite from their sea voyages. Convinced that they are on terra firma, they affix wooden pegs on which to moor their ships, and then go about lighting fires to cook their meals. 

One of the most popular versions of this legend appears in the Arabic Thousand and One Nights, in the first of the seven voyages of the intrepid seafarer Sinbad. As Sinbad tells it, his crew had sailed seven days on their journey from Basra in Iraq, when they espied a small, sunlit island that was as fair as the garden of Eden, adorned with lush vegetation. Securing his vessel at a safe distance from the island, Sinbad ventured by himself in a flimsy dingy to pick some herbs which he planned to blend into a luscious recipe (also containing hashish). While he was occupied with that task, he heard an alarmed yell from the mother ship alerting him that he was in imminent peril and must return forthwith to the craft, since what lay beneath his feet was not an island but a gigantic fish. At that very moment the creature leapt up making terrifying noises. Our hero tried to escape in his frail dingy, but it was quickly blown out of the waters. Unlike Rabbah bar bar Ḥana, the crew of Sinbad’s ship did not hasten to his rescue, but fled in panic, leaving him to swim off to harrowingly dangerous and thrilling new adventures.

Now some of us might be perfectly satisfied to enjoy such captivating yarns enhanced by spectacular special effects. For the most part, however, students of the Talmud approached Rabba bar bar Ḥana’s adventures from a more austere religious perspective, and insisted that they must contain some edifying message. Some commentators, like Rabbi Yom Tov ben Abraham Ishbili (Ritva), strove to justify them on the grounds that, outlandish though they might appear, the reports are based on actual wonders of the natural world, so that they serve to enhance our appreciation of the all-powerful creator who fashioned them all. Alternatively, the fearsome beasts might also originate in inspired dreams that were intended to teach us profound truths. 

The great homilist Rabbi Ephraim Solomon Luntshits offered an allegorical explanation of the episode: the ship represents the human soul destined to navigate the stormy seas of life. The person who strives to be perfectly righteous must take special care to avoid associating with the wicked—who are symbolized in the tale by the alluring (but thorny) foliage on the “island.” At first it is friendly and accommodating, but after it has succeeded in garnering your trust, it reverts to its true character and tries to attack and destroy you. In this way, the sinister sea monster fooled Rabbah bar bar Ḥana and his companions into thinking it was a secure, lifeless tract of dry land—but then it heated up and pounced on them. Were it not for the divine assistance that is vouchsafed to us (represented metaphorically as the boat waiting nearby ready to come to the rescue), all of us mortals would be defenseless victims of the evil powers.

Indeed, Rabbi Luntshits’ approach is in line with Christian readings of the Aspidochelon passage in the Physiologus. That beast was understood to symbolize the deceptions of the devil who causes unwary mortals to be enticed by hunger, thirst and sinful desires until they are drawn to eternal torment.

Other classic commentators, including Ritva and Rabbi Samuel Edels (Maharsha), interpreted the story not as a lesson about the moral fate of the individual, but as a paradigm for Jewish national survival. Thus, the deceptively hospitable island exemplifies the situation of the Jews in Persia and Media at the time of the Purim story—and one presumes, the feelings of some of the commentators’ contemporaries. Those Jews were convinced that they had been comfortably assimilated into their current environments and exempted from the curses normally associated with Jewish life in the diaspora. However, they would soon be reminded that they were still subject to the bitter perils of exile. Salvation could only be achieved through repentance and by acknowledging that the ultimate redemption had not yet arrived.

And I suppose that this is surprisingly apt advice for us all to heed, as humans and as Jews. We should take care to prepare ourselves for the eventuality that the calm surfaces on which we are treading might suddenly plunge into the depths and leave us thrashing.

But of course, such mishaps only happen in fanciful legends from bygone ages.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 8, 2015, p. 9.

• For further reading:
  • Bacher, Wilhelm. Die Agada der babylonischen Amoräer: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Agada und zur Einleitung in den babylonischen Talmud. Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967.
  • Epstein-Halevi, Elimelech. Agadot Ha-Amora’im. Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1977.
  • Grunebaum, Gustave E. von. Medieval Islam: A Study in Cultural Orientation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005.
  • Hole, Richard. Remarks on the Arabian Nights Entertainments: In Which the Origin of Sinbad’s Voyages, and Other Oriental Fictions, Is Particularly Considered. London: T. Cadell, Junior and W. Davies, 1797.
  • Kiperwasser, Reuven. “Rabba Bar Bar Channa’s Voyages.” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 22 (2008-2007): 215–42. [Hebrew]
  • Kiperwasser, Reuven, and Shapira, Dan D. Y. “Irano-Talmuidica II: Leviathan, Behemoth and the ‘Domestication’ of Iranian Mythological Creatures in Eschatological Narratives of the Babylonian Talmud.” In Shoshannat Yaakov: Jewish and Iranian Studies in Honor of Yaakov Elman, edited by Shai Secunda and Steven Fine, 203–35. The Brill Reference Library of Judaism. Brill, 2012.
  • Montgomery, J. E. “Al-Sindibad and Polyphemus: Reflections on the Genesis of an Archetype.” In Myths, Historical Archetypes, and Symbolic Figures in Arabic Literature: Towards a New Hermeneutic Approach: Proceedings of the International Symposium in Beirut, June 25th – June 30th, 1996, edited by Angelika Neuwirth, 437–466. Beiruter Texte und Studien 64. Beirut: In Kommission bei Franz Steiner Verlag Stuttgart, 1999.
  • Patai, Raphael. “Jewish Seafaring in Ancient Times.” Jewish Quarterly Review 32, no. 1 (1941): 1–26.
  • Silverstein, Alan. “From Markets to Marvels: Jews on the Maritime Route to China ca. 850-ca. 950 CE.” Journal of Jewish Studies 58, no. 1 (Spr 2007): 91–104.
  • Slifkin, Nosson. “Sacred Monsters: Mysterious and Mythical Creatures of Scripture, Talmud and Midrash.” Brooklyn, N.Y: Zoo Torah, 2007.
  • Stemberger, G. “Münchhausen und die Apokalyptik.” Journal for the Study of Judaism 20, no. 1 (1989): 61–83.
  • Williams, Wes. Monsters and Their Meanings in Early Modern Culture: Mighty Magic. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011.
  • Yassif, Eli. The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning. Translated by Jacqueline S. Teitelbaum. Folklore Studies in Translation. Bloomington, Ind: Indiana University Press, 1999.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Off to See the Wizard

by Eliezer Segal

The pages of older Hebrew prayer books were filled with many piyyutim, elaborate poetic works that enhanced the standard liturgy and linked it to the specific themes of a holy day or a special scriptural reading. In more recent times, most Jewish communities have reduced the number of piyyutim in the service, as they came to be perceived as time-consuming, incomprehensible and inconsistent with the esthetic standards of classical Hebrew style. 

In light of this wholesale abandonment of arcane liturgical poetry, it is quite astonishing that one of the most popular of those poems continues to be the work known as “Akdamut” that is still recited in many traditional congregations on the first day of Shavu’ot. After all, the Akdamut is open to all the criticisms that were directed against the genre: it is lengthy and abstruse, consisting of ninety stanzas in awkward Aramaic, with a single persistent rhyme throughout. Much of its language is contrived and grammatically questionable. To add to the mystery, it was originally composed to serve as a preamble to the verse-by-verse Aramaic translation—”Targum”—that used to accompany the Torah reading—even though the recitation of Targum has long since been eliminated from all European synagogue rites. 

How then are we to account for the stubborn survival of this liturgical anachronism?

I find it most unlikely that Akdamut’s popularity derives from any extraordinary features in its contents. Truth to tell, most of the poem consists of fairly conventional religious sentiments—praises of the Almighty and solemn depictions of the splendour of the Heavenly court in all its angelic glory. The closing stanzas recount the marvellous rewards that lie in store for those who faithfully observe the Torah, especially in adversity. No doubt some of this imagery is striking and the message is reassuring, but it is hardly unique (and remember that it is all cloaked in mystifying Aramaic). 

One distinctive motif in the Akdamut is that of Israel stalwartly resisting attempts by the nations of the world to entice them away from their sacred covenant with God’s Torah. This idea might have resonated with a special relevance to the experiences of many Jews in their medieval exiles; nevertheless, it does not seem like a sufficient reason to account for the poem’s lasting appeal across the generations.

It has therefore been suggested that the immense popularity of the Akdamut should be credited not to the text itself, but to a legend that arose around its origins and the personality of its author, an otherwise unknown individual who reveals his name in an acrostic as “Meir ben Isaac”; that is to say: Rabbi Meir Nehorai of Orléans who lived in Worms, Germany, at the time of the Crusades. Meir bore the title “Sheliaḥ Ṣibbur,” which traditionally designated a synagogue cantor, a prayer leader; but his role in the legend also corresponds to the literal meaning of the Hebrew title: the “emissary of the community.”

The epic saga of Rabbi Meir was probably first composed in Yiddish, though Hebrew versions have also survived from early times. It is a thrilling tale of swords and sorcery that rivals Tolkien or Rowling. Like many such popular sagas, it features an invincible super-villain: a Jew-hating Christian monk who utilized his mastery of the black arts to murder thousands of innocent Jews. As the crowning achievement of his nefarious career, the Black Monk boastfully challenged the Jews to produce within the coming year a magician of their own who would vie with him in a sorcery tournament. If the Jewish champion won, then the scoundrel pledged to leave them in peace; but if the monk prevailed, then he would be given a free hand to slaughter them all with impunity.

In spite of their best attempts to remedy their situation through prayers and acts of religious contrition and by scouring the Jewish world in search of a qualified magician, the Jews found themselves approaching the fatal deadline with nary a flicker of hope of rescue from their predicament. At that point someone was informed in a dream that a saviour did in fact exist, but that he dwelled among the ten lost tribes of Israel in the remote territory beyond the fabled river Sambatyon. According to ancient legend, that river’s rapid currents made it impassable throughout the six days of the week, and it only calmed down on the Sabbath—when religious law forbids Jews to traverse bodies of water. 

