Contention, Controversy, and Change: Evolutions and Revolutions in the Jewish Experience, Volume II 9781618114655

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CONTENTION, CONTROVERSY, AND CHANGE Evolutions and Revolutions in the Jewish Experience VOLUME II

Touro College Press

CONTENTION, CONTROVERSY, AND CHANGE Evolutions and Revolutions in the Jewish Experience VOLUME II

SIMCHA FISHBANE ERIC LEVINE Editors

New York 2016

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-61811-464-8 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-61811-465-5 (electronic) ©Touro College Press, 2016 Published by Touro College Press and Academic Studies Press. Typeset, printed and distributed by Academic Studies Press. Cover design by Ivan Grave Touro College Press Michael A. Shmidman and Simcha Fishbane, Editors 27 West 23rd Street New York, NY 10010 USA www.touro.edu/news/publications/touro-college-press/ Academic Studies Press 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135 USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

Table of Contents VOLUME II

IV. Developments in Philosophy, Ideology, and Religious Practice Moses Mendelssohn’s Humanism Michah Gottlieb ...............................................................................................................3 The Roots of Satmar Anti-Zionism: Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum, Zionism, and Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy Zvi Jonathan Kaplan.....................................................................................................21 The Late Zionism of Nathan Birnbaum: The Herzl Controversy Reconsidered Jess Olson..........................................................................................................................37 Trade Unions, Strikes, and the Renewal of Halakhic Labor Law: Ideologies in the Rulings of Rabbis Kook, Uziel, and Feinstein Benjamin Brown.............................................................................................................82 Rabbinic Stories: History or Fiction? Herbert Basser............................................................................................................. 119 Behind the Purim Mask: The Symbolic Representation of the Rituals and Customs of Purim Simcha Fishbane.......................................................................................................... 135

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Back to the Yeshiva: The Social Dynamics of an Orthodox Sabbath Morning Service Simcha Fishbane.......................................................................................................... 206 Historical Time and Liminal Time: A Chapter in Rabbinic Historiosophy Nissan Rubin............................................................................................................... 219

Moses Mendelssohn’s Humanism* Michah Gottlieb In his landmark book, A Secular Age (2007), Charles Taylor defines a secular age as one in which “the eclipse of all goals beyond human flourishing . . . falls within the range of an imaginable life for masses of people.”1 The story of how this possibility (which Taylor calls “exclusive humanism”) became a widely available option is a long one, but for Taylor it winds through a crucial “intermediate form” that he calls “providential deism.”2 Providential deism, whose heyday was in the eighteenth century, is a complex phenomenon, but I would like to focus on one aspect of Taylor’s treatment of it. For Taylor, providential deism is marked by what he calls an “anthropocentric shift.”3 Taylor sees this exemplified in the work of the early eighteenth-century English deist Matthew Tindal. In his Christianity as Old as the Creation (1730), Tindal argues that our only duty to God is the promotion of human happiness. Tindal reasons that since God is absolutely self-sufficient, God could never require anything from us. God created the world from pure benevolence in order for human beings to be happy, and as such, the only service that God desires is the promotion of human happiness. Taylor bristles at this doctrine, noting that “an observer

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An earlier version of this paper was given at a Moses Mendelssohn conference organized by Reinier Munk in Amsterdam in December 2009, and portions of it subsequently appeared in my 2011 book Faith and Freedom: Moses Mendelssohn’s Theological-Political Thought (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2011). Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 19–20. Ibid., 18. Ibid., 221.

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today looks with stupefaction on this pre-shrunk religion.”4 For Taylor, it is clear that both faithful Christians and exclusive humanists would inevitably reject providential deism. By identifying the goal of religion with happiness and seeing religious duty as a way of furthering self-interest, providential deists marginalized God’s role in the individual’s life. According to Taylor, this led to the abandonment of providential deism in two directions—faithful Christians rejected providential deism as insufficiently attentive to the role of grace and mystery in religion, while exclusive humanists took the small step of eliminating God as a superfluous hypothesis. One of the most prominent eighteenth-century providential deists was Moses Mendelssohn. Taylor never mentions Mendelssohn, but I question whether God is so easily subtracted from Mendelssohn’s humanism. To be sure, Mendelssohn makes worldly human flourishing a central concern, but he also considers religion a crucial means for attaining this end. For Mendelssohn, a proper appreciation of our finite humanity does not lead us away from God, but rather to recognition of the infinite divine. I will illustrate this by examining aspects of Mendelssohn’s theology, ethics, politics, epistemology, and metaphysics. But before I begin, I present a couple of caveats. First, as I will be following a thread through different areas of Mendelssohn’s thought, I will not be able to undertake a detailed analysis of particular texts. Second, there are other areas of Mendelssohn’s thought that could contribute to this analysis, especially his aesthetics, but I will leave discussion of them to another occasion.

I. Theology I begin with an important element of Mendelssohn’s theology, namely his treatment of eternal punishment. While Mendelssohn sees himself as a proponent of Leibniz’s enlightened theism, Mendelssohn emphatically rejects Leibniz’s defense of eternal punishment.5 For Mendelssohn, Leibniz 4 5

Ibid., 226. Recent scholars debate whether Leibniz sincerely believed in eternal punishment. For a recent account of the debate including a strong defense of the sincerity of Leibniz’s belief in eternal punishment, see Lloyd Strickland, “Leibniz on Eternal Punishment,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 17, no. 2 (2009): 307–331. Lessing famously defended the sincerity of Leibniz’s belief in this doctrine and Mendelssohn apparently accepted Leibniz’s sincerity, though Mendelssohn does not engage with Lessing’s interpretation of what Leibniz meant. For

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correctly stresses the centrality of divine goodness as a demand of reason.6 But Mendelssohn claims that Leibniz does not appreciate the full implications of divine goodness on account of his feeling bound to uphold the Christian dogma of eternal punishment. Mendelssohn thinks that a proper understanding of divine goodness leads to a different approach to human suffering. God’s goodness implies that God is concerned with the happiness and perfection of every individual human being.7 While Leibniz labels this view “a remnant of the old and somewhat discredited maxim, that all is made solely for man,”8 Mendelssohn upholds this “discredited maxim” in an extreme way, claiming that God’s goodness implies that God treats every individual human being as an end in themselves of infinite value whose happiness and perfection can never be sacrificed for the benefit of others.9 For Mendelssohn, the only purpose of suffering is corrective, namely as a spur to the individual’s own improvement. Hence God will only let an individual suffer as long as it helps her improve. For this reason, Mendelssohn deems eternal punishment unacceptable. Mendelssohn regards this as a traditional Jewish position.10 Lessing’s interpretation of Leibniz’s reasoning, see Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Philosophical and Theological Writings, trans. Hugh Barr (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press), 37–60.   6 See Moses Mendelssohn, Gesammelte Schriften. Jubiläumsausgabe, eds. Alexander Altmann et al. (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt, Germany: Frommann-Holzboog, 1973) 3.2:95–103.  7 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:249–250 (#76); 7:71–73, 302; 8:189–190; 15.2:36–37 (commentary to Genesis 3:19; but compare JubA 16:115–116, commentary to Exodus 14:4); Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, or, On Religious Power and Judaism, trans. Allan Arkush, ed. Alexander Altmann (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1983), 124.   8 See Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Theodicy: Essays on the Goodness of God, the Freedom of Man, and the Origin of Evil, trans. E. M. Huggard (La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1985), 188–189 (#118).  9 Mendelssohn, JubA, 7:71–73; 8:189–190; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 124. See Allan Arkush, Mendelssohn and the Enlightenment (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1994), 49–52. 10 Mendelssohn quotes the medieval Jewish commentator Ibn Ezra (commentary on Exodus 34:7) who notes that punishment itself is also “a quality of God’s infinite love.” Also see Nahmanides’s commentary, ad. loc. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:188; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 123. Eternal punishment was a hotly debated issue within the Jewish community. Maimonides argued against it claiming that souls who did not merit eternal bliss would be annihilated, while Nahmanides defended eternal punishment. See Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishna, Sanhedrin, chapters 9 and 10; Maimonides, “Laws of Repentance,” in Mishneh Torah (Vilna: Rosenkrantz, 1928), 8:1, 8:5; Nahmanides, Writings and Discourses, ed.

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For Mendelssohn, a proper understanding of God leads to a recognition of the intimate connection between religion and happiness. Since an omnipotent, all-good God seeks our happiness and the development of our faculties, belief in divine providence instills confidence that no matter how bad things seem, things are happening for our benefit. This frees us from fear and allows us to feel at home in the world. 11 Furthermore, Mendelssohn claims that one of the biggest obstacles to happiness is the fear of death whose thought can “poison the enjoyment of life”12 unless one goes through life in a “stupor,” (Betäubung) never contemplating death.13 Once eternal punishment is rejected, belief in the immortality of the soul allows us to live in constant awareness of our mortality while avoiding the despair that necessarily accompanies the thought of the perpetual possibility of death.14 So for Mendelssohn, belief in an omnipotent, omniscient, all-good God promotes individual human happiness in this world.

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Charles Ber Chavel (New York, NY: Shilo Publishing House, 1978), 473–504. For discussion, see Schwartz, “Avicenna and Maimonides on Immortality,” in Studies in Muslim-Jewish Relations (Chur, Switzerland: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1993), 189–192. In the seventeenth century this debate was renewed in Amsterdam on a different basis with Saul Levi Morteira defending eternal punishment and Isaac Aboab attacking it. But unlike Maimonides, Aboab comes closer to Mendelssohn’s position by affirming that sinners will eventually find their way to heaven. For a fascinating discussion of this debate, see Alexander Altmann, Von der Mittelalterlichen zur Modernen Aufklärung: Studien zur Jüdischen Geistesgeschichte (Tübingen, Germany: Mohr-Siebeck, 1987), 206–248. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:68. Also, see Mendelssohn, JubA, 5.1:191: “‘In our time can one still say that the concept of a future life makes death terrifying for us? That in order not to fear death one must leave aside this prejudice? Or does not the most rational part of ourselves rather make the future the most consoling representations . . . ?” This passage is cited by Leo Strauss, “Einleitung zu Morgenstunden und An die Freunde Lessing,” in Moses Mendelssohn, Gesammelte Schriften, lxi. Compare Mendelssohn, JubA, 1:255; Moses Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, trans. and ed. Daniel O. Dahlstrom (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 26. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.1:115; 3.2: 235 (#52): “Whoever complains about evil suffered without comfort, regards his present life as his entire duration.” See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.1:80, 115–116. To explicate this point, consider the question whether or not someone given a few days to live can truly enjoy their last remaining days. For Mendelssohn, the difference between having a few days to live and having a few decades is minor. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:102.

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II. Ethics Mendelssohn thinks that every finite human being can know his ethical obligations independently of revelation. For Mendelssohn, ethical laws are rational, universal laws that follow from our nature as beings with intellect.15 Briefly, the fundamental law of ethics, which can be derived from our universal drive for perfection, is “make your intrinsic and extrinsic condition and that of your fellow human being in the proper proportion as perfect as possible.”16 Our extrinsic condition refers to our body, while our intrinsic condition refers to our soul. Our obligation to seek the perfection of others derives from our desire for our own perfection. Since our perfection is a function of our representations of perfection, we seek to create a world in which we represent others as attaining perfection as well.17 For Mendelssohn, however, while human beings can know their ethical obligations through reason alone, morality requires knowledge of the teachings of natural religion for two reasons.18 First, Mendelssohn argues that without belief in the immortality of the soul, the rational ethical law can become contradictory. He begins his argument by accepting Aristotle’s definition of human beings as Zoon Politikon, that is, political animals. Mendelssohn interprets this to mean that without society a person can achieve neither safety nor perfection as perfection includes both culture and enlightenment, which cannot be achieved in the state of nature.19 But for a society to be able to protect itself, it must have a moral right to demand that its citizens sacrifice their lives for 15 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 19:178–179; JubA, 15.2:26 (commentary to Genesis 2:18); Zev Harvey, “Mendelssohn and Maimon on the Tree of Knowledge,” in Sephard in Ashkenaz: Medieval Knowledge and Eighteenth Century Enlightened Jewish Discourse, eds. Andrea Schatz, Resianne Fontaine, and Irene Zwiep (Amsterdam, Netherlands: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2007); Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 235, 295–299. 16 Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:316; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 296. 17 Mendelssohn, JubA, 1:405–408; 2:316–317; 19:179; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 151–154, 296–297. Paul Guyer, Kant on Freedom, Law, and Happiness (New York: NY, Cambridge University Press, 2000), 30–32. 18 It would be instructive to compare Mendelssohn’s discussion of the relationship between ethics and theology with Kant’s but that is beyond the scope of this paper. 19 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:109, 116; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 40, 47; Mendelssohn, JubA, 15.2:26 (commentary to Genesis 2:18, “lo tov”).

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the state if the state requires this for its continued existence. According to Mendelssohn, without belief in the immortality of the soul one’s life on earth becomes the “highest good.”20 But if the highest law of morality is to seek perfection and this world is the only place in which perfection can be achieved, one has an “exactly opposite right” (ein gerade entgegensetzte rechte) to preserve one’s own life and so to refuse any request to lay down one’s life for the state. Indeed, Mendelssohn goes so far as to claim that if one does not believe in the immortality of the soul, then one is within one’s right, and perhaps one is even obligated, “to cause the destruction of the entire world if this can help prolong one’s life.”21 But if one recognizes in this circumstance contradictory moral demands, this calls the rationality of morality into question.22 Hence moral reason demands that we posit the immortality of the soul.23 Second, theological beliefs are needed in order to be motivated to act ­ethically. Mendelssohn notes that while people generally recognize that morality is binding, they often notice the suffering of the righteous and the prospering of the wicked, which can cause them to despair of morality. For it often seems that righteousness is an impediment to prosperity as the wicked person who takes moral short cuts is able to get ahead faster.24 As such, benevolence can come to be seen as “a foppery into which we seek to lure one another so that the simpleton will toil while the clever man enjoys himself and has a good laugh at the other’s expense.”25 While the wise man recognizes that benevolence is a crucial component of perfection and hence is its own 20 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.1:116. 21 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.1:117; 1:295–296; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 61–63. 22 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.1:117; 8:115; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 46. 23 See Arkush, Mendelssohn and the Enlightenment, 58–60. In the introduction to the Phädon, Mendelssohn notes that this argument for the immortality of the soul is completely original. But while Mendelssohn claims that the argument can be elaborated by means of the strictest logic, he admits that in the Phädon he presents it in a more popular, less rigorous way. In particular, Mendelssohn does not explain the philosophical basis of our moral obligations. He also does not philosophically deduce the state’s right to demand that we sacrifice our lives in times of danger. A number of questions arise from Mendelssohn’s presentation. For example, assuming that one does not believe in the immortality of the soul and that one’s life in this world is the highest good, is there a moral obligation to enter society given its right to demand that one sacrifice one’s life? 24 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 14:193 (commentary to Ecclesiastes 9:10). 25 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:131; 14:193 (commentary to Ecclesiastes 9:10); Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 63.

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reward, most people consider benevolence to be a sacrifice (Verlust) that demands compensation.26 As they do not see this compensation in this world, they require the belief that this injustice is rectified in the next world to be motivated to act ethically.27 So for Mendelssohn, while as human beings we know our ethical duties through our finite intellectual powers, we need to believe in a providential God and in the immortality of the soul for this law to be coherent and for us to have the motivation to act ethically.

III. Politics At the heart of Mendelssohn’s political thought is his theory of individual rights.28 Mendelssohn defines “moral right” as the authority to use goods to promote my felicity as long as this comports with the laws of justice.29 Mendelssohn enumerates three goods that I have rights to: (1) my capacities; (2) the products of my industry; (3) my property.30 For Mendelssohn, duty is derivative from right. If someone has a right to certain goods, I have a duty to respect her rights.31 Mendelssohn differentiates between perfect and imperfect rights. A perfect right is one in which “all the conditions under which the predicate belongs to the subject are invested in the holder of the subject.”32 In other words, in the case of a perfect right my right to my goods depends solely on my will. A right is imperfect if, “part of the conditions under which the right applies is dependent on the knowledge and conscience of the person who bears the duty.”33 For example, if a person needs money to buy food he has a right to this money from all people who can spare it. Similarly, anyone who 26 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:236–240. On the idea of benevolence as its own reward see JubA, 1:405–408; 6.1:38, 47; 8:111, 116; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 41, 47; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 151–154; Arkush, Mendelssohn and the Enlightenment, 52. 27 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:236–240. 28 See Willi Goetschel, “Mendelssohn and the State,” Modern Language Notes 122 (2007): 486–487. 29 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:114–115; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 45–46. 30 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:116; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 47. Mendelssohn adopts Locke’s theory according to which I acquire property by mixing my labor with natural goods. 31 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:115; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 46. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid.

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has surplus money has a duty to distribute it since beneficence forms an essential part of perfection. But the needy person’s right to this money is imperfect since there are many poor people who legitimately have a right to beneficence and the rich person cannot aid them all. Mendelssohn calls such cases instances of a “collision” of duties.34 Here it is up to the rich person to decide to whom to give the money. Perfect rights may be safeguarded through coercive force, but exercising imperfect rights depends on the discretion of the person petitioned.35 For Mendelssohn, the state’s legitimacy depends on its capacity to help individuals achieve happiness and perfection.36 People form the social contract to help them achieve perfection in a number of ways. First, by granting the state coercive power, the state is able to protect the individual’s rights to their goods.37 Second, since perfecting our intellectual and aesthetic capacities requires leisure time, living in a society is needed since in society people are more easily able to meet their basic needs through the division of labor.38 Third, by granting the state the authority to administer imperfect rights such as distributing excess goods through taxation, poor people are more likely to attain the basic means needed to achieve perfection, while rich people who are forced to give to others progress towards perfection since benevolence is a crucial part of perfection.39 For Mendelssohn, I have the ability to alienate my perfect rights to many of my goods and I can be coerced if I seek to go back on my word.40 However, Mendelssohn claims that my rights to certain goods are inalienable. Chief among these is my right to my convictions. Since my beliefs depend on rational conviction, it is impossible for me to transfer my right to my beliefs to another. Coercion can cause me to say that I have changed my beliefs, but it can never cause me to actually change my beliefs.41 34 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:117–118; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 48–49. 35 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:117, 120–121; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 48, 52–53. 36 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 6.1:128–129; 16:405–407; 8:109; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 40. 37 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:110–114, 139–140; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 41–45, 72. 38 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:57; 15.2:26; 16:406–407. 39 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:116–117; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 47–48. 40 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:120–121; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 53–54. 41 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:129–130, 137, 164–165; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 61–62, 70, 97–98. Goetschel sees Mendelssohn’s emphasis on the dignity of individual judgment, reflected in

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Mendelssohn denies the church the right to any of the individual’s goods. For Mendelssohn, religion is solely concerned with people’s convictions since “religious actions without religious thoughts are mere puppetry (Puppenspiel), not service of God.”42 Since my perfect right to my convictions is inalienable, the church can never have the right to coerce my beliefs even if I agree to transfer this right to the church.43 Furthermore, since God is all-powerful and absolutely self-sufficient, God has no need for any of my material goods.44 Thus, the church can never have an imperfect right to any of my goods.45 Mendelssohn still thinks that we can speak of duties towards God. But since God is self-sufficient and wholly beneficent, my duties to God do not involve new duties. Rather, my duties towards God involve my responsibility to promote my own perfection. Since acting ethically is a crucial component of perfection, Mendelssohn includes my responsibility to act morally in my duties towards God.46 But while my duty to God is identical with my duties to myself and to others, the church serves a critical role in helping me achieve perfection. One of the main ways that the church does this is through religious community. One may recognize one’s moral duties intellectually and know that fulfilling these responsibilities is the best thing for one in the long run, but a person may be too depressed or too tempted by immediate sensual gratification to be sufficiently motivated to act correctly. A well-functioning religious community helps motivate individuals to promote their true perfection through what Mendelssohn calls “the magic power of sympathy.” Mendelssohn writes that the religious community helps one “transfer truth from mind to heart” by “vivifying concepts which are at times lifeless into soaring sensations.”47 For example, in prayer one reaffirms one’s conviction that God cares for us and seeks to create the conditions for our achieving perfection. By praising God’s righteousness, justice, the Phädon as well. See Willi Goetschel, Spinoza’s Modernity: Mendelssohn, Lessing, and Heine (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2004), 119–122. 42 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:113, 128; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 44, 60. 43 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:125–126, 129–130, 140–141; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 57–59, 61–62, 73–74. 44 On God not needing any service from human beings because of God’s self-sufficiency, see Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:126–128; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 57–60. Mendelssohn cites Psalms 40:7: “Sacrifice and offering you did not desire, My ears you have opened.” 45 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:125–126; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 57–59. 46 Ibid; JubA, 2:318–320; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 298–300. 47 Mendelssohn, JubA, 8:141; Mendelssohn, Jerusalem, 74.

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mercy, and charity we are inspired to imitate God and embody these qualities in our own lives. Through hearing the Bible read, divine providence is made vivid for congregants by their hearing stories about how the righteous prosper while the wicked suffer. And tales of God’s mercy and forgiveness help keep people energized to constantly strive for perfection by nurturing hope that it is never too late to turn one’s life around.48 So for Mendelssohn, belief in God helps the state achieve its purpose by helping motivate individuals to actualize their this-worldly capacities.

IV. Epistemology and Metaphysics In Morning Hours, Mendelssohn sketches criteria for delineating the truth or falsity of thoughts. Mendelssohn divides thoughts into two major divisions. Thoughts may refer to possible or impossible things or they may refer to actual or not-actual things. Every actual thing is possible, and every impossible thing is not-actual but not every possible thing is actual and every not-actual thing may or may not be possible.49 Mendelssohn considers the distinction between possible and impossible thoughts. He notes that possible thoughts can be divided into three types: (1) concepts; (2) judgments; and (3) inferences. We can render judgments about the possibility or impossibility of concepts based on the principle of non-­ contradiction alone. With concepts that designate actual or not-actual things matters are more complicated. Mendelssohn claims that there are certain concepts that I know for certain designate actual things. Following Descartes, Mendelssohn holds that I know for certain that my own thoughts exist and I can therefore conclude that I exist.50 But how can I know that my thoughts of objects actually existing outside myself designate real things? With the exception of the concept of God, Mendelssohn thinks that I must rely on my sense perceptions.51 48 For more on this, including sources, see Gottlieb, “Aesthetics and the Infinite: Moses Mendelssohn on the Poetics of Biblical Prophecy,” in New Directions in Jewish Philosophy, eds. Aaron Hughes and Elliot Wolfson (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2009). 49 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:11. 50 On Mendelssohn’s acceptance of Descartes’ cogito, see Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:44–45; 2:294, 309–310; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 275, 289–290; Guyer, Kant on Freedom, Law, and Happiness, 26–27. 51 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:60.

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But in light of the fact that I can never compare my thoughts with things in-themselves, how can I be certain that my thoughts of things that actually exist outside of myself are true? Rather than succumbing to skepticism, Mendelssohn offers a definition of truth that departs from the conventional correspondence theory. Mendelssohn continues to affirm that truth involves agreement (Übereinstimmung), but he redefines what this agreement consists of. Rather than understanding truth as the agreement between thoughts and the things themselves, Mendelssohn defines truth as agreement between the various representations of our different sense perceptions as well as agreement between the representations of different subjects, human and animal alike. This view of truth yields important consequences concerning our knowledge of external objects. First, our knowledge of the external world is at best probable. The more agreement I find, the more certainty I have, but it is always possible that even if I find agreement among my senses after five tests, I will find disagreement when I test the next six times.52 Second, our knowledge of external objects involves how I must think them rather than a correspondence between thoughts and things in-themselves. Given that things in-themselves lie outside of concepts, when considering things in-themselves, Mendelssohn notes that we “stand at the limits of knowledge and every step forward that we wish to take is a step into emptiness.”53 Mendelssohn concludes that, “When we say that a thing is extended and moves, these words have no other meaning than this: a thing has such an attribute that it must be thought of as extended and moving. Saying that A is or that A [must be] thought of [in a certain way] . . . is the same thing.” 54 52 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:15. Mendelssohn likewise applies the theory of probability to our knowledge of universal laws of nature such as gravitation or universal judgments such as that all people die. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:21, 24–26. Compare Mendelssohn’s attempt to specify how one determines degrees of probability in his early piece “On Probability.” See Mendelssohn, JubA, 1; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 235–247. 53 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:61. 54 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:57. See ibid, 87–88. Compare Mendelssohn’s Prize Essay where he seeks to meet the skeptical challenge by distinguishing between “constant and variable (beständige und verändliche)” appearances. There Mendelssohn notes that constant appearances have their source in “the intrinsic essential constitution of our senses (inner wesentlichen Beschaffenheit unserer Sinne)” while inconstant appearances derive from “the incorrect position (unrechten Standorte) from which we regard objects.” See Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:284–286; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 266–268; Guyer, Kant on Freedom, Law, and Happiness, 23–24.

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As I mentioned above, Mendelssohn thinks that while we generally must rely on sense perception for our knowledge of external reality, there is one thing whose existence can be deduced from its concept alone, namely God. Kant famously criticizes the a priori ontological proof of God’s existence, and in Morning Hours, Mendelssohn defends this proof against Kant’s criticism.55 At the heart of the ontological proof is the claim that since the most perfect being contains all the marks of perfection, and existence is a perfection, existence must be predicated of the most perfect being and so the most perfect being must exist.56 Kant argues that this proof is based on a basic confusion, namely conceiving of existence as a predicate. Mendelssohn paraphrases Kant’s position as follows: “Existence is no mere attribute, no expansion [of a concept], but rather is the positing of all attributes and marks of a thing. . . .”57 Mendelssohn is willing to grant Kant that existence is not a predicate but rather the positing of attributes in a real thing, but Mendelssohn does not think that Kant thereby deals a fatal blow to the ontological proof. Mendelssohn notes that contingent things may or may not exist—I can think of contingent things without positing their real existence. God, however, is not just the most perfect being, but is also a necessary being. Hence it is impossible for me to think of God without positing God’s existence since the concept of a necessary being which does not exist is contradictory. Mendelssohn considers how “an opponent” (Gegner) might respond to this. The opponent asks: “The necessary being must actually exist because human beings can not think otherwise. . . . What guarantees that what we must think as actual, actually exists [emphasis Mendelssohn’s]?”58 In light of Mendelssohn’s concept of truth, we have the answer. As Mendelssohn puts it: “What all rational beings must think so and not otherwise is true so and not otherwise. Whoever demands more than this conviction seeks something that . . . he can never attain a concept of. . . .”59 Or, as Mendelssohn puts in his

55 See Beiser, The Fate of Reason, 106–107. 56 For Mendelssohn’s early formulations of this proof, see Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:300–301; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 281–283; JubA, 12.2:117–119. See Altmann, Essays in Jewish Intellectual History (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1981), 129–133. 57 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:152. See Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, A592/B620–A602–B630. 58 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:154. See Altmann, Essays in Jewish Intellectual History, 133–137. 59 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:155.

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Memoranda to Jacobi, “My credo is: what I cannot think to be true, does not trouble me with doubt.”60 Regarding knowledge of the external world, Mendelssohn therefore distinguishes between two types of truth. First, there is what we might call “infinite truth,” which involves full agreement between the mind and things in themselves.61 This truth is God’s alone. Second, there is what we might call “finite truth,” which involves agreement among finite subjects. With finite truth we can make a further distinction between “probable” and “certain” truth. When our knowledge depends on a posteriori sense perceptions, the most we can attain is probable truth. Analytic propositions of pure mathematics and logic are certain, but do not tell us about actual existence.62 In the case of God’s existence it is possible to attain certain truth of actual existence through a priori concepts alone.63 In sum, for Mendelssohn I attain finite truth when my representations agree with others’ representations thereby forming a common world. When, however, my representations are idiosyncratic, not agreeing with the representations of others, I do not have truth.64 For Mendelssohn, then, it is ultimately impossible to give an absolutely conclusive answer to the skeptic. But trusting in “finite truth” is absolutely necessary for lived existence. Indeed, Mendelssohn notes that even “doubters nevertheless act in common life just like the great majority of human beings do who regard themselves as fully convinced of a considerable number of eternal truths.”65 If we did not believe in the existence of an external world we could 60 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:203; Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi, The Main Philosophical Writings and the Novel “Alwill,” trans. and ed. George di Giovanni (Montreal, Canada: McGill-Queens University Press, 1994), 353. One might argue since we can doubt whether or not God exists it is not the case that we must think of God as existing. Mendelssohn’s answer is that since when I am reasoning correctly, I must think that God exists, the only way to think God as not existing is to ignore this proof or to reason incorrectly. My doubting God’s existence because I am unaware or fail to understand the ontological proof is no more valid than my doubting that a triangle’s angles add up to 180 degree because I am ignorant of or fail to understand basic geometry. One could argue that there is a difference between recognizing that God’s existence is a demand of reason and knowing that God, in fact, exists. Mendelssohn does not consider this difference to be significant. 61 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 1; 2:306–307; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 247, 287–288. 62 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 1; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 235. 63 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:301; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 281. 64 Of course not all will agree with the ontological proof, but for Mendelssohn this is due to false application of logical principles. 65 Mendelssohn, JubA, 1:160; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 233.

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never act and without belief in God we could never be happy. The pragmatic necessities of life supply us the motivation to act on ideas that we accept to be true on the basis of probability and/or the “essential constitution” of our minds.66 In Morning Hours, Mendelssohn makes the argument that appreciating human finitude leads us to knowledge of God. Mendelssohn’s argument grows out of his discussion of Lessing, which is useful to begin with. In attempting to rescue Lessing’s reputation, Mendelssohn argues that Lessing espoused a form of pantheism that Mendelssohn calls “purified pantheism” or “refined Spinozism.” Mendelssohn explains Lessing’s reasoning for adhering to this doctrine as stemming from his view that the theistic affirmation of the existence of an extra-deical world fails to appreciate the full implications of divine omniscience. As we have seen, Mendelssohn affirms that I know that I exist because I cannot doubt that I think and feel. Mendelssohn notes, however, that while Lessing accepts this reasoning, he does not thereby conclude that I exist as an individual. Rather, Lessing affirms that I only exist as a modification of divine thought. Mendelssohn explains Lessing’s reasoning as follows: There is an intentional difference between thoughts, the thinking subject, and the object thought (Gedanken, das Denkende, das Gedachte).67 As long as these three elements are in potentia they are distinct, but when the subject actualizes its capacity of thinking, the three elements come into the “closest connection” (innigste Verbindung). Beings consist of a sequence of marks or characteristics. While thought exists in the thinking subject’s mind as a modification of its mental being, when a thought is an accurate representation of the object thought, the thought contains the identical marks as the object thought. Since God is perfect, God’s mind is always active and God’s thoughts always represent the world perfectly. What then, asks Lessing, could distinguish the actual world from the representation of it in the divine mind? One might claim that the actual world has the predicate “existence” added to it. But, answers Lessing, since God’s knowledge of the world is perfect, God’s knowledge of the world must include knowledge of this predicate as well. As such, God’s representation of the actual world is indistinguishable from the actual world and so by the identity of indiscernibles, they must be the same thing. Lessing therefore 66 See Mendelssohn, JubA, 2:285–286; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 267–268. 67 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:116.

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concludes that the actual world has no existence outside of the divine mind. This constitutes his “refined Spinozism.”68 But while Mendelssohn attributes purified pantheism to Lessing in order to defend Lessing against Jacobi’s charge that Lessing was an atheistic Spinozist, Mendelssohn does not accept Lessing’s arguments for purified pantheism. The main target of Mendelssohn’s attack is Lessing’s claim that since God has perfect knowledge of finite beings, these beings are indistinguishable from God’s thoughts of them. Mendelssohn notes that while God knows all finite beings, there must be something that distinguishes finite beings from God’s infinite knowledge of them. Otherwise, God would contain these finite beings within God’s own self and so possess imperfections. Mendelssohn explains this by reflecting on himself. While Mendelssohn is part of an infinite series of causes and effects, he is only cognizant of a small part of this series. God knows Mendelssohn as a being who possesses limited knowledge. But unlike the real Moses Mendelssohn, God is not actually limited in God’s knowledge. So the actual Moses Mendelssohn must be different from God’s knowledge of him and so must exist outside of God. Mendelssohn concludes that human beings’ limited consciousness is “the most eloquent proof of extra-deical substance.”69 Mendelssohn elaborates on this point by noting that for a subject to know an object, the subject must share something in common with the object that it seeks to know. This is possible in two ways. Either the subject can share a quality with the object in the same degree or it can share a quality in a different degree. 68 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:116–117. Mendelssohn’s reconstruction of Lessing’s argument derives from his reading of two short fragments of Lessing’s, namely The Christianity of Reason (1753), and On the Reality of Things Outside God (1763). See Lessing, Philosophical and Theological Writings, 25–31. For discussion of Lessing’s argument, see Henry Allison, Lessing and the Enlightenment: His Philosophy of Religion and Its Relation to Eighteenth-Century Thought (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1966), 69; Allison, “Lessing’s Spinozistic Exercises,” in Humanität und Dialog: Lessing und Mendelssohn in Neuer Sicht, eds. Edward Harris, Ehrhard Bahr, and Laurence Lyon (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1982), 223–233. Some writers have seen this argument as originating in Spinoza’s own writings, which they have interpreted as a radical extension of Maimonides’s teachings. The two main texts are: Spinoza, Ethics, part II, proposition 7, and Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed, part I, chapter 68. For a contemporary reconstruction of the argument see most recently Carlos Fraenkel, “Maimonides’ God and Spinoza’s Deus sive Natura,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 44, no. 2 (2006): 169–215. 69 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:117.

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In the former case, the cognizing subject intuits the object immediately as all that is required for the knower to know the object is to think itself. In the latter case, the subject knows the object by abstracting from the quality that the­ subject possesses itself. But, claims Mendelssohn, knowing a subject in this way does not allow complete knowledge since “no creature can completely divest itself of its own degree of reality.” For example, to understand what it is to be blind I try to imagine what it would be like to be deprived of sight. I can close my eyes, sit in the dark, and imagine what it would be like were this experience to encompass my entire experience. But since I do in fact possess sight, I can never fully understand what it is to actually be blind. In the same way, when God thinks of human beings, God thinks of God’s own infinite perfections in a limited way. But since God is actually perfect, God can never fully understand what it is to be imperfect. God’s knowledge of finite beings can never be identical with finite beings themselves, and so finite beings can exist outside of God.70 Mendelssohn then argues that appreciating our finite knowledge leads us to affirm the existence of a transcendent infinite divine intellect.71 Mendelssohn begins his argument by noting that along with my immediate sensation of my own existence, I am aware that more pertains to my existence than I can understand consciously. Mendelssohn then makes two claims about possibility and actuality. First, he claims that possibility is ideal—in order for something to be possible, it must be actually thought as a possibility. Whatever we might think of this claim, Mendelssohn does not take it to be controversial.72 Next, Mendelssohn makes what he acknowledges to be a controversial claim; namely that it is not just possibility that must be actually thought, actuality must also be actually thought. While Mendelssohn 70 See ibid., 118–120. Mendelssohn also runs this argument in the other direction, claiming that one with finite knowledge can never know what it is to have infinite knowledge. Mendelssohn concludes that human beings can never fully know God. See Mendelssohn, JubA, 1:465; 2:310–311; 16:27–28, 348; Mendelssohn, Philosophical Writings, 291. 71 In a 1785 letter to C. G. Schütz, Kant praises the “extremely penetrating pursuit of our chain of concepts” in this proof. See Immanuel Kant, Correspondence, trans. Arnulf Zweig, ed. Paul Guyer (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 237–238. Kant, however, does not accept this as a valid proof of God’s existence. See Kant, Religion and Rational Theology, trans. George Di Giovanni, ed. Allen Wood (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 11. For discussion of this proof, see Altmann, Essays in Jewish Intellectual History, 127–129. 72 In Morning Hours, Mendelssohn uses the term “denkbar” (thinkable) to refer to the possible.

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acknowledges that this may seem counter-intuitive, he notes that the difference between possibility and actuality is not as great as is commonly assumed since in some cases possibilities are actual properties of things. For example, when we speak of a person’s “capacities” (Fahigkeiten) we are speaking of possibilities that actually belong to the subject. Once these premises are granted, however, Mendelssohn claims that we can easily demonstrate that a perfect knower must exist. Given my complexity and the complexity of the universe, not only can I never have perfect knowledge of myself and all my capacities, neither can all finite minds combined. Since, however, all actualities require an actual knower and I actually exist, there must be an infinite knower who knows me.73 Reflecting on how a proper appreciation of human finitude leads to recognition of the infinite divine, Mendelssohn concludes: It is then no immodest arrogance on the part of the son of the earth when he dares to conclude from the finitude of his existence to the existence of the infinite, from his limitation to the actuality of the all-perfect. It is well-­ becoming to the immortal spirit of men (unsterblichen Geistes des Menschen) that they believe themselves so related to the divine that from each of their thoughts, they find a path to God.74

So for Mendelssohn, we come to know the highest truth, namely God by recognizing the finitude of our knowledge.

Conclusion I began by noting Taylor’s claim that providential deism marks an anthropocentric turn that inevitably leads to exclusive humanism. By claiming that God only desires human happiness, it was a simple step to eliminating God as a superfluous hypothesis. Taylor’s argument that providential deism inevitably dissolves into exclusive humanism is somewhat surprising given his crusade against “subtraction” stories of modernity, which he defines as “stories of modernity in general and secularity in particular which explain them by human beings having lost or sloughed off, or liberated themselves from certain earlier, confining horizons. . . .”75 But this is exactly what he has done with providential deism seeing modern secularism as resulting from liberating 73 Mendelssohn, JubA, 3.2:143. 74 Ibid., 156. 75 See Taylor, A Secular Age, 22.

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itself from the superfluous theological elements of providential deism. Through an examination of one of the most important of the providential deists, Moses Mendelssohn, I have shown that while Mendelssohn undertakes an anthropocentric turn that celebrates our finite humanity, for Mendelssohn a proper appreciation of our finite humanity inevitably leads us back to the infinite divine. For Mendelssohn, the very fact that we are finite beings means that we need God for ethical, political, and epistemological reasons. In this way, Mendelssohn shows a keen appreciation of what it means to be human and rejects strains of exclusive humanism that think that human beings can fully actualize themselves and attain happiness without belief in a transcendent power.

The Roots of Satmar Anti-Zionism: Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum, Zionism, and Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy1 Zvi Jonathan Kaplan Ransomed from Bergen Belsen in 1944 by Rezső Rudolf Kasztner, a leader of the Zionist movement in Romania and Hungary, Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum (1888–1979) arrived in New York City via Switzerland and Palestine in 1947.2 Saved by the Zionists from near-certain death, the Satmarer Rebbe, a strong opponent of Zionism in the prewar Transylvanian Jewish community of Szatu-Mare, became the leading and most vociferous voice of the religious anti-Zionist camp in America. Though the Orthodox Agudat Israel movement, which had opposed Zionism during the prewar years, came to terms with the State of Israel, Rabbi Teitelbaum never wavered. He regarded the establishment of the State of Israel as a satanic act and was convinced that the Holocaust was a divine punishment for Zionism. Even though, as he noted, “I have become the object of scorn and contempt . . . no force in the world shall move me from my stand to accept, God forbid, the [Zionist] heresy, from

1 This chapter originally appeared in Modern Judaism 24, no. 2 (2004): 165–178. Because of copyright regulations, I am unable to make any changes of substance, and several references therefore may not be fully current. 2 Jerome Mintz, Hasidic People: A Place in the New World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 27–29.

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which the Merciful One must save us.”3 This chapter, focusing on Rabbi Teitelbaum’s “Essay on the Three Oaths” in his classic work Va-Yoel Moshe, examines the historical forces that motivated him to oppose the Jewish state and the nature and mode of his argumentation. Unlike those who present and seek to rebut the Rebbe’s arguments, I will not focus on the substance of his arguments but on their style and their cultural and ideological context, my goal being not theological evaluation but, rather, historical explanation.4 As Rabbi Teitelbaum was a product of nineteenth-century Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy, one can better understand his virulent opposition to Zionism when one scrutinizes the nature of this stream of Hungarian Orthodoxy. Before examining Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy, I must clarify my use of the term Orthodox. As modern scholars understand, Orthodoxy emerged in the nineteenth century as a response to changing Jewish social, political, and religious realities. Orthodoxy was not a mere continuation of pre-modern Judaism. As Jacob Katz notes: It would be incorrect to view the behavior of modern adherents of tradition [the Orthodox] as simply reproducing what I call medieval tradition-bound Jewish society. For the latter, tradition was a self-understood and uncontested guide to both religious observance and religious thought. By comparison . . . those who continued to adhere to tradition [the Orthodox] when its observance ceased to be the universal characteristic of Jewish society were both more self-conscious and less self-confident. Their loyalty to tradition was the result of a conscious decision, or was at the very least a stance assumed in defiance of a possible alternative suggested by the lifestyle of other Jews. . . . The awareness of other Jews’ rejection of tradition . . . was thus an essential and universal characteristic of all forms and variations of Orthodoxy.5

Joel Teitelbaum, Divrei Yoel-Mikhtavim/Collected Letters (Brooklyn, NY, 1980), 1: 89, quoted in Allan Nadler, “Piety and Politics: The Case of the Satmar Rebbe,” Judaism 31, no. 2 (Spring 1982): 137. 4 See, for example, Norman Lamm, “The Ideology of the Neturei Karta: According to the Satmarer Version,” Tradition 13 (1971): 38–53, reprinted in Seventy Faces (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 2002), 2: 183–197. For another article on Satmar, which, like Lamm’s, focuses primarily on theological evaluation, see Nadler, “Piety and Politics.” My own analysis benefited from the helpful suggestions of Professor Michael Stanislawski, Professor Lawrence Kaplan, and Dean Stanley Boylan. 5 Jacob Katz, “Orthodoxy in Historical Perspective,” Studies in Contemporary Jewry 2 (1986): 3–4. 3

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Because, as Katz concludes, “Orthodoxy was a method of confronting deviant trends,” the character of Orthodoxy generally reflected the extent to which modern trends had penetrated Jewish society. Often, the stronger the outside influence, the sharper the Orthodox reaction was. And in Hungary, the outside influence was quite strong. The Jews of Hungary, a part of the Austrian Empire, were exposed to the Enlightenment ideas of Germanspeaking countries and their Jews.6 Furthermore, through the introduction of compulsory secular education and other means, the Hungarian authorities themselves pressured their Jews to assert a Hungarian national identity and to acculturate linguistically.7 Although many Jews in Hungary responded positively to the forces of modernization and promoted such innovations as synagogue reforms, others condemned these trends as antithetical to Judaism. Thus, Rabbi Moses Sofer of Pressburg (1762–1839), the Hatam Sofer, using a play on the talmudic dictum hadash asur min ha-torah—“new is forbidden by the Torah”—referring to the biblical prohibition against consuming any year’s new grain before Passover, decreed that “all innovation is forbidden by the Torah.”8 In providing (ironically) an innovative interpretation of the phrase hadash asur min ha-torah, Rabbi Sofer provided a religious model for the opponents of modernization. In order to combat the threat of modernity, the proponents of tradition had to reinterpret the received tradition and make it more extreme. They therefore wove together halakhic, aggadic, and kabbalistic materials to support their insular worldview. Though they claimed to have merely rediscovered neglected strands of tradition, they “embarked on a course which can best be described as the invention of a new, more potent tradition.” They now saw any change to the existing norm, however slight, as a breach of Jewish law. In this vein, they opposed the liberal interpretation of halakha and leniency in the halakhic decision-making process.9 6 Ibid., 5–6. 7 Michael K. Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy: The Invention of a Tradition,” in The Uses of Tradition, ed. Jack Wertheimer (New York, NY: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 25. 8 For an intellectual profile of the Hatam Sofer, see Jacob Katz, “Towards a Biography of the Hatam Sofer,” in Profiles in Diversity, eds. Frances Malino and David Sorkin (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1998), 223–266. 9 Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy,” 25–26, 47–48.

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Although vehemently opposed to Reform Judaism, Hungarian Ultra-­ Orthodox rabbis, particularly in the northeast, manifested their rigidity not so much by their opposition to Reform Jews, the Neologues, as by their harsh attitude toward the Modern Orthodox. For example, they blocked the establishment of a rabbinical seminary by Rabbi Esriel Hildesheimer, whose high school curriculum incorporated general studies.10 Furthermore, as Michael Silber and others note, when listing examples of forbidden innovations in their wellknown Pesaq Din (ruling) of Michalowce, they included several that had occurred in Modern Orthodox synagogue services.11 Rabbi Akiva Joseph Schlesinger (1837–1922), who had studied in the yeshiva established by Rabbi Sofer, was among the most inflexible Ultra-­ Orthodox opponents of innovation and modernization.12 He codified and synthesized the principles of Ultra-Orthodox ideology in Lev ha-Ivri, a commentary on Rabbi Sofer’s ethical testament against modernism. Though the Ultra-Orthodox accused Reformers of abandoning the sacred law, Rabbi Schlesinger himself relegated the law to a secondary status. In his zeal to combat 10 I use the term Ultra-Orthodox to refer to those traditionalist Orthodox rabbis who argued that the Hatam Sofer’s proclamations were to be regarded as obligatory, even in extenuating circumstances, as opposed to those traditionalist Orthodox rabbis who argued that the proclamations were to be viewed as ideals rather than as binding in all cases. For example, whereas Rabbi Hillel Lichtenstein, basing himself on the teachings of the Hatam Sofer, ruled that, under no circumstance could a rabbi preach in the vernacular, Rabbi Moses Schick, the Maharam Schick, was more flexible. As he saw it, the Hatam Sofer had forbidden not so much the delivery of sermons in the vernacular as the nontraditional content that many such sermons contained. If, however, a sermon did not contain any nontraditional content, then it was permissible, even if not ideal, for a rabbi to deliver it in the vernacular. Thus, the Hungarian Orthodox were divided among three camps, namely, the Modern Orthodox, the moderate traditional Orthodox, and the right-wing traditional Orthodox or Ultra-­Orthodox. See Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy”; Nathaniel Katzburg, “The Rabbinical Decision in Michalowce” [Hebrew], in Studies in the History of Jewish Society in the Middle Ages and the Modern Period, eds. Emanuel Etkes and Yosef Salmon ( Jerusalem, Israel: Magnes, 1980); Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, eds., The Jew in the Modern World, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 224–29; and Jacob Katz, A House Divided: Orthodoxy and Schism in Nineteenth-Century Central European Jewry, trans. Ziporah Brody (Hanover, NH: Brandeis University Press, 1998). 11 Most of the leading disciples of the Hatam Sofer, including his son Abraham Sofer, did not sign the ruling and, according to my classification scheme, would fall into the moderate traditional camp. See Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy”; Katzburg, “The Rabbinical Decision in Michalowce”; and Katz, A House Divided. 12 In other words, like his father-in-law Rabbi Hillel Lichtenstein, he belonged to the Ultra-­ Orthodox camp.

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innovation, he elevated social and cultural mores above the commandments. He especially took pride in his ability to support his worldview with unconventional religious works. Thus, basing himself primarily on midrashic sources, he spoke of separation through the preservation of Jewish names, dress, and customs as the cardinal principle of Judaism. The radical separation from the non-Jewish world through these three social mores, declared Rabbi Schlesinger, “on balance . . . outweigh[s] all the commandments of the Torah.”13 Rabbi Schlesinger demonstrated his conviction that separation outweighs the commandments by his hostility toward the Modern Orthodox. Indeed, the Modern Orthodox, in his view, posed a far greater danger than the Reformers precisely because they remained superficially faithful to the law. Like the Reformers, the Modern Orthodox embraced non-Jewish wisdom and culture and thus violated the cardinal Jewish principle of separation. However, unlike the Reformers, the hypocritical Modern Orthodox tried to cloak the heresy of modernity in the trappings of traditional Judaism, the observance of commandments. As such, the Modern Orthodox, whom Rabbi Schlesinger branded “Sadducees” after the classical heretical group, served as a fifth column within Orthodoxy.14 From Rabbi Schlesinger’s perspective, the attempt of Modern Orthodox Jews to spread heresy within the Orthodox camp was symbolic of the struggle between evil and good in history. Rabbi Schlesinger saw the world through the prism of Lurianic Kabbalah. In brief, he believed that holy sparks, representing the righteous of Israel, were trapped in shells, representing the wicked Erev Rav. The Erev Rav, originally non-Jews who had supposedly joined and corrupted the Jewish people during the exodus from Egypt, had survived through the transmigration of souls among contemporary Jewry. The messianic redemption would commence only after the righteous had separated themselves from the Erev Rav, thus freeing the holy sparks from their shells. Rabbi Schlesinger maintained that the Erev Rav dwelled among the Modern Orthodox, whose leaders he compared with the false messiah Sabbatai Zevi. As such, he held the Modern Orthodox accountable for delaying the onset of redemption.15 13 Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, eds., The Jew in the Modern World, 2nd ed. (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2005), 204; Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy,” 37–38, 68–69, 82–83. 14 Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy,” 66–68. 15 Ibid., 78–82.

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Notwithstanding his vehement opposition to modernity and his characterization of Modern Orthodox leaders as false messiahs, after his arrival in the Land of Israel in 1870, Rabbi Schlesinger promoted the establishment of self-sufficient agricultural settlements.16 Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum, a product of Rabbi Schlesinger’s Hungarian Ultra-Orthodox school, made no such concessions. He interpreted Rabbi Sofer’s view that the Torah prohibits innovation as broadly as possible, and he opposed all innovations both in and outside the Land of Israel. Indeed, he believed that the establishment of new settlements in the Land of Israel, followed by the creation of a secular state, epitomized the heresy of modernity. By establishing a modern state on the European model, the Zionists and their collaborators had substituted a nationalistic Jewish identity for a religious one. In an attempt to imitate the Gentiles, they had secularized the concept of Jewish peoplehood and thus violated the cardinal principle of complete separation from foreign influences. Though, as I will discuss below, he believed that the establishment of any Jewish state violated Jewish law, Rabbi Teitelbaum was particularly incensed by the form of Israel’s government. The Zionists had willingly chosen to adopt a non-Jewish model of government, a parliamentary system. Judaism, argued Rabbi Teitelbaum, was not a democratic religion, and the Israeli Parliament and judiciary had no authority over matters relating to Jewish law. As he stated, “Democracy is good for the nations who did not accept the Torah, but for the people of Israel who accepted the Torah . . . democracy . . . is a denial of the Torah and a total heresy, and God-forbid for a Jew to participate in or even give his approval [to it].”17 Though he did not cite Rabbi Schlesinger by name, Rabbi Teitelbaum, perhaps unwittingly, explained why the preservation of Jewish customs outweighs the commandments. In establishing a secular government and judiciary, the Zionists had substituted heathen law for Torah law. Thus, the imitation of non-Jewish customs, as demonstrated by the Zionist example, inevitably led to the abandonment of the law altogether. As I have already noted, Rabbi Teitelbaum’s extremist ideology, in general, was grounded in the tradition of nineteenth-century Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy and the writings of Rabbi Schlesinger. Rabbi Teitelbaum, like Rabbi Schlesinger 16 Mendes-Flohr and Reinharz, The Jew in the Modern World, 2nd ed., 204. 17 Joel Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” in Va-Yoel Moshe (Brooklyn, NY: 1959), 164.

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and other Ultra-Orthodox Hungarian leaders, regarded innovation and Judaism as antithetical and condemned all supporters of change, however moderate, as heretical. True, he engaged in sharper rhetoric than his predecessors, but then again it was he, not they, who arguably faced the greatest religious challenge of all time, the establishment of a modern Jewish state. And it was their teachings that primarily motivated him to vehemently oppose this supposedly monstrous innovation, and it was their techniques of argumentation that he employed to present his case. An examination of sections of his “Maamar Shalosh Shavuot” (“Essay on the Three Oaths”) in his anti-Zionist treatise Va-Yoel Moshe (1959) reveals how Rabbi Teitelbaum, in the tradition of his Hungarian Ultra-Orthodox mentors, wove together halakhic, aggadic, kabbalistic, and other materials to formulate his arguments. He even acknowledged that mainstream halakhic works had paid scant attention to the prohibition of resettling the land, but he dismissed this phenomenon as inconsequential. He, not they, had to confront the threat of Zionism.18 And in order to protect traditional Judaism from the threat of his time, he, like Rabbi Schlesinger, relied on unconventional sources and elevated non-halakhic material to the status of halakha. Indeed, he based his entire anti-Zionist polemic on an aggadic passage in Tractate Ketubot (of the Babylonian Talmud) that many earlier halakhic authorities had neglected. Thus, Rabbi Teitelbaum, an arch defender of traditional Judaism, developed a new tradition in an attempt to preserve the old one. In his introduction to Va-Yoel Moshe, Rabbi Teitelbaum, referring to the Holocaust, lamented that the Jews had suffered more in recent years than ever before. He firmly adhered to the classic rabbinic attitude toward catastrophe and maintained that “sin is the cause for all suffering.” Then, without any hesitation, he boldly declared that the Holocaust was a divine punishment for violation of the three oaths included in an aggadic talmudic passage (Ketubot 111a). These three oaths, argued Rabbi Teitelbaum, prohibited any attempt to establish a Jewish state before the messianic era.19 Because of the sensitivity surrounding anything related to the Holocaust, some could be tempted to dismiss Rabbi Teitelbaum’s views out of hand. Others might want to go further and attribute his interpretation of the Holocaust to latent guilt. Had Rabbi Teitelbaum, who himself was rescued by 18 Ibid., 12. 19 Ibid., 5–6.

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Zionists, not forbidden his followers from participating in the Zionist enterprise, fewer might have perished during the war. By blaming the Holocaust on Zionism, Rabbi Teitelbaum thus shielded himself of any responsibility. If the Holocaust was the divine punishment for Zionism, then he certainly could not have helped his followers by promoting it. According to this psychological theory, it was not so much Rabbi Teitelbaum’s strand of Ultra-Orthodoxy as his controversial stance during the Holocaust that did not allow him to make peace with the state, as the Orthodox Agudat Israel movement did. In any event, whatever his reasons may be in blaming the Holocaust on Zionism, the purpose of this chapter is neither to judge his ethical sensibility nor to attempt to probe his subconscious but, rather, to examine his sources and the nature and mode of his argumentation. Although Ketubot 111a obviously makes no reference to the Holocaust, it does arguably prohibit any human initiative to restore Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel. Song of Songs repeats the verse “I adjure you, O maidens of Jerusalem, by gazelles or by hinds of the field: Do not wake or rouse love until it please” three times.20 Based on this threefold repetition, the Talmud states that God administered three oaths, two to the Jews and one to the Gentiles. He commanded the Jews “not to ascend [all together as if surrounded] by a wall,” that is, en masse, and “not to rebel against the nations of the world,” and He “adjured the idolaters that they shall not oppress Israel too much.” From these oaths, according to Rashi’s variation of the text, the Talmud concludes that the Jews shall not force the end, that is, attempt to force God to inaugurate the messianic era.21 Rabbi Teitelbaum, who accepted the binding nature of the oaths, charged the Zionists with forcing the end. As he said, “The heretics made every effort to violate the oaths, to ascend [all together as if surrounded] by a wall and to establish, on their own, a government . . . before the proper time, which is forcing the end.”22 Despite the gravity of its sin, however, the Zionist movement, at least, was not an identifiably religious one. Predominantly secular, the Zionists had not betrayed their own principles. The same could not be said for their 20 See Song of Songs 2:7, 3:5, 8:4 (8:4 does not contain the phrase “by gazelles or by hinds of the field”), New Jewish Publication Society translation. 21 See Ketubot 111a. 22 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 5–6.

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Orthodox collaborators, whom Rabbi Teitelbaum held accountable for the legitimization of the Zionist heresy. By participating in the Israeli government, the Orthodox Agudat Israel, which had originally opposed Zionism, had sold out to the Zionists. As Rabbi Teitelbaum proclaimed, “By collaborating with [the Zionists], they legitimize Zionism before the entire world until . . . the entire world is ready to accept this impurity with the belief that the Pharisees have permitted it.”23 Rabbi Teitelbaum, like Rabbi Schlesinger, was an unyielding opponent of the more moderate elements within Orthodoxy. He opposed the Ultra-­ Orthodox non-Zionists, who participated in the electoral process without sharing in the ideals of Zionism, and the religious Zionists with equal vigor. Just as Rabbi Schlesinger saw the Modern Orthodox as an enemy from within, so too Rabbi Teitelbaum saw the Zionist and non-Zionist Orthodox as enemies from within. The Modern Orthodox had cloaked one form of the heresy of modernity in the garb of observance, and the religious Zionists and nonZionists had cloaked another form in the same garb. One group had granted legitimacy to non-Jewish culture and secular studies, and the other two, to Zionism, an imitation of non-Jewish nationalism. Thus, both Rabbi Schlesinger and Rabbi Teitelbaum saw within Orthodoxy a struggle between good and evil. Rabbi Schlesinger called for the Orthodox opponents of non-Jewish wisdom to uproot its Modern Orthodox proponents, whom he called Sadducees, and Rabbi Teitelbaum called on the anti-Zionist Orthodox, whom he called Pharisees, the classical rabbinic separatists, to uproot the Zionist and non-Zionist Orthodox. Moreover, Rabbi Teitelbaum, like Rabbi Schlesinger, proclaimed that the Erev Rav, the mystical symbol of evil, had mingled with its Orthodox enemies.24 Finally, Rabbi Teitelbaum compared both the Orthodox and secular Zionists with Sabbatai Zevi and saw Zionism as a new form of false messianism that had delayed the true redemption.25 Although Rabbi Teitelbaum, a product of the Ultra-Orthodox Hungarian school that regarded the preservation of Jewish customs as a cornerstone of Judaism, predictably opposed the establishment of a secular Jewish democracy, one should not assume that he would have reacted any differently if 23 Ibid., 181, 220. 24 Ibid., 229–230. 25 Ibid., 9, 13.

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somehow Agudat Israel or Mizrahi had succeeded in establishing a religious Jewish state. Because he had framed his opposition in terms of forcing the end, he could make no exception for an Orthodox political party or even for an Orthodox government. Thus, even if he was initially motivated to attack Zionism for its secularism, he had to oppose a Jewish state in any form. Accordingly, he could not but declare that “even if all the members of the government were . . . like Tannaim or Amoraim, nevertheless, if they establish a government and [acquire] freedom on their own before the appointed time, this is forcing the end which is a heresy.”26 Whereas the religious Zionists, whom he assailed, argued that the oaths neither to rebel against the Gentiles nor to ascend en masse to the Land of Israel no longer applied because the Gentiles had violated their oath not to persecute the Jews too much, Rabbi Teitelbaum asserted that God administered the oaths independently. As such, even when the Gentiles violated their oath by persecuting the Jews too much, the Jews could not, in turn, as the religious Zionists maintained, break their two vows against rebelling and ascending to Israel en masse. In other words, nothing could release the Jews from their adjurations. As he explained: God did not administer oaths to us for the sake of the nations but for our own sake for in His wisdom He saw the serious wrong of forcing the end before the proper time, and the nations have [many times] violated [their] oath and, in the future, God will exact vengeance from them . . . but this has no bearing on our oaths.27

The logic in his assertion, however, is somewhat circular. God, argued Rabbi Teitelbaum, administered oaths to the Jews for their own benefit to prevent them from committing the wrong of forcing the end. Yet forcing the end was only wrong because God had forbidden it! Perhaps, to prevent insufficient reliance on Him, God prohibited the Jews from forcing the end and then administered the oaths to ensure compliance. And when the Jews broke these oaths, God unleashed the fury of the Gentiles on them. Thus, in Rabbi Teitelbaum’s opinion, Zionism was not a response to the persecution of the Jews but, in fact, its very cause.

26 Ibid., 139. 27 Ibid., 135.

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Rabbi Teitelbaum could ascribe the horrors of persecution to Zionism only if he could demonstrate, to his own satisfaction, that the great medieval and modern halakhic authorities had viewed the oaths as halakhically binding, even if they had failed to cite them in their works. Had his predecessors throughout the generations regarded the talmudic passage on oaths as nonbinding aggadah, how could the oaths legitimately play a key role in his theology? The Ultra-Orthodox, responding to modern trends in Judaism, claimed that they had preserved the authentic tradition. Even if, as I discussed, they in fact created a new, more potent tradition by weaving together eclectic materials, they had to show some connection to the past. They still needed traditional sources from which they could draw. Rabbi Teitelbaum could not have made a convincing case against Zionism had he been unable to link the oaths to any traditional Judaism of the medieval period. In examining his sources, I will attempt to evaluate how convincing a case he actually makes. Before I do so, however, I must note the standard, although tendentious view, about the role the oaths played in Jewish history. Many scholars, particularly those sympathetic to Zionism, argue that the medieval rabbis did not attribute to the oaths any halakhic status. As Professor Mordecai Breuer writes, “Traditional Jewish thought understood the three oaths as landmarks for the people in exile, not as proscriptions addressed against those who wished to go up to Zion.”28 The oaths reflected the reality of the Jewish condition rather than religious law. Yet even Aviezer Ravitzky, himself a politically active religious Zionist, believes that Breuer and others underestimate the significance of the oaths to medieval Jewry. Nonetheless, he still insists that “the three oaths typically reside in the ideological and theological realm, not within the formal halakhic one. Even when the prohibition did enter halakhic literature, it reflected the religious consciousness, or even the religious anxiety, more than it did strictly legal considerations.”29 Whereas Ravitzky may have a Zionist bias, Rabbi Teitelbaum had an anti-Zionist bias and did not subscribe to any limitation on the halakhic status of the oaths. 28 Mordecai Breuer, “The Discussion Concerning the Three Oaths in Recent Generations” [Hebrew], in Geulah u-medinah ( Jerusalem, Israel: Ministry of Education and Culture, 1979), 50, quoted in Aviezer Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, trans. Michael Swirsky and Jonathan Chipman (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 213–214. 29 Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, 213, 232.

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Based on his reading of medieval sources, he argued not only for the halakhic application of the oaths but also that they constituted a cardinal principle of Judaism. As most Jewish movements of the modern era have set up Maimonides as the authoritative exponent of Jewish messianic doctrine, Rabbi Teitelbaum felt compelled to show how his description of the messianic era conformed to that of Maimonides. In this regard, the Mishneh Torah presented a challenge. Rabbi Teitelbaum rooted his anti-Zionist polemic in the principle of passivity and supernaturalism. Having taken halakhically binding vows, the Jews had to wait patiently until God chose to manifest His glory and redeem them through supernatural means.30 However, in his classic code of Jewish law, Maimonides had not included the vows and had arguably portrayed the messianic era in a rationalist light. As he declared in the Laws of Kings: King Messiah will arise and restore the kingdom of David to its former state and original sovereignty. . . . Do not think that [he] will have to perform signs and wonders, bring anything new into being, revive the dead, or do similar things. . . . Let no one think that in the days of the Messiah any of the laws of nature will be set aside or any innovation be introduced into creation. . . . The rabbis said, “The sole difference between the present and the messianic days is delivery from servitude to foreign powers.”31

Despite the glaring omission of the oaths and the seemingly non-miraculous interpretation of the messianic era, Rabbi Teitelbaum insisted that his position was consistent with that of Maimonides. Had Rabbi Teitelbaum not grounded his anti-Zionist polemic in the three oaths, he could have dismissed their omission from the Mishneh Torah as insignificant. Perhaps Maimonides had simply neglected to include them in his work, just as he had neglected to include several other laws that medieval Jewry had accepted as binding. However, how could Maimonides have ignored what Rabbi Teitelbaum regarded as a basic principle of Judaism whose violation had grave consequences? Nonetheless, using circular reasoning, Rabbi Teitelbaum argued that Maimonides had omitted the three 30 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 10, 126–127; Lamm, “The Ideology of the Neturei Karta,” 40–41. 31 Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings 11:1, 3, and 12:1–2, trans. Abraham M. Hershman, in Code of Maimonides: The Book of Judges (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1949).

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oaths from his work precisely because of their cardinal importance. According to this interpretation, Maimonides had provided only instruction in the details of Jewish law but not in its well-known fundamental principles. “The oath,” as Rabbi Teitelbaum stated, “against achieving redemption on our own is much more serious than the oath of the acceptance of the Torah.” Thus, forcing the end was not a violation of an ordinary prohibition but, in fact, a repudiation of the Torah altogether.32 As Ravitzky notes, Rabbi Teitelbaum’s circular reasoning to justify the omission of the oaths in the Mishneh Torah is a mirror image of the rationalization on the part of several Zionist rabbinic scholars of the omission of the commandment to resettle the Land of Israel in Maimonides’ Book of Commandments: “The fact that this commandment is missing from Maimonides’ enumeration of the 613 commandments is explained in terms of its being an overarching principle rather than a mere detail of the Law.”33 Clearly, this form of logic has its weaknesses. Were the oaths or the resettlement of the land more central to Judaism than the prohibition against idolatry? Did not an idolater, by definition, reject the entire Torah? And yet Maimonides had included the prohibition against idolatry in both his Book of Commandments and the Mishneh Torah and specifically stated that “abstention from idolatry [is] equivalent to the sum total of all commandments of the Law.”34 As such, Maimonides clearly included in his code prohibitions that he believed to outweigh the entire Torah. Moreover, if the exclusion of the oaths signified their cardinal importance to Maimonides, then why had he not included them in his list of fundamental principles in the introduction to his commentary on chapter ten of the Mishnah Sanhedrin? Rabbi Teitelbaum’s attempt to bolster his case for the centrality of the oaths by their omission in the Mishneh Torah certainly has its weaknesses. But putting this to the side, he pointed to explicit passages in the Mishneh Torah that, in his view, supported his opposition to Zionism in general and his supernatural description of the messianic age specifically. In the Laws of Repentance, Maimonides had declared that “only through repentance will Israel be redeemed, 32 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 139–140, 146–147. 33 Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, 64. 34 Mishneh Torah, Laws of Sabbath 30:15, trans. Solomon Gandz and Hyman Klein, in The Code of Maimonides: The Book of Seasons (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1961).

