A Life of Psalms in Jewish Late Antiquity 9781512824186, 9781512824193

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A Life of Psalms in Jewish Late Antiquity

JEWISH CULTURE AND CONTEXTS Published in association with the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania

Series Editors: Shaul Magid, Francesca Trivellato, Steven Weitzman A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

A LIFE OF PSALMS IN JEWISH LATE ANTIQUITY

A. J. Berkovitz

u n i v e r s i t y o f p e n n s y lva n i a p r e s s philadelphia

Copyright © 2023 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 https://­w ww​.­pennpress​.­org/ Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5128-2418-6 eBook ISBN: 978-1-5128-2419-3 A Cataloging-in-Publication record is available from the Library of Congress

 This book is dedicated to two individuals who passed before it could appear in print: To Ma­ya Berkovitch, my ­mother, the pious Psalmist. She completed the book of Psalms ­every week and passed with a Psalter at her bedside. To Ben Berkovitz, our firstborn son. No lament recorded in the Psalter truly captures our heartache. May the angels who sing the joyful words of David serenade you in the world to come.

Contents

List of Abbreviations Introduction

ix 1

Chapter 1. Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

15

Chapter 2. Reading a Material Psalter

48

Chapter 3. Singing Psalms

74

Chapter 4. Reciting Psalms in Piety and Magic

106

Conclusions and Prospects. The Other Lives of Psalms

149

Notes

155

Bibliography

229

Index

253

Acknowl­edgments

261

Abbreviations

I cite Psalms throughout the book using the Masoretic chapter numbers. In line with NJPS and against NRSV, I treat Psalm superscriptions as verse 1, as opposed to verse 0. Additionally, a capital Psalms typically refers to the book of Psalms or a specifically designated Psalm, such as Psalm 1. The lowercase psalms refer in a general manner to poems called psalms. In citation and abbreviation, I have generally followed the rules set forth in the most recent edition of The Chicago Manual of Style. I do not represent aleph and ayin at the beginning or end of a transliteration u ­ nless ­doing so is required for clarity and the letters ­were historically part of the Hebrew root. Below, I render in full the abbreviations that are not easily intuited by a nonspecialist reader. Ant. Avod. Zar. b. B. Bat. B. Metz. Ber. Bikk. CCSL CSEL Epist. Eruv. Gen. Rab. Giṭ. Ḥag. Ḥul. Hist. eccl. Kel. Ket.

Antiquities Avodah Zarah Babylonian Talmud Bava Batra Bava Metzia Berakhot Bikkurim Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Epistle Eruvin Genesis Rabbah Giṭṭin Ḥagigah Ḥullin Ecclesiastical History Kelim Ketubot

x

Lam. Rab. Lev. Rab. m. Maʿas. She. Maksh. Meg. Menaḥ. Mid. Ps. Moʿed Qaṭ. MT Nat. Ned. Nid. p. PdRK PG Pesaḥ. Pesiq. Pet. PL Qidd. R. X b. Y Rab. Rosh Hash. Sanh. SC Shab. Shev. Sof. Suk. Soṭ. t. Tg. Taʿan. Tam. Tanḥ. Yad. Yeb.

Abbreviations

Lamentations Rabbah Leviticus Rabbah Mishnah Maʿaser Sheni Makshirin Megillah Menaḥot Midrash Psalms Moʿed Qaṭṭan Masoretic Text Nathan Nedarim Niddah Palestinian Talmud Pesiqta deRav Kahanah Patrologia Graeca Pesaḥim Pesiqta Petiḥta Patrologia Latina Qiddushin Rabbi or Rav X son of Y Rabbah Rosh Hashanah Sanhedrin Sources chrétiennes Shabbat Shevuot Soferim Sukkah Soṭah Tosefta Targum Taʿanit Tamid Tanḥuma Yadaim Yebamot

Introduction

In Jewish collective memory, the golden age of the Psalter lies firmly in the distant past, when the First and Second T ­ emples dominated the architecture of Jerusalem and Jewish life. The Levites would stand atop a podium and chant David’s lyrical poems. They would drown out the bleats and screams of sacrificial animals with the sounds of sacred ­music composed by “Israel’s sweet singer” (2 Sam. 23:1).1 The Babylonians, and then Romans, not only exiled Israel when they razed the ­temple; they silenced the sound of ­music. They transmuted the book of Psalms from the ­temple’s acoustic backdrop into a collection of edifying poems. With messianic redemption comes the promise that the Psalms w ­ ill once again claim its rightful place as the t­ emple’s songbook. S. Y. Agnon (1887–1970), Israel’s sweet writer, expressed a version of this memory during his Nobel Laureate ac­cep­tance speech on December 10, 1966: As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem. In a dream, in a vision of the night, I saw myself standing with my brother-­Levites in the Holy ­Temple, singing with them the songs of David, King of Israel, melodies such as no ear has heard since the day our city was destroyed and its ­people went into exile. I suspect that the angels in charge of the Shrine of M ­ usic, fearful lest I sing in wakefulness what I had sung in dream, made me forget by day what I had sung at night; for if my brethren, the sons of my ­people, w ­ ere to hear, they would be unable to bear their grief over the happiness they have lost. To console me for having prevented me from singing with my mouth, they enable me to compose songs in writing.2

2

Introduction

Agnon, whom we ­will meet again, envisions the Psalms at both its apex and nadir. During a fleeting and forgotten dream, “a vision of the night,” he finds himself transported to Jerusalem to sing psalms with his fellow Levites. He does not tell us w ­ hether he sings in the Jerusalem of the Third T ­ emple or in the city of one of the previous two. In mythological terms, it does not m ­ atter. As he awakes to the pre­sent, however, he mercifully forgets. Exile makes psalmody impossible. The lasting memory of David’s melodies would lead to unbearable grief. Instead, Agnon completely elides the Psalms. In place of singing David’s compositions in exile—­perhaps actualizing, at his current historical moment, the Psalmist’s lament in Ps. 137:4, “How can we sing the Lord’s song on foreign soil?”—he finds comfort by writing songs of his own, that is, his stories and novels. As with most instances of collective memory, this repre­sen­ta­tion of the Psalms is only partially true.3 The sound of psalms, for example, reverberated loudly within the halls of the synagogue during Agnon’s day.4 At the same time, the memory points to one slice of the complex history and networks of meaning that accompanied the Psalms as it passed from the hands of one generation to the next. By tethering the glory of the Psalter to the Jerusalem ­Temple, this memory raises a broader question, which animates each page that follows: What did the Psalms come to mean, and what roles did it play in Jewish intellectual, religious, cultural, and social life in the aftermath of “the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land”? This book offers a partial answer, for a complete and systematic analy­sis requires the seas to transform into ink and the skies into rolls of parchment. It limits itself to reconstructing and contextualizing a diverse set of practices performed with and on the Hebrew book of Psalms by the Hebrew-­ and Aramaic-­speaking Jews who lived in Greco-­Roman Palestine, Sassanian Persia, and their environs between the fall of Jerusalem and the rise of Islam. Specifically, it explores activities such as ­handling a physical copy of the Psalter, reading from it, singing it as liturgy, invoking it as magic, and reciting it as an act of piety. ­These topics provide a rough legend by which to explore the complicated map of the Psalter’s early history. But, ultimately, my readers should understand the book open in front of them as an invitation to further study. For this reason, its title begins with an indefinite article, “a” (A Life of Psalms), instead of the definite article, “the.”

Introduction

3

A Life of Psalms in Jewish Late Antiquity Let us further unpack this book’s title. Why Psalms? In addition to its place in Jewish collective memory, the Psalter occupies a large space within the scriptural universe of late ancient Judaism.5 The rabbis, whose literary legacy shines as the brightest constellation of evidence for the Judaism of Late Antiquity, cite from it more often than from other biblical books, including ­those that are larger in size, such as Kings, Chronicles, Samuel, Jeremiah, and Genesis.6 They, along with Jews outside or at the margins of rabbinic Judaism, also accorded the Psalms pride of place within the practices of liturgy, piety, and magic. ­Because of its popularity, the Psalms provides a distinctive vista from which to examine a set of activities that characterized the religious life of ancient Jews. Sometimes, the Psalter’s distinction blurs into uniqueness. The story of the development of Jewish liturgy is entwined with Psalms in such a manner that we could not replace the Psalter with another biblical book and tell a substantially similar tale. More often, however, the Psalms shares its space with other sacred texts of late ancient Jews. The pages that follow also explore the web of connections that tie the Psalms to the physical material of Scripture, reading habits, piety, and magic. While prominent within this network of meaning, the Psalter does not monopolize ­every node. Jews exorcised demons with the aid of verses from across the Hebrew Bible, and they piously recited and ­etched into stone other verses from Scripture, even if at a less frequent rate. They certainly produced and read from physical copies of other biblical texts. With re­spect to ­these cases, we explore but one area of the complicated encounter between late ancient Jews and their Scripture. At the same time, ­because the Psalter lies as a highly vis­i­ble landmark within the religious landscape of late ancient Judaism, we can look t­ oward it in orienting f­ uture scholarly inquiry. It is my hope, therefore, that the studies below not only explain the place of the Psalter in late antique Judaism but also provide direction for similar analyses of other parts of Scripture. In short, this book focuses on the Psalms b­ ecause, a bit like each member of the Trinity, it is si­mul­ta­neously unique, distinctive, and representative.

* * *

4

Introduction

Why Jewish Late Antiquity? The life of Psalms, of course, begins in ancient Israel, when vari­ous Hebrew authors and songwriters composed the poetry that eventually coalesced into the present-­day book of Psalms.7 It continues during the Second ­Temple era, when ­these poems ­were or­ga­nized and reor­ ga­nized into vari­ous collections, translated into Greek, quoted by Paul, and meditated upon by the Jews who wrote and read the Dead Sea Scrolls.8 Each of ­these periods, in its own right, contributes to the Psalter’s rich and complex history. Yet our narrative focuses specifically on Late Antiquity and particularly upon Judaism, mostly in its vari­ous rabbinic inflections. It takes as its central body of evidence the classical lit­er­a­ture produced by the rabbis, which include the Mishnah, Tosefta, tannaitic midrash, amoraic midrash, Palestinian Talmud, and Babylonian Talmud. The distance between the near-­final editing of the Mishnah and the Babylonian Talmud places us firmly within the setting of Late Antiquity (late second ­century–­mid-­seventh ­century).9 Of course, ­these bound­a ries are somewhat porous. Late ancient rabbinic lit­ er­a­ture preserves traditions that may date to the end of the Second T ­ emple period and, on occasion, contains traditions composed ­after the Arab conquest of Jerusalem (638 ce).10 Following in the footsteps of t­hese redacted lit­er­a­tures, I ­will occasionally, when they are relevant to the discussion at hand, make use of texts that antedate the destruction of the Second ­Temple and postdate the Islamic siege of Jerusalem. The list of sources above, neither exhaustive nor complete, includes rabbinic compositions from both Roman Palestine and Sassanian Persia. A growing methodological trend in the study of rabbinic Judaism views Jewish life in each region on its own terms and in relation to its proximate religious-­civic cultures. This scholarly intervention is salutary, especially with re­spect to the Babylonian Talmud, which combines Palestinian traditions, Babylonian sources, and an editorial voice that fits most obviously in a Persian setting.11 At the same time, the Jews of Palestine and Babylonia did not inhabit worlds hermetically sealed off from each other. The rabbis of ­these two regions do not pre­sent us with distinct and fundamentally incompatible “Judaisms.” They, along with their traditions, traveled from one place to the other.12 A fair analy­sis of rabbinic texts that deal with Psalms from both centers of Jewish life ­will show that the story of the late ancient Hebrew Psalter does not differ from one region to the next, at least in broad strokes. Of course, each zone of rabbinic Judaism contains its nuances, and this narrative ­will attend to them and to their larger contexts when impor­tant. But, at the very

Introduction

5

least, in order to best appreciate how Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis differed from each other in how they encountered the Psalms, we ­ought first to develop a narrative that understands what they have in common. This book tells that story. The pages that follow examine sources that deal with Psalms from both locations of Jewish life, usually analyzing Palestinian texts prior to Babylonian ones. At times, the narrative intentionally places Palestinian and Babylonian traditions side by side, in order to highlight key similarities and differences between the texts and the regions from which they originate. As mentioned above, rabbinic texts dominate our extant pool of evidence for Jewish Late Antiquity in Palestine and Babylonia. They do not, however, monopolize it entirely. A wide variety of Jews lived in the ancient world.13 And the material evidence they left ­behind—­such as physical scrolls, synagogue edifices, mosaic art, magical amulets, and inscriptions—­provides us with clues about the life of Psalms for ­those Jews outside of, or marginal to, the study circles of the rabbis.14 They also shed light on the conversations, tensions, and patterns within rabbinic society.15 To the degree that ­these physical artifacts exist and add nuance to the larger discussion, this narrative ­w ill attend to them and what they teach us about rabbinic and not-­ necessarily-­rabbinic encounters with Psalms. This narrative ­will also place rabbinic lit­er­a­ture into conversation with non-­Jewish late antique bodies of evidence. Within the ancient world, the Psalter belonged equally—if not more—to the nascent Jesus movement and the va­ri­e­ties of early Chris­tian­ity that followed. One could write many books and articles about the vari­ous features of the late ancient Psalter on the basis of the texts and material artifacts that ­these groups produced. This book, although primarily focused on late ancient Judaism, does not entirely ignore early Christians. While Jewish voices take center stage, the set design and the remaining ensemble hail from the rest of Late Antiquity. Therefore, we ­will employ Christian sources selectively, citing or analyzing them when ­doing so sheds clarifying light upon a specific rabbinic source or upon the larger context in which Judaism operates. At par­tic­u­lar moments, ­these other cast members also enter the spotlight. Especially during the final chapter, the narrative ­will, on occasion, compare and contrast the vari­ous ways that Jews and Christians used Psalms, placing both religious traditions on near-­equal analytical footing—­a sort of duet. ­These attempts should be viewed as tentative and exploratory, the beginnings of another drama. The story of the life of Psalms in early Chris­tian­ity and its comparative

6

Introduction

relationship to late ancient Judaism deserves to be told and retold. We may better do so, I contend, ­after mapping out the contours of the life of the Psalms within late antique Judaism. Placing rabbinic lit­er­a­ture into conversation with non-­Jewish bodies of evidence also helps supply the cultural and regional contexts in which rabbinic Judaism flourished. Greek and Latin sources, for example, provide the setting for the world of Palestinian rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, and Syriac texts furnish the backdrop of Babylonian Judaism.16 On a ­limited number of occasions, however, a Greco-­Roman context best explains a tradition or story about the Psalms that the Babylonian Talmud attributes to a Palestinian sage. The editors of the Babylonian Talmud, while skillful, did not always flatten and reforge their source material in a manner that effaced its origins. Nor did they affix a false regional attribution to ­every tradition.17 Sometimes, a source in the Babylonian Talmud attributed to a Palestinian sage is just that—­a tradition from Palestine.18 For the moment, I cannot reduce t­hese ­matters to a sweeping methodological statement. This narrative, therefore, ­will set Palestinian voices embedded within the Babylonian Talmud into a Greco-­Roman setting on a ­limited case-­by-­case basis, ­doing so only when that voice appears to fit a larger cultural pattern in­de­pen­dently and prominently attested to in Palestinian rabbinic or in Greco-­Roman literary sources. It ­will not take traditions within the Babylonian Talmud as the sole or primary evidence for a feature of the life of Psalms in Palestine.19

* * * So much for “Jewish.” But why “Late Antiquity”? Why not begin with or include substantial discussions of the Psalter during the periods of ancient Israel and the Second ­Temple? In addition to my goal of integrating nuance into a piece of collective memory, I focus on Late Antiquity b­ ecause it witnesses the rise of two conditions that make reconstructing the life of the Psalms distinctive and more readily accomplishable. The first pertains to the words “Psalms” and “Psalter.” Along with the rest of what would eventually become the Hebrew Bible, the now-­canonical Hebrew book of Psalms existed in a state of flux during and prior to the Second ­Temple period.20 Like other sacred texts, it contained words and lines that do not appear in its canonical version.21 More strikingly, its poems ­were arranged in vari­ous ­orders, many of which only partially match the sequence of the canonical book of Psalms.22 Further still, it contained poems now ab-

Introduction

7

sent from the Hebrew Psalter.23 Some of this “missing poetry” appears in vari­ous translations of the Psalms. In Greek, for example, the Psalter contains Psalm 151, a poem attributed to David.24 Vari­ous Syriac versions include several more.25 The exact nature and cause of this variability are the subjects of serious debate. Some scholars see this variation as the growing pains of the canonical Psalter. In their view, we may talk about an entity known as the book of Psalms, but we must acknowledge that during this early period, the Psalter was a work in pro­gress.26 Other scholars argue that the Psalms in the Second ­Temple period never existed as a single book or conceptual unit but, rather, as a series of open anthologies consisting of vari­ous poetic works.27 This book ­will not weigh in on this dispute. As the Second T ­ emple era blurs into the late antique period of Jewish history, a canonical Hebrew Psalter indisputably emerges. For late ancient Hebrew-­ and Aramaic-­speaking Jews, the Psalter existed as a par­tic­u ­lar “book,” or, better yet, a specific set of scrolls.28 The Psalms no longer contained major textual variations. Minor ones, of course, would pester its copyists through the rise of print, and beyond.29 Additionally, only the poems found within this “book” held authoritative sway for the rabbis and their followers.30 Rabbinic literature never cites as Scripture texts that could be considered psalms but exist outside the Hebrew Psalter, works like Psalms 151–55 or other poems attributed to David.31 Settled as well was the order in which ­these poetic compositions appear. Vari­ous rabbinic homilies, for example, depend upon and thus provide evidence for the canonical sequence of the Psalms.32 One feature of the Hebrew Psalter, however, remained in flux. The number of psalms ranged between 143 and 154, ­until print stabilized them at 150.33 For example, some rabbis, and possibly other early interpreters, understood Psalms 1 and 2 as a single composition.34 Jewish Late Antiquity, therefore, attests to the Psalms in a manner distinct from its attestation in the Second ­Temple period and ­earlier. If we adopt the perspective of ­those who view psalms in the Second ­Temple as an open anthology, then a life of the Psalms—as a single, distinguishable, concretely canonical entity—­can begin only in Late Antiquity. Even ­those who view the Second ­Temple Psalter as a canonical work in pro­gress would agree that the contours of the late ancient Hebrew Psalms are better defined. By beginning with Late Antiquity, therefore, we avoid some of the pre-­canonical chaos. We can say with certainty that the primary voices within our narrative shared a fundamentally similar text that they called Sefer Tehillim, the book of Psalms.

8

Introduction

The second distinctive feature of Late Antiquity pertains to the preponderance of evidence and the types of arguments for which t­ hese data allow. With some fragmentary exceptions, most of what we may learn about the Jewish encounter with the Hebrew Psalms prior to Late Antiquity comes from the Psalter itself (or, psalms themselves)—­either from an analy­sis of the poems contained therein or through an examination of the ways in which scribes copied, arranged, and translated them.35 ­These are not trifling ­matters. This book pays attention to ­those late ancient Jewish scribes who put quill to parchment.36 But a richer life of the Psalter awaits t­ hose who also incorporate the many hands that touched, and mouths that uttered, the Psalms, yet did not leave a mark directly on its pages. Prior to the rise of the rabbinic movement, our best and most abundant evidence comes from ­those who encountered the Psalter in Greek. Composers of the texts that circulated within the early Jesus movement cite from the Psalms frequently.37 Philo, the first-­century Jewish Alexandrian phi­los­ o­pher, quotes from it a handful of times.38 But from the perspective of the Hebrew Psalter and the Jews who engaged with it primarily in Hebrew and Aramaic, we must wait ­until Late Antiquity. Only then do we find a pool of evidence both wide and deep, a reservoir that includes sources that describe novel strategies for encountering and using the Psalms.

* * * Why the word “life”? Why not, instead, use the word “reception,” the expected term for the study of a biblical text in the periods ­after it was written and redacted?39 While this book might sit comfortably on a shelf next to other works that self-­describe as operating within the framework of reception history, I shun “reception” b­ ecause I dislike the methodological inferences that underpin the word. In addition to biasing research ­toward a history of interpretation, a tendency of reception history I ­will critique below, the word “reception” does not fully capture the vitality of the Psalter.40 It places the theoretical weight upon the shoulders of ­those who receive a text and transform it in the pro­cess of transmission; hence, reception. In ­doing so, it privileges the impact that a reader or reciter has upon a text without fully considering how a text—­including its words, physical substance, and embedded cues—­shapes ­those who engage with it. In seeking an appropriate word to describe the mutually influencing paths that connect ancient Jews with the Hebrew Psalms, I sought inspira-

Introduction

9

tion from the German near-­equivalent of reception: Nachleben, which literally translates as “afterlife.” 41 Afterlife, however, does not suffice. While it focuses more intently on a literary work than does “reception,” it assumes a fixed point in time, ­after which a text merely reverberates. It loses its initial vitality and haunts ­those in the pre­sent from a defined moment in the past.42 This book does not examine the ways that Jews recast themes and motifs found in the Psalms—­ideas that would merely echo throughout Jewish history and lit­er­a­ture. Rather, it explores how they engaged with the Psalter—­ its material casing and the words ­housed inside—­with constantly renewed vigor, building on older traditions while crafting new ones. ­There is no “­after.” I thus ­settle on the word “life,” a term that captures the continued vitality of the Psalter and does not frame its history as one of mere survival. The “life of ” formula also connects this book to “biography,” a word that etymologically breaks down as: a “life” (bios) told in “writing” (graphē). Works in this genre describe the fortunes and circumstances of a par­tic­u­lar person, place, or t­ hing. Biographies of g­ reat literary works, as a subgenre of biography, face many limitations. They cannot trace the steady year-­by-­year development of a narrowly defined subject. They also rarely can claim completeness or even strive ­toward it. Nonetheless, literary biographies articulate loudly something that the labels “reception” and “Nachleben” voice in a muted tone: They proclaim the fact that texts and ­those who engage with them constantly mold and remold each other.43 A Life of Psalms in Jewish Late Antiquity adopts this feature of the literary biography. It tells the story of how the Hebrew Psalter ­shaped the Judaism of Late Antiquity and was, in turn, s­ haped by its Jewish users.

Broader Methodological Intersections and Interventions Several fields of inquiry that originally developed outside the study of Judaism or the ancient world aid our task of exploring the late ancient Jewish encounter with the Psalter. The first two chapters, for example, conceptually rely upon two closely related disciplines: book history;44 and the history of reading.45 In the simplest terms, historians of the book begin their task by detailing the physical material that ­houses the written word. They then explore the complicated triangular relationship between the words of a text, its material container, and the readers who hold it. Material and meaning, they posit, exist in a mutually reinforcing relationship; we cannot artificially segregate one from the other.

10 Introduction

Our study adopts the methodological tools of the book historian and begins with an analy­sis of the late ancient material Psalter, both real and ­imagined. It then highlights how the physical dimensions of the Psalm’s container—­a scroll—­shape its interpretation and use. In ­doing so, this book contributes to a developing body of lit­er­a­ture that seeks to understand the role of the material Bible in interpretation and imagination.46 By focusing on the material Psalter and its users as a case study, I also hope that this book contributes in a small way to a larger methodological intervention, a position that would require a large-­scale study to fully articulate and defend. Scholars of rabbinic Judaism often understand and analyze rabbinic culture as one dominated by “orality”—­the act of creating and transmitting thoughts and ideas primarily (if not exclusively) through speech. This approach is largely correct and useful.47 The liturgical, pietistic, and magical encounters with the Psalter detailed below, for example, almost always took place in the world of the spoken and memorized word. At the same time, some features of the rabbinic engagement with the Psalms are clearly indebted to the material real­ity of the Psalter. Even the rabbis themselves acknowledge the centrality of writing regarding their “Written Torah.” How might a theory of scriptural encounter that balanced orality and writing change or re­orient our perceptions of the rabbis and their social, cultural, and intellectual environments?48 The pages that follow also draw upon scholarship that conceptualizes the act of reading as a pro­cess situated at the intersection of specific historical, material, social, and cultural conditions. Adopting this methodological stance allows us to separate the many strands tied together in the ­simple word “read” and to examine the pro­cess and results of each strand on its own terms. As we w ­ ill see below, Jews read the Psalter in multiple modalities— as interpretation, as leisure, and as an act of piety—­each ­shaped by its own internal logic, as well as the external environment. This theory of reading also helps us provide nuance to a certain deeply entrenched orientation. Scholarship on the rabbinic—or even Jewish—­ encounter with Scripture almost naturally describes both the pro­cess and results of reading Scripture with the catch-­all term “midrash,” a primarily interpretation-­focused manner of engaging with Scripture.49 To be sure, such scholarship then introduces nuances and categorizes midrash into vari­ous dif­ fer­ent types.50 Midrash, however, in what­ever format, remains the archetype for Jewish reading. It is not my goal in ­these pages to critique the current use of the word “midrash.” What attention to the history of reading teaches us,

Introduction

11

however, is that midrash was but one of many types of ways that (rabbinic) Jews read Scripture in Late Antiquity. The rabbis themselves appear to offer an internal distinction between at least two dif­fer­ent styles of reading Scripture: “to expound” (lidrosh), a word that derives from the same Hebrew root as the word “midrash”; and “to read” (liqro).51 This book, therefore, casts its net wide and draws together the multiplicity of ways that late ancient Jews read the Psalter, which includes, but is not ­limited to, midrash. The attempt to move beyond midrash is evident in each chapter of this book, but especially in its final two, which exit the realm of the physical Psalter and its reading. They focus instead on the Psalms as a vehicle for liturgy, piety, and magic. In ­doing so, they call attention to the fact that the field of reception history in general—­a nd the reception of Psalms in particular—­also ­favors examining biblical interpretation over other forms of interacting with Scripture.52 As an analytical tendency, scholars of biblical reception often view the Bible as an object of learned discourse, a text that interpreters read, decode, and then set within a par­tic­u­lar ideology. Scholars then collect ­these interpretations and or­ga­nize them into a “history of exegesis.” This activity produces well-­founded studies, and it is much aided by our extant pool of historical evidence. The most readily available sources for reconstructing the reception of a biblical text are themselves framed as biblical interpretation. At the same time, such a focus on interpretation yields access to just a small fraction of the conversations that surround and constitute the Bible. What makes the Psalter so compelling to study is that evidence exists for exploring its role in more than just interpretation. This book attempts to get at ­these other dimensions by reframing reception history and by changing the basic question that we pose to our late antique evidence. Instead of asking, “What meaning did Jews produce from the Psalms?”—­which privileges interpretation—it asks, “How did Jews encounter the Psalms?” The latter encourages one to reconstruct types of scriptural engagement that lie outside the realm of exegesis. By setting up our primary question in this manner, we can examine the Psalter as a physical artifact, as a book to read for personal edification, as a collection of songs to sing, as an armory against demonic incursion, and as a store­house of words that inculcate hope and joy. We might also catch a coveted glimpse at the daily lives of rabbinic Jews; and possibly even at routines of non-­rabbinic Jews, who interacted with the Psalter more often as an object of liturgy and piety than as a text to be picked apart using the tools of midrashic interpretation.

12 Introduction

Evidence, albeit less of it, also exists for reconstructing the non-­interpretive life of other sacred texts. Jews (and Christians) encountered more than just the Psalter in ways other than exegesis. ­Future studies could, and should, replace the word “Psalms” in the questions above with other books of Scripture and see what additional new light might be shed on the Bible and ­those who engaged with it. Ultimately, this study constitutes but one piece in a much larger mosaic, which depicts a biblical reception history that accords near-­equal weight, where pos­si­ble, to exegetical and non-­exegetical modes of encountering Scripture. This book also reshapes the reception history of the Psalter in Jewish Late Antiquity by operating with a vastly dif­fer­ent source base than previous studies, which often focus intensively on Targum Psalms and Midrash Psalms.53 I intentionally accord neither of ­these texts a central role in this narrative. The language of Targum Psalms, the Jewish Aramaic translation of the Psalter, suggests that it was composed ­toward the close of Late Antiquity, if not ­after.54 The translator also seems to be aware of the Hungarians, an anachronism from the vantage point of Jewish Late Antiquity.55 Midrash Psalms, a verse-­by-­verse rabbinic commentary on the Psalter, likely hails from ­after our period, prob­ably as late as the eleventh ­century. It contains traditions from Palestine and Babylonia; it even cites material from the editorial layer of the Babylonian Talmud.56 While Midrash Psalms undoubtedly represents the work of centuries of collecting and editing,57 in the absence of a proper critical edition58 or de­cades of detailed textual studies, it is difficult to confidently say that any tradition located in its pages accurately reflects the Judaism of Late Antiquity. This book, therefore, does not use Midrash Psalms as an intellectual shortcut into the life of the late ancient Psalter. Instead, it searches through the vast collections of late antique rabbinic lit­er­a­ ture for evidence. It occasionally uses Midrash Psalms, but only in an ancillary manner, and only where Midrash Psalms confirms a trend already extant in a definitively late antique source. I look forward to the day when Midrash Psalms receives a full and systematic study. The text likely has much to teach us about the late ancient Hebrew Psalter and the rabbis who found it meaningful.

Outline of Chapters This book tells a story about the late ancient Jewish encounter with the Psalter in four chapters. It begins by examining the Hebrew Psalter as a series of

Introduction

13

scrolls, the ancient physical container that held its numerous poems. It then explores four ways in which (mostly rabbinic) Jews engaged with the words from the Psalms: by reading them from a physical copy; by singing them in daily liturgy; by reciting them as an act of piety; and by invoking them in magic. Chapter  1 surveys the extant physical remnants of the Hebrew Psalter from Qumran through the High ­Middle Ages. This evidence allows us to triangulate the material condition of Psalm scrolls during Late Antiquity. The chapter then locates t­ hese physical sources alongside literary ones. It adopts the imperative of the book historian, the necessity of examining in tandem a material artifact and ­those who use it. By exploring four specific conversations, it examines how physical Psalm scrolls ­shaped the manners in which rabbis represent and envision the Psalter. Questions regarding the macro issues of the Psalter’s length and divisibility constitute the first two. The final two focus on writing the Psalter and erasing its contents. Altogether, this chapter demonstrates the historical and interpretive value of placing rabbinic culture within the context of the quotidian real­ity of the material condition. Chapter 2 bridges the gap between thinking about a material Psalter and reading a physical copy of it. The first part of the chapter focuses on the place of Psalms in “scenes of reading,” narratives that depict a subject actively holding a physical scroll and reading from it. It draws upon the methodology of historians of reading and examines the variety of so­cio­log­i­cal transcripts that accompany acts of reading. In ­doing so, the chapter begins the pro­cess of understanding midrash as but one of the many impor­tant ways that rabbis—­and other Jews—­engaged with the Psalter. Other types of reading include leisure reading, affective reading, and pietistic reading. The second part of the chapter centers midrash as a style of reading and explores the impact that the tactile Psalm scroll had on rabbinic interpretation. In par­tic­u­lar, it shows how the act of reading linearly across a physical text undergirded certain forms of rabbinic exegesis. The chapter concludes by exploring the social and symbolic wealth attached to the physical Psalter. Chapter 3 continues our discussion of how late ancient Jews encountered the Psalms by moving beyond the physical scroll and midrash as a style of reading, focusing instead on the most obvious non-­interpretive (and oral) way in which Jews interacted with the Psalter: singing portions from it as liturgy. In par­tic­u­lar, this chapter asks and answers a group of related historical questions: When, how, and why did the Psalter become part of daily rabbinic liturgy? It begins by highlighting the ­limited nature of daily psalmody outside

14 Introduction

the Second ­Temple, and its absence in the liturgy of the rabbis prior to the third ­century. It then traces the history of daily psalmody in the liturgy of third-­to-­seventh-­century Palestinian and Babylonian Jews, arguing that singing the Psalter as a liturgical act did not occur in one meteoric historical moment but, rather, developed in fits and starts. The chapter then sets this pro­cess into the context of several other historical developments: the justification of liturgical innovation by appealing to the Psalter—­focusing specifically on the reception of Psalm 29; the use of Psalms in rabbinic sermons; the reconceptualization of the synagogue; the increased analogizing between synagogue and t­ emple; the use of Psalms in liturgy by non-­rabbinic Jews; and the rise of liturgical psalmody in early Chris­tian­ity. Chapter 4 examines the late ancient Jewish encounter with Psalms through the lenses of piety and magic, two additional non-­interpretive contexts that encouraged some Jews to sing from the Psalms as part of their daily liturgy. This chapter counterbalances the developmental-­historical approach ­adopted in Chapter 3 by reading our available evidence through a more synchronic-­ comparative method. It begins with a survey of the pious and magical use of Psalms in early Christian material and literary sources, then slowly analyzes the activities and artifacts that constituted Psalm piety and magic in late ancient Judaism. Taken as a ­whole, this chapter demonstrates three points. First, both Jews and Christians, with distinctive performative nuances perhaps based on religious identity, regularly engaged in activities such as midnight piety, bedtime piety, death piety, the mantra-­like repetition of verses from the Psalms, and communal piety. Second, ancient Jews and early Christians, ­whether lay or leader, did not neatly divide piety and magic into two in­de­pen­dent and isolated categories of thought. And third, the Psalms—­a nd presumably the Bible as a whole—­f unctioned beyond interpretation as an object of lived real­ity, a text renewed with life and vigor through constant use.

Chapter 1

Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

Of anything beyond t­ hese, my child, beware. Of making many books ­there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh. —­Eccles. 12:12

At first glance, Ecclesiastes’s warning seems timeless. The drive to constantly “publish or perish” apparently strained the ancient scholar as much as it wearies the modern academic. Yet at least one difference separates our world from that of Ecclesiastes: the “books” he imagines did not exist in printed and bound tomes. They ­were, rather, “scrolls”—­a more accurate translation of the Hebrew word sefer. And, like Ecclesiastes, most literate Jews ­until the early ­Middle Ages (ca. ninth ­century) unfurled scrolls in order to read and write works of lit­er­a­ture, texts such as the Bible, the Iliad, and the Odyssey.1 This book, itself ­either a tactile tome or a digitally delivered file, narrates the many ways that rabbinic Jews interacted with the “book of Psalms.” It begins with the “book” part of that phrase, describing the Hebrew Psalters that ancient Jews held in their hands and examining how some rabbis thought about, and with, the physical book of Psalms.2 This chapter, along with the one that follows, ­will also collect and examine nearly ­every instance in which rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, from the Mishnah to the Babylonian Talmud, refers to the “book of Psalms.” A series of additional studies could replicate the analy­sis below with re­ spect to the other books of the Bible. The rabbis occasionally mention the physical text of Scripture in their discussions and sometimes even narrate scenes in which it is read.3 A complete set of parallel portraits attentive to the material realities of biblical texts and their potential to shape the ways

16

Chapter 1

in which rabbis understood them would identify what is distinctive about the Psalms and what features it has in common with other biblical books.4 The following analy­sis of the physical Psalter in material and imagination, therefore, serves as merely one piece of a much larger mosaic that depicts the ancient Jewish encounter with the material Bible.

The Material Scroll of Psalms: Size, Length and Layout The scroll mediated the physical encounter between Jews and Scripture from antiquity u ­ ntil the beginning of the M ­ iddle Ages.5 As scholars of book history often remind us, an inextricable relationship exists between medium and message, the format of a text and what its words come to mean.6 By following this line of thought, we w ­ ill see that the material ele­ments of a scroll—­features such as its length, height, bulk, and line spacing—­shaped vari­ous facets of rabbinic thought, culture, and biblical interpretation. Unfortunately, we cannot reconstruct the scrolls of the Hebrew Psalter by relying on the few scraps of Jewish physical evidence that come from the period in which rabbinic Judaism originated and flourished.7 We can, however, gain insight by relying upon the rich scroll culture of ancient Greeks and Romans.8 Other ethnic and religious groups adjacent to rabbinic Judaism provide less suitable contextual evidence for our purposes, since the codex, the ancestor of our modern physical book, gradually replaced the scroll as the primary means of accessing a text.9 In fact, scribes preserved almost the entirety of Syriac and Persian lit­er­a­ture in the codex-­book format.10 Thus, with all due caution, even Babylonian rabbinic sources are often best illumined by the scroll culture of the Greco-­Roman world. The best evidence for the tactile Hebrew Psalter, however, comes from looking backward t­oward the Second T ­ emple era and forward to the beginning of the ­Middle Ages, remembering that Jews relied almost exclusively on the scroll format for sacred texts throughout this entire era. ­Doing so reveals that the majority of ancient Psalm scrolls, and likely the Psalters of Late Antiquity, w ­ ere written on leather in some kind of black ink.11 But, beyond that fact, Hebrew Psalm scrolls varied by scribe and by the purpose of the text.12 The archaeological rec­ord preserves almost no uniform standard for length, style of writing, and quality of writing. No two Psalters looked exactly alike.13

* * *



Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

17

How much physical space could a copy of the Psalms occupy? Let us begin our survey with the extant physical evidence from the Second ­Temple period: the scrolls and fragments preserved in the caves of the Judaean Desert.14 Among the Dead Sea Scrolls, a reconstructed 4QPsg, assumed to contain only Psalm 119, mea­sures at 2.08 meters (6.82 feet).15 11QPsa, the so-­called ­Great Psalm Scroll, mea­sures a preserved 4.11 meters (13.5 feet) and a reconstructed 5 meters (16.4 feet).16 According to Harmut Stegemann, 4QPsa contained the entire Psalter on a roll of 7.6 meters (24.9 feet) due to its small script and large columns.17 As a point of comparison, the two largest extant Hebrew scrolls are the ­Great Isaiah Scroll (7.34 meters; 24 feet) and the ­Temple Scroll (reconstructed at 8.75 meters; 28.7 feet).18 The length of a scroll also directly correlated with the mea­sure­ments of its columns.19 Longer and wider columns mean larger scrolls. Additionally, less text on a column requires more sheets of parchment, just as writing in small letters and fitting more text on a column would render a larger work unto a smaller scroll. Despite all this variation, among the Dead Sea Scrolls, wide top and bottom margins with large print characterize scrolls of books that eventually made their way into the rabbinic biblical canon.20 Such features also typify luxury editions of Greek and Latin texts. 21 Perhaps this format underscores the fiscal, social, and spiritual significance of ­t hese works. Large-­format Psalters certainly existed during the times of the rabbis, many of whom prescribed wide margins for biblical rolls and ­were well aware of the financial and symbolic dimensions of material scrolls.22 Con­ve­nience, however, ­limited the length of a scroll. As artistic repre­ sen­ta­tions depict, someone who reads from a scroll stands, holds it in one hand, and unfurls it with the other. One then reads linearly across the text and down the column.23 Or one could rest the scroll on one’s knee.24 In ­either reading position, a cumbersome pro­cess awaited ­those who would manipulate a very large scroll. Most scrolls found in the Judaean Desert mea­sure ­under twenty feet in length. Greek and Roman literary rolls from antiquity through Late Antiquity also typically do not exceed twenty feet.25 Scribes, therefore, regularly divided a lengthy work into multiple scrolls in order to facilitate its reading. Extremely large scrolls existed, but they ­were often monumental objects meant to be venerated or buried with the dead.26 The size of a complete Torah scroll, along with its synagogue setting, no doubt further cemented it as a holy object of awe and power in the minds of ­t hose who viewed it and read from it.27 Reading from a complete Torah scroll was highly

Figure 1. Ezra(?) Holding a Scroll, Dura-­Europos Synagogue Yale University Art Gallery, Dura-­Europos Collection



Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

19

impractical and required recourse to a reading desk, an uncommon feature of scroll culture in this period.28 But for the literate Jew interacting with a physical Psalter in a non-­ ceremonial context, ­these facts suggest that a complete book of Psalms, ­unless written in very small script, would have been difficult to manipulate. Such a person likely handled a series of small and medium-­size rolls, which would provide a more pleasant reading experience. Although this is an imperfect analogy, consider the difference between reading from a Loeb library version of a classical text and a larger edition of that same work. The Loeb version is less cumbersome to read. One could hold it in one hand alone. A correlation between small scrolls and con­ve­nience also existed for travel and study editions of lengthy Greek and Hebrew works.29 Further, in the ancient world, works of Greek poetry often appear in rolls of small height.30 Could we say something similar about Psalms in Late Antiquity, an indisputable work of poetry often lauded as the best of its genre?31 Greco-­Roman scroll culture also highlights the importance of scribal convention in dictating the length and division of a par­tic­u­lar work. Alexandrian scholars preferred a range of 1,000–2,000 lines per scroll.32 Nonetheless, they divided Homeric works into episodic books of unequal length. Quite a bit of variation exists between the longest and shortest books. The shortest book of the Iliad contains 424 lines (book 19) and the Odyssey 331 (book 6). The longest book of the Iliad contains 909 lines (book 5) and the Odyssey 847 (book 5). Long books of a large work could be more than double the length of smaller books of that same work.33 A similar scribal convention s­ haped the late ancient Hebrew Psalter in at least two ways, both of which we ­will explore in-depth below. First, it places into context the conceptual division of the Psalter into five books, which could reflect an ­actual division of the Psalms into five separate scrolls, a feature that we may also attribute to con­ve­nience. Second, it explains the uneven distribution of psalms among the Psalter’s five books, the first of which contains forty-­one psalms (Psalms 1–41) and the fourth of which contains only seventeen (Psalms 90–106). So how much physical space could a complete scroll of Psalms or a set of five individual Psalm scrolls occupy? In the following chart (­Table 1), I extrapolate and speculate based on evidence from Dead Sea Scroll texts that contain material from the Psalms, and from the Leningrad Codex, the earliest extant text to contain a complete copy of the Hebrew Bible.34 I omit rabbinic lit­er­a­ture—­the best potential evidence for Late Antiquity—­because it provides ­little indication

20

Chapter 1

­Table 1. Conjectured Length of Vari­ous Psalters Full Psalms Book 1 Book 2 Book 3 Book 4 Book 5 (feet) (1–41) (42–72) (74–89) (90–106) (107–50) 11QPsa 4QPsb (hemistich) 4QPsg (two hemistichs) 4QPsl (hemistich) Leningrad Codex

81.0 55.0 127.6 73.0 44.7

20.9 14.0 33.2 18.9 11.5

16.36 11.0 25.8 14.7 9.4

13.0 8.7 20.5 11.6 6.5

9.8 6.6 15.5 9.7 5.8

20.5 13.7 32.4 18.5 11.5

of the desired length of a scroll.35 Variety, of course, is the rule.36 As succinctly put in one rabbinic tradition: “All according to [its] writing.”37 Based on the figures from this chart, we may fairly speculate that ancient Jews seldom interacted with a complete Hebrew Psalter written on a single roll. More likely, they encountered the work as a set of multiple scrolls, possibly five. Ancient Jews also encountered Psalms scrolls in vari­ous layouts. Once again, the best material evidence comes from the Judaean Desert, where a special poetic style of dividing verses and parts of verses38 almost exclusively appears in texts that would ­later become part of the rabbinic Bible.39 In general, scribes of sacred texts found in the Judaean Desert made ­little distinction between works that would become biblical and ­those that would not. The use of special forms of versification for certain poetic texts, therefore, might suggest a larger scribal culture at work, one that the Hebrew scribes of Late Antiquity would inherit.40 In any case, as we w ­ ill see below, line division and spacing affect vari­ous features that pertain to a scroll, such as size, reading, and counting. Psalm scrolls from the Judaean Desert preserve several layout options.41 Figures 2–6 illustrate a range of possibilities; I also represent ­these layouts in the body of this text. I use Ps. 19:8 as the key example throughout, as its clauses are short and well-­balanced. In its most common format, the text of a psalm runs across the column as if it ­were prose (see Figure 2).42 If this page ­were a column, Ps. 19:8 would look like the following line: Perfect is the Lord’s law, it restores the soul. The Lord’s testimony is sure, making wise the ­simple.



Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

21

Figure 2. ­Great Psalm Scroll (11QPsa, Cols. 14–15) Shai Halevi, Courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority

In other texts from the Judaean Desert, lines from Psalms ­were divided into poetic sense units. This type of layout may have facilitated reading and interpretation. Several variations exist. A single column may contain only one sense unit per line of text across the row of the column (see Figure 3).43 Ps. 19:8 in such a format would look like this: Perfect is the Lord’s law it restores the soul. The Lord’s testimony is true making wise the ­simple. Alternatively, a column may contain two sense units per line (see Figure 4).44 Ps. 19:8 in such a format would look like this:

22

Chapter 1

Perfect is the Lord’s law The Lord’s testimony is true

it restores the soul. making wise the ­simple.

Some scrolls from the Judaean Desert lack this ­middle space, but they nonetheless confine one line to two sense units.45 Ps. 19:8 in such a format would look like this: Perfect is the Lord’s law, it restores the soul The Lord’s testimony is true, making the wise the s­imple. Ultimately, as with the size of an ancient Psalter, variety is also the rule for its layout.46 Several styles of poetic division sometimes appear within a single scroll, and even within a single psalm.47 In any event, the act of poetically arranging sense units likely existed as part of a larger scribal culture that predated documents from the Judaean Desert.48 It also clearly postdated them. For example, Origen (ca. 184–ca. 254 ce), an influential ­father of the early church who lived in Caesarea, notes in a short comment on Ps. 119:1 that ­every line of Hebrew poetry consists of

Figure 3. 4QPsb, Cols. 2–4 (Ps. 91:12–92:15) Shai Halevi, Courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority

Figure 4. Masada Psa, Center Column (Ps. 81:16–83:17a) Shai Halevi, Courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority

24

Chapter 1

two sense units.49 Given his interest in Judaism, his numerous interactions with Jews, and his monumental proj­ect of biblical translation, Origen almost certainly would have seen—­and held—­a material Hebrew Psalter, and perhaps many of them.50 Rabbinic ­legal statements, although prescriptive, also reflect a real­ity in which scribes arranged verses from some biblical texts into a poetic layout. No piece of rabbinic law explic­itly demands a specific poetic pre­sen­ta­tion for Psalms. Nevertheless, a statement in Sifre Deuteronomy 36 that prohibits writing a “song” (shirah) in a prose format may include the Psalter, which the rabbis refer to as shirah throughout their literary corpus.51 ­Because they considered the Psalms a work of poetry, it is pos­si­ble that at least one of three systems governed how scribes arranged its text. Each layout contains two (or three) parts per line, with blank spaces between each part. The first system, and perhaps the oldest, displays a text at two sense units per line with a space in between. The second system, which the rabbis call “half-­brick over half-­brick and ­whole brick over ­whole brick,” is prescribed as the layout for Josh. 12:8–24 (the list of the kings of Canaan) and Esther 9:7–9 (the list of the sons of Haman; see Figure 5).52 Ps. 19:8 in this style would look like this: Perfect is The Lord’s

the Lord’s law it restores testimony is true making

the soul the s­imple wise

Or: Perfect is the Lord’s law it restores The Lord’s testimony is true making

the soul the s­imple wise

The third system of layout is called “half-­brick over a ­whole brick and ­whole brick over a half-­brick.” It was prescribed for texts like the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15; see Figure 6). Ps. 19:8 in such a format would look like the following: Perfect is the Lord’s Law it restores the soul. The Lord’s testimony is true making the ­simple wise Or:



Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

25

Figure 5. Sons of Haman (Esth 9:7–10), Esther Scroll, Scrolls 7 (XV.7) Courtesy of the Klau Library, Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College-­Jewish Institute of Religion

Perfect is the Lord’s law It restores the soul the Lord’s testimony is true making the s­imple wise The only explicit statement in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture about arranging Psalms into a poetic layout appears in tractate Soferim, a work compiled ­after the redaction of the Babylonian Talmud.53 ­After detailing the number of lines and the expected pre­sen­ta­tion for poetic works such as the Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32), the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15), and the Song of Deborah (Judges 5), tractate Soferim turns its attention to Psalms: “But for the song of David in Samuel and in Psalms the Sages did not give a fixed mea­sure. Nonetheless, an expert copyist [lavlar] w ­ ill place them in rows with openings [petiḥot],54 ­middle [textual] pauses [etnaḥyata],55 and ends of verses [sofe pasuq].56 This should be for all of Psalms, Job, and Proverbs” (Sof. 12:12).57 This passage acknowledges

Figure 6. Song of the Sea (Exod 15), Pentateuch with Haftarot, Ms. 1 Courtesy of the Klau Library, Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College-­Jewish Institute of Religion



Holding the Scrolls of Psalms

27

that in both law and real­ity a variety of layouts for the Psalms existed. Nonetheless, Soferim expresses a clear preference. The expert scribe ­will arrange the Psalter in such a manner that each line contains two clauses (petiḥah + sof pasuq) separated by a blank ­middle space (etnaḥta). The material remains of expert copyists attest to the real­ity of this desire. The Aleppo Codex, a tenth-­century manuscript of the Hebrew Bible created in the tradition of a meticulous scribal f­amily, mostly divides each verse from Psalms in half and provides a generous space between each half.58 Numerous fragments from the Cairo Genizah, a repository of medieval sacred texts located in Old Fustat, as well as the Leningrad Codex, the earliest extant manuscript of the entire Hebrew Bible, also preserve this type of division, with degrees of variation.59 As we ­will see below, the types of poetic layouts just surveyed ­shaped both the reading experience of the rabbis and how they counted texts.

The Material Psalter in Rabbinic Thought: Macro Features The remainder of this chapter ­will show that rabbinic conversations about the Psalter ­were informed by and reflect the presence of scrolls, ­whether in mind or ­matter. It begins by examining conversations about the macro features of the Psalms, such as its potential division into five books, and concludes by exploring the discussions that surround the Psalter’s micro features, such as the proper way to create line spaces and to divide words. As a ­whole, ­these sections argue that a rich portrait of the numerous ways that vari­ous rabbis encountered the Psalter, and perhaps Scripture, await ­those who pay attention to the oral aspects of rabbinic culture alongside the material backdrop of the physical Bible. Or, in terms native to the rabbis, the “Oral Torah,” the ­legal and homiletical results of rabbinic interpretation, at times receives clarity when examined upon the backdrop of the physical dimensions of the “Written Torah.” In turn, rabbinic discussions about the Psalms provide insight into the material makeup of Hebrew Psalters during Late Antiquity, a period during which, as mentioned above, our archaeological rec­ord for Hebrew scrolls proves wanting. In an attempt to cover ­every extant example of a rabbi’s mentioning “the book(s) of Psalms,” the conversation below w ­ ill draw upon both Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic sources. Each region, of course, contained its own

28

Chapter 1

distinctive social contexts. At the same time, rabbinic Jews from both regions shared a fundamentally similar scroll culture, a dwindling or nonextant feature of life for their neighbors.60 Unlike them, Jews created and maintained a vibrant discourse about the scroll form for biblical texts ­until at least the end of the eighth c­ entury.61 A passage in the Palestinian Talmud that cautions against dismantling preexisting collections of biblical scrolls sets the stage. The Talmud comments on m. B. Bat. 1:6, which lists vari­ous items that inheritors cannot divide among themselves; the entire object must go to one person, or two such items must exist. ­These include the following immovable and expensive pieces of property: a courtyard; dining hall; storage room; dovecote;62 bath­house; and olive press. ­After enumerating this list, the Mishnah states its generating princi­ple: “This is the rule: anything that retains its name when divided may be divided, and, if not, it may not be divided.” The Mishnah then qualifies this rule with an exception: “When does this [rule] apply? When they both do not want [to divide the property]; but if both want, they may divide it even if it is yet smaller.” Ultimately, property law falls ­under the agreement of the inheritors. The Mishnah’s initial ruling attempts to preserve the maximum value of inherited property. At the conclusion of its discussion, the Mishnah adds an impor­tant caveat: “But sacred writings [kitve qodesh], even if both want to [divide], they may not divide.”63 The Mishnah treats the scrolls of the Hebrew Bible more stringently than it does landed property. Biblical scrolls are indivisible. They must be kept together. Does the Mishnah think that “sacred writings” do not retain that name when divided among inheritors? Are biblical scrolls more valuable as a set? Is the Mishnah making a social statement about the religious value of scriptural scrolls? Or, perhaps, did the Mishnah’s editors merely link vari­ous oral traditions on the topic of dividing an inheritance? We cannot know for certain. Regardless, p. B. Bat. 1:7 13a attempts to elucidate the final line of the Mishnah by citing two conflicting rabbinic opinions: [a] “But sacred writings, even if both want to [divide], they may not divide.” [b] R. Hoshaya said: “Such as Psalms and Chronicles,64 but Psalms by Psalms one may divide” [i.e., divide a Psalm scroll into several smaller scrolls; or, more likely, break up a collection of several Psalm scrolls].



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[c] R. Uqva said: “Even Psalms by Psalms one may not divide.” [d] And since they do not divide, ­these w ­ ill come and read t­ hese, and ­these w ­ ill come and read t­ hese. Each sage carefully attends to the Mishnah’s blanket statement that one may not divide sacred writings. Yet the sages seem to disagree about how one ­ought to understand the plural word “writings” in the phrase “sacred writings.” R. Hoshaya adopts an essentialist perspective and views each named biblical book as a single “writing,” even if its text—­like Psalms and Chronicles—­ could span several scrolls. If the deceased possessed both Psalms and Chronicles, and thus two writings, the inheritors may not divide the texts among themselves. The set would not “retain its name” as “sacred writings.” But if the dead person just owned Psalms, a single writing, the Mishnah’s ban on dividing writings does not apply, even if the Psalter comprised several scrolls. Resting in the background of R. Hoshaya’s essentialist reading of “sacred writings” might also reside his insistence that Scripture, or at least parts of it, ­ought to be understood and kept together as a coherent collection. It has meaning as a library, or, at the very least, as a series of defined stacks. R. Hoshaya provides as his examples the books of Psalms and Chronicles, which both belong to the Hagiographa (ketuvim), a category of organ­ization often placed in contrast with other units of Scripture, such as Torah (a complete Pentateuch), Pentateuchal scrolls (ḥumashin), or the Prophets.65 In real­ity, the Hagiographa was the name of a ­mental cata­log that consisted of many writings and numerous scrolls. A single scroll containing the entire Hagiographa would be enormous, unwieldy, and impractical. R. Uqva, by contrast, posits that one may not divide even the Psalms. It is pos­si­ble that he understands “sacred writings” in a materialist manner. Multiple scrolls of a single named work constitute the plural “sacred writings.” The Psalter, which likely existed as a collection of several scrolls, thus falls subject to the Mishnah’s ruling.66 Alternatively, the logic in section [d], “And since they do not divide, t­hese w ­ ill come and read t­hese, and t­hese ­will come and read ­these,” might belong to R. Uqva and not to the anonymous talmudic voice. If so, R. Uqva forbids dividing a single Psalter among multiple inheritors b­ ecause he views the Mishnah’s prohibition as an attempt to increase the number of ­people who read scriptural texts. In this view, the Mishnah is not concerned with breaking up specific scriptural sets, such as the Hagiographa, but with splitting apart its readers.

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In any event, ­whether the words in section [d] belong to R. Uqva or to the Talmud’s editors, they highlight that, by being held as common property, the scrolls encourage each inheritor to read the maximum amount of sacred Scripture. Scripture engenders community, a theme that we ­will explore further in Chapter 2. But for the purposes of our current narrative, let us observe that both R. Hoshaya and R. Uqva demonstrate that the book of Psalms can consist of a collection of several individual scrolls, a fact that accords well with our discussion above about the physical limits that regulate the sizes of ancient scrolls.

* * * The Palestinian Talmud also raises to the forefront the issue of the material Psalter’s length and divisibility in rabbinic thought. We may best appreciate both aspects of rabbinic scroll culture by asking and offering a tentative answer to the following question: Why identify as key examples Psalms and Chronicles, instead of Job, Ruth, or other books from the Hagiographa? Perhaps R. Hoshaya and R. Uqva chose Chronicles and Psalms ­because ­these texts are the two longest books in the Hagiographa section of the Bible.67 As large works, one could easily and fairly distribute them among the inheritors, which is the primary concern of the Mishnah around which the Talmud’s discussion revolves. But why choose Psalms as the example of a work that one could split into smaller constituent parts? A large text like Chronicles also existed as a set of multiple Hebrew scrolls, as the division of the book into 1 and 2 Chronicles likely indicates.68 It is pos­si­ble that R. Hoshaya and R. Uqva selected Psalms ­because, within rabbinic thought, only the Psalter and the Pentateuch existed along a flexible ­mental spectrum in which each work was considered a single unified entity on one end and five distinct compositions on the other. On one end of the spectrum lies the following piece of rabbinic interpretation,69 which implicitly understands the Psalter as a structured, coherent, and indivisible work: “R. Samuel b. Naḥmani said in the name of R. Nathan:70 ‘David composed 120 psalms [mizmorim],71 and he did not conclude [ḥatam] any of them with “Hallelujah” ­until he saw the downfall of the wicked. As it is written: “Let sinners be consumed from the earth, and let the wicked be no more. Bless the Lord, O my soul. Hallelujah!” ’ ” According to R. Samuel, David concluded a psalm with “Hallelujah” only when he fi­nally witnessed the downfall of the wicked, presumably referring to the



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vari­ous enemies that chased him throughout his life and throughout the ­earlier parts of the Psalter. In this piece of biblical interpretation, R. Samuel makes several key assumptions. First, he views David as the Psalter’s chief composer, which was but one of many pos­si­ble ways that rabbis framed the relationship between David and the Psalms.72 Second, he suggests that David arranged the poems of the Psalter to reflect the progression of his life.73 Therefore, order becomes a feature of significance, something worthy of exegesis. Third, he understands the Psalter as a single unified entity; his interpretation spans almost the entirety of the work and certainly traverses most conceptual and material divisions of the Psalms.

* * * On the other end of the spectrum lies another source, which clearly imagines Psalms as five distinct books. It also showcases the interpretive relevance of this ­mental, and perhaps material, division. Gen. Rab. 75:1 cites a tradition in the name of R. Pinḥas, who quotes R. Reuben: “Jacob sent messengers” (Gen. 32:3). R. Pinḥas in the name of R. Reuben began a homily: “Rise up, O Lord! Confront them” (Ps. 17:13). David asks God to arise five times in the first book of Psalms: “Rise up, O Lord! Deliver me, O my God” (Ps 3:8); “Rise up, O Lord, in your anger” (Ps. 7:7); “Rise up, O Lord; O God lift up your hand” (Ps. 10:12); “Rise up, O Lord! Do not let mortals prevail” (Ps. 9:20); “Rise up, O Lord! Confront them” (Ps. 17:13). God said to him, “David, my son, even if you ask me to arise one thousand times Iw ­ ill not arise. When w ­ ill I arise? When you see the poor oppressed and the needy sighing, as it is written, ‘From the oppression of the poor ones and the sighing of the needy, now I w ­ ill arise, said the Lord’ ” (Ps. 12:6).74 This homily argues that God does not arise at the request of kings but, at the cries of the suffering poor. R. Reuben supports his position by contrasting the five times that the Psalmist—­David, in the eyes of our exegete—­ commands God to act with an instance in which God does. In delivering this homily, R. Reuben imagines the Psalter as an anthology of discrete books collectively called “Psalms”75 and limits the scope of

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relevant exegetical material by directly signaling the “first book of Psalms.” This division between the books acts as boundary marker and as a point of reference that shapes interpretation. But why does the exegete constrain himself to examples contained in the first book of Psalms? Why not cite “Rise up, O Lord, and go to your resting place” (Ps. 132:8), or “Rise up, O God, judge the earth” (Ps. 82:8), or “Rise up, O God, plead your case” (Ps. 74:22)? One might dismiss ­these last two examples on the grounds that they use Elohim as God’s name rather than the Tetragrammaton. But Ps. 132:8 employs YHWH. In fact, the scribe of the London British Museum manuscript of Genesis Rabbah adds this verse into the body of the passage for the sake of comprehensiveness. Why does the original homily exclude it? I offer two tentative suggestions. Perhaps R. Reuben could only access the first book of Psalms, likely as a single physical scroll. Such a situation fully accords with the material real­ ity of Jewish Late Antiquity. It is not a leap of imagination to suggest that the ­mental partition of Psalms into five books reflects a material division in which each “book” exists as a separate scroll. If this interpretation is correct, it challenges an oft-­unstated assumption in the study of rabbinic lit­er­ a­ture. We tend to take for granted that rabbis memorized the entirety of the rabbinic tradition—or, at least, the complete Hebrew Bible. Committing large sets of texts to memory did occur, and ­doing so was a cultural ideal ­toward which aspiring rabbis ­were instructed to strive. At the same time, in a collection of many rabbis, not all—­and perhaps even not many—­would be gifted with precise recall or be trained consistently in memory techniques.76 ­These sages would access texts and interpretations through scrolls and other physical media.77 In fact, a contentious debate exists within rabbinic lit­er­a­ ture about w ­ hether “scrolls containing homilies” (sifre aggadah) aided or ailed rabbinic life.78 Perhaps R. Pinḥas and R. Reuben, who are neither the best-­ known nor the most-­cited sages, did not commit to memory the entire Psalms. They relied on the first book of the Psalter as a material scroll. Alternatively, maybe the homilist limits himself to the first book of the Psalms for rhetorical effect. Claiming that David called on God to arise five times in the first fifth of the Psalter—­namely, in the first book of the book of Psalms—­might better convince an audience than would saying that David called for God to arise eight times over the course of the entire book of Psalms. In this reading, the homilist knows the content of the complete Psalter. At the same time, he is also aware of, and strategically deploys, the fivefold division of the Psalms.79



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Midrash Psalms, a rabbinic commentary on the Psalms compiled t­ oward the conclusion of Late Antiquity (if not ­after), also provides evidence for the Psalter’s fivefold division and its interpretive relevance.80 According to the opening of Midrash Psalms, David’s actions mirror ­those of Moses. Just as Moses imparted unto Israel five books of Torah, so, too, David composed five books of Psalms.81 The midrash then lists the incipit of each of the five books of Psalms.82 Another band of the spectrum, a position located somewhere in its ­middle, comes from Jerome (ca. 347–420), a ­father of the early church who lived in Bethlehem and maintained contact with Jews for his many scholarly proj­ects, especially ­those involving biblical translation.83 In the preface to his Latin translation of Samuel-­K ings,84 which he wrote sometime between 389 and 392,85 he discusses the order and content of the biblical canon from his Christian perspective, as well as from what he understands to be the Jewish point of view.86 The language of “we/us” and “they/them” litters his preface, and he names each biblical text in both Latin and Hebrew. ­After suggesting that the twenty-­t wo Hebrew biblical books mirror the twenty-­t wo letters of the Hebrew alphabet,87 Jerome lists and describes each text in careful and studied language. When he turns to the Hagiographa, he notes that “the first book begins with Job” (et primus liber incipit ab Iob). He then describes Psalms by saying, “the second with David” (secundus a David), identifying the work with the name of its author. When he talks about the Wisdom books, he says: “The third is Solomon, in three books” (Tertius est Salomon, tres libros habens). For Jerome, a collection of books or a single book may be identified by the name of its author. While “Solomon” indicates several books (libros), “David” does not. ­After noting that the “second [book? collection?] is David,” he clarifies by citing what he takes as the Jewish opinion: “Which they divide into five parts and comprise in one volume of Psalms” (quem quinque incisionibus et uno Psalmorum volumine comprehendunt). The Jews, according to Jerome, do not view the Psalms as five individual books (for which he would have used the word libros), but as five parts (incisiones) of one volume (volumen), a word in Latin that means “roll, wave, scroll” as well as “book, tome, and codex.”88 Jerome’s description of the Pentateuch in the same preface further sheds light on his view of the Psalms. Each section of the Pentateuch constitutes a proper book (liber). In his final statement about the Pentateuch, in which he once again invokes his perception of Judaism, he says: “­These are the five books of Moses, which they properly call Torah, that is, ‘Law’ ” (Hii sunt

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quinque libri Mosi, quos proprie Thorath, id est Legem appellant). The collection is “Moses” but consists of five distinct books. Ultimately, Jerome’s words suggest that a Jewish position that saw the Psalter as five parts of a single work existed. And, as we ­will see below, he was correct. At the same time, as we saw above, the spectrum of Jewish opinion offers a range of options. Why did Jerome select the one that sees the Psalter as “five parts of one volume”? Perhaps Jerome preserves the most common or popu­lar Jewish view on how to divide the Psalter, the one that he would most likely have encountered. Yet he uses the singular form of the word volumen, which often denotes the book as a physical object and suggests a five-­part Psalter contained in a single material medium. As described above, the most common Hebrew Psalters likely existed as a set of multiple scrolls. Jerome prob­ably knew this. In the preface to his revision of a Septuagint Psalter, he talks about emending the Greek Psalms on the basis of “the Hebrew scrolls” (Hebraeis voluminibus), presumably referring to the many scrolls that constituted a single “book” of Psalms.89 Perhaps Jerome selects the Jewish opinion most amenable to both his own rhetorical goal and his material real­ity. Jerome wished to align the number of books (libros) of the Hebrew canon with the Hebrew alphabet.90 Psalms, therefore, must constitute a single work. Additionally, the physical apparatus of a codex—­a bound book—­may underpin his description of a five-­part Psalter in one volumen. This new and popu­lar technology could, unlike scrolls, more easily contain a portable text of the entire Psalms. If this interpretation is correct, Jerome both acknowledges and modifies an existing Jewish opinion.91 Mid. Ps. 14:6, in fact, preserves a position close to that of Jerome’s Jews.92 In a homily about ­great ­things that comes from Zion, it claims: “You find that the phrase ‘who ­shall give from Zion’ is written twice in the book of Psalms, once in the first book and another in the second.”93 The exegete refers to the following verse, which appears in Psalms 14 and 53, two texts that are almost exactly identical: “O that deliverance for Israel would come from Zion! When the Lord (Psalm 14; Psalm 53: God) restores the fortunes of his ­people, Jacob w ­ ill rejoice; Israel w ­ ill be glad. Who ­shall give from Zion the salvation of Israel?” Three assumptions about the Psalter underpin this interpretation. First, that t­ hese parallel psalms cannot be read into one another or considered one composition.94 Second, that Psalms exists as a unified text known as the “book of Psalms” (sefer tehillim). And, third, that the Psalter contains individual parts that are both numbered and designated with the term “book,



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scroll” (sefer). This position somewhat mirrors that cited by Jerome; and in its background rests a real­ity in which the Psalter comprised five in­de­pen­ dent scrolls.

* * * The material and ­mental division of the Psalter into (at least) five scrolls also left an imprint upon traditions located in the Babylonian Talmud. As mentioned above, w ­ hether they lived in Sassanian Persia or Roman Palestine, late antique Jews belonged to a material culture dominated by scrolls, particularly with regard to Scripture. Concerns relating to the tactile Psalter—­ such as length and divisibility—in one region of Jewish life also played out in the other. The following story located in b. Qidd. 33a e­ ither preserves or imagines the interaction between several Palestinian rabbis. It attests to the fivefold division of Psalms as well as to the idea that the Psalter exists as a unified work: “R. Ḥiyya was sitting in a bath­house. R. Simon b. R. Judah passed by him, and [R. Ḥiyya] did not stand before him. [R. Simon] was offended and went and said to his ­father: ‘I taught him two-­fifths [shne ḥumashin] of the book of Psalms,95 and he did not stand before me!’ ” R. Ḥiyya violates rabbinic etiquette and offends R. Simon, who taught him two-­fifths of the book of Psalms.96 In addition to instructing its readers about rabbinic social expectations, this story highlights one ­mental—­and perhaps physical—­framing of the Psalter. R. Simon refers to the Psalms using the language of a fivefold division (ḥumashin) rather than that of a more fine-­ tuned unit of mea­sure, such as a chapter (pereq), section (seder), or sense unit (pasuq).97 Apparently, partitioning the Psalms into five was ­either common or conceptually con­ve­nient. In terms of conceptualizing the Psalter’s divisibility, this story also falls into the same spectral band as Jerome’s Jews. It si­mul­ta­neously acknowledges the Psalter’s division into five parts and maintains that the text exists as a single “book of Psalms.” The word sefer in this passage best translates as “work” and not “scroll.”98 In the parlance of cultures dominated by the scroll form, reading two-­fifths of the Psalter would be akin to reading three-­twenty-­fourths of the Iliad, in which the Iliad is a “work” that consists of twenty-­four in­de­pen­dent “scrolls.” Other sources, such as a series of traditions located in b. Qidd. 30a, primarily treat the Psalter as a single entity. They place the Psalms into

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conversation with the Pentateuch and subtly demonstrate that even if both works consist of five in­de­pen­dent scrolls, they mea­sure as one unified ­whole.99 The opening tradition discusses the “center” of each work: [a] Therefore the early ones ­were called Scribes (= ­Counters)100 ­because they used to count each letter in the Torah. [b] And [they] said that the waw of gaḥon (gḥwn) (Lev. 11:42) is the halfway point for all the letters in the Pentateuch; darosh darash (Lev. 10:16) is the halfway point for words; and vehitgalaḥ (Lev. 13:33) is [the halfway point] for verses.101 [c] “The boar out of the woods [yʿr] ­will ravage” (Ps. 80:14). The ayin of yʿr is the m ­ iddle [for all the letters] of Psalms.102 “And he is merciful and ­will atone iniquity” (Ps. 78:38) is half of the verses.103 Perhaps an early scribal mnemonic, this tradition lavishes attention on the book of Psalms and the Pentateuch. Although each work consists of several separate books, they contain a holistic ­middle for letters, words, and verses.104 An overarching unity in light of conceptual and concrete divisibility characterizes both works.105 A second tradition also views the Psalms (and the Pentateuch) as a single complete work. It mea­sures the Psalter against Chronicles and the Pentateuch and declares the Psalms to be the larger book: “Our rabbis taught: ‘­There are 5,888 verses in the Pentateuch. Psalms has eight more verses, and Chronicles has eight fewer.’ ” In its current versification, the Pentateuch contains 5,845 verses, which comes close to the rabbinic figure.106 The other digits, however, do not match modern reckonings at all. The number eight, additionally, appears to a drive this tradition. Perhaps its originator traded accuracy for memorability. Nevertheless, this tradition raises two questions: Why focus on Psalms, Chronicles, and the Pentateuch? And from where do ­these numbers come? As with the tradition in Palestinian Talmud Bava Batra examined above, size accounts for why the anonymous tradition selected Psalms, Chronicles, and the Pentateuch; and in determining what constitutes a long book, the rabbis privilege counting verses as opposed to textual space. Such a system of ­mental arithmetic makes Psalms, which contains 2,527 verses, one of the longest books of the Hebrew Bible. Chronicles comes to 1,765 verses. Numerous other biblical books, however, would take up more scroll space than



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Psalms. The word count of Kings is 39,145; of Samuel, 38,007; and of Jeremiah, 33,002. Psalms, by contrast, contains 30,147 words. But unlike the 2,527 verses of Psalms, Samuel contains 1,506; Kings 1,534; and Jeremiah 1,364.107 The only work to exceed Psalms and Chronicles in word or verse count is the Pentateuch, when conceived of as a single text. Genesis alone contains 32,046 words, which is more than the entire Psalter. But how, as per the tradition, can Psalms contain more verses than the Pentateuch? For that m ­ atter, why does the reckoning of the Pentateuch differ from its modern count? The answers lie in the fact that what constitutes a “verse” in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture does not necessarily accord with our Masoretic units, the forms of verse division and punctuation that ­shaped the modern received text of the Hebrew Bible. In fact, verse count could differ from scroll to scroll.108 The passage b. Qidd. 30a that immediately follows the one above gives voice to this diversity. R. Joseph inquires as to w ­ hether vehitgalaḥ (Lev. 13:33), the halfway point of verses for the Pentateuch, belongs to the first half or the second half of the Torah. Abaye, a Babylonian rabbi, instructs him to take a scroll and count, assuming that an a­ ctual physical text could represent the entire scribal tradition. The anonymous editorial voice of the Babylonian Talmud challenges Abaye’s solution. It begins by saying that “we” (i.e., con­temporary Babylonian rabbis) no longer possess enough expertise to count verses. It then cites a tradition in the name of R. Aḥa b. Ada: “In the West [Palestine], they would divide [pasqe] this verse [lehaʾi qera] into three divisions [pasuqe]: ‘And the Lord said to Moses, behold I am coming to you in the thickness of a cloud / that the ­people may hear when I speak with you, and that they may believe you forever. / And Moses told the words of the ­people to the Lord’ (Exod. 19:9).” In Palestine, according to the anonymous voice, Exod. 19:9 consisted of three in­de­pen­dent verses, rendering the Pentateuch’s true m ­ iddle 109 impossible to calculate. We cannot determine ­whether such a scroll actually existed in Palestine. It certainly seems plausible that Palestinian and Babylonian scribes arranged verses in many ways and that the division mentioned by R. Aḥa was one of the possibilities. At the very least, this discussion highlights the inherent instability of the textual unit known as the “verse.”110 In fact, a broader understanding of the word “verse” clarifies how Psalms contains 5,894 verses. The tradition cited above likely understood a verse division (pasuq) for Psalms as one poetic sense unit, a “stich.” Such a view more than doubles the 2,527 verses of a Masoretic Psalter, especially as several

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verses contain three stichs.111 Perhaps a series of Psalm scrolls in the layout of two stichs per line, with a space in between, helped facilitate c­ ounters’ reaching the number 5,894.112 The enumeration of 5,880 verses for Chronicles also makes sense for a certain layout of the text. The number possibly derives from counting a text arranged in the style of per cola et commata.113 In this type of layout, a scribe divides a large and complicated text into smaller units of meaning, in which each physical line begins with a new verse, clause, or sense unit. Jerome, in his introduction to his translation of Isaiah, justifies his choice to render the Prophets in the style of per cola et commata by appealing to the fact that it aids readers and interpreters. He also defends his use of this poetic manner of division by noting that scribes have been copying even the prose works of Cicero and De­mos­the­nes in per cola et commata.114 Subsequently, this style was ­adopted in laying out many other biblical books.115 In the context of Syriac manuscripts as well, poetic strophes “may be written continuously in a one-­or two-­column page layout or in a one-­column layout where each verse occupies a separate line. In both cases, the beginning and the end of each verse is marked by a red dot, and red and black dots, respectively.”116 In fact, laying out Chronicles in a manner that facilitates exposition would make perfect sense to many rabbis. Lev. Rab. 1:3 claims about Chronicles—­a text that begins with an eleven-­chapter genealogical list and then repeats, at times verbatim, information already found in Samuel and Kings—­that “the only reason the book of Chronicles was given was so that it may be interpreted.”117 According to b. Pesaḥ. 62b, “Mar Zutra said, ‘Between (the word) Azel (1 Chron. 8:38) and (the word) Azel (1 Chron. 9:44), they have laden four hundred camels with interpretation.’ ” The number 5,880 may reflect a setting in which scribes aided the exegesis of this seemingly superfluous biblical book by laying out the Hebrew scroll(s) of Chronicles in ­either the per cola et commata style or with visual reading cues. Another scribal context also explains the traditions in b. Qidd. 30a, regarding its discussion of the halfway points of vari­ous biblical books. As a ­whole, they might represent fragments of a Jewish stichometric list, a document that enumerates the exact number of lines and other scribal peculiarities of a par­ tic­u­lar text. Writers and readers in the ancient world used stichometric lists to authenticate literary works and to pay ­those who wrote them. Such lists existed in con­temporary Greek, Latin, and Syriac scribal culture. Scribes copying the Hebrew Bible likely worked with a similar tool, especially before the rise of Masoretic manuals. And much like the scribal information



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contained in the traditions examined above, the data that ­these lists pre­sent often conflict with line counts in ­actual manuscripts. Scribes sometimes copied them ­wholesale from previous manuscripts without ensuring that ­these lists matched the texts that they ­were reproducing; in certain cases, such lists existed as an idealized heuristic in the first place.118

* * * The discussion above collected and examined almost e­ very source in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture that sheds light on the issue of the Hebrew Psalter’s division into several scrolls. The texts explored exhibit a spectrum of opinions, ranging from the view of the Psalter as a single work to the understanding of it as five distinct compositions. Traditions located within the Babylonian Talmud appear to ­favor viewing the Psalms as a unified entity, but the paucity of evidence requires caution in making any historical judgment. Two facts, however, remain certain: first, ­behind ­these conversations lies a physical Psalter, likely in the format of a collection of five in­de­pen­dent scrolls; second, reading ­these sources with an eye ­toward the tactile book of Psalms enriches our historical portrait of both rabbinic culture and its surrounding material environment.