The righteous scholar Rabbi Meir of Worms was chosen to lead a delegation of petitioners who set out on the perilous journey to find the great wizard. After a series of adventures they reached the Sambatyon river. Rabbi Meir decided that the dreadful dangers that threatened the survival of his community warranted overriding the Sabbath ritual prohibition, so he crossed the river. At that point he was arrested and charged with the grave offense of violating the Sabbath, but he was able to persuade his captors of the urgency of his mission.

The trans-Sambatyonites now responded to his request by choosing an unlikely-looking candidate to confront the evil sorcerer—a righteous man named Dan (or from the tribe of Dan) who was short and lame and of a generally unheroic appearance. Using the same reasoning that Meir had employed initially to permit crossing the river into his land, Dan now allowed himself to violate the Sabbath when crossing in the other direction in order to carry out his critical life-saving mission. However, Meir himself could no longer make use of that dispensation, and consequently he would be compelled to remain forever after in his remote exile. [He was not equipped with a pair of ruby slippers] 

When Meir’s companions beheld their unimposing champion, they were at first very skeptical, but he soon impressed them with his power to teleport them back instantly to Germany, where they arrived on the very last day of the Black Monk’s ultimatum—two days before the Shavu‘ot festival. 

As it turned out, the Jews were not disappointed by their champion, nor were generations of readers and listeners to the exploit. The fateful match between the Jewish and gentile magicians, which took place in the presence of the king and huge crowds of spectators (in a dramatic spectacle reminiscent of “Ivanhoe”), contained all the elements of a cinematic special-effects extravaganza. After a series of breathtaking demonstrations of his magical skills, Dan was able to extract from the earth two immense millstones that he levitated and suspended in mid-air. He then fastened his wicked opponent to the top of a tall tree and brought the millstones down upon him to grind him to dust.

At this point it was revealed that their loyal emissary Rabbi Meir ben Isaac, before parting from Dan and resigning himself to a lifelong exile from his home, had composed the Akdamut poem, and asked that it be recited every year on Shavu‘ot in his memory.

No doubt the myth provided much satisfaction to Jews in Europe who in real life were often powerless against their persecutors. 

And it is probably worth the effort of listening attentively to the ninety Aramaic stanzas—if only to provide an opportunity for retelling the fateful duel of the master wizards.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 22, 2015, p. 11.

• For further reading:
  • Dan, Joseph. “An Early Hebrew Source for the Yiddish Aqdamoth Story.” Hebrew University Studies in Literature 1 (1973): 39–46.
  • ———. Jewish Mysticism: The Middle Ages. Jason Aronson, Incorporated, 1998.
  • Gaster, Moses. The Exempla of the Rabbis. London and Leipzig: The Asia Publishing Company, 1924.
  • Ginzberg, Louis. “Haggadot Ḳeṭu‘ot.” In “Al Halakhah ve-”Aggadah: Meḥḳar u-Massah, by Louis Ginzberg, 229–32, 298–99. Tel-’Aviv: Dvir, 1960.
  • Hoffman, Jeffrey. “Akdamut: History, Folklore, and Meaning.” Jewish Quarterly Review 99, no. 2 (2009): 161–183.
  • Rivkind, Isaac. “Di Historische Allegorie Fun R’ Me’ir Sha”Ts.” In Philologische Schriften, by Isaac Rivkind, 1–42. Vilna: YIVO, 1929.
  • Schwartz, Howard. Miriam’s Tambourine: Jewish Folktales from Around the World. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1988.
  • Voßß, Rebekka. “Entangled Stories: The Red Jews in Premodern Yiddish and German Apocalyptic Lore.” AJS Review, 1-41, no. 36 (2012): 1.
  • Yassif, Eli. The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning. Translated by Jacqueline S. Teitelbaum. Folklore Studies in Translation. Bloomington, Ind: Indiana University Press, 1999.
  • ———. “Two Early versions of the Aqdamoth Story.” Bikoret u-Farshanut 9/10 (1976): 214–28. [Hebrew]

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Tadmor: Warlords and Warrior Queens

by Eliezer Segal

Recent news reports in 2015 brought us alarming news about the incursion of the “Islamic State in Syria” (ISIS) into Palmyra, their barbaric slaughter of the locals, and the dangers that now threaten the site’s priceless relics from the Roman era.

The name Palmyra may not be one that resonates for many of us today, but it once evoked an aura of legendary romance as a desert kingdom that challenged the mighty empires of Rome and Persia.

And we should not be surprised to learn that there were distinctly Jewish aspects to the saga of Palmyra. The archaeological remains include a carved text of the “Sh’ma‘ Yisra’el” and other biblical passages on structures that might have been synagogues or private dwellings.

In Hebrew and Arabic—as in the Aramaic that its ancient inhabitants spoke—the land in question was known as “Tadmor.” A locality of that name is mentioned in the biblical book of Chronicles, where it states that King Solomon “built Tadmor in the wilderness and all the storage cities which he had built in Hamath.” A similar report appears in the book of Kings—except that Tadmor is grouped there with cities that are located closer to Jerusalem.The consonantal Hebrew text in Kings (as distinct from the traditional vocalized reading) is “Tamar.” It has been remarked that this Semitic word for a date-palm, would provide a plausible source for the evolution of the Latin “Palm-yra.”

From very early times Tadmor was a thriving oasis town, the “jewel of the desert” on the trade route to Damascus. Its importance increased dramatically from the first century C.E. as the normal paths of international commerce were obstructed by a state of ongoing conflict between Rome to the west and Persia to the east. Initially Palmyra maintained political neutrality while controlling a commercial empire that extended from China to Arabia and Asia Minor. The Palmyran leader Odenathus later allied himself with the Romans against the Sassanid Persians and was officially recognized as Rome’s “Emperor of the Orient.” 

Indeed, the Palmyran leader who is known in Latin and Greek as [Publius Septimius] Odenathus is mentioned a few times in the Talmud and Midrash under his Aramaic name “Bar Naṣer.” Some Jewish sages, especially those who believed that the disintegration of the evil Roman empire or its defeat by Persia heralded imminent redemption, combed the Bible for prophecies about Tadmor and its rulers. Thus, when expounding Belshazzar’s  apocalyptic dream of symbolic beasts in the book of Daniel, rabbis from the land of Israel identified one of the horns that sprouted from the fearsome creature as a reference to Bar Naṣer.

In a similar vein, the words of the divine blessing to Abraham “thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies” inspired some rabbis to declare “fortunate is the one who witnesses the downfall of Tadmor,” or that Israel would declare a feast to celebrate its destruction. It has been suggested that this hostile sentiment might have been inspired by the Jews’ disappointment in Odenathus’s role in saving Rome from a longed-for defeat at the hands of the Persians, which they hoped would usher in the messianic redemption. They apparently projected their criticisms of contemporary Palmyra back onto earlier times, remarking (without any obvious biblical basis) that Tadmorite forces, especially archers, had participated actively in the destructions of both the first and the second Jerusalem Temples and had come to the assistance of Edom / Rome. 

A passage in the Babylonian Talmud discussed the status of Jewish women who were taken captive by foreign soldiers or by brigands, observing that they might have been actually offering them assistance in hope of being carried away by the swashbuckling bandits. The rabbis noted that there was a distinction to be drawn between the ladies’ attitudes toward normal soldiers and toward bandits, which they illustrated by invoking the example of the warlord Ben Naṣer, whose forces could legitimately be regarded either as soldiers of a royal army, or as an irregular band of outlaws.

A tradition preserved by Sherira Ga’on in his Epistle on the history of Talmudic literature stated that Ben Naṣer was responsible for the destruction in the year 259-260 of the city of Nehardea, one of the foremost Babylonian centres of Jewish learning, forcing its scholars to reestablish their academy elsewhere. Although such an incursion might make some sense in the context of a Palmyrene attempt to rid themselves of a major commercial rival (including an active community of Jewish merchants), that early date preceded Odenathus’ rise to military or political strength. Scholars therefore are in dispute whether to emend the date or to ascribe the event to a different Ben Naṣer.

A somewhat different historical question arises when it comes to assessing Jewish attitudes toward [Julia Aurelia] Zenobia, Odenathus’ widow and successor. This fabled Warrior Queen declared Palmyra an autonomous empire that ruled over extensive territories from 267 to 272. Her realm included Palestine and Egypt, which she claimed in part on the basis of her alleged descent from Cleopatra. She was ultimately defeated by the Roman emperor Aurelian who had her taken in gold chains to Rome as a prisoner. 

The Jerusalem Talmud tells about two rabbis who negotiated with Zenobia regarding a Jew who had been kidnapped by Palmyrans. The queen told them that was aware that Jews were accustomed to having their creator perform miracles on their behalf and advised the rabbis not to importune God unnecessarily in the present case. Nonetheless, they were able to procure a mini-miracle when a Saracen opportunely showed up holding what he claimed was the sword with which Bar Naṣer had slain his brother. This was enough to persuade Zenobia to have the prisoner released. (In fact, there are some who suspect that it was Zenobia who was behind the assassination of her husband Bar Naṣer / Odenathus.)

Several historians quoted that anecdote as evidence that Zenobia was sympathetic to the Jews. To understand why they would want to draw such a tenuous conclusion we should note some early Christian writers claimed that the queen was actually Jewish, or at least a “Judaizer”; that is to say, one who adopted some Jewish beliefs and practices. As a matter of fact, the religion of Palmyra was highly syncretistic, borrowing freely from many traditions and incorporating several recognizably Jewish motifs.

A synagogue inscription discovered in Egypt consisted of an edict “by order of the queen and king” restoring the right of asylum that had been granted to that synagogue by King Ptolemy Euergetes in the third century B.C.E. Here as well, a dominant trend of historical scholarship once insisted on identifying the inscription’s unnamed queen and king as Zenobia and her son Vahaballat; but very few scholars still support that theory. Be that as it may, Zenobia became a popular name for Jewish women—and we even know of a male Jew who was named Zenobius.