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and the Torah already offered the assurance that Israel will, in the closing period of exile, finally repent, and thereupon be immediately redeemed.”35 However, the Zionists, to whom Rabbi Teitelbaum attributed many egregious sins, had seized sovereignty on their own, which, despite the self-avowed secularism of the majority, Teitelbaum saw as an attempt to bring redemption without repentance.36 Worse yet, the Zionists had created a secular state that, in his view, led its Jews away from rather than closer to God. And, through these terrible transgressions, they had delayed the true redemption. Pointing to another passage in the Laws of Repentance that describes the Messiah as a great prophet approaching Moses to whom all the nations would come and listen, Rabbi Teitelbaum argued that Maimonides had indeed portrayed the messianic era in supernatural terms and that human initiative to hasten redemption was absolutely forbidden.37 Despite his citations from the passages from the Laws of Repentance, in his attempt to find support for his anti-Zionist views from the Mishneh Torah, Rabbi Teitelbaum remained on the defensive. He had to justify Maimonides’ failure to refer to the three oaths that, in his view, were supposedly fundamental principles of Judaism. Thus, in the tradition of Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy, Rabbi Teitelbaum turned to a non-halakhic work to prove that Maimonides also believed in the centrality of the oaths. Jacob ben Nathanel al-Fayyumi had written to Maimonides on behalf of the besieged Jewish community of Yemen for guidance. Threatened with forced conversion to Islam, he asked, among other things, what to make of a particular person’s claim to be the Messiah. In his Epistle to

35 Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance 7:5, 9:2, trans. Moses Hyamson, in Mishneh Torah: The Book of Knowledge ( Jerusalem, Israel: Feldheim Publishers, 1981). 36 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 83–84. 37 Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance 9:2; Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 72. It is outside the scope of this chapter to discuss the validity of Rabbi Teitelbaum’s interpretations of and conclusions from these passages. For scholarly studies of Maimonides on messianism, see Amos Funkenstein, “Maimonides: Political Theory and Realistic Messianism,” Miscellanea Mediaevalia 11 (1977): 81–103; David Hartman, “Maimonides’ Approach to Messianism and Its Contemporary Implications,” Da-at, nos. 2–3 (1978–1979): 5–33; Aviezer Ravitzky, “Kefi Koah ha-Adam: Yemot haMashiah be-Mishnat ha-Rambam,” in Meshihiyyut ve-Eskatologiyah, ed. Zvi Baras ( Jerusalem, Israel: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 1984), 191–220; and Joel L. Kraemer, “On Maimonides’ Messianic Posture,” in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, Vol. 2, ed. Isadore Twersky (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984), 109–142.

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Yemen, in which he describes the messianic era in miraculous terms, Maimonides had warned the Jewish community not to heed this false messiah. As he wrote: The prophets have instructed us . . . that pretenders . . . will appear in great numbers at the time when the advent of the true Messiah will draw nigh, but they will not be able to make good their claim. They will perish with many of their partisans. Solomon, . . . inspired by the Holy Spirit, foresaw that the prolonged duration of the exile would incite some of our people to seek to terminate it before the appointed time, and as a consequence they would . . . meet with disaster. Therefore he admonished them in metaphorical language to desist, as we read: “I adjure you. . . .” Now . . . abide by the oath, and stir not up love until it pleases.38

Though Maimonides probably included this passage about the oaths to protect a beleaguered community against charlatans, Rabbi Teitelbaum trumpeted it as a prohibition against Zionism. He even claimed, erroneously, as Rabbi Norman Lamm notes, that Maimonides wrote the Epistle to Yemen after he had concluded the Mishneh Torah and that it represented his final opinion on the matter of forcing the end.39 By skillfully selecting passages from the Mishneh Torah, turning an omission to his advantage, and elevating the Epistle to Yemen to the status of a halakhic document, Rabbi Teitelbaum placed the oaths and the prohibition against forcing the end at the forefront of Maimonidean thought. Then, to strengthen his claim that Zionism is a violation of this prohibition, he turned to the Maharal of Prague, Rabbi Judah Loew, and his well-known theological work Netzah Yisrael. Religious Zionists could and did argue that they had not violated the restriction against forcing the end because they had established a state with the authorization of the United Nations, not to mention the Balfour Declaration. However, as Rabbi Loew explained, the Gentiles could not exempt the Jews from their oaths. God administered the 38 Maimonides, Epistle to Yemen, trans. Abraham Halkin and David Hartman, in Epistles of Maimonides: Crisis and Leadership (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1993), 93–131. 39 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 61–62, 69–71, 146; Lamm, “The Ideology of the Neturei Karta,” 44. Lamm correctly points to the non-halakhic nature of the Epistle to Yemen and expresses his bewilderment that the Rebbe, in the course of a halakhic discussion, would rely so heavily on a non-halakhic document. In a sense, the point of my chapter is to show that, given Rabbi Teitelbaum’s ideological background, this is exactly what one ought to expect.

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oaths to prevent the Jews from negating the exile, which represented “Israel’s metaphysical, existential estrangement from the very nature of the temporal world.” Returning to the land, with or without the permission of the nations, would upset this “unique social and cosmic order.”40 Even when threatened with death and torture, stated the Maharal, “Israel should not leave exile and not alter this order,” which ironically appears to be a violation of the oath not to rebel against the nations.41 Thus, the Maharal placed the oaths in the category of ye’hareig v’lo ya’avor (one should allow oneself to be killed rather than transgress). If the Jews could not ascend on pain of death, argued Rabbi Teitelbaum, then certainly they could not ascend just because of a mandate from the United Nations.42 In sum, this chapter has shown how Rabbi Teitelbaum found support for his anti-Zionist stance in an aggadic talmudic passage, in a letter of Maimonides, and in a theological work of the Maharal. Like his Hungarian Ultra-Orthodox predecessors, he wove together eclectic nontraditional halakhic sources that he believed addressed the threat to tradition in his time. And, as they did, he elevated these sources to the status of halakha. When confronted by the threat of secularism in the nineteenth century, Rabbi Schlesinger argued that separation from foreign influences is the essence of Judaism. Similarly, when confronted by the threat of Zionism in the twentieth century, Rabbi Teitelbaum reacted by placing anti-Zionism at the center of Judaism. He chose to protect tradition from external influences by making it more extreme. Some might call it an exercise of “rediscovery,” whereas others might call it an exercise of “re-creation.” But whether one believes that Rabbi Teitelbaum rediscovered tradition or deviated from it, all must acknowledge that, for better or for worse, he never deviated from his principles and fought Zionism until his last breath.

40 Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, 225–226. 41 Judah Loew, Netzah Yisrael ( Jerusalem, Israel: ha-Hafatsah al-yede Sifriyati H. Gitler, 1964), 124. 42 Teitelbaum, “Essay on the Three Oaths,” 149.

The Late Zionism of Nathan Birnbaum: The Herzl Controversy Reconsidered* Jess Olson Despite a distinguished life and a remarkable written and intellectual legacy, history has not been kind to Nathan Birnbaum.1 While alive, he was 1 To date, four monographs have detailed Birnbaum’s life. The latest is my own, a dissertation titled “Nation, Peoplehood and Religion in the Life and Thought of Nathan Birnbaum,” submitted to Stanford University. The second is an unpublished dissertation from Dusseldorf written by Michael Kühntopf-Gentz; the third a monograph on Birnbaum’s Zionist thought published in Hebrew by Joachim Doron, titled Ha-guto ha-tsiyonit shel natan birnbaum ( Jerusalem, Israel: Ha-Sifriyah ha-Tsiyonit hal-yad ha-Histadrut ha-Tsiyonit ha-holamit, 748 [1988]); and finally, a study of Birnbaum’s use of language in the development of his ideology, Identity, Society, and Language: The Odyssey of Nathan Birnbaum by linguist Joshua A. Fishman (Ann Arbor, MI: Karoma, 1987). These, along with a few article-length pieces by Robert Wistrich, Barbara Galli, and Emmanuel Goldsmith, represent all of the academic work on Birnbaum. None of these works, with the exception of my own and Kühntof-Gentz’s dissertation, are full-length biographies; each takes a methodological or temporal point of departure and emphasizes one aspect of interest in Birnbaum’s career. Most significantly, however, none but my own makes extensive use of the most important repository of primary documents pertaining to Birnbaum, the Birnbaum family archive in Toronto. (The one exception to all of these is a short biographical piece written by Solomon Birnbaum, Nathan Birnbaum’s oldest son and in whose home his papers are preserved.) The archive, maintained after Solomon Birnbaum’s death by his son, David Birnbaum, is an exhaustive collection of Birnbaum’s publications, manuscripts, correspondence, and secondary pieces about Birnbaum collected both during his life and after. In total, it houses documents numbering in the tens of thousands, perhaps the most complete known collection of papers of a major European Jewish intellectual maintained in private hands. Thanks to the hospitality and generosity of the Birnbaum family—including the archive’s main curator, David Birnbaum and his wife Jytte, as well as David’s brothers Eleazar and Jacob, who provided full access to the *This chapter appeared in AJS Review 31, no. 2 (November 2007), 241–276.

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acknowledged not only as one of the founders of central European Zionism but also as a major figure in Jewish politics and thought. As a journalist and essayist, he contributed to and was read widely in a staggering number of Jewish periodicals in central Europe—several of which, such as the first Jewish nationalist periodical in the German language, Selbst-Emancipation—he founded and edited himself.2 Yet today, little of his legacy is known, and his massive literary and intellectual production has received surprisingly little attention from Jewish historians. To his contemporaries, that he would be relegated to such a fate probably would have been surprising. Several testimonials show that he was regarded as a pivotal figure in turn-of-the-century Jewish intellectual life. One sterling example that reflects his stature in the minds of those same contemporaries can be found in a recent biography of Franz Kafka.3 When Kafka archives, as well as useful assistance and commentary on my work—I have been able to engage comprehensively with Birnbaum’s intellectual legacy. In particular, the letters exchanged between Nathan Birnbaum and Theodor Herzl provide a fascinating and intimate window into the Jewish nationalist debate and negotiation leading up to the 1897 Zionist congress in Basel. 2 Birnbaum was a founder, principal editor, and contributor to no fewer than five periodicals, including the first Jewish nationalist periodical in German, Selbst-Emancipation; its successor, Jüdische Volkszeitung; Neue Zeitung; the Yiddish D”r birnboyms vokhenblat; Der Aufstieg; and Der Ruf. He was a major contributor to and editor of the Berlin Zionist organ Zion, the Jewish cultural periodical Freistatt, Ost and West, Martin Buber’s Jude, and Die Welt, as well as to an innumerable number of other periodicals—Jewish and non-Jewish—published throughout Europe. 3 Rainier Stach, Kafka: The Decisive Years (Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 2005), 63. Stach describes Kafka’s affinity for Birnbaum thusly: “Nathan Birnbaum, who coined the term Zionism and was Herzl’s challenger, offered a different interpretation [from Buber]. On January 18, 1912, at ‘folk song night’ at the Bar Kokhba in Prague, he declared, ‘The eastern Jews are a complete, joyous and vital people, with a strong and original humor.’ This preeminent (and now forgotten) cultural Zionist could not pass up the opportunity to see a performance of the actors in the Café Savoy. Kafka hung on every word of Birnbaum’s lecture.” Stach asserts that Kafka did not mention Birnbaum in his famous diary; in fact, he did make the following entry on January 24, 1912: “Folksong evening. Dr. Nathan Birnbaum is the lecturer. Jewish habit of inserting ‘my dear ladies and gentlemen’ at every pause in his talk. Was repeated at the beginning of Birnbaum’s talk to the point of being ridiculous. But from what I know of Lowy I think that these recurrent expressions, which are frequently found in ordinary Yiddish conversations too, such as ‘Weh ist mir!’ or ‘S’ist nicht’ or ‘S’ist viel zu reden,’ are not intended to cover up embarrassment but are rather intended, like ever-fresh springs, to stir up the sluggish stream of speech that is never fluent enough for the Jewish temperament.” See Franz Kafka, Diaries 1910–1913, ed. Max Brod, trans. Joseph Kresh (New York, NY: Schocken Books, 1965), 223.

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attended one of the Jewish cultural evenings at Prague’s Jewish Town Hall, the Bar Kokhba club, or the Cafe Savoy—some of which he was instrumental in organizing—he usually spent his time indulging his interest in observing the faces of other attendees, not necessarily paying attention to the speaker. But on at least two occasions he was engaged enough to actually record his thoughts: once when Martin Buber addressed the assembly, the other when Nathan Birnbaum did. Kafka found Buber uninspiring and pat, but his reaction to Birnbaum’s words was quite different. The vision Birnbaum spun of the vibrant Jewish nation to be found among the Yiddish-speaking masses of eastern Europe struck a strong chord with Kafka. Birnbaum’s words seem to have played at least a part in Kafka’s own well-known ruminations on questions of his Jewish identity. And by no means was Kafka alone in his reaction; Franz Rosenzweig, arguably the central Jewish philosopher and theologian of the early twentieth century, described Birnbaum as the “living exponent of Jewish intellectual history.”4 Kafka’s and Rosenzweig’s testimonials share a thread with so many of Birnbaum’s associates, from his youth to his old age: Birnbaum was both a captivating and inspiring presence and a deep and original thinker. Berthold Feiwel, himself a distinguished Zionist and a longtime associate of Birnbaum, wrote in 1924, I remember distinctly what his form and his effect for us was . . . [H]e was the first. And when the movement for national rebirth became a reality for the first time, it was impossible to forget that he forged the path and knew the right way, and thus earned the thanks of his people; [and although] he has revised and renewed his decisions constantly to be true to himself, it is he, Nathan Birnbaum, [whose] name remains nothing less than our symbol and lodestar.5

But no testimonial says as much about Birnbaum’s influence on Jewish history as the simple fact that it was a word he coined in 1892, Zionism, that came to be the definitive term for Jewish nationalism.6 4 Letter from Franz Rosenzweig to Max Landau, February 1924, cited in Steven Ascheim, Brothers and Strangers: The East European Jew in German and German Jewish Consciousness, 1800–1923 (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1982), 114. 5 Berthold Feiwel, “Ein Brief,” in Von Sinn des Judentums: Ein Sammelbuch zu ehren Nathan Birnbaums, ed. Abraham Kaplan (Frankfurt am Main, Germany: Hennon Verlag, 1924), 14–15. 6 The first use of the adjective zionistische occurs in the article “Um Ehre und Wohlfahrt unseres Volk,” Selbst-Emancipation 1, no. 1 (April 1, 1890), and the noun Zionismus appears

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Though he is most often remembered, when at all, for this single contribution to the Jewish political lexicon, Birnbaum’s involvement in Jewish intellectual history was immeasurably deeper. The comments of his contemporaries are a useful measure of his past importance, but even a cursory glance at his intellectual resume shows that his legacy deserves a thorough reassessment. His nationalist and prolific literary career began when he was only seventeen, the youngest among a dynamic group of Jewish nationalist student activists. After he left Zionism sixteen years later, Birnbaum continued to be a powerful public voice in Jewish politics and culture. He embraced the Yiddish language and the culture of eastern European Jewry, and he was welcomed as a native son, becoming the principal transmitter of the eastern Jewish Volksgeist to Martin Buber, among others.7 He ran for public office in 1907 in a Reichsrat electoral district in Galicia.8 His fascination with Yiddish-speaking Jewish autonomism reached its apex at the First Conference of the Yiddish Language, the only of its kind, which he organized with Chaim Zhitlovsky.9 Finally, in his final intellectual transformation to Orthodox religious belief, he was quickly ushered into the upper echelons of the Agudat Yisrael by Jacob Rosenheim, one of the central leaders of Europe’s largest Orthodox Jewish political party, and

in “Die Siele der jüdische-nationalen Bestrebung, II” Selbst-Emancipation 3, no. 4, May 16, 1890. 7 As Ascheim details in Brothers and Strangers, Ost und West was part of a small but important Gerrnan-Jewish avant-garde preoccupation with the eastern European Jewish aesthetic known as the Jüdische Renaissance (the term was coined by Buber in the initial issue of Ost und West). For Buber, this period of intellectual development, documented in his essays in Ost und West, led directly to his 1908 turn to Hasidism, the foundation for much of his most important later thought. Birnbaum, however, served much more as senior guiding force to the Ost und West circle. In Ascheim’s words, it was Birnbaum who “was a prime mediator, interpreter, and champion of Ostjudentum to West European Jewish intellectuals” (Brothers and Strangers, 114). 8 A photograph, preserved in the Buczacz yizkor book (as well as in the Birnbaum family archive) dramatically demonstrates Birnbaum’s notoriety. It shows Birnbaum being greeted by a crowd of hundreds of well-wishers for his election (including a teenage S. Y. Agnon, who would write about the 1907 election). Birnbaum would go on to lose the election, although archival sources indicate a distinct pattern of electoral fraud perpetrated by the Polish political machine behind Polish nationalist candidate Stefan Moysa. 9 For an exhaustive study of the Czernowitz Yiddish-language conference, including essays by both Birnbaum and Zhitlovsky describing their respective roles in the conference, see Max Weinreich, Di ershte yidishe sprakh-konferents: barikhten, dokumentn un opklangen fun der tshernovitser konferents, 1908 (Vilna, Lithuania: YIVO Bibliotekh, 1931).

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remained a serious contributor to Jewish intellectual discourse.10 But one feature remained constant for his entire life: to his contemporaries, he was always carefully watched, a voice whose ideas caused, time and again, waves of controversy and concerted debate. But after his death in 1937, Birnbaum’s name slipped into obscurity. Much of the reason for this was the course of history itself. When Birnbaum abandoned Zionism and ultimately appeared to adopt the position of its ultra-Orthodox opponents, he was remembered as one who had picked the wrong side. Equally damaging was his decision to cast his lot with the ideology of doykayt, the belief that the national struggle of European Jewry would be solved in the Diaspora, not through mass immigration to Palestine. His infatuation with the “East,” the expressions of eastern European Jewish identity, folkways, and most famously, the Yiddish language, shifted his focus away from Palestine entirely in seeking a home for the cultivation of Jewish national culture. When the events of the 1930s increasingly showed that this hope was a cruel delusion, the credibility of Birnbaum and all who shared his opinions was critically undermined. Finally, Birnbaum’s tum from secularism to religious Orthodoxy—the opposite of the standard narrative of the Jewish intellectual—led many to dismiss his ideas as at best flighty, at worst unstable.11 Thus, it does indeed seem that Birnbaum, in his many transformations, often picked the wrong side, and he paid dearly for it. Perhaps Ahad Ha’am’s 10 See Rosenheim’s contribution to the 1924 festschrift written in honor of Birnbaum’s sixtieth birthday, Von Sinn des Judentums. Additionally, Rosenheim’s correspondence preserved in the Birnbaum family archive extensively details the relationship—sometimes fraught— between Birnbaum, Rosenheim, and the Agudah. 11 A fine illustration of the animosity held among Zionist biographers and historians toward Birnbaum is to be found in Ernst Pawel’s biography of Theodor Herzl, The Labyrinth of Exile (New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1989). He dispenses with Birnbaum in one short passage: “Nathan Birnbaum, one of [the] founders [of Austrian Zionism], is generally credited with having been the originator of the word ‘Zionism,’ the one solid achievement in a career full of bizarre convolutions. . . . Within a little band of uncommonly contentious and opinionated individualists, the hot-tempered and hirsute Birnbaum probably qualified as the most volatile and aggressive” (271). However, as I demonstrate in my article “Nathan Birnbaum and Tuvia Horowitz: Friendship and the Origins of an Orthodox Ideologue,” Jewish History 17, no. 1 (2003): 1–29, there is good reason to take seriously Birnbaum’s embrace of Orthodoxy as a viable and pragmatic intellectual choice, as well as an intellectually compelling one.

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characteristically acerbic description of Theodor Herzl, “fortunate in life and fortunate in death,” if inverted, is the best description of Birnbaum’s career.12 Though often prescient and insightful, he had the unfortunate fate of seldom catching the fickle high tide of Jewish public opinion. But on a close examination of his writing, it becomes clear that his work deserves to be taken seriously on its own merits. For not only did Birnbaum explore more of the intellectual courses and allegiances that spoke to so many of the Jews of Europe at a particularly fruitful time in Jewish intellectual history, he also explored them and wrote about them with rare depth and sophistication. His writing on a vast array of issues provides a unique and largely untapped perspective on early twentieth-century European Jewish politics and culture. As this study will show, the role that he and his ideas played in one of the most storied moments in modern Jewish politics—the birth of Zionism as a mass movement—was significant, and its details shed nuanced light on the movement’s early history. An excellent starting point to begin this reassessment of Birnbaum’s contentious legacy is the moment at which it became contentious: the period of his estrangement from Zionism. In early 1896, just before the release of Theodor Herzl’s Der Judenstaat, Birnbaum was at the height of his influence in the vanguard of a new Jewish nationalist ideology. If there was one figure to whom other Jewish nationalists could point with near unanimity as a key figure in central European Zionism, it was Birnbaum. But in less than eighteen months, he had embarked on a course of confrontation and conflict with Herzl that wrecked his position, more than a decade in the making, at the precise moment when Zionism was coalescing into a viable political entity. Although he would remain an important voice in Jewish nationalist issues for many years, he would never again be in a position to have so momentous a chance to participate in the realization of a vision he had done so much to create. In fact, any reassessment of Birnbaum’s life and its importance to modern Jewish intellectual and political history must start by understanding this choice. This is particularly essential given the number of crucial sources available, many of which are housed in the underutilized Birnbaum family archive and go far toward resolving outstanding questions. These include not just 12 This quotation is taken from Steven Zipperstein, Ahad Ha’am: Elusive Prophet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), xvii.

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Birnbaum’s writings during the period but also, even more illuminating, the unpublished documents and correspondence that surrounded his decision. These sources reveal that the origins of Birnbaum’s departure from Zionism are significant not only for what they tell us about Birnbaum’s career and personality but also for what they show about the intellectual conflicts that shaped the early Zionist movement of the late l890s—the tantalizing paths not taken, directions in Jewish nationalism that fell by the wayside in Zionism’s early years. Just as interesting is what these materials reveal about the relationship between Nathan Birnbaum and the man widely regarded as the true hero of Zionism, Theodor Herzl. A great deal has been made—much of it by Herzl himself and subsequent historiography indebted to Herzl’s famous diary—of Birnbaum’s supposed abandonment of Zionism during the early 1890s, before Herzl published Der Judenstaat. But in reality, little of Birnbaum’s thought was heretical among the varieties of early Jewish nationalist and Zionist ideology. Indeed, many of his ideas would ultimately find a place, in one form or another, in the wider Zionist movement in the ensuing years. There was little to distinguish Birnbaum’s position from what would come to be termed the “cultural” Zionism of Ahad Ha’am and the Democratic Faction, a fact that was widely acknowledged by Birnbaum’s associates and sympathizers.13 Much more important in Birnbaum’s departure from the movement was the poisonous relationship that developed between him and Herzl. When combined with Birnbaum’s evolving thought about the meaning of Jewish nationalism, this relationship fundamentally shaped the crucial choice he

13 This fact is borne out by several articles Birnbaum wrote around 1902–3 during the so-called Ahad Ha’am affair, a particularly vitriolic Zionist family fight. After the 1902 publication of Herzl’s novel Altneuland, Ahad Ha’am wrote a biting criticism of Herzl and his ideas about Zionism. Although Ahad Ha’am had long been a critic of Herzl, this particular instance prompted Max Nordau, possibly with the tacit approval of Herzl, to launch an excessively personal and bitter attack on Ahad Ha’am. This attack, against a man who was seen as an almost prophetic figure in Jewish nationalism, led, in turn, to a public outcry against Nordau and Herzl, including an open letter by Martin Buber and another by Birnbaum. Over the next several months, Birnbaum dedicated detailed thought to the meaning of Ahad Ha’am’s Zionist legacy, and its harmonization with his own thought. See Achad Ha-am: Ein Denker und Kdmpfer der jüdischen Renaissance (Berlin, Germany: Jüdischer Verlag, 1903); and “Die jüdische Bewegung,” Der Weg, August 20, 1903.

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made between Herzl’s arrival at a Zionist worldview in 1896 and his own formal departure from the Zionist movement in 1899.14 Understanding this transitional period and its role in the early theoretical and strategic direction of the Zionist movement is crucial. It shows, first, the varieties of thought about key issues that were present in Zionism on the eve of its major moment of coalescence. Though Birnbaum would be perhaps the first victim of the concretization of Zionism’s aims and ideology, his approach to Jewish nationalist theory—and his confrontation with Herzl— would prefigure an essential conflict that would reemerge famously during the Sixth Zionist Conference. Furthermore, Birnbaum’s unique perspective and experience as an early leader in central European Jewish nationalism is the cornerstone of a much more comprehensive reevaluation of Birnbaum’s full life of ideas.

“He Was The First:” Birnbaum and Zionism Before Herzl At the end of the 1880s, Nathan Birnbaum’s leadership position among Viennese Jewish nationalists seemed unassailable. His credentials were sterling. As a seventeen-year-old, with fellow Vienna University students Reuben Bierer and Moritz Schnirer, Birnbaum played the enfant terrible in the trio’s taboo-breaking nationalist club.15 This informal group, with the addition of a few more sympathizers and the galvanizing presence of Peretz Smolenskin, quickly incorporated as Kadimah, the first Jewish nationalist student society in central Europe. From there, Birnbaum’s stature continued to grow as the main presence behind the newspaper Selbst-Emancipation, the public voice 14 It is Robert Wistrich’s chapter, “The Metamorphoses of Nathan Birnbaum,” more than any other secondary source, that charts the interplay between Birnbaum’s ideology and his relationship with Herzl in his turn from Zionism. However perceptive this article is, however, it ascribes a great deal more to the “socialist” elements of Birnbaum’s thought (Herzl’s own not credible description of Birnbaum in his diary) in the early 1890s than is warranted; likewise, as with most other historiography on Birnbaum, it does not contain any reference to or account for the materials available in the Birnbaum archive, in particular the Herzl-Birnbaum correspondence. 15 See Moritz Schnirer’s account of the founding of Kadimah in Festschrift zur Feier des 100 Semesters des akademischen Verbindung Kadimah (Vienna, Austria: 1933). He describes Birnbaum as an “exceptionally intelligent, earnest young man filled with a glowing love for Judaism” (15–18).

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of nascent Jewish nationalism in Vienna. His work for the cause of proto-­ Zionism was tireless; upon earning his law degree, he soon abandoned legal practice to devote all his time and energy to the newspaper and to the promotion of Jewish nationalism.16 Birnbaum’s influence did not end at the boundaries of Vienna. Through his writing and frequent journeys and wide correspondences throughout central Europe, he was connected to and revered by young nationalists from Sophia to Lvov to Berlin.17 It was to Birnbaum that western Zionists turned to assess the importance of a new Zionist journal out of Odessa, Ahad Ha’am’s Ha-shiloah, and it was to Birnbaum that the editor himself turned for contributions to its pages.18 When, two decades later, the young Zionists of Prague convened to form the Bar Kokhba society, it was to Birnbaum, by then long departed from the Zionist scene, that they looked for inspiration.19 In dozens of essays written over the course of the 1880s and 1890s, Birnbaum sketched his view of the philosophical foundations of Jewish nationalism, joining his two biggest influences, Peretz Smolenskin and Leon Pinsker. Birnbaum had imbibed from a young age Pinsker’s profound despair at what he saw as an incurable strain of anti-Semitism in European culture.20 Pinsker’s views 16 Nathan Birnbaum, “Gegen die Selbstverstandlichkeit,” in Festschrift zur Feier des 100, 28–30. 17 This was aided in no small part by the confluence of personalities that Birnbaum encountered in his first months of matriculation to Vienna University. Both Bierer and Schnirer arrived in Vienna with respectable resumes of involvement with the Hovevei Zion. Schnirer, upon completing his medical education in Vienna, practiced medicine in Sophia, Bulgaria, and was a leading figure in the Hovevei Zion there. 18 See Nathan Birnbaum’s review of the inaugural issue of Ha-shiloah in Zion, his contributions to its pages, and the translation of his article “Kulturkampfe im alten Israel,” 1896. 19 See Hillel Kieval, The Making of Czech Jewry (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1988), 101, for a description of the role of Birnbaum and his early Zionist colleagues on the Prague Bar Kokhba. Both Hugo Bergmann and Martin Buber were more than casual acquaintances of Birnbaum’s; both corresponded with him, with Buber’s correspondence numbering several letters. 20 The influence of Pinsker on Birnbaum and the other Kadimah founders was profound, and indeed it was their adulation and propagation of the ideas in Pinsker’s seminal Autoemancipation that formed the core of early Jewish nationalism in Vienna. Pinsker’s influence on Birnbaum is hard to overemphasize. Although Birnbaum would point to a national consciousness that started during his days in the gymnasium, it is clear that the appearance of Autoemancipation at almost precisely the moment when Birnbaum entered Vienna University had a major impact on his embrace of Jewish nationalism (see Nathan Birnbaum, “Gegen die Selbstverstandlichkeit,” 28–29). Indeed, his first anonymously published essay, “Die Assimilationssucht,” is deeply indebted in tone and content to Pinsker’s essay of a year

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that Jews were inassimilable into European culture, not because of their own failings but because of the malady of Jew-hatred, and that the only possibility for the survival of the Jewish people was to abandon Europe and create a Jewish state struck a deep chord with Birnbaum. His youthful interaction with the Hebrew writer Smolenskin, one of the central early figures in the revival of Hebrew as a modem literary language, led Birnbaum to embrace the idea of the Hebrew language as the centerpiece for the regeneration of Jewish culture.21 Aside from the need for physical salvation through nationalism and statehood, in Birnbaum’s view and in the views of the other Kadimah members, the Jewish nation had experienced a dangerous cultural decline and desperately needed to rediscover the vibrancy and dynamism of its unique history and culture. Having lost a living tie to an authentic culture over the long Diaspora, whether they had abandoned it willingly for the salon or the baptismal font or had blindly surrendered it to the meek defeatism of ossified religious dogma, the Jews as a nation were in deep crisis, their future in question. According to Birnbaum’s early writings in Selbst-Emancipation and Serubabel between the years 1884 and 1892, the goal of Jewish nationalism was not just to establish a land for Jewish refuge but also to restore a lost culture. It would not resemble the integration-oriented western European Jewish society nor the pre-Enlightenment Jewish communal structure but instead a new, largely imagined national identity of pre-exilic Israel. Hebrew would be the national language of the Jews, replete with its own rich literature and artistic production.22 Jews would once again live in and cultivate the land of Israel, observe as national holidays (not, it is important to note, as earlier. And of course, the name of the official organ of Kadimah, Selbst-Emancipation, was an explicit homage to Pinsker. 21 Peretz Smolenskin was a catalyzing figure not only in Birnbaum’s early nationalist awakening but also in the formation of the Kadimah movement itself. Both Birnbaum’s and Schnirer’s recollections of the founding meeting of Kadimah in 1883 record the presence of Smolenskin as an honored guest. Both also agree that it was Smolenskin who, after vigorous debate among the young nationalists, proposed the name “Kadimah” for the student group, which all accepted. See Nathan Birnbaum, “Gegen die Selbstverstandlichkeit”; and Moritz Schnirer, “Grundung der Kadimah: Nach Mitteilungen des Ehrenburschen, Medizinalrates Dr. M. T. Schnirer, Wien,” in Festschrift zur Feier des 100. 22 Testimony to the commitment of Birnbaum and other members of Kadimah to master Hebrew is a small grammar, compiled by Birnbaum and another member of Kadimah, to instruct other members of the society in the rudiments of the language. This document is preserved in the Birnbaum family archive.

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particularly religious ones) the festivals of the Jewish calendar, and erect a civic, reasoned religion in place of the dusty religious formalism of the Diaspora.23 Importantly, it was the activity of educating the Jewish people in exile, of bringing to them not only the knowledge of history, language, and culture but especially the requisite political consciousness needed to create a Jewish nation state, that was as important as—if not more important than–seeking a means of establishing an actual state. It was not that Birnbaum was uninterested in pursuing statehood, but if actual statehood for the Jewish people in Palestine was never displaced as an ultimate goal, it was nevertheless the more distant one. By the middle of the 1890s, however, Birnbaum’s ideas were undergoing an increasingly pronounced evolution. His youthful days as an enthusiastic Zionist and his largely uncritical belief in the utopian vision of the rebirth of Hebraist culture and secular nationalism gave way to a more jaded, mechanistic view. More and more, Birnbaum began to distrust what he referred to as adolescent ideals, in particular that of the Zionist identity as a panacea for solving both the existential struggles of identity faced by European Jews and their material struggles.24 Instead, Birnbaum began to conceive of the Jewish situation in Europe through a new theoretical kaleidoscope that encompassed elements of mechanistic socialist determinism, racialist theory, and pragmatism. Moving away from the familiar early cultural Zionist dream of monolithically recreating the Jewish nation as if writing on a blank slate, he started to conceive of the choices facing the Jewish nation as far more complex, requiring more nuanced and differentiated solutions. Even as he articulated the ideas that for decades to come would inspire many to envision a Hebraized Zionist nation state in Palestine, the maturing Birnbaum began to deemphasize some of the pillars of a Zionist worldview. Particularly in the period between 1892 and 1896, Birnbaum’s thought diverged 23 Birnbaum’s most comprehensive and organized single essay on these ideas is the lengthy 1893 pamphlet Die nationale Wiedergeburt des jüdischen Volkes in seinem Land, als Mittel zur Lo’sung der Judenfrage, which, like Leo Pinsker’s Autoemancipation, was a central reference point for early Zionists. It was also, interestingly, this pamphlet that Birnbaum enclosed with his first letter to Theodor Herzl in 1896. Interestingly, Birnbaum added a noteworthy caveat in the note to Herzl attached to the essay—that he no longer believed in a number of the principles it laid out. See the February 24, 1896, letter from Birnbaum to Herzl. 24 Nathan Birnbaum, “Was tun?,” Jüdische Volkszeitung 1–3 ( January–March 1894).

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from the path of Hebrew culture, anti-Semitism, and statehood. Most pronounced was his shift in focus from the demands for statehood and cultural revival to the more day-to-day plight of the Jewish population throughout Europe. The steady increase in violence against Jews, from the anti-Jewish riots of the early 1880s, to the periodic emergence of blood libel accusations even in Vienna’s own backyard of the Czech lands (the Leopold Hilsner case of 1899), to the success of anti-Semites such as Karl Lueger in Viennese politics, convinced Birnbaum that Jews had to act as quickly as possible to create a broad and vital national identity and use that awareness to act decisively for their interests in the Diaspora. Thus, although he continued his activities in the Zionist movement, Birnbaum’s opinion of “what was to be done” to relieve the struggles of European Jewry began to diverge from the coalescing Zionist line. As time went on, Birnbaum became preoccupied with exploring the meaning and implications of Jewish nationhood. He mused about the creation of a new type of nationalist party identity, a Jewish People’s Party (Jüdische Volkspartei), which he defined as a more pragmatic, ecumenical approach to Jewish politics based on a common perception of Jewish national “being” rather than a particular political doctrine.25 Although these interests were not, in his view, equal to abandoning Zionism—in fact, he saw them as the logical next step in its evolution—they did cause some to question his commitment to the movement.26 Ultimately, historical contingency and Birnbaum’s own choices did not allow this People’s Party model of Zionism, nor Birnbaum’s other evolving concepts of Jewish nationalism within a Zionist framework, to mature.27 The arrival of Herzl precluded this; he had little use for Birnbaum’s theorizing. For a brief time, between the summers of 1896 and 1899, Birnbaum tried to work 25 Nathan Birnbaum, “Eine jüdische Volkspartei,” Jüdische Volkszeitung 7 (1894). 26 Though there is little direct evidence of statements publicly questioning Birnbaum’s commitment to Zionism, Herzl’s comment in the diary entry that followed their first meeting, that Birnbaum “had already left Zionism and gone over to Socialism,” implies that such rumors were circulating. See Herzl’s diary entry for March 1, 1896. 27 Or at least not to mature on Birnbaum’s watch. There is a great deal in common with the way in which Jews approached Zionism—particularly the General Zionist platform of Yitzkhok Grünbaum—in the elections of the interwar Polish Sejm. See Ezra Mendelsohn, Zionism in Poland: The Formative Years, 1915–1926 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1981), 74–75.

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within the framework Herzl had set forth, for a number of reasons. He recognized Herzl’s overwhelming momentum and popularity and realized that he could not easily counter it. Additionally, he genuinely seemed to view Herzl’s movement as a viable means to reach his own nationalist goals, if he could gain a position of influence over the new movement and Herzl himself. But at the same time he was having his first meetings with Herzl in the spring of 1896, Birnbaum was actively developing a detailed, theoretical conception of Jewish nationalism starkly different from his positions years before. In a series of essays, the most important a lengthy pamphlet titled Die jüdische Moderne, Birnbaum described a completely different understanding of the meaning of Jewish nationalism, both as an ideology and as it could be practically applied to the European Jewish condition. Written at almost exactly the same time as Herzl’s much more famous pamphlet, Der Judenstaat, Die jüdische Moderne offers a fascinating alterative to Herzl’s perspective. It is not really a “road not taken”; like many of Birnbaum’s ideas, it reflects a growing trend in much Jewish nationalist thought, both then and after. Yet it is very much a contrast to Herzl’s well-known conception of nationalism as laid out in Judenstaat, and as such, it provides valuable insights into the ultimate seeds of dispute between the two nationalists. Die jüdische Moderne originated in a speech delivered to the Kadimah society in early 1896, around the time Birnbaum was becoming acquainted with Herzl. Published under the pseudonym Mathias Acher, the essay is partly historical presentation, part philosophical argument, and part statement of policy and political action for the future of Jewish nationalism.28 Many of its points are restatements of positions that Birnbaum had long held: the failure of Jewish assimilation, its reasons, and repercussions, and the necessity of Jewish national autonomy in some form, preferably in a Jewish state, although Palestine is not specifically mentioned in the article. Likewise present is persistent anti-elitism, his oft-repeated castigation of Viennese and western Jewish leadership for their commitment to bankrupt assimilation and liberalism. New, however, at least in 28 The pseudonym “Mathias Acher,” Birnbaum’s most famous pen name (as demonstrated by Berthold Feiwel’s comments), was coined in 1895 in an article titled “Die jüngste politische Partei Galiciens” (Die Zeit, 1895). So popular was the persona that it became almost interchangeable within Jewish nationalist circles with Birnbaum’s given name; in many instances, Birnbaum’s lectures were announced under this name.

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such a systematic form, is a sharp critique of Jewish nationalists, especially Zionists. It is this criticism—really a sustained reconsideration of the roots and meaning of Jewish nationalism—that is the heart of the essay, not the tired castigation of the assimilationist establishment. It is what makes the essay a crucial gauge in the transformation of Birnbaum’s ideology over the mid-1890s. The essay starts with a litany familiar to any reader of Selbst-Emancipation or Jüdische Volkszeitung detailing the misguided mentality of the assimilationist Jew—but with some subtle differences. To begin with, Birnbaum defines the nature of the assimilationists’ error as a fundamental misreading, or even ignorance, of history. They seem unaware of the sorry results of the numerous historical attempts at assimilation. “What the present theory of assimilation is concerned with is well known in Jewish history’s succession of aborted searches for assimilation. These movements all incline to the same general result: the people as a whole remain unscathed, and the movements themselves come to their own destruction.”29 All that differs between the German, French, Hungarian efforts and the assimilationist movements of antiquity—those of Persia, Greece, and Baby1onia—are the particulars. Had the modern assimilationists been sensitive to history, they would have realized that the type of assimilation they sought and that demanded by the host society were completely at odds. Birnbaum does not deny that Jews succeeded in a form of assimilation. It was, unfortunately, the wrong kind. If we compare these so-called assimilated Jews with their surroundings, we find that their perspectives and their attitudes are circumscribed within a familiar set of ideas and notions, which are shared in common with all European people of culture; however, when it comes to the specifics of national uniqueness, it is completely deficient.30

Jews failed to understand that their notion of assimilation into European society—which was really the creation of a new cosmopolitanism—was as alien to a national sensibility as their abandoned faith. What the German, Frenchman, Czech, or Hungarian desired was not some kind of strange European Jew but a fellow German, Frenchman, Czech, or Hungarian. It is with this detail that Birnbaum pivots to the most novel idea in the essay, nothing less than a full-blown theory of history based on the concept, 29 Die jüdische Moderne (Leipzig, Germany 1896), 3, originally published in Zion 2, nos. 7–10. 30 Ibid., 4.

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in Birnbaum’s terms, of “racial materialism.” This term, with its obvious (and conscious) Marxist overtones, would become the foundation for much of Birnbaum’s thinking about race and nationalism. Like many, Birnbaum found the basis of Marx’s theory of dialectical materialism, particularly its eradication of external, transcendent forces from their theoretical position as the engines of history—in other words, the turn to materialism—a fundamentally compelling position, and from a young age.31 But as moving as the Marxist demystification of history was, Birnbaum believed that Marx, Engels, and their followers—particularly the mechanist and quietist Social Democrats—had erred in identifying the engine of history as economics and class conflict. In fact, Birnbaum suggests, not without some irony, that this misguided focus on economics—a singularly Jewish obsession when thinking about the situation of the Jewish people—was something that Marx, his followers, and the Jewish assimilationist haute bourgeoisie shared. “Why, exactly, should the economic structure of society—itself an abstraction—be accorded the honor of being figured as the stuff of history? The stuff of human history can only be humanity itself.”32 Economics, Birnbaum argues, is merely an intellectual abstraction that masks the essential motivating force of historical change, humanity itself, and the one unique and natural drive central to human existence, racial unity. “The historical event comes to being through human nature, decidedly in part from the racial-unity (Gattungseinheit), in part from the differentiation of man. From these flows the economic, from these the racial and national history. Both are manifold in one another, and their common work is history.”33 As insightful as the basic Marxist critique of the transcendent and the embrace of materialism was, it had missed the mark, a mistake continued and compounded by “everyday historical materialism.”34 Though not an extraordinarily insightful critique of Marxism, Birnbaum’s point nevertheless offers an interesting twist. In his analysis, it is the nation that dictates the development of human history—or rather, its elemental component, race. “The firm foundation of nationality is always 31 See Birnbaum’s discussion of his youthful intellectual development in his pamphlet Von Freigeist zum Gldubigen (Zurich, Switzerland: Verlag Artzenu, 1919). 32 Die jüdische Moderne, 10. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid.

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and above all race, as well as its means of development and refinement; it is through racial culture that nationality [develops].”35 Race is thus the crucial determining factor in the development of human history. This explosive assertion requires pause, particularly because of the pernicious use to which such conceptualizations have been put and because of Birnbaum’s close proximity—late nineteenth-century Vienna—to many of the most controversial racialists. Although Birnbaum’s focused discussion of race is unusual in its placement at the center of a major political-philosophical system (as Birnbaum clearly intended Die jüdische Moderne to detail), most nationalist thought at this time and place—the heyday of nationalist theory, not just in the multinational Austro-Hungarian Empire but also in much of European and American thought—had at its core racial or naturalistically ethnic overtones. Birnbaum, in fact, was remarkably sensitive to the racialist implications of nationalism. He took great pains to distance himself from the likes of Chamberlain and Weininger, both in this essay and others.36 That he would focus on these two in particular is not surprising, given their sensational presence in Viennese public debate. Chamberlain, later renowned for his marriage to Eva Wagner and for his place in Hitler’s pantheon of anti-Semitic forbears, was at this time at work on his anti-Semitic epic Origins of the Nineteenth Century. Weininger, a young and prolix eccentric, was also present, at work on his immensely popular masterpiece of misogyny and antisemitism, Geschlecht und Character (Sex and Character), which he would publish just before his suicide in 1903. Regardless of any superficial resonance with these confirmed racists, Birnbaum’s conception of race is decidedly benign. Though he views it as the determining factor in human differentiation, and one that individuals have little power to change, he never describes it in the biological terms of his contemporaries. Nor does he seek to bring in the other key component of nineteenth-century racialism: quasi-Darwinism. To Birnbaum, national—that is, racial—culture is not a competitive advantage bestowed by nature on one group and not another, 35 Ibid., 13. 36 See “Ueber Houston Stewart Chamberlain,” Die Welt (November 22 and 29, 1901); “Etwas über Houston Stewart Chamberlain,” Ost und West (December 1902); and “Weininger und das Judenthum,” Jüdische Volksblatt ( January 27, February 24, and March 24, 1905).

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as the racial Darwinists believed. Their position, which Birnbaum calls chauvinism, is false and ludicrous, its presence a danger to all: From this comes national awareness as it is usually understood in Europe, and with it all the sins that have been committed [in its name] in this empire. [But] between the recognition of these historical factors and chauvinism lays a wide chasm. Chauvinism has no scientific basis.37

Birnbaum’s nationalism, as opposed to chauvinism, is not necessarily malignant. Rather, it is the key ingredient of human social adaptation and survival. Jews, as with all other peoples, achieve their full sense of historical being through their national—that is, racial—existence. However, nationalism, as a social mechanism, does have a dark side. Like all group impulses, it has an affinity to engage with that which is similar to it and to reject that which differs as a threat to its hegemony. The Jewish people in exile, in denying and resisting their natural, national impulse, exhibited social behaviors that were terminally different to national being. Thus, in failing to embrace their being as a nation, the Jews brought upon themselves the hatred and destructive fury of other nations. Although a dire situation, for Birnbaum, this realization is cause for optimism. It is, as Pinsker had asserted years before, a natural, rational problem, and thus has a solution. “I do not believe in an eternal national hatred myself, at least not in terms of racial culture.”38 It is only because of the peculiar situation of the Jews in Europe, the rise of European nationalism, which tended to turn on Jews as an obvious target, where Jews have been found, they have been found in too great a number to be left alone in the crowd, and too small a number to command respect. This powerlessness is the foundation of the inevitability of the national friction between Jews and non-Jews, and lends Jew-hatred its particular potency.39

Birnbaum believed that the solution to this problem had already shown itself to be the unapologetic embrace by the Jewish people of their national destiny and identity. By realizing their nationhood, the Jews would both elevate the self-esteem of the Jewish people, allowing them to realize their true historical destiny and being on the world stage, and relegate to history the persecution of Jews as 37 Die jüdische Moderne, 13. 38 Ibid., 14. 39 Ibid., 15.

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powerless and nationless. “The Jews possess at this moment all which would be required of a state in order to be able to come to being and to succeed; they have a unified nation, they have at their disposal a full measure of physical, economic and spiritual power, they possess now more as well in the political sense than they have before.”40 Whether Birnbaum’s musings on race and national destiny were novel to his readers, what was new and, indeed, shocking to his past Zionist readers was where he went from there. It was the strengthening of the nation and its character, its sense of esteem and self-knowledge, that was the key project of the Zionist and the Jewish nationalist, not the immediate creation of a homeland. “[ Jewish national being does not] depend on the land. The reclamation of the land itself is relatively easy, one might even say an automatic undertaking, whether it is fulfilled now with economic weapons, or, as in our case, with our own modern weapons of spirit and capital.”41 This is Birnbaum’s most important early statement on his turn from an orthodox Zionist position. Birnbaum is quite conscious of this and takes his critique to its logical end: a foundational questioning of the goals of Jewish nationalism. Logically, this leads Birnbaum to turn to Jewish national organizations themselves. For a little over a decade, Birnbaum observes, there had been in existence more or less organized groups that understood the necessity of a Jewish national awakening, known as Zionists or Jewish nationalists. Over time, the two terms had (mistakenly) become synonymous. However, drawing a sharp distinction between Zionism and Jewish nationalism, Birnbaum turns on Zionism. The movement was, as a whole (and, he acknowledges, attributable in no small part to his own writings), a romantic ideology, a misdirected attempt to resolve the Jewish question that, although based on a sound foundation, had focused on the wrong structure. Obsessed with the need to establish a homeland, paramount to any other priority, the Zionists erroneously assumed that the existence of a Jewish state alone would solve the Jewish problem. They had made the error, going back to Birnbaum’s critique of Marxist materialism, in siding with Engels in the belief that only status as “masters of their own house” would liberate them from their

40 Ibid., 36. 41 Ibid.

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troubled history.42 They had, as a result, committed the same error as the Marxists and removed the human center from their consideration of the material of history, turning the land itself, and the quest for a state, as an idol. Like all other idols, however, it would prove to be empty.43 Rather than focus on land and its acquisition, it was the duty of the Jewish nationalists to strengthen the nation and let the land take care of itself. One of the most serious threats to this aim, Birnbaum argues, was the subjugation of Jewish nationalism—particularly Zionism and its striving for the creation of a Jewish national being—to party politics. The descent into party politics would be a strong temptation for the Jewish nationalists. After all, “The German nationalists are a party, the irredentists are a party, why shouldn’t the Jewish nationalists also be a party? Why not? Because [the Jewish nation] departs from every assumption of a party.”44 Entrance into the political fray by true Jewish nationalists would merely undermine the creation of an integral national being in exchange for the very chauvinism and jingoism that had tortured the Jewish people for so long.45 Furthermore, to create a Jewish national party would be to create an artificial unit with no meaning in the context of Jewish national being: “Nationality is so reflexive an aspect of the people, that it makes no sense to have a movement, in which this obvious state of affairs is made explicit.”46 It was at precisely the turning point of Zionism from a parochial, rarified movement of idealists into a true mass movement that Birnbaum was writing along these lines. It was, in a sense, a latent tendency, the suppressed id of Jewish nationalism that craved to answer anti-Semitic nationalist chauvinism in kind, that Birnbaum warned against. Written, as it was, at the same time as Herzl’s Judenstaat, it is possible that Birnbaum aimed part of the pamphlet at the greatest enabler of this very attitude, none other than Herzl himself. In any case, the point that Birnbaum leaves with in Die jüdische Moderne is a warning about the dangers political engagement held for the purity of the Jewish national cause, and he gives a strong indication that he saw things 42 Ibid., 21. 43 Ibid., 23. 44 Ibid., 26. 45 Ibid. 46 Ibid., 30.

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quite differently from Theodor Herzl. In retrospect, it is likely that he would not have lasted in any case in the large-scale, mass Zionist movement, especially as envisioned by Herzl. As it was, he did not have to wait long to find out.

“I Had the Misfortune To Recognize the Truth of Zionism:” Birnbaum and Herzl The year 1896 fundamentally disrupted the parochial and closed world of Jewish nationalism. Where once it had been possible for the early Zionists, writing their own journals and debating arcane points of Zionist theory, to garner enough support among the few Jewish nationalists to float a number of different ideas, the publication of Theodor Herzl’s Der Judenstaat ended this. To the Zionists, Herzl appeared out of nowhere. Although all probably knew of him through the columns he wrote as one of most gifted feuilletonists in the Neue Freie Presse, then perhaps the most respected paper in the German language, he had never shown, at least publicly, the slightest interest in the obscure world of Jewish nationalism. After his pamphlet appeared, however, this did not matter. With shocking suddenness and complete indifference to— and usually ignorance of—the preexisting world of Jewish nationalism, its hierarchies and squabbles, Herzl appeared, asserted his ownership of the movement, began his crusade of diplomacy with world leaders, and organized the First Zionist Congress—all in the sixteen months between February 1896 and August 1897. The sheer velocity with which he transformed the Zionist scene, totally reconstructing the fifteen-year-old movement in his image and to suit his vision, left the old Zionist guard reeling. Very quickly after Herzl’s appearance, an ultimatum emerged that confronted all those who had preceded him, including Birnbaum: either join with his movement—a movement whose accomplishments seemed, on their face (and thanks in no small part to Herzl’s genius for self-presentation), to dwarf in a year what the staid Zionist societies had done in ten—or fall by the wayside. Herzl made this choice clear as he succeeded in recasting the entire movement. For the small cadre of leaders, such as Birnbaum, who had felt unconstrained in shaping the ideals of the movement, there was uncertainty as to how to cope with the sudden challenge.

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The roots of conflict between Herzl and Birnbaum began early in their relationship—in fact, even before they had met. But despite the rancor that would eventually sabotage any possibility of the two working on a common cause, what is immediately most noticeable about the two men are their many similarities.47 Both were the children of migrants to the large urban centers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire—Herzl’s father Jakob to Budapest and the Birnbaums to Vienna. They had almost identical educations (the gymnasium, the gateway to an elite university education), and both were law students and received their degrees from Vienna University (Herzl completed his in 1884, the same year in which the young law student Birnbaum and his colleagues formed Kadimah). Both made their livings primarily through their talents with the written word: Herzl was more widely familiar to a popular audience through his feuilletons in the Neue Freie Presse, whereas Birnbaum was more narrowly familiar to the readers of both his self-edited papers and journals and his publications in other sources. Both even aspired to accomplishment in the belles lettres as playwrights and poets. But their similar occupations, educations, and backgrounds belied some deeper differences. Herzl’s father had turned his business prowess into an Algeresque rise to become the head of a major Budapest banking firm and married into the Budapest Jewish elite; Birnbaum’s mother and father had remained two among the marginal lower-middle-class Jewish masses that flooded Vienna from throughout the Austro-Hungarian Empire during the mid-nineteenth century. While too much could be made of these social distinctions, the interactions between the two men show an awareness of their relative status at play. Herzl was a wealthy, well-dressed, and well-connected journalist with an aristocratic detachment so prized in Viennese society. He was clearly 47 Indeed, they even looked remarkably similar. This is underscored by a letter from much later in Birnbaum’s life, sent to him by Tuvia Horowitz, a young Hasid and member of the Vizhnitzer Rebbe’s (R. Yisroel Hagar) household, with whom Birnbaum carried on a lengthy correspondence after his turn to Orthodoxy. In the letter, Horowitz describes his persecution by other Hasidim in his community because of his suspicious correspondence with a “western doctor.” So serious were their charges, he writes, that he was forced to defend himself in front of his uncle and justify his errant act. His crime was twofold: He had corrupted the youth of the community by teaching women Hebrew grammar and Jewish history, and he “had a picture of a Jewish doctor who goes about bareheaded, which seems to be a picture of Dr. Herzl (he meant your picture).”

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disdainful of the poorer, straight-spoken, and marginal Birnbaum, who made no secret of his desperate financial circumstances or his belief that he was entitled to far more than he had received. It has been speculated that this social difference was a key element in the conflict between the two men. But despite all, the two had remarkably similar backgrounds, and it was the similarities in their experiences and their temperaments that made both men Zionists while, at the same time, forming the basis of their alienation and mutual dislike.48 Both were products of fin-de-siècle Vienna, and they experienced acutely the alienation produced by the deflation of the liberal promise—and, it seemed, liberalism itself—as such individuals as Karl Lueger and Georg Ritter von Schonerer succeeded in building entire political careers on platforms of anti-Semitism.49 They both experienced the frustrations and anxiety of living as Jews in Vienna, the neurotic city described so aptly by authors such as Arthur Schnitzler, Robert Musil, and Karl Kraus. They also shared certain personality traits that made cooperation difficult. Both felt they had earned propriety over Zionism, both had vaulting ambition in their desire to best serve their people, and neither could tolerate much dissension or criticism from others. Birnbaum, for his part, was deeply resentful of Herzl’s ease in totally dominating the Jewish national movement, thanklessly disregarding all those on whose shoulders he (for the most part unknowingly) stood. Herzl, despite his practiced indifference to the air of dilettantism that he could not, to some, ever efface, resented the condescension to which he was subject from the old Zionist guard, including Birnbaum. Add to this the general organizational strife present in any political movement, and especially in those as revolutionary in nature as Zionism, and the pattern of petty concerns and frequent misunderstandings, and it is no surprise that the two would be unable to share the same rostrum for very long. 48 See particularly Robert Wistrich, “The Clash of Ideologies in Jewish Vienna: The Strange Odyssey of Nathan Birnbaum,” Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 33 (1988): 201–30, esp. 220. 49 For a particularly insightful situation of Herzl within the context of von Schonerer, Lueger, and nineteenth-century popular Viennese anti-Semitism, see Carl E. Schorske, “Politics in a New Key,” in Fin-de-Siécle Vienna: Politics and Culture (New York, NY: Vintage Press, 1981). Although focusing exclusively on Herzl in the context of Viennese Jewish nationalism, much of his discussion of the tenor of nationalist politics sheds light on Birnbaum’s political career as well.

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Regardless of their similarities and differences, they were not personally acquainted before February 1896. Birnbaum probably knew of Herzl either through his work in the Neue Freie Presse or because of his keen interest in the theater, but Herzl made it clear that he had never heard of Birnbaum. This changed with the publication of Der Judenstaat in February 1896. The booklet, as Ernst Pawel records, was first revealed in a summary in the Jewish Chronicle on January 17. The summary was translated into German and printed in Oesterreichische Wochenschrift in mid-February, and the pamphlet was finally released in book form around February 14. Reaction to the pamphlet in Vienna was “swift and sardonic.”50 Among the notices was a review published on February 22 in Die Zeit by Nathan Birnbaum. This article marked Birnbaum’s first discussion of Herzl in print, and thus it is a useful indicator of his early views. Despite a tone of condescension that underscores Birnbaum’s review, he took Der Judenstaat seriously—much more so than either the elite mainstream press (including the chagrined editors of Neue Freie Presse) or much of the Zionist and Jewish press.51 In his opening, Birnbaum notes that Herzl’s work is already “interesting,” in that [T]he author calls himself a “Zionist” in the most resolute meaning of the young word. This alone would justify the general interest [it has received]. Zionism is [now] taken to be a modern movement. Now, if an adequate criterion to consider a movement modern is the re-consideration of an old question under a new perspective, and [finding in it] an initiative with substance, an indisputably grand goal, and [relevant to] the spirit of the times, then surely Zionism is such a movement.52

Though there is certainly a patronizing air in these words, Birnbaum nevertheless welcomes Herzl to his part in the development of the movement—albeit more as a barometer of the movement’s maturation than its agent. But some of Herzl’s comments, particularly those dismissive of the 50 Pawel, Labyrinth of Exile, 263–64. 51 Nahman Sokolow published the bitterly mocking headline “Wonderful rumors about the establishment of a Jewish State originating from the mind of a Dr. Herzl” in Ha-Tsefirah. Herzl’s diary records the embarrassing obsessive protestations of Bacher and Benedikt, the editors of Neue Freie Presse and Herzl’s employers. See Pawel, The Labyrinth of Exile, 263, 273. 52 Nathan Birnbaum, “Dr. Theodor Herzl: Der Judenstaat,” Die Zeit (February 22, 1896).

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previous efforts of Zionists, he finds much more troublesome. As the essay continues, Birnbaum’s tone becomes far more critical, even, in Pawel’s language, sardonic: An even more original step here for us [is] his proposal for realizing the Zionist ideas. Up to now, Zionists proceeded either under the cloak of their latest goal towards the “false principle of the gradual infiltration of Jews,” without regarding [the fact] that “normalization [of immigration] leads to a moment where the government, feeling the pressure of a menacing nationalism, obstructs a wider influx of Jews.” Or, it leads to a national-political, and under certain conditions also a national-religious campaign, [shaped] first and foremost around bringing the Zionist ideal to the people, or a combination of both methods. What however, such a Zionist—aware, for the most part, of his general lack of influence—hazards delicately with gentle suggestion, Dr. Herzl has the courage and the candor to speak forth clearly and simply. “Immigration has only then one meaning, if it is the foundation of our certain sovereignty.” And he unravels around this foundation of the Jewish state a plan.53

As he delves into Herzl’s concrete proposals, Birnbaum is unenthusiastic. He devotes a substantial part of the article to detailing Herzl’s program as laid out in Der Judenstaat, giving a summary of the functions of the Jewish company, the society of the Jews, and the various plans for a scientifically based social utopia under the leadership of the best and purest of the Jewish people. In the end, however, Birnbaum hones in on Herzl’s words that he finds most outrageous, for they touch on the subject closest to his heart: the issue of Jewish cultural regeneration, which Herzl summarily dismisses. “Then, it will appear,” Birnbaum writes, [I]f Dr. Herzl’s opinion on the matter: “this return-to-old-culture stuff, which many Zionists want, is foolish,” and “we are a modern people, and want to be the most modern”—beyond which some of his detailed proposals stand in direct contradiction—has any hope of vindication. Much will depend upon the establishment of the “Society of Jews,” which Dr. Herzl is prepared to convene in London. In any case, the author of Judenstaat is entitled to take credit [for the fact] that the Zionist movement is to be dissuaded indirectly from a national day-to-day politics, to which it must always be left to react. No modern-thinking person can be unsympathetic to a true new people’s party, upon which will be established a new state of modern life.54 53 Ibid. 54 Ibid.

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The strained comments on Herzl’s opinion of the “return-to-old-culture stuff ” would not have been lost on those acquainted with Birnbaum’s writing. This facile dismissal by a man entirely uninitiated in the Zionist world of Birnbaum’s life’s work and his most deeply held opinions clearly offended him. Although Herzl professed not to know Birnbaum, he could not have picked a better way to provoke him. But Birnbaum did not rush to attack or polemicize against Herzl— reflecting how little Birnbaum considered him a threat—but rather took it upon himself to educate him. In the opening to the correspondence between the two men, Birnbaum thanks Herzl for the copy of Der Judenstaat that he had sent (seemingly after Birnbaum’s review was published!) and responds by sending him one of his own pamphlets, Die nationale Wiedergeburt des jüdischen Volk in seinem Land (The National Rebirth of the Jewish People in Their Own Land). That the pamphlet was intended as a primer for Herzl is suggested by the note accompanying it, which states, “the author today has an entirely different worldview, and thus he is no longer able to endorse the entire contents of his writing. In any case, he remains, so far as his goals are concerned, a Zionist with his whole heart.”55 In other words, Birnbaum was more interested in tutoring Herzl than speaking to him as an equal. Birnbaum’s enticing comment, one of the most explicit indications of his changing opinions vis-a-vis Zionism, nevertheless indicates his feeling that Herzl needed some introduction to the thought he had disparaged in Judenstaat, starting with his own work. However presumptuous, or even patronizing, his intentions were, that Birnbaum seemed willing both to engage in a dialogue with Herzl, as well as provide him with some guidance in negotiating the labyrinth of Jewish politics, shows that he saw potential in Herzl as a force in Zionism. Even if he was only a useful measure of the presence that Jewish nationalism had in the minds of Viennese laypeople, Herzl had a public presence few Zionists had; most of them, like Birnbaum, existed publicly only insofar as they were known among other Jewish nationalists. At any rate, his tone—particularly the need he felt to underscore his continued commitment to Zionism—indicates that he took Herzl’s interest in Zionism seriously.

55 Birnbaum to Herzl, February 24, 1896. All letters between Birnbaum and Herzl are contained in the Birnbaum family archive in Toronto.

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The flood of interest that accompanied the publication of Judenstaat did not subside very quickly. Numerous articles, letters, and commentaries appeared, offering a spectrum of different opinions on the pamphlet. As the weeks passed after the article’s appearance, Herzl became a fixed presence on the nationalist scene, his words making him a sensation. Soon after Birnbaum’s review appeared in Die Zeit, in the same letter with which he sends a copy of Die nationale Wiedergeburt, he pressed Herzl for a face-to-face meeting. Herzl, in the meantime, was becoming apprised of the figures on the Zionist scene, including Birnbaum. He was initially reluctant to meet Birnbaum; citing a lack of time, he noncommittally hoped that they would have a chance to meet in the future.56 Birnbaum persisted, and finally they agreed to meet on March 3 at Herzl’s apartment. This meeting was the impetus for the entry from Herzl’s diary quoted earlier. As it shows, Birnbaum particularly irritated Herzl, a reaction doubtlessly predestined by his earlier pedagogic mailing (and he may well have also read Birnbaum’s review of Judenstaat, although he does not say so). Herzl’s diary entry leaves little room for speculation about his feelings toward Birnbaum after their first meeting. The diary, a crucial historical document that has had a great influence on how many within the movement have been cast in the history of Zionism, has had a particularly unfortunate impact on Birnbaum. From the beginning, and for no immediately obvious reason, Herzl portrays him as a liability to Zionism, little more than an egotistical, money-grubbing blowhard who insisted on putting Herzl in his place and demanded that Herzl acknowledge him as his predecessor and elder in the Zionist fold. In his first entry that discusses Birnbaum, Herzl identifies a set of themes that would continue to frame his perception of him for as long as the two men had any association: Birnbaum is unmistakably jealous of me. What the baser sort of Jews put into vulgar or sneering language, namely that I am out for personal advantage, is what I catch in the intimations of this cultivated gentleman. The predicted rancor, within and without, is already there. I judge Birnbaum to be an envious, vain and obstinate man. I hear that he had already turned away from Zionism and gone over to Socialism, when my appearance led him back again to Zion.57 56 Herzl to Birnbaum, February 25, 1896. 57 See Herzl’s diary entry for March 1, 1896. All translations of Herzl’s diaries are from Theodor Herzl, Complete Diaries, ed. Raphael Patai, trans. Harry Zohn (New York, NY: Herzl Press, 1960).

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To these charges would be added a score of others: that Birnbaum was only involved in Zionism for financial gain, that he claimed to be the founder of Zionism, and that he intentionally disrupted Zionist events— particularly the Basel congress—in order to topple Herzl’s leadership. Of the many complaints Herzl makes about him, two are repeated frequently and are the most serious in his indictment of Birnbaum’s character. The first is that Birnbaum had abandoned Zionism by the time of Herzl’s arrival on the scene in 1896; the second is that he had embraced socialism in its stead, although what is meant by socialism and why it is necessarily in conflict with Zionism is never clear from Herzl’s words. The implication of these two judgments is that Birnbaum had forfeited any claim to represent a voice within Zionism and that whatever claims he made after Herzl’s appearance were therefore made with malignant intentions. Interestingly, Herzl projects onto Birnbaum many of the same charges that had been lodged at himself by others. He imagines that Birnbaum is fundamentally dishonest and willing to exchange his years of earnest service to Zionism for an opportunistic payoff. More damaging, he is portrayed as an obstructionist, a man who out of jealousy and pettiness would hinder and sully the sacred work of Zion—work he no longer believed in personally—before seeing himself pushed aside. Though Herzl’s diary is an indispensable source, in this case it has been the cause of a persistent misreading of Birnbaum’s activity during the 1890s. As we have seen, and further as Birnbaum’s own extensive bibliography during the period shows, he had not really abandoned Zionism, and he certainly had not, nor would he really ever, stray from his intense Jewish nationalist convictions.58 Certainly, his writings reflect a vision of Zionism that was often at odds with Herzl’s. Herzl never hid his disinterest in the so-called cultural aspects of Jewish nationalism that were so dear to Birnbaum, at least until he laid out his 58 In fact, many of Birnbaum’s major statements on Zionism were written during this time, including Die nationale Wiedergeburt des jüdischen Volks in seinem Lande (1893); Die Zionistische Bewegung (1895); Der Zionismus (1896); his address to the Basel congress in 1897, “Zionism als Culturbewegung”; and Zwei Vortrdge über Zionismus (1898). During this time, Birnbaum edited his own Zionist journal, Jüdische Volkszeitung (the final incarnation of Selbst-Emancipation) until its closing in 1896, as well as the Berlin journal Zion from 1896 to 1897, and he was a regular contributor, until very late, of materials to Herzl’s own Zionist newspaper, Die Welt.