The Material Psalter in Rabbinic Thought: Micro Features Texts and traditions that feature writing, erasing, and correcting also provide a win­dow into the many ways that rabbis thought about and interacted with the material Psalter. This vista shifts our focus from the macro questions of length and divisibly to the micro concerns of jots and tittles, a change that further clarifies the varying textual condition of the Hebrew Psalter in Late Antiquity as well as the numerous attempts by readers to control and make meaning of it. ­These concerns also highlight the activities that si­mul­ta­neously define a scribe and make him notorious. Scribes controlled the transmission of written knowledge in the ancient world, casting readers of texts adrift in an uncertain sea of blank ink. That some scribes ­were meticulous and ­others lazy triggered anxiety and, consequently, a demand for strict control. Both the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds, for example, contain long sections

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that preserve a wide range of traditions legislating on copying and transmitting physical texts of the Bible.119 In fact, numerous laws delineated on t­ hese pages are said to have originated from Moses at Sinai, which was a way of ­either justifying an already-­established scribal habit or providing rhetorical authority for some rabbinic innovation.120 Scribes, of course, did not entirely follow ­these rules, which leads to further uncertainty and caution. B. Pesaḥ. 112a, for example, cites a dictum that demands that one teach one’s ­children from corrected biblical texts.121 Even seemingly innocuous topics, such as the beauty of a scribe’s penmanship, or where he situated a line on page, draws forth both praise and scorn. B. B. Bat. 164b, amid a larger discussion about slander, depicts a scene in which two Palestinian rabbis read from material texts, including a copy of the Psalms. They laud and lambast the exact same scribe: [a] It once happened that a tied document was brought to Rabbi [Judah the Prince]. He said, “­There is no date on this!” R. Simon b. R. Levi said, “Perhaps it was swallowed up between the ties?” They split it apart and saw it. [Rabbi] looked upon [R. Simon] with much embarrassment [i.e., Rabbi gave R. Simon a look that indicated that he was ashamed of R. Simon]. [R. Simon] said, “I did not write it; rather, Judah the Tailor wrote it.” [Rabbi] said to him: “Quit from this slander!” [b] One time the rabbi [R. Simon] was sitting before Rabbi [Judah the Prince] and was reading sequentially from the book of Psalms. [Rabbi] said, “Look how expert122 this writing is!” [R. Simon] said to him: “I did not write it; rather, Judah the Tailor wrote it.” [Rabbi] said back, “Quit from this slander!” [c] It makes sense in the first case where t­ here was slander, but where is ­there slander h ­ ere? It is as R. Dimi b­ rother of R. Safra (scribe!) [taught].123 As R. Dimi taught, “­Really a person ­ought not talk about the good deeds of his friend, for through his good deeds come his ill ones.”124 The Talmud’s editor, as evidenced by the anonymous voice in [c], attempts to further develop a discussion on the dangers and nuances of slander by thinking with the scribe, an anxiety-­provoking figure ready to receive ­either approbation or opprobrium. He juxtaposes (or creates?) two short anecdotes about the scribal activity of a certain Judah the Tailor, a figure found only in



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t­ hese narratives. In the first, Judah’s work was incompetent; in the second, it was impeccable. Ancient readers could not escape the handwriting of scribes and would always appreciate expert penmanship.125 But why feature the Psalter? Why not select another biblical text? Perhaps the storyteller knew about another narrative in which R. Judah and R. Simon read together from a physical Psalter.126 Or perhaps he chose Psalms ­because, as mentioned ­earlier, and as we ­will explore throughout this book, the Psalter was extremely popu­lar. Alternatively, maybe (and perhaps this is naïve), the story reflects a true historical situation that involved an ­actual physical book of Psalms. Regardless of why Psalms appears, ­these tales shed light on scribes and the act of writing. A professional class of scribes did not alone possess the ability to put quill to parchment.127 Rabbis could scribe, and so could tailors.128 From the vantage point of the Talmud’s editor, the same figure who produces documentary texts could also pen literary ones. But, perhaps more impor­tant, we learn that scribes are inconsistent, a fact that ­will shape the remainder of our chapter. This real­ity provides the background for the aforementioned collection of traditions, which raises up the scribe as an exemplar of an inherently problematic figure whose good works can highlight the bad. It also explains the inherent variety in texts such as the material Psalter, as well as the need felt by rabbis to discuss and control the writing of all sorts of l­egal and sacred texts, Psalms included.129 Line Spacing

One attempt to tame the chaos of the writing appears in b. Pesaḥ. 117a, which focuses on the word hallelujah and on the proper way to arrange or imagine blank spaces in the Psalter. It opens with a debate: “R. Ḥisda said, hallelujah is the end of a textual unit [pirqa]; Rabba b. R. Huna said, hallelujah is the beginning of a textual unit [pirqa].’ ”130 The Psalter is littered with ambiguous hallelujahs. ­These include ­every instance of hallelujah except for ­those of Psalms 146, 147, 148, 149, and 150, since ­these psalms begin and end with hallelujah, follow a chapter that ends in hallelujah, and precede a chapter that opens with hallelujah.131 What about the remainder?132 Does hallelujah begin a new psalm or close the previous one? The material Psalter both informs this argument and is ultimately at stake in it.133 Ancient Jewish scribes frequently divided a text into individual parts by leaving a large blank space between the end of one section and the

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Figure 7. ­Great Psalm Scroll (11QPsa, Cols. 14–15, see Col. 15) Shai Halevi, Courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority

beginning of another.134 Even within this scribal habit, Psalms proves distinctive. Vari­ous documents from the Judaean Desert that contain poems from the Psalter often place the title and the opening words of a psalm on a new line.135 Such is also true of some Psalters written in a prose format.136 The debate between R. Ḥisda and Rabba b. R. Huna likely revolves around writing and laying out a Psalm scroll: On which side of the divide should hallelujah fall? For Rabba b. R. Huna, hallelujah begins a new section and thus a new line; for R. Ḥisda, it does not. Rather, it concludes the previous section, and a blank space would follow. While the material Psalters of Late Antiquity likely exhibited both patterns of division, perhaps the Psalm scrolls most readily accessible to R. Ḥisda and Rabba b. R. Huna ­shaped their respective opinions. That materiality ­matters underpins the statement in the Talmud that immediately follows, which introduces a physical copy of the Psalter into the



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discussion: “R. Ḥisda said, ‘I saw the Psalter in the ­house of R. Ḥannan b. Rabba, and hallelujah was written in the m ­ iddle of a textual unit [emtza pirqa]. Perhaps he was unsure.’ ” R. Ḥisda leaves us with ­little doubt that a “textual unit” relates to the material Psalter and that physical Psalters inform rabbinic l­egal debates. But what might the phrase “­middle of a textual unit” mean in this context?137 As mentioned above, one notices the hallelujahs at the beginning or end of a textual unit ­because of the blank space that ­either precedes or follows them. A hallelujah in the “­middle of a textual unit” lacks this distinguishing marker, as it appears embedded in a large block of text.138 R. Ḥannan’s Psalter would read: “The wicked see it and are angry; they gnash their teeth and melt away; the desire of the wicked comes to nothing, hallelujah, praise, O servants of the Lord, praise the name of the Lord” (Ps. 112:10–113:1). Since he operated ­under the assumption that the opening of a psalm’s textual unit must contain a space break, if not a new line, it is no won­der that R. Ḥisda interpreted the lack of spacing in R. Ḥannan’s Psalter as a sign of uncertainty.139 But maybe R. Ḥannan was not in doubt. Perhaps the Psalter in R. Ḥannan’s possession was written in prose and contained blank spaces in locations that do not correspond to our Masoretic chapter divisions. In this type of layout, a scribe does not mark the bound­aries of a textual unit (pirqa). A reader, in the context of reciting the Psalms, does. In fact, another tradition about R. Ḥannan in the Talmud’s discussion indicates that he had no doubts about the locations of vari­ous hallelujahs. He declares: “All agree that for tehillat (Psalms 145–46), rasha (Psalms 112–13), and omedim (Ps. 135:1–2), the hallelujah that follows it is the beginning of a textual unit” (pirqa). The phrase “that follows it” best makes sense in light of the type of Psalm scroll just described, which lacks a space between the last word of Psalm 112 and the hallelujah that follows.140 Given such a Psalm scroll, with a text ­running line by line without regular spaces to indicate the start of a new section, it was incumbent upon the reader to know when tradition demanded that one pause. Such a prose Psalter was not designed for the novice reader. As a ­whole, this lengthy discussion in b. Pesaḥ. 117a teaches us about the complicated and dynamic relationship between Psalm scrolls and t­hose who read them. It shows us that rabbinic ­legal conversations grappled with the textual features of material Psalters; at times, the rulings that a rabbi promulgated

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­ ere ­shaped by his own ideal of the material Psalter, which likely reflected the w Psalter that he knew best, the Psalm scrolls in his memory or possession. Word Spacing

P. Meg. 1:11 72a, which contains a debate between two Babylonian rabbis about creating spaces between words and erasing letters, also thematizes the connection between the layout of a material Psalter and rabbinic legislation on Psalms. It, too, focuses on that peculiar word hallelujah.141 Two facts supply the necessary background to understand the dispute: first, one cannot erase a divine name—it is holy; second, only certain words containing ele­ ments of God’s name can be split in two. The status of hallelujah, which includes the divine name “Jah,” is up for debate:142 [It is a debate between] Rav and Samuel. One claims [that it is spelled] hallelu jah, and the other hallelujah. The one who claims it is hallelu jah, it may be divided but not erased. The one who claims it is hallelujah, it can be erased but not divided. We do not know which tradent said what. [Let us solve this prob­lem] from what Rav said: “I heard from my ­uncle, ‘if someone should give me a book of Psalms of R. Meir,143 I would erase all the hallelujahs144 that are found in it, for he did not intend to sanctify them.’ ” From ­here we learn that he is the one who would claim it is hallelu jah. The words of the rabbis dispute this. R. Simon in the name of R. Joshua b. Levi said: “Ten words of praise are said in the book of Psalms: . . . ​the richest of them all is hallelujah, for the divine name and praise are combined in it.” A scribe can spell the word hallelujah in one of two ways: hallelu jah (with a space) or hallelujah (without a space), both of which appear in fragments from the Psalms found in the Cairo Genizah and in Masoretic manuscripts that contain Psalms.145 The Palestinian Talmud understands ­these two spelling options as a binary that relates to the sanctity of the divine name: 1) hallelu jah contains a divine name; 2) hallelujah does not. But this binary is deceptive. Even though the Talmud pre­sents two options, it actually identifies three scribal and sacral possibilities: 1) hallelujah contains a divine name; 2) hallelujah does not contain a divine name; 3) hallelu jah contains a divine name.146 Although the anonymous voice of the Palestinian Talmud, the “from ­here we learn,” attempts to reduce the statement



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of Rav’s ­uncle to the question of ­whether hallelujah contains a space, his opinion is actually more radical. How Jewish scribes treated divine names reveals the true force of the statement of Rav’s ­uncle. Effacing divinity was no trifling ­matter. The scrolls from the Judaean Desert and early Christian papyri testify to the care accorded to both signifying and erasing God’s many names.147 In addition, an ­earlier statement in this section of the Palestinian Talmud declares that one may never erase the word Jah. It also permits a scribe to delete a divine name only when scriptural context ensures that it does not actually refer to God, such as all instances of Elohim in the Micha story of Judges 18 except for that in verse 31. The statement attributed to Rav’s u ­ ncle not only furnishes another example in which rabbis engage with physical scrolls, but it also adds a new dimension to this conversation. Rav’s ­uncle privileges his own reconstruction of a scribe’s intentions over what actually appears written on the page (and perhaps even its context).148 Had he surmised that R. Meir intended to sanctify the word hallelujah, he would be unable to erase it. Perhaps the vehemence of his words, “I would erase ­every hallelujah,” suggests that he wished to read Jah as a divine name. In any event, the anecdote does not actually inform its reader of how Rav’s u ­ ncle would spell the word: hallelu jah, or an intentionally sanctified hallelujah. Could this interest in reconstructing the intention of the scribe be the beginning of conjectural emendation as an interpretive tool within a rabbinic context? Regardless, that the thoughts of the scribe take center stage explains the unique reference to the “Psalms of R. Meir,” a term that appears only ­here. Probing the intention of a scribe requires a named figure about whom ­others can speculate. An anonymously produced scroll would not do; the intention of the one who wrote it would be lost in transmission. R. Meir likely appears as the Psalter’s copyist ­because a long-­standing literary trope casts him as an excellent scribe as well as a figure who produced a Torah with numerous readings that diverge from the “standard” text.149 That named figures and questions about scribal intent go together is illuminated by a parallel to this narrative found in b. Pesaḥ. 117a, which we ­will explore next. The Babylonian Talmud, which mirrors many ele­ments of the Palestinian Talmud’s discussion, does not dwell on reconstructing a scribe’s intention. When it narrates a rabbinic encounter with a physical Psalter, it does not identify which scribe copied the text. The Babylonian Talmud begins its discussion with a tradition that R. Ḥisda cites in the name of R. Yoḥanan, who claims that one writes hallelujah,

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kesyah, and yedidyah as a single word. The divine ele­ment Jah is not graphically distinct. Rav suggests that one only writes kesyah and yedidyah as a single word, while Rabbah posits this for an entirely dif­fer­ent word: merḥavyah. In the course of its dialectic, the anonymous voice of the Babylonian Talmud attempts to clarify why Rav treats hallelujah as two separate words. Like the Palestinian Talmud, it cites an anecdote in which a physical Psalm scroll determines a l­egal ruling: “Rav said, I saw a Psalter belonging to my friend, and hallelu was written on one side [gisa] and jah on another.” If hallelujah ­were treated as a single word, no space would divide it. This anecdote differs in both scope and force from the narrative embedded in the Palestinian Talmud. The Babylonian Talmud’s story replaces assumptions about intentionality with a tactic found elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture: authentication through material evidence. The rabbis seem to employ this method in a more ad hoc than systematic manner.150 But recall the narrative in b. Qidd. 30a, discussed above, in which R. Joseph is told to find a scroll and determine the exact ­middle for verses in the Pentateuch. This anecdote provides additional insight about the potential layouts of late ancient physical Psalm scrolls. What kind of text did Rav see? Traditional interpreters read and translate the word gisa as “line.”151 In their eyes, Rav encountered a scroll with the word hallelu at the end of one line and the word jah at the beginning of the following one. The word gisa, found almost exclusively in the Babylonian Talmud, better translates as “side.” One could still visualize dif­fer­ent sides of a single column of a prose Psalter, and thus separate lines within that column. But the semantics of the phrase “from one side to the other” suggests a roughly continuous line.152 Perhaps the Psalter of Rav’s friend was laid out in poetic sense units, and thus, within a single line, hallelu appears at the end of one stich and jah at the beginning of the another.153

Conclusion By focusing on the material Psalter, this chapter opened our exploration of the vari­ous ways that rabbinic Jews encountered and made meaning of the Psalms. It asked and attempted to answer two fundamental questions: What could physical books of Psalms have looked like in Late Antiquity? And how did rabbis think with and about them? It began by surveying extant material Psalters from the Judaean Desert through the beginning of the High ­Middle Ages, which offer potential



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reconstructions of the scripts, layouts, and sizes of the books of Psalms that rabbis would have held in their hands or recalled from memory. It then turned to literary sources, collecting and examining direct references to the “the book of Psalms” as a material object in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture. In par­ tic­u­lar, it explored in detail how the physical features of scrolls containing Psalms s­ haped rabbinic discussions about the Psalter’s length, divisibility, spacing, and erasure. In examining ­these questions, this chapter followed the rich interpretive path paved by book historians, who stress the importance of analyzing, in tandem, tangible texts and ­those who use them.154 Ultimately, it argued that the consideration of material Psalm scrolls helps us better understand the oral discourses of the rabbis and that, in turn, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture gives us insight into the physical features of late antique scrolls of Psalms. This chapter focused solely on the material Psalms. The rabbis, however, commented on, described, and interacted with many other biblical books—­most notably, the Pentateuch, which they discussed in great detail. One could replicate the questions and concerns examined above with re­spect to other material biblical scrolls. The Pentateuch, for example, was divided into at least five in­de­pen­dent scrolls, and other lengthy biblical books likely also existed as collections of several scrolls. Likewise, questions about length, section division, layout, and erasure certainly exist for any sacred text. The analyses above, therefore, represent but one node of inquiry within a much larger scholarly conversation examining the role of material Scripture in late ancient Jewish culture and beyond. Yet our exploration of the rabbinic encounter with the material Psalter is still incomplete. For the rabbis, and presumably other ancient Jews, the physical Psalter ­shaped not only conversations about its own tangible and textual features, but also the ways in which it was read, interpreted, and valued. In fact, this chapter did not exhaust our supply of references in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture to the physical scroll(s) of Psalms. The following chapter ­will attempt to do so, paying close attention to the dynamic relationship between the material Psalter and the many pos­si­ble ways in which it was read. It ­will also explore the vari­ous social and cultural forces that s­ haped the ways in which rabbis read and represented the Psalms.

Chapter 2

Reading a Material Psalter

My ­father, may his memory be blessed, said that my grand­father, may his memory be blessed, said that just as movement is difficult for a person, so, too, movement is difficult for books. When he died, he said to his son, “Be warned, do not take out books from your b­ rother’s ­house in which I dwell.” And when they needed to read, they would come ­there, just as when he was alive, so, too, when he died. They said: “Whoever does not see b­ rothers sitting, and books in their hands, has not seen a good interpretation [of the verse] ‘Behold, how good and pleasant it is when ­brothers sit together’ ” (Ps. 133:1). Therefore, my ­father and teacher, may his memory be blessed, and I would come ­every day to the ­house of my grand­father, may his memory be blessed, to study ­there and fulfill for ourselves [the rabbinic saying]: “Be exiled to a place of Torah.” (m. Avot 4:18) —­S. Y. Agnon, “The Set of Talmud in My Grand­father’s House”

In the deft hands of Agnon, Ps. 133:1 explains how the act of reading from a material text fosters a sense of community. Good and pleasant are ­brothers who strug­gle over sacred lit­er­a­ture together, who si­mul­ta­neously find com­ pany in both one another and their books. Agnon interprets a verse from Psalms to glorify how Jews regularly interacted with the Talmud, the literary center of post–­late ancient Jewish life, lore, and culture.1 This chapter follows the path that Agnon sets, but focuses on a text composed much ­earlier: the book of Psalms. It draws upon Agnon’s community-­oriented depiction of reading books and explores the following



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questions: How did the material Psalter, w ­ hether physically pre­sent or embedded in memory, shape the experience and results of its reading? In what ways did rabbis read the Psalter or imagine ­others reading the Psalms? And how did a Psalter travel?2 By focusing on ­these questions and by, I hope, providing some answers, this chapter further develops Chapter 1’s core contention: attention to the material dimensions of Scripture illuminates a few of the many ways in which rabbis encountered the Psalms. This chapter also completes the analy­sis of nearly e­ very instance in which classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture refers to the physical “book(s) of Psalms.” In further concert with Chapter 1, one could profitably apply the issues, methods, and tools discussed below to sacred texts beyond the Psalter. A complete portrait, of which our account is but one portion, would vividly depict the role of the material Bible in rabbinic law and lore in all of its varying complexities. Compared with Chapter  1, this chapter ­will more pointedly apply to rabbinic Judaism the insights of historians of reading, who teach us that reading occurs at the dynamic intersection of reader, material, and situation.3 One cannot reduce reading to a singular event or a ­simple pro­cess. And much in the same way that variety governs the material manifestations of the late antique Hebrew Psalter, diversity rules the act(s) of reading. Within the context of late ancient Judaism, midrash, a mode of rabbinic scriptural engagement that seeks, as its primary stated goal, to interpret a biblical text, is the best attested form of reading, ­whether we define “reading” as decoding words on a page or discussing the contents and meaning of a material text currently absent from view.4 One can learn a lot about the rabbis and their world by exploring the subtleties and contexts of their exegetical practices and conversations.5 This chapter, like numerous other places throughout this book, pays attention to how rabbis analyzed Psalms with the tools of midrash. At the same time, they—­and presumably many other ancient Jews—­ viewed Scripture through lenses other than ­those provided by midrash. On occasion, the rabbis even contrast their preferred style of engaging with Scripture with other forms of reading, which they often telescope with the word “read” (qaraʾ). In p. Ber. 2:3 4d, for example, R. Yonatan chastises R. Ḥiyya for his simplistic understanding of Prov. 9:5 by declaring: “You know how to read [liqro], but you do not know how to expound [lidrosh]!”6 B. Shab. 116b also attests to this form of ­mental segregation. It claims that during set

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times of study, ­people may not read (qorʾin) Scripture (kitve qodesh); rather, they should “study [shonin] them or expound [dorshin] them.” Only if they get stuck may they “bring [a scroll] and see it [the necessary section].”7 Although the rabbis lavish attention upon studying and expounding Scripture, a world of diverse activities, thoughts, and pro­cesses is telescoped in the word “to read” (liqro). Consider a somewhat related phenomenon in the En­glish language, which differentiates between reading thoroughly or quickly with a single word (i.e., peruse and skim) but does not segregate into distinct linguistic containers the acts of reading for plea­sure and reading as a pious activity. The term “to read” describes both; to differentiate between them, one must elaborate or derive clues from context. By using references to the book of Psalms, this chapter ­will begin the pro­cess of teasing apart what other styles and structures of reading ­were latent in the ­simple term “to read.” ­Doing so ­will move our discussion beyond the realm of midrash and ­toward non-­exegetical modes of interacting with Psalms, styles of engagement that the final two chapters ­will develop further. Additionally, this chapter ­will provide nuance to the broad term “to expound” by examining the material and social assumptions that underpinned the rabbinic study of Scripture in a study ­house or teacher-­student setting.8

Scenes of Reading: Psalms in Several Dimensions Anecdotes in which a figure reads from a physical book of Psalms, which I ­will term “scenes of reading,” provide vivid views into the vari­ous ways that the rabbis read the Psalter or imagine it being read by ­others.9 Although only a handful of scenes of reading involving the Psalter exist across rabbinic lit­ er­a­ture, they nonetheless exhibit some of the dynamics that underpin the acts of reading Scripture. A scene in the Mishnah sheds light on reading as a leisure activity. The context is the ­temple on the eve of Yom Kippur, the primary actor or object of action is the High Priest, and the goal of reading is ­simple: to pass time. Rabbinic law demanded that the High Priest remain awake the entire night before Yom Kippur. If the High Priest falls asleep, he might emit semen during the night, become ritually impure, and thus be unable to perform his duties on Judaism’s holiest day. M. Yoma 1:6–7 lists the vari­ous strategies that his priestly underlings utilized to prevent him from falling asleep. They



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included acts such as goading him, snapping their fin­gers at him, and singing. Or reading biblical texts: “If he is a sage [ḥakham], he expounds [doresh], and if he is a disciple of the sages [talmid ḥakhamim], they expound [dorshin] before him.10 If he normally reads [liqrot], he reads [qorʾe], and, if not, they read before him [qorin lifanav]. And from what do they read before him? From Job, Ezra, or Chronicles. Zechariah b. Kabutal said, ‘I read many times before him from Daniel.’ ” This Mishnah plays on the distinction between “expounding” (root: drsh) and “reading” (root: qrʾ) from Scripture.11 The word “expound” designates a par­tic­u­lar form of reading bound to rabbinic identity: the Mishnah prescribes it only if the High Priest is a “sage” or a “student of a sage.”12 The social makeup of the reader molds the expectations of reading, even if the intended results of reading—in this instance, keeping the High Priest awake—­remain the same. If the High Priest does not travel within the circles of the rabbis, one keeps him awake through another form of reading. While the Mishnah does not specify what one expounds (drsh) in front of the High Priest, it does enumerate Job, Ezra, Chronicles, and Daniel as especially appropriate books to “read” (qrʾ) to him. Why t­ hese texts? The Mishnah does not explain its logic. P. Yoma 1:6 39b, however, cites a tannaitic tradition, a statement presumably composed close in time to the Mishnah, that provides a dif­fer­ent set of books to read to the High Priest, along with a logic for why to select them: “with Proverbs or Psalms, b­ ecause their understanding ruins the taste of sleep.”13 At the very least, this passage represents reading as a decidedly goal-­oriented endeavor. It is not study for study’s sake. But this tradition also raises two questions: Why focus on Psalms and Proverbs? And if “expound” indicates a par­tic­u­lar rabbinic form of reading Scripture (i.e., midrash), what might be ­imagined by the activity of reading designated with the word “to read” (qrʾ)? The answers are connected. Perhaps Psalms and Proverbs especially ruin sleep ­because of their style and content. Both books contain short digestible units that invite reflection and conversation. Thus, the activity indicated by the word “to read” (qrʾ) in this par­tic­u­lar context likely refers to leisure reading, a form of entertainment often ­limited to ­those with an abundant amount of ­free time. As a cultural analogue, wealthy Greeks and Romans who enjoyed books would set aside time to read—­alone or, more often, as a group.14 Such a style of reading best explains the social setting and language of ­these passages. High Priests, both historically and in rabbinic imagination,

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belonged to society’s upper crust.15 Sometimes corrupt, and often unaffiliated with pharisaic or (proto)rabbinic Judaism, they ­were, in any event, wealthy, power­f ul, and undoubtedly literate.16 In the eyes of the Mishnah, if the High Priest was a rabbinic disciple, a sage would continue his education and keep him occupied through the standard mode of rabbinic scriptural interpretation: midrash. Other­wise, the High Priest engages in another activity, something involving the word “to read” (qrʾ). In this context, the word cannot mean “to read aloud” without any additional component. Nothing would put the High Priest to sleep faster than unreflectively reading out words on a page or, worse, being read to. The scene of reading must have reflected the cultural norms of the time and resonated with the High Priest’s status and position. The language of the Mishnah indicates as much. “If he normally reads, he reads” means that the High Priest often takes an active role in the pro­cess of reading Scripture and drawing forth insight from it in modes other than midrash.17 “If not, they read before him” suggests that the High Priest participates as a discussant. In a Greco-­Roman context, sometimes the producer of a text or a wealthy patron would read; at other times, a literate slave would read aloud to ­those in the room.18 Conversation would then follow. For the High Priest on the eve of Yom Kippur, leisure reading provided entertainment, edification, and socialization. More impor­tant, discussing books like Psalms and Proverbs would stave off sleep and pass the time. In sum, this mishnah begins the pro­cess of showing that reading clearly entails an entire social system, one that varies by context and depends upon its goals and actors.

* * * Lev. Rab. 16:2 also brings to the fore the dynamics between “expounding” Scripture and other forms of reading.19 The scene constitutes the bulk of a homily on leprosy, which some rabbis imagine as the product of evil speech. The parable, however, also appears as an in­de­pen­dent tale in several other places within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.20 It differs from the Mishnah’s scene explored above in several significant ways. First, the material scroll plays a role in this narrative. Second, it includes an exchange between two characters with differing social stations and goals for reading: a wealthy rabbinic sage and a wandering merchant. The merchant marshals reading to inculcate ethics, while the rabbi lauds a new



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interpretive insight.21 This scene, therefore, highlights the role of the “actor,” the person actually reading, in the pro­cess of deriving meaning from a text. It also provides insight into another dimension of reading Scripture that appears alongside, but does not reduce to, rabbinic midrash: A story about a merchant 22 who would go around the cities near23 Sepphoris and would announce24 and say: “Who wants to buy25 the potion of life?”26 R. Yannai, who was sitting and expounding in his triclinium, looked at him.27 He heard him [the merchant] call out, “Who wants to buy the potion of life?” R. Yannai looked at him and said, “Come up ­here and sell it to me.” [The merchant]28 said to him, “You do not need it, neither you nor ones like you.”29 He pressed on him, so he went next to him and brought out a Psalm scroll.30 He showed him the verse31 “Who is a person who wants life, loves days, that he may see good?” (Ps. 34:13). What is written ­after it? “Guard your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking deceit. Turn away from bad and do good. Seek peace and chase ­after it” (Ps. 34:14–15).32 R. Yannai said, “All my days I would read this text33 and not understand the meaning of this verse u ­ ntil this merchant came and made it known.”34 In this narrative, a merchant offers to sell the impossible: the potion of life. R. Yannai, lounging in his estate35 and expounding Scripture in a rabbinic study session,36 is intrigued. He wishes to purchase it. The merchant refuses, declaring that R. Yannai and ­those like him—­presumably, referring to other rabbis—do not need his elixir. When pressed, the merchant pulls out his ware. Instead of a potion in a ­bottle, he reveals a scroll of Psalms.37 The merchant unrolls it, shows Ps. 34:13–15 to R. Yannai, and reads the verses aloud to him.38 This surprises R. Yannai, who congratulates the merchant for teaching him something new. The material Psalter, the lenses through which it is read, and the social stations of its readers provide interpretive keys to unlocking the narrative depth, meaning, and historical context of this fascinating tale. Peddlers roamed the landscape of late antique Palestine, and Sepphoris offered them a bustling center of trade.39 During this era, the book industry also grew. Not only did wealthy patrons hire scribes to copy borrowed works, but wandering merchants also trafficked in prefabricated scrolls and codices.40

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The storyteller in Leviticus Rabbah draws upon this developing market and the material real­ity of his day. Instead of a physical potion of life, the merchant pulls out a material scroll, a Psalter. This physical roll, in turn, lends a tactile force to the drama. The potion of life is si­mul­ta­neously the Psalm scroll and the advice embedded therein. The narrative also situates the scroll, the material medium, as the locus of reading and persuasion. The merchant does not convince R. Yannai ­until he pulls out his ware, points to a sequence of verses, and reads them aloud. The story also illustrates the multiple lenses through which one could read the Psalter. For the merchant, reading or hearing words from the Psalms should be transformative, an event leading to both physical and spiritual well-­ being. It should also inculcate virtue—an aspect of encountering the Psalms pre­sent in both ancient Judaism and early Chris­tian­ity.41 The very verses that the merchant attempts to sell as a “potion of life” highlight commendable values and the concomitant promise of “life” for ­those who adhere to them.42 Although the merchant’s words appear unadorned by explicit exegesis, they are indeed power­f ul—­perhaps even magical.43 Yet from the perspective of the merchant, t­ hose who follow the strictures of rabbinic society need not “purchase” his wares. Such individuals are already steeped in Scripture and are enmeshed in a system of rabbinic ethics; a rich moral standard already fashions them.44 Nevertheless, the merchant astounds R. Yannai, who claims that he has never truly understood the meaning of Ps. 34:13–15 ­until that day. R. Yannai’s declaration is itself a slight variation on a stock phrase found elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.45 But still, why the surprise? The social location of ­these two figures as presented by the storyteller provides a clue. The narrative begins with R. Yannai’s “sitting and expounding,” the quin­tes­sen­tial mode in which rabbis engage with Scripture. R. Yannai, additionally, does so from a position of power, as a member of the society’s wealthy elite. He sits in a triclinium and is depicted elsewhere in rabbinic lit­ er­a­ture as quite rich.46 ­These ­factors likely inform the way the storyteller pre­ sents R. Yannai’s expectations for reading and understanding Scripture. Enter the wandering merchant, a figure of low status who does not boast wealth, rabbinic learning, or spatial stability. As mentioned above, the narrative pre­sents the words of the merchant as unadorned by explicit interpretation. What impresses R. Yannai, and what the storyteller wishes to convey to his audience, is that one could produce compelling meaning from Scripture



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through modes of reading beyond ­those to which the rabbis are habituated. More pointedly, the storyteller employs the merchant to exhibit the power of reading Scripture as drama.47 In this scene of reading, the merchant does not perform exegesis but performs Scripture: he adopts the voice of the psalm and acts out, as a peddler, the verse “Who desires life.” 48 In effect, the peddler in the parable transforms himself into a parable. Ultimately, this narrative illustrates the complicated material, literary, social, and cultural dynamics that inform the pro­cess called “reading.” In this par­tic­u­lar scene, several expectations about how to read the Psalter encounter one another and butt heads. As a ­whole, however, the story attempts to minimize the latent tension that social difference and literary expectations produce. Each character validates the other from the perspective of his own habituated style of reading. The merchant re­spects the rabbi, declaring that he does not need the potion of life. He assumes that the rabbi does not need the results of reading as ethical transformation. The rabbi, in turn, learns from the merchant, commending the merchant’s reading as insightful biblical exegesis. This rhetorical effect, which legitimates several styles of reading Scripture, might allow us to speculate about the parable’s setting and function. As mentioned above, the story constitutes the bulk of a homily on Lev. 14:2, a verse that opens the biblical portion on leprosy and was read in the synagogue as part of a liturgical cycle that completed the Pentateuch once in about e­ very three years. It is pos­si­ble that this homily was delivered in a synagogue to a diverse group of Jews, some of whom ­were familiar with rabbinic modes of reading Scripture, and ­others who ­were not.49 The parable instructs ­those unaccustomed to rabbinic society to accord re­spect to the rabbis and to attend to the transformative power of internalizing a notoriously difficult and technical liturgical reading. For ­those already committed to rabbinic culture, it cautions against dismissing out of hand t­ hose who approach Scripture without the specialized exegetical tools developed by the sages and their students.

* * * A scene of reading located in Gen. Rab. 46:10 exhibits yet another mode of interacting with Scripture that hides within the deceptively ­simple Hebrew word qrʾ, “to read”: affective reading, defined ­here as reading that stirs one to action.50 As in the scenes explored above, affective reading does not aim,

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as its primary goal, to produce the best understanding of the text at hand. Unlike the scenes explored above, the following text does not feature the Psalter but, rather, the book of Genesis. Yet given the results of our discussion of Psalm piety in Chapter 4, it is almost certain that many ancient Jews (and Christians) read the Psalter in the manner illustrated below. Rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, unfortunately, preserves no scene of reading that explic­itly depicts affective reading of the Psalms. Further, analy­sis of the source below appears within t­ hese pages to demonstrate the diverse ways in which Jews read other biblical books and to highlight the limitations of focusing solely on the Psalms.51 Gen. Rab. 46:10 tells the tale of two princes reading the book of Genesis:52 “You ­shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin” (Gen. 17:11); like a sore, it is attached to the body. And it happened that Monobazus and Izates, the sons of Ptolemy the King, ­were sitting and reading [yoshvin veqorin] the book of Genesis. When they came to this verse “You s­ hall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin,” one turned his face to the wall and began to cry, and the other turned his face to the wall and began to cry. One went and circumcised himself; the other circumcised himself. ­After some time, they ­were sitting and reading the book of Genesis. And when they reached the verse, “You ­shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin,” one said to his companion, “Woe to you, my ­brother.” [The other ­brother] said, “Woe to you, my ­brother, and not to me.” They revealed the ­matter one to another. When their ­mother became aware, she went and told their ­father: “A sore has developed on their flesh, and the physician has prescribed that they be circumcised.” [Their ­father] said, “And let them be circumcised.” How did the Holy Blessed One, repay him? R. Pinḥas said: “When he went forth to war, an ambush was set for him, but an angel descended and saved him.”53 The conversion of Monobazus and Izates to Judaism was the stuff of legends, a ­grand tale of formerly pagan princes who realized the truth. The story in Genesis Rabbah imagines the conditions of that transformation, at the center of which lies the affective reading of a physical scriptural scroll. Monobazus and Izates sit together and read from the book of Genesis, an action described in the narrative as “sitting and reading” (yoshvin veqorin), a slight—­



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but impor­tant—­variation on the classical formula that indicates a rabbinic study session: “sitting and expounding” (yoshvin vedorshin).54 At first, ­these royal scions may have read the book of Genesis as a social-­ leisure activity—­that is, ­until they come across Gen. 17:11, the commandment of circumcision. At this point, their reading quickly turns internal, personal, and affective. The text demands that the ­brothers be circumcised, but they are not, a fact that brings both readers to shame and tears. Reading, ultimately, leads to action, as each sibling, without the knowledge of his ­brother, gets circumcised. As they reconvene and read Gen. 17:11 once more, they learn that they each fulfilled the divine command.55 At the very least, this tale sheds light on the power­f ul effects of reading, an activity for which the physical scroll provides occasion and perhaps even additional texture. The discrepancy between the demands found within a text and their real­ity drives the ­brothers to tears, which is a feature found elsewhere in both rabbinic and Christian lit­er­a­ture.56 Augustine, as we w ­ ill explore in Chapter 4, reads from the Psalms on his deathbed and cries, presumably for not living up to Scripture’s lofty ideals. The story also provides insight into the sociology of reading Scripture, at least as ­imagined by the rabbis. First, reading may function as a shared activity among peers of equal stature, especially when conducted in modes not primed to produce midrash. As we ­will see below, one pos­si­ble hallmark of midrashic reading was its penchant for hierarchy. A master, the authoritative interpreter, unpacks the text’s meaning for a student.57 Or, in the case of a sermon, the rabbinic sage explains the significance of a text to a public audience. The power dynamics are clear. The scene of reading in Genesis Rabbah, by contrast, depicts two readers of equal rank. They do not interpret the text; they are affected by it. Second, the scene illumines the blurry boundary between the communal and the internal dimensions of reading. Reading in the ancient world often occurred in a group setting and ­shaped the community as a ­whole. But private reading also existed; ­here the internal life of a reader, although often inaccessible, is on display.58 Our story plays with both loci. Monobazus and Izates read Genesis together and are equally affected by its words, but they do not perform circumcision as a collective. Instead, each ­brother acts on an impulse generated in the private confines of his own mind. This fuzziness between self and society also relates to the motif of secrecy and revelation that guides the narrative. At first, each ­brother hides his action from the other. Eventually, their ­mother finds out but hides the

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incident from her husband. In fact, according to the narrative, the ­brothers never actually tell the m ­ other. Rather, she “feels” it (kevan shehirgisha). What function might this story have served for ­those who composed it or listened to it? In truth, we w ­ ill never ­really know. But this tale is located in Genesis Rabbah, a compendium of scriptural exegesis and homilies possibly compiled in Caesarea during the fifth ­century.59 Perhaps the imaginative retelling of an impor­tant conversion functioned as a type of Constantine countermyth.60 According to Eusebius (265–339), the bishop of Caesarea, the pagan Constantine saw a cross in the sky the day before his epic ­battle at the Milvian Bridge.61 That night, Jesus appeared to Constantine and explained the meaning of the symbol. Constantine, filled with zeal, ordered a military standard to be constructed in the shape of a cross and decorated with the first two letters of the word “Christ,” the Greek letters chi and rho. Standard in hand, divine assistance was assured. Victory followed. Constantine, shortly a­ fter, converted to Chris­tian­ity. This myth, curated by Eusebius, spread throughout the ancient world. Perhaps some rabbi living in a major urban center such as Caesarea, Tiberias, or Sepphoris heard some version of Eusebius’s tale and felt the need to craft a Jewish response. Like Constantine, each ­brother now bears the brand of a new religion. But, in contrast to Constantine, this mark is the product of reading Scripture, not waging war. The narrator, further, does not ignore that key piece of the Constantinian my­thol­ogy: divine victory; he adapts it. As a reward for allowing his ­children to be circumcised, the ­father of Monobazus and Izates received angelic aid during an ambush that certainly would have cost him his life. Assenting to circumcision, even u ­ nder the duplicitous guise of medical necessity, produces power. At the center of this entire story, however, lies the book and its reading. In the eyes of the narrator, war does not supply converts; proper reading does. For ancient Jews living u ­ nder a Chris­tian­ity fueled by Constantinian myth, this tale provides a Jewish response and also highlights an activity in which Jews have long found comfort: reading Scripture.

* * * ­ ntil now, this chapter has explored scenes of reading that exhibit the inU herent variety embedded in the ­simple word qr’, “to read.” But even distinctively rabbinic modes of interacting with Scripture, the foil of “to read,”



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contain their own nuances. The assumptions and styles of reading that underpin a rabbinic study session focused on a biblical text, for example, might differ from those which rest in the background of a liturgical homily, even if, in both cases, a piece of scriptural text is refracted through the prism of rabbinic exegesis. Given the former’s social context, which often includes a teacher-­pupil dynamic or a study ­house setting, I ­will call this kind of encounter with Scripture “scholastic reading.” B. Avod. Zar. 19a narrates a scene of scholastic reading that depicts three Palestinian sages engaged in a study session focused on Psalms. It appears within a carefully crafted section of the Talmud that offers a line-­by-­line commentary on Psalm 1 and imagines the text, when properly interpreted, as a set of instructions about how to live a rabbinic life: [a] R. Judah said, “A person cannot learn Torah except that which his heart desires [to learn]. As it says, ‘But rather the Torah of the Lord is his delight, and in his Torah he ­will murmur day and night’ ” (Ps. 1:2). [b] Levi and R. Simon the son of R. Judah w ­ ere sitting before R. 62 Judah and ­were studying Scripture. The scroll was finished. [c] Levi said, “Let Proverbs be brought.” R. Simon b. R. Judah said, “Let Psalms be brought.” Levi was defeated, and they brought out Psalms. [d] [They began to read] and when they arrived to this verse, “Rather the Torah of the Lord is his delight,” R. Judah interpreted and said, “A person cannot learn Torah except what his heart desires.” [e] Levi said, “My master, you have given us permission to stand [leave the learning session].” This scene of reading offers an interpretation of Ps. 1:2 that depicts the potential social tensions created when rabbis and their students study Scripture together.63 It also highlights the complex interplay between scholastic reading and the material Psalter. At its core, this narrative shows that scholastic rabbinic study was a shared, social, and argumentative enterprise.64 The story begins with R. Judah and his students “studying Scripture” from a physical scroll. When “the scroll is finished,” they debate about which text they ­ought to study next. R. Simon wins, and they bring out Psalms.

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The narrative also illustrates a pro­cess of reading and interpreting that typically accompanies the format of the scroll. As historians of the book have demonstrated, and as we ­will explore further below, scrolls encourage ­those who hold them to read across and down columns in a linear manner instead of jumping around within the text.65 Book rolls neither contain pages to flip, like the codex, nor are they infinitely modular, like a true oral per­for­mance.66 This scene of reading explic­itly denotes the pro­cess of “reading linearly” with the phrase “when they arrived,” an expression that indicates motion67 and signifies the movement from one verse (or smaller unit) to another.68 Ultimately, this narrative provides a win­dow into an activity whose result—­midrash—­appears across the corpus of rabbinic lit­er­a­ture: a rabbi holds a scroll, begins at its opening, reads aloud to ­others, breaks sentences into sense units, and then offers an interpretation of each segment. When R. Judah “arrives” at Ps. 1:2a, presumably having already read aloud and offered an interpretation of the three clauses of Ps. 1:1, he explains, “The Law of the Lord is his delight” in a way that gives his student permission to end the study session, to literally “stand.”69 This style of reading, as Marc Hirshman rightly observes, parallels that of higher-­level education in the Greco-­Roman world.70 In the context of ancient pedagogy, especially at its more advanced stages, a master reads a text to his pupils, proceeds sense unit by sense unit, and unpacks its meaning and broader significances.71 Likewise, in the narrative above, a master parses a verse, interprets it, and then reveals its broader significance. In this case, it is a princi­ple central to rabbinic education: a student can learn only what he wants to learn. In addition, as mentioned above, this scene of reading portrays the activities of three Palestinian sages, making v­ iable a direct comparison to Greco-­Roman culture. Even if the Babylonian Talmud’s editors completely fabricated this story, such a form of reading was clearly native to rabbinic Jews living in Babylonia, whose internal and perhaps even ambient culture was steeped in scholasticism and the dynamics of teacher-­student relationships.72 The narrative is, ­after all, located in the Babylonian Talmud, in a section of it that highlights—­and perhaps even actively mirrors—­the dynamics of rabbinic education.73 How might we understand the similarities between this scene of reading and Greco-­Roman education if no ge­ne­tic connection exists between the two?74 We might do so by attending to the broader so­cio­log­i­cal pattern of elite scholastic reading that the scene illustrates.



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Ancient education—­whether Greco-­Roman, Sassanian, Christian, or rabbinic—­sets as one of its many goals the production of a cadre of elite men capable of communicating among themselves, no ­matter where they resided.75 In theory, although it was not always successful, a Greco-­Roman aristocrat living in Gaul ­ought to have been able to converse effectively with a Greco-­ Roman nobleman living in Gaza. Augustine and Jerome, for example, wrote letters to each other.76 So did the rabbis dwelling in Palestine and Babylonia.77 Palestinian rabbis and traditions found their way to Babylonia, and vice versa.78 An iron curtain did not separate rabbis from ­these regions, even if local exigencies often ­shaped their par­tic­u­lar forms of thought and practice.79 But as a ­whole, rabbinic education, among many other ­things, created a global group of self-­perceived elite males who traded in, and competed using, the symbolic capital of Torah knowledge.80 In addition, education not only instilled in elites a shared sense of identity but also molded how they interacted with books. It created a par­ tic­u­lar culture of reading. William Johnson describes several features that characterize an elite reading per­for­mance: “(1) Reading is a shared, group activity, where one person . . . ​brings out the meaning of the text for the rest; (2) the reading is of a difficult text; (3) the reading is, at least for some listeners, not a passive activity—­the possibility of interruption is real. . . . (4) implicitly, the goal of the reading is to . . . ​promote a wider discussion, an extension of the dynamic interactions of the social group; (5) the reading becomes thereby both focus and springboard to a mutually understood set of group be­h av­iors that serve to build the sense of an intellectual community.”81 The rabbinic study session as portrayed in b. Avod. Zar. 19a maps almost perfectly onto the model described by Johnson: (1) The reading is a shared group activity during which R. Judah brings out the meaning of the text for his two students. (2) Psalms, a book of poetry, is not particularly easy to read. (3) The group breaks down as Levi actively interrupts and even ends the session: studying was not a passive experience, even if led by a master. (4) The session, especially ­toward the beginning of the narrative, demonstrates the relational dynamics within this par­tic­u ­lar social group. (5) Reading Psalms both creates and dissolves an intellectual community. Following Johnson, rabbinic scholastic reading, at least as represented in the example above, is an elite mode of interacting with Scripture. It is

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pos­si­ble that R. Yannai, the wealthy rabbinic figure lounging in his triclinium, internalized this social transcript, which the merchant, obviously, does not follow.

* * * Another scene of reading that includes the material Psalter also sheds light on the relationship between reading Scripture and the sociology of education. Tractate Kallah, a rabbinic compilation whose final redaction possibly occurred during the fifth ­century in Babylonia,82 suggests that charity secures the ­favor of God, who ­will then reward its giver with ­children.83 It supports this claim by citing Ps. 112:9, “He who gives freely to the poor, his righ­teousness lasts forever [i.e., in his descendants], and his horn is exalted in honor.” It then offers another perspective on how giving charity to the poor secures a donor’s eternal righ­teousness:84 It was said about R. Tarfon that he was extremely wealthy, but that in his days he did not give much charity to the poor. One time, R. Akiva found him and said to him, “With your permission, let me purchase for you a city or two.” Immediately, R.  Tarfon got up, went, and brought to him four thousand golden denarii. R. Akiva took them, went, and distributed them among the poor.85 ­After some time, R. Tarfon came and said to him, “Akiva, where are the cities that you purchased for me?” He grabbed him by his hand and brought him to a ­house of study. He brought a youth, who had a book of Psalms in his hand, and placed [the youth] in front of [R. Tarfon]. [The youth] continuously read u ­ ntil he reached this verse: “He distributes freely to the poor.” Immediately, R. Tarfon got up and kissed R. Akiva on his forehead and said to him, “Go in peace, my teacher and leader. My teacher in wisdom and my leader in ethics.” This story portrays R. Tarfon as a rabbinic Ebenezer Scrooge—­power­f ul and wealthy, but miserly. R. Akiva, his colleague, persuades him to part with the staggering sum of 4,000 golden dinars to purchase property, a good investment.86 ­After some time elapses, R. Tarfon asks about the land he acquired. R. Akiva drags him87 into a study ­house and places before him a child holding a book of Psalms. The boy then reads from the scroll, ­until Ps. 112:9. Immediately upon hearing this verse, R. Tarfon kisses R. Akiva and praises



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him as greater than himself in both wisdom and ethics. R. Tarfon now presumably understands the power of charity.88 The Psalter appears at the center of this narrative ­because of the citation from Psalms that the story interprets. Nevertheless, the physical presence of the Psalter provides the story with additional narrative depth. A literary trope exists within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture in which a rabbi or another figure discovers knowledge or is convinced of a certain real­ity by asking a child to recite aloud what verse he studied that day.89 The storyteller could have told a tale in which the young lad cites Ps. 112:9 from memory and thus convinces R. Tarfon that charity is impor­tant. At the very least, such a story would indicate that R. Tarfon’s wealth provided a youth with enough leisure time to encounter the Bible orally and to memorize sections of the Psalms. By introducing a material scroll, the narrator depicts the full impact of R. Tarfon’s beneficence. The child, presumably one of the indigents to which R. Akiva gave a portion of R. Tarfon’s wealth,90 is literate. He can read aloud from a physical text in the presence of ­others. ­Either the wealth provided sufficient time away from work for the child to gain this valuable skill, or, perhaps, the youth (or his parents) hired a tutor with the funds.91 The ability to competently read complicated texts was not the norm in the ancient world.92 Additionally, although the narrative does not indicate this, perhaps the Psalter in the youth’s hands belonged to him and not to the study ­house. Scrolls, as we ­will see below, signaled wealth and power. Scrolls also ­shaped the experience of reading. In the context of this example, the youth “continuously reads” (qore veholekh) from a Psalm scroll ­until he reaches Ps. 112:9. Given the conclusions of Chapter 1, the child likely holds in his hands a scroll of the final book of the Psalter (107–50) and not a scroll containing the entire Psalms. Further, the phrase “he continuously read u ­ ntil he reached this verse” must indicate that the reading event did not begin with Ps. 112:9. W ­ hether the youth began with the opening of the psalm or at the beginning of the scroll, the phrase once again depicts the linear movement of reading associated with the scroll form. When the boy eventually reaches Ps. 112:9, R. Tarfon is struck with insight and amazement. Presumably, a well-­versed sage like R. Tarfon knew the contents of the Psalter. Perhaps, as with R. Yannai above, the enactment and dramatization of that verse surprises and delights him. Having given of his im­mense wealth, R. Tarfon witnesses with his own eyes the products of his righ­teousness in the form of a literate child. He, along with the narrator’s audience, now understands the results of charitable giving, the true force

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of Ps. 112:9: “He who gives freely to the poor, his righ­teousness lasts forever, and his horn is exalted in honor.” Given the location in which this reading occurs—­a study house—­ another interpretation is pos­si­ble. The term “to read” might hide within itself an elaborate pro­cess in which a young student reads aloud from a text and recites a received interpretation of it. Teachers of literacy regularly glossed texts with some form of meaning in addition to teaching their pupils how to actually read the words on the page.93 If such a model applies ­here, the youth, in the course of his reading, not only uttered Ps. 112:9 but also offered an interpretation of it that accentuated the connection between R. Tarfon’s gift and his greatness. Unfortunately, the story does not tell us the content of the boy’s gloss. Perhaps it is the promise of eternality in the world to come, which is how some rabbis understand Ps. 112:9 elsewhere.94 Or perhaps it is the promise of fulfilling God’s ­will and thus meriting ­children, which is the interpretation of Ps. 112:9 that frames this story in the first place.

* * * In sum, the vari­ous scenes of reading explored above not only open a win­ dow onto the many ways that rabbis imagine their interactions with the material Psalm scroll but also provide vistas on the sociology of scholastic reading, leisure reading, ethical reading, and reading that stirs to action. The variety among the scenes demonstrates that the apparently very ­simple term “to read” belies a complicated set of physical, social, and cultural mechanics, all of which endow the act of reading with coherence and meaning.

The Scroll Form and Linear Reading The scenes of reading explored above also depict, among other ­things, occasions during which the scroll form of the Psalter encouraged its holder to read and engage with the text in a linear manner, progressing slowly across a column and down a page. The end results of certain acts of midrash also exhibit the power of the scroll to shape some modes of rabbinic thought and interpretation. ­These instances of midrash, both as a form of reading and as its product, offer nuance to the well-­studied oral, modular, and nonlinear manner in which the rabbis and their literary output operate.95 The rabbis undoubtedly championed orality as the scholarly ideal, but they lived in a



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world that mixed the spoken and written word in intricate manners.96 For rabbis, such was especially true for material that straddled the border of their so-­called Oral Torah, the body of rabbinic wisdom, and the “Written Torah,” the text of the Bible itself.97 The few examples explored below begin the pro­cess of reconstructing a mode of reading Scripture in which textual order counts, instances in which the acts of “sequentially reading verses” and “coming to a certain verse” had real exegetical consequences. In the background of the following passages, the material Psalter likely resides—­whether physically pre­sent or recalled in visual memory.98 The first example of linear reading comes from b. Ber. 7b:99 “R. Yoḥanan further said in the name of R. Simeon b. Yoḥai: ‘Bad educational upbringing100 in a person’s ­house is worse than the war of Gog and Magog. For about the war of Gog and Magog, it is written, “Why do the nations conspire, and the ­people plot in vain?” (Ps. 2:1).101 And for bad education, it is written,102 “A psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom his son” (Ps 3:1), and it is written ­after that:103 “Lord, how ­great is my affliction!104 Many rise up against me” ’ ” (Ps. 3:2). In this unit of interpretation, R. Yoḥanan creates a lesson about pedagogy from the order of the Psalter, in which Psalm 3 follows Psalm 2. The arrangement, in his reading, demonstrates that failure to educate one’s ­children results in something graver than the final eschatological ­battle. He generates this interpretation by implicitly attributing tones to each psalm and by distinguishing between them. In Psalm 2, interpreted almost uniformly in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture as pertaining to the war of Gog and Magog,105 the Psalmist adopts an incredulous and victorious stance. He never doubts his success and does not exhibit pain. In Psalm 3, interpreted in light of its superscription, the Psalmist is plaintive. Reading ­these poems in sequence highlights a jarring shift in tone, which, in turn, demands explanation. The following tradition, located in b. Ber. 9b,106 also exhibits the sense of order that reading linearly across a text provides: “R. Judah son of R. Simon b. Pazzi said, ‘David composed 103 chapters107 of the book of Psalms108 but did not say the word hallelujah in them ­until he saw the downfall of the wicked [reshaʿim], as it says: “Let the sinner cease from the land, the wicked [reshaʿim] are no more. Bless the Lord, O my soul. Hallelujah” (Ps. 104:35).’ ”109 An implicit question undergirds this piece of exegesis: if hallelujah is a keyword in the Psalter,110 occurring at least twenty-­four times, why does it first appear in Psalm 104? The answer, that David witnessed the demise of the wicked only when the Psalter was nearing completion, equates textual

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space with history. The exegete clearly operates within a frame of reference that imbues the order of the Psalter with historical significance, and in which the sequence of the Psalms provides a win­dow into the long life of its author.111 Some rabbis opposed this form of interpretation. They did not abandon the pursuit of creating meaning from textual order and thus from the scroll form. Rather, they sought to derive pedagogical instead of historical significance from the conjunction of two units of text. The following tale, located in b. Ber. 10a, describes an encounter between a rabbi and a heretic (min), a much-­debated figure often cast as the proverbial “Other” in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.112 It highlights the material real­ity ­behind the interpretation of the Psalms and engages with a larger question: Should one read Scripture as history or pedagogy?113 [a] A certain min said to R. Abbahu, “It is written, ‘A psalm of David when he fled from Absalom his son’ (Psalm 3). And it is also written, ‘A psalm of David when he fled from Saul in the cave’ (Psalm 57). Which of t­ hese events was first? The story of Saul was first! So let it be written at the beginning!” He said to him, “You who do not derive significance from the conjunction of passages [daresh semukhin]114 find it difficult to read them together. We who derive significance from the conjunction of passages do not have difficulty reading them together.” [b] For R. Yoḥanan said,115 “From where do we derive conjoined passages from the Torah? ‘Conjoined passages116 are forever, they ­were made in truth and uprightness’ (Ps 111:8).” [c] Why is the chapter of Absalom (Psalm 3) connected to that of Gog and Magog (Psalm 2)? To inform you that if someone tells you that it is impossible for a slave to rebel against his master, you can tell him: “Is it impossible that a son rebels against his ­father? Yet, it happens ­here.”117 Both R. Abbahu and the min implicitly think with a biblical scroll. They differ in how to read it and derive meaning from it. The min assumes that the Psalms sequentially narrate the adventures of David and asks an obvious question: Why is the story out of order? Surely, David fled from Saul before he ran away from Absalom.



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This piece of Talmud, in line with the general outline of most stories involving minim, rhetorically pre­sents the min’s premise as if it ­were absurd.118 Although the min’s expectations of reading function as a straw man to advance the argument of R. Abbahu, they do mirror ­those of R. Judah. Possibly, the position that the min adopts belongs to another rabbi and thus is neither a figment of talmudic rhe­toric nor representative of a stance taken by a non-­rabbinic Jew or Christian.119 It might even be that of R. Judah himself. R. Judah and R. Abbahu lived in Palestine at the same time. Additionally, b. Ber. 21b explains that R. Judah only expounds conjoined passages in the book of Deuteronomy. But, at the very least, an editor of the Babylonian Talmud viewed t­ hese traditions as speaking to one another. R. Judah’s statement about hallelujah belongs to the same talmudic discourse as the min narrative. In any case, whichever religious or social group the min represents in this narrative, if any at all, the min assumes that scrolls and historical reading pro­gress sequentially. R. Abbahu disagrees. Historical disjunction is rhetorical conjunction. The failure of a historical approach to render the Psalter comprehensible reflects an impoverished strategy for reading biblical texts, not a fundamental flaw within Scripture. Passages that appear next to one another automatically abound with significance; one must unpack them with a lens of reading focused on pedagogy. Failure to see from this perspective is labeled as heresy, an aspersion cast on fellow rabbis who refuse to read conjoined passages as anything other than the ­simple progression of a text; this is a position spelled out elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.120 The Talmud, ­a fter buttressing this claim with a scriptural prooftext, then provides an instance of a pedagogical reading,121 which has similarities with the piece of interpretation that began this section. Once again, R. Yoḥanan assumes that the entirety of Psalm 2 refers to the eschatological ­battle of Gog and Magog and that Psalm 3 signifies Absalom’s rebellion. ­Because ­these two passages exist side by side, he can “read them together” and form a pedagogical-­rhetorical lesson: any rebellion is pos­si­ble. If someone claims that a slave cannot conceivably rebel against his master, one o­ ught to respond that a son has rebelled against his ­father. The first claim in this short dialogue—­that a slave cannot rebel against his master—is exceptionally weak. Slave rebellions, on both small and large scales, occurred in antiquity. At stake, perhaps, is the question of cosmic slavery. In Ps. 2:2–3, the kings of the earth gather against God and his Messiah,

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desiring to tear the bonds of their servitude asunder. Can this truly occur? The connection between Psalms 2 and 3 answers in the affirmative. Alternatively, perhaps the forced nature of this interpretation is the very point. A rhetorical reading must accompany Scripture, even if its products are less than perfect. Problematic meaning is better than no meaning at all. In ­either case, w ­ hether an interpreter chooses to read historically or rhetorically, order offers the opportunity to raise questions and solve prob­lems. It allows an exegete to further derive meaning from a text assumed to contain multitudes.122 The scroll form of biblical texts and the pro­cess of “coming to this verse,” which encourage the slow reading of a text one unit ­after another, likely underpin this m ­ ental orientation.123

Psalm Scroll: Fiscal and Symbolic Wealth More than merely mediums of a message, or physical objects to hold and read, scrolls signaled wealth, power, and prestige—­a fact that rabbinic Jews from across the temporal and geographic bound­a ries of Jewish Late Antiquity recognized.124 The sources discussed below highlight the a­ ctual and symbolic capital that rabbis attached to scrolls and ­will provide additional context for this chapter’s discussion of the material Psalter. M. Meg. 3:1 acknowledges the fiscal and social significance of scrolls by presenting a hierarchy of objects. The list, in rising order of significance, proceeds as follows: city street, synagogue, ark, scroll covers, individual biblical scrolls, and a Torah scroll. A community that sells an item listed ­earlier must use the proceeds to purchase something listed ­later, an entity of greater sanctity. The final four items relate to the scroll, the object to which rabbis attached the most holiness and communal need.125 The ark and its contents also appear at the center of ­actual—­and not merely rabbinic ­mental—­a rchitecture. Nearly ­every synagogue excavated by archaeologists dating from the late second ­century or ­later has yielded fragments of a Torah shrine, a stone structure that h ­ oused the ark.126 Additionally, synagogue art often features, as if reflected in ­water, repre­sen­ta­tions of the ark that may have stood in that room.127 For some Jews, the synagogue even acted as sacred library with the ark as its stacks.128 In addition to reading scrolls within the synagogue in a non-­liturgical context,129 some Jews borrowed them for personal use. In his thirty-­sixth letter, Jerome apologizes to Damasus, the Bishop of Rome, for his delayed response. A Jew brought



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Figure 8. Mosaic from Bet Sheʿan Samaritan Synagogue Israel Exploration Society (from Nehemiah Zori, “The Ancient synagogue at Bet Sheʿan,” Eretz Israel 8, 1967: Plate 29.5)

him Hebrew scrolls from the local synagogue; they demanded his immediate attention. Christians, too, acknowledged the social and sacred value of the scrolls contained in a synagogue’s ark. John Chrysostom (ca. 347–407), in his tirade against t­ hose Christians who attend synagogue, argues that the sacredness of a Hebrew biblical scroll, a fact that he takes for granted, does not impart holiness unto the place in which it is kept.130 Members of his audience—­real or perceived—­clearly felt other­wise. But the ark with its scrolls did more than provide an opportunity to affirm (or transgress) a sacred community. It also demonstrated its wealth. While the exact value of scriptural scrolls is unknown—it likely varied by time, place, and quality—­one fact remained an absolute constant: scrolls ­were expensive. R Ḥiyya the Elder, in a statement in p. Meg. 4:1 74d, boasts that he could write the entirety of Scripture at the very low cost of two maneh, which equals 200 Roman denarii,131 the standard sum of a rabbinic marriage contract for a virgin.132 (Writing on parchment, of course, was more expensive than copying a text on papyri.133) This rock-­bottom price reflects the fact that R. Ḥiyya cuts out the costs of l­abor. He claims that he would take the coins, buy flax, sow it, reap it, make it into ropes, catch deer, and write the entire Scripture on their hides.134 Each step in this process—­whether signified by time, ­labor, or capital—­illustrates the costs incurred to write a single scroll. The following short exegetical statement in b. Ket. 50a highlights the expense of producing scrolls by encouraging the rich to share their wealth:

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“ ‘Wealth and riches are in his ­house; and his merit endures forever’ (Ps. 112:3). R. Huna and R. Ḥisda [argued]. One said it refers to someone who learns Torah and then teaches it to ­others. The other says that this refers to one who commissions the writing135 of the Pentateuch, Prophets, and Hagiographa and lends them to ­others.” Both interpretations discuss the value of sharing. The second focuses on the distinctive ability of the rich to build a community of learning, which it illustrates with scriptural scrolls, expensive objects that Jews required in order to fulfill their perennial obligation to study Torah. This interpreter likely reads Ps. 112:13 as a prescriptive if/then statement. If wealth and riches are in one’s house—if one can afford the cost of producing sacred scrolls—­ one should lend them out to o­ thers, that is, share one’s wealth. If one does, “his merit endures forever,” the exact scriptural phrase that guided the tale of the wealthy, but miserly, R. Tarfon discussed above. In this short piece of exegesis, scrolls rest at the crossroads of wealth, community, and posterity.136 Within this larger web of meaning, two ­legal discussions refer to the material Psalter. The first, which involved a case of dividing Psalm scrolls among inheritors and which extolled the social significance of keeping scriptural sets together, was examined in Chapter 1.137 The Agnon epigraph to this chapter suggests that more modern forms of Judaism have retained this value. The second involves a case of international divorce. It highlights the value of scrolls as well as their movement from one region of rabbinic life to another, a real­ity that some rabbis disliked and challenged.138 In late antique Mediterranean practice, a ­woman who married received a ketubah, a document detailing, among other ­things, a husband’s fiscal responsibilities to his wife upon his death or their divorce. In discussing w ­ hether a divorcée must take an oath in order to receive her ketubah, b. Giṭ. 35a–­b supports a position by citing an instance of case law: “They sent [a document] from ­there [Palestine, saying]: ‘So and So the d­ aughter of So and So acquired a divorce document from the hands of Aḥa son of Ḥidia, who is also known as Aie Mari. She swore by all the benefit of the world139 that she only received from her ketubah one mattress,140 a book of Psalms, the book of Job, and Proverbs, much worn.141 They have evaluated ­these at five maneh. When she comes to you, let her collect the remainder [of her ketubah].’ ”142 The rabbis of Babylonia receive word from their Palestinian counter­parts that a divorcée is coming to collect part of her ketubah from her husband’s property. The Palestinian letter implicitly demonstrates the husband’s wealth.



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The standard rabbinic ketubah for a first marriage is 200 zuz (= 200 Roman denarii). This equals two maneh.143 The divorced ­woman, having already received an estimated five maneh, travels to Babylonia to collect more. This letter also sheds light on the value of scriptural books in the second and third centuries. The following discussion—­particularly, its calculations—is obviously speculative but nonetheless captures the exorbitant costs of biblical scrolls. ­After one subtracts the amount of a mattress, one could calculate the relative value of the remaining scrolls. According to a receipt found at Dura Europos, “two mattresses, one with fleeces” cost 100 denarii.144 If we assume that each mattress was of equivalent value, each individual item totals a half maneh. This would leave 4.5 maneh (450 denarii) as the price of worn-­out, but large, scrolls. A statement in Eccles. Rab. 2:18 provides an internal rabbinic mea­sure. It claims that R. Meir, an expert scribe, earned twelve denarii a week. He ate and drank with four, paid for his clothing with another four, and supported his colleagues with the rest (four denarii). A total of 450 denarii would support his lifestyle for less than a year. But he was far wealthier than a day laborer in the region of Akbara (Galilee), who was paid less than a dinar a day.145 As an imperfect point of external comparison, a cheap copy of a published work during the imperial period could cost six or ten sesterces. Six sesterces roughly equates to two days’ wages for a legionary solider during the reign of Domitian (81–96).146 According to the Edict of Diocletian (284– 305), which attempted to control a rapid spike in inflation, a high-­quality Aeneid cost 3,400 denarii.147 The Palestinian letter also indicates that some Jews owned and read copies of sacred Scripture. At least one of ­these scrolls is “well worn.” But given that scrolls ­were expensive, as just explored, only the rich could afford to enhance their religious life by purchasing scrolls and reading Scripture at leisure.148 The remainder of the literate population would need to frequent the synagogue. But the wealthy readers of Scripture clearly included Jewish women as well, assuming that the scrolls in this ketubah ­were not merely carriers of liquid wealth.149 That the document lists a mattress might suggest that divorcée acquired items that ­were of personal significance and use. Psalms, Job, and Proverbs do form a particularly nice collection of moral and ethical wisdom. Could the worn-­down parchment be the product of her own meticulous and continuous reading?

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In comparative perspective, some Christian ­women prized and read physical copies of Scripture. For example, a fourth-­century papyrus letter found in Oxyrhynchus rec­ords the following message: “To my dearest lady ­sister in the Lord, greetings. Lend the Ezra, since I lent you the ­Little Genesis. Farewell from us in God.”150 Further, in his 107th letter, Jerome pens an educational program for Laetea. He proclaims that her trea­sure should be scriptural manuscripts (divinos Codices) and that she should begin her education with Psalms.151 If educated and elite Christian w ­ omen read Scripture, perhaps their Jewish counter­parts did as well?

Conclusion This chapter completes our analy­sis of nearly ­every instance in which classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture mentions the physical book of Psalms. It also concludes our discussion, which began in Chapter 1, of the many ways in which the physical Psalter ­shaped rabbinic thought, law, and biblical interpretation. It did so by placing at the center of its narrative the ancient Jews who actually held a Psalm scroll and read from it. It outlined and explored the vari­ ous cultural, social, and economic interactions between late ancient Jews and their material-­scriptural environment. The chapter began by examining the assumptions and mechanics that rest b­ ehind the acts of “reading” and “expounding” Scripture. The evidence provided by scenes of reading, that is, short narratives that portray the pro­ cess of reading in action, shed light on the multiplicity of ways in which Scripture was read. Exegetically oriented scholastic reading appears alongside a range of types of reading that ­were not necessarily primed for exegesis, such as leisure reading, affective reading, ethical reading, and reading for action. In each scene, we observed that at least three ­factors conditioned the reading pro­cess and experience: the material scrolls, the reader’s expectations, and his social status. The chapter then focused on midrash. It examined how the pro­cess and results of linear reading, a type of reading encouraged by the scroll form of a scriptural text, ­shaped features of rabbinic biblical exegesis. The chapter concluded with a discussion of a letter that placed into focus the social and symbolic significance of the material Psalter, and also introduced a potential female reader of Psalms. ­These two chapters, which examined the material Psalter, put into focus vari­ous aspects of the life of Psalms for ­those who could read its physical



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Hebrew text. But just as the life of Psalms extends beyond exegesis into other forms of reading, it also moves past acts of reading. Late ancient Jews also engaged with the Psalter in modes that ­were primarily oral. Luckily, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture provides ample evidence for us to analyze in order to discuss ­these forms of meaning-­making, ways of interacting with the book of Psalms that include singing it as liturgy, reciting it as piety, and intoning it as a form of magical protection. We now turn to Jewish liturgy, the site where one expects to find citations from the Psalms in abundance.

Chapter 3

Singing Psalms

This chapter adopts the perspective of the historian who seeks to understand the trajectory and ­causes of “change over time.”1 It asks and answers: When, how, and why did Psalms become part of daily liturgy, at least for the rabbis? An exhaustive account w ­ ill reveal that over the long course of Late Antiquity, a dearth of liturgical psalmody is replaced by its unmistakable presence in daily prayer. This chapter narrates the story of this historical change and explains the vari­ous motivations that fostered it. In ­doing so, it adds another dimension to a life of Psalms in Jewish Late Antiquity, a historical-­developmental view that illuminates the bonds that bound the book of Psalms to ­those who sang from it on a regular basis. This touch of the quotidian also g­ ently guides Chapter 4. At the same time, this chapter stands apart from the ­those that precede and follow it. It is unlikely that one could replicate the story below for books like Samuel or Proverbs. Nonetheless, one might be able to reproduce and refine its results by analyzing the relationship between rabbinic liturgy and Scripture as a ­whole, a task that falls well beyond the scope of this book.2 Before continuing, some technical key terms, which reveal the scope and limits of the historical portrait below, require an explanatory gloss. The “use of psalms” or “psalmody” refers to direct quotation of parts of verses, complete verses, or entire chapters from the now-­canonical Psalter. The story excludes instances in which prayers and blessings echo or allude to poetry from the Psalms.3 It also removes from consideration liturgical psalm-­like poems.4 “Liturgy” means the formal and mandated recitation of a text, usually, but not exclusively, in the context of a public gathering or a synagogue setting. Non-­obligatory and private communication with God or other divine



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beings does not occupy the attention of this narrative, which seeks to explore the contours of a social institution.5 “Daily” refers to the liturgical psalmody performed ­every day of the week or once ­every week. The story below touches upon “occasional psalmody,” the obligatory recitation from Psalms at non-­daily events such as the fast-­ day liturgy,6 and “seasonal psalmody,” the use of psalms, such as Hallel (Psalms 113–18), during the liturgy of the Holidays.7 But ­these less frequent recitations from the Psalms do not occupy this narrative’s central focus ­because they developed in a less radical manner than daily psalmody during Late Antiquity.

