Confronting Vulnerability: The Body and the Divine in Rabbinic Ethics 9780226740102

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Confronting Vulnerability

Confronting Vulnerability The Body and the Divine in Rabbinic Ethics

J O N AT H A N W Y N S C H O F E R

The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London

Jonathan Wyn Schofer is associate professor of comparative ethics at Harvard Divinity School and the author of The Making of a Sage: A Study in Rabbinic Ethics. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2010 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2010 Printed in the United States of America 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10

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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-74009-6 (cloth) ISBN-10: 0-226-74009-9 (cloth) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schofer, Jonathan Wyn. Confronting vulnerability : the body and the divine in rabbinic ethics / Jonathan Wyn Schofer. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-226-74009-6 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-226-74009-9 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Death in rabbinical literature. 2. Human body in rabbinical literature. 3. Ethics in rabbinical literature. 4. Rabbinical literature— History and criticism. 5. Jewish ethics. I. Title. BM496.9.D44S36 2010 296.3′3—dc22 2010001038 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments / vii Introduction / 1 ONE

/ Aging and Death / 21

T WO

/ Elimination / 53

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

/ Early Death / 77 / Drought / 109

/ Life Cycles / 141 Conclusion / 169 References / 191

Source Index / 213

AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S

Confronting vulnerability is closely connected with acknowledging dependence. I thank T. David Brent for taking up the project and for his wise advice at each step. Numerous people at the University of Chicago Press helped transform a manuscript into a book, including but not only Laura Avey, Robert Hunt, Michael Koplow, and Isaac Tobin. I began the manuscript while at the Stanford Humanities Center, and I completed a full draft on presidential leave from Harvard Divinity School. Michael Lyons, Françoise Mirguet, Kirsten Wesselhoeft, Matt Redovan, and especially Niki Clements gave tremendous assistance in research and writing. Felicia Share helped in innumerable important ways. Ongoing discussions with my graduate and undergraduate mentors have been central to my studies, especially Michael Fishbane, Frank Reynolds, and Lee Yearley. This project opened up an occasion to meet Martha Nussbaum, who has offered much insight and support. Elizabeth Alexander shared productive critiques, kind words, and most importantly her passion for close readings of texts. Tal Lewis and Aaron Stalnaker spent many conversations working through arguments with me. Jennifer Rapp regularly opened up new areas to explore. Talks with Jock Reeder, Diana Fritz Cates, and Charles Mathewes refined definitions and concepts. At the University of Wisconsin-Madison, I learned much from my colleagues in Hebrew and Semitic Studies, Jewish Studies, and Religious Studies. After joining the Harvard Divinity School, I found many opportunities to share my work in colloquia, reading groups, and meetings over lunch and tea. I received extensive input from Michael Jackson, Jon Levenson, Anne Monius, Laura Nasrallah, and Michael Puett. I was also able to teach materials from this project in courses at both institutions, which brought some of my greatest learning.

viii / Acknowledgments

I delivered papers related to this book at numerous meetings of the American Academy of Religion, Association for Jewish Studies, Society of Biblical Literature, and Society of Jewish Ethics. Visits to Colgate University, Brown University, University of Virginia, and Princeton University led to wonderful feedback. I was deeply moved by conversations about vulnerability with students, faculty, and clergy while presenting talks for the Hammond Lectureship at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. Many others gave comments, advice, and suggestions, including but not only Gary Anderson, Jennifer Banks, Judith Baskin, John Bender, Beth Berkowitz, Mark Berkson, Daniel Block, Raanan Boustan, Marc Bregman, Elizabeth Bucar, Laura Chinchilla, Mark Cladis, Frank Clooney, Sarah Coakley, Julie Cooper, Jerome Copulsky, Mark Csikszentmihalyi, Carol Delaney, Nicola Denzey, Marilynn Desmond, Natalie Dohrmann, John Dunne, Mark Edwards, Arnold Eisen, Chiyuma Elliott, Brian Epstein, Amy Feinstein, Francis Schüssler Fiorenza, Charlotte Fonrobert, Steven Fraade, David Frankfurter, Constance Furey, Gregg Gardner, Hester Gelber, Edward Goldman, Robert Gregg, Eric Gregory, Greg Grieve, Aaron Gross, Chaya Halberstam, Van Harvey, David Hempton, Amy Hollywood, P. J. Ivanhoe, Martin Jaffee, Mark Jordan, Richard Kalmin, Grace Kao, Leonard Kaplan, Karen King, Menahem Kister, David Lamberth, David Levinsky, Blake Leyerle, Evyatar Marienberg, Sara McClintock, Flagg Miller, June Nash, Rachel Neis, Louis Newman, Robert Orsi, Kimberly Patton, Joshua Peskin, Benjamin Pollock, Eli Reich, Brett Rogers, Ishay Rosen-zevi, Jordan Rosenblum, Hal Roth, Andy Rotman, Jeffrey Rubenstein, Richard Sarason, Michael Satlow, Don Swearer, Andy Teeter, Ron Thiemann, and Azzan Yadin. I wrote a number of articles and book chapters on these rabbinic sources, and I thank the publishers for permission to reprint material here. Parts of the introduction and chapter one were developed in “Rabbinic Ethical Formation and the Formation of Rabbinic Ethical Compilations,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, edited by C. Fonrobert and M. Jaffee, 313–335 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). For chapter three, the original and most in-depth research into the texts appears in “Protest or Pedagogy? Trivial Sin and Divine Justice in Rabbinic Narrative,” Hebrew Union College Annual 74 (2003): 243–278. Chapter four builds upon “Theology and Cosmology in Rabbinic Ethics: The Pedagogical Significance of Rainmaking Narratives,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 12/3 (2005): 227–259. Elements in chapter five are included in “The Different

Acknowledgments / ix

Life Stages: From Childhood to Old Age,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, edited by Catherine Hezser (2010, 327–343). Over the years I have worked on this project, my own awareness of vulnerability has been heightened, and many have shared experiences with me. Friends and communities in the San Francisco Bay Area, Chicago, Madison, and Cambridge are immensely important. My immediate family has been a source of companionship and growth, whether talking about nursing, care for children and the elderly, or just navigating adult life. This book is dedicated to them.

Introduction

Confronting Vulnerability examines rabbinic texts that instruct students in the development of sagely character and exemplary behavior. These instructions uphold virtues such as wisdom and compassion, ideal ways of responding to others in need, and the details of etiquette.1 The project focuses on the many ethical teachings that employ vivid imagery to emphasize death as well as echoes of death such as aging, excretion, persecution, and drought. For the study of rabbinic culture in late antiquity, this approach highlights widespread ways of educating students and understandings of embodiment that have not been adequately addressed. For contemporary ethics, the materials provide rich examples of cultural forms that both confront vulnerability and channel the confrontation into self and communal cultivation. Despite their cultural distance, these texts challenge us to develop theories and practices of ethical development that properly engage our fragilities rather than denying them. A short saying exemplifies the major themes of this book. Classical rabbinic literature remembers Akavya ben Mahalalel as a controversial and contentious sage of the first century C.E. His ethical maxim became quite influential over the centuries. Below I trace several lines of its transmission and transformation, but for now I focus on the version canonized in Mishnah Avot: Akavya ben Mahalalel says: Look upon three things and you will not come into the hands of transgression. Know from where you come, to where you go, and before whom in the future you are to give account and reckoning. 1. Schofer, The Making of a Sage, esp. 7–11.

2 / Introduction From where you come: from a putrid secretion. To where you go: to worm and maggot. Before whom in the future you will give account and reckoning: before the King of the kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He. (m. Avot 3:1)2

Akavya ben Mahalalel employs strong images to portray each person’s origin in sexual fluid and future in decay. “Worm and maggot” alludes to a number of biblical verses that emphasize human lowliness in contrast with God’s power and judgment (Is. 14:11, Ps. 90:3–4, Job 25:4–6). In later ethical and mystical sources, the image of humans emerging from semen as a “putrid secretion” also invokes humility.3 The sage juxtaposes human finitude with divine judgment: God assesses human action and rewards good action while punishing bad. After death and decay, only one’s status in the divine accounting remains. Akavya ben Mahalalel incorporates these images into an exercise that aims to arouse diligence for fulfilling rabbinic ideals. He instructs the student to “look” upon the past and future of the body, and upon God’s future judgment, in order to guide behavior in the present: “you will not come into the hands of transgression.”4 The sage conveys this exercise through subtle use of genres: a compact maxim structured by two lists—“Look upon three things . . .” and “Know. . . .” The second list repeats, specifies, and reinforces each element in the first list. The maxim culminates by elaborating the final element at most length (“Before whom in the future . . . before the King of the kings of kings . . .”), which reinforces the ultimate significance of God as judge and ruler of the world.

2. For the text of m. Avot 3:1, I have consulted Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 111– 112; and Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 260. Recent studies of Akavya ben Mahalalel and his maxim, with references, are Steinmetz, “Distancing and Bringing Near”; Boyarin, Border Lines, 64–65, 255–256 n 152; and Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 148–151, 161–165, and notes. I discuss reception of the maxim in Chapters One and Two. 3. Job 25:6 is quoted as part of the commentary to the maxim in Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 19 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 70; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 182–183). Also see Ben Sira 7:17; m. Avot 4:4; and Labendz, “The Book of Ben Sira in Rabbinic Literature.” Examples of semen as a “putrid secretion” include Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 19 and Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 7, 40, 42 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 21, 70, 111, 116–117; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 180–183, 331, 381, 386). See also Lieberman, “How Much Greek in Jewish Palestine?” 136–137; Biale, Eros and the Jews, 45, 247 nn 67–70; Swartz, Scholastic Magic, 69, 166–170; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, 117. Rubin notes that later sources presented the image of a “drop” in a more positive light; Rubin, The End of Life, 65, 267 n 58. 4. Urbach points out the pedagogical force of the passage in The Sages, 224; also Rubin, “The Sages’ Conception of Body and Soul,” 94 n 15; Rubin, The End of Life, 265 n 39.

Introduction / 3

The Project Akavya ben Mahalalel uses evocative language and artful literary forms to make mortality the center of a student’s attention, which spurs proper behavior. Confronting Vulnerability shows that rabbinic ethical instruction appears not only in distinctly ethical collections such as Mishnah Avot, but also throughout rabbinic literature. The passages I examine are notable for portraying death and vulnerability through stunning and wide-ranging imagery. They push their audience to confront weakness, and they appeal to authoritative figures of rabbinic culture—the sages, the tradition of Torah, and especially God’s evaluation of humans—to uphold distinct actions and character states. Their goal is to form individuals and communities that can act effectively in a dangerous world. This project strives to make these texts intelligible but not overly familiar. I neither recommend nor warn against rabbinic practices. Rather, certain features of rabbinic sources inspire developments in contemporary approaches to character, virtue, and spiritual exercises. I begin with four ethical concerns articulated by diverse scholars in the humanities and social sciences. I summarize them here and elaborate key and controversial elements below. First, ethical theory needs to address the possibilities and limitations for embodied life from “secretion” to “worm and maggot.” Ethics cannot presume a continually healthy, strong, independent agent who encounters weak, needy others. All people have bodily needs and related dependencies. All people have susceptibilities to harms and wounds, to deterioration over time, and ultimately to death.5 Second, humans likely have psychological and cultural tendencies to deny mortality. Turning to see weakness can be hampered by internal obstacles, and vulnerability may appear elusive, sneaky, hiding behind our backs.6 5. Versions of these arguments have been set out in Williams, Shame and Necessity; Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness; MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals; Cates, Choosing to Feel. 6. Perhaps the most well-known psychoanalytic statements about denial of vulnerability are E. Becker, The Denial of Death, and E. Becker, Escape from Evil. Becker’s work has inspired an experimental psychological research program named “terror management theory,” which does not depend on a psychoanalytic framework, and has generated many papers. An overview can be found in Greenberg et al., Handbook of Experimental Existential Psychology, esp. 13–34. More recent psychoanalytic formulations include Žižek, The Plague of Fantasies, 3–44; Lear, Happiness, Death, and the Remainder of Life. The cultural need to construct meaning is addressed by many scholars, and key examples are Berger, The Sacred Canopy, esp. 3–80; Burridge, New Heaven, New Earth, 4–8; Jackson, Existential Anthropology, 34–49.

4 / Introduction

Third, if ethics is to avoid being implicated in the avoidance of death and vulnerability, we have to consider techniques for redirecting fears and desires through pedagogy, exercises, and therapy. Confronting vulnerability becomes central to ethical cultivation. Salient practices may include meditations and other ways of directing attention (“Look upon. . . . Know. . . .”), as well as study, ritual practice, bodily movement, dietary prescriptions and other forms of regimen, and fasting.7 Fourth, we should not separate study of ethical ideas from study of the forms through which they are conveyed. Ethical expression can have notable aesthetic dimensions that include lively metaphors, playful puns, jarring juxtapositions, and peculiar turns in plot. When employed to address vulnerability, the artistry may be at the same time horrible and beautiful, capturing the pains of life in ways that are gripping and memorable.8 The rabbinic texts examined in Confronting Vulnerability intersect with these contemporary concerns in at least three ways. First, rabbis portray vulnerability through images and genres that resist abstraction, evasion, and superficial acceptance. The texts also lead us to see the extensive ways that death can be intertwined with life, whether links between death and other dimensions of bodily weakness, or opportunities to face our animality through ordinary activities. All these features dare us to disrupt what I will call fixities regarding mortality and its reverberations—images and terms that can convey a mistaken sense of control over the intangible and threatening. Second, rabbis incorporate encounters with weakness into concrete guidance and exercises. Specifically, they often emphasize apparently small actions and virtues, drawing attention to the everyday and interpersonal dimensions of ethics. Third, when rabbis uphold these values, they appeal to traditional authority and divine engagement with the world. These appeals conflict with several claims by my primary interlocutors in philosophy, psychology, and social theory. I examine these conflicts and show that rabbinic theological claims are resilient and productively stimulating. 7. Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire, esp. 3–47; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, esp. 93– 101; Stalnaker, Overcoming Our Evil, esp. 39–44, 151–245; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, esp. 147–165; Wilburn, Moral Cultivation; Ivanhoe, Confucian Moral Self-Cultivation. 8. Williams, Shame and Necessity, 46–49, 144–150, 165–166; Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 16–17; Nussbaum, Love’s Knowledge, 3–35; 46–49, 146–150; Hadot, The Inner Citadel, 21–34; Yearley, “Selves, Virtues, Odd Genres, and Alien Guides: An Approach to Religious Ethics”; Yearley, “Genre and the Attempt to Render Pride”; Yearley, “Daoist Presentation and Persuasion”; Yearley, “Confucianism and Genre: Presentation and Persuasion in Early Confucian Thought”; Haker, “The Fragility of the Moral Self”; Rapp, From Self to Soul; Eagleton, Sweet Violence.

Introduction / 5

Chapters Confronting Vulnerability presents five studies of rabbinic texts. A number of priorities underlie the choice of materials. This project aims to exemplify how to study rabbinic thought while taking into account the richness in rabbinic forms of reasoning and expression. Research in rabbinic ethics should examine textual details. Otherwise, overviews of ethical topics can easily become shallow, superficial, and distorting. Rather than attempting a comprehensive treatment of vulnerability and rabbinic ethics, the chapters offer intensive readings of relatively short passages—sometimes just one or two sayings, stories, or lists—and investigate literary and thematic features. Literary issues include the degree of coherence in a long midrashic compilation or the persuasive functions of a narrative placed in different contexts. Thematically, several chapters investigate the intricacies of God’s justice in ethical instruction. More generally the project explores juxtapositions that initially seemed provocative or counterintuitive to me, such as the aging body and heavenly bodies, eliminating feces and learning from a teacher, martyrdom and hospitality, and miraculous rain-making and almsgiving. Rabbinic texts identify many guises of death, and they present several features of embodiment as connected with or similar to death: life stages, old age, excretion, persecution, and drought. A list gathers important aspects of these themes by situating death among four ways that humans are similar to cattle: a person “eats and drinks like a beast, reproduces and multiplies like a beast, casts excrement like a beast, and dies like a beast” (Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3). Confronting Vulnerability, then, examines death as an element of this rabbinic beastly body. The studies engage several areas of research on embodiment in rabbinic and other Mediterranean cultures— martyrdom, old age, death rituals, and the extensive scholarship on gender and sexuality—offering a distinct angle into late ancient corporeality.9 9. The text I quote is Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 127–129; I discuss these materials at length in the conclusion. Also see Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation.” Recent studies of death rituals and resurrection are Rubin, The End of Life; Kraemer, The Meanings of Death in Rabbinic Judaism; Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel. Influential works on sexuality in late antiquity are Foucault, The Care of the Self; P. Brown, The Body and Society (note Brown’s comment about his debt to Foucault on xvii–xviii); Boyarin, Carnal Israel (note Boyarin’s comments about P. Brown on 1–10, 24–25). Overviews of the body and rabbinic culture, with references, include Fonrobert, “On Carnal Israel and the Consequences”; Fonrobert and Jaffee, Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 270–294. Beyond Boyarin’s work, recent works on gender, sexuality, and women’s bodies in rabbinic sources include Satlow, Tasting the Dish; Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity. I discuss sexual desire at length in

6 / Introduction

The structure of the book foregrounds both content and form. The chapters begin with vulnerabilities built into our bodies (chapters one and two), move to times of upheaval (chapters three and four), and end with the prospect of a full life unfolding in stages (chapter five). This arc explores several ways that death conditions temporality. Death is inevitable. Death may interrupt life early. Death may conclude a long life. For genre, chapters one and two start with maxims, chapters three and four with narratives, and chapter five with a list. Certain coincidental conjunctions enable compact presentation but should not be taken to assert more. For example, chapters three and four emphasize both narratives and times of crisis, but rabbinic texts do not always link narratives with crisis. Confronting Vulnerability develops three domains of method and theory, which I set out in the rest of the introduction. First, a distinct account of descriptive religious ethics characterizes my way of drawing together rabbinic texts and contemporary ethical theory. Second, the notion of rabbinic ethics is itself contested. I define rabbinic ethics as a form of rabbinic pedagogy and set out textual methods for tracing ethical themes in late ancient sources. Third, study of rabbinic sources calls for several refinements in our understandings of ethics and vulnerability: the relations between bodily vulnerability and vulnerability of ethical ideals, the problem of denying vulnerability, and the challenges posed by fixities. Placing methodological discussions at the outset, however, does not mirror my procedure of research. The procedure involved an ongoing jostling between texts and theory, generally with the texts leading, which would be unwieldy to reproduce. Most importantly, the textual analyses have conditioned my approach to vulnerability and ethics, so the formulations emerged through and anticipate the studies that follow.10

Descriptive Religious Ethics Descriptive religious ethics, like its sibling comparative religious ethics, examines ethical thought and practice in diverse cultures and seeks creative ways to combine interpretation, sensitivity to historical distance, and conSchofer, The Making of a Sage, 67–115. Studies of late ancient Christianity that emphasize other aspects of embodiment include Rebillard, In hora mortis; S. Harvey, Scenting Salvation, especially her comments on 4–5. 10. Stalnaker notes “the sharp disjunction between the process of research and representations of the results of that research” in comparative religious ethics: Stalnaker, Overcoming Our Evil, 32–33.

Introduction / 7

structive theory.11 Confronting Vulnerability combines thick description and theoretical reflection with two goals: to understand late ancient rabbinic discussions of embodiment and ideal behavior, and to develop today’s ethical thought and practice. The approach rejects a simple dichotomy between an exposition of rabbinic sources that employs scholarly categories for heuristic purposes, and a modern or postmodern ethical inquiry inspired by rabbinic thought. The inquiry builds from the tools and sensibilities of specialized research in rabbinics, including attention to word choice, parallel sources, and historical contexts. My interpretations aim for strong readings of texts to exposit their persuasive and conceptual features, but not over-readings that impose ideas and problems—though I recognize that the contours of this distinction may be contested. The analyses employ categories drawn from ethical theory to translate rabbinic sources not only linguistically but also conceptually. Such conceptual translation is difficult for rabbinic thought, for rabbis express ideas not in an abstract manner but through tropes and narratives, and the underlying issues need to be illuminated. Several of my categories are not direct renderings of rabbinic words: rabbis had no word for ethics in the range and scope that I set out, and the studies do not center upon Hebrew and Aramaic equivalents of vulnerability, fragility, and weakness. These moves carry risks and require explicit adaptation of scholarly terms. The adaptation does not necessarily generate a thicker theoretical account, but often thinner and more pliable tools that facilitate descriptive accuracy. In contrast, when we employ words like “ethics” and “theology” in a casual and unreflective manner, we often impose much upon the sources. Descriptive and comparative ethicists often appeal to metaphors to characterize our modification of terms. An analytic category may be a

11. Examples of such creative combination include Williams, Shame and Necessity; Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness; Lovin and Reynolds, Cosmogony and the Ethical Order, esp. 1–35; Yearley, Mencius and Aquinas, 1–4, 196–203; Stout, “Commitments and Traditions in the Study of Religious Ethics,” 23–25; Twiss, “Four Paradigms in Teaching Comparative Religious Ethics”; Twiss, “Comparison in Religious Ethics”; Lewis et al., “Anthropos and Ethics: Categories of Inquiry and Procedures of Comparison”; Stalnaker, Overcoming Our Evil, xiii–xiv, 1–19, 299–301; Stalnaker, “Judging Others”; Kelsay, “Editor’s Comments on the Comparative Study of Religious Ethics Essays”; Bucar, “Exploring the Production of Ethical Knowledge through the Interaction of Discursive Logics”; Lear, Radical Hope; Cates, Aquinas on the Emotions. Also see the books reviewed in Schofer, “Embodiment and Virtue in a Comparative Perspective.” Conversations with Eric Gregory have been very important for my thoughts on these issues.

8 / Introduction

container to hold the subject matter, a frame to encompass it, or a bridge between our worlds and those we study. We know that the container comes with baggage that is never fully cleared out, the frame never quite fits the picture, and we are never sure where the bridge lands on the other side. An ongoing challenge is to set out terms and questions that are substantial enough to guide inquiry, yet flexible enough to enable descriptive accuracy, and then to empty, enlarge, and rebuild them through the handiwork of research.12 The project has important similarities with modern Jewish ethics, in that both examine classical rabbinic sources and attend to contemporary ethical questions. Confronting Vulnerability emphasizes cultural difference between late ancient rabbis and ourselves; develops concepts that originate in religious studies, philosophy, psychoanalysis, and social theory; and does not aim to appropriate the sources for today’s Jewish concerns. At the same time, several modern Jewish thinkers have addressed bodily vulnerability, perhaps most notably Emmanuel Levinas. He emphasizes the ethical response to vulnerable others, but he also attends with great care to one’s own vulnerabilities with powerful expositions of nausea, insomnia, suffering, the need for nourishment, and death.13 I draw upon these insights, but the overall picture examined here is quite different: ethical 12. This account of conceptual categories builds from Stalnaker, Overcoming Our Evil, 1–19, 299–301; Lewis et al., “Anthropos and Ethics,” 177–185; Schofer, “Self, Subject, and Chosen Subjection,” 279–286; Yearley, Mencius and Aquinas, 1–23, 188–203; Lovin and Reynolds, Cosmogony and the Ethical Order, 1–35. I employ the metaphor of “container” in The Making of a Sage, viii. Lewis uses “frame” in “Frames of Comparison: Anthropology and Inheriting Traditional Practices.” Stalnaker formulates “bridge concept” in Stalnaker, “Comparative Religious Ethics and the Problem of ‘Human Nature,’” and Overcoming Our Evil, 1–4, 17–19, 32–29. Mark Berkson first pointed out to me that we scholars frequently use metaphors in talking about our categories. See also his helpful discussion of “typology creation” in Berkson, “Conceptions of Self/No-Self and Modes of Connection.” 13. Overviews of modern Jewish ethics include Morgan and Gordon, A Cambridge Companion to Modern Jewish Philosophy, 192–208, 234–256, 300–323; Schweiker, Companion to Religious Ethics, 69–77, 159–196; Dorff and Newman, Contemporary Jewish Ethics and Morality. I find particularly inspiring Newman, Past Imperatives. Levinas often explores weakness in his early work: Levinas, On Escape, esp. 66–68 (nausea); Levinas, Existence and Existents, esp. 7–25 (fatigue and indolence), 61–64 (insomnia); Levinas, Time and the Other, 48 (insomnia), 55–57 (materiality), 62–64 (nourishment), 67 (materiality), and 68–79 (work, suffering, and death). These themes also continue into his major phenomenological projects: Levinas, Totality and Infinity, 115–117 (need), 220–247 (suffering and death); Levinas, Otherwise than Being, 53–56 (pain and labor), 75–81 (vulnerability). Levinas has inspired not only constructive reflections but descriptive studies of death, time, mysticism, and ethics in Kabbalistic materials: E. Wolfson, Venturing Beyond; E. Wolfson, Alef, Mem, Tau. Other treatments of relevant themes include Rosenzweig, Understanding the Sick and the Healthy; Fishbane, Sacred Attunement, esp. 204–205.

Introduction / 9

instruction that invokes death and vulnerability to spur character development and ideal behavior. This project, then, reveals elements of classical thought that provide alternatives to prominent approaches in Jewish ethics today.

Rabbinic Ethics Recent research on rabbinic culture has contested basic terms of inquiry— literature, culture, religion, author, and editor—arguing that they at best provide useful fictions that help us discuss texts, history, and topics. Even the notion of a rabbinic movement is tendentious, for over the course of late antiquity there were vast differences in size, organization, and degree of unity. We also have little material evidence of rabbinic sages. Manuscripts are mostly from medieval times, and the texts are difficult to locate in history and geography.14 With these qualifications, I understand the rabbis to have been a network or movement of Jewish men whose thought and practice centered on a tradition that they called Torah. They aspired to attain authoritative positions in Jewish communities, sometimes succeeded, and texts that they generated came to be authoritative for many Jews by the medieval period. This movement is said to begin in 70 C.E. after the destruction of the Second Temple, though rabbinic sources present sages who would have lived earlier (such as Akavya ben Mahalalel). Several scholars in the twentieth century gathered a tremendous amount of material into books on the theology and ethics of the sages. The last four decades have brought many new approaches to the sources and their late ancient contexts. From today’s perspective, the great compilations fail to handle the texts with sufficient caution, sometimes improperly historicizing materials whose provenance is unclear, and other times homogenizing the sources in a way that implies a unified rabbinic mind or way of thinking.15 Perhaps because of the perceived limits in these earlier studies, 14. Discussions of these issues, with references, are essays in Fonrobert and Jaffee, Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 1–14, 58–96, 165–197, 336–363. Important earlier works include Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity; Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity; Yadin, Scripture as Logos. 15. Schäfer discusses methodological challenges for thematic studies in “Research into Rabbinic Literature,” 140–142. Major studies from the twentieth century include Schechter, Aspects of Rabbinic Theology; Büchler, Studies in Sin and Atonement; Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era; Kadushin, The Theology of Seder Eliahu; Kadushin, Organic Thinking; Kadushin, The Rabbinic Mind; Urbach, The Sages (Urbach discusses several earlier studies on 1–18).

10 / Introduction

rabbinic ethics and theology have largely dropped out of many discussions among specialists. Often the shift has not been explicit, though in the early 1990s Daniel Boyarin called for a change in focus from rabbinic “thought” to “culture, as a set of complexly related practices both textual and embodied.”16 My research rejects a strong contrast between thought and culture, for rabbinic ethics is rooted in “textual and embodied” practices of education and character development. An initial task is to define ethics. There is no rabbinic term that corresponds with ethics, either in the ancient or modern senses. Today the word “ethics” can carry a great charge in discussions of Judaism, perhaps implying the influential construction of “ethical monotheism” or more recently Levinas’ phenomenology and Talmudic readings. Many discussions of Jewish ethics turn on a strong distinction between law (halakhah) and nonlegal teachings (aggadah), privileging halakhah as more central or important. Given this distinction, multiple positions may arise: some say that ethics should be derived from reflection upon legal sources, while others counter that the term “ethics” is inappropriate for a tradition centered on law. Participants in such debates should recognize, however, that the widespread use of this distinction emerged after the late ancient period, even though it is often projected anachronistically upon Talmudic sources.17 I approach rabbinic ethics in a different manner. The word “ethics” has its roots in the ancient Greek e¯thos, meaning character. In Hellenistic philosophical schools, which were roughly contemporary with late ancient rabbis, ethics addressed the achievement of a life constituted by flourishing or well-being. They set out not only ideals but also ways to attain this well-being, which contemporary scholars have studied as therapy of the soul, spiritual exercises, or care of the self. Certain rabbinic anthologies show similar interests in character, motivation, and ideal ways of living. Not all the material in these anthologies addresses ethics, and certainly not all rabbinic ethics is contained in the ethical anthologies. Still, with these sources in mind, I define rabbinic ethics as follows: ethical instruction pre-

16. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 18. 17. Discussions of ethical monotheism, including the work of Levinas, appear in Vial and Hadley, Ethical Monotheism, Past and Present, esp. 179–195; 229–277; M. Meyer, Response to Modernity, 201–212. Reflections on ethics and law in Judaism are Newman, Past Imperatives, 45– 62; Dorff and Newman, Contemporary Jewish Ethics and Morality, 1–93. The focus upon ethics in modern Jewish philosophy is emphasized by Gibbs in “The Jewish Tradition.” Novak discusses the modern equation of Judaism and ethics in Natural Law in Judaism, esp. 82–91. On halakhah and aggadah, see Wimpfheimer, Telling Tales Out of Court; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 73–83.

Introduction / 11

sumes and frames legally prescribed action, addressing issues such as appropriate mental and emotional states, ideals for behavior that may extend beyond law, and the ways that rabbinic practice transforms intellect, emotion, desire, and action in accord with specific values.18 Rabbinic ethical instruction is a dimension of rabbinic pedagogy. The texts capture moments in oral performances of teaching and learning within scholastic settings, preserving pieces of a textually conditioned social world. This performance aims to train students in memorization, scriptural interpretation, legal analysis, and my focus, ideal character and action. This ethical instruction, then, is not oriented toward a universal audience, even though some passages present standards for all men or even all people. Rather, the texts primarily address males committed to rabbinic sages and the authorities they invoke.19 Rabbinic employment of ethical and theological ideas tends to be geared toward local goals of persuasion or consolation. Any given example of rabbinic ethical instruction may presume a sage teaching, an implied audience, and a pedagogical occasion. For these reasons, rabbinic ethical instruction is not well described as a code, a set of principles, or a collection of rules. Instead, we need to look for pedagogical effects in the context of teaching and learning. At the same time, rabbinic texts rarely name these goals or effects. The texts also do not indicate whether a given passage is serious or parodic, anxious or confident, directed toward an elite group of disciples or the basis for a sermon to a larger Jewish community. Instead, 18. I have not found a full study tracing the development of e¯thos. Broadie examines the term in Aristotle’s ethics in Ethics with Aristotle, 103–110. Nussbaum discusses the role of ethics in Hellenistic philosophical schools in The Therapy of Desire, esp. 13–16. Porter discusses the differences between ancient and modern uses of “morality” in “Christian Ethics and the Concept of Morality.” The scholarly literature on late ancient spiritual exercises and related topics is now quite large: examples include Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire, esp. 3–47; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, esp. 61–70, 126–145; Foucault, The Care of the Self. Treatments of rabbinic ethical maxims include Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 42–46; Stein, Maxims, Magic, Myth, 68–88 and generally 25–114; Sperber, “Manuals of Rabbinic Conduct.” For theoretical and comparative matters, see Aristotle, Rhetoric, 2:21, and Bucar, “Speaking of Motherhood: The Epideictic Rhetoric of John Paul II and Ayatollah Khomeini.” The definition of rabbinic ethics builds from Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 1–11 (on ethics), 67–119 (on Torah and the concept of tradition). See also Kaplan, “Introduction”; Kadushin, “Introduction to Rabbinic Ethics.” Sometimes classical ethical texts informed later ritual practice; Gries, Conduct Literature (Regimen Vitae), 18–19. 19. This notion of rabbinic pedagogy draws from Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, esp. 19–20, 163–164; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 100–152; Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, esp. 9–24, 167–173; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 42–53 (on the audience of ethical instruction, see 30–41, 108–111, 167–171).

12 / Introduction

we have to make inferences based on genre, literary context, and comparison with parallel sources.20 These problems deepen when we ask whether a given passage conveys humor, irony, or hyperbole. Such questions come up when reading graphic depictions of aging, frank discussions of excretion, or the claim that a moment of arrogance brings God’s punishment of death—although we have no access to the bodily movements and voice inflections of the learning situations.21 If we assert that a passage is hyperbolic or humorous, we risk obscuring cultural difference, domesticating potentially disturbing texts with the claims that they are not serious or do not mean what they appear to say. Without attention to tropes and rhetorical flourish, however, we risk a flat reading of the sources that presents rabbis as unsophisticated or overly exotic. I will not try to solve these problems, but we may benefit from recognizing that humor and irony can coexist with cultural weight. A passage may address serious matters yet stir up laughter. I approach the sources as facing grave issues, while recognizing that their audiences may have found elements to be funny or exaggerated. The most distinctive genre of rabbinic ethical instruction is the maxim or saying. These dense, compact statements often address the reader or listener directly through imperatives, they often appear in the name of a specific sage, and they prompt comparisons with biblical and ancient Near Eastern wisdom literature. Collections of ethical sayings include Mishnah Avot, Derekh Eretz Rabbah, and Derekh Eretz Zuta, along with the commentaries of Avot de Rabbi Natan (hereafter Rabbi Nathan) and Kallah Rabbati. Ethical maxims also influence the midrashic Seder Eliyahu Rabbah and Zuta.22

20. Max Kadushin made many of these observations: see Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 54–64; Sarason, “Kadushin’s Study of Midrash.” I find Kadushin’s accounts of “emphasis” and “emphatic trends” more productive than his more influential category of “organic thinking”: Kadushin, “Introduction to Rabbinic Ethics.” The significance of genre for studying rabbinic pedagogy is emphasized in Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, esp. 163–164; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, esp. 126–152; Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, esp. 167–173; Alexander, “Casuistic Elements in Mishnaic Law”; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 30–53, 167–171. 21. I thank Steven Fraade for emphasizing this point. Current research addressing humor and parody includes Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis; Wimpfheimer, Telling Tales Out of Court; and Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies of Jewish and Christian Literature. 22. Mishnah Avot or “The Fathers” (the word avot also has the overtone of basic principles or primary categories) was a late addition to the Mishnah and also came to be circulated in prayer books: Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 1–20; Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, esp. 255–291; Lerner, “The Tractate Avot,” 263–264; Steinmetz, “Distancing and Bringing Near,” 74 n 78. Examples of avot as principles or categories include m. Shab. 7:2, m. Bava Qamma 1:1, and m. Kelim 1:1. Bibliography on Avot de Rabbi Natan appears in Schofer, The

Introduction / 13

These ethical anthologies are notoriously difficult to locate in history and geography. We cannot name a single date of compilation but rather have to posit timelines. They present teachings that often appear tannaitic, written in Hebrew and portraying sages of first centuries C.E. The texts were probably very fluid through the course of late antiquity, often circulating in parts and growing by accretion in the amoraic period and beyond (the word “tannaitic” is used for the Mishnah, Tosefta, and roughly contemporary midrashic collections redacted more or less in the third and early fourth centuries C.E.; “amoraic” refers to anthologies from Roman Palestine in roughly the fourth through sixth centuries C.E.). The final compilation of ethical anthologies was post-Talmudic, in the sixth through eight centuries, with the earliest surviving manuscripts usually several centuries later. The dating of any specific passage has to be carried out on a case-bycase basis.23 Numerous other hurdles appear when studying rabbinic ethical instruction, particularly for those accustomed to philosophical modes of expression and argument. Rabbinic texts resist simple assumptions concerning authorship, argumentation, coherence, and the flow of ideas. Rabbinic anthologies are not compositions by individual authors but communal creations produced by disciple circles and schools, with varying degrees of editorial shaping.24 The thought emerges through exegeses of biblical verses, mishnaic laws, ethical maxims, and other possibilities, which need exposition in each case. We often find an abundance of viewpoints rather than a system striving for noncontradiction. The conceptual relation among different teachings—whether in a sequence or in different anthologies—is often unclear. Encompassing all this, my goal is to develop interpretations that build from rabbinic texts to analyze rabbinic thought about good people and good lives. How should we organize a study of rabbinic ethical instruction? Rabbinic texts can be analyzed in terms of three levels of composition: the lemma or smallest unit of teaching (such as the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel), the microform or intermediate level (which could be anything Making of a Sage, esp. 175–176 n 2. S. Safrai has noted the influence of ethical maxims upon Seder Eliyahu Rabbah and Zuta: In Times of Temple and Mishnah, esp. 2:518–539 [133–154]; in English see his “Jesus and the Hasidim.” 23. Lerner discusses several ethical anthologies in “The External Tractates.” Fonrobert and Jaffee provide an overview of the categories tannaitic and amoraic in Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, xiii–xx, 5–9. 24. Jaffee discusses authorship and the anthological nature of rabbinic sources in Fonrobert and Jaffee, Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 17–57. See also D. Stern, The Anthology in Jewish Literature.

14 / Introduction

from a Talmudic lesson to a series of midrashic teachings), and the macroform or complete anthology. Each level brings possibilities and dangers for analysis, but none is definitively right or wrong.25 Confronting Vulnerability takes ethical anthologies to be the touchstones for inquiry, emphasizes that ethical instruction is not limited to those sources but rather appears widely in rabbinic literature, and examines the creative work of editors in transmitting teachings. Each chapter begins or concludes with passages in ethical anthologies and traces their reception, precedents, or resonances in other sources. The expositions often address the intermediate or microform level, revealing extensive editorial activity. I also compare rabbinic texts with proximate materials from late antiquity to provide contrast and cultural context, and with materials from distant cultures (such as medieval Muslim and classical Chinese texts) in order to sharpen certain points.26

Ethics and Vulnerability As we turn from rabbinic texts to contemporary ethical theory, I aim to give clear formulations yet not to place too much weight on specific words. Many scholars distinguish ethics and morality, often seeing morality as a subset of ethics. The precise distinction varies, however, which ultimately distracts from rather than clarifies the issues. Similar problems arise with words that denote what humans are as such—anthropology, self, person, and human—for each brings a set of dangers. In addition, one can debate the differences between fragility, vulnerability, and weakness. For all three topics, this project uses the terms interchangeably to take emphasis away from the nuances of a given choice.27

25. Jaffee sets out this formulation of lemma, microform, and macroform in Fonrobert and Jaffee, Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 26–35; he builds on Schäfer, Hekhalot-Studien, 199–233, and Schäfer, The Hidden and Manifest God, 5–8. Studies of ethical literature focusing on macroforms include Schofer, The Making of a Sage; Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography. Studies focusing on microforms include Schofer, “The Redaction of Desire” as well as Fonrobert and Jaffee, Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 328–333; and beyond ethical literature Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories; A. Cohen, Rereading Talmud; Fishbane, Exegetical Imagination, 41–55; Alexander, “Art, Argument, and Ambiguity in the Talmud.” Ishay Rosen-zevi has taken on a comprehensive study of one important category, yetzer, through various historical strata of rabbinic culture. 26. Key influences for studying the transmission of teachings are Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions”; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan; Kugel, In Potiphar’s House; Fishbane, The Exegetical Imagination, 22–85; Fishbane, “Action and Non-action in Jewish Spirituality”; also Sperber, “Manuals of Rabbinic Conduct.” 27. I differ with several important works that emphasize a distinction between ethics and morality, which otherwise have been influential upon my thinking: Williams, Ethics and the

Introduction / 15

Ethical theories most salient for the texts examined in Confronting Vulnerability center on virtue and ethical formation: conceptions of the self, ideal traits and behaviors, and practices for attaining those ideals. Ethics in this sense operates in close relation with other guides for action including law, ritual practice, etiquette, and aesthetic considerations.28 More specifically, relevant ethical theories foreground the fragility of the self, particularly the self engaged in ethical reflection and action. For example, Alasdair MacIntyre argues that able-bodied adults must recognize continuity and fellowship with those who are children, elderly, disabled, and ill. Accounts of normalcy are insufficient to capture the full range of any person’s weaknesses and needs, for all humans are dependent upon others in early childhood, in times of illness and injury, and often in advanced age. Drawing upon temporal imagery that has affinities with Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim, he writes that the able-bodied must view the disabled “as ourselves as we have been, sometimes are now, and may well be in the future.”29 My studies of rabbinic sources begin with bodily weakness, but vulnerability has many components. The physical is deeply connected with the emotional, and vulnerability extends to the ethical domain itself. The very bases for ethical claims, and the possibilities of attaining ethical ideals, may be fragile and susceptible to harm. Specifically, the vulnerability of the ethical life has at least four overlapping facets. First, whenever ideals for acting well or flourishing depend on upbringing, resources, or other people, then a good life is contingent on factors beyond a person’s control. Second, if a culture is devastated, the ways of life that support ethical ideals may also be

Limits of Philosophy, 1–21, 174–196; Ricoeur, Oneself as Another, 170–171; Kleinman, What Really Matters, 1–26; Porter, “Christian Ethics and the Concept of Morality,” 3–5. I have previously argued that the self, understood in a particular manner, is productive for studying rabbinic ethics: Schofer, “Self, Subject, and Chosen Subjection,” especially 267–269; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 15–17. Other discussions of the self, anthropology, and related terms include Berkson, “Conceptions of Self/No-Self,” 296–298; Stalnaker, “Comparative Religious Ethics,” 189–197; Lewis, “Frames of Comparison,” 240–248; Brakke et al., “Introduction.” 28. Overviews of character and self-cultivation are Nussbaum, “Virtue Ethics”; Yearley, “Recent Work on Virtue”; Davidson, “Ethics as Ascetics”; MacIntyre, After Virtue, 52–53; Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, 25–30. For reflections on virtues and rules, see Williams, Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, 1–21; Ricoeur, Oneself as Another, 169–202; Taylor, Sources of the Self, 85–90; MacIntyre, After Virtue, 118–119. 29. MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals, 1–2. MacIntyre’s imagery may reflect influence of a late ancient text that has similarities with Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim: Clement of Alexandria, Excerpta ex Theodoto 78; also Paul Gauguin’s painting, “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” I thank François Bovon and Zeke Mazur for helping me research these materials.

16 / Introduction

destroyed. Third, the intellectual grounds for ethical claims may be more tenuous than we think or want. Fourth, the possibility or actuality of harm can provoke an existential vulnerability, giving rise to despair, a sense of meaninglessness, or a feeling that ethical ideals lack support regardless of intellectual justification.30 The distinction between physical vulnerability and the fragility of ethics is salient for rabbinic thought, where depictions of bodily weakness often appear alongside statements asserting that God’s justice supports rabbinic conceptions of what is good and meaningful. Stated simply, one could say that rabbis face bodily vulnerability yet preserve ethical ideals from vulnerability through promising ultimate redemption by way of divine reward—we will explore the insights and problems in this summary statement. Several lines of research argue that humans have basic tendencies to deny mortality and bodily weakness, and also tendencies to deny vulnerabilities in ethical ideals. This scholarship provides a conceptual background against which we can see the force of rabbinic pedagogy invoking death and vulnerability: confrontation operates in relation to denial. In this academic territory, though, I tread carefully. Many claims are immensely important yet also tenuous, contested, or overstated. I want to lift up certain elements and carry them lightly, but not to take on more than necessary. Ernest Becker sets out a grand psychoanalytic theory that emphasizes human fear in response to necessity and particularly death. We repress this fear, which reappears through neuroses centered on eating, defecation, sex, and other bodily processes. In the face of death, humans have needs for self-esteem, meaning, achievement, and prosperity. Culture—which includes ethics—organizes the pursuit of esteem and meaning, providing avenues for people to gain false senses of transcending death. Repressed death anxiety, therefore, inspires productive activity. Greater repression brings stronger adherence to cultural and ethical standards. Norms and ideals do not lead to flourishing or some other noble standard of excellence. Instead, they are at best helpful illusions that mask a world devoid of significance. More likely, ethics supports neuroses and ideologies that can bring destruc30. The first is emphasized in Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, xiv and throughout. The second is based on Lear, Radical Hope, especially 6, 38, and 64; the third on Williams, Shame and Necessity, 160–167. The fourth draws from the discussion of “the existential dimension of the problem of evil” in Peterson, The Problem of Evil, 6–7. These discussions are influenced by literature on moral luck: Williams, Shame and Necessity, 103–129; Williams, “Moral Luck”; Nagel, “Moral Luck”; and more generally Statman, Moral Luck.

Introduction / 17

tive behavior.31 Becker asserts that humans deny bodily vulnerability, and through the pursuit of self-esteem deny the fragility of ethics. Becker’s theories have inspired a line of experimental psychological research into “terror management.” These inquiries have argued, among other things, that encounters with mortality stimulate subjects to affirm their own communities and cultural ideals, and to negate or harm others. In addition, psychoanalytic thinkers working independently of Becker—Slavoj Žižek and Jonathan Lear—also write that people have strong impulses to escape into fantasy, and to seek something beyond our lived experience that provides meaning and satisfaction, instead of facing limits and finitude. These theories of the psyche frame the denial of vulnerability as both wide and deep: wide in the sense that all people have difficulty facing vulnerability, and deep in that much denial is unconscious, so that developing the right intellectual outlook is only one step.32 Certain sociologists and anthropologists have argued that religions and other cultural forms inspire conceptions of order and meaning that support social stability. These claims are salient for the question of whether we face the vulnerabilities of our ethical ideals, for they argue in different ways that culture creates symbolic buffers against meaninglessness and disorder. Peter Berger argues that a central function of society is to shield individuals from material and symbolic destruction, as well as from the terrors of isolation, chaos, and death. Kenelm Burridge frames the issues in a different but related manner. Existence within society entails a network of obligations. Religions preserve stability by clarifying the nature of obligations and making possible their fulfillment through redemptive processes: “the activities, moral rules, and assumptions about power” that are taken on faith and condition understandings of what is right, good, and true. More recently Michael Jackson has linked the individual and the social through a theory of intersubjective reasoning. Human development and upbringing generate a basic sense that the good should balance the bad. Human relationships center on notions of reciprocity, expectations of fairness, and 31. Becker, Denial of Death, esp. 47–66; Becker, Escape from Evil; V. Harvey, Feuerbach and the Interpretation of Religion, 292–309. Becker builds from a long line of psychoanalytic theories of culture, especially N. O. Brown, Life Against Death. 32. A collection of essays on terror management theory is Greenberg et al., Handbook of Experimental Existential Psychology; a summary of findings appears in Pyszczynski et al., In the Wake of 9/11, 37–92. See also V. Harvey, Feuerbach and the Interpretation of Religion, 292–309. Yalom elaborates the clinical significance of Becker’s views in Existential Psychotherapy, esp. 419–483 on meaninglessness. Other psychoanalytic approaches include Žižek, Plague of Fantasies, 3–44; Lear, Happiness, Death, and the Remainder of Life.

18 / Introduction

related calculations and bargaining.33 According to these analyses, ethical outlooks reflect individual and social needs, even as they make claims about the world or gods. Ethics and social stability reinforce each other, which can obscure the fragilities of both. These theories of psyche and culture are not the only ways to approach the denial of vulnerability. Another is to argue that certain societies and cultural contexts engender denial: such as the modern West, or late capitalism, or the contemporary United States.34 Does any of this scholarship, however, demonstrate fundamental human tendencies to avoid the fragilities of bodies or of ethical ideals? More to the point: does this scholarship give us grounds for believing that late ancient rabbis had tendencies to deny vulnerability, such that we can interpret their texts as responding to such denial? Not definitively. Most of the observations are at a very theoretical level, some are dated (including those by Becker, Berger, and Burridge), and only the work on terror management is experimentally based. Still, scholarship in very different areas converges on common implications. We have several reasons to think that confronting vulnerability is difficult and demands that people overcome psychological and cultural obstacles. Another obstacle for confronting vulnerability is fixity. Words can distort as they make understanding possible, sometimes providing a misleading sense of control or containment for overwhelming aspects of life. The notion of fixity emerges from critical reflection on the mind or soul. Stuart Hampshire writes: All pictures or models of the human mind and of its faculties, whether Aristotle’s or Hobbes’s or Spinoza’s or Hume’s or Kant’s or Freud’s, are inventions for a philosophical and moral purpose, and they are all in this sense arbitrary. . . . [T]he operations of parts of the mind are shadowy entities, and so are their relations to each other, because the mind, unlike the brain, does not literally have identifiable parts.

Hampshire argues that these models can be quite useful, but we must recognize that they are metaphorical and indeterminate, particularly when

33. Berger, The Sacred Canopy, esp. 3–80 (I thank Laura Chinchilla for her comments on Berger’s discussion); V. Harvey, Feuerbach and the Interpretation of Religion, 264–280; Burridge, New Heaven, New Earth, 4–8; Jackson, Existential Anthropology, 34–49. Bell draws from Burridge in her theory of ritual, remarking, “Burridge’s notion of the redemptive process can be interpreted as a more dynamic rendering of the notion of cosmology used in history of religions”: Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, 149–150 n 70, also 81–88. 34. See for example Kleinman, What Really Matters, 7.

Introduction / 19

they are entrenched in philosophical debates and ordinary speech. Lee Yearley builds from Hampshire to criticize the tendency to take contingent features of the self to be natural, which limits our reflective capacities: Contingent features of the self are mistakenly seen as part of the nature of things. Because it is believed that they cannot be other than they are, they therefore limit human deliberation because no sensible people attempt to deliberate about what cannot be changed. One thinks in terms of them, one does not think about them.

A central task in comparative religious ethics is to find and disrupt these false fixities, to recognize the contingent as contingent.35 Rabbinic sources lead me to extend Yearley’s formulation to address fixity regarding death and vulnerability. “Death” can convey a singular domain to be known or even managed. The word may enable superficial acceptance that distracts from the moment when our hearts, lungs, and brains stop, and when our warm bodies start to turn stiff and cold. Very basic challenges appear, then, for focusing on our own deaths as well as suffering, trauma, pain, meaninglessness, chaos, and more. The problem of fixities is a theoretical construct, in fact a construct that emerges from suspicion of theoretical constructs, and we have no empirical grounds for claiming that these dynamics operate in late ancient rabbinic culture or even today. For descriptive ethics, I draw upon the notion of fixities to exposit imagery as static or as fluid and changing, and to highlight the roles of candid depictions, expressive metaphors, and varied genres in facing weakness. 35. Hampshire, Innocence and Experience, 35–36, 38 and more generally 23–48; Yearley, “Selves, Virtues, Odd Genres, and Alien Guides,” 131; Derrida, The Gift of Death, esp. 45–48; Derrida, “The Animal that Therefore I am (More to Follow).”

ONE

Aging and Death

The most distinctive literary form in ethical anthologies is the short maxim or saying. This chapter centers on two maxims and their incorporation into midrashic and Talmudic discussions. The first is the saying of Akavya ben Mahalalel quoted in the introduction: “Look upon three things and you will not come into the hands of transgression . . .” (m. Avot 3:1). The second is attributed to the first-century Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus: “Repent one day before your death” (m. Avot 2:10).1 Both maxims direct attention to the future and particularly each person’s future in death, but in different ways. Akavya ben Mahalalel emphasizes the inevitability of death, subsequent decay, and God’s final judgment. From this perspective, many preoccupations appear insignificant. Rabbi Eliezer focuses on the ever present possibility of death, the fact that death may come to any person at any moment. The mental discipline generates urgency and counters procrastination.

Spiritual Exercises, Death, and Divine Justice Scholars have increasingly drawn upon the category “spiritual exercise” to describe practices of self-cultivation as well as links in philosophical and religious writings between thought and action, the love of wisdom and the arts of living. Such exercises set out ways to transform one’s natural or given state to attain virtues and skills. The phrase is problematic. “Spiritual” car-

1. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 102, 111–112; t. Nazir 4:7 presents a narrative that echoes the imagery of m. Avot 3:1. I discussed this chapter extensively with Elizabeth Alexander, Beth Berkowitz, Chaya Halberstam, and Françoise Mirguet, and their suggestions have helped me at numerous points.