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own, very different image of the future state in the novel Altneuland; at this phase, he felt there was little effort to spare for such frivolous concerns. Rather, all energy was needed to negotiate, create institutions, and raise funds to allow for the mass movement of Jews, as soon as possible, to a state of their own. Even if there were resources to spare for such concerns as constructing some sort of Jewish national identity, Herzl had little regard for such fantastic ideas as creating a Hebrew-speaking new Jewish nation ex nihilo. Certainly, Birnbaum was far from the only member of the movement who shared differing views of the priorities of Zionism. Many, particularly the Russian faction, inspired by Ahad Ha’am, shared a vision of Zionism that was much closer to Birnbaum’s than to Herzl’s, but remained within the movement— indeed, within a decade, they had triumphed over Herzl for control of the movement. In the spring of 1896, however, the initial meeting of minds between the old vanguard of Zionism and its future in the form of Herzl fared badly. The only firsthand reflection on the meeting, Herzl’s own, shows that the meeting was a failure. At best, the four participants completely misunderstood and misread each other; at worst, Birnbaum and his colleagues confirmed Herzl’s belief that Jewish nationalism as such did not exist without him in any meaningful way. The meeting certainly put at risk any possibility of a mutual partnership (or even respect) between Herzl and the established Jewish nationalist camp. Herzl’s words reveal that he felt the meeting to be a vindication of his low expectations about the state of the Jewish nationalist organization: that it was nothing but a disorganized confederation of aimless cranks. This assessment was, of course, self-serving to Herzl’s personal agenda of creating the idea of the Jewish state of his own initiative, which left little room for antecedents and competition for leadership. However, regardless of his prejudice, Birnbaum and the others seem to have done little to present a united or coherent front. But there must have been some sense that the meeting was positive, if not to Herzl than to Birnbaum and the others, for Birnbaum was confident enough afterward to take a shockingly bold and (as it would turn out) disastrous step in their relationship. He sent, only a day after their meeting, a letter that not only cemented Herzl’s feeling that Birnbaum was a worthless partner in Zionism but also laid the foundation for Herzl’s conviction that Birnbaum had no real

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interest in the movement other than as a way out of his desperate financial situation. On March 4, Birnbaum writes, I have long had the desire, through both my inclination and ability, to intervene in new ways in the [Zionist party’s] drive—however for a long time I have ceased to do so, in part because of the leaden paralysis and disorganization within the Zionist camp, in part because of personal circumstances. The latter situation is unfortunately still very much at hand, and it is to in the end abolish [this situation] that I turn directly, with these words, to you.  .  .  . Indeed I also have reason to fear that you will misconstrue this letter, and I point out this fear, for I know that there is no philistine or inconsequential person before me. I come to you to ask for help—help, which for you, I believe, would not cause significant exertion. . . . Briefly: I had the misfortune to recognize the truth of Zionism—from which you have remained shielded—already in my sixteenth year. To these ideals I have given my entire passionate personality, and [in the mean time] shut myself out of any other career that I could have accomplished with my own talents. I have pressed myself into a dark, unknown corner of literature—with the result being a constant degeneration of my financial situation. Dear honored doctor! I have endured such distressing times, the horrors of which I cannot begin to give you a clear idea. Only through a pitiful secretarial post and through constant indebtedness am I able to hold back the floods, and I stew along with my wife, mother and children I am faced with my wits’ end—and only because of my realization of these circumstances in the end, and after a long struggle with myself, have I decided to turn to you. You have the influence, consideration, and power to help me. I beg you affectionately, send your advice! Although our acquaintance is so young, I believe, that there is a bond woven between us, which makes it acceptable for me to ask of you: save me from certain destruction, and preserve with me Zionism! Should you not, however, act upon my request, I ask you to please show your kind discretion—also about Zionism—and be certain, that I also will do so—thus I will maintain and continue to fulfill my duty as a Zionist.59

A sympathetic reader of this letter could not help but be moved by the degree of desperation and frustration that must have led Birnbaum to write it. Little of the letter is an exaggeration; neither Birnbaum’s assertions of his centrality to the movement from its inception nor the details of the hardships he had endured for its sake. Indeed, to the sympathetic reader, the letter might 59 Birnbaum to Herzl, March 4, 1896.

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have been read as it was: the reluctant debasement of a very proud and capable man for the sake of his very survival. Birnbaum, as his life’s work had shown, was willing to sacrifice all for the cause he had passionately embraced; now he was at the end of his rope. Unfortunately, Herzl was not a sympathetic reader. The candor and distinct lack of social grace exhibited by this letter did nothing but offend the urbane columnist. Birnbaum seems to have believed that Herzl would be moved by his recounting of how poorly his sacrifice for Zionism had been rewarded; he likewise was under the impression that the two had established a rapport—a “bond”—either as gentlemen or as allies in a common cause. Although neither assumption counteracts the embarrassing nature of the letter—compounded by the fact that the two had only met the day before—he was mistaken on both counts. The letter disgusted Herzl and, more damagingly, confirmed his belief that whatever Zionist movement had existed prior to his appearance had been bereft of any responsible leadership. His diary recounts the incident in passing, without surprise, as if he expected little else, noting only that he loaned Birnbaum twenty guilders, a notation he makes only to prevent him from later manufacturing an accusation of tightfistedness to use as ammunition against him.60 Yet he does not express his disgust to Birnbaum, who took the loan as a positive reception of the tale of his plight. Emboldened, he presses for even more assistance: My situation has worsened still further. [To repay] the first debt before me, I have little more than hours. Only through arranging for more short term credit have I been able to hold the water back. The maturation of these debts is fast approaching, and if I cannot pay, my good name and every other possibility for my existence will be destroyed. . . . I only ask you, to consider the rapid assistance that must be found. What is this sum against the many thousands, which you will bring in from your press organization or paper next week? Please bear in mind: who has served this cause more than I, who from the beginning his Zionist life’s way sacrificed the little inheritance of his father (c. 1500 fl.)? Who of the miserable hundred or so fellow fighters has served more, has come to such shame as I, who for ten years of my life, dedicated my health, my career, my existence in labor for the state-based rebirth of the Jewish people. . . .

60 Herzl, Diaries, March 4, 1896.

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I will truly repay all over time. You yourself, dear honored doctor, have looked me in the eyes, [and know that] before long I will be undone. And outside of that, I have the strictest assurances from Professor Singer, that he will soon create a position for me. . . . I have no other hope than you.61

There is no clear indication as to whether Herzl continued to loan Birnbaum money; this letter does not make it into the diaries. But Herzl did reply to Birnbaum in a letter a few days later and, surprisingly, brings up the possibility of creating a salaried position within the new Zionist movement for Birnbaum: I have spoken with Mr. Wolfsohn from Cologne, that we may, with the help of Zion [the Berlin Zionist periodical] etc., create a paid post of secretary of the Zionist movement for you. Mr. Wolfsohn is speaking today with Dr. Schnirer, and these gentlemen will do what is necessary to bring this into being, and by so doing, help you until you can find a situation on your own.62

This charitable letter, so starkly different from his private thoughts about Birnbaum, requires an explanation of Herzl’s possible motives. Remarkably, although he clung to the idea with a vengeance afterward, Birnbaum did not (at least in his correspondence) request a salaried position within the Zionist movement; it seems to have been Herzl’s idea entirely—he even made preliminary arrangements before writing to Birnbaum. Making Birnbaum an employee of the Zionist movement with a modest salary was itself a sensible way of dealing with him; despite his uncouth letters, Birnbaum scarcely exaggerated his commitment to Zionism or his sacrifices (and, although he does not mention it explicitly, the loyalty of his colleagues), and paying him to continue his work within the movement could have been strategically useful. Indeed, Herzl would have had much to gain by bringing Birnbaum into the movement in such a manner, and this was perhaps part of his thinking. As a newcomer, Herzl was bedeviled (as he himself admits) by accusations of dilettantism. Birnbaum had the Zionist bona fides he lacked; thus, to have Birnbaum’s support for his efforts could help bolster his stature as a committed Zionist. At the same time, by making Birnbaum financially beholden to the movement and to himself, Herzl may have thought that he could exert some control over him, neutralizing him as a potential rival. The idea of creating a paid position within 61 Birnbaum to Herzl, April 23, 1896. 62 Herzl to Birnbaum, April 26, 1896.

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the movement for Birnbaum—or at least in telling him about it—was a choice that Herzl would come to regret, as it played a central part in their bitter clash at the Basel conference the next year. In the end, the position of general secretary, at least for the time being, came to naught; instead, Birnbaum was brought to Berlin to work on the new journal of the Berlin Hovevei Zion, Zion, which Herzl eyed as a potential organ for his movement.63 Birnbaum relocated for a second time with his family to Berlin in the summer of 1896. This provided some temporary financial relief, with the result that Birnbaum soon began to assert his independence from Herzl’s line. He was not alone in this; although the Berlin Hovevei Zion were, on the whole, supportive of Herzl, seeing in him both a vehicle for rapid growth of Zionism as well as a dynamic public figure, they did not hesitate to voice their opposition when Herzl’s policies conflicted too much with their own—to his intense frustration. The friction between Herzl and Birnbaum began not long after the latter’s move to Berlin. Birnbaum fired the opening salvo by taking on Herzl’s direct diplomatic approach, particularly his ill-advised trip to Istanbul.64 A controversial decision, Herzl’s choice to engage in unilateral negotiations as a representative of the Jewish people with the sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Abdulhamid, was a failure. Not only was he not granted an audience with the sultan, neither as a representative of the Jewish people nor as a journalist, but by making open assertions about the desire of the Jews to establish a homeland in Ottoman-ruled Palestine, Herzl arguably endangered the small Zionist settlements that had already been established. Abandoning the earlier Zionist policy of subtle infiltration into Palestine, the slow building up of colonies designed not to draw the attention of the Ottoman authorities and raise fears of another nascent nationalities problem to plague the already troubled multinational empire, Herzl ham-fistedly confirmed the sultan’s worst fears. This had the immediate result of raising the profile of the early 63 This arrangement did not come quickly enough for Birnbaum. Underscoring the disastrous state of his finances, Birnbaum sent an agitated letter, complaining that he had not yet heard from Wolfsohn, and then yet another letter on May 5, reiterating his financial situation and begging for an immediate loan. Birnbaum to Herzl, May 1, 1896; Birnbaum to Herzl, May 5, 1896. 64 For a description and analysis of Herzl’s voyage to Constantinople and its impact, see David Vital, Origins of Zionism (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1971), 287–98.

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Zionist colonies, already struggling, as well as more pronounced assertions by the sultan of his total opposition to organized Jewish settlement in the Ottoman Empire, particularly in Palestine. In the aftermath of Herzl’s Ottoman trip and its unfortunate repercussions, Birnbaum chose to challenge Herzl’s belief (which he did seem to hold) that he in any way represented Herzl’s interests among the Berlin Zionists. Beginning a heated exchange, Birnbaum cites lack of time and resources to advance Herzl’s cause in Berlin, but ultimately indicates the true motives for his inactivity: resentment of his unilateral activity. Until today [because of] my situation, which has occupied all of my time, I have had not an hour to do this. For the same reason I also cannot complete any “probe work” and therefore until now I have not been able to make use of your suggestions. Naturally this will soon happen. . . . I would be very obliged to you, if you would occasionally give me some information regarding your actions.65

Herzl’s response takes umbrage at the accusation he was acting dictatorially (in addition to correcting Birnbaum’s word usage): “One makes [begeht] a mistake; one does not commit [verbricht] one.” A cutting start—and the tone of Herzl’s letter does not improve: Perhaps I have made mistakes  .  .  . [however] they were not anything for which you should answer me in such a hateful tone. I will answer no more about them. Do not forget, that I must do everything by myself. These platonic declarations of agreement don’t help me or anyone at all. . . . If there perhaps were or are in Berlin or anywhere else Zionists who believe that I have ever acted as a dictator, [then] these people do not know that I stated explicitly in Paris and London that I would undertake the leadership of this mission if I received a guarantee that they would carry out the things initiated by me verbally in Constantinople—with unhoped for luck. Because this did not happen, I must naturally go forth alone, not from my own desire. Once I have begun, I shall not leave no matter how great the disappointment and thanklessness and misery that it may give us.66

Birnbaum was well aware of the anger that he had raised by opposing Herzl, an anger he recognized as that of a man who was not accustomed to having his

65 Birnbaum to Herzl, October 15, 1896. 66 Herzl to Birnbaum, October 17, 1896.

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judgment called into question. Yet he maintains his critical position, refusing to be intimidated, The reception of your letter of the 17th of this month, I must candidly acknowledge, did not frighten me. I have not found these communications of resistance from these Jews as intolerable as you have. I know at least as much about this as you, if not more. I hear voices that do not reach your ears. What I predicted to you has come true: to the last Zionists in all countries have become hostile to you. The Zionist papers hound you, and all charge precisely that you, through your behavior, have made the colonies of Palestine vulnerable. However, as it is said, I would want little for myself were I to see the smallest acknowledgment of certain mistakes which you have made [verbrachten!] up till now. . . . There is not room nor time in a letter to discuss which mistakes these were. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to discuss them in person. I’ll only indicate that I—and I am correct when I speak for all Zionists, whether they accept you or not—[believe] your secrecy in this undertaking does not come cheaply. . . . Once more I ask that you not be angry about my candor.67

Birnbaum continued the trend that he had initiated upon his move to Berlin: that of assuming the role of an unofficial voice of the Zionist street that Herzl ignored at his peril. There is more than a hint in his words of a man on the defensive, struggling to maintain his relevance in a movement about compromising on the principles he had worked to establish and increasingly forgetful of the contributions he had made. Herzl was unwilling to forget the advantage Birnbaum took of his weakened position among Zionists after the Istanbul trip; nor did Birnbaum give him much reason to trust his motives as 1897, the year of the First Zionist Congress in Basel, progressed. For his part, Birnbaum frequently tested the boundaries of Herzl’s leadership. Herzl, for his part, marginalized and even embarrassed Birnbaum when he could, taking what opportunities he had to remind Birnbaum of his place. The year 1897, a pivotal year in the history of Zionism, was a tipping point from Birnbaum’s perspective, showing him the limits of his future within Herzl’s movement. By the spring of that year, Herzl’s failures in the direct diplomatic approach had led him to assent to a general conference of Zionists.68 As 67 Birnbaum to Herzl, November 5, 1896. 68 See Vital, Origins of Zionism, 298–353.

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discussions regarding the arrangements for a congress progressed in February and March, the decision that the congress would be held in Munich raised the visibility and leverage of the Berlin Zionists, in particular Wolfsohn, Bodenheimer, and Willy Bambus, but also Birnbaum. In a preliminary meeting in Vienna around March 10, a committee made up of, among others, Bambus, Yehoshua Thon, and Birnbaum met with Herzl. This meeting, recorded in Herzl’s diary, afforded him yet another opportunity to put Birnbaum in his place as the latter once again attempted to show unauthorized initiative. The reason for conflict on this occasion was Birnbaum’s request for backing from Herzl and the Zionist movement for his plan to run for election to the Austrian Reichsrat on a Jewish nationalist platform. The idea of opening a new front in Jewish nationalism through the ballot box was one on which Birnbaum had been ruminating for some time—at least since 1886, the year he published an article advancing a Jewish People’s Party. It indicated Birnbaum’s increasing sense of self-esteem among the Berlin Zionists, at some distance from Herzl’s immediate presence in Vienna. Birnbaum was, after reeling from his sudden loss of influence, once again finding his feet and attempting to strike out on his own and pursue his own ideas. Herzl, with gratuitous cruelty, put a quick stop to Birnbaum’s efforts. Herzl’s hostility to Birnbaum, beyond his dislike for Birnbaum’s idea, is on clear display in his diary: Birnbaum was more self-assured and inwardly more hostile to me than ever. He wanted my financial and moral support for his candidacy in the election district of Sereth-Suczawa-Radutz, a candidacy that had been offered me as well, which I refused and he undertook at the last moment. Considering the late date—there is only one week to the election—I denied him my support, because an unsuccessful attempt could compromise the mystical prestige of our movement in Galicia. He will never forgive me for this, no. Incidentally, just for the sake of being elected he wanted to make personal compromises with the social politicians, Social Democrats, and others, and run as a representative of a Jewish People’s Party (which does not even exist).69

Though we have no record of Birnbaum’s response, presumably Herzl did not err in his suspicion of Birnbaum’s anger. The satisfaction Herzl derived from refusing Birnbaum, almost palpable, indicates that he got the reaction he had 69 Herzl, Diaries, March 10, 1897.

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sought. That Herzl’s refusal of Birnbaum was particularly disingenuous is shown by the fact that a month earlier, he had himself not only embraced the idea of running a Zionist candidate for the Reichsrat, but also he, Moritz Schnirer, and Oser Kokesch had decided to support two candidates, Dr. Leon Kellner and Dr. Abraham Salz, in their bids for the Reichsrat and turned down running for office himself. Herzl’s refusal to support Birnbaum, seemingly based on firm electoral realities, was more likely the result of his dislike of Birnbaum’s independent action. His charge that Birnbaum only chose to run at the last minute, in a district in which, supposedly, he had been asked to run (although he indicates in an earlier entry that he had been asked to run in Kolomea, not Sereth-Suczawa-Radutz, which were different electoral districts) is unfounded— in fact, we have no confirmation of how long Birnbaum had been actively pursuing election.70 Moreover, the repetition of the key themes of a conversion to socialism and a defection from Zionism (for the sake of a Jewish People’s Party) cast even more suspicion on his motives for squelching Birnbaum’s candidacy.71 Birnbaum’s, however, was not a total loss; as the spring of 1897 progressed, Herzl began to find the Berlin Zionists increasingly intractable to his demands and requests—attributable in no small part to Birnbaum’s status among them. A month after the Vienna meeting, Herzl’s diary records the “perfidy” of Bambus (whom he had earlier believed his strongest and ablest ally among the German Zionists), who had sent a response to the congress announcement, released to the Jewish press, calling into question the full commitment of German Zionists to the undertaking. “His purpose is clear,” Herzl writes, “he wants to make me appear a braggart, to undermine the congress.  .  .  . Bambus gives the pretext that the Munich Jews are beside themselves and are protesting against the holding of the congress in Munich.”72 Herzl’s skepticism of Bambus’s motives is somewhat misplaced; in fact, the German-Jewish establishment was very uncomfortable with the congress being held in Germany. Nevertheless, his suspicions of treachery—confirmed in the final 70 Herzl, Diaries, January 29, 1897. 71 Herzl was most likely not mistaken in his assertions about a Jewish People’s Party; however, he revealed his ignorance of Birnbaum’s publications. As early as 1894, Birnbaum had put forth the idea of a Jewish People’s Party (Jüdische Volkspartei), though he conceived of it as a Zionist entity. 72 Herzl, Diaries, April 24, 1897.

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sentence of his entry, “perhaps it is only plain envy on the part of the Berliners who are afraid that I shall get all the leadership in my hands”—revolve, again, around his sense of a challenge to his authority. Seizing again on a moment of weakness, Birnbaum attacked again in the rational, popular voice he had honed in his relations with Herzl—in an article designed to expose once and for all Herzl’s aim of controlling Zionism with an iron fist. Writing in Zion, Birnbaum pounces in “On the Munich Congress” on Herzl’s announcement, apparently given without any warning, that a key procedural element of the Munich congress was to be abandoned. This was an agreement, reached during the Vienna meeting, that there would be two committees in the congress, the first an internal one, composed of Zionist party members who would settle purely technical, procedural issues, and a second external one, the rank-and-file of the movement, that would take the lead in making the proceedings open to the wider Zionist public. Herzl, by executive fiat, had undermined the democratic nature of this arrangement by asserting a much broader power of the executive committee, allowing it to appoint the full leadership of the movement. Now Dr. Herzl, standing at the head of the congress organization commission, has either not grasped the deeper meaning of this two-part separation, despite his pronounced inclination towards opportunism, or else he has simply been slain by his unfortunate temperament. However this might be, he has as well as irreparably ruined by means of his announcement [that] the Zionists will be nominated by Zionists in a style not distinguishable from a dry business announcement. A party struggle has broken out which threatens those outside [the movement]. I no longer know how far Dr. Herzl’s love for these theatrics goes. I would truly not shed a tear if [this congress] died . . . [It would be preferable] to the deep pain I would feel if certain gloomy prophecies that the congress will be proclaimed above all a horrendous fiasco are fulfilled.73

Striking again a populist voice, Birnbaum believed that this action was nothing less than the removal of the Zionist movement from the people (Volk), who should be its greatest strength, and the triumph of practical Zionism—that is, the Zionism that eschewed mass, popular action in favor of elite-funded infiltration of Palestine. For Herzl to adopt such a position, Birnbaum suggests, was not only a betrayal of his own claims to leadership of Jewish nationalism but of 73 Nathan Birnbaum, “Zum Müncher Kongresse,” Zion, May 5, 1897.

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the entire Jewish people. To Birnbaum, “the people [das Volk] is everything,” and the practical elitists could never capture the enthusiasm or the zeal of the people with its “half-man” tactics.74 Zionism must be made a movement of the Volk, and the “‘practical’ and romantic must be made a real movement,” which was prevented at all costs from becoming “the plaything in the hands of chance, a serious matter for the general public entrusted to some investor . . . from the caprice of a segment of Jewish cultural philistines to become the will of the people.”75 When the congress convened in August 1897, in Basel rather than Munich, the smoldering enmity between the two men finally burst into open conflict. Though much of Birnbaum’s behavior irritated Herzl, the attempt by some of Birnbaum’s followers (only Moshe Schalit is specifically named) to force a motion to create a paid general secretariat and to nominate Birnbaum for the position was, in Herzl’s mind, Birnbaum’s most telling treachery. He believed it to be confirmation of the base motives that had dictated Birnbaum’s entire involvement with Zionism. In Herzl’s words, Another critical moment—when the Birnbaum scandal occurred. This Birnbaum, who had deserted Zionism for Socialism three years before I appeared on the scene, poses obtrusively as my “predecessor.” In his brazen begging-letters, which he wrote me and others, he sets himself up as the discoverer and founder of Zionism, because he has written a pamphlet like many another since Pinsker (whom, after all, I had not read either). He now had a few young people make the proposal that the secretary general of the Actions Committee be elected directly and paid by the Congress. And this creature, who at the first National Assembly of the Jews has no other thought but to get himself voted a stipend, has the nerve to compare himself to me. And as in his schnorring letters, here, too, the audacity along with his begging. The secretary general, as trusted representative of the Congress, is supposed to counter-balance the other twenty-two members of the Actions Committee! I declared that I could not imagine how under such circumstances anyone would accept a seat on that committee. The motion fell through ignominiously. It was the only discordant note at the Congress.76

74 Ibid. 75 Ibid. 76 Herzl, Diaries, August 27, 1897.

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This entry is pure Herzl: the dramatic unfolding of events worthy of a feuilleton in the Neue Freie Presse, his hyperbole (“the only discordant note”), the emphasis on his unappreciated self-sacrifice for the movement, his proud ignorance of the body of Zionist literature that had preceded him (even Leon Pinsker!). Of these qualities, it is his telling comment that Birnbaum, a “creature,” had the nerve to compare himself to Herzl that perhaps best characterizes his relationship not only with Birnbaum but with all those who would claim some precedence or ownership of the Zionist movement not granted by Herzl himself. Also striking, he repeats the charge that Birnbaum had left Zionism long before Herzl came on to the scene, thereby forfeiting any authority over the movement, and that he had left Zionism for some nebulous socialism. Whether the events of August 27 were the “only discordant note” of the First Zionist Congress, the anger they inspired in Herzl did not go unnoticed by Birnbaum. Indeed, Birnbaum even attempted to mend the damage, giving a sense that he thought, perhaps, he had finally gone too far. He pressed the issue by apologizing for the disruption, distancing himself from its actors, and again, appealing to Herzl’s charity. In a letter of September 7, 1897, only eleven days after the events recorded with such vigor in Herzl’s diaries, Birnbaum writes the following: [Even] before the well-known events of the congress occurred, which further intensified the continuing misunderstandings between us, I sought to declare my loyalty to you and your intentions. Concerning the scene that marred the last sitting of the congress, I wish to assure you . . . that I in no way instigated it, and strongly disapprove and condemn it. I also ask you sincerely not to consider the indiscretions of these gentlemen inexcusable, but rather judge them leniently. The gentlemen did not act with the intention of treading on you or undermining the congress, but rather out of a deep commitment to my cause. The vague fear that there could never be any end to my suffering led them to disrupt [the congress] with such an inappropriate act. If you consider these facts, dear esteemed doctor, you would consider the incident more mildly. You would also thereby have found the key to the mystery of our—how shall I put it?—alienation. It is nothing but my tragic situation, which stands like an evil demon between you and other men on one side, and me on the other. The humiliating way that I must provide for the larger part of my sustenance reduces my social status, and calls forth a feeling of constant oppression from within me, and destroys my impartiality.

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If I were to draw in full detail the seriousness—no, the atrociousness— of my situation, you would [perhaps] seek a long-term solution. You would leave no stone unturned, and certainly not deny any sustenance for one like me, who feels every humiliation doubly and who has only one means to escape his situation, a tragedy the depths of which you will hopefully never know. I have perhaps become too taciturn from my shame, have been too abstract in speaking of my suffering. . . . I have supported myself up to now through begging, and I believe I am worthy of a better lot. Now I cannot bear it any more. Neither can I be patient for the commitments of the party [to be fulfilled]. Now is the time that I, who have bled for Zionism, to receive commitment and compensation. The general secretariat offers the best means to this. Perhaps at the next meeting of the Actions Committee the proposal that I receive this position be forwarded, and through it the financial assistance which will finally settle my oppressive circumstances. I ask you, honored doctor, in the name of our cause, and in my own name, do not send me away with empty hands. . . . I ask you, dear honored doctor, and the other gentlemen, to consider this and swiftly arrive at a decision. If they arrive at the decision that I hope for, you will soon be persuaded that one can work together with me, that I am not the trouble-maker I have been made out to be.77

That Birnbaum felt he could rely on an appeal to Herzl’s generosity is surprising—although given Herzl’s well-known affection for the grand gesture, perhaps it was a shrewd approach—and the conciliatory tone of his letter is certainly a correction to the increasing vitriol with which he had written to and polemicized against Herzl. It is noteworthy that Birnbaum does not make mention of the suggestion, made almost a year earlier by Herzl himself, that he be given a similar position in the nascent movement; perhaps this was in the mind of both. Herzl, however, was hardly mollified. He complains in his diary that Birnbaum had mobilized all of his supporters, “playing all his cards” in support of his being appointed secretary general. He repeats yet again the charge that Birnbaum had already abandoned Zionism “for three years, having gone over to Socialism.” He mocks again Birnbaum’s role in the early years of the movement, “Despite this he had spread around Basel that without Birnbaum, Herzl and the Basel Congress would not have been possible. Great applause!”78 In the end, however, Birnbaum triumphed, 77 Birnbaum to Herzl, September 7, 1897. 78 Herzl, Diaries, September 9, 1897.

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and he served in the capacity of general secretary of the Actions Committee for approximately a year. His victory was a pyrrhic one, however—his last as a Zionist. After his appointment to the Actions Committee, ironically, Birnbaum’s influence in the Zionist movement declined rapidly. This was partly attributable to Herzl’s continued, relentless marginalization of his potential opponents within the movement, which is vividly displayed in his diary by the contempt with which he treats the Actions Committee, supposedly the central organizational committee of the Zionist movement that rose out of the congress of 1897. He refers to it as the “inaction committee” and jabs at Birnbaum personally: “Dr. Birnbaum, the ‘general-secretary,’ has as his only general secretion to date a document which guarantees him employment for one year and against which he wants to rent furniture.”79 He makes clear his unwillingness to treat the committee as an institution to which he is accountable, even while offering a (rare) compliment to one of its members: “My good Schnirer, who is certainly as honest as the day is long  .  .  . demanded as the most important thing an ‘agenda’ for the Actions Committee. But behind this guilelessness there may be the wish to interfere with me.”80 In the end, Herzl used an accusation of Birnbaum’s machinations against him as a pretext for ignoring the Actions Committee altogether. On March 12, 1898, Herzl writes, “I never bring up my plans and actions in the meetings [of the Actions Committee], because Birnbaum is taking the minutes as secretary-general and ‘gathering material’ for his future indiscretions.” Birnbaum, he complains, was a “typical enemy” who could not be eliminated from the committee because he “threatens he will starve,” who would eventually “bring disgrace to the movement yet.”81 By April 1898, Herzl had abandoned the pretense of working with the Actions Committee altogether: Birnbaum quietly incites against me, at the university, acts the part of Columbus and martyr of Zionism, while I am Amerigo Vespucci and the usurper. . . . Undercurrents even in the Actions Committee. Individuals are offended because they are not ‘informed’ of anything. Yesterday I brought Schnirer to reason about why I have to work alone, now as before. 79 Herzl, Diaries, September 24, 1897. 80 Ibid. 81 Herzl, Diaries, March 12, 1898.

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The committee is an unserviceable instrument. Only indiscretions are committed. No one is able to help; for various reasons they are in no position to do so.82

Birnbaum and his pretensions to act as a “martyr of Zionism,” the unwillingness of Birnbaum and others to grant Herzl full license to act on behalf of Zionism—these were Herzl’s ultimate reasons for disavowing the usefulness of the Actions Committee. While these hint at a much deeper element of Herzl’s conflicts with the movement and can hardly be reducible to the influence of one individual, Herzl placed the lion’s share of the blame on Birnbaum. By the end of 1898 and Birnbaum’s tenure as general secretary of the Actions Committee, however, his part in Herzl’s frustrations was made moot by Birnbaum’s own withdrawal from Zionism. Although he did not formally resign from the committee until 1899, Birnbaum’s work with the committee had ceased, as had his submissions to Zionist periodicals— although he would continue, over the following years, to submit the odd article to Die Welt and Zion. Indeed, Herzl signaled awareness of his triumph over Birnbaum in 1899, when he wrote an unusually friendly letter inquiring why Birnbaum was no longer submitting material to Die Welt and inviting him to do so. Birnbaum, preserving his pride to the extent that he was still able, declined.83 Whether he retained the support of his followers who had pushed the congress to appoint him to the secretariat is irrelevant, for by then he had lost all affection for the movement, as well as all intellectual interest.

Conclusion A major motivation for Birnbaum’s drift away from Zionism was no doubt the unyielding struggle with Herzl that he could not avoid. In the end, Herzl’s presence and popularity, as well as the power of his vision and his ability to present it in a moving way to a broad audience, made him an irresistible force. Nor did he allow for dissension or argument from his vision, particularly from those who lacked sufficient organization or strength, such as Birnbaum 82 Herzl, Diaries, April 11, 1898. 83 Herzl to Birnbaum, 1899; Birnbaum to Herzl, 1899.

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and his supporters. Although he seems to have been able to muster enough support for a successful revolt on the floor of the Basel conference on his behalf, it proved to be a weak one. Although it did prefigure the final, much more successful insurrection in the Zionist movement during Herzl’s lifetime, that of the Democratic Faction in the Sixth Zionist Congress, Birnbaum’s revolt lacked the cohesion and unity of ideals of the later rebels. In the end, Herzl’s early claims about Birnbaum, that he had left Zionism, became a selffulfilling prophecy, but hardly because of the intellectual duplicity that Herzl alleged. Rather, there was a complex set of reasons that led Birnbaum to finally leave Zionism, both the organized movement (which he did in 1899) and the ideology itself (which he did a few years later). The unrelenting struggle with Herzl was clearly a major part, as we have seen. The documents—including Herzl’s diary, the correspondence between Herzl and Birnbaum, and Birnbaum’s writings on the movement during the crucial years 1896–99—show that the two men were engaged in a protracted war, and though Birnbaum may have won a battle here or there, the larger progression of the struggle was not in his favor. Whatever the many reasons the two men could not work together—and clearly there was fault on both sides—ultimately, only one of them could have his way: either Birnbaum would get the voice and recognition he felt he deserved after a long and largely selfless devotion to Jewish nationalism, or Herzl would establish absolute party discipline and ideological unity, along lines he alone determined. Herzl succeeded. As for the nature of Birnbaum’s fraught relationship with Zionism after Herzl, however, many misconceptions have persevered in the historiography of the movement. Many of these originated with Herzl himself, and it speaks to the success he and his supporters had in remaking the early Zionist narrative in his image that Birnbaum has found little place in the story—and, in the eyes of some, that place is entirely a negative one. My narrative here should serve, at least in part, as a corrective to Herzl’s portrayal. Such an evaluation depends in no small part on a clear understanding of the evolution of Birnbaum’s thought in the years immediately preceding and during Herzl’s arrival. As his activities and particularly his writing in this period shows, it was a crucial phase in Zionist history, including the planning and execution of the Zionist conference and the years immediately following. On close examination, we find that Birnbaum was very

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much an intellectual and public presence of the cast that many of his contemporaries—among them early Zionists Moritz Schnirer and Berthold Feiwel, nationalists such as Chaim Zhitlovsky, and major figures in Jewish intellectual history like Martin Buber and Franz Rosenzweig—saw him as. Birnbaum’s complex consideration of issues of Jewish peoplehood and nationalism, of which we have examined just a small part in the text of Die Jüdische Moderne, was unique and original and, along with the multitude of other essays that make up his life of work, shows a vibrant and little-explored side of the evolution of Jewish nationalist thought. As the historiographic narrative of early Zionism develops and matures, it is increasingly important that the breadth of ideas about Jewish peoplehood and nation be studied and understood. And indeed, Birnbaum’s nationalist thought, when fully examined in its context, is hardly that of a marginal figure. The very fact that Birnbaum, among all those with whom Herzl contended in his rise to dominance in the movement, dominates so much time and rancor in his diary shows the centrality of his contention with Birnbaum in early Zionist history, despite the scant attention that has been paid to it. Clearly a major conflict, with momentum enough to actually disrupt the sessions of the Basel conference itself, Birnbaum’s challenge to Herzl’s hegemony in the Zionist movement has gone virtually unnoticed, as with most of Birnbaum’s impact on Jewish nationalism. But, as Berthold Feiwel noted, Birnbaum’s deepest preoccupation was not popularity but rather that the ideology or tactic he embraced was true to his innermost belief. This is not to suggest that he was uninterested in public opinion or in garnering a wide following. On the contrary, he cared a great deal about tapping the deepest reserve of a common Jewish peoplehood in order to call all Jews to his way of thinking. And in a way, he succeeded in doing so, though not as he would have liked or even perceived. In the end, what he might have seen as his greatest failure—to ever see one of his ideas embraced by a majority of the Jewish people—reflects for us his greatest discovery. European Jewry in the early twentieth century had not one but many deep reserves, many streams of commitment and ideology, all integral to the fabric of European Jewish existence. When Rosenzweig referred to Birnbaum as the living exponent of history, he was right on more than one level. As we have said, Birnbaum not only belonged to but often led in many

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of the major intellectual trends of pre- and interwar European Jewry. More deeply, however, he had an innate (if unconscious) sense, an almost instinctive drive to seek out and explore in the deepest and most intimate sense the meaning of these many trends in his voluminous writing. This quality, simply put, is of unique importance to Jewish historiography. Here is a man who participated and reflected constantly, obsessively even, on his intellectual path from his youth, who was not afraid to reexamine his beliefs, even to contradict himself. It is a rare and valuable story, all the more so for its being unconscious on his part. And as historians, we have the privilege of distance and perspective to reevaluate the whole of his contribution.

Trade Unions, Strikes, and the Renewal of Halakhic Labor Law: Ideologies in the Rulings of Rabbis Kook, Uziel, and Feinstein1 Benjamin Brown In the “age of ideologies,” much attention was paid to labor relations, including the question of trade unionization of workers and their right to strike. All three of the major ideologies of the nineteenth century and their polarized twentieth-century offspring presented definitive models for regulating relations between employees and employers. Each ideology regarded its labor model as a fundamental principle of its social program: communism proposed the abolition of classes, liberalism—the principle of free collective bargaining, and fascism—the corporative model. These philosophies were clearly echoed in the Western world, and side by side with them a new legal discipline developed: labor law. In the Jewish world, these models also had echoes mainly within secular modern Jewish ideologies. The world of halakhah, however, became interested 1

This article is an expansion of my talk at the conference “Halakhah and Ideology,” held at Van Leer Institute of Jerusalem on 12 December 2006. Thanks to all those who gave helpful comments on the lecture, and especially to Professor Lawrence Kaplan, Dr. Kalman Neumann, and Rabbi Dr. Isaac Lifshitz. Further thanks to Professor Israel Bartal for fruitful conversations on this topic. I also thank Professor Herb Basser for his help with the English translation of this article.

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in the subject relatively late. Among the first to be involved in such matters were Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935), Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1935) and Rabbi Moshe Feinstein (1895–1986). Although the first two were in the Land of Israel and the third in the United States, they developed their positions through dealing with a similar background of conceptual and normative tensions. Their responses formed to a large extent the first contributions to the modernization of halakhic labor law in the twentieth century. After I briefly present some of the intellectual-historical underpinnings and the Talmudic and halakhic backgrounds relevant to our discussion, I will show how these three personalities built two different models using the same Talmudic source. Then I will demonstrate that the model of Rabbis Kook and Uziel approximated the corporative model, developed in the Revisionist movement with fascist inspiration, while Rabbi Feinstein embraced the liberal model that has evolved in most Western countries. In our halakhic discussion I will deliberate on the internal contradictions within each model. Finally, I will suggest two possible explanations for the differences between these personalities: one historical-cultural, one dogmatic-halakhic, and I will explain why it is the case that I prefer the former.

Intellectual-Historical Background The Models of Regulation of Labor Relations in Modern Ideologies In the traditional legal approach of pre-modern times, labor laws were a non-central part of the law of contracts; more precisely, they were part of rental laws. In this framework, the concept “strike” was non-existent. The worker was hired (“rented”) for a job and if he unilaterally stopped working, he was considered to be in breach of the contract. However, during the nineteenth century and early twentieth century in most Western countries important changes occurred in this area of law, which anchored the rights of employees and employers in legislation. Labor law now became an independent branch of law. One of the most prominent changes was the creation of mechanisms for regulating labor relations through free associations representing employees and employers. Likewise, these laws recognized the right to strike as a legitimate means to deal with the workers’ struggle for their rights and no longer construed strikes to be simply a breach of contract. These changes were not accomplished

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in one day and not in every jurisdiction. They had been preceded by confrontations, at times harsh and violent, often concluding with only partial success. The movements of the workers who waged these struggles were divided. Some struggled for solely economic gains; others to express some far-reaching aspiration for social change in the spirit of Marxist ideology. Communism would not settle for the enactment of labor laws to regulate relations between employees and employers, but demanded the total abolition of these classes and the creation of a classless society. This society was to be achieved through the nationalization of the means of production, entailing the transformation of all citizens (or as many of them as were able) to employees of the state.2 In such a state, where all were workers and the workers were also the bosses, there could be no conflict with employers, and there would be no need and no room to secure the right to strike. Naturally, the roles of workers’ organizations would be altered by such a reality.3 The other two major ideologies of “the age of ideologies,” liberalism and fascism, rejected this model, and responded to the challenge of communism using their own alternate models. The liberal position proclaimed that the solution to the plight of the worker lay in the free unionization of workers apart from employers, while anchoring the laws of the workers’ right to strike and protest. Thus it opened the arena to regulated power struggles between the two sides. In this model, the competing strengths of the parties enable the parties to engage in collective bargaining, at the end of which the respective sides will reach binding settlements—collective agreements.4 2 Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto, in Karl Marx: Selected Writings, second edition, ed. David McLellan (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2000), 261–262, 270–271; Shlomo Avineri, The Social and Political Doctrines of Karl Marx (Tel Aviv, Israel: HaKibbutz HaMeuhad, 1967), 194–197 (Hebrew); Michael Evans, Karl Marx (London, UK: Allen & Unwin, 1975), 149–150, 154–155. The nationalization model was supposed to be operated during the interim period of the dictatorship of the proletariat. In Marx’s utopian society the state in its present form will dissolve and no coercive measures will be required to regulate labor relations (Avineri, Social and Political Doctrines, 96, 126, 197, 207, 218–220; Evans, Karl Marx, 81, 159–161). 3 Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Collected Works (Moscow, Russia: Progress Publishers, 1976) 32: 19–42, 54–63; 33: 184–196. 4 Otto Kahn-Freund, Labor and the Law, second edition, (London, UK: Stevens, 1977), 1–17. For the historical development of this approach, see Ruth Ben Israel, A New Dimension to the Collective Agreement ( Jerusalem, Israel: Hebrew University Faculty of Law, 1976), 15–26 (Hebrew).

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Fascism, however, saw the two previously mentioned models as representative of a position promoting discord in the fabric of societal relationships, and stated that such an approach is unacceptable. Its thinkers proposed an organic approach, seeking harmony between the various forces in society. This harmony could only be achieved through the intervention of a third party in the relationship between the employee and employer, i.e., the state. Indeed, fascist Italy established “corporate” bodies—collaborative organizations consisting of workers, employers, and state officials—through whom the parties were supposed to reach an agreement under the auspices of the state (or through its decision by fiat) and thus eliminate the need for labor disputes. In the fascist corporatist position both sides of the conflict would work out their collective interests, while the state looked out for the general national interest, its overarching concern. Thus its involvement assured the most “objective” solution. The main purpose of this involvement was not to resolve disputes that erupted, but to create the dynamic of national harmony that would prevent any ruptures from the outset.5 Unlike the somewhat comparable model developed under democracy, i.e., adjudication by committees of equal representation, the state under the fascist model did not arbitrate agreement amongst the parties. Rather, being the third side in the corporative system, it had the decisive voice. The first thinker of the corporative idea was probably Pope Leo XIII, in his Rerum Novarum of 1891.6 It was adopted and developed, however, by some senior fascist theorists in Italy, including Arturo Labriola (1873–1959), Sergio Panunzio (1886–1944), and Alfredo Rocco (1875–1935). The corporative model was considered in the eyes of the Italian fascists to be one 5 Zeev Sternhell, Mario Schneider, and Maya Asheri, The Birth of Fascist Ideology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 144–146, 185–188; Maya Asheri, “Ideology and Politics in the Development of Fascism in Italy on Its Way towards Undenounced Dictatorship,” doctoral dissertation, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1988, 147–176, 294–302 (Hebrew). This position is also expressed in Rocco’s explanatory notes for the introduction of the new corporation law in the Italian Parliament in 1934. See Alfredo Rocco, “The Founding of Corporations and Their Roles,” in Varieties of Fascist Thought, ed. Zeev Sternhell (Tel Aviv, Israel: Sifriyat Po’alim, 1988; Hebrew), 155–158. See also Giuseppe Tassinari, Fascist Economy (Rome, Italy: Laboremus, 1937), 25–41. 6 The full text of the document in English translation can be found on the official website of the Vatican: Http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/leo_xiii/encyclicals/documents/ hf_l-xiii_enc_15051891_rerum-novarum_en.html

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of the most important achievements of their doctrine. It was later adopted by quasi-fascist individuals and movements outside Italy, such as the Falange Española party of José Antonio Primo de Rivera (1903–1936), Catholic nationalist leaders such as Engelbert Dolfuss (1892–1934) in Austria, and Antonio Salazar (1889–1970) in Portugal. After World War II it was almost completely forgotten, not only because of fascism’s defeat, but also because of the criticism that was cast upon it during its establishment. According to critics, including the great theorist of labor law, Otto Kahn-Freund, the power of the state worked in the final analysis to the benefit of the employers and to the detriment of the workers.7 In the main it can therefore be stated that the three major ideologies of the twentieth century—communism, liberalism, and fascism—agreed to a large extent on the existing situation: in the reality of labor relations there are two distinct parties, the workers and the employers, which affect conflict. In this conflict the employees are the weaker side and employers are the stronger. Employees can improve their status and their rights only by trade unionization and their essential weapon is the strike. However, the ideologies were divided as to the desired solution, including the role of the employees’ right to unionize and to strike. If we were to venture a rough formula for summation, we might schematically describe the models as proposing their desirable solutions according to the number of parties partaking in the arrangement. In the communist model there is only one side, that of the workers, since in communist society there is no employer category. The liberal model has two sides—workers and employers—who struggle without any actual intervention by the state; while in the fascist there are three sides—employees, employers, and the state—the latter playing a key role.

Models of the Regulation of Labor Relations in Zionist Ideologies in the Land of Israel Jewish ideological movements, whether in the Jewish Yishuv in the Land of Israel or in the wider world, adopted these aforementioned models. The communist model was embraced by the Bund, and in the Land of Israel by the movements of the radical left—Poalei Zion Smol and the communists. They 7 Kahn-Freund, Labor and the Law, 16–17.

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saw the settling of the Land of Israel as an opportunity to manifest a classless society. At least in the beginning, they basically adhered to this principle as a practical platform and not only as a utopian ideal.8 In the second congress of the Histadrut (the General Workers’ Organization) in 1923, the Ahdut Ha’avodah labor movement, of central-left orientation, presented the idea of a “workers’ society.” According to this concept, the entire workforce would be united as a self-sufficient society of workers. Here the workers would be the bosses, managers, and employees of production processes, which would be under their control.9 Workers’ movements also developed within Religious Zionism and Agudat Yisrael—Hapoel HaMizrachi and Poalei Agudat Israel respectively. However, their platforms on social class issues were generally moderate and did not include a demand for radical revolution.10   8 Elkana Margalit, Anatomy of the Left ( Jerusalem, Israel: Y. L. Peretz, 1976), 36–37, 46–47, 63–64, 105–113 (Hebrew).  9 Ibid., 106. 10 Concerning Hapoel HaMizrachi, it turns out clearly that the labor values of the movement touched mainly on productivity, pioneering, settlement, and defense against the discrimination of religious workers, and not any class war or the like. Joseph Salmon, “Combining Socialism with Religion,” De’ot 40 (1971): 293–300 (Hebrew); Pinchas Rosenblith, “The Performers of the Holy Revolt—Then and Now,” De’ot 40 (1971): 182 (Hebrew); Yossi Avneri, “Introduction,” The Seventh Conference of Hapoel HaMizrachi in the Land of Israel 1935 (Ramat Gan, Israel: Institute for the Research of Religious Zionism, 1988), 10–15 (Hebrew); [Isaiah Bernstein], “For the Sake of Clarity” Netivah 8, issue no. 7–9, (115–117), March 28, 1933, 351–352. Shmuel Hayim Landau’s call for the nationalization of the means of production was not typical of the movement, and did not occupy a central place in its doctrine. Shmuel Hayim Landau [Shahal], Writings of Sh. H. Landau ( Jerusalem: Mesilot, 1985), 35 (Hebrew). Like other members of his movement, he supported the work of the “neutral Bureau of Labor,” a corporative body to tone down the conflicts between workers and employers. See Nehemiah Aminoah, “The Beginnings of the Movement,” in The Book of Religious Zionism, ed. Yitzhak Rafael ( Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1977), 2: 173–74 (Hebrew). The German Jewish “Alliance of Religious Pioneers” apparently embraced a more radical line; see Aryeh Fishman, Between Religion and Ideology ( Jerusalem, Israel: Yad Ben Zvi, 1990), 89 (Hebrew). The Hapoel HaMizrachi Movement had clear reservations about socialism (ibid., 71). According to Fishman, “the right wing of Hapoel HaMizrachi rejected unequivocally the idea of class struggle, whereas the left wing touched only its edge.” But even in the writings of this faction the emphasis was on the individual rather than the coercive power of the society. Aryeh Fishman, Hapoel HaMizrachi 1921–1935 (Tel Aviv, Israel: Tel Aviv University, 1979), 22–23 (Hebrew). It is obvious, therefore, that the movement gave up the quest to establish a classless society. Between the years 1935 and 1948, a radical socialist religious movement, named “Religion and Labor,” existed in Poland and Mandate Palestine, but it was a passing episode in the history of Religious Zionism. See Abraham Bick, “Religion and Labor: A Leftist Stream in Religious Zionism,” in Sefer Shragai, eds.

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The corporatist model was accepted by the Revisionist movement. Ze’ev Jabotinsky studied in Rome under one of the fathers of the fascist corporatist theory, Arturo Labriola, and was influenced by him.11 He believed in the importance of private capital for the construction of the land while negating the principle of class struggle. He held the conviction that national aspirations were supposed to unite all classes (“monism”).12 Settling labor disputes, he held, must be done through boards of “national arbitration”—the revisionist model that corresponded to the corporations.13 The “principle of arbitration,” he wrote in his 1934 greeting letter to the revisionist Histadrut Haovdim Haleumit (National Labor Federation), “is the fundamental premise for the success of our settlement enterprise; we will not let anyone forget it, nor adulterate or falsify it.”14 He saw this method as balancing between the interests of workers and the interests of the bourgeoisie and the middle class, whom he cherished. Some members of his movement recognized this idea as indebted to Italian fascism but showed sympathy for it, while others expressed strong reservations about it.15 The liberal model was adopted by the Zionim Klaliyim (General Zionists) party in a relatively advanced stage of its development.16 This movement espoused a liberal-capitalist view, encouraged a free economy, and saw with the Mordecai Eliav and Yitzhak Rafael ( Jerusalem, Israel: Mosad Harav Kook, 1982), 131. In Poalei Agudat Yisrael the working class values were of a similarly moderate type; see Gershon Bacon, The Politics of Tradition: Agudat Yisrael in Poland, 1916–1939 ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1996), 104–105, 107–108, and especially 114–116. An example of this approach can be found in the illuminating pamphlet by Rabbi Yehuda Leib Orlean, For the Satiated and the Hungry ( Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, Israel: Netzah, 1944) (Hebrew). Defining the goals of Poalei Agudat Israel, he does not favor the abolition of classes but writes only in defense of the “small” matters of workers’ rights in the framework of the welfare state. Ibid., 21–23, 29–31. He explicitly rejects idea of class struggle as being opposed to the path of the Torah (17–20), and disapproves of activism among the non-­ Orthodox workers’ movement (10, 33–34). 11 Yaacov Shavit, From Majority to State (Tel Aviv, Israel: Hadar, 1983), 155–156; Refaella Bilski Ben-Hur, Each Individual is a King (Tel Aviv, Israel: Dvir, 1988), 251–255. 12 Shavit, From Majority to State, 153–201; Ben-Hur, Each Individual, 267–273. 13 Shavit, From Majority to State, 202–231; Ben-Hur, Each Individual, 259–261. 14 Quoted in Abraham Axelrod, The Social Teachings of Ze’ev Jabotinsky (Tel Aviv, Israel: National Labor Federation, 1964), 32 (Hebrew). 15 Ibid., 229–235. 16 Naomi Shiloah, Centrism in Decline ( Jerusalem, Israel: Yad Ben Zvi, 2003), 223–225 (Hebrew).

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support of wealthy strata and the middle class, the guarantee of growth for the Yishuv economy. In the field of labor relations it supported primarily the idea of national arbitration panels, but during the 1930s accepted the method of collective bargaining, which was adopted by the leadership of the Yishuv. This notwithstanding, it continued to demand that the collective agreements include provision for mandatory arbitration.17 This, to a large extent, is the liberal model of democratic, Western countries. This movement was markedly lacking, in comparison with its competitors, an abundance of noted ideologues and powerful rhetoric. Yet, eventually this line of action, to a great extent, won the day in the Yishuv. One should not credit this victory to the movement of General Zionists, but mainly to the socialist MAPAI party (Workers’ Party of the Land of Israel). It was this hegemonic party that absorbed this philosophy as part of its principle of “constructive socialism.” Ultimately, it was also the model adopted by the fledgling State of Israel. This was notwithstanding that for many years there remained a variety of socialist and centralized elements in its developing economy.18

The Halakhic Background The Regulating of Labor Relations in Pre-Modern Sources and the “Silence of Rabbis” in Modern Times Interesting developments occurred also in the field of halakhah. While dealing with the right to form trade unions required relatively minor adjustments of Talmudic law to modern reality, as regards the right to strike the situation in normative halakhah was more difficult. Already in the Tosefta arrangements are discussed such that local members of the same trade/craft may enact regulations (takkanot) for themselves and 17 Ibid. It should be noted that at some point even the highly influential labor thinker Berl Katzenelson was ready to adopt this moderate version to achieve a national consensus on the question of labor relations. See Anita Shapira, The Failed Struggle (Tel Aviv, Israel: HaKibbutz HaMeuhad, 1977), 209 (Hebrew). 18 Zeev Sternhell, The Founding Myths of Israel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 326–330. In Sternhell’s view, in their quest to concentrate power in their hands, the leaders of MAPAI and the Histadrut actually withdrew from the Marxist way and expressed their adoption of a nationalist socialism. In that ideology, nation-building was to be the supreme value. However, this concentration per se was of a socialist flavor, even if nationalist, and was not consistent with the principles of free market capitalism.

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impose sanctions for their violation. The classic source in this matter is the Gemara in Tractate Baba Batra (9a). That case discusses two butchers who contracted to divide the days they would each work. The sanction term stated that in the event that one of them violate the agreement by working on his friend’s day, the injured party may tear up the skin of the violator’s animal. Consequently, when one of the butchers violated the agreement the other tore the skin of his animal. But Rava, who adjudicated that lawsuit, ruled to compensate the violator for the damage caused to him. Rav Yemar was troubled and claimed that according to the baraita, tradesmen/craftsmen who agree upon their regulations may place sanctions on such violators, so the skin was torn legally. Yet Rava did not retract his ruling. Rav Papa explained: “This regulation holds good only where there is no distinguished man in the town”— most of the commentators take this to mean a Torah scholar—“but where there is a distinguished man, they certainly have not the power to make such stipulations.”19 This Gemara served as the normative basis in halakhah for the right to form trade unions. But note: these regulations relate mainly to the internal relations of guild members and to their mutual assistance arrangements, but not to trade unions struggling against employers. The halakhah realized, of course, the existence of conflicts between employees and employers, but the discussions in these cases were almost always in private discourse, i.e., without reference to collective confrontations. The viewpoint of the halakhah focuses on the work contract, and in accordance with this contract the employee’s primary duty is doing the job, and as a matter of course ceasing to work is simply a breach of the contract. Indeed, Shillem Warhaftig, in his important book Labor Laws in Jewish Law, thoroughly analyzes the elements of the strike-act and concludes: “In terms of each of these elements, it turns out apparently, that a strike according to the Jewish law is an illegal act.”20 He then qualifies this statement and presents the conditions that allow strikes nonetheless. But a close examination of his source materials shows that these latter qualifications were drawn primarily from the literature of the twentieth century, i.e., after the halakhists had already reshaped the modernized halakhic labor laws. 19 B. Baba Batra, 9a. 20 Shillem Warhaftig, Labor Laws in Jewish Law ( Jerusalem, Israel: Ariel, 1982), 2: 972 (Hebrew).

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It would seem that first mention of the issue appeared already in the nineteenth century: in 1874 a minor Polish posek, Rabbi Aryeh Leibush Lifshitz (Belachower) ruled that ritual slaughterers striking to enhance working conditions acted illegally, and thus all who had engaged them “had no obligation to increase wages and would be permitted to employ other slaughterers.”21 Finally, one should note also that this pioneering responsum, according to its described circumstances and the spirit of its wording, did not deal with a strike of the more encompassing type of modern workers’ movements, which were initiated by organized trade unions of industrial and factory workers. According to the bibliographical survey by Rabbi Uri Dassberg on the subject of the right to strike in halakhah, this responsum of Rabbi Aryeh Leibush Lifshitz’s is the earliest rabbinical source to discuss the phenomenon of the modern strike.22 Rabbinical literature in the nineteenth century generally refrained from dealing with this issue, and as far as I could determine the next responsum after this one was that of Rabbi Hayim Hirschensohn, in the year 1923.23 From the opening words of Rabbi Hirschensohn, one gets the impression that he permitted the strike from the legal point of view, and instructed workers to refrain from it only by the force of “pietistic virtue” (middat hasidut). He compared the right to strike to the permission the halakhah grants the worker to withdraw from his work contract even at mid-day.24 Yet, eventually he came to the conclusion that “when the workers through their strike cause damage to the business—they are liable for restitution, unless some unforeseeable mishap occurred.” According to him, the warrant that the halakhah gives to the worker to withdraw even at mid-day applies only if the cancellation does not cause permanent damage, but it does prohibit such action where there is an “irreversible loss.” Furthermore, he asserts, “you won’t find any greater permanent loss causing real damage than a general workers’ strike.” He continues that, even if 21 Rabbi Aryeh Leibush Lipshitz, (Belachower), Hoshen Mishpat (Vilnius, 1873), 37. 22 Rabbi Uri Dassberg, “Workers’ Strike in Halakhic Perspective: A Bibliographic Review,” Tehumin 5 (1984): 295–300. Rabbi Dassberg’s useful survey lacks the responsa of Rabbis Hirschensohn and Bick (cited below in notes 22 and 42). 23 Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn, Malki Ba-Kodesh (Hoboken, NJ: Moinester Printing Co., 1923), 3: 37–39 (Hebrew). For an analysis of the responsum, see David Zohar, Halakhic Commitment in a Modern World: R. Hayyim Hirschensohn and His Attitude Towards Modernity ( Jerusalem, Israel: Shalom Hartman Institute, 2003), 247–248 (Hebrew). 24 B. Baba Kamma 116b; B. Baba Metzia 10a; Avodah Zarah 77a.

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this law does not strictly apply to our case since striking workers do not mean to terminate their work relations with the employer, “nevertheless, such behavior is not the way of good men [and] the paths of the righteous for the workers maliciously cause damage to the business through their calling a strike.”25 As is well known, the verse “That thou mayest walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous” (Proverbs 2:20) is used by the Gemara to mark a moral obligation which is not legally the normative law.26 Yet, it is totally clear that this obligation stands as the final conclusion of Rabbi Hirschensohn’s ruling. From his whole argumentation, it comes out that even his instruction to refrain from striking as part of mere “pietistic virtue” is not his substantive view but rather an alternate argument based on the potential adversary’s (rejected) opinion. It would seem that in his own view of the matter, Rabbi Hirschensohn forbade striking also on the basis of positive law.27 He concluded in a flowery tone: “The success of the world, its development and its happiness will be achieved when these two classes dwell in peace and unity and complement one another, and all the more so when they do not cause damage and destruction to one other, for in their peace shall God bring peace to us and to all Israel.”28 In general, the discussions on labor laws—“laws of hiring workmen” in traditional terminology—were limited until the twentieth century, and even explicit Torah prohibitions such as the prohibition to withhold wages were usually considered only in written novellae dealing with the classic texts of Talmud, the Code of Maimonides, and Shulhan Arukh, but not in responsa or in other practical books.29 This silence could be explained in many ways. The best explanation may lie in the tendency of the majority of the rabbis to side with 25 Hirschensohn, Malki Ba-Kodesh, 39. 26 B. Baba Metzia 83a. See also Aaron Kirschenbaum, Equity in Jewish Law (New York, NY: Ktav Publishers, 1991) 2: 122. 27 In a footnote, David Zohar stressed that “most poskim of that period forbade the right to strike; Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn and Rabbi Yekutiel Aryeh Kamelhar were the only ones who allowed this.” Zohar, Halakhic Commitment, note 22 and note 27, also 388, note 49. However, given the fact that in the responsum of Rabbi Hirschensohn the decision to prohibit stands as his conclusion, I do not find a considerable difference between him and his contemporaries. 28 Hirschensohn, Malki Ba-Kodesh. 29 The chapters concerning delayed wages in the Hafetz Hayim’s book, Ahavat Hesed, are unusual. I discussed them in my article “Delayed Wages In the Hafetz Hayim’s Rulings: Towards Modernization of The Halakhic Labor Law?,” Tarbiz 75 (2006): 501–538.

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the authorities and upper classes, and in their opposition to workers’ movements and their struggles. The topic of the relations of the rabbinic elite to the workers and their struggles is among the most important issues awaiting fundamental historical research, though at first glance it would seem that in most cases the rabbis did not identify with the workers and their demands. According to the description of Yehudah Erez, the socialists from the outset showed blatant anti-religious trends and provoked the wrath of the rabbis.30 In the 1870s, the authorities demanded that rabbis preach against workers’ movements and denounce their subversive elements; the rabbis, usually adopting a submissive approach towards the “Kingdom,” complied.31 It appears, however, that even when the state was not directly involved in the employee-employer relations, the rabbis took the side of the employers. Erez relates that when a worker’s strike broke out in the Edelstein cigarette factory in Vilna, the local preacher (maggid) came out in a sermon against the strikers—and this was not an isolated incident. Similarly, Erez asserts, halakhic rulings issued by the rabbis often tended to minimize the legal liability of the employer towards the employee. However, Erez neglected to adduce any halakhic sources to substantiate this claim. According to him, One might assume that there were rabbis, religious functionaries and observant Jews who were on the side of the worker and his battle, even though in the entire literature of the Jewish workers’ movement all these religious types were presented as haters of the worker and the revolution; but in general the rabbis indeed subscribed to the rule “a rabbi respects the wealthy” [a pun based on B. Eruvin 86a].32 30 Yehudah Erez, “Bible and Jewish Tradition in the Jewish Workers’ Movement,” a supplement to Abraham B. Poliak’s book, The Bible and the Socialist Movements among the Nations (Tel Aviv, Israel: Ayanot, 1954), 263–287 (Hebrew); re-published in Socialism and Jewish Workers’ Movement in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Moshe Mishkinsky, 117–141 ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Historical Society of Israel, 1976) (Hebrew). The citations and references below are based on this anthology, and especially pages 129–33. Israel Bartal shows how the leaders of the workers’ movements drew inspiration from Jewish sources, sometimes to write parodies of traditional Judaism: Israel Bartal, “‘We Shall Ruin the Old World Down to Ground’—The Jewish Workers’ Movement: Between Revolution and Continuity,” in Workers and Revolutionaries, ed. Tamar Manor-Friedman (Tel Aviv, Israel: Beit Hatefutsot, 1994), 31 (Hebrew). 31 Erez, “Bible and Jewish Tradition,” 130–131. 32 Ibid., 133. He later brings the testimony of the communist Shalom Levin, who relates the story of the preacher who spoke against the tsarist regime’s injustices, and also testifies about his father who was an observant Jew but proponent of equality, but adds: “There

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A similar line was also followed by Gershon Bacon concerning Agudat Yisrael’s lack of interest in social questions. In his opinion, one of the reasons for this was that “the leadership cadre of Aguda consisted mostly of wealthy communal notables and venerable rabbis, both of a decidedly conservative bent.”33 Surprisingly, in Ultra-Orthodox literature we find that one of the great scholars of Lithuania, Rabbi Yitzhak Rabinowitch of Ponivezh (R. Itzeleh Ponevizher), tended to sympathize with the workers, and was even called “the revolutionary prodigy.”34 But even if there is a degree of truth in this characterization, he probably acquired this title because of his atypical posture within the rabbinic landscape.35 This state of affairs can explain why we cannot find any halakhic rulings in support of the workers, but it leaves unresolved the question of why we cannot find in rabbinic literature any reference to this issue, even in support of the employers. After all, it would have been simple to construct responsa anchoring a prohibition to strike within the traditional halakhah, which did not recognize this as a permissible activity. It appears then that rabbinic silence had additional causes. At least one of these causes was, in my estimation, the loss of legal jurisdiction of the halakhah in Jewish communities in the Russian Empire during the nineteenth century. This was the result of a series of laws and actions that culminated in the 1844 “Act of the Abolition of the Kahal.” As Menachem Elon noted in a wider context, “in European countries in this period questions of the probably were not a lot of such incidents, so the Jewish socialists had a hard and bitter reckoning with religious people; hence their response—complete negation of anything that smelled of Judaism” (ibid.). These words are characteristic of Erez, who gently criticizes the anti-religious attitude of the radical Jewish revolutionaries, but seeks to instill in his readers understanding and empathy for them in view of the circumstances. 33 Bacon, Politics of Tradition, 100. 34 Rabbi Moshe Meir Yoshor, The Hafetz Hayim: His Life and Work (Tel Aviv, Israel: Netzah, 1960), 1: 426, note 1 (Hebrew). Also Yaakov Mark, Di Gdoylim Fun Unzere Tzeit (New York, NY: Ariam Press, 1926), 134 (Yiddish). Rabbi Yitzhak Yaakov Rabinowitz’s responsa, Zekher Yitzhak ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Jerusalem Institute, 1990) shows no sign of the leanings of the author, and he avoids almost completely laws dealing with “laws of hiring workers.” I could not find any reference to these issues in his other published responsa, and not even to his novellae on Tractate Baba Metzia (Yitzhak Yaakov Rabinowitz, From the Novellae of Rabbi Yitzhak Yaakov Rabinowitz [ Jerusalem, Israel: Tel Talpiot, 1947]), which has multiple laws relating to workmen. 35 For more on this topic see Rabbi Yitzchak Blau, “Rabbinic Responses to Communism,” Tradition 40, no. 4 (2007): 7–27; Marc B. Shapiro, “Rabbis and Communism,” in: http://seforim. traditiononline.org/index.cfm/2008/3/31/Marc-B-Shapiro--Rabbis-and-Communism.

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subjects of Hoshen Mishpat [civil law] were scant, and were dealt with in the responsa more as theoretical questions than as practical problems, such as would arise in an autonomous legal system.”36 According to Elon, due to the loss of judicial autonomy in Europe these topics became of too little actual import for involvement by halakhists. The laws of hiring workers, which are also included in Hoshen Mishpat, also suffered a similar fate. Another major reason was the process of scholarly maturation for halakhists to cope with these topics. Unlike Rabbi Lifshitz, it would appear that many of them correctly understood that the phenomenon of strike was not simply a breach of contract but a new phenomenon which had not been directly addressed in traditional halakhic sources.37 Time was needed to develop normative tools suitable for treating it, whether in order to adopt it or to reject it.