The Absence and Abundance of Daily Psalmody The historical rec­ord of daily psalmody sketched below offers two radically dif­fer­ent images: in the former, the Psalter segregates itself to one corner of the picture of Jewish worship; in the latter, it occupies its front and center. ­These snapshots of history suggest that something monumental occurred in the interim period, during the m ­ iddle of Late Antiquity. The sounds of some psalms almost certainly reverberated within the halls of the Jerusalem ­Temple during the Second ­Temple era. As the priests sacrificed the daily offerings, the Levites stood atop a podium and drowned the bleats of animals with sacred ­music. Unfortunately, the exact content of the Jerusalem ­Temple’s songbook falls beyond the grasp of the historian.8 Yet extant sources provide some clues. The earliest evidence for ­temple ­music comes from a text written ­toward the beginning of the Second ­Temple era.9 In 1 Chronicles 15, David asks the leaders of the Levites to appoint fellow Levites as ­temple musicians. The first song sung in the presence of the ark, according to 1 Chron. 16:8–36, combines Psalms 96 and 105:1–15. And in the conclusion of that chapter, David establishes an orga­nizational structure for daily worship that includes both sound and sacrifice. Josephus, an officiant in the sacrificial cult and a collaborator in the ­temple’s destruction, agrees with Chronicles. He claims that David taught the Levites how to sing songs (humnein) on the Sabbath and festivals.10 Unfortunately, he neither describes the songs nor identifies them as poems from the Psalter. But evidence for “psalms,” at least in the sense of works composed by David, as a feature of daily t­emple worship, appears in the ­Great

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Psalm Scroll from Qumran. This early first-­century text (30–50 ce) contains a short poem claiming that David wrote “songs to sing before the altar over the whole-­burnt daily [tamid] offering ­every day for all the days of the year” (11QPsa XXVII:5–6). In other words, from the perspective of this document, David created for the ­temple a yearly cycle of 364 poems. Jewish historical memory also frames the ­temple as a site of psalmody.11 M. Tam. 6:7, for example, contains a list of psalms from the canonical Psalter that it claims the Levites sang during the daily sacrifice. Some manuscripts of the Septuagint, the early Jewish-­Greek translation of the Bible, also render vari­ous headings from the Psalms in a way that seems to preserve a roughly similar list. However, ­these headings reflect the internal exegesis of the Septuagint more so than preserve an old liturgical tradition.12 In any event, ­these two sources do not completely and accurately portray which psalms the Levites sang in the ­temple.13 As seen in Chronicles, Josephus, and the Qumran Psalm Scroll, the contents of the now-­canonical book of Psalms did not confine the liturgy of the Jerusalem ­Temple. At the same time, sacrificial liturgy clearly included psalms, some of which eventually became canonized in the book of Psalms.

* * * But, like sacrifice, the act of singing psalms as part of daily worship mostly remained within the sacred confines of the ­temple. Unfortunately, precious few sources detail the life and liturgy of the Second ­Temple synagogue.14 Where they do exist, they offer only silence with re­spect to the regular singing of psalms.15 The liturgy of the late ancient church included psalmody—­ the product of a complicated history that this chapter cannot recount—­but it did not adopt this feature from the earliest synagogues.16 For even when Christians ­were Jews, they did not sing psalms as part of regular daily worship. The closest pos­si­ble evidence within the New Testament for liturgical psalmody of any sort during the Second ­Temple period appears in 1 Cor. 14:26, in which Paul says the following about a gathering of the members of the Jesus movement: “What should be done then, my friends? When you come together, each one has a hymn/psalm [psalmos], a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation. Let all ­things be done for building up.”17 As the liturgical scholar Paul Bradshaw points out, this passage and ­others like it (Eph. 5:18–19 and Col. 3:16) provide no evidence for fixed daily psalmody. They describe informal gatherings; and “hymn/



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psalm” (psalmos) might not even refer to poems that come from the canonical book of Psalms.18 In my estimation, given the other forms of producing knowledge that Paul lists, study—­not liturgy—­lies at the center of the meeting that he describes. Another group of Jews, t­ hose who isolated themselves near the caves of Qumran, might have sung psalms in the context of their daily worship. Among the many scraps of scrolls found within the Judaean Desert are vari­ ous daily prayers that contain psalm-­like features and are indebted to the rhythms and language of the Psalms.19 And the Psalm Scroll (11QPsa), which contains chapters from the now-­canonical Psalter alongside other poems, might reflect a liturgical setting, but this contention is still beset by scholarly controversy.20 Overall, it is pos­si­ble that the liturgy of the sect that produced the Dead Sea Scrolls contained passages from Psalms, although nowhere do ­these self-­segregating Jews conceptualize poems from the Psalter as distinct from other scriptural readings.21 In other words: Could Psalms have been used in a liturgical manner at Qumran? Possibly, but the evidence is inconclusive. Did Psalms function in distinctively liturgical manner or as set as part of a daily liturgy? Prob­ably not. Something similar may be said of the Therapeutae, another fringe group that met for prayer and study in the Second ­Temple period. Philo, a Jewish phi­los­o­pher living in Alexandria, describes the overall content of the Therapeutae’s prayers but does not point to the use of Psalms as a distinctive characteristic of their liturgical gatherings. In fact, the “psalms” that Philo mentions appear to be the in­de­pen­dent compositions of members of the group.22 Additionally, Philo quotes Psalms only eigh­teen times in his corpus; none of ­these quotations provide firm evidence for daily psalmody.23 Even the earliest rabbis, whose voices ring forth from sources orally composed between the destruction of the Second ­Temple (70 ce) and the editing of the Mishnah (ca. 200 ce), remain ­silent about daily psalmody. Instead of featuring the Psalter, 24 they focus on two other prayers as the center of their daily worship, unpacking exactly where and how to say the Shema, 25 a unit of Scripture surrounded by blessings, and the Amidah, their own innovative piece of liturgy.26 For example, the Mishnah—­the earliest rabbinic compilation—­begins with a conversation about when to recite the Shema, not when to sing Psalms. In fact, the earliest rabbis never discuss the place of Psalms in their own daily liturgy. They lavish attention on the seasonal psalmody of Hallel (Psalms 113–18); develop ritual frameworks for the ­earlier practice of reading from

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Scripture on the Sabbath;27 and place into their worship features that originally characterized the Jerusalem ­Temple, such as shaking a palm frond (lulav) for seven days, blowing a ram’s horn (shofar) on the Sabbath, and reciting the priestly blessing.28 And they even mention daily psalmody. But in one primary location, in a passage appended to the end of Mishnah Tamid that lists the psalms that Levites would sing during the daily sacrifice:29 The song that the Levites would sing in the ­temple: On the first day they would sing: “The earth and its fullness is the Lord’s” (Ps. 24:1). On the second day they would sing: “­Great is the Lord, and muchly praised” (Ps. 48:2). On the third day they would sing: “God stands in the congregation of gods” (Ps. 82:1). On the fourth day they would sing: “The Lord is a God of vengeance” (Ps. 94:1). On the fifth day they would sing: “Sing aloud unto God our strength” (Ps. 81:2). On the sixth day they would sing: “The Lord is King, he is clothed in greatness” (Ps. 83:1). On the Sabbath they would sing: “A psalm, a song for the Sabbath day” (Ps. 92:1)—­A psalm, a song for the ­f uture, for a world that is entirely a sabbath of rest for the living eternal. Some scholars have interpreted this source as evidence that some early rabbis incorporated the daily psalmody of the ­temple into their own prayer practices, a view that, at least in modern academic lit­er­a­ture, goes back to Ismar Elbogen (1874–1943), once the doyen of Jewish liturgical scholarship. In his richly detailed Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History, Elbogen writes the following beautiful words about the post-­temple synagogue: “With the Song of the Levites silenced, the psalms found a new home in the synagogue, and many of the pious made them a regular part of their daily prayers.”30 Unfortunately, this passage in Mishnah Tamid cannot bear its assigned historical weight. It offers a memory of a Second ­Temple practice. But its text neither prescribes daily psalmody for con­temporary rabbis nor reflects a world in which some rabbis regularly recite ­these psalms. No discussion of this passage in l­ater works of rabbinic lit­er­a­ture regards its content as refer-



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ring to anything other than ­temple liturgy.31 It is pos­si­ble—­reasonable, even—­that Psalm 92, which begins with the words “A psalm, a song for the Sabbath day,” was sung on a weekly basis in the ancient synagogue. Unfortunately, to my knowledge, no positive evidence for this practice exists in early rabbinic Jewish sources.32 Even in the times of the geonim (ca. 650–ca. 1150), an era in which psalmody comes to dominate Jewish prayer, ­these psalms do not appear as part of the liturgy.33 Rav Amram Gaon (810–875), who penned the earliest extant Jewish prayer book (siddur), strangely claims that, at the end of the morning ser­v ice, one recites the passage in Mishnah Tamid about ­these psalms and not the psalms themselves.34 Additionally, the prayer book of R. Saʿadya Gaon (882–942), a leading luminary of Babylonian Jewry, contains no mention of t­ hese daily psalms. The earliest positive evidence for a daily cycle of psalmody that mirrors that of the Levites comes from the Egyptian doctor and phi­los­o­pher Maimonides (1138–1204), who appended his own prayer book to his “Book of Love,” a section of his magnum opus, the Mishneh Torah. He claims: “And a small part of the nation has a custom ­after all of ­these supplications to read the psalm that the Levites would sing in the ­temple on that day” (section 34).35 It appears that, even during the times of Maimonides, only a few Jews added to their daily liturgy the practice of the ancient Levites. Rabbis who lived during the time of the Mishnah, at least as a group, clearly did not imitate their Levitical pre­de­ces­sors.36

* * * But ­those who populated the geonic era, which began more than half a millennium ­a fter the destruction of the Second ­Temple, saw daily liturgical psalmody effloresce. In Babylonia, Ps. 78:38 opened ­every eve­ning ser­vice.37 In Palestine, Ps. 106:48 often introduced a unit of liturgy that preceded the morning Shema. Ps. 146:10 concluded it.38 In both regions, verses from the Psalter dominated the cento, a unit of prayer that consists almost entirely of citations from Scripture.39 In his prayer book, Rav Amram Gaon cites almost exclusively from the Psalms in his pre-­ Shema cento.40 And in the cento that accompanies the “supplication prayer” (taḥanun), which follows the morning Amidah, Saʿadya depends almost entirely on the Psalter. So did the Jews of Palestine, whose liturgy appears within a series of fragments found in the Cairo Genizah, a fundamental and

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incidental “archive” for the study of liturgy, among many other topics, in this period.41 Documents from the Cairo Genizah also indicate that Jews in Palestine and its spheres of influence would regularly sing the entire Songs of Ascent (Psalms 120–34) during the morning ser­vice. On special occasions, such as the Sabbath and on holidays, they would read from Psalm 120 ­until the end of the Psalter.42 In Babylonia, Psalms 145–50, called “Verses of Song,” appeared before the Shema liturgy.43 Non-­rabbinic Jews also championed liturgical psalmody in this period. The Karaites, a group that rejected the Talmud and instead viewed the Bible as Judaism’s sole authoritative text, best demonstrate the magnetic pull of the Psalter. In the earliest stages of its development, Karaite liturgy consisted almost entirely of verses and chapters from the Psalms.44 By the time the geonic era dawned, and certainly by the time it dusked, daily psalmody occupied a vis­i­ble place in Jewish liturgy. Only from this period and onward do another beautiful set of words by Elbogen, that long-­ deceased paterfamilias of the study of Jewish liturgy, ring true: “The Psalms became communal songs dearly beloved by the ­people, and widespread among them. This explains their tremendous influence on the liturgy and religious life in all ages.” 45

Psalms in Daily Liturgy: When The rest of this chapter focuses on when, how, and why daily liturgical psalmody became a steady and stable feature of Jewish prayer. It begins with the question of “when” and shows that the cycles of psalmody that typify ­later periods of Jewish history owe their origins to the fitful rise of daily psalm-­ singing in the liturgies of the rabbis who lived between 200 and ca. 650. This period is known as the amoraic period—­the time during which Palestinian and Babylonian sages created and edited their respective Talmuds. P. Ber. 4:4 8a preserves one of the earliest instances in which rabbis include verses from the Psalms in their daily prayer.46 The source also displays the unstable position of daily liturgical psalmody. In its typical manner, the Talmud begins by interrogating an ­earlier tradition—in this case, a line from m. Ber. 4:4: “R. Eliezer said: One who makes his prayer fixed, his prayer has no supplicatory power.” 47 How might one avoid “fixed” prayer and its deleterious consequence? One opinion in the Talmud suggests that a supplicant



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recite extant prayers with renewed verve and not “like one who reads a letter.” Fixity is a ­mental state readily combated. Other opinions suggest saying a new prayer or a new blessing e­ very day. Fixity comes from stale content. It is within this context that the Talmud then cites the following tradition: “R. Yosi the Sidonian said in the name of R. Yoḥanan: Before his Amidah,48 one says:49 ‘O Lord, open up my lips and my mouth w ­ ill tell over your praises’ (Ps. 51:17). And, ­a fter his Amidah, one says, ‘Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and redeemer’ (Ps. 19:15). R. Yudan said both of them before his Amidah.” R. Yoḥanan prescribes that one should surround his Amidah with Ps. 51:17 and Ps. 19:15. R. Yudan, instead, began his Amidah with them. On their own, ­these statements show that some rabbis, ­either by prescription or practice, placed psalmody adjacent to the Amidah, a central feature within the landscape of rabbinic daily liturgy. Over time, ­these specific verses took root. They eventually appear as a stable part of ­every Amidah, ­whether as its beginning or as its liturgical bookends.50 As we ­will see below, the editors of the Babylonian Talmud attest to this pro­cess. But within the context of the Palestinian Talmud, ­these statements function in a more subtle manner, one that suggests fluidity in the practice of daily psalmody. The compilers of the Palestinian Talmud set the psalmody of R. Yoḥanan and R. Yudan as the final word in its discussion, as a middle-­ ground option that moderates between the poles of liturgical fixity and fluidity. Instead of recapturing the vitality of fixed prayers or inventing new ones without end, one may bracket the steady Amidah with scriptural verses. If this reading is correct, then the Palestinian Talmud did not view Ps. 51:17 and Ps. 19:15 as stable entities accompanying the Amidah. Fixed verses would undermine its entire discussion, its attempt to tease out ways to vary the experience of prayer. It likely understood ­these specific verses as suggestions, one of many pos­si­ble scriptural adornments to the Amidah.51 Several conclusions, in the order of most to least likely, follow. First, the use of specific psalms or psalm verses as a set feature of daily liturgy did not occur in one revolutionary moment. Second, experimentation characterized the daily psalmody of rabbis living in talmudic Palestine. And, third, the desire to vary prayer and to innovate worship encouraged some rabbis to include passages from the Psalms in their daily liturgy.

* * *

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As briefly mentioned above, a dif­fer­ent image of daily liturgical psalmody emerges if we fix our gaze upon the ways that late Babylonian rabbis treat the above statement by R. Yoḥanan, which appears in b. Ber. 4b and in b. Ber. 9b. From their perspective, fixity replaces fluidity, and psalmody features as a regular, legislated, and fundamental part of the daily Amidah. By the times of the Babylonian sages, a blessing known as “Redemption” (geulah) preceded the Amidah of a typical morning ser­vice. But in the eve­ning ser­vice, a prayer known as “Let Us Rest” (hashkivenu) intervened. Unfortunately, the Babylonian rabbis felt the authoritative weight of the Palestinian sage R. Yoḥanan, who praises ­those who “follow the eve­ning redemption blessing immediately with the Amidah.” The editors of b. Ber. 4b attempt to solve the tension between con­ temporary practice and received tradition. They claim that “the rabbis established” the Let Us Rest prayer as part of the redemption blessing. Thus, it technically does not segregate the redemption from the Amidah. As proof of concept, they cite and interrogate another tradition attributed to R. Yoḥanan: that he would bracket his Amidah with Ps. 51:17 and Ps. 19:15. Would not Ps. 51:17, like Let Us Rest, break the idealized bond between Redemption and the Amidah? No, “Since the rabbis established [qavʿi rabbanan] that one says, ‘Lord open up my lips’ (Ps. 51:17), it is like one long Amidah.” In other words, Ps. 51:17 does not preface the Amidah; it is part of the Amidah. The Talmud’s editors transmute R. Yoḥanan’s solitary but demanding voice into that of the plural legislating rabbis. In ­doing so, they establish Ps. 51:17 as a fundamental feature of a rabbinic daily prayer. So does the Babylonian sage R. Ashi, who lived ­toward the end of the amoraic period; in b. Ber. 9b, he, too, recognizes the tension between R. Yoḥanan’s statement and the practice of connecting redemption with the Amidah. Like the editorial voice above, he claims that “since the rabbis established [qabʿuah rabbanan] it [Ps. 51:17] in the Amidah, it is considered one long Amidah.” The Talmud then once again transmutes R. Yoḥanan’s voice into that of the plural rabbis, but this time with re­spect to Ps. 19:15. It asks: “Why did the rabbis institute it [Ps. 19:15] ­a fter the Eigh­teen Blessings [the Amidah]? Let one say it before!” ­These sources clearly demonstrate that some Babylonian rabbis, particularly ­toward the conclusion of Late Antiquity, regularly recited verses from the Psalter as a fundamental feature of their daily worship. They understood this practice as a ­matter of law, something that their pre­de­ces­sors (or they, in the guise of the collective embodiment of their class) settled. In this re­



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spect, they differed from their Palestinian counter­parts, at least as represented in the Palestinian Talmud above.

* * * Yet some Palestinian rabbis recited verses from the Psalter in the context of the Amidah, much like R. Yoḥanan and R. Yudan. By once again comparing a Palestinian text with its Babylonian parallel, we ­will catch sight of a scenario in which verses from Psalms appear as part of the liturgy for some rabbis in Palestine but not in Babylonia—­the opposite trend from that described above. As a ­whole, this variety exhibits the fitful and nonlinear development of daily psalmody in both regions of rabbinic Jewish life. A prescriptive statement attributed to R. Huna in p. Ber. 1:1 2c shows that daily psalmody grew in the time of the Talmud. It also commands that that audience of a prayer ser­vice actively participate by singing biblical verses: R. Huna said: He who sees the priests in the synagogue [at the time of the three-­verse priestly benediction of the Amidah of the morning prayer]— During the first blessing, he must say [tzarikh loʾmar]: “Bless the Lord, O his messengers” (Ps. 103:20). During the second: “Bless the Lord, O his hosts” (Ps. 103:21). During the third: “Bless the Lord, O all his creation” (Ps. 103:22). During the Additional Prayer [musaf ]— During the first blessing, he must say: “Song of Ascents, behold, bless the Lord, O all servants of the Lord, ­those who stand in the ­house of the Lord at night” (Ps. 134:1). During the second: “Raise your holy hands,52 and bless the Lord” (Ps. 134:2). During the third: “From Zion, he ­will bless you Lord,53 the one who made the heaven and earth” (Ps. 134:3). The morning ser­vice in Palestine included the Priestly Blessing, a moment ­toward the conclusion of the Amidah when ­those of priestly lineage would ascend a podium and recite over the congregation the three verses of Num. 6:24–26.54 This practice also occurred during the Additional Prayer ser­vice of the major holidays.

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According to R. Huna, this part of the ser­vice required the audience to participate.55 The priests bless Israel with three consecutive verses from Scripture; in turn, Israel encourages the priests with three consecutive verses exclusively from the Psalms. ­These verses from Psalms have a common theme. Each line contains the word “bless.” As the priests intone over the ­people of Israel statements about God’s providing benediction and peace, the congregation responds with verses that implore God’s creations to bless him.56 This statement, attributed to R. Huna—­unlike that of R. Yoḥanan, which uses the softer language of “one says,” or that of R. Yudan, which rec­ords a personal practice—­declares that the community “must” (tzarikh) respond and situates this response in the open forum of “the synagogue” (bet keneset). Further, unlike the psalmody of R. Yoḥanan and R. Yudan, R. Huna’s command did not crystallize into an enduring authoritative pre­ce­dent in Palestine or Babylonia. For Palestine, I have yet to locate R. Huna’s practice among the fragments of Palestinian liturgy from the Cairo Genizah, although evidence may yet exist. In Jewish Babylonia, the daily morning ser­vice did not include the Priestly Blessing as a formal ceremony. But b. Soṭ. 39b–40a does consider the practice of reciting verses, mostly from the Psalter, during the Priestly Blessing in con­temporary Babylonian liturgy, in which priests blessed Israel on the holidays, and in the ­imagined liturgy of the ­temple, where priests blessed Israel daily.57 It shows that only some rabbis allow (let alone command) one to respond to the Priestly Blessing with scriptural verses. The Babylonian Talmud opens its discourse with a passage that parallels the one in the Palestinian Talmud.58 But then it diverges. ­Toward the end of its discussion, it cites the opinions of three rabbis as to ­whether one may recite scriptural verses during the Priestly Blessing: R. Ḥiyya b. Abba claims that, outside the ­temple, one should not; R. Ḥanniah b. Papa suggests that, even in the ­temple, one may not; and R. Aḥa b. Ḥanniah retorts that, even outside the ­temple, one must. It concludes with a short story about the Palestinian sage R. Abbahu, a rabbi who lived in Caesarea well ­after the destruction of the ­temple, who abandoned this feature of his own liturgy ­after seeing that his rabbinic colleague did not recite ­these verses during the Priestly Blessing.59 As a ­whole, the Babylonian Talmud leaves inconclusive the ­legal force ­behind the practice of reciting verses alongside the Priestly Blessing, ­unless one takes the final story as its definitive stance. At the same time, its discussion provides evidence that some Jews recited verses from the Psalms within a central part of the liturgy.



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In combination with the other sources discussed above, it shows that verses from Psalms entered daily rabbinic liturgy in fits and starts. Ultimately, the compilers and editors of the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds selectively ­adopted, modified, and rejected the statements of R. Yoḥanan and R. Huna. Rabbis from each region of Jewish life experimented with verses from the Psalms by incorporating or removing them from their own daily liturgy; or, as in the case of the Priestly Blessing in Babylonia, by imagining them as part of, or absent from, the daily liturgy of the past. But Jewish liturgical poetry (piyyut), which ­shaped the soundscape of the Palestinian synagogue, shows that the liturgy of Palestinian Jews included fixed verses from the Psalms at least once a week and possibly more often.60 Starting with the early sixth ­century, which inaugurates the “Classical” period (500–700) of liturgical poetry, two genres of poems crystallized.61 The Qedushta embellished the first three of the seven blessings of the Sabbath and holiday Amidah, and the Yotzer poetically elaborated the Shema and its surrounding benedictions. An ornate and scripturally omnivorous style characterizes ­these (and other) forms of liturgical poetry.62 Their composers mimic, draw from, and repackage biblical verses—­constantly building allusive and often elusive bridges to biblical texts.63 At the same time, each specific genre contains a relatively stable internal scaffolding around which poets experiment. For example, the opening section of a Qedushta cites the first verse of the scriptural lection that was read at the same ser­vice at which the poem was performed. This section always concludes with some form of the word “shield” (magen), which informed the listening audience that the poet was ready to transition to the first blessing of the Amidah, which concludes with the words “shield of Abraham.” Some verses from the Psalter also functioned as part of liturgical poetry’s structural core, as so-­called transition verses.64 The third section of the Qedushta concludes with Ps. 146:10 or Ps. 22:4.65 Within the Yotzer, Ps. 136:7 accompanies the poem for the first blessing of the Shema liturgy, the “Creator of Light” (yotzer or).66 Ps. 135:4 or Ps. 87:2 appears within the poem, embellishing the blessing right before the Shema, the benediction called “Love” (ohev ammo).67 At the very least, ­these poems show that some Palestinian Jews regularly heard verses from the Psalter sung when liturgical poetry accompanied their routine prayers. But Shulamit Elizur, a preeminent scholar of Jewish liturgical poetry, has argued that t­ hese transition verses, and even the other verses that early poets explic­itly cite, existed at first as part of the set ser­vice.68

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If this claim is correct, the aforementioned verses from the Psalter (and many more verses) appeared as an integral part of regular prayer, even when unadorned by liturgical poetry.

* * * ­ ntil this point in our narrative, we have focused on the entry of par­tic­u­lar U verses from the Psalter into the daily liturgy of the rabbis, often by attaching themselves to the Amidah. But some rabbis also included a complete chapter from the Psalms in their daily worship. Unfortunately, the only clear evidence, to my knowledge, comes from the Babylonian Talmud. It pertains to a piece of liturgy called “Fortunate” (ashre), which, since the times of the geonim, preceded the Shema of the morning ser­vice, followed the morning Amidah, and opened the after­noon ser­vice.69 The core of this unit consists of Psalm 145, but it derives its name from the verses that introduce it, such as Ps. 84:5 and Ps. 144:16, which begin with the word “Fortunate” (ashre).70 B. Ber. 4b provides the only mention of this unit of liturgy in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.71 It cites the following opinion attributed to R. Yoḥanan: “Why is ­there no nun verse in ashre? ­Because the downfall of Israel is in it.” R. Yoḥanan calls attention to a prob­lem in Psalm 145. An acrostic princi­ple organizes this poem; its opening line begins with the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and its final line concludes with the last. But in this other­wise perfect sequence, the poem lacks a verse that starts with a nun. For our purposes, the exegetical implications of the missing nun do not ­matter. But the fact that R. Yoḥanan cites the text as ashre does.72 Psalm 145 does not contain the word ashre. Yet R. Yoḥanan calls attention to a prob­lem specifically related to Psalm 145 by referring to it as ashre, the liturgical unit into which Psalm 145 is embedded. By the time of R. Yoḥanan, or at the very least by the time of some Babylonian rabbi, a unit of daily liturgy that incorporated Psalm 145 alongside other verses from the Psalter was sufficiently well-­k nown to be cited—­ like other prayers—by the unit’s incipit.73

The Historical How and Why of Daily Psalmody: The Power of Pre­ce­dent The section above argued that daily psalmody first entered the liturgy of some rabbis during the times of the Talmud. The rest of this chapter ex-



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plores the questions of how and why. Since history is not monocausal, it ­will reconstruct a wide variety of mechanisms that contributed to the growth of daily psalmody. The first is pre­ce­dent, the ability of the past to found, shape, and encourage the potential possibilities of the ­future. The development of all civilizations is indebted, to some degree, to pre­ce­dent. But it weighs especially heavi­ly on law-­oriented cultures that value antiquity, such as that of the rabbis. In addition, as mentioned above, even during the times of the Mishnah, some rabbis sang from the Psalter as part of their or­ga­nized worship. They did so, however, entirely within the framework of seasonal and occasional liturgies. The most widespread and enduring form of seasonal psalmody for the rabbis who lived during the times of the Mishnah came in the form of Hallel (Psalms 113–18), whose fascinating early history ­will be the subject of a larger discussion at some ­later date.74 ­These rabbis i­magined Hallel as the product of a past that included the Jerusalem ­Temple.75 The Levites, for example, are said to have sung Psalms 113–18 while the priests sacrificed the Pascal lambs of Israel.76 And the dual nature of Passover (at least for the rabbis) as a holiday celebrated within the ­temple and at home likely encouraged some sages to incorporate Hallel as a central feature of the Passover seder’s liturgy.77 One rabbinic source even insists that the seder of a group of illiterate Jews must begin and end in the synagogue, where a Hebrew-­literate Jew ­will read to them both halves of Hallel—­the first before their meal and the second ­after.78 Hallel, perhaps ­because of its central place within the seder, also became a staple feature of Jewish liturgy during the pilgrimage holidays and Hanukkah, when it was recited in a responsive manner.79 Ultimately, the early rabbis discuss Hallel in the context of con­temporary liturgy and legislate about it often.80 The liturgy of the New Year, a time when the early rabbis did not require one to sing Hallel, also incorporates psalmody. The ­middle blessing of the New Year’s Amidah contains three sections that exemplify the central themes of that sanctified day: “Kingship,” “Remembrances,” and “Horn Blasts.” Each unit consists of a set of verses from the Pentateuch, Prophets, and Hagiographa (ketuvim). While which verses from ­these sections one must recite did not crystallize ­until a ­later period, ­those from the Hagiographa almost invariably come from the Psalms, even during this early era.81 They include Ps. 24:7–10, 38:6, and 47:7–10. A snapshot of occasional psalmody appears in the liturgy for a communal fast, which m. Taʿan. 2:2 describes. Like the liturgy for the New Year, its

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Amidah contains a section with verses for “Remembrance” and “Horn Blasts.” Unlike the liturgy for the New Year, it also contains ­whole chapters from the Psalms: 120, 121, 130, and 102.82 It is, indeed, in the context of a fast-­day liturgy that we encounter yet another form of Hallel: the G ­ reat Hallel, which 83 contains Psalm 136. This Hallel functions as a prayer of thanksgiving to celebrate rainfall, the successful outcome of beseeching God during a fast.84 This brief exploration of the New Year and fast-­day liturgies, as well as Hallel, shows that seasonal and occasional psalmody reverberated in the halls of some Jewish gathering places. This sound si­mul­ta­neously sharpens the absence of daily psalmody within the liturgy of the early rabbis and provides the soundscape from which daily psalmody eventually emerges.

The Historical How and Why of Daily Psalmody: The Power of Rhe­toric But pre­ce­dent rarely acts alone; it often requires additional stimulus. This par­ tic­u­lar section describes one additional cog in the wheel of change: the power of rhe­toric to underpin, shape, and eventually become real­ity.85 To create change in many ancient and modern socie­ties is to balance innovation with tradition, to rhetorically structure the new on the basis of the old—to decorate novelty with an ancient facade.86 While daily psalmody did not feature as a regular part of liturgy, the rabbis did not abandon the book of Psalms altogether. Rather, they read it carefully with an eye t­oward providing scriptural proof for nearly ­every aspect of their liturgical innovations, from the structure of daily prayer to its surrounding practices.87 Ultimately, the use of verses from the Psalms to rhetorically justify rabbinic revolutions in liturgy helped set the stage for verses and chapters from the Psalter to enter daily liturgy.88 Verses from the Psalter, in fact, prominently underpin the most innovative and enduring piece of rabbinic liturgy, the place where Psalms first enters daily worship: the Amidah. In the words of Ezra Fleischer: “The shemoneh esreh [Amidah] was an utter innovation on all levels, w ­ hether institutional, functional, or theological.”89 The pro­cess of reading the Amidah into the Psalms begins as early as the rabbinic movement itself.90 When seeking to create and promote their own prayer practices, the rabbis mined scriptural pre­ce­dent and transformed the prayers of ­earlier biblical figures into ­legal prescriptions. Consider, for example, t. Ber. 3:6:



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Perhaps a person can go and pray all day? It is explained through Daniel,91 “Three times a day” (Dan. 6:11). Perhaps that is b­ ecause of the exile? Thus it says, “Every­thing that was done before now” (Dan. 6:11). . . . Perhaps he can say all [three] prayers at the same time? It was explained through David, “Eve­ning, morning, and after­noon I speak and moan” (Ps. 55:11). Eve­ning: This is the eve­ning Amidah. Morning: This is the morning Amidah. After­noon: This is the after­noon Amidah. In this passage, a rabbi draws conclusions about liturgy from the praying lips of Daniel and David. A verse from Daniel demands that one pray three times daily, a feature of liturgy that existed before the rise of the rabbis.92 A verse from Psalms shows that ­those three prayers occur at three dif­fer­ent times—­and, more impor­tant, that they consist of the rabbinic Amidah, a feature of liturgy that did not exist before the rise of the rabbis. David’s prayerful words resound loudly and provide the necessary scriptural proof for a key piece of liturgical innovation. David’s poetry also rhetorically shapes the internal structure of the Amidah, not just the fact that it exists. The following source contains the earliest and only instance in which a rabbi who lived during the times of the Mishnah attempts to provide the exact number of benedictions that the Amidah contains. It offers an interpretation of Psalm 29 that suggests that the Amidah consists of eigh­teen blessings. As we move from this source to talmudic discussions of the Amidah’s content and order, we ­will see that Psalm 29 comprised the rhetorical backbone of the Amidah. T. Ber. 3:25 reads: “The eigh­teen blessings that the sages said, they correspond to the eigh­teen times God’s name is mentioned in ‘Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings’ [i.e., Psalm 29]. One combines the blessing against the minim [heretics] with that of the perushim [separatists] and combines the one regarding converts with the one regarding the elders. If he said each one of them separately, he fulfilled his obligation.”93 The very proof meant to scripturally undergird the number eigh­teen actually demonstrates the prob­lem of variation.94 One must combine certain blessings in order to reach this count. During this period of history, the Amidah clearly contained more or fewer than eigh­teen blessings.95 So why force the number eigh­teen?96 Perhaps the rabbi uses Scripture to provide the

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foundation for the Amidah that he knows best. Or perhaps he appeals to Psalm 29  in order to encourage his colleagues to mold a somewhat amorphous Amidah into eigh­teen blessings.97 Psalm 29 is the only psalm to contain eigh­teen mentions of God’s name. In ­either case, at least one rabbi sets a reading of Psalm 29 as a template for the Amidah, a pre­ce­dent that ­later sages would adopt and develop. Indeed, many talmudic rabbis take for granted the fact that the Amidah contains eigh­teen blessings that correlate with the eigh­ teen names of God in Psalm 29. Only one question remained: How exactly does this sequential relationship function? P. Ber. 2:3 4d–5a preserves one attempt to answer this question. As a ­whole, this section of Talmud explores the origin and scriptural background of each blessing of the Amidah. It examines each benediction once and in a linear manner, giving a sense of unity to the Talmud’s discussion. But, as mentioned above, the Talmud is an edited document. In other words, its compilers did not compose ­every single word that appears on the page. In addition to providing their own editorial comments, they cut, copied, and pasted together lines and sections from ­earlier texts. Sometimes they efface any differences between them; sometimes they highlight them; and sometimes they interweave them with no change at all. Although redacted to give a sense of unity, this section of Talmud actually consists of at least two distinct and in­de­pen­dent sources.98 ­These ­earlier texts each unpack the order and content of the Amidah, but with differing foci. Luckily, their terminology allows us to distinguish one source from the other. The first source—­let us call it List A—­begins its discussion of each blessing of the Amidah with the formula: “Why did they [the rabbis] see fit to connect . . . ?” (mah raʾu lismokh) and seeks to understand why one benediction of the Amidah is adjacent to the next.99 The second source—­let us call it List B—­opens with the formula “Why did they establish blessing x as blessing number y?” (mipnei mah hitkinu x berakhah y) and attempts to locate the biblical origin of each benediction. The editors of this talmudic discussion spliced together lines from ­these two complete and in­de­pen­dent lists. They used List A for fourteen blessings and List B for only four. Within list B, verses from Psalm 29 appear twice. For the ninth blessing, the “blessing of the Years,” List B contains a statement attributed to R. Alexandri: “For what reason did they establish the blessing of the Years as the ninth blessing? It corresponds to ‘The voice of the Lord smashes cedars’ (Ps. 29:5), for in the ­future he [God] ­will destroy all the possessors of wealth.”



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“The voice of the Lord smashes cedars” is the ninth time that the name YHWH appears in Psalm 29. For the fifteenth blessing, the “Hearer of Prayers,” List B contains a statement attributed to R. Tanḥuma: “For what reason did they establish ‘Hearer of Prayers’ as the fifteenth blessing? It corresponds to ‘The Lord sat on the flood’ (Ps. 29:10), for he prevents bad ­things from coming into the world.”100 “The Lord sat on the flood” is the fifteenth time the name YHWH appears in Psalm 29.

* * * The other two examples from List B do not come from Psalm 29. Yet the fact that blessings nine and fifteen match the ninth and fifteenth time that the Tetragrammaton appears in Psalm 29 suggests that List B itself consisted of ­earlier and in­de­pen­dent sources, at least one of which correlated in a sequential manner each blessing of the Amidah with the mention of YHWH in Psalm 29. Let us call this List C. In fact, b. Meg. 17b, which contains a discussion that mostly parallels that of the Palestinian Talmud, shows that List C likely exists. It begins by citing an e­ arlier source that correlates the first three blessings of the Amidah with Psalm 29: Our rabbis teach:101 From where do we know that one should say Patriarchs [first blessing of the Amidah]? Scripture says, “Ascribe to the Lord, O sons of angels” (Ps. 29:1a). From where do we know that one should say Strength [the second blessing]? Scripture says, “Ascribe to the Lord honor and strength” (Ps. 29:1b). From where do we know that one must say Sanctification [the third blessing]? Scripture says, “Ascribe to the Lord the honor of his name” (Ps. 29:2a).102 The first three mentions of YHWH in Psalm 29 relate to the first three blessings of the Amidah. The first blessing, called “Patriarchs,” connects to Ps. 29:1a by imagining that the Israelite forefathers are the “sons of angels” who praise YHWH. The second blessing, called “Strength,” is correlated with the command to give YHWH honor and “strength” (oz). The third

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blessing, “Sanctification,” short for Sanctification of the Name (qedushat hashem), is related to the command to ascribe to YHWH the “honor of his name” (shem). At the very least, this text shows that Psalm 29 once again justifies the contents of the Amidah, this time in Babylonia. But given the discussion above, this source likely constitutes another fragment of List C. In fact, the entire List C—or, at least, a ­later attempt to reconstruct it—­appears in Midrash Psalms 29.103

* * * ­ hese feats of redactional ingenuity tell only part of the story of Psalm 29’s T relationship to prayer. As the connection between the Amidah and Psalm 29 grew, ­later interpreters sought to read other rabbinic liturgical innovations in light of the psalm. ­After discussing the vari­ous reasons for why the weekday Amidah contains eigh­teen blessings, p. Ber. 4:3 8a asks about the seven blessings of the Amidah for the Sabbath: “From where do we know the seven of the Sabbath? R. Isaac said it corresponds to the seven ‘voices’ [qolot] in ‘Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings’ ” (Psalm 29). Indeed, Psalm 29 mentions the word “voice” (qol) seven times.104 A verse from Psalm 29 also informed a rabbinic prayer practice.105 M. Ber. 5:1 reads: “A person should not pray ­unless levelheaded.” What exactly does this mean? P. Ber. 5:1 8d provides an answer by citing an opinion attributed to R. Joshua b. Levi: “ ‘Bow down to the Lord in the splendor of [hadrat] holiness’ (Ps. 29:2), in the trembling of [ḥadrat] holiness.” By reading a hey as a ḥet—­the letters sounded similar in this period—­R. Joshua links Psalm 29 to the Mishnah and understands Ps. 29:2 as: “Bow down to the Lord [pray] in the trembling of holiness [i.e., R. Joshua’s definition of levelheaded].” The ideal type of disposition for prayer is awe.106 Psalm 29 also appears in attempts to reconstruct the psalmody of the Jerusalem ­Temple. As mentioned ­earlier, we cannot list with certainty which psalms the Levites sang. The ­temple songbook obviously contained more variety than the now-­canonical book of Psalms. Yet rabbinic memories of ­temple psalmody almost always point to the book of Psalms. In line with con­temporary scholarship, we must forgo thinking about ­these instances as true fossils of an undisturbed past and understand them as ­later attempts to reconstruct what once was.107 Within the context of ­temple memory, Psalm 29 appears twice. B. Suk. 54b posits that the Levites sang the entirety of



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Psalm 29 during the first day of Tabernacles.108 In addition, b. Rosh Hash. 30b claims that the Levites sang Ps. 29:8 during the after­noon sacrifice.109 Overall, this discussion has paid microscopic attention to Psalm 29 and its reception in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture for two reasons. First, verses from Psalm 29 provide the earliest, clearest, and most consistent fodder for rhetorically justifying rabbinic liturgy—­and particularly the Amidah—­through biblical interpretation. Second, Psalm 29 itself became liturgical. In Babylonia, some rabbis imagine the psalm as part of ­temple worship. In Palestine, it eventually entered the prayer ser­vice for Pentecost (Shavuot) as the psalm of the season.110

* * * But the strategy of underpinning liturgy and supporting liturgical innovation by appealing to verses from the Psalms extends well beyond readings of Psalm 29. On one end of the spectrum, a single verse from the Psalter structures an entire session of liturgy.111 P. Rosh Hash. 4:8 59c explains why the ritual of blowing a ram’s horn on the New Year occurs during the Additional Prayer (musaf ) of the holiday and not during its morning ser­vice.112 One suggestion, based on a detailed exposition of Ps. 17:1, is attributed to R. Joshua b. Levi in the name of R. Alexandri: Learn It from ­here: “Hear the just, O Lord” (1a): this is the reading of the Shema. “Heed my cry” (1b): this is the murmuring of Torah. “Listen to my prayer” (1c): this is prayer [Amidah]. “Without lips of deceit” (1d): this is the Additional Prayer. And what is written a­ fter it? “Let my judgment come out from before you.” (Ps. 17:2) In this piece of exegesis, R. Joshua establishes Ps. 17:1 as the blueprint for the entire morning and after­noon New Year’s liturgy. Through a pun, he reads the Psalmist’s plea to “listen” (shima) as the Shema, the opening of prayer. He then interprets “cry” (rinnan) as Torah, presumably understanding “Torah” as the scriptural passages located between the opening of the Shema and the Amidah.113 Afterward, he identifies the Psalmist’s “prayer” (tefillah) with that created by the rabbis, the Amidah (tefillah = Amidah). Fi­nally—­and this is perhaps the most forced feature of R. Joshua’s exegesis— he sees the phrase “without lips of deceit” as a reference to the Additional

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Prayer.114 Once the exegete exhausts Ps. 17:1, he moves on to the next verse. In an act of linear reading, he argues that God’s judgment, presumably the sound that emanates from a ram’s horn, comes ­after “without lips of deceit” (the Additional Prayer).115 On the other end of the spectrum, the Psalter as an or­ga­nized and structured book once again underpins the Amidah. The very opening of p. Ber. 4:3 7d–8a, which comments on the requirement to say eigh­teen blessings ­every day, begins: “And why eigh­teen? R. Joshua b. Levi said: ‘it corresponds to the eigh­teen psalms from the beginning [roʾsho]116 of the Psalter ­until may the Lord answer you on a day of trou­ble’ ” (Psalm 20).117 R. Joshua, like many of his contemporaries, reads the Amidah in light of Psalms. In this instance, however, the sequence of the Psalter provides the correct exegetical frame of reference.118 The Palestinian Talmud then builds upon this way of correlating the Psalms with the Amidah. It draws forth a theological consequence: “From ­here they say that if one prays and is not answered [anah], one needs to fast.” In other words, if one’s prayer—an Amidah whose very structure exists in relationship to the first nineteen psalms—is successful, then what follows in the opening lines of the twentieth psalm must also be true: “The Lord ­will answer [anah] you on a day of trou­ble” (Ps. 20:2). Therefore, if no answer follows, one must fast. The Amidah has failed.

The Historical How and Why of Daily Psalmody: Other Contributing F ­ actors The rest of this chapter explores in brief some of the other ­factors that encouraged the rabbis to incorporate daily psalmody into their liturgy. Pre­ce­ dent and rhe­toric provide a foundation, but a more vibrant portrait of the development of psalmody within rabbinic liturgy emerges into view upon the backdrop of the multiple hues of ancient Jewish and non-­Jewish life. Even if the following ­factors did not necessarily cause Psalms to emerge as an object of daily liturgy, they nonetheless combined to create an environment that encouraged, fostered, and strengthened the already-­extant historical pro­cesses and trends discussed above. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the available data and their limits, the discussion below focuses almost exclusively on Palestine and its environs.



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The way that rabbis deployed Psalms in their synagogue sermons may connect to their use of Psalms in worship. During the time of the sages of the Palestinian Talmud, a type of homily known as the proem (petiḥta) developed.119 This style of sermon opens with an interpretation of a seemingly random verse from Scripture and concludes by connecting that verse, or an idea ultimately derived from it, to the first verse of that week’s Pentateuchal lection. Homilists who operated within the framework of the proem often selected verses from the Psalms as their opening piece of Scripture. About one-­third of extant late ancient proems begin with a verse from the Psalter; this number far exceeds the instance of any other biblical book.120 Perhaps psalmody encouraged the use of Psalms for synagogue preaching, and preaching with the Psalms further embedded the Psalter into liturgy. The slow transformation of the synagogue into a place of prayer during the talmudic era offers another coeval ­factor that helps account for the rise of daily psalmody. Sources that predate the rabbis tend to imagine the synagogue as a gathering place where Jews read the Law and received religious instruction.121 The early rabbis mention the synagogue as a place of prayer, but they more often discuss the other activities that might be performed within its halls.122 A reader of Mishnah and Tosefta Berakhot, for example, gets neither the sense that the Shema and the Amidah depend upon the synagogue nor the notion that it would be preferable for one to intone t­ hese prayers within its sanctum.123 This situation changes during the era of the Talmud, when the rabbis place a new stress upon prayer in the synagogue.124 In fact, they even explore in depth the tension between the values of synagogal prayer and of Torah study.125 As prayer transformed into the center of synagogue life, so did the book of Psalms, an early archetype for prayer. In addition, this slow ­mental shift, which reframed the central role of the synagogue, may relate to a larger trend within late antique Judaism, one attested to outside the confines of rabbinic lit­er­a­ture. I ­will provide only one architectural example ­here. The shifting layout of the Maʿoz Ḥayyim synagogue in Scythopolis (Bet Sheʿan) illustrates well the movement from meeting place to prayer space.126 Initially built at the end of the third c­ entury, the synagogue hall was a near-­square 12.5 × 14 meters. Its floors ­were unadorned by any mosaic, and a platform of unhewn stone in the ­middle of the south wall could have been a podium (bimah) upon which a Torah ark rested. This ­simple public building likely functioned as a multipurpose meeting room that ­housed, on occasion, the ritual reading of the Torah.

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Figure 9. Maʿoz Ḥayyim Synagogue A Israel Exploration Society (from Vassilios Tzaferis, “The Ancient Synagogue at Maʿoz Ḥayyim,” Israel Exploration Journal 32 [1982]: 218)

By the end of the fourth ­century or at the beginning of the fifth ­century, the residents had completely remodeled the building. They lengthened its hall. The synagogue now mea­sured 16.4 × 14 meters and included a central nave that was flanked by two rows of five columns each. It also ­housed a raised semicircular apse that faced Jerusalem,127 as well as an exquisite mosaic floor that depicted birds, grapes, a ram’s horn (shofar), a citron (etrog), and a candelabra (menorah).128 While ­these changes may have resulted from a new era of prosperity, they also show that ­those who gathered within the synagogue carefully restructured the building to emphasize its new function: prayer.129



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* * * The strengthened conceptual bond between the Jerusalem ­Temple and the synagogue in the thought of the talmudic rabbis also may have encouraged daily psalmody to develop. As ­earlier scholarship demonstrates, while the origins of thinking about the synagogue in light of the Jerusalem T ­ emple trace back to the times of the rabbis of the Mishnah,130 the sages of the Talmud elaborated, refined, and extended the analogy.131 Perhaps daily psalmody entered into rabbinic liturgy ­because rabbis intensified the comparison between ­these two sacred institutions. Parts of the ­temple’s songbook, ­whether a­ ctual or i­magined, slowly transformed by way of this pro­cess into a rabbinic hymnal. The mosaics that adorned the floors of ancient synagogues may have also encouraged some rabbis to build on the analogy between t­emple and synagogue and to introduce daily psalmody into their liturgy. Synagogue art is the subject of much scholarly contention, with competing understandings about its rise, spread, and significance.132 Nevertheless, numerous synagogues feature artistic motifs that possess the potential to draw a congregant’s attention si­mul­ta­neously to con­temporary liturgy and the Jerusalem ­Temple. ­These include symbols such as the shofar, palm frond (lulav), citron (etrog), and menorah.133 Some synagogues contain images and inscriptions that can only be viewed in terms of the ­temple. The mosaic floor of the synagogue at Sepphoris, for example, contains an image of the first-­fr uits basket, the ceremonial sacrifice trumpets (ḥatzotzrot), and the daily sacrificial offerings.134 The synagogues in Caesarea,135 Ashqelon, and Kissufim136 feature mosaics that list the twenty-­four priestly courses that would officiate at the t­ emple. It ­matters not, for the sake of this argument, ­whether such art represents acts of biblical interpretation or a desire to reconstitute the synagogue as a ­temple by ­those who laid the mosaics. However, it is not difficult to imagine that for some rabbis who may have viewed ­these floors, ­these symbols provided planks in the ­mental bridge from ­temple to synagogue, ultimately leading them to include daily psalmody in their own liturgy.

* * * The liturgy of Jews who did not belong to the rabbinic movement may have led some sages to embed psalmody into their daily prayers. The following

Figure 10. Maʿoz Ḥayyim Synagogue B Israel Exploration Society (from Vassilios Tzaferis, “The Ancient Synagogue at Maʿoz Ḥayyim,” Israel Exploration Journal 32 [1982]: 222)



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Figure 11. Sepphoris Synagogue Mosaic Courtesy of Israel Exploration Society and Prof. Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Photo: G. Laron

examples could suggest that some non-­rabbinic Jews sang verses from the Psalter as part of their worship. Unfortunately, t­ hese data are inconclusive. In Gaza, an image of David enchanting animals by playing a harp appears on the mosaic floor of a sixth-­century synagogue. David’s head is surrounded by a nimbus (a luminous cloud), and his pose renders him artistically similar to Greek repre­sen­ta­tions of Orpheus, a legendary musician, poet, and prophet. Atop the figure is an inscription: “David.”137 Could the image of David strumming on his instrument reflect the Psalm-­suffused utterances of con­temporary Jewish worshipers? Another pos­si­ble repre­sen­ta­tion of David appears in a fifth-­century synagogue mosaic at Meroth, in the Galilee. The mosaic depicts a figure encircled by tools of war. Many scholars identify the image as David surrounded by Goliath’s weapons, the spoils of David’s victory in 1 Sam. 17:51–54. Some even reconstruct a lyre in the broken space to the right of the figure.138 Could

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the presence of David, the ­great patron of the Psalter, indicate that the words from his book of poems reverberated in the synagogue’s hall? As Midrash Psalms, a text redacted ­toward the end of Late Antiquity (if not ­after) notes: “David said before the Holy Blessed One: ‘Let the ­will be before You that my songs and praises be sung in the synagogues and study halls forever.’ ”139 Yet artists laid biblical characters into mosaics often; and depictions of David might be too generic to provide any historically specific meaning. Turning to evidence carved in stone, a third-­or fourth-­century inscription in the Jewish catacombs of Rome memorializes the tomb of “Gaianos, secretary, psalm-­singer [psalmōdos], lover of the Law. May his sleep be in peace.”140 This inscription contains the Greek word psalmōdos, which appears more than a hundred times in Christian lit­er­a­ture and often introduces a quotation from the book of Psalms, usually in the phrase “as the Psalmist says,” or something similar.141 A second datum comes from the “God-­Fearer inscription” at Aphrodisias, a small Hellenistic city in modern-­day Turkey.142 This text enumerates figures who donated money to the Jewish community and its synagogue. Among the list of names appears that of “Benjamin, the psalm-­singer” (psalmos). The superscript s (sigma) above the line to the right of the o (omicron) denotes an abbreviation. Perhaps the sculptor intended the word psalmodos.143 In any case, did Benjamin and Gaianos sing Psalms as part of Jewish liturgy in an ancient Roman or Hellenic synagogue? Unfortunately, we cannot know for certain. But, as we ­will see below in brief, Christian liturgies that developed between the third and fifth centuries did begin to include and to highlight psalmody. Perhaps ­these inscriptions belong to that story.

* * * That psalmody came to mark the worship of vari­ous Christian communities may have also encouraged some rabbis to adopt Psalms into their daily liturgy. The liturgical use of the book of Psalms in early Chris­tian­ity developed, as it did in ancient Judaism, at a nonuniform pace and to differing degrees in the vari­ous regions of Christian life. The discussion below synthesizes some of the available evidence and simply suggests that Christian liturgical psalmody was widespread enough during the time of the talmudic sages to catch the attention of Jews affiliated with the rabbinic movement. A full and detailed study of the rise of psalmody in Chris­tian­ity and of its intersections with rabbinic liturgy falls beyond the scope of this discussion.

Figure 12. King David Depicted as Orpheus in a Synagogue Mosaic, Gaza, 508 ce The Israel Museum, Jerusalem, by Abraham Hay

Figure 13. Mosaic Floor Inscribed at Meroth Synagogue, Dedicatory Inscription, Aramaic, with Geometric Pattern, Guilloche, ­Human Image Israel Antiquities Authority



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As mentioned above, the early Jesus movement did not employ the book of Psalms for or­ga­nized worship.144 But as the first ­century became the second, the Psalter starts to appear within major liturgical events, such as the Eucharist and at ritual meals. The second-­century Acts of Paul, for example, depicts a Christian ritual meal accompanied by “psalms of David and songs” (psalmōn te Daouid kai ōdōn).145 The mention of “psalms of David” as a separate entity from “songs” likely indicates that the now-­canonical Psalms ­were being sung. Other early evidence does not use the term “David”; thus, what kind of “psalm” its author intended is unclear. Tertullian, another second-­century Christian author, for example, mentions liturgical psalmody in his description of a certain female.146 More directly related to prayer, he also claims: “­Those who are more diligent in praying are accustomed to include in their prayers Alleluia and this type of psalms, with the endings of which t­hose who are pre­sent may respond.”147 Davidic psalms also appear at the center of the Eucharist ceremony in chapters 25–26 of the Apostolic Tradition, a third-­ century early Christian church order.148 Liturgical psalmody exploded during the fourth ­century. It became a central feature of monastic prayer.149 Both desert and urban monks, in dif­ fer­ent manners and at vari­ous paces, gathered at set times to recite the Psalter. They sought to complete the Psalms and live a life of constant psalmody as their goal.150 This incessant liturgical psalmody provided Late Antiquity with a new Psalm-­suffused soundscape, the effects of which rippled into another sphere of Christian liturgical life: non-­monastic daily psalmody. By the fourth c­ entury, the morning and eve­ning liturgies of many Christian communities consisted of both set and rotating psalms.151 As liturgical scholar Paul Bradshaw argues, “the use of prayer to mean Psalm followed by prayer is common at this period.”152 Egeria, the fourth-­century Spanish pilgrim to Jerusalem, confirms this point by constantly mentioning that “hymns, psalms, and antiphons” accompanied e­ very liturgical event. Unfortunately, she never mentions the exact psalms that ­were sung. Yet she often declares that ­those texts suited the time and the place.153 A potential accounting of the precise psalms sung in fourth-­century Jerusalem may exist in the Jerusalem Armenian lectionary.154 Regardless, the fourth ­century witnessed an explosion of Christian liturgical psalmody as well as the slow attempt to solidify into lectionaries when each psalm ­ought to be chanted. In this period, one also detects the rise of a church “singer” (psaltēs) as a distinct role from “reader” (lector).155 Syriac sources confirm and add texture to this historical snapshot. Syriac-­ speaking Christians, like their Greek and Latin brethren, encountered the

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book of Psalms regularly in the context of worship from the fourth ­century onward.156 In fact, the majority of the manuscripts that attest to the Syriac translation of the Hebrew Psalter, the Peshitta, actually consist of hymnbooks used for ecclesiastical ser­vices. Of the forty-­t wo manuscripts used for the Leiden critical edition of the Peshitta Psalter, four are complete Bibles, and the rest are liturgical Psalters.157 Further, manuscript evidence indicates that Syriac Christians regularly updated the Peshitta Psalter to reflect its new liturgical setting.158 Could the popularity of Psalms in Christian worship have compelled rabbinic Jews—­and perhaps other ancient Jews—to incorporate psalmody into their own liturgy at a more rapid pace? Could the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of the Psalter into a series of lectionaries by Christians ultimately have provided the background against which the cycles of psalmody for Jewish festivals developed? ­These questions deserve careful study. What is certain, however, is that Jewish and Christian daily psalmody gained momentum at roughly the same time. In fact, the design and structure of synagogue art and architecture during the fourth–­seventh centuries may also strengthen the liturgical connection between Judaism and Chris­tian­ity. As scholars such as Lee Levine and David Milson argue, the church and the synagogue began to more closely reflect each other in ­these centuries.159 Levine notes that synagogues in Palestine that ­were built or remodeled in regions with significant Christian presence—­such as the Sea of Galilee and Bet Sheʿan, as well as the coast and near Jerusalem—­began to mimic the Christian basilica ­there.160 Milson, in a detailed monograph, demonstrates that, by the sixth ­century, almost half of the securely datable synagogues in Palestine “bear features typical of the early Byzantine church: in layout, in architectural ornamentation, in floor mosaics, in furniture, or occasionally in combinations of ­these features.”161 Perhaps liturgy traversed the bridge built by art and architecture. The church—in both its liturgy and its structure—­may provide another partial context for the rise of daily psalmody in rabbinic worship. It may also account, in part, for the explosion of Jewish liturgical psalmody as Late Antiquity slowly transitioned into the early M ­ iddle Ages. Only further study ­will tell.

Conclusion This chapter examined how Jews interacted with the Psalter in the context of liturgy, the most obvious dimension of the non-­exegetical life of Psalms.



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In par­tic­u­lar, it told the complicated historical story of how the rabbis incorporated Psalms into their daily worship. It began by introducing nuance into the assumption that ancient Jewish liturgy must have included psalmody. It argued that daily psalmody played a ­limited role outside the Jerusalem ­Temple and did not exist as part of the liturgy of the rabbis of the Mishnah. Only ­a fter the time of the Talmud do verses and chapters from the Psalms suffuse almost ­every major Jewish prayer. The chapter then explored how dearth transformed into fecundity. It tracked the rise of daily psalmody in the liturgy of the rabbis of the Talmud and argued that it did not grow in one moment of explosion but, rather, in historical fits and starts. The chapter then turned its attention to the vari­ous contexts that best explain why daily psalmody developed in this era. They include the pre­ce­ dent set by seasonal and occasional psalmody; the rabbis’ rhetorical justification of liturgical innovation by appealing to Psalms, particularly with re­spect to the Amidah; the overwhelming use of Psalms in rabbinic sermons; the establishment of the synagogue as a place of prayer; the increased analogizing between synagogue and ­temple; the use of Psalms as liturgy by non-­rabbinic Jews; and the explosive growth of liturgical psalmody in early Chris­tian­ity. By reading rabbinic liturgical history against each of ­these potential contexts, this chapter acknowledges the fact that religious developments do not occur in a vacuum or with regard to a single point of reference. Rabbinic Jews, ­after all, ­were enmeshed in a social and cultural matrix that wove together the development of their own traditions, the practices of non-­rabbinic Jews, and the ambiance created by the tangible presence of Christians. Our story is still incomplete. In this chapter, I intentionally ignored another key f­ actor that contributed to the growth of daily psalmody: the pious recitation of verses and chapters from the Psalter. By enmeshing the Psalter into the fabric of their daily lives, ancient Jews set the stage for the Psalter to transition from personal to public, from an object of individual pietistic practice to mandated liturgy. It is to an exploration of the phenomenon of Psalm piety that we now turn.

Chapter 4

Reciting Psalms in Piety and Magic

Voices chanting, reciting, and uttering Psalms dominated the soundscape of religious life in Late Antiquity. This chapter ­will pay attention to the p­ eople ­behind them. It ­will explore some of the everyday ways in which late ancient Jews interacted with the Psalter, modes of engaging with the Psalms that went beyond producing the correct interpretation of a biblical verse or singing Psalms in the context of liturgy. I call ­these forms of be­hav­ior “Psalm piety.” For the purposes of this chapter, I avoid an overly technical and theoretical definition of “Psalm piety” in ­favor of a preliminary working heuristic that develops organically from the primary sources analyzed below. Yet ­toward the beginnings of a comprehensive and systematic understanding of Psalm piety, we may say the following: in Judaism, Psalm piety consists of a series of practices that are primarily non-­exegetical in nature and are manifest across Judaism’s vari­ous social classes. ­These practices—­which include reading, reciting, touching, and speaking verses from the Psalter—­a re not legislated a priori by Judaism’s ­legal system. They developed from the bottom up, even if l­egal sources eventually canonized a par­tic­u­lar act of Psalm piety or commented on the appropriateness or desirability of it. ­These practices are performative, strategic, and often (but not always) iteratively enacted. In this manner, Psalm piety resembles, and sometimes becomes attached to, other forms of activities that are themselves embedded into the Jewish cultural-­s ymbolic-­ritual system, such as liturgy. The mechanics of Psalm piety closely resemble the vari­ous magical practices that deploy the Psalter—­sometimes to the extent that it is difficult, if not impossible, to truly distinguish between acts associated with the analytical categories of “piety” and “magic.” To the degree that we can extricate



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t­ hese categories from each other successfully in an ancient context, we may say that they differ from each other in their purpose. Although imperfect, it is fair to say that the primary (although not exclusive) function of socially sanctioned psalm-­based magical practices was to shape one’s external real­ ity: to receive healing, secure lost items, banish demonic foes, and so on. The purpose of Psalm piety, by contrast, was primarily (but not exclusively) to inculcate a par­tic­u­lar set of internal reverential dispositions, attitudes, or feelings (often of solace and hope) through reading, reciting, touching, and speaking verses from the Psalter. Or, to adapt the terminology developed by the anthropologist Clifford Geertz, piety is a system of symbolic acts that—­ like religion itself—­establishes “power­f ul, pervasive and long-­lasting moods and motivations . . . ​that seem uniquely realistic.”1 Such was not necessarily the aim of magic in the same way that it was of piety. Of course, “piety” and “magic” look quite similar if we replace this functionalist set of lenses with ones from a dif­fer­ent analytical perspective. The be­hav­iors of real-­life ­human beings, and the historical sources they left for us to analyze, are complex. They cannot be reduced to a monotype unifying theory. As we ­will see throughout this chapter, a single action might si­mul­ ta­neously belong to the categories of liturgy, magic, and piety. At the same time, t­ hese categories are useful starting points, at least as a heuristic. Just as they cannot be separated from one another completely, so, too, they cannot be reduced to one another completely. In any event, the above articulation of Psalm piety also eschews a definition of pious be­hav­ior that sees ­those engaged in acts of piety as outliers.2 Extreme actions taken in the ser­vice of religion certainly existed in the ancient world. But the litmus test for ­these radical activities must be the texts themselves. The rabbis, for example, mark exceptional and unexpected be­ hav­ior with the word ḥasidut.3 They, indeed, classify some forms of Psalm piety with this term. But not all. I w ­ ill render this word in the pages below as “exceptional piety,” rather than with its traditional translation: “piety.” I do so ­because piety was not the exception of daily religious life; it was its rule.

* * * As its main goal, this chapter surveys, illustrates, and appreciates Psalm piety as a feature of routine religious life in late ancient Judaism. But in the course of mapping out the contours of Psalm piety, it pauses to draw attention to several specific and prominent landmarks.

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The ­great Jewish liturgist Ismar Elbogen, whom we met in Chapter  3, describes in his magisterial tome the development of the morning ser­vice as follows: “At first, psalms customarily recited by individual pietists ­were brought into the ser­vice, and then other passages ­were added.” 4 Who ­were ­these individuals? What psalms did they intone? And how did they recite them? Unfortunately, Elbogen does not tell us.5 This chapter stands on the shoulders of this ­giant to view the landscape of Psalm piety. It provides substance to Elbogen’s claims that ancient Jewish life featured the pious recitation of Psalms and that ­these practices ­were eventually incorporated into public prayer. It ­will show that the boundary between piety and liturgy existed as a barely dotted line. Similarly thin and porous border between protective magic and piety. The inhabitants of the ancient world did not neatly divide “magic” and “piety” into in­de­pen­dent intellectual spheres and then play one off the other, scorning the former and lauding the latter. That was the work of modernity. By focusing on the book of Psalms, this chapter shows that the ­people of Late Antiquity suffused their lives with “magical piety,” which they may have distinguished from other dangerous and forbidden practices.6 It ­will also show that some acts of magical Psalm piety functioned as communal endeavors that took place in the synagogue and provided the necessary glue for social cohesion, a form of bonding that perhaps included both rabbinic and non-­rabbinic Jews.7 For it is all too easy to artificially segregate the rabbis from the other Jews who lived in Palestine and Babylonia; or to posit that Psalm piety belonged to the uninformed and ill-­educated masses; or to assert that society’s self-­perceived scholars would naturally oppose Psalm piety8—­and, in ­doing so, to reinforce an outmoded ste­reo­t ype that sets intellectual activity (and religion) against magic.9 The pages below depict vari­ous rabbis enmeshed in Psalm piety, contributing to its growth, and, in turn, being ­shaped by it.10 ­These sages commend ­those who recite verses from the Psalms, imagine ­earlier figures engaged in constant psalmody, and even deploy Psalms for protection. To the ­limited degree pos­si­ble, this chapter also begins to sketch Psalm piety in the lives of ­those Jews who did not produce or preserve literary texts. It does so by relying on material remains, such as inscriptions, magical incantation texts, and amulets. When combined with literary sources, t­ hese tangible fragments of daily life provide additional proof that Psalm piety existed and that its magnetic force drew together the lives of many late ancient Jews.11 But Psalm piety also belonged to the early church and its vari­ous adherents. In fact, a survey of sources gives the impression that early Chris-



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tians possessed a more developed cultural sense of Psalm piety than did their Jewish neighbors. To best understand ancient Jewish Psalm piety, this chapter w ­ ill selectively situate its forms and content against the larger background of early Christian Psalm piety, drawing upon sources produced in the Greco-­ Roman and Sassanian worlds. It ­will not map the exact contours and fissures within early Christian Psalm piety, which undoubtedly existed and deserve their own detailed studies. It ­will merely note Christian Psalm piety’s vari­ous styles and its omnipresence. Ultimately, this chapter attempts to show that, in some cases, Jewish and Christian Psalm piety developed in the same late antique matrix, and their similarities appear to outweigh their differences. It ­will also illustrate that Jews and Christians encountered the Psalms as an object of lived experience. In the sources that follow, the Psalter is impor­tant not ­because of “what it means” (how one interprets its vari­ous psalms) but, rather, ­because of “how it means” (how one uses psalms therein to create meaning). In other words, Psalm piety allows us to view the Psalter beyond interpretation and to reconstruct it as an object of use.12 Psalm piety, however, is but one piece of the much larger mosaic of scriptural piety, the everyday encounter with and use of biblical texts. While the evidence for Psalms is particularly rich, at least within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, the survey below could and should be replicated for other biblical books. Ultimately, this chapter seeks to open a broader conversation, a dialogue that should eventually include the entirety of Scripture.13

* * * As a summary, in the course of surveying the landscape of Psalm piety in late ancient Judaism, this chapter develops the following claims: 1) Jewish Psalm piety existed in Late Antiquity; 2) ­those who composed texts as well as ­those whose voices are omitted by the literary rec­ord engaged with it; 3) we can best appreciate it by examining literary and material sources in tandem; 4) Jews and Christians interacted with it in fundamentally similar manners; 5) it shared a blurred boundary with magic on one side and liturgy on the other; 6) it allows us to view the Bible in Late Antiquity as an object of use and not just interpretation; and 7) it demonstrates the widespread appeal of Psalms. One final note on method: this chapter draws upon rabbinic sources from both Palestine and Babylonia in its search for examples of Psalm piety. While texts from each region are certainly ­shaped by their local cultural contexts,

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which ­will be noted when relevant, the portraits of Psalm piety produced by Babylonian and Palestinian rabbinic lit­er­a­ture are largely compatible with each other. In general terms, eastern and western rabbinic sources tell the same overall narrative about Psalm piety, even as some details within that story take on a local flavor. For the most part, I have treated each region on its own terms. But at times, I ­will juxtapose sources from dif­fer­ent geographies in order to stress their similarities or to highlight key differences. Such ­will especially be the case when ­these sources are literary parallels of each other or comment on the same previous base text.

An Overview of Early Christian Psalm Piety We can best understand and appreciate the Psalm piety of ancient Jews upon the larger and more developed backdrop of the phenomenon in early Chris­ tian­ity. This section offers a wide-­lens view of sources about Psalm piety produced by Christian hands. Such an optic reveals an extensive and deeply entrenched culture of piously reciting the Psalms, as well as an unmistakable relationship between piety, liturgy, and magic. The sands of Egypt preserved the best, and most obvious, traces of Psalm culture in late antique Chris­tian­ity. The numerous Psalters and fragments from the Psalms found in this region indicate their common use.14 For example, in the reckoning of Larry Hurtado, of all Christian Greek manuscripts dating between the second and early fourth centuries (325 ce), Psalms takes pride of place, with eigh­teen manuscripts. John comes in second, at sixteen, followed by Matthew at twelve, and then both Genesis and Exodus with eight each.15 Additionally, the Egyptian desert contained numerous monastic communities, composed of individuals who often fled the grind of daily life to toil instead in the ser­vice of God. Unlike the slow-­developing daily liturgy of the lay Christian, in which worshipers sang par­tic­u­lar psalms on specific occasions, monks recited chapters from the Psalter in a serial manner.16 Many of them regularly completed the entire book from start to finish in the course of formal monastic worship. Eventually, the origin and structure of serial psalmody became the subject of legend. According to John Cassian (360–435 ce), a vigorous champion and promoter of the monastic life, in the early history of monasticism, its leaders gathered to discuss an impor­tant question of liturgy: How many



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psalms ­ought each ser­vice contain? When the time for the eve­ning prayer arrived, they began to sing from Psalm 1. ­After concluding the twelfth psalm, the cantor leading the monks in song mysteriously vanished. The monastic officials took the figure to be an angel and his disappearance a sign that God desired that the morning and eve­ning ser­vices contain twelve psalms each. While this story, of course, does not provide evidence for the earliest forms of monastic worship, it does show that, in the course of time, a fixed pattern of psalmody both developed and required justification.17 Formal monastic liturgy owes its roots to Psalm piety, the primary occupation of monastic daily life.18 Initiates memorized Psalms as the first step ­toward becoming a monk. For example, according to the rules promulgated by the monastic community that centered itself on Pachomius (292–384), a pledge ­ought to “learn the Lord’s Prayer and so many psalms as pos­si­ble.” Upon entering ser­vice, the novice is expected to “learn twenty psalms or two letters of the Apostle or another part of Scripture.” Ultimately, the rules instruct ­every monk to memorize the entirety of Scripture, particularly the Psalms and New Testament.19 In fact, the pro­cess of memorizing Psalms sometimes left material residue. A cave in Jabal al-­Tarif—­the location where archaeologists unearthed the Nag Hammadi codices, a discovery that revolutionized the study of early Chris­tian­ity—­bears the graffiti of the opening words of Psalms 51–93. Monks likely used ­these lines to aid their memory and to help them write, read, or recite Psalms.20 Yet, memorizing the Psalter was more than just a bar to entry or something that monks simply “did.” It was ­imagined to be an affective pursuit, one that constantly ­shaped the internal life of the monk. According to Cassian, the monk must: “Take in to himself all the thoughts of the psalms and sing them in such a way that he utters them with the deepest emotion of the heart not as compositions of the prophet but as if he himself w ­ ere their author, as his own prayer [quasi orationem propriam], 21 or certainly consider them to have been directed at himself and recognize that their words ­were not only already fulfilled through the prophet or in the prophet but as realized and accomplished daily in himself.”22 Other monastic authors also highlight—­a nd sometimes parody—­the fact that monks must relate themselves to, and sometimes transform themselves into, David, the sweet singer of Israel. According to the humorous and self-­satirical Life of Symeon the Holy Fool (ca. 600 ce), when Symeon and John leave the monastery to become wandering monks, it suddenly occurs to John:

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“We have learned neither Psalms nor rules.” Had they remained stationed within the four walls of their cells, they would have learned t­ hese two key features of proper monastic life. Symeon, however, allays John’s fear: “He who saved t­ hose who ­were well pleasing to him before David ­will also save us. If we are worthy, he ­will teach us as David when he was with his flock in the desert.”23 Even in parody, monks imagine the monastic office in terms of Psalms and themselves as types of David.24

* * * A similar outline of Psalm piety in monastic life appears if we turn our attention to Christian sources penned in Syriac.25 Jacob of Serugh (451–521), one of the language’s most prolific poets, lyrically tells the monk: “You rejoice ­every day in the songs of the spirit / from the sweet lyre of David that chants praises to you.”26 In addition, Syriac monastic lit­er­a­ture, like that produced in Greek and Latin, contains narrative tropes regarding memorizing and reciting the Psalms. In some texts, monks destined for greatness master the Psalter with relative ease. When beginning his education at the school of Nisibis, an institution of learning that flourished during the time of the Babylonian Talmud,27 Mar Abba, the sixth-­century patriarch of the Church of the East, was said to have “learned the Psalter [lit., David] in a short time [qalil yomaya] and began the contemplation of sacred Scriptures.”28 And Barhadbeshabba (seventh ­century), in his Ecclesiastical History, claims that Narsai (399–502), a key Syriac poet-­theologian, also rapidly memorized the entire Psalms: “From the fervor of love and the swift motions of his soul, in the span of nine months he learned by heart the entire Psalter [lit., David].”29 Syriac sources also emphasize the central place of the Psalter in monastic thought by labeling it as an entity distinct from Scripture. As the passage about Mar Abba above indicates, not only did he study the Psalter before other sacred texts, but the Psalms also appears paired with—­but distinct from—­“sacred Scripture.” This grouping appears within other Syriac texts.30 The author of the Life of Ephrem, as one further example, claims that Ephrem (306–73), the foremost Syriac poet, went to Mar Jacob of Nisibis to study “Scripture and the Psalms of David.”31 As he returned to Edessa chanting from the Psalter, a scroll descended from heaven. It contained his Psalm commentary.32

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For Syriac-­speaking Christians, the Psalter also functioned as—or, at least, was i­magined to be—­a tool of primary education, in both the senses of “first” and “young.”33 According to the sixth-­century Life of John of Tella, when young John’s parents send him to learn the “Wisdom of the Greeks,” he ends up studying the Psalms instead.34 A canon from the school of Nisibis reads: “All the younger ones read the Psalms of David, the books of the New Testament and the lessons which are read on Sundays, feast-­and commemoration-­days; whoever among them is set apart for the priesthood, has to read besides the text also a short commentary by Mār Ephrēm and a long one by Mār Theodore; and whoever is set apart for the study of medicine ­will be sent to the hospital. In short—­all ­children of Christians, before their introduction to professional training, ­shall read David [i.e. the Psalms], the New Testament and the sections of the lessons.”35According to this canon, all young students began their educational journey with the book of Psalms, even if they w ­ ere not slated to enter the fields of priesthood or medicine. Such dedicated exposure to the Psalter would set them upon a lifelong course of Psalm piety. Several centuries ­later, Bar Hebraeus (1226–58), a leader in the Syriac Orthodox Church, recorded a similar pattern of instruction. He claimed that every­one began his educational journey with the Psalms. ­Those who continued to the priesthood then studied Scripture and its commentators, while ­those who remained among the laity examined portions from the lectionary cycle.36 Some sources suggest that a child would begin studying Psalms immediately ­after mastering the alphabet.37 The mid-­seventh-­century Life of Isho‘sabran claims that Isho‘sabran, one of the final East Syrian martyrs of the Sassanid period, once asked a priest’s child, “What part of knowledge should a person first learn?” The child responded, “A person first learns letters and how to pronounce them. Afterward, he recites the Psalms [tane mizmore], and then one ­after another, he reads through the entirety of Scriptures.”38 The child outlines a curriculum that mirrors his life experience, or at least an ideal educational template as ­imagined by the author of the Life of Isho‘sabran. From the perspective of ­these sources, East Syrian society as a whole—­and its monastic culture, in particular—­set the Psalter at the pinnacle of the scriptural canon.39 Memorizing it, reading it, reciting it, and living through it ­shaped an individual into a pious Christian.