22 / Chapter One

ries unhelpful cultural baggage, so I drop this adjective. “Exercise” is vague, so I consider a specific kind of exercise in which thinkers attend to death in order to transform mental states, emotions, and behavior.2 Several philosophical sources are roughly contemporary with the rabbinic maxims and have similar temporal orientations. For example, Marcus Aurelius lived in the second century (121–180 C.E.), after Akavya ben Mahalalel and Rabbi Eliezer, and before the compilation of Mishnah Avot. In his Meditations, Marcus Aurelius emphasizes the ultimate end of all things, including our selves, in decay. When death comes, many worries of everyday life become irrelevant. All things, and even the memories of all things, quickly vanish. Everything that entices or terrifies is ephemeral. Given these conditions, the guide for life is philosophy (2:12; 2:17). Elsewhere, Marcus Aurelius repeatedly upholds living each day as if it were one’s last, for death may interrupt life at any moment. The prescription can appear as a general maxim opening a larger discussion: In the conviction that it is possible you may depart from life at once, act and speak and think in every case accordingly (2:11).

A person with ideal character can live each day as if it were the last, “neither feverish nor apathetic, and not to act a part” (7:69).3 Richard Sorabji has made two observations regarding these philosophical exercises that carry over to the rabbinic maxims. First, they reveal an asymmetrical attitude to the past and future. Despite Epicurean arguments 2. Stalnaker, Overcoming our Evil, 40 and generally 39–44, 151–290; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 59–60, 81–89, and generally 49–70, 79–144 (he discusses the word “spiritual” in 81–82, and his definition can be encompassed in my understanding of “ethical’”); Schofer, “Spiritual Exercises in Rabbinic Culture,” 207–209; Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind, esp. 228–252. 3. Also Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 2:5 and perhaps 2:14, 3:10, 7:29. Translations are from Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, tr. Farquharson, 26–27, 144–145, 517–518, 753; compare Haines, Marcus Aurelius, 32–35, 194–195. Judith Perkins discusses the significance of death for Marcus Aurelius in The Suffering Self, 192–199. In addition to the examples I discuss, a passage in Seneca’s letter “On the Natural Fear of Death” employs wording very similar to that of Akavya ben Mahalalel, though the subject matter is the soul (82:6). Seneca, Epistles 66–92, trans. Gummers, 242–245 and generally 240–259. Also, Epictetus uses similar phrasing to discuss sense impressions (III.12.15; compare II.18.24). Epictetus: The Discourses, Books III–IV, trans. Oldfather, 84–87; Epictetus: The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, Books I–II, trans. Oldfather, 346–347. See also Lieberman, “How Much Greek in Jewish Palestine?” 136–137; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 93–101; Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind, esp. 228–252; Hadot, The Inner Citadel, 131–137, 163–179; Hadot, What Is Ancient Philosophy?, esp. 190–198 and notes. Nussbaum examines the extensive debates about fear of death found in Lucretius of the first century B.C.E.: Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 192–238.

Aging and Death / 23

to the contrary, the future is a greater concern than the past. Fear of death is more of a problem than fear of the time before birth. Fear of losing mental capacities in old age is more of a problem than fear of having had infantile capabilities. In the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel, this asymmetrical attitude is quite concrete: one of the three foci of attention is in the past (you come from a putrid drop) and two are in the future (you will become dust, worm, and maggot; and God will judge you). Second, these exercises attend to the future in order to change orientation in the present. In the rabbinic cases, the goal is that a person repents or does not “come into the hands of transgression.”4 We can see several differences along with these commonalities. Many late ancient Stoic and other philosophical exercises aim to transcend subjectivity through focus on the natural world, freeing oneself from fear and other emotions. For Akavya ben Mahalalel and Rabbi Eliezer, the goal is to intensify one’s affective relation with a deity that rewards and punishes, inspiring humility, anxiety, and vigilance. More generally, rabbinic sources present a tension between two orientations toward death. On one hand, death is a difficult bodily process. Rabbis mourn others who have died, do not want to die young, and do not relish the body’s decline in the days leading up to death and beyond. On the other hand, many passages situate death in relation to God’s judgment. Death brings a shift in human relations with God, for divine accounting concludes and a person can no longer perform the commandments, earn merit, or repent for transgression. In addition, death and decay may not be the ultimate end of the body, for God’s judgment can bring resurrection and life in a world to come. Ethical instruction often invokes the possibility of this future life as well as the threat of perishing—both are implied in the maxims of Akavya ben Mahalalel and Rabbi Eliezer.5 Sometimes rabbinic texts refer to divine justice with specific phrases such as God’s “measure of justice” (middat ha-din). More often, we find legal and monetary metaphors. Akavya ben Mahalalel presents God as a king and judge, with humans implied as subjects and defendants. In other passages, God may be a storekeeper or employer, with humans as creditors or servants. Rabbinic usages of these images bring great subtleties and require adaptation of the term “theology.” If theology means thought that

4. Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind, 228–231, 238–240. 5. In discussing Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 151a–153a, David Kraemer emphasizes that the ability to perform commandments is, for these rabbis, the crucial difference between the living and the dead: The Meanings of Death, 111–116.

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is systematic, abstract, and modeled upon philosophical modes of argumentation, then the term is inappropriate. Rabbinic theologies of divine justice, moreover, do not presume a philosophical theory of justice. For comparative purposes, theology needs to include the full range of images and genres used to discuss a deity or deities.6

Midrash and Vulnerability: Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 Rabbinic editors take up the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel and that of Rabbi Eliezer, and link each with a long exegesis of a beautiful poem in Ecclesiastes 12:1–7. This midrash is arguably the most extensive treatment of old age in rabbinic literature. The earliest version of the midrash appears in the Palestinian amoraic Leviticus Rabbah 18:1, which I analyze in full. This passage cites Akavya ben Mahalalel’s saying at the outset, and much of the discussion can be seen as an elaboration of the sage’s call to “look” at “where you go” in the future. The midrash traveled through many editorial streams. In the Babylonian Talmud, a very elaborate sugya about aging and death exposits the poem and concludes with an expansion of Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim upholding repentance (b. Shab. 151b–153a). I summarize key points of contrast between the Palestinian and Babylonian versions, and then focus on Rabbi Eliezer’s saying and its commentary.7 These microforms inspire questions relating to coherence and integration. Put bluntly: how readable are these rabbinic texts? I argue that we see thematic continuity and general consistency of outlook in Leviticus Rabbah 18:1. This unit reveals a powerful set of pedagogical styles, subtle6. For comparative theology, see Tracy, “Comparative Theology”; I thank Frank Clooney for his help in thinking about these issues. The metaphors in theologies of divine justice are examined in Anderson, Sin; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 54–64, 121–134. 7. Quotations of m. Avot 3:1, with commentary to parts or all of Ecclesiastes 12:1–7, appear in Lev. Rab. 18:1; Eccles. Rab. 12:1–7; y. Sota 18a to m. Sota 2:2; Tanhuma Hayye Sarah 7 to Gen. 25:1; Midrash Zuta to Eccles. 12; Yalqut Shimoni to Eccles. 12; and MS Vatican 44 of Rabbi Nathan A in Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 160–161, and H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 303. Mordecai Margulies lists many of these and other parallels, and he argues that Leviticus Rabbah presents an earlier version than Ecclesiastes Rabbah: Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 389–400. The commentary to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 is followed by Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim in Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 151b–153a. Other materials in the sugya are discussed in Kraemer, The Meanings of Death, 111–116; Lieberman, Texts and Studies; Signer, “Honour the Hoary Head,” 42–43. The midrash appears without an ethical maxim in Targum to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7. A very different midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7, addressing not the aging body but the history of ancient Israel, appears in Midrash Lamentations, Petihta 23; Midrash Zuta to Ecclesiastes 12; and Yalqut Shimoni to Ecclesiastes 12. Similar maxims are discussed in Schofer, “Spiritual Exercises in Rabbinic Culture,” 207–215; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 148–151. Also see Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 25, 28–29, 37.

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ties in rabbinic theologies of divine justice, and a movement from aging to death, burial, and beyond. We also find, within the overarching genre of midrash, many different sub-genres including maxims, lists, poetry, narratives, parables, and apodictic law. The text presents strong shifts in content and mood, places that seem messy or needing emendation, and at times conflicting positions. These upheavals present obstacles for reading. These upheavals also undermine fixities regarding aging and death, for bodily processes do not appear as singular events to be grasped in simple terms. In order to see the interpretative work done by the midrash, we should first consider the biblical verses in their plain senses. Ecclesiastes 12:1–8 presents numerous metaphors that have troubled scholarly interpreters. Any rendering of the images into English requires some overall theory of what the poem portrays, and a neutral translation is difficult.8 Despite this, I attempt to stay close to the Hebrew with its ambiguities: (12:1) Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before (ad asher lo) the days of unpleasantness come, and years arrive of which you say, I have in them no joy, (12:2) before (ad asher lo) the sun darkens, and the light, and the moon and stars, and the clouds return after the rain, (12:3) in the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the powerful men writhe, and the grinders are idle for they have dwindled, and those looking through the lattices darken, (12:4) and the double-doors in the market are closed, when the sound of the mill lowers, and he rises to the voice of the bird, and all the woman singers are bowed low, (12:5) and also they fear from on high, and terrors are along the way, and the almond tree blossoms, and the locust is laden, and the caperberry fails, for the man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners surround the market, (12:6) before (ad asher lo) the silver cord snaps, and the golden bowl is smashed,

8. I draw extensively from the commentaries of Seow, Ecclesiastes, 346–382; Fox, A Time to Tear Down and a Time to Build Up, 319–349. Seow interprets the text as eschatological, and Fox argues that it portrays communal mourning.

26 / Chapter One and the jug breaks upon the spring, and the wheel is smashed in the pit, (12:7) and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the life-breath returns to God, who gave it. (12:8) Vanity of vanities, says Kohelet, everything is vanity!

The poem has three sections. The poem tells the listener or reader to remember one’s creator “before” (ad asher lo) three things: before unpleasant days arrive (12:1), before one day in which many enigmatic things happen (12:2–5), and before various objects break and dust returns to the earth (12:6–7). What do these images represent? Some scholars say that this poem depicts the body’s aging. Others suggest a funeral and communal mourning. Another interpretation takes the imagery to be eschatological. The rabbinic midrash contains all three elements, and perhaps the biblical poem carries no single meaning all the way through. Certain words and clauses generate great difficulties. In looking ahead to the rabbinic interpretation, three features are salient. First, Ecclesiastes does not necessarily describe human aging, and the metaphors do not have to be interpreted as body parts. Second, the poem does not make distinctions between sages and non-sages, the educated and those who are not, the righteous and the wicked. Rather, changes happen regardless of status or piety. Third, the poem ends (at least arguably) with verse 12:8 describing the utter absurdity or futility of everything, which is a common motif in Ecclesiastes. The rabbinic exegesis, by contrast, interprets many images as the decline of the body with age,9 has a recurring interest in the difference between those who are educated or pious and those who are not, and omits the last verse.

Looking Upon Aging and Death (i): The Body, the Cosmos, and the Graceful Aging of a Sage (Lev. Rab. 18:1 to Lev. 15:2 and Eccles. 12:1) Leviticus Rabbah 18:1 calls for a strong orientation toward God’s judgment, in this world and after an embodied resurrection. The text also faces bodily decline for all people, ending in death, regardless of ethical status. Both divine reckoning and material limitation motivate an aspir-

9. This mode of exegesis has been characterized as allegory, though assessing this claim would involve addressing two larger issues: whether or not the poem in Ecclesiastes is itself an allegory (see Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 345–349; Seow, Ecclesiastes, 372–382), and the relation between midrash and allegory in rabbinic sources.

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ing sage to act correctly. This midrash is structured according to a specific form known as the petih.ta, or “opening.”10 The core verse is a law from the Book of Leviticus addressing male genital discharge: “When any man has a discharge from his body, he is in the status of impurity” (Lev. 15:2). Rather than comment upon this verse directly, rabbis juxtapose this line with Ecclesiastes 12:1: “Remember your creator in the days of your youth. . . .” The exegetical play centers on how the passages will be brought together. The unit opens by quoting the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel, which triangulates the two verses: When any man has a discharge from his body, he is in the status of impurity (Lev. 15:2). Remember your creator (Kyarvb) in the days of your youth (Eccles. 12:1). We learn, Akavya ben Mahalalel says: Look upon three things and you will not come into the hands of transgression. Know from where you come: from a putrid secretion. To where you go: to worm and maggot. Before whom in the future you will give account and reckoning: before the King of the kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He. Rabbi Abba bar Kahana in the name of Rabbi Pappi, and Rabbi Yehoshua of Siknin in the name of Rabbi Levi: Akavya derived all three of them from one word. Remember your origin (Kryab), your pit (Krvb), and your creator (Karvb). Remember your origin: this is a putrid secretion. Your pit: this is worm and maggot. Your creator: this is the King of the kings of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He, who in the future will give reckoning.11

The commentators link Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim with Leviticus 15:2 through the common attention to that which flows from a penis. They reinterpret the “discharge” of Leviticus as the “putrid secretion” that is the origin of human life. The exegesis is more creative for Ecclesiastes 12:1. The verse begins by saying, “Remember Kyarvb.” While a standard English translation is “Remember your creator,” the spelling is unusual, and three letters bring opportunities for midrashic interpretation (the waw, alef, and yod: Kyjjarvjb). A threefold exegesis calls for remembrance of one’s arvb or cre10. Studies of this literary form include Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim”; N. Cohen, “Leviticus Rabbah, Parashah 3”; N. Cohen, “Structure and Editing in the Homiletic Midrashim”; Goldberg, “Form-Analysis of Midrashic Literature as a Method of Description.” 11. Here and throughout, I follow the text and apparatus of Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 389–400.

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ator, one’s ryab or spring/origin, and one’s rvb or pit/grave. The elements of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s teaching—God, birth, and death—are embedded in the letters of this one word.12 The midrash cites Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim as an authoritative teaching supported by scripture. The historical relations between the sage and rabbinic culture, however, are more conflicted. Rabbinic literature remembers him as a controversial leader. Both the sage and the saying were initially problematic for rabbis. The Mishnah records a set of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s legal decisions that were not accepted by his peers, who banned him. The discussion also addresses the state of his grave and a deathbed teaching to his son (m. Eduy. 5:6–7). We do not really know, though, exactly what the community was like in the first century, what a ban would have entailed, or even how to classify this sage: was Akavya ben Mahalalel a Pharisee, a proto-rabbi, or a rabbi in the period before scholars consider the rabbinic movement to have begun? I refer to him simply as a sage. Akavya ben Mahalalel’s ethical maxim also generated controversy. Extensive commentaries in Rabbi Nathan A and B, and in Derekh Eretz Rabbah, indicate that the imagery disturbed later sages. In Mishnah Avot, however, the maxim takes a prominent place in the canon of rabbinic ethical instruction, and the appearance in Leviticus Rabbah marks a further stage in this embrace.13 What exactly does Akavya ben Mahalalel prescribe? The most important word setting out this exercise (histakkel, “look”) is ambiguous and may convey intellectual understanding, meditative or contemplative focus, or some combination. I render the word in a very literal way as “look upon,” drawing upon a sense of observation. Many options have been tried, each with a distinct nuance: attend to, observe, reflect, consider, mark well, meditate upon, look into, and contemplate. Late ancient readers also found the word

12. Charlotte Fonrobert discusses Leviticus 15:2, and other rabbinic interpretations of it, in Menstrual Purity, 20–22, 43–56. The interpretation of Ecclesiastes 12:1 is not as radical as it may appear. All of these options, and others, have been suggested by modern scholars trying to find the single correct interpretation. Seow reviews these proposals and suggests that the author of the biblical verse “might have intended his audience to hear more than one meaning of the word.” Seow cites this midrash as justification: Ecclesiastes, 351–352. 13. Saldarini, “The Adoption of a Dissident”; Steinmetz, “Distancing and Bringing Near,” 51–88; Boyarin, Border Lines, 64–65, 255–256 n 152; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 68; Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 24–25, 38–31, 37; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 148–151; Finkelstein, Introduction to the Treatises Abot and Abot of Rabbi Nathan, 64–70. The process of “rabbinizing” powerful but problematic figures and teachings is widespread and has been studied in Green, “Palestinian Holy Men”; Goshen-Gottstein, The Sinner and the Amnesiac, esp. 267–276. I thank Shaye Cohen for his help in thinking through these issues.

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unclear. Some versions of the maxim employ terms other than histakkel, calling for the student to “give” something to his “heart” or to “give” his heart to something. Another ambiguity is the frequency of this “looking.” Is the prescription for all times, for various points throughout a day, or for specific moments? As a point of contrast, the medieval Muslim thinker al-Ghaza¯lı¯ preserves a teaching that one should think about death twenty times a day. Akavya ben Mahalalel gives his followers no such specificity. As with many of the sayings in Mishnah Avot, the terse expression leaves many issues open for reflection through the centuries.14 At what point in life should you remember your creator, origin, and death? Following the elaborate opening exegesis, we find a deceptively simple line: In the days of your youth (Eccles. 12:1). In the days of your youthful vigor, while your strength is upon you.

The instruction addresses a young person looking ahead to aging and death. This point is very important for interpreting the unit. Throughout the extensive discussion of aging and weakness that follows, we find a recurring concern with those in their physical prime and their orientation toward the divine. The young should “remember” before two times: “days of unpleasantness” and “years . . . of which you say, I have in them no joy.” The commentators understand these images to set out an opposition between old age and the messianic period: Before the days of unpleasantness come (Eccles. 12:1). These are the days of old age. And years arrive of which you say, I have in them no joy. These are the days of the messiah, which have neither merit nor debt.

Old age is “unpleasant” because it brings suffering as well as ever-present trepidation regarding one’s standing in relation to God. The promise of a messianic time offers hope that one can live without worry of judgment: “no joy” indicates not sorrow but rather being beyond joy and sorrow, and more specifically beyond the divine accounting that generates rewards and punishments. The call to remember, then, addresses those with youthful strength, anticipating both old age and the messiah. 14. Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 148–151 and notes; al-Ghaza¯lı¯, The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife, 9. I thank Kirsten Wesselhoeft for referring this book to me.

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Looking Upon Aging and Death (ii): The Body, the Social Order, the Cosmos, and the Aging of a Sage (Lev. Rab. 18:1 to Eccles. 12:2–4) The commentary now begins to specify the “days of unpleasantness” in old age, initially focusing on the body. The imagery both elevates the symbolic significance of the body and emphasizes its diminution. On one hand, the body appears as a microcosm of the larger world, for individual parts correspond to celestial entities. On the other hand, this cosmic body becomes dark: Before the sun darkens (Eccles. 12:2). This is the brightness of his face. And the light. This is the forehead. And the moon. This is the nose. And the stars. These are cheekbones.

The heavens are in each face, yet this celestial countenance fades. Age brings metaphorical darkness that is visible in the most public part of the self. The specific association between the moon and the nose, moreover, is likely inspired by a pun between the words for moon (yareah.) and smell (reyah.).15 The last line of Ecclesiastes 12:2 presents a gloomy scene: “And the clouds return after the rains.” Rabbi Levi connects this event with bodily processes to contrast rabbis and ordinary persons: And the clouds return after the rains (Eccles. 12:2). Rabbi Levi said: Two [interpretations], one for fellow disciples and one for uncultivated people. One for fellow disciples: He is about to cry, and tears flow from his eyes. One for uncultivated people: he goes to urinate, and balls [of excrement] come first.

Ecclesiastes emphasizes that wisdom does not necessarily bring worldly benefits: the same fate comes to the wise and the foolish (Eccles. 2:13–17), or the wise may even have greater pain and frustration (Eccles. 1:17–18). For Rabbi Levi, though, there are distinct physical benefits to participating in rabbinic practices of self-formation. With age, both figures lose control

15. In Eccles. Rab. 12:2 the correlations are light/nose and moon/forehead. The Babylonian Talmud interprets the moon as the soul (neshamah; b. Shab. 151b). The human body as microcosm is discussed in Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 208–213 and notes; Kiperwasser, “The Microcosmic Imaginary in Rabbinic Midrash.”

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of bodily flow but in very different ways. The cultivated person becomes increasingly emotionally sensitive, such that his eyes pour tears before he begins to cry: after the initial “rain,” then the “clouds” of full weeping come on. The uncultivated person becomes unable to control excretory functions. Oppositions are graphic: disciple/uncultivated, cry/urinate, tears/excrement, face/pelvis.16 What exactly do these charged images assert? Minimally, age brings loss of control, whether emotional or physical. A stronger claim may be that disciples of the sages face the same physical challenges as others, but their cultivation over time means that as they get older, character strength outweighs other matters. A still stronger claim may be that the practice of rabbinic tradition not only brings distinct emotional responses, but also a level of physical well-being that minimizes the degeneration of bodily control: study of Torah keeps one vital. Ecclesiastes 12:3 presents social rather than cosmic imagery: keepers of a house, powerful men, grinders, and those who intriguingly look through lattices. These figures tremble, writhe, dwindle, and darken, and Leviticus Rabbah correlates them with bones or organs. The list of body parts accumulates with waning ribs, arms, lungs, and knees, emphasizing that the effects of aging appear in many places: In the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the powerful men writhe, and the grinders are idle for they have dwindled, and those looking through the lattices darken (Eccles. 12:3). In the day when the keepers of the house tremble. These are his knees. And the powerful men writhe. These are his ribs. Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah says: These are his forearms. And the grinders are idle. This is the stomach. For they have dwindled. These are the teeth.

16. Rabbi Levi is linked with many of the teachings in this literary unit. He is a thirdgeneration amoraic sage, roughly of the late third or early fourth century C.E. The specific phrasing of the comparison between the “fellow disciple” (h.aver) and the “uncultivated person” (bor)—ayrvbl adcv ayrbcl adc—is unusual. A similar passage in the Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 152a contrasts the “students of the sages” (talmide h.akhamim) with the “people of the land” (ame ha-aretz). The wording of the Babylonian Talmud puts weight on identity and group affiliation (inside or outside rabbinic disciple circles), whereas Leviticus Rabbah emphasizes degrees of cultivation. Fox discusses the worldly benefits of wisdom in Ecclesiastes in A Time to Tear Down, 87–96. Charlotte Fonrobert emphasizes that aggadic literature often portrays male figures who cry—including sages, Moses, and God—and observes, “Rabbis therefore are in good company when they are frequently represented as emotionally overcharged”: Fonrobert, “The Weeping Rabbi,” 64–65.

32 / Chapter One And those looking (ha-root) through the lattices darken. These are the eyes. Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah says: These are the lungs (kenafe ha-reah), for from them voice emerges.

The parallel text in Ecclesiastes Rabbah maintains a more defined literary structure that moves from the top of the torso down: the “keepers of the house” are ribs rather than knees, and the “powerful men” are forearms. The stomach grinding and teeth dwindling probably indicate biological processes. “Those looking through the lattices” inspires a twofold interpretation, each employing a distinct method of exegesis. Saying that the “eyes” look through lattices has elements of both metonymy (the eyes see) and metaphor (eyes looking through lashes are similar to people looking through lattices, with part visible and part blocked). Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah takes “those looking” (ha-root) to be “lungs” (kenafe ha-reah) by punning on root and reah. The social world shuts down further in Ecclesiastes 12:4, with doors closing and sounds quieting. For the midrash this means that joints, organs, and bodily openings stop functioning. In the midst of all this, we find a new theme: a short anecdote portraying an old man (sava) as excessively fearful. In late ancient Rome, negative views of old age were common but not universal, and associations between the elderly and cowardice had a long history going back at least to Aristotle. Here the narrative is inspired by a difficult clause—“he rises to the sound of the bird”—which does not seem to fit in its biblical context: And the doors in the market are closed, when the sound of the mill lowers, and he rises to the sound of the bird, and all the woman singers are bowed low (Eccles. 12:4). And the doors in the market are closed. These are his knees. When the sound of the mill lowers. Because the stomach does not grind. And he rises to the sound of the bird. An old man, when he hears the sound of birds chirping, thinks that robbers have come to rob him. And all the woman singers are bowed low. These are his lips. Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah says: These are the kidneys, for they think and the heart completes.17 17. Images of the elderly as cowardly are discussed in Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 86–87; Aristotle, Rhetoric 2:13, 1139B29–31; Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 338–339. More generally on negative views of old age, see Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World, 57–89, and Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 34–56, and note the methodological cautions in Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World, 58–59. Scholars have often suggested emendations for “he rises to the

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This depiction of an old man fearing robbers links physical and psychological vulnerability. Several issues may be implied: a weak body brings fear of injury, limited perception leads him to misunderstand sounds, or diminished mental faculties make him unable to contain internal anxiety. The narrative voice, though, conflicts with Akavya ben Mahalalel’s call to consider “where you go,” because the third-person description distances the speaker and audience from “the old man.” The implied compilers and readers are adults, but not themselves old men, and they are not particularly respectful or sympathetic toward the psychological changes brought by age.

Looking Upon Aging and Death (iii): Experiential Aspects of Bodily Weakening and Intimations of the World to Come (Lev. Rab. 18:1 to Eccles. 12:5) The commentary to Ecclesiastes 12:5 presents older men who exhibit fear, reduced perception, and waning sexual desire. In addition, the theme of divine judgment reemerges through a parable and an arguably comedic narrative. The first interpretation is intriguing, for the commentators turn extraordinary and perhaps theologically charged biblical images into ordinary anxieties and limits: And also they fear from on high, and terrors are along the way, and the almond tree blossoms, and the locust is laden, and the caperberry fails, for the man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners surround the market (Eccles. 12:5). And also they fear from on high. When they invite an old man to go to a place, he asks, “Are there up-hills and down-hills?” And terrors are along the way. Rabbi Abba bar Kahana and Rabbi Levi. Rabbi Abba bar Kahana says: Dread of the way falls upon him. The other says: He begins to mark out limits on the way, saying, “Up to this place I have it within me to go; to another place I do not have it within me to go.”

sound of the bird.” Fox reviews the debates and suggests “the bird begins to sing” (A Time to Tear Down, 319, 325–326); Seow chooses “the sound of the bird rises” (Ecclesiastes, 357–359). Instead of “knees,” several variants of Lev. Rab. 18:1, as well as Eccles. Rab. 12:4 and b. Shab. 152a, have “orifices” or “apertures,” which would better fit the image of doors closing: Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 392. A link between the kidney and the heart also appears in a list on b. Ber. 61a–b; see Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 220–221 n 67. More generally, the heart and kidney are paired in several passages of the Bible: Jer. 11:20, 17:10, 20:12; Ps. 7:10. See Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, 102–108. For rabbinic sources on the kidneys, see Gen. Rab. 61:1 and the list of sources in Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 657–658.

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The language of Ecclesiastes is powerful and ambiguous, and modern scholars have made various suggestions. Michael Fox understands “they fear from on high” to indicate fear of God. C. L. Seow translates “even from on high they see,” noting that the consonantal text can support “they see” (from r..h.) as well as “they are afraid” (from y.r..).18 These potentially extraordinary evocations are turned into fears of geographical terrain given physical limitations. “On high” becomes simply the height of hills and valleys, which inspire anxiety in the old man but not in those (apparently younger) people who interact with him. Similarly, the “terrors” of the way become no more than a fear of exhaustion in everyday travel. For the old man, an invitation to another town triggers psychological vulnerabilities. The next passages return to the topic of body parts for one more discussion of the skeleton. The themes of messianic time and life beyond death, which appeared at the opening of the unit, now fold back into the text. The focus is upon the “nut” (luz) of the spinal column. The exact identity of this bone is ambiguous, as some interpretations place it at the bottom of the spine (the coccyx) and others at the top (the upper thoracic). The midrash presents this part of the spine as the indestructible origin of a new body for resurrection. The material comments upon the line, “The almond tree blossoms, and the locust is laden.” In Leviticus Rabbah, which I quote below for sake of consistency, the teaching about the coccyx is placed as commentary to “the locust is laden.” In Ecclesiastes Rabbah, however, “the almond tree blossoms” inspires this discussion of the spine, which makes for a smoother exegesis. The word luz can mean “almond” as well as a bone, and the blooming almond becomes a bone that blossoms into a new body:19 18. M. Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 326–327; Seow, Ecclesiastes, 360. 19. See Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 394; also the parallel in Gen. Rab. 28:2 and discussion in Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 261–262. Other midrashic readings of “The almond tree blossoms” vary; b. Shab. 152a, Midrash Zuta to Eccles. 12; and Yalqut Shimoni to Eccles. 12 have tsvbylq or coccyx; Targum to Ecclesiastes 12:5 mentions the head or top of the spine, which for rabbis would mean the upper thoracic since the neck was counted separately; see for example the teaching that the spine has eighteen vertebrae in y. Taan. 2:2 (65c). Preuss discusses rabbinic views of the spine and writes that the luz refers to the coccyx in Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, 61–65. Lieberman apparently understands the luz to be the coccyx: he writes, “According to the very popular tradition, the ‘almond-shaped’ bone (Luz) which forms the end of the spine will serve as the nucleus of the new body at the time of resurrection” (Texts and Studies, 242). Azzan Yadin has pointed out to me that Galen rejects, but also preserves, a view that “the pineal body is what regulates the passage of the pneuma”: Galen: On the Usefulness of the Parts of the Body, trans. May, 419–420.

Aging and Death / 35 And the almond tree blossoms. These are the ankles. And the locust is laden. This is the nut (luz) of the spinal column. Hadrian, may his bones be crushed, asked Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah: From where will the Holy One, blessed be He, make a man sprout in the world to come? He said to him: From the luz of the spinal column. He said: How can you make it known to me? He brought it before him, put it in water but it did not dissolve, ground it in millstones but it was not ground, put it in fire but it was not burned, placed it on a block and started to hammer it with a hammer, and the block was divided and the hammer split, but he did not have any effect.

The narrative setting is a highly unlikely event: a dialogue between the influential tanna Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah and the Roman emperor Hadrian, who is remembered in rabbinic sources for his persecutions. The emperor inquires regarding the details of resurrection using rabbinic terminology (“Holy One, blessed be He,” and “world to come”). The sage connects anthropology and eschatology. One bone, perhaps a seemingly unimportant part of the pelvis, becomes a tangible link between the body in this world and the resurrected body in the world to come. The luz also has miraculous qualities and cannot be crushed, dissolved, or burnt. Those who are living can touch this spot and know that the flesh, organs, and other parts may waste away, but this “nut” remains to sprout a new body in the future. In addition, this imagery gives a distinct force to the curse placed upon Hadrian, “may his bones be crushed.” If all his bones were crushed, including the luz, he would die in this world and perish from the world to come.20 The commentary to Ecclesiastes 12:5 returns to old age in this world, now focusing on strength, perception, and desire. The midrash centers on the word aviyyonah, which I translate as “caperberry.” The word probably comes from a root for wanting or desiring (.b.h.), and the plant may have had aphrodisiac effects. In any case, the exegesis addresses sexual desire.21

20. If the “nut” of the spine refers to the coccyx, then the teaching implies an interpretation of the bodily parts that is similar to the midrashic tendency to consider nothing in the Bible to be superfluous. In the rabbinic exegesis of the body, the bones of the coccyx are not vestigial remnants of the past, but seeds for future resurrection; see also Lieberman, Texts and Studies, 242. 21. Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 328–329; Seow, Ecclesiastes, 363–364. Both Fox and Seow discuss the problems with the term for “fails” (p.r.r.), and Fox suggests emending to “blooms” (p.r.h.).

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This is the last anecdote of older men in the literary unit, and now the key figures are rabbis. Age impacts a sage’s ability to engage in central facets of rabbinic community life, marriage and contact with fellow sages. The account begins by picking up the earlier theme of difficulty in travel. An older rabbi is unable to visit a younger one on a regular basis. This time, though, the elder teaches the younger: And the caperberry fails. This is desire, which brings peace between a husband and his wife. Rabbi Simeon ben Halafta would regularly go up to inquire about the health of Rabbi [Yehudah the Patriarch] every new moon. When he became old, he would stay and could not go. One day he did go, and [Rabbi] said to him: What has occupied you that you do not come up to me the way that you used to regularly? He said to him: Near things have become far, far things have become near, two have become three, and that which brings peace at home has ceased. Far things have become near: these are the eyes, which used to see from afar, now even up close they cannot see. Near things have become far: these are the ears, which used to hear at one or two times, and even at one hundred times they do not hear. Two have become three: a walking stick and the two legs. That which brings peace at home has faded: this is desire that brings peace between a husband and his wife.

This story develops two themes that appeared in the anecdotes of the old man (sava). Age brings deterioration of perception. Earlier the old man would mistake birds for robbers; now, more generally the eyes and ears lose their abilities. Age also brings limits in mobility. Earlier the old man would set out boundaries for his travel, and now in old age two legs need the support of a walking stick (a motif that echoes the ancient “riddle of the Sphinx”). In addition, sexual desire fades such that even the aphrodisiac caperberry no longer has an effect. The notion that the elderly lose the vigor of their sexual passions is prevalent in Roman late antiquity and also in classical Greek sources, with many variations. Often the receding of sexual passions is taken to be a benefit, a relief that facilitated pleasures of the mind or purity of spirit. Also, many Roman sources see little worth in sexual activity among the elderly, even for married couples after the age of procreation. In this historical context, a notable feature of Rabbi Simeon ben Halafta’s statement is his emphases upon sustaining a mar-

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riage and the role of sexual desire in that relationship (“what brings peace at home”).22 For the last line of Ecclesiastes 12:5, the commentary returns to the topics of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim: the death and decay of all people’s bodies, and God’s reward for the righteous. The verse states, “For the man goes to his eternal home (bet olamo).” The phrase “eternal home” (bet olam) is an ancient Semitic expression for a grave. The exegesis plays on the complex spatio-temporal term olam, which can mean a very long duration of time (“eternal”), or the entire world. Both senses are combined in the notion of the future and enduring “world to come” (ha-olam ha-ba). More specifically, the biblical text has a possessive pronoun appended to olam, saying literally that a person goes to “his olam.” The midrash emphasizes this pronoun,23 stating that each righteous person goes to a distinct long-lasting world after death, based on divine assessment of deeds and character traits. This passage captures a fundamental assertion made by the entire midrashic unit. Humans go through certain difficult processes (aging and death), regardless of their virtue or status in divine accounting. However, God’s judgment has ultimate significance, for each righteous sage has a dwelling reserved in the future world according to a divinely established rank of virtue: For the man goes to his eternal home (bet olamo). Rabbi Simeon ben Lakesh: This teaches that each and every righteous man has an eternity of his own.

22. On rabbis visiting colleagues, see Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, 169. Roman views of sexuality, marriage, and aging are discussed in Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 115–133; Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World, 193–202. Important classical philosophical sources include Plato, Republic, 328c–329c; Aristotle, Rhetoric, 2:13, 1139A11–14. See also Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 136–138. Boyarin discusses related issues regarding rabbis and sexual desire in Carnal Israel, 61–76; see also Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 76–83. In Tanhuma Hayye Sarah 7 to Gen. 25:1, the commentary to Eccles. 12:5 discusses Abraham: unlike most elderly men, Abraham did not lose his sexual desire in old age. Maimonides argued that sexual activity was physically unhealthy for the elderly: H. Fox, “Maimonides on Aging,” 321–336. 23. Discussions of bet olam include Seow, Ecclesiastes, 364; Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 328– 329; Healey, “Death in West Semitic Texts.” It is unlikely that rabbis had a concept of eternity as contrasting with and outside of time, as we find in book 11 of Augustine’s Confessions, but rather “the farthest reaches of time.” See Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 210–212; S. Stern, Time and Process in Ancient Judaism, 109–112. The focus on the pronoun in bet olamo is implicit here but explicit in other witnesses of Lev. Rab. 18:1 as well as in Eccles. Rab. 12:5; Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 396, and Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 1237.

38 / Chapter One [This can be compared] to a king who enters a capital city, and with him are commanders, governors, and officers (Nyevayearesyav Nykrpyav Nyskvd). Even though they all enter through one gateway (Nylyp), each one of them dwells according to his honor. So too, even though everyone tastes the taste of death, each and every righteous man has an eternity of his own. And the mourners surround the market. These are the worms.

Like the story of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah and Hadrian above, this midrash subverts images of Roman power. Rabbi Simeon ben Lakesh’s parable portrays a royal political and military array in which each dwells according to honor. God also allocates dwellings in the world to come according to honor, but the honor is based on rabbinic righteousness rather than Roman stature. The interest in Roman society appears strongly through comparison with a later version of this parable in the Babylonian Talmud, which opens: “A parable. [This can be compared to] a king who enters, himself and his servants (avadaw), into a city. When they enter, all of them enter through one gate (shaar)” (b. Shab. 152a). The Palestinian source names specific ranks through transliteration of Latin and Greek terms for commander (dux), governor (huparchos), and officer (stratio¯te¯s). The Babylonian version, though, only says that the king comes in with his “servants” or “slaves,” using a Hebrew word.24

Looking Upon Aging and Death (iv): Death, Mourning, and Return to Dust (Lev. Rab. 18:1 to Eccles. 12:6–7) The commentary has portrayed bodily decline from the head downwards as well as weakening of emotional stability, perception, and desire. Now begins the slide to death. The discussion of Ecclesiastes 12:6 is the most diverse of the unit, with images decoded as specific body parts, a depiction of a corpse beginning to degenerate just after death, and a brief mention of funerary rituals. The elements follow one upon another through a tight chain of associations with a progression moving from aging to death, burial and mourning, and decay. The exegesis begins by interpreting the biblical text as describing fatal injuries to the head and back: 24. Also, in Leviticus Rabbah the word for “gateway” is Greek whereas the Babylonian phrasing is in Hebrew. Another difference is that the Babylonian Talmud intensifies the significance of the worms. Building on the notion that the recently dead are still sentient, Rabbi Isaac states that the dead feel worms like the living feel needles piercing their skin: b. Shab. 152a. See also Lieberman, Texts and Studies, 246–247; Kraemer, Meanings of Death, 112–113.

Aging and Death / 39 Before the silver cord snaps, and the golden bowl is smashed, and the jug breaks upon the spring, and the wheel is smashed in the pit (Eccles. 12:6). Before the silver cord snaps. This is the spinal cord. And the golden bowl is smashed. This is the skull. Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah says: This is the throat, for it gathers the gold and makes the silver run.

The associations between the “silver cord” and the spinal cord may be physical shape. The link between “golden bowl” and the skull likely draws upon three elements: both are important (“golden”), both are round (“bowl”), and there is a pun between the two words: bowl (gullah) and skull (gulgolet). Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah understands the imagery to criticize gluttony as financially draining, which implies a much more complicated set of exegetical moves.25 The next line addresses the condition of a corpse after death, with graphic images that continue Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah’s criticism of excessive consumption: And the jug breaks upon the spring. This is the stomach. Rabbi Abba the son of Rabbi Pappi and Rabbi Yehoshua of Siknin in the name of Rabbi Levi: After three days a person’s stomach bursts, spills into the mouth, and says to it, “Here is what you robbed and stole and placed in me.” Rabbi Haggai in the name of Rabbi Isaac derived it from this: I will scatter dung on your faces, the dung of your festival sacrifices (Malachi 2:3). Even your festival sacrifices.

The living need to eat, but the dead no longer do. Three days after death, according this teaching, the alimentary flow is reversed and food moves backwards to the mouth. Rabbi Haggai adds further significance to this image by reinterpreting the prophet Malachi’s curse upon priests: the stomach does not even differentiate between ordinary food and that of religious observance, and anything left in the stomach at death will end up scattered

25. The Hebrew word I translate as “snaps” is difficult. Modern scholars suggest emending r.t.q. to n.t.q., though the midrashic text quotes r.t.q.: Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 329–330; Seow, Ecclesiastes, 365). Rabbi Hiyyah bar Nehemiah seems to interpret the word for “smashed” (r.tz.tz.) as “run” (r.w.tz.), which actually fits the Masoretic text that we now have, and to switch the l of the word for bowl (gullah) to an r and generate “throat” (gargeret). While the gargeret often denotes the trachea, the teaching seems to imply a broader sense of throat that includes the esophagus. See Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 397; Seow, Ecclesiastes, 364–366; Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 330–331.

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on the face. Death as a corporeal process does not distinguish between sacred and profane. The midrash develops further the span of three days. Several manuscripts state that the soul (nefesh) hovers over the body three days hoping to return, leaving when the face begins to change. A teaching of Bar Kappara shifts attention to those who mourn the deceased: Bar Kappara says: For three days the height of mourning lasts. Why? So that the figure of the face can be recognized, as we learn: One only testifies [concerning a death] based on a face with its nose, and one only testifies after three days.

Mourning is done when the face is recognizable, which is three days. The midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:6 concludes with an enigmatic pair of teachings: And the wheel is smashed in the pit. Two amoraic teachings. One said: like those stones of Sepphoris. The other said: like those clods of Tiberias, as it is said, Clods of the wadi are sweet to him (Job 21:33).

Scholars have debated how to translate the terms and understand the distinction. One view is that the stones and clods represent different forms of irrigation, but they also may be different ways of covering a grave.26 Understood in the second manner, this teaching extends the discussion of mourning to the specifics of ritual practice, and it also continues the flow of the passage from diminishing to death to mourning and burial. With Ecclesiastes 12:7, the rabbinic commentators return to divine judgment. The verse states that the dust of the decayed body returns to God “as it was.” The exegesis specifies this state as pure: And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the life-breath (ha-ruah.) returns to God, who gave it (Eccles. 12:7). Rabbi Phinehas and Rabbi Hilkiah in the

26. For the soul hovering over the body, see Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 398; Gen. Rab. 100 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 1290). There are important variations of the teachings concerning mourning and the face of the deceased; m. Yev. 16:3; Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 398; Kraemer, The Meanings of Death, esp. 82–84, 123–126; Lieberman, Texts and Studies, 246. Discussions of the “stones” and “clods” include Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 398–399; Jastrow, Dictionary, 1446; Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic, 130.

Aging and Death / 41 name of Rabbi Simon: When does the life-breath return to God? When the dust returns to the earth, as it was. If not, The lives (nefesh) of your enemies He will sling away in the hollow of a sling (1 Sam. 25:29). Rabbi Ishmael bar Nehemiah taught in the name of Rabbi Abdimai of Haifa: [This can be compared] to a priest and fellow [disciple of the sages] who passed to a priest of the ordinary people (ame ha-aretz) a loaf of the priest’s offering. What did he say to him? Take note that I am pure, my house and utensils are pure, and this loaf that I give to you, it is pure. If you give it back to me in the way that I give it to you, good. If not, I will throw it before you. So too, the Holy One, blessed be He, said to this person: Take note that I am pure, My habitation is pure, My inheritances are pure, and the soul (neshamah) that I give to you, it is pure. If you return it to Me in the way that I give it to you, great. If not, I will burn it before you.

The commentators interpret both the “life-breath” (ruah.) of Ecclesiastes and the “lives” (nefesh) of 1 Samuel 25:29 as a soul or spirit that can exist apart from the body after death (later the passage employs neshamah). The midrash to 1 Samuel 25:29 is part of a more extensive interpretation of that verse, found in tannaitic midrash as well as later sources: the souls of the righteous will be stored close to God for the world to come, and the wicked will be slung away.27 The combination of Ecclesiastes 12:7 and 1 Samuel 25:29 inspires the teaching that humans enter the world in purity given by God. Preserving that state enables a return to the divine after death, but failing to do so brings rejection. The parable develops this point through contrasting disciples of rabbinic sages and ordinary Jews, affirming rabbis through two figures of priestly descent. The priest linked with the sages has superior standards for maintaining purity. In the explanation or nimshal (beginning with “So too . . .”), the priestly disciple of the sages becomes God, the priest who is outside the rabbinic movement becomes the human addressed by God, and the priest’s bread becomes the human soul or life-force. Humans interact with God through loan and return, which asserts a very positive view of human 27. Sifre Deut. 344 (Finkelstein, Sifre on Deuteronomy, 401); Eccles. Rab. 3:21 and 12:7; b. Shab. 152b; b. Hag. 12b; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 12, and Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 25 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 50–51; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 130–133, 356). See also Urbach, The Sages, 238–242; Lieberman, Texts and Studies, 499–501. The image that the righteous are stored close to God is based on the “bundle of life” (tzeror ha-h.ayyim) named in the first part of the verse.

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origins. People emerge from God in purity rather than in conflict, contamination, debt, or sin. The goal is to preserve this pristine state.28

Looking Upon Aging and Death (v): Return to the Opening Verse (Lev. Rab. 18:1 to Lev. 15:2) Leviticus Rabbah 18:1 concludes with an abrupt shift from old age to youth, and from Ecclesiastes to Leviticus 15. The point of thematic continuity is purity, which appeared in the parable of the two priests and now is central to the levitical discussion of genital discharges: All of these things concern the days of his old age, but in his youth, if he sins he is smitten with a discharge and leprosy. Therefore Moses warned Israel and said to them: When any man has a discharge from his body, he is in the status of impurity (Lev. 15:2).

The opening of this midrashic discussion interpreted the discharge of Leviticus 15:2, by way of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim, as the “putrid drop” of semen that begins each person’s existence. Here at the conclusion, discharge is now punishment for prior transgression. This teaching reverses the causal sequence of the biblical text. The verse says that if a man has a discharge, he is impure. The midrash says that if a young man is impure, he will be smitten and then have a discharge. Furthermore, not only priestly impurity but all sins are punished by God. The passage situates divine retribution in relation to a human life span. For older people, consequences will come after death, when one either returns to an eternal home with the divine or is cast away. For the young, God responds during their lifetimes.29 At all ages God’s judgment should be at the forefront of attention. This finale has puzzled me for a long time. It appears sudden, thin, forced, an afterthought about youth following intense meditations on aging. The structure of the homiletic midrash means that the composers return to Leviticus 15:2, but given the craft evident in the material beforehand, this conclusion seems to be tacked on. Perhaps the point can be unpacked through modern reflections by Jean Améry: 28. Similar parables appear in Eccles. Rab. 12:7 and b. Nid. 30b–31a. The motif of retaining original purity appears in many sources: Midrash Proverbs 31; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 14 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 58–59; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 152–153). See also Fonrobert, “The Weeping Rabbi,” 64–69. 29. The idea that leprosy is a punishment for sin is prevalent in rabbinic sources starting in the tannaitic period; Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 98–104.

Aging and Death / 43 One can speak of aging as the stretch of time in which we meet with the thought of death. For the young man—and we limit being young no more precisely than we specify the point at which a human being becomes aware of his aging—death is of no concern, even if he already has to bury close relatives. He goes to war, if not happily, at least without great fear of death; he hardly feels the dangerous speed of driving the car on the highway; even a serious illness does not cause him horror. . . . What the aging think they know is twofold: that on one hand the fear of death or the urgency of the thought of death have different grades according to whether one expects death from the outside—by accident or the hand of the enemy—or death from within; that on the other hand even this death of a young person from within, even if he or she is heavily suffering, has only slight value in reality. It requires an extensive experience of the physical downfall, dwindling body powers, weakened memory, decay, and difficulty in all forms, for death to change from an objectively impersonal subject into something authentic.30

I am not sure that Améry is right in this characterization of “the young man” and “the aging,” nor do I want to project his modern formulation anachronistically backwards into the late ancient midrash. However, if the last lines of the midrashic unit are more than an awkward transition to fulfill expectations of genre, then they may convey something like Améry’s point. For a person in youth, a threat of punishment after death may seem abstract, but consequences in one’s lifetime such as being “smitten with a discharge and leprosy” carry persuasive force. Those in the “days of his old age,” however, have experienced years of dwindling powers, weakened senses and desire, and intense fear, and they may be ready to face death directly. At that point, images of worms, maggots, and ultimate judgment become compelling bases for instruction.31 If this account of the last line is correct, though, then this conclusion stands in tension with the opening of the homily, which addresses youth looking ahead to old age. I am not sure how to reconcile these two stances. In a large edited unit of midrash, conceptual consistency may be less salient than the persuasive force of the combination. The pedagogical aim of the material is to juxtapose corporeal vulnerability with the powers of divine action in order to inspire behavior in accord with rabbinic ideals.

30. Améry, On Aging, 113–114 (emphasis in the original). 31. In Tanhuma Hayye Sarah 4–5 to Gen. 24:1, we find a stronger embrace of old age. Old age, suffering, and illness—and related dependencies—are valued dimensions of life that enable maturity and cultivation. I thank Elisha Fishbane for this reference and his interpretation.

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Those in their youth may be persuaded either by images of aging and decline, or if this is too abstract, by the possibility of being smitten with disease in the near future. In Leviticus Rabbah 18:1, then, a midrash upon Leviticus 15:2 and Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 takes up an early ethical maxim canonized in Mishnah Avot 3:1 and develops its themes. The midrash elevates body parts symbolically, for they are compared to entities both in the cosmos and in the social world. The commentary also portrays a decline from weakening to death to burial, followed by the return of the soul or life-breath to God. The commentary also sets out a progression moving from weakening through death to burial. Interspersed in this exposition are several depictions of older men, often with a pejorative tone—the material presumes an audience of adults looking ahead to the changes described, but not themselves elderly. Old age brings weakness, fear, loss of sensation and desire, and inability to control excretions. Several passages emphasize features of divine justice: messianic time as beyond joy and suffering, resurrection blossoming from the spinal column, and divine selection such that each righteous sage has an eternal world of his own. The combination presents God’s justice and favor for those who act in accord with divine ideals, but it nuances that picture through reflections upon the weakening, death, and decay of all people’s bodies. The text maintains rabbinic dichotomies between disciples and others, the righteous and the wicked, yet integrates them with attention to features of embodied existence that even ethical action before a just God cannot overcome. In the end, the passage returns to a dichotomy between young and old, each with a particular way of attending to God’s judgment.

Babylonian developments and “Repent one day before your death” The midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 appears in many sources besides Leviticus Rabbah, and perhaps the most influential version over the course of history is in the Babylonian Talmud Shabbat. Near the end of this tractate, a law concerning closing the eyes of the dead inspires a very long discussion of aging and death, much of which builds on the poem in Ecclesiastes (m. Shab. 23:5, b. Shab. 151b–153a). This collection contrasts with Leviticus Rabbah 18:1 in a number of respects. The opening is not Leviticus 15 and genital discharges, but rather the Mishnah inspires an extensive treatment of the recently deceased. The contents of the Babylonian midrash have a number of thematic differences, giving more attention to the age of

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forty, the soul or breath,32 and the biblical figure of Barzillai the Gileadite, an associate of David who was eighty years old (2 Samuel 19:32–39). One of the most interesting treatments of vulnerability is a story commenting upon “the clouds return after the rain” (Eccles. 12:2). Rather than contrasting the aging process of sages and non-sages, the Talmud presents an elderly rabbi who does not weep after his daughter’s death for fear that tears will injure his eyes: the weakness of age hinders the ability to mourn (b. Shab. 151b–152a). A contrast between sages and non-sages appears elsewhere, though, bluntly stating that students of the sages grow wise with age, but ordinary Jews (ame ha-aretz) simply become stupid (b. Shab. 152a).33 For the project of studying ethical instruction, the most important point of contrast is that the Babylonian Talmud quotes a different maxim. Rather than presenting Akavya ben Mahalalel at the start of the exegesis of Ecclesiastes, these editors elaborate upon Rabbi Eliezer’s saying at the end of their sugya: “Repent one day before your death” (m. Avot 2:10; b. Shab. 153a). The word for “repent” (shuv) is literally “turn,” so the underlying metaphor of repentance is spatial: a person is moving in the wrong direction and should turn back to the correct path. Repentance is also an important moment in the unfolding of divine judgment, an intervention in the accounting. One repents between remembered sin and anticipated punishment, aiming to amend for the past and change the future. Rabbinic discussions of repentance also address internal states; practices such as fasting, prayer, and sacrifice; and special times such as the annual Yom Kippur or Day of Atonement as well as the day of one’s death.34 While Akavya ben Mahalalel invokes death’s inevitability, Rabbi Eliezer invokes its potential immediacy, deepening the temporal imagery implicit in repentance itself. Repentance becomes anticipatory in two senses: one looks ahead not only toward God’s future retribution but also toward death, which marks the end of possibilities for repentance itself. The specific significance that Rabbi Eliezer gives to death can be clarified by comparing his 32. For example, the commentary to Eccles. 12:2 has, “And the moon. This is the soul (neshamah)” rather than the nose (b. Shab. 151b). Also the discussion of bodies and souls commenting on Eccles. 12:7 is much more developed (b. Shab. 152b). 33. Late ancient Roman sources more generally present a wide variety of views regarding the relation between aging and mental abilities, some emphasizing increased wisdom and others focusing on decline in memory and intellectual abilities (Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 59–111). 34. Urbach writes that repentance is primarily the abandonment of wrong action and the resolve not to repeat, and not a practice in itself, in The Sages, 464 and generally 462–471; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 134–135, 251–252 n 43. David Lambert and Louis Newman are both currently engaged in studies of repentance.