The twelfth-century traveler Benjamin of Tudela visited Tadmor and was impressed by the city’s walls and its structures constructed from huge stones. He described the two thousand Jews who lived there as bold warriors who would battle against Christians and Arabs, but chose to support their Ishmaelite neighbours.

A similar formula of courage, independent spirit and generosity is one that could offer some hope for safeguarding the people and the historical legacy of contemporary Palmyra

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 12, 2015, p. 9.

• For further reading:
  • Adler, Marcus Nathan, ed. The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela. London: H. Frowde, 1907.
  • Alon, Gedalia. Toledot ha-Yehudim be-Erets-Yisrael bi-teḳufat ha-Mishnah veha-Talmud. Vol. 2. 2 vols. Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1952.
  • Appelbaum, Alan. “The Rabbis and Palmyra: A Case Study on (Mis-) Reading Rabbinics for Historical Purposes.” Jewish Quarterly Review 101, no. 4 (2011): 527–44.
  • Avi-Yonah, Michael. The Jews of Palestine: A Political History from the Bar Kokhba War to the Arab Conquest. Blackwell’s Classical Studies. Oxford: Blackwell, 1976.
  • Baron, Salo W. A Social and Religious History of the Jews. 2d ed., rev. and enl. Vol. 3: Heirs of Rome and Persia. 18 vols. New York and Philadelphia: Columbia University Press and the Jewish Publication Society of America, 1957.
  • Bingen, Jean. Hellenistic Egypt: Monarchy, Society, Economy, Culture. Edited by Roger S. Bagnall. Hellenistic Culture and Society 49. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007.
  • Feldman, Louis H. “Abba Kolon and the Founding of Rome.” Jewish Quarterly Review 81, no. 3–4 (1991): 239–66.
  • Frey, Jean Baptiste. Corpus of Jewish Inscriptions: Jewish Inscriptions from the Third Century B.c. to the Seventh Century A.d. Sussidi Allo Studio delle Antichità Cristane 1. New York: Ktav Pub House, 1975.
  • Funk, Salomon. Die Juden in Babylonien, 200-500. Berlin: M. Poppelauer, 1902.
  • Gafni, Isaiah. Land, Center and Diaspora: Jewish Constructs in Late Antiquity. Sheffield Academic Press, 1997.
  • Graf, David F. “Zenbia and the Arabs.” In The Eastern Frontier of the Roman Empire: Proceedings of a Colloquium Held at Ankara in September 1988, edited by David H. French and Chris S. Lightfoot, 143–67. BAR International Series 553. Oxford: BAR, 1989.
  • Hartmann, Udo. Das palmyrenische Teilreich. Oriens et Occidens, Bd. 2. Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001.
  • Ilan, Tal. “Notes on the Distribution of Women’s Names in Palestine in the Second Temple and Mishnaic Period.” Journal of Jewish Studies 40 (1989): 186–200.
  • Lieberman, Saul. “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries.” Jewish Quarterly Review, n.s., 37 (1946): 31–54.
  • Neusner, Jacob. A History of the Jews in Babylonia. Vol. 2. The Early Sasanian Period. 5 vols. Studia Post-Biblica 11. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1965.
  • Safrai, Samuel. “Part IV: The Era of the MIshnah and Talmud (70-640).” In A History of the Jewish People, edited by Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, 307–84. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1976.
  • Smallwood, Edith Mary. The Jews Under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian: A Study in Political Relations. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2001.
  • Sorek, Y. “Who Destroyed Nehardea?” Zion 27, no. 1–2 (1972): 117–19.
  • Theodor, Julius, and Chanoch Albeck, eds. Midrash Bereshit Rabba. Jerusalem, Israel: Wahrman, 1965.
  • Williams, P.J. “TMR in 1 Kings IX 18.” Vetus Testamentum 47, no. 2 (1997): 262–65.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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It’s a Jungle Out There

by Eliezer Segal

Let’s face it. The great Moses Maimonides wasn’t much of a people person. If he could have had his way, he would probably have devoted all his time and energy to solitary study and contemplation, with little or no interaction with other human beings. 

True, he believed that the ultimate human perfection is to be a prophet; and weren’t the prophets of Israel deeply involved in political and social affairs? 

Well, not quite—at least not according to Maimonides. His ideal prophet was a disciplined scholar who mastered science and metaphysics. 

He advised aspiring prophets to maintain a prudent distance from the common folk. 

The masses must be assessed according to their true worth; some of them are undoubtedly like domestic animals, whereas others resemble beasts of prey. These people should only be of concern to the mind of a perfect and solitary man insofar as he wishes to protect himself from harm when associating with them, or to derive some benefit from them when necessary.

Documents from the Cairo Genizah have allowed us to fill in many gaps in our knowledge of Maimonides’s role in the Egyptian Jewish community. His disparaging evaluation of the masses— and in particular those “beasts of prey” who threaten to pounce on the unwary prophet— might well be based on actual persons who opposed Maimonides in various communal controversies. 

We know the names of several troublemakers he had to deal with, and historians lean toward the view that some or all of the names may in fact refer to the same contentious individual who (in keeping with Arabic conventions) was known by an assortment of different names or epithets. 

There was, for example, a personage named Yaḥya Abu Zikri who acquired the headship of the Jewish community—the lucrative office of “Ra’is al-Yahud”—by offering the sultan a generous bribe. In a departure from the established local custom, he insisted that the judges collect fees from litigants or seekers of halakhic decisions, part of which would be earmarked for the central administration (that is, to Abu Zikri’s pocket). Rabbi Perahiah, a judge in the town of al-Maḥallah, refused to comply, and his community swore a solemn oath to disregard any orders and appointments emanating from Abu Zikri’s office. There was need for a respected halakhic authority to uphold the community’s resistance to Abu Zikri, so Perahiah turned to Maimonides—who was at the time a newly arrived refugee from Andalusia with no vested allegiances in the local political landscape.

This situation could explain how this reclusive scholar was able to rise rapidly to prominence in the community, and how he became embroiled in time-consuming administrative responsibilities, including a brief term as Ra’is al-Yahud. In the present controversy, the principle at stake was particularly dear to Maimonides’s heart, for he was outspoken in his opposition to profiting from Torah learning and accepting remuneration for the performance of rabbinical duties. 

In a letter addressed to the judge Rabbi Pinḥas of Alexandria, Maimonides assured his correspondent that he should not worry himself about Abu Zikri—a mere upstart whose support came from the lowly rabble and whose claim to authority remained extremely precarious. After all, the Muslim ruler had made Abu Zikri’s position contingent on the approval of his Jewish constituency—and the Jews had only consented to keep him in office with the greatest reluctance, after he had tearfully implored them not to fire him.

A detailed account of a communal agitator who was opposed by Maimonides is preserved in a work entitled “the Scroll of Zuta the Wicked.” This chronicle in the spirit of the Book of Esther was composed in 1197 by Abraham ben Hillel in flowery Hebrew rhyme complete with the vowels and cantillation signs that are normally reserved for biblical texts. It described how the nefarious Zuta (whom the author equated with Haman) succeeded three times in purchasing the office of “Ra’is al-Yahud”—but each time was deposed. 

The scroll goes on to relate how “the Mighty One gazed down from on high, took pity on the multitude and sent a faithful servant, a paragon of glory and a wonder of the times, Rabbi Moses [that is: Maimonides], luminary of the east and west, the shining light and the brilliant star… and he restored the Torah as of old.”

The Scroll of Zuta contains some sensational details about the scoundrel’s machinations. At one time he sought to have himself appointed to office in return for informing the Caliph about a great treasure that had purportedly been buried along with the previous Ra’is al-Yahud (whom Zuta had once deposed temporarily)—but the tip turned out to be false, leading to Zuta’s speedy dismissal.

Zuta’s second term coincided with the transfer of régimes from the Fatimids to the Ayyubid dynasty headed by Saladin. Zuta seized the opportunity to ingratiate himself with the new Ayyubid sultan (who was evidently resistant to bribes) by informing on Jews who had remained loyal to the previous régime. Three of those Jews were arrested and perished in prison, prompting the community to issue a  writ of excommunication against Zuta, and to successfully lobby the sultan  for his dismissal.

Zuta was also involved in messianic agitation, and announced that the redeemer would arrive during his term of office. Apparently his Hebrew name was Sar Shalom: “prince of peace”—a name with solid messianic associations. During the Crusades, when the mighty Christian and Islamic empires were entangled in a momentous clash over control of the holy land, many Jews (perhaps even Maimonides himself) interpreted those events in apocalyptic terms.

According to the testimony of Maimonides’s son Abraham, when his father had tried to abolish the venerable liturgical rites of the local Palestinian synagogue in favour of the Babylonian practices that were prevalent in the larger Jewish world, his project was sabotaged by a certain “Shar al-Ashrar” [Arabic for “ super-villain”], likely a pun on the name Sar Shalom. 

Now we should bear in mind that these scathing characterizations of Zuta / Sar Shalom / Abu Zikri originated from the pens of his opponents, and we should not necessarily accept them all at face value. To be sure, Sar Shalom ha-Levi was no upstart plebeian ignoramus, but the scion of a respected rabbinic family who bore the titles “Ga’on,” “Chief of the Court” and “Head of the Academy of the Land of Israel.” 

In spite of any questions that remain about the accuracy of the details, these episodes supply some intriguing background about the ferocious beasts that lurked in the shadows of medieval communal politics, ever ready to ambush unworldly scholars, philosophers or prophets.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, June 26, 2015, p. 9.

