To Fix Torah in Their Hearts: Essays on Biblical Interpretation and Jewish Studies in Honor of B. Barry Levy 0878201645, 9780878201648

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to fix torah in their hearts essays on biblical interpretation and jewish studies in honor of b. barry levy

To Fix Torah in Their Hearts Essays on Biblical Interpretation and Jewish Studies in Honor of B. Barry Levy

edited by Jaqueline S. du Toit, Jason Kalman, Hartley Lachter, and Vanessa R. Sasson

Hebrew Union College Press

hebrew union college press © 2018 Hebrew Union College Press Typeset in Legacy Serif by Raphaël Freeman, Renana Typesetting Cover design by Paul Neff Design, LLC Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Levy, Barry B., honouree | Du Toit, Jaqueline S., editor. | Kalman, Jason, editor. | Lachter, Hartley, editor. | Sasson, Vanessa R., editor. Title: To fix Torah in their hearts: essays on biblical interpretation and  Jewish studies in honor of B. Barry Levy / edited by Jaqueline S. du Toit, Jason Kalman, Hartley Lachter, and Vanessa R. Sasson. Description: Cincinnati, Ohio: Hebrew Union College Press, [2018] Identifiers: LCCN 2018032331 | ISBN 9780878201648 (print) Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Old Testament--Hermeneutics. | Bible. Old Testament--Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Rabbinical literature--History and criticism. | Judaism--History. Classification: LCC BS1186 .T62 2018 | DDC 221.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018032 Cover image from Seder Haggadah shel Pesah be-lashon ha-kodesh written by Jacob ben Joseph Conegliano, 1742 or 1743. Cincinnati, Klau Library, MS 450. Image courtesy of Klau Library, Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion

Rabbi Judah said: When Israel heard the words I am the Lord thy God the capacity to learn Torah was fixed in their hearts such that they would study and not forget.

song of songs rabbah 1:15

Contents Introduction Jaqueline S. du Toit, Jason Kalman, Hartley Lachter, and Vanessa R. Sasson

1

Of Sons and Students David, Jonathan, and Daniel Levy

9

Text, Texture, Context, Pretext: Biography of a Professor, Educator, Mentor, Researcher Deborah Abecassis

11

Body of Work

15

Diviners in High Places: On Interpreting the Night Skies of the Ancient Near East Andrea D. Lobel

23

Hate in Early Rabbinic Traditions Joel Gereboff Naming Names: The Meaning and Significance of Disputes and the Use of Attributions to Named Authorities in Mishnah Jack N. Lightstone A Cairo Genizah Fragment of Genesis Rabbah from the Collection of McGill University Jason Kalman and the Students of 135–535a: Exegetical Midrash (McGill University, 2000)

59

85

119

Between Narrative and Exegesis: ďĕĚ in Midrash Genesis Rabbah 145 Shawn Zelig Aster Stories of Excess: Abraham and Vessantara Vanessa R. Sasson

171

vii

viii · contents Taking Stock of the Text(s) of Rashi’s Torah Commentary: Some Twenty-First Century Considerations and the Case for Leipzig 1 Yedida Eisenstat

199

“The Earth is Only for the Strong”: Interpretations of b. Sanhedrin 58b in High Medieval Europe Jesse Abelman

233

Radak’s Preemptive Exegesis: Concealed and Revealed Polemic in the Book of Kings Bryna Jocheved Levy

257

The Maharshal and Two Inverted Nuns Sholom Eisenstat

287

An Anonymous Commentary on the Ten Sefirot: Text and Translation Hartley Lachter

331

David Zvi Hoffmann versus Julius Wellhausen on the Age of the Day of Atonement Carla Sulzbach

373

Fixing God’s Torah in Small Caps: Children’s Bibles, Bible Scholarship, and Contemporary Judaism Jaqueline S. du Toit

409

Out of the Caves and Under Glass: The Politics of Exhibiting the Dead Sea Scrolls Jason Kalman

431

About the Contributors

483

Index

487

Introduction Jaqueline S. du Toit, Jason Kalman, Hartley Lachter, and Vanessa R. Sasson

“Learn to like one another, because you are inevitably at some point going to dislike me.” Professor Levy said this as he handed out the 150-page syllabus and bibliography for his signature graduate course, our year-long introduction to the history of Jewish biblical interpretation. We would have to find the sources ourselves, but at least we had a list – and each other. This Festschrift is testimony to the fact that Professor Levy was only half right. We did learn to like one another, and division of labor allowed us to develop a rare skill in the humanities: noncompetitive collaboration. Some of us still regularly publish together, we share and refer students, we find common sources of funding, and we explore ideas and projects. We became firm friends as well as colleagues for the twenty years since our first days in Professor Levy’s classes. But more than that, we learned to like, appreciate, and respect him. His demands were often overwhelming but, as expected from a superb pedagogue, he always offered strategies to meet the intellectual challenges he posed: he believed in us, and, as a result, we grew to believe in ourselves. Jacob Neusner’s 1987 dedication of the Talmud Yerushalmi: Megillah in English to a young Barry Levy, a former colleague at Brown, both encapsulates and predicts the broad command of Levy’s career: “For B. Barry Levy, who knows more than anyone else about Megillat Esther, Mishnah-tractate Megillah, Tosefta Megillah, Yerusalmi Megillah, Bavli Megillah, not to mention biblical languages and religion and generously, selflessly shares it all with everybody.” 1 1 Jacob Neusner, The Talmud of the Land of Israel: A Preliminary Translation and Explanation.

1

2 · introduction It is perhaps the great thematic weakness of this Festschrift that none of us offered a contribution on Esther, yet the extensive reach of what is represented here speaks to the breadth and depth of Professor Levy’s contribution to pedagogy, public discourse, and scholarship. Every contributor to this volume was his student. Some were inspired to continue graduate studies because of undergraduate work with him. Others came to McGill deliberately to have their graduate work supervised by him. Dozens of other former students were sorry they could not contribute. All were grateful that they benefited most profoundly from Professor Levy’s commitment to making his students his first priority. Even when he became dean of McGill’s faculty of religious studies, his door remained open to us (often requiring us to arrive at his office by 7 a.m.), and many times a faculty member or donor was made to wait while he finished a conversation with one of us. Levy established his footprint in academia by means of his meticulous grammar on Targum Neofiti based on his New York University PhD. 2 While working on his dissertation, Levy taught at Brown, with Jacob Neusner, among others. Joel Gereboff and Jack Lightstone studied with him then, and their respective contributions, “Hate in Early Rabbinic Traditions” and “Naming Names: The Meaning and Significance of Disputes and the Use of Attributions to Named Authorities in the Mishnah,” are inspired by this period of their learning. Ever a proponent of substance over volume, Levy found his niche as (review) essayist with few equals, eliciting encomiums such as “impressive” and “extensive” for his work in this medium. In this format, his dispositions as a scholar and public academic intersect to greatest effect. His style is provocative and incisive, but, as Steven Bayme pointed out, even when in disagreement, few can fault the substance of his analysis. 3 This was perhaps most forcefully illusVolume 19: Megillah, trans. Jacob Neusner. Chicago Studies in the History of Judaism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). 2 B. Barry Levy, Targum Neophyti: A Textual Study, 2 vols. (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1986–87). 3 Steven Bayme, “ArtScroll and Scholarship. To the editor of Tradition,” Tradition 20 (1982): 371.

introduction · 3 trated by his review of the ArtScroll series of biblical commentaries, “Judge Not a Book by Its Cover,” in Tradition and the controversy it elicited. 4 Levy’s penchant for detailed analysis and tight argumentation can be seen in other carefully crafted essays within his oeuvre such as “Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah: A Survey of Recent Publications” 5 and “Rabbinic Bibles, ‘Mikra’ot Gedolot’, and Other Great Books.” 6 Levy used this format to start mapping the history of biblical interpretation and, as a public intellectual spanning biblical scholarship and modern Jewish orthodoxy, his own tradition’s trajectory within the broader sweep of history, in work such as “Rabbinic Interpretation after the Holocaust.” 7 For Levy, the history of biblical interpretation is both a synchronic and a diachronic pursuit that demands a sensitivity to the gap between what a text may have meant for its intended audience and what it meant to later interpreters. The pedagogical implications of this meant that his students should master the Bible in its ancient Near Eastern setting, Second Temple and rabbinic literature, parshanut, the Jewish encounter with modernity, and critical biblical studies. That his students were inspired to continue work in these areas is reflected in, for example, the contribution of Andrea Lobel on astronomical observation in ancient Near Eastern culture, Jesse Abelman’s work on the reception of the Talmud in the High Middle Ages, Bryna Levy’s exploration of David Kimhi’s exegesis, and Carla Sulzbach’s translation of the work of D. Z. Hoffmann. Levy’s interests likewise inspired exploration of 4 B. Barry Levy, “Judge Not a Book by Its Cover,” Tradition 19 (1981): 89–95. See also some of the responses to this: Emanuel Feldman, “Communications: To the Editor of Tradition,” Tradition 19 (1981): 192 and Bayme, “ArtScroll,” 371–75. For an extended version of his argument, see Levy, “Our Torah, Your Torah, and Their Torah: An Evaluation of the Artscroll Phenomenon,” in Truth and Compassion: Essays on Judaism and Religion in Memory of Rabbi Dr. Solomon Frank, ed. H. Joseph (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press for the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, 1983), 137–89. 5 B. Barry Levy, “Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah: A Survey of Recent Publications,” Tradition 23 (1988): 102–16. 6 B. Barry Levy, Rabbinic Bibles, ‘Mikra’ot Gedolot’, and Other Great Books,” Tradition 25 (1991): 65–81. 7 B. Barry Levy, Strange Fire: Reading the Bible after the Holocaust, ed. Tod Linafelt (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 52–61.

4 · introduction biblical interpretation in other religious traditions, alternative media (such as pictorial representation), and marginal and nontraditional audiences. Such concerns are reflected in the essay by Jaqueline du Toit on the interpretation of Bibles produced for children: “Fixing God’s Torah in Small Caps: Children’s Bibles, Bible Scholarship, and Contemporary Judaism.” Published in 1990, Planets, Potions, and Parchments resulted from Professor Levy’s role as curator of a popular museum exhibit in Montreal. 8 It also exemplified his growing engagement with Jewish intellectual history and his role as a public historian for a popular audience. Jason Kalman’s contribution, “Out of the Caves and Under Glass: The Politics of Exhibiting the Dead Sea Scrolls,” perhaps best illustrates the influence of his former supervisor’s interest in the collection and display of the history of scientific thought and the deep-seated ideologies behind these endeavors. Levy’s Fixing God’s Torah was published in 2001, and in many respects embodies the culmination of a master craftsman’s detailed approach to the art of scholarly analysis and Levy’s concern for shaping contemporary Jewish discourse. 9 The book provides close readings and contextualization of the responsa of the sixteenthcentury Rabbi David [ben Solomon] ibn Abi Zimra, as means of considering the transmission of the text of the Torah. The implication for modern Jewish discourse comes from Levy’s ability to show the error of modern Jewish dogmas regarding the accuracy of the text and to simultaneously provide a halakhic scaffold, based on legal precedent, to replace them. As reviewer Moshe Sokolow noted, [Levy] conducts us on a voyage of discovery that chronicles the traditional veneration of the Torah text yet surprises us by illustrating the genuinely critical lengths to which various rabbinical authorities were prepared to go in order to preserve their perception of its accuracy. Wielding talmudic passages and rabbinical 8 B. Barry Levy, Planets, Potions, and Parchments: Scientifica Hebraica from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Eighteenth Century (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990). 9 B. Barry Levy, Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001).

introduction · 5 responsa with the erudition and rhetorical dexterity of a talmid hakham (old world scholar), he enables his readers – scholars and laymen alike – to come to terms with the overt evidence of textual anomalies without surrendering their faith in either the Torah or in its rabbinic interpreters. 10 Levy’s work on Ibn Zimra has inspired the contribution from Sholom Eisenstadt on Solomon Luria and the transmission of inverted nuns in Numbers 10:35–36. Prompted in part by his appointment as McGill’s dean of religious studies in 1997, Levy ventured into various modes of engagement in comparative religion and, in particular, the interrogation of religious scholarship in this field – thus, in the words of Vanessa Sasson, endeavoring to “bring [religions] into conversation.” Exploring inventive approaches to the subject matter gave rise to the popular, thematically driven McGill summer school. Sasson, his former student and facilitator of this initiative, offers “Stories of Excess, Abraham and Vessantara,” as tribute to Professor Levy’s involvement in this visionary and pedagogically rich initiative. As illustrated by the contributions, this volume displays not only the range of Professor Levy’s intellectual interests but also the progression of his own work through the scholarship of his former students. It showcases Levy’s compelling presence in the classroom: a joyful raconteur; an adroit educator who did not need technology to keep students spellbound; an insightful reader of texts ancient, medieval, and modern; a ģďģďĚ corrector of Hebrew spoken, written, read aloud, and fumbled over; a bibliophile who generously shared his vast personal library; and a curious and enthusiastic student who fostered the same disposition in his students. 11 Demanding and encouraging in equal measure, Levy rarely offered a direct compliment. He would, however, with almost childlike glee, tell any of 10 Moshe Sokolow, review of Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law, by B. Barry Levy, Jewish Quarterly Review 97, no. 2 (2007): 29. 11 Carla Sulzbach recently remarked that, as McGill graduate student, she took every single course offered by Professor Levy: “In fact, for all intents and purposes, I ‘took Barry’,” a phrase used by many of his students to describe their graduate careers.