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maxim to an earlier instruction found in the Book of Ben Sira (second century B.C.E.). Ben Sira counsels not to “delay” in turning to God, for divine rage may come forth at any time and you would perish (5:7).35 For Ben Sira God’s punishment brings death. By contrast, for Rabbi Eliezer death is not punishment in itself. Death ends the opportunity for repentance and may lead to a great punishment in the world to come. Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim turns on the uncertain timing of death. At the surface level the instruction makes no sense, for few if any people know the day before they will die. The only way that one can repent one day before death is to repent every day. This point appears in the commentary of Rabbi Nathan: Repent one day before your death. Rabbi Eliezer’s students asked him: Can a person know on what day he will die, such that he can enact repentance? He said: Of course. Let him practice repentance today, lest he die tomorrow. So, all his days will be in repentance. (Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 15; also Rabbi Nathan B, ch. 29)36

According to this expansion, Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim aims to change behavior in any given moment: “So, all his days will be in repentance.” From the standpoint of the self-interested subject, one should repent in order to avoid punishment. From the standpoint of the teacher giving ethical instruction, repentance is the end rather than the means. The sage invokes a threat of punishment, and uncertainty about the future, to inspire particular practices in the present.37 The Babylonian Talmud presents Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim with expansions similar to that found in Rabbi Nathan.38 The Talmud elaborates this imagery through a parable attributed to Rabbi Eliezer’s teacher Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai. The midrashic foundation is Ecclesiastes 9:8, which calls for its

35. Segal, Sefer Ben Sira ha-shalem, 30–32. 36. Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 62; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 160– 161, 363. A slightly longer line is found in Rabbi Nathan A, MS New York Rab. 50: “He said: Of course, let him practice repentance today, lest he die tomorrow. Tomorrow let him repent lest he die the next day. So, all his days will be in repentance.” The passages in Rabbi Nathan B are somewhat longer and also cite Eccles. 9:8 as a supporting verse. 37. Urbach, The Sages, 467, 892 n 82–83; Ben Sira 18:21–22. Also see Rubin, Time and Life Cycle in Talmud and Midrash, 170 n 6. 38. The discussion with students also appears right after Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim in certain manuscripts of m. Avot, and this material is quoted in a discussion concerning God’s anger in Midrash Psalms to Psalm 90:11–13. See Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 102; Midrash Psalms 90:16 to Psalm 90:11–13; Urbach, The Sages, 892 n 82.

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own form of constant readiness: “At all times let your clothes be white, and oil upon your head you should not lack.” The parable describes a king who calls his servants to a feast, which was a common motif in late antiquity (Mt. 22:1–14; Lk. 14:15–24). The king does not set a time for the event. The wise ones are always ready, adorned, and at the door of the palace, but the foolish are careless and inattentive. Ultimately, the king lets the wise in to dine, and he is angry with the others: We learned there [in the Mishnah]: Rabbi Eliezer says: Repent one day before your death. Rabbi Eliezer’s students asked him: Can a person know on what day he will die? He said to them: Of course. Let him repent today lest he die tomorrow, and it will be the case that all of his days will be in repentance. Also, Solomon said in his wisdom: At all times let your clothes be white, and oil upon your head you should not lack (Eccles. 9:8). Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai said: A parable. [This can be compared to] a king who invited his servants for a feast but did not fix a time for them. The smart ones among them adorned themselves and sat at the door of the king’s palace, saying, “Is anything lacking in the king’s palace?” The foolish among them went about their business, saying, “Is there ever a feast without preparations?” Suddenly the king summoned his servants. The smart ones among them entered before him adorned, and the foolish ones entered before him dirty. The king was happy to meet the smart ones, and angry to meet the foolish ones. He said, “These who adorned themselves for the feast: they shall sit, eat, and drink. Those who did not adorn themselves for the feast: they will stand and watch” (b. Shab. 153a).39

The parable presents social relations before the standardization of time and proliferation of clocks and watches. In these contexts, those of lower ranks often suffered what David Landes calls “temporal servitude” in relation to their superiors: servants’ time belongs to a king. Here, servants have to be prepared at all moments for the start of the anticipated feast. The most pru-

39. This translation is based on the printed edition. I checked the manuscripts collected in the Sol and Evelyn Henkind Talmud Text Databank of the Saul Lieberman Institute of Talmudic Research (henceforth, Lieberman Text Databank). I did not find variants that have bearing on my points, except that two manuscripts do not have the phrase “and it will be the case that all of his days will be in repentance” (Munich 95 and Oxford Opp. Add. fol. 23). Given the parable that follows, however, I think the focus on constant readiness remains. Rachel Scheinerman pointed out to me the similarity with New Testament parables.

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dent are always adorned—in the terms of Ecclesiastes 9:8, with oil on the head and wearing white clothes.40 This teaching generalizes temporal servitude from a one-time feast of the emperor, to the full range of behavior throughout an entire life before God. Death is characterized as something to which all are “invited,” so the necessary response is constant “adornment” of oneself through right action (as commentary to Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim, right action indicates repentance). Divine judgment appears when God may either invite people to eat at the table or set them aside to watch. The parable emphasizes diligence but may also imply complaint or protest against these conditions of human existence before God and divine judgment.41 Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim and its development in the Babylonian Talmud address a rabbinic student standing before God, remembering sin and anticipating judgment, and able to repent. The student is to focus on the future, with certainty of eventual death, uncertainty as to when death will come, and awareness of the constant possibility that death may be near (see also b. Shab. 30a). This combination generates intensity in the present, a temporal servitude to the divine king, such that repentance becomes an ongoing activity. As the culmination to a long discussion of handling the dead, as well as one’s own aging and death, the point seems to be that before all of these things—before the hard days of old age, before the day when your eyes are shut—repentance should be a continual part of life.

Conclusion There are many ways that rabbinic sources set death in relation to life, and in this chapter I have examined two: Akavya ben Mahalalel’s awareness that death eventually comes to all and Rabbi Eliezer’s emphasis that death can come any day. For both, death brings the end of a person’s ability to act and repent before the divine. The two maxims and the midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7, alone and in combinations, captured the interest of numerous editorial streams from amoraic times until well after the compilation of the Talmuds. What does this influential material convey about the body, the divine, and ethics?

40. Landes, Revolution in Time, 46–47, 59; Huang, 1587, a Year of No Significance, 1–14. 41. D. Stern discusses parables that present complaints against God in Parables in Midrash, 130–145.

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The implied audience is not the elderly but younger students of the sages who look ahead toward advanced age. The texts encourage this audience to confront aging, disease, and death—in modern terms, these may be natural harms, but the word “natural” needs qualification. Not only does culture condition these processes in general, but specifically these passages present some disease, and some qualities of aging, as resulting from God’s action. Still, the texts present all bodies as subject to weakening in age and to death, whether rabbis like it or not. The full picture of the aging body is quite expansive. Bodies are cosmic and comparable to the sun, moon, stars, and clouds. Bodies are social with grinders, markets, mills, and powerful men as well as women who sing. Bodies ooze semen, genital discharges from disease, tears, and excrement. Bodies darken, including the forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, and lungs. Bodies tremble, writhe, and dwindle, especially the teeth, ribs, forearms, and knees. Bodies also quiet down, including the stomach and the lips. Advanced age brings loss of sight, loss of hearing, loss of sexual desire, and increased fears. In death, body parts break, including the skull, spinal cord, and the stomach. Finally, everything decays and returns to dust, except the coccyx that will sprout a new body in the world to come, if one is sufficiently righteous. Rabbis face this body through diverse literary forms, including biblical and mishnaic law, contrasts between sages and others, anecdotes of older men, parables, references to sacrifice and burial, and most often exegesis of biblical metaphors as indicating body parts (such as “And the grinders are idle. This is the stomach”). Aging and death appear through graphic imagery and changing modes of expression, not fixed terms or static concepts. We also see evasions. For example, accounts of the “old man” distance the audience from this figure and his aging by presenting him as other, not oneself, even though all who live long enough face such challenges. The texts imagine God as a creator and ruler who keeps accounts and judges. Parables present a king surrounded by a political and military apparatus, a pure priest who gives his food to others and expects return, and a king who invites his servants without warning to a feast. The discussions of embodiment reveal three conceptualizations of divine justice and a life span, and in two of them God evaluates and responds to human action. The first presents this-worldly consequences: the concluding line of Leviticus Rabbah 18:1 states that, in one’s youth and strength, God punishes wrong through disease. The second presents otherworldly consequences: the parables of the king and his array, and of the king who gives a ban-

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quet, state that God gives gradated rewards after death to the righteous. The third, though, presents bodily processes not subject to divine justice: often the portraits of bodily decline do not refer to the divine. Aging appears to be largely inevitable, a vulnerability that cannot be eliminated through right action before a just God.42 While one teaching claims that sages age differently than others (phrased differently in Leviticus Rabbah and in the Babylonian Talmud Shabbat), the others present age as affecting all people. The elaborate treatment of diminished sensation and sexual desire, moreover, foregrounds the actions and voice of a rabbi. These texts do not set out ethical instruction in any simple sense. Guidance for an aspiring sage appears through the framing: in Leviticus Rabbah through the opening quote of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim and the final commentary on Leviticus 15:2, and in the Babylonian Talmud through the final discussion of Rabbi Eliezer’s maxim. References to divine justice uphold ethics. Still, the long and detailed account of the body exceeds these concerns, spurred by both a commitment to exposit the biblical verses and an interest in the details of aging and dying. What is the pedagogical significance of the images illustrating old age? For Leviticus Rabbah there appear to be three facets, though they are not distinguished explicitly in the text. First, the weakening of age is a reminder that the student should be diligent while he has energy: in fulfilling commandments, in walking to visit colleagues, in attending to his marriage. This teaching is embedded in the call from Ecclesiastes to “remember” your creator, origin, and end “before” the days of old age come upon you. Second, old age is a metonymy for death itself, which marks the end of one’s ability to earn merit before the divine. The images of Ecclesiastes, filtered through rabbinic interpretation, expand Akavya ben Mahalalel’s call to “look upon . . . where you go,” which foregrounds God’s justice as what most matters in life.43 Third, old age marks the time when a person can finally understand what death really entails. Before then, the student in his youth should focus on reward and punishment in this world, because rabbis derive from Leviticus 15:2 the teaching: “if he sins he is smitten with discharge and leprosy.” Ethical instruction centered on death gains new significance in old age, though, once people have experienced the weakening of joints, muscles, emotional stability, and perception. These three 42. Harry Fox discusses Maimonides’ views about the inevitability of aging in “Maimonides on Aging,” 319–321. 43. William F. May observes that in the contemporary United States, the aged “remind the middle-aged of their own imminent destiny”: The Patient’s Ordeal, 123. I thank Sumner B. Twiss for recommending this book.

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elements are not unified, and to some degree the third is at odds with the other two. The combination, though, presents a powerful set of images that speaks in different ways to different audiences. For the Babylonian Talmud, it seems that “repent one day before your death” inspires urgency even before the face darkens, let alone on the day when others have to decide how your eyes should be shut. These texts face, in a distant cultural idiom, issues in bodily vulnerability that are very much alive today. Changes in hygiene, technology, and understandings of health should not be underestimated, but contemporary discussions of old age often point out the limits of modern medicine. Philip Roth’s novel Everyman, for example, portrays a character named Gwen who reflects upon her husband’s death by saying, “There’s a point at which the body wears out. . . . Old age is a battle, dear, if not with this, then with that. It’s an unrelenting battle, and just when you’re at your weakest and least able to call up your old fight.” Later, this image is reformulated in stronger terms: “Old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre.”44 In the midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7, we see a thorough treatment of the “this” and “that” of wearing out, from facial features through the torso and legs, from the body to the senses to basic desires and fears, and into death and the grave. Today many have access to technological resources for moderating these changes. Yet they still happen, even if glasses, hearing aids, joint replacements, and pharmaceutical stimulants for sexuality may stave off their effects for a time. 44. Roth, Everyman, 143–144, 155–156. Also, J. M. Coetzee writes of his character Paul Rayment, “He has a passage of crying, old-man’s crying which does not count because it comes too easily”: Slow Man, 215.

T WO

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A person should look upon three things each day: upon the time he enters the toilet, upon the time he has his blood let, and upon the time he stands over the dead. When he enters the toilet, he is told: See! Your ways are like the ways of a beast. When he has his blood let, he is told: See! You are flesh and blood. When he stands by the dead, he is told: See where you are going! —Seder Eliyahu Zuta 31

The early medieval ethical midrash Seder Eliyahu Zuta presents a teaching that draws upon the terminology, style, and symbolism of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim. As in Mishnah Avot 3:1, a person should “look” at three things, and one of those three things is “where you are going.” Excretion and the flow of blood become tangible reminders of creatureliness, and a dead body represents each person’s own future. The instruction plays upon the dual sense of histakkel (“look upon”) as linked with contemplation and with sight. On one hand, a person is to think about these events each day, whether or not they actually occur. On the other, all three experiences are concrete and visible. If one sees (r..h.) what is happening when feces or blood comes out of the body, or when near a corpse, the vulnerability and animality of the body are laid bare.2 1. Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 176. 2. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein translate histakkel in the text as “meditate”: “There are three occasions that one ought to meditate upon every day”: Tanna Debe Eliyahu: The Lore of the School of Elijah, 375. Other passages that play upon the dual sense of histakkel appear in Peter Schäfer, Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, 4–5. The literary context of this passage in Seder Eliyahu Zuta discusses divine judgment and human transgression, so the full unit

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This chapter examines one of the elements highlighted in Seder Eliyahu Zuta—defecation. What is the ethical significance of a body that excretes feces? Rabbis frankly discuss excretion in ethical instruction and legal debate. The texts present excrement as part of rabbis’ daily lives, on the ground and in the streets. Excretion is a recurrent action that includes going to an appropriate location, experiencing strong sensory stimulation, exposing nakedness, and cleaning oneself. These aspects of life raise difficulties for the sages, which they debate in their canonical texts. For these reasons, I begin with a theoretical framing that locates excretion as an ordinary part of life. David Harvey observes that the body is “porous” in that humans internalize elements from the natural world, transform them, and cast out reworked products. Humans also internalize elements from the social world, including language, and cast out reworked symbolic forms. This category draws attention to connections between consuming food and excreting waste, as well as links between eating, excreting, speaking, teaching, and learning—all of which appear in rabbinic sources.3 Other contemporary theoretical approaches examine how evacuation and its product inspire disgust, repression, and cultural marginalization as grotesque or uncivilized. I consider these dynamics at the end of this chapter. Rabbis respond to excretion and excrement in many ways, and within this diversity I identify two general patterns. First, excretion can be a synecdoche for human animality writ large, an aspect of embodiment that is not divine. The absence of excretion or excrement, in turn, conveys divinity. In short, “excretion = not-divine” and “no-excretion = divine.” Passages in Derekh Eretz Rabbah presume this conceptualization in guidance concerning bodily comportment and interpersonal relations. Second, excretion can be embraced as part of human embodiment in its fullness, all as created by God in the divine image. Passages in Leviticus Rabbah and Rabbi Nathan B celebrate this body as part of instruction to bathe and use the toilet. While these two conceptualizations appear to conflict, my core argument is that both become part of rabbinic pedagogy and instill complementary sagely values: to lead the student from transgression, to inspire humility, and to manage and care for the body.

links vulnerability with divine justice to inspire right action—as does the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel. 3. David Harvey formulates “porous” in Spaces of Hope, 98–99, 117–121; Justice, Nature, and the Geography of Difference, esp. 48–57, 79–87.

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Conceptual and Physical Contexts Feces have a fascinating place in biblical and later Jewish understandings of purity and cleanliness: often not technically impure but still dirty and contrasting with the holy. Priestly laws in the Pentateuch do not address urine or excrement as matters of purity, which appears to mean that these products do not contaminate. A narrative in Ezekiel 4:12–15, however, indicates that at least for priests, baking with fire made from human feces is defiling, though using cow’s dung is less so. A discussion of a siege in 2 Kings 6:25 indicates that cooking with some form of animal feces, perhaps “dove’s dung,” was not unusual. In another time of siege, though, a foreign leader taunts that people will have to eat their own excrement (Is. 36:12). Deuteronomy 23:13–15 addresses the management of excretions on an everyday basis, requiring an area for excretion outside the Israelites’ camp—one is to dig a hole there and then cover the excrement. The justification is that God walks in the camp, so it must be holy, and excrement is “unseemly” or “indecent” (erwat-davar). The passage labels neither the act nor the substance as defiling, and Deuteronomy sets out no procedure for purification (contrast the immediately preceding discussion of nocturnal emission in Deuteronomy 23:10–12). The Mishnah follows biblical senses but also lists excrement among borderline cases regarding purity. The Dead Sea Scrolls, by contrast, may preserve views that defecation is a polluting activity.4 While there is a rabbinic expression regularly translated as “toilet” or “privy” (bet kise), sanitary arrangements in the Mediterranean world were highly variable and not necessarily private. Only the wealthy had toilets in their houses. In cities, bathhouses and public toilets were common. Many toilets in Roman public baths were arranged in lines with water running below that carried off the waste. In homes, people often used chamber pots, or the bottom of a broken vase, and then emptied the contents in the streets. Relieving oneself in the street was not uncommon. Outside of

4. One way of conceptualizing the status of excrement in the Hebrew Bible is offered by Jacob Milgrom, who writes, “Excrement does not contaminate (Ezek 4:12–15, however, shows other priestly views) because in P, an impurity source has to represent the loss of life, not the loss of waste”: Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27, 2457. See also Davies, “Food, Drink and Sects,” 152. Rabbinic discussions of feces among borderline cases include m. Makshirin 6:7; also Sifra Metzora, Parashat Zavim 1. For differences between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Mishnah, see Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls, 107–113; Harrington, The Purity Texts, 106–108. Michael Lyons has helped me research these topics.

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large cities, people may have gone to places on the outskirts of town, in a field, or behind a fence or other barrier. The location, spatial arrangement, and privacy of the place where one evacuated could vary, then, depending on wealth, urban or rural setting, and time of day. As we will see, rabbinic sources often valued privacy, which may be linked with ideas of modesty and a negative view toward nakedness, but this does not necessarily mean that toilets were enclosed. More generally, I find it important to work inductively from any given discussion of a bet kise, staying close to the details offered in the texts but not presuming a standard physical space.5 Late ancient ways of disposing excrements and sewerage could generate health problems. Particularly in urban areas, lavatories were filled with cockroaches, flies, and bacteria. Gases from sewers at times caused explosions. Diseases from environmental conditions included cholera, dysentery, gastroenteritis, infectious hepatitis, and typhoid. Certain places, such as public baths, had water but still no soap or anti-bacterial washes. Romans appear to have wiped themselves after elimination with sponges attached to sticks, but it is not clear how or how well the sponges themselves were cleaned. In smaller towns and rural areas, the dangers may have been less. Still, there were likely material underpinnings for symbolic associations between excretion and death, for descriptions of toilets as places that can bring harm, and for worries about the functioning of orifices.6 Many readers today are insulated from these problems through reliance upon extensive infrastructure that requires tremendous amounts of energy and fresh water.

5. Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling, 259–260; 276–278; Baker, Rebuilding the House of Israel, 38–39; Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 105–107; Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation, and Mortality in the Roman World,” 407–422; Carcopino, Daily Life in Ancient Rome, 39–44. I have also learned much from Blake Leyerle’s current work on excrement in the homilies of John Chrysostom. 6. Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling, 277–278; Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation, and Mortality in the Roman World,” 407–422; Bakke, When Children Became People, 22–23; Stark, The Rise of Christianity, 152–156. A probable toilet at Qumran, and its possible impact on the health in the community, has generated extensive debate: Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 105–113; Zangenberg, “Books in Debate: The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls, by Jodi Magness,” 370 and generally 365–372; Harter et al., “Toilet Practices among Members of the Dead Sea Scrolls Sect at Qumran (100 BC–68 AD),” 579–584; Magness, “Toilet Practices at Qumran: a Response,” 277–278; Zias, “Qumran Toilet Practices: A Response to a Response,” 479–483 (including a brief reference to passages from the Babylonian Talmud on 483); Zias et al., “Toilets at Qumran, the Essenes, and the Scrolls: New Anthropological Data and Old Theories,” 631–640.

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Excretion and Humility (Derekh Eretz Rabbah 3:1) This phrase derekh eretz literally means “way of the land” but appears in rabbinic literature with a number of quite divergent senses, including worldly or business matters, sexual activity, etiquette, and supererogatory activity (actions beyond what is required by basic legal or ethical guidelines). Derekh Eretz Rabbah tends to focus on manners and the details of students’ behavior during study as well as in everyday life. This anthology consists of smaller units that likely circulated independently as manuals for conduct. I focus on chapters three through nine, known as Pirke Ben Azzai (the chapters of Ben Azzai).7 Chapter three begins with a version of Akavya ben Mahalalel’s maxim, here attributed to the tanna Ben Azzai: Ben Azzai says: Anyone who places these four things upon his heart and before his eyes will never sin again: from where he comes, to where he goes, who is his judge, and what in the future he will become. (Der. Er. Rab. 3:1)8

7. Sperber, “Manuals of Rabbinic Conduct”; Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 1–18; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 69, 217–218 n 16. The transmission of Derekh Eretz Rabbah through manuscripts and printed editions is very complicated. In his critical edition, Higger bases his main text on Oxford Bodleian 1098, then sets out an extensive apparatus with many manuscript variants. Loopik, in his recent translation and commentary, uses a different manuscript from the Jewish Theological Seminary (Adler 2237), which Higger labels in his edition as vd. Comparison between just these two texts reveals significant differences: Adler 2237 is in certain places condensed and elliptical, but also has passages not present in Bodleian 1098. For my translations I follow Higger’s presentation of the Oxford manuscript, and in my analysis I note differences from other sources and particularly JTS Adler 2237 when useful or interesting. The manuscripts and contents are discussed in Higger, The Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 25–26, 44–45, and generally 7–53; Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 12–13, 19–20, and generally 1–25. 8. Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 155–156. The form of the maxim here is slightly different from Mishnah Avot 3:1. These differences have been discussed in Steinmetz, “Distancing and Brining Near,” 78–88; Finkelstein, Introduction to the Treatises Abot and Abot of Rabbi Nathan, 53–55 and 64–67; Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Abot de Rabbi Nathan) Version B, 189 n 15. In Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 19 and Rabbi Nathan B, ch. 32, the maxim is in the name of Akavya ben Mahalalel (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 69; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 181–2, 366). Loopik discusses the differences between the texts in Derekh Eretz Rabbah and Rabbi Nathan A and B in The Ways of the Sages, 82–83. In Kallah Rab. 6, all the material in Der. Er. Rab. 3 appears with commentary. Following the passage I have quoted, Derekh Eretz Rabbah presents a flurry of statements describing where one comes from and goes, each with its own subtleties: Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 156–158. These accounts have received extensive scholarly attention, including comparisons with the Gospel of Thomas (55): Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1292–1293 to t. Hag. 2:5, 7;

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Just a bit later in Derekh Eretz Rabbah, a parable emphasizes the large intestines and colon as constant reminders that humans are beastly and not fully divine: Rabbi Eliezer ben Jacob says: A human is beautiful and praiseworthy but casts out an ugly thing from his mouth. A parable—to what can this matter be compared? To a great dining hall (t.raqlin) with a tannery pipe set in the middle of it. Every passerby says, “How beautiful would this dining hall be, if a tannery pipe were not set in the middle of it.” So, a human is beautiful and praiseworthy, and also casts out an ugly thing from his mouth. If he were to cast out from his bowels foliatum or balsam or any sort of scented oil, how much the more would he exalt himself over the created beings! (Der. Er. Rab. 3:3)

The imagery conveys disgust: a human “casts out an ugly thing from his mouth” (other variations include “something that the eye cannot look at” and “a filthy stream”). The word “mouth” is probably a euphemistic reference to the anus, for the Hebrew word peh can refer to various openings, like the English “mouth.” The “ugly thing” may also imply improper speech emerging from the lips and tongue.9 The spatial imagery of the parable has strong resonances in late ancient culture. A major element in houses of the wealthy, especially in the Eastern Roman Empire and including Palestine, was a triclinium (Hebrew: t.riqlin or t.raqlin; Greek: triklinion; Latin: triclinium). This structure was a dining hall with three couches set up in a ∏ or U shape, and people would recline and eat upon them. In rabbinic sources, a triclinium can be the location of rabbinic instruction and sometimes has symbolic links with reward in the world to come (Lev. Rab. 16:2; m. Avot 4:16). The parable connects this place of elite dining with the waste of a tannery, which carries associations with unpleasant odor, dead animals, and dog excrement (m. B. Bat. 2:9; m. Ket. 7:10; b. Ket. 77a–b; t. Ber. 2:16). Luxury

Lieberman, “How Much Greek in Jewish Palestine?” 136–137; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 107. 9. Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 159–161. The parallel in Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 19 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 70; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 182) says that the human casts out a “filthy stream” (or in one manuscript, “excrement”). See also Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 202–204. Loopik understands the addition of “from his mouth” to be “an application of the statement as an admonition not to say indecent things” (Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 84–85).

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is tainted by labor, good taste by bad smell, and dining by waste and excrement.10 The final lines express, perhaps through a veil of humor, a desire to transcend human animality: a fanciful wish to excrete scented oils from the bowels rather than what actually emerges. No matter how much people may try to beautify themselves, excrement is a regular reminder that humans are not divine and can only partially exalt themselves over other creatures (angels in the heavens neither eat nor excrete). In a literary context framed by Ben Azzai’s saying about mortality and God’s judgment, this parable about defecation functions pedagogically to inspire humility before God. An everyday activity takes on a distinct role in reminding the aspiring sage how he should view himself in relation to the divine.11

Etiquette and the Alimentary Canal (Derekh Eretz Rabbah, ch. 7) Derekh Eretz Rabbah (especially Pirke Ben Azzai) has a distinct concern with action in everyday space. Several chapters and other literary units begin with the example of a person leaving or entering another’s house, or a bathhouse, or some other location. More generally, we see ideals for rabbis walking together, going through the spaces between towns, and hosting another person or being hosted in someone else’s house. The material conveys that all social space, not only the study house and synagogue, is subject to rabbinic pedagogy and offers opportunity to learn behavior appropriate to students of the sages. In particular, chapter seven of Derekh Eretz Rabbah sets out instructions for the management of the porous body, discussing the dining table (7:1–3), bathhouse (7:3–4), and toilet (7:6). I focus on instructions for eating and excreting. The chapter begins at the mouth. The first two passages present a dining table where, as was common in the Roman Empire, people ate and took food from the communal plate with their fingers. The first teaching sets out the meal as a ritual in which temporal order reflects hierarchy. Greater 10. I have learned much from Gil Klein’s current research on triclinia. Also see Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period, 21–107, 260–261; Dunbabin, “Ut Graeco More Biberetur: Greeks and Romans on the Dining Couch,” 81–101; Dunbabin, “Triclinium and Stibadium,” 121–148; Carcopino, Daily Life in Ancient Rome, 263–276. Jordan Rosenblum offered helpful suggestions on these points. 11. On the angels not eating, at least in the heavens, see Goodman, “Do Angels Eat?” 160– 175. Kallah Rabbati 6 suggests that, if humans did not have orifices and need to excrete, the tendency toward self-exaltation and rebellion against God would be all the greater; also see Ben Sira 10:9.

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rabbinic sages and students eat before lesser, very likely having their choice of the food: Two who were sitting at a dining table (shulh.an): the greater of them extends his hand first and then the lesser. One who extends his hand before another who is greater than he—this is a glutton (Der. Er. Rab. 7:1). A story about Rabbi Akiva, who made a feast for his students: he brought them two dishes, one raw and one cooked. First he brought them the raw one. The brightest of them grabbed the stalk in one hand and tore it, but it did not tear. He withdrew his hand and ate his bread plain. The dullest of them grabbed the stalk with his two hands and tore at it. Rabbi Akiva said to him: Not like that, my son, but rather rest your heel on it in the plate and tear it. After that he brought them the cooked one. They ate and drank and were satisfied. After they ate and drank, he said to them: My sons, I did all this to you only to check whether or not you had derekh eretz. (Der. Er. Rab. 7:2)12

The first passage portrays two people, one with greater status than the other (compare t. Ber. 5:7, b. Ber. 47a, b. Git. 59b), while the second specifies a sage and students. We see no signs of rabbis dining with women or addressing women one way or another, though the statement that Rabbi Akiva “made” the feast likely indicates that he hosted it rather than cooked it, presuming women’s labor. We do not know the number of participants or their ages, except that two students are old enough to take on the commandments. We also do not know whether the students reclined or sat, though the text portrays a central table with food presented communally and no mention of a triclinium. The lack of details makes the ethical teachings quite flexible in relation to eating patterns, and they can be adapted to changing standards of “greater” and “lesser” as well as changing ways of arranging bodies when consuming food and drink.13

12. Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 214–217. The reference to the “heel” (aqev) is a pun with Rabbi Akiva’s name (aqiva). Jonathan Boyarin first pointed out this detail to me. Loopik understands Rabbi Akiva’s comment to be an “ironic remark,” understanding “heel” to be the heel of the foot (The Ways of the Sages, 114–115). Another interpretation would be that “heel” indicates the rear or back part of the hand, and Rabbi Akiva is not being ironic but teaching an appropriate method of handling the vegetable. 13. Rosenblum examines tannaitic regulations concerning preparation and consumption of food, including accounts of women preparing food and their lack of presence at the table: Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism. See also Noy, “The Sixth Hour Is the Mealtime for Scholars: Jewish Meals in the Roman World,” 134–144. Hezser presents a full analysis of status differences among rabbis, including a detailed treatment of the words “greater” (gadol) and “lesser” (qat.an), in Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, 255–306.

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Rabbi Akiva says that he tests his students to see whether or not they have derekh eretz, in this case meaning appropriate behavior when handling and consuming food at the table. The sage places raw, difficult-tohandle food on the table, watches what they do, and instructs the bolder, foolish one. The bright and dull students, though, are not all that different. Both understand the order in which they are to eat (the dull one does not try to eat first). Neither knows how to handle the food. The dull one is more aggressive and persistent, while the bright one is humble and withdraws. A bit later in the chapter, moreover, an anonymous teaching presents humility as equal in importance to two other major rabbinic virtues: Three things are weighed as equal in relation to each other: wisdom, reverence, and humility. (Der. Er. Rab. 7:5)

In part, then, the story of Rabbi Akiva and the bold student upholds table manners (how to eat a vegetable, which is also addressed in other maxims) and perhaps the virtue of humility. I see another and perhaps more primary value. Rabbi Akiva exemplifies a sage who educates rabbinic students in bodily comportment. In Roman culture, at least in wealthy families, a child is socialized by slaves before being admitted to the dining table. Here Rabbi Akiva teaches students propriety during a feast itself. The ethical discourse frames life in everyday space as pedagogical: each location becomes a potential site of instruction for behavior.14 Derekh Eretz Rabbah 7:6 sets out toilet practices for a body that in major respects is not-divine. Excretion is a regular, perhaps daily process that brings the animal, non-holy aspects of the self to sight and scent. How does an aspiring sage handle his body given this condition? The passage can be divided into three sections, which I label for the sake of reference as A, B, and C. The first sets out appropriate behavior at the toilet: the direction one faces, the moment at which one reveals nakedness, and the hand used to clean oneself. The second justifies these guidelines through 14. Other instructions for table manners include Der. Er. Rab. 6:5 and Der. Er. Zut. 6:5 (Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 118, 212–213). See also Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 112–113, 277. Loopik notes that some manuscripts portray the foolish student biting the vegetable with his teeth, and he interprets this detail in naturalistic terms—the underlying issue is avoiding the spread of disease: see JTS Adler 2237 among others (Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 216); Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 114–115. For Der. Er. Rab. 7:5 and parallels see Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 219; Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 117, 269–270. In the Tosefta and Babylonian Talmud, Rabbi Akiva’s actions at a feast for his son also become models of appropriate action (t. Shab. 7:9; b. Shab. 67b).

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the example of a sage, and the third gives further explanations regarding the hand for cleaning: (A) One who enters the toilet (bet kise): He shall not turn his face to the east and his rear to the west, but rather to the sides. He should not uncover himself until he sits. He should not wipe with his right but with his left. (B) A story of Rabbi Akiba, who followed Rabbi Yehoshua to see his deed: He saw that he only entered the toilet room by the sides, he did not uncover himself until he sat down, and he did not clean with his right but with the left. (C) Why did the sages say that a man does not clean with his right but with his left? Rabbi Eliezer says: Because he eats with it. Rabbi Yehoshua says: Because he points out the accents of the Torah with it. (Der. Er. Rab. 7:6)15

The passages presume that modesty is important, nakedness offends the divine, and excrement and the holy must be separated. The discussion of bodily orientation in A implies a relation to the Temple, but the underlying problem is ambiguous: should one avoid exposure in the direction of the Temple, or alignment with its east-west axis? (these and other questions emerge in Talmudic discussion; see b. Ber. 61b). Sections B and C justify the guidelines in A. In B, Rabbi Yehoshua defines correct practice through action, and Rabbi Akiva intimately observes his teacher to learn these norms. In C, Rabbi Yehoshua and his contemporary Rabbi Eliezer elaborate the instruction concerning the appropriate hand for cleaning, keeping excrement apart from food and the Torah.16 While the text that I have been quoting ends at 7:6, in some manuscripts the chapter concludes with an additional teaching: A person should not rejoice among those who weep, nor weep among those who rejoice. He should not be awake among those who sleep, nor sleep among those who are awake. He should not stand among those who sit nor sit among those who stand. 15. Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 219–221; also Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 40 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 128; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 282–283). 16. Satlow discusses nakedness in “Jewish Constructions of Nakedness in Late Antiquity,” 429–454. Jaffee notes that sages define norms through action in Torah in the Mouth, 77–78; also m. Ber. 1:4 and t. Ber. 1:4.

Elimination / 63 The general rule of the matter is: a person should not differ in his constitution (daat) from his fellows and other people. (Der. Er. Rab. 7:7)17

In this final statement, the focus is not on learning from the authority of a sage—whether Rabbi Akiva learning from his teacher Rabbi Yehoshua, or Rabbi Akiva teaching his students—but rather on bringing one’s behavior in line with peers. This agreement includes emotion, stance, and cycles of sleep. The key point is that one’s constitution should not differ from others (the noun daat is built from a root for knowing or knowledge, but as a part of the self it can have both intellectual and emotional elements). What patterns emerge when we consider chapter seven of Derekh Eretz Rabbah as a unit? The section includes detailed discussion of bodily processes in everyday spaces, particularly the table and the toilet (the bathhouse is also mentioned in 7:3–4). The rabbinic explanations uphold humility (7:5), following the example of a teacher (7:6), and conformity with others (7:7). In addition, implicit in the material are a number of oppositions, including dull/bright, assertive/restrained, raw/cooked, naked/clothed, and left/right. Appropriate manners or derekh eretz, in these cases, consists in maintaining association with the cooked, clothed, and restrained. We see here a detailed articulation of a common theme in rabbinic religiosity: Torah and derekh eretz complete nature or bring nature in line with what is holy. The process and product of excretion are managed within this framing.

Babylonian Transformations Near the end of Babylonian Talmud Berakhot, rabbinic editors have gathered many teachings concerning toilets, often portraying them as dangerous places with snakes, scorpions, and supernatural beings. Numerous sages comment upon the process of defecation, attending to its symbolic importance and practical management. The privacy demanded for the act generates a very public discussion of intimate bodily vulnerabilities. A consistent theme is the need for modesty. The sources aim to delineate the time and place of elimination in situations where toilets may have been difficult to reach, particularly during the night (b. Ber. 61b–62b; excrement is also a recurring topic in m. Ber. 3:5, b. Ber. 22b–26a).

17. These lines do not appear in appear in Oxford Bodleian 1098, but they do in JTS Adler 2237 and many other sources: Higger, Treatises Derek Erez, Hebrew section 221; Loopik, The Ways of the Sages, 120, 271–272. See also Kallah Rabbati 10.

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A mishnaic law states that one should not act irreverently or talk frivolously when facing the eastern gate of the Temple (m. Ber. 9:5). According to the Babylonian commentary, this prohibition concerns defecation.18 The opening of the commentary discusses themes and opinions found in Derekh Eretz Rabbah 7:6, including the direction one faces while at the toilet, the need for modesty, and the hand used when cleaning (b. Ber. 61b–62a). A series of three narratives begins with Rabbi Akiva following Rabbi Yehoshua into the toilet. Derekh Eretz Rabbah 7:6 presents this scene in a relatively straightforward way. Rabbi Akiva’s report of his teacher’s practice reinforces a maxim’s directive. Here in the Babylonian Talmud, the narrative explores two ideals. Students should observe their teachers because pedagogy is important. Students should leave their teachers alone in certain settings because modesty is important. This juxtaposition resonates with a larger tendency in rabbinic thought to employ borderline and ambiguous cases to sharpen reflection upon practice.19 The Talmud places in a sequence two stories about the toilet and one about the bedroom. They have a common literary structure and concluding line, so I treat them as a unit: It has been taught, Rabbi Akiva said: Once I entered the toilet after Rabbi Yehoshua, and I learned from him three things. I learned that one does not turn [to ease oneself] east and west but rather north and south. I learned that one does not uncover oneself standing but rather sitting. And I learned that one does not wipe with the right but with the left. Ben Azzai said to him: You are insolent with your master even to this point?! He said to him: It is Torah, and I must learn. It has been taught, Ben Azzai said: Once I entered the toilet after Rabbi Akiva, and I learned from him three things. I learned that one does not turn [to ease oneself] east and west but rather north and south. I learned that one does not uncover oneself standing but rather sitting. And I learned that one does not wipe with the right but with the left.

18. Eliav, “The Temple Mount and the Poetics of Memory,” 68–70; Eliav, God’s Mountain, 203–205. 19. See the study of improbable and borderline cases in Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, 126–127, 150–167, 174–219. The Palestinian Talmud contains a series of two narratives that may represent an intermediary stage in the development of these traditions: y. Ber. 9:5 (14c); Friedman, “A Good Story Deserves Retelling: The Unfolding of the Akiva Legend,” 76 and generally 71–100.

Elimination / 65 Rabbi Yehudah said to him: You are insolent with your master even to this point?! He said to him: It is Torah, and I must learn. Rav Kahana entered and lay down beneath the bed of Rav. He heard that he was talking and laughing and having sexual intercourse. He said: The mouth of Abba [= Rav] appears as if he has never sipped from the dish. He [Rav] said to him: Kahana, get out! This is not proper behavior! He said to him: It is Torah, and I must learn. (b. Ber. 62a)20

The opening story is similar to that in Derekh Eretz Rabbah 7:6, though rather than a third-person description (“A story of Rabbi Akiba, who went after Rabbi Yehoshua to see his deed . . .”), in this case Rabbi Akiva employs the first-person (“Once I entered the toilet after Rabbi Yehoshua . . .”). Rabbi Akiva’s contemporary Ben Azzai criticizes him, calling the act insolence. This line changes the fundamental issues of the narrative. The key problem is no longer how one goes to the toilet, but the spatial boundaries of rabbinic teaching and learning. Does watching a teacher’s behavior at the toilet violate his privacy and undermine his attempts to be modest? Rabbi Akiva affirms that Torah encompasses even bodily comportment when evacuating, and learning requires him to follow the example of his superior. The story is repeated, with the critic now the student: Ben Azzai follows Rabbi Akiva into the toilet, and he then receives criticism by a student from the next generation of rabbis. Perhaps Rabbi Yehudah will then follow Ben Azzai. In any case, a small genealogy of teaching and learning etiquette is created: from Rabbi Yehoshua to Rabbi Akiva and at last to Ben Azzai.21 Again rabbis make everyday space pedagogical. Rabbi Akiva learns and teaches the minute details of handling the porous body, and he shows that 20. This translation is based on the printed edition. The Lieberman Text Databank includes manuscript variants that have bearing on these points. For the two stories about the toilet, in some cases the order of the three teachings is different (not uncovering while standing comes before not facing east or west). In one case Ben Azzai does not appear, and we have a single story of Rabbi Akiva entering the toilet and Rabbi Yehudah criticizing him (Munich 95). For the story of Rav and Rav Kahana, in one manuscript Rav Kahana’s remark is a bit more critical (Munich 95). Discussions of Rav Kahana and Rav include Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, 28; Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 22–25; Biale, Eros and the Jews, 53, 249 n 124. 21. There has been extensive scholarly discussion regarding the chain of transmission in m. Avot; for a recent discussion with references see Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 208–240. Another small chain of transmission, found in t. Hag. 2:2, centers on mystical knowledge: Swartz, “Mystical Texts,” 398, and generally 393–420; Schäfer, The Origins of Jewish Mysticism, 195–196.

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any place is appropriate for a student to learn from teacher. The Talmud does not presume that parents necessarily teach children appropriately, or that students learn correct procedure on their own. Rather, these narratives teach the student how to handle himself, they instruct the aspiring sage to teach these matters to his own students, and they acknowledge the delicate nature of both the everyday act and the interpersonal process of giving instruction. The third story differs from the first two on a number of points. The setting shifts from Palestine to Babylonia. The narrative is told in the third person. The space is now the bedroom rather than the toilet. The act in question is not excretion but intercourse. The interactions are no longer only among rabbis, for Rav’s wife is present. Rav Kahana does not simply learn from his teacher but characterizes his teacher’s sexual activity pejoratively through a metaphor of a man consuming food: “sipped from the dish.” The criticism of the observer is voiced not by a colleague or student, but by the teacher himself. Finally, the story is told in Aramaic, though the last line (“It is Torah, and I must learn”) is in Hebrew. What is the overall significance of these details for interpreting this story and its place in the larger sequence? The story of Rav and Rav Kahana is one of a three Babylonian accounts in which this student comments on his teacher’s sexual practices. A near parallel appears in Babylonian Talmud Hagiga 5b, but without the final line (“It is Torah, and I must learn”). Also, Rav Kahana notes his teacher’s diminishing desire with age in Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 152b. These materials have drawn the attention of scholars studying sex and sexuality in rabbinic culture, who ask whether the rabbinic editors censure Rav’s sexual activity through the voice of Rav Kahana. Rav Kahana does two things that impose upon his teacher: he enters and observes, and he makes a derisive comment. Rav states that Rav Kahana’s behavior is not proper. Rav Kahana’s rebuttal counters this claim by saying that the issue is in fact a matter of “Torah,” and even the bedroom is a pedagogical space. Rav Kahana can justify his presence in the bedroom to learn, but not his critical speech, whose echoes linger as inappropriate.22 As redacted in this sequence, the story of Rav and Rav Kahana addresses learning and teaching. The sequence juxtaposes excretion and intercourse (and also mentions consumption in “sipped from the dish”). This juxtapo-

22. Biale, Eros and the Jews, 53, 249 n 124; Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 122–125; Satlow, Tasting the Dish, 298 n136. Klawans discusses intercourse and purity in Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 21–26, 94–97.

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sition does not condemn sexuality but presents a pedagogical problem and response. In the first two stories, excretion is a boundary case for discussing the limits of rabbinic instruction. The third turns to the topic of sexual intercourse and the space of the bedroom. The final line of each story encompasses the bodily functions within the realm of Torah. Excretion and intercourse are important dimensions of life that require instruction, and teachers are valuable models for correct rabbinic behavior. Teachers are also embodied and vulnerable, and their modesty should be respected. A student’s learning can conflict with a teacher’s modesty, but ultimately the demands of teaching trump privacy and reserve. Rav Kahana’s arguably inappropriate comment, which brings his teacher’s rebuke, reveals that even if a student can justify following his teacher into private realms, there are limits to what constitutes acceptable behavior. These limits may be all the more important given the presence of Rav’s wife. Though she is unnamed and we do not hear her voice, she changes the situation. Her presence breaks the image of an all-male pedagogical world and reminds the audience that even sages have relations and dependencies beyond the disciple circle. The editors bring this story in line with the others through the final words, but its nuances remain to disrupt the pattern of pedagogical intensity.23

Caring for the Divine Image (Leviticus Rabbah 34:3 and Rabbi Nathan B, ch. 30 and 48) The sources examined so far treat human excretion as a sign of creatureliness and a reason for humility. Other passages convey a closer association between excretion and divine presence in the world. A blessing, which is still part of Jewish observance today, centers on the functioning of orifices: Blessed is He who formed the human being in wisdom, and created in it many orifices and cavities. It is revealed and known before the throne of your Glory that if one of them opened or one of them were stopped up, it would be impossible to stand before You. (b. Ber. 60b)24

23. Satlow emphasizes the importance of interpreting the roles of women in rabbinic narratives: “Fictional Women: A Study in Stereotypes,” 225–243. 24. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 34–35; Tabory, “Prayers and Berakot,” 319. This prayer has a loose parallel in an eastern Christian source. Nemesius of Emesa, as part of a discussion of willed movement in On the Nature of the Human, affirms the greatness of God’s creation in weaving together the physical and the psychical, the body and the soul. His example is excretion: while defecation is among the most purely physical bodily processes, humans have

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Connections between bodily functions and the divine also appear in teachings that celebrate the human body as a whole, including orifices and excretions. I focus on stories of the early sage Hillel, who upholds bathing in the bathhouse and excretion at the toilet as caring for the body as the divine image. Hillel’s teachings center on humans being in the image of God, a highly influential motif that builds on Genesis 1:26–28 and 9:5–7. There has been extensive scholarship on Jewish formulations of the divine image, which I will not attempt to review here. I focus upon the pedagogical employment of the motif, for asserting that humans are in the image of God has a strong persuasive force that can be used for many purposes.25 These stories interpret the image of God as the human body, including excretions of the skin and the digestive system, and prescribe care for the body through bathing and toilet practices. A version in Leviticus Rabbah addresses only bathing, and Rabbi Nathan B presents a longer account that includes the toilet. In Leviticus Rabbah, the story is part of an extended homiletical midrash. The most immediate exegetical inspiration is a verse from Proverbs: A pious man benefits himself; a cruel man makes trouble for himself. (Prov. 11:17)

The editors develop the idea that a pious man cares for himself and also for those who are his kin. Hillel is a sage who “benefits himself” by washing his body at the bathhouse: A pious man benefits himself (Prov. 11:17). This is Hillel the Elder. When Hillel the Elder would depart from his students, he would start walking. the power to restrain evacuations and wait for appropriate times. Telfer, Cyril of Jerusalem and Nemesius of Emesa, 372–373. I thank Cameron Elliot Partridge for this reference. 25. Lorberbaum, Image of God, esp. 12–23; Goshen-Gottstein, “The Body as Image of God in Rabbinic Literature,” 171–195; Urbach, The Sages, 217. Also note the overview of scholarship about the death penalty in Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 8, 54–57. Persuasive elements are present in the biblical text itself. In Gen. 1:26–28 the image of God supports the claim that humans have dominion over the creatures of the earth. In Gen. 9:5–7 the issue at stake is the prohibition of manslaughter and the relevant legal retribution; see Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel, 318–321. Further complexities emerge in early rabbinic exegesis: t. Yev. 8:7; b. Yev. 63b; Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh 8 (Horovitz and Rabin, Mechilta d’Rabbi Ishmael, 233). See also Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 134–136; Lorberbaum, Image of God, 292–306; Goshen-Gottstein, “The Body as Image of God,” 190–192; Eliezer Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 35–36; Schofer, “The Image of God: A Study of an Ancient Sensibility”; Schofer, “In the Image of God,” 5.

Elimination / 69 His students said to him: My master, where are you going? He would say to them: To fulfill a commandment. They said to him: What commandment is Hillel fulfilling? He said to them: To wash in the bathhouse. They said to him: This is a commandment?” He said to them: Yes. If it is the case that, for statues of kings that they place in their theaters and circuses, one who is appointed over them polishes and washes them, and they give him an allowance—not only that, but he is raised up among the great men of the empire—then for us, who are created in the image and the likeness, for it is written, For in the image of God He made the human (Gen. 9:6), how much the more! (Lev. Rab. 34:3)26

The biblical claim that all humans are in the image of God had political force in the context of the ancient Near East. Kings often claimed to have a connection to the divine, but these verses challenge that authority by asserting that all people, and not only the ruler, are like the deity.27 Hillel’s teaching develops a similar line of argument with reference to Roman rulers and their statues, which were prevalent in the eastern Mediterranean. He contrasts the statue of a king with the human body, and implicitly the Roman emperor with God. By upholding the human body as greater than the statue, he asserts that the rabbis’ deity is greater than any human ruler, even or especially if the ruler claims divine status for himself. More generally, Hillel affirms the value of the human body and the need to care for tangible needs.28 In Rabbi Nathan B, two stories frame care for the body as care for the divine image. They reinforce this concern with corporeality through repetition of the word “body” (guf) at the conclusion of each anecdote. The exegetical context is a maxim attributed to the first century Rabbi Yose, “Let all your actions be for the sake of Heaven.”29 The commentators assert that one should do so “like Hillel”: 26. Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 775–777. 27. Loewenstamm, “Man as Image and Son of God,” 1–2. 28. Lorberbaum, Image of God, 307–308. Eliav argues that Jewish bathhouses existed but did not have statues. He observes that in this story, Hillel describes statues in theaters and circuses but not bathhouses: Eliav, “Did the Jews at First Abstain from Using the Roman BathHouse?” 30–31 and generally 3–35; Eliav, “The Roman Bath as a Jewish Institution,” 416–454, esp. 436–437. Also see Urbach, The Sages, 226–227; Rubin, The End of Life, 61; Rubin, “The Sages’ Conception of Body and Soul,” 56; Goshen-Gottstein, “The Body as Image of God,” 174–175. 29. M. Avot 2:12, Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 30; also Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 17 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 65–66; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 174, 364).

70 / Chapter Two When Hillel would leave to go some place, they would say to him: Where are you going? I am going to fulfill a commandment. Which commandment, Hillel? I am going to the toilet. Is that a commandment? Hillel said to them: Yes, so that one would not degrade the body (ha-guf). Where are you going, Hillel? I am going to fulfill a commandment. Which commandment, Hillel? I am going to the bathhouse. Is that a commandment? He said to them: Yes, to clean the body (ha-guf). Know for yourself that this is so. If it is the case that, for statues standing in the palaces of kings, one is appointed over them to shine and polish them, and the empire gives him an allowance every year—not only that, but he is raised up among the great men of the empire—then for us, who are created in the image and likeness, as it is written, For in the image of God He made the human (Gen. 9:6), how much the more! (Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 30)30

In Leviticus Rabbah 34:3 the context highlights the sage’s care for his own body: “A pious man benefits himself” (Prov. 11:17). Here, the framing directs attention to the divine: all of one’s actions should be “for the sake of Heaven.” Care of the body as the divine image serves God.31 Bathing in the bathhouse and excretion at the toilet are both ways of fulfilling commandments. The story does not explicate exactly how going to the toilet supports the body. The implicit issue may be temporal (he goes to defecate when the need arises, rather than waiting), or it may be spatial (he goes specifically to the location of the toilet rather than defecating somewhere else). The temporal focus is likely primary, as several Babylonian teachings affirm that excreting immediately is beneficial to the body (b. Ber. 62a–b; b. Git. 70a).32

30. Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 66; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 364. In comparison with Leviticus Rabbah, the location of the statues has shifted from theaters and circuses to royal palaces. See also Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 204– 206; Schofer, “The Image of God: A Study of an Ancient Sensibility”; Schofer, “In the Image of God,” 5. 31. Lorberbaum, Image of God, 291–306. 32. Geller suggests that the emphasis upon evacuating immediately may reflect “general wisdom which was promulgated throughout the Graeco-Roman world,” and he cites passages from Galen: Geller, “Diet and Regimen in the Babylonian Talmud,” 228–230.

