Hebrew Union College Annual Volume 86 (Volume 86) [1 ed.] 0822944561, 9780822944560

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hebrew union college annual volume 86

David H. Aaron and Jason Kalman, Editors Sonja Rethy, Managing Editor Editorial Board of Directors David Ellenson, Alyssa Gray, Sharon Gillerman, Richard Sarason, Adam Shear, Yaron Tsur Editorial Advisors Michael J. Cook, Reuven Firestone, Joshua D. Garroway, Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Joshua David Holo, Jan D. Katzew, Bruce A. Philips, Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, Haim O. Rechnitzer, David S. Sperling, Mark Washofsky, Dvora Weisberg

The translation of Hebrew articles has been made possible by a generous gift from Shelly Shor Gerson

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE ANNUAL Volume 86

Hebrew Union College Press University of Pittsburgh Press 2015

© 2016 by Hebrew Union College Press University of Pittsburgh Press ISSN 360-9049 ISBN 978-0-8229-4456-0 Typesetting by Raphaël Freeman, Renana Typesetting Printed in the United States of America

In Memory of John H. Choi, Ph.D. 1975–2015 Editor, Scholar, Beloved Friend

Submissions Hebrew Union College Annual is a peer-reviewed journal that publishes scholarly treatments of all aspects of Jewish and Cognate Studies in all eras, from antiquity to the contemporary world. Unlike most journals, we particularly encourage large studies that will yield between 25 and 85 pages in print. We also welcome the publication of primary sources in most European and Semitic languages, as long as they entail commentary and are translated. Articles submitted in modern Hebrew will henceforth be read for consideration in a competitive new program, made possible by a generous gift, which will enable the translation of a limited number of worthy studies from Hebrew to English. For instructions on how to submit your article, please visit http://press.huc.edu/submissions.

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Supplements Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi. The Lisbon Massacre of 1506 and the Royal Image in the Shebet Yehudah. 1976. Mark E. Cohen. Sumerian Hymnology: The Ershemma. 1981. William C. Gwaltney, Jr. The Pennsylvania Old Assyrian Texts. 1982. Kenneth R. Stow. “The 1007 Anonymous” and Papal Sovereignty: Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages. 1985. Martin A. Cohen. The Canonization of a Myth: Portugal’s “Jewish Problem” and the Assembly of Tomar 1629. 2002. Stephen M. Passamaneck. Modalities in Medieval Jewish Law for Public Order and Safety. 2009.

Contents 1 The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws Samuel Greengus, Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion 37 Pursuing Justice: Support for the Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism Gregg E. Gardner, The University of British Columbia 63 As They Journeyed from the East: The Nahotei of the Fourth Century and the Construction of the Rabbinic Diaspora Marcus Mordecai Schwartz, Jewish Theological Seminary of America 101 The Missing Synopsis to Gersonides’ Commentary on Job (MS Paris 251) in Light of the Development of His Exegesis and Its Sources Yechiel Tzeitkin, Bar-Ilan University 141 ‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬ 163 Synopsis of Gersonides’ Commentary on Job 195 Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? Seth (Avi) Kadish, Oranim Academic College of Education, University of Haifa 265 Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz: The Turn to Rashi Supercommentary Eric Lawee, Bar-Ilan University 305 Some Preliminary Observations on the First Published Translation of Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish (Cremona, 1560) Edward Fram, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

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The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws Samuel Greengus Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion

The statement in Gen 26:3b–4 echoes the divine covenant that God previously made with Abraham; it affirms Abraham’s obedience to God, the promise of the land, and the universal blessings that will flow through him.1 Gen 26:5 adds a further statement about Abraham’s meritorious observance of God’s “charge, commandments, statutes, and laws.” This statement raises important issues that are the focus of this study. Among these are issues related to language, namely, what I will refer to as the “clustering” of terms describing various kinds of divine laws, apparently in order to convey completeness or totality. At the same time, the varied, almost random, combinations of law terms serve to blur their individual identities. These features are explained as resulting from the combination of secular, cultic, and ritual laws within the Pentateuch, which is associated with an increasing political role assumed by the priesthood in Judea. Also, the need arises to explain the assertion that Abraham had somehow managed to observe all, or so many, of the divinely given laws when, according to the Bible’s narrative, these were promulgated only centuries later in the Wilderness. This apparent anachronism was in fact already noted in early Hellenistic as well as in medieval rabbinic writings. Gen 26:5 is here explained as a reflection of the following ideas: that God was a universal law-giver; that such laws already appear in the covenant with Noah; and that Abraham is implied to have known and followed these universal laws in pre-Mosaic times.

In Gen 26:1–6 we read: Gen 26:1 Now there was a famine in the land, besides the former famine that had occurred in the days of Abraham. And Isaac went to Gerar, to King Abimelech of the Philistines. Gen 26:2 The Lord appeared to Isaac and said, “Do not go down to Egypt; settle in the land that I shall show you. 1 A condensed version of this article was the subject of a paper “Looking for Laws in the Covenant with Abraham” presented at the SBL meeting in Chicago on Nov. 20, 2012.

1

2

Samuel Greengus Gen 26:3a Reside in this land as an alien, and I will be with you, Gen 26:3b and will bless you; for to you and to your descendants I will give all these lands, and I will fulfill the oath that I swore to your father Abraham. Gen 26:4 I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven, and will give to your offspring all these lands; and all the nations of the earth shall gain blessing for themselves through your offspring, Gen 26:5 because Abraham obeyed my voice and kept my charge, my commandments, my statutes, and my laws” [‫]משמרתי מצותי חקותי ותורתי‬. Gen 26:6 So Isaac settled in Gerar. (NRSV)

The statement in Gen 26:3b–4 echoes the divine covenant that God previously made with Abraham; it affirms Abraham’s obedience to God, the promise of the land, and the universal blessings that will flow through him.2 Gen 26:5 adds a further statement about Abraham’s meritorious observance of God’s “charge, commandments, statutes, and laws.”3 The statement in Gen 26:5 raises a number of issues, both explicit and implicit, relating to the study of biblical law. These issues, which are the focus of this article, are: (1) the clustering of law terms in this passage (and elsewhere in the Bible), and what I will term the “blurring” of their meanings; (2) the concomitant blurring of the distinction between civil and ecclesiastical authorities; and (3) the anachronism in the statement about Abraham’s observance of the laws prior to Sinai. Gen 26:5 serves as a useful gateway both to present these issues and to give them historical perspective. These issues will be taken up in the order given above.

2 The promise of numberless offspring is given to Abraham in Gen 15:5 and 17:6; the promise of the land is seen in Gen 15:7 and 17:8; his being a source of blessings to the peoples of the earth is found in Gen 12:3, 18:18, and 22:18. 3 Modern critical scholars, going back to the late nineteenth century, have suggested that Gen 26:3b–5 is a later insertion into an earlier passage; some have also observed that one could omit this entire passage and read smoothly from Gen 26:3a to Gen 26:6. For this reason I have set these verses apart in the text citation at the beginning of this article. My ideas about possible dating are presented in the discussion below.

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

3

The Clustering of Law Terms and the Blurring of Their Meanings There is no single biblical Hebrew term for “law” in the abstract or global sense. The Persian loanword ‫ דת‬was perhaps the first to present this meaning, but it was a late foreign import and does not appear in the Pentateuch or Prophets.4 What we find, instead, in biblical writings, is a collection of terms referring to a range of social norms defining behavior or conduct demanded or expected of persons who live within a community. These norms are of various kinds; from a modern perspective, they can be characterized as (1) secular and civil, relating, for example, to private rights, claims, and duties, as well as to public safety – what in modern legal systems is categorized as “criminal law”; (2) cultic, relating to divine worship and the religious calendar; (3) ritual, concerning purification and non-temple religious rites; or (4) moral exhortations, often relating to social conduct but generally stated without further, formalized legal explicitness. Some of the norms can be described as laws in a traditional, juridical sense, in that their observance, could, if necessary, be enforced by authorities such as elders, officials, or priests. But there are other norms, whose observance appears to rest solely upon individual conscience or personal piety, at times additionally buttressed by the threat of divine retribution or the promise of divine blessing. The Hebrew Bible makes no qualitative distinction between these; all norms are presented as emanating from God, whose commands must be obeyed. Accordingly, all norms – secular, ritual, or cultic, and whether enforced by the community or not – assume a place within the Hebrew Bible as part of a body of sacred or divine laws.5 The Hebrew Bible differs from other ancient Near Eastern law collections in that the Pentateuch, which contains most of the biblical laws, contains ritual and cultic laws in addition to secular, i.e., civil and criminal, laws.6 I view the merging of these secular and religious categories as the primary reason behind the use of so many different terms for the laws: ,‫ עדות‬,‫ מצוה‬,‫ חקה‬,‫ חק‬,‫ תורה‬,‫משפט‬ 4 Among the Writings, ‫ דת‬is found only in Esther and in the Aramaic portions of Daniel and Ezra, especially Ezra 7:25–26, which is discussed below in the section titled “Blurring the Distinction Between Secular and Cultic Authorities.” The word ‫ אשדת‬in Deut 33:2 is obscure, although it was read by the rabbis as “law (emanating from) fire.” Cf. Targum Onqelos, Neofiti, Pseudo-Jonathan. 5 In characterizing types of “sacred law” Max Weber observed: “It was also possible, however, that religious prescriptions were never differentiated from secular rules and that . . . there arose an inextricable conglomeration of ethical and legal duties, moral exhortations and legal commandments. . . . ” Max Weber on Law in Economy and Society, ed. Max Rheinstein, trans. Edward Shils and Max Rheinstein (New York: Clarion Books, Simon and Schuster, 1954), 226. 6 This is a well-recognized point; there are only a few exceptions, e.g., in Hittite Laws §§ 166–67. Cf. Samuel Greengus, Laws in the Bible and in Early Rabbinic Collections: The Legal Legacy of the Ancient Near East (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2011), 8, 254, 285–86.

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Samuel Greengus

‫ דבר‬,‫משמרת‬.7 These various terms derive from this merger of categories that took place in the formation of the Pentateuch as we have it now, and thus all came to be used as law terms describing divine laws. But the process of merger and the practice of clustering also diminished the terms’ distinctive identities. So, if we wish to recover some sense of their prior character, history, and usage, we will need to examine these terms in their use by human actors. This examination will reveal the “original” contexts of their use apart from and prior to these terms becoming identified with the divine laws.

THE INDIVIDUAL LAW TERMS AND THEIR ORIGINAL CONTEXTS The term ‫ משפט‬can readily be seen to possess prior legal character, as it is related to the noun for “judge” and the verbal root “to render judgment.” The term is associated with various judgments or verdicts given by kings (1 Kgs 3:28, Prov 29:4), sons of kings (2 Kgs 15:5, 2 Chr 26:21), community leaders or ‫( עדה‬Num 35:24), high officials (‫ראשים‬, ‫שרים‬, Isa 1:23, Mic 3:11), and priests (Ezek 44:23–24).8 The plural form ‫ – משפטים‬which was regularly used to describe divine laws, as we will see below – is also used to refer to the laws of the gentiles as in Ezek 5:7 and 11:12, as well as to corrupt laws practiced by the Israelites themselves in Ezek 20:18. The singular ‫ משפט‬acquires the meaning “justice” in, for example, a passage like Gen 18:25, where this meaning is implicit. Yet we also find the term qualified by the adjective ‫ צדק‬in many passages (e.g., Deut 16:18, Ps 119:75), thus indicating “righteous judgment(s).” We also find the plural ‫ משפטים‬used with the adjectives ‫ צדקים‬and ‫ ישרים‬in Deut 4:8, 16:18, Isa 58:2, and Neh 9:13. This meaning of “justice” is therefore clearly secondary; in this meaning, it reflects the expectation and hope that judgments rendered by chieftains, magistrates, officials, and monarchs will in fact be just. The targumim regularly translate both singular and plural forms using the term ‫דין‬, which occurs as a synonym for ‫ משפט‬in Jer 5:28, Pss 9:5 and 140:13. We also find the noun dayyān (“judge”) used on occasion (1 Sam 24:16, Ps 68:6); but we do not see ‫ דין‬used in biblical Hebrew to denote divine laws. ‫ משפט‬can also mean “custom,” or “manner.” This use, which has legal overtones, as in Exod 21:9, appears also in non-legal contexts such as 1 Sam 27:11, 1 Kgs 18:28, and 2 Kgs 11:14. For the use of ‫ משפט‬in 7 There is yet another term, ‫( פקודים‬only plural in sense of “precepts”), which is found only in Psalms (19:9, 103:18, 111:7, and repeatedly in Ps 119) and not in the Pentateuch. Its original meaning, according to HALOT, is “responsibility” in the sense of an assigned task or duty. In meaning, it partly overlaps ‫ ;פקודה‬see further ‫ פקדת משמרת‬in Num 3:36, which could be translated “the appointed duty of the charge.” Apart from Num 3:36, this sg. term is not used with the divine laws. 8 I will have more to say about priests acting as “judges” in the section “Blurring the Distinction Between Secular and Cultic Authorities.”

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

5

the expression ‫ חק ומשפט‬see below in the discussion titled “Lexical Constructs Combining Two Law Terms.” The term ‫ תורה‬is best translated as “instruction” or “teaching”; it is further identified as issuing forth from priests in Jer 18:18, Ezek 7:26, and Hag 2:11. See also Mic 3:11 for a priest’s instruction (using the verbal root ‫ ירה‬in the hiphil), alongside a prophet’s divination, and a chieftain’s judgment. Compare further its use in the giving of priestly instruction in, for example, Deut 17:11, 2 Kgs 17:28, and Ezek 44:23. In Prov 6:20 and 31:26, ‫ תורה‬also describes a mother’s instruction to her child, and in Prov 13:14 the word is used to designate guidance from one who is wise. The term is repeatedly used to introduce cultic and ritual procedures, as in Lev 6:2, 7, 7:11, 11:46, and 14:54. One can see, therefore, how the term ‫תורה‬, so frequently used with priestly lore, came to enter the domain of the divine laws. One could here also note the related term, ‫מורה‬, “teacher,” which can be used to describe a teacher in general (Prov 5:13), but can also be said of a prophet (Isa 9:14). However, it is not used for priests, for whom the title ‫ – כהן‬at least within the Hebrew Bible – seems to have sufficed.9 Accordingly, as far as one can determine, ‫ תורה‬was not originally used as a law term in secular contexts.10 The root ‫ חקק‬generates two nouns which are used as divine law terms: ‫ חק‬and ‫חקה‬. Outside of the divine laws, the term ‫ חק‬is used to denote a “set amount” or “allowance” occurring in connection with provisions (e.g., Gen 47:22, 26, Exod 5:14, Lev 7:34, Ezek 16:27, Prov 30:8, 31:15). The term can also denote a spatial measure or boundary (Isa 5:14, Mic 7:11). The verbal root is used to describe the cutting out, carving, and inscribing of boundaries or limits in the realm of nature (Mic 7:11, Ps 148:6, Prov 8:27, 29, Job 26:10, 28:26). The verbal root ‫ חקק‬refers to human action – a written inscription or a drawing – in passages such as Isa 30:8, 49:16, Ezek 4:1, Job 19:23, and perhaps also in Prov 31:5 and Isa 10:1, where the term may refer to the writing of spurious documents.11 There is also the noun, ‫מחקק‬, which appears sometimes in parallel with ‫שבט‬, “staff, rod” (Gen 49:10), and apparently suggests some important public function. It has thus been customary to translate it as “scepter,” but this should not necessarily be taken as certain. In Num 21:18 ‫ מחקק‬appears to be an implement 9 The holder of the title ‫ – מורה הצדק‬a leader of the Dead Sea Scrolls religious community – is also identified as ‫ ;הכוהן‬cf. the commentary to Ps 37:23–24 (4Q 171 iii, 15) cited in The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation, ed. Michael Wise, Martin Abegg, Jr., and Edward Cook (San Francisco: Harper, 2005), 251. 10 We could note the pl. ‫תורות‬, ‫ חקות‬used to describe the prescribed features of the future sanctuary in Ezek 43:11, 44:5. This usage originates from the divine commands but is not legal in a conventional sense. 11 The verb ‫ חקק‬does not appear in connection with the writing down of laws. Instead, we find ‫כתב‬, ‫ ;כרת‬cf. Exod 32:15–16; Deut 27:2–4. The carving out of a tomb chamber appears in Isa 22:16.

6

Samuel Greengus

the use of which is overseen by privileged persons leaning upon their staves (‫ )משענת‬to assist in digging a well. In Judg 5:14, the ‫ מחקקים‬appear in parallel with ‫משכי שבט ספר‬, literally: “those who pull the staff of the scribe.” I would like to suggest, in view of the basic meaning of the root and the use of ‫ חק‬in the sense of “boundary” and “inscribe,” that the basic image in these passages is one of making a marking or “ruling” upon the ground to delineate property boundaries, and, secondarily, possibly also the inscribing of a record on some official register of property.12 The implement, like the staff in Num 21:18 and Judg 5:14, might have been used to measure and mark out boundaries on the ground. This understanding would supply a reasonable sense to Deut 33:21, ‫חלקת מחקק ספון‬, which could be rendered “And he [Gad] chose the best for himself, a level portion [of land] which [was measured out] by the surveyor.”13 Following this analysis, I would translate ‫ חק‬as “rule, ruling,” and, in a figurative sense, then also as “regulation, statute.”14 However, it is important to note that we have no passages outside of the context of divine laws where ‫ חק‬is clearly used by itself as a purely secular law term.15 A second term closely related to ‫ חק‬is ‫חקה‬, which dictionaries take as a feminine form of ‫ – חק‬a by-form, ultimately likewise derived from the root, ‫חקק‬. There are indeed similarities; the verb ‫ חקה‬describes the carving of figures in 1 Kgs 6:35, Ezek 8:10, and 23:14; the plural noun describes natural limits in Jer 31:35 and 33:25. The singular form is used almost exclusively in cultic contexts, and the plural is used to describe practices or customs to be avoided by Israelites: those of the gentiles (Lev 18:3, 20:23, Jer 10:3) and those of Omri and Northern Israel (Mic 6:16, 2 Kgs 17:19). Solomon was praised for following the practices of David his father (1 Kgs 3:3); but later, God condemns him for forsaking God’s covenant and rules (‫( )בריתי וחקתי‬1 Kgs 11:11). The contexts wherein these plural terms occur here again appear to be within or connected with the divine laws, rather than with purely secular practices.16 12 One may perhaps compare the role of surveyors, who figure significantly in all phases of Mesopotamian history. Cf., e.g., the abi ašlim who employs both rope and standard measuring rod (CAD A/1 51, G 79, M/1 7–8); the šasukku, “registrar, recorder” (CAD Š/2 145); and the titles māšiḫu, mašiḫānu (CAD M/1 366–67) and mušelmû (CAD M/2 264) which likewise refer to measuring. 13 For ‫ספ)ו(ן‬, HALOT includes, among other ideas, taking it as cognate to Akkadian sapānu, sapannu, “level or flatten;” cf. CAD S 157–61. This would support my translation as “level,” i.e., a field or area that was easier to cultivate because of its level topography. 14 The semantic development for ‫ חק‬is thus similar to Latin rēgula, which originally denoted “a straight stick, bar, staff.” Cf. OED, s.v. “rule,” n.1. 15 In Judg 11:39 and 2 Chr 35:25 ‫ חק‬is translated “custom” by NRSV and NJPS, while LXX, in translating πρόσταγμα, gives no nuance; similarly Targum Onqelos, translating ‫גזירא‬. These passages are not legal contexts but involve customary practices relating to mourning. 16 In translating these passages, NRSV offers “customs, practices, and statutes,” while NJPS uses

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

7

One may be able to find a clearer connection to secular law in Jer 32:11, where ‫ חקים‬and ‫ מצוה‬are described as part of the inner, sealed portion of a land sale document. Based on our findings above, the plural term ‫ חקים‬could here refer to the boundaries and dimensions of the property being transferred, while ‫מצוה‬ could describe the oral statement of legal transfer recorded in the sale document. A record of the spoken words of the conveyor, along with the location, boundaries, and dimensions of the property, are features regularly found in transactions written by Jews and non-Jews in Egypt during the Persian and Ptolemaic periods, and appear as well in some Neo-Babylonian contracts.17 NRSV appears to anticipate something close to this by translating these as “terms and conditions.” One must also note that LXX entirely omits the phrase containing the two terms. Could this omission indicate the presence of a later gloss? The term ‫ מצוה‬in secular contexts describes commands given by the king in 1 Kgs 2:43, 2 Kgs 18:36, Isa 36:21, Esth 3:3, Neh 11:23–24, 12:45, and 2 Chr 35:10, as well as by a father in Jer 35:14, 16, 18, and Prov 6:20. The act of “command” typically involves speech, as can be seen by the frequent association of the verb ‫ צוה‬with ‫ אמר‬and ‫ דבר‬together with cited utterances.18 While the term is not necessarily legal, it enters into the domain of law by carrying with it the authority of the speaker or “commander” who must be obeyed. This of course is likewise the case when dealing with God, the divine lawgiver, who, not surprisingly, is often characterized as “father” and “king.”19 The use of the singular noun ‫ עדות‬as a law term is only attested in the Book of Psalms, where, appearing in parallel with ‫תורה‬, it describes the divine law.20 “customs, practices, laws.” LXX, however, here again offers no nuances, using πρόσταγμα, δικαίωμα, νόμιμος; similarly Targum Onqelos with ‫נימוס‬, ‫גזירא‬. 17 On this “spoken” style of formulation in the Elephantine Aramaic papyri and in later Demotic documents, see Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968), 334–43. For specific examples of Elephantine property transfers, one can consult Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni, eds., Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt. Newly Copied, Edited, and Translated. Vol. 2: Contracts. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1989), 23–25, 44–47, 64–67, 94–97, 124–25. For Neo-Babylonian “dialogue documents” see the comments of Joachim Oelsner, Bruce Wells, and Cornelia Wunsch, “Neo-Babylonian Period,” in A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, ed. Raymond Westbrook. Handbook of Oriental Studies 72 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 2:913, and literature cited there. On the place of oral statements within contracts in the Bible and later rabbinic documents, see Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 39–40 and Herbert Petschow, “Die neubabylonische Zwiegesprächsurkunde und Genesis 23,” JCS 19 (1965): 103–20. 18 Cf., e.g., with ‫אמר‬: Gen 26:11, 28:1, 6, 32:5, 18, 20, 44:1, 49:29; Judg 21:10; 2 Sam 13:28, 18:5; 1 Kgs 22:31; Jer 36:5, 38:10. Compare also with ‫ דבר‬in Exod 7:2; 1 Sam 18:22; Jer 26:8. 19 God as king is widely attested, see, e.g., Isa 24:23, 44:6; Jer 10:10, 48:15; Mic 4:7, etc. For God as father of nation, cf., e.g., Deut 32:6; Isa 63:16, 64:7; Jer 31:9; Mal 1:6, 2:10; Hos 11:1. God is represented as a father to kings in 2 Sam 7:14; Ps 2:7, 89:27. 20 See, e.g., Ps 19:8, 78:5.

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Elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible it describes the two tablets received by Moses, the ark into which they were placed, and, by extension, the tabernacle and tent into which the ark was placed. It also describes a much smaller (symbolic?) object presented to King Jehoash at his coronation.21 The tablets and the ark are also referred to in relationship to covenant; this fact, plus the grammatical relationship between ‫ עדות‬with verbal root ‫ עוד‬and noun ‫עד‬, “witness,” have given rise to translating the term as “testimony” (KJV), “pact” (NJPS), and even “covenant” (NRSV).22 The Hebrew term has also been connected with Neo-Assyrian adê, which describes covenant and treaty obligations created by oath.23 The plural form, ‫עדות‬, is exclusively used to describe divine laws. There are actually two plural forms: edvot and edot; both are considered plural forms of edut in HALOT, as in BDB.24 There is no difference in meaning in these plurals, and the plural forms are likewise used to describe divine laws.25 We can conclude therefore that ‫ עדות‬originates in the legal domain insofar it relates to covenant. However, whether singular or plural it is not used as a law term in other secular contexts. The term ‫ משמרת‬describes duties and obligations that must be kept and maintained. In a secular context the term refers to watch or guard duty for a king or town, as in 2 Kgs 11:5–6, Isa 21:8, Hab 2:1, Neh 7:3, and 1 Chr 12:30. This term can likewise refer to important items saved for the future, as well as to temple and cultic responsibilities.26 Because it carries the idea of safe-keeping 21 As a designation of the tablets, cf., e.g., Exod 25:16, 21; of the ark, Exod 40:3; Josh 4:16; of the tabernacle and tent, cf. Exod 38:21; Num 1:50, 53, 17:22; 2 Chr 24:6. The newly proclaimed King Jehoash receives the ‫ עדות‬in 2 Kgs 11:12. 22 For “tablets of the covenant” cf. Deut 9:9, 11, 15. “Ark of the covenant” occurs more frequently, e.g., Num 10:33, 14:44; Deut 10:8; Josh 3:6; 1 Kgs 8:6. In all of the aforementioned passages ‫ברית‬ appears. 23 On this connection cf. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire, 2nd ed. (BibOr 19/A; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1995), 57–59. The Neo-Assyrian form is a plural (cf. CAD A/1 132–35); this is evident also from the Aramaic forms used in the Sefire Treaty: ,‫עדי‬ ‫ עדן‬,‫עדיא‬. Scholars have also pointed to Isa 33:8, ‫ערים‬, which, in view of LXX reading διαθήκη, might be read “(rejected) the covenant [‫ ;”]עדים‬this is discussed at length by Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 111 n.1. For more on adê in Assyrian contexts, see Jacob Lauinger, “The Neo-Assyrian adê: Treaty, Oath, or Something Else?” ZABR 19 (2013): 99–115. Lauinger posits that the act of sealing the treaty document with the seal of the god Aššur transformed the treaty document into a “Tablet of Destinies” containing obligatory duties for the contracting parties, most especially the vassals. 24 The sg. form edah, “witness,” which occurs in Gen 21:30, 31:52, and Josh 24:27, is treated separately in HALOT and BDB, despite its being so close in meaning and even though its expected (but unattributed) pl. form would likewise have been edot. 25 For edvot cf. 1 Kgs 2:3, 2 Kgs 17:15, 23:3; Jer 44:23; Pss 78:56, 119:14, 31, 36, 99, 144; Neh 9:34. For edot cf. Deut 6:17, 20; Pss 25:10, 93:5, 99:7, 119:2, 22. 26 For items saved for the future, cf. Exod 16:23, 33–34; Num 17:25. For watching over the shrine

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and safeguarding, the term can also be used in a more figurative way to describe the observance of the divine laws.27 But here again, we see that it is not used as a law term in any secular sense. The noun ‫( דבר‬davar) is widely used to denote “word, utterance, matter, thing.” Its use is thus very general in character. In Hebrew, as in many languages, the singular form, “word,” can be used for a speech of many words, and is often used to introduce prophetic speeches and messages. The link between “prophet” and ‫ דבר‬is in fact highlighted in Jer 18:18 (‫)ודבר מנביא‬. There are many places where we encounter the phrase: “the word of God” associated with a message which came to the prophets Balaam, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Hosea, Micah, etc.28 In the Pentateuch we find ‫ דבר יהוה‬being used also to introduce individual divine laws. In these instances the laws come from the speech of Moses, who is reckoned as a prophet and unique among them. Not only is he proclaimed to be the greatest of all the prophets (Deut 34:10), but, unlike the other prophets, who, in the order of biblical narrative, come after him, “the messages Moses brings from God are dominated by historical and legal matters and are written almost exclusively in prose.”29 We thus, for example, see Moses introducing divine laws dealing with the construction of the tabernacle (Exod 35:4), sacrificial rites (Lev 17:2), limits on female inheritance (Num 36:6), preceded by the declaration ‫ זה הדבר אשר צוה יהוה‬and, in a different formulation (‫ )זה דבר הרצח‬the homicide law in Deut 19:4. The plural, ‫דברים‬, was likewise used to describe the divine laws; we see this most transparently in the ‫עשרת הדברים‬, “the ten words” or “Decalogue,” which is its literal translation (Exod 34:27–28, Deut 4:13, 10:4).30 The plural form can likewise be seen as referring to divine laws in other contexts as well, as in Exod 19:6–7, 20:1, 24:7–8, 34:1, and Deut 5:22, 6:6.31 The use of ‫דבר‬ and its constituent parts, cf. Num 3:8, 25, 31, 36, 31:30; 2 Kgs 11:7; Ezek 44:14–16. 27 Cf. Lev 18:30; Josh 22:3; Zech 3:7; Mal 3:14. The phrase ‫ משמרת מצות יהוה אלהיכם‬occurs in Josh 22:3. I have no interpretation of this phrase except to see it as a pleonasm; the Greek has only one term, ἐντολή in the sg., which is apparently used to translate ‫מצוה‬. 28 See for Balaam Num 23:5, 16, and for the other prophets cf., e.g., Deut 18:18 (reading ‫ דברי‬sg. as in LXX); Isa 2:1, 38:4; Jer 2:4, 7:1; Ezek 11:14; Hos 1:1; Mic 1:1; Zeph 1:1; Hag 1:3; Zech 1:1. Cf. further seeking an oracle from God in 2 Sam 16:23. 29 For this citation and an expanded discussion of the unique role of Moses as lawgiver, see David H. Aaron, Etched in Stone: The Emergence of the Decalogue (New York/London: T&T Clark, 2006), 41–45. 30 Aaron, Etched in Stone, 1 n.1, points out that the commonly used appellation “Ten Commandments,” which is regularly used in translations, does not in fact exist in the Hebrew Bible. “Decalogue” derives from the Greek δέκα λόγοι, which is a literal translation of the Hebrew. Cf. similarly targumic ‫עסרא פתגמין‬, ‫עשרתי דביריא‬. 31 While NRSV translates “words” in all of these examples, NJPS also translates “words,” but at the same time, in more contextual fashion, offers “commands” in Exod 24:8 and “instruction” in Deut 6:6.

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as a descriptor of divine law is perhaps present in the expressions ‫דבר האלהים‬, ‫ דבר יהוה‬in 1 Chr 26:32 and 2 Chr 19:11 and, perhaps by analogy, in connection with secular laws, as ‫ דבר המלך‬in these same passages. Yet even here, at least with respect to a secular king, we have ‫ דבר המלך ודתו‬as separate entities in Esth 8:17; likewise, in other passages, the term refers to “command” in general rather than “law” or “legal pronouncement.”32 The use of ‫ דבר‬as a specific law term should perhaps not be expected because of its general meaning and understood relationship to speech in general. The term ‫דבר‬, taken in the sense of “matter” rather than “word,” is found in Deuteronomy in contexts dealing with judicial proceedings. These contexts have led translators to render ‫ דבר‬variously as “plea, cause, case, charge, verdict, decision.”33 However, ‫ דבר‬in the sense of “matter” is not used to introduce specific divine laws as we have seen it used above in the sense of “word” or “speech.” This review of the underlying contexts of the law terms shows us that, of the eight terms we have examined, ‫( משפט‬definitely) and ‫( חק‬possibly) are law terms that were used for secular as well as for sacred laws.34 The term ‫תורה‬, on the other hand, while also used for parental instruction, appears decisively to belong to the realm of sacred law. Moreover, ‫חקה‬, while sharing the same root as ‫חק‬, looks to be a neologism for divine laws, and its domain restricted to the sacred. The term ‫ מצוה‬is used in secular legal contexts for the commands of parent and king, but is not attested for describing or introducing secular laws. Similarly, ‫עדות‬, which has a specialized meaning in connection with oaths and curses found in divine covenants and secular treaties, is not attested as describing secular laws. The term ‫דבר‬, as a law term, is found only in connection with divine laws and prophetic communications, and the phrase ‫דבר המלך‬ is not attested being used to introduce secular laws. As for ‫משמרת‬, it, too, has general secular uses denoting things to be “watched or guarded,” but does not appear to have been used to describe secular laws.

32 For example, 1 Sam 21:9; 2 Kgs 18:28; Eccl 8:4; Esth 1:12. Also in Arad 24:17: wdbr hmlk ‘tkm. Sandra L. Gogel, A Grammar of Epigraphic Hebrew. Resources for Biblical Study 23 (Atlanta: SBL, 1998), 392–93. 33 Cf. NRSV and NJPS on Deut 16:19, 17:8, 11, 19:15, 22:14, 20, 26. Cf. also Gogel, Epigraphic Hebrew, 423, citing Meṣad Ḥ ashavyahu 1:1–2: “May the official my lord, hear the plea [‫ ]דבר‬of his servant.” One may here compare the semantic range of awatu (amatu), “word” in Akkadian, both as spoken word and also as “legal case, case in court, legal transaction,” CAD A/2, 38–40. 34 See further the discussion on ‫ חק ומשפט‬in the section titled “Lexical Constructs Combining Two Law Terms.”

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11

LEXICAL CONSTRUCTS COMBINING TWO LAW TERMS At times, two of the abovementioned law terms occur together as a single construct, yet combined in a way that still points to their distinct and different meanings. These combinations thus shed additional light on the original identities of the clustered law terms. We will first look at the use of ‫ חקה‬in the phrases ‫( חקת משפט‬Num 27:11, 35:29) and ‫( חקת התורה‬Num 19:2, 31:21). These constructs occur in connection with a variety of divine laws dealing with cult, but also with inheritance, division of booty, and homicide. One may reasonably ask why there are two layers of law terms; why could the underlying ideas not be expressed using solely any one of the three law terms – ‫משפט‬, ‫תורה‬, ‫ – חקה‬as is the case elsewhere within the Pentateuch? What does the combination with ‫ חקה‬contribute? In line with the semantic history I have outlined, I am inclined to explain ‫ חקה‬as adding some limitation or careful narrowing to an existing law or custom. This is clearly evident in connection with the purification of booty items (Num 31:21), or inheritance (Num 27:11), where new divine laws are being promulgated to revise and supplement earlier customs and practices. In the case of booty, Num 31:21–24 is an addendum to what was said earlier about purification (Num 31:19–20): metals were to be purified by fire while materials destroyed by fire were to be purified by water. In the case of inheritance, Num 27:5–11 allows inheritance to be passed on to daughters in the absence of sons.35 The phrase ‫ חקת התורה‬in Num 19:2 is similar in this narrowing function but may be a bit less obvious. Chapter 19 has two sections; ‫ זאת חקת התורה‬introduces the first section (Num 19:1–13), dealing with the red heifer. This is followed by a second section (Num 19:14–22), which is introduced with the words ‫זאת‬ ‫התורה‬, and deals with the rituals addressing impurity coming from close contact with a corpse. Thus, one is able to see in the first section a limiting ‫חקה‬ which applies to the ‫ תורה‬in the second section.36 We may thus understand Num 19:2 as “the regulation of [i.e., pertaining to] the instruction [or teaching about impurity coming from a corpse].” In other words, the teaching (‫ )תורה‬on impurity is narrowed in that it will require incorporating the regulation (‫)חקה‬

35 Num 36:1–9 later adds further limitation to the rights of daughters by requiring the daughters to marry within their father’s tribal group. This modification is, however, presented without using the terms ‫ חקה‬and ‫משפט‬. 36 The interpretation given here is, in fact, the understanding of the medieval rabbis Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) and Hezekiah ben Manoah (Hazzequni) given in their commentaries on Num 19:14. Cf. the discussion in Martin L. Lockshin, Rabbi Samuel ben Meir’s Commentary on Leviticus and Numbers: An Annotated Translation. Brown Judaica Studies 330 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2001), 247.

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dealing with preparing the ashes of the red heifer, which is the agent used to remove such impurity.37 Num 35:29 is found within a complex passage discussing homicide and cities of refuge. Num 35:9–14 describes the institution of cities of refuge and their function. Num 35:15–24 lays out the important factors that distinguish between accidental and premeditated homicide, and concludes by saying: “And the congregation (‫ )עדה‬will judge between the (rights of the) slayer and the blood-avenger according to these judgments.” The next verses (Num 35:25–28) add further measures “rescuing” the person who committed unpremeditated homicide by securing him in a city of refuge, safe from the blood avenger. He was, however, to be warned that the blood-avenger might slay him without blame if he strayed from his place of refuge; but he would be allowed to depart in safety after the death of the High Priest. (In Num 35:19, it was previously stated that a manslayer who acted in a premeditated fashion would not be given asylum nor “rescued” from the blood avenger of the slain victim.) Num 35:29 then states: “these will in perpetuity constitute for you the rule of (i.e., pertaining to a) judgment (on asylum).” The statement appears to be describing the specific rules added in Num 35:25–28. However, Num 35:30–34 then goes on to add several additional laws on homicide: requiring two witness to support capital punishment of any homicide and a ban on accepting “ransom,” i.e., “blood money,” to release a manslayer from death or asylum. We could therefore also see Num 35:29 as introducing these additional laws! It is therefore not clear which set of laws is being referenced in Num 35:29; but it is clear that both sets represent modifications added to the general laws on homicide given in Num 35:9–24.38 Another construction combining two terms, ‫חק ומשפט‬, is found in Exod 15:25, Josh 24:25, Ezra 7:10, and in 1 Sam 30:25, with the variant ‫לחק ולמשפט‬. The clearest context is found in 1 Sam 30:25, which concerns David establishing the rule that, after a military campaign, soldiers guarding supplies will share equally in any booty seized by those engaged in actual combat. The situation is one where David is portrayed as settling a dispute among the troops; this is the ‫משפט‬, i.e., the “judgment” or “verdict” ending the dispute. The ‫ חק‬component would then be the rule or statute that would operate for future battles. In other words, David was supplying judgment for the present dispute as well as establishing 37 There are modern scholars who see Num 19: 2–13 as representing a later addition to the text. See David P. Wright, “Heifer, Red,” ABD 3:115–16. 38 The cities of refuge are also discussed in Deut 19:1–13 and perhaps hinted at in Exod 21:13. The cities could have been intended to supplement (or replace?) the use of shrines as sanctuaries described in Exod 21:14, 1 Kgs 1:50–52, 2:28–31. The place of Num 35 and its relationship to other biblical homicide laws and wider practices relates to a collection of historical issues that go beyond our present context. For a discussion cf. Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 147–83.

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a formal precedent – a rule for future practice. The context here appears to be a secular one, unlike the booty law in Num 31 which deals with purification. The context in Josh 24 seems likewise fairly clear; Joshua has convened the people in order to make a covenant with God. The covenant focuses upon their agreement not to worship other gods. The people repeatedly express their consent (Josh 24:16–18, 21–22, 24), while Joshua describes the punishment they would incur if they failed to observe the covenant (Josh 24:19–20). Thereupon, in Josh 24:25, Joshua establishes the covenant. Although the context here is not one of dispute and settlement as in 1 Sam 30:25, it is, nevertheless, a legal setting where agreement and punishment are present. Joshua is setting up a rule for future observance, under the threat of a stated penalty – the divine judgment for apostasy. Both elements – rule (‫)חק‬, and judgment or a verdict of punishment (‫ – )משפט‬are present and identifiable. The context here, however, is not secular.39 The context of Exod 15:25 is more obscure. Here, the people complain that they are not able to drink the water because it is too bitter. Moses calls out to God for assistance and is shown a tree that Moses then casts into the water, making the water sweet and potable. Exod 15:25 concludes, “there, he [God?] put forth [a] ‫ חק‬and [a] ‫ ;משפט‬there he [God?] tried him [Moses?].”40 Rabbinic tradition tries to explain these two elements as referring to God giving the people some oral commandments relating to the divine law in the Wilderness before Sinai and testing them thereby.41 However, Nachmanides, in his commentary on the verse, points to the absence of their mention, and therefore rejects this rabbinic idea and posits instead a secular but not legal context, namely, that God was here instructing the people in survival skills for their sojourn in the desert. For Nachmanides, ‫ חק‬refers to their “sustenance” and ‫ משפט‬similarly to customs – to the behaviors they must take on while living and surviving in the Wilderness under these circumstances.42 This understanding of the two 39 These two themes are also present, albeit in figurative language, in Ps 81:2–6, which deals with the commandment to sound the shofar and other horns on festival days. Ps 81:5–6a has: “‫כי חק‬ ‫לישראל הוא משפט לאלהי יעקב עדות ביהוסף שמו בצאתו על ארץ מצרים‬,” “ . . . because it is a rule for Israel, a ‘law’ belonging to the God of Jacob; (it is) a covenantal obligation for Joseph (that) he (God) put in place when he went out upon the land of Egypt. . . . ” 40 There is uncertainty as to whether this test refers to God testing the people, Moses testing God, or God testing Moses. Cf. Cornelius Houtman, Exodus: Historical Commentary on the Old Testament, trans. Johan Rebel and Sierd Woudsra, 4 vols., HCOT (Leuven: Peeters, 1993–2000), 2:311–12. 41 Cf. Rashi’s commentary on this verse, which is based on Mekilta Beshalach Vayisa 1, and b. Sanhedrin 56b. 42 A similar interpretation, albeit more brief, is given by Joseph Bekhor Shor in his commentary on the verse. Nachmanides, however, goes a bit further and characterizes the situation in Josh 24:25 as likewise being the scene of imparting essentially secular rules and customs of conduct

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terms as “allotment of food” i.e., “sustenance” and “custom,” is certainly possible, and these meanings have been established. At the very least, one can see that Nachmanides, in his interpretation, is going back to the original meanings of the two terms in an attempt to explain this obscure passage. The final passage where ‫ חק ומשפט‬occurs is in Ezra 7:10, where Ezra is said to have prepared himself “to study the teaching of YHWH and to teach ‫חק‬ ‫ ומשפט‬in Israel.” Based upon what is stated regarding Ezra’s studies, the context here should involve instruction about some aspect of divine law. But we are given no further information. In the Talmud, there is a tradition that Ezra, too, put forward ten decrees, some relating to ritual, and some to custom and conduct.43 There is also a tradition that Ezra was responsible for introducing the present-day practice of having the Torah written in the so-called Assyrian rather than in the ancient Hebrew script.44 So it is possible, using such ideas, again to suggest an interpretation taking ‫ חק‬as “limiting rule(s)” and ‫משפט‬ as “custom(s),” as we have suggested for other passages. Here again, leaving historicity aside, one can see that the rabbis, in their readings of this passage, were again looking to explain these terms in a way that was related to their original meanings. A somewhat related direction of interpretation of ‫חק ומשפט‬ has been followed by many modern scholars and translators, who also view this expression as a construction, but as a hendiadys with unspecified legal content; they thus do not attempt to look at the more “original” meanings of the terms.45

to be followed by the people in the land, citing b. Bava Qamma 80b–81b where Joshua is said to have promulgated ten such measures. This is not beyond possibility, but the interpretation is weakened by the fact that the people, according to the narrative order, had already been living in the land for some time. 43 This is stated and elaborated upon on b. Bava Qamma 82a. Among the ten decrees of Ezra there are measures dealing with a wife’s duties and dress, additional times for reading the Torah, and aspects of sexual conduct. 44 Cf. b. Sanhedrin 21b–22a, y. Megillah 71b. The “Assyrian” script was used for the everyday writing of Aramaic, which had become so prevalent. The older “Hebrew” script was retained for lapidary and monumental writing. See further Mark D. McLean, “Hebrew Scripts,” ABD 3:96. 45 Houtman, Exodus, 2:313–15 discusses ‫חק ומשפט‬, asserting that it is a hendiadys whose content is undefined. Cf. also Robert G. Boling, Joshua. Anchor Bible 6 (Garden City: Doubleday, 1982), 539, on Josh 24:25: “It is another hendiadys, representing the general content of the agreement.” The plural forms, ‫ משפטים‬,(‫ )חקות‬,‫חקים‬, function as a semantic association, as we shall presently discuss. This usage may be behind the Septuagint regularly translating both terms as plurals in all of the passages with singular occurrence discussed above, save Josh 24:25, where singular is preserved. (Josh 24:1 and 24:25 in LXX also vary from the MT in having this gathering take place at Shiloh rather than at Shechem.)

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DESCRIBING THE TOTALITY OF THE DIVINE LAWS The combining of secular and religious, i.e., cultic and ritual laws and law terms, and the lack of a single term to describe this new entity, led to a challenge of how to describe the total body of divine laws. One approach was to take advantage of the blurring of law terms and to use the individual law terms in a generalizing or global fashion. We see this for the plural of ‫ תורה‬in Dan 9:10, which is clearly a late passage: “ . . . and [we] have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God by following his laws [‫]בתורתיו‬, which he set before us by his servants the prophets” (NRSV).46 In this passage, the plural ‫ תורות‬seems to describe the totality of the laws. The same is likewise true with respect to plural use of the terms ‫עדות‬, ‫חקה‬, ‫חק‬, ‫משפט‬, ‫ ;מצוה‬each of these terms is used to describe the totality of laws.47 Because of this blurring, the various law terms could be used interchangeably. Another way to express totality was to add ‫ כל‬to some of the individual law terms. This was done with ‫תורה‬, ‫מצוה‬, ‫מצות‬, ‫חקות‬, ‫ חקים‬in order to describe the totality of the divine laws or at least a substantial body of the divine laws. Thus we see ‫ כל החקים‬in Lev 10:11, Deut 4:6, and 6:24, and we see ‫ כל חקותי‬in Ezek 18:19 and 21. ‫ כל המצוה‬is repeatedly used in Deuteronomy (Deut 6:25, 8:1, 11:8, 22, 15:5, 19:9, 27:1, 31:5); however, it is not always clear whether the scope of this phrase extends beyond the laws written in Deuteronomy. A more widely used expression, employing the plural form, is ‫ כל המצות‬or ‫כל מצות‬, which occurs in various places within the Tanakh.48 Similarly, we find ‫ כל התורה‬in Deut 4:8, Josh 1:7, 2 Kgs 21:8, and in Num 5:30 (here apparently referring to a grouping rather than the total body of divine laws). The scope of all of these expressions with ‫ כל‬was thus inevitably often ambiguous; blurring had done its work. The problem of scope remained, which led to still other attempts to express the totality of the divine laws through combinations of terms.

46 This pl. form is exceptional in Daniel where otherwise sg. ‫ תורה‬is used. LXX in fact reads it here as sg. 47 For ‫מצות‬, cf. Exod 20:6; 1 Kgs 14:8; 2 Kgs 17:19, 18:6; Isa 48:18; Ps 119:10, 35; Eccl 12:13; for ‫משפטים‬, cf. Deut 7:12; Pss 19:10, 119:7, 39, 52; for ‫חקים‬, cf. Jer 31:36; Ps 119:8, 68, 135, 145; for ‫חקות‬, cf. Lev 20:8; 1 Kgs 11:11; Ezek 18:19, 21; Ps 119:16; for ‫עדות‬, with pl. edot, cf. Pss 93:5, 119:2, 59, 79; for pl. edvot, cf. Ps 78:56, 119:14, 36, 111. The pl. of ‫ משמרת‬is used only for priestly duties, e.g., Num 8:26; Neh 13:30. The sg. of ‫ משמרת‬is used as a “preface” to totality in 1 Kgs 2:3, as below in the section “Clustering Four Law Terms in Semantic Association.” 48 With apparent reference to the totality of divine laws, cf. Lev 4:13, 22, 5:17, 26:14; Num 15:39–40; Deut 5:29, 28:1, 30:8; Ps 119:6, 86, 151; 1 Chr 28:8. But something less than totality seems present in Deut 11:13, 13:19, 26:18; 2 Kgs 17:16; Jer 35:18.

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Samuel Greengus

SEMANTIC ASSOCIATION USING TWO LAW TERMS This mode of expression used two law terms together in an association or grouping. Their combination was intended to transcend, as it were, the original histories or original uses of the terms. Moreover, the apparently simultaneous use of varied law term combinations likewise contributed to broadening the scope of how these combinations were understood. The employment of varied combinations of law terms communicated the idea that these semantic associations were designed to supersede the underlying meanings of the law terms involved. The use of varied combinations served to blur the meanings of these law terms, rendering them less specifically tied to their original, underlying meanings. But some connection with these meanings remained; therefore certainty about the scope of these combinations remained elusive. We have the combination of ‫ מצוה‬and ‫תורה‬. Singular forms of these law terms are used in a few instances, as in Exod 24:12, Josh 22:5, 2 Chr 14:3 and 31:21, but plurals are far more common. We also see combinations using ‫ מצות‬together with ‫ חקים‬or ‫חקות‬, as well as with ‫ משפטים‬or ‫תורות‬.49 Frequent combinations of ‫ חקים‬or ‫ חקות‬together with ‫ משפטים‬are also found.50 But here again, as we have seen with formulations using ‫כל‬, the inclusion of the totality of the divine laws is not always clear. There are passages where the combination refers to a grouping within rather than to the total body of divine laws, for example in Lev 19:37 and 20:22, where ‫ כל‬is added to each of the two law terms! This occurs also where ‫ כל‬is added twice in Num 9:3, which is limited to Passover laws. The combination of ‫ חקים‬or ‫ חקות‬together with ‫ תורות‬can also be found; the term ‫ חקים‬occurs in Exod 18:16, 20, and Ps 105:45, while ‫ חקות‬is found in Jer 44:10, and Ezek 44:5.51 But, once again, we can see how, as in Ezek 44:5, the scope of the divine laws involved is limited to the fashioning of the future

49 For ‫ חקים‬with ‫מצות‬, cf. Exod 15:26; Deut 4:40, 27:10; 1 Kgs 3:14, 8:61; Ps 119:48; Ezra 7:11. For ‫חקות‬ and ‫מצות‬, cf. Lev 26:3; Deut 6:2, 10:13, 28:15, 45; 1 Kgs 9:6, 11:34, 38; Ps 89:32; 2 Chr 7:19. For ‫ משפטים‬with ‫מצות‬, cf. Num 36:13; Dan 9:5; Neh 9:29 (in parallel with ‫ ;)תורה‬1 Chr 28:7. There is a combination of ‫ מצות‬with ‫ תורות‬in Εxod 16:28 (clearly with limited scope within the divine laws) and perhaps also in Prov 7:2, if we follow the reading of LXX. 50 The terms ‫ חקים‬and ‫ משפטים‬occur together in Deut 4:1, 5, 14, 5:1, 11:32 (with the addition of ‫;)כל‬ Deut 12:1, 26:16; 1 Kgs 9:4; Ezek 20:18, 25, 36:27; Ps 147:19; 1 Chr 22:13; 2 Chr 7:17. The terms ‫חקות‬ and ‫ משפטים‬are together in Lev 18:4–5, 26, 26:15, 43; 1 Kgs 6:12, 11:33; Ezek 5:6–7, 11:20, 18:9, 17, 20:11, 13, 16, 19, 21, 20:24, 37:24. 51 While there is no alternative ketiv – qere tradition preserved in Jer 44:10, the passage would offer equally sensible or perhaps even “smoother” readings if the sg. construct form of ‫)תורת( תורה‬ were re-pointed and read as pl. ‫תורות‬. See, further below, a similar proposal for Jer 44:23 in the section titled “Clustering Three Law Terms in Semantic Association.”

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17

temple. We have ‫ חקים‬supplemented by covenantal obligations described by ‫( עדות‬edvot) in 2 Kgs 17:15. With respect to ‫דבר‬, we have a plural form combined with ‫( תורה‬sg.) in Zech 7:12; a solitary plural form, but with an unclear referent, ‫דברי התורות הזאת‬, in Deut 32:46; a plural form, ‫דברים‬, with ‫ חקים‬in Zech 1:6; but a singular form with ‫ חקות‬in Ps 119:16.52 We see the plural ‫ דברים‬in combination with ‫ משפטים‬in Exod 24:3. Ps 147:19 could also be mentioned here; ‫ – דבר‬in the singular as ketiv and plural in qere – appears to be used as a law term in parallel construction with the combination ‫משפטים‬, ‫חקים‬. Moreover, in the case of ‫דבר‬, apart from the Decalogue as discussed above, it is often arguable whether it is being used as a law term or should be simply translated “word, words” with no more to be read into it. Some passages seem to be trying to add a further qualification to the totality of divine laws by adding a reference to their having been written in the ‫תורה‬ of Moses (or the prophets). So, for example, 2 Kgs 17:13, “The Lord warned Israel and Judah by every prophet [and] every seer, saying: ‘Turn back from your wicked ways, and observe my commandments (‫[ )מצותי‬and] my statutes (‫)חקותי‬, according to all the ‫ תורה‬that I commanded your fathers and that I sent to you through my servants the prophets.’” Similarly, (but a bit awkwardly), 2 Chr 33:8 states “ . . . all that I have commanded them – according to all the ‫תורה‬ and the ‫ חקים‬and the ‫ – משפטים‬through Moses.” Other passages, however, are definitely less sweeping. Deut 4:8 and 30:10 refer to “this ‫ ”תורה‬or add “on this day,” while Mal 3:22 refers to the ‫ תורה‬of Moses but then mentions only Horeb, and leaves out the “second” giving of the law by Moses in the Wilderness in Deuteronomy.

CLUSTERING THREE LAW TERMS IN SEMANTIC ASSOCIATION This mode of expression perhaps can be seen as an enhancement of the use of two-term combinations, with the likely intention to describe the totality of the divine laws by clustering more than two terms together as a way of more unambiguously indicating totality. In these clusterings of three, the terms appear to be randomly selected and combined. Moreover, as in the combinations of two terms, using three terms served to blur the original underlying meanings of the law terms and to place their original usage into the background. The combination, ‫חקים‬, ‫עדות‬, ‫ – מצות‬all plurals – is found three times, in Deut 6:17, 1 Chr 29:19, and 2 Chr 34:31. But even here, despite the clustering of three, the writer in 2 Chr 34:31 still found it necessary to bolster the idea of totality by adding ‫דברי הברית הכתובים על הספר הזה‬. In the retelling of this story in 52 LXX reads both words as plurals.

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2 Kgs 23:3, the writer uses the similar combination ‫ מצות‬,‫ עדות‬,‫ חקות‬and again reinforces the idea of totality by adding ‫דברי הברית הזאת הכתובה על הספר הזה‬.53 Another combination ‫ משפטים‬,‫ חקים‬,‫( עדות‬edot), is found twice, in Deut 4:45 and 6:20. Deut 4:45, despite the clustering, seems, however, to fall short of encompassing the totality of divine laws, because we read further ‫אשר דבר‬ ‫משה אל בני ישראל‬, which is limited by the geographic location that follows in Deut 4:46: ‫בעבר הירדן בגיא‬, etc. The body of divine laws in Deut 4:45 is focused only on the Deuteronomic discourse. Neh 10:30 presents another combination, ‫ חקים‬,‫ משפטים‬,‫מצות‬, which is mirrored in Neh 1:7 and 1 Kgs 8:58 – but in the order, ‫ משפטים‬,‫ חקים‬,‫מצות‬. Yet here, again, despite the clustering of three law terms, Neh 10:30 seeks to bolster the idea of totality by adding: ‫ללכת בתורת האלהים אשר נתנה ביד משה עבד האלהים‬, while 1 Kgs 8:58 adds ‫ אשר צוה את אבתינו‬. . . ‫ללכת בכל דרכיו‬. Similar bolstering appears in Neh 1:7, which adds ‫אשר צוית את־משה עבדך‬. The term ‫ מצוה‬in the singular is used with ‫ חקים‬and ‫ משפטים‬in Deut 5:31, 6:1, and 7:11; in all of these instances LXX reads a plural form. Reinforcement is again seen in Lev 26:46, which clusters the combination ‫ תורות‬,‫ משפטים‬,‫חקים‬, and then adds bolstering language: ‫אשר‬ ‫ בהר סיני ביד משה‬. . . ‫נתן יהוה‬. Jer 44:23, as read and pointed in MT, also presents three terms, but with two in the plural along with one, ‫תורה‬, in the singular: ‫ובתורתו ובחקתיו ובעדותיו‬. There is no qere–ketiv here; yet, one might nevertheless consider re-pointing to read a plural form ‫תורות‬: “Because you burned incense and sinned against the Lord and you did not listen to the voice of the Lord, and his teachings (‫)*תורותיו‬, rules, and his covenantal obligations, therefore this evil has befallen you, as is the situation today.”54 Another such grouping with ‫תורה‬ in the singular and ‫חקים‬, ‫ מצות‬occurs in connection with divine instruction on the observance of the Sabbath in Neh 9:14.

CLUSTERING FOUR LAW TERMS IN SEMANTIC ASSOCIATION The strategy of clustering reached its fullest form in semantic associations using four law terms. Thus in Neh 9:13 we have: ‫ועל הר סיני ירדת ודבר עמהם משמים‬ ‫ותתן להם משפטים ישרים ותורות אמת חקים ומצות טובים‬. Here, the collection of four law terms and their variety appears to cross a threshold, creating a mode of expression that one would think would not fail to convey the idea of totality.55 53 The sg. forms of ‫ תורה‬and ‫ מצוה‬also occur with ‫ חקות‬and ‫ משפטים‬in 2 Kgs 17:34; but we will leave aside this evidence since the formulation of that verse does not appear to be in order. 54 The “defective” writing of ‫ו‬- for ‫יו‬- is attested elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible: more specifically, the defective writing ‫תורותו‬, torotav, can be found in Ezek 44:5; cf. GSG §§ 91k, 135r. I make a similar suggestion for reading pl. for sg. in Jer 44:10. See above, in the section titled “Clustering Three Law Terms in Semantic Association.” 55 Cf. Nahum M. Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

19

The clustering of four terms is also present in Gen 26:5, which has: ‫משמרתי‬ ‫מצותי חקותי ותורתי‬. The first, ‫משמרת‬, is in the singular; the other three terms are in the plural (in LXX all four terms are in the plural). We can compare other passages where ‫( משמרת‬sg.) also occurs along with three other law terms. In Deut 11:1, we have: “You shall love the Lord your God, therefore, and keep his charge, his decrees, his ordinances, and his commandments always” [‫משמרתו‬ ‫( ]וחקותיו ומשפטיו ומצותיו כל הימים‬NRSV). NJPS translates in similar fashion: “keep His charge, His laws, His rules, and His commandments.” However, in Gen 26:5, where the conjunction vav is lacking after “charge,” NJPS translates: “inasmuch as Abraham obeyed Me and kept My charge: My commandments, My laws, and My teachings.” Taking ‫ משמרת‬there as an introductory term follows the medieval Jewish commentators Saadia and Ibn Ezra. However, other medieval scholars, such as Rashi, Rashbam, Kimchi, and Hazzequni, read the four terms as a series, as do many modern translations. But ‫ משמרת‬is clearly used in “introductory fashion” in 1 Kgs 2:3, which then brings in three more law terms and still, surprisingly, also adds bolstering: You shall keep the charge [‫ ]משמרת‬of the Lord, your God, to walk in his ways, to observe his rules, commandments, judgments, and covenantal obligations [‫חקתיו מצותיו ומשפטיו‬ ‫ ]ועדותיו‬as written in the ‫ תורה‬of Moses so that you will succeed in all that you do and wherever you turn.”

A NEW WAY TO EXPRESS TOTALITY Perhaps because the language of clustering was seen as cumbersome, there continued to be an attempt to find simpler formulations – ideally, a single term – to express the totality of the divine laws. The singular term ‫ תורה‬appears to be approaching that meaning in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomistic passages, for example, in Deut 1:5, 4:8, 44, 31:9, 11, 24; Josh 1:7–8; 2 Kgs 21:8, and Jer 31:33. But readers cannot be certain as to the scope of such references, that is, whether ‫ תורה‬was indeed meant also to include those laws now found in the books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers as well as in the Book of Deuteronomy.56 More clarity may be present in the phrases ,‫ תורת יהוה‬,‫תורת אלהים‬ ‫תורת משה‬. The phrase ‫ תורת יהוה‬is found once in the Pentateuch (Exod 13:9), but otherwise these terms occur only in the Prophets and Writings. An additional expression “‫ תורה‬of the Most High [‫ ”]עליון‬is found in Ben Sira and at Qumran.57 Society, 1989), 184, where, in his commentary on Gen 26:5 (another passage with four terms), he says: “The combination of different terms for God’s precepts connotes comprehensiveness.” 56 This question has long been recognized; cf., e.g., the comments of S. R. Driver in Deuteronomy. 3rd ed. ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1901), 8, and Jeffrey H. Tigay in The JPS Torah Commentary. Deuteronomy (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1996), 5. 57 For ‫תורת משה‬, cf., e.g., Josh 23:6; 1 Kgs 2:3; 2 Kgs 14:6, 23:25; Mal 3:22; Neh 8:1; Dan 9:11; Ezra 7:6.

20

Samuel Greengus

Such expressions were almost certainly intended to embrace the totality of the divine laws, secular and religious.58 Their success in conveying this sense of totality may help explain how ‫ תורה‬came to be translated into Greek as νόμος, “law.” We know, moreover, that after the Pentateuch – which contains the divine laws – took its final form, νόμος was used to describe the entire book – laws and narratives – in late biblical and postbiblical times. This development is visible in the ancient colophon to Ben Sira (vss. 1, 5), which speaks of “the Law and the Prophets.” A parallel Hebrew form of these designations, using the Hebrew terms ‫ תורה‬and ‫נביאים‬, is found in the Qumran texts, where the Damascus Document makes reference to ‫ ספרי התורה‬and ‫ספרי‬ ‫( הנביאים‬CD 7:15, 17). Later books of the Hebrew Bible are suggested in the fragmentary passage in 4QMMT preserved in 4Q 397 frag. 21:10 “in the book of Moses, the book[s of the Pr]ophets, and Davi[d . . . ];” the reference to David seems to refer to Psalms.59 These designations and groupings, once established, continued on, as one can see from passages in Josephus and the New Testament.60 The term νόμος was also used to translate ‫ דת‬in Ezra 7:12, 21, 25, and 26, where the meaning “law” is clearly present; the term ‫ דתא די אלה שמיא‬in Ezra 7:12, 21 was understood as embracing the totality of the divine laws. This transformation of the term ‫ תורה‬into a designation for the totality of the divine laws was a late development in biblical history. We may see clustering, with all of its permutations, as a testimony to efforts along the path toward an all-embracing term. My analysis has divided clustering into numerical categories, proceeding from one to four terms being employed. I have found it heuristically convenient to discuss these categories as stages in the process

For ‫תורת יהוה‬, cf., e.g., 2 Kgs 10:31; Isa 5:24, 30:9; Jer 8:8; Amos 2:4; Ps 119:1; Ezra 7:10; Neh 9:3; 1 Chr 22:12; 2 Chr 17:9, 31:4. For ‫תורת האלהים‬, cf. Neh 8:8, 18, 10:29–30.Yet ‫ תורת אלהים‬is used with more limited scope in Josh 26:26. For ‫תורת עליון‬, see Sir 41:8, 42:2, 49:4; and at Qumran, cf. 4Q 525 Frag 2, ii, 4, and in “Psalm 154,” 11Q5 18:12. The Hebrew of Ben Sira 44:20 also offers ‫מצות‬ ‫עליון‬, which could be sg. or pl.; the Greek text, however, reads sg. “law [νόμος] of the Most High” here, as it does in the other Ben Sira passages. For the Hebrew text of Ben Sira, cf. Pancratius C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew. VTSup 68 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 73, 78, 87, 115. For the Qumran citations see Wise, Abegg, and Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls, 534, 573. 58 One could mention here the Qumran passage (CD 16:2) from the Damascus Document, ‫תורת‬ ‫משה כי בה הכל מדוקדק‬, “(to return to) the ‫ תורה‬of Moses because everything is laid out in detail within it.” For this passage cf. Wise, Abegg, and Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls,68. 59 This passage is presented in Wise, Abegg, and Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls, 461. 60 Josephus, Ant. 1:12–13; books of prophets, psalms, and wisdom are mentioned in Josephus, Ag. Ap. 1:38–40. For “law and prophets” in the New Testament, cf. Matt 5:17; Acts 28:23, and, with addition of “Psalms,” in Luke 24:44. All citations outside of Qumran texts are in Greek; a Hebrew text of the colophon to Ben Sira is not extant. For the overall terminological development see Alan F. Segal, “Torah and Nomos in Recent Scholarly Discussion.” SR 13 (1984): 19–28. Reprinted in his The Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity. BJS 127 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 131–46.

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

21

of combination.61 However, the presence and retention of all of our numerical categories within the same, received, text could well argue for a tighter time frame, with more contemporaneous patterns of usage. One should thus be ready to consider all of these clustering efforts as parallel or overlapping, seeking to describe the larger body of divine laws that emerged out of the combination of secular, cultic, and ritual laws within ancient Israel. In any case, one can observe that, in the absence of a single term, clustering was tolerated even though it had the additional effect of blurring the separate identities of the law terms and allowing them to become essentially interchangeable descriptors of the divine laws.

Blurring the Distinction Between Secular and Cultic Authorities These developments – the blending of secular, cultic, and ritual law, the clustering of law terms, and the blurring of their original, individual identities – were deemed acceptable and perhaps even advantageous because they helped affirm a new role for the priesthood. In this new role, priests are represented as having been given a high degree of authority over secular laws which originally lay in the domain of the king or his magistrates. We find evidence of the mingling of adjudications in Deut 17:8–9, where both secular and religious authorities are treated together as if operating on the same level: ‫כי יפלא ממך דבר למשפט בין דם לדם בין דין לדין ובין נגע לנגע דברי ריבות בשעריך‬ ‫וקמת ועלית אל המקום אשר יבחר יהוה אלהיך בו ובאת אל הכהנים הלוים ואל השפט‬ ‫אשר יהיה בימים ההם ודרשת והגדו לך את דבר המשפט‬ If a matter requiring judgment is too difficult for you, (whether) between one (kind of) blood and another, between one legal controversy or another, between one (kind of) affliction and another, [or concerning] matters of controversy within your gates, then you shall arise and go up to the place that the Lord your God will choose, and you shall come before the Levitical priests or the judge who will be in those days, and they shall tell you the statement of judgment. My translation given here attempts to reveal the blurring that, in my view, has not been sufficiently noted. My translation of ‫ דם‬as “blood” rather than “bloodshed” or “homicide” is not new, and in fact follows the views of the medieval commentators Rashi, Hazzequni, Bekhor Shor, and Nahmanides,

61 It seems worthwhile to consider the possibility that each of these individual categories could be seen as a unique “signature,” providing the basis for reconstructing some sort of redactional history. However, this avenue of analysis lies beyond the scope of the present study.

22

Samuel Greengus

who understood “blood” to mean “menstrual blood and discharge.”62 My translation of ‫ נגע‬as “affliction” rather than “assault” follows Targum Onqelos, which translated the term as “between one and another plagues of leprosy.” This is also the view taken in Sifre to Deuteronomy 17:8 and b. Sanhedrin 87a.63 The term “blood” is admittedly equivocal; but the noun ‫ נגע‬does not normally describe harm coming from assault.64 The earlier rabbis are to be credited for recognizing the mixed context of sacred and profane in this passage. The priests were certainly expected to become involved in ritual determinations, but not necessarily in secular legal controversies. The rabbis were mindful of these being separate adjudications. By contrast, many modern translations – I would argue, mistakenly – have translated ‫ נגע‬as “bloodshed (or homicide) and assault” in an effort to “level out” this otherwise unexpected mixture of categories. They try to bring this passage in line with others cited in the following discussion, thereby accepting and affirming the notion of greater priestly participation in the civil justice system and seeing this as having always been the case.65 Another such blurring of secular and cultic authorities is found in Deut 21:1–9, in the case of a murder committed by an unknown assailant. The elders are the main participants in this rite; they gather for the rite of the heifer in Deut 21:1–4, and in 6–8 swear an oath of absolution: If, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you to possess, a body is found lying in open country, and it is not known who struck the person down, then your elders and your judges shall come out to measure the distances to the towns that are near the body. The elders of the town nearest the body shall take a heifer that has never been worked, one that has not pulled in the yoke; the elders of that town shall bring the heifer down to a wadi with running water, which is neither plowed nor sown, and shall break the heifer’s neck there in the wadi. . . . All the elders of that town nearest the body shall wash their hands over the heifer whose neck was broken in the wadi, and they shall declare: “Our 62 The view of Joseph Bekhor Shor, also in connection with Deut 21:1–9, is discussed in Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 180. 63 This understanding is followed by Rashi, Rashbam, and Nahmanides. 64 The action in 2 Sam 7:14 inflicts harm but not necessarily as a consequence of assault. A possible exception may be the action described by the verbal form in Gen 32:26, 33, which took place at the conclusion of Jacob’s wrestling with the angel. 65 Cf., for example: “If a judicial decision is too difficult for you to make between one kind of bloodshed and another, one kind of legal right and another, or one kind of assault and another – any such matters of dispute in your towns – then you shall immediately go up to the place that the Lord your God will choose. . . . ” (NRSV), or: “If a case is too baffling for you to decide, be it a controversy over homicide, civil law, or assault – matters of dispute in your courts – you shall promptly repair to the place that the Lord your God will have chosen . . . ” (NJPS).

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

23

hands did not shed this blood, nor were we witnesses to it. Absolve, O Lord, your people Israel, whom you redeemed; do not let the guilt of innocent blood remain in the midst of your people Israel.” Then they will be absolved of bloodguilt. (NRSV) The verse omitted in the above translation is Deut 21:5, where the oath of absolution is preceded or “interrupted” by the arrival of the Levitical priests: ‫ונגשו הכהנים בני לוי כי בם בחר יהוה אלהיך לשרתו ולברך בשם יהוה ועל פיהם יהיה‬ ‫כל ריב וכל נגע‬ . . . and the Levitical priests shall come forward because the Lord has chosen them to minister unto him and to give blessing in the Lord’s name; and through their utterance shall be (decided) every dispute and affliction. Deut 21:5 leaves the impression that the priests are in fact acting as judges. Overall, however, throughout the larger passage, only the elders are participants in this rite; the task of the priests – if they were originally there at all – could only have been to administer the sacred oath taken by the elders.66 In Ezek 44:23–24 we again see the advancement of priestly power and the priests’ apparent insertion into secular matters. In a long passage that otherwise details rules of cultic purity, we read: They [the priests] shall teach my people the difference between the holy and the common, and show them how to distinguish between the unclean and the clean. In a controversy [‫ ]ריב‬they shall act as judges, and they shall decide it according to my judgments [‫]משפטי‬. They shall keep my laws [‫ ]תורותי‬and my statutes [‫ ]חקותי‬regarding all my appointed festivals, and they shall keep my Sabbaths holy. (NRSV)67 Note the blurring of law terms that is present in this description of priestly roles. Contrast a more expected and limited description of priestly roles which appears in Ezek 22:26: Its priests have done violence to my teaching and have profaned my holy things; they have made no distinction between the holy and the common, neither have they taught the difference between the unclean and the clean, 66 Rashi and Nahmanides recognize this “intrusion,” but also suggest that the priests, while not acting here as judges, might possibly have also recited the formula “Absolve . . . ” in Deut 21:7–9. The term “judges” appears only in Deut 21:2; interestingly, it does not appear in the Samaritan recension of this verse, which offers instead ‫ושטריך‬, “(your elders and) your (assisting) officials/ scribes.” The legal background of Deut 21:1–9 is discussed in Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 179–83. 67 Instead of merely translating ‫ריב‬, LXX reads “they shall preside in a case of blood to decide it” (NETS, 981).

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and they have disregarded my Sabbaths, so that I am profaned among them. (NRSV) This blurring of priestly roles represents a new dynamic in Judean history. It is worthy of note because secular and religious, i.e., cultic and ritual, categories of laws and their jurisdictions were recognized as separate in ancient Israel. This distinction is described in 1 Chr 26:32, where King David is said to have put civilian control over both categories: King David appointed him and his brothers, two thousand seven hundred men of ability, heads of families, to have the oversight of the Reubenites, the Gadites, and the half-tribe of the Manassites for everything pertaining to God [‫ ]דבר האלהים‬and for the affairs of the king [‫]דבר המלך‬. (NRSV) A change is reported in 2 Chr 19:11; while the separate categories are recognized, the king, Jehoshaphat, gave authority in religious matters over to the chief priest and appointed Levites in supportive roles: See, Amariah the chief priest is over you in all matters of the Lord [‫דבר‬ ‫ ;]יהוה‬and Zebadiah son of Ishmael, the governor of the house of Judah, in all the king’s matters [‫ ;]דבר המלך‬and the Levites will serve you as officers [‫ ]שוטרים‬. . . . (NRSV) We can again see how the priesthood is given new influence and power in a preceding passage, 2 Chr 19:8–10, where, despite the separateness of jurisdictions in 2 Chr 19:11, the role of priests is nevertheless blurred in the account of the appointing of judges by King Jehoshaphat: ‫וגם בירושלים העמיד יהושפט מן הלוים והכהנים ומראשי האבות לישראל למשפט יהוה‬ ‫ וכל ריב אשר יבוא עליכם מאחיכם היושבים בעריהם בין דם לדם‬...‫ולריב וישבו ירושלים‬ ‫בין תורה למצוה לחקים ולמשפטים והזהרתם אתם ולא יאשמו ליהוה והיה קצף עליכם‬ ‫ועל אחיכם כה תעשון ולא תאשמו‬ And also in Jerusalem Jehoshaphat set up [officers] from the Levites and the Priests and from the leaders of the families of Israel for [presiding over] the Lord’s judgment and for dispute; and they [i.e., these appointees] resided in Jerusalem;68 (and Jehoshaphat commanded them: “thus you shall act: with fear of the Lord, in faithfulness, and with whole heart) and any dispute which comes before you from among your brethren who dwell in your [various] cities, whether between [one kind of] blood and another, between teaching or commandment, for rules or judgments, then you shall caution them so they do not incur guilt before the Lord 68 We read here with LXX “residing” rather than with MT “they returned [to Jerusalem].”

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and [divine] wrath [does not] come upon you and your brethren; act in this way and you will not incur guilt.” The formulation in this passage brings secular authorities, namely, the major family clan leaders, into the same context as Levitical priests in providing sacred judgments, placing them, moreover, in a position secondary to the Levites and Priests! In the present formulation of the passage, the categories are mixed together, with further blurring by placing “teaching or commandment” alongside “rules or judgments” without separating the secular and religious adjudications that are so clearly articulated in the very next verse, 2 Chr 19:11. The overall effect is to negate that distinction and to suggest that priests and secular authorities are acting together on all types of cases! While the textual witness from Chronicles may originate from a time later than the events described, one can nevertheless see that the difference between secular and sacred affairs was recognized. Even more important, one can see that a tradition of priesthood entering into general judicial matters is being described and that there is a claim that it goes back to the reign of Jehoshaphat. In the reigns of kings coming after him, priests are in fact also described as taking on a significant measure of participation and authority in governing and government: in placing Jehoash on the throne (2 Kgs 11–12) and in sparking religious reform and suppressing competing shrines during the reign of Josiah (2 Kgs 22–23). Both of these accounts show the growing importance of the Jerusalem temple and the prominence of its priesthood in political as well as in religious affairs. These accounts are in accord with the blurring of distinctions between secular and religious judicial authorities that we have observed in the passages we have discussed from Deuteronomy and Ezekiel. It is therefore perhaps not surprising that while the distinction between secular and religious categories of laws continues to be made in post-exilic times, we see it further modified by an expanded degree of judicial control being granted by the king to the priest Ezra. In Ezra 7:25–26, Artaxerxes commands: And you, Ezra, according to the God-given wisdom you possess, appoint magistrates and judges [‫ ]שפטין ודינין‬who may judge all the people in the province Beyond the River who know the laws of your God; and you shall teach those who do not know them. All who will not obey the law of your God and the law of the king [‫]דתא די אלהך ודתא די מלכה‬, let judgment be strictly executed on them, whether for death or for banishment or for confiscation of their goods or for imprisonment. (NRSV) The “law of the king,” of course, is now the law of the foreign Persian rulers; the “law of God” would appear to relate to the authority of the priesthood, continuing what was described in Chronicles as already occurring under the

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native, Judean monarchy. Ezra is told to appoint judges to judge those who recognize (lit. “know”) the “law of God” and to teach it to those who need such instruction. This authority is given not only in Judea, but beyond its borders, throughout the province of “Beyond the River.”69 According to Ezra 7:26, those who violated the “law of your [i.e., the Judean] God” as well as the “law of the king” were to be punished with an equal degree of severity. The Aramaic text in Ezra 7:25 provides for appointing ‫שפטין ודינין‬, but these two nouns are redundant and the translation “magistrates and judges” masks this redundancy.70 More likely, ‫ שפטין‬may be taken to be a Hebrew gloss within the Aramaic text, since it is not used in Aramaic outside of Jewish Aramaic texts.71 It seems preferable, therefore, to rely here upon the Greek variant reading “scribes and judges,” which would make more sense in an “official Aramaic” document. There are substantial disagreements regarding this letter of Artaxerxes and its historicity.72 Yet, it is undeniable that the Persian kings clearly supported the rights of their subjects to establish and maintain temples and a priesthood; this was true in Jerusalem just as elsewhere in communities throughout the empire.73 If we look to Babylonia, we can find significant evidence from many sites attesting to how temples and priesthood worked together with royal

69 Ezra 7:25, and a similar passage in 1 Esdras 8:23. “Beyond the River” would include Judeans residing in the diasporas of Syria and Phoenicia. Such authority may have been claimed by the Jerusalem priests and could have been enhanced by the reception of the Pentateuch. Rules similar to those in the Pentateuch are seen in Tobit 7:10 (restrictions on female inheritance) and in the “Passover Letter” from Elephantine, but further, confirming data would be helpful here. For the “Passover Letter” see Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni, eds., Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt. Newly Copied, Edited, and Translated. Vol. 1: Letters. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1986), 54–55 no. A4.1. 70 Cf. Ps 9:5, where the two terms appear in parallel; similarly by implication the noun ‫“( דין‬judge”) and the verb ‫ שפט‬in 1 Sam 24:16. 71 The use of ‫ שפט‬as “ruler” or any sort of “governing official(s)” would appear to be anachronistic in our post-exilic Hebrew text. The title had earlier been used for leaders in ancient Israel (e.g., Jud 4:4, 10:2–3, 12:7–8). It is cognate to Akkadian šāpiṭu, similarly used to describe a governor or high official. But this Akkadian term appears only in Old Babylonian (early second millennium BCE) documents; see CAD Š/1 459. 72 There are scholars who understand the decree of Artaxerxes as “authorizing” the divine law in the Pentateuch or its precursor. For views pro and con, see the excellent discussions in James W. Watts, ed., Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch. SBL Symposium Series (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001). A more recent bibliography can be found in Kyong-Jin Lee, The Authority and Authorization of Torah in the Persian Period. Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 64 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011). 73 Cf. the discussion by Muhammad A. Dandamaev and Vladimir G. Lukonin, The Culture and Social Institutions of Ancient Iran, trans. Philip L. Kohl and D. J. Dadson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 347–67, with literature cited there.

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officials in local civil administration and the judiciary.74 This pattern of governance, established by the Persian kings beginning with Darius, continued into Hellenistic times, eventually to a point when the priesthood in Judea comes to govern with increasing independence as a de facto theocracy.75 The letter of Artaxerxes to Ezra – if credible – may be taken as a step in this long process. Artaxerxes would have thus created a new framework wherein the temple priests also took on a major role in the administration of civil laws. The temple in Jerusalem and its priesthood were key, native institutions that continued to function under foreign rule, providing important cultural self-identity to the Judean polity. The priesthood took its place at or close to the center of whatever political powers remained in the hands of the Judeans under Persian rule. The priesthood was clearly supported by the Pentateuch when it emerged in written form, and, embracing both secular and religious laws, reflected its expanded authority in civil administration. This development would explain the blurring of the distinction between civil and ecclesiastical authorities that we have noted. The Pentateuch also created and codified the concept of a “nation of priests and a holy community” with its own imperatives of internal solidarity and governance that lessened the perception – if not altogether the reality – of the community being subject to external authorities.76 The priestly assumption of such powers – or their reaching for them – was in accord with this new conceptualization of sacred law, combining civil together with cultic and ritual laws, that is visible in the Pentateuch; these long-separate domains were now combined under the rubric of divine law.77 74 See Raymond Westbrook, ed., A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law. 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 2:919–20; Hans Neumann, “Richter. A. Mesopotamien,” RlA 11:346–51; Dandamaev and Lukonin, Culture and Social Institutions of Ancient Iran, 361–66; M. A. Damdamayev, “Babylonian Popular Assemblies in the First Millennium B. C.” Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies 30 (1995): 23–29, esp. 25–26. 75 This description of Judean polity is stated by Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.165. Cf. also the statement of Hecataeus of Abdera, cited by Diodorus Siculus 40.3.5. These passages are cited by Lisbeth S. Fried in her The Priest and the Great King: Temple-Palace Relations in the Persian Empire. Biblical and Judaic Studies 10 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 1–2. They form the framework for her subsequent discussion. 76 Thus, for example, in Ezra 10:7–8, where compliance rests on “internal” community authorities: “elders and important community leaders (‫)שרים‬.” Similarly, Neh 5:1–13 and, with the addition of Levites and priests, Neh 9:36–10:1, 10:38–11:2. For more on the contribution made by “internal governance,” see Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 8–9, 98, 285–86. 77 It is still difficult, in my view, to assign an exact date to the written Pentateuch. Ben Sira, as mentioned above, provides a secure terminus post quem, but earlier markers are elusive, particularly if one assumes various stages in its composition and the possibility of oral phases for some parts of the Pentateuch. If the combination of law categories is taken as a definitive step, then a date for the written Pentateuch during the Persian Period could be seen as a reasonable possibility.

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The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws We return now to the statement in Gen 26:5 that Abraham observed the totality of the laws. As it stands within Genesis, this passage appears to contradict the historical narrative of the Pentateuch. Specifically, how could the biblical writer assert that Abraham had somehow managed to observe all, or so many, of God’s laws – as implied by the clustering of law terms – given the fact that, according to the Bible’s own narrative, most of these laws were promulgated only centuries later in the Wilderness, when the Israelites were preparing to enter the Promised Land? What sense, therefore, was an ancient reader to make of Gen 26:5 within what is, narratively speaking, a pre-Mosaic history? This is not an idle question; there was in fact a serious ancient attempt to explain Abraham’s observance in the Pseudepigrapha. In Jubilees 21:5, Abraham, on his deathbed, is portrayed as urging his children to keep “God’s commandments, ordinances, and judgments.” This listing of “commandments, ordinances, and judgments” echoes the clustering found in Gen 26:5. In Jub. 21:10–11 Abraham credits his own knowledge of these to his study of “the books of my forefathers and in the words of Enoch and in the words of Noah.”78 In other words, these “commandments, ordinances, and judgments” were already known before Abraham himself was born. Abraham then enumerates a series of specific laws relating to idolatry, ritual behavior connected with sacrifice, not eating the blood of animals and birds, and exacting capital punishment for blood spilled in homicide.79 According to Jubilees, Abraham’s observance reflected knowledge passed down to him through the teachings of his forefathers, especially Enoch and Noah. By passing these traditions on to his own offspring, Abraham, in Jub. 21:5, “fulfills” Gen 18:19, where God confidently says about him: For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right, in order that the Lord may bring about for Abraham what He has promised him. (NJPS)80 78 Cf. “Jubilees,” trans. O. S. Wintermute, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 2, James H. Charlesworth ed., ABRL (New York: Doubleday, 1985), 95. 79 A Hebrew text of Jub. 21 is partially preserved in the Dead Sea Scrolls; cf. 4Q219–220 in Wise, Abegg, and Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls, 324–25. In the Hebrew of Jub. 21:5 (4Q220 f1:1) only one of the three law terms (‫ )מצות‬is preserved. For the dating of Jubilees to ca. 170–140 BCE, see VanderKam, “Jubilees, Book of,” ABD 3:1030–32. 80 Abraham is again praised as a teacher of the commandments in the Damascus Document, CD 3:2–4. That passage states that Abraham “was considered God’s friend, because he observed the commandments of God . . . and he passed them on to Isaac and to Jacob and they too observed them. They too were recorded as friends of God and eternal partners in the covenant.” See Wise, Abegg, and Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls, 54.

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The tradition regarding Enoch’s teachings represents an extra-biblical expansion within Jubilees. However, also within the Bible text as we have it we can find the affirmation of norms that appear in the later laws. In Gen 7:1–4 and 8:20, Noah is depicted as knowing the distinction between clean and unclean animals. In Gen 9:1–17, Noah receives instruction about not eating the blood of living creatures and about capital punishment applying to humans as well as to animals that shed human blood.81 The narratives about Abraham – his leaving Haran and his continuing obedience to God’s commands – clearly imply a rejection of polytheism, although nothing explicit is said about images.82 Abraham, like Noah, exhibits an implicit knowledge of cultic procedures when he offers many sacrifices to God and builds altars.83 Thus, within the biblical narratives a body of textual data can be found upon which the ancient writer of Jubilees could build his scenario surrounding the existence of a kind of “proto-Torah,” the commandments of which were fulfilled by both Noah and Abraham prior to Moses. Later rabbinic exegesis also recognized the apparent anachronism in Gen 26:5. The Mishnah, (Qidd. 4:14) for example, took the passage at face value and as a proof text to support the idea that “Abraham our forefather [indeed] performed [the commandments found] in the entire Torah before it was given [by God to Moses].”84 This rabbinic assertion was taken up by Nahmanides, who discusses the anachronism in Gen 26:5 in greater detail.85 He begins his discussion by challenging the rabbinic tradition given in the Mishnah; he asks: if Abraham, following rabbinic tradition, indeed observed all of the laws, how then did it happen that Abraham and his children came to transgress so many important commandments that later appear in the Pentateuch? Abraham, after all, married his half-sister (Gen 20:11–12), and his grandson Jacob erected a pillar (Gen 28:18) and married two sisters in their lifetime (Gen 29:16–30).86 Moreover, Amram married his aunt (Exod 6:20) and Moses erected twelve pillars (at Sinai in Exod 24:4).87 How could these things have happened when

81 According to Exod 21:28–32, an ox that gores a human being to death must be stoned. This linkage to Noah is recognized by the rabbis; cf. Greengus, Laws in the Bible, 176 with n. 121. 82 Post-biblical writers here, too, seek to fill this lacuna by fashioning supplementary or midrashic narratives, which tell how Abram reacted to and rebelled against his father Terah, who is described as a professional idol-maker. Cf. Apocalypse of Abraham, 1–8; Gen. Rab.(Vilna), 38:13. 83 Abraham builds sacrificial altars in Gen 12:8, 13:18, 22:9. 84 Cf. further in the Talmud, b. Yoma 28b. 85 The commentary cited here is written on Gen 26:5. 86 Marrying a half-sister is forbidden in Lev 18:9,11, 20:17; Deut 27:22, and Ezek 22:11. Erecting a pillar is forbidden in Lev 26:1; Deut 16:22; marriage with two sisters is forbidden in Lev 18:18. 87 The marriage of Moses is described in Exod 6:20 and Num 26:59; this union is forbidden in Lev 18:12–14.

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the Bible also tells us in Gen 18:19 that Abraham was praised by God for having instructed “his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord”? (NRSV) Nahmanides presents a number of possible solutions to the problem. One solution was to “fix the anachronism” by trying to attach the various terms for law in Gen 26:5 to specific events that occur in the narratives about Abraham’s life, as told in the Book of Genesis. One could look, for example, at Abraham “going forth” from his native land in response to God’s command (Gen 12:1–4), his circumcision (Gen 17:9–14; 21:4), and the binding of Isaac (Gen 22:2). But this “fix” remains unsatisfying because we have five terms for laws in Gen 26:5 – suggesting more than the three events. Beyond this, how do we relate these actions to the different law terms?88 A second solution was to claim that Abraham, through his extraordinary powers of reason or prophecy, somehow knew about the later commandments and voluntarily chose to observe many, if not all.89 But this solution does not fully explain the historical anachronism, namely, how Gen 26:5, in describing Abraham’s piety, came to use terms referring to law categories that were part of the later Mosaic lawgiving. If Gen 26:5 were addressed to later readers of the Bible, they would easily recognize the meaning and use of these various law terms. But it remains difficult to imagine how Isaac, to whom God’s words were spoken, could have understood the meaning of the various law terms if we indeed place him living in the earlier time and place ascribed to him by the biblical narrator. Maintaining this second solution thus requires one to overlook the anachronism and its intrusion into the historical framework of the patriarchal narratives. Therefore, Nahmanides, with a few other commentators, offers yet a third explanation that is closer to the solution offered in Jubilees, yet is also more easily accommodated within the historical framework. This is the idea that Gen 26:5 referred to generally accepted laws that were followed by ancient societies even prior to Sinai in the time of Noah. There are many reasons why this solution was favored. The Bible tells of a pre-Abrahamic covenant made with Noah after the flood in Gen 9:1–17. As already mentioned above, some commandments and laws were given by God 88 There are, e.g., attempts by commentators to link ‫ משמרתי‬to the verb ‫ שמר‬in Gen 17: 9–10; similarly, ‫ מצותי‬with the verb ‫צוה‬, which occurs or is implicit in Gen 21:4, 12, 22:2. But there are no ready links with the law terms ‫חקות‬, ‫תורות‬, which are, moreover, suggestive of formal law statements. 89 In conjunction with this second solution, Nahmanides seeks to “excuse” the pre-Mosaic transgressions of later laws by noting that these took place outside of the Holy Land. In addition to the statement by Nahmanides, cf. also Ibn Ezra and Bahya ben Asher on Gen 26:5. This solution builds on earlier rabbinic discussions of Abraham having come to the awareness of the one, true God through his native intelligence. Cf. Gen. Rab. (Vilna) 64:4, 95:3. In Gen 20:7, God himself declares Abraham to be a “prophet.” This same line of reasoning was articulated even earlier in Philo, On the Life of Abraham, 275.

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

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at this time: to be fruitful and multiply, not to eat a creature’s “flesh with its life that is its blood,” and to exact the death penalty for homicide. Expanding upon this passage, the rabbis, going back to the time of the Talmud, constructed the concept of “Noahide laws” that existed for all humankind before Sinai. Some went even further back in biblical history and suggested that the relationship between God and law came into existence with the commandment not to eat the forbidden fruit given to Adam and Eve.90 Various rabbinic sources also attempt to establish the number of Noahide laws, ranging their number from seven up to thirty.91 In his commentary on another passage, Gen 34:13, Nahmanides does not offer a number, but includes among the pre-Mosaic “Noahide laws” non-Israelite laws on theft, fraud, over-reaching in business transactions, hire, deposit and safekeeping, rape, seduction, personal and property injuries, lending and sale.92 These earlier laws were taken by Nahmanides and other commentators such as Rashi, Rashbam, Hazzequni, Bahya ben Asher, and Sforno as a way to fill out or supplement the specific actions of Abraham that are enumerated in the biblical narrative and thereby provide sufficient content to justify the use of the four law terms in Gen 26:5. However, Nahmanides, Hazzequni, Bahya ben Asher, and Sforno were ready to leave the narratives aside and understand the four law terms in Gen 26:5 as referring solely to the “Noahide” commandments.93 One may ask, why was it so important to portray Abraham as observing universally observed laws that predated Moses and Sinai? One answer, I believe, is that Abraham as depicted in Genesis was a model and an inspirational figure to post-exilic Judean communities. Abraham, like many of the post-exilic settlers and their leaders, had emigrated from Babylonia, bringing the word and promise of God with him. Abraham was willing to send Hagar and Ish90 This view is presented on b. Sanh. 56b and in Midr. Tanh. (Buber) Yitro 2 on Exod 18:1. It is based on a midrashic reading of Gen 2:16, finding multiple commandments in the words of that verse. This exegesis is also described by Nahmanides in his commentary on Gen 2:16. 91 For seven, cf. t. Avod. Zar. (Zuckermandel), 8:4; b. Sanh. 56b. For thirty cf. b. Hul. 92a; y. Avod. Zar. 40c. 92 With respect to pre-Mosaic laws, rabbinic tradition overlooks Enoch but, instead, assigns a postdiluvian teaching role to Shem and Eber, Noah’s son and grandson; both of course are progenitors of Abraham. Cf. Emil G. Hirsch, “Shem,” JE 11:261–62. 93 Nahmanides, however, still attempted to posit some connection between each of the four law terms in Gen 26:5 and categories of universally observed laws that would pre-date Moses and Sinai. Thus, e.g., he suggests that where Gen 26:5 says “my charge” it could refer to incest prohibitions that were part of the Noahide laws; “my commandments” refers to robbery and murder; “my laws” refers to (general civil) laws and the prohibition against worshipping other gods – because these too, according to the rabbis, were part of the Noahide commandments; and Abraham was observing even the fine points and stringencies associated with these commandments.

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mael away, just as the post-exilic community demonstrated their loyalty to God by sending away their foreign wives and children.94 Abraham expressed his devotion by offering a tithe to the “Most High God,” while the post-exilic community undertakes to offer tithes to the Levites and priests.95 Abraham, like his descendants, had “legal title” to the land from God, but the land was controlled by foreign rulers – the Canaanites, Hittites, etc., in his time, just as the Persians ruled Judea in post-exilic times. And yet, Abraham managed to observe God’s “charge, commandments, statutes, and laws.” The Judeans of post-exilic times – whether in Judea or the diaspora – were now being encouraged to emulate Abraham’s example by undertaking faithful observance of the blended universe of religious and secular laws. These secular laws included those found in the Pentateuch as well as civil laws imposed by the Persian kings – for these, too, could be seen as emanating from the God of the Bible, who was a universal lawgiver to humankind after the flood and probably even earlier via Enoch and Adam. One would need only to recall that Cyrus, the first Persian king to rule over Judea, was identified as God’s anointed king (Isa 45:1), inheriting, along with his successors, a tradition of laws that taught them to rule justly. Thus Darius and Xerxes could proclaim: “I am a friend to what is right, I am no friend to what is wrong. [It is] not my wish that to the weak is done wrong because of the mighty, it is not my wish that the mighty is hurt because of the weak. What is right, that is my wish. I am no friend of the man who is a follower of the Lie.”96 The Persian kings validated this heritage even though they ascribed it to their own God, Ahuramazda, and were “not aware” that it originally came to humankind from the God of the Hebrews.97 To be sure, the concept of Noahide laws is not overtly stated in the Pentateuch. Yet, I believe that it is possible to regard the recorded covenant with Noah including the laws expressed in Gen 9:1–7 as representing an early stage in the development of a tradition of universal laws that later came to full flower in Jubilees and was continued thereafter by the rabbis. The Bible certainly assumes the existence of universal laws in human society. While not giving specific details about the sins of Noah’s generation, Gen 6:5 and 6:11–12 state 94 The expulsion of Hagar and Ishamael is described in Gen 21:8–12. Separation from gentile wives and children is described in Ezra 9:1–2, 10:3–5, 44 and, again, in Neh 9:2, 10:29–30, 13:23–30. 95 Gen 14:18–20; Neh 10:38–39, 12:44, 13:12. 96 This is an excerpt from almost identical statements made by both kings; one copy is inscribed on the tomb of Darius I; the other, by Xerxes, was found in an undefined context. See Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period (London: Routledge, 2010), 503–5. 97 Cf. further, for the same concept, prophetic statements describing foreign kings, even enemies of Israel, who were portrayed as acting unconsciously as agents of YHWH: Isa 10:5, 45:4–5; Jer 27:6–8, 11–14, 28:14.

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the situation generally: “The Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually”; and “Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence. And God saw that the earth was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted its ways upon the earth” (NRSV). By contrast, Noah (Gen 6:9) “ . . . was a righteous man, blameless in his generation; Noah walked with God” (NRSV). For the biblical narrator, therefore, the antediluvians were held responsible for their immoral conduct and sinful ways, although the Bible does not say how they were instructed in knowing right from wrong. The narrative nevertheless assumes that they had this knowledge and were therefore held responsible for their actions. Perhaps the tradition of Enoch came to fill this gap.98 In any case, the Bible goes on to describe how formal law-giving was (re-?) instituted by YHWH after the flood, not just for Israel but for all humankind. Genesis in fact contains many references attesting to Abraham’s awareness of divinely approved, general standards of justice. In addition to Gen 9:5, Gen 18:19, mentioned above, also speaks of needing to “keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and justice. . . . ” In Gen 18:25, Abraham, in his appeal to God, reveals his own confident awareness of the divine system of universal justice when he declares: Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly? (NJPS) Genesis, moreover, describes how Abraham acts in conformity with established secular laws of his time when he buys the Cave of Machpelah and separates the inheritance given to Keturah’s sons from that of Isaac.99 In the Genesis narratives Abraham is depicted as having observed religious as well as secular laws, thus creating a biography that gave credibility to what would otherwise have been a blatant anachronism in Gen 26:5.100 This view allowed Abraham 98 Enoch is mentioned along with Noah in Jub. 7:38, 21:10–11. Enoch, who is credited with having a close relationship with God in Gen 5:21, 24 and in Heb 11:5, was an important figure in ancient Judaism; Aramaic fragments of 1 Enoch are found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. But it is difficult to securely identify him as a lawgiver within the tradition of the Hebrew Bible on the basis of the limited references to him. Cf. The Dead Sea Scrolls Bible: The Oldest Known Bible Translated for the First Time into English, trans. and with commentary by Martin Abegg, Jr., Peter Flint, and Eugene Ulrich (San Francisco: Harper, 1999), 480–81. 99 Abraham buys the cave in Gen 23:1–20, and his relationship with Keturah is presented in Gen 25:5–6; 1 Chr 1:32. 100 One could perhaps regard Gen 26:5 as an example of “aggadic exegesis” within the Bible, similar to other “transformations of Pentateuchal narratives” relating to Noah, Abraham, and the other patriarchs in the post-exilic period described by Michael Fishbane in his Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 372–79.

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to be portrayed as having lived his life in conformity with God’s laws and commandments already in pre-Mosaic times.101 Abraham, who lived with laudable piety “among the nations,” was an example for his descendants, who, during exilic and post-exilic times, again lived as a small people “among the nations” as subjects of foreign rulers. One can also see how the concept of Noah’s covenant – and perhaps also the command given to Adam and Eve – served in ancient times to help explain how laws of universal moral character came to be present within non-Israelite justice systems, allowing these laws also to be brought under the mantle of the biblical divine plan.102 The ancient Israelites, moreover, could not escape the realization that there were similarities between their own laws and laws practiced in neighboring lands. This awareness would have been heightened when living under foreign rulers during exilic and especially post-exilic times. This larger perspective assisted the Judeans’ existential need to “work out” the relationship between Judean and gentile laws and to place their own special received traditions within the larger framework of universal laws and law-giving by God.103 The biblical account of the covenant with Noah established the God of Israel as the source of universal moral laws, thereby opening the door to an explanation of the similarities between Israelite and non-Israelite laws. At the same time, as already mentioned, this framework of divinely given Noahide and postdiluvian gentile laws is not robustly articulated within the Bible. This is why, in later post-biblical times, Gen 26:5 could still have been felt to be an anachronism, requiring further explanation, as was offered subsequently in Jubilees and in rabbinic writings. I would explain the less than full

101 While many modern scholars have commented on the clustering of the law terms, I have not found many commenting upon the historical “anachronism” in Gen 26:5. A noteworthy exception is Detlef Dieckmann, Segen für Isaak: Eine rezeptionsästhetische Auslegung von Gen 26 und Kotexten, BZAW 329 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 237–48. Dieckmann views Gen 26:5 as a later addition to the text; but he also takes time to consider rabbinic views such as I discuss above, along with references to modern Jewish commentators who follow them. Dieckmann sees Gen 26:5 as an attempt to narrow the theological distance between Abraham and Sinai; he appears to favor an interpretation along the lines of the “second solution” discussed by Nahmanides above. 102 Some interpreters (Vulgate, Rashi) take ‫ כאדם‬in Hos 6:7 as “Adam” rather than “humankind” and thus to his transgression of God’s covenant. 103 See Greengus, Laws in the Bible, passim and Introduction, 1–9. Jewish rabbinic teaching went on to find divine approval for rabbinic laws not found in the Bible, including many “shared” with non-Jewish law traditions, by claiming that these were part of an oral tradition of laws given by God to Moses at the same time as the written Torah. One might here also point to the use of “exhortatory laws” like Lev 19:11–18, 32, 35–36 within the Pentateuch, which invoke universal, moral values that were to be applied more broadly, beyond the normal framework of “casuistically” or situationally formulated customary laws.

The Anachronism in Abraham’s Observance of the Laws

35

articulation as due to a measure of reticence, a hesitancy to vigorously insist that the god of the small Judean nation was both the sole sovereign of the universe and the deity who taught justice and law to all of humankind. The polytheists within and around Judea and in the Judean diaspora might indeed have been ready to allow every people, including the Judeans, to worship their own gods. They might also have been prepared to see the Judeans publicly elevate their own god as the sole and supreme god over all other deities, even the ones venerated by others.104 But they might have not been willing to attribute all of their own laws to the inspiration of the Judean god.105 The Persians clearly took pride in their own legal tradition, as Xerxes proclaims in his monuments: “ . . . obey the law, which Auramazda has established! . . . The man who obeys the law which Auramazda has established, and [who] worships Auramazda at the proper time and in the proper ceremonial style, he both becomes happy [while] living and blessed [when] dead.”106 In addition, there was a special “pride of ownership” on the part of the Judeans for their own laws; they were perhaps not prepared to consider gentile laws as fully equivalent to the laws of their own special tradition.107 For reasons like these, I would argue that there was less than a full and vigorous assertion that the Judean God was the source of universal gentile laws. The absence of such an assertion thus left space for later readers of the Bible – e.g., Jubilees and the rabbis – to regard Gen 26:5 as an anachronism.

104 Cf., e.g., Neh 9:6: And Ezra said: “You are the Lord, you alone; you have made heaven, the heaven of heavens, with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them. To all of them you give life, and the host of heaven worships you” (NRSV). 105 Josephus, Ant. 1:167–68, advanced the claim that Abraham taught mathematics and astronomy to the Egyptians, having learned these earlier, however, while living among the Chaldeans. 106 See Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire, 303–6. 107 Cf. Deut 4:6–8; Ps 147:19–20.

Pursuing Justice: Support for the Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism Gregg E. Gardner The University of British Columbia

Treatment of the poor is a central concern of rabbinic Judaism. This paper examines the earliest discussions of allocations to the poor made at the harvest (pe’ah [‫פאה‬, “corner” of a field], gleanings, forgotten produce, etc.) in Tannaitic or early rabbinic literature (especially Mishnah Pe’ah and Tosefta Pe’ah 1:1–4:7). Challenging recent scholarly assessments, I find that these allocations do not constitute “charity” because the householder gives nothing of his own. The framework of social or distributive justice also misses the mark, as the minuscule amounts prescribed for the poor suggest that the Tannaim did not formulate these laws to reduce inequalities. Rather, this article demonstrates how early rabbinic laws aim to achieve procedural justice to ensure equality of opportunity among the poor by instructing the householder how to refrain from interfering with God’s direct distribution of produce to the needy. In doing so, the Tannaitic authors and redactors accept the persistence of inequalities between the poor and the well-off. The emphasis on procedure complements other forms of Tannaitic support that focus on the outcome of allocations to the poor.

The earliest extended discussions of care for the poor in rabbinic literature are found in Mishnah Pe’ah and Tosefta Pe’ah, which elaborate upon the laws of agricultural support for the disadvantaged in Leviticus 19:10–11, 23:22, and Deuteronomy 24:19–21. Redacted in the early third century ce in Roman Palestine by the Tannaim, these legal and ethical discussions form the foundations of subsequent approaches to Jewish philanthropy and provide comparative material for Greco-Roman and early Christian approaches to poverty.1 Despite the importance of the earliest rabbinic discussions of poverty

1 On approaches to the poor in Greek, Roman, and early Christian writings, see P. Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550 AD (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012); A. R. Hands, Charities and Social Aid in Greece and Rome (London: Thames & Hudson, 1968); A. Parkin, “An Exploration of Pagan Almsgiving,” in Poverty in the Roman World, ed. Margaret Atkins and Robin Osborne (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 60–82; C. R. Whittaker, Land, City, and Trade in the Roman Empire (Aldershot, Hampshire, Great Britain and Brookfield, VT: Variorum, 1993), 1–25. These texts are elaborated upon in tractate Pe’ah of the Jerusalem Talmud

37

38

Gregg E. Gardner

relief for the study of late-antique religions, there have been relatively few treatments of m. Pe’ah and t. Pe’ah.2 Among them, there is a fundamental disagreement over the nature of the laws, which have been characterized as either charity or social justice.3 and in b. Hag. 6b–7a, b. Shabb. 127a–b (= m. Pe’ah 1:1); b. B. Qam. 61a (= m. Pe’ah 2:1); b. Mo’ed Qat. 4b (= m. Pe’ah 7:5); b. Sotah 21b (= m. Pe’ah 8:8); b. B. Bat. 8a–11a (= m. Pe’ah 8:7; t. Pe’ah 4:8–21); b. Ketub. 67b (= m. Pe’ah 8:8; t. Pe’ah 4:8–15). On the Order of Seeds in the Bavli, see Y. Sussmann, “‫( ”סוגיות בבליות לסדרים זרעים וטהרות‬PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1969), 75–226, 245–90. Later Jewish thinkers, such as Maimonides, would draw extensively on early rabbinic texts in their treatments of support for the poor (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Matanot Aniyim). 2 Scholarly treatments have been mostly limited to editions and translations with annotations and commentaries; see H. Albeck, ‫שישה סדרי משנה‬, 6 vols. (Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Bialik Institute and Dvir Publishing House, 1952–1958 [reprint 1988]), 1:41–66; W. Bauer, Pea (Vom Ackerwinkel): Text, Übersetzung Und Erklärung, ed. Georg Beer and Oskar Holtzmann. Die Mischna: Text, Übersetzung Und Ausführliche Erklärung (Giessen: A. Töpelmann, 1914); R. Brooks, Support for the Poor in the Mishnaic Law of Agriculture: Tractate Peah, BJS 43 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983); G. Buss, Die Mischna: Textkritische Ausgabe Mit Deutscher Übersetzung Und Kommentar, Pea (Feldecke) (Jerusalem: Lee Achim Sefarim, 2008); D. Instone-Brewer, Traditions of the Rabbis from the Era of the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), vol. 1, 121–67; S. Lieberman, ‫ קטעים מן הגניזה כתב יד שוקן ודפוס‬,‫ ע״פ כתב יד ווינה ושנויי נוסחאות מכתב יד ערפורט‬:‫תוספתא‬ ‫ויניציאה רפ״א‬, 4 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988 [reprint, 1995–2002]), 1:41–61; S. Lieberman, ‫ באור ארוך לתוספתא‬:‫תוספתא כפשוטה‬, 8 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988 [reprint, 1995–2002]), 1:126–91; E. Lohse and G. Mayer, Die Tosefta, Seder I: Zeraim, 1.1: Berakot – Pea, ed. Gerhard Kittel, Karl Heinrich Rengstorf, and Günter Mayer. Rabbinische Texte (Stuttgart, Berlin, and Köln: Kohlhammer, 1999); S. Safrai and Z. Safrai, ‫ מסכת פאה‬:‫( משנת ארץ ישראל‬Jerusalem: Lifshitz College, 2012). While these provide useful line-by-line commentaries, they include little synthetic, conceptual, or historical analysis. See also the treatments of select pericopae in E. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists: Fasting and Asceticism in Rabbinic Culture (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 59–60; C. Goldscheider, “Inequality, Stratification, and Exclusion in the Mishnah: An Exploratory Social Science Analysis,” in Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tzvi Abusch, ed. Jeffrey Stackert, Barbara Nevling Porter, and David P. Wright (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2011), 569–72; M. S. Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity: A Theory of the Economy of the Sacred in Jewish Law” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2004), 148–58; E. Schwartz, “Land, Liens, and Ts’daqah,” Journal of Law and Religion 14, no. 2 (1999): 395–99; A. Shemesh, “‫ ”דברים שיש להם שיעור‬Tarbiz 73, no. 3 (2004): 387–405; and A. Shemesh, “The History of the Creation of Measurements: Between Qumran and the Mishnah,” in Rabbinic Perspectives: Rabbinic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls: Proceedings of the Eighth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 7–9 January, 2003, ed. Steven D. Fraade, Aharon Shemesh, and Ruth Clements (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2006), 147–73; M. Weiss, “‫סדר המשנה במסכת פאה ויחסה לתוספתא‬.” PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 1978); Y. Wilfand, Poverty, Charity and the Image of the Poor in Rabbinic Texts from the Land of Israel (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2014), 148–59. 3 They are viewed as charity by S. Sorek, Remembered for Good: A Jewish Benefaction System in Ancient Palestine (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2010), 232; as almsgiving and charity by Wilfand, Poverty, 148, 186; as donations to the poor by humans by G. A. Anderson, Charity: The

Pursuing Justice

39

In this paper, I examine Tannaitic teachings on allocations for the poor made at the time of the harvest.4 Instead of reading m. Pe’ah and t. Pe’ah through the lenses of the Talmuds and other later traditional interpreters, I follow those scholars who read Tannaitic texts within their immediate historical and literary contexts – drawing upon the most geographically and chronologically proximate sources, especially texts from other Tannaitic compilations.5 After examining the various items that are to be left for the poor at the harvest, I will show that the present understandings of these texts as concerning charity and social or distributive justice are insufficient. The allocations determined in these texts are not charity because the householder gives nothing of his own. Nor do the laws therein strive to achieve distributive justice, as they do not prioritize efforts to lift the poor out of poverty or close socio-economic gaps. By contrast, I find that the kind of justice that the Tannaim primarily pursue in these texts is procedural justice. The authors and redactors of early rabbinic literature are more concerned with ensuring that the procedures for allocating these items are rigidly followed, so as to ensure that all poor individuals have the same opportunity to collect the produce. That is, the rabbis prioritize the fairness of the process over the equity of the outcome, thus allowing income inequalities to persist.6 These texts also exhibit theological motivations, namely the

Place of the Poor in the Biblical Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013) 155–56, 158; and J. M. Baumgarten, “A Qumran Text with Agrarian Halakhah,” JQR 86, no. 1/2 (1995); as public charities by J. Jeremias, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus: An Investigation into Economic and Social Conditions During the New Testament Period (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969), 132. On assessments of these offerings as social or distributive justice, see my discussion below. 4 I leave the examination of Sabbatical laws, the Jubilee, the poor man’s tithe, and the forgiveness of debts for another study. 5 E.g., S. J. D. Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism: Volume 3: The Early Roman Period, ed. William Horbury, W. D. Davies, and John Sturdy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); S. D. Fraade, Legal Fictions: Studies of Law and Narrative in the Discursive Worlds of Ancient Jewish Sectarians and Sages. Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 147 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011); M. Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee, A.D. 132–212, 2d. ed. (London and Portland, OR: Vallentine Mitchell, 2000); J. D. Rosenblum, Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010). My approach differs from the treatments of these texts by Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 4–6, 148–58; and Schwartz, “Land, Liens, and Ts’daqah,” 391–404. These latter two focus on modern normative ethics, which undergirds their readings of early rabbinic writings through the lenses of the Talmuds and other later traditional rabbinic interpreters. Post-Tannaitic commentators, however, often color early rabbinic writings in apologetic and harmonizing tones. 6 The impact that these laws would have had on “real life” during the time of the Tannaim cannot be known from the texts themselves and there are no extra-rabbinic sources on how many people observed these laws. Given that the Tannaim held little authority or influence over Jewish society during their own lifetimes (S. Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. to

40

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reaffirmation of God’s ownership of the land and its produce. Socio-economic considerations also come into play, as the early rabbinic authors and redactors reveal their own upper-class biases. Finally, there are existential considerations, as the rabbis come to terms with the inevitability and persistence of poverty, and endeavor to make the best of grim realities.7

Distribution, Redistribution, Gift Exchange, and Modern Scholarship Scholarship on gift exchange initiated by Marcel Mauss has influenced the ways that these texts have been interpreted by modern scholars. Mauss and others have explored how giving a gift generates an obligation for the recipient to give a gift in return.8 Most societies, including those of the ancient Mediterranean, abide by what Alvin Gouldner calls the “norm of reciprocity,” which entails an obligation to accept a gift when it is offered and to give something in return. A failure to reciprocate subjects the recipient to shame, embarrassment, and other feelings of inferiority.9 640 C.E. [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001], 103–28), it is very probable that their teachings would have had little (if any) impact beyond rabbinic circles. As such, I read these texts as instructive and prescriptive of what the rabbis thought ought to be – instead of descriptive of what was – in line with attitudes on the broader function and purpose of classical rabbinic texts; see Goodman, State and Society, 6; C. Hezser, “Correlating Literary, Epigraphical, and Archaeological Sources,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, ed. Catherine Hezser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 10–13; H. L. Strack and G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, trans. Markus N. A. Bockmuehl, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 45–61. 7 This falls into line with a rabbinic idea that would later be referred to as ‫גם זו לטובה‬, “this too is for the good.” See b. Ta’an. 21a and E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. Israel Abrahams, 2nd enlarged ed. (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1979), 454–55. In this respect, rabbinic approaches to poverty are similar to their approaches to droughts – an unavoidable environmental and social crisis that creates an opportunity for the rabbis to explore ethical and moral instructions; see J. W. Schofer, Confronting Vulnerability (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 109–39. 8 M. Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W. D. Halls (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990); see also P. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990), 98. 9 A. W. Gouldner, “The Norm of Reciprocity: A Preliminary Statement,” American Sociological Review 25, no. 2 (1960): 161–78. See also R. W. Emerson, “Gifts,” in Essays and Lectures, ed. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Joel Porte (New York: Viking Press, 1844 [reprint, 1983]), 536; M. D. Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (London and New York: Routledge, 1972 [reprint, 2004]), 208. On reciprocity in the ancient Mediterranean, see S. Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2010).

