All posts by Eliezer Segal

Miracles—Then and Now

Miracles—Then and Now

by Eliezer Segal

In one of the blessings that are recited before the kindling of the Ḥanukkah lights we praise the Almighty “who performed miracles for us in those days at this time.” Understood simply, it is identifying this day as the anniversary of the events that we are now commemorating.

Some older prayer books have a slightly different text that reads “in those days and at this time.” While this slight difference (a single letter in the Hebrew) does not necessarily alter the meaning, it is also open to a quite different interpretation, as if to say: just as we praise God for the exploits of the past, so do we thank him for his unceasing miracles in the present. 

If the latter is the correct understanding of the blessing’s intention, then it involves a shift between distinct categories of prayer. Indeed, the ancient sages who formulated the Jewish liturgy were very conscious of the different modes in which mortals address the Creator. The central “Eighteen Benedictions” prayer is constructed on the model of a petitioner approaching a human monarch. One should begin the audience by praising the ruler, then set out the various requests, and finally withdraw respectfully with expressions of gratitude.

The Talmud provides little guidance about how to commemorate the festival and its miracle through the wording of the prayer service. The ancient sources state that a summary of the event [me‘ein ha-me’ora‘] should be inserted in the “thanksgiving” blessing, the penultimate blessing in the Eighteen Benedictions service; but they do not specify the wording for that text.

Probably the earliest document we have that contains a text of the Ḥanukkah supplement to the daily thanksgiving blessing is in the work known as “Masekhet Soferim,” a liturgical compendium that was composed around the seventh or eighth century, perhaps in Egypt or Italy. Masekhet Soferim is based largely on the practices that were current in the land of Israel, though it also cites Babylonian traditions. 

Its Ḥanukkah addition goes: “Like the miraculous wonders and salvations of your priests that you performed in the days of Mattathias son of the High Priest Yoḥanan the Hasmonean and his sons—so, O Lord our God and God of our fathers, perform miracles and wonders, and we shall give thanks unto your name eternally.” Clearly it does not posit a hard and fast distinction between gratitude for past mercies and pleas for present and future redemption. Quite the contrary, it sees the two dimensions as inseparably linked and looks forward to future occasions for thanksgiving.

The passage that became the standard Ḥanukkah insertion in the Eighteen Benedictions and in the grace after meals is, of course, the “‘Al Ha-Nissim,” which expresses appreciation for the miracles and exploits that occurred on this day. It contains a summary of the the Hasmonean revolt emphasizing the unlikely victory of the righteous few over the formidable forces of wicked oppressors. Its wording seems to be influenced by the ancient books of Maccabees that were included in the rabbinic scriptural canon. On the other hand, it contains no allusion to the Babylonian Talmud’s legend about the miracle of the oil—a story that was not known to the midrashic traditions or the Jerusalem Talmud. 

The earliest mention of the “‘Al Ha-Nissim” is found in the She’iltot, a Babylonian work from the early eighth century; however other than identifying the passage by its opening formula, it does not actually reveal its content. For that we have to advance to the tenth century, to the Order of Prayer compiled by Saadiah Gaon. That version is virtually identical to the one still recited today; but it includes an addendum noting that “Some add here: ‘…Just as you performed miracles for earlier generations, so may you do likewise for their successors, and bring us salvation in these days as in those days.” 

This sentiment that views the miracles wrought for the Hasmoneans as precursors of the future salvation is in line with the beliefs expressed in Masekhet Soferim, and is consistent with the predilection of the liturgical poets in the holy land to extract numerous possibilities of meaning and thematic associations from every Hebrew word. Their characteristic emphasis on messianic redemption likely provided needed reassurance to the beleaguered Jews under the oppressive Byzantine Christian empire. 

As it happens, the addendum does not dovetail very well with Saadiah’s own approach regarding the requirements of proper Hebrew prayer. In the programmatic introduction to his prayer book, he made it clear that he would not tolerate any rescripting of a blessing that amounted to a subversion of its primary meaning. He insisted that worshipers should be respectful of the authors’ original intentions; and hence the introduction of foreign matter was tantamount to committing the sin of mentioning God’s name unnecessarily. After all, the context in the closing section of the Eighteen Benedictions prayer is the expression of gratitude for past divine favours. That is not the correct setting to plead for future mercies. 

Saadiah made his position clear in connection with the blessing in the daily morning service that praises the Almighty as the creator of the sun and other luminaries. In most current versions, the blessing’s concluding formula is preceded by a line in which light becomes an inspiring symbol for eschatological redemption: “May a new light shine upon Zion and may we all soon merit its radiance”! Saadiah deemed this addition intolerable because the sages who devised the liturgy “did not ordain this blessing over the future light of the messianic era, but rather over the daylight that shines each day, and nothing else… Hence anyone who mentions it ought to be silenced.” He applied the same strict logic to a phrase that many were inserting into the blessing for abundant agricultural years in the Eighteen Benedictions: “and you shall proclaim for your people a year of redemption and salvation.” Metaphoric usages, no matter how stirring, must not be allowed to violate the basic intent of a liturgical text. 

Saadiah was more tolerant when it came to the blessing of the “redeemer of Israel” following the Shema‘. The basic theme of that section is Israel’s redemption from Egypt that culminated in the parting of the Red Sea and the song of Moses. Into this section was inserted a future-directed appeal: “Rock of Israel, arise in support of Israel and redeem, in accordance with your word, Judah and Israel.” Although Saadiah might not have been altogether pleased with this shift from past history to future expectation, the underlying theme of national redemption was not completely incompatible with the blessing’s original purpose. Perhaps he held a similar view about the mingling of past and future directions in the “‘Al ha-Nissim” passage.

A few generations after Saadiah, Rav Hai Gaon argued in support of maintaining a strict distinction between gratitude for past mercies and entreaties for future. He therefore noted that in the Babylonian academies it was not customary to recite the additional sentence in the ‘Al ha-Nissim praying for present and future salvation—even though he was aware that most communities did include it in their rites.

Throughout the medieval era Jewish communities remained divided and vacillating as regards the problematic sentence. Some versions were careful to speak of “giving thanks” for the present and future miracles, making the sentence more appropriate to its context in the blessing for thanksgiving. Eventually, most communities excluded the plea from their prayer books.

In some ways this ritual controversy shines a profound light on the archetypal Jewish experience: Try as we might, it is never an easy task to disentangle our past from our future.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 30, 2018, p. 19.
  • For further reading:
    • Elbogen, Ismar. Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History. Translated by Raymond P. Scheindlin. Philadelphia and New York: Jewish Publication Society and the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1993.
    • Heinemann, Joseph. Studies in Jewish Liturgy. Edited by Avigdor Shinan. Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, the Hebrew University, 1981. [Hebrew]
    • Hoffman, Lawrence A. The Canonization of the Synagogue Service. Studies in Judaism and Christianity in Antiquity 4. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1979.
    • Jacobson, Issachar (Berhnard Salomon). Netiv Binah. 5 vols. Tel-Aviv: Sinai, 1981. [Hebrew]
    • Lieberman, Saul. Tosefta Ki-Feshuṭah: A Comprehensive Commentary on the Tosefta. Vol. 1: Order Zera‘im, Part I. 10 vols. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955. [Hebrew]
    • Mann, Jacob. “Genizah Fragments of the Palestinian Order of Service.” Hebrew Union College Annual 2 (1925): 269–338.
    • Reif, Stefan C. Problems with Prayers: Studies in the Textual History of Early Rabbinic Liturgy. Studia Judaica 37. Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter, 2006.
    • Stein, S. “The Liturgy of Hanukkah and the First Two Books of Maccabees.” The Journal of Jewish Studies 5 (1954): 148.
    • Wieder, Naphtali. “Fourteen New Genizah Fragments of Saadiah’s Siddur Together with a Reproduction of a Missing Part.” In Saadya Studies, edited by Erwin Isak Jakob Rosenthal, 274–83. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1943.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection: The Times of Our Life: Some Brief Histories of Jewish Time, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019

Speed Demon

Speed Demon

by Eliezer Segal

Jewish law establishes limitations about where and how far one may travel and carry on the Sabbaths or holy days. These laws are rooted in the passage in the book of Exodus that tells of the miraculous mannah, the “bread from heaven” that nourished the Israelites during their sojourn in the desert. Mannah would not materialize on the Sabbath, and the people were admonished not to leave their dwellings to look for it: “Abide ye every man in his place, let no man go out of his place on the seventh day.” What may have originated as a warning to trust the divine word was understood by the Jewish legal tradition as a categorical prohibition against traveling beyond a specified distance from one’s place of residence or carrying objects between private and public domains.

Rabbi Ḥanina in the Talmud raised the intriguing question of whether the legal distinctions between the different domains apply only on the surface level; or do they extend above-ground—beyond the elevation of ten hand-breaths that normally defines the upper limit of a private domain? What was at that time a trifling instance of unrealistic rabbinic casuistry would later take on practical relevance for dealing with air rights in our age of aviation and drones.