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Rabbinic sources uphold care of the porous body in several other ways. For example, certain rabbinic editors compiled information about diet and health that echo regimens of Greco-Roman medical texts, often in the form of lists.33 These lists set out specific balances of diet, sleep, exercise, sexual activity, and other activities to bring health and strength. Rabbi Nathan B includes a collection that addresses various excretions: Three tears are harmful for the eyes: tears because of smoke and tears because of the lance, and tears from grief are the worst of all. Some say: tears because of a large onion. Three tears are beneficial for the eyes: tears because of leek plants and tears because of eye salve; and the tears of laughter are better than both. Some say: tears because of a small onion. Three things make the body grow: old wine, fat meat, and fine flour. Some say: also fowl. Three things increase sperm: garlic and eggs, garden pepper cress, and garden rocket. Three things decrease sperm: barley bread, rue, and clover. Four things increase excrement: barley bread and black bread, new wine and greens. Three things enter the body in their natural state: beans, lupine, and lentils. [And some say: Three other things also:] sesame, the seeds of flax, and date-berries. (Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 48)34

The lists discuss tears, sperm, feces, and various foods, all in the context of trying to benefit the body. Scattered throughout the Talmud and ethical literature are other lists of medicines, foods that are beneficial or harmful, and healthy ways to engage in activities such as sexual intercourse, bathing, 33. Geller, “Diet and Regimen in the Babylonian Talmud,” 224–230 and generally 217– 242; Lorberbaum, Image of God, 318–320; Gleason, Making Men, esp. 82–102; Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, 95–139; Foucault, The Care of the Self, 99–144. 34. H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 407–408; Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 131–132; Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 206–208. For translations of the items, I have generally followed Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, 298–299. The manuscripts have a number of variants. Most important for the topic at hand, Schechter and Kister’s edition has “Three things increase excrement,” but Becker’s edition presents all manuscripts as stating, “Four things.” Both editions list four items. Also, the phrase “Three things enter the body in their natural state” is difficult. Saldarini suggests these may be things that do not benefit the body. One manuscript states, “Three things enter as they are and come out as they are” (MS München 222), which would convey that they are not digested. See Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 132 esp. n 11; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 408; Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan 299 n 22; and b. Ber. 57b.

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blood letting, and the drinking of wine. Some of these activities are at the center of polemics and debates in other rabbinic sources, particularly bathing and intercourse. In lists of regimen, cultural controversies appear to be left aside, and the issue at stake is bodily strength.35

Conclusion We see in these passages the serious attention that rabbis give to the porous body and some of the many ways they portray excretion. Ethical instruction considers excrement alongside tears and semen, and texts pair the toilet with a dining hall, a bathhouse, or a tannery. A passage may link going to the toilet with sexual intercourse, dining, blood letting, or standing over the dead. Rabbis contrast human excretion with several different aspects of divinity and holiness: God’s reward and punishment in response to human action, God’s creation of humans in the divine image, the angels who do not eat or excrete, the Temple Mount even after its destruction, and also the ritual use of a pointer when reading the Torah. Within this complexity, I have identified two ways that rabbis situate excretion in relation to sacrality. The first separates excretion from what his holy and associates excretion with animality and humility. The intestines are a “tannery pipe” whose waste reminds an aspiring sage that he is beastly and not angelic. When he goes to the toilet, he should arrange his body to be out of alignment with the Temple, reveal nakedness as little as possible, and clean himself with the hand not used for sacred activities.36 35. The longest discussion of remedies and regimen is in b. Git. 68b–70a, which includes discussion of digestion and evacuation. Richard Kalmin writes about this material, “several unattributed cures found on b. Gittin 69b are very likely citations from medical manuals reported without introductory terminology.” Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 74–75. Other examples in Talmudic and midrashic sources include b. Ber. 57b; b. Shab. 151b–152a; b. Eruv. 55b–56a; b. Pesah. 42a–b; b. Yoma 18a–b; Lam. Rab. 2:15 to Lam. 2:11. In ethical anthologies, such lists appear in Der. Er. Rab. 11:2; Kallah Rab. 8; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 37, 41 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 109, 131–132; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 262–263, 286–289; note the longer treatment of these topics in MS New York Rab. 25). See also Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation.” 206–208. Also on food see Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 26 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 83 n 17; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 210–211); Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 47; Finkelstein, Introduction to the Treatises Abot and Abot of Rabbi Nathan, 161. 36. Another teaching employs the image of a toilet as a metaphor for life among the nations, as compared with the messianic time: Sed. El. Rab. 16 (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 81; Braude and Kapstein, Tanna Debe Eliyyahu, 178–180). In the broader late ancient Mediterranean context, diverse or even opposing accounts of Jesus and excrement presume a similar separation between feces and the holy: Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, 82–94; Valentinus, “Valentinus (100–175 C.E.), Fragment E, Jesus’ Digestive System,” 238–239.

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The second account of excretion and divinity counters the first by presenting the entire body, including defecation, as in some way connected with God. Narratives of Hillel strongly embrace the body and its care. Another example, which I have examined elsewhere, is a long list in Rabbi Nathan A that portrays the human being as a microcosm of the larger world (a motif that we saw in Leviticus Rabbah 18:1). This passage elaborates in great detail the ways that each body part is like a part of the world, including nasal mucus, urine, tears, saliva, and buttocks. The list does not specify feces but names other excretions and compares them to the rivers and other waters of the world. All of these homologies, moreover, support an instruction to preserve human life.37 Accounts of excretion support multiple pedagogical projects, which may be complementary in ways that the imagery is not. At a symbolic level, Hillel’s statement that excretion is part of the divine image appears to conflict with the parable of the palace and the tannery pipe. Yet at a practical level, an aspiring sage can maintain humility before the divine judge, care for his body by going to the toilet without delay, and also when at the toilet, follow the practices exemplified by Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Akiva. Rabbis incorporate the most minute and most extreme, the most mundane and most extraordinary, aspects of their lives into their instruction of disciples. In Derekh Eretz Rabbah this pedagogical impulse is made quite explicit in narratives of Rabbi Akiva instructing students at the dining table and learning from his teacher at the toilet. In the Babylonian Talmud Berakhot, a longer version of the latter narrative presents the toilet and the bedroom as limit-cases defining the boundaries of rabbinic instruction. Does teaching and learning occur even in these spaces? The repeated phrase “It is Torah and I must learn” emphasizes that the ethos of the study house extends even this far. Rabbinic responses to excretion and character inspire correction and expansion of contemporary theory in three domains. First, a long line of psychoanalytic research interprets personality traits and cultural forms as expressions of repressed or sublimated anality, beginning with Sigmund Freud’s discussions of orderliness, parsimony, and obstinacy. Another influential formulation is Mikhail Bakhtin’s dichotomy between “grotesque” and “classic” accounts of the body, set out in his study of Rabelais. The 37. Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 31 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 90–92; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 226–232). See also Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 208–213; Kiperwasser, “The Microcosmic Imaginary in Rabbinic Midrash”; Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 242; Kottek, “Medical Interest in Ancient Rabbinic Literature,” 493–494.

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grotesque emphasizes the nose, mouth, phallus, and anus, as well as processes of eating, drinking, and elimination. Highlighting these aspects of embodiment can subvert classic views of the body as closed, smooth, and impenetrable (Boyarin has effectively analyzed certain Talmudic passages through Bakhtin’s categories).38 Rabbinic ethical instruction neither avoids feces and defecation, nor celebrates these aspects of life as subversive of some dominant order. Rather, rabbis often discuss anality with candor, and they explicitly make many of the connections that psychoanalytic inquiry finds through exploring repression—connections between anality and orality, sexuality, and mortality. Rabbinic ethical literature also presents no single meaning, function, or practical significance for excretion and excrement. Rather, the texts reveal a variety of meanings that appears to indicate familiarity with the subject matter, and each passage has a distinct combination of responses: attention, negation, separation, embrace, evasion, and more. Discussions of feces and defecation in classical sources may reveal particular anxiety or obsession regarding excretion, or may reveal freedom from repression that would censor the very topic, or perhaps both. For audiences today, I have noticed through presentations that the topic of excretion and toilets in classical rabbinic texts often inspires one of two responses. Either people laugh, or they ask why one would study such an ignoble topic as part of rabbinic ethics. In these moments, I think we gain glimpses of contemporary anxieties about these very topics, perhaps anxieties that late ancient rabbis did not have. Second, rabbinic instructions for managing the porous body at the toilet overlap with norms characterized as etiquette. Norbert Elias has developed an extensive study of European etiquette as a “civilizing process,” which includes the management of bodily functions. His analysis is grounded in historical claims regarding the sixteenth century C.E. that do not fit the earlier context of late antiquity. For example, Elias emphasizes changes brought by the use of the fork, while we have seen stories that portray rabbinic students grabbing food with their hands. In a general sense, though, ethics and etiquette overlap when a group sees the details of everyday behavior as central to living a good life, as is evident in Confucian thought. 38. Psychoanalytic approaches include Freud, “Character and Anal Eroticism,” 27–33; Brown, Life Against Death, 177–233; E. Becker, The Denial of Death, 30–34; Žižek, Plague of Fantasies, 4–7. The categories of “grotesque” and “classical” are set out in Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, esp. 303–322; Stallybrass and White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression, 1–26. For rabbinic sources, see Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 197–225; Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 213–215.

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Rabbinic ethical instruction concerning excretion reveals intimate ways that bodily management is central to sagely behavior.39 Third, studies of “disgust” address emotional responses to excretion, sometimes arguing that disgust emerges from a problematic relation with human animality.40 Rabbinic sources indicate disgust when they characterize excrement as “an ugly thing,” or a “filthy stream,” though their affective responses also include fear when entering the toilet and gratitude for the working of bodily functions. Martha Nussbaum sets out contemporary ideals for responding to disgust that provide a productive context for considering these rabbinic teachings. Summing up an extensive argument, she writes: The really civilized nation must make a strenuous effort to counter the power of disgust, as a barrier to the full equality and mutual respect of all citizens. This will require a re-creation of our entire relationship to the bodily. Disgust at the body and its products has collaborated with the maintenance of injurious social hierarchies. The health of democracy therefore depends on criticizing and undoing that social formation.

For Nussbaum, Whitman’s “I Sing the Body Electric” is exemplary in this re-creation, listing the parts of the body from top to bottom, depicting them all as clean and beautiful, and inspiring a “curious sympathy” with bodies rather than disgust. Nussbaum recognizes the limits of this sympathy and argues that we cannot expect to eliminate disgust from our lives, even as we may be inspired by Whitman’s poetry: What Whitman asks of us is, in the end, a simple relationship to our own mortality and its bodily realization. We are to embrace with neither fear nor loathing the decay and brevity in our lives. But to ask of humans that they not have any shrinking from decay or any loathing of death is to ask them to be other than, and perhaps even less than, human. Human life is a strange mystery, a combination of aspiration with limitation, of strength with terrible frailty. To become a being who didn’t find that mysterious or weird or terrifying would also be to become some kind of subhuman or inhuman be-

39. Elias, The History of Manners; also Miller, Anatomy of Disgust, 170–178. Ivanhoe discusses the importance of etiquette for Confucian ethics in Confucian Moral Self-Cultivation, 4–8. 40. Nussbaum, Hiding from Humanity, 89–90, 92; Miller, The Anatomy of Disgust, 15–16, 38–59, 66–79, 98–101, 105–108.

76 / Chapter Two ing, and it would also be to forfeit, very likely, some of the value and beauty of human life.41

Descriptive analysis must be careful not to project modern democratic politics upon late ancient rabbis. Still, rabbinic sources also uphold a combination of curious sympathy and disgust toward human bodies. A few texts embrace the body in full, particularly but not only the story of Hillel going to the toilet. Such appreciation came to coexist in rabbinic literature with accounts that present excrement as distracting, disgusting, and a reminder of frailty and mortality. Rabbinic pedagogy draws upon the full range of this imagery. Sympathy and disgust, divinity and beastliness, care and fear: all of these responses to bodily waste are woven into ethical instruction to guide the aspiring sage. 41. Nussbaum, Hiding from Humanity, 117–123 (quotes are from 117 and 121); Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought, 658–662.

THREE

Early Death

This chapter examines two narratives that present ideals for interpersonal relations to an aspiring sage. Stories can offer more intricate accounts of action and emotion than do maxims, but their instruction is often less direct. Two analytic approaches are salient for narrative in rabbinic ethics. On one hand, we need to examine how editors place a story in a literary and exegetical context that gives distinct significance. On the other, rabbinic stories articulate multiple realms of concern, often carry ambiguity, and may disrupt the expectations set by their contexts.1 I draw upon both approaches in a close examination of stories that explore crisis and early death, divine reward and punishment, and sagely behavior. The first story presents a pair of sages about to be executed by Romans. Rabbi Simeon is upset and wants to know why he is being killed. He presumes that God is the true agent of the execution, and the sage asks what transgression has brought such retribution. Rabbi Ishmael probes his colleagues’ past behavior by recalling small acts or character states, such as making someone wait for a legal decision or a moment of arrogance. One of these transgressions is the root of God’s punishment. The second story tells of a righteous and studious man who dies at a young age. His wife goes to the synagogues and study houses, emphasizes that the study of Torah is said to bring a long life, and demands an explanation for the death. No one gives an explanation. Elijah arrives on the scene, inquires regarding her relations with her spouse, and concludes that physical contact

1. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories; Schofer, “Review of Talmudic Stories,” 382–385; Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” 213–220; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 188– 191; Wimpfheimer, Telling Tales Out of Court; Alexander, “Art, Argument, and Ambiguity in the Talmud”; Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, 126–127, 150–167, 174–219.

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during the latter days of her menstrual impurity brought divine punishment of death. What is the point of these stories—are they fundamentally about protest or pedagogy, about theodicy or ethics?2 I begin by affirming their ambiguity. Each story juxtaposes two radically different theological stances. The first stance protests God’s judgment of death. The second affirms God’s justice by responding that the death is divine retribution for a small transgression, a trivial sin, a peccadillo. The implied ethical teaching is that an aspiring sage must avoid that transgression. This position carries a tension, because the crime does not fit the punishment, and God’s justice seems far removed from any conception of human justice. This tension grows when the story presents the second stance as providing an answer to the first— just as complementary colors show more brightly when placed next to each other, these two positions contrast greatly when placed in dialogue. Rather than trying to posit an essential point or meaning, I ask: How do rabbinic editors shape these stories through context, biblical verses, and word choice? What teachings do they create in their reception and development of the narratives? If we focus on the relation between protest and pedagogy, three tendencies appear: editors may emphasize the instruction concerning everyday behavior, the protest against God, or intensify both and heighten the drama. When rabbinic editors reinforce pedagogy, we see how far they stretch their notions of divine justice to uphold qualities needed for individual perfection and communal solidarity. Even the experience of a martyr at the moment of his death, and the death of a young studious married man, become stepping stones on the way to teaching about ordinary life through stories. The narratives also present several facets of bodily vulnerability. While 2. At least four responses, in various combinations, have been suggested. First, some scholars emphasize the instruction about specific small actions: Goldin, “The Two Versions of Abot de Rabbi Nathan,” 97–120; Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” esp. 213–220; Baskin, Midrashic Women, 25; Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis, 158, 174 n 39. Second, the stories can be seen as setting high standards for rabbis, emphasizing the sphere of ethics or the role of a rabbi as judge: Halberstam, “Interpretive Freedom and Divine Law,” 16–17; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 205–206. Third, many see the stories as problematic responses to crises in theodicy: Urbach, The Sages, 442 (citing the Mek. R. Ishmael and then Abot R. Nat. A); Kraemer, Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature, 86–87; Avemarie, “Aporien der Theodizee,” 204–210; Braiterman, (God) After Auschwitz, 41; Halberstam, “Interpretive Freedom and Divine Law,” 8; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 205–206; Büchler, Studies in Sin and Atonement, 189–203. Fourth, some scholars addressing the stories of martyrdom see the appeal to the trivial sin as shedding positive light on the sages: Kraemer, Responses to Suffering, 86–87; Avemarie, “Aporien der Theodizee,” 204–210; Willem, Henten, and Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death, 140–141; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, 62–67.

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Akavya ben Mahalalel draws attention to the eventuality of death, and Rabbi Eliezer demands diligence in the face of death’s potential imminence, these stories present actuality of death before an expected or hoped-for life span. The disruption caused by early death is deeply connected with the temporally extended structure of human activities and relationships. Actions often direct attention toward a future of completion and fulfillment. Relationships of parent and child, teacher and student, colleague and colleague do not occur in an instant but rather unfold over time, with goals for the future. This temporality is central to friendship, love, and commitment. When death comes early, then reasons for sorrow include hopes shattered, projects cut short, goals not fulfilled, and potential not actualized.3 In addition, these stories present specific socially conditioned forms of death and vulnerability: death due to imperial persecution, a widow lamenting her husband’s death, a person in need of legal guidance, a poor person requesting food, and a woman in her menstrual cycle.

Theodicy Theologies of divine justice include strong claims concerning human action and cosmology (an account of the world at the largest spatial scale, with attention to order or regulation). This theology gives tremendous weight to human beings, for worldly events emerge from God’s accounting of people’s behavior: good human states and actions bring good results in the world, and bad bring bad. A human act is not a discrete event but part of an extended process in which God evaluates the act and responds accordingly. In between act and response, humans may try to intervene in divine reckoning through repentance, ritual atonement, and prayer. Divine justice also conveys worldly order. Regardless of appearances to the contrary, ultimately the good receive reward and the bad punishment, for God judges perfectly with no iniquity, forgetfulness, or favoritism.4 Rabbinic texts appeal to this theology and the related cosmology in order to influence their audiences. Sages may try to give comfort in a time of disaster, to chide those who have transgressed, to voice protest against God given difficult conditions, or to justify God in response to such protests.5 At 3. Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, xxviii; Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 204–212. 4. See m. Avot 4:22. Boström discusses the notion of “order” in God of the Sages, 136–137 and nn 205–209. See also Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 121–129 and notes. 5. This discussion of divine justice is based on Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 54–64 (on metaphor), 121–165 (on divine justice), and notes; Urbach, The Sages, 420–523; Marmorstein, The Doctrine of Merits in Old Rabbinical Literature. For the role of cosmology in ethics, see Reyn-

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the same time, divine justice runs much deeper in rabbinic culture than a concept that can be affirmed or rejected. In many narratives this theological terminology structures the interpretation of events. When a given incident occurs—death, or a drought, or rainfall that ends a drought—characters often seek the past action that generated this result. Since events usually do not come with a label describing their origins in the divine accounting, people may argue about praise and blame. One individual may blame another, who may or may not accept that blame. A community may blame a rabbi for a state of disaster, or the sage may try to turn the blame back to the community. In these discussions, the theological imagery is not contested but rather provides the foundation for contestation. Some rabbinic sources explore the boundaries of divine justice and its order, portraying righteous individuals who suffer or die, the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 C.E., or persecutions following the Bar Kokhba revolt. Often scholars employ the category of theodicy to discuss these explorations, but we should not presume an easy fit between contemporary terminology and rabbinic culture. The problem of evil has a history of development, and each context presents distinct problems, solutions, forms of argumentation, and cultural implications.6 Rabbinic sources pose no single problem of evil. Rather many situations inspire rabbis to query God’s justice: injustice and inequality; the suffering of individuals and especially individuals who are righteous, innocent, or vulnerable; the suffering of communities; early death and especially death of children; and the prosperity of the wicked and of oppressive rulers.7 The theological responses are diverse. Some promise future reward or olds and Schofer, “Cosmology”; also Lovin and Reynolds, Cosmogony and the Ethical Order, 21–24, 203–224. 6. The scholarly literature on the problem of evil is very large. Works that I have consulted include Peterson, The Problem of Evil, esp. 1–19; Peterson, “The Problem of Evil”; Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God, esp. 1–55; Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil, 7–64; Neiman, Evil in Modern Thought, esp. 1–13. 7. Extensive studies include Kraemer, Responses to Suffering; Elman, “The Suffering of the Righteous in Palestinian and Babylonian Sources”; Elman, “Righteousness as Its Own Reward”; Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 59–74. There are moments when rabbinic texts move in the direction of abstract or systematic reflection on divine justice, such as a phrase that appears in several texts, “A righteous one, and it goes well for him. A righteous one, and it goes badly for him. A wicked one, and it goes well for him. A wicked one, and it goes badly for him” (the Hebrew is more elegant, capturing the issues in twelve words: vl bvev iwr .vl irv qydx vl bvev qydx vl irv iwr). Here we see an attempt to frame conceptually the relations between character, action, and worldly benefit: b. Ber. 7a; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 22, 42 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 46, 116; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 353, 385; Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, 137, 250); Sed. Eli. Zut. 6 (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 183). See also Schechter, Studies in Judaism, 218–219.

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name past transgression. Others express an inability to comprehend the workings of God’s justice: “Rabbi Yannai says: It is not in our hands [to understand] the ease of the wicked and the sufferings of the righteous” (m. Avot 4:15).8 Still others emphasize divine anger or wrath, rather than justice. Rabbis rarely if ever state explicitly that God is unjust, but sometimes we find no theological explanation. Absences are notoriously difficult to interpret, but they may be our best examples of cases when rabbis cannot or will not affirm God’s justice.9 Attributing death to a small sin, which I examine here, is only one of many ways that rabbis understand the theological significance of death. At the same time, a notable disjunction between act and result (whether sin and punishment, or virtue and reward) is widespread in rabbinic sources, with its own persuasive force.

Small Sin or Virtue In ethical instruction, the promise of reward upholds certain acts and character states, and the threat of punishment proscribes others. God’s response to human action varies considerably (I have found this variation to be counterintuitive for many contemporary readers). The person who acts may or may not be the person who receives the consequences. An individual may experience the consequences of a group’s action. A group may experience the consequences of an individual’s action. Divine response may occur after death or may be deferred to future generations. The consequences may be disproportionate to the act. This flexibility is also contested within rabbinic culture. Some passages claim that individuals receive only the consequences of their own actions, or that divine justice matches the act exactly. Such explicit statements, however, should not be taken to represent all of rabbinic thought. Rather, each example of divine justice needs to be examined independently.10

8. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 164; Tropper, Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography, 267; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 33 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 73; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 367). Other passages convey similar points through narratives about Moses, such as b. Men. 29b; Sed. Eli. Zut. 6 (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 183). 9. One example of this absence is the portrayal of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai after the destruction of the Second Temple in Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 4 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 24; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 72–75). See also Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy: Trivial Sin and Divine Justice in Rabbinic Narrative,” 253–254. 10. Halberstam, Law and Truth in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, 120–125; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 121–146 and notes; Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 59–74; Phillips, “The Tilted Balance.”

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In some passages God’s response is so disproportionately large that the account appears to be hyperbolic: a small positive action brings great reward, and a small problematic action brings great punishment. This way of presenting God’s action highlights the importance of everyday behavior and apparently insignificant aspects of life. The implied audience may often be aspiring sages who have dedicated themselves to the rabbinic program of cultivation and who are working on the finer points of growth. The literary figure that carries out the key action, however, is not always a sage but may be a member of a surrounding Jewish community or even an eccentric, odd personality. Disparity between human act and divine response appears frequently from the tannaitic period onward. The subject matter may include purity, instruction in virtue, guidelines for ritual practice, or general observance of commandments.11 The underlying orientation is not a questioning of God’s justice, but rather a confidence in that very justice, which affirms even apparently unfair consequences as part of divine accounting. Two examples from ethical literature are thematically close to the story of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon. First, consider a teaching that employs hyperbole to convey the dangers of gossip, malicious speech, or slander (lashon ha-ra). Jonathan Klawans has gathered tannaitic and amoraic teachings that link slander with large punishments.12 This numerical catalogue names the greatest sins of the rabbinic legal and moral world (idolatry, illicit sex, and murder), only to place malicious speech as greater in transgression: Four things for which the person who does them will be punished in this world and in the world to come: idolatry, illicit sex, and murder. Yet malicious speech (lashon ha-ra) is greater than all of them. (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 40; compare t. Peah 1:2)

We see the figurative, exhortative nature of rabbinic maxims in stark terms. The anonymous statement lists major transgressions that are discussed in

11. Halberstam, Law and Truth in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, 118–144; Halberstam, “Interpretive Freedom and Divine Law,” 6–10 (Halberstam’s examples include m. Shab. 2:6 and m. Qid. 1:10); Anderson, Sin, 105–109, 135–151, 164–188; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 135–137, 147–148; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, 60–71; Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 98–108, 117; Büchler, Studies in Sin and Atonement, 193–195. 12. Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 98–104.

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criminal law (m. Sanh. 7:4, 9:1) as a means of highlighting the dangers of speech that is corrosive for a community.13 A teaching attributed to Rabbi Akiva invokes early death and also compares major, paradigmatic sins with apparently minor ones: He would say: Why do students of the sages die when they are young? Not because they are adulterers, and not because they steal, but rather because they break from the words of Torah and occupy themselves with words of conversation—and moreover, because they do not begin again at the place where they broke off. (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 26)14

If a person who aspires to become a sage dies when he is young, what is the cause? Rabbi Akiva asserts that turning from the sacred speech of the study house to that of everyday life will bring a divine punishment of death. The maxim appears to extend a view attributed to Hillel—those who do not study or serve the sages are “guilty of death”—to address even a brief loss of intellectual focus.15 Does this teaching really struggle with the grief and sorrow brought by premature death? Does the sage question the existence or nature of divine justice? I suggest that the teaching upholds scholastic virtues of intellectual focus by portraying a result that is blatantly disproportionate to the act. The persuasive context is not consolation for a person in anguish, but inspiration and challenge for those in the study house. The ethical instruction embraces divine justice with apparently unfair standards for students of the sages. The stories of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon, though, contrast with Rabbi Akiva’s teaching in significant ways. Rabbi Akiva presents a general 13. Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 120; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 278–279. See also Wimpfheimer, Telling Tales Out of Court; Anderson, Sin, 175; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 71, 136–137, 219 nn 1–2, 253 n 49. 14. Also Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 35; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 29 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 81, 82, 88; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 208–209, 218, 370 [the location of this teaching varies in the manuscripts of Rabbi Nathan A; see Schechter’s comments in Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 82 n 12 and 87 n 1]). 15. M. Avot 1:13; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 12; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 27/28 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 48, 56; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 140, 360). Other ethical teachings threaten punishment for not consulting the sages (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 12; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 27/28 [Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 56–57; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 141–142, 360]) and for teaching improperly (m. Avot 1:11; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 11; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 22/23 [Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 47–48; H. J. Becker, Avot deRabbi Natan, 124–127, 354]). Note also m. Avot 3:7, in which distraction from study is “accounted” as worthy of death.

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hypothetical question: Why do students of the sages die when they are young? The narratives present particular people facing their own deaths: one protests, and the other tries to give a response. To what degree is the response like Rabbi Akiva’s teaching, an instruction for everyday life? Let us see what we can glean from the hands of those who compiled different rabbinic anthologies.

Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon (Tosefta Sota 13:4, Mekhilta de-R. Ishmael, Mishpatim 18) The martyrdom of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon raises interpretative problems at the outset, for arguably the sages were originally neither martyrs nor rabbis. The earliest accounts of their deaths push us to consider the category of martyrdom. Late ancient portrayals of these sages do not have key features of martyrdom in that historical period: willing and selfsacrificing death, a ritualized and performative speech act regarding the essence of God or the self, a sense that the martyr is fulfilling a religious mandate, and erotic and visionary experiences. However, in The Story of the Ten Martyrs and other later Jewish sources, the story of these two sages develops considerably. The figure of Rabbi Ishmael gains significant mystical dimensions and plays a distinct role for envisioning communal redemption. In sum, I examine late ancient portrayals of Rabbi Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael that do not fit late ancient paradigms for martyrdom, but later medieval portrayals of Rabbi Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael were very prominent in medieval Jewish understandings of martyrdom.16 The shortest and arguably earliest account of the two sages’ deaths does not give them the title of “rabbi.” A passage in the Tosefta describes the death and sayings of Samuel the Lesser, which have been preserved in two main rescensions. One states, “Simeon and Ishmael are to be killed, the

16. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory, 33; Boyarin, Dying for God, 94–96, 120; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 208–209, 305 n 163; Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 55–58; Boustan From Martyr to Mystic, esp. 56–59, 91, 81–97, 99–148, 289–293. The dating of the texts is complicated. Boustan calls The Story of the Ten Martyrs “post-Talmudic” and composed between the late fifth and early seventh centuries, and he treats the accounts in Rabbi Nathan A and B, Seder Eliyahu Rabbah, and Semahot as being “classical” and earlier than The Story of the Ten Martyrs (From Martyr to Mystic, esp. 52, 294). I agree with the relative chronology of these specific narratives, and I consider the developments in The Story of the Ten Martyrs to be outside the scope of my inquiry. The dating of the various versions of Rabbi Nathan as well as Seder Eliyahu and Semahot are very difficult. These texts should also be described as “post-Talmudic,” and their compilation may have continued into the seventh century or later.

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rest of their colleagues put to the sword . . .” while the other, “Simeon and Ishmael are to be put to the sword, their colleagues to be killed. . . .” (t. Sota 13:4). In this simple form, an inspired sage predicts that two men named Simeon and Ishmael will be killed along with others. One of the variants specifies that the instrument of their execution is a sword, a motif that appears repeatedly in the narratives.17 The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, a tannaitic midrash of roughly the third century C.E., presents the sages as rabbis who engage in a theological discussion just before execution.18 This rendition of the narrative strongly incorporates their death into ethical instruction, with a thoroughgoing emphasis on pedagogy through literary context as well as biblical interpretation. The passage begins with biblical verses that present death by a sword as divine punishment for transgression: You shall not oppress (teanun) any widow or orphan. If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh) them, when they cry out to Me, I will surely heed their outcry. My anger shall flare, and I will kill you by sword, so that your wives will become widows and your children orphans. (Exod. 22:21–23)

Although there are medieval and modern commentators who gloss this verse as an instance of divine response that is “measure for measure,”19 the relation between act and divine punishment is not at all simple. For the perpetrator, God’s response is much greater than the act: oppressing another person leads to being killed. In addition, the wives and children suffer as widows and orphans though they did no wrong. The similarity between act and result is displaced—the state of the wives and children will match the victims at the outset—and this point is expressed stylistically through the repetition of key words (“widow” and “orphan”). The commentary in the Mekhilta plays on the doubling of the verb for “oppress” (.n.h.). While in biblical Hebrew this doubling creates emphasis, the rabbinic interpreters claim that the two terms represent two distinct matters: 17. Boustan offers an extended analysis of this passage in From Martyr to Mystic, 72–74. 18. Recent studies of martyrdom examine the ways that martyrdom is incorporated into treatments of identity, mysticism, and ideal behavior and ways of living: Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory, 27; Boyarin, Dying for God, 94–96; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, esp. 56–58; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 205–206; Halberstam, “Interpretive Freedom and Divine Law,” 8, 16–17; Halberstam, Law and Truth in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, 130–132. 19. See R. Simeon b. Meir (Rashbam, 1085–1174) on these verses as well as Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Exodus, 291–293; Halberstam, Law and Truth in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, 120–125.

86 / Chapter Three If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh): All the same are a major act of oppression (innui) and a minor act of oppression (innui). Another opinion, If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh): It says that one is not guilty until he oppresses and repeats. (Mekhilta de-R. Ishmael, Mishpatim 18)20

The first opinion expands the scope of the actions punished. The two occurrences of “oppress” indicate two actions that bring God’s punishment, one large and one small. Each brings the same response. The second opinion limits the scope of actions punished and construes the doubling in another way: God only punishes for an act of oppression that happens twice. The commentary continues with a story of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon, which combines the first midrash to Exodus 22:21–23 (a small oppression can incite God’s punishment through a sword), and the prophecy of Samuel the Lesser (two sages named Ishmael and Simeon die by a sword). The literary structure includes four elements, (1) apparent injustice, (2) distress, question, or complaint, (3) inquiry by another party, and (4) resolution: (1) Apparent injustice: Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon were already going out to be killed, (2) Distress, question, or complaint: When Rabbi Simeon said to Rabbi Ishmael: My Master, my heart fails me, because I do not know why I am being killed. (3) Inquiry by another party: Rabbi Ishmael said to Rabbi Simeon: In your life did a person ever come to you for a judgment or a question, and you delayed him until you finished drinking your cup, or until you tied your shoe, or until you wrapped your cloak? Torah says, If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh): All the same are a major act of oppression (innui) and a minor act of oppression (innui). (4) Resolution: At this word, [Rabbi Simeon] said to him: You have comforted me, my Master. (Mekhilta de-R. Ishmael, Mishpatim 18)

The theme of persecution continues in a story that follows upon this one, where Rabbi Akiva hears of their death and draws out its significance for his students.21 20. Horovitz and Rabin, Mechilta d’Rabbi Ishmael, 313; Lauterbach, Mekilta De-Rabbi Ishmael, 141–143. 21. Horovitz and Rabin, Mechilta d’Rabbi Ishmael, 313; Lauterbach, Mekilta De-Rabbi Ishmael, 141–143. Many scholars treat the two stories as a unit. I separate out the story of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon in part for reasons of space, but also it appears to have circulated

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Two rabbis face execution by the Romans,22 and in this moment of crisis, Rabbi Simeon states, “My heart fails me, because I do not know why I am being killed.” He presumes that Roman persecution is only the manifest cause, and the underlying force is God’s response to sagely behavior. Rabbi Simeon’s phrasing is suggestively ambiguous. He does not assert that God is being unjust and may simply mean that he does not know which transgressions in the past inspired the punishment (Rabbi Ishmael’s questioning follows this line of thinking). At the same time, the context of execution and the intensity indicated by “my heart fails me” suggest another problem: God’s actions do not appear to be just, and the sage’s sense of order in the world is disrupted. Rabbi Ishmael initiates a series of questions to identify the transgression that generated the extreme divine response. Rabbi Ishmael’s queries are based on everyday actions and interpersonal relations, in this case focused on rabbis’ roles as judges.23 The exegesis of Exodus 22:22–23, found in the framing of the story, now appears in the voice of Rabbi Ishmael: any sort of affliction, light or small, receives severe punishment. He specifies this midrash by suggesting that Rabbi Simeon may have oppressed others through making them wait while he took a drink, tied his shoe, or got dressed. Rabbi Ishmael frames execution as God’s punishment for this delay. The real point of responsibility becomes the rabbi in the minutia of his daily relations, not the political and coercive powers of empire. The narrative is sealed when Rabbi Simeon affirms the suggestion and finds comfort.24 This version of the story appears in a relatively early midrashic source rather than an ethical compilation, but the ethical instruction is forceful: avoid minor oppression, specifically delaying others who request answers or judgment. The Mekhilta presents this teaching through midrash and then elaborates it through Rabbi Ishmael’s inquiry and restatement of the same midrash. Rabbi Simeon’s protest is relatively weak, as compared with other versions, and the concluding resolution is clear and unambiguous. independently in rabbinic culture, for the material following this scene varies from text to text. Natalie Polzer has also pointed out to me that the discussion of whether or not God is just appears to be separate from the account of human suffering—people may mourn and lament death, even if it is attributed to appropriate action by the deity. Boustan also points out the differences between the portrayal of Rabbi Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael, and Rabbi Akiva’s later response, in From Martyr to Mystic, 62–67. 22. The wording echoes rabbinic legal terminology for beheadings in m. Sanh. 7:3; Avemarie, “Aporien der Theodizee,” 205–206. 23. Berkowitz emphasizes the role of a judge in Execution and Invention, 206. 24. These observations expand upon points made in Avemarie, “Aporien der Theodizee,” 206–207.

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The execution becomes an occasion to instruct the audience regarding the dangers of minor oppression.

Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon: Semahot Four post-Talmudic anthologies present this story: a treatise on burial practices euphemistically entitled Semahot (a word indicating joys or times of rejoicing), Rabbi Nathan A, Rabbi Nathan B, and Seder Eliyahu Rabbah. Much important scholarship has examined the relations between the narratives. I do not make claims concerning influence or dependence but rather treat rather each story as a distinctive way of responding to the tensions between protest and pedagogy.25 The version in Semahot provides a provocative contrast to the Mekhilta, for here we see a very different editorial thrust that intensifies the protest against God’s action and downplays the ethical instruction. Chapter Eight of Semahot begins with a discussion of distinctive burial practices, including the deaths of special persons: a bride and groom, a king, and a patriarch. Semahot 8:7–15 presents rabbis who are executed, weaving independent accounts of martyrdom into a larger whole. Semahot 8:7 includes Samuel the Lesser’s prediction from the Tosefta, “Simeon and Ishmael are to be put to the sword,” and Semahot 8:8 presents the narrative. The sages’ identities gain new specification, for “Simeon” is now “Rabban Simeon” and in some manuscripts, “Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel.”26 When considering this passage, note the repetition of the word “killed,” as well as the lack of final resolution. Also, the roles of the sages are reversed, for Rabbi Ishmael cries and Rabban Simeon inquires regarding past behavior: (1) Apparent injustice: When Rabban Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael were seized, and it was decreed upon them that they would be killed. (2) Distress, question, or complaint: Rabbi Ishmael cried. Rabban Simeon said to him: Son of a noble, in two steps you will be given into the bosom of the righteous, and yet you cry? He said: Am I crying because we are to be killed? I am crying because we are being killed like those who murder and desecrate the Sabbath. (3) Inquiry by another party: He said to him: Perhaps you were at a meal or 25. Boustan charts the relations between the stories and also examines other lines of developing this narrative: From Martyr to Mystic, 81–85, 293. See also Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” 213–218. 26. Higger, Treatise Semahot, 153; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, 60, 74–81; Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” 433.

Early Death / 89 asleep, and a woman came to ask about her menstrual impurity, or she asked about her impurity or purity, and the attendant said to her, “He is sleeping.” The Torah says: If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh) them, and what is written afterwards is, . . . anger shall flare, and I will kill you by sword, so that your wives will become widows and your children orphans (Exod. 22:22–23). There are those who say: Rabban Simeon was crying, and Rabbi Ishmael spoke to him in these words. (Sem. 8:8)27

The material following this story is similar to that in the Mekhilta, with an account of Rabbi Akiva hearing the news of their deaths. As in the Mekhilta, this story presents an execution, a challenge regarding God’s justice, and a response that emphasizes the dangers of minor oppression and specifically delaying others who need legal guidance. The editors of Semahot, however, give more attention to death, protest, and injustice. The literary context emphasizes martyrdom, and Saul Lieberman has observed that Rabban Simeon’s expression, “in two steps you will be given into the bosom of the righteous,” is an instance of late martyrological discourse that has affinity with Christian sources.28 The rabbi in distress expresses greater emotional intensity than in the Mekhilta: he cries and states that they are “being killed like those who murder and desecrate the Sabbath.” The word “killed” appears three times rather than twice. Most importantly, the end of the story brings no resolution, no neat wrap-up. While the story in the Mekhilta concludes with the rabbi who protests stating, “You have comforted me,” the editors of Semahot reveal no comfort. We only have silence, and for all we know, the first rabbi’s cries may continue.

Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon (Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 38) The narrative of the two martyrs appears in Rabbi Nathan A and B. Each version reveals distinct transmission and shaping. Both accentuate the extremes of the story, with a strident protest as well as elaborate ethical teachings. I focus on Rabbi Nathan A, which is particularly rich in its pedagogical dimensions.29 The literary context is a numerical list that addresses cases of disaster: 27. Zlotnick, The Tractate “Mourning,” 59–60, 215–216; Higger, Treatise Semahot, 36–38, 153–154. 28. Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” 443–445. 29. Analyses of the story in Rabbi Nathan B include Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy,” 263– 264; Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic, 74 n 81, 77–81; Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” 213–218.

90 / Chapter Three Seven kinds of retribution come into the world because of seven types of transgression. (m. Avot 5:8; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 38)

One of these seven specifies a sword: The sword comes into the world because of the delay of justice, because of the perversion of justice, and because of those who teach the Torah not in accordance with the law (halakhah). (m. Avot 5:8; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 38)

This maxim may presume the interpretation of Exodus 22:22–23 found in the Mekhilta: “delay of justice” is a minor oppression that brings God’s retribution with a “sword.” Or, the midrash in the Mekhilta may presume the maxim. The verse appears in Rabbi Nathan A but only after a series of narratives.30 The commentary begins with the narrative and specifies the two sages as Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel and Rabbi Ishmael ben Elisha:31 (1) Apparent injustice: When they captured Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel and Rabbi Ishmael to be killed. (2) Distress, question, or complaint: Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel sat and was deep in thought (toheh bedato). He said: Woe unto us that we are being killed like those who desecrate the Sabbath, worship idols, commit illicit sex, and murder. (3) Inquiry by another party: Rabbi Ishmael ben Elisha said to him: May I say one thing before you? He said: Say it. He said: Perhaps, when you reclined at a meal, poor people (aniyyim) came and stood at your door, and you did not allow them to enter and eat? He said: Heaven forbid that I did that! Rather. I had guards sit at the door.

30. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 190, 192; Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 113–114; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 268–271; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 77; Solomon Schechter’s comments in Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 115 n 12. See also b. Shab. 33a. Problems in text and translation of “The sword comes into the world . . .” are discussed in Goldin, “The Two Versions of Abot de Rabbi Nathan,” 115; Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 114 n 6; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 129. The edition of Rabbi Nathan by the Gaon Rabbi Elijah of Vilna cites and discusses Exod. 22:22–23 immediately after the maxim. 31. Boustan discusses the transformations of names in the narratives in From Martyr to Mystic, 74–81. See also Finkelstein, Introduction to the Treatises Abot and Abot of Rabbi Nathan, 100–101.

Early Death / 91 When poor people would come, they would bring them in to my house, so [the poor] would eat and drink and bless the name of Heaven. He said to him: Perhaps when you sat and expounded on the Temple mount, and all the hosts of Israel were sitting before you, you became proud (zah.ah datekha alekha)?32 (4) Resolution: He said to him: Ishmael, my brother. A man must be prepared to receive his affliction (pigo). (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 38)33

The material following this scene differs from that in the Mekhilta and Semahot. Rabbi Nathan A describes the execution. Each sage volunteers to go first, then they cast lots and the executioner kills Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel. Rabbi Ishmael laments, then the executioner kills him as well. Only after all this material, the text summarizes: Regarding them Scripture says: My anger shall flare, and I will kill you by sword, so that your wives will become widows and your children orphans (Exod. 22:22– 23). (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 38)

The ensuing exegesis develops the theme of wives becoming widows.34 This version embellishes the protest against God’s actions voiced through the figure of Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel. The opening of the scene with him “deep in thought” (toheh bedato) may imply more intensity than the account in the Mekhilta. Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel compares his situation with those who commit major violations of rabbinic law, and here the list has four elements: “those who desecrate the Sabbath, worship idols, commit incest, and murder.” Perhaps most important, the story concludes with a notable word. Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel acknowledges Rabbi Ishmael’s point by saying that he must accept his “affliction” (pigo). Affliction, however, does not necessarily imply justice. The sage could have used, for example, the term “retribution” (puranut), which appears in the maxim commented upon (“Seven kinds of retribution come into the world because of seven types of transgression”). Perhaps he stands by

32. On this phrase, see Kister, “Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” 217 n 100. 33. Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 114–115. 34. Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 114–115; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 272–273. Boustan examines the interaction between the two sages and the executioner in From Martyr to Mystic, 77–81. Kister discusses at length the location of the biblical verse, arguing that the intervening material is a later, secondary addition to the narrative tradition (“Metamorphoses of Aggadic Traditions,” 213–217).

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his protest, for he admits that he must accept affliction but not that God acts justly.35 Ethical instruction also proliferates. The literary context is a maxim instructing that one should avoid delays in judgment, and a quotation of Exodus 22:22–23 later in the unit supports this teaching (if we presume the midrash found in the Mekhilta). Most notably, Rabbi Ishmael’s inquiry is quite long and includes several teachings about behavior in everyday life. He focuses on two points. First, he investigates his fellow’s standards for hospitality: did Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel allow poor people (aniyyim) to join him for meals? This query alludes to a saying found in Mishnah Avot and commented upon elsewhere in Rabbi Nathan A: “Let the poor (aniyyim) be members of your house” (m. Avot 1:5; Avot R. Nat A, ch. 7). Second, Rabbi Ishmael asks whether Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel maintained appropriate humility when expounding Torah on the Temple mount. This question implies the teaching of Mishnah Avot 5:8: “the sword comes into the world” because of improper teaching of Torah. This criticism of arrogance is part of an emphasis throughout Rabbi Nathan A, and more broadly in rabbinic culture, upon the need for humility.36 The editorial stream of Rabbi Nathan A, then, creates an ambivalent narrative that intensifies both the protest and the pedagogy. Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel’s initial contemplative state, his reference to those who carry out extreme transgressions, and his lack of final acknowledgment that God 35. Adolph Büchler notes these points and offers a valuable exposition, though in overly historicizing terms, in Studies in Sin and Atonement, 202–203. One manuscript (MS Oxford Opp. 96) presents three significant differences in the portrayal of Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel: he would cry out (tzoeq) rather than be deep in thought, he lists only two kinds of transgression rather than four (idolatry and murder), and most notably at the end he emphasizes the need to accept God’s “decree” (g.z.r.) rather than affliction—in other words, he fully affirms God’s justice. In addition, Schechter notes a manuscript in which Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel rejects Rabbi Ishmael’s suggestion: Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 114 n 7. However, this text does not appear in Becker’s edition: H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 270. 36. For m. Avot 1:5, see also Avot R. Nat B, ch. 14 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 33–35; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 92–99, 343–345); Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 67. Goldin argues that the story emphasizes the proper teaching of Torah in “The Two Versions of Abot de Rabbi Nathan,” 112–115. Humility is prominent in Avot R. Nat A, ch. 15; also Avot R. Nat B, ch. 29 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 59–62; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 154–161, 360–363). On the concern with arrogance in other versions of this story, see Higger, Treatise Semahot, 38 and Goldin, “Two Versions,” 113–114 and nn 67–69. Hava Tirosh-Samuelson characterizes humility as an overarching virtue for rabbinic culture in Happiness in Premodern Judaism, 127–129. See also Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, 150; Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 123. The particular phrasing for “arrogance” (zah.ah dateka) in this narrative is also important. The terminology echoes Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel’s initial contemplation (toheh bedato). The word daat also appears in Der. Er. Rab. 7:7, discussed in chapter two.

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is just all reinforce the protest or complaint. Still, Rabbi Ishmael’s queries, filtered through an understanding of divine justice, inspire four intertwined ethical teachings: do not delay others in need of judgment (m. Avot 5:8), show hospitality to the poor (m. Avot 1:5), teach Torah appropriately (m. Avot 5:8), and do not be arrogant. Since Rabbi Ishmael’s instruction supports both the maxim that provides the literary context, and the biblical verse that follows the story, the editorial shaping arguably gives primacy to pedagogy.

Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon (Seder Eliyahu Rabbah 30/28) The ethical anthology Seder Eliyahu Rabbah also elaborates both the protest and the ethical instruction in the narrative. Unlike in the other anthologies, the editors place the narrative in a long commentary upon a Psalm: A Psalm for Asaph: O God, foreigners have come into your inheritance, defiled your holy halls, and turned Jerusalem into ruins. They have made your servants’ corpses (nivlat avadekha) into food for the birds of the skies, the flesh of your faithful for the wild animals of the land. Their blood was shed (shafekhu damam) like water around Jerusalem, with none to bury them. (Ps. 79:1–3)

The discussion of these verses addresses the destruction of the Temple, exile, oppression by other nations, martyrdom, and the roles of divine judgment and compassion. The commentary then turns to a set of stories about Hadrian, a widow, and her children.37 The topics of widows and children, along with persecution and suffering, set the context for our story: (1) Apparent injustice: When Rabban Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael were captured to be killed (2) Distress, question, or complaint: Rabban Simeon cried and said: Why are we being killed like those who worship idols38 and desecrate the Sabbath. Our 37. This section begins at the start of Sed. Eli. Rab. 30 (28) (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 147). Much of the material has parallels in Lamentations Rabbah, and an analysis of large portions of this latter collection can be found in Hasan-Rokem, The Web of Life, 108–129. 38. Following Braude and Kapstein, Tanna Debe Eliyyahu, 333 n 26.

94 / Chapter Three deaths will be like [those who eat] carrion (nevelot), animals dead of disease, unclean animals, and creeping things. (3) Inquiry by another party: Rabbi Ishmael said to him: My master, may I argue before you? Once we sat to pass judgment, and we did not judge properly. False witnesses gave testimony before us, and [the defendants] were condemned to death. And, we entered the bathhouse and turned our attention to eating and drinking. Orphans and widows came to request sustenance, and the attendant said to them, “The time is not acceptable.” Come and see how great is the punishment (onsho) for this thing, as it is said, You shall not oppress (teanun) any widow or orphan. If you indeed oppress (anneh teanneh) them, when they cry out to Me, I will surely heed their outcry. My anger shall flare, and I will kill you by sword, so that your wives will become widows and your children orphans (Exod. 22:21–23). (Sed. Eli. Rab. 30/28)39

The ensuing passage is similar to those in Rabbi Nathan A. Each of the two rabbis volunteers to go first. One is executed. The other laments and then is killed. At the end of the section, God promises revenge upon the world for their deaths: “I, too, will strike hand against hand and satisfy My fury upon you. I YHWH have spoken” (Ezek. 21:22). This text presents a more developed protest than does the Mekhilta or Rabbi Nathan A. Seder Eliyahu Rabbah discusses social oppression before the story begins. Within the narrative, Rabban Simeon cries and compares his situation to those who enact major transgressions (as Rabbi Ishmael does in Semahot). He also compares their death with forbidden foods such as carrion (nevelot). Scholars have interpreted this line in two ways. One option is that they are being killed “like those who eat” such foods. The other option is that their death itself “will be like” carrion and the other unclean flesh, as in Psalm 79 where the servants’ corpses (nivlat avadekha) are made into food for birds.40 Rabbi Ishmael’s inquiry evokes Mishnah Avot 5:8, which sets the literary context in Rabbi Nathan but not here in Seder Eliyahu Rabbah. He presents an interpretation not found in other collections by emphasizing both delay of justice and perversion of justice. The example of delay echoes Exodus 22:21–23 by specifying widows and orphans who request

39. See Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba, 153. 40. See Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba, 153 and note 27 (Braude and Kapstein, Tanna Debe Eliyyahu, 333). The protest also has similarities with Rabbi Nathan B; Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy,” 263–264.

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sustenance while the sages eat and drink in bathhouses. The perversion is notable—a death sentence given on the basis of false testimony—shifting the focus from small to significant transgressions. The sage makes clear that God’s justice is at work through the word onesh, a technical term for divine punishment. The editors of Seder Eliyahu Rabbah accentuate both the protest and the pedagogy. In addition, the end of the narrative and following material contain two details that push the story in contrasting directions. On one hand, we do not see any acknowledgment by Rabban Simeon that he accepts Rabbi Ishmael’s interpretation (unlike in the Mekhilta and Rabbi Nathan A), which would seem to reinforce the sense of protest. On the other, the final promise of God’s future destruction of the world adds a new element: God will respond to this attack with a much greater destruction of their persecutors.41 Here we have a very different kind of punishment that is greater than the act: the deaths of sages are later visited upon the entire world. This conclusion asserts that ultimately there is divine support for Jews, despite social and political subjugation in the present.

Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon: Conclusion In scholarly terms, employed with modifications, the stories of Rabbi Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael combine martyrology, theodicy, and ethics. How did late ancient rabbinic editors respond to this constellation? The contrast between the Mekhilta and Semahot shows that the story could be adapted for divergent purposes. The Mekhilta shows a consistent editorial interest in teaching the reader to avoid minor oppressions. Semahot emphasizes martyrdom and protest. Rabbi Nathan A and Seder Eliyahu Rabbah do not indicate a unified purpose in the editing. They create a dramatic scene without offering a consistent message regarding sages, persecution, God’s justice, and small actions. In these ethical anthologies, however, we find extensive elaboration of pedagogy through quotation and exegesis of Exodus 22:22–23, several different interpretations of Mishnah Avot 5:8, and one reference to Mishnah Avot 1:5. The concluding emphasis on humility in Rabbi Nathan A evokes other passages, such as Mishnah Avot 4:4. What is the relation between this ethical instruction and vulnerability? Elizabeth Castelli observes that the figure of the martyr, as developed through Christian models, obscures human vulnerability: 41. In addition, the use of the root h. .r.b. puns with the word for “sword.”