6 · introduction his peers (often in front of the student), about the remarkable work this individual had done. A firm proponent of the apprenticeship model, Barry Levy taught by example and engendered in his students the desire to emulate him. 12 For him, a professor needed to be a scholar, but not every scholar could become a professor. They required different but overlapping skill sets acquired by learning to teach and discovering how best to transfer knowledge and enthusiasm to a student body. He found many an opportunity for his graduate students not only to act as teaching assistants but, more so, to teach their own classes. He would examine syllabi and visit lectures, take us on whirlwind tours of New York’s bookshops, accompany us to archaeological excavations, and participate with us in interfaith dialogues with religious scholars and leaders across the spectrum. As graduate supervisor, he has a light touch, but he engenders in his students the desire to astonish him with new ideas and tidbits of obscure Judaica and the desire to emulate him in the best ways possible. Professor Levy taught his students to cast a critical gaze upon the printed word. For many of us, he was the first teacher to lift the veil on print. He introduced us to manuscripts and showed us how to evaluate the decisions that publishers make in producing books. Reading Hebrew manuscripts presents its own set of unique challenges, and Professor Levy taught his students to appreciate the value of working with such sources. The groundbreaking dissertation on Rashi manuscripts by Deborah Abecassis is testimony to Professor Levy’s abilities as a teacher in this regard. Hartley Lachter’s transcription and translation of an unpublished kabbalistic manuscript, and the McGill genizah fragment introduced by Jason Kalman and transcribed by the students of a class taught by Professor Levy on midrash, offer a tribute to Levy’s instruction in Hebrew paleography, which, initiated as a class exercise, also speaks to the innovative modes of instruction Levy introduced to the classroom. Yedida 12 A matter of continued speculation among students was what the “B.” in B. Barry Levy stood for. The general consensus was that it was what it is: any one of us would like to be Barry Levy.

introduction · 7 Eisenstat’s essay on the transmission of Rashi’s Torah commentary merits an additional note. Eisenstat is, in certain ways, Levy’s intellectual grandchild. Her scholarship was inspired by watching her father, Sholom Eisenstat, whose contribution is discussed above, pursue graduate study under Professor Levy’s supervision and builds on the dissertation that Abecassis wrote on Rashi for Professor Levy. It is a tribute to Levy as teacher that a subsequent generation of students is already at work because of him. For more than fifteen years Professor Levy served as the director of McGill’s Jewish Teacher Training Program, which prepared educators to work in Jewish day schools. His commitment to preparing teachers, steeped in content and the skills to translate Jewish sources and traditions in an appropriate manner for students of all ages, grew from his own commitments as a professor and, at various points, principal, teacher, and educational consultant. As dean, he insisted on continuing to teach core modules, often teaching a full load despite his mounting administrative obligations. This emphasized to faculty and students the value he consistently placed on teaching. It was in the classroom where he clearly found the greatest joy (outside his family) and where he hoped we might, too. In the classroom he was at his best, cutting through the tangled web of our assumptions and replacing them with questions that we continue to think about, twenty-plus years later, as many of these contributions attest. He taught us that teaching was a vocation more than a profession, and that it requires the whole of oneself if it is to be done well. Many of us were lucky, as well, to have had the opportunity to study with Professor Levy’s wife, Cooki (Frances), who taught courses on pedagogy in the Jewish Teacher Training Program. And, at various points, some of us overlapped as students with their three sons: David, Jonathan, and Daniel. It is our pleasure to acknowledge their help in underwriting this volume, and we are grateful to them for sharing Professor Levy with us. 13 We know that his commitment to 13 We also gratefully acknowledge the financial support provided by Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, the Berman Center for Jewish Studies at Lehigh University, and the University of the Free State. This book would also never have

8 · introduction reading our work, travelling with us, and allowing us to invade his home library with impunity all took time from them, and we hope that this volume serves to acknowledge their contribution to his life’s work. In sum, B. Barry Levy is a teacher par excellence, and his ability to convey this skill to his students constitutes his most enduring legacy. In his commentary on Proverbs 12:23, Rashi teaches: ĐčĤĐ ęĘđĠĘĠ ĖđĦĚ ęĐĚ ěĕďĚĘ ęĐĕĦđčĤĥ ęĕďĕĚĘĦ ĕďĕ ĘĞ ĐČĢđĕ ĐĤđĦ, “Much Torah issues from students whose teachers learn from their discussions.” We hope it is true of the essays offered here, and that our honored teacher finds Torah in them.

found its way to publication without the hard work and keen eyes of freelance editor, Angela Roskop Erisman, and HUC Press’s managing editor, Sonja Rethy. To them we offer our profound thanks.

Of Sons and Students David, Jonathan, and Daniel Levy

From a young age, each of us was willing to correct our teachers. The first time one of us did so was in grade two. Another one of us did it in grade three, and the most precocious of us did it in kindergarten. It involved correcting common misconceptions that had been drilled into us at the Shabbat table during our childhoods. You see, growing up in our family was not your usual upbringing. Sitting at mealtime with a leading Bible scholar meant that we were exposed to discussion and conversation that most do not hear. So, by the time we were in elementary school, we knew that the sentence “The Jews built the pyramids” contained not one but two errors, that Mordechai was not Esther’s uncle, and for heaven’s sake, Bible is spelled with a capital B. We knew that if we were asked a question that seemed to have a simple answer (like what the word “seder” means in reference to Passover night), the best possible move was not to answer at all. (Thirty-five years later, we still can’t make eye contact with each other without laughing when some poor sap begins to answer the questions at one of our dad’s lectures.) Which other child would be sent down Friday night to find, among the 20,000 books in the basement, the green book on the third shelf on the bookcase near the closet door? But throughout the years, we have also grown to appreciate the complexity of our religion, the importance of questioning what we are taught and what we hear and of being discerning in the learning we do, and the value of knowledge and scholarship. We have all studied with him in formal and informal settings and now watch our children learn at his side. As much as we laugh, we know he is right and marvel at the knowledge and recall available to him. We 9

10 · david, jonathan, and daniel levy learned that it is more important to have a small following of people who truly believe in what you do than a large group who do not share your passions. We learned that there are no boring courses, only boring teachers, as we were challenged as children to find what we thought was the most boring section of the Bible, about which he would then give a class! So those of you who know him and have studied with him understand what we mean when we stress the importance of the secondary accent while reading, the etymology of every word, that a class awaits around every vowel, and, of course, that the Torah was not given on Shavuot. And for those who have cherished the opportunity to study with him in pursuit of academic and scholarly excellence, we remind you that as profound an impact as he had on you, learning these lessons not in the classroom but at the dinner table, on the baseball field, and driving to New Jersey made them that much more impactful. This volume speaks as a tribute to those lessons, to a teacher who never took a day off, and to a father who serves as a role model to all.

Text, Texture, Context, Pretext: Biography of a Professor, Educator, Mentor, Researcher Deborah Abecassis

Benjamin Barry Levy was born in 1945 in Long Beach, California. He grew up with his brother, Warren, in New Jersey, where he attended Haddonfield Memorial High School and specialized in science, math, and Latin. Active at Camp Ramah in the Poconos, he met his wife, Cooki, there in 1964, and they married in 1968 while in school in New York City. Barry and Cooki are the proud parents of three sons and the grandparents of seven grandsons and two granddaughters. Levy graduated from Yeshiva University in 1967 with a BA cum laude in Hebrew literature, a BRE cum laude in religious education, and a Hebrew teacher’s diploma. He was a four-year varsity wrestler and captain of the team. In 1968, he received an MA in Semitic languages and literature from the Bernard Revel Graduate School at Yeshiva University, and he was ordained in 1971 by the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary. He received his PhD in Near Eastern languages and literature in 1974 from New York University. His dissertation, supervised by Baruch Levine, was entitled “The Language of Neophyti 1: A Descriptive and Comparative Grammar of the Palestinian Targum.” Levy also studied with Meir Herskovics, Meir Simcha Feldblum, and Michael Bernstein at YU, and Cyrus Gordon, Stephen Lieberman, and Hayyim Tadmor at NYU. He developed a keen philological sense and a working knowledge of Akkadian, Arabic, Aramaic, French, German, Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Latin, Phoenician-Punic, Spanish, Syriac, and Ugaritic. Professor Levy always encouraged his students to learn as many languages as 11

12 · deborah abecassis possible in order to expand their ability to decipher primary sources and to read appropriate secondary literatures. Prior to joining the department of Jewish Studies at McGill University in Montreal in 1975, Professor Levy taught Bible at Yeshiva University from 1969 to 1973 and was an assistant professor of religious studies at Brown University from 1973 to 1975 where he worked with Jacob Neusner and Ernest Frerichs. At McGill, in addition to his teaching and research responsibilities, Professor Levy served as chair of the Jewish Studies department from 1979 to 1984 and 1991 to 1993, and as director of the Jewish Teacher Training Program from 1984 to 1997. One of his first activities in the Jewish Studies department was the establishment of the graduate program in the history of Jewish interpretation of the Bible, and he supervised more than fifty graduate degrees, mostly in that field. Fostering lifelong learning and nurturing a curious mind entails knowing and investing in students beyond the classroom. Professor Levy possesses a wealth of advice, clarity, and life experience from which he has drawn in his efforts to guide the young adults in his courses. For his outstanding teaching, he was recognized in 1992 with the H. Noel Fieldhouse Award for Distinguished Teaching from McGill’s faculty of arts. He also served as the Shier Visiting Distinguished Professor of Judaica at the University of Toronto. Professor Levy served as educational consultant in different ways to various Jewish schools in Montreal, first at the Akiva School and later at the United Talmud Torahs, as well as the Herzliah and Bialik high schools. Interacting with the different schools both as a professional and as a parent, meeting the graduates of these day schools in his undergraduate courses, and then training university students to go back into the educational system as teachers, offered Professor Levy a unique, informed, and multifaceted opportunity to delineate the strengths and weaknesses of Jewish education. His impact is still felt through the many teachers and administrators in the system who were his students. In 1990, Professor Levy was invited by the Jewish Public Library to be curator of an exhibit on Judaism and science. Without an extensive background in the history of science, but drawing on related aspects of his Judaic learning, he travelled to museums and libraries

biography · 13 around the world in order to research and select artifacts for the exhibit entitled Planets, Potions, and Parchments. The catalog for the exhibit was nominated by the Jewish Book Council for a National Book Prize, and the exhibit itself received the Pratt and Whitney Prize of the Société des Musées Québécois for outstanding Quebec exhibit of the year. Following a year at Harvard University as Harry Starr Fellow in Judaica, Professor Levy was appointed dean of the faculty of religious studies of McGill University in 1997, the first time in the history of the faculty that a rabbi was appointed to this position, and also the first time ever that a rabbi signed diplomas in theology for Protestant ministers. Professor Levy served as dean for ten and a half years. Among the innovations he brought to the faculty was broadening the range of world religions included in its mandate, making interfaith engagements an important part of its activities, and establishing the BA concentration in scriptures and interpretations. As a personal contribution to that program, he taught a course entitled “The Bible, the Quran, and Their Interpreters.” He also created relationships with the archaeological excavations at Tel Harasim, Israel, and the Elijah Interfaith Institute. Ahead of everything else, Professor Levy is a teacher who fosters in his students his singular passion for learning. Whether in a class, an office meeting, or an informal conversation, he has imparted to us, his students, knowledge and textual skills needed to further our own research. More importantly, he has made us part of a new and growing arena of biblical studies and taught us how to think and read critically, how to question, how to seek out ambiguities, how to explore a full range of sources, and how to thrive in the very journey of academic discovery. This volume of articles by Professor Levy’s students is a testament not only to what he has taught us about the Bible and its interpretation, Hebrew, Aramaic, magic, and Judaism at large, but to the impact learning with him had and continues to have on each one of us. Just as his personal home library was always open and available to us – a collection which only further imbued his graduate students with respect and awe – he continues to be invested in our successes and general well-being. And so we are in his.

Body of Work by B. Barry Levy “The Language of Neophyti i: A Descriptive and Comparative Grammar of the Palestinian Targum.” PhD diss., New York University, 1974.

BOOKS Targum Neophyti 1: A Textual Study. 2 vols. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1986–87. Planets, Potions, and Parchments: Scientifica Hebraica from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Eighteenth Century. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990. Planètes, potions et parchemins: Scientifica hebraïca des manuscrits de la mer morte au 18e siècle. Translated by Denise Parent and Sophie Gagne. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990. Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Jewish Masters of the Sacred Page. Jerusalem: Urim, forthcoming.

BOOK CHAPTERS “Artscroll – An Overview.” Pages 111–40 in Approaches to Modern Judaism. Edited by Marc Lee Raphael. Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983. “Our Torah, Your Torah, and Their Torah: An Evaluation of the Artscroll Phenomenon.” Pages 137–89 in Truth and Compassion: Essays on Judaism and Religion in Memory of Rabbi Dr. Solomon Frank. Edited by H. Joseph. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press for the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, 1983. “On the Periphery: North American Orthodox Judaism and Contemporary Biblical Scholarship.” Pages 159–204 in Students of the 15

16 · b. barry levy Covenant: A History of Jewish Biblical Scholarship in North America. Edited by David Sperling. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1992. “Why ‘Barnash’ does not mean ‘I’.” Pages 85–101 in vol. 1 of The Frank Talmage Memorial Volume. Edited by Barry Walfish. Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1993. “The State and Directions of Orthodox Bible Study.” Pages 39–80 in Modern Scholarship in the Study of Torah: Contributions and Limitations. Edited by Shalom Carmy. Orthodox Forum Series. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1996. “Rabbinic Interpretation after the Holocaust.” Pages 52–61 in Strange Fire: Reading the Bible after the Holocaust. Edited by Tod Linafelt. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000. “Orthodox Jewish Interpretation.” Pages 72–80 in vol. 2 of The Oxford Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation. 2 vols. Edited by Steven L. McKenzie. New York: Oxford University Press, 2013. “Judaism.” Pages 87–110 in The Crisis of the Holy: Challenges and Transformations in World Religions. Edited by Alon Goshen-Gottstein. Interreligious Reflections. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2014.