The Awakening of Halakhic Treatment of Labor Law During the 1930s, we witness the initial awakening of rabbinic writing in the field of labor law. Articles and books, both halakhic and quasi-halakhic, began to appear. Some of them dealt with, among other things, the right to unionize and the right to strike. In 1933, Rabbi Kook issued an oral responsum on this matter that was published in the journal Netivah of Hapoel HaMizrachi and subsequently referenced repeatedly.38 In 1934, Rabbi Yekutiel Aryeh Kamelhar published a short article on the topic in the one-time bulletin Torah vaAvodah (Torah and Labor).39 Books on the subject were soon published: in 1935, Rabbi Chaim Zev Reines of the United States published his book of rabbinic scholarship The Worker in Scripture and Talmud.40 In 1935, Rabbi Moshe Findling of the Land of Israel published his pioneering halakhic work Tehukat haAvodah

36 Menachem Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles (Philadelphia, PA: The Jewish Publication Society, 1994), 4: 1586. 37 Likewise according to Rabbi Eliezer Yehudah Waldenberg, Responsa Tzitz Eliezer ( Jerusalem, Israel: A. Waldenberg, 1997), 2: 23. 38 [Shlomo Zalman Shragai], “Oral Questions and Replies with our Rabbi, Preeminent Teacher, A. I. Kook,” Netivah 8, issue 7–9 (115–117), 1 Nisan, 1933, p. 343. 39 Rabbi Yekutiel Aryeh Kamelhar, “Labor Relations According to Halakhah,” in Torah vaAvodah, ([one-time journal] Ellul 1, 1934), 12–13 (Hebrew). 40 Rabbi Chaim Zev Raines, The Worker in the Bible and the Talmud (New York, NY: Moinester Publishing Co., 1933) (Hebrew).

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(The Constitution of Labor),41 which contained a concise and clear summary of the halakhic laws of labor. Rabbi Baruch Schlichter (Yashar) published in 1947 a digest of useful halakhah, in which he had already included two chapters on labor law.42 In 1947, Rabbi Avraham Yehoshua Bick published his short book Mishnat HaPoalim (The Doctrine of Workers),43 which was written while he was in the Land of Israel but only published years after he immigrated to the United States; this work had five responsa concerning labor laws. Rabbi Findling obtained an impressive list of endorsements, and likewise obtained halakhic letters from prominent rabbis in the Land of Israel of his day, including Rabbis Yitzhak I. Herzog, Isser Zalman Meltzer, Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel, and Yechiel Michel Tukchinsky.44 Rabbi Bick, in contrast, obtained only letters of a quasi-evasive nature, which he published in the first pages of his book. Rabbi Reines’ book dealt with the period of Antiquity, and hence is not relevant at all to the question of unionization and strikes. But Rabbis Findling and Bick did not adhere to the traditional halakhic line, which outlawed strikes in a more or less categorical manner. Rather, they recognized the halakhic ­legitimacy of the workers’ struggles. Rabbi Findling’s formulation in this matter is instructive and beneficial in reflecting the change that has gradually broken through in the rabbinic world since the time of the responsum by Rabbi Aryeh Leibush Lifshitz banning strikes. At the outset, Rabbi Findling presents the traditional halakhic line, accompanied by critiques of the Marxist position that was opposed to it: To cease working without the consent of the employer, we find no permission in Jewish law, . . . and even less to prevent other workers, whose work conditions were agreed upon in a contract, from doing their job. The concept of “strike” was established in the terminology of Marxism, rooted in the unilateral dictatorship of the proletariat. No objective law in the world can accept it, and certainly not the Torah, which is the true law.45 41 Rabbi Moshe Findling, Tehukat HaAvodah ( Jerusalem, Israel: S. Weinfeld Press, 1945) (Hebrew). 42 Rabbi Baruch Schlichter (Yashar), Torat Hayim: The Laws and Customs of Israel ( Jerusalem, Israel: Hapoel HaMizrachi Press, 1947), chapters 3 and 26 (21–23, 73–76) (Hebrew). 43 Rabbi Avraham Yehoshua Bick, Responsa Mishnat HaPoalim: The Worker’s Rights in the Light of the Halakhah (New York, NY: unknown publisher, 1948) (Hebrew). 44 Their decisions are cited in his book, The Worker in the Bible, 129–143. This entire book was worthy of much greater attention but it was fated to oblivion. 45 Ibid., 61–62.

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But then he immediately adds: On the other hand, we must not close our eyes to the reality that forced the workers to use the means of striking to protect their vital interests. Therefore our duty—not because of any defense for either side, but to find the truth of our Holy Torah—is to seek legal ways to have the workers reach the desired benefit, without discarding the path of law and morality. Therefore . . . we would like to mention two legal ways to permit halting the work in necessary circumstances.46

Further in his book, Rabbi Findling unhesitatingly refers to the right to strike as a legitimate and lawful measure.47 In this spirit, he writes that one of the objectives of the trade union, which is recognized as legitimate according to halakhah, is to “force workers into a general strike, if the employers do not agree even to their minimum demands.”48 And this is so in order “not to leave the worker isolated and unaided and to protect himself and his vital interests . . . and attain respect and fair wages for his work even if employers might thereby incur losses.”49 Rabbi Bick, too, devotes a responsum to this subject recognizing the right to strike and relies, amongst other considerations, on Rabbi Kook’s responsum.50 Rabbi Schlichter mentions only the right of unionizing, but refers the reader to the responsa of Rabbis Kook and Uziel dealing with, as noted above, also the right to strike.51 In the 1950s, a copious halakhic literature dedicated to labor issues began to develop, with expanded reference to the question of strikes and particularly strong emphasis on strikes by school teachers of Torah subjects.52 The need to tackle the special problems of this type of strike, such as the halakhic prohibition to demand fees for Torah study and the fear of “Torah loss” (bittul Torah) 46 One way was to recognize the authority of the workers union, and the other was to adopt the model of national arbitration, which Rabbi Findling took from Rabbi Kook. 47 Findling, The Worker in the Bible, 61–64. 48 Ibid., 119. 49 Ibid., 123–124. 50 Bick, Responsa Mishnat HaPoalim, 21–30. 51 Schlichter, Torat Hayim, 75, note 22. 52 It is interesting to note that at least three of the responsa on this topic came as replies to the query of one person, Akiva Egozi, who in 1952 addressed a question of the status of teachers’ strikes to some of the contemporary rabbis. This comes up from the study of Dassberg, “Workers’ Strike,” 296–297. As we will see further, the responsa regarding the right to strike as a whole were also almost all issued in reply to the query of one person—Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Shragai.

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on the part of the students, attests that the strike of the ordinary kind, which involves no such special problems, had already been perceived as a halakhicallylegitimized practice. Rabbinical literature in labor law continued to grow quite rapidly, and this is particularly noticeable in the last few decades. The new halakhic awakening of deliberations in the area of labor law in the 1930s demands explanation. There are presumably three main reasons for it. First, just as the decline of attention to the issue had stemmed largely from the cessation of real cases after the abrogation of Jewish judicial autonomy, so the renewal of attention is largely because the resolution of the question became a pragmatic necessity in Mandate Palestine. Even though the sovereign court system had not implemented the halakhah beyond the realm of personal status, the attempt to establish a Jewish civil law system (Mishpat HaShalom HaIvri) expressed a desire for halakhic inspiration in various judicial matters, and quite a few people demanded and believed that Jewish law should form the backbone of the legal system of the gradually advancing Jewish state. In my estimation, it is no coincidence that the rabbis who wrote and shaped this field were all (or almost all) identified with the religious-Zionist stream, or with Haredi circles of a moderate pro-Zionist bent. Beyond the necessary practical or partly-practical need, it seems the Zeitgeist aroused interest in this neglected field. As I mentioned above, the major modern ideologies had raised these issues to the top of the social agenda, and Jewish ideologies did not lag behind them. The victory of the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia and the development of religious workers’ movements (Hapoel HaMizrachi and Poalei Agudat Israel) in the 1920s likely stirred the interest of many as to what Judaism had to say about these topics, and promoted the process of maturation in this renewed halakhic field. There is no doubt that some interest stemmed from apologetic motives, and in the works discussed above the desire to present a progressive Judaism concerned about the needs of the workers is abundantly obvious. But these also contained a real demand for answers to questions that were reverberating throughout the entire world. Eventually - indeed, very late - the halakhic discussions on these issues began. But at least they were underway. In the first generation of the developing rabbinic creativity in labor law, we find a small number of illustrious rabbis who dealt systematically and methodically with the topic of trade unionization and the right to strike. Among

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them, we note, were Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel and Rabbi Moshe Feinstein.53 The responsum of Rabbi Uziel cannot be properly understood without referring to the 1933 responsum of Rabbi Kook, and so we will begin by examining it. The responsa of these rabbis, then, share a pioneering dimension in the development of the branch of labor law. As we will see shortly, there is a clear link between what these rabbis presented and what was presented in the modern ideologies of their time.

Rabbis Kook and Uziel: Adoption of the Corporative Model The Responsum of Rabbi Kook Three of the responsa concerning the right to strike and the right of unionization owe their existence to a member of Hapoel HaMizrachi movement, Shlomo Zalman Shragai. Shragai, public activist and author, addressed these questions to Rabbi Kook, who was then serving as the Chief Rabbi for Eretz Israel, and he published both of his oral responsa in the journal Netivah in 1933.54 About five years later, in 1938, he again took up this issue with Rabbi Uziel on behalf of the Hapoel HaMizrachi organization, in which Shragai was a leading figure, and Rabbi Uziel answered the question in writing and in detail.55 Rabbi Uziel reviewed his responsum in his reply to a much later enquiry in 1952.56 In 1945, we also find a further query by Shragai concerning the same question, this time to Rabbi Eliezer Y. Waldenberg, author of Tzitz Eliezer.57 These three responsa, along with the responsum of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, are the most cited in the halakhic literature written subsequently on this topic.58 53 According to Dassberg (“Workers’ Strike,” 296–7), Rabbis Eliezer Yehudah Waldenberg, Tzvi Pesach Frank, Avraham Kahana Shapira, and Nachum Peretzovitch dealt with this issue in the 1950s. 54 [Shragai], “Oral Questions and Replies,” 343. In his explanatory notes to the responsa (343– 344), Shragai dwelt prominently on the pioneering and unprecedented character of these responsa in the world of the halakhah. 55 Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel, Responsa Misphetai Uziel ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Commission for the Publication of Rabbi Uziel’s Writings, 2005), 4: 42 (Hoshen Mishpat). 56 Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel, Piskei Uziel, ( Jerusalem, Israel: Mosad Harav Kook1976 ,), 46. 57 Waldenberg, Responsa Tzitz Eliezer, 2:23. 58 The Ultra-Orthodox halakhic literature habitually ignores Rabbis Kook and Uziel, but most of the literature on this topic from the 1930s to the 1960s is written by religious Zionist rabbis, and they often refer to these responsa. See, for example, Rabbis Findling (Tehukat

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Shragai asked Rabbi Kook: “What is the halakhic law regarding strikes aimed at preserving existing labor conditions and strikes aimed to improve them?” According to the text in Netivah, the Chief Rabbi replied: A strike is permitted for the objective of forcing the employer to appear in a rabbinic court (beit din) or to enforce a court decision in connection with a contentious dispute, be it to preserve the workers’ conditions or to better them. As a result of this it is clear that in all disputes of this type the workers must summon the employer to a rabbinic court with a claim, [and] if the employer refuses, it is the right of the workers to call a strike, even without any special consent from the court to such a call, which accords with the legal reasoning of the later poskim. Of course, it is permitted to require that such conflict will not be adjudicated in an ordinary rabbinic court but in a court of broad panel, consisting of rabbis noted for their Torah prowess and proficiency, and well versed in issues of life and labor. They may also require the submission of the dispute to ZABLA arbitration [a procedure in which the sides each choose a judge, and the two judges choose a third], or else to a tribunal of scholars well versed in halakhah, or even of laymen, as long as both parties agree to it.59

An examination of this responsum teaches that Rabbi Kook did not allow strikes to enable free bargaining, by which the parties would determine their rights and duties through the accepted power games. The final authority was the court that Rabbi Kook now offered to set up. Striking was intended to enforce attendance at the beit din or to enforce compliance with its rulings but not to achieve economic goals per se. The language of the text emphasizes the dispensations—“a strike is permitted,” “it is permitted”—but, practically speaking, the requisite conditions made it fairly limited. It is easy to see that the arrangement Rabbi Kook suggested here is the system of national arbitration of the type which Jabotinsky had supported, and also the General Zionists at the outset of their movement. The basic approach embodied in this model is, as already noted, the concept of the organic unity of the nation, which finds its expression in the state. This concept fits, mutatis mutandis, Rabbi Kook’s concept of the uniqueness of Israel and his aspirations HaAvodah, 63), Schlichter (Torat Hayim, chapters 3 and 26 [21–23, 73–76]), Bick (Responsa Mishnat HaPoalim, 21–22), and Rabbi Katriel Fishel Tkhursh, Keter Ephraim, (Tel Aviv, Israel: Moreshet, 1967), 19: 1, 260–261. The responsum of Rabbi Kook, given orally and published within a modest platform, had a quick success, and soon became a quasi-classic source! 59 [Shragai], “Oral Questions and Replies,” 343.

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for the unity of the nation, even if he does not refer explicitly to this outlook. It also gives expression to Rabbi Kook’s conservatism in matters of halakhah. In the era when this responsum first appeared, strikes were already in existence de facto and there was no room to negate them completely. The way to limit the freedom to strike within the framework of the contemporary models was to implement the corporative model of national arbitration. Shragai’s second question referred to the authority of workers’ organizations to force employers to hire only workers unionized in labor organizations, “since unorganized labor would cause damage to the workers’ conditions” and, similarly, if the worker-organizations were permitted to compel workers to join them. Here, too, Rabbi Kook pointed his questioner to the jurisdiction of the beit din: if one or another policy could cause damage to the work force, such was a matter that would be clarified by the beit din, and pressure would only be applied either to bring the parties to court or to have them comply with its decisions. “In fact,” he noted at the end of his words, “the workers’ organization was recognized by our sages when they said: craftsmen are allowed to set their own regulations and impose sanctions thereof. But compelling individuals to enter the organization would have to be argued in the beit din and decided by due rabbinic process, as mentioned above.” That is, the authority of the trade union rests on whoever belongs to it, but membership itself is not obligatory, unless the beit din rules otherwise. This follows the same line of limiting the power of trade unions.

The Responsum of Rabbi Uziel A few years after, Rabbi Uziel took a similar path.60 His responsum to members of Hapoel HaMizrachi included references to many aspects of labor relations, and he got to the question of striking in section six. His response was to forbid it, but he signaled that the prohibition had some loose ends (in this matter one should pay attention to the words I have bolded in the next block quote): In my humble opinion it appears that in general striking is not allowed and not desirable, neither for the worker nor for the employer. [Not] for the worker— because each day of striking from productive work is a day lost of life, and the Torah commanded about obligations of working. . . . And not for the employer—because any construction or industrial labor, let alone planting, that would not be done and completed within the proper season falls into the 60 Uziel, Responsa Misphetai Uziel.

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category of permanent loss, not just because the time was lost but also because of the damage that results from it to the work-process material. Make a deduction from the law governing a workman who withdraws from his work in the middle of his contractual employment time: although in principle the workman can retract even in the middle of the day, based on the biblical verse “For unto me the children of Israel are servants” [meaning] “they are My servants—but not servants to servants” (B. Baba Kamma 116 and B. Baba Metzia 77), the law is decided that, if loss would result, the worker could not withdraw ([Shulhan Arukh] Hoshen Mishpat section 333, paragraph 8). Within the definition of loss, the Sefer Meirat Eynayim wrote, are matters requiring immediate attention, which will be ruined if they are not completed immediately. But Beit Yosef and the gloss of the REMA rule that any work that the owner could not do by himself is to be considered irreparable loss. The reason for this is that any pause in work causes damage to the work-process material. Siftei Cohen (ibid., subparagraph 23) concludes his discussion by saying that the matter is left to judicial discretion. According to prevailing labor conditions, at present it is clear to me that any delay in the work of agriculture or industrial production or construction causes enormous losses that cannot be later restored. . . . In view of all the above considerations it is obvious that strikes or work lockouts are not desirable in themselves and cause losses to the worker or to the owner on the grounds of the law absolving liability for indirect damages.61

Rabbi Uziel stuck to the traditional pre-modern position of labor relations and prohibited strikes. In terms of his halakhic reasoning, it seems that he followed in the footsteps of Rabbi Hirschensohn. At face value it seems as if he relied on the words of Rav in Tractate Baba Metzia: “The laborer may retract even in the middle of the day . . . for it is written: ‘For unto me the children of Israel are servants; they are My servants—but not servants to servants.’”62 This source, which was cited by almost all the halakhists who discussed the issue of striking, is problematic largely because it deals with the right of the worker to cancel his labor contract totally, while a strike is not the breaking of a labor relationship but an attempt to achieve better conditions within the framework of this relationship. This crucial flaw, which Rabbi Waldenberg pointed out in his responsum of 1945,63 posed a threat to the halakhic decision of Rabbi Hirschensohn and 61 Ibid., emphasis added. 62 B. Baba Metzia 10a; B. Baba Kamma 116b. 63 In his responsum (Waldenberg, Responsa Tzitz Eliezer, subparagraph 2): “This particular norm of taking coercive measures by a strike, as commonly practiced in our day, stopping

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many others. Apparently, these rabbis stumbled due to a lack of source material on the subject of strikes in the classical halakhic literature. Rabbi Uziel, however, did not really fail here, as he never claimed this Talmudic passage applies to the issue of strikes, but only that it was instructive in an allegorical way (“Make a deduction from the law governing a workman who withdraws . . .”). If the halakhah stipulated that the right of a worker to leave mid-day will hold only if it does not lead to permanent loss, there is no reason that the same limitation not apply also in the case of strike action. But whoever studies Rabbi Uziel’s responsum, notably the bolded words in the block quote above, meets twice his suggestive phrasing hinting that the prohibition is not categorical. In the beginning of the quote he says that striking is not permitted and not desirable and at the end he reiterates the phrase “not desirable.” And the reader stops and wonders: if striking is “not permitted,” what is “not desirable” doing here? I think these are subtle hints that Rabbi Uziel, despite his halakhic arguments, is well aware that the prohibition is ­problematic. It seems that the expression “not desirable” suggests that from the purely legal perspective there is ample room to permit strikes, and that the prohibition is more in the realm of “pietistic virtue” along the lines of “the way of good men and the paths of the righteous,” exactly as utilized by Rabbi Hirschensohn several years before. As we will see shortly, Rabbi Uziel held the opinion that indeed both sides—workers and employers—are required to adhere to this verse in order to achieve harmonious labor relations. But apart from these subtle hints, Rabbi Uziel uses the language of a bona fide halakhic prohibition. He understands that the prohibition raises a difficulty, since under it the worker is deprived of “his only weapon, striking.” Therefore he suggested two other options to preserve his rights: (a) by “law: the just law based on ‘thou mayest

work and preventing other workers from doing their work, and then even demanding wages for strike days, does not have any explicit source in Talmud and commentaries or works of the poskim. One will only find the well-known law that a workman can withdraw [from his contract] even at midday, as articulated at length in [Shulhan Arukh] Hoshen Mishpat, chapter 333. I will not dwell on this now since, in my opinion, it is irrelevant to our question, which is totally different. In our case we do not deal with a workman who retracts [from his agreement] and leaves his job by the employer, but rather with one who stands on his rights, the latter being part of ‘local custom.’ Such a workman does not leave the field to the employer to hire others in his place, but exercises some coercion to have him agree to fulfill his demands and then return to work for him.”

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walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous’”; (b) by “the strength of the workers’ organizations, as we shall explain below.”64 For the first option, Rabbi Uziel utilized the Talmudic discussion of local craftsmen’s regulations and concluded on that basis that the sages “recognized the regulations of a craftsmen’s organization or trade union.” According to that Gemara—the authority for workers to enact such regulations depends on the consent of a “distinguished man,” if one could be found in their locales. Rabbi Uziel explains: The rationale for this law is that no trade organization can be objective in its decisions but only subjective, and their own self-interest blinds them from seeing the employer’s point of view. Moreover, the existence of one organization leads to the establishment of another to counter it, and they [both] do not limit themselves to their [direct] interests; and so the constant clashing between the two sides—the workers and the employers—never stops, and is followed by blind resistance and constant mutual hostility.

In the spirit of this understanding he suggested, to establish a distinguished court (beit din), assembled of members fluent in Torah law and academics proficient in the field of economics and societal market conditions, so they jointly enact a detailed labor legislation, and afterwards appoint permanent judges to adjudicate on the basis of this legislation all the conflicts that occur between the workers concerning the proper division of fair labor among themselves, and settle disputes between the workers and employers concerning their mutual relationships.”65

Rabbi Uziel supported this idea with the Talmudic requirement of a “distinguished man’s” consent. In our time it is insufficient to have a single such “distinguished man.” Rather, an enlarged body must be established, which will likely include also representatives of employees and employers.66 When he 64 Uziel, Responsa Misphetei Uziel, ibid. 65 Ibid. It is almost needless to add that the court suggested by Rabbi Uziel has never been established. Israeli workers today, even Orthodox, may strike without asking permission from any judiciary, and if the conflict is brought to court, it will be the Labor Court, established by the secular law in 1969, that will adjudicate the case according to secular law and without any rabbinic involvement. Workers and employers can bring their case to a rabbinical court only in the form of arbitration, based on mutual consent. 66 Rabbi Uziel’s words on this issue are not entirely clear, because at the beginning of his words he refers to a body that unites the workers and enacts their regulations, and consequently can only obligate the workers, while later he refers to this body as an organization that unites within it also employers, so that its authority obligates them, too.

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writes that the new court “will prevent . . . the use of unjustified strikes,” he seems to imply that there are also justified strikes, which the court will be able to permit.67 However, it is clear that permissions such as this derive from the authority of the beit din to enact obligatory enactments even contrary to the halakhah, and that as long as such regulations are not enacted, the standard halakhic law, which proscribes all strikes, remains in place.

The Ideological Factor: the Unity of the Nation and the Idea of Corporatism Despite Rabbi Uziel’s reliance on Jewish traditional sources, and possibly due to internal tensions that arise from this reliance, it is difficult not to notice that he practically adopts the corporative model, which we saw with the fascist thinkers and subsequently with the revisionist thinkers. In this way he follows to a large extent the brief ruling of Rabbi Kook (whom he does not mention), and develops the idea expressed in it, but shares with us a little more of his fundamental assumptions. From these we see that he does not only adopt the practical arrangement regarding national arbitration, but also the theoretical concept that stands at its core. Here, too, the basic assumption is that conflict in itself is illegitimate and selfish, whereas an integrated body, which would include the representation of both parties and an extra-class authority to settle matters, would achieve an objective agreement. Here, too, this mechanism should obviate the need for a strike, and its aim is to serve as a harmonious body working for the promotion of general welfare as part and parcel of the broader endeavor toward the national well-being. Rabbi Uziel, who had a clear humanist bent, was disinclined to fascism. But he was a man open to the intellectual winds of the time, and it is reasonable to assume that he had absorbed corporatism through the agency of the revisionists. Unlike what is claimed about the attitude of the rabbis towards the workers in Russia before the Bolshevik Revolution, Rabbi Uziel showed much sympathy to the workers and their desire to enhance their living conditions. He wrote a long and extensive argument regarding the importance of the workers’ organizations, for “the [halakhic] law postulates that the worker is not to be left alone isolated and solitary to the extent that he need to hire 67 Ibid., emphasis added. It is possible, however, that he meant only strikes aimed to force employers to show up in the beit din, similar to the position of Rabbi Kook.

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himself out for a small wage to satisfy the hunger of his family with measly bread and scant water in cramped and dark lodgings.” He continues at length about the halakhah giving the worker “the legal right to organize and establish beneficial regulations for his society, which would anchor a fair and just division of labor among its members and achieve a respectable treatment and a fair wage for his work.” He wanted to see the workers’ organization establish “cultural institutions to enrich the scientific and artistic education [of the worker] and his Torah knowledge, medical institutions and recreation places to renew his strength exploited by work and heal wounds caused by it.” He even saw the worker’s organization as the responsible body for the pension insurance of the worker—“to create a savings fund for old age and for disabilities”—a norm that would exempt the employer from that responsibility.68 Thus, it is abundantly clear that Rabbi Uziel did not negate the right to strike because of a lack of solidarity with the workers or to protect the interests of the employers. The element that attracted him to the corporative model was most likely the element of harmonious concord, and the idea that it is possible to solve labor relations issues through brotherhood and national unity beyond any class interest. This way of thinking integrated into his broader Zionist viewpoints, which placed the unity of the nation as a supreme value,69 and his aspiration to see all segments of the public joining in the enterprise of the national revival. It is possible to support this interpretation by examining the internal contradiction in which Rabbi Uziel involved himself immediately with his subsequent words: despite his negative position toward the right to strike, he said that, if the worker nevertheless strikes, it is forbidden for the employer to fire him.70 In his opinion, the employer may fire a worker 68 Ibid. 69 Shalom Ratzabi, “Chief Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel: Halakhah and Zionism,” HaTzionut 21 (1997), 77–97 (Hebrew); Rabbi Binyamin Lau, “Rabbi Ben-Zion Uziel: Unity of the Nation in the Field of Halakhah,” in Both Sides of the Bridge, eds. Mordechai Bar-On and Zvi Zameret ( Jerusalem, Israel: Yad Ben Zvi, 2002), 297–319 (Hebrew); Moshe Hellinger, “Individual and Community, Nation and Humanity: A Comparative Study on the Socio-­ Political Teachings of Rabbis Moshe Avigdor Amiel and Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel,” in A Hundred Years of Religious Zionism, eds. Avi Sagi and Dov Schwartz (Ramat Gan, Israel: Bar Ilan University, 2003), 97–142 (Hebrew); Marc Angel, Loving Truth and Peace ( Jerusalem, Israel: Jason Aronson, 1999), 15–17, 130–139. 70 Uziel, Responsa Misphetai Uziel, subparagraph 7.

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during the term of his contract only if he caused him an “irreparable loss,” and even then only if the worker did it repeatedly or after he had been warned. However, we noted before that Rabbi Uziel claimed that nowadays the employer will always suffer irreversible loss, on which account, specifically, he banned striking! Moreover, in his opinion, “any act of negligence in working . . . and needless to say a legal action that is his right—does not give permission to the employer to fire him during his contractual time.”71 Here the contradiction has advanced a step: a strike action, which only a few lines earlier was unequivocally proscribed, has suddenly turned into a “legal action”! Rabbi Uziel even adds that if an employer fired a striking worker, the worker is entitled to sue the employer, and the beit din could well order compensation in his favor. The solution to this blatant contradiction is found in the very premise I posited above: that, in fact, Rabbi Uziel never truly forbade striking from the viewpoint of positive law but only as a matter of equity, or pietistic virtue (“the ways of good men and the paths of the righteous”), and if this is so, striking is indeed a legal action; still, it is “not desirable” because squabbles and disputes are never desirable among fellow Jews. Rabbi Uziel does not want to see workers on strike, since strikes are detrimental to the process of “nation-building.” But also he does not want to see workers fired, since this also causes similar harm. What he would like to see is an idyllic situation free of conflict. Indeed, Rabbi Uziel’s quasi-corporative model was nourished by exaggerated optimism, if not naiveté. At its base stands an organic approach to national unity, which seeks to keep aggressive measures distant from both sides.

The Responsa of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein: The Adoption of the Liberal Model Trade Union as Partnership A comparison between the rulings of Rabbis Uziel and Feinstein is illuminating. Rabbi Moshe Feinstein served as a rabbi in the Soviet Union under the communist regime, and suffered under it, especially during Stalin’s rule. In 1936, he emigrated to the United States, and there he was to become the most prominent 71 Ibid., emphasis added.

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halakhic authority of Orthodox Judaism. In the early 1950s, Rabbi Feinstein dealt with two questions on the matter of striking, one in 1951 and the other in 1954.72 Rabbi Feinstein began his responsum of 1951 with decisive words, expressing unequivocal support for the freedom to unionize and the freedom to strike: Concerning the associations of workers called “unions,” which make regulations, determine set wages, prevent employers from firing them, and help each other through strikes and similar means for their benefit, I do not see any shade of prohibition; on the contrary, we see moreover that they are allowed even to make terms contrary to the set halakhic law, as in Baba Batra 8. According to [this source], they are allowed to impose sanctions for enforcing their terms and even cause damage [to a person who violates them], such as tear his animal’s skin.73

Rabbi Feinstein relies on the Gemara in Tractate Baba Batra, that we saw above, which recognizes the regulations of trade unions as obligatory; but according to this Gemara these regulations require the consent of “a distinguished man,” i.e., an eminent Torah scholar. Rabbi Feinstein knows perfectly well that trade unions in the United States are not in the habit of seeking consent from rabbis, but in his opinion there is no need for it. Interpreting the Gemara narrowly, he establishes that the consent of the “distinguished man” is required only in the case of regulations which are contrary to law, “but in matters which are not against the law, such as to determine wages and to help each other—there is no need at all for the consent of a sage, for the matter is like all business arrangements and ordinary partnerships.”74 Thus, in passing, Rabbi Feinstein ruled that striking is not against the halakhah—a problematic claim in traditional thinking about labor relations.

72 Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Igrot Moshe, Hoshen Mishpat (New York, NY: M. Feinstein, 1964), part I, nos. 58–59. The responsum from 1954 referred to a teachers’ strike, a subject that, as mentioned, has peculiar aspects not addressed in this article, but its first rulings dealt with the status of strikes in general. In 1974, Rabbi Feinstein once again was asked about teachers striking (Feinstein, Igrot Moshe, Hoshen Mishpat, part II, 59), but his responsum dealt entirely with the unique aspects of such strikes. Furthermore, it was written long after the formative period of the rules of halakhic laws of labor, and thus we should leave it in this context. 73 Ibid., 58. 74 Ibid., emphasis added.

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In his responsum of 1954 he goes further and asserts that the “distinguished man” mentioned in the Gemara is not just an ordinary rabbi or Talmudic scholar but a rabbi “appointed as an official over the public to oversee the regulations of the townsmen and care for their needs,” and not only “to teach and preach.” Where there is no such rabbi, it is possible to rescind the consent of the “distinguished man” altogether, since the Gemara itself stipulated that the consent of the “distinguished man” is required only when such a person is in the very place. There is no need to say that this image of a posek holding official authority over social and economic issues does not exist in the cultural environment of Rabbi Feinstein. In view of this, we see his words as de facto abolition of the requirement for the consent of the “distinguished man.” He himself says: And if so, in the cities in this country, since no sage is appointed for such matters, it is tantamount to [the situation of] having no distinguished man available. [In such a situation, the law posits, the] terms and regulations [that the residents enacted] remain in force. And all the more so in our country, where they have permission from the government [to enact such regulations]75

In presenting the trade union as something like an “ordinary partnership,” Rabbi Feinstein injected himself into the controversy of medieval authorities concerning the source for enforcing the regulations of townsmen and craftsmen.76 In the medieval rabbinic literature, two theoretical models for this 75 Ibid., 59. 76 The opinions of the medieval authorities on this matter and their connection to social developments current in their days are discussed extensively in academic research, and what follows is a short listing of some of the works on this topic: Itzhak Baer, “The Foundations and Origins of Jewish Communal Organization in the Medieval Period,” Zion 15 (1950): 1–41 (Hebrew); Irving A. Agus, “Democracy in the Communities of the Early Middle Ages,” Jewish Quarterly Review 43 (1952–1953): 157–176; Ya’acov (Gerald) Blidstein, “Communal Law in the Middle Ages—Origins and Concepts,” Dine Yisrael 9 (1979–80): 127–164 (Hebrew); Yehiel S. Kaplan, “Public Interest,” Dine Yisrael, 17 (1993–1994): 27–91 (Hebrew); Kaplan, “Authority and Status of Communal Leaders in the Jewish Community in the Middle Ages,” Dine Yisrael 18 (1995–1996): 255–319 (Hebrew); Kaplan, “Communal Decision Making According to Rabbenu Tam in Theory and Practice,” Zion 60 (2005): 277–300, esp. 277–279 (Hebrew); Ephraim Kanarfogel, “The Development and Diffusion of Unanimous Agreement in Medieval Ashkenaz,” in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, eds. Isadore Twersky and Jay M. Harris (Cambridge and London, UK: Harvard University Press, 2000), 3: 1–44; Kanarfogel, “Unanimity, Majority, and Communal Government in Ashkenaz During the High Middle

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question were offered. One model is the court (beit din) model, or the authority model, which sees the association as a public body and conceives the regulations as “downward legislation.” The second model is the partnership model, or the contractual model, which sees the association as a voluntary agreement between private individuals and conceives of the regulations as the type of terms in a collective treaty.77 The most significant representatives of the beit din model are Rabbi Asher Ben Yehiel (ROSH, ca. 1250–1327) and Rabbi Eliezer Ben Yoel HaLevi (RAVIAH, ca. 1140–ca. 1220). The significant representative of the partnership model is Rabbenu Tam (Rabbi Jacob ben Meir, 1100–1171). Rabbi Feinstein does not mention this controversy and consequently also does not take sides, but from his comments above it is evident that he chooses the partnership model. The difference between the two models is first and foremost theoretical, but it has important bearings on the practical level as well. With the partnership model, Rabbi Feinstein “gained” exemption from the requirement of consent of a “distinguished man.” In this he had some additional “gains:” in a partnership one may be associated together with non-Jews without any worry of transgressing the prohibition of using Gentile courts. In this set-up there is neither court proceeding nor entrance into a covenant with them, for we speak only of a business-like arrangement.78 However, as there are “gains” in the partnership model, it also includes some “prices:” it requires the consent of all the parties to the contract (in this case, the members of the union), and a simple majority is not sufficient for a resolution. One cannot compel regulations on whomever has not agreed to them, and therefore they do not apply to a person who is not a member of the union nor even on any new joiner who had not previously committed himself to them. In principle, halakhah would require the performance of a formal act of Ages: A Restatement,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 63 (1992): 79–106; Joseph Isaac Lifshitz, “Between Partnership and Authority: the Development of Political Theory in the Jewish Communities in Germany and in France during the Middle Ages” master’s thesis, Touro College (2003); Lifshitz, “The Political Theory of MAHARAM of Rothenburg: Holy Community and Political Organization,” doctoral dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 2006. 77 Some noted the parallelism between this distinction and the Roman law distinction between corporation (corporatio) and partnership (societas); see, for example, Lifshitz, “Between Partnership and Authority,” 10. 78 From the responsum of Rabbi Feinstein we find an indication that these issues had been raised by the addressee, Rabbi Shmuel Tuvia Stern.

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“acquisition” (kinyan), as it does for all monetary transactions, in order to grant legal force to regulations requiring expenditures from the members. According to the beit din model, there is no need for all of these because the authority of the beit din is not based on consent but on structural hierarchy.79 Rabbi Feinstein dealt with these problems. He overcame with relative ease the requirement for a formal act of acquisition (kinyan). Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg (ca. 1214–1293), who embraced the partnership model, had already ruled that there was no need for formal kinyan, for the benefits of mutual compliance of the partners serves as a substitute for such an act.80 Rabbi Feinstein did not base his argument on this permissive ruling, but simply posited that “in Torah law, formal acts of kinyan do not apply to such [a type of] partnership terms,” meaning where the partnership is not in tangible assets. He stated that the obligatory force of such regulations is not based on the strength of any formal act of acquisition but on the strength of the fidelity of the parties who have obligated themselves to stand by their word. In his responsum of 1954, Rabbi Feinstein deals with the question of the majority rule and the applicability of regulations on non-unionized workers. From a close reading of the language of the Shulhan Arukh he concludes that the resolutions of a trade union do not require the unanimous consent of its members, and hence “it is obvious that they require [only] a majority.” He stresses that a clear majority is needed, and the voice of one half is insufficient. The possibility of requiring a full consensus, as in ordinary partnerships, was not raised even as a rejected supposition. It seems that this determination is inconsistent with the framework of the partnership model and tends towards the beit din model. In the following text, Rabbi Feinstein seems to go even further, as he referred not only to the majority of union members, but to that of all the workers in the same trade, including those that are not unionized. His conclusion was that the trade union members, in so far as they form 79 Kaplan, Kanarfogel, and Lifshitz, in their studies listed above (note 75), analyze the restrictions imposed on the partnership model in order to avoid some of its undesired practical outcomes, even by those who embraced it on the theoretical level. I see no need to delve into this matter here because Rabbi Feinstein, as we will see shortly, did not at all bother himself to distinguish the two models or cope with the problems arising from them. 80 Mordekhai to Baba Kamma, paragraph 176, in the name of Rabbi Meir (MAHARAM) of Rothenburg; Rabbi Joseph Karo, Beit Yosef, Hoshen Mishpat, 176.

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the majority among those who work in that trade, may force their resolutions on the minority, including those who are not union members. And since, as in the United States at any rate, “in most places they [the union members] are the majority of skilled craftsmen,” they usually have such coercive powers.81 In these points—the decisive power of the majority within the union and the application of its resolutions to those who are not unionized in it— Rabbi Feinstein seems to have been forced to abandon the rules of the partnership model and to adopt those generally associated with the beit din model. In essence, he grabs the rope by both its ends: he is ready to take any “gains” from each model, but he not prepared to pay the “prices” enveloped in them. The author of Igrot Moshe did all this without giving thought to the theoretical problem of the model that substantiates the authority of the union. His explanation is a patchwork from the two approaches put together. In reference to the consent of the “distinguished man” and to joint unionization with non-Jews, he is content with the contractual approach, but in reference to the power to impose its orders he favors the authority approach. This uncommitted stance allows him, in practice, to move freely from one model to another. It is not hard to see that Rabbi Feinstein made tremendous efforts to anchor trade unions and the right to strike, as he knew them in democratic countries, within the framework of the halakhah. To this end he was willing to get involved in a contradiction in terms of the choice between the approaches of the medieval authorities concerning the source for these unions’ powers. He bypassed the textual difficulty through maintaining silence. He did not attempt to involve the state, or a judicial body, in any form, but maintained the two-side approach to the conflict, in the spirit of the liberal model, as presented above, which he absorbed into the halakhah.

81 Feinstein, Igrot Moshe, Hoshen Mishpat, Part I, 58. Later on he withdrew from the assumption that it is possible to see the totality of workers in a specific trade as a single assembly, because the trade union considers itself as committed only to the interests of its members and not to the totality of the workers in that trade. Yet he left the union’s authority to impose regulations in its place, not by virtue of the authority of the union members to enact obligatory regulations upon the whole but from the force of the damage that a minority might cause by ignoring the majority’s welfare.

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The Ideological Factor: In Praise of Democracy Rabbi Feinstein, like his predecessors, did not integrate ideological reasons in his responsa, but his ideological views concerning some of the issues related to those under discussion are known to us, mainly through his sermons published in his book Darash Moshe (1988). This book, which usually would not receive scholarly attention, reveals a less-known facet of Rabbi Feinstein. Although he was not a systematic thinker, he nevertheless revealed thoughtful reflections, often eloquent and interesting. In some of them we can trace influences of the Musar movement, even though Rabbi Feinstein is not numbered among its adherents. But even more evident is his attempt to cope with contemporary challenges. His sermons cover almost all the years of his rabbinic career, from the Soviet Union to the United States. From the sermons of the Russian period emanate a consistent anticommunist tone, at times implied but often overt. Time after time he quibbles with the fundamental principles of Marxist ideology and the values it stood for. Like Freud before him,82 he sees also the principle of equality as a sublimation of the jealousy drive. Communism, in turn, is the desire to “ideologize” that drive: There is a group of people who have a systematic ideology of promoting evil traits, such as jealousy. They think they will achieve their own welfare and the welfare of the world by having each person see that his neighbor not be richer than him. On these grounds they wish to abolish private property, believing that welfare will be achieved only in a world where there is nothing to envy. Similarly they promote the trait of lustfulness, stating that it [conjugal relations] should be lawless, without any bond. And so it is with each and every trait.83

Rabbi Feinstein rejected this ideology as fundamentally antithetical to human nature. It will not bring good to the world, nor to the individual, because “there will always be something to envy: if one does not envy his neighbor’s wealth, one will envy his honor or wisdom or power or beauty, etc.” Instead of eliminating the objects of jealousy, Rabbi Moshe suggests eliminating jealousy itself:

82 Sigmund Freud, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego (London, UK: Hogarth Press, 1959), 87–88. 83 Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Darash Moshe (New York, NY: Mesorah, 2003), 227 (sermon 5).

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that is, repairing evil traits, and “then of certainty there will be peace for him [the individual] and peace in the world, and great pleasure from life.”84 Gratifying desires, says Rabbi Feinstein, will not cure them, because the person who is satisfied with little does not suffer, while the person who wishes to gratify his desire quickly discovers that he desires more.85 Moreover, material advantages are ephemeral, and so “one should not rejoice so much from the increase of his wealth and the like, as these might change at any time.” This is said both in regards to individuals as to nations.86 In contrast to communism, the Torah places spiritual life at the top of its goals, and in the Torah perspective “there is no difference between one who is poor and one who is rich . . . given their actions are equally good, because everything is God’s and men have nothing to boast about.”87 In contrast to the sharply negative attitude of Rabbi Feinstein to communism, his attitude towards democracy was very positive. Although in his sermons in the Soviet period Rabbi Feinstein drew contrasts between the laws of the Torah and the laws of nations in sweeping statements and tones, which might have given rise to thinking that he had bundled them all in one package, in his sermon in honor of the 150th anniversary of United States Constitution (1939) he left no room for doubt regarding the priority of democracy in his eyes. The main advantage of democracy was that it did not impose any ideology on its citizens; namely, it held a neutral stance in ideological and religious matters, an approach so different from the one that prevailed in the Soviet Union and in Nazi Germany. Above all he stressed the freedom of religion, but the same idea applies to the whole spectrum: “Every faith and ideology which 84 Ibid., 227– 228. Indeed, the proposed solution—eliminating one’s bad traits—is not less utopian than that of communism, and is almost as equally opposed to human nature. It seems that Rabbi Feinstein did not propose it as an operative solution but rather as a competing utopian vision, because in one of his sermons he describes the ideal Jewish government as a place where everyone observes the Torah and the commandments, and even the king, whose duty it is to punish the sinners, is none but “God’s servant” (ibid., 254 [sermon 8]). 85 Ibid., 285–286 (sermon 12). 86 Ibid., 288. These “ideologies” lead to large-scale bloodshed much greater than there was in the past (ibid., 287). Rabbi Feinstein, who harbored pacifist tendencies, denounced this violence several times (e.g., ibid., 365–367 [sermon 29]). 87 Ibid., 280 (sermon 11); 191 (sermon 1).

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uses the force of a government . . . and does not suffice with shining its own light is necessarily futile and false, and in truth has no light at all.” The conclusion is that a state must not represent any specific ideology or religious doctrine, but “should only do its job, which is to see that no one inflict harm upon another, or steal or kill. If not for the fear of the kingdom one man would swallow up alive his fellow man. Whereas in regard to ideologies and faiths, each one should be free to do whatever he wants.”88 This clearly shows the great advantage of the United States: And so the government of the United States—that already 150 years ago established in its constitution not to promote any faith or ideology but let each person do as he wills while the government only watches that no one swallow up his fellow—does God’s will. It is by that right that the United States has prospered and become great during this time period. And we are obligated to pray for them [for the United States and its government], that God send them success in all that they undertake.89

In light of these words, it is no wonder that Rabbi Feinstein saw the United States as the “Kingdom of Grace.”90 There is no doubt that this esteem for democratic rule, in addition to his aversion to the methods of coercion, which he developed in his lifetime under the hammer and the sickle, also influenced his views on the question of labor relations. Although Rabbi Feinstein’s sermons include no direct reference to the issue of regulating labor relations, one thing is clear: among the various models proposed in the 1920s to regulate labor relations, the liberal model of collective bargaining is that which has the least governmental coercion based on ideology, and more than any other model it leaves the outcome to be decided by the free power game of the parties. On this account, this model best suited the spirit of Rabbi Feinstein. And if he saw this model as the most satisfactory way to regulate labor relations, it is only natural that he saw the halakhah as consistent with it. As we have seen, the halakhic sources were not always receptive to it but he was willing to engineer a few syntheses, not free from difficulties, to make the required adjustment.

88 Ibid., 415–416 (sermon 10). 89 Ibid., 416. 90 Feinstein, Hoshen Mishpat, part II, 29.

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Summary and Perspective After several decades of almost complete silence, the poskim developed the halakhic models which in their eyes were best suited to regulate labor relations, and thus absorbed the right of unionization and the right of modern strikes into Jewish law. The modern world posed three main models for such regulation: the communist model, the liberal-democratic model, and the corporative model. Halakhists therefore stood within two contexts of discourse: the legal context, in which new legislation in the area of labor law was created (later also in the halakhic world), and the ideological context, which to a great extent influenced the directions of this legislation and sometimes also criticized it. In terms of the legal context, we saw that the three individuals discussed here lived and acted in the first generation of the development of halakhic labor law. Consequently, all three developed modern and innovative directions in ruling. However, Rabbis Kook and Uziel remained still closer to the conceptions of the traditional, pre-modern labor laws, and adhered (with certain internal contradiction) to the model that saw labor relations in terms of rental relationships. Consequently, they saw the striking worker as one who breaches the work contract and damages the employer. Rabbi Feinstein, in contrast, was clearly closest to the concept of modern labor laws. He adopted a model that accepted the legal uniqueness of labor relations and recognized the strike as a legitimate move, and therefore not as a breach of contract. In the process of modernization of the halakhic labor law we can therefore see Rabbi Moshe Feinstein as a posek who was ready to go a few steps farther. In terms of the ideological context, Rabbis Kook and Uziel adopted a corporative model quite close to the one that was advocated by the Revisionists in the Land of Israel (and the fascist theorists in Italy), while Rabbi Feinstein adopted a distinctly liberal model, which corresponds to the arrangement that was established in most Western democratic countries. Both these ideologies are therefore represented in the halakhic literature. I have not found the communist or some similar model in the halakhic sphere. On this subject it is easy to discern the linkage between the ideological stance and the halakhic ruling. In the writings of all three rabbis we found contradictions and inner tensions within the textual-halakhic argument, as part of their effort to adjust the halakhic law to the desired model. On the one hand,

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there is no surprise about this phenomenon, since one way to fill lacunae in halakhic law is by the absorption of non-halakhic sources.91 It is even more so in our case, where the halakhic authorities saw this absorption as walking through the good and righteous ways of Torah, and not as the importation of foreign ideologies. On the other hand, we should not see this absorption as necessary in any case. Where the halakhic law is richer with textual sources, let alone where it has a well formed normative tradition, the posek will have greater difficulty in developing halakhic models based on modern ideologies. This difficulty is even greater when the subject in question involves dealing with beliefs or values that are at odds with Jewish tradition. What is the root of the differences between the authorities under ­discussion? Two possible explanations are available. The first explanation, historical-cultural, is that the differences in the opinions of the halakhic authorities stem from differences in personal and social background among the three personalities: Rabbis Kook and Uziel acted in the emerging Zionist yishuv in the Land of Israel, with ideological commitment to the values of building the land through labor and with a strong aspiration to unite the various camps into a nation. Rabbi Moshe Feinstein acted in a capitalist country in which labor was perceived primarily as a means for the welfare of the individual and less as a national value, and labor relations crossed the boundaries between Jews and non-Jews. At any rate, Rabbis Kook and Uziel advocated the more harmonistic model, while Rabbi Feinstein advocated the more free and efficient model. No doubt, this explanation is quite persuasive. But another explanation is also possible, one which is more halakhically interior, according to which we cannot speak of a real halakhic controversy. Because each of the halakhic authorities was dealing with a reality which differed from his colleagues, it is possible that were they dealing with similar factual data the various authorities would have issued similar rulings. In other words, none of the rabbinic figures was bound by any “ideological commitment” to the source from which he derived his model. A specific circumstance could elicit from posek so-and-so the corporative model while for another given circumstance he would adopt the liberal model, and vice versa. 91 Yedidya Z. Stern, “Halakhic Access to Political Issues,” in Between Authority and Autonomy in Jewish Tradition, eds. Ze’ev Safrai and Avi Sagi (Tel-Aviv, Israel: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 1997), 231–235.

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Hypothetically, one could even speak about “the” ruling of the halakhah, with the definite article, which is shared, as it were, by all poskim, in regard to regulating labor relations. According to this explanation, the corporative model is the one that is halakhically right for the Land of Israel, and the liberal model is that for the United States. In the issue under review, the historical-cultural explanation seems to be more convincing. After all, none of the rabbinic figures claimed that his ruling was intended only for the places or circumstances in which he served, and all of them anchored their arguments on the Gemara in Tractate Baba Batra as representing “their” model. Our conclusion, however, is limited to the question dealt with here, and there is no assurance whatsoever that this type of explanation will hold for other cases, since sometimes the halakhic-dogmatic explanation is more convincing. But whatever explanation holds for the rabbis’ substantive positions, there is no doubt that their very motivation to engage in this issue stemmed largely from modern ideologies and their influences. This is not only evidence of the influence of society on the halakhah, but also of the readiness of the halakhists, or at least a part of them, to respond to new challenges and create new legal branches that had never existed in traditional rabbinic literature.

Rabbinic Stories: History or Fiction? Herbert Basser Jacob Neusner, if not the best-known scholar of Judaism in the world then certainly the most prolific, has brought about revolutions in the thinking habits of researchers in Talmud and Midrash in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. For instance, Neusner will not accept as factual the unsupported claims in the literature that certain rabbis said certain things or did certain things. Today most, but far from all, scholars accept his judgments as a matter of course; hence their general dismissal of Graetz’s attempts to write history or biography using only Talmudic or midrashic literature. Following Neusner, they question the credibility and reliability of Graetz’s use of ancient sources that lack claims to personal witness. Even the writing seems to be the work of editors lacking any individual personality. Others wonder if there are certain genres within the literature that can be taken at face value, where we can posit a degree of credibility for the sources. They still read Buechler, Alon, and Urbach, just as many classicists still read Plutarch. The question remains open if Graetz showed any critical sense in his use of rabbinic sources by explaining them in concert with non-rabbinic sources. Neusner says that what these gullible historians find in Genesis Rabbah and what they find in Mishnah and Tosefta or the two Talmuds have no apparent relevance to one another and so, by their very nature, cannot be thought of as verifiable historical testimonies. The sources themselves do not cohere. He claims the authors or editors of these sources just affix set sequences of names, such as Rabbis Eleazar, Yehoshua, Gamliel, and Akiva, to stories or legal sayings.

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He sums up by telling us that the blatant homiletical purpose of Midrashim precludes their use for biography. And so the history of the Talmudic age ends up for these historians “the stories of rabbis, paraphrases of Talmudic units and midrashic phrases all strung together with strings of homilies—where they were strung together at all.”1 Since Neusner mentions four prominent rabbis of the mishnaic period, I want to illustrate his assertions with respect to the lack of credibility of the traditions citing them. We will try to reconstruct the employment of the material by Graetz and others and show why they might not meet the standard of credibility. We will not automatically grant the material some kind of supernatural claim to infallibility. Since Neusner mentioned the names of R. Gamliel, R. Yehoshua, R. Eleazar ben Azariah, and R. Akiva we might best choose a Midrash featuring the putative embassy of these four rabbis to Rome; one, in fact, where Midrash and Mishnah and Tosefta and Talmuds do seem relevant one to the other. Of course there are reasons to suspect that the Midrash is simply an entertaining composite of sources designed to defeat a troublesome literary min that gets his comeuppance.2 Our presentation of the Midrash will be focused on the exegetical motifs with no historical bias one way or the other.

Exodus Rabbah 30:9-: An Overview These some 130 words perform an aesthetic meld of biblical poetic verse and prophetic utterance with Talmudic law: A further interpretation of “And these are ‘the laws’” (Exodus 21:1) highlights the lesson of Psalm 147:9 “He reveals his devarav to Jacob”—these are “the commandments” (ha-devarim, Exodus 20:1). “His decrees and His laws to Israel”—these are “the laws” (ha-mishpatim, Exodus 21:1). The ways of God are not like the ways of flesh and blood. The way of flesh and blood is to show others what to do while personally doing nothing of the kind. But God does not act like this, rather only what He Himself does will He then tell Israel to keep and observe. It happened that R. Gamliel and R. Yehoshua, and R. Eleazar ben Azariah and R. Akiva went to Rome. They lectured there that God’s ways are not like 1 See Jacob Neusner, Neusner on Judaism: History (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2004), 1: 318–323. 2 See Tosefta Hulin 2:24 for the usage of min as a Christian since the passage refers to Jesus.

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mortals. Mortals make decrees which they command to others while they themselves do nothing. God is not so. After they left a min said to them, “Your words are nothing but lies. Did not you say that God commands what He does? Why then does God not observe the Sabbath?”

They retorted: 1. “You common deceiver: Cannot one carry in his own courtyard on the Sabbath?”—He said to them, “Agreed!”—They replied: “The upper and lower worlds are God’s courtyard as Isaiah 6:3 says ‘The whole cosmos is the fullness of his Kavod.’”3 2. “Would one even transgress when not carrying a distance of the fullness of His height!” He said to them, “Agreed (not so)!” They replied: “Jeremiah 23:24 says, ‘Do I not fill the heavens and the earth!’”

The sublime allusion to the Lord—“the fullness of his Kavod” now shrinks into the legal structure of God’s Sabbath space, while the dull tort laws of Exodus expand into nothing less than divine behavior. That Midrash balances the infinite spirit with the focused mind has been long recognized.4

Deepening the Analysis We now return to the details in the first section of this Midrash, which gives a legal view of the poetry in Psalms. A further interpretation of “And these are ‘the laws’” (Exodus 21:1) highlights the lesson of Psalm 147:19 “He reveals His devarav to Jacob”—these are “the [ten] commandments” (ha-devarim, Exodus 20:1). “His decrees and His laws to Israel”—these are “the laws” (ha-mishpatim, Exodus 21:1). The customs of God are not like the customs of flesh and blood. The custom of flesh and blood is to show others what to do while personally

The sense of eretz is the entire cosmos according to the targumic rendition of Isaiah 6:3: the divine upper realm, the middle part of the heavens, and the lower domain of mortals. 4 For the necessary balance of both halakhah and aggadah in the life of the Jews, see Hayyim Nachman Bialik, Law and Legend (New York, NY: Bloch, 1923). The framers of the classical Midrash whenever they lived were certainly products of their cultures. Everyday new books and articles appear addressing academic, sophisticated approaches to the study of Midrash paying close attention to social, political, historical, anthropological, and linguistic insights. Such modern studies illuminate our modern appreciation even if our post-Enlightenment mindset excludes us from the complex mindsets of medievals and ancients. 3

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doing nothing of the kind. But God does not act like this, rather only what He Himself does will He then tell Israel to keep and observe.

This Midrash has been filed in the collection of biblical interpretations known as Exodus Rabbah under the verse of Exodus 21:1. It makes the point that Psalms 147:19 expands Exodus 21:1 “And these are the laws” to mean “His laws” (Psalms 147:19). Likewise the verse beginning the Decalogue says “all these commandments” which again in Psalms 147:19 expands to “His commandments.” That is the point of the Midrash. Psalm 147 clarifies the verses in Exodus. “His laws” and “His commandments” mean “laws of Him” and “commandments” of God—God had done these already when they were revealed to Israel. We need to read Psalms to explain the deeper sense of what God revealed. God gave Israel what He himself does. The point is “His laws” were already in existence when God revealed them to Israel. To summarize: Psalms shows the sense of Exodus’ legal revelations which God too keeps—laws indeed meant to apply to Him. They are in fact originally His—only then are they given to Israel to mark them as God’s people. What clinches that Psalm 147 and Exodus 21 are meant to be read in tandem? They both discuss the same event of the revelation of law at Sinai in their identical sequences. First the  Ten Commandments are given (Exodus 20) and then one chapter later tort laws are revealed (Exodus 21). Psalm 147 orders the revelation: first devarim and then mishpatim. So then just as Psalm 147 qualifies the  commandments and laws as “His own”— meaning God too is bound by them—we now know that in Exodus 20 and 21 the same revelation of laws, following that very sequence, must be understood as referring to 1) the Decalogue and 2) social laws which God keeps. We need to think of Midrash as a giant switchboard connecting the words of the entire Bible so they can communicate between themselves. The primary example in the Midrash as we have it will come from the laws of Sabbath, one of the Ten Commandments. Schematically we find the Midrash so far connects three verses to prove the point that God obeys his own laws.5 5 This assertion that Heaven observes the Sabbath is already found in the Book of Jubilees 2:18–30 which predates all of the classical rabbinic sources. Also, Talmud Yerushalmi Rosh

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a. And God spoke all these—the commandments, saying, (Exodus 20:1) b. These [are] b) the laws you are to set before them: (Exodus 21:1) c. He has shown a) His commandments to Jacob, His decrees and b) His laws to Israel. (Psalms 147:19)

To summarize: “the commandments” refers now to “His commandments” and “the laws” refers to “His laws.” God retains ownership because He can claim them as His own—through his very practice of them. The Midrash allows all three verses to speak at once but verse c, the operator, controls the sense of the other two verses (a and b). The Midrash makes the claim that verse c combines a and b and reports that they refer to rules that God owns through obeying them. Thus Psalms 147:19 refers to the description of God’s revelation of laws in Exodus introduced by Exodus 21:1 (and these are the mishpatim), which are recorded just after the Ten Commandments (God’s devarim, Exodus 20:1).6 Psalms refers both to the Decalogue and the Exodus law code while noting these were laws that God himself does (devarav = His commandments, mishpatav = His laws). This brings us to the lesson: For the ways of God are not like the ways of mortals. They preach to others what they should practice while they themselves do no such thing. But God is not so. Whatever He practices He commands Israel to perform and to observe. There is a striking similarity between what God asks of others and what He Himself does. We might see in this Midrash a petihta form whereby a biblical verse is explicated through a Midrash on a verse of Proverbs or Psalms. Perhaps it had once been a circular proem and even ended on the note, “that is why the biblical verse says ‘These are the laws. . . .’”7 The editor needs to use this exegesis for a segue into another unit about the four rabbis and so might have dropped the original ending if it was there. Hashannah 1:3 mentions that the “law is not written for the king” (cited in Greek) so kings may or may not obey the law, but when God issues a decree He is the first to obey it. 6 Some texts of Exodus Rabbah 30:9 replace “devarim” by “dibrot” to clarify the sense of “these are the commandments” (as the Decalogue). This replacement is a secondary gloss since Psa. 147:19 says “devarav” and Exodus Rabbah explains it as “devarim” just as “mishpatav” in this verse is explained in the Midrash by “mishpatim” alluding to the precise wordings in Exodus 20:1 and 21:1 respectively. 7 For a theory of how the petihta form originated see Herbert Basser, In the Margins of the Midrash (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1990), 18.

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The idea contained in the Midrash to Psalms 147:19, that God behaves differently from humans in that He keeps His own laws, introduces a parallel lesson said to be the subject of a reply to a min (likely but not definitively a Jewish-Christian) by four rabbis in Rome. This further lesson is somewhat more complicated than what we have seen so far and relies on specialized halakhic knowledge. The Midrash continues by associating a relevant story (to refute an opponent of the rabbis) to the idea that God heeds His own instructions, indeed made the laws to serve His needs. It is a commonplace that virtually all stories in Mishnah are part and parcel of the principles established in what precedes the story (introduced by “ma’aseh,” which I render idiomatically as “it happened”) and the story illustrates these principles of the Mishnah. In our example, in the Midrash the story presupposes the introductory unit (God keeps the Law) and then adds a fascinating twist—given the notion that God obeys His own laws how can He carry on the Sabbath? He brings the world its continuing need of wind and rain, etc. In fact, this is traditionally God’s description, inserted in every prayer (Amidah) and said even on the Sabbath. How then can He be said to obey the Sabbath? And now we go back to the Midrash for the issue and its resolution. It happened that R. Gamliel and R. Yehoshua, and R. Eleazar ben Azariah and R. Akiva went to Rome. They lectured there that God’s ways are not like mortals. Mortals make decrees which they command to others while they themselves do nothing. God is not so. [Whatever He practices He commands Israel to perform and to observe.]* After they left a min told them, “Your words are nothing but lies. Did not you say that God commands what He does? Why then does God not observe the Sabbath (boundaries)?” They retorted: 1. “You common deceiver: Cannot one carry in his own courtyard on the Sabbath?”—He said to them, “Agreed”—They replied: “The upper and lower worlds are God’s courtyard as Jeremiah 23:24** says, ‘Do I not fill the heavens and the earth!’” 2. [They then said] “Would one even transgress when not carrying a distance of the fullness of his height!”*** He said to them, “Agreed (not

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so)!”—They said, “Isaiah 6:3** says, ‘The whole cosmos is the fullness of his Kavod.’”8 8 *

The asterisks indicate difficulties in the text requiring explanation. I added this line from the first paragraph in this Midrash, which states that not only does God not behave as we flesh and blood mortals do but that text continues to stress that God does exactly what he demands of others. Later scribes who copied our texts commonly assumed in their copying that we would fill in things appropriately from elsewhere. Truncated texts are a regular feature of this literature. We will soon see that the readings here are in ill repair and in need of correction. I do believe the entire piece is of a single cloth and meant to be read as one. ** It is possible, even probable, that the citations of Isaiah and Jeremiah have been interchanged by scribal error. One might check the manuscript Jerusalem 59777 (ca. 1450) housed at the Academy of the Hebrew Language. I was unable to locate it in time for this publication—its reading would not be conclusive. Most likely a reference to “upper and lower” worlds must use the proof-text of Jeremiah “heaven and the earth,” while reference to God’s full stature must refer to the words of Isaiah “the fullness of his Kavod,” literally, “the fullness of the whole cosmos is his Kavod.” In mystical sources, Kavod refers to the immensity of the divine body. In his penetrating thesis (The Shi’ur Qomah [Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1963], 110–123) on the document called The Shi’ur Qomah, Martin S. Cohen rejects Scholem’s and Lieberman’s early third-century Tannaitic date of this work in favor of a late sixth-century post-Talmudic date. So our Midrash must be somewhat later. The Shi’ur Qomah document gives us the dimensions of God’s limbs. The biblical prophet Ezekiel had seen the divine throne. Speaking of visions of God, Ezekiel 1:28 provides, “The appearance of the bow that is in the cloud in the day of rain, so was the appearance of the brightness round about. This was the appearance of the likeness of the Kavod of the Lord”—the Kavod was thus taken as some kind of physical manifestation of God. Speculation upon this manifestation led mystics to have visions of the Kavod and the throne of the Kavod. However, the notion of a visible Kavod as a divine figure is itself biblical and it requires no special library to invoke the figure in a Midrash; and God in Midrash is sometimes spoken of as a visible presence. My interest in this matter concerns Cohen’s research into Midrash to substantiate the dating and themes in Shi’ur Qomah. He is quite fixated on three citations of Psalms 147:19 in Shi’ur Qomah that have no relevance to anything in the Shi’ur Qomah texts. He struggles to find relevance: “He teaches his devarav to Jacob, his statutes and ordinances to Israel.” He claims the real focus in Psalm 147 is not the important focus per se in the cited verse but rather is verse 147:55 “Big is our Lord, and mighty (His rendering),” which is not cited in his text of Shi’ur Qomah. And Cohen creates a chain of speculation that upon reflection must fall apart. I skip that convoluted discussion. He writes: If “Big is our Lord” means that the God of Israel may be experienced by man in terms of His immense size, then “He tells His devarav to Jacob” can only refer to the measurement of His limbs. This special meaning of the word mishpat (defines devarav), seems to have inspired [an]other, later Midrash; the author of Exodus Rabbah to Exodus 21:1 (namely Exodus Rabbah 30:9) seems to have relied on the way in which that term is used in the Shi’ur Qomah in order to make his own Midrash. Interestingly enough, that author

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Legal Background to the Midrash It is important to understand the laws of Sabbath boundaries before examining the issues of our Midrash. They are not too complicated in their generalities although in their specifics they are quite complicated. We will deal with just two concepts. First, laws of carrying: one can carry an object on the Sabbath within a private domain (entirely owned by him) without restriction given that the area is enclosed. One cannot carry in a public domain beyond four amot. One cannot carry anything (legally defined as removing it from a stationary position to transport it across the threshold of another domain where it will come to rest) from one domain to the other. 9 Next, laws of walking: one cannot walk beyond two thousand amot from one’s abode; if one is not in his abode when Sabbath begins he can only go four amot. The two-thousand-amot limit can be extended four amot and some think that his four amot limit where he had no set abode can also be extended four amot. The scriptural supports for these measurements are given in Tosefta, legal Midrashim, and the Talmuds. Tosefta Eruvin 13:11 tells us: The Sabbath boundaries are established as follows: one stands wherever he is (just before the Sabbath begins) and declares: “My Sabbath dwelling is where I am”—as Scripture says, “Let each person dwell beneath himself (let no man go from his place on the seventh day)” (Exodus 16:29). And how much is this “beneath him”? His lying supine melo qomato—the full extent of his body—with outstretched hands. This amounts to four amot.

used the Shi’ur Qomah to argue for the notion of divine enormity, as opposed to divine omnipresence, a logically reasonable conclusion that may be drawn for the text, but probably not the one intended by the original author. It is noteworthy that Cohen will insist on the lateness of the tradition in Exodus Rabbah 30:9 and so would dismiss the remote possibility of the historicity of the four rabbis. For him, it is a fiction. *** This sentence is hardly intelligible if read as connected to the previous section and so I see it as an alternative tradition. The classical commentators are at a loss to make sense of this sentence within the dialogue of the Midrash and offer forced explanations. There may have been two versions of this Midrash and ours is a composite of the two. I am not certain if unit 1 or unit 2 is original and the other interpolated. 1 is very close to Genesis Rabbah 11:3 and is likely a variant on the theme of that tradition. 2 has no immediate parallels. 9 These rules have scriptural sources and the non-rabbinic Damascus Document, col. 11, also prohibits carrying in and out of a house and walking prescribed distances beyond one’s house and town. Unlike the Damascus covenanters the Talmudic rabbis created legal fictions to deal with easing these problems and permit a degree of strolling and carrying.

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Besides these four amot he has two thousand amot (from his dwelling place) to walk in every direction.