• For further reading:
  • Bareket, Elinoar. Fustat on the Nile: The Jewish Elite in Medieval Egypt. (Medieval Mediterranean ; v. 24). Leiden and Boston: Brill, 1999.
  • Ben-Sasson, Menahem. “Maimonides in Egypt: The First Stage.” Translated by Jonathan Chipman. Maimonidean Studies 2 (1990): 2–30.
  • Ben Ze’ev, Israel. “‘Al Meḳom Moshavo Shel Ha-RaMBa”M Be-Miṣrayim.” In Rabbenu Mosheh Ben Maimon: Limlo’t Shemoneh Me’ot Shanah Le-Huladeto (special Issue of Ha’aretz #4788), 46–51. Tel-Aviv, 1935. [Hebrew]
  • Büchler, Adolf. “The Reading of the Law and Prophets in a Triennial Cycle [I].” Jewish Quarterly Review, Old Series, 5, no. 3 (1893): 420–68.
  • Davidson, Herbert A. Moses Maimonides: The Man and His Works. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.
  • Fleischer, Ezra. Eretz-Israel Prayer and Prayer Rituals as Portrayed in the Geniza Documents. Publications of the Perry Foundation in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1988. [Hebrew]
  • Frenkel, Miriam. “The Compassionate and Benevolent”: The Leading Elite in the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the MIddle Ages. Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 2006. [Hebrew]
  • Friedman, Mordechai A. “Maimonides, Zūṭā and the Muqaddams: A Story of Three Bans.” Zion 74, no. 4 (2005): 473–572. [Hebrew]
  • Goitein, S. D. A Mediterranean Society; the Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. 6 vols. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967.
  • ———. “Moses Maimonides, Man of Action: A Revision of the Master’s Biography in Light of Geniza Documents.” In Hommages À Georges Vajda : Etudes d’Histoire et de Pensée Juives, edited by G. Nahon and C. Touati, 155–67. Collection de La Revue d’Études Juives 1. Louvain: Peeters, 1980.
  • Halbertal, Moshe. Maimonides: Life and Thought. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013.
  • Halkin, Abraham S., and David Hartman. Crisis and Leadership: Epistles of Maimonides. 1st ed. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1985.
  • Heschel, Abraham Joshua. “Did Maimonides Believe That He Had Attained the Rank of Prophet?” In Prophetic Inspiration after the Prophets: Maimonides and Other Medieval Authorities, by Abraham Joshua Heschel, 69–126. edited by Morris M. Faierstein. Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1996.
  • ———. Maimonides. New York, NY: Fall River Press, 2012.
  • Kaufmann, David. “The Egyptian Sutta-Megilla.” Jewish Quarterly Review, Old Series, 9, no. 1 (1896): 170–72.
  • Kraemer, Joel L. Maimonides: The Life and World of One of Civilization’s Greatest Minds. 1st ed. New York: Doubleday, 2008.
  • Kreisel, Howard Theodore. Maimonides’ Political Thought: Studies in Ethics, Law, and the Human Ideal. SUNY Series in Jewish Philosophy. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999.
  • ———. Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy. Springer, 2001.
  • Levinger, Jacob. “Was Maimonides ‘Rais Al-Yahud’ in Egypt.” In Studies in Maimonides, edited by Isadore Twersky, 83–93. Harvard Judaic Texts and Studies 7. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1990.
  • Mann, Jacob. “A Second Supplement to ‘the Jews in Egypt and in Palestine Under the Fāṭimid Caliphs.’” Hebrew Union College Annual 3 (1926): 257–310.
  • ———. The Jews in Egypt and in Palestine Under the Fāṭimid Caliphs: A Contribution to Their Political and Communal History, Based Chiefly on Genizah Material Hitherto Unpublished. Ktav, 1970.
  • Neubauer, Adolf. “Egyptian Fragments [I].” Jewish Quarterly Review, Old Series, 8 (1896): 541–61.
  • Rustow, Marina. Heresy and the Politics of Community: The Jews of the Fatimid Caliphate. Conjunctions of Religion and Power in the Medieval Past. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008.
  • Shailat, I., ed. Letters and Essays of Moses Maimonides. Maaleh Adumim: Maaliyot Press, 1987.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Starting Off on the Right Foot

by Eliezer Segal

That arch-heretic Baruch Spinoza did not believe that authentic religion has any legitimate business enacting laws for societies or individuals. He was consequently dismissive of the minute regulations that are so central to the law of Moses and to traditional Jewish life. In his “Theological Political Treatise” he argued that the Torah’s laws do not really express the lessons of divine reason, but were intended to serve the more pragmatic objective of allowing Moses to govern an unruly people who did not yet have the political maturity to obey laws or authority because of their inherent moral value. The Torah therefore instilled in the Hebrews a mentality that bound them to the law through every single trivial action of their lives. “They were not allowed to  plough, to sow,  to reap, nor even to eat, to clothe themselves, to shave, to rejoice,  or  in  fact  to do anything whatever as they liked, but  were  bound  to  follow  the  directions  given in the law.” Whatever justification such a regimen might have had in the days of Moses, Spinoza insisted that it has no validity in a modern enlightened society where the Jews do not govern their own political state.

Judaism’s allegedly obsessive tendency to micromanage our behaviour is often epitomized in the cliché that the halakhah even dictates the proper sequence for putting on and lacing our shoes. And indeed, unlike many such stereotypes about traditional Judaism, this one happens to be quite true. The Shulḥan ‘Arukh instructs, as part of one’s morning routine:

“One should put on the right shoe first but not tie it yet; then put on the left shoe and tie it; then proceed to tie the right one.”

This ruling is based on a discussion in the Babylonian Talmud. The passage in question cites an assortment of different opinions as to the correct sequence—though nobody challenges the basic premise that the mode of putting on footwear falls within the legitimate scope of religious law. The Talmud text opens with a quotation from Rabbi Yoḥanan that the left shoe should take precedence, a rule that he derives from the case of tefillin where the normal practice (at least for right-handed persons) is to bind them to the left arm, based on a midrashic interpretation of the relevant scriptural text. However, Rabbi Yoḥanan’s position is juxtaposed to a teaching from an earlier tradition, that one should put on the right shoe before the left, which would be consistent with the usual tendency of Jewish law to favour the right side. 

The Babylonian scholars in the Talmud disagreed about how to deal with this contradiction when formulating normative practice. Rav Joseph argued that since the matter was in dispute among respected authorities, either practice is acceptable and it makes no difference whether one begins with the right or left shoe. Similarly, Rav Ashi reported that his teacher Rav Kahana was not particular about the order. 

Rav Joseph’s student Abayé was not happy with his teacher’s indecisive approach: after all, we do not really know how Rabbi Yoḥanan would have responded to the contradictory tradition cited in the Talmud. Normally, an earlier source overrides a later one, and there is reason to suppose that if he had been aware of the older tradition, he would have retracted his own ruling accordingly. On the other hand, maybe he did know of it, and yet he knowingly upheld his original view nonetheless; and perhaps his position was also founded on an earlier tradition that he had heard! If the earlier sages insisted so strongly on maintaining their respective positions, is it proper for us to treat them as if they were optional, or matters of subjective preference?

The Jerusalem Talmud preserved a different version of Rabbi Yoḥanan’s teaching. It states there that when his attendant Simeon bar Ba, a Babylonian immigrant, handed him his right sandal first in accordance with what he thought was the proper etiquette, the master chided him: “Babylonian, don’t act this way, since that is not how the early authorities used to conduct themselves. Rather, one should first put on the left shoe and afterwards the right.”  He goes on to explain that It is only an injured limb that normally gets shod first, and it is therefore considered “disrespectful” to a healthy right foot when we treat it as if it were infirm.

In the Babylonian Talmud, a solution to the dilemma of the contrary rulings was provided by Rav Nahman bar Isaac who described the personal custom of the “God-fearing” Mar son of Rabina, who would satisfy both opinions by putting on the right shoe first, but then tying the left lace first. 

Rabbi Isaac ben Asher in the Tosafot commentary noted that it is indeed more appropriate that tying the laces should be the act that begins on the left, in that it was derived from the case of the tefillin where the essence of the precept consists of tying or binding.

The laissez-faire attitude favoured by Rav Joseph and Rav Kahana in the Talmud was evidently accepted by most of the early medieval codifiers of Jewish religious law, since the topic is skipped over entirely in the compilations of Rabbi Isaac Alfasi, Maimonides and others. 

The omission of the rule from early law codes is likely the reason why it attracted surprisingly little attention from among proponents of the Kabbalah. Normally, any topic that emphasizes the importance of left and right was ideal grist for the interpretative mills of the medieval kabbalists who asserted that spatial right and left correspond to the divine attributes of mercy and justice that define the metaphysical harmony of the universe, and which humans can influence by means of the correct performance of the commandments. 

Nonetheless, in the early fourteenth century Rabbi Jacob ben Asher’s Arba‘ah Ṭurim ruled in accordance with Mar son of Rabina’s custom: right shoe first, left lace first. A few generations later, an important kabbalistic compendium known as the Sefer Ha-Ḳanah, probably composed by a Byzantine author toward the end of the fourteenth century, devised an elaborate metaphor to show how paying careful attention to the respective sides of justice and mercy when donning footwear constitutes an effective symbolic preparation for appeasing the gatekeepers who control our access to the throne of the merciful supreme King.

In the late sixteenth century, the ruling of the Arba‘ah Ṭurim was incorporated into Rabbi Joseph Caro’s authoritative Shulḥan ‘Arukh thereby establishing it as the normative practice for subsequent generations. 

With all due deference to Spinoza, punctilious observance of the rules governing the correct wearing and lacing of shoes was not confined to the blindly obedient or the starry-eyed kabbalists. Several scholars with decidedly rationalist inclinations found something of great value in these rules—if not for their own sake, then as instances of the Jewish genius for instilling religious meaning into all the diverse areas of human activity.

For example, Rabbi Menaḥem Meiri of Perpignan, Provence, who excelled at applying standards of clarity and logical precision to the elucidation of the Talmud, pointed out how this simple practice exemplifies the highest ideals of Torah living:

All the actions of Torah scholars are directed toward a single goal. Even when they are occupied with their material needs, their hearts are directed toward the worship of the Lord. You are aware that when putting on shoes, one recites the blessing “[Blessed is God] who has provided me with all my needs”… Similarly, when putting on shoes, we should put on the right one first in order to remind ourselves that in all matters it is preferable to keep “on the right side” and to honour one who walks in the right path.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, August 28, 2015, p. 16.