JOURNAL ARTICLES, ESSAYS, AND REVIEWS Review of Biblical Books Translated from the Aramaic by Frank Zimmermann. Journal of Biblical Literature 95 (1976): 478–79. Review of Lšwn Htrgwm Lnby’ym R’šwnym Wm’mdh Bkll Nyby H’rmyt: The Language of the Targum of the Former Prophets and Its Position within the Aramaic Dialects by Abraham Tal. Journal of Biblical Literature 97 (1978): 453–54. Review of The Massorah: Compiled from Manuscripts Alphabetically and Lexically Arranged by Christian Ginsburg. Journal of Biblical Literature 97 (1978): 112. “Judge Not a Book by its Cover.” Tradition 19 (1981): 89–95. Coauthored with Steven Bayme. “Art Scroll and Scholarship.” Tradition 20 (1982): 371–75. Review of Arameans, Aramaic and the Aramaic Literary Tradition by Michael Sokoloff. Jewish Quarterly Review 75 (1984): 95–96.

body of work · 17 Review of Through the Sound of Many Voices, edited by Jonathan V. Plaut. Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 13 (1984): 106–7. “Teaching the Bible: Some Questions, Suggestions and Guidelines.” Canadian Jewish Educator 2, no. 3 (1984): 3–7. Review of Anthropomorphisms and Anthropopathisms in the Targumim of the Pentateuch with Parallel Citations from the Septuagint by Michael L. Klein. Journal of Biblical Literature 104 (1985): 708–9. Review of Concordance of the First Targum to the Book of Esther by Bernard Grossfeld. Journal of Biblical Literature 105 (1986): 739–40. “Who Will Teach Our Grandchildren? Some Thoughts on the Training of Judaica Teachers in Canada.” Canadian Jewish Educator 3, no. 1 (1986): 2–6. “The Orthodox Publishing Explosion in Perspective.” Jewish Book Annual 44 (1986–87): 6–17. “Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah: A Survey of Recent Publications.” Tradition 23 (1988): 102–16. “The Bible Laboratory.” Ten Da’at 4, no. 1 (1989): 30–32. “Rabbinic Bibles, ‘Mikra’ot Gedolot’, and Other Great Books.” Tradition 25 (1991): 65–81. Review of The Book of Numbers. Da’at Miqra by Yehiel Zvi Moskowitz. AJS Review 18 (1993): 110–12. Review of Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria by Ann Jeffers. ARC 26 (1998): 149–51. Review of The Context of Scripture. Volume 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, edited by William Hallo. ARC 26 (1998): 147–49. “Jewish, Christian and Muslim Responses to the Hebrew Bible.” ARC 27 (1999): 161–205. Review of The Bible as It Was by James Kugel. ARC 27 (1999): 220–21. Review of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation by Magne Sæbø. ARC 28 (2000): 210–11. Review of The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible by Eugene Ulrich. Religion and Theology 7 (2000): 118–19. Review of Abraham’s Journey: Reflections on the Life of the Founding Patriarch by Joseph B. Soloveitchik. H-Judaic, H-Net Reviews, July 2008, http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=14733. “Orthodox Bible-Study: The Reality on the Ground.” Conversations 15 (2013): 13–26.

18 · supervision

ENCYCL OPEDIA ENTRIES “Bar Mitzvah.” World Book 2 (2016): 102. “Bat Mitzvah.” World Book 2 (2016): 162. “Hanukkah.” World Book 9 (2016): 54. “Rabbi.” World Book 16 (2016): 46. “Sabbath.” World Book 17 (2016): 2. “Shavuot.” World Book 17 (2016): 377. “Simhat Torah.” World Book 17 (2016): 466. “Sukkot.” World Book 18 (2016): 965. “Tabernacle.” World Book 19 (2016): 2. “Ten Commandments.” World Book 19 (2016): 131–32. “Tishah Be-Av.” World Book 19 (2016): 298. “Yom Kippur.” World Book 21 (2016): 568.

OTHER “Commentary: Decoding the Torah’s Secrets: Why Can We Not Accept What the Text Actually Says?” Canadian Jewish News,1998, 1–2. “Fixing God’s Name.” Edah 1 (2001). http://www.edah.org/backend/ JournalArticle/1_2_levy.pdf. “Text and Context: Torah and Historical Truth.” Edah 2 (2002). http:// www.edah.org/backend/JournalArticle/levy2_1.pdf. “What Was Esther’s Relationship to Mordechai? Biblical, Traditional and Not-So-Traditional Interpretations,” TheTorah.com (2016). http://thetorah.com/what-was-esthers-relationship-tomordechai/.

SUPERVISION PhD Students (in alphabetical order) Abecassis, Deborah. “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary on Genesis from Citations in the Torah Commentaries of the Tosafot.” McGill University, 1999.

supervision · 19 Caplan, Eric. “Reconstructionist Prayer within the Context of Contemporary North American Jewish Life.” McGill University, 1998. Distefano, Michel. “Inner-Midrashic Introductions to the Interpretation of Individual Biblical Books and Their Influence on the Form and Themes of Introductions to Medieval Rabbinic Bible Commentaries.” McGill University, 2007. Du Toit, Jaqueline Susann. “The Organization and Use of Documentary Deposits in the Near East from Ancient to Medieval Times: Libraries, Archives, Book Collections and Genizas.” McGill University, 2002. Kalman, Jason. “With Friends Like These: Turning Points in the Jewish Exegesis of the Biblical Book of Job.” McGill University, 2005. Kramer, Phyllis S. “Sexual Stereotyping and the Manipulation of Female Role Models in Jewish Bible Textbooks: A Study in the History of Biblical Interpretation and Its Application to Jewish School Curricula.” McGill University, 1994. Meir, Amira. “Medieval Jewish Interpretation of Pentateuchal Poetry.” McGill University, 1994. Ravel, Edeet. “The Application of Biblical Laws to Women by the Rabbis of the Tannaitic Period.” McGill University, 1992. Sabbah, Dina. “La pratique de la musique liturgique et paraliturgique des juifs originaires du Maroc à Montréal.” University of Montreal, 1991. Sasson, Vanessa Rebecca. “Telling Birth Stories: A Comparative Analysis of the Birth Stories of Moses and the Buddha.” McGill University, 2003. White, Emanuel. “A Critical Edition of the Targum of Psalms: A Computer-Generated Text of Books i and ii.” McGill University, 1988.

MA Students (in alphabetical order) Abecassis, Deborah. “Jephthah’s Daughter in the Jewish Exegetical Tradition.” McGill University, 1993. Aster, Shawn Zelig. “Between Exegesis and Narrative: The Use of ‘Miyyad’ in Genesis Rabba.” McGill University, 1996.

20 · supervision Binick, Irving. “Rahab the Prostitute: A History of Interpretation from Ancient to Medieval Times.” McGill University, 2018. Birkan, Amy. “The Bronze Serpent, a Perplexing Remedy: An Analysis of Num. 21:4–9 in Light of Near Eastern Serpent Emblems, Archaeology and Inner Biblical Exegesis.” McGill University, 2005. Brodt, Bryna. “The Serpent’s Identity in Genesis 3: A History of Jewish Interpretation from the Bible through the Thirteenth Century.” McGill University, 2002. Cahana, Briah. “The Enigmatic Meyalledot Ha‘ivriyot: History of Interpretation of Exodus 1:15–21 from Antiquity to the Medieval Period.” McGill University, 2017. Darwish, Linda. “Revolutionary Images of Abraham in Islam and Christianity: ‘Ali Shari‘ati and Liberation Theology.” McGill University, 1999. Dascal, Elana. “Reading Midrash as Graphic Artistic Activity: The Compilations of ‘Midrash Rabbah’ as Possible Influences on Early Jewish and Christian Art.” McGill University, 1997. Eisenstat, Sholom. “A History of the Diacritical Marks Surrounding the Text of Numbers 10:35–36.” McGill University, 1986. Entis, Melanie. “Images of Samson.” McGill University, 1992. Fima, Lea. “The Comparison of the Hebrew Language with the Arabic in the Dictionaries and in the Jewish Bible Interpretations Written in the Islamic Region of Influence in Medieval Times.” McGill University, 1991. Friedman, Jennifer Taylor. “Wearing the Bible: A Social and Material History of Tefillin.” McGill University, 2017. Johnston, Murray. “Engagement and Dialogue: Pluralism in the Thought of Joseph B. Soloveitchik.” McGill University, 1999. Kalman, Jason. “The Place of the Hebrew Bible in the Mishnah.” McGill University, 1999. Lachter, Hartley. “Revelation from between the Lines: A Study of Martin Buber’s Biblical Hermeneutics and his ‘Elijah, a Mystery Play’.” McGill University, 1999. Lanir, Shoshana. “Biblical Prophets Who Resisted Their Divine Missions.” McGill University, 1995.

supervision · 21 Lesk, Joshua. “A Comparison of Narrative in Genesis and Genesis Rabbah: The Cain and Abel Story.” McGill University, 2005. Liebman, Tobi. “The Jewish Exegetical History of Deuteronomy 22:5: Required Gender Separation or Prohibited Cross-Dressing?” McGill University, 2002. Lobel, Andrea Dawn. “The Green Ears of Xanthicus: Calendrical Interpretations of Exodus 12:1–2 in Jewish and Sectarian Sources from the Biblical through Medieval Periods.” McGill University, 2004. Lustigman, Maayan. “‘What a Breach You Have Made for Yourself!’: The History of Jewish Interpretations of Genesis 38.” McGill University, 2007. Mauer, Harry J. “The History of Rabbinic Attitudes toward Abraham ibn Ezra’s Bible Commentaries.” McGill University, 1993. Medjuck, Bena. “Exodus 34:29–35: Moses’ ‘Horns’ in Early Bible Translations and Interpretations.” McGill University, 1998. Nissan, Yael Haviva. “Medieval Ashkenazi Bible Interpretation: A Textual Analysis of Rabbi Joseph Bekhor Shor’s Torah Commentary.” McGill University, 1997. Oser, Asher Charles. “The ‘Ha’amek Davar’ of Naftali Zevi Yehuda Berlin.” McGill University, 2007. Ovadis, Alyssa. “Abstraction and Concretization of the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil as Seen through Biblical Interpretation and Art.” McGill University, 2010. Pardo, Deborah Elaine. “The Status of the Jewish Law in the Messianic Era: From the Biblical Period to the Seventeenth Century.” McGill University, 2001. Pearl, Gina. “Adam’s Garments, the Staff, the Altar and Other Biblical Objects in Innovative Contexts in Rabbinic Literature.” McGill University, 1988. Polzer, Natalie C. “The Bible in the Aramaic Magic Bowls.” McGill University, 1986. Ravel, Edeet. “Rabbinic Exegesis of Deuteronomy 32:47: The Case for Midrash.” McGill University, 1985. Sasson, Vanessa Rebecca. “Compassion in ‘The Tibetan Book of

22 · supervision the Dead’ and the ‘Tractate Mourning’: A Comparative Study.” McGill University, 1998. Segall, Sima. “Jewish Supplementary Schooling in Montreal in the Latter Part of the Twentieth Century.” McGill University, 1991. Seidman, Bryna J. “Abraham ben Meir ibn Ezra’s Commentaries on the Book of Esther.” McGill University, 1979. Sulzbach, Carla. “David Zvi Hoffmann’s ‘Die Wichtigsten Instanzen Gegen die Graf-Wellhausensche Hypothese’ (‘The Main Arguments against the Graf-Wellhausen Hypothesis’): An Annotated Translation and Introduction.” McGill University, 1996. Weiser, Deborah. “Fire and the Sabbath: A Look at Exodus 35:3 and the Jewish Exegetical History of the Biblical Prohibition against Using Fire on the Sabbath Day.” McGill University, 2002.

Diviners in High Places: On Interpreting the Night Skies of the Ancient Near East Andrea D. Lobel carleton university Those who first invented and then named the constellations were storytellers. Tracing an imaginary line between a cluster of stars gave them an image and an identity. The stars threaded on that line were like events threaded on a narrative. Imagining the constellations did not of course change the stars, nor did it change the black emptiness that surrounds them. What it changed was the way people read the night sky. 1

INTRODUCTION: PATTERNS IN THE SKY The night skies of the ancient Near East (ANE) were not merely starry canopies that inspired a sense of awe but served as rich interpretive fields. They represented vast backdrops for countless dramas and astral mythologies, as well as religious beliefs and rituals. These encompassed cosmogonies and cosmologies projected onto the heavens. As E. C. Krupp expresses it: For our ancestors . . . the sky was a domain of belief where nature was personified. Populated with influential spirits, transfigured heroes, mythic creatures, dangerous demons, and commanding gods, it was a realm of transcendent power. It tantalized us with events in plain sight but beyond our reach. Things happened overhead, and those events invited narrative. The celestial myths of our ancestors were rooted in observation but cultivated by belief. Cyclical patterns of day and night, lunar phases, and sea1 John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos (New York: Knopf Doubleday, 2011), 8.

23

24 · andrea d. lobel sonal change all seemed to confirm that the sky administered much of the earth’s activity. 2 Dating from the Neolithic period, after approximately 7000 bce, archaeologists have unearthed evidence of both temporary and permanent astronomical viewing structures throughout the ANE, including Mesopotamia and the Levant. These appear to have been built in order to track the solstices and equinoxes, among other astronomical events. Evidence of astronomical practices extending from the early Neolithic period onward through the Chalcolithic period (4500–3300 bce), Bronze Age (3300–1200 bce), and Iron Age (1200–550 bce) are also suggested by archaeological sites and cuneiform texts. 3 In turn, each of these regions and cultural centers brought with them particular ways of interpreting the patterns they noted in the heavens. For example, whereas individuals in today’s western world see the Big Dipper, the Sumerians – projecting their own lived experiences upon the night sky – saw a wagon. 4 In this study, I examine the main interpretations and uses of astronomy in two ancient Near Eastern contexts – those of Mesopotamia and ancient Israel – extending through the late Babylonian period, prior to the beginning of the Hellenistic period circa 334 bce, which brought with them significant advances and entirely new chapters in the histories of astronomy and astrology. En passant, since the corpus of extant material is not voluminous, I will also examine the astronomical evidence found at Ugarit in order to provide additional context for the findings in ancient Israel. In each case, the following two related questions are kept in mind: How are night sky observations being interpreted and used in each geographical and 2 E. C. Krupp, “Sky Tales and Why We Tell Them,” in Astronomy Across Cultures: The History of Non-Western Astronomy, ed. Helaine Selin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 2000), 3–4. 3 One of the earliest astronomical sites in the region is found at Nabta Playa, in southern Egypt, and dated to approximately 4500 bce. This megalithic structure consists of a large stone circle that may have served as a means of marking the summer solstice. See Lawrence H. Robbins, “Astronomy and Prehistory,” in Astronomy Across Cultures: The History of Non-Western Astronomy, ed. Helaine Selin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 2000), 51. 4 Krupp, “Sky Tales,” 24.

diviners in high places · 25 historical context? And what aspects of these cultures and religions do these interpretations support most strongly? Until recently, research has focused on the primacy of divination and calendar among the respective manifestations of astronomy in Mesopotamian and Israelite literature alike. On the level of praxis, this is not incorrect, and, in the pages that follow, readers will note that celestial divination was of critical importance in Mesopotamia. I will also describe the calendrical systems noted in the texts – a necessary inclusion given the fact that astronomical observations are always linked to everyday life on earth – from agricultural needs to holy day observances. However, I argue that what also emerges in the astronomical texts are implicit assumptions about several overarching principles that underlie these astronomical technologies, and that ultimately serve to answer the above two questions. First principle: The origins of the celestial bodies are rooted in divine cosmogonies, which in turn establish mythic cosmologies that serve as ordering principles in each culture. Order, justice, and the importance of a stable communal life are all key concerns of both cosmogony and the cosmology and astronomy that unfold from it in ANE cultures. There is a celestial-cultural mirroring principle at work in this sense. J. Edward Wright echoes the notion, pointing to the ranks that existed among the gods, which paralleled the hierarchies found in human culture. 5 Second principle: Ultimately, then, creation and astronomy are inextricably linked, and mythical and cultural interpretations are projected onto the night skies. 6 Just as cosmogony and its astral theologies serve to provide order to a society on the mythic or founding level, so astronomical outgrowths of cosmogony, such as the regularity of calendar, serve to order society on a practical level. On this, I am in basic agreement with Richard J. Clifford, 7 who points 5 J. Edward Wright, The Early History of Heaven (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 27. 6 Here, I agree with J. Edward Wright, “Cosmogony, Cosmology,” New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible 1: 755–76, who similarly states that cosmologies are individual life or societal experiences projected onto the cosmos. 7 Richard J. Clifford, “The Hebrew Scriptures and the Theology of Creation,” Theological Studies 46 (1985): 507–52.