In its effort to resolve Rabbi Ḥanina’s query, the Talmud cited an incident that occurred in the academies of fourth-century Babylonia. One Saturday morning, a collection of seven statements was expounded before Rav Ḥisda in the town of Sura, and towards the end of that day the exact same statements were cited before Rava in Pumbedita (today’s Fallujah), some 175 km away! The best explanation that the rabbis could produce for that instantaneous transfer of the teachings over such a large distance was by postulating supernatural channels of communication. 

Jewish lore knows of one prominent figure who travels between the earthly and heavenly domains, namely the prophet Elijah. Scripture does not tell of Elijah’s death, but rather of his ascent to heaven in a whirlwind with a chariot of fire. Rabbinic literature relates many conversations between the prophet and Jewish sages, and it was therefore not entirely unreasonable for them to suppose that Elijah had couriered the teachings from Sura to Pumbedita. Since he was of course observant of Jewish law, he could not have walked beyond the permitted limits. Therefore, they initially assumed that he flew the distance (perhaps in a chariot or whirlwind). However, this explanation only works if we accept the premise that there is not any Sabbath no-fly zone in effect above ground level. This reasoning would appear to answer Rabbi Ḥanina’s question.

However, the Talmud rejects that argument. The Elijah hypothesis is not the only plausible way of accounting for the same-day delivery of Rav Ḥisda’s seven statements. The ancient rabbis knew of at least one other figure who could have traversed the distance: “Perhaps it was Joseph the demon who reported them!” Rashi explained that the demon was not subject to the objections leveled against Elijah because he was not Sabbath-observant.

The mention of a demon in an ancient Jewish text is hardly remarkable, since until quite recently virtually every known human culture shared the belief in invisible beings who have to be controlled or conciliated (In our more scientifically advanced civilization we assign similar roles to space aliens, viruses and Google). The Iranian heritage that held sway in Babylonia at that time was particularly rich in its mythology of subversive and malevolent “daevas,” and this is vividly reflected in the Talmud. 

It is nonetheless interesting that the supernatural creature mentioned in this story bears a Hebrew name, and that the venues of his activities were rabbinic academies. It is not clear whether he was motivated by a helpful desire to advance the spread of Torah learning, or if he was colluding in a kind of plagiaristic hacking into proprietary Suran knowledge.

This is not the only place in the Talmud that mentions Joseph the demon. For the most part, he appears as a sympathetic figure, one who makes use of his demonic connections to assist the Jewish sages. Thus, Rav Pappa and Rav quote him as a source of practical first-hand advice about how to protect oneself from the machinations of evil spirits who are ready to attack the unfortunate persons who committed the deadly blunder of imbibing or performing other actions in even-numbered units. 

Jewish rationalists were understandably reluctant to accept this kind of story at face value. The thirteenth-century Provençal scholar Rabbi Menaḥem Meiri asserted that the Talmud’s reference to Elijah was purely figurative; it alluded to a contemporary teacher—albeit one who was capable of leaping between distant towns like the biblical prophet. Similarly, for Meiri Joseph was not literally a demon. Like all such instances in rabbinic literature, that epithet was being employed here as a rhetorical euphemism to indicate a Jew who violated the Sabbath, and perhaps to contrast him with the proverbial “Joseph who honours the Sabbath,” the devout hero of a well-known talmudic tale.

Rabbi Judah the Pious of Regensburg, the foremost figure in the medieval mystical “Ḥasidei Ashkenaz” movement, insisted that not only do demons believe in the Torah, but they even scrupulous in their observance of all the rabbinic laws. When challenged as to how Joseph was able to transmit his information from Sura to Pumbedita without transgressing the Sabbath laws, Rabbi Judah explained that Joseph in fact never left Pumbedita, where he received the data from a fellow demon stationed in Sura who communicated it to him by means of a “long hollow tablet.” 

I am not sure how exactly we are supposed to visualize that ancient communication device. Apparently Rabbi Judah had in mind an ultra-long tube capable of conveying and sustaining a voice over vast distances (He was probably not aware of the actual distance involved). In any case, Rabbi Judah’s disciple Rabbi Isaac Or Zarua‘ challenged his teacher’s explanation, pointing out that as long as there was no Sabbath desecration involved, then there was no reason for the Talmud to abandon its initial hypothesis that it was Elijah who conveyed the information to Pumbedita.

Our knowledge of talmudic Judaism in Babylonia derives almost exclusively from the information contained in the Talmud itself, with very few external archeological artifacts. An interesting exception to this rule is the phenomenon of “incantation bowls.” These are clay bowls whose interior surfaces are inscribed with magical texts in Aramaic, usually written in a continuous spiral beginning from the outer rim. These were intended to restrain or expel hostile demonic beings. The bowls would be placed upside-down so that they would symbolically entrap their supernatural targets. Thousands of these bowls have been unearthed, mostly around Nippur. Most of them are of Jewish provenance, and their wording is often modeled after Jewish legal formulas, especially those that are employed in documents of divorce or excommunications. There are certain rabbis whose names are standardly invoked in the incantations, but these are usually legendary figures who lived long before the time when the bowls were produced. 

However, one of those bowls—after listing an impressive roster of figures who endorse the ban, continues: “…And may you be under the ban of Rav Joseph the demon. And may you be under the ban of all demons and dark ones that are in Babylonia.” 

For the scribe who composed this incantation, Joseph the demon was not merely an observant Jew (as would later be claimed by Rabbi Judah the Pious), but he even qualified for a rabbinic ordination and the title “Rav”—Rabbi. Evidently the two callings were not regarded as mutually contradictory.

And his sermons might not have been original, but they were probably delivered very quickly.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, November 9, 2018, p. 13.
  • For further reading:
    • Halbertal, Moshe. Between Torah and Wisdom: Rabbi Menachem Ha-Meiri and the Maimonidean Halakhists in Provence. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2000. [Hebrew]
    • Harari, Yuval. Early Jewish Magic: Research, Method, Sources. Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, Ben Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, Yad Ben-Zvi, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2010. [Hebrew]
    • ———. Jewish Magic before the Rise of Kabbalah. 1st edition. Raphael Patai Series in Jewish Folklore and Anthropology. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 2017.
    • Harviainen, Tipani. An Aramaic Incantation Bowl from Borsippa: Another Specimen of Eastern Aramaic “Koiné.” Studia Orientalia Edited by the Finnish Oriental Society. Helsinki: Federation of Finnish Learned Societies, 1981.
    • Ilan, Tal. “Rav Joseph the Demon in the Rabbinic Academy in Babylonia: Another Connection between the Babylonian Talmud and the Magic Bowls.” In Let the Wise Listen and Add to Their Learning (Prov. 1:5): Festschrift for Günter Stemberger on the Occasion of His 75th Birthday, edited by Günter Stemberger, Constanza Cordoni, and Gerhard Langer, 381–94. Studia Judaica 90. Berlin ; Boston: De Gruyter, 2016.
    • Levene, Dan. Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts from Late-Antique Mesopotamia: “May These Curses Go Out and Flee.”Magical and Religious Literature of Late Antiquity 2. Leiden: Brill, 2014.
    • Lindbeck, Kristen H. Elijah and the Rabbis: Story and Theology. New York: Columbia University Press, 2010.
    • Montgomery, James Alan, ed. Aramaic Incantation Texts from Nippur. Philadelphia: University Museum, 1913.
    • Secunda, Shai. The Iranian Talmud : Reading the Bavli in Its Sasanian Context. 1st ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014.
    • Shaked, Shaul. “Form and Purpose in Aramaic Spells: Some Jewish Themes [the Poetics of Magic Texts].” In Officina Magica: Essays on the Practice of Magic in Antiquity, 1–30. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005.
    • Shaked, Shaul, James Nathan Ford, and Siam Bhayro. Aramaic Bowl Spells: Jewish Babylonian Aramaic Bowls. Magical and Religious Literature of Late Antiq­uity 20. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013.
    • Steinsaltz, Adin. The Essential Talmud. Translated by Chaya Galai. New York: Basic Books, 1976.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Botanical Blessings

Botanical Blessings

by Eliezer Segal

Until quite recently, rationalist Jewish scholars usually acquired their scientific knowledge from ancient Greek writers like Aristotle, Galen, Hippocrates or Ptolemy. However, when it came to the taxonomy of plants, it seems that they found a more straightforward source in the opening chapter of the Torah. Whereas Aristotle never adanced beyond a crude classification based on the plants’ sizes, the biblical account of the third day of creation spelled out in impressive detail the different kinds of vegetation: “…And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after its kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after its kind.”