Pursuing Justice

41

Scholarship on gift exchange has influenced the study of the ancient world, including our understanding of the social and economic history of Jews in late antiquity.10 For example, Michael Satlow demonstrates how ideas about gift exchange illuminate late-antique inscriptions that mark donations to synagogues, showing how these inscriptions reflect a mentality that imagines God as an immanent being with whom one can actively negotiate. These gifts, like those given between humans, draw an other into the cycle of gift-giving, in this case, God. One actively barters with God, making conditional vows that demand something of God in return.11 It follows, then, that scholars have used models of gift exchange to illuminate the allocations for the poor discussed in m. Pe’ah and t. Pe’ah 1:1–4:7. Within this framework, God and the householder enter into a cycle of gift-giving: God first gives produce to the householder, after which the householder leaves produce as pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc., for the poor – which is understood as the counter-gift or return gift, accepted by the poor on God’s behalf.12 While the Maussian model is tempting, especially in light of the Tannaim’s own designation of these allocations as ‫( מתנות‬typically translated as “gifts”; see below), I find that its application to harvest allocations is problematic. Because each gift constitutes the transfer of ownership over an asset, the Maussian model of gift exchange revolves around a firm understanding of property and the assignation of property rights.13 The party who gives a gift must own it before transferring ownership rights over to another party.14 What I will show, however, is that the items left to the poor at the harvest were never the householder’s to 10 See, most prominently, P. Veyne, Bread and Circuses: Historical Sociology and Political Pluralism, trans. Brian Pearce (London: Penguin, 1992), and recently M. L. Satlow, ed. The Gift in Antiquity (Chichester, West Sussux, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013). 11 M. L. Satlow, “Giving for a Return: Jewish Votive Offerings in Late Antiquity,” in Religion and the Self in Antiquity, ed. David Brakke, Michael L. Satlow, and Steven Weitzman (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005), 94–95. Elsewhere, I have demonstrated how ideas on gift exchange help us understand early rabbinic instructions for benefactors to give charity under the guise of a loan; see G. E. Gardner, “Charity Wounds: Gifts to the Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in The Gift in Antiquity, ed. Michael L. Satlow (Chichester, West Sussux, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 173–88. 12 E.g. Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 12, 14, 148–59; see further my discussion below. 13 J. B. Schneewind, “Philosophical Ideas of Charity: Some Historical Reflections,” in Giving: Western Ideas of Philanthropy, ed. J. B. Schneewind (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1996), 55; B. Wagner-Hasel, “Egoistic Exchange and Altruistic Gift: On the Roots of Marcel Mauss’ Theory of the Gift,” in Negotiating the Gift: Pre-Modern Figurations of Exchange, ed. Gadi Algazi, Valentin Groebner, and Bernhard Jussen. Veröffentlichungen Des Max-Planck-Instituts Für Geschichte 188 (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 146–47, 150–59. 14 Indeed, in other areas of rabbinic law, gifts rightly function as means to transfer property rights from one party to another – such as gifts to priests and gifts to one’s heirs; see Gardner, “Charity Wounds,” 174–75.

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Gregg E. Gardner

give. Rather, the produce allocated as pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce are selected and given by God directly to the poor. Thus, the householder gives nothing of his own and does not enter into a cycle of gift exchange with either God or the poor. It follows, then, that the laws governing these allocations do not constitute systems of “redistribution” – i.e. from God to householder to the poor. Because pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce never belonged to the householder, they are simply distributed by God directly to the poor. This allocation, moreover, is made simultaneously when God allocates property rights over the majority of the harvest to the householder. By contrast, the Maussian gift model, as Pierre Bourdieu has pointed out, entails an elapse of time as the back-and-forth exchanges unfold.15 For similar reasons, as I will show, these harvest-time allocations cannot be considered charity or almsgiving, as some scholars hold. In this paper, I use “charity” and “almsgiving” synonymously, understanding them in terms of the early rabbinic conceptualization of ‫ – צדקה‬namely, the provision of material support for the living poor by a benefactor.16 Pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, and other harvest-time allocations cannot be considered “charity,” because they never belonged to the householder or landowner – they were never his to give. At the moment when the harvest begins, rights over pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce are immediately assigned to the poor, while property rights over the rest of the harvest are assigned to the householder.

Produce for the Poor at the Harvest The central texts from the Torah concerning support for the poor that inform early rabbinic discussions are found in Leviticus and Deuteronomy: When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges (‫פאה‬, pe’ah)17 of your field, or gather the gleanings (‫ )לקט‬of your 15 Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, 98–111. 16 Notably, “material support” indicates that personal services (e.g. visiting the sick, burying the dead) are excluded from the early rabbinic concept of ‫צדקה‬. Instead, the rabbis placed these philanthropic acts under a different heading, within the broader category of ‫ – גמילות חסדים‬acts of kindness or piety. Also noteworthy is that charity is specifically for poor individuals, whom the rabbis understand as adult men who lack the material resources to support themselves, maintain their household (which includes a wife, children, animals, and inanimate possessions), or both. Assistance to widows, orphans, and other individuals in need is covered by other areas of rabbinic law. To be sure, in certain contexts ‫ צדקה‬also maintains its biblical sense as “righteousness” in early rabbinic texts. On the development of the term ‫ צדקה‬and its usage in Tannaitic compilations, see my discussion in G. E. Gardner, The Origins of Organized Charity in Rabbinic Judaism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 26–32. 17 I have transliterated ‫( פאה‬pe’ah) due to its frequent use in this study.

Pursuing Justice

43

harvest. You shall not pick (‫ )עלל‬your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit (‫ )פרט‬of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God. (Lev 19:9–10)18 And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges (pe’ah) of your field, or gather the gleanings (‫ )לקט‬of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God. (Lev 23:22) When you reap the harvest in your field and overlook (‫ )שכח‬a sheaf in the field, do not turn back to get it; it shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow – in order that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings. When you beat down the fruit of your olive trees, do not go over them again; that shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow. When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not pick it over again (‫;)עלל‬ that shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow. (Deut 24:19–21) The Tannaim expand the terminology of these verses into concepts and legal categories, defining, classifying, and discussing them in encyclopedic detail.19 Mishnah Pe’ah and Tosefta Pe’ah 1:1–4:7 discuss pe’ah, produce left unharvested at the edges of a field for the poor to collect (m. Pe’ah 1:1–4:5; t. Pe’ah 1:1–2:10);20 gleanings (‫)לקט‬, produce that falls to the ground during the reaping (m. Pe’ah 4:10–5:3; t. Pe’ah 2:14–3:1); forgotten produce (‫)שכחה‬, produce that the harvester has inadvertently overlooked while working through the fields or vineyard (m. Pe’ah 5:7–7:2; t. Pe’ah 3:2–10, 3:16); individual grapes (‫)פרט‬, which have become detached from their clusters and fallen to the ground (m. Pe’ah 7:3; t. Pe’ah 3:5); and defective clusters (‫ )עוללת‬of grapes, which did not develop into the normal cone-shape (m. Pe’ah 7:4–8; t. Pe’ah 3:11–4:1).21 While these texts

18 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of the Hebrew Bible are based on Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation According to the Traditional Hebrew Text (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1985), with my emendations. 19 The approach here is typical of Tannaitic approaches to law. See S. J. D. Cohen, “The Judaean Legal Tradition and the Halakhah of the Mishnah,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 121–43. 20 Notably, the rabbis expand the biblical concept beyond grains, as they apply the laws of pe’ah to any produce that is harvested as a crop, edible, tended, grown in the land of Israel, and can be stored; see m. Pe’ah 1:4–5; 2:1–4; J. Neusner, The Economics of the Mishnah (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 127. 21 That is, it does not have the normal shape of a cluster that is wide at the top and narrow at the bottom; see Brooks, Support for the Poor, 127. It should be noted that the Tannaitic usage of ‫עלל‬ is not immediately apparent from its sense in the Hebrew Bible. See L. Köhler et al., The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (Leiden and New York: Brill, 1994), s.v. Shemesh,

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have some affinity with writings from the Second Temple era, the bulk of these teachings (including the nature and direction of their expansions of the biblical text) must be credited to the innovative minds of the early rabbis themselves.22 As I will show, the Tannaitic discourses primarily concerned the role of the owner of the land or field – who is synonymous with “householder” in early rabbinic literature – who harvests the field himself or through an agent.23

Negative Obligations and Correlative Rights The role of the householder is a central preoccupation of these texts. This reflects the interests of their redactors and intended audience, as the one hundred or so individuals who comprised the early rabbinic movement tended to be well-off, landowners, or both.24 The householder is needed to cultivate the land, ensuring its productivity, and to initiate the various processes that set in motion the allocations for the poor. That is, the produce becomes subject to these laws when the householder harvests the crop (m. Pe’ah 1:3–6; t. Pe’ah 1:5–7). A stalk of grain that falls to the earth only assumes the status of gleanings if it was initially reaped during the harvest.25 These instructions are based on

“‫דברים שיש להם שיעור‬,” 389–92; Shemesh, “Creation of Measurements,” 151–54. Other Tannaitic discussions include Sifra, Qedoshim, Pereq 1:6–3:7; Sifre Deut 282–85, and m. Git. 5:8, which address how these laws should be applied to poor gentiles. 22 For Second Temple era discussions of these topics, see 4Q270 3 ii 12–19; Josephus, Ant. 4.231–232. My observation here aligns with the broader conclusions reached by Cohen, “Judaean Legal Tradition,” 140, that the bulk of the Mishnah must be credited to the early rabbis themselves, who were not conservators as much as they were innovators. 23 That the term for householder, ‫בעל הבית‬, implies “landowner” has been demonstrated by B. Z. Rosenfeld and H. Perlmutter, “Landowners in Roman Palestine 100–300 C.E.: A Distinct Social Group,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 2, no. 3 (2011): 327–52. 24 Not one Tanna was poor. This contrasts with the subsequent wave of rabbis, the Amoraim, who included the poor among their ranks; see Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 930–36; G. E. Gardner, “Who Is Rich? The Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” JQR 104, no. 4 (2014); A. M. Gray, “The Formerly Wealthy Poor: From Empathy to Ambivalence in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” AJS Review 33, no. 1 (2009): 122–23. The authors and audience of early rabbinic texts were one and the same – the Tannaim themselves; see M. S. Jaffee, “Rabbinic Authorship as a Collective Enterprise,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 35. By contrast, Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, writes that wealth and the wealthy entered Christian communities only from the mid-fourth century onwards, as Jesus and the early Church initially had negative views on wealth, instructing the rich to renounce it (e.g. Matt 19:21–26). For the rabbis, however, the legitimacy of wealth was not questioned, as the wealthy formed the core of the rabbinic movement and informed their teachings from the outset. 25 Brooks, Support for the Poor, 82.

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45

the temporal clause when you reap that initiates the discussions of these laws in Leviticus 19:9 and Deuteronomy 24:19. At the moment reaping begins, however, the Tannaim restrict the householder’s agency. His obligations are negative and passive in character. He is to leave the produce in the field, vineyard, or orchard for the poor to collect. He is instructed to refrain from certain actions: he is not to reap the edges of the field, not to pick up the fallen gleanings, not to strip the vineyard bare.26 These are negative duties – “thou shalt not” commandments, in contrast to the positive, “thou shalt” variety.27 The householder cannot interfere with the (seemingly) chance allocation of the produce in any way. The householder’s lack of agency is exemplified by the laws of forgotten produce, since produce can only be considered “forgotten” if it was left in the field entirely by accident; neither human agency nor intentionality can play a role (m. Pe’ah 5:7, 6:4–7:2; t. Pe’ah 3:1, 3:5–10). The householder’s lack of agency is also highlighted by the fact that he cannot select the recipients or even appear to do so, as he is barred from distributing the produce himself.28 He does not give the produce because these items never belonged to him in the first place.29 Rather, I argue that these items are given to the poor directly from God. 26 For example, the householder must designate a portion of the rear corner of a field that he will refrain from reaping, in order to fulfill the laws of pe’ah (m. Pe’ah 1:2–3; t. Pe’ah 1:5–6). With regard to gleanings, the rabbis instruct the householder to refrain from interfering with the process by prohibiting him to hold a basket underneath a tree to prevent produce from falling to the ground and taking on the status of gleanings (m. Pe’ah 4:10; Sifra, Qedoshim, Pereq 3:2). Similarly, the rabbis discuss whether the householder interferes with the poor’s ability to collect gleanings when he irrigates a field (m. Pe’ah 5:3). See also m. Pe’ah 7:3–4; t. Pe’ah 3:11, where grapes can only take on the status of individual grapes and defective clusters if they do so without human interference. 27 On the development of positive commandments, see E. S. Alexander, “From Whence the Phrase ‘Timebound, Positive Commandments’?,” JQR 97, no. 3 (2007): 317–46; E. S. Alexander, Gender and Timebound Commandments in Judaism (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 28 The householder must designate certain times during the day when the poor may collect the produce themselves (m. Pe’ah 4:5, 8:1). The rabbis instruct that the poor must grab the produce with their own hands (m. Pe’ah 4:4; t. Pe’ah 2:1–2). Indeed, the householder must avoid even the appearance of privileging one poor person over another (t. Pe’ah 2:6). Only in exceptional circumstances, such as when the produce is difficult to reach or if there is a risk that the poor could damage the householder’s property (e.g. damage a trellis), may the householder distribute the produce directly to the poor (m. Pe’ah 4:1–2). 29 See especially t. Pe’ah 3:13. Cf. Baumgarten, “A Qumran Text with Agrarian Halakhah,” 1; Brooks, Support for the Poor, 74; and Goldscheider, “Inequality,” 570–72, who understand that the householder owns the produce and then redistributes it to the poor. Ambiguous positions are taken by Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 148–58, 170, 298 n. 2, and Schwartz, “Land, Liens, and Ts’daqah.” While they initially suggest that the produce never belonged to the householder in the first place, the bulk of their discussions presume that the householder initially owned the

46

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Alongside the harvester’s negative duties to refrain from certain actions, which are inherited from the biblical tradition, the Tannaim prescribe correlative rights for the poor which they define against the rights of the householder. For example: Which [stalks or produce] are gleanings? That which falls during the reaping. If one was reaping and he reaped a handful, plucked a fistful, [and] a thorn pricked him and it fell from his hand to the ground – this belongs to the householder. From within the hand or within the sickle – for the poor; [From the] back of the hand or behind the sickle – for the householder; [From the] top of the hand or the top of the sickle – R. Ishmael says: For the poor. R. Akiva says: For the householder. (m. Pe’ah 4:10)30 [Stalks or produce found in] ant holes in the midst of standing grain, they belong to the householder; those [found in ant holes] after the reapers [finished harvesting] – the upper ones – belong to the poor, and the lower ones – belong to the householder.31 R. Meir says: All belong to the poor, because doubtful gleanings are gleanings. (m. Pe’ah 4:11)32

produce. Similarly, these items cannot be said to be “re-gifted” from God by the householder in the sense explored by N. Z. Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 30 All translations of rabbinic texts are my own. The text of the Mishnah is based on the Hebrew edition of Albeck, ‫שישה סדרי משנה‬, and I have noted significant textual variants according to the most important manuscripts (e.g. Kaufmann and Parma); for the textual variants of Pe’ah, see Buss, Die Mischna – Pea, and N. Sacks, ed. ‫משנה זרעים עם שינויי נוסחאות מכתבי־יד ומספרות הראשונים‬ (Jerusalem: Institute for the Complete Israeli Talmud, Yad Rav Herzog, 1972). 31 Because the produce found at the top of the ant holes is presumed to have fallen during the harvest in question, it belongs to the poor. Because the produce found at the bottom of ant holes presumably fell before the present harvest began, it belongs to the householder. 32 See also t. Pe’ah 2:16.

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47

By granting the poor a legal claim to this produce, the rabbis identify a specific group of people to whom it is owed. The stakes, therefore, are quite high: if the harvester does not leave pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc., he has not only failed to perform his religious duty to God, but he has also injured other humans. He has not only committed a wrong, but he has wronged someone else.33 The rabbis equate this with stealing from the poor, a point they make repeatedly;34 for example: Which [grapes have the status of] individual grapes (‫?)פרט‬ That which drops during the vintage. While he was reaping, if he cut a cluster, [and] it became entangled in the leaves, [and] it fell from his hand to the ground, and it broke apart – this35 belongs to the householder. One who lays the basket underneath the vine while he reaps grapes, this one steals from the poor; on this it is said: Do not remove the landmark of the poor. (cf. Prov 22:28, 23:10)36 (m. Pe’ah 7:3) Early rabbinic texts delineate a complementary arrangement in which the poor enjoy certain legal rights and the householders are bound to comply with particular negative duties.37 It is on the basis of these rights that one who fails

33 See A. Buchanan, “Justice and Charity,” Ethics 97, no. 3 (1987): 558–75; A. Buchanan, “Charity, Justice, and the Idea of Moral Progress,” in Giving: Western Ideas of Philanthropy, ed. J. B. Schneewind, 100. 34 m. Pe’ah 5:6; m. Avot 5:9; m. Git. 5:8; t. Pe’ah 1:6; Sifra, Qedoshim, Pereq 3:2. Similarly, the poor cannot collect produce that has not yet been designated as pe’ah; see t. Pe’ah 2:7. 35 The Parma manuscript lacks “this.” 36 The mishnah changes ‫“( עולם‬ancient”) in Prov 22:28, 23:10 to ‫עולים‬, “those who go up” – a euphemism for the poor who have “come down” from their assets. This play on Prov 22:28, 23:10 is also used in m. Pe’ah 5:6, which likewise warns against stealing from the poor (here, by failing to allow them into the field to collect pe’ah, gleanings, etc.). 37 R. M. Cover, “Obligation: A Jewish Jurisprudence of the Social Order,” Journal of Law and Religion 5, no. 1 (1987): 65–74, has distinguished the rights-based approach of common-law countries from the obligation-based approach of Jewish law. Thus, in the laws of pe’ah, forgotten produce, gleanings, etc., the rabbis add a set of rights to previously-existing obligations. See also M. J. Broyde and S. S. Weiner, “Understanding Rights in Context: Freedom of Contract or Freedom from Contract? A Comparison of the Various Jewish and American Traditions,” Journal of the Beth Din of America 1, no. 1 (2012): 48; T. Novick, “Poverty and Halakhic Agency: Gleanings from the Literature of Rabbinic Palestine,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 22 (2014):

48

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to comply with the laws of pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce is considered to have robbed the poor.38

Justice, Not Charity As scholars of ethics have shown, negative duties and correlative rights are characteristic of systems of justice, which I find resonates with early rabbinic discussions of pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc.39 Also characteristic of systems of justice is the determinate way in which these texts fill out the biblical laws concerning agricultural allocations to the needy. The redactors of the Mishnah go to great lengths to perfect the obligations of pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc., by providing extensive definitions of the categories, leaving little to personal discretion.40 We see, for example, in the discussions of who is eligible to collect pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce that “the poor” are very specifically defined as those with less than two hundred zuzim of income per year (m. Pe’ah 8:8).41 The determinate nature of the system 27; Wilfand, Poverty, 151. On Cover’s impact on the study of early Jewish and rabbinic law, see Fraade, Legal Fictions, 17–34; B. S. Wimpfheimer, Narrating the Law: A Poetics of Talmudic Legal Stories (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 13–24. 38 In classical rabbinic texts, “steals from the poor” is used only in discussions of harvest gifts to the poor; see m. Pe’ah 5:6; m. Pe’ah 7:3; m. Git. 5:8; m. Avot 5:9; t. Pe’ah 1:6; Sifre Deut 284; y. Pe’ah 5:6, 19a; y. Pe’ah 7:3, 19d. The rabbis may have drawn upon received traditions from the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple era; see the similar language in Isa 10:2; CD 6:16; 2 En. 10:5 (MS. J). On robbing the poor, see further Wilfand, Poverty, 251–53. 39 See especially Buchanan, “Justice and Charity,” 558–75; Buchanan, “Charity, Justice,” 98–116; Schneewind, “Philosophical Ideas of Charity.” 40 As Wilfand, Poverty, 246, rightly notes, the laws of the poor tithe allow the farmer more control over the allocation, as he is allowed to keep part of it for relatives and friends, after other poor people have received a certain amount. I add that this is not complete discretion, but instead only partial. As such, the laws of the poor tithe provide a middle ground between allocations at the harvest and charity. 41 The figure of 200 zuz (= 200 Roman dinars) appears frequently in early rabbinic texts, e.g., in m. Ketub. 2:1, 5:1, where it establishes the minimum value of a marriage contract; see D. Sperber, Roman Palestine, 200–400: Money and Prices, 2nd ed. (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1991), 31. The Tannaim often introduce quantitative criteria to limit personal discretion and subjectivity; see Y. D. Gilat, ‫( פרקים בהשתלשלות ההלכה‬Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1992), 28–29, 63–71. Their penchant for quantification, especially their interests in minima, may have been preceded by the Dead Sea Scrolls; see Shemesh, “‫דברים שיש להם שיעור‬,” 387–405; Shemesh, “Creation of Measurements,” 147–73. Mention should also be made of the unique problem posed by m. Pe’ah 1:1, which states that pe’ah is among the items that have no measure, which directly contradicts m. Pe’ah 1:2, which instructs that pe’ah must be at least one-sixtieth of the yield. There have been a number of attempts to explain away this contradiction. The earliest is in t. Pe’ah 1:1, which interprets “no measure” in m. Pe’ah 1:1 to imply that is has no upper limit, but that it does have a lower limit (one-sixtieth). Modern scholars are divided on the issue. Some see an

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49

envisioned by the rabbis is also seen in their qualitative definitions, as the texts identify the allocations as stalks, sheaves, olives, grapes, etc. In short, the rabbis cast the system of harvest-time allocations as determinate; the recipients (the poor), the things allocated (agricultural produce), and the allocation methods are all specified in detail.42 The laws of pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc., are cast as a system of negative duties and correlative rights, with the identities of the parties, goods, and transfer methods all well-defined and determinate. As I mentioned briefly earlier, these traits are well known to scholars of ethics and are characterized as acts of justice. Justice is often defined in contrast to charity, a more indeterminate duty whereby the parties, and things given, are incompletely or imperfectly defined. Early rabbinic texts that address charity do not legislate that it must be given at a certain time or place (e.g. t. Pe’ah 4:8–21). Nor do they indicate how much must be given. Charity (‫ )צדקה‬is imperfectly defined – which is typical of positive duties – and allows for more freedom for individual determination and more discretion on the part of the giver. That is, the commandment is simply to give charity – not to give a certain amount, at a certain time, or to specific individuals. These decisions are left to the discretion of the individual giver. The underlying premise is that charity comes from one’s personal property and the benefactor decides when, what, how much, and to whom he gives. Acts of justice are independent of personal discretion, while charity is defined by it.43 editorial seam that suggests that the two pericopae evidence multiple stages of the development of the law; e.g. Shemesh, “‫דברים שיש להם שיעור‬,” 387–405; Shemesh, “Creation of Measurements,” 147–73; cf. Weiss, “‫ ”סדר המשנה‬58 n. 18. Perhaps the simplest explanation is that m. Pe’ah 1:1 is not a normative statement of rabbinic law, but rather a positive statement of biblical law. That it, it is an observation that the laws of pe’ah have no prescribed measure in the Hebrew Bible, but that the rabbis will provide one; see, e.g., H. Danby, The Mishnah: Translated from the Hebrew with Introduction and Brief Explanatory Notes (London: Oxford University Press, 1933), 10 n. 15. In any case, one pericope (m. Pe’ah 1:1) cannot deny the overall pattern that classical (including Tannaitic) rabbinic texts often turn to quantification in defining religious laws. 42 P. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire. The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2002), 6–7; Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, 72–90, writes how fourth-century bishops reimagined society along economic lines, as rich and poor, moving away from the old Greco-Roman political view of society which divided the world into citizens and non-citizens. Thus, the early rabbinic understanding of “the poor” in economic or material terms preceded this shift. While the Mishnah seems firmly grounded in the biblical understanding of the poor in material terms (and, thus, anticipates the later shift), I show elsewhere that the Tosefta manifests traces of the Roman civic model of society; see G. E. Gardner, “Cornering Poverty: Mishnah Pe’ah, Tosefta Pe’ah, and the Reimagination of Society in Late Antiquity,” in Envisioning Judaism: Studies in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Ra’anan S. Boustan, et al. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 205–16. 43 Buchanan, “Justice and Charity,” 558–75; Buchanan, “Charity, Justice,” 98–116; J. B. Schneewind, “Philosophical Ideas of Charity,” 54–75.

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Thus, in contrast to scholarly opinions to date, I find that the laws on allocations to the poor at the harvest (pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce) are not charity. Rather, they are structured as a system of justice. But what kind of justice? Some understand it as social or distributive justice – a set of principles designed to guide the allocation of the benefits and burdens of economic activities.44 Even if strict egalitarianism – which promotes the equal allocation of material goods to all members of a society – is not pursued, at the very least distributive justice aims to reduce economic inequalities.45 In the case at hand, however, the Tannaitic instructions would reduce material inequalities by an amount so small as to be insignificant – enabling the householder to fulfill his obligations by leaving only a negligible amount of produce for the poor. While one may read “These are things that have no measure: pe’ah . . . ” in m. Pe’ah 1:1 as an exhortation to allot more than the minimum, I find that Tannaitic teachings are primarily concerned with defining minima.46 We see this especially in the Mishnah’s instruction that pe’ah constitute at least one-sixtieth 44 E.g. Brooks, Support for the Poor, 74; Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 162, 166–67, 170; see further my discussion below. E. Urbach, “‫מגמות דתיות וחברתיות בתורת הצדקה של חז״ל‬,” Zion 16 (1951): 27, finds that charity reduces economic inequalities. His claims would benefit from a renewed assessment. In particular, classical rabbinic texts, and Tannaitic compilations especially, understand the commandment of charity as simply an obligation to give charity. They do not specify precisely how much should be given, leaving in doubt the extent to which charity can close economic inequalities. On charity in ancient Judaism and classical rabbinic literature, see, among others, Gardner, “Cornering Poverty”; Gardner, “Charity Wounds”; Gardner, “Who Is Rich?”; Gardner, “Let Them Eat Fish: Food for the Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” JSJ 45, no. 2 (2014); Gardner, Origins of Organized Charity; Gray, “Formerly Wealthy Poor,” 101–33; Gray, “Redemptive Almsgiving and the Rabbis of Late Antiquity,” JSQ 18, no. 2 (2011): 144–84. G. H. Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries C.E. Near Eastern Studies 23 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); M. Hellinger, “‫ בירור הלכתי ספרותי‬- ‫מצוות צדקה‬ ‫( ”והיסתורי‬PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 1999), 19–36, 93–99, 115–19, 128–37; T. Novick, “Charity and Reciprocity: Structures of Benevolence in Rabbinic Literature,” HTR 105, no. 1 (2012): 33–52; Z. Safrai, ‫( הקהילה היהודית בארץ־ישראל בתקופת המשנה והתלמוד‬Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1995), 62–79; Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 227–31; S. Schwartz, “Rabbinic and Roman Honor and Deference: Y. Berakot 5.1, 9a, and Y. Bikkurim 3.3, 65c–d,” in “Follow the Wise”: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine, ed. Zeev Weiss, Oded Irshai, and Jodi Magness (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010). 45 On distributive justice, see the overview in J. Lamont and C. Favor, “Distributive Justice,” in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta, 2007 (http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/ justice-distributive). 46 G. A. Anderson, Sin: A History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 171; Anderson, Charity, 155–56, 158; Lieberman, ‫תוספתא‬, 1:41; and Shemesh, “‫דברים שיש להם שיעור‬,” 173, read the establishment of a minimum as the Mishnah’s effort to create an opportunity for the reader to demonstrate supererogation by giving above and beyond the required amount. While this reading is certainly possible, I nevertheless read these texts as simply establishing the minimum amount, without an implied exhortation.

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of the harvest – an amount which, elsewhere in Tannaitic texts, is defined as miniscule or negligible. In a discussion of heave offerings, for example, the Tannaim instruct that one who separates one-fortieth of his produce for the offering should be considered “generous”; one who separates one-fiftieth is “average”; while one who separates one-sixtieth is “miserly” (m. Ter. 4:3; t. Ter. 5:3). By comparison, with regard to allocations for the poor, 4Q270 3 ii 12–19 prescribes that at least one-thirtieth be left for the poor – twice the amount advocated by the Tannaim.47 Likewise, the laws of forgotten produce do not apply to especially productive olive trees – eliminating potentially fruitful sources of produce for the poor. Indeed, that these allocations for the poor are very small is clearly evident in the Hebrew Bible and highlighted by Josephus. In his discussion of the harvest-time allocations in Ant. 4:232, Josephus observes that the amounts left for the poor are so small that a landowner will not miss them, and that they are not enough to lift the poor out of poverty. Both in terms of material and rights, therefore, these allocations to the poor are paltry at best. Thus, interpreting these as allocations that seek to achieve social or distributive justice is misleading.

Distribution, Not Redistribution Because poverty relief entails the transfer of assets from one party (benefactor) to another (beneficiary), property and property rights play important roles in these discourses.48 As I will show, early rabbinic texts hold that human householders do not own the land or its produce at the outset of the harvest; rather, these are initially owned by God and it is God who gives the land’s produce both to the householder and to the poor. The Tannaim draw upon the principle of divine ownership from the biblical tradition.49 Psalm 24:1, for example, declares: “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it. . . . ”50 Most explicit is Lev 25:23: “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine; with me you are but aliens and tenants.” Humans are mere temporary guests and residents of God’s land.51 The concept that God owns the land is adopted, emphasized, and elaborated upon by the Tannaim. We see this, for example in Sifra, the Tannaitic exegesis of Leviticus: 47 Baumgarten, “A Qumran Text with Agrarian Halakhah,” 1–8; Shemesh, “‫דברים שיש להם שיעור‬,” 387–405; “Creation of Measurements,” 147–73. 48 Schneewind, “Philosophical Ideas of Charity,” 54–75. 49 Exod 15:17; 1 Sam 8:14; see also the discussion in E. Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 68–69. 50 Translation according to NRSV. 51 See further Nelson, Hebrew Republic, 68–69.

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A. For the land is Mine. (Lev 25:23) B. Do not grieve over it. C. You are but sojourners and residents. (Lev 25:23) D. Do not consider yourselves the main thing.52 E. Likewise it says: For we are sojourners with You, mere transients like our fathers [affirming the impermanence of Israel’s occupation of the land]. (1 Chr 29:15) F. Likewise David says: For like all my forebears, I am a sojourner resident with you [affirming even King David’s impermanent residence in the land]. (Ps 39:13) G. You are with me. (Lev 25:23) H. It is sufficient that a slave (the Israelite) be like his Master, [i.e., resident in the land]:53 I. When you enter what is Mine, [i.e. the land], it is then yours [“with Me”]. (Sifra, Dibbura deSinai, BeHar Pereq 4:8b)54 In this expansion of Leviticus 25:23, the Tannaim emphasize God’s ownership of the land in three ways. First, they instruct their audience not to grieve over the fact that a human cannot own the land outright (lemmata A–B). Second, the rabbis contrast God’s permanent ownership with humans’ temporary residence on the land (D–F). Third, the rabbis make the point that human possession of the land is entirely derivative of, and secondary to, God’s ownership (G–I).55 As a temporary tenant, the householder is to administer, cultivate, and harvest God’s land.56 As compensation, the householder may claim a share – but only a share – of the produce for himself at the harvest. At the time of the harvest, God likewise claims a share on behalf of those under God’s special protection, such as the poor.57 This share now belongs to “the poor,” collectively, even before any individual poor person has taken possession of a single grape, stalk, or olive.58 My findings shed light on what it means for these items to be identified as ‫ מתנות‬for the poor.59 While the Hebrew Bible does not label these items 52 The exegesis plays on ‫עיקר‬, which means “main thing” as well as “root” – thus, no Israelite is to deem himself immovably “rooted” to the land; see H. L. Apothaker, Sifra, Dibbura DeSinai: Rhetorical Formulae, Literary Structures, and Legal Traditions (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2003), 107 n. 47. 53 Cf. parallel in b. Ber. 58b on Isa 5:9. 54 Translation based on Apothaker, Sifra, Dibbura DeSinai, 107, with my modifications. 55 Apothaker, Sifra, 108. 56 On stewardship, see, e.g., Gen 1:28, 2:15, 9:2; Schofer, Confronting Vulnerability, 110. 57 Brooks, Support for the Poor, 18. 58 Schwartz, “Land, Liens, and Ts’daqah,” 396. 59 I purposefully avoid translating ‫ מתנות‬as “gifts” because the English “gift” carries an array of social

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53

collectively as ‫מתנות‬, it becomes common in later Jewish texts.60 In Tannaitic compilations, we see this most clearly in the Tosefta: A. [There are four61] ‫ מתנות‬in a vineyard: individual grapes (‫)פרט‬, forgotten produce (‫)שכחה‬, and pe’ah and defective clusters (‫)עוללת‬. B. Three in grain: gleanings (‫)לקט‬, forgotten produce, and pe’ah. C. Two on a tree: forgotten produce and pe’ah. (t. Pe’ah 2:13, A–C) This is a well-structured passage, reflecting the editorial sophistication of the rabbinic authors and redactors. These ‫ מתנות‬are arranged in descending order – four ‫ מתנות‬from vineyards (individual grapes, forgotten produce, pe’ah, and defective clusters), three from fields (gleanings, forgotten produce, and pe’ah), and two from orchards (forgotten produce and pe’ah).62 Who gives these items? In the rabbinic mind, they are from God, although they seem to be allocated by chance or accident.63 Pe’ah consists of the produce that happens to grow in the rear corner of a field. Gleanings are the stalks that happened to fall from the edge of the farmer’s sickle. Forgotten produce have been unintentionally overlooked by the harvester. Brooks writes that what seems to be random, the rabbis understand as acts of God and expressions of God’s intention. God

connotations and implications that are not necessarily embedded in the Hebrew term as it is used in Tannaitic compilations; see Gardner, “Charity Wounds,” 173–88; Satlow, “Giving for a Return,” 91–108; R. Yaron, Gifts in Contemplation of Death (London: Oxford University Press, 1960). On gifts in general, see Mauss, The Gift, and more recently G. Algazi, V. Groebner, and B. Jussen, eds., Negotiating the Gift: Pre-Modern Figurations of Exchange (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003); A. E. Komter, ed. The Gift: An Interdisciplinary Perspective (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1996); J. P. Parry and M. Bloch, eds., Money and the Morality of Exchange (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Satlow, The Gift in Antiquity; I. F. Silber, “‫ מסה על המתנה‬,‫ מרסל מוס‬:‫הקדמה‬,” in Essai sur le don. Forme et raison de l’échange dans les sociétés archaïques, ed. Ilana F. Silber (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2005); Wagner-Hasel, “Egoistic Exchange and Altruistic Gift,” 141–71. 60 E.g., see Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Matanot Aniyim. These items are also identified as ‫ מתנות עניים‬in m. Avot 5:9. The terminology may be based on ‫ מתנות לאביונים‬in Est 9:22. Gifts given on Purim, however, are very different from those given to the poor at the harvest. First, Esther does not identify the nature of the gifts (food, money, etc.). Second, there are differences in motivations, as these gifts are given by the Jews as expressions of gratitude to God. Nevertheless, the authors and redactors of early rabbinic texts found the terminology useful. The Tannaim, moreover, replaced ‫ אביון‬in Esther with ‫ ;עני‬indeed, it is characteristic of early rabbinic texts to use ‫ עני‬over other terms for the poor. See Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, 175. The various terms for “poor” are discussed later by the Amoraim in Lev. Rab. 34:6. 61 Absent from the Vienna manuscript, but plausibly reconstructed by Lieberman according to other witnesses; see Lieberman, ‫תוספתא‬, 1:47–48; Lieberman, ‫תוספתא כפשוטה‬, 1:152. 62 Brooks, Support for the Poor, 84. 63 By contrast, Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 153, writes that they are gifts to God – i.e. from the householder.

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alone determines which stalks will grow in the corners, which produce will fall to the ground, which clusters of grapes will be malformed, and so forth.64 These items, therefore, are not “redistributed” in any sense of the word, as they are not reallocated from one individual to another. Instead of a redistribution, the authors and redactors of early rabbinic texts see only a single distribution – God distributing directly to the poor.65 It follows that this system cannot be likened to Marcel Mauss’s model of gift exchange, since there is no gift from the householder followed by a counter-gift from God, and so on.66 Unlike the Maussian model, here the householder gives nothing of his own and there is no subsequent sequence of actions: God simultaneously distributes a portion of the produce to the householder and a portion to the poor.67 There is no redistribution from householder to the poor, but rather a single distribution from God to the poor.68

The Role of the Householder Given that these items are understood as directly distributed by God, rabbinic texts instruct the householder how to avoid interfering with their allocation. Indeed, the thrust of the discourse in m. Pe’ah and t. Pe’ah concerns how the landowner should behave. Of particular importance is the avoidance of favoritism. If the householder reserves certain elements of the harvest for certain poor individuals, he has not only violated the rights of other poor individuals, but has also created the misperception that he – not God – is the

64 Brooks, Support for the Poor, 18. 65 Kochen, “Beyond Gift and Commodity,” 12, 14, 151–53, 157–58, although, as I discuss below, Kochen also couches these as return gifts from the householder, which the householder then forfeits. She presupposes that God gives all the produce to the householder under the condition that the householder give some of it back to God, who then redirects it to the poor. In Kochen’s view, this is a system of redistribution – from God to the householder and back to God (whereby the poor receive it on God’s behalf). Rather, I hold that the householder never owns these items at any point – they are never his to give or give up. Notably, in one place Kochen (pp. 149–50) posits that these are gifts directly from God. Her assessment, however, is based on a text from the Bavli that discusses the treatment of workers (b. B. Metzi’a 89b) – that is, not “the poor” per se (if the text had intended “poor workers,” it does not say; in any case, this would exclude the unemployed poor. Such bifurcation of the poor into employed and unemployed is inconsistent with the treatment of “the poor” as a whole throughout m. Pe’ah and t. Pe’ah); see Gardner, “Who Is Rich?” 66 In this respect, the system of pe’ah can also be distinguished from the norms of giving to synagogues among late-antique Jews; see my discussion earlier. 67 As Bourdieu, Logic of Practice, 98–111, has noted, the work of time is an essential component of Mauss’s model. 68 That God favors the poor is a concept inherited from the Hebrew Bible; see Ps 18:28, Isa 66:2.

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benefactor.69 Rabbinic prescriptions to constrain the householder’s ability to choose recipients are seen in a number of texts.70 For example: Pe’ah is designated from what is still attached to the ground. In the case of a suspended vine and a palm tree – the householder takes [it] down and distributes [it] to the poor. R. Simeon says: Also in the case of smooth nut trees. If even ninety-nine say to distribute [i.e. whereby the householder would personally hand out the produce to the poor], but one says to snatch [i.e. whereby the poor grab the produce with their own hands], they must listen to him [who says to snatch], for he has spoken according to the law (halakhah). (m. Pe’ah 4:1) Likewise, with respect to the collection of poor offerings: One who does not allow the poor to collect, or if he allows one person, and does not allow another person, or if he assists one of them – this one steals from the poor; on this it is said: Do not remove the landmark of the poor. (cf. Prov 22:28, 23:10)71 (m. Pe’ah 5:6)72 No poor individual should receive preferential treatment over any other poor individual.73 These items belong to “the poor” as a whole, but not to any poor person in particular. Thus, all poor people must be given equal opportunity to collect them. Perhaps most emblematic is t. Pe’ah 2:13, the first three lemmata (A–C) of which are cited above. After defining the various ‫ מתנות‬for the poor, the Tosefta continues: D. None of these may be [reserved for a specific poor person] as a favor. 69 By contrast, Josephus’s remark in Ant. 4.232 that the householder would receive the poor’s gratitude suggests that he understood the allocations as gifts from the householder. 70 In addition to the texts discussed here, see m. Pe’ah 4:3, 4:5, 5:3; t. Pe’ah 1:6, 2:2, 2:6, 2:12, 2:17, 2:20. 71 On the use of Prov 22:28 and 23:10, see my earlier comments on m. Pe’ah 7:3. 72 Cf. the parallel in Sifre Deut 284. 73 Moreover, there is also a danger that such favors would be given with the expectation of reciprocation, that the poor individual may agree or be expected to compensate the householder with labor or personal service. On the problematic nature of reciprocity and the hierarchical relationships between humans that it creates, see Novick, “Charity and Reciprocity,” 33–52; Schwartz, Were the Jews.

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E. Even [if he is] the poorest individual in Israel, they remove it from his hand. (t. Pe’ah 2:13, D–E) This passage emphasizes the avoidance of favoritism by instructing that produce acquired through favoritism should be confiscated, even if the recipient is the poorest individual in all of Israel.74 The householder cannot select the individual recipients, hand out the produce himself, or interfere with God’s allocation in any way.75 By contrast, the laws of charity allow the giver to exercise a great deal of personal discretion. The avoidance of favoritism is the prime example of a more general principle, namely, that every poor individual should have the same opportunity to collect the produce. We have seen this in a number of Tannaitic instructions. For example: the householder must allow the poor to grab pe’ah themselves, as he is prohibited from “distributing” it; the householder must schedule times to allow the poor to collect pe’ah; the householder must provide all poor individuals with a chance to collect gleanings, until even the most feeble have had sufficient opportunity to gather their fill; and the poor are given multiple opportunities to collect individual grapes and defective clusters from the vineyard.76 In short, the rabbis instruct the householder how to ensure that all poor individuals are given the same opportunity to claim the produce left at the harvest. Giving any particular poor individual an advantage over another is equivalent to stealing from the poor as a whole.

Procedural Justice Because the amounts prescribed for the poor are, by definition, insignificant (one-sixtieth), it is unlikely that the Tannaim sought to achieve even a modest degree of distributive justice through these particular laws. It follows that viewing these teachings as constructs of distributive justice makes it difficult to see the type of justice that is in fact operative in these rulings and which has heretofore been overlooked by scholars. Instead of being directed at the recipient, these laws focus on proper behavior and procedure by the householder, who is to refrain from interfering with God’s direct distribution of produce to the poor in order to ensure that all poor individuals have the same opportunity to collect what is rightfully theirs. The Tannaim, in this view, are less interested in distributive justice and more interested in what 74 See the explanation in Lieberman, ‫תוספתא כפשוטה‬, 1:152. 75 Cf. Ruth 2, where the householder (Boaz) favors Ruth by giving her special privileges while gleaning (e.g. allowing her to take from the standing crop and having the reapers pull stalks out of the stacks for her). 76 See also m. Pe’ah 4:5, 5:3, 5:6.

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John Rawls would call pure procedural justice, which “ . . . obtains when there is no independent criterion for the right result: instead there is a correct or fair procedure such that the outcome is likewise correct or fair, whatever it is, provided that the procedure has been properly followed.”77 This emphasis on procedure aligns with the Tannaim’s representations of themselves in their own texts as arbiters and judges.78 The focus on procedure takes the decisions as to what, when, and to whom one gives out of the hands of the householder. While this prevents the householder from exercising discretion and, in turn, personal generosity, it also makes the fulfillment of the laws more straightforward. To be sure, the focus on procedural justice leads to an inevitable tension between the procedure that grants legitimacy and the result or outcome of that procedure. To reduce this tension, the Tannaim elsewhere develop complementary laws (e.g. on institutionalized or organized charity) that define and prioritize the amount of provisions distributed to the poor.79

Comparison to Other Forms of Support for the Poor in Late Antique Judaism How do harvest-time allocations relate to other forms of support for the poor in late-antique Judaism? It has been shown that the Tannaitic vision of individual almsgiving allows the giver to exercise his or her personal discretion over what, when, and to whom he or she gives. In turn, these laws identify rewards for the giver, which are often immaterial and otherworldly (e.g. t. Pe’ah 4:18).80 As Gary Anderson notes, these otherworldly rewards have unique economic

77 J. Rawls, A Theory of Justice, Revised Edition (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999), 75. 78 Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 969–71; N. S. Cohn, The Memory of the Temple and the Making of the Rabbis (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 17–39; Goodman, State and Society, 93–118; H. Lapin, Rabbis as Romans: The Rabbinic Movement in Palestine, 100–400 CE (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 98–125. 79 On organized charity, see t. Pe’ah 4:8–15; Gardner, Origins of Organized Charity. 80 G. E. Gardner, “Giving to the Poor in Early Rabbinic Judaism” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2009), 147–200; Gardner, “Charity Wounds,” 173–88”; Gardner, “Cornering Poverty,” 205–16; G. E. Gardner, “Competitive Giving in the Third Century CE: Early Rabbinic Approaches to Greco-Roman Civic Benefaction,” in Religious Competition in the Third Century CE: Jews, Christians, and the Greco-Roman World, ed. Jordan D. Rosenblum, Lilly C. Vuong, and Nathaniel P. DesRosiers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 81–92; Gardner, “Let Them Eat Fish,” 250–70; Gray, “Redemptive Almsgiving,” 148, rightly notes that the rabbinic interest in otherworldly rewards challenges the classic (and still influential) work of Urbach, “‫מגמות דתיות‬,” 17, who writes that the rabbis’ this-worldly view of charity contrasted with the otherworldly focus of early Christians.

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properties, as they carry particularly high rates of return.81 Satlow has also identified a stream of charitable giving that promises rewards that are material and earthly. Some Second Temple era texts, and especially later Amoraic writings, participate in a “miraculous economy” (which also finds resonance in early Christian texts), whereby a giver earns rewards in this world that are measure-for-measure commensurate with his or her donation.82 Thus, most streams of support for the poor in ancient Judaism and classical rabbinic literature are characterized by rewards for the benefactor. Rewards for charity, as Anderson and Gray note, are often triggered by the poor, who intercede by offering prayers to God on behalf of the benefactor.83 The laws of pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc., preclude individual discretion and liberality.84 As such, they are distinct from rabbinic laws of charity, which allow for personal discretion and endeavor to diminish socio-economic inequalities.

Maintaining Poverty? While the texts at hand attempt to ameliorate the conditions of the poor, no effort is made to lift these individuals out of poverty or to eradicate poverty.85 Contrary to Ephraim Urbach’s position that rabbinic texts do not allow the poor to remain poor, Alyssa Gray and Calvin Goldscheider rightly note that Tannaitic texts accept the persistence of differences in socio-economic status among Jews.86 Likewise, Tzvi Novick writes that poverty relief concretizes

81 Anderson, Sin, 187–88. 82 See for example Lev. Rab. 5:4, where one gives his remaining possessions to the poor and is rewarded in this world by finding a buried treasure; see M. L. Satlow, “‘Fruit and the Fruit of Fruit’: Charity and Piety in Late Antique Judaism,” JQR 100, no. 2 (2010): 250–51, and the treatments by Gray, “Formerly Wealthy Poor,” 111–12; G. Hasan-Rokem, “Gifts for God, Gifts for Rabbis: From Sacrifice to Donation in Rabbinic Tales of Late Antiquity and Their Dialogue with Early Christian Texts,” in The Gift in Antiquity, ed. Michael L. Satlow (Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 229–37. 83 On the poor as intercessors, see Anderson, Sin, 147, 151; Anderson, Charity, 25, 31, 67. Gray, “Redemptive Almsgiving”; R. Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire: Christian Promotion and Practice (313–450) (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 30, 180, 205; Parkin, “An Exploration,” 78; Satlow, “Fruit and the Fruit of Fruit,” 245. 84 If the householder gains rewards for harvest-time allocations, it is simply because the performance of any commandment earns rewards, as noted in Sifre Num 115. 85 Goldscheider, “Inequality,” 571–72. See also Deut 15:4–11; Sifre Deut 114. The permanence of poverty is also reflected in Matt 26:11; John 12:8. 86 Gray, “Formerly Wealthy Poor,” 107; Goldscheider, “Inequality,” 568–72, 582; cf. Urbach, “‫מגמות‬ ‫ ”דתיות‬17–18.

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and reinforces the distinction between benefactor and beneficiary.87 These distinctions are important, because, as Gray observes, Palestinian Amoraic texts acknowledge that the existence of the poor makes possible the performance of charity.88 Similarly, I note that it would be impossible to fulfill the laws of pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc. without poor individuals for whom to leave the produce. To be sure, though, we need not suggest that the Tannaim sought to maintain or perpetuate poverty, as a later rabbinic text seems to posit.89 The Tannaim demonstrate greater interest in the poor and empathy for their plight than do other elites of the Greco-Roman Mediterranean, who tended to treat the poor with indifference or contempt.90 While the Tannaitic texts established minima at minuscule amounts, even below those set by Second Temple era texts, they nevertheless grant the poor certain rights and multiply the number of kinds of allocations.91 The Tannaim also express greater empathy for certain categories of poor individuals – namely those who were well-born but fell into poverty – than do the Amoraim.92 I hold that these texts reflect existential considerations, as the Tannaim come to terms with, and endeavor to make the best of, the existence and inevitability of poverty. This resonates with Anderson’s work on the concept of a treasury in heaven, where the rabbis focus not on the moral status of charitable deeds, but rather on the character of the world that God has created.93 Tannaitic approaches to poverty are similar to their views on other unavoidable realities of life, such as droughts, which were seen by the rabbis as opportunities for 87 Novick, “Charity and Reciprocity,” 33–52. 88 Gray, “Redemptive Almsgiving,” 155. 89 See the medieval compilation Exod. Rab. 31:5: “David said: ‘Lord of the world, make equality in thy world.’ God replied, ‘If I made all equal, who would practice faithfulness and loving-kindness?’” See also M. Goodman, The Ruling Class of Judaea: The Origins of the Jewish Revolt against Rome, A.D. 66–70 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 65–66, who raises the possibility that the persistence of poverty might at times seem preferable from a religious standpoint. See as well as the discussion in b. B. Bat. 10a. 90 See the citations of Greek and Latin authors in C. R. Whittaker, “The Poor in the City of Rome,” in Land, City, and Trade in the Roman Empire, 1–25. Parkin, “An Exploration,” 60–82, has nuanced this long-held view by demonstrating that certain attitudes towards the poor motivated giving alms. On Roman approaches to the poor, see also Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, 53–71; Hands, Charities and Social Aid. 91 For example, Tannaitic texts distinguish three kinds of allocations for poor at the vineyard (pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce; t. Pe’ah 2:13), while 4Q270 3 ii 12–19 has only one. Cf. Josephus Ant. 4.231–232; Philo, On the Virtues, 90–94. On these texts, see A. Shemesh, “‫לתולדות משמעם של‬ ‫ ”המושגים מצוות עשה ומצוות לא תעשה‬Tarbiz 72, no. 1–2 (2003): 389–92; “Creation of Measurements,” 151–53. 92 Gray, “Formerly Wealthy Poor,” 101–2, 105–9, 133. 93 Anderson, Charity, 159.

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ethical and moral instruction.94 They do not always seek to fully explain these problems, but rather endeavor to manage them.

Conclusion In this paper, I have examined the most prominent topic in early rabbinic discussions of support for the poor – leaving produce for the poor at the harvest. I have found that these texts reflect the Tannaim’s complex and multilayered thoughts on economics, justice, and theology. First, these allocations do not constitute “charity” as many hold.95 It is only later, in the Bavli, that charity would become the primary means to support the poor.96 Second, because these laws do little to mitigate economic inequalities, to use the framework of distributive or social justice is misleading. Rather, these texts readily accept and maintain clear distinctions between the well-off and the poor. This may be a consequence of the perspective from which Tannaitic texts were authored and redacted, as the Tannaim themselves tended to be landowners who were well-off, if not wealthy. It is reasonable to suggest that there was a causal relationship between the Tannaim’s wealth and the shape of their laws, which effectively maintain (even if unintentionally) socio-economic distance between the well-off rabbis and the poor.97 Third, the discourse should be understood as an effort to pursue procedural justice. The well-known verse from Deut 16:20, 94 See Schofer, Confronting Vulnerability, 109–39. 95 Notably, the entire tractate of m. Pe’ah devotes only a single pericope to charity, m. Pe’ah 8:7. 96 On the significance of charity in the Tosefta, Talmuds, and midrashim, see t. Demai 3:16–17; t. Pe’ah 4:8–21; y. Demai 3:1, 23b; y. Pe’ah 1:1, 15b–c; y. Pe’ah 8:7–9, 21a–b; b. Shabb. 156a–b; b. Sukkah 49b; b. Ketub. 66b–68a; b. Sotah 14a; b. B. Bat. 8a–11a; Lev. Rab. 5:4, 34:1–16. On charity in Judaism and classical rabbinic literature, see Gardner, “Cornering Poverty”; Gardner, “Charity Wounds”; Gardner, “Let Them Eat Fish”; Gardner, Origins of Organized Charity; Gray, “Formerly Wealthy Poor”; Gray, “Redemptive Almsgiving”; L. I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem and New York: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1989), 62–67; B. Z. Rosenfeld and H. Perlmutter, “‫יסודות הארגון‬ ‫ לפי מקורות התנאים‬:‫ ”הציבורי של הצדקה ביהודה בשלהי ימי הבית השני‬Judea and Samaria Research Studies 20 (2011): 49–62; Safrai, ‫הקהילה היהודית‬, 62–79; Satlow, “Fruit and the Fruit of Fruit,” 244–77. This is not to say, however, that pe’ah, gleanings, forgotten produce, etc. were ignored by the Bavli; see Sussmann, “‫ ”סוגיות בבליות‬75–226, 245–90. 97 Unlike the New Testament and other early Christian writings, early rabbinic texts do not advocate the renunciation of wealth (see Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, xx-xxv). Rather, as well-off individuals themselves, the Tannaim seemed content to allow the rich to remain rich. That early rabbinic texts reflect the interests and perspectives of well-off householders has been demonstrated by Gardner, “Who Is Rich?”; H. Lapin, Early Rabbinic Civil Law and the Social History of Roman Galilee: A Study of Mishnah Tractate Baba’ Mesi’a’, BJS 307 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995); H. Lapin, “The Construction of Households in the Mishnah,” in The Mishnah in Contemporary Perspective, ed. Alan J. Avery-Peck and Jacob Neusner. Handbook of Oriental

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“Justice, justice shall you pursue,” was added to the last pericope of Mishnah Pe’ah in the printed editions of the text. While this verse is not included in the best manuscripts, it has been retained in the most widely read editions and translations, which has shaped the reception-history of Mishnah Pe’ah.98 The inclusion of Deut 16:20 has been understood as an affirmation that the entire tractate is concerned with administering material justice to the poor, addressing their needs and evening out income inequalities.99 However, these laws focus more on ensuring equality of opportunity among the poor by prescribing procedural justice. Doing so ensures that the well-off landowner – the intended audience of early rabbinic texts – properly fulfills his religious obligation to leave items at the harvest for the poor. The emphasis on procedure complements rabbinic discourse on charity, especially organized charity, which focuses on the outcome of the distribution. Above all, these texts do not prescribe a redistribution from the householder to the poor; pe’ah, gleanings, and forgotten produce never belonged to the householder and were never his to give. Rather, the Tannaim develop a set of rights for the poor, granting them exclusive claims to portions of the harvest. These rights represent marked innovations on biblical laws and are also unattested in Second Temple era texts.100 Thus, these texts do not envision a system whereby the householder redistributes his assets to the poor. Rather, they constitute a single distribution from God to the poor. It is the householder’s obligation to refrain from interfering with this distribution. While the nature of these laws prevents the householder from exercising discretion and, in turn, personal generosity, it saves the poor from the shame of begging and makes the laws more straightforward and easier for the householder to fulfill. This focus on procedure may be based on a fundamental insight into human limitation: that perhaps if humans follow a certain procedure, then they can come close to or approximate some kind of truth or legitimacy. These harvest-time allocations Studies 87 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006), 55–80; J. Neusner, Judaism: The Evidence of the Mishnah, 2d. ed., BJS 129 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988), 250–56. 98 The earliest printed edition is the Napoli edition. The verse is absent from the best manuscripts (e.g. Kaufmann and Parma). For the text of commonly used printed editions and translations based on them, as well as references to manuscript variants, see Albeck, ‫שישה סדרי משנה‬, 1:66; Bauer, Pea, 62–63, 71; P. Blackman, Mishnayoth. Second Edition, Revised, Corrected, Enlarged, 7 vols. (Gateshead: Judaic Press, 1990), 1:132; Brooks, Support for the Poor, 151; Buss, Die Mischna – Pea, 49; Danby, Mishnah, 20; P. Kehati, ‫( ששה סדרי משנה‬Jerusalem: Eliner Library, Department for Torah Education and Culture in the Diaspora of the World Zionist Organization, 1988), 1:120; J. Neusner, The Mishnah: A New Translation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 35; Sacks, ‫משנה זרעים‬, 1:161, 165–66. 99 See, for example, the commentary in Blackman, Mishnayoth, 1:132. 100 Thus, this discourse aligns with the general observation by Cohen, “Judaean Legal Tradition,” 125, that most Tannaitic laws are based on the Hebrew Bible – but not necessarily derived from it.

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are also a means to provide for the poor in a way that precludes the expectation of a reciprocal return from the beneficiary – thereby differentiating rabbinic prescriptions from Greco-Roman systems of patronage that concretize the poor’s social inferiority.101 Moreover, because the poor are simply collecting what is rightfully theirs, they can avoid the shame of begging. More broadly, these laws underscore and concretize the principle of divine ownership of the land and its produce, while they also reflect views that accept the permanence of poverty in the world.102

Acknowledgments: This paper revises a chapter of my dissertation (Gardner, “Giving to the Poor,” 2009), and I thank my adviser, Peter Schäfer, and my committee, Martha Himmelfarb and AnneMarie Luijendijk, as well as Simi Chavel, for their helpful feedback on multiple drafts of the dissertation. Earlier versions of this paper were presented at the 2008 Annual Meeting of the Association for Jewish Studies (AJS) and at Harvard University’s Political Theory Colloquium, Center for Jewish Studies, and Center for the Humanities during my year as a Starr Fellow in Judaica (2009– 2010). I thank Seth Schwartz at the AJS and Shaye Cohen, Ari Finklestein, Jonathan Kaplan, Eric Nelson, and Yoni Miller at Harvard for the invitations to present my work and for their helpful comments. This project was further improved by feedback from the anonymous reviewers for this journal, Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, Aryeh Amihay, Carey Brown, David Downs, Kelly West Figueroa-Ray, Jordan Rosenblum, Jonathan Schofer, and Joshua Weinstein. I alone am responsible for any remaining errors.

101 Novick, “Charity and Reciprocity,” 33–34; Schwartz, Were the Jews; Wilfand, Poverty, 246. In Greco-Roman culture, the beneficiary would be expected to reciprocate by a demonstration of gratitude or loyalty to the benefactor, or the provision of personal service. See further, Hands, Charities and Social Aid, 26–48. Similarly, the Tannaim envisioned charitable institutions – the ‫( תמחוי‬soup kitchen) and ‫( קופה‬charity fund) as means by which one could provide for the poor while avoiding the expectation of a reciprocal return that is common in Greco-Roman models of patronage; see further Gardner, Origins of Organized Charity. 102 In this sense, my findings can be likened to those of F. M. Macatangay, “Acts of Charity as Acts of Remembrance in the Book of Tobit,” JSP 23 (2013): 69–84, who writes that charitable acts in Tobit are performed for the remembrance of God.

As They Journeyed from the East: The Nahotei of the Fourth Century and the Construction of the Rabbinic Diaspora Marcus Mordecai Schwartz Jewish Theological Seminary of America

This study assesses the activity of the Nahotei, a group of migrating talmudic rabbis. Responsibility for the importation of the lion’s share of Palestinian rabbinic texts to the Babylonian Talmud has traditionally been assigned to this group. This study accepts the assumption that they did indeed import some small number of Palestinian rabbinic materials to Babylonia in the fourth century. However, beating a new path, it also claims that, at least as depicted in b. Seder Mo’ed, they did little more than clarify, modify or reassign the authorship of traditions already known in Babylonia prior to their reports.

This article is the first attempt to systematically address the role that the Nahotei (‫)נחותי‬, a fourth-century group of traveling rabbis, played in bringing Palestinian rabbinic sources and traditions to Babylonia. The Babylonian Talmud depicts the Nahotei (singular: Nahota) as sages who traveled from Babylonia to Palestine and returned to Babylonia with reports of Palestinian rabbinic traditions, mostly in the fourth century. Despite some nineteenth-century scholarly interest in this group of sages, no contemporary scholars have attempted a largescale study of these traveling rabbis. In this study, I will assess the activity of these unique sages as depicted in b. Seder Mo’ed. I will argue that they represent one known vector that carried Palestinian rabbinic materials to Babylonia in the fourth century. However, I will show that in b. Seder Mo’ed they do little more than clarify, modify, or reassign the authorship of traditions already known in Babylonia prior to their reports. My work shows that Nahotian reports, putatively received from Palestinian masters, most often conform to Babylonian preconceptions of Palestinian traditions. We shall see that of the 103 Nahotian reports in Bavli Seder Mo’ed, ninety-three deal with traditions already known in Babylonia prior to the Nahotian report.1 It appears that Nahotian reports 1 For the full results of this survey see the Appendix I at the conclusion of this chapter.

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were mostly concerned with Palestinian traditions already current in Babylonia before they began their journeys. I will also answer the central question that the results of my study demand: If the Nahotei were, for the most part, not bringing new materials for study to the rabbis of middle-Sasanian Babylonia, what was the purpose, in the context of Babylonian learning, of their journeys and their reports? My work reveals three conclusions: First, the Nahotei seem to have constrained their reports in b. Seder Mo’ed, for the most part, to commentary on rabbinic traditions previously in circulation in Babylonia. Roughly ninety percent of the time their extant reports modify Palestinian traditions previously known to Babylonian sages, or comment upon them. Admittedly, this feature makes it difficult to assess the full extent of their involvement in importing sources and traditions to Babylonia from Palestine, since it masks from our view any other “behind-the-scenes” reports they may have made. However, this constraint on the content of their formal reports makes it unlikely that they served as the chief pathway for the importation of Palestinian rabbinic texts in fourth-century Babylonia. Second, Nahotian activity is best understood in the context of fourth-century Near-Eastern pilgrimage practices. The fourth century saw an upsurge of pilgrimage both in the West (Christians visiting Egypt, Palestine and Syria) and in the East (Zoroastrians visiting sacred fires in Pars, Azerbaijan and Media). In this period, the social nature of pilgrimage practices is a striking feature of both Western Christian sacred journeys and Eastern Zoroastrian travel to holy fires. Documents from both these religious traditions depict the fourth-century pilgrimage as an opportunity to encounter and confer with living people. The faithful in the new temporal centers of influence, such as Constantinople or Ctesiphon, could vicariously link themselves to the old terras sancti, whether Palestine or Pars, Egypt or Azerbaijan, through the pilgrimage encounter with holy people in those lands. However, no novel experience was typically gained by the pilgrims in the journeys they undertook. Instead, the pre-existing faith of the traveler was repeatedly confirmed in the journey and little new knowledge was gained. These were journeys to reconfirm what the faith communities already knew. Although there are obvious differences between the rabbinic sources and those of the Christians and the Zoroastrians (and equally between these two latter groups), in this general context it is highly suggestive that the Nahotei report or clarify Palestinian traditions to Babylonian Amoraim that are largely already known to the Babylonians, albeit in a somewhat different form. I understand the Nahotei as rabbinic pilgrims of the fourth century. The Nahotei probably traveled to Palestine to ask questions about Palestinian and other materials that had previously gained currency in Babylonia in the ongoing

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65

circles of Torah study there. Their journeys and reports could very well have played a social role in the ongoing circles of Babylonian Torah study, similar to the role pilgrimage accounts likely played among the Zoroastrians and Christians of the day. Third, Nahotian reports may have aided the shaping of later Babylonian attitudes towards Palestinian Torah. There is currently a burgeoning field of scholars reconceptualizing late-antique pilgrimage accounts as an early genre of travel writing. Using methods borrowed from this scholarship, I conclude that the reports of the Nahotei may have played a role in forming an image that some Babylonian rabbis held of Palestinian rabbis and their learning as stalwart, if unimaginative, preservers of tradition. This collective imagining of the rabbinic other would establish a mirror for this group of Babylonian rabbis to define themselves, by contrast, as radically creative. This had the ever-widening, circular effect of further reinforcing a view that presented the Palestinian rabbis as more preservationist and less creative than their Babylonian counterparts. It is notable that this mode of thought first expanded its orbit in the fourth century, in correlation with the Nahotian reports. The stereotyped image of the plodding, obeisant Palestinian rabbi would not reach its final apogee until the ninth century, in the anti-Palestinian polemics of the Babylonian geonim. Of course, the canard of the blinkered rabbinic formalist is an image that has been enrolled many times since in the service of internal Jewish polemics. That the origins of this image lie in the fourth century and correlate snugly with the reports of the Nahotei enhances the relevance of our study of their activity. The article is divided into four sections. In section one I will present a brief review of what has been known of the Nahotei prior to my study. In section two, I will show that recent advances in the study of travel writings and reports have granted us a significant methodological lens through which we may view the figure of the Nahota and his report. In section three, I will present the results of my large-scale survey of Bavli Seder Mo’ed. I will also present a number of example passages illustrating my claims. In section four, I will end with some brief words of conclusion arguing their relevance.

I: What We Knew of the Nahotei The Nahotei are mentioned as a group several places in the Bavli – Sukkah 43b, Hullin 101b and 124a, Niddah 10b and 39a among them – and, perhaps twice in the Yerushalmi, at y. Orlah 20a–b and y. Rosh Hashanah 22a (see Appendix II after the conclusion, “Nahotian Reports in the Yerushalmi”).2 The term 2 Some of the Bavli’s text witnesses occasionally read “nahotei yama” instead of “Nahotei.” The term “Nahotei” (indicating those who return from Palestine), should not be confused with

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“Nahotei” is explained at b. Berakhot 38b in connection with the prominent Nahota Ulla, as “our rabbis who have [returned] descending (Hebrew: “‫ירדו‬,” corresponding to the Aramaic “‫נחות‬,” literally, “they descended”) from Palestine.” The Bavli never explicitly mentions the Nahotei leaving Babylonia. Only their return (their “descent”) from Palestine is noted. However, it is clear that they were, for the most part, Babylonians who left and returned. Nearly all of the Nahotei bear the Babylonian title “Rav,” as opposed to the Palestinian title “Rabbi.” The most prominent exception to this is Ulla, who bears no title. There is good reason to conclude that Ulla was born in Palestine, immigrated to Babylonia and made regular journeys between the two lands.3 In my opinion, we should consider him as a bi-cultural figure, neither solely Babylonian nor Palestinian. The principal Nahotei are Rav Dimi (flor. ca. 310–340), Rav Yitzhaq b. Yosef (flor. ca. 320–350), Rav Shemuel b. Yehuda (flor. ca. 290–320), Rabin (a.k.a. Rav Avin, flor. ca. 310–340), and Ulla (flor. ca. 290–320). It is striking that all of these are middle-generation Babylonian Amoraim, whose careers spanned the first half of the fourth century. The nineteenth-century founders of the academic study of Talmud imagined the Nahota as a sort of rabbinic import-export specialist, hauling large, unwieldy numbers of Tannaitic and Amoraic traditions, along with physical merchandise acquired at market in Palestine, to Babylonia.4 Notably, both Isaac Halevy (1847–1914) and Ze’ev Wolf Jawitz (1847–1924) theorized that the Nahotei were chiefly responsible for the marked Palestinian flavor of the Bavli.5 As we shall see, Halevy’s description of the Nahotei as itinerant scholars/traveling merchants was to influence almost all depictions of the group for the next hundred years. After this early interest, the activity of the Nahotei became a largely dark subject among scholars of rabbinics, garnering no serious studies and but a few comments. Those comments can be rapidly catalogued in a few paragraphs here: In 1964, Adin Steinsaltz, while accepting Halevy’s claims, theorized that the Nahotian enterprise was founded by the Palestinian Ulla primarily as an

“nahotei yama” (those who go down to the sea [in ships]). This last term is simply an epithet for “sailors” borrowed from Psalms 107:23 and translated into Aramaic. 3 Chanoch Albeck, ‫( מבוא לתלמודים‬Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1969), 223. 4 Alyssa Gray, A Talmud in Exile: The Influence of Yerushalmi Avodah Zarah on the Formation of Bavli Avodah Zarah (Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2005), 5–7. 5 Isaac Halevy, ‫( דורות הראשונים‬Israel: Mif ’ale Sefarim Li-Yets’u, 1966 or 1967), 7:455–73; Wolf Jawitz, ‫( ספר תולדות ישראל‬Tel Aviv: Ahiever, 1935), 7:159–64. Gray argues that their conclusions are deeply influenced by their reading of the Epistle of Rav Sherira Gaon. See n. 4.

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elucidatory activity.6 He also implied its ongoing continuation as an exclusively Babylonian practice, by dint of the deep Babylonian acceptance of Palestinian rabbinic authority. Despite the somewhat unlikely conclusion he reaches to explain this exclusivity – that in Palestine there was a concerted effort to actively suppress the Babylonian sages and their learning – Steinsaltz had noticed a real phenomenon. Steinsaltz never returned to this conception of the topic and even seemed to reject it later. In his 1976 work, The Essential Talmud,7 he simply parroted Halevy’s 1901 description of the Nahotei, presenting them as mass importers of novel Palestinian rabbinics to Babylonia, and even omitted the Nahotei altogether from his The Talmud: A Reference Guide, in 1989.8 Moshe Beer later expanded on Steinsaltz’s assumptions, aggregating them with Halevy’s conclusions in the following way: By their activities the nehutei [sic] contributed to the cross-fertilization of the academies of Erez Israel and Babylonia. Their words were tested in the academies and compared with parallel traditions, and in this way they attempted to arrive at the precise implication of the statements, their truth, and their reliability. In this manner the nehutei made their contribution to the formation and elucidation of many topics in the Babylonian Talmud. As a result of the connections established by the nehutei between the academies of Erez Israel and Babylonia the mutual knowledge of the two large Jewish communities was increased, and so the Oral Law was prevented from developing separately with the two communities becoming two nations, alien one to another.9 Beer’s synthesis and expansion of the implications of both Halevy’s and Steinsaltz’s conclusions hits the right points: the references to “parallel traditions” and the prevention of “two communities becoming two nations, alien one to another” attests to the recognition, on the one hand, that the Bavli seldom presented any Nahotian texts unaccompanied by an alternate version of the same Palestinian source that had reached Babylonia by some other means, and, on the other, that Nahotian activity might have played a role in solidifying ties between the two centers as a result. In 1975, David Goodblatt endorsed Halevy’s 1901 conclusions in his survey of 6 Adin Steinsaltz, “‫ ”הקשרים בין בבל לארץ ישראל‬in Talpiyot, 9 (1964): 294–306. Commenting on their absence in the Yerushalmi, he also notes that their prominence as important rabbinic figures is actually relatively limited “‫ ואף בבבל מצאו‬,‫ וגם רב דימי ואפילו עולא לא היו חכמים בולטים בארץ ישראל‬,‫גם רבין‬ ‫מקומם בשורה השניה של החכמים‬.” It is their activity that was important, not their personal creativity or authority as sages. 7 Steinsaltz, The Essential Talmud (New York: Basic Books, 1976), 54. 8 Steinsaltz, The Talmud: A Reference Guide (New York: Random House, 1989). 9 Moshe Beer, Encyclopaedia Judaica, 2nd ed., s.v. “Nehutei,” 65.

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the contemporary scholarship on the Bavli. With no apparent polemic intention he emphasized Halevy’s presumption that the Nahotei primarily traveled to Palestine on business trips, and in doing so unwittingly distanced the Nahotei from association with pilgrimage. Of course, no one had suggested at this stage that such an association might be helpful to understanding Nahotian activity. To his credit, Goodblatt also admitted that this former conclusion was merely a presumption with no real foundation.10 In 1991, Günter Stemberger based his description of the Nahotei on Goodblatt’s report, with the presumption that the impetus for their journeys was for professional purposes now stated as fact.11 In short, Halevy’s initial description held almost exclusive sway on the topic for the whole of the twentieth century. As mentioned earlier, in the early twenty-first century Richard Kalmin and Alyssa Gray, in the context of other studies, made some attempts to deal with the Nahotian problem. Both Kalmin and Gray have dismissed previous assumptions that the prominence of Palestinian materials we see in the Bavli was mainly the result of Nahotian activity.12 Both also note that the Talmud itself depicts these travelers as providing discrete traditions rather than largescale sources and sugyot. Kalmin and Gray both have good reasons for rejecting Halevy’s and Jawitz’s conclusions. Gray’s conclusion that the editors of the Bavli undertook large-scale transfers of Palestinian material to the Bavli from the Yerushalmi in a late period (post-fifth century) led her to exclude the Nahotei as the major likely vector of exchange. After all, the activity of the Nahotei was long concluded in the period Gray points to as the most likely time of these large-scale transfers. On the other hand, Kalmin was motivated to reject the candidacy of the Nahotei by his intense study of the fourth-century Babylonian milieu. He sees the transfer of rabbinic sources from Palestine to Babylonia in this period as part of a larger historical movement of people, culture, and literature from the West to the East beginning in the mid-third century. To him, it seems more likely that these large-scale transfers of population were responsible for the significant influx of material we see in the period. It seems correspondingly less likely that a handful of rabbinic travelers would be responsible for such a large quantity and array of materials. To be clear about my own views: Halevy’s influential 1901 assumption that

10 David M. Goodblatt, “The Babylonian Talmud,” in The Study of Ancient Judaism, ed. Jacob Neusner, (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1980), 288. 11 H. L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, trans. Markus Bockmuehl (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 179. 12 Gray, Talmud in Exile; Richard Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia (Atlanta: Scholars Press; Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 1994), 186.

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the Nahotei were responsible for delivering a large-scale share of the Palestinian rabbinic traditions to Babylonia in the mid-fourth century is largely unsustainable given the lack of empirical evidence underpinning it. There is simply no evidence of any large-scale traditions that these travelers brought. Given this fact, it would be foolhardy to assume they brought such materials. Yet, even were we to make that irresponsible leap, even if we were to assume that they were diligently working “behind the scenes” to bring such traditions to Babylonia, they would still have functioned as part of the fourth-century ferment that Kalmin notes, not counter to it. The phenomenon of the rabbinic travelers can simply be viewed as another of the unique features that characterize the middle generations of Amoraim in fourth-century Babylonia. While I am not totally dismissive of the role that might have been played by the Nahotei in the fourth-century literary transitions evident in the Bavli, I cannot conclude that the Nahotei brought substantially more than they are explicitly credited with bringing. Though they may have brought more sources and traditions than those in evidence, the Nahotei were certainly not responsible for the lion’s share of the novel transmissions of rabbinics from Palestine to Babylonia in the fourth century. Given the formal constraints placed on their statements, on the whole, I also see no reason to deny the possibility that they may have brought somewhat more material than that for which they are given credit. It will always remain impossible to prove that they delivered only the material that they are credited with and nothing more, but, for our purposes, only the materials they are credited with had an observable influence on Babylonian rabbinic scholastic life. The most we can say is that they were involved in the importation of a number of discrete Palestinian rabbinic traditions to Amoraic circles in Babylonia. But, as we shall see, the number of traditions they brought to Babylonia is not the true measure of Nahotian significance.

II: Travel Writing and the Nahota’s Report The systematic study of travel literature has emerged as a legitimate field of scholarly inquiry over the past two decades, but scholars of Talmud and rabbinics have taken little note of it.13 On the whole, very little work has been done on travel accounts in the Talmud and rabbinic literature, at least in European 13 There is an extensive amount of recent scholarship surrounding Jewish travel writing in the early Middle Ages. In particular, the travels of Benjamin of Tudela have attracted the attention of a wide range of scholars. Zur Shalev provides a summary of recent scholarship on this subject in “Benjamin of Tudela, Spanish Explorer,” in Mediterranean Historical Review 25, no. 1 (2010): 17–33.

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languages. Even scholars trained in rabbinics and interested in travel writing tend to focus their research on accounts from later periods.14 Typically, rabbinic literature seems not to conjure the foreign in our imagination, nor to focus our mind’s eye on experiences of travel. I do not mean that we never find the Talmud foreign to our own mode of thought. On the contrary, quite often the contemporary reader will find the Talmud a very strange text indeed. I mean that the Talmud does not typically directly address a journey as a means of encountering the foreign.15 Yet, I propose that methods developed in the study of travel writing offer constructive insights when we apply them to the problem of the Nahotei. In examining the activity of these traveling rabbis, I have been influenced by the theme of expectation-conforming tropes that runs through the heart of many recent studies of travel writing. In essence, the notion is that travelers tend to report their journeys to those back at home in accordance with their readers’ or listeners’ preconceived expectations. Though travelers’ lived experiences of journey may pass beyond the scope of their original imaginings, their reports often narrow the experience, shaving off those rough edges that would fail the comprehension of those at home, and perhaps even that of the travelers themselves. A general feature of travel literature is that the reporter often expresses his or her experience in commonly employed and repetitive tropes.16 These tropes, in turn, conform to the home audience’s expectations. The travel 14 Martin Jacobs’ scholarship is an example of this phenomenon. Originally trained as a scholar of rabbinics at the Free University of Berlin, Jacobs’ research has recently turned to the study of Jewish travel. However, his interest in Jewish travel seems to be restricted to accounts dating after the rise of Islam. Thus, his article, “From Lofty Caliphs to Uncivilized ‘Orientals’ – Images of the Muslim in Medieval Jewish Travel Literature,” JSQ 18, no. 1 (2011): 64–90, draws on his knowledge of rabbinics, yet does not address travel in the Talmud directly. Further examples include Görge K. Hasselhoff, “Das Heilige Land in talmudischer, spätantiker und mittelalterlicher Literatur,” in Das Gelobte Land (2003), 112–31, and Yosef Levanon, “The Holy Place in Jewish Piety: Evidence of Two Twelfth-Century Jewish Itineraries,” in The Annual of Rabbinic Judaism 1 (1998): 103–18. 15 A major exception to this general trend is the extraordinary series of travel accounts from Rabbah bar bar Hanah at b. Bava Batra 73a–75a. I hope to have the opportunity to address this wonderful story cycle at some later point. Clearly worth study in its own right, this story cycle has attracted the attention of a number of Israeli scholars. For a summary of their work, see Reuven Küpperwasser, “‫מסעות של רבה בר בר חנה‬,” in ‫מחקרי ירושלים בספרות העברית‬, vol. 22: ‫ספרות‬ ‫( ומרד‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2008), 215–41. Note, however, that none of these Israeli studies address the material from the perspective of travel writing, per se. 16 For three studies introducing this notion of tropes in travel writing and that point to the ways these tropes can function, see David Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing and Imperial Administration (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993); Sara Mills, Discourses of Difference: An Analysis of Women’s Travel Writing and Colonialism (London: Routledge, 1993 [Reprint, 1991]); and Terry Caesar, Forgiving the Boundaries: Home

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report can be constrained to quite a small array of these possible tropes. For instance, David Spurr’s work convincingly identifies a taxonomy of clichéd tropes emerging from the nineteenth-century Western colonial experience that repetitively dominates travel reports of the period.17 Expectation-conforming tropes were certainly also at play in late-antique travel reports, as Mary Baine Campbell and Maria Pretzler have shown.18 A word of caution is due here: the Nahotian accounts seem to have been oral reports. In general, they were not written.19 All of the careful studies of travel writing I cite are just that; they are studies of travel writing. It is unclear whether an oral travel report would conform to the same sorts of cross-cultural features the critics of travel writing generally note. This may make a difference, since orally composed texts often use stations of departure and return as an associative memory device. In other words, we may have to face the possibility that the formula: “when × returned [from Palestine], he said . . . ” could function primarily as a mnemonic grouping device for the association of these traditions rather than a record of travel, per se.20 I should also point out here that it is my general assumption that the large body of late-antique literary remains that scholars call “rabbinic literature” is not, in fact, a literature at all. Rather, it is the partially preserved body of the vast rabbinic (and pre-rabbinic) discourse that lived its life in a primarily oral form over the first six centuries of the present era. I generally accept the mostly oral process of rabbinic composition and transmission as a given.21 as Abroad in American Travel Writing (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1995), 35–41, 71–82, 138. 17 Spurr, 3–8, 54–77, 83–94, 185. See also Mills, 2–4, 69, 190. 18 Mary Baine Campbell, The Witness and the Other World: Exotic European Travel Writing, 400–1600 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 32, 179, 249–52. Maria Pretzler, Pausanias: Travel Writing in Ancient Greece (London: Duckworth, 2007), 44–56. 19 The one exception to this general rule may appear at b. Gittin 9b, which depicts the Nahota Rabbin sending a message to Babylonia. However, the Hebrew verb, “‫שלח‬,” does not necessarily imply writing. Furthermore, this verb may simply have been employed as a mnemonic device, since the report includes the description of a century-earlier open halakhic letter the Tanna Rabbi Elazar is supposed to have sent to communities in the diaspora. 20 Albert Lord already noted the prevalent motives of departure and return in the orally composed texts he and Milman Perry studied. See their The Singer of Tales (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1960), 158–85. Jonathan Foley notes the same phenomenon in his work, going so far as to identify the structure of departure and return as the “schema” of many oral texts. See Traditional Oral Epic: The Odyssey, Beowulf, and the Serbo-Croatian Return Song (Berkeley: University of California Press: 1990), 368. 21 In this I am greatly influenced by Yaakov Sussman’s deeply persuasive and exhaustive article, “‫ כוחו של קוצו של יו״ד‬:‫תורה שבעל פה פשוטה כמשמעה‬,” in Mehkarei Talmud, vol. 3, ed. Yaakov Sussman and David Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2005), 209–384. Note, however, that Alyssa Gray presents an important and thoughtful dissent from this view, positing a written composition

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That said, their reports do seem to conform to the general lines of fourth-century pilgrimage writing. Furthermore, the data that my study has uncovered point to a general trend in which the Nahotian reports do conform to the typical constraints and limitations that scholars of travels writing have posited. Given this trend, our account of the Nahotei must center on their role in the practice of Babylonian Talmud Torah in the fourth century: if the Nahotei were, for the most part, not bringing new materials for study to the rabbis of middle-Sasanian Babylonia, what was the purpose, in the context of Babylonian learning, of their journeys and their reports? It is striking that the Nahotei (with the exception of Ulla) were Babylonian rabbis who flourished in the fourth century. In the fourth century any extended journey was fraught with expense and danger, but the pilgrimage to Palestine was particularly so.22 We know that Christian pilgrims faced highway robbery, hunger, sleeplessness, chicanery, and even murder, all as expected and typical risks of the journey, just within the boundaries of Palestine itself. From fairly early on in the fourth century, Christian pilgrimage had the official approbation of the Christian Roman state. Jewish travelers, who had no such approval, must have faced all these hardships and more. Given this expensive and risk-laden context, and the general dearth of evidence concerning their true mission, I think it helpful to conceptualize the Nahotei as agents of Babylonian sages sent to brave the perils of the road to obtain specific bits of Palestinian Torah. Alyssa Gray has already made note of the special connection between the fourth-century Babylonian sage Abbaye and the Nahota Rav Dimi.23 She has pointed out the frequency of Rav Dimi’s reports to Abbaye. I should point out that Gray’s inquiry into Nahotian activity was restricted to Rav Dimi’s statements, leaving those of the other Nahotei to the side. In section three, I show a direct dialogue between Rabbin and Abbaye at b. Shabbat 21b and another at b. Pesahim 70b. Perhaps it is no other than Abbaye who sent some of these Nahotei on their missions to Palestine. Could we think of the Nahotei as pilgrims with a mission? Were they sent to Palestine to obtain answers to specific questions about Palestinian materials that Babylonian rabbis were already studying in Babylonia? The expenditure of significant time and treasure on such journeys, along with risk of life and limb, is indicative of the regard and influence that Palestinian materials held in Babylonia. for practically the whole of the rabbinic corpus, in A Talmud in Exile, 224–33. It is important to point out that Gray was writing before the publication of Sussman’s work. Nearly all of the rabbinic texts that Gray advances in support of the written composition of the Talmud were persuasively dismissed by Sussman, though without acknowledgment of her arguments. 22 Lionel Casson, Travel in the Ancient World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 315–19. 23 Gray, 6, n. 17.

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I also see two other reasons to conceptualize the Nahotian journeys to Palestine as a sort of pilgrimage: first, the extensive evidence for a surge of pilgrimage in the fourth century both in the West among Christian travelers and in the East among Zoroastrians, as we shall shortly see; and, second, pilgrimage accounts from this period often link their descriptions of sacred journeys with experiences of encounter with living people in the terra sancta – a feature that both these surges in pilgrimage share with the accounts of the Nahotei. As for the Christian surge in pilgrimage in the West, at the beginning of the past decade Georgia Frank explored the theme of late-antique Christian pilgrimage to visit living holy people, a marked feature of the upsurge in Christian pilgrimage in the fourth century.24 Note that this phenomenon is nearly simultaneous with the travels of the Nahotei. In this period, rather than just traveling to see holy sites in Palestine, contemporary reports reveal Christian pilgrims traveling in holy lands to encounter holy people. In their written accounts, the pilgrims linger in the descriptions of their gaze upon the faces of the living sacred individuals.25 Frank writes that the faces of holy people became the object of desire and a means of religious transformation for the reporters of religious travels and for their readers during this period.26 Christian pilgrims of the time made journeys to Palestine and Syria to see the faces of sainted and sacred ascetics and then wrote about the experience for their coreligionists. Mary Baine Campbell has also described the importance that witness and memory played in the experience of the Christian pilgrim. Often, when Christian pilgrims encountered a sacred place or a person, their written accounts did not convey these events as utterly new experiences. Instead, the pilgrims conceptualized these events as recalls from personal memory of a biblical event or person.27 A Christian pilgrim encountering an obscure desert ascetic in the fourth century could walk away feeling as though he or she had just seen the face of John the Baptist. Pilgrimage is a unique religious ritual, in practice requiring the pilgrim to merge past and present as he or she moves through a land that is simultaneously familiar from sacred narrative and strangely unexpected in reality.28 This complex interplay between received tradition and the direct travel experience – in 24 Georgia Frank, The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). 25 Frank, 162–70. Of course, I recognize that these visual descriptions are unique to the Christian community. Neither Jews nor Zoroastrians described their encounters in such evocative optical terms. 26 Frank, 162–70. 27 Campbell, 19–21. 28 Simon Coleman and John Elsner, Pilgrimage: Past and Present in the World Religions (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997), 204–6.

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this Christian context, the desire to come as physically close as possible to the events and figures of the New Testament – is at play among the Nahotei as well. However, in a Jewish rabbinic context, the aural replaces the visual. The words of the Nahotian pilgrim are always identified as distinct from the words of other sages in the Bavli, consistently introduced with the words, “when × returned [from Palestine] he said . . . ” The report nearly always contains the words of a Palestinian rabbi or rabbis. I theorize that these rabbinic pilgrims traveled to Palestine to ask questions of Palestinian sages about old Palestinian rabbinic words and to hear the words of current Palestinian sages in response. While the Christian pilgrimage report of the fourth century may have attempted to forge a connection to the figures of the New Testament by imagining living people standing in their place, these rabbinic pilgrims used the words of living Palestinian sages to imbue old Palestinian words with new life. When received in Babylonia, the Nahotian report opened a new window into the thoughts and words of Rabbi Yohanan, Rabban Gamaliel, or Hillel and Shamai, the revered sages of the past. This kind of reverence, of course, has the ironic effect of freezing the revered group in the past, limiting our expectations of their potential creativity. We so often only see what we expect to see. The sages in the West stood in place of past sages and gave insight that held central value for the Babylonians. Could a Nahota encountering an obscure Palestinian rabbi in the fourth century have walked away feeling as though he had just heard the words of Rabbi Yohanan? Scholars of rabbinics have long and widely noted that the Bavli will regularly represent Amoraic materials that appear in the Yerushalmi with newly applied Tannaitic attributions or with a different Amoraic attribution, often to Rabbi Yohanan.29 Is it possible that this attributive confusion is, in fact, a pseudepigraphic reassignment of authorship? In other words, did the tradents involved in the transmission of these sources reassign them to Tannaim or the well-known Rabbi Yohanan? Could encounters with Palestinian rabbis have held near-equivalency in the imagination of Babylonian sages with an actual encounter with a Tanna or with the greatest of past Palestinian Amoraim, Rabbi Yohanan? From Sherira Gaon to Maimonides, Rabbi Yohanan has been portrayed as impossibly long-lived and with an influence enlarged beyond the scope of reality.30 Could pseudepigraphy be one solution to this problem? Turning to the East, we see a simultaneous cognate phenomenon in the Sassanid Zoroastrian experience. In the next few paragraphs, I will argue that 29 For an extensive citation of this literature, see Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 84. 30 See Gerson Cohen, The Book of Tradition of Abraham ibn Daud (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary Press, 1967), 122, note to line 18.

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fourth-century Zoroastrian religious elites saw pilgrimage as an opportunity to meet, confer, and deliberate with others of their class in the far-flung Sassanian Empire. We will see that the fourth-century upsurge in Zoroastrian pilgrimage seems to have played a social role. Forming a religious network centered on the royal fire temple of Adur Farnbag in Pars, these sacred journeys tightened bonds of fraternity between the widely distributed Sassanid Magi. Just as was the case in Christian pilgrimage, Zoroastrian pilgrimage, at least in its elite form, was associated with encounter and exchange among living people, as we shall see. With the establishment of the secure and prosperous period of middleSasanian rule, the increase we see in the evidence of pilgrimage to the sacred fires should not surprise us. Mary Boyce writes of this period: “The evidence points to the great Zoroastrian sanctuaries being centres of general devotion and pilgrimage in the same way as the great shrines of Christendom, with their priests vying with one another to promote the legends and hence the sanctity of their particular fires; and ancient Iran doubtless saw in spring and autumn countless caravans of pilgrims as varied and colourful as those of medieval Europe.”31 Both Boyce and Arthur Christensen identified three sacred/royal fires as the focus of Sasanian pilgrimage.32 These were Adur Burzen-Mihr in Parthia, Adur Gushnasp in Media, and the great Adur Farnbag in Pars.33 In 1921, A. V. Williams Jackson identified Adur Burzen-Mihr with the village of Mihr (the present-day town of Mehr). Its location is halfway between Miandasht and Sabzevar on the Khorasan road to Neyshabur in the contemporary Iranian Razavi Khorasan province. He pointed to the remains at Takht-i-Suleiman as the temple of Adur Gushnasp, which sits midway between Urumieh and Hamadan near the present-day town of Takab, and four hundred kilometers west of Tehran in West Azarbaijan province. Today, the unusually beautiful ruins of the Takht-i-Suleiman citadel complex are a UNESCO world heritage site. Finally, he linked the Farnbag Fire with a site sixteen kilometers southwest of Juyom, midway between Jahrom and Lar, roughly two hundred kilometers southeast of Shiraz in Fars Province. As we shall see, Adur Farnbag was to be the locus of the elite pilgrimage so important to my larger argument. The Denkard, a Pahlavi work containing passages of Sasanian provenance, but redacted in the tenth century, states that the three fires mirrored social and feudal divisions at the height of Sasanian rule. 34 Note the association the Farnbag Fire holds with the priestly class:

31 Mary Boyce, Zoroastrians: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2001), 125. 32 Arthur Christensen, Cambridge Ancient History 12 (1939): s.v. “Sassanid Persia.” 33 A. V. Williams Jackson, Journal of the American Oriental Society (1921): 81–98. 34 Philippe Gignoux, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Dēnkard,” http://www.iranica.com.

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The fire which is Farnbag has made its place among the priests; . . . the fire which is Gūshnasp has made its place among the warriors; . . . the fire which is Būrzīn-Mitrō has made its place among agriculturists.35 The Bundahishn, a creation account redacted in the eighth or ninth century but containing numerous Sasanian traditions, posits the existence of these three sacred fires from the time of creation.36 Other Pahlavi texts clearly make use of the fires as implements of imperial propaganda and as symbols of Sasanian sovereignty.37 As noted, for our purposes the most important of these late-antique pilgrimage sites is the Adur Farnbag dedicated to the Avestan Yazata Khvarnah.38 How did the Farnbag Fire gain its elite status? Though the Bundahishn links it, along with the other two great fires, to the moment of creation, its rise in esteem is inextricably linked to the rise of the Sasanian royal dynasty. Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, the great tenth-century book of Persian kings based on the lost Sasanian royal chronicle Khwaday Namag, associates the war council of Adeshir I in Pars with the temple of Ram-Khorad.39 This council was central to his victory over Ardavan, establishing the new Sasanian regime. The location of the council seems to have been chosen so that Ardeshir could visit the temple containing the sacred fire. In the middle-Sasanian empire, this sacred fire located at Pars became associated with the royal family and was thenceforth styled Adur Farnbag, the fire of those who share in the Divine Glory or Farr (Old Persian: Khvarnah).40 This story in the Shahnameh may have its roots in an attempt to explain how the sacred fire at Pars became the most important 35 Dēnkard, 6.293, trans. E. W. West, Sacred Books of the East, vol. 5, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1897). For a longer discussion of this passage, see The Wisdom of the Sasanian Sages (Dēnkard VI), comp. Aturpāt-i Ēmētān, trans. Shaul Shaked (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1979), 113. Shaked’s translation does not differ in any real way from West’s. I’ve quoted West’s here mostly because of its greater accessibility. 36 David Neil MacKenzie, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Bundahišn,” http://www.iranica.com. 37 Mary Boyce, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Ādur Farnbāg,” http://www.iranica.com. 38 Avesta is the name the Zoroastrian religious tradition gives to its primary canonical collection of sacred texts. See J. Kellens, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Avesta,” http://www.iranica.com. The yazatas are personifications of the good powers under Lord Mazda’s rule; literally, it means “those worthy of worship.” See Boyce, Zoroastrians, xxi. In the Avesta, the figure of Khvarnah is associated with the stars and the sun and moon (Dādistān ī dēnīg, pt. 1, 25, 35–36); Ahura Mazdā (Yt. 19.10); the Amesha Spetas (qq.v.; Yt. 19.15); and Mithra (Yt. 19.35; Vd. 19.15). See Gherardo Gnoli, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Farr,” http://www.iranica.com. 39 Shahnameh: the Persian Book of Kings, trans. Dick Davis (New York: Viking Penguin, 2006), 539–40. 40 Boyce, “Ādur Farnbāg.” In all Iranian dialects, the name had an initial f- (resulting in “Farr” or “Farrnah”), except Avestan and Pahlavi, which preserve the kh-: “Khvarnbag” instead of “Farnbag.” Boyce, Zoroastrians, 123.

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of the three principle pilgrimage sites of middle-Sasanian Zoroastrianism, the fire symbolizing the priestly class. The founder of the dynasty visited this sacred fire to hold council and make offering to Khvarnah just prior to winning the kingdom. Now we’ve reached a turning point in our argument: the association of the Adur Farnbag pilgrimage site with the Magi holds special significance for our argument concerning the Nahotei. But there is one more Persian text we must look at to create the final linkage. The first chapter of the Sasanian divine comedy, the Arda Viraz Namag, depicts in detail the occasion of a priestly pilgrimage at Adur Farnbag: [T]here were other Magi and Dasturs41 of the religion; and some of their numbers were loyal and apprehensive. And an assembly of them was summoned in the residence of the victorious Frobag42 fire; and there were speeches and good ideas, of many kinds, on this subject: that “it is necessary for us to seek a means, so that some one of us may go, and bring intelligence from the spirits; that the people who exist in this age shall know whether these Yazishn43 and Dron44 and Afrinagan45 ceremonies, and Nirang46 prayers, and ablutions and purifications which we bring into operation, attain unto God, or unto the demons. And come to the relief of our souls, or not. . . . ”47/48

41 In the Sassanian period, “dastur” had a wide range of meanings, primarily denoting “one in authority, having power.” Mansour Shaki, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Dastur,” http://www.iranica.com. 42 An alternate spelling of Farnbag. Boyce, Zoroastrians, 124. 43 The name for the central ritual in Zoroastrianism. “The Yasna is the long liturgical text recited during the daily performance of the ritual.” William W. Malandra, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Yasna,” http://www.iranica.com. 44 A ceremony conducted by priests that bless and give thanks for food in a prescribed ritual. Dron is both the name of the ceremony and the palm-sized unleavened ritual bread made for the ceremony. The ceremony takes about fifteen minutes to complete and can be conducted by both priests and laity. Jamsheed K. Choksy, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Dron,” http://www.iranica.com. 45 “The word “āfrīnagān” has three uses: 1. The āfrīnagān is an extended liturgical ceremony. 2. “Āfrīnagān” also can mean a specific āfrīnagān prayer of the Avesta. 3. The word is used for the vessel in which the sacred fire is tended. M. F. Kanga, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Āfrīnagān,” http://www.iranica.com. 46 A Zoroastrian ritual that sanctifies a solution of bull’s urine and water; the holy liquid is known as nīrang or nīrangdīn. Firoze M. Kotwal and Philip G. Kreyenbroek, Encyclopedia Iranica, s.v. “Nīrangdīn,” http://www.iranica.com. 47 Boyce and those before her characterized the Arda Viraz Namag this way because of its thematic and structural affinities with Dante’s Divina Commedia. Mary Boyce, Textual Sources for the Study of Zoroastrianism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 84. 48 Arda Viraz Namag, 1:19–27, “The Book of Arda Viraf,” in Avesta: Zoroastrian Archives, maintained by Joseph H. Peterson, http://www.avesta.org/pahlavi/viraf.html.

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Eventually, the priestly synod selects the Magus Viraz to make the astral journey to answer their questions, during which he meets the spirits of the dead, encounters the six holy Yazatas, is granted visions of heaven and hell and is finally issued into the very presence of Ahura Mazda.49 In the end, Ahura Mazda himself answers the questions originally posed by the Magi. Their rituals, Lord Mazda says, meeting the expectations of the reader, accord with good thought, good word, and good deed. Note that the Arda Viraz Namag presents a journey to ask questions – questions the reader should presumably already know the answers to – in order to satisfy the anxiety of the inquirers. In this text, the pilgrimage site of Adur Farnbag serves two roles. First, it is the window to heaven: Viraz embarks on his journey from the most holy site in the holy land of Pars. However, despite this ideal location, in order to accomplish the journey Viraz still must consume opium and drink wine. The importance of pilgrimage here is not only the closeness of the site to the divine realm. Perhaps the more important factor, the reason the tale is set at Adur Farnbag, is not simply the encounter between Viraz and Lord Mazda, but also the encounter between Viraz and the other religious elites of his class. This other role that Adur Farnbag serves in the narrative is more important for our purposes: it is a site of priestly encounter. The account of the priestly pilgrimage to Adur Farnbag does not contain lengthy descriptions of religious ritual detail. Instead, it depicts meetings between the Magi and the Dasturs. They travel far distances to hold parley at Adur Farnbag. It serves as a sort of late-antique convention center for the Magi. This is another purpose in the framing story: the religious leadership of Imperial Sasania must be gathered in one spot so that the finest among them – the just and noble Viraz – can be selected to make the astral journey. Without the priestly gathering at Adur Farnbag, Viraz’s bona fide credentials cannot 49 Viraz’s journey strikes me as similar to the astral journeys depicted in the Hekhalot literature. As Eliot Wolfson describes succinctly, in these rabbinic texts, “ . . . the mystic is said to pass through the seven heavenly palaces or halls (hekhalot) in order to reach the throne of glory (kisse’ ha-kavod) or chariot (merkavah).” Eliot R. Wolfson, Through a Speculum that Shines: Vision and Imagination in Medieval Jewish Mysticism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 74. Wolfson notes that, after much debate, most scholars now assign the fourth through the ninth centuries as the most likely period for the composition of these texts. Aside from the odd early dating put forth by Rachel Elior in The Three Temples: On the Emergence of Jewish Mysticism, trans. David Louvish (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2004), the dating controversy is pretty much closed now. See Peter Schäfer, The Origins of Jewish Mysticism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009). All of the recensions of the Hekhalot texts are Babylonian in provenance. This is the same time and place as the composition, redaction, and final recension of the Arda Viraz Namag. More work is required to account for the cross-cultural influence between these texts. Additionally, a more comprehensive attempt to study rabbinic travel would need to deal with the Hekhalot texts, given the metaphor of travel that lies at their heart.

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be established and the tale of his journey cannot commence. This image of priestly pilgrimage to Adur Farnbag for the purpose of encounter with other priests makes sense to the Sasanian reader or auditor of Viraz’s tale precisely because Adur Farnbag actually did play such a role in the religious life of the Sasanian Magi and Dasturs. We’ve seen that the Christian pilgrim’s encounter with the living holy person is recounted in strikingly visual terms. Conversely, the Arda Viraz Namag, much like the reports of the Nahotei, depicts the pilgrimage encounter in oral and aural terms. Whilst Western, Christian, pilgrimage was made to living holy people as much as to holy sites, in the East, the Arda Viraz Namag depicts elite Zoroastrian pilgrimage as an opportunity for encounter amongst the Magi at the royal fire of Adur Farnbag in Pars. Yaakov Elman, among others, has noted the adoption of modes of Zoroastrian priestly behavior among the rabbinic elite of Babylonian society, even down to table manners and costume.50 It does not seem strange that they would adopt concepts of pilgrimage in consonance with that of the Zoroastrian religious elite, traveling to seek out fellowship and study with fellow rabbis and sages. Furthermore, in both the Christian West and the Zoroastrian East, the seat of temporal power was removed from the terra sancta. Just as a Christian nun from Constantinople would make a spiritual journey to Palestine, a Ctesiphonian Zoroastrian Priest would travel to Pars on a similar quest. The rabbis of Babylonia are also removed from their perceived spiritual center in Palestine. It would be very strange indeed if the rabbis of Babylonia were totally immune to these general trends that surrounded them round on either side. This new conception of the Nahotei is, by itself, a contribution. The trend towards increased pilgrimage in the fourth century in both the Zoroastrian East and the Christian West is an established phenomenon. Seeing the larger context allows us to place the Nahotei in a milieu in which pilgrimage has a social function, mediating the relationship between people residing at the older spiritual wellsprings and those at work creating the newer sources of religious influence in the au courant centers of power. 50 Yaakov Elman, “Acculturation to Elite Persian Norms and Modes of Thought in the Babylonian Jewish Community of Late Antiquity,” in Y. Elman, et al., eds., Neti’ot le-David: Jubilee Volume for David Weiss-Halivni (Jerusalem: Orhot Press, 2004), 31–54. See also Shaul Shaked, “Items of Dress and Other Objects in Common Use: Iranian Loanwords in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic,” in Irano-Judaica, vol. 3, ed. Shaul Shaked and Amnon Netzer (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East), 1994, 106–17; Geoffrey Herman, “The Exilarchate in the Sasanian Era.” PhD diss., Hebrew University, 2005; and, Herman, “The Story of Rav Kahana (BT Baba Qamma 117a–b) in Light of Armeno-Parthian Sources,” in Irano-Judaica, vol. 6, ed. Shaul Shaked and Amnon Netzer (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 2008), 53–86.

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III: Results of the Large-Scale Survey To close the circle: The Nahotian arrival on the scene chronologically fits in with Richard Kalmin’s claim of a fourth-century “Palestinianization” of rabbinic Babylonia. Kalmin depicts a range of literary phenomena along with the adoption of “Palestinian” behaviors by Babylonian Amoraim as a general “Palestinianization” of the Babylonian rabbinic community at this time.51 I see the Nahotian activities as part of this fourth-century trend, and impossible to construe as counter to it. This further seating of the Nahotei in their fourthcentury context also allows us to plausibly correlate the Nahotian reports with one Babylonian picture of Palestinian learning, a picture that would live an afterlife with long-lasting cultural consequences. One school of thought in the Bavli, associated with the early fourth-century Amora Rabbah b. Nahmani, privileges aggressive religious creativity over the rote mastery of a large number of memorized traditions, giving preference to the creative sage, characterized as “the uprooter of mountains.”52 While criticism of this preference is not absent in the Bavli, these criticisms are themselves indicators of the widespread use of the “uprooter” style of scholarship in Babylonia.53 Rabbi Zeira’s fasts on arrival in Palestine serve as perhaps the most poignant indicator of this difference in scholarly style. According to the Bavli, he undergoes an extended series of fasts to forget the Babylonian fashion of study.54 The Babylonians would eventually gain the confidence to assert the superiority of their more creative and intricate style.55 Indeed, the Bavli eventually credits the Babylonians with the salvation of Torah itself, in a Palestinian voice no less!56 The Palestinian sage, on the other hand, was depicted by some Babylonian sages in this same period as a stalwart preserver of tradition, passively submitting to the words of his master, sublimating his potential for greater creativity in favor of esteem for his elders. According to the Bavli: Palestinian esteem for one another trumps the search for truth;57 they are beholden to outmoded

51 Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia between Persia and Roman Palestine (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 4–10, 149–50, 173–86. 52 b. Berakhot 64a, b. Horayot 14a. 53 b. Shabbat 145b, b.Yoma 57b, and b. Menahot 99b. 54 b. Bava Metz’ia 85a. 55 b. Gittin 6a and b. Bava Qamma 117b. 56 b. Sukkah 20a. 57 b. Sanhedrin 24a.

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hermeneutic techniques;58 they are meek;59 and they are pampered.60 They are also depicted as stricter than the Babylonians.61 The opposite phenomenon is, of course, sometimes present as well. For instance, b. Hullin 95ba and 137b depict Palestinian Rabbi Yohanan showing great esteem for the Babylonians Rav and Shemuel. However, Rabbi Yohanan is one of those earlier Palestinians held in esteem by the Babylonians. We could plausibly posit that the later Babylonians held a positive view of early Palestinians while holding negative views of the later ones. One marked feature of ancient travel writing, in general, is its wont to go beyond the descriptive, doing prospective work in shaping the reader’s impression of reality.62 Given this, it is undoubtedly suggestive that the Nahotian reports persistently represent the Palestinian sages in their preservationist modes. The depiction of the Palestinian Jew as indentured to his elder masters would eventually dominate in the gaonic works of anti-Palestinian polemic, Pirqoy ben Baboy and the Hiliqqim, which depict the “men of the west” as following the customs of their ancestors even when foolishly and obviously in error.63 A claim that the Nahotei were chiefly responsible for forming this longenduring paradigm of the Palestinian sage is likely a bridge too far. The Nahotei were too small a group with too limited a lifespan to be chiefly responsible for any major phenomenon. However, a lesser claim is more reasonable: the Nahotei, in presenting the Torah of Zion to Babylonia, held a mirror up to Babylonian Talmud Torah. Compared to what could be perceived as the timid, familiar Palestinian Torah that Nahotian reports exclusively present, Babylonian Torah is indeed unstintingly novel and creative – a horse of a different color. Such a conception could have provided a sense of security for the Babylonians as they went about adopting and adapting Palestinian Torah. From this humble beginning, the gyre widened over time: to me it seems likely that the Nahotei both fed on and fueled the ongoing project of reimagining Palestinian Torah in Babylonia using the words of Babylonian sages. If the fourth century saw the “Palestinianization” of the Babylonian sages, as Kalmin argues, such a process would have been fraught with insecurity: is 58 59 60 61 62

b. Shevu’ot 5a. b. Nedarim. 22a. b. Ketubbot 62a. b. Shabbat 60b, b. Sukkah 20, b. Beitzah 14b. Frank, 30, 78; Campbell, 2–4; François Hartog, The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, trans. Janet Lloyd (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). 63 Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 113–21.