26 · andrea d. lobel out that the appropriate focus of creation in the ancient Near East was not about origins as such but about the social order on earth that emerged as a result of creation and the struggle between order and chaos. Third principle: We see this ordering principle highlighted by textual presentations of solar and lunar eclipses, which break with regularity and are associated with disruptions of the social order on earth as well. Indeed, as Francesca Rochberg points out, in antiquity, “divination was bound up with beliefs about gods and their effect on humankind and the world.” 8 As such, any disruption in the natural order in the ancient Near Eastern cultures examined in this study served as a portent of potential discontent and chaos above. Fourth principle: The polytheistic contexts of Mesopotamia and Ugarit allowed for a full expression of the gods and their associated celestial bodies to take place in their astronomical and divinatory texts. Conversely, the extant, redacted texts of the Hebrew Bible display presentations of astronomy that underscore God’s supremacy and the creation in Genesis 1, as well as serious concern about persistent astral worship and polytheism among Israelites. As a result of these arguments – let’s call them “found patterns” – I conclude by asking how the cosmogonic prism might affect our readings of the celestial beliefs and practices described in the Hebrew Bible.

A NOTE ON METHODOLOGY Like a text, the night sky lends itself to multifaceted interpretations in each of these cultures. These interpretations, in turn, are based on patterns both found in the night sky and ultimately mapped there by each civilization. Indeed, as Michael D. Swartz suggests, “divination may have been one of the first forms of hermeneutics.” 9 8 Francesca Rochberg, “Heaven and Earth: Divine-Human Relations in Mesopotamian Celestial Divination,” in Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, ed. Scott Noegel, Joel Walker, and Brannon Wheeler (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 169. 9 Michael D. Swartz, “Divination and Its Discontents: Finding and Questioning

diviners in high places · 27 Nevertheless, any attempt to establish a consistent celestial hermeneutics of the ancient Near East is fraught with methodological challenges. As Annette Yoshiko Reed rightly points out, for example, anachronism is a danger when analyzing and writing about the ancient Jewish sciences. 10 And there is no question that these early approaches to the night sky were manifestations of science. Moreover, avoiding such impositions of contemporary perspectives and assumptions is often easier said than done. In fact, anachronism is easy to fall into when working with texts that span the ancient sciences, particularly when defining and bracketing later terms so often applied to the early sciences, terms such such as “religion,” “science,” and “magic.” 11 Also salient is the caution against the thread of nineteenthcentury pan-Babylonianism provided by Jeffrey L. Cooley, among others. One of its tenets was that Mesopotamian culture was ultimately steeped in astronomy; another was that astral interpretations represented some sort of priestly encoding of secret knowledge in the skies. The school also reinforced the spurious idea that these ideas were then transmitted across the ancient Near East. 12 Meaning in Ancient and Medieval Judaism,” in Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, 155. 10 Annette Yoshiko Reed, “Ancient Jewish Sciences and the ‘Historiography’ of Judaism,” in Ancient Jewish Sciences and the History of Knowledge in Second Temple Literature, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov and Seth Sanders (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 218 et passim and Reed, “Was There Science in Ancient Judaism? Historical and Cross-Cultural Reflections on ‘Religion’ and ‘Science’,” Studies in Religion 36, nos. 3–4 (2007): 463. 11 We also see this overlap with respect to the terms “religion,” “science,” and “magic.” Indeed, in addition to the overlap among these terms “religion,” “science,” and “magic,” sweeping definitions of certain terms including “Judaism,” “religion,” “astrology,” and “paganism,” among others, are best avoided in order to avoid anachronistically defining categories which are ultimately “hybrid, fleeting and dynamic.” See also Kocku von Stuckrad, “Astral Magic in Ancient Jewish Discourse: Adoption, Transformation, Differentiation,” in Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, ed. Gideon Bohak, Yuval Harari, and Shaul Shaked (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 248–49. This notion with respect to ancient magical/divinatory fields finds its parallel in the discussion and study of ancient science. On this topic, Reed, “Ancient Jewish Sciences,” 214, writes that “it can be tempting to celebrate as ‘science’ those developments that seem to make ‘progress’ towards our own present.” As such, caution is the watchword when interpreting these topics through our contemporary lens. 12 Jeffrey L. Cooley, Poetic Astronomy in the Ancient Near East: The Reflexes of Celestial

28 · andrea d. lobel One way to work with these concerns while aiming to analyze the varied interpretations of celestial phenomena in each civilization is to ground the textual evidence of astronomical interpretation not in contemporary hermeneutics but in the individual cultures themselves – to view the texts within their own cultural and religious contexts as far as possible. 13 I would argue that it is only by taking great care to reinforce and return to that focus on individual ancient texts and contexts that anything approaching a culturally embedded celestial hermeneutics is made possible. As a result, although it is tempting to apply contemporary models and theories of hermeneutics and the history of science to this analysis, doing so would apply questionable lenses to the project of seeing the night skies from ANE vantage points. 14 These caveats will inform the rest of this chapter.

THE LEGACY OF MARDUK: MESOPOTAMIAN ASTRONOMY As Wright has cautioned, it is exceedingly difficult to reconstruct the religions of Mesopotamia, and he urges a stance somewhere “between the Scylla of complete nihilism and the Charybdis of excessive optimism.” 15 Nevertheless, many Mesopotamian artifacts have survived, and these have provided scholars with a great deal of astronomical source material. Among the first civilizations to develop a writing system and documented urban centres, Sumer (fourth–third millenScience in Ancient Mesopotamian, Ugaritic, and Israelite Narrative (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 2–6. 13 As Kimberly Stratton, “Magic Discourse in the Ancient World,” in Defining Magic: A Reader, ed. Michael Stausberg and Bernd-Christian Otto. Critical Categories in the Study of Religion (London: Equinox, 2012), 247, points out with respect to, e.g., the concept of magic, it may be viewed as “a socially constructed object of knowledge that has a specific history and origin.” 14 E.g., it is crucial to note that astrology will not be bracketed away from astronomy in this study, as the demarcation between the two fields was indistinct in the ancient Near East. See Francesca Rochberg, The Heavenly Writing: Divination, Horoscopy, and Astronomy in Mesopotamian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 11. 15 Wright, Early History, 26.

diviners in high places · 29 nia bce) has bequeathed to us a number of records translated into Akkadian by the Assyrian and Babylonian cultures that followed. 16 Dating from the time of the earliest extant writings from Sumer is the initial evidence for their astronomy, a cuneiform tablet from Uruk dating from approximately 3500 bce that refers to a festival celebrating Inanna, goddess of the morning and evening who is associated with the planet Venus. 17 As John Steele states, “the scribe who wrote this text evidently knew that the morning and evening stars were actually the same object, something that was not discovered in Europe for another 2,000 years.” 18 In addition to the sun and the moon, they were familiar with five planets that could be seen with the naked eye: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. These they referred to collectively as bibbu, “wandering sheep.” 19 These early Mesopotamian astronomical observations did not emerge in a vacuum. Rather, it is my contention that they were ultimately rooted in their mythological, cosmogonic, and cosmological fields of interpretation. In Sumerian cosmogonic myths, for example, Nammu, a goddess, begat the sky deity An, as well as Ki, the goddess of earth. An and Ki then became the parents of Enlil, the god of the air. As Wright describes the founding myth: Sky and earth were at first united, and the Sumerian term for universe is An-Ki, “sky-earth.” The universe was conceived as a giant mountain with its base on the earth and its summit reaching into the sky. In Sumerian it is called “the mountain of heaven and earth.” Eventually the air god Enlil separated heaven and earth. The gods were superhuman, immortal beings, and they ruled their respective areas of the universe just as any human rulers would oversee their realms. The sky gods dwelt in heaven, various gods and demons on earth, and the mortuary gods in 16 Unfortunately, very few cuneiform tablets have survived in their original Sumerian language. See Wright, Early History, 26. 17 Later, Ištar (Akkadian). 18 John M. Steele, A Brief Introduction to Astronomy in the Middle East (London: Saqi, 2008), 21. 19 As Steele, Brief Introduction, 21, writes, “by contrast, the stars and constellations were often compared with domesticated sheep, the sky being a cattle pen.”

30 · andrea d. lobel the netherworld. Humans were created from a lump of clay for the sole purpose of serving the gods. There was rank among the gods in a manner that parallels the hierarchical structure of urban societies. 20 Indeed, according to some scholars, the Sumerians conceived of each level of this tripartite Sumerian cosmos – heaven, earth, and netherworld – as being divided from the others by various materials: “Since the Sumerian word for tin is ‘metal of heaven,’ it may be that the Sumerians thought that the floor of heaven was made of tin or some comparable metal. It also appears that the Sumerians considered the sky to be a vault or dome because we read of heaven having a zenith.” 21 For the Sumerians, the gods on high – presided over by Enlil – were ultimately in control of activities on earth, and even the institution of human royalty was bestowed by the gods in the heavens. 22 As such, it was among the jobs of the elite and other citizens of Sumer to worship the gods. Among the potential locations of this worship were large, elevated, pyramidal temples known as ziggurats. It is certainly possible that these structures represented a microcosm of the heavens, and if one well-known Babylonian ziggurat known as Etemenanki (“the temple of the foundation of heaven and earth”) is any example, it appears likely that such ziggurats represented a way to reach the heavens and commune with the gods. 23 Whether ziggurats were used as astronomical observatories has not yet been definitively established. Indeed, there is very little extant 20 Wright, Early History, 27. 21 Wright, Early History, 29. According to Wright, Early History, 31, the Sumerians had a tablet that appears to have been known “as the ‘Tablet of the Stars of Heaven.’ Since this tablet was made of the bluish lapis lazuli stone, ‘the Sumerians may have thought of the sky as [a] giant cosmic lapis lazuli tablet inscribed with stars’.” The Sumerians, however, did not have a heavenly afterlife. They believed that heaven was the realm of the gods, and that earth was the place of humanity. See Wright, Early History, 31. 22 Wright, Early History, 28. 23 Although I am by no means the first to note that ziggurats may have been a way to reach the heavens, it is interesting that Mesopotamian ziggurats summon to mind the biblical story of the tower of Babel. On communing with the gods, see Wright, Early History, 27.

diviners in high places · 31 evidence for the presence of a structured, full observational tradition during this early period in Mesopotamia, and, despite the presence of the earliest known celestial myths, astronomical and astrological texts and traditions are lacking until the late second millennium, suggesting that astronomical speculation may not have been very common at Sumer. Nevertheless, the Sumerians were almost certainly able to track the basic motions of the sun and moon, because we know that later Akkadian calendrical texts would have required compendia of astronomical observations that could have been made only during the Sumerian period. 24 When the Assyrians and Babylonians came to dominate the ANE in the second millennium bce, they inherited many aspects of Sumerian civilization. This included cuneiform writing. 25 The earliest documented Babylonian astronomical observations date from the Old Babylonian period, circa 1800–1600 bce. These included moon rise times, new moon dates, and records of any unusual weather. During the Old Babylonian period, and the reign of Hammurapi, southern Mesopotamia was unified into a single civilization. 26 This was the likely time period during which the Enuma Elish was composed, reaching its final form by 1500 bce. 27 In this cosmogonic, astronomical poem, which interprets the night sky to epic effect, the god Marduk created the cosmos out of the corpse of the goddess Tiamat and divided up thirty-six stars that were used to determine 24 Wright, Early History, 31. 25 James Evans, The History and Practice of Ancient Astronomy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 12. 26 Evans, History and Practice, 14. 27 Evans, History and Practice, 10. The Mesopotamian new year was celebrated in the spring season, beginning with the new lunar crescent of the equinox. As noted by Nicholas Campion, “Babylonian Astrology: Its Origin and Legacy in Europe,” in Astronomy Across Cultures: The History of Non-Western Astronomy, ed. Helaine Selin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 2000), 524, this “also signified the beginning of the greatest of the calendar festivals, the Akitu, in which, over the space of twelve days, the entire society participated in a ritual re-enactment of the Enuma Elish, including the death and resurrection of Marduk and the reading of the destinies for the coming year.” As Steele, Brief Introduction, 23–24, notes, it was sufficiently important that “both the king and his subjects participated in the festival by performing specific cultic rituals on the different days.”