Saadiah Ga’on appreciated that the scriptural text effectively reduced the unwieldy diversity of plant life into a more functional list of four basic types. At the bottom of the scale were “grasses” [deshe] that sprout directly from the soil without seeds; as an example he mentions (not quite accurately) hashish. Above them are the “herbs” [esev] that sprout from seeds, such as vegetable greens. At the top are trees, divided into fruit-bearing and non-fruit-bearing types. This classification is not unlike the one—“tree, shrub, undershrub and herb”— proposed by Aristotle’s disciple Theophrastus who is widely considered to be the father of ancient botany (though it is not clear whether Theophrastus’ writings were available to Saadiah’s scholarly milieu).

What was God’s purpose in furnishing his world with this particular assortment of herbs and trees? For the religious and philosophical thinkers of previous generations there was one answer: It was all provided for the convenience of the human race who stand at the pinnacle of the divine project of creation.

The discoveries of modern astronomy and cosmology have made it very hard to argue that we humans can lay claim to a special status in the universe. We are, after all, the inhabitants of what is no more than a micro-speck of dust in a cosmos whose vastness is inconceivable to our limited intelligences. The pre-Copernican creation was, in comparison, a cosier environment. Our planet stood solidly at the centre of a self-contained universe that—albeit huge by our puny mortal standards—was confined to the sun, moon and the planets of our solar system (at least, those planets that had been discovered by then) all of which circled eternally around our own world. This spatial arrangement corresponded to the values that underlie God’s creation according to the traditional outlook. The human residents of the earth occupy the most prestigious rank of all the beings in the universe, and all the other species are subordinate to us.

This basic position was articulated by Aristotle when he wrote that “after the birth of animals, plants exist for their sake, and the other animals exist for the sake of man, the tame for use and food, the wild, if not all, at least the greater part of them, for food and for the provision of clothing and various instruments.”

Saadiah subscribed to the same principle, that the welfare of mankind is the ultimate purpose of all creation. He found support for that idea from the concluding summary in the Bible’s narrative of the production of plants on the third day: “and God saw that it was good,” which he understood in the sense of “good and beneficial to humans.” He also invoked the more explicit statement of the Palmist: “He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herbs for the service of man, that he may bring forth food out of the earth.” The utility embodied in the plants is not confined to providing us with sources of nutrition; but it extends to our clothing (by means of vegetable-based fabrics like linen) and housing in protective wooden structures.

Judaism’s most prominent Aristotelian, Moses Maimonides, shared the view that everything that exists in our world exists solely for the sake of humans. 

Both Saadiah and Maimonides were aware that this claim was not necessarily self-evident with respect to every species of plant that exists in our world. They anticipated people objecting that there are plants that produce toxic or lethal substances (as examples Saadiah mentions opium and spurges), and there are numerous plants that are just inedible. 

To this argument the Jewish thinkers retorted that the impression that some plants are useless is an illusory one, the result of our limited perspectives on the totality of our world. In truth, the divine wisdom that manifests itself in nature dictated that every species of flora and fauna has a beneficial purpose if it is used correctly. As Maimonides put it, ”every grass or every fruit, or any animal species, from the elephants to the worms”—must benefit humans in some manner, even vipers and other snakes. In support for this thesis he noted that there are continual discoveries of herbal nutrients and medicines that had been unknown to earlier generations. Even species that are poisonous when ingested internally can have therapeutic benefits if applied externally. Therefore we have every reason to expect that future scientific discoveries will keep expanding our appreciation of nature’s service to the human race. Saadiah informs us that his Arabic commentary to Genesis includes an extensive digression about the pharmaceutical qualities of “every plant of the field … and every herb of the field”; but apparently that digression has not survived.

The Jewish commentators were not in agreement about how to harmonize the Torah’s narrative of the creation of plants with their own scientific understandings of botany.

Saadiah’s reading of the relevant scriptural passage led him to conclude that the species that came into existence on that first Tuesday were not just seeds that later evolved into full-grown plants; but rather from the outset they appeared simultaneously as fully mature seed-bearing bushes and fruit-laden trees. Perhaps he was also drawing an analogy from the creation of the first humans who supposedly began their lives as mature adults. For that matter, the universe itself had been born out of utter nothingness in a single Big Bang, according to the doctrine to which most Jewish thinkers subscribed in spite of its apparent incompatibility with mainstream secular science.

A very different approach was advocated by Rabbi David Ḳimḥi of Narbonne. He believed that God’s activity on the third day consisted only of preparing the earth with the potential to produce the broad range of vegetation that would serve the needs of the the world’s denizens; even though those creatures would not actually come into existence until the succeeding days. After all, the sun would not be created until the fourth day. According to Kimḥi, the light that was provided on the first day of the creation did not radiate powerfully enough to support vegetation; hence, in his view the world could not yet sustain the growth of plants. The deshe / grass that was made on the third day was, in Kimḥi’s opinion, a kind of primordial generic meta-vegetation that would not evolve into real herbs until after the sun was fully installed the heavens. It was at that point that the soil would produce mature plants, and the trees would grow to their full statures.

Thus, in sharp contrast to Saadiah’s depiction of a world that came into being fully adorned with an assortment of ripened greenery, Kimḥi argued that God’s direct involvement in the creation of plants was restricted to a single exemplar of each species. These prototypes were imbued with the capability to reproduce, evolve and endure until they filled the earth.

Of course, by modern standards the invoking of scriptural texts can no longer qualify as valid botanical science. Nevertheless, the philosophical and theological issues raised by those early scholars can inspire some meaningful deliberations about humanity’s relationships with the other species with whom we share our world. 

Such discussions can yield fruitful results.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, January 19, 2019, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Brody, Robert. Sa’adyah Gaon. Translated by Betsy Rosenberg. Oxford and Portland, OR: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2013.
    • Daiber, Hans. “A Survey of Theophrastean Texts and Ideas in Arabic: Some New Material.” In Theophrastus of Eresus: On His Life and Work, edited by William W. Fortenbaugh, Pamela M. Huby, and A. A. Long, 103–14. Rutgers University Studies in Classical Humanities 2. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1985.
    • Feliks, Yehuda. Fruit Trees in the Bible and Talmudic Literature. Tsimḥe ha-Tanakh ṿe-Ḥazal 1. Jerusalem: Reuben Mass, 1994. [Hebrew]
    • ———. Trees, Aromatic, Ornamental, and of the Forest in the Bible and Rabbinic Literature. Tsimḥe ha-Tanakh ṿe-Ḥazal 2. Jerusalem: Reuben Mass, 1997. [Hebrew]
    • Löw, Immanuel. Die Flora der Juden. Hildesheim: Gd. Olms, 1967.
    • Owens, Joseph. “Teleology of Nature in Aristotle.” The Monist 52, no. 2 (1968): 159–73.
    • Reed, Howard S. A Short History of the Plant Sciences. New Series of Plant Science Books 7. Waltham, MA: The Chronica Botanica Company, 1942.
    • Rosner, Fred, ed. Maimonides’ Introduction to His Commentary on the Mishnah. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1995.
    • Talmage, Frank Ephraim. “David Kimhi and the Rationalist Tradition.” Hebrew Union College Annual, no. 39 (1968): 177–218.
    • ———. David Kimhi, the Man and the Commentaries. Harvard Judaic Monographs 1. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1975.
    • Zucker, Moshe, ed. Saadya’s Commentary on Genesis. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1984. [Hebrew]
    • Urbach, Efraim Elimelech. “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts.” Israel Exploration Journal 9, no. 3 (1959): 149–65.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

What We Can Learn from Haman

What We Can Learn from Haman

by Eliezer Segal

Most of us read the book of Esther as a thrilling and inspiring narrative that explains the origin of the Purim festival. There were however some interpreters who found an additional dimension to the book—as a practical guide to social and political conduct, especially for Jews who have dealings with foreign governments. Questions of this kind were of particular interest to the 13th-14th century Provençal scholar Levi ben Gerson (Gersonides, Ralbag) who appended a list of useful lessons (to‘alot) to every one of his commentaries on the books of the Bible. For Gersonides there are useful lessons that can be found in almost every episode and person in the book of Esther, including some quite surprising habits of effective people.

Esther herself exemplifies the ideal qualities of a master strategist. Before she acted she was careful to weigh all the possibilities and to keep her options open, timing her steps with unhurried deliberation. 

Gersonides understood that by postponing her accusation of Haman until she had hosted him at two banquets, she was allowing for the possibility of his achieving a reconciliation with Mordecai. At the same time (in keeping with an interpretation in the Talmud) she was sowing a suspicion in the king’s mind that her inclusion of Haman on the exclusive guest list stemmed from the fact that the prime minister’s political power now rivaled and threatened that of the king. She was thus giving the king additional time to indulge in paranoia about a potential usurper. And her decision to approach the king while she was in a frail physical state following her three-day fast would also disquiet Ahasuerus’ conscience and make him more solicitous of her predicament—but she nonetheless took care to be attired in her regal finery, in case that would make a more powerful impression.