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Yet a life informed by ceaseless psalmody possesses its own cultural conflicts. Some late antique writers dwelled upon the tension created by the goal of memorizing and reciting the Psalms, as well as the impact of this ideal upon understanding the words of the Psalms and concentrating upon them. In a lengthy passage that employs at least thirteen verses from the Psalms, the Syriac Book of Steps (late fourth ­century) excoriates ­those who pray without heart. It begins with a call to reform mindless psalmody: “Look, my son, consider how much power is hidden in the praises of our Lord, yet we recite [tanenan] them by habit [ayda] and not with zeal. ­Because of this, the words of God do not effect in us good deeds.” 40 Words of power must be understood and slowly absorbed into one’s lifeblood. Other­wise, they are useless.41 Perhaps it gets even worse. A culture that condones mindless psalmody undermines the entire educational proj­ect: “When one of us teaches his ­brother a psalm [mazmora], and he says to him, ‘Refrain from rage and cease from anger’ (Ps. 37:8), and if that teacher does not take it to heart, nor even does that disciple consider what his master is teaching him, look, are we not ­going through the motions without passion or knowledge?” 42 Psalm piety must be affective to be effective. The author of the Book of Steps is neither the first nor the only person to lament the results of unreflective psalmody. A similar concern plagued monks operating within the Greco-­Roman po­liti­cal sphere of influence. Rufinus’s (340–410) Latin translation of the History of Monks in Egypt, for example, relates a story about Macarius of Alexandria.43 One eve­ning, a demon knocked on Macarius’s cell to convince him that demons and their ilk join ­every monastic gathering. Marcarius, naturally, labels the demon a liar and banishes him. When Macarius attends that night’s vigil, he asks God to inform him as to ­whether the demon had told the truth. God opens his eyes, and Marcarius sees ­little demons tormenting the monks at prayer: putting their fin­gers into the monks’ mouths, forcing them asleep, and appearing to them as food and ­women. The monks seem oblivious to this demonic incursion. Macarius, however, notices that some monks get distracted by the demons, while ­others seem to repel them with ease. The difference, he discovers ­after interrogating each monk, is that the latter pray with concentration and the former do not. The ultimate lesson: “For a heart that is joined to God and focused on him, especially during prayer, receives into itself nothing foreign and nothing futile.” 44 Perhaps the monks who failed to focus on God while reciting Psalms ­ought not be blamed. Their culture, ­after all, expected them to maintain a life in which psalmody never ceased, a belief that led monastic thinkers to vari­ous



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creative solutions. On one extreme was the literal fulfillment of this ideal of ceaseless psalmody by the monastic movement centered on Alexander the Sleepless (fifth ­century). Alexander read Ps. 1:2, “For if the law of the Lord is his delight, then he should meditate on his law day and night,” as an injunction to sing psalms without pause—to literally intone them “day and night.” Thus, he divided his followers into several groups so that, just as one finished chanting, another would begin. This activity, among ­others, made Alexander the target of ire from fellow monks as well as church leadership.45 Other monks lived a life of ceaseless psalmody by reciting the text as they went about completing their daily, often mundane, tasks. In the eyes of Abba Lucius, a monk enshrined in the alphabetical collection of the Sayings of the Desert ­Fathers (ca. 450), psalmody elevates work.46 In his words: “I sit down with God, soaking my reeds and plaiting my ropes, and I say, ‘God, have mercy on me; according to your ­great goodness and according to the multitude of your mercies, save me from my sins’ ” (Ps. 50:1).47 This entwined activity was both fiscally and spiritually productive. Plaited into ­these acts of piety, moreover, was the assumption that the book of Psalms surrounds t­ hose who recite its words with a shield that rebuffs preternatural threats. Like some rabbis we ­will discuss below, monks practiced magical piety. According to the Life of Alexander the Sleepless, Alexander “was not able to express his thoughts from the start, for the time was not right. First he waited to receive his full spiritual armor [panoplian tēn pneumatikēn], which was the Psalter [psaltērion].” 48 The well-­k nown and widely circulated Life of Anthony (ca. 356–62) features Psalms not only as a protective barrier but also as a veritable demon-­ slaying weapon. In nearly ­every instance in which Anthony encounters a demonic threat, he recites an apt psalm verse that drives it away.49 Even the devil, in conversation with Anthony, adopts both a psalm verse and a sword motif to proclaim his weakness: “He said, ‘It is not my fault; they are the ones upsetting themselves. I am weak. Have you not read, “The ­enemy have completely abandoned their swords; you have sacked their cities?” (Ps. 9:6). I have no longer a place, neither weapon nor city.’ ”50 Late ancient Christian monks readily blurred the bound­a ries that modern p­ eople draw between magic, liturgy, and piety—­a phenomenon that I ­will highlight below regarding rabbinic Jews. From the perspective of ­those dwelling in Late Antiquity, such lines might not have existed in the first place.

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But in the world of early Chris­tian­ity, monks did not possess exclusive access to Psalm piety; neither did men. Christian ­women of means often read Psalms to fortify their spirits. In 403 ce, Laeta, daughter-­in-­law of Paula, asked Jerome (ca. 347–420) how she should educate her infant ­daughter. In penning his 107th letter, Jerome responds, “Let her begin by learning the Psalter [discat primum Psalterium].”51 Paula, too, engaged in Psalm piety. In his 108th letter—­a missive written to Eustochium to console her upon Paula’s death—­Jerome notes that Paula’s command of Hebrew was so proficient that she could chant the Psalms in their original language without defect.52 Jerome was not the only church ­father to counsel w ­ omen to read the Psalter. Athanasius (ca. 296–373), t­ he five-­time exiled bishop of Alexandria—or at least, a late ancient work attributed to him—­combines Psalm piety with the material Psalter. To ascetic ­women, he writes: “You must hold a Psalter [psalterion eche], and you must study the Psalms. As the sun appears over the horizon, let the book be ready in your hands.”53 Also likely stemming from the ­actual quill of Athanasius is a circular letter in which he describes how government officials tortured and imprisoned several Christians, one of whom was a virgin who liked to study (philologousan). She carried in her hands a Psalter (to psaltērion), which was torn to shreds in public as she was being whipped.54 In a Syriac milieu, John of Ephesus (507–86), in his “Lives of the Eastern Saints,” tells a story about a sixth-­century monk who would teach writing to “boys and girls equally.” When they became four or five years of age, “they learned Psalms and Scripture” (yalfun mizmore weketbe).55 Unfortunately, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, to my knowledge, preserves almost no repre­sen­ta­tions of Psalm piety as practiced by ancient Jewish w ­ omen.56 Fortunately, we are not ­limited to the world of letters. Material evidence provides another vista from which to view early Christian and ancient Jewish piety. As we ­will see below, Jews and Christians both connected Psalm piety to death. In Al-­Mudil, Egypt, for example, next to the head of an entombed teenage girl rests a fourth-­or fifth-­century Psalter.57 Other material remains, such as magical amulets, also offer evidence of widespread Psalm piety in the world of Chris­tian­ity. Psalm 91, whose words most denizens of antiquity understood as particularly well-­suited for combating demons, is unsurprisingly the most frequently cited text among ­these sources.58 In a study of scriptural quotation in Greek amulets found in late antique Egypt from the fourth to the eighth centuries, Theodore de Bruyn lists the presence of Psalm 91 in at least fourteen of the twenty-­three objects he classifies as certainly amulets.59 Joseph Sanzo, in a study of scriptural in-



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cipits in magical amulets, notes the presence of Ps. 91:1 in eigh­teen out of the sixty-­three amulets he surveys.60 In a detailed study of Psalm 91, furthermore, Thomas Kraus claims to have collected eighty-­two objects that contain Psalm 91.61 As we w ­ ill see below, Psalm 91 takes center stage in late antique Jewish expressions of magical piety. Besides Psalm 91, Theodore de Bruyn lists at least eighty-­seven verses from Psalms in texts that he classifies as certainly or prob­ably amulets.62 The diversity of this list is astounding. ­These protective texts likely belonged to Christians situated at the upper echelons of society, as well as to ­those with less status and fewer means. Both also observed material expressions of Psalm piety that extended beyond the realm of magical texts. Ekaterini Tsalampouni has collected a database of sixteen Jewish and 490 Christian inscriptions that contain biblical verses.63 It covers the Greek inscriptions of the Eastern Roman Empire from the second ­century bce ­until the sixth ­century ce and includes a wide array of artifacts, such as mosaics, church lintels, funerary monuments, personal and liturgical objects, and jewelry. ­These inscriptions are mostly concentrated in Egypt, Palestine, and Syria. Of the 490 Christian inscriptions, 359 contain quotations of the Old Testament, over two-­thirds of which come from Psalms. Throughout the corpus, furthermore, par­tic­u­lar verses tend to be incised on specific objects. Ps. 121:8, “The Lord ­will keep your ­going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore,” often adorns the lintels and doorposts of churches and ­houses; Ps. 118:20, “This is the gate of the Lord; the righ­teous ­shall enter through it,” appears on numerous cult monuments in Syria and Palestine; Ps. 29:3, “the voice of the Lord is over the ­waters,” was inscribed on buildings and objects that relate to ­water; and Ps. 46:8, “the Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah,” often appears on vari­ous public and private buildings.64 ­These last two verses, perhaps uncoincidentally, also appear in some forms of Jewish Psalm piety that we ­will explore below.

* * * Christian Psalm piety also manifests, as it w ­ ill in some of the Jewish sources examined below, as a communal activity. For some religious groups, the mere act of singing Psalms creates and polices identity. De virginitate 2.6.1, a third-­ or fourth-­century letter preserved in Syriac and Latin and attributed to Clement of Rome, uses communal Psalm piety in order to draw clear and distinct bound­aries between Christians and other gentile communities.65 According to

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the letter’s author, if he and his group lodge in a non-­Christian village, they neither sing Psalms (Syr., la mizamrin; Lat., non canimus Psalmos) nor read Scripture (Syr., la qarin lehon ketba; Lat., nec legimus Scripturas) to the local gentiles, who might misunderstand the author’s group as a s­imple band of wandering minstrels. In the eyes of the author, one must be a Christian to be edified by a community of psalmody. In fact, he creates and stresses the fault line between Christian and gentile by cleverly paraphrasing a verse from Psalm 137, a psalm that highlights the travails of the ­temple musicians banished to Babylonia. To be a Christian, one must not “go and ‘sing psalms of the Lord in the strange land’ (Ps. 137:4) of the gentiles and do what is not correct.”66

* * * With our survey complete, we can confidently say that Psalm piety runs as a thread of vibrant color across the fabric of early Chris­tian­ity. Christians of ­every social segment practiced it: monastic and lay, men and ­women, and even ­children. The literary and material sources produced by ­these Christians display Psalm piety’s range, styles, and nuances. In short, being enmeshed in vari­ous overlapping forms of Psalm piety was a fact of everyday life. Perhaps Jerome is not overly idyllic in describing the Palestinian countryside as follows: “But certainly, as we have said above, all the rustic villages are ­silent except for psalmody. Wherever you turn, the cultivator holding a plow ­handle sings Hallelujah, the sweating reaper distracts himself with Psalms, and the vineyard worker trimming grapes with a pruning knife chants something from David.”67

Psalm Piety in Rabbinic Judaism: Dimensions and Comparisons Psalm piety also ­shaped the lives of late antique Jews, who recited from the Psalter as individuals and as a community, inscribed its words into stone and upon amulets, and sang its verses as a means of forming group identities. The rabbinic sources examined below offer us a glimpse into exceptional Psalm piety, quotidian Psalm piety, competitive Psalm piety, and communal Psalm piety. As a ­whole, ­these sources demonstrate that Jewish Psalm piety exists in the religious landscape of late antique Judaism as a central feature,



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a monument whose cultural contours fit well within the patterns of piety exhibited by the larger world of Late Antiquity. Exceptional Piety

We can identify exceptional piety with the most ease, since rabbinic lit­er­a­ture signals it with the Hebrew root ḥsd—­traditionally rendered as “piety,” but which I translate as “exceptional piety.” A full view of the extant sources shows that Psalm piety was by no means an extraordinary feature of Jewish life. Rabbinic Jews in both Palestine and Babylonia connect Psalms with exceptional piety. Sources from both regions offer a similar perspective. Yet the traditions preserved in the Babylonian Talmud provide a clearer and richer portrait—­connecting the book of Psalms to exceptional piety and citing the Psalter and its author in a larger conversation reflecting on the very essence of exceptional piety. The discussion below lavishes its attention, therefore, upon t­ hese Babylonian sources, some of which cite Palestinian authorities. Traditions generated and preserved in Palestine, of course, do not ignore the relationship between Psalms and exceptional piety. P. Ber. 4:1 6b, for example, claims that Yosi b. Ḥanina, a third-­century Palestinian rabbi, would pray when the sun set in order that the fear of God be with him the entire day. He explains his habit: “Let my portion be among ­those who pray with the dimming of the sun. What is the scriptural reason? ‘Therefore, let ­every exceptionally pious person [ḥasid] pray to you at the time of pushing out’ (Ps. 32:6),68 at the time that the day is forced out [sunset].” As we ­will explore in more depth below, the phrase “Let my portion be” signals a pious activity. We ­will also see that Ps. 32:6 occurs in the context of Psalm piety. R. Yosi, by reading his practice through the prism of the Psalter, understands himself in terms of the main character of Ps. 32:6: an exceptionally pious person.69

* * * Let us now turn to Jewish Babylonia, where b. Ber. 57b shows that the Psalter and its author ­were particularly well suited for imagining and typifying exceptional piety. This portion of the Babylonian Talmud belongs to a several-­ folio-­length unit that scholars call the Babylonian Dreambook, a how-to guide for deciphering the meanings of dreams.70 In a passage adjacent to the one that we ­will explore, the Talmud rec­ords: “All beasts are a good sign in

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dreams, except the elephant, monkey, and long-­tailed ape.” In the eyes of the Talmud, both the dream and its interpretation presuppose a par­tic­u­lar form of knowledge that the sages readily possessed. The relevant passage reads:71 Our rabbis teach: “­There are three kings. One who sees David in a dream should anticipate exceptional piety [ḥasidut];72 [one who sees] Solomon should anticipate wisdom; [and one who sees] Ahab son of Omri [should] fear retribution. . . . ­ here are three books. One who sees the book of Psalms in a dream should T anticipate exceptional piety; [one who sees] Proverbs should anticipate wisdom; [and one who sees] Job should fear retribution.”73 To best understand this source, we must remember the cardinal assumption of dream interpretation: dreams correspond with real­ity. In fact, some rabbis take this logic a step further and argue that dream interpretation creates a par­tic­u­lar real­ity. Thus, “a dream that is not interpreted is like a letter not read” (b. Ber. 55a). It has no effect. This tradition generates its interpretations by reducing biblical kings and scriptural books to essential and culturally recognizable characteristics, traits embedded within the collective memory of ancient Jews. The book of Job and Ahab portend punishment b­ ecause the former’s story is a tale of woe, and the latter appears in the book of Kings as the quin­tes­sen­tial wicked Israelite monarch. And Jews have long associated Solomon and his work with wisdom. What real­ity should one expect if one sees David and the Psalter in a dream? The answer: exceptional piety. The Babylonian Dreambook did not create the connection between David and, by extension, his book, to exceptional piety. Rather, it drew on a much ­earlier set of cultural expectations—­exemplified in both biblical and rabbinic lit­er­a­ture—­that link David to exceptional piety.74 A clear example appears in b. Ber. 4a, which discusses the meaning of Ps. 86:2a, a verse in which David himself declares his exceptional piety. In addition to reading David through the prism of exceptional piety, this passage affords us a glimpse into how some rabbis understood the content of exceptional piety: “About David:75 guard my soul, for I am an exceptionally pious one [ḥasid]” (Ps. 86:2a). It is a dispute between R. Levi and R. Isaac.



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One says [David said]: “Am I not pious? For all the kings of the east and west sleep ­until the third hour, and I get up at midnight to sing praises to you.” And the other says [David said]: “Am I not pious? All the kings of the east and west gather together and sit in their glory, while I get messy with blood, fetus, and placenta in order to declare a ­woman pure for her husband. And not only that, I consult my teacher Mipiboshet and ask him, ‘Mipiboshet, my teacher, did I judge well? Did I justify correctly? Did I condemn correctly? Did I declare impure correctly? Did I declare pure correctly?’ and I was not embarrassed.”76 R. Isaac (third ­century and early fourth ­century, Palestine) and R. Levi (late third ­century and early fourth ­century, Palestine) agree that David perfectly captures the essence of exceptional piety; he says as much in Ps. 86:2: “I am an exceptionally pious one.” They disagree, though, as to what activities constitute exceptional piety. One sage argues that to be exceptionally pious means to sing at midnight; the other asserts that it means affirming rabbinic scholastic culture and paying deference to its ­legal system.77 Although the rabbi who defines exceptional piety as rising in the ­middle of the night to sing praises to God does not enumerate the content of David’s midnight words, they undoubtedly included se­lections from the Psalter. His entire interpretation is premised on Ps. 119:62: “At midnight I ­will rise and give thanks to you.” T ­ hese exact words, in fact, appear in the passage above. But they are unmarked by any technical citation formula. In the eyes of the rabbi, the poems contained in the Psalter are merely the songful words of David. Piety is psalmody, and David—­the sweet singer of Israel—is its chief exemplar. This perspective on exceptional piety might reflect, or at least argue for, a par­tic­u­lar cultural pattern that valorizes psalmody. In light of this and similar depictions, it is no surprise that the book of Psalms, often ­imagined as the composition of a pious king, itself becomes a symbol and transmitter of piety. To see David or the book of Psalms in a dream is to anticipate exceptional piety, of which at least one form includes piously reciting Psalms, perhaps at midnight. Midnight psalmody was not a marker of piety that belonged exclusively to Jews. Certain groups of Christians arose in the ­middle of the night to sing praises to God. Evidence for this practice appears in sources composed in both the Greco-­Roman and Persian spheres of influence.

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If we believe the attributions to the Palestinian sages, we may look ­toward Origen, who supports praying at midnight with the same verse used in the rabbinic tradition above: “Indeed, we do not even complete the nighttime properly without that prayer of which David speaks when he says, ‘At midnight I arose to make acknowl­edgment to you for your righ­teous judgments’ ” (Ps. 119:62).78 If we doubt the attributions, we may turn to the late fourth-­century Syriac Book of Steps, which exhorts the “upright” to “worship the Lord their God three times a day, once in the morning, and in the eve­ning, and in the ­middle of the night, as it is written, ‘they ­shall stand up and praise you for your righ­teous judgments’ (Ps. 119:62).”79 Unfortunately, t­ hese sources do not name the psalms that accompanied midnight prayer. But based on our discussion above, it is safe to presume that, by the time that ­these texts ­were written, if not ­earlier, midnight prayers contained se­lections from the Psalms.80 It is also worth observing that t­ hese Christian sources assume that mandated prayer occurred at midnight. For the rabbis, by contrast, midnight can only be a time of voluntary pietistic activity. Could Christian midnight prayers have inspired the rabbis to imagine and advocate midnight psalmody? Or, perhaps, are Jews and Christians both merely drawing similar conclusions from a shared biblical verse? In any case, the narrative about David’s midnight psalmody as told in the Babylonian Talmud receives both additional context and texture if read against a developing Christian practice.

* * * Let us return to the Babylonian Dreambook, the textual anchor of this section. The tradition that one who sees Psalms in a dream should expect piety receives anecdotal corroboration elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture. B. Soṭ. 31a contains a narrative in which two of Rava’s students come to him in distress: One said, “They proclaimed in my dream, ‘O how abundant is your goodness that you have laid up for ­those that fear you, and accomplished for ­those who take refuge in you in the sight of every­one’ ” (Ps. 31:20). The other said, “They proclaimed in my dream, ‘But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protec-



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tion over them, so that ­those who love your name may exult in you’ ” (Ps. 5:12). [Rava] said to them, “You are both sages [rabbanan], one through love and the other through fear.”81 Each student hears a verse from the book of Psalms read aloud to him in a dream. As we saw above, dreaming Scripture is meaningful. But what does it actually signify? Rava informs his students that their dreams indicate that they are both proper rabbis, but they differ in what motivates them. The one who saw Ps. 31:20 is driven by fear, as in: “laid up for ­those who fear you”; the one who dreamed of Ps. 5:12 is impelled by love, as in: “so that ­those who love your name may exult in you.” The anecdote above makes the most sense if we understand piety through the lens of the rabbi recorded in b. Ber. 4a as equating exceptional piety with toiling in rabbinic law. But it is also pos­si­ble that hearing verses from the Psalms in a dream signifies exceptional piety in general. Perhaps the best translation of rabbanan in this passage is not “sages” but “pious ones”: “You are both pious, one through love and the other through fear.”82 That rabbanan ­here might mean “pious ones” is aided by the passage’s se­lection of Ps. 31:20 and 5:12 as the scriptural verses on which to center the story. Numerous verses from the Psalter contain the words “fear” and “love.” The storyteller might have chosen ­these two specific verses ­because rabbinic lit­er­a­ture elsewhere connects them with Psalm piety. I ­will discuss ­these occasions below. Thus far, our survey of ancient Jewish Psalm piety has revealed three facts: first, that rabbis connected the book of Psalms and David with exceptional piety; second, that Psalm piety could manifest itself as ­either rabbinic practice or the midnight recitation of Psalms; and, third, that it bears resemblance to Christian Psalm piety. Quotidian Piety

Exceptional piety does not capture the full range of the phenomenon ­under discussion. Psalm piety also existed as a form of quotidian piety, as part of a vast array of everyday acts that ­shaped the religious and spiritual life of ancient Jews. One example of Psalm piety securely dates to the era of the rabbis of the Mishnah. It describes how reciting verses from the Psalter forestalls sleep.83

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As we saw in Chapter 2, the rabbis prohibit the High Priest from falling asleep on the eve of Yom Kippur. M. Yoma 1:7 claims: “If he requests to go to sleep, the young Levites snap their fin­ger [etzba tzeredah] before him, and they say to him, ‘Mr. High Priest, get up and drive away [sleep] once more on the floor,’ and they would keep him occupied ­until it came time for the slaughtering.” T. Yoma 1:9 elaborates on this or a similar version of the Mishnah: “What is the snapping fin­ger [etzba tzeredah]? It is the ­g reat fin­ger on the right [hand]. [They would keep him awake] by mouth, and not by harp or lyre. And what would they say? ‘A Song of Ascent of Solomon,84 if God does not build the ­house, they that build it ­labor in vain, ­etc.’ (Ps. 127:1). And they would not sleep all night, but rather keep watch over the High Priest in order to keep him occupied with reverberating noise.”85 This passage illustrates Psalm piety in general and nighttime piety in par­tic­u­lar. It imagines the Levites as singing ­either Ps. 127:1 or the entire psalm on loop throughout the night and likely understands the “house” of verse 1 as the ­temple, God’s ­house.86 It also possibly reads the second verse of the psalm with a hint of situational irony: “It is in vain that you rise up early, and go late to rest, eating bread of anxious toil, for he gives sleep to his beloved.” The anxious High Priest is unable to rise early, to go to bed late, and thus cannot enjoy even a bit of beloved sleep.87 We cannot know for certain if the Levites of the Second ­Temple sang Psalm 127 to the High Priest.88 But, at the very least, this tradition replicates and promotes a way of interacting with the Psalter that made sense to t­hose living during the times of the early rabbis. In fact, the line that concludes the Tosefta’s discussion reads: “Thus they would do outside the ­temple ­after the ­temple was destroyed, as a remembrance of the ­temple, but they [who do this] are sinners.” Attacks upon or prohibitions of a par­tic­u­lar practice often signal its widespread presence and influence. All-­night psalmody on the eve of Yom Kippur, it seems, continued to exist ­after the ­temple lay in ruins.89 Its mechanics parallel a pattern of Christian Psalm piety discussed ­earlier—­namely, the act of repeating without pause verses from the Psalms. Of course, the era of the early rabbis was a period of religious history before the rise of monasticism. It is tempting to suggest that monastic psalmody owes some of its roots and early developments to ancient Jewish Psalm piety. The truth and limits of this highly speculative claim require further study.90 Further support for the existence of this type of Psalm piety in late ancient Judaism comes from traditions that date to the era of the rabbis of the



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Talmud. Gen. Rab. 74:11,91 in addition to solving a par­tic­u­lar exegetical prob­ lem, also implicitly explores the question, “What should one do during unoccupied time?” Its answer: recite Psalms. When Laban confronts Jacob for fleeing with his ­daughters and idols, Jacob defends himself as a faithful shepherd. His speech includes the following line: “It was like this by me: by day the heat consumed me; and cold by night, and my sleep fled from my eyes” (Gen. 31:40). What does this last clause mean? What did Jacob do to fend off sleep? Gen. Rab. 74:11 cites the opinion of two sages: What did he say? R. Joshua b. Levi said: “He said the fifteen Songs of Ascents in the book of Psalms. As it says, ‘Song of Ascents.92 If the Lord had not been with us, Israel now says . . .’93 (Ps. 124:1). ‘Israel,’ namely Israel the elder [Jacob].” R. Samuel b. Naḥman said: “He said the entire book of Psalms, [as it says:] ‘And you are holy, the one who sits on praises (tehillot = Psalms [tehillim]), O Israel’94 (Ps. 22:4). ‘Israel’ the elder.” In this passage, two Palestinian rabbis who lived in the third ­century suggest that Jacob shook off sleep by reciting ­either a section or the entirety of the book of Psalms. Both generate their opinion by somewhat forcibly reading “Israel” as “Jacob the elder” and not “the Israelite collective.” Both also cite a verse from the Psalter as their proof from Scripture. Together, ­these exegetes reconstruct biblical antiquity by replicating a recognizable and con­temporary cultural pattern. In other words, to imagine Jacob the patriarch as engaged in psalmody that lasts all night requires a context in which such psalmody already exists as a pious practice. Further, perhaps ­these interpreters offer a rhetorical argument in ­favor of Psalm piety. By attributing all-­night psalmody to an ancestral figure, they make it an activity worth emulating.95 In any event, ­these rabbis’ use of Ps. 22:4 and the Songs of Ascent to undergird this pious activity had liturgical consequences. As discussed in Chapter 3, Ps. 22:4 was a “transition verse.” As early as the poet Yannai (ca. 500 ce), it functioned as a stable feature of both the morning Amidah and nearly ­every liturgical poem that adorned it. If, moreover, the attributions in Gen. Rab. 74:11 are to be trusted, Ps. 22:4 appeared as a proof for Psalm piety centuries before Yannai composed his liturgical poems. In any event,

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the redactors of Genesis Rabbah would likely have known Ps. 22:4 as a liturgically charged verse.96 The Songs of Ascent also developed into a stable unit of liturgy.97 Ezra Fleischer’s study of the Palestinian prayer rite during the early ­Middle Ages documents the daily use of the Songs of Ascent by Palestinian Jews during the morning ser­vice.98 Jewish Psalm piety, like Christian Psalm piety, straddled the borders of piety and liturgy. Other rabbinic sources also discuss the act of ceaselessly reciting verses from the Psalter as a form of piety. And, unlike the texts explored above, from which we inferred that Psalm piety existed, the following source makes explicit the fact that some rabbis enacted Psalm piety as a feature of con­temporary daily life. P. Ber. 5:1 8d contains a fragment of instruction to pious practice: R. Hezekiah, R. Jacob b. Aḥa, R. Yassa in the name of R. Yoḥanan, “­Really, this verse should never move from your lips: ‘The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge, selah’ ” (Ps. 46:8).99 R. Yosi son of R. Avin, R. Abbahu in the name of R. Yoḥanan, and the colleagues: ‘O Lord of Hosts, happy is the man who trusts in you’ ” (Ps. 84:13). The Palestinian Talmud quotes ­these traditions within the larger context of discussing how to begin prayer. It is clear, however, that they originated elsewhere.100 The exhortation “let this verse never move from your mouth” appears in this one location within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture.101 And it seems to advocate for a constant per­for­mance, not an occasional—if daily—­event. In par­tic­u­lar, ­these traditions commend the mantra-­like repetition of Ps. 46:8 and Ps. 84:13. Both verses begin with “The Lord of Hosts” and have the common theme of trust and faith in God. This type of Psalm piety, in which a person constantly affirms the presence of God and trust in the deity, shapes an individual into a pious actor, one who relates all consequences of life back to God.102 By setting ­these instructions into its larger discussion on how to begin prayer, the Palestinian Talmud, at least on an editorial level, offers yet another instance in which a piece of pious instruction moves into the orbit of daily prayer, a moment when the content of Psalm piety is realigned as liturgy. This historical pro­cess likely parallels that described in Chapter 3 with re­spect to the verses from the Psalms that accompanied the Amidahs of R. Yoḥanan and R. Yudan.103



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As Late Antiquity transitioned into the ­Middle Ages, Ps. 46:8 and Ps. 84:13 found an indisputable foothold in Jewish liturgy.104 Ps. 46:12 appears at the conclusion of an additional prayer appended to the end of the morning blessings that precede the Shema liturgy.105 Ps. 46:8 also appears in proximity to Ps. 84:13 at the end of the morning ser­vice in Maimonides’s prayer book. The slightly ­earlier magical-­liturgical text known as the Havdalah of Rabbi Akiva also conjoins t­ hese verses.106 The presence of t­ hese twin verses in radically divergent sources, the magical Havdalah and the hyperrational Maimonides, demonstrates the popularity of reciting and connecting Ps. 46:12 and 84:13. While t­ hese early medieval texts may have simply drawn their inspiration from the Palestinian Talmud, it is also pos­si­ble that an active pietistic tradition employed and connected ­these verses in the centuries prior to the Havdalah and Maimonides. Evidence for this latter suggestion comes from the citation of ­these two verses in late antique Jewish incantation bowls and amulets, which we ­will explore below. In any event, this fragment of pious instruction offers up for analy­sis the horizontal dimension of comparison in addition to the vertical dimension of development. The pattern of Psalm piety that it advocates parallels some of the monastic sources discussed above.107 Recall, in par­tic­u­lar, the statement by Abba Lucius: “I sit down with God, soaking my reeds and plaiting my ropes, and I say, ‘God, have mercy on me; according to your ­great goodness and according to the multitude of your mercies, save me from my sins’ ” (Ps. 50:1). Both rabbi and monk share the conviction that constantly repeating verses from the Psalter focuses the soul and creates piety. Yet while the mechanics seem similar, the sources differ in their choice of verse. The rabbis opt for verses that build trust in God. The monastic source selects a verse that focuses on mercy and sin. ­These distinctions may reflect divergent views about the nature of humanity and the function of Psalm piety. The rabbis advocate for a life of faithful and secure ser­vice to God; and the Christian monks express their commitment to divine ser­vice through a theology of sin and penance.108

* * * A similar parting of the ways manifests in another style of Psalm piety: the use of verses from the Psalms to guide a pious life unto death.109 Many ancient and modern cultures view the last words of any individual as especially

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efficacious and binding.110 A ­dying person speaks truth. And to die while reciting Psalms demonstrates nothing less than ultimate piety. The earliest evidence for this type of Psalm piety comes from the narrative repre­sen­ta­tion of Jesus’s crucifixion according to the Gospel of Luke. At around noon, “Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, ‘­Father, into your hands I commend my spirit’ (Ps. 31:6). Having said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46). As we ­will see below, Ps. 31:6 appears elsewhere in the context of Jewish Psalm piety. Repre­sen­ta­tions of rabbinic deathbed piety appear in p. Avod. Zar. 3:1 42c, which discusses the ways in which rabbis die and claims to rec­ord the final words of several sages: Zavdi b. Levi, R. Joshua b. Levi, and R. Yosi b. Petram said ­these following verses as they died. One said: “Therefore let the exceptionally righ­teous person [ḥasid] offer prayer to you at the time of ­going out; the rush of mighty ­waters ­shall not reach him” (Ps. 32:6). One said: “But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, so that ­those who love your name may exult in you” (Ps. 5:12). Another said: “O how abundant is your goodness that you have laid up for t­ hose that fear you, and accomplished for ­those who take refuge in you in the sight of every­one” (Ps. 31:20). Each sage moves from this world into the next with an appropriate verse from Psalms on his lips. Ps. 32:6 combines the exceptionally pious person (ḥasid) with “time of ­going out,” h ­ ere read as death; Ps. 5:12 collocates God’s shelter with eternal rejoicing; and Ps. 31:20 highlights the hidden goodness—­ the ultimate reward—of t­ hose who lead a life of faith. As mentioned above, ­these last two verses seem to be stable features within the larger matrix of ancient Jewish Psalm piety. They appear in both the dream and death manifestations of Psalm piety.111 An elaborated version of this passage appears in Gen. Rab. 62:2, which sets additional verses at center stage in the per­for­mance of rabbinic death.112 They come exclusively from Psalms. In addition to the verses listed in the Palestinian Talmud, it enumerates: “For in him our heart rejoices, and his name we hold firm” (Ps. 33:21); “Set before me a ­table against my enemies” (Ps. 23:5); “For one day in your courtyard is better” (Ps. 84:11); and “Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his exceptionally pious ones [ḥasidav]” (Ps. 116:15).



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P. Avod. Zar. 3:1, 42c and, by extension, Gen. Rab. 62:2 confirm the existence of Psalm piety in ancient Judaism and illustrate another way in which it operates: to act out piety in death is to perish with psalmody upon one’s lips. Deathbed Psalm piety also appears in early Christian culture. According to Possidius of Calama (370–437), the early biographer of Augustine (354– 430):113 “[Augustine] often told us in intimate conversation that the reception of baptism did not absolve Christians, and especially priests, from the duty of ­doing fitting and adequate penance before departing from this life. And he acted on this himself in his last and final illness. For he ordered ­those psalms of David which are specially penitential to be copied out and, when he was very weak, used to lie in bed, facing the wall where the written sheets ­were put up, gazing at them and reading them, and copiously and continuously weeping as he read.”114 According to Possidius, Augustine died with David’s words in his mouth. We cannot identify which psalms Possidius imagines. But it is pos­si­ble that they included ­those that Augustine elsewhere interprets with a penitential hermeneutic.115 Regardless of whichever psalms Augustine uttered, both Jewish and Christian sources point to a pattern of pious be­hav­ior in which an individual recites psalms on his deathbed. This type of Psalm piety appears to be a late antique practice shared by Jews and Christians. ­There is, however, a salient distinction: Augustine tearfully recites the penitential psalms, while the rabbis intone verses of confidence and jubilation. Once again, Jewish Psalm piety expresses itself with verses of joy and assurance, while Christian Psalm piety highlights sin and penitence. Although Jews and Christians share a common practice, it is likely that they would have understood its implications in very dif­fer­ent terms.

* * * The fact that Jews and Christians converged on a set of a common customs did not sit well with some late antique rabbis. A traditional trope, preserved in two geographic variations, envisions Psalm piety as a battleground in which Jews and Christians vie for religious authenticity and supremacy. ­These sources pit King David—­the greatest exemplar of psalmody and a stand-in for con­temporary Jews—­against King Nebuchadnezzar, understood ­here as a proxy for Chris­tian­ity.116 Perhaps surprisingly, both versions admit that Christian hymnody beats Jewish psalmody—at least for the moment.

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In Palestine, we see this conflict play out in Lev. Rab. 13:5.117 The passage suggests that Nebuchadnezzar embodies the Shakespearean dictum “Brevity is the soul of wit.”118 By d­ oing so, he bests David at composing prayers of praise:119 R. Berekhiah and R. Ḥelbo in the name of R. Ishmael b. Naḥman: “Every­thing that David articulated in his book,120 that wicked person included121 in one verse [Dan. 4:34]:122 ‘Now I Nebuchadnezzar praise and extol and honor the King of heaven; for all His works are truth, and His ways justice; and t­ hose that walk in pride He is able to abase’ (Dan. 4:34).123 ‘Praise’ [meshabaḥ]—­‘Praise [shivḥi] the Lord, O Jerusalem’ (Ps. 147:12). ‘Extol’ [meromam]—­‘I ­will extol you [aromimkha], O Lord, for you have drawn me up’ (Ps. 30:2).124 ‘Honored the king [lemelekh] of heaven’—­‘The Lord is king [melekh]; let the p­ eoples ­tremble’ (Ps. 99:1).125 ‘For all his works are truth [qeshot, Aramaic for Hebrew emet]’—­ ‘For the sake of your steadfast love and your faithfulness [amitekha]’ (Ps. 115:1b). ‘And his ways justice [din]’—­‘He ­will judge [yadin] the p­ eople with equity’ (Ps. 96:10).126 ‘And ­those who walk in pride [begevah]’—­‘The Lord is king, He is robed in majesty [geʾut]’ (Ps. 93:1). ‘He is able to abase’—­‘And all the horns of the wicked I ­will cut off’ (Ps. 75:11).”127 This homily creates the perception of a fundamental imbalance between the creative and compositional abilities of David and Nebuchadnezzar. What takes the former many verses to articulate, the latter accomplishes with one pithy sentence. Unlike some of the instances of biblical interpretation explored above, this composition does not aim to solve textual or exegetical difficulties. Something ­else operates ­behind the scenes. The homilist clearly began with Dan. 4:34, split the verse into numerous parts, and found corresponding verbal parallels in the Psalter. Yet the list he produced appears forced and artificial. In fact, the parallels that he offers are so vague and weak that the medieval scribes who transmitted this tradition freely swapped its verses.



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What point is the homilist trying to convey? It is unlikely that he aims to debase David and promote Nebuchadnezzar. Given that midrash often finds a context within con­temporary circumstances, especially in instances in which we cannot posit that it solves an under­lying prob­lem with the biblical text, it is likely that the competition detailed ­here reflects a real­ity in which rabbinic Jews recognize that Christians outperform them at Psalm piety.128 In other words, in this passage, R. Berekhiah diagnoses a prob­lem. The same theme and core tradition appear in Jewish Babylonia, where it is presented at a more fevered pitch and with vivid imagery. B. Sanh. 92b claims that Nebuchadnezzar sang Dan. 4:34 ­after witnessing Ezekiel vivify the dead bones in the plain of Dura (Ezekiel 37). It then continues with a tradition by R. Isaac: “Let molten gold be poured down the mouth of that wicked man, for if an angel had not come and struck him on his mouth, he would have overshadowed129 all the songs and praises that David said in the book of Psalms.” In this tradition, Nebuchadnezzar bests David. If left unchecked, he would replace the Psalter with his own creation. Allowing him to do so would unshakably prove that a wicked gentile could replace a pious Jew. The context of this tradition is the same as that of its counterpart: Jewish knowledge of Christian Psalm piety and the accompanying anxiety that the gentiles are, as it ­were, a better David than is David’s own nation. The traditions preserved in both regions of rabbinic life tell a similar story, which accords well with the fact that Psalm piety was a highly developed religious and cultural feature of Chris­tian­ity in both the Roman and Persian Empires, as was explored above. Perhaps the tradition circulating in Babylonia was somewhat more hopeful than its Palestinian counterpart. The Palestinian source pre­sents the situation as a fait accompli, with no resolution for a defeated David. In the Babylonian source, by contrast, we are told that an angel prevents Nebuchadnezzar from entirely overshadowing David. Jews can reclaim the mantle of piety. To adapt yet another Shakespearean phrase: the game is still afoot.

* * * By remaining in Jewish Babylonia, we also see that the competition engendered by Psalm piety generated internecine strife. It should be clear at this point in the chapter that many rabbis practiced and promoted Psalm piety in its vari­ous manifestations. Yet some sages criticized Psalm piety, particularly

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when it transgressed the sheer boundary between piety and liturgy. Some rabbis ­were comfortable living with overlapping and fuzzy conceptual categories. ­Others demanded strict division and clarity. Proponents of this latter perspective, at least with re­spect to Psalm piety, find voice only within the pages of the Babylonian Talmud. Perhaps the rabbis of Palestine largely fell into the former camp. Unfortunately, the absence (to my knowledge) of evidence limits any methodologically sound conclusions regarding that region of rabbinic life.130 The tension between Psalm piety and liturgy appears in b. Shab. 118b. A statement attributed to R. Yosi131 begins: “Let my portion be among ­those who complete Hallel [Psalms 113–18] e­ very day.”132 The phrase “let my portion be” often introduces pious and non-­legislated be­hav­ior.133 The anonymous editorial voice of the Babylonian Talmud, however, challenges the truth of R. Yosi’s statement: “[Aramaic] But is that so? Did not the master [R. Yosi] say: [Hebrew] ‘He who reads Hallel134 ­every day blasphemes and reviles’? [Aramaic] Rather, what are we talking about? Verses of Song [pesuqe dezimra].” The anonymous voice reframes R. Yosi’s practice and is motivated by two impulses. First, it seeks to harmonize the conflicting statements of R. Yosi. Second, it wants to distance liturgy from piety by setting a boundary around Psalm piety and thus controlling it. One who recites Hallel—­a unit of prescribed liturgy—­every day blasphemes; one who recites Verses of Song does not sin. In this context, and especially considering R. Yosi’s pietism, Verses of Song likely refers to a par­tic­u­lar group of biblical texts associated with joyous singing and praise. Such scriptural collections existed in Jewish Babylonia. B. Ber. 4b–5a, for example, contains a discussion about ­whether one should say the nighttime Shema customarily recited before ­going to sleep if one has already said it in the synagogue as part of the eve­ning ser­vice. According to the Babylonian sage Abaye: “Even a scholar needs to say one of the Verses of Supplication135 [pesuqe deraḥme], such as: ‘In your hands I commend my spirit, redeem me, Lord, the God of truth’ ” (Ps. 31:6). This source not only illustrates bedtime Psalm piety, another pious activity that we ­will explore further below, but also confirms the existence of a scriptural collection called “Verses of Supplication,” which perhaps functioned as solemn counterpart to the more joyous “Verses of Song.” Observe, as well, that Abaye suggests that a scholar say at least “one of ” the verses from this collection, and he chooses a verse from the Psalter as his chief example.136



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Like some of the other acts of piety described above, Verses of Song eventually transformed into a piece of legislated worship, or, at the very least, into a phrase that designated a specific unit of mandated liturgy.137 According to the prayer book of Rav Amram Gaon (810–875), Verses of Song appears as a stable part of the morning ser­vice.138 The prayer book also includes a comment from Rav Natronai Gaon (ninth ­century), who treats the Verses of Song as a feature ensconced into liturgy through rabbinic fiat: “As the sages legislate, thus they legislated to say the Verses of Song, and then afterward prayer.”139

* * * The Babylonian Talmud also preserves an instance in which Psalm piety metamorphosed into liturgy. In Chapter 3, we saw that “Fortunate” (ashre), a layered liturgical unit that contained at least Psalm 145, became part of the daily liturgy of some rabbis during the time of the Talmud.140 The core of this unit, Psalm 145, also appears in the context of Psalm piety. Merely a few lines before the mention of “Fortunate” in b. Ber. 4b, the Talmud cites an opinion attributed to R. Elazar b. Avina: “Anyone who says ‘A Praise of David’141 [Psalm 145] ­every day, it is certain for him that he ­will inherit the World to Come.”142 The language of promise, as opposed to the prescriptive rhe­toric of law, often indicates a call for pious activity, as seen in the example just explored.143 R. Elazar b. Avina, therefore, advocates that one recite Psalm 145 (and note that he does not say ashre) as a form of pious be­hav­ior. It is likely that the “Fortunate” liturgical unit was composed by surrounding this pietistic custom with other verses and then, over time, placing it into liturgy.144 Ultimately, the borders between Psalm piety and liturgy ­were quite unstable, even given—or perhaps despite—­the occasional attempt to police them.

* * * The examples of Psalm piety discussed above might give the impression that, once a form of piety found a home in the synagogue, it inevitably transformed into liturgy. But that was not always the case. Jews in both Palestine and Babylonia gathered as a community in synagogues to recite Psalms as a pious and extra-­liturgical activity.145 The evidence for this practice, however, is both sparse and confined to the period ­toward the close of Late Antiquity, which is why it appears at the end of our narrative for this section. The lack

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of early evidence might suggest that pietistic communal psalmody was a natu­ral—­but slow and late—­outgrowth of a set of practices that had individual and personal roots. It is also pos­si­ble, though, that the available texts merely represent a ­later stage of development of a much e­ arlier and unrecorded practice. Regardless, below I examine sources that appear to describe regional variations (Palestine, North Africa, and Babylonia) of the same core custom: the slow and voluntary recitation of the entire Psalter within the confines of a synagogue’s halls. We catch a glimpse of this custom in Palestine from a text that dates between the fifth and seventh centuries. Penned in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic, the following poem was composed for a community when they finished reciting the Psalter from start to finish.146 It highlights, among other ­things, the synagogue setting of Psalm piety, as well as the ultimate aim of that piety: 9: He, Psalms / one hundred and fifty said, 10: With all of them, praising / him who created every­thing with a saying. 11: Gathering in our synagogues / to say them, 12: T ­ hose who expect him who s­ hall / pass by mounted on a donkey. The poet masterfully ties together three themes: a) the Psalms belong to David; b) Jews in the local synagogues piously intone them; and c) in so ­doing, they await the messiah. The figure on a donkey is an allusion to Zech. 9:9, interpreted since the Second ­Temple period as a reference to the messiah, son of David. For the poet, and possibly his Jewish community, the book of Psalms was a redemptive text. Pious recitation of its words could bring about the messiah or provide hope while one waited for him.147 In this manner, the poem affords us a quick glimpse not only of the constitution of Psalm piety but also of what some ancient Jews took Psalm piety to mean, that is, what reciting the Psalms could do. The poet returns to the connection between psalmody and redemption in the concluding stanza, in many ways a crescendo: 41: Let the Lord remember the promise / now in mercy, 42: And let him redeem us / from the Seventy Nations. 43: To the Mighty One, to him they w ­ ill be / praising and exalting. 44: You w ­ ill redeem the nation that / completes the book of Psalms!



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As it says: “Let e­ very living ­thing praise the Lord, Hallelujah.” (Ps. 150:6) The poet addresses both God and his audience in this final stanza. He demands that God redeem his nation, a ­people steeped in psalmody. The book of the ­father of the messiah should lead to the advent of the messiah. In certain Jewish circles, David himself was pictured as the long-­awaited messianic figure, the once and ­f uture king.148 Jews in other regions also gathered in synagogues to recite the Psalms as a pious custom. Unfortunately, no evidence prior to the close of Late Antiquity exists for this practice outside of Palestine, perhaps suggesting the late genesis of the custom. During the times of the geonim, several responsa (letters in a genre of ­legal question-­and-­answer lit­er­a­ture) mention it. T ­ hese responsa open a small win­dow into impor­tant aspects of daily life, since questions posed within this genre are often live issues addressed by a Jewish community to a ­legal institution that they deemed authoritative. In fact, the prayer book of Rav Amram, cited in this chapter and in Chapter 3, began its life as a lengthy responsum to a ­simple question sent to Rav Amram: What is the order of prayer? The earliest relevant question was sent to R. Natronai Gaon (ninth ­century). We do not know from where the query originated, but the response sheds light on an established Babylonian custom. This responsum details the interplay of communal piety, student restlessness, and ritual obligation. A petitioner informs R. Natronai that “­there are synagogues in which the congregation gathers and recites chapters from the book of Psalms on the Sabbath and holidays, and, on the New Year and the Day of Atonement, they add on chapters.” While the congregation sings, some students study Torah. All this occurs during the mandated time for reciting the Shema. The questioner wishes to know if it is permissible for the students to study before reciting Shema. R. Natronai answers in the affirmative and, while ­doing so, elaborates on communal Psalm piety. He proclaims that ­those who gather in synagogues for communal Psalm piety “are ­doing a good deed.” He also imbues the practice with antiquity, arguing that it originated during the Babylonian exile. The Jews deported to Babylonia ­were in dire straits. Unlike their counter­ parts who remained in Israel, they had neither prophets nor masters of Torah. Instead, when they had spare time on the Sabbath or on holidays, they (presumably, the Babylonian Jewish leadership) established (tiqqenu) that the

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community would get up early and recite Psalms ­until the morning prayer. Thus, “they agreed with the practice of King David, mercy be upon him, who said: ‘At midnight I get up to deliver praise to you’ ” (Ps. 119:62). R. Natronai’s historical claims are dubious, at best. Nevertheless, they still depict a pious Babylonian custom of gathering as a community in the synagogue to recite Psalms outside the confines of regular prayers. Observe, as well, his use, as a prooftext, of Ps. 119:62, a verse discussed above in relationship to Psalm piety. H ­ ere the entire community emulates David’s pious be­hav­ior.149 Jewish law and communal piety conflict in another responsum. A question was sent to R. Hai Gaon (tenth ­century) from the Jewish community in Kairouan, North Africa. M. Shab. 12:1 claims that one should not read by candlelight on the Sabbath eve. But according to the petitioner: “Our custom ­here in Kairouan, in the synagogues, is that men gather on the night of the Day of Atonement, and often on the night of Sabbath, and read from Psalms to the light of oil lamps.” Could the practice continue? What if two ­people read Psalms together? Does the fact that the psalmody is communal, or that it was done by the light of an oil lamp, make it pos­si­ble to permit the be­hav­ior? R. Hai, likely to the petitioner’s chagrin, prohibits the practice.150 While the available evidence is sparse, it is enough to confirm that ancient Jewish Psalm piety, much like early Christian Psalm piety, possessed communal dimensions. It was not an entirely private affair. The sources above also allow us to speculate about the times when, and circumstances in which, a community might gather for Psalm piety. Communal Psalm piety appears connected to liturgy. It often precedes or follows a Sabbath prayer ser­vice. At the same time, it was not an intrinsic part of communal prayer. Worshipers likely enacted this piety to lengthen the ser­ vice, while waiting for a liturgical quorum or when lingering a­ fter prayer.151 As to its purpose, pious gatherings centered around Psalms occurred to fulfill a variety of tasks, ­whether to emulate David, effect atonement, occupy time in preparation for prayer, or usher in the messiah.

Piety, Protective Magic, and Physical Objects “Piety” and “magic,” which often exist as in­de­pen­dent and conflicting ­mental categories in the modern world, ­were coterminous in rabbinic thought and custom.152 Instead of being imprinted on opposite sides of the same coin, they both ­were stamped—­with only a few lines of divergence—on the same



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face. This means that some rabbis not only supported and practiced “piety” but also “magical piety.” In addition, at least with re­spect to Psalm-­based magical piety, ­there appears to be a degree of harmony between rabbinic texts preserved in Palestine and ­those extant in Babylonia. Evidence for Psalm-­based magical piety also comes from ancient Jewish material remains. Magic bowls and amulets, for example, not only provide a context for the rabbinic texts discussed but also allow us a passing glimpse at non-­rabbinic ancient Jewish Psalm piety. ­These incantation texts often contain citations from the Psalms. In some cases, the rabbis discuss some of the very verses cited in ­these physical remains within the context of Psalm piety. The preponderance of the evidence and the confluence between literary and physical sources suggest that the modes of Psalm piety explored above with regard to the ancient rabbis ­were not ­limited to their circles. Additionally, ­these material sources indicate that magical piety pervaded Jewish communities in Palestine and Babylonia alike. Bedtime Psalm Piety

Bedtime Psalm piety, mentioned briefly above, was once a practice that exhibited the imbrication of piety and protective magic.153 Rabbis both participated in and encouraged this be­hav­ior. Clear examples of bedtime magical piety can be found in sources produced in both regions of rabbinic life, in p. Ber. 1:1 2d and in b. Shev. 15b. In fact, the Babylonian discussion, as we ­will see, draws upon this and other locations in the Palestinian Talmud. It updates, or at least interprets, traditions about the practice of magical piety that traveled from Palestine to Babylonia. Let us begin in Palestine. The discussion in p. Ber. 1:1 2d seeks to determine if one may speak ­after reciting the eve­ning “True and Firm” (emet veyatziv) prayer, the concluding paragraph of the Shema liturgy.154 It cites a bevy of l­egal pre­ce­dents and rabbinic anecdotes about w ­ hether one can or cannot speak, usually drawing conclusions from ­these ­earlier traditions by inference and implication. The anecdotes compiled by this pro­cess can be read in­de­pen­ dently of the Palestinian Talmud’s overarching ­legal interest, much in the same way that we may appreciate each piece of a mosaic for its color and depth before stepping back to admire the complete picture that a collection of individual tiles reveals. The narratives cited by the Palestinian Talmud offer insight into vari­ous eve­ning pietistic and anti-­demonical habits. For example, R. Huna (Palestine,

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originally Babylonia, mid-­fourth ­century), in the name of R. Joseph (Babylonia, early fourth ­century), claims: “A man must read Shema in his ­house during the eve­ning in order to chase away the demons.” The use of Shema as a demon repellent in the ancient world has a long and storied history. It dates as early as the Second ­Temple tefillin (phylacteries) found in Palestine and continues through the Babylonian incantation bowls produced ­toward the conclusion of Late Antiquity.155 The very next anecdote in the Palestinian Talmud connects Psalms with the protective use of the Shema. It undergirds a pious practice by appealing to the book of piety: “When Samuel b. Naḥmani (Palestine, mid-­third to early fourth ­century) came down from intercalating the month, he was met by R. Jacob the miller. And R. Zera (Palestine, originally Babylonia, early fourth ­century) was hiding between the baskets in order to hear how he would recite Shema. He would read and read again ­until sleep would sink him. What is the reason? R. Aḥa (Palestine, mid-­fourth ­century) and R. Ḥalafta, his father-­ in-­law, said in the name of R. Samuel b. Naḥmani: ‘Fear and do not sin, say in your heart upon your bed, and be s­ ilent, selah’ ” (Ps. 4:5). According to this narrative, Samuel b. Naḥmani would fall asleep while repeating the Shema,156 a pious practice that mirrors the mantra-­like Psalm piety discussed above.157 The rationale is that the constant repetition of a sacred text protects the diligent from sin.158 While this passage does not provide additional support for bedtime psalmody, the statement that follows leaves one with no doubt: “R. Joshua b. Levi (Palestine, mid-­third ­century) read Psalms ­after it.” ­After the nighttime Shema, R. Joshua b. Levi would recite Psalms. Perhaps he, too, would fall asleep while chanting them. Collectively, t­ hese short anecdotes in the Palestinian Talmud inform us of three facts. First, bedtime piety existed within ancient Judaism. Second, it could consist of reciting the Shema and/or Psalms.159 Third, the pious recitation of scriptural texts not only molded a righ­teous individual but also offered protection from demons.

* * * Let us now move to Babylonia. B. Shev. 15b sheds additional light on habits that constitute bedtime magical piety. The relevant discussions in the Talmud ­were the products of an elaborate and complicated pro­cess of editing and redaction, which included drawing from or reworking several ­earlier Palestinian traditions. We cannot examine ­every facet of ­these discussions



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in this section. But we must work laboriously through some. We begin where the Babylonian Talmud seems to mirror a tradition explored above and then zoom out to explore the larger literary context surrounding the tradition. B. Shev. 15b contains a passage that updates—or, at the very least, was aware of—­the practice of R. Joshua b. Levi, the Palestinian sage who would fall asleep to Psalms ­after reciting the bedtime Shema. The Babylonian Talmud recasts R. Joshua b. Levi’s custom and also makes it more specific. In ­doing so, it further attests to the convergence of “piety” and “magic,” a feature not made explicit with re­spect to R. Joshua b. Levi’s psalmody in the Palestinian Talmud. According to the Babylonian Talmud: “R. Joshua b. Levi would recite [or: cling to]160 ­these verses [presumably, Ps. 91:1–9; see below] and then go to sleep. But did not R. Joshua say that ‘it is prohibited for one to be healed using words of Torah’? Rather, for protection, it is dif­fer­ent. Rather, when is it prohibited? When t­ here was already a wound.” The Babylonian Talmud cites a tradition involving R. Joshua b. Levi that closely relates to that recorded in p. Ber. 1:1 2d. In both rabbinic documents, R. Joshua b. Levi recites Psalms before falling asleep. The Palestinian Talmud does not specify which section or set of verses within the book he intones. The Babylonian Talmud, by contrast, claims that he recites “­these verses.” Based on the discussion before this passage—­which we ­will explore in detail below—­the words “­these verses” refer to (at least) Ps. 91:1–9. Since, further, the Babylonian Talmud uses the phrase “­these verses” in discussing R. Joshua b. Levi, specifically signaling that it is reading a tradition about R. Joshua in light of its previous discussion, we may be confident that the Babylonian Talmud actively manipulated an inherited tradition about R. Joshua b. Levi that originally did not say “­these verses.” That ­earlier tradition presumably rec­ords that R. Joshua ­either read Ps. 91:1–9 or recited the Psalms. Given the redactor’s heavy hand—­more on this below—­and the Palestinian parallel (original?), the latter seems more likely. In any event, the Babylonian version (or reworking) of the tradition about R. Joshua b. Levi has two effects, at least from the perspective of the Talmud’s editors. First, it limits bedtime Psalm piety to a specific set of verses from the Psalter. It routinizes what might other­wise be a flexible practice. Second, it attests to the conceptual overlap between “magic” and “piety.” The verses that R. Joshua b. Levi recites, as we ­will see, are part of the long-­ standing tradition of Jewish magic.

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In addition, that the editors of the Babylonian Talmud had magic on their minds is made clear and explicit in the way they understood and discussed R. Joshua’s habit. The redactors ­were troubled by a perceived contradiction between R. Joshua b. Levi’s practice and his ­legal rulings. R. Joshua would recite verses from the Psalms before ­going to bed, which the editors took as a magical practice. At the same time, they had a tradition from R. Joshua in which he prohibits healing wounds through Scripture. The editors ­were in a bind. Why does R. Joshua permit the use of scriptural verses in one area of “magic” but prohibit it in another? The anonymous editorial voice resolves the contradiction by creating a conceptual distinction between two uses of “magic”: “protection” and “healing.” R. Joshua, in the eyes of the editors, would permit the former and forbid the latter. In creating this difference, the Talmud’s editors firmly situate bedtime Psalm piety as a valid protective magical practice. In fact, what prompts the discussion in the first place is not the acceptability of the concept of magical piety but, rather, a perceived lack of consistency within the thought of R. Joshua b. Levi.161 Overall, this talmudic discussion leaves ­little doubt that reading verses from the Psalms at bedtime shields reciters during their most vulnerable state: sleep. Psalm piety creates an impenetrable barrier that allows ­those who engage with it to rest in peace during the night—­a time when, the rabbis think, demons are particularly active.162

* * * If we expand our scope of inquiry to include the discussion immediately preceding the passage about R. Joshua b. Levi, we ­will not only understand how and why the Babylonian Talmud treats its tradition about R. Joshua in the way that it does, but we ­will also encounter additional aspects of magical Psalm piety. Right before citing its tradition about R. Joshua, the Babylonian Talmud comments on its source text: m. Shev. 2:2. In summary, this passage in the Mishnah describes the ritual of adding sacred space to ­either Jerusalem or the ­temple. The king, prophet, and the ­great Sanhedrin must be pre­sent. A successful ritual also requires a liturgical component: two thanksgiving sacrifices “with a song.” The court would circumambulate the newly added area with the two sacrifices in tow. The thanksgiving offering that walks closer to the court would be eaten, and the one farther from court would be burned.



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Almost all aspects of this ritual did not strike the Babylonian Talmud as worthy of further discussion. One did. The Babylonian Talmud wished to clarify the unidentified “with a song.” What is its nature and content? The Talmud provides an answer by quoting an ­earlier Hebrew tradition (a baraita) and by interpolating within it its own Aramaic comments: Our masters teach: [Hebrew] It is the Song of Thanksgiving (Psalm 100);163 with harps, lyres, and cymbals at e­ very corner and on e­ very ­great stone of Jerusalem; then one would sing: “I ­will extol you ­because you raised me up” (Ps. 30:2), and the Song [against] evil mis­haps [shir shel pegaʿim]; some say the song [against] affliction [shir shel negaʿim].164 [Aramaic] The one who says “affliction,” it is ­because it says, “and affliction ­shall not come into your tent [­temple]” (Ps. 91:10). And the one who says “evil mis­haps,” it is ­because it is written: “May one thousand fall at your side, and ten thousand by your right hand, and not approach you” (Ps. 91:7). [Hebrew] With harps, lyres, and cymbals.165 And one says: “He who dwells in the hiddenness of the High one, and resides in the shadow of Shaddai” (Ps. 91:1) ­until, “for you, my Lord, are my refuge” (Ps. 91:9). And then he goes and says: “A psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom his son . . .” (Ps. 3:1) ­until: “Salvation belongs to God, your blessing on your nation, selah.” (3:9) According to the ­earlier Hebrew tradition, the unspecified “song” of the Mishnah hides a detailed pro­cession of psalmody. It entwines magic with liturgy and also focuses on the themes of protection and praise.166 The resonances of protective magic within this ritual (which shapes the following discussion in the Talmud of R. Joshua) emanate from two of its primary components: the enigmatic “song against evil mis­haps” and Psalm 91. The “song against evil mis­haps” has an ancient pedigree. The Second ­Temple–era ­Great Psalm Scroll (11QPsa) contains a short poetic text that lists the number of poems (tehillim) that David composed for a variety of occasions. We noted in Chapter 3 that the text posits that David composed a rotating set of 364 daily psalms to accompany the morning sacrifice. This text also claims that David penned four “songs for making ­music over the stricken [peguʿim].”167 Unfortunately, it does not further identify ­these songs.

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The rabbis, particularly ­those who lived ­a fter the times of Mishnah, did. They read an old grouping of exorcistic texts as referring to verses from Psalm 91 (and possibly Psalm 3).168 In fact, the anonymous Aramaic editorial voice of the Babylonian Talmud inserts itself into the early Hebrew tradition that it cites in order to make explicit the connection between the “song against evil mis­haps” and Psalm 91.169 It did so, in part, b­ ecause the “song against evil mis­haps” as a collection of in­de­pen­dent texts had lost its cachet as time went on. Additionally, some rabbis understood that songs associated with the ­temple must come from the canonical book of Psalms. Recall that the tradition that the Talmud cites elaborates on a ritual to expand the ­temple’s sacred space. In other words, the ever canon-­conscious perspective of some rabbis demanded that one identify the “song against evil mis­haps” with a text located in the now-­canonical Psalter. And they selected Psalm 91, originally an in­de­pen­dent part of the rite, ­because of the cultural and ritual significance of Psalm 91 in Jewish magic. Psalm 91 was used for protection and healing as early as the Second ­Temple period. It appears in several exorcism texts from among the Dead Sea Scrolls.170 It also heavi­ly populates early Christian amulets, as mentioned ­earlier in this chapter. Late antique Jewish material evidence offers a similar portrait. At least seven dif­fer­ent Babylonian incantation bowls contain a verse from the psalm.171 In addition, the sorcerer-­scribe of at least two of them interwove, word by word, Deut. 6:4 and Ps. 91:1, rendering a text that read:172 ‫שמע יושב ישראל בסתר ה׳ עליון אלהינו בצל ה׳ שדי אחד יתלונן‬ Surprisingly, this “super-­verse” reads somewhat intelligibly as: “Hearken! Israel dwells in the hiddenness of YHWH, the High One, our God. In the shade of YHWH, Shaddai, the One, he dwells.”173 This combination may add further context to ­those places within rabbinic thought that set the Shema and Psalms as twin shields of magical protection against demons and their ilk.174 As previous scholarship well demonstrates, material real­ity and rabbinic lit­er­a­ture can be mutually informative when examined in tandem.175 B. Shev. 15b provides yet another example of contact between rabbinic sources, Psalm 91, and the incantation bowls. As seen above, the anonymous voice of the Babylonian Talmud identifies Psalm 91 as ­either the “song against evil mis­haps” or “song against afflictions” by appealing to Ps. 91:10 and Ps. 91:7, respectively. ­These verses appear together in bowl 52 of Isbell’s Corpus



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of Aramaic Incantation Bowls.176 Can we draw a direct line of connection between this bowl and the tradition ­behind the anonymous comment? Perhaps. At the very least, one cannot deny the strong confluence. But ultimately, in a culture suffused with the magical significance of Psalm 91, it should not surprise us to find that many rabbis ­were intellectually primed to see “song against evil mis­haps” as Psalm 91. The material popularity of incantation texts that include Psalm 91 also sets into clearer context R. Joshua b. Levi’s choice to recite or to clutch this psalm while in bed. It explains why the Babylonian Talmud claims that he falls asleep with ­these par­tic­u­lar verses instead of other sections of the Psalter (as implied by the version of the tradition in the Palestinian Talmud) or other scriptural texts. In other words, we witness magical piety in action by reading the Babylonian version of R. Joshua’s statement against the backdrop of a Babylonian material environment.177 Additionally, like the many of the examples of Psalm piety discussed above, Psalm 91 crosses the thin border between magical piety and liturgy. Rav Amram quotes b. Shev. 15b in the section of his prayer book pertaining to the bedtime Shema liturgy178 and places Psalm 91 ­after the Amidah for Saturday night.179 Psalm 91 then migrates to other locations in Jewish prayer, depending on the specific rite.180 Once again, magic, liturgy, and piety did not exist in obviously self-­contained boxes.181 Material Amulets and Psalms: Popu­lar Reflections

Psalm 91 did not monopolize magical psalmody. Within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, b. Pesaḥ. 111a suggests that one recite Ps. 107:40 to banish the licentious spirit (ruaḥ zinnunim) that accompanies a ­woman ­after her post-­menstruation ritual immersion. And b. Pesaḥ. 112a delineates the power of chanting Psalm 29. It claims that one must not drink ­water on Wednesday night or the night of the Sabbath. It is tainted with evil spirits. The one who drinks, “His blood ­will be on his head.” The Talmud proposes a remedy for the thirsty: “Let him say the seven Voices that David said over the ­waters and then go and drink.” ­These are none other than “ ‘ The voice of the Lord upon ­waters’ [Ps. 29:3–11] ­until the end of the chapter.”182 A short recital drives away the demon and ensures safe, potable ­water.183 It is worth observing that some Christians inscribed t­hese very verses on the walls of cisterns, likely to protect themselves from external super­natural threats.184 As scholars have well observed, ancient magic often transcends religious and regional bound­a ries.185

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­Table 2. Psalm Verses in Jewish Palestinian Amulets Psalm (in canonical order) 46:8 89:8 94:1 115:1 116:6 138:2

Number of times the verse appears

Amulet number in Naveh and Shaked

2 1 1 1 1 1

17 and 29 24 (fragment) 12 16 30 16

As with ancient Christian amulets, Jewish magical texts also frequently cite from the book of Psalms. Among a collection of thirty Palestinian amulets published by Naveh and Shaked,186 quotations from the book of Psalms appear seven times (see ­Table 2). The Jewish Babylonian Aramaic incantation bowls show more variety (see ­Table 3).187 ­These numerous quotations show the widespread appeal of magical Psalm piety among ­those to whom rabbinic lit­er­a­ture accords no clear voice.188 They also attest, at the very least, to a culture of psalmody that existed both within and beyond the four ells (dalet amot) of rabbinic lit­er­a­ture. A complete analy­sis of each verse would greatly expand the length of this chapter and must be reserved for another occasion.189 The connection between Psalm piety and magic, however, can be strengthened if we observe the prominence of Ps. 46:8: “The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge, selah.” The verse appears three times in the corpus delineated above: twice in Palestinian amulets and once in a Babylonian magic bowl. It was likely popu­lar in both regions.190 The verse also appears inscribed on a fourth-­century Jewish tomb in Macedonia.191 This is in addition to the fact that, as seen above, it was a staple of rabbinic Psalm piety: “R. Hezekiah, R. Jacob b. Aḥa, R. Yassa in the name of R. Yoḥanan, ‘­Really, this verse should never move from your lips: “The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge, selah” ’ ” (Ps. 46:8). The context in which this verse was first used is less impor­tant than the clear nexus that it exhibits between piety and magic. It is worth observing, as well, that Ps. 46:8 appears frequently in Christian magical texts and inscriptions, as noted e­ arlier in this chapter. Together, ­these disparate sources allow us to appreciate the vibrant culture of

­Table 3. Psalm Verses in Jewish Babylonian Incantation Bowls Psalm Number of (canonical times the order) verse appears Location within secondary lit­er­a­ture 4:5–9

1

10:16

10

24:8

12

32:7

1

46:8 55:8

1 2

55:9

1

57:2

1

69:24 69:26 72:18–19 86:5 89:53 91:1

1 1 1 1 1 2

91:7 91:10

1 2

Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms 2053/44:13–15 (p. 19) Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 1 (Ms 1927/8), JBA 3 (Ms 1927/45), JBA 4 (Ms 1927/47), JBA 5 (Ms 1927/64), JBA 6 (Ms 2053/10), JBA 7 (Ms 2053/12), JBA 9 (Ms 2053/183), JBA 10 (Ms 2053/185), JBA 11 (Ms 2053/79), JBA 12 (Ms 2053/178). This is the absolute number; the citations belong to four distinct clients. Levene, Corpus of Magic Bowls, M156; Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 1 (Ms 1927/8), JBA 3 (Ms 1927/45), JBA 4 (Ms 1927/47), JBA 5 (Ms 1927/64), JBA 6 (Ms 2053/10), JBA 7 (Ms 2053/12), JBA 9 (Ms 2053/183), JBA 10 (Ms 2053/185), JBA 11 (Ms 2053/79), JBA 12 (Ms 2053/178), JBA 28 (Ms 1927/25). This is the absolute number; the citations belong to six distinct clients. Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 55 (Ms 1928/1) Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts, 041A (BM 91763) Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms 2053/70:8–11 (p. 19), twice Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 55 (Ms 1928/1) Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms 2053/70:8–11 (p. 19) Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, bowl 9 Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, bowl 9 Levene, Corpus of Magic Bowls, M108 Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts, 041A (BM 91763) Levene, Corpus of Magic Bowls, M108 Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, bowl 11; Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts, VA.2423 Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, bowl 52 Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, bowl 52; Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms 2053/70:8–11 (p. 19) (continued)

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Table 3 (continued) Psalm Number of (canonical times the order) verse appears Location within secondary lit­er­a­ture 104:20

11

104:31 106:47–48 116:6

1 1 2

121:7 125:2

1 1

Levene, Corpus of Magic Bowls, M156; Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 1 (Ms 1927/8), JBA 2 (Ms 1927/29), JBA 3 (Ms 1927/45), JBA 4 (Ms 1927/47), JBA 5 (Ms 1927/64), JBA 6 (Ms 2053/10), JBA 7 (Ms 2053/12), JBA 8 (Ms 2053/55), JBA 9 (Ms 2053/183), JBA 10 (Ms 2053/185). This number is in terms of absolute quantity; the citations belong to at least four distinct clients. Levene, A Corpus of Magic Bowls, M108 Levene, A Corpus of Magic Bowls, M108 Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts, 041A (BM 91763); Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, JBA 56 (Ms 1928/8) Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, bowl 23 Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, bowl 19

late ancient Jewish psalmody. Not only did Psalm piety exist and thrive, but the rabbis w ­ ere also both its promoters and prac­ti­tion­ers.192

Conclusions This chapter demonstrated that Psalm piety existed as an ever-­present feature of life for late ancient Jews (and Christians). It took many forms. Midnight piety, bedtime piety, deathbed piety, communal piety, the mantra-­like repetition of verses from the Psalms, and slow recitation of the entire Psalter are but some of the va­ri­e­ties of Psalm piety explored on ­these pages. To live in the ancient world was to be habituated to a soundscape reverberating with Psalms. This soundscape and the religious fervor that it inculcated included the self-­styled leaders of men and ­women. Far from decrying Psalm piety, figures such as R. Joshua b. Levi advocated and exemplified the vari­ous habits that constitute it. At the same time, ­these pious practices did not belong to the rabbis and their students alone. The expressions of piety preserved in the lit­er­a­ture they produced reflect a widespread culture of Psalm piety. We caught a glimpse of this polychromatic world by placing material remains and lit­er­a­ ture preserved through centuries of transmission into mutually illuminating



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conversation. Extant material sources confirmed the portrait of Psalm piety delineated in literary evidence and pointed to a w ­ hole landscape uncaptured by the written word. Literary sources, in turn, provided potential contexts for how material objects may have been understood by ­those who used them. The examples of Ps. 46:8 and Psalm 91 in Jewish pious instruction and inscription point to a shared but complicated cultural universe in which late antique Jews regularly saw, read, heard, and felt Psalms. Other religions also populated this universe. We further clarified Jewish Psalm piety by refracting it through the prism of a culture whose sense of Psalm piety appears far more developed within the world of Late Antiquity. By reading Jewish and Christian sources in tandem, we encountered remarkable similarities. Jews and Christians both practiced midnight piety, recited Psalms on their deathbeds, and encouraged the mantra-­like repetition of specific verses from the Psalter. At the same time, their pieties did not entirely run parallel. We pointed to several instances in which Jewish and Christian piety shared in its mechanics but differed in its meaning. In ­those cases, Jewish Psalm piety found expression through a theology focused on joy in divine ser­vice, while Christian Psalm piety was largely ­shaped by a theology that emphasized sin and penitence. Psalm piety was a fundamentally shared cultural system with distinctive Jewish and Christian nuances. ­Future comparative research ­will certainly fill out the canvas of ancient psalmody with even more vibrant colors. Yet any portrait of Psalm piety ­will always contain blurred and messy strokes. Psalm piety shares a thin or fuzzy boundary with magic on one end and liturgy on the other. The analy­sis above showed that l­ittle true distinction existed in Late Antiquity between Psalm piety and magic. The same Psalter was used for both pious recitation and magical protection without much qualm. Bedtime psalmody, for example, could si­mul­ta­neously fortify the faithful soul and act as a demon repellent. Psalm piety’s porous border with liturgy provides our final context—to conclude Chapter 3—­for why Psalms eventually came to dominate rabbinic liturgy. Texts used for pious recitation, such as Psalm 145, could eventually develop into a staple of rabbinic worship (i.e., “Fortunate,” ashre). In contrast to the situation for piety and protective magic, however, we do have some evidence of attempts by late antique intellectuals to stabilize the borders between piety and liturgy. Remaining unstable ­were the dividing lines between magic and liturgy. Psalm 91, for example, is ­imagined as part of ­temple ritual, a psalm to recite

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piously for protection, and eventually a liturgical text read in the eve­ning. ­These diverse uses of Psalm 91, along with the many other examples explored throughout this chapter, point to the widespread appeal of and interaction with Psalms in Late Antiquity. In addition, as mentioned in the beginning of this book, the Psalms is the most quoted biblical text in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture. This corpus, however, is mostly geared ­toward biblical interpretation. By exploring Psalm piety, and especially its material dimensions, this chapter demonstrated that the book of Psalms was widely cherished by Jews (and Christians) in dimensions beyond exegesis. Most late antique Jews would not encounter Psalms through acts of interpretation but, rather, as a ­simple a fact of life. To live as Jew in Late Antiquity was to inevitably be enmeshed in a culture of psalmody. At the same time, this chapter’s spotlight on Psalm piety illuminates something far vaster. Psalm piety is but one facet of a much larger culture of ancient scriptural piety, a world in which the practices above extend well beyond the book of Psalms. By focusing on Psalms, however, this chapter set a foundation for ­future studies that take as their methodological focus the fact that the Bible in Late Antiquity was an object of practice as well as interpretation. In other words, countless late antique Jews found the book of Psalms—­and the Bible writ large—­filled with significance and meaning without having to ask the question: “How do I interpret this verse?” This chapter gave form and voice to the many ways in which Jews found the Bible meaningful beyond interpretation, by focusing on instances of piety and its material manifestations. No doubt, ­these are but a few of the many tiles that make up the rich and complicated mosaic depicting the life of the Bible in Jewish Late Antiquity.