96 / Chapter Three The “martyr”—and her cousin, “the hero”—emerge sometimes too easily as romanticized, sentimentalized figures impervious to the painful realities of human frailty and ambivalence, indemnified against critique, immune to notions of the tragic or accidental, invulnerable to the meaninglessness that dogs the very notion of death.42

The rabbis portrayed in these stories, by contrast, are fragile. They are fragile politically in relation to imperial power, and this fragility affects others— wives are potentially widows and children orphans. Rabbis are also fragile theologically in relation to God’s justice, for the smallest lapse can bring great punishment, so they are highly susceptible to exacting critique of their behavior. In addition, the stories reveal deep ambivalence about this entire way of thinking through the voice of Rabbi Simeon crying out and questioning. Rabbi Ishmael presents one response to these large-scale and acute social vulnerabilities: cultivation of ethical ideals linked with community building. These include responding quickly to people in need, showing hospitality to the poor, being humble in relation to others, and acting properly as a judge in relation to witnesses and the accused.43

The Widow and Elijah (Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 13a–b) The story of the widow and Elijah opens with a woman lamenting the early death of her husband. Occasions of mourning and lamentation reveal fragilities inherent in relationships, for humans are susceptible to wounds not only through our own bodies but also through our emotional responses to others. The widow’s protest also foregrounds the gendered nature of mourning. In rabbinic literature, as in other contexts, lamentation is often done by women. Galit Hasan-Rokem observes, “This female role can be understood against the cultural perception of life as a cycle, between birth and death, between mother (and midwife) and lamenter.” Lamentation is often an occasion for criticism of the social order. In ancient Greece, for example, there were significant attempts to regulate and tame women’s lamentation in response to the disruptive potential of death rituals.44

42. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory, 201, also 33–34. 43. This rabbinic turn to the ethical and the mundane, as a response to persecution, contrasts with Lear’s statement that a teleological suspension of the ethical can be necessary in a time of cultural devastation (Radical Hope, 38, 92). Further explorations of these issues would be productive. I thank Kirsten Wesselhoeft for her comments on this paragraph. 44. Nussbaum emphasizes fragilities inherent in relationships in Fragility of Goodness, 361, 397–421; Upheavals of Thought, 19–24 and throughout. Amy Hollywood argues that grief is

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The story begins by portraying a widow and ends with instruction regarding a married woman and her menstrual cycle. Each has distinct vulnerabilities. Biblical texts present widows and orphans as among the weakest members of society (as we have seen in Exodus 22:22–23). Rabbinic sources attend to difficulties for widows and support their remarrying. A central problem is confirmation that the husband has in fact died, and rabbis often worked to make this legally feasible. The Mishnah also attempts to protect a widow’s property rights, particularly regarding her bride-price and dowry, in relation to her husband’s heirs. More generally, the legal status of widow includes significant autonomy such that, as Judith Romney Wegner has observed, a widow’s control over her own body and property is greater than that of a married woman. Married women, in turn, have distinct vulnerabilities in relation to their husbands. In many respects rabbinic law understands wives to be the property of their husbands, especially in the domains of sexuality and reproduction. Particularly important for these narratives, laws for menstrual purity prescribe extensive observation and monitoring of a woman’s body.45 In this story, a widow’s lament poses a challenge to rabbinic understandings of divine justice: why did her studious husband, who served the sages, die so young? Ultimately the answer points to an apparently small action, showing its importance in God’s accounting: the man lapsed in his observance of rabbinic practices for maintaining purity. How do rabbinic editors contextualize and develop the protest and the pedagogy? The story appears in the Babylonian Talmud as well as two ethical anthologies, Rabbi Nathan A and Seder Eliyahu Rabbah. I focus on the Talmudic account and then turn to Seder Eliyahu (for the goals of this analysis, the stories in Rabbi Nathan A and the Talmud are similar).46 Babylonian editors present the story as part of a commentary to Mish-

central to the development of subjectivity as people respond to and negotiate the changing presence and absence of others. She sums up a complex argument by stating, “Without love there is no grief,” but also, “without grief there is no love”: Hollywood, “Acute Melancholia.” Hasan-Rokem’s comment concerning female roles is in The Web of Life, 111 and generally 108– 129; see also Satlow, “Fictional Women: A Study in Stereotypes,” 225–243. Gail Holst-Warhaft discusses laments and social criticism in Dangerous Voices, esp. 3–6 and 98–126. Rabbinic regulations of women’s laments appear in m. M.Q. 3:9. 45. Widows and wives are discussed at length in Wegner, Chattel or Person?, 14–17, 40–96; 71–73, 139–143; Ilan, Jewish Women in Greco-Roman Palestine, 57–96; 147–151; Ilan, Integrating Women into Second Temple History, 52–59. Recent work on menstrual purity includes Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity; Wegner, Chattel or Person, 162–165, Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis, 147–176. 46. I discuss the version of Rabbi Nathan A in Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy,” 271–274. The story also appears in Midrash Zuta to Ruth 3:6–8 with a very different framing.

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nah Shabbat 1:3. This legal passage states that, on the eve of the Sabbath, a tailor should not go out with his needle near nightfall, nor should a scribe with a quill. The final line is: A man with a discharge should not eat with a woman with a discharge because it would be an occasion for transgression. (m. Shab. 1:3)

The conceptual underpinning of this line builds upon two passages from Leviticus. Leviticus 15 discusses a man with a genital discharge and a woman with menstrual discharge. In both cases, the person enters into a state of ritual impurity that can be transmitted to others by physical contact. Those who become unclean, whether through their own discharge or touching another, must carry out rituals of purification and bring an offering to the Temple. When the Temple no longer exists, however, the status of these laws becomes uncertain and in need of reinterpretation. In Leviticus 18, by contrast, intercourse between a man and a woman during her menstrual period is a prohibited sexual relation, along with practices such as incest and bestiality. The command in Leviticus 18:19 literally states that one should not “come near” the woman: “To a woman in her time of menstrual impurity, do not come near to uncover her nakedness.” In its local context, this law appears to allow touching but not intercourse.47 How did rabbis reconcile these two conceptual schemes? One response posits Leviticus 15 as setting out the basic laws that a man in a pure state should not touch a woman during her menstrual period. The prescription of Leviticus 18:19 extends that norm, counseling that a man should not “come near” or have social involvement with a woman in ways that can lead to touching. This exegesis appears explicitly in both versions of Rabbi Nathan and likely underlies this mishnaic law as well as Elijah’s response to the widow.48 The Talmudic commentary asks whether a menstruating woman and her husband can sleep together while wearing clothes. A long discussion includes the story of the widow, which addresses not only separation during a woman’s menstrual period, but also an additional seven days afterwards labeled as the “white days”:49 47. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity, 20–29; Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, 105– 106; Albeck, Six Orders of the Mishnah: Moed, 18; also Rosenblum, Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism. 48. Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 76–78; Fonrobert and Jaffee, The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud, 319–323. 49. The menstrual laws presented in this narrative have been the subject of scholarly debate. Hauptman writes that the standard assumption in the Talmud is that menstrual separa-

Early Death / 99 (1) Apparent injustice: A teaching of the School of Elijah: a story of a student who studied mishnah a great deal, studied scripture a great deal, and served the students of the sages a great deal, and he died at half of his expected days: (2a) Distress, question, or complaint: His wife took his tefillin [phylacteries] and repeatedly brought them to the synagogues and study houses and said: It is written in the Torah: For it is your life and the length of your days (Deut. 30:20). My husband studied mishnah a great deal, studied scripture a great deal, and served the students of the sages a great deal. Why did he die at half of his expected days? (2b) Lack of response: No one could reply a word. (3) Inquiry by another party: Once I was a guest at her house, and she told me about that entire event. I said to her: My daughter, in the days of your menstrual impurity, what did he do in relation to you? She said to me: Heaven forbid if even with his little finger he touched me. In your white days, what did he do in relation to you? He ate with me, drank with me, and slept with me in bodily contact, but nothing else came to his mind. I said to her: Blessed be the Omnipresent who killed him, for he did not pay attention to the Torah; the Torah says, To a woman in her menstrual impurity, do not come near (Lev. 18:19). (b. Shab. 13a–b)

Two subsequent teachings try to clarify the couple’s transgression. The first is itself enigmatic, saying that it was “one bed” (the medieval commentator Rashi interprets this as a “wide” or “broad” bed), and the second states that a garment separated the two of them.50 The responsibility for the act is ambiguous. Apparently both husband tion is only seven days, and that Elijah’s extension of separation through the “white days” is not “mainstream Halakhah.” She also points out that the phrase “white days” does not appear elsewhere in the Talmud (Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis, 158, 174 n 39, and generally 156–176). Baskin argues that the story reflects a change in law over time. The addition of seven days appears at “some point after the codification of the Mishnah” and the “threatening tone of much of the discussion concerning their observance” may indicate resistance to these strictures (Baskin, Midrashic Women, 25–26). Shaye Cohen summarizes the general legal issues and discusses medieval developments in Cohen, “Purity, Piety, and Polemic,” 82–87. 50. Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis, 174 n 39; Baskin, Midrashic Women, 25–26. In Rabbi Nathan A, perhaps the most significant difference from the Talmudic story is a shift in Elijah’s account of menstrual norms. The widow says explicitly that she slept in her clothes, and Elijah speaks of “first” days and “last” days, which could be interpreted as the days of menstruation plus the following white days of the Talmud, but it also might refer to the early days and later days of the menstrual period itself (Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis, 174 n 39). This latter inter-

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and wife carry blame, even though rabbinic law makes woman’s menstruation external, visible, accessible, and under the jurisdiction of men. In Rabbi Nathan A, the woman presents herself as the key agent, for she says, “I ate with him, and drank with him, and slept with him in my clothes on the bed.” Here in the Babylonian Talmud, however, she says, “He ate with me, drank with me. . . .”51 While Rabbi Simeon expresses his distress during a one-time exchange with Rabbi Ishmael, the widow’s lament is a highly public act. She repeatedly goes to the synagogues and study houses and displays her husband’s ritual adornments (tefillin), which represent both his piety and his death (as he is not present to wear them). These communal sacred spaces become sites of a visible challenge to God’s justice and to the sages who uphold it. Rabbinic literature has numerous promises that God will reward those who study Torah and serve as disciples to the sages. The student did all those things, yet he still died young. The widow quotes Deuteronomy 30:20, “For it is your life and the length of your days.” A widespread midrash asserts that Torah will give a person many days of life. In a Babylonian story of Rabbi Akiva’s martyrdom, this verse even justifies studying Torah despite persecution and the threat of death (b. Ber. 61b). Given this connection between Torah and life, she raises the challenge: how could her husband, who immersed himself in the study of rabbinic tradition, die so young? The response to the protest also has more dimensions than in the story of martyrdom. In the narrative of the two sages, one rabbi responds to the other by leading an inquiry into the past and proposing a solution. In the narrative of the widow, no ordinary human can answer her question, even at the study houses. Only Elijah, the prophet taken by God during his lifetime who then returns to visit sages and answer difficult problems, can reply. This element in the story heightens the dramatic tension. Initially the woman’s question gains legitimacy, for no man can respond. Then, Elijah’s rejection of her complaint carries more authority than would a comment by an ordinary man. He cites Leviticus 18:19 with two implied midrashic interpretations. As discussed above, “do not come near” conveys that the husband should not come near his wife, even sleeping in bodily contact during the white days. Also, in Leviticus 18, the punishment for commitpretation would imply a less stringent regulation for menstrual impurity than in the Talmud, but also less scrupulousness on the part of the couple. 51. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity, 114–115 and generally 103–127; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 2 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 8–9; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 30–35); Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy,” 271–274. Jonathan Malamy pointed out these issues to me.

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ting the forbidden acts is to be “cut off” (karet), which rabbis understood to be linked with divine punishment. Here, a punishment of early death has been visited upon the young scholar.52 The editorial development of this story emphasizes pedagogy that upholds extreme scrupulousness regarding menstrual purity. The Talmudic editors place the narrative in a discussion of menstrual separation, and they quote verses from Leviticus 18 before the narrative and in its conclusion. The whole scene appears through the voice of the prophet Elijah, who frames the death as God’s punishment. All of this editorial activity pushes against the woman’s forceful complaint regarding divine action, and in the end she is silent.

The Widow and Elijah (Seder Eliyahu Rabbah 15/16) The editors of Seder Eliyahu Rabbah uphold divine justice and Elijah’s instruction, and soften the protest against God’s action, much more than we find in other versions of the narrative: (1) Apparent injustice: A story of a student who studied scripture a great deal, studied mishnah a great deal, and he entered his eternal home (bet olamo) at half of his expected days. (2a) Distress, question, or complaint: His wife went mad (shot.ah). She would repeatedly go do the doors of the fellows (h.averim) of her husband. She said to them: My masters (rabbotayy)! My husband studied scripture a great deal and studied mishnah a great deal. Why did he enter his eternal home (bet olamo) at half of his expected days? (2b) Lack of Response: They did not reply to her with even a word. (3) Inquiry by another party: Once I was walking in the market and entered the courtyard of her dwelling. She came, sat opposite me, and cried. I said to her: My daughter, why are you crying?

52. Friedmann provides an extensive discussion of Elijah in his long introduction to Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, esp. 2–44; see also Urbach, The Sages, 49, 102, 116, 147, 214, 298, 301–302, 309, 558, 571–572, 658, 660, and 680. Shaye Cohen summarizes on karet, “In rabbinic law karet involved a court-inflicted whipping and a divinely inflicted punishment, whose precise contours were the subject of debate”: “Purity, Piety, and Polemic,” 98 n 4. Charlotte Fonrobert discusses the punishment of karet and the menstrual laws of Lev. 18 in Menstrual Purity, 20–22; see also Albeck, Six Orders of the Mishnah: Moed, 243–245; Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah, 153. Important texts are y. Bik. 2:1, 64c and b. M.Q. 28a, both of which I discuss below in chapter five. The relation between karet and punishment enacted by human beings is discussed in detail by Shemesh in Punishments and Sins, 82–98; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 58–59.

102 / Chapter Three She said: My husband studied scripture a great deal and mishnah studied a great deal. Why did he enter his eternal home at half of his expected days? I said: In the time of your menstrual impurity, what happened in relation to you? She said: My master, he would say to me, Throw away [as forbidden for intercourse] all those days in which you see blood, and sit seven clean [days], so that you will not come into doubt. I said: What you said is right, for thus taught the sages regarding men and women with a discharge, menstruating women, and women who have given birth: after seven days they are pure for marital intercourse, as it is written, When she becomes pure of her discharge, she shall count off seven days, and afterwards she shall be pure. (Lev. 15:28) In the white days, what was it like at your house? Perhaps with your hand you anointed him with oil, or he touched you even with his small finger? She said: As you live, I washed his feet, anointed him with oil, and he slept with me in bed, but nothing else came to his mind.53 I said: Blessed be the Omnipresent that before Him there is no favoritism, for thus it is written in the Torah, To a woman at the time of her menstrual impurity, do not come near . . . (Lev. 18:19). (Seder Eliyahu Rabbah 15/16)54

After the story, the compilers expand the instruction “do not come near” as a prohibition against a man hugging, kissing, speaking flirtatiously, or sleeping in bed with a menstruating woman (which is very similar to material surrounding the story in Rabbi Nathan A). Several features intensify the pedagogical force upholding menstrual purity, including the widow’s extended description of her husband’s diligence and Elijah’s midrashic interpretation of Leviticus 15:28.55 The narrative also repeatedly affirms God’s action as just. Elijah asserts before God “there is no favoritism,” which alludes to a portrait of God as a perfect judge in Mishnah

53. Braude and Kapstein suggest that “nothing else” (davar ah.er) may have originally been a reference to sexual activity (derekh eretz); see Tanna Debe Eliyyahu, 170 and Friedmann’s Introduction to Seder Eliahu, 103 n 1. 54. Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 76 (the larger literary unit begins in Seder Eliyahu Rabbah 14/15; Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 70). The anthology entitled Seder Eliyahu Rabbah has a complicated relation to the Talmudic passages attributed to “the School of Elijah,” but in this case we find a close parallel to the story in b. Shab. 13a–b. Also, in both the Babylonian Talmud and Seder Eliyahu Rabbah the story is told in the first person by a male character, while in Rabbi Nathan A, the story is told in the third person, and the male character is named as Elijah (Schofer, “Protest or Pedagogy,” 271–274). 55. Compare Sifra Metzora, Parashat Zavim 5:9; Rabbi Nathan B, ch. 1 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 1; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 316).

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Avot 4:22.56 In addition, the story may imply that God will reward the student after death through the words “entered his eternal home (bet olamo).” As discussed in chapter one, Ecclesiastes 12:5 states that each person goes to “his eternal home,” and midrash upon this phrase teaches that “each and every righteous man has an eternity of his own” (Lev. Rab. 18:1; also Eccles. Rab. 12:5). If the narrative in Seder Eliyahu Rabbah presumes this teaching, then the man dies young but will gain life in the world to come.57 In addition to intensifying the pedagogical teaching, and affirming God’s justice, the story undermines the woman’s protest in two respects. The first is an absence: the midrashic argument based on Deuteronomy 30:20, articulated in the Babylonian Talmud, does not appear. Second, the story states that the woman went mad. Gail Holst-Warhaft observes that links between lament and madness appear in many cultures: We should not be surprised that the rituals of death can also be confused with or appear to be identical with manifestations of madness. The witch and the shaman, the medium and the wailing woman are all seen, at some historical moment or in some particular culture, as being possessed by dangerous powers, but the lamenter, in her ritual dialogue with death, may be viewed as linking madness to death in a unique equivalence. . . . The lamenter turns the patriarchal society upside down by her authority over the rituals of death.

The rabbinic narrative does not portray the widow carrying out visceral rituals like those that Holst-Warhaft addresses in Ireland or Greece—long laments, leaping in the air, and self-mutilation.58 Still, the widow’s response to death challenges conceptual foundations of rabbinic culture. The label of madness reprimands her and marginalizes her argument. The combination of these details, then, reveals a highly consistent editorial shaping of the story. Seder Eliyahu Rabbah instructs men to be meticulous in their sexual relations with their wives. The woman and her protest are pushed aside. The husband is fastidious in his practices but with a fatal error. God is a perfect judge who shows no favoritism and likely rewards the man after his death. 56. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 173–177; also Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 34 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 76–77; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 369). 57. See Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 329 regarding Eccles. 12:5; Eccles. Rab. to Eccles. 12:5; Lev. Rab. 18:1 (Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 396–397). Note that Lev. Rab. 18:1 and this story in Seder Eliyahu are related in different ways to the laws of Leviticus 15. 58. Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices, 27–28.

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The Widow and Elijah: Conclusion The story of the widow’s encounter with Elijah portrays a very different kind of vulnerability than does the story of the two martyrs. The figure of the widow makes clear that death affects not only the one who passes, but also many others surrounding her or him. This set of vulnerabilities is paired with instruction concerning menstrual purity. I am cautious about calling this instruction ethical. The issue at hand is purity, and we should not conflate purity and ethics, even though they are often intertwined.59 Still, the story sets out ideals for the bodily comportment and relational dynamics of an aspiring sage, which include virtues such as modesty and diligence. The cultural significance of the widow has several dimensions. In all three accounts she cries out and makes a public display of her husband’s tefillin, and in two cases she frames her challenge through Deuteronomy 30:20. The androcentric texts, then, portray a lamenting woman who makes an exegetically framed theological critique that no ordinary man can answer. Does the character simply represent a mask for the male rabbinic compilers, who voice discontent with divine justice through the literary figure of a woman in mourning? Or does she represent a possibility of cultural critique that may have existed for women in periods of lamentation? Or perhaps all the layers of cultural formation have their origins in a woman who actually made such a protest when her husband died. Other ambiguities surround her interactions with others. How should we understand the point that no one at the synagogue or study house could respond to the widow’s question, only the prophet Elijah? One interpretation holds that the men’s silence is a minor moment in the story, so Elijah basically functions like Rabbi Ishmael in the other story. An alternative interpretation argues that the silence shows the force of her criticism, and her encounter with the prophet indicates the extraordinary significance of her situation. This second interpretation would affirm the woman and her stance. Another ambiguous detail is the widow’s lack of response to Elijah. Does this absence show that Elijah’s solution is decisive, or does it signal that she (along with editors and audience who sympathize with her plight) does not accept the answer? Comparison to the martyrdom story is provocative: three versions of that narrative have some form of final confirmation, and silence by the protester seems to signal dissatisfaction or rejection. 59. Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, esp. 117.

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The reception of this story clearly emphasizes fastidiousness in menstrual purity. Editors consistently place the story in discussions of purity rather than, say, death or mourning. The biblical verse Leviticus 18:19 (“To a woman at the time of her menstrual impurity, do not come near . . .”) regularly appears. In Seder Eliyahu we see a number of additions that uphold God’s action as just. The woman’s cry is preserved in rabbinic literature, but Elijah and at least three editorial streams have worked to answer and quiet her. Death and mourning serve pedagogy. This impulse intensified in the medieval period. Shaye Cohen writes, “The story [in b. Shab. 13a–b] was immensely popular in the Middle Ages and was cited in virtually every discussion of the laws of niddah,” as a polemic against leniency regarding isolation of a menstruant during the seven white days.60

Conclusion This chapter has focused upon two narratives that appear in Rabbi Nathan A and Seder Eliyahu Rabbah. Each has parallel and arguably earlier versions in other sources, particularly the tannaitic Mekhilta for the story of the two martyrs and the Babylonian Talmud for the widow and Elijah. The stories combine moments of crisis, sentiments of anguish and complaint, searches for order and understanding, and practical guidance. The editorial development of the stories often highlights pedagogy through the literary context, the use of biblical verses, and various details. In these moments, rabbinic literature draws upon dramatic scenes of crisis and extends the boundaries of divine justice to reinforce ethics. The texts teach students to develop themselves as scholastic elites who are committed to scrupulous observance of demanding norms: keeping erotic and sexual boundaries within marriage, maintaining an inner state of humility in public relations, and responding to the needs of others quickly, generously, and justly. The stories present several kinds of interconnected vulnerability: bodily, social, theological. Nussbaum observes, “We all have to die sometime, but the fact that so many of us die so very young (in war, or from preventable illness or hunger) is not at all necessary; . . . it is the result of defective po60. S. Cohen, “Purity, Piety, and Polemic,” 86. Baskin analyzes a retelling of this story in Sefer HaRoqeah by the thirteenth-century Rabbi Eleazar ben Judah of Worms. Here the man who died is mourned not by a widow but by a friend, and the response is given not by Elijah but by God. The sense of protest is much less than in the late ancient versions, and the pedagogical dimensions are far stronger: Baskin, “Male Piety, Female Bodies,” 20–23.

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litical arrangements.”61 In these narratives, early death occurs in the context of social interaction and power relations: imperial persecution as well as gender hierarchy and the precarious status of widows. The stories, though, subsume the physical and social within the theological. The primary cause of death is God’s judgment upon rabbis and their followers. Those striving for the highest standards can easily become arrogant, insufficiently attentive to others, and lax in maintaining purity standards. Such failures can bring disaster. I have focused on the disjunction in attributing early death to punishment for a small sin. Something seems wrong, disturbing, and problematic in this equation. Within the imagery of the narrative, we can ask: what happens to the frustrations expressed through the characters of Rabbi Simeon and the widow, the sense that disaster disrupts a sense of divinely supported order in the world?62 From a psychoanalytic standpoint, we could say that this form of pedagogy represents a fantasy of cosmic order in its worst form: rather than facing the raw uncertainties and threats of life, these texts seem to imply that the sage in his piety controls all, and if he were to act perfectly, he could avoid imperial oppression and death. Given these important criticisms, can we understand these stories as sophisticated responses to vulnerability and crisis? Three points in the interpretation of rabbinic texts are salient. First, specific cases do not yield easy generalizations. If a story states that a sage could be punished with death for being arrogant, this does not necessarily mean that being humble insures one against mortality. Such attempts at logical extension miss the flexible and occasional nature of the instruction. Second, as I discuss further next chapter, rabbis sometimes protest God’s action with aggressive prayers that call for change. Rabbinic Judaism tolerated and at times upheld voices of theological complaint, even though these particular stories counter such voices. Third, like classical Greek tragedy, the rabbinic stories provoke their audiences to inquire and reflect. The dialogues preserve the

61. Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, xxx. 62. We could also approach the narratives by asking how emotions relate to perception and judgment. The cries of the widow and Rabbi Simeon may “involve judgments about important things, judgments in which, appraising an external object as salient for our own wellbeing, we acknowledge our own neediness and incompleteness before parts of the world that we do not fully control” (Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought, 19). However, this understanding of emotion would be rejected by the figures of Rabbi Ishmael and Elijah, and by characterizations of the widow as “mad.”

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voices of critics even as they provide responses, opening up room for doubt and criticism while upholding God’s justice and rabbinic ideals.63 Finally, these narratives explore connections between what Terry Eagleton calls “crisis and the commonplace.”64 Ethics needs to examine the relations between needs in crisis and needs during the everyday. For colonized populations, life often occurs in a larger setting of crisis, requiring an ethic that can make sense of virtues in the context of oppression. Rabbis strive for excellence in the mundane given a treacherous and uncertain world. Their standards are fastidious and exacting, but they emphasize ordinary life, in contrast with calls for radical personal or political change that may or may not be possible. In addition, the narratives uphold behavior that is interpersonal and, in the story of the two martyrs, linked with roles of leadership. This instruction sets out ideals for character and community, opening up the possibility that virtuous acts will filter through the causality of the universe and enable one to cope with large challenges when they come. 63. Halberstam, Law and Truth in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, 130–132. Nussbaum emphasizes that Greek tragedy provoked reflection in Love’s Knowledge, 15; also Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 143–144. Disjunction between act and punishment, and protest against divine beings, are not unique to rabbinic sources. One example that could inspire comparative inquiry is a story of the Brahmin Mandavya in the Mahabharata (Mahabharata 1.101). I thank Wendy Doniger and Anne Monius for their observations regarding this passage. 64. Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 74–75.

FOUR

Drought

What is the fundamental relation between humans and nature? Contemporary Western answers may center on human domination, use, responsibility, care, value, or celebration of nature. They may also invoke nature’s instrumental value, intrinsic value, rights, or connection to the divine. This chapter highlights human dependence upon the environment and related vulnerabilities. I write at a time when this vulnerability is highly visible. Climate change, earthquakes, tsunamis, and hurricanes raise pressing issues. Problems surrounding water are prominent and include droughts and floods, the drying of rivers and aquifers, and the impacts of dams and hydraulic engineering. In management of water, ecological issues are closely tied with social and political issues including land ownership, urban and regional planning, and the power to drill, drain, contain, purify, and pollute.1 Late ancient rabbinic texts, and the biblical sources that inspire rabbis, most fully explore relations between humans and nature through the topic of rainfall. Humans as animals need to eat and drink. This feature of embodiment makes us vulnerable to anything that prevents access to nourishment, such as drought. I focus on narratives that draw upon responses to drought and convey ethical instruction. These narratives do not present an environmental ethic, or even a proto-environmental ethic. Rather, the 1. Major influences on my thinking about nature, politics, and ethics are Harvey, Justice, Nature, and the Geography of Difference, 117–204; and the dated but still important Gorz, Ecology as Politics. A brief survey of environmental ethics is Taylor, “Environmental Ethics.” Accounts of Judaism and environmental ethics include Tirosh-Samuelson, Judaism and Ecology, esp. 61–92 on late ancient rabbinic views; Yaffe, Judaism and Environmental Ethics. Contemporary issues surrounding water are stressed in Nash, “Consuming Interests.”

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stories portray humans as deeply grounded in their surroundings and the cycles of nature, and they set out ideals for day-to-day interpersonal relations given vulnerabilities to the environment. In modern Jewish and Christian environmental ethics, a very influential biblical verse states that God placed Adam “in the Garden of Eden, to work it and tend it” (Gen. 2:15). This scene is a primary inspiration for the notion of “stewardship”: God is the owner of the created world, and humans are responsible for looking after the earth and for conserving natural resources as divine gifts.2 This chapter considers themes that are far more pervasive than stewardship in ancient Israelite and classical rabbinic sources, and I begin with a rabbinic commentary upon a prior verse in Genesis 2. Just before the creation of Adam, the Bible presents a distinct connection between earth, rainfall, and human beings: . . . no shrub of the field was yet on the earth, and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because the Lord God had not set rain upon the earth, and there was no human to work the soil. (Gen. 2:5)

Genesis Rabbah asserts a strong link between the three: Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai said: Three things are weighed equally, and they are earth (Xra), humans (Mda), and rain (rem). Rabbi Levi bar Hiyyata said: The three of them are written with three letters, to teach you that without earth there would be no rain, and without rain there would be no earth, and without the two of them there would be no humans. (Gen. Rab. 13:3)3

The following passages include a tribute to rain. Rain gathers exiles, unites peoples of different cultures, and is valued with the messianic resurrection of the dead and even the entire work of creation. (Gen. Rab. 13: 4–6) In ancient Israel and later Roman Palestine, rain is essential for agriculture and the source of fertility, growth, nourishment, and wealth (in contrast with ancient Egypt, where flooding of the Nile enables irrigation). Drought, by contrast, brings barrenness, death, weakness, and poverty. Passages in the Hebrew Bible portray the Israelite God in the role of a rain deity. Perhaps the most influential of these texts in later Judaism is Deuter-

2. Bakken, “Stewardship”; Fowler, The Greening of Protestant Thought, 76. 3. Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 115; for an analysis of related material in Gen. Rab. 13:13, see Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 107–108.

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onomy 11:13–17: late ancient rabbis as well as many other observant Jews through history are to recite these verses each evening and each morning as part of the Shema. This passage connects divine control of rain and human need for food, inspiring listeners to observe God’s commandments: If, then, you obey the commandments that I command you this day, to love YHWH your God and serve him with all your heart and soul, I will give you rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late. You shall gather your grain, your wine and oil. I will give grass in the fields for your cattle and you shall eat and be satiated. Beware lest your heart be seduced, and you turn away to serve other gods and bow to them. For YHWH’s anger will flare up against you, and he will shut up the skies and there will be no rain and the land will not yield its produce; and you will perish quickly from the good land that YHWH is giving you. (Deuteronomy 11:13–17)

These words link covenantal loyalty (loving the God of Israel and observing His commandments) with divine gift giving (the verb “to give” appears three times: twice the giver is God, and once the giver is the earth). The passage sets out concrete connections between human action, God’s response, rainfall, and human bodily needs. If Israelites observe the commandments, God gives rain that enables the production of grain, wine, oil, and cattle, so humans will “eat and be satisfied.” If Israelites do not observe the commandments, God will be angry and withhold rain, so there will be no produce, and they will “perish quickly.”4

Argument and Major Themes A large cluster of rabbinic prayers, rituals, and communal fasts develop the idea that God’s justice conditions rainfall. Rainfall is likely the most 4. I follow the translation and comments of Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11, 430, 433–434, 446–448; also Tigay, The JPS Torah Commentary,113–114; Tabory, “Prayers and Berakot,” 296– 297; Anderson, Sin, 181–182. Note that Deut. 11:10–12 characterizes Israel as a region particularly dependent upon rain. The importance of Deut. 11:13–17 and general conceptions of divine justice for Jewish understanding are nature are discussed in Tirosh-Samuelson, Judaism and Ecology, 179–181, 427–429; Yaffe, Judaism and Environmental Ethics, 127–128, 112–119. Other biblical passages that invoke or discuss God’s rain-making power include Jer. 5:24; Jer. 14:22; and Zech. 10:1. Moshe Weinfeld sees Jer. 5:24 as dependent on Deut. 11:14: Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, 360. See also D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 13.

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concrete, public, and urgent natural phenomenon that rabbis aim to influence through their behavior before God. Drought results from sin, rain is a sign of God’s favor for right character and action, and divine accounting addresses a full range of behavior and not only the covenantal concerns of Deuteronomy 11. This theology and related practices become the background for narratives in which distinctive people attempt to bring rain through their connection with the divine.5 Certain narratives invoke drought and rain-making as part of ethical instruction. Many studies have attempted to recover the historical events or persons underlying the narratives. I build on this research but focus on the conceptual underpinnings, exegetical contextualization, and pedagogical force of the material. In figurative terms, I attend to the husk that is usually pared away in the search for kernels of history. The stories convey values through statements by characters, through actions by characters, through the ways the stories are edited into larger units, and through their location as commentary to laws and biblical verses about drought and rain. These narratives provide a counterpart to those discussed in chapter three. Again God’s justice is central: an event occurs in the world, and the cause is attributed to human behavior. Again we find a disjunction in magnitude between event and cause. The previous stories framed the crisis (early death) as punishment for an apparently small sin. These stories frame the solution to the crisis (miraculous rain-making) as reward for an apparently small virtue or interpersonal act. With these theological underpinnings, the narratives promote rabbinic ideals such as compassion and generosity through several pedagogical techniques. Most generally, the stories uphold actions or character states by portraying them as inspiring positive changes in divine accounting that brings rainfall. Another motif is that drought becomes a test of virtue for the rabbi and the community, raising questions of who is at fault for the drought and who is sufficiently righteous to bring rain. 5. On public fasts, see D. Levine, Communal Fasts, especially 120–144; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers for Rain in Later Roman Palestine”; Sperber, “Drought, Famine, and Pestilence in Amoraic Palestine”; Lowy, “The Motivation of Fasting in Talmudic Literature.” Some influential studies regarding pietistic and miraculous activity are Büchler, Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety; Safrai, In Times of the Temple and Mishnah, 518–539; Green, “Palestinian Holy Men”; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 105–109; Hirshman, “Changing Foci of Holiness”; Diamond, “Hunger Artists and Householders”; Kalmin, “Holy Men, Rabbis, and Demonic Sages in Late Antiquity,” 213–249. Beyond rain-making, passages that address the relation between human action and natural disaster include m. Avot 5:7; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 38; Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 41 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 113–116; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 268–275, 382–384).

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The central vulnerability is the human need for nourishment. Without food and drink we are hungry. Judith Holman writes, Hunger, by which I mean an acutely perceived need for literal food, determines bodily processes perhaps more than any other characteristic of poverty. Further, hunger may shape not only the physical body of starving individuals but also the interactive dynamics of the starving group in the larger social body of the community. The role of religion in famine dynamics is rarely straightforward and always closely tied to other power dynamics.6

Rabbinic narratives present a world where rain conditions whether or not people have basic resources. Historically speaking, food shortages are caused not only by weather but also a host of “disordered relationships”: human and environmental factors that affect the harvest (weather, pest infestation, blight, land security, harvesting methods), those that affect food distribution (war, natural disasters, transportation failures, storage decisions, political control of the markets), changes in the availabilities of necessities to the very poor (loss of land ownership, changes in market prices, stockpiling by the very rich), and changes in patronage dynamics that may also impact the availability of goods and services to certain sectors of the population.7

We do not have clear evidence regarding the frequency of drought and food shortages in Roman Palestine of the first centuries C.E. Several scholars agree that food crises (short-term reduction in food leading to rising prices, discontent, and hunger) were quite common in the ancient Greco-Roman world. Famines that brought starvation and increases in mortality were less frequent but still points of apprehension. When compared with other late ancient Mediterranean literatures, rabbinic sources are distinctive for their extensive attention to rainfall and drought. We do not know whether this attention indicates agricultural crises (especially in the third century), or the cultural and theological importance given to rain by rabbis, or both.8 6. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying, 64–65. Levinas sets out a phenomenological treatment of the need for nourishment in Time and the Other, 62–64. 7. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying, 66–67. 8. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying, 67–71; Garnsey, Famine and Food Supply, esp. 6, 14–16, 17–39. Garnsey’s main reference concerning rabbinic material is Sperber, “Drought, Famine, and Pestilence.” Sperber claims that the rabbinic sources indicate agricultural decline in the third century (“Drought, Famine, and Pestilence,” 272 and throughout), but Garnsey holds that comparative evidence does not support the view that rainfall was abnormally low at that time (Famine and Food Supply, 15). Also note Lieberman’s comment, “Absence of rain at the begin-

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According to the narratives, the primary response to drought is ritual and prayer. What about rationing, eating of less desirable or unfamiliar foodstuffs, and emigration? We do not know if rabbis engaged in worldly, concrete reactions. We do know that rabbinic storytellers and editors employed examples of crises to impart ideals for character and action. Rabbis extensively discussed charity and care for the poor,9 and these values inform the conclusions and ultimate prescriptions of the narratives I examine. The stories portray sages who give short sermons that instruct their audiences to be compassionate, to give to others, and to serve God with diligence. In addition, narratives uphold generosity as bringing miraculous rainfall through the divine economy. These materials do not presume that people will help others in time of drought, but rather they instruct members of a community to support their fellows.

Cosmology, Calendar, and Holy Men Many rabbinic teachings, including those in tannaitic and amoraic sources, configure rainfall through what Jeffrey Rubenstein has called an earthly hydraulic system. Below the earth are the waters of the “Deep” (tehom), which periodically flow up to streams, rivers, and ultimately the clouds. Above the skies are also waters that, in some views, provide moisture for the clouds. The key time when humans can influence this process is during the autumn festival of Sukkot, through libations at the Jerusalem Temple that imitate and have a causal effect upon the rains that flow into the deep. A stone located either beneath the Temple or at the altar is said to be the center of the cosmos, containing the waters of the Deep that God had imprisoned beneath the earth.10 Even without the Temple as a locale of ritual practice, Sukkot remains central to rabbinic temporal framing of rainfall, and the symbolic connections between the festival and rain continue to develop: cultic rituals for managing water flows in the cosmos were imagined if not enacted. More generally, the rituals and prayers of Sukkot focus on rain, and the daily liturgy marks the change of season with two additions to the Amidah: the mention of divine power to bring rain (“Who makes the wind

ning of the season was not infrequent in Palestine, and prayers for it do not prove that there was a drought during the whole season” (“Martyrs of Caesarea,” 435; also discussed in Sperber, “Drought, Famine, and Pestilence,” 283). 9. Garnsey, Famine and Food Supply, 26–32, 69–86; Holman, The Hungry Are Dying, 38–48; Anderson, “Redeem Your Sins by the Giving of Alms.” Gregg Gardner is currently developing an important study of related issues centered on tractate Peah of the Mishnah and Tosefta. 10. Rubenstein, The History of Sukkot, 122–131.

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blow and the rains come down”) and the request for rain (“give dew and rain as a blessing”). In two narratives discussed below, these prayers bring rain and end a drought.11 It is not always clear whether rituals and stories of rainfall presume the imagery of an earthly hydraulic system. Rabbinic sources discuss God’s control of water at several different periods: creation, great floods, when the Temple existed, and the world that rabbis inhabit. If we treat each source in isolation, we atomize and present an overly fragmented picture, yet we cannot assume an easy integration of the diverse materials. Complex combinations do occur, as in teachings that connect mythic accounts of God’s early relation to the waters and the Deep, ancient floods during the period described in Genesis, and divine justice. When considering their own times, rabbis may have understood the earthly hydraulic system to be managed through divine accounting. The Mishnah and Tosefta both name Rosh Ha-Shanah as a time when all humans are judged by God (ha-olam niddon), and Sukkot either as a time of further judgment regarding rainfall, or as the time when the initial decree is manifest (compare m. R. H. 1:2 and t. R. H. 1:12–13).12 These dimensions of rabbinic culture push us to qualify the use of terms such as nature, environment, and ecology. These categories appropriately convey the world that surrounds humans, that humans inhabit, that is immediate for human life. However, such terms can imply a nature that operates according to a scientific notion of causality, while rabbinic accounts of rainfall are quite different. Often I prefer the broader category of cosmology: cosmologies of earthly hydraulics and divine justice underlie rabbinic accounts of drought, precipitation, the growth of crops, and miraculous rain-making. If all is well with God, rain should fall soon after Sukkot. No rain for twenty-five days (by 17 Marheshvan) indicates that God is withholding rain because of human sin. The rabbinic response, then, is to intervene in the divine accounting through prayer and ritual fasting, with the goal of appeasing God so that the heavens will open and rain will fall. Chapter one 11. Rubenstein, History of Sukkot, 117–131, 311–317 on the Deep, rain symbolism, and libations, and 171–178 on liturgical changes; as he points out, a number of teachings concerning the source of waters and other created entities in the earth or in the heavens are collected in Gen. Rab. 12:11 and related sources (see 129 and n 102); Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 124–131; Patai, “The ‘Control of Rain’ in Ancient Palestine,” 251–286. 12. Fishbane exposits accounts of God’s relation to the waters and the Deep, and of the waters as instruments of divine justice, in Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 113–131, 208–211. Rubenstein discusses connections between Sukkot, rain, and divine judgment in History of Sukkot, 165–169.

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of Mishnah Taanit (the tractate on “fasting”) prescribes a series of rituals in response to drought. Initially, only select “individuals” (yeh.idim) fast, and they do so for three days spread out on a Monday, Thursday, and the following Monday (as we will see, amoraic discussion of these “individuals” included people who could pray and bring rain). If there is still no rain, the court (bet din) decrees three fasts for the whole community. Continued drought means that the whole community fasts repeatedly, up to a total of thirteen fasts. At that point, communal activities are “lessened,” and the “individuals” continue to fast until the end of the month of Nisan—that is, the end of the rainy season in the spring after the festival of Passover. The public is to be “as people reprimanded by the Omnipresent” (m. Taan. 1:4–7). These ascetic activities perform atonement in the face of a rebuke by God. After the first three communal fasts, the prescriptions presume the five “afflictions” (innuiyim) characteristic of Yom Kippur for those fasting—to avoid eating and drinking, washing, anointing, wearing leather shoes, and sexual relations (compare m. Taan. 1:6 and m. Yoma 8:1). In addition, the Mishnah describes public rituals, liturgical passages, and six additions to the Amidah based on verses in the Bible when people call out to God in distress (m. Taan. 2:1–4).13 Palestinian amoraic narratives of rain-making, which make up the bulk of my analysis, presume something close to the mishnaic model of public fasting. A significant difference is the communal leadership. The Mishnah portrays the heads of the community as diverse and impersonal. “The court” decrees a fast. In the liturgy various people are prominent: the “individuals,” political and legal heads, the leaders of the services. The identities of these figures and groups become points of discussion in the amoraic literature, but the narratives that I examine tend to emphasize distinct main characters. Even when the stories explore relations between powerful individuals and the community, they still name prominent rabbis or other figures. The compilers of the Babylonian Talmud and Rabbi Nathan A may 13. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 118–120; Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity, 76; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 14–16, 36–60, 66–94; Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism,” 258–260; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 108–111; Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 173–174; Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud, 23–24, 109, 127; Hoffman, Beyond the Text, 8–15. The Bible presents many examples of individual and communal fasts. Several of these have been incorporated into the mishnaic liturgy, including the fast of the people of Nineveh after Jonah’s prophecy (Jonah 3), Jeremiah’s denunciation of an attempt to repent through fasting (Jer. 14); and Joel’s call for a fast after a locust invasion (Joel 1); on the last of these, see Gaster, Thespis, 72.

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not have carried out all the mishnaic prescriptions, but the narratives present major elements including the autumn festival of Sukkot, the blessings of the Amidah for the rainy season, and public fasts.14 The stories often present periods when rain has not come even after extensive fasting, and men engage in powerful speech that brings rain— sometimes customary forms of prayer and sometimes words for the specific occasion. Viewed from a comparative perspective, these accounts of miraculous rain-making present people who may be classified as holy men, and the attempt to control rainfall can be considered weather shamanism. Cross-culturally, rain is a common site for attempts to gain extraordinary control over worldly causation. Max Weber has even remarked, “Throughout the world the magician is in the first instance a rainmaker, for the harvest depends on timely and sufficient rain, though not in excessive quantity.”15 This categorization needs specification based on subtleties in rabbinic culture. Rabbis had terms that translate directly as “holy man” and as “magic” (k.sh.p.), and one Talmudic sugya even presents an elaborate treatment of “magic” as a prohibited yet enticing cluster of practices (b. Sanh. 67a– 68a). However, these terms are not present in the narratives I examine, and manuscripts of one story explicitly label the rainfall as a “miracle” (nes).16

Compassion, Human and Divine (Genesis Rabbah 33:3) In the story of the flood in Genesis, a major shift occurs after 150 days. The text states: God (elohim) remembered Noah, and all the beast and cattle that were with him in the ark, and God caused a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters

14. D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 121–166; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 111–114. 15. Weber, The Sociology of Religion, 56. The category of weather shamanism is central to Wilbert, Mystic Endowment, 219–245. For rabbinic sources see Green, “Palestinian Holy Men,” 619–647; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 105–109; Kalmin, “Holy Men, Rabbis, and Demonic Sages,” 213–249. 16. The attribution of holiness to rabbinic sages is discussed in Fine, This Holy Place, 16–21; Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 75–85. The word “miracle” (nes) appears in manuscripts of a story about Nakdimon ben Gurion, which I discuss below; see b. Taan. 19b–20a and especially the text and analysis of Fraenkel, “Time and Its Shaping in Aggadic Narratives”; Malter, The Treatise Taanit of the Babylonian Talmud, 284–285; Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 6 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 32; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 90–91), especially the manuscripts of MS New York Rab. 25 and MS New York 10484. A recent overview of “magic” and related dimensions of rabbinic culture is Harari, “The Sages and the Occult.”

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The midrash of Genesis Rabbah explores several interpretative problems that emerge from these verses. Why does God remember specifically Noah, and what is the relation between God attending to a righteous man and God attending to others around him? Another problem centers on the detail that the divine name is Elohim, which rabbinic sources often link with divine judgment: what brings the attribute of justice to remember humans and animals, and to end the flood? This second topic, which I examine here, is developed through a midrashic homily that opens with a passage from the Psalms and concludes with Genesis 8:1.17 The opening verse employs the Tetragrammaton, the name of God linked with mercy, and emphasizes divine compassion, “Good is YHWH to all, and His compassion is upon all His works” (Ps. 145:9). The editors then present three sages’ explanations of what the line means: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: Good is YHWH to all, and His compassion is upon all, because they are His works. Rabbi Samuel bar Nahman said: Good is YHWH to all, and His compassion is upon all, for His attributes are [that] He has compassion. Rabbi Yehoshua in the name of Rabbi Levi: Good is YHWH to all, and He gives parts of His compassion to all creatures.18

The third teaching emphasizes that compassion transfers from God to humans. The next passage states that human compassion brings divine compassion: Rabbi Abba said: If tomorrow a year of famine comes, and all creatures have compassion upon each other, the Holy One, blessed be He, will be filled with compassion for them.

17. Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 182–184; Urbach, The Sages, 448– 461. The passages discussed in this section appear in Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 304–307. 18. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi focuses on “His works,” stating that God is compassionate upon all creatures because He made them. Rabbi Samuel bar Nahman highlights that YHWH is “good” and that compassion is “His” to state that compassion is intrinsic to the divine. The syntax is difficult, and my addition is based on the critical apparatus in Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 304. Rabbi Yehoshua emphasizes the word “upon,” stating that God bestows part of divine compassion upon all creatures.

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Rabbi Abba’s ideal that people should act with compassion in a time of crisis becomes central to the ensuing narrative and the literary unit as a whole (the motif also appears in b. Shab. 151b). The story is set in the late fourth century and portrays an anonymous community calling upon a rabbinic sage to lead a fast for rain: In the days of Rabbi Tanhuma, Israel needed a fast. They came before him and said: Rabbi, decree a fast. He decreed a fast a first day, a second day, and a third day, and rain did not fall. He went in and expounded, saying to them: My children, be filled with compassion for each other, and the Holy One, blessed be He, will be filled with compassion for you. When they were distributing alms to the poor, they saw a person giving money to his divorced wife. They came to him [Rabbi Tanhuma] and said: How is it that we are sitting here and there is this [mis]deed! He said: What did you see? They said: We saw some man giving money to his divorced wife. He sent for them, brought them, and said to him: Why did you give money to your divorced wife? He said to him: I saw her in great distress, and I was filled with loving compassion for her. Rabbi Tanhuma raised his face upward and said: Master of all worlds! This one, upon whom the other has no legal claim for sustenance, saw her in distress and was filled with compassion for her. You, that it is written about You, Compassionate and merciful is YHWH (Psalms 103:8). We are your children, the children of your loved ones, the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—how much the more that you should be filled with loving compassion for us! Immediately rain fell and the world was relieved.

The story begins with three fasts. In the Mishnah’s schema, these fasts could be the first series of three by the “individuals” (m. Taan. 1:4). Another possibility is that the public asks Rabbi Tanhuma to “decree” (g.z.r.) three fasts after the initial ones, just as the Mishnah prescribes that the court decree three fasts upon the community (m. Taan. 1:5).19

19. On the fourth-century setting, see Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 115, and L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 67. For the translation “[mis]deed,” some witnesses have “deed” (atdybi) and others have “transgression” (atrybi) (the difference lies in the

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These fasts do not bring rain, and the rabbi gives a public sermon that aims to inspire compassion and social action—this theme connects the narrative to the broader literary unit. The community distributes alms, but mistrust and division arise, for people suspect a man of giving money to his divorced wife for improper sexual activity. The misunderstanding conveys that a virtuous act may be perceived a vicious one. This motif appears elsewhere in rabbinic ethical teaching, and the point seems to be that common opinion can be misguided and true virtue may belie appearances. The accused man shows himself to have enacted exemplary behavior, giving money to another in need even though the other has no legal claim upon him (the root r.h..m. can have the senses of both love and compassion, as the man both shows familial love for his former wife and merciful behavior toward her).20 The generous man, although people accused him of sin, is the figure who carries out the teaching of Rabbi Tanhuma (and Rabbi Abba), “Be filled with compassion for each other, and the Holy One, blessed be He, will be filled with compassion for you.” The rabbi first acts as arbiter and judge by recognizing that the charges are false and the man’s action is right. He then intercedes with God through a particular form of expression that Joseph Heinemann has described as a “law court” prayer: a forceful prayer fitting the pattern of courtroom pleas, often used in times of distress and particularly in instances of rain-making. The worshipper is usually an exceptionally righteous individual who acts not as a defendant but as a prosecutor who brings claims, complaints, and protests against God. Many pious figures in narratives employ this form, yet the assertion pushes the boundaries of rabbinic norms concerning acceptable ways of speaking to God.21

fourth letter from the right): Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 304; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 115 n 31. Lapin interprets the fasts as “an initial cycle of three fasts” (“Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 113 n 21). 20. Both D. Levine and Lapin highlight the role of the rabbi as giving a public sermon to mobilize activity, and the watchfulness among the public: D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 132–133, 141, 210; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 114–116. On the dynamics of crowds and disputes, see MacMullen, Roman Social Relations, 63–68. The motif of a virtuous act being perceived as vicious is also discussed in Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 49–53 and notes; Brown, Apocalypse and/or Metamorphosis, 69–94. Anderson emphasizes the significance of almsgiving in Sin, 183–185; and Azzan Yadin pointed out to me the importance of r.h..m.; also see Satlow, Jewish Marriage in Antiquity, 233–237. 21. Richard Kalmin pointed out to me the sage’s role as arbiter and judge. For law court prayers, see Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud, 193–209; he discusses law court prayers in rainmaking, including the prayer of Rabbi Tanhuma, on 209–211. Heinemann writes that this form is not fixed (Prayer in the Talmud, 205). Green challenges Heinemann’s method on this point: “Palestinian Holy Men,” 629 n 52, 638 n 75.

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This form of prayer has the structure of an address, a plea, a petition, and then divine response. In the case of Rabbi Tanhuma, we find: (a) address: Master of all worlds! (b) plea, statement of facts, or accusation: This one, upon whom the other has no legal claim for sustenance, saw her in distress and was filled with compassion for her. . . . We are your children, the children of your loved ones, the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—how much the more that you should be filled with loving compassion for us! (c) petition: [implied: act according to the attribute of compassion and let rain fall] (d) divine acceptance of petition: Immediately rain fell and the world was relieved.