In pleading before the king, she tactfully linked the collective fate of the Jews to Ahasuerus’ personal devotion to her, effectively stifling any further rejoinders that might otherwise be uttered by Haman. 

Gersonides presents Esther’s meticulously planned multi-pronged strategy as a paradigm from which we can all learn to good advantage.

A person should seek advice from whoever can provide it. This is a verity that Gersonides learns from—of all people—Haman, who sought counsel from “his wise men and Zeresh his wife.” Yes, Gersonides himself was pleased to derive practical lessons even from a brutal villain.

From Mordecai’s conduct we may learn the importance of providing all the relevant facts when we approach a person for advice; as Mordecai was careful to do when he approached Esther seeking help in overturning Haman’s plot. This full disclosure was necessary to enable her to formulate an informed strategy, whether for dissuading Haman or for thwarting him. 

Even the royal feast that provides the setting for the Megillah’s opening scene can teach us valuable lessons about how a graciously hosted social function can promote mutual respect and harmony in a community. 

We can learn from Ahasuerus that any person who has been blessed as he was with “honour of his excellent majesty” should try to share some of that opulence with the general public. The monarch achieved this objective by opening the event “unto both the great and the small,” allowing them all to enjoy the lavish settings of gold and silver, and to drink the finest wines without any distinctions of class. More specifically, when it came to the drinking, “none did compel”; the servers were instructed to “do according to every man’s pleasure.” Gersonides understood this in the sense that the servers should anticipate the tastes of every diner without waiting to be asked. In this way they could avoid potentially awkward situations in which a guest might feel inhibited about making personal requests—which would diminish the overall enjoyment of the event. In order to avoid any such discomfort, the menu should take into account all possible dietary tastes and culinary preferences.

From the fact that queen Vashti convened a separate banquet for the ladies, Gersonides learned that this is indeed the preferred etiquette for all social gatherings. This was not merely a matter of preventing immodest interaction between the sexes, especially when large quantities of alcohol are being consumed—but he insisted that this protocol would enhance the ladies’ enjoyment of the feast, lest the presence of the males inhibit them from freely asking for the things that they really wanted.

This was notwithstanding the fact that Gersonides, a typical representative of his medieval culture, sided entirely with Ahasuerus’ extreme reaction to Vashti’s disobedience, “since it is fitting that women should submit to their husbands’ will, as they were created in order to carry out the wills of the men.”

The king’s handling of the Vashti incident was, in Gersonides’ view, wise and appropriate. Ahasuerus was careful not to act impulsively in the heat of the moment when his judgment might be impaired by rage. We readers are expected to emulate his example, and never take decisive steps before consulting with qualified advisors. Ahasuerus deliberated with seven wise counsellors who were authorities on law and political philosophy—and particularly in the science of astrology that was recognized as an accurate, mathematically based framework for making important decisions. The last name to be mentioned in the list of the royal advisors, Memucan, was presumably the lowest ranking of them; and yet he was the one who spoke out first. This is indicative of the best practices in such councils (as it was in the Jewish Sanhedrin), that the junior members should be encouraged to state their positions first, lest they be intimidated or unduly influenced by the arguments of their superiors.

And we also learn from the Megillah that subjects should always be respectful of their political leaders. This was exemplified in Mordecai’s interactions with the heathen king Ahasuerus. For example, when he was accused of not bowing to the prime minister, he was careful to explain that he was constrained by his religious scruples rather than by any disrespect for a representative of the throne. 

Gersonides contrasts Mordecai’s tact with the fatal miscalculation of Bigthan and Teresh. They had plotted against Ahasuerus in the mistaken expectation that they could evade detection. Mordecai’s service in uncovering the assassination plot was not motivated primarily by an expectation that the favour would be reimbursed, but rather by his principled appreciation of the need for stable government. Nevertheless, he was careful to make sure that Esther reported the incident to the king “in Mordecai’s name”—just in case an occasion should arise some day to repay the favour. 

By the same token, everyone can learn a valuable practical lesson from Ahasuerus’ practice of maintaining an updated list of all those to whom he owed favours. 

Mordecai also scores points from Gersonides for his ability and readiness to set tactical priorities when making crucial decisions. This valuable skill was demonstrated when he encouraged Esther to marry a heathen monarch in what was undoubtedly a transgression of Jewish religious law (Gersonides politely characterizes it as “a slight departure from the ways of the Torah”). He justified it strategically, in consideration of the greater good that she might bring thereby to the nation.

There is thus quite a lot of useful guidance that astute readers can take away from the book of Esther if they listen to it from the proper perspective—useful morsels of practical advice that can provide more lasting satisfaction than even wine or hamentashen.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, February 15, 2019, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Green, Alexander. The Virtue Ethics of Levi Gersonides. Palgrave Macmillan, 2016.
    • Hazony, Yoram. God and Politics in Esther. Second edition. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016.
    • Klein-Braslavy, Sara. Without Any Doubt: Gersonides on Method and Knowledge. Edited by Lenn Schramm. Supplements to the Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy, v. 13. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011.
    • Koller, Aaron J. Esther in Ancient Jewish Thought. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014.
    • Sirat, Colette. “Biblical Commentaries and Christian Influence: The Case of Gersonides.” In Hebrew Scholarship and the Medieval World, edited by Nicholas de Lange. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
    • Walfish, Barry. Esther in Medieval Garb: Jewish Interpretation of the Book of Esther in the Middle Ages. SUNY Series in Judaica. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection: The Times of Our Life: Some Brief Histories of Jewish Time, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019

What We Can Learn from Haman

What We Can Learn from Haman

by Eliezer Segal

Most of us read the book of Esther as a thrilling and inspiring narrative that explains the origin of the Purim festival. There were however some interpreters who found an additional dimension to the book—as a practical guide to social and political conduct, especially for Jews who have dealings with foreign governments. Questions of this kind were of particular interest to the 13th-14th century Provençal scholar Levi ben Gerson (Gersonides, Ralbag) who appended a list of useful lessons (to‘alot) to every one of his commentaries on the books of the Bible. For Gersonides there are useful lessons that can be found in almost every episode and person in the book of Esther, including some quite surprising habits of effective people.

Esther herself exemplifies the ideal qualities of a master strategist. Before she acted she was careful to weigh all the possibilities and to keep her options open, timing her steps with unhurried deliberation. 

Gersonides understood that by postponing her accusation of Haman until she had hosted him at two banquets, she was allowing for the possibility of his achieving a reconciliation with Mordecai. At the same time (in keeping with an interpretation in the Talmud) she was sowing a suspicion in the king’s mind that her inclusion of Haman on the exclusive guest list stemmed from the fact that the prime minister’s political power now rivaled and threatened that of the king. She was thus giving the king additional time to indulge in paranoia about a potential usurper. And her decision to approach the king while she was in a frail physical state following her three-day fast would also disquiet Ahasuerus’ conscience and make him more solicitous of her predicament—but she nonetheless took care to be attired in her regal finery, in case that would make a more powerful impression.

In pleading before the king, she tactfully linked the collective fate of the Jews to Ahasuerus’ personal devotion to her, effectively stifling any further rejoinders that might otherwise be uttered by Haman. 

Gersonides presents Esther’s meticulously planned multi-pronged strategy as a paradigm from which we can all learn to good advantage.

A person should seek advice from whoever can provide it. This is a verity that Gersonides learns from—of all people—Haman, who sought counsel from “his wise men and Zeresh his wife.” Yes, Gersonides himself was pleased to derive practical lessons even from a brutal villain.

From Mordecai’s conduct we may learn the importance of providing all the relevant facts when we approach a person for advice; as Mordecai was careful to do when he approached Esther seeking help in overturning Haman’s plot. This full disclosure was necessary to enable her to formulate an informed strategy, whether for dissuading Haman or for thwarting him. 

Even the royal feast that provides the setting for the Megillah’s opening scene can teach us valuable lessons about how a graciously hosted social function can promote mutual respect and harmony in a community. 

We can learn from Ahasuerus that any person who has been blessed as he was with “honour of his excellent majesty” should try to share some of that opulence with the general public. The monarch achieved this objective by opening the event “unto both the great and the small,” allowing them all to enjoy the lavish settings of gold and silver, and to drink the finest wines without any distinctions of class. More specifically, when it came to the drinking, “none did compel”; the servers were instructed to “do according to every man’s pleasure.” Gersonides understood this in the sense that the servers should anticipate the tastes of every diner without waiting to be asked. In this way they could avoid potentially awkward situations in which a guest might feel inhibited about making personal requests—which would diminish the overall enjoyment of the event. In order to avoid any such discomfort, the menu should take into account all possible dietary tastes and culinary preferences.

From the fact that queen Vashti convened a separate banquet for the ladies, Gersonides learned that this is indeed the preferred etiquette for all social gatherings. This was not merely a matter of preventing immodest interaction between the sexes, especially when large quantities of alcohol are being consumed—but he insisted that this protocol would enhance the ladies’ enjoyment of the feast, lest the presence of the males inhibit them from freely asking for the things that they really wanted.