Conclusions and Prospects

The Other Lives of Psalms

The prayers [tefillot] of David son of Jesse are ended.

The line above concludes Psalm 72. David has no more to say; he has hung up his harp. He is done. The final redactors of the Psalter, however, dash any pretension of finality. A mere fourteen poems ­later, we read the superscription of Psalm 86, aptly titled, “A prayer [tefillah] of David.” Within the logic of the ordered canonical Psalter, David’s proj­ect is far from complete; he begins once again where he had left off. As for the book of Psalms, so, too, for A Life of Psalms. Below, I ­will summarize this book’s narrative and—­like the David of Psalm 72—­end. But in a nod to the Psalter’s redactors, I ­will also offer guidance on how one might build upon this proj­ect in ­f uture studies. This book showcases the most common or prominent features of the encounter between the Psalms and the Jews of Late Antiquity. It begins to answer the question posed at the start of our journey: What did the Psalms come to mean, and what roles did it play, in Jewish intellectual, religious, cultural, and social life ­after the destruction of the Second T ­ emple? We began our book-­long answer by fitting together remnants from the archaeological and literary rec­ord, reconstructing the late ancient physical scrolls of Psalms, the material that many Jews would have associated with the Psalter in mind or ­matter (Chapter 1). We then turned to the ways in which late ancient Jews engaged with the tactile Psalms, how they actually held and read it. We unraveled the numerous strands woven together in literary depictions of the act of reading and highlighted the role that the material Psalms played in aspects of rabbinic biblical interpretation (Chapter 2). We then moved to the oral world of singing Psalms, examining the rise and

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development of daily psalmody within rabbinic liturgy. We explained this story by setting it against the backdrop of vari­ous parallel historical developments (Chapter 3). A complete chapter then examined two other contexts that spurred the growth of liturgical psalmody: piety and magic. By placing Jewish and Christian sources into conversation, we not only demonstrated the existence of ancient Jewish Psalm piety but also surveyed its vari­ous modes of operation, highlighting similarities and differences between Jewish and Christian religious identity, all the while charting the unstable and blurry border between the realms of liturgy, piety, and magic (Chapter 4). Ultimately, to live as a Jew in the ancient world was to inhabit an environment ­shaped by the signs, sights, and sounds of Psalms. The grandeur of the text, I suggest, does not reside in the halcyon days of the Jerusalem ­Temples. Rather, it never ceased. Jews in the ancient world—­and even in the modern one—­have relied on the Psalms to imbue their life constantly and consistently with purpose and meaning. Yet like the Psalter ­after the seventy-­second psalm, the story of the late ancient Hebrew Psalms is not yet complete. Much more remains to be told in order to shed light on ­every dimension of the ­human experience touched by this sacred text. I offer below, therefore, some guideposts and questions for ­f uture scholarship—­particularly, directions in which the analy­sis above may be complemented or extended. As mentioned in the Introduction, this book sets aside Targum Psalms, the Jewish Aramaic version of the Psalter. Translation and transcription, however, formed a central vector for the transmission of the Psalms in the ancient world. Non-­Jews rendered the Psalter into their vernacular early and often. For example, Jerome translated Psalms into Latin many times.1 A fourth-­century Pahlavi-­script translation of the Syriac version of some psalms was found in Central Asia, well outside the borders of the Sassanian Empire.2 And the ninth-­century Damascus Psalm Fragment contains a literal translation of Psalm 78 into Arabic but written in Greek letters.3 Given this fertile environment, what might we say about Jewish translations of the Psalter, fragments of which appear in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture prior to the composition of Targum Psalms? How did Jews encounter and interact with the Psalms in Aramaic, and perhaps in other languages? In what ways does the story of Jewish translation mirror, or diverge from, translations of the Psalter in the world of Late Antiquity at large? As also mentioned in the Introduction, this book sets aside Midrash Psalms. ­After this text receives its own detailed scholarly analy­sis, it, too,



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may be incorporated carefully into our story. A brief survey of its contents reveals that it has much to offer, such as helping us think through the nature of Psalms as a “book” and its popularity.4 Perhaps more noticeably, Midrash Psalms contains a vast reservoir of biblical interpretation focused upon the Psalms, a dimension of the Jewish encounter with the Psalter that this book touches upon. In fact, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture preserves instances of Psalm exegesis in far greater number than it does the use of Psalms in other forms of reading, or as magic, piety, and liturgy. This book largely set aside exegesis ­because it wished to highlight the impor­tant non-­scholarly ways in which Jews interacted with the Psalms—­a sort of counterintuitive history. A study attentive to the exegetical dimensions of the Psalter, however, would complement the story told within ­these pages. Verses and chapters from the Psalms played a central (although, of course, not exclusive) role in helping the rabbis think about weighty topics, such as the history and memory of the ­temple,5 the figure of David, the end of days,6 and their own scholarly habits.7 Passages from the Psalms ­were also impor­tant in Jewish and Christian exegetical interaction. Sometimes the rabbis employed the Psalter as a textual plowshare with which to till common ground, and, at other times, they beat it into verbal swords with which to wage a war of words.8 One could also explore the exegetical life of the Psalter by focusing on features unique to, or, at least, distinctive within the Psalms. Poetic words, such as selah, and numerous—­but often untranslatable—­superscriptions generated much commentary.9 The short and often self-­contained nature of some individual psalms also magnetically attracted specific and sustained interpretive themes and debates, as I have argued elsewhere.10 A series of studies devoted to ­these types of texts could provide a micro-­historical perspective on the late ancient Psalter. Attention to exegesis would also add new dimensions to the topics examined in t­ hese pages. We explored the physical scrolls of Psalms and their relationship to modes of rabbinic inquiry. But what other forms of interpretation may be aided and ­shaped, let alone determined, by the scroll format of the Psalter? Additionally, historians of the book attend to other bibliographical features, such as authorship and attribution. What do ­these look like from the perspective of the late ancient Hebrew Psalter? For example, the figure of David looms large in the Psalms. And the rabbis, among other ancient voices, tend to accord David pride of place when discussing, in the abstract,

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the question of who composed the Psalter. At the same time, their own exegetical practices reveal a more complicated story of authorship and attribution, one in which David participates but does not necessarily dominate.11 In addition to being complemented by vari­ous adjacent studies, the analy­ sis in the chapters above might be fruitfully extended in ­f uture scholarship. Chapter 3, for example, discussed the growth of psalmody by focusing on the daily act of singing from the Psalms. What story might one tell if one ­were to examine seasonal and occasional psalmody? In par­tic­u­lar, a complex and undoubtably fascinating history surrounds the genesis, and liturgical use, of Hallel in all of its va­ri­e­ties.12 Its complete story should be told. Further, Chapter 3 intentionally a­ dopted a historical-­developmental lens to explore liturgical psalmody. Yet the act of singing Psalms could also be analyzed from the perspective of per­for­mance and ritual theory. The Psalms themselves include ele­ments that indicate per­for­mance. To what degree are rabbinic sources attentive to this aspect of Psalms when they discuss and formulate liturgy? How does the act of singing a psalm “function” in the literary and historical setting of the synagogue? The attempts in Chapter 4 to read Jewish and Christian sources in tandem also pre­sent another way in which the analy­sis in this book might be expanded. A Life of Psalms focused specifically on Judaism, particularly on the rabbis. It availed itself of Christian texts when ­doing so helped clarify Jewish traditions and activities. Yet within the ancient world, the Psalter belonged equally to Jews and Christians. In additional to piously reciting the text, both religions grappled with the physical material of Psalms, read words from its pages, interpreted it through vari­ous ideological lenses, and sang it as part of liturgy. Another entire book, therefore, could concern itself with a life of Psalms from a comparative perspective. Such a volume might draw upon our discussions of late ancient Hebrew scrolls of Psalms and examine them in relationship to physical Greek, Latin, and Syriac Psalters, most of which exist in the form of the codex book. It could answer the following questions: How do vari­ous scribes treat this sacred text? What scribal conventions do Jews and Christians share? Do conversations that surround the acts of writing and erasing remain similar across religious traditions? Does format, ­whether scroll or codex, shape the way that Jews and Christians read, imagine, and interpret the book of Psalms? For example, did the codex form, which does not have the divisibility of a scroll, aid Christians in conceiving of the Psalter as a single sacred text?



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This comparative volume might also build upon the nuances of “reading” developed above and potentially collapse the intuitive dichotomy between Jewish and Christian approaches to the Psalter. It could examine the pro­ cess of reading and argue that the categories of “Jew” and “Christian,” while no doubt impor­tant and operative, are best viewed as only one datum within a larger social matrix. One might then extend such an insight beyond reading and examine in further detail the vari­ous non-­interpretive forms of interacting with the Psalms. A comparative perspective could also explore key historical questions that surround the late ancient Psalter. For example, how did Psalms develop as liturgy in an early Christian world? To what degree, if at all, was synagogue psalmody a context for the rise of liturgical psalmody in the early church? What about the other ­factors described in Chapter 3? Do the discourses within rabbinic lit­er­a­ture that justify Psalms as part of liturgy find parallels among Christian thinkers of the era? A fully comparative proj­ect might also examine on more equal footing the intersections between Jewish and Christian piety and magic. Do additional forms of piety exist in Christian sources? Are they absent within the landscape of ancient Judaism? If so, why? Does the distinction developed in Chapter 4 between the mechanics and meaning of pious action play out in other forms of piety? How might per­for­mance and ritual theory aid in framing pious and magical forms of interacting with Psalms? And in what spaces did Jews and Christians encounter each other’s pious activities? In short, by building upon our narrative, and by further placing Jewish and Christian sources into conversation, this new proj­ect could seek to reconstruct a life of Psalms in Late Antiquity as a ­whole. But one need not limit oneself to the Psalter in order to develop the arguments and build upon the conclusions of this book, even if one ­were to focus exclusively on the world of Judaism. The Psalms surely offer a distinctive vista from which to view the ancient encounter with Scripture. A story about liturgy should include psalmody. And one would strain hard to build a narrative about piety by limiting oneself to biblical books such as Ezra, Leviticus, and Kings. The Psalter appears to naturally draw t­ oward itself the activities that surround liturgy and piety, perhaps ­because of its use of the first-­person voice. At the same time, the Psalms does not stand alone atop a unique summit, even with re­spect to liturgy. Other passages from Scripture enter late ancient Jewish worship, even if at a slower or more sporadic pace. We may thus ask: In what ways do the contexts developed for the growth of psalmody

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apply to other sections of the liturgical Bible? How do the rabbis use other parts of Scripture to justify the place of biblical verses in liturgy? To go even further, acts of piety, as mentioned in Chapter 4, involved more than just reciting passages from the Psalter. The sounds of other parts of Scripture also emanated from the lips of late ancient Jews. Psalm piety likely forms a subset of a much larger scriptural piety. A full study of this phenomenon, guided by the framework developed in Chapter 4, ­w ill undoubtedly build upon, challenge, and refine a portrait of piety that relied exclusively, if understandably, on verses and chapters from the Psalter. In some cases, the Psalter offers a perspective on the life of late ancient Judaism almost equal to other biblical texts. As mentioned in Chapter 2, rabbinic scenes of reading include depictions of other books of the Bible. What additional styles of interaction with Scripture lie hidden within the apparently s­ imple verb “to read”? What do so­cio­log­i­cal transcripts of t­ hese other scenes of reading reveal about the rabbinic encounter with the material Bible? In what ways would rabbinic discussions of other biblical texts add nuance or further depth to our discussion of the fiscal, social, and symbolic wealth attached to biblical scrolls? In other instances, in fact, the Psalter cannot not claim pride of place at all. Within the material history of ancient Judaism, one scroll collection stands above all ­others: the Pentateuch. Physical remnants of scrolls containing portions of the Pentateuch outnumber ­those containing the Psalter. Granted, the Pentateuch as a ­whole contains more words than the Psalter. Nonetheless, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture lavishes far more attention upon Pentateuchal scrolls than upon scrolls containing Psalms or any other biblical text. What might we learn about ancient Hebrew scrolls by combining the above analy­ sis with a full material and literary history of late ancient Pentateuchal scrolls? What further dimensions of scroll culture might we uncover? The answers to all of the questions posed in this conclusion await further study.

Notes

Introduction 1. Biblical translations are from the NJPS and are modified when necessary. Other­w ise, translations throughout this book are my own, ­unless other­w ise noted. 2. S. Y. Agnon, “Ac­cep­tance,” in Nobel Lectures, Lit­er­a­ture 1901–1967, ed. Horst Frenz (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1969), 614–15, https://­w ww​.­nobelprize​.­org​/­prizes​/­literature​/­1966​/­agnon​ /­speech. 3. On the complicated relationship between Jewish collective memory and history, see the classic work by Yosef H. Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1982); and, more recently, David N. Myers, The Stakes of History: On the Use and Abuse of Jewish History for Life (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2018). 4. See Chapter 3 for the early history of psalmody in Judaism. 5. The word “Scripture” and its equivalent terminology throughout this book primarily reflect the now-­canonical set of texts known as the Hebrew Bible. In this re­spect, I attempt to reconstruct the story of the Psalter from the perspective of my historical subjects: an emic point of view. The overwhelming majority of the sources explored below come from the hands of the rabbis, who had a mostly stable idea about which early Hebrew texts belonged to the Hebrew Bible—­even if the edges of the canon remained in a state of flux. (The precise words of ­these texts and their order within the canon remained unstable ­until the rise of print, if not ­later.) The exception proves this rule. Throughout rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, some rabbis cite the book of Ben Sira a handful of times using the citation formula that rabbis other­w ise reserve for texts in the now-­canonical Hebrew Bible. See Jenny R. Labendz, “The Book of Ben Sira in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­t ure,” AJS Review 30 (2006). For the early history of the canon, see Timothy H. Lim, The Formation of the Jewish Canon (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013). 6. Exact numbers are hard to provide for rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. Aaron Hyman’s The Written and Transmitted Torah [Hebrew], 3 vols. (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1936–39), contains 112 pages of reference to quotations from the Psalm. Genesis has 93 and Song of Songs 11. In the recently released Caleb T. Friedeman, ed., A Scripture Index to Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2021), citations from Psalms take up 57 pages, Genesis 52 pages, and Song of Songs 5 pages. The preponderance of quotations from the Psalms over and against other scriptural texts is also true of Christian sources from this period. According to biblindex​.­info, in the period 1–650 ce, one finds Psalms quoted 53,179 times in Christian lit­er­a­t ure. Matthew yields 47,089, Genesis 35,639, and Song of Songs 4,052.

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7. For an overview, see Gary A. Rendsburg, “The Psalms as Hymns in the ­Temple of Jerusalem,” in Jesus and T ­ emple: Textual and Archaeological Explorations, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014). 8. David Willgren, The Formation of the “Book” of Psalms: Reconsidering the Transmission and Canonization of Psalmody in Light of Material Culture and the Poetics of Anthologies (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016); George Brooke, “The Psalms in Early Jewish Lit­er­a­t ure in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Psalms in the New Testament, ed. Steve Moyise and M. J. J. Menken (London: T. & T. Clark, 2004); Sylvia C. Keesmaat, “The Psalms in Romans and Galatians,” in The Psalms in the New Testament, ed. Moyise and Menken; James K. Aitken, “Psalms,” in The T&T Clark Companion to the Septuagint, ed. (London: Bloomsbury, 2015). 9. For the classic periodization of Late Antiquity, see Peter Brown, The World of Late Antiquity: ad 150–750 (New York: Norton, 1989). On the slow coalescing of the rabbinic movement and its accumulation of power during this period, see Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 b.c.e. to 640 c.e. (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2001); Hayim Lapin, Rabbis as Romans: The Rabbinic Movement in Palestine, 100–400 ce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Catherine Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997). 10. This statement describes rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure in broad terms. Significant portions of classical rabbinic lit­er­a­ture—­such as the Babylonian Talmud—­were no doubt undergoing the pro­cess of redaction during the Islamic period. The traditions preserved in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, however, rarely give us direct evidence of an Islamic setting and are best contextualized in a Sassanian or Greco-­Roman context. For the dating and redaction of the Babylonian Talmud, see the scholarship and citations of Moulie Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2014), 45–50. For the Greco-­Roman context of rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, see Peter Schäfer, ed., The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-­Roman Culture, 3 vols. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998–2002). For the Sassanian context of the Babylonian Talmud, see Shai Secunda, The Ira­nian Talmud: Reading the Bavli in Its Sasanian Context (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014). 11. In addition to the studies in the notes above, see Geoffrey Herman and Jeffrey L. Rubenstein, eds., The Aggada of the Bavli and Its Cultural World (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2018); Jason S. Mokhtarian, Rabbis, Sorcerers, Kings, and Priests: The Culture of the Talmud in Ancient Iran (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015); Robert Brody, “Irano-­Talmudica: The New Parallelomania?” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (2016); Shai Secunda, “ ‘ This, but Also That’: Historical, Methodological, and Theoretical Reflections on Irano-­Talmudica,” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (2016); Richard L. Kalmin, “The Bavli, the Roman East, and Mesopotamian Chris­tian­ity,” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (2016); Simcha M. Gross, “Irano-­Talmudica and Beyond: Next Steps in the Contextualization of the Babylonian Talmud,” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (2016). 12. Ronit Nikolsky and Tal Ilan, eds., Rabbinic Traditions Between Palestine and Babylonia (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Tziona Grossmark, “The Nehutei as Traveling Agents and Transmitters of Cultural Data Between the Torah Study Centers in Babylonia and in the Land of Israel During the Third and Fourth Centuries ce,” Mediterranean Studies 23 (2015); Yaron Z. Eliav, “The Material World of Babylonia as Seen from Roman Palestine: Some Preliminary Observations,” in The Archaeology and Material Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, ed. Markham J. Geller (Leiden: Brill, 2015). In fact, some scholars also recognize that the Roman and Sassanian imperial worlds ­were quite entangled. See Anne Hunnell Chen, “Late Antiquity Between Sasanian East and Roman West: Third-­C entury Imperial ­Women as



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Pawns in Propaganda Warfare,” in Late Antique Studies in Memory of Alan Cameron, ed. William V. Harris and Anne Hunnell Chen (Leiden: Brill, 2021). 13. See, recently, the collected essays in Gavin McDowell, Ron Naiweld, and Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, eds., Diversity and Rabbinization: Jewish Texts and Socie­ties Between 400 and 1000 ce (Cambridge: Open Book, 2021). 14. For a recent excellent study (although not about Psalms), see Karen B. Stern, Writing on the Wall: Graffiti and the Forgotten Jews of Antiquity (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2018). 15. Such tensions include ­those exemplified by the Babylonian magic bowls. See, for example, Tal Ilan, “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: Festschrift for Günter Stemberger on the Occasion of His 75th Birthday, ed. Constanza Cordoni and Gerhard Langer (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016). 16. Most recently, see Aaron M. Butts and Simcha M. Gross, eds., Jews and Syriac Christians: Intersections Across the First Millennium (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020). 17. In this re­spect, I follow Jeffrey L. Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 10–11. 18. And sometimes, of course, it is not. 19. Relatedly, source criticism of the Babylonian Talmud does not preclude redaction criticism, which should usually be read against the cultural and geo­g raph­i­cal backdrop of Sassanian Persia. 20. Willgren, The Formation of the “Book” of Psalms; Eva Jain, Psalmen oder Psalter? Materielle Rekonstruktion und inhaltliche Untersuchung der Psalmenhandschriften aus der Wuste Juda (Leiden: Brill, 2014). On the canonization pro­cess as a ­whole, see Lim, The Formation of the Jewish Canon. 21. For example, ­a fter each acrostic line in Psalm 145, the Qumran Psalm Scroll (11QPsa XVI–­X VII) rec­ords the following words: “Blessed is YHWH and blessed is his name forever.” 22. Peter W. Flint, “Unrolling the Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. William P. Brown (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). See also the ­table in Eva Mroczek, The Literary Imagination in Jewish Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 27–29. 23. One example is the Apostrophe to Zion, which appears in several works containing poems from the now-­canonical Psalter. For further details, see Mroczek’s ­table referenced in the note above. 24. For further details, see Aitken, “Psalms,” 327. 25. Harry F. van Rooy, Studies on the Syriac Apocryphal Psalms (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 26. See, for example, Flint, “Unrolling the Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls”; Flint, The Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls and the Book of Psalms (Leiden: Brill, 1997); Klaus Seybold, “The Psalter as a Book,” in Jewish and Christian Approaches to the Psalms, ed. Susan E. Gillingham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 27. For a recent study that attempts to displace the notion of a canonical Psalter, or even Psalms as a book, in the Second ­Temple period, see Mroczek, The Literary Imagination. See also the careful and erudite Willgren, The Formation of the “Book” of Psalms. 28. For further details, see Chapter 1. 29. See, for example, the many notes in Benjamin Kennicott, ed., Vetus Testamentum Hebraicum: Cum variis lectionibus (Oxford: Clarendon, 1776), 2:307–483.

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Notes to Pages 7–9

30. Due the paucity of evidence, we cannot state with confidence what Jews outside the rabbinic movement thought about ­these extra-­canonical works. Our extant epigraphic rec­ ord does engage with ­these types of compositions as if they belonged to the canonical Psalms. One would be hard-­pressed, therefore, to deny the gravitational pull of the canonical Psalter on the Judaism of Late Antiquity writ large. 31. ­These include ­those mentioned by Timotheus’s Jewish in­for­mant, for which see John Strugnell, “Notes on the Text and Transmission of the Apocryphal Psalms 151, 154 (= Syr. II) and 155 (= Syr. III),” Harvard Theological Review 59 (1966): 258. Other compositions that circulated during Late Antiquity read like Psalms; for an example, see David M. Stec, The Genizah Psalms: A Study of MS 798 of the Antonin Collection (Leiden: Brill, 2013). 32. See, for example, the discussion of b. Ber. 9b in Chapter 2. 33. William Yarchin, “Is ­There an Authoritative Shape for the Hebrew Book of Psalms? Profiling the Manuscripts of the Hebrew Psalter,” Revue Biblique 122 (2015). 34. See b. Ber. 9b–10a and other sources in Willgren, The Formation of the “Book” of Psalms, 154–66. For the combination in ­later periods, see the sources scattered across Susan E. Gillingham, A Journey of Two Psalms: The Reception of Psalms 1 and 2 in Jewish and Christian Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 35. Examples of Second ­Temple readers who stood outside the text include Pesher Psalms (1Q16, 4Q171, 4Q173) and 4QFlorilegium (4Q174). 36. See Chapter 1. 37. Moyise and Menken, eds., Psalms in the New Testament. 38. Naomi G. Cohen, Philo’s Scriptures: Citations from the Prophets and Writings (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 139–56. 39. Hence the title of an impor­tant collection of essays on the history of the Psalter: Peter W. Flint et al., The Book of Psalms: Composition and Reception (Leiden: Brill, 2005); Gillingham, Journey of Two Psalms; John F. A. Sawyer, “The Psalms in Judaism and Chris­ tian­ity: A Reception History Perspective,” in Jewish and Christian Approaches to the Psalms, ed. Gillingham. 40. My use of the word “vitality” is inspired by Hindy Najman, “The Vitality of Scripture Within and Beyond the ‘Canon,’ ” Journal for the Study of Judaism 43 (2012). 41. Aby Warburg, who built a library with his ­father’s inheritance to study Das Nachleben der Antike, introduced this term into scholarly discourse. For an accessible introduction to Warburg, see E. H. Gombrich and Fritz Saxl, Aby Warburg: An Intellectual Biography (London: Warburg Institute, 1970). Warburg’s attention to “afterlife” was mostly centered on the visual arts. The term, however, has moved to literary and cultural studies. 42. On Warburg’s concept of time and chronology, see Georges Didi-­Huberman, “Artistic Survival: Panofsky vs. Warburg and the Exorcism of Impure Time,” trans. Vivian Rehberg and Boris Belay, Common Knowledge 9 (2003). Note that Nachleben eschews periodization but must take as a beginning the pure instance of a certain theme or motif. 43. Consider the numerous excellent studies in the Lives of G ­ reat Religious Books series by the Prince­ton University Press, http://­press​.­princeton​.­edu​/­catalogs​/­series​/ ­lives​-­of​-­g reat​ -­religious​-­books​.­html. 44. On book history, see D. F. Mc­Ken­zie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Robert Darnton, “What Is the History of Books?” in The Kiss of Lamourette: Reflections in Cultural History (New York: Norton, 1990); Anthony Grafton and Megan H. Williams, Chris­tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); Me-



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gan H. Williams, The Monk and the Book: Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006). 45. The history of reading is a somewhat new, but rapidly developing, field. For some, but certainly not all, of the insightful studies that have influenced my own thinking on the subject, see Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton, “ ‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” Past & Pre­sent 129 (1990); Robert Darnton, “First Steps ­Towards a History of Reading,” in The Kiss of Lamourette; Anthony Grafton, Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); William H. Sherman, John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the En­glish Re­nais­sance (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1997); William A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010); Yaacob Dweck, The Scandal of Kabbalah: Leon Modena, Jewish Mysticism, Early Modern Venice (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2011); Renée J. Raphael, Reading Galileo: Scribal Technologies and the Two New Sciences (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2017). 46. T ­ hese include David Stern, The Jewish Bible: A Material History (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2017); Daniel Picus, “Ink Sea, Parchment Sky: Rabbinic Reading Practices in Late Antiquity” (PhD diss., Brown University, 2018); Matthew D. C. Larsen, Gospels Before the Book (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018); Anna Krauss, Jonas Leipziger, and Friederike Schücking-­Jungblut, eds., Material Aspects of Reading in Ancient and Medieval Cultures: Materiality, Presence and Per­for­mance (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020); Abraham J. Berkovitz, “Paratextuality Between Materiality, Interpretation and Translation: The Case of Psalm Incipits in Jewish Late Antiquity,” Book History 25 (2022). 47. On rabbinic orality, see, for example, Yaakov Sussman, “Oral Torah Simplicter: The Power of the Yod’s Tittle,” in Studies on the Talmud 3 [Hebrew], ed. Yaakov Sussman and David Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2005); Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism, 200 bce–400 ce (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); Jaffee, “What Difference Does the Orality of Rabbinic Writing Make for the Interpretations of Rabbinic Writing?” in How Should Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture Be Read in the Modern World? ed. Matthew Kraus (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2006); Jaffee, “Oral Tradition in the Writings of Rabbinic Oral Torah: On Theorizing Rabbinic Orality,” Oral Tradition 14 (1999); Elizabeth S. Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah: The Shaping Influence of Oral Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); Yaakov Elman, “Orality and Redaction of the Babylonian Talmud,” Oral Tradition 14 (1999); Israel J. Yuval, “The Orality of Jewish Oral Law: From Pedagogy to Ideology,” in Judaism, Chris­tian­ity, and Islam in the Course of History: Exchange and Conflicts, ed. Lothar Gall and Ditmar Willoweit (Oldenbourg: Wissenschaftsverlag, 2011). 48. To be fair, scholars have paid some attention to writing and its attendant culture. See, for example, Saul Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1962), 20–99; Jason Kalman, “Writing Between the Lines: Rabbinic Epistolography and the Transmission of the Text of the Hebrew Bible in Antiquity,” Maarav 17 (2010). Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, also pays attention to writing, as does Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). More recently, however, she argues that rabbis did not regularly use written texts in their study sessions. See Hezser, “Bookish Circles? The Use of Written Texts in Rabbinic Oral Culture,” Temas Medievales 25 (2017). While this is largely true, Chapter 2 ­w ill show the analytical benefit of paying attention to the written ele­ments of rabbinic study. In any event, ­t here is more work yet to be done.

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49. For example, Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), calls midrash “the hermeneutic system of rabbinic Judaism” (9). Burton L. Visotzky, ed., The Midrash on Proverbs (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), says: “The term Midrash designates a vast body of lit­er­a­t ure as well as a pro­cess of textual exegesis” (1). For further information on the definition of midrash, see the insightful essay of and summary of scholarship in Carol Bakhos, “Method(ological) ­Matters in the Study of Midrash,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2005). 50. Much of this scholarship sprouts from the roots of the classic study of Isaac Heinemann, The Methods of Aggadah [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1970). For the most recent attempt to do so, see Paul D. Mandel, The Origins of Midrash: From Teaching to Text (Leiden: Brill, 2017). 51. I develop this point further in Chapter 2. 52. The exegetical bias does not devalue reception history. It means, rather, that ­there is much room for it to expand. For some seminal books and collection of essays written in the exegetical tradition with re­spect to Psalms, see Flint et al., Book of Psalms; Gillingham, Journey of Two Psalms; Gillingham, ed., Jewish and Christian Approaches to the Psalms; W. Brown, ed., The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms; Brian E. Daley and Paul R. Kolbet, eds., The Harp of Prophecy: Early Christian Interpretation of the Psalms (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014); Marie-­A nne Vannier, ed., Judaïsme et christianisme dans les commentaires patristiques des Psaumes (Bern: Peter Lang, 2015). Some of ­these volumes of collected essays do contain an article or two on liturgy, an obvious use of Psalms in vari­ous periods. Worth noting as well is that when scholars of reception do examine material evidence—­such as visual repre­sen­ta­tions of the Bible—it is often with an eye ­toward exegesis, asking questions such as, “How does this artistic repre­sen­ta­tion interpret the biblical text it draws upon?” 53. Esther M. Menn, “Praying King and Sanctuary of Prayer, pt.1: David and the ­Temple’s Origins in Rabbinic Psalms Commentary (Midrash Tehillim),” Journal of Jewish Studies 52 (2001); Menn, “Sweet Singer of Israel: David and the Psalms in Early Judaism,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Margot E. Fassler (Leiden: Brill, 2004); Esther Menn and David Sandmel, “Psalm 29 in Jewish Psalms Commentary (Midrash Tehillim): King David’s Instructions for Synagogue Prayer,” in Psalm 29 Through Time and Tradition, ed. Lowell K. Handy (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2011); Catherine B. Tkacz, “Esther, Jesus, and Psalm 22,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 70 (2008); Miriam Benedikt, “The Letter That Lives: Mid. Ps. 29 as a Case Study of Anti-­Christological Polemic,” Journal of Theological Studies 67 (2015); Benedikt, “The Poetics of the Midrash on Psalms: Ele­ments of Dialogical and Polemical Interactivity in Refracted Hermeneutics” (PhD diss., Monash University, 2015); Moshe J. Bern­stein, “A Jewish Reading of Psalms: Some Observations on the Method of the Aramaic Targum,” in The Book of Psalms: Composition and Reception, ed. Peter W. Flint et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2005); Isaac Kalimi, “Theologies and Methodologies in Classical Jewish Interpretation: A Study of Midrash Psalms and Its View of God,” in Fighting over the Bible: Jewish Interpretation, Sectarianism and Polemic from ­Temple to Talmud and Beyond (Leiden: Brill, 2017); Kalimi, “The Centrality and Interpretation of Psalms in Judaism Prior to and During Medieval Times: Approaches, Authorship, Genre, and Polemics,” Review of Rabbinic Judaism 23 (2020). 54. Leeor Gottlieb, Targum Chronicles and Its Place Among the Late Targums (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 223–44. On the Aramaic of the Targum, see also Barak Dan, “The Aramaic Targum to Psalms: A Morphological Description” [Hebrew] (PhD diss., Hebrew University, 2008).



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55. For Hungarians, see Tg. Ps. 83:7. It is pos­si­ble that the translation was updated during transmission. For further details on Hungarians, see Gottlieb, Targum Chronicles, 224– 28. The Targum also contains demonstrably late traditions, such as the one in which a spider closes the mouth of the cave in which David is hiding. The tradition appears in Tg. Ps. 57:3 and the Alphabet of Ben Sira B 24 (Venice). 56. One clear example is Mid. Ps. 78:12, which mirrors b. Giṭ. 68a and preserves the line “ ‘I got myself male and female singers’ (Eccles. 2:8), ­these are types of instruments. ‘As well as the luxuries of commoners,’ ­these are pools of ­water and baths. ‘Shiddah veShiddot,’ ­here (Babylonia) they translate it as male and female demons. In the west (Palestine) they say a box.” Midrash Psalms is presumably a Palestinian midrash. 57. See Hermann L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 2nd ed., trans. Markus Bockmuehl (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 322–23. For the most recent summary of scholarship on the dating of Midrash Psalms, see Benedikt, “Poetics of the Midrash on Psalms,” 35–38; Kalimi, “Centrality and Interpretation of Psalms,” 236–37. 58. Buber’s edition was finished in 1891 and was a vast improvement upon the previous printed text. His edition, however, must be used with extreme caution. I look forward to the completion of a proj­ect by Prof. Arnon Atzmon of Bar-­Ilan University, which ­w ill furnish the world with a most accurate reconstruction of this impor­tant text.

chapter 1 1. See m. Yad. 4:6 for books of Homer in a Jewish context. Jews could, of course, also read inscriptions and read from a pinax, a writing tablet. For a brief overview of both, see Hezser, Jewish Literacy, 331–421. See also Menahem Haran, “The Codex, the Pinax, and the Wooden Slats” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 57 (1987). 2. The classic and most wide-­ranging study of the material Bible in Jewish Late Antiquity remains Ludwig Blau, Studien zum althebräischen Buchwesen und zur biblischen Litteraturgeschichte (Strassburg: Karl J. Trübner, 1902). See also Samuel Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie (Leipzig: Gustav Fock, 1912), 3:131–98; Hezser, Jewish Literacy. Neither study focuses on the Bible. For a recent examination that focuses on the Torah scroll, see David Stern, The Jewish Bible: A Material History (Seattle: University of Washington Press), 11–61. 3. The most concentrated discussions of the material Bible appear in p. Meg. 1:11 71b– 72a and in the long discussion that begins on b. Menaḥ. 29a. For the Palestinian Talmud, see Lawrence H. Schiffman, “Jerusalem Talmud Megillah 1 (71b–72a)—­‘Of the Making of Books’: Rabbinic Scribal Arts in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Talmuda de-­Eretz Israel: Archaeology and the Rabbis in Late Antique Palestine, ed. Steven Fine and Aaron Koller (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014). For scenes of reading, see Chapter 2. 4. ­Earlier studies that discuss the late ancient material Bible include Haran, “The Codex, the Pinax, and the Wooden Slats”; Haran, “Bible Scrolls in Eastern and Western Jewish Communities from Qumran to the High ­Middle Ages,” Hebrew Union College Annual 56 (1985); Haran, “Archives, Libraries, and the Order of the Biblical Books,” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University 22 (1993); Yonatan Moss, “Noblest Obelus: Rabbinic Appropriations of Late Ancient Literary Criticism,” in Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters, ed. Maren R. Niehoff (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 20–46; Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, 3:131–98. I view this chapter as a continuation and revision of Haran’s proj­ect. Far more attention has been paid to the materiality of the

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Hebrew Bible in ­earlier periods. See, esp., Karel van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007); William  M. Schniedewind, How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Menahem Haran, “Book-­Size and the Thematic Cycles in the Pentateuch,” in Die hebräische Bibel und ihre zweifache Nachgeschichte: Festschrift für Rolf Rendtorff zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Christian Erhard, Ekkehard Stegemann, and Erhard Blum (Neukirchener-­V luyn: Neukirchener, 1990); Haran, “Book-­Scrolls at the Beginning of the Second ­Temple Period: The Transition from Papyrus to Skins,” Hebrew Union College Annual 54 (1983); Haran, “Book-­Scrolls in Israel in Pre-­Exilic Times,” Journal of Jewish Studies 33 (1982). 5. Malachi Beit-­A rié, Hebrew Manuscripts of East and West: ­Towards a Comparative Codicology (London: British Library, 1993), 9–11, suggests that the earliest example of the codex form for Jewish lit­er­a­t ure comes from the end of the eighth or the beginning of the ninth ­century. Christians, by contrast, ­adopted the codex form for their sacred writings much ­earlier than the Jews and may even be part of the innovating force b­ ehind the development of the codex. See Harry Y. ­Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 42–81. 6. Mc­Ken­zie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts, 9–30; Frederic G. Kenyon, Books and Readers in Ancient Greece and Rome, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1951), 40. See also ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 42–81, esp. 43. 7. For a discussion of a burned late antique scroll found in a synagogue at En-­Gedi that likely dates to the third–­fourth ­century, see Michael Segal et al., “An Early Leviticus Scroll from En-­Gedi: Preliminary Publication,” Textus 26 (2016). For portions of an extant Exodus scroll from the seventh–­eighth ­century that also follows Masoretic text and is in congruence with rabbinic regulations, see Edna Engel and Mordechai Mishor, “An Ancient Scroll of the Book of Exodus: The Reunion of Two Separate Fragments,” Israel Museum Studies in Archaeology 7 (2015). For additional fragments of late antique biblical scrolls, see Segal et al., “Early Leviticus Scroll,” 13. 8. See, esp., and recently, Stephanie A. Frampton, Empire of Letters: Writing in Roman Lit­er­a­ture and Thought from Lucretius to Ovid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). 9. Grafton and Williams, Chris­tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book; Larry W. Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (­Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 43–94. 10. For the limits of Syriac scrolls, see Alessandro Bausi and Eugenia Sokolinski, eds., Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies: An Introduction (Hamburg: Tredition, 2015), 255. Most written Persian lit­er­a­t ure first makes its appearance well ­a fter our period of study, and mostly in the form of codices. The Manichaean corpus gives some sense of scroll-­format books in the Sassanian era, but ­these sources are late, rare, and not entirely useful for our purposes. For Manichaean scrolls, see Zsuzsanna Gulácsi, Mediaeval Manichaean Book Art: A Codicological Study of Ira­nian and Turkic Illuminated Book Fragments from 8th–11th ­Century East Central Asia (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 88–91. 11. For a detailed exposition on leather and its preparation, see Haran, “Bible Scrolls in Eastern and Western Jewish Communities.” 12. Even the ready-­made blank rolls of twenty papyrus sheets ­were meant to be cut up and used in dif­fer­ent ways. See Kenyon, Books and Readers, 52; T. C. Skeat, “The Length of the Standard Papyrus Roll and the Cost-­Advantage of the Codex,” in The Collected Biblical Writings of T. C. Skeat, ed. J. K. Elliott (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 65–66.



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13. Even the same literary composition at Qumran could be of differing lengths. See Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (Leiden: Brill, 2004), t­ able 12. 14. The community at Qumran may not have made a scribal distinction between what we now call “biblical” and “nonbiblical” texts. See Tov, Scribal Practices, 6, 237. However, some features, such as wide margins (120) and poetic division (158), are found almost exclusively in texts now considered biblical. Lurking in the background of extrapolating from documents at Qumran is the question of ­whether the Psalm scrolls ­there are indicative of a true book of Psalms, or something ­else entirely. For references, see Introduction, nn. 26–27. For the purposes of this chapter, I am less interested in reconstructing Psalms at Qumran than in using material from Qumran to imagine what Psalms may have looked like in Late Antiquity, when the notion of a canonical book of Psalms certainly existed. 15. Psalm 119 has about 4,800 characters without spaces. 16. ­These reconstructed numbers suffer from serious methodological issues. For further discussion that includes analy­sis of 11QPsa, see Eshbal Ratzon and Nachum Dershowitz, “The Length of a Scroll: Quantitative Evaluation of Material Reconstructions,” PLoS ONE 15 (2020). 17. Eugene C. Ulrich et al., eds., Qumran Cave 4.XI: Psalms to Chronicles (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 7. 18. See Tov, Scribal Practices, ­table 11, 71–72, for t­ hese reconstructed scroll lengths. 19. Tov, Scribal Practices, 70–73. 20. Tov, Scribal Practices, 120. 21. See E. G. Turner, Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World, ed. P. J. Parsons, 2nd ed. (London: University of London, 1987), 7. 22. The scribal sugya in p. Meg. 1:11 71b–72a places numerous demands on a scribe: he must write on leather with ink; leave the width of a line between two lines; and leave two fingerbreadths of space in the top margin and three in the bottom margin of a scroll; the sheets must have no fewer than three columns and no more than eight; and more than four errors disqualify a liturgical scroll. I ­w ill discuss the sociocultural dimensions of the material Psalter in rabbinic imagination below and in Chapter 2. 23. See, for example, the image in the Dura Europos synagogue of a figure, variously identified as Ezra or Moses, holding a scroll. For discussion, see Carl H. Kraeling, The Synagogue, augmented ed. (New York: Ktav, 1979), 323–29. 24. For Jewish texts that describe reading or writing in ­these positions, see Avot R. Nat. A 8, and other sources cited in Menahem Haran, “Books of Torah and Bible in the First Christian Centuries” [Hebrew], Shnaton 10 (1986): 99n15. 25. See John van Sickle, “The Book-­Roll and Some Conventions of the Poetic Book,” Arethusa 13 (1980): 6–8; T. C. Skeat, “The Origin of the Christian Codex,” in The Collected Biblical Writings of T. C. Skeat, ed. Elliott, 80; Kenyon, Books and Readers, 53–55, 64–65, argues that the “extreme limit” of Greek literary rolls was thirty-­five feet. Most mea­sure within the range of twenty feet. Skeat, “The Length of the Standard Papyrus Roll,” 66, observes that the standard twenty-­page roll would mea­sure 320–60 centimeters. This equals 10.5–11.8 feet. 26. A ­g reat example is the Egyptian Book of the Dead. See Rita Lucarelli, “Making the Book of the Dead,” in Journey Through the Afterlife: Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, ed. John H. Taylor (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).

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27. Something similar may be said about the extremely long rotuli-­t ype scrolls upon which Arabic rulers promulgated their decrees. ­These items held content but ­were also objects of per­for­mance and prestige. See, most recently, Marina Rustow, The Lost Archive (Prince­ ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2019), 381–401. 28. For the classic treatment, which argues that the writing desk emerges in the eighth or ninth ­century, see Bruce M. Metzger, “When Did Scribes Begin to Use Writing Desks?” in Historical and Literary Studies: Pagan, Jewish and Christian (Leiden: Brill, 1968). See also George M. Parássoglou, “ΔΕΞΙA XEIΡ KAI ΓONY: Some Thoughts on the Postures of the Ancient Greeks and Romans When Writing on Papyrus Rolls,” Scrittura e Civiltà 3 (1979). Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, 3:158, claims that m. Kel. 24:6 points to evidence of a writing desk. He is incorrect. The Hebrew word used is basis, and the context is that of midras impurity. It is more likely that basis refers to a small box upon which the scribe sits, not writes. For one example of a liturgical reading desk, see p. Meg. 3:1 73d: “The reading ­table [angele] does not have the sanctity of the ark, but it has sanctity on account of the synagogue.” On ­whether the bimah was a reading ­table, see Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 343–47. 29. On small editions for study and travel, see Theodor Birt, Kritik und Hermeneutik: nebst Abriss des Antiken Buchwesens (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1913), 349; Kenyon, Books and Readers, 51. Shorter study editions also appear in Jewish lit­er­a­t ure. In b. Ket. 103b, R. Ḥiyya declares that he would produce ḥumashin and teach c­ hildren so that Torah is not forgotten in Israel. The study edition might also undergird the prescription of R. Ḥelbo, in p. Meg. 2:3 73b, that one may not read from ḥumashin in public. 30. Wilma O. Stern and Danae H. Thimme, Kenchreai: Eastern Port of Corinth. VI. Ivory, Bone, and Related Wood Finds (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 285n40. 31. On refracting the poetry of the Psalter through the lens of Greek poetry, see Josephus, Ant. 7.305; Eusebius, Praep. ev. 5.5.5; Jerome, Epist. 30. Jerome (Epist. 53:8) lauds the Psalms as the best of poetry, naming David above all ­others, including Pindar and Horace. For further information on the assessment of the Psalms as poetry in the Greco-­Roman world, see F. W. Dobbs-­A llsopp, On Biblical Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 60–63. 32. Van Sickle, “The Book-­Roll,” 7–12. 33. Division by convention moved beyond the bounds of Alexandrian scribal practice. Much scholarship points to a relationship between ancient Jewish scribes and t­ hose in Alexandria. See the pioneering work of Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine. For further details, see Moss, “Noblest Obelus.” Tov, Scribal Practices, 23, acknowledges the impact of Alexandrian scribal practices upon texts found at Qumran. 34. ­Table 1 is based on character count. It cannot fully account for all the vacats and other large line spaces in scrolls from Qumran. The estimates in the chart, therefore, are minimalist. The mea­sure­ments ­here should not be considered true mea­sure­ments for the Dead Sea Scrolls but, rather, an imaginative exercise regarding what the late antique Psalm scrolls could have looked like. The count is rounded to the nearest ­whole number. The chart was derived as follows: I compared characters per column for each Qumran text with the number of characters in an MT Psalter. I then extrapolated how many columns would be necessary to complete the entire Psalter or book of the Psalter. I then multiplied that by the mea­sure­ ments for a single column within the selected Qumran text. A full Psalter contains about 80,544 characters without spaces (w/o) and about 102,625 characters with spaces (w). The first book contains 20,508 (w/o) and 26,726 (w). The second book contains 16,291 (w/o) and 20,755 (w).



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The third book contains 12,978 (w/o) and 16,511 (w). The fourth book contains 9816 (w/o) and 12,512 (w). The fifth book contains 20,551 (w/o) and 26,120 (w). For the reconstruction of number of lines per column, I use the ­table in Tov, Scribal Practices, 79–84. Thus, 11QPsa contains approximately 26 lines per column. Column 16 ­w ill be used as an example. It contains roughly 45 characters with spaces per line. Thus a full column could contain 720 characters. James A. Sanders, The Psalms Scroll of Qumran Cave 11 (11QPsa) (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), 4, claims that this column length is 15.3 cm. Thus, a full MT Psalter written with the characteristics of column 16 of 11QPsa would need approximately 143 columns. If each column mea­ sures 15.3 cm + 2 cm (for margin between columns), then a full MT Psalter would equal 2473.9 cm (= 24.73 meters/81 feet). 4QPsb averages about 17 lines per column and 22 spaces per line; thus, 374 characters with spaces per column. A total of 275 columns are needed for an entire Psalter. Tov, Scribal Practices, 78, claims that a column is 3.7–4.5 cm. The margins seem to be about half the size of a line. Thus, I went with the total mea­sure of 2 cm per margin and 4.1 cm per column. A column width of 8.3 cm and inter-­columnar distance of 1.4 is presented for 4QPsg in Ulrich et al., Qumran Cave 4.XI: Psalms to Chronicles, 108. Each column contains 8 lines with approximately 32 spaces per line = 256 characters per column. A total of 401 columns would be needed for a full Psalter. For 4QPsl, the mea­sure­ments in Ulrich et al., 127, indicate that each column contained 15 lines with an average of 17 letter spaces per line. This leaves 255 spaces per column. The approximate width is 4.3 cm, with an inter-­columnar margin of 1.2 cm. A full Psalter would require 403 columns. The dimensions of the Leningrad Codex are 30 × 27 cm for the page and 20.5 × 22 cm for the text. I have used the text mea­sure­ment with full knowledge that a complete Psalter would be larger. Dimensions are from David N. Freedman, Astrid B. Beck, and James A. Sanders, The Leningrad Codex: A Facsimile Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1998), xxi. Shira Schmidtman, whose son read the entire Psalms from parchment for his bar mitzvah, informed me in a personal communication that the scroll was about one-­third the size of a modern Torah scroll. 35. For the most part, the talmudic scribal sugyot and tractate Soferim discuss the desired height of a column and the required spacing in the margins. I have been unable to locate any statements that legislate a par­tic­u­lar width of a column. 36. See this princi­ple in operation in the discussion ­later in this chapter about line and word spacing. 37. Sof. 2:11, ­a fter it offers vari­ous options for the number of lines per column. 38. On stichographic arrangement at Qumran, and for some useful charts, see Emanuel Tov, “The Background of the Stichometric Arrangements of Poetry in the Desert Scrolls,” in Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Lit­er­a­ture: Essays in Honor of Eileen Schuller on the Occasion of Her 65th Birthday, ed. Jeremy Penner, Ken M. Penner, and Cecilia Wassen (Leiden: Brill, 2012). The information in the footnotes below about which scrolls contain poetic divisions comes from Tov. For further information, see the data in Silviu Tatu, “Graphic Devices Used by the Editors of Ancient and Mediaeval Manuscripts to Mark Verse-­ Lines in Classical Hebrew Poetry,” in Method in Unit Delimitation, ed. Marjo C. A. Korpel, Josef M. Oesch, and Stanley E. Porter (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 99–103, 110. The most wide-­ ranging survey of ancient stichometric counting remains James R. Harris, Stichometry (London: C. J. Clay, 1893). Unfortunately, he does not discuss Hebrew evidence. For an early discussion of Hebrew stichography, see Ludwig Blau, “Massoretic Studies. IV. The Division into Verses (Continued),” Jewish Quarterly Review 9 (1897): 474–77. 39. For the purposes of this discussion, my use of the phrase “rabbinic canon” also includes Ben Sira, which does appear in stichographic division (2QSir and MasSir). Rabbinic

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lit­er­a­t ure does cite Ben Sira with canonical authority, although the book is also explic­itly contested. On Ben Sira in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, see Labendz, “The Book of Ben Sira.” 40. Tov, Scribal Practices, 6. 41. I ­w ill not discuss ­here the variety of ways of writing superscriptions. For further, see Tov, Scribal Practices, 165–66. 42. ­These include 1QPsa (except Psalm 119); 1QPsb; 1QPsc; 3QPs; 4QPsa; 4QPsd (from col. 3 line 5 and on); 4QPse; 4QPsf; 4QPsj; 4QPsk; 4QPsm; 4QPsn; 4QPso; 4QPsp; 4QPsq; 4QPsr; 4QPsr; 4QPss; 4QPsu; 4Q522; 6QpapPs(?); 11QPsa (except Psalm 119); 11QPsb; 11QPsc; 11QPsd. 43. Such as 4QPsb cols. 1–33; 4QPsd from col. 3 line 5 onward; and 4QPsl. 44. 1QPsa (for Psalm 119); 4QPsc; 5QPs; 8QPs; 11QPsb (for Psalm 119); 5/6 HevPs; MasPsa. 45. 4QPsb cols. 34–5; 4QPsg; 4QPsh; 11QPsa (Psalm 119 and a few other instances). 46. I have not discussed irregular poetic arrangements, such as clusters of two or three words separated by uneven spaces. One finds such an arrangement for MasPsb. See further Tov, “Background of the Stichometric Arrangements,” 417. 47. For example, 4QPsb contains one hemistich per line in columns 1–33 but two hemistichs per line without spaces for cols. 34–35. Additionally, 1QPsa, 11QPsa, and 11QPsb have only Psalm 119 in a poetic layout, with the remaining psalms in prose. 4QPsd col. 3 line 13 and onward are written in a poetic layout, while the e­ arlier columns ­were copied in prose format. 48. Tov, Scribal Practices, 258–59. See also Tov, “Background of the Stichometric Arrangements,” 419–20, where he argues that scribes employing the stichometric systems ­were writing in a proto-­Masoretic tradition. 49. For discussion and the source, see George B. Gray, The Forms of Hebrew Poetry (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1915), 12; Donald R. Vance, The Question of Meter in Biblical Hebrew Poetry (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2001), 52–53. 50. For Origen and the Jews, see Nicholas de Lange, Origen and the Jews: Studies in Jewish-­ Christian Relations in Third-­Century Palestine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976); Maren R. Niehoff, “Origen’s Commentary on Genesis as Key to Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016). On Origen’s translation proj­ect and its relationship to Jews, see Ruth A. Clements, “Origen’s Hexapla and Christian-­Jewish Encounter in the Second and Third Centuries,” in Religious Rivalries and the Strug­gle for Success in Caesarea Maritima, ed. Terence L. Donaldson (Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2000). 51. While the word shirah undoubtedly also refers to Exodus 15 or Deuteronomy 32, ­there is no need to limit the word to ­these two texts. Shirah in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure can also refer to a psalm. See, for example, t. Pesaḥ. 4:11; t. Soṭ. 6:5; Mekh. R. Ishmael, Shirata 1; Sifra Milluʾim 1:2; p. Ber. 2:3 4d; p. Ḥag. 2:1 77a; p. Sanh. 10:2 29a. This list is merely a sampling. I thus disagree with Tov, Scribal Practices, 163–64, who interprets the evidence in b. Meg. 16b, discussed soon, as referring to “all songs contained in non-­poetical books.” As Kugel notes, the interlocking system used for the Song of the Sea is replicated for Psalm 18 and for the entire Psalter in some medieval manuscripts. See James L. Kugel, The Idea of Biblical Poetry: Parallelism and Its History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 123–24. This may also have been the case during Late Antiquity. 52. B. Meg. 16b. For further on the terms “half-­brick” and “­whole brick,” as well as a history of their interpretation, see Eliezer Segal, The Babylonian Esther Midrash: A Critical Commentary (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 3:160–63nn71–73; Kugel, Idea of Biblical Poetry, 121–23.



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53. On the date of this text, see Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 228. 54. Unfortunately, Sof. 12:12 appears to be the only place where the word petiḥot appears with a technical scribal meaning. It is likely akin to the semantically similar phrase rosh pasuq, which means the opening clause of a verse. See Gen. Rab. 36:8. Elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, the word petiḥah means an opening, often of a ­legal discussion or homily. 55. This is the only place in Sof. in which the word etnaḥta appears. It occurs once more in this technical sense in Gen. Rab. 36:8, in the clause eilu hahekhraʿot vehaʾetnaḥta. Michael Sokoloff rightly translates this phrase as “­these are the decisions (concerning the juxtaposition of the words) and the pauses.” A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period, 2nd ed. (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2002), 81. The word etnaḥta is uncertain within the manuscript tradition of Genesis Rabbah. Nonetheless, it appears in Vatican 30, the acknowledged oldest and most authoritative manuscript of Genesis Rabbah. That it means a textual pause and not the accent also called etnaḥta is evident from the context of Genesis Rabbah. R. Ḥiyya, whose statement this is, offers an alternative interpretation of Neh. 8:8, “so that the ­people understood the reading,” which R. Yudan had previously interpreted to mean “beginning of verses.” The previous phrase in Neh. 8:8, “they gave sense,” is interpreted as “­these are the musical notes” without dispute. An interpretation that highlights both musical notes and etnaḥta as a musical note would be strange. That etnaḥta in tractate Soferim means a pause between stichs and not a cantillation mark was already noticed by Joel Müller, Masechet Soferim: Der talmudische Tractat der Schreiber (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1879), 172–73. 56. This is the only place in Sof. in which the phrase sof pasuq appears. It does not appear in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. In late rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, it often means the final clause of a verse. 57. The text I cite is from Ms. Oxford 370. On the place of this manuscript among the variety of manuscripts and printed editions, see Debra Reed Blank, “It’s Time to Take Another Look at ‘Our ­Little ­Sister’ Soferim: A Bibliographical Essay,” Jewish Quarterly Review 90 (1999). 58. The Aleppo Codex contains at least thirteen dif­fer­ent patterns for line division. Overall, it ­favors division into two columns, even if the balance between stichs is not always even. For a detailed study, see Paul Sanders, “The Colometric Layout of Psalms 1 to 14 in the Aleppo Codex,” in Studies in Scriptural Unit Division, ed. Marjo C. A. Korpel and Josef M. Oesch (Leiden: Brill, 2002). 59. Fragments include, but are not ­limited to, T-­S A13.2; T-­S A13.3; T-­S A13.4. For what seems to be a pocket Psalter, see T-­S A13.1. T-­S A32.52 also appears to be a personal Psalter; fol. 1v seems to have a stichography similar to that used for the kings of Canaan. T-­S A32.11 and T-­S A32.55 contain Psalms ­r unning in a linear fashion without pause. ­There are more than 3,000 fragments from the Psalms in the Cairo Genizah. A full study is a desideratum but one that falls outside the scope of this chapter and book. For additional fragments from other Genizot, see Tatu, “Graphic Devices Used,” 118–22. For divisions in Masoretic manuscripts, see Breuer, Aleppo Codex, 175–79. 60. For Syriac and Persian culture, see n. 10 above. For Greek, see Bausi and Sokolinski, Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies, 193–96. Byzantine liturgical rolls, although rare, exist from throughout the ­Middle Ages and could be an in­ter­est­ing site of comparison with Jewish materials.

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61. And they continued to do so ­a fter Late Antiquity. The Pentateuchal scroll remains a key liturgical object for modern Judaism. 62. The printed edition and early manuscripts list a cloak (ṭallit) ­here. It does not belong. For manuscript evidence and further argument, see J. N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah: The Text of the Mishnah and Its Development from the Days of the First Amoraim ­Until the Print Copy of R. Yom Tov Lipmann-­Heller [Hebrew] (Jerusalem, 1947), 2:963. See, however, the qualifying discussion in Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kefshutah, pts. 9–10: Seder Nezekin [Hebrew] (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 2000), 309–10. For my purposes, the final statement of the Mishnah, which is without textual difficulty, is impor­tant. 63. The Mishnah ­here is unclear as to ­whether this prohibition means that one cannot divide a single scroll into several new scrolls, or a collection of scrolls into smaller collections of scrolls. Hanoch Albeck suggests the former, likely on the basis of Samuel’s interpretation of this mishnah in b. B. Bat. 13b. See his Mishnah: Seder Nezekin [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1959), 119. The latter seems more plausible, as scrolls containing single biblical books ­were likely still the scribal norm. Additionally, while “divide” (ḥalaq) can literally mean “split in two,” in the context of inheritance, it more often indicates the division of separate objects among inheritors. For ḥalaq as dividing a scroll, see m. Kel. 13:1, where dividing a book can literally mean cutting it in half. For ḥalaq as meaning “to divide property,” see m. Ket. 8:2, 8:6. It is, further, clear from the rest of m. B. Bat. that what inheritors do is “divide” property. We need not imagine the literal division of a single scroll. 64. It is very unlikely that Psalms and Chronicles would have existed together in one continuous scroll. 65. See, for example, p. Meg. 3:1 73d, which establishes a hierarchy of sanctity based on ­these divisions. Note that ketuvim and nevi’im are often treated as possessing a similar status, even though they are clearly understood as two distinct units of organ­ization. See, for example, t. Rosh Hash. 2:12 (one can pause in the ­middle of both during a liturgical lection); p. Meg. 1:4 70d (both ­w ill be nullified in the ­f uture); and p. Meg. 3:1 73d (one can stitch works from the Prophets and the Hagiographa together). 66. A parallel to this discussion appears in b. B. Bat. 13b, which cites Samuel. Like R. Uqva, Samuel approaches the Mishnah with a materialist lens. But unlike R. Uqva, he produces a dif­fer­ent ruling, claiming that the Mishnah’s decree applies only to scriptural texts bound into a single scroll. If multiple scrolls exist, the inheritors may divide them if they so wish. He does not discuss specific biblical texts. 67. It is pos­si­ble that ­these sages discuss Psalms and Chronicles ­because the two texts bookend the Hagiographa. But such a suggestion is weakened by the fact that the canonical order of the Hagiographa was unsettled in this period. In the reckoning of b. B. Bat. 14b, the locus classicus for rabbinic discussions about the biblical canon, the first book of the Hagiographa is Ruth. According to Jerome’s Prologue to Kings, its first book is Job, and its final book is Esther. In the Aleppo Codex and the Leningrad Codex, the Hagiographa opens with Chronicles. Psalms appears afterward. 68. The earliest evidence for this division appears to be the Septuagint. See Isaac Kalimi, The Retelling of Chronicles in Jewish Tradition and Lit­er­a­ture: A Historical Journey (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 87. 69. Lev. Rab. 4:7. I read with the London manuscript and expand the quotation of the biblical verse. ­There are very few significant variants. 70. The print edition reads “R. Yoḥanan” against all the manuscripts. This is likely a corruption.



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71. The Sassoon manuscript reads twenty-­four, which is likely a ­mistake. The word mizmor in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure refers almost exclusively to poems from the Psalter. The prooftext cited is Ps. 104:35 in the textus receptus, thus making the count of 120 challenging. This tradition’s parallel in b. Ber. 9b also pre­sents a range of options within its manuscript history. Ms. Munich rec­ords the number at 130, with a second scribe bringing the count to 139. Mss. Oxford, Florence, and Paris rec­ord 103. Ms. Seu d’Urgell—­A rxiu Capitular 2078 reads 113. A ­later scribe erased the word for “ten” to bring the number down to 103. Ms. Paris (AIU) III A.1 reads 118. As acknowledged in other places in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, the Psalter did not strictly contain 150 psalms. It could be divided in such a way as to contain both more and fewer than 150 chapters. See, for example, p. Shab. 16:5 15c, which claims that the Psalms contains 147 chapters in accordance with the number of years that Jacob the patriarch lived. The variable counting of the number of poems in the Psalter continues ­until the rise of print. For further discussion based on the extant Masoretic manuscripts of the Psalter, see William Yarchin, “Is ­There an Authoritative Shape for the Hebrew Book of Psalms? Profiling the Manuscripts of the Hebrew Psalter,” Revue Biblique 122 (2015). 72. For primary sources, see b. Pesaḥ. 117a; b. B. Bat. 14b; Song Rab. 4:4. For further discussion, see A. J. Berkovitz, “Beyond Attribution and Authority: The Case of Psalms in Rabbinic Hermeneutics,” in Rethinking ‘Authority’ in Late Antiquity Authorship, Law, and Transmission in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. A. J. Berkovitz and Mark Letteney (London: Routledge, 2018), 58. 73. Cf. this rabbinic opinion with that in b. Ber. 10a, which is discussed in Chapter 2 in the section on scroll form and linear reading. 74. I have italicized for emphasis. 75. All manuscripts use the phrase “first book of Psalms,” except for Ms. Munich, which reads “first book of the book of Psalms.” 76. On memory techniques in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, see Shlomo Naeh, “Make Your Heart into Many Rooms: An Additional Inquiry into the Words of the Sages on Disagreement” [Hebrew], in Renewing Jewish Commitment: On the Work and Thought of David Hartman [Hebrew], vol. 2, ed. Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar (Tel Aviv: Kibbutz HaMeuhad, 2001); Naeh, “The Art of Memory, Memory Structures and Patterns of Text in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­t ure” [Hebrew], in Studies on the Talmud 3, ed. Sussman and Rosenthal. Even Yaakov Sussman, the champion of widespread orality, admits that, within an oral environment, p­ eople with perfect memory are the exception. Sussman, “Oral Torah Simpliciter,” in Studies on the Talmud 3, 1:243n59. ­Later, however, he continues to stress that many p­ eople knew at least the Mishnah by heart and that “it is known to us that not a few Amoraim knew all of Scripture by heart” (1:347n77). 77. ­There is some evidence for material recourse with regard to ­legal lit­er­a­ture. See Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 87. For an example that combines law and homily, see Gen. Rab. 81:1. For continued skepticism, see Hezser, “Bookish Circles?” 78. Marc G. Hirshman, “Aggadic Midrash,” in The Lit­er­a­ture of the Sages, pt. 2: Midrash and Targum, Liturgy, Poetry, Mysticism, Contracts, Inscriptions, Ancient Science and the Languages of Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture, ed. Shmuel Safrai et al. (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2006), 108–9. 79. I thank Tzvi Novick for this suggestion. 80. For further details on Midrash Psalms, see Introduction, nn. 57–58. 81. For an exploration of conflating David with Moses in Mid. Ps., see Menn, “Praying King and Sanctuary of Prayer,” 14. 82. Mid. Ps. 1:1. The incipits appear in full in Mss. JTS Mic. 5529/1; Plut. II.13, Vat. 81; Cambridge Trinity 49; and partially in Cambridge Ms. Or. 786. They are firmly attested across

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the Sephardic manuscript ­family and perhaps also in the Ashkenazic ­family. I thank Rabbi Mordecai Silverstein for generously providing me with the manuscript information for this passage. Worth noting as well is that the final incipit is listed as Ps. 107:2, “Thus let the redeemed of the LORD say,” and not Ps. 107:1, “Praise the LORD, for He is good.” I suspect that this was due to the fact that ­these words also open Psalm 106, although Psalm 106 begins with hallelujah. Alternatively, the Sephardic ­family may be quoting a Psalter that does not have Ps. 107:1, which, admittedly, seems unlikely. 83. Hillel Newman, “Jerome and the Jews” [Hebrew] (PhD diss., Hebrew University, 1994). 84. Latin text from SC 592: 323–37. I’ve modified “v” to “u” and lowercased biblical books. Jerome also talks about the canon in his Epist. 53 but not about its textual makeup. 85. For the chronology of Jerome’s work, I have relied on Megan H. Williams, The Monk and the Book: Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 275–301. 86. Jerome was likely also drawing upon Origen when describing the division of the Hebrew canon. Origen’s list is cited by Eusebius in his Hist. eccl. 6.25. Origen, however, calls the Psalter the “Book of Psalms” and not “David.” Notably, Eusebius claims that Origen provides this list when expounding Psalm 1. Eusebius, like Jerome, also calls the books of Psalms and Proverbs “David” and “Solomon,” respectively. Origen, in the prologue to his Psalm commentary, is also aware of the Jewish division of Psalms into five books. For the text of the prologue, see Walter Rietz, De Origenis prologis in Psalterium quaestiones selectae (Jena, Germany: H. Pohle, 1914). 87. Jerome considers Lamentations as part of Jeremiah and Ruth as part of Judges. 88. On the technical terms volumen and liber, see ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 264n4; Frampton, Empire of Letters, 16. Liber is sometimes used synonymously with volumen. Liber may also be used to indicate a literary unit of a larger work. Volumen often denotes the book as a physical object. 89. SC 592:408. 90. For Jerome’s fascination with Hebrew letters and numerology, see his Epist. 30 and Guy G. Stroumsa, The Scriptural Universe of Ancient Chris­tian­ity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 113–14. Jerome might also be reacting to other Christian opinions about the Psalter’s division into five books. Gregory of Nyssa, in his In inscriptiones Psalmorum, acknowledges the Psalter’s fivefold division and uses it as grist for his theological mill. He equates the order of the five books to the progressive stages of spiritual life. For further information on Gregory and the order of the Psalter, see Matthias Henze, “Patristic Interpretations of the Composition of the Psalter,” in Of Scribes and Sages: Early Jewish Interpretation and Transmission of Scripture, ed. Craig A. Evans (London: T. & T. Clark, 2004), 2:141–44. See also Ronald E. Heine, Gregory of Nyssa’s Treatise on the Inscriptions of the Psalms (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 50–71. 91. Given Jerome’s contact with and knowledge of Jews, saying that he in­ven­ted from ­whole cloth the Jewish position that he cites would go beyond reasonable minimalism. It is also pos­si­ble, although less probable, that some late ancient Jew possessed a copy of the Hebrew Psalter in codex format. 92. Midrash Psalms, of course, was redacted well ­a fter the time of Jerome. Its view of the material makeup of the Psalter existed ­earlier, as the sources from the Babylonian Talmud that we ­w ill soon explore attest. 93. Reading with Ms. Cambridge Or. 786. Buber’s edition rec­ords no manuscript variants.



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94. Some rabbis do, indeed, collapse parallel passages. Consider b. Taʿan. 10a, which combines a verse from Psalm 18 and its parallel in 2 Samuel 22. B. Yoma 47a may preserve another such instance. 95. Ms. Munich 95 lacks “book of Psalms.” But two-­fifths must refer to the Psalms or to the Pentateuch. Genizah fragments and the remaining available manuscripts read “book of Psalms.” ­There is, additionally, no reason to think of two-­fifths in terms of textual space, especially as ­there was a convention that governed the fivefold division of Psalms. 96. This narrative parallels a story about R. Ḥiyya in p. Ket. 12:3 35a. For an explanation as to where ­these differences ­matter, see Shlomo Naeh, “The Structure and Division of ‘Torat Kohanim’ (A): Scrolls” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 66 (1997): 486n16. Naeh suggests (486–87) that shne ḥumashin refers to two-­fifths of Midrash Psalms and that this midrash was already divided into five books. That shne ḥumashin refers to the biblical book(s) of Psalms is more likely. We have almost no knowledge about Midrash Psalms in this period. Furthermore, the scenario that underpins this scene is likely similar to the one that we ­w ill explore in Chapter 2, regarding b. Avod. Zar. 19a. R. Simon was likely reading from a physical book of Psalms and si­mul­ta­neously expounding. This background would account for the narrative’s use of the word shnʾ, which Naeh points to as a marker for oral learning. That this word could mean “reading and expounding” seems evident from a source that he cites in n. 20 to prove an entirely dif­fer­ent point: “When a person goes to learn Torah for the first time, he has no idea what to do ­u ntil he studies [shnʾ] two portions [sedarim] or two books [sefarim]” (Sifre Deuteronomy 303). Portions (sedarim) are characteristic of the Mishnah, while books (sefarim) usually indicate texts from the Hebrew Bible. Furthermore, ­there is no reason to assume that “books” ­here means anything other than physical books. The scene likely imagines reading from and expounding upon Scripture, an activity that does take the verb “study” (shnʾ). 97. Each of ­these words is used as a countable unit in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. My translation is tentative, since their exact delimitations vary greatly, even within rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. They require further study. For initial reference, see Ludwig Blau, “Massoretic Studies: III. The Division into Verses,” Jewish Quarterly Review 9 (1896); Blau, “Massoretic Studies: IV”; Shlomo Naeh, “The Structure and the Division of Torat Kohanin (B): Parashot, Perakim, Halakhot” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 69 (1999). Granted, pereq may not be used for the Bible at all (Naeh, 62). 98. Haran, “Books of Torah,” 99, demonstrates that such a meaning dominates the use of the phrase sefer Torah, which, in many rabbinic sources, clearly indicates only one of the books of the Pentateuch. 99. Possibly, ­these traditions stem from the earliest layers of the rabbinic oral wisdom, perhaps even from Palestine. The first cites “the early ones,” and the second begins with a citation formula that suggests a tannaitic provenance. 100. The words “scribe” and “count” share the same Hebrew root: spr. 101. ­These mea­sures are incorrect with re­spect to the modern Bible. Nevertheless, this exegetical remark likely accounts for the elongated waw in Lev. 11:42 and the extended gimmel in Lev. 13:33 of the Leningrad Codex. 102. The scribes of the Leningrad Codex wrote this ayin above the line. 103. The ­actual half, according to the Leningrad Codex, is v. 36. 104. Worth noting about this tradition is its lack of symmetry. The Pentateuch section treats letters, words, and verses. The Psalm section treats letters and verses. Could this tradition have suffered from a garbled oral transmission?