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Babylonian Torah being abandoned in the face of the Palestinian influx? 64/65 The Nahotian report says that the Palestinian material is the same as it ever was, knowable and different from the Babylonian. This would have allowed the Babylonian rabbis to pick up Palestinian traditions and cultural practices while remaining secure in their “Babylonian-ness.” The Nahotian travel report is by its very nature part and parcel of the Babylonian imagining of the land of Israel. The image of Palestine that they transmitted would also have the effect of defining the imaginary borders of rabbinic Babylonia, and, by extension, long-lasting images of the diaspora Jew. It is worth noting that the polemical image of the Palestinian Jew stuck in an autonomic behaviorist rut was appropriated and variously applied in later periods to a range of internal “others.” 66 With all this in mind, it is no surprise that the Nahotei present a limited range of form and content in their reports. A survey of Seder Mo’ed reveals that they generally do not deliver new traditions from Palestine, but revise and/ or comment on traditions already known to Babylonian rabbinic circles. The Nahotei are often shown reporting that a tradition that already has had currency in Babylonia was subsequently approved by a Palestinian rabbinic master, but refined with additional conditions or details. While it is by no means a rare occurrence that they supply some additional element to a tradition previously known in Babylonia, this is invariably done in one of only three ways. They either present identical content as a known tradition, such as a baraita or meimra, but with a new attribution, in the name of a Palestinian sage thought to have greater authority in Babylonian circles; they present a version of a tradition known to the Babylonian sages, but with some modification to the content; or, as is most often the case, they simply present the clarification of a tradition that was previously somewhat opaque to the Babylonian rabbis. I recognize that this last behavior is not merely slavish or passive – indeed, such a clarification can be quite creative. Note, however, that despite the presence of Nahotian creativity, the Nahotei still do not generally present unfamiliar traditions. The very familiarities of the traditions they clarify place them, and Palestinian Torah generally, firmly in the world of the known past. 64 Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia, 4–10, 149–50, 173–86. 65 The Babylonian Rabbi Yermiah’s traditions at b. Shabbat 145b, b. Yoma 57b, and b. Menahot 99b do indeed show a high level of Babylonian insecurity, as does the extreme Babylonian selfcriticism at the conclusion of the passage at b. Sanhedrin 24a. 66 Tracing this after-history is worth an article or paper in its own right. Robert Brody has made some initial attempts at this in his 2003 Goiten lecture. Brody, Pirqoy ben Baboy and the History of Internal Polemics in Judaism (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2003). For a deeply creative contemporary recasting of this polemic against a contemporary internal other, see Abraham Joshua Heschel, God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism (New York: Macmillan, 1976), 321–35.

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Nahotian reports are quoted 103 times in Bavli Mo’ed. However, there are actually fewer than 103 unique traditions. Some traditions are clearly repeated in more than one locus in the Bavli. Some traditions that appear to be repeated with seemingly small vocabulary or content changes may, in reality, be unique traditions. On the other hand, some traditions that appear to be unique may have been modified by an editor on transfer to a new locus in the Bavli. It is safe to claim that we are dealing with no fewer than ninety-two unique Nahotian traditions. For our purposes here, in examining the way the Bavli presents these traditions, it seems right to treat all 103, rather than restricting our study to the ninety-two unique traditions. Forty-nine of the 103 quotations, nearly half of them, represent reports clarifying the meaning of Tannaitic or Amoraic traditions already known in Babylonian circles. Thirty reports, about a third of the total, modify the language and content of traditions that already had currency in rabbinic Babylonia. Fourteen reports revise the authority of a source in circulation amongst the Babylonian Amoraim, usually by attributing it to a new Palestinian sage. Often, but not exclusively, the source will be reattributed to Rabbi Yohanan. For some reason, reports of this type are heavily clustered in Shabbat and Eruvin. Taken together, ninety-three of the 103 Nahotian reports in Bavli Mo’ed deal with traditions already known in Babylonia prior to the Nahotian report. Only ten of the 103 represent new traditions, utterly unknown to the Babylonian rabbis receiving the report. This last group makes up less than a tenth of the total. Five traditions in this group of ten are linguistically marked as distinct. Following the typical Nahotian attribution form, “when Rabbi x came [from Palestine] he said . . . ” we find the words, “they say in the west . . . ” (‫)אמרי במערבא‬. It seems likely that these words are designed to alert the audience to the introduction of a new tradition from Palestine. This is highly suggestive of an editorial awareness of the generally elucidatory program of the Nahotian reports. On the basis of this wealth of evidence, the character of the Nahotian report appears to have developed in the fourth century in response to Babylonian sages and their need for specific answers about specific sources. The Nahotian report does not appear to have been a vector for the import of any significant amount of new Palestinian material to Babylonia, at least not for Seder Mo’ed. Four examples involving the Nahota Rabbin shall serve to illustrate this point. Below, I will present examples that illustrate the three Nahotian behaviors I mention above. First, an example from b. Shabbat will show Rabbin upgrading a source in authorship by reattributing it to Rabbi Yohanan. Second, an example from b. Eruvin will show Rabbin’s report modifying the language of a meimra, thereby modestly expanding its meaning. Then, in a passage from b. Rosh Hashanah, Rabbin reports the words of a Palestinian sage clarifying the meaning of a Tannaitic source. Next, I will pause to briefly analyze the

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significance of these three specific passages to our larger understanding of the Nahotian report. Finally, I will present a passage from b. Pesahim that supports my theory of Nahotian constraint by showing the motivations that lie at the root of their constrained reportage. A passage from b. Shabbat 21b presents a Nahotian report attributed to a Palestinian sage thought to have greater authority than the statement’s originally known author: Rabbi Zeira said, “Rav said, ‘the wicks and oils that the sages forbade for the Shabbat lights may be used for the Hanukkah lights, either on a weeknight or on Shabbat.’” Rabbi Yirmiah said, “What is Rav’s reason? He reckons that if it [the Hanukkah light] goes out, one need not relight it, nor may one use its light for mundane purposes.” The rabbis stated this reasoning before Abbaye in Rabbi Yirmiah’s name, but he did not accept it. When [the Nahota] Rabbin came [from Palestine] the rabbis stated this reasoning before Abbaye in Rabbi Yohanan’s name, and he accepted it. The sages of the Mishnah forbade a number of oils and wicks for use in Shabbat lamps.67 Elsewhere in b. Shabbat, Rabbah reports that these were forbidden because of their tendency to flicker and go out.68 At the beginning of our sample passage, Rabbi Zeira reports Rav’s dictum that one may use these unreliable oils and wicks for the Hanukkah lamps. 69 Rabbi Yirmiah, a Babylonian who immigrated to Palestine, helpfully supplies the early Babylonian Rav’s reasoning: only the act of lighting is required to fulfill the ritual of the Hanukkah lamps. One need not light them if they go out, and in any case, since one may not use the light they shed for any mundane purpose, the flicker caused by sub-par materials is irrelevant. 70 The mid-fourth-century Babylonian sage Abbaye already knows of the Babylonian-born Rabbi Yirmiah’s tradition. But he only accepts the authority of this tradition when the Nahota Rabbin comes from Palestine with the identical tradition, now reattributed to the great Palestinian master Rabbi Yohanan. Here we see the superiority of the Palestinian Rabbi Yohanan’s authority in Abbaye’s eyes, even when the subject at hand is the reputed reasoning of an early Babylo-

67 m. Shabbat 2:1. 68 b. Shabbat 21a. 69 Rav was one of the two most important early third-century figures among the Babylonian rabbis. Rabbi Zeira was a student of Rav’s disciple, Rav Yehudah. Rabbi Zeira immigrated to Palestine and studied with Rabbi Yohanan. After some significant period of time he returned to Babylonia. He possessed access to the traditions of both centers as a result. See Albeck, 233–36. It is worth noting that the Bavli never treats Rabbi Zeira as a Nahota despite his history of migration. 70 Albeck, 340–42 (regarding Rabbi Yirmiah).

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nian rabbi! It is also worth noting the relationship between Rabbin and Abayye.71 Rabbin is clearly depicted as subordinate to Abbaye. He makes his report with bland neutrality, leaving it to others to determine the relative authority of his report. Though Abbaye already knew of Rabbi Yirmiah’s meimra, he had rejected its reasoning as a legitimate explanation of Rav’s ruling. This state of affairs continued until he heard Rabbin’s report. Thereafter, he accepted it by dint of its revision in authority. Clearly, Abbaye finally accepted the reasoning posited by both Rabbi Yirmiah’s tradition and Rabbin’s report on the basis of Rabbi Yohanan’s superior authority, rather than any revised understanding of its logical sense. In this case, Rabbin imports authority from Palestine rather than any novel content. Prior to Rabbin’s report, the idea had currency in Babylonia, but not acceptance. Because Rabbin’s report attributes the idea to Rabbi Yohanan, it gains acceptance. b. Eruvin 78b presents another typical case: a Nahotian report of a tradition known to the Babylonian sages, but with some moderate changes. To understand this example the reader needs some context. Much of b. Eruvin is concerned with the definition of the boundaries of private versus public space. One of the recurring obsessions of the tractate is the attempt to limit the legal requirements involved in defining a doorway. Under what circumstances is a doorway considered a proper doorway? When is it simply defined as a large hole in the side of a structure? Throughout the tractate, the community of sages universally take it as a given that beyond a certain amount of breadth, an opening may no longer be considered a doorway. At that point, the measure of which is subject to debate, the opening is merely a gap or hole marring the normal function of the structure’s external wall as a barrier. Yet, even in such a case, a permanent feature of the building located in the midst of the wide gap can legally subdivide the broad, open space into two smaller doorways. Such features may include stairways or entrance ladders leading to the second floor of the structure, or even closely adjacent trees. It is therefore surprising to read Rav Hisda’s statement and Rabbin’s modifying report in the following passage: Rav Hisda objected, “A tree, which is subject to Shabbat prohibitions [and may not be used as a ladder on Shabbat], is prohibited [to use as a demarcating point subdividing the opening into a courtyard or alleyway]. An Asheratree idol, which is subject to idolatry prohibitions [and by rights should be 71 Alyssa Gray notes Abbaye’s unique connection with the Nahota Rav Dimi. Gray, 6, n.17. Gray, for her purposes, only investigated Rav Dimi’s statements, leaving those of the other Nahotei to the side. The direct dialogue we see between Rabbin and Abbaye here and in the coming example in b. Pesahim is intriguing. Another area of further study would be the investigation of the relationship between Abbaye and the Nahotei. Perhaps it is no other than Abbaye who sent some of these Nahotei on their missions to Palestine?

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chopped down], is permitted [to use as a demarcating point subdividing the opening into a courtyard or alleyway].” Another meimra supports this: When [the Nahota] Rabbin came [from Palestine, he reported], “Rabbi Elazar (some say Rabbi Abahu) said, ‘Rabbi Yohanan said, “anything which is subject to Shabbat prohibitions is prohibited [to use as a demarcating point subdividing the opening into a courtyard or alleyway]. Anything which is subject to idolatry prohibitions is permitted [to use as a demarcating point subdividing the opening into a courtyard or alleyway].’” In the above passage, Rav Hisda (flourished late-third, early-fourth century) posits an exception to the general rule: if the opening is subdivided by a tree habitually used as a ladder by the residents of the courtyard in which it grows, since it may not be climbed on Shabbat the tree has no standing and the subdivision of the broad gap into two legally distinct doorways is not legally valid. The two doorways revert to being a single large hole in the wall. However, paradoxically, Rav Hisda does grant sub-divisional standing to a tree that has been worshiped as an avatar of the goddess Ashera. Even though Deuteronomy demands the tree’s destruction,72 so long as the demolition is not yet a de facto occurrence, its subdivision of the space is considered valid. So long as the ladder-tree represents an ongoing anxiety, because of its potential to suborn Shabbat prohibition, it has no standing. On the other hand, for Rav Hisda, the Ashera-tree, though condemned to demolition, has standing so long as it remains erect. Following Rav Hisda’s statement, Rabbin presents a modified version of Rav Hisda’s tradition in the name of Rabbi Yohanan. In this modified version, the concrete specificity of Rav Hisda’s tree is removed and the principle is stated more abstractly: even though objects prohibited for Shabbat use may not be employed as demarcation points, anything which is subject to idolatry prohibitions may be legally used as a demarcation point. Here we have a tradition that was known in early fourth-century Babylonia refined by a major Palestinian master, as reported by a Nahota. Note that the legal content of the two versions of the statement are identical. The presence of a Shabbat prohibition voids the standing of the subdividing structural feature, but the feature’s previous role in idolatrous worship does not taint its status as a subdividing marker. Though condemned to demolition, the structural feature has standing so long as it remains erect. Generally, the chronological movement in rabbinic literature is from the concrete case to a more abstract statement of principle – not the other way around.73 Rav Hisda’s statement is probably not a concrete application of

72 Deut 7:5. 73 Leib Moskovitz, Talmudic Reasoning (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 293–341. Jeffrey Rubenstein, “On Some Abstract Concepts in Rabbinic Literature,” JSQ 4, no. 1 (1997): 33–73.

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the abstract principles contained in Rabbin’s report. Rather, Rabbin’s report most likely abstracts Rav Hisda’s statement. Put more directly, Rabbin likely brings a statement from Palestine that abstracts and more broadly applies the case law contained in a statement already known in Babylonia. These last two examples, from b. Eruvin and Shabbat, portrayed behaviors that we may classify as typical of the Nahotei, at least as portrayed in b. Seder Mo’ed. However, I have yet to present the most common behavior they exhibit: the clarification of a tradition already known in Babylonia prior to their report. I will now present an example of this below. Our example is the concluding unit of the fairly complex final sugya of the fourth chapter of b. Rosh Hashanah.74 We shall see in this example, that though the Nahotei seem, for the most part, constrained to report modifications or clarifications of traditions already known in Babylonia, their coeval Babylonian colleagues are clearly not constrained in the same ways. In this passage, other Babylonian Amoraim seem free to report any traditions they like, even entirely new ones. Because of the complexity of the example, I will need to present this passage in greater detail than the previous two. I will present an excerpt of the relevant materials from the sugya in translation, with an added exposition. As part of my exposition, I have added comments and background information to aid the reader [italicized in brackets].75 For the reader’s convenience, I have provided a translation of m. Rosh Hashanah 4:9 preceding the sugya, followed by a brief thematic sketch. After the translation and commentary of the Bavli passage, the reader will find a brief attempt to summarize the thematic and structural contours of the example. m. Rosh Hashanah 4:9 Just as the congregation’s agent is obligated [to recite the statutory prayer76 aloud on behalf of the community], so is each individual [Jew] obligated [to recite the prayer silently first, each on his or her own behalf ]. Rabban Gamaliel77 says, “The congregation’s agent fulfills the community’s obligation.” [Therefore, individuals need not recite a personal statutory prayer in addition to the communal one recited by the congregation’s agent.] The Mishnah presents a disagreement between Rabban Gamaliel and the 74 b. Rosh Hashanah 35a. 75 This translation of our passage from the Yemenite manuscript JTS 108 EMC 319 is my own. On the choice of this manuscript, see David Golinkin, “‫( ”פרק יום טוב של ראש השנה בבבלי‬PhD diss., Jewish Theological Seminary, 1988), 5–7, 12–20. 76 In this context, the prayer in question is the mishnaic “Tefillah,” consisting of nineteen blessings on a weekday and seven on most Shabbat and festival days. 77 Mss. Munich 95 and Vatican 134 both read “Shimon b. Gamaliel.” However, none of the Mishnah manuscripts do so.

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anonymous majority view. That view posits that, despite the public recitation of the statutory prayer by the congregation’s agent, the individual worshiper is nonetheless required to make a private, individual recitation of the prayer. To understand Rabban Gamaliel’s opposing view we may draw an analogy to the sacrificial cult. Just as the priests in the Temple carried out the major rituals of the service, spilling the blood on the walls of the altar and burning the innards and limbs of the victim without the aid of the penitent bringer of the sacrifice, so the congregation’s agent performs the service of the heart on behalf of the individual worshiper. In Rabban Gamaliel’s view, the ritual performed by the congregation’s agent dispenses the statutory obligation of each and every individual worshiper. That much is clear. What remains unclear from the Mishnah is the full extent of Rabban Gamaliel’s dispensation. Must the individual worshiper actually hear the recitation of the congregation’s agent? Or, alternatively, may the performance of the ritual in the synagogue quorum settle the matter for the entire community, both for those present in attendance and for those not present in attendance? It is this ambiguity that the Bavli attempts to address in the passage excerpted below: b. Rosh Hashanah 35a:23–35a:27 1. [In an attempt to clarify the extent of Rabban Gamaliel’s ruling,] Rav Aha bar Avirah said, “Rabbi Shimon Hasida said, ‘Rabban Gamaliel would exempt even [those not in the synagogue from the private recitation of the statutory prayer, such as] the people [working] in the fields.’” [That is to say, the communal recitation of the statutory prayers would fulfill the obligations of rural Jews who are not in the synagogue. Rabban Gamaliel apparently takes the conduct of the communal ritual of worship by the prayer quorum in the synagogue to be of primary importance, even overriding the need for the attendance of the full community at large.] 2. [The Talmud makes explicit the full implications of Rabban Gamaliel’s ruling:] Needless to say, [he would also exempt from the private recitation of the statutory prayer even] those standing here [in town,78 but not in attendance in the synagogue. In other words, the communal recitation of the statutory prayers would fulfill the obligations of all Jews at all times, and in all places]. 3. [An objection to 2.] On the contrary! Those [in the field] are forced [to miss the daily prayer quorum due to their heavy agricultural workload. Therefore, Rabban Gamaliel enables them to fulfill their obligatory worship in absentia through the agency of the communal prayers recited in town. However,] those 78 This can only refer to those in town, not those in the synagogue. This is clear from step 3 below. See also Rashi, ad locum.

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[in town] are not forced [to miss the daily prayer quorum and do not receive the same Gamalian dispensation] 4. [A support for 3.] This is as Abba bar Binyamin bar Hiyya taught [in a baraita]: the people that are behind the Kohanim [during the ritual of the priestly blessing] are not included in the blessing [since they could easily move to be in front of the Kohanim. The same is true of the townsfolk in 2. They could come to synagogue, but choose not to. Since they have elected not to come to the synagogue, they receive no dispensation.] 5. When Rabbin came [from Palestine] he said [in the name of ] Rabbi Yaakov bar Idi, “Rabbi Shimon Hasida said: ‘Rabban Gamaliel did not exempt any [of those not in the synagogue from the private recitation of the statutory prayer] except the people [working] in the fields.’” 6. What is the reason [for the difference between them and others]? Because they are forced [to miss the daily prayer quorum due to their heavy agricultural work load. However, those] in town are not. At unit 1, Rav Aha bar Avirah’s statement attempts to resolve the ambiguity present in Rabban Gamaliel’s position in m. Rosh Hashanah 4:9. Units 2–4 present a later anonymous editorial expansion of the sugya. Unit 2 consists of a challenge in the form of a proposed reductio ad absurdum of Rabban Gamaliel’s opinion, introduced only to be defeated at 3–4. Unit 3 soundly rejects the proposition of unit 2. The support adduced at unit 4 is imported from its exemplar locus at b. Sotah 38b. Unit 5 is Rabbin’s report, which I will fully explicate in the next paragraph. Unit 6 is an elucidatory comment explaining the reasoning behind Rabbin’s report. When we remove the later materials at units 2–4 and 6, it is clear that the core of the passage is the statement of Rav Aha bar Avirah at unit 1 and Rabbin’s report of a similar, clarifying tradition at unit 5. They read in coherent relationship with each other when placed side by side: Rav Aha bar Avirah said, “Rabbi Shimon Hasida said, ‘Rabban Gamaliel would exempt even the people in the fields.’” When Rabbin came he said [in the name of] Rabbi Yaakov bar Idi, “Rabbi Shimon Hasida said: ‘Rabban Gamaliel only exempted the people in the fields.’” Rabbin’s report clarifies the words of Shimon Hasida first presented by Rav Aha bar Avirah. Rav Aha bar Avirah is a Babylonian reporting the Palestinian Shimon Hasida’s understanding of Rabban Gamaliel’s words. But an ambiguity remains in Shimon Hasida’s words: does Rabban Gamaliel exempt only those in the fields from synagogue attendance or does his dispensation also extend to all Jews at all times?

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Rabbin’s report of the Palestinian Rabbi Yaakov bar Idi’s statement clarifies this. According to Rabbi Yaakov bar Idi, Shimon Hasida understands that Rabban Gamaliel’s dispensation only extends to the rural Jews unable to attend the synagogue in town. Rabbin’s report has a dual clarifying effect. It clarifies both the ambiguity in Rav Aha bar Avirah’s meimra and, in turn, brings clarity to the ambiguity in m. Rosh Hashanah 4:9; it clarifies the full extent of Rabban Gamaliel’s dispensation.79 I should point out, parenthetically, that the reader may notice the possibility that Rabbin may have been presenting an alternate version of Rabbi Shimon Hasida’s tradition without reference to Rav Aha bar Avirah. I am willing to admit that this may have been the original case. This possibility really has no relevance for my study, however. In the context of the sugya the two traditions are juxtaposed and, therefore, Rabbin’s tradition clarifies Rav Aha bar Avirah, even at the core redactional level. The Bavli, already in an early period, depicts Rabbin’s tradition as a clarification. That is the important point. The final example I will present is not a typical specimen of the phenomena I described above, but it is enlightening of the more typical reports we encounter. In b. Pesahim 70b the Nahota Rabbin (also referred to as Rav Avin) reveals something of his work process in his dialogue with Abbye: Rabbi Ila’a said in the name of Rabbi Yehudah b. Safra, “Scripture states, ‘And you shall celebrate it as a celebratory-sacrificial-feast (‫ )חג‬to the Lord for seven days of the year.’ (Deut 16:15) Seven?!? The celebratory sacrifices run eight days [continuing from Sukkot into Shemini Atzeret]! From this verse [we derive the rule] that the celebratory sacrifice (‫ )חגיגה‬does not override the Shabbat prohibitions [and it is not performed on Shabbat as a result].” When [the Nahota] Rabbin came [from Palestine] he said, “I stated this [tradition before] my [Palestinian] teachers [with the following problem]: Occasionally you will find only six days that the celebratory sacrifice runs, for instance, if the first day is Shabbat [then the eighth day will be as well]. Abbye said, “O gloomy Avin! Say it like this: It’s never going to be eight days and in most years it will be seven.” Very briefly, the above passage conveys the following problem: Rabbi Ila’s statement identifies the biblical source for the practice of suspending the Hagigah sacrifice in the Temple on Shabbat. In Deuteronomy 16, the Sukkot festival is described as seven days in length. This description seemingly excludes the eighth day of convocation, Shemini Atzeret, from the sacrificial feast. Yet, some sacrifices are indeed performed on the eighth day. Rabbi Ila’s meimra locates the solution to this apparent discrepancy in the prohibition on performing 79 See Appendix II following this chapter: “Nahotian Reports in the Yerushalmi.”

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the Hagigah sacrifice on Shabbat. Since Shabbat will inevitably be one of the eight days of the Sukkot/Shemini Atzeret festival complex, the absence of the Hagigah sacrifice on that particular day results in a seven-day sacrificial feast, rather than an eight-day feast, at least as regards this one sacrifice. However, Rabbin notes that, by this logic, the feast might be reduced to a total of six days, if the first day of Sukkot and the eighth day both fell on Shabbat. In such a case, the verse in Deuteronomy 16, if it does indeed hint at the Hagigah sacrifice, would be rendered fallacious. Either the verse does not refer to the sacrifice (and, therefore, the seven days in the verse simply makes a distinction between the pilgrimage of Sukkot and that of Shemini Atzeret), or we must misunderstand the intent of Rabbi Ila’s statement. The fourth-century Babylonian sage Abbaye is then depicted as insulting Rabbin for having proposed a problem he views as absurd. Rabbi Ila is a Palestinian sage who flourished in the late third century.80 This passage depicts him as the tradent of the older Rabbi Yehudah b. Safra’s tradition. As is typical in the Bavli, we are given no indication how this Palestinian source made its way from Palestine to Babylonia. However, from the general context it seems safe to conclude that the source was known in Babylonia prior to Rabbin’s report concerning it. The Nahota Rabbin is aware of the problem with Rabbi Ila’s meimra. Such recognition seems most likely to have come about through study and reflection. Note also that the setting of Rabbin’s report is clearly Babylonian – he makes his report after returning from Palestine. The highly allusive statement, “I stated this [tradition before] my [Palestinian] teachers,” would only have been coherent to a Babylonian audience if the tradition to which it alluded was already known in Babylonia. The most likely conclusion in this case is that Rabbin presented a Babylonian-known Palestinian tradition in Palestine before Palestinian rabbis. He likely did this because he had learned of the tradition in Babylonia. Stating this tradition before the sages of the West becomes a means of seeking a solution to a flaw he, or perhaps they, perceive(s). What we see here presents us with a helpful paradigm that is borne out by the evidence of my survey of b. Seder Mo’ed. Nahotei seem to have presented materials to Palestinian sages seeking their input and perhaps their clarification. They then attempted to present the answers they received to their Babylonian colleagues.

80 Albeck, 223.

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IV: Conclusion In this study I have attempted to make an initial assessment of the activity of the Nahotei in b. Seder Mo’ed. I argued that they did indeed import some number of Palestinian rabbinic materials to Babylonia in the fourth century. However, I have also claimed that, at least as depicted in b. Seder Mo’ed, they did little more than clarify, modify, or reassign the authorship of traditions already known in Babylonia prior to their reports. My arguments in this study boil down to three conclusions. First of all, when we seat Nahotian activity in the context of cross-cultural fourth-century Middle Eastern pilgrimage, we understand it better. In the West, the fourth century saw Christians visiting Egypt, Palestine, and Syria. In the East, Zoroastrians were visiting sacred fires in Pars, Azerbaijan, and Media. The fourth century established the social nature of sacred journey in both regions and religious traditions. I presented documents from both these religious traditions depicting the pilgrimages of the period as an opportunity to meet and talk with living people. The religious communities in the rapidly changing religious and political scene of the day could forge a connection to the stable past in Egypt or Palestine or Pars or Media through the encounter with the sacred individuals sojourning in those lands. Typically, no novel experience was looked for by the pilgrims. Repeated confirmation of pre-existing faith was the point of the journey. These were travels to reconfirm the already known and, unsurprisingly, new knowledge was rarely gained. In this context, the fact that the Nahotei report or clarify Palestinian traditions to Babylonian Amoraim that are largely already known to the Babylonians, if in a slightly different form, is highly suggestive. I have understood the Nahotei to be the rabbinic pilgrims of the fourth century. The Nahotei probably traveled to Palestine and asked questions about Palestinian and other materials that had previously gained popularity among the rabbinic scholastics in Babylonia. The Nahotian journeys and reports seem to have played a social role in the ongoing circles of Babylonian Torah study, similar to the role pilgrimage played in the two major societies at large. Next, I argued that Nahotian reports played a small but significant role in forming later Babylonian attitudes towards Palestinian rabbis and their learning. Using methods borrowed from the study of travel writing, I argued that the reports of the Nahotei helped shape an image that some Babylonian rabbis held of Palestinian rabbis and their learning as stalwart, if unimaginative, preservers of tradition. My conclusions were that this beginning was limited and tentative. However, over time, the Nahotian reports of Palestinian rabbis, showing these sages doing little more than parroting the past, may have grown in the imagi-

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nation of the Babylonians. In the end, the correlation of the first presentations of the image of the plodding, obeisant Palestinian rabbi in the fourth century with the height of the Nahotian journeys is too suggestive to ignore. While this stereotype would find its moment of greatest significance in the ninth century anti-Palestinian polemics of the Babylonian geonim, I have shown that it may have both fed on the Nahotian reports and fueled them as well. Of course the relevance of the canard of the unthinking rabbinic behaviorist is always felt in Jewish religious circles, even down to our time. Finally, reports of the Nahotei in b. Seder Mo’ed are, for the most part, limited to elucidations of rabbinic traditions previously in circulation in Babylonia. Fully ninety-three of their 103 reports modify Palestinian traditions previously known to Babylonian sages, or comment upon them. Because this feature masks from our view any informal reports they may have made, it’s quite hard to determine the full sphere of their activity in bringing sources and traditions to Babylonia from Palestine. However, this limitation on the content of their formal reports simultaneously disqualifies their candidacy as the major vector for the importation of Palestinian rabbinic texts in fourth-century Babylonia. At most, they may have brought small-scale redacted materials. My example passages depicted Nahotei making reports clarifying Palestinian sources already known to Babylonian sages. In the final analysis, I believe Nahotian activity is best understood as a part of the rich fourth-century interplay between rabbinic Palestine and Babylonia. Nahotian activity is yet another demonstration of the deep import that Palestinian Torah held for fourth-century Babylonian rabbis.

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Appendix I: Nahotian quotations in Bavli Mo’ed Bavli Mo’ed: 103 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

14

49

10

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

19. 7a 20. 7a(2) 21. 7b 22. 8b 23. 45b 24. 50a(2) 25. 72a 26. 108b(2) 27. 125b 28. 134b 29. 134b(2) 30. 152a

31. 13b

30

Shabbat: 31 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

5a 21b 50a 52a 54a 72a(2) 74a 147a

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

7a(3) 52a(2) 63b 76a 76a(2) 105a 108b 112b 147a(2) 147a(3)

95

The Nahotei of the Fourth Century Eruvin: 23 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia 1. 9b 2. 75a 3. 87a

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

9a 22b 36b 77a 78b 100b

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

10. 3a 11. 6b 12. 10b 13. 10b(2) 14. 27a 15. 54b 16. 61a 17. 75a(2) 18. 85b 19. 86b 20. 87a(2) 21. 87b 22. 101b

23. 83a

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 33b 8. 104a

Pesahim: 8 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia 1. 25a 2. 71a

56b 60b 70b 110b

Rosh Hashanah: 4 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia 1. 15b 2. 23a 3. 35a

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

4. 30a

I have not included two Nahotian testimonies of calendric declarations. These are reports to the Babylonian community either of intercalation or the announcement of the new moon. These occur at 20a and 22b.

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Yoma: 13 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia 1. 2. 3. 4.

3b(2) 12b(2) 63a 78a

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 72b

3b 12b 41b 42a 55b 63a(2) 73a 88a

Sukkah: 11 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition already known in vided for a tradiBabylonia tion already known in Babylonia 1. 45b

2. 21a 3. 43b 4. 43b(2)

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 16b

10a 11b 12a 21b 32b 32b(2)

Betzah: 1 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition already known in vided for a tradiBabylonia tion already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

1. 31a Ta’anit: 1 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition already known in vided for a tradiBabylonia tion already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia 1. 10a

97

The Nahotei of the Fourth Century Megillah: 1 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia 1. 18a

Mo’ed Qatan: 7 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition vided for a tradition already known in Babylonia already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

1. 20a 2. 27a

5. 10a 6. 10a(2) 7. 13b

3. 3b 4. 22b

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

Hagigah: 3 New authority pro- Modifies a tradition already known in vided for a tradiBabylonia tion already known in Babylonia

Clarifies a tradition already known in Babylonia

New tradition previously unknown in Babylonia

1. 8a

2. 14a 3. 15b

Appendix II: Nahotian Reports in the Yerushalmi As discussed above, near the end of section three, the extent of Rabban Gamaliel’s dispensation of individual worshipers from reciting the Tefillah is the theme of just the final third of a much longer and more structurally complex sugya concluding b. Rosh Hashanah. The overall theme of the entire sugya is the extent to which Rabban Gamaliel’s view influences the ongoing lived practice of Jewish worship. In that sugya, the Talmud accepts the notion that Rabban Gamaliel’s system reigns only for the musaf prayer of Rosh Hashanah and the Jubilee Day of Atonement.81 In other words, at these two moments 81 Viz. b. Rosh Hashanah 35a:1–3: “When [the Palestinian] Rabbi Abba came up (saleq) from the sea, [returning to Palestine, likely from a Mediterranean journey] he explained it: “The sages accepted the opinion of Rabban Gamaliel for the blessings of [the musaf prayer of] Rosh Hashanah and [the Jubilee] Yom Kippur.” I adopt the interpretation of R. Nissim Gerondi here, limiting this statement to the musaf of Rosh Hashanah and the Jubilee Day of Atonement, rather than the more expansive possibility of applying it to all the prayers of every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. See ‫( חידושי הר״ן‬Jerusalem: Mechon Ha-Rishonim ve-Ha-Shut, 1994), 54. Gerondi’s

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of worship, the only two that incorporate shofar blasts, individuals need not recite a personal statutory prayer in addition to the communal one recited by the congregation’s agent. This has a direct parallel in the concluding lines of y. Rosh Hashanah: 82 Rabbi Huna Rabbah of Sepphoris says in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: “The halakhah is according to Rabban Gamaliel [when we pray] along with those shofar blasts. Rabbi Zeira and Rav Hisda [two middle-generation Babylonian Amoraim!] were sitting in Babylonia at [the time of ] the shofar blasts. When they completed the [communal] prayers, Rav Hisda rose to pray his private prayer. Rabbi Zeira said to him, ‘Did we not pray?’ He replied to him, ‘I prayed, and now I pray again. Some came down from the west (‫)דנחתון מערבא‬ and reported in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: “The halakhah is according to Rabban Gamaliel [when we pray] along with those shofar blasts.” But I did not focus [during the communal prayers]. Had I focused I would have fulfilled my obligation.’ Rabbi Zeira said, “And that is proper! All the Tannaim recite it [m. Rosh Hashanah 4:9] in the name of Rabban Gamaliel, but Rabbi Hosheyah has it in the name of the sages.” This passage is the one of two Nahotian reports I have been able to find in the Yerushalmi.83 It is an odd feature of this y. Rosh Hashanah text, which tallies with the earlier two-thirds of the Bavli sugya, that it does not parallel the final third of the Bavli sugya, the part that contains Rabbin’s Nahotian report, which is our main concern in this study. Our Bavli passage, quoted above in section three, containing the final third of the Bavli sugya, has no parallel in the Yerushalmi. It is equally odd that the Babylonian story that concludes the tractate in the Yerushalmi has no parallel in the Bavli. Clearly, at least in this case, we cannot credit Rabbin with importing the entirety of the sugya, “behind the scenes.” His report is actually relevant to the only part of the Bavli sugya which has no parallel of any kind in the Yerushalmi! The other Nahotian report I have been able to find in the Yerushalmi is at Orlah 20a–b, and is also a second-hand report, presented in the voice of a Babylonian Amora. Rabbi Yohanan is again listed as the original author of the tradition the report delivers:

interpretation is no radical move in this case. He merely makes explicit what both Rashi and Maimonides imply. See Rashi, s.v. “‫אלה משום דאוושי‬,” and Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Tefillah 8:10. Note, however, that this position seems to differ from that of Alfasi (12a) and Rabeinu Asher (§14). See also R. Joseph Karo, Beit Yosef, Orach Chayyim, §591. 82 y. Rosh Hashanah 22a. 83 The other is at y. Orlah 20a–b, which I deal with shortly.

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99

Rav Huna said, “When some came from the west there (‫)דנחתון מערביא דתמן‬, they reported this in the name of Rabbi Yohanan and we observed it: ‘Keep my decrees. Do not mate different kinds of animals. Do not plant your field with two kinds of seed. Do not wear clothing woven of two kinds of material’ (Lev 19: 19). This [verse] compares kinds of seed to kinds of materials and kinds of animals. Just as [the prohibition on combining] kinds of materials and kinds of animals is not dependent on residence in Palestine, and is in effect in Palestine and the diaspora, so too [the prohibition on combining] kinds of seed, even though it is dependent on residence in Palestine, nonetheless it is in effect in Palestine and the diaspora.” A more comprehensive investigation of the Yerushalmi is needed to determine whether more reports are extant. The phrase “some came down from the west” (‫ )דנחתון מערביא‬seems to appear only in these two places. It is possible that other Nahotian reports are, in fact, present in the Yerushalmi. However, the apparent lack of consistent language introducing any further reports makes finding them difficult. It currently appears to me that there is usually no clear direct textual or linguistic parallel in the Yerushalmi to the Nahotian reports either at the level of discrete traditions or as a broad phenomenon. I take this to be another indication of the Babylonian character of Nahotian activity.

The Missing Synopsis to Gersonides’ Commentary on Job (MS Paris 251) in Light of the Development of His Exegesis and Its Sources Yechiel Tzeitkin Bar-Ilan University Translated by Michael Carasik

The Commentary on the Book of Job is one of the most popular and widespread works by Rabbi Levi ben Gershon. In this article I present a synopsis which was discovered in a single copy among other manuscripts, and which, to my mind, was also written by Gersonides. In the article I try to prove that the synopsis is an integral part of Gersonides’ writings and the continuation of his well-known commentary.*

Gersonides and His Writings R. Levi b. Gershom was born in the Orange1 region of Provence in 1288, lived in the cities of Bagnols and Avignon, and died in 1344.2 Gersonides began * Translator’s note: Corrections made in the Hebrew text by the author of the accompanying article are indicated in this translation by an asterisk; see the Hebrew text for details. Biblical quotations in the notes are from NJPS; quotations from Gersonides’ commentary on Job are from The Commentary of Levi ben Gersom (Gersonides) on the Book of Job, Abraham L. Lassen (New York: Bloch Publishing Co., 1946); quotations from Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed are from the translation by Shlomo Pines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963); the quotation from Gersonides’ commentary on the Song of Songs is from the translation by Menachem Kellner (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998); and quotations from Gersonides’ The Wars of the Lord are from the translation by Seymour Feldman (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1984–1999). The published translations are slightly modified where necessary to fit their context here. If not otherwise noted, translations are my own. 1 Gersonides calls Orange by its Hebrew nickname, “the city of hyssop” (e.g., at the end of his commentary on Deuteronomy). See B. R. Goldstein, “The Town of Ezob/Aurayca,” REJ 126 (1967): 269–71. 2 See Seymour Feldman, trans., The Wars of the Lord, vol. 1 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1984), 3–4, 8; Anne-Marie Weil-Guény, “Gersonide en son temps: Un tableau chronologique,” Studies on Gersonides: A Fourteenth-Century Jewish Philosopher-Scientist, ed. Gad Freudenthal (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 355–65. In his colophon to his book Ma’aseh Hoshev, Gersonides notes that

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to write books on traditional Jewish topics – Bible and Talmud commentary – when he was around thirty-seven.3 Even earlier, in 1317, when he was twenty-nine, he had begun to write an essay in which he sought to resolve the question of whether the world had been created or existed eternally – the same question that Maimonides had left in doubt, on the basis of science, on the one hand, and Jewish tradition, on the other.4 This essay developed, over the years, into his great philosophical work, The Wars of the Lord.5 The book took a total of about twelve years to write and went through several versions until it was finally completed in 1329.6 Simultaneously, Gersonides worked on books devoted to science in general, making a name for himself in several fields: astronomy, mathematics, logic, medicine, and more.7 Gersonides was already a mature man whose ideas were firmly established when he turned to his “Jewish” output, and in the next twenty years he wrote commentaries to many of the books of the Bible. We have his commentaries to the Torah, the Former Prophets, and most of the books of the Writings.8 During this same

3

4

5

6 7

8

in the year “81 of the 6th millennium” (1321) he was 33 years old. Gersonides’ French name was Maestre Leo de Bagnols. Menachem Kellner, ‫ פירוש לשיר השירים‬- ‫( ר׳ לוי בן גרשום‬Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2001), 15; see also Kellner’s English edition, Gersonides’ Commentary to the Song of Songs (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), xv. For the chronology of Gersonides’ writings, see Charles Touati, La Pensée Philosophique et Théologique de Gersonide, Paris 1973, 49–82; Feldman, The Wars, 3–58; cf. the brief summary of Weil-Guény, “Gersonide en son temps.” Maimonides discusses this question in Guide 2:13–26, and his conclusion is that there is no scientific way to give preference to the view of Aristotle that the world is eternal, the view of Plato that matter is eternal, or the traditional approach of creation ex nihilo. The book may have been called this because its original goal was to refute Aristotle’s view that the world has existed eternally (Feldman, The Wars, 55–56). Gersonides’ initial essay on the subject of creation became, as time went on, the seed of Book 6 of The Wars and still later of the entire work. On the stages of development of The Wars, see Ruth Glasner, “The Early Stages in the Evolution of Gersonides’ ‘Wars of the Lord’,” JQR 87 (1996): 1–46. Cf. Feldman, The Wars, 55–58. On Gersonides’ scientific works, see Y. Tzeitkin, “‫מאפיני פרשנות המקרא ביצירותיהם של פרשני הפשט‬ 14–13‫( ”בני האסכולה המיימונית של פרובנס במאות ה־‬PhD diss., Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2011), 180–81, esp. n. 36. Gersonides was highly esteemed among Christians already during his lifetime. We find that a number of his books were translated into Latin and that he composed some works at the request of prominent Christians. See Tzeitkin, ibid., 179; Weil-Guény, “Gersonide en son temps.” Gersonides’ commentary on the Torah was written between 1328 and 1338. This commentary is not complete, especially the second sections of the commentaries to Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. On this, see Baruch Braner’s introduction in ‫חמשה חמשי תורה עם פרוש רבנו לוי בן‬ ‫ שמות‬,‫( גרשון‬Jerusalem: Maaliot: 2000), 3–7; E. Friedman and Baruch Braner, “‫”פירוש רלב״ג לתורה‬ Mahanaim 4.2 (1993): 228; Carmiel Cohen, “‫( ”פרשנות הלכתית על דרך הפשט בביאור הרלב״ג לתורה‬PhD diss., Jerusalem, 2008), 54–55, 65–72; Tzeitkin, “‫מאפיני פרשנות‬,” 181. His commentary on the Latter Prophets is not extant and it is unclear whether it was written at all, except for the commentary

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period, Gersonides also explicated several tractates of the Talmud, though the scope of his output in this field remains unclear.9 These commentaries, along with the large amount of talmudic-halakhic material embedded in his Torah commentary, and together with his far-reaching plans in this field, bear witness that he was an outstanding Talmud scholar.10

Date of the Commentary on Job and Its Central Position in Gersonides’ Work As already mentioned, Gersonides wrote The Wars of The Lord in stages. The first draft of the essay on creation had already been written in 1317; by 1321 this had become the original version of what was afterward called Book 6 of The Wars. This version was not circulated, and Gersonides continued to rearrange and add to it during the years 1321–1324, until he finally composed the chapters that later became Book 5 (astronomy) and Book 6 (as noted, on creation). In 1325 Gersonides composed the three first books of The Wars: the first, on the immortality of the soul; the second, on knowledge of the future through dreams, magic, and prophecy; and the third, on God’s knowledge of particulars.11 As far as one can judge by the dates in the colophons of Gersonides’ works, his earliest commentaries to biblical books were the one to the Song of Songs,

to Isaiah, to the existence of which there are a number of explicit references from Gersonides himself (see his commentaries to Num 24:14 and 2 Kgs 19:25), though this commentary, too, is no longer extant. Among the Writings, Gersonides apparently did not write commentaries on Psalms or Lamentations. 9 We find clear evidence of commentaries by him on Tractates Berakhot and Bava Qamma (see G. E. Weil, La bibliothèque de Gersonide d’après son catalogue autographe [Louvain: Peeters, 1992], 47–48, 110, 113). 10 Gersonides planned to compose an in-depth halakhic commentary as part of his Torah commentary (something which was realized only partially, but impressively), “The Book of the Commandments” – a composition outlining all of the commandments, both Torah commandments and rabbinic ones, arranged topically, with the reasoning behind each and every ruling and a citation of the rabbinic source of the discussion (a kind of expanded version of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah); he also planned to write a commentary on the Talmud that would include an explanation of all the details of the commandments in the principal place where each is mentioned, in the order of the tractates (again, a kind of expansion of Alfasi’s Sefer haHalakhot). See on this his introduction to the Torah, and also see Tzeitkin, “‫מאפייני פרשנות‬,” 182, 186–87. Gersonides also planned to write a commentary on the Midrash. See his introduction to the Song of Songs and his commentary on Gen 46:15. See also the study of C. Cohen “‫פרשנות הלכתית‬,” esp. 56–65, 73–83; also compare his article “‫ איש הלכה ופרשן מקרא – ר׳ לוי בן גרשום וביאורו לתורה‬,‫ ”פילוסוף‬SHNATON: An Annual of Biblical and Ancient Near East Studies 20 (2010): 181–84. 11 All these stages are described in detail in Glasner’s “The Early Stages.” See also Touati, La Pensée, 49–52, and Weil-Guény, “Gersonide en son temps.”

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completed “at the end of Tammuz ’85,” that is, in the summer of 1325, and the one to Job, completed on the 23rd of Tevet ’86, that is, December 30, 1325. If that is so, these commentaries were written simultaneously with, or immediately after, the composition of the three first books of The Wars, and they in fact continue the discussion of its central philosophical topics: the commentary on the Song of Songs focuses on the immortality of the soul, and the commentary on Job on providence. Moreover, in contrast to the Song of Songs commentary, whose central idea had already been discussed in Book 1 of The Wars, the Job commentary also discusses a new topic which, though its basic outline is found in The Wars, had not yet received a focused discussion there. It is possible that at this stage Gersonides thought his book had already provided the necessary answers to the central philosophical questions and that he therefore decided to discuss providence separately, in the Job commentary. Eventually, however, Gersonides decided to include a detailed discussion of this topic, too, within the framework of his philosophical work, and thus was created Book 4 of The Wars, which discusses providence; this shaped the final form of the book. We do not know the precise date when Book 4 was completed, but it was finished before October 1328, and it was clearly written after the Job commentary, on which it is based. It is a fact that Gersonides refers throughout the Job commentary to what he says in The Wars, yet he does not refer even once to Book 4, the very book whose subject is the same as that discussed in the commentary!12 On the other hand, many references to the Job commentary are found in Book 4 of The Wars. The composition of Book 4 seems, from Gersonides’ point of view, to have completed the last of the topics he planned to discuss in his philosophical book, in which he sought to come to final conclusions on the issues that Maimonides had not decided, and to discuss at least some of them afresh in light of the writings of Averroes.13 So, Gersonides went back to restructure The Wars according to this new arrangement. His revision of the order of topics and the outline of the discussion were extremely important, from Gersonides’ perspective, for an understanding of the message of his book and the meaning of his words.14 Given that the book was not written in the final order in which 12 By comparison, in the commentary on the Song of Songs we find Gersonides referring several times to The Wars, especially to Book 1, whose subject is identical (in Gersonides’ view) to the central idea of the Song of Songs. 13 See Kellner’s delineation of Gersonides’ goals in The Wars in his ‫ פירוש לשיר השירים‬- ‫ר׳ לוי בן גרשום‬. 14 See the end of his introduction to The Wars: “Now that the various reasons for the ordering of subjects have been explained, the reader should not ask us to explain the reason why we have considered one question before other questions that are [in some sense] prior to it . . . It is clear from the reasons previously mentioned . . . that the reader of a book not consider that which comes later in the book before that which comes earlier . . . If the reader begins with the later part,

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it has come down to us, Gersonides re-edited Books 5 and 6 after composing Book 4 and adding it to the three original books. On November 24, 1328, the first section of Book 5 of The Wars, dealing with “the heavenly bodies,” was completed. This book is a long composition on astronomy, which was considered a separate composition and was therefore not printed together with the book in its classic editions.15 Immediately afterward, all the rest of the chapters of the final two books of The Wars were completed one after another: part 2 of Book 5 on November 28, 1328; part 3 on December 5 of that same year; part 1 of Book 6 on January 2, 1329; and part 2 of that book already by January 8, 1329.16 It follows from what we have said that Gersonides’ earliest biblical commentaries – Song of Songs and Job – fill out the blueprint for the philosophical discussion in The Wars.17 Only afterward did Gersonides tackle the job of explicating the rest of the books of the Bible and the Talmud, first of all, the Torah – a commentary that was written over an extended period during the years 1228–1238, on the basis of the philosophical views that had been shaped in his earlier books.18 it can happen that he will not understand it at all or perhaps he will distort the meaning of the author. It is therefore necessary that you, my reader, if you want to understand this book, follow the order that we ourselves have followed; if you do not do this, you will be greatly confused . . . This confusion will be inevitable in the attempt to understand the profound mysteries and secrets of this book” (Feldman, 1:103–4). On this, see D. Schwartz, ‫סתירה והסתרה בהגות היהודית בימי הביניים‬ (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2002), 144–81. 15 Even in most of the manuscripts this book appears as a separate composition containing 136 chapters, mostly consisting of lists and tables. The first chapters of this great astronomical work were published by Bernard R. Goldstein, The Astronomy of Levy ben Gerson: A Critical Edition of Chapters 1–20 with Translation and Commentary (New York: Springer, 1985). This book was translated into Latin about a year after Gersonides’ death; see J. L. Mancha, “The Latin Translation of Levi ben Gerson’s Astronomy,” in Studies on Gersonides, ed. Gad Freudenthal (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 21–46. 16 Apparently the first chapters of the book also underwent certain editorial changes. For example, in chapter 4 of Book 3, Gersonides’ commentary on Job is mentioned as if it had already been written: “The seventh argument claims that if God had knowledge of particulars, He would have arranged them equitably and perfectly. However, this is contrary to what we observe of these things, since they exhibit much injustice and disorder. This argument will be refuted when we show that the order obtaining among contingent affairs and the contingency exhibited in them manifest the best order and perfection possible. We have already demonstrated this in our commentary on Job and we shall, with God’s help, prove it in Book Four of this treatise” (Feldman, 2:123 [italics added]). 17 It should be noted that in the autograph list of his books Gersonides mentions his commentaries to Song of Songs and Job as being in a single volume. See Weil, La bibliothèque, Book 49 of the “wisdom books” section, 113: “Commentaries on the Song of Songs and Job by me, Levi.” 18 As noted above, it seems that Gersonides’ plans to write commentaries on the Talmud and on the rabbinic midrashim were not realized. Neither did he manage to put this commentary into

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The Text of the Commentary on Job and Its Circulation The majority of Gersonides’ writings were very popular during the Middle Ages. His Job commentary, which, to judge by the large number of manuscripts that have reached us, must have been copied many times, was especially popular. One can therefore understand that, despite Gersonides’ radical philosophical ideas, especially with regard to providence, his Job commentary was widely distributed and popular among the public at large.19 This commentary was first printed in 1477 (Ferrara ed.) and may therefore be considered one of the first Hebrew books to be printed.20 Today, the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts in Jerusalem has about sixty copies of the Job commentary. Careful examination of the manuscripts reveals that the text is relatively uniform throughout, though it is possible to point to several different textual branches. The differences between the various branches find expression at two different levels:

ADDITIONS TO THE COMMENTARY The commentary has a number of additions and expansions. Some of them appear (according to their language and content) to have emerged under the hand of Gersonides himself. This is especially proven by the addition at Job 22:12 (“God is in the heavenly heights; See the highest stars, how lofty!”). The addition relates to the explication of the phrase rosh kochavim, previously explained as “the highest of the spheres, where the stars are found, the sphere of the constellations” (“Explanation of the Words”). After this appears a passage its final form; part of it (especially the commentary on Numbers and Deuteronomy) is only a first draft. 19 About his radical ideas see the next section. About the popularity of the commentary on Job see Robert Eisen, The Book of Job in Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 144. R. Haim Yosef David Azulai (the Hida) wrote as follows: “I heard that Job scholars say a man should read Gersonides’ commentary and he will quench his thirst” (Shem ha-Gedolim, part 2, Jerusalem, 1992), 22. On the acceptance of Gersonides’ views throughout the generations, see Touati, La Pensée, 541–59; C. Cohen, “‫פרשנות הלכתית‬,” 21–22 n. 13, and 25 n. 22. 20 The book was printed by the publishing house of Abraham b. Hayyim and has 124 folios. The precise date of publication is 4 Sivan 5237 (16 May 1477). The publisher wrote as follows in the colophon: “The holy work was finished by Abraham (may he see offspring that live long, amen!), firstborn son of R. Hayyim (may he be remembered for life in the World to Come) of Pesaro, a scribe expert in printing, and its completion was on Friday, the 4th of Sivan, 237 of the 6th millennium.” Gersonides’ commentary on the Torah was printed even earlier – in 5236, in Mantua. Nonetheless, the Torah commentary did not make its way into Daniel Bomberg’s Venice edition of the Miqra’ot Gedolot (apparently because of its length), which was not the case with the Job commentary, which has been printed in various editions of the Miqra’ot Gedolot many times.

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107

that is consistently missing from one group of about ten manuscripts: “Or he calls by that name the place where the stars are when in the middle of their orbit, for that is absolutely the highest place, as we have explained in the book The Wars of the Lord. The height of this place points to the real distance of the stars from the earth which is as great as possible and which can be inferred from their smallness in their appearance to us as we have explained there” (Lassen, 141). From the explicit reference to what “we have explained in the book The Wars of the Lord,” it is clear that we have here an addition by Gersonides himself.21 Moreover, a comparable paragraph is added in those same manuscripts in the parallel commentary in the “Discourse as a Whole” section: “Or, he may mean by rosh kochavim the highest point in the sphere, which constitutes the orbit of the planets in their longitudinal movement, which each star reaches while moving in its orbit, for these points are very high, as we explained in the fifth book of The Wars of the Lord” (Lassen, 144).22 Due to this alternative explanation (“or”), which cannot have been omitted accidentally from one group of manuscripts by homoioteleuton (which is not a possibility in this case), and which was added simultaneously in two parallel places, and also due to the reference in this commentary on The Wars, we must conclude that Gersonides himself added the passage to his commentary at some stage. This example gives us a basis for the assumption that Gersonides added passages to his commentary. It is particularly reasonable to assume this in connection with those additions that prominently display Gersonides’ characteristic style and ideas, though even in these cases the assumption can be no more than hypothetical.23

21 What he is referring to is in fact found in Book 5, part 2, chapter 9. 22 In the literature of the period, the planets were literally called “the stars of confusion” (see, e.g., Samuel ibn Tibbon in ‫מורה נבוכים‬, ed. Y. Even-Shemuel [Jerusalem: Mosad haRav Kook, 1973] 54, and similarly in The Wars, Book 5, part 2, chapter 9). 23 I note one example of this kind. In the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 6:15–17 there appears: “Verily, my friends have dealt treacherously with me, they disappointed me just as the brooks and rivers disappoint the traveler . . . in the might of their flow, they are suddenly cut off and cease . . . these brooks deviate from their beds or are lost altogether . . . the flow of the waters from the source ceases entirely. [This happens either because the vapors which rise from the springs are not condensed at the spot but are carried away by the wind, or there are no new formations of vapor at all.] These two phenomena are mentioned in the “Book on Meteorology,” as causes for the disappearance of the rivers . . . ” (Lassen, 44). The passage in brackets is found only in one group of manuscripts. Nonetheless, this passage matches Gersonides’ language and there is no reason to assume that it was omitted by haplography. The passage is an expansion of the topic discussed in the commentary – the reasons that the flow of streams is interrupted, as explained in Aristotle’s Meteorology. Conceivably this is a revision by Gersonides himself. According to the original version, the two reasons mentioned in Meteorology for the cessation of the brooks are a change in the course of the flow and the interruption of the flow. According to the revision,

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ALTERNATE TEXTS Besides the additions, we also find alternate texts of Gersonides’ comments to several verses, giving different explanations. Here too we may guess that at least some of these are corrections made by Gersonides himself. This is especially likely in the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 20. In the commentary on this chapter we find that in one group of thirteen manuscripts, the commentary on vv. 2–18 is clearly different from the commentary in the dominant version, found in forty-eight manuscripts.24 It is possible in this case that Gersonides rewrote the commentary on most of this chapter for some technical reason, for example, the loss of one sheet from his copy. But in other cases it seems that the alternative versions are designed to correct and improve the text and the commentary. Let me note here one example of an alternative version in the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 31:35–37: “A book like this I would revere greatly, even carrying it on my shoulders, and would even bind it as a crown around my head. I would tell it everything, and I would describe to it even the very number of steps I made in life, so that it might know the flaw in that man’s arguments.” According to this version, Job is ready to “describe . . . the very number of [his] steps” in the text in which his accuser’s words are written so that the writ could show the flaw in that man’s arguments. By contrast, in a different branch of manuscripts, instead of the words “the flaw in those arguments,” there appears “so that he might know the truth and judge for himself ” (Lassen, 189). That is, we have a correction. The writ is not called “to see” the words of Job’s accuser (which are already written in it!) but to consider the arguments and the behavior of Job himself, as v. 37 itself says: “I would give him an account of my steps.” It follows that this correction is not merely justified, but improves the argument of the commentary. In my estimation there are another four or so places in the commentary which can be viewed as later corrections, and it is reasonable to suppose that they were made by Gersonides himself. Though the differences between manuscripts of the commentary are not many, we can learn from them that Gersonides customarily reviewed, corrected, and even extended his works after they had already been circulated. This is what he did with The Wars, this is what he did with his commentary on the the flow is interrupted because the vapors do not condense, or because of a complete cessation of the vapors in that place. All in all, there are not many additions of this kind. I would say that there are about five additions that might conceivably come from the pen of Gersonides and another six or so short additions (mostly explanations of words) that cannot be identified either as coming from Gersonides himself or as having been added by the copyists. 24 It should be noted that this unusual version is the one that was printed in the Jacob b. Hayyim edition of the Miqra’ot Gedolot in the years 1524–1526.

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Torah (where the additions and corrections are so significant that scholars call this the “later edition” of the commentary), and this is what he did with his commentary on Job. 25 In this case, however, we cannot speak of a later edition of the commentary but only of occasional corrections and additions made in the course of further study.

The Idea of the Book of Job according to Gersonides’ Commentary As we have described above, the commentary on the Book of Job is part of a sequence of books that includes The Wars of the Lord and the commentary on the Song of Songs. All these works deal with the central philosophical questions that Gersonides sought to analyze and decide. The Book of Job revolves around the question of the nature and character of divine providence. This is how Gersonides defines the importance of the issue in the introduction to his commentary: “We undertook to explain the Book of Job by way of a long and exhaustive commentary . . . as we find the teachings of this book conducive to man’s attainments of success in matters political and scientific. In general the Torah itself is based upon the principles expounded in this book . . . ” (Lassen, 3). Gersonides describes the views of the speakers in the book – Job, his three friends, and Elihu – as different philosophical positions on the question of providence, relying explicitly in his introduction on the words of Maimonides in Guide 3:22–23. Gersonides admits that it was Maimonides’ discussion “which prompted us to probe deeper into the views of these men, so as to elicit the exact nature of the opinions of each disputant” (Lassen, 5). Yet, in Gersonides’ assessment, Maimonides associated with some of the speakers in the book the views on providence that were prevalent in his own day, though they do not match either the straightforward sense of the text or the defensible philosophical positions.26 According to Gersonides, the author of the Book of Job 25 On this, see Baruch Braner’s introductions to Gersonides’ commentary on the Torah in his edition, ‫פירוש לתורה‬, to Genesis (1993), 6–7; to Exodus (2000), 3–7; and to Leviticus (2003), 4–5. The matter is also discussed in the C. Cohen, “‫פרשנות הלכתית‬,” 54–55, 65–72. See also Tzeitkin, “‫מאפייני פרשנות‬,” 181. 26 Here are Gersonides’ words on Bildad’s view: “It is not evident from his words . . . that he places in this matter [of providence] man and animal on an equal basis . . . In general, it is not proper (in his opinion) that we should ascribe to a certain man any error except what we find either directly expressed in his words, or what is implied in them. Therefore, we did not assume that the opinion of Bildad regarding Divine Providence is the same as the opinion of the Mutazilite sect, as Maimonides maintained. It is possible that what moved him to describe the opinion of Bildad in this wise, is because he found various opinions regarding Divine Providence among men famous in his time, and because he saw some relationship between the opinion of Bildad and the opinion of the Mutazilite sect, he ascribed, therefore, the opinion of the Mutazilites

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intended it for intellectuals and not for the public at large, due to the profundity of the issue it discusses.27 It is therefore necessary, in Gersonides’ view, to set forth the views of the characters in the book according to “all the contradictory parts which may have entered into the mind of intelligent men” (the “General Principles” to Job 11 [Lassen, 82]). That is, the views of the speakers must represent all possible philosophical positions on the topic of providence at which intellectuals might arrive.28 The assignment of these views must be exhaustive, so that no other rational possibility remains. Gersonides argues that the allocation of views according to his system matches both the straightforward sense of the text and the possible intellectual positions.29 The viewpoints of Job and to Bildad . . . Therefore, we were guided in our explanation by what was evident from the plain meaning of the words of the disputants . . . ” (Lassen 56–57). 27 He wrote this in the introduction to his commentary: “It is because of the problems and doubts that enter into this discussion, that the rabbis ascribed the authorship of this wonderful narrative to Moses, so that by way of speculative investigations all doubts that enter into it are solved, as it will be explained in our commentary . . . [When we probed deeper], we found that their opinions correspond to the number of parts, which thinkers by means of a logical division find in a discussion. We said ‘Thinkers,’ inasmuch as the divisions which the mind of ordinary men can discern in a disquisition of this kind are neither determined nor defined. It is obvious that he who makes a complete study of this or a similar discussion, should point out the opinions that a logical division can discern in it. He should also indicate the doubts that enter into each one of them and their possible solution, and thus establish clearly the true opinion. This matter should be applied in the explanation of this book whatever its nature may be . . . since its purpose is to help man to attain the truth in the investigation of this problem. For otherwise, there would not be derived from this book the veracity contained in it” (Lassen, 4–5). 28 Compare, in the introduction, “It is obvious that he who makes a complete study of this . . . should point out the opinions that a logical division can discern in it” (Lassen, 5 [italics added]); and in the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 21:27, “It is the way of the investigator who wants to make a perfect study of a problem, to consider all the parts of analysis which may enter logically therein, so as to differentiate between the correct and incorrect arguments, for without such a consideration, his investigation will not be complete” (Lassen, 138). That is, “all the parts of analysis” on the topic of providence are not any particular belief that might occur to someone in the public at large, but a perspective that has a philosophical basis. See, e.g., “these opinions cannot be regarded as parts of a logical analysis of this discussion, as they are not susceptible to logical proof, and a more thorough investigation would reject them entirely” (Lassen, 57). 29 “In general, if the opinions of those men whom Maimonides mentions were in accordance with the number of parts which analysis can discern in this disquisition, it would be proper that the words of the disputants here should be so interpreted as to agree with those opinions, although the literal meaning of their words would not indicate, or make plainly evident, that such were actually their opinions. It is, however, evident that the number of those opinions which belong to the Mutazilites [whose view Maimonides attributes to Bildad] and the Asherite sects [whose view Maimonides attributes to Zophar] are the outcome of the premises propounded by the Mutakallimin philosophers who based their views on the principle of creation ex nihilo, and these opinions cannot be regarded as parts of a logical analysis of this discussion, as they are not susceptible to logical proof, and a more thorough investigation would reject them entirely.

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his friends on providence, along the lines of Gersonides’ interpretation in his commentary and in Book 4 of The Wars, can be summarized briefly and in general terms in the following way:30 1. Job’s opinion is that God does not watch providentially over human actions; God maintains the world only by means of general providence, over species, but not over individuals. The fate of the individual is fixed by the stars. Job’s complaint is that God has not arranged, by means of general providence, that people who are fated to be unlucky not be born or that they die quickly, without suffering. 2. The opinion of Eliphaz is that God does watch providentially over human beings as individuals, and judges them according to their deeds, but that not all the disasters that befall a person stem from divine providence. Sometimes a person causes his own disaster by means of foolish actions that cause him or her to suffer. It follows from his view that God watches providentially over each individual, but not everything that happens to a person stems from providence. 3. The opinion of Bildad is that God watches providentially over each individual and judges him according to his or her deeds. Man cannot complain about the unfairness that he sees in this world, for he does not know and cannot judge what is good for him at a particular time and what is bad. 4. Zophar’s view, too, is that God watches providentially over human activity and judges each person according to his actions. In contrast to Bildad, however, Zophar denies that humans can judge who is righteous and who is wicked. In his view, therefore, human beings are not entitled to complain about the apparent unfairness in the world, since they do not know definitively which of them are good and deserve reward and which are evil and deserve to be punished. 5. Elihu’s opinion is that God watches providentially over human beings only by means of general providence and that various individual occurrences are under the supervision of the stars.31 This basic position matches Job’s opinion, and from Gersonides’ perspective it is the rational truth built on Therefore, we were guided in our explanation by what was evident from the plain meaning of the words of the disputants, and it seems to us that their opinions are according to those parts which an analysis when made by a man skilled in philosophy finds in this discussion” (Lassen, 57). 30 See the detailed analysis of Gersonides’ philosophical system in his commentary on Job and in Book 4 of The Wars in Robert Eisen, “Gersonides’ Commentary on the Book of Job,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 10 (2001): 239–88, and in his The Book of Job, 143–73. 31 Thus also in The Wars, Book 2, ch. 2.

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“right premises” (Lassen, 266; the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 42:4–5). Where Elihu differs from Job’s opinion is that in his view there are exceptions to astrological determinism. According to him, a person can realize his intellectual potential and achieve, by intellectual means, a kind of unification with the Active Intellect. This “unification” causes the Active Intellect to exercise providence over the one who “cleaves” to it.32 Nonetheless, even this person starts out under the dominion of the stars; it is his cleaving to intellectual concepts that makes it possible for him to receive knowledge of the future via the Active Intellect and to protect himself from the evils that would be fated astrologically to befall him. In other words, individual providence operates on such a person in addition to the general providence that keeps each species in existence.33 Hence, the argument that God does not know individuals personally because they are material, and therefore inferior and contemptible, is not correct with regard to individuals who are “connected” to the eternal and spiritual (that is, to the Active Intellect) through their apprehension of intellectual concepts.34 In Gersonides’ view, this last position is the true one. That is, Gersonides’ 32 E.g., in the introduction: “It is this particular problem which is discussed in this book, namely, the explanation of how man can guard himself against such evils by the help of human reason, inasmuch as this particular reason may in a way unite itself with the active reason of the universe” (Lassen, 9), and “The Active Intellect watches over the one who strives to unite with it in order to save him from the evils impending upon him through the heavenly bodies . . . ” (Lassen, 198). 33 E.g., the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 33:12: “Reason is supposed to overcome the prearranged order of the heavenly bodies, inasmuch as human choice of the good originates from it. Choice of action by reason can conquer the choice preordained by the arrangement of the constellations, if man follows his reason. Moreover, the one who perfects his reason to the degree that he attains some connection with the Active Intellect, that Intellect will protect him from these evils, either by informing him in advance of their coming, so that he may guard himself against them, or by some other means . . . ” (Lassen 195–96). 34 See, e.g., the “General Principles” to Job 38: “Elihu explains that men’s low state, as compared to God, does not in any way prevent the latter from extending to him His Providence . . . Man . . . is potentially able to conceive ideas. If this is the case, we have then, on the one hand, God great of understanding in actuality and, on the other hand, man great of understanding in potentiality. It is also known that what is actual completes that which is only potential and helps to bring it out into actuality. We find then, in the endeavor of man to realize his conceptions from the potential state to the actual, a quality which unites him with God in a certain way . . . And since this unity arises through man’s actual attainment of conceptions, not because of his potential comprehensive power which is possessed by the entire human genus, it is evident that the Providence extended to the intellectual man is primarily because of his individual capacity to bring his potential power of conception into a state of actuality. It is therefore clear that God does not forsake the individuals of the human species because of their low state, but watches over intellectual men . . . ” (Lassen, 232). Gersonides explains the immortality of the soul after the death of the body in this same way. See The Wars, Book 1, chs. 10–13.

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perspective is quite radical in comparison to the traditional stance, since in his view the great majority of people do not experience individual providence directly; good and evil happen to them by chance, as the stars decree.35 Even extraordinary individuals do not experience providence except via the Active Intellect, and even this only by means of their philosophical attainments and not through cleaving to Torah and commandments alone. These are the positions Gersonides sets forth to clarify the words of Job and his friends in all their speeches. However, it is not always easy for him to match every word of all the speakers to the intellectual positions that they appear to hold based on most of what they say. For example, there are many places in the book where Job complains that God has treated him unfairly, or Job seeks to argue with Him. Ostensibly, these arguments should make no sense from Job’s perspective, since in his view God does not know individual human actions at all – God does not know Job and does not hear his complaints! Gersonides clarifies that Job says things of this kind only for the sake of argument, basing them on the views of his friends. If it were possible to take God to court, or if God did hear and pay attention to individuals, as Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar say, it would be appropriate to argue thus-and-such.36

The Question of Originality Ostensibly, according to the words of Gersonides in the introduction to his commentary on Job, all of his predecessors, of whose work he was aware, had not explained Job in a way that “stated the real meaning and content of the book” (Lassen, 4). All these exegetes were satisfied with textual exegesis, “and, as a result, missed the right method which should be employed in a commentary on a book of this nature.” Moreover, Gersonides says, “Not one of these commentators had inquired into the opinions of the men disputing with Job, excepting the little that was written on this subject by Maimonides in his revered book A

35 “In fact, Job’s hypothesis that God does not extend His Providence to individuals, is true, as far as the majority of men who do not deserve His special attention are concerned. Elihu only differed with him in regard to men . . . who do deserve that special Providence” (Lassen, 266, the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 42:4–5 [italics added]). 36 See, e.g., the end of the “General Principles” to Job 12–14: “However, his contention with God, in this discussion, was based only on the opinion of those men who disputed with him, but not on his own opinion, and thus he argued against their words . . . ” (Lassen, 104); the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 16:18: “‘Earth, cover not up my blood’ . . . do not conceal the violence which was done to me, if it be true, as my friends stated, that these evils come from God as a punishment . . . ” (Lassen, 115); ibid., 116, to vv. 19–20: “I long to reason with Thee, if that were possible . . . ”; and many others.

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Guide for the Perplexed.”37 That is, Gersonides is not aware of a single work that tries to explicate the views of the various speakers in Job on providence except for what Maimonides wrote! He does not mention at all, explicitly or implicitly, a single one of the philosophical commentaries to Job that were written before him, which were quite well known in Provence, e.g., what R. Samuel ibn Tibbon (Provence, ca. 1150–ca. 1230) wrote on Job in his book Ma’amar Yikkavu haMayim; the commentary of R. Zerahiah b. Shealtiel Hen (Spain/Italy, 13th c.); or the commentary of R. Abba Mari b. Eligdor (Provence, 13th c.–beginning of the 14th c.).38 It seems incredible to suppose that Gersonides did not know these commentaries at all, particularly so in the case of the third. R. Abba Mari b. Eligdor was an expert in halakhah, a philosopher and a scientist, one of the sages of the city of Salon in Provence.39 There is a great similarity between the commentaries of R. Abba Mari and of Gersonides in many areas, among them the structure of the commentary, the ideas, and sometimes even the language. Though we do not know the precise dates of R. Abba Mari’s life, nor the date of the composition of his commentary on Job, it is nonetheless clear that he was a good deal older than Gersonides. R. Abba Mari is described in 1310 as “the elderly sage, the compleat philosopher, our teacher, R. Abba Mari . . . , ‘add days to the days of the king’ ”[Ps 61:7].40 His commentary on Job was already in existence in that year, for it is mentioned in the same source as “a commentary on Job” composed “according to the speculative method.” Gersonides was just twenty-two at the time, and his commentary on Job was written fifteen years later. It follows, therefore, that it was Gersonides who was influenced by the work of his older contemporary.

37 From the Introduction (Lassen, 5). Maimonides’ explanation is mentioned once more in Gersonides’ commentary, in the “General Principles” to Job 8 (Lassen, 56–57). 38 See Rivka Kellner, “‫ חיבור פילוסופי פרשני לר׳ שמואל אבן תיבון‬,‫( ”מאמר יקוו המים‬PhD diss., University of Tel Aviv, 2011), 554–76. On the influence of this work of R. Samuel ibn Tibbon on the various Maimonidean authors, see ibid., 75–82. The commentary by R. Zerahiah b. Shealtiel Hen was completed in Rome in 1291. It was printed by Israel Schwartz in Sefer Tikvat Enosh (Berlin, 1868), 167–93. On the life of R. Zerahiah and his writings, see A. Ravitzky, “‫משנתו של ר׳ זרחיה בן יצחק בן‬ ‫( ”שאלתיאל חן וההגות המיימונית־תיבונית במאה הי״ג‬PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1979), 66–94. See also A. Segal, “‫ ”הקדמת זרחיה חן לפירושו לספר איוב‬Daat 56 (2005): 75–100. This commentary of R. Abba Mari b. Eligdor has never been printed; we have seven copies in manuscript. In this article I am using the London MS, British Library Catalogue Margoliouth 1153 (IMHM 6533), folios 1–54. All further references will be to this manuscript. 39 On R. Abba Mari and his works see in brief Y. Tzeitkin, “‫ר׳ יצחק די לאטשׂ – מחבר מימוני פרובנסלי‬ ‫ ”ופירושו לתורה‬SHNATON: An Annual of Biblical and Ancient Near East Studies 22 (2013): 236–37, with notes there. 40 Introduction, R. Samuel b. Judah of Marseilles’ translation of “Synopsis of the Almagest,” Abu Mohammed Jabar ibn Aflah, Paris – BnF heb. 1014 (IMHM 15714).

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Let me offer some examples of the parallels between the words of Gersonides in his commentary on Job and the commentary of R. Abba Mari:41 1. Gersonides enumerates in the introduction to his commentary the various kinds of “evils that befall” human beings. In his words, they “are generally due either to the hylic cause (i.e. matter) or to accident, namely, that they either have their beginning in the recipient himself, or they arise through external causes. As for the evils which originate in the recipient, they are either due to the temperament, or to the evil propensities and qualities of the soul . . . these evils come when a man does not conduct himself properly, namely, contrary to reason, because reason directs men in the proper way in all things that concern human beings. As to the evils originating externally to the recipient, if they have their beginnings in the Humours and choice of the will of others, such as wars . . . ” (Lassen, 7). This categorization, though certainly based on the words of Maimonides in Guide 3:12, is also found in the introduction of R. Abba Mari: The evils that befall human beings in the world, all of them recorded by Maimonides, are of three kinds: The first kind is due to the predestination of matter, which inevitably deteriorates, making change preordained; in this way, illness, pain, and death extend to living creatures, of whom man is one. Were it not for this inevitable deterioration of matter, nothing could exist. That is why the sages reread ‫“( והנה טוב מאוד‬and behold, it was very good” [Gen 1:31]) as ‫“( והנה טוב מות‬and behold, death was very good”).42 Thunder and lightning, earthquakes, hail, poisonous creatures and beasts of prey likewise follow from this. The second kind of evil that befalls human beings are the injuries and crimes that some of them commit against others. Even if these actions are committed to some extent willfully, they nonetheless are due to the necessity of matter, whose qualities naturally occur in mixtures. Of course they can be fixed by learning and habit, and there is no need for surprise when the righteous man is harmed by this kind of evil more than the wicked man or escapes from it through wise government, since the world is judged by its majority. The third kind of evil is the evil that befalls human beings by their own actions, like eating too much or having too much sex and the like. About this kind of evil

41 In what follows, I will note several further parallels between the two commentaries. See below and at nn. 83–87. I intend in the future to prepare a basic comparative study that will describe the magnitude of the connection between these two commentaries. Such a comparison is a special desideratum in those places in which the parallel with R. Abba Mari is found only in the synopsis (of which more below) and not in Gersonides’ full commentary. 42 See Gen. Rab. 9:5.

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Yechiel Tzeitkin Solomon said, “A man’s folly subverts his way, and his heart rages against the Lord” (Prov 19:3). It is this kind of evil through which, inevitably, “He visits the iniquity of the parents upon the children” (Exod 34:7). The evil character of the parents is a result of their foolishness; that of the children is due to the predestination of matter.43

2. In his commentary on Job 2:1–3, Gersonides writes, “In this chapter the author begins to relate about the other kind of evils which originate in the recipient, i.e. in his thought and temperament, and he calls also the origin of this evil Satan, for the name connotes a deviation from the proper way . . . the part of the soul in which thought resides is intended essentially to serve human reason so as to make it reach perfection . . . It, however, happens occasionally that this part of the soul decides upon that which is not right or proper, and as a result there arise from such a decision ailments and afflictions” (Lassen, 13). Gersonides, in his commentary, describes Job’s physical ailments as natural. His point is that Job himself, because of a lack of wisdom, caused his own ailment by not choosing the correct behavior. Here, too, there is a parallel between the commentary of Gersonides and that of R. Abba Mari, except that R. Abba Mari describes all the actions of Satan that touch Job as natural. It would seem that Gersonides thought the same, though he did not say so explicitly. R. Abba Mari writes as follows: It is no wonder that evil comes upon the not-completely-righteous person more than on a wicked person, for his trust in his creator is illusory and he does not endeavor as best he can to save himself, nor does he examine the reasons for the evil and protect himself from them. And evil leads to evil as good leads to good . . . And if one should think: what can we say about a storm wind coming from across the Jordan and the desert and knocking down Job’s house but not a number of houses belonging to completely wicked people, and the same for a fire of God falling from the sky and burning up the sheep and the servants but not other flocks? We reply: his prosperity and his illusory trust brought him to this as well, that he built a tall house, stone upon stone, a beautiful building that could not stand up to an unusually strong wind. The shepherds, too, when they saw their master’s prosperity, abandoned their livestock in the wilderness on a day that was “dark with densest clouds” [Deut 4:11], with “flashing fire” [Exod 9:24], and it burned them up, while those who feared [the Lord] “brought their livestock to safety” [Exod 9:20] . . . And He gave [the Satan] authority over all that Job had . . . And the evil impulse entered into the heart of the Kingdom of Sheba, which came to plunder the cattle and the asses . . . Still 43 Above, n. 38, folios 2–3; emphasis mine.

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more thunder and thick clouds and flashing fire came, as predetermined by matter, and burnt up the sheep and the servants. Then the evil inclination further entered the hearts of the Chaldeans to make a raid on the camels, and after the cloud and the flashing fire there was another great wind that collapsed the house upon the young people . . . And each of these disasters was of the kind usual to that region . . . And the Satan inflicted Job “with a severe inflammation from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head: [Job 2:7], which perhaps was also predetermined by the matter or by an excess of red bile in him, caused by the extra stress on his heart.44 3. In the “General Principles” to Job 3, Gersonides writes: “Job was of the opinion that all man’s happenings are ordered and determined according to the arrangement of the constellations at the time of birth. And because of this opinion he cursed the day on which he was born, inasmuch as he thought it to have been the cause of the evils that befell him, and he cursed the night of conception, since the peculiar arrangement of the constellations at that time indicates the fate that will befall the infant when it is yet in the womb, and also at the time of its coming out of the womb, as it has been mentioned by the astrologers. Furthermore, the night of the conception also presages the kind of arrangement of the constellations at the time of birth, which according to the astrologers prognosticates all that will happen to a man during his lifetime. He cursed the day of birth first, for the reason that it decides essentially on the events which will accrue to a man during the time of life, and he cursed the night of conception afterwards, because its indication of man’s fate is only of secondary importance, inasmuch as it merely foretells the stellar arrangement at the time of birth which is the real factor in deciding the occurrence of the future events” (Lassen, 19). R. Abba Mari, too, noted that Job “cursed these two times on account of the controversy among men of judgment [astrologers] about whether the newborn’s fate is determined by the position of the constellations at the moment of conception or at the time of birth.”45 A comparison of the two commentators shows that Gersonides, in his commentary, does argue that the day of birth fixes a person’s fate, but he waffles on the issue of the influence of the night of conception and comes up with a sort of compromise, according to which the night of conception directly influences only what happens to the fetus in the

44 Ibid., folios 1–2, 4–5. 45 Ibid., folio 6.

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womb. It thereby indirectly influences the person’s life as well, in that the day of birth stems from the night of conception. If all this is so, why then did Gersonides deny that he knew any philosophical commentaries to Job other than that of Maimonides? The reason may possibly lie in the fact that all the philosophical commentators who preceded Gersonides accepted the allocation of opinions stated in the Book of Job as presented by Maimonides.46 Gersonides did not find in their commentaries any meaningful originality that would clarify the ideas in the book, and he considered them merely reiterations of what Maimonides had said. By contrast, Gersonides’ own suggestion for categorizing the opinions in the Book of Job is different and innovative, as is his philosophical approach to the question of providence.47 It is, however, necessary to point out that in the introduction to his commentary on the Song of Songs, Gersonides also declared that he had not seen “any other commentary on it which could be construed as a correct explanation of the words of this scroll,” and that “all the commentaries which our predecessors have made upon it and which have reached us adopt the midrash approach” (Kellner, 3). All this despite the existence of previous philosophical commentaries to the Song of Songs, especially the commentary written just a few decades before in Provence by R. Moses ibn Tibbon! The works of Moses ibn Tibbon were extremely popular, and in this case – unlike in the case of the commentary on Job – the exegetical idea that Gersonides attributes to the

46 See Rivka Kellner, ‫מאמר יקוו המים‬, 557; Segal, “‫הקדמת זרחיה חן‬,” 96–98; R. Abba Mari (above, n. 38), folios 1–3. On the exegesis of Ibn Tibbon and of R. Zerahiah on Job see the summaries in Eisen, The Book of Job 81–105, 113–31. The date of composition of Joseph ibn Kaspi’s two commentaries on Job is not known to us, and it is therefore not clear whether Gersonides could have known them before he wrote his own commentary. At any rate, Kaspi disagrees head-on with all the philosophical commentaries that enumerate the opinions of Job and his friends according to various intellectual views, so his commentary is quite different from that of Gersonides. Kaspi’s commentaries were published by I. H. Last, Asarah Kelei Kesef, vol. 1 (Pressburg, 1903), 133–79. With regard to Kaspi’s interpretation of the Book of Job, see H. Kasher, “‫פירוש אריסטוטלי ופירוש‬ ‫פונדמנטליסטי לאיוב אצל אבן כספי‬,” Daat 20 (1988): 117–25; Robert Eisen, “Joseph ibn Kaspi on the Book of Job,” JSQ 13, 1 (2006): 50–86. 47 Gersonides himself wrote in The Wars, Book 4, end of ch. 6: “It is incumbent upon us to thank God (may He be blessed) that He has helped us to find the truth in this very profound problem and has, in His mercy and great kindness, made smooth His path before us. For we have found very little in our predecessors on this topic, and what we have found is bereft of philosophical value except what is found in the Book of Job. The comprehension of this difficult and profound problem is attainable only by the man who knows at the outset all the possible views concerning divine providence and the possible arguments for and against the various positions” (Feldman, 2:205). On the relationship between Gersonides’ commentary and those of Maimonides and Samuel ibn Tibbon, see the summary of Eisen, The Book of Job, 152–59. Eisen does not discuss the commentary of R. Abba Mari, so he does not compare that commentary with Gersonides’.

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Song of Songs is extremely similar to that of Ibn Tibbon.48 We would seem to have no choice but to assume that, in addition to what has already been said, Gersonides preferred to stress the originality of his commentaries to these books, and therefore denied that he was acquainted with any philosophical commentaries other than those of Maimonides.49

The Synopsis of the Commentary on Job – Proofs of Its Connection to Gersonides In the collection of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts in the National Library in Jerusalem we know of a total of sixty-one copies of Gersonides’ commentary on Job. In just one of them do we find, after the complete commentary, a synopsis of the commentary under the heading “Synopsis of the Book of Job, the Explanation of the Sage R. Levi b. Gershom (z”l), the Divine Philosopher.” The colophon at the end of the synopsis says: “The Synopsis of the Commentary on Job is finished and completed by the perfect Maestre Leo de Bagnols, may his memory be for a blessing.” The synopsis is found in the Paris MS, BnF 251 (IMHM #4276, folios 86b–96a), written in a Sephardic hand and presumed to date to the fifteenth century. The complete manuscript, including Gersonides’ commentary on Job, the synopsis of the commentary, and Gersonides’ commentary on Daniel, was written by a single copyist named Astruc Hananiah, as appears from the beginning of the MS (folio 1a). The fact that the handwriting in the commentary is identical to that of the synopsis further confirms the assumption that it was written by the same copyist. The synopsis is largely constructed of shorter versions of Gersonides’ writings in the complete commentary, paraphrases of his words there, and a rearrangement of them. However, there are also formulations that are completely new

48 A scholarly edition of this commentary was published by O. Fraisse, Moses ibn Tibbons Kommentar zum Hohelied und Sein Poetologisch-Philosophisches Programm (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004). 49 See the discussion of M. Kellner, ‫פירוש לשיר השירים‬, 40–47, on the question of whether Gersonides knew the philosophical commentaries on the Song of Songs that preceded him, in particular the commentary of Moses ibn Tibbon. His conclusion is that the assumption that Gersonides did not know Ibn Tibbon’s commentary would be extremely surprising; nevertheless, a systematic comparison between the two commentaries led Kellner to argue that “there is no clear evidence to decide either way: It is possible that Gersonides knew Ibn Tibbon’s commentary on the Song of Songs, and it is possible that he did not know it” (ibid., p. 47). At any rate, Kellner believes that when Gersonides wrote his commentary on the Song of Songs he for some reason was not in fact familiar with the commentary of Ibn Tibbon. See the comparison between the two commentaries in M. Kellner, “Communication or Lack Thereof Among 13th–14th-Century Provençal Jewish Philosophers: Moses ibn Tibbon and Gersonides on Song of Songs,” Communication in the Jewish Diaspora, ed. S. Menache (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 227–55.

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and even some subjects that are not broached in the complete commentary. The synopsis is composed of “Introduction, Encompassing the Meaning of the Book,” “The Parable That Begins the Book” (Job 1:6–2:7), and synopses of the discourses of Job and his friends, numbered in two different ways: “The First Discourse of Job,” “The Second Discourse, which is the First Discourse of Eliphaz,” and so on.50 (The English translation uses only the second identifier, for clarity.) After the “Sixth Discourse, which is the First Discourse of Zophar,” the editor notes that “all the arguments and proofs revolve around the principles mentioned, which is why we have left them out of this synopsis.51 We have given the opinion of Elihu at length in this synopsis, as well as the response of the Lord to Job, which resolves all the difficulties that arise from each of the opinions.” For this reason, he moves directly to a summary of the four discourses of Elihu, the two discourses of God, and Job’s replies to God at the end of the book. Gersonides’ commentary on Job is quite carefully constructed, detailed, and especially long – characteristics which called for a synopsis. Indeed, the synopsis encompasses some eleven folios, in contrast to the eighty-five pages of the complete commentary in this manuscript. We must decide whether the synopsis was undertaken at the initiative of one of the hard-working copyists, or whether it is a creation of Gersonides himself. Nonetheless, before listing the points in favor of each of these two alternatives, we must eliminate the possibility that the synopsis was composed by Astruc Hananiah himself. An examination of the text of the synopsis leads to the conclusion that that is not 50 The first part of the synopsis is the philosophical part of the introduction to the commentary. In contrast to that introduction, here Gersonides does not discuss the composition of the Book of Job, its nature, or his method of exegesis. Instead, he summarizes only the philosophical section of the introduction. On the term haqdamah (“introduction”) and its meaning in philosophical literature, see Baruch Braner, “‫”פתיחת הרלב״ג לביאור ספר משלי וגלגולי נוסח החיבור‬, Tarbiz 73, 1–2 (2004): 279 n. 41. Against the opinion of Maimonides and other philosophical commentators, Gersonides believed that the book described an occurrence that actually took place and was not simply a didactic parable. The only section he describes as a “parable” (as in the complete commentary) is that which recounts the conversation between God and Satan. Maimonides, too, emphasizes that “according to both opinions, the one that considers that [Job] has existed and the one that considers that he has not, the prologue – I mean the discourse of Satan, that of God addressed to Satan, and the giving-over [of Job to Satan] – is indubitably, in the view of everyone endowed with intellect, a parable” (Guide, 3:22). 51 This view of the words of Job and his friends – that after the first cycle of speeches all the speakers more or less repeat the same arguments they had already offered – matches that of the commentary. See (e.g.) the end of the “General Principles” to Job 15: “Such an assumption, however, would be absolutely nil and futile, for then the idea of free will would be void and all things would be compulsory. This is the main argument added by Eliphaz . . . in this discourse” (cf. Lassen, 110). See also the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 18:2.

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possible. There are more than a few lacunae in the text, as well as mistakes in writing and missing words. Some of the dropped passages are relatively large, and a comparison between the synopsis and Gersonides’ commentary points to the fact that they are the result of haplography.52 The fact that the synopsis has errors which are certainly copying errors tells us that Astruc Hananiah copied it from an existing version and did not write this composition himself. It may be that his Vorlage was corrupt, or that Astruc Hananiah himself did not do his work accurately.

POSSIBILITY 1: IT WAS CREATED BY A COPYIST 1. The title and colophon of the synopsis (cited above) are of course the work of the copyist. It may be correct to attribute the opening of the synopsis, “He said,” to the copyist as well. However, it is not clear from the title and the colophon whether the synopsis itself was made by some author on the basis of “the Synopsis of the Commentary on Job, the complete version, by the perfect Maestre Leo de Bagnols,” or whether the copyist is reporting that we have before us “a Synopsis of the Book of Job” which is “the Explanation of the Sage R. Levi b. Gershom,” that is, the product of Gersonides’ own pen. 2. We do not know of any other such synopses made by Gersonides of his own books, and we also find no mention of this synopsis in Gersonides’ other works.53

52 E.g., in the First Discourse of Zophar: “It is inescapable that whatever good and evil befall a man is determined and arranged by God in accordance with his deeds.” Compare the commentary: “in accordance with his deeds; or they are not determined and arranged in accordance with his deeds” (Lassen, 82 [italics added]). 53 In many of his commentaries Gersonides refers the reader to something written “in our commentary on Job.” However, it is not possible to securely identify even a single one of these references as pointing to the synopsis. I note, at any rate, one reference that could be assumed to point to the synopsis: in his commentary on Genesis 18–19, Gersonides wrote: “The fifteenth benefit is in opinions. It is, that God’s providence cleaves to a man on account of his keeping to God’s way and acting righteously and justly to such a degree that he is perfect in character and opinions. This is indeed given as the reason for God’s providence over Abraham’s descendants: their keeping to God’s way and acting righteously and justly. The truth of this has already been explained in Book 4 of The Wars of the Lord and in our commentary on the book of Job.” According to Gersonides’ argument, the man who is perfect in character is not saved from the troubles that arise from the nature of matter. This is not stated explicitly in the complete commentary, though it is implied in it (see below at n. 88). It is therefore possible that these words refer to what is written in the synopsis: “But one’s good qualities alone cannot save one from the Satan’s authority, which is why the Satan arranged for all [Job] had to be entrusted into his power (except for his life). For if his soul would hold fast to God, then even when he is otherwise under [the Satan’s] control, his soul would not be entrusted into his power and some measure of providence would flow

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Similarly, we know of no other writer who mentions Gersonides’ Synopsis of his commentary on Job.54 3. Although Gersonides’ commentary on Job circulated widely, and many manuscripts have survived to our own day, we have found just one single copy of the synopsis. Theoretically, we would expect that the scribes who so frequently copied the complete commentary of Gersonides, despite its length, would have copied a synopsis even more frequently. The existence of the synopsis in just one single manuscript therefore arouses a suspicion that what we have before us is the work of one of the copyists.

POSSIBILITY 2: IT IS THE WORK OF GERSONIDES HIMSELF 1. The language and style of the new passages in the synopsis – those that have no parallel in the commentary – are unmistakably characteristic of Gersonides’ own language and style. The creator of the synopsis uses Gersonidean expressions that are not found anywhere in the commentary on Job, and which therefore cannot be supposed to have been taken from it. For example, the word allul in the meaning of “defective,” which is used in the synopsis to assess the opinions of the Muslim Mutazilites (First Discourse of Bildad: “However, the opinions of those sects are based on the allul arguments by which they established the principle of creation ex nihilo, not on the actual number of contradictory views on this problem. We, however, have categorized these opinions according to the number of contradictory views on this problem that result from careful analysis”), as well as Job’s opinion before he apprehends the truth (First Discourse of Zophar: “‘the Lord replied to Job out of the tempest’ [Job 38:1, 40:6], and he admitted the power of His wonders, returned to the truth, repented of his allul opinion, and ‘recanted’ [Job 42:6] what he had previously chosen without choosing the truth”).55 A upon him that would protect him and save him from all evil” (“The Parable That Begins the Book,” [Job 1:6–2:7]). 54 We may add that in the list of his library Gersonides records his commentary on Job neutrally, without distinguishing between the complete commentary and the synopsis; see Weil, La bibliothèque, 113. 55 See Gersonides’ commentary on Leviticus, end of ch. 8 (an investigation into the order of the sacrifices): “You must know that the Torah uses one phenomenon for many benefits . . . One of the purposes of the sacrifices was to distance them from what they had grown up with, offering sacrifices to idolatry, not to idols? . . . That likewise seems to be one of the purposes of building the Temple and setting apart the priests for those rituals. But all the same, it would not be proper for there to be no intrinsic benefit in these matters; if it were so, there would be nothing particularly wonderful about the religious aspect of the rituals. It would simply be a command to offer sacrifice to the Lord, nothing more. In general, the Torah was quite clever about introducing things that would be intrinsically beneficial, just as a competent physician, when he sees the

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further example is the combination “endowed with intelligence and free will” in relation to human beings (First Discourse of Zophar: “by endowing them with reason and free will”). No such expression is found in Gersonides’ commentary on Job, though this subject is discussed there at length. On the other hand, we find a similar expression in Gersonides’ other writings, such as his commentary on Gen 3:24: “Because he is endowed with intelligence, he must also possess free will.”56 Another characteristic expression is found in the Synopsis, First Discourse of Zophar, in which appears: “One who extinguishes his own light by his laziness and bad choices deserves to be punished.” The meaning is that one who “extinguishes” the light of his own intelligence, that is, who does not develop his own innate potential, deserves to be punished. No such expression is found in the commentary on Job, but it does appear in Gersonides’ other writings.57 Moreover, in the synopsis we find that “God’s providence cleaves” to a person “according to his intellect” (Introduction: “which he deserves by holding fast to Him in accordance with his intellect”). That is, one’s measure of providence grows in proportion to the level of one’s intellectual attainments. This idea is central to Gersonides’ understanding of providence and is discussed many times in his commentary. Admittedly, Gersonides does not use this expression in the commentary, though, aside from in the synopsis, it is found elsewhere in Gersonides’ writings.58 allul person failing to accept his instructions about his bad habits, tries to arrange it so that the bad habits should somehow point the man toward health, if that is at all possible.” The use of the term allul in the meaning of “weak” (or, in the previous comment, “ill”) is a calque from the Arabic term ‫ ﻋﻠﺔ‬,‫( اﻋﺘﻞ‬from the root ‫)ﻋﻠﻞ‬, except that in other writers it is generally used in the realm of philology to denote weak consonants, like the middle “root letter” of hollow verbs. 56 A similar expression occurs in The Wars, Book 2, ch. 2: “The sense in which they are contingent and not determined and ordered pertains to our intellect and choice, for these have the power to move us contrary to that which is determined by the heavenly bodies” (Feldman, 2:34). The same idea is discussed in different language in the complete commentary, in the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 33:12, 15–16. 57 See, e.g., his commentary on 2 Kings 1–12, benefit eighteen: “It is proper to distance oneself from anger, for anger extinguishes the light of the intellect,” and his comment to Lev 11:19: “the denser the matter, the more it clouds the intellect and extinguishes its light.” However, expressions of this kind are also found in the commentary of R. Abba Mari (folio 2, see above at nn. 38–45) and in Maimonides (Guide 1:32). 58 See, e.g., his commentary on Genesis 27:1–28:9: “The second benefit is in opinions. It is to make known that God exercises providence over one according to the degree of perfection of one’s intellect.” Compare Guide 3:17: “Providence is consequent upon the divine overflow; and the species with which this intellectual overflow is united, so that it became endowed with intellect and so that everything that is disclosed to a being endowed with the intellect was disclosed to it . . . I believe that providence is consequent upon the intellect and attached to it.”

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From the linguistic and stylistic data it therefore follows that, unless we make the implausible assumption that the creator of the synopsis was so immersed in Gersonides’ books that he was in effect channeling Gersonides’ own language, Gersonides himself was the author of the synopsis. 2. As previously noted, the contents of the synopsis are composed of shorter versions of the words of Gersonides in the commentary – of paraphrases, rewordings, and rearrangements – and of subjects that are not mentioned at all in the commentary. It seems logical to assume that, if the person who created the synopsis were one of the copyists, he would have done something much simpler and composed the synopsis entirely of Gersonides’ own words, with perhaps some minor paraphrases. In contrast, we see that he edits Gersonides’ words, changes their order, and connects topics that are discussed in different locations in Gersonides’ commentary. The following examples will demonstrate this phenomenon: a. In the First Discourse of Elihu, the writer creates a mixture from topics that Gersonides discussed in his running commentary on this section combined with others in his summary there of the “General Principles.” b. In the First Discourse of Job, the writer connects two topics that are discussed in Gersonides’ commentary in different locations: on the one hand, he refers to what Gersonides wrote in the “General Principles” to Job 3; on the other hand, he brings in something that is written in the “General Principles” to Job 12–14. c. In the First Discourse of Zophar, the writer changes the order of Gersonides’ writing in the “General Principles” to Job 11. These examples demonstrate that the synopsis we have is not a simple abridgement by a copyist who wanted to do his job in the easiest way possible, or an abridgement by a student who wanted to make his learning easier or to summarize for himself the ideas in the commentary. Rather, what we have is a considered work by a philosopher-sage who completely understands Gersonides’ commentary and acts as if he is at home in it. 3. As we have seen, in the synopsis as we have it there are some ideas that are not found in the commentary. These new features widen the scope of the commentary and make it possible to understand Gersonides’ meaning more clearly. We must emphasize that it seems difficult to assume that a copyist or a student would permit himself to add to or clarify things that were not stated by the commentator himself. If this is so, these new features constitute an additional proof of Gersonides’ ownership of the synopsis. We will note some of these new features in the following section; here, we will clarify that

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the new features that appear in the synopsis and that have no basis in the commentary are completely Gersonidean ideas. We offer an example from the First Discourse of Job: “The predestination ordained by the stars is not absolutely inevitable; it still remains possible on account of human free will that ‘a wise man, who knows time and judgment’ [Eccl 8:5], may ‘save the city by his wisdom’” [Eccl 9:15]. The dependence on these verses from Ecclesiastes is not found in the commentary. The verses are explicated here as referring to human wisdom, which makes it possible for someone to anticipate his personal fate (and the future in general) as fixed by the stars, and, assisted by this knowledge, to escape the fated evil. This is, in fact, precisely the way these verses are explained in Gersonides’ commentary on Ecclesiastes.59 An additional example comes from the First Discourse of Elihu: “Elihu sees that both good and evil are determined and arranged by the stars for each and every nation and each and every individual human being. This is because, insofar as man is the most perfect of the lower beings, all the heavenly bodies participate in guarding him and arranging what is to happen to him based on their position at the moment of conception or birth (for a person); or (for a nation) according to what was ascending at the time it coalesced around its founding father.”60 The astrological detail in this statement, which describes the method by which the stars influence the fate of the nation (“according to what was ascending at the time it coalesced around its founding father”) is not found in the commentary of Gersonides to Job, nor is it a citation from his other writings.61 All the same, the idea is entirely Gersonidean, based on his views of providence as it relates both to the individual and generally, and

59 In his comment to Eccl 8:5: “And the human mind ‘knows time and judgment,’ that is, he knows when it is possible for some evil to befall him astrologically, for God would have already made him aware of them in one way or another, as we explained in Book 4 of The Wars [ch. 5] and in our commentary on Job [the “General Principles” to Job 32–33], and in this way he can protect himself from many of the evils that are fated to befall him.” To Eccl 9:15: “‘he would save the city by his wisdom’ – not by his strength, but from the excellence of the thing that the intellect moves toward him. He likens the intellect to something that moves the person toward what he wants.” 60 Compare above at n. 45. 61 However, leaving aside the issue of providence over the nation as a whole, this passage seems parallel both in its subject and in its expression to The Wars, Book 2, ch. 2: “Investigation seems to show that in the domain of terrestrial phenomena nature is more concerned with the preservation of the more noble of these phenomena, as is explained in the Book of Animals. Since man is by far the most noble of all the terrestrial substances such that he has in common with the divine substances the use of reason, nature exerts its providence over him to a great extent, and all the heavenly bodies are systematically directed toward his preservation and guidance so that all his activities and thoughts are ordered by them. The reports of the astrologers confirm this fact . . . ” (Feldman, 2:33).

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similar ideas referring to the way in which the nation’s fate is fixed by the degree of providence exercised on its founding father are scattered through Gersonides’ other writings.62 From all this, it seems reasonable to assume that Gersonides himself was the author of the synopsis, although we still might suppose that the writer was an outstanding student of Gersonides, perfectly familiar not merely with his commentary on Job and his style but also his ideas. 4. In several places in the synopsis we find references to topics that do not appear in the commentary but are discussed in Book 4 of The Wars, which (as we have already mentioned) was based on the commentary on Job. For example, the author of the synopsis remarks several times that Elihu’s approach with regard to providence – that providence is proportional to the degree of intellectual perfection – matches Maimonides’ approach: “This would seem to agree with the opinion of Maimonides (of blessed memory) and the opinion of Elihu, as will be made clear” (Synopsis, Introduction, end); “And that is the truth, and we follow the opinion of Maimonides, in accordance with our Torah” (in Guide 3:17; First Discourse of Zophar); “Since God is likewise mighty in the ability to apprehend ideas, it is not right that God despise a man who is ‘mighty in strength and mind,’ but rather should exercise providence over him in accordance with the extent to which he can bring forth his intellect to perfection. God cleaves to him in accordance with his level of intellectual apprehension. This agrees with the opinion of Maimonides (of blessed memory), as has been explained there” (Fourth Discourse of Elihu). In Gersonides’ commentary on Job there are several references to what Maimonides says in the Guide about the opinions that are expressed in the Book of Job on the topic of providence. Nonetheless, there is no mention there of Maimonides’ own general approach to the topic. By contrast, in Book 4 of The Wars, the concluding chapter (ch. 7) is entirely devoted to this question.63 62 E.g., he writes in The Wars, Book 6, part 2, ch. 14: “Just as the providence deriving from the heavenly bodies is of two types – the preservation of the individual and the preservation of the species – so too the providence deriving from the attachment to the Agent Intellect is of two kinds – preservation of that individual and preservation of the group that derives from him in such a way that the providence reaching the individual also affects that which derives from him after his death . . . God thereby informed Abraham of the wonders He providentially created . . . because of the attachment [to God] exhibited by the chosen Patriarch” (Feldman, 3:504 [italics added]). See also H. Kreisel, “ ‫ טבעי או‬:‫נבואת משה רבנו בפילוסופיה היהודית הפרובנסלית בימי הביניים‬ ‫ ”?על־טבעי‬in ‫משה אבי הנביאים‬, ed. M. Hallamish, H. Kasher, and H. Ben-Pazi (Ramat Gan: BarIlan University Press, 2011), 198. 63 Gersonides discusses this topic there on the basis of what Maimonides says about providence in Guide 3:17 and 3:51.

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Moreover, when he describes Bildad’s approach, which argues that a human being does not know what is good for him and what is bad, the creator of the synopsis writes (First Discourse of Bildad): “The opinion of Bildad . . . does have a certain amount of plausibility, in that many times when evil befalls a man, in the end it becomes evident that it was good for him, or prevented a greater evil (and vice versa). Some natural functions are similarly arranged, as when we find black bile in his stomach, which gives him pain, until he is aroused to the taking of foods that restore and maintain his body. The evil therefore reveals itself as ultimately good. Similarly, the pleasure that gluttons get from their food actually harms them.” This example, which demonstrates how an upset stomach can paradoxically lead to something good and indulgence in food to something bad, is not found in Gersonides’ commentary.64 Nonetheless, it appears in slightly different form in The Wars, Book 4, ch. 2, in Gersonides’ discussion of the view he attributes to Bildad.65 A further example comes from the First Discourse of Zophar. In his explanation of Eliphaz’s opinion, the creator of the synopsis notes: “He did not distinguish between those actions that stem from God as reward or punishment and those that do not – though he did indeed admit the true principle that some stem from Him and some do not.” Gersonides’ commentary does not state explicitly what the “true principle” that Eliphaz admitted is.66 The synopsis, by contrast, clarifies that the “true principle” is the assumption that only part of what happens to a person comes to him by providence; the source of the other part is chance. This distinction is emphasized in relationship to Eliphaz’s approach in The Wars: “not every good and evil event that befalls them derives from divine providence, but only some; others derive from some other cause” (Part 4, ch. 2).67 64 There, Gersonides uses a metaphor from the world of plants that is mentioned explicitly in the text (General Principles, Job 8): “[Bildad] illustrates this with a parable from the plants, which are occasionally uprooted and moved from their place, and this happens to be good for them, for in another place they sprout forth even better; and so it is with the righteous when evils befall them. Likewise, the good which befalls the wicked is in reality evil, for by means of it the wicked are destroyed and perish, and the good that they have is of no avail to them, as is the case with the meadow plants, which wither while they are still in their moistness and greenness” (Lassen, 55). 65 “For example, the black bile in the stomach produces irritation and pain when the stomach lacks food, so that the animal will then be stimulated to take food because of his sensation of hunger. Similarly, nature arranges some goods so as to bring about evil to those who are too desirous of them. The pleasure that is in some foods produces such a desire in the gluttonous that they take more than the proper amount of them and are thereby harmed” (Feldman, 2:164). 66 The “General Principles” to Job 11: “Moreover, the principle on which he bases his opinion is essentially true, but he erred in the inferences from the principle . . . ” (Lassen, 86). 67 “From the very beginning there have been two different versions of this doctrine. The first

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It is important to note that, in order to understand the appearance of these matters in the synopsis, it is not sufficient to suppose that the writer was influenced by Book 4 of The Wars, since he makes no effort to follow either the structure or the wording of Book 4 in any respect. Similarly, the parallel between the synopsis and The Wars in using digestion as an example of Bildad’s approach does not necessarily require us to assume that the writer felt compelled to transfer it from The Wars to his own composition. It would appear, therefore, that the synopsis is the fruit of Gersonides’ own pen. From this we can explain that when he came to compose Book 4 of The Wars, Gersonides adopted some of the ideas he had already written in the synopsis, especially expanding his discussion of Maimonides’ view on the issue of providence. 5. There are many references in the synopsis to what the writer has already said, or will later say, of the form “as we have explained” or “as will be explained” and the like. Most of these references do indeed point to things that are explained in various places in the synopsis. However, several of these references can be understood as referring to the commentary. For example, the First Discourse of Job: “It was impossible (from his perspective) for those temporal, individual particulars [88a] to be known to God, since He has no relationship to time, as has been explained.” The writer describes Job’s thought and the intellectual considerations that brought him to the conclusion that God does not exercise providence over individual human beings. Among other things, Job argues that, according to the commentator’s interpretation, God has no relationship to time which would allow him to know things that occur temporally, such as an individual person and his actions. Up to this point, no such assertion has been made anywhere in the synopsis; it will come up again only later (in the Third Discourse of Job), there too as a matter that has already been explained.68 We may therefore assume that the writer is referring to the commentary, in which the discussion on this topic is found.69 Alternatively, we might explain this by assuming that the creator maintains that although divine providence reaches all individual men, not every good and evil event that befalls them derives from divine providence, but only some; others derive from some other cause, i.e., the good and evil events that befall individual men but do not exhibit order and justice. The second version maintains that everything that befalls each individual man is according to divine providence . . . The view of Eliphaz can be defended as follows. We observe that some good and evil [acts] exhibit order and justice, whereas some others do not . . . ” (Feldman, 2:159, 162). 68 “God does not exist in time, but anyone who can apprehend particulars is temporal and mobile and hylic, since he can receive things that hyle apprehends. But He is far above all this, as has been explained. He therefore does not apprehend particulars.” 69 In the “General Principles” to Job 3: “It is impossible that God should have knowledge of the

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of the synopsis is referring to the scientific literature in which this deduction was proved, for Gersonides makes a similar reference in his commentary on the discussion of this topic in the Physics.70 The reference that relates to the other aspect of this issue, whose referent is also unclear, is found in the Second Discourse of Job: “If we said that God did not know anything, this would indeed be a defect with respect to Him. But we have said that He does know things that exist eternally and that He does not know the insignificant, perishable, constantly changing things that have no purpose. This is no defect with respect to Him, just as it is not a defect in the human intellect that prevents it from conceiving particulars that are apprehended by the senses, as will be clarified in its proper place.” This wording, so characteristic of Gersonides (“as will be clarified in its proper place”), appears in his commentary on this same speech (the “General Principles” to Job 6–7), though it relates there to a different topic.71 If we understand that the synopsis means to say that it is the way God can know particulars that “will be clarified in its proper place” (as at the beginning of the quoted sentence), then there is a parallel expression in the commentary where Gersonides refers the reader to the continuation of the discussion on this topic in The Wars and in his commentary on Aristotle’s Parva Naturalia.72 However, it is possible to understand the phrase as referring to the end of the sentence, that is, to the fact that “it is not a defect in the human particular things which arise and pass away in time, for then His knowledge should also arise and pass away so as to correspond to the known things, and therefore, He who has no relationship whatsoever to time should have no knowledge of things temporal . . . For behold, He has no relationship to time, so that they who know Him have not seen His days, but have seen Him in everlasting existence, and absolutely distant from all kinds of affections. Thus, He whose way is such, cannot be described to be in time at all, as it is explained in the Physics” (Lassen, 21). 70 See the previous note. 71 General Principles to Job 6–7: “Were we to explain this thoroughly, it would require a lengthy discussion. Therefore, we shall be brief and touch only upon what we regard as necessary. We say that some may assert there is merit in Eliphaz’s arguments, but it does not follow from them that which he aimed to point out, namely, that the events enumerated by him come directly from God. Thus, the foreknowledge which comes in a dream may be ascribed to the arrangement and influence of the heavenly bodies and the Active Intellect, as it is explained (in other places)” (Lassen, 49–50). Apparently he means in The Wars, Book 2, ch. 3, where he explains the possibility that knowledge gained in a dream is related to the heavenly bodies and the Active Intellect. 72 There: “the inability to conceive detailed matters which are perceived by the senses is not a defect in the nature of man’s reason. Thus, it is possible to conclude from the arguments of Eliphaz, that what he aims to prove does not follow. But the truth about this matter we have already stated in the book “The Wars of the Lord” and in our commentary on the “Book of the Senses.” There we have shown that God has perfect knowledge of all things, and also the manner in which He knows them. As for the truth contained in most of these arguments, it will be explained in what

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intellect that prevents it from conceiving particulars that are apprehended by the senses.” If that is so, the complete commentary has no reference to the literature dealing with this topic; on the other hand, The Wars, Book 5, Part 3, ch. 4, clarifies that “the material [cognitive] capacities do not acquire apprehension except by means of the senses, as has been shown in On the Soul . . . ” (Feldman, 3:124). Thus the expression “in its proper place” here refers to Aristotle’s De Anima, which Gersonides knew, according to his commentary on Averroes.73 In the First Discourse of Zophar, Gersonides weighs the opinions found in the Book of Job on the subject of providence. With regard to Job’s own position, he says, “Job . . . decided to assert that all that happens to man is inescapably determined and arranged by the stars. The righteousness of the righteous cannot help them, and the wickedness of the wicked cannot hurt them. Nothing is determined and arranged by God. We have already explained to what extent this opinion is flawed and heretical, and that what brought him to it was that he was not perfect in wisdom.” True, the Synopsis of the Parable notes the mistake in this approach, but it is difficult to see in that laconic description the “flawed and heretical” opinion that flows from the position Job holds. The qualitative flaw in Job’s opinion, which has serious behavioral and philosophical implications, was explained by Gersonides in the commentary in the “General Principles” to Elihu’s second discourse (Job 34).74 It is possible as well that the reference in the synopsis relates to what the commentary says about the advice of the Adversary in Job 2:5 (“But lay a hand on his bones and his flesh, and he will surely blaspheme You to Your face”): “In reality, the matter turned out to be so, Job having been perplexed will follow” (Lassen, 50–51). He is referring to The Wars, Book 3, ch. 4, which deals with God’s knowledge of particulars. 73 Gersonides was aware of Averroes’ synopsis of this work and also of Averroes’ longer commentary on it; he even wrote a commentary on Averroes’ commentary in 1325. 74 “It is more grievous when human perfection both in its scientific and social aspects depends on this opinion. It is quite evident that social perfection depends on this particular opinion . . . for men as a rule do abstain from committing wrong only because of their fear of punishment . . . The dependence of scientific perfection upon this opinion is explained in two ways. One is the accidental, namely, when men will know that by improving their reason and bringing it out from the potential into an actual state, they will escape the evils about to come upon them through the heavenly constellations, they will endeavor to do so. The other is of a more essential nature, which is that real human happiness consists in conceiving God in the best way possible . . . And since the possible right conception of God can be attained by us only through the proper conception of His deeds and the manner of His activity, especially as regards the things in this sublunar world, it follows that when His conduct of the world is hidden from us and we form an erroneous view about it, like the one held by Job, that we are prevented from the possible right conception of God” (Lassen, 209–10).