This was notwithstanding the fact that Gersonides, a typical representative of his medieval culture, sided entirely with Ahasuerus’ extreme reaction to Vashti’s disobedience, “since it is fitting that women should submit to their husbands’ will, as they were created in order to carry out the wills of the men.”

The king’s handling of the Vashti incident was, in Gersonides’ view, wise and appropriate. Ahasuerus was careful not to act impulsively in the heat of the moment when his judgment might be impaired by rage. We readers are expected to emulate his example, and never take decisive steps before consulting with qualified advisors. Ahasuerus deliberated with seven wise counsellors who were authorities on law and political philosophy—and particularly in the science of astrology that was recognized as an accurate, mathematically based framework for making important decisions. The last name to be mentioned in the list of the royal advisors, Memucan, was presumably the lowest ranking of them; and yet he was the one who spoke out first. This is indicative of the best practices in such councils (as it was in the Jewish Sanhedrin), that the junior members should be encouraged to state their positions first, lest they be intimidated or unduly influenced by the arguments of their superiors.

And we also learn from the Megillah that subjects should always be respectful of their political leaders. This was exemplified in Mordecai’s interactions with the heathen king Ahasuerus. For example, when he was accused of not bowing to the prime minister, he was careful to explain that he was constrained by his religious scruples rather than by any disrespect for a representative of the throne. 

Gersonides contrasts Mordecai’s tact with the fatal miscalculation of Bigthan and Teresh. They had plotted against Ahasuerus in the mistaken expectation that they could evade detection. Mordecai’s service in uncovering the assassination plot was not motivated primarily by an expectation that the favour would be reimbursed, but rather by his principled appreciation of the need for stable government. Nevertheless, he was careful to make sure that Esther reported the incident to the king “in Mordecai’s name”—just in case an occasion should arise some day to repay the favour. 

By the same token, everyone can learn a valuable practical lesson from Ahasuerus’ practice of maintaining an updated list of all those to whom he owed favours. 

Mordecai also scores points from Gersonides for his ability and readiness to set tactical priorities when making crucial decisions. This valuable skill was demonstrated when he encouraged Esther to marry a heathen monarch in what was undoubtedly a transgression of Jewish religious law (Gersonides politely characterizes it as “a slight departure from the ways of the Torah”). He justified it strategically, in consideration of the greater good that she might bring thereby to the nation.

There is thus quite a lot of useful guidance that astute readers can take away from the book of Esther if they listen to it from the proper perspective—useful morsels of practical advice that can provide more lasting satisfaction than even wine or hamentashen.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, February 15, 2019, p. 12.
  • For further reading:
    • Green, Alexander. The Virtue Ethics of Levi Gersonides. Palgrave Macmillan, 2016.
    • Hazony, Yoram. God and Politics in Esther. Second edition. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016.
    • Klein-Braslavy, Sara. Without Any Doubt: Gersonides on Method and Knowledge. Edited by Lenn Schramm. Supplements to the Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy, v. 13. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011.
    • Koller, Aaron J. Esther in Ancient Jewish Thought. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014.
    • Sirat, Colette. “Biblical Commentaries and Christian Influence: The Case of Gersonides.” In Hebrew Scholarship and the Medieval World, edited by Nicholas de Lange. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
    • Walfish, Barry. Esther in Medieval Garb: Jewish Interpretation of the Book of Esther in the Middle Ages. SUNY Series in Judaica. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

Dead Men Don’t Sneeze

Dead Men Don’t Sneeze

by Eliezer Segal

As I write this article, the Canadian climate is striving to live up to its reputation for icy frigidity. For many us, this situation expresses itself in sneezes. As I understand it, a sneeze is physical defense mechanism that rids the nostrils of unwanted irritants and germs by forcibly expelling them in a spasmodic release of air and mucus.

Aside from the physiological aspects of sternutation (that is the fancy medical term), the reflex also has a remarkable social characteristic. It triggers a verbal response from those who are present during the explosive event. The most familiar responses according to western etiquette are “(God) Bless you” and “Gesundheit.” 

The popularity of the first expression has diminished with the secularization of our society—though a notorious 2014 Fox News report about a student’s suspension for uttering it in a Tennessee public high school turned out to be inaccurate. 

The “Gesundheit” option, German for “health,” is far more common. This prompts the question: why have English-speaking North Americans adopted a German blessing for this purpose? The best answer anyone has come up with is that it was picked up from German immigrants. Some have suggested that it was learned from Yiddish-speakers, however they were more likely to respond with a variant such as “tsu gezunt.”

Verbal responses to sneezes have a long and intriguing history. Aristotle was already puzzled by this phenomenon, and devoted a brief study to the question of why a sneeze is treated as a sacred event that merits more reverence than other bodily emissions like hiccups, belching or flatulence. He proposed two possible reasons: First of all, the sneeze is produced from the head, the most spiritual part of the human body, rather than the abdomen or chest. Or perhaps it is because sneezing is inextricably bound with the body’s vitality. Not only does it produce a healthy benefit by easing pressures in the cerebral region, but inducing a sneeze was actually a standard medical procedure for determining whether or not a seriously damaged body was still functioning.

Ancient Jews were also accustomed to respond to sneezes—preferring the equivalent of the “Gesundheit” formula to the “Bless you.” As with many practices that they shared with their non-Jewish neighbours, questions arose as to whether they might be proscribed under the Torah’s prohibition of emulating “the ways of the Amorite.”

The rabbinic texts are unclear with regard both to what people were saying in response to sneezes, and whether it was permissible under Jewish religious law to say those words. Some versions read the relevant passage as: “One who says ‘marpe’ is following the way of the Amorite.” However, most early traditions insert the word “not” into the ruling, turning it into a permission rather than a prohibition.

The Hebrew “marpe,” like its Aramaic equivalent “asuta,” means “healing” or “cure” and correlates nicely with our “Gesundheit.”

Quotations from the Jerusalem Talmud in medieval rabbinic works indicate that the textual tradition was still very fluid and a number of sneeze responses were preserved, including Greek phrases like “iasis” (“cure”), “zethi” (“long life”), “sos” or “soizon”  (“be safe”). Similar expressions are known from Greek and Latin works, though they generally used the explicit religious formulation “may Zeus save you.” Other versions of the talmudic texts give the blessing as “asuta” or the good old “le-ḥayyim.”

Rabbi Menahem Meiri, though normally opposed to any practice that smacked of superstition, deemed the blessing after a sneeze unobjectionable because “anything that is said as a blessing is not a superstition, since it is said only by way of prayer…. For this reason they permitted to say ‘asuta’ or ‘ḥayei’ (life).”

Even if the rabbis were ready to absolve the sneeze-blessings from the stigma of idolatrous superstition, there remained other factors that could make them religiously problematic. Rabbi Eleazar ben Rabbi Zadok declared that one should refrain from saying “marpe” after a sneeze because of the waste of Torah study time. He reported that in the house of Rabban Gamaliel they would not say “marpe” out of concern for promoting idleness in the house of study. 

Now this sounds like a very unreasonable and obsessive concern for what amounts to the loss of two syllables worth of learning time. Rashi therefore explained that the interruptions could be somewhat lengthier: while one of the students was conveying the blessing on behalf of the group, they would all have to respectfully suspend their learning so that they could pay attention and answer “Amen.” This could be seriously disruptive in an educational setting that was based on memorization and oral recitation, where one could not set a bookmark or keep a finger on the page to recall where he had stopped. 

Another talmudic ruling forbids responding to a sneeze while one is dining, for fear of a choking hazard. Remember that in the ancient world it was customary to eat while reclining on a couch and so one did have to be especially cautious about such matters.

Other passages take a more positive approach to sneezing, asserting that a sneeze during prayer is a favourable omen, or that it is a symptom of good health. 

The most stunning explanation for why a sneeze merits a blessing is found in Pirḳei deRabbi Eliezer, an early medieval compendium that incorporated many obscure legends and mystical customs.  

Before Jacob’s death, as the patriarch was preparing to bless his grandchildren Ephraim and Manasseh, the Torah says that someone informed Joseph, “Behold, thy father is sick.” The author of Pirḳei deRabbi Eliezernotes that this is the very first instance in scripture in which a person’s death was preceded by an illness. Until that day, death would always come in a single moment. While strolling in the marketplace a person would be overcome by a sudden sneeze—and that would invariably mean that the soul was taking leave of the body through the nostrils, even as the first man had come alive when God “breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.” A sneeze was  thus equated with instant death . 

Old Jacob pleaded before the Almighty to make some changes to the expiration process. Why not introduce an intermediate stage, when physical frailty and illness would make people aware of their approaching demise, so that they will have an opportunity to tend to arrangements for their survivors? 