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Notes to Pages 36–40

105. The Leviticus scroll from En-­Gedi, for example, was clearly both liturgical and not part of a complete Pentateuch. See Segal et al., “Early Leviticus Scroll,” 5–6. Another example of theoretical unity comes from the canon sugya in b. B. Bat. 15a, which reads: “David wrote the book of Psalms” (sefer tehillim). 106. For an attempt to bridge the gap between this tradition and the Masoretic counting, see Blau, “Massoretic Studies. IV,” 483–84. 107. Ancient Jews did not divide in half the books of Chronicles, Kings, and Samuel. Even Jerome is aware of this fact. In his preface to Samuel-­K ings, he writes: “And in third place comes Samuel, which we call the First and Second Kings. Fourth comes Malachim, which is Kings, which corresponds to the Second and Third scrolls [volumine] of Kings” (SC 592:329). 108. Cf. Blau, “Massoretic Studies. III,” 127–31. He argues that ­there was a fixed verse division. His reading of the word pasuq, however, is too expansive. 109. See b. Taʿan. 27b for another example involving contested divisions. This source exhibits anxiety about textual division and its use in a school setting. On the division of “verse” units at Qumran, see Tov, Scribal Practices, 127–39. 110. For the opposite conclusion, see Blau, “Massoretic Studies. III,” 142. The evidence throughout, however, demonstrates diversity. 111. This idea was proposed as early as Blau, “Massoretic Studies. IV,” 475. It is worth further noting that the Cheltenham List marks 5,000 lines for Psalms in Latin. It is unlikely, however, that the Hebrew and Latin w ­ ere being counted the same way. 112. Tov, Scribal Practices, 133n190. 113. On this style, see ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 229–30; Dobbs-­A llsopp, On Biblical Poetry, 23–25. Cf. Blau, “Massoretic Studies. IV,” 476. Blau thinks that the count for Chronicles is also based on stichs. This makes less sense than per cola. As a ­whole, the tradition seems to be showcasing the vari­ous ways of counting a biblical text. 114. “Let no one who has seen the Prophets written down in stichs [Lat., versibus] judge them to be in verse [Lat., metro] among the Hebrews and at all similar to Psalms or the works of Solomon. But ­because it is customary to write De­mos­the­nes and Cicero per cola et commata (even though both of them wrote prose and not verse [Lat., versibus; lit., “in verses, stichs”]), we, too (out of concern for a usable text for readers), have used the new style of writing to make divisions in the new translation.” Trans. from Dobbs-­A llsopp, On Biblical Poetry, 24. Latin text available in R. Weber, ed., Biblia Sacra (Stuttgart, 1983), 1096. For Cicero in this style, see Charles J. Robbins, “A Colometric Arrangement of Cicero,” Classical Journal 75 (1979): 57–62. This form of division may have derived from an ­earlier system of points and stops that Alexandrian scribes employed to aid the correct division of a text into sense units. See Turner, Greek Manuscripts, 9. 115. See Malcolm B. Parkes, Pause and Effect: An Introduction to the History of Punctuation in the West (Aldershot: Scolar, 1992), 16; see 178–89 for a visual example of this kind of division with regard to Psalm 1. 116. Bausi and Sokolinski, Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies, 259. 117. I thank Tzvi Novick for this suggestion. 118. See Harris, Stichometry, 18. On paying scribes by the line, see 26–29, and Kurt Ohly, Stichometrische Untersuchungen (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1928), 86–90. 119. P. Meg. 1:11 71b–72a and b. Menaḥ. 29a–32b, although scribal information continues for several more folios. 120. See p. Meg. 1:11 71d.



Notes to Pages 40–41

173

121. For a survey of rabbinic sources that highlight the varying accuracy of biblical texts, see Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 20–27. This concern was pre­sent, of course, in both Babylonia and Palestine. 122. For this usage of meyushar, see b. Meg. 18b (x2) and b. Sanh. 22a. In Megillah, the word refers to the expert scribe R. Meir. In Sanhedrin, a tradition derives “Assyrian script” from “writing that is straight in its letters,” i.e., clear. For the “beautiful writing” in the Greek tradition, see Turner, Greek Manuscripts, 2–3. Origen’s assistants also ­were said to be trained in “beautiful writing.” See Grafton and Williams, Chris­tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book, 69. 123. The citation formula for R. Dimi is unstable. I think, though, that that addition of “­brother of R. Safra” is unnecessary and was likely added for literary effect. 124. Reading with Ms. Hamburg 165. 125. Expert writing was rewarded. The Edict of Diocletian states: “To a scribe for best writing, 25 denarii per 100 lines; for second quality writing, 20 denarii per 100 lines; to a notary for writing a petition or ­legal document, 10 denarii per 100 lines” (col. 7, lines 41–43). According to B.M. Papyrus 2110: “for 10,000 lines 28 drachmas . . . ​for 6,300 lines 13 drachmas.” The sources and translations come from Turner, Greek Manuscripts, 1, 23. See ­there for further discussions. 126. B. Avod. Zar. 19a, explored in Chapter 2. Marc G. Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 100 c.e.–350 c.e.: Texts on Education and Their Late Antique Context (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 72, suggests that b. Avod. Zar. 19a and b. B. Bat. 164b might depict the same recitation event. This type of harmonization, I believe, goes too far. 127. In this re­spect, I disagree with Hezser, Jewish Literacy, 88, although she does not consider evidence from the Babylonian Talmud in her work. 128. It is worth noting that the scribe depicted ­here seems to mirror the “multipurpose scribes” of early Christian lit­er­a­t ure as described by Kim Haines-­Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Lit­er­a­ture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 32–40. 129. For other examples of scribal meticulousness and textual anxiety in rabbinic lit­er­ a­t ure, see Tov, Scribal Practices, 24. 130. All manuscripts except Mss. JTS 1623/2 and Columbia X 893 read pirqa. ­These two outliers have pisqa, a reading that Sokoloff adopts in his dictionary. Pirqa, in general, signifies a unit of text, such as a section of prayer (b. Ber. 20b) or a chapter of Mishnah (b. Ber. 52b). It is a fixed and known mea­sure. See Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 2:898–900. In some biblical scrolls, a new section could begin with a blank space. ­These may not necessarily correspond to the Masoretic divisions of Psalms. This still applies if pisqa is the correct reading. It means “section of a literary work.” To my knowledge, our passage is the only one in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure to connect the word to a biblical text. Nonetheless, this usage does appear in geonic lit­er­a­ture, where sof pisqa appears to mean the next available blank space. For examples, see Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 902. Of course, pisqa does appear in Hebrew, where it seems to indicate a pause between two units of text. See Sifra Dibbura Denedava 2, discussed by Naeh, “The Structure and the Division of Torat Kohanin (B),” 67. 131. With the exception, of course, of Psalm 150, which concludes the book. 132. The psalms affected are 110–14; 115–18; 134–36; 145–46. Also note the somewhat anomalous hallelujah in Ps. 135:2–3.

174

Notes to Pages 41–44

133. At the very least, R. Ḥisda and Rabba b. R. Huna argue about where to pause when reading or reciting the Psalms. 134. See Tov, Scribal Practices, 134–49. At times, one finds marginal notations that mark sections; see 168–75. 135. Tov, Scribal Practices, 153–54. 136. 11QPsa contains numerous examples in which the beginning of a psalm starts a new line of text. Such spacing also occurs in texts divided stichographically, such as 4QPsb. For the most part, scribes treated titles as the beginning of a new psalm. However, some scribes treated them in a graphically distinct manner and as an in­de­pen­dent unit of information. For further information, see Tov, Scribal Practices, 165. 137. The equivalent Hebrew phrase emtza hapereq appears two times in classical rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, with the meaning, “in the ­middle of a textual section,” as opposed to its beginning or end. See t. Ber. 2:5 and b. Ber. 14a. 138. For examples in which the space between psalms is lacking, see 4QPsa 9 III, 9 and 4QPso 1 2. ­These cases are far from clear, however. Clearer is 4QPsr 1–2i, 3–4 I, 6. For the suggestion that “­middle” indicates no vacant space and thus the a­ ctual ­middle of a line, see also C. D. Ginsburg, Introduction to the Massoretico-­Critical Edition of the Hebrew Bible (London: Trinitarian Bible Society, 1897), 381. He adopts this view in his own edition of the Bible, which lays out the Psalms stichographically. He also places ­these disputed hallelujahs in their own separate line but in the ­middle of that line. See, for example, the relevant psalms in C. D. Ginsburg, Liber Psalmorum (London: Societatis bibliophilorum Britannicae et Externae, 1913). See also Heinrich Graetz, “Die Halleluya—­und Hallel—­Psalmen,” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judenthums 18 (1879): 193. 139. This anecdote contains the narrative trope of “authentication by scroll” that we ­w ill explore further below. For a similar trope that appears in Greco-­Roman lit­er­a­t ure, see Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire, 111. For yet another Jewish example, see b. Shab. 49b. 140. A clearer way to indicate that hallelujah would begin a new section if the text did have a line break (or any break) would be to say (using Psalm 146 as an example): ‫הללויה דקמיה‬ ‫הללי נפשי ריש פירקא‬. That reading from a Psalter and not writing it is at play in the latter half of this talmudic discourse receives further support from the fact that the Talmud cites the enigmatic “readers” (qaraʾai), who add two more examples: Ps. 110:7 and Ps. 111:10. If writing ­were at stake, the tradition could have cited the opinions of the “scribes.” For other examples of Bible readers, see b. Meg. 28b and b. Avod. Zar. 40a. Mss. JTS 1623/2 and Columbia X 893 read suraʾai. I am unsure how this reading arises. Could they be talking about Syriac Psalters? It is tempting to see suraʾai as the original reading, which eventually becomes qaraʾai in reference to the Karaites. This suggestion, however, is mere speculation. 141. Paralleled in p. Suk. 3:12 53d. ­W hether the source originates in Babylonia or Palestine does not affect the argument. 142. Initially, however, it is placed on the list of words that one may divide. 143. Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 24, and Blau, Studien zum althebräischen Buchwesen, 111n3, suggest that “Psalms of R. Meir” means any text copied by R. Meir and not necessarily his own personal Psalter. This is prob­ably correct. 144. A scribe of the Leiden manuscript of Palestinian Talmud Megillah places a dot above ­every instance in which hallelu and jah are separated. He likely did so for the purposes of clarity. The scribal situation in the parallel version of this tradition in p. Sukkah is more complicated. The scribe primarily distinguishes between the two forms of hallelujah by plac-



Notes to Pages 44–47

175

ing a tzere ­under the first lamed of the hallel that cannot be divided and a sheva ­under the one than cannot be erased. The spacing between hallelu and jah, however, is inconsistent and does not quite match the Talmud’s discussion. The hallelujah of the father-­in-­law’s statement is graphically represented as one single word. The scribe does not mark it with any vowels. 145. For Masoretic variation, see Jonathan Siegel, The Scribes of Qumran: Studies in the Early History of Jewish Scribal Customs, with Special Reference to the Qumran Biblical Scrolls and to the Tannaitic Traditions of Massekheth Soferim (PhD diss., Brandeis University, 1971), 97– 100. For a Genizah fragment that separates hallelu and jah, see Ezra Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs of Palestinian Jews During the Times of the Genizah [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), 279n20. For additional discussion of Masoretic variation, see Israel Yevin, “The Division into Sections in the Book of Psalms,” Textus 7 (1969): 91–92, 95–96. 146. For previous discussions, see Siegel, Scribes of Qumran, 80–110; Graetz, “Die Halleluya—­und Hallel—­Psalmen,” 195; Ginsburg, Introduction to the Massoretico-­Critical Edition, 376–82. 147. For Qumran, see Tov, Scribal Practices, 205–8. For early papyri, see Kim Haines-­ Eitzen, Guardians of Letters, 92–94. The scribe of one parchment fragment of Genesis even wrote the name of God using a double Paleo-­Hebrew yod. See Brent Nongbri, God’s Library: The Archaeology of the Earliest Christian Manuscripts (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2018), 229. Jerome, in his prologue to Samuel, also attests to Greek scrolls (Graecis voluminibus) containing the four-­letter name of God (nomen Domini tetragrammaton) in ancient letters (antiquis expressum litteris) (SC 592:324). 148. Or does one appeal to intentionality when the context itself is ambiguous, such as with regard to our hallelujahs? That scribal intentionality m ­ atters in the writing of the divine name is indicated in p. Shab. 12:5 13d: “If someone needed to write the divine name, and he had intention to write Yehudah but forgot and wrote it without a daled and divine name is now in its place, then he should erase it and rewrite it in holiness.” 149. Notably, our example is not strictly about a dif­fer­ent textual reading. On R. Meir as a scribe, see also p. Meg. 4:1 74d. On the Torah scroll of R. Meir and its scribal divergences, see Lange, “Rabbi Meir and the Severus Scroll,” in Let the Wise Listen, ed. Cordoni and Langer. 150. ­There is ­little reason to suggest that the distinctions between the pre­sen­ta­tions of this tradition by the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds are due to their differing social contexts. For the similar ad hoc consulting of scrolls in Greco-­Roman scenes of reading, see Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 111. A fuller study of this motif in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure is in development. 151. See, for example, Rashi ad loc. 152. For numerous examples, see Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 282. The expected word for a “line of text” is ḥiṭṭa in Aramaic, or shiṭṭah in both Hebrew and Aramaic. This is especially true when it comes to lines of writing. See, for example, b. B. Bat. 162a–­b. Admittedly, ḥiṭṭa is very rare. Shiṭṭah, however, occurs in Aramaic sentences, including in the Targum. See Tg. Jonathan to Isa. 30:8 as an example. See also p. Giṭ. 5:3 46d. 153. Perhaps it would not be too far-­fetched to suggest that the Psalter was laid out in a stich format that matches the commonly used style of lineation for the Song of the Sea. 154. This is a central insight of the field of book history. See Mc­Ken­zie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts; Darnton, “First Steps ­Towards a History of Reading”; Darnton, Censors at Work: How States ­Shaped Lit­er­a­ture (New York: Norton, 2014); Darnton, The Devil in the Holy ­Water, or the Art of Slander from Louis XIV to Napoleon (Philadelphia: University

176

Notes to Pages 47–49

of Pennsylvania Press, 2010); Grafton and Williams, Chris­tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book; Roger Chartier, The Order of Books: Readers, Authors, and Libraries in Eu­rope Between the ­Fourteenth and Eigh­teenth Centuries (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994); Ann Blair et al., eds., Information: A Historical Companion (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2021). This list is obviously non-­exhaustive.

chapter 2 Note to epigraph: S. Y. Agnon, ­These and ­These: The Complete Works of Shmuel Yosef Agnon [Hebrew], 12th ed. (Tel Aviv: Schocken, 1971), 2:219. 1. For further details, see David C. Kraemer, A History of the Talmud (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019); Barry S. Wimpfheimer, The Talmud: A Biography (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2018). 2. Answers to ­these questions are already hinted at in our discussion of p. B. Bat. 1:7 13a. That source examines the movement of Psalm scrolls as an inheritance and explores the desire to keep scriptural sets in one place in order to engender a sacred community bound by the act of reading. 3. William A. Johnson, “­Towards a Sociology of Reading in Classical Antiquity,” American Journal of Philology 121 (2000); Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire; Jardine and Grafton, “ ‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy.” This sentiment is well captured by Roger Chartier, Cultural History: Between Practices and Repre­ sen­ta­tions, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 12: “To consider reading to be a concrete act requires holding any pro­cess of the construction of meaning (hence, of interpretation) as situated at the crossroads between readers endowed with specific competences, identified by their positions and their dispositions and characterized by their practice of reading, and texts whose meaning is always dependent on their par­tic­u­lar discursive and formal mechanisms—in the case of printed texts we might call them ‘typographical’ (in a broad sense of the adjective).” Of course, Chartier’s considerations apply to more than just print. See also Chartier, The Order of Books. 4. Consider the similar reading transcripts of p. Meg. 3:6 74b, where a physical text is pre­sent, and b. Shab. 152b, where no scroll is pre­sent. Of course, the number of instances in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure of rabbis’ “­doing midrash” in the absence of the physical text being commented upon far supersedes t­ hose that mention the material text. A complete study that explores ­these latter instances is a desideratum; this chapter contributes to that pursuit. It is undeniable that the Bible, although a written text, was primarily read aloud. See David Stern, Jewish Literary Cultures, vol. 1, The Ancient Period (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press), 170–78. We can learn a lot, however, by paying attention to reading as well as to hearing and memorizing. 5. Much scholarship on rabbinic engagement with Scripture focuses on its interpretive dimensions. This bibliography is much too vast to cite with any degree of completeness. For three monographs that treat biblical books, see Gillingham, A Journey of Two Psalms; Jonathan Kaplan, My Perfect One: Typology and Early Rabbinic Interpretation of Song of Songs (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015); Zev Farber, Images of Joshua in the Bible and Their Reception (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016). 6. For other examples of this formula, see p. Shev. 4:3 35b, p. Shev. 5:9 36a, and p. Avod. Zar. 4:9 44b. Perhaps this statement can be read in light of Lucian’s parody of the book col-



Notes to Pages 49–52

177

lector, a person who obtains many scrolls, who is technically literate, but cannot “read.” He lacks paideia. On this narrative, see Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 157–70. 7. The reason, according to R. Nehemiah, is “so that they say, ‘if one cannot read holy Scripture, how much more so non-­sacred documents!’ ” This statement, too, might reflect an understanding of “read” as leisure reading. In any event, this source certainly highlights the competition between rabbinic reading and other forms of reading. For another instance in which this division makes a difference, see b. Ber. 11b. The distinction that the Talmud makes between miqra’ and midrash implies that ­there must be a style of reading the Bible that is not necessarily rabbinic-­interpretive. In fact, it appears as if darash is elevated by the rabbis as a particularly rabbinic form of reading worthy of its own linguistic designation, as opposed to pietistic or affective reading, which falls ­under the more generalized term qara’. 8. I have drawn inspiration from Jonathan Boyarin, ed., The Ethnography of Reading (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). Particularly useful is the notion that “not only is all reading socially embedded, but indeed a ­g reat deal of reading is done in social groups” (4). This statement is especially true of the rabbinic sources that I examine. 9. ­These scenes are often tangential to the rabbinic discourses within which they are embedded. If I ­were allowed to suspend my skepticism, I would further suggest that ­these narratives are less likely than ­others to be reworked in light of the sugya at hand; as a consequence, they may accurately reflect accepted and widespread modes of reading. 10. I am translating with Ms. Kaufman. Ms. Cambridge reads similarly. Ms. Parma reads: “And if he is not, they expound before him.” A marginal note preserves the reading found in Kaufman. 11. It also shows that this distinction existed during the times of the Tannaim. 12. On the nuances of the word “expound” and its connection to the sage, see, most recently, Mandel, The Origins of Midrash. The content of this mishnah does imply some act of biblical interpretation. 13. The phrase “ruin taste of ” (pwg + ṭʿm) in this tannaitic fragment serves a dual purpose. First, it demonstrates the tradition’s direct relationship to m. Yoma 1:7, which also uses the uncommon root pwg for keeping the High Priest awake. The tannaitic fragment (and the Mishnah, although this is more complicated) could have expressed the idea of staying awake by using a word that derives from the much more common root ʿwr. Second, it playfully reworks a common meta­phor. Nearly ­every other instance of the root pwg in rabbinic lit­er­a­ ture, especially when connected with tʿm, refers to the diminution of taste in food. ­Here the phrase acts as a double-­sided meta­phor that plays off the multivalence of tʿm as both “taste” and “reason.” The taste/understanding of Psalms and Proverbs ruins sleep. The phrase “taste of sleep” does appear in places like p. Suk. 5:2 55b, where one does “not taste the taste of sleep” during the cele­bration of Sukkot at the ­temple. Menahem Schmelzer, “How Was the High Priest Kept Awake on the Night of Yom ha-­K ippurim?” in Saul Lieberman (1898–1983): Talmudic Scholar and Classicist, ed. Meir Lubetski (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2002), 66– 67, suggests that tʿm refers to the cantillation of Psalms, Proverbs, and Job and that the original tannaitic tradition listed ­these three books together. 14. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 33–62. 15. See, for example, p. Taʿan. 4:11 69c, in which the ­daughter of the High Priest borrows clothing from the ­daughter of the king, and vice versa. 16. For the reading that the Mishnah refers to a boorish and unlettered High Priest, see Isaac Kalimi, “The Day of Atonement in the Late Second ­Temple Period: Sadducees’ High Priests, Pharisees’ Norms, and Qumranites’ Calendar(s),” in The Day of Atonement: Its

178

Notes to Pages 52–53

Interpretations in Early Jewish and Christian Traditions, ed. Thomas Hieke and Tobias Nicklas (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 87–88; Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, The Impact of Yom Kippur on Early Chris­ tian­ity: The Day of Atonement from Second ­Temple Judaism to the Fifth ­Century (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 23n17; Richard Hidary, “Rhe­toric of Rabbinic Authority,” in Jewish Rhe­torics: History, Theory, Practice, ed. Michael F. Bernard-­Donals and Janice W. Fernheimer (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2014), 38n3l; Schmelzer, “How Was the High Priest Kept Awake?” 61. 17. The word ragil means “normally.” See, for example, t. Eruv. 3:1, in which a person follows the sage he normally does. 18. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 27, 127, 204. In any event, a wide chasm separates “does not usually read” from “incapable of reading.” That lo ragil means “usually not, but still capable of ”; see, for example, Sifre Numbers 99, which says that Miriam normally would not speak before Aaron u ­ nless the time demanded it. 19. I read primarily with Ms. Vatican 32, but I ­w ill note significant variants as they arise. ­There appear to be two major families of variants ­here. I ­w ill call Mss. London, Vatican, Frickovitch, Munich, and Paris “A.” I refer to Jerusalem, both Oxford manuscripts, and Ms. Friedberg as “B.” The above translation follows A. The Genizah fragment seems to conflate ­these two families. For alternative literary analyses of this story that do not focus on materiality and reading, see Avigdor Shinan, “R. Yannai, the Peddler, and the Wealthy Man” [Hebrew], Bikoret u-­Farshanut 30 (1994); Gil P. Klein, “Torah in Triclinia: The Rabbinic Banquet and the Significance of Architecture,” Jewish Quarterly Review 102 (2012). 20. See b. Avod. Zar. 19b and Tanḥ. (ed. Buber), Metzorah 5. In fact, the story likely began its life as an in­de­pen­dent tale, which was l­ater embedded into and transformed by ­these vari­ous contexts. 21. It would be incorrect to imagine Psalm piety as belonging to the domain of the nonelite merchant. Rabbis ­were deeply enmeshed in the pietistic application of Psalms; see Chapter 4. 22. Munich adds “from Caesarea”; both Oxford manuscripts and JNUL Heb. 24 have “from Sepphoris.” 23. B read “of.” 24. B omits this. 25. B omits this; indeed, B omits any notion of “selling.” 26. B adds: “Let him come and take. He entered into Akbara (Upper Galilee), next to the ­house of R. Yannai.” Jerusalem reads “place” instead of Akbara. On Akbara, see Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 106–16. 27. B reads, “and R. Yannai was sitting and expounding in his triclinium.” It omits his hearing the merchant’s call. Munich, from A, adds “expounding” (daresh) and omits “explaining” (pasheṭ), like B. In light of the pasheṭ at the end of the narrative as well as the fact that yashev vedaresh is more common, I am inclined to think that pasheṭ is the original reading. 28. B adds, “when he [the merchant] saw him.” 29. B adds, “even so, come ­here.” 30. Genizah adds, “this is the potion of life that you bought.” 31. The phrase herʾeh pasuq (to show a verse) appears to be unique. This phrase makes perfect sense, considering the presence of a physical scroll of Psalms. B has “read a verse before him.” The Genizah imagines a somewhat dif­fer­ent scenario: “He was continually read-



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ing in front of him ­u ntil he reached this verse.” This version, indeed, best captures the experience of reading from a scroll. The phrase qara veholekh appears only in ­later strata of rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. It is almost always connected to a physical text of some sort. See, for example, Kallah Rabbati 2:13 (Psalms), Song Rab. 3:2 (Isaiah), Pesiq. Rabbati 11 (parchment), and Tanḥ. Pequde 11. 32. Both A and B (but not the Genizah) have clear additions from other ­later narratives featuring R. Yannai in this section of Leviticus Rabbah. A has R. Yannai citing a verse from Proverbs. B has R. Yannai taking in the merchant, feeding him, and giving him a gold dinar. Both additions are clearly secondary. 33. B instead contains the expression “strug­gled with.” This phrase is part of a ste­reo­ typical formula that appears numerous times elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. See, for example, b. Ber. 54a and b. Yoma 3b. Genizah has “deal with.” B also replaces miqra with pasuq. 34. On this phrase, see Stuart S. Miller, Sages and Commoners in Late Antique ʼEreẓ Israel: A Philological Inquiry into Local Traditions in Talmud Yerushalmi (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 36–37. 35. Shinan, “R. Yannai,” 18n17, convincingly shows that the story uses positionality (“low” vs. “high”) to underscore the social status of its characters. Other places in rabbinic lit­er­a­ ture depict R. Yannai as rich and power­f ul. See Shinan, “R. Yannai,” 18n13. 36. For the collocation of yatev with pasheṭ as indicative of a rabbinic study session, see Gen. Rab. 17:2, 62:8; and PdRK 18:1. 37. Cf. Klein, “Torah in Triclinia,” 354, who suggests that the merchandise is the homily. The physical text clearly plays a role in this version of the story. 38. In light of our discussion in Chapter 1, I would speculate that the scroll ­either contained the entire Psalms in small script, or, perhaps, contained only the first book of the Psalter. 39. For a survey of sources that discuss peddlers in this region, see Ben-­Zion Rozenfeld and Joseph Menirav, Markets and Marketing in Roman Palestine, trans. Chava Cassel (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 117–24. For an attempt to read the peddler in this narrative as a Greco-­Roman stock figure, see Klein, “Torah in Triclinia,” 355. For the low status of merchants, see Shinan, “R. Yannai,” 17. 40. Evidence of merchants’ peddling books also appears in papyri. Papyrus Petaus 30, for example, is a fragment of a private letter dating to the second ­century. It reads: “Julius Placidus to his ­father Herclanus, greeting. Dius came to us and showed us six parchment codices. We selected none of ­those, but we collated eight, for which I paid on account 100 drachmas. You ­w ill be on the lookout in any case. . . . ​I hope you are well . . . ​by Julius Placidus.” Trans. from ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 53. Another intriguing example of book merchants can be seen in Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 2192: “Demetrius the bookseller has them [i.e., the two books of the Men Who Appear in Comedies], according to Harpocration. I have ordered Apollonides to send to me some of my own books—­which ones you’ll find out from him. And if you find any volumes of Seleucus’s work on Tenses/Metrics/Rhythms that I ­don’t own, have copies made and send them to me. Diodorus’s circle also has some that I ­don’t own.” Trans. from Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 180–81. For an additional example, see ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 58–92. On the book market in general, see the classic study of Felix Reichmann, “The Book Trade at the Time of the Roman Empire,” Library Quarterly 8 (1938). See, more recently, George W. Houston, Inside Roman Libraries: Book Collections and Their Management in Antiquity (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2014), 16–17; Peter White, “Bookshops in the Literary Culture of Rome,” in Ancient Literacies: The Culture

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of Reading in Greece and Rome, ed. William A. Johnson and Holt N. Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 41. For further details, see Chapter 4. 42. Klein, “Torah in Triclinia,” points to the use of ketiv batreh by the merchant as an indication that the merchant uses a rabbinic hermeneutical device (356). While the phrase appears in all available manuscripts, ­there is reason to suspect that it is an intrusion. It ­causes the narrative to strain, almost as if the device w ­ ere added to the story at a l­ ater point in order to make it conform to some expected manner of rabbinic interpretation. If we read with group A, then the merchant is not even reading but simply showing R. Yannai a group of verses. The phrase ketiv batreh stands out as an interpretive marker inserted by an anonymous storyteller or by a ­later editor. If we read with group B, “he read to him this verse,” we would expect to see something like “and he said” before “what is written ­a fter” to make this narrative read smoothly. Most other instances of ketiv batreh do not contain this sort of narrative strain. In fact, the standard formula, which is not adhered to ­here, is ketiv X followed by ketiv batreh Y. 43. Might we understand the merchant’s part in this tale in light of the ritual power accorded to reciting Scripture in the context of ancient magic? For further on Scripture and ritual power in magic, see David Frank­f urter, “Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells,” in Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, ed. Marvin W. Meyer and Paul A. Mirecki (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 465. 44. For further information on rabbinic ethics, see Jonathan Wyn Schofer, The Making of a Sage: A Study in Rabbinic Ethics (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2005). 45. The typically phraseology is: “All my days I read verse X and did not understand it ­until event Y.” For examples, see t. Maksh. 3:15; Mekh. R. Ishmael baḤodesh 1; b. Meg. 21a. 46. On R. Yannai and his school, see Aharon Oppenheimer, “­Those of the School of Yannai,” in Between Rome and Babylon: Studies in Jewish Leadership and Society, ed. Nili Oppenheimer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). See also Miller, Sages and Commoners, 339–93. On his wealth, see Shinan, “R. Yannai,” 18n13. 47. I thank Tzvi Novick for this suggestion. 48. Or, as put by Derek Krueger in a somewhat dif­fer­ent context: “Religious practices produce, articulate, and maintain norms for self-­understanding and self-­presentation. In a manner analogous to theater, ritual activities involve playing and ultimately inhabiting the mythic roles of sacred narrative.” Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018), 7. 49. Of course, we cannot know this for certain. On the rabbis vying for influence, power, and authority within the synagogue, see Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 466–98. On the place of the Psalms in synagogue sermons, see the section “The Historical How and Why of Daily Psalmody: Other Contributing F ­ actors” in Chapter 3. 50. I have ­adopted this terminology from Jardine and Grafton, “ ‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy.” 51. A ­f uture study should gather all scenes of biblical reading in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure and develop a typology of styles of reading that the Hebrew word qrʾ telescopes. 52. For ­earlier treatments of this narrative, especially in light of its parallel in Josephus, see Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Conversion of the Royal House of Adiabene in Josephus and Rabbinic Sources,” in Josephus, Judaism, and Chris­tian­ity, ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gōhei Hata (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987), 301–2; Louis H. Feldman, “Jewish Pros-



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elytism,” in Eusebius, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Gōhei Hata (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), 376–77; Tal Ilan, “The Conversion of the House of Adiabene” [Hebrew], in Josephus and the Rabbis [Hebrew], ed. Tal Ilan and Vered Noam (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 2017). It is worth noting, as pointed out by the scholars above, that both Josephus and Genesis Rabbah include a scene of reading in their narratives. On the relationship between Josephus and rabbinic lit­er­a­ture in general, see Vered Noam, “Did the Rabbis Know Josephus’s Works?” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 81 (2013). 53. Trans. from Theodor-­Albeck. No significant variants drastically change the reading. 54. For other instances of yashav + qrʾ, see t. Eruv. 8:13 and Lam. Rab. Pet. 17. The Aramaic variation of yatev + pasheṭ appeared in the narrative about R. Yannai that we just explored. 55. The phrase used to denote the passage of time is leʾaḥar yamim, which seems to indicate an expanse of time that is longer than “immediately” (miyad) and possibly shorter than a year. A lengthy time lapse adds drama to the theme of secrecy and revelation pre­sent in this midrash. The ­brothers do not immediately inform each other about their deed. It arises as a natu­r al result of reading. I also won­der if the time lapse may indicate a reading cycle in which the ­brothers review Genesis on a regular basis. This suggestion, of course, is speculative. 56. See the story of Augustine as told by Possidius of Calama (Possidius, Life of Augustine, 31.1–2), discussed in Chapter 4. For another example of reading Scripture in tears, see p. Ḥag. 2:1 77a. The narrator also casts this scene in the idiom of another biblical story clothed rabbinic garb. In the words of Genesis Rabbah, “One turned his face to the wall and began to cry, and the other turned his face to the wall and began to cry.” This phrase may mirror the action of two other individuals who found themselves bereft: Isaac and Rebecca. The words “opposite his wife” in Gen. 25:21, “Isaac prayed to the Lord opposite his wife,” triggers an interpretation in Gen. Rab. 63:5. What exactly does “opposite” mean? Instead of reading it as “on behalf of,” an anonymous exegete answers, “To teach that Isaac stretched out [in prayer] on one side, and [Rebecca] on the other.” In addition to giving Rebecca agency, the homilist paints a scene of prayer, a portrait similar to the one depicted in the narrative about Monobazus and Izates. When two ­people are jointly affected by a harsh real­ity, they go to opposite ends of a room to cry or pray. 57. The narrative about R. Simon and Levi, discussed next, is amusing only ­because it highlights the breakdown of a study session. Most ­were, in fact, successful. 58. See Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 148–53. The sources described ­here suggest that reading in private for plea­sure was a possibility in the ancient world. Cf. Daniel Boyarin, “Placing Reading: Ancient Israel and Medieval Eu­rope,” in The Ethnography of Reading, ed. J. Boyarin, 18. Rabbis also engaged in this mode of reading, as our discussion of leisure reading suggests. 59. Maren R. Niehoff, “Origen’s Commentary on Genesis as Key to Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Gribetz et al., 129. 60. For an examination of the myth in its history, formation, and retellings, see Raymond Van Dam, Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 61. For a version, see Vita Constantini, 1.28–31; and 2.9–12 for the cross as military protection. For a critical text, see Friedhelm Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke, Band 1.1: Über das Leben des Kaisers Konstantin (Berlin: Akademie, 1975), 29–31, 51–53. 62. The Aramaic reads veqa pasqi sidra, which more literally translates as “dividing the portion,” in which the word “portion” (seder) is a section of a biblical text. In this sense, I

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follow but modify Wilhelm Bacher, Die Bibel-­und traditionsexegetische Terminologie der Amoräer (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1905), 135–36. Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 72, also follows Bacher. I differ from both in that I suggest that the unit of meaning referred to by the term paseq sidra, as evidenced in this passage, is not a complete biblical verse but, rather, its constituent clauses. Recall from Chapter 1 that a pasuq can be of vari­ous lengths. Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2002), 800, translates this term as “recitation of the Bible.” This is somewhat misleading, as the rabbis in some of the examples that contain this phrase, such as the narrative ­under discussion, do more than recite the Bible; they also expound. I plan on providing a full study of this phrase and its so­cio­log­i­cal implications at a ­later date. 63. The exegesis plays off the multivalent nature of the Hebrew ki im. The phrase can mean “rather,” such as in Gen. 15:4, where God tells Abraham that Ishmael ­w ill not inherit him but, rather (ki im), “the one who comes out from your loins” [Isaac] ­w ill inherit him. It can also mean “­unless,” such as in Gen. 32:27, where the man wrestling with Jacob demands to be released ­because morning has dawned. Jacob ­w ill not do so ­unless (ki im) the person blesses him. The clever exegete reads an originally descriptive statement, “Rather the Law of the Lord is his delight,” which imagines the fortunate man meditating on the Law instead of entering the council of the wicked (Ps. 1:1), as a prescriptive statement that a student cannot learn something “­unless the Torah of Lord is his delight.” It is also pos­si­ble to read the ki im as “if ”: “If the Torah of the Lord is his desire, then he ­w ill murmur his Torah day and night.” The narrative, however, seems to read the construction as “­unless.” The ki im of the biblical verse is glossed by R. Judah with the Hebrew word “­unless” (ela). In fact, the exegesis treats the second half of the verse before the first. “A person cannot learn Torah” interprets “and in his Torah he ­w ill murmur day and night.” And “except that which his heart desires” elucidates “ki im the Torah of the Lord is his delight.” The words “delight” and “desire” are both translated from the Hebrew root ḥptz. 64. This feature is part of almost ­every narrative that includes the phrase paseq sidra. 65. On the notion of linear reading for Greek scrolls and its role in interpretation, see John van Sickle, “The Book-­Roll and Some Conventions of the Poetic Book,” Arethusa 13 (1980): 5–6, 19–21. For the ability to move around when reading a codex, see, esp., ­Gamble, Books and Readers, in which he talks about the linear access of a scroll vs. the random access of a codex (63). See also Beit-­A rié, Hebrew Manuscripts of East and West, 9. The linear reading associated with a scroll may explain why Jewish scenes of bibliomancy rarely include a physical scroll and are most often stylized as someone’s asking a child what verse he studied in school that day. On the phenomenon of asking ­children, see Pieter van der Horst, “Ancient Jewish Bibliomancy,” Journal of Greco-­Roman Chris­tian­ity and Judaism 1 (2000): 9–17. He does not call attention to the lack of materiality in ­these narratives. Indeed, the linear reading of a (poetic?) roll was also imposed on the early codex. Origen’s Hexapla, which might have been the first columned book, was designed to be read straight across, as if a scroll. See Grafton and Williams, Chris­tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book, 17. The earliest codices of the Hebrew Bible ­were also produced with two or three columns per page in order to mimic the scroll form. See Beit-­A rié, Hebrew Manuscripts, 37. New technology often attempts to mirror and perfect an older form before taking on a life of its own. For a recent attempt to dismantle the connection between scrolls and linearity, see Eva Mroczek, “Thinking Digitally About the Dead Sea Scrolls: Book History Before and Beyond the Book,” Book History 14 (2011): 254–60. While I am sympathetic to any attempt at introducing nuance into determinism, it



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is equally clear that my examples, which depict ­actual readers of scrolls, map best onto the well-­established paradigm that sees the scroll form as contributing to a pro­cess of linear reading. 66. For the classic argument about the limitless variation of orality, see Albert B. Lord, The Singer of Tales, ed. Stephen Mitchell and Gregory Nagy, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000); Milman Parry, The Making of Homeric Verse: The Collected Papers of Milman Parry, ed. Adam Parry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987). For the adaptation of this argument to explaining variation in the Mishnah as the product of oral per­for­mance, see Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah. 67. For numerous examples, see Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 658–60. 68. For examples of when this phrase is used in conjunction with reading Scripture, see b. Shab. 152a, b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 16b, and b. Yoma 87a. For another example, which pertains to Psalms, see Kallah Rabbati 2:13. 69. Many depictions of rabbinic learning include the phrase yoshvin vedorshin, which indicates ­actual sitting. It is tempting to further suggest that this form of reading is mirrored by the very sugya in which this narrative is found—­namely, a systematic part-­by-­part commentary on the majority of Psalm 1, a poem that begins with a verse that highlights the acts of sitting and standing. Perhaps the redactor crafted the entire sugya to reflect a (series of ) study sessions. This suggestion, of course, is speculative. 70. Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 72. On the role of the teacher in literate education, at least in the Greco-­Roman world, see Robert A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). For a description of school reading for elite Greco-­Romans, particularly as it pertains to dividing up texts to analyze, see J. N. D. Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings, and Controversies (New York: Harper & Row, 1975), 12–13; Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2001), 191; Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 149. For the per­for­mance of a literary text in a similar manner within a culturally elite context, see Johnson, “Sociology of Reading,” 615–24. Further in line with Johnson is the notion that reading a literary text is a form of entertainment. Within the same talmudic discussion, the rabbis attempt to convince their followers that studying Torah is ample replacement for ­going to the Roman theater. Furthermore, within a rabbinic study context, a reader-­performer, to borrow Johnson’s terminology, did not merely recite the biblical text but also added his own interpretive flourishes. 71. And ­these divisions left physical residuum. Some ancient papyri contain several examples of student exercises in which a pupil would dot in spaces of word and sense division. ­These dots likely facilitated ­f uture reading and interpretation. See Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 140. Some Peshitta manuscripts also use a single bold dot to mark sense divisions in Psalms. See Tatu, “Graphic Devices,” 115. 72. Rubenstein, Culture of the Babylonian Talmud; Adam H. Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom: The School of Nisibis and the Development of Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006); Becker, “The Comparative Study of ‘Scholasticism’ in Late Antique Mesopotamia: Rabbis and East Syrians,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 34 (2010); Becker, “Beyond the Spatial and Temporal Limes: Questioning the ‘Parting of the Ways’ Outside the Roman Empire,” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early ­Middle Ages, ed. Adam H.

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Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 373–92; Michal Bar-­Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Lit­er­a­ture and the Babylonian Talmud (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 73. B. Avod. Zar. 18b–19b. For this claim and further analy­sis, see Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 65–82. 74. If a connection does exist, the following discussion ­w ill provide nuance to the parallel. 75. Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: ­Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992), 35–70. The products of that education would be continually practiced and thus reified with communal reading and discussion. 76. Carolinne White, The Correspondence (394–419) Between Jerome and Augustine of Hippo (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990). 77. Rabbinic education certainly crafted a set of shared expectations and reading practices among rabbis from Palestine to Babylonia. For the constant “double consciousness” of rabbinic Jews and thus the connection between rabbinic Palestine and Babylonia, see Daniel Boyarin, A Traveling Homeland: The Babylonian Talmud as Diaspora (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 54–96. Rabbis of one region could broadly understand the practices and results of exegesis produced in other regions of Jewish life, even if they ultimately disagreed. 78. For the former, see Alyssa M. Gray, A Talmud in Exile: The Influence of Yerushalmi Avodah Zarah on the Formation of Bavli Avodah Zarah (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2005). For the latter, see Ronit Nikolsky, “From Palestine to Babylonia and Back: The Place of the Bavli and the Tanhuma on the Rabbinic Cultural Continuum,” in Rabbinic Traditions Between Palestine and Babylonia, ed. Ronit Nikolsky and Tal Ilan (Leiden: Brill, 2014). Palestinian rabbinic lit­er­a­ture cites rabbis from Babylonia; Babylonian rabbinic lit­er­a­ture cites rabbis from Palestine. It would stretch the bound­a ries of the plausible to claim that not a single citation is au­then­tic, or that the numerous tales in which rabbis from Babylonia and Palestine interact are all fabrications. 79. While scholarship of the past two de­cades has done an excellent job of discussing Palestinian rabbis and Babylonian rabbis in light of their regional spheres of influence, it is hard to deny that the differences between the rabbis of talmudic Palestine and Babylonia make sense in light of an overarching shared culture and unity of purpose. The distinction between Palestinian and Babylonian largely becomes relevant when localized assumptions force a collective tradition to break down or when a piece of rabbinic thought or legislation is ­shaped by transmission or by a local historical situation. For an example of communication breakdown, see Daniel Sperber, “On the Unfortunate Adventures of Rav Kahana: A Passage of Saboraic Polemic from Sasanian Persia,” in Irano-­Judaica 1: Studies Relating to Jewish Contacts with Persian Culture Throughout the Ages, ed. Shaul Shaked (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 1982), 83–100. For the local context, see Secunda, The Ira­nian Talmud; Herman and Rubenstein, eds., The Aggada of the Bavli and Its Cultural World. 80. On a recent attempt to write a history of the rabbis by imagining them as Roman provincial elites, see Lapin, Rabbis as Romans. The attempt to write a history of Late Antiquity by paying par­tic­u­lar attention to provincial and local elites can also be seen in Peter Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Chris­tian­ity in the West, 350–550 ad (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2012). For symbolic capital, see Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977). 81. Johnson, “Sociology of Reading,” 618.



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82. I rely on David Brodsky, A Bride Without a Blessing: A Study in the Redaction and Content of Massekhet Kallah and Its Gemara (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 34–40. 83. For the larger setting of this passage within the redactional context of Kallah, see Brodsky, A Bride Without a Blessing, 162–65. 84. Kallah 21, reading with Ms. Vatican 299. This story is somewhat paralleled in Lev. Rab. 34:16 and Pesiq. Rabbati 25:1, where R. Tarfon gives money to R. Akiva to purchase an estate for their own benefit. The latter gives the money to charity instead. The story mentions neither a child nor a Psalter. A full comparison between ­these sources is beyond the scope of my argument. 85. I read this story as R. Akiva’s distributing R. Tarfon’s wealth locally. Thus, ­later, R. Akiva brings R. Tarfon into the local study ­house. 86. For calculations on the purchasing power of a dinar, see the discussion in this chapter’s section “Psalm Scroll: Fiscal and Symbolic Wealth.” 87. Note ­here the force with which R. Akiva acts: he grabs (tapas) and brings (holikh). This scene contrasts with the beginning of the narrative, in which both sages travel together. 88. For the most recent examination of charity among the rabbis and references to ­earlier lit­er­a­t ure, see Alyssa M. Gray, Charity in Rabbinic Judaism: Atonement, Rewards, and Righ­ teousness (New York: Routledge, 2019); Gregg E. Gardner, Wealth, Poverty and Charity in Jewish Antiquity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2022). 89. See, for example, b. Meg. 28a; b. Taʿan. 9a; b. Giṭ. 56a; b. Giṭ. 68a; b. Ḥul. 95b; b. Ḥag. 15a–­b (about Palestine; but also in a study hall). On this literary trope, see van der Horst, “Ancient Jewish Bibliomancy.” On ­children’s reciting Scripture, see also Hagith Sivan, Jewish Childhood in the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 80–83. 90. Or, of course, to the child’s parents. 91. On elementary education and teachers, see Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 40–89; Isaiah Gafni, “On the Education of ­Children in the Talmudic Era: Tradition and Real­ity” [Hebrew], in Education and History: Cultural and Po­liti­cal Contexts [Hebrew], ed. Rivka Feldhay and Immanuel Etkes (Jerusalem: Shazar, 1999), 63–78. For ­children at work, including ­those who are not slaves, see, esp., Sivan, Jewish Childhood, 70–76. On the cost in antiquity and the limitations of even elite literacy, see Kaster, Guardians of Language, 25, 39–43. 92. For a Greco-­Roman setting, see the classic work of William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989). See also Edward Watts, “Education: Speaking, Thinking and Socializing,” in The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. Scott Fitzgerald Johnson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 468–69. For early Chris­tian­ity, see ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 2–41. Within the Persian sphere of influence, a bright spot for basic and advanced literacy is the East Syrian school at Nisibis. See Becker, Fear of God, esp. 55–67, for a survey of in­de­pen­dent, village, and monastic schools. See also Joel T. Walker, “From Nisibis to Xi’an: The Church of the East in Late Antique Eurasia,” in The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. Johnson, 1006–9; Richard E. Payne, A State of Mixture: Christians, Zoroastrians, and Ira­nian Po­liti­cal Culture in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016), 71–72. 93. On the pro­cess of this form of education and its resulting artifacts in a Greco-­Roman context, see Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 127–219. See also Watts, “Education: Speaking, Thinking and Socializing.” For an East Syrian context, we might infer such a pro­cess regarding Psalms from Arthur Vööbus, The Statutes of the School of Nisibis (Stockholm: Estonian Theological Society in Exile, 1961), 109.

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94. Pesiq. Rabbati 25:1, which is somewhat of a parallel to this tradition. 95. For ­earlier studies on rabbinic orality, see references in the Introduction, n. 47. For the notion of nonlinearity, see Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, 35–75, esp. 35, where she says: “First, by putting aside literary notions of textuality, we open ourselves to the possibility of recognizing nonlinear forms of continuity among the parallel traditions” (italics in original). Martin S. Jaffee further elaborates on the modular and nonlinear nature of rabbinic per­for­ mances in “What Difference Does the Orality of Rabbinic Writing Make for the Interpretations of Rabbinic Writing?” in How Should Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture Be Read in the Modern World?, ed. Matthew Kraus (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2006). See, esp., 20, where he says: “We understand rabbinic text best, I hold, when we can locate it synoptically in the range of textual ele­ments that remained ‘in the air’ when the scribe reduced part of the performative tradition to a fixed textual rendering.” 96. In the contexts of education and per­for­mance: for a Greco-­Roman context, see Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 144, 232. For a Sassanian context, see Payne, A State of Mixture, 71: “The ideal aristocratic youth in the late Sassanian era was both literate and learned in the orally transmitted Zoroastrian tradition.” 97. Such as the “books of Aggadah.” For further details, see Marc G. Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995), 18–19. 98. Of course, not ­every instance of rabbinic biblical interpretation can be read against the background of a scroll. ­These examples merely highlight cases in which we might catch a glimpse of a scroll. Additionally, such a reading practice is not unique to Psalms. For a clear example of the material scroll’s intersecting with rabbinic exegesis, see Gen. Rab. 60:8, which discusses what we learn from the two or three folio pages taken up by the story of Abraham and his servant. 99. Reading with Ms. Florence. 100. The phrase used ­here is tarbut raʿah; it occurs only a handful of times in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. It seems to indicate sexual impropriety (as in m. Nid. 10:8) or rebellion (as in Lam. Rab. 4:14). This latter source bears some ge­ne­tic, or at least form-­critical, connection to b. Ber. 7b. Licentiousness and betrayal are not unconnected phenomena. 101. Ms. Munich adds v. 2 as well. 102. Mss. Paris and Oxford have an extended reading that further highlights the contrast between bad education and the war of Gog and Magog. Ms. Florence has it as well, but it was erased by a scribe. 103. Only Ms. Florence has “­a fter it,” although Ms. Munich cites Ps. 3:2 as well. 104. This is the reading that the exegete likely assumes. It is also a philologically plausible one. The alternative would be: “O Lord, how many are my enemies.” 105. Nearly ­every time this psalm is cited in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, it is connected to the final eschatological ­battle. I ­w ill defend this claim and its significance in another place. For this psalm in the Bavli, see Jeffrey L. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 212–42. 106. See the parallel in Lev. Rab. 4:7. 107. Ms. Munich singularly reads 139 chapters, although this seems to be mistaken. The parallel in Mid. Ps. 104:27 reads 104. For a discussion of this variation, see Moshe Benovitz, Talmud ha-­Igud: BT Berakhot Chapter 1 (Jerusalem: Society for the Interpretation of the Talmud, 2006), 430–31. The number 103 ­either comes from the combination of Psalms 1 and 2, as directly stated a bit ­later in this sugya, or from the combination of Psalms 9 and 10.



Notes to Pages 65–66

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108. Ms. Oxford lacks “book of Psalms,” and a scribe added it in Ms. Florence. 109. Reading with Ms. Paris. See, however, the parallel in Lev. Rab. 4:7. 110. See, for example, the tradition attributed to R. Joshua b. Levi in b. Pesaḥ. 117a, which lists the vari­ous praises in Psalms and declares hallelujah to be the best of them all. 111. His interpretive logic proceeds as follows. A distinction exists between the sinners and the wicked. While the sinners ­w ill perish in the ­f uture, the wicked are nonetheless gone in the pre­sent. This distinction provides the Psalmist with a reason to rejoice and to praise God. Now he can say hallelujah, literally: “Praise God.” 112. What, exactly, a min is and how to read minim narratives are subjects of much scholarly controversy, in which I do not intend to become enmeshed. For the time being, see Adiel Schremer, ­Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Chris­tian­ity, and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Christine Hayes, “­Legal Realism and the Fashioning of Sectarians in Jewish Antiquity,” in Sects and Sectarianism in Jewish History, ed. Sacha Stern (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-­Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Martin Goodman, “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in Judaism in the Roman World (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Yaakov Y. Teppler, Birkat haMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflict in the Ancient World, trans. Susan Weingarten (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). See, most recently, Michal Bar-­Asher Siegal, Jewish-­Christian Dialogues on Scripture in Late Antiquity: Heretic Narratives of the Babylonian Talmud (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019). She does not explore our source. 113. For further information on this source and the issue of order in rabbinic and Christian discourse, see Yonatan Moss, “Disorder in the Bible: Rabbinic Responses and Responsibilities,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 19 (2012). He terms R. Abbahu’s position as the “meta-­interpretive” approach. In my own formulation, I draw inspiration from a similar debate in a ­later period. See Anthony Grafton, “The Scholarship of Poliziano and Its Context,” in Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). 114. The phrase “expound conjoined passages” (daresh semukhin) appears only in the Babylonian Talmud, and infrequently at that. In addition to our passage, it also appears in b. Ber. 21b (R. Judah expounds only conjoined passages for Deuteronomy), b. Pesaḥ. 28b (semukhin applies to conjoined verses and not just large units of text), b. Yeb. 3b, b. Yeb. 4a (­these sources clearly show that some rabbis do not dareshin semukhin). Yet the concept of the Bible’s intentionally placing passages next to each other is more common, including use of the word samakh. For one early example, see Sifre Numbers 131: “R. Akiva said, ‘Any portion [parsha] that is close [samukh] to its friend, we may learn from it.’ Rabbi said, ‘­There are many portions [parshiyot] that are connected to each other and distant from one another like the east and west.’ ” For further examples, see Bacher, Die Bibel-­und traditionsexegetische, 142–43. For further discussion, see Arnold Goldberg, “Die ‘Semikha’: Eine Kompositionsform der rabbinischen Homilie,” in Rabbinische Texte als Gegenstand der Auslegung: Gesammelte Studien 2, ed. Margarete Schlüter and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). 115. Mss. Munich and Florence attribute this statement to R. Elazar. Ms. Florence also omits “conjoined passages are alluded to in the Torah” and reads instead: “What does it mean when it says, ‘all his precepts are true; they are established forever, they are done in truth and righ­teousness?’ ” (Ps. 111:7b–8). This variant itself may nicely illustrate an instance of justifying the practice of daresh semukhin by literally reading across conjoined texts! 116. Reading midrashically from “established.”

188

Notes to Pages 66–68

117. Reading with Ms. Oxford. 118. For the standard outline of a min narrative, see Bar-­Asher Siegal, Jewish-­Christian Dialogues, 3. 119. Moss, “Disorder in the Bible,” 105, 124, also interprets the min as presenting a valid rabbinic position. For ­earlier readings of the min, see Moss, 122. Some Christians, however, also thought about the prob­lem of historical sequence in the Psalms. Origen claims that the Psalms ­were collected haphazardly, or that ­there is, indeed, some logic to its anachronistic order. Eusebius notes that the first fifty psalms ­were composed ­a fter David killed Uriah, and the remainder are from ­earlier. See Nicholas de Lange, “Origen and the Rabbis on the Hebrew Bible,” in Studia Patristica 14, pt. 3, ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone (Berlin: Akademie, 1976), 120–21. For Gregory of Nyssa on disorder in the Psalter, see Moss, “Disorder in the Bible,” 115–16. 120. For this rabbinic position explic­itly spelled out, see b. Yeb. 3b and b. Yeb. 4a. 121. This section was likely furnished by the Babylonian redactor. Section [c] appears to be an in­de­pen­dent compositional unit, and thus it relates to the discussion of section [a] only in redaction. Cf. Avigdor Shinan and Yair Zakovitch, “Why Is ‘A’ Placed Next to ‘B’? Juxtaposition in the Bible and Beyond,” in Tradition, Transmission, and Transformation from Second ­Temple Lit­er­a­ture Through Judaism and Chris­tian­ity in Late Antiquity, ed. Menahem Kister et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2015). They read [c] as if it ­were said by R. Abbahu. For an analy­sis of the in­de­pen­dence of [c], the structure of ­these passages in general, and the relationship between ­these passages and Mid. Ps., see Benovitz, BT Berakhot Chapter 1, 444–45. For a very brief discussion of this passage in relationship with other minim passages, see Hayes, “­Legal Realism,” 139–40. I agree that anxiety over reading is on display, but I do not think that it ties back to lack of “contextual reading.” I also won­der if “reading conjoining passages” ­really would seem “artificial” in the ancient world. 122. See also the comment that correlates the textual order of the Psalter with the Amidah, which is found on the same folio page of the Talmud. 123. For other examples of exegesis predicated on sequentially reading the Psalter, see Lev. Rab. 4:7 and b. Ber. 10a. 124. Book exchange and production in the Greco-­Roman world ­were an essential means of creating and reifying patronage and other social relations. See Grafton and Williams, Chris­ tian­ity and the Transformation of the Book, 13, 55; Raymond J. Starr, “The Circulation of Literary Texts in the Roman World,” Classics Quarterly 37 (1987); Megan H. Williams, The Monk and the Book: Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 33–34; Kim Haines-­Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Lit­er­a­ture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 5. For scribal networks of copying and exchange, see Haines-­Eitzen, 77–104. Our rabbinic sources do not afford us insight into Jewish literary patronage. Nevertheless, they do give us a glimpse into the role of biblical scrolls in shaping a community. 125. Early rabbinic discussions of Scripture and sanctity especially revolve around the concept of “impurity of hands.” It is not my intention to enter the scholarly debate about the contours and meaning of this phrase. See, recently, Albert I. Baumgarten, “Sacred Scriptures Defile the Hands,” Journal of Jewish Studies 58 (2016). 126. For a detailed study of the Torah shrine and ark, see Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues—­Archaeology and Art: New Discoveries and Current Research (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 166–217.



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127. Within Palestine, ­these include, but are not ­limited to, the following synagogues: Bet Alpha, Naʿaran, Jericho, Capernaum, Naʿana, Hammath Tiberias, Sepphoris, Susiya, Kefar Yasif, and Bet Sheʿan A. 128. On ­whether the synagogue functioned as a library, see Haran, “Archives, Libraries, and the Order of the Biblical Books,” 51–61; ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 189–94; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 404–5; Hezser, Jewish Literacy, 150–68. In my opinion, synagogues functioned as libraries, at least in the term’s so­cio­log­i­cal sense. We should not dwell on the number of books ­housed within an ark as the primary means of classifying what counts as a library. As Houston, Inside Roman Libraries, 4, has noted, the difference between small and large collections was of scale and not substance. Synagogues likely functioned like local churches, which also h ­ oused small collections of edifying lit­er­a­t ure. 129. A pos­si­ble hint of this may reside in b. Shab. 116b, which claims that, in Nehardea, ­people would sequentially read verses during the after­noon ser­vices of the Sabbath. For reading the Psalter before or ­a fter prayer, see Abraham Berkovitz, “ ‘May You Redeem the Nation That Completes the Book of Psalms,’ ” Aramaic Studies 17 (2019): 169–72. 130. Adversus Judaeos 1.6 (PG 48:851–52). Could Chrysostom and his community have imputed a par­tic­u­lar holiness to Jewish books ­because of the scroll form? If so, this would add context to Chrysostom’s interpretation of Ps. 40:8’s “head of book” (Ἐν κεφαλίδι βιβλίου) as small scrolls unfurled slowly, which represents the slow coming of Jesus (7.2, PG 48:919). The scroll form provides evidence that Jews, themselves attached to scrolls, wrongly rejected Jesus. 131. It is quite difficult to even speculate about the ­actual value of this sum ­because this was the time of ­g reat debasement in coinage. See Kenneth W. Harl, Coinage in the Roman Economy, 300 b.c. to a.d. 700 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996). 132. See m. Ket. 1:4. Mordechai A. Friedman, “Contracts: Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture and Ancient Jewish Documents,” in The Lit­er­a­ture of the Sages, pt. 2: Midrash and Targum, Liturgy, Poetry, Mysticism, Contracts, Inscriptions, Ancient Science and the Languages of Rabbinic Lit­er­ a­ture, ed. Shmuel Safrai et al. (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2006), 443–49. For the equation of zuz with denarius, see Daniel Sperber, Roman Palestine 200–400: Money and Prices (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 1974), 31. One catches a glimpse of the exchange rate of one maneh to 100 zuz in p. Maʿas. She. 1:1 52: “Take this maneh worth of second tithe and give me 50 zuz of non-­sacral fruit.” If judged according to the documents found at Dura Europos, 200 denarii could buy one a crimson robe with purple veil (75d), crockery and bronze utensils (25d), gold earrings and bracelets (50d), and three miters (50d). In 121 ce, work for the crown was valued at one denarius per day. For figures, see Sperber, Money and Prices, 109–10. 133. Papyrus rolls could also be somewhat expensive and, ultimately, an emblem of high culture. See Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 20–22. On ancient attitudes ­toward the expense of papyrus, along with an argument that they ­were cheaper than assumed, see T. C. Skeat, “Was Papyrus Regarded as ‘Cheap’ or ‘Expensive’ in the Ancient World?” in The Collected Biblical Writings of T. C. Skeat, ed. Elliott. One won­ders if papyrus was considered expensive from the perspective of ­those who ­were not wealthy. According to Richard  B. Parkinson and Stephen Quirke, Papyrus (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995), 19, the price of a sheet was one to two days’ wages for a day worker. Elite users would have understood it as an incidental expenditure. 134. For a collection of rabbinic sources that discuss writing on deerskin, see Meir Bar-­ Ilan, “The Writing of Torah Scrolls, Tefillin, Mezuzot, and Amulets on Deerskin” [Hebrew], Beit Mikra 30 (1985).

190

Notes to Pages 70–71

135. The Hebrew word kotev can mean “to write” as well as the act of commissioning a document to be written. See Hezser, Jewish Literacy, 121, 474–76. For the “factitive katab” in documentary texts, see Ada Yardeni, Baruch Levine, and Jonas C. Greenfield, eds., Documents from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters: Hebrew, Aramaic and Nabatean (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2002), 12–13. 136. Something similar was also true for Greco-­Roman scroll culture. Galen, for example, berated a wealthy person to spend money on scrolls and scribes. See Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, 93–94. 137. See the discussion of p. B. Bat. 1:7 13a in Chapter 1, section “The Material Psalter in Rabbinic Thought: Macro Features.” 138. The movement of scrolls between Palestine and Babylonia is at stake in p. Sanh. 3:10 21a, where R. Elazar refuses to let his heirs take the scrolls of Kahana outside of Palestine. 139. Oath formula; lit., “She vowed and swore off all the fruits of the world.” 140. Translating the Jewish Babylonian Aramaic glofqara, which matches Syriac qlbyarʾ and Greek kerbikarion. See Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 285. For the theoretical and theological price of bedding, see p. Taʿan. 1:4 64b, which claims that Pentakakos was worthy to pray for rain b­ ecause he sold his bed and bedsheets and gave the money to a ­woman so that she could ­free her husband from captivity. The word for “bed” in that source is eres. We may infer, however, that the sum provided by Pentakakos was substantial. 141. It is unclear ­whether “much worn” modifies all the books listed, or just Proverbs. 142. ­There is a bit of manuscript variation regarding what the ­woman collected. I have translated according to Mss. Munich 95 and Vatican 130. Ms. Vatican 140 reads: “one mattress, one scroll of the Pentateuch, and a book of Psalms, Job, and Proverbs.” This reading seems unlikely if we are talking about an entire Pentateuchal collection. Alternatively, it may read “one scroll of the Pentateuch.” The first Soncino print reads, “one mattress, one book of Psalms, the book of Job and Proverbs much worn.” What likely happened was that the scribe did not write “scroll of law” and read the “one” as modifying the book of Psalms. This is how the line appears in the Vilna edition. Van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 19, bases his conclusions on the Vilna print. See, however, his attempt to price the ancient book (16–20). 143. Sperber, Money and Prices, 35. 144. Sperber, Money and Prices, 110. 145. See p. B. Metz. 6:6. One dinar a day seems to have been the average salary of a day laborer in Rome. 146. Kenyon, Books and Readers, 84 147. For further information, see Williams, The Monk and the Book, 174. For an in­ter­ est­ing attempt to understand price data from Roman Egypt during the first to third centuries, see Walter Scheidel, “Real Wages in Early Economies: Evidence for Living Standards from 1800 bce to 1300 ce,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 53 (2010). 148. For examples of Palestinian rabbis’ owning and reading scrolls, see Hezser, Jewish Literacy, 147–51. 149. For female readers in Late Antiquity, see Haines-­Eitzen, Guardians of Letters, 41– 52; Haines-­Eitzen, The Gendered Palimpsest: ­Women, Writing, and Repre­sen­ta­tion in Early Chris­tian­ity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).



Notes to Pages 72–75

191

150. Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 4365. Accessed from https://­papyri​.­info​/­ddbdp​/­p​.­oxy;63;4365. For translation and analy­sis, see AnneMarie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord: Early Christians and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 71. 151. Epist. 107:9, 12 (PL 22:375, 376).

chapter 3 1. This approach is opposed to, for example, that of Chapter 4, which focuses on synchronic cultural history. ­There is a relative dearth of discussion about the role of Psalms in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. Stefan C. Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer: New Perspectives on Jewish Liturgical History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), does not discuss the place of Psalms in the amoraic period. Rather, he mentions that during the late geonic period, blocks of chapters from the Psalms “had come ­under control and a ­limited number ­were sanctioned for formal use in the synagogal context” (136). The most direct study is that of Günter Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie und Predigt in der rabbinischen Zeit,” in Judaica Minora, pt. 1: Biblische Traditionen im rabbinischen Judentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). Stemberger claims that Psalms played a very ­limited role in both liturgy and individual prayer. See also Louis Rabinowitz, “The Psalms in Jewish Liturgy,” Historia Judaica 6 (1944). He claims that “­there can be no question that during the ­whole period of the Talmud, with one exception, the Psalms had no place at all in public worship” (110). This chapter provides nuance to ­these overbroad claims. For an introductory survey that focuses, inter alia, on rabbinic sources, see Lawrence A. Hoffman, “Hallels, Midrash, Canon and Loss: Psalms in Jewish Liturgy,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Margot E. Fassler (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Lit­er­a­t ure, 2004). 2. For a foundational attempt to define the roles of Scripture in (rabbinic) Jewish liturgy from several periods, see Ruth Langer, “Biblical Texts in Jewish Prayers: Their History and Function,” in Jewish and Christian Liturgy and Worship: New Insights into Its History and Interaction, ed. Albert Gerhards and Clemens Leonhard (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 3. A good example of a strong allusion is the rabbinic blessing on bread in m. Ber. 1:6, which concludes with: “He who brings forth bread from the earth” (hamotziʾ leḥem min haʾaretz). This blessing reworks and alludes to Ps. 104:14b: “to bring forth bread from the earth” (lehotziʾ leḥem min haʾaretz). In fact, my analy­sis ­w ill highlight the steady move from allusion to quotation, or, in other words, from the sporadic embedding of psalm-­like features into prayer texts to the use of Psalms as liturgy. 4. For our purposes, t­ hese are not related to the book of Psalms as a canonical text. 5. The more fluid and expansive category of prayer, in contrast, is “ritual devotional communication, with God as one of its essential illocutionary targets.” See Yehuda Septimus, On the Bound­aries of Talmudic Prayer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 255. 6. Described in m. Taʿan. 2:3 and discussed below. 7. Although this chapter focuses on the use of Psalms in daily liturgy, much of the analy­ sis therein could also indicate its absence—­except for Hallel—­from early rabbinic liturgy in general. This more radical claim ­w ill be examined in a ­f uture study. 8. For an attempt, see the rather unconvincing form-­critical conclusions of J. A. Smith, “Which Psalms ­Were Sung in the T ­ emple?” ­Music & Letters 71 (1990). The songs sung during the ­temple ser­vice likely extended beyond the texts contained in the now-­canonical Psalter.

192

Notes to Pages 75–77

9. As previous scholars note, the scene that follows depicts the liturgical innovation of sacrifice with ­music during the Second ­Temple period more so than it reflects the historical circumstances of the First ­Temple. The presence of psalms and ­music during the First ­Temple period is a subject of controversy. For an argument in ­favor, see Nahum M. Sarna, On the Book of Psalms: Exploring the Prayers of Ancient Israel (New York: Schocken, 1993), 6–10. For an argument against, see Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 148–64. I follow Knohl. For a recent and historically sensitive treatment, see Gary Rendsburg, “The Psalms as Hymns in the ­Temple of Jerusalem,” in Jesus and T ­ emple: Textual and Archaeological Explorations, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014). I cannot, however, agree with his early dating of Tamid and the conclusions that follow. For a discussion of the Chronicler’s rhetorical aims in this unit, which combines prayer and sacrifice, see Jeremy Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second T ­ emple Period Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 54–57. 10. Ant. 7:305. Closer to his own time, Josephus describes how the Levites petitioned Nero, the Roman emperor, to allow them to wear linen garments like the priests and to permit them to learn the hymns that they wanted to sing as part of ­temple worship. Ant. 20:216–18. Perhaps t­ hese w ­ ere new Greco-­Roman-­style hymns? 11. I intend to provide a full study of the use of Psalms in rabbinic memory at a ­later date. 12. See the argument of Albert Pietersma, “Exegesis and Liturgy in the Superscriptions of the Greek Psalter,” in Proceedings of the 10th Congress of the International Organ­ization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies, Oslo, July–­August, 1998, ed. Bernard A. Taylor (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Lit­er­a­t ure, 2001). 13. Cf. Peter L. Trudinger, The Psalms of the Tamid Ser­vice: A Liturgical Text from the Second T ­ emple (Leiden: Brill, 2004). 14. For a synthetic analy­sis of the evidence that does exist, see Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 135–73. 15. ­There is absolutely no evidence that psalms ­were read as part of any scriptural cycle, contra J. A. Smith, “First-­Century Christian Singing and Its Relationship to Con­temporary Jewish Religious Song,” ­Music & Letters 75 (1994): 1–2; and Sigmund Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (Oxford: Blackwell, 1962), 1:88. 16. Yet this is what is claimed by the scholars cited by James W. McKinnon, “On the Question of Psalmody in the Ancient Synagogue,” Early ­Music History 6 (1986): 180–82. McKinnon stresses that locating psalmody in the ancient synagogue appears to be the pet proj­ect of Christian liturgical and musical historians. See also Paul F. Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship: Sources and Methods for the Study of Early Liturgy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 23n45. 17. Translating with NRSV, slightly modified. 18. Paul F. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer in the Early Church: A Study of the Origin and Early Development of the Divine Office (London: SPCK, 1981), 44. 19. In general, see Bilhah Nitzan, Qumran Prayer and Religious Poetry, trans. Jonathan Chapman (Leiden: Brill, 1994); see also Alex P. Jassen, “Intertextual Readings of Psalms in the Dead Sea Scrolls: 4Q160 (Samuel Apocryphon) and Psalm 40,” Revue de Qumran 22 (2006). 20. Nitzan claims that the Psalm Scroll was non-­liturgical. For the history of scholarship on this question, see Nitzan, Qumran Prayer, 16–17nn51–52. 21. For a survey of this issue, see Daniel K. Falk, “The Contribution of the Qumran Scrolls to the Study of Ancient Jewish Liturgy,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea



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Scrolls, ed. Timothy Lim and John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 629– 30. For an argument in ­favor of the use of Psalms in Qumran daily worship, see Russell C. D. Arnold, The Social Role of Liturgy in the Religion of the Qumran Community (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 221–24. For a brief exploration of the place of Psalms at Qumran, see Eileen Schuller, “Prayer at Qumran,” in Prayer from Tobit to Qumran, ed. Renate Egger-­Wenzel and Jeremy Corley (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 416, 421. 22. Philo, The Contemplative Life, 29. 23. Contra Jutta Leonhardt, Jewish Worship in Philo of Alexandria (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 173, who takes ­these quotations as evidence of extra-­temple psalmody. Quoting a book in the context of exegesis only demonstrates knowledge of the book, not a par­tic­u­lar Sitz im Leben. Even if Leonhardt is correct, ­these quotations do not provide the context in which ­these psalms ­were sung. We cannot assume that it was extra-­temple or daily. On Philo’s quotations from the Psalter in general, see Leonhardt, Jewish Worship, 142–56; Naomi G. Cohen, Philo’s Scriptures: Citations from the Prophets and Writings (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 139–56. 24. For the Karaites, however, this was exactly the case. Psalms was at the center of their liturgy. On the place of Psalms in Karaite liturgy, see Uriel Simon, Four Approaches to the Book of Psalms: From Saadiah Gaon to Abraham Ibn Ezra (Albany: SUNY Press, 1991), 59–96; Daniel Frank, “Karaite Prayer and Liturgy,” in Meira Polliack, ed., Karaite Judaism: A Guide to Its History and Literary Sources (Leiden: Brill, 2003). 25. For an exhaustive analy­sis of this liturgical unit, see Reuven Kimelman, “The ‘Shema’ Liturgy: From Covenant Ceremony to Coronation,” in Kenishta: Studies on the Synagogue and Its World, ed. Joseph Tabory, vol. 1 (Ramat-­Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2001). 26. The term “Amidah” first appears in Sof. 16:9. In ­earlier rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, it is usually referred to as tefillah (prayer) or shemoneh esreh (eigh­teen). I ­w ill use the term “Amidah” ­because tefillah is too general, and the liturgical unit does not always contain eigh­teen blessings. This prayer has been subject to numerous exhaustive studies. My approach follows that of Ruth Langer, who advocates for slow historical development of the Amidah over the course of Jewish Late Antiquity. See Langer, “The Amida as Formative Rabbinic Prayer,” in Identität durch Gebet: Zur gemeinschaftsbildenden Funktion institutionalisierten Betens in Judentum und Christentum, ed. Albert Gerhards, Andrea Doeker, and Peter Ebenbauer (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2003); Langer, “Early Rabbinic Liturgy in Its Palestinian Milieu: Did Non-­Rabbis Know the Amidah?” in When Judaism and Chris­tian­ity Began: Essays in Memory of Anthony J. Saldarini, ed. Alan J. Avery-­Peck, Daniel J. Harrington, and Jacob Neusner, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2004). For a recent methodological overview, see Langer, “New Directions in Understanding Jewish Liturgy,” in Early Judaism: New Insights and Scholarship, ed. Frederick E. Greenspahn (New York: NYU Press, 2018). For ­earlier surveys, see Reuven Kimelman, “Liturgical Studies in the 90’s,” Jewish Book Annual 52 (1994); Richard S. Sarason, “On the Use of Method in the Modern Study of Jewish Liturgy,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism: Theory and Practice, ed. William S. Green (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978); Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer, 1–21; Lawrence A. Hoffman, “Jewish Liturgy and Jewish Scholarship,” in Judaism in Late Antiquity, pt. 1: The Literary & Archaeological Sources, ed. Jacob Neusner, Alan J. Avery-­Peck, and Bruce Chilton (Leiden: Brill, 1995). 27. See chap. 4 of m. Meg. For an early literary example of Torah reading, see Luke 4:16–21. For early epigraphic evidence for the liturgical reading of Torah in the synagogue, see the Theodotus synagogue inscription. For a full discussion, see Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues—­Archaeology and Art: New Discoveries and Current Research (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 524–26.