• For further reading:
  • Halbertal, Moshe. Between Torah and Wisdom: Rabbi Menachem Ha-Meiri and the Maimonidean Halakhists in Provence. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2000. [Hebrew]
  • Halivni, David. Sources and Traditions: A Source Critical Commentary on the Talmud. Vol. Tractate Shabbath. Jerusalem: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1982.
  • Krauss, Samuel. Talmudische Archäologie. Vol. 1. 3 vols. Schriften von Gesellschaft zur fürderrung der wissenschaft des Judentums. Grundriss der gesamtswissenschaft des Judentums. Leipzig: G. Fock, 1910.
  • Kushnir-Oron, M. The Sefer Ha-Peliʼah and the Sefer Ha-Kanah. Pirsume Ha-Midrasha Le-Limmudim Mitqadmim. Jerusalem: Hebrew University Faculty of Arts, 1980. [Hebrew]
  • Pely, Hagai. “The Book of ‘Kanah’ and The Book of ‘Peliah’: Literal and Esoteric Meaning of the Halakhah.” Tarbiz 77, no. 2 (2008): 271–93.
  • ———. “The Ways of ‘Adjudication’ in ‘Sefer Ha-Kanah’ and ‘Sefer Ha-Peliah.’” Daat: A Journal of Jewish Philosophy & Kabbalah 68-69 (2010): 187–224.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Paths to Moriah

by Eliezer Segal

The story of Abraham’s willingness to offer up his beloved son in obedience to God’s command is of course, one of the most powerful biblical motifs to inspire the prayers of Rosh Hashanah. The holiday’s central ritual, the sounding of the ram’s horn, evokes the image of the ram that was offered instead of Isaac. We repeatedly implore the Almighty to recall the merit that accrued to our ancestors for their selfless devotion, hoping that he will bestow some of that merit upon their less deserving descendents. The narrative of this event, known to Jewish tradition as the “binding of Isaac”—“‘Aḳedat Yiṣḥaḳ” or “the ‘Aḳedah”—is the designated Torah reading for the second day of the festival.

In the book of Genesis, the divine command to Abraham seems to come with a jarring suddenness, without any explicit reason or provocation. The story begins with a vague formula for a segué: “and it came to pass after these things, that God did test Abraham.” This invites some puzzling questions. For one thing, what are “these things” that preceded the ‘Aḳeda, and are we to assume that there is a meaningful connection between them and God’s sudden command to the patriarch? The verses immediately preceding the command do not provide clear answers to these questions; they tell of the dismissal of Ishmael and Hagar, and of Abraham’s treaty with Abimelech king of Gerar. True, the Hebrew word for “things”—devarim— can also signify “words,” possibly alluding to a statement or to some verbal exchange; but there is no evident link between the command to sacrifice Isaac on a mountain in the land of Moriah and any preceding conversation.

A second difficulty in the ‘Aḳedah story is implicit in the the very idea of “testing” Abraham. Really, now! Does the omniscient deity who is capable of seeing into the hearts and minds of all his creatures have to subject them to tests in order to ascertain the sincerity or intensity of their devotion?

The earliest record we have of a Jewish author who confronted these questions is the “Book of Jubilees,” an extraordinary document dating from the second century B.C.E. Jubilees consists of an elaborate retelling of the Torah’s stories about the Hebrew patriarchs, presented from its own distinctive sectarian perspective. According to Jubilees, the initiative to command Isaac’s sacrifice did not issue from God, but rather was instigated by the evil supernatural being Mastema [“Loathing”], prince of the demons. 

The figure of Mastema was well known to early post-biblical Jewish literature and makes occasional appearances in the Dead Sea scrolls. As related by the Book of Jubilees, it was he who first approached the Almighty with the insinuation that Abraham’s faith might not prove so steadfast if it were put to a severe test; it was in this context that the patriarch was ordered to offer up his beloved son on the sacrificial altar on Mount Moriah. Like the later rabbinic traditions, Jubilees presents this episode as the culmination of a series of tests or trials to which Abraham was subjected. Whereas the standard midrashic versions usually enumerated ten such trials, Jubilees furnished a list of six, with the Aḳedah as the seventh and greatest of them; and unlike the rabbis, it has the story taking place not on Rosh Hashanah, but on Passover.

By introducing a demonic being as the instigator of the command to sacrifice Isaac, the author of Jubilees was likely trying to exonerate God from full responsibility for that problematic directive. The narrative motif of a celestial debate about Abraham’s righteousness was undoubtedly inspired by the opening chapter of the book of Job in which Satan persuaded God to subject that unfortunate hero to dreadful suffering in order to ascertain whether or not his righteousness would withstand the ordeal. Mastema in Jubilees appears to be a nastier character than the Satan of Job or of rabbinic tradition; unlike them, he is not just an angel who functions as a divine prosecuting attorney charged with entrapping mortals to sin—but rather a malicious and destructive figure with a track record of willfully inflicting harm on the human race. 

Analogous episodes in the Talmud and Midrash assign similar troublemaking roles either to Satan, to the ministering angels (who have an ongoing rivalry with humanity that can be traced back to the beginning of creation), or to God’s personified “attribute of justice” which is constantly arguing against the “attribute of mercy” to impose harsh punishments on Israel. An ancient work known as the “Book of Biblical Antiquities,” which was probably composed in Hebrew but survived in a Latin translation mistakenly attributed to Philo of Alexandria, has a similar description of the ministering angels. According to that version, the angels were so envious and resentful of Abraham that they provoked God to issue a command to do away with his beloved Isaac by offering him up as a sacrifice. 

Some rabbinic texts identified the reference to “after these things” with the birth of Isaac, which the supernatural antagonist twisted into an insinuation that Abraham had not expressed his gratitude for that gift in an appropriate manner. One midrashic variant on this theme has Abraham himself suggest to the Almighty that the proper way to express gratitude would be by offering up a sacrifice. 

Another rabbinic interpretation imagined an argument between Isaac and his older half-brother Ishmael over which of them was the most dedicated to God. After Ishmael boasted of his proven readiness to endure circumcision at at the age of thirteen without protest, as compared to the infant Isaac’s merely passive role in the rite, Isaac declared that he would be perfectly willing to give up all the limbs of his body should God require it—and this was what precipitated the command to make that fateful journey.

The assertion that Isaac took an active and conscious role in the ‘Aḳedah is hardly obvious from the unembellished text of Genesis which seems to suggest that he was a young child who did not grasp the purpose of his trek to Moriah. Rabbi Yosé ben Zimra understood that the story occurred shortly after Isaac’s weaning. What later became the familiar Jewish version of the story turned Isaac into an adult of thirty-seven years (by linking Sarah’s death to her shock at hearing about what had almost befallen her beloved son). Josephus Flavius gave Isaac’s age as twenty-five. 

In a fragment of a Dead Sea scroll from Qumran that bears a strong resemblance to the Jubilees account, a damaged line of the text has been tentatively reconstructed as having Isaac entreat his father “Bind me fast!” This might be the earliest attestation of the motif that Isaac was voluntarily submitting himself in obedience to his Creator, though he feared that he would not have the resolve to go through with the sacrifice. This theme shows up in later Jewish Aramaic Targums in which Isaac pleads, “Bind me well so that I will not struggle in the agony of my soul and be hurled into the pit of destruction and cause your sacrifice to become blemished.” These heartrending words would have provided inspiration to generations of persecuted Jews who were called upon by the assorted Mastemas of history to submit to martyrdom for the sanctification of God’s name.

From this modest sampling of exegetical confrontations with the biblical text, we can begin to appreciate how, from the very earliest recorded days of scriptural study, Jews found it crucial to understand the circumstances that led up to the perplexing tale of the binding of Isaac on Mount Moriah, as well as to find in it a source of guidance and inspiration for their own lives.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, September 11, 2015, p. 20.

• For further reading:
  • Bekkum, Wout Jac van. “The Aqedah and Its Interpretations in Midrash and Piyyut.” In Sacrifice of Isaac: The Aqedah (genesis 22) and Its Interpretations, edited by Edward Noort and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, 86–95. Leiden: Brill, 2002.
  • Bernstein, Moshe J. “Angels at the Aqedah: A Study in the Development of a Midrashic Motif.” Dead Sea Discoveries, 2000.
  • Davies, Philip R., and Bruce D. Chilton. “The Aqedah: A Revised Tradition History.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 40, no. 4 (1978): 514–546.
  • Fitzmyer, Joseph A. “The Sacrifice of Isaac in Qumran Literature.” Biblica 83, no. 2 (2002): 211–29.
  • Huizenga, Leroy Andrew. “The Aqedah at the End of the First Century of the Common Era: Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, 4 Maccabees, Josephus’ Antiquities, 1 Clement.” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 20, no. 2 (2010): 105–133.
  • ———. “The Battle for Isaac: Exploring the Composition and Function of the Aqedah in the Book of Jubilees.” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha13, no. 1 (2002): 33–59.
  • Kister, Menahem. “Observations on Aspects of Exegesis, Tradition, and Theology in Midrash, Pseudepigrapha, and Other Jewish Writings.” In Tracing the Threads: Studies in the Vitality of Jewish Pseudepigrapha, edited by John C. Reeves, 1–34. Early Judaism and Its Literature 6. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994.
  • Kugel, James L. The Bible as it was. Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1997.
  • Noort, Edward, and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, eds. The Sacrifice of Isaac: The Aqedah (genesis 22) and Its Interpretations. Themes in Biblical Narrative v. 4. Leiden ; Boston: Brill, 2002.
  • Olyan, Saul M. A Thousand Thousands Served Him: Exegesis and the Naming of Angels in Ancient Judaism. Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 36. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1993.
  • Ruiten, J van (Jacques). “Abraham, Job and the Book of Jubilees: The Intertextual Relationship of Genesis 22:1-19, Job 1:1-2:13 and Jubilees 17:15-18:19.” In Sacrifice of Isaac: The Aqedah (genesis 22) and Its Interpretations, edited by Edward Noort and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, 58–85. Leiden: Brill, 2002.
  • Segal, Michael. The Book of Jubilees: Rewritten Bible, Redaction, Ideology, and Theology. Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism volume 117. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007.
  • Spiegel, Shalom. “The Last Trial: On the Legends and Lore of the Command to Abraham to Offer Isaac as a Sacrifice: The Akedah,” 1st paperback ed. Jewish Lights Classic Reprints. Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights, 1993.
  • VanderKam, James C. “The Aqedah, Jubilees, and PseudoJubilees.” In The Quest for Context and Meaning: Studies in Biblical Intertextuality in Honor of James A. Sanders, edited by Craig Alan Evans and Shemaryahu Talmon, 241–261. Leiden: Brill, 1997.
  • Vermès, Géza. “New Light on the Sacrifice of Isaac from 4Q225.” Journal of Jewish Studies 47, no. 1 (1996): 140–146.
  • ———. Scripture and Tradition in Judaism; Haggadic Studies. Studia post-biblica v. 4. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1961..