Jacob’s wish was granted, and he was allowed a period of illness before his actual departure from the world. This was an unprecedented occurrence in human history, and it is in this connection that we are to understand the astonishment of the (unidentified) person who exclaimed to Joseph, “Behold, thy father is sick!” This was the first time since the creation that a human had not died immediately upon their first sneeze.

The Pirḳei deRabbi Eliezerconcludes: “For this reason, whenever somebody sneezes, a person is obligated to say to them “Life!”; for that was when death in the world was transformed into light.”

Sneezes may no longer be fatal, but they can spread some nasty germs. For the sake of everyone’s health, please take care to cover your mouths.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 22, 2019, p. 13.
  • For further reading:
    • Green, Alexander. The Virtue Ethics of Levi Gersonides. Palgrave Macmillan, 2016Askenasy, J. J. “The History of Sneezing.” Postgraduate Medical Journal 66 (1990): 549–50.
    • Lieberman, Saul. Tosefta Ki-Feshuṭah. Vol. 3: Order Mo‘ed. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1962. [Hebrew]
    • Preuss, Julius. Biblical and Talmudic Medicine. Translated by Fred Rosner. Northvale, NJ: J. Aronson, 1993.
    • Weiss, Shemu’el. “Ha-‘Iṭṭush be-ḤaZa”L.” Kotlenu 13 (2010): 557–58. [Hebrew].
    • “Tenn. Claims of Religious Persecution Fall Apart.” Church & State, October 2014.
Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection: Teachers, Preachers and Selected Short Features, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019.

Haggadah Hoppers

Haggadah Hoppers

by Eliezer Segal

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

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

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

Our fascination with those biblical jumpers has a long history. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, April 19, 2019, p. 13.

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

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

The Fiscal Physicist

The Fiscal Physicist

by Eliezer Segal

An iconic cartoon from Gary Larson’s beloved “Far Side” strip displays a lab-coated scientist with unruly hair and a bushy moustache standing before a blackboard filled with elaborate mathematical equations—culminating in a dollar sign. The caption reads:, “Einstein discovers that time is actually money.”

As it happens, there was one area of the great physicist’s career in which the value of money was a major concern—and that was in his fund-raising activity on behalf of the Zionist movement.

To be sure, Einstein had little interest in or knowledge of Jewish culture or religion (aside from a passing infatuation with traditional observance as twelve-year-old), and he remained unsympathetic to most manifestations of nationalism. As early as 1896 he renounced his German citizenship. 

He was alert to the dangerous mushrooming of anti-semitism following Germany’s humiliating defeat in World War I, a debacle that many blamed on betrayal by the Jews. The hostility was not confined to the vulgar mobs, but was very evident in academic circles where it created obstacles to Einstein’s professional advancement and to the reception of his scientific theories. Against this backdrop, he was persuaded by the Zionist argument that the most pragmatic policy for securing the survival of the Jews as an ethnic group was by creating a safe homeland (not necessarily a nation-state) for them. Although he never acquired formal membership in the Zionist organization, he certainly regarded the Zionist program as a more realistic solution than the futile efforts by many of his Jewish colleagues to assimilate into European society. He envisaged Zionism as a national movement that would lack the chauvinism that he disdained in European nationalisms. 

The project that particularly attracted his enthusiasm was that of establishing a Hebrew university in Jerusalem that would serve as an intellectual hub for the Jewish population in Palestine, provide employment for scholars who were being excluded from European institutes and be a showcase for Jewish achievements in scientific and humanistic scholarship (including academic Jewish Studies). 

Einstein’s involvement with the University project coincided with his emergence as an international celebrity when his theories about relativity and gravitation, were confirmed by astronomical observations of a solar eclipse in May 1919. 

In Spring of 1921, a proposed lecture tour of American universities was aborted, evidently to his relief, due to the excessive honoraria he was demanding (partly to pay for an expensive divorce settlement), Shortly afterwards, Einstein consented to another U.S. tour that would include some stops at universities—only this one was to be a fund-raiser on behalf of the Zionist movement in the company of another respected Zionist scientist, the chemist Dr. Chaim Weizmann. In order to join that tour he had to cancel his scheduled participation in the important Solvay physics congress in Brussels. After expressing his initial discomfort at this mercenary exploitation of his celebrity status, he consented nonetheless—uncharacteristically—to submit to the directives of the movement to which he had now committed himself.

The excursion through the American “Dollaria” (as he referred to it derisively) was permeated throughout by conflicting and competing interests; such as whether the funds were to be collected primarily for the Hebrew University (as Einstein would have preferred) or for the more general needs of Palestinian settlement (as others expected). Issues of that sort exacerbated a conflict between the two strong-willed Zionist leaders: the European Weizmann and his American counterpart Louis Brandeis, each with a distinctive vision of how the movement should be directed. The rivalry between Weizmann and Brandeis became acrimonious, as Brandeis accused Weizmann of siphoning off university donations to other projects. 

Einstein was well aware that by participating in the American tour he was serving as window-dressing for the collection of donations, but stated that he was pleased to do so in order to help the plight of persecuted Jews and for the sake of the Zionists “who have to beg for dollars for the educational institutions in Jerusalem, for which I must serve as famed bigwig and decoy.” Although he was also interested in cultivating contacts with American scientists, he generally gave priority to his fund-raising activities. For that purpose it was more important to direct his time and energies toward wealthy benefactors than to brilliant scholars. 

When Judah Magnes, who would later serve as the Hebrew University’s president, tried to organize a meeting of intellectuals to discuss the creation of the new university, Einstein made it clear that he had no time for theoretical discussions, and would only participate if they invited influential persons who could be solicited for donations. Magnes elected to forego that meeting.

The impact of Einstein’s visit on the American populace, and especially the Jews, has been compared aptly to that of a rock star. Many thousands thronged into the streets to view the motorcade carrying the legendary genius—though his hosts, suspicious of his independent spirit, allowed him few opportunities to address his admirers at any length. In addition to the standard New York thoroughfares along which heroes were customarily paraded, Einstein’s cortege was diverted through the immigrant tenements of the city’s Lower East Side where the lower-class Jews were unrestrained in cheering for this quintessential symbol of their ethnic pride at a time when they were being subjected to hatred or ridicule.

In his determination to protect the resources of the Jerusalem university, the physicist convened (to the apparent frustration of Weizmann) a meeting of potential donors for that specific cause. By isolating this educational project he wished to attract contributors who were not otherwise sympathetic to the Zionist objectives; and he made special efforts to invite several such figures to the organizing meeting at the Hotel Commodore. Perhaps as a result of the squabbling between Weizmann and Brandeis, Einstein did not achieve the desired response, and it is not certain whether that meeting ever took place.

In his subsequent assessment of his American tour, the physicist noted frankly the lessons he had learned about success and failure in the precarious world of Jewish philanthropy.

As it turned out, the simple Jewish masses proved themselves unstinting in their enthusiasm to make financial sacrifices for a worthy purpose. So too, the American Jewish Physicians Committee contributed with outstanding generosity to the establishment of the proposed medical faculty. There was however considerable disappointment when it came to the non-Zionist Jewish millionaires who were arguably the main target of Einstein’s fund-raising efforts. They could not be roused to lend their support even to an ostensibly non-political institute that was to be devoted to research and education.

Indeed, Einstein had to learn that there is no unified field theory that can predict how people will respond to appeals for support, There are numerous economic, psychological, ideological and religious factors that influence their generosity—and the results can be subject to surprising degrees of relativity.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, May 17, 2019, p. 9.

  • The Jewish Free Press    , Calgary, May 17, 2019, p. 9.
  • For further reading:
    • Ashkenazi, Ofer. “Zionism and Violence in Albert Einstein’s Political Outlook.” Journal of Jewish Studies 63, no. 2 (2012): 331–355. 
    • Berlin, Isaiah. “Einstein and Israel.” In Personal Impressions, edited by Henry Hardy, Third Edition., 66–77. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2014.
    • Goldstein, Niv. “Albert Einstein’s Early Zionist Involvement, 1918‒1920.” Israel Affairs 23, no. 4 (2017): 613–625. 
    • Gutfreund, Hanoch. “How Albert Einstein Helped Shape The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.” HuffPost(blog), 2015. 
    • Isaacson, Walter. Einstein: His Life and Universe. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2007.
    • ———. “How Einstein Divided America’s Jews.” The Atlantic Monthly 304, no. 5 (2009): 70–74.
    • Jerome, Fred. Einstein on Israel and Zionism: His Provocative Ideas about the Middle East. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2009.
    • Parzen, Herbert. The Hebrew University, 1925-1935. New York: Ktav, 1974.
    • Rosenkranz, Ze’ev. Einstein before Israel: Zionist Icon or Iconoclast?Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011.
    • Rowe, David E., and Robert J. Schulmann. Einstein on Politics: His Private Thoughts and Public Stands on Nationalism, Zionism, War, Peace, and the Bomb. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007.