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and confused at the problem of Divine Providence, and his faith not being perfect in this matter, therefore, the evils which befell him moved him to assume and to pronounce that God does not extend His providence to the sublunar world . . . The cause of his being perplexed to such a degree was due to his being deficient in the study of philosophy . . . [Job] did not ‘sin with his lips’ [Job 2:10]; However, the rabbis, of blessed memory, said that in his thought he was perplexed and confused . . . ‘With his lips he did not sin, but in his heart he sinned’” (“Explanation of the Words” to Job 2:5–9; Lassen, 13–14). From these examples it can be concluded that the writer of the synopsis refers to Gersonides’ commentary and to The Wars as if they were his own books. 6. The final point in favor of identifying the synopsis as a creation of Gersonides himself is the way the creator of the synopsis uses first-person language to refer to Gersonides’ ideas in the commentary. In the Second Discourse of Job we read: “In my view, it is natural for someone in great pain or distress to desire time to pass speedily, even though that inevitably brings him closer to death, which is not what he really intends or wants.” The writer is trying here to explain Job’s yearning for death, which would relieve his suffering. Obviously the first person is not required here. The writer is speaking in the voice of Gersonides himself, who wrote in the commentary, “Since this is the case with everybody whom such troubles befall, it is evident that every one of these afflicted individuals occasionally prefers death to such a life, even though he may not be aware of it.”75 The creator of the synopsis transcribes the same idea that Gersonides wrote but – while formulating it differently – switches it into first person! Further evidence for the identification we have suggested is found in the First Discourse of Bildad, in connection with the contrast between Maimonides’ assignment of the opinions on providence that are found in the Book of Job and that of Gersonides: “Perhaps it was the various opinions that led him to explain them this way, and in particular to relate the opinion of Bildad to that of the Mutazilites. However, the opinions of those sects are based on the weak arguments by which they established the principle of creation ex nihilo, not on the actual number of contradictory views on this problem.76 We, however, have categorized these opinions according to the number of contradictory views on this problem that result from careful analysis.” True, in the commentary, Gersonides uses first-person language

75 The “General Principles” to Job 6–7 (Lassen, 49). 76 On this term, see above, n. 55.

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in his explanation of this topic, though he formulates it differently.77 All the same, we must remember that in the assignment of the opinions that are stated in the Book of Job according to “the number of contradictory views . . . that result from careful analysis” – that is, matching the intellectual positions that could possibly be held by philosophers – nothing whatsoever has yet been mentioned in the synopsis. The creator of the synopsis, therefore, must be relying on the words of Gersonides in the commentary as concerning something already known and explained, and he refrains from any further discussion of it.78 Moreover, the formulation in the synopsis makes it sound as if the author is taking credit for Gersonides’ great innovation in this area. As we have already seen, on this question Gersonides departs from the path paved by Maimonides. All the philosophical commentators that preceded Gersonides followed Maimonides’ assignment of the opinions. As noted above, it may be for this reason that Gersonides decided to ignore the views of previous commentaries on this question and to deal only with Maimonides’ discussion.79 Since the creator of the synopsis treats Gersonides’ original approach to this question as if it were his own, along with all the other evidence we have so far adduced from the language, style, and contents of the synopsis, and their parallels in other writings of Gersonides, the obvious conclusion is that the synopsis is the product of Gersonides’ own creativity and not that of a student or a copyist. From the parallels to The Wars we have described above, we may guess that Gersonides wrote the synopsis of his commentary [to Job] before he composed Book 4 of The Wars. Some of the ideas he brought up in the synopsis were incorporated there. As has already been observed, the creation of a synopsis of Gersonides’ commentary on Job was an obvious desideratum. We are talking about one of the earliest commentaries that Gersonides ever wrote, which is also especially long. Such a synopsis was called for also by the nature of the

77 The “General Principles” to Job 8: “Therefore, we were guided in our explanation by what was evident from the plain meaning of the words of the disputants, and it seems to us that their opinions are according to those parts which an analysis made by a man skilled in philosophy finds in this discussion . . . ” (Lassen, 57). 78 On the reasoning that led Gersonides to his approach to assigning the opinions, see above, nn. 26–29. According to Gersonides, the Book of Job is aimed at intellectuals who are good at philosophy, not at the masses, and the opinions in it must therefore be those that represent all the “contradictory views.” 79 From the introduction to the complete commentary: “Not one of these commentators had inquired into the opinions of the men disputing with Job, excepting the little that was written on this subject by Maimonides in his revered book The Guide for the Perplexed” (Lassen, 5). See the discussion above at nn. 46–49.

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topic discussed in this commentary – an explanation of the problem of providence, by means of an examination of the various views on that topic, which could indeed be summarized briefly. It is not, by contrast, possible to make a synopsis of Gersonides’ commentary on the Song of Songs that describes only a single principle (i.e., that immortality of the soul is possible), or of his commentary on the Torah, which refers to various completely different issues. Actually, even Book 4 of The Wars is a kind of synopsis of the Job commentary, though its style and organization are those of a book of philosophy and not a biblical commentary. That this synopsis exists in just a single manuscript is to be explained by the fact that Gersonides did not write it immediately after the appearance of the commentary, but some time later; therefore, the synopsis did not become an integral part of the commentary, as its concluding summary. Our guess is that the synopsis represents an intermediate stage between the Job commentary and Book 4 of The Wars, and that it was a copyist who attached the synopsis to Gersonides’ commentary on Job. It was thus that they reached us in MS Paris 251. It could be that, at the time the synopsis appeared, Gersonides’ Job commentary was already very popular, limiting the distribution of the synopsis. It remains a problem, though, since synopses of various kinds were generally in great demand among students and copyists. It is worth mentioning at this point that we know of a commentary on the Book of Genesis in a manuscript from Parma (Biblioteca Palatina 2445/24, IMHM #13449) from the fifteenth century, which, according to its copyist, represents a synopsis of “the words of the sage Ibn Ezra and the words of the divine philosopher Gersonides.” The copyist nonetheless informs us that the synopsis is the product of his own hands – (“I, Daniel, with God’s help, created this synopsis of them in the year 5207 as far as the end of Parashat Hayyei Sarah. I made this synopsis before my synopsis of all of both commentaries to the entire Torah”) – but we can easily see this, since the language and style of this synopsis differ fundamentally from the language and style of Gersonides. That is true as well with regard to the “summary of opinions on providence in the Book of Job according to the commentary of Gersonides” that is found immediately after the full commentary in the Oxford MS Bodleian 101 (IMHM #16376, folio 235a–235b).80 Here, too, the creator of the summary speaks in his own name and not in the name of Gersonides, even when he summarizes Gersonides’ own words (“according 80 This summary, together with Gersonides’ commentary on Job, was copied into MS Milan 177 (IMHM #12025, folio 85b). The second copyist abridged the summary and omitted the reservations of the writer of the Oxford MS to Gersonides’ opinion that Job believed in the immortality of the soul. See below at nn. 89–93.

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to what is understood in this commentary, the approaches to providence are five . . . ”) and also when he expresses his reservations about them (“the truth is that I, the copyist, still have some doubt about this discussion”). In any case, his language and phraseology differ from Gersonides’ usual voice; the gap between them is noticeable, in my estimation, to anyone who is expert in the writings of Gersonides.81

The Innovations in the Synopsis Aside from the obvious importance of discovering the synopsis that Gersonides himself made of his commentary on Job, there are several substantive matters in the synopsis that are not found in the commentary. As has been emphasized above, this in itself is a further proof that the synopsis was made by Gersonides. It would be difficult to suppose that a copyist or student would insert his own words regarding these important topics on the issue of providence and still represent the entire text as a synopsis of Gersonides’ commentary. In what follows, we shall enumerate some examples of these new points. 1. The most important of the new points, which must therefore be mentioned here even though it has already been addressed above, is the identification of Maimonides’ view on the issue of providence (Guide, 3:17, 51) with the approach of Elihu as explained both in the Guide (3:23) and in Gersonides’ commentary. This point is developed further afterwards in The Wars, Book 4, ch. 7.82 2. Another new point, also extremely important, is the explanation of the nature of Job’s prophecy when the Lord appears to him “out of the whirlwind” (Job 38:1, 40:6). In his commentary, Gersonides completely avoids clarifying the nature of this appearance. The synopsis, though, (First Discourse of Zophar), says: “Eventually, when he examined the opinions that disagreed with him, in general and specifically, in the arguments of Eliphaz and Elihu, he reached 81 E.g., even when he speaks about something that is much discussed in Gersonides’ writings, among them the Job commentary – how one can overcome one’s natural (astrological) fate – he uses an expression that is not characteristic of Gersonides’ language when he says “but when the man is sovereign over his intellect. . . . ” I note also the commentary on Proverbs in MS Milan Ambrosiana B Sup. 26 (IMHM #12027), which is described by its author, Mordechai b. Daniel, who wrote it in the year 1475, as a “synopsis” based on Gersonides’ commentary with the addition of “other opinions.” The author, though he copies many passages from Gersonides’ Proverbs commentary, also writes independently and in a style completely different from that of Gersonides. Even his exegetical methodology in this “synopsis” is different from that of Gersonides, as is his general approach to the Book of Proverbs. 82 See above at n. 63.

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the level of prophecy, at which ‘the Lord replied to Job out of the tempest’” [see Job 38:1, 40:6]. Gersonides’ intention is apparently to explain this appearance as an illumination (arising from intellectual contemplation) that comes to Job as a result of contemplating his situation and the opinions of his friends, in particular those of Eliphaz and Elihu. This view matches the approach of Gersonides to the phenomenon of prophecy, which is explained by him as based on intellectual contemplation and the apprehension of ideas.83 Here, too, Job contemplates the words of Eliphaz and Elihu and thereby apprehends the true view of the issue that has preoccupied him. Such an explanation of the meaning of Gersonides’ words in the synopsis is further clarified by comparison with the commentary of R. Abba Mari (we have already noted above the significance of Gersonides’ connection to that commentary):84 And the Lord answered Job. After Elihu spoke, his words were written in the ears of Job and as a result the Holy One spoke to him via the second degree of speech 85 . . . The Holy One told him in this speech about the wonder of His works, whose causes are practically impossible for the human mind to discern. His friends had already encouraged him to see this, but he did not accept it until he himself realized it on his own.86

83 See The Wars, part two, ch. 4, on the way of approaching prophecy on speculative topics. This is discussed by S. Klein-Braslavi, “‫ קסם וחלום והמונח ׳התבודדות׳ במשנת הרלב״ג‬,‫נבואה‬,” Daat 39 (1997): 24–27, 28, 33, 47, 62. On Gersonides’ theory of prophecy, see the summary in Howard Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Dordrecht, Boston, London: Kluwer, 2001), 399–418. 84 At nn. 45–51. 85 “The second degree of speech,” according to the categorization of Maimonides in Guide 2:45, is called “the Holy Spirit,” when “an individual finds that a certain thing has descended upon him and that another force has come upon him and has made him speak; so that he talks in wise sayings, in words of praise, in useful admonitory dicta, or concerning governmental or divine matters – and all this while he is awake and his senses function as usual . . . It is through this kind of Holy Spirit that David composed Psalms, and Solomon Proverbs and Ecclesiastes and Song of Songs” (Pines, 398). Compare the description of this degree of prophecy in David Kimchi’s introduction to his Psalms commentary: “And it is the Holy Spirit when the complete man is occupied with the words of God – complete with all his proper attributes, not one of them being in suspension. And he speaks what is spoken in a normal human way, except that a higher spirit moves him and reveals the words upon his tongue, words of praise and thanksgiving to his God, or words of wisdom and instruction . . . with the divine assistance in addition to the power of the speaker” (The Longer Commentary of R. David Kimhi on the First Book of Psalms, trans. R. G. Finch [London: SPCK, 1919], 2). Gersonides himself refrains in his various writings from categorizing the degrees of prophecy according to the categorization of Maimonides, and therefore here, too, he altered the phrasing of R. Abba Mari and did not describe God’s speech to Job as “the second degree of prophecy.” 86 Folio 50 (above, n. 38).

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Consequently, though he did not do this in the commentary, Gersonides chose to refer to the issue of the nature of Job’s prophecy in his synopsis. He apparently did so under the influence of R. Abba Mari.87 3. We find in the synopsis an explanation of several ideas that are implied in the commentary but not stated explicitly there. For example, Gersonides’ argument that the improvement of one’s character alone is not enough by itself for a person to merit the providence that would protect him from physical evils, since this kind of providence, in his view, is actualized through intellectual attainments. That, at least, is the implication of Gersonides’ approach, both in his commentary and in Book 4 of The Wars, but only in the synopsis (“The Parable”) is it clearly stated: “But one’s good qualities alone cannot save one from the Satan’s authority, which is why the Satan arranged for all [Job] had to be entrusted into his power (except for his life). For if his soul would hold fast to God, then even when he is otherwise under [the Satan’s] control, his soul would not be entrusted into his power and some measure of providence would flow upon him that would protect him and save him from all evil.”88 87 Presumably this does not represent a significant change in Gersonides’ opinion from that of the commentary. There, Gersonides describes the revelation that came to Job as follows (the “Discourse as Whole” to Job 38:1): “This vision is described as spoken ‘out of the storm,’ for when prophecy does come to the prophets, they always receive it as if through a veil, which is on account of the fact that matter prevents them from receiving the Divine influence in full. This veil is described either by darkness, or by a storm which is accompanied by dark clouds” (Lassen, 241). It cannot be stated unequivocally, but apparently these words also fit the level of “the Holy Spirit.” 88 However, those who are perfect in character alone are protected by another kind of providence which chastises them with pain in order to save them from some greater evil and to draw them toward the good. Gersonides writes as follows in the synopsis (First Discourse of Elihu): “This kind of knowledge belongs to those who are as perfect in qualities and opinions as they can be. But for one who is perfect merely in qualities, or one who is advancing toward perfection but has not reached the level at which he can receive the flow of the intellect in a dream or a vision, there is nonetheless some amount of unification and progress toward a truth that he could not understand if it were spoken about in some other way to save him from the evil that could be expected to occur to him according to the stars. This is that God chastises him by means of pain, to keep him from following a path that, if he were to follow it, he would die or something even worse would happen to him.” This view is implied elsewhere in Gersonides’ writings as well. See the discussion above in n. 55. Incidentally, the expression “advancing toward perfection” is not found in the complete commentary, but it is characteristic of Gersonides’ language. See (e.g.) his commentary on Leviticus 26–27, the second benefit: “And yet between the ages of fifteen and twenty, when one’s strength begins to grow and one begins to despise evil and choose the good and one is advancing toward perfection, the value of the male is greater than one who is sixty or over, for he is advancing toward deficiency and loss”; The Wars, Book 1, ch. 6: “The primary matter is affected by the Agent Intellect in such a way that it receives the various perfections by gradations” (Feldman, 1:151).

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4. In the synopsis (Second Discourse of Job) it is explicitly stated that Job did not believe in the immortality of the soul: “[Job] has already stated at length that he would choose death over a life of such distress, even though he does not believe in the resurrection of the dead or in reward and punishment after death, for he neither inherited the Torah nor received it at Sinai.” The argument about Job’s denial of the resurrection of the dead is also found in Gersonides’ commentary.89 But with regard to the immortality of the soul, it would seem that what the synopsis says contradicts the approach of Gersonides in his commentary, for there Gersonides takes many opportunities to make clear that Job did believe in the life of the World to Come.90 It should be noted that the question of Job’s faith in the immortality of the soul is nonetheless fundamental to Gersonides’ commentary, for it contradicts the approach of Samuel ibn Tibbon, who assumed that Job was complaining about what happened to him only because he did not know that man’s true success is not in this world, neither in wealth nor in children nor in physical health, but in the apprehension of ideas and in the immortality of the soul, and that this is what Elihu, in his speeches, taught him.91 Gersonides, by contrast, believes that the innovation in the Book of Job is not

89 The “General Principles” to Job 6–7. These words are based on Job 7:7–9 and on b. Bava Batra 16a. 90 See, e.g., the “General Principles” to Job 12–14, the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 17:9, and the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 21:16. A criticism of this view of Gersonides was even written by the copyist of Oxford MS Bodleian 101 (see above at n. 80), who wrote a summary of the opinions about providence in accordance with Gersonides’ approach and noted: “The truth is that I, the copyist, still have some doubt about this discussion, for according to the words of Levi b. Gershom Job believed that the soul is immortal. But if that is correct, why did Job put all his trust in illusory possessions like children and money? He ought to have believed that if he was innocent and blameless God would reward him in the world of souls. He would not have said, ‘Should I be guilty – the worse for me! And even when innocent, I cannot lift my head’ [Job 10:15]! He further said, ‘So man lies down never to rise’ [Job 14:12] and many similar things. Moreover, Elihu would not have had to explain this by saying, ‘Then He has mercy on him and decrees, “Redeem him from descending to the Pit, for I have obtained his ransom”’ [Job 33:24]. It therefore appears to me that Job and his friends did not believe in the immortality of the soul at all, for his friends certainly did not believe this; we do not find his friends arguing about it with him, as they would have done at some point . . . In fact, not one of them thought that there would be a judgment after death. If you should respond that our sages of blessed memory have already said, ‘Do not pretend to refute the lion after he is dead’ [b. Git. 83a], we have already found other exegetes who agree with this, for it follows the meaning. This one says this, that one says that, but I do not say, ‘Accept my opinion!’ May God in His great mercy show us wonders from His Torah.” 91 See Rivka Kellner, ‫מאמר יקוו המים‬, 556–73; Eisen, The Book of Job, 81–97. Cf. the approach of Samuel ibn Tibbon in his “Epistle on Providence” in Z. Diesendruck, “Samuel and Moses ibn Tibbon on Maimonides’ Theory of Providence,” HUCA 11 (1936): 346–47, 355–62.

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the immortality of the soul, but the ability of a human being to succeed in this world by means of cleaving to the world of the intellect.92 The question of the immortality of the soul is certainly important and aids us in clarifying Gersonides’ opinion on many verses, but it is not central to his commentary. The subject of that book, as we have said, is the assignment of the philosophical opinions on the question of individual providence in this world. It seems, therefore, that we should look at the gap between the synopsis and the commentary on the topic of Job’s faith in the immortality of the soul as no more than a difference in emphasis. In the commentary, too, Gersonides began by summarizing Job’s approach, presuming that “Job erred in this assumption . . . because he thought that these imaginary evils are proper human evils, so that the recipient of these evils should prefer death to life. Such an assumption would be justified if these evils were really human evils. Death, then, is surely preferable to a life which is [without intellectual achievements] . . . ” (the “General Principles” to Job 3; Lassen, 20). That is, Job was mistaken in thinking that life in this world and material attainments are the point of human life. Nonetheless, Gersonides does raise the possibility, which is indeed correct according to his theory – and he sticks to it afterward throughout his commentary – that “it is possible . . . that Job did not err” about true human success “as he believed in the immortality of the soul.”93 Consequently, we must conclude by saying that Gersonides framed the comments in his synopsis to principally concern the assignments of opinions about providence in this world, and refrained (for brevity’s sake) from entering into the question of Job’s faith in the immortality of the soul.

Conclusion In this article we have dealt with Gersonides’ commentary on the Book of Job, the essential innovation of which is its original assignment of the views of Job and his friends on the issue of providence. Gersonides’ assignment of these views differs from that suggested by Maimonides, who was followed by the philosophical commentators who preceded Gersonides. All the same,

92 Gersonides treats the Song of Songs in accordance with his theory on the immortality of the soul. Compare the response of Moses ibn Tibbon to the radical theory of his father in Diesendruck, “Samuel and Moses ibn Tibbon,” 163–65. 93 Lassen, 20. It should be noted that in most of the manuscripts the expression Gersonides uses to mark this possibility is “it is possible” or “we could possibly say.” Only in MS Paris 251 (where the synopsis is found!) is the text “and there is someone who says,” which sounds less convinced. When I checked, however, I found no material differences between this manuscript and the other copies of Gersonides’ commentary on Job.

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Gersonides was influenced by the commentaries of his predecessors, especially by R. Abba Mari b. Eligdor. We have argued that, in addition to his well-known extensive commentary on Job, Gersonides also wrote a synopsis of that commentary, which has been preserved in MS Paris 251 alone. As a rule, Gersonides was accustomed to re-edit and rework his writings after they had already been circulated. This phenomenon finds expression in the commentary on Job as well, albeit not in the same measure as in his Torah commentary. His composition of the synopsis is to be explained against this background. The identification of Gersonides himself as the author of the synopsis, and the assumption that it represents an intermediate stage between the commentary and Book 4 of The Wars, is based on a series of facts: the language and style of the synopsis match Gersonides in his other writings, not only his commentary on Job; the creator of the synopsis treats Gersonides’ commentary as if it were his own composition; those ideas in the synopsis that are not paralleled in the commentary match Gersonides’ ideas in his other works; the creator of the synopsis refers several times to the commentary and to The Wars as if they were his own books; several topics in the synopsis match The Wars, though they have no parallel in the commentary; in referring to what Gersonides says in the commentary, the creator of the synopsis speaks several times in the first person, as if he were speaking of his own work. It must be added that several new ideas are found in the synopsis that are not stated explicitly in the commentary. We have shown that these new ideas do not directly contradict the commentary, but rather add to it. These new ideas increase the value of the synopsis, which (besides the importance of the very fact of its existence) adds a new aspect to our understanding of Gersonides’ commentary on the Book of Job.

Acknowledgments: This synopsis of Gersonides’ commentary on the Book of Job was identified during my work on Gersonides’ commentary on the Book of Job as head research assistant to Professor Menachem Cohen, editor-inchief of Bar-Ilan University’s Ha-Keter edition of the Miqra’ot Gedolot. The Commentary on the Book of Job, as well as the synopsis, will appear next year as part of the Miqra’ot Gedolot. I wish to give heartfelt thanks to Professor Cohen for permitting me to publish the synopsis as an appendix to my article. I also want to thank the translator Michael Carasik for his remarkable work on the article and the synopsis by Ralbag, and the staff of HUCA for their attention to my work and professionalism.

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬ ‫כ״י פריס ‪ 251‬ס׳ ‪ 4276‬דף ‪86‬ב‪96-‬א‬ ‫קצור ספר איוב באור החכם ר׳ לוי בן גרשום ז״ל הפילוסוף האלהי‬ ‫קצור הקדמה מקפת כונת הספר‪1‬‬ ‫אמר‪ 2:‬רעות הנופלות בין בני האדם הם מיוחסות בכללם אל הסבה החמרית או אל הקרי‪,‬‬ ‫וזה שהרעות לא ימלטו משתהיה התחלתם במקבל בעצמו או מחוץ‪ .‬ואשר התחלתם‬ ‫הם במקבל הם מצד המזג‪ ,‬והם מיוחסות אל ההיולי מפני שסבתם בלתי השמע הכחות‬ ‫המתפעלות אל הכחות הפועלות; ואם מצד המדות והתכונות הנפשיות והם גם כן‬ ‫מתיחסות אל ההיולי כי יקרו אלו הרעות כאשר לא יתנהג כפי מה שראוי וסבת זה ‪-‬‬ ‫המשכו אחר חמרו ולא ימשך אחר שכלו אשר פעולתו היא ההדרכה אל הנאות }והנאות{‪3‬‬ ‫בענינים האנושיים‪ .‬ויכלל זה המין מהרע אשר התחלתו המזג או ההיולי הבחירה להרע‪,‬‬ ‫כמו הענין במלחמה ודומה לזה‪ ,‬הכל מיוחס אל הסבה ההיולאנית אם מצד המזג‪ ,‬אם‬ ‫מצד הבחירה להיותה נמשכת אחר המזג‪ .‬והרעות אשר אין התחלתם המזג והבחירה כמו‬ ‫הפכת הארצות והרעש והאש הנופלת מן השמים ודומיהם‪ ,‬הנה זה טוב בעצם‪ ,‬למה שהיה‬ ‫בכאן יסודות הפכיים‪ ,‬ומדרך ההפכים שיפסידו קצתם את קצת‪ .‬ולא ישמר זה המציאות‬ ‫השפל אלא בשווי הנמצא ביסודות‪ ,‬חויב שתהיינה בכאן סבות עליונות פועלות אותן‬ ‫ושומרות מציאותם ושוים בתנועתם המתמדת בסבוב ישר וסדור מתמיד‪ ,‬פעם יגביה‬ ‫היסוד האחד על האחר ופעם האחר עליו‪ ,‬למען ישתוו עליו יחס אחד‪ .‬וזהו הטוב המתמיד‬ ‫במציאות ואם יגיע מזה רע הוא במקרה שקרה שיפול האש על איש אחד ויהרגהו‪ ,‬או‬ ‫תהפך הארץ על היושבים בה מצד שקרה היותם שם‪ ,‬עם היות כל זה טוב מאד ואין דבר‬ ‫רע יורד מלמעלה )ע״פ ב״ר נא‪ ,‬ג(‪ 4.‬הנה כבר התאמת התיחס אלו הענינים אשר בהם‬ ‫רוע סדור‪ ,‬יהיה התחלתם במקבל בעצמו או מחוץ‪ ,‬אל ההיולי‪.‬‬ ‫והכלל‪ ,‬שאלו הרעות אשר נפל בהן רוע סדור אינם רעות אנושיות‪ ,‬וזה שהרעות‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬

‫קיצור ההקדמה כאן הוא קיצור החלק העיוני שבהקדמת הפירוש השלם‪ .‬בניגוד להקדמה ההיא‪ ,‬כאן אין רלב״ג מתייחס‬ ‫לחיבור ספר איוב‪ ,‬עניינו ודרך פירושו שלו‪ ,‬אלא הוא מסכם את החלק העיוני של ההקדמה בלבד‪ ,‬המתחיל בכותרת‪:‬‬ ‫”וקודם שנתחיל בזה הספר ובביאורו נקדים הקדמה אחת מקפת בכל מה שיכללהו זה הספר״ ומסתיים ”זה מה שראינו‬ ‫להקדימו קודם שנתחיל בביאור זה הספר״‪.‬‬ ‫ייתכן שזו לשונו של המעתיק‪.‬‬ ‫מלה מיותרת‪.‬‬ ‫השוו להקדמת הפירוש השלם; ביאור דברי המענה איוב ל״ג ‪ ;12‬ועוד‪ .‬הרעיון שלפיו אין הרע יוצא מידי ה׳ לבריות בשום‬ ‫מצב‪ ,‬אפילו לא בתור עונש‪ ,‬נראה כפיתוח לדברי הרמב״ם במו״נ ג‪ ,‬י‪-‬יב‪ .‬על יסוד רעיון זה מבאר רלב״ג כתובים רבים‪,‬‬ ‫ולא רק בפירושו לאיוב‪.‬‬

‫‪141‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪142‬‬

‫האנושיות ראוי ]‪87‬א[ שתהינה בחלק אשר בו הטובות האנושיות והוא בחלק מחלקי‬ ‫הנפש אשר נקרא ’שכל׳‪ ,‬לא בכח ההזון והחוש אשר בהם ישתתף האדם עם החי והצמח‪.‬‬ ‫וכמו שהטובו׳ האנושיות הם שלמות השכל האנושי במשכלות אשר הוא צורתו מצד‬ ‫היותו אדם‪ ,‬כן הרעות האנושיות הם הפקד אלו השלמיות‪.‬‬ ‫וראוי שתדע‪ ,‬שהמקרים אשר יפול בהם רוע סדור הם מוגבלים באופן מה מהגרמים‬ ‫השמימיים‪ ,‬וזה להיות משטרם בארץ לשלח לכל מתהוה כחותיו ולשמור השווי ביסודות‬ ‫הארבעה בסבוב וסדור מתמיד כמו שהתבאר‪ 5,‬ובעבור שאלו הגרמים משתתפים בהנהגת‬ ‫האדם‪ 6.‬ובאור זה‪ ,‬שאישי האדם מיוחדים בזה ונבדלים משאר הנמצאות השפלות כי‬ ‫מעלותיו מסודרות אחר המערכת ומצבי הכוכבים לאיש איש בעת ההריון או הלידה‪,‬‬ ‫}באלו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬כאילו[ הגרמים השמימים ישתתפו }כפי הנהגתו{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬בהנהגתו[‬ ‫לא שיהיה מוכרח על זה‪ 7.‬אמנם טבע זה עומד קים‪ ,‬ומהם הגיע הידיעה במקרים טרם‬ ‫באם‪ .‬ואם היה מחויב שיגיעהו נזק וקצת רעות בעתים מה‪ ,‬הערים השם ית׳ כששם בנו‬ ‫השכל להנהיגנו ולהטות אותנו מזאת ההנהגה אם נרצה‪ ,‬וזה יהיה בהגעת הידיעה אלינו‬ ‫באלו המקרים ההוים קודם התחדשם אם בחלום אם בקסם אם בנבואה‪ ,‬אשר השפעת‬ ‫זאת ההודעה לא יגיע אלינו אם לא מסבה פועלת לה הידיעה באלו המקרים‪ .‬הנה אם‪8‬‬ ‫כן‪ ,‬הראוי אל זאת המדרגה בשיקדם לו הידיעה בדברים קודם התחדשם‪ ,‬אשר הוא‬ ‫אפשרי לאדם כאשר יוציא מה שבכחו אל הפועל‪ ,‬הנה ימלט מרוב הרעות או מכלם‬ ‫ויצדק שהשגחת השם דבקה בו כפי שכלו‪ 9,‬וזה נראה מסכים אל דעת הר״ם ז״ל ודעת‬ ‫אליהוא כמו שיתבאר‪10.‬‬ ‫קצור המשל אשר בראש הספר )איוב א ‪–6‬ב ‪(7‬‬ ‫אמר ממשל‪ 11,‬כאלו השם מדבר עם אשר יבאו מאתו הרעות המדומות אשר התחלתם‬ ‫מחוץ‪ ,‬והוא ’השטן׳ מטה מהדרך המכוונת מהשם כונה ראשונה‪ 12.‬לכן אמ׳ שבא בתוך ’בני‬ ‫‪5‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬ ‫‪7‬‬ ‫‪8‬‬ ‫‪9‬‬ ‫‪10‬‬ ‫‪11‬‬

‫‪12‬‬

‫לעיל‪.‬‬ ‫כך גם במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר שני‪ ,‬פרק ב ועוד‪.‬‬ ‫לניסוח זה אין מקבילה בפירוש השלם וגם לא במלחמות ה׳‪ .‬על כל פנים‪ ,‬תוכן הדברים תואם לשיטתו של רלב״ג שם‪.‬‬ ‫מלה זו נוספה בשוליים‪.‬‬ ‫השוו מו״נ ג‪ ,‬יז‪” :‬ההשגחה ‪ . . .‬היא נמשכת אחר השפע האלהי והמין אשר נדבק בו השפע ההוא השכלי עד ששב בעל‬ ‫שכל ונגלה לו כל מה שהוא גלוי לבעל שכל ‪ . . .‬אאמין שההשגחה נמשכת אחר השכל ומדובקת בו״‪.‬‬ ‫עניין זה‪ ,‬המוזכר עוד מספר פעמים בהמשך הדברים )קיצור כלל מענה ששי‪ ,‬ראשון לצופר וקיצור כלל מענה רביעי‬ ‫לאליהוא(‪ ,‬לא מוזכר כלל בפירוש השלם‪ .‬לבירור זה מוקדש במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ז‪.‬‬ ‫בניגוד לדעת הרמב״ם ומבארים פילוסופיים נוספים סבור רלב״ג שהספר מתאר את המעשה שהיה ואיננו משל דידקטי‪.‬‬ ‫כ״משל״ מוגדר אצלו רק החלק אשר בו מסופר על השיחה שבין ה׳ לשטן )וכך גם בפירוש השלם(‪ .‬גם הרמב״ם הדגיש‬ ‫ש״לפי שתי הדעות‪ ,‬ר״ל אם היה או לא היה ]מעשה של איוב בפועל – י״צ[‪ ,‬הדברים ההם אשר בפתיחת הספר‪ ,‬ר״ל מאמר‬ ‫השטן ומאמר השם אל השטן ומסור איוב בידו‪ ,‬כל זה משל בלא ספק לכל בעל דעת״ )מו״נ ג‪ ,‬כב(‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬החומר מטה את האדם מהטוב‪ ,‬שהוא השגת השלמות השכלית‪ ,‬שהיא המכוונת מה׳ לבני האדם על ”הכוונה‬ ‫הראשונה״‪ .‬השוו בפירושו השלם לאיוב א ‪” :7–6‬וקראו שטן להיותו מטה מהדרך המכוון מה׳ יתעלה‪ ,‬כמו שהתבאר במה‬ ‫שקדם״‪ .‬לא ברור למה מפנה שם רלב״ג‪ ,‬מכיוון שבהקדמת פירושו אין לעניין זה התייחסות מפורשת‪.‬‬

‫‪143‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫האלהים׳ )איוב א ‪ (7–6‬שהם הכחות המנהיגות במלאכות השם‪ .‬וזכר ששוטו והתהלכו‬ ‫הוא בארץ )שם( כי שם ימצאו הרעות אשר הוא סבתם לא בנמצאות העליונות‪ .‬וזכר כאלו‬ ‫השם מונע איוב מהגעת הרעות להיותו תם וישר‪ .‬ואולם מצד מעלות המדות לבד לא‬ ‫ינצל מרשות השטן‪ 13,‬על כן סבב השטן שנמסר כל אשר לו בידו זולת נפשו שאם תדבק‬ ‫בשם ]‪87‬ב[ ית׳ כאשר בכחו לא תמסר בידו ותשפע עליו מההשגחה שיעור שישמרהו‬ ‫ויצילהו מכל רע‪ .‬וזכר שלקה תחלה מהרע הנופל בין בני האדם מקצתם לקצתם כמו‬ ‫המלחמות )שם ‪ ,(17 ,15–14‬והם על }חרב{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬הרב[ וסבתם והתחלתם הבחירה‪.‬‬ ‫ואחר לקה מהרע המגיע מן השנויים הנופלים ביסודות כאש שירדה מן השמים ורוח‬ ‫סערה באה מן המדבר )שם ‪ ,(19–18 ,16‬והם מעט ומיוחסים אל הקרי‪} .‬והיא{ ]אולי‬ ‫צ״ל‪ :‬והיה[ מתם וישרו ויראתו השם שלא חטא בכל זאת רק הודה ואמ׳ ”יי׳ נתן ויי׳ לקח‬ ‫יהי שם יי׳ מבורך״ )שם ‪.(21‬‬ ‫אחר זכר ממה שקרהו מן הרעות אשר התחלתם במקבל בעצמו מצד המזג והעצה אשר‬ ‫סבתם גם כן ’השטן׳ להיותו מטה מהדרך הראוי‪ .‬ואמר בזה שהוא בא להתיצב על יי׳ )שם‬ ‫ב ‪ (1‬לפי שזה החלק מהנפש אשר בו תהיה ]בפירוש השלם נוסף‪ :‬העצה[ מכוון בעצמו‬ ‫לעבוד השכל האנושי‪ ,‬אלא שכבר יקרה בקצת העתים שיהיה מה שישפטהו זה החלק‬ ‫בלתי ישר ונאות עד שיתחדשו מזה חליים רעים ומכאובים מרוע ההנהגה הנמשכת אל‬ ‫רוע זאת הבחירה‪ ,14‬על כן נמסר כל אשר לו ועצמו ביד השטן זולת נפשו שהיא מושלת‬ ‫עליו ותנהיגהו אם תרצה‪ .‬וכאשר קרהו זה והיתה יראתו השם בלתי שלמה עד שלא יוכל‬ ‫לעמד בנסיון נשאר נבוך ומבולבל בענין ההשגחה ושכל מקרי האדם מוגבלים ומסודרים‬ ‫לפי מערכת הכוכבים בעת הלידה‪ .‬וסבת מבוכתו זאת היה חסרונו בהשגות העיוניות‬ ‫אשר השלמות בהן ]בפירוש השלם נוסף‪ :‬סיבת[ השמר האדם מאלו הרעות המדומות‪.‬‬

‫‪ 13‬הדגשה זו תואמת לדעתו של רלב״ג בפירושו וב׳מלחמות׳‪ ,‬אך אין הדבר נאמר שם מפורשות‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 14‬בדומה לזה כתב גם בפירוש השלם‪ .‬רלב״ג מתאר את מחלתו הגופנית של איוב באופן טבעי‪ .‬כוונתו לומר‪ ,‬שאיוב בעצמו‬ ‫בגלל חסרונו בחכמה גרם למחלתו מתוך כך שלא בחר בהנהגה הנכונה‪ .‬בעניין זה קיימת הקבלה בין פירושו של רלב״ג‬ ‫לזה של הרא״ם‪ ,‬אלא שהרא״ם מתאר את כל ”מעשי השטן״ שפגעו באיוב באופן טבעי‪ .‬מסתבר שגם רלב״ג סבור כן‪ ,‬אלא‬ ‫שלא ניסח בעניין זה את דבריו מפורשות‪ .‬לפיכך אצטט כאן מפירושו של הרא״ם‪” :‬ואין מן הפלא אם הצדיק הבלתי גמור‬ ‫רע לו יותר מהרשע‪ ,‬שבטחונו בקונו בטחון מדומה ולא ישתדל כפי היכולת להנצל ויסתכל אל סבות הרע וישמר מהם‬ ‫והרע ימשך אל הרע והטוב ימשך אל הטוב ‪ . . .‬ואם יאמר אומר מה נאמר ברוח סערה באה מעבר הירדן והמדבר והפיל‬ ‫בית איוב לא כמה בתים מרשעים גמורים‪ ,‬וכן אש אלהים נפלא מן השמים ותבער בצאן ובנערים ולא בשאר העדרים?‬ ‫נשיב‪ :‬הצלחתו ודמוי בטחונו הביאוהו גם כן לזה שבנה בית גבוה אבן על אבן בנין נאה בלתי יכול לעמוד ברוח שאינה‬ ‫מצויה גם הרועים בראותם הצלחת האדון עזבו מקניהם במדבר ביום חשך ענן וערפל ואש מתלקחת ותבער בהם והירא‬ ‫הניס את מקניהו ‪ . . .‬ונתן לו ]לשטן – י״צ[ רשות בכל אשר לו ‪ . . .‬ונכנס יצר הרע בלבה של מלכות שבא לשלול הבקר‬ ‫והאתונות ‪ . . .‬עוד נתחדשו מהכרח החומר רעמים וענן כבד ואש מתלקחת ותבער בצאן ובנערים‪ .‬עוד נכנס יצר הרע‬ ‫בלבם של כשדים לפשוט על הגמלים ואחר הענן ואש מתלקחת נתחדשה רוח גדולה הפילה הבית על הנערים ‪ . . .‬וכל‬ ‫תקלה היתה כפי המוכן במחוז ההוא ‪ . . .‬והכה השטן את איוב בשחין רע מכף רגלו ועד קדקדו ואולי היה מהכרח החומר‬ ‫או ממרה אדומה נוספה בו בהכאיבו את לבו יותר מידי״ )דפים ‪.(5–4 ,2–1‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪144‬‬

‫קצור כלל מענה ראשון מאיוב )איוב ג(‪:‬‬ ‫דעת איוב שכל מקרי האדם מסודרים ומוגבלים כפי מערכת הכוכבים בעת הלידה ולזה‬ ‫קלל היום אשר יולד בו וקלל גם כן ליל ההריון להיותו מורה על מה שיקרה לעובר‬ ‫עד עת הלידה )איוב ג ‪ 15.(3–2‬וכאשר ראה העדר הצדק והיושר הנמשך מצד מערכת‬ ‫הכוכבים בחר לא היותו על היותו ונתרעם אל השם המסדר הנהגת מערכת הכוכבים‬ ‫המתחיב ממנה רעות לטובים וטובות לרעים‪ ,‬אך לא סדר למי שנולד }בעת{ במערכת‪16‬‬ ‫רעה שימות מרחם ולא יראה ברע כי זה יותר טוב לו‪ ,‬ויחס זה אל השם ללאות וקצור‪17.‬‬ ‫והביאו זה להאמין החוש והעיון‪ .‬אם החוש למה שנראהו לפי מחשבתנו מרוע סדור‬ ‫הנופל באישי האדם ברעות וטובות; ואם העיון להיות אלו הענינים האישיים הזמניים‬ ‫בלתי אפשר בהם לפי מחשבתו ]‪88‬א[ שיהיו ידועים אצל השם ית׳ לפי שאין לו יחס על‬ ‫הזמן כמו שהתבאר‪ 18.‬ועוד‪ ,‬שאלו הענינים השפלים הארציים לפחיתותם אין מדרך‬ ‫השלם בתכלית השלמות להשגיח בהם כי השם אם יקנה בכמו אלו הידיעות‪ ,‬הנה יחשוב‬ ‫שיחויב השלם הנכבד בפחות וזה מגונה‪ ,‬ועוד שהשמחה למשיג כשישיג היותר נכבד‪.‬‬ ‫ולפי שהמשיג השלם יעשה פעולתו ביותר שלם אמרו הפילוסופים שהוא ית׳ לא ישיג‬ ‫כי אם עצמו שהוא השלם שימצא ואם ישיג הדברים הפחותים אולי ישיגהו מזה חסרון‬ ‫ית׳‪ 19.‬כאשר מפועל השכל אינו השגת הדברים האישיים אבל תהיה זאת ההשגה אל‬ ‫החוש והדמיון‪ .‬ואל קצת אלו הטענות רמז באמרו ’מדוע משדי לא נצפנו עתים׳ )איוב‬ ‫כד ‪’ (1‬העיני בשר לך׳ )שם י ‪.(4‬‬ ‫והנה שגג איוב בזאת ההנחה משני צדדים‪ :‬האחת‪ ,‬כי זאת ההגבלה המסודרת ממערכת‬ ‫הכוכבים איננה הכרחית על כל פנים‪ ,‬אבל נשארה אפשרית מצד הבחירה האנושית ועת‬ ‫ומשפט ידע לב חכם )ע״פ קה׳ ח ‪ (5‬ומלט את העיר בחכמתו )ע״פ קה׳ ט ‪ 20.(15‬השנית‪,‬‬ ‫‪15‬‬

‫‪16‬‬ ‫‪17‬‬ ‫‪18‬‬ ‫‪19‬‬

‫‪20‬‬

‫הרא״ם ציין שאיוב ”קלל שני הזמנים האלו מפני מחלוקות חכמי המשפט ]=אסטרולוגים[ אם משפט הנולד מצד מצב‬ ‫הגלגל ברגע ההריון או בעת הלידה״ )דף ‪ .(6‬רלב״ג בפירושו השלם אמנם טען שיום הלידה קובע את גורלו של האדם‪,‬‬ ‫אך התלבט בעניין השפעת ליל ההריון ועשה מעין פשרה‪ ,‬שליל ההריון משפיע השפעה ישירה רק על מה שיקרה לעובר‬ ‫ברחם‪ ,‬ובאופן עקיף משפיע גם על חיי האדם‪ ,‬משום שמליל ההריון נובע יום הלידה )ראו הכלל העולה מאיוב ג(‪ .‬כאן‪,‬‬ ‫ב׳קיצור׳‪ ,‬רלב״ג דילג על כל הדיון על השפעת ליל ההריון על חיי האדם‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫בפירוש השלם הכלל העולה מאיוב ג‪” :‬שגגה או לאות וקיצור״ וכך גם להלן קיצור מענה חמישי‪ ,‬שלישי לאיוב‪.‬‬ ‫נראה שכוונתו למה שהתבאר בפירוש השלם‪.‬‬ ‫המקבילה לטענות שבשני המשפטים האחרונים נמצאת בפירוש השלם בכלל העולה מאיוב יב‪-‬יד‪” :‬האדם הוא פחוּת ונבזה‪,‬‬ ‫ולזה לא יתכן שישגיח השם ית׳ בו‪ ,‬עם היותו בתכלית הכבוד‪ .‬ולא תחשוב זאת הטענה חלושה‪ ,‬אבל היא פילוסופית‪ ,‬וכבר‬ ‫השתמשו בה הפילוסופים וחייבו ממנה שהשם יתברך לא ידע כי כי אם עצמו‪ .‬ואופן הביאור בו ‪ -‬כי השם ית׳‪ ,‬אם יקנה‬ ‫כמו אלו הידיעות‪ ,‬הנה יחשוב שיחוייב מזה שישלם הנכבד בפחות‪ ,‬וזה בתכלית הגנות‪ .‬ועוד‪ ,‬שהשמחה והשלימות יהיה‬ ‫יותר למשיג בשיושג אצלו היותר נכבד‪ ,‬ולפי שהמשיג השלם יעשה פעולתו ביותר שלם שאפשר‪ ,‬הנה יחשוב שיחוייב‬ ‫מזה שלא ישיג השם ית׳ כי אם העניינים היותר נכבדים; ולזה שפטו שלא ישיג השם יתברך כי אם עצמו״‪ .‬השוו נימוקים‬ ‫לדעה זו )לפי הסדר כמו ב׳קיצור׳‪ ,‬אך ביתר הרחבה( במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר שלישי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪ .‬ראו גם בפירושו לשה״ש א ‪:4‬‬ ‫”ובאמת כי בזה מהגיל והשמחה מה שאין לשמחות הגופיות יחס אליו‪ ,‬כי התענוג השלם והשמחה השלמה הוא כשיושג‬ ‫הנכבד בהשגה האמתית״‪.‬‬ ‫השוו להלן קיצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא‪.‬‬

‫‪145‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫שהרעות המדומות הם רעות בלתי אנושיות‪ ,‬ועל האמת המות משובח מהחיים הבלתי‬ ‫אנושיים! ואולם הטובות האנושיות עם הרעות הבלתי אנושיות‪ 21‬והאנושיות‪ 22‬ראוי‬ ‫שתהיינה בחלק אשר בו הטובות האנושיות כמו שאמ׳ בהקדמה‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה שני‪ ,‬והוא ראשון לאליפז )איוב ד‪-‬ה(‬ ‫דעת אליפז בהשגחה הוא שהרעות המגיעות לאישי האדם הם הבאות להם מהשם ית׳‬ ‫על צד העונש על מה שיחטא ומה שנראה מהגעת הרעות בזולת מרי קדם אמ׳ שכבר‬ ‫ימצאו רעות מצד האולת והפתיות והם אינן ראויות שיקראו רעות אנושיות מפני שסבתם‬ ‫נמשכת אחר ההיולי כמו שקדם‪ 23.‬וקיים דעתו זה שאנחנו לא נמצא ההכחד והאבדון‬ ‫בישרים נקים‪ ,‬וזה מורה שסבת המצא זה ברשעים לבד הוא הגיע להם מהרעות מהשם‬ ‫ית׳ על צד ענשם על מרים‪ .‬ואמנם הנקיים והישרים כשיחטאו חטאים מה יוכיחם השם‬ ‫אך לא יכחדו‪ ,‬והוא טוב להם מהאבדון או שלא נבראו‪ ,‬הפך דעת איוב שהיה מקלל יום‬ ‫לדתו ובוחר המות מהחיים של צער‪.‬‬ ‫הטענה השנית לקוחה מהקדמת הידיעה אשר לאדם ברעות המתעתדות בחלום‬ ‫או בקסם או בנבואה‪ ,‬ומזה נראה שאינם רעות הכרחיות כמו שקדם‪ 24,‬ואם לא בארה‬ ‫באופן שיתחיב מזה שהשי״ת ]‪88‬ב[ ישגיח באישי האדם ואם יגיעהו‪ ,‬ר״ל לאדם‪ ,‬זה המין‬ ‫מהידיעה‪ .‬וכבר שער הוא בחלשת הטענה ורמז בזה אמרו ’ואלי דבר יגונב׳ )איוב ד ‪.(12‬‬ ‫ואמנם אליהוא }באור{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬באר[ זה ואמת ממנה‪ ,‬ר״ל מזאת הטענה‪ ,‬ענין ההשגחה‪.‬‬ ‫הטענה השלישית לקוחה משלמות השם וחסרון האדם וזה סדורה‪ :‬הנה האדם‬ ‫במעט השלמות הנמצא בו לא יעלים עיניו ממה שישיגהו‪ 25‬אבל יבחר ביושר וירחיק‬ ‫העול והחמס אשר הם תחת הנהגתו וממשלתו‪ .‬וזה מתחיב לו מצד השלמות הנמצא לו‪.‬‬ ‫הנה יחויב שימצא במי שהוא בתכלית והאמת הגמור והוא השם ית׳ שיתחיב מהנהגתו‬ ‫למציאות התרחק מהעול ותכלית היושר‪ .‬ומה שנראה מהרעות המגיעות מבלתי מרי קדם‬ ‫יתכן היותם מצד האולת ואינם מיוחסות לשם‪ .‬וכן יגיעו טובות אל הרשע ולא יתקים כי‬ ‫אם זמן מועט אמ׳ ’אני ראיתי אויל משריש׳ וגו׳ )איוב ה ‪.(3‬‬ ‫הטענה הרביעית מצד הסדור המתמיד הנמצא בו ירידת המטר המורה אל מסדר‬ ‫משגיח‪ .‬וזה שאם היה זה במקרה לא יתכן שישלמו בו הצמחים על הרוב לפי מה שיקרה‬ ‫בהזדמן הוא נופל במקום מקום מהנגלה מהארץ יועיל או יזיק‪ ,‬אבל אנחנו נמצא על הרוב‬ ‫‪21‬‬ ‫‪22‬‬

‫‪23‬‬ ‫‪24‬‬ ‫‪25‬‬

‫נראה שיש כאן דילוג כלשהו‪ .‬רצונו לומר את מה שכתב בפירוש השלם )הכלל העולה מאיוב ג(‪” :‬הטובות האנושיות עם‬ ‫הרעות הבלתי אנושיות הם משובחות בעצמם״‪.‬‬ ‫רצונו לומר‪ :‬והרעות האנושיות‪ .‬וכך אכן בקיצור הקדמה‪” :‬והכלל שאלו הרעות אשר נפל בהן רוע סדור אינם רעות‬ ‫אנושיות‪ ,‬וזה שהרעות האנושיות ראוי שתהינה בחלק אשר בו הטובות האנושיות והוא בחלק מחלקי הנפש אשר נקרא‬ ‫’שכל׳ ״‪.‬‬ ‫בקיצור הקדמה דיבר רלב״ג על כך שחלק מהרעות המיוחסות אל החומר הן שגיאות שאדם עושה בשיקול דעתו הלקוי‪.‬‬ ‫כיוצא בזה הוא כתב לעיל גם בקיצור המשל‪.‬‬ ‫בקיצור הקדמה‪.‬‬ ‫בפירוש השלם‪ :‬ינהיגהו‪ .‬וכאן הכוונה‪ :‬לא יעלים עיניו מהדברים הנמצאים תחת השגתו ופיקוחו‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪146‬‬

‫מהעננים יביאום הרוחות ויריקו במקום אשר נשלמו בו הצמחים‪ .‬הנה זה הוראה גמורה‬ ‫על משגיח בזה העולם‪ .‬ודומה לזה נמצא שאם היה השם בלתי משגיח במין אישי האדם‬ ‫היתה מחשבת הרשעים החכמים יוצאת אל הפועל על הרוב כשאר המלאכות הנעשות‬ ‫במחשבה והשתדלות שתכליתם נמשך אל הפועל על הרוב‪ .‬אבל אנחנו נמצא שמחשבת‬ ‫הרשעים לא תצא אל הפועל אם לא על המעט‪ - 26‬חויב מזה שהשם משגיח במין האדם‪,‬‬ ‫משיב חכמים אחור )ע״פ יש׳ מד ‪ (25‬ופלגי מים לב מלך ביד יי׳ )ע״פ מש׳ כא ‪.(1‬‬ ‫קצור מענה שלישי‪ ,‬שני לאיוב )איוב ו‪-‬ז(‬ ‫אמר שאי אפשר שיהיו הרעות הבאות אל אישי האדם מיוחסות אל העונש מהשם ויהיה‬ ‫עונש הרשעים שיכחדו ועונש הצדיקים שחטאו מעט שיגיעום מכאובות ויסורין כמו‬ ‫שאמ׳ אליפז‪ .‬וזה שכבר הגיעהו מהמכאוב שיעור שהיה בוחר המות על אותן החיים עם‬ ‫ישרו ותומתו }ובזה{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬וכזה[ נמצא תמיד ’אם שוט ימית פתאום׳ הרשעים ’למסת‬ ‫נקיים ילעג׳ הרשע )ע״פ איוב ט ‪ ,(23‬שנסיון הצדיק מהמכאוב יותר קשה לו מן המות‪.‬‬ ‫וכבר האריך בבחרו המות על אותן החיים של צער עם היותו בלתי מאמין בתחיית המתים‬ ‫ובגמול אחר המות כי ]‪89‬א[ לא נחל התורה ולא קבל זה מסיני‪ 27.‬ורואה אני שזה טבע‬ ‫לאדם שיקרה לו כאב או צער גדול והיה חושק סור הזמן אשר הוא בו ויתקרב אל המות‬ ‫בהכרח ואם לא יכוון אל זה בבחירה ורצון‪.‬‬ ‫ועוד באר שאי אפשר שישגיח השם באישי האדם לשתי סבות‪ :‬האחת להיות האדם‬ ‫נמאס בעיניו מצד חסרונו ביחס אל שלמות השם‪ .‬והשנית‪ ,‬להיות הידיעות הוות‬ ‫מתחדשות ואי אפשר שתהיינה לו ידיעות מתחדשות לאין תכלית‪.‬‬ ‫והטענות אשר הניח אליפז בקיום דעתו אינם הכרחיות }שיחויבו{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬שיחויב[‬ ‫בו שהשם ית׳ ישגיח באישי האדם‪ ,‬כי יתכן שיאמר שההודעה שתהיה בחלום ורדת‬ ‫הגשמים‪ ,‬והמנע מהרשעים מחשבתם‪ ,‬ייוחס כל זה הסדור והשמירה לגרמים השמימיים‬ ‫ואל מה שישפע מהם אל השכל הפועל‪ 28,‬לא אל ההשגחה מאתו ית׳ אישית לאישי‬ ‫האדם‪ 29.‬ומה שהניח אליפז שכבר יהיה חסרון בחוקו ית׳ אם לא ישגיח וינהיג ביושר מה‬ ‫שתחת הנהגתו כמו שזה שלמות באדם המנהיג השלם‪ ,‬זה בלתי מתחיב‪ ,‬כי היה זה אם‬ ‫היה בכחו ולא יוציאהו אל הפועל‪ ,‬להיות הפועל שלמות לו מצד אשר הוא כחיי עליו‪.‬‬ ‫‪26‬‬

‫‪27‬‬

‫‪28‬‬ ‫‪29‬‬

‫כך בהרחבה בפירוש השלם ביאור דברי המענה איוב ה ‪ .16–11‬רלב״ג עצמו תולה את ההשגחה מהסוג הזה בגרמים‬ ‫השמימיים‪ .‬ראו מלחמות ה׳ מאמר שני פרק ב‪” :‬והנה בזה האופן מההשגחה אשר ישגיחו הגרמים השמימיים באדם היו‬ ‫האנשים נשמרים מרעות רבות נכונות לבוא עליהם‪ ,‬עד שכבר ימצאו אנשים רעים ישימו כל השתדלותם להמית אחרים‬ ‫ולהזיקם ולא ישלם להם זה אלא מעט‪ ,‬עם היותם דורכים באלו הפעולות בסבות הנאותות‪ .‬ולולי זאת ההשגחה היתה‬ ‫פעולתם מגעת על הרוב כמנהג שאר המלאכות אשר יעשו מה שיעשו בסבות הנאותות״‪.‬‬ ‫רלב״ג מפרש כאן את השקפתו של איוב מתוך ההנחה שהוא לא האמין בהישארות הנפש‪ .‬בנוגע לשאלת אמונתו של איוב‬ ‫בתחיית המתים ראו איוב ז ‪ 9–7‬ודברי רלב״ג בכלל העולה מאיוב ו‪-‬ז‪ .‬חז״ל אמרו שאיוב כפר בתחיית המתים במסכת‬ ‫בבא בתרא טז‪ ,‬א‪.‬‬ ‫כך במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר חמישי‪ ,‬חלק שלישי‪ ,‬פרק יג‪.‬‬ ‫כך בכלל העולה מאיוב ו‪-‬ז‪ .‬העניין כולו התבאר במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר שני‪ ,‬פרק ג‪.‬‬

‫‪147‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫אולם מי שאין לו כח בדבר לא יגיעהו חסרון אצלו כשלא יעשה קריאת התרנגול מפני‬ ‫שאין זה בכחו‪ 30.‬ובכלל‪ ,‬אם אמרנו במוחלט שהשם לא ידע דבר היה זה חסרון בחקו‪,‬‬ ‫אבל אמרנו שידע הדברים הקיימים הנצחיים ולא ידע הדברים המתחדשים האובדים‬ ‫הפחותים אשר אין תכלית להם ‪ -‬אין זה חסרון בחקו‪ ,‬כמו שאין חסרון אצל השכל האנושי‬ ‫המנע ממנו הדברים הפרטיים אשר ישיגו כל החושים כמו שיתבאר כל זה במקומותיו‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה רביעי‪ ,‬ראשון לבלדד )איוב ח(‬ ‫דעת בלדד הוא שכל טובות האדם ורעותיו מוגבלות ומסודרות מהשם ית׳ בצדק‬ ‫ובמשפט לא יפול דבר‪ .‬ומה שנחשוב אנחנו מרוע הסדור בזה הוא לסכלותנו בהם‪ ,‬וזה‬ ‫כי הנקי כשיבואהו רעות ‪ -‬הם טובות בעצמותם‪ ,‬ואנחנו לא נדע אופן ההטבה‪ .‬וכן טובות‬ ‫הרשעים והצלחתם הנראית הם רעות על דרך האמת שיכחדו בה ויאבדו‪ .‬והביא המשלים‬ ‫בזה מהצמחים כי קצתם ישחיתו אותן ויעקרו ממקומם לטוב להם כי }ממקומם{ ]צ״ל‪:‬‬ ‫ממקום[ אחר תהיה צמיחתם יותר טובה‪ ,‬ואחרים יפסידום רוב רעננותם עד שיבשו‪31.‬‬ ‫ונראה זה מתיחס אל דעת ]‪89‬ב[ המעתזילה ובלתי מסכים אליו מצד שלא ישוה בין‬ ‫האדם והב״ח ]=והבעלי חיים[ בענין ההשגחה במה שזכר הר״ם ז״ל‪ 32.‬אולי הביאו אל‬ ‫זה הפרסום אותן הדעות והתיחסות מה בין דעת בלדד }והודעת{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬זה ודעת[‬ ‫המעתזילה‪ ,‬על כן ייחס אליו דעתם‪ .‬ואולם דעות הכתות ההם נבנו על יסודות המדברי׳‬ ‫העלולים‪ 33‬אשר קימו בהם חדוש העולם ואינם על מספר חלקי הסותר הנמצאים בזה‬ ‫הדרוש‪ .‬ואמנם אנחנו ייחסנו אלו הדעות כפי מספר חלקי הסותר אשר בזה הדרוש כמו‬ ‫שתשפטהו החלוקה‪.34‬‬ ‫ודעת בלדד‪ ,‬ואם הוא כנגד החוש המוחש‪ ,‬כבר ימצאו לו פנים מן ההראות בשכבר‬ ‫פעמים הרבה יגיע רע לאדם ויתבאר שהיה לטוב לו באחרית‪ ,‬או לחסר מיותר רע והפך‬ ‫זה‪ .‬ודומה לזה יסודרו קצת מהפעולות הטבעיות‪ ,‬שאנחנו נמצא שהמרה השחורה‬ ‫}האצטמכא{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬באצטמכא[ ויצערהו עד שיתעורר אל לקיחת המזונות אשר בו‬

‫‪30‬‬

‫‪31‬‬ ‫‪32‬‬ ‫‪33‬‬ ‫‪34‬‬

‫כך הוא מסביר בהרחבה בכלל העולה מאיוב ו–ז‪” :‬והמשל‪ ,‬שקריאת התרנגול הוא שלימות לו מהצד שהוא כחיי עליו‪,‬‬ ‫וכאשר תבצר ממנו זאת הפעולה‪ ,‬הנה יהיה זה חסרון בחקו; ולא יהיה זה חסרון בחק האדם או שאר בעלי חיים‪ ,‬אם תמנע‬ ‫מהם זאת הפעולה‪ .‬ובהיות הענין כן‪ ,‬הנה לא יהיה חסרון לשם יתברך אם לא ישגיח על כל מעשה האדם‪ ,‬עם היותו שליט‬ ‫בכל המציאות‪ .‬ובכלל‪ ,‬הנה היה חסרון לשם יתברך אם אמרנו שלא ידע במוחלט; אבל אם אמרנו שהוא ידע הדברים‬ ‫הנצחיים הנכבדים ולא ידע הדברים האובדים הפחותים מהצד שהם בו אובדים לפחיתותם‪ ,‬וידעם מהצד אשר הם בו‬ ‫נצחיים‪ ,‬הנה אין זה חסרון בחק השם יתברך‪ ,‬כמו שאין חסרון בחק השכל האנושי המנע ממנו השגת הדברים הפרטים‬ ‫אשר ישיגום החושים״‪.‬‬ ‫ניסוח אחר לנאמר בכלל העולה מאיוב ח‪” :‬כמו הענין בעשבי האחו שיבשו ‪ -‬עם המצא אצלם הלחות והרעננות״‪.‬‬ ‫מו״נ ג‪ ,‬כג‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬החלשים‪.‬‬ ‫כוונתו למיון הדעות שנאמרו בספר איוב בעניין ההשגחה כפי שביאר בהרחבה בהקדמתו לפירושו השלם ובעוד הזדמנויות‬ ‫שם‪ .‬מיון זה הוא חידושו של רלב״ג לעומת קודמיו‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪148‬‬

‫עמידתו וקיום גופו ונמצא הרע לתכלית טוב‪ ,‬וכן ערבות המאכלים אל הזוללים סבה‬ ‫שיזוקו בהם‪35.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה חמישי‪ ,‬שלישי לאיוב )איוב ט‪-‬י(‬ ‫איוב לא היה מיחס העול לשם ית׳ בהגיע הרעות לאשר לא חטא‪ ,‬אבל היה מרחיק זה‬ ‫ליחסו הרעות שהם מסודרו׳ לפי מערכת הכוכבים‪ .‬ואולם היה מתרעם מהשם ית׳ למה לא‬ ‫סדר בכמו אלה האנשים הקשי יום שלא יתהוו שהוא טוב להם לפי דעתו ויחס התהוותם‬ ‫אל שגגה או לאות ממנו ית׳‪ .‬ואחת מטענותיו היא שהרעות הבאות אליו נעלמות מהשם‬ ‫ית׳ הוא ידיעתו ישרו ותם לבבו‪ ,‬והרחקתו העול ממנו ית׳‪ ,‬ויתכן שרעיו בלתי מאמינים‬ ‫בצדקתו‪ ,‬ולזה היה חושק שיתוכח עם השם ית׳‪ ,‬אם היה אפשר זה‪ ,‬היודע הנסתרות‬ ‫והנגלות אשר חלילה לו מרשע ועול )ע״פ איוב לד ‪} (10‬להכאיבו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬להכאיב[ צדיק‪.‬‬ ‫אכן אלה המקרים הפרטיים נעזבים ומסודרים אל הגרמים השמימיים כמו שקדם‪36.‬‬ ‫ולמה שמניח בלדד שהרעות אשר לנקיים הם טובות ואם לא נשער אופן ההטבה‪,‬‬ ‫אמ׳ איוב שהוא כוזב מצד החוש‪ ,‬כי אין הבדל בין רעות הצדיק ורעות הרשע ועם היות‬ ‫}תכליתם{ תכליותיהם‪ 37‬הפכיים כמו שהניח‪ ,‬ראוי שיהיו מתחלפים במה‪ 38,‬אלא אם היה‬ ‫זה במקרה שיהיה הדבר האחד בעצמו סבה לדבר והפכו‪ ,‬לאחד בעצם ולאחד במקרה‪,‬‬ ‫כמו שנמצא לחום החמום והקירור‪ .‬ואולם ההפכים הנמצאים באלו הרעות כפי מה‬ ‫שהונח‪ ,‬הם עצמיים לפי תכליותיהם שזה סותר כמו שהתבאר‪ 39.‬ועוד‪ ,‬שרעותיו ממיתות‬ ‫אותו עם ישרו כמו שרעות הרשע ]‪90‬א[ מביאות אותו אל מות‪ ,‬וגם אם יהיה הרע מגיע‬ ‫לצדיקים לטוב באחרית‪ ,‬הנה הוא יותר טוב מצער }ומתמיד{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬מתמיד[ משוט‬ ‫ימית פתאום )ע״פ איוב ט ‪ 40.(23‬ולכן מן הנראה שהוא יגיע מהכוכבים ומפי עליון גבוה‬ ‫מעל גבוה לא תצא הרעות )ע״פ איכה ג ‪ 39‬וקה׳ ה ‪ 41.(7‬והפלא אחר שהתחכם השם ית׳‬ ‫בבריאת האדם בתכלית מה שאפשר לו מהשלמות‪ ,‬איך ראוי בחק הפועל השלם שיעשה‬ ‫בריאה נפלאה ויסדר תכף מה שיפסידה כמו שיקרה אל הקשי יום?! והלא נח לו שלא‬ ‫נברא! אחר שאינו משגיח בענינים הפרטיים‪ 42‬ולא יתואר השם ית׳ בזה מפנים‪ :‬האחד‪,‬‬

‫‪35‬‬ ‫‪36‬‬ ‫‪37‬‬ ‫‪38‬‬

‫‪39‬‬ ‫‪40‬‬ ‫‪41‬‬ ‫‪42‬‬

‫משל זה‪ ,‬התומך בהשקפתו של בלדד‪ ,‬אינו נמצא בפירוש השלם‪ ,‬אך נמצא במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪.‬‬ ‫קיצור כלל מענה ראשון מאיוב‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬מתחלפים במשהו‪ .‬אולי צ״ל‪ :‬במין‪ ,‬וכך בכלל העולה מאיוב י‪” :‬הדברים אשר תכליותיהם הפכים‪ ,‬ראוי שיהיו‬ ‫מתחלפים במין״‪ .‬ובמלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר שישי‪ ,‬חלק ראשון‪ ,‬פרק ח‪” :‬וזה שאיך שהונח הענין ממניעי הגרמים השמימיים‬ ‫אשר הם צורותיהם‪ ,‬הנה הם מתחלפים במין״‪ .‬השוו גם מלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪.‬‬ ‫לעיל‪ .‬הבהרה זו לא נמצאת לא בפירוש השלם ולא ב׳מלחמות׳‪.‬‬ ‫הניסוח אינו ברור‪ .‬אולי המעתיק דילג על כמה מילים‪ .‬המשמעות היא )וכך גם בפירוש השלם‪ ,‬אם כי בניסוח אחר(‪ :‬המוות‬ ‫יותר טוב מצער מתמיד‪ ,‬שהוא יותר רע מהמיתה הפתאומית‪.‬‬ ‫למשפט זה אין מקבילה לא בפירוש השלם ולא ב׳מלחמות׳‪.‬‬ ‫הניסוח אינו ברור‪ .‬כוונתו לומר שה׳ איננו משגיח בדברים הפרטיים‪ ,‬ולכן נח לו לאדם הסובל שלא נברא‪ .‬אולי המעתיק‬ ‫שיבש את הנוסח או דילג על כמה מילים‪.‬‬

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‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫כי אין לו כח היולאני אשר בו }יושע{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬יושגו[ הענינים הפרטיים ועל כן לא ישיגם‪,‬‬ ‫ואל זה רמז באמרו ’העיני בשר לך׳ )איוב י ‪ .(4‬והאחר‪ ,‬שהוא ית׳ אינו תחת הזמן וכל מי‬ ‫שישיג הענינים הפרטיים הוא זמני ומתנועע והיולאני אחר קבלו הדברים אשר ישיגם‬ ‫ההיולי‪ ,‬והוא נעלה מכל זה כמו שהתבאר‪ 43.‬אם כן לא ישיג הענינים הפרטיים‪ .‬ואל זה‬ ‫רמז באמרו ’הכימי אנוש ימיך׳ וגו׳ )איוב י ‪ .(5‬ואולם המינים להיותם בלתי זמניים השגחת‬ ‫השם דבקה בהם כי }מי{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬מה[ שימצא בנמצאות השפלות מהסדר והיושר הוא‬ ‫מהטבע המיניי‪ ,‬והנמצא בהם מההעדר הוא במה שהם אישיים‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה ששי‪ ,‬ראשון לצופר )איוב יא(‬ ‫צופר יסכים שהטובות והרעות הנופלות לאישי האדם הם כלם מוגבלות ומסודרות מן‬ ‫הבורא ית׳ לפי מעשי איש ואיש‪ .‬ומתיר הספק אשר יקרה מזאת ההנחה מרוע הסדור‬ ‫הנראה לנו בטובות אישי האדם ורעתם בשיאמר למה שנחשבהו לרוע סדר מהרעות‬ ‫הצדיק וטובות הרשע הוא קצורנו מהשיג מי הצדיק והרשע‪ .‬כי הוא רואה שיש לכל‬ ‫אחד הכנות פרטיות ייוחד בהם‪ ,‬ולפי מה שיוציא אל הפועל השלם מה שהוכן אליו יהיה‬ ‫אצלו צדיק או רשע‪ .‬ולפי זה יתכן איש יפליג בעשיית הטוב ובלמוד החכמות ויקרהו‬ ‫רע ‪ -‬יהיה ענשו על אשר לא השלים כל מה שבכחו מהשלמות אם במדות ואם בדעות‪.‬‬ ‫ואם אחר נחשבהו רשע מצד מיעוט הטוב הנראה במעשיו‪ ,‬ויקרוהו טובות להיותו צדיק‬ ‫לפי שלא הוכן לקבל יותר מהשלמות‪ ,‬וכבר הוציא אל הפועל כל מה שבכחו והכנתו‬ ‫מהטוב ואם הוא מעט‪ .‬ולפי זאת ההנחה ימשך העונש בפעולות המגונות‪ :‬באשר מדרגת‬ ‫}הבנתו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬הכנתו[ חסרה‪ ,‬יהיה העונש מועט על פועל מגונה מאד‪ .‬ואנחנו נקצר‬ ‫מהשיג האמת באשר לא נבין שיעור העונש המתחייב ממנו למרי ]‪90‬ב[ לסכלותנו‬ ‫בהכנות האישים ובמשפטי השם ישרים‪ .‬ועוד‪ ,‬שכבר יתכן לאדם עון ופשע ולא נשער‬ ‫בזה באשר לא נראהו שיעשה פעולות מגונות‪ .‬וזה שכבר יחשב לעון פלילי למי שיבטל‬ ‫מהשיג המושכלות ויהיה בכחו }והבנתו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬והכנתו[ להשיגם‪ ,‬וראוי שיענש המכבה‬ ‫אורו בעצלותו ורוע בחירתו‪ 44.‬ובהיות כל אלה היחסים נעלמים ממנו לקצורנו נחשוב‬ ‫לרוע סדר מה שנראהו‪ ,‬אשר צפוי אל היודע ועד )ע״פ יר׳ כט ‪ ,(23‬בוחן כליות )ע״פ יר׳ יא‬ ‫‪ ,(20‬תמים פעלו וכל דרכיו משפט )ע״פ דב׳ לב ‪ .(4‬ואולם בלדד התיר הספק הזה בשאמ׳‬ ‫שמה שנחשבהו אנחנו שהם רעות לצדיקים הנה תכליתם לטוב‪ ,‬או לחסר מיותר רע‪,‬‬ ‫ומה שתכליתו טוב הוא טוב‪ .‬וכן מה שנחשבהו טובות לרשעים הוא רע באחרית ואם לא‬ ‫נשער אנחנו לקצורנו‪ ,‬כמו שנזכר במענה פיו‪45.‬‬ ‫ואחר מה שהתישב מדעת איוב ואליפז ובלדד וצופר כבר נאמרו בזה הפרק כל חלקי‬ ‫הסותר אשר אפשר שתפול בהם המחשבה למשכילים בזה הדרוש ונתיחד חלק חלק‬ ‫‪ 43‬לעיל‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 44‬ביטוי כזה נמצא גם בפירושו של הרא״ם )דף ‪.(2‬‬ ‫‪ 45‬ראה לעיל קיצור מענה רביעי‪ ,‬ראשון לבלדד‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪150‬‬

‫מהם לאיש מהאנשים אשר נחלקו בזה הספר כפי מה שתגזרהו החלוקה ההכרחית‪ .‬וזה‬ ‫שלא ימנע הענין אם שיהיה כל מה שישיג האדם מטוב ורע מוגבל ומסודר מהשם לפי‬ ‫מעשיו‪ 46‬ר״ל שלא יבואהו הטוב וישמר מהרע בעשית הטוב ולא יזיקהו עשות הרע‪ ,‬ואם‬ ‫שיהיה קצתם מוגבל ומסודר ממנו ית׳ לפי מעשי האדם וקצתם לא‪ .‬ולפי מה שיראה‬ ‫שכל הטובות והרעות מוגבלות מהשם ית׳ ישיגהו הספק מצד החוש‪ ,‬מה שיחשוב שכבר‬ ‫התאמת }מקצת{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬שמקצת[ הצדיקים יגיעם רע יותר ממה שיגיע לקצת‬ ‫הרשעים‪ ,‬ולרשעים יגיעם טוב יותר ממה שיגיע לקצת הצדיקים‪ .‬וזה הספק יִ וָ תר אם‬ ‫בשיודה שמה שנראהו לחוש מרוע סדר הוא אמת ואם בשנחלוק }זה{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬על‬ ‫זה[‪ .‬ואולם המחלוקת על זה הוא משני צדדים‪ :‬אם מצד הנושא‪ ,‬ר״ל האדם‪ ,‬ואם שמי‬ ‫שנחשבהו צדיק הוא רשע ומי שנחשבהו רשע הוא צדיק וזה דעת צופר; ואם המחלוקת‬ ‫על נשואו ר״ל הרעות והטוב‪ ,‬וזה שמה שנחשבהו אנחנו שהוא רע אינו רע אבל הוא טוב‬ ‫ובהפך‪ ,‬וזהו דעת בלדד‪ .‬וכבר יתיר בלדד מה שנחשבהו לרוע סדר שהוא מסודר על יושר‬ ‫מפני שקצת הרעות הבאות לצדיקים הנה תכליתם הם לטוב להם או לחסר מיותר רע וכן‬ ‫הטובות המגיעות לרשעים תכליתם לרע‪ ,‬ואינם נמלטים מהפחד אשר הוא רע גדול‪ ,‬גם‬ ‫יענשו בניהם אחריהם שזה עונש גדול לפי דעתו‪ 47.‬וצופר התיר זה הספק על דעתו כי‬ ‫הרשע ]‪91‬א[ והצדיק יבחן לפי מדרגת }הבנתו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬הכנתו[ אל השלמות ומי שנחשבהו‬ ‫צדיק יתכן היותו רשע }לקצורנו{ מצד קצורו‪ 48‬מהשיג מה שבכחו מהשלמות אם במדות‬ ‫משובחות אם בדעות אמתיות וראוי שיענש על זה‪ .‬ואנחנו נסכל אופני הדין בזה ולאל‬ ‫דעות נתכנו עלילות )ע״פ ש״א ב ‪ .(3‬וכן מי שנחשבהו רשע הנה מדרגתו ברשע חלושה‬ ‫‪ 46‬נראה שיש כאן דילוג הדומות‪ .‬בפירוש השלם )הכלל העולה מאיוב יא(‪” :‬לפי מעשיו אם שלא יהיה דבר ממה שישיג האדם‬ ‫מטוב ורע מוגבל ומסודר לפי מעשיו ר״ל ‪ . . .‬״‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 47‬לפי הכלל העולה מאיוב יא הטענה בדבר הפחד‪ ,‬שהוא עונשם של הרשעים‪ ,‬היא טענתו של צופר ולא של בלדד‪” :‬הנה‬ ‫התיר צופר הספק בזה‪ ,‬בשיאמר שהם אינם נמלטים מהפחד אשר הוא רע נפלא; ולפי שהפחד הוא דבר בלתי מורגש‪,‬‬ ‫נחשוב בכמו אלו האנשים שלא יגיעם שום רעה‪ .‬ודי להם בזה העונש אף על פי שפעולותיהם מגונות מאד לפי שמדרגת‬ ‫הכנתם היא פחותה‪ .‬ויאמר גם כן במה שאחר זה‪ ,‬שאם לא יענשו הם‪ ,‬כבר יענשו בניהם הבאים אחריהם‪ ,‬ודי להם בזה‬ ‫העונש לפי מחשבתו‪ ,‬כי הטוב אשר תכליתו רע הוא רע״‪ .‬כך עולה גם כן ממקומות האחרים בפירוש השלם וכך מפורש‬ ‫במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪ ,‬בתור דעתו של צופר‪” :‬ואולי יקרה להם על זה פחד וכאב לב ומה שידמה לזה מהרעות‬ ‫בלתי מורגשות לנו‪ ,‬ונחשוב שלא הגיע רע לאלו האנשים על מריים‪ ,‬והנה כבר הגיע להם מהעונש השעור אשר תגזרהו‬ ‫החכמה האלהית״‪ .‬הוא הדין גם לגבי הטענה בדבר העונש שיחול על בני הרשעים אחריהם‪ .‬לפי הכלל העולה מאיוב יא‬ ‫זוהי דעתו של צופר אשר תאמר בהמשך הספר )בפרק כ ‪ 18 ,10‬ובכלל העולה שם(‪.‬‬ ‫למרות הקושי שבדבר נראה‪ ,‬שאין להניח שחל כאן שיבוש של העתקה‪ ,‬מפני שלפני כן וגם אחרי כן מובאות דעותיו‬ ‫של צופר )והן אכן שייכות לצופר!(‪ .‬גם בקטע זה הטענה הראשונה שרעות הצדיקים תכליתן לטוב וטובות הרשעים‬ ‫תכליתן לרע היא אכן טענתו של בלדד‪ .‬החילוף בין שמות צופר ובלדד קיים בהקשר אחר גם בפירושו השלם של רלב״ג‬ ‫בכלל העולה מאיוב כא‪” :‬מה שאמר צופר שאין ראוי שיבטלו הגזירה הכוללת שהתאמתה מן החוש להם מפני מה שקרה‬ ‫לאיוב״‪ .‬כך הגרסה בכל כתבי היד‪ ,‬אולם ברור שהכוונה היא דווקא לדעתו של בלדד כפי שזו התבארה בפרק יח‪ .‬וכך פירש‬ ‫רלב״ג שם )ביאור דברי המענה( יח ‪” :4‬האם בעבור העדות שאתה מעיד בענייניך נשפוט שהארץ נעזבת ‪ ? . . .‬רוצה לומר‪:‬‬ ‫האם נשפוט שהארץ נעזבת מפני העדר הסדור הנופל בענייניך ‪ . . .‬אחר שאנחנו נמצא זה העניין ההולך בשאר האנשים‬ ‫על הסדר״‪ .‬וכך עולה גם מהמקומות הנוספים בפירוש‪ .‬לעומת זאת‪ ,‬באף מקום אין אנו מוצאים שצופר העלה טענה דומה‪.‬‬ ‫עם כל המבוכה שבדבר אין לנו אלא להניח שחל בלבול בדברי רלב״ג עצמו הן ב׳קיצור׳ כאן והן בפירושו לאיוב כא‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 48‬תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬

‫‪151‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫לפי מיעוט }הבנתו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬הכנתו[ אל השלמות ויתכן במעט טוב שיעשה }שיגמול{‬ ‫]צ״ל‪ :‬שיגמל[ טובות הרבה בשכבר הוציא אל הפועל השלם כל אשר בכחו והכנתו‪ .‬הנה‬ ‫יותר ספק מה שנראה מרוע סדר במציאות עם ההודאה שכל‬ ‫באחת משני אלה הדרכים ַ‬ ‫הטובות והרעות מוגבלות מהשם ית׳ וזה אם בשלא נשיג מהות הטוב והרע ואם בשלא‬ ‫ידע בין צדיק לרשע ובין עובד אלהים לאשר לא עבדו )ע״פ מל׳ ג ‪ ,(18‬ויהיה אם כן מה‬ ‫שיחשב שהוא רוע סדר הכל מסודר במשפט וצדק‪.‬‬ ‫ואולם בשנודה שכבר יגיעו לצדיקים רעות ולרשעים טובות כמו שיעיד בזה החוש‬ ‫הנה התרת זה הספק יהיה בשנאמר שאלו הטובות והרעות המגיעות לאנשים בזולת יושר‬ ‫אינם מגיעות מהשם ית׳ אבל ייוחסו אל סבות אחרות כמו הפתיות והאולת‪ .‬וזה יהיה‬ ‫משני צדדים‪ :‬אם שההשגחה האישית היא בכל אחד מן האנשים אך לא בכל דבריהם והם‬ ‫המיוחסים אל אולת האדם ופתיותו וזה דעת אליפז‪ ,‬ואם שנאמר שההשגחה האישית‬ ‫נמצאת בקצת האנשים ובקצתם לא‪ ,‬וזהו דעת אליהוא אשר רואה שההשגחה האלהית‬ ‫לא תלוה לכל האנשים אך לקצתם והם הראוים לה‪ .‬וזה הוא האמת ונמשך על דעת הר״ם‬ ‫מסכים אל דעת תורתנו‪49.‬‬ ‫הנה כבר התבאר כי לדעת בלדד וצופר כל הרעות והטובות מגיעות מהשם ית׳ והם‬ ‫מוגבלות }מסודרות{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬ומסודרות[ ממנו על הנכון והצדק‪ .‬מה שנחשבהו בלתי‬ ‫מסודר הוא לדעת בלדד לפי הנשוא וזה שמה שנחשוב שיהיה רע הוא טוב לפי תכליתו‬ ‫ומה שנחשבהו טוב הוא רע }בבחירת{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬בבחינת[ תכליתו כמו שקדם‪ .‬ולדעת‬ ‫צופר גם כן סדר הרוע הנראה אלינו הוא סכלותנו בנושא הרעות והטוב )ע״פ איכה ג‬ ‫‪ (38‬וזה שמי שנחשבהו צדיק הוא‪ 50‬רשע וראוי אל הרע‪ ,‬ומי שנחשבהו רשע הוא צדיק‬ ‫בעיני יי׳ כמו שהתבאר‪ 51.‬ואלה האנשים לא הניחו אל המוחש רושם כלל‪ ,‬ומי שזה דרכו‬ ‫לא יתכן שישיג האמת‪ ,‬כי התחלת הידיעה הוא מה שנראה מהמוחשים‪ ,‬ומי שיכחישם‬ ‫לא יהיה לו לידיעה דרך‪ ,‬כי מי הגיד להם שהאמת הוא מה שהניחוהו מהסדר? והנה אין‬ ‫להם מאזני הבחינה בזה בשום צד!‬ ‫והתבאר ג״כ שאליפז ואליהוא מודים שכבר נתאמת מה שאין דרך לדחותו ]‪91‬ב[‬ ‫מצד החוש מרוע סדר נמצא באישי האדם מצדיק ורע לו רשע וטוב לו‪ ,‬אלא שאליפז‬ ‫מתיר זה הספק בשיאמר שהשגחת השם ית׳ תלוה לכל איש ואיש מבני אדם‪ ,‬אך לא‬ ‫במעשיו מאשר קצת מפעולותיו נמשכים אחר אולתו ופתיותו לא יגזור בהם השם ואין‬ ‫להתרעם עליו ית׳ כי אולת אדם תסלף דרכו )ע״פ מש׳ יט ‪ ,52(3‬וקצתם נמשכים אחר‬ ‫רצונו והשגחתו והם מוגבלים ומסודרים‪ .‬ואמת בשכבר התקרב אל האמת בהודאתו‬ ‫אל השרש ולא הכחיש המוחש‪ ,‬ואם לא התיר כל הספקות אשר יתחייבו לדעתו‪ ,‬כי‬ ‫‪49‬‬ ‫‪50‬‬ ‫‪51‬‬ ‫‪52‬‬

‫מו״נ ג‪ ,‬יז ועל פי ניסוחו של הרמב״ם שם‪.‬‬ ‫שתי המילים נוספו בשוליים‪.‬‬ ‫לעיל‪.‬‬ ‫פסוק זה מובא כהסבר לדעת אליפז בביאור מילות המענה איוב ה ‪ 2‬והוא מופיע גם במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪152‬‬

‫מה שיקרה מהרע מפני האולת לא יהיה מאדיי‪ .‬וכן הטובות הקורות מצד הפתיות לא‬ ‫יתקיימו ואנחנו נמצא קצת רעות הצדיק וטובות הרשע יתמידו‪ ,‬ומה שיתמיד לא יתכן‬ ‫היותו במקרה‪ .‬ועוד שהוא לא הבדיל מה מהפעולות יגיעו מהשם על צד הגמול והעונש‬ ‫ומה שהם לא‪ ,53‬ואם באמת הודה בשרש האמתי שקצתם ייוחסו אליו וקצתם לא‪ 54,‬ולא‬ ‫הכחיש החוש המדריך אל ידיעת האמת‪.‬‬ ‫ואליהוא‪ 55‬התיר כל הספקות הנופלות במה שנראה לחוש מתמיד‪ ,‬בראותו שקצת אישי‬ ‫האדם משוערות פעילותיהם לפי ההשגחה האלהית והם הראויים אל זה כמו שיתבאר‪56‬‬ ‫וקצתם לא והם המון האנשים רשעים רבה )ע״פ איוב לא ‪ ,(34‬אשר כל פעולותיהם מטוב עד‬ ‫רע מסודרות ומוגבלות לפי מערכת הכוכבים אשר הטוב כולל וגובר מהשפעתם ואם ימצא‬ ‫רע בקצת הנה הוא טוב אצל הכל‪ ,‬ואין דבר רע יורד מלמעלה )ע״פ ב״ר נא‪,‬ג( כמו שיתבאר‬ ‫למי שידע סודות }המציאה{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬המציאות[ ואיכות ההנהגה אשר רמז אליהוא בדבריו‪.‬‬ ‫ואמנם איוב כאשר ידע תמתו וישרו והמכאובים שחלו עליו מבלתי חטא קדם לו לפי‬ ‫דעתו‪ ,‬החליט המאמר שכל מה שיקרה לאדם מוגבל ומסודר אחר מערכת הכוכבים אין‬ ‫לו מפלט ממנו ולא יועיל לצדיק צדקתו ולא יזיק אל הרשע רשעתו ואין דבר מוגבל‬ ‫ומסודר מאתו ית׳‪ .‬וכבר בארנו מה שבזה הדעת מהמום ודבר סרה‪ ,‬ושהביאו אל זה מאשר‬ ‫לא נשלם בחכמה‪ .‬והיה באחרית בהשקיפו בדעות החולקים עליו בכלל וביחוד בטענות‬ ‫אליפז ואליהוא עד הגיעו אל מדרגה נבואית שענהו השם מן הסערה‪) 57‬איוב לח ‪ ;1‬מ ‪(6‬‬ ‫והודה עוז נפלאותיו שב אל האמת ונחם על דעתו העלול‪ 58‬ומאס מה שכבר בחרו מאין‬ ‫בחירה אל האמת )איוב מא ‪ ,(6 ,1‬עד שהתפלל בעד שלשת רעיו במה שישיגו בדעותם‪,‬‬ ‫וקבל השם עתרתו להיות דעתו הראשון נכון לפי החקירה והעיון‪ 59,‬ובאחרונה מצד האמת‬ ‫הגמור דבר נכונה‪ 60‬ושב השם את שבותו והוסיף הצלחתו למשנה )איוב מב ‪.(17–9‬‬ ‫‪53‬‬

‫‪54‬‬ ‫‪55‬‬

‫‪56‬‬ ‫‪57‬‬ ‫‪58‬‬ ‫‪59‬‬

‫‪60‬‬

‫השוו הכלל העולה מאיוב יא‪” :‬ואולם טעה במה שאחר השורש וזה כי הוא כששער שהוא בטל שייוחסו כל הטובות‬ ‫והרעות אל גמול ועונש את השם ית׳ לפי מעשי האדם כמו שיתבאר מהחוש‪ ,‬היה בטל גם כן שלא יהיה בהם דבר מוגבל‬ ‫מאת ה׳ לפי מעשי האדם‪. . .‬״‪.‬‬ ‫בניגוד לניסוח הקצר שבפירוש השלם‪ ,‬מכאן מתברר מהו ”שורש אמיתי״ שהודה בו אליפז‪.‬‬ ‫בכלל העולה מאיוב יא דעת אליהוא הוזכרה בקיצור נמרץ )”ואולם מי שיראה שקצתם מוגבל לפי צדק האדם ורשעו‬ ‫מהשם יתברך‪ ,‬וקצתם בלתי מוגבל לפי שאין זאת ההשגחה לכל האנשים אך לקצתם‪ ,‬והם הראויים לה‪ ,‬לפי מה שיתבאר‬ ‫במה שאחר זה‪ ,‬הוא מאמר אליהוא‪ ,‬וזהו האמת בעצמו‪ ,‬כמו שיתבאר במה שיבוא״(‪ ,‬וכאן ”גלש״ רלב״ג לעניינו של הפרק‬ ‫הבא‪.‬‬ ‫להלן בקיצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬איוב התבונן בדברי אליפז ואליהוא וכך השיג את דבר ה׳‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬דעתו החלשה‪.‬‬ ‫ראו ביאור דברי המענה איוב מב ‪” :8–7‬אולם איוב‪ ,‬אם לא הגיע בתחלה אל הדעת האמתי‪ ,‬הנה לא היה טוען רק מה שהיה‬ ‫צודק לפי מחשבתו‪ ,‬ולהתבאר לו שבכאן רוע הסידור באלו הטובות והרעות ‪ -‬היה מניח שהשם יתברך בלתי יודע אלו הדברים‬ ‫הפרטים ‪ . . .‬וכבר ביאר מצד העיון היותו בלתי יודע אותה‪ .‬ולזה הוא מבואר‪ ,‬שאף על פי שדעת איוב היה כוזב‪ ,‬הנה הוא היה‬ ‫יותר קרוב אל הדעת האמתי מדעת אליפז ובלדד וצופר; כי הוא היה בנוי על שרשים צודקים‪ .‬ומה שהניחוֹ איוב הוא צודק‬ ‫לפי האמת בכל האנשים אשר לא תדבק בהם ההשגחה האלהית‪ ,‬והם הרבים‪ .‬ולזה לא חלק עמו אליהוא כי אם באנשים אשר‬ ‫תדבק בהם ההשגחה‪ ,‬כמו שביארנו‪ .‬ולזה אמר השם ית׳ לאליפז‪ ,‬שלא דברו אליו נכונה הוא ובלדד וצופר כאיוב״‪.‬‬ ‫כלומר‪ ,‬ה׳ קיבל את תפילתו של איוב בגלל השגתו את המושכלות‪ .‬השוו דברים אלו עם פירושו לבראשית‪ ,‬וירא‪ ,‬חלק‬

‫‪153‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫זה כלל ]‪92‬א[ דעות המיוחסים לאיוב ושלשת רעיו כפי החלוקה ההכרחית אשר בזה‬ ‫הדרוש‪ ,‬ותשובותיהם על דרך השאלה והמענה הם טענות הביא כל אחד לאיוב לקיים‬ ‫דעתו ולסתור דעתו של איוב‪ ,‬והוא גם כן האריך בקיום דעתו בטענות סותרות דעות רעיו‬ ‫עד אשר לא מצאו מענה )ראה איוב לב ‪ .(3‬וכל הטענות והראיות סובבות על השרשים‬ ‫הנזכרים על כן עזבנו אותן בזה הקצור‪ 61.‬והארכנו בקצור דעת אליהוא ומענה השם ית׳‬ ‫לאיוב המתיר כל הספיקות הנופלות לכל אחד מהדעות‪ ,‬ר״ל איוב ושלשת רעיו‪ ,‬עד לאמת‬ ‫יצא משפטי יי׳ ישרים משמחי לב )ע״פ יש׳ מב ‪ 3‬ותה׳ יט ‪ (10–9‬מבין }דרכנו{ ]אולי צ״ל‪:‬‬ ‫דרכיו[‪ ,‬ושומר מצותיו ותורותיו נוצר בריתו ועדותו‪.‬‬ ‫קצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא וטענותיו )איוב לב‪6-‬לג(‬ ‫אליהוא רואה שהטובות והרעות הם מוגבלות ומסודרות לפי מערכת הכוכבים לאומה‬ ‫ואומה ואיש ואיש מבני אדם‪ ,‬וזה‪ ,‬שלמה שהיה האדם היותר שלם שבנמצאות השפלות‪,‬‬ ‫נשתתפו כל הגרמים השמימיים בשמירתו ובסדור הנהגתו כפי מצבם ברגע ההריון או‬ ‫הלידה לאיש אשר מהם כפי הצומח בעת קבוץ האומה והתאחדותה אל האב הראשון‪.‬‬ ‫ובזה המין מהשמירה נבדל מין האדם מצד מעלתו על כל אלה הנמצאות השפלות‪ .‬ואם‬ ‫כבר יקרה מזאת ההנהגה רע מה במקרה אין להפלא מזה ולהתרעם על השם ית׳ מפני‬ ‫שכונתו הראשונה היא הגעת הטוב והוא המתמיד‪ .‬ואלו היה ביכולת שלא יגיע מזה שום‬ ‫רע לא היה מקצר מזה‪ ,‬רק זה מתחיב אל הבריאה כהמצא הב״ח ]=הבעלי חיים[ הטורפים‬ ‫המזיקים‪ ,‬עם היותם בלתי ראוים להגיע הטוב }מהם{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬להם[‪62.‬‬ ‫ועם כל זה הרע אשר יקרה לאדם מזה הסדור כבר הערים השם ית׳ בהסרתו כפי‬ ‫היכולת‪ ,‬באשר האדם בעל שכל ובחירה‪ 63‬בדברים‪ .‬ואשר מי שהשלים שכלו עד שיהיה‬ ‫לו דבקות שלם עם השכל הפועל‪ ,‬הנה הוא ישמרהו מהרעות המתעתדות מצד המערכת‬ ‫בשידעום אליו טרם באם‪ .‬וזה יהיה בחלום ובחזיון לילה )ע״פ איוב לג ‪ (15‬בעת השינה‪,‬‬ ‫אשר אז תסיר מעשי הנפש המרגשת ומעשי בעל החומר אשר יעבור יכסה )ע״פ איוב‬ ‫שני‪” ,‬התועלת השני הוא ‪ . . .‬בדעות‪ ,‬והוא‪ ,‬שתפילת הטובים הדבקים בשם יתעלה‪ ,‬היא הנשמעת‪ .‬ולזה אמר‪ ,‬שכבר ִת ּ ָש ַמע‬ ‫תפילת אברהם עליו מפני היותו נביא‪ ,‬כי הוא מפני זה דבק בשם יתעלה‪ ,‬כטעם אמרו ’והתענג על ה׳ ויתן לך משאלות‬ ‫לבך׳ )תה׳ לז ‪’ ;(4‬אם על שדי יתענג יקרא אל אלוה בכל עת׳ )איוב כז ‪ ;(10‬וכבר ביארנו אמתת זה בביאורינו לספר איוב״‪.‬‬ ‫ראו ביאור דברי המענה איוב כז ‪’” :10–8‬מה תקות חנף כי׳ יגזול ויעשה חמס? ואם היה שיניח השם ית׳ בשלוה אותו ולא‬ ‫יענישהו‪ ,‬היבטח שבבא אליו הצרות יצילהו השם ממנה בצעקו אליו? הלא זה בלתי אפשר לפי זה הדעת ולא לפי דעתכם‪,‬‬ ‫ותשמע תפלתו״‪.‬‬ ‫כי אינו מתענג על השם ודבק בו עד שיוכל להתפלל אל השם בכל עת שירצה ָ‬ ‫‪ 61‬ראייה זו של דברי איוב ורעיו‪ ,‬שלאחר הסדרה הראשונה של הנאומים כל הדוברים חוזרים פחות או יותר על טענותיהם‬ ‫שכבר נאמרו‪ ,‬תואמת לפירושו השלם של רלב״ג‪ .‬ראו למשל סוף הכלל העולה מאיוב טו‪” :‬כי אם היה הענין כן‪ ,‬תבטל‬ ‫הבחירה ויהיו כל העניינים מחוייבים‪ .‬הנה זה הוא לבד מה שהוסיף אליפז לטעון בזה המענה״‪ .‬וראו גם ביאור דברי המענה‬ ‫איוב יח ‪.2–1‬‬ ‫‪ 62‬השוו הכלל העולה מאיוב לב ‪6-‬לג‪” :‬כמו שלא יִ ּ ָפלא איש על מה שישגיח השם יתברך בשמירת הבעלי חיים הפחותים‬ ‫והמציא להם המזון והכלים אשר בו ישיגוהו‪ ,‬עם היותם טורפים ומשחיתים זולתם‪ ,‬והיותם בלתי ראויים להגיע טוב להם‬ ‫מפני צדקם‪ ,‬לפי שהם בלתי מתוארים בצדק״‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 63‬מלה זו נוספה בשוליים‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪154‬‬

‫לג ‪ ,(17‬ומעלים שפע השכל עליו‪ ,‬ואז יגלה השכל הפועל אוזן אנשים המוכנים אל זה‬ ‫במוסרם וייסוריהם אשר יחתום המערכת )ע״פ איוב לג ‪ 64.(16‬וזה המין מההודעה הוא‬ ‫אל השלם במדות ובדעות כפי שלמותו‪ .‬אולם אל השלם במדות לבד‪ 65,‬או הדורך אל‬ ‫השלמות‪ 66‬ולא הגיע אל מדרגה שיקבל שפע השכל ]‪92‬ב[ בחלום או במראה‪ ,‬הנה‬ ‫התאחדות מה וההדרכה אל האמת אשר לא יבינהו שידובר עליו בדרך אחרת להצילו‬ ‫מן הרע הראוי לבא עליו כפי המערכת‪ ,‬וזה יהיה שיוכיחהו השם במכאובות לשמרו שלא‬ ‫ילך בדרך אשר אם ילך בה ימות או יקרהו רע יותר‪ .‬וזאת השמירה בישרים מצד ישרם‬ ‫נמשכת עליהם ואם לא ישערו בה על הדרך שהטביע השם ית׳ כחות טבעיות בקצת ב״ח‬ ‫]=בעלי חיים[ לברוח מן המזיקים להם בששם ריחם ושכותם‪ 67‬מגונה עליהם ויברחו‬ ‫מהם וינצלו מרעתם מבלתי }שיעש{ שישערו‪ 68‬בתועלת הנמשך להם והשמירה מהטרף‪.‬‬ ‫וכן יקרה למי שיהיה לו בבני אדם התאחדות מה עם השכל הפועל‪ 69‬קטנות שבהלצות‬ ‫)ע״פ איוב לג ‪ ,(23‬ההלצה והדבקות יסבב סבות להצילו ואם לא ירגיש‪ ,‬אם לשמרו מרע‬ ‫מוחש מסודר לבא עליו מצד המערכת‪ ,‬או לשמרו מרע נפשיי‪ :‬אם מדעת נפסד או מדה‬ ‫מגונה‪ ,‬ויהיה זה שיבאו עליו מכאובים ימנעוהו מהנפילה ברע המסודר אם היה מוחש‪,‬‬ ‫או אז יכנע לבבו בהם אם היה נפשיי ויפשפש במעשיו ובדעותיו וישוב אל יי׳‪ .‬וזה המין‬ ‫מהרעות שהם על צד התוכחת לשמירה מרע נפשיי יקרו לכמו אלו האנשים הדורכים‬

‫‪64‬‬

‫‪65‬‬

‫‪66‬‬

‫‪67‬‬

‫‪68‬‬ ‫‪69‬‬

‫השוו לפירושו לאיוב לג ‪” :16–15‬הנה בחלום ובחזיון לילה‪ ,‬בנפול תרדמה על אנשים‪ ,‬בעת שישן על משכבו‪ ,‬כי אז תנוח‬ ‫הנפש המרגשת מפעולותיה‪ ,‬ויהיה אפשר מפני זה באיש השלם להתבודד שכלו מבין שאר כחות הנפש ויתאחד בשכל‬ ‫הפועל ‪ -‬אז יגלה השם יתברך אוזן אנשים ובמוסרם ויסוריהם אשר יחתום לפי המערכת לבא עליהם״‪.‬‬ ‫כפי שטען רלב״ג לעיל )קיצור המשל(‪ ,‬השלם במידות בלבד לא יינצל מרשותו של השטן‪ ,‬כלומר‪ ,‬מן הצרות הנגרמות‬ ‫מהחומר‪ .‬אולם‪ ,‬כאן הוא מציין שגם הצרות הללו יכולות להיות מכוונות לטוב – להוכיח את האדם שילך בדרך הטובה‪.‬‬ ‫הדבר הזה לא נאמר מפורשות בפירוש השלם‪ ,‬ברם‪ ,‬כך התנסח רלב״ג במקומות אחרים בכתביו‪ .‬ראו בראשית‪ ,‬וירא‪ ,‬חלק‬ ‫ראשון‪” ,‬התועלת החמשה עשר הוא בדעות‪ ,‬והוא‪ ,‬שהשגחת השם יתעלה תדבק באדם מפני ׁ ָש ְמרוֹ דרך השם ועשות‬ ‫צדקה ומשפט‪ ,‬עד שיהיה שלם במדות ובדעות‪ .‬ולזה‪ ,‬נתן בסבת השגחת השם יתעלה בזרע אברהם ‪ -‬היותם שומרים‬ ‫דרך ה׳ לעשות צדקה ומשפט‪ .‬וכבר התבאר אמתת זה ברביעי מ׳מלחמות ה׳׳‪ ,‬ובביאורנו לספר איוב״‪.‬‬ ‫הביטוי ”דורך אל השלמות״ אינו נמצא בפירוש השלם‪ ,‬אך הוא אופייני ללשונו של רלב״ג‪ .‬ראו למשל פירושו לויקרא‪,‬‬ ‫בחוקותי‪ ,‬תועלת ‪” 2‬ואולם מבן חמש ועד בן עשרים שנה‪ ,‬שהחל להתחזק ולמאוס ברע ובחור בטוב‪ ,‬והוא דורך אל‬ ‫השלמות‪ ,‬היה ערך הזכר יותר ממי שהוא מבן ששים ומעלה‪ ,‬כי הוא דורך אל החסרון וההפסד״; מלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר‬ ‫ראשון‪ ,‬פרק ו‪” :‬וזה כי לפי מה שהיה החמר הראשון דורך בזה הפועל אשר יפעל בו השכל הפועל משלמות אל שלמות״;‬ ‫שם‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ב‪” :‬ובהיות הענין כן‪ ,‬הנה לא ימנע שיהיה בכאן איש מהאנשים נחשב בו שהוא צדיק‪ ,‬והוא דורך‬ ‫על שלמות פחות ביחס אל השלמות אשר הוא כחיי עליו״‪.‬‬ ‫מלה זו אינה ברורה ואולי היא משובשת‪ .‬ייתכן שהכוונה ל׳מראה שלהם׳‪’ ,‬תמונתם׳ כמו ”אבן משכית״ )ויק׳ כו ‪’ ,(1‬שכיה׳‪,‬‬ ‫”שכיות חמדה״ )יש׳ ב ‪ 16‬וראה פירושו של רד״ק שם(‪ .‬בפירוש השלם )ביאור דברי המענה איוב לג ‪ (19‬הניסוח הוא‪:‬‬ ‫”בששם ריחם דרך משל מגונה עליהם״‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫נראה שהמעתיק דילג על כמה מילים‪ .‬השווה ביאור דברי המענה איוב לג ‪” :24–23‬הנה זאת ההודעה בזה האופן תהיה‬ ‫לאדם אם יגיעהו התאחדות מה בשכל הפועל בדרך שיהיה ’עליו מלאך מליץ׳ הקטנה שבהלצות ’להגיד לאדם׳ מה‬ ‫שיתיישר בו וישמר מן הרע‪ ,‬ובזה האופן יחון אותו‪ ,‬ויאמר‪ ,‬להציל אותו ולפדותו ’מרדת שחת׳‪’ :‬מצאתי כפר׳ ‪ -‬והוא הסרת‬ ‫זה המכאוב״‪.‬‬

‫‪155‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫אל השלמות פעמים שלש לבד )ע״פ איוב לג ‪ ,(29‬כי אחר כן שבה לו זאת התכונה הרעה‬ ‫אשר החזיק בה קנין חזק לא יוסר ממנה‪70.‬‬ ‫הנה כפי מה שקדם‪ ,‬שאם היו הטובות והרעות מוגבלות ומסודרות מצד המערכת‬ ‫הנה אינם מכריחות שיגיעו לכל אדם מה שסודר עליו מהם מפני מה שכבר }הוחן{ ]צ״ל‪:‬‬ ‫הוכן[ עליו שכל ובחירה אשר ימשול בו על סדור המערכת ותנצח מה שתחיבהו‪ .‬וזה‬ ‫שאם הוציא שכלו אל הפועל השלם על אשר תדבק נפשו עם השכל הפועל בעת השינה‬ ‫יגיעהו אז מדע במה שעתיד להיות בדרך שהיה לו הבחירה והיכולת להנצל מהרעות‬ ‫הקורות כי עת המשפט ידע לב חכם )ע״פ קה׳ ח ‪ (5‬הרבה‪ 71‬אם יוכל לדחות מהגזרות‬ ‫העליונות ואולי כלן‪ .‬ואם הוא למטה מזאת המדרגה ‪ -‬מדרגה שאין לו מהשלמות ההכנה‬ ‫לקבל שפע השכל הפועל בחלום או במראה אמנם יהיה תם וישר במדות ובכשרון מעשים‬ ‫ודורך אל השלמות ופונה אליו‪ ,‬אם מצד התאחדותו עם השכל הפועל התאחדות מה ‪-‬‬ ‫ינצל מרעות המערכת בדרך רחוקה בשהוכח במכאוב להצילו מהמיתה או מיותר רע‬ ‫מוחש מעותד לבא עליו‪ ,‬או ישמרהו המכאוב מרע נפשיי‪ ,‬מדעת בטל או מתכונה רעה‬ ‫כשיפשפש מעשיו ויישיר דעותיו אל האמת‪.‬‬ ‫ואפשר שתהיה המדרגה )האמתית( האמצעית‪ 72‬בין שתי אלה המדרגות ר״ל בין ]‪93‬א[‬ ‫ההודעה בחלום או במראה וההודעה במכאוב וזה שיקרה לאדם פחד גדול על ענין מה‬ ‫אשר אם יעשהו יקרנו רע }וישמור{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬וישמר[ מעשותו וינצל‪ ,‬על דרך אמרם ”אע״ג‬ ‫דאיהו לא חזי הא מזליה חזי״ )מגילה ג‪ ,‬א(‪ .‬ובזה המין מהאופן }המכונה{ ]אולי צ״ל‪:‬‬ ‫הנזכר[‪ 73‬יתקימו הברכות והקללות היעודות‪ 74,‬כי כשנלך בדרכי השם ויהיה רע נכון‬ ‫לבא כפי המערכת ‪ -‬הגיע ההודעה לנביא‪ ,‬אם ימצא באומה בעת ההיא‪ ,‬ואם בייסורין‬ ‫‪70‬‬

‫‪71‬‬ ‫‪72‬‬ ‫‪73‬‬ ‫‪74‬‬

‫השוו ביאור דברי המענה איוב לג ‪” :30‬כן ישגיח בו להצילו מהדרכים אשר ימנעוהו מהגעה אל השלמות‪ ,‬והם פעולות‬ ‫הרשע‪ ,‬שכל מי שיחזיק בהם ‪ -‬ירחיקוהו מהשם יתברך לפי שהם גם כן מוגבלות מצד המערכת; ולא ישגיח בו להביא‬ ‫ֶ‬ ‫עליו ייסורין לשמרו מפעולות הרשע יותר משלוש פעמים‪ ,‬כי אחר כן שבה לו זאת התכונה קנין חזק‪ ,‬ולא יוסר ממנה‬ ‫לעולם״‪.‬‬ ‫לא ברור למה המלה מתייחסת‪ ,‬ל׳חכם הרבה׳ או להרבה מהגזרות ש׳יוכל לדחות׳‪ .‬אולי יש כאן שיבוש מחמת סיכול‬ ‫המילים‪ ,‬וצריך להיות‪ :‬אם יוכל לדחות הרבה מהגזרות העליונות ואולי כולן‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫בפירוש השלם )הכלל העולה מאיוב לב‪6-‬לג(‪” :‬יותר הספק הזה ויתקיימו‪ . . .‬״‪.‬‬ ‫השוו הכלל העולה מאיוב לב‪6-‬לג‪” :‬וראוי שתדע אתה המעיין‪ ,‬שבכמו זה האופן יו ַּתר הספק הזה במה שזכרה תורה‬ ‫בהגעת הרעות לנו בשלא נלך בדרכי השם ובהגעת הטובות בשנלך בהם‪ ,‬כמו שזכר בברכות וקללות‪ ,‬וזה‪ ,‬שכלל האומה‬ ‫יהיה מושגח כשילך בדרכי השם ית׳‪ .‬וכאשר יחל לצאת מהדרך הטוב או יהיה נכון לבא עליו רע מצד המערכת‪ ,‬תגיע‬ ‫ההודעה לכלל ההוא באחד משני אלו הדרכים אשר זכר; וזה‪ ,‬שאם היה ביניהם נביא תגיע אליו ההודעה והוא יגיעה לכלל‬ ‫האומה; ואם לא‪ ,‬הנה יביא על הכלל ההוא יסורין מה ומכאובות‪ ,‬אם להצילם מהרע הגופיי הנכון לבא עליהם‪ ,‬אם להצילם‬ ‫מן הפחיתות הנפשיי אשר החלו להסתבך בו‪ .‬ולזה ביארה התורה שכשיבאו על הכלל כמו אלו הרעות‪ ,‬לא יְ יַ ֲחסוה אל‬ ‫הקרי‪ ,‬אבל יאמינו שהכל בא מהשם יתברך להוכיחם ולהעתיקם מהרע״‪.‬‬ ‫ראו גם בפירושו לבראשית )ביאור המילות( מט ‪” :28‬וראוי שתדע‪ ,‬כי ההודעה שיהיה לאדם בדברים העתידים לו‪ ,‬אם‬ ‫טוב ואם רע‪ ,‬הוא ברכה; ולזה השגיח השם יתעלה בזה האופן בדבקים בו ‪ -‬רוצה לומר‪ ,‬שיודיע אותם מה שיתכן שיקרה‬ ‫להם ‪ -‬כדי שיקחו עצה ברע שלא יגיע‪ ,‬וישתדלו בהגעת הטוב ביותר שלם שאפשר; כמו שבארנו ברביעי מ׳מלחמות ה׳׳‪,‬‬ ‫ובביאורנו לספר איוב‪ .‬ובהיות הענין כן‪ ,‬הנה יתכן שמה שאמר יעקב לאחד אחד מבניו‪ ,‬הוא ברכה לו‪ .‬הלא תראה כי יצחק‬ ‫אמר לעשו בברכו אותו‪’ :‬ואת אחיך תעבוד׳ )בר׳ כז ‪ ,(40‬ואין זאת ברכה‪ ,‬אבל היא מהדברים העתידים לו״‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪156‬‬