Rabbi Tanhuma’s opening address is standard for such prayers, and his plea is quite rich, citing scripture and using rabbinic reasoning as well as technical terms. Rabbi Tanhuma appeals to the good deeds of another man, not as a request to recognize the man’s merit, but as an exemplar for God Himself. The rabbi makes an inference from a minor case to a major case. The man is human, yet God is divine and characterized through scripture as merciful. Also, the woman is a divorced wife (and the man owes her no obligation), while the rabbi’s community are God’s children and descendants of God’s loved ones, the patriarchs of Genesis. If the man shows love and supererogatory mercy toward his former spouse, how much the more should God show love and compassion toward His family. God, both the accused and the judge, accepts the argument and responds with rain. The story, then, begins with a moment of crisis and presumes a liturgical response, with the implicit understanding that God acts in concrete ways responding to human action, that drought is caused by God withholding water because of sin, and that ritual atonement is needed to rectify the debt in divine accounting. When this process fails, the rabbi upholds a particular form of virtuous activity—compassion, manifested specifically as alms for those in need—as a response to the situation. The ensuing events show that the community is easily fragmented, the most virtuous are suspect, and the rabbi ends up being more significant for his rhetorical abilities (both toward the community and toward God) than for any compassionate or charitable activity of his own. The ethical ideals, however, are quite constant. The story develops Rabbi Abba’s teaching that if people are compassionate toward each other in times of famine, God will respond with compassion. Rabbi Tanhuma’s ser-

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mon, the community’s charity, the man’s generosity toward his wife, and the forceful prayer all reinforce that point. The rainfall is the concrete evidence that this teaching is accurate and has been fulfilled: compassion rises from the human realm to the divine and inspires rain, in a manner that echoes the image of water rising from the Deep to feed the clouds. The rest of the edited unit, moreover, continues with three stories about Rabbi Yehudah the Patriarch that have various twists and turns but all emphasize compassion. The literary sequence concludes with a return to the earlier biblical verses that bring together divine compassion and the case of Noah. When did God show compassion upon all His creations? When judgment turned to mercy and God remembered Noah and all others on the ark.22

Virtues and Large Rewards (Palestinian Talmud Taanit 1:4 [64b–c]) Several passages in the Palestinian Talmud present extended compilations of ethical instruction centered on narratives. Scholars often view this corpus as significant for legal or historical considerations, not literary analysis, but here I focus on the homiletical shaping of aggadic materials.23 In Palestinian Talmud Taanit a cluster of teachings presents small positive actions that bring great rewards. A person has acquired enough merit or credit that prayers are answered by God with rainfall. The material comments on the first mishnaic guideline setting out fasts for rain: If 17 Marheshvan arrives and no rain fell, the “individuals” (yeh.idim) begin to fast three fasts. They may eat and drink after nightfall, and they are permitted to work, bathe, anoint themselves, wear sandals, and have sexual intercourse. (m. Taan. 1:4)

The Tosefta and both Talmuds ask: What is an “individual”? Each source takes this question in a distinct direction. In the Tosefta, the issue is whether a man can appoint himself as a yah.id or needs authorization from others (t. Taan. 1:7). The Babylonian Talmud initially specifies rabbis as the yeh.idim and then later takes on questions of whether or not someone 22. Azzan Yadin pointed out to me the analogy between compassion and water rising. The story of Rabbi Tanhuma also appears in Lev. Rab. 34:14 (Margulies, Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah, 802–809). See also Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 113 n 21, 115–116 nn 27–32. 23. The value of Palestinian amoraic sources for historical studies of Palestinian rabbinism is addressed by Saul Lieberman in “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” 395; more recently, Schäfer, “Introduction,” esp. 16–20.

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can join the elite simply by choice (b. Taan. 10a–b).24 The Palestinian Talmud begins by asking: “Which are the ‘individuals’? These are the ones who are appointed as leaders over the community.” The point of being a yah.id is that one prays on behalf of the community to bring a change in God’s judgment. The question is raised, “Because he is appointed over the community, he prays and is answered?” In other words, does social status bring divine favor? No. “Rather, because he is appointed as leader over the community, and he is found to be trustworthy (neeman), then he is worthy to pray and be answered.” Through being in these roles, people will prove themselves worthy to bear the responsibility or not. The rest of the commentary consists of five narratives about rabbis encountering other Jews. The first builds upon the image of a man being “trustworthy” (neeman), a term used in several mishnaic passages discussing the payment of tithes (agricultural taxes). This narrative centers upon a man who is notable for scrupulous attention to this process. A rabbi honors him by asking him to recite publicly a series of biblical verses that are traditionally said at the end of Passover, specifically Deuteronomy 26:13– 16 as the confession over the second tithe: A man would separate his tithes properly. Rabbi Mana said to him: Rise and say, “I have completely removed the holy portion from my house and have given it to the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow . . .” (Deut. 26:13)

The passage connects tithing and those who are vulnerable. Both of these topics are developed in the following stories, which center upon the idea of a person being “worthy to pray and be answered.” In the context of the commentary upon the yeh.idim who fast during a drought, this statement implies that the person has elite status before God and is worthy to have his prayers bring rain.25 The first man shows exemplary concern for the source of his money. He chooses to beg rather than use money devoted to tithing: A man came before one of the relatives of Rabbi Yannai. He said: Rabbi, earn merit through me [by giving me money]. 24. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 118–120; Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 76– 77; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 136–140, 157; Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, Part 5, 1070–1071. 25. Kalmin, “Holy Men,” 220; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 119. On neeman and tithing, see m. Dem. 2:2, 4:6; t. Dem. 2:2; also m. Peah 8:2–4. For the confession over the second tithe at Passover, see m. Maas. S. 5:10; m. Meg. 2:5.

124 / Chapter Four He said: Does not your father have money? He said: No. He said: Collect what was put in deposit. He said: I heard about them that they were for redemption. He said: You are worthy to pray and be answered.

The story opens with a man requesting money from a sage. Gary Anderson has observed that the phrase “earn merit through me” reveals that “the act of giving alms to a needy person is thought to be tantamount to depositing money directly in the heavenly treasury.” The story, though, focuses not on the sage who may show compassion and generosity, but on the anonymous man who needs to beg. This man’s family has money, but he refuses to use funds that are for “redemption” of the second tithe. Such a person is “worthy to pray and be answered.”26 The next story loosely develops the ideal of helping a “widow” in Deuteronomy 26:13, the confession over the second tithe quoted above. The vulnerable character is a woman whose husband is in prison: It appeared [in a dream] to the rabbis that some donkey driver prayed and rain fell. Rabbis sent for him and brought him. They said: What is your trade? He said: A donkey driver. They said: What good deed did you do? He said: Once I rented my donkey to a woman. She cried on the way. I said to her, “What is happening to you?” She said, “The husband of this woman is imprisoned, and I want to see what I can do to free him.” I sold my donkey and gave her the money. I said to her, “This is for you. Free your husband and do not sin.” They said: You are worthy to pray and be answered.

The profession of a donkey driver is, according to the Mishnah, one that a man should not teach his son, and most of its practitioners are “wicked”

26. Anderson, “Redeem Your Sins by the Giving of Alms,” 53–54; Anderson, Sin, 147. For “redemption,” we have the story in two variations. The printed edition says that the man heard that his father’s money was “unlawful” (Nvqrs). Other witnesses state that the money was for “redemption” of the second tithe (Nvqrp). The latter builds more clearly upon the opening narrative, developing the theme of men who were scrupulous in tithes even well after the destruction of the temple. For Nvqrp, see Lieberman, “Nvqrp-ryi”; Ginzberg, Genizah Studies, 1:403; also the Leiden manuscript published in Sussmann, Talmud Yerushalmi According to Ms. Or. 4720; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 119 n 46.

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(m. Qid. 4:14). Yet this man encounters a woman in need, sells his very means of livelihood in order to help her, and does this specifically so that she would not “sin” through prostitution.27 This is no small deed, yet it is still striking that through one act, a person of suspicious occupation gains merit sufficient to bring rain through his prayers. In the following story, the motif is intensified. The hero is named as “Entirely-wicked” (or “Fivesinner”) based on his involvement with the theater, yet he sells his bed to help a woman whose husband is imprisoned. Finally, the unit culminates with an account of rabbis meeting a pious man (h.asid) who, along with his wife, demonstrates odd but strident concerns with work responsibilities, honest communication, care of borrowed objects, modesty, and the honor of the rabbis who come to meet him. They are worthy “to pray and be answered.”28 These stories have attracted much scholarly discussion and insights, but the debates miss the pedagogical force of the small virtuous act, particularly as these acts appear in the edited unit. The unit as a whole incorporates both the event of a drought, and the ability to offer prayer that will end the crisis, into an embrace of everyday values. More specifically, the rabbinic editors of the Palestinian Talmud employ the literary figures of non-rabbis to uphold ideals that are not specific to Torah study but still crucial for interpersonal relations and community building: attention to tithes, caring for vulnerable women, work obligations, modesty, and others.29 27. See Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 119–120; also D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 138–139. 28. The two stories that follow the ones analyzed here have received significant scholarly attention. The final story has a parallel in b. Taan. 23a–b (where the main character is a grandson of Honi the Circle Drawer), which has sometimes been the focus rather than the Palestinian version. See Marmorstein, The Doctrine of Merits in Old Rabbinical Literature, 31; Büchler, Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety, 201–205; Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine, 31–33; Lowy, “Motivation of Fasting,” 26–27; Safrai, “Tales of the Sages in the Palestinian Tradition and the Babylonian Talmud”; Safrai, In Times of the Temple and Mishnah, 526–529; Fraenkel, “Chiasmus in Talmudic-Aggadic Narrative”; Hirshman, “Changing Foci,” 113–116; Neusner, “From Mishnaic Philosophy to Talmudic Religion”; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 109 n 46; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 138–139; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 119–121; Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 75–76; Kalmin, “Holy Men,” 222–234 (including extensive references). 29. Below I examine two Babylonian stories that also portray non-rabbis bringing rain through activities other than Torah study (b. Taan. 24a). Kalmin emphasizes, though, that a focus upon universal values is distinctive to Palestinian rabbinism (“Holy Men,” 219). For other interpretations of these stories: Lapin argues that they deemphasize the role of rabbis in public prayer in “Rabbis and Public Prayer,” 119; Kalmin writes that they show the interaction of rabbis and non-rabbis, and attest to the existence of non-rabbinic Jewish holy men in The Sage in Jewish Society, 75, and “Holy Men,” 222–227; Lieberman holds that they give some insight into popular piety in Greek in Jewish Palestine, 30–34. Also see L. Levine, The Ancient Syna-

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Communal and Individual Virtue (Palestinian Talmud Taanit 3:4 [66c–d]) When rabbis and other figures in rabbinic sources interpret drought and rainfall by way of divine justice, distinct problems arise. These cosmic events are public and visible, and they affect a large number of people. At the same time, their cause is indeterminate. Nature does not specify whose sin caused the drought, or whose virtue brought the rain. This ambiguity can lead to contestation regarding praise and blame. Palestinian Talmud Taanit 3:4 explores these tensions at length and portrays rabbinic sages as exemplifying generosity and fellowship. Chapter three of Mishnah Taanit builds upon the discussion of drought to name other events that require ritual response. The disasters include crop failure, a span of forty days between rainfall during the rainy season, a particular city that does not receive rain even if surrounding ones do, and then: Similarly, a city that has pestilence or houses falling in, that city should fast and blow the shofar, and all those surrounding it should fast and not blow the shofar. Rabbi Akiva says: They should blow the shofar and not fast. (m. Taan. 3:4)

The Palestinian Talmud opens with a story of a pestilence, but it quickly moves to explore situations in which one city or part of a city has rain but others do not.30 gogue, 467–468; Marmorstein examines these stories as exemplifying aspects of rabbinic merit or zekhut, specifically that people with great powers should not be self-righteous, since they may be unworthy in other respects, in Doctrine of Merits, 31; Neusner takes a similar approach, emphasizing that deeds beyond the requirements of Torah can bring great favor, transforming an ordinary person into a holy man, in “From Mishnaic Philosophy to Talmudic Religion,” 644–649. In addition to these points, the Palestinian Talmud’s conception of yah.id raises a historical question. Syriac Christian writings employ the term ih.idaya to indicate a person of special status in that community. In the fourth century C.E., discussions proliferated about these elites, who were often framed as celibates, ascetics, and practitioners of intense piety. Does the Palestinian Talmud characterize the yeh.idim in terms of virtuous behavior as a response or counter to this development further east? The earlier Tosefta and later Babylonian Talmud do not specify the yeh.idim in this manner. See the discussion and references in Griffith, “Asceticism and the Church of Syria.” Discussions of comparisons between rabbinic rain-making figures and Christian holy men, with extensive references, are D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 136–140, 194–214; Kalmin, “Holy Men,” 213–220. I thank David Levinsky for his observations. 30. These issues also appear in the commentaries of the Palestinian Talmud to m. Taan. 3:2 and 3:3. The Babylonian Talmud develops a very different set of themes, focusing on houses falling in, in b. Taan. 20a–21b.

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The commentary begins with an account of a plague in Sepphoris that affects the entire city except the neighborhood of Rabbi Hanina, who apparently lived there during the mid–third century. The citizens outside that neighborhood and the sage dispute who is at fault for the suffering: There was a plague in Sepphoris. It did not come into the area that Rabbi Hanina lived in. The Sepphorites would say: How does this elder cause harm?31 He and his neighborhood sit in peace, yet the city perishes in misfortune! [Rabbi Hanina] came and said before them: There was one Zimri in his generation, and 24,000 of Israel died. For us, how many Zimris are there in our generation, yet you complain! (y. Taan. 3:4 [66c])

How does one assess praise and blame for inciting divine action when some suffer and others do not? In this passage the Sepphorites single out a specific individual, Rabbi Hanina, as having a decisive effect. They suggest that Rabbi Hanina harms the rest of the city, while those close to him are safe. This kind of accusation—a powerful figure hurts others through supernatural means—is not common in rabbinic literature but appears elsewhere in Roman sources and also cross-culturally. Rabbi Hanina responds by appealing to the story of the Israelites and Moabites in Numbers 25: Israelite sexual and religious relations with the Moabites incite the wrath of God, resulting in a plague that kills 24,000 people. The key figure named in transgression is Zimri (Num. 25:9,14). This biblical reference implies that the divine punishment of the Sepphorites is due to major transgressions on the part of the community, not the actions of an individual.32

31. Their accusation comes down to us in two versions. In the printed edition, they ask: how is it that the elder is “among you” (yknyb), such that his neighborhood is not harmed while the rest of the city is ruined? This reading is ambiguous, but seems to imply wonderment that the sage’s virtue stops the plague from affecting those around him. A geniza fragment, which my translation follows, presents the Sepphorites as more aggressive, accusing the sage of causing harm (yknym = yknm). See Sussmann, Talmud Yerushalmi According to Ms. Or. 4720; Ginzberg, Genizah Studies, 1:420; Lieberman, “Emendations to the Yerushalmi 1,” 169; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 124, 227; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 121. 32. Other examples of accusations or practices of attack through supernatural powers are described in Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 62–65; Wilbert, Mystic Endowment, 219–234. For Rabbi Hanina’s response, other traditions portray Zimri as improperly challenging Moses’ authority, so the rabbi may also be labeling his critics as illegitimate (L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 121 n 101).

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In the next story, the people of Sepphoris again accuse Rabbi Hanina of causing harm in a time of difficulty: One time they had to call a fast [in Sepphoris, led by Rabbi Hanina] and rain did not fall. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi called a fast in the south and rain fell. The Sepphorites said: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi brought down rain for the southerners, and Rabbi Hanina holds back water from the Sepphorites. They needed to fast a second time. He sent for Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi and said to him: My lord (mari), please lead a fast with us. The two of them went out and fasted, and rain did not fall. He entered and said before them: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi does not bring down rain for the Southerners, nor does Rabbi Hanina hold back water from the Sepphorites. Rather, as for the southerners, their hearts are soft. They hear the word of scripture and humble themselves. The Sepphorites, their hearts are hard. They hear the word of scripture but do not humble themselves. When he went in, raised his eyes and saw that the air was clear. He said: Is it still thus? Immediately rain came down. He vowed to himself not to do such a thing again. He said: Why should I tell the holder of the bond (mare h.ova) that he not collect what is owed to him! (y. Taan. 3:4 [66c])33

In this narrative and others, an ability to bring rain attests to a rabbi’s virtue and power, which legitimates his status as leader of a community. If a rabbi leads a fast that fails to bring rain, he may be challenged from any number of directions. This story explores two matters: contestation between a rabbi and the community over the blame for the drought, and a potentially divisive situation among rabbis when one sage succeeds and another does not. When Rabbi Hanina’s fast fails, the Sepphorites accuse Rabbi Hanina of holding back water from the city. They contrast Rabbi Hanina with an older rabbi of another area, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi of Lydda, claiming that Rabbi Yehoshua brings rain for his community. Rather than competing with his fellow, Rabbi Hanina calls upon Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi with

33. See the printed edition as well as Sussmann, Talmud Yerushalmi According to Ms. Or. 4720; Ginzberg, Genizah Studies, Vol. One, 420–421; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 227; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 106–108; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 125. The story is also discussed in Garnsey, Famine and Food Supply, 15; Sperber, “Drought, Famine, and Pestilence,” 276–277. L. Levine comments, “R. Hanina’s relationship with the citizens of Sepphoris was a checkered one,” citing this material and others (The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 120–121).

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polite and deferential language (such as mari, “my lord”). They both try to bring rain and fail. From this moment on, the story is ambiguous as to which rabbi speaks and acts. This uncertainty may reinforce a sense of solidarity among rabbis. The unnamed sage does not debate the relative merits of the two leaders but rather shifts responsibility back to the citizens. Those who submit to the Torah with humility receive rain. This emphasis on communal responsibility for divine judgment is reinforced later in the Talmudic discussion where we find a maxim cited twice: “What can the great ones of the generation do when the community is judged (niddon) only after its majority?” First the editors attribute the saying to Rabbi Hanina, and then to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. Again the two sages are portrayed in agreement, and again they blame communities rather than powerful individuals for divine punishment.34 The final lines of the story combine two motifs in rabbinic rain-making. First, while the earlier part of the story deemphasizes the role of the individual in relation to the community, in the end a charismatic rabbi employs powerful speech to bring rain. Unlike Rabbi Tanhuma above, he does not pray to God but utters a sharp statement toward the clear sky (“Is it still thus?”). Second, the issue is framed in terms of a divine economy. God is a creditor. A sage makes a purchase and realizes that he has spent his funds accumulated by virtuous actions. This act is both generous and self-interested, since it benefits the members of the city and also reinforces his status along with the status of others in the rabbinic movement. The term of deference formerly used between rabbis (mari) is now used for God as holder of a bond (mare h.ova).35

34. D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 132, 137–138; he also notes that even though the story is set in Sepphoris, the Patriarch is not mentioned, but rather the community seeks out a rabbinic sage (126, 141); also on Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, see Safrai, In Times of the Temple and Mishnah, 524–525 [139–140]. For the later part of the story when the sage is not named, Lapin suggests that the protagonist is Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi (“Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 125), though D. Levine names him as Rabbi Hanina (Communal Fasts, 173–174). L. Levine indicates that the speech about submitting to scripture is made by Rabbi Hanina, and he does not translate the last lines (The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, 107). Other stories describe sermons or comments by rabbis that elicit tears from the crowd in the synagogue, and then rain falls; see y. Taan. 2:1 [65b]; b. Taan. 25b. The word for judgment (niddon) echoes the statement about the world being “judged” in m. R.H. 1:2 and t. R.H. 1:12–13, discussed above; also Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 125 n 67. The unit concludes with two stories about tensions in rain-making: D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 124, 138, 157–158, 174; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 118–119. 35. Anderson, Sin, 182–183; D. Levine, Communal Fasts, 139. Note that a Babylonian source presents strong speech toward God as a dangerous act that may bring harm (the story of Levi in b. Taan. 25a).

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The story presents several teachings concerning ideal behavior. The rabbis exemplify solidarity within their movement, generosity in giving up their divine merit to bring rain, and also humility before God in the very end. In addition, they are able to preach to the community and prescribe softness of the heart. These ethical themes are distinctly prominent in the Palestinian version of the story, as a parallel version found in the Babylonian Talmud emphasizes different issues. The Babylonian version has a greater focus upon prayer, more boldly embraces sages who carry out distinctive speech acts to bring rain, and does not make prominent the ethical ideals prescribed by the sages (b. Taan. 25a).36

Virtues and Large Rewards in the Babylonian Talmud (b. Taanit 24a) The Babylonian Talmud preserves numerous stories about crisis and rainmaking, gathering many as commentary to the story of Honi the Circle Drawer in the Mishnah (b. Taan. 23a–25b to m. Taan. 3:8). This literary unit includes stories about people from the Second Temple, tannaitic, and amoraic periods, and presents them synchronically as part of a single rabbinic portrait of miracle working. The narratives explore many issues surrounding crisis, community, and the role of miraculous power in relation to rabbinic authority. Generally, Babylonian narratives of rain-making do not emphasize ethical instruction, and Babylonian editors do not assemble these stories into larger discussions of virtues and exemplary action, as we have seen in both Genesis Rabbah and the Palestinian Talmud. Two stories, though, show signs of strong editing and present small virtues bringing large responses from God. These narratives offer extremely compact instruction that connects drought, rain-making, and rabbinic ethics. The pedagogy is streamlined with no extraneous details—simply powerful speech that brings rain and a short conversation upholding specific acts. Editors place the stories in succession, and their formulaic features can be seen through considering them in parallel:

36. Schofer, “Theology and Cosmology in Rabbinic Ethics,” 250–252; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 123–129; also the brief comment in Urbach, The Sages, 101. In addition, several other stories in the Babylonian Talmud portray criticism and conflict when fasts fail; see for example b. Taan. 24a.

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Rabbi decreed a fast. Ilfa, or some say Rabbi Ilfi, went down before [the ark].

Rav happened to come to a place where he decreed a fast. The emissary of the community went down before [the ark].

He said: “Who makes the wind blow,” and the wind blew. “Who makes the rain come down,” and rain came.

He said, “Who makes the wind blow,” and the wind blew. “Who makes the rain come down,” and rain came.

He asked him: What is your good deed?

He asked him: What is your good deed?

He said to him: I live in a poor and remote place. I take pains to get wine for Qiddush and Havdalah, and I make sure that the community fulfills its obligation. (b. Taan. 24a)

He said: I am a teacher of young children. I teach children of the poor just as those of the rich. For anyone who cannot pay, I do not take a fee. I have a fish pond. Whenever one of the children is rebellious, I bribe him with fish to entice and appease him, so that he comes and studies. (b. Taan. 24a)37

The narratives are set in different times and places: the first in Palestine around the end of the second century C.E., and the second a generation later in Babylonia. The first rain-maker may be a rabbi, and the second is anonymous. The stories are preserved in the same structure. The presumed setting is a drought. A rabbi decrees a fast. In the course of praying the Amidah in the synagogue, the emissary “mentions the power of rain” by saying that God “makes the wind blow and the rains come down” (m. Taan. 1:1). Rain falls. Both rain-makers say that their extraordinary powers come from virtuous actions performed in the course of everyday life (in this sense, their acts are similar to those of the non-rabbinic rainmakers in the Palestinian Talmud who are “worthy to pray and be answered”). Specifically, the figures make supererogatory efforts to support, despite poverty, ritual observance of the boundaries marking the Sabbath and education of children in the Torah.38

37. Malter, The Treatise Taanit of the Babylonian Talmud, 362–365. For “emissary of the community,” see Tabory, “Prayers and Berakot,” 317. 38. Another story in which the words of the Amidah bring rainfall appears on b. B. M. 85b; on financial support for students, see L. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 417–420.

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Again we see pedagogical use of a miracle. Through the voice of the rainmaker who explains the sources of his power, the event becomes an occasion to uphold ordinary acts that sustain communities committed to rabbinic ideals for practice and study.

Rain and Human Action in the Babylonian Talmud and Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 6 Despite the pedagogical development of rain-making narratives in amoraic sources, and resonances in the Babylonian Talmud, these topics are not prominent in ethical collections. Sometimes the ethical shaping of a motif happens more fully in midrashic or Talmudic sources than in the specifically ethical anthologies—as we saw in chapter three with the story of Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Simeon in the Mekhilta. Two short passages in Rabbi Nathan A, though, take up the themes of rain and God’s response to human beings, and one is a narrative of drought. The story centers on Nakdimon ben Gurion, a figure from the late Second Temple period, and appears as part of commentary to the maxim of Yose ben Yoezer, “Let your house be a meeting place for the sages, sit in the very dust of their feet, and drink with thirst their words” (m. Avot 1:4; Avot. R. Nat., ch. 6).39 In some respects, the account of Nakdimon ben Gurion is a digression based on his appearance earlier in the discussion. The pedagogy still develops the maxim: he makes the Temple (Hebrew: bayit or “house”) a meeting place for pilgrims with thirst, who drink because of his words to God. In the story, Nakdimon ben Gurion is a wealthy man of Jerusalem who uses his resources to support pilgrims coming to Jerusalem for a festival holiday. The narrative integrates several themes that we have already seen: tensions between Jews and Romans, a non-sage carrying out miraculous acts, and law-court prayers. We get a glimpse into economic and power relations that condition access to water in times of drought, as Nakdimon negotiates with a Roman to procure water for Jewish pilgrims. Most importantly, the act that brings the rainfall is his generosity and specifically

39. The other passage in Rabbi Nathan A describing rainfall and God’s justice weaves verses from Deuteronomy 11:13–17 into a teaching that emphasizes the cosmic significance of Temple practices—when the Temple survived, rain fell, and without it, drought is always a threat: Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 4 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 19–20; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 66–69). The narrative of Nakdimon ben Gurion also appears in Babylonian Talmud Taanit 19b–20a. The maxim of Yose ben Yoezer is also quoted in Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 11 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 27; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 338).

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support for others engaging in Jewish practice. The fundamental problem driving the story is the need to drink: Why is he called Nakdimon ben Gurion? Because the sun shone through (naqdah) for his sake. One time Israel went up to Jerusalem for a festival and there was no water for them to drink. He went to a general and said: Lend me twelve wells of water from now until such and such a day. If I do not give you in return twelve wells of water, I will give you twelve talents of silver. He fixed a time for him. When the time came, [the general] sent a message to him: Send me twelve wells of water or twelve talents of silver. He said to him: There is still time in the day. The general sneered at him and said: This entire year, rain has not fallen, and now rain will fall? The general went into the bathhouse happy. Nakdimon ben Gurion went to the study house, wrapped himself [in a prayer shawl], and stood in prayer. He said before Him: Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that I acted not for my own honor, nor for the honor of my father’s house, but for Your honor, so that there would be water for those who come up for pilgrimage. Immediately the heavens became thick with clouds, and rain fall until twelve wells were filled with water, and more. He sent a message [to the general]: Send me payment for the extra water that is in your hands. He said to him: The sun has already set, and the water has fallen in my domain. He returned and entered the study house. He wrapped himself [in a prayer shawl] and stood in prayer, and he said before Him: Master of the Universe, perform for me at the end like at the beginning. Immediately the wind blew, the clouds were scattered, and the sun shined. He went out, and they ran into each other, and [the general] said to him: I know that the Holy One, blessed be He, shook the world only for your sake. (Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 6; also b. Taan 19b–20a)40

Several points need to be filled in. The festival is likely Sukkot at the start of the rainy season, and there is no water for the pilgrims. The need for drink 40. H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 88–91; Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 32; Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, 44–45.

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sets off a host of other problems: financial (how to gain resources), social (how Jews negotiate relations with Romans), and ultimately theological (how to persuade God to bring rain). Nakdimon requests the water of twelve wells, or perhaps cisterns, and offers to pay a substantial fee if rainfall does not replace the water by a particular date. Rain does not fall until the day of payment, and on the last day Nakdimon brings rain through prayer. The general, however, says that the rain has come too late: the sun has already set, so the water came after the deadline, and Nakdimon must still pay him the money. Through a second prayer, though, the sun shines through, revealing that the day has not ended and that the water has been replaced on time.41 The first prayer conveys rabbinic values. The form fits Heinemann’s typology of a law-court prayer, and Nakdimon not only petitions God but also conveys to the reader or listener that God does not respond to forceful prayer based on self-interest, but rather for the sake of the divine. In several passages of the Babylonian Talmud, sages also emphasize to God that they are not acting for personal honor or glory. In a much-studied scene, Rabban Gamliel is on a ship, a wave comes that will drown him, and he understands God to be punishing him for a prior controversial act. He speaks to God in terms that are very similar to those of Nakdimon ben Gurion:

b. B. Metzia 59b [Rabban Gamliel] stood on his feet and said: Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before you that I acted not for my glory, nor for the glory of my father’s house, but for Your glory, that divisions would not multiply in Israel.

Rabbi Nathan A, ch. 6 (also b. Taan. 20a) [Nakdimon ben Gurion] said before Him: Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that I acted not for my own honor, nor for the honor of my father’s house, but for Your honor, so that there would be water for those who come up for pilgrimage.42

Nakdimon’s action for God’s glory is to provide “water for those who come up on pilgrimage.” Again we see a narrative upholding generosity in pro41. Concerning wells and cisterns, see Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 208. Jonah Fraenkel has offered a subtle treatment of this narrative, highlighting that multiple temporalities are at play; Fraenkel, “Time and its Shaping in Aggadic Narratives,” 134–140, 159; also Eliav, “Did the Jews at First Abstain from Using the Roman Bath-House?” 31 n 117. 42. Rubenstein notes this parallel and others in Talmudic Stories, 55–56; also Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud, 195–196, 209–210; Boyarin, Border Lines, 168–174.

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viding goods needed by other Jews to sustain their religious practice. For Nakdimon ben Gurion, the miraculous rain both confirms God’s favor and enables him to stay in a position of wealth and relative power to continue his support for others.

Ethics, Narrative, and Ritual Narratives of rain-making build upon rituals and prayers articulated in legal texts—the autumn holy days, additions to the Amidah, and fasts in times of drought—that reveal a profound connection with the environment. This background calls attention to the vulnerabilities underlying the stories. Although the stories culminate in the possibility or actuality of miraculous rain-making, they present no easy picture of people controlling the environment. Rather, they often begin in moments when there is drought and ritual responses have failed: He decreed a fast a first day, a second day, and a third day, and rain did not fall. (Gen. Rab. 33:3) One time they had to call a fast [in Sepphoris, led by Rabbi Hanina] and rain did not fall. (y. Taan. 3:4 [66c–d])

The narratives open with vulnerabilities exposed by drought and food crises, and with related interpersonal tensions. They conclude with pedagogy that upholds virtue and community building. The symbolic and ritual framing of rainfall in rabbinic culture also conditions my response to the difficult question: did rabbis believe their miracle stories? Or, in more formal terms, what is the force of the rainmaking motif in the late ancient context, and how can we situate these narratives in relation to modern dichotomies such as literal/figurative or historical/fictional?43 We should not domesticate the material by viewing anything that conflicts with a scientific worldview as merely figurative. Late ancient Mediterranean cultures were filled with divine acts and supernatural events. Another mistake is to read the texts in an overly literal manner that disregards irony, hyperbole, and persuasive features. The stories are highly stylized with many stock phrases (such as, “you are worthy to pray and be answered”). Rainfall, or affirmation of the ability to bring rainfall,

43. The question echoes the highly influential title and study: Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? For reflections on this issue in rabbinic sources, see Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 76; Lapin, “Rabbis and Public Prayers,” 107–108.

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appears in moments that are significant for plot development. In stories examined here, the miracle can resolve conflicts and legitimate particular people, actions, or qualities. Rabbinic ethical instruction centered on rainmaking, then, has figurative dimensions but also draws upon themes that sages took very seriously. Pedagogy employs a large cultural reservoir of imagery and practices. The rabbinic concern with drought and rain shapes the ways we compare rabbinic sources with those of surrounding groups. The symbols and rituals are extremely foreign to philosophical schools. The case of early Christianity is more complicated. Two texts are notable for similarities in overall themes and in certain details. First, Basil of Caesarea gave a sermon entitled “In Time of Famine and Drought” (Homily 8) in response to a famine in Cappadocia starting in 368 C.E. Although this text has no mention of miraculous rainfall, the homily shares many motifs with the Palestinian amoraic sources. According to Holman, the sermon was delivered during a service devoted to and probably calling for public repentance. Basil states that the drought is divine response to wrong behavior, specifically neglect of the poor (8:2). These theological claims support a call for those with material resources, and especially the wealthy, to assist the needy (8:4). Like the rabbinic sources, Basil links drought, God’s judgment, repentance, and the need for giving. In addition, certain biblical motifs appear in both Basil’s sermon and rabbinic sources, including references to Elijah, the people of Nineveh, and Zimri (compare Homily 8:4–5 with m. Taan. 2:1, 2:4 and also y. Taan. 3:4 [66c] discussed above). Second, an extended story of rain-making in the fifth-century Syriac Life of Saint Simeon Stylites presents a holy man bringing rainfall. The narrative has commonalities with rabbinic forms of worship, including public prayer, ashes sprinkled on the heads of leaders, and references to Elijah and Samuel. In addition, both this story and the mishnaic account of Honi the Circle Drawer portray a prayer bringing so much rain that the public becomes distressed (section 75; compare m. Taan. 2:1, 2:4, and 3:8).44 These sources reveal that rabbis and certain Christian writers in the eastern Mediterranean of the fourth and fifth centuries C.E. drew upon common biblical figures and theological motifs when encountering drought. Basil’s sermon, moreover, is similar to the Palestinian amoraic texts in linking drought with a call to support others. These commonalities need to be set in very different liturgical contexts. Rabbis frame the rainy sea44. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying, 4, 71–74, 76–79, 183–192; Doran, The Lives of Simeon Stylites, 155–157.

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son ritually through holy days and prescriptions for public fasts in time of drought. Perhaps as an extension of this framing, rabbis frequently discuss rain-making, while this miracle is relatively rare in Christian materials. A full comparison of rabbinic rain-making with practices of Christians or other groups, then, would not only treat particular teachings or events but would also take into account the differing roles of rainfall in each group’s cosmologies and practice.45

Conclusion Accounts of rabbinic rain-making portray people as entrenched in natural processes. Humans are dependent on the world around them for food and other basic needs, and they are vulnerable to changes in climate and weather. The motif at hand is rain, but the underlying issues are hunger and sustenance, wealth and poverty. Drought brings multiple kinds of contestation. Members of a community suspect each other of improper action. Communities may challenge leaders. Those with high status—whether through the Roman political hierarchy or through wealth—have privileged access to water. These rabbinic narratives situate hunger and sustenance within an account of causality that weaves together human action, God’s action, and the cosmos. People attempt to intervene in divine accounting through a variety of means: public fasts in which the community tries to make up for past sins and inspire divine mercy, acts of compassion and generosity that are meant to inspire divine compassion, or prayers by individuals with significant favor or merit before God. When these concepts and practices form the background of ethical instruction, then rabbinic pedagogy integrates the extraordinary and the supernatural with the mundane and the everyday. The distinctive moment of miraculous rainfall is used to uphold virtues such as humility, compassion, solidarity, receptiveness, and generosity. Stories of rain-making convey ethical ideals in several ways. Perhaps the most straightforward instruction appears though stories of non-rabbis, sometimes even sinners, who are worthy to have their prayers answered. Each rain-maker names certain actions that inspire great response from God. Nakdimon ben Gurion incorporates his virtuous act into the very

45. Another point of contrast is the differing understandings of fasting in rabbinic and Christian sources. See for example Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 93–120; Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, 230–233, 239–244.

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prayer that brings the rainfall. Rabbi Tanhuma calls upon his community to show compassion for one another, and the combination of this compassion and the sage’s forceful prayer ends the drought. For both forms of instruction—an act inspiring a miracle, and a sage preaching to a community—the values upheld in the narrative may be reinforced through the larger literary and exegetical unit. The genre of narrative also allows indirect forms of ethical instruction, which is most evident in the story of Rabbi Hanina and Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. The community tests and assesses a rabbi’s virtue based on his abilities to bring rain. The sages model rabbinic solidarity in the face of potentially divisive comparison, and they make a public call for the people to be humble and submit to Torah.46 These rabbinic sources do not present an environmental ethic, but ethical ideals for those who are vulnerable to the world they inhabit. I believe that contemporary environmental ethics can learn much from considering these perhaps exotic rituals and stories. Today, the economic and political forces mediating humans and nature are far more extensive than in the ancient world (though they were present in the past as well). In the case of food shortage, global markets mean that many people are not dependent on food from any one place, and growers are not necessarily dependent on water from their immediate locale. Social processes are so pervasive that we can rarely distinguish naturally caused harms from humanly caused ones, and many of our biggest problems emerge from humanly caused devastation. In addition, capitalism is highly resilient and adaptable to ecological obstacles. Wealth brings the ability to avoid the damages of pollution, disaster, and ongoing erosion. The weight of environmental devastation, whether drought or hurricane or earthquake, falls upon those in weak economic and political condition, while those in powerful positions tend to be shielded. In a detailed study addressing historical changes in use and consumption of water in highland Chiapas, June Nash writes, “We are on the brink of a new resource war that will divide the populations of the world into the haves and have-nots of water.”47 Even with this disparity, human vulnerability to the natural world is becoming visible for all, regardless of economic and political status, for storms, rising ocean levels, and droughts around the world are becoming part of all people’s concerns.

46. On narratives that test a rabbi’s virtue, see Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 49–53. A sense of a test runs in a general way through the ritual prescription set out in Mishnah Taanit, which frames the community as reprimanded by God for unspecified vices. 47. Nash, “Consuming Interests,” 621–639.

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Vulnerability is not only a matter of human needs and natural resources, but also a basic relation between humans and the earth. In this sense vulnerability differs from the notion of scarcity commonly employed in environmental discussions. At the level of virtues, attention to vulnerability brings humility and reverence toward the world that surrounds and holds us.48 For environmental ethics inspired by the Hebrew Bible, passages such as Genesis 2:5 and Deuteronomy 11 can provide resources for considering human dependency on rainfall and the earth, which complement the image of stewardship inspired by Genesis 2:15 and other motifs. Finally, these sources present intricacies in worldly causality, specifically small actions that generate large consequences. This focus on the personal and everyday complements reflection on the political dimensions of ecological issues, foregrounding the problem of how to live with others in a world where all are dependent upon natural processes. 48. D. Harvey discusses the concept of scarcity in Justice, Nature, and the Geography of Difference, 139–149. He also argues that a “socialist approach to environmental-ecological politics” has to be wary of hubris: “the very idea that the planet is somehow ‘vulnerable’ to human action or that we can actually destroy the earth, repeats in negative form the hubristic claims of those who aspire to planetary domination. . . . Against this is crucial to understand that it is materially impossible for us to destroy the planet earth”: Justice, Nature, and the Geography of Difference, 194.

FIVE

Life Cycles

Age conditions ideals for character. What is laudable for a person of fifteen years may not be for someone who is twenty-five, and the virtues of someone well over seventy may be quite different again. Understandings of age and life cycles enable people to envision a life in its entirety, and they respond to multiple temporal processes: bodily growth and decline, socialization and education, reproduction and child rearing, the movements of celestial bodies that inspire notions of days and years, and more. They combine the descriptive and the prescriptive, in part addressing realms that moderns would call biology, sociology, and developmental psychology, and in part reflecting ethical norms.1 Within the study of vulnerability and ethics, notions of an ideal life complement orientations toward death examined earlier, such as anticipating death in each moment and responding to early death. Animality includes growth as well as death. Death may come tomorrow, and certainly will come eventually, but also it may not come for a long time. Life requires pacing along with diligence. Treatments of life cycles respond to the enduring quality of many lives and facilitate long-term projects. Nussbaum, in discussing Hellenistic philosophy, emphasizes the value of preparatory ac1. David Kraemer notes the diverse concerns in accounts of a life cycle in “Images of Childhood and Adolescence in Talmudic Literature,” 66. One of the most influential accounts of life cycles in modern scholarship is Erik Erikson’s eight stages articulated in Childhood and Society, 247–274. A recent study discussing childhood and life stages more generally, with extensive bibliography, is Miller-McLemore, “Whither the Children?” 635–657. Lear discusses the role of the “concept of a life” for Socrates and Aristotle in Happiness, Death, and the Remainder of Life, 8, 26, 34. Scholars of early Chinese thought have attended to the relation between virtue and age, for they often discuss the account of life stages presented as Confucius’ autobiography in Analects 2:4 (a text that I examine below): recent examples are Slingerland, Effortless Action, 58–59; Puett, To Become a God, 98–99.

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tivities: “To act justly or courageously, one must undertake creative projects that develop over time; so too for intellectual and creative work; so too for athletic achievement.” Such activities are temporally extended, occurring over long periods, and their significance may only emerge slowly. They continue throughout a lifetime but are often prominent at young ages. Most important for my analysis, preparatory activities include the upbringing and education that enable a person to deliberate about ethically significant matters.2 Scholastic groups uphold preparatory activities focused on study and related practice, and for rabbinic Judaism these studies center on Torah. Rabbinic ethical literature presents Torah as having a transformative effect upon the self, shaping emotions and desires in accord with ideals exemplified by the great sages. Through engagement with Torah, a student aims to attain wisdom, understanding, and other qualities needed for leadership. When does this engagement with Torah occur in a student’s life, and how long does the transformation take? Mishnah Avot 5:21 presents a comprehensive picture of a life span centered on Torah. This list of fourteen stages sets out a demanding schedule of ideals for an aspiring sage. At least since medieval times, this passage has been very influential in Jewish thinking about life cycles. Exegetes assimilated and harmonized other rabbinic sources to its template.3 This chapter examines Mishnah Avot 5:21 and its relation to other rabbinic discussions of age and a life cycle. I highlight the wide range of ways that rabbis configured a life in relation to death as well as the creative synthesis of this influential list. Mishnah Avot 5:21 also pushes us to consider the list or catalogue as an instance of ethical instruction.4 Lists enable the collection of diverse materials. They can be as long as needed, and they do not have to integrate their items into a concise statement or narrative form. Often the persuasive features of lists are implicit. Sometimes we can learn from a title or literary context, but not in this case—all we know is that the list was eventually placed near the end of tractate Avot. I attend to the selection and arrange2. Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 209–210; MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals, 81–98. John Rawls discusses the importance of long term planning in A Theory of Justice, 358–365. 3. An example of this assimilation is the commentary of Rabbi Yonah ben Abraham Gerondi (1200–1263) to m. Avot 5:21. The transformative effect of Torah upon the student is discussed in Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 84–119. 4. Shaye Cohen discusses the importance of lists in late ancient Mediterranean sources, in “False Prophets (4Q339), Netinim (4Q340), and Hellenism at Qumran.” The significance of lists in ethical instruction has not received sufficient attention, as has been noted by Ariel Glucklich in “What’s in a List?” The scholarship on lists is extensive, and most influential on my thinking is Izmirlieva, All the Names of the Lord.

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ment of items, which provide a glimpse into the interests of the compilers. Comparison with other texts also helps to identify what may have been omitted or contested.

Mishnah Avot 5:21 Demographic research of late ancient Roman society yields many ambiguities, but average life expectancy was probably between twenty and thirty years. According to one estimate, less than half of those who reached fifteen (thus discounting childhood mortality) lived to become fifty. The maximum life span, however, was not much less than today. Tim Parkin writes, “[A] person does not live significantly longer today than his or her ancestor did in the historical past. The simple fact is that more people survive into old age today, not that they live any longer than the elderly in past times.”5 In such conditions, many highly stylized ways of understanding life stages emerged in the ancient cultures of the Mediterranean and Near East. A simple division of three stages—youth, adulthood, and old age—evokes the sun’s movement or, in Christian circles, the three magi. A fourfold division connects with four seasons or the medical notion of four humors. Five-part schemes point to the movement of the sun, or the New Testament parable of workers in a vineyard (Mt. 20:1–16). Augustine names six states corresponding with six days of creation as well as six stages of history, and his account had tremendous influence among later Christians. The number seven can be the number of stages or the number of years in each stage. An early formulation is attributed to Solon of the sixth century B.C.E. The number seven also inspires many associations, perhaps most important being seven planets. Finally, the structure of decade-long periods appears in a Mesopotamian source, an Egyptian wisdom text, and the Dead Sea Scrolls—which I discuss further below.6

5. Parkin, Demography and Roman Society; the quote is from 105–106 (emphasis in the original; note his qualification on 186 n 71), and his broader discussion in 91–133 gives an extensive overview; Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World, 22–26, 36–56. Also Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age in Ancient Rome, 2; Scheidel, “Roman Age Structure”; Frier, “Roman Life Expectancy”; Hopkins, “On the Probable Age Structure of the Roman Population.” 6. Sears, The Ages of Man, 9–20, 38–69, 80–94; Burrow, The Ages of Man, 36–40, 55, 68–69, 72–74, 191–202. M. L. West provides the text and an analysis of the Hippocratic source in West, “The Cosmology of ‘Hippocrates’, De Hebdomadibus,” 365–388 and specifically 376–377 on the seven “seasons” of a human life. For the Philonic discussion of the number seven, see Philo, Philo, trans. Colson and Whitaker, 72–103; Philo, On the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses, 70–80, 260–308; Brett Rogers helped me with these points. The Near Eastern sources are discussed in Weinfeld, “The Phases of Human Life in Mesopotamian and Jewish Sources”;

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These formulations may or may not be employed systematically. For example, Augustine’s six stages appear repeatedly in his writings. The Aristotelian corpus, by contrast, uses different schemas in different places. A threefold portrait of youth, one’s prime, and old age structures a treatment of character in the Rhetoric. A discussion of human hair in the Generation of Animals concludes with a summary that correlates life stages with four seasons. In the Politics, when considering the point at which men are too old to beget children and also the education of youth, Aristotle refers to seven-year periods. Some ancient and late ancient thinkers created compilations based on specific numbers, perhaps most notably seven in the pseudo-Hippocratic De Hebdomadibus, Philo’s On the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses, and Macrobius’ Commentary on the Dream of Scipio. Along with these typologies, several Christian autobiographical and biographical writings attended to age and life stages when describing particular persons: Augustine’s Confessions, Jerome’s On Illustrious Men, and Eusebius’ The History of the Church.7 In late ancient rabbinic sources, accounts of life cycles appear on an occasional basis, sometimes spurred by an exegetical context. They are not incorporated into larger accounts of ages or numbers, and they tend not to be correlated with seasons, humors, planets, or historical periods—though in one case, life stages are linked with biblical texts. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, 198–199; Lichtheim, Late Ancient Wisdom Literature in the International Context, 152–156, 214–216; Schiffman, The Eschatological Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 13–26; Charlesworth, The Dead Sea Scrolls, vol. 1. Franz Boll observes that the structure of decades is not significant in Greek sources in Die Lebensalter, 22–24; see also Lichtheim, Late Ancient Wisdom Literature in the International Context, 155. I thank Niki Clements for her extensive help in this research. 7. For Augustine’s six stages, see On Genesis Against the Manichees 1:23; City of God 16:43. See also Sears, The Ages of Man, 55–58, 174 n 4; Storz, “‘Where or When was Your Servant Innocent?’” 82–87. Aristotle’s appeals to life stages are Rhetoric 2:12–14, 1388b33–1290b10; Generation of Animals 5:3, 784a14–19 (see also quotations of Pericles comparing young men to springtime in Rhetoric 1:7, 1365a31–33, 3:10, 1411a1–3); Politics 7:16, 1335b28–37; 7:17, 1336b35–1337a1. See also Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 61. The collections of “seven” are discussed in Burrow, Ages of Man, 36–40, 72–74; West, “The Cosmology of ‘Hippocrates’, De Hebdomadibus”; Philo, On the Creation of the Cosmos, trans. Runia, 70–80, 260–308; Macrobius, Commentary on the Dream of Scipio, 1:5–6 (Macrobius, Macrobius: Commentary on the Dream of Scipio, trans. Stahl, 94–117). Examples of autobiographical and biographical texts discussing age and life stages include Augustine, Confessions, 1:6, 1:8; Bakke, When Children Became People, 88–97; Jerome, On Illustrious Men, 54 (Origin), 65 (Theodorus, surnamed Gregory, the Bishop), 67 (Cyprian the Bishop), 105 (Gregory the Bishop), 109 (Didymus the Blind) (Jerome, Jerome: On Illustrious Men, trans. Halton, 77–81, 93–97, 139, 142–144); Eusebius, The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, 6:1–3, 6:36–39; (Eusebius, Eusebius: The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, trans. Williamson, 239–244, 271–274).

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Mishnah Avot 5:21 presents a detailed prescription for a life’s path by correlating ages with actions, states, virtues, and study materials. The relation between the age and the ideal action or state is unspecified, marked only by the preposition -l (“to, for”), followed by a noun or an infinitive. A given age may be the time when one can begin an activity, when it is appropriate to perform an activity or display a character trait, or when one can attain the given quality or status. It is not even clear that the same sense is carried through the entire list.8 I present the material in its ambiguity, rendering the preposition as “for”: A male of age five years, for scripture. Age ten, for mishnah. Age thirteen, for commandments. Age fifteen, for talmud. Age eighteen, for the wedding canopy. Age twenty, for pursuit. Age thirty, for strength. Age forty, for understanding. Age fifty, for counsel. Age sixty, for being an elder (ziqnah). Age seventy, for gray hair. Age eighty, for might. Age ninety, for being bent. Age one hundred, it is as if one were dead and passed and ceased from the world. (m. Avot 5:21)

This list prescribes an ideal life of bodily, intellectual, emotional, and social development for a male immersed in Torah. The passage is structured according to age and stages of life, incorporating both the numbers seven 8. Ivan Marcus sees each age marking when the relevant activity or quality begins (Rituals of Childhood, 43–44), while Herbert Danby presents each age as the time when one is “fit for” it (The Mishnah, 458). Adiel Schremer says that each age is the minimal at which one is fit, in “Eighteen Years to the Huppah,” 52. Moshe Weinfeld writes concerning the structure of the passage, “Lines 1–5 [ages 5–18] are prescriptive: they offer instruction as to the proper age for each educational stage in the passage through childhood and determine eighteen as the right age for marriage. Lines 6–14 covering the ages 20–100 are not didactic but speculative; their purpose is to reflect on what is peculiar to, or characteristic of, life at various ages. While the first portion of the Mishnah determines precise ages for each phase of learning, the latter section is arranged schematically according to decimal intervals.” Weinfeld, “The Phases of Human Life,” 187.

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and ten. The basic frame is ten-year intervals up to the age of one hundred, and a concentration of detail at early ages (five, ten, thirteen, fifteen, eighteen) makes for a total of twice-seven or fourteen elements.9 The first four items emphasize traditional study and practice starting at age five—scripture, mishnah, talmud, and the commandments. The references to “mishnah” and “talmud” do not necessarily refer to the complete compilations that we have now, but rather may represent aspects of curriculum during their formation and oral performance.10 The next two concern social relations, with eighteen for marriage and twenty the ambiguous “pursuit.” “Pursuit” could mean a vocation or service, but it may also be linked with marriage. One manuscript has “for service” (abxl) at age twenty (Oxford 407), and another omits the age eighteen and says that age twenty is for a wife (hwal) (Harley 5794).11 Ages thirty through fifty address virtues and positions of status for an adult man who has devoted himself to the course of study and observance prescribed at the outset: strength, understanding, and counsel. Sixty is associated with ziqnah, meaning “old age” or “being an elder.” The term often conveys a sense of frailty, but it can also indicate authority conferred by age and experience. Some textual witnesses have “wisdom” (h.okhmah) instead. The last items portray bodily changes with age, starting with hair turning grey. For ages ninety and one hundred, the focus is upon decline and weakness: being bent and being “as if one were dead. . . .”12 Notable in this context is the identification of age eighty with “might.” As

9. Moshe Idel comments that the focus here is spiritual advancement rather than study. I agree in the sense that only the first few elements concern curriculum, but still it is a spiritual path that has traditional study as its basis. Idel, “On the History of the Interdiction against the Study of Kabbalah before the Age of Forty,” 2. In addition to the importance of the numbers seven and ten, fourteen has resonance with Matthew 1:17 and a number of rabbinic sources, as discussed in Finkelstein, Introduction to the Treatises Abot and Abot of Rabbi Nathan, x–xi (English) and 5–18 (Hebrew). 10. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 68–69, 100–102; Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 75, 80–81. Steven Fraade emphasized to me the importance of this point. 11. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 217–219, 239, 241. On Harley 5794 see Margoliouth, Catalogue of the Hebrew and Samaritan Manuscripts in the British Museum, 75. 12. The word ziqnah indicates honor and experience in b. Sanh. 17a; b. Men. 65a. Michael Signer gives an overview of z.q.n. in “Honour the Hoary Head,” 40–42. Translations of ziqnah in m. Avot 5:21 as “elder” include Marcus, Rituals of Childhood, 43–44; Danby, Mishnah, 458. Philip Blackman offers the other interpretation, translating ziqnah as “old age” and commenting, “Here commences the period of decline in one’s life.” Blackman, Mishnayoth, 537–538. For “wisdom” (h.okhmah) appearing instead of ziqnah, see Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 217–218. Aristotle observes the wisdom of older people in Nicomachean Ethics 6:11, 1143b10– 15. A link between old age or being an elder (ziqnah) and gray hair also appears in Gen. Rab. 59:3 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 632).