My email address is: [email protected]

Prof. Eliezer Segal

This article is included in the collection: The Times of Our Life: Some Brief Histories of Jewish Time, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019

A Rocky Revelation

A Rocky Revelation

by Eliezer Segal

As Moses prepared to make his descent from Mount Sinai to deliver God’s law to the people, the Bible states that the Almighty provided the prophet with “two tables of testimony, tables of stone, written with the finger of God.” The image of a text etched by a divine finger is a powerful expression of the immediate connection between the Torah and its author. (Who can forget that fiery 1956-vintage special-effects finger that carved the commandments in the Cecil B. Demille film?) Ancient synagogue art such as the Beit Alpha mosaics and the Dura Europos frescoes, though generally wary about portraying God with physical limbs, did permit the iconographic convention of a divine hand emerging from the celestial firmament.

Rationalist interpreters of Judaism were particularly uncomfortable with any graphic representation of a human-shaped God. They held that the authentic supreme being whose existence is proven from the study of science and philosophy is entirely without visible or tangible form, human or otherwise; and to suggest that the deity has hands or fingers would be idolatrous heresy.

The most influential proponent of philosophical Judaism, Moses Maimonides, therefore opposed a literal understanding that the tablets containing the ten commandments were etched by “the finger of God.” In his Guide of the Perplexed he argued that the Bible’s designation of the fashioning of the tablets at Sinai as “the work of God” was actually meant to imply no more than that the stones were products of nature—in the same way that all natural phenomena ultimately derive from the divine “first cause”—rather than a specific act of supernatural craftsmanship. For Maimonides God’s greatness lies in his creation of the eternally immutable laws of nature and not in the capricious suspension of those laws by means of miracles.

As regards writing with the finger of God, Maimonides adduced several instances from scriptural Hebrew where “finger” is employed as a metaphoric equivalent for “word.” Accordingly, it means that the tablets were written by the word or command of God, which in turn (since God does not have the physiological vocal structure that generates human language) means that it conformed to the divine will and intention.

The fourteenth-century Catalan scholar Rabbi Moses Narboni, author of an important commentary to the Guide, brought a remarkable piece of personal experience to support Maimonides’ claims about the natural origins of the stone used in Moses’s tablets. He cited a tradition to the effect that the name “Sinai” was derived from the Hebrew “s’neh,” referring to the [burning] bush that Moses had encountered on that mountain at the outset of his prophetic calling. 

In a meeting with one of the notables of Barcelona’s distinguished Ibn Ḥisdai family, Narboni was shown a rock that had been brought from the Sinai region and contained arcane patterns resembling a bush. Most wondrous was his discovery that no matter how many times he would split the rock, the image of the same perfectly drawn bush would be discernible on each of the resulting fragments. Narboni found immense satisfaction in the realization that the existence of such a rock in the natural environment of Sinai confirmed Maimonides’ theory about the origin of the tablets of the covenant. 

Subsequent scholars were fascinated with Narboni’s report. Several of them simply copied it in their own discussions of the passage in Maimonides’ Guide (without necessarily crediting their source). Rabbi Samuel Ibn S’neh Ẓarẓa of Valencia took the trouble to track down Narboni’s rock, which had since been relocated along with its owners to Perpignan, evidently to escape the outbreak of the Black Plague in Barcelona. As it happens, Rabbi Samuel related that he himself had adopted the Hebrew epithet S’neh (bush) as the equivalent of his Spanish name “Zarza,” possibly of Arabic origin, that has a similar meaning.

The volatile Rabbi Jacob Emden of Altona, ever an opponent of philosophy and of the Guide of the Perplexed (Emden questioned the attribution that heretical tome to a rabbinic scholar of Maimonides’ stature), quoted Narboni and other writers who invoked the Sinai stones in support of a naturalist reading of the biblical narrative. However he dismissed that approach as so much superfluous wind and serpentine venom. Those arrogant rationalists were simply unable to appreciate the profound mysteries of creation, making a mockery of the miracles wrought by our all-powerful God.

A very different attitude was that of the impoverished Lithuanian Talmud student Solomon ben Joshua. His encounter with Maimonides’ ideas inspired such admiration that he changed his name to Salomon Maimon and moved to Berlin to become a respected philosopher. In his commentary to the relevant passage in the Guide of the Perplexed, Maimon cited Narboni’s story about the stones from Sinai. Not only did he trust Narboni as a reputable scientist, but he told of his personal experience of having seen stones that were imprinted with natural graphic designs. On this basis, he speculated that the biblical tablets must have been inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics, where each one of a vast range of pictograms represents a complete idea; or perhaps with the recently introduced Canaanite alphabetical script in which a small number of phonetic signs can be combined into unlimited numbers of words. In those times such scripts were usually understandable only by the priestly caste. However, “after our master Moses sculpted the two stone tablets out of the mountain and found in them this wondrous writing, he explained to the people the meaning of that script which had hitherto been indecipherable for them.”

All the claims we have seen so far were based on second-hand evidence, whether on rocks that were purported to come from the Sinai, quotations from earlier authors, or comparisons to analogous phenomena. A somewhat stronger case was made by the nineteenth-century traveler Jacob Saphir of Jerusalem. Saphir reported that the region around Jabal Musa (the mountain traditionally identified as Sinai) is strewn with the rocks that are known in Arabic as “‘Uṣ Sinai.” The stones are easily mistaken for wooden boards and the Arabs do in fact use them for the construction of houses. Saphir related that what he initially took to be coloured flowers and grasses spread across the terrain turned out on closer inspection to be delicately shaped veined stones that crumbled at his tread. 

Well, this landscape of floral rocks is starting to sound like some kind of fabled fairy-land or an elaborate theme park exaggerated by religious credulity. It is not quite obvious how it supports Maimonides’ thesis that the etching of Moses’ tablets was not the product of a specific divine act. 

The simple truth, however, is that this phenomenon can be explained according to the hard facts of geology. The stones described by Rabbi Moses Narboni and Jacob Saphir were in reality instances of a class of materials known as “manganese dendrite” wherein symmetrical tree-like markings (often mistaken for fossils) appear in rocks, especially limestone, as a result of chemical and physical processes of manganese oxide flowing through porous rocks. Like so many designs in nature, especially plants, these usually have the appearance of the intricate mathematical forms known as fractals. Their distribution follows the model of crystals that repeat their patterns on different scales. This is fully consistent with Narboni’s observations of how the bush images were replicated when he split the stone into pieces.

Whether we approach it as science or miracles, traditionalists like Rabbi David Solomon Eibenschutz of Soroki, Moldavia knew how to derive valuable spiritual lessons from the way nature linked the simple rock fragments to a lowly bush and to the inconspicuous Mount Sinai, creating an appropriate setting for the revelation of the Torah through the meek prophet Moses. All this underscores the principle that pride and arrogance are not conducive to learning. 

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary,June 7, 2019, p. 13.
  • For further reading:
    • Atlas, Samuel H. From Critical to Speculative Idealism: The Philosophy of Solomon Maimon. The Hague: Nijhoff, 1964.
    • Beit-Arié, Malachi. “iggeret me-‘Inyan “Aseret ha-Shevaṭim me’et R’’’ Avraham ben Eli‘ezer Ha-Levi ha-Meḳubbal mi-Shenat RP”Ḥ.”’” Kovez Al Yad 6, no. 2 (1966): 369–78.
    • Hayoun, Maurice R. Moshe Narboni. Texts and Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Judaism 1. Tübingen,: Mohr, 1986.
    • Jospe, Raphael. “The Stone and the Bush.” Cathedra for the History of Eretz Israel and its Yishuv 48 (1988): 191–94. [Hebrew]
    • ———. Torah and Sophia: The Life and Thought of Shem Tov Ibn Falaquera. Vol. Monographs of the Hebrew Union College. 11 vols. Cincinnati and Hoboken: Hebrew Union College Press Distributed by Ktav Pub. House, 1988.
    • Kaufmann, David. “Shullam’s Report of the Burning of Samuel Zarza: A Legend Based on a Name.” The Jewish Quarterly Review, Old Series, 11, no. 4 (1899): 658–62.
    • Melamed, Yitzhak Y. “‘Let the Law Cut through the Mountain’: Salomon Maimon, Moses Mendelssohn, and Mme. Truth.” In Höre Die Wahrheit, Wer Sie Auch Spricht, edited by Lukas Muehlethaler, 70–76. Schriften Des Jüdischen Museums Berlin 2. Göttingen and Bristol, Conn.: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014.
    • Potter, Russell M., and George R. Rossman. “Minerology of Manganese Dendrites and Coatings.” American Mineralologist 64 (1979): 1219–26.
    • Schacter, Jacob J. “Rabbi Jacob Emden, Philosophy, and the Authority of Maimonides.” Tradition27, no. 4 (1993): 131–39.
    • Socher, Abraham P. The Radical Enlightenment of Solomon Maimon: Judaism, Heresy, and Philosophy. Stanford Studies in Jewish History and Culture. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006.