‫יצילום מרע יותר גדול או מאבדן‪ ,‬או יצילם‪ 75‬מפחיתות נפש החל בזה‪ .‬ולזה אין ליחס‬ ‫אלה הרעות אל הקרי‪ .‬ואם יסורו מאחרי יי׳ יהיה העונש הסתר פנים ויעזבו אל המערכת‪.‬‬ ‫הנה התבאר שהרעות המתחייבות מסדור מערכת הכוכבים אין להתרעם מהם מפני‬ ‫שהטוב מכוון בו כונה ראשונה‪.‬‬ ‫וכבר הערים השם ית׳ בשהמציא במין האדם דרכים ינצל הראוי לזה ממיני הרעות‪,‬‬ ‫ומה שנמשך מהם ברע הוא אל הרע ואיש הבלי‪ ,‬על אשר הוא טוב ‪ -‬לטובים‪ ,‬כמו שאמ׳‬ ‫שלמה ע״ה ’כל פעל יי׳ למענהו וגם רשע ליום רעה׳ )מש׳ טז ‪ (4‬ואמ׳ ’באבוד רשעים רנה׳‬ ‫)מש׳ יא ‪’ (10‬ישמח צדיק כי חזה נקם׳ )תה׳ נח ‪ .(11‬ואולם מהטובות הקורות אל הרשעים‬ ‫מצד משפטי הכוכבים אין להתרעם מזה אל השם ית׳ כי על כל פנים הם יותר נכבדים‬ ‫משאר ב״ח ]=בעלי חיים[ שהוכן להם מהסדור מה שישמרם כמו שיתבאר בדברי השם‬ ‫ית׳ בבאור רחב )איוב מ ‪-6‬מא( שהטוב מכוון‪76.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה שני לאליהוא )איוב לד(‬ ‫איוב היה טוען שכבר הגיעוהו אלה הרעות על לא חמס בכפיו ורואה מפני זה שהאדם‬ ‫משולח ונעזב אל המערכת‪ ,‬ומתרעם איך סדר השם ית׳ זה האופן מהעדר היושר ולמה‬ ‫ברא האנשים הקשי יום אשר המות נבחר להם מהחיים?! ויחס זה אל לאות וקצור בהנהגה‬ ‫או לעול וחמס‪ ,77‬חלילה לאל מרשע ושדי מעול )ע״פ איוב לד ‪ .(10‬ואליהוא בטל דברי‬ ‫איוב מצדדים‪ :‬האחד על שאמ׳ שאין חמס בכפיו והוא מבואר שכבר חטא במה שאמ׳‬ ‫’לא יסכון גבר ברצותו עם אלהים׳ )איוב לד ‪ (9‬ובזה התחבר עם פועלי האון‪ ,‬כי הם יעשו‬ ‫החמס והרשע בהשענם שלא יגיעם נזק מן השם‪ .‬ואם כבר התנצל איוב במענה ’חי אל‬ ‫הסיר משפטי׳ )איוב כז ‪ (2‬שהוא יגנה הרשע והעול ובוחר במדות החשובות ‪ -‬הנה אין‬ ‫לו התנצלות ומה שנכנס מהמום והטעות בדעתו זאת מצד קצורו במה שראוי בזאת‬ ‫החקירה‪ .‬וזה חטא גדול ועון פלילי )ע״פ איוב לא ‪ (28‬כי החטא אשר יקרה בדעות יותר‬ ‫עצום מן החטא אשר יקרה בפעולות המדותיות‪ ,‬לפי ]‪93‬ב[ שהחטא אשר יהיה בדעות‬ ‫יהיה המתואר בו שכל‪ 78‬יותר נכבד מהחומר ושאר כחות הנפש ‪ -‬הוא מבואר שהמרי‬ ‫אשר יקרה בו הוא יותר עצום‪ ,‬וכל שכן כשנתלו בזה הדעת ממחקר ההשגחה השלמיות‬ ‫האנושיים בכללם המדעי והמדיני‪ .‬אם המדיני‪ ,‬הוא מבואר שרוב האנשים לא ימנעו‬ ‫מעשיית הרע אם לא מיראתם מהעונש שיגיעם על זה‪ .‬ואם השלמות המדעי‪ ,‬כי האנשים‬ ‫כשידעו שבהשלימם שכלם ימלטו מאלה הרעות אשר מצד המערכת כמו שאמ׳ אליהוא‪,‬‬ ‫‪75‬‬ ‫‪76‬‬ ‫‪77‬‬

‫‪78‬‬

‫כנראה הכוונה שהייסורין יצילום‪ ,‬והאות ו״ו חסרה כאן‪.‬‬ ‫כוונתו לביאור הרחב שבו ביאר ה׳ את העניין במענה השני )איוב מ‪6-‬מא(‪.‬‬ ‫הנהגת ה׳ תוגדר כעול אם נניח שהוא משגיח במתרחש בעולם החומרי‪ .‬לטענת איוב כך המצב לפי שיטת רעיו‪ ,‬וזה מה‬ ‫שהם אכן חושבים בתוככי ליבם‪ .‬ראו לעיל‪ ,‬קיצור מענה חמישי‪ ,‬שלישי לאיוב‪ .‬וראו בפירוש השלם ביאור דברי המענה‬ ‫איוב יג ‪ ;9‬טז ‪ ;20–19‬ועוד הרבה‪.‬‬ ‫נראה שיש כאן דילוג דומות‪ .‬בביאור השלם הכלל העולה מאיוב לד‪” :‬החטא אשר יהיה בדעות יהיה המתואר בו השכל‪,‬‬ ‫והחטא אשר יהיה בפעולות המדותיות יהיה המתואר בו החומר והכחות הנפשיות החמריות‪ ,‬והנה השכל ‪ . . .‬״‪.‬‬

‫‪157‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫ישתדלו בזה ויוציאו מה שבכחם אל השלמות‪ 79.‬וזאת ההשגה היא בשנשיג מעשיו ואופן‬ ‫פעולותיהם‪ .‬ומה שאפשר שנשיג אנחנו מהם הוא אלו הדרכים אשר בזה העולם השפל‪.‬‬ ‫הנה מי שטעה בזה תמנע ממנו ההשגה האפשרית לאדם! ולפי זה כבר חטא איוב חטא‬ ‫גדול ומרי עצום‪ ,‬ראוי למה שהגיעוהו מן המקרים במשפט ובצדק‪.‬‬ ‫והצד השני מבואר שהשם ית׳ לא ישתדל בעשיית הרשע והעול אבל ירחיקהו בכל‬ ‫באופנים זה יתבאר בחפוש‪ .‬והציע הקדמה אחת אמתית מחייבת הודאה בה לבעלי‬ ‫התורות האלהיות ואנשי העיון‪ ,‬והיא שבכל }אנשי{ הדברים‪ 80‬הנמצאים פועל אותן‬ ‫השם ית׳ וכאשר נחפש בכללות בסדור אשר סדר השם ית׳ בו זה המציאות‪ ,‬מצאנו בו‬ ‫היושר והצדק והחנינה וההטבה מה שלא ישוער בשיעור הנמצא במין }מן הנמצאות{‬ ‫]צ״ל‪ :‬מין מהנמצאות[ באופן היותר שלם שאפשר שיהיה להם מן השלמות בעצמם‪,‬‬ ‫והשלמת קצתם קצת‪ ,‬והעזרם קצתם לקצת‪ ,‬וזה נרמז באמרו ’מי פקד עליו ארצה׳ וגו׳‬ ‫)איוב לד ‪ .(13‬רצה שהוא ית׳ הפועל והמסדר‪ ,‬וזה הסדור הנאה והישר יורנו שאין השם‬ ‫ית׳ חפץ רשע כמו שהקדים ואמ׳ ’אף אמנם אל לא ירשיע׳ וגו׳ )איוב לד ‪ (12‬כי מי שהוא‬ ‫חפץ ברשע לא יבא מאתו הצדק והיושר כי אם מעט ובמקרה‪ ,‬והשם ית׳ מחדש טובו‪81‬‬ ‫בכל יום תמיד בתכלית מה שאפשר מהיושר והצדק והחנינה‪ .‬ואין לומ׳ שזה הסדור הטוב‬ ‫הוא נמצא במינים בלבד ואיננו פועל באישים‪ ,‬לפי שהמינים אינם דבר יותר מהאישים‬ ‫אבל הם בעצמם‪ ,‬אלא שבאישים דבר נוסף על הטבע המיניי והם הדברים ההיולאנים‬ ‫אשר היו בהם פרטיים‪ .‬הנה אם כן אחר שהוא ית׳ פועל הכל בסדור ישר הנראה הנפלא‪,‬‬ ‫אין ראוי ליחס אליו הרשע והעול‪ ,‬ומה שנמצאהו לפי }דעתם{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬דעתנו[ בלתי שומר‬ ‫צדק ויושר בטובות אישי האדם ורעתם ‪ -‬ראוי שנחקור על סבת זה‪ ,‬ואם יעלם ממנו‬ ‫ראוי שניחסהו לקצורנו‪ ,‬לא שנטיח דברים כלפי מעלה‪ ,‬כמו ]‪94‬א[ שעשה איוב שייחס‬ ‫לו לשם ית׳ עול או לאות וקצור‪ ,‬אשר איך ייוחס העול למי שהטוב והיושר שופע ממנו‬ ‫תמיד במציאות בכללו?! ומי שהמציא זה המציאות בכללו בזה הסדור הנפלא המורה על‬ ‫תכלית }העושר{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬היושר[ והחכמה ולא השיגהו לאות וקצור מהמציא דברים‬ ‫נפלאים בנמצא נמצא‪ ,‬איך יגיעהו לאות וקצור במה שהוא למטה מזה‪ ,‬והוא להביא‬ ‫הטוב לטובים והרע לרעים?! וכ״ש שלא ילאה ]בפירוש השלם נוסף‪ :‬להמנע[ מברוא‬ ‫האנשים הקשי יום ולא יקצר מהשיג אם המות נבחר להם מהחיים‪ ,‬כמו ששגה איוב בכל‬ ‫זה }לקצורינו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬לקיצורו[ בעיון‪.‬‬ ‫צד שני לבאר שאין השם ית׳ חפץ רשע‪ ,‬כבר הניח תחלה אליהוא בכח דבריו שאין‬ ‫‪ 79‬במקבילה שבכלל העולה מאיוב לד תיאר רלב״ג את חטאו ”המדעי״ של איוב בשני צדדים‪ :‬במקרה ובעצם )”ואמנם יתבאר‬ ‫שכבר נתלה בו השלימות המדעי משני צדדים‪ :‬הצד האחד ‪ -‬במקרה‪ ,‬והוא‪ :‬כשידעו האנשים שבהשלימם שכלם והוצאתם‬ ‫אותו מהכח אל הפועל ימלטו מאלו הרעות אשר מצד המערכת ‪ . . .‬ישתדלו להשלים שכלם‪ .‬והצד השני ‪ -‬בעצם; כי‬ ‫ההצלחה האנושית תהיה כשישכיל האדם השם ית׳ כפי מה שאיפשר״(‪ .‬כאן תיאר רלב״ג רק את הצד של הפגם ‪” -‬במקרה״‪,‬‬ ‫כנראה מתוך בקשת הקיצור‪ ,‬אלא אם כן נניח שיש כאן דילוג של המעתיק‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 80‬תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫‪ 81‬המלה נוספה בשוליים‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪158‬‬

‫הבאת הטוב בלא משפט עול בחקו ית׳ וזה שלמה שהיה השם ית׳ משגיח באדם השגחה‬ ‫כוללת מצד הסדור מהגרמים השמימיים ‪ -‬וזה יהיה להם מאשר הם אדם יולד בעת שבו‬ ‫מצב הכוכבים זה המצב לא מצד שהם אלו האנשים ‪ -‬הוא מבואר שאין ראוי שימנע השם‬ ‫מהשגיח במין האנושי זה }באופן{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬האופן[ מההטבה אל הכל‪ ,‬מפני הרשעים אשר‬ ‫אפשר שיהיו בו‪ .‬ואולם היה זה עול אם היה מגיע להם הטוב מצד רשעם או מפני הטבע‬ ‫האישיי‪ .‬ואחר שהתישב שהבאת הטוב בלא משפט בזה האופן אינו עול‪ ,‬הנה הוא ית׳‬ ‫בלתי חפץ רשע והשחתת עולם‪ ,‬כי לו חפץ השם להמיתנו )ע״פ שופ׳ יג ‪ (23‬היה משחית‬ ‫זה המציאות ברגע לפי מה שנמצא לו מן העוצם והיכולת‪ .‬ועוד‪ ,‬שהעמדתו }בו וקיומו{‬ ‫]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬וקיומו בו[‪ ,‬וכאשר לא יסבב בשמירתו יפסד תכף‪ .‬אבל זה המציאות אינו‬ ‫נפסד ונשחת יחד‪ ,‬הנה א״כ אין השם ית׳ חפץ רשע‪ ,‬אך הוא רוצה בקיומו וטובו‪ ,‬ועל זה‬ ‫רמז באמרו ’אם ישים אליו לבו׳ וגו׳ )איוב לד ‪ (14‬אחר מה שהקדים ’אף אמנם אל לא‬ ‫ירשיע׳ וגו׳ )איוב לד ‪.(12‬‬ ‫והנה הרע }המגיע{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬מגיע[ אל הנמצאים השפלים מהגרמים השמימיים‬ ‫במקרה‪ ,‬ואמ׳ אליהוא שאין ראוי שיוחס עול ורשע לשם ית׳ לפי שיש בו תועלת‪ ,‬כי הרבה‬ ‫ישתדל השם ית׳ בענינים אשר הם מהכרח שיגיע מהם תועלת‪ ,‬והתועלות הנמשכים‬ ‫מן הרע המגיע לרשעים מהמערכת הם לענוש אותן על רשעם ובלתי השכילם דרכיו‬ ‫אשר אז ינצחו כח המערכת להיות השגחת השם דבקה בם‪ .‬ויקבלו ברע המגיע לרשעים‬ ‫תוכחת ]בפירוש השלם נוסף‪ :‬שאר[‪ 82‬האנשים‪ ,‬וימלטו ג״כ הטובים באבדם‪ .‬ואם לא‬ ‫יהיה מחויב בא הרע להם מצד המערכת‪ ,‬יבא להם רע להצלת הצדיקים והטובים‪ ,‬כמו‬ ‫שהביא המכות למצרים בעבור ישראל‪’ ,‬וינגע יי׳ את פרעה ‪ . . .‬על דבר שרי׳ )בר׳ יב ‪,(17‬‬ ‫ודומה לזה‪ .‬וזה כלו אמת ויושר ]‪94‬ב[ במשפטי יי׳ ישרים משמחי לב )ע״פ תה׳ יט ‪ ,(9‬וזה‬ ‫שאם היו הטובים המושגחים מהשם ית׳ יגיע אליהם רע כדי להצילם מרע יותר עצום‪,‬‬ ‫כ״ש שהוא ראוי שיושגחו בהגעת הרעות לרשעים המזיקים כדי שיסור הזקם מהם ויהיה‬ ‫זה על צד המופת וההשגחה על הטובים‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה שלישי לאליהוא )איוב לה(‬ ‫אליהוא ישיב על מה שהיה טוען איוב מההצלחה הנמצא׳ לרשעים זמן ארוך עם הכאיבם‬ ‫שאר האנשים הטובים תוך אותו‪ 83‬זמן ארוך בכל מיני הכאבה ונזק‪ ,‬בשיאמר }בשמרי{‬ ‫]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬שמרי[ הרשע לא )יכאיב( יזיק‪ 84‬אל השם שימהר לקחת נקמתו ממנו‪ ,‬כי‬ ‫רשענו וצדקנו שלנו הוא ‪’ -‬אם צדקת מה תתן לו׳ וגו׳ )איוב לה ‪ .(7‬ומה שנראה מן העול‬ ‫בהאריכו לרשע עד עת תמוט רגלו )ע״פ דב׳ לה ‪ (35‬לפי המערכת }ובאותו{ ובתוך אותו‪85‬‬ ‫‪82‬‬ ‫‪83‬‬ ‫‪84‬‬ ‫‪85‬‬

‫כך בכלל העולה מאיוב לב ‪6-‬לג‪.‬‬ ‫המלה נוספה בשוליים‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬

‫‪159‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫זמן יכאיב }נזק{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬ויזיק[ לטובים ולישרים‪ ,‬הנה אלו האנשים לא יוזקו על יד‬ ‫הרשע אלא מפני שלא השתדלו לדבקה בשם ית׳ ומפני שהחל עליהם הרע המסודר כפי‬ ‫המערכת‪ ,‬או הרע הבא להם לפי שההשגחה להצילם מרע יותר }כוון{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬שנכון[‬ ‫לבא עליהם כמו שקדם‪ 86.‬ויהיו א״כ הם בעצמם סבת הרע הבא עליהם‪ ,‬לא ההארכה‬ ‫שיאריך השם לרשע‪.‬‬ ‫ולמה שטען איוב על רעיו האומרים שהש׳ פוקד האדם על כל מעשיו ורואה אותן‪,‬‬ ‫ובאר שזה בלתי אפשר למה שנראה מרוע הסדור הנמשך בזה מצד העיון כי היה זה בחקו‬ ‫ית׳ כמו שקדם‪ - 87‬כבר הותר זה הספק במה שהניח אליהוא בזה הדרוש‪ ,‬והוא שזה לא‬ ‫יונח שהשם ית׳ ידע כל הדברים הפרטיים מצד מה שהם פרטיים כמו שנדע אנחנו מה‬ ‫שנדע ‪’ -‬אך שוא לא ישמע׳ )איוב לה ‪ .(13‬אמנם ידעם כלם בדרך אחת כללית‪ .‬ומצד‬ ‫הידיעה אשר לו בהם הגיע ממנו ית׳ הידיעה אל הנביאים באמצעות המדמה‪ ,‬כאשר ידבק‬ ‫שכלם עם השכל הפועל ישיגו הענינים הפרטיים המתחדשים טרם באם‪ .‬ומזה הצד יש לו‬ ‫יחס מה אל השם ית׳ בידיעה ואם ’הידיעה׳ נאמר עליו ית׳ }עלינו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬ועלינו[ בשתוף‬ ‫השם‪ ,‬ר״ל בקודם ואיחור‪88.‬‬ ‫ולמה שיראה מהחוש מרוע סדר מפני מה שימצא מהרעות במין האדם אמ׳ אליהוא‬ ‫שהוא מעט מאד ביחס אל הטובות הנמצאות בו‪ .‬אין הוא מה שפקד השם אפו )ע״פ איוב‬ ‫לה ‪ (15‬ולא ימצא ברוב מאדיי‪ ,‬עם שרוב הרעות הקורות אנחנו סבתם כמו שקדם‪ 89,‬והם‬ ‫מעט מזער ביחס אל הטובות‪ .‬לכן ראוי שנחקור בזה הענין המעטי סבתו מזולת שנבטל‬ ‫השגחת השם הנפלאה השופעת טובו בנמצאות על הרוב‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה רביעי לאליהוא )איוב לו‪-‬לז(‬ ‫והוא ]‪95‬א[ כדמות חתימת מאמריו מבאר קצת טענותיו‪ .‬באר שלא ימנע מפני היות‬ ‫האדם פחות ונבזה ביחס אל השם ית׳ היותו משגיח בו‪ .‬אבל שהוא ראוי שישגיח בו יונח‬ ‫לשתי הקדמות‪ :‬האחת שהשם ית׳ תמים דעות )ע״פ איוב לז ‪ ,(16‬ר״ל שהוא יודע כל‬ ‫המושכלות‪ ,‬ולהיותה מבוארת בנפשה כבר הודה בה איוב באמרו ’עמו ‪ . . .‬וגבורה׳ )איוב‬ ‫יב ‪ .(13‬וההקדמה השנית היא שהאדם הנה כביר כח )ע״פ איוב לו ‪ ,(5‬ר״ל שהוא רב‬ ‫ההכנה להשיג המושכלות עד שהוא כוחיי על כלן באופן מה‪ .‬ובהיות הענין כן‪ ,‬שהשם‬ ‫ית׳ רב המושכלות בפועל והאדם רב המושכלות בכח ‪ -‬והיה מבואר ממה שבפועל‬

‫‪86‬‬ ‫‪87‬‬

‫‪88‬‬

‫‪89‬‬

‫לעיל קיצור מענה ראשון ומענה שני לאליהוא‪.‬‬ ‫ראו קיצור כלל מענה ראשון לאיוב‪ .‬ייתכן שהניסוח כאן משובש‪ ,‬ואולי המילים ”מצד העיון״ מיותרות‪ .‬השוו לפירושו‬ ‫השלם הכלל העולה מאיוב לה‪” :‬והנה מה שטען איוב על רעיו במה שהם אומרים שהשם יתברך פוקד האדם על מעשיו‬ ‫ויודע אותו‪ ,‬וביאר שזה בלתי אפשר מצד החוש והעיון‪ ,‬כמו שקדם״‪.‬‬ ‫השוו לפירושו ביאור דברי המענה איוב לו ‪” :5‬ובהיות הענין כך‪ ,‬אין ראוי שימאסהו השם ית׳‪ .‬ואולם היתה זאת ההקדמה‬ ‫רחוקה‪ ,‬כי ה׳ידיעה׳ תאמר בשם ית׳ ובנ ּו בשיתוף השם‪ ,‬רוצה לומר‪ :‬בקודם ובאיחור ]=במשמעות האמיתית ובהשאלה –‬ ‫י״צ[״‪.‬‬ ‫לעיל‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪160‬‬

‫שהוא ישלים מה שבכח ויוציאהו אל הפועל כפי מה שאפשר‪ .‬והיתה היציאה אל הפועל‬ ‫במושכלות ימצא בה הפועל והמתפעל אחד באופן מה ‪ -‬הנה מבואר שכבר יגיע לאדם‬ ‫בזה התאחדות מה ודבקות בשם ית׳‪ .‬ומה שזה דרכו אין ראוי שימאסהו השם‪ ,‬אבל ראוי‬ ‫שישגיח בו השגחה נפלאה‪ .‬ולפי שזה ההתאחדות וההתדבקות הוא מצד מה שהשיג‬ ‫האדם מהמושכלות בפועל לא מצד הכח שהוא טבע מיניי‪ ,‬הוא מבואר שתהיה ההשגחה‬ ‫באדם המשכיל מצד הטבע האישיי‪ .‬ויהיה ג״כ אל כביר רב המושכלות לא ימאס האדם‬ ‫אשר הוא בפועל כביר כח לב‪ ,‬אבל ישגיח בו כפי מה שיוציא שכלו אל השלמות ‪ -‬ידבק‬ ‫השם בו לפי מדרגתו בהשגה‪ .‬וזה מסכים לדעת הר״ם במז״ל כמו שהתבאר שם‪ 90.‬ולפי‬ ‫והרשע הוא ממה שימנע‬ ‫מה שהונח להיות ההשגחה כפי השגת המושכלות בפועל ֶ‬ ‫השגת המושכלות‪ ,‬הנה הרשעים לא יהיו מושגחים אבל יענשו על מרים ‪ -‬בנפשותם‬ ‫בעצם ובגופם במקרה‪ ,‬וזה יהיה בהמסרם להיות }מנודה{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬מטרה[‪ 91‬לחצי המקרים‬ ‫הרעים הנכונים לבא עליהם‪ ,‬אשר הוא במקרה כי אין דבר‪ 92‬יורד מן השמים בעצם‪ ,‬וגם‬ ‫ממנו ימשך תועלת שיוסרו האנשי׳ הטובים }ויוסר{ וימלטו‪ 93‬מהם‪ .‬והעונש הנפשיי‬ ‫הוא שתעדר מהם הצלחת הנפש‪ ,‬ואל זה רמז באמרו ’לא יחיה רשע׳ )איוב לו ‪ ,(6‬ר״ל לא‬ ‫יחיינו החיים הגופיים ולא הנפשיים‪ ,‬בשכבר זכר לצדיקים שני יעודים מקבילים לאלו‬ ‫באמרו ’לא יגרע מצדיק עינו׳ )איוב לו ‪ (7‬והוא הגמול הגופיי‪ ,‬והצלחת הנפש כאמרו ’ואת‬ ‫מלכים לכסא ויושיבם לנצח ויגבהו׳ )שם(‪.‬‬ ‫הנה התבאר חיוב מציאות היושר באלה הענינים הפך מה שהיה חושב איוב אשר בבלי‬ ‫דעת מלין יכביר )ע״פ איוב לה ‪ .(16‬והנה הוכיחו אליהוא באשר לא פשפש במעשיו על‬ ‫היסורין הבאים עליו בראותו באים עליו להוכיחו ממרי מועט החל להסתבך בו ולמען‬ ‫יתבונן במה ]‪95‬ב[ היתה החטאת )ע״פ ש״א יד ‪ (38‬וישוב אל יי׳ וירחמהו )ע״פ יש׳ נה‬ ‫‪ ,(7‬וזה מין ממיני ההשגחה על הצדיק הדורך אל השלמות כמו שקדם‪ 94.‬וזה היה נעלם‬ ‫מאיוב על כן נתרעם בהיותו צדיק בעיניו ולא ִשער במרי קדם לו אשר אם שב לו ממנו‬ ‫ובקש מחילה היה נצול מאלו הרעות בלי ספק כמו שאירע לו באחרית‪ .‬ועוד הוכיח איוב‬ ‫ביחסו העול לשם ית׳ בסדור הגרמים השמימיים מצד הרעות הנמשכות ממנו‪ ,‬והראה‬ ‫שבזה הסדור הנפלא יתמכו העולם ויעמידוהו‪ ,‬ומה שיגיע מהם רע מוחש לרשעים ‪-‬‬ ‫הרשע והעול שעשו‪ ,‬ונוסרו הטובים בענשם עד שישלַ ם המדיני בזה‬ ‫במקרה הוא על ֶ‬ ‫הרע ההווה במקרה ומהכרח‪ ,‬לא שהשם ית׳ יפעלהו בעצם וכונה ראשונה‪ .‬ולצדיקים‬ ‫המשכילים אין לירא ממנו מצד היותם מושגחים לפי דבקותם בשם כמו שקדם‪ .‬ובכלל‪,‬‬ ‫‪90‬‬

‫‪91‬‬ ‫‪92‬‬ ‫‪93‬‬ ‫‪94‬‬

‫כוונתו לומר שכך מתבאר מדברי אליהוא‪ .‬בפירושו השלם לא העיר דבר על ההתאמה בין שיטתו של הרמב״ם בעניין‬ ‫ההשגחה במו״נ ג‪ ,‬יז ובין פירושו של הרמב״ם לאיוב שם ג‪ ,‬כב‪-‬כג‪ .‬ראו במלחמות ה׳‪ ,‬מאמר רביעי‪ ,‬פרק ז‪ .‬ראו קיצור‬ ‫הקדמה וקיצור מענה שישי‪ ,‬ראשון לצופר‪.‬‬ ‫כך הנוסח בפירושו השלם הכלל העולה מאיוב לו‪-‬לז‪.‬‬ ‫ר״ל‪ :‬דבר רע‪ .‬ראה לעיל‪ ,‬קיצור ההקדמה‪ .‬אולי המעתיק דילג כאן על המלה‪.‬‬ ‫תיקון בכ״י‪.‬‬ ‫קיצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא‪.‬‬

‫‪161‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫כמו שאנו רואים מנפלאות השם }באר{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬באיד[ שהוא ראשית כל ההויות שזכר‪95,‬‬ ‫כל שכן באדם שהוא סוף בריאותיו ראוי שנשפוט שהשם ית׳ ’שגיא כח ומשפט ורב צדקה׳‬ ‫)איוב לז ‪ (23‬והסדור הבא מאתו הוא בתכלית השלמות‪ ,‬ואם לא נבין ‪ -‬הוא לקצורנו‪.‬‬ ‫קצור כלל מענה השם לאיוב מן הסערה הראשון )איוב לח‪-‬לט(‬ ‫והוא שהשם ית׳ הוכיח איוב על מה שהיה שופט במעשיו שיש בהם חסרון וקצור במה‬ ‫שימשך מסדור המערכת מצדיק ורע לו רשע וטוב לו‪ ,‬ואם לא היה אפשר לשם ית׳‬ ‫מבלתי זה למה ברא האנשים הקשי יום‪ ,‬וראה שזה לאות וקצור לו ית׳ }במה{ ]אולי‬ ‫צ״ל‪ :‬כמו[ שקדם‪ 96.‬אמ׳ שאין ראוי לשופט שישפוט אלא בדבר שנהיה לו ידיעה שלמה‪.‬‬ ‫וספר מפעולות השם המורות על תכלית עוצם החכמה והגבורה לעשות כל מה שאפשר‬ ‫מההטבה וטוב ההשגחה בזה המציאות השפל הרבה מאד‪ ,‬אשר יעלמו מאיוב‪ .‬וזכר ג״כ‬ ‫שהרע הנמשך מסדור הגרמים השמימיים יש בו תועלת לענוש אנשי החמס וינערו‬ ‫הרשעים )ע״פ איוב לח ‪ (13‬וינצלו הצדיקים מהם‪ ,‬ויקחו מוסר הטובים יראי השם ותגיע‬ ‫להם הצלחת נפשם בזה הסדור עד אשר נראה כמו מכוון להזיק לרשעים כמו שקדם‬ ‫בדברי אליהוא‪ .‬כי כמו ששׂ ם הש׳ כח דוחה בטבע הצמחים לדחות הבלתי נאות לטבעם‪,‬‬ ‫כן שׂ ם כחות דוחים הרעות מבני אדם כדי שלא יזוקו בהם הטובים‪.‬‬ ‫עוד הוכיחו השם במענה ’הרב עם שדי׳ וגו׳ )איוב מ ‪ (2‬בראותו ית׳ שאיוב לא ענה אותו‬ ‫אמ׳‪ :‬האם ראוי במי שיתוכח עם השם }הרע{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬על הרע[ הבא עליו להוכיחו שיענהו‬ ‫השם כמו שעשיתי לך? או ]‪96‬א[ ירצה‪ :‬מי שהאלוה מוכיחו יענה ויטיח דברים כלפי‬ ‫מעלה? או ירצה‪ :‬שמן הראוי שמי שמתוכח עם השם שיענהו!‬ ‫כלל תשובת מענה לשם ית׳ )איוב מ ‪(5–3‬‬ ‫’אחת דברתי ולא אענה ושתים ולא אוסיף׳ )איוב מ ‪ – (5‬רצה‪ :‬היותי אומ׳ }שהרעות{‬ ‫]צ״ל‪ :‬שברעות[ והטובות המגיעות לאנשים ימצא עול משני צדדין‪ :‬הצד האחד מפני‬ ‫הרע שימצא לצדיקים‪ ,‬ולא אענה בזאת הטענה שכבר הספיק מה שבארו אליהוא והשם‬ ‫בהתרת הספק היה לי בה‪ .‬והצד השני‪ ,‬הוא הטוב המגיע לרשעים אשר לא הותר הספק‬ ‫בה במה שקדם‪ .‬ולא אוסיף לטעון לך זולת הטענה ההיא אשר יראה בה העול‪ 97‬או לאות‬ ‫וקצור ממנו ית׳‪.‬‬ ‫כלל מענה אחרון מהש׳ ית׳ לאיוב )איוב מ‪6-‬מא(‬ ‫הוכיחו במה שייחס לשם ית׳ ליאות או קצור שהוא ר״ל איוב לשער‪ 98‬הכח והיכולת עד‬ ‫‪95‬‬ ‫‪96‬‬ ‫‪97‬‬ ‫‪98‬‬

‫כוונתו למה שזכר אליהוא בדבריו‪ .‬ראו בהרחבה בד״מ איוב לו ‪27-‬לז ‪ .24‬השוו לניסוחו בכלל העולה מאיוב לו‪-‬לז‪:‬‬ ‫”שהאיד שהוא ראשית כל ההויות שזכר לא יובנו הנפלאות אשר יעשה בו ה׳‪ ,‬כל שכן האדם ‪ . . .‬״‪.‬‬ ‫קיצור מענה ראשון לאיוב ועוד‪.‬‬ ‫ראו לעיל הערה ‪.170‬‬ ‫משובש‪ .‬צ״ל‪ :‬אינו יכול לשער הכח והיכולת של ה׳‪.‬‬

‫קיצור פירוש רלב״ג לאיוב‬

‫‪162‬‬

‫שיוכל לשפוט עליו }במה{ ]אולי צ״ל‪ :‬כמו[ שקדם‪ .‬וזכר שהגיע מגבורתו ית׳ השפע הטוב‬ ‫}ותמיד{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬תמיד[ בעצם עד שמה שיקרה מסדורו מרע הוא כמו מכוון לטוב ‪ -‬לעונש‬ ‫הרשעים‪ ,‬עד שימצא השלמות בפעולותיו בכל הפנים שאפשר‪ .‬וזה מורה שהש׳ ית׳ אינו‬ ‫לואה ומקצר בה עד שכבר יגיע רע לרשעים בלתי מסודר מן המערכת כדי שלא }יזוקו{‬ ‫]צ״ל‪ :‬יזיקו[ לצדיקים‪ ,‬כמו שזכר אליהוא ונזכרו ספורים בתורה כמו שקדם‪ 99.‬ולזה‬ ‫הביא ראיה מהב״ח ]=מהבעלי חיים[ ולויתן במה שהשגיח השם מהכנת מזונם והמציא‬ ‫להם כחות שומרים }אותו{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬אותן[ מכל היזק ‪ -‬לא היה מקצר מזה‪ ,‬כפי ההשגחה‬ ‫האלהית להיות הטוב שופע ממנה תמיד‪ .‬אבל למה שזה בלתי אפשר הוכנה לו שמירה‬ ‫מצד המערכת ונשתתפו בשמירתו הגרמים השמימיים כמו שקדם‪ 100.‬ולזה‪ ,‬אם ישמר‬ ‫הרשע מן הרע הבא לזולתו בעת מה‪ ,‬אין להתרעם מזה אל השם בשכונתו העצמית‬ ‫שישמרו האנשים מכל רע מגיע מהמערכת‪ ,‬וכבר שם להם כלי להצילם ממנו והוא‬ ‫השכל בו יהיו נשמרים אם ידבקו בשכל הפועל כפי מה }שיתבאר{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬שהתבאר[‪101.‬‬ ‫ענה איוב ידעתי כי כל תוכל לעשות ואין ראוי שייוחס אליך לאות וקצור ולא יבצר ממך‬ ‫מזמה וחכמה )ע״פ איוב מב ‪ .(2‬ואני הייתי מעלים עצה בלי דעת‪ ,‬לכן הגדתי מה שהגדתי‬ ‫מצד שלא הייתי }מכין{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬מבין[ מעשיך‪ ,‬כי היו נפלאות ממני )שם ‪ ,(3‬על כן טעיתי‬ ‫במה שטענתי‪ .‬והיה סבת זה‪ ,‬כי מתחילה לשמע אוזן }הייתה{ ]צ״ל‪ :‬הייתי[ שומע ענין‬ ‫השגחתך בזה העולם מזולת ראיה אמתית‪ ,‬ועתה עיני ]‪96‬ב[ ראתך )שם ‪ (5‬ונתאמת אצלי‬ ‫הנהגתך לפי מה שאפשר בנמצא נמצא‪ .‬על כן אמאס מה שהייתי בוחר בו מהדעת‪ ,‬ונחמתי‬ ‫על מה שהכאבתני שישבתי בתוך עפר ואפר )שם ‪ 102(6‬לדעתי כי בשלי הצער הזה עלי‬ ‫)ע״פ יונה א ‪ (12‬וכשאשתדל לדבקה בשם ית׳ יסיר ממני הרע הזה וייטיב אחריתי‪ ,‬יבלה‬ ‫בטוב ימותי ושנותי בנעימים )ע״פ איוב לו ‪ (11‬ואזכה אל החיים הנצחיים‬ ‫אמן‬ ‫תם ונשלם קצור באור איוב מהשלם מאיישטרי לאון דבנולאש זכרו לברכה בריך רחמנא‬ ‫דסיען‬

‫‪99‬‬ ‫‪100‬‬ ‫‪101‬‬ ‫‪102‬‬

‫קיצור מענה שני לאליהוא‪.‬‬ ‫קיצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא‪.‬‬ ‫ראו קיצור מענה ראשון מאליהוא‪.‬‬ ‫כך פירש רלב״ג את משמעות דברי איוב ”ונחמתי על עפר ואפר״ גם בפירושו השלם‪ .‬פירוש זה הוא על פי דברי הרמב״ם‬ ‫במו״נ ג‪ ,‬כג‪” :‬על כן אמאס ונחמתי על עפר ואפר‪ ,‬כונת הדברים כפי הענין‪ :‬על כן אמאס כל אשר הייתי מתאוה ונחמתי‬ ‫על היותי בתוך עפר ואפר כמו שהוצע ]=הוקדם – י״צ[ ענינו ’והוא יושב בתוך האפר׳ )איוב ב ‪(8‬״‪.‬‬

Synopsis of Gersonides’ Commentary on Job MS Paris 251 (4276, 86b–96a) Translated by Michael Carasik

Synopsis of the Book of Job, the Explanation of the Sage R. Levi b. Gershom (z”l), the Divine Philosopher

Introduction, Encompassing the Meaning of the Book1 He said:2 The evils happening to man are generally due either to the material cause or to accident, namely that they inescapably have their beginning either in the recipient himself or externally. As for the evils which originate in the recipient, they are either due to temperament, and therefore to hyle, since their cause is the failure of the affected forces to be subject to the affecting forces; or to the propensities and characteristics of the soul, which are also due to hyle, for these evil accidents arise when a person does not conduct himself properly. The reason for this is his being drawn after his matter and not his intellect, whose action is to draw one to proper3 behavior in human affairs. This kind of evil, which originates in temperament or in hyle, includes evil that results from free will, as is the case with war and the like, all of which is due to the hylic cause, whether directly from one’s disposition or from deliberately choosing to follow one’s disposition. But events which are not caused by human disposition or free will, such as earthquakes, fire falling down from heaven, and the like, are after all good in themselves, for here [in the lower world] there are contrary elements, and it is the way of opposites that they are in part mutually destructive. Since this lower realm of existence cannot be preserved except through balancing the elements of this realm, there must be higher causes acting on 1 The synopsis of the introduction here is a summary of the philosophic part of the introduction to the complete commentary. In contrast to that introduction, here Gersonides makes no mention of the composition of the Book of Job, its content, or his exegetical approach. Instead, he summarizes the philosophic part of the commentary alone, which begins: “Before we begin the commentary on this book, we shall state an all inclusive principle underlying the discussions included in this book” (Lassen, 7) and concludes with “This is what we found necessary to state before we begin the explanation of this book” (Lassen, 9). 2 This may be an insertion by the copyist. 3 See the Hebrew note.

163

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Yechiel Tzeitkin

them so as to preserve them and maintain them in fixed, balanced motion, in regular cycles according to a fixed order, sometimes strengthening one of the elements against the other and sometimes the other against it, in order to maintain them in equilibrium. This is the enduring good here in the lower realm of existence. If some evil arises from this, it is accidental, as when someone is struck and killed by lightning, or the earth is overturned upon its inhabitants because it so happened they were there. Still, all this is very good, for “nothing evil descends from above” (Gen. Rab. 51:3).4 It has therefore been demonstrated that these events which are improperly ordered have their beginning either in the recipient himself or externally, in hyle. The general rule is that these evils that result from bad ordering are not human evils, for human evils should [87a] happen to that part of man where human good occurs, which is the part of the soul that we call “intellect” – not the nutritive or sensory power, which the human shares with the animal and the vegetable. Just as human good is the perfection of the human intellect (his form, inasmuch as he is human), so human evils are a lack of that perfection. It is worthwhile for you to know that these accidents that are improperly ordered are determined in some measure by the heavenly bodies, because they govern the earth, to release to every being its potential and to maintain the equilibrium of the four elements in a regular cycle following a fixed order, as has been explained,5 and because those bodies participate in governing humanity.6 And this explanation is that individual human beings are special in this respect and separate from the rest of the lower beings in that their qualities are preordained by the heavenly bodies and the positions of the stars for each individual at the time of conception or birth, as if * the heavenly bodies play a part in governing him – although he is not obliged to follow their dictates.7 Yet this nature remains in existence, and from it knowledge of events may reach us before they come to pass. If someone were fated to be injured or to encounter some other evils at certain times, God most cleverly placed in us an intellect to direct us and to turn us aside from such governance if we so desire, by means of the knowledge reaching us about those events that are to occur before they happen, whether in a dream or by magic or by prophecy. For the flow of this knowledge could not reach us if not for the fact that there is a cause that acts 4 Cf., esp., the introduction to the commentary, and the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 33:12. The idea that nothing evil proceeds from the Lord to individuals in any situation, even as punishment, appears to be a development of the words of Maimonides in Guide 3:10–12. Gersonides explains many verses on the basis of this idea, not only in his Job commentary. 5 Above. 6 Cf., esp., The Wars, book 2, ch. 2. 7 This last expression has no parallel either in the commentary or in the The Wars. In any case, the sense of the words matches Gersonides’ system there.

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upon the knowledge of these events. If 8 so, therefore, it is proper at this level that the knowledge of things reach him before they occur, which is possible when man actualizes his potential. He may thus escape from most of the evils or from all of them and benefit from God’s providence, which he deserves by holding fast to Him in accordance with his intellect.9 This would seem to agree with the opinion of Maimonides (of blessed memory) and the opinion of Elihu, as will be made clear.10

The Synopsis of “The Parable That Begins the Book” (Job 1:6–2:7) He relates a parable11 wherein God speaks with the one from whom come all imaginary evils which originate in external causes, the Satan whose primary aim is to cause men to deviate from the path intended by God.12 Therefore he says that he came among the “divine beings” (1:6), which are the forces who conduct God’s affairs. And he says that he has been going to and fro on “the earth” (1:7), because it is there that the evils for which he is responsible are found, not among the higher beings. He speaks as if God has been preventing evil from reaching Job because he was “perfect and upright” (Job 1:1). But one’s good qualities alone cannot save one from the Satan’s authority,13 which is why 8 See the Hebrew note. 9 Cf. Guide 3:17: “Providence is consequent upon the divine overflow; and the species with which this intellectual overflow is united, so that it became endowed with intellect and so that everything that is disclosed to a being endowed with the intellect was disclosed to it . . . I believe that providence is consequent upon the intellect and attached to it” (Pines, 471–72, 474). 10 This notion, mentioned again a number of times in what follows (in the First Discourse of Zophar and the Fourth Discourse of Elihu), is not mentioned at all in the commentary. The Wars, book 4, ch. 7 is devoted to a clarification of this issue. 11 In contrast to the opinion of Maimonides and other philosophical exegetes, Gersonides thinks that the book describes something that actually occurred, and is not an instructive parable. The only thing he defines as a “parable” (as in the full commentary) is the conversation between God and the Satan. Maimonides, too, emphasizes that “according to both opinions, the one that considers that he has existed and the one that considers that he has not, the prologue – I mean the discourse of the Satan, that of God addressed to the Satan, and the giving over of Job to the Satan – is indubitably, in the view of everyone endowed with intellect, a parable” (Guide 3:22 [Pines, 486]). 12 That is, matter causes man to deviate from the good, which is the attainment of intellectual perfection, God’s “primary aim” for humanity. Compare the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 1:6–7: “He is called the Satan, because he causes men to deviate from the path intended by God as it was explained in what preceded” (Lassen, 11). (The name appears to be related to a root meaning “to deviate.”) It is not clear what Gersonides means by “what preceded,” since there is no explicit reference to this issue in the introduction to the commentary. 13 This emphasis matches Gersonides’ opinion in his commentary and in The Wars, though it is not mentioned there explicitly.

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the Satan arranged for all [Job] had to be entrusted into his power (except for his life). For if his soul would hold fast to God, [87b] then even when he is otherwise under [the Satan’s] control, his soul would not be entrusted into his power and some measure of providence would flow upon him that would protect him and save him from all evil. [The parable] goes on to say that [Job] was afflicted first with the kind of evil that falls upon some human beings from some others, for example, wars (1:14–15, 17), which are more frequent since they are caused by free will. Afterward he was afflicted with the kind of evil that originates in changes of the elements, such as fire falling from heaven or a storm wind coming from the wilderness (1:16, 18–19), which, resulting from accident, are less frequent. But* because of [his] perfection, his uprightness, and his fear of God, in spite of all that happened he did not sin but praised God, saying: “The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (1:21). He then relates what befell [Job] from the evils that originate in the recipient himself, from his own disposition and thought. These also originate in the Satan inasmuch as it is he who causes one to deviate from the proper way. In this [episode] he says that [the Satan] came “to present himself before the Lord” (2:1), because the part of the soul wherein decisions are made is intended essentially to serve the human intellect, except that it happens occasionally that this part [of the soul] makes a decision that is not right or proper, and the bad conduct that follows making a wrong choice results in ailments and afflictions.14 So all 14 He writes something similar in the commentary. Gersonides describes Job’s physical ailment in a natural way. He means that Job himself, on account of his lack of wisdom, caused his own disease by not choosing correct behavior. In this, Gersonides’ commentary parallels that of R. Abba Mari, except that R. Abba Mari describes all the “actions of the Satan” that afflicted Job in a natural way. Apparently Gersonides thought so too, but he did not say so explicitly. I will therefore quote here from the commentary of R. Abba Mari: “It is no wonder that evil comes upon the not-completely-righteous person more than on a wicked person, for his trust in His creator is illusory and he does not endeavor as best he can to save himself, nor does he examine the reasons for the evil and protect himself from them. And evil leads to evil as good leads to good . . . And if one should think that, what can we say about a storm wind coming from across the Jordan and the desert and knocking down Job’s house but not a number of houses belonging to completely wicked people, and the same for a fire of God falling from the sky and burning up the sheep and the servants but not other flocks? We reply: His prosperity and his illusory trust brought him to this as well, that he built a tall house, stone upon stone, a beautiful building that could not stand up to an unusually strong wind. The shepherds, too, when they saw their master’s prosperity, abandoned their livestock in the wilderness on a day that was ‘dark with densest clouds’ [Deut 4:11], with ‘flashing fire’ [Exod 9:24], and it burned them up, while those who feared [the Lord] ‘brought their livestock to safety’ [Exod 9:20] . . . And He gave [the Satan] authority over all that he had . . . And the evil impulse entered into the heart of the Kingdom of Sheba, which came to plunder the cattle and the asses . . . Still more thunder and thick clouds and flashing fire came, as predetermined by matter and burnt up the sheep and the servants. Then

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that he had, and he himself, was entrusted to the power of the Satan, except for his soul, which ruled over him and could direct him if it wished. When this happened to him, his fear of God being so imperfect that he could not stand up to this test, he remained perplexed and confused about the problem of providence, thinking that all the accidents that befall humanity are defined and arranged by the position of the stars at the time of birth. This perplexity of his was caused by his deficiency of intellectual attainments, the perfection of which is [the reason] men are protected against these illusory evils.

The First Discourse of Job (Job 3) Job’s opinion was that all the accidents that befall humanity are arranged and defined by the position of the stars at the time of birth. That is why he cursed the day on which he was born; and he also cursed the night of conception, inasmuch as it indicates the fate that will befall the fetus up to the time of birth (Job 3:2–3).15 And when he saw the privation of order and justice that arises from the arrangement of the stars, he chose non-existence in preference to existence, and he issued a complaint against God for arranging the stars in a way that destines evil for the good and good for the wicked, and not arranging for one who is born under a bad sign16 to die at birth and not experience evil, since this would be better for him. He attributed this to incapacity and shortcoming on God’s part.17 What brought him to believe this was sense perception and philosophic speculation. Sense perception leads us to see it (from our perspective) as a bad ordering of the good and evil that befall individuals; and philosophically, it was the evil inclination further entered the hearts of the Chaldeans to make a raid on the camels and after the cloud and the flashing fire there was another great wind that collapsed the house upon the young people . . . And every one of these disasters was of the kind usual to that region . . . And the Satan inflicted Job ‘with a severe inflammation from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head’ [Job 2:7], which perhaps was also predetermined by the matter or by an excess of red bile in him, caused by the extra stress on his heart” (folios 1–2, 4–5). 15 R. Abba Mari notes that Job “cursed these two times on account of the controversy among men of judgment [astrologers] about whether the newborn’s fate is determined by the position of the constellations at the moment of conception or at the time of birth” (folio 6). Gersonides, in his commentary, does argue that the day of birth fixes a person’s fate, but he waffles on the issue of the influence of the night of conception and comes up with a sort of compromise, according to which the night of conception directly influences only what happens to the fetus in the womb. It thereby indirectly influences the person’s life as well, in that the day of birth stems from the night of conception (see the “General Principles” to Job 3). Here, in the Synopsis, Gersonides skips this entire discussion about the influence of the night of conception on the person’s life. 16 See the Hebrew note. 17 In the commentary (“General Principles” to Job 3): “error or incapacity and shortcoming”; see further the Third Discourse of Job in the Synopsis.

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impossible (from his perspective) for those temporal, individual particulars [88a] to be known to God, since He has no relationship to time, as has been explained.18 Furthermore, it is not the way of absolute perfection to exercise providence over these lower, earthly affairs on account of their lowly state, for if God were to acquire this sort of knowledge, His honored perfection might be considered to have an inseparable connection with something deficient, which would be repugnant. Moreover, it is the attainment of something of more worth that brings pleasure to the one who attains it. Since one who strives to attain perfection directs his activity at something more perfect, the philosophers have said that God does not apprehend anything but Himself, since He is the most perfect thing that can be found. If He were to apprehend lower things some deficiency would reach Him,19 just as the action of the intellect does not apprehend individual matters; these are apprehended by the senses and the imagination. And he alluded to some of these arguments when he said, “Why are times for judgment not reserved by Shaddai?” (24:1) – “Is Your vision that of mere men?” (10:4). Now Job erred in this assumption in a two-fold manner. First, because the predestination ordained by the stars is not absolutely inevitable; it still remains possible on account of human free will that “a wise man, who knows time and judgment” (Eccl 8:5), may “save the city by his wisdom” (Eccl 9:15).20 Second, he thought that these illusory evils are absolutely inhuman, so that death would be preferable to such an inhuman life! But in reality, true human good – even when it comes together with inhuman evils which are not truly human21 – and 18 Apparently he means that it has been explained in the commentary. 19 The parallel to the arguments of the last three sentences is found in the commentary in the “General Principles” to Job 12–14: “It is not meet that God, who is at the height of glory, should extend His providence to man who is low and insignificant. This argument should not be regarded weak, as philosophers have already made use of it and concluded that God knows nothing else besides Himself. The manner in which this is explained is as follows: if God does acquire knowledge of things outside of Himself, then one may assume that an exalted being like God becomes perfect through the knowledge of lower beings which would be an absolute offense against Him. Furthermore, the joy and the perfection of the one who conceives, will be greater when the things conceived are of worth and merit, and since the degree of perfection of the object conceived is proportionate to that of the conceiver, it follows from this that God, who is the most perfect conceiver, cannot conceive anything else but the most perfect matters, and this reason forces us to assume that God does not conceive anything else besides Himself ” (Lassen, 104). Compare the reasoning (in the same order as in the Synopsis, but at greater length) in The Wars, book 3, ch. 2. See also the commentary on the Song of Songs, to Song 1:4: “This is true, because there is so much rejoicing and joy in this that physical joys cannot be compared to it; perfect pleasure and joy occur when a worthy thing is apprehended correctly” (Kellner, 26). 20 Cf. the First Discourse of Elihu, below. 21 Apparently there is something missing here. He means that “true human good even when it

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the human evils22 should be in the same part of soul with the human good, as he said in the introduction.

First Discourse of Eliphaz (Job 4–5) The opinion of Eliphaz about providence is that the evils that befall individuals are those that come to them from God by way of punishment for sin. With regard to these evils apparently befalling those who have not rebelled, he said: “After all, there are evils that arise from foolishness and silliness, but these do not deserve to be called human evils since they are the result of hyle, as has already been stated.”23 He based this opinion on the fact that we do not find decline and loss among honest, innocent people, which teaches that the reason this is found among the wicked only is that it befalls them from the evils that derive from God as punishment for their rebellion. However, when the innocent and the upright do sin in any way, God chastises them but they are not decimated. That is better for them than that they should perish or never be created at all – the opposite of the opinion of Job, who would curse the day of his birth and choose death over a life of pain. The second argument is taken from the foreknowledge that some people know of evils that are to come, through dreams, magic, or prophecy. From this we see (as previously mentioned24) that these evils are not inevitable, though it was not explained in such a way as to require that God [88b] exercise His providence on individuals, even those who do attain this kind of knowledge. He had already evaluated the weakness of the argument and hinted at it when he said, “A word came to me in stealth” (Job 4:12). Nonetheless, Eliphaz explained* this and verified from it, that is, from this argument, the topic of providence. The third argument is taken from the perfection of God and the deficiency of man, and it is as follows: man, with the small amount of perfection that is found in him, cannot turn a blind eye to what he apprehends,25 but he chooses the right and keeps himself distant from iniquity and violence, to the extent that they are under his supervision and governance. This is certainly demanded comes together with evils which are not truly human, is a good in itself ” (Lassen, 20). 22 See similarly the Introduction to the Synopsis: “The general rule is that these evils that result from bad ordering are not human evils, for human evils should happen to that part of man where human good occurs, which is the part of the soul that we call ‘intellect.’” 23 In the Introduction to the Synopsis, Gersonides explains that some of the evils related to matter are mistakes that man makes due to his impaired reason. He wrote something of the same sort in the Synopsis of the parable as well. 24 In the Introduction to the Synopsis. 25 In the commentary: “what he oversees.” Here, the meaning is: he cannot turn a blind eye to things that are found within his apprehension and his supervision.

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of him from the aspect of perfection that is found in him. It therefore must necessarily be found in One who is at the level of ultimate, complete truth. That is God, who must of necessity, in His supervision of reality, keep far from unfairness and intend only uprightness. The evils that befall those who do not appear to have rebelled possibly arise from foolishness and bear no relation to God. In the same way, good things befall the wicked, but they do not linger for long. See what Eliphaz says about the fool who “struck roots” (Job 5:3). The fourth argument is from the permanent arrangement of nature – the falling of rain and so forth – which teaches that there is One who arranges it providentially. That is because, if this were by accident, it would not be possible (in general) for plants to reach their full growth, since what might fall by chance here or there in the wide open spaces might be helpful or hurtful. We generally find, however, that the winds bring the clouds to drop their rain on the place where plants are reaching their full growth. This is a complete proof of providential oversight of this world. Similarly, we find that if God were not exercising providence over the individuals of the human race, the thought of those who are wise but wicked would in fact generally be actualized like anything else that is planned and attempted. For most such plans generally are actualized. But we find that the schemes of the wicked are seldom26 actualized. It necessarily follows that God exercises providence over the human race, “turning wise men back” (Isa 44:25): “Like channeled water is the mind of the king in the Lord’s hand” (Prov 21:1).

The Second Discourse of Job (Job 6–7) He said that it is impossible to assume that the evils accruing to the individuals of the human species come as a punishment from God, and that the punishment of the wicked brings destruction to them, while the righteous who sinned somewhat receive pain and suffering as a punishment, as Eliphaz stated. This, because a great enough measure of pain had already befallen him that he would choose death over that life, despite his uprightness and blamelessness. The same* is true whenever “suddenly a scourge brings death” to the wicked, for he “mocks as the innocent fail” (Job 9:23). Indeed, the trial of the innocent

26 So, at greater length, in the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 5:11–16. Gersonides himself makes this kind of providence depend on heavenly factors. See The Wars, book 2, ch. 2: “Now, by means of this supervision of the heavenly bodies over man, men are [also] guarded from many evils that are about to fall upon them. There are evil men who direct all their energies to kill or injure others, but they succeed only rarely even though they employ skillful means in these activities. Were it not for this providence their activities would be successful in most cases, just as in other crafts in which appropriate methods are employed” (Feldman, 2:36).

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by pain is harder for him than death. [Job] has already stated at length that he would choose death over a life of such distress, even though he does not believe in the resurrection of the dead or in reward and punishment after death, for [89a] he neither inherited the Torah nor received it at Sinai.27 In my view, it is natural for someone in great pain or distress to desire time to pass speedily, even though that inevitably brings him closer to death, which is not what he really intends or wants. [Job] further explained that it is impossible for God to extend His providence over individual human beings, for two reasons: first, because man, being deficient in comparison to God’s perfection, is contemptible to Him; and second, because such knowledge would have to be newly created, and it is impossible that God should have this kind of newly and endlessly created knowledge. The premises of Eliphaz’s arguments do not inevitably* require that God exercises providence over individual human beings. For it is possible to say that knowledge that comes in a dream, or the falling of rain, or preventing the schemes of the wicked from coming to pass – all this could be arranged and taken care of by the heavenly bodies, based on what flows from them to the Active Intellect,28 not to providence extending from God to individual human beings.29 With regard to Eliphaz’s assumption that it would be a deficiency in respect to God if He did not exercise providence and oversee uprightly everything that is under His supervision, just as such perfect supervision is a perfection in a human being – that is not necessarily so. It would only be true if that were in His power and He did not accomplish it, since the accomplishment of something one can potentially do is indeed perfection. But one who does not have the potential to accomplish a thing – it is no deficiency in him if he does not crow like a rooster, because that is not in his power.30 In general, 27 Gersonides bases his explanation of Job’s view here on the assumption that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul. On the question of Job’s faith in the resurrection of the dead, see Job 7:7–9 and Gersonides’ comments in the “General Principles” to Job 6–7. According to b. Bava Batra 16a, Job denied the resurrection of the dead. 28 See The Wars, book 5, pt. 3, ch. 13. 29 See the “General Principles” to Job 6–7. The entire topic is explained in The Wars, book 2, ch. 3. 30 He explains at greater length in the “General Principles” to Job 6–7: “For example, the crowing of the rooster is a perfection to him, as he has the ability to do so, and if he should fail to crow, that would be a defect in his nature, but it cannot be regarded as a defect in the nature of man or any other animal species, if they do not crow. Now, since such is the case, it should not be regarded as a defect in God, if He does not watch over all the deeds of men, even though He is the Ruler over all existing things. In general, it would really be considered a defect in God, if we were to admit that He has no knowledge of the things which transpire in this world; but when we assert that He has a knowledge of the important eternal things, and has no knowledge of the insignificant perishable things from the aspect of their destructibility, knowing them only under the aspect of their eternity, then this is not a defect in the nature of God, even as the inability

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if we said that God did not know anything, this would indeed be a defect with respect to Him. But we have said that He does know things that exist eternally and that He does not know the insignificant, perishable, constantly changing things that have no limit. This is no defect with respect to Him, just as it is not a defect in the human intellect that prevents it from conceiving particulars that are apprehended by the senses, as will be clarified in its proper place.

The First Discourse of Bildad (Job 8) It was the opinion of Bildad that all the good and evil that befalls humanity is determined and arranged by God rightly and justly, with not a thing lacking. It is only due to our foolishness that we regard them as badly ordered, for the evils that befall the innocent are essentially good, only that we do not know the manner in which they are good. The same is true of the good that befalls the wicked, and their apparent prosperity – in truth, these are evils, for by means of them the wicked are diminished and destroyed. He illustrated this with parables about plants, which may be completely uprooted from their places, but this is for their own good, since in another* place they sprout even better, while the others lose so much of their greenery that they wither.31 This apparently relates to the opinion of [89b] the Mutazilites, not, however, agreeing with it (since he does not place man and animals on an equal basis) with regard to providence, as Maimonides said.32 Perhaps it was the popularity of those opinions that led him to explain them this way, and in particular to relate the opinion of Bildad to that of the Mutazilites. However, the opinions of those sects are based on the weak33 arguments of Medabrim [speakers] by which they established the principle of creation ex nihilo, not on the actual number of contradictory views on this problem. We, however, have categorized these opinions according to the number of contradictory views on this problem that result from careful analysis.34 The opinion of Bildad, though it contradicts the experience of the senses, does have a certain amount of plausibility, in that many times when evil befalls

31

32 33 34

to conceive detailed matters which are perceived by the senses is not a defect in the nature of man’s reason” (Lassen, 50). There is a different formulation of this in the “General Principles” to Job 8: “as is the case with the meadow plants, which wither while they are still in their moistness and greenness” (Lassen, 56). Guide 3:23. That is, “defective.” He refers to the opinions expressed in the Book of Job on providence by each of the characters, as explained at greater length in the introduction to the commentary and at other opportunities there. His allocation of these opinions is Gersonides’ innovation with respect to his predecessors.

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a man, in the end it becomes evident that it was good for him, or prevented a greater evil (and vice versa). Some natural functions are similarly arranged, as when we find black bile in* his stomach, which gives him pain, until he is aroused to the taking of foods that restore and maintain his body. The evil therefore reveals itself as ultimately good. Similarly, the pleasure that gluttons get from their food actually harms them.35

The Third Discourse of Job (Job 9–10) Job did not ascribe inequity to God because of the evils that befall one who has not sinned. In fact, he removes it, by ascribing these evils to their determination by the position of the stars. His grievance against God is for not having ordained that unlucky people should not have come into being, since that would have been better for them (in his opinion). He ascribes their coming into being to error or to incapacity on God’s part. One of his arguments was that God was unaware of the evils that befell him. This was based on his own knowledge of his uprightness and innocence, and his removing God from suspicion of unfairness. His friends may possibly not have believed in his righteousness, and this was the reason for Job’s desire to contend, if at all possible, with God, who knows concealed things as well as overt ones. “Wickedness and wrongdoing be far from Him” (Job 34:10), that He should cause pain* to a righteous man! These particulars must therefore have been left for the heavenly bodies to arrange, as he has already said.36 To Bildad’s assumption that the evils that befall the innocent are good even if we cannot understand their goodness, Job replied that this is denied by sense experience, for there is no difference between the evils that befall the righteous and those that befall the wicked. For if their purposes37 are opposite, as Bildad assumed, they must be different in some respect,38 except if they occur by accident, in which case one thing may itself be the cause of another thing as well as its opposite, one of them essentially and one accidentally, just as heat can be the cause both of warming and of cooling. But perhaps the opposites found in these evils (according to this assumption) are independent of their 35 This example supporting Bildad’s point of view is not found in the commentary, but it is found in The Wars, book 4, ch. 2. 36 See the First Discourse of Job. 37 See the Hebrew note. 38 Perhaps read: “different in kind,” as in the commentary: “things that are opposite in their purpose, must need be opposite in kind” (Lassen, 71). In The Wars, book 6, pt. 1, ch. 8: “No matter how one interprets the characters of the movers of the heavenly bodies that serve as the forms of these bodies, such movers are different in species” (Feldman, 3:252). Cf. also The Wars, part 4, ch. 2.

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purposes, which is contradictory, as has been explained.39 Moreover, the evils that befall him would cause his death despite his uprightness, just as the evils that befall the wicked [90a] bring death upon them, and even if evil befell the righteous for the sake of ultimate good, that is better than permanent* distress “when suddenly a scourge brings death” (Job 9:23).40 Evidently, then, [evil] must come from the stars; from “the word of the Most High” (Lam 3:38), the “one higher than the high” (Eccl 5:7), evil does not proceed.41 What amazed Job was, since God used such infinite wisdom in creating man with the utmost possible perfection, how could He, with respect to the perfect action, make such a marvelous creation and immediately arrange something that would damage it, as happens to unlucky people?! Would it not have been better for such a one not to be created? God does not act providentially with regard to particulars42 and should not be so described, for the following reasons: first, God does not possess a hylic faculty by which particulars can be apprehended* and He therefore does not apprehend them. Job alluded to this when he said, “Do You have the eyes of flesh?” (Job 10:4). Second, God does not exist in time, but anyone who can apprehend particulars is temporal and mobile and hylic, since he can receive things that hyle apprehends. But He is far above all this, as has been explained.43 He therefore does not apprehend particulars. Job alluded to this when he said, “Are Your days the days of a mortal?” (Job 10:5). But God’s providence does connect to the genera, since they are not temporal. For whatever* is found among the lower beings of right order results from the nature of the genera, and what is found among them of deficiency is a result of their individuality.

The First Discourse of Zophar (Job 11) Zophar agrees that the good and the evil that befall individual human beings is all determined and arranged by the Creator in accordance with the deeds of each individual. But he resolves the problem arising from this assumption by saying that what appears to us as bad ordering – bad things happening to the righteous and good things to the wicked – is a shortcoming on our part 39 Above. This clarification is not found either in the commentary or in the The Wars. 40 The text is unclear. Perhaps the copyist skipped several words. The meaning (as in the commentary, though expressed differently there) is: death is better than ongoing suffering, which is worse than sudden death. 41 This sentence has no parallel either in the commentary or in The Wars. 42 The text is unclear. He means: God does not watch providentially over particulars, and therefore it would be better for the sufferer not to have been created. Perhaps the copyist miscopied the text or skipped a few words. 43 Above.

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in fully comprehending who is righteous and who is wicked. For he sees that everyone has distinct potentials that are particular to him, and he is to be classed as righteous or wicked in accordance with the extent to which he completely actualizes his potential. According to this, it could be that someone is outstandingly good and learned, yet evil occurs to him. That is his punishment for not completely perfecting his potential, whether in his character or in his opinions. And if another, whom we think evil because of the miniscule amount of good we see in his actions, has good things happen to him, it is because he is righteous in that he is not fitted to receive any more perfection and has already actualized all the good that was in his power and his predisposition, little though it be. In accordance with this assumption, punishment results from blameworthy actions as follows: to the extent that his predisposition* is lacking, the punishment might be little even for the most blameworthy action. But we fall short of comprehending the truth to the extent that we do not understand the measure of punishment required of us for rebellion [90b] due to our foolishness about people’s individual predispositions and about the judgments of the Lord, which are righteous. Furthermore, it could be that a man is sinful and iniquitous but is not thought to be so because we have not seen him perform blameworthy actions. For one may be regarded as a felonious transgressor if one neglects to endeavor in matters of the intellect when it is within his power and his predisposition* to apprehend them, since one who extinguishes his own light by his laziness and bad choices deserves to be punished.44 Since all these correlations escape us (due to our own shortcomings), we think what we see is badly ordered in comparison with what would be expected of “the One who knows and bears witness” (Jer 29:23), who “searches the mind” (Jer 11:20), “whose deeds are perfect and all His ways are just” (Deut 32:4). Bildad, on the other hand, solved this problem (as mentioned in his own discourse)45 by saying that the things that happen to a righteous person that we think are evil in fact have a good purpose – or at least prevent a worse evil – and something that has a good purpose is itself good. Similarly, the things that we think are good that happen to a wicked person end up being bad, even if we, due to our shortcomings, do not understand them as such. Having reached these conclusions about the opinions of Job, Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar, all the possible divergent opinions that intelligent people could have with regard to this dispute have been set forth. We shall deal separately with each of the parts expressed in this book by the disputing parties, in accordance with what the necessary differences demand. It is inescapable that whatever good and evil befall a man is determined and arranged by God in 44 A similar expression is found in the commentary of R. Abba Mari (f. 2). 45 See the First Discourse of Bildad.

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accordance with his deeds – that is,46 he gains no benefit and is not protected from evil when he does what is good, nor does he sustain injury if he does evil. Or possibly some things are determined and arranged by God according to people’s actions and some are not. The perspective that all things good and evil are determined by God is brought into doubt by sense perception, since one who holds that view must realize that it has, after all, been verified that* more evil befalls some righteous people than some wicked people, and more good befalls some wicked people than some righteous people. But this difficulty can be resolved, whether one admits that what we learn via the senses about the world being badly ordered is true or whether we dispute* it. This dispute, however, has two aspects: that of the subject, i.e. the person, whether it is that one we think righteous is evil or that one we think evil is righteous (this is the opinion of Zophar); and that of the predicate, i.e., the good and evil, when what we think evil is not evil but good, and vice versa (this is the opinion of Bildad). Bildad solves the problem by asserting that what we think is badly ordered is in fact ordered rightly, since some of the evils that befall the righteous have the purpose of doing good to them, or of reducing some worse evil; similarly, the good things that befall the wicked have evil as their ultimate purpose, and the wicked cannot avoid fear, which is a great evil. Their children after them are punished as well, which is a great punishment according to his way of thinking.47 46 There appears to be a haplography here. In the commentary: “in accordance with his deeds; or they are not determined and arranged in correspondence with his deeds. That is . . . ” (Lassen, 82). 47 According to the “General Principles” to Job 11, the argument that fear is a punishment for the wicked is Zophar’s contention, not Bildad’s: “Zophar solves this problem by asserting that they cannot escape fear, which is in itself an amazing evil. But because this fear is a thing which cannot be felt by others, therefore we think that no evil befell them. In truth, such a punishment is sufficient, even if their deeds are exceedingly reproachful, as their mental capability is of a low degree. He further states, in what follows, that even if they themselves have not been punished, their descendants who come after them are punished, which punishment is sufficient, according to his opinion, for the kind of good which results in evil is in itself evil” (Lassen, 84). The same emerges from other places in the commentary. It is expressed this way in The Wars, book 4, ch. 2, again as the opinion of Zophar: “Perhaps because of their sins they experience fear and anxiety and similar evils that are not perceived by us. We think, however, that these sinners are not receiving their just punishment, whereas they have in fact received the proper punishment decreed by the divine wisdom” (Feldman, 2:160). The same applies to the argument about punishment that is meted out to the descendants of the wicked after them. According to the “General Principles” to Job 11, this is the opinion of Zophar that will be expressed later in the book (in 20:10, 18; see the “General Principles” to Job 20). Despite the difficulty of the matter, it appears that we should not assume there to be a copyist’s error here, since both before and after this the opinions of Zophar are brought (and they do indeed belong to Zophar!). In this passage too the first argument, that bad things that befall righteous people have an ultimately good purpose and good things that befall wicked

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Zophar solves the problem by asserting that the wicked [91a] and the righteous are tested according to their capacity* for perfection. One whom we consider righteous might be wicked from the perspective of his48 falling short of his potential for perfection, whether in praiseworthy qualities or in true opinions, and he deserves to be punished for this. And we are ignorant of the modes of justice in this, but “actions are measured by God” (1 Sam 2:3). Likewise, one whom we regard as wicked may actually have a low level of wickedness due to his limited capacity* for perfection; possibly the little good he does should bring him* much good, inasmuch as he has brought into complete actuality all that was in his power and his capacity. So by means of one of these two alternatives the problem of the bad ordering that we see in this reality can be removed by admitting that all things good and bad are determined by God. And this is so even if we cannot apprehend the quality of the good and the bad and even if one cannot “see the difference between the righteous and the wicked, between him who has served the Lord and him who has not served Him” (Mal 3:18). What is regarded as badly ordered is in fact perfectly ordered by justice and righteousness. Nevertheless, even admitting that bad things do indeed happen to the righteous and good things to the wicked, as sense perception testifies, this problem can be solved when we say that those good and bad things that befall certain people unjustly do not come from God but stem from other causes such as gullibility and foolishness. And this can occur in two ways: either because there is individual providence for each person, but not in all their affairs, to wit, those that stem from the person’s foolishness and gullibility (this is the opinion of Eliphaz), or because there is individual providence for some people and not for others (this is the opinion of Elihu, who regards divine providence as not accompanying everyone, but only those who are worthy of it). And that

people have an ultimately bad purpose, is indeed the argument of Bildad. The switch between the names of Zophar and Bildad occurs in another context in the commentary as well, in the “General Principles” to Job 21: “The argument of Zophar, that it is not meet to ignore the general conclusion verified by sense experience on account of what happened to Job” (Lassen, 139). That is the text in all the manuscripts, but it is clear that the intent was to refer to the opinion of Bildad, as expressed in ch. 18. As Gersonides explains in his comment in “The Discourse as a Whole” to what Bildad says in Job 18:4, “‘Should we, because of your testimony, judge that the earth was forsaken?’ He meant to say, should we judge that the earth is forsaken, because of the lack of proper order in your affairs? . . . But we find, in the case of other men, that events in the world occur in order” (Lassen, 120). The same emerges from the other places in the commentary. On the other hand, we do not find anywhere that Zophar raised a similar argument. With all the perplexity in this matter, we can do nothing but assume that some confusion occurred in the words of Gersonides himself, both here in the Synopsis and in the commentary on Job 21. 48 See the Hebrew note.

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is the truth, and we follow the opinion of Maimonides, in accordance with our Torah.49 It has already been explained that according to the opinions of Bildad and Zophar all things good and evil come from God and are determined and* arranged by him, correctly and rightly. What we regard as disordered stems, according to the opinion of Bildad, from the predicate: that is, what we regard as bad is good in its ultimate goal and what we regard as good is bad from the perspective* of its ultimate goal, as he has already stated. According to the opinion of Zophar too the disorder that we see is simply our ignorance with regard to the subject of the proposition of “weal and woe” (Lam 3:38): that is, someone we regard as righteous is50 wicked and deserves evil, and someone we regard as wicked is righteous in the eyes of God, as has been explained.51 But these people do not rely in any way on the senses, and someone who follows this path cannot possibly attain the truth, for the beginning of knowledge is what we see via the senses, and one who denies them has no path to knowledge. Who told them that the truth is what they assumed about order? They have no way whatsoever of assessing the different perspectives! It is also clear that Eliphaz and Elihu agree that it has been verified – and there is no way to refute it [91b] by sense experience – that we find disorder among individuals, whether bad things happening to the righteous or good things happening to the wicked. Eliphaz solves this difficulty by saying that God’s providence accompanies each and every human individual, but not in his own actions, some of which are the result of folly and gullibility, which are not decreed by Him (one cannot complain about Him when “a man’s folly subverts his way” [Prov 19:3]),52 and some of which are the result of His will and His providence and are predetermined and arranged. The truth is that he has approached the true opinion, for he acknowledges the essential principle and does not deny sense experience, but he did not resolve all the problems necessitated by his opinion. For such evil as occurs from folly cannot be much. Likewise, the good things that result from gullibility do not really last long. We find that, of the bad things that happen to the righteous and the good things that happen to the wicked, some are lasting, and what is lasting cannot be accidental. Furthermore, he did not distinguish between those actions that stem from God as reward or punishment and those that do not53 – though 49 50 51 52

Guide 3:17, following the way it is expressed there by Maimonides. See the Hebrew note. Above. This verse is cited as an explanation of the opinion of Eliphaz in the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 5:2 and it appears as well in The Wars, book 4, ch. 2. 53 Compare the “General Principles” to Job 11: “But he erred in the inferences from the principle, for when Eliphaz assumed that it is improper to ascribe all the good and evil which befall men

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he did indeed admit the true principle that some stem from Him and some do not,54 and he did not deny that sense experience leads to true knowledge. And Elihu55 solved all the doubts that derive from what appears to the senses as lasting when he saw that the actions of some individuals are measured out according to divine providence – those who are worthy of it, as will be explained56 – and others not: “the great multitude” (Job 31:34) of wicked people, all of whose actions, good and bad alike, are arranged and determined according to the position of the stars, in whose influence universal good is predominant, and if it is found bad to some small extent it is nonetheless good overall: “Nothing evil descends from above” (Genesis Rabbah 51:3), as is self-evident to one who knows the secrets of reality* and the quality of their governance to which Elihu’s words allude. Yet Job, knowing that he was upright and blameless, and that the suffering that befell him was without prior sin on his part as far as he knew, decided to assert that all that happens to man is inescapably determined and arranged by the stars. The righteousness of the righteous cannot help them, and the wickedness of the wicked cannot hurt them. Nothing is determined and arranged by God. We have already explained to what extent this opinion is flawed and heretical, and that what brought him to it was that he was not perfect in wisdom. Eventually, when he examined the opinions that disagreed with him, in general and specifically, in the arguments of Eliphaz and Elihu, he reached the level of prophecy, at which “the Lord replied to Job out of the tempest” (Job 38:1, 40:6),57 and he admitted the power of His wonders, returned to the truth, repented of his weak opinion,58 and “recanted” (Job 42:6) what he had previously chosen without choosing the truth, to the extent that he prayed for his three friends to whatever extent they could apprehend by their opinions. God accepted his request, since his original opinion was correct as far as could be determined by

54 55

56 57 58

as means of reward and punishment by God in accordance with their deeds, as it seems obvious from sense-experience, it follows also that God does not determine all events in this world in accordance with the deeds of men . . . ” (Lassen, 86). In contrast to the brief version in the commentary, here it is clear what the “true principle” that Eliphaz admits is. In the “General Principles” to Job 11 Elihu’s opinion is mentioned extremely briefly: “But some thinkers assume that some happenings are determined by God according to the righteousness or wickedness of man, while others are not determined by Him, because He does not extend His providence to all men, only to some who are entitled to it, as it will be explained in what follows. This is the opinion of Elihu and it is essentially true, as will be seen later” (Lassen, 85). Here, Gersonides “surfed” to the subject of the next chapter. Below, in the First Discourse of Elihu. That is, Job scrutinized the words of Eliphaz and Elihu and in that way apprehended the word of the Lord. That is, his defective opinion.

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investigation and speculation,59 and at last, from the perspective of complete truth, he did speak rightly,60 and “The Lord restored Job’s fortunes . . . and the Lord gave Job twice what he had before” (Job 42:10). This is the summary [92a] of the opinions ascribed to Job and his three friends according to the analysis that this discussion demands, and their responses, according to the method of question-and-answer – the arguments brought by each of them to Job to uphold his own opinion and to refute that of Job, who likewise spoke at length in defense of his opinion, giving indisputable arguments that refuted the opinions of his friends until they found the answer (see Job 32:3). All the arguments and proofs revolve around the principles mentioned, which is why we have left them out of this Synopsis.61 We have given the opinion of Elihu at length in this Synopsis, as well as the response of the Lord to Job, which resolves all the doubts that arise from each of the opinions, those of Job and of his three friends, in order to “bring forth the true way” (Isa 42:3), 59 See the “Explanation of the Words in the Discourse” to Job 42:7–8: “but Job, though he did not see the truth, was arguing in a just manner, according to his opinion. When it seemed to him that there is injustice in the order of occurrence of good and evil to men, he assumed that God had no knowledge of particular things . . . He even proved, by philosophical arguments, that God does not know particular things. Therefore, it is evident that Job’s opinion, though in reality false, was nearer the truth than the opinion of the friends, as it was founded on right premises. In fact, Job’s hypothesis that God does not extend His Providence to individuals, is true, as far as the majority of men who do not deserve His special attention are concerned. Elihu only differed with him in regard to men [the intelligent] who do deserve that special Providence, as we explained. Hence God’s words to Eliphaz that he and his friends did not speak rightly, as Job did” (Lassen, 265–66). 60 That is, the Lord accepted Job’s prayer because he had attained intellectual apprehension. Compare these words with Gersonides’ commentary on Genesis 20: “The second benefit is . . . in opinions. And it is that the prayers of good people who hold fast to the Lord are heard. With regard to this King Abimelech of Gerar was told that Abraham’s prayer for him would be accepted, ‘since he is a prophet’ [Gen 20:7] and that is why Abraham held fast to God, along the lines of the following verses: ‘Seek the favor of the Lord, and He will grant you the desires of your heart’ [Ps 37:4]; ‘When he seeks the favor of Shaddai, he calls upon God at all times’ [Job 27:10]; and we have already explained the truth of this in our commentary to the book of Job.” See the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 27:8–10: “What is the hope of the godless who robs and commits violence, even if God will leave him in peace and will not punish him? Can he trust that God will save him when misery will come unto him? This is impossible according to my opinion, and also according to yours, for he does not rejoice in God nor does he cling to Him so that his prayer be heard any time he desires” (Lassen, 168). 61 This view of the words of Job and his friends – that after the first cycle of speeches all the speakers more or less repeat the same arguments they had already offered – matches that of the commentary. See (e.g.) the end of the “General Principles” to Job 15: “Such an assumption, however, would be absolutely nil and futile, for then the idea of free will would be void and all things would be compulsory. This is the only argument added by Eliphaz in this discourse” (cf. Lassen, 110). See also the “Explanation of the Words” to Job 18:2.

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that “the judgments of the Lord are true, rejoicing the heart” (Ps 19:10, 9) of one who understands His ways,* “obeys His commandments and His teachings” (Exod 16:28), and “keeps the decrees of His covenant” (Ps 25:10).

First Discourse of Elihu, and His Arguments (Job 32:6–33:33) Elihu sees that both good and evil are determined and arranged by the stars for each and every nation and each and every individual human being. This is because, insofar as man is the most perfect of the lower beings, all the heavenly bodies participate in guarding him and arranging what is to happen to him based on their position at the moment of conception or birth (for a person); or (for a nation) according to what was ascending at the time it coalesced around its founding father. The human race is differentiated by this kind of protection as a result of its status as the highest of all the lower beings. If any sort of evil should by accident occur as a result of this kind of governance, there is no reason to wonder at it or to complain to God. For His primary and enduring aim is the bestowal of good. If there were a potential for no evil to result from this, He would certainly not omit it. But creation necessitates this when some animals are destructive beasts of prey, despite their being unworthy that good should reach* them.62 All the same, God has removed as far as is possible the evil that may occur to human beings as a result of this arrangement, by endowing them with reason and free will.63 For one who has perfected his intellect enough to be perfectly united with the Active Intellect, the latter will protect him from any evils that should arise from the stars by making them known to him before they occur. This will happen “in a dream” or “a night vision” (Job 33:15), during sleep, which “turns aside” the actions of the emotional soul, goes past the actions of the material which hides the flow of the intellect from him, and “suppresses” (Job 33:17) them. Then the Active Intellect will “open men’s understanding” (Job 33:16) for those who are prepared for this, and “by disciplining them” through afflictions “leave the signature” of the heavenly stars (see Job 33:16).64 This kind 62 Compare the “General Principles” to Job 32–33: “It is as little to be wondered at the happening of good to the wicked as at the fact that God endeavors to preserve the lower animals by providing them with food and the organs for obtaining it, in spite of the fact that they devour other animals and certainly cannot be said to be righteous as the term does not even apply to them” (Lassen, 199). 63 See the Hebrew note. 64 Compare his commentary on Job 33:15–16: “‘In a dream, a night vision, when deep sleep falls on men, while they slumber on their beds’ [Job 33:15], that is, during sleep when the emotional soul ceases its activities, and the reasoning faculty of the perfect is disengaged from among all the other faculties of the soul and unites with the Active Intellect. God then reveals to their ear

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of knowledge belongs to those who are as perfect in qualities and opinions as they can be. But for one who is perfect merely in qualities,65 or one who is progressing toward perfection66 but has not reached the level at which he can receive the flow of the intellect [92b] in a dream or a vision, there is nonetheless some amount of unification and progress toward a comprehension of truth, that he could not understand if it were spoken about in some other way, to save him from the evil that could be expected to occur to him according to the stars. This is that God chastises him by means of pain, to keep him from following a path that, if he were to follow it, he would die or something worse would happen to him. And this kind of protection comes to the upright as a result of their being upright even if they do not realize it, just as God causing some animals, by natural means, to flee from things that would be harmful to them – by giving them a foul smell or a repulsive look67 so that they flee from them and escape the evil without them realizing68 the benefit that accrued to them of their being protected from harm. The same might occur to a human being who had any amount of unification with the Active Intellect,69 the least the chastisement which is ordained to come upon them through the heavenly bodies” (Lassen, 196). 65 As Gersonides has already argued (see The Parable), one who is perfect in qualities alone cannot escape from the authority of the Satan, that is, from the difficulties caused by matter. Here, however, he notes that these difficulties too can be directed toward good – to chastise someone in order to set him on the right path. This is not stated explicitly in the commentary, but Gersonides does formulate it this way in other places in his writings. See his commentary on Genesis 18–19: “The fifteenth benefit is in opinions. It is that God’s providence cleaves to a person on account of his keeping God’s path and acting righteously and justly to the extent that he is perfect in qualities and opinions. Thus, it is given as the reason for God’s providence over the seed of Abraham that they keep the way of the Lord, acting righteously and justly. The truth of this has already been explained in Book Four of The Wars of the Lord and in our commentary to the book of Job.” 66 The expression “progressing toward perfection” is not found in the commentary, but it is characteristic of Gersonides’ language. See (e.g.) his commentary on Leviticus 27, the second benefit: “And yet between the ages of fifteen and twenty, when one’s strength begins to grow and one begins to despise evil and choose the good and one is progressing toward perfection, the value of the male is greater than one who is sixty or over, for he is progressing toward deficiency and loss”; The Wars, part one, ch. 6: “The primary matter is affected by the Agent Intellect in such a way that it receives the various perfections by gradations” (Feldman, 1:151); ibid., book 4, ch. 2: “Accordingly, it is not impossible that a man be thought righteous, even if he strives for a perfection less than what he is capable of ” (Feldman, 2:163). 67 This word sakhutam (‫ )שכותם‬is obscure and perhaps corrupted. It may mean “appearance,” perhaps being related to the “figured” (maskit/‫ )משכית‬stones of Lev 26:1 or the delightful “imagery” (sekhiyot/‫ )שכיות‬of Isa 2:16 (see the commentary of David Kimchi to that verse). In the commentary the formulation is: “by giving them, for example, a foul odor” (cf. Lassen, 197). 68 See the Hebrew note. 69 Apparently the copyist has skipped a few words. Compare the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job

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of advocates; still, the advocacy that results from such unification saves him even if he does not realize it, whether by protecting him from some perceptible evil that is in store for him from the stars, or by protecting him against some spiritual evil (a deficiency in knowledge or a reprehensible quality). It might happen that some pains come upon him that prevent him from encountering the evil that was arranged for him (if it was something perceptible), or because his heart humbles itself because of them (if it was spiritual) and he scrutinizes his deeds and opinions and returns to the Lord. And this species of evil, that comes by way of chastisement for protection from spiritual evil, occurs to such people as are progressing toward perfection just “two or three times” (Job 33:29), for after that the evil trait which he clings to returns to him as a strong characteristic, one he cannot cut loose from.70 Now, according to what has preceded, though good and bad things are determined and arranged by the stars, what is arranged for a particular individual does not inevitably come upon him, because of what has already been prepared* for him: intellect and free will, which overrule the stars for him, defeating what would otherwise have been inevitable. If he has actualized his intellect to its full potential, to the extent that his soul holds fast to the Active Intellect, then knowledge about what is in store for him will reach him during sleep, giving him the opportunity and the capability to escape the evils that are to occur. For “a wise man’s heart discerns time and judgment” (Eccl 8:5) very much71 if he can prevent some of the higher decrees, perhaps all of them. But if he is below this level, on a level at which he does not have the perfection that is prepared to receive the flow of the Active Intellect in a dream or vision, if he is nonetheless blameless and upright in his qualities, correct in his behavior, and progressing toward perfection and turning to it, then either (by unification 33:23–24: “This kind of information reaches man only if he is united with the Active Intellect in some manner, which unity acts as a kind of advocating angel. It is then that man is told what is right for him to do in order to guard himself against the impending evil. In this manner, God is gracious to him and redeems him from going down into the grave, so that this man exclaims: ‘I am ransomed,’ that is, my pains are removed” (Lassen, 198). 70 Compare the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 33:30: “just as the Active Intellect watches over the one who strives to unite with it in order to save him from the evils impending upon him through the heavenly bodies, so does it endeavor to save him from following such ways as those of the wicked, which prevent him from attaining perfection. But the Active Intellect does not endeavor to chastise man as a means for preventing him from following wickedness, more than three times, for if he continues to cling to evil, it becomes a strong characteristic in him, and he will never cut loose from it” (Lassen, 198–99). 71 It is not clear how these two words (one word in Hebrew) relate to the sentence, whether they mean “the heart of a man who is very much wise” or whether they mean he will be able to prevent very many of the decrees from being fulfilled. The words may be misarranged; perhaps they should read “if he can prevent very many of the higher decrees, perhaps all of them.”

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with the Active Intellect to some extent) he can escape far away from the evils of the stars when he is chastised by pains to save him from death or from some worse perceptible evil that is fated to come upon him, or the pain protects him from some spiritual evil, from an erroneous thought or an evil trait, when he scrutinizes his deeds and aligns his opinions with the truth. And possibly the intermediate72 level between these two levels, that is, between [93a] being informed by means of a dream or vision and being informed through pain, is that a man is suddenly seized by a great fear that, if he performs a certain action, evil will occur. This keeps* him from doing it and he is saved. As the sages said, “Even though he did not see it, his constellation saw it” (b. Meg. 3a). And in this kind of way, as has been mentioned,73 the promised blessings and the threatened curses74 are fulfilled, for when we follow God’s ways and some evil is impending in the stars, information about it comes to a prophet, if there is one among the nation at that time, or else sufferings rescue them from some greater evil or from perishing, or rescues75 them from a moral decline into which they had begun to fall. So such evils should not be ascribed to accident. But if they turn aside from following God, the punishment will be the hiding of His face. They will be abandoned to the fate ordained by the stars. It has thus been clarified that one cannot complain about the evils ordained by the stars, since the primary aim of everything is good. You must realize that God cleverly created in the human species ways by which one who is worthy can escape from these kinds of evils. Whatever evil does follow from them affects the wicked and the vain, which is good for the good people. As Solomon, may he rest in peace, said, “The Lord made everything for a purpose, even the wicked for an evil day” (Prov 16:4), and, “When 72 See the Hebrew note. 73 See the Hebrew note. In the commentary: “this difficulty is solved” (cf. Lassen, 201). 74 Compare the “General Principles” to Job 32–33: “And here is the place to explain to the intelligent student that in a similar manner we can solve the doubts which may arise concerning the evils which reach our nation when it does not follow the ways of God and the good which will come to it when it will follow them, as mentioned in the Torah in the chapters on the Blessings and Curses. (Lev 26:3–48; Deut 28). It is as follows: The entire nation is protected by God when it follows his ways, but when it turns away from the right path and evil is about to come upon it through the arrangement of the heavenly bodies, a warning is issued to the nation in one of the two following ways: If there is a prophet among them, he receives the warning and transmits it to the nations, and if there is no prophet, then God brings upon the entire nation pain and suffering in order to save it, whether from the impending material evil, or from the moral degradation towards which it had begun to decline. Therefore, the Torah states definitely that when evils come upon the nation, the people shall not ascribe it to accident, but believe that they come from God for the purpose of chastising them and turning them away from the wrong path” (Lassen, 201). 75 Evidently, the meaning is “sufferings save,” and the letter ‫ ו‬is missing in Hebrew text.

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the wicked perish there are shouts of joy” (Prov 11:10); “The righteous man will rejoice when he sees revenge” (Ps 58:11). Yet one must also not complain to God about the good things that happen to the wicked on account of the stars, since in any case even they are of higher status than the other animals. Yet the animals too are protected by what is ordained in the stars, whose purpose, as will be explained in a wide-ranging discussion of the words of God (Job 40–41), is primarily intended for the good.76

Second Discourse of Elihu (Job 34) Job was arguing that these evils had come upon him for no guilt of his. From this he could see that man is abandoned to the mercy of the stars. He was resentful that God could set in order such a lack of justice. Why had He created unlucky people in the first place, when death was so clearly preferable to them than life?! He attributed this either to a lack of capacity to govern or to unfairness and lawlessness77 – “Wickedness be far from God, wrongdoing, from Shaddai!” (Job 34:10). Elihu refutes Job’s words in a number of ways: first, for saying that he had no guilt. He had obviously sinned when he said, “Man gains nothing when he is in God’s favor” (Job 34:9). By saying this he had joined himself to those iniquitous people who act lawlessly and commit evil because they are confident that no harm will come to them from God. Though Job had already removed himself from this category when he took an oath “by God who has deprived me of justice” (Job 27:2), whereby he in fact condemned wrongdoing and chose the more well-considered qualities, nonetheless he could not really remove himself from it. Flaws and errors had entered into this opinion of his, due to his falling short of what is required for this kind of analysis. This was a great sin, indeed, a “criminal offense” (Job 31:28), for a sin in opinions is more severe than a sin in moral action. Since [93b] a sin in opinions is perpetrated by the intellect,78 which is more important than the body and the other powers of the soul, it follows that a rebellion that occurs in it is worse, the more so as human perfection both in its scientific and social aspects depends on this opinion in the investigation of providence. From the social aspect, it is quite 76 He means the “wide-ranging discussion” of God’s second discourse. 77 God’s governance of the world can be described as unfair if we assume that He exercises providence over what goes on in the material world. According to Job’s argument, that is the situation according to his friends, and that is what they actually believe in their heart of hearts. See above, the Third Discourse of Job, as well as, in the commentary, the “Discourse as Whole” to Job 13:9, 16:19–20, and many others. 78 There appears to be a haplography here. In the “General Principles” to Job 34: “Now, the perpetrator of the sin of opinion is reason . . . while a sin in moral action affects only the body and the lower faculties of the soul connected with it. It follows then that since reason . . . ” (Lassen, 209).

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evident that most people will abstain from committing wrong only because of their fear of being punished for it. From the aspect of scientific perfection, when people know that by achieving intellectual perfection they will escape the evil fated for them in the stars (as Elihu said), they will try to bring out their perfection as much as they can from potential to actual.79 This we attain only through apprehending His deeds and the way they are carried out, and all that is possible for us to apprehend are those ways that are in this lower world. So one who errs in this is prevented from the only comprehension of God that is possible for a human being! In this respect, Job had already committed a great sin and a profound rebellion and was therefore deserving, rightly and justly, of the accidents that befell him. From another perspective, it is obvious that God would not endeavor to make evil or iniquity but, on the contrary, would remove it in all possible ways, as becomes evident upon investigation. Elihu first postulated one premise, true and commanding acceptance both by religious people and by philosophers, namely, that God is the Maker of all existing things.80 When we investigate the total order of existence instituted by the Creator, we find it immeasurably more just and equitable, favorable and good, than any of the created genera* could possibly be on their own, nor could their mutual complementation be greater or less. This is what Elihu alludes to when he says, “Who placed the earth in His charge? Who ordered the entire world?” (Job 34:13). He means to say that God is the one who established the order of this world, and that this right and proper order teaches us that God does not desire evil: “For God surely does not act wickedly; Shaddai does not pervert justice” (Job 34:12). From one who desires evil, right and equity could come but little, and then only by accident. But God renews His goodness81 every day continually, with the goal of as much equity, righteousness, and generosity as is possible. It cannot be said that this good order is found in the genera alone and does not act on individuals, for the genera are really nothing more than the individuals themselves are, except that the individuals have an additional quality added to their generic nature, which is

79 In the parallel in the “General Principles” to Job 34, Gersonides describes the “scientific” sin of Job from two perspectives, accidental and essential: “The dependence of scientific perfection upon this opinion is explained in two ways. One is the accidental, namely, when men will know that by improving their reason and bringing it out from the potential into an actual state, they will escape the evils about to come upon them through the heavenly constellations, they will endeavor to do so. The other is of a more essential nature, which is that real human happiness consists in conceiving God in the best way possible” (Lassen, 210). Here, Gersonides describes only the “accidental” side of the flaw, apparently for the purpose of abridging the argument, unless we assume that the copyist has skipped something. 80 See the Hebrew note. 81 See the Hebrew note.

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the distinct properties of their matter, by which they are particularized. Since God brings all this to pass in right order, as is wonderfully apparent, it is not proper to ascribe to Him evil and unfairness. To the extent that we* believe that we do find it failing to maintain justice and equity in the good things (or the evil) that befall individuals, we must investigate the reason for this. If we cannot manage to do so, we should attribute that to our own shortcomings and not protest insolently against heaven, as [94a] Job did by ascribing inability and incapacity to God. How could anyone ascribe iniquity to the One from whom goodness and equity flow continually to reality as a whole?! The One who created this reality in general in such wonderfully good order that teaches that its goal is equity* and wisdom – since we find no incapacity preventing Him from creating such wonderful things as we find in the actual creation – how could incapacity affect Him on the lower level of bringing good to the good and evil to the wicked?! How much more so could He be unable to abstain* from creating people who are destined to be unlucky, or to grant them death if they find it preferable to life, as Job mistakenly thought about this, due to his* philosophical shortcomings. The next method of demonstrating that God does not desire wickedness is this. Elihu’s discussion presumes that there is no unfairness with respect to God in His bringing good unjustly. That is because God exercises general providence over humanity by ordering things via the heavenly bodies, and this good comes to them as human beings born under a particular arrangement of the stars, not because they are certain particular individuals. Obviously it is not right for God to refrain from exercising His providence over the human race in this manner* and benefiting the generality just because there might possibly be some wicked individuals in it. It would, indeed, be unfair if good befell them as a result of their wicked actions or because of their individual nature. Once we have settled the fact that bringing good unjustly in this way is not unfair, it is clear that God has no desire for evil or for destroying the world: “Had the Lord meant to take our lives” (Judg 13:23), he would destroy this reality in a moment by means of the power and capability found in Him. Moreover, its existence and preservation* depend on Him, and if He did not arrange for its preservation, it would vanish instantly. But this reality is not in fact destroyed all at once. Therefore, God does not desire evil, but wants the world’s continued existence and its good. This is what Elihu alludes to when he says, “If He but intends it, He can call back His spirit and breath” (Job 34:14), after beginning “For God surely does not act wickedly; Shaddai does not pervert justice” (Job 34:12). Now, evil does come* to the lower forms of existence accidentally by way of the heavenly bodies. What Elihu said is that it is not proper to relate unfairness and wickedness to God, for there is some benefit in it. God endeavors to have some benefit arise from things that are preordained. The benefits that arise from

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the evil that comes to the wicked from the stars are to punish them for their wickedness and their failure to enlighten themselves about His ways. If they did, they would overcome the power of the stars and have God’s providence cleave to them. Additionally, the evil that reaches the wicked serves as a deterrent to [other]82 people, enabling the good to escape when the wicked perish. And if wickedness does not inevitably come to them by way of the stars, it comes to them to save the righteous and the good, as He brought plagues upon Egypt for Israel’s sake: “the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with mighty plagues on account of Sarai, the wife of Abram” (Gen 12:17) and the like. All this is true and equitable [94b] in the judgments of the Lord, which are “just, rejoicing the heart” (Ps 19:9). If the good are cared for providentially by God in such a way that evil comes to them to save them from some greater evil, how much the more so should they be cared for providentially by evil coming to the wicked and harmful, to keep the harm they would do away from them. This is a miraculous providence for the good.

Third Discourse of Elihu (Job 35) Elihu replies to Job’s argument from the fact that the wicked prosper for a long time despite their causing all kinds of pain and harm to other people, the good ones, all during that same83 long time by saying* that the rebellion of the wicked does not harm84 God and make Him rush to take vengeance on them, for our wickedness and our righteousness are ours: “If you are righteous, what do you give Him?” (Job 35:7). Despite the apparent unfairness of God being patient with the wicked “until the time that their foot falters” (Deut 32:35) due to the stars, though during85 that time they can cause pain* and harm to the good and the upright, those people could not be harmed by the wicked were it not that they did not endeavor to hold fast to God (so the evil fate in store for them in the stars takes effect on them), or else the evil comes to them providentially to save them from a greater evil that was destined for them, as noted previously.86 Consequently, they themselves are the cause of the evil befalling them, not God’s patience with the wicked. As for Job’s objection to the opinion of his friends that God requites man for his deeds and does see them – saying that that is impossible, inasmuch as we see the disorder in this aspect by philosophic investigation with respect to 82 83 84 85 86

See the Hebrew note. See the Hebrew note. See the Hebrew note. See the Hebrew note. In the Second Discourse of Elihu.

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God, as previously noted87 – it is clear that Elihu has solved this problem. He does not presume that God knows all the particular things as particulars (as we know what we know): “Surely God does not hear vanity” (Job 35:13). But He does know them all in one general way. It is from the knowledge God has of them that knowledge reaches the prophets, through the mediation of the imaginative faculty, when their intellect cleaves to the Active Intellect and they apprehend particulars even before they occur. In this way he has some kind of relationship with God through knowledge, even though this “knowledge” is merely homonymous to our* knowledge, that is, denoting only a common name but no common content.88 As to what appears via sense perception as badly ordered in the evils that befall human beings, Elihu says, they are but little compared with the good that befalls them. This is not God “venting his anger” (Job 35:15), and it is not found in great quantity, especially since we ourselves are most often the cause of the evils that befall us, as previously noted,89 and they are extremely few compared with the good. It is more proper to investigate the reason for each of these few cases and not to deny the wonderful providence by which His good flows to the lower creatures in the majority of cases.

Fourth Discourse of Elihu (Job 36–37) Here, [95a] as a kind of closure to his words, he explains a few of his arguments. He explains that man’s low and despicable state as compared to God does not prevent the latter from extending His providence to him. Rather, it is fitting that He should exercise providence over him. Two premises underlie this assertion: the first is that God is He “whose understanding is perfect” (Job 37:16), that is, He knows all ideas, and since this is self-evident Job already admitted it when he said, “With Him are wisdom and courage” (Job 12:13). The other premise is that humanity is “mighty in strength and mind” (Job 36:5), that is, they are so well prepared to apprehend ideas that they potentially can apprehend all of them in some form. If this is the case, then God’s apprehension of ideas is great 87 See the First Discourse of Job. It is possible that the text is corrupt here and that the words “by philosophic investigation” are out of place. Compare the “General Principles” to Job 35: “As for Job’s objection to the opinion of his friends that God knows the deeds of man and punishes him for them, that such is not borne out by sense experience, nor corroborated by speculation, as was previously stated . . . ” (Lassen, 217). 88 Compare the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 36:5: “it follows that it is not meet for God to despise him. This premise, however, is not entirely sound, for after all the term ‘knowledge’ is applied to God and to man only homonymously, i.e., denoting only a common name but no common content” (Lassen, 223) – that is, with a true meaning and a metaphoric one. 89 Above.

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in actuality and humanity’s is great in potentiality. Obviously what is actual perfects what is potential, bringing it insofar as possible into actuality. In this bringing forth into actuality of ideas, we find a unity of a kind between the actualizer and the actualized. Obviously, then, humanity attains in this way a certain unification with and cleaving to God. To the extent that this is the way of humanity, it is not proper for God to despise them; on the contrary, it is proper for Him to exercise a wonderful providence over them. Since this unification and cleaving arises through actual apprehension of ideas, not because of the potentiality possessed by the entire human species, it is evident that the providence extended to the intellectual man is due to his individual nature. Since God is likewise mighty in the ability to apprehend ideas, it is not right that God despise a man who is “mighty in strength and mind,” but rather should exercise providence over him in accordance with the extent to which he can bring forth his intellect to perfection. God cleaves to him in accordance with his level of intellectual apprehension. This agrees with the opinion of Maimonides (of blessed memory), as has been explained there.90 Based on the assumption that providence ought to match one’s apprehension of ideas in actuality and that wickedness prevents such apprehension, the wicked do not benefit from providence but are punished for their rebellion – with regard to their souls, essentially; with regard to their bodies, accidentally; this latter, by their being handed over to be the target91 of half the evil accidents that await them, which are indeed accidents, since nothing92 comes from heaven in essence, and there is even some benefit in it, in that good people take warning and escape93 from them. The spiritual punishment is that they lack salvation of the soul. Elihu alludes to this when he says, “He does not let the wicked live” (Job 36:6) – that is, He does not preserve either the physical life or the soul-life of the wicked. This is evident because he has already mentioned two parallel types of reward for the righteous: “He does not withdraw His eyes from the righteous” [physical reward]; “with kings on thrones He seats them forever, and they are exalted” [spiritual reward] (Job 36:7). By this argument the necessity of the existence of equity in these matters becomes clear – the opposite of what Job thought, when he “piled up words without knowledge” (Job 35:16). Elihu reproached Job for not having scrutinized his actions on account of the suffering that came upon him, when he could cer90 He means that it is explained in the words of Elihu. In the commentary, he says nothing about the fit between Maimonides’ system of providence in Guide 3:17 and his commentary on Job in Guide 3:22–23. See The Wars, book 4, ch. 7. In the Synopsis, see also the Introduction and the First Discourse of Zophar. 91 Thus the text in the commentary; (cf. Lassen, 232, and see the Hebrew note). 92 That is, nothing evil; see the Introduction. The copyist may have skipped the word here. 93 See the Hebrew note.

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tainly see that they came upon him to chastise him for the (slight) rebellion in which he had become entangled, and in order that he should examine in what way [95b] he had “incurred guilt” (see 1 Sam 14:38) and “turn back to the Lord, and He would pardon him” (Isa 55:7). This is one of the kinds of providence that are extended to the righteous man who is progressing toward perfection, as has been previously noted.94 But Job was oblivious to this, which is why he complained that he considered himself righteous and did not even imagine that he had rebelled in any way. Yet if he had returned to God on his own and begged forgiveness, he would undoubtedly have been saved from those evils, as indeed eventually happened to him. He then reproaches Job once more for ascribing unfairness to God in His ordering of the heavenly bodies, on account of the evils that result from them, and shows that by this wonderful ordering they in fact support the world and keep it established. Whatever perceptible evils that befall the wicked through “accident” are in fact on account of the wickedness and iniquity they themselves have done, and the good are disciplined by their punishment, so that society is perfected by means of this evil, both the accidental and the preordained. It is not that God carries it into action essentially and as a primary aim. As for the intellectuals among the righteous, they need not fear it, since they are guided providentially to the extent that they hold fast to God, as previously noted. In general, as we see from God’s wonders with the “flow”* [of Gen 2:6 and Job 36:27], which is the first step in the process of becoming, as he mentioned,95 all the more so with man, who is the culmination of His creations, ought we judge that God is “great in power and justice and abundant in righteousness” (Job 37:23) and that the order that comes from Him is utmost perfection, though we cannot comprehend it due to our own shortcomings.

God’s First Speech to Job from the Whirlwind (Job 38–39) God reproached Job for judging His actions as defective and imperfect in that, under the order that follows from the stars, the righteous suffer and the wicked prosper. If it were impossible for God to arrange this any differently, why then did God create unlucky people? From Job’s perspective, this was due to God’s incapacity, as* has preceded.96 God explains that it is not proper for

94 In the First Discourse of Elihu. 95 That is, as Elihu mentioned. See at greater length the “Discourse as a Whole” to Job 36:27 and 37:24. Compare, in the “General Principles” to Job 36–37, “These [the clouds] represent the first step in the process of becoming in this world, and yet we can hardly conceive the wonders which God manifests in their workings. Consequently, our failure to understand the wonders in the life of man who stands at the end of the process, is many times greater” (Lassen, 234). 96 See, esp., the First Discourse of Job.

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anyone to judge except in a case of which he has perfect knowledge. He also told him of God’s actions, which demonstrate superlative wisdom and might to make everything as good as possible, and that His providence over this lower existence is indeed very good, something of which Job was oblivious. He mentioned likewise that the evil that results from the heavenly bodies has some benefit, in that it punishes men of violence and “shakes the wicked out of it” (Job 38:13) and rescues the righteous from them, and so that the good, God-fearing people might learn a lesson and thereby attain the salvation of their souls by this arrangement, to the extent that it appears intended to damage the wicked, as mentioned previously in the words of Elihu. For just as God placed in the nature of plants a power to repel that which does not agree with their nature, so too He put powers in human beings that repel evil forces so that the good should not be harmed by them. God further reproached him by saying, “Shall one who should be disciplined complain against Shaddai? He who arraigns God must respond” (Job 40:2). When He saw that Job did not answer Him, He said: “Is it right for one who argues with God about evil* that comes upon him to chastise Him that God should answer him as I have answered you?” Or [96a] perhaps: “Should one whom God chastises answer by casting aspersions against heaven?” Or perhaps: “One who argues with God should answer Him!”

Job’s Answer to God (Job 40:3–5) “I have spoken once, and will not reply; twice, and will do so no more” (Job 40:5) – that is: I previously thought that among* the evil and good events that occur to people can be found two kinds of wrongdoing: one, in the evil that occurs to the righteous, and I do not respond to that part of the problem because the way this was explained by Elihu and God was sufficient to resolve my doubts. But the second problem, the good that occurs to the wicked, has not been solved in what has been said so far. So I will argue “no more” with you except with regard to that argument, in which there appears to be unfairness97 or incapacity on His part, may He be blessed.