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Who Built the Ark? Utnapishtim!

by Eliezer Segal

It is not surprising that adherents of old-time religion have often been extremely suspicious of the study of biblical literature and history by secular scholars. Most notably, by subjecting the text to literary and historical analysis, those scholars argued that the “law of Moses” is in reality a patchwork of several separate documents that were composed over centuries and embody diverse attitudes and world-views.

And even Jews who might otherwise have been receptive to aspects of the “documentary hypothesis” had good reason to be disturbed by the persuasively argued thesis of the nineteenth-century German philologist Julius Wellhausen who used the theory to support his claim that the noble moral vision of the Israelite prophets degenerated during and after the Babylonian exile into a spiritless cult dominated by a priestly caste and obsessed with the mechanical observance of rituals.

In the wake of this problematic relationship between faith and secular scholarship, it was natural to expect Jews to feel hostility, or at least indifference, to the exciting discoveries in Near Eastern archeology that were taking place in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as freshly unearthed artifacts began to shed their light on the cultures of the nations that bordered on biblical Israel. Similar suspicions typified the attitudes of Christians as they found that their literal belief in the factual accuracy of their scriptures was being compromised by the evidence of the ancient stones, and especially by the texts preserved in newly deciphered cuneiform scripts.

An extraordinary case occurred in 1853 with the discovery of a set of clay tablets from the seventh century B.C.E.from the library of the Assyrian capital Nineveh, containing a saga known as the “Epic of Gilgamesh.” This text recounted the adventures of the wise king Gilgamesh, of godly lineage. The popular Mesopotamian epic drew upon Sumerian prototypes, and translations and adaptations have been found in many ancient lands. Among the numerous details that invited comparisons with the Hebrew book of Genesis, the most conspicuous was its tale, recounted in the eleventh tablet, of a flood that the gods unleashed in order to destroy all humanity—with the sole exception of Gilgamesh’s ancestor Utnapishtim who was instructed to build a boat to rescue himself, his household, selected companions and some animals. In the end, Mr. and Mrs. Utnapishtim were rewarded with the gift of immortality. It was the quest for that cherished secret that impelled Gilgamesh to seek him out and listen to his tale.  

The first public announcement about the Epic of Gilgamesh was presented before the Society of Biblical Archaeology in 1872 in London by a scholar named George Smith, and it instantly caught the imaginations of readers throughout Europe. 

The discovery was also found worthy of mention in the pioneering Hebrew weekly “Ha-Maggid” that appeared in Lyck, Prussia and was dedicated to keeping its readership informed about the most important and relevant developments in international news. The journal’s editors generally steered a moderate course between modern enlightenment and traditional Judaism. They ignored any scholarly developments that called into question the divine origin of the Torah; however they did take a lively interest in assorted archaeological finds in Israel, Egypt and Mesopotamia; and in almost every volume they included reports about them for the edification of their eastern European Jewish audience. 

The report in Ha-Maggid proclaimed enthusiastically, “It is understandable that this announcement has made a very powerful impression, because it provides us with a very ancient attestation for what is written in the holy Torah—and it will stifle the mouths of those who deny its truth.” Instances such as this, it was thought, could help vindicate the demand for scientific education and worldly knowledge among Jews who were wary of secular culture.

However, it was not obvious to everybody that the Epic of Gilgamesh and the kindred literary texts that continued to appear over the coming decades necessarily provided support for traditional Judaism. Whereas pious believers might feel reassured by the fact that pagan writers were adding their testimony to the Torah’s tale of a global flood, more skeptical minds were interpreting the evidence in precisely the opposite direction: All we can say is that myths about a flood were in wide circulation among the ancient Babylonians and Sumerians, and the Hebrews were merely copying those legends from the dominant civilizations—the geographical details of the biblical story indicate its Mesopotamian provenance—adapting them slightly and incorporating them into their sacred scriptures. Viewed from the perspective of what came to be known in German as the “Bibel und Babel” school, is Israelite literature really any different from any of the other myth-loving civilizations of the age?

More recent scholarship has tended to take a more balanced approach to assessing the flood stories as they appear on Hebrew parchment and on cuneiform tablets. Although we may appreciate how the first modern readers of the Gilgamesh epic were excited primarily by its uncanny similarities to the stories in the Bible, deeper reflexion eventually resulted in an increased awareness of glaring differences between their respective world-views. Clearly, the biblical author has extensively reworked the Mesopotamian materials to express Israelite values that stand in powerful opposition to the pagan ethos. 

In the pagan versions, our world is perceived as the outcome of conflicts between squabbling deities who represent diverse powers of nature and often cause collateral damage in the earthly realm. This is reflected in the background to the flood: most of the gods, led by the hostile Enlil, are determined to unleash it without giving advanced warning to any of the humans. The god Ea, however, breaks rank and alerts Utnapishtim in a dream that he should get to work constructing a boat. Afterwards, the gods themselves are alarmed by the destructive power that they have unleashed and they begin to argue about the assigning of blame for the debacle. 

The Hebrew God, by contrast, is in complete control of the events, and there is no dissident supernatural power for him to contend with. Indeed, the Genesis narratives are marked by the unprecedented absence of mythical themes, a unique phenomenon among the cultures of that age.

Most significantly—unlike the biblical story in which humanity brought the disaster on themselves because of their moral perversity, the flood legend in the old Babylonian and Assyrian fragments seems to imply a motive that sounds utterly trivial: “In those days the world teemed, the people multiplied, the world bellowed like a wild bull, and the great god was aroused by the clamor. Enlil heard the clamor and he said to the gods in council, ‘The uproar of mankind is intolerable and sleep is no longer possible on account of the din.’” What it seems to be saying is that the human race must be eliminated because their racket is interfering with the gods’ sleep! 

In Genesis Noah was chosen to be saved because he was deemed righteous, whereas no real explanation is given for Ea’s decision to rescue Utnapishtim and his companions, and this detail was of no evident concern to the authors of the Mesopotamian legend. And yet precisely that question is the crucial one in the Hebrew tradition for which righteousness and wickedness are the main criteria for judging mortals.

For modern readers, these kinds of observations are far more meaningful than simplistic questions about the factual accuracy of the creation or flood narratives. They speak to core moral qualities that lie at the heart of any proper appreciation of the Torah’s struggle against paganism, and Judaism’s lasting impact on civilization.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October 9, 2015, p. 13.

• For further reading:
  • Dundes, Alan, ed. The Flood Myth. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988.
  • Fishbane, Michael. Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.
  • Cassuto, Umberto. A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, Part 1: From Adam to Noah. Publications of the Perry Foundation for Biblical Research in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1961.
  • Heidel, Alexander. The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963.
  • Kaufmann, Yehezkel. “The Bible and Mythological Polytheism.” Journal of Biblical Literature 70, no. 3 (September 1951): 179–97.
  • ———. The Religion of Israel, from Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile. Translated by Moshe Greenberg. University of Chicago Press, 1960.
  • Kramer, Samuel Noah. History Begins at Sumer: Thirty-Nine Firsts in Man’s Recorded History. 3rd rev. ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1981.
  • Salmon, Yosef. “David Gordon and ‘Ha-Maggid’: Changing Attitudes toward Jewish Nationalism, 1860-1882.” Modern Judaism 17, no. 2 (1997): 109–24.
  • ———. “David Gordon and the Periodical Ha-maggid / 1860—1882.” Zion 47, no. 2 (1982): 145–64.
  • Sarna, Nahum M. Understanding Genesis. [1st ed.]. Heritage of Biblical Israel, v. 1. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1966.
  • 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.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Flying out of a Rage

by Eliezer Segal

The good old traditional curse does not get much respect in our culture.

Now, those curses spoken by God in the Bible make some sense; for the most part, they contain threats of punishments that will be inflicted on the disobedient and the wrongdoers by a deity who is capable of following through with his threats. But, human curses are quite a different matter. It popular parlance they tend to be equated with simple insults, or even obscenities. The more precise meaning of a curse — that a person’s words can wield the supernatural power to inflict harm on victim—is not taken very seriously in our sophisticated scientific intellectual climate. 

Although the malevolent potential of a curse is something that is regarded with serious trepidation in Jewish folklore, among Kabbalists and other more credulous types, Jewish thinkers who studied philosophy and subscribed to more rational interpretations of the tradition were less sympathetic to the notion that humanly uttered curses have the ability to hurt their targets.

Initially it would appear that their skepticism is contradicted by the words of scripture: After all, if there is no substance to a curse, then why does the Torah include prohibitions against them among the commandments. 

In his Arabic treatise on the 613 commandments, Moses Maimonides devoted an extensive and insightful excursus to this question. His starting point was the verse in Leviticus: “thou shalt not curse the deaf,” from which the Jewish oral tradition derived a comprehensive prohibition against cursing one’s fellow. What, then, was the point of singling out the deaf for special attention in this text?

Maimonides concluded from this anomaly that the opposition to cursing cannot possibly be because of any harm that it can cause to its victim. After all, deaf people will not even be aware of the curses or insults that have been directed against them. Indeed, he concludes that this is precisely the lesson that we are intended to deduce. The Torah’s purpose in forbidding curses was not rooted in the shame or insult to which the victim has been subjected; if that were the case, then there would be no sin in cursing the deaf, seeing as they do not normally suffer distress from a curse—and yet the Torah admonishes us that such cursing is nonetheless forbidden! This must be because the Torah is not approaching the matter from the perspective of the victim, but rather it is concerned principally with the psychological and moral effects on the person who is doing the cursing.