Similar traditions occur in Talmud Yerushalmi Eruvin 1:1, Talmud Bavli Eruvin 48a, Mekhilta R. Yishmael, Beshalah Vayasa 5, Mekhilta R. Shimon bar Yohai 16. Some of these sources say only four amot but not the body calculation behind the amount. The reach of a person who would lie down defines his space. Furthermore the space of melo qomato is said to be individual and a giant would have much more space (Talmud Bavli Eruvin 48a). The four amot then are not a fixed amount but different for every individual according to the length of their amah. An amah is the full length of the arm from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger. Our Midrash speaks of God’s keeping these boundaries—He owns the upper worlds and the lower ones so He legally can traverse and even carry throughout all of them as they are legally one space. It might be objected that He cannot carry through the space between these domains since He does not own the cosmos having given it to people (Psalms 115:116). It is the measure of melo qomato (said to be four amot) mentioned in Tosefta Eruvin 3:11 that allows the midrashist to discuss God’s Sabbath boundaries, since he is able to read Isaiah as if melo kol ha’aretz kevodo was equivalent in sense to melo kevodo kol ha’aretz (“the full extent of his Kavod is the cosmos”). According to the law one is permitted to go and carry melo qomato (“the measure of one’s height”). The divine four amot Isaiah measures are God’s melo (“full stature”). “Melo kol ha’aretz kevodo” shows this full stature equals the measurements of the cosmos. God’s personal four amot, i.e., His height, is surely equal in size to the measure of the cosmos. Since one does not transgress when carrying less than the amount of the measure of one’s full stature, God (whose stature is the measure of the cosmos) does not transgress the laws of Sabbath. Jeremiah spoke of carrying on the Sabbath in Jeremiah 17:21–22: This is what the Lord says: Be careful not to carry a load on the Sabbath day or bring it through the gates of Jerusalem. Do not bring a load out of your houses or do any work on the Sabbath, but keep the Sabbath day holy, as I commanded your ancestors.

Now these four rabbis discuss issues of the Sabbath boundary on ships in material attributed to the earliest compilations in the rabbinic corpus. Mishnah Eruvin 4:1 relates:

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It once happened that their boat had set sail on the open seas [and it was approaching the Sabbath]. They were coming around Brindisi10 and Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah traversed the whole deck. Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Akiva stayed within their four amot; they were stringent because they decreed someone watching might come to err in other specific cases where they were only permitted four amot to move.

Mishnah Eruvin 4:2 tells more about these four rabbis: They asked Rabban Gamliel if they could disembark and he said it was permissible. “I looked and saw we were within the Sabbath boundary (two thousand amot from shore) before it got dark.”

This recalls Tosefta Shabbat 13:11, which says: One does not depart in a ship which port did not come within his Sabbath boundary before dark. It once happened Rabban Gamliel and the Elders came into a port but the sun had already set. . . . (Rabban Gamliel told them) I looked and saw we were within the Sabbath boundary before the onset of darkness.

Bavli Eruvin 43b tells us that another baraita explains Rabban Gamliel had a tube wherein he could look and measure the distance of two thousand amot (the Sabbath boundary) from boats to dry land. There are more references to sea trips of these rabbis. We also note a tradition now found in Sifre Deuteronomy piska 43 and Talmud Bavli Makkot 24a: Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah and Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Akiva were entering Rome (var. were walking on the way there) and they heard the reverberating noise of the city coming from the Palatium.

Graetz Graetz, in his presentation, refers to this story where the four heard the reverberating noise of the city coming from the Palatium and thus he easily places them in Rome. As an historian he seeks out some reason for them to be there. He places them there in 96 CE in the reign of Domitian. Here is his background to the events. Titus, son of Vespasian (who died in 79), succeeding his father as emperor, died in 81. He had initially befriended 10 On the east coast of Italy, see J. Kapah’s notes to Maimonides’ Commentary to the Mishnah m. Eruvin 4:1, Moed, (ed. J. Kapah), Jerusalem, 1973, 65.

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Agrippa II and was engaged to his sister Berenice. Then he suddenly changed course and began a frenzied policy of hatred towards the Jews. He removed Agrippa from his position in the Judean province and placed it under the jurisdiction of the governor of Syria. When Titus died, his brother Domitian became emperor and continued the anti-Judean policy and levied a poll tax for all Jews. Graetz notes that Domitian had favored Flavius Clemens and his wife Flavia Domitilla by naming their sons as caesars in 95. It was then the historian considers that Rabbi Gamliel and his associates set sail for Rome where they engaged in teaching and encouraging the Jews of Rome. Our Midrash has them critiquing those who are hypocrites, who do not follow their own laws. He thinks these rabbis must have tried to reason with the Roman government to ease its persecutions, to no avail, and likely witnessed the execution of Flavius Clemens, who had held secret admiration for Jews and who, with his wife, semi-converted. While Graetz notes that Domitian had unleashed a reign of terror against the Jews and executed Flavius Clemens, he also points out that the Roman nobleman had himself circumcised before his death, fully becoming a Jew.11 The same story is related in Deuteronomy Rabbah 2:24, without mentioning the names of Clemens or his wife. However, Dio Cassius’s Roman History (LXVII, 13) provides the name of the consul executed for “following the customs of the Jews:” Titus Flavius Clemens. His wife Flavia Domitilla was exiled. Graetz even thinks Josephus personally testified against converts to curry favor with Domitian. It therefore was reasonable for him to place within this period the Midrash of the four rabbis as recounted in Exodus Rabbah 30:9. Domitian was the official censor of the Roman Senate and was well known for his complete debauchery and lack of morals, while being very strict in his judging the infractions he legislated for Roman morality. Hence, in Graetz’s mind, our midrashic story condemns flesh and blood rulers who give orders which they themselves desecrate. Whom would the rabbis condemn in Rome where the story is located if not Domitian? The introductory Midrash that God observes His own law is not exceptional in the literature and need not point to any particular incident. It is at least as old as the book of Jubilees. But why in Rome? That flesh and blood leaders police 11 See Heinrich Graetz, The History of the Jews (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1891), 2: 387–392.

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moral orders of others but exempt themselves, one easily believes the issue was raised in Rome by late first century rabbis led by R. Gamliel. The issue converges on a single time period—the rule of the notorious emperor, Domitian. However Shmuel Safrai was not convinced by the methods of Graetz and suggests these rabbis made two trips.12 He thinks the first trip did not include Eleazar ben Azariah because Talmud Yerushalmi Sanhedrin 7:13 and Deuteronomy Rabbah 2:24 do not mention Eleazar ben Azariah in the delegation of what he sees as the first trip, so he suggests he did not come on that trip but on the next one during the rule of Nerva. Eli Gurevich supports a two-trip theory but notes difficulties.13 Graetz might retort that the text of Exodus Rabbah 30:9 mentions Rabbi Eleazar as present and seems to refer to Domitian, so there was only one trip. Gurevich suspects that in 96 Domitian died, to the relief of the Jews, and Nerva ascended to the throne of Rome. This latter changed the cruel policies of Domitian when these rabbis set sail, reversing the policy of exiling or executing converts to Judaism. Instead he actually showed favor to Jews. So it was then the four rabbis set sail again. But Nerva ruled only a short time before he died and matters soon reverted back to chaos for the Jews.

Christian Scholarship on Exodus Rabbah 30:9 Some modern Christian scholars consider Exodus Rabbah 30:9 to be a polemic against John 5:18, which claims that since God can carry on the Sabbath so can his representative, Jesus. Perhaps, John chose this type of story about Sabbath breaking—in which a man carries his mat—to thereby dismiss all the instances in which Jesus challenged his opponents’ ideas about the Sabbath.14 Burer, following Carlston, gives a detailed account of the Midrash as a first-century polemic.15 The issue is as follows. John 5:1–18 tells of the paralytic 12 Shmuel Safrai, “Bikureihem Shel Hachmei Yavneh BeRoma,” in Sefer Hazikaron LeShlomo Umberto Nachon, eds. Roberto Bonfil et al. ( Jerusalem, Israel: Fondazioni Sally Mayer-­ Raffaele, 1978), 151–167. 13 See http://www.toseftaonline.org/blog/?paged=2 14 For an analysis from a Christian perspective with ample bibliography on the issues involved in John 5:17–18 and discussion of relevant Jewish sources, see Bianca Lataire, “Jesus’ Equality with God: A Critical Reflection on John 5.18,” in The Myriad Christ, eds. Terrence Merrigan and Jacques Haers (Leuven, Belgium: Leuven University Press, 2000), 177–190. 15 See Michael H. Burer, Divine Sabbath Work. Bulletin for Biblical Research Supplements 5 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 227–28; D. A. Carson, The Gospel According to John

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whom Jesus healed and then commanded, “Stand up, pick up your mat and walk” (5:8). When the Jewish leaders complained “It is the Sabbath; the law forbids you to carry (out) your mat,” Jesus responds, “my Father is always at his work to this very day, and I too am working.” In short, what applies to God applies to Jesus; God works on the Sabbath to maintain the universe, and Jesus claims equal authorization to do likewise and especially to bring the Kingdom. It is at least arguable that this Gospel passage can be connected to the discussion of the Sabbath boundaries in our Midrash. The four rabbis in this interpretation dispute the notion that God does not observe the Sabbath. They ask, “Does God observe the Sabbath laws of boundaries or not?” and proceed to show He does. The story mentions “a min” who was quite knowledgeable about and observant of Jewish Sabbath laws, and one who likely was familiar with the story of Jesus’ miraculously curing the paralytic—at least as an oral tradition if not a written one. The Midrash is seen in these scholars’ eyes to dispute the claim of Jesus. God does indeed observe these laws and respect the Sabbath.16 Scholars like Neusner, on the other hand, would find it surprising that the min is expected to know these laws of eruv and tehum. The whole dialogue for them would smack of literary contrivance. For Burer, the arguments of Genesis Rabbah 11:3 also suggest God would bring rain and winds from their store places in the heavens down to the cosmos and are part of the same cycle of polemic. Although no specific examples like bringing rain are mentioned in our text of Exodus Rabbah 30:9, Jeremiah 23:24 says, “Do I not fill the heavens and the earth!” This verse shows that God owns all the universe and so can bring whatever He wants without crossing over domains into someone else’s boundary—there is no question of shared space. It is true that the issue of watering plants to make them grow on the Sabbath is not addressed (God does this too) but I think the issue is again that of carrying as in the Gospel of John 5:1–18. One might assume the min rejects the argument that heaven and earth are one private domain of God because (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1991), 247–48. The legal considerations in Exodus Rabbah 30:9 are somewhat misconstrued but in the main their arguments are defensible. 16 See others who would connect our Midrash to the passage in the Gospel of John in Merrigan and Haers eds., The Myriad Christ.

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God has given the earth to humans (Psalms 116:16). That boundary line between heaven and earth should not be able to be crossed by God. The rabbi answers that it is all within God’s domain. Even you can carry within your own domain—your personal space extends to your full length and outstretched hands (i.e., your complete height). In the case of God His four amot are measured in divine spatial units which would be humongous. We already noted the texts and mechanisms above that show one’s traversable space on the Sabbath can extend the full supine body length and, while no one can carry during the two thousand amot boundary allowed for walking, one may carry within his four amot (body length). Since Isaiah informs us that God’s length extends the amount of the whole cosmos, God does not infringe Sabbath boundary laws in moving anywhere. Isaiah proclaimed: “The whole cosmos is the fullness of his Kavod.” His Kavod refers to the size of God’s body. I, and likely most, find it surprising that the min is expected to know these laws and that it is assumed he shares the literary rules of Midrash to explicate scripture. Neusner, I suspect, would say the Midrash is certainly an entertaining unit, intelligible in the study hall where the Babylonian Talmud could provide grist for the midrashist’s mill. The attribution to the four rabbis just follows a well-known topos: these rabbis were the ones who discussed the rules of carrying and Sabbath boundaries. He might say we are to follow the logic of seeing our Midrash as an anti-Christian polemic. We might equally say the midrashists found Rome a congenial setting for their polemic. A post-Constantine preacher might find it advantageous to set the scene there and of course the story was quite widespread that R. Gamliel, R. Yehoshua, R. Eleazar ben Azariah, and R. Akiva had visited there. But there is more to say. It might be troubling to find that only because of a loophole in the laws of Sabbath boundaries, God is exempt from these laws. If this is the point of the Midrash, then the rabbis lose; they have not really shown God observes His laws. Only because of His immense proportions God is exempt, not on general claims that God obeys His own laws. But, to my mind, this is to miss the point of the Midrash. That point is nicely made by A. J. Heschel.17 He notes one school of rabbis (those four of our Midrash) saw the 17 Abraham Joshua Heschel, Heavenly Torah as Reflected through the Generations, ed. and trans. Gordon Tucker (New York, NY: Continuum, 2005), 271.

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commandments as jointly shared by God and Man—a common bond. Indeed our Midrash refers to the commandments as “His”—the nations do not share the laws. What he reveals to Israel is His own law: “He teaches his devarav to Jacob, His statutes and ordinances to Israel. He has done this for no other nation; they do not know His laws” (Psalms 147:19–20). So it is false that God does not carry, because (given His immensity) He is exempt. God’s rules that He Himself follows include the idea that one can carry certain distances because that is actually God’s law—it is not an exemption. It is the rule that defines carrying. Since God does so, He tells people to do it. God reveals His law to people to carry a limit of their own height because that too is God’s rule. This might be the point of the polemic. If the evangelist of the Gospel of John thinks Jesus is like God because both are exempt from the laws of Sabbath, the very opposite is true: Jesus is obligated just as God obligated Himself. These rules are divine rules that God observes—it is not that God is exempt. God is obligated and this is what obligates people. Jesus is not exempt because God is not exempt—he is obligated because God is obligated. The phrasing of the law for people (melo qomato) is the same as for God—that is the intriguing cleverness of the Midrash. It is not a sin to say God is limited by His laws to man and so man is comparable to God. It is a sin to say that God is unlimited so Jesus is unlimited. That God equates Himself through the law to man is perfectly sensible. God can equate Himself to man by the two of them observing the same laws; man cannot equate himself to God by being lawless. Historicity should not be all that is at stake here. The theological lesson is at stake. It matters little when the Midrash was generated: second century BCE, or first or seventh century CE. The message is important in all times—the medium of the message may change but the point remains eternally true. Indeed it may well be that Neusner’s abundant theological studies (based on Midrash) are more important than his historical ones, which is not to minimize the latter. By and large, his theological works are all but ignored by critical students of Talmud and Midrash. And that is precisely the point of the Midrash as assembled before us. It is meant to be understood as an answer to the min, not a means of sidestepping the issue. The answer is that because God does observe the Sabbath He ordained the laws of courtyards and the four amot for people—it was necessary for God to do this so He could carry necessities to the cosmos. That is the origin of the

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command, “Let each person dwell beneath himself (let no man go from his place on the seventh day)” (Exodus 16:29). This law was made by God to enable Him to provide needs for people, as “beneath Him” is an expanse as great as the cosmos. The law is God’s, the Jew enjoys it as a divine gift. The prophecy of Isaiah and Jeremiah and the poetry of the Psalmist mix smoothly with the laws of Tosefta, Midrash and Mishnah to celebrate God’s sharing His Law with Israel. Neither the power of Rome, nor the success of the Gospel could still the majestic hold of the Midrash on the Jewish soul. They teach important insights. And Neusner would, as all would, agree that they teach important insights. This neither proves that the debate happened, nor that the attributions are historical—it proves the genius of the story-telling in rabbinic culture and projects a theology of importance. Finding the sweetness of the prophetic spirit within the heavily proof-texted literature of the midrash aggadah presents rewarding challenges to the student who perseveres. That student will hear the voice of Moses—“the Moses who has been our leader not only for forty years in the wilderness of the Sinai, but for thousands of years in all the wildernesses in which we have wandered since the Exodus.”18 What we have demonstrated here is that there is room to doubt the historicity of the literature of the Midrashim and the Talmuds and so we must exercise extreme caution if using these sources to discuss social realities of the various periods encompassed by that literature. To attribute everything to anonymous editors may injure our sense of living traditions passed down orally for generations. The point is to know where to draw the lines between what is fact and what is fiction. What is science and what is art? That is the mystery which draws the scholar to the texts. While we have not solved the issues, we have clarified what is at stake in one short example of 130 words. The debate is between those who say, “If I did not see it, I could never have believed it,” and those who say, “If I did not believe it, I could never have seen it.”19

18 Asher Ginsberg (Penname: Ahad Ha’Am), “Moses,” BiblioLife, reprint July 17, 2009. 19 This general insight was reported to me by a Marshall McLuhan student in his name.

Behind the Purim Mask: The Symbolic Representation of the Rituals and Customs of Purim Simcha Fishbane Intent The intent of this essay is to decode the implicit message encoded within some of the practices and customs of the Purim holiday. As anthropologist Edmund Leach correctly argues, all rituals contain and send a message to their actors. Purim is rich not only in rituals common to other Jewish festivals such as specific prayers, festive meals, and public readings of a scroll (Megillah), it also includes reversals of normative and expected Jewish behaviors. These religious rituals that deviate from established norms practiced only on Purim, which I will discuss below, beg for interpretation and understanding. To create the mold for understanding the customs of Purim I will turn to some theories and models offered by cultural anthropologists.

Purim the Holiday Purim is a one-day festival celebrating the victory of the Jews over their enemies as told in the Book of Esther. The story is set in fifth-century-BCE Persia and read yearly in the synagogue both in the evening and the morning of Purim. A complete Talmudic tractate, Megillah, is largely devoted to the laws and lore surrounding the holiday. Purim is celebrated on the fourteenth day of the Hebrew month of Adar, which usually falls in March and precedes the Passover festival by thirty days. The Code of Jewish Law, Shulhan Arukh, records four laws unique to Purim. For our purposes, we will consider Purim to be, as are all festival observances, a journey into sacred time. Leach, following the sociologist Émile Durkheim,

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defines these categories as a means of symbolically changing a time from the profane to the sacred (and then the return to the profane).1 The laws include: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Reading the Scroll of Esther both in the evening and day of Purim. A festive meal with a requirement to be joyful. Sending presents of food to friends (Mishloah Manot). Giving presents to the poor, which may consist of either food or money.

Three additional general mitzvoth are required on Purim: the reciting of al hanissim in the daily prayers during the Amidah and in the grace after meals, the special reading from the Torah in the synagogue, and a prohibition against eulogizing and fasting.2 Women as well as men are obligated in all these mitzvoth since they participated actively in the miracle of Purim. Unlike other festival days, all manner of work is permitted on Purim.

Setting the Stage: Purim in Contemporary Orthodox Jewish Society3 The day before Purim is called the Fast of Esther (Ta’anit Esther). At some point, this day became a fast day from early morning to nightfall.4 The transition from a solemn day of fasting to Purim, which unveils a carnival-like atmosphere, is first demonstrated in the synagogue. Men, together with women and children, gather for the evening prayers and the reading of Megillat Esther. The Book of Esther is required to be chanted from a scroll of parchment, which is written according to specifications and introduced with required blessings. It is 1 Edmund Leach, “The Symbolic Analysis of Ritual,” in Reader in Comparative Religion, eds. William Lessa and Evon Vogt (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1979), 228. 2 Joseph Tabory, Jewish Festivals in the Time of the Mishnah and Talmud ( Jerusalem: The Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), 335 note 39 [Hebrew], quotes R. Zevin who divides the rulings into two categories, the first four being active participation and the last three verbal. Tabory points out that the last three do not compare to the first group with regard to date or historical development. 3 For additional examples of descriptions of modern Purim activities and celebrations, see Shifra Epstein, “The ‘Drinking Banquet’ (Trink-Siyde): A Hasidic Event for Purim,” Poetics Today 15, no. 1 (Spring 1994): 133–152; Sylvia Arden, “San Diego Purim Ball in 1888,” Western States Jewish Historical Quarterly 7 (1974): 39–43; Maurie Sacks, “Computing Community at Purim,” The Journal of American Folklore 102, no. 405 ( July–September 1989): 275–291; Philip Goodman, ed., The Purim Anthology (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1952); Yom-Tov Lewinski, Sefer HaMoadim, vol. 6 (Israel: The Oneg Shabbat [Ohel Shem] Society, 1956) [Hebrew]. 4 Shulhan Arukh (SA) Orah Hayim (OH) section 686 (a code of law authored by Rabbi Joseph Karo).

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common for children and some adults to dress up in costumes ranging from the characters in the story of the book of Esther to popular super heroes.5 Often, humorous signs—satirical or comical statements, or pictures directed at the rabbi and community leaders—decorate the walls and ceilings of the synagogue and its corridors. At the conclusion of the evening prayers, Megillat Esther is read by the cantor or another synagogue representative. Whenever the name of Haman, the villain of the story, is mentioned, an uproar is created by stomping and clapping; children use noisemakers, whistles, and bells at the appropriate places in the reading. This noisemaking symbolically represents the blotting out of Haman’s name since he is believed to be a descendant of the Amalekite nation, the archenemy of the Jews.6 At any other time of year this raucous behavior would be unacceptable and prohibited in the synagogue sanctuary (with the possible exception of Simhat Torah). At the conclusion of the prayer service, the participants return to their homes to eat for the first time that day. Later in the evening, some synagogues will offer their congregations a Purim party or carnival in which costumes are commonplace. Music, games, prizes, food, drinks, and, in some instances, alcohol are offered. In addition to these activities, it is also customary to compose rhymes, poems, songs, and skits along satirical lines directed at the rabbi and congregational functionaries. The evening is also dedicated to preparing shalah manot—gifts consisting of foods which need no cooking—to be distributed on Purim day. It is written in the Book of Esther that “they should make them days of feasting and gladness, days for sending choice portions to one another and gifts to the poor.”7 The women of the household primarily perform the role of preparing the food items to be placed in the gift package. Often the cooking or baking will begin weeks before the holiday. The Shulhan Arukh rules that not only must the food be ready for immediate consumption, it should also include a minimum of two different food products, and be given to at least one individual.8 Men are required to give to men and women to women. A contemporary practice is that the gift is sent from one family to another. 5 6 7 8

SA, OH 690–692. This is based on the biblical texts in Exodus 17:14–16 and Deuteronomy 25:17–19. Esther 9:22. SA, OH 695:4.

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Contrast to Other Jewish Holidays Purim is a time when there is a reversal of halakhic, ritual, and social norms. Custom permits the reversal of behavior by alluding to a passage in Megillat Esther, which states that Purim celebrates “the days on which the Jews had relief from their enemies and as a month that had turned for them from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday.”9 Zohar Hanegbi correctly points out that the pattern of reversal is the implicit motif found in the story of Esther itself, first with Haman, the villain, and then with Mordechai, the hero. Haman is elevated to the most powerful position in the kingdom after the king, and is later humorously demoted to the level of a horse driver. Mordechai, whom Haman had planned to murder, is elevated in his place, borne by a horse from the king’s stable wearing the garments of royalty, and led through the streets by the Amalekite. Instead of killing his rival, Mordechai, the evil Haman is killed and his high position given to Mordechai.10 We find a similar situation in regard to Esther and Queen Vashti. Vashti is deposed at the beginning of the story and Esther, who was taken to the palace against her will to compete with thousands of other young women in a “beauty contest,” is crowned queen in her stead. The day that was selected to annihilate the Jews, became the day the Jews prevailed over their enemies by annihilating them instead. The Megillah informs its readers that “Like the days . . . were transformed from grief and mourning to festival and joy.”11

Anthropological Models12 Jeffrey Rubenstein attempts to understand the story of Purim by positioning it within the framework of Victor Turner’s anthropological model for liminality   9 Esther 9:22. 10 Zohar Hanegbi, “Minhagei HaPurim Bahalakhah Uva-omanut,” in Minhagei Yisrael, vol. 6, ed. Daniel Sperber ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1998), 193–194 [Hebrew]. 11 Esther 9:22. Additional role reversals are practiced during the rituals of Purim. I will discuss this below. 12 For a historical discussion of the origins of Purim, see Julius Lewy, “The Feast of the 14th Day of Adar,” Hebrew Union College Annual 14 (1939; New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1968).

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and communitas.13 Turner studied the social process of tribal societies in a state of liminality, or as he terms it, “betwixt and between.” This is a period in which there is dissolution of the ordered structure of society. In an ordered group there are defined hierarchies, roles and statuses, and positions controlled by specific social phenomena, such as laws, customs, institutions, and cultural traditions. Turner points out that within liminality, the most common modality is communitas: As opposed to societas or structure, communitas is characterized by equality, immediacy and the lack of social ranks and roles. A leveling process brings about the dissolution of structure, the absence of social distinctions, a homogenization of roles, the disappearance of political allegiance, the breakdown of regular borders and barriers.14

This openness will manifest itself in a status inversion as well as role reversals and even gender reversals. Rubenstein, throughout his essay, argues that Turner’s model (with refinements) is manifested in the holiday of Purim, through its rituals and customs. Rubenstein explores these rituals by placing them within the context of liminality and communitas. While I accept Rubenstein’s overall approach to the analysis of Jewish ritual and custom with the implementation of the anthropological model, this method requires greater scrutiny. Turner’s theory and model is applicable to tribal societies. In his discussion of anthropologists Max Gluckman and Arnold van Gennep, Robin W. G. Horton argues that the study and conclusions regarding tribal societies, including Turner’s study, differ from those concerning industrial societies.15 Thus, theories and models based on the one are not directly applicable to the other. 13 Jeffrey Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” AJS Review 17, no. 2 (1992): 247–277. Turner discusses this in Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), 94–293; Turner, From Ritual to Theater: The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: PAJ Publications, 1982); Turner, Drama, Fields and Metaphor: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1974). I have based my understanding primarily on Rubenstein’s discussion of Turner’s works. 14 Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” 251. I will deal with Turner’s model in detail in my subsequent discussion. 15 Robin Horton, “Ritual Man in Africa,” in Reader in Comparative Religion, eds. William Lessa and Evon Vogt (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1979), 244–245.

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James Frazer, a well-known early anthropologist of religion, found Purim of interest.16 He grouped it with holidays resembling the Saturnalia (the festival of Saturn, celebrated in ancient Rome) including celebrations characterized by the inversion of social ranks, merrymaking, revelry, and other characteristics of the Purim celebrations.17 Theodor Gaster follows Frazer’s lead and places Purim within the category of pagan rituals and festivals,18 but not before challenging three theories arguing that very point. The first theory to be challenged is that Purim goes back to the New Year festival of Babylonia. He rejects this notion since the New Year holiday fell at a different time of year than does Purim. The second argument he rejects is that Purim is the ancient Persian holiday Farwadigan, celebrated in March. Gaster suggests that other than the time of year, there is no comparison between the two events. The last theory he opposes is that Purim is connected to the Hebrew word purah, meaning wine press, thus linking Purim to a Greek festival of Pithoigia, or “Opening of the Wine Casks.” Gaster contends, however, that wine press is not the same as wine cask; moreover, the holiday is in the fall rather than the spring, and the plural of purah is puroth, not Purim.19 Gaster offers his own understanding of Purim. First, he argues that there is no historical evidence to support the credibility of the Purim story, and believes that Purim is actually the Persian pagan New Year festival. He presents the following arguments to support his theory: 1. The New Year festival began at the vernal equinox, beginning March 25, which is approximately when Purim falls on the lunar calendar. 2. Purim comes from the Old Persian word for first, pur, meaning New Year. 3. During the New Year festival we find five components similar to Purim: a. The selection of a new queen, analogous to the crowning of Esther. b. The parading of a commoner king, as was the case with Mordechai. c. A fast, similar to the fast of Esther observed on the day before Purim. 16 James Frazer, The Golden Bough, vol. 6 (London: Macmillan, 1913). 17 See Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” 248. 18 N. S. Doniach, Purim or the Feast of Esther: An Historical Study (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1933), 56, offers a discussion of theories that consider the story of Purim to be pagan and lacking historical validity. 19 Theodor H. Gaster, Festivals of the Jewish Year (New York: William Morrow & Company Inc., 1953), 216–220.

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d. The capital punishment of a felon, as is said to have happened to Haman. e. The distribution of gifts, which is also a ritual of Purim.

Solomon Grayzel, quoting Jacob Hoschander, offers arguments that reject the above theories. Hoschander is able to place both the scroll’s characters and the types of behavior found in the Megillah in historical Persia.20 There is an additional consideration: Gaster’s theory is interesting, but not convincing. Although there have been comparable stories and fables for many of the Jewish traditional narratives, this is by no means proof that the Jewish story is not based on real events. Furthermore, throughout Jewish history the Jews have been impacted (in contrast to having been influenced) by their surrounding cultures. In their festivals we find similarities to behaviors found in the societies in which they lived. They would often adopt familiar rituals from their local culture to express or implement Jewish laws, festivals, customs, foods, and even dress. Once the behavior was integrated into Judaism, it became “Jewish” and its origins irrelevant.21 Purim has such components but has evolved with new and additional rituals. Today the practices within Judaism are thoroughly Jewish rituals. The script, the props, and the actors are Jewish, and are part of the Jewish tradition and culture. An interesting theory is presented by Jona Schellekens, a professor of demography and genealogy at Hebrew University. He contends that Purim, in contrast to other Jewish holidays, is an occasion for “tension-management.” Originally, Purim served to reaffirm a political situation by celebrating the ascension of Mordechai to a position of power. Schellekens states that the salvation of the Jews from impending destruction justified celebrating the meteoric rise of Mordechai. With time and the loss of this political power, argues Schellekens, in times of persecution, Jews transformed Purim into a day for tension-management.22

20 Solomon Grayzel, “The Origin of Purim,” in The Purim Anthology, ed. Philip Goodman, 7–13. 21 For further examples, see Simcha Fishbane, The Shtiebelization of Modern Jewry: Studies in Custom and Ritual in the Judaic Tradition: Social-Anthropological Perspectives (Brighton: Academic Studies Press, 2011), 35–62. 22 Jona Schellekens, “Accession Days and Holidays: The Origins of the Jewish Festival of Purim,” Journal of Biblical Literature 128, no. 1 (Spring 2009): 115–134.

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There are various flaws in Schellekens’ theory. His bibliography indicates that he can read and understand Hebrew, but he almost totally ignores primary sources, especially Tannaitic ones, which testify to the theological purpose and meaning of Purim. Furthermore, according to textual evidence, the religious and social reality of the Jewish people would not permit a Jewish holiday to be instituted and its documents canonized if there was no theological meaning supporting it. Hanukkah or Purim had to be based on a theological premise of “miracle.” Although Schellekens argues that the brief discussion in Babylonian Talmud (BT) Megillah23 testifies to the obligation to drink excessively (thus reducing anger), a scholarly examination of the pertinent texts reveals some lack of clarity on this issue. Throughout his essay, Schellekens suggests that tension release is a relatively early phenomenon that began after the failure of the Mordechai dynasty. Yet in his last footnote he writes, “Most of the other tension-management aspects of Purim are relatively late additions, some of them under the influence of Carnival.” Rubenstein24 presents an additional theory suggested by Monfred Harris,25 that the rituals, including role reversal, play, drink, and costumes enable the Jew “to cope with a great task: coming to grips with the exile.” I propose that Purim assists the Jew in coping with the Diaspora as it is a holiday that specifically represents a celebration of an event outside of the Land of Israel. Even a cursory examination will illustrate that all other Jewish holidays are coupled with the Land of Israel. Aware of this dichotomy, the rabbis included walled cities in Israel dating from the time of Joshua’s entrance into the Land in the specific laws of Purim pertaining to walled cities. According to the Book of Esther, in Shushan, the ancient capital of Persia, Purim was celebrated on Adar 15, while in unwalled cities it is celebrated on Adar 14. A link was formed between a Diaspora celebration and the Land of Israel. This is explicitly stated in the Talmud Yerushalmi (YT): “They imparted honor to the Land of Israel, which was desolate in those days and attributed the status of a walled city if it was walled in the days of Joshua the son of Nun.”26 Moreover, in order to emphasize that Purim 23 BT Megillah 7a and 7b. 24 Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” 249. 25 Monford Harris, “Purim: The Celebration of Dis-Order,” Judaism 27 (1978), 166. 26 YT 1:1. Redacted approximately fifth century CE. All Babylonian and Yerushalmi Talmud translations have been adapted from the Schottenstein Artscroll translations.

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is different, and on a separate plane than all other holidays, reversal behavior was tolerated, thus highlighting the liminal Diaspora status of Purim. After quoting the rabbinical dictum stating that at the coming of the Messiah all holidays will be revoked while the days of Purim will remain in effect, Harris correctly concludes his essay saying, In the days of the Messiah, Israel will talk about what happened before peace was established, what happened in exile, the disorder in Jewish existence. For to know, existentially, the new order in history, the order established by the Messiah, one must be aware of the disorder of former days, the disorder of exile, the topsy-turvy world. Therefore, Purim will not pass away; the celebration of disorder will not be revoked. Only through the occasion of disorder can we know order.27

In order to correctly understand the message of Purim conveyed by the rabbis, the individual laws and customs of Purim must be examined both historically and anthropologically. As Gluckman astutely suggests, The simple situation between the ideals of leadership and human frailty is a profitable starting point from which to examine the pitfalls which beset authority, and the devices instituted by custom to evade these pitfalls. For if the authority be inherently frail, we may well expect its frailty to be accentuated in the complex situations which in real life beset all leaders who, however sagacious they be, cannot always measure all the factors involved.28

We will now proceed to explore the customs and laws of Purim.

A.  Reading the Scroll of Esther The obligation to read the Scroll of Esther on Purim is based upon the passage in the Book of Esther: that these days “should be remembered and kept throughout every generation, in every family, province and city.”29 According to the text, the Jews spontaneously celebrated their victory the following day. The sages derived an obligation to read Esther from the passage quoted above.30 27 Harris, “Purim,” 170. 28 Max Gluckman, Custom and Conflict in Africa (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1982), 59. 29 Esther 9:28. The first mention of Purim is found in Maccabees. Other early authors such as Josephus also refer to this holiday. It is not the purpose of this paper to discuss these sources, but rather to begin with the rabbinic documents that set the stage for Purim as currently practiced. See Tabory, Jewish Festivals, 328–321, which discusses these pre-rabbinic texts. Tabory also points out that these early sources seem to differentiate between the holiday of Purim and the written scroll of Esther, an issue of no consequence for the rabbis. 30 See Tosefta Megillah 1:4, YT Megillah 1:1, and BT Megillah 2b.

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The Mishnah records the obligation to enhance the spread of the Purim story of a miracle. In the first two chapters of BT Megillah, there is discussion of the date and the time of day Megillat Esther should be read, where to read it, how to read it (e.g., the languages), who can read it, and who is obligated to hear it. The only additional Purim obligation (mitzvah) besides the reading of the Megillah cited in the Mishnah31 is the giving of gifts to the poor. This mitzvah is not unique to any specific holiday, and therefore cannot be identified as a distinguishing ritual for Purim.32 Thus, we find an additional message encoded in the Mishnah; that is, that the reading of the Megillah is the primary mitzvah to be identified with the Purim holiday. Other festivals highlight specific mitzvoth such as eating matzah on Passover, building a sukkah on Sukkot, and lighting candles on Hanukkah. The focus on a mitzvah and obligation to read the Scroll of Esther serves to give the celebrations the religious force they need.33 These celebrations are not based on Torah obligations and might be taken lightly. The Babylonian Talmud is particularly concerned with the scriptural legitimacy of Purim.34 Statements are made such as, “Rav Yehudah said in the name of Shmuel: A Scroll of Esther does not render one’s hands unclean (tamei) [because it is not one of the Holy Scriptures].”35 The Talmud rejects these opinions and proposes numerous texts to prove that the Purim story is part of the Holy Scriptures and was composed with the divine spirit (ruah hakodesh). To strengthen the argument, a portion of the texts are cited in the name of the Mishnah’s rabbinical scholars: “Rabbi Akiva says: Esther was composed with the divine spirit as it is said, ‘And Esther found favor in the eyes of all who saw her.’” The Talmud assumes that this could not be humanly known. The Talmud says, “It is said, ‘They confirmed and undertook upon themselves,’ which means that they confirmed above in the heavenly court that which the Jews undertook upon themselves [in the earthly court].”36 The heavenly court endorsed the rabbis’ edict to read Megillat Esther on Purim.37 31 M. Megillah 1:4. 32 This mitzvah, although required at all times, receives specific rules on Purim. I will discuss this topic below. 33 See my essay on Shavuot. There I show that without ritual the holiday will become defunct. 34 Megillah 7a. Redacted approximately in the sixth century. 35 See Mishnah Tractate Yadaim 3:5. 36 Esther 9:27. 37 See BT Makkot 23b.

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The Talmud’s commentators explain that without the participation and input of the divine spirit, the redactors of the scroll could not have been cognizant of the heavenly court. An examination of the YT Megillah also presents the dilemma concerning the validity of Purim as a mandatory celebration. Rabbi Yirmiyah said in the name of Rabbi Shmuel bar Yitzhak: What did Mordechai and Esther do in order to have Purim accepted as a holiday? They wrote a letter and sent it to our rabbis that were here [in Eretz Yisrael]. They said to the [rabbis]: “Do you accept upon yourselves to observe these two days, the fourteenth and fifteenth of Adar, as a holiday and to read the Megillah every year?” [The rabbis] replied to them: “Is it not enough for us that we must deal with the troubles that already come to us that you want to further add for us the trouble of Haman? [By publicizing the Purim miracle as you suggest, we will incite the wrath of the nations against us, for they will accuse us of rejoicing at their downfall].” [Mordechai and Esther] then wrote a second letter [with arguments that convinced the Sages to accept the annual observance of Purim]. This is [the meaning of] that which is written [that Esther and Mordechai wrote] to confirm this second letter of Purim [i.e., Mordechai and Esther wrote a second letter to the Sages that convinced them to confirm Purim as a holiday]. What counterargument was written in [the second letter] that caused the Sages to change their minds? [Mordechai and Esther] said to [the Sages]: “If it is about this matter [i.e., inciting the wrath of the nations by publicizing the events of Purim] that you are afraid, [this is not a reason to refrain from establishing Purim as a holiday and from reading the Megillah in public each year]. Why so? [The story] is already written in the Persian national archives.” [Thus the verse states:] “Are they not written in the book of chronicles of the kings of Medea and Persia?”

The YT’s argument would seem to give credence to the holiday of Purim as scripturally based, even if not recorded in the Torah: Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahman said in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: Eighty-five elders, among whom were thirty some prophets, were troubled regarding this matter [of incorporating the Megillah into the Holy Scripture]. They said, “It is written, ‘These are the mitzvoth that Hashem commanded Moses to the Children of Israel on Mount Sinai.’ These are the mitzvoth that were commanded by Moses. By referring to the mitzvoth of the Torah as ‘these’ mitzvoth, this, in effect, is what Moses said to us: ‘Henceforward, no other

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prophet will ever introduce anything new for you [i.e., after the Sinaitic revelation no changes can be made to the Torah, even through prophecy].’ And Mordechai and Esther are requesting that we introduce something new [i.e., that we incorporate the book of Esther into the Holy Scriptures, which would seem to run counter to the Torah’s command].” They did not move from there and were deliberating on the matter, until the Holy One, Blessed is He, enlightened their eyes and they found [a source indicating that] it [i.e., the downfall of Amalek] should be written in the Torah, in the Prophets and in the Writings. For this is what is written [regarding the battle of Amalek: “Write this as a remembrance in this book” Exodus 17:14]: The term “this” refers to the Torah, as it is stated [Deut. 4:44], “This is the Torah that Moses placed before the Children of Israel. [Thus, the verse teaches that the account of the battle against Amalek had to be recorded in the Torah].” The word “remembrance,” this is a reference to the Prophets as it is written [Malachi 3:16], “and a book of remembrance was written before Him for those who fear Hashem etc. [Thus the verse teaches that the battle against Amalek must also be recorded in the books of Prophets].” And the words “in this book,” this is a reference to the Writings, as it is written [Esther 9:32], “Esther’s ordinance confirmed these regulations for Purim; and it was recorded in the book.” The Sages found the proof text they required to include Megillat Esther in the canon.38

From this time forward all subsequent literature accepts the holiness, historical authority, and legitimacy of the Esther story. The obligation to read the Megillah on Purim serves as a classical example of incorporating a legal system by the rabbis.39 Maimonides, in his code, the Mishneh Torah, Laws of Megillah, summarizes this rabbinical approach by stating, “A positive commandment based upon the authority of the scribes prescribes the reading of the Megillah at its [proper times].”40 The designation of the reading as a positive commandment based upon the authority of the scribes shows its status as an important rite.

Customs Relating to the Reading of the Megillah As I suggested above, a holiday requires ritual to give it sustenance and life. The more colorful the ritual and the greater the participation of the actors, the

38 YT Megillah 1:5. 39 See Tabory, Jewish Festivals, 336, for a discussion on this topic. 40 Mishneh Torah 1:1.

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stronger the input and the more powerful the effect of the ritual. Some examples: 1. The reading of a required dry text to a limited group would limit the effectiveness of the ritual. On the other hand, the more varied the actors, the stronger the ritual and, in effect, the holiday. Therefore, Mishnah Megillah states, “All are qualified to read the Megillah except for one who is deaf, a deranged person or a minor. Rabbi Yehudah declares that even a minor is qualified.”41 Even though the Rabbis exempted women from performing positive time-related laws, they did not exempt women from the obligation to hear the reading of the Megillah. Since women benefitted from the salvation miracle of Purim, the Rabbis included them in the obligation of hearing the reading of the scroll. Even a minor who, as a rule, is excused from all mitzvoth, is permitted to read the Megillah. The BT Megillah, in discussing the above Mishnah,42 informs its readers that Rabbi Yehudah said that when he was a minor he read the Megillah before Rabbi Tarfon, the elder in the city of Lod. A similar incident is cited in the name of a rabbi who read the Megillah in front of Rabbi Yehudah. Although the BT takes these statements to task, we can conclude that the incidents did occur. The laws of reading are a matter of wide discussion. 2. To encourage congregational participation in the reading of the Megillah and require the listeners to be active rather than passive, different lines of the scroll are vocalized by each person. For example, the YT states, “Rabbi Hiyyah, the son of Rabbi Adda of Jaffa, said in the name of Rabbi Yirmiyah in the name of Rabbi Zirah: When reading the Megillah one must say [the names of Haman’s ten sons] in one breath and the words aseret bnei Haman (the ten sons of Haman) together with them.”43 This law is reiterated in the tractate Soferim.44 The rabbis did not challenge this ruling, and it was finally codified in the SA.45 While this law addressed the reader, a custom developed for all listeners to read these verses aloud in one breath. 3. The biblical rulings in Exodus46 and Deuteronomy47 instruct readers to blot out the memory of Amalek from the world. Since the nation of Amalek no longer exists, the opportunity to fulfill this obligation has

41 Mishnah Megillah 2:4. 42 BT Megillah 20a. 43 YT 3:8. Also is cited in BT Megillah 16b. 44 13:5. Redacted approximately eighth-century Palestine. 45 OH 690:15. 46 Exodus 17:14. 47 Deuteronomy 25:19.

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been channeled through the holiday of Purim.48 Haman the Aggagite, as the Megillah49 refers to him, is considered a direct descendant of Amalek, and so focusing on him and his family is considered a fulfillment of the biblical obligation. Rituals centered upon “erasing the memory of Amalek” on Purim are widespread.

The BT Sanhedrin, while discussing the idolatrous presentation of one’s offspring to the Molech, relates the following: Rav Yehudah said: One is not liable unless he passed [his child] through the fire in the normal manner of passing through. [The Talmud asks:] What is the normal manner? Abaye said: A column of bricks is set up in the center with a fire on this side of it and a fire on that side of it. The child is passed over it. Another opinion: Rava said: It is a Purim style leap (i.e., a fire is lit in a pit) and a person holding the child leaps over it. 50

A Gaonic51 document,52 cited in Rabbi Nathan ben Yehiel’s work, the Arukh, 53 seems to be based upon the BT’s statement in Sanhedrin in describing the burning of the Haman effigy: Four or five days before Purim the young men make an effigy of Haman, and hang it on the roof. On Purim itself they build a bonfire, into which they cast the effigy, while they stand around joking and singing, at the same time holding a ring above the fire and waving it from side to side through the fire.54

The non-Jewish sources also show interest in similar types of rituals. Socrates of Constantinople, a Greek Christian church historian,55 writes that in the time of Flavius Honorius Augustus,56 the Western Roman emperor, 48 The relationship between Amalek and Purim actually begins before the day of Purim, such as the Sabbath prior when the passages from the Torah reporting on Amalek are read. For a detailed discussion, see Yom-Tov Lewinski, Haman-Smiting in the Diaspora (Tel Aviv: Yeda-Am series, 1947) [Hebrew]; Daniel Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1994), 3: 156–159; 6: 242–246. 49 See for example Esther 3:1. 50 BT Sanhedrin 64b. 51 The Gaonic period primarily in Babylonia was from approximately 589 to 1038. 52 For a full discussion of this document, see Louis Ginzberg, “Genizah Studies: First article: Gaonic Responsa,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 16, no. 4. ( July 1904), 650–651. 53 Arukh 64b. There are those who attribute the document to Rabbi Nissim Gaon, 980–1062. 54 Ginzberg, “Genizah Studies,” 650–651. 55 Born circa 380 CE. 56 Lived 384 CE–423 CE.

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fanatical Christians suspected that it was not the effigy of Haman being burned on Purim, or as they knew it “the Festival of Haman,” but rather Jesus their savior. It seems that Socrates actually believed that the Jews were scourging a Christian child in a symbolic remembrance of Haman. These accusations led to various anti-Semitic actions.57

Rishonim58 This burning of the effigy of Haman was discarded over the centuries59 and replaced with the custom of making noise when the name of Haman is recited during the reading of the Megillah to symbolically erase the name of Amalek. The earliest reference to the custom of making noise when the name of Haman is mentioned60 is first noted by the Sefer Ha’asufot.61 The author, Eliyahu- of Carcassone, cites a story about Rabbi Yehudah heHassid: Once the baron (or nobleman) of Regensburg asked Rabbi Yehudah heHassid, “Why do you [the Jews] bang on the walls when Haman is mentioned?” He answered, “As the number of bangs we make, so the evil spirits bang him [Haman] in purgatory.” He [the baron] said to him, “How do you know this?” He answered, “Come and I will show you.” They went and he showed him that at the entrance to purgatory they were beating him [Haman]. The baron then said, “If I were with you [the Jews], I would assist you in beating him.”62

57 Elliot Horowitz, “The Rite to be Reckless: On the Perpetration and Interpretation of Purim Violence,” Poetics Today 15, no. 1 (Spring 1994): 9–54, discusses this topic in detail. 58 Rishon or Rishonim (pl) are rabbinical scholars who lived from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries. 59 This was most probably a result of the anti-Semitic acts resulting from the ritual, especially in the Christian countries. 60 For a detailed list of sources and discussions on the topic of banging and making noise when either Haman or Amalek is read, see Friedman 1997, pp. 109–112; Tuvia Freund, Moadim L’Simha ( Jerusalem: Otzar HaPoskim, 2002) 3: 299–323 [Hebrew]; Joseph Lewy, Minhag Yisrael Torah (New York: Ohel Torah, 1997), 3: 244–245 [Hebrew]; Gavriel Zinner, Nitei Gavriel: Laws of Purim ( Jerusalem: Cong. Nitei Gavriel, 2000), 267–270 [Hebrew], and Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael, 3:156–159. 61 Attributed to Eliyahu of Carcassone, end of the twelfth century, Provence. See the introduction to the Sefer Asufot ( Jerusalem, Israel: 1982), by its editor and publisher Abraham Dezobus. 62 Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 301, cites an unpublished manuscript and argues that this is the earliest source for the custom of making noise when the name Haman is read.

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A contemporary of Rabbi Yehudah heHassid, Rabbi Avraham haYarhi, also mentions the custom in his work, the Manhig, a manual of all laws governing Jewish life.63 Discussing a passage in Proverbs, “The name of the wicked should rot,”64 he says “It is therefore the custom for the children in France and Provence to take from the river smooth stones and write upon them the name of Haman. When the reader reads the name of Haman they bang the stones together.” In the book Tanya Rabbati,65 the author cites a custom of banging with one’s feet, beating stones together, and breaking pots or plates in response to hearing the name of Haman or Zeresh, Haman’s wife. He then adds, “This is not an obligation or a custom but for the joy of the children, for noises before them will gladden them. Furthermore, when they notice a change [in regular behavior] they will ask, ‘What is this?’ This will grant the opportunity to relate to them the wonders of the Lord.” Both customs, the burning of the effigy of Haman and the banging of stones, are quoted in Rabbi Aharon haKohen’s Orhot Haim. This work is a compendium of legal opinions on a variety of subjects.66 Additional Rishonim also showed concern for this custom. Rabbi Avraham Klausner, in his book of customs, Sefer HaMinhagim, and Rabbi Isaac Tirna, in his own Book of Minhagim, not only discuss making noise during the reading of the name Haman, but also offer explanations for this practice. Rabbi Klausner says that when one hears the name of a righteous person he says, “The memory of the righteous person should be blessed.” For a wicked person one should recite the passage in Proverbs, “The name of the wicked should rot.” Rabbi Klausner continues that since children do not recite the passage they should instead be taught to knock two stones together. Rabbi Tirna, in addition to the reasons offered by Rabbi Klausner, suggests that the last letters of the first three Hebrew words in the passage in Deuteronomy, “If the wicked man deserves to be beaten,”67 spell the name of Haman. Not all the Rishonim’s comments concerning making noise or banging refer to Haman during the reading of the Megillah, but some rather 63 The Laws of Megillah, paragraph 65. 64 Proverbs 10:7. 65 Attributed to Rabbi Yehiel the son of Tzidkiya the son of Benjamin the son of Yehiel, the doctor who lived in the thirteenth century, most probably in Italy. See the introduction to Tanya Rabbati ( Jerusalem, Israel: 1978), edited by Shaul Horowitz. 66 Laws of Megillat Purim, paragraph 41. 67 Deuteronomy 25:2.

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refer to the names of the wicked mentioned in the blessings and prayers read at the conclusion of the Megillah.

Opposition to the Custom Most of the opposition to the custom of making noise during the Megillah reading by the rabbis came from the later rabbinical authorities (Aharonim). The areas of concern included disrupting the synagogue decorum, preventing the fulfillment of the obligation to hear every word of the Megillah, and causing damage to synagogue property (i.e., beating on the tables and chairs with different implements, such as hammers). Rabbi Yaakov Moelin, in his book the Minhag Maharil,68 writes that he personally is not concerned about making noise when the name of Haman is recited. Most commentators understood these words to suggest Maharil’s resistance to banging.

Aharonim Rabbi Moshe Shik, known as the Maharam Shik, reports an oral discussion with Rabbi Israel David Margalioth, the author of a book of responsa, Milei D᾿avot. There he explains that there was no reason for Maharil to bang or make noise at the mention of Haman. “Where does such a custom appear to obligate adults? The ritual is only for children.” The Maharam Shik continues that even if children were to forget to make noise, one would not bother to remind them.69 Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, in his code the Tur,70 does not include the custom of noise-making when the name Haman is mentioned. Interestingly, Rabbi Yosef Karo in his commentary on the Tur, Beit Yosef, discusses this custom but omits it in his code.71 The content of the Beit Yosef commentary on Laws of Purim is adapted from the Orhot Hayim. In the Mapah, his addendum to the SA, Rabbi Moshe Isserles writes: The [authorities] write further that it is the practice for children to draw the image of Haman on [pieces] of wood or on stones or to write the name Haman on them and to beat them one against the other, so that the name [of Haman] should be obliterated. This follows [the injunction], “You should utterly obliterate the memory of Amalek,” and [the verse] “The name of the 68 The book was actually written by his student, Zalman of St. Goar. 69 Responsa OH, 216. 70 This is the first comprehensive code since Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah. 71 SA, OH section 690.

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wicked should rot.” From this, the practice evolved of beating when the name of Haman is mentioned when the Megillah is read in the synagogue. One should not abolish any practice or mock at it, as [the practices] were not established for nothing.72

In his work, the Mishnah Berurah, Rabbi Israel Meir HaKohen Kagan, widely known as the Hafetz Haim, summarizes the various views. He writes “Maharil was not concerned that Haman’s name should be drowned out. Rabbi Ya’acov Emden writes that his father, the Hakham Tzvi, would beat and stamp his foot and strike with his shoe when he reached a mention of Haman.”73 Rabbi Joseph ben Meir Teomin in his Pri Megadim writes that “the gain of those [who beat at Haman’s name] is offset by their loss, as they considerably confuse [the congregation members who are listening to the reading].” Continuing with this concept, the author of the Mishnah Berurah says: The hazzan must be silent then, at the time when they beat [Haman], in order that all those [present] will hear the reading. As it is very common for mishaps to result from the beating [of Haman] and the youths usually beat several times after the hazzan goes back to the reading, it is therefore desirable and proper for every individual to read a verse or two from [the Megillah in] the Humash when [the youths] are still beating at Haman’s name. This is because then even if one will not hear the hazzan, one will fulfill [his obligation with regard to the reading of the Megillah] as stated in Paragraph Three (Magen Avraham). The Pri Megadim writes, likewise, that it is proper for everyone to hold a Humash at the time of the reading and read from [the Megillah in] the Humash any word that he does not hear from the hazzan.74

This author, whose writings set the standard for contemporary Ashkenazi halakhah, is apprehensive about the custom but recognizes that beating will always occur when the name of Haman is read. Instead of prohibiting it outright, he offers a suggestion as to how not to endanger the fulfillment of the mitzvah and to hear every word of the Megillah.

72 OH 690:17. 73 Mishnah Berurah, subparagraphs 59–60. 74 For an in-depth understanding of the Mishnah Berurah’s approach to minhag (custom), see on this paragraph the Beur Halakhah “Ein levatel shum minhag.”

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In the Levush, a code written by Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe,75 we find that “one should not cancel the custom that is practiced by the children. For it was not in vain they performed it.” Rabbi Yaffe also wrote that when an adult hears Haman’s name read he should recite the passage in Proverbs, “The name of the wicked should rot.” Many Aharonim such as the Magen Avraham,76 authored by Rabbi Avraham Gombinar, reject this ruling for it is an interruption in the Megillah reading, which is prohibited. In contemporary Ashkenazi synagogues, children and adults bang and beat when the name of Haman is read. Special devices and noise makers are bought and created to make this disruption. The most common amongst them is the grogger.77 There are different groups that restrict or limit the Haman ritual. For example, the author of Makor Hayim writes78 that in the synagogue in Worms the congregants only bang when reading the passage “and the Jews smite” (veyaku in Hebrew, which can also be translated as “to hit”).79 In Chabad synagogues people only make noise when the full name of Haman (Haman ben Hamdata Ha’aggagi) is recited. The word Haman, when standing alone, will not be an occasion for noise.80 Tuvia Freund, an expert on Jewish customs, lists various alternatives as to when to make noise.81 These include doing so only when the reader recites the names of the ten sons of Haman, when the downfall of Haman is read, during the first and last mention of Haman’s name, and when the verse “and here is the tree” is read, at which point children may bang with wooden hammers. The decision to keep this custom in the Ashkenazi synagogues can be attributed to the Rama, the leading rabbinical authority for the Ashkenazi community. He ruled explicitly that, “One should not abolish any practice or mock at it, as [the practices] were not established for nothing.” In the Sephardic community there was greater opposition to the practice. Freund offers82 an extensive discussion 75 76 77 78 79 80

OH 690:17. Commentary on the SA. For a discussion on the grogger see Lewinski, Haman-Smiting, 43–46. OH 690. Esther 9:5. Elyahu Yochanan Guraryeh, Hikrai Minhagim (Israel: Machon Ohalai Shem-Lubavitch, 1999), 222 [Hebrew]. 81 Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 317–320. 82 Ibid., 306–316.

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on this topic with numerous sources, including Rabbi Rahamim Nissim Yitzhak Palaji in his work Yafeh Lalev.83 The rabbi offers three reasons for eliminating the custom. First, the noise might confuse the members of the congregation who, as a result, will not properly fulfill the mitzvah.84 Second, by banging with such instruments as hammers, the synagogue property could be damaged. Third, the practice might encourage the gentiles’ negative response. Rabbi Refael Aaron ben Shimshon, in his Nahar Mitzrayim, takes a strong stand against the custom, and rules that in Egypt the children should make noise only when the ten sons of Haman are mentioned. Contemporary Sephardic leader and rabbinical authority Rabbi Obadia Yosef in Yalkut Yosef85 strongly opposed the custom. In discussions with my Sephardic colleagues, they informed me that many Syrian synagogues in New York follow the ruling of the Ben Ish Hai,86 that noise is only sounded when the hazzan reads the first and last mention of Haman in the Megillah.87 To strengthen their arguments, stories of anti-Semitic behavior on Purim, such as the use of firebombs against Jews by gentiles, are recorded. As previously stated, in most contemporary Ashkenazi synagogues, the custom of making noise when the name Haman is recited is prevalent among children and adults, men and women. Rabbi Yehiel Mechel Halevi Epstein in 83 Yafeh Lalev, volume 2, section 690, paragraph 16. 84 See for example Shemtob Gaguine, Keter Shem Tob, vol. 2 (London: Superior Printers, 1934), 542–544 [Hebrew], who relates an incident that occurred in London when total disruption and mayhem caused by the noise makers made it impossible for anyone to hear the reading of the Megillah. Strong measures were adopted to ultimately abolish the custom, including fines for those who did not obey the ruling. 85 Yitzchak Yosef, Yalkut Yosef ( Jerusalem, Israel: Makhon Hazon Obadiah, 1988), 290–291 and ff. 27. 86 Parshat Tezaveh year one. 87 In Asher Wassertil, ed., Yalkut Minhagim, 3rd ed. (Israel, 1996) [Hebrew], we find reports that in various countries or communities that practice Sephardic Jewish customs, making noise when the name Haman is read was the practice. For example, in Jerusalem (p. 325) the sexton would place wooden boards on the floor for the children to bang upon. In Kurdistan (p. 352), even though the rabbi is requested to explain to the congregants the drawbacks of making the noise, the congregation continues to make noise when Haman is read. In Tunisia (p. 512) at home they bang on the table, and in Morocco people bang in the synagogue with their feet. In Morocco (p. 444) whenever the name Haman is read the children bang with an instrument and the adults with their feet. In Afghanistan (p. 38–39) the children prepare their “Haman Ku”; they would draw a picture of Haman and bang it or step on it when the names of the ten sons of Haman were read. The boards used to bang were called “Chak” after the sound of the noise made. Others would prepare wooden gloves for making noise.

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his legal work, the Arukh Hashulhan,88 also shows concern over making noise in the synagogue during the Megillah reading, but like the Hafetz Haim, he does not forbid it as long as there is some supervision. That it is an ancient custom gives it a strong position of credibility, he writes. The rabbi instructs the congregants to take care not to use large tools in making noise, for this causes laughter and confusion during the reading. In fact, writes Rabbi Epstein, it is preferable in this situation, especially for the women who cannot properly hear the reading, to read the scroll at home. The custom of making noise, when reading the name of Haman, could not be eliminated. The popularity of the custom, the excitement for both adults and children, prevailed. The rabbis understood this and therefore, following their adjudicative pattern, channeled and supervised the practice rather than forbidding it.

Costumes Children and some adults wear costumes to the synagogue for the reading of the Megillah. The costumes vary from contemporary super heroes to the personalities found in the story of Esther. This colorful addition to the mitzvah of reading the Megillah further enhances the dry ritual. The topic of costumes will be discussed in detail below.

Concluding Remarks The identifying mitzvah of Purim, the reading of Megillat Esther, has been turned from a dry, possibly even boring ritual into a living, exciting experience. This behavior not only energizes the ritual, but the holiday itself. Other Purim mitzvot and rituals were developed over time, but the message and the symbolism of the Megillah stand out in the forefront of the holiday.

B.  The Festive Meal (Seudat Purim): The Overall Classification The festive meal embraces many of the rituals or mitzvot of Purim. Although these practices demand their own specific laws, their objective is to enhance the Purim meal. These rituals include presents to the poor (Matanot La’evyonim), portions of food to friends (Mishloah Manot), joyfulness, and the consumption of alcohol. 88 OH 690.

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The Meal In “Taking the Biscuit: The Structure of British Meals,” Mary Douglas defines British meals as an occasion when food is eaten, without prejudice as to whether it constitutes a meal or not. A ‘structured event’ is a social occasion, which is organized according to rules prescribing time, place and sequence of actions. If food is eaten as part of a structured event, then we have a meal.89

Elsewhere she argues that food is not just used to care for one’s body, but as a “social matter.”90 It is a medium or means of expression of familial relationships. She emphasizes that food is used both to create and to maintain social relations.91 Although a meal is a physical event, it is also a vehicle of communication which anthropologists study in analyzing social relations. Taking this a step further, beyond the actual food served at the meal, the organization of the meal reveals elements of the social organization of the family. Ethnic foods served at a festive meal function as a communicative message of identity with the group.92 Standardized dishes become “the meal format.”93 Nancy Klavans, who studies social relationships forged through food, argues that food-centered festive events are a way of creating, albeit for a short time, a community of common purpose and vision, understanding how such events are shaped and how their menus and food related behaviors symbolize and communicate powerful images of family and community . . . food often plays a central role in creating a sense of connection with the past memory of the group. Tastes, smells, sights and even tactile sensations provide a direct link through which people can reaffirm a sense of communitas. Food related

89 Mary Douglas and Michael Nicod, “Taking the Biscuit: The Structure of British Meals,” New Society 30 (1974): 744. 90 Mary Douglas, In The Active Voice (London, UK: Routledge), 86. 91 Mary Douglas, ed., Food in the Social Order (New York: Routledge, 1984), 10–17. 92 See Susan Kalcik, “Ethnic Foodways in America: Symbol and the Performance of Identity,” in Ethnic and Regional Foodways in the United States: The Performance of Group Identity, eds. Linda Keller Brown and Kay Mussell (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1984), 57–58. 93 Douglas, ed., Food in the Social Order, 29.

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events provide the prime vehicle through which a sense of tradition, continuity, and community are performed and transmitted to new members.94

To achieve these social goals, most formal Jewish meals will include—either by requirement or by tradition—some type of special food, ritual, and structure. For example, the structured festive meal requires commencing with the Kiddush, a blessing with wine, washing one’s hands, and making a blessing over two hallah breads to be cut according to a specified practice and then sprinkled with salt. The Passover Seder is the epitome of this structure, from the guest list to the special foods and rituals. The festive Purim meal, on the other hand, does not include any formal structure other than that it is mandatory for both men and women. No special foods are required or expected to be served,95 nor are there specific rituals such as the Kiddush or a blessing over the hallah. This is manifested in the SA, which commences with the gloss of the Rama citing the Tur that says simply, “It is a mitzvah to have a large Purim feast,”96 with no additional requirements. In the attempt to provide structure to the Purim meal, the Rama, quoting Maharil, adds “There are [people] who have adopted the practice of wearing Shabbat and Yom Tov clothing on Purim. This is a correct [practice].” The Rama quotes the author of the Kolbo who says, “There are [authorities] who say that one should eat seed food on Purim in remembrance of the seed food eaten by Daniel and his fellows in Babylon.”97 These suggestions, however, are not practiced in most contemporary households. Rabbi Gavriel Zinner offers additional customs to be incorporated into the Purim meal to create the necessary structure, such as lighting candles, setting the table as on other holidays, teaching Torah, and relating the Purim miracles.98

94 Nancy Klavans, “A Halloween Brunch: The Affirmation of Group in a Temporary Community,” in “We Gather Together:" Food and Festival in American Life, eds. Theodore Humphrey and Lin T. Humphrey (Ann Arbor and London: UMI Research Press, 1988), 43. 95 Specific “Purim foods” have been identified in different ethnic groups but there is no uniformly accepted food for Purim. 96 SA 695:1. 97 The identity of the author is a matter of dispute. 98 Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 383–386.

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The author of the Arukh Hashulhan discusses various rabbinical opinions99 suggesting practices to be implemented at the Purim festive meal. He opens with Maimonides’ ruling that to fulfill the obligation of Seudat Purim, “One should eat meat and in general have as fine a repast as his means would allow.”100 Rabbi Epstein explains that meat gives the meal formality. He explains that foods eaten on the Sabbath and holidays should also be consumed on Purim, for this is what makes the meal significant. In fact, in the seventh paragraph, the author of the Arukh Hashulhan lists the meal format used in his era at festive meals. In contrast to other views that did not require bread to be eaten at the Purim meal,101 this format included fancy breads, and Rabbi Epstein also cites the Rama’s suggestion102 of eating foods from seeds on Purim. Rabbi Mordechai Rabinowitz, in his commentary on the Arukh Hashulhan,103 presents various opinions diverging from Rabbi Epstein’s approach to the Purim meal. A close reading of the Arukh Hashulhan reveals Rabbi Epstein’s sensitivities to his community. Understanding the need for structure for the Purim meal, the rabbi chose to emphasize the meal format and constitution, though these are suggested practices rather than obligatory directives. Thus, these fairly cosmetic additions to the Purim meal reveal the absence of the basic premises for a holiday meal. The meal emphasizes eating well and the consumption of alcoholic beverages, and, as a reversal of other holidays, the materialistic elements dominate over the spiritual.

Presents to the Poor (Matanot La’evyonim)104 Anthropologist Erica Bornstein writes that charity is best given impulsively. When given spontaneously, or when unregulated, it “becomes deeply moving and an act of freedom.” On the other hand, charitable organizations can weaken this impulse and are often motivated by the desire to control the money more than by a wish to help the needy. Bornstein cites the German sociologist Max Weber, who argues that “the more one orients action toward a value for its own sake, to pure sentiment or  99 OH 695. 100 Laws of Megillah 2:14–15. 101 SA, paragraph 12. 102 SA, paragraph 9. 103 Mordechai Rabinowitz, Tzafo Hatzafit: A Commentary on the Arukh Hashulhan, Laws of Purim (Israel, 2007), 177–194 [Hebrew]. 104 For an in-depth discussion including textual differences in the Talmud, see Tabory, Jewish Festivals, 358–360.