God’s Last Response to Job (Job 40:6–41:26) God reproaches Job for ascribing incapacity to Him in that he (that is, Job) could not98 conceive of God’s power and capability to the extent that he could

97 See n. 17. 98 See the Hebrew note.

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judge Him as* in what has preceded. And He says that the flow of good* that comes from God’s might is so essentially constant* that whatever evil might follow from the order He established is as if intended for good – to punish the wicked, so that we find perfection in His actions in every possible way. This then proves that God demonstrates no incapacity. In fact, evil occurs to the wicked that is not preordained by the stars, to prevent them from harming* the righteous, as Elihu said, citing various stories in the Torah, as has previously been noted.99 He brought proof of this from the animals and Leviathan, over whom God exercised His providence to provide their food and create for them powers that guard them* from all harm. He certainly demonstrated no incapacity in this, in accordance with divine providence, from which good flows continuously. To the extent that that was impossible, protection was prepared for him in the stars, and the heavenly bodies participate in his protection, as previously noted.100 Therefore, if the wicked are sometimes guarded from the evil that occurs to someone else at a particular time, there is thereby no complaint against God, since His essential purpose is that people should be protected from all the evil that comes to them from the stars, and He indeed gave them a tool to save them from it. And that is their intellect, by which they can be protected if they cleave to the Active Intellect, as has been* explained.101 Job answered. “I know that You can do everything” and that it is not proper to ascribe incapacity to you; “nothing you [so wisely] propose is impossible for You” (Job 42:2). I was “obscuring counsel without knowledge”; that is why I said what I said, without being aware* of Your deeds, which were “beyond me” (Job 42:3), and I therefore was mistaken in my argument. The reason for it was, that at first I* heard about Your providence in this world with my ears, without really seeing, “but now with my eyes [96b] I see You” (Job 42:5) and have convinced myself that Your conduct of affairs is the best that is possible in reality as it is. Therefore “I recant” the opinion I originally chose, and “I repent” of that for which You caused me pain so that I sat in “dust and ashes” (Job 42:6)102 for I know now that it was “on my account” (Jonah 1:12) that this terrible distress came upon me, and when I endeavor

99 100 101 102

See the Second Discourse of Elihu. See the First Discourse of Elihu. See the First Discourse of Elihu. This is how Gersonides explained Job’s words in that verse in the commentary as well. This explanation follows the words of Maimonides in Guide 3:23: “This is the meaning of his dictum: ‘I had heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eye seeth Thee; wherefore I abhor myself and repent of dust and ashes’ [Job 42:5–6]. This dictum may be supposed to mean, ‘Wherefore I abhor all that I used to desire and repent of my being in dust and ashes’ – this being the position that he was supposed to be in: ‘And he sat among the ashes’ [Job 2:8].”

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to hold fast to God, He will remove this evil from me and treat me well in the future. “My days shall be spent in happiness, my years in delight” (Job 36:11), and I will earn eternal life. Amen! The Synopsis of the Commentary on Job is finished and completed by the perfect Maestre Leo de Bagnols, may his memory be for a blessing. Blessed is the Merciful One who helps me.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? Seth (Avi) Kadish Oranim Academic College of Education, University of Haifa

The medieval Jewish discussion of dogma is generally understood as a debate about definitions and hierarchy: what exactly is an “obligatory belief ” and what does that status entail, which specific ideas qualify as such, and how do various dogmas relate to each other in terms of their dependencies or inner groupings? Modern scholars and traditional students of the literature share this conception of the debate, and thus reduce the medieval argument about dogma to the level of semantics. It is not a substantive debate about the very nature of the Torah, but rather a discussion of secondary significance about how to best describe a shared conception of the Torah. In this view, systems of dogma are about nothing more than the taxonomy of belief. Such an attitude assumes that Maimonides’ famous list of the “thirteen foundations of the Torah” reflects a conservative stance (regardless of his wider agenda). This paper argues, to the contrary, that his dogma is best read in context as a natural reflection of radical formulations found in his pre-Guide rabbinic writings. It further argues that the great Iberian critics of Maimonidean dogma understood it in exactly this way and rejected it as such, offering meaningful alternatives in its place. They designed their alternative systems to reflect their views about the nature and substance of the Torah, not just to address the semantics of dogma.

Part One: Philosophy versus Dogma in Maimonides SUBSTANCE OR SEMANTICS? A SURVEY OF BOOKS ON JEWISH DOGMA On the first page of Dogma in Medieval Jewish Thought, Menachem Kellner describes the program for his book as follows: This study will examine the dogmatic systems of Maimonides and of those post-Maimonidean medieval thinkers who wrote on the subject in a sustained and orderly fashion; it will compare and contrast those systems; it will demonstrate Maimonides’ all-pervasive influence; it will argue that the plethora of competing systems reflects not conflicting views of the nature of Judaism, but a dispute concerning the nature of dogmas or principles of faith; it will seek to explain why the subject was dropped after Maimonides

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and only picked up again after two centuries had elapsed; finally, it will suggest that the whole project of creed formulation is basically alien to biblical-rabbinic Judaism.1 Let us begin at the end: if the “whole project of creed formulation is basically alien to biblical-rabbinic Judaism,” and if Maimonides was the first to mandate an influential creed that became widely known and accepted, then what Maimonides did was revolutionary. Much of Kellner’s Dogma is devoted to showing exactly that. The book argues that Maimonides’ thirteen principles were an innovation, and that their influence on the very nature of Judaism has been pervasive ever since.2 This point – the “alien” nature (and therefore the novelty) of Maimonides’ thirteen principles – is tightly connected to two other problems mentioned in the program for the book (as cited above): first, if the thirteen principles were such a radical innovation, then why indeed is it the case that “the subject was dropped after Maimonides and only picked up again after two centuries had elapsed”? If they were so novel and important, shouldn’t serious thinkers have addressed them immediately? Second, if the very activity of creed formulation is alien to classical Judaism, then to what degree are the debates about it truly relevant to the nature of the religion itself? Do competing systems of “the principles of the Torah” differ on what Judaism is, or are they just semantic debates about what parts of Judaism should be called “principles”? The statement in the above quotation is that they are no more than “a dispute concerning the nature of dogmas or principles of faith” and do not reflect “conflicting views of the nature of Judaism.” This paper will question that statement. Kellner, however, does show that even a seemingly technical debate about the nature of dogma can have serious religious implications. For instance: can the acceptance of ideas be commanded? Does one’s identity as a Jew or one’s place in the World to Come depend upon intellectual cognition? Maimonides answered both of these questions in the affirmative, and it was in this, argues Kellner, that his creed was most radical, and why it was later criticized in fifteenth-century Spain. Later thinkers differed with Maimonides and with each other in varying degrees on these two issues. Nevertheless, even those who disagreed still accepted the basic idea of dogma: It ought to be emphasized, to avoid misunderstanding, that the position attributed here to Duran and probably to Crescas – that one who rejects a Torah belief by mistake and with no intention to rebel against God is 1 Menachem Kellner, Dogma in Medieval Jewish Thought (Oxford: Littman Library, 1986). 2 Kellner’s second book on dogma, Must a Jew Believe Anything?, further develops the same theme with special attention to its contemporary relevance (London: Littman Library, 1999).

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neither cut off from the community of Israel nor excluded from the world to come – is not a position of theological anarchy. This position does not maintain that there are no correct beliefs (i.e., it does not deny the concept of orthodoxy); rather, it maintains that the criterion of true orthodoxy is not the rigid acceptance of certain carefully formulated, catechismal beliefs so much as the general acceptance of the Torah and trust in God. It ought to be further noted that the position attributed here to Duran and probably to Crescas does not maintain that a person who mistakenly rejects a belief taught by the Torah, or a person mistakenly who accepts a belief rejected by the Torah, ought to be allowed to persist in his mistake. Such a person must be corrected, but ought not to be castigated as an unbeliever and condemned to perdition.3 Later systems of dogma are said not to be debating the very nature of Judaism because they all agree that there are correct and essential beliefs, and they further agree that those dogmas found in alternative systems are still correct as propositions. They only disagree about exactly which beliefs are essential, and about what it means for someone to question or reject them. Disagreements about the latter (what a dogma is) are far more important that arguments about the former (which ideas are dogma), argues Kellner, because they capture the acute tension between a system that values conceptual categories (“the rigid acceptance of certain carefully formulated, catechismal beliefs”), and the values of classical Judaism (“general acceptance of the Torah and trust in God”), as these two different ways of thinking struggled for supremacy within medieval Jewish thought: If the analysis presented here is correct, then while Maimonides and Abravanel would reject as heretics persons who even mistakenly adopted incorrect beliefs, Duran and possibly Rabad, Crescas and Albo would condemn as heretics only those Jews who consciously rejected Torah teachings as an act of rebellion against God. This second approach is more consistent with biblicaltalmudic ways of thought than is the Maimonides-Abravanel approach and, I submit, underlies the fact that despite the disparity of approaches to the question, “what is a principle of Judaism?” schisms and sectarian movements did not arise in medieval Judaism. After all, if the acceptance or rejection of a particular belief does not make one a heretic – as opposed to the reasons for which one accepts or rejects those beliefs – then there is little reason for denouncing as sectarians those who do not accept the beliefs. . . . In sum, Maimonides’ attention to the principles of Judaism reflects a new concept of “faith.” He succeeded – if only temporarily – in inserting the issue of creed 3 Kellner, Must a Jew, 212.

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formulation into the agenda of medieval Jewish intellectuals. He had much less success in implanting the new conception of the content of faith – with its attendant rejection of the possibility of inadvertent heresy (shogeg) – upon which the idea of principles of faith actually depended.4 What Kellner claims here about the distinction between Maimonidean Judaism versus biblical-rabbinic religion is that while the very activity of creed formulation already reflects a shift towards the medieval philosophic mindset, it was still innocuous enough to be absorbed and accepted (even by Maimonides’ critics). But Maimonides’ further definition of dogma as a specific concept bearing radical theological and social consequences was a point of such severe conflict between the two ways of thinking that it could not be easily absorbed. According to Kellner, Maimonides fully succeeded in making creed become a commonly accepted part of Judaism, but he only partially succeeded in making Jews think about dogma in the way that he explained it. The latter point was too radical an innovation for the tradition to fully bear. Eighteen years after Kellner’s Dogma, Marc Shapiro chose to analyze the reaction to Maimonides’ principles once again, but this time from a different angle. Rather than contrast the thirteen principles with later systems, his book describes and measures, in encyclopedic fashion, the range of traditional Jewish disagreement with Maimonides’ expressed position on each of his thirteen principles. In other words, rather than dealing with competing systems of dogma, Shapiro chose to focus on the dogmas themselves. The reason for this choice is explained in his introduction: The Thirteen Principles are a very conservative document, yet the sources discussed by Kellner focus overwhelmingly on disagreements with Maimonides over whether certain Principles are actually ‘roots’ of Judaism – an entirely semantic issue – rather than with the correctness of Maimonides’ fundamental theological views. As Kellner puts it, “the plethora of competing systems reflects not conflicting views about the nature of Judaism, but a dispute concerning the nature of dogmas or principles of faith.” For the scholars on whom Kellner concentrates, Maimonides’ thirteen tenets are correct, even if many of them do not qualify as “principles” – that is, as theological positions upon which Judaism stands or falls. My concern, in contrast, is with those scholars who thought that Maimonides’ Principles were wrong, pure and simple.5

4 Kellner, Must a Jew, 212–13. 5 Marc Shapiro, The Limits of Orthodox Theology: Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles Reappraised (Oxford: Littman Library, 2004), 4.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 199 Shapiro agrees with Kellner that competing systems of dogma agree on the “nature of Judaism,” because, according to them all, there exists a set of correct beliefs – even if they don’t agree on exactly what that set contains – and thus a general concept of orthodoxy. He further agrees that they largely accepted Maimonides’ thirteen specific points as correct (whether or not each of them is actually a “principle” of Judaism), and thus share similar views on the nature of Judaism. This reduces all debate about what ideas count as dogmas to “an entirely semantic issue,” since all of the important points are agreed upon in the final outcome. Therefore, in order to investigate “the limits of Orthodox theology,” Shapiro chose instead to investigate those who actually disagreed with Maimonides’ principles, rather than those who set up alternative dogmatic systems. The latter only dealt with semantic issues, and are therefore irrelevant to a discussion of theological limits. Besides setting aside dogmatic systems as a topic, there is a further consequence of the organizing principle in Shapiro’s book, namely that in its description of the range of views on each of Maimonides’ thirteen specific principles it ignores the internal coherence within the thought of specific thinkers and schools. A startling example is Hasdai Crescas, the most important medieval critic of Maimonides’ philosophy, who is mentioned just twice in the book: once for his view that ideas cannot be commanded, and later as one of several thinkers who held that God eternally creates the world at every moment.6 Other central figures in the history of Jewish dogma are also mentioned just a few times each, among them: Nissim of Gerona, Simeon ben Zemah Duran, and Joseph Albo. Of the main dogmatic figures, only Isaac Abravanel is cited in numerous contexts, but sporadically. The different views on each principle are cited and compared, but the contexts that give them coherence are not the focus of the book.7 Shapiro also says one thing in his programmatic paragraph that Kellner does not: he calls Maimonides’ principles “a very conservative document.” By this he means that as a set of statements they were uncontroversial, posing no

6 On the view that ideas cannot be commanded, see Shapiro, Limits, 10 and n. 35. Shapiro deals with Crescas as a source for Rabbi Hayyim Hirschensohn’s thoughts on the topic. Eternal creation was previously discussed by Kellner, Must a Jew, 73–74. 7 This is of course perfectly acceptable within a fine contribution to scholarship that meets its own declared goals quite well, because no one book can accomplish everything. Kellner’s Dogma is designed to compare and contrast important systems of dogma, but does not explore the full range of views on each principle. Shapiro’s Limits sets the systems aside in order to deal fully with the individual principles. Although both Kellner and Shapiro rightly stress the Maimonidean intellectual substratum of the thirteen principles, neither of them emphasize the fundamentally different outlooks which underlie competing systems of principles on the one hand, and lead to conflicting views about individual principles on the other hand.

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direct challenge to traditional Jewish views.8 This is true despite the fact that the document is a sophisticated one to some degree, both in its language and in its concepts. This would also suggest, according to both Kellner and Shapiro, that since later Jewish creeds largely agreed with Maimonides’ thirteen assertions, precisely because their content was so conservative, they would therefore also agree about the basic nature of Judaism. Shapiro’s book vividly illustrates and documents how Maimonides’ list of principles was popularly thought to represent traditional Jewish belief right down to our very day.9

8 I am grateful to Marc Shapiro for his clarification of “conservative” in personal correspondence. When I first noticed his description of the thirteen principles as “a very conservative document” his intention was unclear to me. In his clarification he says that the principles were conservative because no one in the medieval Jewish world saw the need to argue with them directly and explicitly: “When I say that it is a conservative document, I mean precisely that, and this explains why it was accepted so easily even by opponents of Maimonides’ philosophy. There are no philosophically problematic statements in the principles, nothing controversial. All the aspects of the Guide and Sefer haMadda that created so much controversy are missing from the principles. The one exception (creation) was later fixed by Maimonides. He even includes resurrection (albeit without explaining what it is). . . . The proof of my point is that everyone ‘accepted’ the principles, even those who didn’t accept Maimonides’ philosophy (down to the present day). I say this even though to a certain degree the principles are a philosophically sophisticated text.” For a related (but not equivalent!) argument that the process of disassociating Maimonides’ thirteen principles from his philosophical views already began with Maimonides himself, because he formulated them in a way that was intended to make them seem acceptable for simple believers, see Avraham Melamed, “Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles: From Elite to Popular Culture” in The Cultures of Maimonideanism (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 171–90. According to Melamed, Maimonides filtered certain ideas when he composed the thirteen principles “so that the simple believer would have those necessary fundamental beliefs, phrased in a way which he would be able to follow without undue danger and complication” (176), even though the phraseology also contained intentional clues and hints to esoteric doctrines. Even in the first and fourth principles, his wording “at least in a simple reading, intentionally avoids the complexity of the issue” (174). This paper will take issue with such characterizations of Maimonides’ purposes and the nature of his early writing, finding it to be openly subversive and deliberately troubling in ways that are unsuitable for the simple believer. It will argue that the thirteen principles in context are neither conservative nor safe and inoffensive, that their intended audience is not the masses but rather the philosophically unsophisticated talmudist who is meant to be disturbed and unsettled by his reading (in vivid contrast to the purpose of popular adaptations such as Yigdal), and that only the points of most acute conflict with tradition are couched in language that is deliberately ambiguous (yet still highly troubling). On such points of acute conflict see below, n. 29. 9 Well documented in Shapiro, 1–37. All of this fits the origin and purpose of his book, which arose out of a debate about whether the thirteen principles are the “last word” in Jewish theology, and was written to show that they never really were, despite the fact that they are commonly thought to be so (see Limits, 1–3). It is because of the pervasiveness of this common view that Maimonides’ principles can easily be taken as an expression of Jewish traditionalism, while at the same time the positions taken by the medieval thinkers documented by Shapiro who criticized aspects of his principles may seem radical.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 201 Whatever the popular conception may have been, we may still ask whether the thirteen principles ought to be called “a very conservative document.” Even to call them a “document” at all, which might imply some degree of literary independence, may not be fully justified. This is because the text of Maimonides’ thirteen foundations of the Torah is but the conclusion to a larger and clearly demarked essay, namely the “Introduction to Helek” (IH), which is itself a part of Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishnah. It is in this context that Maimonides wrote them, and that is how the medieval critics of his dogma read them. Therefore, any evaluation of the principles should be an evaluation of IH as a whole, and even take the entire Commentary on the Mishnah into account. This, however, has rarely been done.10 Furthermore, should IH, and by extension the thirteen principles, be described as “very conservative”? In the tension between biblical-rabbinic thought and medieval philosophy, as described by Kellner, a religiously conservative document would reflect a God who is a personality, as well as reflect an intimate relationship between God and Israel. It would value a Jew’s personal sincerity and loyalty more than his agreement with conceptual truth. But a plain reading of IH makes it perfectly clear that Maimonides meant to uproot such modes of thought, which were widely held by common Jews (as well as by unsophisticated Torah scholars who were largely uninfluenced by philosophy). In fact, this non-traditional agenda best fits Kellner’s conclusion about the purpose of the principles themselves: “Seeking to make possible more perfect halakhic observance among the Jews – which depended upon the holding of correct beliefs at least about God – Maimonides sought to replace incorrect habits of thought.”11 To replace widely held traditional habits of thought is hardly a conservative agenda, especially when it is openly declared.12 10 See Eliezer Schweid, “‫ דרכו החינוכית של הרמב״ם בשלב הקדם פילוסופי )ניתוח משמעות המבנה‬:‫מתלמיד לרב‬ ‫)הספרותי של הקדמת פרק ׳חלק׳‬,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought, Joseph Sermoneta Memorial Volume, 14 (1998): 1–23. In Schweid’s opening words: “The introduction to chapter ‘Helek’ in Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishnah is widely known and discussed, because of the thirteen foundations of belief which are offered at its end. But the unusual importance which scholars have attributed to these foundations as a foundational event in the history of Jewish dogmatics distracted them from the Introduction in its entirety. The possibility of a link between the full introduction and its last part has not been investigated, not even to study the question of what educational, religious or political goal caused Maimonides to find a need for the novelty of principles in Israel.” In other words, the disproportional focus on the principles not only had a deleterious effect on study of the Introduction as a whole, but also on the study of the principles themselves (in terms of their motivations and goals). 11 Kellner, Dogma, 48. Most of the other theories listed there about why Maimonides posited his thirteen principles are not very conservative either, with the exception of Abravanel’s suggestion that they are simply a pedagogical device. 12 IH begins with five classes of people in terms of their attitudes about eschatology, and later

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In addition, the range of alternative views on many of Maimonides’ principles, which Shapiro’s book describes so well, should make us question how “conservative” they actually were. Calling them “conservative” makes Maimonides the conservative and his critics the radicals. But that may be an anachronistic way to describe things. What Kellner and Shapiro nevertheless agree on, however, is that the different systems of medieval Jewish dogma share a common conception of Judaism. Such systems disagree about axioms and analysis – the taxonomy of belief – but not about what the Torah actually is.13 Substantive disagreements are better found in discussions of meaningful topics, not in arguments about dogma. A typical example of this attitude is in Julius Guttmann’s classic handbook, where he mentions that Hasdai Crescas’ Light of the Lord “has, in terms of its formal structure, more of a dogmatic than a philosophic cast.”14 For Guttmann, the content of the book is philosophically meaningful, but its dogmatic structure is not. The assumption is that dogmatic assertion and dogmatic structure have little substance beyond dogma itself.

MAIMONIDES’ INTRODUCTION TO HELEK: REVOLUTIONARY OR CONSERVATIVE? Ever since Kellner’s Dogma appeared, scholarship has been aware of a centurieslong gap between the initial publication of the thirteen foundations of the Torah within his Commentary on the Mishnah (which he wrote in his youth and completed in 1168) and the later systems of Jewish dogma based upon alternative methodologies (which appeared only in the fifteenth century). According to Kellner, there was no systematic discussion of the thirteen principles (or of dogma in general) during the intervening period. Kellner explained the gap, based on a personal suggestion by Aviezer Ravitzky, as follows: Maimonides’ spiritual legacy was divided in two after his death and his followers ranged themselves into two opposed camps. One may speak of “halakhic Maimonideans” and “philosophic Maimonideans.” The halakhdescribes three classes of people in terms of their attitudes towards the interpretation of rabbinic lore. In none of these cases does Maimonides champion what he presents as commonly held views. It is rather the questions that are rarely asked, and the positions that are rarely taken, that he urges his reader to identify with throughout the essay. 13 Though Kellner and Shapiro both state this, what they have actually shown is less than what they claim: they haven’t proven that different dogmatic systems share the same basic conception of Judaism. Instead, they have correctly argued that competing dogmatic systems do not necessarily mean an alternative conception of Judaism (but the possibility that they do still stands). I thank Aryeh Klapper for clarifying this insight. 14 Julius Guttmann, Philosophies of Judaism (New York: Doubleday, 1964), 226.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 203 ists – as was always their wont – basically ignored general philosophical and even narrowly theological issues in their writing, while the philosophers paid precious little attention to parochially Jewish and specifically halakhic questions in their quest for intellectual perfection. Maimonides, at least on his own testimony, sought to unite two routes to human felicity: the way of commandments and the way of intellectual perfection. His spiritual heirs emphasized one or the other of these two paths but not both. His halakhic heirs concentrated on technical questions of halakhah and thus largely ignored – as halakhists had always done – more broadly theological issues such as the formulation of creed. Maimonides’ philosophic heirs concentrated their attention on philosophy and thus largely ignored – as philosophers had almost always done – more narrowly theological issues such as the formulation of creed.15 According to Kellner, since neither the “halakhic Maimonideans” nor the “philosophic Maimonideans” had much use for the thirteen principles, they were ignored for over two centuries. This long chronological gap, while it has been noted a few times since, did not create much fanfare. Shapiro mentions that Kellner “also points out the interesting fact that the Principles, and dogma as a whole, were not given extended treatment in the two centuries after Maimonides.”16 Interesting as it was, he had nothing further to say about it. I have argued that the end of the gap may be a bit earlier than Kellner puts it, in the late decades of the fourteenth century.17 Michael Rosensweig, in a public lecture on dogma at Yeshiva University, referred to the gap and explained it by saying that if scholars didn’t discuss the thirteen principles for two centuries, then their silence indicates that they simply accepted them.18 Recently, however, Eli Gurfinkel has adduced

15 Kellner, Dogma, 69. 16 Shapiro, Limits, 4. 17 Seth (Avi) Kadish, “The Book of Abraham: Rabbi Shimon ben Zemah Duran and the School of Rabbenu Nissim Gerondi” (PhD diss., University of Haifa, 2006), chapter 3, p. 5. The full text may be accessed online at http://bit.ly/1RHcPMk. 18 This lecture, as its title (“What Must a Jew Believe?”) clearly indicates, is a response to Menachem Kellner’s book Must a Jew Believe Anything? An audio recording may be accessed online at http://bit.ly/1nHHWeg. That silence indicates acceptance is important to Rosensweig as an argument for making the thirteen principles halakhically binding. His lecture becomes relevant to our discussion here when we consider that Shapiro’s approach is in basic agreement with it as history, even though the latter isn’t making halakhic arguments: he too emphasizes that direct criticism of the principles is largely absent and that such absence indicates agreement. For a different approach, see Menachem Kellner’s remarks about the lack of attention by commentators to the non-halakhic parts of Mishneh Torah, and his amusing comparison of this phenomenon to the “practically minded readers” of Copernicus (Must a Jew, 67–68) who paid little attention

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evidence that the gap was not as complete as Kellner describes, and suggests instead that the Iberian preoccupation with dogma which began in earnest some two centuries after the death Maimonides would better be described as a shift in the nature of the discussion, rather than as a completely new discussion. Even if we grant this for the moment, the shift described by Gurfinkel represents a type of discussion that is unlike anything that came before it, and that shift still demands an explanation.19 Kellner’s explanation for centuries of silence about the thirteen principles may be sharpened by focusing on the direct criticism, and the open opposition to parts of his legacy, which it was Maimonides’ fate to endure during his lifetime and which continued to shake the Jewish world after his death: the two centuries in question include the great Maimonidean controversies in all of their stages. Those controversies, however, never focused directly on the Maimonidean dogma. And even if his dogma is to be described as “conservative,” such lack of attention still raises a question: if his foundations of the Torah were acceptable to Maimonides’ supporters and critics alike, then should they not have been actively used by both sides? Supporters should have used them to illustrate that Maimonides’ philosophy was indeed a legitimate interpretation of traditional Judaism. And among those critics who nonetheless revered Maimonides, the foundations should have been cited as examples of what was right about his teachings – as a part of his corpus that should be publicly taught, as opposed to other aspects of his heritage that were either dangerously misleading or intrinsically wrong.20 In other words, even agreement cannot fully explain why the principles were ignored. An alternative approach is to consider the possibility that the thirteen principles, as the conclusion to Maimonides’ IH and part of his Commentary on the Mishnah, may not be so easily described as a “conservative document.” It to the new astronomy underlying the technical planetary tables that interested them. More to the point, however, is that the bulk of Aristotelian science presented in Mishneh Torah was largely accepted by late medieval Jews as a matter of course (with the notable exception of Hasdai Crescas). It is only certain key elements that caused significant controversy, and those were indeed debated. This study will argue that the late Spanish Jewish scholars, who wrote earnestly about dogma, considered the topic to be inextricably intertwined with the criticism of those controversial elements in Maimonides’ thought. 19 Eli Gurfinkel, “‫ בין רצף לתמורה‬:‫העיסוק בעיקרים אחרי הרמב״ם‬,” Alei Sefer 22 (2011): 5–17. We will return to Gurfinkel below and attempt to assess his evidence in perspective. That Kellner’s position has mostly been accepted at face value in the literature is also backed up by Gurfinkel (p. 8 and n. 26), although he does note one or two instances of hesitancy. 20 Avraham Melamed suggests that this may have been part of the purpose intended for liturgical poems such as Yigdal: “Considering the way Maimonides’ original was re-worked by the authors of these piyyutim, their writing may have been also a way of drafting Maimonides himself in support of the more conservative side of the debate” (“Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles,” 180).

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 205 may even be said that IH itself marks a major turning point in Jewish thought. Maimonides is justifiably regarded as the central figure in medieval Jewish philosophy, to the extent that the entire field falls naturally into two clearly demarked periods: before Maimonides and after Maimonides. His Commentary on the Mishnah was Maimonides’ first great work, written in his twenties, and it was revolutionary in scope as the first commentary on the entire Mishnah. It was also revolutionary for including, within a rabbinic work, major essays on philosophic themes and wisdom drawn from non-Jewish sources.21 In the next decade of his life, Maimonides further enhanced these same two elements in Mishneh Torah, which managed to encompass the full range of rabbinic law along with philosophical themes. This decision about content was momentous because, by including such material within his Mishnah commentary and in Mishneh Torah, Maimonides granted a measure of halakhic status to the science of his day. Especially in Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah, this means that to study abstract concepts and concrete facts became intrinsic to fulfilling “laws of the foundations of the Torah” related to God and prophecy.22 A further implication 21 Maimonides’ passionate exhortation in his preface to the Eight Chapters that one must accept the truth regardless of its source shows that he was well aware of the novelty in making such material the basis for interpretation of a rabbinic text. 22 On whether Maimonides considered the science of his day to be as eternal as the commandments that he codified, see Menachem Kellner, “On the Status of the Astronomy and Physics in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah and Guide of the Perplexed: A Chapter in the History of Science,” The British Journal for the History of Science 24:4 (1991): 453–63; “Maimonides on the Science of the Mishneh Torah: Provisional or Permanent?,” AJS Review 18:2 (1993): 169–94; “Maimonides and Gersonides on Astronomy and Metaphysics,” in Moses Maimonides: Physician, Scientist, and Philosopher, ed. Fred Rosner and Samuel S. Kottek (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1993), 91–96, 248–51. Kellner makes it quite clear that Maimonides considered his science to be provisional – the best available science – despite the apparently timeless and binding nature of Mishneh Torah as a whole. Based upon considerable evidence, he writes: “I think that Maimonides would have been surprised if sublunar physics changed, but not be unduly upset, since that physics is not crucial to his theology. And since he held that celestial physics, which is crucial to his theology, is basically beyond our knowing, he could, I think, envision basic changes in it with relative equanimity” (“Maimonides on the Science of the Mishneh Torah,” 175–76). This is essentially correct, yet must still be qualified in terms of the relationship between the science and the “theology” that are mentioned. It is true that the sciences described in Mishneh Torah and the Guide are not of importance to Maimonides for their details, which may indeed be just approximations, but they are certainly of immense import to him as systems that describe reality in conformity with fundamental Aristotelian axioms (otherwise he would not discuss them). This is true, for instance, in terms of the distinction between form and matter as the cardinal principle of sublunar physics, and for the pre-Newtonian rotation of the spheres within a finite universe in metaphysics. Such underlying concepts are fundamental to Maimonides’ theology, and it might even be argued that they are his theology. It is hard to imagine that he could have accepted a challenge to them with equanimity, because if a non-Aristotelian science is true then several of Maimonides’ principles and much of his Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah become untenable. Hasdai

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was that Jews who lacked background in these areas were also lacking not just as philosophers, but even in their fulfillment of the Torah itself. In IH specifically, some of the most controversial elements of Maimonidean thought were first given clear and full expression, all concentrated within a single essay. Maimonides argues in IH that the correct interpretation of the Bible and rabbinic lore must always conform to universal reason, and that these texts are thus meant to be read allegorically when necessary. It is there he first suggests that the Torah speaks to the common man in a way that avoids difficult or uncomfortable truths, and that the scholar should therefore read it with a mind towards discovering its esoteric meaning. It is there he first reveals that the secrets of the Torah are, in their substance, Aristotelian wisdom. It is there that he first states – openly and clearly! – that the World to Come is entirely contingent on intellectual cognition, and that its very essence is cognitive and universal (not personal). It is there he first puts emphasis on what to his mind is the correct understanding of other aspects of Jewish eschatology – Eden, Gehenna, the messianic age, and the resurrection of the dead – but then proceeds to demythologize them by lowering their status to that of tools or events in the corporeal world whose purpose is to enable one to better achieve the cognitive and intellectual World to Come. It is there he indicates that the only “punishment” for the wicked is in failing to acquire the intellectual World to Come, and thus ceasing to exist. And finally, it is there he makes clear that to lovingly study the Torah and loyally keep its commandments – the traditional measures of righteousness – are not the keys to enter the World to Come. And all of this is still before we have reached the thirteen principles at the end of the introduction, all of them cognitive statements upon which, Maimonides sternly insists, one’s status as a Jew and share in the World to Come depend. If the thirteen principles are read out of context, it is possible to get the impression that they are no more than assertions of traditional Jewish ideas, although rather sophisticated in the manner of their presentation. But, when they are read as the conclusion to IH, such a notion becomes virtually impossible. Throughout most of their history, the thirteen principles have been best known in forms that not only shed their original philosophical formulation, but were entirely bereft of their intellectual core in IH. As Kellner has remarked, “Not only were Maimonides’ principles accepted without the theological sub-

Crescas, whom we will discuss below, was the medieval figure who most fully confronted the total dependence of Mishneh Torah in some of its parts on the concepts underlying Aristotelian science. That is why, in his general introduction to Lamp of God (an unfinished work of which his Light of the Lord was meant to be the first part), Crescas emphasizes that “beliefs” and “commandments” are to be the subject matter of two autonomous treatises (in clear opposition to their combination within Mishneh Torah).

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 207 strate which gave them coherence and which made of them something more than an elegant literary device for teaching Jewish ideas; they were not even accepted in the form in which Maimonides presented them, but, rather, in a simplified, even debased fashion.”23 Kellner is referring here to the desertion of Maimonides’ original formulation of his principles, and to the overall intellectualism which informs them. The very same thing is even more true of how the principles became disengaged from their literary context in IH (even when they were still read as Maimonides formulated them). Kellner mentions “coherence”: the principles, as individual assertions and as a list, simply don’t make sense outside of their context in IH.24 Outside of that context they can only be made fully coherent by restating them in a popular fashion, leaving out the philosophical baggage found in their original formulation, and adding new elements that Maimonides himself didn’t include. But doing so leaves them bereft of any function Maimonides might have intended for them in IH. Eliezer Schweid has stressed the importance of reading Maimonides’ thirteen foundations of the Torah in their original context as the conclusion to IH. In his convincingly argued reading of IH as a whole, Maimonides’ text is designed to make the reader engage in self-reflection about why and how he studies the Torah. According to Schweid, the target audience for IH is a mature Torah scholar who has not yet engaged in philosophical inquiry. This scholar understands the importance of the Torah in terms of its corporeal

23 Kellner, Must a Jew, 69; cited in Shapiro, Limits, 3. Immediately before the citation Shapiro wrote, “To be sure, these popularizations carry on the spirit of Maimonides’ ideas, yet they also vulgarize, and at times distort, a philosophically sophisticated text.” Melamed in turn cites Shapiro and rightfully responds, “I am not at all sure whether they really carry on the spirit of Maimonides ideas” (“Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles,” 177 n. 9). Melamed’s article is the best study of how the thirteen principles were first adapted into popular forms, even though we can only partially accept his characterization of Maimonides’ own writing and his intended audience (above, n. 9). It is important that Melamed already finds evidence of intentional popularization in the medieval Hebrew translations of the principles at the end of IH. Melamed’s fine work in tracing the rise of the thirteen principles in their popular versions, and in the variety of forms they have taken, has been continued in Gurfinkel, “‫העיסוק‬,” as well as in a forthcoming article by the same author in Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought about the popular parallels that were drawn between the thirteen principles and the thirteen attributes of God. Exegesis based upon finding correspondence between the two different lists of thirteen items was highly pervasive, even though it not only tended to violate Maimonidean categories of thought but even contradicted Maimonides’ own exegesis of the thirteen attributes! 24 This point will be borne out immediately by our discussion of Eliezer Schweid’s reading of IH, and also later when we explore the way later Iberian thinkers analyzed and criticized Maimonides’ dogma. Its ramifications will be further discussed at the very end of this study when we deal with Abravanel’s analysis of the principles in their original formulation, but bereft of their context within IH.

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consequences, and interprets it in ways that are uninformed by logic.25 By his careful use of rhetoric, questions, and parables, Maimonides motivates such a traditionally minded scholar to question whether he is in fact striving towards the right goals, and if his understanding of the Torah is indeed correct. At the very same time, Maimonides demands humility of his reader, who must understand that the Bible and the rabbis reflect deep wisdom – even if that wisdom is not immediately evident to the student or even the scholar – and that the seemingly irrational nature of many ideas or passages should be attributed to one’s own lack of understanding and unawareness of their hidden meaning. The reader of IH is encouraged, above all, to distinguish between means and goals, and to recognize that the World to Come spoken of by the Mishnah is the ultimate purpose of the Torah and its study. It is entirely incorporeal and fully cognitive, and, therefore, the ultimate goal of all study must by for the sake of wisdom alone. The corporeal rewards promised by the Torah are meant to serve as positive motivations for those still unable to appreciate the true goal, similar to the honor enjoyed by a scholar. But an accomplished Torah scholar, and certainly one with the capacity for community leadership as a rabbi, teacher, or dayyan, needs to rise above such self-interest and devote his energies to study and teaching for the sake of the truth alone. This is what Maimonides wanted his reader to discover within himself. According to Schweid, the thirteen foundations of the Torah at the end of IH share the same purpose as the essay as a whole: “Offering the thirteen foundations here, more than it derives from the need to interpret the mishnahaic passage and from its inner logic, derives from the pedagogical logic of the introduction.”26 Even Maimonides’ stern warning at the end – namely that one who denies any of the foundations is cut off from Israel and loses his place in the World to Come – is motivated by his concern about immature students who are wise only in their own eyes and liable to rashly reject elements of the Torah in their foolishness (the infamous “second group” of those who interpret rabbinic lore in IH), not realizing that those elements are necessary stepping stones towards philosophical enlightenment. It is also meant to reassure those of unsophisticated piety (the “first group”), who might otherwise harbor the notion that the rabbinic philosophers (the “third group”) are affected by heresy. These pedagogic concerns are what motivated Maimonides’ severe dogmatic formulation:

25 Schweid, “‫מתלמיד לרב‬,” (p. 4) shows that this is the intended audience, based on allusions by Maimonides in his general introduction to the Commentary on the Mishnah. 26 Schweid, “‫מתלמיד לרב‬,” 22.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 209 However, it seems that beyond this Maimonides had no dogmatic intentions, but rather wished to clearly designate the progressive order of study and inquiry on the one hand, and the progressive pedagogical stages beginning with halakhic Torah study, which is a means, to rational study, which is the goal, on the other hand.27 Schweid’s reading of IH becomes all the more convincing when compared to a similar reading of Maimonides’ introduction to Tractate Avot in his Commentary on the Mishnah, also called the Eight Chapters (EC), by Lawrence Kaplan. Kaplan is aware that EC deals with quite a few important and related themes, each of which has been emphasized by various scholars. Nevertheless, he shows that the entire essay is devoted to making one clear, fundamental claim: Maimonides’ fundamental claim throughout EC and, indeed, throughout the Commentary on Avot proper, based upon his theory of the soul and its powers, is that the path to the perfection of that soul is precisely through acquiring the moral and rational virtues, and, contrary to what seems to be the case at first glance, philosophy and the Law are in agreement on this point. As he states explicitly in his Commentary on Avot 5:2, “the goal of this tractate is to urge a person to perfect his soul through [acquiring] the moral virtues and the rational virtues.” For it is precisely by acquiring these virtues that one can direct the powers of one’s soul solely toward man’s ultimate goal in life, the knowledge of God. Indeed, the knowledge of God itself is the highest expression of the rational virtues.28 Necessary to this view is a further point, namely, “that the categories of obedience and disobedience, important as they are, must always be subordinated to the categories of virtue and vice. Maimonides, throughout EC, accomplishes this subordination in many ways.” Schweid’s reading of IH and Kaplan’s of EC reinforce one another. The parallels between them are striking: there is no intrinsic value to any sort of corporeal reward and punishment promised by the Torah (IH), just as obeying the commandments of the Torah is ultimately of instrumental value alone (EC). The recompense promised by the Torah is but instrumental to the entirely cognitive World to Come (IH), just as obedience to the Torah and moral virtue are only instrumental to rational virtue (EC). The only true reward of any intrinsic worth is cognitive (IH), and the only thing in the life of man that possesses any intrinsic value is rational virtue par excellence, the cognitive knowledge of

27 Ibid. 28 Lawrence Kaplan, “An Introduction to Maimonides’ ‘Eight Chapters,’” The Edah Journal, 2:2 (2002): 8–9.

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God (EC ). To achieve the World to Come is a natural consequence of rational virtue and not a personal decision on the part of God, who is indifferent to obedience (IH); to obey the commandments does not “matter” to God, but only to the person who requires them for his ethical education (EC). Prophecy derives from intellectual perfection (IH and EC). The very same thing is true even regarding “conservative” elements in both essays: the Torah is divine, perfect, and eternally binding, even though obedience to it is not rewarded by God in a personal way (IH); obedience to the commandments of the Torah has a necessary purpose, even though such obedience does not personally “matter” to God (EC ). The Torah promises corporeal recompense and redemption – including the messianic age and resurrection – as a reward for obedience (IH), even though recompense and reward of this sort have only instrumental value and are not intrinsic goals (IH and EC). Prophecy exists, and the Law that was given through the agency of Moses’s prophecy is binding as an eternal obligation (IH and EC).29 These “conservative” elements serve a pedagogical purpose according to Schweid: Maimonides states that corporeal forms of recompense and redemption exist, as the Torah promises. He affirms that prophecy exists, and that obedience to the commandments of the Torah is an eternal obligation. These assertions reduce some of the sting that the traditional reader might feel when he learns that these very concepts have been reduced to matters of instrumental value alone, within a scheme of things that can be largely understood in naturalistic terms, rather than as matters that are of intrinsic importance to a personal God. They furthermore demand proper humility on the part of the enlightened reader, who is called upon to acknowledge these facts and to recognize their absolute necessity on a pedagogic level. It is precisely these statements which render it possible for a reader in medieval or modern times to think of Maimonides’ list of dogmas as a “conservative document.” But this 29 To these major “conservative” themes in IH we should add the fact that Maimonides couched his most radical ideas in traditional language, perhaps more to protect himself from criticism by the ignorant than to spare his readers from disturbing ideas. The best example is the main theme of the entire essay, namely the utterly cognitive nature of the World to Come. Maimonides states this view, to be sure, but in a way that still manages to emphasize the importance of the practical commandments. Shortly later in his Commentary on the Mishnah, at the end of Makkot, Maimonides continued his discussion of the same topic by carefully weaving radical and traditional phraseology together, alternatively implying that the World to Come rests upon the commandments or cognition (see below, n. 115). A similar thing may be said about resurrection, which he dutifully declares in IH to be “one of the cardinal principles established by the Torah of Moses our teacher,” yet also openly displays his clear distaste for dealing with it. Melamed takes the declaration about resurrection as evidence that Maimonides meant the thirteen principles to be unthreatening to simple readers (Melamed, “Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles,” 174–75), yet there is still much in IH and in the principles themselves that is subversive.

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can only be achieved by removing the thirteen principles from their natural context within IH and the Commentary on the Mishnah as a whole, a move which further enables the reader to focus precisely on that which Maimonides considers less important and downplay what he argues is most important. And even then, the element of a personal God is still lacking. This is why silent agreement cannot explain the two-century-long lack of debate about the thirteen principles. To seriously agree with Maimonides’ principles is to agree with the “theological substrate which gave them coherence,” but to agree with that substrate is to accept exactly what Maimonides’ opponents found most odious. As we saw above, Kellner has suggested that neither the “philosophic Maimonideans” nor the “halakhic Maimonideans” had much use for the thirteen principles, because as a list they are neither profound philosophy nor integral to halakhah. Now we can take this a step further: even the most vocal opposition to Maimonides had little use for them, because IH and EC were, at best, a convenient early expression of some of Maimonides’ doctrines. When you attack a system of thought, you attack it at its core, and you deal with its most powerful and dangerous expressions (those expressions may also be what you eventually try to ban). An early Maimonidean summary of his basic positions found within the Commentary on the Mishnah, whose earliest Hebrew translations were mediocre and written relatively late, did not provide the best motivation and ammunition for a European polemic against Maimonides.30 But the same philosophical outlook that Maimonides expressed in his Commentary on the Mishnah was soon reformulated in Hebrew within

30 The complete medieval Hebrew translation of the Commentary on the Mishnah, including the most widespread version of IH, was commissioned by Rabbi Solomon ben Adret (Rashba, 1235–1310) at the behest of the Jewish community of Rome in 1298. It is only from the time of Rashba that the Commentary on the Mishnah is cited in European rabbinic works; see Zechariah Frankel, ‫( דרכי המשנה‬Leipzig, 1859), 328. The translation was commissioned by Rashba from several different translators, and the quality of their translations varies; for a list see Yosef Qafih’s preface to his own translation, ‫( משנה עם פירוש רבינו משה בן מימון‬Jerusalem: Mosad HaRav Kook, 1963), 8–10. According to Yizhak Shilat, the translation of IH is of relatively good quality, and better than two other extant medieval versions; see his ‫( הקדמות הרמב״ם למשנה‬Jerusalem: Maaliyot, 1996), 127; Yosef Qafih also preferred this translator (ibid., 10). Simon Hopkins has shown that the Arabic original underwent numerous revisions by Maimonides during his lifetime, and the Hebrew translations often reflect the earlier ones (“‫מסורת הטקסט של פירוש המשניות לרמב״ם‬,” Sefunot, n. s. 5 [1994]: 109–14). But it is extremely hard to delineate clear “versions” and quantify their penetration: “It will be no exaggeration if I begin by saying that Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishnah is the most complicated work in all of Judeo-Arabic literature in the Middle Ages in terms of its text and in terms of its various reflections and versions – both in its Arabic original and in its Hebrew translations. The inner relationships between the various witnesses to the Arabic original on the one hand, and the relationship between these and their Hebrew translations on the other hand, are extraordinarily complicated” (ibid., 109).

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Mishneh Torah, mostly in The Book of Wisdom;31 the latter quickly became a far

31 The general structure of this reformulation is clear: principles 1–5 are expanded – along with enough background appropriated from basic general wisdom to make them comprehensible – in Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah, chapters 1–4; principle 5 is implicit in the vivid contrast made there between God and his creations. This section can be read in tandem with the introductory passage to Hilkhot Avodah Zarah veHukkot haGoyim (1:1–2:5), which expands on principles 2 and 5. The first four chapters in Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah form a cohesive section that strikingly concludes by identifying the esoteric secrets of the Torah with rational inquiry (as Maimonides did earlier in his general introduction to the Commentary on the Mishnah), and with an exhortation about the pedagogical importance of studying the Torah’s commandments in the earlier stages of one’s education (as in EC). Principles 6–9 on prophecy and revelation are reformulated in Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah, chapters 7–10. This section also includes important ideas about the verification of prophecy (as found in Maimonides’ general introduction to the Mishnah), and about the qualitative levels of prophecy (as in chapter 7 of EC). We next find that EC as a whole, on moral virtue, is reformulated in Hilkhot De’ot; the specific issue of human free will (chapter 8 of EC) is dealt with in Hilkhot Teshuvah, chapters 5–6. The general matter of IH as a whole, along with principles 10–13, are reformulated in Hilkhot Teshuvah, chapters 8–10 (which betray a striking lacuna regarding the resurrection of the dead that is very similar to the lack of emphasis in IH). The Book of Wisdom thus restates the philosophical material found in Maimonides’ introductions to the Mishnah, and is further bracketed by the foundations of the Torah (beginning with Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah itself and ending with the final part of Hilkhot Teshuvah). Later we find that Mishneh Torah as a whole concludes by returning to principle 12, the Messiah (Hilkhot Melakhim uMilhamot, chapters 11–12), a section that emphasizes both the naturalism of the messianic process and its ultimate goal in the knowledge of God (as in IH). To these substantive sections, further passages of a more technical and halakhic nature should be added. Most important is the list of classes of heretical assertions in Hilkhot Teshuvah 3:6–8, as part of a more general list of those who have no share in the World to Come (3:6–14), and in which denial of the resurrection of the dead is explicitly listed (although it isn’t explained elsewhere); Hilkhot Rotze’ah uShemirat haNefesh 4:10 on the obligation to kill heretics, and similarly Hilkhot Mamrim 3:1–3 about those who deny the Oral Torah. For these three final passages it should come as no surprise that there is little or no traditional criticism of Maimonides, because these are precisely the kinds of assertions that form the “conservative” side of IH, and also because they address the negative act of explicit denial, as opposed to the less traditional aspects of what these things do mean for Maimonides. In general, although there may arguably be some differences in nuance between the Commentary on the Mishnah versus Mishneh Torah, the overall content and tone of their philosophical positions are the same. If there is any striking difference between them, it lies in the fact that in his introductions to the Commentary on the Mishnah we find Maimonides raising questions and pointedly confronting his reader directly with persuasive arguments, as opposed to Mishneh Torah in which he carefully and cogently presents the truth as he wants it to be understood (with little explicit argumentation). This is an important difference in style, but not in substance – both works express the same outlook. However, when these two earlier works are taken together and contrasted to Maimonides’ later writings and especially to the Guide there are striking differences, as we shall discuss below.

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more influential and important work in Jewish communities around the world, especially in lands where Arabic was not spoken. The philosophy in The Book of Wisdom, as the first book within the powerful Mishneh Torah, along with the later Guide of the Perplexed (which received an authoritative translation during Maimonides’ lifetime) provided the very best material (and the best reason!) for making a case against Maimonides. It was precisely these works that Maimonides’ opponents attempted to ban. Nor is it entirely true that there was no opposition to the principles for over two centuries. When they are taken in context as the conclusion to the IH – or better yet if we consider their reformulation along with their “theological substrate” within Mishneh Torah – it becomes quite possible to say that there was indeed. The first clash over Maimonides happened during his lifetime, and much of it was devoted to his apparent denial (apparent at least to his critics) of the resurrection of the dead. That appearance – despite his declarations to the contrary – had much to do with the “theological substrate” we are talking about. In the next clash, during the 1230s, center stage was taken by no less a figure than Nahmanides, who deeply admired Maimonides despite opposing his philosophy, and who pushed for a moderate ban.32 Nahmanides is also the author of Sha’ar haGemul, the single most important medieval Jewish work on eschatology after Maimonides’ IH, as well as the most authoritative response to Maimonides’ views on the topic. It is not hard at all to read Sha’ar haGemul as a reply to the ideas expressed in IH, even though it is actually a response to the sum of all of Maimonides’ eschatological writing, and specifically to his formulations in Mishneh Torah and in the Guide. That focus, however, is beside the point. What is important for our purpose is this: Nahmanides’ powerful refutation of Maimonides’ concept of the “World to Come” effectively undermines IH as a whole and the thirteen principles in particular (along with parallel texts in Mishneh Torah and the Guide). As a sophisticated critic, it is not a list of seemingly traditional assertions that concerns Nahmanides, but rather the fundamental outlook that led Maimonides to list them and describe them as he did. In this sense, any traditional criticism of Maimonides’ eschatology, or of his world view as a whole, is criticism of his dogma as well. Maimonides’ IH, along with its climax in the thirteen principles, is very much an expression of medieval rationalism. In context, it is not a conservative document by any means. Even in its more “conservative” assertions, and especially in the thirteen principles, Maimonides describes God without asserting any direct relation to humanity; he defines prophecy as a natural process grounded in intellectual cognition, leaving precious little room for individual 32 For a convenient summary of the controversies see Raphael Jospe, Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages (Brighton, MA: Academic Studies Press, 2009), 560–70.

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acts of divine volition; he asserts the truth of a Torah whose study is a tool towards reaching cognitive perfection; and he posits forms of recompense and redemption that need not be personal acts of a concerned God. From a “conservative” perspective, what the thirteen principles lack is no less striking that what they actually say. IH was thus the first full, clear expression of some of the most controversial elements within Maimonides’ writing, and in medieval Jewish rationalism as a whole for generations to come. The opposition to Maimonides was motivated above all by the sense that such ideas were not true expressions of Judaism. The opposition, however, had no reason to home in on the thirteen principles in particular, which in their original context function as nothing more than a summary or conclusion to an early expression of the Maimonidean outlook. Other literary targets served as better and far more influential expressions of that outlook. The thirteen principles only became the object of criticism centuries later, when dogma itself came to be seen as a topic of importance. How and why that happened is what we will turn to now.

CREATION AND DIVINE VOLITION (MAIMONIDES, IBN TIBBON, GERONDI, DURAN) In a recent article, Charles Manekin offers a new approach to address a phenomenon that is not widely known, or at least not widely appreciated, even among those who are generally familiar with Maimonides’ philosophical writing.33 The topic he deals with is that in the Guide and later writings, Maimonides repeatedly stresses the idea of a volitional God who created the world, performs miracles, and chose to give His commandments to Israel. He explicitly declares that such volition is a foundation of the Torah in an axiomatic sense, and that the Aristotelian conceptions of God and of the world’s eternity absolutely negate the Torah. If one is looking for Maimonidean statements which are openly “conservative” then these are surely the ones! The problem is that such explicit statements are entirely absent in Maimonides’ pre-Guide writings, including his major rabbinic works. This fact can be surprising, and to many it might seem counterintuitive.34 Manekin’s article neatly delineates where the crux of the matter lies: when 33 Charles Manekin, “Maimonides’ Concept of Will in His Later Writings,” Maimonidean Studies 5 (2008): 189–222. 34 See Warren Zev Harvey, “The Mishneh Torah as a Key to the Secrets of the Guide,” in Me’ah She’arim: Studies in Medieval Jewish Spiritual Life in Memory of Isadore Twersky, ed. E. Fleischer, G. Blidstein, C. Horowitz, and B. Septimus (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2001), 11–28. Harvey argues that Mishneh Torah, although philosophically unsophisticated, may contain in its clear assertions and its lack of deception a better indication of Maimonides’ true views than does the

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Maimonides speaks about the will of God in several important passages in his later writings, he takes pains to make it clear that he is talking about what may be called novel will, namely, that God chooses anew to act as circumstances change.35 This is critical for miracles and recompense, for prophecy as communication, and even for the very possibility of a covenant with Israel. It is in this sense that Maimonides declares it to be an axiomatic “foundation” of the Torah. But when Maimonides speaks of divine will in his earlier writings he argues for eternal will, namely that all events always correspond to God’s unchanging will. Even unusual phenomena can be explained, according to this view, since miracles can be implanted in the natures of things so that they will occur when they are meant to.36 In the limited context of Maimonides’ earlier writings, this is the most natural way to understand references to the “will” of God. Statements suggesting novel will are entirely lacking. Typically, those who saw Maimonides as a moderate resolved these discrepancies through harmonization, reading his earlier writings in light of traditional-sounding declarations in the later ones. Those who saw him as a closet radical understood such “conservative” statements to be for the benefit of the masses instead of reflecting his true esoteric views. Manekin argues for yet a third possibility, namely that Maimonides’ thought developed over time: Maimonides appears to be unaware of any serious conflicts between the foundations of the Law and the views of the philosophers, whom he virtually always considers authoritative in these matters. This could be because he consciously affirmed what he later came to view as problematic implications of the philosophers’ views or because he had not encountered, or studied deeply, the texts in which these implications are found or examined . . . In any

Guide, because of the latter’s internal contradictions. He acknowledges that this approach “may sound bizarre to some” (p. 12). 35 In the Guide (II:18), Maimonides argues that novel will does not constitute a change in God’s essence, because an incorporeal being does not will for the sake of external ends (cf. Manekin, 198 ff.). It is highly relevant that in his earlier writings, Maimonides repeatedly asserts God’s knowledge of changing particulars (10th principle; EC chapter 8; Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah 2:10 and Hilkhot Teshuvah 5:4–5) and simultaneously argues that it implies no change in His essence. But he makes no parallel argument that God’s changing will in response to changing particulars implies no change in His essence, emphasizing eternal will instead. It is not hard to conclude based on the evidence in Commentary on the Mishnah and in Mishneh Torah that Maimonides accepts God’s knowledge of particulars and His eternal will because both are potentially compatible with naturalism, but dismisses novel will because it is not. It is only in the Guide and later writings that novel will is explicitly asserted and justified. 36 In his earlier writings, Maimonides makes this point most strongly in chapter 8 of EC. Cf. Manekin p. 196 on whether this means that rare events are predetermined, or rather that rare properties are eternally willed to emerge under certain conditions.

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Seth (Avi) Kadish

event, by the time he wrote the Guide Maimonides had come to believe that there were irresolvable conflicts between the philosophers and the adherents of religious law on certain key issues such as creation, providence, and prophecy. He was not about to accept the positions of the Kalâm theologians tout court, for he considered them to be of little philosophical worth. So he staked out a position somewhere between the hypernaturalism of some of the Muslim falâsifa, and the antinaturalism of many of the Kalâm theologians, adhering as close as he could to the former.37 As Manekin understands Maimonides, his later view was a compromise. One might even be tempted to call it eclectic, though that is an adjective one hesitates to use regarding a scholar as rigorous and principled as Maimonides. Manekin’s tight description of the problem is more useful to us here than his solution. Since our goal in this paper is not to determine what Maimonides’ “true” views were, we may remain agnostic about the best way to make sense of the discrepancy between his earlier writings and his later ones. But the very fact of the discrepancy is crucial for a proper understanding of later systems of dogma that were discussed and debated in reaction to Maimonides’ writings in general, and as alternatives to his principles in particular. Most important for us at the outset is to clarify that Maimonides’ now-famous “correction” of the fourth principle, which was unknown until modern times, is highly typical of his later writing but utterly atypical of his pre-Guide writing. Or, to state the reverse, it is only the original formulation of the fourth principle, without the note added later in the margin of the autograph manuscript, that is typical of the attitudes generally expressed in the Commentary on the Mishnah and Mishneh Torah. Thus, to treat the late “correction” as a clarification indicating the fundamentally “conservative” nature of the thirteen principles is misleading. The original formulation and the later notation are as follows (with each part positioned as its own paragraph):

37 Manekin, 191–92. The later writings enumerated by Manekin include: (a) Treatise on the Resurrection of the Dead, (b) Letter on Astrology to the Sages of Montpellier, (c) Letter to R. Hisdai HaLevy, (d) Medical Aphorisms, and (e) the “corrected” version of the fourth principle. Regarding the Medical Aphorisms, Manekin states more than once that it is hardly the kind of book to attract a popular audience, which might perhaps indicate that Maimonides’ traditional-sounding statements within it should be taken at face value as his later views, rather than as an attempt to hide his true esoteric views. This may be so, but at the same time it should be considered that if indeed such statements are meant to hide esoteric views, then it is clear that Maimonides felt the need to do so not just in works meant for a more wide-ranging audience, such as the Treatise on the Resurrection of the Dead and the Letter on Astrology, but even in works whose intended audience was meant to be limited, such as the Guide itself or Medical Aphorisms.

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The fourth foundation is God’s precedence; to wit, that this one who has just been described is He Who precedes everything absolutely. No other being has precedence with respect to Him. There are many verses attesting this in Scripture. The verse attesting to it [best] is “the God of eternity [‫]אלהי קדם‬ is a dwelling place” (Deut 33:27). Know that a foundation of the great Torah of Moses is that the world is created: God created it and formed it after its absolute non-existence. That you see me circling around the idea of the eternity of the world is only so that the proof of His existence will be absolute as I explained and made clear in the Guide.38 The original version is easily understood as asserting God’s ontological priority in the finite chain of natural causality, not His temporal priority to the cosmos in an act of creation (much like parallel passages such as the first of the thirteen principles and Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah 1:5). That Maimonides chose an ambiguous verse attesting to his assertion (Deuteronomy 33:27) rather than citing Genesis 1:1 is striking.39 As Menachem Kellner notes, this formulation “seems calculated to upset the philosophically sophisticated but religiously conservative reader.”40 Such calculation would seem to be out of place in “a very conservative document,” but fits exactly the kind of agenda that Schweid attributes to IH. To contend that Maimonides later “corrected” his original formulation just demands the question as to why, in such a carefully constructed essay, he originally expressed it as he did here, and in a way that fits harmoniously with the parallel passages in his earlier writings. Maimonides himself acknowledged this problem explicitly, because the passage that the “correction” refers to in the Guide (I:71) explains why he predicated “the proof of His existence” on the eternity of the world in his halakhic writings, a direct reference to the relevant parallel passages in the Commentary on the Mishnah and Mishneh Torah.41 Thus, 38 Translation by David R. Blumenthal, The Commentary of R. Hoter ben Shelomo to the Thirteen Principles of Maimonides (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 91. Cited in Kellner, Must a Jew, 167. On the later addition see Kellner, Dogma, 54. 39 The root ‫ קדם‬in the verse cited (as well in the medieval Hebrew translations of the principle’s definition that were used by the Spanish critics of Maimonides’ dogma) is a choice that seems deliberately ambiguous. The choice of the verse is especially striking when compared to the expected verses that were cited at the end of the first principle on God’s existence (“I am the Lord your God”; Exodus 20:2), the end of the second principle on God’s unity (“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One”; Deuteronomy 6:4), and even in the third principle on God’s incorporeality (“you saw no image”; Deuteronomy 4:15). 40 It did so upset Rabbi Shimon ben Zemah Duran, a traditional reader who complained that “the heart of whoever sees Maimonides’ words here pounds” (Ohev Mishpat, chapter 9; see below for a discussion of Duran). 41 Guide I:71 (Pines, 182).

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in his earlier writings, the God that Maimonides describes seems not to possess novel will. Only in his later writings (his correction to the fourth principle among them) does he assert the opposite. Maimonides’ thirteen principles are a clear expression of the general attitude found in his early writings. When they are compared to later Jewish systems of dogma, the most striking thing is that not one of them is devoted to divine volition. A patient reader of the Commentary on the Mishnah will ultimately find a discussion of volition in chapter eight of EC, where divine will is described as eternal will, and is compatible with naturalism. But in the principles themselves any emphasis on God’s will is curiously lacking, and they, too, betray a surprising compatibility with naturalism. In the medieval context, the fourth principle must of course be read as it was then known (without the later correction). But the fourth principle is not the only relevant one: the same is true of principles one through five as a whole, which describe the God of Aristotle, not the divine personality of the Bible. Prophecy (principles six and seven), which might seem to be a very personal and volitional act (God chooses His prophet), is instead presented as a basically naturalistic phenomenon. And neither God’s knowledge of particulars (tenth principle), nor His divine recompense (eleventh principle), necessarily imply volition. Even the twelfth principle, the messianic redemption, is something that occurs within nature according to Maimonides in IH. It is only the thirteenth and final principle, the resurrection of the dead, which requires novel volition, because it is a unique abrogation of nature performed for the righteous. Nevertheless, Maimonides attempted to demythologize even this concept as far as possible in IH, and ultimately left it demoted and half-hidden in the shadow of the cognitive World to Come. Maimonides declared his allegiance to resurrection briefly and clearly, but his fiercest critics did not accept his fidelity to it at face value. Something, they felt, was deeply wrong. To be sure, some principles may touch upon divine volition. The first time is possibly in the fifth principle, where all of the forces of nature in heaven and on earth are said not to be worthy of human worship, because they all behave deterministically according to their natures. The medieval Hebrew versions of the type available to Maimonides’ later critics state that their deterministic nature is controlled by God’s will.42 But the thrust of the argument, and the point of the principle, is not about God, but rather about the imprinted nature

42 It is phrased as follows: “‫לפי שכולם מוטבעים על פעולתם אין משפט ולא בחירה להם אלא לו לבדו השם יתברך‬,” where ‫ משפט‬means “control”; and similarly in Qafih (“‫)”אין להם שלטון ולא בחירה אלא רצונו יתעלה‬ and Shilat. These Hebrew translations convey the plain sense of the Arabic in both the fifth and seventh principles (my thanks to Hadas Hirsch and Yossi Givoni for their expertise and helpful input towards the evaluation of a number of medieval and modern translations).

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 219 of beings other than God. God’s will in this principle would seem to refer to nature itself, as a product of divine will and determined by His general wisdom.43 In context the fifth principle does not refer to individual acts of volition on a personal level. The only time Maimonides makes explicit use of divine volition in a possibly meaningful way in the thirteen principles is regarding the nature of prophecy. Creation and prophecy are parallel problems at the very heart of Maimonidean thought, and they are keys to his position on divine volition; but, in the original text of the thirteen principles, prophecy is prominent while creation is entirely lacking. In the sixth principle, prophecy in general (besides that of Moses) is clearly and explicitly described as a naturalistic process wherein certain people attain the ability to receive divine emanation. Maimonides declares that an actual explanation of that process would be “the epitome of all the sciences.”44 In the seventh principle (the prophecy of Moses) he gives examples of those sciences, and they include the most difficult aspects of metaphysics (“the existence of angels would first have to be made clear and, then, the distinction between their ranks and that of the Creator”) as well as the entirety of the life sciences and anthropology (“the soul would have to be explained and all of its faculties”).45 However, he wrote, an adequate explanation of this “could not be attained even in a hundred pages,” and he declined to do so in this context. The thirteen principles are meant to express ideas “only in the form of a statement,” not through “abundant introductions and illustrations.”46 When Maimonides says that understanding prophecy requires knowledge of nature, he means not just that prophecy works through nature, but that its very content is nature (the prophet achieves unique understanding of the structure and content of the cosmos). The seventh principle (prophecy of Moses) is quite unlike any of the others. Immediately striking is that it is unusually verbose and complicated, as opposed to all of the other principles, each of which asserts an idea in a relatively short formulation (“only in the form of a statement”). The seventh principle’s lack of simplicity lies in the fact that even after an unusually long, formal explanation 43 Cf. Manekin, 212–18. 44 Maimonides declines to supply a summary of all those sciences in the context of the thirteen principles, but Duran later took the task upon himself. See Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 4. 45 Angels for Maimonides are incorporeal intellects (see Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah 2:3) that play a role in the hierarchy of the spheres. That “the soul and all of its faculties” are actually the life sciences and anthropology was perfectly clear to a reader of the Commentary on the Mishnah, even if he wasn’t otherwise learned in science, because they were explained as such by Maimonides in the first chapter of EC. 46 Cited from the end of the sixth principle and the seventh principle respectively.

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of what Mosaic prophecy was, we find an additional enumeration of the four essential ways it differs from that of any other prophet. This kind of writing is unlike any of the other principles. It is therefore worth noting that the seventh principle is the “middle” one out of thirteen, which may not just be an accident of arithmetic – it may, in a sense, form the “backbone” of the thirteen principles. What can be said for sure is that the basic tension between naturalism and divine volition, which later critics struggled with as the crucial problem in Maimonides’ thought, and which lies at the root of the radicalism in IH, forms the very crux of the seventh principle. The seventh principle states that the prophecy of Moses is unique. There never was and never will be another prophet like him. That is a very simple statement as a catechism, but it is highly problematic philosophically. In the Aristotelian universe, which is eternally static in terms of following the laws of nature forever, there is no such thing as a unique event. If something can happen then it will happen, and it will also be repeated. There is no natural phenomenon that happens just once and cannot happen again. If there were, then by definition it would not be natural. So, if Mosaic prophecy is natural, then how can it be unique? And if it is not natural, but rather an act of divine volition, then why did Maimonides stress that its explanation lies in nature? This tension is compounded when Maimonides explicitly brings the will of God into the seventh principle. The fourth and final difference between Moses and other prophets is that Moses had access to prophecy whenever he wished, but other prophets, even if they were prepared for prophecy on a natural level, do not always prophesy. This difference depends not just on the prophet’s natural readiness, but is “by the will of God.” In other words, God’s will at times prevents a prophecy that would otherwise take place (but never for Moses). Now, according to the Maimonidean model of prophecy, a stick or stone can never prophesy at all, nor can an ignorant man or anyone else who is “unprepared”; God never causes the impossible to happen. Thus far the process described in principles six through seven is absolutely naturalistic. But then, Maimonides seemingly leaves the door open for divine volition when he states that God sometimes prevents the possible from happening. To put it more strongly: Maimonides can be understood to be saying that even in specific circumstances which might otherwise dictate prophecy, it may not occur, if God wills it not to in an act of novel will. Alternatively, and more in consonance with his early writings, Maimonides can be understood to be saying that prophecy may not occur in accordance with God’s eternal will.47 In either case, only for Moses, whose prophecy is unique in its very nature, did prophecy never fail. 47 Cf. Roslyn Weiss, “Natural Order or Divine Will: Maimonides on Cosmogony and Prophecy,”

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance?

221

The tension here between naturalism and divine volition is acute. The overall position Maimonides takes in principles six and seven is that prophecy is a natural phenomenon at its core. God does not personally will an intellectual emanation to reach anyone or anything in particular. His glory lies in reason and in nature, not outside of them. So on the one hand, when prophecy does occur, it is only according to the laws of nature. Yet, at the same time, Maimonides declares, God’s will interferes at times with this natural phenomenon and regulates it for “general” prophets. The apparent contradiction can easily be resolved by saying that Maimonides refers to God’s eternal will, not to novel will, in accordance with the general thrust in his earlier writings. Thus, even the one clear reference to divine will in the thirteen principles does not necessarily indicate a personal God. The final problem is that only for Moses, whose prophecy was essentially different because his natural state was unlike that of any other prophet, was there never any interference. But Maimonides further declares that the condition Moses reached was absolutely unique. So was it natural or not? All of these questions point directly at the very troubling place of divine volition in the thirteen principles specifically, as an acute example of early Maimonidean writing in general. Our point in raising these well-known kinds of questions here is not to try to answer them by determining what Maimonides’ “true” views were, but rather to show how deeply troubling the text is on its own terms.48 In terms of divine volition, this is not a “conservative” piece of writing at all. Anyone who reads Maimonides’ principles in context, and with a modicum of care, is very likely to be troubled by questions like these. A traditional critic might be somewhat appeased by the fact that Maimonides seems to make room for God’s will at all.49 But the extent to which the thirteen principles describe God, prophecy, and recompense in impersonal terms would still seem to be a vast distortion of the traditional outlook. Why can God not behave as a personality who chooses His prophets, strikes a covenant with His people, punishes the wicked and rewards His servants, just as the plain sense of the Bible and rabbinic lore indicate? What need is there for all the tension in the first place?50 Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 15 (2007): 1–26. Cf. Manekin, 212. 48 For the fullest available discussion of these and related questions see Howard T. Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001), 157–209. 49 It is possible that Hasdai Crescas means exactly this in his comments about Maimonides (towards the end of his general introduction to Light of the Lord). See below, n. 104. 50 Manekin answers this question by saying that Maimonides indeed changed his mind, seeking a balanced approach between naturalism and anti-naturalism later in his life. For our purposes this will not suffice, because it is precisely the naturalistic approach of the early writings which

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It was precisely the problem of naturalism versus volition in Maimonidean thought that first gave rise to a systematic critique of his dogmatic system, some two centuries after he wrote the thirteen principles. The basis for the analysis was a key chapter in the Guide (II:25), where Maimonides discussed the problem of creation versus eternity. Creation, he famously wrote, implies an act of volition, and thus makes the world a place in which miracles and acts of divine will can occur. Creation and volition allow the Torah to stand. But an eternal universe, as Aristotle understood it, means that nature is eternal. God has no novel volition, and nothing ever interferes with nature. According to this, the Torah is impossible. Maimonides further wrote that there is a third position, that of Plato, whereby matter is eternal and the act of creation is not ex nihilo, but rather the granting of form to matter. This too allows for divine volition and makes the Torah possible. But since the plain meaning of Genesis, according to Maimonides, is that of creation from nothing, and since he further declares that the proofs for other positions are not conclusive, he concludes that Genesis must be accepted at face value according to its “external” meaning. In the late fourteenth century, this very chapter in the Guide was alluded to by Nissim Gerondi in his commentary on Genesis.51 In the very first explicit analysis ever written about the axiomatic definition for a “principle of the Torah,” he wrote: There is no doubt that had the Torah not explained the matter of creation, and a person accepted eternity in the sense that God cannot be thought of as capable of creating, as the philosophers believed – for this person the Torah must fail in its entirety, and he cannot believe in the commandments

underlies the dogmatic structure. Maimonides’ later remarks allowed some of his traditional readers to view him as a moderate, but those with an interest in dogma could not possibly ignore the naturalistic underpinnings of the thirteen principles. 51 Probably circa 1370. Aryeh Feldman has proven that Gerondi died on the ninth of Shevat 5136 (1376); see his introduction to She’elot uTeshuvot haRan (Jerusalem: Shalem, 1984), 22 [Hebrew]. Gerondi only began his commentary on the Torah, and managed to finish no more than about half of Genesis. It is not known for certain when he wrote it, but it is quite possible that it was towards the end of his life, and that his work was cut short by his death. On the similar remarks about creation in Light of the Lord see Natan Ophir, “‫הרב חסדאי קרשקש כפרשן פילוסופי למאמרי חז״ל‬ ‫( ”לאור התמורות במחשבתו‬PhD diss., University of Haifa, 1996), 42–43, 143–56. Ophir suggests that Gerondi and Crescas might have agreed together to remove creation from the class of axioms of the Torah in the early 1370s in Barcelona. If this is the case, then we can narrow down the beginning of the critical focus on dogma in Spain to a specific group in the early 1370s, slightly more than two full centuries after Maimonides finished his Commentary on the Mishnah. Besides the passage cited here, Gerondi also names other foundations or cornerstones of the Torah in various places. For a full list and further references, see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 4.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 223 in any way. But one who believes in the commandments despite believing in eternity – he cannot believe in it that way, for if everything happens out of necessity then God did not command the portion: “This month shall mark for you the beginning of months” (Exodus 12:2), [and God] will not punish with “cutting off ” one who eats leavened bread [on Passover], as is written in it (v. 15). Therefore, anyone who observes a commandment and accepts the Torah despite accepting the eternity of the world, justifying this by thinking that God’s will for the world to exist has not ceased (not that He cannot be conceived to do its opposite) – a belief which harms nothing in the Torah – for this reason Rabbi Isaac explained that the Torah need not have begun [with Genesis] but with the commandments. . . . Creation is not a principle of the Torah for Gerondi, because a “principle” is an axiom by which the Torah stands or falls. Despite Maimonides’ statement that creation upholds the Torah but an eternal universe in the Aristotelian sense means that it falls, creation is still not an obligatory concept, for there is yet another option: “It is God’s will that the world’s existence has not ceased.” Despite this disagreement, Gerondi’s definition of “principle of the Torah” in an axiomatic sense has its roots in Maimonides himself. A principle of the Torah is axiomatic, and it is inseparable from the question of divine volition. After Gerondi, the debate continued about whether creation is a foundation of the Torah, or even the foundation of the Torah. Menachem Kellner has already traced this debate as a major fault line throughout the entire history of medieval Jewish dogma.52 The next incisive discussion was in Ohev Mishpat, a commentary on Job written by Rabbi Shimon ben Zemah Duran in 1405 in Algiers, where he lived as an exile following his flight from Spain in 1391. Despite the fact that his teacher and colleagues were students of Gerondi, Duran argued – in the first systematic critique ever written of Maimonides’ thirteen principles – that creation is the first of two great yet unstated “pillars” which underlie Maimonides’ thirteen principles of the Torah (and for that reason does not appear among them).53 In this he represented what became the majority opinion throughout the next century. Duran’s two “pillars” of the Torah are creation and providence.54 These are axiomatic: if God did not create the world in the ultimate act of volition, or if He does not care personally for individuals and choose among them, then 52 Kellner, Dogma, 213–17. This important topic forms the conclusion to his entire book. 53 Introduction to the chapters of the philosophical introduction which precedes the commentary on Job in Ohev Mishpat. 54 Duran adds that providence, the second “pillar,” follows from creation, which “makes creation the single most important belief of Judaism” (Kellner, Dogma, 95–96).

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the Torah cannot be true. It must be emphasized that Duran’s two “pillars” are necessary precisely because the thirteen principles so vividly lack any clear and explicit emphasis on divine volition. In other words, Duran tried to save Maimonides’ system of dogma from a conservative perspective, and he did so by positing unstated values that underlie it. Duran’s systematic critique of the thirteen principles was thorough: he asked incisive questions, but also did his best to explain how Maimonides’ choice of principles makes sense despite its inherent difficulties. There is no need to fully examine his theoretical argumentation here.55 More relevant is that neither his engagement with the topic nor his ultimate sympathy for Maimonides remained theoretical; beyond discussing dogmatic structure in an abstract fashion, he also applied his conclusions to his literary corpus. In Ohev Mishpat, Duran wrote that creation and providence are extremely problematic on a human level, because creation is claimed to be disproven by rational inquiry, while providence is claimed to be disproven by human experience. The latter challenge is so acute that the Bible itself devoted an entire book to it, namely Job, and Duran applied himself to elucidating providence as the first “pillar” of the Torah by writing Ohev Mishpat as a commentary on Job. It is in his introduction to Job that he first posits creation and providence as the two “pillars” of the Torah and scrutinizes Maimonides’ dogmatic system. Duran later wrote Magen Avot, a massive philosophical work that is formally divided into thirteen chapters after Maimonides’ thirteen principles. But he also made a place in it for creation as the first “pillar” of the Torah and the “derivative principle” of resurrection: while the formal title of the thirteenth chapter

55 A general summary is as follows: after having previously discussed the two “pillars” in his introduction, he turns to Maimonides’ thirteen principles in chapter 8. There he discusses why Maimonides chose the principles that he did among the thirteen, why he didn’t count others, and how he arrived at the number thirteen. In particular, Maimonides did not count creation and human free will because they are “derivative principles” that allow for resurrection and recompense respectively. It is in this chapter that Duran also mentions the idea – later popularized by Albo – that there are three “fundamental principles” to which Maimonides’ list might have been reduced: God, Torah, and recompense. In chapter 9 he begins with the seeming implication of the eternity of the world in Maimonides’ fourth principle, and continues at length with the idea of unintentional heresy, concluding with the idea (reminiscent of Gerondi) that alternative religious conceptions of creation (not ex nihilo) are not heretical as long as they are not naturalistic and not intended to deny the Torah. In chapter 10 he deals with principles that are also commandments (God’s existence, unity, that only He may be worshiped, and the eternity of the Torah), and also addresses the question of why the Mishnah (Sanhedrin 10:1) lists only certain things (but not all of the principles) as leading to a person’s loss of the World to Come. In that context he notably mentions that “the Sages recorded in exaggerated fashion many things the doing of which would cost one his share in the world to come,” which they did “by way of admonition so that one would not do these things.” For the text and a full analysis, see Kellner, Dogma, 83–107.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 225 of Magen Avot corresponds to Maimonides’ thirteenth principle, namely the resurrection of the dead, it is actually about other things. According to Duran, the divine volition implied by creation is what enables miracles, and, because the greatest miracle is resurrection, the two topics are really one and the same. In other words, Duran chose the thirteenth principle as the place to address the absence of volition (as opposed to Maimonides himself who, unknown to Duran, ultimately did so in the fourth principle). For Duran, not only is creation theoretically inherent in the principle of resurrection, but, because of it, he divides chapter thirteen of Magen Avot into two major “topics”: the first is a huge discussion of the life sciences in general and the nature of man in particular (this relates to resurrection by clarifying what exactly is to be resurrected, and may also be taken as an expanded and improved version of EC), while the second is about creation and divine volition (which render resurrection possible as the greatest of all miracles).56 The book closes on this note. In Ohev Mishpat and Magen Avot, Duran was able to preserve the structure of Maimonides’ thirteen principles while at the same time expressing creation and providence as fundamental axioms, the two “pillars” of the Torah. Magen Avot is thus a full-fledged “book of principles” of the Torah, whose overall structure is governed by its author’s system of dogma. Taken together with Ohev Mishpat, its thirteen chapters reflect how Duran has adjusted Maimonides’ thirteen principles to include the two “pillars” of the Torah, both of which address the seeming naturalism in Maimonides’ original formulation. The real issue for Duran is neither creation nor providence as “pillars,” nor the thirteen principles themselves, but rather to stress what he considered to be the Torah’s view of a personal God who makes individual choices.57 Divine volition is the crux. Despite Duran’s view – along with the majority of those who discussed dogma for the next century – that creation is an axiomatic foundation of the Torah, Gerondi’s alternative position remained popular within his immediate orbit. That creation itself is not axiomatic to the Torah was the opinion of his student,

56 Duran’s huge essay (“topic”) on the life sciences may be seen to cover the material in EC; both that “topic” as well as his lengthy discussion of cosmology in the chapters about prophecy (Magen Avot Part II, chapters 6–8) may be seen as taking Maimonides’ lead (as declared in the sixth and seventh principles) in explicating the sciences as the way to fully understand the principles of the Torah. In all, Duran seems to have tried to complete the work that Maimonides began in his philosophical introductions to the Mishnah by creating a kind of “Torah Encyclopedia.” For a full examination of this, see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 4. 57 Duran also makes Gerondi’s point about creation in Ohev Mishpat (chapter 8), but doesn’t resolve the conflict. It seems he preferred to keep creation as a “pillar” on a rhetorical level (and if proofs he later mustered in Magen Avot support it too, then all the better). In Magen Avot creation is presented without question as the underlying principle of the resurrection of the dead, and justified philosophically.

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Hasdai Crescas, and of Crescas’ student Joseph Albo. They both argued, like Gerondi, that the Torah stands even if the world was not created in a single temporal act by the will of God. In this particular case – the question of whether or not creation is axiomatic to the Torah – what appears to be a disagreement is actually more significant as a point of fundamental agreement. What all participants shared in their dogmatics, and what was in fact the shared motivation for their dogmatics in the first place, was that God has volition, that He performs miracles and makes individual choices as a personality. To argue whether or not creation is an axiom of the Torah is taxonomy, but to stress that God’s will responds to individuals is substance, and is what leads Duran to adjust Maimonides’ principles by asserting their two “pillars.” In other words, both Gerondi and Duran view God as a partner in a relationship with Israel, rather than as a conceptual being which behaves according to its nature. The question that divided them was largely rhetorical: Which is the better or stronger way to support that God has a personality? Is it by declaring creation to be a “foundation” of the Torah (as the ultimate act of volition), or is it by stressing volition directly? Duran and the majority chose the former option, but Gerondi and those closest to his school chose the latter. Gerondi’s position is notable for allowing a wider range of intellectual options in the name of the Torah: as long as God has personal volition – thus allowing a true sense of commandedness for humanity – a relationship can exist, whether the world was created in time or not. In either case, what both sides have in common is far more important than the rhetorical question that divides them. It was only during the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, among Gerondi and later figures, that the question of divine volition – naturalism versus a God who acts voluntarily upon nature – became the driving force for analysis of Jewish dogma. Maimonides himself had already suggested that creation was an axiomatic “foundation” (Guide II:25), but he could only do so by modifying the dogmatic structure that he created in his youth. Even had his late “correction” to the fourth principle become known in the Middle Ages, the thirteen principles as a whole would still have reflected a largely impersonal approach on such important matters as God, prophecy, and providence. And, on a semantic level, they would still fail, as a group, to live up to Maimonides’ own late axiomatic definition for a “foundation” of the Torah. That the divine will of a personal God was at the very core of late Iberian criticism of Maimonides’ thirteen principles is a realization that can help us evaluate Eli Gurfinkel’s recent study. In his paper, Gurfinkel claims to muster evidence for “clear literary continuity in the discussion about foundations of faith ever since they were publicized by Maimonides” (as opposed to the two-century gap posited by Kellner). He further suggests that it is better “not to judge the activity in this area quantitatively” but rather that “it is more important to pay

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 227 attention to the changing nature of the discussion.”58 In light of our conclusion about the nature of God in the later Iberian discussion, Gurfinkel’s suggestion deserves and requires some further exploration. Gurfinkel divides the history of discussion of Jewish dogma into four historical periods, of which only the second and third are relevant here. The second period is from the mid-twelfth until the late fourteenth century, during which “the activity of counting principles was not considered an independent topic, and it didn’t arouse remarkable discussions.”59 In this period Maimonides’ thirteen principles were sometimes adopted without discussion, and at the very same time alternative lists were composed without any reference to Maimonides. Gurfinkel further notes that there were “a few discussions which questioned Maimonides’ principles, but no discussion in depth.” Of the last phenomenon he notes one example, and it is a significant one: Samuel ibn Tibbon.60 Ibn Tibbon was the first of several commentators on the Guide who argued that although according to Maimonides the creation of the world implies the existence of a creator, at the very same time it also destroys the proofs for the first three principles: the existence of a necessary first cause, its unity, and its incorporeality. To state the case more ironically, creation as a “foundation of the Torah” (as Maimonides calls it in the Guide) destroys the very “foundations of the Torah” (as Maimonides proves them elsewhere in the Guide and already stated them in his earlier halakhic works). This contradiction is a classic example of what the esotericists used “as grist for the esoteric mill” according to Manekin, but it is also more than that in terms of dogma: Ibn Tibbon was the very first to explicitly write that Maimonides didn’t include creation among the foundations of the religion in his earlier writings for exactly this reason.61 This implies that intellectual truth prevailed over esotericism in Maimonides’ halakhic writings even more than in the Guide itself! The third period is from the late fourteenth century until the beginning of the sixteenth century. According to Gurfinkel, beyond the historical factors that caused intensified interest in the topic, “the major novelty in this period is the direct confrontation with Maimonides’ teaching . . . Some of the thinkers attack his list and redefine the essence of the discussion, while as opposed to them others arise who attempt – while responding to the difficulties that have been raised – to explain his intention and the background for his decisions.” As we have seen, the earliest example of the former was Gerondi, who was 58 Cited from the formulation in the paper’s conclusion (p. 16). 59 The quotations and summary in this paragraph are from pp. 11–12. 60 On Samuel ibn Tibbon’s analysis of creation, which we will now discuss, see Carlos Fraenkel, ‫מן‬ ‫( הרמב״ם לשמואל אבן תיבון‬Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2007), 162–76. 61 “In my opinion this is the reason that Maimonides of blessed memory did not count the creation of the world among the foundations of the religion” (Fraenkel, p. 172). Ibn Tibbon also mentions “beliefs” and “cornerstones” of the Torah in his introduction to Ecclesiastes, 32–36.

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followed by his students and members of his school. The earliest example of the latter was Duran, who attempted to justify Maimonides’ principles by positing their pillars. For both periods, Gurfinkel has assembled an impressive list of persons who at the very least make mention of the principles of the Torah, categorized chronologically by century. To be sure, many of those who lived during Kellner’s “gap” period (i.e. Gurfinkel’s second period) fit into exactly the type of minor discussions that Kellner himself already sketched.62 However, there are some exceptions. In general, Gurfinkel’s argument can be sharpened by considering not just who discussed principles of the Torah and when they lived, but also by taking into account where they lived and the cultural connections between them. For the second period, Gurfinkel’s most striking examples come almost exclusively from Provence:63 we have already mentioned Samuel ibn Tibbon. Later, we also have Menahem haMeiri, who composed a treatise on required beliefs that is now lost, but which seems to have been a work of substantial length that was of importance to him, since he refers to it numerous times in his writings. There is also the important Provençal halakhist David HaKokhavi’s Sefer Emunah about “the foundations of the Torah and the principles of faith,” wherein he reorganizes matters of faith into seven “pillars” for his own didactic purposes and not as criticism of Maimonides; the content of his “pillars” reflects a moderate Maimonideanism.64 There is further Nissim of 62 Kellner, Dogma, 66–82. 63 To Gurfinkel’s Provençal examples may now be added Levi ben Avraham ‫ שער‬,‫ סתרי האמונה‬:‫לוית חן‬ ‫( ההגדה‬Be’er Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2014). In this fourth and final volume of the “Jewish” part of ‫לוית חן‬, Levi discusses the topics found in Maimonides’ thirteen principles of the faith and the approach of the sages to science and philosophy (along with much philosophic exegesis of rabbinic lore), as well as a poem that deals with these topics. Also relevant are Gersonides’ pinnot haTorah, which have been analyzed by Robert Eisen in Gersonides on Providence, Covenant, and the Chosen People: A Study in Medieval Jewish Philosophy and Biblical Commentary (Albany: State University of New York, 1995), 185–96. Neither Kellner nor Gurfinkel mention Gersonides in this context, but his loose use of pinnot as described by Eisen is similar to that of Gerondi (see above n. 51). In principle, as “doctrines that stand at the very interface between philosophy and revelation” (Eisen, 195) they also fit the description below of dogmas as concepts that guide and limit philosophical inquiry. 64 For ‫ ספר אמונה‬see Moshe Hershler, ed., ‫( ספר הבתים‬Jerusalem: Makhon Shalem, 1982), vol. 1. On HaKokhavi as a “Maimonidean Halakhist” see Moshe Halbertal, ‫( בין תורה לחכמה‬Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2001), 181–216; Kellner, Dogma, 76. Much ink has been spilled trying to find the systematic logic behind the selection and organization of Maimonides’ thirteen principles, and comparing that logic to what may be found in other dogmatic systems. But HaKokhavi’s ‫ ספר אמונה‬shows that if the principles are viewed as a pedagogic expression of their intellectual substratum, then their number, order, and possible structure may not be essential. In other words, a Maimonidean outlook can make it easier for an author to alter Maimonides’ dogmatic formulations without fanfare. Contrast this with the authors of “books of principles” later in

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 229 Marseille, who devoted a chapter of the introduction to his commentary on the Torah to Maimonides’ thirteen principles. Nissim defines what a principle is and what makes the Torah, as opposed to other systems, a divine law.65 But most important is that he divides the principles into those which derive from rational inquiry, those which are beliefs, and those which are both at once. Nissim’s paraphrase of Maimonides’ fourth principle is especially notable for its mention of creation: “Everything besides Him is created, He alone being eternal.”66 However, he categorizes that principle along with resurrection as a belief rather than as an intellectual position, explaining that without such dogmas the common people will not remain loyal to the commandments.67 Thus, we have an explicit analysis of the thirteen principles emphasizing their importance as either intellectual truth or for political stability! Based upon this, it seems that Kellner’s conclusion about the “gap” period should be modified in one way that is significant but not fundamental: during this period, scholars with Maimonidean leanings – mostly in Provence and rarely in other places – did pay meaningful attention to Maimonides’ dogma. They understood it as a correct pedagogic tool in the service of a rationalistic Judaism. They analyzed and explained the thirteen principles out of sympathetic agreement with their structure, and with Maimonidean thought in general. Needless to say, their basic sympathy for the latter did not lead them to reject the former or offer alternatives to it.68 That is exactly what began to change in Spain during the late fourteenth century: a fundamental lack of sympathy for Maimonidean Judaism69 – partially mitigated by enormous respect for Maimonides himself, and critical regard for

65 66 67 68

69

Spain, who, as critics of the Maimonidean outlook, worked very hard to design and justify alternative systems of dogma in order to consciously replace that of Maimonides. HaKokhavi’s moderate Maimonideanism is most blatant in the seventh and final pillar about resurrection, both in HaKokhavi’s discussion of the different positions on the matter (chapter 1) and in his full-length citation of Maimonides’ Treatise on Resurrection (chapter 2). ‫ פירוש לתורה‬:‫מעשה נסים‬, ed. Haim Kreisel (Jerusalem: Mekitze Nirdamin, 2000), 148, 160. ‫מעשה נסים‬, 148. ‫מעשה נסים‬, 156–57. Beyond this, what Halbertal concludes about the Provençal halakhists bears repeating here: because of the fundamental dissonance between the two groups, it is unlikely that anything they wrote on the topic of principles would have become part of rabbinic discourse in Spain. See Halbertal, ‫תבין תורה לחכמה‬, 217–22; Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 7. Gurfinkel (“‫העיסוק‬,” 12) correctly notes “the kabbalistic disposition of some of these thinkers.” But unlike in previous eras of anti-Maimonidean thought kabbalah did not play a major role here. Some members of this school had no kabbalistic disposition at all, while for others their sympathy for kabbalah was not matched by serious and ongoing involvement with it. The shared motivation of them all is better characterized by traditional emphasis on a personal God, thus continuing in the literary tradition of Maimonides’ conservative statements in the Guide, rather than by invoking kabbalah. On kabbalah in the school of Nissim Gerondi, see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 1.

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his literary corpus – was coupled with a severe need for ways to clearly express traditional conceptions of Judaism in order to face related challenges from both Christianity and medieval rationalism. The Spanish scholars came to realize that Maimonides’ thirteen principles didn’t serve their goals, but, because of the intellectual stratum underlying the principles, which is largely compatible with naturalism, actually undermined them. The shift in attitude towards the principles is reflected in some of the most important works on Jewish thought in the late Middle Ages. And it is incontrovertible, despite Gurfinkel’s understandable methodological reservations about ranking the relative importance of scholars during the second period (Kellner’s “gap”), that in the third period (that of Spanish criticism) the most important of these works were written precisely by the leading rabbinic figures of their time.70 Furthermore, the first three generations of Spanish engagement with dogma all took place within a single school, whose members shared a dual passion for a traditional outlook combined with the rigorous study of contemporary science. This passion was a critical motivation for their attempts to define the “foundations” of the Torah. This reality makes it impossible to accept Gurfinkel’s formulation at the beginning of his paper, namely that from the end of the fourteenth century “it is possible to identify a certain increase of activity in the topic of principles.”71 That is a misleading understatement. But Gurfinkel is entirely correct in his conclusion, where he states that it is better “not to judge the activity in this area quantitatively” but rather that “it is more important to pay attention to the changing nature of the discussion.” That is a conclusion with which Kellner, too, would likely agree. The discussion at the end of the fourteenth century, within a specific Spanish school, changed in its fundamental nature, and this radical change was of critical importance. It marks a turning point in the history of Jewish dogma. Why was there such an emphasis on dogma among Jews in fifteenth-century Spain? Clearly, it was a kind of reaction to Christian persecution in an environment that included forced disputations. But why did the reaction take this specific form, to the extent that treatises on dogma were the most striking expressions of traditionalism by Spanish Jewry (including the exiles of 1391)?72 Furthermore, the most important works on dogma were all the product of a single school: one teacher (Gerondi) and two generations of his students.73 What was it about this school that made dogma so important to its members?

70 Gurfinkel, “‫העיסוק‬,” 191. 71 Gurfinkel, “‫העיסוק‬,” 6 (my italics). 72 These were surveyed and described by Kellner in Dogma, 157–78 and 196–99. They all shared the preoccupation with naturalism versus divine volition. 73 Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 3.

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As we have seen, the acceptance of divine volition and the parallel rejection of naturalism were the shared, crucial aspect of this school’s stance. In Part Two I will show that these scholars’ dogmatic systems were consciously designed to express exactly this view. The connection between their inner conviction about a personal God on the one hand, and persecution from the outside on the other, was the fear that Judaism could be too easily abandoned by its intellectualist adherents when outside pressures became severe. One doesn’t, they thought, sacrifice life or well-being for a God who doesn’t personally care. That is precisely why the personal will of God stood at the very center of their systems of dogma.74 As such these systems were not just intellectual exercises about axioms, but were meant to tell a story about God and Israel. Furthermore, their shared preoccupations also explain why the scholars in Gerondi’s school in particular invested so much energy on dogma: in a school that insisted on a personal God on the one hand, but also had enormous respect for the serious yet critical study of rational inquiry on the other, it became crucial to decide when the conclusions of rational inquiry are acceptable, and when they are not. To define the “principles of the Torah” was an attempt to draw such a line.75 The most intellectually powerful expression of this goal by far is in Light of the Lord by Hasdai Crescas.76 74 Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 5. 75 Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapters 1 and 3. Menachem Kellner previously made this point in the introduction to his translation of Abravanel’s Rosh Amanah (see Principles of Faith: Rosh Amanah [East Brunswick, NJ: Associated University Press, 1982], 17–18): “One of the unarticulated items on the agenda of many of those who sought to enumerate the principles of Judaism was to make possible philosophical speculation on religious beliefs. By establishing clear-cut criteria for religious orthodoxy, they were making it possible for the philosopher to engage in philosophical speculation on beliefs not included in the list of basic dogmas without fear of being accused of heresy. By establishing the minimal criteria of religious orthodoxy, then, Maimonides and his followers in effect made Jewish philosophy possible. Abravanel, however, denied there were any minimal criteria of religious orthodoxy (since all beliefs are primary, and none are secondary) and thus sought to make Jewish philosophy impossible.” This description may be tightened for Maimonides in order to facilitate his comparison to those who created later systems of dogma. For Maimonides, as long as the thirteen principles can somehow be affirmed, the rest of the Torah may then become part of the project of interpreting religion according to Aristotelian truth. In fact, even the thirteen principles themselves may perhaps be understood or reinterpreted in that way, so long as it is still possible to affirm them. But in the later Iberian books of principles we find a distinct desire to slow down or halt the process of reinterpretation, and to do so by making it clear when alternative views must be rejected in favor of what the Torah teaches; this is most evident in Duran (see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 4). Crescas goes furthest by disengaging the Torah from rational inquiry entirely, and demanding that Torah and rational inquiry be approached each on its own terms with complete integrity, and each confined to its proper realm. It is only when those two different realms speak about the same topic – or at least seem to be speaking about the same topic – that they need to be discussed in treatises two through four of Light of the Lord. 76 That Crescas and his colleagues shared this dual motivation – the serious yet critical study

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Part Two: Dogma after Maimonides PRINCIPLES OF PERSONALITY IN CRESCAS’ LIGHT OF THE Lord Light of the Lord by Hasdai Crescas was the first book ever written whose overall structure and internal organization were dictated by a carefully delineated system of Jewish dogma.77 Its four treatises correspond to four tiers in Crescas’ dogmatic system. The first treatise is about God, and it deals either with the single great “root” of the Torah, which is that God exists, or, alternatively, with three related “roots” of the Torah, namely God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality. The second treatise is about six “cornerstones” of the Torah, concepts which must be true since there is a Torah. The third treatise is about true concepts taught by the Torah, but without which the Torah could still be conceived: eight of them are abstract ideas, and three are implied by concrete commandments. The fourth treatise deals with thirteen doubtful matters about which the Torah does not clearly mandate any specific position. The hierarchical division of the book into four treatises is complemented by a further subdivision into sections (‫)כללים‬, usually one section for each of the individual concepts within each level.78 To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever tried to interpret the very framework of Crescas’ dogmatic system as a conscious way to express a certain

of philosophy alongside the Torah on the one hand, and the need to counter violent external pressure on the other – has been shown by Natan Ophir, who not only affirms both motivations but even describes them as distinct stages in Crescas’ work based on the manuscript evidence for Light of the Lord. According to Ophir, Crescas first worked on the book during the 1370s and 1380s in Barcelona, when its intended audience was Torah scholars who were troubled by Aristotelianism and its consequences for the binding nature of the commandments. Later in Saragosa, in the wake of the 1391 persecutions, Crescas adapted the book’s structure to the needs of a wider audience including conversos. On the literary adaptations and the evidence for them see Ophir, 21–66. 77 Duran’s Magen Avot is hard to date, but it was almost certainly completed later than Light of the Lord. See Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 1. For the overall structure of Light of the Lord, see the chart provided as an appendix to this paper, which may be referred to as an aid in reading this section. 78 This is the arrangement throughout most of the book, but not in the first treatise. There the subdivision is into three sections, but they do not correspond to the three concepts that the treatise is sometimes said to be about: the existence of God, His unity, and His incorporeality. Rather, the first section presents the proofs for the Aristotelian approach to all three concepts, the second section presents Crescas’ monumental critique of those proofs, and the third section spells out Crescas’ own approach to the three concepts. Thus, the division into sections corresponds to clear stages of argumentation rather than to individual concepts. Below, when we explore the intended function of Crescas’ dogmatics, the unique arrangement of the first treatise will help support our explanation.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 233 view of Judaism, and in particular to express a view in opposition to Maimonidean Judaism. That is exactly what I will attempt to do here. We will begin by noting that the distinction between the first and second tiers has mystified some writers, and will see that their questions can lead to some meaningful insights if the overall goal of the book is kept in mind. In his introduction to Crescas, Kellner distinguished between Crescas’ two top tiers by writing that the first is about “that belief presupposed by religion” while the second deals with those beliefs implied by “Torah from heaven.”79 This distinction is not entirely clear, because it might easily be said that the existence of God is equally implied by “Torah from heaven,” or that the six dogmas in the second tier are beliefs “presupposed by religion.” In other words, the two top levels in Crescas’ system of dogma could have easily been collapsed into one. Not only is this logical, but it would arguably have made Crescas’ dogmatic system easier to understand and more effective as a pedagogic tool. A clear and compelling reason for the vivid distinction between the first and second tiers is lacking. Kellner suggested the following in his further analysis of the texts: Belief in God is the “first principle” of all Torah beliefs and commandments; this may be distinguished from beliefs of the second variety which are foundations of the commandments, but are not themselves foundations of other Torah beliefs. That is to say, these beliefs are not logically related to the other teachings of the Torah in any particular way. They are, however, related to the commandments in that the Torah as a system of commandments cannot be accepted if even one of these beliefs be denied.80 The problem is that, logically, foundations of the commandments are themselves foundations of other Torah beliefs. For instance, God’s knowledge of particulars and His power might easily be seen as foundations not just of the commandments themselves, but also of true concepts in the third tier such as reward and punishment, resurrection, or answering prayers. Distinguishing between the first level as “the presupposition of revelation” (the existence of God), and the second level as “beliefs the acceptance of which makes belief in Revelation possible” isn’t clear either.81 In his comparison of Crescas’ system to Albo’s, Kellner notes: “There is no specific logical relationship between Crescas’ first and second strata. This is opposed by Albo who derives his second group of principles from the first.”82 79 80 81 82

Kellner, Dogma, 109. Kellner, Dogma, 120. Kellner, Dogma, 122 (note similar comments on 146). Kellner, Dogma, 146.

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The question of the distinction between the first and second levels was asked explicitly by Symcha Bunim Urbach: Belief in the existence of God is, for Rabbi Hasdai Crescas, the root of the entire corpus of the Torah’s beliefs and commandments. . . . However, he doesn’t explain why, in principle, he removed this belief from among the “cornerstones” and gave it a specially designated title and place, beyond the stated definition that it is the “root” of all the beliefs. And then in the introduction to the third treatise he does attach it to the “cornerstones,” but only in passing, conditionally and hypothetically. Indeed, after he mentions in the preface [to Light of the Lord] just this one root, after noting that the entire first treatise is devoted to clarifying this root, he later on attaches (in the third section of the first treatise, chapters 3–583) to the first root of the existence of God two new roots, namely: God’s incorporeality and unity, without previous, principled discussion about the place of these two roots and why they are roots and not cornerstones. . . .84 This basic lack of clarity about the book’s very structure, which is otherwise quite clear, is not something we would expect from a thinker and writer as careful as Crescas. The lack of clarity remains surprising unless we consider a different line of inquiry. Perhaps the true reason for the distinction between the first two treatises is actually entirely clear, but is not a function of the logical hierarchy of dogma. Kellner suggests something of this sort as he considers Abravanel’s accusation that both Crescas and Albo employed Greek categories of thought: “For they saw in every science . . . roots and principles which ought not to be denied or argued against. . . . Our scholars, having been dispersed among the nations and having studied their books and sciences, learned from their deeds and copied their ways with respect to the divine Torah. . . . ” The gentiles whom they copied worked by “positing first principles and roots upon which a science is based. . . . ”85 One advantage of this approach to reading Crescas, suggests Kellner, is the following: Adopting Abravanel’s interpretation allows us to see an interesting and suggestive parallelism between the critical and constructive portions of Crescas’s Or Adonai: in the first treatise he criticizes the axioms of Aristotelianism

83 [sic]. This should read chapters “3–6.” 84 Symcha Bunim Urbach, ‫עמודי המחשבה הישראלית‬, 2nd edition, vol. 3, book 1 (Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, 1977), 710. 85 Abravanel, Rosh Amanah, chapter 23 (trans. Kellner, 194).

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while in the second he analyses and defends the axioms of Judaism, which he proposes as a replacement for Aristotelianism.86 Kellner, however, ultimately rejects Abravanel’s entire approach (along with this advantage), because Abravanel imputes an axiomatic approach to Crescas. The problem is that Crescas doesn’t begin with “roots and principles which ought not to be denied or argued against” and from them prove the Torah. Rather, in his preface to the second treatise, he begins with the Torah and asks what other specific concepts must also therefore be true.87 Furthermore, Crescas stresses that the concepts in the second and third tier are equally important and binding, even though one might reasonably expect an axiom – upon which everything depends – to have far greater importance. It is possible to suggest, however, that Abravanel is still essentially correct, even if Kellner is right that it is better to describe Crescas’ second tier as “analytic” to the Torah rather than as a list of fundamental axioms. The exact logical function of Crescas’ second tier being what it may, whether axiomatic or analytic, the key to understanding Crescas’ framework in the first two tiers

86 Kellner, Dogma, 126. 87 The reason Crescas, in the second tier, doesn’t prove the Torah from axioms whose truth ought to be accepted, and instead begins with the Torah as a fact and then shows other related concepts to be true based upon it, is simultaneously because he has no need to prove the Torah logically, and because he doesn’t want to do so, and because he cannot do so. He has no need to prove it, because the Torah is already known through experience. He doesn’t want to prove it, because the Torah can only be known truly through experience, while attempts to justify it through logic both fail in their task and distort its very nature. And he cannot prove it, because the truth of the six concepts underlying the personal, volitional relationship between God and man, which make up the second tier, is not objectively evident on its own; thus the six concepts cannot serve as axioms. Aristotelian logic suggests that they are not true as a whole, and while Crescas has already shown in the first tier that such logic is not compelling, neither is its opposite. This is why Crescas, in the second tier, operates in the fashion Kellner calls “analytical” rather than “axiomatic.” On Crescas’ main conclusion at the end of the first treatise of Light of the Lord, namely that God and prophecy can only be known through experience and not through rational inquiry, and its illustration through the midrashic parable of the Illuminated Fortress, see Warren Zev Harvey, Physics and Metaphysics in Hasdai Crescas (Amsterdam: J. C. Geiben, 1998), 60–65. In The Book of Abraham (chapter 2), I compared Crescas’ use of this midrash to that of Duran. The latter finished his discussion of God with a series of midrashic citations, including this midrash, at the end of Magen Avot chapter 5. Like Maimonides and unlike Crescas, Duran seems to have taken the midrash to indicate that rational inquiry leads to the God of philosophy. But like Crescas he seems to take the midrash to indicate that only prophecy can discover the God of Israel. Here too, Duran seems perfectly willing to combine unlike things, differing from Crescas’ and his principled approach. On Crescas also see my online essay “The Illuminated Palace: An Introduction to Dogma in Jewish Thought,” Part Two (“How did Abraham Discover God? The Experiential Approach”), which can be found at http://bit.ly/1OQiBpb.

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lies elsewhere: in distinguishing between Aristotelian and Jewish ways of thinking about God. In order to understand Crescas’ dogmatic framework in this way, we first need to realize that the existence of God really does belong with the “cornerstones” in the second tier, at least in terms of the hierarchy of dogma. It too is a cornerstone, whether analytically or axiomatically. In other words, the assumption underlying Urbach’s question (above) is quite correct. But in that case, why then is the existence of God labeled a “root” and given higher priority? I suggest that the answer is very similar to Kellner’s interpretation of Abravanel, whose approach he subsequently rejected: the “roots” of the Torah are not a dogmatic level, but rather an arena for the fundamental contest between opposite ways of thinking about God. The Aristotelian axioms listed at the beginning of Part II in Maimonides’ Guide are designed to simultaneously prove God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality; that explains why these concepts are unceremoniously lumped together (as a single root or as three roots) without any impact on the dogmatic framework. If the axioms and proofs in the Guide are allowed to stand, then the power of Aristotelian logic has been vividly proven. Even worse for Crescas, if that logic stands, then the God of Aristotle becomes logically compelling while the personal God of Abraham is impossible. The God of the Torah becomes logically ridiculous. Therefore, the function of the first treatise is not a dogmatic one at all; it is rather meant to undermine an entire way of thinking. Its goal is to show that the impersonal God of Aristotle is not a logical necessity. It undermines “God as a concept” to make room for “God as a personality.” It allows a switch from cognitive thinking about God to relational thinking about God and humanity.88 88 After completing the first draft of this paper, it was suggested to me by Pesach Sommer that my description of the various systems of principles after Maimonides is highly reminiscent of Eliezer Berkovitz in God, Man and History (New York: Jonathan David, 1959; newly reprinted by the Eliezer Berkovitz Institute for Jewish Thought at the Shalem Center [Jerusalem, 2007]; I used the original edition). To speak here of the shift from cognitive thinking to relational thinking as represented by Crescas is surely the most striking example of this similarity, as Berkovitz writes in perhaps the most fundamental passage of the entire book: “The foundation of religion is not the affirmation that God is, but that God is concerned with man and the world; that, having created this world, He has not abandoned it, leaving it to its own devices; that He cares about His creation. It is of the essence of biblical religion that God is sufficiently concerned about man to address Himself to him; that man is of adequate value to God to render Himself approachable for him” (p. 14). Berkovitz explicitly declares his inspiration to have been Judah Halevi; he only once mentions Crescas directly, but much of his book seems closer to Crescas than to Halevi (note that Eliezer Schweid wrote exactly the same thing about Franz Rosensweig in ‫הפילוסופיה‬ ‫[ הדתית של חסדאי קרשקש‬Jerusalem: Amanah, 1971], 69). As a whole, God, Man and History openly strives to return to what Berkovitz sees as the religion of the Bible and the rabbis, much as Crescas did. It views classical Judaism as unrelated to mysticism, much as kabbalah was largely

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 237 Thus, there is a logical and necessary progression from Crescas’ first treatise to his second. It is not a difference in the hierarchy of principles, but rather a sequence. Crescas may be said to follow the order implied in the psalmist’s exhortation to “turn from evil and do good” (Psalms 34:15): he must first clear away the firm Aristotelian objections to the possibility of discussing God as a personality who relates to human beings. To establish this possibility is literally to allow for the “roots” of the Torah (the first tier). Only then can he continue by describing the volitional relationship between God and humanity which has now been shown to be possible (the second tier).89 This approach allows us to further suggest that Crescas’ first treatise is the structural equivalent to Duran’s two “pillars” of the Torah (creation and providence). For Duran, the thirteen principles seem dangerously open to the possibility of an impersonal God. As a countermeasure, he posits that the thirteen principles are themselves upheld by the dual “pillars” of creation and providence. In other words, that which is unstated in the thirteen principles, or not stated clearly enough for Duran – namely the personal God of Israel – is declared by Duran to be the unstated assumption underlying them. In his

peripheral throughout the school of Gerondi, Crescas’ teacher. In several places it nevertheless betrays the influence of medieval cognitive religion, and especially of Maimonides, on Berkovitz. An example is in his assumption that creation is ex nihilo (Berkovitz, 67–68). In his introduction to the Hebrew translation of Berkovitz’s book (Jerusalem: Shalem, 2009), Menachem Kellner points out two main areas where Berkovitz clearly follows Maimonides rather than Halevi: that there is no essential difference between Israel and the nations (pp. 9–11), and that the meaning of the commandments is institutional and contextual (p. 11). Overall, “it seems that Rabbi Judah Halevi serves Berkovitz for entry into Judaism, but once he is there Maimonides becomes his guide” (p. 9). A contemporary approach even closer than that of Berkovitz to the model of relational thinking about a personal God is found in the writings of the late Michael Wyschogrod. See his The Body of Faith: God in the People Israel (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 2000) and Abraham’s Promise: Judaism and Jewish-Christian Relations, ed. R. Kendall Soulen (Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2004). Besides Berkovitz and Wyschogrod, another modern parallel to the contrast made in this paper between Maimonidean dogma and late medieval systems might be found in Abraham Joshua Heschel’s moving arguments for – and colorful illustrations of – an ongoing dichotomy between two schools of thought throughout the history of rabbinic Judaism in his Heavenly Torah: As Refracted through the Generations (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2006). 89 This reading is strongly suggested by the vivid and powerful contrast between the criticaldestructive philosophy in Light of the Lord I:1–2 and the theological-constructive material in the rest of the book. A striking reminder of the vast gap between those two parts is the fact that Harry Austryn Wolfson’s magisterial Crescas’ Critique of Aristotle (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929), is assigned to general philosophy rather than Jewish philosophy in library classification systems. Eliezer Schweid (throughout ‫)הפילוסופיה הדתית של חסדאי קרשקש‬ also emphasizes the difference between the two parts. This clear and powerful contrast between them is perhaps the best indication of the first treatise’s function in Crescas’ system.