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28. See m. Rosh Hash. 4:1, 3; m. Tam. 5:1. At the very least, the rabbis are imagining this shift. 29. On this appended baraita, see Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 2:979. The redactional seam is obvious, as the previous mishnah concludes with a remark that indicates the end of the composition: “This is the order of the daily offering for the ser­vice of the ­house of our God, let it be speedily rebuilt in our day.” 30. Ismar Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History, trans. Raymond P. Scheindlin (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1993), 200. Originally published as Ismar Elbogen, Der jüdische Gottesdienst in seiner geschichtlichen Entwicklung (Leipzig: G. Frock, 1913). For con­temporary scholars who follow Elbogen’s claim, see Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 200n96 and 239; Reuven Kimelman, “Rabbinic Prayer in Late Antiquity,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4, The Late Roman-­Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 574; Alan Cooper, “Some Aspects of Traditional Jewish Psalm Interpretation,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. William P. Brown (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 258. Cooper assumes that the daily psalms ­were part of early rabbinic liturgy. Levine sets the date in the amoraic period. 31. See, for example, Song Rab. 4.4.5 and Avot R. Nathan A 1:8. Contrast this datum with other prayers that are initially ­imagined as part of ­temple ritual and are discussed elsewhere in terms of con­temporary rabbinic liturgy, such as “True and Firm” (emet veyatziv) (m. Tam. 5:1; t. Ber. 3:6). 32. Possibly, the use of Psalm 92 as a structural device in Qillir’s Shivata shel Tal suggests that this psalm was used liturgically by the sixth ­century, which would conform to the conclusions of this chapter. For a translation and analy­sis of this poem, see Laura S. Lieber, A Vocabulary of Desire: The Song of Songs in the Early Synagogue (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 264–316. 33. Robert Brody, “Liturgical Use of the Book of Psalms in the Geonic Period,” in Prayers That Cite Scripture, ed. James L. Kugel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 75; Israel Ta-­Shma, “Sources and Place of the Prayer ‘It Is upon Us to Praise’ in the Prayer Book” [Hebrew], in Book of Remembrance for Ephraim Talmadge [Hebrew], ed. Dov Lipschits (Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1993), 93–94. 34. Daniel Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1971), 40. This prayer book contains more than just the words of Amram. It was updated throughout the de­cades and centuries. See Robert Brody, “The Enigma of Seder Rav Amram” [Hebrew], in Knesset Ezra: Lit­er­a­ture and Life in the Synagogue: Studies Presented to Ezra Fleischer [Hebrew], ed. Shulamit Elizur et al. (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 1994), 30–32. 35. On this, I follow Brody, “Liturgical Use,” 57n59, who argues that the mention of this custom in Sof. is a ­later addition. 36. Ezra Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs of Palestinian Jews During the Times of the Genizah [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), 163, claims to have found neither mention nor use of ­these daily Levitical psalms in any of the Genizah fragments that he studied. 37. On the controversy over ­whether to say Ps. 78:38 on Friday night, see Lawrence A. Hoffman, The Canonization of the Synagogue Ser­vice (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1979), 73–79. 38. Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 186. 39. For the term and early history of the cento, see Langer, “Biblical Texts in Jewish Prayers.” 40. Seder Rav Amram notes that the acad­emy had the custom to say the following verses:



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Ps. 20:8–10; Ps. 104:31; Ps. 113:2–4; Ps. 135:13; Ps. 103:19; 1 Chron. 16:31; Ps. 10:16; Ps. 93:1; Exod. 15:18; Ps. 10:16; Ps. 103:10; Prov. 19:21; Ps. 33:11; Ps. 33:10; Ps. 132:13; Ps. 135:4; Ps. 94:14; Ps. 78:38; Ps. 20:10; Ps. 84:5; Ps. 144:15; Psalm 145; Ps. 115:18; Psalms 146–50. Goldschmidt, Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 8–9. Yet it is always pos­si­ble that ­these directions do not come from Amram but, rather, a ­later editor. 41. See Ruth Langer, “ ‘We Do Not Even Know What to Do!’: A Foray into the Early History of Taḥanun,” in Seeking the F ­ avor of God, ed. Mark J. Boda, Daniel K. Falk, and Rodney A. Werline, vol. 3 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Lit­er­a­t ure, 2006). 42. Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 215–57, esp. 231–38. More recently, see the excellent work of Vered Raziel Kretzmer, “The Palestinian Morning Ser­vice According to Prayer Book Fragments from the Cairo Genizah” [Hebrew] (PhD diss., Ben-­Gurion University, 2018). 43. We discuss this unit of prayer in detail ­later in this chapter. For the history of Verses of Song, see, most recently, Ruth Langer, “The Early Medieval Emergence of Jewish Daily Morning Psalms Recitation, Pesuqei d’Zimra,” in The Psalms in Jewish Liturgy, Ritual and Community Formation from Antiquity to the M ­ iddle Ages, ed. Claudia Bergmann et al. (forthcoming). 44. On the place of Psalms in Karaite liturgy, see Frank, “Karaite Prayer and Liturgy,” 559–68. 45. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 190. 46. This section does not offer an exhaustive list and analy­sis of e­ very pos­si­ble citation within the context of mandated liturgy in the amoraic lit­er­a­t ure. It focuses on the examples explored in the body of this chapter ­because of the shifting language of “requirement” that accompanies them, which shows the unstable place of daily psalmody. For other instances in which verses from Psalms appear within or adjacent to the Amidah, see p. Ber. 4:3 8a, which offers a text of havinenu that includes Ps. 28:6; and p. Ber. 1:4 3d, where Ps. 35:10 is used in the modim derabbanan. It is also pos­si­ble that other verses, such as Ps. 69:20 and Ps. 84:18, are to be found in the rabbinic liturgy of the amoraic era if we read evidence from the Genizah backward. See Shulamit Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh: The Qedushta from Its Origins ­Until the Time of Rabbi Elazar beRabbi Qillir [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 2019), 59–63. For my purposes, I ­w ill stick to sources that definitively come from Late Antiquity and that require no speculation. 47. In the Mishnah, the word “fixed” likely means “fixed in time.” But in the Talmuds, the notion seems to be expanded to include content. The placement of R. Eliezer’s statement ­matters, and many have argued that it actually belongs to the previous mishnah—in which case, it could mean “set formulas for blessings.” For a discussion of this, see Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kefshutah, pt. 1: Seder Zeraim [Hebrew] (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1954), 32–33. 48. The word used ­here is “prayer,” which often means “Amidah” in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. I ­w ill translate “prayer” as “Amidah” when the context is sufficiently clear. 49. The phrase “he says” is somewhat difficult to unpack. In the Sifra and Sif. Deut., the term seems to be a technical one for citing Scripture, usually appearing as “And thus he said.” In this instance, it could indicate a personal practice—­namely, that R. Yoḥanan would bracket his Amidah with ­these verses. Although a better locution would have been huʾ hayah omer “he would say.” See m. Ber. 6:1 for evidence that huʾ omer can function as a prescriptive statement. See also the liturgical complex in the second chapter of Mishnah Taʿanit, where the precentor is told what to say. The locution used is: “On blessing x he says. . . .” ­W hether rabbinic advice

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or prescriptions ­were immediately followed and adapted as standard liturgical practice is relatively unimportant for my purposes. What ­matters is the newfound role of Psalms. Thus, to discount ­these statements as worthless ­because “prayer in the synagogue must refer to the entire community,” as Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 230, does, is to misread the evidence. Some rabbis are advocating for psalmody, and it is slowly gaining traction. Even ­after the creation of a siddur, the liturgy remained quite varied. To count as prayer only what the entire community follows is to abandon discussion of prayer in the talmudic period. 50. Plurality eventually seems to have struck root, at least in Palestine and its environs. Cambridge University Library, T-­S Collection, H 18.3 (1v) depicts an Amidah prayer in the tradition of R. Yudan. For Ps. 19:15’s concluding the Amidah in the Palestinian rite, see Genizah fragment nos. 6 and 53 in Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 27, 89. 51. But, as mentioned, R. Yoḥanan’s statement seems prescriptive, at least from a source-­ critical perspective, as opposed to a redaction-­critical one. 52. Translating with the likely midrashic intent. 53. Again, translating with the likely midrashic intent. 54. On the place of the Priestly Blessing in the liturgy of Qumran, see Nitzan, Qumran Prayer, 145–71. Elsewhere in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, the Priestly Blessing was understood as an opportune time to nullify bad dreams. See b. Ber. 55b; Septimus, On the Bound­aries, 96–106. It also appears in magical amulets in this period. See Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked, Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1993), 25–27. 55. This model mirrors and may draw inspiration from the responsive refrains required for prayers such as the Shema and Hallel. This suggestion, of course, depends on what activity the word pores indicates. Nonetheless, see t. Soṭ. 6:2, which describes some sort of event with a call-­a nd-­response ele­ment. 56. In fact, Psalm 134 may have been of par­tic­u­lar interest ­because its second verse commands a group to “lift your hands,” the exact action of the priests during the blessing. Rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure often refers to the ritual as the “lifting of hands.” See, for example, p. Taʿan. 4:1 67b. 57. This memory goes back to m. Tam. 5:1. 58. The Babylonian Talmud updates the liturgical setting, referring to the times of the Priestly Blessing in general, and not specifically that of the morning ser­vice, a feature distinctive to Palestine. It also differs regarding the third response during the Priestly Blessing of the Additional Ser­vice. Instead of Ps. 134:3, it suggests Ps. 135:21: “Bless the Lord from Zion, O dwellers of Jerusalem.” The reason for the substitution is due to the fact that Ps. 134:3 is read as God’s blessing the ­people and not the ­people blessing God: “Since we began with blessing God, we conclude with blessing God.” 59. ­W hether this story reflects a Palestinian or Babylonian setting is not relevant to my argument. If it reflects a Palestinian setting, though, R. Abbahu would have heard the Priestly Blessing recited daily. 60. For the most recent discussion of the origins of this phenomenon, see Joseph Yahalom, Sources of the Sacred Song: Crossroads in Jewish Liturgical Poetry [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2019). For an attempt at a comprehensive survey, see Leon Weinberger, Jewish Hymnography: A Literary History (Oxford: Littman Library, 1998). Liturgical poetry primarily began as a Palestinian phenomenon and was only very slowly tolerated in Babylonia. On the state of piyyut in that region, see Ruth Langer, To Worship God Properly: Tensions Between Liturgical Custom and Halakhah in Judaism (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1998), 110–30.



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61. For the fundamental attributes of this period, see Ezra Fleischer, Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in the ­Middle Ages, 2nd ed. [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2007), 117–275. For dates, see Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 5. On Yannai and an excellent comprehensive En­glish study of piyyut in general, see Laura S. Lieber, Yannai on Genesis: An Invitation to Piyyut (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 2010). 62. Lieber, Yannai on Genesis, 93–131. 63. For the most recent discussion of this phenomenon, as well as an exhaustive history of scholarship, see Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 46–92. See also Elizur, “The Use of Biblical Verses in Hebrew Liturgical Poetry,” in Prayers That Cite Scripture, ed. Kugel, 83–100; Elizur, “The Chains of Verses in the Qedushta and the Ancient Benediction” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 77 (2008): 425–73. 64. Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 53–54. 65. Fleischer, Hebrew Liturgical Poetry, 143; Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 11, 88. 66. Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 54. 67. Fleischer, Hebrew Liturgical Poetry, 225; Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 54 and esp. n. 45. 68. “Any time that poets bring verses next to their poems, ­whether at the end of them or between rhymed sections, with the addition of a clear reference word [and, primarily, ‘as it is written’], ­these verses are a fundamental and set part of the early structure of piyyut, and the poets did not choose ­these verses on their own, but, rather, they brought them on the strength of the permanent appearance in the versions of a poetically adorned prayer.” Elizur, Sod Meshalshe Qodesh, 56 (my translation). Elizur argues this ­because she believes that the earliest forms of the Amidah ­were filled with verses. Her evidence from rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, however, seems sparse, inconclusive, and indirect. Her argument also seems to assume that a fixed version of the Amidah that was filled with verses existed during the times of Rabban Gamliel (65–73, 78–82). As I mentioned in n. 26, I follow Langer, who critiques this position. Nonetheless, even if one disagrees with Elizur’s reading and radical claim, it is reasonable to see “transition verses,” which ­were stable, as part of an early Amidah. See also Elizur, “The Chains,” 456; Elizur, “The Use of Biblical Verses,” 84. 69. It also concludes with Ps. 116:18. It is pos­si­ble, though, that this conclusion is a ­later development. The unit likely originally developed in just one location. A complete history is a desideratum. 70. Other verses that begin with the word ashre and sometimes introduce the liturgical unit include Ps. 94:12; 106:3; 112:1; 119:1, 2; 128:1, 2. For an examination of a Genizah fragment containing all ­these, see Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 283. 71. I discuss this folio’s first mention of Psalm 145, which also has liturgical implications, in Chapter 4. 72. Only Ms. Paris 671 (against Mss. Florence, Oxford, and Munich) cites R. Yoḥanan as asking his question about “A Praise of David” (tehillah leDavid), the true opening of Psalm 145. The majority reading, however, is to be preferred on two grounds. First, Ms. Paris 671 showcases a clear instance of harmonization, as the psalm is called “A Praise of David” (tehillah leDavid) in the Babylonian Talmud’s discussion of the two lines before that. Second, if the word ashre is a late intrusion on the basis of post-­talmudic liturgy, it is surprising that no manuscript updates the first mention of “A Praise of David” in fol. 4b to ashre. This would be the more logical site of scribal intervention for two reasons. First, the Talmud discusses the daily recitation of Psalm 145, something closer to liturgy than a homily. Second, the line was updated! The original reading of “once a day” was changed to “three times a day” in light of ­later liturgical developments, in which Psalm 145 was sung thrice daily. Ms. Munich lists

198

Notes to Pages 86–88

“three times”; Ms. Florence has “three times,” but a scribe erased it—­acknowledging that once a day was the original reading. The printed editions read “three times.” The scribe of Ms. Paris 671 likely realized that R. Yoḥanan’s homily applies only to Psalm 145, and not to ashre as a liturgical unit, and thus revised his manuscript accordingly. 73. I thus disagree with Benovitz, who, in BT Berakhot Chapter 1, 162, claims that the verses preceding Psalm 145 are post-­t almudic. I also disagree with Stemberger, who, in “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 229, argues that ashre made its way into liturgy in the post-­talmudic period ­because of the pious prescription to read it three times a day. The phrase “three times a day” is clearly a ­later manuscript addition based on common liturgical practice. 74. For my preliminary study and analy­sis of previous scholarship, see, A. J. Berkovitz, “The Hallels,” in Prayer in the Ancient World, ed. Daniel Falk and Rodney Werline (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). 75. In a slightly ­later period, some push the composition back even ­earlier. A lengthy discussion in b. Pesaḥ. 117a attributes Hallel to vari­ous early figures, such as Moses, Deborah, Hezekiah, David, and Mordecai. 76. M. Pesaḥ. 5:7. 77. M. Pesaḥ. 10:6–7. Hallel was the focal point of the earliest Haggadah as contained in the Tosefta. See Judith Hauptman, Rereading the Mishnah: A New Approach to Ancient Jewish Texts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 50–63. 78. T. Pesaḥ. 10:5. 79. T. Suk. 3:2; t. Soṭ. 6:2–3; Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer, 130. 80. In contexts that do not refer to the Passover seder, see m. Meg. 2:5; m. Soṭ. 5:4; t. Ber. 2:3, 4; t. Shab. 1:7; t. Suk. 3:2; t. Yad. 2:11. This is not an exhaustive list. 81. See the verses cited as examples in t. Rosh Hash. 2:13. Joseph Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud: Forms and Patterns (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1977), 128, as per his form-­critical approach, thinks that this liturgy was a ­temple remnant. 82. This liturgy may have Second ­Temple roots. Numerous scholars have demonstrated that the seven-­blessing core of this ritual had an ­earlier and in­de­pen­dent existence. Most convincingly, see Shlomo Naeh, “The Role of Biblical Verses in Prayer According to the Rabbinic Tradition,” in Prayers That Cite Scripture, ed. Kugel, 53–59. See also Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud, 109–11; David Levine, “A ­Temple Prayer for Fast-­Days,” in Liturgical Perspectives: Prayer and Poetry in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Esther G. Chazon (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 102–81; Ezra Fleischer, “On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 59 (1990): 421–22n58. While they focus primarily on the blessings that accompany the vari­ous psalms, their conclusions are valid for the psalms as well. And if m. Taʿan. 2:5 may be believed, this liturgy was still in use during the tannaitic period, albeit not without its rabbinic detractors. For what, exactly, might have irked the rabbis, see Levine, “A ­Temple Prayer for Fast-­Days,” 104n23. 83. T. Taʿan. 2:17. 84. M. Taʿan. 3:9. 85. The movement of rhe­toric to real­ity is evidenced in cases where the rhe­toric of vio­ lence transforms into the occurrence of physical vio­lence. See, for example, narratives in which the vio­lence surrounding tales about the desecration of the host eventually spills over into ­actual vio­lence against Jews. Miri Rubin, Gentile Tales: The Narrative Assault on Late Medieval Jews (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 48–57. Or, more recently, compare the bookends of the Trump presidency. The rhe­toric of his candidacy speech, constantly reinforced throughout his presidency, ultimately contributed to the violent insurrec-



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tion at the Capitol ­toward the end of his term in office. More related to liturgy, note how structuring liturgy around the Bible encourages liturgical participants to eventually apply biblical drama to their own lives. See Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). 86. See the classic statements in Eric Hobsbawm, introduction to The Invention of Tradition, ed. Eric J. Hobsbawm and Terence O. Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 1–14. It may also be worth bearing in mind the advice of Reif: “It should not be forgotten that by its very nature liturgy tends to pre­sent more prob­lems for the historian than other areas since novelty of practice is not only rarely acknowledged but also re-­interpreted as established custom.” Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer, 354–55n11. We saw a clear example of this above, regarding ashre. See n. 72. 87. Appealing to Psalms, of course, was not the only strategy that rabbis used in conceptualizing prayer and justifying its practices and content. Nonetheless, a rough overview of scriptural verses used as prooftexts for prayer clearly highlights the dominance of citations from the Psalms for this task. In real­ity, however, a rabbi would use as many tools at his disposal as pos­si­ble to convince other rabbis, as well as non-­rabbis, of the validity of his opinions and practices. 88. At least in a ­later period, the growth of liturgical psalmody, in turn, likely promoted the further interpretation of Psalms to underpin liturgy. 89. Ezra Fleischer, “On the Origins of the ’Amidah: Response to Ruth Langer,” Prooftexts 20 (2000): 382. The origins and history of this prayer are mired in controversy. My own opinion aligns with the scholars who view the Amidah as fundamentally discontinuous with the past. The most sober and compelling discussion of analogues between rabbinic liturgy and ­earlier pre­ce­dents appears in Richard S. Sarason, “The ‘Intersections’ of Qumran and Rabbinic Judaism: The Case of Prayer Texts and Liturgies,” Dead Sea Discoveries 8 (2001). Of the scholars who view the Amidah as an innovation, I agree with Ruth Langer, “Revisiting Early Rabbinic Liturgy: The Recent Contributions of Ezra Fleischer,” Prooftexts 19 (1999): 190, who rightly points out that Fleischer’s position still assumes that rabbinic texts accurately represent history and that one can take claims of success at face value. I further agree with her that “the impor­tant question then becomes not what ­were its origins but how and when did it (and the rest of the Rabbinic system) come to influence and shape the religious life of the larger Jewish world?” Langer, “Early Rabbinic Liturgy,” 472. 90. The tactic of claiming that a con­temporary prayer mirrors and essentially is another now-­defunct prayer text was a standard part of the rabbinic rhetorical tool kit. As seen in m. Tam. 5:1, the rabbis ­imagined the Decalogue to be part of an early Shema liturgy. At some point, in some rabbinic circles, it was no longer recited. This gap, or perhaps the attempt to create it, received comment. For the Decalogue in Jewish liturgy and rabbinic sources, see Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Role of the Ten Commandments in Jewish Worship” [Hebrew], in The Ten Commandments in History and Tradition [Hebrew], ed. Ben-­Zion Segal (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1990); Ruth Langer, “The Decalogue in Jewish Liturgy,” in The Decalogue and Its Cultural Influence, ed. Dominik Markal (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2013), 87–89. I am partial to Langer’s claim (89) that the general populace likely wanted the Decalogue to remain part of liturgy and that what we witness is a tug-­of-­war. P. Ber. 1:8 3c contains a lengthy discussion that attempts to prove that the Shema and its associated paragraphs are essentially the Decalogue. It proceeds by sequentially correlating each commandment with a specific portion of the Shema. Thus, “I am the Lord your God” corresponds to “Hear, O Israel,

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Notes to Pages 88–90

the Lord is our God”; “You should have no other gods” is contained in “the Lord is One”; not taking the Lord’s name in vain mirrors “You ­w ill love your God,” ­etc. The overall argument is evident. The seemingly absent Decalogue is not missing at all. It is thematically and conceptually ensconced in the Shema. Perhaps something similar is at work when some rabbis imagine the Amidah in terms of Psalms. Occasional and seasonal psalmody brings to the fore the question of why the Psalms was not simply ­adopted into daily liturgy. One answer: the Amidah is sanctioned by Psalms. The cases of the Decalogue/Shema and Psalms/Amidah are not entirely analogous. The Decalogue and Shema are both scriptural texts, although this very analogical tension may ­really just highlight the fact that the rabbis desired to transform the Amidah into something normal and routine. As we ­w ill see ­later, some rabbinic sources line up the blessings of the Amidah and Psalm 29 in a manner very similar to the way in which p. Ber. 1:8 3c connects the Decalogue and Shema. Indeed, the Amidah and Psalm 29 are just about as deeply connected as the Decalogue is with the Shema. 91. Within classical rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, the phrase “it is explained through character X ” (parash b + biblical character) is unique to this passage. 92. For the history of opinions regarding the origins and development of praying three times a day in the period before rabbinic Judaism, see Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer, 1–33. Additionally, this reading of Daniel is not unique to Jews. Origen also derives the requirement to pray three times a day from this verse in his De oratione, 12:2 (PG 11:453). 93. The passages that parallel t. Ber. 3:25 all contain additional proofs that the Amidah has eigh­teen blessings. Perhaps appealing to Psalm 29 alone was not as effective as the rabbis would have liked? See p. Ber. 4:3 8a, p. Taʿan. 2:2 65c, b. Ber. 28b, Lev. Rab. 1:8, Tanḥ. Vayera 1, Mid. Ps. 29:2. 94. For a detailed discussion of ­these blessings, particularly the one for the minim, see Lieberman, Tosefta Kefshutah: Seder Zeraim, 53–55; Teppler, Birkat haMinim; Ruth Langer, Cursing the Christians? A History of the Birkat HaMinim (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Louis Ginzberg, Commentary and Novellae on the Yerushalmi [Hebrew] (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1940), 3:268, notes that ­because this baraita is cited in the name of amoraim in ­later lit­er­a­t ure, he cannot tell ­whether this Tosefta is of tannaitic or amoraic origins. Fleischer, “On the Beginnings,” 436–37n101, argues that our passage is coming to lend support for an already-­established pattern of eigh­teen. See ­here, also, with regard to the prob­ lem of variation in blessings. Ultimately, I agree that this baraita points out the radical nature of the number eigh­teen. 95. For acknowledged early variation, see m. Ber. 4:3–4. 96. Heinemann claims, without much evidence, that the number “must have crystallized sometime before the destruction of the ­Temple.” Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud, 224. Fleischer suggests that eigh­teen was chosen b­ ecause it was divisible by three, and oral culture shows a preference for memorization in triads. Fleischer, “The Shemoneh ʿEsreh: Its Character, Internal Order, Content and Goals” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 62 (1993): 183–84. This suggestion leads one to ask: Why not six, nine, twelve, or fifteen? 97. Cf. Adiel Schremer, ­Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Chris­tian­ity, and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 57. 98. A third source exists in this sugya—­namely, the narrative about the birth of the messiah. It does not concern me ­here. For analy­sis of this source, see Martha Himmelfarb, “The ­Mother of the Messiah in the Talmud Yerushalmi and Sefer Zerubbabel,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-­Roman Culture, ed. Peter Schäfer, vol. 3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002); Peter Schäfer, The Jewish Jesus: How Judaism and Chris­tian­ity S ­ haped Each Other



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(Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2012), 214–35. See 313n8 of Schäfer’s book for additional bibliography. 99. Thus: Why did the rabbis place the blessing of forgiveness (slḥ) next to that of redemption (gʾl)? ­Because forgiveness and redemption come together in Ps. 103:3–4: “Who forgives [slḥ] all of your iniquity, who heals all your ailments; who redeems [gʾl] your life from the Pit.” 100. R. Tanḥuma’s exegetical logic draws on the well-­k nown connection that links ­water—­the flood, in particular—­w ith evil and chaos. By sitting on the flood, and thus holding it back, God hears prayers and prevents the destructive forces of chaos. For the currency of the motif, and especially that of chaotic ­waters, in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, see Michael A. Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 112–31. 101. I suggest that the guise of a tannaitic statement ­really just indicates citation from a complete ­earlier list. 102. ­There is some manuscript variation regarding ­whether only the first part of the verse is quoted or the entire verse. For b. Meg. 17b, ­those manuscripts that list the full verse include Mss. Munich 140, Columbia X 893, Oxford Opp. fol. 23, Presario Print, and Venice Print. ­Those that list the first part include Mss. Göttingen 3 and London BL Harl. ­Those that list only the second include Mss. Munich 95 and Vatican 134 (although this manuscript is clearly corrupted). For the parallel passage in b. Rosh Hash. 32a, ­those manuscripts or Genizah fragments that cite the full verse include Mss. JTS Rab. 180, Oxford Opp. fol. 23, Oxford Bod. Heb. b. 13, Cambridge T-­S F1 95, and Cambridge T-­S F2162. ­Those that cite the first part include Mss. London BL Harl., Munich 140, Munich 95 [added], JTS Rab. 1608, and Vatican 134. None contains just the second half. Regardless of ­whether our source is using the same hermeneutical key, Psalm 29 is at its center. 103. A verse from Psalm 29 also concludes the conversation in p. Ber. 2:3 4d–5a about the blessings of the Amidah. This final appearance of Psalm 29 suggests three t­ hings—­t wo certain and one more speculative. First, the Palestinian Talmud’s discourse is highly redacted. Second, Psalm 29 stands at the center of the justification of the Amidah. Third, List C was unavailable to the redactor. The Palestinian Talmud finishes its discussion with the following statement: “And one concludes with peace, for all blessings end with peace. R. Simon b. Ḥalafta says, ‘­There is no vessel that holds on to blessing other than peace.’ What is the reason? ‘YHWH gave strength to his nation, YHWH blesses his nation with peace’ ” (Ps. 29:11). This line is itself a redacted composite containing two distinct ele­ments: 1) the redactor’s comment that “one concludes with peace”; and 2) an in­de­pen­dent statement by R. Simon b. Ḥalafta, which correlates the notion of peace with Ps. 29:11. Two facts support this conclusion. First, as seen above, all quotations of Psalm 29 reflect the sequential correlation of names of YHWH with blessings in the Amidah. R. Simon b. Ḥalafta quotes the entirety of Ps. 29:11, which mentions YHWH twice, thus breaking the pattern. In fact, the entirety of Ps. 29:11 operates in R. Simon’s statement. The “holds on to” (maḥaziq), I suggest, directly builds on the mention of “strength” (oz) in Ps. 29:11a; indeed, the locution “holds on to blessing” (maḥaziq berakhah) is distinctive to R. Simon’s statement. It appears in­de­pen­dent of R. Simon only in Song Rab. 8:1. Second, evidence for the in­de­pen­dence of R. Simon’s statement comes from Lev. Rab. 9:9, which begins with a statement by R. Simon b. Yoḥai, who is R. Simon’s con­temporary: “­Great is peace, for all blessings are contained in it, as it says, ‘YHWH gave strength to his nation, YHWH blesses his nation with peace.’ ” I argue that a redactor reframed R. Simon’s statement about blessings in general to one about the final blessing of

202

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the Amidah in par­tic­u­lar. In fact, the concluding benediction of the Amidah—­the blessing for peace—­perfectly correlates with the final mention of YHWH in Psalm 29: “YHWH blesses his nation with peace.” The redactor was interested in reading the Amidah in light of Psalm 29 but did not have List C available to help him do so. 104. Furthermore, I would argue that the methodology employed in unpacking Psalm 29 had impact on ­later interpreters. P. Ber. 4:3 8a continues with an opinion attributed to R. Yudan Antondria: “It corresponds to the seven mentions of YHWH in ‘A psalm, a Song for the Sabbath day’ ” (Psalm 92). A psalm—­this time, the Sabbath Psalm—­appropriately structures prayer. The interpretive methodology, however, is clearly indebted to previous discussions of Psalm 29. The operative term, “mentions of YHWH” (azkarot), first appears in the t. Ber. 3:25 passage discussed above. Throughout rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, it frequently occurs in the context of establishing something “corresponding to the x mentions of YHWH in place y.” In addition to the vari­ous references in our Palestinian Talmud passage, see p. Ḥag. 3:8 79d and b. Ber. 28b–29a. Additionally, as this tradition developed, what counted as a divine name became the object of examination. Psalm 29 contains the name el; did that count? Indeed, this is the question of R. Elazar b. R. Yosi in p. Ber. 4:3 8a. See further in Ginzberg, Commentary, 3:268–71, 75–76. 105. For another ­great example in which a psalm verse explains the Amidah, see Lev. Rab. 7:2, where the blessing for the avodah is tied directly to Ps. 51:19. For the early history of the avodah blessing, see Uri Ehrlich, “The Earliest Versions of the Amidah: The Blessing About the ­Temple Worship” [Hebrew], in From Qumran to Cairo: Studies in the History of Prayer [Hebrew], ed. Joseph Tabory (Jerusalem: Orhot, 1999), 18; Yitz Landes, Studies in the Development of Birkat ha-­Avodah [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Mandel Institute for Jewish Studies, 2018). 106. The Palestinian Talmud emphasizes this point by subsequently citing a statement attributed to R. Yosi b. Ḥanina: “Serve [ivdu] the Lord in fear, and rejoice in trepidation” (Ps. 2:11). Ser­vice of the Lord, understood ­here as worship through prayer, must be done seriously. Ultimately, the mishnaic prescription receives support from two sages, both of whom interpret the Psalms and read “seriousness” in relationship to fear and trembling. See also a ­little further on, where R. Huna, basing himself on Ps. 12:9, calls wicked anyone who prays b­ ehind a synagogue or one who does not enter a synagogue to pray. 107. Contra Trudinger, The Psalms of the Tamid. I follow, in this regard, Ishay Rosen-­ Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual: ­Temple, Gender and Midrash, trans. Orr Scharf (Leiden: Brill, 2012); and Naftali S. Cohn, The Memory of the T ­ emple and the Making of the Rabbis (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). I would not, however, reduce memory to authority. 108. It cites an other­w ise unattested tannaitic statement. 109. It is, of course, pos­si­ble that Psalm 29 was sung at the ­temple—in which case, we would need to flip the portrait: a liturgical psalm underpins innovation in rabbinic liturgy. 110. Further, see Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 203, 206. 111. For additional examples, see b. Ber. 12a, b. Ber. 16b, b. Yoma 53b. 112. On this topic in general, see Joseph Tabory, Jewish Festivals in the Times of the Mishnah and the Talmud [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1995), 247–48. Tabory’s discomfort with the conclusion of the midrash is part and parcel of why I think it need not initially be connected to Rosh Hashanah. 113. This unit of interpretation likely draws upon an ­earlier conceptualization of the Shema liturgy as an act of reading Torah. See m. Ber. 5:2, which states that if one reads the



Notes to Pages 93–95

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Shema outside the bounds of its proper time, “­there is no loss, it is as if a person is reading from the Torah.” On the early history and diversity of Shema, see Sarit Kattan Gribetz, “The Shema in the Second ­Temple Period: A Reconsideration,” Journal of Ancient Judaism (2015). 114. For an in­ter­est­ing parallel that connects prayer and deceitful lips, see b. Ber. 17a, where Mar b. Ravina concludes his Amidah with a prayer that includes this verse. 115. However, nothing in this homily demands that par­tic­u­lar context. Indeed, this homily may be an ­earlier exposition on the structure of prayer in general that got repackaged by the redactors into one about Rosh Hashanah liturgy. The awkwardness of this homily inspired a ­later reworking now pre­sent in Pesiq. Rab. 40, which provides a more cogent hook for “deceitful lips.” 116. This may be a scribal term, as we are dealing with a scroll. 117. The Palestinian Talmud preemptively solves the prob­lem of ending at Psalm 19 for an eighteen-­blessing prayer by commenting: “And if someone tells you ­there are nineteen psalms, tell them ‘Why do the nations rage’ (Psalm 2) is not part of them.” See further in Ginzberg, Commentary, 3:234–36. 118. To my knowledge, no other biblical book is treated in this manner, in which its very structure underpins a piece of liturgy. 119. A scholarly debate rages regarding ­whether our extant collections of midrash, and proems contained therein, represent ­actual synagogue sermons, fragments of learned discourse heavi­ly reworked by redaction, or a combination of both. For the first view, see Joseph Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim: A Form-­Critical Study,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971); Avigdor Shinan, “Between Oral and Written Tradition” [Hebrew], Jerusalem Studies in Folklore 1 (1981). For the second, see Martin S. Jaffee, “The ‘Midrashic’ Proem: ­Towards the Description of Rabbinic Exegesis,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, ed. Jacob Neusner, vol. 4 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1983); Richard S. Sarason, “The ‘Petihtot’ in Leviticus Rabba: ‘Oral Homilies’ or Redactional Constructions,” Journal of Jewish Studies 33 (1982). For the third, see Arnon Atzmon, “ ‘ The Same Fate Is in Store for the Righ­teous and the Wicked’: Form and Content in Midreshei Aggadah,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 43 (2012). Regardless, some of ­these proems ­were ­imagined by the rabbis as having been delivered in a synagogue setting. See, for example, Lev. Rab. 3:6. Sermons, furthermore, ­were undoubtedly a key feature in ancient synagogue ritual, beginning in the earliest days of synagogue. For synagogue sermons in Second T ­ emple and rabbinic sources, see Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 157–58, 493, 580–83. In addition, the sermon likely functioned as a key tool that rabbis—­a mong other Jews—­employed in a bid to assert influence and control within a shared religious space. Thus, even if the extant proems ­were ­later redacted and reor­g a­nized, their origins should be taken seriously for our argument—­namely, that the constant preaching with Psalms correlates with the incorporation of the Psalter into liturgy. 120. According to the count of Wilhelm Bacher, within the corpus of Gen. Rab., Lev. Rab., and PdRK, Psalms features in at least 186 of the 559 proems Wilhelm Bacher, Die Proömien der alten jüdischen Homilie: Beitrag zur Geschichte der jüdischen Schriftauslegung und Homiletik (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1913), 105, 111. Stemberger underappreciates the rhetorical value of ­these proems. Just ­because they are in ser­vice of another verse does not mean that they cannot be used as evidence for the growth of liturgical psalmody. Cf. Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 231. This large number overshadows the next biblical book on the list, Proverbs, which appears 112 times as the opening of a proem. Together, Psalms and Proverbs account for over half of the extant proems.

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Notes to Pages 95–99

121. For the pre-­tannaitic synagogue, see Steven Fine, This Holy Place: On the Sanctity of the Synagogue During the Greco-­Roman Period (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 25–33; Fleischer, “On the Beginnings,” 400–414. 122. Fine, This Holy Place, 36. 123. Tzvee Zahavy, Studies in Jewish Prayer (Lanham, MD: University Press of Amer­i­ca, 1990), 49–52. While I agree with Zahavy’s observation, I disagree that this phenomenon can be explained by the fact that the rabbis ­were interested in the individual more than the community. I think that the evidence more readily reflects the ambiguous place of the synagogue as a liturgical institution for the rabbis. 124. Fine, This Holy Place, 62–67; see also 85: “The centrality of prayer within the synagogue was expanded during the Amoraic period, prayer becoming equal in significance to Torah study.” 125. See Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer, 95–98. 126. For the full publication of this synagogue, see Vassilios Tzaferis, “The Ancient Synagogue at Maʿoz Ḥayyim,” Israel Exploration Journal 32 (1982). For the synagogue structure, see 215–27 and 242–44, in which Tzaferis places the developing structure of this synagogue in conversation with other con­temporary exemplars. 127. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 355, notes that this feature is usually due to Christian influence. The Maʿoz synagogue was near a church. On the architectural relationship between Maʿoz Ḥayyim and the local church, see Marilyn J. S. Chiat and Marchita B. Mauck, “Using Archeological Sources,” in The Making of Jewish and Christian Worship, ed. Paul F. Bradshaw and Lawrence A. Hoffman (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991), 78–80. 128. Tzaferis, “Ancient Synagogue at Maʿoz Ḥayyim,” 219, 24–25. 129. As time went on, they remodeled the synagogue once again, likely in the sixth ­century. No external changes ­were made. Inside the building, a new and aniconic mosaic was laid. The community also added to the nave an enclosed podium surrounded by chancel screens. See Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 367. The residents of Maʿoz Ḥayyim clearly updated their synagogue with the times. 130. Indeed, the Tannaim placed limits on this analogy where the Amoraim did not. See Fine, This Holy Place, 57–58. 131. Kimelman, “Rabbinic Prayer in Late Antiquity,” 573–75; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 236–42. 132. This lit­er­a­ture is vast. For the moment, see Steven Fine, Art and Judaism in the Greco-­ Roman World: ­Toward a New Jewish Archaeology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Lee I. Levine, Visual Judaism in Late Antiquity: Historical Contexts of Jewish Art (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012); Shulamit Laderman, Jewish Art in Late Antiquity: The State of Research in Ancient Jewish Art (Leiden: Brill, 2022). 133. For an exhaustive discussion of ­t hese symbols in their respective locations, see Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 285–338. 134. Zeev Weiss and Ehud Netzer, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message Through Its Archaeological and Socio-­Historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005), 77–104. 135. Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 122. 136. Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 311. 137. On David at Gaza, see Fine, This Holy Place, 125; Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 414– 17. A liturgical interpretation should precede a messianic one, although the latter, as we ­w ill see in Chapter 4, should not completely be discounted.



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138. For detailed discussion, see Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 417–18. 139. Mid. Ps. 61:3. 140. See Greg H. R. Horsley, New Documents Illustrating Early Chris­tian­ity: A Review of Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1976 (North Ryde, Australia: Macquarie University, 1981), 115. 141. According to the Thesaurus linguae Graecae (http://­stephanus​.­tlg​.­uci​.­edu), the word appears 130 times. 142. For the inscription and further bibliography, see http://­insaph​.­kcl​.­ac​.­uk​/­iaph2007​ /­iAph110055​.­html#edition. 143. Joyce Marie Reynolds and Robert Tannenbaum, Jews and God-­Fearers at Aphrodisias (Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 1987), 9, restore this as log­os, thus reading psalmologos. As they note, however, the word psalmologos appears very infrequently. They then offer psalmodos as a second option, suggesting that the omicron was a misspelling. 144. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 43–45. 145. Text from Carl Schmidt and Wilhelm Schubart, Praxeis Paulou = Acta Pauli: Nach dem Papyrus der Hamburger Staats-­und Universitäts-­Bibliothek (Glückstadt, Germany: Augustin, 1936), 22–72. The line is found on p. 7 of the ten-­leaf papyrus book. See 4–14 for a description. For the evidence of Christian ­music and extant evidence for Psalms, see Andrew B. McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship: Early Church Practices in Social, Historical, and Theological Perspective (­Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2014), 111–34. 146. De anima 9.4 (CCSL 2:792). See McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship, 85. 147. De oratione 27 (CCSL 1:273), trans. from Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 64. On this page, Bradshaw also cites Tertullian as evidence that: “This use of the psalms was also beginning to spread from ­these occasions to the regular times of prayer, at least when they ­were offered in a context where ­there ­were ­others pre­sent to listen and respond to the psalmody.” Tertullian does not tell us the exact identity of ­these psalms. Arguing that they come from the Jewish Hallel overdraws the available evidence. Cf. McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship, 116. Taft suggests that Tertullian refers to Psalms 110–18 or perhaps Psalms 145–50. Robert F. Taft, The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West: The Origins of the Divine Office and Its Meaning for ­Today (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1986), 18. 148. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 55–57; Taft, The Liturgy, 26; McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship, 51, 116–17. 149. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 64, 71; Taft, The Liturgy, 26. 150. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 93–110; Taft, The Liturgy, 57–92; Bradshaw, The Search, 187– 89. For more on the monastic use of Psalms, see Chapter 4, esp. the section “An Overview of Early Christian Psalm Piety.” 151. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 72–92; Taft, The Liturgy, 31–56. 152. Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 87. 153. Anne McGowan and Paul F. Bradshaw, eds. and trans., The Pilgrimage of Egeria: A New Translation of the Itinerarium Egeriae with Introduction and Commentary (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2018), 82, 100, 104. 154. For a recent description of the lectionary, see Daniel Galadza, Liturgy and Byzantinization in Jerusalem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 46–49. 155. ­Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church, 228. 156. Columba Stewart, “Psalms and Prayer in Syriac Monasticism: Clues from Psalter Prefaces and Their Greek Sources,” in Prayer and Worship in Eastern Christianities, 5th to 11th Centuries, ed. Derek Krueger and Bruria Bitton-­Ashkelony (London: Routledge, 2017).

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Notes to Pages 104–108

157. Harry van Rooy, “The Psalms in Early Syriac Tradition,” in Psalms: Composition and Reception, ed. Peter W. Flint, Patrick D. Miller, and Ryan Roberts, 537. Syriac Christians also had recourse to non-­Peshitta Psalters (542). 158. See Michael Weitzman, The Syriac Version of the Old Testament: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 272. 159. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 242–48; David Milson, Art and Architecture of the Synagogue in Late Antique Palestine: In the Shadow of the Church (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 160. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 246. 161. Milson, Art and Architecture, 2.

chapter 4 1. Clifford Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System,” in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 90. As a ­whole, this definition has been developed in conversation with the work of, among many other theorists, Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); Catherine M. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009); Derek Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018); David Frank­f urter, “Magic as the Local Application of Authoritative Tradition,” in Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, ed. David Frank­f urter (Leiden: Brill, 2019). 2. In this sense, I follow the notion of piety developed in Elisheva Baumgarten, Practicing Piety in Medieval Ashkenaz: Men, ­Women, and Everyday Religious Observance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014). Like her study, this chapter ­w ill privilege practice over intellectual engagement and focus on widely held beliefs (214) and “quotidian piety” (213). I also follow Ivan G. Marcus, Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of Medieval Germany (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 1: “Piety and pietism are not the same ­thing. The former embraces all forms of religious be­hav­ior and fervor; the latter refers to a specific type of extremist religious ideology or world view and symbol system held by a par­tic­u­lar group of a larger religious community. In Judaism, piety encompasses ordinary or ‘folk’ religion as well as ‘elite’ expressions.” Like Marcus, I eschew a definition of “piety” that imagines ­those engaged in it as extremists or sectarians. 3. For the use of ḥasid in rabbinic lit­er­a­ture as “exceptionally altruistic,” “holy,” and “miraculous,” see Louis Jacobs, “The Concept of Hasid in the Biblical and Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ tures,” Journal of Jewish Studies 8 (1957). For the relationship between ḥasidim and rabbinic society, see Shmuel Safrai, “Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Lit­er­a­t ure,” Journal of Jewish Studies 16 (1965). ­These works are fairly dated chronologically and/or methodologically. They do not discuss the phenomenon of piety in relationship to Psalms. A more up-­to-­date examination of the phenomenon of the ḥasid in the tannaitic period appears in Tzvi Novick, What Is Good, and What God Demands: Normative Structures in Tannaitic Lit­er­a­ture (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 141–48. 4. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 214. 5. We catch one further glimpse of Elbogen’s relying on Psalm piety to drive his historical narrative when he describes prayer during the tannaitic period: “With the Song of the Levites silenced, the psalms found a new home in the synagogue, and many of the pious



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made them a regular part of their daily prayers.” Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 200. As discussed in Chapter 3, the Song of the Levites did not enter synagogue liturgy ­until well ­a fter Late Antiquity. 6. I borrow this turn of phrase from Michael D. Swartz, “Magical Piety in Ancient and Medieval Judaism,” in Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, ed. Marvin Meyer and Paul Mirecki (Leiden: Brill, 1995). Unfortunately, Swartz does not define “piety” and focuses more on the magician than the community of magic. 7. In theoretical terms, magical piety is a “social fact.” For this concept, see Emile Durkheim, The Rules of So­cio­log­i­cal Method, ed. Steven Lukes, trans. W. D. Halls (New York: ­Free Press, 1982), 20–28. In his own words: “A social fact is any way of acting, ­whether fixed or not, capable of exerting over the individual an external constraint; or: which is general over the ­whole of a given society whilst having an existence of its own, in­de­pen­dent of its individual manifestations” (27, italics in original). I am intentionally reading Durkheim against himself, for Durkheim famously claims that magic is an individual affair. In his own words, magic “does not result in binding together ­those who adhere to it, nor in uniting them into a group leading a common life. ­There is no Church of magic.” Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. Joseph Ward Swain (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1915), 44 (italics in original). 8. In fact, this argument has been made about late antique Psalm piety. See Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 233; Rabinowitz, “Psalms in Jewish Liturgy,” 110. Both scholars base their claims on the one instance in which b. Shab. 118b rejects the pious recitation of Hallel ­every day. We w ­ ill explore this source in this chapter. 9. For classic articulations of a position that pits rabbis against magic, see Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages, trans. Israel Abrahams, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1975), 97–123; Ludwig Blau, Das altjüdische Zauberwesen (Budapest: Jahrsbericht der Landes-­R abbinerschule, 1897). Con­temporary scholarship has mostly dismissed this binary in search of more productive modes of analy­sis. On the complicated relationship between rabbis and magic, particularly as it relates to establishing rabbinic authority, see Yuval Harari, “The Sages and the Occult,” in The Lit­er­a­ture of the Sages, pt. 2, ed. Safrai et al., 521–64. See, more recently, Harari, Jewish Magic Before the Rise of Kabbalah, trans. Batya Stein (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2017). For another synthetic analy­sis, see Gideon Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 351–425. Note that healing, protection, and the making of amulets was usually acceptable within rabbinic circles (365, 370). It is in this context that one finds Psalm piety. See also the influential article by Peter Schäfer, “Magic and Religion in Ancient Judaism,” in Envisioning Magic, ed. Peter Schäfer and Hans Kippenberg (Leiden: Brill, 1997). I follow the claim that rabbinic Judaism did not distinguish between magic and religion, even when prohibiting some contested practices ­under vari­ous categories that modern scholarship has bundled together as magic. For a recent and compelling reading of rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure within the context of magic, see Septimus, On the Bound­ aries, 45–88, esp. 59–61. The only study I could find that is devoted to Psalms and magic in ancient Judaism focuses most of its attention on Sefer Shimmush Tehillim, an early medieval compilation. See Bill Rebiger, “Die magische Verwendung von Psalmen im Judentum,” in Ritual und Poesie: Formen und Orte religiöser Dichtung im Alten Orient, im Judentum und im Christentum, ed. Erich Zenger (Freiburg: Herder, 2003). 10. In theoretical terms, the rabbis ­were part of the cultural field set by Psalm piety. On cultural field, see Pierre Bourdieu, “The Field of Cultural Production, or: the Economic World

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Reversed,” in The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Lit­er­a­ture, ed. Randal Johnson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993). 11. And it challenges ­those who claim that a dearth of evidence renders speculative any confident statement about Psalm piety in the ancient world. For this claim, see Alan Cooper, “Some Aspects of Traditional Jewish Psalm Interpretation,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. Brown, 258. 12. ­There is ­little doubt that the evidence mustered in this chapter represents but a small fraction of what once existed. Even the analy­sis of the sources marshaled below does not explore ­every facet and ­a ngle of Psalm piety; it cannot. 13. While we ­w ill discuss below the use of verses from Psalms to guide a pious soul into the afterlife, this form of piety was not ­limited to verses from that sacred text. According to Sifre Deuteronomy 307, the famous martyr R. Ḥanina b. Teradion recited aloud Deut. 32:4 when he was condemned to burn by the Romans. His wife spoke the same verse upon being told about her husband’s death and her imminent execution. Their ­daughter, in similar fashion, cites Jer. 32:19 when informed that her parents died and she was to be sold as a prostitute. ­T hese verses—­a nd this story—­a re part of a larger phenomenon of ancient Jewish scriptural piety, of which Psalm piety is but one manifestation. 14. For Egyptian Psalters and Psalm fragments, see Gregg Schwendner, “A Fragmentary Psalter from Karanis and Its Context,” in Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon, ed. Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (London: T. & T. Clark, 2009), 125. The Psalter seems to have been more popularly copied than the Gospel. On the intersection between Christian Psalm piety and materiality in a slightly ­later period, see Georgi R. Parpulov, “Psalters and Personal Piety in Byzantium,” in The Old Testament in Byzantium, ed. Paul Magdalino and Robert S. Nelson (Washington, DC: Harvard University Press, 2010). Parpulov demonstrates that many monastic Psalters ­were dedicated for personal use. For the material residue of Psalms in education, see the numerous examples in the cata­log at the end of Raffaella Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-­Roman Egypt (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996). For a recent overview of Psalms in material Byzantine piety, see Joe Glynias, “Prayerful Iconoclasts: Psalm Seals and Elite Formation in the First Iconoclast Era (726– 750),” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 71 (2017). 15. Larry Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (­Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 19–21. On the use of private-­study Psalms, see 54–55, 58–59, 160, although he claims that two of the five Psalm rolls discussed may be of Jewish origin. 16. See, esp., Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 93–110; and Taft, The Liturgy, 57–73. 17. John Cassian, Institutes, 2.5 (SC 109: 68). On Cassian’s Bethlehem liturgy, see Taft, The Liturgy, 76–80. On the twelve psalms, see Anselme Davril, “La psalmodie chez les Pères du désert,” Collectanea Cisterciensia 49 (1987): 138–39. For liturgical psalmody as reflected in the Saying of the Desert ­Fathers, see Douglas Christie, The Word in the Desert: Scripture and the Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 117–18. 18. On the role of Scripture in early monasticism, see Christie, The Word in the Desert; Derek Krueger, “The Old Testament and Monasticism,” in The Old Testament in Byzantium, ed. Magdalino and Nelson. For more on Psalms in monastic communities, see Lorenzo Perrone, “Scripture for a Life of Perfection. The Bible in Late Antique Monasticism. The Case of Palestine,” in The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity: Proceedings of the Montréal Colloquium in Honour of Charles Kannengiesser, 11–13 October 2006, ed. Lorenzo



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DiTommaso, Lucian Turcescu, and Charles Kannengiesser (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 401–3; Davril, “La psalmodie chez les Pères du désert.” 19. For data, see Perrone, “Scripture for a Life of Perfection,” 401n23. Both Sabas and Cyril of Scythopolis begin their monastic journey by memorizing the Psalms. Pachomian worship seems to have had less psalmody relative to other monastic communities. Taft, The Liturgy, 64; McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship, 207 20. For the argument and further information, see Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott, The Monastic Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 39–40. 21. Psalms for Cassian ­were not merely an introduction to prayer; they ­were prayers of self-­formation. For a similar sentiment, see also Athanasius, Epistola ad Marcellinum 1 (PG 27:12a) and the study of Paul R. Kolbet, “Athanasius, the Psalms, and the Reformation of the Self,” Harvard Theological Review 99 (2006). 22. John Cassian, Conferences, 10.11 (CSEL 13:304). Trans. ­adopted from Bradshaw, Daily Prayer, 95. 23. Trans. from Derek Krueger, Symeon the Holy Fool: Leontius’s Life and the Late Antique City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 141. Checked against Greek text from Lennart Rydén, Das Leben des heiligen Narren Symeon von Leontios von Neapolis (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1963), 133. 24. ­Toward the conclusion of the narrative, Symeon is sent to the grave with sounds of angelic psalmody. 25. For further information on the Psalms in Syriac monastic settings, see Arthur Vööbus, ed., Syriac and Arabic Documents Regarding Legislation Relative to Syrian Asceticism (Stockholm: Estonian Theological Society in Exile, 1960), 41, 71, 92, 112, 125, 202–203; Vööbus, History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient: A Contribution to the History of Culture in the Near East (Louvain: Peeters, 1960), 289–91. See, most recently, Stewart, “Psalms and Prayer in Syriac Monasticism,” 44–62. Writing Psalms appears also to have been an impor­tant aspect of scribal education. See Theodoret, Ecclesiastical History 4.15; Becker, Fear of God, 9. 26. Syriac text from Paul Bedjan, ed., Homiliae selectae Mar-­Jacobi Sarugensis (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1908), 4:834. For a general discussion of Jacob’s view on monasticism, see Sidney H. Griffith, “Mar Jacob of Serugh on Monks and Monasticism: Reading in His Metrical Homilies ‘On the Singles,’ ” in Jacob Serugh and His Times, ed. George Kiraz (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2010). In the line from Jacob’s poem cited in the body of this chapter, Griffith understands damsage as “make increase,” which requires a forced interpretation in this context. I prefer to read the root sgy ­here as defined by the Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon (http://­ cal​.­huc​.­edu) for the use of sgy in the Peshitta version of 1 Sam. 21:12. This story also features David and a song. 27. On the school of Nisibis in general, see Becker, Fear of God. On its comparative dimensions with rabbinic Judaism, see Adam H. Becker, “The Comparative Study of ‘Scholasticism’ in Late Antique Mesopotamia: Rabbis and East Syrians,” AJS Review 34 (2010). 28. Syriac text from Paul Bedjan, ed., Histoire de Mar-­Jabalaha: De trois autres Patriarches, d’un Prêtre et de deux Laïques, Nestoriens (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1893), 216–17. For an excellent discussion of education and community formation in the Syriac world, see Jack B. V. Tannous, The Making of the Medieval ­Middle East: Religion, Society, and ­Simple Believers (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2018), 181–97. Tannous does not focus his attention on Psalms, but his sources do. For more on Mar Abba, see Becker, Fear of God, 37; Adam Izdebski, “Cultural Contacts Between the Superpowers of Late Antiquity: The Syriac School of Nisibis and the Transmission of Greek Educational Experience to the Persian Empire,” in

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Cultures in Motion: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Periods, ed. Adam Izdebski and Jasiński Damian (Kraków: Jagiellonian University Press, 2014). 29. Syriac text from François Nau, “La seconde partie de l’Histoire de Barhadbešabba ’Arbaïa,” in Patrologia Orientalis, ed. René Garffin and François Nau (Paris: Firmin-­Didot, 1913), 9:594. 30. See Becker, Fear of God, 32, in which, in the Pethion–­Adurhormizd–­A nahid cycle, Yazdin, son of the Zoroastrian Mihryar, becomes a monk and “learned also the Psalms and to read the holy Scriptures.” See also Sebastian P. Brock and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Holy ­Women of the Syrian Orient (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 29, in which Mary, the niece of Abraham of Qidun, receives instruction “in the Psalms and in the Holy Scriptures.” For another example, see Joel T. Walker, The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 43. Qardagh, like many monks, learned the Psalms before encountering the Gospels. 31. Joseph P. Amar, ed., The Syriac Vita Tradition of Ephrem the Syrian (Louvain: Peeters, 2011), 9. When Ephrem leaves and gets baptized, he is trained in “Psalms and Scripture” (25). 32. Amar, The Syriac Vita, 32. 33. A Syriac clay tablet found in Panjikent that contains portions of Psalms 1 and 2 offers a material perspective on early education involving Psalms. See A. V. Paykova, “The Syrian Ostracon from Panjikent,” Le Museon 92 (1979). 34. “He also learned the Psalms in Syriac and the two of them would perform the liturgy, ­because his tutor also learned the Psalms with him. When his ­mother, worthy of blessings, saw the color of her son’s face and the radiance of his youth had changed, she began to ask his tutor, ‘What is this intention which I see my son that he is wholly in sadness?’ He said to her in order to please her with his speech, ‘it is b­ ecause he was up late in much reading.’ She was pleased by this ­because he would—so she thought—be instructed in the reading of the pagan Greek writers.” For the translation and a general discussion on John of Tella, see Becker, Fear of God, 35–36. See also Sebastian P. Brock, “From Antagonism to Assimilation: Syriac Attitudes to Greek Learning,” in East of Byzantium: Syria and Armenia in the Formative Period. Dumbarton Oaks Symposium, 1980, ed. Nina Garsoïan, Thomas Mathews, and Robert Thomson (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1982). The seventh-­century Life of Isho‘sabran also imagines the Psalms in the context of countereducation. Isho‘sabran, a convert from Zoroastrianism, wanted to first learn the Psalms orally, as a Magian would. His teacher instructs him to first learn the alphabet and to avoid shaking like a Zoroastrian priest when reciting the Psalter. See Jean B. Chabot, “Historie de Jésus-­Sabran, écrite par Jésus-­ Yad d’Adiabène,” Nouvelles archives des missions scientifiques et litteraires 5 (1897): 525. The replacement of pagan writings with the Psalms appears as a trope even within the Greco-­Roman world. Robert Kaster, in his prosopography of late antique grammarians, rec­ords a certain Babylas, who was martyred in Nicomedia around 304 ce for teaching his young students Christian hymns and the Psalms, instead of Hellenic education. Robert A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 387. This is not surprising, as poetry was the primary vehicle of Greco-­ Roman education. See Kaster, Guardians of Language, 12. See also Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 191. 35. The translation and source are in Vööbus, Statutes of the School of Nisibis, 109. 36. Paul Bedjan, Nomocanon Gregorii Barhebraei (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1898), 107. While we ­ought to approach this material with due skepticism, the preponderance of evidence suggests something more than mere rhetorical posturing.



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37. For the general portrait in terms of school terminology, see Becker, Fear of God, 88. 38. Syriac text from Chabot, “Historie de Jesus-­Sabran,” 525. For more on the Life of Isho‘sabran, see Becker, Fear of God, 205–6. 39. Even village schools, according to Thomas of Marga, would teach Psalms at the beginning of a Christian education. See Becker, Fear of God, 163. 40. Memra 29, “On the Discipline of the Body,” in The Syriac Book of Steps 3: Syriac Text and En­glish Translation, ed. and trans. Robert A. Kitchen and Martien F. G. Parmentier (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2014), 180–81. I have slightly modified their translation and supplied the transliterated Syriac in all citations from the Book of Steps. 41. This sentiment is also likely at play in a monastic narrative involving Abba Pambo, who would learn one verse of a psalm, wait many months, and then learn the next one. For the source, see Christie, The Word in the Desert, 156. 42. Memra 29. 43. For a comprehensive study of the Greek version of this text, see Andrew Cain, The Greek Historia Monachorum in Aegypto: Monastic Hagiography in the Late Fourth ­Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016). For Rufinus and the Latin translation, see Rufinus, Inquiry About the Monks in Egypt, ed. Andrew Cain (Washington, DC: Catholic University of Amer­i­ca Press, 2019), 3–56. I have checked Cain’s translation against Rufinus, Historia monachorum sive de vita sanctorum patrum, ed. Eva Schulz-­Flügel (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1990). 44. Trans. from Rufinus, Inquiry About the Monks in Egypt, 201. John of Gaza (sixth ­century) attempts to tackle the issue from another direction. He claims that psalmody should be done with lips and not merely the intellect. In other words, monks must actually recite the Psalter and not just think about its words. Parpulov, “Psalters and Personal Piety in Byzantium,” 83. Contrast this to the approach of Evagrius Ponticus (345–99), who exhorts: “Sing psalms [psalle] from your heart, and do not put into motion alone your tongue in your mouth.” Evagrius, Sententiae ad Virginem, 35. The Greek text is from the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. On Sententiae ad Virginem and its author, see Susanna Elm, “Evagrius Ponticus’ ‘Sententiae Ad Virginem,’ ” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 45 (1991). 45. Daniel Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 137–57. 46. On the complicated history of this text, see Bar-­Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Lit­er­a­ture, 36–42. 47. PG 65:253. Trans. from Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert ­Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1984), 121. For further information on performing psalmody during manual l­abor, see John Cassian, Institutions, 3.2 (SC 109:92). The themes of work and prayer are in constant tension in monastic lit­er­a­t ure. See Peter Brown, Trea­sure in Heaven: The Holy Poor in Early Chris­tian­ity (Charlottesville: University of ­Virginia Press, 2016); Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks, 104–6. For the innovative use of this lit­er­a­ ture in conversation with rabbinic sources and a brief analy­sis of this passage, see Bar-­Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Lit­er­a­ture, 80–81. She does not call attention to Psalms. 48. Text from E. de Stoop, “Vie d’Alexandre l’Acémète,” in Patrologia Orientalis (Paris: Firmin-­Didot, 1911), 6:662 (trans. from Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks, 254). 49. See, for example, Life of Anthony, 6.4: “Anthony gave thanks to the Lord and, summoning up his courage, said to the Devil, ‘You are a despicable wretch, that is what you are, for you are black of mind, and you are a frustrated child. From now on I am not ­going to pay attention to you, for ‘the Lord is my helper, and I ­shall look upon my enemies’ (Ps. 118:7). Having heard this, the black one straightway fled, shuddering at the words and dreading any

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longer even to come near the man.” Trans. from Athanasius of Alexandria, The Life of Anthony, trans. Tim Vivan, Apostolos N. Athanassakis, and Rowan A. Greer (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 2003), 73, which follows the critical edition of Gerhardus J. M. Bartelink, Vie d’Antoine (Paris: Cerf, 1994). Similar examples in the Life of Anthony could be cited. This trope of expelling demons through psalmody is common in many monastic narratives. For the example of Abba Macarius and the swords of fire, see Christie, The Word in the Desert, 148–49. 50. Life of Anthony, 41.1–3, trans. Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Anthony, 147. 51. CSEL 55:302. 52. CSEL 55:345. 53. Ps. Athanasius, De virginitate, 12. Text from Eduard von der Goltz, Log­os sōtērias pros tēn parthenon: (de virginitate). Eine echte Schrift des Athanasius (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1905), 46. 54. Epistula Encyclica, 4.5. Greek text from Hans-­Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1940), 2.1:173. 55. Syriac text from E. W. Brooks, “Lives of the Eastern Saints (1),” in Patrologia Orientalis, ed. François Nau and René Graffin (Paris: Firmin-­Didot, 1923), 17:246. For additional Syriac examples, see Tannous, Making of the Medieval ­Middle East, 18n27. 56. We might, however, be able to cull some indirect and speculative evidence. See, for example, the discussion of the much-­worn Psalter in b. Giṭ. 35a–­b, discussed in Chapter 2. 57. AnneMarie Luijendijk, Forbidden Oracles? The Gospel of the Lots of Mary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 48n57. 58. Brennan Breed, “The Reception of the Psalms: The Example of Psalm 91,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. William P. Brown. Literary texts also highlight the use of Psalm 91 as a demon repellent. John Cassian, for example, claims that during the sixth hour of the day, monastic dejection is like a fever that burns a sick man. ­There are elders, he states, who equate this malaise with the “midday demon” of Psalm 91. Cassian, Institutes, 10.1 (SC 109:384). 59. Theodore de Bruyn, “Papyri, Parchments, Ostraca, and Tablets Written with Biblical Texts in Greek and Used as Amulets: A Preliminary List,” in Early Christian Manuscripts: Examples of Applied Method and Approach, ed. Thomas J. Kraus and Tobias Nicklas (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 60. Joseph E. Sanzo, Scriptural Incipits on Amulets from Late Antique Egypt: Text, Typology, and Theory (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 106–20. 61. Thomas J. Kraus, “ ‘He That Dwelleth in the Help of the Highest’: Septuagint Psalm 90 and the Iconographic Program on Byzantine Armbands,” in Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon, ed. Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias, esp. 140–41 (for this figure). See also Kraus, “Septuaginta-­Psalm 90 in apotropäischer Verwendung: Vorüberlegungen für eine kritische Edition und (bisheriges) Datenmaterial,” Biblische Notizen 125 (2005). 62. De Bruyn, “Papyri, Parchments, Ostraca,” 166–74. 63. Ekaterini Tsalampouni, “Citations of Biblical Texts in Greek Jewish and Christian Inscriptions of the Graeco-­Roman and Late Antiquity: A Case of Religious Demarcation,” in Chasing Down Religion: In the Sights of History and the Cognitive Sciences: Essays in Honor of Luther H. Martin, ed. Panayotis Pachis and Donald Wiebe (Thessaloniki: Barbounakis, 2010), esp. 463–69. 64. For similar results using a smaller corpus, see Denis Feissel, “The Bible in Greek Inscriptions,” in The Bible in Greek Christian Antiquity, ed. and trans. Paul M. Blowers (Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame University Press, 1997). Of the 247 inscriptions, more than one-­third



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come from the Psalter. Popu­lar verses include Ps. 29:8 (17x), Ps. 91:1 (15x), Ps. 118:20 (31x), and Ps. 121:8 (43x). 65. The lit­er­a­t ure attributed to Clement is quite complicated. For a recent annotated bibliography of other Ps. Clement works, see Annette Yoshiko Reed, Jewish-­Christianity and the History of Judaism: Collected Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 459–63. 66. PG 1:431–32. 67. Epist. 46.12 (CSEL 54:342–43). 68. Reading the word metzo with the midrash, which sees the word deriving from the root mtzy (“squeeze/drain”) instead of mtzʾ (“find”). This is a small phonetic shift in which aleph and yod are understood similarly, a feature that one sees in the rabbinic Hebrew inflections of the word qrʾ. 69. For another Palestinian example, see Tanḥ. Noah 17 (ed. Buber). 70. The secondary lit­er­a­t ure on the Babylonian Dreambook is voluminous. For discussions, see Septimus, On the Bound­aries, 89–142; Haim Weiss, All Dreams Follow the Mouth: A Reading in the Talmudic Dream Tractate [Hebrew] (Beersheva: Ben-­Gurion University Press, 2011); Philip S. Alexander, “Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b: The Talmudic Dreambook in Context,” Journal of Jewish Studies 46 (1995). For further history of scholarship on the subject, see Alexander, 230n2. 71. The origins and development of this section of the Talmud are unclear, and its transmission was very unstable. While many statements are attributed to the early sages, often in the form of the tannaitic citation formula “our rabbis teach,” significant variation in both content and order exists among the available manuscripts and Genizah fragments. In light of all this chaos, it is noteworthy that the text ­under discussion remains stable across all manuscripts, even if its location changes within the Dreambook. 72. The parallel in Avot R. Nathan A reads “humility” (anavah); that in Avot R. Nathan B reads “fear of sin” (yirat ḥet). Interestingly, this second parallel also specifies someone’s seeing the book for himself and reading from it. 73. Reading with Ms. Paris 671. 74. Within Palestinian lit­er­a­t ure, see Lev. Rab. 1:4; Lev. Rab. 14:5; Mid. Ps. 86:1. 75. ­These words appear in ­every available manuscript and Genizah fragment except Ms. Oxford Opp. 23. Did the original tradent have a text that actually read ledavid shomrah nafshi, or is he fragmenting what he deems to be the impor­tant part of the first verse, the ascription to David, and placing it at the beginning of the second? 76. This is obviously a pun on the name Mipiboshet, read as “being embarrassed through my mouth.” 77. To imagine rabbinic Jews being offered two models of piety and striving ­toward only one of them is to paint an imbalanced portrait. Slightly ­earlier within the Talmud’s discussion—­a lthough chronologically l­ater, if we may believe attributions—­R . Ashi (late fourth and early fifth centuries, Babylonia) suggests that David would deal in ­matters of Torah ­until midnight and, from midnight onward, would sing songs of praise. 78. De oratione, 12.2 (PG 11:453). Trans. from Origen: An Exhortation to Martyrdom, Prayer, First Princi­ples, bk. 4: Prologue to the Commentary on the Song of Songs, Homily 27 on Numbers, trans. Rowan A. Greer (New York: Paulist, 1979), 105. Similarly, the fourth-­century Apostolic Tradition may be the earliest available source to advocate for prayer at midnight: “Again when one lights the lamps in the eve­ning they are to pray, ­because David said, ‘In the night I meditate’ (Ps. 119:62). Again, in the ­middle of the night, they are to pray ­because David also did that.” The textual and translational issues with Apostolic Tradition are legion.

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See Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, and L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, ed. Harold W. Attridge (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 1–16. The translation above is theirs and is from the Canons of Hyppolytus, although most of the versions are similar enough in content. 79. Memra 13.3, “On the Ways of the Upright.” Syriac text and translation from The Syriac Book of Steps 2: Syriac Text and En­glish Translation, ed. and trans. Robert A. Kitchen and M. F. G. Parmentier (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2011), 34–35. The scriptural citation, although marked as such, is not actually a quotation. The author attempts to use the verse to establish the authority of all three prayer times and thus excludes the opening of the verse, which indicates midnight. He also transforms the singular into the plural. It appears that this verse was already primed to be read in the context of prayer hours and was thus useful to manipulate. ­There are no significant variants of this verse according to the Leiden critical edition of the Peshitta Psalter. A similar move that omits the opening of this verse appears in Aphrahat, Demonstration 4: On Prayer, sec. 17. Text accessed from Aphrahat, “Demonstration 4: On Prayer,” based on Jean Parisot, ed., Aphraatis Sapientis Persae Demonstrationes, Patrologia Syriaca 1:1 (Paris: Firmin-­Didot, 1894), Digital Syriac Corpus, https://­s yriaccorpus​ .­org​/­4. ­Here the verse signals that David prayed all day. 80. Or, perhaps, ­ought we imagine midnight vigils, which undoubtedly included psalmody. See Georgia Frank, “Romanos and the Night Vigil in the Sixth ­Century,” in A ­People’s History of Chris­tian­ity, vol. 3: Byzantine Chris­tian­ity, ed. Derek Krueger (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 62. One kontakion of Romanos even contains the line “So, now that [the Psalms of] David ha[ve] been sung and we rejoiced in the well-­ordered reading of scripture, let us now raise a hymn to Christ and pillory the ­enemy” (64). 81. Trans. from Ms. Vatican 110. ­There are no significant variations other than that discussed in the following note. 82. The first Venice print edition also suggests that piety is at play. The text reads “you are both rabbis, completely righ­teous” (tzaddiqe gamore), instead of “you are both rabbis.” The print editors felt the need to further qualify “rabbis,” which, to them, meant “rabbinic master” and not “pious person.” They chose “completely righ­teous” ­because they could not escape the context of piety. I suspect that the phrase tarvvekhon rabbanan tzaddiqe gamore was generated as follows. First, the phrase tzaddiq gamor appears many times throughout rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. Second, the editors of the Venice print ­were likely influenced by and harmonized the following two passages: b. Ḥag. 9b—­tarveho tzaddiqe gamore ninho; and b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 28a—­tarveho rabbanan tzaddiqe havo. They combined the phrase rabbanan tzaddiqe with tzaddiqe gamore to produce rabbanan tzaddiqe gamore. 83. P. Yoma 1:6 39b exemplifies another dimension of Psalm piety in its elucidation of m. Yoma 1:6. In a one-­line comment, it states: “A tannaitic source: with Proverbs or Psalms, ­because their reasoning fends off sleep.” For an exploration of this passage, see the discussion in Chapter 2. 84. The name Solomon is omitted in Ms. Erfurt, perhaps akin to the phenomenon regarding David explored above in n. 75. 85. Ms. Leiden reads “Torah.” 86. While we cannot be certain ­whether the Tosefta implies that the Levites intone the entirety of Psalm 127, or merely its first line, rabbinic lit­er­a­ture often ­will signal a ­whole psalm by citing its first verse. It is impor­tant to note that p. Yoma 1:4 39a does parallel our Tosefta and implies that one reads only the first verse to him.