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beauty, to absolute goodness or devotion to duty for example, the less is he influenced by considerations of the consequences of his action.”105 Since there is no relationship between the giver and receiver, and charity is given with no emotional interaction between these two, charity cannot be categorized as a “gift,” which is a reciprocal action. It is a “one-way street,” in the words of the well-known French anthropologist Marcel Mauss.106 Religions frequently encourage such an arrangement. That is, it provides for the needy without any expectation of return from the recipient. In his Mishneh Torah,107 Maimonides goes into great detail regarding how and to whom charity should be given. Philanthropic behavior is no longer merely a spontaneous good deed but rather a structured component of the Jewish legal system. Maimonides begins his laws of charity stating, “It is a [biblical] positive commandment to give alms to the poor of Israel, according to what is fitting for them, if the giver can afford it. As it is said, ‘Thou shall surely open thy hand unto him,’108 and again, ‘Then thou shall uphold him; as a stranger and a settler shall he live with thee . . . that thy brother may live with thee.’”109 Both the Tur and SA devote twelve sections to the laws of charity.110 Both adopt the language of Maimonides, beginning their laws of charity by saying, “It is a positive commandment to give alms to the poor of Israel.” Once codified, charity is included within an institutional framework of the religion.

Early Rabbinic Documents111 The Book of Esther reads, “As days on which the Jews got relief from their enemies, and as the month that had been turned for them from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday; that they should make them days of feasting and gladness, days for sending food gifts to one another and gifts to

105 Erica Bornstein, “The Impulse of Philanthropy,” Cultural Anthropology 24, no. 4 (2009): 623. 106 Marcel Mauss, The Gift (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 1967 and 1990). 107 Laws of Matanot L’Evyonim, chapters 7–10. 108 Deuteronomy 15:8. 109 Leviticus 25:35–36. 110 SA 247–259. 111 For a detailed list of rabbinical sources for Manot Purim, see Y. M. Lieberman, Sefer Yeme HaPurim (Israel, 1997), 136–143 [Hebrew], and Avraham Yaari, “Maot Purim, Maot Mahatzit Hashekel, Umaot Megillah,” in Mahanaim, vol. 54 (Israel: Chaplaincy of the Israel Defense Forces, 1961), 17–29 [Hebrew].

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the poor.”112 This passage suggests a script for celebration rather than a legal ruling on how to celebrate. Eat, be merry, and give presents to friends and the poor is a recommendation, rather than a requirement. Following the above theory, the rabbis could not allow this conduct to be impulsive or spontaneous. In fact, since giving gifts to the poor is recorded in the Megillah as part of the Purim rituals, customary rules of charity would not suffice. The rabbis understood that these laws would require additional legal parameters. Therefore, in addition to reading the Megillah, the only requirement listed by the rabbis of the Mishnah was to give presents to the poor, though the Mishnah does not elaborate on how this mitzvah should be performed. In a complementary Tannaitic document, the Tosefta, we find the law of Matanot La’evyonim described in greater detail: A collection of alms for Purim [must be distributed] on Purim. And the collection of alms for a given town [must be distributed] in that town. They do not investigate too closely [to whether the poor are deserving]. But they buy calves [for the poor] and slaughter them and [the poor] consume them. And what is left over should not fall to the fund for charity. Rabbi Eliezer says: Out of funds collected for Purim a poor person should not make a strap for his sandal [but they should be used only for food for the holiday].113

These four laws outlined in the Tosefta are rulings going beyond the normative laws of charity. These ideas are further elaborated in both the YT and the BT. YT describes how charity collectors must distribute their entire Purim income to the poor and needy: “Rabbi Lazar said, [The money is distributed in its entirety on Purim] with the stipulation that the poor person [who receives it] does not deviate [from the money’s designated purpose and use part of the funds to purchase] a strap for his shoe.” The YT adds “One should not be particular regarding the money for the poor on Purim. Rather anyone who extends his hand to receive charity we give him. One may not divert [i.e., borrow] Purim funds for his own needs.”114 The YT questions why Purim charity is not compatible with all other charity funds that may be diverted for an individual’s own needs. The answer is 112 Esther 9:22. 113 Tosefta translations are adapted from Jacob Neusner, The Tosefta Translated from the Hebrew: Second Division Moed, the Order of Appointed Times (New York: Ktav Publishing House Inc., 1981). 114 YT Megillah 1:4.

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that there is a difference between Purim and non-Purim funds: non-Purim funds may be diverted before reaching the collector’s hands, while Purim funds may not be diverted at any stages of the donation. These laws further differ from the Yoreh De’ah laws of charity, stating that on Purim, without any question or hesitation, one must give charity to anyone who asks. Even if a beggar looks suspicious and unworthy of one’s gift, charity must still be given without consideration. In this instance, the beggars’ needs are not a relevant factor in the charity equation; gifts are distributed without any stipulation. Purim charity is also discussed in BT:115 Rather [it is] this [ruling of] Rabbi Meir [in the case] of the Purim collection. For it was stated in a baraita [that the charity collectors shall distribute the entire] Purim collection to [the needy for their use on] Purim. [Further, the Purim] collection of [each] city [shall be distributed only to the needy of] that city and we are not exact in this matter rather we purchase calves [in abundance with all available funds] and the poor slaughter and eat them. And the remainder [the meat that the poor were unable to consume on Purim shall be sold and the proceeds] will fall to the general charity fund. Rabbi Eliezer says: [The charity collectors shall distribute the entire] Purim collection to the needy for their use on Purim and the pauper is not permitted to purchase with [these funds] a strap for his shoe unless he stipulated previously the right to do so] in the presence of the townspeople [and they granted him the right].

The BT emphasizes that funds collected during the Purim drive must be distributed on Purim itself in the city where the funds were collected. The text also suggests, in contrast to the YT, that one should not simply give the money to the needy, but instead buy animals and donate the meat to the poor. Any leftover meat is then sold and the proceeds may be redirected to the general, non-Purim funds. The BT adds an additional variable to the unique rules of Purim charity.116 The rabbis write, “Rav Yosef taught in a baraita: The Megillah states, ‘and sending portions to one another.’117 [This entails] two portions to one man. The Megillah continues ‘and gifts to poor people.’ [This entails] two gifts to two people [i.e., one gift to each of two people].” 115 B. Baba Metzia 78b. 116 BT Megillah 7a. 117 Esther 9:22.

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BT Megillah, while discussing the prohibition against reading the Megillah on the Sabbath, refers to the law of Matanot La’evyonim:118 Rav Yosef said: Because poor people anxiously await the Megillah reading [in anticipation of receiving the gifts that are normally allocated when the Megillah is read]. Since these gifts cannot be allocated on the Sabbath, the rabbis shifted the Megillah reading from Sabbath [to another day of the week]. This was also taught in a baraita: Even though the rabbis said that the villages may advance [their reading] to the day of assembly, they must collect gifts for the poor on that day and distribute [them to the poor] on that day. . . . since the rabbis said that villages may advance [their reading] to the day of assembly they should collect [gifts for the poor] on that day and distribute [them to the poor] on that day because poor people [anxiously await] the Megillah reading [in anticipation of receiving gifts]. But [the obligation of] rejoicing [i.e., the Purim feast] applies only in its regular time [Adar 14].

YT Megillah suggests119 that the gifts to the poor should be distributed only on Adar 14 or 15 (when the festive meal is eaten), since that is when “the eyes of the poor are set [to receive their gifts].”120 The minor tractate Soferim, a Gaonic document, follows this line of thought and emphasizes that the gifts should contain food items. To fulfill the mitzvah of giving two gifts, giving one to each of two separate individuals is required.121 While discussing Matanot La’evyonim on Purim, Soferim states, “Some supply bread and wine, others supply bread and fish; in any event not less than two gifts should be given, although they may consist only of wheat and beans.” The requisite rules of Matanot La’evyonim are as follows: 1. The gifts for the poor should be distributed on Purim itself. 2. The poor should use the gifts exclusively on Purim for the festive meal. 3. The monies should be spent on food items to be consumed during the festive meal. 4. The basic obligation is for each of two needy persons to receive one gift. 5. The gift should be given in the town or city where it was collected. 6. Any individual who requests charity should be granted it without questioning whether he or she is deserving. 118 BT Megillah 4b. 119 YT Megillah 1:1. 120 This seems to contradict the law in 1:4 that suggested the gifts should be distributed with the Megillah reading. 121 Tractate Soferim 21:4.

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7. The charity drive and distribution revolves around the time and place the Megillah is read, either at night or during the day.

These discussions and concerns make the Purim charity unique.

Rishonim These seven topics and others created discussion and debate amongst the Rishonim. For example, Rashi explains that all Purim monies are used for the purchase of animals to be used as meat for the Purim festive meals of the needy. If after Purim meat is left over, Rashi, in accordance with the ruling of the BT, writes that it may be sold and redirected to the general charity fund.122 Other Rishonim, such as Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, and the author of the Nimukei Yosef, Rabbi Yosef Haviva, rule in accordance with the text of the YT: they cannot be redirected. In his Mishneh Torah, Maimonides writes:123 . . . the poor, meaning not less than two persons; each should be given a separate gift—money, a cooked dish or some other comestible. For when Scripture says “And gifts to the poor,”124 it implies at least two gifts to two poor persons. . . . It is preferable to spend more on gifts to the poor than on the Purim meal or on presents to friends. For no joy is greater or more glorious than the joy of gladdening the hearts of the poor, or orphans, the widows and strangers. Indeed, he who causes the hearts of these unfortunates to rejoice emulates the Divine Presence, of whom Scripture says, “To revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.”125

Maimonides bases his rulings concerning the number of contributions and recipients, and the contents of the gifts, on the above Talmudic passage. His innovation is the priority that Matanot La’evyonim receives over the other laws of Purim, including a biblical citation for support. Most likely as a result of the social reality during the period of the Rishonim, the question arose as to whether Purim gifts could be allocated to the non-Jewish destitute. The laws of charity state that for the sake of peaceful 122 Generally, whenever there is a contradiction between BT and YT the rabbis will follow the BT. 123 Laws of Megillah 1:16–17. 124 Esther 9:22. 125 Isaiah 57:15. Translations of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah have been adapted from the translation of Solomon Gandz and Hyman Klein, Yale University Press, 1961.

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relationships with neighboring gentiles, charity is given to them as well as to Jews.126 Rabbi Simhah of Vitry, a disciple of Rashi, objects to this ruling in his collection of laws.127 He explains that in Esther 9:22, the phrase “and gifts to the poor” refers to Jews, not Gentiles, and if charity is given to Gentiles it is stealing from the Jewish poor. He explains that initially, Jews were embarrassed to ask for assistance and sent their children with their gentile nurses to collect money. However, people began giving charity to the nurses and maid servants rather than the Jewish children.128 Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg permits the distribution of Purim gifts (or money) to non-Jews if this tradition was already being practiced in a specific location. Starting such a ritual would be prohibited. Maimonides (based upon the Talmudic statement saying that we are not particular about who receives gifts) rules that it is permitted to give Purim charity to a Gentile. He adds that not doing so might cause hostile relationships. The Tur succinctly codifies the laws of Matanot La’evyonim and makes the following points:129 1. Every Jew is obligated to give two gifts to two poor persons on Purim. 2. Monies that are collected should be distributed on Purim. 3. The monies collected are used exclusively for the needy person’s Purim obligations and cannot be redirected to other charities. 4. The destitute individual must use the charity he receives on Purim toward the Purim meal. 5. The Jew is obligated to give charity to anyone who requests on Purim without any inquiry. 6. In distributing charity on Purim, one does not differentiate between a Jew and non-Jew.130

126 Basing their ruling on BT Gitin 61a. 127 Laws of Purim, paragraph 9. 128 A similar view is attributed directly to Rashi. See Siddur Rashi, section 346, Sefer Hapardes LeRashi, section 205. See Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 18–19, who cites the various different sources who discuss this practice. 129 OH 694. 130 In paragraph 3 of SA, Rabbi Karo adopts the ruling of the Maharam rather than that of the Tur and writes, “In a locality where it is the practice to give [Purim money] even to a non-Jew it may [in fact] be given to [a non-Jew].” If it is not the practice of this locality then it would not be permitted.

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An additional charity collection known as Mahatzit Hashekel (half a shekel) was developed during the period of the Rishonim.131 This donation in its original form dates back to Temple times and could be made throughout the Hebrew month of Adar to purchase sacrificial animals throughout the year. The Mahatzit Hashekel was also considered to be a means for atonement (kapparah) for one’s sins. The Geonim132 strongly objected to the practice of collecting the Shekalim charity funds after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple.133 If an individual were to dedicate his money to the shekel collection and therefore consider it as a donation to the Temple, this money would become holy and could not be used for the poor. Historian Avraham Yaari points out that except for the city of Izmir, the rest of Turkey and the North African Jewish communities adhered to the Gaonic reservations and did not practice the ritual of half shekel.134 Yaari identified Rabbi Isaac ben Asher Halevi as the first of the Rishonim to discuss the half-shekel contribution on Purim.135 The Riva writes that during the month of Adar one should give a third of a shekel as a symbolic remembrance of the shekel ritual offered in the Jerusalem Temple. The Riva emphasizes that this contribution is for general charity, not in fulfillment of the commandment to donate half a shekel. Oberlander acknowledges Rabbi Efraim of Bonn as the first Rishon to refer to this ritual.136 Rabbi Efraim bypasses the concern that Mahatzit Hashekel is a Temple-bound custom, stating that one should specify that the gift is intended for the poor. In addition, Rabbi Eleazar Rokeah of Worms, in his Torah commentary, Sefer HaRokeah Parshat Ki Tisa, refers to the ritual of giving three coins of Mahatzit Hashekel on Purim as the only “Purim monies” collected. 131 For a detailed discussion of the half shekel contribution see Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 19–26; Gedalia Oberlander, Minhag Avotenu Byadenu ( Jerusalem: Amudim, 2005), 257–291 [Hebrew]; Lieberman, Sefer Yeme, 62–67; and Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 239–273. 132 Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 20 argues that the text in the tractate Soferim (21:2) that positively discusses the Shekalim contribution after the destruction of the Temple is a later insertion not from the Gaonic period. 133 The objection of the Geonim is found in Seder Rav Amram Gaon OT 71, Teshuvot Geonei Mizrah Umaarav, section 40. 134 Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 21. 135 Tosafot Riva. 136 Oberlander, Minhag Avotenu, 258.

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According to the writings of Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg, the Maharam, we find that the custom of the half shekel was established in the European Jewish communities by the thirteenth century. The rabbi writes that the monies were collected at the minhah prayer on the eve of Purim. The custom is also discussed by various students of the Maharam, as well as other Rishonim, such as Rabbi Mordechai ben Hillel, Rabbi Shimshon ben Tzaddok, Rabbi Yitzhak of Corbeil in his halakhic compendium the Semak,137 and in the Minhag Tov138 from an unknown Italian author from the late thirteenth century. Contrary to the opinion of his colleagues, in Lekah Tov Rabbi Tuvia ben Eliezer argues that one should replace the mitzvah of Mahatzit Hashekel with the Purim obligation of Matanot La’evyonim. Rabbi Yaakov Moelin is credited with setting the stage for future generations to adopt the practice. In the fourteenth century he designated two collection plates to be positioned in the synagogue on the eve of Purim, one called Mahatzit Hashekel and the other the Purim fund. The former is dedicated to the needy or the immigrant Jews in Israel and the latter to the destitute, to the exclusion of those immigrants, according to the laws of Purim. Maharil adds that only a person over twenty years of age is obligated in this ritual. The Rishonim disputed when the half shekel should be collected. Three options were suggested: from the beginning of Adar until Purim, on the eve of Purim, or on Purim itself. They also debated the number of coins to be used, three or two, and whether the value of the half shekel should be based upon local currency or the value of the shekel in the era of the Temple. They could not agree on who is obligated to give, nor the contributor’s age, whether twenty, thirteen, or younger. Is a woman obligated, and if so, should she also contribute for a fetus in her womb? Where to allocate the funds was not universally agreed upon, either. Were the funds to be directed to the poor in Israel, to immigrants, to assist scholars in need, or to the reader of the Megillah as payment? The ritual of Mahatzit Hashekel, originally a source of atonement, is not discarded easily by the observant Jew. Similar to what I have written about in the case of kapparot on Yom Kippur,139 the rabbis were apprehensive about the 137 Sefer Mizvot Ketanot mitzvah 146. 138 Minhag Tov, section 82. 139 See Fishbane, The Shtiebelization of Modern Jewry, 35–62, where I discuss the ritual of Kapparot, a practice rooted in superstition.

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shekel ritual because it was embedded in popular Jewish superstition, but they understood the difficulty in prohibiting it. Similarly, we find the practice of halfshekel donation a custom not readily discarded by the Jews. Therefore the rabbis structured the ritual of the half shekel and took it under their authority while emphasizing that it was only considered to be in remembrance of (lezecher) the Jerusalem Temple ritual. Furthermore, as stated above, the case of Mahatzit Hashekel, according to the traditional normative pattern of halakhah, should be included among all other cases of prohibited Temple-related rituals. Thus, permitting the collection of Mahatzit Hashekel on Purim actually includes it amongst the other rituals of “reversals” celebrated on this day.

Aharonim Though the Tur and Rabbi Karo’s SA140 choose not to discuss the laws of half shekel, the Rama, representing the practices of Ashkenazi Jewry, does: There are [authorities] who say that one should give before Purim half of the coin that is current in that locality at the time, in remembrance of the half a shekel that was given in [the month] of Adar. In view of [the fact] that [the word] contribution (terumah) is written three times in the passage [of the Torah which deals with the obligation to give a half shekel], one should give three [such halves]. One should give [a half shekel] on the eve of Purim [to charity]. [He should give it] before the Minhah [service] is prayed. This is [in fact] the practice in all these provinces. One should give three half groschen [a European coin introduced in the thirteenth century] in these provinces, as there is no coin which is described [in them] as a half other than this. . . . Only someone who is twenty [years] of age or more is obligated to give it. There are [authorities] who say that one should give half a shekel to charity apart from these three half [coins], but this is not the practice.

The author of the Mishnah Berurah quotes the Magen Avraham as saying that the practice in his community was to give the half shekel on Purim morning,141 whereas in the Hafetz Haim’s community, the practice coincides with Maharil of giving at the Minhah service on Taanit Esther. The Mishnah Berurah adds two new variations: that the obligation for half a shekel begins at the age of thirteen and that an adult should allot a half shekel for his small children and,

140 OH 694. 141 Mishnah Berurah, 694:4.

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in the case of a pregnant woman, for her fetus as well.142 This view is further substantiated in other codes like the Hayei Adam by Rabbi Abraham Danzig.143 Yaari writes that the Sefardim, influenced by their Ashkenazi brethren, adopted the ritual of collecting funds under the name Mahatzit Hashekel.144 The contemporary practice of Sefardim is manifested in the writings of Rabbi Obadia Yosef and summarized in an abbreviated Code of Laws145 that mostly follows the rulings of the Mishnah Berurah. A survey of the Aharonim reveals additional channels for the Mahatzit Hashekel funds. The monies collected began to be distributed to others, in addition to the needy and immigrants in Israel. In some communities—for example, in Hungary—the monies were offered to the synagogue reader of Megillat Esther.146 Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe, author of the Levush, writes that the collected funds from Mahatzit Hashekel should be distributed to needy rabbinical scholars who can use the money in order to have a joyful Purim.147 Similarly, the author of the Kaf Hahaim, Rabbi Yaakov Haim Sofer, directs that the money gathered in the Diaspora be given to rabbinical scholars in Israel as a means of emulating the period of the Temple.148 Rabbi Palagi prefers to offer the funds to rabbinical scholars and Rabbi Yosef suggests giving the monies to the rabbinical academies.149 Others believe the money should go toward the needs of the synagogue, community, or education.150 Numerous rabbinical adjudicators, including Rabbi Judah Ashkenazi, the author of the Minhat Eliezar, in his Be’er Heitev commentary to the SA, agree that the community ought to offer the Mahatzit Hashekel funds to the synagogue reader of the Megillah.151 Rabbi Epstein in his Arukh Hashulhan says that the monies collected from Mahatzit Hashekel can be allocated

142 Mishnah Berurah, subparagraph 5. 143 Hayei Adam, 154:4. 144 Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 25. 145 Code of Laws, section 692. 146 See Yaari, “Maot Purim,” 26. 147 OH, section 686:2. 148 OH, section 686:22. 149 Yehave Daat, volume 1 section 6. 150 See Freund, Moadim L’Simcha, 262–263. 151 SA, 694:2.

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to any place desired and not necessarily to refurbish the synagogue. This is so since it [the half shekel] is only a symbolic memory for the Mahatzit Hashekel that was primarily dedicated to [purchase] sacrifices and presently this is not the case. There are those who allocate the Mahatzit Hashekel for the cantor. There is no issue with this.152

Rabbi Epstein clarifies his opinion when he justifies the custom to give “Purim monies” to communities’ religious employees, such as rabbis, cantors, and sextons.153 He explains that they depend upon this “bonus” and that to deprive them would not be acceptable behavior. However, Rabbi Epstein also states that one does not fulfill the mitzvah of Matanot La’evyonim if the monies are given to these religious employees, as they cannot be categorized as “needy.” Furthermore, contrary to other rabbinic authorities, the Magen Avraham154 and Rabbi Yosef ben Meir Teomin, author of the Pri Megadim, as quoted in Rabbi Israel Meir HaKohen’s Biur Halakhah,155 write that if the Mahatzit Hashekel monies are allocated to the poor on Purim day, one has fulfilled his obligation of Matanot La’evyonim. A different view that would resolve the Purim obligation is suggested by Rabbi Hayim Margolith in his commentary on the SA, Shaarei Teshuva. He objected to a general distribution of the Mahatzit Hashekel funds and argued that it should only be offered to the poor to fulfill the mitzvah.156 Nowhere in the laws of charity is it specifically stated that a woman has the obligation of aiding the needy. It can be assumed that since a wife’s property and money belong to her husband, she cannot offer what is not hers. Yet the discussion of Matanot La’evyonim on Purim seems to suggest that women are still required to do so. The Rama writes, “A woman is obliged like a man to [give] gifts to the poor and to send [food] portions (Mishloah Manot).”157 The author of the Mishnah Berurah explains a woman’s obligation as follows: [This is] because the miracle [also] related to all [the women] and [therefore a woman] is [also] required to rejoice [herself] and to rejoice the heart of the 152 Arukh Hashulhan, 694:8. 153 Arukh Hashulhan, 694:4. 154 OH 294:3. 155 OH 294, opening word “Liten.” 156 See Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 263 and ff. 25. 157 OH 695:4.

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poor. It is written, “The Jews upheld and accepted, etc.,” and women were also included [among them]. The author of the Magen Avraham writes that he did not see [women] being careful about this. It may be that this [requirement] is only [relevant] for a widow, but when a woman has a husband her husband sends for her to [give to] several people. Nevertheless, [even a woman who has a husband] should be stringent [about this].158

The author of the Hayei Adam takes a stance similar to the Magen Avraham and states, “[Even a woman who has a husband] should be stringent.” Rabbi Zinner points out a discrepancy in the Arukh Hashulhan: In OH 695:18, Rabbi Epstein writes that on Purim a woman is obligated to give gifts to the poor even if she is married, yet in OH 694:2 he rules that a man and a woman are considered one person, meaning one can fulfill the mitzvah for both.159 On the other hand, each of their children, even the ones at home, are required to individually give their Purim charity. Rabbi Zinner attempts to resolve the contradiction by suggesting that in OH 695:18 the rabbi is referring to a case when the husband did not want to include his wife in his allotment to the poor, and thus she would be required to provide her own.160

Concluding Remarks Gifts to the poor on Purim received special attention from the rabbis and impulsive or spontaneous charity could only be given through their guidance. These rulings, as discussed above, would often contradict the normative halakhic decisions. Although elucidations are offered, the deviation from the standard rules of charity persisted. Once again, this halakhic direction of “unusual” continues to be the norm of the holiday of Purim, but only when sanctioned and adjudicated by the rabbis.

C.  Mishloah Manot (Gifts to Friends) Claudia Barcellos Rezende, in her analysis of gifts,161 surveys different anthropological theories such as those of Malinowski, Mauss, Miller, Cheal, Douglas, 158 OH 695:25. 159 Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 458–459. 160 Rabinowitz, Tzafo Hatzafit, 202 ff. 139, discusses this contradiction at length citing the opinions of various Aharonim on the subject. 161 Cladia Barcellos Rezende, “Gifts of Food: Sociability and Friendship Among English Middle Class People,” Vibrant 4, no. 2 (2007): 5–26.

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and Isherwood.162 She concludes that although it may appear to be spontaneous, the exchange of gifts actually follows strict regulations. These rules concern who receives the gift, what type of gift it is, as well as how and when it is offered. Rezende notes that because gift exchanges can create, reinforce, or even disrupt social relations, if these rules are not properly heeded the receiver can be insulted or humiliated. The exchange of food as gifts, however, does not require the same level of reciprocity. Furthermore, food gifts have an advantage over monetary ones, as money—though simpler—is impersonal, while food (especially prepared or cooked foods) sends a message of love, interest, and concern. The food gift is a prop that can stimulate positive memories of the relationship between the giver and recipient. This is manifested especially when the giver and receiver eat and drink together, sharing the gift and thus strengthening the bonds of friendship. Marcel Mauss discusses the behavior of gift exchange in primitive societies and its function in social orders. In primitive, tribal societies, he wrote, the exchange of gifts was an integral part of the economic and social stability of the group. It related directly to the hierarchy, prestige, and status of the individual as well as to the solidarity of the group and its members. The process of gift exchange often determined relations between rival factions and tribes and offered the groups a form of insurance. While material objects such as tools, weapons, land, trinkets, and even women were used as gifts, the dominant item was food. It was the most accessible and easily shared. Money or coins were not yet part of the economy and the rules of gift reciprocity, whether implicit or explicit—usually an exchange was marked by a ceremony—would determine the success of the practice. The passage in Esther,163 “That they should make them days of feasting and joy and of sending portions to one another and gifts to the poor,” suggests, as I 162 Bronislaw Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea (London: Routledge and Kegan, 1978); Mauss, The Gift; William Ian Miller, Humiliation: And Other Essays on Honor, Social Discomfort, and Violence (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993); David Cheal, The Gift Economy (London and New York: Routledge, 1988); Mary Douglas and Baron Isherwood, The World of Goods: Towards an Anthropology of Consumption (London: Penguin, 1978). 163 Esther 9:22.

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argued above, different rituals associated with celebration and expected behavior in the small organized groups of this era. Feasting was a communal activity that the entire group was required to attend. Gift reciprocity, whether part of the festive meal or not, was anticipated, as were presents for those who did not have the means to give gifts themselves. There is no mention of the mitzvah of giving gifts or of feasting on Purim in the Tannaitic literature.164 The first references in rabbinic works are in the BT165 and the YT.166 The YT writes, Rabbi Yudan Nesia sent Rabbi Hoshayah the Great the thigh [of an animal] and a bottle of wine. [Rabbi Hoshayah] sent him [back a message] saying: “You have fulfilled through us [your obligation of] gifts to the poor [but not your obligation of sending portions].” [Rabbi Yudan Nesia] subsequently sent him an entire calf and a barrel of wine. [Rabbi Hoshayah] sent him [back a message] saying “You have fulfilled through us [your obligation] of sending portions to one another.”

BT relates a similar incident, according to which Rabbi Yehudah Nesia was informed that he fulfilled his obligation with just one (generous) gift. Both Talmuds convey the same message, that there is a mitzvah of Mishloah Manot. Whether it is an integral part of the Purim feast or can be incorporated in the mitzvah of gifts to the poor is not clear. What can be derived from the Talmud is that the feast of Purim is not a communal activity but one for individuals, families, or friends. Gifts did not necessarily require reciprocity; there is no implicit message or function to be achieved other than fulfilling the rabbinical requirement. The question of the required content of the gift or the economic status of the recipient was not an issue for the rabbis regarding how to fulfill the obligation of Mishloah Manot. The Talmud offers an understanding of what the content of the portions should include, setting the stage for a later dialogue of the Rishonim. Mayer

164 The Mishnah Betzah 1:9 discusses offering food presents on Shabbat and holidays. This substantiates the view that in such a social structure as in early rabbinic times, present exchange was commonly practiced. This was not sufficient to require it to be part of the laws of Purim. 165 BT, Megillah 7a–b. 166 YT, Megillah 1:4.

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Rafeld discusses two different versions of the BT text that suggest the following disparities in the halakhah:167 1. Liquids can be considered an operational food to fulfill the mitzvah of Mishloah Manot. 2. Food gifts to the poor encompass both the obligation of Matanot La’evyonim and also Mishloah Manot without having to offer two separate presents. 3. The food item need not be immediately edible (it can be raw or uncooked).

In the Gaonic literature there is only one explicit mention of Mishloah Manot. Rabbi Ahai Gaon’s Shiltot states “One is obligated to send to his friends gifts,”168 citing the BT Megillah that explicitly mentions Mishloah Manot. Landau cites169 the minor tractate Soferim, which states, “From the proceeds, water and food should be supplied for their poor brethren . . . [some] supply bread and wine, others supply bread and fish; in any event not less than two gifts should be given, although they may consist only of wheat and beans.”170 Landau contends that this refers implicitly to the law of Mishloah Manot. As we will see later, the early rabbis included Mishloah Manot within the mitzvah of gifts to the poor.

Reasons for the Ritual of Mishloah Manot The Rishonim primarily define the mitzvah of Mishloah Manot as a means of fulfilling or enhancing the requirement of the Purim feast. Landau171 cites Maimonides,172 Rabbi Tzidkiyah Harofe in his Shibbolei Leket,173 and Maharil, all of whom associate the Purim meal with gifts to the poor and portions to friends. Other Rishonim, such as Rabbi Yisrael Isserlein, author of Terumat Hadeshen, explicitly state this relationship: “It seems the reason for Mishloah Manot is that everyone should have sufficient [food] so as to fulfill the feast [of Purim] according to the law; as suggested in the tractate Megillah, Abaye bar 167 Mayer Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b᾿Purim: Gilgule Nusah v᾿Nohagim” ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1998), 227–241. 168 Parshat Vayakhel 67. 169 Betzalel Landau, “Mishloah manot B᾿halakhah U᾿ve-aggadah,” in Mahanaim, vol. 54 (Israel: Chaplaincy of the Israel Defense Forces, 1961), 175 [Hebrew]. 170 Soferim 21:4. 171 Landau, “Mishloah manot,” 173. 172 Laws of Purim 2:17. 173 Shibbolei Leket 202.

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Avin and Rabbi Hanina bar Avin exchanged their Purim feasts with one another and thus fulfilled [the mitzvah of] Mishloah Manot.”174 Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, in his liturgical hymn “Mi Kamokha v’ein Kamokhah,”175 also uses this approach. While discussing the problem of how to fulfill the mitzvah of Mishloah Manot if Purim falls on Shabbat, Freund cites the examples of Rishonim Rabbi Aharon HaKohen of Lunel in his compendium the Orhot Hayim,176 the unknown author of the Kol Bo, Rabbi David ben Levi in the Mikhtam, Rabbi Menahem HaMeiri in his work Beit Habehirah,177 Rabbi Levi ben Haviv’s Haralbah,178 and Rabbi David ben Solomon Ibn Abi Zimra in his response to Radbaz,179 all of whom associate Mishloah Manot with the Purim meal. Some authorities had trouble understanding why only a poor Jew was not designated to receive food presents to fulfill the mitzvah of Seudat Purim. As for other Jews who had a basic livelihood and food on their table, why would they require such a gift? In his Hatam Sofer, Rabbi Moses Schreiber explains that the primary purpose was not to embarrass the poor.180 By obligating everyone to accept food gifts, poor and rich alike, the needy who require these food items to eat the Purim feast can accept them without humiliation. It was primarily the Aharonim who redirected the purpose of Mishloah Manot. It was their suggestion that Mishloah Manot stimulates love and friendship between Jews.181 Rabbi Zinner argues182 that this is the opinion of Rabbi Nissim,183 but this understanding is not clearly stated in the text, though it is explicitly explained in the work of Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz. Manot Halevi said that since Haman told King Ahasueros that the Jews were a scattered nation, it is our duty to show his error and demonstrate solidarity by 174 7b. 175 For detailed discussions of the views of these Rishonim, see Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 324–325. 176 Laws of Purim section 36. 177 Megillah 5a. 178 Haralbah, section 32. 179 Volume one section 508. The latter two rabbis are considered early Aharonim. 180 OH, section 196. 181 An interesting discussion related to this approach concerns if one may give Mishloah Manot to a non-Jew. This topic is discussed in detail in Eliav Schochetman, “Al Minhag Liten Matanot L᾿evyonei Nokhrim B᾿Furim,” Sinai 100, no. 2 ( Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1987): 852–865 [Hebrew]. 182 Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 322 ff. 15. 183 In his commentary on BT Megillah 7b.

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exchanging food gifts.184 This approach is further developed by Rabbi Judah Loew, commonly known as the Maharal of Prague,185 in his commentary on Megillat Esther, Or Chadash.186 Freund suggests this approach to the ritual: If the mitzvah were to give money and not food items, people might feel that they were being short-changed, thus fraying, rather than strengthening, friendships.187 Food gifts, he argues, are accepted readily and with fewer pretenses. These two approaches created varied halakhic rulings. Rabbi Simcha Rabinowitz offers twenty differences shaped by the two justifications for the ritual of food gifts.188 For example, the Ben Ish Hai in his work Responsa Torah Leshma,189 asks whether one who, prior to Purim, arranges to send Mishloah Manot with the intention of the package arriving on the day of the holiday, has fulfilled his obligation? Rabinowitz answers that it depends on the intended purpose of the gift. If the reason is that the Mishloah Manot must be eaten at the Purim meal and it has not arrived, the sender has not satisfied his requirement. If the mitzvah is based upon love and friendship, this obligation has been realized. The question appears again for one who desires to fulfill the mitzvah with non-food items, such as clothes, jewelry, tobacco, or something similar that would bring pleasure to the recipient. If the purpose of these gifts is directly related to the Purim meal, items like this that cannot be consumed would obviously fall short of the requirement. But if the mitzvah has its roots in collegiality, one would be permitted to send non-edible items. On this point, Rabbi Rabinowitz190 cites different rabbis who sent their own rabbinical discourses as Mishloah Manot, knowing that it would please the recipients. The ritual of Mishloah Manot is summarized and codified by Rabbi Joseph Karo, who states: “One is obligated to send his fellow two portions of meat or 184 P. 250. This work, a commentary on the book of Esther, was sent to the Rabbi’s future fatherin-law as a Purim gift. 185 9:22. 186 Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 326 offers his own analysis of this reason as to why the rabbis decreed the mitzvah of Mishloah Manot. 187 Ibid., 328. 188 Simcha Rabinowitz, Piskei Teshuvot ( Jerusalem, 1997) [Hebrew]. 189 Responsa Torah Leshma, section 188. 190 Rabinowitz, Piskei Teshuvot, 90 ff. 92.

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of [other] kinds of food. [This is] because it is stated [among the practices to be followed on these days] ‘and of sending portions, one to another,’ [which implies that one should send] two portions to one person. . . .”191 Rama, in his gloss, writes “If one sent [food] portions to his fellow, but [his fellow] did not wish to accept them or forwent one [receipt of the portions], one will have fulfilled [his obligation].” This opinion is in accordance with the view that the purpose of the ritual is to enhance the Purim meal. The author of the Mishnah Berurah, who agreed with the “friendship” opinion, comments on the ruling of Rama who says that the purpose of Mishloah Manot is to enhance the meal. This suggests that this author would implicitly support the understanding of the Manot Halevi. He states, “The Pri Chadash disputes this [ruling of the Rama]. The Hatam Sofer, likewise, in Section 196, is surprised at this [ruling].”192 On the other hand, the author of the Mishnah Berurah,193 not wanting to dispute the majority view of the Aharonim, says that non-food or drink items are prohibited.194 He also rules that the food must be cooked and suitable for immediate consumption, though he notes that there are authorities that permit ritually-slaughtered raw meat that can be cooked immediately. I suggest that Rabbi Epstein in his Arukh Hashulhan recapitulates the view of the Aharonim in the clearest fashion.195 He commences the laws of food gifts with a unique use of language not used by other rabbinical authorities: “It is a positive commandment of the Megillah [Esther] to send [food] gifts to one friend.” This is no longer an issue of reversal in the structuring of halakhic behavior but rather it is Jewish law based upon the adjudicative principles required to make decisions. Rationalizations and time play a role in this process, but the earlier considerations of the Rishonim and early Aharonim hold less weight; it is the evaluation of the later Aharonim that constitutes the final ruling.

191 SA, OH 695:4. 192 Mishnah Berurah, 695:24. 193 Mishnah Berurah, 695:20. 194 The rulings of the Mishnah Berurah are primarily based upon Aharonim. See Simcha Fishbane, The Method and Meaning of the Mishnah Berurah (Hoboken: Ktav Publishing House, 1991) for discussion. 195 695:13–18.

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Discussion Mary Douglas, in her forward to The Gift, writes, “A gift that does nothing to enhance solidarity is a contradiction,” and later, “Spelled out it means that each gift is part of a system of reciprocity in which the honor of the giver and the recipient are engaged. It is a total system in that every item of status, spiritual or material possession is implicated for everyone in the whole community.”196 Sociologist Helmuth Berking summarized the influence or weight of a gift, saying, “It binds everything together: sacrifice, duty, debt, war and peace, status and prestige. The gift presents itself at once as symbolic form and material substratum of social synthesis. It constitutes an exchange which irrevocably unifies economic power and morality, cult and culture.”197 This power of communal solidarity triggered by gifts is applicable to specific social structures. Yet while anthropologists like Mauss and Douglas illustrate how gifts continue to function in societies or tribes in different parts of the world with a specific communal socio-economic structure, the gift as a basic variable in the social and economic life of the community ended with the development and growth of urban societies and culture. Similarly, the concept of Mishloah Manot went through various metamorphoses through the years. The language in Esther suggests that giving gifts was an element in the process of the original celebration. By the period of the Mishnah, group solidarity dependent upon food exchange was not relevant, and Mishloah Manot, even though it had little community value, became one of the laws of the holiday, possibly to enhance charity to the poor. Throughout the period of the Rishonim and especially the Aharonim, the laws of Mishloah Manot took on a new form. Two types of food of any quantity or value—a piece of cake or an apple would suffice to fulfill the mitzvah—were sent. Although the social component was suggested as a rationalization for Mishloah Manot, neither that nor the food had real value for the recipient. In fact, the food is often recycled and sent to others so as to rid the household of “junk food” before the upcoming Passover holiday. Like the other Purim laws and rituals discussed, Mishloah 196 Mauss, The Gift, xxiii. 197 Helmuth Berking, Sociology of Giving (London, Thousand Oaks, and New Delhi: Sage, 1999), 32.

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Manot can be classified as part of the “reversal” rituals that were discussed and finally institutionalized by the rabbis, according to the writing of the Arukh Hashulhan.

The Mitzvah of Simhah (Joyfulness) The theme of joy is found throughout Purim and all of its rituals but it is primarily manifested through drunken revelry, and a carnival atmosphere that includes costumes, masks, skits, and written parody. While the simhah expressed on other Jewish holidays focuses on the subdued and spiritual side of joyfulness, Purim is a holiday of raucous merriment and fun.

Carnival, Costumes, Masks, Skits, and Parody Carnivals can be traced to ancient times at the earliest stages of cultural development, usually in conjunction with religious and agricultural festivals.198 An early example is the Mardi Gras carnivals, which date back to pagan celebrations of spring and rejuvenation. With the Catholic Church hesitant to abolish a popular folk tradition, these celebrations were incorporated into the faith. The excessive, un-Christian-like behavior and debauchery led to the carnival becoming a prelude to Lent. Daniel Sperber, an expert on Jewish customs, writes that the European carnival in the eleventh century was celebrated with festive parades or processions, including clowns and costumes.199 This, he argues, had a direct influence on Purim behavior, as the European carnival occurred at a similar time of year as the Jewish holiday. It was not until the Renaissance period in Italy that the carnival took on a life of its own, not affiliated with any religious rituals or structures. A detailed description of the Italian Renaissance carnival is presented by the Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin in his introduction to the work of Renaissance writer François Rabelais.200 The carnival folk culture was similar to the marketplace found outside the boundaries of the medieval church. The carnival 198 Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Hélène Iswolsky (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1984), 6–7. 199 Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael, 6:198–199. 200 Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, 1–58. See also Sara Shuv, “Megillat Esther, Megillah shel Carnival,” Mehkarei Hag 2 (1990): 31–43 [Hebrew] for a description of carnival atmosphere and its relationship to Purim.

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behavior could and would not be tolerated by the church inside its confines, but on the outside nearly all the laws and behavior of daily society—including religious, moral, and ethical behavior—were not in effect. The carnival had its own value (or lack of value) system. Bakhtin argues that there is no life outside the carnival while it is happening; it is governed by its own rules and regulations, and there is a suspension of all hierarchic distinctions. This behavior, as manifested in the literature of the period, included different speech patterns involving abusive, humiliating, insulting, and profane words and expressions. This form of language was used in lengthy oral presentations, and the behavior was carried over to images of the material body, or what Bakhtin calls “grotesque realism.” He explains that, “The essential principle of grotesque realism is degradation, that is, the lowering of all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract; it is a transfer to the material level, to the sphere of earth and body in their indissoluble unity.” In other words, sexual inhibitions accepted in most western societies were relaxed if not removed altogether. Similarly, food and drink were not limited in any way: one ate whatever and however much he or she wanted, and drunkenness was an acceptable state. Bakhtin expounds on the Renaissance period by comparing it to the Enlightenment. He writes, To a certain degree it was a reaction against the elements of classicism which characterized the self-importance of the Enlightenment. It was a reaction against the cold rationalism, against official, formalistic and logical authoritarianism; it was a rejection of that which is finished and completed, of the didactic and ultimate spirit of the enlighteners with their narrow and artificial optimism.

The carnival spirit had developed its own philosophy of laughter, sarcasm and a lack of reason. A driving force of this theme was the wearing of masks. Bakhtin believes that the mask was connected to the “joy of change and reincarnation, with gay relativity and with the merry negation of uniformity and similarity; it rejects conformity to oneself. The mask is related to transition, metamorphoses, the violation of natural boundaries, to mockery and familiar nicknames.” In other words, masks served to liberate one from all the required and expected norms of daily behavior.

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The ritual clown throughout history, especially in medieval Europe, was compared to the fool or jester. In addition, for early cultures the fool was associated with seasonal changes, agricultural cycles, and regeneration. In contemporary times the ritual clown lost its symbolic features and acquired the nature of a fool. Behavior could be hidden behind the mask, in the form of a clown, or expressed openly.201 The clown, argues Handelman, is an ambivalent figure of enticement and danger, hilarity and gravity, fun and solemnity.202 It represented paradoxically contradictory attributes including the sacred or profane, wisdom or foolishness, seriousness or humor, etc. These characteristics can be found in the clown. Handelman identifies two types of boundaries, one that divides and separates, and the other which acts as a paradox. The clown behind his makeup or mask can operate on both sides of the boundary, and serves to dissolve the absolutism of rigid boundaries.203 How closely the carnival portrayed in the literature actually followed Italian Renaissance behavior is unclear. For the rabbis this conduct was unacceptable, but for a society where secular thinking and behavior was the norm, an era when society came out from under centuries of the stranglehold of the Roman Catholic Church, the liberalizing impact on the Jewish population was inevitable.204 Carnival is the incarnation of both secular and pagan culture.205 Some argue that the carnival-like behavior on Purim dates back to the events mentioned in the book of Esther:206 “As the days on which the Jews rested from their enemies, and the month which was turned to them from sorrow to joy, and from mourning to holiday; that they should make them days of feasting and joy, and of sending portions to one another and gifts to the poor.” This type of celebration suggests a materialistic, rather than spiritual, merriment.

201 On the symbolism of the clown, see Don Handelman, Models and Mirrors: Towards an Anthropology of Public Events (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1998), 236–265. 202 Ibid., 236. 203 Ibid., 245–248. 204 I differentiate “influence” and “impact.” The latter is a result of living in a wide culture while the former can happen even outside the particular social structure and be even sought after. 205 The Italian Renaissance was marked by the beginnings of a wave of sensuality, including color, touch, smell, and sound, perceived as positive phenomena and not as incitements to sin. 206 Esther 9:22.

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In her analysis, Sara Shuv sees all the comportments of the carnival in the story of Esther:207 1. An essential component in the carnival is the crowning of a leader for the day, often a fool. Ahasueros was perceived as a foolish king. 2. Esther and later Mordechai are crowned while Vashti and Haman are impeached or executed and treated as fools. 3. The costume or mask is apparent in Esther disguising herself as a Persian. Mordechai changes his clothes for sackcloth208 and later dons royal garments as he is led through the streets by Haman.209 Finally, Mordechai is appointed to replace Haman and is formally dressed in royal garb.210 4. Drink and alcoholism, which play an essential place in carnival behavior can be considered a central motif of Esther, starting with the feast at the opening of the story and continuing throughout every phase of the story. 5. Loose sexual behavior, also an aspect of the carnival, is represented by the behavior of Ahasueros, who repeatedly sought to bring a parade of young ladies to his bed. 6. The “reversal” mode of carnival behavior is the true theme or message of the Purim story. The Jews, instead of being annihilated, conquer their foes. The day is reversed from sorrow to joy. As opposed to the behavior of their enemies, the Jews did not partake in the spoils of war. Haman sought a reward from the king, but it was ultimately given to Mordechai. Haman prepared a tree on which he planned to hang Mordechai, but the villain of the story and his ten sons were hanged there instead. After Haman’s death, Mordechai received his authority and status at the royal court. 7. Parody and comedy. Shuv perceives the story and its supporting narrative as a comedy of errors. The entire absurd story of Vashti, from her solicited appearance at the King’s banquet to her removal from her royal position, for example, or the story of Haman’s fall.211

Shuv concludes her essay by stating that Purim “succeeded in permeating part of the Holy Scriptures with the carnival spirit and giving it sacred legitimization.”212 Without doubt, there is irony in the text of Esther and characteristics of a carnival spirit and atmosphere, but these did not shape the structure of the 207 Shuv, “Megillat Esther,” 34–35. 208 Esther 4:1. 209 Esther 6:8. 210 Esther 8:15. 211 Shuv, “Megillat Esther,” 35–37. 212 Ibid., 42.

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Purim festivities. Rather, the carnival atmosphere served to give credibility to the decisions of the rabbis. They sought to justify Purim activities—even though at other times of the year these activities would transgress Jewish law and customs. Furthermore, I doubt if the carnival spirit of a celebration influenced the Holy Scriptures. More likely, the Purim spirit was influenced through the written text. The first suggestions as to the origins of celebrating Purim through carnival-like activities is attributed to a BT source stating that in Babylonia four or five days prior to Purim, boys would create an effigy of Haman and hang it on their rooftops.213 On Purim day they would throw this effigy into a bonfire and sing songs. A ring was placed in the bonfire and the boys would jump over it. Sperber argues that this custom was first practiced in the Land of Israel.214 The fine line between joyful merriment (simhah) which characterized other holidays and the unbridled revelry on Purim was a major consideration for the rabbis. How much would they stretch the boundaries of halakhah, and how wide would they open these boundaries to permit the impact of surrounding cultures? Inebriation (to be discussed below) and the wearing of masks and costumes were among the first challenges. The controversy regarding Purim costumes was initiated as a result of the biblical prohibition against a man wearing a woman’s clothes (beged isha).215 The first record of this practice is found in the work of Rabbi Moshe ben Eliezar Hacohen Mekovlantz (a nephew of the Rosh and student of Maharam Me-­Rotenberg), Sefer Hamaskil. While he did not approve, there is evidence that beged isha was practiced in thirteenth-century Germany. A century later it was referred to in Even Bohan by rabbinic scholar Kalonymus ben Kalonymus. The first written rabbinical response permitting the custom is found in the book of Responsa of Rabbi Yehudah Halevi Mintz.216 Concerning the wearing of 213 Sanhedrin 64b. See Daniel Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1989) 1:16–17 [Hebrew], citing the sources for this decision. 214 Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael, 1:16. 215 Deuteronomy 22:5. See Hanegbi, “Minhagei HaPurim,” 194–205 which discusses this topic as well as the other carnival aspects in detail. Hanegbi, especially in his footnotes, offers an encompassing list of sources that deal with this topic. See also Oberlander, Minhag Avotenu, 292–306; Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 443–458; Y. L. Fishman, “Hatahposet B’Purim,” Sinai 2 (November 1937–May 1938), 204–217 [Hebrew]. 216 Responsa of Rabbi Yehudah Halevi Mintz, section 16.

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costumes,217 he writes that the young men and women were permitted to exchange clothes because their intention when dressing in the garments of the opposite sex was solely for the purpose of rejoicing on Purim. He also cites early rabbinic German authorities218 from the twelfth century whose children and relatives of different genders exchanged clothes. According to Rabbi Mintz, on Purim this leniency also applies to the wearing of rabbinic mixtures of kilayim, a forbidden mixture. Oberlander argues that Rabbi Mintz is posing two questions: whether there can be an exchange of clothes between men and women, and whether it is permissible to wear costumes.219 The Rama codified the law220 based on the opinion of Rabbi Mintz,221 As regards the practice of wearing masks on Purim, with a man wearing a woman’s dress and a woman a man’s garment, there is no transgression of a prohibition involved in the matter, since their intention in dressing in this manner is only for mere rejoicing. This ruling applies likewise to the wearing of something that has the ruling of kilayim, according to rabbinic law. There are authorities who say that this is forbidden, but the practice accords with the first reasoning.

Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe, in his code the Levush, follows the lenient decision of the Rama. Although the custom spread, many rabbinical authorities objected. Among the Rishonim who opposed the practice were Rabbi Eleazar Rokeah of Worms and the Ravyah (Rabbi Eliezer ben Joel Halevi, Germany).222 The author of the Mishnah Berurah223 summarizes their views.224 Rabbi David Halevi, the Taz,225 writes in the name of the Bah226 that this practice should be abolished, both on 217 The Hebrew word is parzuf. Hanegbi, “Minhagei HaPurim,” 195, correctly points out that this word is not used to mean face but rather costume or mask. 218 They are Rabbi Elyakim ben Meshulam and Rabbi Yitzhak ben Asher (Riva). 219 Oberlander, Minhag Avotenu, 295 ff. 6. 220 OH, 697:8. 221 See also the Rama’s Darkhei Moshe, section 696, who first argues with Rabbi Mintz but concludes that since the custom has already spread, one should rule leniently as the intention is to celebrate the joy of Purim. 222 Cited in Hanegbi, “Minhagei HaPurim,” 195 and Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 453. 223 Mishnah Berurah, 697:30. 224 See Yore De’ah, section 182. 225 Turei Zahav. 226 Bayit Hadash.

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Purim and at the rejoicing for a wedding. Rabbi Moshe Rivkash, the Be’er Hagolah, likewise held this opinion that if all the garments of the revelers are men’s clothing, with only one garment being women’s clothing, so that one can recognize that the wearers are men, there may be no need to protest against them (cited in the Pri Megadim; see also the Knesset Hagedolah,227 and the Shelah,228 who admonishes the people to shun this practice229). When referring to those in the opposition it is important to mention both the Italian rabbinical authority Rabbi Shmuel Abuhav230 and a contemporary of the Rama, Rabbi Shlomo Efraim Luntshitz, a leading rabbinical authority in Prague.231 They considered the stretching of the boundaries a violation of a biblical law. In the nineteenth century, Rabbi Yehiel Mechel Halevi Epstein in his Arukh Hashulhan, wrote that in Russia there was no custom of the sexes exchanging clothes.232 Sperber attributes that change to the historical separations of Central and Eastern Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.233 Today, especially in non-centrally-located Jewish communities where rabbinical academies and their rabbis have less influence, the custom has greater popularity. Rabbi Obadia Yosef prohibits the exchange of clothes and states that it is forbidden to transgress a biblical law in favor of Purim merriment.234 He even discouraged children, who are not yet bound by the letter of the law (save for educational goals), from participating.235 While the overall carnival 227 His ruling is found OH, section 696. 228 Shnei Luhot Habrit, Rabbi Yeshayah Halevi Horowitz. His ruling is found in his commentary at the end of Megillah. 229 The Bah’s emphasis is that even though it should be prohibited, when intentional sinning is not the issue, it is preferred to allow the error. Rabbi Shmuel Abuhav, who strongly opposed the custom, disagrees with the Bah’s reason for leniency. He argues that the principle of permitting a prohibition when an act is not intentional does not apply in cases when the prohibition is biblical, as in instances when men wear women’s clothes. 230 Responsa D’var Shmuel, question 247. 231 Olilot Efraim, 309. 232 OH, 496:12. 233 Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael, 6:197. 234 Responsa Yehave Da’at, volume 5, 221–227. 235 Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 406–410, a contemporary rabbi reflecting the modern day Ultra-­ Orthodox stringent view. Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 457–458, discusses different costumes worn on Purim, including dressing as a non-Jew, soldier, Haman, and a clown. In all these instances he shows the stringent approach.

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atmosphere prevailed, the rabbis were cognizant of which boundaries needed to be preserved and which practices they could permit. Although costumes, masks, and clowns are also part of the Purim carnival atmosphere, the rabbis dedicated less attention to these topics. Throughout the year these customs were not sanctioned by the rabbis, but on Purim they offered various rationalizations for the inclusion in the holiday.236 Popular justifications for the wearing of masks and costumes include: 1. The story of Esther presents multiple examples of hiding one’s true identity or changing one’s outward appearance. They include Esther withholding her Jewish identity from Ahasueros, and Mordechai changing into different types of clothes three times. Vashti, the Midrash tells us, had her physical exterior guise altered. 2. The BT237 asks (and answers): “Where in the Torah is there an allusion to the epic of Queen Esther? Rav Masnah replied: From the verse ‘And I will surely conceal (astir) my countenance from them.’” 238 Masks are worn to symbolize God’s hidden presence on Purim, as the miracle of redemption is celebrated without the revealed intervention of the Lord.

Fish argues that children dressing in costumes and wearing masks represent individuals or figures they could never become. While emphasizing the incongruity of such roles, it “reinforces the solidarity of the group and reaffirms the qualities that differentiate this in-group from the outside world.”239 Clown costumes should logically be considered no different than any other costume worn on Purim. Freund cites a rabbi who argues that this should be prohibited, using the rationale that clowns represent the gentile type of merrymaking that is not appropriate for Jews. As an alternative, Freund quotes a prominent twentieth century rabbi who permits it.240 Another explanation for the acceptance of the practice is that of the Purim parody, a part of the carnival spirit. Purim parodies were first written during the

236 An extensive list of these reasons can be found in Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 443–449; Fishman, “Hatahposet B’Purim,” 409–410; Oberlander, Minhag Avotenu, 292–300. 237 BT Hullin 139b. 238 Deuteronomy 31:18. 239 Stanley Fish, “Reading and Carnival: On the Semiotics of Purim,” Poetics Today 15 (1994), 69. 240 Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 458.

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twelfth century.241 Menachem ben Aaron wrote the hymn for the night of Purim, imitating the hymn for the first night of Passover. This Purim parody, a wine song in the form of a religious song, found its way into Rabbi Simhah ben Shmuel’s Mahzor Vitri: “The night [of Purim] is a night for drunkards/A night for wine drinking and rejoicing/On this night all creation is intoxicated/And woe betide the man who should put forth his hand for the bitter water/The day of Purim is a day of feasting and drinking and merrymaking.”242 Purim parody was neglected for about a century, but in fourteenth-century Italy it was established as a distinct part of Jewish literature. For example, Rabbi Kalonymus ben Kalonymus243 wrote a satire titled Masekhet (Tractate) Purim. Using the structure of the Mishnah and Talmud with its commentaries, as well as the system of Talmudic discourse, he wrote a fascinating Talmudic parody. The theme of the booklet is wine and drink; it ridicules the drunkard and the glutton, laughs at the miser, and reproaches the idler and the professional mendicant. Although it was published two hundred years after it was written, it still became very popular. Rabbi Kalonymus summarized the humor of his work saying, Wherefore does this tract close with the chapter, ‘We Are to Read?’ Because we are not to read this treatise except when it is neither day or night. For it was written in mere fun, to amuse people on Purim. He who reads this treatise is none the worse for it than if he read books on medicine, and similar topics, which prove beneficial to the body and not harmful to the soul.244

Not all the rabbis were comfortable with this type of literature. Rabbi Shmuel Abohab saw it as sacrilegious and was responsible for the burning of many copies of Masekhet Purim.245 Y. L. HaKohen Fishman argues that Kalonymus ben Kalonymus intended his work as a means of deterring the Italian Jewish community from imitating the secular Italian carnival so as not to 241 Israel Davidson, “The History of Purim Parody in Jewish Literature,” in The Purim Anthology, ed. Philip Goodman, 330, points out that in prior Jewish religious literature parody is not found. In the Talmud we find cases of humor, puns and satire, but not parody. 242 Translated and cited in ibid., 331. 243 Masekhet Purim was written while he lived in Rome and first published in 1513. 244 Translation from Davidson, “The History of Purim Parody,” 333. All additional parodies cited are also taken from Davidson. 245 Responsa D’var Shmuel, section 193.

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infringe on the holiness of the Jewish text.246 Regardless of his intentions, the parody genre stretched the boundaries of Jewish law to the limit. In the years that followed, other Purim parodies emerged. They included Sefer Habakbuk, an anonymous parody based upon the Azharot of Rabbi Elijah HaZaken. The Megillat Setarim, likely by Rabbi Levi ben Gershon, continues the Purim parody literature. Referencing drunkenness, his book begins with: “The bottle received the Laws from Vineyard and handed it down to Noah, and Noah handed it down to Lot, and Lot to the brothers of Joseph, and they handed it down to Nabal the Carmelite, and he to Ben-hadad, and Ben-hadad to Belshazzar, and Belshazzar to Ahasueros, and Ahasueros to Rabbi Drunkard.” This Talmudic-style parody is similar to that of Rabbi Kalonymus. Davidson points out that after the period of the Italian Purim parody this humorous genre saw a time of decay lasting almost three centuries.247 He argues that the period between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries is not generally known for humor, especially when applied to sacred texts. The Purim parody returned not only similar in structure and style to Tractate Purim, but even using the same name.248 While its author or authors remained anonymous, the work appeared in five versions. The last one, writes Davidson, offered a radical change in substance and form. “The arguments are put more compactly, the language is more concise and the diction closer to that of the Babylonian Talmud. In addition, it is also augmented with parodies of the three best known Talmudic commentaries, namely Rashi, Tosafot and the novella of Rabbi Samuel Edels.”249 This version, although only published in 1814, was even more popular than the writings of Rabbi Kalonymus. From the Purim parody literature, the Purim Kiddush, a humorous parody using play-on-words with well-known Jewish concepts, became part of many Purim feasts.250 Other parodies appeared in the form of Yiddish plays and as other rabbinic works, such as the Zohar. While the early parodies had little

246 Fishman, “Hatahposet B’Purim,” 411. 247 Davidson, “The History of Purim Parody,” 338. 248 Rabinowitz (1963), 179 writes that the bibliographer Dr. M. Steinschneider compiled a list of more than two hundred Purim parodies. 249 Davidson, “The History of Purim Parody,” 343. 250 There is no Kiddush, a prayer with a blessing over the wine on Purim. Because the Kiddush requires wine, it would be a natural focus for the Purim parody.

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bearing on the contemporary life of their authors, later works in the nineteenth century reflected the social and intellectual reality of the times. Fishman251 includes the category of Purim disguises and the concept of the “Purim Rabbi” within the Purim parody. In nineteenth century Hasidic and rabbinical academies, a student usually known for his wit, superior intelligence, and Talmudic knowledge was appointed Purim Rabbi. Although this custom is generally believed to have originated in the Volozhin Yeshiva, Fishman argues that the custom of appointing a Purim Rabbi was practiced in earlier times within the Hasidic courtyards and other rabbinical academies.252 The Purim Rabbi was selected by the yeshiva’s leadership to replace for one day, Purim, the Rosh HaYeshiva, the head of the academy. He would be dressed in the clothes of the Rosh HaYeshiva and addressed as “rebbi,” a title otherwise reserved for the yeshiva’s leaders. Also, the Purim Rabbi would be expected to deliver a special Purim lecture using Talmudic and rabbinical sources as his basis and structure but in an entertaining, satirical fashion. His delivery would often include good-natured criticism of the Rosh HaYeshiva and other teachers. Not all rabbinical authorities felt that such behavior was acceptable. Rabbi Obadia Yosef believed that this custom should be prohibited since mocking rabbinic scholars is a sin. He argued that the commandment of rejoicing is confined to the festive meal.253 It should be noted that during the eighteenth century Rabbi Hayim Yosef David Azulai, who represented the Sephardic community, said that during a visit to Amsterdam he encountered the Purim Rabbi for the first time, for this was not a custom within the Sephardic community.254

Inebriation The consumption of alcohol and especially wine is not prohibited in Judaism. Indeed, wine is an important component of several Jewish rituals, accompanying holy ceremonies and rituals from the time of the Temple until the present. Blessings are said over wine, and some laws stipulate the type and amount of 251 Fishman, “Hatahposet B’Purim,” 413–414. 252 1806–1892, located in Volozhin, Belarus. On a smaller scale it was reopened from 1899 through 1934 when World War II forced its closing. 253 Yosef, Yalkut Yosef, 343 and ff. 13, 14 [Hebrew]. See also Obadya Yosef Hazon Obadya, 199–201 and ff. 29 and his Responsa Yehave Da’at, volume 5, responsum 50, where he cites numerous rabbinical authorities to support his view. 254 1724–1806 Israel.

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wine to be used while others endorse or prohibit the type of individual who may touch or drink the wine. Still, the practice or even possibly the requirement to become intoxicated—as opposed to simply drinking—on Purim would seem to directly contradict rabbinic law.255 The origin of becoming inebriated on Purim is attributed to a statement in BT Megillah:256 Rava said: One is obligated to become intoxicated with wine on Purim until one does not know the difference between cursed is Haman and blessed is Mordechai. Rabbah and Rabbi Zeira had their Purim feast together. They became intoxicated. Rabbah arose and slew Rabbi Zeira. The next day, Rabbah prayed for mercy on Rabbi Zeira’s behalf and revived him. The following year Rabbah asked Rabbi Zeira, “Let master come and we will have the Purim feast together.” Rabbi Zeira answered him, “Not every time does a miracle occur.”

Various explanations are offered as to why one should become inebriated on Purim based upon this Talmudic incident. Freund cites twelve reasons to justify this practice,257 the most popular being the same opinion of Rabbi Shmuel from Toledo and the author of Abudarham, then concluding with the author of the Hayei Adam and the author of the Mishnah Berurah. They argue that it is accepted because the entire miracle of Purim revolved around wine, beginning with the banquet of Ahasueros and Vashti and concluding with Esther’s coronation and banquet. Just as the miracle of Hanukkah centered on oil and resulted in the lighting of an oil lamp (Menorah), Freund says that Purim encourages a similar relationship with wine. Whether the reason was homiletic or Kabbalistic, it offered the celebrating Jew a rationalization to discard the halakhic norm that forbids intoxication. Some rabbis disagree as to the meaning of inebriation on Purim and their opinions generally fall into three categories: those who object to becoming intoxicated on Purim, those who do not see the practice as an obligation but 255 For secondary sources that are concerned with the topic of drinking on Purim, see Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b’Purim,” 207–208; Daniel Adler, “Drinking on Purim: When To Say When?,” Judaism 40, no. 1 (Winter 1991): 6–15; Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 404–442. 256 BT Megillah 7b. 257 Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 407–415.

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rather a permitted mitzvah (mitzvah be’alma), and those who hold that inebriation on Purim is required.258 Rabbi Ahai Gaon in his Shiltot quotes the Talmud and adds “One is obligated to eat and drink and become intoxicated with wine on Purim until one does not know the difference between cursed is Haman and blessed is Mordechai.”259 Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Berlin in his commentary on the Shiltot explains that one must first fulfill the obligation of partaking in the Purim feast and praising the Lord before becoming intoxicated. By following this suggestion, one can argue that the Geonim required Purim inebriation. However, Rabbi Menachem HaMeiri, in his commentary to BT Megillah,260 objected strongly to becoming drunk on Purim. He explains in the name of a “few of the Geonim” that Rabbah’s refusal to celebrate with Rabbi Zeira a second time was for fear of suggesting that inebriation was an obligation on Purim.

1.  Those who object to intoxication on Purim a. Rishonim Rabbenu Efraim of Kila Chamad,261 considered the first to oppose the practice, is quoted in Rabbi Zerahyah Halevi’s Hame’or, a commentary of Alfasi’s halakhot, on tractate Megillah.262 Rabbi Efraim is also quoted in other commentaries on Alfasi concerning the same Talmudical discussion. They include Rabbi Nissim ben Reuven (the Ran) and Rabbi Yehudah ben Berekhyah (the Ribav). A more complete version of Rabbi Efraim’s view is cited in Rabbi Avraham ben Isaac of Narbonne’s work Sefer HaEshkol.263 He states: Rabbi Efraim wrote: Since the story is brought—(namely that) Rabbah went and cut Rabbi Zeira’s throat because they were drunk, and the next year when he said to him “Let us have the Purim (feast) together,” Rabbi Zeira responded, “A miracle may not happen every time,” it follows that the statement [that one should become drunk on Purim] of Rava is rejected. And it is correct that this should be so.’”264 258 Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b’Purim,” offers four different approaches, but for the purpose of this paper I will discuss three. 259 Shiltot 67. 260 BT Megillah 7b. 261 A student of the Alfasi. 262 Megillah 7b. 263 Laws of Hanukkah and Purim, 8. 264 The translation is adapted from Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 7–8.