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typically eclectic fashion, Duran takes two things that seem incompatible and simply joins them. Crescas did a similar thing, but in a far more principled fashion: if the thirteen principles can be understood as describing an impersonal God, then he replaces them. The first treatise in Light of the Lord is devoted to a philosophical justification for the personal God of Israel, and makes its argument by subverting the proofs for the Maimonidean God who seems to be reflected in the first five principles. Only after he has rigorously justified the idea of a personal God in his first treatise (logically validating what Duran simply asserts in his two “pillars”) can Crescas proceed to offer his own “cornerstones” of the Torah that describe humanity’s relationship to a personal God, offering those “cornerstones” followed by other “true beliefs” taught by the Torah as a replacement for the thirteen principles. To make the comparison succinctly: both Duran and Crescas begin with the idea of the personal God of Israel. But what Duran states about the God of Israel, Crescas justifies philosophically. And what Duran accepts with reservations (namely the thirteen principles), Crescas replaces. We now turn to the second treatise in Light of the Lord. In his overall description of it, Kellner correctly states that this treatise already presupposes the Torah (or more precisely “the relationship and connection” between God and man “which is prophecy”).90 He further notes that the six “cornerstones” described in this treatise are all universal in nature (much like the first treatise). They do not describe Israel’s Torah in particular, but rather the nature of any mutual, volitional relationship between God and humanity. Given our analysis of the function of the first treatise, it should be stressed that both the analytic presentation and the universal nature of the second treatise are entirely a function of the progression from the first treatise to the second: in the first Crescas has already proven, on a universal level, that the impersonal Aristotelian God is not logically compelling. In the second, but still on universal level, he explores what a now-possible relationship between God and humanity must entail, knowing as a Jew that Israel has been blessed with one. Everything in the second treatise proceeds from that point: the concepts themselves are universal, but the experiential starting point for the discussion is Jewish. The second treatise in Light of the Lord deals with six concepts that are analytic to a relationship between God and humanity:91 God’s knowledge of all God’s creations, God’s concern for them, God’s power to act on their behalf, prophecy, human choice, and “the purpose of the Torah.” These concepts form 90 Preface to the second treatise. Prophecy as volitional communication had already been called “light of the Lord” at the end of the first treatise. 91 On the early version in which there were only five concepts, see below n. 96.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 239 pairs on three levels:92 (1) God’s knowledge of God’s creations and prophecy are about cognition, because the relationship between God and humanity first requires each side to be potentially aware of the other. (2) God’s concern for humanity and human choice are about mutual volition within the relationship, which precludes a God who is unconcerned for individuals or humans who cannot choose. (3) God’s power and “the purpose of the Torah” – where the latter is realized through human action – are about the mutual possibility to act meaningfully within and upon the relationship. All six of these cornerstones must be true, according to the preface to the second treatise, since God gave the Torah to Israel. The first and last of the cornerstones each deserve special attention. The first, namely God’s knowledge of all existents including the changing particularities of life on earth, is important for its position. Crescas placed it first among the “cornerstones” directly related to prophecy and the Torah, unlike Maimonides who positioned it before reward and punishment, the messiah, and the resurrection of the dead. Given that Crescas’ dogmatic framework is so different from that of Maimonides in its structure, this may not be immediately surprising. But its position within Crescas’ structure becomes more important when we notice that Crescas’ student Joseph Albo did precisely the same thing, even though his system of principles is far closer to that of Maimonides in general. The difference in position is highly suggestive: for both Crescas and Albo, it indicates that prophecy is not a function of nature but rather the choice of a knowing God. The sixth and final cornerstone, which Crescas calls “the purpose of the Torah,” is best understood in light of Crescas’ introductory remarks to the second treatise. There he describes God as a personality: God knows humanity, and has both volition and the power to enforce His will. As a personality, God is “neither determined nor compelled.” God is not like a force of nature. This personality “desired some relationship and conjunction” between Himself and man, the latter also a creature who “wills and chooses and is neither determined nor compelled.” Prophecy enables this conjunction, and as “the volitional activity of an infinitely perfect Agent” it must have a worthwhile purpose. The purpose that God wills for the relationship is realized through human activity, when Israel keeps the commandments of the Torah. Human action is important to God.

92 For a visual representation of these six concepts as three pairs corresponding to the mutual possibility of cognition, volition, and action, see the chart showing the structure of Light of the Lord found in the appendix to this paper. The part of the chart that depicts the second treatise in this fashion is based upon Harvey, ‫( רבי חסדאי קרשקש‬Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2010), 49–50.

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It is in Crescas’ sixth cornerstone, namely, “the purpose of the Torah,” that the chasm between his dogma and that of Maimonides becomes most vivid. For Maimonides (in IH and EC) the commandments are necessary and binding for Israel because they are necessary for human perfection, not because God personally “cares” about what people do. But Crescas posits that God does care (second cornerstone), otherwise the relationship would have no meaning. Further, in the sixth cornerstone, he posits that the commandments are binding not just for the good of those who keep them, but primarily because keeping them fulfills the will of Israel’s beloved partner, God. There is thus mutuality between the third and sixth cornerstones: God can act in ways that are personally meaningful to man, and man can act in ways that are personally meaningful to God. This allows for a personal sense of commandedness, which is how Crescas gives meaning to the Torah’s commandments. Maimonides, on the other hand, preserves the binding nature of the commandments themselves outside the framework of a mutual relationship, with no personal sense of commandedness. For Crescas God has a desired purpose in Israel keeping the commandments, and their doing so is a fulfillment of God’s will that exhibits loyalty and love. However, the second treatise also contains an element that potentially subverts its own message. Although the fifth “cornerstone” is labeled as human free will – which would indeed seem to be indispensable for a personal relationship between man and God that runs in both directions – Crescas’ own view of humanity was highly deterministic. What he calls “free will” would likely not have been acceptable to Maimonides.93 Nor would Crescas’ deterministic view satisfy many traditional Jews. What this shows is that to define “concepts analytic to a personal relationship between God and humanity” can be a highly subjective activity. Crescas was subjectively able to work a highly deterministic view of human nature into a description of a volitional relationship as one of its “cornerstones” and call it “free will.”94 Needless to say, others found this very hard to swallow.95 What, then, makes any particular view binding? To better understand what Crescas has done here, it is worth paying attention 93 See EC (chapter 8) and Hilkhot Teshuvah 5:3 (“This principle is a great principle, and it is a pillar of the Torah and the commandments . . . ”). Nevertheless, despite these seemingly clear statements and exhortations, it has been argued that Maimonides was a strict physical determinist, and that this was his view not only in the Guide but even in Mishneh Torah. See Warren Zev Harvey, “The Mishneh Torah as a Key to the Secrets of the Guide” (above n. 16), 24–27. 94 For some general assessments of determinism in Crescas see Schweid, ‫הפילוסופיה הדתית של חסדאי‬ ‫קרשקש‬, 55–59; Ophir, 126–42, 227–42; Warren Zev Harvey, ‫רבי חסדאי קרשקש‬, 120–26. 95 On the reaction to Crescas’ deterministic views during the final century of Spanish Jewry, see Seymour Feldman, “A Debate Concerning Determinism in Late Medieval Jewish Philosophy” in PAAJR 51 (1984): 15–54.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 241 once again to the overall structure of Light of the Lord. The medieval Aristotelian view was that God in His eternal perfection is devoid of volition. Human decision-making, on the other hand, cannot be determined in advance. It is one of the many “accidents” that happen to individual human beings. But since Crescas has already disproven Aristotelian certainty in the first treatise, he is no longer bound by it. In a surprising twist, this allows him to turn the Aristotelian outlook on its head: God has full volition, but human beings do not! Note that Maimonides’ view on divine omniscience and human free will, as he expressed it in EC and Mishneh Torah, takes pains to impute a nonAristotelian idea to God (knowledge of particulars), but in a way that is ultimately meant not to have any impact on the primary Aristotelian claim about God, namely, that God never changes and that events have no impact upon Him. For Crescas, however, the volitional God knows all particulars and willfully controls them in a way that leaves little or no room for human freedom. Thus, the Aristotelian outlook is not just rejected but actually reversed, while the result is nevertheless the same: it is difficult to conceive of the Torah as a relationship between two volitional parties. In this case, Maimonidean dogmatics would appear to have better negotiated the balance required for a relationship – which not only requires contact between two sides, but also means that one side cannot be allowed to utterly overwhelm the other – more successfully than did Crescas. Nevertheless, as he wrote material that was literally on the threshold of modern science, Crescas offered a model that may still be appealing to many today, when nearly all of human behavior is often thought to be explainable (and even predictable) by the sciences. Thus, Crescas’ position on what concepts must be analytically true in light of the personal, volitional relationship between God and humanity is ultimately highly subjective.96 Indeed, for each of the six concepts listed, his interpretation is the one that best accords (in his opinion) with the view of the Torah and the results of rational inquiry. But the very list of concepts “analytic to the Torah,” and certainly their definitions, might have been different if formulated by a different thinker. Therefore, what grants such ideas their authority is ultimately nothing more, and nothing less, than Crescas’ own honest search for truth. The third tier in Light of the Lord is about true beliefs taught by the Torah, even though “belief in the Torah is conceivable without them” (which is why 96 This is true despite the initial impression one can get from reading the introduction to the second treatise, in which the six “cornerstones” are described as axiomatically or analytically necessary to the Torah. The best indication of all for their fundamental subjectivity – even in Crescas’ own mind – is in the revisions that he made in them. Natan Ophir describes how the cornerstone about God’s power to act within the world was added in a late revision to the book, apparently in order to help encourage Spanish Jewry in the wake of 1391. See Ophir, 121–25; and also Warren Zev Harvey, ‫רבי חסדאי קרשקש‬, 49–50.

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they are not included in the previous group). Crescas lists eight general concepts: creation of the world, immortality of the soul, reward and punishment, resurrection of the dead, eternity of the Torah, the prophecy of Moses, Urim veTummim, and the messiah. Three more concepts are implied by specific commandments of the Torah: prayer and the priestly blessing, repentance, and the Day of Atonement; that these are efficacious is indicated by the very existence of such commandments.97 The very first concept is the creation of the world, which Crescas already grapples with in his preface to the third treatise – even before the section he formally devoted to the topic.98 There he notes the firm view expressed by Maimonides and others: Belief in creation is the axis of the Torah around which it revolves, since belief in it necessitates God’s power and that all existent things are, from His perspective, “like clay in the potter’s hand” (Jeremiah 18:6). For without this the existence of the Torah in and of itself in general, and of the signs and demonstrations found in it in particular – these being its foundations and pillars – could not be conceived. According to the believers in eternity, who see the world as deriving necessarily from God, the existence of the Torah cannot be conceived at all. Were this so it would indeed be appropriate to count this belief as a great pillar and cornerstone among the other cornerstones in the second treatise. But the solution of this objection is not difficult once we establish that God’s power can be accepted even according to the believers in eternity. This is what was hidden from the eyes of our predecessors . . . However, since the necessity of believing in creation is established by Torah and tradition, we must investigate, as is our custom, how it ought to be believed, and how we come to know it. We have placed it in the first section of this treatise. The argument in the first paragraph adopts the position of Nissim Gerondi, Crescas’ teacher: the true “axis of the Torah” is a volitional God. Creation may be the cardinal example of such volition, but it is still just an example, and if 97 Part B of the third treatise seems to have been added in the late revision to Light of the Lord. That certain times, or acts of speech, are inherently efficacious, rather than pedagogical or psychological devices, is both part of the alternative that Crescas wants to offer to Maimonides and also part of his attempt to encourage Spanish Jewry in their devotion to the commandments. (On the intended audience of III: B, see Ophir, 243–60. The phenomonen is parallel to Crescas’ views on the people and land of Israel in II: 2:6; see Ophir, 177–206; Harvey, 145–50.) This is a further indication that Crescas did not view his list of true beliefs taught by the Torah as objectively determined, but rather as determined by need. 98 On the dating of Crescas’ interest in this topic and its connection to Gerondi, see above n. 51.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 243 an eternal universe could be reconciled with divine volition then it too would be a legitimate option. The second paragraph expresses Crescas’ two-pronged overall method (“as is our custom”) for dealing with all the concepts in his book: he investigates how each concept “ought to be believed” according to what the Torah teaches – which may include rejecting other positions about what the Torah actually means – and also deals with “how we come to know it,” i.e. showing that the position taught by the Torah is at least viable in terms of rational inquiry. For creation, both sides of the issue are crucial. Crescas must not only show that the Aristotelian proofs for the necessary eternity of the world are inconclusive, but also that his own position is a legitimate understanding of the Torah. When Crescas maintains that the world is created ex nihilo eternally, anew in every moment, is that an acceptable interpretation of the Torah, especially in light of Maimonides’ assertion that creation ex nihilo as a singular event in time is the Torah’s “external meaning” which ought to be accepted? Crescas makes a strong exegetical case for his interpretation of creation in the first section of the third treatise, but more important for our purpose here is that interpretation is the key. The “true beliefs” taught by the Torah, which are explored in the third treatise of Light of the Lord, all depend entirely on what the interpreter thinks the Torah teaches. This is something that cannot be dictated, as the gates of interpretation are never shut. In other words, to decide which obligatory “true beliefs” are clearly taught by the Torah is ultimately up to the exegete. The traditional canon of the Bible and rabbinic literature may not allow infinite latitude; yet, honest interpreters may still disagree on what exactly the Torah’s “true beliefs” are, and on how much room is open for disagreement. Even an interpretation that is wrong can still be arrived at honestly. The next “true belief ” taught by the Torah, and explored in the third treatise, is the immortality of the soul (section two). Here Crescas offers a devastating critique of Maimonides’ position on the World to Come and how it is acquired, a position first expressed in the body of IH and in the concluding comments to the thirteen principles.99 For our purposes, the most important aspect of this critique is that Crescas considers Maimonides’ position to be fundamentally wrong as interpretation – a distortion of the Torah itself – because for Crescas, the ultimate purpose of the Torah cannot possibly be cognitive, nor can its mechanism be naturalistic. It must rather be the will of a loving God to bestow infinite reward on those who serve Him with love. Because this point is so crucial for Crescas, he already took pains to point out what he considered the

99 Warren Zev Harvey, “Hasdai Crescas’ Critique of the Theory of the Acquired Intellect.” PhD diss., Columbia University, 1973.

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true purpose of creation and the giving of the Torah right at the beginning of his general introduction to Light of the Lord: The Lord God made man in the image and likeness of all His creations and the Lord above them all, as He said, may He be blessed, “Let Us make man in our image, according to Our likeness” (Genesis 1:26). Man is like other existent beings in that he bears the imprint of all parts of reality; and they are ruled by his intellect just as all aspects of reality are ruled by the blessed Lord. This is why our predecessors, peace be upon them, called him a microcosm, because [God] made him as a miniature imprint or a seal, in which all of His creations are engraved. And He, in His great kindness and goodness, presided over all from His dwelling place, and chose the House of Jacob for His glory to dwell among them, that they may love Him and fear Him, serve Him and cling to Him, which is the ultimate fulfillment of humanity. Many have been perplexed about this and walked in darkness, wise in their own eyes, clever in their own judgment. And through the light of his Torah He caused the two great luminaries to shine upon us: the lamp of God and the light of the Lord, which are the beliefs and the commandments, to prepare the path for us, the path of life. . . . It is his creation in the image and likeness of God and the world, as a physical creature with the potential to act upon nature intelligently, which enables man to participate in a personal relationship with God: “to love Him and fear Him, to serve Him and cling to Him, which is the ultimate fulfillment of humanity.” To initiate that relationship required an act of volition on God’s part, and He chose the house of Jacob. His very act of giving the Torah (“through the light of his Torah”) guides Israel about what is true and how best to serve Him.100 According to Crescas, this kind of relationship is what the Torah describes. But there are also “many who have been perplexed about it and walked in darkness” – they fail to understand that clinging to God in a personal way, serving Him out of love and fear in the human sense, is the ultimate fulfillment of humanity. For them an esoteric reading of the Torah is called for, in which God is treated as a concept rather than a personality. The allusion here (“many have been perplexed”) to Maimonides, or to his followers, is clear. Although it may seem that Maimonides and Crescas each fundamentally assert something

100 Crescas describes a two-way relationship as the ultimate fulfillment of humanity. God chose the House of Jacob (showing “kindness and love”), which calls for a response: “that they may love Him and fear Him, serve Him and cling to Him.” This is far from a relationship between equals; one side commands and the other is expected to obey out of love. Yet both partners preserve their autonomy and sense of self.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 245 that can perhaps be called “immortality of the soul,” their dispute about what it means is more than a mere disagreement about its definition: Crescas’ view would likely be sectarian according to Maimonides, while Maimonides’ view is a distortion of the Torah at its very core according to Crescas. This is not an individual point of dispute within a shared orthodoxy. Rather, it is a fundamental conflict about the very nature of both God and Judaism. As such, the dispute about the immortality of the soul impacts the very structure of their dogmatic systems. For Maimonides the eternal, cognitive World to Come is the ultimate goal: it is made more accessible through the pedagogical device of the thirteen principles, but it is not one of them. For Crescas the goal is in the relationship itself, while the immortality of the soul and its eternal reward are truths taught by the Torah about the acts of a loving God, and which are therefore found in his third treatise. This is a powerful example of how religious thought shaped dogmatic systems in the Middle Ages. It is not dogmatic assertion that grants authority to a concept, but rather the viability and power of the interpretation that leads to it. It is not the logic of axioms and proofs which dictates the structure of a dogmatic system, but rather a particular conception of Judaism that underlies it. An objective logic may be offered for the structure of a dogmatic system, yet each one is subjective at its core. One final example of this phenomenon will suffice: the third “true belief ” in the third treatise, namely reward and punishment. It is well known that for Joseph Albo, Crescas’ student, this forms the last of his three great principles of the Torah: God, Torah from heaven, and recompense. Reward and punishment are fundamental to the Torah, wrote Albo, because “if there is no corporeal reward and punishment in this world and spiritual in the next, what need is there of divine law?”101 The question is clear and powerful. But if Albo is correct, then why did his teacher Crescas relegate recompense to the third treatise, instead of listing it in the second as a “cornerstone” of the Torah? Here too we may suggest that the very structure of a system of dogma has much to say about what “the nature of Judaism” means for its creator. Crescas, in the six “cornerstones” of the second tier, is describing what he thinks a personal, volitional relationship between God and humanity must embody. A meaningful relationship with God is conceivable, to his mind, even without reward and punishment. That the Giver of the Torah also chose to deliver recompense to those who received it is true and important for Crescas, but it is not an element that any and every human relationship with God depends upon. Albo, however, is not discussing relationships but rather law. And a system of law isn’t cogent, he writes, if it doesn’t entail consequences. The difference between them is significant in that for Crescas, the goal is already met within 101 Albo, Sefer haIkkarim I:10.

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the relationship itself: “to love Him and fear Him, to serve Him and cling to Him, which is the ultimate fulfillment of humanity.” Albo’s focus on law also explains why the three most fundamental ideas are all in his top level of dogma, while for Crescas they are in two tiers (as we explained above): before he can describe the relationship between humanity and God, Crescas must first justify the very possibility of talking about God as a personality. But Albo, whose focus is not on relationships but on law, has no such need. The first three concepts in the third treatise of Light of the Lord are sufficient as examples. They show that determining which concepts are “truths taught by the Torah,” and defining what those truths mean, are acts of interpretation which have a great deal of significance for the very nature of Judaism. Such interpretations also affect overall dogmatic structure, despite any pretensions that these systems are governed by objective criteria. A dogmatic system is not just semantics. The third treatise, on “true concepts” taught by the Torah, would still seem in terms of its declared purpose to be the most “conservative” part in Light of the Lord, or at least the best indication that Crescas accepted a kind of Jewish orthodoxy with obligatory beliefs. While this may be somewhat true, we have nevertheless seen that interpretations and arguments are important to Crescas, not authoritative statements. A “true concept” taught by the Torah is binding only if one is convinced that it is indeed mandated by the Torah (and even then it still needs to be rationally possible). Interpretation ultimately governs the content and arrangement of his dogmatic system. The subjective core of Crescas’ dogmatic structure, which we saw evidence of in the choices he made about his second and third treatises, becomes even more vivid when we compare the third treatise of Light of the Lord to the fourth. To cross from the third to the fourth is to acknowledge the vivid distinction that Crescas makes between abstract truths that are clearly taught by the Torah (third treatise), versus theoretical issues that are not clearly settled by the Torah (fourth treatise). This distinction is perfectly legitimate in principle, in terms of the overall structure of his dogmatic system. But its application in specific cases can be very troubling, because it is ultimately based upon Crescas’ own understanding of the Torah. On the one hand, many of the thirteen uncertainties in the fourth treatise, such as the questionable truths of astrology (#4), amulets (#5), demons (#6), reincarnation (#7), etc., were all topics of very fierce controversy in the Middle Ages.102 Crescas’ younger contemporary, Duran, for 102 In the final, received version of Light of the Lord there are precisely thirteen “doctrines and conjectures which the mind tends to accept,” but which are formally left open in the fourth treatise (on final changes to that treatise see Ophir, p. 64). It is hard not to find irony in this number: Maimonides declares his thirteen foundations of the Torah to be absolute certainties

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 247 instance, held that to deny nearly any of these was to distort the Torah itself by rejecting what it clearly teaches in favor of the views of Aristotle.103 Even Crescas himself implied, in his opening remarks to the fourth treatise, that the mind inclines towards just one of the two possibilities in each case (largely towards the non-Maimonidean position). Nevertheless, in the very existence of the fourth treatise Crescas exhibits a liberal tendency, precisely because he removes a great many issues from the category of obligatory beliefs taught by the Torah explicitly, and puts them into the lesser category of questions that remain open in principle. Thus, even if Maimonides was ultimately wrong about these topics, his positions do not qualify as sectarianism.104 But who is to draw the line between concepts that the Torah teaches explicitly, and concepts about which it makes no final judgment? Such a line can only be drawn by the exegete himself. We may compare this to our earlier example, creation, which Crescas reinterpreted in the third treatise. If a singular act of creation in time is truly taught by the Torah (as asserted by Maimonides and by the majority of scholars in the era of Crescas), then where does that leave Crescas? Has he denied an obligatory belief taught by the Torah? Or has Maimonides done so by denying Crescas’ view, or by allowing in principle for the validity of Plato’s view? These kinds of questions keep the class of “truths taught by the Torah” in the realm of subjectivity. and examples of “hard” dogma (even to doubt them makes a person lose their status as “Israel” and their place in the World to Come). But Crescas concludes his philosophical work with a list of thirteen uncertainties! 103 For numerous examples of Duran’s approach, see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 4. 104 Maimonides was not a sectarian according to Crescas. In his general introduction he writes that despite the many wrong and misleading aspects of Maimonidean philosophy, nevertheless, when it comes to “the roots and cornerstones upon which the Torah as a whole depends,” Maimonides “does not contest the essential principles of those opinions.” It is reasonable to read this as alluding to Maimonides’ open affirmations of divine volition and creation in the Guide and other later writings, which allow him to formally accept the “roots” of the first treatise and the “cornerstones” of the second treatise. At the same time, Crescas also writes there that Maimonides’ followers brazenly distorted his teachings – despite their master’s sincere intentions – and became guilty of sectarianism. Here Crescas seems to refer to radical Maimonideans whose understanding of God and the world was naturalistic (and who attributed this view to Maimonides as his true esoteric opinion). These followers of Maimonides deny those “roots” and “cornerstones” (unlike their master). Furthermore, Crescas’ moderate understanding of Maimonides, when combined with his attribution to Maimonides of sincere intentions (as opposed some of Maimonides’ followers), seems to allow him to forgive Maimonides for errors related not just to the fourth treatise but even to the third, precisely because his intentions were sincere (for more on this see the next note). It therefore seems not to be an accident that Crescas’ remarks about one who denies what the Torah teaches being a sectarian are specifically found in the introduction to the third treatise.

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All of this is an added indication that, for Crescas, honest inquiry motivated by loyalty to the Torah cannot make one a heretic, even if one’s conclusions are wrong. This is so because to decide which ideas are taught by the Torah can only be done through interpretation and reflection, about which there will always be differences of opinion. But as long as one who holds another position remains loyal to the Torah – even if he is mistaken about what the Torah means – the basis of the relationship remains sound. Crescas’ careful distinctions between the second, third, and fourth tiers of his dogmatic system thus reflect a relational Judaism as opposed to cognitive religion.105 As we already mentioned, Abravanel would surely have dismissed the entire class of “truths taught by the Torah” by correctly pointing out that any hierarchical system of dogma betrays Greek modes of thinking. The Torah teaches a great many things, not just the concepts listed by Maimonides, Duran, Crescas, Albo, or others, and all of them must therefore be equally important to a loyal Jew. Judaism for Abravanel requires that a Jew accept the Torah in its entirety, not just its principles.106 Despite this later criticism, the truth may be more subtle when it comes to Crescas. He appears to be using a Greek-inspired hierarchical system to argue

105 Kellner (Dogma, 129–36) makes several convincing arguments based on Crescas’ statements and positions regarding related matters, which together strongly indicate that Crescas (like Duran) did not condemn inadvertent heresy as sectarianism (‫)מינות‬. This is despite the opening words in the preface to the third treatise, which according to Crescas is devoted to “true beliefs, which we who believe in the divine Torah believe, and which are such that if one denies any of them he is called a sectarian.” Even though Crescas does not explicitly say in that sentence that such denial must be intended as heresy, there are nevertheless powerful reasons to suppose that this was indeed his position. To Kellner’s arguments we may now add the fundamentally subjective distinctions between Crescas’ second, third, and fourth treatises. These bolster Kellner’s position because, as subjective distinctions (and Crescas seems to have been aware of their subjectivity if only by virtue of the revisions he himself made in them), they can only be given meaning through honest inquiry and interpretation of the Torah (about which there may be legitimate disagreement). In addition, it is worth noting that in the preface to the third treatise (the only place in Light of the Lord that significantly but briefly links sectarian status to dogma), Crescas twice uses the term “denier” or “denial.” This too indicates that it is active denial of what the Torah teaches – i.e. an act of rebellion – which makes one a sectarian, but not honest doubt or a sincere but mistaken attempt to understand the Torah. For Maimonides, of course, active denial is only the most extreme form of heresy (it is the term he generally uses in halakhic contexts such as those listed above in the fifth paragraph of n. 31), but even honest doubt or mistaken conclusions also qualify. 106 Abravanel seems to distinguish sharply between accepting the Torah as creed, which is an all or nothing prospect, versus keeping the Torah. The latter clearly involves smaller or greater transgressions in terms of their consequences, but Abravanel seems to allow no room for this in the former. This is precisely where Duran differs (and apparently Crescas too). For them, intention and sincerity are also part of the equation.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 249 against cognitive religion and in favor of a personal God. He did the best he could, using the most powerful means of expression available to him, as he strove to present what he saw as a Jewish alternative to the accepted philosophy of his day. His hierarchical dogma is, paradoxically, an attempt to put impersonal concepts aside and return Jewish thought to its non-dogmatic roots. And since his hierarchy is ultimately rooted in honest interpretation of the tradition, where opinions may differ and even outright mistakes need not compromise one’s honesty and loyalty, his dogma is not really dogma at all. Despite its formal structure, what Crescas truly demands in Light of the Lord is honest loyalty to God and His Torah in its entirety, not allegiance to a catechism. Thus, Crescas may not be fully guilty of what Abravanel accused him. But, it may be suggested that Abravanel himself was. He held that to deny anything in the Torah was heresy – not just certain “principles” because everything in the Torah is a principle – even if the denial was nothing more than a mistake arrived at through an honest attempt at interpretation: A false opinion about any one of the principles of faith turns the soul from its true felicity and will not bring one to life in the World to Come, even if the opinion is held without intention to rebel. . . . [Otherwise] even one who unintentionally denies every principle will acquire a portion in the World to Come. It would be possible, according to this, to find a man who does not believe in any of the principles or beliefs of the Torah and yet who should not be called a sectarian or heretic if he were brought to this blind foolishness by his failure to understand the meaning of the Torah.107 It is hard not to be amazed by Abravanel’s zeal to deny the ability of God Himself to forgive a person for conceptual errors in the World to Come, even if those ideas were the result of an honest effort to understand the Torah. It is easier to understand his worry about the loss of social consequences for sectarian views, for according to this logic no sincere Jew could ever be called a sectarian or heretic. As Kellner put it, “It would follow that a person who in good faith rejected all of the teachings of the Torah thinking that the Torah required this of him would have to be a good and pious Jew!”108 That would be patently ridiculous.109

107 Abravanel, Rosh Amanah, chapter 12 (trans. Kellner, 112). Since Abravanel mentions being called a sectarian or heretic, it is evident that he is dealing with both human and divine consequences. 108 Kellner, Dogma, 210. 109 On the one hand, this sounds like common sense. But on the other hand, given the human propensity for error, it might seem that very few people make it into the World to Come according to Abravanel (as for Maimonides).

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However, Abravanel’s point opens his own position to the very same criticism he levels at Crescas: it exhibits confusion between medieval Aristotelian and Jewish conceptions of religion. On the one hand, Abravanel would seem to be correct that using axioms or hierarchies of principles reveals the influence of Aristotelian rather than classical Jewish modes of thought. But, on the other hand, to deny God the ability to judge people for their motivations rather than only for their concepts is Aristotelian too, and a clear reflection of the cognitive value that Maimonides posited for his principles.110 Furthermore, for Abravanel to deal with the halakhic classes of sectarians and heretics as all or nothing categories reflects the very same thing. A view of Judaism as a cognitive religion would understand such classes as timeless laws which classify people according to their intellectual rejection of objective truths. Nothing may be left open to interpretation regarding the basic concepts which form the basis of these halakhic categories. But a relational view of Judaism sees them as practical measures to be applied, in relatively extreme circumstances, to help safeguard Israel’s loyalty to its covenant with God. Such categories are to be employed as necessary, even against persons of good faith, in order to protect the stability and survival of Israel as a cohesive entity, especially in dangerous times of persecution and exile.111 But in a relational approach, all such applications would be contingent upon contextual evaluations of the immediate need and threat, and of the potential effectiveness and costs of the measure being considered, in each particular situation. If and how to apply such sanctions would therefore be something about which loyal Jews can differ, as they did indeed during the Middle Ages.112

110 It is important to emphasize that the approach allowing for honest mistakes does not mean carte blanche excusal for unintended wrongdoing. Rather, the idea is that God’s judgment is personal, and as such it can take multiple factors into account. Taking intention into account doesn’t mean that it always carries the day. Nor does it mean that a “good” intention to do evil cannot be arrived at through laziness or negligence, selfishness or cruelty. See Kellner, Dogma, 131–34, for consideration of Crescas’ approach in this light. 111 The historical context of Mishnah Sanhedrin 10:1 is a case in point. On reading that passage in terms of social measures see Kellner, Must a Jew, 33–38; for an overall analysis of heresy in Maimonidian teaching see Hannah Kasher, ‫ האפיקורסים והכופרים במשנת הרמב״ם‬,‫( על המינים‬Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2011). The various passages in the Talmud dealing with the categories of ‫ אפיקורוס‬,‫ כופר‬,‫מין‬, as well as the various kinds of people who are said to have lost their place in the World to Come, are often read by their other medieval interpreters (and even at times by Maimonides himself) as reflecting necessary and effective responses to behavioral patterns in context, rather than the absolute demands of cognitive Judaism. 112 It might be suggested that Maimonides was doing just this. However, although he was clearly trying to “save” Jews and Judaism during what he saw as a time of crisis (as cogently summarized by Moshe Halbertal in Maimonides: Life and Thought [Princeton University Press, 2015], chapter 1), in terms of the consequences he declared for affirming or denying his thirteen principles

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PRINCIPLES OF LAW IN THE BOOK OF PRINCIPLES (ALBO) A brief examination of Albo’s Book of Principles will confirm what we already learned from Crescas: the structure of a dogmatic system is a function of its author’s understanding of Judaism. It is not just an alternative taxonomy of belief. Here, just a few examples will suffice. We have already discussed why recompense is a fundamental axiom of the Torah for Albo, but not even a “cornerstone” for Crescas. We also explained why God’s knowledge of all that exists is a corollary of prophecy for both of them, rather than a prelude to recompense as it was for Maimonides. Beyond these specific elements it must be stressed from the outset that Albo’s system, unlike that of Crescas, is not part of a formal rebuttal and alternative to Aristotelian science (which Albo largely accepts). Therefore, his dogmatic structure reserves no special level for dealing with God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality, such that on a formal level his first great principle can be on par with the other two.113 Beyond these introductory remarks, a brief sketch of Albo’s system will be helpful. Torah from heaven is not conceivable, according to Albo, without a God to command it and a mechanism for recompense (in order to make the law relevant). Thus, the existence of God, revelation, and reward and punishment are the three fundamental axioms of any divine law, where the law itself stands at the center. These are Albo’s three great principles (‫)עיקרים‬. Each of the ‫ עיקרים‬has secondary or derivative principles logically related to it, which are called ‫“( שרשים‬roots”). The derivative principles related to the existence of God are His unity, His incorporeality, His independence from time, and that He is free from defects; this list is very similar to the first five principles of Maimonides. The derivative principles of revelation are God’s knowledge of all that exists, prophecy, and the ability to confirm the genuineness of the prophet. This list differs substantially from that of Maimonides, especially regarding God’s knowledge, as discussed above. The only derivative principle of reward and punishment is providence; most blatant in their total absence are the messiah and the resurrection of the dead. That Albo’s secondary principles are related to his primary ones is intuitively clear, but the exact logical nature of that relationship is not. Albo himself he was still clearly advocating cognitive religion. A sarcastic critic might quip that, through his thirteen principles, Maimonides was trying to save Judaism from itself! 113 This is not just a matter of categorization, but of fundamental outlook. For Albo, like most other Jews in his era besides Crescas, one might speak of a volitional God yet at the same time accept the certain results of rational inquiry. This mindset necessarily reflects an eclectic attitude towards the body of medieval Aristotelian knowledge. For more on this attitude see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 1.

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defines it several times, but in ways that are ambiguous or even contradictory.114 Albo’s typical lack of clarity, in contrast to his teacher, is reflected not just in the internal relationships within his dogmatic system, but also in many matters of content within his book. It need not concern us here. In Albo’s system, like that of Crescas, there is also a third level of dogma, that of “true beliefs” taught by the Torah about the three main ‫עיקרים‬, which are called ‫“( ענפים‬branches”). For Albo these are six: (1) Creation ex nihilo, (2) the prophecy of Moses, (3) the eternity of the Torah, (4) that a portion in the World to Come can be earned through obeying a single commandment, (5) the resurrection of the dead, and (6) the coming of the messiah. Several of these reflect an open polemical agenda vis-à-vis Christianity (e.g. the prophecy of Moses and the eternity of the Torah), while relegating the messiah to the final tier reflects the same. Most interesting for our purposes is the third “true belief,” namely that the World to Come can be earned through a single commandment (Ikkarim III: 29), an idea whose source is in Maimonides.115 A polemical agenda vis-à-vis Christianity is clearly reflected in Albo’s formal inclusion of this idea in his system of dogma, but in this case that agenda is paralleled by its uneasy confrontation with Maimonidean Judaism as well.116 Albo stresses that the Torah 114 These are described in Kellner, Dogma, 146–49. 115 The source in Maimonides is at the end of his commentary to Makkot, where he returns again to the theme of the World to Come in IH just a few chapters later. In IH itself the cognitive nature of the World to Come is stated, yet couched in traditional language (see Kellner, Must a Jew, 133). In this passage Maimonides describes how the World to Come is earned by alternating between phrases that hint at cognition or refer to it, and other language emphasizing traditional obedience. This ambiguous attitude comes through clearly in Albo’s full citation of that Maimonidean passage in Hebrew translation, which we present here with “traditional” phraseology in bold and possible philosophical hints in italics (Husik, Ikkarim III, 272–73): ‫מעיקרי האמונה בתורה כי כשיקיים האדם מצוה מתרי״ג מצות כסדר וכהוגן ולא ישתף עמה דבר מכוונות זה העולם‬ ‫ ועל זה אמר כי בהיותם‬.‫ הנה זכה בה לחיי העולם הבא‬,‫בשום פנים אלא שיעשה אותה לשמה מאהבה כמו שבארתי לך‬ .‫ בעשותו אותה מצוה תחיה נפשו באותו מעשה‬,‫הרבה אי אפשר שלא יעשה אדם בחייו אחת מהן על מתכונתה ושלמותה‬ Albo cites this as obviously agreeing with his main point in III:29, namely, that the World to Come can be earned by the masses through “any action that one performs for the sake of heaven” and is not reserved for an elite. However, Maimonides’ reference (‫ )כמו שבארתי לך‬is to IH, and so the pure love-with-no-worldly-motive described here can be understood as a rarefied and wholly intellectual sort. Albo was well aware that this topic was problematic in Maimonidean thought, despite his unambiguous attribution of the traditional position to Maimonides himself in this chapter, and that is why he returned to the topic again towards the end of his book (see note 122). I am grateful to Menachem Kellner for our enlightening discussion of this passage. 116 I.e., Albo emphasizes that salvation can be achieved through a single loyal act, as opposed to Christian views according to which salvation can only be achieved through perfect fulfillment of all the commandments. The upshot of the latter view is that the Torah condemns humanity rather than saving it, and a different kind of salvation is called for.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 253 must be conceived of as a gift given by God in love, and that His commandments are not burdens but rather blessings. Were the World to Come contingent on great perfection of any kind – whether moral or intellectual – then for the average person the Torah would be a harsh, impotent system of conduct, and furthermore one that is misleading in its promises (because they cannot be realized for most people). Rather, Albo stresses, the reason there are so many commandments is so that nearly everyone will have multiple opportunities to earn the World to Come, and most will indeed achieve it. Giving the Torah is thus the act of a caring, loving God, and the World to Come is not something to be achieved through cognition by a talented elite. By making this point a formal part of his dogmatic system, Albo has favored relational Judaism over cognitive religion.117 Regarding the class of “truths taught by the Torah” (for Crescas and Albo alike), one final consideration should be explored. The Torah teaches a great many things, but only a small number of them are represented in the various systems of dogma. The medievals explained that “particular” commandments and facts are not to be counted as general principles of the Torah. But Abravanel objected to this: Are not specific things just as important as general ideas? Is not all of the Torah equally important, and shouldn’t a Jew’s loyalty be to the entire corpus without singling out certain “principles”? This objection, however correct it may be, still fails to explain why so many dogmatic frameworks rejected “specific” principles. I have suggested elsewhere that the phenomenon can be explained in terms of the common intellectual challenge faced by all of these thinkers.118 Aristotelianism had a great deal to say about eternal, abstract ideas and concepts, and what it said about these generalities was often conveyed with an attitude of immense certainty. But it had very little to say about specific historical facts. Medieval rationalism was little concerned about whether specific facts or events (“accidents”) actually took place historically. So when the Torah states a genealogical detail such as “his wife’s name was Mehetabel daughter of Matred” the medieval Aristotelians

117 Albo makes this clear when he returns to the topic in IV:29 (which is the first chapter in his direct discourse on reward and punishment as the third major principle of the Torah). The second discussion casts light upon the first, in what is a classic example of an eclectic approach towards Maimonides. In IV:29 he deals at great length with the “third opinion” about the nature of the soul and its reward: this is the opinion of “the greatest philosophers and a sect of those who accept the Torah and followed them,” who held that human perfection and human reward are identical with intellectual perfection. Against this opinion, Albo counters that the human soul is to be defined as “a spiritual substance with the intellectual potential to serve God, but not intellectual potential per se.” He then adds that this explanation agrees with what he wrote in III:29 (cf. Light of the Lord IV: 8). 118 Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 3.

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had nothing to say about it.119 A minor accident of history was unimportant to them, so they neither confirmed it nor denied it. Therefore, Jews had no need to list it as a principle of the Torah. In other words, the real criterion for choosing which “truths taught by the Torah” should be listed as dogmas is this: those religious truths confronted by a contemporary intellectual challenge become dogmas. Axioms and analytic thought are not at the core of this process, nor is it really about “specific” matters versus “general” ideas. Consider an example. If the patriarch Abraham never existed, and God’s covenant with him never took place, then the traditional outlook arguably falls, no less so than for the denial of a volitional God. The reason Gerondi and all late Spanish scholars never addressed this possibility is clear. The intellectual challenge they faced did deny the possibility of a volitional God, but not the existence of Abraham. Their principles were ultimately defined by the contemporary challenge that they faced. It is not too hard for us to realize this with hindsight, looking back from a later era. But there was one scholar who lived during the period at hand and wrote explicitly that this is indeed the true nature of “principles of the Torah.” In a philosophical sermon on the festivals, Rabbi Isaac Aramah declared: Not every belief which is necessary so that one can conceive the existence of the Torah is a principle specific to it. For, were this so, the existence of nature, that man is rational, or that man has choice would be principles of it, for no Torah is possible without them. However, since these things are shared by adherents of the Torah, and by others, among the philosophers and among adherents of other faiths, they ought not to be considered as principles specific to it. For this same reason it is also clear that God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality – even though the Torah lays them down and emphatically admonishes [us] concerning them, just as it admonished [us] concerning murder, adultery, etc. – are not principles specific to it for all of the philosophers proves the necessity of their truth with absolute demonstrations even though they did not admit the truth of the divine Torah. It is appropriate that this divine Torah and the principles specific to it be related in the way in which a term defined is related to its definition so that we may say that every adherent of the divine Torah will believe them and all who believe them will be adherents of the divine Torah.120 Thus, principles of the Torah define it from without (in contradistinction to 119 Genesis 36:39 and cited as an example in Maimonides’ eighth principle. 120 ‫( עקידת יצחק‬Pressburg, 1849), sermon 67, p. 103a; as translated by Menachem Kellner in Dogma, 159.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance?

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other modes of thought), and not from within (as objective axioms or pedagogical linchpins).121 Therefore, any system of dogma must express a view about the very nature of Judaism, because the kind of religion one accepts will determine which current modes of thought appear to challenge that religion. Then, those challenges will literally define one’s dogmatic system, at the very least on the level of “true beliefs taught by the Torah.”122 That is why divine volition and the associated question of creation feature so prominently in all of the dogmatic systems after Maimonides (and why Maimonides’ lack of clarity on this topic stands out strikingly). For another example, note how Aramah mentions human choice, along with the philosophical proofs of God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality, as examples of what Judaism has in common with other systems of thought. What does that say about Aramah’s view of the very nature of Judaism itself as opposed to Crescas, given the latter’s views on free will and his radical rejection of Aristotelianism? Or what does it say, for that matter, about possible conceptions of Judaism in our own day, when Aristotelian science has long been left behind, in comparison with Aramah’s time on the one hand or with Crescas’ on the other? The nature of one’s Judaism determines which ideas challenge that Judaism, and those challenges are used in turn to define one’s system of belief. That is why systems of dogma are always matters of substance. The very idea that “principles of the Torah” are an objective explication of Judaism’s internal logic – or, alternatively, innocuous pedagogical linchpins that conveniently teach its internal truths – was always, in this sense, an illusion. No such taxonomy can exist as a logical theory in splendid isolation. Rather, when a new system of dogma is proposed, it offers a particular understanding of the very nature of Judaism.

121 Where Aramah differs from others is in his insistence that principles indicate only the differences, while others tried for a fuller comparison, emphasizing both what is shared and what is different. Crescas stands out here too, in that he considered what was the area of greatest similarity for others including Aramah (God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality) to be the area of greatest difference. 122 The outer challenges define the dogmas, but the inner conception of Judaism defines what a challenge is. For example, Maimonides does not see the non-existence of demons to be a challenge to Judaism on the part of the Aristotelians. But Duran – who considered the existence of demons to be a truth taught by the Torah – did. He even incorporated the topic at length within the sixth chapter of Magen Avot, which deals with cosmology as the content of prophecy, and thus turns the very structure of the universe and what it contains into matters of dogma (insofar as they have been described by the rabbis). Crescas, by leaving this same question open in principle (IV:6), avoids the problem on a dogmatic level (though his personal views on it are quite clear).

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Summary and Conclusions Most serious students of Maimonides in the Middle Ages – whether they agreed with him or not – read and understood his list of thirteen “foundations of the Torah” in its natural context, namely, as the conclusion to IH and part of his Commentary on the Mishnah. IH is by no means a conservative document, nor are the thirteen principles as its conclusion. To be sure, IH and the thirteen principles take pains to stress that certain traditional concepts (or traditionalsounding topics) are absolutely obligatory, at the very least as steps in the intellectual development of a Jew who considers engaging in philosophical enlightenment following his talmudic education. The striking thing about Maimonides’ dogmas is not to be found in a dry list of his assertions, but rather in how he formulated them and especially in what he failed to include among them. As Maimonides wrote them, and in their context as the conclusion to IH, they can be easily and convincingly read as an expression of the instrumental view of the commandments, the consistent naturalism, and the impersonal concept of God which characterize the philosophical material found in his two great rabbinic works, namely the Commentary on the Mishnah and Mishneh Torah. This is arguably the most natural way to read them, and it is exactly the way they were read by his greatest admirers and critics alike. The two centuries that followed the composition of Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishnah encompassed the great Maimonidean controversies. Dogma was not an important topic in these debates, which directly challenged the intellectual bedrock of Maimonidean Judaism rather than focusing on an early pedagogical expression of it. Mishneh Torah and the Guide were more influential in Europe than was Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishnah, and Maimonides’ opponents considered them a far more serious threat. For them, to single out parts of The Book of Wisdom and the Guide for criticism was more than sufficient as a clear response to dangerous Maimonidean ideas, even if parallel attitudes are also found in the Commentary on the Mishnah. To the extent that it existed, focused written interest in the thirteen principles was most pronounced during this era among the followers of Maimonides in Provence. They approved of his dogma, which they explained as a pedagogical tool, and were largely apathetic towards the possibility of its naturalistic implications precisely because of their basic sympathy for Maimonidean philosophy. In fact, in the earliest notable case, Samuel ibn Tibbon explicitly wrote that Maimonides failed to include creation among his principles because it was, in his true esoteric opinion, incorrect. According to Ibn Tibbon, it would seem that the thirteen principles were designed to affirm an outlook that is very hard to call conservative.123 123 The inclusion of resurrection is problematic for Ibn Tibbon’s view, but whether resurrection

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 257 In this period there were also writers who mentioned the idea of “principles” or “foundations” of the Torah, as well as some who gave examples of them and some who listed them in various ways. But sustained attention to the topic was still the exception to the rule.124 Attitudes towards Maimonides’ dogma began to change radically in Spain during the late fourteenth century as his thirteen principles simultaneously became an important topic and the subject of intense criticism. Alternative systems of Jewish dogma were carefully constructed, and major works of Jewish philosophy were based upon them. Nearly all of this work was done by Nissim Gerondi – with whom critical attention to the topic seems to have begun – and two generations of his students. The members of this school who dealt with dogma in the most significant ways were also among the most important rabbinic leaders of their time. The school and its members are further notable for their thorough mastery of the current philosophical corpus and their intense commitment its study – even as part and parcel of their Torah study – but with a sharp critical bent that was potentially subversive to the reigning intellectual culture. Such expertise, tinged by deep skepticism, was characteristic of the earliest members of the group even before 1391.125 Full-length “books of principles,” completely organized according to dogmatic structures, were first written during this period. These works did not simply criticize Maimonides’ dogma as dogma per se (by correcting his list of thirteen principles or offering alternatives to it). Rather, these books criticized Maimonidean Judaism as a whole by correcting it (Duran, Albo) or by offering a complete alternative to it (Crescas). They saw Maimonides’ thirteen principles as an essential expression of his outlook, which they rejected in part or as a whole. For them, to challenge Maimonides’ world view meant challenging his system of dogma as well. They sensed that a system of Jewish dogma reflects the Judaism of its creator. The alternative systems of dogma they created tell a story: God is a personality who chose (or chooses) to create the world. He voluntarily communicates with individuals and intervenes at His will in their lives. He redeemed the Children of Israel from bondage and sealed an eternal covenant with them, in which they would keep His laws and He would protect them in the land He promised them. Even after punishing them with exile He continues to care deeply for them, and might not be understood literally is identical to the question of Maimonides’ own possible esoteric views on that topic. 124 Gurfinkel, “‫העיסוק‬,” 7–9; Kellner, Dogma, 66–82 and especially 244–45 n. 3. Note that if we exclude the briefer attestations in the school of Gerondi (i.e. figures such as Gerondi himself or Isaac ben Sheshet) then even fewer of Kellner’s own listed exceptions apply, which then makes Gurfinkel’s full combined list less impressive. 125 For a description of this aspect of the school of Gerondi, see Kadish, The Book of Abraham, chapter 1.

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still desires their loyalty to His covenant. For their loyalty He will ultimately return them to their land and redeem them, in this world and in the next. This was the exactly the message that the rabbinic leadership in Spain felt Jews needed to hear during times of severe persecution. But it was not enough for them to simply tell the traditional story: it had to be told with sophistication, in light of the seductive philosophical culture which so many Jews knew and accepted. This could be done by combining the Jewish story with philosophical content in an eclectic fashion, trying to show that the former coexists with important elements of the latter (Duran, Albo). Or it could be done by telling the Jewish story as opposed to the philosophical world view, while providing a skilled critique meant to undermine misplaced intellectual confidence in the latter (Crescas). In either case, the structure of dogma in each of the “books of principles” tells the story, while the body of each section provides it with intellectual justification. But the story itself is at the heart of each book. It is in this larger sense that these books were responses to Maimonides’ thirteen principles; they were not simply alternative taxonomies of belief, but rather told formative stories that were meant as alternatives to Maimonides’ approach. The latter may not tell any story at all, because the thirteen principles – as read within the larger context of Maimonides’ thought – can be easily understood as addressing perennial intellectual and political challenges.126 The Torah 126 According to this understanding, the truths taught by the thirteen principles are meant to counter misconceptions that arise time and again in the history of Israel. This fits well with Maimonides’ general conception of history as described by Kenneth Seeskin: “As far as [Maimonides] is concerned, the principles upon which the Torah rests have not changed since ancient times and will not change as history moves forward. That is why he can say in Perek Helek that anyone who believes them is a part of Israel no matter how many other sins he may have committed, while anyone who rejects even one is a heretic who should be destroyed” (“Maimonides’ Sense of History,” Jewish History 18 [2004]: 132). Nevertheless, that some of Maimonides’ principles are polemical and thus timely in nature is self-evident, especially in the second group of principles that deal with prophecy and revelation. The seventh principle that Moses’s prophecy was a unique occurrence, different in kind and not just in quality from that of all other prophets, is both anti-Islamic and anti-Christological at once, and clearly related to the Islamic idea of Mohammed as the “seal” (khātam) of the prophets. The eighth principle that the written Torah and the oral Torah are both as received from heaven addresses the Islamic doctrine of distortions in the Bible (taḥ rīf ) and Karaism. The ninth principle on the eternity of the Torah is anti-Christological. Nevertheless, just as Maimonides apparently saw the core ideas of the Aristotelian universe as unchanging truth addressed by the Torah (see above, n. 22), he may similarly have viewed these specific principles as necessary in order to address ongoing doctrinal threats, not just current ones but similar kinds that existed in the past and will recur in the future. On polemics in the thirteen principles see Yehudah Shamir, “Allusions to Muhammed in Maimonides’ Theory of Prophecy in his Guide of the Perplexed,” JQR 64 (1973–4): 212–24; Joel L. Kraemer, “Naturalism and Universalism in Maimonides’ Political and Religious Thought,” in Me’ah She’arim: Studies in Medieval Jewish Spiritual Life in Memory of Isadore Twersky, ed. E. Fleischer et al. (Jerusalem:

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 259 described by Maimonides’ approach then becomes a guide to success in an impersonal universe, not the gift of a caring God. If this reading is correct, then the thirteen principles may arguably reflect reality, but they do not tell a story. Authors from Abravanel to modern times have noted that the various systems of medieval Jewish dogma assert most of the same principles, and even tend to affirm the additional principles that others assert.127 Their disagreements are largely about the details, i.e. about the taxonomy or semantics of dogma. Thus are they said not to be debating the nature of Judaism itself. But this approach sorely lacks nuance. It misses the larger story that a system of dogma tells (or fails to tell), as well as critical messages that may be conveyed through its inner organization. Most important, it completely neglects the crucial fact that similar dogmatic formulations may fundamentally disagree, even when their basic assertions seem to be identical. Consider, for instance, that Maimonides and Crescas both acknowledge God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality at the beginning of their respective systems. In terms of the semantics of dogma, one might conclude that there is little or no difference between them. However, what the formulaic titles of these principles declare is not what is truly significant for Maimonides or Crescas; what is important is what they mean. According to Maimonides’ harsh formulation, Crescas’ non-Aristotelian approach to these three principles about God, which among other things allows for intellectual doubt, is clearly wrong and even heretical. According to Crescas, Maimonides’ approach to them is both wrong and subversive, even if it does not qualify as outright heresy.128 Not only do they fundamentally disagree about the nature of these three principles, but it is very hard to say that they agree on them even as dogmatic assertions: when Crescas says that God exists, for instance, he may be talking about a different God than that of Maimonides. And when he speaks of knowing that God exists, he is certainly talking about an entirely different kind of knowledge. Contrary to Abravanel and modern scholars alike, we might suggest that a dogma of Maimonides which seems to be shared by Crescas is best called an “equivocal principle” (in

Magnes Press, 2001), 72–73; Shapiro, 87 n. 2 and 120–21. The fifth principle can also be considered polemical in light of Maimonidean attitudes towards such things as holy objects or angels. Cf. Menachem Kellner, Maimonides’ Confrontation with Mysticism (Oxford: Littman Library, 2006), 116–23, 272–85. 127 E.g. Abravanel, Rosh Amanah, chapter 22 (trans. Kellner, 190). For authors in recent times, see the scholarship discussed in the first section of this paper. 128 As we saw earlier (n. 40), this seems to be because of Maimonides’ sincere intentions, combined with his conservative statements in the Guide (which Crescas appears have accepted as his true opinion).

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the classic Maimonidean sense). Its title may be equivalent, but at its core it is something entirely else.129 Medieval Judaism’s last important, critical work on dogma was Isaac Abravanel’s Rosh Amanah, which is devoted to analyzing dogmatic taxonomy in the works of his predecessors, Maimonides, Crescas, and Albo. Abravanel was fully aware of the substantive issues dealt with by these earlier authors, but in Rosh Amanah he set those aside to deal with dogmatic structure. We might say that while the primary philosophical works of Crescas and Albo were books of principles, Abravanel’s treatise on dogma is rather a book about principles.130 In Rosh Amanah he may be thought of as having set the future pattern for reading classic Jewish works on dogma, as opposed to reading Jewish philosophy: Maimonides can be studied for his substance or for his dogmatic formulations. Similarly, Crescas and Albo can be read for their substance, i.e. for the local analysis of religious and philosophical issues in each section or chapter. Alternatively, they can be studied for their respective dogmatic systems. Lacking, seemingly since Abravanel, is the sense that Maimonides should be read in a cohesive fashion, one in which his thirteen principles are an intrinsic part of his literary corpus and a reflection of his overall outlook.131 In such 129 What is true for Crescas’ acute, principled disagreement with Maimonides is equally true for the eclecticism of Duran and Albo. To argue that portions of the Aristotelian outlook can be meshed with the personal God of Israel surely creates major difficulties and inconsistencies for them, but what really counts is their conclusion: if Duran and Albo say that the God proven through rational inquiry can also be a personal God, then their God cannot be the same one to which the principled Aristotelian argumentation applies. In this sense, at least some of the disagreements discussed in Marc Shapiro’s book about one or another of Maimonides’ thirteen principles might best be regarded as examples of fundamental dissonance, rather than as a debate about the details of an agreed-upon principle. 130 Duran’s Magen Avot is also a book of principles, but Abravanel was apparently unfamiliar with Duran’s works on dogma. But we might compare the three or four chapters in Duran’s Ohev Mishpat, which analyze dogma as a concept, to Abravanel’s Rosh Amanah: both are about dogma as a concept and its expression in systems, and both are designed to defend Maimonides’ list of thirteen principles. The relevant chapters of Ohev Mishpat are the first significant example of this genre, and Rosh Amanah is the last. In contrast, Duran’s later Magen Avot is a full-length work built according to a system of principles, not a discussion of dogma as a concept. Thus Duran, the first major writer in the field, wrote in both genres, although his books are not explicitly mentioned by those who followed him. This final fact is likely tied to his life as an exile in North Africa. 131 A symptom of this lack may be found in Abravanel’s citation of Maimonides’ full formulation of the thirteen principles (in Hebrew translation) apart from IH as a whole, in the first chapter of Rosh Amanah, rather than discussing it in its natural context as the conclusion to IH. This saved much time and space to be sure, but it also conveyed that the thirteen principles can be profitably studied in isolation as dogma (as Abravanel actually did). The same thing is true all the more for popular paraphrases of the thirteen principles, or of their frequent interpretation in later times in ways that are utterly divorced from the context of Maimonides’ thought. These

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 261 a reading, the thirteen principles are not to be divorced from Maimonidean Judaism nor understood in isolation. As we have shown, this seems to have been exactly how the great Iberian critics of Maimonides read his principles – as part of a cohesive whole (with which they disagreed).132 And a similar thing is true for the comprehensive “books of principles” that some of them wrote: the major philosophical works of Duran, Crescas, and Albo might best be read in a cohesive fashion that allows their dogmatic structures to simultaneously determine and reflect the arguments they make and the positions they take. The key to such a cohesive reading lies in finding the story that a dogmatic structure tells about the very nature of Judaism itself.133

widespread phenomena show that Maimonides’ dogma can be separated from his philosophy in myriad ways that are profitable to the popularizers and perhaps to their public, as Melamed and Gurfinkel have shown. And yet, as we have seen in this paper, the great medieval students of Maimonides read his dogma in context and understood it in light of his philosophy, whether they were admirers or critics (or both). Abravanel’s analysis of Maimonides’ dogma in Rosh Amanah is a vivid and important exception to this rule. 132 In this sense, we may conclude that the Spanish-Jewish discussion of Maimonides ultimately rejected his dogma. Earlier Spanish critics rejected Maimonideanism as a whole, of which dogma was just a reflection (in clear opposition to their Maimonidean contemporaries in Provence who accepted both the philosophy and its pedagogical reflection in dogmatic formulations). Later Spanish critics beginning in the 1370s were critical of Maimonidean philosophy but took his dogma seriously, rejecting it along with its underlying philosophy by creating alternative structures that better served their outlooks and their needs. 133 The chosen examples in Part Two of this paper – which show that dogmatic structure is a reflection of meaning and purpose in post-Maimonidean books on dogma, and that it also serves as part and parcel of their substantive critique of Maimonides – are just an initial step designed to show that such a cohesive reading is both possible and desirable. In the future, these examples may be expanded towards full, cohesive readings of the classic books on Jewish dogma by keeping their overall dogmatic structure and their local argumentation and exegesis simultaneously in mind.

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Appendix: The Structure of Light of the Lord Light of the Lord by Hasdai Crescas General Introduction to Lamp of God Light of the Lord (on beliefs) Lamp of Commandment (on laws)

Preface to Light of the Lord (that belief in God is not a commandment)

First Treatise: The “Root” or “Roots” of the Torah On the Existence of God or His Existence, Unity & Incorporeality The Aristotelian Axioms (32 axioms in 32 chapters)

Critique of Aristotle (20 refutations in 20 chapters)

Definitions and Demonstrations Existence, Unity & Incorporeality according to Crescas (6 chapters)

Second Treatise: “Cornerstones” of the Torah Cognition

Volition

Action

God

God’s Knowledge

God’s Concern

God’s Power

Humanity

Prophecy

Human Choice

Purpose of the Torah

Third Treatise: True Beliefs Taught by the Torah PART I: GENERAL BELIEFS

Creation

Immortality of the Soul

Reward and Punishment

Resurrection

Eternity of the Torah

Prophecy of Moses

Urim veTummim

Messiah

PART II: “TRUE BELIEFS” REFLECTED IN SPECIFIC COMMANDMENTS

Prayer and the Priestly Blessing

Repentance

Day of Atonement and Four other Seasons of the Year

Fourth Treatise: Doctrines and Conjectures which the Mind Tends to Accept 1. Is the world eternal a parte post? 2. Can another world or worlds exist? 3. Are the spheres living and rational? 4. Do the movements of the heavenly bodies influence the fates of men? 5. Do amulets and charms have effects on the activities of men? 6. Concerning demons. 7. Can a human soul move (this is what one school calls “transmigration”)? 8. Is the soul of uneducated youth immortal?

9. Concerning the Garden of Eden and Gehinnom. 10. Does Ma’aseh Bereshit refer to physics and does Ma’aseh Merkavah refer to metaphysics, as some of the scholars of our people have held? 11. Are the intellect and the intellectually cognizing subject and the intellectually cognized object identical or not? 12. Concerning the Prime Mover. 13. Concerning the impossibility of knowing God’s essence.

Jewish Dogma after Maimonides: Semantics or Substance? 263 Acknowledgments: I am grateful to those who took the time to read this monograph and offer their comments, and especially to those who had enough patience to do so when its form was still very rough. All of them offered perceptive comments, with which I nearly always agreed, and which always led to significant improvements. Among them are Menachem Kellner, Marc Shapiro, Roslyn Weiss, Aryeh Klapper, and Sheri Kadish. Menachem Kellner was especially encouraging during the initial stages, even though I wasn’t yet able then to clearly articulate the idea that this paper deals with. I thank him for his tolerant willingness to suffer disagreement with secondary aspects of his approach to Jewish dogma; this study ultimately strengthens his primary claims. I’m further grateful to Marc Shapiro for his patient agreement to engage in an extended discussion at a very early stage, in order to clarify his position to me; I apologize to him for having been so contentious at the time. I have deeply admired Marc’s work for many years, and learned much from our discussion. Despite my disagreement with one point of his, I think that in his case too this study ultimately strengthens his primary claim that the common conception – namely that Maimonides’ thirteen principles define “the limits of Orthodox theology” – betrays a profound misconception about rabbinic discourse on the topic in pre-modern times. I would also like to thank my students. The argument made here about the radical intentions inherent in Maimonides’ thirteen foundations of the Torah, and that they must be read in context as the conclusion to IH, is something that I learned in the classroom. When I first began teaching the thirteen principles, we simply read a modern translation of Maimonides’ narrow formulation (without the rest of IH). Those students gained a clear impression very similar to what Marc Shapiro suggests. Having read the principles, they came away thinking that Maimonides was a Jewish philosopher whose expression of traditional Jewish ideas employs an archaic sort of sophistication (and whose thirteen principles can perhaps be made somewhat interesting with effort but are ultimately rather dry). But later, when I began to teach IH as a complete unit, the entire picture changed. Now the students found Maimonides to be exciting and challenging, a thinker capable of prompting deep admiration and causing severe vexation at the very same time, and who most certainly had radical elements in his thought. This excitement remained true for the thirteen principles at the end of IH as well, but even more so: they became the most exciting, challenging and admirable part – but also the most discomfiting and radical part – of IH, a fitting climax to a challenging essay. Context matters, both in scholarship and teaching.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz: The Turn to Rashi Supercommentary Eric Lawee Bar-Ilan University

This article provides orientation in the mostly terra incognita that is Ashkenazic biblical exegesis from 1350 through 1500. In particular, it focuses on interpretive activities involving Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah. The study moves between the two poles of fluctuating but generally increasing Ashkenazic ambivalence toward Bible study, on one hand, and a growing exegetical engagement with Rashi on the other. This new impulse to supercommentarial activity arose in part from an intensified study of Rashi that accompanied the role assigned to his Commentary in fulfilling the talmudically mandated review of the weekly Torah lectionary. The developments explored here bridge the less formal engagement with the Commentary characteristic of high medieval Franco-German exegesis and the systematic supercommentaries on Rashi that proliferated in early modern times. In the latter period, remarkably, this genre became the dominant form of exegetical expression in central and eastern European seats of Jewish learning.

Writing at the turn of the fifteenth century, the Sefardic grammarian Isaac ben Moses Halevi, better known by his Catalan name Profayt Duran and Hebrew nom de plume Efod, inveighed against the neglect of Scripture that afflicted large segments of world Jewry. Indeed, some sages, “titans” among them, considered anyone who would “fritter away time on Scripture” to be a “dolt.” While these eminences made a minimal allowance for coverage of the weekly Torah portion as enjoined by talmudic dictum, they urged the primacy of another body of learning in the nation’s curriculum, asserting that “the Talmud is the foundation” (‫)העיקר‬.1 While rueing a recent “metastasis” to Spain, Duran pronounced the disease 1 Profayt Duran, ‫מעשה אפד‬, ed. John Friedländer and Jakob Kohn (Vienna: Haltswarte, 1865), 41. For review of the weekly lectionary, see below, n. 81. For Efod, a contraction reflecting the manner in which Duran signed his marginal glosses (‫ )אמר פרופיט דוראן‬as the correct pseudonym, and not Efodi (“a later bibliographical accretion”), see Maud Natasha Kozodoy, The Secret Faith of Maestre Honoratus: Profayt Duran and Jewish Identity in Late Medieval Iberia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 4, 220 n. 2.

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of scriptural lassitude “very potent in France and Germany in our generation.” He expanded on this point in a remarkable rereading of Jewish history through the lens of Jews’ engagement with Scripture. On this reading, such engagement evoked an inherent occult virtue, thereby drawing down a “divine effulgence” (‫ )שפע‬that conferred providential protection. Where Jews neglected the Bible, the divine influx was absent and they became susceptible to catastrophe.2 Applying his theory to recent events, Duran attributed the comparative good fortunes of some Catalo-Aragonese communities during anti-Jewish riots in 1391–1392 to their biblically based prayers and cultivation of Scripture. Conversely, he posited that indolence with respect to things biblical might have caused the “expulsions, calamities, and large-scale devastations” that had recently befallen French and German Jews.3 Not, Duran hastened to add, that scriptural indifference was endemic to the Franco-German tradition. Witness the “crown of the glory of the masters of the wisdom of Talmud,” Rashi, who, despite his incontestable devotion to the Talmud, “delved deeply into the understanding of Scripture and wrote on it his pleasing commentaries.”4 However one assesses the accuracy of Duran’s depiction of the northern European communities that came to be called “Ashkenaz” with respect to their attitudes toward Scripture, his chastisement clearly raises larger questions.5 2 ‫מעשה אפד‬, 10, 13. See Frank Talmage, “Keep Your Sons from Scripture: The Bible in Medieval Jewish Scholarship and Spirituality,” in Understanding Scripture: Explorations of Jewish and Christian Traditions of Interpretation, ed. Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 89–92 (91 for the translation of ‫ שפע‬given here). For “occult virtue,” see Kozodoy, The Secret Faith of Maestre Honoratus, 182–203. For Duran on Scripture’s salvific power, see also Talya Fishman, “The Hebrew Bible and the Senses in Late Medieval Spain,” in Jewish Culture in Early Modern Europe. Essays in Honor of David B. Ruderman, ed. Richard Cohen et al. (Cincinnati and Pittsburgh: Hebrew Union College Press and University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014), 75–84. 3 ‫מעשה אפד‬, 13–14. One wonders if the theory of Jewish history sketched in his grammatical work – that it is a function of biblical engagement – informed Duran’s non-extant history of Jewish tribulations. On this work, see Frank Ephraim Talmage, ‫ כלימת‬:‫כתבי פולמוס לפרופיט דוראן‬ ‫( הגויים ואיגרת אל תהי כאבותיך‬Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 1981), 11. 4 ‫מעשה אפד‬, 41. It is not clear just when Duran thought that Ashkenazic abandonment of Bible study commenced. Talmage suggests that his critique was limited to the fourteenth century (“Keep Your Sons,” 86–87) while Ephraim Kanarfogel thinks it described a deterioration that began closer to Rashi’s day. See his “On the Role of Bible Study in Medieval Ashkenaz,” in The Frank Talmage Memorial Volume, ed. Barry Dov Walfish, 2 vols. (Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1993), 1:164 n. 52. Mordechai Breuer observes that Duran fails to mention a northern French exegete after Rashi (“‫מנעו בניכם מן ההגיון‬,” in ‫ ספר זכרון הרב דוד אוקס ז״ל‬:‫ מכתם לדוד‬, ed. Yitzhak D. Gilat and Eliezer Stern [Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1978], 250–51). 5 Avraham Grossman deems Duran’s account of Ashkenazic scriptural neglect overstated. See “(‫איגרת חזון ותוכחה מאשכנז במאה הי״ד )לזיקתם של יהודי אשכנז אל ארץ ישראל‬,” Cathedra 4 (1977): 196. Sketchy evidence found in manuscripts led Dov Rappel to posit a possible youthful sojourn by

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

267

Did Ashkenazic scholars practice, or even preach, a studied minimalism with respect to study of the Bible? Was all-consuming devotion to Talmud and cognate bodies of learning the cause? How much did this stance persist in Ashkenazic Jewry’s central and eastern European offshoots in early modern and modern times? To many scholars, the answers to such questions are clear: from at least the twelfth century the study of the “oral law” displaced biblical studies in northern Europe. Indeed, on some views, until “the spirit of Enlightenment” finally engendered new attitudes in some quarters, “the sources in our hands leave no room for doubt” about neglect of Scripture in Ashkenazic lands not only in medieval times but all the way down through the nineteenth century.6 Authoritative overviews of Jewish exegesis, older and contemporaneous, implicitly endorse this view, if only by maintaining a total or near-total silence on Ashkenazic exegesis over the half millennium stretching from the thirteenth through eighteenth centuries.7 The dearth of scholarship on late medieval Ashkenazic exegesis in particular contrasts sharply with the abundant attention, from Wissenschaft scholarship to the present, lavished on Rashi and his peshatist successors.8 This essay aims to expand coverage of medieval Ashkenazic exegesis in two ways. The first explores developments in Germany and neighboring lands from the Black Death through the dawn of early modern times, while the second concentrates on the interpretive activity that came to surround the most influential work of Jewish Bible commentary ever composed, Rashi’s Duran in the north (“‫הקדמת ספר ׳מעשה אפד׳ לפרופיאט דוראן‬,” Sinai 100 [1987]: 749), which would place his critique of Franco-German curricular trends on a different footing. On the designation “Ashkenaz,” which applied initially to German Jewish settlements but came to encompass France and England (and, in a later period, central and eastern Europe) as well, see Ivan G. Marcus, “A Jewish-Christian Symbiosis: The Culture of Early Ashkenaz,” in Cultures of the Jews: A New History, ed. David Biale (New York: Schocken, 2002), 449–50. 6 Rivka Kanalar, “‫הזנחת לימוד המקרא באירופה בימה״ב ובשלהי העת החדשה‬,” in ‫משאת משה‬, ed. Shaul Meizlish (Tel Aviv: Kanalar Family, [1989]), 197. 7 See, e.g., the entries on “exegesis” in the Israeli ‫אנציקלופדיה מקראית‬, which resume coverage of Ashkenazic exegesis with Moses Mendelssohn after leaving it off with a cursory treatment of Tosafist commentaries. (The articles are conveniently collected in ‫ פרקי‬:‫פרשנות המקרא היהודית‬ ‫מבוא‬, ed. Moshe Greenberg [Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1983].) The relevant volumes of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation, ed. Magne Sæbø (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck and Ruprecht, 1996–2014) pass over late medieval Ashkenaz in silence. 8 For Wissenschaft interests, see Sara Japhet, “‫כיווני מחקר והלכי רוח בחקר פרשנות ימי הביניים בצפון־צרפת‬,” in ‫( דור דור ופרשניו‬Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2008), 17–30. For northern French and German exegesis in the century and a half after Rashi, see Ephraim Kanarfogel, The Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture of Medieval Ashkenaz (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2013), 109–273. For additional bibliography, see Hazoniel Touitou, ‫ פירוש לתורה מאת רבי יהודה בן אלעזר‬:‫מנחת יהודה‬ ‫ בראשית‬,‫( מבעלי התוספות‬Jerusalem: Mosad haRav Kook, 2012), 11–12 n. 4.

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Commentary on the Torah. The study begins with a brief conspectus of works emanating from the Franco-German sphere prior to the Black Death, looking particularly at ones that reveal supercommentarial impulses. It then turns to its main focus, the mostly terra incognita that is Ashkenazic exegetical activity from 1350 through 1500. What emerges is a phase in the Ashkenazic commentary tradition that, at least from the point of view of Rashi supercommentary, played a key bridging role. Looking back, it built on the attention that was increasingly devoted to Rashi in the two and a half centuries after his death. Looking forward, it presaged the many formal supercommentaries written by early modern Ashkenazic scholars when, from Frankfurt to Friedberg and Cracow to Lublin, supercommentary became the preferred mode of Ashkenazic exegetical expression.9 So as not to raise expectations too high, let it be stated at the outset that no finding presented here nor, one presumes, any forthcoming from a significant if not overly abundant lode of evidence (most of it still in manuscript) is going to transform late medieval Ashkenaz into a golden age of Jewish biblical scholarship. Given the trying historical context and, more significantly, halakhocentric curriculum of late medieval Ashkenaz, it would be unreasonable to expect otherwise. Indeed, even with regard to supercommentary, one cannot argue for too strong a late medieval showing on the evidence adduced here, though the exegesis of Israel Isserlein, the foremost fifteenth-century Ashkenazic Bible commentator, points toward the formal Rashi supercommentaries composed by Ashkenazic scholars in early modern times. Beyond evoking a little-studied dimension of Jewish biblical interpretation and paying attention to Ashkenazic habits of study and textual culture that informed it, this article identifies factors that contributed to the turn to supercommentary. The singular halakhic status conferred on the Commentary was one such factor, with Rashi’s comments becoming an object of study as Jews sought to perform the talmudically enjoined private review of the weekly Torah-reading twice in Hebrew and once in Aramaic translation (‫שניים מקרא‬ ‫ )ואחד תרגום‬alluded to by Duran in the citation above. When the Commentary was codified as a possible complement to, or even preferred substitute for, the Aramaic Targum in the performance of that review, the pattern of weekly study (or at least recitation) of the Commentary that arose generated supercommentary naturally. In some cases, annotators recorded their thoughts in marginal glosses. In others, students who heard a teacher’s ideas registered them in writing. Another ingredient in the growing focus on Rashi may have been the 9 A superb road map for this latter development is Jacob Elbaum, ‫ היצירה‬:‫פתיחות והסתגרות‬ ‫( הרוחנית־הספרותית בפולין ובארצות אשכנז בשלהי המאה השש־עשרה‬Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1990), 83–91.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

269

method of study developed at the end of the Middle Ages that is usually subsumed under the rubric of pilpul. In its incipient stage, it has been associated in Ashkenazic lands with students of the foremost German rabbi of the midfifteenth century, Israel Isserlein, the writer studied at greatest length below. There is another factor, less easily nameable, that apparently spurred a diversion from direct Torah commentary to Rashi supercommentary. As Ashkenazic rabbis reflected on the question of intergenerational acumen after the Black Death, they saw their era, wracked as it was by severe persecutions and dislocations, as marked by steep religio-intellectual decline. They also stood in genuine awe of their (Ashkenazic) predecessors, whom they came to call by a special designation, ‫“( ראשונים‬the early sages”), with the sense of unalloyed superiority that this talmudically grounded title evoked. This being so, and in light of their inherited ambivalence toward Bible study, it was natural for rabbis in late medieval Ashkenaz to read the Torah through the filter of Rashi’s Commentary and, increasingly, take it upon themselves, orally and in writing, to explain their great predecessor’s words. Whatever the factors that coalesced into the growing impulses toward supercommentary, the overall trend is clear. As the Middle Ages wore on, French and German rabbis more and more often eschewed a direct commentarial encounter with the Torah. What replaced this encounter was exposition of the Commentary of their revered forerunner, Rashi.

Toward Supercommentary in France and Germany In pronouncing on the origins of Rashi supercommentary, some scholars point to writings composed in France and Germany in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In order to assess their claims, we must consider trends in northern European exegesis in the centuries after Rashi’s passing to appreciate the varied forms of engagement with his Commentary that they attest.10 In France, this was 10 The other key variable here is obviously that of definition, the decision about what counts as supercommentary, with all the “norms and interdictions” that invariably flow from any such act of generic definition (Jacques Derrida, “The Law of Genre,” trans. Avita Ronell, Critical Inquiry 7 [1980]: 56). The topic requires more discussion than it has thus far received, and far more than it can be given here. See my forthcoming “A Genre Is Born: Genesis, Dynamics, and Role of Hebrew Exegetical Supercommentaries,” REJ. For current purposes, it suffices to summon two characteristic features of exegetical supercommentary as set forth by Uriel Simon. First, Simon opines, a supercommentary is not like a commentary because it does not relate to Scripture as its primary text but instead takes the secondary text (the commentary) as its primary focus. Second, this inversion comes with a conspicuous formal sign: the lemma (‫ )הדיבור המתחיל‬in the supercommentary is drawn from the commentary and not from Scripture (or, we might add, not from Scripture alone, since some supercommentaries include lemmata both from Scripture

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the period in which leading talmudists, many of them Rashi’s direct descendants, executed the Tosafist revolution that saw the fruits of a new dialectical approach to Talmud recorded in “supplements” (tosafot) that focused heavily on Rashi’s Talmud commentaries. At the same time, some Tosafists pursued scriptural studies and, in so doing, naturally paid heed to Rashi in this sphere as well. Regarding his legacy, however, some successors expressed dissatisfaction as the peshat-centered approach that Rashi inspired reached new heights. Indeed, Rashi’s own grandson, Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam), wrote a Torah commentary that, by Martin Lockshin’s reckoning, was motivated mainly by opposition to Rashi’s overly midrashic approach.11 Its extensive occupation with Rashi notwithstanding, Samuel’s commentary was just that – a work of independent exegesis that, unlike a supercommentary, left its engagement with Rashi largely unstated and related to exegetical issues that Rashi had not addressed. What is more, while lending Rashi an attentive ear and occasionally endorsing his grandfather’s ideas, Samuel felt free to dissent from Rashi’s interpretations as he diverged from Rashi’s execution of plain-sense technique more generally. Samuel’s approach invited an adverse reaction in the next generation of Tosafist commentary when some students of his younger brother, Jacob ben Meir (Tam), returned to a greater balance between plain-sense and midrashic exegesis along the lines laid down by Rashi. While their goal was not explication of Rashi, Joseph of Orléans Bekhor Shor, Jacob of Orléans, and Yom Tov of Joigny at times supplemented his work, although in a more peshat-oriented way. Ephraim Kanarfogel does say that Bekhor Shor, the best known in this triumvirate, wished to define his work at least in part by inspecting Rashi’s approach to plain-sense interpretation (‫)פשוטו של מקרא‬. Still, just as the Talmud, rather than Rashi’s commentaries on it, remained the primary object of Tosafist rabbinic study, so the Torah, rather than the Commentary, remained the focus of the twelfth-century exegetes, even as they often took Rashi as a point of reference.12 That systematic glosses on Rashi failed to emerge from Tosafist study houses occasions no great surprise, even as these institutions nurtured a glossarial and from the commentary). See “Interpreting the Interpreter: Supercommentaries on Ibn Ezra’s Commentaries,” in Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra: Studies in the Writings of a Twelfth-Century Polymath, ed. Isadore Twersky and Jay M. Harris (Cambridge: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1993), 86–88. 11 Martin I. Lockshin, Rabbi Samuel Ben Meir’s Commentary on Genesis (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellan Press, 1989), 13–23. For Samuel’s immanent reading of Scripture, see Jonathan Jacobs, “‫ רשב״ם כמפרש המקרא מתוך עצמו‬:‫׳ללמוד תיבה מחברתה׳‬,” SHNATON – An Annual for Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies 17 (2007): 215–31. 12 Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 126–203 (137 for Bekhor Shor). See also Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 47–66.

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culture par excellence. Though knowledge about the settings in which Tosafist study of the “written Torah” unfolded is scant, it seems that these were mainly oral, with insight into Scripture produced episodically as part of talmudic discussions. After all, as Hanna Liss observes, “we have no idea how a qara, a Bible teacher, functioned in the bet midrash.”13 Jacob Tam, the mightiest name in the Tosafist pantheon, did not neglect Bible entirely, but defended the practice of fulltime Talmud study, neutralizing a rabbinic dictum that required devotion of a third of one’s time to Scripture (along with another third to Mishnah). He claimed that study of the Talmud discharged the threefold obligation because it was “a composite of Scripture, Mishnah, and Talmud.” For all that, as has been noted, some Tosafists did write commentaries in which they often conducted a dialogue with Rashi.14 Such engagement with Rashi is also attested in twelfth- and thirteenthcentury exegesis written in Germany. An early example is contained in the commentaries of Judah HeHasid (d. 1217), the leading German Pietist, which were recorded by his son Moshe Zaltman. As Eran Viesel notes, the form of these writings resembles that of other works that have yet to receive their scholarly due. They combine explanatory remarks on other biblical commentaries and independent comments of the composer, comprising “both exegetical comments on scriptural verses and explanations of Rashi’s commentary.” Judah referred to Rashi directly only with “a degree of frequency,” Ephraim Kanarfogel writes, but questioned and amplified his exegesis much more.15 More conspicuous still in its focus on Rashi is ‫ נימוקי חומש‬of Isaiah di Trani (RID; d. ca. 1250) who, although he passed most of his life in Italy and Byzantium, spent so many of his formative years in the Rhineland that his learning has been called “more Ashkenazi than Italian.”16 Of the roughly one hundred and fifty comments in his Torah commentary, forty or so are independent plainsense readings and another forty address law, custom, gematria, theology, and esoterica. The rest, just under half, deal with Rashi, making Isaiah the closest thing to a supercommentator until his day.17

13 Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 116. Hanna Liss, Peshaṭ -Exegesis and Narrativity in Rashbam’s Commentary on the Torah (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 71. 14 Tosafot to Avodah Zarah 19b, s.v. “‫( ”ישלש‬cf. Sanhedrin 24a s.v. “‫בלולה במקרא ובמשנה וכו׳‬.” See Kanarfogel, “On the Role,” 151, 157; Moshe Halbertal, People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 98. 15 Eran Viezel, “R. Judah He-Hasid or R. Moshe Zaltman: Who Proposed That Torah Verses Were Written After the Time of Moses?” JJS 66 (2015): 102; Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 210–29. 16 Isadore Twersky, “The Contribution of Italian Sages to Rabbinic Literature,” in Italia Judaica: Atti del I Convegno Internazionale Bari (Rome, 1983), 390. 17 Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 244; Israel M. Ta-Shma, “‫ספר ׳נימוקי חומש׳ לרבי ישעיה די טראני‬,” in ‫ עיונים בספרות הרבנית בימי הביניים‬:‫כנסת מחקרים‬, 4 vols. (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2004–2010),

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A point to note when plotting Isaiah’s relationship to supercommentary is that the genre seems to arise out of a space in which writers feel a sense of intellectual-literary inferiority to those whom they deemed superior preceptors of a bygone day.18 By contrast, Isaiah is renowned for arguing that later rabbis could, qua legists, surpass predecessors. He buttressed this claim by citing, for the first time in Jewish literature, the aphorism of the “dwarf standing on the shoulders of a giant.”19 If Isaiah advocated the possibility of halakhic progress, his exegesis might be expected to reflect this notion and it does not disappoint; as the statistics just cited indicate, the preponderance of his comments remain independent of Rashi. As we will see, when late medieval Ashkenazic rabbis suffered a crisis of confidence that generated a strong sense of their profound unworthiness with respect to forerunners, these self-perceived dwarfs turned more and more to the activity of explication of the ideas of the earlier giants rather than claiming to rest on their shoulders in order to see farther. Returning to France, the thirteenth century saw at least one work that bears a fairly sustained supercommentarial stamp, Hezekiah ben Manoah’s Sefer Chizquni (‫)ספר חזקוני‬, and many more that, for all their ample engagement with Rashi, do not. On the whole, tomes from the period attest to Rashi’s frequent centrality. Examples are ‫ פענח רזא‬,‫ מושב זקנים‬,‫ הדר זקנים‬,‫ דעת זקנים‬and the Torah commentary published under the name of Hayyim Paltiel, though these hardly constitute an exhaustive list.20 A special case is Sefer Chizquni, which has occasionally been heralded as the first Rashi supercommentary, or at least as a supercommentary, or work that builds on Rashi.21 Do such claims

18 19

20

21

vol. 3. ‫איטליה וביזנטיון‬, 20–23. Elsewhere, Isaiah blurred the line separating Scripture from Rashi’s written expressions by applying the same parasemantic interpretive techniques that he used to decipher the former to the latter. See Ephraim Kanarfogel, “Torah Study and Truth in Medieval Ashkenazic Rabbinic Literature and Thought,” in Study and Knowledge in Jewish Thought, ed. Howard Kreisel (Be’er Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2006), 117. The theme requires separate treatment. In the meantime, see below in the section “Supercommentary and the ‘Decline of the Generations.’” Abraham Melamed, ‫ תולדות הפולמוס בין אחרונים לראשונים בהגות היהודית בימי הביניים‬:‫על כתפי ענקים‬ ‫( ובראשית העת החדשה‬Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003), 177–82; Twersky, “Contribution,” 396–98; Ephraim Kanarfogel, “Progress and Tradition in Medieval Ashkenaz,” Jewish History 14 (2000): 288–90. For the famous motif ’s origins and afterlife, see Robert K. Merton, On the Shoulders of Giants; a Shandean Postscript (New York: Free Press, 1965). See the bibliography in ‫ספר תוספות השלם‬, ed. Jacob Gelis, 12 vols. (Jerusalem: Mif ‘al Tosafot Hashalem, 1982–), 1:11–42, a collection that attests to the sustained if not systematic interest in Rashi found in this literature. For details concerning many of these works and for literature (through 2010) on them and their authors, see Yosef Priel, “(‫דרכו הפרשנית של רבי חזקיה מנוח )חזקוני‬ ‫( ”בפרושו לתורה‬PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 2010), 185–207. These works are heterogeneous in form and origin, with some issuing from a single author or editor and others from one or more anonymous members of a secondary rabbinic elite. See Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 537. See, e.g., the introduction to ‫ פירושי התורה לרבינו חזקיה ב״ר מנוח‬,‫חזקוני‬, ed. Chayyim Dov Chavel

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273

pass muster? Sara Japhet emphasizes that Hezekiah culled from a wide range of sources including, in a rare departure for a northern European exegete of his day, a great representative of the Spanish school, Abraham ibn Ezra. His exegesis, in other words, comprises what Japhet calls a “compilatory” format rather than supercommentarial one.22 In his work’s introduction, Hezekiah refers to some twenty works from which he “extracted the best part” to include in his commentary (though how precise this number is, and even is meant to be, is not entirely clear). This abundance of sources alone excludes his work from the category of a Rashi supercommentary pure and simple; yet Hezekiah does accord Rashi a sort of pride of place, both in mentioning him by name and in his promise never to “dispute” Rashi. The latter claim keeps his work within the ambit of supercommentary while his stated plan to, if necessary, “augment” Rashi pulls in the opposite direction. In any event, there are many patterns to his interaction with Rashi, as has recently been illustrated in impressive detail by Yosef Priel.23 Described in the manner of a bibliographer, then, Sefer Chizquni is a work of compilatory Torah commentary containing some original contributions (Priel estimates a tenth of the ideas expressed in the work) and a significant increment of Rashi supercommentary.24 What merits attention in the current context is the way Sefer Chizquni attests to the growing claim that Rashi was making on his successors. Traveling as far along the path of supercommentary as any who wrote in northern France was Judah ben Eleazar, who completed Minchat Yehudah (‫ )מנחת יהודה‬in 1313, not long after the expulsion of French Jewry from the royal

(Jerusalem: Mosad haRav Kook, 1981), 8; Claude Brahami, “Le manuscrit hébreu 167 de la bibliothèque nationale de Paris contient-il une copie du Chīzqūnī?,” REJ 127 (1968): 219, and for many other claims along these lines, Priel, “‫דרכו‬,” 12–13, 101. The view that Hezekiah’s work stands as the first Rashi supercommentary appears in more popular literature as well, e.g., Yonatan Kolatch, Masters of the Word: Traditional Jewish Bible Commentary from the First Through Tenth Centuries (Jersey City, NJ: Ktav, 2006), 181. 22. Sara Japhet, “‫ לדמותו של החיבור ולמטרתו‬:‫פירוש החזקוני לתורה‬,” in ‫דור דור ופרשניו‬, 364–82. For the author’s awareness of Abraham ibn Ezra, see Priel, “‫דרכו‬,” 178–85. On the phenomenon of compilatory exegesis, see Japhet, “‫ לדמותם ולתפוצתם של פירושים קומפילטוריים בימי‬:‫פירוש ר׳ יוסף קרא לאיוב‬ ‫הביניים‬,” in ibid., 341–63. 23 ‫ספר חזקוני‬, introduction (unpaginated). Priel, “‫דרכו‬,” 101–20 (for patterns with respect to Rashi), 153–56 (for varying assessments of Hezekiah’s own count of twenty sources). A thematic comparative study is Roland Goetschel’s, “Rashi et le Ḥ izzeqûni sur la ‘aqedah et les sacrifices,” in Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge, ed. Gilbert Dahan, et al. (Paris-Louvain: E. Peeters, 1997), 305–13. 24 To see how this amalgam can look, consider the example discussed in my “From Sefarad to Ashkenaz: A Case Study in the Rashi Supercommentary Tradition,” AJS Review 30 (2006): 397. For original contributions, see Priel, “‫דרכו‬,” 211–15.

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domain in 1306.25 Judah laid bare his point of departure in the opening lines of the work’s introduction, in which he declared that the “ways” of Rashi’s words blocked them “from the eyes of many.” He then enumerated the four main features of those words that prompted his interpretive interventions: some of Rashi’s comments, he asserted, were “opaque”; some were contradictory; some were seemingly superfluous because they were so obvious that their necessity had to be explained; and some appeared to contradict Scripture or the Talmud. Small wonder that Judah’s leading contemporary student, Hazoniel Touitou, concluded that Judah saw himself “first and foremost as a supercommentator on Rashi.” Indeed, some scholars acclaim him the initiator (or at least one of the founding fathers) of the field.26 Apart from its focus on Rashi, a feature of Minchat Yehudah that reinforces its supercommentarial thrust is the manner in which Judah adduces the two other figures whom he most cites (from among a good number of his predecessors), Hezekiah ben Manoah and his own teacher, R. Eliakim. In hundreds of his citations, they always appear as part of an effort to explain Rashi.27 An example (mostly divested of content, the better to appreciate its literary scaffolding) is a gloss on a comment of Rashi on “And to the children of the concubines” (Gen 25:6). The text of Rashi’s comment, as attested in early printed editions of his commentary and a range of supercommentaries, is far from clear, but the main point is not. Rashi imparted a midrashic interpretation grounded in an orthographic irregularity in the word for “concubines” which led him to explain that Abraham had not taken a new wife named Keturah after Sarah’s passing as the Torah stated. Rather, he wrote, “[‫ ]פילגשים‬is spelled defectively [lacking a yod after the shin, divesting it of plural force] since there was only one concubine, Hagar, who is identical with Keturah.” After citing Rashi, Judah observed: Hizquni found this difficult because it [the word ‫ ]פילגשים‬is spelled plene in accurate scrolls [of the Torah] and according to the Masoret. Rabbi Eliakim says that Rashi’s interpretation follows the beraita . . . In tractate Niddah . . . the 25 For Eleazar (not Eliezer) as Judah’s father’s name, see Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 18. 26 Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 85, 141. For Judah’s introduction and its likely literary evolution, see ibid., 20–28. For claims that Judah was the, or at least a, pioneer in the field of Rashi supercommentary, see, e.g., Roland Goetschel, “L’exégèse de Rashi à la lumière du Maharal de Prague,” in Rashi 1040–1990: Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. Gabrielle Sed-Rajna (Paris: Cerf, 1993), 466 n. 1; Tovia Preschel, “Supercommentaries on the Pentateuch,” in Encyclopaedia Judaica, ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik, 22 vols. (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007), 19:315. Judah’s ample use of earlier insights confers on his work something of an anthological character, as he brings to bear the insights of earlier figures in northern French Rashi supercommentary. On this type of compilatory Rashi supercommentary, see my forthcoming “A Genre is Born,” (above, note 10). 27 Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 85, 117–19.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

275

Tosafot explained that it is routine for the Talmud to contradict the Masoret . . . And similarly . . . did our rabbi Solomon [Rashi] explain “The doorposts of your house” (Deut 6:9): it is written “‫[ ”מזזות‬defectively, without a vav] . . . 28 As in most of the rest of his tract, Judah trained his vision not on the Torah but on Rashi. Yet Minchat Yehudah is not a supercommentary pure and simple. In his introduction, Judah already establishes his plan to engage sources other than Rashi, whether classical (Talmud, midrashic compendia) or post-classical (Tosafot, Moses of Coucy). In fact, though he initially depicts his work as a guide to Rashi, Judah at times interprets the Torah in ways that depart from him and explains verses that Rashi ignored. According to Uriel Simon, when a writer provides a novel interpretation of Scripture that the commentator (in this case Rashi) reads differently, that writer departs from his role as supercommentator while still remaining within the bounds of his genre. By contrast, if a writer interprets passages that the earlier commentator ignored, the writer traduces the bounds of supercommentary and begins to function as a commentator.29 On the basis of such distinctions, it proves impossible to classify Minchat Yehudah in an uncomplicated way, not least when one takes into account Touitou’s estimate that around a full fifth of the work contains exegesis unrelated to Rashi.30 However this may be, Judah’s exegetical brew proved popular, surviving in over a score of manuscripts written in a wide variety of hands (Byzantine, Ashkenazic, Sefardic, Italian, and Provençal).31 We have seen, then, that the notion of an “abiding tradition in Ashkenaz” going back to medieval times of the “writing of commentaries on Rashi” is correct, so long as we recall that this tradition did not produce formal supercommentaries of the sort that would later abound in early modern Ashkenaz.32 In seeking the origins of Rashi supercommentary, some scholars point to writers from a range of French and German centers (Aaron ben Yose Hakohen, Moses of Coucy, Hezekiah ben Manoah, Judah ben Eleazar, and the “anonymous collections of Tosafot”).33 We have also seen why some ascribe paternity of the 28 ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 93–94. For the translation partially used here, observations about the text of Rashi’s comment, and variant spellings in biblical manuscripts, see B. Barry Levy, Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 44, 50–51. 29 Simon, “Interpreting,” 86–87. 30 Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 129. 31 Ibid., 148–52. 32 Elbaum, ‫פתיחות‬, 86. 33 Aron Freimann, “Manuscript Supercommentaries on Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch,” in Rashi Anniversary Volume (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1941), 75–76, though some of these, even by the loosest definition, make poor candidates for the post of

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Rashi supercommentary to Judah ben Eleazar, though this claim can be credited only if a thorough-going concentration on Rashi is excluded as a criterion of the genre. In many cases, French and German commentators after Rashi poured exegesis into more protean literary molds than the dichotomous categories “commentary”/ “supercommentary” are able to capture. This remains the case for late medieval writings that form a bridge between the figures canvassed thus far and the early modern authors of full-blown formal supercommentaries in Ashkenaz. Accordingly, we now turn to a sampling of the exegetical issues that these little-noticed exegetical writings raise, the religious concerns they address, and the socio-cultural contexts that they reflect.

From the Black Death to Mistress Kila The “expulsions, calamities, and large-scale devastations” suffered by French and German Jews in later medieval times decimated, and in some cases obliterated, hundreds of Jewish communities, large and small. While the 1306 expulsion from the royal domain and neighboring principalities did not permanently end French Jewish life, a final edict of expulsion in 1394 did. Jews in Germany similarly saw waves of massacres at the end of the thirteenth century that portended devastating developments to come: the “Rintfleisch” persecutions, bloody attacks in 1309, and the “Armleder” persecutions of 1336–1338. AntiJewish violence reached its peak in 1348–1350 with the Black Death. Beyond taking a heavy toll on Jews, the plague engendered the calumny that Jews had caused the catastrophe by poisoning wells, springs, and streams. In addition to ensuring an explosion of extraordinary violence, this vicious defamation induced a long list of potentates to experiment with the judicial murder of Jews and to institute state policies of expulsion. Fear of Jewish collusion with Hussite heretics abounded. Accusations of ritual murder and charges of host desecration further fuelled popular anti-Jewish animosity.34 supercommentator. For example, in ‫( ספר הגן‬Book of the Garden), which appeared around 1240, author (or editor) Aaron ben Yose rarely cited Rashi, and then usually in order to reject his midrashic ideas. See the edition of Yehiel M. Orlian (Jerusalem: Mosad haRav Kook, 2009), 37. By contrast, the surviving exegesis of Moses of Coucy reflects a far more profound engagement with Rashi. See Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 290–328; Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 92–98. 34 An overview is Jörg R. Müller, “Ereẓ gezerah – ‘Land of Persecution’: Pogroms against the Jews in the regnum Teutonicum from ca. 1280 to 1350,” in The Jews of Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries). Proceedings of the International Symposium held at Speyer, 20–25 October 2002, ed. Christoph Cluse (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 245–58. See further Miri Rubin, Gentile Tales: The Narrative Assault on Late Medieval Jews (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999); Israel J. Yuval, “Juden, Hussiten und Deutsche Nach Einer Hebräischen Kronik,” in Juden in der christlichen Umwelt während des späten Mittelalters, ed. Alfred Haverkamp and Franz-Josef Ziwes

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These calamities are pertinent to the development of late medieval Ashkenazic biblical scholarship in a number of ways. Jewish religious-literary expression in Germany, already laid low in the first half of the fourteenth century, ceased almost entirely in the second half of the century as leading rabbis were killed, causing countless fissures in the chain of transmission from teacher to student upon which Ashkenazic tradition rested.35 One hardly expects flourishing literary expression under such circumstances, let alone in a field that already held questionable status in Ashkenaz. It is also reasonable to surmise that, amidst the depredations and upheavals, some records of Ashkenazic engagement with Bible were consigned to oblivion. Further, the events of 1348–1349 and their aftermath – designated in the literature of the time as “the decrees” or ‫גזירות‬ (the notion was that the horrific persecutions ultimately issued from divine fiat) – inaugurated a new consciousness among Ashkenazic rabbis characterized by their self-perception as the benighted and hobbled products of a dark time. (Its relevance for our topic will be seen below.) Finally, with the devastation of hundreds of German communities, many Jews, including leading rabbis, moved to the newer Austrian Jewish centers of Vienna, Wiener-Neustadt, and Krems, where the violence had been less fierce.36 It is these centers that become a focus as we track Ashkenazic exegesis in later medieval times. Throughout the period, Ashkenazic intellectual life remained circumscribed, with rabbinic law and literature claiming a nearly exclusive priority.37 Yet, as we will see, biblical exegesis – or, more precisely, Torah interpretation, since not only were other parts of the Bible not studied but were in many cases not even available – did not disappear to the extent that the near-total absence of modern scholarship on it suggests.38 We begin our tour d’horizon with the “commentary and addenda” (‫פירוש‬

35 36 37

38

(Berlin: Duncker and Humblot, 1992), 59–102; Christopher Ocker, “German Theologians and the Jews in the Fifteenth Century,” in Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, ed. Dean Phillip Bell and Stephen G. Burnett (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 35; idem, “Contempt for Friars and Contempt for Jews in Late Medieval Germany,” in Friars and Jews in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, ed. Steven J. McMichael and Susan E. Myers (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 119–46. Israel J. Yuval, “‫ראשונים ואחרונים‬, Antiqui et Moderni (‫)תודעת זמן ותודעה עצמית באשכנז‬,” Zion 57 (1992): 393. An exception: the 1349 massacre at Krems. See Friedrich Lotter, “Black Death,” in Medieval Jewish Civilization: An Encyclopedia, ed. Norman Roth (New York: Routledge, 2003), 115. Robert Chazan, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom, 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 178. Even the variety of forms used for halakhic expression during the period diminished. Ashkenazic consciousness of the “twenty-four books” of the Bible as an actual textual phenomenon reflects the advent of printing. See Elchanan Reiner, “‫׳אין צריך שום יהודי ללמוד דבר רק התלמוד‬ ‫ על לימוד ותוכני לימוד באשכנז בימי הספר הראשונים‬:‫לבדו׳‬,” in ‫ מחקרים במדעי היהדות לזכרו של ישראל‬:‫תא שמע‬ ‫ תא־שמע‬.‫מ‬, ed. Avraham (Rami) Reiner, et al., 2 vols. (Alon Shvut: Tevunot, 2012), 2:705–69. Even

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‫ )ותוספות‬of Dosa “the Greek” of Vidin, whose work opens a window on exegetical interests among both leading rabbis and more ordinary members of the literate class in Vienna at the turn of the fifteenth century. After fleeing his native Bulgaria as it was being overrun by Ottoman armies (Vidin fell in 1396), Dosa sought learning in Austria. He found it mainly in the person of Shalom ben Isaac of Neustadt (ca. 1350–ca. 1413), a key rehabilitator of Ashkenazic life after the Black Death.39 Dosa cites some fifty interpretations of his teacher along with those of other Ashkenazic savants, ranging from the great, like Dosa’s other principal teacher Avraham Klausner, to the unknown.40 He also regularly adduces ideas of “the Ashkenazim,” thereby throwing light on the exegetical thoughts of average rabbinical students in his day. In some cases, the thoughts of those students amounted to little more than a rehashing of previously developed Franco-German cruxes of Rashi interpretation. An example is Dosa’s consideration of the enjoinder that Moses received prior to the plague of hail, ordering him to tell Pharaoh that God would bring “all my plagues to your heart” (Exod 9:14). At issue, in the first instance, were the words that Rashi had originally inscribed on the page, which, for the most part,

with this new early modern awareness, neglect of the books of the Prophets and Writings was ongoing. See Kanalar, “‫הזנחת לימודי המקרא‬,” 200–201. 39 Shlomo Spitzer, Bne Chet: die österreichischen Juden im Mittelalter: Eine Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte (Wien: Böhlau, 1997), 172. (Spitzer’s title invokes a distinction, made on the basis of pronunciation of the Hebrew consonant “chet,” between western and eastern regions of Ashkenaz.) On Dosa, see idem, “‫ידיעות על רבי דוסא היווני מחיבורו על התורה‬,” in ‫ספר זכרון להרב יצחק נסים‬, ed. Meir Benayahu, 6 vols. (Jerusalem: Yad ha-Rav Nissim, 1985), 4:177–84. Spitzer disclaims the notion that Shalom served as a rabbi in Vidin and thence the implication that Dosa met him there. See “‫האשכנזים בחצי האי הבלקאני במאות הט״ו והט״ז‬,” Mimizrach uMa‘arav 1 (1974): 61 n. 5. For Dosa’s citations of Shalom, see ‫הלכות ומנהגי רבינו שלום מנוישטט‬, ed. Shlomo Spitzer (Jerusalem: Makhon Yerushalayim, 1976), 180–89. I refer, for convenience, to this printed compendium rather than to the main surviving manuscript witness to Dosa’s work (Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Mich. 261) in referring to these citations of Shalom. Excerpts from that manuscript comprise almost all of the lone study devoted to Dosa, Ad. Neubauer, “Commentar zu Rashi’s Pentateuch-Commentar von Dossa aus Widdin,” Israelietische Letterbode 8 (1882–1883), 37–54. For the date of Vidin’s fall, see Jean W. Sedlar, East Central Europe in the Middle Ages, 1000–1500 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994), 23. 40 For Dosa’s relationship to Klausner, see Spitzer, “‫ידיעות‬,” 179. For Dosa’s location of an important finding in Klausner’s house, see below, n. 43. On Klausner, see in the index of Yedidyah Alter Dinari, ‫ דרכיהם וכתביהם בהלכה‬:‫( חכמי אשכנז בשלהי ימי־הביניים‬Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1984), 433. For other figures whom Dosa mentions, see Neubauer, “Commentar,” 49–54; Spitzer, “‫ידיעות‬,” 183 n. 31. It is emblematic of the degree to which late medieval Ashkenazic exegesis is scanted that Dosa is mentioned only once in what remains the standard (and otherwise exemplary) study of late medieval German rabbis (and then only in order to illustrate the fruitful effect of scholarly immigration on Austrian Jewry). See Israel J. Yuval, ‫ המנהיגות הרוחנית של יהודי גרמניה‬:‫חכמים בדורם‬ ‫( בשלהי ימי הביניים‬Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1989), 70.

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appeared as follows: “from this we learn that the plague of the [death of the] first-borns is equal to the other [nine] plagues combined.” Yet this observation presents an obvious difficulty. Why should Rashi interpret the phrase “all my plagues” as announced in the seventh plague of hail as a reference to the last of the plagues, the death of the Egyptian first-borns? One proposed resolution was textual emendation, either by revocalizing the key word in the gloss while leaving the consonants intact or by also emending consonants. Like other exegetical supercommentators, glossators of Rashi did not question the accuracy of Scripture but they did allow that the text of the Commentary was open to corruption and in some cases even saw critical emendation as a crucial part of their supercommentarial task.41 In Minchat Yehudah, Judah ben Eleazar had proposed reading the key consonantal cluster not as “first-borns” (‫ )בכוֹ רות‬but as “firstlings” (‫)בכּ וּרות‬. According to this view, Rashi tied the announcement of the scourge of hail to a later verse that limited the plague’s destructive power to first ripeners. (Only “the flax and the barley were struck for the barley was in the ear and the flax was in the bud,” whereas wheat and emmer were spared since they “ripen late”; Exod 9:31–32.) Other writers thought that Rashi was speaking not of first-borns but famines, reading “‫ ”בצורות‬or “‫בצורת‬.” On this view, Rashi set forth a contextually apposite interpretation, that the hail occasioned a famine so severe as to make this scourge equal in severity to all the others. Still others, however, thought that this reading was substantively implausible. Surely the hail’s ferocity could not be tantamount to all the other plagues combined. Only the final affliction, the death of the first-borns, answered to that description. A number of resolutions of the conundrum claimed infallibility on the grounds that they were rooted in texts or oral traditions traceable to Rashi. Unfortunately, these traditions contradicted one another.42 Enter Dosa, who observed that “the Ashkenazim ask why he [Rashi] did not place this [comment] adjacent to [the Torah’s account of] the plague of the first-born, instead placing it adjacent to the plague of hail.” Dosa communicated the view that apparently met with the greatest favor in his circle: “to read ‘‫’מכת בכּ וּרות‬, that is, with reference to the first-ripening produce.”43 Of course, 41 Simon, “Interpreting,” 86. See further Eleazar Gutwirth, “Fourteenth Century Supercommentaries on Abraham ibn Ezra,” in Abraham ibn Ezra y su tiempo, ed. Fernando Díaz Esteban (Madrid: Asociación Española de Orientalistas, 1990), 148–54. 42 For discussion of the “chapter headings” imparted here, see Meir Raffeld, “‫לפרשנות פירוש רש״י‬ (‫ )דוגמה אחת‬:‫בין ראשונים ומאוחרים‬,” ‘Iyyunei Miqra’ uFarshanut 8 (2008): 393–497. For additional insights and advances relating to the contemporary state of the question, see Amnon Shapira, “‫משהו ברש״י קשה‬,” Weekly Study Sheet of Bar-Ilan University, no. 692, at: http://bit.ly/20nFlnC. 43 MS Mich. 261, 56r (Neubauer, “Commentar,” 47). In another case, “the sages of Ashkenaz” sought Dosa’s insight as they fretted over a discrepancy in the first word of Exod 25:22 as it appeared

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this insistence on the part of Dosa’s associates hardly settled the issue and, as testimony to the tenacity of Ashkenazic wrangles over Rashi, the debate raged on. Half a century later we find Israel Isserlein, a successor to Dosa’s teacher Shalom of Neustadt as rosh yeshivah in Weiner-Neustadt, advocating the solution favored by Dosa’s comrades. Isserlein’s student, Israel of Brünn, noted that in “accurate texts” Rashi referred to famines but he also cited an anonymous explanation of why the text that read “first-borns” made sense. What was meant was that God told Moses that the sending of “all My plagues” to Egypt was already fully justified by the time of the seventh plague, but, for all that, God opted to defer it to a later point.44 The discussion would be arbitrated afresh in central and eastern Europe by early modern Ashkenazic Jewry’s leading lights, most of them Rashi supercommentators: Moses Isserles, Hayyim ben Bezalel of Friedberg, Judah Loew of Prague (Maharal), Ephraim Luntshitz, David ben Samuel (aka “Taz”), and more.45 Here, then, is an example of the way that Dosa’s companions could supply a link (if in this case an unoriginal one) in a chain of Ashkenazic engagement with Rashi stretching from medieval France and Germany through modern times. In the case of Shalom of Neustadt’s reading of Rashi’s approach to Aaron’s perplexing conduct in the affair of the golden calf, Dosa’s Ashkenazic teacher supplied a novel coloring of familiar ideas. What is most revealing, however, is his starkly formulated question regarding a midrashic idea that Rashi had adduced. The Torah relates that Aaron fashioned the calf, and even built an altar before it: “‫ חג לה׳ מחר‬,‫ ויקרא אהרן ויאמר‬,‫ ויבן מזבח לפניו‬,‫“( ”וירא אהרן‬He saw; and he built an altar before it, and Aaron announced: ‘Tomorrow shall be a festival of the Lord!’” [Exod 32:5]). On a midrashic reading, this verse alluded to an incident omitted in Scripture that does much to explain Aaron’s otherwise seemingly incomprehensible acquiescence (in fact, his active participation) in the idolatrous episode. The Hebrew letters expressing the idea that Aaron “saw” could be read to say that Aaron feared something. Just what he feared, and how the verse’s wording yielded the midrashic tradition in question, Rashi

in Torah scrolls with which they were familiar and in the version that apparently stood before Rashi. Having canvassed a large number of scrolls from different locales, Dosa replied, with amazing nonchalance, that “perhaps in Rashi’s text of the Torah it was written with a vav but nowadays it is written without a vav.” He confirmed this conjecture when he chanced upon the anonymous masoretic work Okhlah ve’Okhlah (‫ )אכלה ואכלה‬in Venice. It was bolstered also by a “very old Pentateuch” in Vienna in the home of Abraham Klausner. Torah scrolls in Dosa’s native Greece also lacked the vav. See Shnayer Z. Leiman, “‫ואת כל אשר אצוה אותך‬: Was Rashi’s Torah Scroll Flawed?,” Judaic Studies 2 (2003): 20 n. 41; MS Mich. 261, 103r (Neubauer, “Commentar,” 39). 44 Shlomo Angel, ‫( גליון רבינו ישראל מברונא לפירוש הטור על התורה‬Lakewood, NJ: Machon Mishnas Rabbi Aaron, 2001), 82. 45 Raffeld, “‫לפרשנות‬,” 399–402.