32 · andrea d. lobel the annual seasons. 28 This reflected the existing division by the Babylonians of the night sky into the paths of Ea, Anu, and Enlil, as well as thirty-six stars that demarcated the months of the annual cycle. 29 Upon dividing Tiamat into two portions, Marduk transformed one into the sky and the other into the earth. Linking the gods with the celestial objects in this cosmogony, he then proceeded to create the heavenly bodies, as well as their positions and motions. 30 Here, the moon phases are also described. Enuma Elish thus constitutes a founding myth that mapped and interpreted the heavenly bodies to uphold the supremacy of Marduk as chief deity and creator of the universe. 31 Ultimately, this cosmogony may be seen as emblematic of order in Mesopotamian society as well, an example of astronomical interpretation serving as an ordering principle on earth. The poem also presents a rudimentary cosmography outlining the structure of the Babylonian cosmos, also tripartite, like that of its Sumerian predecessors. 32 Finally, the text also demonstrates a keen interest in calendrical matters. 33 This core emphasis upon calendrics within a foundational Babylonian myth is by no means 28 Evans, History and Practice, 14 and Wright, Early History, 32. In keeping with the astral roles of cosmogonic myth, Richard J. Clifford, Creation Accounts in the Ancient Near East and in the Bible (Washington, DC: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1994), 8, notes that Marduk is considered the “divine sustainer of order and life on earth and in heaven. The victory of Marduk established the institutions of divine and human governance (Babylonian kingship and related institutions) that a people required in order to exist. [It is notable that t]he Bible, too, contains similar cosmogonies narrating the establishment of a society in a particular place. Psalm 77, a communal lament, recalls ‘the wonders of old’ that brought Israel into existence.” Indeed, according to Clifford, one of the central roles of cosmogonies and cosmologies is to provide an organizing principle to a society and thereby ward off chaos (56). 29 Evans, History and Practice, 10. 30 Wright, Early History, 33. 31 Evans, History and Practice, 10. 32 On an additional note related to cosmography, Wright, Early History, 34–35, informs us that at least one Akkadian text, KAR 307, presents a view of the cosmos that differs from that in Enuma Elish. Here, as Wright notes, “the cosmos is composed of six levels: three celestial and three terrestrial,” and each of the heavens are made of different types of stone – the lower heaven being made of jasper. 33 The Enuma Elish delineates the paths of Anu, Enlil, and Ea, which “correspond to regions of the sky sweeping from the eastern to the western horizon.” The myth serves to create an administrative calendar through Marduk’s stellar divisions (Steele,

diviners in high places · 33 surprising. Indeed, like cosmogony, the calendar also serves as an ordering principle that unfolds from the created order itself, allowing bureaucracies to function by systematizing such matters as business transactions and tax collection, as well as by providing the structure for group activities including religious holidays. 34 These fiscal and ritual needs emerge as prominent in texts from the Old Babylonian period onward. In this sense, practical cultural concerns related to social order, such as timekeeping and fiscal matters, find themselves mapped onto the patterns in the skies and the cosmogonic and cosmological stories read into these patterns – stories that, in turn, serve to explain the social order. Another example of this tendency is seen in the Venus tablets of Ammisaduqa. 35 Produced from approximately 1702 to 1681 bce, during Ammisaduqa’s reign, these were a collection of the rising and setting times for the planet Venus. What is particularly notable about these records is that they reflect the ability not merely to observe the behavior of Venus but to calculate its future motion. 36 As James Evans describes them: The tablets list the first and last visible risings and settings of Venus over a period of about 21 years. Although some sections of the text appear to list genuine observations, other sections contain idealized risings and settings based on a simple, but rather faulty, scheme. Thus, in the oldest significant astronomical text that we possess, both observation and some sort of theory (even if it is a crude one) are already present. 37 Some of these observations are associated with omens in a structure common to the genre of Babylonian omen texts. Here, we note the presence of a protasis (“if ”) and its corresponding apodosis (“then”), a form which “allowed the scribes to predict the status of the grain

34 35 36 37

Brief Introduction, 25). However, according to Evans, History and Practice, 10, Enuma Elish simply reflected existing calendrical structures within Babylonian society. Steele, Brief Introduction, 21–22. It is worth noting, however, that “the copies that have come down to us were written much later” (Evans, History and Practice, 14). Hugh Thurston, Early Astronomy (New York: Springer, 1994), 64. Evans, History and Practice, 14.

34 · andrea d. lobel and straw supply the next time Venus went through the same pattern.” 38 For example, the omen’s protasis might assume the form of a particular coloration of the planet, and the apodosis would represent the outcome of this manifestation, such as the continued good health of the king. This Mesopotamian divinatory practice par excellence was called “celestial divination.” Its emphasis on upholding a sense of cultural order on earth by searching for signs in the heavens was the primary motivation underlying the enterprise of Babylonian astronomy. Indeed, “[t]he behavior of the moon, sun, planets, fixed stars, and weather was of primary interest to celestial diviners for their significance relative to the world of human beings.” 39 So, too, were signs in other parts of the natural world important to the Mesopotamians, such as the practice of extispicy – that is, the examination of livers for omens – and examining animal behavior for portents. These practices were always connected to the will of the gods. We note evidence of this in a prayer text devoted to Sin and Shamash, deities of moon and sun, who are spoken to as though they were the heavenly bodies themselves and thanked for allowing the people to see during the night and day. 40 Of special note is the fact that the sun god, Shamash, is known for his role as a keeper of heavenly and social-political order. While other gods, including Ea and the high sky god Anu, may also provide order, Shamash is the master timekeeper, maintainer of order even amidst chaos, and emblematic of justice, or the correct order of society. He is, as William Hallo expresses it, “the all-seeing eye.” 41 In the Shamash Hymn, the god is shown to illuminate all of heaven, “above and below.” 42 The sun god is also featured in the Code of Hammurapi, where Shamash sits on his throne with King Hammurapi standing before him. Shamash is shown holding a ring and a staff, which are telling “symbols of cosmic order: the staff standing 38 39 40 41 42

Evans, History and Practice, 14. Rochberg, “Heaven and Earth,” 170. Rochberg, “Heaven and Earth,” 173. William W. Hallo, “Shamash Hymn,” COS 1.117:418. In the Sumerian corpus, Utu was also the all-seeing, ordering god of justice (Hallo, “Shamash Hymn,” 418).

diviners in high places · 35 for straightness and rightness, the ring denoting completeness.” As Bernhard Lang further describes the scene: The iconography indicates that Hammurapi’s law is grounded in the supernatural world of the gods, and specifically echoes the regularity with which the sun appears and structures human life. The great gods of Babylon have ordered the king of Babylon to compile the code and promote justice in his land; the king is “to rise like the sun-god Shamash over all humankind, to illuminate the land.” Hammurapi refers to himself as “the discerning king, obedient to the god Shamash, the mighty one.” 43 In brief, the practice of celestial divination was one important way to consult the deities and attempt to establish order in Mesopotamian society. The more regular and reassuring the omens in night skies, the more confident the diviners and rulers felt about the critical areas of agriculture, the well-being of the king, and relationships with neighbouring societies. As Bradley E. Schaefer asserts, the converse was also true. That is, there was a historical tendency for sudden celestial phenomena such as eclipses to be interpreted as negative omens. 44 This was the result of the natural – hence, social – order being somehow broken by the uncanny celestial event. That it took place in the realm of the gods may have seemed like a certain omen. By contrast, regular astronomical motions reflected a certain natural harmony and were, due to their predictability, better understood and comforting. 45 During the later Mesopotamian Kassite period, circa 1500–1200 bce, we observe the presence of a new and widely used omen series known as Enuma Anu Enlil. 46 The series encompassed the earlier 43 Bernhard Lang, The Hebrew God: Portrait of An Ancient Deity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002), 36. 44 Rochberg, “Heaven and Earth,” 174, describes various “anthropomorphic tropes” that represent an eclipse in celestial omen texts, such as the image of the god Shamash crying. 45 Bradley E. Schaefer, “Astronomical Omens,” in Current Studies in Archaeoastronomy: Conversations Across Time and Space, ed. John W. Fountain and Rolf M. Sinclair (Durham, NC: Carolina Academic, 2005), 37. 46 This omen collection was extremely influential, and copies were handed down through the centuries. As Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, 66, asserts, “by the seventh

36 · andrea d. lobel Venus tablets of Ammisaduqa, among many other observations and omens. 47 A collection consisting of approximately seventy tablets and seven thousand omens, Enuma Anu Enlil included a listing of earlier signs of divine pleasure or displeasure sent to the king. 48 Once a celestial omen was detected by the scribes, they would consult Enuma Anu Enlil and search for the omen in order to make their predictions. 49 Here, Michael Hoskin describes the observation and interpretive process: “Learned scribes would interpret new signals in the light of similar signals codified in the Enuma, and it was hoped that their advice would allow the king to take whatever avoiding action was necessary. The celestial body most frequently cited in the Enuma was the Moon; and as their calendar was lunar, the cycle of the Moon was doubly important.” 50 Indeed, the importance of the moon in the Enuma Anu Enlil omen series, and in Babylonian astronomy more generally, cannot be underestimated. In keeping with Schaefer’s views, Steele points to the divinatory relevance of lunar eclipses, which often forecasted wars, famines, plagues, and the king’s death. 51 Not all lunar eclipses were seen as equally ominous, but when the omen traditions dictated that a particular eclipse was particularly worrisome, a ritual was performed to safeguard the life of the king. Termed šar pūḫi, “substitute king,” it called for the replacement of the king by a different man, who would bear the brunt of the omen as a societal scapegoat. Upon completion of the ritual, the substitute would be buried in a manner befitting a king. Once again upholding the relationship between creation and

47 48

49 50 51

century B.C., a version of Enuma Anu Enlil was in the holdings of the library of Assurbanipal at Nineveh. This Neo-Assyrian Enuma Anu Enlil comprised seventy tablets devoted to ‘celestial’ signs, meaning any visible (or anticipated) phenomenon occurring in the sky during the day or night. Weather phenomena, especially cloud formations and other features of the daytime sky, counted as ‘celestial phenomena’ along with lunar, solar, stellar, and planetary phenomena.” The series “continued to be transmitted in its traditional form well into the Seleucid period” (117). Evans, History and Practice, 14. The collection was given its name by its opening line. See Michael Hoskin, “Astronomy in Antiquity,” in The Cambridge Illustrated History of Astronomy, ed. Michael Hoskin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 26. Steele, Brief Introduction, 35. Hoskin, “Astronomy,” 26–27. Steele, Brief Introduction, 33–34.

diviners in high places · 37 astronomy, during the Assyrian period, beginning in the eighth century bce, astrolabes containing and recording the heliacal risings of the thirty-six stars featured in the cosmogonic Enuma Elish myth became a marked feature of Babylonian astronomy. 52 Found in rectangular and circular forms, astrolabes divided the sky up into the three paths of Anu, Enlil, and Ea, comprising the thirtysix stars – that is, twelve stars per path. 53 Each of these represented paths on the eastern horizon through which a given heliacally rising star would be seen to pass in various seasons. 54 This, therefore, constituted an early calendar system. 55 Moreover, during the Assyrian period, records and interpretations were further systematized and refined, such that patterns of eclipse activity began to be noted and predicted based on past observations. In several lists, an eighteenyear sequence 56 of eclipses is reported, and this allowed the scribes to make future eclipse predictions. 57

52 To avoid confusion, Evans, History and Practice, 9, points out that this term “is not especially apt, for the word astrolabe is also used for two kinds of astronomical instruments that were developed in late antiquity and the Middle Ages. Circular star list therefore might be more suitable.” Heliacal rising refers to the first rising, or visibility, after a period of invisibility. 53 Thurston, Early Astronomy, 64. 54 Evans, History and Practice, 9 et passim. 55 Thurston, Early Astronomy, 64. 56 This was known by the Babylonians as “18 mu.meš,” that is, simply, “18 years” (Steele, Brief Introduction, 52). This cycle takes place, writes Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, 138, “because the 18-year Saros period returns sun and moon to almost the same position relative to the nodes.” As such, “eclipses of the same description recur in this period.” More precisely, according to John North, Cosmos: An Illustrated History of Astronomy and Cosmology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 49, the Babylonians learned that this sequence took place over “6585⅓ days (18.03 years), which is a whole number (223) of synodic months (new moon to new moon).” While many scholars have termed this 18-year lunar cycle – consisting of 223 months – a “Saros period,” others are more cautious. Steele, Brief Introduction, 52, hastens to point out that the term “Saros” was likely “used by the astronomers in Babylon by the end of the seventh century bc and probably earlier.” However, North, Cosmos, 49, notes the confusion that arises when this Greek term is used in a Babylonian context: “The period of 223 months is still misleadingly called a saros by some modern writers, using a Greek word that had formerly been used to denote a much longer Babylonian period of time (3,600 years). The modern usage has a long and convoluted history, but goes back only to ad 1000 or so and the encyclopedia of Suidas.” 57 Evans, History and Practice, 15.