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The author of the Orhot Hayim265 and the author of Kolbo266 use stronger language, saying that it is “a serious prohibition (issur gamur)” and “a serious transgression (averah gedolah)” to become drunk on Purim. They explain that inebriation can cause such sins as killing and sexual transgressions. Rabbi Meyer ben Rabbi Shimon Hamili used the same argument, but added idol worship and denunciation of divine providence as other potential sins that stem from drunkenness.267 A different approach to the rejection of intoxication on Purim was offered by Rabbi Yosef Haviva in his work the Nimukei Yosef. He writes that the type of behavior intended by early rabbis on Purim was “joking,” not drunkenness.268 Other Rishonim sought to reduce the level of inebriation in different ways. Maimonides writes that one should drink until he becomes drunk and falls asleep, thereby being incapable of distinguishing “between cursed be Haman and blessed be Mordecai.”269 The author of Tanya Rabbati writes that one should drink “close to intoxication.”270 These ambiguous statements leave it to later rabbinical adjudicators to determine the parameters of drinking on Purim. Rabbi Shlomo Yosef Zevin, a prominent rabbi in the twentieth century, summarizes the views which object to becoming drunk on Purim and adds that since the story of Rabbah and Rabbi Zeira showing the dangers of drinking follows Rava’s law requiring intoxication, one could only conclude that the Talmud redactors did not support Rava’s opinion.271 An additional interpretation offered other explanations of the quantitative term “ad,” used by Rava, which means “until the point of ” where he 265 Orhot Hayim, 268. 266 Kolbo, 334. The Orhot Hayim was authored by Rabbi Aharon HaKohen of Lunel. The author of the Kolbo seems to be an abridged form of the Orhot Hayim, whose authorship is unknown. Some suggest it is an earlier version of Rabbi Aharon’s and the forerunner to the Orhot Hayim. 267 Pp. 320–321. Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b’Purim,” 217–220, argues that the majority of the rabbis who opposed drunkenness were from Provence. In additional works of the rabbinical authorities of Provence we find this approach, such as that in Sefer Hamanhig, and Magen Avot of Menahem Meiri. Rafeld (220) argues that the approach of the rabbis to this practice could have resulted from the community’s social and educational needs. 268 Commentary on BT Megillah 7b. 269 Laws of Purim, chapter 2:15. See the Arukh Hashulhan OH, 695:2 explaining the view of Maimonides. 270 Tanya Rabbati, section 41, Issues Regarding the Purim Feast. See above, note 65. 271 Shlomo Zevin, HaMoadim BeHalakhah ( Jerusalem: Beit Hillel, 1954), 203–204 [Hebrew].

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cannot differentiate between “Blessed be Mordechai” and “Cursed be Haman.” In other words, one should drink only up to the point of drunkenness and not beyond.272 b. Aharonim Rabbi Moshe Isserles, known as Rama, who commented on the words of Rabbi Yosef Karo supporting intoxication, writes, There are authorities who say that one does not need to become as drunk as that, but he should merely drink more than he is used to drink and sleep, and being asleep he will not be aware of the difference between ‘Cursed be Haman’ and ‘Blessed be Mordechai.’ Whether one drinks more or whether one drinks less, it is commendable provided his heart’s intention is the service of Heaven.273

Rabbi Yoel Sirkis supports the view of the Rama. He writes: “And it appears that for this reason the redactor of the Talmud arranged this story of Rabbah and Rabbi Zeira after the statement of Rava: that is, this statement of Rava was the law but that it should not be practiced.” Rabbi Sofer, in his homilies from 1897, argues that there is a mitzvah of joy on Purim that can be fulfilled in ways other than drunkenness. A similar approach was offered earlier by Rabbi Yeshayah Horowitz. The author of the Pri Chadash emphasizes that as a result of the negative social reality of his time, it is correct to rule as Rabbi Efraim, that on Purim one should drink slightly more than he is used to on other holidays. The Sefer Yosef Ometz says that if drinking will lead to disgracing any mitzvah, even rabbinical, it is forbidden.274 Later authorities and commentators (too numerous to present in this essay) offered various explanations for how one should reach such a state of confusion without becoming drunk.275 These approaches have been voiced by more recent rabbinical authorities such as the author of the Kaf Hahaim,276

272 See Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 11, for a discussion of sources who offer this opinion. 273 SA, OH 695:2. 274 Sefer Yosef Ometz, section 1101. 275 See the Arukh Hashulhan OH, 695:1–5, Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 400–406; Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 8–11; Freund, Moadim L’Simha, 407– 417, who offer many of these reasons. 276 Kaf Hahaim, section 695.

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Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach,277 and Rabbi Obadia Yosef,278 who all discourage or even prohibit inebriation on Purim. From the language of some rabbinical authorities such as Maimonides, the author of Sefer Hatadir, Responsa of the Radbaz,279 and the author of Rokeah,280 it can be concluded that only wine can be used to fulfill the mitzvah of drinking on Purim. This restriction prohibiting other types of alcohol consumption, whether consciously or not, is a possible means of curtailing drunkenness.

2.  Those who do not see the practice as an obligation, but rather an advisable act (mitzvah be’alma)281 Rabbi Eliezer ben Joel Halevi of Bonn, the Ravyah, quoted in the Hagahot Maimonit, is the first to rule that drinking is not an obligation but rather a mitzvah be’alma, a recommended practice.282 Maharil responded to the question of drinking on Purim by saying that Rava’s statement means that one is permitted, but not required, to become intoxicated.283 This is because the passage says “days of drinking party (mishteh),” which does not require excessive drinking of alcohol. Rabbi Isaac Tirna also indicates that drinking is an allowable mitzvah, rather than an obligation. He writes, “It is a mitzvah to be happy and drink and become very drunk on Purim.”284 In the Be’ur Halakhah, the author of the Mishnah Berurah quotes Rabbi Eliyahu Shapira’s Eliyahu Rabbah, which states that intoxication on Purim is a mitzvah but is not required. This approach softens the impact of the original ruling by permitting—as opposed to requiring—drunkenness for one day each year.

277 Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, Halikhot Shlomo ( Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers, 2003), 342–343 and accompanying footnotes. 278 1988, 340, paragraph 3. 279 Responsa of the Radbaz, volume 1 section 462. 280 Rokeah, section 237. For a more complete list and discussion, see Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 402, ff. 5. 281 I am basing this section primarily upon the sources found in Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b’Purim,” 213–216. 282 Chapter 2, Laws of Megillah 15:2. This is a gloss to Mishneh Torah by Rabbi Meir HaKohen. 283 Section 56:9. 284 Laws of Purim.

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3.  Those who require the practice of becoming inebriated on Purim a. Rishonim Alfasi, in his presentation of BT Megillah plainly states: “A man is obligated to become drunk on Purim until he can no longer distinguish between ‘Cursed be Haman,’ and ‘Blessed be Mordechai.’”285 The Talmudic story of Rabbah and Rabbi Zeira is omitted, implying that the Rif believed that there is an obligation to become drunk on Purim. Other Rishonim agree, including Rashi in the Sefer Haorah,286 Rabbi Yitzhak ben Abba Mari in the HaIttur,287 Rabbi Eliezer ben Natan (the Ravan),288 Rabbi Yeshaya of Tirani, in his Piskei Harid, and Rabbi Asher ben Yehiel the Rosh, on BT Megillah. Rabbi Yaakov Baal HaTurim, in his code Arba’ah Turim, explicitly states that “One must become drunk,” using the Hebrew word for inebriation, shikur, rather than the Talmud’s language, livsumei (because the Talmud used a euphemism one might think it meant something other than to get drunk), creating different interpretations of the word. The author of Sefer HaEshkol, after presenting the opinion of Rabbi Efraim, says, “And it seems to me [on the contrary] this provides proof that one must get drunk! For if not, Rabbah should have said ‘Let us have the Purim feast together and not drink.’” b. Aharonim289 Following the lead of the Tur, Rabbi Yosef Karo states: “A person is obligated to become intoxicated (livsumei) on Purim, to the extent that he will not be aware of the difference between ‘Cursed be Haman’ and ‘Blessed be Mordechai.’”290 Rabbi Moshe Mos of Przemysl, in his book Mateh Mosheh, reviews the different opinions of the Rishonim on becoming intoxicated on Purim. He asks how the rabbis could permit drunkenness, for the Bible itself refers to the dangers of alcoholism in numerous places. He concludes that drinking on Purim should be only for the sake of heaven rather than a drinking spree with 285 7b. 286 Sefer He’orah is attributed to Rashi. See Rafeld, “Mishloah manot b’Purim,” ff. 12 for a discussion on this topic. 287 HaIttur, 111:a. 288 Volume 2 section 451. 289 For additional secondary sources listing the various authorities who require one to become drunk on Purim, see Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 400–406. 290 SA, OH 695:2.

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the purpose of gorging one’s self, which would lead to the non-observance of basic Jewish laws. Without this intention, drunken behavior will prevent one from appreciating the spiritual significance of the day.291 This opinion of Rabbi Mos sets guidelines for the modern day practice. The author of the Hayei Adam concurs with Rabbi Mos, albeit with a proviso. He writes that the rabbis obligated one to get drunk, or at least to drink more than usual, in order to remember the great miracle of Purim that was brought about through wine. However, if a person knows that once intoxicated—or even lightheaded—he or she will not be able to perform the daily required mitzvoth, it should be avoided, for all actions should be for the sake of the Lord.292

Final Thoughts Concerning Drinking on Purim The message conveyed by most rabbis, especially the Aharonim, is that becoming drunk on Purim is disapproved of, and even prohibited. Drunkenness, they argue, is not worthy of a Jew. Yet the prevailing custom today, especially among Yeshivah students, is in fact to get drunk on Purim. The contemporary rabbinical authorities might discourage this practice but they do not necessarily forbid it. They offer warnings about drinking and driving and even being careful not to miss prayer services, but rarely say much more. Still, numerous rabbinic authorities throughout the generations could not accept the literal sense of BT Megillah 7b and believed that such a reading could result in deleterious consequences and therefore, in one form or another, limited the practice of drinking on Purim. The idea that one must reach the level of drinking on Purim “to the extent that he cannot distinguish (ad delo yada) between ‘Blessed be Mordechai’ and ‘Cursed be Haman,’” has been the topic of much interpretation. Some encourage drinking and drunkenness and others discourage this practice; there are some who employ halakhic analysis or use the “plain understanding” (peshat) of the Talmudic sources, and others who use homily (derush). A number of these rabbis concluded that there is symbolic importance in drinking wine to invoke the memory of the miracle of Purim. Scholar Jeffrey M. Cohen suggests that this topic of ad delo yada is a recurring motif in 291 Mateh Mosheh, 5:1011. 292 Hayei Adam, section 155:30.

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the book of Esther, “of people suffering from the ad delo yada syndrome with their senses dulled by a combination of drink, self-indulgence and selfdelusion that the rabbis invite to commemorate and ape.”293 Whether this was the intention and message of the rabbis or not is a topic for discussion elsewhere. Rabbi Daniel Adler argues that intoxication provides a temporary respite from everyday problems of sorting out and making sense of shades of good and evil in the world. It is, he says, the temporary removal of the awareness of the strictures of morality and law.294 One can argue with the theses of Cohen and Adler, but it is clear that the rabbis, knowing and understanding the dangers and prohibitions against intoxication, still permitted and in some cases required it on Purim. Instead of dismissing it, the rabbis actually incorporated it into law.295

Damage and Theft on Purim296 Rama rules: “There are authorities who say that if someone did damage to his fellow while Purim rejoicing, he is exempt from paying compensation.”297Another ruling of the Rama: “Likewise, when people snatch from each other out of rejoicing, this does not involve a transgression of ‘You should not rob.’ This has become the practice.”298 The explanation for these counterintuitive rulings is that if damage or theft occurs on Purim it is a result of simhat hahag, or holiday rejoicing, which could be a basis for permitting it. It is questionable, however, whether someone drunk is really on a spiritual level of simhat hahag. In fact, the author of the Arukh Hashulhan writes that today we cannot reach the spiritual level required for simhat hahag and therefore we would be responsible for any damage caused.299 Based upon BT Baba Kama,300 Maimonides rules that “A man is always muad (responsible for his actions) whether he does the damage unintentionally 293 Jeffrey M. Cohen, “Purim and Adloyada,” Jewish Bible Quarterly 29, no. 4 (2001), 261. 294 Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 14. 295 Ibid., 14–15. Here, Adler actually agrees with this line of thinking further in his paper. 296 For a list of rabbinical sources that discuss this topic and discussion, see Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 406–407 and the adjacent footnotes. 297 695:2. 298 697:8. 299 SA 695:10. 300 BT Baba Kama 27a.

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or intentionally, whether he is awake or while asleep or whether he is drunk.”301 Even with this ruling on intoxication, the rabbis did not hold one liable for his actions on Purim. Such is the spirit of Purim that the rabbis permitted the nation to cross the normative boundaries of Jewish law, even to the extent of tolerating physical damage to property or the body, as well as stealing from another Jew without consequences.302 This law, as with other practices of Purim, manifests the concept of inversion—behavior permitted and codified by the rabbinical adjudicators throughout the history of halakhah.

Summary and Concluding Remarks303 It is clear from our discussion that Purim is a holiday filled with examples of ritual reversal or halakhic inversion. As sociologist Edward Norbeck304 explains, the rites of reversal are “the antithesis of behavior at other times . . . norms for special occasions which oppose norms applying at other times.” Norbeck concludes from his research that the “performance of reversals was generally on ritual occasions that had religious or supernatural significance.” So we find the holiday of Purim, at least in terms of religious significance. Whether manifested as representing a festival that emphasizes materialism rather than spiritualism, or whether it be a story with little or no obvious connection to the Land of Israel, Purim contrasts with all other Jewish holidays. Furthermore, we have shown that the customs, rituals, and laws of Purim negate normative Jewish practice. From the almost rowdy conduct in the synagogue, where somber behavior and strict decorum are demanded at all other times of the year, to the requirement for excessive drinking to the point of inebriation, Purim truly exemplifies the concept of ve-nahafokh hu (used in Esther to describe the turnabout from mourning to rejoicing), i.e., things getting turned upside down.

301 Mishneh Torah, Laws of Hovel Umazik 1:11. 302 Different rabbinical authorities differentiate between bodily and property damage. See Zinner, Nitei Gavriel, 406–407. 303 For the sake of clarity I have chosen to repeat some of the theories discussed at the onset of this essay. 304 Edward Norbeck, “Rites of Reversal of North American Indians as Forms of Play,” in Forms of Play of Native North Americans, eds. Edward Norbeck and Claire R. Farrer (St. Paul: West Pub. Co., 1979), 58.

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The destruction of the normal protocols that represent structure within society and its social divisions were created to induce a day of ecstasy and release, as well as a feeling of communitas, argues Rubenstein. Jewish tradition has developed both strong boundaries and a clearly defined hierarchy supported by a strict and encompassing legal system. It would be an outright threat to its stability if either were to break down.305 Turner believes that suspension of law and norm are the very characteristics of communitas.306 However, Rubenstein says that communitas is not a breakdown of structure but, as in the case of Purim, “pronounced examples of communitas occurring mainly through symbolic action.” Purim behavior, he says, should be considered as a symbolic reversal, not a complete inversion. Rubenstein terms this an “alternate structure” rather than “anti-structure.”307 Communitas serves to unify, bond, and transcend structural relationships within the group, thus offering an important purpose to Purim and the Jewish social structure. Or, as Norbeck explains, “We have long heard that the return to the prevailing everyday rules of moral and social life after a period of playfully overturning them constitutes reaffirmation of the propriety of everyday rules.”308 This application of the communitas model might be applicable in tribal type societies or even the social organization at the time of the Esther story, but I fail to see its relevance, especially in the modern period.309 Others perceive the behavior permitted on Purim as a temporary respite from everyday problems and stress.310 The psychological escape alone could ease the economic, social, and political tensions found in the everyday life of the Jew. Schellekens believes that Purim is devoid of any clear theological meaning, contributing to the reinforcement of shared beliefs by releasing 305 See Mary Douglas’ grid-group theory to further understand this argument: Mary Douglas, Cultural Bias (London: Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 1979). 306 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process. See Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” 267–268. 307 Rubenstein, “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” 273. 308 Edward Norbeck, “Rites of Reversal of North American Indians as Forms of Play,” 59. 309 There is a view that the disorder of Purim is really part of the order or strengthens the order (see Rodger 1978, 205). Furthermore, Sacks, “Computing Community,” argues that the food gifts on Purim in today’s small communities are actually part of female ( Jewish) rituals that enhance, produce, and reproduce social relations and therefore construct community. 310 See for example Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” and Shuv, “Megillat Esther,” 33.

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tension from conformity to social beliefs and behavioral prescriptions.311 Still, I wonder if a one-day respite from stress would really make a difference psychologically or sociologically over the course of a year. Similar to the idea of Purim as an easing of the pressure Jews so often face, Monford Harris views the reversal phenomenon as a Jew’s means of coping with the harsh and demanding environment of the Diaspora. Indeed, Purim is an exilic holiday and a major theme of the Book of Esther is the view of Jews as outsiders, even if they did have a queen on the inside. The behavior permitted on this day permits “the reversals of the hostile stranger,” Harris says.312 Even with the above attempts to understand the “why” of Purim, there is still a major question as to how the rabbis, who were governed by the strict letter of the law, would for even one day permit the disregard of conventional halakhah, something that is “antithetical to all Jewish tradition stands for”?313 How, in the words of Harris, can the “topsy-turvy things” that Jews do on Purim be sanctioned and even canonized?314 Why would the rabbis permit the holiday to be influenced by—in contrast to influencing—cultural customs? As Adler notes, an “anthropological study would reveal that the holiday of Purim is not unique in providing a time for revelry to lose oneself in the primitively satisfying excess of drink and noise and costumes.”315 It is first important to clarify that even the joyful spirit of Purim does not imitate the non-Jewish carnival. Instead of lengthy days of merriment, Purim is a one-day festival. It does not represent what Bakhtin termed “earth and body in their indissoluble unity,” free completely from all religious and ecclesiastical dogmatism.316 Fish deems Purim as a mini- or symbolic carnival, thus signifying the difference in merriment and rowdy behavior from that of the gentiles.317 To properly understand the rabbis’ approach to Purim, it is first necessary to briefly discuss the development of law and custom and its relationship to folk 311 Schellekens, “Accession Days and Holidays,” 36–38. 312 Harris, “Purim,” 169. 313 Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 14. 314 Harris, “Purim,” 168. 315 Adler, “Drinking on Purim,” 14. 316 See Fish, “Reading and Carnival,” 67. 317 Ibid., 71.

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law. For the purpose of this essay I will divide law into two categories: canon law, or what is referred to in Judaism as Torah law, and folk law, also referred to as customary law. In this context folk law is defined as the informal rules followed by any group of people who share a common linking factor, such as religion, nationality, ethnicity, locality, family, or occupation. Already in the period of the Romans it was understood that in order for a folk law to prevail, it needed the agreement of the people who practiced the law, or what German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies termed the “social will.”318 G. C. F. F. van den Bergh acknowledges319 that folk law can be viewed as: 1. Law that has evolved from implicit and loose rules to explicit and fixed rules; customary law precedes codes, both unwritten and written law. 2. Law derived from custom and not invented by legislators; early folk custom is an unspecified whole of law, religion, morals, etc. 3. Law is not an autonomous system, but a function of society, even when jurists develop it into a “special skill.” He explains that folk law “is not a system of abstract concepts and normative propositions, but of perceptible, formal acts and words, natural institutions, symbols, symbolic procedures, etc.”320

Tönnies emphasizes that folk law or custom is created through habit and practice and is based upon past tradition. “The fact that our forefathers held and practiced it ‘this way’ will always be given as the decisive reason why we, too, should hold it this way and follow the same practice.”321 Taking the above into consideration, we turn to Judaism’s halakhah and minhag (custom). Menachem Elon writes that custom “operates anonymously and non-directly by the agency of the entire people or of some particular segment of the people.”322 If there is an area of doubt on what the correct halakhah is, the

318 Ferdinand Tönnies, Custom: An Essay on Social Codes (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1971), 38, explains that social will is the general will that serves to order and regulate the individual will. 319 G. C. J. J. van den Bergh, “The Concept of Folk Law in Historical Context: A Brief Outline,” in Folk Law: Essays in the Theory and Practice of Lex Non Scripta, eds. Alison Dundes Renteln and Alan Dundes, 6–32 (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995). 320 Ibid., 20. 321 Tönnies, Custom, 42–43. 322 Menachem Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles (Philadelphia and Jerusalem: Jewish Publication Society, 1994), 881–885.

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BT instructs us to “go and see what the people do.”323 The YT says: “If the law is unsure then go and see the practice of the people and follow it.”324 Elon says that although rules based upon custom are institutionalized, they are partially and indirectly in conjunction with the halakhic authorities. It is the public or social will that “is the direct creative source of normative rules generated by custom.”325 It is the members of the Jewish social structure, persons whose conduct and beliefs are based upon Jewish values and laws, who are endowed with this decisive power. The words of Hillel in BT further clarify this point: “Leave it to Israel; if they are not prophets, they are descendants of prophets.”326 In a footnote, Elon presents a double function for the above understanding: “It can serve as a historical source of a particular norm that will later be given the force of law by a different legal source; and it can itself serve as a legal source that gives legal force to a particular practice.”327 Elon’s analysis can be taken a step further and used as a basis to understand the acceptance of the Book of Esther and the various customs and rituals practiced on Purim. The mitzvah of reading the Scroll of Esther resulted in a serious dilemma for the rabbis of the Talmud. It was only after some misgivings, portrayed in BT Megillah, that the rabbis agreed to canonize Esther in the first place.328 I suggest that this was done as a result of the social will of the people. They believed that only through celebrating Purim would God’s name and His miracles be appropriately glorified. It was through the Purim story, an exciting and intriguing tale in which the Jews, through the (hidden) intervention of the Almighty, were victorious and where good overcame evil. The Purim holiday was therefore instituted as a result of the will of those who conducted themselves in accordance with Jewish law and morals. The rabbis, in order to give Purim full legitimization, offered a Torah source, a path that justifies the acceptance and practice of a custom. The YT Megillah, while discussing the acceptance of Megillat Esther into the canon, reads,

323 BT Berakhot 45a, BT Pesahim 54a. 324 YT Peah 7:5, YT Maaser Sheni 5:2, YT Yebamot 7:3. 325 Elon, Jewish Law, 882. 326 Pesahim 66a. 327 Elon, Jewish Law, 882, note 8. 328 BT Megillah 7a.

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until they found a verse written in the Torah which provides for it [Esther] to be included: “Write this for a memorial in a book.”329 “Write this” refers to the passage about Amalek that is written here and in Deuteronomy,330 “for a memorial,” refers to the passage about Amalek that is written in the Prophets,331 and “in the book” refers to what is written in the Megillah.

The canonization of Esther served to legitimize its text and served as the basis for justifying the rituals and practices that were wanted according to the “social will.” These means of celebration were reflections of the cultures in which the Jews lived. The rabbis understood the power of the “folk” and were able to justify and codify selected or modified versions of non-Jewish practices emulating the carnival atmosphere. Once codified, such practices belonged to the authority of the rabbis, thus removing the danger and threat to their authority and the stability of the social structure. Thus, even though such behavior as found on Purim would be unacceptable during the rest of the year, through the consideration and appreciation of the social will, the rabbis warded off—or at least minimized—the influences of secular cultures, thereby protecting the social solidarity of the Jews.

Rabbis Cited in This Work Baalei HaTosafot (led by the grandchildren of Rashi), 12th and 13th centuries (Northern France and Germany) Rabbi Abraham Danzig, born 1748 (Poland), died 1820 (Vilna, Lithuania) Rabbi Aharon HaKohen, (Provence), died 1325 (Spain) Rabbi Asher ben Yehiel, also known as the Rosh, born circa 1250 (Germany), died 1327 (Spain) Rabbi Avraham Abele Gombiner, also known as the Magen Avraham, born circa 1635 (Poland), died 1682 (Poland) Rabbi Avraham ben Isaac of Narbonne, born circa 1110 (Provence), died 1176 (Provence) Rabbi Avraham Ha-Yarhi, born circa 1155 (Provence), died 1215 (Spain) Rabbi Avraham Klausner, 14th century (Vienna, Austria) 329 Exodus 17:14. 330 Deuteronomy 25:8–16. 331 I Samuel 15.

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Rabbi Chaim Benveniste, Knesset Hagedolah, born 1603 (Turkey), died 1673 (Turkey) Rabbi David ben Levi, Mikhtam, 13th century (Provence) Rabbi David ben Solomon ibn Abi Zimra, born 1479 (Spain), died 1573 (Israel) Rabbi David Halevi, also known as the Taz, born 1586 (Poland), died 1667 (Russia) Rabbi Efraim of Bonn, born 1132 (Germany), died 1200 (Germany) Rabbenu Efraim of Kila Chamad, circa 1075 (Algeria) Rabbi Eleazar Rokeah of Worms, born circa 1160 (Germany), died circa 1238 (Germany) Rabbi Eliezer ben Natan, Ravan, born 1090 (Germany), died 1170 (Germany) Rabbi Eliezer ben Yosef Halevi, also known as the Ravyah, born 1140 (Germany), died 1225 (Germany) Rabbi Eliyahu Shapira, born 1660, died 1712 (Prague) Rabbi Elyakim ben Meshulam, died circa 1100 (Germany) Rabbi Haim Palachi, born 1788, died 1868 (Izmir, Turkey) Rabbi Hayim Margolith, born circa 1780, died 1820 (Russia) Rabbi Hezekia da Silva, also known by his work the Pri Chadash, born 1659 (Italy), died 1698 ( Jerusalem) Rabbi Isaac ben Asher Halevi, circa 1130 (Germany) Rabbi Isaac Tirna, late 14th to early 15th centuries (Czechoslovakia) Rabbi Israel Meir HaKohen Kagan, born 1838 (Belarussia), died 1933 (Radun) Rabbi Joseph ben Meir Teomim, born 1727 (Galicia), died 1793 (Germany) Rabbi Judah Ashkenazi, born (Germany) 1730, died 1770 (Germany) Rabbi Judah Loew, also known as the Maharal of Prague, born circa 1525 (Poland), died 1609 (Prague) Rabbi Kalonymus ben Kalonymus, born 1286 (Provence), died after 1328 Rabbi Levi ben Haviv, Haralbah, born circa 1480 (Spain), died circa 1541 (Israel) Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe, born 1535 (Poland), died 1612 (Poland) Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg, Maharam, born 1215 (Germany), died 1293 (France) Rabbi Menahem HaMeiri, born circa 1249 (Provence), died circa 1306 (Provence)

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Rabbi Meyer ben Rabbi Shimon Hamili, born 1190 (Provence), died 1263 (Spain) Rabbi Mordechai ben Hillel, born circa 1240 (Germany), died 1298 (Germany) Rabbi Mordechai Yaffe, born circa 1535 (Bohemia), died 1612 (Poland) Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, also known as Maimonides or the Rambam, born 1135 (Spain), died 1204 (Egypt) Rabbi Moses Schreiber, born 1762 (Germany), died 1839 (Hungary) Rabbi Moshe ben Avraham of Przemyśl, born circa 1540 (Poland), died 1606 (Poland) Rabbi Moshe Isserles, also known as Rama, born 1520 (Poland), died 1572 (Poland) Rabbi Moshe Rivkash, author of Be’er Hagolah, born circa 1595 (Prague), died 1671 (Vilna) Rabbi Moshe Shik, also known as the Maharam Shik, born 1807 (Slovakia), died 1879 (Chust, Ukraine) Rabbi Nathan ben Jehiel, born circa 1035, died 1106 (Rome, Italy) Rabbi Nissim of Gerona, also known as the Ran, born circa 1290 (Spain), died circa 1375 (Spain) Rabbi Refael Aaron ben Shimshon, born 1847, died 1928 (Egypt) Rabbi Shimshon ben Tzaddok, Tashbetz, born 1285 (Germany) Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, born circa 1506 (Turkey), died circa 1584 (Israel) Rabbi Shlomo Efraim Luntshitz, (Poland), died 1619 (Prague) Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, Rashi, born 1040 (France), died 1105 (France) Rabbi Shmuel Abuhav, born 1610 (Italy), died 1694 (Italy) Rabbi Simhah of Vitry, died 1105 (France) Rabbi Tuvia ben Eliezer, late 11th to early 12th century (Greece) Rabbi Tzidkiya HaRofe, also known as the Shibbolei Leket, born circa 1210 (Italy), died 1280 (Italy) Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, also known as the Ba’al HaTurim, born circa 1275 (Germany), died circa 1340 (Spain) Rabbi Yaakov Haim Sofer, born 1870 (Baghdad, Iraq), died 1939 (Israel) Rabbi Yaakov Moelin, Maharil, born circa 1365 (Germany), died 1427 (Germany) Rabbi Yehiel Mechel Halevi Epstein, born 1829, died 1908 (Belarus) Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, author of the Kuzari, born 1075 (Spain), died 1141 (Israel)

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Rabbi Yehudah ben Berekhyah, also known as the Ribav, late 12th century (Provence) Rabbi Yehudah Hehassid, born circa 1155 (Germany), died 1215 (Germany) Rabbi Yehudah Halevi Mintz, born 1408 (Germany), died 1508 (Italy) Rabbi Yeshaya of Tirani, born circa 1180 (Italy), died circa 1260 (Italy) Rabbi Yeshayah Halevi Horowitz, also known as the Shelah, born circa 1560 (Czechoslovakia), died 1630 (Israel) Rabbi Yisrael Isserlein, born 1390 (Germany), died 1460 (Austria) Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi, also known as the Rif, born 1013 (Algeria), died 1103 (Spain) Rabbi Yitzhak ben Abba Mari, HaIttur, born circa 1122 (Provence), died circa 1193 (Provence) Rabbi Yitzhak ben Asher (the Riva), one of the early Ba’alei Tosafot, died circa 1130 (Germany) Rabbi Yitzhak (ben Joseph), died 1280 (Corbeil, France) Rabbi Yitzhak ben Sheshet Perfet, born 1326 (Spain), died 1407 (Algiers) Rabbi Yoel Sirkis, also known as the Bah, born 1561 (Poland), died 1640 (Poland) Rabbi Yosef ben Meir Teomim, also known as Pri Megadim, born 1727 (Ukraine), died 1792 (Germany) Rabbi Yosef Karo, born 1488 (Spain), died 1575 (Israel) Rabbi Yosef Haviva, late 14th to early 15th century (Spain) Rabbi Zerahyah Halevi, also known as Razah, born 1125 (Spain), died 1186 (Provence)

Back to the Yeshiva: The Social Dynamics of an Orthodox Sabbath Morning Service Simcha Fishbane My intent in this study is to address several theoretical issues by examining a Sabbath morning service at a shtibl, a small sanctuary located in a private home or store-front. More precisely, I will examine what is encoded in the religious ritual performed among modern Orthodox members of a small independent synagogue. Furthermore, I will argue that this style of religious orientation attempts to imitate the rituals as performed in the yeshiva (rabbinic academy) prayer service. The shtibl participant, through his attendance at this synagogue service, is thereby identifying with the yeshiva Weltanschauung. This religious behavior can conceivably carry important associations for an increasingly right-wing modern Orthodoxy. The synagogue to be examined is located in an area of a major Canadian metropolis, Montreal, which is densely populated with Orthodox Jews. The data were gathered through both personal interviews with individual respondents and participation in the weekly and seasonal congregational services. The theoretical and methodological issues bearing on this paper are extensively dealt with in other essays in this volume.

Modern Orthodoxy, A New Trend During the holiday of Sukot (Booths, or “Tabernacles”), I visited a synagogue that had recently been acquired by a group of right-wing Orthodox Jews. The

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front half of the sanctuary, a large auditorium, is a facsimile of a yeshiva study hall. On either side of the ark, situated on the eastern wall, is a podium (shtand) at or behind which the rabbinic leaders of the congregation sit. The congregants sit at folding wooden tables. Along the wall stand bookcases filled with traditional rabbinic texts. The other half of this auditorium retained signs of its former life and was lined with theater-style seats. To allow for room to dance during the Simhat Torah holiday, which falls at the conclusion of Sukot, the theater seats had been unscrewed from the floor and removed from the sanctuary. I returned to this synagogue on the Sabbath following Sukot, expecting to find the room returned to its former state. However, instead of the theater seats, the entire sanctuary was now lined with yeshiva-style study tables. Furthermore, other rituals and behaviors in this synagogue resembled the world of the yeshiva. The men’s dress is conservative, usually a dark suit, dark leather shoes, a white shirt, and tie. During the prayer service, all adult men wear dark hats perched on the head at an angle. At other times, they wear large black skull-caps (not knitted ones). The language spoken is a yeshiva dialect, an amalgam of English, Yiddish, Hebrew, and Aramaic. Samuel Heilman terms this dialect gemoreloshn, a language that transforms and recasts ideas from one Jewish culture into another.1 William Helmreich cites an example of this pattern: When it comes to going to movies I take [really] hold [feel] that there’s a sakanah [danger] that something there could be mashpia [influence] on you in the way that could undermine your whole hashkofo [belief system]. Therefore it’s not kedai [worthwhile] to go and put yourself in such a matzav [position]. Do you hap [grasp] what I’m saying?2

The liturgy in this visited synagogue is recited slowly, but with few cantorial insertions. Specific prayers, such as the shma (Hear O Israel), are emphasized vocally and in unison. The amida is recited with emphasized body movement. This prayer is uttered in a whisper and very slowly. Following the shma and the amida, prayers commence according to the cue of the rabbinic authority, a local rosh yeshiva. The synagogue and the behavior of its participants have become a facsimile of the yeshiva study hall and liturgy.

1 Samuel C. Heilman, Synagogue Life: A Study in Symbolic Interaction (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1976), 167. 2 William B. Helmreich, The World of the Yeshiva: An Intimate Portrait of Orthodox Jewry (London, UK: Collier Macmillan, 1982), 148.

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Menachem Friedman sees this behavior as symbolic of a trend amongst western Orthodox Jews.3 Friedman notes that others identify the phenomenon described above as “Bne Brakism.” He terms it haredut. Both describe this scenario as a search by the observant Jew for a more stringent halaka. The haredi Jew opens a book of halaka that might proffer alternative views and rulings regarding a specific case. This student will then extract the view of the more stringent adjudicator, especially if the latter is a popular rabbinic authority. For example, there are different views regarding the quantity of matza to be eaten at the Passover Seder, or the length of time after sunset before the Sabbath is terminated. The haredi Jew seeks the maximum requirement: eating almost a complete matza, for example, or waiting at least seventy-two minutes after sunset (the longest period required by most halakically observant Jews.) Friedman attributes the haredi behavior among the western Jews to the influence of the nineteenth-century, eastern European yeshiva Zeitgeist. This argument might hold for the behavior of first- and second-generation Jewish immigrants, but the contemporary haredi Jew does not consciously or subconsciously identify with the eastern European Zeitgeist. Rather, objectively and subjectively (to borrow Peter Berger’s and Thomas Luckmann’s phraseology) he manifests the Israeli and North American yeshiva Weltanschauung. The eastern European religious and cultural drama has become part of the constructed, historical, rabbinic universe that began with the Hebrew Bible and continued until nineteenth- and early twentieth-century rabbinic leaders such as Rabbi Israel Meir HaKohen Kagan (the Hafetz Haim). The subsequent sections of this essay will explore a specific synagogue, its participants, and their identification with the yeshiva world. For the purpose of comparison, these are the props and roles of a modern Orthodox synagogue:        

1. 2. 3. 4.

The position of the rabbi is highly managerial as well as spiritual. The cantor leads the Sabbath services in an operatic style. Little emphasis is placed on any one section of the liturgy. The rabbi, cantor, and lay leaders sit on throne-type theater seats facing the congregation. These seats are placed on a raised platform alongside the ark.

3 Menachem Friedman, “Life Tradition and Book Tradition in the Development of Ultra-­ Orthodox Judaism,” in Judaism Viewed from Within and from Without, ed. Harvey E. Goldberg (Albany, NY: State University of the New York Press, 1987).

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  5. Women sit in the same sanctuary behind a partition, which is usually no higher than four feet.   6. Only prayer books and Bibles with an English translation are found in the sanctuary. They are often placed in pockets adjacent to the participants’ seats.   7. A sermon is delivered during the Sabbath prayer service. It is given in English. When Hebrew words are employed, an English translation is immediately offered. The theme of the sermon is a contemporary Jewish issue.   8. The behavioral components and setting are similar to a modern Protestant church. These include stained-glass windows, ushers to greet the participants, a choir, and sanctioned dress. Furthermore, the “members” are mere observers while the rabbi and cantor serve as intermediaries between the divine and the mundane on behalf of the congregation. In addition to his spiritual role, moreover, the rabbi is perceived as an organizational leader.  9. The bima is raised and placed in the center of the synagogue. 10. Prayer shawls are offered only to male participants. The shawls cover the upper part of the back and are often made of silk, not the traditional wool. 11. English is the language of conversation, but Hebrew is the language of the service. 12. Membership is acquired by paying dues.

The Setting of the Observed Shtibl The synagogue under examination is located on the bottom level of a two-story house. Its rabbi/owner resides on the top floor, while the first-floor apartment serves as the shtibl. This lower apartment is partitioned into four rooms and a kitchen. The largest of these rooms, the sanctuary, is situated in the front of the apartment. It is approximately twelve feet wide and twentyfour feet long. In the sanctuary, against the eastern wall, stands the ark. Built as a permanent structure, it rises from floor to ceiling and covers a large portion of the wall. On the curtain covering the ark appears the name of its donor. There is also a small picture of Jerusalem suspended from the front of the ark. Adjacent to the ark hangs a synagogue calendar. It provides dates, times, and rituals related to the synagogue and Jewish celebrations. On the northern flank of the ark sits the shtibl’s charismatic leader, the rabbi. His throne-like chair is placed at the head of a long wooden table (in the

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style of the yeshiva study table). This table extends the length of the northern wall, and participants sit on both sides. A large memorial board covers a major section of the northern wall. On the southern flank of the ark sits the rabbi’s assistant, who is also his primary student and apprentice. The organization of the southern sector is similar to the northern. A long wooden table extends the length of the wall, or, in this case, a window facing the street. The assistant sits at its head and the participants on either side. Each table can seat ten adults comfortably. An additional ten chairs are placed against the Western wall. In the center of the sanctuary stands the shulhan, the traditional table employed for Torah readings and often for leading the prayers. Due to the lack of space, prayer books, Bibles, and prayer shawls are placed in a small case that stands in the hallway. Shelves of traditional rabbinic texts (including those published by the rabbi) cover the walls of an adjacent room, the library. Because men and women must be separated during the Orthodox Jewish prayer service, the library serves also as the women’s section for all religious and social functions. For example, the two or three women (only) who join the Sabbath prayer services are directed to the library. In addition to the books, two wooden study tables fill the room. The remaining facilities, a kitchen and two rooms, are used infrequently. In rare instances, refreshments are served after the prayer service in one of these rooms to the male participants. The women who prepare the refreshments eat separately in the library.

The Rabbi The rabbi, who is also the owner of the shtibl, serves as the charismatic and spiritual leader of the congregation. He was born, educated, and ordained in eastern Europe. His education consists only of rabbinic studies. The rabbi, now in his sixties, has been living in North America for forty years. He prefers to speak Yiddish but will not hesitate to converse in English when required. His fluent English carries a heavy European accent. The rabbi dresses in the traditional rosh yeshiva garb. This includes a black suit and either a hat or a large skull-cap made of cloth. On Shabbas, his black suit jacket is replaced by a long black coat. The rabbi has a full beard, which is always trimmed and well kept. In 1948, two years after his arrival in North America, the rabbi moved to this city, where he was hired by the local rabbinic academy to serve as one

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of its roshei yeshiva (leaders of, and teachers in, a rabbinic academy). In 1974, due to personality conflicts, he was compelled to leave the institution. Because he did not wish to leave the city or change professions, the rabbi established his own yeshiva. Although the academy never developed into a classical-style yeshiva with a full-time student body, it was nevertheless identified as such by the Jewish community. This recognition can be attributed to the rabbi’s personality; he continues to conduct himself as a rosh yeshiva. This persona is expressed through such actions as the classes he teaches both in his academy and in other institutions throughout the city, his behavior in the shtibl, his dress, and his conversation. In general, the Jewish community continues to recognize him as a rosh yeshiva and hires those whom he ordains as rabbis. Due to his ambiguous situation, a rosh yeshiva without a yeshiva, the rabbi was compelled to establish a Sabbath minyan at his institution. To attend another synagogue as a member would undermine his role as rosh yeshiva; he would not have the spiritual and administrative leadership that emanates from such a role. A minyan (the quorum of men required for public worship) at his institution, moreover, further legitimates his yeshiva. The prayer group also offers greater interaction with members of the Jewish community, thereby perpetuating his status as a rosh yeshiva. Although the rabbi projects the role and image of a rosh yeshiva, he is considered to be modern. People do not hesitate to discuss with him issues and problems that they would hesitate to present to the traditional rosh yeshiva. Thus the “clientele” attracted to the shtibl and classes includes former yeshiva students who currently do not attend a yeshiva.

The Male Participants I have classified three groups of actors in the shtibl. They can be identified according to their seating arrangement. One group sits at the rabbi’s table. The age of these people ranges from fifty to sixty-five, and they were born in either Canada or eastern Europe. The language spoken is either yeshiva English or Yiddish. This group belongs to the managerial and entrepreneurial sector of society. Its members wear dark suits, hats and large black felt skull-caps. Their Jewish education has included some type of yeshiva experience, but none of these members has been ordained. Their secular education does not extend

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beyond high school. Except for one participant, all are clean-shaven. The appointed lay president of the shtibl, who is part of this group, sits opposite the rabbi. The participants who sit at the southern table are between the ages of thirty-five and fifty. They were born in North America, Israel, and Frenchspeaking countries. The language spoken at their table is English, Hebrew, or French. All three languages are interspersed with yeshiva jargon. For example, words such as davening (praying), toire (the Yiddish pronunciation of Torah), shul (synagogue), ye’ush (despair), likhora (it would seem to say), avadeh (certainly), memanafshakh (in any event), and andpashtes (simple) are repeatedly employed. These actors have studied in post-secondary institutions and Hebrew ( Jewish) day schools. They have also had some yeshiva experience. They belong to the professional and academic world. Only one of them is directly involved in the field of Judaism. Although these participants dress conservatively, they wear sport jackets and knitted skull-caps. The chairs along the western wall are used by participants below the age of thirty-five. (At times, they gravitate to the southern table.) They are Canadian born and have a day school or yeshiva education. They speak English and dress in a fashion similar to the members at the southern table. This area includes the children of the synagogue participants. All three groups include yeshiva language, along with their mother tongues, in conversation. Two reasons were offered by the actors of all three areas for their membership in the shtibl. They attributed it either to their loyalty to the rabbi or the possibility for prayer with greater kavana (concentration). I will discuss these responses later. Of all the Sabbath morning male participants, not more than five are the rabbi’s students. The others have no interaction with the rabbi other than at the Saturday morning services. Furthermore, no financial payment is required of them in the form of either dues or donations. The institution is supported by outside contributors who do not necessarily attend the prayer meetings. Participants receive services without monetary payment, but they offer the rabbi, through participation in the prayer services, recognition and legitimation as a rosh yeshiva. Two additional categories of participant that should be noted are guests and women. Guests, or infrequent participants, are directed towards the areas they

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would be associated with if they were regular actors. Women, as I have observed, pray in a separate room. On an ordinary Sabbath, when there is no bar mitzvah, there will be a maximum of four female participants. The inaccessibility of the women’s section to me, as well as the low number of women, makes it difficult to classify them. Therefore I will be concerned only with the male participants.

The Sabbath Morning Service As the congregants arrive on Sabbath morning, they are greeted informally by the rabbi. Fearful that there will be an insufficient number of participants to form the minyan, the rabbi waits with anticipation at the window for potential members and welcomes them at the entrance. During this period, prior to the commencement of the liturgy, the attending participants congregate around the rabbi at his table adjacent to the window. The rabbi either initiates a discussion concerning the Jewish community or responds to a halakic problem posed by one of the congregants. Although the service is scheduled to commence at nine o’clock, it does not begin before 9:15. The rabbi appoints a participant to lead the first section of the morning liturgy (psuke dezimra), sending him to lead the davening (praying). At the initiation of the service, the men wrap themselves in talitot (prayer shawls). These ritual objects are wool and cover most of the body. The rabbi and several congregants place the talit over their heads. The psuke dezimra section is read at a steady pace with very few cantorial flourishes; the tunes are those traditionally used at rabbinic academies. The second section of the morning liturgy, shaharit, is led, in most instances, by the rabbi’s assistant. As before, cantorial singing is hardly ever introduced. The shaliah tzibur (prayer leader, sometimes the hazan but usually a lay person) does not initiate a new prayer prior to the rabbi’s completion of the invocation. Thus the rabbi, not the shaliah tzibur, sets the pace. This is emphasized during two prayers, the shma and the amida, or shmone esre (a silent prayer). Only when the rabbi begins to chant the shma does everyone join him. The shaliah tzibur does not continue until the rabbi has completed the recitation of the last paragraph of the shma out loud. By the same token, the repetition of the amida is not initiated until the rabbi gives the cue at the completion of the invocation. This process, similar to the behavior of most rabbinic authorities, is very long. The rabbi is usually the last to complete the reciting of the

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amida. During the repetition of the amida, congregants, especially those at the younger table, may examine biblical and rabbinic texts. The third section of the liturgy is the Torah reading. The dearth of steady Torah readers requires volunteers, thus encouraging the congregants’ participation in the liturgy. Those called to the Torah for the aliyot are designated by the rabbi. These honors are dispersed according to political and financial considerations or the desire to honor rabbinic scholars. This point is emphasized in the specific aliyah assigned to the scholar. The two aliyot considered most important are the third and sixth; priority for these is given to the rabbinic representatives. The musaf service (a concluding, or additional, section) follows the same pattern as shaharit. In contrast to the modern Orthodox synagogue, and in accordance with the yeshiva service, no sermon or lesson is delivered during or at the conclusion of the service. Moreover, announcements are made only when imperative. Following the service, participants approach the rabbi and wish him gut shabos. To guarantee a minyan for minha (the afternoon service), the rabbi reaffirms the participation of congregants by asking them if they intend to come. Members with halakic or religious questions remain behind to discuss these briefly with the rabbi.

Ritual and Ethnic Identity An examination of the Sabbath prayer service and study hall sanctuary in most rabbinic academies reveals a striking similarity to the service and synagogue I have described.4 Due to this similarity between the yeshiva and shtibl services, I find it unnecessary to burden the reader with a separate description of the former.

Discussion Ritual behavior communicates a message. What is the message communicated in the ritual process I have reported? This is the central question raised here. In The Social Construction of Reality, Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann discuss the entrance of individuals into society or the group with which they 4 Heilman, Synagogue Life; Helmreich, The World of the Yeshiva.

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identify. The process “begins with ‘taking over’ the world in which others already live.”5 This milieu then becomes the world of the “inductees.” By this, new members understand, share, and reciprocally define situations, actions, and language with the other individuals of the group. There develops “an ongoing mutual identification” between new and integrated members.6 When this degree of interaction is reached, Berger and Luckmann argue, the inductees can be considered members of the society. This ontogenetic process, by which incorporation is brought about, is called socialization. The process of socialization entails two principal stages: primary and secondary. Additional types as alterations are contingent upon the two principal categories.7 Primary socialization is defined as the “first socialization an individual undergoes in childhood by which he becomes a member of society.”8 In this first stage of socialization, initiates undergo a process of cognitive learning and emotional change. They learn to identify consciously and subconsciously with objects and persons. They adopt the roles and attitudes of the group and its world. Secondary socialization occurs later and replicates this process at the adult level. The process of socialization into the yeshiva world is one of secondary socialization and is analogous to aspects of the primary stage. The yeshiva society consciously seeks to incorporate students into its world. These young men, and we are dealing with a specifically masculine institution, are taught a new language, or dialect, with which to identify (what has been referred to previously as yeshiva language). Their previous societal identifications, if inconsistent with those of the yeshiva world, are expurgated. Students enter not only a new and objective social structure but also an objective social world. This new reality is where they seek their primary group relationships. For yeshiva novices, as for children, new attributes (such as cognitive learning, emotional attachment, and adoption of attitudes) are internalized and become their own. They then dress in the costume of the yeshiva milieu and speak its dialect. Students enter into a world that lacks doubt. The latter is perceived as a nomic structure that is almost perfect. “It implies the internalization of society 5 Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (New York, NY: Open Road Integrated Media, 1966), 150. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid., 176. 8 Ibid., 150.

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as such and of the objective reality establishment of a coherent and continuous identity.” Berger and Luckmann continue: “Society, identity, and reality are subjectively crystallized in the same process of internalization.”9 The dichotomy between subjective and objective reality is eliminated. Each is equally real. Only now do students identify themselves, only now are they identified by others, as part of the yeshiva society. Because Berger and Luckmann have assigned primary socialization to childhood, they classify the primary process of transformation of older individuals as “alteration.” This re-socialization, as in yeshiva students, replicates the process, attributes, and characteristics of primary socialization. These are different from primary socialization because initiates must “cope with a problem of dismantling and disintegrating the preceding nomic structure of subjective reality.”10 The yeshiva milieu and its members offer ideal social conditions for an effective transformation. There is an intense concentration, in a closed society, of all the significant attributes of the internalization prerequisites for socialization. “Primary socialization ends when the concept of the generalized other has been established in the consciousness of the individual.”11 In the case of yeshiva students, this rite of passage from the alteration stage occurs when they terminate their formal status as students. In most instances, the graduates embark on careers that have no official relation to the yeshiva. At this point, secondary socialization commences. However, my interest in this study is not the process of secondary socialization but how the reality internalized in primary socialization is maintained in the consciousness of individuals. Berger and Luckmann argue that this reiteration is acquired through “the explicit and emotionally charged confirmation that his significant others bestow on him.”12 The primary others that maintain and confirm his subjective reality can be family or reference groups. Furthermore, the reinforcement of these significant others is dependent upon a specific social base, such as the shtibl. The social base works best if it is similar to that of the primary socialization. For individuals to maintain and confirm their subjective as well as objective reality, they must interact in a milieu that confirms their identity. The observed   9 Ibid., 153. 10 Ibid., 177. 11 Ibid., 157. 12 Ibid.

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shtibl’s Sabbath morning prayer service, a facsimile of the yeshiva Weltanschauung, maintains this reinforcement. The objectivity of one reality, as in the shtibl, within the totality of the individual’s social world, is imperative for his implicit reaffirmation. Furthermore, the earlier socialization period is projected by many things practiced in the social base of this one reality-language. This includes conversation, objects, dress, ritual behavior and techniques, collective rituals, and rabbinic leadership, which help maintain the subjective reality. Berger and Luckmann emphasize the component of language and conversation in the process of reality maintenance. They conclude: “Thus the fundamental reality-maintaining fact is the continuing use of the same language [as in primary socialization] to objectify unfolding biographical experience.”13 This maintenance is accented through the “group-idiosyncratic language” of the primary stage. The individual returns to his reality when he returns to the few individuals who understand his in-group allusions. Furthermore, as Heilman correctly argues in his examination of Talmudic study groups, language reflects the group’s collective existence.14 At times, the reflection is lexical. At other times, it is syntactic or morphological. At still other times, it is intonational. Whatever the sign, the fact remains that the use of language cannot help but demonstrate social and cultural identification. An additional factor required for the success of reality maintenance is that one’s experiences with the reality be continual and consistent. In their discussion of the frequency of conversation as an example of reality-generating potency, Berger and Luckmann add that the lack of frequency can sometimes be compensated for by the intensity of the conversation when it does take place.15 The observed shtibl and its Sabbath morning ritual conform to this theoretical construct. The shtibl, its leadership, and rituals are modelled after the yeshiva. The one reality for the individual is his intensive, or focused, participation on Sabbath morning in the shtibl service. Although members duplicate only the yeshiva’s prayer service, not its academic studies, they are able to reaffirm their own reality, the reality of their previous socialization. By attending a

13 Ibid., 173. 14 Heilman, Synagogue Life, 173. 15 Berger and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality, 174.

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facsimile of the yeshiva prayer service in the shtibl, they effectively maintain their alteration stage. This theoretical model helps explain as well the presence of the participant who did not receive formal yeshiva schooling. As I have observed, Friedman has shown that modern Orthodoxy has become right wing and is interconnected with the yeshiva Weltanschauung. The power of the Orthodox movement, both financially and politically, is in the hands of this group. As the number of yeshiva graduates has grown, their impact upon modern Orthodox Jewish communities has also increased. Halakically observant Jews prefer to identify with this group. They now want their reference group to be identified with the yeshiva milieu. This behavior is also manifested in the choice of schools; at this shtibl, even those who do not themselves have a yeshiva education send their children to rabbinic academies or Orthodox day schools. The participants in the shtibl I studied have chosen this synagogue as they do not completely desire to socialize into the yeshiva Weltanschauung. They seek, however, to mix their world and that of the yeshiva. The shtibl thereby permits Jews who have not been educated at a yeshiva to be identified with yeshiva, or right-wing, Orthodoxy, and it does not alter completely their behavior. Participation in the shtibl liturgy is what Heilman terms “ritual conformity” in contrast to “ritual rebellion.”16 These people continue to wear sports jackets and knitted skull-caps, but they are identified by the right-wing community as halakically observant Jews. A possible consideration that follows from the above observation is that the behavior described can be pronounced in the larger Orthodox community. The modern Orthodox synagogue of the 60s now attracts non-halakically observant Jews. Observant Jews of traditional modern Orthodoxy have converted their synagogues, whether large or small, to accommodate shtibl-style services. They have modeled their Sabbath morning prayer services and rituals on the yeshiva. Through the liturgy and public rituals practiced in the shtibl, participants reflect, communicate, perpetuate, and develop the pattern of meaning and inherited conceptions that the yeshiva world defines as its culture. These shared involvements of shtibl participants confirm and perpetuate the reality of this world. 16 Heilman, Synagogue Life, 73.

Historical Time and Liminal Time: A Chapter in Rabbinic Historiosophy Nissan Rubin A Historians and others dealing in history are aware that there are some cultures that encourage the study of history per se, while other cultures lack a historical perspective and have no interest in this kind of historical research. Cultural anthropologists note that different cultures relate differently to time and space because even these concepts, as different aspects of one’s worldview, are given to constraints and pressures of the social environment.1 The basic assumption of anthropologists is that human beings in all cultures do not view space and time as continuums, but instead divide them into discrete units. Geographic areas, for example, are actually continuums that are partitioned by human beings in the form of boundaries between countries and continents. The accepted segmentation into continents assists us in orienting ourselves in space, just as the division of Earth into latitude and longitude lines also helps us orient ourselves. These partitions are accepted conventions, though other divisions could serve as well. The imaginary boundaries cause us to view space as An earlier version of this article appeared in Hebrew in Jewish History 2 (1988): 7–22. 1 This is an expression of the cultural relativist approach in anthropology. According to this approach, time is a concept connected to a social construct and therefore changes from society to society. See: Maurice Bloch, “The Past and Present in the Present,” Man, New Series 12 (1977): 278–293.

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composed of discernible units, while it is actually continuous space. Since human beings are born into a segmented reality, they accept it as obvious and self-understood.2 These boundaries do not exist in a reality that is external to us, but in a reality which is constructed by our consciousness. The same axiom holds true with regards to time. Physical time is also a continuum measured by various measuring tools, but the concept of time, as perceived by society as cultural time, is divided into discrete units. Leach3 talks about two simultaneous and contradictory approaches to time: one views nature as cyclical in its repetition of days, months, and years; the other views the phenomenon of life as non-cyclical, since every creature that is born grows older and dies without repetition. In other words, one can view time as linear, from an endless past to an endless future; or as a circular, cyclical phenomenon. In each of these approaches, human beings create time by dividing continuous time into discrete units placed side by side, as if they were disconnected from one another. Thus we have hours of rest and hours of work, weekdays and days of Sabbaths and holidays, this world and the world to come, childhood, adolescence, adulthood, old age and so on—boundaries that do not exist in objective reality but exist in human consciousness. These discrete units of time have a beginning and an end that we usually express in rites of passage, such as Kiddush to usher in the Sabbath and Havdala to usher it out. In addition are the rites of passage that accompany the individual through the continuum of life: the transition from birth to adulthood to marriage until death. It is on the basis of this approach that sociologists and anthropologists propose various key concepts for discussion on the differences that exist among cultures regarding their approach to time and history, beyond the idiosyncratic elements in each individual culture.4 These key concepts may be refined based 2 For more information about the social construction of reality, see: Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1966). 3 Edmund Leach, Rethinking Anthropology (London, UK: Athlon, 1961), 124–136. 4 Anthropologists have suggested various categorizations of time. Often, these are variations of a similar idea expressed in different concepts, for example: Edward Evan Evans-Pritchard, “Nuer Time Reckoning,” Africa 12 (1939): 189–216; Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer (Oxford, UK: Clarendon, 1940), 94–138, distinguishes between ecological time and structural time; Claude Levi-Strauss, The Savage Mind (London, UK: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1966) differentiates between totemic time and historical time; Edmund Leach (note 3 above) distinguishes between secular time and sanctified time; Maurice Bloch (note 1 above)

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on the studies of Mary Douglas and her followers,5 which deal with the connection between life experiences in different social structures and cosmological typologies (the final and absolute concepts that justify human existence). Turner’s studies on the world of symbolism and human ritual6 contribute to our understanding of the link between perception of time and the social-cultural structure. A well-known example of the time-structure link is how the Greeks (in the classic and Hellenistic periods) and the Romans (in the ancient world) developed history as an independent intellectual sphere, in contrast to the Assyrians and Babylonians who only wrote chronography but not history; the Egyptians also did not deal with history. Extensive literature has been written on the historical orientation of each of these cultures.7 Herr already noted8 that the historical consciousness of the Israelite nation in the ancient world enjoys an intermediate position with regards to the two extremes mentioned above. We find historiography in the Bible, but the Bible does not supply historical facts per se; instead it displays the concept of God’s divine providence in history. Certain changes took place during the days of the Second Temple: along with the biblical tradition, as expressed in I Maccabees for example, the historical

distinguishes between natural time and ritual time. Steve Rayner, “The Perception of Time and Space in Egalitarian Sects: A Millenarian Cosmology,” in Essays in the Sociology of Perception, ed. Mary Douglas, 247–274 (London, UK: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982) distinguishes between historical time and operational time. Alfred Gell, The Anthropology of Time: Cultural Construction of Temporal Maps and Images (Oxford, UK: Berg, 1992) differentiates between social time and cognitive time. See his book for a discussion about the views of anthropologists. See also note 7 below. 5 Douglas’ idea of the concept was first disseminated in her book Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. (New York, NY: Pantheon, 1973). See also her later books in which she refined the concept and introduced changes into it: Cultural Bias (London, UK: Royal Anthropological Institute, 1978); Essays in the Sociology of Perception; (note 4 above); How Institutions Think (London, UK: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1986). 6 Victor W. Turner, The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndambu Rituals (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), 93–111. 7 See Mosheh David Herr, “The Rabbinic Sages’ Perception of History,” in Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress for Jewish Sciences, 129–142 ( Jerusalem, Israel: Magnes Press, 1977) [Hebrew]. 8 Ibid., 130. Herr, “Continuity in the Chain of the Torah Tradition,” in Yitzchak Baer Memorial Volume, eds. Haim Beinart et al., 43–56 ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Historical Society of Israel, 1983) [Hebrew].

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Hellenistic tradition leaves its mark, as expressed in books such as II Maccabees and the works of Josephus Flavius. In the literature of the Sages we find echoes of, and testimony to, historical events,9 though the Sages themselves did not see any need to engage in historiography. Yet they did have a historical worldview, in that they extracted lessons or morals from historical information in the Bible to apply to their own times and places.10 The drashot (exegesis, plural of drashah) of the Sages in aggadic (aggada—homiletic passages in the classical rabbinic literature) literature are testimony to this trend. One of the techniques accepted by the Sages was the tendency to downplay, or even negate, transitional situations; instead they emphasized events through sharp contrasts. Researchers have noted that aggadic literature of the Sages only infrequently portrays figures in shades of gray; most characters are portrayed in black and white. This was because the Sages had didactic goals. To them, the objective historical event was unimportant compared to the message or lesson that could be extracted from it.11 In this article I take this a step further and argue that the Sages tended to void transitional situations in the historical process. They chose to freeze time, and

  9 For example, in Seder Olam; this is a chronographic book from the Tannaitic era that deals with the chronology of the biblical era and the period immediately following. Also, Megillat Ta’anit, which was composed in the Tannaitic period or perhaps even before, and includes thirty-five dates from the history of Israel with the goal of instructing what days one cannot fast on. Regarding the time period for when Megillat Ta’anit was composed, see: Meir Bar-Ilan, “The Nature and Source of Megillat Ta’anit,” Sinai 98, no. 3–4 (1986): 114–137 [Hebrew]; Vered Noam, Megillat Ta’anit: Versions, Interpretation, History ( Jerusalem, Israel: Yad Ben-zvi Press, 2003) [Hebrew]. 10 See: Herr (note 7 above) and also: Ephraim E. Urbach, “Halakha and History,” in Jews, Greeks and Christians: Religious Cultures in Late Antiquity—Essays in Honor of William David Davies, eds. Robert Hamerton-Kelly and Robin Scroggs, 112–128 (Leiden, Holland: Brill, 1976). 11 See, for example: Ephraim E. Urbach, “King and Prophet in the Eyes of the Sages,” in Leadership Types in the Biblical Period, 55–68 ( Jerusalem, Israel: The Israel Academy of Science and Humanities, 1973) [Hebrew]. There are numerous examples in the literature of the Sages testifying to the intentional blurring of the historical time sequence, and attributing events to various personages beyond the dimension of time. For example, see BT Pesahim 117a: “This Hallel, [Psalms 113–118], who said it? R. Jose said: My son Eleazar maintains that Moses and Israel said it when they ascended from the [Red] Sea, but his colleagues disagree with him, averring that David said it. But his view is preferable to theirs: Is it possible that Israel slaughtered their Passover offerings or took their palm-branches without uttering song?” Also see BT Berakhoth 48b, and many other examples.

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instead of a developmental time continuum, we find a fixed time-template that allows them to compress or expand given historical times at will.12 It is impossible to analyze the Sages’ historical perception in depth in one article, but I will focus here on one example that represents a certain facet of their historical view. The explanation will be in the direction I mentioned above: examining the connection between the social construct and cosmology. The discussion will be mainly based on sources of the Sages dealing with circumcision. These sources will be analyzed with anthropological-sociological tools.

B A close perusal of sources, from relatively early to later ones, reveals that the Sages attributed a special status to certain significant individuals in the biblical world: these were “born circumcised” (“‫ )”יצא מהול‬that is, born without foreskins (‫ ערלה‬orlah). Several such individuals were born after Abraham underwent the first divinely mandated circumcision. According to a Tannaitic opinion in a baraita, Moses “was born circumcised” (BT Sotah 12a). R. Yohanan, second generation of the Eretz Israel Amoraim, says that David “was born circumcised” (BT Sotah 10b). He derives this from the verse “To David, michtam” (‫)מכתם‬ (Psalms 57:1): “descended from her [Tamar] was David, the pure and innocent one.” The darshan compares “tam” (pure and innocent) in “michtam” with God’s saying to Abraham, “Walk in My ways and be perfect” (tamim, ‫)תמים‬ (Genesis 17:1). Just as the Sages declare that Abraham became “perfect” (tamim) due to circumcision, even though circumcision might actually be equated with a mutilation imposed on the body, so David was already “perfect” at birth. Thus R. Yehuda HaNassi explicates, “Although Abraham observed all 12 For the sake of clarification, let me note that this is not about personal time. Regarding personal time there are two contradictory approaches that have been discussed by Shlomo Deshen following Leach (note 3 above) in his article, “The ‘Kol Nidre’ Enigma: An Anthropological View on the Day of Atonement Liturgy,” Ethnology 18 (1978): 121–133. One view is that time flows in a linear direction, and advances according to the sequence that God unfolds. Human life is also sequential, from birth to the grave. This view of time offers worldly reward and punishment for human acts. Due to the causal sequence of events, the acts of the past cannot be rectified. The second approach is that of cyclical time, according to which one may return to an earlier period in one’s personal life to cancel a defective development. God can nullify sins and rectify a prior time period while cancelling the defective present time. Also see: Nissan Rubin, “Sages’ Conception of Body and Soul,” in Essays in the Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society, eds. Simcha Fishbane and Jack N. Lightstone, 73–79 (Montreal, Canada: Concordia University, 1990).

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the commandments, he was only called ‘shalem’ (perfect) when he underwent circumcision” (BT Nedarim 32a).13 R. Shemuel Bar Nahman, who lived in the generation after R. Yohanan, explicates that Jacob and Joseph were born circumcised (Gen. Rabbah 24:6), and R. Berekhiah (who lived in the fourth generation of Eretz Israel Amoraim), repeats that Jacob was born circumcised (Gen. Rabbah 63:7). Surprisingly, there is even a midrash in the name of R. Levi (third generation of Eretz Israel Amoraim) that Abraham himself, who was circumcised late in life, was born circumcised.14 In the later sources, we see an increase in the number of persons who were born circumcised. In Avot de-Rabbi Natan (version A, 2)15 the darshan asks: “What is the hedge which Job made about his words? Lo, it says, ‘A wholehearted and an upright man. . . .’( Job 1:8) this teaches that Job was born circumcised.” The darshan adds and explicates that “also Adam was born circumcised . . .16 also Seth was born circumcised,” and adds the following biblical figures to the list: Noah, Shem, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Bilaam, Samuel, David, Jeremiah, and Zerubavel. Midrash Tehillim (9:7) talks about “thirteen who were born circumcised” and Midrash Tanhuma enumerates “seven circumcised individuals born in the world” or “ten children of Adam were born

13 The concept of achieving rectification through circumcision is, evidently, an innovation that arose in the generation of the Hadrian decrees. R. Akiva learned, “where could he circumcise himself and yet be whole? Nowhere else than at the orlah of the body” (Gen. Rabbah 46:5, also see the words of R. Yishmael). Hadrian decreed “not to mutilate their sexual organs” (Scriptores historiae Augustae Hdr. 14, 2) as an extension of the ban on castration as promulgated by caesars Domitian and Nerva. It seems that drashot like these were intended to strengthen the listeners not to view circumcision as mutilation, but instead as rectification. Other sources give different interpretations to circumcision. According to R. Yose, circumcision is beneficial to fertility: “How do we know concerning circumcision that it takes place at the place of circumcision?” (Tosefta Shabbat 16:9). In other words, circumcision is analogous to hoeing the land in order to promote growth. This saying is quoted in Gen. Rabbah 46:4, in the name of Bar Kapra and in Lev. Rabbah 25:6 and BT Shabbat 108a, in the name of Rav. 14 “R. Levi said: It does not say ‘Abraham circumcised (mal) himself,’ but ‘was Abraham circumcised (nimol)’ (Gen. 17:26), this intimates that he examined himself and found that he was [already] circumcised” (Gen. Rabbah 47:9). R. Abba bar Kahane reprimanded R. Levi for this drasha. 15 See Solomon Schechter’s note that this source is a later addition. 16 The explanation of this darshan differs from that of R. Hoshaya: “A philosopher asked R. Hoshaya: ‘If circumcision is so precious why was it not given to Adam?’” (Gen. Rabbah 11:6). This implies that Adam was not born circumcised.