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spelled out in his Talmud commentary. The talmudic midrash has Aaron being struck with fear on seeing his sister’s son, Hur, put to death by the rabble after Hur objected to the abomination of the calf. Rashi clarified that the word “he built” (‫ )ויבן‬was to be rendered as “he understood” (‫ )הבין‬and that the word “altar” (‫ )מזבח‬was to be reread to mean “due to the slaughtered one [lying] before him” (‫)מהזבוח לפניו‬, namely Hur.46 In his Commentary, Rashi cited the midrash regarding Aaron’s fear of Hur’s fate from Leviticus Rabbah, where it was stated: “Afterward [that is, after killing Hur] they went to Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god.’ When Aaron heard he took fright, as it is said ‘And Aaron was afraid and he built an altar in front of it.’” Beyond this idea, Rashi cited another, introducing it as an additional explanation (‫)ועוד‬: that Aaron’s conduct was explained by his reasoning that the offence of the calf “should better be attached to me” rather than the people of Israel.47 Pondering Rashi’s reconstruction, Shalom of Neustadt recoiled from his first midrashic explanation, refusing to believe that Hur heroically relinquished his life out of fealty to God, whereas Aaron, out of cowardice, refused to do the same. The vehemence that Dosa ascribed to his teacher is revealing: “It is astonishing: how was it that Hur laid himself down to be killed and why did Aaron not lay himself down to be killed rather than making the calf?!”48 In other words, Shalom felt sure that Aaron’s determination to stay alive issued from a principle far higher than an instinct merely to save himself. Shalom’s answer to the conundrum, which Dosa traced to Isaac of Neustadt (one assumes that he is almost certainly Shalom’s father, though Dosa does not say), insisted that Rashi’s first midrash was not to be read in isolation, but in tandem with the second midrashic interpretation that Rashi cited. This way of reading Rashi linked his two ideas by way of a penitential theory found in the substance – if not exactly in the same verbal formulation – of the talmudic version of Rashi’s midrash. The upshot is that Aaron was, of course, perfectly willing to sacrifice himself to avoid involvement in the affair of the calf, but grasped that if the people murdered him because of his refusal to 46 Rashi on Sanhedrin 7a, s.v. ‫ויבן מזבח‬. See further James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 718–19; idem, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free Press, 2008), 282–83. 47 Rashi to Exod 32:5 (citing Leviticus Rabbah 10:3). 48 ‫הלכות ומנהגי רבינו שלום‬, 184. A similar protest was registered by Abraham ibn Ezra in both his commentaries (the “long” and “short”) on Exodus. See ‫ ספר שמות‬,‫מקראות גדולות הכתר‬, ed. Menachem Cohen, 2 vols. (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2007–2012), 2:138. For Ibn Ezra’s non-midrashic approach in his reading of the golden calf incident, see Aharon Mondschein, “‫׳הכי‬ ‫ למתודולוגיה של רש״י וראב״ע ביחסם למעשה העקבה של יעקב‬:(‫ לו‬,‫ ויעקבני׳ )בר׳ כז‬,‫קרא שמו יעקב‬,” Talpiot 12 (2011): 56–59.

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participate, this act would, unlike the murder of Hur, comprise an unpardonable sin. Aaron, after all, was God’s elect who, unlike Hur, was both a “priest and prophet.” Better that he should remain alive and, what is more, ensure his sole responsibility for the calf ’s construction – assure that it be “attached” to him, as Rashi’s second midrash had it – so the people might merit absolution. On this reading, Aaron emerges as a spiritual hero willing to sacrifice not just his body but his spiritual well-being to ensure the nation’s survival. Shalom concluded on a note of his own, strengthening what he took to be the purport of Rashi’s teaching: he insisted that the survival of Aaron’s two remaining sons clearly indicates that Aaron’s conduct garnered a post-facto divine ratification.49 In the case of this supercommentarial amplification performed by a principle architect of Ashkenazic Jewry’s reclamation following the Black Death, it seems well to look beyond the exegetical and theological particulars to ponder Shalom’s recoil from a familiar midrash that Rashi had cited with no great fanfare. True, like many exegetes before and after him, Shalom may have felt impelled to exculpate the troubling behavior of a revered biblical figure.50 And true, issues surrounding the workings of atonement (‫כפרה‬, the term invoked by Shalom in his gloss, absent from the talmudic source) had long preoccupied “pietiest” rabbis in Germany (who, it has been said, turned atonement from an occasional event in a person’s life “into a routine”).51 But, given his alarm at the apparent idea that Rashi’s midrash expresses Aaron’s fear of death conquering all, an obvious point of reference in contextualizing Shalom’s gloss is his searing awareness of the countless German Jews who, out of loyalty to the God of Israel, underwent the cruelest forms of martyrdom at the hands of Christian mobs in the wake of the Black Death. Seen in this light, it is not hard to see why Shalom would have deemed it unthinkable that the high priesthood’s founding father had refused to do likewise and acceded to the idolatrous demands of a mob out of cowardice. Shalom’s reading of Rashi’s glosses on Aaron’s conduct furnished the image of a heroically self-sacrificing leader who is wholly given over to his people’s survival – a leader whom Jews in Shalom’s day could extol and, in their own small way, emulate. Rashi further precipitated consternation among Dosa’s comrades when he addressed the issue of divine punishment in relation to the vicarious atonement brought about by the death of the righteous. In this midrashic reading, 49 ‫הלכות ומנהגי רבינו שלום‬, 184. 50 David Berger, “On the Morality of the Patriarchs in Jewish Polemic and Exegesis,” in Understanding Scripture: Explorations of Jewish and Christian Traditions of Interpretation, ed. Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 49–62. 51 David Malkiel, Reconstructing Ashkenaz: The Human Face of Franco-German Jewry, 1000–1250 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009), 332 n. 135. For a judicious summary see Marcus, “A Jewish-Christian Symbiosis,” 37–54.

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the juxtaposition of Miriam’s death and the account of the rite of the red heifer was designed to send a message: “just as sacrifices effect atonement, so the death of the righteous effects atonement.”52 Yet, as Dosa’s puzzled interlocutors observed, God’s modus operandi on this occasion is hard to fathom. Immediately following the account of Miriam’s death, the Torah describes the severe punishment of Moses and Aaron in the wake of their miraculous provision of water from the rock at Meriba: they are barred from entry into the land of Israel and condemned to perdition in the wilderness. As Dosa reported, this had left “the Ashkenazim who queried me in Vienna” at a loss. According to Rashi, the expiation occasioned by the death of righteous Miriam ought to have averted her brothers’ doom. Initially tongue-tied, Dosa eventually hit on an insight: the demise of the righteous did achieve vicarious expiation, but only for those “lower in rank and righteousness” than the deceased. It was therefore understandable that Miriam’s death failed to forestall the sentence meted out to her brothers, who were “much greater in every respect” than she was.53 Dosa’s bulky tome (running 277 folio pages in its fullest version) requires study, not only to bring its author more fully into the light of Jewish exegetical history but – the key point in the current context – for the view it affords of Ashkenazic exegesis in a period of mainly oral creativity. These exegetical insights would have been wholly lost were it not for Dosa’s inscriptions of his teachers’ and confreres’ ideas. As is the case with some of the other works canvassed above, Dosa’s tome also has a hybrid character, containing both Torah commentary and Rashi supercommentary.54 If we limit our consideration to the interpretations of Shalom of Neustadt that Dosa registers, about half pertain to Rashi while the rest contain direct commentaries that often deploy techniques typical of German exegesis (such as the transposition of letters to yield a new word) that Rashi rarely used. Still, the interpretations and lively discussions of his Ashkenazic colleagues regarding the Commentary that Dosa preserves do suggest an ongoing swing of the pendulum toward supercommentary in the Viennese center of learning where Dosa spent time. Further affirming this swing is a collectanea that again imparts the exegesis of both leading Ashkenazic rabbis and some otherwise unknown ones, all of

52 For rabbinic background, see Yaakov Elman, “The Suffering of the Righteous in Palestinian and Babylonian Sources,” JQR 80 (1990): 320–21. For Rashi’s approach to adjoining pericopae, see Isaac B. Gottlieb, ‫ חז״ל ופרשני ימי הביניים על מוקדם ומאוחר בתורה‬:‫( יש סדר למקרא‬Jerusalem and Ramat Gan: Magnes Press / Bar-Ilan University Press, 2009), 77–158. 53 Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Mich. 261, 187v (Neubauer, “Commentar,” 40); Spitzer, “‫ידיעות‬,” 178. 54 Neubauer’s classification of it as a supercommentary simply does not withstand scrutiny for a number of reasons, including the fact that Dosa deals with many sources other than Rashi, including Spanish ones (Spitzer, “‫ידיעות‬,” 183).

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whose legacies as scriptural interpreters is otherwise unattested.55 The work’s author-compiler seemingly hailed from the circle of Shalom of Neustadt’s greatest student, Jacob ben Moses Halevi Molin (Maharil; ca. 1360–1427). Indeed, the collection includes comments in Molin’s name that were heard by the author’s father prior Molin’s death in 1427, as well as citations of such other rabbinic notables from the period as Yekutiel Suskind of Cologne.56 Far more surprising among the exegetical voices in this miscellany is that of one Mistress Kila (‫)מרת קילה‬, possibly Molin’s contemporary.57 Let us consider one of her three glosses in the collection to appreciate the learning and intricacy that this unheralded “supercommentator” brought to her reading of Rashi. In this example, Kila’s insight concerned Rashi’s interpretation of the final word in Jacob’s address to Esau: “accept from me this gift . . . ‫( ”ותרצני‬Gen 33:10). Here, Rashi took Jacob’s message to be that Esau should accept the gift since he, Esau, had already been appeased: “‫ – ותרצני‬you have become reconciled with me. Likewise, every [instance of the language of] ‫ רצון‬in Scripture is an expression of appeasement.” Rashi supported the semantic element of his observation by appealing to Lev 22:20, which uses the same verbal stem with respect to a blemished animal used for sacrifice. That such a sacrifice would not be acceptable (‫ )לא לרצון‬meant that it would not yield the desired propitiation since, Rashi added, the aim of sacrifices is to “reconcile and appease.” Enter Mistress Kila, who explained that the impetus for Rashi’s exposition of the final word in Jacob’s entreaty to Esau was his wish that “‫ ”ותרצני‬not be misunderstood to mean that Jacob was telling his brother that he had been propitiated by Esau. Such a reading was ruled out, taught Kila, because it wrongly implied “that Esau had sinned against Jacob such that he [Esau] was the one who wished to make amends.” In saying this, Mistress Kila clarified Rashi’s thought while reinforcing the point that Jacob was responsible for the brothers’ discord and that it therefore fell to him to effect the reconciliation. If her interpretation thus far might seem more or less a matter of course, Mistress Kila went further, creatively weaving the components of Rashi’s gloss

55 Zurich, Zentralbibliothek MS Heid. 26. Copied in Laibach (modern Ljubljana) in 1515, the compendium mainly reprises an earlier lost manuscript copied in 1434. For a sampling, see “‫פירושי מהרי״ל וחכמי קולוניא‬,” in ‫( קונטרס שביבים מכתבי קדמונים בתורת רש״י על החומש‬Bnei Brak: Metivta de-Rashi, 2004), 13–28. See further ‫( פירוש המרי״ל על פירוש רש״י לתורה‬Bnei Brak: Metivta de-Rashi, 2011). Attesting to its posteriority to Dosa, figures whom Dosa cites as alive appear in this manuscript with blessings for the dead. See Shlomo Eidelberg, “‫ספר ׳ביאור על התורה׳ )כתב יד‬ ‫)של פירוש על רש״י לתורה שנכתב במאה הט״ו‬,” Horev 14–15 (1960): 248. 56 MS Heid. 26, 167r, 249r. On Yekutiel Suskind, see Yuval, ‫חכמים בדורם‬, 264–79. 57 In the manuscript, Mistress Kila and Jacob Molin are mentioned with blessings for the departed. Assuming these are original to the 1434 manuscript, one might reasonably infer the rough contemporaneity of Kila and Molin.

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into a more tightly knit whole by suggesting that the verse from Leviticus that Rashi had adduced served as more than a lexical proof text. (Otherwise, she might have asked, why bring that verse among many that illustrate the meaning of a verbal root found ubiquitously in the Bible?) Instead, by calling attention to a verse that spoke of sacrifices in particular, Rashi, on Kila’s understanding, reinforced the theme of propitiation at the heart of his reading of Jacob’s plea: “just as sacrifices effect reconciliation between wrongdoer and One wronged, so too here Esau was reconciled to Jacob, after having been angry with him.”58 This elegant gloss suggests that Kila was a deft reader of Rashi. Though she was not the only woman in medieval Ashkenaz to engage in feats of Jewish learning, she is the only premodern woman whose acts of supercommentary survive.59 In the exegetical compilations just surveyed, we may note a rough congruence between their presentational format and the manner in which teachings were preserved and transmitted in the sphere that consumed the lion’s share of the Ashkenazic students’ and scribes’ attention: halakhah. Franco-German scholars studied a limited literary corpus born of their own tradition; the legal code of Maimonides proved to be the lone (and even then only partial) exception to an otherwise northern European curricular diet.60 Works by earlier

58 MS Heid. 26, 28r. For Kila’s other comments, see fols. 22r, 41r (Eidelberg, “‫ספר‬,” 252). 59 In singing the praises of his wife, Dulcea, Eleazar ben Judah noted that she taught women. Solomon of Speyer’s daughter was said to have taught rabbinics to “exceptional young men” from behind a curtain. Henndlein of Regensburg, “the teacher,” appears around the time of Jacob Molin, who himself addressed a responsum to one Mistress Leah. Shondlein, the wife of Molin’s student Israel Isserlein, penned a Yiddish responsum to a question put to her by a woman. A Polish woman said to have studied kabbalah, Chava (?) Eilburg, is attested around 1500. At the other end of the sixteenth century, Rebecca Tiktiner wrote Meneqet Rivqah, a Yiddish work of ethical instruction. See Judith R. Baskin, “Dolce of Worms: The Lives and Deaths of an Exemplary Medieval Jewish Woman and Her Daughters,” in Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages Through the Early Modern Period, ed. Lawrence Fine (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 429–37; Edward Fram, My Dear Daughter: Rabbi Benjamin Slonik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2007), 10; Yuval, ‫חכמים‬ ‫בדורם‬, 311–18; Joseph Davis, “A German Jewish Woman Scholar in the Early Sixteenth Century,” in Freedom and Responsibility: Exploring the Challenges of Jewish Continuity, ed. Rela Mintz Geffen and Marsha Bryan Edelman (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1998), 101–9. A few other educated central and eastern European women from early modern times are mentioned in Emily Taitz and Cheryl Tallan, “Learned Women in Traditional Jewish Society,” Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia (http://bit.ly/1Jcaeag). 60 Jeffrey R. Woolf, “Admiration and Apathy: Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah in High and Late Medieval Ashkenaz,” in Be’erot Yitzhak: Studies in Memory of Isadore Twersky, ed. Jay Harris (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 2005), 427–53. Haym Soloveitchik speaks of German “immunity” to Maimonidean influence that bests even French “indifference” to it. See “The Halakhic Isolation of the Ashkenazic Community,” in Collected Essays, 2 vols. to date (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2013), 1:34.

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authorities were studied orally, with the lectures by the heads of rabbinic academies preserved in marginal glosses recorded by the students. In a manuscript culture, such marginal glosses (‫ )הגהות‬easily elided into the main body of text set down by scribes in subsequent recensions. By contrast, the vast body of medieval Sefardic rabbinic literature reveals no parallel to the marginalia so lovingly preserved and transmitted in Ashkenaz.61 Distinctions in identity between France and Germany notwithstanding, late medieval German and Austrian rabbis certainly perceived Rashi as one of their own. Hence, their (mostly informal) glossings of the Commentary, and their transmission by students, would have been a natural extension of the time-honored techniques of knowledge transmission used in the world of religious learning where such rabbis worked.62 Though one can overstate the rapidity of the process, it is also important to note that many practices of medieval Ashkenazic textual culture would soon be swept away by revolutionary early modern developments. The agent of change was printing, a new technology that generated an influx of tomes of Sefardic origin, many of them biblical commentaries, into Ashkenazic lands. Such works, along with newly arrived Hebrew scientific and philosophic literature, brought with them new ideas and reflected interpretive sensibilities starkly divergent from those apparent in the writings found in the traditional Ashkenazic library. The interesting confluence that came about, then, is this: just as Rashi’s classic work of “Ashkenazic” Torah commentary was, due to print, becoming available as never before, the same technology made it impos61 Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, ‫ הגהות ומגיהים‬:‫עמודים בתולדות הספר העברי‬, 2nd ed. (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1996), 196 (157–213 generally for this form of transmission); Elhanan Reiner, “‫הי״ז והוויכוח על הפלפול‬-‫תמורות בישיבות פולין ואשכנז במאות הט״ז‬,” in ‫ ספר יובל לחנא‬:‫כמנהג אשכנז ופולין‬ ‫ קובץ מחקרים בתרבות‬:‫שמרוק‬, ed. Israel Bartal, Ezra Mendelsohn, and Chava Turniansky (Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 1993), 22; idem, “The Ashkenazi Élite at the Beginning of the Modern Era: Manuscript Versus Printed Book,” Polin 10 (1997): 97–98. 62 The habits of thought, and “protocols of reading” (for the usage see Evelyn B. Tribble, Margins and Marginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England [Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1993], 58–59), generated by a transformative aspect of late medieval Jewish manuscript culture that touched German centers of learning may also have prompted supercommentarial modes of thinking. By the late Middle Ages, the glossed page format developed for the Christian Bible in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries spread to various Jewish communities, including ones in Germany, where it became de rigueur for most texts supplemented by commentaries. While there is as yet no consensual understanding of the lines of interaction between the layout of Latin glossed pages and their Hebrew cognates, one effect of multiple commentaries coming to surround a text – that readers were encouraged to engage in comparative study of them – certainly had the potential to generate supercommentarial activity and composition. See David Stern, “The Hebrew Bible in Europe in the Middle Ages: A Preliminary Topology,” JSIJ 11 (2012): 74–76 and, with respect to Rashi in particular, Arieh Graboïs, Les sources hébraïques médiévales, vol. 2: Les commentaires exégétiques (Turnhout: Brepols, 1993), 45.

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sible for the traditional Franco-German library to retain its exclusivity in the Ashkenazic curriculum. (With regard to the Commentary, though printing did not displace manuscript reproduction, it became the dominant means of its spread, yielding some three thousand copies of the work in the incunable period whereas only a few hundred manuscript copies had circulated in the four centuries prior.)63 What came out of this bracing intra-Jewish cross-cultural encounter was a far-reaching central and eastern European reassessment of the mainstays of Ashkenazic thought and exegetical method. It would leave an indelible imprint on the way the Commentary would be read going forward.64 Meanwhile, writing prior to the most decisive developments of this revolution, we find Jacob Molin’s great student, Israel ben Petahiah Isserlein, who died in 1460, composing the first Ashkenazic work to be transmitted with a title that proclaimed supercommentarial intent. It is to a brief survey of his Be’urim ‘al Rashi (‫ )באורים על רש״י‬that we turn.

63 A. K. Offenberg, A Choice of Corals: Facets of Fifteenth-Century Hebrew Printing (Nieuwkoop: De Graaf Publishers, 1992), 147. For the “knowledge explosion” occasioned by printing, see David Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry: A New Cultural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), 99–132; Moshe Rosman, “Innovative Tradition: Jewish Culture in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth,” in Cultures of the Jews: A New History (above, n. 5), 519–70; Reiner, “The Ashkenazi Élite”; idem, “‫אין צריך‬,” 705–46. Though all the early printings of the Commentary were products of presses located in southern Europe, copies traveled north, as can be seen from the Pentateuch with Rashi and Targum that arrived, probably from Italy, in the German town of Schwedt in the latter part of the fifteenth century. See A. K. Offenberg, “How to Define Printing in Hebrew: A Fifteenth-Century List of the Goods of a Jewish Traveller and His Wife,” The Library 16 (1994): 47. Eventually, editions of the Commentary were printed locally. See Marvin J. Heller, “Early Hebrew Printing from Lublin to Safed: The Journeys of Eliezer Ben Isaac Ashkenazi,” in Studies in the Making of the Early Hebrew Book (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 107–8. Manuscript reproduction continued to be prominent even after print’s advent. See Elchanan Reiner, “‫ תמורות בתבניות הלימוד והידע בחברה היהודית המסורתית בעת החדשה המוקדמת‬:‫מעבר לגבולות ההשכלה‬,” in ‫ מחקרים בתולדות יהודי מזרח אירופה ובתרבותם – שי לעמנואל אטקס‬:‫ישן מפני חדש‬, ed. David Assaf and Ada Rapoport-Albert, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2009), 2:289–311. On the larger phenomenon of continuing production and distribution of books in manuscript after print’s advent, see, e.g., David McKitterick, Print, Manuscript, and the Search for Order, 1450–1830 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 64 See, by way of a case study, my “From Sefarad to Ashkenaz.” For the Ashkenazic advent of southern European scientific and philosophic literature, see, e.g., Ofer Elior, “‫׳זה הספר הוא מפתח לשאר‬ ‫ השבע עשרה‬- ‫ פרשנות על ׳רוח חן׳ בפולין ובארצות אשכנז במאות החמש עשרה‬:‫ספרי סודות החכמה׳‬,” Daat 72 (2012): 175–93.

288

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Israel Isserlein’s Explications of Rashi Be’urim ‘al Rashi stands out as the most important work of German biblical interpretation composed in late medieval times.65 That the tome is usually cast as a supercommentary, and has most often come down under the title “explications of Rashi,” does not clinch the case for it being a premeditated work of supercommentary. Indeed, what Isserlein called his work, if anything, and how it came into being, is unclear. Minimally, the name of this exegetical assemblage varies in different editions produced over the ages, with the colophon of the earliest surviving manuscript version casting it as “expositions of the Pentateuch.” As the manuscript in question was produced in WienerNeustadt in Isserlein’s lifetime, this characterization might be thought to carry some weight.66 However this may be, when it was first printed in Venice in 1519 – by which time the term ‫ באורים‬had become the closest thing that Jews ever developed by way of a special designation for supercommentary67 – the work was called “explications of Rashi’s Commentary set forth by his eminence our teacher Rabbi Israel.” Perhaps this title was chosen to increase the work’s popularity. At all events, subsequent editions have mostly cast the work as one of supercommentary.68 Why the work came to be called ‫ באורים‬is not difficult to explain: even a quick perusal of his work shows that Isserlein mainly expounds Rashi. His typical format is to cite the Commentary, then invoke some supercommentarial

65 For Isserlein’s life and writings see Shlomo Eidelberg, Jewish Life in Austria in the XVth Century (Philadelphia: Dropsie College, 1962), 38–59; Spitzer, Bne Chet, 181–86, 191–94. On his spiritual complexion, see David Tamar, “‫דמותו הרוחנית של ר׳ ישראל איסרלין‬,” Sinai 32 (1953): 175–85. For halakhic achievements, see Dinari, ‫חכמי אשכנז‬, 297–313. 66 Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS 2382, 25v, which forms the basis of ‫ביאורי מהרא״י על התורה‬, ed. Menahem Doitsh (Lakewood, NJ: Mekhon Be’er ha-Torah, 1996), the edition of Isserlein’s work cited hereinafter. The term translated as “expositions” is “peshatim,” the history and semantic range of which merit study. (Comments of Moses of Coucy and of Eleazar ben Judah’s teacher, Eliakim, appeared under this heading in an earlier phase of Ashkenazic exegesis; Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 290–91; Touitou, ‫מנחת יהודה‬, 83–85.) Here, as elsewhere, it does not appear to refer to plain-sense readings alone, nor could it from the evidence of Isserlein’s work. The word is used with a similarly broadened sense by Hayyim ben Bezalel of Friedberg (d. 1588) in ‫באר מים חיים‬, ed. S. F. Schneebalg, 3 vols. (London: Honig, 1964–1971), author’s introduction. 67 The issue requires more clarification but it is striking how many glosses on Rashi bear a form of “‫ ”ביאור‬in their title, and the same is true for names of supercommentaries on the Torah commentary of Abraham ibn Ezra. See the list in Jacob M. Toledano, ‫( אפריון‬Jerusalem, 1905), 3r–4r, for Rashi and, for Ibn Ezra supercommentaries, the list in Judah Moskoni’s entry in the field (Hebrew appendix to Magazin für die Wissenschaft des Judenthums 5 [1878]: 7). 68 For a list through the mid-twentieth century, see Pinchas Krieger, Parshan-Data: Supercommentaries on Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch (Monsey: P. Krieger, 2005), 19–24.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

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formula such as “he [Rashi] meant to say,” “the interpretation [of his comment] is,” “that is to say,” and so forth. The most fleeting type of gloss can amount to no more than a cross-reference to an apposite text elsewhere in Rashi’s work (“see in the portion “Ki Tavo’”).69 Fuller glosses at times revisit cruxes that Isserlein’s French and German predecessors debated. As already noted, a case in point is his treatment of Rashi’s gloss on God’s enjoinder to Moses to tell Pharaoh that He would bring “all my plagues to your heart” (Exod 9:14). Isserlein’s fairly common use of the prefatory phrase, “some object” (‫)יש מקשים‬, followed by a discussion of earlier readings of Rashi, testifies to his desire to settle longstanding debates. Isserlein’s “explications” include the utterly straightforward, the deftly homiletical, and the wholly fanciful. In the first category is his clarification of Rashi’s gloss on the theophany at the burning bush, where Scripture states that “the place on which you [Moses] stand is holy ground.” To the concluding phrase “‫אדמת קודש הוא‬,” Rashi added: “‫“( ”המקום‬the place”; Exod 3:5). Rashi’s intention, Isserlein reasonably observes, was to show that the masculine antecedent for the pronoun ‫ הוא‬was the word “place” (‫)מקום‬, not the feminine word (‫ )אדמת‬to which it stood adjacent. Having lucidly enlarged his reader’s understanding of a laconic comment of Rashi, Isserlein then, having in mind that “the Place” was a common epithet in rabbinic literature for the deity, proposes that the gloss could also be taken to refer to God. A gloss that starts in grammatical nuance ends in supercommentarial whimsy.70 Hewing to a pattern that would become common in many supercommentaries, Isserlein also seeks to disencumber Rashi’s expositions of the faintest whiff of eisegesis by locating a trigger for Rashi’s exposition in some nuance of the biblical text. A case in point is his effort to rationalize Rashi’s gloss on Genesis 42:2, in which Jacob instructed his sons to “go down” (‫ )רדו‬to Egypt. Using the time-honored midrashic technique of gematria – calculation of the numerical value of letters comprising a word in order to derive meaning – Rashi, on rabbinic authority, proposed that the length of Israel’s sojourn in Egyptian captivity had been 210 years despite the longer time periods recorded in the Torah. In this case, he indicated an allusion to this important datum in the text: Jacob did not simply say “go” (‫ )לכו‬as he might have, but rather “go down” (‫)רדו‬. By way of the numerical value of the word that he did so studiedly use (“‫”רדו‬ = 210), he thereby alluded to the interval of time that his descendants were to

69 Exod 34:26 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 42). 70 ‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 27 (absent from the Parma manuscript but found in the first printed edition and included in Doitsh’s edition). For the deftly homiletical, see, e.g., ‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 33, on Rashi’s inclusion of the red heifer among “portions of the Torah” received prior to the Torah’s promulgation at Sinai (Exod 15:25).

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spend under Egyptian subjugation. Aware that the Torah told of much longer intervals (400 years in Genesis 15 and 430 years in Exodus 12), Rashi explained elsewhere why this was so.71 The notion that the exile in Egypt lasted no more than 210 years though the Torah never said so explicitly might leave Rashi’s readers non-plussed. Decisively undermining Rashi’s textual rationale for it, the influential sixteenthcentury Ottoman supercommentator Elijah Mizrahi observed, was the fact that Scripture routinely used words from the stem ‫ ירד‬to describe departures from and arrivals in the land of Israel (on the view that the land of Israel was “above” – if not topographically then spiritually – all others).72 As we will see shortly, Isserlein had made essentially the same observation a half century earlier when he noted that the same verbal root used by Jacob in instructing his sons appeared elsewhere in the larger narrative, without any apparent special meaning – at least so far as Rashi indicated. Yet Isserlein clearly felt compelled to justify Rashi’s reading of Jacob’s fateladen ‫ רדו‬since failing to do so would leave a crucial detail of rabinically reconstructed Jewish history reported in the Commentary without a basis in Scripture. Isserlein focused his readers’ vision on what he deemed to be a textual superfluity that, though unmentioned by Rashi, would justify the claim: It seems that he [Rashi] interpreted thus on the basis of a linguistic superfluity (‫ )ייתורא דלשון‬since the verse ought to have said “go down and procure rations for us there” [whereas it says “go down there and procure rations for us there,” raising the question]: Why the need for the first “there”? Perforce, it must be coming to communicate [added meaning, namely] that they [the children of Israel] will be down “there” for [the number of years of] the numerical value of [the word] “‫רדו‬.” Absent this [textual anomaly], it would pose a difficulty regarding the basis upon which Rashi saw fit to exposit thus, since from the language of “going down” [alone] we could draw no inferences, since throughout the pericope this turn of phrase appears [to describe departures from the land, as in]: “so Joseph’s brothers went down”

71 On Gen 15:13, he indicated that the number of 400 years included the time “from Isaac’s birth until Israel left Egypt.” His gloss on Exod 12:40 insisted that “it is impossible to say that [the Israelites spent 400 years] in Egypt.” For the midrashic count, see Joseph Heinemann, “210 Years of Egyptian Exile,” JJS 22 (1971): 19–30. 72 This being so, Rashi’s remark seemed to Mizrahi bereft of a true textual prompt. Indeed, he noted, the very next verse states that the brothers “descended” to Egypt using the very verb Rashi deemed so pregnant with added meaning; yet here Rashi apparently found the verb devoid of all allusive purport, as his interpretive silence seemed to confirm. See ‫חומש הרא״ם‬, ed. Moshe Filip, 5 vols. (Petah Tikvah: privately printed, 1994), 1:577.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

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(Gen 42:3); “they made their way down to Egypt” (43:15); “we came down [to Egypt once before]” (43:20).73 That Isserlein could impute to Rashi exegesis based on the finest of textual discriminations is unsurprising when one recalls that his students were associated with Tosfot Gornish, a turning point in the rise of the casuistical method of text-interpretation practiced in late medieval and early modern Ashkenaz that most often carries the name pilpul.74 The example just given was not the only place where Isserlein riveted readers’ attention on the fine exegetical mechanics reflected in the midrashim endorsed by Rashi.75 He inferred supreme subtlety when it came to Rashi’s art of writing as well, even insisting that the point at which Rashi entered a comment in his running exposition of the Torah could harbor significance.76 Other nuances ostensibly embedded in Rashi’s presentation also caught Isserlein’s critical eye. Where Rashi cited a verse to justify his translation of a word in one case while omitting such lexical buttressing in another, Isserlein came to explain.77 Just how methods of pilpul may have shaped Ashkenazic biblical exegesis, and study of the Commentary in particular, remains an open question.78 Certain features, however, appear to explain both the interest in the systematic study of Rashi and aspects of its character. The focus of new casuistic techniques was on writings of the commentators, Rashi, and the Tosafists. Practitioners of pilpul, treating the earlier medieval commentaries on the Talmud as canonical, also read them with “the same degree of precision and suggestiveness as the Talmud itself.”79 Habituated to treating Rashi’s talmudic glosses as virtually flawless literary artifacts, it would be natural for casuists to apply the same 73 Gen 42:2 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 20). 74 Israel M. Ta-Shma, “‫ מהותן ויחסן אל שיטות ה״פלפול״ ו״החילוקים״‬:‫׳תוספות גורניש׳‬,” in ‫ עיונים‬:‫כנסת מחקרים‬ ‫( בספרות הרבנית בימי הביניים‬Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2004–2010), 1:349. For the larger phenomenon, see the bibliography in Reiner, “‫תמורות‬,” 12–15. 75 For other involved efforts to justify midrashim, narrative and legal, see glosses at Gen 45:14 (22) and Exod 31:13 (40–41). 76 See, e.g., on Exod 1:7 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 27), regarding Rashi’s placement of the midrashic deduction regarding the extraordinary fertility of the Israelite women in Egypt that saw them routinely bear sextuplets. 77 Exod 32:6 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 41). 78 For the intersection between Rashi supercommentary and casuistry in its late medieval Sefardic articulation (“‫)”עיון‬, see my “The Omnisignificant Imperative in Rashi Supercommentary in Late Medieval Spain,” Hispania Judaica Bulletin 10 (= Between Edom and Kedar: Studies in Memory of Yom Tov Assis, vol. 1), (2014), 169–92. 79 Jeffrey R. Woolf, “Between Diffidence and Initiative: Ashkenazic Legal Decision-Making in the Late Middle Ages (1350–1500),” JJS 52 (2001): 95–96. See further Yuval, “‫ראשונים ואחרונים‬,” 385; Aaron Ahrend, “‫על פרשנות האחרונים לפירוש רש״י לתלמוד‬,” in ‫רש״י ובית מדרשו‬, ed. Avinoam Kohen (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2013), 23–24.

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assumption to formulations in the Commentary. Of course, the potential for over-interpretation was immense. Alluding to the problem a century after Isserlein’s death, Hayyim ben Bezalel of Friedberg denounced the “sundry and strange” proliferating explications of the Commentary born of casuistic dissection of Rashi’s words.80 Far more important as a spur to supercommentary than pilpul was a trend in the halakhic sphere to give a codified status to the Commentary as a complement to, or even substitute for, the Aramaic Targum in meeting the requirement for weekly review of the Torah-reading twice in the Hebrew original and once in Aramaic translation (‫)שניים מקרא ואחד תרגום‬.81 The French Tosafist Moses of Coucy had an idea to solve the problem created by the fact that Aramaic had long become obsolete as a lingua franca of Jews. His remedy was to replace rote reading of the Targum with study of Rashi’s Commentary, written in limpid rabbinic Hebrew. When he fled Germany at the turn of the fourteenth century, the greatest Ashkenazic rabbi of the day, Asher ben Yehiel, brought the idea to Spain, endorsing the notion of a commentarial supplement to the weekly ritual. Asher’s son, Jacob, then included the provision in Arba’ah Turim, the most influential Jewish legal code of late medieval times.82 Just how much the Commentary actually became the companion of those going over the weekly lectionary in different parts of the Jewish world remains to be determined. Looking at Ashkenazic lands alone, one might speculate that the substitution of the Commentary occurred less quickly in Germany than in France, where Rashi’s work had first appeared and where leading sages counted its author as a direct ancestor. Yet the evidence of Torah texts of various sorts found in hundreds of surviving manuscripts from across medieval Ashkenaz suggests that the Targum had unexpected staying power. Among fifty-six manuscripts from the thirteenth through fifteenth centuries containing the Commentary, eighty-four percent also included the Targum. From over two hundred Ashkenazic manuscripts of the Torah, about a quarter were accompanied by the Commentary. Of course, this fact alone does not tell us much about the use of Rashi for purposes of ‫ שניים מקרא‬specifically. In two manuscripts, by contrast, the Commentary alternates with the text of the 80 ‫( באר מים חיים‬above, n. 66), introduction. Cf. Yitzhak (Eric) Zimmer, ‫ פרקים‬:‫גחלתן של חכמים‬ ‫( בתולדות הרבנות בגרמניה במאה השש־עשרה ובמאה השבע־עשרה‬Be’er Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 1999), 204. 81 The history of this development is expertly traced in Yitzhak S. Penkower, “‫תהליך הקנוניזציה של‬ ‫פירוש רש״י לתורה‬,” in ‫לימוד ודעת במחשבה יהודית‬, ed. Haim [Howard] Kreisel (Be’er Sheva: BenGurion University of the Negev Press, 2006), 137–44. 82 Penkower, “‫פירוש רש״י‬,” 143–44. On Jacob’s influence, see Judah D. Galinsky, “‫׳ וזכה זה החכם יותר מכלם‬ 15‫ על תפוצת ׳ארבעה טורים׳ לר׳ יעקב בן הרא״ש מזמן כתיבתו ועד לסוף המאה ה־‬:‫שהכל למדו מספריו׳‬,” Sidra 19 (2004): 25–45.

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Torah verse by verse, suggesting that the page was configured to facilitate easy execution of the newly approved method of study of the parashah with Rashi.83 Isserlein, however, adopted the conservative position for executing ‫שניים מקרא‬: for him, Targum remained the “cardinal supplement.” Yet his Bavarian disciple, Joseph ben Moses, recorded that Isserlein’s personal practice was nevertheless to have the Commentary at hand when he performed the weekly review. His colleague, Jacob Weil, adopted the same habit, even as he, too, insisted on the need to retain Targum when reviewing the parashah.84 Whether it was viewed as an official requirement or not, reading the Commentary as part of the weekly review had clearly made inroads. From such reading (whether it rose to the level of study is a good question) it was a small step to the compilation of marginal glosses accumulated over years of annual review. Such a tome could easily be given a name like “explications of Rashi,” even in the absence of supercommentarial intent. It is easy to see how this process might have yielded Isserlein’s glosses on Rashi. It is also easy to see how such a tome written by a revered halakhist might then become the object of study. Clearly, the place of supercommentary in the Ashkenazic curriculum requires further investigation. For now, suffice it to observe that in sixteenth-century Poland, students’ notes on the oral discourses routinely delivered by a rosh yeshivah on the Torah portion with Rashi at times turned into “supercommentaries.” For Elchanan Reiner, this process of composition explains why supercommentaries said to emanate from a given authority may sometimes exist in multiple, differing versions: these simply reflect different versions of the lectures recorded by different students.85 Beyond weekly parashah study, sermons delivered by Isserlein may have provided a kernel for parts of his exegetical work as well.86 While it stands as the closest thing to a supercommentary ever produced in medieval Germany, Isserlein’s work retains some of the generic flexibility of the writings sampled above. A rough calculation suggests that some eightyfive percent of his comments explicate Rashi directly while some of the more independent ones include snippets of ideas drawn from the Commentary in their interpretive mix. Relatively few glosses ignore Rashi entirely, but Isserlein did feel free to interpret the Torah directly as well and engaged with figures other than Rashi. One of these was his illustrious ancestor, Aaron Blumlein; others were such earlier exemplars of Ashkenazic learning as Joseph Bekhor Shor, Moses of Coucy, and (a bit of a surprising name in the context of biblical

83 Yossi Peretz, “‫ לאור הממצא בכתבי היד האשכנזיים של התורה בימי הביניים‬:‫שניים מקרא ואחד תרגום‬,” Talelei Orot 14 (2008): 53–61. 84 ‫ספר לקט יושר‬, ed. Jacob Freimann, 2 vols. (1903; Jerusalem: n.p., 1964), Orach Chayyim, 1:54. 85 Reiner, “‫אין צריך‬,” 727 nn. 32–33. 86 See Eidelberg, Jewish Life in Austria, 54.

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interpretation) Meir of Rothenberg.87 Jacob Elbaum notes that Isserlein, not afraid to express himself in other domains, arrogated to himself as well the freedom to criticize “the commentator whom he admired,” expressing reservations first and foremost regarding Rashi’s interpretations “in the aggadic manner.”88 Though willing to dissent from Rashi, Isserlein sometimes conveyed a sense that such criticism amounted to temerity that required justification. In one case, he rationalized his willingness to read the Torah differently from the great master by referring to the notion of Scripture’s polysemous character captured in the rabbinic image of a hammer shattering a rock into many pieces.89 In another, his dissent is prefaced by the perhaps self-effacing “it seems to me” (admittedly the tone is hard to read).90 From the high ground, Isserlein looks like a supercommentator and so he is routinely cast as one.91 While he did not feel constrained to forego independent exegesis, he made palpable the growing sense that Rashi’s imposing presence limited the production of insights not born of Rashi’s increasingly canonical gloss. The absence of scholarly study of Isserlein’s exegesis might lead students to infer that it constituted a mere footnote. In fact, while its author’s legacy certainly came to rest on mighty achievements in halakhah, his ‫ באורים‬resonated. Its printing by Daniel Bomberg in 1519, just three years after the opening of this printer’s famous press in Venice (and the same year that the Christian from Antwerp printed two different volumes of Isserlein’s legal opinions), initiated an upsurge in the printing of Ashkenazic authors who had mostly been ignored by Hebrew printers.92 After the editio princeps, there were three editions of the ‫ באורים‬within a half century, two more in Venice (1545, 1567) and one in Riva di Trento (1562).93 The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries brought a 87 At Gen 48:14 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 24), Isserlein cites his paternal grandfather Hayyim and refers to his famous great-grandfather, Israel of Krems. Yuval mentions Isserlein’s transmission of Blumlein’s exegesis (‫חכמים בדורם‬, 71). 88 ‫פתיחות‬, 86 n. 11. 89 Deut 4:19 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 78–79). 90 On Exod 13:18 (‫ביאורי מהרא״י‬, 32–33), regarding the meaning of the biblical description of the Israelites departing Egypt “‫חמֻ שים‬.” 91 E.g., Eidelberg, Jewish Life in Austria, 54: “Isserlein also wrote a commentary on portions of Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch, known as Sefer Biurim or Peshatim.” Yuval, by contrast (‫חכמים בדורם‬, 71), calls Isserlein’s work a “Commentary on Torah.” 92 Pavel Sládek, “The Printed Book in 15th- and 16th-Century Jewish Culture,” in Hebrew Printing in Bohemia and Moravia, ed. Olga Sixtová (Prague: Jewish Museum – Academia, 2012), 18–19. For the works in question, see A. M. Habermann, ‫( המדפיס דניאל בומבירגי ורשימת בית דפוסו‬Safed: Museum of Printing Art, 1978), 31–32. 93 For the latter, see Marvin J. Heller, The Sixteenth Century Hebrew Book: An Abridged Thesaurus, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 2:532–33. The “Biurim sopra il perus Rassi” denounced by a priest as part of the destruction and correction of thousands of Jewish books in Venice may have

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near-complete lull, but, all told, the work has seen some fifteen printings since the sixteenth century and about ten reissues in new or photo-offset editions in recent decades.94 Even a bare recitation of the bibliographic facts, then, suggests a reasonably deep and somewhat abiding interest in Isserlein’s work. The reception of Isserlein’s tome goes well beyond its reprintings. The ideas found there appear in a long line of later supercommentaries.95 In addition, they reached a broader audience through one of the most popular books ever to appear in Ashkenaz: Tze’enah uRe’enah (Yiddish: tzenerene) of Jacob ben Isaac Ashkenazi of Janów. Officially, this compendium directed itself to “men and women, who will find peace of mind in understanding the words of the living God.” Less officially, it became the principal way that Jewish women learned the Bible on Sabbaths and holidays. With reprints possibly running into the hundreds by the end of the nineteenth century, Tze’enah uRe’enah served as a vector of diffusion for Rashi’s reading of the Torah as understood by Isserlein or the supercommentators he touched.96 Here is a reminder that supercommentaries have not only been abundant but have shaped the way that Jews – young and old, men and women, scholars and laymen – understood Rashi for more than a half-millennium. That Isserlein’s work has eked out only two paragraphs in scholarly literature speaks volumes about the state of research on Rashi supercommentaries.97

94 95

96

97

been Isserlein’s tome. See Paul F. Grendler, “The Destruction of Hebrew Books in Venice, 1568,” PAAJR 45 (1978): 126–27. For editions through 1963, see Krieger, Parshan-Data, 19–24. Since then at least five new ones have appeared in addition to at least a couple more in photo-offset. Elbaum, ‫פתיחות‬, 86 n. 11. To the list there may be added the sixteenth-century ‫( ספר הגור‬The Book of the [Lion’s] Cub) – the name bestowed by a copyist on the supercommentary of the cantor at Frankfurt-on-the-Main, Naftali Hertz, an offshoot of the famous Treves family who authored a kabbalistic commentary on the prayerbook (Eric Zimmer, “Jewish and Christian Hebraist Collaboration in Sixteenth Century Germany,” JQR 71 [1980]: 74–76). Hertz’s supercommentary is being published in stages. For a reference to Isserlein, see Bereshit (Bnei Brak: Metivta de-Rashi, 2011), 192–93. Awareness of Isserlein’s exegesis on the part of Judah Loew has also been documented. See ‫חומש גור אריה השלם‬, ed. Joshua Hartman, 9 vols. (Jerusalem: Mekhon Yerushalayim, 1989), editor’s introduction, 22 n. 28, 65 n. 79. Jacob Elbaum and Chava Turniansky, “Tsene-Rene,” YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe (http://bit.ly/1MDmgnR). On the work’s diffusion, see Silke Muter Goldberg, “Language and Gender in Early Modern and 19th Century Jewish Devotional Literature,” in Gender, Tradition, and Renewal, ed. Robert L. Platzner (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2005), 102–3. Eidelberg, “‫ספר‬,” 54; Joseph M. Davis, “Philosophy, Dogma, and Exegesis in Medieval Ashkenazic Judaism: The Evidence of Sefer Hadrat Qodesh,” AJS Review 18 (1993): 219. See further my forthcoming “The Supercommentator as Thinker: Examples from the Ashkenazic Rashi Supercommentary Tradition,” JJS. The dearth of scholarship on fifteenth-century Ashkenazic exegesis finds a parallel in its Christian counterpart; see Christopher Ocker, “The Bible in the

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Supercommentary and the “Decline of the Generations” Beyond the specific factors adduced so far to explain the growing turn to supercommentary in high and late medieval France and Germany (a carry-over from study of Rashi’s Talmud commentaries; the Commentary’s role in ‫שניים‬ ‫מקרא ואחד תרגום‬, as well as pilpul’s early stirrings), a less tangible factor might involve the shift in mentality among Ashkenazic rabbis after the Black Death mentioned earlier. No less an authority than Jacob Molin spoke of an “orphaned generation, in which no one knows between his right and his left.” Yedidyah Dinari describes responsa replete with accounts of the “great decline that took hold in knowledge of the Torah,” pronouncing these sentiments to be more than just conventional tropes.98 What Haym Soloveitchik goes so far as to call the “cultural chauvinism” of earlier Ashkenazic rabbis remained.99 Alongside it, however, was a mood that saw these rabbis’ successors experience profound feelings of inferiority with respect to their towering predecessors. Why this crisis of confidence? Dinari and Yuval, like Graetz and Güdemann before them, trace it to the Black Death, but others find this explanation insufficient.100 One can reasonably suppose that a lack of composure during a time of ceaseless persecution and heavy personal and institutional loss took its toll on rabbinic self-confidence. (The persecutions that beset Vienna’s Jews in 1420–1421 took the life of Israel Isserlein’s mother as well as that of his uncle and principal teacher, Aaron Blumlein. This left Austria with only one yeshivah in Wiener-Neustadt, the leadership of which Isserlein assumed on his return to the city in 1445).101 There is, however, another more religious-metaphysical calculus that may have contributed to the deep sense of decline. If, as Ashkenazic rabbis believed, their learning conferred a merit that protected their communities, it was only natural for them to conclude that the horrors that had

98

99 100

101

Fifteenth Century,” in Christianity in Western Europe c. 1100–c. 1500, ed. Miri Rubin and Walter Simons (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 475–78. Dinari, ‫חכמי אשכנז‬, 15, 17. In the opening lines of his book (p. 7), Dinari invokes Molin’s observation as part of his justification of his treatment of the post-1348 period as a distinct one in Ashkenazic rabbinic history. Soloveitchik, “The Halakhic Isolation,” 37. For discussion, see Woolf, “Between Diffidence and Initiative,” 94–95. It is worthwhile recalling (how worthwhile, with respect to the current discussion, merits reflection) that a “doomed sense of continuous and accelerating decline” resonates in the mood of a good number of later medieval Christian ecclesiastics and intellectuals as well. See Francis Oakley, The Western Church in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979), 314. For the larger theme considered here, see, e.g., Menachem Kellner, Maimonides on the “Decline of the Generations” and the Nature of Rabbinic Authority (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), and the bibliography cited there. Spitzer, Bne Chet, 181.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

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befallen these communities called into question the adequacy of that learning.102 True, rabbinic creativity did not cease, nor should what was produced be seen simply as a tale of “submissive dedication to the chains of tradition.”103 Still, the leading rabbis of the day discarded the premise on which earlier medieval justifications of insights made independent of forerunners had rested: for all their diminutiveness, latter-day scholars at least inhabited the same universe of discourse as their medieval predecessors, however superior the latter.104 The belief among rabbis in late medieval Ashkenaz that the wisdom of even their most immediate predecessors, let alone such forerunners as Rashi, greatly outstripped their learning led them to redefine a talmudic distinction between Rishonim (early scholars; antiqui) and Acharonim (latter-day scholars; moderni). At the beginning of the fourteenth century, Asher ben Yehiel thought it clear that the “earlier scholars” were the rabbinic sages while the latter-day ones, in aggregate, were their post-talmudic successors. In the wake of the dire events following the Black Death, however, a new view took hold. This new outlook cast the Rishonim as the earliest stratum among medieval sages and applied the designation “later scholars” to either the last stratum of the early sages – still seen as titans, if of a lesser order – or the post-1348 rabbis themselves.105 Molin and others expressed this division by way of a rabbinic aphorism that described the earlier scholars’ “fingernails” as wider than their successors’ “bellies.”106 With such currents of thought (or drifts of feeling) in the ascendancy, late medieval Ashkenazic savants of all ranks may have increasingly regarded the composition of a direct Torah commentary as presumptuous. Added to this inhibition was the longstanding – and ongoing – relegation of Bible to the

102 This, at least, is the theory propounded in Tamás Visi, On the Peripheries of Ashkenaz: Medieval Jewish Philosophers in Normandy and in the Czech Lands from the Twelfth to the Fifteenth Century (Olomouc: Kurt and Ursula Schubert Center for Jewish Studies, Palacky University, 2011), 164–67. 103 Israel M. Ta-Shma, “Rabbinic Literature in the Middle Ages,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Studies, ed. Martin Goodman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 224. 104 Woolf, “Between Diffidence and Initiative,” 93 n. 50. 105 Yuval, “‫ראשונים ואחרונים‬,” 376–80. See more generally Yisrael M. Ta-Shma, “Rishonim,” in Encyclopaedia Judaica, ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik, 22 vols. (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007), 17:339–40. 106 Noting an earlier scholar who had spoken of a great diminution in learning even before “the decrees” of 1348–1349, Jacob Weil added that the problem could only be more acute in his day “since compared to them, we are nothing – their fingernails were wider than our bellies!” (Responsa Mahari Weil, no. 146 as in Hanina Ben-Menahem, “Doubt, Choice and Conviction: A Comparison of the Kim Li Doctrine and Probabilism,” Jewish Law Annual 14 [2003]: 8.) See also Woolf, “Between Diffidence and Initiative,” 87–88.

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margins of the Ashkenazic curriculum at all levels.107 Finally, as mentioned above, it seems logical prima facie that the sense of secondariness born of what Jewish writers came to call “the decline of the generations” lay behind the inclination of certain writers to compose a commentary on a commentary.108 Taking all these factors into account, one can understand how “explications” of the Torah commentary of the foremost “early” Ashkenazic Bible commentator would have seemed, to late medieval German rabbis, the best way to study the divine word. And, if they wished to follow this line of thinking, they might have seen in this activity the best way to contribute to a field that they only slightly cultivated after long days devoted to Talmud study and its cognates. There is evidence that the Commentary continued to garner ample attention in the generation after Israel Isserlein, though some supercommentaries, like that of Elijah Belin, active in Worms around 1490, have not come down.109 Regarding ongoing oral activity, we have no Dosa of Vidin to provide us with details. Alleviating the paucity are a significant number of comments issuing from the pen of Israel Isserlein’s leading student, Israel of Brünn. Preserved in the margins of a manuscript of the Torah commentary of Jacob ben Asher, they comprise another unstudied cache of exegesis that largely took Rashi as a point of departure.110 In keeping with the habits of a late medieval Ashkenazic halakhist, Brünn often canvassed readings of Rashi found in earlier Franco-German literature before proposing his own views. He also cited Isserlein or incorporated ideas found in Isserlein’s glosses without mentioning his teacher by name. An atypical dimension of his marginalia is the awareness reflected therein, if only on a couple of occasions, of Sefardic criticism of Rashi by Abraham ibn Ezra and Nahmanides. Brünn had his attention drawn to these by way of the

107 When, in the last decade of the fifteenth century, the Sefardic biblical commentator, Isaac Abarbanel, arrived in Italy, he decried the persistent habit of “the Ashkenazim” to cease teaching Scripture at the age of five! See my Isaac Abarbanel’s Stance Toward Tradition: Defense, Dissent, and Dialogue (Albany: SUNY Press, 2001), 43. 108 I address this dimension of supercommentary in a forthcoming study (above, n. 10). Beyond Ashkenaz, in the context of a different supercommentarial tradition devoted to the Torah commentary of Abraham ibn Ezra, late medieval scholars who agreed on their secondary status as supercommentators could nevertheless hotly contest the degree of allegiance they owed to the great exegete of yore to whom they devoted their interpretive efforts. See Jean-Christophe Attias, Le commentaire biblique: Mordekhai Komtino ou l’herméneutique du dialogue (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1991), 135–61 (especially 147–58). 109 Simeon Ushenburg, Deveq Tov (Bnei Brak: Sifrei Kodesh Meshor, 2000), 9. Elbaum, ‫פתיחות‬, 388. 110 The comments appear in Moscow, Russian State Library, MS Guenzburg 909. For the appearance on the page, see the images in Shlomo Angel, “‫גיליון רבינו ישראל מברונא עה״ת פרשיות וארא – בא‬,” Moriyah 22 (fascicle 5–7 [257–259]), (1999): 26–27.

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

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base text of the manuscript in which he jotted down his notes, the commentary of the German immigrant to Spain, Jacob ben Asher.111 Also awaiting study is the supercommentarial legacy of Joseph Colon (Mahariq; ca. 1420–ca. 1480), one of the last vestiges of the French rabbinic elite who lived at a time when the collective identity of expelled French Jews was fast disappearing.112 Colon trained in a French émigré community in Trevoux in France-Comté (hence his family appellation “Trabotto”) and in the Savoyard capital of Chambéry. His supercommentarial insights were born in part of a class on the weekly Torah portion that Colon gave in his yeshivah. In that class, he studied the portion – it is by now almost needless to say – through its “refraction through the commentary of Rashi.”113 In Colon’s case, too, one can easily link a focus on Rashi with a religio-intellectual outlook deeply imbued by a sense of the “decline of the generations.”114

Early Modern Coda Joseph Colon brings us to the point where the Jewish Middle Ages segues into early modern times. With regard to the latter, scholars dispute the degree to which the two main domains in which Ashkenazic life unfurled, central 111 For incorporation of an idea found in Isserlein with reference made to this fact, see ‫גליון רבינו‬ ‫ ישראל מברונא‬, 2 n. 6. For awareness of Nahmanidean criticism by way of Jacob, see the beginning of the extended comment on Gen 23:1 (s.v. “‫)”שני חיי שרה‬, ibid., 3 (n. 10) and, for Ibn Ezra, the comment on Gen 45:6 (s.v. “‫)”כי זה שנתים הרעב‬, ibid., 66 (n. 8). 112 For the larger trend, see Ivan G. Marcus, “Why did Medieval Northern French Jewry (Ṣ arfat) Disappear?” in Jews, Christians and Muslims in Medieval and Early Modern Times: A Festschrift in Honor of Mark R. Cohen, ed. Arnold E. Franklin et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 99–117 (103 n. 15 with respect to Colon’s self-awareness as a “ṣ arfati”). 113 Jeffrey R. Woolf, “The Life and Responsa of Rabbi Joseph Colon b. Solomon Trabotto” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1991), 28, 36–40 (39 for the cited passage). For Colon’s exegesis, see ‫חידושי‬ ‫ הרמב״ם והסמ״ג‬,‫ על התורה‬:‫ופירושי המהרי״ק‬, ed. E. D. Pines, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem: Mekhon Yerushalayim, 1984). Some of his interpretations of Rashi appear in a supercommentary titled ‫עמר נקא‬, which is almost invariably erroneously ascribed to the Italian Mishnah commentator Obadiah of Bertinoro. For the error’s persistence, see Bruno Chiesa, “Il supercommentario di ‘Ovadyah da Bertinoro a Raši,” in ‘Ovadyah Yare da Bertinoro e la presenza ebraica in Romagna nel Quattrocento, ed. Giulio Busi (Torino: S. Zamorani, 1989), 35–46; Preschel, “Supercommentaries,” 315; Krieger, Parshan-Data, 109–12. For its correction, and for the work’s likely compilation by a disciple of Bertinoro, see Avraham Yosef Havazelet, “‫ביאור ׳עמר נקא׳ על פירש״י לתורה‬,” Moriyah 17 (1991): 117–22. 114 Woolf, “Between Diffidence and Initiative,” 95, observes that Colon’s sense runs parallel to that of his German colleagues, though Colon was of French extraction and training. As a natural corollary to the sense of latter-day decline, Colon showed great veneration for his towering predecessors, scolding those who denied probative halakhic weight to the marginal notes issuing from these great authorities of yore. See Spiegel, ‫עמודים‬, 207.

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and eastern Europe, comprise a unified field for purposes of religious and intellectual history.115 In some spheres, such as religious customs, regional traits are certainly discernible, and this calls into high relief the fact that the writing of supercommentaries on Rashi was a trans-Ashkenazic pursuit.116 The early modern heyday of Ashkenazic Rashi supercommentary occurred during a period of stunning cultural transformation. The shifts, as noted already, can mainly be traced to the arrival of printed Sefardic literature in Ashkenazic centers of learning.117 As a halakhist, Israel Isserlein relied almost exclusively on German and French sages, citing mainly Maimonides among Spanish decisors, while displaying willingness to reject even his rulings on the basis of contrary views held by venerated Ashkenazic forerunners.118 The degree to which Isserlein knew Spanish sources first hand is a question for debate. By contrast, even average Ashkenazic readers a few generations later found themselves awash in Sefardic writings, including Bible commentaries. These writings simultaneously generated interest in non-halakhic bodies of learning and created new audiences for them.119 Elchanan Reiner is of the opinion that the Sefardic commentaries essentially introduced Bible studies into the early modern Ashkenazic rabbinic academies, but our survey shows that such studies were not completely absent from the late medieval scene.120 Still, it appears that early modern Ashkenaz did see a new-found interest in Bible (or at least Torah) 115 David Ruderman maintains the difficulty of treating the two as a single cultural entity. See Jewish Thought and Scientific Discovery in Early Modern Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 67. Joseph Davis stresses “common” traits. See “The Cultural and Intellectual History of Ashkenazic Jews 1500–1750: A Selective Bibliography and Essay,” Year Book of the Leo Baeck Institute 38 (1993): 344. 116 With regard to religious customs, see Tamás Visi and Magdaléna Jánošíková, “A Regional Perspective on Hebrew Fragments: The Case of Moravia,” in Books Within Books: New Discoveries in Old Book Bindings, ed. Andreas Lehnardt and Judith Olszowy-Schlanger (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 185–236. 117 Elhanan Reiner, “The Attitude of Ashkenazi Society to the New Science in the Sixteenth Century,” Science in Context 10 (2010): 598–600. See the bibliography cited above, n. 63, and idem, “‫ישן מפני‬ ‫ על תמורות בתוכני לימוד בישיבות פולין במאה הט״ז וישיבתו של רמ״א בקרקוב‬:‫חדש‬,” in ‫ אסופת‬:‫זכר דבר לעבדך‬ ‫מאמרים לזכר דב רפל‬, ed. Shmuel Glick (Jerusalem: Bet-Sefer la-Chinukh; Bar-Ilan / Mikhlelet Lipshitz, 2006), 183–206. 118 Chaim Tchernowitz, ‫תולדות הפוסקים‬, 3 vols. (New York: Jubilee Committee, 1947), 2:266; Simhah Assaf, “‫עם הספר והספר‬,” in ‫ פרקים מחיי התרבות של היהודים בימי הבינים‬:‫( באהלי יעקב‬Jerusalem: Mosad haRav Kook, 1943), 16. 119 Rosman, “Innovative Tradition,” 532, 541; Elbaum, ‫פתיחות‬, 87–88; idem, “‫עקבות ספרות מגורשי ספרד‬ ‫ביצירת יהודי פולין במאה הט״ז‬,” Pe‘amim 80 (1999): 34–39. 120 Reiner, “The Attitude,” 600. Rosman, “Innovative Tradition,” 539, speaks of “intensive interest in Bible exegesis” but, like Elbaum (‫פתיחות‬, 93), clarifies that writers and readers were not concerned with Bible per se but wished to render meaningful “those parts of the Bible that were most closely connected to regular Jewish ritual life.”

Biblical Scholarship in Late Medieval Ashkenaz

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study. As we have seen, it was an interest that increasingly found expression in supercommentaries on Rashi’s Commentary, the fundamental text that “accompanied Bible study from the most elementary to the most advanced level.”121 Major alterations in the religious landscape often invite stout reaffirmations of the inviolable character of the old order, and the increased attention paid to Scripture in early modern Ashkenaz was no exception. That an area of study long relegated to the periphery was moving into the center is illustrated by a comment found in a provocative sermon delivered on the “Great Sabbath” before Passover in 1559 by Aaron Land, the head of the yeshivah and rabbinic court in Poznan. Land, paraphrased by a bitter rival, is quoted as saying (“in his impudence”) that a Jew ought to study “the Talmud alone.” All other books, he reportedly said, were at best profitless, or illegitimate, and possibly heretical (the ambiguous term used is “books of Homer”). Most surprisingly, Land is quoted as insisting that “even the twenty-four [books of the Bible] no Jew should study frequently or intensively.” The provocation for this broadside is hard to pin down. Reiner suggests that Land was fighting a rear-guard action against the newly broadened curriculum in Ashkenaz that included a heightened interest in Scripture. Facilitating the latter was the appearance of all the “twenty-four” scriptural books in new “rabbinic Bibles” that were being produced by Italian presses – Bibles that quickly migrated north to Jewish communities in central and eastern Europe.122 Yet even as Land opposed any dilution in the traditional “Talmud-only” (or, in point of fact, halakhocentric) curriculum, he presumably did not seek to extirpate study of the weekly Torah portion with Rashi. Indeed, such study formed the kernel of a weekly lecture delivered by the heads of many sixteenth-century Polish rabbinic academies.123 Meanwhile, as Ashkenazic scholars adapted themselves to the mechanical reproduction of texts, deeply ingrained textual traditions took on novel forms as new reading habits arose. Gone was the fluid textual culture of medieval Ashkenaz, in which the distinction between text and commentary was blurred

121 Edward Fram, “Rabbinic Literature (before 1800),” in The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, ed. Gershon David Hundert, 2 vols. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 2:1497. 122 Ph. Bloch, “Der Streit um den Moreh des Maimonides in der Gemeinde Posen um die Mitte des 16 Jahrhundert,” MGWJ 47 (1903): 153–69, 263–79, 346–56. See Rosman, “Innovative Tradition,” 543; Reiner, “‫אין צריך‬,” 706–8, 724–30. What Land meant by “books of Homer” is not entirely clear. For rabbinic background and bibliography, see Yaakov Y. Teppler, Birkat haMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflict in the Ancient World (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 258–60. Land’s younger contemporary, Judah Loew of Prague, sought, for the most part unsuccessfully, to reform the Ashkenazic curriculum in ways that, among other things, would curtail premature Talmud study and accord greater attention to Bible. See Halbertal, People of the Book, 99, and the literature cited there. 123 Reiner, “‫אין צריך‬,” 727 n. 32.

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and the heads of the rabbinic academies functioned as almost “second authors” whose hagahot often found their way into later recensions of the text. The printed book may have also had margins in which to scribble, but such jottings were generally part of private reading intended for the owner of the book rather than for future users, as was the case in medieval Ashkenaz.124 Over time, the dialogue between Rashi and his supercommentators (with, of course, the biblical text standing as the ultimate base text) often turned into a trialogue with a figure born of another cultural sphere, the supercommentator of Romaniote origins, Elijah Mizrahi. In 1527, Mizrahi’s son took his father’s untitled, not entirely finished supercommentary to the main home of Hebrew printing, Venice. Soon thereafter, “The Re’em” (as the work came to be called) quickly joined a stream of “foreign” tracts pouring into the Ashkenazic heartland from Italian presses. Among those whose annotations to Mizrahi survive is one of the twin pillars of sixteenth-century Polish rabbinic literature, Moses Isserles. The other pillar, Solomon Luria, left behind a bequest of comments on Rashi and Mizrahi as well. Their supercommentarial and super-supercommentarial efforts, like those of many other leading early modern Ashkenazic rabbis, await their scholarly redeemers.125 * * * Jacob Elbaum’s assessment is that Rashi supercommentaries written in early modern central and eastern Europe attest to the “creative directions and characteristic spiritual links of early modern Ashkenazic writing generally.”126 Elchanan Reiner, noting the proliferation of supercommentaries, finds in them signs of an early modern Ashkenazic “rediscovery of the Bible.”127 Yet as we have seen, Ashkenazic study of the Bible did not go entirely missing in later medieval times – certainly not as much as the near total dearth of scholarship on it suggests. With regard to Rashi supercommentary, Edward Fram stresses the fact that this medium was not new in early modern Ashkenaz, even though “it became far more popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.128 While 124 For this distinction, see Sládek, “The Printed Book,” 27. See the forthcoming study of Benjamin Williams, The 1525 Rabbinic Bible and How to Read It, on the annotations in the 1525 Rabbinic Bible once owned by Zalman Gans and now in the John Ryland’s Library, University of Manchester. 125 For Isserles, see “‫קרני רא״ם‬,” Meged Yerachim, 2nd fascicle (1855): 59–65. The tome titled ‫יריעות‬ ‫( שלמה‬Curtains of Solomon) reflects Luria’s glosses as brought to print by one of his disciples, but other versions as recorded by other students exist. 126 Elbaum, ‫פתיחות‬, 86–87. 127 Reiner, “The Attitude,” 600. 128 “Rabbinic Literature,” 2:1497. See also the assessment of Elbaum cited above, n. 32. Supercommentaries are fairly prominent in the list of more than five thousand books printed between 1540 and 1640 as studied in Anat Gueta, “‫הספרים המודפסים של שנות ה׳שין׳ כמקור לחקר חיי הרוח של‬ ‫החברה היהודית‬,” 2 vols. PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 2003, though the chapter in this work that

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303

there needs to be more work in order to locate the remains of late medieval supercommentarial activity that came to surround Rashi, exemplars that invite scrutiny already exist. A fuller picture of this phase in Jewish exegetical tradition will come into view when scholars pay greater heed to the interpretations that Ashkenazic rabbis left behind, literally and figuratively, in the margins of the page.

Acknowledgments: The research for this study was supported by the ISRAEL SCIENCE FOUNDATION (grant No. 256/14). It also received generous support from Keren Beit Shalom, Kyoto, Japan. Joseph Davis and Martin Lockshin supplied helpful observations at an early stage of writing supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Edward Breuer and Abraham Lieberman improved a draft. Jacob Elbaum kindly read a penultimate version. Doron Forte supplied invaluable editorial assistance. I wish to thank all of these individuals and institutions while absolving them of responsibility for remaining errors or oversights.

explores the religio-intellectual significance of these printings (1:113–66) does not, as far as I noticed, draw any attention to this point.

Some Preliminary Observations on the First Published Translation of Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish (Cremona, 1560) Edward Fram Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

In 1560, an Old Yiddish translation of the liturgical Hebrew Bible was published in Cremona at the printing house of Vincenzo Conti. The translation was based on that of Paul Aemilius (Ausburg, 1544) and was accompanied by the first printed Yiddish translation of Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch prepared by Judah ben Moses Naphtali. An analysis of a number of chapters of the translation, which is an abridgement, shows that the translator recognized the difficulty of transmitting many of Rashi’s Hebrew word plays, grammatical insights, and scriptural proofs to an audience that was not knowledgeable in Hebrew, and that he therefore omitted many of these aspects of Rashi’s commentary. Moreover, the need to make the work attractive to a broad audience that already had alternatives for their reading pleasure, such as Yiddish language epic stories, led the translator to focus on legends and legal pronouncements. The translator took some liberties and added mystical ideas that he filched from other sources and placed into Rashi’s comments without ever acknowledging the additions. An appendix explains why the colophon and frontispiece of the text were printed on the same day, and deals with the transfer of woodcuts between printing houses in Venice, Cremona, and Riva di Trento.

On the eve of Passover (April 10) 1560 in Cremona, Judah ben Moses Naphtali completed the publication of a translation of the Pentateuch into biblical Old Yiddish. The text, printed in Hebrew characters, was accompanied by translations of the haftarot – selections from the Prophets that are read in the synagogue on Sabbaths, Festivals, and fast days – and the five megillot (lit., Five Scrolls), the collective name given to Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther, each of which are also read publicly in the course of the year.1 Together, these biblical books and passages constitute the liturgical

1 A copy of the 1560 edition, albeit missing the frontispiece, introduction, colophon, and sundry other pages, can be found at http://bit.ly/1R4U5FV. For a description of the book, see Giovanni Bernardo De Rossi, Annali ebreo-tipografici di Cremona (Parma: Stamperia Imperiale, 1808),

305

306

Edward Fram

Hebrew Bible, that is, the sections of the Bible that are part of the annual synagogue liturgy. This was not the first printing of the translated liturgical Hebrew Bible in what Erika Timm has termed Bibelübersetzungssprache (lit., “the language of biblical translation”), that is, Old Yiddish reflecting earlier translation traditions which predated printing.2 The liturgical Hebrew Bible had been printed twice before, once in Constance in 1544 by the Protestant Hebraist Paul Fagius (ca. 1504–1549), apparently with the assistance of a convert from Judaism, Michael Adam (fl. mid-sixteenth century), and a second time in Augsburg later that same year by another convert from Judaism, Paul Aemilius (ca. 1500–1575).3 Although Fagius had missionary proclivities as reflected in his publication of 14, no. 27, with page 22, no. II; Me’ir Benayahu, ‫ תולדות בית הדפוס של וינצינצו‬:‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬ ‫( קונטי‬Jerusalem: Machon Ben Zevi and Mosad HaRav Kook, 1971), 211–12, with additional bibliographic references; Chone Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש באיטליה‬,” Italia 3 (1982): 139, no. 12, with a transcription of the introduction and colophon; and Chava Turniansky and Erika Timm, “Yiddish in Italia,” in Yiddish in Italia: Yiddish Manuscripts and Printed Books from the 15th to the 17th Century, with the collaboration of Claudia Rosenzweig (Milan: Associazione Italiana Amici dell’Università di Gerusalemme, 2003), 10–11, no. 7. The work was not included in Pier Francesco Fumagalli, ed., Tipografia ebraica a Cremona 1556–1576: mostra bibliografica (Rome: Instituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, 1985), because it was not featured in the exhibition. A brief English language introduction to the work together with bibliographic references and a transcription of selected passages, including the author’s introductory poem, can be found in Jerold Frakes, ed., Early Yiddish Texts 1100–1750 with Introduction and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 305–11. 2 On the term “Bibelübersetzungssprache,” see Erika Timm, in cooperation with Gustav Adolf Beckmann, Historische jiddische Semantik: die Bibelübersetzungssprache als Faktor der Auseinanderentwicklung des jiddischen und des deutschen Wortschatzes (Tübingen: M. Niemeyer, 2005), 5–18. A partial list of earlier translations into biblical Old Yiddish that remain in manuscript is offered by Jean Baumgarten, Introduction to Old Yiddish Literature, ed. and trans. Jerold Frakes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 104 n. 45. Also see, Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik, 41–48. 3 On Paul Fagius, see Richard Raubenheimer, Paul Fagius aus Rheinzabern: sein Leben und Wirken als Reformator und Gelehrter, Veröffentlichungen des Vereins für Pfälzische Kirchengeschichte, vol. 6 (Grünstadt: Vereins, 1957), and, with respect to his interest in Hebrew, 22–50. Michael Adam had a hand in a number of translations from Hebrew into Yiddish (see Nahum Shtif, “‫מיכאַעל‬ ‫אַדאַמס דרײַ יידישע בּיכער‬,” Filologishe Shriftn 2 [1928] 135–68; cf. Israel Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature: Old Yiddish Literature from Its Origins to the Haskalah Period, vol. 7, trans. Bernard Martin [Ktav: New York, 1975], 143 n. 5). Regarding the Constance edition, see Max Weinreich, Geschichte der jiddischen Sprachforschung, ed. Jerold Frakes, South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 27 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 76–81. Also see Baumgarten, Introduction, 104–5. With regard to Paul Aemilius, see Joseph Perles, Beiträge zur Geschichte der hebräischen und aramäischen Studien (Munich: Theodor Ackermann, 1884), 166–77, and Hans Striedl, “Paulus Aemilius an J. A. Widmanstetter: Briefe von 1543/44 und 1549: Aus dem Hebräischen übersetzt und kommentiert,” in Ars Iocundissima: Festschrift für Kurt Dorfmüller zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Horst Leuchtmann and Robert Münster (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1984), 333–34.

Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish

307

Sefer Amanah (Isny, 1542), a book intended to convince Jews of the truth of the “messianists,” there is nothing to suggest that either of these biblical translations were part of a campaign to convert Jews through Yiddish.4 Judah ben Moses Naphtali’s contribution to the translation of the liturgical Hebrew Bible was an accompanying Yiddish translation – albeit abridged – of what had emerged from the Middle Ages as the central biblical exegetical work in Jewish tradition, the commentary of Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac (1040–1105, Troyes), who was known by the acronym Rashi.5 Some of Rashi’s comments on the Pentateuch had been translated into Yiddish earlier, but no sustained translation is known to have existed previously. Judah ben Moses Naphtali was the first to print Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish. Little is known of Judah ben Moses Naphtali, who said that his contemporaries called him Leb or Leb Bresch, the name that I will use to refer to him from this point forward.6 The frontispiece of his translation says that he was from Crem, but the place referred to remains uncertain.7 It has been suggested that Crem was Crema in Lombardy where there had been an Ashkenazic community since the mid-fifteenth century.8 Crema is about thirty-five kilometers northwest of Cremona, a location that would have made the printing of a work there

4 On the use of Yiddish “as a language of conversion,” see Elisheva Carlebach, Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany, 1500–1750 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 166–69, and Aya Elyada, A Goy Who Speaks Yiddish: Christians and the Jewish Language in Early Modern Germany, Stanford Studies in Jewish History and Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2012), 24–26. 5 A number of Rashi’s comments were translated into Yiddish in Bodleian Library Heb. MS 170 (Opp. 19) (Oxford), (Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts, Jerusalem, F 16234), a translation of the Pentateuch completed in the spring of 1544 for an individual woman by a scribe from Wetzlar. The translations of Rashi were sporadic. For example, the first 40 chapters of Genesis had less than ten such comments (see 11:7, 12:1, 35:22, 37:10, 48:14; the first few pages of the manuscript are damaged and there may have been more material there). On the text and a sample section, see Frakes, Early Yiddish Texts, 214–18. On the manuscript and its patron, see Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library and in the College Libraries of Oxford, compiled by A. D. Neubauer (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994 [Reprint, 1886]), no. 170, with Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library: Supplement of Addenda and Corrigenda to Vol. 1 (A. Neubauer’s Catalogue), ed. R. A. May, compiled under the direction of Malachi Beit-Arié (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994). 6 See the colophon of the volume, reprinted in Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 212, and Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש באיטליה‬,” 139, no. 12, as well as ‫( הצעה על אודות הגט‬Venice: Giorgio de’ Cavalli, 1566), fol. 10b. 7 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 211, no. 25, incorrectly transcribed the name of the town as ‫קרטס‬. 8 On the Jewish community in Crema, see Giuliana Albini Montovani, “La comunità ebraica in Crema nel sec. XV e le origini del monte di pietà,” Nuova Rivista Storica 59, no. 3–4 (1975): 378–406; Shlomo Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1977), xviii.

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Edward Fram

a convenient matter for Leb Bresch. However, there is no evidence beyond this frontispiece regarding Leb Bresch being from Crema.9 Some have claimed that Leb Bresch hailed from Brześć (whether in Kujawy or Lithuania), but this town would not have been called “Bresch” in sixteenth-century Yiddish but rather “Brisk.”10 More significantly, Timm noted that Leb Bresch’s introduction to this volume is decidedly western Yiddish in character, making an eastern provenance unlikely.11 Timm and Chava Turniansky have suggested that “Bresch” was a reference to Brescia, about forty-five kilometers northeast of Crema, a site that would be plausible given Leb Bresch’s activities in the region.12 As for vocation, Meir Benayahu proposed that Leb Bresch was an itinerant scholar who tried to make a living in the publishing business.13 Indeed, in the colophon of the book, Leb Bresch prayed that he might be able “to start and finish other books.”14 This seemingly formulaic prayer is found in the colophons of a number of Hebrew manuscripts from the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries from various locales.15 It also appeared in some early printed Hebrew and Yiddish books that preceded Leb Bresch’s translation, such as Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (Rome[?], ca. 1474), Achay of Sabha’s She’iltot (Venice, 1546), Elijah Levita’s 1545 Yiddish translation of Psalms, and Aemilius’s 1544 translation of the Pentateuch. Still, it was not a widely used supplication, implying that it may reflect Leb Bresch’s genuine hope to continue in the publishing industry. If, however, Leb Bresch was indeed an aspiring translator/printer, it would seem that he was an unsuccessful one. Although Benayahu suggested that Leb Bresch printed another Yiddish work in Cremona that has not survived, this remains speculative and the Rashi translation is the sole work that Leb Bresch is known to have published.16 9 In a private email to the author on September 17, 2013, Professor Simonsohn noted that there is no documentary evidence that Leb Bresch was from Crema. 10 See, for example, Solomon Luria, ‫( ספר שאלות ותשובות מהרש״ל‬Jerusalem: n.p., 1969), no. 96. 11 Erika Timm, Graphische und phonische Struktur des Westjiddischen unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Zeit um 1600, Hermaea Germanistische Forschungen, (Neue Folge) 52 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1987), 576. 12 Turniansky and Timm, “Yiddish in Italia,” 10, no. 7. 13 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 64. 14 Reprinted in Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 212; Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש באיטליה‬,” 139. 15 Regarding manuscripts, a search of the Sfardata database [sfardata.nli.org.il] of over 2,000 Hebrew manuscripts written up to 1540 using the term “‫ ”להתחיל‬reveals just a few instances. These include Bibliothèque Nationale de France (Paris) Hebrew MS 328–29 (Sfardata Key 0B082) from Cesena (1399/1400), Biblioteca Nazionale (Florence) MS Magl. III 139 (Sfardata Key 0E669) from Italy (1432), Bibliothèque Nationale de France (Paris) Hebrew MS 1178 (Sfardata Key 0B254) from Vieste (1455/56), and National Library of Israel (Jerusalem) MS Heb. 8° 156 (Sfardata Key 0A016), perhaps from North Africa (1522). 16 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 60 and 212, no. 26. There was at least one other Yiddish book

Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish

309

Beyond this printing endeavor, there is only one other known historical note concerning Leb Bresch as of now. In late 1565 or early 1566, he signed a letter supporting an excommunication edict issued by a rabbinic court in Venice against an individual who had tried to revoke the bill of divorce he had given to his betrothed a few months earlier. Leb Bresch was the very first supporter of the court’s excommunication listed in the record. That the court turned to him to sustain their actions suggests that he was a man of sufficient standing in his day to warrant enlisting his support.17 As noted, Leb Bresch’s translation project was printed at the press of Vincenzo Conti (d. 1570). It has been said that Conti came from a family that “was probably of Jewish origin” (da famiglia probabilmente di origine ebraica).18 The Conti printing house maintained a Hebrew division which produced twenty-five Hebrew books between 1556 and 1559 (not including books whose existence is in doubt).19 Conti seems to have been committed to Hebrew publishing, for on January 24, 1558, he entered into an agreement with Samuel Böhm and David Norlingen to continue printing Hebrew books in Cremona.20 Böhm had worked at the press in 1556 as an editor, and placed his name in the colophon of Conti’s edition of Isaac ben Joseph of Corbeil’s Sefer Ammudey Golah. Böhm was still in Cremona in the summer of 1558 when he joined others in signing a rabbinic ruling.21 In late 1562 he was no longer in Cremona, for he signed his name “Samuel Böhm, the cantor of Padua” and said that he had endured some wandering.22 Exactly when he left the town remains unclear. David Norlingen published in Cremona prior to 1595, but the year of publication is uncertain. See Chone Shmeruk, “‫ראשיתה של הפרוזה הסיפורית ביידיש ומרכזה באיטליה‬,” Scritti in Memoria di Leone Carpi, ed. Daniel Carpi, et al. (Jerusalem: Fondazione Sally Mayer, 1967), 123–24, as well as his, “‫דפוסי יידיש באיטליה‬,” 173, no. 32, and the secondary literature cited there. Also see Zipporah Baruchson, “‫בעקבות הספרים‬ ‫האבודים של המאות הט״ו–ט״ז‬,” Alei Sefer 16 (1989–1990): 55, no. 191, regarding a third Yiddish book published in Cremona ostensibly in 1590, although no other Hebrew character work is known to have been published in Cremona in that era. 17 ‫הצעה על אודות הגט‬, fol. 10b. Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 60, followed by Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש‬ ‫באיטליה‬,” 139, no. 12, mistakenly identified Leb Bresch with Rabbi Judah ben Moses the Doctor, a rabbinic judge in contemporary Venice (see ‫הצעה על אודות הגט‬, fols. 4a, 7a, 8b, 9b, 11a, and 14a). 18 On Conti, who also published works in Italian and Latin in Cremona (1555–1569), Sabbioneta (1567), and Piacenza (1569–1570), see Rita Barbisotti, “Conti, Vincenzo,” in Dizionario dei tipografi e degli editori italiani, ed. Marco Menato et al. (Milan: Editrice Bibliografica, 1997), 329–36. Roberto Ricciardi, “Conti, Vincenzo,” in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, ed. Alberto Ghisalberti, vol. 28 (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1983), noted Conti’s possible Jewish origins. Available online at http://bit.ly/1OKuDny. 19 See Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 185–210; Yeshayahu Vinograd, ‫אוצר הספר העברי‬, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Institute for Computerized Bibliography, 1993–1995), s.v. Cremona. 20 See Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua, 143–50. 21 See Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 58. 22 Regarding Böhm’s identification with Padua and his wandering, see his introduction to Me’ir

310

Edward Fram

appears to have lived in Cremona until the 1590s, and took part in the second period of Hebrew printing in the city that began in 1565. He signed the colophon of Jacob di Illescas’s Sefer Imrey No’am (Cremona, 1565).23 Conti’s intentions and agreement with his assistants notwithstanding, 1558 and 1559 were turbulent years for Hebrew printing in Cremona. From the beginning of Hebrew printing in Cremona in 1556, the Inquisition was required to approve the publication of all Hebrew books. From 1558, supervision of Hebrew publishing in Cremona was tightened, and the Inquisition required that all Hebrew books published by the press have an imprimatur. Many of the books printed by Conti actually printed the Latin license in the Hebrew books.24 Despite this, the Inquisition seized Hebrew books in March 1559, and burned the Talmud and its commentaries in Cremona, probably late in the summer of that year, an event specifically mentioned by Joseph HaCohen as well as by the convert from Judaism, Sixtus Senensis (d. 1569), who had urged that the Talmud be destroyed.25 Benahayu has suggested that many of Conti’s Hebrew fonts were damaged during these upheavals, making it difficult to continue Hebrew printing at the press. Leb Bresch’s translation project, which did not have the Latin license printed in it but was signed by two inquisitors, was among the last Hebrew books printed at the press before it closed in late 1560/early 1561.26 Conti would reopen the Hebrew division only in 1565. Despite the disruptions in Cremona, Leb Bresch was able to use materials from Conti’s inventory to print under his own name at the Conti press. Woodcuts that appeared on the frontispieces and/or in the body of the text of Conti’s editions of Jacob Molin’s Responsa (1556), Jacob ben Asher’s Arba’ah Turim (1558) and Sefer haZohar (1558), as well as Italian works later published by Conti, such as Umberto Locati’s Cronica dell’ origine di Piacenza, gia Latinamente fatta per Ibn Gabba’i, Derek Emmunah (Padua: Lorenzo Pasquato, 1562), fol. 1b; also see the colophon, fol. 28a. 23 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 61. 24 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 74–84. 25 Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 89–104; Joseph HaCohen, ‫ ספור הקורות והתלאות אשר‬:‫עמק הבכא‬ ‫עברו על בית ישראל‬, ed. M. Letteris (Cracow: Joseph Fischer, 1895), 137–38. Sixtus Senensis is cited by Yosef Cohen, “1559–1553 ‫המומרים ושריפת התלמוד בקרימונה‬,” (Master’s thesis, Bar-Ilan University, 1997), 68. On the timing of the burning, see Benahayu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 102, 104; Cohen, “‫המומרים ושריפת התלמוד‬,” 66–69. Relevant sources are cited by Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. Jackie Feldman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 212 n. 5. 26 On the closing of the Hebrew press in Cremona, see Cohen, “‫המומרים ושריפת התלמוד‬,” 67, and Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 104 n. 1. Conti ultimately left the town and published Hebrew books in Sabbioneta in 1566–1567. On Conti’s Hebrew publishing in Sabbioneta, see Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 228–32. The inquisitors’ names appear in the copy of Leb Bresch’s translation found in The Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.

Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish

311

O. L., ed hora dal medesimo ridotta fedelmente nella volgare nostra favella (1564), are scattered among the pages of Leb Bresch’s edition of the liturgical Hebrew Bible.27 Leb Bresch also used square Hebrew fonts from Conti’s stock for incipits originally cut by Guillaume Le Bé for Hebrew printers in Venice in the 1540s.28 Conti had never printed texts in Yiddish and was unlikely to have any of the special fonts commonly – but not exclusively – used for printing Yiddish, let alone the two sets that Leb Bresch’s project required, for he printed Rashi’s commentary in a different, smaller, font than he used for the biblical text.29 Not surprisingly, Leb Bresch specifically mentioned that he was using new fonts created for this enterprise.30 Indeed, the Yiddish fonts used by Leb Bresch do not resemble those used anywhere else, which implies that Leb Bresch made a significant capital investment to bring his plan to fruition.31

Rationale for the Work According to Leb Bresch’s introduction, some of which was skillfully written in rhymed prose, he undertook this project because he perceived that people in his generation had forsaken studying the Torah.32 He surmised that for some 27 A relevant example from Jacob ben Asher’s Arba’ah Turim, Orach Chayyim (1558) is reproduced in Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 204. Further examples can be found in Conti’s editions of Solomon Paniel’s Or Eynayyim (1557), Isaac Abrabanel’s Rosh Emunah (1557) and Zevach Pesach (1557), Me’ir ben Barukh of Rothenburg’s responsa (1557), and Moses Galina’s Toledot Adam (1556; reproduced in Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 25), Samson ben Isaac of Chinon’s Sefer Keritut (1558, where the woodcuts were not only used on the frontispiece but in the body of the book as well [see fol. 72b]), and Psalms with the commentary of David Kimchi (1561, which was begun in Cremona but was completed in Riva di Trento [see below, n. 126]; the frontispiece was reproduced in Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 18). 28 See Henri Auguste Omont, Spécimens de caractères hèbreux, grecs, latins et de musique gravés à Venise et à Paris par Guillaume Le Bé (1545–1592) (Paris: n.p., 1889), plate no. 8. That the Hebrew fonts used by Leb Bresch were prepared by Le Bé was generously pointed out to me by Stephen Lubell, electronic correspondence to the author, February 26, 2014. Cf., Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי‬ ‫בקרימונה‬, 14, who maintained that Conti did not use Hebrew fonts from other printing houses. 29 On the use of a separate font in printing Yiddish, see Herbert Zafren, “Variety in the Typography of Yiddish: 1535–1635,” Hebrew Union College Annual 53 (1982): 153–58. 30 ‫חמשה חומשי תורה‬, trans. Judah ben Moses Naphtali (Cremona: Vincenzo Conti, 1560), introduction. 31 See Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 24. On the distinctive character of these two sets of fonts, see Zafren, “Variety in the Typography of Yiddish,” 150–51. 32 The introduction and accompanying poem were fully transcribed by Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש‬ ‫באיטליה‬,” 139–42, with references. There is a partial transcription of the introduction in Latin characters in Wilhelm Staerk and Albert Leitzmann, Die jüdisch-deutschen Bibelübersetzungen (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1977 [Reprint, 1923]), 129–30. A transcription of a different section can be found in Siegmund Wolf, Jiddisches Wörterbuch (Mannheim: Bibliographisches Institut,

312

Edward Fram

this was not their fault, for they had not had an opportunity to study in their youth and Hebrew texts were now beyond their reach. Others, he claimed, had had the chance for schooling but had not been sufficiently diligent students when young and had never acquired the necessary skills for self-study. Now that they were older, they too did not understand Hebrew.33 While Leb Bresch suggested that such people might have had opportunities to study with a teacher later in life, he said those who did not know how to study were embarrassed to participate in a class on the weekly Torah reading with a rebbe. The failure of men to engage in study had a ripple effect on women – young and old, single and married. According to Leb Bresch, women saw no reason why they should study religious books if men did not do so. These were not new rationales for translations of canonical works. Cornelius Adelkind, the publisher of Elijah Levita’s 1545 translation of the Book of Psalms, had already “observed” that some men had not had the time to study in their youth, suggesting that his publication would now offer them an entry into religious texts.34 Nehama Leibowitz questioned the historical value of these claims some time ago. Leibowitz argued that by the sixteenth century there was a well-established tradition of translation that itself propelled biblical translations forward.35 While this was certainly possible, tradition may not have been the only catalyst for a new translation project such as Leb Bresch’s translation of Rashi. Leb Bresch’s investment of time and effort to translate Rashi show him to have been knowledgeable and probably idealistic. He was also a businessperson who, by his own admission, wanted to sell his wares. By identifying a cultural lacuna and filling it, that is, presenting Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch – a

1962), 42–43. A transcription with Hebrew translation of a small section appeared in Simhah Assaf, ed., ‫מקורות לתולדות החינוך בישראל‬, rev. Shmuel Glick (Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 2001–2009), vol. 2, 260. (An English translation of a large section of the introduction was provided by Baumgarten, Introduction, 106; an excerpt also appears in English in Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, 120). 33 On the audience for the book, see Chava Turniansky, “‫לתולדות ה׳טיישט־חומש׳ – ׳חומש מיט ׳חיבור׳‬,” in ‫ דברים שנאמרו בערב לכבוד דב סדן במלאת לו שמונים וחמש שנה‬:‫( עיונים בספרות‬Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1988), 44–45. 34 ‫ספר תהלים‬, trans. Elijah Levita (Venice: Cornelius Adelkind, 1545), afterword, translated into English in Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, 96. Also see A. M. Habermann, ‫המדפיס קורנילייו‬ ‫אדיל קינד ובנו דניאל ורשימת הספרים שנדפסו על ידיהם‬, (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1980), 12 and 30, where the material was reprinted. 35 Nehama Leibowitz, Die Übersetzungstechnik der jüdisch-deutschen Bibelübersetzungen des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts dargestellt an den Psalmen. I. Teil: Syntaktisch-stilistische Untersuchung. Beiträgen zur Geschichte der deutschen Sprache und Literatur, vol. 55 (Marburg: Karras, Kröber & Nietschmann, 1931), 388.

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classic of Hebrew literature by all accounts – in the vernacular, Leb Bresch found a niche in the cultural marketplace and a means to advance his goals. Leb Bresch also cited other, familiar, reasons for his translation project. He wrote that his translation would help stem the practice of contemporary women spending Sabbaths and Festivals reading “useless” books. He wanted Jewish women of all ages to learn about God and proper forms of religious observance through reading the Bible. Again, this was not new, nor was it unique to Jewish society. Fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Christian leaders encouraged “simple souls” to read the Bible, in particular the Gospels, as a means to learn more about their faith and how to lead a pious way of life.36 Adelkind, too, had made disdainful comments about what Jewish women were reading, as did the author of the introduction to the Constance biblical Old Yiddish Pentateuch, probably the convert Michael Adam. The introduction to the Constance translation said that Jewish women were reading “foolish” (‫ )טורעכטן‬books about legendary characters such as Dietrich von Bern, Hildebrant, and the like, instead of focusing on pious texts. Were the non-Jews who prepared the Constance translation – including a convert! – truly concerned about the piety of Jewish women? Probably not. More likely, they included this as a selling point – offering women alternative reading material that could bring them to the “fear of Heaven” while at the same time helping their edition, the work of non-Jews, achieve acceptance in Jewish communities as preferred reading material.37 The efforts of printers to offer readers translations of the Pentateuch, and the platitudes they offered as their motivations notwithstanding, literal translations, even exceptionally accurate ones, had a significant limitation. They would never make the numerous biblical passages about sacrifices found in Leviticus and Numbers, or the laws dealing with oxen and pits found in Exodus, as easy and pleasurable to read as tales such as the previously mentioned epics and folktales or, for example, Elijah Levita’s Bovo d’Antona – the first secular epic published in Yiddish (1541) – with its handsome hero, sexual innuendoes, and battle scenes.38 As Turniansky has pointed out, translators of the Hebrew Bible never succeeded in creating works that were good reads.39 36 See Sabrina Corbellini, “Vernacular Bible Manuscripts in Late Medieval Italy: Cultural Appropriation and Textual Transformation,” in Form and Function in the Late Medieval Bible, ed. Eyal Poleg and Laura Light. Library of the Written Word, vol. 27; The Manuscript World, vol. 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 272–75. 37 ‫חמשה חומשי תורה עם חמש מגילות וההפטרות‬, prepared by (?) Michael Adam (Constance: Paul Fagius, 1544), fol. 2a. 38 A very engaging English translation of Bovo d’Antona with introductory remarks is presented by Jerold Frakes, ed. and trans., in Early Yiddish Epic. Judaic Traditions in Literature, Music, and Art (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2014), 238–316. 39 Turniansky, “‫לתולדות ה׳טיישט־חומש׳‬,” 48.

314

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Shortcomings aside, it would appear that Leb Bresch’s efforts were part of a seemingly uncoordinated “translation project” that characterized a segment of Ashkenazic intellectual life in the sixteenth century. The goal was to make foundational texts such as books of the Bible, midrashic epics, prayers, and works of religious instruction – but not books that were directed to the rabbinic elite, such as the Talmud, rabbinic responsa, and legal codes – available in print in Yiddish.40 With one very significant exception prior to 1560 – Asher Anshel’s Mirkevet haMishnah (Cracow, [1534]), a concordance/Yiddish dictionary of the Bible that would have been of great use to advanced students – translators/ adaptors such as Leb Bresch were interested in educating people through the vernacular, but not necessarily in preparing them for further independent study in Hebrew. Leb Bresch’s efforts expanded the library of Jewish literature in translation. However, Leb Bresch printed only the biblical Old Yiddish texts and Rashi in Yiddish; he did not include the original Hebrew texts. A bilingual text, like that published by Paul Fagius, Prima quatuor capita Geneseos Hebraice cum versione Germanica (Constance, 1543), which offered the first four chapters of the Book of Genesis in Hebrew with a facing biblical Old Yiddish translation in Hebrew characters, could be a powerful learning tool. By placing the texts opposite each other, Fagius allowed readers to study the Hebrew original with the vernacular, giving ambitious readers the opportunity to build and/or strengthen their Hebrew vocabulary as they progressed. Fagius, or perhaps more accurately, Michael Adam, relied on biblical Old Yiddish translations in preparing their volume, but since their primary target audience was non-Jews, adjustments had to be made. For example, Genesis 1:22 says that during the fifth day of creation “[God] blessed” (‫ )ויברך‬the animals. Following Jewish tradition, and like the Augsburg translation, Fagius rendered this as un er bensht (‫)אונ׳ ער בענשט‬. Fagius did not use the German verb segnen (“to bless”) as Martin Luther did in his 1545 translation of the Bible (und Gott segnete sie).41 The Yiddish word bensht had no German cognate and would almost certainly have been unintelligible to German-speaking Christians.42 Anticipating the problem, Fagius set the word off with interpuncts on

40 Of the 21 printed Yiddish books that predated Leb Bresch’s publication of the liturgical Bible with Rashi, only one title, Elijah Levita’s Bovo d’Antona (Isny, 1541) was not a “religious text.” Midrashic epics such as Das Sefer Melokim (Augsburg: [Paul Aemilius], 1543) and Das Sefer Shmuel (Augsburg: [Paul Aemilius], 1544) were not translations of specific Hebrew texts but were part of what Jerold Frakes has called “a network of sacred texts.” On the genre of midrashic epics, see Frakes’s Early Yiddish Epic, xxiv–xxix. 41 The Augsburg edition also used the word ‫בענשט‬. 42 On the word ‫בענטשן‬, see Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik, 186–87. My thanks to Professor

Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch in Yiddish

315

first mention (cf. Gen 1:28) and in the margin added a gloss for the German speaker: er zegnt (‫)ער זעגנט‬.43 Fagius was diligent. He spent much of the 1540s working on Hebrew grammar and translations for Christian readers, often together with Elijah Levita (Eliyyahu Bahur). Included among Fagius’s works were Compendiaria Isagoge in Linguam Hebraeam (Isny, 1543) on Hebrew grammar, Sententiae vere Elegantes, Piae, Mireque cum ad Liguam Discendam (Isny, 1541), with the Hebrew text and a Latin translation and explanation of Pirkei Avot, and Precationes Hebraicae (Isny, 1542), which focused on a number of Hebrew prayers, particularly Grace After Meals, which Fagius even revised for Christians who wanted to pray in Hebrew. Similarly, Fagius translated and published the first ten chapters of the Book of Psalms in Hebrew with the commentary of David Kimchi and a facing Latin translation.44 Through these works Christians could learn the Hebrew alphabet, rules of Hebrew grammar, and compare the language that they knew (German/Latin) with the language that they wanted to learn (Hebrew). Admittedly, works such as these could have dual audiences, and a secondary aim of these translations may have been to help potential Jewish apostates either see a role for themselves in Christian society as Hebrew grammarians and/or translators, or learn Latin.45 Nevertheless, Fagius’s primary concern was to help Christians, who generally still needed the help of Jews, to learn Hebrew on their own.46 Leb Bresch’s exclusive use of the vernacular meant that he, unlike Fagius, did not see his translation as a means of facilitating the study of Hebrew that would help readers move towards acquiring self-reliance in rabbinic texts. By comparison, when a Yiddish translation of Rashi was published in the early twentieth century, the translator chose to (1) publish the Hebrew biblical text, (2) print Rashi in the original Hebrew in its entirety, and (3) give a linear translation and explanation of Rashi in Yiddish.47 That is to say, he cited a few words

43

44

45 46

47

Timm for pointing out to me a number of such instances in which Fagius used Yiddish rather than German words. Fagius missed some such words. He translated the word ‫( רקיע‬Gen 1:6) as ‫ אויש שפרייטונג‬without a gloss for the German reader. See Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik, 432; Luther translated the word as Feste. Commentarium Hebraicum rabbi David Kimhi, in decem primos Psalmos Davidicos, cum versione latina è regione, trans. Paul Fagius (Constance: Paul Fagius, 1544). A digitalized copy is available at http://bit.ly/1XVH7t5. I thank Aaron Katchen for graciously pointing out to me the possibility of a dual audience for Fagius’s works. See Stephen G. Burnett, Christian Hebraism in the Reformation Era (1500–1660): Authors, Books, and the Transmission of Jewish Learning. Library of the Written Word, vol. 19; The Handpress World, vol. 13 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 102. ‫חומש בית יהודא‬, 5 vols. (Piotrków Trybunalski: M. Cederbaum, 1914).

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of Rashi in Hebrew and then translated them into Yiddish and explained; cited a few words of Rashi in the original, and then translated and explained, etc. This sort of running translation offered the possibility of making the study of Rashi in Yiddish translation a stepping-stone toward the study of the Hebrew original. Leb Bresch, however, was apparently satisfied with education in the vernacular as an end in and of itself. Moreover, a bilingual text required extra time and resources to print, and Leb Bresch may not have had either. Even if he did, additional production costs would have increased the final price for consumers, thus reducing the potential market. Practical considerations may have influenced Leb Bresch’s decision not to include more of Rashi’s explanations in his translation. An abridged edition was simpler and cheaper to produce. Despite Leb Bresch’s claims of seeking to provide a book for those who could not study Hebrew texts, the physical size of the volume, 29.35 × 19.5 cm., did not project the image of a work aimed at the laity.48 As Paul Grendler has pointed out regarding fifteenth- and sixteenth-century printed books, a large format was often a visual sign to potential users that a book was for serious readers.49 Yiddish texts aimed at broad audiences such as women’s commandment books, prayer books, ethical works, literary works, and translations of some biblical books, were published in smaller formats. Two ethical works, Den Muser un’ Hanagah (Cracow, 1535) and Sefer haMiddot (Isny, 1542), were published in octavo (16 cm.) and quarto (20 cm.) formats respectively. Azaharat Nashim (Cracow, 1535) and Mitzvat Nashim (Venice, 1552), women’s commandment books, were both published as octavos. A Yiddish prayer book published in Ichenhausen in 1544 measures about 14.5 × 19.5 cm. The translation of the Book of Daniel published in Basel in 1557 was a quarto that measured 15.5 × 9.3 (possibly 10.3) cm., and the Yiddish Book of Esther an octavo (11.8 × 6.4 cm.).50 Das Sefer Melokim and Das Sefer Shmuel, published in Augsburg by Paul Aemilius in 1543 and 1544, were each printed in quarto format.51 Elijah Levita’s abovementioned translation of Psalms was published in 12° format, as was the Yiddish Book of Psalms printed in Zurich in 1558 by Christoph Frosh-

48 The measurement is based on the copy in the library of The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York. The copy in The National Library of Israel has been cropped, as is obvious from its frontispiece, and measures 27.7 cm. × 19.5 cm. 49 On the physical format of the book as a message to potential buyers, with a number of examples, see Paul Grendler, “Form and Function in Italian Renaissance Popular Books,” Renaissance Quarterly 46, no. 3 (1993): 451–85. 50 On the Book of Daniel, see Joseph Prijs, Die Basler hebräischen Drucke, 1492–1866 (Olten: Urs Graf, 1964), no. 97. Regarding the Book of Esther, see no. 101. 51 See Mosche Rosenfeld, Der jüdische Buchdruck in Augsburg in der ersten hälfte des 16. jahrhunderts (London: n.p., 1985), nos. 53 and 54.

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chauer.52 This is not to imply that the Book of Psalms, for example, was not a canonical work, for obviously it was. It would seem that printing it in a small format allowed people to carry/hold it easily and read/recite psalms. By contrast, reference works such as Asher Anshel’s Mirkevet haMishnah, a study tool, used large paper (22 cm.).53 Similarly, the Constance and Augsburg Pentateuchs were published in larger quarto formats.54 The Cremona Pentateuch was printed in folio format and was vertically larger than all previously printed Yiddish works, and almost as wide as the Augsburg Pentateuch. It certainly looked like a book directed at those interested in advanced study, even though it was in Yiddish. In part, Leb Bresch’s use of a large format may have stemmed from practical considerations. It would have been easier to work with the considerable quantity of material included in a liturgical Bible with much of Rashi’s commentary in the margins on a large page than on a small one. Perhaps the large format was also intended to signal that even though this book was printed in the vernacular, it was a publication of great cultural importance. This impression was strengthened by the woodcut used on the frontispiece of the volume, the very same woodcut used by the Giustiniani press in Venice in its edition of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (1551).55 This woodcut had also just been used on the frontispieces of two other canonical works, Jacob ben Asher’s Arba’ah Turim (Riva di Trento, 1560) and one version of the classical work of medieval Jewish mysticism, Sefer haZohar (Cremona, 1558).56 Publishing the liturgical Hebrew Bible with the commentary of Rashi in Yiddish with the very same woodcut

52 Regarding this edition of Psalms, see Moritz Steinschneider, Catalogus Librorum Hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Hildesheim: Olms, 1964 [Reprint, 1852–1860]), no. 1269. 53 There is a description and digital copy of the work at http://bit.ly/1XVH7t5. 54 See the physical description given by Rosenfeld, Der jüdische Buchdruck in Augsburg, nos. 56 and 57. Regarding the Constance edition, see the online catalogue of The British Library, system number 000319377. 55 On how the woodcut may have come to the Cremona press, see Appendix. 56 On this particular version of Sefer haZohar, printed in Cremona in 1558 (the frontispiece is not dated), see Benayahu, ‫הדפוס העברי בקרימונה‬, 206–7 no. 21a. I have viewed the copy with this frontispiece at the Schocken Library in Jerusalem. Regarding the Arba’ah Turim, no specific date was listed on the frontispiece of the Tur saying when printing began in Riva di Trento; the colophon states that it was completed in the Hebrew month of Sivan 1560. Levi ben Gershom’s Milchamot haShem, also printed in Riva di Trento that year, was densely printed in two columns of type, seventy-five folios in length. It took a minimum of eighty-seven calendar days (including Sabbaths and Festivals) to print. Rabbi Jacob ben Asher’s volume was almost four times as long as Milchamot haShem and just as dense in terms of contents, if not more so, for it had numerous marginal notes on every page in a different font. Even if the printing of the Tur was completed on the last day of Sivan, seventy-five days earlier, on the eve of Passover when Leb Bresch printed his frontispiece, the Tur was likely being typeset and known to be forthcoming with this frontispiece.

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Edward Fram

on its front page sent a strong visual message that this tome belonged in the same hallowed category as the other works that did the same.

The Translation of the Pentateuch The editors of the 1544 Constance and Augsburg translations both claimed to have relied on earlier biblical Old Yiddish texts in preparing their own versions. Michael Adam said that he followed the translations of several “learned Jews” and rabbis and, in addition, had a number of translations before him as he worked.57 The frontispiece of the Augsburg translation declared that it was based on “an old Pentateuch written a long time ago.”58 Leb Bresch only said that he made corrections and emendations to an existing translation, without ever identifying his source.59 A comparison between Leb Bresch’s text and the Constance and Augsburg editions makes the relationship between them clearer. In Genesis 49:8, the patriarch Jacob promised his son Judah that “ . . . your father’s sons [‫ ]בני אביך‬will bow down before you.” While the Constance edition translated this correctly, the Augsburg translation mistakenly rendered the Hebrew “your father” (‫ )אביך‬as “your mother” (‫)דיינר מוטר‬. Leb Bresch copied the error into his own work. Exodus 28:17–21 lists the twelve jewels that were placed in the high priest’s breastplate. The translation of these technical terms posed a problem for late medieval Europeans – Jews and Christians alike – who were not always familiar with the contemporary names for each of the gems that the Torah referred to. Erika Timm has listed the different translations given for the names of each of these stones in various early biblical Old Yiddish versions, including those in manuscript.60 Of the more than dozen sources that Timm carefully laid out, Leb Bresch’s translation of the names of the gems corresponds to only one: that found in the 1544 Augsburg edition.61 57 ‫חמשה חומשי תורה עם חמש מגלות וההפטרות‬, fol. 1b. An English translation of the passage is provided by Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, 93–94. 58 A translation appears in Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, 94 n. 6. How much the Constance and Augsburg editions took from earlier translations and to what extent they adapted their versions is a question that requires further research. Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik, is an incredibly rich source for further investigation of the question. Also see Morris Faierstein, “The Yiddish Bible in the 16th Century” in the forthcoming Festschrift in honor of Professor Zev Gries. My thanks to Dr. Faierstein for providing me with a copy of his work. 59 Regarding Leb Bresch and his sources, see the introduction to ‫ חמשה חומשי תורה‬transcribed in Shmeruk, “‫דפוסי יידיש באיטליה‬,” 141. Also see Turniansky, “‫לתולדות ה׳טיישט־חומש׳‬,” 46–47. 60 See Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik, 612–13. 61 There is one minor variation between Bresch and the Augsburg edition in this regard. The

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Basing himself on the Augsburg translation did not mean that Leb Bresch did not augment his source text. Some additions were didactic in nature. Leb Bresch placed a parenthetical note in the biblical text directly before Leviticus 23:44, telling readers that this verse should be said as part of the evening liturgy on Festivals – although, again, Leb Bresch did not correct the translation mistake in the verse but copied it verbatim from the Augsburg translation.62 A similar sort of note after Deuteronomy 28:69 told readers that this was the end of the reading of the so-called “admonition” (‫ )תוכחה‬in which Moses warned the children of Israel of the terrible things that would befall them if they did not observe God’s law.63 After Deuteronomy 32:11 Leb Bresch offered a crossreference to Exodus 19 to help explain the rationale for a phrase, although the page number referred to was incorrect.64 Other changes were more technical in nature. Unlike both the Constance and Augsburg editions, Leb Bresch set off the Ten Commandments in Exodus to highlight them visually, although he did not do so in Deuteronomy, a book that Leb Bresch generally appears to have neglected, for there is a paucity of Rashi translation there. In the first three books of the Pentateuch, and much of Numbers as well, Leb Bresch added chapter numbers to the biblical text – something that the Constance edition had also done – but he did not number the verses as the Bomberg Hebrew Bible (Venice, 1547–1548) had.65 Leb Bresch did number the lines on each page, making it very easy for him to provide exact cross-references to which sections of the Torah were to be read in the synagogue on Festivals and on Mondays and Thursdays. Although Leb Bresch used the Christian chapter divisions, as did the Augsburg and Constance Pentateuchs, he clearly indicated the beginning and ending of the divisions of the weekly Torah reading (‫)פרשת השבוע‬. Like both 1544 translations, Leb Bresch did not distinguish the traditional Hebrew Bible divisions of “open

62

63 64 65

Hebrew word ‫( שבו‬Exod 28:19) was translated in Augsburg as ‫ טופוץ‬while Bresch rendered it as ‫טיפוץ‬. Here the difference between a ‫ ו‬and a ‫ י‬is not significant. The biblical verse says, ‫“( וידבר משה את מעדי ד׳ אל בני ישראל‬And Moses told the children of Israel of the Festivals of the Lord”). The Augsburg version translated this as ‫אונ׳ ער רידט משה צייט גוט צו‬ ‫קינדר ישראל צו זאגן‬. The words ‫ צו זאגן‬have no parallel in the biblical verse and do not appear in the Constance translation. Although the ‫ תוכחה‬ended with Deuteronomy 28:68, verse 69 was probably then, as now, included together with it when read in the synagogue (i.e., the same aliyah). Leb Bresch referred readers to fol. 32, line 21. The material appears on fol. 52a in the translation of Rashi, at approximately line 27. Bomberg, who was the first to print the verse numbers in the Hebrew Bible, did not number each verse. Instead he used a 1, 5, 10, 15, etc., format in the margins. This style was also followed in the Sabbioneta (1557) Pentateuch. On the introduction of numbered verses into the Hebrew Bible, see G. F. Moore, “The Vulgate Chapters and Numbered Verses in the Hebrew Bible,” Journal of Biblical Literature 12, no. 1 (1893): 73–78.

320

Edward Fram

and closed” portions (‫ )פתוחות וסתומות‬even though some of the Old Yiddish translations of the Pentateuch that predated Leb Bresch’s text made attempts to do so.66 For example, in Bodleian Library Heb. MS 170 (Opp. 19) “open and closed” portions were indicated by a citation of the first few Hebrew words of the verse followed by the translation.67 Divisions of the weekly Torah readings were set off by a citation of the entire first verse of the weekly reading in Hebrew, again followed by the translation. The scribe of Biblioteca Palatina MS 2510, De Rossi Judeo-German 1 (Parma), who apparently wrote the manuscript for his sister in Italy in the early sixteenth century, used a graphic symbol (