38 · andrea d. lobel During the rule of King Nabonassar (ca. 747–733 bce), who reigned under the control of the conquering Assyrian Empire, 58 astronomical records – particularly eclipse tablets – were further refined. 59 Despite the military prowess of Tiglath-Pileser iii and his Assyrian forces and their ultimate victory over Babylonia, Babylonian culture prevailed because the conquerors inherited the host culture they had vanquished. We note this Assyrian tendency to assimilate and incorporate in Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh, which contained numerous copies of tablets from earlier eras, including the Old Babylonian and Sumerian periods. 60 Contemporary with the reign of Ashurbanipal was the appearance of a new series of thirty-two astronomical tablets called mul.apin, dating from approximately 690 bce. Named after its opening line, “Plow Star,” mul.apin consists of collections of earlier sources. In addition to presenting omens and describing various stars, 61 the text presents listings of the heliacal risings and settings of stars and con58 While an in-depth examination of solar mythologies in Mesopotamia is beyond the reach of this essay, it is important to note that both the sun and the moon were important to the cultures of this region. The sun, whose corresponding deity was Shamash (Babylonia and Assyria) or Utu (Sumer) was often represented by a winged disc emblem. See Jeremy Black and Anthony Green, Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 186. The Mesopotamian solar motif not only transcended the mere connection between god and celestial body but also represented omniscience and justice, based on a strong linkage between events on earth and those in the heavens. As Black and Green explain: “Presumably because the sun, in its path across the skies, sees everything, Utu/Šamaš came to be regarded as a god of truth, justice and right. Šamaš, together with Adad [or Iskur, the storm god], is invoked during Babylonian extispicy rituals. As a protector of right and destroyer of evil, he also had a warrior aspect to his personality” (182). 59 As Evans, History and Practice, 15–16, writes, this period produced such advanced records that “when, several centuries later, the Greek astronomers gained access to Babylonian observational records, the oldest useful material was from the eighth century. The beginning of the reign of Nabonassar was therefore used by later Greek astronomers as a fundamental reference point in their system of reckoning time.” 60 Indeed, “this library, discovered by British archaeologists in 1853, is a major source of our knowledge of Babylonian literature” (Evans, History and Practice, 16). 61 mul.apin also contains a number of omens from the earlier Enuma Anu Enlil. Numerous omens related to both the planets and the stars appear in mul.apin. Among these are omens that refer to the “stars of the Lion” and their influence on the king’s victories, as well as the effects of Jupiter upon flooding and rain. “As a

diviners in high places · 39 stellations in parapegma form – that is, as a stellar calendar – allowing users to determine the time of the year by taking note of the stars’ heliacal risings and settings. 62 Among its listings are the paths of Enlil, Anu, and Ea, founding deities of air, sky, and civilization, and it demonstrates clear references to the links between the founding cosmogony and human culture in an astronomical context. In fact, Ea (also known as Enki) was also viewed as a god of creation. Following the appearance of Enuma Anu Enlil and mul.apin circa 625 bce, the Assyrian Empire fell and was followed by the rise of the Neo-Babylonian dynasty headed by King Nabopolassar. 63 Also referred to as the “Chaldean” civilization, it soon became known for its astronomical prowess. 64 As Evans suggests, one of the reasons for the astronomical advances of Neo-Babylonian culture is that it prioritized and systematized the process of making and recording celestial observations and calculations. Indeed, “scribes at the temple Esangila in Babylon had the responsibility of watching the sky every night and recording all that transpired – observations of the Moon and planets, as well as of the weather, the depth of the river, and so on.” 65 These cuneiform tablets were known as “en.nun sa gine, liter-

rule,” however, “ancient Babylonian omens apply to the nation, or to the King, not to ordinary individuals” (Evans, History and Practice, 8). 62 Nevertheless, writes Evans, History and Practice, 7, “the months mentioned in the parapegma of mul.apin are therefore not months of an actual calendar year, but rather the months of a sort of average or standard year. The Hired Man does not always make his morning rising on the first of Nisannu. Nisannu was traditionally the spring month. Whenever . . . Nisannu got too far out of step with the seasons (or with the morning risings of the fixed stars), a thirteenth month was intercalated into the calendar year to bring things back into alignment. Consequently, although the Hired Man always made his morning rising around the first of Nisannu, the date could actually slosh back and forth by up to a month.” 63 Evans, History and Practice, 16. 64 The astronomical/astrological skills of the Chaldeans became the stuff of myth. As Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, 21, summarizes the matter: “the West associated the ‘Chaldeans,’ that is, the Babylonians, with the practice of astrology. The Babylonian, or Chaldean, astrological tradition was already well known in Greco-Roman antiquity, but the disapproving attitude adopted in the West against astrologers had deep roots among the Biblical prophets, who railed against Babylonian ‘advisors,’ as well as magic.” 65 Evans, History and Practice, 16.

40 · andrea d. lobel ally, ‘regular watching’.” 66 Today, they are simply called Astronomical Diaries, and there are over a thousand extant copies, most of which were composed after circa 650 bce. 67 Here, we note the importance of these regular nighttime observations to Babylonian civilization itself. It was simply part of the fabric of life in that time and place, helping to maintain stability within the social order. Each of the individual diaries spans approximately six months and records the first monthly visibility of the lunar crescent, as well as the total time of visibility on a given evening. 68 Rarely, unusual celestial events including meteors and comets were recorded. 69 Of particular import is the fact that these records almost certainly provided the foundation for the scribes’ later ability to predict planetary motion and other events. Indeed, one such prediction, circa 612 bce, was an accurate forecast of a lunar eclipse. 70 Of importance to later scientific knowledge transmission to the Greeks, the Neo-Babylonian and Persian scribes who compiled the Astronomical Diaries also came to invent what we now know as the zodiac, the division of the sky into twelve 30° sections, totaling 360°. Each was named after a constellation. 71 The earliest Babylonian zodiac was based upon an earlier listing of constellations and stars that existed on the lunar path. The scribes soon “reduced the list to twelve constellations roughly equally spaced around the ecliptic,” and eventually “divided the ecliptic into twelve precisely equal parts, which we call ‘signs of the zodiac,’ each named after the constellation nearest it.” 72 It was only following the development of the fifth-century bce Steele, Brief Introduction, 40. Evans, History and Practice, 16, and Wright, Early History, 40–41 et passim. Wright, Early History, 41. Wright, Early History, 44. Thurston, Early Astronomy, 66. Steele, Brief Introduction, 46–47. The zodiac and its signs were appropriated by the later Greeks immediately prior to and during the Hellenistic period. As Thurston, Early Astronomy, 66, writes: “As far as we know, the first Greek astronomers to use it were Meton and Euctemon, about 430 b.c. In fact, our word zodiac comes from the Greek word zodion,” which can mean either a zodiacal sign or one of its constellations. 72 Thurston, Early Astronomy, 66.

66 67 68 69 70 71

diviners in high places · 41 zodiac, consisting of the twelve signs of 30° each, that we note changes in Babylonian omen traditions, including the development of personal forecasts based on a private individual’s birth time. 73 This new horoscopic tool, known as “genethlialogy,” transcended old practices in which such predictions were intended solely for the king and/or nation. These horoscopes recorded the “positions of the seven planets (moon, sun, and five classical planets) in the zodiac on the date of birth,” and all of the extant copies begin with a child’s birth date. 74 During the Persian period, the Babylonian calendar was restructured to adhere to a cycle of nineteen years (i.e., 235 months). This was due to the fact that the length of the year was somewhere between twelve and thirteen lunar months. 75 As such, the Babylonians had to occasionally add a thirteenth month, a process called “intercalation.” 76 This was later regulated by Babylonian astronomers, who established calendrical rules in the fifth century bce, creating a pattern of seven intercalary months added every nineteen years. This later became known as the “Metonic cycle,” and it was indebted to the earlier scribal observations and recording of astronomical events. After centuries of such nightly records, the repetitive nature of these regular occurrences allowed astronomers to predict future mathematical patterns in the heavens. 77 From the time of Alexander’s conquest and onward through the Hellenistic period, the Babylonian and Greek worlds came into contact with each other, and it is clear from the historical record Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, 117. Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, 101. Hoskin, “Astronomy,” 27. The earlier mul.apin series also lists rules for calendrical intercalation. Indeed, the intricacies of the lunisolar calendar – which counted months from new moon to new moon – called for the addition of a thirteenth month on occasion in order to compensate for the eleven-day difference that existed between the 354-day lunar year and the 365¼-day solar year (Steele, Brief Introduction, 22 et passim). Initially, this intercalation was effected by naked-eye observation, but this was soon replaced by calculation. Among the rules for intercalation found in mul.apin include two which “state that a leap month should be inserted to keep the morning rising of the Stars (our Pleiades) at the right time of year” (Evans, History and Practice, 7). 77 Hoskin, “Astronomy,” 27–28.

73 74 75 76

42 · andrea d. lobel that the Greeks received much astronomical information from the Babylonians that was put into almost immediate use. According to Hoskin, this forged a union of the systematic Greek philosophical tradition and the Babylonian focus on interpretive and predictive accuracy. This, in turn, served to help chart the course of the Western astronomical tradition, which, until the seventeenth century, aimed to demonstrate regularity and predictability in planetary motion and to make accurate forecasts. 78 As we’ve seen, the interpretive astronomical legacy left to us by Mesopotamian cultures is a rich one, encompassing direct observations, celestial divination, calendrical mathematics, and most importantly, culturally embedded celestial cosmogonies. Yet we know very little about their astronomical methods or possible forms of instrumentation. Did they, for example, stand on hills to make their observations? What did they use to make their observations other than the naked eye? Nevertheless, what we have been left with is equally valuable: voluminous astronomical records set down over time. Because the records are so plentiful and clear, we are also able to note the historical pattern of the astral bodies being directly linked to the gods and goddesses and creation stories such as Enuma Elish, thus establishing the foundational place of cosmogony for Mesopotamian astronomy and serving as a template for the earthly social and political order.

OF ĦđĚč AND ĦđčĢĚ: ASTRONOMICAL PRACTICES AT UGARIT AND IN ANCIENT ISRAEL Thus said the Lord: Do not learn to go the way of the nations, And do not be dismayed by portents in the sky; Let the nations be dismayed by them! ( Jer 10:2) As Sara L. Gardner states, given the parallels that existed among the cultures of the ANE, it is no surprise that solstice sites and other 78 Hoskin, “Astronomy,” 22–23. To this end, astrologers and astronomers from antiquity onward also used ephemerides, according to Hoskin, “Astronomy,” 28.

diviners in high places · 43 astronomical data have been unearthed throughout ancient SyriaPalestine. 79 For example, the artifacts uncovered beginning in 1928 from the modern coastal Syrian location corresponding to Late Bronze Age Ugarit have revealed a vital culture that encompassed a great deal of astral lore and some astronomical cuneiform texts. 80 While, as Mark S. Smith asserts, the Ugaritic literature differs from that of the Hebrew Bible, the texts “are also most proximate in time and place to ancient Israel.” 81 As such, they serve to shed at least some light on the astronomical milieu of the Hebrew Bible. Within the Ugaritic corpus, which is preserved in alphabetic cuneiform, we read of a large pantheon, or heavenly council, presided over by the god El and his consort, Athirat. 82 Among the many children of El and Athirat were a number of celestial figures, and, according to Smith, “it might be suggested that the sun, moon, and stars belong to El’s family.” 83 These star gods are listed in CTA 1.43.2–3, 84 and include El’s sons Shahar (Dawn) and Shalim (Dusk) and Yarih, the 79 Sara L. Gardner, “Scratching the Surface of Astronomy in the Land of the Bible: Archaeology, Texts, and Astronomy,” in Current Studies in Archaeoastronomy: Conversations across Time and Space, ed. John W. Fountain and Rolf M. Sinclair (Durham, NC: Carolina Academic, 2005), 394. 80 “Ugarit was a major trading center in the Late Bronze Age and came to a cataclysmic end around 1200 bce.” As Wright, Early History, 48, explains, “although not formally part of Canaan, Ugarit is part of Syria-Palestine, and it appears that its citizens’ beliefs share essential features with those of the people we call Canaanites.” 81 Mark S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 5. 82 Athirat is likely cognate with Asherah in the Hebrew Bible. On a related note, however, also see the discussion of the etymological quandaries that arise with respect to similar goddess names, e.g., those based on triliteral root ‘tr in Aren M. Wilson-Wright, Athtart: The Transmission and Transformation of a Goddess in the Late Bronze Age. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2 (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2016). With respect to the matter of ancient Near Eastern pantheons, Wright, Early History, 72, among others, sees more than parallels between the culture of Ugarit and later Israelite civilization. Indeed, as he states: “As in other cultures of the ANE, the ancient Israelites viewed God as the King presiding over a heavenly council” (72). This is evidenced in Ps 82:1 and possibly Ps 29:10. 83 Mark S. Smith, “Astral Religion and the Representation of Divinity: The Cases of Ugarit and Judah,” in Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, 193. 84 These celestial deities, writes Marjo Korpel, A Rift in the Clouds: Ugaritic and Hebrew Descriptions of the Divine (Munster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1999), 563, “are called celestials (smym), race of heaven (dr dt smm), inhabitant of the third heaven (sqrn), the assembly

44 · andrea d. lobel moon god, as well as Shapshu, the sun goddess. 85 Further, we note the presence of Athtart (likely the Akkadian goddess Ishtar), who is very possibly Venus, the “morning and evening star,” and Resheph, who “may be an astral figure” representing Mars. 86 In the Baal Cycle, the best-known Ugaritic myth, Shapshu, the solar goddess, accompanies the goddess Anat in her descent to the underworld to give the recently deceased god Baal “a proper burial.” 87 It is also possible that she was present in order to provide light on their journey. 88 On the level of praxis, the astronomical customs of Ugarit were generally derived from their Mesopotamian counterparts, and, as a result, part of this textual inheritance would have included cosmogony. According to Paolo Xella, this included the practice of celestial divination. 89 For example, divinatory tablets containing celestial content have been found at modern Ras Shamra. These include a broken alphabetic cuneiform tablet containing omens based on solar and lunar observations and linked with the Mesopotamian series Enuma Anu Enlil. On these omen tablets, we note the usual protasis and an apodosis formula, as well as concern for the king and his house. 90 In another fragmentary collection of omens related to the moon – which comprises KTU 1.91 in the literary corpus – there is reference to a new moon and a full month, as well as a falling star, all of which are linked with a protasis and a partial apodosis. 91

85

86 87

88 89 90 91

of the stars (phr kkbm), lords of the stars (dkbkbm), star gods (’ilm kbkbm) or, as we saw, simply stars.” As Korpel, Rift, 565, states, Shapshu is referred to directly as “the sun.” Elsewhere, she is referred to as “Lamp of the Gods” or “Great Luminary” and is anthropomorphized, particularly in the Baal Cycle. Smith, Origins, 61–62. As I see it, this may well be evidence of the roles of solar deities in the ancient Near East as bringers of order, civilization, and proper behavior within society. Because the Baal Cycle may be viewed as a cosmogonic text, and certainly as a cosmological text, this would appear to uphold the link between cosmogony/cosmology and the importance of maintaining the proper order of creation in the workings of a culture. Smith, Origins, 127. Paolo Xella, “The Omen Texts,” in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. Wilfred G.E. Watson and Nicolas Wyatt (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 353. Xella, “Omen Texts,” 355–56. “Ugaritic Lunar Omens,” trans. Dennis Pardee, Context of Scripture 1.91:290.

diviners in high places · 45 Perhaps the most significant astronomical finding at Ugarit, however, is now recorded in KTU 1.78. Depending on the scholarly interpretation, it may or may not describe a total eclipse of the sun with the planet Mars nearby. According to G. del Olmo Lete, this particular eclipse most likely took place on either May 3, 1375 bce or March 5, 1223 bce. Some scholars, however, do not read a total eclipse into the translation. 92 One of these dissenting voices, regarding KTU 1.78 and other celestial texts, is that of Cooley, who disagrees with the astrological and divinatory interpretations of Ann Jeffers, del Olmo Lete and others, pointing to a broader lack of content related to celestial divination in the Ugaritic literary corpus. Rather, Cooley underscores the point that astral worship was the primary celestial focus at Ugarit. 93 Where KTU 1.78 is concerned, Cooley interprets it as describing “the report of the sun’s setting during the first six days of Hiyyar,” not as evidence of celestial divination. 94 Nevertheless, Cooley and other scholars point to the importance of KTU 1.78 at Ugarit, as the celestial phenomenon it describes was followed up by an order to perform extispicy, the divinatory examination of livers. 95 Given the many pieces of sometimes conflicting data from cultures spanning the region, scholars do not always agree about the nature of the possible direct influences upon the culture(s) of ancient Israel by its neighbors and earlier cultures in the ANE, including Ugarit. For example, in keeping with his views on the general lack of evidence for an established tradition of celestial divination proper at Ugarit (and, indeed, in Canaanite culture viewed more broadly) Cooley sees the earlier scholarship on celestial divination in ancient Israel as speculative. 96 Nevertheless, as the biblical text itself reveals (e.g., Jer 19:13, 32:29; Zeph 1:5), it may also be prudent to consider 92 G. del Olmo Lete, Canaanite Religion according to the Liturgical Texts of Ugarit (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 366. 93 Cooley, Poetic Astronomy, 214. 94 Cooley, Poetic Astronomy, 191. 95 Xella, “Omen Texts,” 356; del Olmo Lete, Canaanite Religion, 366; and Cooley, Poetic Astronomy, 191. 96 Cooley, Poetic Astronomy, 259.