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I discuss below, this motif likely emerges from Psalm 90:10, “The years of our life are seventy years, and if with might, eighty years.” The “might” indicated in Mishnah Avot 5:21, then, is probably a special strength that enables a person to live well into advanced age. The list presents an ideal sage’s life fully realized, including Torah study, the cultivation of virtue, and bodily decline. Study should begin early, with a distinct curricular path. Virtues such as strength, understanding, and wisdom are contingent upon time, for the student has to attain a large degree of learning and lived experience before gaining them. The body can ideally live up to one hundred years, though even within this optimistic picture we find vulnerabilities. A special strength is needed to reach eighty, and stages beyond that are characterized by less than positive corporeal states (“being bent” and “as if one were dead . . .”). The list portrays the ages of a single individual, but the ideals for each age presume relations with others. At early ages he is dependent upon teachers and peers for study. Later he marries. As an adult he counsels and leads others. In old age he is weak and needs support. This ideal sage, then, is always involved in networks of giving and receiving.13 Mishnah Avot 5:21 appears in the form of a tannaitic tradition, but a number of studies have challenged this picture, arguing that the list is a late addition to the Mishnah or even a “pseudo-mishnaic” medieval text.14 I do not take a stand regarding the specific date of the text, but I extend the observation that Mishnah Avot 5:21 was one viewpoint among many in rabbinic culture, not necessarily an early, definitive treatment of age. Methodologically I draw from Thomas Falkner’s analysis of Solon’s life stages. Falkner calls attention to the “differences between the different age structures implicit in Greek literature and the self-conscious and explicitly systematic treatment of age that we find in Solon 27.” He continues, “Where 13. MacIntyre emphasizes that relationships of giving and receiving are important throughout a life course, in Dependent Rational Animals, 99–103. 14. The passage is not cited in the Mishnah and Talmuds. Mishnah Avot 5:21 does not appear in Rabbi Nathan, nor does Maimonides discuss it in his commentary to Avot. Two partial quotations appear in late midrashic collections (Tanhuma Qedoshim 14 to Lev. 19:23; Numbers Rabbah 6:7). J. N. Epstein noted that the passage is a late addition to Mishnah Avot in Mavo Lenusah Hamishnah, 978; Gilat and more recently Schremer have done detailed studies of specific items (ages 13 and 18), showing that m. Avot 5:21 presents one view amid a diversity of positions elsewhere in rabbinic sources: Gilat, “Thirteen Years-old,” 19–20; Schremer, “Eighteen Years to the Huppah,” 43–70. Marcus calls m. Avot 5:21 a “pseudo-mishnaic” medieval text, implying that the compilation could be after the late ancient period: Marcus, Rituals of Childhood, 43–44; see also Marcus, The Jewish Life Cycle, 11–18. The text is also discussed in Signer, “Honour the Hoary Head,” 43–44; Westbrook, “Legal Aspects of Care of the Elderly in the Ancient Near East.”

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traditional age-grades are identified without reference to age per se, Solon’s are identified quantitatively and chronologically; where traditional agegrades are of unequal duration and proportion, Solon’s are equal in length, symmetrical in structure, and conceived in the context of a predetermined sum; and where traditional age structures are integrated into a system of social function and status, Solon’s grades are characterized more abstractly and seem devoid of social information.” Falkner summarizes by stating that “the very premise of the poem entails reconceptualizing age in an untraditional way.”15 Falkner’s use of “untraditional” would be an overstatement if applied to Mishnah Avot 5:21. Still, Falkner’s approach reminds us that Mishnah Avot 5:21 may be a creative and contentious formulation that needs to be situated in relation to other, often prosaic, references to age. We cannot presume that this list accurately reflected actual lives, or was normative for Jewish communities, at the time of its composition and early editing. At an even deeper level, age-gradation itself is not a prominent preoccupation in rabbinic literature. Below I gather and discuss references to specific ages, but we should recognize how relatively sparse these references are, particularly if we inquire beyond ages marked by puberty and roughly twenty years old. Rabbinic sources discuss stages of life in at least five ways: ages that are key markers in childhood for females and males, the symbolic significance of ages at which one may die, lives characterized by a binary opposition of youth and age, lives of sages who start their studying late, and lives of nonsages. This context enables us to see the particular picture of a human life presented by Mishnah Avot 5:21, which integrates strands found in other materials concerning childhood education, adult roles, and the symbolic significance of death. A male ideally starts Torah study at an early age, goes through specific stages specified by years, attains certain virtues and positions of authority at later ages, and then experiences bodily decline. The parts represent common rabbinic ideals, but the full picture does not appear elsewhere in rabbinic culture. In late antiquity, then, Mishnah Avot 5:21 should be seen not as a standard account to which others are contrasted, but a charged synthesis that came to be extremely influential over the centuries.

15. Falkner, The Poetics of Old Age in Greek Epic, Lyric, and Tragedy, 157 and more generally 153–168; see also the comparison between Solon’s list and what we know about Solon’s own life in Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 60–61.

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Early Ages, Gender, and Torah The first items in Mishnah Avot 5:21 prescribe childhood study for males.16 The androcentrism of this text is evident when considered in the context of rabbinic law. The Mishnah discusses females at early ages, including reference to a father teaching his daughter scripture, and much of this material is developed further in the Talmuds. More generally, Judith Wegner has argued that the Mishnah gives great attention to young girls, particularly their sexuality and their potential for marriage and procreation. The Mishnah addresses betrothal and intercourse for girls before and after the age of three. This discussion appears with little sense of horror, which is disturbing for today’s readers. At the same time, the passages do not condone this practice. Rather, among other things, if a girl born into an abusive family or slavery is freed before the age of three, rabbinic law upholds her status as a virgin for marriage. Also, numerous passages in rabbinic literature criticize fathers who marry off their daughters when very young.17 The Mishnah gives much significance to female puberty, which can be designated by “two hairs” (the growth of two pubic hairs) or by the ages of twelve or twelve and a half. At this age, the legal sanction for a father’s control over his daughter diminishes dramatically. The woman gains legitimacy for vows and the management of property, and also she increases her involvement in ritual activity. A passage in the Babylonian Talmud is particularly salient for reflecting upon gender in Mishnah Avot 5:21. In a discussion of inheritance issues, the sage Abaye cites a teaching:

16. Even as a portrait of a male child, m. Avot 5:21 presents a normalized, abstracted body. The Mishnah gives great significance to circumcision of a boy’s penis when he is eight to twelve days (m. Shab. 19:5). Puberty and the legal transitions that come at puberty are named in early rabbinic sources through the physical image of “two [pubic] hairs,” and the shift to the more abstract “thirteen years” emerges over the course of late antiquity: Gilat, “Thirteen Years-old,” 19–31. On circumcision and adolescence, also see Tabory, “Prayer and Berakot,” 324–325; Rubin, Time and Life Cycle in Talmud and Midrash, 51–64. 17. Rabbinic discussions of fathers teaching daughters scripture include m. Ned. 4:3; m. Sota 3:4; t. Ber. 2:12. Elizabeth Alexander is currently researching these sources and others concerning women and Torah study. See also Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 170–181; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 70; Zolty, “And All Your Children Shall be Learned,” 55–57, 113–129. Examples of sources concerning females at young ages are m. Ket. 1:2, 1:4, 3:1–2; m. Nid. 5:4–7; b. Nid. 44b–45a. See also Wegner, Chattel or Person, 20–29 and notes; Michael Satlow, “Texts of Terror.” Rabbinic criticisms of marrying off young girls are discussed in Ilan, Jewish Women in Graeco-Roman Palestine, 65–69; Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, 80–81 n 31, 298 n 11; Schremer, Male and Female He Created Them, 102–125.

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“A male if six, for scripture; ten for mishnah; thirteen for a full fast and for a girl, twelve” (b. Ket. 50a). This list at least attends to the age when a girl takes on a commandment, unlike the picture of early childhood in Mishnah Avot 5:21. Rabbinic considerations of women’s ages beyond puberty primarily address marriage and menopause. Tal Ilan observes that rabbis say little about unmarried adult women, particularly their aging.18 For male scholastic learning, we need to consider the texts in a historical context where less than 10–15 percent of the population was literate (able to read documents, letters, and simple literary texts). Elementary education in both Jewish and Greco-Roman society was private, informal, and unregulated. Most often, a father would teach his sons. This focus on the father’s role in traditional instruction was widespread in Greco-Roman society, and for Jews the practice had roots in the Hebrew Bible. For further education, tannaitic sources do not mention schools though amoraic materials do. A primary education focused on reading the Torah in Hebrew, however, presumes parents who were economically well-off and also committed to tradition. Furthermore, only a small proportion of those who received such a primary education would go on to further learning through rabbinic curriculum.19 Historically considered, then, very few males had access to family support, time, or resources to gain rabbinic learning beyond early stages. Still, rabbinic sources reveal a widespread concern with an early start to study. First, teachings starting in tannaitic collections and continuing through the Babylonian Talmud prescribe that a father should teach his son Hebrew language, prayers, and texts. Second, in the Babylonian Talmud we find several debates centered on age six, or four through six, addressing the point when a child is independent of the mother, the age when the study of scripture should begin, and the age when a child should enter formal schooling. Third, rabbinic literature also includes many lists of curriculum, 18. For female puberty see m. Ket. 3:8 and m. Nid. 5:6–7, 6:11; see also Wegner, Chattel or Person, 14–17, 34–37, 115–116 and notes. Another discussion of both males and females at young ages appears in b. Git. 65a; see also Marcus, The Jewish Life Cycle, 14. Ilan has observed that the transmission and consolidation of rabbinic traditions often brings the erasure of women. Her point is relevant here if m. Avot 5:21 is later than Abaye’s teaching in b. Ket. 50a; see Ilan, Mine and Yours Are Hers, esp. 84. For considerations of older women, see m. Nid. 1:5; Signer, “Honour the Hoary Head,” 42; Ilan, Jewish Women in Graeco-Roman Palestine, 62–65. 19. Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 39, 48–57, 60–69, 95, 496; Wimpfheimer, Telling Tales Out of Court; Bakke, When Children Became People, 176–177 and his notes; Marcus, Rituals of Childhood, 38–39; Barklay, “The Family as Bearer of Religion in Judaism and Early Christianity.”

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revealing that the Oral Torah was not a fixed or static entity. Menahem Kister has argued that the simplest list, with its basis in tannaitic times, is scripture, midrash, halakhot, and aggadot, but this began to be expanded very early. Already in tannaitic midrash and the Palestinian Talmud we find the combination of scripture, mishnah, and talmud, sometimes with other elements.20 The opening sequence of Mishnah Avot 5:21—“age five for scripture, age ten for mishnah . . . age fifteen for talmud”—selects from this diversity and integrates stances that appear separately in other rabbinic texts. The curriculum matches lists from tannaitic rabbinic circles in Roman Palestine. Starting at age five resonates with the Babylonian interest in the age at which a student is independent from his mother or may begin formal studies (though there are Palestinian discussions of education that may be influenced by Greco-Roman theories of education, which was to begin at age seven).21

Adulthood and Ages of Death The path described in Mishnah Avot 5:21 continues from childhood study to marriage at eighteen, “pursuit” at twenty, strength at thirty, and understanding at forty. The broader treatment of puberty and attaining majority in rabbinic cultures has several dimensions. Lawrence Schiffman writes that tannaitic law assumed that puberty took place somewhere between the age of thirteen (for males) or twelve (for females) and twenty. Along with puberty went the obligation to observe all the commandments. Therefore, while the age of twenty was definitely binding as the maximum, twelve or thirteen served as the minimum age.

20. For fathers teaching children, see Sifre Deut. 46 to Deut. 11:19 (Finkelstein, Sifre on Deuteronomy, 104); t. Hag. 1:2 (Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, Part 5, 375); b. Suk. 42a–b. See also Kraemer, “Images of Childhood,” 65–80; Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 49, 72. For Babylonian discussions of ages four through six, see b. Eruv. 82a–b; b. Ket. 50a; b. Bava Batra 21a; note a teaching about Abraham at age three in b. Ned. 32a. See also Marcus, Rituals of Childhood, 43; Kraemer, “Images of Childhood,” 65–80. Lists of curriculum include Sifre Deut. 161, 355 (Finkelstein, Sifre on Deuteronomy, 212, 418); y. B. Q. 4:3 (4b); y. Peah 2:6 (17a). See also Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 97, 243 n 92, 244 n 111; Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 75, 80–81; Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 42–45; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 84–99; and Goldin, “The Freedom and Restraint of Haggadah.” 21. Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 79–83.

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He notes that twenty is significant in several respects. A tannaitic source asserts that one can partake of sacrifices, serve as precentor, and recite the priestly blessing at twenty (t. Hag. 1:3). Amoraic traditions state that judges of capital cases have to be at least twenty, and that the heavenly court does not punish anyone below the age of twenty. The ideal age for marriage varies, but one Babylonian debate considers fourteen to twenty-four for a male (b. Qid. 29b–30a).22 For the ages of thirty and forty rabbinic teachings are sparse. The start and end of Levitical service, according to Numbers 4, are the ages of thirty and fifty. The late midrash Numbers Rabbah comments on this material by quoting Mishnah Avot 5:21 that thirty is a time of strength (Num. Rab. 6:7). The Babylonian Talmud Avodah Zarah states that a student needs forty years to attain his teacher’s knowledge, based on the Israelites being in the desert forty years (b. Avod. Zar. 5a–b; Deut. 29:3–4). This statement differs with the picture in Mishnah Avot, for starting at age five would mean that the student could not attain wisdom until forty-five. There were also late ancient philosophical sources linking the age of forty with knowledge or wisdom (such as Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 11:1).23 The scholastic ethos of Mishnah Avot 5:21 comes into relief through comparing its picture of adulthood with an account given by a list in Semahot. Semahot specifies distinct rituals depending on the age one dies, starting at one day and continuing throughout the entire life span (Sem. 3:1–8). The list in Semahot, not Mishnah Avot 5:21, is the most expansive presentation of life stages in rabbinic literature and centers on family relations. The childhood stages make no mention of Torah or curriculum, and the concern with family is particularly prominent for ages twenty to forty: From age twenty to thirty, he is carried out as a bridegroom. From thirty to forty, he is carried out as a brother. From forty to fifty, he is carried out as a father. (Sem. 3:7)

22. Schiffman, The Eschatological Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 19–20; Schiffman, Sectarian Law in the Dead Sea Scrolls; Ezra 3:8, y. Bik. 2:1 (64c), y. Sanh. 4:9 (22b), y. Sanh. 11:7 (30b), Gen. Rab. 58:1, b. Shab. 89b. For ideal ages of marriage, see Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 138– 142; Satlow, Jewish Marriage in Antiquity, 104–111; Schremer, “Eighteen Years to the Huppah”; Schremer, Male and Female He Created Them, 73–101. 23. Idel, “On the History of the Interdiction,” 1–2. He cites only two passages from rabbinic literature: m. Avot 5:21 and b. Avod. Zar. 5a–b. Also see Cokayne, Experiencing Old Age, 92 and notes.

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This list links age twenty with marriage, which is similar to Mishnah Avot 5:21: “Age eighteen, for the wedding canopy. Age twenty, for pursuit” (or in one manuscript, “for a wife”).24 However, Semahot pairs age with familial roles: groom, brother, and father. In contrast, Mishnah Avot 5:21 begins with curriculum, drops consideration of family life after marriage, and then emphasizes virtues and roles that would ideally emerge through Torah study. For the ages of fifty and onwards, the most extensive pool of imagery appears in lists that address death at various ages. In these cases, reflection on age both conveys stages of life and confronts the fact that people die at many different points. In late antiquity the age fifty was not an unusual time for death, and most people probably did not even live that long. Still, fifty is the starting point for several of these passages, which express a sense that life had ended too soon. The earliest list depicting ages of death appears in the Palestinian Talmud tractate Bikkurim. A discussion of penalties for improper consumption of priestly offerings inspires a question about the relation between death and “cutting off” from the community, or excision (karet). The commentary understands karet to indicate early death by way of divine judgment,25 presenting this list as a received tannaitic tradition: One who dies at fifty years old is dead from excision (karet), at fifty-two is the death of Samuel the prophet. at sixty is the death named in the Torah, at seventy is a death of love, at eighty is the death of old age (ziqnah), from here and onward is a life of pain. (y. Bik. 2:1, 64c)26

For this list in the Palestinian Talmud, eighty is the death of “old age” (ziqnah). The same term appears in Mishnah Avot 5:21 for age sixty. As discussed above, in Mishnah Avot 5:21 ziqnah falls after “counsel” at age fifty, and some witnesses have “wisdom,” so I take the word to indicate status and translate “being an elder.” In the Palestinian Talmud, since the topic is death and the placement is at age eighty, I believe that the term conveys frailty and “old age.”

24. Zlotnick, The Tractate “Mourning,” 106–109; Schremer, “Eighteen Years,” 60–61. 25. Albeck, Six Orders of the Mishnah: Moed, 243–245; Shemesh, Punishments and Sins, 82– 98; Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 58–59; Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity, 20–22. 26. I follow Sussmann, Talmud Yerushalmi According to Ms. Or. 4720.

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Similar lists appear in the Babylonian Talmud Moed Qatan 28a and in Semahot 3:8.27 Mapping the imagery from these three treatments of death with m. Avot 5:21 yields the following table:

50 52 60 70 80

y. Bik. 2:1 (64c)

b. M.Q. 28a

Sem. 3:7

m. Avot 5:21

karet Samuel named in Torah love old age (ziqnah)

karet Samuel hands of Heaven gray hair might

karet Samuel named in Torah love might

counsel elder (ziqnah) gray hair might

These symbolic associations do not emerge from systematic reflection on life stages so much as from gathering motifs that are exegetically derived from scripture. Both Talmuds cite multiple biblical verses. Sixty is “the death named in the Torah” because of a midrashic interpretation of Job 5:26, “You will come to the grave in firm strength (clkb).” The numerical value of the Hebrew letters that make up the phrase “in firm strength” (clkb) is sixty.28 Psalm 90:10 itself names ages seventy and eighty, “The years of our life are seventy years, and if with might, eighty years.” The verse is cited in relation to both of these ages, but most clearly it is the basis for the link between eighty and “might” in the Babylonian Talmud and probably Mishnah Avot 5:21. Another key biblical image for the age eighty is Barzillai the Gileadite’s description of himself to David, which emphasizes physical decline rather than strength (2 Sam. 19:36) (y. Bik. 2:1, 64c; b. M.Q. 28a).29 Reflection on death is the most prominent, and perhaps the earliest, rabbinic way of giving symbolic significance to ages fifty and above. Mishnah Avot 5:21 draws from this pool of images to envision an ideal life up to 100, and in these verses we see some of their biblical inspirations.30

27. Higger, Treatise Semahot, 113; Zlotnick, The Tractate “Mourning”, 39, 109 (English), 6 (Hebrew). 28. Each Hebrew letter is also a number. In this case, b = 2, k = 20, l = 30, c = 8. 29. Barzillai the Gileadite also appears in b. Shab. 152a, as part of the midrash to Eccles. 12:1–7 discussed in chapter one. 30. This point is reinforced by medieval commentaries. For example, Rabbi Yonah ben Abraham Gerondi comments upon the ages sixty, seventy, and eighty in m. Avot 5:21 by citing verses that are employed in the discussion concerning ages of death in y. Bik. 2:1, 64c and b. M.Q. 28a.

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Full Lives: Early Starts Turning from specific ages to portraits of a full life, a very simple formula ignores age-gradation and sets out a contrast between youth (yaldut) and old age (ziqnut). This temporal opposition frames metaphors that uphold ideals for the study and teaching of Torah. In most cases, these passages uphold an early start for learning. One cluster of teachings appears in Mishnah Avot: Elisha ben Avuyah says: One who studies as a child, to what can he be compared? To ink written on new papyrus. One who studies as an elder, to what can he be compared? To ink written on papyrus that has been blotted out. (m. Avot 4:20)31

In ancient Greece and Rome, implements of learning provided metaphors for the process of education. A wax tablet was a relatively expensive but easily reused tool, and figuratively the student could be wax molded, stamped, or written upon by the teacher (this trope appears in modern guise through Freud’s characterization of the psyche as a “mystic writing pad” and the widespread image of a “blank slate”). Papyrus and parchment were less convenient than a wax tablet, as the ink would need to be erased by the student after practice, and this erasure is central to the rabbinic metaphor in Mishnah Avot 4:20. Also, in many rabbinic discussions, erasures in papyrus documents are associated with fraud and can render the writ invalid. As new papyrus, then, the student is passive and fully receptive to the Torah. Older men, who have learned and been shaped by other cultural forms, have to wipe away their former knowledge or dispositions in order to learn rabbinic tradition. The removal is never complete, and a residue of past formation always remains.32 31. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 170–171. On the significance of this maxim being attributed to Elisha ben Avuyah, see Goshen-Gottstein, The Sinner and the Amnesiac, 39–42 and notes. 32. In Elisha ben Avuyah’s maxim I interpret “studies” as “starts studying,” such that the elder is one who starts studying Torah late, and the underlying problem is the impact of prior knowledge upon one’s ability to learn and develop oneself through Torah. Another interpretation is that the passage concerns any elder who studies, even one who has been doing so since childhood, and emphasizes challenges brought by age for memory and comprehension. Rabbinic sources observe the effects of aging on mental faculties, as we saw above in the commentary to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 (chapter one). Extensive discussions of papyrus, parchment, wood tablets, and wax appear in Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 126–144 (she addresses

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The passage in Mishnah Avot continues with another saying that compares study to grapes and wine: Rabbi Yosi bar Yehudah of Kefar Ha-Bavli says: One who studies from minors, to what can he be compared? To one who eats unripe grapes and drinks wine from the vat. One who studies from elders, to what can he be compared? To one who eats ripe grapes and drinks aged wine. (m. Avot 4:20)33

The association between study and nourishment is widespread in rabbinic culture: consider the instruction to “drink with thirst” the words of the sages, discussed in chapter four (m. Avot 1:4).34 While Elisha ben Avuyah considers age to be an index of the ability to learn and privileges youth, Rabbi Yosi bar Yehudah views age as an index of the ability to teach and compares maturity to the ripening of food and the aging of wine. Learning from well-schooled elders is like fine dining. The section of Mishnah Avot concludes, though, with a contrasting viewpoint: Rabbi [Yehudah Ha-Nasi] says: Do not look at the vessel, but what is in it. A new vessel may be filled with aged wine, and an old [vessel] may not even have new [wine] in it. (m. Avot 4:20)35

This final maxim continues the metaphor that tradition is wine, but it rejects that the age of the body indicates knowledge and maturity. Playing with a contrast between wine and its container that also appears in the New Testament (Mt. 9:17; Mk. 2:18–22; Lk. 5:33–39), Rabbi Yehudah suggests that aged wine can appear in new wineskins, and that one should attend to the wisdom in a teaching regardless of the speaker’s age. These three teachings set out an ideal that one starts study young, which is consistent with the ethos of Mishnah Avot 5:21, and the metaphoric predications are compatible, yet there is no specification of exactly when one should start, what texts should be studied, and what the results at

erasures on papyrus on 133–134); also Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 147–159. Bakke discusses metaphoric references to wax in When Children Became People, 20–21; also see Plato, Republic, 2.377A–B; Plutarch, Education of Children, 3E–F. Freud’s most detailed discussion of this image is in “A Note Upon the ‘Mystic Writing Pad.’” 33. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 172. 34. A link between Torah and nourishment also appears in Sed. El. Rab. 2 and Sed. El. Zut. 13 (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 8, 195). 35. Sharvit, Tractate Avoth Through the Ages, 172.

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later ages would be. Rather, the literary structure supports metaphors with specific persuasive points, whether emphasizing early study or characterizing an ideal teacher. Post-talmudic anthologies elaborate this dichotomy of youth and age to characterize a student’s immersion in rabbinic tradition. In Rabbi Nathan (both versions A and B) and Deuteronomy Rabbah, sages emphasize the importance of Torah study in childhood through a proliferation of tropes: marriage, surgery, writing, animal training, kneading dough, and more.36

Full Lives: Late Starts Several passages open up the possibility that an aspiring sage might not study Torah in youth, for they portray great sages who come late to rabbinic tradition. A teaching found in a number of Palestinian sources employs a tripartite division of forty-year segments. The amoraic collection Genesis Rabbah comments upon Joseph’s death at 110 years old (Gen. 50:22): Joseph remained in Egypt, he and his father’s household, and Joseph lived one hundred and ten years. (Gen. 50:22) The years of six pairs were equal: Rebekah and Kohath, Levi and Amram, Joseph and Joshua, Samuel and Solomon, Moses and Hillel the Elder, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and Rabbi Akiba. Moses spent forty years in Pharaoh’s palace, forty years in Midian, and served Israel forty years. Hillel the Elder came up from Babylon when he was forty years old, served the Sages forty years, and served Israel forty years. Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai worked as a merchant forty years, studied Torah forty years, and served Israel forty years. Rabbi Akiba was an ignoramus for forty years, studied forty years, and served Israel forty years. (Gen. Rab. 100)37 36. Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 23–24 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 76–78; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 194–199); Avot R. Nat. B, ch 35 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 88–89; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 369–371); Deut. Rab. 8:6; also Tanhuma Hayye Sarah 8 to Gen. 25:1. See also Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 92–95; Bakke, When Children Became People, 20–21. 37. Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabbah, 1295; Yadin has done a thorough study of these sources, emphasizing that MS London of Sifre Deut. 357 presents Rabbi Akiva as studying Torah in his youth; “Rabbi Akiva’s Youth.” Some of the pairs are generated directly through Biblical verses. Levi and Amram lived 137 years (Exodus 6:16, 20). Joseph and Joshua lived 110 (Gen 50:22, Joshua 24:29), Kohath lived 133 years (Exod. 6:18). The age of Moses

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As often occurs in rabbinic sources, Moses appears like a rabbi, the sages like Moses, and ancient Israelites are equated with later Jews. Moses’ upbringing in the Egyptian court, and his life span of 120 years, make him a paradigm for three great sages—Hillel, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, and Rabbi Akiva. Their lives divide into three stages: the first forty years without traditional education, then forty of immersion in learning, and then forty of leadership. This list does not give significance to the sage’s late start. A number of narratives expand the motif of the sage who starts his studies late, and the most extensive treatments appear in Rabbi Nathan A and B. These ethical anthologies present the lives of two sages: Rabbi Akiva and his teacher Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus. Both figures are ignorant of Torah until adulthood but then attain excellence through their persistence, diligence, and talent. The stories strongly exhort the reader to study Torah. An adult man should not excuse himself by citing lack of parental support in childhood, or because of poverty or family commitments, because Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer faced those obstacles and overcame them. Rabbinic sources do not discuss the relation between the ideal of an early start and the possibility of greatness despite a late start.38 As ethical instruction, the two models fulfill complementary pedagogical functions. The emphasis on an early start guides parents and teachers in the education of children. Accounts of late starts provide inspiration for those who do not have such an upbringing, offering the possibility that an adult could enter rabbinic communities without the childhood education in Torah and still flourish.

Full Lives: Non-Sages In post-Talmudic midrashic collections, two passages portray a life course independent of Torah study. In Song of Songs Rabbah a three-stage model describes the writings attributed to Solomon: at his death was 120 years (Deut. 34:7), which is also the number of years allotted to humans in Genesis 6:3 as well as in Mesopotamian literature as early as Sumerian sources; Klein, “The ‘Bane’ of Humanity.” 38. Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 6, Avot R. Nat. B, ch. 12–13 (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 29–33; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 78–93, 339–343). See also Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 5–7, 49; Schofer, “Self-Cultivation and Relations with Others in Classical Rabbinic Thought.” The idea of starting philosophy at age forty also appears in Lucian, Hermotimus, 13. Yadin’s research in progress argues that the two portraits of study emerged from differing rabbinic circles. Those who uphold the late-start motif likely embrace scriptural learning and justification of law, yet they are not of elite or priestly descent; a brief statement appears in “Rabbi Akiva’s Youth.”

Life Cycles / 159 Rabbi Yonatan said: He wrote the Song of Songs first, and after that Proverbs, and after that Ecclesiastes. Rabbi Yonatan derives this from the way of the world: When a man is young, he speaks in song; when he grows up, he speaks in proverbs; and when he become old, he speaks of vanity. (Songs Rab. 1:10)

As noted above, a tripartite picture of a life has deep roots at least in Greek sources. Aristotle’s Rhetoric, for example, divides life into the phases of youth, one’s prime beginning at thirty, and being elderly (2:12–14).39 Here, biblical texts are correlated with life stages to present youth as poetic and erotic, adulthood as carrying proverbial wisdom, and old age as when one sees through the pretenses of life. While the subject matter is the Written Torah itself, and “speaks in proverbs” may reflect scholastic learning, the “way of the world” does not specify Torah study, practice of commandments, or the cultivation of virtue. Another rabbinic portrait of life separate from Torah study is a list in Ecclesiastes Rabbah. This passage is often quoted by scholars alongside Mishnah Avot 5:21 as a similar conceptualization of a life, and there are a number of comparable items. The overall picture, however, is quite different. This list makes no mention of study, offers an arguably ironic comparison to animals, and focuses on the psyche and behavior of the infant. The structure is based on seven, an important number in many ancient Mediterranean sources.40 Here the number is inspired by exegesis of Ecclesiastes 1:2, where the word “vanity” (hevel) appears five times, three in the singular and twice in the plural. The exegete generates the sum of seven by counting each plural as two: Rabbi Samuel bar Rav Isaac taught in the name of Rabbi Simeon ben Eleazar: Seven “vanities” that Ecclesiastes spoke correspond to seven worlds that a man views. At one year he resembles a king placed in a covered carriage, and everyone hugs and kisses him.

39. Sears, The Ages of Man, 90–94. 40. Sears, The Ages of Man, 38–53. A sparse sevenfold list also appears in the Vatican Manuscript of Rabbi Nathan A (Schechter and Kister, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 160–161; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 303), as part of commentary to the maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel and midrash to Ecclesiastes 12. The dating of Ecclesiastes Rabbah as been recently discussed in detail by Reuven Kiperwasser, who identifies intentional work by a late redactor working with amoraic materials, in “Structure and Form in Kohelet Rabbah as Evidence of Its Redaction.”

160 / Chapter Five At two and three years he resembles a pig who sticks his hands in the gutters. At ten years he skips like a kid. At twenty years he is like a neighing horse, making himself attractive and seeking a wife. He marries a woman, and he is like a donkey. He bears children, and he is defiant like a dog in order to bring in bread and food. He grows old, he is like an ape. This is said about people of the land but about children of Torah it is said: The king David grew old (1 Kings 1:1). Even though he grew old, he was a king. (Eccles. Rab. 1:2)

As in Mishnah Avot 5:21, we see a concern with youth: four of the seven items address life up to age twenty (specified by the years one, two/three, ten, and twenty), and the last three are much more general time spans. Unlike Mishnah Avot 5:21, this list does not present scholastic preparatory activities in childhood or virtues attained later. Instead, the passage compares a child of one year to a king in a carriage. The metaphor presents royalty not as powerful but as pampered. For later ages, the list employs lowly and perhaps comic images of animals, even a pig, to characterize diverse human qualities and activities: childhood exploration and energy, courtship and marriage, begetting children, generating nourishment, and physical decline in old age. Ecclesiastes Rabbah 1:2 concludes this list by emphasizing that this beastly life is not that of a Torah sage, but of non-rabbinic Jews or “people of the land” (ame ha-aretz). This path is not exemplary for a sage but a foil for him. Immersion in Torah enables a man to preserve the figuratively royal status of his birth, to age like David the king. This conclusion, though, is in Aramaic, while the rest of the list is mostly in Hebrew (the exception being the last part of the comparison between a man and a horse). Perhaps an early formulation of the list was a family-centered account of childhood, marriage, and child-rearing that could characterize sages and non-sages alike. This neutrality would have been transformed by a final statement offering hope that study and practice of Torah staves off weakness in old age (in chapter one we also saw this hope expressed in Lev. Rab. 18:1 and b. Shab. 152a).41 41. I thank Ohr Margolis and Gregg Gardner for their thoughts on this passage. Also see Kraemer, “Images of Childhood,” 76–77.

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The picture of a life in Ecclesiastes Rabbah has some similarities with that in Song of Songs Rabbah. The focus upon dynamic energy and erotic interest at ages ten and twenty, and upon practical matters in adulthood, both resonate with the portrayal of Solomon through the Song of Songs and Proverbs. The list of Ecclesiastes Rabbah also shares features with Mishnah Avot 5:21. Both have a structural reference to the number seven with a high concentration of items at early ages. Ecclesiastes Rabbah partially employs the decade intervals so prominent in Mishnah Avot 5:21 (ten and twenty). Eighteen/twenty are associated with marriage, and the periods after that are linked with practical matters and social life. The image of the “ape” in old age, moreover, might indicate a posture that is “bent” as described in Mishnah Avot 5:21 for ninety years old. In these respects, then, the life of a sage in Mishnah Avot has commonalities with midrashic portrayals of ordinary Jews. The life of an aspiring sage is not entirely different from those of horses, donkeys, dogs, and apes.

The Ages of a Rabbinic Sage Over the course of late antiquity, rabbis understood the relations between growth, death, education, and cultivation in a number of different configurations. Passages from tannaitic sources through the Babylonian Talmud consider the lives of females as well as males. For males, we find divergent treatments of age and Torah study, accounts of study not focused on age or phases, and accounts of life stages not centered on Torah. PostTalmudic anthologies address stages in the lives of all men, including “the way of the world” and “people of the land.” When rabbis present the life of an aspiring sage, two models are present: beginning study in childhood and beginning in adulthood after years separate from rabbinic disciple circles. If we uncritically treat Mishnah Avot 5:21 as representative of rabbinic conceptions of life cycles, we overestimate the role of age-gradation in rabbinic sources, miss the relations between age and gender, ignore several accounts of a life span not connected with Torah study, and gloss over alternative ways of imagining the education of a sage. Mishnah Avot 5:21 is distinct within rabbinic culture in portraying, through symmetrical agegradation, an entire life span for a life that starts with early Torah study and leads to virtue and status in later years. This concise list gathers, concretizes, and gives canonical status to certain elements in rabbinic culture. In other sources, elements in this picture appear without connection to Torah study,

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including marriage around the age of twenty and the symbolic significance of advanced ages. Mishnah Avot 5:21 integrates the changes brought by reproduction and aging into the ideal life of a sage by presenting these items after a prescription for early childhood study. Also, traditional study becomes the source of strength, understanding, counsel, and perhaps even the might of living to eighty. The closest parallels for many items in Mishnah Avot 5:21 are in the Babylonian Talmud, where teachings uphold early study in a school or disciple circle, and specify ages six, ten, and thirteen as important markers (b. Eruv. 82a–b; b. Ket. 50a; b. B. Bat. 21a). The Talmud also considers eighteen and twenty among ideal ages for marriage (b. Qid. 29b–30a). In discussing ages when one may die, a teaching associates seventy with “gray hair” and eighty with “might” (b. M.Q. 28a). The focus on understanding at forty is fairly close to the idea that a student needs forty years to understand his teacher (b. Avod. Zar. 5a–b). The connection between age twenty and “pursuit,” however, is not clear. Generally in rabbinic culture, twenty signifies full participation as an adult in a larger community, and in Ecclesiastes Rabbah pursuit of a livelihood follows marriage. The views that thirty is a time of strength and fifty for counsel may emerge from reflection upon Levites in Numbers 4. What cultural processes underlie this synthesis? There are at least three claims that could be made, depending on how strong an analytic stance we want to bear. The most cautious view would be agnostic about the dating and function of the text, stating only that we find in Mishnah Avot 5:21 a combination of features that appear spread out in other sources. An interesting though more tenuous claim is that Mishnah Avot 5:21 is a late synthesis of earlier materials. The creators drew upon and responded to a number of texts, even through the Babylonian Talmud, to create a distinctive account of a life. Yet another step would be to say that this account challenges or opposes the images of sages who started late, and of nonsages, that we find in post-Talmudic anthologies. The important points of my argument—highlighting the complexity in late ancient rabbinic views of age and cultivation, and the distinct features of Mishnah Avot 5:21 within that complexity—are not dependent on a particular dating of the composition. Mishnah Avot 5:21 can also be situated in relation to life cycle portraits in the ancient and late ancient Mediterranean region, particularly three precedents: the Mesopotamian Sultantepe Tablet #400 in Akkadian, the Egyptian wisdom text entitled The Instruction of Papyrus Insinger in De-

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motic, and The Rule of the Congregation (1QSa) from Qumran.42 All share a formal structure of ten-year increments that is rare elsewhere in the Mediterranean world. I will not take on a full study of these sources, but as an overview, we can identify four components that circulated throughout the Near East: (1) Decade-long periods in life. (Sultantepe #400; Papyrus Insinger; 1QSa; m. Avot 5:21; Sem. 3:7; and to some degree Eccles. Rab. 1:2) (2) Scholastic learning starting in childhood, often as a foundation for individual virtue and communal roles in adulthood. (Papyrus Insinger; 1QSa; b. Ket. 50a; and m. Avot 5:21) (3) Marriage at or around the age of twenty, perhaps followed by the pursuit of a livelihood. (1QSa; Eccles. Rab. 1:2; m. Avot 5:21; and Sem. 3:7) (4) The significance of ages above forty or fifty. (Sultantepe #400; y. Bik. 2:1, 64c; b. M.Q. 28a; m. Avot 5:21; and Sem. 3:7)

Only Mishnah Avot 5:21 combines all four components. The Rule of the Congregation (1QSa) shares several features with this rabbinic portrait— such as study being a prerequisite for other roles later in life—but ages beyond thirty are not discussed. Strikingly, Solon’s list contains none of the four features.43

42. For Sultantepe Tablet #400 see Weinfeld, “The Phases of Human Life.” The Instruction of Papyrus Insinger is discussed in Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, 3:198–199; Lichtheim, Late Ancient Wisdom Literature in the International Context, 152–156, 214–216; Goff, “Hellenistic Instruction in Palestine and Egypt”; also Ben Sira 18:19. I thank Richard Jasnow for helpful discussions about these materials. Translations and analyses of Rule of the Congregation of the Dead Sea Scrolls (1QSa) include Schiffman, The Eschatological Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls; Schiffman, The Halakhah at Qumran; Charlesworth, The Dead Sea Scrolls; Martinez and Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, 99–101; Borgen, “‘At the Age of Twenty’ in 1QSa”; Fraade, “Interpretive Authority in the Studying Community at Qumran,” 55; Hempel, “The Earthly Essene Nucleus of 1QSa”; Davies and Taylor, “On the Testimony of Women in 1QSa.” 43. Steven Fraade pointed out to me this similarity between m. Avot 5:21 and the Rule of the Community; see Fraade, “Interpretive Authority,” 55–58, 65–69. Both Solon’s list and m. Avot 5:21 are structured according to a combination of 10 and 7, though in different ways: Solon presents ten seven-year periods for a total of seventy years, while m. Avot 5:21 has fourteen items with ten of them articulating ten-year increments up to 100. Solon’s picture of a life is also quite different in key items: not only is there no mention of study in early years, but marriage is much later, at 28–35 (Schremer, “Eighteen Years,” 51).

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A passage from the Warring States period of early China, found in the Analects and attributed to Confucius, adds another layer to the inquiry. Confucius also portrays a life beginning with traditional study: At fifteen I set my heart on learning; at thirty, I took my stand; at forty, I came to be free from doubts; at fifty, I understood the Decree of Heaven; at sixty, my ear was attuned; at seventy, I followed my heart’s desire without overstepping the line.44

Unlike the Near Eastern and Jewish accounts, this list appears as an autobiography, articulated in the first person and attributed to a great sage. The structure of a life cycle, though, has notable similarities with the ones I have discussed, particularly Mishnah Avot 5:21: an emphasis on early learning that provides the basis for later character development, life stages in which multiples of ten are important, and a long span of life from fifteen to seventy. The shared elements, though, are not based on contact, diffusion, or shared cultural context. Rather, they may emerge from common factors in scholastic communities, where cultivation through study and ritual practice occurs over years and decades. The likenesses may reflect similar observations regarding the time it takes for a person to be formed intellectually and emotionally through immersion in traditional materials. These observations have two very different implications. On one hand, Analects 2:4 provides an important counterfactual reminding us that similarity does not necessarily mean influence, and this point carries over to the relations among the Near Eastern passages. The Near Eastern materials certainly have strong resemblances and probably some kind of shared history, but they are also likely separated by centuries and a wide geographic range, and we should be cautious in trying to infer historical connection. On the other hand, Analects 2:4 reminds us that issues we have examined are not unique to rabbis or to the Near East. Rather, we have been studying particular responses to widespread interests in age, life stages, and ethical formation in scholastic settings.45

44. The translation is from Confucius: The Analects, trans. Lau, 63. For a slightly different rendition, with discussion of traditional commentaries, see Confucius: Analects, trans. Slingerland, 9. I thank Françoise Mirguet for her comments on the analysis. 45. Also see Olivelle, The A¯´srama System, 131–160.

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Conclusion Mishnah Avot 5:21 instructs a rabbinic student to imagine life as a whole, unfolding in stages. The student faces not only the eventuality of death, but the possibility of a life that continues for decades and requires longterm projects, including activities that are preparatory for later goals. In this passage, the long-term project is the study and practice of Torah starting in childhood, which is framed as leading to virtues and status years later. This expanded temporal perspective does not necessarily lessen the intensity of each moment, as Mishnah Avot 5:21 sets out a rigorous path starting at a young age, and there is little room for wandering. We see a diachronic picture that addresses when character development should begin and the time needed to attain ideal states and actions. The cultivation of virtue depends on resources and support from others, including teachers and parents.46 Conceptions of age-gradation and a life cycle are highly cultured ways of responding to the physicality of human existence. If we turn back to the modern world, we find extensive social construction of a life course. John Meyer describes a widespread sequence beginning in the early years of life with recipes defining steps in child development and “the attendant clothing, games, music, and educational activities.” The nation-state is involved in both regulation and child care. Formal education is now a worldwide institution with a carefully graded system of age categories. “The great majority of the children of the world now go through at least part of this system.” Then, “Once the actor enters the world of work, there are rules of occupational transition, specifying proper seniority and other rules of career sequencing.” Retirement systems bring “another set of rights and expectations.” Meyer summarizes, “The whole system is quite standardized, and much of it is written into the law, which protects or creates various aspects of age grading.”47 Embedded within this large cluster of discourses and institutions are diverse ideals for every life stage. Our tools for understanding and critically evaluating ethical development over a cycle are relatively thin, though Erik Erikson has discussed the implications of his psychology

46. These dependencies are discussed in MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals, 81–98; Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 343–372. Horace emphasizes the need to address the ways that age conditions standards for character in The Art of Poetry, 153–179; Burrow, Ages of Man, 3, 95–189. 47. J. Meyer, “The Self and the Life Course,” 201–203.

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for understanding virtue, and William May sets out a series of virtues and vices for the elderly.48 Study of rabbinic materials reveals factors in a diachronic understanding of ethical cultivation that carry relevance today. First, we see an intertwining of the descriptive and the prescriptive. Some items in a list may portray bodily or psychological changes, whereas others set out ideal character traits, roles, or achievements. This intertwining can mask the normative elements of the imagery, presenting culturally conditioned ideals as natural. For example, in Mishnah Avot 5:21 attaining “understanding” of rabbinic tradition at age forty appears no different from hair being gray at seventy or a body being bent at ninety. Yet, the path to this understanding was far from a natural bodily process and was open to very few. Second, these sources disclose diverse possibilities for envisioning life within an elite scholastic movement, which disrupt any fixed understanding of age and life stages. Consider the contrast between prescriptions for early study of Torah and accounts of sages who begin late. The qualities of a man aged twenty, thirty, and forty would differ greatly on each picture. At the level of virtues, the early-start model emphasizes slow diligence, while the late start combines persistence with fast comprehension. A deeper issue, which also arises for Aristotelian ethics, is the significance of family and parental guidance for the cultivation of virtue. What institutions and communities are most central to ethical development? Do parents, family of origin, and social status in childhood determine possibilities for attaining virtue, or can adult action radically transform a person regardless of upbringing? Third, the lists address multiple dimensions of life and diverse temporalities. The growth and weakening of the body, with all its variations and complexities, is one of several axes. Another axis is the process of learning, habituation, and cultivation of virtue, which for rabbis occurs through immersion in the Torah over the course of years. Relationships beyond the study house include marriage and procreation, earning sustenance, and taking on roles of leadership in the social and political world. Mishnah Avot 5:21 emphasizes learning for childhood; reproduction, social roles, and virtue for adulthood; and physical changes for late ages. Other texts present different priorities regarding sequence and emphasis. Finally, certain lists reveal the proximity of vulnerability and strength. Ecclesiastes

48. Erikson, Insight and Responsibility, 109–157; May, The Patient’s Ordeal, 130–141. See also John Wall’s call for integration of childhood studies into theological ethics: “Childhood Studies, Hermeneutics, and Theological Ethics.”

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Rabbah 1:2 ends with the explicit hope that immersion in Torah brings graceful aging, recognizing that such ease is neither natural nor common. Other lists face the reality that death may come at any point, with widespread symbolism starting at fifty. The similarities between these lists and the ideal life of Mishnah Avot 5:21 reveal that death is in the background of life, evoked even when hidden.

Conclusion

Over the course of Confronting Vulnerability I have examined rabbinic sources that invoke mortality and vulnerability to inspire diligence for fulfilling ethical ideals. This project extends and deepens the inquiry begun in The Making of a Sage. The earlier book sets the groundwork for studying rabbinic ethics, focuses on one set of anthologies, and examines the transformation of emotion and desire. Confronting Vulnerability explores textual and thematic difficulties, traces the development of motifs through multiple sources, and centers on the vulnerable body. Together, the two books aim to define and carry out a research program in rabbinic character ethics that foregrounds ethical compilations, attends to genre, and studies the creative work of rabbinic editors in developing pedagogy. Ethical instruction extends far beyond the specifically ethical anthologies. The relation between passages in ethical anthologies and elsewhere in rabbinic culture varies tremendously. We have seen ethical maxims quoted and expanded in both amoraic midrash and the Babylonian Talmud, parallel narratives in tannaitic midrash and ethical anthologies, and a list in Mishnah Avot that may synthesize midrashic and Talmudic motifs. These texts constitute only a sliver of the large rabbinic concern with ethical formation. Many scholars have noted this concern. For example, Rubenstein concludes an extensive investigation of narratives in the Babylonian Talmud by turning toward the ethical: Rabbinic practice, for the Stammaim, required a combination of legal acumen and virtuous character. The ideal sage contended in the give and take of the academy, solved every objection with numerous solutions, propounded questions and responses at will, but never shamed his challengers or sought showy displays of honor. The legal sugyot of the Babylonian Talmud teach

170 / Conclusion how to think like a sage. The narrative sugyot, the complex stories, teach how to be one. Legal sugyot teach how to master and produce Torah; narrative sugyot how to embody it.”1

Much material—often well-studied material—can be reconsidered for its role in the making of rabbinic sages. Rabbinic sources often employ dramatic scenes to teach their audience how to embody Torah and the values of the sages. Narratives discussed in chapters three and four criticize everyday transgressions as bringing divine punishment of death, or uphold acts of generosity as bringing miraculous rainfall. The specific cases may be metonymies: not only does divine accounting give great weight to the particular character states and actions named in the teachings, but more generally that minute details of the rabbinic sagely life carry utmost significance. This persuasive strategy appears in other rabbinic texts, including influential stories of early sages. For example, Rubenstein has examined the well-studied Babylonian story that begins with a legal argument about “the Oven of Akhnai.” The argument leads to miraculous acts, heavenly voices, powerful prayers, and divinely inspired weather. Within the context of a sugya in the Talmud, the story teaches that sages should respect the feelings of their fellows when engaging in contestation (b. B. Metzia 59a–b). Another story discusses disputes between the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai, and again a heavenly voice eventually intervenes. The narrative ends with instruction relating to pleasantness and modesty (b. Eruv. 13b). We should study these materials not only in search of the roots of the rabbinic movement, or for the construction of Babylonian rabbinism through images of the past, but also as part of rabbinic ethics.2

Creation, the Beastly Body and Rabbinic Ethics (Genesis Rabbah 8:11 and 14:3) My focus on pedagogy emphasizes the deceptively obvious point that we have no access to rabbinic bodies as such, only to texts that offer descriptions and prescriptions for bodies. From these texts, we can learn about

1. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, 282. 2. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, 1–5, 34–61, 275–282; Boyarin, Border Lines, 163–164. See also b. Git. 6b; Boyarin, Border Lines, 175. The importance of virtue is emphasized explicitly in b. Mak. 23b–24b; see Schweiker, Companion to Religious Ethics, 188–196.

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ways of representing the body, but not about bodies apart from culture. These representations include the rabbinic word for the body (guf), the word for a human being (adam), and also portrayals of bodily parts and functions: eyes and the ability to see, knees and the ability to walk, excretory organs and the ability to eliminate waste. Specifically, we have explored rabbinic responses to growth, aging, and death; excretion; menstruation; and the need for food with related dependencies on land and rainfall. At the outset I noted that a rabbinic list encompasses important aspects of these themes by stating that humans are like cattle in that both consume, excrete, reproduce, and die. This list appears in several anthologies: Genesis Rabbah, the Babylonian Talmud, Rabbi Nathan A, and Seder Eliyahu Zuta. Arguably the earliest version is in Genesis Rabbah, where a cluster of passages situates the list in a rich exposition that begins with creation and culminates with ethical instruction. The unit gathers, as much as any single sequence, the major themes of this book. I exposit this passage in detail, reflect on key features of rabbinic anthropology and ethics, and contrast this conception of the self with other late ancient pictures.3 A widespread pattern in religious ethics is that accounts of cosmogony, the creation of the cosmos, often articulate and support ethical outlooks.4 Rabbinic exegetes establish a link between cosmogony and the ethical order through creative exegetical moves concerning the beginning of human life, centered on the divergent pictures in Genesis 1:27 and Genesis 2:7. In Genesis 1:27, the first human is created in the image of God: God created the human (ha-adam) in His image. In the image of God He created him. Male and female (neqevah) He created them (bara otam). (Gen. 1:27, also 5:1–2)

This verse has raised a number of interpretative problems. For example, why does the text say that God created ha-adam and then that God created “them,” especially given that Eve has not yet appeared in the biblical narrative? Since the verse first says that God created Adam in the divine image,

3. Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 127–129); b. Hagiga 16a; b. Yoma 75b; Avot R. Nat. A, ch. 37 (Schechter, Rabbi Nathan, 107; H. J. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 262–263); Seder Eliyahu Zuta 12 (Friedmann, Seder Eliahu Rabba and Seder Eliahu Zuta, 193). See also Schofer, “The Beastly Body in Rabbinic Self-Formation,” 200–202; Swartz, Scholastic Magic, 167. Other accounts of human vulnerability and the divine are Lev. Rab. 7:2 and Pes. R. Kahana 24:5. Shai Held pointed out these texts to me. 4. Lovin and Reynolds, Cosmogony and the Ethical Order, esp. 1–35.

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then that the created being was “male and female,” are both Adam and God androgynous?5 A later verse presents very different pictures of Adam’s origin and of the relation between Adam and the first woman: The Lord God formed (vayyitzer) the human (ha-adam) from the dust of the earth. He blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and the human (ha-adam) became a living being. (Gen. 2:7)

Here, the first human is apparently male, formed from dust and inspired with breath. Later God creates the female from the body of the male. What is the relation between the imagery in the two verses? In Genesis Rabbah we find at least two responses to these questions. One holds that Genesis 1:27 presents the creation of a primordial androgyne. Adam is literally created “male and female,” an image that echoes Aristophanes’ account in Plato’s Symposium but has a much larger resonance in the ancient world. Later God splits this creature to make Adam male and Eve female. Boyarin has studied this anthropology at length, emphasizing its importance for gender and sexuality. He writes, “In the rabbinic culture, the human race is thus marked off from the very beginning by corporality, difference, and heterogeneity. For the rabbis, sexuality belongs to the original created (and not fallen) state of humanity.” He examines Genesis Rabbah 8:1, which “presents the originary human person as dual-sexed, as two sexes joined in one body. The splitting of the androgynous body ordains sexuality.”6 I uphold this interpretation, but Boyarin tells only half the story. Genesis Rabbah presents another way to integrate the two accounts of creation, which resonates with the themes I have traced through Confronting Vulnerability. The compilers attach the same sequence of teachings to both Genesis 1:27 and to Genesis 2:7. The sequence presents humans as part beast and part angel, and sets out implications of this creation for reproduction, death, and normative action. For Genesis 1:27, the commentators rework the word for “female” (neqevah) in the lines, “In the image of God He created him. Male and female He created them.” Through a small change in vocalization, rabbis find “his orifices.” The verse now teaches that God created Adam in the image of the divine, and also male with apertures (neqavim) that enable him to breathe, eat, excrete, and reproduce. This in-

5. See the discussion in Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 35–46. 6. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 45 and generally 42–46; Gen. Rab. 8:1; Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 54–56.