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circumcised.”17 In the earlier Tannaitic and Amoraic midrashim, those said to have been born circumcised were significant individuals born after Abraham, who was the first to receive the circumcision command. But the later midrashim added others who were born before the generation of Abraham, starting from Adam. Clearly, these midrashim are trying to make a point, to transmit some kind of message to their audience. The question is: what is this message? Before addressing this question, let me make a methodological comment about the difference between the historian and sociologist or anthropologist: while the historian usually wants to uncover, as much as possible, the objective reality and the sequence of events that transpired in reality and draw conclusions, the cultural sociologist or anthropologist does not ask what exactly happened, but instead, how was reality perceived subjectively by the members of society or various groups within the society. It is the constructed subjective reality that influences human behavior in daily life. Therefore, this subjective reality interests the sociologist and anthropologist no less than “what really happened.”18 This constructed reality is reflected in ideologies and cosmologies on the nature of society and the world, and is likely to be molded and changed through reciprocal contact with the changing reality. Therefore, when we use the concept of “the Sages” as a collective unit, we address a cumulative process that created and shaped a worldview in the long term, through the activities of the Sages. Their intellectual activity formed the consciousness of each individual of the Jewish nation. Now we extend this concept to the discussion of the baby born circumcised (as quoted above in the sources). We find the first harbingers of this concept back in the Tannaitic generations, continuing in the Amoraitic period, and consolidated at the end of the Amoraitic period and afterwards. In 17 Midrash Tehillim 9:7 enumerates thirteen individuals who were born circumcised, the same number as appears in Avot de-Rabbi Natan (version A, 2). However, the Avot de-Rabbi Natan list omits the names of Job, Balaam, and Zerubavel, and replaces them with Enoch, Terah, and Isaiah. Midrash Tanhuma (Noah 5) on Noah says that Noah was “one of seven individuals born circumcised in the world,” and they are: Adam, Seth, Noah, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and Job. In a different place the Tanhuma says that Noah was “one of ten individuals born circumcised” (Midrash Tanhuma Noah 6, Buber edition, 32), but did not list the other nine. The later lists use “whole” numbers: seven, ten, and thirteen. 18 For historical and sociological perspectives, see for example Philip Abrams, Historical Sociology (Somerset, UK: Open Books, 1982); Reinhard Bendix, Force, Fate And Freedom: On Historical Sociology (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1984).

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the later period, groups of significant individuals were assigned the born circumcised status: thirteen or ten or seven were born circumcised. At the beginning, the status was only ascribed to significant individuals born after Abraham accepted the circumcision commandment, and these are: Abraham himself, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and David. Later midrashim add individuals who lived even before the circumcision commandment was given to Abraham, and these people are: Adam, Seth, Noah, and Shem; some add Enoch, Terah, and individuals who lived after Abraham from all the biblical historical periods. These additional personages were added on the basis of midrashic word play on biblical quotes, such as the word “tam” (perfect) or “tov” (good). For the purpose of this article, there is no overarching importance to the actual names that are used and exchanged in the later midrashim; the importance lies in the very fact that important biblical figures are attributed with the circumcision-from-birth status. In this way, a historical worldview is formed via these midrashim and a message is transmitted: not intentionally, true, but a message that arises from a specific worldview. Again, we ask the question: what is this message? I argue that this midrash, like many others, is the key for understanding the historical worldview of the Sages. While the Sages hold that the Israelite nation was first conceived in the time of the patriarch Abraham, the midrashim try to show that even before Abraham were important individuals who carried identifying signs connecting them to the Nation of Israel. This is, of course, despite the fact that these identifying signs appear later chronologically. Thus, the Sages retroactively “Judaized” several biblical personages; their objective in doing so will be elucidated below. I will explain my argument in greater detail. The formative process of the nation began with the patriarch Abraham, continued in Egypt and the Sinai wilderness, and ended with the entry to the Land of Israel. This was a formative period in which important events took place, according to the Bible. Yet according to the words of the Sages as they appear in the midrashic sources, this is not a formative period but a period in which matters were already fixed and settled. What kinds of matters are we talking about? According to the Sages, membership in the Nation of Israel is determined by being born to a Jewish mother and undergoing the covenant of circumcision (true, there can be an

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uncircumcised Jew, but he will not be allowed to perform certain commandments).19 Another important factor in Jewish identity is acceptance of the Torah’s commandments; and circumcision is, of course, an important commandment. Thus, the patriarch Abraham’s circumcision set the lowermost boundary of the nation-formation process, while the giving of the Torah at the Mount Sinai revelation, sets in principle the upper boundary of this process that came to its final end with the nation’s entry to the Land of Israel. This formative period of the nation, as it is viewed by the Sages, is the subject of interest in this article. When Abraham accepted the circumcision commandment, the history of the world (according to the historical view of the Sages) was sub-divided into two major periods: the “era of orlah” (uncircumcision), prior to Abraham, and the “era of milah” (circumcision), from Abraham and thereafter. The time of uncircumcision was originally intended by the Creator to be a relatively long period, “a thousand generations was the original intention.” But, according to R. Shmuel Bar Nahman, this period was shortened by twenty generations until the generation of Abraham when he was given the circumcision commandment. This was because human virtues were corrupted in the Flood and Tower of Babel generations, thus nine hundred and eighty generations were wiped out (Gen. Rabbah 28:4).20 Since God has no interest in a corrupted mankind, He stipulates to Abraham that if he will accept circumcision, the world will survive only with him and the circumcision, without all of humanity; “Let it suffice thee that I and thou are in the world. If thou wilt not undergo circumcision it is enough for My world to have existed until now, and it is enough for uncircumcision to have existed until now, and it is enough for circumcision to have been forlorn until now” (Gen. Rabbah 46:3).21 In these midrashim, circumcision receives a metaphysical significance: it has an 19 On attribution of a newborn baby to his mother’s lineage, see: JT Yevamoth 5:15, 6c; BT Yevamoth 45b. Below are some of the commandments (mitzvoth) that the uncircumcised person may not perform: he may not circumcise another Jew ( JT Yevamoth 8:1, 8d ), he is not required to make the pilgrimage to the Temple on the three Jewish pilgrimage festivals ( JT Shabbat 19:3, 17b), he may not sacrifice the Passover offering (Mishnah Pesahim 5:3), a priest may not eat Terumah (a share of the crop given to the priests) and Kodashim (holy food) (BT Yevamoth 70a), and he is forbidden to tithe (BT Yevamoth 73a). 20 See Minchat Yehuda’s note on Genesis Rabbah (in Theodor-Albeck’s edition). For different variations of this midrash, see: Ecclesiastes Rabbah 4:3; Midrash Ha-Gadol on Genesis, 17:1. 21 In a different style: “Up to now foreskin has been customary, but circumcision has been concealed” (Tanhuma Lekh-Lekhah, Buber, 55).

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independent existence, without connection to human beings; with its very existence, the world’s destiny is realized. In the same midrash, a different opinion is cited by R. Eliezer ben R. Yossi the Galilean. He says that the Torah was worthy of being given after a thousand generations, but in fact twenty-six generations were subtracted from that number. Thus, “only” nine hundred and seventy-four generations were wiped out. These two outlooks represent two schools of thought regarding the beginning of the history of the Nation of Israel: one views it as starting with circumcision, the other, with the acceptance of the Torah. But there is a gap, an intermediate time period, between the two boundaries. Therefore, we receive the following grouping of historical sequences: from Adam until the patriarch Abraham is a world without circumcision and without Torah, all of it constitutes the era of uncircumcision. From the patriarch Abraham until the acceptance of the Torah, there is circumcision, but no Torah. From the acceptance of the Torah until the entry to the Land of Israel there is Torah in the world but no circumcision. That is because circumcision was not performed in the Sinai wilderness until Joshua circumcised them all prior to their entry to the Land ( Joshua 5:5). Thus, the Nation of Israel acquired the two identifying signs of circumcision and Torah, only after the entry to the Land. 22 This means the following: the period from the patriarch Abraham until entrance to Eretz Israel is a transitional period of formation, but since the Sages avoid historical intermediate periods in which personages, situations, and events are not clearly defined, they cancelled borderline situations by ascribing circumcision to important persons in the in-between generations—in other words, those born circumcised according to the midrash. The Sages also ascribed delving into the Torah and observing commandments to people in this period, as we will see below. Thus, central personalities in the history of the Nation of Israel receive the full set of identifying signs, even during the formative period, to show their membership in the Nation of Israel.

22 For the importance of circumcision and Torah as major identification symbols, see BT Berakhoth 48b: “Nahum the Elder says: He must mention in it [the second blessing in grace after meals] the covenant. R. Jose says: He must mention in it the Torah.” The conclusion is: “and whoever does not mention the covenant [circumcision] and the Torah in the blessing of the Land . . . has not performed his obligation” (ibid., 49a).

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This point of view was evidently well-established by the wane of the Amoraitic period. But even though some of the sources are in a later period, we cannot discount the possibility that the viewpoint took root some generations earlier.

C We will try to understand the approach of the Sages within a discussion on the concept of liminality, as developed by anthropologists. In his classic study on rites of passage, Van Gennep23 defined a rite of passage as one that accompanies any change in place, time, situation, and age in the life-cycle of an individual, as well as changes in the life of a community. Rituals of the individual include: birth rituals, birthdays, adulthood, marriage, and death; societal rituals include the first-fruit ritual, the New Year festivals, and coronation ceremonies. Van Gennep found that rites of passage share a general order and a three-fold structure: the separation stage, the liminal or transition stage, and the incorporation stage. In the first stage, the initiand (the subject of the rite) separates and leaves behind his previous status. In the liminal stage, he is actually suspended between two identities or authorities; he had left his earlier stage but not yet entered the new stage. In the third stage, the initiand is re-incorporated into society with a new identity, as a new being. The stages are not necessarily strictly chronological, because some occur simultaneously. For example, the mourner in the Jewish ritual of Shiva is separated from everyday, normal activity, but simultaneously receives consolers who assist him to re-incorporate into daily life with the new status of a bereaved person. Turner focuses on the liminal stage as an independent stage and expands this concept beyond rites of passage. It is an independent life-category that falls between the categories of regular social life. People living in the liminal category share a social status of betwixt and between, neither here nor there; they have left their previous circumstances but not yet entered the new ones. Relationships between people in this situation tend to be egalitarian, direct, irrational, existential, and characterized by the “I-you” relationship (in Buber’s sense). It is a spontaneous condition with a sense of fellowship and immediacy, a condition of living in the present without continuity, and thus is also characterized by 23 Arnold Van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London, UK: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960).

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symbols of asexuality or bisexuality. These conditions are typical of comingof-age adulthood rituals in tribal societies when the neophytes all live in one band. They have left the childhood status but not yet entered the status of adults. The relations between them are based on egalitarianism and characterized by fellowship and mutual responsibility, though they are still subordinate to the elders. In modern life we see similar situational characteristics in military boot camps. Turner extended this concept to also include transitional periods in history, betwixt and between time periods perceived by the contemporary generation as a transition time, as life in a liminal period. The past has lost its significance, but the future is not yet formed. This is a period of searching for a new path, of social innovations and social effervescence.24 People view the world they live in as a corridor taking them from the world they left into another world they cannot yet see. The world to come is fully formed, but the corridor is a world of preparation in which things are in the process of being shaped and formed. In the corridor world the individual must prepare himself to leave the chaos and proceed toward the next world. One form of liminal lifestyle is the monasticism of monks and nuns. Another is the Judean desert sects during the time of the Second Temple, which also exemplify this worldview. Their lifestyle contained many identifying signs of the liminal stage, such as: egalitarianism due to abolishment of personal property, fraternity, sense of immediacy, and lack of sexuality due to prohibition of marriage. Their sense was of living in a formative world. Formative periods in the annals of nations may be viewed as liminal periods. These eras are not fully formed, and their sense of time is not the daily sense of time. It is a special time-period in which matters are formed and molded. Such periods provide fertile ground for the growth of mythologies dealing with how things were formed (formative eras).

D In daily life, halakha ( Jewish law) does not allow for marginal situations. Instead, it defines the situation and restricts it with clear boundaries. Thus, for 24 Turner, The Forest of Symbols (note 6 above); also see Turner, “Metaphors of Anti-Structure in Religious Culture,” in Changing Perspectives in the Scientific Study of Religion, ed. Allan W. Eister (New York, NY: Wiley, 1974), 63–84.

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example, we find discussions on the circumcision commandment that deal with unclear cases or instances such as: an infant who is born circumcised (i.e., without a foreskin),25 a mashukh (‫)משוך‬, that is, a man who physically disguises his circumcision by drawing down his foreskin (decircumcision or epispasm, ‫)משוך ערלה‬,26 an infant born to a Jewish mother but not circumcised because of illness,27 and an infant who dies before being circumcised.28 These are examples of marginal situations that are not defined unequivocally, but for which halakha finds solutions. In case a historical period is undefined, the aggada removes the ambiguity and makes it unequivocal. As a result, the unclear situation is resolved. In the time of orlah, the Bible portrays people who play an important role in the Israelite nation’s early history, yet they do not belong to the Nation of Israel according to the halakhic definition. Therefore, their status is liminal. R. Hoshaya is asked by a philosopher:29 “If circumcision is so precious, why was it not given to Adam?” (Gen. Rabbah 11:6). In a later midrash, Tyrannus Rufus asked Rabbi Akiva: if He finds pleasure in circumcision, “why does no one emerge from his mother’s belly circumcised?”30 Just as they were concerned about the circumcision of Adam, so they asked about Noah; why did he receive a special status, if he was not circumcised? Evidently they accepted the opinion, brought in Midrash Tanhuma about the importance of circumcision, that “circumcision is so important that no child is included in the reckoning of 25 Should he be viewed as uncircumcised, as his foreskin was not removed, or circumcised, because he has no foreskin? See BT Shabbat 135a; BT Yevamoth 71a; JT Yevamoth 8:1, 8d. 26 The question is whether someone who drew down his foreskin so as to appear uncircumcised must undergo circumcision again. See Tosefta Shabbat 16:9; JT Shabbat 19:2, 17a; BT Yevamoth 72a. 27 Someone who was not circumcised because he had brothers who died due to circumcision, therefore his life would be endangered. See Tosefta Shabbat 15:8; JT Yevamoth 6:6, 7d; BT Yevamoth 64b. 28 The question is whether the lifeless child should be circumcised before burial, so that he should receive a Jewish funeral and be buried as a Jew. See, for example, Gen. Rabbah 48:1; Ex. Rabbah 19:5. 29 Questions that have overtones of subversion or heresy are brought in the midrashim as questions asked by individuals outside the Jewish social system. That way, questions that could arouse delegitimization can be answered safely. Since they are asked by outsiders, their severity is moderated. See, for example, the questions of the Matronah (a Talmudic gentile lady) in Gen. Rabbah 17:7 and 25:1; the question of the Roman General Controcos to R. Johanan b. Zakkai (BT Bekhoroth 5a), and more. 30 Tanhuma Tazria 99b–c; and see Bereshit Rabbati, Lekh Lekhah 45:4, Buber, 72–73.

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generations until he has been circumcised.”31 In other words, uncircumcised men were not recorded on the ancestral line. Therefore, the question arises: what justifies the special treatment given to Noah or others? The solution provided by the aggada is, as aforesaid, that they were born circumcised. True, according to halakha, a Jewish infant who is born circumcised must still undergo a ritual of the drawing of blood from his penis, a kind of quasi-circumcision.32 However, as far as the aggada is concerned, the born circumcised solution still stands for biblical figures. The exact list of personages who were born circumcised is not important; the principle is important. Therefore, various and sundry figures may be included in the list or removed from it in different time periods and by different darshanim. In rabbinic historiosophy, those people born circumcised have the privilege of being recorded in the chain of generations, even if they were born in the time of orlah and are not full Israelites according to the accepted criteria. However, there were especially worthy individuals who, according to the aggada, ostensibly studied Torah and observed the commandments even before the Torah was given on Sinai. Now we reach the second identifying sign, stemming from the upper boundary of Torah observance. Thus, Torah was studied and commandments were observed by some worthy individuals even before the Torah was given. As a generalization, we may say that, according to the midrash, important persons in the era of orlah generally did not reach the level of Torah observance except for Shem, son of Noah, who enjoyed a special status. But those persons living in the era of milah (circumcision) but before the acceptance of the Torah, were ascribed Torah observance. Whoever was born circumcised during the era of milah, enjoyed another point in his favor. There are no midrashim stating that primordial Adam, who according to the midrash was born circumcised, observed the Torah commandments. In Gen. Rabbah (24:5) it is said in the name of R. Yudah that Adam was worthy of being given the Torah, except that he did not pass the first test of observing only the six commandments he was given.33 It is interesting that only Midrash 31 Tanhuma Vayera 10c. 32 For details about the status of a baby born circumcised, see: Tosefta Yevamoth 9:2; JT Yevamoth 8:1, 8d; BT Yevamoth 71a; BT Shabbat 135a. 33 See Gen. Rabbah 16:6. BT Sanhedrin 56b expresses the opinion that Adam received the seven Noahide laws. According to other points of view, he received only one or two

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Tehillim (9:7) cites Enoch among those worthy persons born circumcised, even though the Torah says about him, “Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him” (Genesis 5:24). One would think that Enoch, who according to the Bible enjoyed a special status, would be ascribed circumcision from birth like other special biblical figures. Nevertheless, while Enoch was a much revered figure in pseudepigraphic works and in Christian literature, he was rarely mentioned in the Tannaitic and Amoraitic literature; perhaps this was to reject Christian notions of immortality. He is mentioned more frequently in early midrashim, but views of him are divided. Some midrashim view him as “beloved” (by God), included among the “seven beloved ones,”34 and some say, “Enoch was a hypocrite, acting sometimes as a righteous, sometimes as a wicked man” (Gen. Rabbah 25:1).35 None of the Sages attributed Torah study or Torah observance to Enoch. There is no unequivocal view even of Noah, who was said to have been born circumcised. Some commentators praise him, others find fault in him.36 The midrash does not attribute Torah study or observance to him. The good deeds attributed to him are that he invented work-tools for the benefit of mankind, that he delayed the construction of the ark as long as possible so as to give the members of his generation time to repent, and that he devoted himself selflessly to the care of the animals in the ark.37 Shem, son of Noah, was (as aforesaid) the only member of the era of orlah who was credited with the privilege of Torah study. He was even credited with being the founder of a study house known as “the Beit Midrash of Shem” or “Beit Midrash of Shem and Ever” (Ever was Shem’s great-grandson). Isaac was said to

34

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36 37

commandments. According to Gen. Rabbah 16:5, he observed the Shabbat. Also see Midrash Tehillim 92:6. Lev. Rabbah 29:11: “The seventh is a favorite among the generations. Thus: Adam, Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, and of him it is written ‘And Enoch walked with God’ (Gen. 5:24). Among the Patriarchs the seventh was favorite. Thus: Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Levi, Kohath, Amram and Moses, of whom it is written, ‘And Moses went up unto God’ (Ex. 19:3).” See Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1968), 1:124–142 and note 58, 5:58–59. Also see the question sectarians asked R. Abbahu: “We do not find that Enoch died? How so?” (Gen. Rabbah 25:1) and see Minchat Yehuda. BT Sanhedrin 108a; Gen. Rabbah 30:9. Also see BT Eruvin 18b. BT Sanhedrin 108a; Tanhuma Noah 29, Buber, 29.

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have studied Torah there.38 Jacob was said to have studied in the Beit Midrash of Shem and Ever39 and transmitted his Torah to his son Joseph.40 The midrash says that Shem and Ever also had a court of law (beit din),41 and that God Himself appeared in their court.42 Other midrashim focus on their good deeds.43 Perhaps Shem received this status in the midrash because he was Noah’s eldest son, and the first of the dynasty leading to the patriarch Abraham. Patriarchal societies attribute great importance to lineage and to the good deeds of one’s ancestors. In the era of milah we find that “the patriarch Abraham performed the entire Torah” (Mishnah, Kiddushin 4:14) including “mysteries of the Torah in all their details” (Tosefta, Kiddushin 5:21).44 Regarding Isaac, it is said that he “was an elder [zaken] and a member in the scholar’s council [yeshiva]” (BT Yoma 28b).45 We saw above that Jacob studied in the Beit Midrash of Shem and Ever, and taught their Torah to his son Joseph. Moreover, one midrash anticipated that the Children of Israel should have observed the entire Torah while still in Egypt, before the Torah was received on Mount Sinai. Since they did not do so, they were punished, “For when Israel were in Egypt, they rejected the Torah and circumcision. . . . The tribe of Levi, however, were all righteous and practiced the Torah . . . and circumcision. . . .” (Num. Rabbah 15:12). The midrashim do not necessarily ascribe Torah study and observance of commandments to all individuals who were born circumcised.46 However, the examples above clearly show how the Sages purposely blurred boundaries in their historical discourse. There is no historical development at all. Patterns of the future were imposed on the past so that the patriarchs all observed the Torah and commandments, and when the Israelites did not observe the Torah Gen. Rabbah 56:11. Rebecca went to the Beit Midrash of Ever, see Gen. Rabbah 63:6. Gen. Rabbah 63:10. Gen. Rabbah 84: 8. Gen. Rabbah 67:8. Gen. Rabbah 85:12; BT Makkot 23b. Gen. Rabbah 52:11; 20:6, 62:3. See the version change in Tosefta, Lieberman, 299. Also see Gen. Rabbah 61:1. It seems that the book of Jubilees is based on the concept that Abraham observed the entire Torah. 45 About Isaac observing some commandments, see Pesikta Rabbati 25, Meir Ish Shalom, 127b. 46 Not all Midrashim enumerate Job, Seth, Balaam, and others. But a close look at aggadot of the Sages shows us that Torah study is not attributed to controversial figures such as Job and Balaam. These individuals remain marginal figures, even if they were born circumcised. 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

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in Egypt, they were punished. This historiosophic worldview penetrated into the consciousness of each and every Jew. There is no doubt that some of the sources above could be viewed with a different light and interpreted on the basis of the Jewish-Christian polemics on circumcision. The Christians attempted to prove, in their sermons, that circumcision was unnecessary since they considered themselves the real heirs of Abraham, who is also the father of the non-circumcised ones. They based this on the biblical passage “because he [Abraham] put his trust in the Lord, He reckoned it to his merit” (Genesis 15:6), which was said to him before his circumcision.47 Therefore, midrashim about important people born circumcised was a way for the Sages to disprove the Christian claim of the worthlessness of circumcision.48 While this claim is probably true, it does not invalidate my arguments here. The drashot directed against the Christians delivered clear messages for their time. After the polemics died down, the drashot remained as cultural texts that continued to transmit messages, though not the forgotten message connected to the polemics. Gradually, a worldview arose from these texts that blurred the historical continuum. The historical reality had no importance per se: “what has passed has passed” (BT Gittin 80a). But the drashot continued to construct reality in the present, in light of the perception of the past.

E When we reach the upper boundary line, the giving of the Torah, we face another problem: was the Israelite nation circumcised during the Egyptian enslavement and the Exodus from Egypt? If so, that would mean that they ate from the Passover sacrifice while circumcised and when they accepted the Torah, they already carried all the identifying signs connecting them to the Nation of Israel. If they were not circumcised in Egypt, that would mean that when they accepted the Torah they had only one identifying sign, and thus shared a liminal situation despite the Mount Sinai revelation. There is no hint in the Torah whether the Israelites were circumcised or not during the Egyptian enslavement. But we are expressly told in Joshua 5:5 47 Romans 4; Galatians 3:29, 5:4–6, 6:15. 48 Regarding circumcision polemics, see Eugene Mihaly, “A Rabbinic Defense of the Election of Israel,” HUCA 35 (1964): 103–143.

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the following: “Now, whereas all the people who came out of Egypt had been circumcised, none of the people born after the Exodus, during the desert wanderings, had been circumcised.” The Sages bring this verse as evidence that the Israelites were circumcised only just before leaving Egypt, and were not circumcised during the years of enslavement. A midrash says, “When Joseph died, they abolished the covenant of circumcision, saying: ‘Let us become like the Egyptians’” (Exod. Rabbah 1:8). Only the Levite tribe in Egypt “served the Holy One and practiced circumcision” (Num. Rabbah 3:6).49 In Gen. Rabbah 46:6, R. Pinchas said in the name of R. Levi: “Abraham fell on his face on two occasions. In consequence his children were deprived of circumcision once in the wilderness and once in Egypt. In Egypt, Moses came and circumcised them; in the wilderness, Joshua came and circumcised them.” Since they were not circumcised they were no different than the nations of the world, therefore R. Yehoshua says in the name of R. Hanan that in Egypt “since both [Israelites and Egyptians] were equally uncircumcised, both equally wore front curls, both equally wore garments of mixed kinds (sha’atnez). That being so, the attribute of Justice did not allow that Israel should ever be delivered” (Cant. Rabbah, 2:2.2). According to the literal meaning of the Bible, uncircumcised individuals were forbidden from eating the annual Passover offering during Passover of all generations (Exodus 12:43–49), but were permitted to eat the first Passover offering of Egypt even if they were still uncircumcised.50 But the midrash cannot tolerate such an intermediate status as eating the Passover offering in Egypt while uncircumcised. Therefore it is not surprising to find midrashim that say that the Israelites were circumcised soon before making the Passover offering and therefore were also circumcised when they received the Torah. Thus, the midrash above from Num. Rabbah (3:6) says, “In Egypt, Moses came and 49 Moses, a Levite, was also circumcised and that was how the daughter of Pharaoh knew that he was a Hebrew child. See: Ex. Rabbah 1:24 (3) (Shinan, 78), also see Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 48, that he was circumcised by his parents. But it is also likely that he was circumcised because he was born circumcised. Also see Sifrei, Numbers 67 (Ish Shalom, 17b); Tanhuma, Beha’alotcha 13 (Buber). Regarding the circumcision of the Israelites in Egypt and by Joshua in Eretz Israel, see Micha Yosef bin-Gorion (Berdyczewski), Sinai u-Gerizim (Tel Aviv, Israel: Moreshet Micha Yosef, 1962), 217–226 [Hebrew]. 50 Philo also holds that the Israelites did not observe the circumcision precept in Egypt, see Samuel Belkin, Philo and the Oral Law (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1940), 46–47.

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circumcised them all.” When exactly did Moses circumcise them? There are two traditions in Exod. Rabbah (19:6). One is from R. Shimon ben Halafta who says that the Israelites were commanded to circumcise themselves before making the Passover offering: “When the Israelites saw that the uncircumcised were disqualified from eating the Passover [offering], they arose with the least possible delay and circumcised all their servants and sons and all those who [subsequently] went out with them.” This tradition has support in other midrashim, such as in Cant. Rabbah (3:7.4), where it says, “Who circumcised them? R. Berekhiah says, ‘Moses circumcised, Aaron drew back the flesh [peri’ah] and Joshua gave the drink.’”51 A second tradition holds that the Levite tribe observed the circumcision commandment in Egypt (the Torah tells us that even Zipporah, Moses’ wife, circumcised their son; Exodus 4:25). Thus the historical continuum of circumcision was maintained from Abraham until the entry to the Land of Israel, and by virtue of this the Levite tribe was to be redeemed. The rest of the tribes of Israel, on the other hand, did not circumcise themselves, thus they were not entitled to be redeemed until after they underwent circumcision.52 It seems that not all the darshanim had access to the tradition that the Israelites were circumcised in Egypt (despite the express verse in Joshua). Thus the question arose, how could they have received the Torah if they were uncircumcised? The answer is in later sources. In Aggadat Bereishit (17:2) it is said that King Agrippa asked this same question and R. Eliezer ha-Gadol answered him, “Before the Holy One gave the Torah, he gave them the circumcision,” that is, they were circumcised just before Mount Sinai.53 Agrippa’s question could only have been asked if there was a tradition that Israelites were not circumcised in Egypt, otherwise R. Eliezer’s answer makes no sense; everyone knows that the circumcision commandment was given as far back as Abraham, and not 51 Its parallel text in Num. Rabbah 11:3 reads: “R. Berekhiah taught in the name of R. Shimeon Ben Yohai.” Also see Cant. Rabbah, 1:57. See in Donsky’s edition his note on page 45 about the contradictory sources. 52 See Menachem M. Kasher, Torah Shelemah (New York, NY: American Biblical Encyclopedia Society, 1954), 8:19 par. 86, on the verse “A new king arose” (Exodus 1:8), that the sources are divided with reference to the question as to whether the Israelites were circumcised in the Egyptan exile. 53 Also see Pesikta Rabbati, piska 23 (Ish-Shalom, 116b), where R. Eliezer gave this answer to Aquila the proselyte. According to Tanhuma, Mishpatim 3, (Buber, 41a) Aquila gave a similar answer to Hadrian.

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just before the giving of the Torah. The answer only makes sense if the questioner and the answerer share the same assumption: that the Israelites were not circumcised in Egypt. Another later source, Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer (29), links together the following three traditions: the tradition of uncircumcision in the Egyptian enslavement, the tradition that they received the Torah after circumcision, and the verse in Joshua (5:2), “The Lord said to Joshua, Make thee knives of flint and circumcise again the children of Israel a second time:” R. Yishmael said: Did the uncircumcised hear the voice of the Holy One, blessed be He, on Mount Sinai . . .? They were circumcised, but not according to its regulation. They had cut off the foreskin, but they have not uncovered the corona [perform peri’ah]. . . . When they came to the Land of Israel . . . [ Joshua] circumcised them a second time.

This resolves all the issues: the Israelites were not circumcised during the Egyptian enslavement; they circumcised themselves before Mount Sinai, but without peri’ah. Then they were “circumcised a second time” in the Land of Israel, but only by peri’ah. This aggada is based on the words of Rav that “The commandment of uncovering the corona [peri’ah] was not given to Patriarch Abraham” (BT Yevamot 71b), and that peri’ah was only renewed by Joshua. In any case, according to this aggada, the entire Israelite nation was circumcised throughout the entire era from the Egyptian Exodus until the entry to the Land—with one caveat: that the circumcision lacked peri’ah. Thus, the entire nation fulfilled all the conditions necessary for full Israelite identity.54 According to this tradition, not only were they circumcised in Egypt and before the Mount Sinai revelation, but they were even circumcised in the wilderness without peri’ah. However, the Talmud provides an explanation for the other tradition, that the Israelites did not undergo circumcision in the wilderness. The Talmud attributes this (BT Yevamot 71b) to the “fatigue of the journey” or “because the North wind did not blow upon them [in the wilderness],” in other words—it was dangerous to undergo circumcision in a place where desert winds blow. 54 The aggada casually mentions that the Israelites leaving Egypt were all circumcised, as if that were a self-evident fact. See, for example Num. Rabbah 12:8: “If they had not been circumcised, they would not have been able to look at the divine presence.” Also see Deut. Rabbah 11:3, in which Moses tells Abraham, “I am far superior to you; you fed uncircumcised men, but I fed circumcised ones.” See also Nissan Rubin, “Brit Milah: A study of change in custom”, in The Covenant of Circumcision, ed. Elizabeth Wyner Mark, 87–97 (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England, 2003).

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Thus the liminal stage had to end immediately with the entrance to the Land. Thus it is told in the name of R. Abin son of R. Yossi that Joshua said to the Israelites: “What think you . . . that you will enter the Land uncircumcised?” (Gen. Rabbah 46:9). This circumcision, just prior to the entrance to the Land, ended a process that included a long transitional stage. In this way, the Sages transform an entire formative, liminal period—from patriarch Abraham until the entrance to the Land—into a cohesive, unified period, containing both circumcision and Torah.

F We will now strengthen our argument in the opposite direction. Just as the born circumcised status entitles the meritorious individual to appear on the stage of history, the reverse is true: meshikhat orlah—the drawing down of the foreskin (decircumcision)—is a way to remove the wicked from the annals of history. We are told in the name of R. Yehoshua ben Masparta that “Achan extended his foreskin” (BT Sanhedrin 44a).55 It is said about Esau that “his father circumcised him but [Esau] despised it and chose . . . to make himself as an uncircumcised one” (Aggadat Bereishit 58:4, page 119).56 The following midrash is another example of the disgust expressed by the Sages toward those who remove themselves from the religious community. On the verse, “The other events of Jehoiakim’s reign, and the abominable things he did, and what was found against him. . . .” (II Chronicles 36:8), the midrash says, “R. Yohanan and three Amoraim: One said, ‘he wore sha’atnez’; another said, ‘he drew down his foreskin’; the third said, ‘he had a tattoo emblazoned on his skin’” (Lev. Rabbah 19:6, page 434).57 An interesting midrash published by Urbach58 portrays the contradictory conditions of “born circumcised” as well as “foreskin extension” in the same person. “Hiram the king of Tyre started off as a reputable (“kosher”) person and was born circumcised. . . . When he 55 For a list of other sins of which Achan was accused, see JT Sanhedrin 6:3, 23b. Also see Num. Rabbah 23:6; Tanhuma Masei, 4 (Buber, 82). 56 Also see Tanhuma Toldot 4 (Buber, 64). This is also hinted at in Ruth Rabbah 9:13 (Lerner): “And Esau was a man, a cunning hunter” (Gen. 25:27) “. . . and strange” (Proverbs 21:8) because he estranged himself from circumcision and from commandments of the Torah. 57 Also see BT Sanhedrin 103b: “R. Johanan and R. Elazar differ: one maintained that he engraved the name of an idol upon his penis, and the other held that he engraved the name of Heaven thereon.” 58 Ephraim E. Urbach, “Sridei Tanhuma yelamdenu,” Kovetz Al Yad, New Series 6 ( Jerusalem, Israel: Mekize Nirdamim, 1966), 26 [Hebrew].

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became wicked . . . he extended his foreskin.” This midrash clearly shows us the well-established perspective of the time: that any biblical figure that had a positive connection to Israel was circumcised, otherwise he was either uncircumcised or had extended his foreskin. Thus, those who choose to abandon the Jewish nation do so by extending their foreskins. Wicked Israelites will be removed from the nation that way, even in the World to Come. “R. Berekhiah says: ‘So that the heretics and evil ones of Israel will not say, ‘we will not be consigned to Gehenna because we are circumcised,’ what does God do? He sends an angel to extend their foreskins, and they descend to Gehenna” (Ex. Rabbah 19:5).59 The symbolic circumcision (born circumcised) and symbolic foreskin extension (to wicked ones after their death) are clear testimony to the tremendous importance the Sages attributed to setting firm boundaries regarding affiliation with the Nation of Israel. In this way, all liminal stages are eradicated: there is no righteous person who is uncircumcised, and no wicked person who is circumcised. This worldview raises the question about the status of infants who die before their circumcision. Should they be buried without having undergone circumcision? An examination of the sources does not reveal a direct answer to the question, but does provide certain clues. In Gen. Rabbah 48:8, we find the following in the name of R. Levi: In the World to Come, Abraham sits at the entrance to Gehenna and does not allow a circumcised Israelite to descend there. What does he do to those who sinned too much?60 He transfers foreskins from infants who died before they were circumcised, to these sinners and lowers them into Gehenna.

According to this, the foreskins of infants are “available” to incriminate sinning Israelites. Thus two objectives are achieved: the infants are brought into the covenant of Abraham, and the wicked ones gain the non-circumcised status.

59 For another way to remove evildoers, see Gen. Rabbah 48:1. Also see note 60 Below; and Rubin, note 54 above. 60 Perhaps this refers to the Israelite who worshipped idols or to circumcised Christians, thus the midrash suggests that they are removed from the society. See Tanhuma Tzav 14, and also: Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages, Their Concepts and Beliefs ( Jerusalem, Israel: Magness 1975), 1:507 and 2:914, note 2. Urbach feels that the belief that the uncircumcised must enter Gehenna is ancient.

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Lieberman61 concludes from here that during the time of the Talmud it was not customary to circumcise infants who passed away. However, the fact that the Sages in the aggada “transfer” the foreskins to the wicked ones verifies our assumption regarding the awareness and consciousness of the Sages about borderlines. This consciousness eventually led to the Jewish custom of circumcising infants after death, perhaps in later Amoraitic generations but certainly by the Gaonic period. We cited the drasha of R. Berekhiah above (Ex. Rabbah 19:5) in which an angel extends the foreskins of the wicked to lower them to Gehenna. Yet he does not employ the concept of R. Levi, of transferring infant foreskins to the wicked. Perhaps this is a hint that at his time, it had become customary to circumcise infants after death. We know for a fact that it was customary to circumcise infants after death from the Gaonic period. The circumcision was performed without a blessing, but some gave a name to the infant. True, there were Geonim who strongly opposed this custom.62 Yet despite rabbinic reservations, the custom became popular. The Meiri wrote: “This custom has no basis in the Talmud, but it has become customary in many places in the world.”63 It is hard to resist a popular folk custom when the public perception, rooted in Jewish sources, is that such a custom is commensurate with popular beliefs. It clearly testifies to the symbolic power of circumcision and of orlah in determining the borders of Jewish identity. Finally, we learn from another source (BT Menahot 53b) that the destruction of the Temple was a punishment for abolishment of circumcision. Patriarch Abraham stands in the Temple during its destruction and tries to nullify the punishment that has been decreed on Israel with the argument: “Thou shouldst have remembered the covenant of circumcision, and He replied: ‘the hallowed flesh is passed from thee’” ( Jeremiah 16:11; Rashi explains: “they removed their circumcision”). Thus the circle is closed: The entrance to the Land of 61 Saul Lieberman, “Some Aspects of After Life in Early Rabbinic Literature,” in Harry Austryn Wolfson Jubilee Volume (English Section), ed. Saul Lieberman ( Jerusalem, Israel: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1968), volume II:495–532. See mainly from page 525 ff. Also see Urbach, The Sages. 62 See Binyamin M. Lewin, Otzar ha-Geonim Tractate Shabbat, (Haifa: no publisher, 1930), 137–138; Menashe Grossberg, Hatzi Menashe (London, UK: Goldenberg, 1901), 19; and Lieberman, “Some Aspects,” note 61 above, 525–526. 63 See Otzar ha-Geonim, 138, note B. Also see Yaakov Glassberg, ed., Zikhron Brit la-Rishonim by R. Yaakov and R. Gershom Ha-gozer (Berlin, Germany: 1892), 93; Yaakov Verdiger, Edut le-Yisrael (Bnei Brak, Israel: Ha-Machon le-Cheker ha-Htefilah ve-Haminhag, 1964), 150.

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Israel was dependent on circumcision, and the destruction of the Temple was due to nullification of circumcision. Men are dismissed from the stage of Jewish history for foreskin extension, but how are women deposed? In fact, there are few women in the Bible who are disparaged by the Sages, but there are also relatively few women in the Bible in general, compared to men. Orpah, Naomi’s daughter-in-law, does not act toward her mother-in-law with the benevolence of her sister-in-law Ruth, but does not do anything negative either. However, the aggada of the Sages do not leave her as a neutral figure; instead, they situate her on the other side of the fence to become a negative figure and counterpoint to Ruth. The midrash does this by making Goliath her son, and her conception of him was accomplished in a very despicable manner. Thus it says: It is written ‘the Rafah’ (II Samuel 21:16, Goliath “was a descendant of the Rafah”) and also written ‘Orpah’ (Ruth 1:4). Rab and Samuel [differ in their interpretation]. One said that her name was Harafah and why was she called Orpah? Because all had intercourse with her from the rear [oreff]. The other said: Her name was Orpah; and why was she called Harafah? Because all ground her like a bruised corn [harifoth].

And if that wasn’t enough, Goliath was born after Orpah was raped by a hundred Philistines: “R. Johanan said: He was the son of a hundred fathers and one mother” (BT Sotah: 42b).64 Since Orpah chose not to join the Nation of Israel but instead to consort with uncircumcised men, the Sages removed her to the opposite pole from Ruth whose descendent was David. David was born circumcised and he fought and killed Goliath, the son of Orpah. True, David is Ruth’s great-grandchild, and Goliath is Orpah’s son, so that they are separated by two generations. The darshan was certainly aware of this historical disparity but it did not worry him. To the Sages, the concept was more important than the historical story: men are removed from the Jewish people because of foreskin extension, and women—by consorting with uncircumcised men. This seems to be the only unique case connected to the suspension of women in this way, but it conforms nicely to the general conception. It is true that some of the sources quoted in this article are relatively late chronologically, and spread over hundreds of years. But this only goes to 64 Also see JT Yevamoth 4:2, 5a.

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show how the seeds of consciousness planted by the Sages in earlier generations bore fruit, and this worldview becomes more and more entrenched in later generations. It should be emphasized that the Sages did not engage in intentional indoctrination of an abstract theoretical point of view. Instead, this point of view rises from a specific existential perspective that will be clarified below.

G We now ask the question: what social conditions are suitable for this kind of worldview? Evidently, the time perception of the Sages that nullifies liminal situations characterizes a society organized according to very finely defined categories. Mary Douglas developed the following concept in several of her studies.65 According to Mary Douglas, one can classify a society’s boundaries with a typology based on two criteria. The first deals with the dimension of membership in a society or group. This involves the more or less rigid conditions requisite for entering into the society, as well as how much loyalty (to the tribe, forefathers, church, sect, or military unit) its members must show. The second deals with the ability of the society to control individuals, that is, the degree of freedom that the society grants to individuals. Following this scheme, Douglas outlined a typology for basic social structures (along with intermediate types as well): individualistic, obedient, hierarchical, and fractional (or sectorial) societies. In an individualistic society the obligations of individuals to the society are weak, and supervision and direction by the society over individuals is also minimal. This is characteristic of modern democratic society, for example. The most prominent factor in such a social structure is the autonomy of the individual. The individual’s selfhood does not depend upon the community and his mind is free. There are no forbidden thoughts in this society. The next is the obedient society, in which the obligations of the members toward the society’s institutions are weak, while supervision by the institutions of the society’s members is maximal. This is characteristic of feudal society, for example, in that individuals in such a society are powerless and defenseless in the face of those with power. The third is the hierarchical society, 65 See note 5 above and also her book, Purity and Danger (London, UK: Ark, 1966); and “Introduction to Grid/Group Analysis” in Essays in the Sociology of Perception (see note 4 above).

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in which the obligations of the individuals to the society are considerable, and the society’s direction and control over its members is maximal. The individual knows his or her position in the group, and that position is subject to an elite group whose authority is exercised capriciously. These characteristics are typical of a very ideological or totalitarian society. Finally, there is the fractional (or sectorial) society in which members have a great deal of obligation to the general society, whose boundaries are clear but whose ability to supervise individuals is limited. The individual can negotiate his or her status within society. The Torah commandments, and then the commentaries of the Sages, created a hierarchical social system characterized by well-defined behavioral boundaries. The commandments determine one’s daily life and do not enable the existence of unclear situations. Anything that is not enclosed within welldefined boundaries is likely to be defined as impure, unkosher, sha’atnez, illegal hybrid, or sin. Due to the clear behavioral characteristics of this society, it provides a system of entitlements and obligations in all domains as well as a uniform worldview. Under such conditions, pressure is created on the individual to identify with categories of thought and behavior. The Sages were, almost throughout the entire period of their existence, the intellectual elite with authority invested in them. They had powers of social control that emanated from their spiritual authority. Their authority did not emanate from a formal institution, thus they did not have formal enforcement or punishment rights. Their authority was only a moral, ethical one. They were society’s center of gravity that attracted the attention of the others. Their authority was not only over behavior, but also over the mind of the individual. The individual was not only banned from performing heretical behavior, but also from thinking heretical thoughts. Such thoughts could activate sanctions of ostracism and even excommunication from society. It also precludes rewards in the World to Come (for example, during resurrection of the dead the heretic will have no portion in the World to Come). The person’s selfhood is subordinate to the society, and his identity is that of being part of a social world having collective responsibility (“all Jews are responsible for one another”). Thus, if daily life is well-defined and dictated from on high, and this life is what shapes the future, then the past also has to be clear-cut, unequivocal, and resemble the idyllic behavioral model in the present. Thus it is essential that the past not be a model of deviant behavior, so as not to create a situation where

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one may justify present aberrant behavior on the basis of the past, when the Torah was not yet observed by the founding fathers of the Nation of Israel. But when those important historical personalities bear the two prime signs of Jewish identification—circumcision as well as observance of the Torah and its commandments—then they are ideal paradigms for the present. This perception of the past causes historical unification by removing liminal time periods in the historical continuum. This perception of historical time dovetails well with the perspective of the Sages following the generation of Hadrian’s decrees, regarding the nature of the existence in this world. Until this period, we find among the earlier generations of Tannaim a worldview that gives great weight to this world, in comparison to the World to Come. This is an extension of the biblical belief according to which the individual as well as society receives reward and punishment for their actions in this world (see e.g., Exodus 2:12, Leviticus 26:3–46, and Deuteronomy 11:13–17). An ancient mishnah in Kiddushin (1:10) says: “Anyone who performs one commandment, is rewarded and lives a long life and inherits the land. Anyone who does not do one commandment, does not receive a reward and does not live a long life and does not inherit the land.” Reward in the World to Come is not mentioned in this mishnah.66 More early sources cite the idea of reward and punishment in this world67 and the “measure for measure” principle,68 in which the early generations of Tannaim believed. After the Bar Kokhba revolt and the Hadrian decrees, the approach changed: reward and punishment was transferred to the World to Come. After the great catastrophe that resulted from the revolt, the Jews could not resolve the contradiction between behavior and reward-and-punishment. The persecution and decrees were perceived as a punishment that went far beyond accepted proportions, because they were punished for observing commandments and not because they transgressed. In the words of R. Natan: “‘Of them who loved Me and keep My commandments’ (Exodus 20:6), refers to those who dwell in 66 See in detail Nissan Rubin, “Sages’ Conception of Body and Soul,” (note 12 above). 67 See: Ephraim E. Urbach, “Asceticism and Suffering in the Talmudic and Mishnaic Sources,” in Yitzhak F. Baer Jubilee Volume, eds. Salo W. Baron et al., 48–66 ( Jerusalem, Israel: Historical Society of Israel, 1960) [Hebrew]; Urbach, “Laws of Inheritance and Everlasting Life,” in Proceedings of the Fourth World Congress of Jewish Studies, 133–131 ( Jerusalem, Israel: Magnes, 1967) [Hebrew]. 68 See for example Mishnah, Avot 2:16; Mishnah Shabbat 2:6; BT Shabbat 32a.

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the land of Israel and risk their lives for the sake of the commandments; Why are you led out to be decapitated? Because I circumcised my son to be an Israelite. . . . Why are you led out to be burned? Because I read the Torah . . .” (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael, Bahodesh 6). Thus a window was opened for change: reward is not in this world, but in the World to Come, because if R. Akiva and his compatriots risked their lives to observe the commandments and accepted the torments they subsequently received, then their suffering is pointless if it is viewed as a punishment for sins in this world.69 Therefore, Ben Azzai can say, “One commandment leads to another and one sin leads to another, because the reward of a commandment— is [another] commandment and the reward of a sin—[another] sin” (Mishnah, Avot 4:2). Reward in this world is observance of the commandments and nothing more, and “When does God show [righteous persons] the reward prepared for them? Just before their death” (Gen. Rabbah 62:2). Regarding the verse, “Let the mother [bird] go and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and thy days be prolonged” (Deuteronomy 22:7), Rabbi Jacob teaches us: “that ‘thy days may be prolonged’ refers to the world that is wholly long, and ‘that it may go well with thee’ refers to the world that is wholly good.” His final conclusion is, “that there is no reward for precepts in this world” (BT Hullin 142a).70 Transferring the reward from this world to the next also transfers the emphasis from existence in the present world to existence in the world beyond. The present world becomes a corridor, a liminal world which, if “used” correctly opens a window into a palace that is the World to Come. It seems that precisely a liminal world requires clear boundaries for correct behavior in the present, as preparation for the future. Thus the cosmologies that direct this behavior must also be unequivocal. In other words, a world where people experience existential liminality cannot accept a history with liminal periods.

69 For example Mishnah, Sota 1:7–10 (see Kaufman ms); Lev. Rabbah 37:2. See discusion in Urbach The Sages, 439. 70 See Urbach, The Sages, 443–444 and 270–271. Also see Tosefta Hullin 10:17; BT Kiddushin 39b.

Index

A

Abuhav, Shmuel, Rabbi , 184 Acher, Mathias. see Birnbaum, Nathan Actions Committee, 77–78 Act of the Abolition of the Kahal, 94 Adler, Daniel, Rabbi , 196 Aggadat Bereishit, 237 Agudat Yisrael movement, 40, 87, 98 Ahad Ha’am, 41–42, 64 Ahai Gaon, Rabbi, 173, 190 Aharon HaKohen of Lunel, Rabbi, 174 Aharonim, 167–170, 176 objection to intoxication, 192–195 Ahdut Ha’avodah labor movement, 87 Akiva, Rabbi, 246 al-Fayyumi, Jacob ben Nathanel, 34 Amoraim, Eretz Israel, 223 anthropologists approach to time, 219–220, 220n4 concept of liminality, 229–230, 239 cultural time, 220 discussion of circumcision, 223–229, 231–235, 237–238, 240–242 historical times, 222–223, 244–245 Passover offering, 236–237 time-structure link, examples, 221 anti-Semitism, 58 anti-Zionist Orthodox, 29 arbitration, 88

Aristotle’s definition of human beings, 7 Arukh Hashulhan, 155 Asher ben Yehiel, Rabbi, 110 Ashkenazi, Judah, Rabbi, 168 Ashkenazi Jewry, 153, 167 Ashkenazi synagogues, 153–154 assimilation, 50–51 Avraham ben Isaac of Narbonne, Rabbi, 190

B

Baba Batra, 108, 118 Baba Kama, 196 Baba Metzia, 102 Bacon, Gershon, 94 Balfour Declaration, 35 Bambus, Willy, 71 Bar Kokhba club, 39 Bar Kokhba revolt, 245 Basel Congress, 63, 76 Ben Azzai, 246 Ben Ish Hai, 175 Responsa Torah Leshma, 175 Berekhiah, Rabbi, 224, 237, 240–241 Bergen Belsen, 21 Berger, Peter, 214–217 Berking, Helmuth, 177 Berlin, Naftali Tzvi, Rabbi, 190 Berlin Zionists, 71–72 Bick, Avraham Yehoshua, Rabbi, 96–97

248

Index

Mishnat HaPoalim (The Doctrine of Workers), 96 Bierer, Reuben, 44 Birnbaum, Nathan, 37 activities in the Zionist movement, 47–48 Ahad Ha’am affair, 43n13 animosity against, 41n11 assimilation, 50–51 conflict between Herzl and, 56–78 critique of Marxist materialism, 51, 54 departure from Zionism, 41–44, 48–56, 79 Die Zeit, 59, 62 distinction between Zionism and Jewish nationalism, 54 economics, 51 family, 57 fascination for Yiddish language, 40, 46 influence of Pinsker, 45n20 influence on Jewish intellectual history, 39–40, 42 Jewish nationalist ideology, 42–43 Kafka’s and Rosenzweig’s testimonials, 39 literary career, 40 materialism, 51 race, conception of, 52–53 racialist implications of nationalism, 52–53 racial materialism, 51 relationship with Herzl, 44n14 review of Herzl’s work, 59–61 Viennese Jewish nationalism and, 43n13 writings in Selbst-Emancipation and Serubabel, 46 Bodenheimer, 71 Book of Minhagim, 150 Breuer, Mordecai, 31 Buber, Martin, 39–40, 80 Burer, Michael H., 130

C

Cafe Savoy, 39 Chanina bar Avin, Rabbi, 174 Chamberlain, 52 charity Mishloah Manot rules, 162–163 Purim, 158–159, 161–163, 167–170 Shekalim charity funds, 165 woman’s obligation to give gifts, 169–170 Yoreh De’ah laws of, 161 Clemens, Flavius, 129 Cohen, Jeffrey M., 195 communism, 84, 86, 113 corporatism, 105–107 cultural time, 220

D

Dassberg, Uri, Rabbi 91 David ben Levi, Rabbi, 174 Deuteronomy, 246 Deuteronomy Rabbah, 129–130 “distinguished man,” 104, 108–109 Dolfuss, Engelbert, 86 Domitilla, Flavia, 129 Douglas, Mary, 177, 221, 243

E

Edels, Samuel, Rabbi 187 Efraim of Kila Chamad, Rabbenu, 190 Efraim of Bonn, Rabbi, 165 Eleazar ben Azariah, 130 Eleazar Rokeah of Worms, Rabbi, 165, 183 Eliezer ha-Gadol, Rabbi, 237 Eliezer ben Rabbi Yossi the Galilean, Rabbi, 228 Elijah haZaken, Rabbi, 187 Elon, Menachem, 94, 200–201 enlightened theism, 4 Epstein, Yechiel Mechel Halevi, Rabbi, 155, 168–169, 176, 184 Erev Rav, 25

Index

Erez, Yehudah, 93 ethical laws, 7–9 fundamental law of, 7 European Jewish identity, 41 European Jewish nationalism, 44 European Jewry, 40–41, 80–81 Exodus Rabbah, 120–121, 129–131 Christian scholarship on, 130–134

F

fascism, 84–86 Feinstein, Moshe, Rabbi, 83, 99, 107–115 freedom to unionize and to strike, 108 idea of democracy, 113–115 ordinary partnership, 109 trade union, 107–113 view of United States, 115 Feiwel, Berthold, 80 Findling, Moshe, Rabbi, 95–97 Tehukat haAvodah (The Constitution of Labor), 95–96 finite truth, 15 Fishman, Y. L. HaKohen, 186 Flavius, Josephus, 222 Freund, Tuvia, 153 Friedman, Menachem, 208

G

gift exchange, 170–176 Gluckman, Max, 139 Graetz, Heinrich, 119–120, 128–130 Gurevich, Eli, 130

H

Hadrian decrees, 245 Hafetz Haim, 155, 167. See Kagan, Israel Meir HaKohen, Rabbi HaLevi, Eliezer ben Yoel, Rabbi, 110 Halevi, Isaac ben Asher, Rabbi, 165 Halevi, Yehuda, Rabbi 174 Hamili, Meyer ben Rabbi Shimon, Rabbi, 191

249

Hapoel HaMizrachi movement, 87, 98–99, 101 Harris, Monford, 199 Hatam Sofer, 174 Haviv, Levi ben, Rabbi,174 Haviva, Yosef, Rabbi, 163, 191 HaYarchi, Avraham, Rabbi, 150 Heilman, Samuel, 207 Helmreich, William, 207 Herzl, Theodor, 42–44 conflict with Birnbaum, 56–78 Der Judenstaat, 42–43, 49, 56, 59–62 Die Jüdische Moderne, 49, 52, 55, 80 family background, 57 idea of the Jewish state, 64 money lending to Birnbaum, 66–67 Ottoman trip, 69 Herzog, Yitzhak I., Rabbi, 96 Heschel, A. J., 132 Hildesheimer, Esriel, Rabbi, 24 Hirschensohn, Hayim, Rabbi, 91–92 Histadrut Haovdim Haleumit (National Labor Federation), 88 historical time, 222–223, 244–245 historiography in the Bible, 221 Horowitz, Yeshayah, Rabbi, 192 Horowitz, Tuvia, 57n47 Horton, Robin W. G., 139 Hoshen Mishpat (civil law), 95 Hovevei Zion Berlin, 68 Hungarian Ultra-Orthodoxy, 22

I

imperfect rights, 9–10 infinite truth, 15 Israel Meir HaKohen, Rabbi, See Kagan, Israel Meir HaKohen, Rabbi Isserles, Moshe, Rabbi, 151, 192 Italian Purim parody, 187

J

Jabotinsky, Ze’ev, 88 Jewish civil law system (Misphat HaShalom HaIvri), 98

250

Index

Jewish People’s Party ( Jüdische Volkspartei), 48 Jews in Hungary, 23 Kadimah society, 49 Kafka, Franz, 38 Kagan, Israel Meir HaKohen, Rabbi, 152, 169, 208 Kahn-Freund, Otto, 86 Kalonymus ben Kalonymus, Rabbi, 182, 186 Kamelhar, Yekutiel Aryeh, Rabbi, 95 Kant, Immanuel, 14 Karo, Joseph, Rabbi, 167, 175, 194 Kasztner, Rezsõ Rudolf, 21 Katz, Jacob, 22–23 Kavod, 125n8, 127 Kellner, Leon, 72 Klausner, Avraham, Rabbi, 150 Kokesch, Oser, 72 Kook, Abraham Isaac, Rabbi, 83, 97, 99–101 Kraus, Karl, 58

settlement of labor disputes, 88 strike from legal point of view, 91–92 Tosefta arrangements, 89–90 traditional legal approach of pre-modern times, 83 unionization and strikes, 86, 96, 100, 107 Labriola, Arturo, 85 Lamm, Norman, Rabbi, 35 Laws of Kings, 32 Leibniz, 4–5 centrality of divine goodness, 5 Leo XIII, Pope, 85 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 16–17 Lev ha-Ivri, 24 Levi ben Gershon, Rabbi, 187 liberalism, 84, 86 Lichtenstein, Hillel, Rabbi, 24n10 Lifshitz, Aryeh Leibush, Rabbi, 91, 96 Loew, Judah, Rabbi, 35, 175 Luckmann, Thomas, 214–217 Lueger, Karl, 58 Luntshitz, Shlomo Efraim, Rabbi, 184

L

M

K

labor law Ahdut Ha’avodah labor movement and, 87 beit din rules, 101 collective bargaining, 84 corporative model, 85, 105–107 fascist views, 85–86 in halakhah, 89–99, 108, 117 “laws of hiring workmen,” 92 liberal views, 84, 86 Rabbinical literature in, 95–98 rabbinic creativity in, 98–99 regulation in modern ideology, 83–86 regulation of labor relations in Zionist ideologies in the Land of Israel, 86–89 responsum of Rabbi Kook, 99–101 responsum of Rabbi Uziel, 101–105

Magen Avraham, 167 Maharal of Prague, 35–36 Mahatzit Hashekel, 165–169 Maimonides, 32–33, 163, 196 Book of Commandments, 33 Epistle to Yemen, 35 Laws of Repentance, 33–34 warning to Jews, 35 Manhig, 150 MAPAI party (Workers’ Party of the Land of Israel), 89 Margalioth, Israel David, Rabbi, 151 Marxist ideology, 84 Marx’s theory of dialectical materialism, 51 Masekhet Purim, 186 Matanot La’evyonim, 160, 162, 164, 166 Mateh Mosheh, 194 Mauss, Marcel, 171

Index

Megillah, 152–153 Meir of Rothenburg, Rabbi, 164 Mekarshona, Eliyahu, 149 Mekovlantz, Moshe ben Eliezar Hacohen, Rabbi, 182 Meltzer, Isser Zalman, Rabbi, 96 Menachem ben Aaron, 186 Mendelssohn, Moses, 4 belief in God, 11–12 ethical laws, 7–9 God’s knowledge, 16–19 immortality of the soul, 8n23 knowledge of the external world, 15 moral right, 9 Morning Hours, 12, 14, 16 obstacles to happiness, 6 perfect and imperfect rights, 9–10 political thoughts, 9–12 possibility or impossibility of concepts, 12 possible and impossible thoughts, 12 purified pantheism, 16–17 purpose of suffering, 5 right to religious thoughts, 11 state’s legitimacy, 10 theology, 4–6 understanding of divine goodness, 5 understanding of God, 6 view of truth, 13, 15 Midrash, 120, 131 amot limit, 126–127, 132 interpretation of verse of Exodus 21:1, 121–125 laws of eruv and tehum, 131 legal background to, 126–128 “min,” 131–133 Sabbath boundaries in, 126–127, 131–132 Midrash Tanhuma, 224, 231 Midrash Tehillim, 224 Mintz, Rabbi, 183 Mishloah Manot, 170–177 reasons for, 173–176 Mishnah, 119–120, 124, 134, 144 Mishnah Avot, 246

251

Mishnah Berurah, 152, 167, 183, 189 Mishnah Eruvin, 127–128 Mishneh Torah, 32–35, 146, 159, 163 Mitzvah of Simhah ( Joyfulness), 178 Modern Orthodox, 25–26, 29 morality, 8 moral right, 9 Moshe Mos of Przemysl, Rabbi, 194–195 Munich Jews, 72 Musil, Robert, 58

N

Nahar Mitzrayim, 154 Natan, Rabbi, 245 Neusner, Jacob, 119 non-Purim funds, 161 Norbeck, Edward, 197

P

Palaji, Rachamim Nissim Yitzhak, Rabbi, 154 Panunzio, Sergio, 85 Papa, Rav, 90 partnerships model of trade unions, 107–113 passivity, principle of, 32 Pawel, Ernst, 59 perfect rights, 9–10 Pesaq Din (ruling) of Michalowce, 24 Pinsker, Leon, 45, 53 Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer, 238 primary socialization, 215 providential deism, 3–4 Psalms, 123–124 purified pantheism, 16–17 Purim holiday, 135–136 anthropological model, 138–143 Beit Yosef commentary on, 151 carnival, costumes, masks, skits, and parody, 178–188 charitable acts on, 158–159, 161, 167–170 in contemporary Orthodox Jewish society, 136–137

252

Index

contrast with other Jewish holidays, 138 costumes, 155 damage and theft on, 196–197 discussion and debate amongst Rishonim, 163–167 distribution of Purim income, 160 drinking on, 188–196 in early Rabbinic documents, 159–163 festive meal, 155–158 gifts, 163–164 Matanot La’evyonim, 160, 162, 164, 166, 169 Megillah, obligation to read, 146–151, 155, 161–162 Mishloah Manot (gift exchange), 170–177 opposition to the custom of making noise during Megillah reading, 151–155 Rishonim on burning of effigy of Haman, 149–151 scroll of Esther, obligation to read, 143–146 woman’s obligation to give gifts, 169–170 Purim Kiddush, 187 Purim Rabbi, 188

R

Rabinowitch, Yitzhak, Rabbi, 94 Rabinowitz, Simcha, Rabbi, 175 Refael Aaron ben Shimshon, Rabbi, 154 Ravitzky, Aviezer, 31 Reform Judaism, 24 Reines, Chaim Zev, Rabbi, 95–96 The Worker in Scripture and Talmud, 95 Rishonim on burning of effigy of Haman, 149–151 objection to intoxication, 190–192, 194

Rivera, José Antonio Primo de, 86 Rivkash, Moshe, Rabbi, 184 Rocco, Alfredo, 85 Rosenheim, Jacob, 40 Rosenzweig, Franz, 39, 80 Rubenstein, Jeffrey, 138–139, 142, 198

S

Sabbath morning service male participants, 211–213 modern trend, 206–209 musaf service, 214 rabbi and, 210–211 schedule, 213–214 shaliah tzibur, 213 shtibl observed, 209–210, 217–218 socialization in, 215–218 Torah reading, 214 Safrai, Shmuel, 130 Salz, Abraham, 72 Satmarer Rebbe, 21 Schlesinger, Akiva Joseph, Rabbi, 24–27, 29 Schlichter (Yashar), Baruch, Rabbi, 96–97 Schnirer, Moritz, 44, 72, 80 Schnitzler, Arthur, 58 Schreiber, Moses (Moses Sofer), Rabbi, 23, 174 ethical testament against modernism, 23–24 secondary socialization, 215 secular age, 3 Sefardim, 168 Sefer HaEshkol, 194 Sefer HaMinhagim, 150 Selbst-Emancipation, 44 Shemuel bar Nachman, Rabbi 224, 227 Shik, Moshe (Maharam Shik), Rabbi, 151 Shi’ur Qomah document, 125n8 Shragai, Shlomo Zalman, 99–101 Shuv, Sara, 181 Silber, Michael, 24

Index

Simhah ben Shmuel, Rabbi, 186 Simhah of Vitry, Rabbi, 164 simhat hahag, 196 Sirkis, Yoel, Rabbi, 192 Smolenskin, Peretz, 44–46, 46n21 socialization, 215–218 Sofer, Yaakov Haim, Rabbi, 168 subjective reality, 225 supernaturalism, principle of, 32

T

Talmud Yerushalmi Sanhedrin 7:13, 130 Tanya Rabbati, 150, 191 Taylor, Charles, 3 providential deism, 3 secular age, 3 Teitelbaum, Joel, Rabbi, 21–36 anti-Zionist views, 30–36 democracy, 26 establishment of the State of Israel, 21 influence of Hungarian UltraOrthodoxy, 22, 26–28 interpretation of Rabbi Sofer’s view on innovations, 26 oaths to the Jews, 30–32 opposition to Ultra-Orthodox non-Zionists, 29 Va-Yoel Moshe, 22, 27 Ten Commandments, 122 Teomin, Joseph ben Meir, Rabbi, 152, 169 Tindal, Matthew Christianity as Old as the Creation, 3 Tirna, Isaac, Rabbi, 150 Tönnies, Ferdinand, 200 Tosefta Eruvin, 126–127 Tosefta Shabbat, 128 Tukchinsky, Yechiel Michel, Rabbi, 96 Tur, 151, 157, 159, 164 Tuvia ben Eliezer, Rabbi, 166

253

Tzidkiyah Harofe, Rabbi, 173

U

Uziel, Ben-Zion Meir Hai, Rabbi, 83, 96, 99, 101–107

V

van den Bergh, G. C. F. F., 200 van Gennep, Arnold, 139, 229 von Schonerer, Georg Ritter, 58

W

Waldenberg, Eliezer Y., Rabbi, 99, 102n63 Warhaftig, Shillem, 90 Wolfsohn, 71

Y

Yaakov Baal HaTurim, Rabbi 194 Yaakov ben Asher, Rabbi 151 Yaari, Avraham, 165, 168 Yaffe, Mordechai, Rabbi, 153, 168 Yalkut Yosef, 154 Yehuda HaNassi, Rabbi, 223 Yehudah HeHassid, Rabbi, 149–150 Yehudah Nesia, Rabbi, 172 Yemar, Rav, 90 yeshiva Weltanschauung, 208, 217–218 Yishuv economy and labor relations, 89 Yitzchak of Corbeil, Rabbi, 166 Yohanan, Rabbi, 223–224 Yoreh De’ah laws of charity, 161 Yosef, Obadia, Rabbi, 154, 184

Z

Zevin, Shlomo Yosef, Rabbi, 191 Zhitlovsky, Chaim, 46 Zinner, Rabbi, 170, 174 Zion, 68, 73 Zionim Klaliyim (General Zionists), 88