46 · andrea d. lobel the existence of a spectrum of astral cult practices in ancient Israel, residing outside the strict bounds of Deuteronomism. No study of this topic would be complete without briefly touching upon the earliest stratum of research on biblical creation, Hermann Gunkel’s classic work on creation, Creation and Chaos in the Primeval Era and the Eschaton (Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit), in which he addresses the Chaoskampf of Genesis 1 and posits a linear, albeit demythologized, transmission from Mesopotamian creation myths. While Gunkel’s source criticism is riddled with weaknesses and his theories disputed by numerous scholars, his study on creation nevertheless established a foundation for ongoing research. 97 As Wright expresses it, however, we are certain of one thing: the history of ancient Israel “was closely intertwined with the histories of the great powers surrounding it and intermittently dominating it.” 98 As such, we note a number of celestial motifs common to both ancient Israel and surrounding societies in the ancient Near East. These include the vital importance of cosmogonies, as well as the cosmologies, cosmographies, and social ordering principles that unfold from creation, as we have seen. In ancient Israel, the heavens were primarily conceived as tripartite, with heaven (ęĕĚĥ) above, earth (ġĤČ) in the center, and the netherworld (ĘđČĥ) at the bottom. 99 This aligned with the Mesopotamian view that the universe was divided into the same three-part structure of heaven, earth, and netherworld. 100 In ancient Israel, we also note a division between the heavens and the earth, first seen 97 Wright, Early History, 3. On refutations of parallels between the Mesopotamian myths and the creation in Genesis, see David T. Tsumura, Creation and Destruction: A Reappraisal of the Chaoskampf Theory in the Old Testament (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005) and W. G. Lambert, “A New Look at the Babylonian Background of Genesis,” Journal of Theological Studies 16, no. 2 (1965): 287–300. 98 Others have demonstrated parallels between the Egyptian Hymn to the Aten, composed during the reign of Akhenaten, and Psalm 104, some stating that the Hymn directly inspired the Psalm. See, e.g., J. Glen Taylor, Yahweh and the Sun: Biblical and Archaeological Evidence for Sun Worship in Ancient Israel. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 111 (Sheffield: JSOT, 1993), 263. 99 Nevertheless, as Wright, Early History, 56, states, there was no “single biblical version of heaven” in ancient Israel. 100 Wright, Early History, 54.

diviners in high places · 47 in Genesis 1:6–7 and 1:20 – that is, the firmament, or ĞĕģĤ (raqia), 101 which is “where the celestial bodies move (Gen 1:14–17).” 102 According to some scholars, including Wright, Reed, and Meir Bar-Ilan, the ancient Israelites knew the skies and mentioned the sun, moon, constellations and stars in their writings, yet there is a relative absence of astronomical texts in the Hebrew Bible when compared with other ANE civilizations. 103 While this may be the case, it by no means implies the absence of observational astronomy in ancient Israel. Indeed, as Gardner states, there is a great deal of evidence for the presence of cultic astronomical observation in ancient Israel as early as the Neolithic era, circa 5500–4500 bce. During this period, she writes, “cult complexes were oriented to the eastern horizon.” 104 She also describes the presence of “celestial images [which] appeared in paintings and on artifacts in the Chalcolithic period (4500–3300 bce)” and points to the finding of “a solstice site” in the Golan Heights dating from the Bronze Age. Moreover, a number of structures known as “high places,” or ĦđĚč, were also discovered. 105 These are well attested in the Hebrew Bible as cultic sites that were purged in anti-idolatry campaigns by kings Josiah and Hezekiah. 106 101 The term “firmament,” according to Wright, Early History, 56–57, is derived from “the root ĞģĤ [which] means ‘stamp out’ or ‘forge.’ The idea of a solid, forged surface fits well with Ezekiel 1 where God’s throne rests upon the ĞĕģĤ. According to Genesis 1, the ĞĕģĤ (raqia) is the sphere of the celestial bodies (Gen 1:6–8, 14–17).” According to Genesis 1:6–8, however, the ĞĕģĤ represents a barrier “against the waters of heaven,” although the material of which it is made is not mentioned. According to some accounts, however, the “floor of heaven” is made of stone and, in one account, Exod 24:9–10, the blue stone lapis lazuli. This firmament is also echoed in Mesopotamian sources. 102 Wright, Early History, 55. 103 Wright, Early History, 58; Reed, “Was There Science?,” 469; and Meir Bar-Ilan, “Astronomy in Ancient Judaism,” Encyclopedia Judaica 1:144. 104 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 393. 105 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 393. 106 Indeed, the Hebrew Bible’s admonitions against worship of the heavenly bodies serves as evidence for the import of astronomy within ancient Israelite society (Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 393). In brief, the eighth-century-bce king of Judah, Ahaz, built altars and high places to serve Baal and Asherah, and “all the host of heaven” (2 Chr 33:3). Hezekiah, his son (ca. 715–687 bce), however, was a Yahwist reformer, and “he destroyed the high places, shattered the standing stones, and cut down the sacred poles. (ii Kings 18:4).” This was followed by a similar reform by

48 · andrea d. lobel Moreover, during the Neolithic period in the region of ancient Israel, we note complexes, rooms, and temples that were frequently oriented to the east, including at least one temple found at Megiddo. But the temple plan changed slightly in the later Bronze Age, and temples stopped being oriented eastward at Megiddo. Nevertheless, a high place was found next to the Megiddo temple during this period (Early Bronze ii, ca. 2700–2300 bce). Also found dating to this era were cave paintings of celestial objects such as the sun, moon, and stars in locations including Teleilat Ghassul and Megiddo. 107 In like fashion, “the Bronze Age site of Rujim el-Hiri in the Golan Heights northeast of Megiddo was definitely a solstice site during periods contemporary with Megiddo.” As Gardner describes the finding: With the help of A. Aveni, Y. Mizrachi determined that “if one was to stand at the center of the complex during the June solstice sunrise of 3000 bc, the first gleam of sunrise would appear at the center of the Northeast entryway in Wall 1. Given the same scenario for the same observer in a post–2000-bc date, the first gleam of sunrise would appear way-off from the center of the same entryway.” 108 Indeed, these eastern alignments are significant, particularly given Gardner’s findings that in the Neolithic to Early Bronze Age, 100% of the cultic sites surveyed “were oriented east.” By contrast, only 82% of these sites were oriented east in the Middle Bronze Age. By the Late Bronze age, this had fallen to 50%. It may also be notable that the percentage of eastern orientations rises to 75% during the Iron Age. 109 Precisely how these alignments may best be interpreted, however, is a matter for speculation. King Josiah (ca. 640–609 bce). However, “[i]n the periods prior to Josiah’s reform the images of the sun were used in temple worship” (Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 404). 107 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 396, 399–400. 108 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 399–400. 109 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 409. There exists a debate regarding the possible eastern solar alignment of Solomon’s Temple as well. One relevant study was conducted by H. Van Dyke Parunak, “Was Solomon’s Temple Aligned to the Sun?” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 110 (1978): 33, who did not find any particular solar

diviners in high places · 49 As for the high places, these are also associated with the use of ĦđčĢĚ (“standing stones”) and ęĕĤĥČ (“sacred poles or pillars”), which are described in the Hebrew Bible, in verses including Deuteronomy 16:21; 1 Kings 14:23, 17:10–11; 2 Kings 18:4, 23:14–15. As cult complexes that contained a raised area for ritual and were sometimes located on hills or mountains, these high places were, according to the Hebrew Bible, found throughout Judah and Israel at Bethel, Dan, and Gibeon. According to 1 Kings 3:3, sacrifices were made there. Indeed, as Gardner states, “high places were referred to approximately 100 times in the Old Testament, and 80% of the references link them to cultic acts.” 110 They were most commonly used during the Iron Age but the Hebrew Bible refers to them in texts that may reflect cultural practices or phenomena that date to the Middle Bronze Age. Complexes including standing stones have also been discovered in Megiddo, as well as Rujim el-Hiri and Nahariya. 111 With respect to innertextual evidence for astronomy, as Bar-Ilan writes, the biblical authors knew of at least seven or more stars and constellations (Jer 44:17–19; Amos 5:8, 5:26; Job 9:9, 38:32). 112 These included ĐĚĕė and Ęĕĝė, which have been identified with “the constellation Orion and . . . the Pleiades, an asterism in the constellation of Taurus.” As Wright states, “although one cannot show incontrovertibly that the terms [ĐĚĕė and Ęĕĝė] refer to these two constellations, this seems to be a reasonable assumption.” He also points to a reference to “the morning stars” singing in Job 38:7, and here, the ęĕĐĘČ ĕĜč appear to be identified with the stars themselves. 113 As such, it is clear that, at least from the biblical account, there was alignment. Taylor, Yahweh and the Sun, 66–67, however, appears to uphold the likelihood of a possible eastern orientation but does not find an obvious alignment. See also Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 408, who also points out that Taylor’s “architectural data for orientation was drawn from excavation reports and was therefore flawed. Excavation reports are not uniform in the recording of map directions; sometimes the direction used is True North, Magnetic North, or plotted randomly from the confines of the dig house” (407). 110 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 404. 111 Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 405, 409. 112 Bar-Ilan, “Astronomy,” 144. 113 Wright, Early History, 59.

50 · andrea d. lobel some practical familiarity with the patterns found in the heavens. It is, however, difficult to generalize from these few references. It is not merely the regular and omnipresent patterns that are described in the Hebrew Bible. Indeed, other astronomical passages in the biblical text appear to describe sudden celestial events such as solar and lunar eclipses. In his analysis of total eclipses of the sun between 1500 and 100 bce, F. R. Stephenson writes that eleven total and near-total solar eclipses were seen from Jerusalem during this period. These include phenomena that occurred on August 19, 1157, September 30, 1131, November 23, 1041, January 27, 932, August 15, 831, May 19, 557, January 18, 402, February 29, 357, July 4, 336, April 2, 303, and June 5, 242 bce. 114 Other eclipses were visible from the perspective of Babylon on May 19, 557, January 18, 402, and June 5, 242 bce. As such, he states, biblical references most probably refer to events that took place in the fourth and twelfth centuries bce. 115 For example, the eclipse described in Amos 8:9 could not have taken place on June 15, 763 bce, as it was a partial eclipse and would not have darkened the daytime skies as the verse states. Instead, Stephenson believes that Amos is describing a much earlier tradition based on the total eclipse of 1131 bce. Another eclipse is likely being described in Joel 2:31, which appears to refer to both a solar and lunar eclipse. The awareness of the authors of the Hebrew Bible of the characteristics of lunar eclipses is suggested by the reference to the moon turning to blood, for the moon often turns a rusty red colour during totality. 116 It is therefore unsurprising that, as was the case in Mesopotamia, eclipses were feared by the ancient Israelites as a negative omen. 117 Perhaps the most famous and oft-debated biblical allusion to a solar eclipse takes place in Joshua 10:12–14. Here we note the sun being made to stand still and the moon to stop. While this may be an interpretation of a solar eclipse, the meaning of the passage remains 114 F. R. Stephenson, “Astronomical Verification and Dating of Old Testament Passages Referring to Solar Eclipses,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 107 (1975): 112. 115 Stephenson, “Astronomical Verification,” 117. 116 Stephenson, “Astronomical Verification,” 118–19. 117 Joan Andre Moore, Astronomy in the Bible (Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1981), 78.

diviners in high places · 51 uncertain. John F. A. Sawyer, however, believes that this described a total solar eclipse that actually took place on September 30, 1131 bce. 118 Whatever the interpretation of these verses, it is important, according to Stephenson, to pay close attention to any mention of solar or lunar darkening or other related phenomena in ancient literatures. 119 The biblical text supports the inextricable link between astronomy and creation. Indeed, we read about the strongly emphasized celestial bodies within the Genesis cosmogony in Genesis 1:14–16, where the sun and moon are created, as well as numerous other verses. Indeed, here, “the sun, moon and stars not only function to give light upon the earth, yet also function to be signs for seasons and for days and years. In other words: they indicate the passing of time.” 120 And, as we can plainly see, the verses refer to the luminaries providing regular astronomical functions. These functions emanate from the divine cosmogony, as demonstrated by the fact that the critical roles of the astronomical bodies for human society are described as part and parcel of the creation process itself. Later, in Genesis 15:5, we note the allegorical interpretation of astronomy in God’s presentation of the stars to Abram, in which the future patriarch is told to count the stars in the heavens, which would match the number of his descendants. (Here, too, we see the link between astronomy, life on earth, and communal order.) In like fashion, we note the reference to the astral bodies in Genesis 37:9, in Joseph’s description of a dream in which he saw the sun, moon, and eleven stars, which represent his family, bowing to him. Such portrayals and narrative uses of astronomy to serve as linking symbols 118 John F. A. Sawyer, “Joshua 10:12–14 and the Solar Eclipse of 30 September 1131 B.C.,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 104 (1972): 140. 119 Stephenson, “Astronomical Verification,” 108. 120 Ron Pirson, “The Sun, The Moon and Eleven Stars: An Interpretation of Joseph’s Second Dream,” in Studies in the Book of Genesis: Literature, Redaction and History, ed. A. Wenin (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2001), 565. Indeed, these ĦđĦđČ were critical to the “history of the calendar in the Hebrew tradition, for it was upon harvests and seasons that their livelihood, their ‘blessing from Heaven’, depended (Gen 49:25; Deut 28:1–5).” See Bruce K. Gardner, The Genesis Calendar: The Synchronistic Tradition in Genesis 1–11 (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2001), 87, see also 71.