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87. The Tosefta also differs from the Mishnah ­because it slightly decenters the High Priest and notes that the sounds of ­music benefited ­those who kept awake all night to keep watch. This viewpoint, too, is reflected in the second clause of the first verse of Psalm 127: “If God does not keep the city, the watchman watches [shaqad] in vain.” The rare word “guard” (shaqad) is employed in both the psalm and in our Tosefta passage: “But rather keep watch [shoqedin] over the High Priest.” A version of this tradition in both p. Yoma 1:4 39a and b. Yoma 19b retains the use of Ps. 127:1 in the discussion about keeping the High Priest awake. On the variations of this passage, see Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 2:967. Epstein further discusses how this line makes its way into some versions of the Mishnah and may have been an original part of the Mishnah that made its way to Babylonia. The Babylonian Talmud cites an extended (reworked?) version of the Tosefta passage, which adds: “The nobles of Jerusalem would not sleep all night, so that the High Priest would hear a reverberating sound, and thus sleep would not grab him.” Could the nobles also be singing Ps. 127:1, the clear reverberating sound of the Tosefta? I think so. At the very least, a liturgical poem found in the Genizah implies this to be the case. It includes lines such as: “The majority of the congregation would lead him with reverberation all night, making songs and praise heard to the ­g reat High God.” This line is quoted in Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kefshutah, pt. 4: Seder Moed (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1961), 732–33. For further details, see Schmelzer, “How Was the High Priest Kept Awake?” 68–70. 88. Given the highly stylized narrative, the memory is likely inauthentic. For the issue of ­temple memory and Yoma, see Cohn, Memory of the T ­ emple. 89. Reciting some psalms or the entire Psalter on the eve of Yom Kippur continues into the modern period as a pious practice. For further information, see siman 57 in Abraham Leveson, The Origins of Customs [Hebrew] (Berlin: L. Th. Kornegg, 1846). It is pos­si­ble, however, that the statement that concludes the Tosefta, “thus they would do outside the ­temple,” refers to staying awake and not to the accompanying psalmody. If that is the case, we may still assume that, in constructing the events of the past, the rabbis are importing a feature of their pre­sent. 90. On a slightly ­later period, see, recently, Matthew S. Goldstone, The Dangerous Duty of Rebuke: Leviticus 19:17 in Early Jewish and Christian Interpretation (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 145– 235; Bar-­Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Lit­er­a­ture. 91. Paralleled in Gen. Rab. 68:11. 92. Among the manuscripts that keep the words “Song of Ascents,” all omit “of David” except for Ms. Oxford 147. Ms. Vatican 30, the best manuscript available, contains “Song of Ascents” without “David.” Once again, it appears that authorship ­matters, and the incon­ve­ nience of having the name David in the title of the psalm was simply avoided by removing the name. In the parallel source in Gen. Rab. 68:11, David is kept in Ms. Oxford 2335, the Venice print, and the Yemenite manuscript of Elhanan Adler. David is omitted, however, in Mss. Oxford 147, Vatican 30, Stuttgart 32, Yalqut Shimoni, and the Constantinople printing. The inconsistency within Ms. Oxford 147 demonstrates that the instances in which David is mentioned are likely the product of a correcting scribe. Unfortunately, the available Genizah fragment cuts off right in the m ­ iddle of “Song of Ascents.” 93. Translating with its midrashic sense. 94. Once again, translating midrashically. 95. This argument receives support from the fact that several rabbinic traditions associate Jacob with the book of Psalms. P. Shab. 16:5 15c claims: “The 147 songs written in Psalms

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correspond to the life of Jacob our ­father. [This teaches us that all the praises that Israel praises God with equal the life of Jacob.] ‘And you are holy, the one who sits on praises, O Israel’ ” (Ps. 22:4). This reckoning likely combines Psalms 1–2 and 9–10. I do not know what ­else it conflates to get the number 147. On the combination of Psalms 1–2, see b. Ber. 9b. On the combination of Psalms 9–10, see Moshe Benovitz, Talmud ha-­Igud: BT Berakhot Chapter 1 (Jerusalem: Society for the Interpretation of the Talmud, 2006), 430n35. While the bracketed material is a clear scribal addition, it is inspired by a similar comment that appears in a con­temporary source. Gen. Rab. 48:7 cites an opinion attributed to R. Samuel b. Ḥiyya in the name of R. Yudan in the name of R. Ḥanina: “Each and e­ very praise with which Israel praises God, His presence dwells with them. What’s the reason? ‘And You are holy, the one who sits on the praises of Israel’ (Ps. 22:4). ‘Israel’ [nation of Israel, not Jacob].” Could our scribe be intentionally reworking this statement, recasting the Israelite collective as Jacob the patriarch? In any event, Ps. 22:4 binds Psalms to Jacob. At least for this traditional cluster, the Psalter may belong to Jacob more than it does to David. Regardless, in promoting Psalm piety, ancient rabbis would adopt as many pious exemplars as pos­si­ble. 96. Such was certainly the case for the redactor of Avot R. Nathan B 44, who situates this verse in the context of Qedusha: “The praise that you praise before God is more praiseworthy than that of the ministering angels. As it says, ‘and you are holy, the one who sits on Israel’s praises’ ” (Ps. 22:4). 97. Further inspiration to include the Song of Ascents into liturgy may also have come from looking back at the ­temple. See, for example, m. Suk. 5:4 and p. Sanh. 10:2 29a. 98. Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 215–57. Fleischer suggests that our midrash “is possibly an early hint of the liturgical use of the Songs of Ascents” (234n69). Perhaps the custom of reciting the Songs of Ascent in liturgy existed for hundreds of years before the eleventh ­century; or, perhaps, ­t hose who initially advocated for placing ­t hese psalms into the morning prayers drew inspiration from our midrash. In whichever direction we trace this development—­a nd, based on my analy­sis in Chapter 3, the latter route is more likely—it is clear, in my opinion, that our midrash attests to a known and established practice of pietistically reciting Psalms during the eve­ning. 99. Or, Ps. 46:12. The verses are identical. 100. The previous passage claims that one must start with a word of law. The passage that follows suggests that one recite another biblical verse. 101. The phrase zaz mitokh appears only ­here within rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure; however, the phrase lo zaz + a biblical text does appear in Lev. Rab. 26:6. The midrash claims that the biblical portion that prohibits the consumption of alcohol before performing the priestly ser­ vice should never depart (lo zaz) from the descendants of Aaron. It is tempting to view this source as also advocating for pious recitation and embodiment, this time with the result of preventing death. 102. Indeed, this piety is a par­tic­u­lar form of discipline through per­for­mance. See Ronald L. Grimes, “Per­for­mance,” in Theorizing Rituals, ed. Jens Kreinath, Jan A. M. Snoek, and Michael Stausberg (Leiden: Brill, 2006). In some manners, this activity is akin to the constant repetition of the bedtime Shema that we ­w ill explore ­later in this chapter. The text itself, of course, does not inform us of ­these aims. Or, outside the language of theory, what the dictum encourages is for Jews to develop a habit. 103. See the discussion of p. Ber. 4:4 8a in Chapter 3. 104. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 74.



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105. It is extant in two parallel early witnesses: Cambridge, University Library, T-­S Collection, NS, 271, 21; and Cambridge, University Library, Add. 3160, 1. 106. ­These verses appear together in the modern Havdalah liturgy. Ps. 46:8 appears as part of the Havdalah liturgy as recorded in Seder R. Amram Gaon. See Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 83. 107. On recent trends in comparing rabbinic and Christian prayer and monasticism, see also Bar-­Asher Siegal, “Prayer in Rabbinic and Monastic Lit­er­a­t ure,” 63–77; Bar-­Asher Siegal, “Shared Worlds: Rabbinic and Monastic Lit­er­a­t ure,” Harvard Theological Review 105 (2012): 434–38. See ­these works especially for the tension between short and long prayers. 108. For additional analy­sis of the Abba Lucius story that focuses on the notion of set times for prayer in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, see Bar-­Asher Siegal, Early Christian Monastic Lit­er­ a­ture, 80–83. 109. For further examples of death piety, see Lam. Rab. 9:10 and b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 25a–­b. On death in ancient Judaism in general, see David C. Kraemer, The Meanings of Death in Rabbinic Judaism (London: Routledge, 2000). 110. Anthony J. Saldarini, “Last Words and Deathbed Scenes in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­t ure,” Jewish Quarterly Review 68 (1977). This cultural trope continued well into modernity; see Drew Gilpin Faust, This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War (New York: Vintage, 2008), 10–30. 111. See the discussion in this chapter of b. Soṭ. 31a. 112. On the textual situation of this passage in Gen. Rab., see Michael Sokoloff, ed., Fragments of Genesis Rabbah from the Genizah [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Israel Acad­emy of Sciences and Humanities, 1982), 49; see also 49n230 for its relationship to the Palestinian Talmud. 113. On Possidius, his Life of Augustine, and a history of scholarship on ­these, see Erika T. Hermanowicz, Possidius of Calama: A Study of the North African Episcopate at the Time of Augustine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 17–80. 114. Possidius, Life of Augustine, 31.1–2. Trans. from Peter Brown, The Ransom of the Soul: Afterlife and Wealth in Early Western Chris­tian­ity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015), 114. Translation checked against critical text in A. A. R. Bastiaensen, Vite dei Santi: Vita di Cipriano, Vita di Ambrogio, Vita di Agostino (Rome: Fondazion Lorenzo Valla, 1975), 236. Brown does not discuss the source in depth. See also Hermanowicz, Possidius of Calama, 61– 62. For a rabbinic example of reading Scripture with tears, see p. Ḥag. 2:1 77a. For an example of weeping before death, see the narrative of R. Eleazar b. Dordia in b. Avod. Zar. 17a. 115. See Clare Costley King’oo, Miserere Mei: The Penitential Psalms in Late Medieval and Early Modern ­England (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 3–13. 116. For Nebuchadnezzar within the orbit of Chris­tian­ity in rabbinic thought, see Peter Schäfer, The Jewish Jesus: How Judaism and Chris­tian­ity ­Shaped Each Other (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2012), 150–52. 117. A source-­critical analy­sis of this proem would reveal that the passage I deal with falls outside the narrative flow and can thus be considered a coherent and in­de­pen­dent tradition inserted into a previous homily by an editor. This tradition, therefore, must first be read with re­spect to its own internal logic before being examined as part of the extended homily. Furthermore, I cannot agree with Matthias Henze, The Madness of King Nebuchadnezzar: The Ancient Near Eastern Origins and Early History of Interpretation of Daniel 4 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), that “this midrash is grounded in the recognition that Nebuchadnezzar’s conversion has turned

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the Babylonian villain into the truthful devotee of the God Most High” (117). The fact that the appellative “the wicked” is appended to Nebuchadnezzar’s name and is stable across all manuscripts indicates that, from the perspective of this midrash, he is still very much the villain. 118. This is obviously an anachronism that I am using for literary effect. 119. Translating with Ms. Vatican. I ­w ill note significant variations. 120. Mss. Paris and London lack “in his book.” 121. Ms. Vatican reads malal (“spoke”) instead of kalal (“include”). This is clearly a very clever scribal correction. 122. I am citing the full verse, against the manuscript, which abbreviates. 123. Trans. from Old Jewish Publication Society. 124. Mss. Jewish National and University Library Heb. 24° 5977 and Friedberg Sasson 920 use Ps. 145:1 as the prooftext. 125. ­There is significant variation as to the prooftext for this verse. The printed edition, Ms. Jewish National and University Library Heb. 24° 5977, and Ms. Friedberg Sasson 920, read with Ps. 104:1 and focus on hadar. Ms. Jewish National and University Library Heb. 24° 5977 and Ms. Friedberg Sasson 920 also have a separate entry for “king of heaven,” correlating it with Ps. 97:1. 126. Mss. Jewish National and University Library Heb. 24° 5977, Friedberg Sasson 920, Oxford, Bodleian Opp. Add. fol. 3, and Oxford, Bodleian Opp. Add. fol. 51 use Ps. 9:9 as a prooftext. 127. The link between the scriptural passage and its prooftext in this line is conceptual and meta­phorical. To cut off someone’s horn is to abase him. 128. In real­ity, we do not need to treat midrashim as an “either/or” with re­spect to problem-­ solving and to speaking to con­temporary circumstances. See Bakhos, “Method(Ological) ­Matters,” 161–78. But even ­those who argue that midrash primarily seeks to resolve issues in the Bible would most likely find this homily strange and striking. 129. Reading with Ms. Yad Herzog, which reads ginah. Mss. Munich and Florence read biqesh lignot, “sought to overshadow.” Mss. Munich and Florence add a bit of distance; Nebuchadnezzar would try to overshadow David. In the reading of Ms. Yad Herzog, Nebuchadnezzar would certainly eclipse David. 130. A consistent tension between Torah study and liturgy exists in rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure. See Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer, 95–98. Additional analy­sis that examines liturgy and piety beyond the Psalms is required to determine w ­ hether we can make a serious argument based on rabbinic geography. 131. While R. Yosi was a Tanna, ­there is reason to suspect that the attribution is ahistorical. This statement appears as a stable formula whose content gets refitted, depending on context. See Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 228n14. 132. ­There is ­little reason to say that R. Yosi recites anything but the standard Hallel, Psalms 113–18. Cf. Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 228–29; Hoffman, Canonization of the Synagogue Ser­vice, 127–28. The phrase “Hallel of ­every day” does not appear in talmudic lit­ er­a­t ure and likely originates from a misreading of this very passage, in which kol yom becomes shebekol yom. Hoffman, “Hallels, Midrash, Canon and Loss,” 31, posits that to recite from the Psalms publicly or privately is “to say Hallel” and that R. Yosi completed the entire Psalter daily. The available evidence does not support this claim. 133. See similar statements throughout the same folio.



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134. Note the difference between qara and gamar in ­these two statements. Could gamar ­ ere actually be connected to study? Perhaps R. Yosi, at least at origin, is referring to two h dif­fer­ent ways of interacting with Hallel. 135. For rḥm as prayer, see Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 1069. 136. Seder Rav Amram places Ps. 31:6, the one verse explic­itly identified with Verses of Supplication, in his liturgy for bedtime Shema. See Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 54–55. H ­ ere it combines with other protective verses, such as the Priestly Blessing. 137. I disagree with Moshe Weinfeld, “Traces of Qedushat Yotzer and Pesuke de-­Zimra in the Qumran Lit­er­a­t ure and in Ben-­Sira” [Hebrew], Tarbitz 45 (1975). This unit of prayer is not early and cannot be traced back to the Second ­Temple period. In fact, what constitutes Verses of Song varies by rite and region. For an attempt to grapple with and historicize this variance, see Leon J. Liebreich, “The Compilation of the Pesuke de-­Zimra,” Proceedings of the Acad­emy of American Jewish Research 18 (1949). For the history of Verses of Song, see, most recently, Ruth Langer, “The Early Medieval Emergence of Jewish Daily Morning Psalms Recitation, Pesuqei d’Zimra,” in The Psalms in Jewish Liturgy, Ritual and Community Formation from Antiquity to the M ­ iddle Ages, ed. Claudia Bergmann et al. (forthcoming). 138. According to Rav Amram, Verses of Song consisted of Psalms 145–50. See Goldschmidt, Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 8–9. Why ­these par­tic­u­lar psalms, especially as Verses of Song appears to originally contain a medley of verses and not paragraphs? A tentative solution may be found if we compare Babylonian Jewish liturgy with the neighboring East Syrian Christian liturgy. According to liturgical scholar Robert Taft, “The laud Psalms [Psalms 148–50, AJB] are an ancient ele­ment of cathedral morning prayer.” Taft, The Liturgy, 201. While he argues with Bradshaw as to the origins of the Laudate Psalms, both would agree that by the time of Rav Amram, they are a set and stable part of nearly e­ very Christian liturgy. The East Syrian liturgy, the form of prayer closest in geography to the Babylonian rabbis, contains ­these psalms. See Taft, The Liturgy, 232. Perhaps Verses of Psalms as Psalms 145–50 developed as follows. Psalm 145 already existed as part of rabbinic liturgy since the times of the Talmud, as explored in Chapter 3. And Psalms 148–50, as noted above, formed a bedrock of Christian liturgy. Maybe the rabbis filled out the path between Psalm 145 and Psalms 148–50 and placed upon it a label already extant within memory: Verses of Song. If correct—­a nd I admit ­here to a fair bit of speculation—­the Babylonian version of Verses of Song owes its content, in part, to its surrounding environment. For the Palestinian understanding of what constitutes Verses of Song, see Fleischer, Prayer and Prayer Customs, 215–57. 139. Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 60. This responsum appears in other geonic collections as well. It is worth nothing that Verses of Song was additionally liturgized with a beginning and concluding blessing. This move did not go unquestioned. See Simcha Emanuel, Teshuvot haGeonim (Jerusalem: Ofek, 1994), 29–30 (no. 31). 140. The modern version of ashre consists of Ps. 84:5, 144:15, 145, and 115:18. It is clear, however, that the verses surrounding Psalm 145 ­were core to the unit, even as additional verses that begin with the word ashre ­were added. Maḥzor Vitri, for example, precedes this unit with Ps. 119:1, 2; 84:6; 112:1; 89:16. 141. Psalm 145 is the only psalm to begin with “A Praise of David.” 142. If one takes the names of the tradents absolutely seriously, R. Elazar may be recording a pietistic practice that arose from the daily recitation of ashre. Alternatively, the statement in the name of R. Yoḥanan about ashre that occurs four lines ­later in the Talmud may simply be pseudepigraphic.

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143. For further examples of this language of piety, see Sifre Deuteronomy 33, b. Ber. 57a, and b. Yoma 88a. T ­ hese examples could be greatly expanded. 144. Even if ashre developed in­de­pen­dently of the practice promoted by R. Elazar, our source still sheds light on the porous borders between liturgy and piety. Ms. Munich 95, as well as the early printed editions, contains the line “Anyone who says ‘A Praise of David’ three times a day.” The situation in Ms. Florence is much more in­ter­est­ing. The original manuscript contained the line “three times a day,” but a second scribe erased it and wrote that one of his versions did not have the line. Ultimately, ­these medieval scribes change our text in the following two ways: first, they implicitly transform a pious practice into a liturgical one by reading the mention of Psalm 145 as a reference to ashre; second, they update the text in light of their con­temporary liturgical setting, in which ashre is repeated thrice daily. Such a phenomenon commonly occurred in the history of liturgy. On the notion of liturgical documents as living, see Bradshaw, Search for the Origins of Christian Worship, 101–2. Even R. Amram’s prayer book was updated. See the introduction to Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon. See also Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 192. In fact, the innovative practice of repeating ashre three times a day is both noted and justified in several geonic sources. The prayer book of Rav Amram Gaon, for example, cites a responsum of Rav Natronai Gaon that recognizes that the talmudic statement says that one should recite “A psalm of David” once a day. Rav Natronai further suggests that the “­later sages” demanded that one repeat it three times a day, lest a Jew miss it once or twice, and “not ­because t­ here is a requirement to say it three times a day.” Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 60. I cannot agree, therefore, with Stemberger’s suggestion that ashre was drawn into liturgy b­ ecause of the prescription to say it three times a day. Stemberger, “Psalmen in Liturgie,” 229. The inclusion of ashre into prayer prompted much need for justification; see Louis Ginzberg, Genize Schechter (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1928), 1:301. 145. In addition to Psalm piety as part of monastic communal piety, we also catch glimpses of Christian communal Psalm piety in the diary of Egeria, the Spanish pilgrim to Jerusalem. Pious Christians would gather as a community and keep vigil on certain nights, reciting throughout from the book of Psalms. See Pilgrimage of Egeria, ed. and trans. McGowan and Bradshaw, 100. 146. For a detailed analy­sis of this composition, see Abraham Berkovitz, “ ‘May You Redeem the Nation That Completes the Book of Psalms’: An Aramaic Poem and Its Linguistic, Literary and Historical Contexts,” Aramaic Studies 17 (2019). For further information on late ancient Jewish Aramaic poetry, see the preceding and following articles in Aramaic Studies 17. 147. For further details, see Berkovitz, “Aramaic Poem,” 164–69. 148. This motif, of course, traces back to the Bible itself. See Ezek. 37:25. For further examples and an exploration of this motif, see Schäfer, Jewish Jesus, 68–102. It is difficult to securely say ­whether this poet was truly placing himself within this stream of tradition. He does not explic­itly name David as the expected messianic figure. 149. Jacob Musafiya, Teshuvot haGeonim (Lyck: Meqetze Nirdamim, 1846), 28 (no. 87); Robert Brody, Teshuvot R. Natronai bar Hilai Gaon (Jerusalem: Ofek, 2011), 130 (no. 24). For further details on this responsum, see Adiel Kadari, “Between the Sages and Widespread Congregation in the Times of the Geonim: On the Origins of the Development of the Custom of Reading and Study Before Prayer” [Hebrew], Sidra 19 (2004): 150–52. I disagree with Kadari that one finds in this responsum a veiled argument that Torah study is better than psalm-



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ody. Citing as proof the rabbinic tradition that reads David’s midnight psalmody as study is to select one rabbinic tradition about David’s midnight activities over another, as seen above. 150. Musafiya, Teshuvot, 23–24 (no. 59). For another example of contested synagogue Psalm piety, see Kadari, “Between the Sages,” 141–42. 151. With regard to the latter practice, the Psalms do not stand alone. See Israel Ta-­ Shma, “Sources and Place of the Prayer ‘It Is Upon Us to Praise’ in the Prayer Book” [Hebrew], in Book of Remembrance for Ephraim Talmadge [Hebrew], ed. Dov Lipschits (Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1993). 152. The subject of magic in the ancient world is a vast and complicated one. For a recent excellent volume that touches upon many of the major issues, see the essays in David Frank­f urter, ed., Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic (Leiden: Brill, 2019). Magical piety is merely one expression of a “­Great Tradition.” In terms of the underpinning of my framing of magical piety and my use of “­Great Tradition,” see, esp., David Frank­f urter, “Magic as the Local Application of Authoritative Tradition,” in Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, ed. Frank­f urter; see also Frank­f urter, Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2017). For magical piety within Jewish studies, see n. 9 above. The bibliography ­there is obviously not exhaustive. This section should be viewed as a case study within the larger discipline and not an attempt to make sweeping pronouncements within it. It is likely that what is true of the Psalms extends beyond it. Further studies and arguments, which fall beyond the scope of this section, however, would be needed in order to maintain methodological rigor. 153. See the discussion above of b. Ber. 4b–5a. 154. The text is working with the assumption that one should go directly to sleep ­a fter reciting the Shema liturgy. See Daniel Sperber, Magic and Folklore in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 1994), 223. Ginzberg connects this assumption to Josephus’s Antiquities and the Letter of Aristeas; Louis Ginzberg, Commentary and Novellae on the Yerushalmi [Hebrew] (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1940), 1:65. For a radically dif­fer­ent reading of this sugya, see Benovitz, BT Berakhot Chapter 1, 144–50. Overall, Benovitz attempts to read the stories within the context of the sugya’s framework. I am of the opinion that they can be successfully removed and interpreted in­de­pen­dently. Nonetheless, it is impor­tant to understand how the redactor worked with ­these e­ arlier anecdotes. 155. On the relationship between Shema and early tefillin, see Yehudah B. Cohn, Tangled Up in Text: Tefillin and the Ancient World (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2008), 100–103. 156. The Shema ­here necessarily means the entire Shema liturgy only within the framework of the redacted unit. Taken as an in­de­pen­dent source, this story and the other anecdotes strongly imply that one says ­either the Shema verse itself or the Shema verse and associated scriptural verses. Cf. Benovitz, BT Berakhot Chapter 1, 147n15. 157. See the discussion of p. Ber. 5:1 8d, above. 158. The exegetical logic likely functions as follows: “Fear and do not sin” how? By continually “speaking to your heart upon your bed.” And then, upon falling asleep, “be ­silent.” Sperber suggests that Ps. 4:5 mirrors Deut. 6:6–7. Sperber, Magic and Folklore in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture, 224–25. Benovitz, in explaining the parallel in b. Ber. 4b, suggest that the emphasis is on the word “­silent.” Benovitz, BT Berakhot Chapter 1, 176. The parallel to our sugya in b. Ber. 5b reads this verse in light of the concept of waging war against the evil inclination. 159. The liturgy known as “the bedtime Shema” eventually does combine verses from the Psalter with Shema. See Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 54–55. Some Babylonian

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magic bowls also combine Shema and verses from Psalms. See the magic bowls referenced in n. 172. 160. Ms. Munich 95 reads mesarakh. Mss. Florence, Vatican 140, and Vatican 156 read mesadder. Pesario, Venice, and Vilna print read amar. It is pos­si­ble that Ms. Munich is simply a corruption. The word mesadder does appear with verses from Psalms elsewhere. Alternatively, it is pos­si­ble to take mesarakh seriously and suggest that R. Joshua b. Levi would clutch or adhere tightly to ­these verses—­namely, that he would sleep with a magical text. The word sarakh is certainly the lectio difficilior. The other scribes could have easily replaced a resh with a daled and shortened the foot of the khaf sofit to produce a resh. 161. See, similarly, regarding R. Yosi and the creation of Verses of Song in b. Shab. 118b, which was discussed ­earlier in this chapter. 162. Sperber, Magic and Folklore in Rabbinic Lit­er­a­ture, 223. 163. ­There are two pos­si­ble ways to read this passage. ­Either 1) “Song of X ” is its own unit, and the “one would sing x” is a dif­fer­ent ritual action; or 2) “Song of X ” is a macro category, and “one would sing x” is a verse from that category. I have ­adopted option 1) above. In this reading, ­there are five ritual songs: the song of thanksgiving (Psalm 100); Ps. 32:2 (possibly the entire psalm); the song against evil mis­haps; Ps. 91:1–9; and the ­whole of Psalm 3. In reading 2) ­there are two or three ritual songs: the song of thanksgiving (Ps. 32:2); song against evil mis­haps (Ps. 91:1–9); and Psalm 3. The last may be an in­de­pen­dent unit or connected to the larger complex of the song against evil mis­haps. I have ­adopted reading 1) for the main body of the text ­because shir shel pegaʿim exists as a unit in­de­pen­dent of Psalm 91 in ­earlier Jewish lit­er­a­t ure. Further, the designation of Psalm 100 as shir shel todah and not mizmor letodah is unproblematic. The use of shir shel was likely influenced by shir shel pegaʿim. Alternatively, mizmor and shir collocate often enough in vari­ous psalm superscriptions that a ­later interpreter read one in light of the other. I must stress that reading with ­either option 1) or option 2) works for the point that I am trying to make. 164. This sentence, and the entire Aramaic section, constitute a ­later addition in Ms. Vatican 140; it is completely absent in Ms. Munich 95. Ms. Munich even omits the mention of the “Song of Affliction” and reads: “Our masters teach: ‘Song of Thanksgiving, and with harps, lyres, and cymbals at ­every corner and on ­every ­g reat stone of Jerusalem’; one says: ‘I ­w ill extol you ­because you raised me up’ (Ps. 30:2) and then says, ‘He who dwells in the hiddenness of the High one, and resides in the shadow of Shaddai’ (Ps. 91:1) ­until, ‘For you, my Lord, are my refuge’ (Ps. 91:9). And then he goes and says: ‘A psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom his son . . .’ (Ps. 3:1) ­until: ‘Salvation belongs to God, your blessing on your nation, selah’ (3:9).” This version seems tantalizingly ­simple. Based on the parallel in p. Shab. 1:2 8b, however, it does not appear to be the original version of this baraita. 165. The line “with harps, lyres, and cymbals” might indicate an editorial hand at work, employing the technique of narrative resumption. 166. With re­spect to liturgy, recall that, in the imagination of the rabbis, ­temple sacrifices required proper psalmody to be efficacious. See, for example, p. Taʿan. 2:2 67d. In this ritual, the liturgical psalmody begins with the expected “Song of Thanksgiving [todah]” (Psalm 100), which signals the two thanksgiving (todah) sacrifices and highlights the theme of “thanksgiving.” It then contains a verse from “A psalm: A Song at the Dedication of the ­Temple” (Psalm 30), a psalm that directly speaks to the occasion of the larger ritual—­ dedicating new space for a sacred site. This verse builds upon the theme of praise. The liturgy then moves to “A song against evil mis­haps,” Ps. 91:1–9, and the entirety of Psalm 3. The first two texts protect the ­temple from demonic incursions, as we ­w ill see below. Psalm



Notes to Pages 141–142

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3 safeguards sacred space against ­human threats, ­f uture versions of the arch-­nemesis named in the psalm’s title: Absalom. On the notion of “efficacy” within rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure in a ritual and liturgical setting, see Langer, To Worship God Properly, 1–40. 167. 11QPsa Col. XXVII, 9–10. 168. We can tentatively map the slow pro­cess by which the “song against evil mis­haps” became identified with Psalm 91 by comparing and contrasting the baraita as quoted and reworked by the redactors of b. Shev. 15b to the baraita as treated by the composers of p. Shab. 1:2 8b: One may not read verses upon a wound on the Sabbath. It is forbidden to read a verse over the mandrake. [If someone says,] “Come and read this verse upon my son, for he is afraid, put a book on him, put on him phylacteries so that he may sleep,” [this practice] is forbidden. But do we not have a tannaitic source that says: “­There was the song against evil mis­haps in Jerusalem?” R. Yudan says, in one place, he is already afflicted, and, in the other place, it is before he is afflicted. And what is the “song against evil mis­haps”? “Lord, how many are my enemies” (Ps. 3:2) and the entire psalm, “He who dwells in the hiddenness of the High one” (Ps. 91:1) ­until, “For you, my Lord, are my shelter.” (Ps. 91:9) Like b. Shev. 15b, this passage discusses the permitted and prohibited use of Scripture as magic. Like the Babylonian Talmud, it also demonstrates that the “song against evil mis­ haps” became associated with Psalm 91 only ­toward the end of the amoraic period. In order to test the claim that one may not read verses over a wound on the Sabbath, the Palestinian Talmud quotes a tannaitic source that establishes the presence of the “song against evil mis­ haps” in Jerusalem. The source was clearly quoted in brief. In order for it to make sense, it must assume the background provided by the much more elaborate version of the baraita located in the Babylonian Talmud. The citation and the ritual to which it refers, therefore, ­were likely authentically tannaitic. If so, during the times of the Tannaim, the “song against evil mis­haps” was a known in­de­pen­dent composition, perhaps very similar, if not identical, to the song against evil mis­haps mentioned in the Qumran Psalm Scroll. But even a radical view that would dismiss the possibility of the Talmuds’ preserving an au­then­tic tannaitic tradition would admit that, by the time of the late Amoraim, the nature and content of the song required clarification. For the Palestinian Talmud, R. Yudan, a fourth-­generation Palestinian Amora (ca. 320–350), or, perhaps the ­later editor, identifies the song of evil mis­haps with specific sections of Scripture. The Babylonian Talmud elucidates the song’s content through its anonymous Aramaic voice. The Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds differ, however, with re­spect to what they identify as the content of the “song against evil mis­haps.” In Palestine, the song was presumed to contain Psalm 3 and Ps. 91:1–9; in the Babylonian, it was said to consist only of Ps. 91:1–9. This variation indicates a work in pro­g ress, a tacit admission that the song against evil mis­ haps has fallen out of use and was reconstructed from the evidence at hand. In fact, the difference between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds may be accounted for by imagining where ancient readers placed oral and ­mental brackets while reciting the baraita. The Babylonian Talmud, which seems to imagine only Ps. 91:1–9 as the song against evil mis­haps, likely read the end of the baraita as follows: “[and the song against evil mis­haps . . . ​one says, ‘He who dwells in the hiddenness of the High one, and resides in the shadow of Shaddai’ (Ps. 91:1) ­until: ‘For you, my Lord, are my refuge’ (Ps. 91:9).] [And then he goes and says: ‘A psalm

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of David, when he fled from Absalom his son . . .’ (Ps. 3:1) ­until: ‘Salvation belongs to God, your blessing on your nation, selah.’]” In this reading, Psalm 3 begins a new section of the liturgical per­for­mance. The Palestinian reader did not place brackets between Ps. 91:1–9 and Psalm 3, reading both as the song against evil mis­haps. In any event, by the time of the Amoraim, magical piety and liturgy existed as close neighbors, with some rabbis’ directly identifying an older exorcistic poetic composition as one or two poems from the canonical book of Psalms. 169. Cf. Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 380, I suggest that the localization of Psalm 91 as the song against evil mis­haps did not happen ­until the rabbinic period. Of course, the psalm had magical resonances in ­earlier periods. 170. On Psalm 91 and its apotropaic reception during the Second ­Temple period, see Breed, “Reception of the Psalms,” 298–300; Esther Eshel, “Apotropaic Prayers in the Second ­Temple Period,” in Liturgical Perspectives: Prayer and Poetry in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Esther G. Chazon (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 71–74; Ida Fröhlich, “Healing with Psalms,” in Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Lit­er­a­ture: Essays on Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Lit­er­a­ture in Honor of Eileen Schuller on the Occasion of Her 65th Birthday, ed. Jeremy Penner, Ken M. Penner, and Cecilia Wassen (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 203–7; Nitzan, Qumran Prayer, 232–36; Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 108–11. For the post-­ talmudic afterlife of Psalm 91, see Lawrence H. Schiffman and Michael D. Swartz, eds., Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts from the Cairo Genizah: Selected Texts from Taylor-­Schechter Box K1 (Sheffield: T. & T. Clark, 1992), 39, 78; Bill Rebiger, ed. and trans., Sefer Shimmush Tehillim: Buch vom magischen Gebrauch der Psalmen: Edition, Übersetzung und Kommentar (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 268–71, *71–­*73; Dorothea M. Salzer, Die Magie der Anspielung: Form und Funktion der biblischen Anspielungen in den magischen Texten der Kairoer Geniza (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 117–19; Joshua Trachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion, rev. ed. (1939; repr., Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 112–13. 171. The corpus of magic bowls and amulets used in this study includes Charles Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Lit­er­a­t ure, 1975); Dan Levene, A Corpus of Magic Bowls: Incantation Texts in Jewish Aramaic from Late Antiquity (London: Kegan Paul, 2003); Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts from Late-­Antique Mesopotamia: “May T ­ hese Curses Go Out and Flee” (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Christa Müller-­Kessler, Die Zauberschalentexte in der Hilprecht-­Sammlung, Jena, und weitere, Nippur-­Texte anderer Sammlungen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005); Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked, Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1993); Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity, 3rd ed. (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1998); J. B. Segal, Cata­logue of the Aramaic and Mandaic Incantation Bowls in the British Museum (London: British Museum Press, 2000); Shaul Shaked, James Nathan Ford, and Siam Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells Jewish Babylonian Aramaic Bowls, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2013). I ­w ill cite from ­these sources using the title of the work followed by the identification number of the magical artifact given by the editor. ­These five bowls include Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, bowl 11; Levene, Jewish Aramaic Curse Texts, VA.2423; Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, bowl 52; Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms2053/70:8 (19) and JNF 141:3–4 (22n101). Other instances not included in the corpus above include Moïse Schwab, “Coupe à inscriptions magiques,” Proceedings of the Society for Biblical Archaeology 13 (1890): 591–92; Cyrus Gordon, “Two Aramaic Incantations,” in Biblical and Near



Notes to Pages 142–144

225

Eastern Studies: Essays in Honor of William Sanford LaSor, ed. Gary Tuttle (­Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1978), ZRL 48, although it contains only the first two words of Psalm 91. 172. Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, bowl 11; Schwab, “Coupe à inscriptions magiques”; Gordon, “Two Aramaic Incantations.” Also, JNF 141:3–4, which I accessed through Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, 22n101. 173. Decoupling ­these verses in translation, as Naveh and Shaked do in their translation, undermines the coherence of the combined verse. I have not been able to check JNF. Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro do not mention the possibility that the verses could be read in a combined manner in their discussion of the interweave (Aramaic Bowl Spells, 20). Schwab does not offer a full translation, and Gordon does not translate this section in his bowl. 174. Granted, the explicit relationship between Shema and Psalms appears in the Palestinian Talmud’s discussion of bedtime piety and R. Joshua b. Levi. At the same time, the bedtime Shema was an established rabbinic practice. Thus, even from the perspective of the Babylonian Talmud—­a better context for the incantation bowls—we may safely assume that R. Joshua b. Levi would have said Shema prior to reciting verses from Psalm 91. For further, Dan Levene, Dalia Marx, and Siam Bhayro, “ ‘Gabriel Is on Their Right’: Angelic Protection in Jewish Magic and Babylonian Lore,” Studia Mesopotamica (2014): 191–94. 175. Mokhtarian, Rabbis, Sorcerers, Kings, and Priests, 351–425; Harari, “Ancient Israel and Early Judaism,” 156–71. This, of course, does not represent a comprehensive list of studies in this ever-­g rowing field. 176. This has been pointed out already in Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 187. 177. As we ­w ill see below, Psalm 91 was popu­lar in Palestine as well. 178. Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 55. 179. Goldschmidt, ed., Seder Rav Amram Gaon, 81. 180. See Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 95, 101. 181. For further details on the connection of magic and liturgy (although not piety) in ancient and medieval Judaism, see Peter Schäfer, “Jewish Liturgy and Magic,” in Geschichte—­ Tradition—­Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer, vol. 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996); Dan Levene, “Jewish Liturgy and Magic Bowls,” in Studies in Jewish Prayer, ed. Robert Hayward and Brad Embry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Naveh and Shaked, Magic Spells and Formulae, 22–31. 182. For the sake of space, I read with Ms. JTS Rab. 1623/2 (EMC 271). Most other manuscripts cite the verses in full and are in conflict as to what the last verse in this magical unit ­ought to be. 183. Ps. 23:4 is also given magical resonances in b. Pesaḥ. 111a–­b. 184. See also Hannah M. Cotton et al., eds., Corpus inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae, vol. 1: Jerusalem, Part 2: 705–1120 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), no. 789. 185. See, famously, the Jewish magic bowl that cites Jesus as an authority. See Dan Levene, “ ‘. . . ​A nd by the Name of Jesus . . .’: An Unpublished Magic Bowl in Jewish Aramaic,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 6 (1999). More broadly, see Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 227–90. See also Frank­f urter, Christianizing Egypt. 186. Amulet data come from Naveh and Shaked, Magic Spells and Formulae; Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls. 187. See the corpus delineated in n. 171 above.

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Notes to Pages 144–151

188. The book of Psalms also appears in ­these magical texts through invocation of David. See, for example, Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, amulet 4; Levene, Corpus of Magic Bowls, M117, M145, where Psalms of David are mentioned; Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro, Aramaic Bowl Spells, Ms 2053/159:14–15, 16n72. Resonance with Psalms may also come from the popu­lar use of the phrase shir tushbaḥ in vari­ous amulets. 189. For initial forays not l­imited to the Psalms, see Christa Müller-­Kessler, “The Use of Biblical Quotations in Jewish Aramaic Incantation Bowls,” in Studies on Magic and Divination in the Biblical World, ed. H. R. Jacobus, A. K. de Hemmer Gudme, and P. Guillaume (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2013); Joseph Angel, “The Use of the Hebrew Bible in Early Jewish Magic,” Religion Compass 3 (2009). 190. On the connection between Babylonia and Palestine regarding magic, see Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 34–35; Naveh and Shaked, Magic Spells and Formulae, 20–22. 191. David Noy, Alexander Panayotov, and Hanswulf Bloedhorn, eds., Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, vol. 1: Eastern Eu­rope (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), Mac. 13 (93–94). 192. Due to space constraints, I have refrained from discussing two other aspects of Psalm piety in Late Antiquity, namely, the use of Psalms in personal prayer and the citation of Psalms in a non-­exegetical fashion in the context of daily conversion. I ­w ill analyze ­these modes of piety in another study.

conclusions and prospects 1. Scott Goins, “Jerome’s Psalters,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. Brown. 2. Jes P. Asmussen, “The Pahlavi Psalm 122 in En­glish,” in Dr. J. M. Unvala Memorial Volume, ed. Ali Sami (Bombay: Kaikhusroo M. Jamaspasa, 1964), 123–26; Desmond Durkin-­ Meisterernst, “The Pahlavi Psalter Fragment in Relation to Its Source,” Studies on the Inner Asian Languages 21 (2006). 3. Ahmad Al-­Jallad, The Damascus Psalm Fragment: ­Middle Arabic and the Legacy of Old Higazi (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2020). 4. See, for example, Mid. Ps. 1:6, 1:8, 3:7, 14:6, 18:8, 24:3. 5. As, for example, is the case on p. Bikk. 3:2 65c. I am currently devoting a complete study to this topic. 6. Such as the vari­ous rabbinic interpretations of Psalm 2. For starters, see Gerard Rouwhorst and Marcel Poorthuis, “ ‘Why Do the Nations Conspire?’ Psalm 2 in Post-­Biblical Jewish and Christian Traditions,” in Empsychoi Logoi—­Religious Innovations in Antiquity: Studies in Honor of Pieter Willem van der Horst, ed. Alberdina Houtman, Albert de Jong, and Magda Misset-­van de Weg (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 7. See, for example, the extended discussion of Psalm 1 in b. Avod. Zar. 18b–19b. 8. Abraham J. Berkovitz, “Jewish and Christian Exegetical Controversy in Late Antiquity: The Case of Psalm 22 and the Esther Narrative,” in Ancient Readers and Their Scriptures: Engaging the Hebrew Bible in Early Judaism and Chris­tian­ity, ed. Allen V. Garrick and John A. Dunne (Leiden: Brill, 2018); Berkovitz, “Psalm 45 Between Abraham and Jesus: A Palestinian Rabbinic Polemic and Its Shelf Life,” Association for Jewish Studies Review (forthcoming). 9. On first directions, at least for the Targum and parts of rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure, see Abraham J. Berkovitz, “Translation, Translation Technique, and the Psalm Superscriptions of the Aramaic Targum,” Jewish Quarterly Review 110 (2020).



Notes to Pages 151–152

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10. Abraham J. Berkovitz, “On Mechanics and Meaning in Rabbinic Exegesis: Revelation, Gentiles and Psalm 29 in Tannaitic Midrash,” in Martha Himmelfarb Festschrift, ed. Ra’anan Boustan, Annette Yoshiko Reed, and David Frank­f urter (forthcoming). 11. Berkovitz, “Beyond Attribution and Authority,” 57–77. 12. For a summative attempt and previous scholarship, see Abraham J. Berkovitz, “The Hallels” (forthcoming).

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italic type refer to figures or ­tables. Members of the rabbinic movement are termed “Rabbi” throughout. The names of Talmudic tractates are arranged in alphabetical order. The subentries of each tractate are listed in canonical order: Mishnah, Tosefta, Palestinian Talmud, Babylonian Talmud Abaye, Rabbi, 37, 132 Abbahu, Rabbi, 66–67, 84, 126 Acts of Paul, 103 Additional Prayer, 83, 93–94 Agnon, S. Y., 1–2, 48, 70 Aḥa, Rabbi, 138 Aḥa b. Ada, Rabbi, 37 Aḥa b. Hanniah, Rabbi, 84 Akiva, Rabbi, 62–63 Aleppo Codex, 27 Alexander the Sleepless, 115 Alexandri, Rabbi, 90, 93 Amidah, 77, 79, 81–83, 85–95, 126, 143, 193n26, 199n89, 200n90 amoraic midrash, 4 Amram Gaon, Rav, 79, 133, 135 amulets, 116–17, 127, 137, 142–44, 144 Anthony (saint), 115 Apostolic Tradition, 103 arks, 68–69 Ashi, Rabbi, 82 Athanasius, 116 Augustine, 57, 61, 129 authorship and attributions, 151–52 Avodah Zarah, Palestinian Talmud 3:1 42c, 128–29; Babylonian Talmud 19a, 59–62 Babylonia, psalmody in, 79–85, 135–36 Babylonian Dreambook, 119–20, 122–23 Babylonian Talmud: cited in Midrash Psalms, 12; Palestinian sources for, 6; Palestinian Talmud in relation to, 4–6, 27–28, 109–10, 138–39; and piety, 109–10,

119–23, 132–33, 138–43; and psalmody, 81–82, 84–86; and Psalter’s unity and divisibility, 35–39; rabbinic production of, 4; rabbinic study portrayed in, 60; religious-­civic context of, 4, 6; on scribal practices, 39–40; spelling of hallelujah in, 45–46. See also Talmud and names of individual tractates Barhadbeshabba, 112 Bar Hebraeus, 113 Baumgarten, Elisheva, 206n2 Bava Batra: Mishnah 1:6, 28–29; Palestinian Talmud 1:7 13a, 28–29; Babylonian Talmud 164b, 40 bedtime Psalm piety, 132, 137–40 Berakhot: Mishnah 1:6, 191n3; Mishnah 4:4, 80; Mishnah 5:1, 92; Tosefta 3:6, 88–89; Tosefta 3:25, 89–90; Palestinian Talmud 1:1 2c, 83; Palestinian Talmud 1:1 2d, 137–39; Palestinian Talmud 2:3 4d, 49; Palestinian Talmud 2:3 4d–5a, 90–91; Palestinian Talmud 4:1 6b, 119–20; Palestinian Talmud 4:2 8a, 92; Palestinian Talmud 4:3 7d–8a; Palestinian Talmud 4:4 8a, 80; Palestinian Talmud 5:1 8d, 92; Babylonian Talmud 4a, 120–21; Babylonian Talmud 4b, 82, 86, 123; Babylonian Talmud 4b–5a, 132–33; Babylonian Talmud 7b, 65–67; Babylonian Talmud 9b, 82; Babylonian Talmud 57b, 119–20 Berekhiah, Rabbi, 130–31 book history, 9–10, 16, 151–52

254

Index

Book of Steps, 114, 122 Bradshaw, Paul, 76, 103 Bruyn, Theodore de, 116 Cairo Genizah, 27, 44, 79–80, 84 Cassian, John, 110, 111 cento (unit of prayer), 79 charity, 62–64 Chris­tian­ity: church architecture of, 104; Judaism compared to, 5–6, 109, 127, 129–31, 147, 152–53; non-­Christian gentiles contrasted with, 117–18; Psalm piety in, 108–18, 121–22, 124, 127, 129, 153, 220n145; role of Psalms in, 5–6, 8, 76–77, 100, 103–4, 111, 121–22, 142–44, 152–53; Syriac, 103–4, 112–13, 122; ­women in, 116. See also Jesus movement Chronicles, book of, 28–30, 36–37, 38, 76 Cicero, 38 circumcision, 56–58 Clement of Rome, 117 codex form, 16, 34, 162n5, 182n65 collective memory, 1–2, 76 Constantine, 58 conversion, 56–58 “Creator of Light” blessing, 85 daily psalmody: Chris­tian­ity and, 76–77, 111, 121–22; defined, 75; historical development of, 75–86; other ­factors in, 94–105; pre­ce­dent as ­factor in development of, 87–88; rhe­toric as ­factor in, 88–94, 199n87; scholarship on, 191n1 Damasus (pope), 68 Daniel 4:34, 130–31 Daniel 6:11, 89 David: appeals to, in explaining liturgy, 89; composer of psalms, 1–2, 7, 30–33, 65–66, 75–76, 103, 130, 149, 151–52; exceptional piety associated with, 120–23; images of, 99–100, 101, 102; messianism related to, 134–35; monks’ identification with, 111–12; Nebuchadnezzar vs., 129–31; and ­temple m ­ usic, 75 Dead Sea Scrolls, 4, 17, 19 death, Psalm piety and, 127–29 Decalogue, 199n90 demons, 3, 11, 107, 137–38, 140, 142 De­mos­the­nes, 38 desks, writing/reading, 19, 164n28 De virginitate 2.6.1, 117–18

Dimi, Rabbi, 40 divorce, 70–71 Ecclesiastes, book of, 15 Ecclesiastes Rabbah, 2:18, 71 Edict of Diocletian, 71 education, 59–61, 65, 111–13 Egeria, 103, 220n145 Elazar b. Avina, Rabbi, 133 Elbogen, Ismar, 78, 80, 108 Eliezer, Rabbi, 80 Elizur, Shulamit, 85, 197n68 Ephrem, 112–13 Esther Scroll, 25 Eucharist, 103 Eusebius, 58 everyday life, piety in, 106, 108, 123–29 exceptional piety (ḥasidut), 7, 119–23 exile, 1–2 exorcism texts, 142 Ezekiel, 131 Ezra (?) Holding a Scroll, 18 First T ­ emple period, 192n9 Fleischer, Ezra, 88, 126 “Fortunate” (liturgical unit), 86, 133 Geertz, Clifford, 107 Genesis Rabbah: 36:8, 167n55; 46:1: 55–58; 48:7, 216n95; 62:2, 128–29; 63:5, 181n56; 74:11, 125–26; 75:1, 31–32 geonim, 79–80, 135 Giṭṭin, Babylonian Talmud 35a–­b, 70 God, names of, 44–45, 90–92, 142 ­Great Hallel, 88 ­Great Isaiah Scroll (1QIsa), 17 ­Great Psalm Scroll (11QPsa), 17, 21, 42, 75–76, 141 Greco-­Roman culture: biblical manuscripts from, 110; education in, 60–61; Palestinian Talmud in, 6; reading practices in, 52; scrolls of, 16–17, 19 Hagiographa, 29–30, 33, 87 Hai Gaon, Rav, 136 Ḥalafta, Rabbi, 138 Hallel (Psalms 113–18), 77, 87, 132, 152. See also ­Great Hallel hallelujah: first appearance of, 65–66; scribal placement of, 41–44; spelling of, 44–46 Ḥannan b. Rabba, Rabbi, 43



Index

Ḥanniah b. Papa, Rabbi, 84 Hanukkah, 87 ḥasidut. See exceptional piety Havdalah of Rabbi Akiva, 127 Ḥelbo, Rabbi, 130 heretics (minim), 66–67, 89 Hezekiah, Rabbi, 126, 144 High Priests, 50–52, 124 Hirshman, Marc, 60 Ḥisda, Rabbi, 41–43, 45–46, 70 Ḥiyya, Rabbi, 35, 49 Ḥiyya b. Abba, Rabbi, 84 Ḥiyya the Elder, Rabbi, 69 Homer: Iliad, 19; Odyssey, 19 Hoshaya, Rabbi, 28–30 Huna, Rabba b. Rabbi, 41–42 Huna, Rabbi, 70, 83–85, 137–38 Hurtado, Larry, 110 incantation bowls, 127, 137, 138, 142–44, 145–­46 interpretation, as focus of studies on the reading of Scripture, 10–11. See also midrash Isaac, Rabbi, 92, 121, 131 Isbell, Charles, Corpus of Aramaic Incantation Bowls, 142–43 Ishmael b. Naḥman, Rabbi, 130 Isho‘sabran, 113 Izates, 56–58 Jabal al-­Tarif, 111 Jacob (biblical Patriarch), 125 Jacob b. Aḥa, Rabbi, 126, 144 Jacob of Nisibis, 112 Jacob of Serugh, 112 Jacob the miller, Rabbi, 138 Jerome, 33–35, 38, 61, 68–69, 72, 116, 118, 150 Jerusalem ­Temple, 1–2, 75–78, 87, 92, 97. See also Second ­Temple period Jesus, 128 Jesus movement, 5, 8, 76, 103 Jewish late antiquity: Chris­tian­ity in relation to, 5–6; material evidence of, 5; methodological considerations in studying, 6–8; rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure of, 4–5; role of Psalms in, 2–3, 5–6, 148, 150 John Chrysostom, 69 John of Ephesus, 116 John of Tella, 113

255

Johnson, William, 61 Joseph, Rabbi, 37, 46, 138 Josephus, 75 Joshua b. Levi, Rabbi, 44, 92, 93–94, 128, 138–41, 143, 146 Judaean Desert scrolls, 17, 20–22, 42, 45 Judah, Rabbi (Babylonian sage), 67 Judah b. R. Simon b. Pazzi, Rabbi, 65 Judah the Prince, Rabbi, 40–41, 59–60 Kallah (tractate), 62–64 Karaites, 80 ketubah (marriage document), 70–71 Ketubot, Babylonian Talmud 50a, 69–70 Kraus, Thomas, 117 Laban, 125 Laeta, 116 Leningrad Codex, 19, 27 “Let Us Rest” prayer, 82 Levi, Rabbi, 121 Levine, Lee, 104 Levites, 1–2, 75–76, 78–79, 87, 92–93, 124 Leviticus Rabbah: 1:3, 38; 9:9, 201n103; 13:5, 130; 16:2, 52–55; 26:6, 216n101 Life of Anthony, 115 Life of Ephrem, 112 Life of Isho‘sabran, 113 Life of John of Tella, 113 Life of Symeon the Holy Fool, 111 line spacing, 41–44 liturgy: appeals to Psalms to justify changes in, 88–94, 199n87; defined, 74–75; magic in relation to, 147–48; piety in relation to, 143; Psalm piety in relation to, 132–33; Psalms’ use in, 13–14; rabbis and, 77–100, 104–5; Scripture in, 153–54 “Love” benediction, 85 Lucius, Abba, 115, 127 Macarius of Alexandria, 114 magic, 14; liturgy in relation to, 147–48; monks and monasticism, 115; piety in relation to, 106–8, 115, 136–37, 147; Psalms associated with, 116–17, 137–46; purpose of, 107; rabbis and, 207n9 Maimonides, 79, 127 Ma‘oz Ḥayyim synagogue, 95–96, 96, 98 Mar Abba, 112 Marcus, Ivan G., 206n2 Mar Zutra, 38

256

Index

Megillah: Mishnah 3:1, 68; Palestinian Talmud 1:11 72a, 44; Palestinian Talmud 4:1 74d 69; Babylonian Talmud 17b, 91 Meir, Rabbi, 44–45, 71 memorization, of Psalms and other Scripture, 32, 111–14, 169n76 messiah, 134–35 midrash: contents of, 203n119; material ­factors influencing, 13, 65–68; reading practices in, 57; significance of, as a form of reading, 10–11 Midrash Psalms: 12, 33, 100, 150–51; Mid. Ps. 1:1, 169n82; Mid. Ps. 14:6, 34; Mid. Ps. 29, 92 Milson, David, 104 minim (heretics), 66–67, 89 Mishnah, 4, 28–30, 50–52, 77, 87, 89, 92, 95, 97, 105, 123–24, 140. See also names of individual tractates monks and monasticism, 103, 110–15, 124 Monobazus, 56–58 mosaics: Bet She‘an Samaritan Synagogue, 69; King David Depicted as Orpheus, synagogue, Gaza, 101; Meroth Synagogue, 102; Sepphoris Synagogue, 97, 99 Nachleben (afterlife), 9, 158n41 Nag Hammadi codices, 111 Narsai, 112 Nathan, Rabbi, 30 Natronai Gaon, Rav, 135–36 Naveh, Joseph, 144 Nebuchadnezzar, 130–31 non-­rabbinic Jews, 80, 97, 99 occasional psalmody, 75, 87–88, 152 Oral Torah, 27, 65 Origen, 22, 24, 122, 170n86 Orpheus, 99 Pachomius, 111 Palestine, psalmody in, 79–85, 90–100, 118, 134–35 Palestinian Talmud: Babylonian Talmud in relation to, 4–6, 27–28, 109–10, 138–39; Greco-­Roman context of, 6; and piety, 109–10, 126–27, 137–38; and psalmody, 81, 83–85, 90–95; and Psalter’s unity and divisibility, 30–35; rabbinic production of, 4; religious-­civic context of, 4, 6; on scribal practices, 39–40; spelling of

hallelujah in, 44–45. See also Talmud and names of individual tractates Passover, 87 “Patriarchs” blessing, 91 Paul, 4, 76–77 Paula, 116 Pentateuch, 29, 30, 33, 36–37, 46, 47, 55, 95, 154 Pentecost (Shavuot), 93 perushim (separatists), 89 Pesaḥim: Babylonian Talmud 62b, 38; Babylonian Talmud 111a and 112a, 143; Babylonian Talmud 112a, 40–41; Babylonian Talmud 117a 41–43, 45 Peshitta, 104 Philo, 8, 77 piety, 14, 106–48; bedtime, 132, 137–40; Christian, 108–18, 121–22, 124, 127, 129, 153, 220n145; communal aspects of, 108, 117–18, 133–36; and death, 127–29; emotion associated with, 111; in everyday lives, 106, 108, 123–29; exceptional, 107, 119–23; liturgy in relation to, 132–33, 143; magic in relation to, 106–8, 115, 136–37, 147; material evidence of, 108, 111, 116–17; practices of, 106–7, 206n2, 226n192; purpose of, 107; in rabbinic lives, 108, 118–36; scriptural, 109, 148; Talmud and, 109–10; ­women and, 116 Pinḥas, Rabbi, 31–32, 56 Possidius of Calama, 129 Priestly Blessing, 83–85 proems, 95, 203n119 property, division of, 28, 168n63 Psalm 1:2, 59–60 Psalm 2, 65, 67–68 Psalm 3, 65, 67–68, 142 Psalm 5:12, 123–24, 128 Psalm 17:1, 93–94 Psalm 19:8, 20–22, 24 Psalm 19:15, 81–82 Psalm 22:4, 85, 125–26 Psalm 23:5, 128 Psalm 24:7–10, 87 Psalm 29, 14, 89–93 Psalm 29:3, 117 Psalm 31:6, 128, 132 Psalm 31:20, 123–24, 128 Psalm 32:6, 128 Psalm 33:21, 128 Psalm 34:13–15, 53–54



Index

Psalm 38:6, 87 Psalm 46:8, 117, 126–27, 144, 147 Psalm 46:12, 127 Psalm 47:7–10, 87 Psalm 51:17, 81–82 Psalm 78:38, 79 Psalm 84:5, 86 Psalm 84:11, 128 Psalm 84:13, 126–27 Psalm 86:2a, 120–21 Psalm 87:2, 85 Psalm 91, 116–17, 142–43, 147–48, 223n168 Psalm 92, 79 Psalm 96, 75 Psalm 102, 88 Psalm 105:1–15, 75 Psalm 106:48, 79 Psalm 107:40, 143 Psalm 112:3, 70 Psalm 112:9, 62–64 Psalm 116:15, 128 Psalm 118:20, 117 Psalm 119:62, 121, 136 Psalm 120, 88 Psalm 121, 88 Psalm 121:8, 117 Psalm 127:1, 124 Psalm 130, 88 Psalm 133:1, 48 Psalm 135:4, 85 Psalm 136:7, 85, 88 Psalm 137, 118 Psalm 144:16, 86 Psalm 145, 86, 133 Psalm 146:10, 79, 85 psalmody: Christian, 76–77, 100, 103–4; critiques of, 114–15; defined, 74; midnight, 121–22; non-­rabbinic Jews and, 99; occasional, 75, 87–88, 152; seasonal, 75, 87, 152. See also daily psalmody Psalms 1:2, 115 Psalms 81–83, 22 Psalms 91–92, 22 Psalms 113–18 (Hallel), 80, 87, 132, 152 Psalms 120–34 (Songs of Ascent), 80, 124–26 Psalms 145–50 (Verses of Song), 80, 132–33, 219n138 Psalms 151–55, 14 Psalms: access to, 32; Christian uses of, 5–6, 8, 76–77, 100, 103–4, 111, 121–22, 142–44,

257

152–53; collection and translation of, 4; competition between Jews and Christians over, 129–31; composition of, 4; division and unity of, 28–39, 164n34; exegetical life of, 151; in Jewish late antiquity, 2–3, 5–6, 148, 150; material evidence of, 13; meanings of, 2, 148; memorization of, 111; Midrash, 12, 33–34, 92, 100, 150–51; reading of, 13; singing of, 1–2; Targum, 12, 150; translations of, 150; versions of, 6–7. See also Psalter Psalm Scroll (11QPsa), 77. See also ­Great Psalm Scroll psalm-­singers, 100 Psalter: canonical, 7; conceptual division of, 19; golden age of, 1–2; length of, 36–37, 164n34; liturgical uses of, 13–14; material evidence of, 13; modes of engaging with, 11, 13; other Scripture in relation to, 3; physical characteristics of, 16–27; significance of, 3; versions of, 6–7, 16. See also Psalms; scrolls Qedushta, 85 Qiddushin: Babylonian Talmud 30a 35–37, 46; Babylonian Talmud 33a, 35 Qumran community, 77, 163n14, 164n34 rabbis and rabbinic lit­er­a­t ure: access to Scripture, 32; citation of the Psalter by/ in, 3, 4, 7, 27, 155n6; deaths of, 127–29; in Jewish late antiquity, 4–5; ­legal statements, 24; liturgical innovation by, 88–94; and magic, 207n9; material ­factors influencing, 13, 27–73; non-­Jewish evidence compared to, 5–6; and oral culture, 10, 27, 64–65; psalmody in liturgy of, 77–100, 104–5, 191n1; Psalm piety of, 108, 118–36; study practices of, 59–62. See also liturgy; midrash Rav, 44–46 Rava, 123–24 reading: affective, 55–58; in community, 57, 61; as drama, 55; as expounding, 11, 49–51, 54; history of, 10–12, 49; as leisure activity, 50–52; linear, 13, 17, 60, 63–68; private, 57; scenes of, 50–64; scholastic, 59–62; scrolls as medium of, 17, 19, 60, 63–68; social context of, 51–55, 154; types of, 11, 49–50, 154 reading desks. See desks

258

Index

reception history, 8, 11 redemption, 1, 82, 134–35 “Redemption” blessing, 82 responsa, 135–36 Reuben, Rabbi, 31–32 Roman culture. See Greco-­Roman culture Rosh Hashanah: Palestinian Talmud 4:8 49c, 93; Babylonian Talmud 30b, 93 Rufinus, 114 Sa‘adya Gaon, Rav, 79 Sabbath, 75, 78–80, 85, 92, 135–36 sacred writings, division of, 28–29 Safra, Rabbi, 40 Samuel b. Naḥmani, Rabbi, 30–31, 138 “Sanctification” blessing, 92 Sanhedrin, Babylonian Talmud 92b, 131 Sanzo, Joseph, 116–17 Sayings of the Desert F ­ athers, 115 scenes of reading, 50–64 scribal practices, 19–20, 22, 24, 39–46, 163n22, 164n28 Scripture: access to, 32; community engendered by, 30; defined, 155n5; division of, 29; historical vs. pedagogical reading of, 66–68; layouts of, 38; liturgical uses of, 153–54; memorization of, 32, 169n76; modes of engaging with, 10–12, 49–50; non-­rabbinic Jews and, 80; physical forms of, 15; piety involving, 109, 148; Psalter in relation to, 3; as Written Torah, 65 scrolls: of ancient Greece and Rome, 16–17, 19; community use of, 68–69; costs of making, 69; division of, 28–29, 168n63; as format of early Jewish writing, 15; layouts of, 20–27, 21–23, 25–26; length of, 17, 19–20, 20, 36–37, 163n25; line spacing in, 41–44; macro features of, 27–39; margins of, 17; material influence on rabbinic interpretation, 27–73; micro features of, 39–46; physical act of reading, 17, 19, 60, 63–68; of Torah, 17, 19; wealth and power signaled by, 68–72; word spacing in, 44–46; writing practices for, 164n28 seasonal psalmody, 75, 87, 152 Second ­Temple period, 4, 6–7, 16–17, 75–76, 142. See also Jerusalem T ­ emple Sefer Tehillim, 7. See also Psalms; Psalter separatists (perushim), 89

Septuagint, 76 sermons, 14, 57, 95, 105, 203n119 Shabbat: Mishnah 12:1, 136; Palestinian Talmud 1:2 8b, 223n168; Palestinian Talmud 12:5 13d, 175n148; Palestinian Talmud 16:5 15c, 169n71, 215n95; Babylonian Talmud 116b, 49; Babylonian Talmud 118b, 132 Shaked, Shaul, 144 Shema, 77, 79, 80, 85–86, 93, 95, 127, 132, 135, 137–38, 142, 143, 199n90 Shevuot: Mishnah 2:2, 142; Babylonian Talmud 15b, 137–39, 142–43, 223n168 Sifre Deuteronomy, sect. 36, 24; sect. 303, 171n96; sect. 307, 208n13 Simeon b. Yoḥai, Rabbi, 65 Simon b. Pazzi, Rabbi, 65 Simon b. R. Judah, Rabbi, 35, 59 Simon b. R. Levi, Rabbi, 40–41, 44 sleep: Psalm recitation for forestalling, 50–52, 123–25; Psalms for protection during, 140 Soferim (tractate), 25, 27 “song against evil mis­haps,” 141–43, 223n168 Song of Deborah (Judges 5), 25 Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32), 25 Song of the Sea (Exodus 15), 24, 25, 26 Songs of Ascent (Psalms 120–34), 80, 124–26 Sons of Haman, Esther Scroll, 25 Soṭah: Babylonian Talmud 31a, 122–24; Babylonian Talmud 39b–40a, 84 Stegemann, Harmut, 17 “Strength” blessing, 91 Sukkah, Babylonian Talmud 54b, 92–93 Sussman, Yaakov, 169n76 synagogues, 68–69, 95–97, 104 Syriac Chris­tian­ity, 103–4, 112–13, 122 Ta‘anit: Mishnah 2:2, 87–88; Mishnah 2:5, 198n82; Palestinian Talmud 2:2 67d, 222n166 Tabernacles, 93 Talmud: composition of, 80, 85, 90; and psalmody, 80–81, 105. See also Babylonian Talmud; Palestinian Talmud Tamid, Mishnah 6:7, 76, 78–79 Tanḥuma, Rabbi, 91 tannaitic midrash, 4 Tarfon, Rabbi, 62–64, 70 Targum Psalms, 12, 150



Index

tefillah, 193n26. See also Amidah ­Temple Scroll, 17 Tertullian, 103 Tetragrammaton (YHWH), 32, 91–92, 142 Theodore, 113 Therapeutae, 77 Titus of Rome, 1–2 Torah: five books of Moses as, 33; Oral, 27, 65; reading from, 17, 19; size of, 17; social and symbolic value of, 17, 61, 68, 70; study of, 59, 95, 135; Written, 10, 27, 65 Tosefta, 4, 124. See also names of individual tractates transition verses, 85, 125 Tsalampouni, Ekaterini, 117 Uqva, Rabbi, 29–30 verses, definitions of, 37–38 Verses of Song (pesuqe dezimra), 80, 132–33, 219n138 Verses of Supplication (pesuqe deraḥme), 132 Warburg, Aby, 158n41 ­women, Psalm piety of Christian, 116

259

word spacing, 44–46 writing desks. See desks Written Torah, 10, 27, 65 Yannai, 53–55, 62, 63, 125 Yassa, Rabbi, 126, 144 YHWH, 32, 91–92, 142 Yoḥanan, Rabbi, 45, 65, 66–67, 81–86, 126, 144 Yoma: Mishnah 1:6–7, 50–51; Mishnah 1:7, 124, 177n13; Tosefta 1:9 124; Palestinian Talmud 1:6 39b, 51 Yom Kippur, 50–52, 124 Yonatan, Rabbi, 49 Yosi, Rabbi, 132 Yosi b. Ḥanina, Rabbi, 119 Yosi b. Petram, Rabbi, 128 Yosi b. R. Avin, Rabbi, 126 Yosi the Sidonian, Rabbi, 81 Yotzer, 85 Yudan, Rabbi, 81, 83–84, 126 Zavdi b. Levi, 128 Zechariah b. Kabutal, 51 Zera, Rabbi, 138

A c k n o w l­e d g m e n t s

M. Avot 1:6 cites the immortal dicta of R. Joshua b. Peraḥya, who would become a folk hero in the eyes of many late ancient Jews: “Make for yourself a teacher; acquire for yourself a friend; and judge ­every person with the benefit of the doubt.” I consider myself lucky. I have made for myself not one teacher, but many. This book began as a dissertation. Its content, structure, and arguments ­were guided by a set of intellectual luminaries at Prince­ton University. I owe an unpayable debt of gratitude to them all. First among them is my doctoral adviser, Martha Himmelfarb. Martha’s generous guidance, careful eye, and incisive instruction have s­ haped both this book and my scholarly trajectory. I hope that this work emulates her scholarly dispositions—­creativity combined with close attention to historical and textual detail. AnneMarie Luijendijk encouraged me to think about materiality and has been a generous mentor, offering consistently insightful comments about my scholarly work and academic practices. To Moulie Vidas I am thankful for guiding me into the academic study of rabbinic texts. That this book engages primarily with rabbinic lit­er­a­ture is due in no small part to his infectious enthusiasm for the subject. Also imparting the value of an unbridled love of scholarship was Jack Tannous, who taught me to think critically as a historian and introduced me to the study of Syriac lit­er­a­ture. Inducting me into the fields of book history and the history of reading was Anthony Grafton, whose insight and generosity know no bounds. This book would look drastically dif­ fer­ent ­were it not for our near-­weekly reading sessions during my time as a gradu­ate student. I am grateful to Elaine Pagels, who not only introduced me to the study of early Christian lit­er­a­ture but also to her red pen. Naphtali Meshel taught me how to combine philology and theory without sacrificing ­either. Our weekly reading sessions ­were a highlight of my first few years at Prince­ton. John Gager not only read and commented on several chapters of this book but also taught me how to think broadly. I hope to have

262

Acknowl­edgments

captured but a small fraction of his inquisitive spirit. Ra’anan Boustan’s advice helped me shape this proj­ect on a macro level, and his words of wisdom continue to inspire my scholarly pursuits. My scholarly formation began as a student at Yeshiva University, where I first learned to read ancient sources with an eye ­toward history, lit­er­a­ture, and context. My teachers ­there continue to provide constant feedback and support. I am grateful to Moshe Bern­stein, who first introduced me to the critical study of Judaism. His love of text has left an indelible mark on the way I read ancient sources. Lawrence Schiffman taught me the value and practice of close reading over the many hours we spent together reading and reconstructing the ­Temple Scroll. I am thankful to Shawn Zelig Aster, whose generous soul is boundless. It is to him I owe my insistence on tracing channels of transmission and setting sources into comparative contexts. I learned how to extract history from art, stone, and pottery from Steven Fine, who taught me to think about “John Q. Judean.” Shalom Holtz provided me with the example of how to act scholarly, and I continue to learn a ­great deal from Aaron Koller, who offered insightful feedback on several chapters. As I reshaped the material within t­ hese pages from a dissertation into a book, I benefited from the feedback and generosity of many other scholars I greatly admire. They include Michael Swartz, Tzvi Novick, David Stern, Laura Lieber, Ruth Langer, Ishay Rosen-­Zvi, Gary Rendsburg, Azzan Yadin Israel, Ben Sommer, and Steve Weitzman. I am also thankful to Abe Socher and Stu Halpern for pushing me to think carefully about writerly prose. While writing this book, I have acquired for myself many friends. They include the truly excellent ­people I encountered while in gradu­ate school, many of whom continue to shape my own thoughts and interest. I am thankful to Sarit Kattan Gribetz, Mark Letteney, Amit Gvaryahu, Yedida Koren, Simcha Gross, Yitz Landes, David Sclar, Binyamin Goldstein, Mika Ahuvia, David Grossberg, Lance Jenott, David Jorgensen, Alex Kocar, Geoffrey Smith, Alyssa Cady, Elena Dugan, Djair Filho, Jon Henry, Ari Lamm, Madeline Mark, Joe Glynias, and Merel Eisenberg. I am grateful to the many participants of CSLA Book Club, the Jewish Studies Reading Group, and the Textuality, Materiality and Reading Practices Workshop and the Center for the Study of Religion workshop for constantly expanding my intellectual horizons. I am thankful for the intellectual stimulation provided by the 2018–19 cohort of the Harry Starr Fellows in Judaica: Aleksandra Buncic, Jason Lustig, Martina Mampieri, and Nathan Mastnjak. Enriching my life beyond academia are my many friends in Highland Park, New Jersey. Intel-



Acknowl­edgments

263

lectual and inquisitive but untethered to academia, they are the best of companions: ready to listen but willing to yank me back into real­ity. I translated the Hebrew word ḥaver as “friend” in the opening paragraph. But one might also understand ḥaver in its more technical sense as a group of rabbinic disciples; or in what might be a near-­Latin cognate: collegium, from which the En­glish word “colleague” derives. My time at HUC-­JIR has provided me with many colleagues, all nice ­people. They include Adriane Levine, Alyssa Gray, Andrea Weiss, Andrew Rehfeld, Dalia Marx, David Aaron, Dvora Weisberg, Gordon Dale, Jason Kalman, Jennifer Grayson, Joe Skloot, Josh Garroway, Kristi Garroway, Lawrence Hoffman, Lisa Grant, Maggie Wenig, Nancy Wiener, Norman Cohen, Reuven Firestone, Rick Sarason, Sarah Benor, Yoram Bitton, and Wendy Zierler. The writing of this book—­a nd the dissertation upon which it was based—­received material support from a variety of institutions. I owe gratitude to the following sources of funding: HUC-­JIR, the Religion Department at Prince­ton, the Wexner Gradu­ate Fellowship, the Center for the Study of Religion at Prince­ton, the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, the Association for Jewish Studies Legacy Heritage Foundation Fellowship, the Harry Starr Fellowship in Judaica at Harvard University, and the Jordan Schnitzer First Book Publication Award. To Walter Biggins, Jerry Singerman, Elisabeth Maselli, and Lily Palladino I owe much gratitude for shepherding this book through the publication pro­cess. A ­simple acknowl­edgment cannot capture my gratitude for the love of my life, Shani Zitter. Her patience with me and my work is nothing short of legendary. I am also profoundly grateful to my parents, Jonas Berkovitz and Ma­ya (‫ )ע”ה‬Berkovitch. Both immigrated to Amer­i­ca and never received the benefit of a college education. They nevertheless filled my childhood with the love of learning. This book is the direct long-­term product of their constant investment. I also thank the extended Berkovitz and Zitter clans for all their support during the writing of this book. We now arrive at the final apothegm, “to judge ­every person with the benefit of the doubt.” This one I leave to you, reader. Errors in content and of style in this manuscript belong to me alone. Nevertheless, I still hope that you may find some value within its pages.