By way of explanation, Maimonides provides a fascinating mental typology of people who allow themselves to indulge in enraged indignation. When such persons have suffered a wrong, they are roused to an anger that will not abate until the wrongdoer (real or imagined) has been made to suffer harm to a degree that is proportional to the damage he has inflicted. 

Whatever the real measure of guilt or harm that has been perpetrated (and it is not clear that such matters can be objectively measured), every victim makes their own mental assessment of the seriousness of the offense against them, and hence of the appropriate degree of retaliation that can provide satisfaction for the wrong. At the lowest tier are those serene souls who can be calmed by some token ranting or vocal curses against the offenders. This outlet will be most satisfying when offenders are not deaf, and can actually hear the nasty things that are being said about them. As we progress along the scale of vengeance, some wrongs will warrant destruction of property, bodily injury causing pain or disfigurement—and in the most extreme cases, the wronged party will not feel that justice has been achieved with anything less than taking the life of the offender. 

Thus, Maimonides seems to be assuming that the harshness of the vengeance derives less from the gravity of the offense than from the personality of the avenger. But the intelligent religious personality must not allow itself to be swayed by irrational emotions like rage and vengefulness. Most significantly, if we tolerate or encourage the most innocuous level of venting rage—through cursing or other forms of verbal abuse—then we are effectively opening the floodgates to uncontrollable torrents of violent reprisals and feuding. It was for this reason that the Torah had the foresight to insist that we preempt this destructive pattern before it gets out of hand, by prohibiting the least harmful manifestation of vengeful anger: the harmless cursing of those who do not even realize that they have been cursed.

Maimonides’ point was aptly summarized by Rabbi Bahya bar Asher: “And all this is stated in order to encourage people to be careful about what they say, and not to adopt bad habits. The prohibition is not grounded in the effect it has on the fellow who hears the curse, but on the subsequent behaviour of the curser. If a person can be prudent in this matter with respect to the deaf, it goes without saying that one will act with restraint in the treatment of those who are capable of hearing.”

Not all the Jewish commentators, even among those who took a rational approach to the tradition, shared Maimonides’ certainty that curses cannot really harm their targets. The thirteenth-century author of the popular compendium Sefer Ḥa-Ḥinnukh on the commandments of the Torah resigned himself to the acknowledgment that our limited human intelligence is incapable of grasping the true nature of curses and how they might affect their victims. It is an indisputable empirical fact that most people in the world take curses seriously. 

Furthermore, Jewish tradition shared the philosophers’ assertion that our ability to speak is the most sublime human faculty, the unique ability that elevates us above all other creatures. It is therefore not unreasonable to posit that this divine gift, identified as the divine breath of life that was breathed into man, is imbued with the power to influence others for good or for evil.

Even if the curse’s impact is not of a metaphysical or magical nature, Sefer Ḥa-Ḥinnukh allows that the psychological damage is quite real. Viewed in this way, the Torah may outlaw curses as a form of violent assault. Although the mental anguish caused by a curse might be rooted entirely in the victim’s delusions about its efficacy, it still constitutes a kind of injury. Hence, by discouraging individuals from freely exchanging curses, insults and other forms of verbal abuse, Jewish law is lowering the collective level of volatility, and thereby helping to promote social harmony. 

In his attempt to devise a rational basis for curses, Sefer Ḥa-Ḥinnukh invokes a principle of Maimonidean philosophy, that those elevated souls who have refined their spirits through metaphysical contemplation can achieve remarkable results through the words that they speak. He argues that the Torah’s ban on curses is founded on the premise that this verbal power is real. The author appreciates that this approach is at odds with that of Maimonides who utterly denied the reality of curses.

Each of these approaches has had its supporters among Jewish thinkers. I would like to imagine that if they were to be thrown into a room together, then the disagreements over similar questions of theology, exegesis or religious law would be discussed respectfully, even amicably. Unfortunately, I have too much experience with academic feuding to be completely confident about the prospects.

Nevertheless, I shall try to refrain from uttering curses (even under my breath) against those who violate the norms of civil debate.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, October 23, 2015, p. 10.

• For further reading:
  • Silverberg, David. “‘You Shall Not Curse a Deaf Man.’” pdf. Maimonides Heritage Center, 2005. https://www.mhcny.org/parasha/1030.pdf.
  • Slifkin, Natan. “A Curse Upon Thee!” Blog. Rationalist Judaism, 2010. http://www.rationalistjudaism.com/2010/05/curse-upon-thee.html.
  • Tabory, Binyamin. “Parashat Balak: Kelala (Cursing).” Text. The Weekly Mitzva: Yeshivat Har Etzion, 2013. http://etzion.org.il/en/kelala-cursing.
  • Trachtenberg, Joshua. Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion. Temple Books. New York: Atheneum, 1982.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Symbolic Sarah

by Eliezer Segal

When Alexander the Great established the city of Alexandria in Egypt, to which he proudly attached his own name, he intended it to serve as a showcase for the finest achievements of Greek culture and the conduit through which real civilization (which of course was an exclusively Greek monopoly) could be brought to the unenlightened denizens of the orient.

The Jewish community that developed there assimilated many aspects of the Greek ethos, but for the most part remained loyal to their own religious traditions. This produced a fascinating scholarly synthesis as they learned to blend philosophical rationalism with the study of the Torah.

Most of what we know about the Alexandrian Jewish endeavour in biblical interpretation has reached us in the oeuvre of the first-century C.E. scholar known as Philo Judaeus. His detailed analyses of passages from the Torah offer precious glimpses into the variety and complexity of the exegetical approaches; and he often compares his own readings with those of his contemporaries who were involved in similar projects. 

Probably the most distinctive innovation of the Alexandrian Jewish exegetes was their application of the allegorical method to the sacred text. That is to say, they would explain that certain events or personalities in the Bible should be understood as symbols representing concepts or values. This method, which Greek scholars had applied to the works of Homer, had an inherently subversive aspect to it; if used to excess, it could lead to the denial of the literal truth of the Bible, or (as would later become a major point of contention between traditional Judaism and nascent Christianity) to the abandonment of the commandments after one had grasped their allegorical meanings. Philo himself tried to steer a moderate course in this matter. He criticized the more extreme allegorists who had ceased observing the traditional religious rituals. He seemed to prefer applying the allegorical method only in cases where the literal sense raised interpretative or philosophical difficulties.

We see some remarkable examples of the Alexandrian allegorical approach in Philo’s depictions of the matriarch Sarah. 

In several of his commentaries Philo equates Sarah with the noblest kind of philosophical or theological wisdom. Thus, in a discourse about Sarah’s dismissal of her Egyptian maid Hagar, he contrasts the mistress Sarah with Hagar who is made to symbolize inferior secular culture. Only philosophical learning qualifies for the honour and reverence due to a true “wife” (Sarah) while lesser studies are merely her “handmaidens” (Hagar). As such, after they have served their purpose it is essential to graduate to a higher plane—to send away Hagar—and not remain at the elementary level. In this case, it is likely that Philo’s chose to interpret this episode allegorically because of the moral difficulties raised by its literal plot in such troubling matters as Abraham’s supplanting his wife with a surrogate, and Sarah’s cruel treatment of Hagar. 

When commenting on God’s promise to Abraham that Sarah will bear him an heir—“and I will bless her, and give thee a son from her”—Philo cites no fewer than four different attempts to explain the (ostensibly superfluous) words “from her,” which in the Greek translation (which served as the basis for those commentaries) can have the sense of “outside of her.” Allegorically understanding that Sarah symbolizes the soul in its quest for spiritual perfection, the interpreters explained (in various ways) that the Torah is teaching us how true spiritual wisdom cannot be generated by the individual, but it must be receptive to benevolence from “outside”—from God who generously bestows this wisdom upon us.

Alternatively, in her allegorical guise as the personification of Virtue, Sarah was being depicted as the mother of all good things, where their father is God. Here as well, Philo indicates that he was impelled to interpret the biblical text in an allegorical manner because he felt that the literal meaning—that a woman who was explicitly described as “barren” was able to conceive a child—ran contrary to reason. On the other hand, if we choose to understand that the Torah is not speaking about the historical Sarah but about a symbol of the human soul, which is “barren” as long as it is pursuing wicked thoughts but becomes fruitful when it fortifies itself against the temptations of the flesh, then the story becomes morally edifying.

In fact, it seems that Philo had problems coming to terms with Abraham and Sarah’s stable marriage. According to the Greek philosophical values with which he identified, true philosophers ought to relinquish the pleasures of the flesh and devote themselves entirely to metaphysical contemplation. Women represent erotic temptation, and as such their company should be avoided other than whatever is necessary to produce a family. In keeping with this manner of thinking, Philo explains the Torah’s statement that “it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women” as if it were saying that, as the embodiment of spiritual virtue, she elected to become celibate and voluntarily withdrew from domestic life with her husband. As such, she was now qualified to devote herself to a spiritual “marriage” with God which generated spiritual offspring.

Elsewhere, Philo cites still another allegorical interpretation to that text which he ascribes to certain “natural scientists,” and with which he felt obliged to disagree. They chose to understand that Abraham, the husband, was meant to symbolize the Mind, while Sarah represents Virtue This imagery was suggested by her name which means “princess”—and of course in the spiritual realm nothing governs more powerfully than Virtue. Those scientific interpreters were aware that on the literal, physical plane, women are invariably passive parties who are subordinate to their husbands and receive everything from them. This Greek ideal is not quite in keeping with the active role that is assigned to Sarah in the Torah’s narrative, or with the philosophical doctrine that the Mind is subject to the dictates of Virtue in its pursuit of spiritual perfection. Therefore they found it convenient to construe Abraham and Sarah as allegorical concepts that are outside the norms of human family dynamics. True, in a family setting wives should be dominated by their husbands; but in the world of philosophical concepts Virtue is an active force that exerts a decisive influence on the Mind by bestowing sound moral counsel.