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terpretation eliminates the idea that a woman is created in Genesis 1:27, which would conflict with the later story of Eden, and it also removes the possibility that Adam or God may be androgynous (Gen. Rab. 8:11). The exegesis of Genesis 2:7 centers on an unusual doubling of the consonant yod (“y”) in the verb “formed”: “The Lord God formed (vayyitzer) the human. . . .” The commentary states that God’s creation of humans is twofold in five respects, and one of these five is that humans are part angelic and part beastly. These teachings parallel the discussion of the “orifices” that comments upon Genesis 1:27 (Gen. Rab. 14:2–5; also b. Ber. 61a).7 One sequence of teachings appearing twice, then, reconciles the two biblical narratives by explaining both how God created Adam with orifices, and how God formed him from two sources. The sequence has three sections. The first sets out the fundamental anthropology through comparing humans to angels and to animals. The animal in question is the behemah, a word denoting cattle and related domestic animals that is often translated as “beast”: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Rabbi Nehemiah said in the name of Rabbi Hanina ben Rabbi Isaac, and the rabbis in the name of Rabbi Leazar: He created him with four creations (beriot) from above and four from below. From above: he stands like the ministering angels, speaks like the ministering angels, understands like the ministering angels, and sees like the ministering angels. Does not a beast see? Humans can see in front and move their eyes to the sides. From below: he eats and drinks like a beast (behemah), reproduces and multiplies like a beast, casts excrement like a beast, and dies like a beast. (Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3)8

7. Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 127–129, and especially their notes); Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 36; Daube, The New Testament and Rabbinic Judaism; Tov, “The Rabbinic Tradition Concerning the ‘Alterations’ Inserted into the Greek Pentateuch and their Relation to the Original Texts of the LXX”; J. Cohen, “Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It,” 85–88. I thank Azzan Yadin for his help in researching these points. The creation of human orifices is also described in Gen. Rab. 1:3 commenting on Gen. 1:1 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 5); also see b. Ber. 60b and my discussion in chapter two. Another way of combining the two creation stories through midrash appears in Lev. Rab. 9:9. 8. Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 128. The comment about humans seeing in front is ambiguous, and there are numerous manuscript variants. It seems to say either that beasts are limited because their eyes are on their sides, or that humans are distinct for having eyes in front but also being able to turn to see on the sides. See the discussions in The-

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The beastly features are consumption, excretion, reproduction, and death. This formulation is one example of a widespread tendency among both ancient and modern thinkers to link vulnerability with ways that humans are like other animals. Framing vulnerability as a matter of animality may also foreground human needs to breathe or to have shelter from extreme environmental conditions, or the fact that vulnerability changes over a life course, conditioned by the growth and decline of the body and changing mental abilities. Comparisons with animals, moreover, do not only concern vulnerability. In late ancient philosophical and Christian thought, such comparisons can serve reflection on the mind: reason, perception, memory, emotion, abstraction, and speech. Other accounts portray animals as different from humans in being aggressive, tough, and able to survive in nature, or free of false desire (a version of this latter view also appears in rabbinic ethical literature). As MacIntyre observes for modern debates, the exact associations depend on the animal in question: comparing humans with cattle is very different than with bats, which is very different than with dolphins.9 The angelic qualities in this passage may draw from Isaiah’s vision of the divine realms, for he saw angels standing upright and heard them singing in Hebrew (Is. 6:1–3). The ability to speak Hebrew and the virtue of understanding are necessary for an aspiring sage to read the Bible, assimilate the sacred tradition of the Torah, and engage in teaching and learning.10 odor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 65, and on ancient thinkers comparing human and animal sensation, S. Harvey, Scenting Salvation, 101. 9. A very different comparison of humans with cattle appears in Plato’s Republic 586A–B; see also Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 154. Nussbaum emphasizes that Aristotle discusses human action in the context of animal movement in general: Fragility of Goodness, 238, 264– 289; Nussbaum, Aristotle’s De Motu Animalium, esp. 100–106. Late ancient views of animals are discussed in Sorabji, Animal Minds and Human Morals, 7–104; Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 104–110 (Epicurian views of animals lacking false desires), 254–259 (Lucretius on toughness), 265–269 (Lucretius on aggression), and 324–325 (Stoics on animals lacking reason); Stalnaker, Overcoming Our Evil, 96–97 (for Augustine). A rabbinic teaching that animals do not have self-destructive impulses, in contrast with humans, is discussed in Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 88–89. MacIntyre emphasizes the need to specify the species in question when comparing humans and animals: Dependent Rational Animals, 11–28. Becker frames humans as “half animal and half symbolic” in The Denial of Death, 25–30 and throughout. He cites a long line of predecessors, most immediately Fromm, The Heart of Man, 116–117. Nussbaum incorporates aspects of Becker’s thought in her own discussion of animality, vulnerability, and disgust in Nussbaum, Hiding from Humanity, 89–94 and generally 71–123. 10. A list preserved in Der. Er. Rab. 2:29 lists activities that do not happen “above,” and these including sitting, eating and drinking, and procreation. Loopik discusses this text and parallels in The Ways of the Sages, 79. J. Cohen traces the resonances of these images through rabbinic sources in “Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It,” 85–105. On the significance of humans having upright posture for Augustine, see Stalnaker, Overcoming our Evil,

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We should not identify the angelic with the soul in contrast with the body as beastly. Explicit terms for the soul (nefesh or neshamah) do not appear. Standing, seeing, and speaking are embodied acts. More generally, this rabbinic anthropology does not portray a self divided between two faculties such as soul/body, reason/passions, or spirit/flesh. The passage does not specify distinct parts of the self but rather processes and actions that are characterized through similes: some are “like” the angels, others “like” the beasts and demons.11 This rabbinic use of binaries contrasts with many Western accounts of duality and selfhood that likely have their roots in Plato. Bernard Williams observes: A set of oppositions structures much of Plato’s philosophy, and they are supposed to parallel one another: soul to body, reason to desire, knowledge to belief, philosophy to politics, and (at least some of the time) argument to persuasion. In each, of course, the first is superior to the second. But there is a deep and persistent ambivalence in Plato on what makes for this superiority (an ambivalence, that is to say, even in the works in which he insists on these contrasts: it is a further point that he does not always do so).12

In Genesis Rabbah 8:11 and 14:3, and frequently in rabbinic sources, oppositions do not parallel one another. For example, the binaries of animal/ divine do not correlate with body/soul and bad/good desires, such that “animal = body = bad desires,” and “divine = soul = good desires.” In addition, when other passages discuss the soul, they do not necessarily denote a “superior controlling center” or an overarching dimension of the self that includes desires and emotions.13 96–98. There is a tremendous body of scholarship on the angels. Quite relevant for this context is Goodman, “Do Angels Eat?” An extensive overview is Urbach, The Sages, 135–183. Studies of competition between angels and humans, and of fallen angels, are Schäfer, Rivalität zwischen Engeln und Menschen, esp. 51–55; Reed, Fallen Angels and the History of Judaism and Christianity. I thank Raanan Boustan for his help researching these points. 11. Regarding the embodied aspects of speech, see b. Ber. 61a–b; Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, 87. Contrast my interpretation of this passage with Urbach’s treatment of a parallel in b. Hag. 16a (The Sages, 221). 12. Williams, Shame and Necessity, 155–156. 13. These points and the phrase “superior controlling center” are drawn in part from Barr’s discussion of biblical materials in The Garden of Eden and the Hope of Immortality, 36–49. H. Wolfson discusses Philo’s very different conception of the soul and its relation to classical Greek thought in Philo, 1:385–423. I thank Jon Levenson for his help in thinking through these issues. Discussions of binaries in rabbinic anthropology run through Boyarin, Carnal Israel, esp. 31–76. Other important work includes Rubin, “The Sages’ Conception of Body and Soul”;

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The second passage in the literary unit depicts humans as created in the divine image and likeness, a motif discussed in chapter two: Rabbi Tifdai said in the name of Rabbi Aha: Those who are on high were created in the image and the likeness, but they do not procreate. Those who are below procreate but were not created in the image and likeness. The Holy One, blessed be He, said, “I will create him in the image and the likeness from those on high, and with the ability to procreate from those below.” (Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3)14

Heavenly beings (literally, “those who are on high”) cannot fulfill divine commands to “be fertile and increase” (Gen. 1:28). Animals (literally, “those who are below”) are not in the divine image. The divine image and the ability to procreate, then, originate in different realms but join in the human, and people have the best of both heaven and earth.15 The last passage sets out the implications of the twofold creation for decision making. Right action can be a way of responding to mortality: Rabbi Tifdai said in the name of Rabbi Aha: The Holy One, blessed be He, said, “If I create him from those who are on high, he will live but not die, and if from those who are below, he will die but not live. So, I will create him from those who are on high and those who are below: if he sins, he will die, and if he does not sin, he will live.” (Gen. Rab. 8:11, 14:3)16

This teaching is much more ambivalent than the previous. Humans may either gain enduring life like angels or die like beasts, depending on action. Those who sin will perish. Those who do not sin will be resurrected and live again. This passage changes the focus from the past creation of all humanity to the future death and possible resurrection of each individual.

Rubin, The End of Life, 61–76; Gammie, “Spatial and Ethical Dualism in Jewish Wisdom and Apocalyptic Literature.” 14. Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 128. A reference to the divine image appears in Gen. 1:27 but not Gen. 2:7. Perhaps for this reason, for the commentary to Gen. 2:7 not all manuscripts of Genesis Rabbah include this passage; Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 128. 15. A different picture appears in t. Yev. 8:7; Gen. Rab. 34:14 (Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 325–327). See also Lorberbaum, Image of God, 387–397; Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 134–136; J. Cohen, “Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It,” 85–88; GoshenGottstein, “The Body as Image of God in Rabbinic Literature,” 186 n 46. 16. Theodor and Albeck, Midrash Bereshit Rabba, 64–65, 128; J. Cohen, “Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It,” 85–88.

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The persuasive charge of the oppositions—below/above, earthly/heavenly, animal/angel, death/life—supports ethical instruction to avoid sin in the present. At the same time, the text offers a great promise: through living correctly, one can gain life in the world to come. Ethics is stronger than death. Genesis Rabbah 8:11 and 14:3 embed the beastly body, multiple facets of divinity, and ethical instruction within reflection on the creation of humanity and the cosmos. Bridging the two creation stories that open the Book of Genesis, the passages set out a conception of the self that frames human beings as in some ways animal and in some ways divine. People die like the beasts, and also consume, excrete, and reproduce. People share with angels upright stature, speech, sight, and understanding, and humans are also in God’s image. Perhaps most important, humans live before a holy judge who rewards and punishes, and the hope for future life becomes a spur to right action. These themes resonate through the texts examined in Confronting Vulnerability and have distinct differences with other late ancient ways of conceiving embodiment. For example, Judith Perkins has argued that in the Roman Empire, starting in the second century C.E., debates emerged between “a representation of the human self as a body in pain, a suffering body,” and “a more traditional Hellenic subject—a mind/soul controlling and directing a body whose pain and suffering mattered little to the self’s real existence.”17 Lawrence Wills has recently argued that Jewish sources starting around 200 B.C.E. portray a “decentered self”: a self that views and condemns itself as part of self-transformation.18 Rabbinic accounts of aging and martyrdom depict suffering, but they do not see suffering as potent or an expression of piety. The instruction of Akavya ben Mahalalel and discussions of excretion present the body in lowly terms, but without the level of self-abnegation and debasement that the notion of a decentered self aims to understand. Susan Harvey’s recent work on embodiment may illuminate developments relevant for understanding the rabbinic beastly body. Harvey argues that Christian claims to social and political power in the fourth century C.E. came with increasing focus on embodiment. The body became a source of religious identity, a locus of practice, and a focal point for ascetic discipline. The sensing body engaged in pilgrimage and large-scale ritual.

17. Perkins, The Suffering Self, esp. 2, 173. 18. Wills, “Ascetic Theology Before Asceticism?” 917–918; more generally on asceticism, see Wimbush and Valantasis, Asceticism.

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Rich depictions of bodies appear in Palestinian Amoraic anthologies compiled roughly in the fourth through sixth centuries C.E.—Genesis Rabbah, Leviticus Rabbah, and the Palestinian Talmud—including the midrash to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7, a story of Hillel going to the bathhouse, many accounts of drought and rain-making, a list presenting ages of death, and the exegesis that compares humans with animals and angels. A full study of these anthologies may yield productive points of comparison with proximate Christian materials, even though the relations between embodiment and social power were quite different.19

Rabbinic Ethics and Contemporary Ethics There are many ways that ancient texts can inform contemporary thought and practice. Several sources that I have exposited directly influence Judaism today. The blessing for God’s creation of the orifices is a regular part of traditional practice. Laws prescribing fasts for rain still carry validity. The maxim of Akavya ben Mahalalel is often recited at funerals in Israel.20 Commentaries on Mishnah Avot and other ethical materials have been compiled from medieval times to the present. Modern Jewish thought has attempted to integrate maxims and other materials with philosophical and theological claims. In addition, I have found that these rabbinic texts inspire many readers to confront their own vulnerabilities in ways that extend beyond my analysis, with distinct significance for each person. My own stance develops interdisciplinary ethical theory that does not affirm the texts as authoritative. For this project, my primary question is: how does the study of rabbinic texts lead us to consider problems and possibilities that are not currently addressed in ethical discussion? In my response, I largely let go of historical distinctions within late antiquity and consider the material we have examined as a whole.

19. S. Harvey, Scenting Salvation, esp. 57–58. Rebillard’s In hora mortis examines death and preaching in Latin Christian sources of the late fourth and early fifth centuries C.E., which opens up the question of what a similar study of eastern Christian sources might find. An overview of Palestinian amoraic midrashic collections considers the “embryonic stage of the extant aggadic midrashim” to be 250–400 C.E., the compilation of Genesis Rabbah to be in 425–500 C.E., and Leviticus Rabbah in the sixth century. Lerner, “The Works of the Aggadic Midrash and the Esther Midrashim,” 145–147, 149. The redaction of these sources is discussed in H. J. Becker, “Text and History.” 20. I thank Marc Bregman, Jon Levenson, and David Levine for their thoughts on these points; also see Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 34. In a brief and unsystematic survey of contemporary guides for funerals and mourning, I found m. Avot 3:1 included in Hebrew versions but not English.

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How can descriptive ethics engaging distant cultures yield constructive insights? Pierre Hadot frames recovery as a process of abstracting essential insights from ancient spiritual exercises, separated from the communities they presume as well as their theological and cosmological claims. Williams writes that we should seek out “structural substitutions” to relate Greek tragedy to our own experience. Yearley suggests that we “elaborate” and “emend” ideas in traditional classics.21 My approach to description builds from the long-standing poetic and ethnographic ideal of making the familiar strange and the strange familiar—though with care not to domesticate the strange. This commitment makes me wary of these projects for retrieval, as inspiring as they have been for my work. I do not believe that describing rabbinic sources in the context of religious ethics provides specific techniques for confronting vulnerability today. Through less direct channels, attending to what cannot be recovered as much as what can, engagement with rabbinic ethics can challenge us and help us think differently. One of these challenges is to recognize that late ancient rabbinic ethical instruction addressed a group defined by nation or ethnicity, gender, and elite community. These features of rabbinic culture are much more explicit in the texts I addressed in The Making of a Sage than in this book, but the significance remains. Rabbinic ethical cultivation was not a solitary endeavor but rather part of a communal religiosity centered on disciple circles and later schools. Non-Jews, women, and even Jews outside of rabbinic circles had limited access to traditional wisdom. Rabbis were deeply ambivalent about other Jews and often considered their practices to provide faulty grounds for proper living. Certainly rabbinic culture was multivocal and included universalizing voices. The borders of who was and who was not Jewish in the ancient world could be quite fluid. Still, the ideas of an ethic separate from Torah, of virtue and self-cultivation separate from adherence to law, and of non-Jews developing an ethic from studying Torah, all would be deeply problematic from many standpoints presented in the sources.22 From the perspective of rabbinic culture, aspects of my own project may be not only wrong but sinful. These features of rabbinic sources are not simply limitations, for rab-

21. Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 212; Hadot, What Is Ancient Philosophy?, 271–281; Williams, Shame and Necessity, 19–20, 164–167; Yearley, “Selves, Virtues, Odd Genres, and Alien Guides,” 127–129. 22. Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 30–40 and notes; Urbach, The Sages, 524–554; Hirshman, “Rabbinic Universalism in the Second and Third Centuries”; S. Cohen, The Boundaries of Jewishness, 13–106, 140–174; Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, 142 and generally 123–142. I thank Jon Levenson for emphasizing the importance of these issues to me.

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binic practices and fellowship provide structure for action and interpersonal support that descriptive religious ethics may not be able to offer. In addition, we should be cautious in asserting the general or universal over the particular, for such assertions have often supported imperial attempts to undermine colonized peoples, even when the motivation emerges from democratizing or cosmopolitan impulses. Comparative ethicists have tried to address these problems by framing their work as an overarching way of conceptualizing cross-cultural exchange, within which one may draw from or participate in particular traditions and communities. Such a two-tiered approach, though, runs against the claims to divine and traditional authority in rabbinic sources and does not avoid the difficulties.23 My response is to acknowledge these features of rabbinic ethics, their importance in their cultural contexts, and the critiques they generate for descriptive religious ethics—yet I still carry on with the inquiry.

Confronting Death and Vulnerability Is there a fundamental core to human vulnerability, a feature of the embodied life that is at the root of other weaknesses and the fears they inspire? One position places mortality at this core, such that other hazards are variants or semblances or hints of death. A counter-position is that death is too abstract, too difficult to imagine, and human vulnerability has its roots elsewhere: pain, suffering, loss of meaning, humiliation, insanity, castration, or the suffering and death of loved ones.24 I am wary of such 23. The importance of rabbinic fellowship and practice for rabbinic ethics is discussed in Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 30–33; Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 126–152. Links between universalism and Judeophobia in the ancient world are examined in Schäfer, Judeophobia, 15–33, 66–67, 167–169, 170–179, 183–186, 208–210; Krauss, The Jewish-Christian Controversy, 1:20– 21 and generally 13–26; Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 108–111 and notes. Wallerstein and D. Harvey distinguish multiple forms of universalism and discuss their roles in contemporary politics: Wallerstein, European Universalism; D. Harvey, Spaces of Hope, 83–94, 241–252. Stalnaker suggests a two-tiered approach to constructive thinking in comparative ethics: Overcoming Our Evil, 293–294. 24. A strong focus on death as the root or pinnacle of other weaknesses has deep roots in Western thought. Hadot discusses “training for death” from Plato to Heidegger in Philosophy as a Way of Life, 93–101. Becker’s formulation in The Denial of Death is perhaps most important for my work; also note Fishbane, Sacred Attunement, 204–205. Diverse thinkers have countered this emphasis on death. For example, Sigmund Freud noted that “death is an abstract concept with a negative content for which no unconscious correlative can be found”: Freud, The Ego and the Id, 59–62. Levinas builds upon Epicurian views to argue against Heidegger, “It is not with the nothingness of death, of which we precisely know nothing, that the analysis must begin, but with the situation where something absolutely unknowable appears”: Time and the Other, 71.

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debates to the extent that they imply competition regarding the greatest vulnerability, for we need to consider the full range of ways that people have understood themselves and the dangers of the world. At the same time, Confronting Vulnerability has focused on death. Rabbinic sources present death in ways that resist fixity and show links between death and other dimensions of bodily weakness. The place of death within life is not static. Akavya ben Mahalalel stresses the inevitability of death. Regardless of how long we live, eventually we die and the body decays (m. Avot 3:1). Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus stresses the potential imminence of death, for any of us could die at any time (m. Avot 2:10). An anonymous maxim emphasizes that this potential is not simply notional, but rather persecution and other crises are real dangers: “The sword comes into the world because of the delay of justice, because of the perversion of justice, and because of those who teach the Torah not in accordance with the law” (m. Avot 5:8). A portrait of a life cycle addresses the fact that death may only come after a long life that unfolds in stages (m. Avot 5:21), and other texts simply divide life into youth and old age (m. Avot 4:20). Hadot has gathered a number of Epicurian and Stoic teachings, alongside the work of Goethe, to emphasize the importance of the present moment.25 Rabbinic ethical instruction embraces many temporal orientations. Attention to death can sharpen focus on the present. Conceptions of a life cycle situate any given present moment in a plan that includes goals for the future. Moments of crisis can bring greater physical and emotional urgency than others. There are also times when sages learn from reflecting on the past roots of present situations. How should we confront our own mortality and bodily vulnerabilities? Rabbinic sources remind us that everyday life brings recurring opportunities for facing our own animality. We die eventually. We may die soon. For some of us, the possibility of early death becomes real. We may know others who die, perhaps quite young. Living a long life includes growth, aging, and facing cultural expectations concerning life stages. We need to eat and to excrete. We are dependent upon social and natural environments, and this dependence brings vulnerabilities to injustice, persecution, or ecological disaster. These vulnerabilities are all conditioned by gender and social location. The sources explore many subtleties in these domains of confronta25. Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 217–237; Hadot, The Present Alone Is Our Happiness, 162–175.

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tion. Leviticus Rabbah 18:1 connects aging with death in at least three distinct ways. For the young, old age can be a metonymy for death, and the aged can be living reminders that life is not without change or end. Old age can also bring tastes of death, when weakness and debilitation mean that people can no longer carry out activities that they find important and meaningful—for rabbis, these include observance of the commandments, visiting colleagues, and sexual relations with their spouses.26 Old age may also be the time when a person finally understands the significance of death rather than being lost in abstraction. In rabbinic discussions of aging, we also find connections between physical and emotional vulnerabilities: a young person may fear diminishing capacities brought by age, an elderly person may have increased fears of attack, or age may bring reduced sexual desire and increased isolation from others. For excretion, we find radically different imagery across texts. In Derekh Eretz Rabbah 3:3 and Seder Eliyahu Zuta 3, this everyday act gains significance as a reminder of human animality and mortality. Yet Leviticus Rabbah 34:3 and Rabbi Nathan B, ch. 30 teach that we should care for ourselves as we eliminate, for we are in the divine image. Rabbinic ethical instruction presents various stylistic features that draw attention to death and weakness, countering evasion and also superficial acceptance. The body appears through vibrant metaphors that compare individual parts to cosmic entities such as the sun and moon, to social activities such as markets and singing, or to works of human craft such as bowls and jewelry. Persuasive passages may employ jarring claims, such as attributing martyrdom to God’s punishment for keeping another waiting. Occasionally we find humorous interludes, where Roman leaders ask rabbinic questions and bodily parts are shown to be indestructible through slapstick accounts. The editing of anthologies also creates quick shifts in both genre and perspective, offering many angles upon vulnerability within compact dense passages. In addition, portrayals of the body inform practices: exercises of focusing attention upon death, guidelines for standing and cleaning during elimination, and halakhic prescriptions for holy days and fasting.

26. Rabbinic texts present several points of continuity between life and death. In addition to these points about aging, rabbis present illness and sleep as fragments of death experienced by the living. Life continues into death, in that the body is understood to be sentient for some time after death and potentially resurrected later. See Kraemer, The Meanings of Death in Rabbinic Judaism; Lieberman, Texts and Studies, 246–253; Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel, 171–172, 174, 186–187, and generally 166–200; Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, 223–228. I thank Elizabeth Alexander and Thomas A. Lewis for their thoughts on these points.

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Throughout these descriptions and techniques, we also see imperfections in confrontation. Denial is implicit in pejorative references to an “old man” that distance the elderly from the speaker and audience, and arguably in models of a life spanning 100 or 120 years given limited expectancy. Some passages express discomfort with physicality and also desire to transform bodies beyond their malleability—as in the wish that feces would become scented oils. Similar desires may also be embedded in claims that sages age more gracefully than non-sages and in hopes that the righteous will be rewarded rather than die young. For these reasons and others, we need more subtle analytic tools than simply the denial of death and vulnerability, or a binary opposition contrasting denial with confrontation. Rabbinic sources present a multifaceted picture of death and vulnerability with many responses including focus or concentration, evasion and denial, control and regulation, care, or even celebration. To confront vulnerability, no single exercise or ritual practice or literary form is necessarily sufficient. Any given cultural form may give a glimpse into death, but the process of facing our weakness demands direct as well as figurative language, seriousness as well as play, and contemplative as well as bodily activities.

Border Situations and Small Virtues What happens when people confront vulnerability and mortality? Confrontation can instigate what Jackson calls a border or limit situation: a state of being beyond the norm, the healthy, the strong, which makes visible the proximities of human and animal, life and death. Border situations can disrupt habitual ways of thinking, mobilize energies, and inspire distinct priorities for decision making. These energies can be volatile, and there is no easy relation between priorities on the border and the needs as well as constraints of everyday living. A border may inspire fear, anger, defensiveness, and recklessness, as well as calm, compassion, and openness. Emotions may be released cathartically, or built up and carried over to new situations. The relations between a border situation and ethics are deeply ambivalent. Responses at a border include flight, grand attempts at heroic action, or preoccupation with the details of the everyday. One may try to change the situation, learn to accept it, be paralyzed by it, or displace the emotions toward other situations and bring to them kindness or rage. Orientations toward others can include indifference, rejection, or aggression, as well as responsibility, empathy, or compassion. Some versions of existentialist the-

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ory hold that a full encounter with death or vulnerability inspires a state of authenticity, and conventional forms of ethical guidance (if not all forms) are corrupting rather than edifying.27 When rabbinic sources confront mortality and vulnerability as part of ethical instruction, they set out ideals for thought, character, and action with this border at the center and the associated insight and vigilance activated. This attention to death and the divine differs from philosophical training for death, in which one dissociates from subjectivity and bodily desires in order to attain an objective or universal perspective.28 Rabbis channel the encounter with the borders of life into concrete guidance that emphasizes apparently small actions and virtues in the context of interpersonal relations. Why? Rabbinic texts give tremendous weight to qualities needed for individual cultivation and communal solidarity. Diligence, compassion, and generosity help individuals and communities respond practically to disorder and chaos. Vulnerability motivates ethics, but also ethics makes for stronger people and communities to withstand vulnerability. This focus on character, community, and the everyday does not encompass the totality of our relations with others. Foregrounding mundane matters, however, can balance our temptations in ethical reflection to equate scale with importance, which biases discussion toward policy and politics. Instead, these texts emphasize the responsibility of each person for ethical cultivation and action, pushing the question—how can our vulnerabilities lead us to live better in our day-to-day lives with others?

Vulnerability and Cosmology Rabbinic ethical instruction strongly appeals to theology. Divine accounting supports the rituals and disciplines set out by Torah and more broadly the ideals of the sages. If a student acts accordingly, he gains credit toward future reward. More generally, a theology of divine justice presents an ethicized cosmos or ethical ontology, in which the world reinforces human understandings of good and bad. Ethical ontologies appear in many cultural contexts. They can coincide with one deity, many deities, or none. Also, the notion of an ethical ontology has never existed everywhere, for cultures

27. Jackson, “Between Biography and Ethnography,” esp. 377 n 1; Jackson, Existential Anthropology, 34–72; Ehrlich et al., Karl Jaspers, 96–104. John Macquarrie offers an overview of existentialist responses to ethics in Existentialism, 206–214. 28. Compare Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, 139; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 93– 101; Plato, Phaedo, 64a–68c.

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have developed ethical outlooks without such cosmological underpinnings long before modern scientific understandings of the world.29 Contemporary inquiries into the vulnerability of ethical ideals often present a world that is indifferent to human ethical projects, challenging ethicized pictures of the cosmos. For Williams nothing in the world— whether the nature of the cosmos, the workings of the psyche, or the structures of reason—“makes ultimate sense of our concerns” or is shaped to human beings’ ethical interests: We know that the world was not made for us, or we for the world, that our history tells no purposive story, and that there is no position outside the world or outside history from which we might hope to authenticate our activities.

Nussbaum differs with Williams on a number of points yet writes in a similar vein, “The contemporary ethical consequences of granting that we live in a world that is in large part indifferent to our strivings has not been fully investigated.”30 Becker uses highly evocative language to paint a postDarwinian portrait of consumption and conflict: Existence, for all organismic life, is a constant struggle to feed—a struggle to incorporate whatever other organisms they can fit into their mouths and press down their gullets without choking. Seen in these stark terms, life on this planet is a gory spectacle, a science-fiction nightmare in which digestive tracts fitted with teeth at one end are tearing away at whatever flesh they can reach, and at the other end are piling up the fuming waste excrement as they move along in search of more flesh.31

These scholars explicitly present a cosmos that is unconcerned with if not hostile to human values. The world does not offer meaning for human action or a foundation for deciding what is right and good. We cover over this indifference if we posit a world that supports ethics.

29. Reynolds and Schofer, “Cosmology,” 120–128; Williams, Shame and Necessity, 58–64; Puett, To Become a God; Obeyesekere, Imagining Karma, esp. the discussion of “ethicization,” 72–84; Johnston notes the widespread belief in postmortem reward and punishment in “Working Overtime in the Afterlife.” I thank Martha Nussbaum for her comments on these points. 30. Williams, Shame and Necessity, 163, 164, 166; Williams, “The Women of Trachis”; Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, xv. 31. E. Becker, Escape from Evil, 1–2; V. Harvey, Feuerbach and the Interpretation of Religion, 295–299 (see 296 for the label “post-Darwinian”).

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From the standpoint of an indifferent cosmology, rabbinic sources may face bodily vulnerabilities, but their strong appeals to God’s action in the world deny the fragility of ethical ideals. A theology of divine justice can easily legitimate inequality, inflate the importance of humans and human action, give a distorted sense of meaning and order, and offer false consolation that frames disaster as having ultimate significance. This theology also shapes rabbis’ presentations of the causes generating vulnerability. While Romans initially appear to be the causes of a sage’s execution, rabbinic narratives present these events as emerging from God’s response to the behavior of rabbis and other Jews. Such description arguably obscures the humanly caused harms that shape vulnerability, harms that are located within social interactions and power relations.32 Should descriptive and comparative study of vulnerability presume visions of the cosmos as indifferent, not made for us, or even a nightmare? If so, then any ethicized cosmos would be a denial of this indifferent cosmos. Rather than try to assess the nature of the cosmos, I offer a question for descriptive ethics that can be directed to both rabbinic and modern cosmologies. How does a given cosmology inform the way a person or group addresses physical and emotional vulnerability, conflict and struggle, and uncertainty in attempts to find meaning and value? On one hand, affirming an indifferent cosmos does not preclude a search for ethical order. Becker’s stance (and arguably those of Williams and also Berger) carries an important internal tension. If we have psychological or social needs for order that an indifferent cosmos does not provide, then Becker calls upon us to affirm intellectually a world that we may not be able to inhabit emotionally. He recognizes this problem and reflects intensively on our limited ability to overcome denial and on our needs for illusions. On the other hand, affirming a theology of divine justice does not preclude ambiguity. At a basic level, rabbis not only hope for reward but also fear punishment, which brings anxiety concerning God’s accounting. At more subtle levels, the stresses and strains of rabbinic theology, along with their techniques of instruction and persuasion, show that their accounts of cosmic order are neither easy nor comfortable. In some cases God’s response corresponds to an act, and in others it is wildly disjunctive. For

32. Nussbaum, Fragility of Goodness, xxx–xxxii; Enarson and Morrow, The Gendered Terrain of Disaster; and Taylor and Dell’Oro, Health and Human Flourishing, esp. 159–182. I learned much about these issues from student discussions in my seminar, “Topics in Comparative Religious Ethics: Vulnerability” in spring 2007.

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cases of disjunction, sometimes we find apparently harsh punishment, particularly toward the most pious and diligent, while in others we find excessive reward. God’s justice does not always appear to operate in domains where rabbis would seem to want it, such as the pains of aging. Sometimes people contest claims regarding divine justice and their related praise and blame. Rabbis encounter a wide range of events, including injustice, persecution, and disaster, and their narratives present a complicated interplay of human and divine causes. They often stretch the boundaries of their own theology, and can be playful, to face difficult extremes that they encounter in their lives. Rabbinic theology and cosmology, then, exhibit high standards for flexibility, nuance, and integration between ethical ideas and ethical practices. The theological images that undergird ethical ideals are articulate and explicit. Rabbis acknowledge limitation, ambiguity, and uncertainty, and their rhetorical moves do not add up in a straightforward way to a consistent and ordered cosmos. At the very least, the God of the sages appears to administer justice not mechanistically but with style, with a lively set of communal and individual purposes.33 These images also become central to contemplative exercises, pedagogical instruction, and ethical formation.

In the End In the end, do I advocate confronting vulnerability as a basis for ethics? I do, with specification. Many possibilities emerge through dancing with mortality, facing our weaknesses and our ultimate deaths, even though something inside us does not want to see such sides of life and resists looking at them, avoids, repels, parries away, represses. When we look at our aging, our body and its outflows, our dependencies on others and the cosmos, we can generate vitality. This vitality, in turn, may animate our actions in solitude, our everyday interactions with others, and the larger projects that make up our lives. At the same time, the process of facing vulnerability as part of ethics is difficult and has its own limits as well as dangers. We should not presume confrontation with vulnerability to be a one-time event. Confrontation may demand exercises and guidance, all of which can change over the course of a life cycle. We may need our entire 33. Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 126, 134–165; my use of “style” is drawn from Williams, Shame and Necessity, 151, 165.

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lives to face the physicality of life and death, and the process might never complete fully. Incorporating vulnerability into spiritual exercises, contemplative disciplines, or persuasive rhetoric may blunt its force. Each person’s mortality and vulnerability are significant for that person, often momentous, and an ongoing task is to keep an eye on that distinct significance. When the border is brought into the routine—as when death becomes an object of attention each day, or a gruesome martyrdom becomes an occasion to uphold virtue—the border may be domesticated or co-opted. This problem extends to the very acts of writing and reading a scholarly book, where vulnerability becomes yet another topic, yet another project, yet another space on the bookshelf. Intellectual apprehension can be implicated in the tendencies to avoid, minimize, or attempt to control vulnerability—the hope that if we can understand the role of death in culture and the psyche, we can control death. We need to assess how much to focus on vulnerability in the course of life. The ideal of confronting vulnerability may itself mask evasion when it becomes morbid, a romanticizing of death, or an excessive preoccupation. Confrontation can be carried out in a manner that leads to sullenness, inaction, complacency, depression, or incapacitating fear. There are times, moreover, when denial is more important than full confrontation— perhaps those who heal and rescue can act more effectively if they downplay the dangers at hand. At other times consolation is more appropriate than confrontation. Ethical instruction linked with vulnerability can also have its dangers, particularly in the handling of authority. Appeals to death, vulnerability, and sources of meaning easily play into indoctrination and coercion, particularly when the context is children’s education.34 We also need to be modest about our capacity for facing fragility. The call to overcome our denials, illusions, and fantasies needs to be balanced by recognition of our imperfections even here. The ideal of completely renouncing fantasy may be a fantasy.35 In another idiom, limits in our own abilities to confront vulnerability have bearing on a compelling 34. These observations have emerged largely through conversations with Michael Jackson, Robert Orsi, and Jennifer Rapp, and also seminar discussions in my course “Topics in Comparative Religious Ethics: Vulnerability” (Spring 2007) and a presentation at Brown University. Hadot discusses the ongoing nature of exercises centered on death in Philosophy as a Way of Life, 93–101. Ricoeur upholds the value of consolation in face of death in Oneself as Another, 162. 35. Becker emphasizes the need for illusion in many places, such as The Denial of Death, 186–189. Lear concludes his careful study of fantasy with what appears to be a call to renounce teleological commitments and fantasies of an “outside” to life, but I am not sure if he believes this is attainable: Happiness, Death, and the Remainder of Life, 161–165.

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statement by MacIntyre. In a discussion of communities that embody networks of giving and receiving, he addresses care for children and the disabled: What matters is not only that in this kind of community children and the disabled are objects of care and attention. It matters also and correspondingly that those who are no longer children recognize in children what they once were, that those who are not yet disabled by age recognize in the old what they are moving toward becoming, and that those who are not ill or injured recognize in the ill and injured what they often have been and will be and always may be. It matters also that these recognitions are not a source of fear. For such recognitions are a condition of adequate awareness of both the common needs and common goods that are served by networks of giving and receiving and by the virtues, both of independence and of acknowledged dependence.36

MacIntyre touches a deep issue in vulnerability and ethics when he writes that recognition does not aim to inspire fear but rather “adequate awareness” of ourselves and others. I agree but have two qualifications. First, the nature and significance of fear in the ethical life can be relative to cultural context. Rabbis cultivate particular kinds of fear and reverence towards the divine, which contrasts with other kinds of fears (such as fear of persecution).37 Second, we should distinguish between the goal of facing vulnerability without fear, and the expectation that we can do so. Some exceptional people with significant cultivation may have no fear. For many, though, moving entirely beyond fear may be an asymptotic ideal that can be useful when recognized as such, but not when this goal creates unrealistic standards for inner states. More productive is the Aristotelian insight that courage is not absence of fear but appropriate response when fear is present.38 Virtue theory gives us a vocabulary for considering the demands and dangers in confronting vulnerability. Delicate balances need to be maintained in a good life. The features of character that make up virtues are not unequivocally good but require us to navigate between excess and deficiency. Virtues also have problematic semblances and counterfeits, when a 36. MacIntyre, Dependent Rational Animals, 146 (emphasis added). 37. In addition to the studies in this book, see Schofer, The Making of a Sage, 106–115, 147–165. 38. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3:6–9, 1115a6–1117b22; also the extended discussion in Yearley, Mencius and Aquinas, 115–168.

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person appears to be acting well but actually is not.39 Practices of confronting vulnerability—and states they inculcate—also have to avoid excesses and deficiencies, semblances and counterfeits. No fixed rules or maps delineate this navigation. Still, our task is to traverse this terrain in order to integrate the full scope of ourselves and the world with our practices for living well. 39. Yearley discusses semblances and counterfeits of virtue in Mencius and Aquinas, 17–23.

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SOURCE INDEX

Hebrew Bible Genesis

Deuteronomy

Ezekiel

1:26–28: 68, 68n25 1:27: 171–173, 176n14 1:28: 176 2:5: 110, 139 2:7: 171–173, 176n14 2:15: 110, 139 5:1–2: 171 6:3: 158n37 8:1: 118 9:5–7: 68, 68n25 9:6: 69, 70 50:22: 157, 157n37

11 (all): 139 11:13–17: 111, 132n39 23:10–12: 55 23:13–15: 55 26:13: 123–124 26:13–16: 123 29:3–4:154 30:20: 100, 103, 104 34:7: 158n37

4:12–15: 55, 55n4 21:22: 94

Exodus

Samuel

6:16: 157n37 6:18: 157n37 6:20: 157n37 22:21–23: 85–87, 94 22:22–23: 89–92, 95, 97

1 Sam. 25:29: 41 2 Sam. 19:32–39: 45 2 Sam 19:36: 154

Leviticus

Joshua 24:29: 157n37

10:1: 111n4 Malachi 2:3: 39 Psalms 7:10: 33n17 79:1–3: 93 90:10: 147, 154 103:8: 119 145:9: 118 Proverbs

Kings

11:17: 68, 70

1 Kings 1:1: 160 2 Kings 6:25: 55

Job

15 (all): 98 15:2: 26–29, 42–44, 50 15:28: 102 18:19: 98–100, 102, 105

Isaiah

Numbers

5:24: 111n4 11:20: 33n17 14:22: 111n4 17:10: 33n17 20:12: 33n17

4 (all): 152, 162 25 (all): 127 25:9, 14: 127

Zechariah

6:1–3: 174 36:12: 55 Jeremiah

5:26: 154 21:33: 40 Lamentations 2:11: 72n35 Ecclesiastes 1:17–18 2:13–17: 30 9:8: 46–47, 48 12:1: 26–29

214 / Source Index 12:1–7: 24–26, 44, 48, 154n29, 155n32, 178 12:2: 45, 45n32

12:2–4: 30–33 12:5: 33–38, 103 12:6: 38–40 12:7:40–42, 45

Ezra 3:8: 152n22

Second Temple Sources, Targum, and New Testament Ben Sira

Philo

5:7: 46 10:9: 59n11 18:19: 163n42

On the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses: 144n7

Targum to Ecclesiastes

Dead Sea Scrolls

12:1–7: 24n7 12:5: 34n19

1Qsa (Rule of the Congregation): 163 Matthew 1:17: 146n9 9:17: 156

20:1–16: 143 22:1–14: 47 Mark 2:18–22: 156 Luke 5:33–39: 156 14:15–24: 47 Gospel of Thomas 57n8

Rabbinic Sources Mishnah

M . TA A N I T

M . S O TA

M. BERAKHOT

1:1: 131 1:4: 119, 122 1:4–7: 116 1:5: 119 1:6: 116 2:1: 136 2:1–4: 116 2:4: 136 3:2: 126n30 3:3: 126n30 3:4: 126 3:8: 130, 136

3:4: 149n17

1:4: 62n16 3:5: 63 9:5: 64 M. PEAH

8:2–4: 123n25 M. DEMAI

2:2: 123n25 4:6: 123n25 M. MAASER SHENI

5:10: 123n25 M . S H A B B AT

1:3: 98 2:6: 82n11 7:2: 12n22 19:5: 149n16 23:5: 44 M . YO M A

8:1: 116 M. ROSH HASHANAH

1:2: 115 1:2: 129n34

M. MEGILLAH

2:5: 123n25 M . M O E D Q ATA N

3:9: 97n44 M . K E T U VOT

1:2: 149n17 1:4: 149n17 3:1–2: 149n17 3:8: 150n18 7:10: 58 M. NEDARIM

4:3: 149n17

M. QIDDUSHIN

1:10:82n11 4:14: 125 M . B AVA Q A M M A

1:1: 12n22 M . B AVA B AT R A

2:9: 58 M. SANHEDRIN

7:3: 87n22 7:4: 83 9:1: 83 M . E D U Y YOT

5:6–7: 28 M . AV O T

1:4: 132 1:5: 92–93, 95 1:11: 83n15 1:13: 83n15 2:2: 66n22 2:10: 21, 45, 181 2:12: 69n29

Source Index / 215 3:1: 21, 44, 181 3:7: 83n15 3:17: 66n22 4:4: 95 4:16: 58 4:15: 81 4:20: 155–157, 181 4:22: 79, 103 5:7: 112n5 5:8: 90, 92–95, 181 5:21: 142–154, 159–167, 181

T. N A Z I R

B . S H A B B AT

4:7: 21n1

13a–b: 96–101, 102n54, 105 30a: 48 33a: 90n30 89b: 152n22 151a–153a: 23n5, 24, 24n7 151b: 30n15, 45n32, 119 151b–152a: 45, 72n35 151b–153a: 44 152a: 31n16, 33n17, 34n19, 38, 38n24, 45, 154n29, 160 152b: 41n27, 45n32, 66 153a: 45, 47

T. S O TA

13:4: 84–85 Palestinian Talmud (“Yerushalmi”) Y. B E R A K H O T

9:5: 64n19 Y. P E A H

M. KELIM

17a to m. Peah 2:6: 151n20

1:1: 12n22 Y. B I K K U R I M M. NIDDAH

1:5: 150n18 5:4–7: 149n17 5:6–7: 150n18 6:11: 150n18 M. MAKHSHIRIN

6:7: 55n4 Tosefta

2:1, 64c: 101n52, 152n22, 153, 154, 154n30, 163 Y. TA A N I T

1:4 [64b–c]: 122–125 2:1 [65b]: 129n34 2:2: 34n19 3:4 [66c–d]: 126–130, 135, 136 [66c only]

B. E R U V I N

13b: 170 55b–56a: 72n35 82a–b: 151n20, 162 B. P E S A H I M

42a–b: 72n35

T. B E R A K H O T

Y. S O TA

B. YO M A

1:4: 62n16 2:12: 149n17 2:16: 58 5:7: 60

18a to m. Sota 2:2: 24n7 Y. B AVA Q A M M A

18a–b: 72n35 75b: 171n3

4b to m. B. Q. 4:3: 151n20

B. S U K K A H

T. P E A H

Y. S A N H E D R I N

42a–b: 151n20

1:2: 82

4:9 (22b): 152n22 11:7 (30b): 152n22

B . TA A N I T

T. D E M A I

2:2: 123n25

Babylonian Talmud B. B E R A K H OT

T. R O S H H A S H A N A H

1:12–13: 115, 129n34 T. TA A N I T

1:7: 122 T. H A G I G A H

1:2: 151n20 1:3: 152 2:2: 65n21 T. Y E VA M O T

8:7: 68n25, 176n15

7a: 80n7 22b–26a: 63 47a: 60 57b: 72n35 60b: 70, 173n7 61a: 173 61a–b: 33n17, 175n11 61b: 62, 100 61b–62a: 64 61b–62b: 63 62a: 65 62a–b: 70

10a–b: 123 19b–20a: 117n16, 132n39, 133 20a: 134 20a–21b: 126n30 23a–b: 125n28 23a–25b to m. Taan. 3:8: 130 24a: 125n29, 130n36, 130–132 25a: 129n35, 130 25a: 129n34 B . M O E D Q ATA N

28a: 101n52, 154, 154n30, 162, 163

216 / Source Index B. H AG I G A H

5b:66 12b: 41n27 16a: 171n3, 175n11 B . Y E VA M O T

63b: 68n25 B. K E T U VOT

50a: 150, 150n18, 151n20, 162, 163 77a–b: 58 B. N E DA R I M

32a: 151n20 B. G I T T I N

59b: 60 65a: 150n18 68b–70a: 72n35 70a: 70 B. Q I D D U S H I N

29b–30a: 152, 162 B . B AVA M E T Z I A

59a–b: 170 59b: 134 B . B AVA B AT R A

21a: 151n20, 162 B. S A N H E D R I N

17a: 146n12 B. M A K KOT

23b–24b: 170n2 B . AV O D A H Z A R A H

5a–b: 152, 162 B. M E N A H OT

29b: 81n8 65a: 146n12 B. N I D DA H

30b–31a: 42n28 44b–45a: 149n17

Minor Tractates of the Babylonian Talmud

7:6: 64, 65 11:2: 72n35

AV O T D E R A B B I N ATA N ( C I T E D BY V E R S I O N AND CHAPTER)

K A L L A H R A B B AT I

A4: 81n9, 132n39 A6: 117n16, 132–135, 158n38 A7: 92 A11: 83n15 A12: 41n27, 83n15 A14: 42n28 A15: 46, 92n36 A17: 69n29 A19: 57n8 A23–24: 157n36 A26: 83 A29: 83n14 A31: 73n37 A37: 72n35, 171n3 A38: 89–91, 112n5 A40: 62n15, 82 A41: 72n35 B1: 102n55 B11: 132n39 B12–13: 158n38 B14: 92n36 B22: 80n7 B22/23: 83n15 B25: 41n27 B27/28: 83n15 B29: 46, 92n36 B30: 69–70, 69n29, 182 B32: 57n8 B33: 81n8 B34: 56 B35: 157n36 B41: 112n5 B42: 80n7 B48: 71 DEREKH ERETZ RABBAH

2:29: 174n10 3:1: 57 3:3: 58, 182 7: 59–63

6: 57n8, 59n11 8: 72n35 SEMAHOT

3:1–8: 152–154 3:7: 152, 163 3:8: 154 8:7–15: 88–89 Tannaitic Midrashic Compilations M E K H I LTA D E - R A B B I ISHMAEL

Ba-Hodesh 8: 68n25 Mishpatim 18: 85–88 SIFRE DEUTERONOMY

46 to Deut. 11:19: 151n20 161: 151n20 344: 41n27 355: 151n20 357: 157n37 SIFRA METZORA, P A R A S H AT Z AV I M

1: 55n4 5:9: 102n55 Amoraic and Post-Talmudic Midrashic Compilations (in alphabetical order) DEUTERONOMY RABBAH

8:6: 157n36 ECCLESIASTES RABBAH

1:2: 159–161, 163, 167 3:21: 41n27 12:1–7: 24n7 12:2: 30n15 12:4: 33n17 12:5: 103 12:7: 41n27, 42n28

Source Index / 217 GENESIS RABBAH

8:1: 172 8:11: 5, 170–178 13:3: 110 13:4–6: 110 14:2–5: 173 14:3: 5, 170–178 28:2: 34n19 33:3: 117–122, 135 34:14: 176n15 58:1: 152n22 59:3: 146n12 61:1: 33n17 100: 157 L A M E N TAT I O N S RABBAH

2:15 to Lam 2:11: 72n35 LEVITICUS RABBAH

7:2: 171n3 9:9: 173n7 16:2: 58 18:1: 24, 24n7, 49, 73, 103, 160, 182 18:1 to Lev. 15:2: 42–44 18:1 to Lev.15:2 and Eccles. 12:1: 26–29

18:1 to Lev.15:2 and Eccles. 12:1–7: 44 18:1 to Eccles. 12:2–4: 30–33, 33n17 18:1 to Eccles. 12:5: 33–38 18:1 to Eccles. 12:6: 38–40 18:1 to Eccles. 12:7: 40–42 34:3: 68–69, 70, 182 34:14: 122n22 MIDRASH L A M E N TAT I O N S

S E D E R E L I YA H U RABBAH

2: 156n34 15/16: 101–103 16: 72n36 30/28: 93–95 S E D E R E L I YA H U Z U TA

3: 53, 182 6: 80n7, 81n8 12: 171n3 13: 156n34

Petihta 23: 24n7 M I D R A S H P ROV E R B S

SONG OF SONGS RABBAH

31: 42n28

1:10: 159

MIDRASH PSALMS

TA N H U M A

Psalm 90:11–13: 46n38

Hayye Sarah 4–5 to Gen. 24:1: 43n31 Hayye Sarah 7 to Gen. 25:1: 24n7, 37n22 Hayye Sarah 8 to Gen. 25:1: 157n36 Qedohim 14 to Lev 19:23: 147n14

M I D R A S H Z U TA

Ruth 3:6–8: 97n46 Eccles. 12: 24n7, 34n19 NUMBERS RABBAH

6:7: 147n14, 152 P E S I Q TA D E R AV KAHANA

24:5: 171n3

YA L Q U T S H I M O N I

Eccles. 12: 24n7, 34n19

Christian Church Fathers (arranged alphabetically) Augustine

Eusebius

ON GENESIS AGAINST THE MANICHEES

THE HISTORY OF THE CHURCH FROM CHRIST T O C O N S TA N T I N E

105 (Gregory the Bishop): 144n7 109 (Didymus the Blind): 144n7

6:1–3: 144n7 6:36–39: 144n7

Syriac Life of Simeon Stylites

Jerome

Section 75: 136

1:23: 144n7 CITY OF GOD

16:43: 144n7 CONFESSIONS

1:6: 144n7 1:8: 144n7 Basil of Caesarea “ I N T I M E O F FA M I N E AND DROUGHT”

Homily 8:2, 4–5: 136

ON ILLUSTRIOUS MEN

54 (Origen): 144n7 65 (Theodorus, surnamed Gregory the Bishop): 144n7 67 (Cyprian the Bishop): 144n7

218 / Source Index

Greco-Roman Authors Plato PHAEDO

64a–68c: 184n28 REPUBLIC

2.377A–B: 156n32 586A–B: 174n9

NICOMACHEAN ETHICS

3:6–9, 1115a6–1117b22: 189n38 6:11, 1143b10–15: 146n12 (Pseudo-)Hippocrates

Aristotle

DE HEBDOMADIBUS

RHETORIC

143n6, 144n7

1:7, 1365a31–33: 144n7 2:12–14, 1388b33– 1290b10: 144n7, 159 2:13, 1139A11–14: 37n22 2:13, 1139B29–31: 32n17 3:10, 1411a1–3: 144n7 G E N E R AT I O N O F ANIMALS

Seneca

Lucian

82:6: 22n3

HERMOTIMUS

13: 158n38

Plutarch E D U C AT I O N O F CHILDREN

3E–F: 156n32 Epictetus

7:16, 1335b28–37: 144n7 7:17, 1336b35–1337a1: 144n7

2:5: 22n3 2:11: 22 2:12: 22 2:14:22n3 2:17: 22 3:10: 22n3 7:69: 22n3 7:69: 22 11:1: 152

EPISTLES 66–92

5:3, 784a14–19: 144n7 POLITICS

Marcus Aurelius M E D I TAT I O N S

THE DISCOURSES, BOOKS III–IV

II.18.24: 22n3 III.12.15: 22n3

Galen 70n32 ON THE USEFULNESS O F T H E PA R T S O F T H E B O DY

34n19 Macrobius C O M M E N TA R Y O N T H E DREAM OF SCIPIO

1:5–6: 144n7

Other al-Ghaza¯lı¯

Confucius

The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife: 29

Analects 2:4: 164 The Instruction of Papyrus Insinger 162–163

Mesopotamian Sultantepe Tablet #400 162–163