My email address is: [email protected]

This article is included in the collection: The Times of Our Life: Some Brief Histories of Jewish Time, Alberta Judaic Library, 2019

From Brine to Brain

From Brine to Brain

by Eliezer Segal

Rabbi Ezekiel Landau of Prague was one of the most respected halakhic authorities and communal leaders in eighteenth-century Europe. Like many rabbinic authors he is usually referred to by the title of his most famous book, the “Noda‘ Bi-Yhudah” [“In Judah he is known”], a collection of responsa that was published in two editions, in 1776 and 1811. 

The latter volume was actually published posthumously by Ezekiel’s sons, one of whom, Samuel Landau, contributed a preface to the collection. In that preface Samuel spoke of his indebtedness to his illustrious father. This led him to discuss the various qualities that children inherit from their parents. In that context he expounded a saying of Rabbi Akiva from the Mishnah: “The father transmits to the son beauty, strength, wealth, wisdom and longevity.”

Rabbi Samuel had no problem with the premises that physical traits are transmitted by heredity, or that children are usually born into economic circumstances that were shaped by their parents. He was however bothered by the Mishnah’s implication that wisdom is inherited in a manner analogous to the genetic inheritance of physiological traits.

Now this objection could be easily resolved if we applied it to Torah education and scholarship: nobody would dispute that children who are raised in an environment of religious learning are far more likely to excel in their ability to master the intricacies of the traditional rabbinic curriculum. But Rabbi Landau preferred not to take this easy way out. He insisted that the Mishnah is not speaking only of religious learning, “but in other matters there is knowledge in all his ways, in all his endeavours.” Evidently he is applying the statement in a generic sense to a person’s inborn intelligence, in a way that makes it comparable to the traits of physical beauty and strength to which it is being juxtaposed.

This led the good rabbi to digress into some intriguing speculation about the physiological and chemical sources of human intelligence. For that purpose, he adduced data from the realm of biochemistry. He noted that scientists had broken down the contents of the human body into four main constituents: water, oil, lime and salt. Furthermore, he reported that experimental research revealed a fascinating fact—that the bodies of persons who were recognizable in their lifetimes for their intellectual acumen and higher intelligence contained a higher proportion of salt.

Now, Rabbi Samuel Landau was quite sympathetic, especially during his younger years, to the modernist trends that were taking root in European Judaism in his day. He supported Rabbi Moses Mendelssohn’s translation of the Bible into literary German and encouraged parents to provide their children with secular education. He also supported the publication of some introductory scientific texts translated into Hebrew by Enlightenment advocates. Nevertheless, his statements about the chemical composition of the human organism and the effects of salt remain surprising, to say the least.

I claim no expertise in the history of eighteenth- or nineteenth-century science, but I was unable to track down any authority, respectable or otherwise, who identified the ingredients that Rabbi Landau names. A more plausible approximation can perhaps be reached if we allow for the fact that Hebrew did not yet possess a consistent set of translations for chemical substances. Thus, what he called oil (shemen) might well refer to fats or proteins, and “limestone” to calcium and its compounds. This would not be totally removed from our current science that lists the body’s most common molecular types as water (at nearly 75%), protein, fats (or lipids), calcium (hydroxylapatite) and carbohydrates. Nevertheless, glaringly absent from the list are sodium, chlorine or sodium chloride [ = salt], which account for just 0.4% of the human body, whether of geniuses or others. Maybe Rabbi Landau misheard something that a doctor had told him.

Nonetheless there is a more indirect link between salt and intelligence levels. The practice of injecting iodine into consumer salt was introduced in the United States around 1924, primarily to prevent the widespread occurrence of goitre in midwestern states. The innovation also led to a 3.5% increase in the I.Q.s of those who were using iodized salt.

Many forms of natural salt do in fact contains small amounts of iodine, though not in sufficient proportions to produce the desired benefits. It seems possible (and I must again disclose my lack of credentials in the area) that—like so many foods that have had their nutrients processed out of them until we must artificially restore them through vitamin supplements and the like—the salt available in eighteenth-century Europe did contain enough natural iodine to affect intelligence to a degree that was apparent to scientists. It’s a long shot, but not impossible.

At any rate, Rabbi Landau was so delighted with his discovery that he used it to explain some additional passages in the Talmud. For example, the rabbis dealt with a situation where a father only had enough resources to provide an education for one person, and both parent and child were in need of learning. Whose claim is given priority? The sages ruled that the father has first claim, but Rabbi Judah added that if the son clearly demonstrates special educational potential, then he is given preference. The wording of Rabbi Judah’s stipulation is that the boy is “memullaḥ”—literally: salted.

The word memullaḥ is a familiar one to speakers of modern Hebrew. It is used as the equivalent of the English “seasoned” and is usually applied to shrewd traders. However, students of the Talmud in earlier times found it quite puzzling. The context in the Mishnah implies that it refers to intellectual acuity, but what does that have to do with salt? Rabbi Akiva Eiger had suggested an alternate reading there of: “memulla,” in the sense of “stuffed” with knowledge or virtues. That usage is attested in texts of the ethical treatise Derekh Eretz Zuṭa which states that “Torah scholars are accustomed to be humble, of lowly spirit, eager and memulla.” 

Rabbi Landau defended the reading “memullaḥ” which he adduced as evidence for the rabbis’ acknowledgment that cleverness and understanding can result from a higher proportion of salt in a person’s physiological make-up.

Similarly, there are a number of places in the Talmud where a teacher offers to answer a student’s question “when you measure me out a kor of salt.” Rashi comments on some of these cases that the retort was meant tongue in cheek (presumably because it is inappropriate to accept a reward for sharing Torah insights). On the surface, this seems like an innocent example of the kind of menial chores that a disciple might have performed for his master in times when the acquisition of salt entailed more than removing a box from a shelf (in similar situations the talmudic demand involved carrying the teacher’s garments to the bath house). By noting the association between salt and wisdom (for which he provided additional examples), Rabbi Bezalel Zev Safran of Bacau, Roumania, was able to discern a more pointed symbolism to the saying, as implying: even if you were to elevate your intelligence by increasing your salt intake, you would not be able to solve this problem!

But not all mentions of salt in Hebrew texts are equal. Take for example the Hebrew word for sailor, “mallaḥ,” which appears to allude to the briny waves upon which they travel. 

And yet linguists have shown that the word has nothing to do with salt. It originated in Sumerian and crept into biblical Hebrew via Akkadian. This is consistent with the fact that the ancient Israelites did not do much of their own maritime travel and relied on foreigners, especially the Phoenicians, for those services.

Like so many attractive theories, it is advisable to take these ideas about the mental benefits of salt with a grain of …er, intelligence.

  • First Publication:
    • The Jewish Free Press, Calgary,September 9, 2019, p. 14.
  • For further reading:
    • Feyrer, J., D. Politi, and D. Weil. “The Cognitive Effects of Micronutrient Deficiency: Evidence from Salt Iodization in the United States.” Journal Of The European Economic Association15, no. 2 (2017): 355–387.
    • Flatto, Sharon. “A Tale of Three Generations Shifting Attitudes toward Haskalah, Mendelssohn, and Acculturation.” In Jewish Culture in Early Modern Europe : Essays in Honor of David B. Ruderman, edited by Richard I. Cohen, Natalie B. Dohrmann, Adam Shear, and Elchanan Reiner, 294–306. Hebrew Union College Press and University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014.
    • Kestenberg-Gladstein, Ruth. Neuere Geschichte der Juden in den böhmischen Ländern-Schriftenreihe wissenschaftlicher Abhandlungen des Leo Baeck Instituts 18. Tübingen, West Germany: JCBMohr Paul Siebeck, 1969.
    • Kieval, Hillel J. Languages of Community: The Jewish Experience in the Czech Lands. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.
    • Kogman, Tal. “Science and the Rabbis: Haskamot, Haskalah, and the Boundaries of Jewish Knowledge in Scientific Hebrew Literature and Textbooks.” The Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 62 (November 1, 2017): 135–49.
    • Kutscher, Edward Yechezkel. Words and Their History. Jerusalem: Kiryath-Sepher, 1974. [Hebrew]
    • Donald G. Mcneil, Jr. “In Raising the World’s I.Q., the Secret’s in the Salt.” The New York Times, December 16, 2006.
    • Tur-Sinai, Naphtali H. Milim Sheʼulot Bi-Leshonenu: Pirḳe Lashon La-ʻam. Jerusalem: R. Mas, 1938. [Hebrew]
    • Wunder, Meir. Meorei Galicia: Encyclopedia of Galician Rabbis and Scholars. Vol. 3. 6 vols. Jerusalem: Makhon le-hantsaḥat Yahadut Galitsyah, 1978. [Hebrew]

My email address is: [email protected]