Philo was sympathetic to the basic premise of the scientists’ argument, but was too much of a male chauvinist to countenance a reversal of the gender roles even at an abstract theoretical level. He therefore chose a different solution to the conundrum, by turning the allegory around (arguing that previous interpreters had been misled by the grammatical genders of the operative Greek words). In reality, Philo argued, Abraham symbolized the active power of Virtue, while Sarah was the passive Mind—accurately reflecting the ideal gender hierarchy of a family.

And so—-will the real Sarah please stand up! 

Are you Wisdom, the Soul, Virtue, or Mind?

Although there is no doubt much to be learned from allegorical interpretations of the Torah, I personally prefer to be inspired by our mother Sarah as a complex and very real flesh-and-blood human being.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 6, 2015, p. 10.

• For further reading:
  • Amir, Yehoshua. “The Transference of Greek Allegories to Biblical Motifs in Philo.” In Nourished with Peace: Studies in Hellenistic Judaism in Memory of Samuel Sandmel, edited by Edward Greenspahn, Earl Hilgert, and Burton Lee Mack, 15–25. Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984. 
  • Barrett, C. K. “The Allegory of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar in the Argument of Galatians.” In Rechtfertigung: Festschrift Für Ernst Käsemann Zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by J. Friedrich, W. Pöhlmann, and P. Stuhlmacher, 1–16. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1976. 
  • Belkin, Samuel. The Midrash of Philo. Edited by Elazar Hurvitz. New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1989. [Hebrew] 
  • Borgen, Peder. Philo of Alexandria: An Exegete for His Time. Supplements to Novum Testamentum. Leiden: Brill, 1997. 
  • Niehoff, Maren R. “Mother and Maiden, Sister and Spouse: Sarah in Philonic Midrash.” Harvard Theological Review 97, no. 4 (2004): 413–44. 
  • Sly, Dorothy. Philo’s Perception of Women. Brown Judaic Studies 209. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990.
  • Stein, Edmund. Die allegorische exegese des Philo aus Alexandreia. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 51. Giessen: A. Töpelmann, 1929. 
  • Wegner, Judith Romney. “Philo’s Portrayal of Women: Hebraic or Hellenic?” In “Women Like This”: New Perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco-Roman World, edited by Amy-Jill Levine, 41–66. Society of Biblical LIterature: Early Judaism and Its Literature 1. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991. 
  • Wolfson, Harry Austryn. Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1948.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Go West, Young Jacob!

by Eliezer Segal

Stephen Vincent Benét is a name that is not heard much these days, though some of his short stories still show up in standard anthologies of American Literature. The Pulitzer Prize winning author came from an established American military family that had no apparent Jewish connections. Nevertheless, his interest in portraying and interpreting the American experience include at least one story with a decidedly Jewish theme. “Jacob and the Indians” was first published in the May 14 1938 issue of the Saturday Evening Post, and in the following year was included in Benét’s collection Tales before Midnight. 

The plot concerns the adventures of Jacob Stein, a bookish young Jew from Europe who was making a meagre living as a peddler in Philadelphia. The struggle of the uncouth Ashkenazic newcomers to be accepted by their cultured Sephardic coreligionists is a recurring motif. Determined to earn some more money and impress a young lady, young Jacob ventures out into the wilds of western Pennsylvania to involve himself in the fur trade in dangerously exciting Indian country. The encounter of the naïve talmudic scholar with the wild west is reminiscent of the exploits of Avram Belinski (Gene Wilder’s character) in “the Frisco Kid.” When Jacob returns to the city, he is a rugged frontiersman, and he has become so fascinated with the limitless possibilities of the American west that he is not particularly perturbed to find out that his former “rose of Sharon” for whom he originally undertook his quest has meanwhile been married to another.

Apart from Benét’s general evocation of American society at that time, he clearly did some research into the dynamics of the Jewish community. The sentence structure sometimes reflects foreign rhythms that sound like Yiddish (“To Philadelphia he came”) and the prose is sprinkled with Hebrew and Yiddish expressions, such as “chedar” (not a cheese but an elementary school), “the preacher Koheleth,” “Schnorrer,” impatience expressed by “nu,” and even a female demon named Iggereth-beth-Mathlan—slightly garbled from the talmudic “Agrat bat Maḥlat.” On the other hand, he also inserts some made-up phrases that are intended to sound like Hebrew adages; such as “protection of the strong is like a rock and a well,” or “who lies down in the straw with a dog gets up with fleas” (the latter was probably coined by Benjamin Franklin).

It is likely that the Jacob the hero was based on a certain Jacob I. Cohen (1744-1823), a Bavarian-born fur trader and friend of Daniel Boone who became a leading figure in the Philadelphia Jewish community. Benét’s Jacob Stein was born in the town of Rettelsheim, Germany; as far as I can tell this is a fictitious locality, though Germany would fit the migration patterns of the time. Various speech patterns, customs and idioms that are embedded in the story seem more appropriate to Yiddish-speakers from Poland or Russia.

Another historical personage whom Benét incorporated into his character was Abraham Chapman, a Canadian trader who was captured by Indians in Detroit. As he was being burned at the stake, he asked for something to drink, but the soup that he was given was so scalding that he angrily hurled it at his captors. Such behaviour was unheard of among the Indians, and they presumed that the man was insane; which according to their laws earned him an exemption from execution.

Benét tells a virtually identical story about Jacob Stein in Pennsylvania. Notwithstanding its factual historical basis, like much of Benét’s prose it also evokes biblical associations, notably with the tale of David who feigned madness to save his life from Achish king of Gat when fleeing from King Saul.

Indeed, it is in his skillful use of biblical motifs that I find Benét most fascinating. For example, Jacob Stein had a rival for the heart of his boss’s lovely daughter Miriam Ettelson: Meyer Kappelhuist was a robust Dutch-born Indian trader with a red face and red hairs on the backs of his hands. It was in order to outdo Meyer’s wealth and attractiveness to women that Jacob set out on his westward journey.

Of course for readers of the Bible, Meyer Kappelhuist immediately brings up associations with Jacob’s twin brother Esau, the red-haired, hirsute hunter whose ambivalent relationship with Jacob drove the latter into exile both for personal safety and to find himself a wife. 

The comparison is most evident in Benét’s description of Jacob Stein’s return to civilization. One of the first people he meets is Meyer Kappelhuist. They greet each other civilly, but as in the midrashic accounts that ascribed malicious motives to Esau, Jacob Stein “did not like the look in the red-haired man’s eyes.” When Meyer suggests that they continue their travels together, Jacob cautiously declines the invitation and decides to take a different route, even as the biblical Jacob did with Esau. In Benét’s tale it turned out that Meyer Kappelhuist was scalped and killed by Indians, and Jacob accepted the duty of burying his remains.

The biblical language that most pervades the story of Jacob and the Indians is that which relates to the land itself: Jacob declares his plan to “go forth into the wilderness,” and throughout the story the vast and limitless American frontier is designated by expressions like “wilderness,” “the land of Canaan,” “a view across the Jordan” or “Promised Land.” 

Jacob’s mentor Raphael Sanchez (who seems to act as the author’s voice in the narrative) speaks poignantly of his motives for immigrating to the New World: “It was for the promise—the promise of [William] Penn—that this land should be an habitation and a refuge, not only for the Gentiles.” The Jews will have an equal share in the destiny of this unique new land, a share which must be earned. 

Truly, Benét projected back onto the heroes of his story a vision of America that was messianic. He contrasted it with the rapacious European imperialist powers who seized possession of their colonial territories only to control and exploit their economic riches. America, by contrast, is a land that is cultivated by the hard work of its own residents. “One pays for the land of Canaan; one pays in blood and sweat.” The redemption that lay in the American frontier would benefit not only Jacob’s descendants, but “nations yet to come.”

Indeed, although the young scholar Jacob had received a traditional Jewish education that was vividly steeped in the scriptural imagery of Jerusalem perched atop the Temple mount, Benét describes how that “white city set on a hill” came to be transformed in Jacob’s heart into “a great and open landscape, ready for nations.”

Those of us who remain devoted to the physical city of Jerusalem and to the strengthening of a Jewish homeland on our historic territory will doubtless feel uneasy at the American writer’s co-opting of our deeply held national and religious convictions—though I am certain that they accurately reflect the attitudes of many Jews and Christians in the times of Jacob Stein and of Stephen Vincent Benét. 

Nevertheless, the ideals which they expressed with such articulate passion—of redemption that must be earned through hard labour, and of a nationalism that seeks to share its bounty with all humanity—should still resonate with us, whether on the North American frontier or in our middle-eastern promised land.

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• First Publication:
  • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 20, 2015, p. 13.

• For further reading:
  • Baron, Joseph L., ed. Candles in the Night: Jewish Tales by Gentile Authors. New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1940.
  • Godfrey, Sheldon J., and Judy Godfrey. Search Out the Land: The Jews and the Growth of Equality in British Colonial America, 1740-1867. Montreal & Kingston, London, Buffalo: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1995.
  • Marcus, Jacob Rader. The Jew in the American World: A Source Book. Wayne State University Press, 1996.
  • Reisner, Neil. “Philadelphia.” In The Jewish Traveler: Hadassah Magazine’s Guide to the World’s Jewish Communities and Sights, edited by Alan M. Tigay, 400–404. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1994.
  • Sarna, Jonathan D. “Jacob. I. Cohen.” Dictionary of Virginia Biography. Richmond: Library of Virginia, 2006.
  • ———. “Jacob I. Cohen and the 350th Anniversary of American Jewish Life.” Beth Ahabah Museum and Archives Generations 2 (May 2005): 1, 3, 8, 12, 14.
  • Shea, Laura. In Stephen Vincent Benet: Essays on His Life and Work, edited by David Garrett Izzo and Lincoln Konkle, 92–127. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2002.
  • Vogel, Dan. “Stephen

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My email address is: [email protected]

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