52 · andrea d. lobel between the celestial bodies, God’s will, and the order of life on earth are scattered throughout the corpus of the Hebrew Bible. Tellingly, however, in other biblical books, particularly within the Deuteronomistic History, we begin to notice a new use of astronomical motifs that transcend mere allegory or simple description – that is, the celestial bodies begin to assume an exhortative, perhaps even cautionary role. This is certainly the case in Deuteronomy 4:15–19 and 17:2–4, as well as 2 Kings 23:5 and Jeremiah 8:2; 19:13, 121 in which idolaters are strongly cautioned not to worship the sun, moon, and stars – an apparent extension of the more general prohibition against soothsaying and divination in Leviticus 19:26. 122 I argue that this can be rightly viewed as an inverted echo of the link between the deities of Mesopotamia and Ugarit (as well as neighbouring cultures that would have had contact with the early Israelites as they came on the scene in the ancient Near East) and astral concerns. This is to say that, whereas celestial divination and astral worship are de rigeur in Mesopotamian literature, for example, the redacted biblical literature severs this connection and simply links astronomy with God’s cosmogony and supreme will. In essence, in the Hebrew Bible as redacted, the celestial bodies are clearly not meant to be worshipped. The polemics against the practice, of course, also suggest that the practice of astral worship was a going concern. Some scholars, including J. Glen Taylor, have gone further, suggesting that sun worship was a key element of early Israelite religious practice, and that, in fact, Yahweh was a god of the sun. 123 Whether 121 All of these texts are the work of the Deuteronomist, with the possible exception of Jeremiah, which may or may not be part of the Deuteronomistic History. 122 According to Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, “Solomon’s Temple: The Politics of Ritual Space,” in Sacred Time, Sacred Place: Archeology and the Religion of Israel, ed. Barry M. Gittlen (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 89, “some scholars have asserted that ‘the sun, moon and stars were kosher ingredients of the Yahwistic cult into the 7th century b.c.e.’” 123 Taylor, Yahweh and the Sun, 95, 147, 219, 257 et passim. Steve A. Wiggins, “Yahweh: The God of Sun?” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 71 (1996): 89, among other scholars, has taken issue with Taylor’s thesis and critiqued many of Taylor’s interpretations of often ambiguous archaeological and textual data, stating that “a speculative leap is required to move from suggesting the possibility of solar worship in ancient Israel to the identification of its national deity with the sun.” Others,

diviners in high places · 53 or not Taylor’s thesis will stand the test of time remains to be seen. What is clear from the biblical texts, however, is that astral worship was a distinct feature of Israelite religion and, indeed, throughout the Levant. 124 Again, this is supported by the text, given the biblical invective against this activity, as well as by material evidence, including Israelite incense altars that would have been used in celestial worship on rooftops. 125 Finally, in addition to the many roles of astronomical bodies and phenomena that we have already noted, it is important to point to calendrical uses of the stars, sun, and moon. The earliest protoIsraelite calendar of which we are aware was carved upon a limestone tablet found in 1908 at Gezer and contains inscriptions of texts linking the months of the year with agricultural functions. Likely dating to circa 925 bce, its text is a southern Canaanite dialect. 126 The calendar that was used in preexilic Israel proper, however, is not definitively known. 127 In the periods contemporary with the later books of the Hebrew Bible, in the last centuries bce, we note the presence of both lunar and solar calendars. Although early Judaism is beyond the terminus of this study, it suffices to note that there were a number of sectarian calendars in existence at the time, all based at least in part on direct astronomical observation. Where astronomical instrumentation is concerned, we are aware of a probable shadow clock which is described in 2 Kings 20:8–11 as the “stairway of Ahaz.” Indeed, “the device seems to have been set up at the king’s palace to measure the passing of the day by the

however, including Mark S. Smith, “The Near Eastern Background of Solar Language for Yahweh,” Journal of Biblical Literature 109, no. 1 (1990): 29 et passim and Izak Cornelius, “The Sun Epiphany in Job 38:12–15 and the Iconography of the Gods in the Ancient Near East – The Palestinian Connection,” Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 16 (1990): 31, concede that there is clear evidence of solar language for God in ancient Israel and solar elements in Israelite religion. 124 Particularly in seventh-century bce Judah. 125 Cooley, Poetic Astronomy, 245–51. 126 “The Gezer Calendar,” trans. P. Kyle McCarter, Context of Scripture 2:222, and Gardner, “Scratching the Surface,” 394. 127 Sacha Stern, Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar Second Century bce–Tenth Century ce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 2.

54 · andrea d. lobel sun’s shadow.” 128 This was possibly “made of a stairway with a pillar on top. Archaeologists have found shadow clocks like this in other parts of the world.” 129 In brief, astronomical practices are clearly documented in ancient Israel and early Judaism. Of key importance, however, is that, in keeping with the beliefs and practices of numerous cultures throughout the ancient Near East and beyond, the Israelites and later adherents of early Jewish groups linked astronomical phenomena with both God’s creation and the divine will. These interpretations, in turn, were inextricably connected with timekeeping and calendar. 130 As in later Jewish culture, calendars (kept in time with the seasons via astronomical observation) were a practical and systematic way of ordering festivals and community on earth. In a metaphorical sense, this also served to mirror the order of the heavens, mapping and projecting cosmogonic and cosmological themes found in the Hebrew Bible (e.g., creation, beliefs and rituals mandated by God) onto the year, agricultural cycles, and festivals as the cosmogonic outgrowth of an ordered society on earth. What, then, does this analysis mean for the reader of astronomical or celestial passages in the Hebrew Bible? Here, I would suggest that biblical interpreters first take care to note astronomical references as markers of a broader nexus of concerns ultimately stemming from divine authority and cosmogony. From the first appearances of the luminaries in Genesis 1:14, astronomical content is rarely neutral material, and it is not there for its own sake. Rather, the content is there to achieve some purpose, be it to highlight the primacy of creation and the way God wills it to unfold into a certain prescribed social and political order, or as allegory highlighting God’s structured intentions for Israel (e.g., Joseph’s dream or Abram’s descendants being as numerous as the stars in the sky). Secondly, it is useful to take note of the type of astronomical

128 David Ringo Miano, “Shadow on the Steps: Time Measurement in Ancient Israel” (PhD diss., University of California, 2006), 211. 129 Moore, Astronomy, 83. 130 Wright, Early History, 59–60.

diviners in high places · 55 phenomenon being described in the text. Is it a regular function such as bestowing light or serving as allegory as described above? Or is it sudden and unusual, such as a darkening or halting, disordered sun or moon? Here, context also matters. For example, eerie astronomical events frequently occur in combination with descriptions of war or unrest (e.g., the sun standing still in Josh 10:12–14). Finally, redaction history matters when attempting to parse astronomical content in the Hebrew Bible. For example, within the Deuteronomistic History, the need of the authors and redactors for a stable social and political order is shown to be strongly connected with a concern about reinforcing monotheism (or, better, monolatry) and is steeped in polemics against astral worship. As Lang rightly points out, the biblical scribes presented God “as a wise administrator and legislator,” echoing Mesopotamian traditions. 131 Where astronomical material is present, whether it be related to calendrics, dream imagery, unusual celestial phenomena (e.g., eclipses), or symbolism, some link to the theme of order and its maintenance on earth – as dictated by the divine and unfolding from creation – is rarely far behind.

CONCLUSION: ROOTS AND WINGS Throughout this study, we have noted the interconnections between the celestial sphere and its interpretations, on the one hand, and the cosmogonies, their accompanying cosmologies, and astronomy in Mesopotamia, Ugarit, and ancient Israel, on the other. As I have also demonstrated, we can follow the threads from creation to the development of divinatory practices, calendar systems, and social and political ordering systems mirroring the textual cosmogonies and cosmologies of these civilizations. While the primary line in the sand is that of polytheism versus monotheism or monolatry in the biblical context, what remains constant across the astronomical

131 Lang, Hebrew God, 36.

56 · andrea d. lobel content found in each of these literatures are the ordering principles, structures, and meanings bestowed by cosmogony. Another point I must make before closing is that it is all too tempting to view the astronomical features of the cultures of Mesopotamia, Ugarit, and ancient Israel as mythico-magical vestiges of ancient civilizations with little connection to the history of science. However, matters are not quite that simple. In fact, it is difficult to distinguish among science, magic, and religion in these early texts, which often conflated the sacred with what we would now consider scientific observations. 132 Here, what seems most clear is that the earliest processes of interpretation – that is, of reading the night sky – were means of striving to ask the kinds of questions that science gradually came to approach in very different ways. In essence, we’re heirs not only to the early scientific, quantitative thinking evidenced in ancient Near Eastern cultures but also to the qualitative dimensions of early skywatching, such as cosmogonic and cosmological ordering myths, celestial divination, astral worship, and the like. In this sense, the qualitative, so often dismissed in studies of early science, has its role to play in the history of science, as well as within the history of ideas, broadly speaking – if not as a descriptor of the kinds of scientific activities we moderns might recognize, then certainly as a marker for the very human need to know and interpret the workings of the cosmos from creation onward. As Immanuel Kant wrote in his 1781 Critique of Pure Reason, “[t]wo things fill the mind with ever new and increasing wonder and awe – the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” Indeed, it is this sense of engagement with the natural world and its marvels that has led humanity from discovery to discovery from antiquity to the present day. Sidestepping anachronism for a moment, it is fair to see the celestial systems established in the ANE, in a broad sense, as early expressions of the very human need to understand the heavens and their purported link to events on earth. As I’ve pointed out, these astronomical readings tend to exist within a nexus of linked, mean132 Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, xii.

diviners in high places · 57 ingful astral and societal concerns and are best read with these in mind. Indeed, as Rochberg explains, an important question to keep in mind in when situating the place of Babylonian ideas about the universe – which, I would suggest, is also true of the Ugaritic and Israelite examples – is as follows: [The question] is not how “they” thought about science, but how we do. Indeed, cuneiform texts of divinatory, astrological, and astronomical content belong to the history of science not because the Babylonians thought of these intellectual inquiries as “science,” but because, in assessing the nature and practice of their activities, we can reasonably place Mesopotamian divination, astrology, and astronomy in a larger context that is meaningful within and for the history of science. 133

133 Rochberg, Heavenly Writing, xvi.

Hate in Early Rabbinic Traditions Joel Gereboff arizona state university

Since the mid-1980s, there has been an ever-increasing interest in the emotions across numerous academic disciplines. 1 More recently, commentators have noted the increased frequency of the particular emotion of hate in the speech and actions of many individuals and groups. I take for granted that the last claim requires little documentation, for daily we read analyses of hate-filled political comments and actions regarding individuals and various ethnic, religious, and racial groups. 2 With regard to the academic study of emotions, comments by Jonathan Garb in the opening paragraph of his recent article, “Shame as an Existential Emotion in Modern Kabbalah,” succinctly capture these developments. Garb writes: Recent decades have seen significant developments in the study of emotion. Diverse disciplines and schools of thought, includ-

1 I greatly appreciate having the opportunity to offer the following essay to celebrate Professor Levy’s accomplishments. His instruction in graduate school contributed to my knowledge of Hebrew and Aramaic grammar and my understanding of the Dead Sea Scrolls and rabbinic literature. Over the years we have had opportunities to interact in our roles as heads of our academic units. Professor Levy has always in his professional and personal life exhibited behaviors quite opposite the theme of my essay: he has always been inclusive and welcoming of people, seeking to be a friend and a supporter. I also wish to thank my colleague Françoise Mirguet for her numerous contributions to this essay through conversations, commentary, and the sharing of many suggestions for its improvement. 2 Based on a review of books and articles published during the past decade, as listed in various databases for different disciplines, it appears that, while much has been written on hate speech, there has not been a significant increase in scholarship on hate itself as an emotion.

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60 · joel gereboff ing various schools of psychoanalysis, existential psychology, archetypal psychology, anthropology and phenomenology have addressed the complexity of both general as well as specific emotions. Together with a steadily increasing recognition of the salience of emotion in human experience in the most general terms, focused attention has been granted to the role of sociocultural and historical context in the construction of emotion. One may hazard the observation that somatic and emotional experiences have joined the intellect and the spirit as major areas of investigation of cultural and religious life. 3 In this essay, I will draw upon a number of recent developments in the study of emotions, especially some that are devoted to the study of emotions in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple era Jewish writings, to analyze early rabbinic views on hate as found in several Tannaitic texts and in a few passages in the Babylonian Talmud. 4 The purpose of the essay is twofold. First, it seeks to lay out a set of helpful concepts for analyzing emotions and terms usually taken to refer to emotions, indicating along the way erroneous notions about these matters. Second, it employs these analytical concepts to study the terms translated as “hate” in selected early rabbinic texts. This analysis demonstrates that the language of hate appears infrequently in early rabbinic texts. In the small number of passages that speak of hate, the term does not appear to refer to emotion as understood today. Statements about hate for the most part do not connect with interior aspects of people – with feelings. However, these statements do serve the discursive function of naming types of unacceptable

3 Jonathan Garb, “Shame as an Existential Emotion in Modern Kabbalah,” Jewish Social Studies 21 (2015): 89–122. 4 I include traditions from both Tannaitic and Amoraic documents as there are only a small number in each. Covering sources from both eras allows for drawing distinctions between views from different periods. There are far more comments on hate in texts for the post-Amoraic era in such texts as Tanhuma and Avot de-Rabbi Natan, but examining them would cover more than ten centuries worth of traditions. Moreover, I have not attempted here to explain respective views in terms of specific broader cultural contexts, a project that would increase in complexity were I to have discussed the range of rabbinic texts composed through the geonic era.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 61 actions – those that are hateful – that are to be generally avoided as they create inappropriate social distancing. More than thirty years ago, Peter Stearns and Carol Stearns in their oft-cited article, “Emotionology: Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards,” 5 successfully called for historians to focus upon the emotional standards of particular cultures and periods as they engage in historical research. They coined the term “emotionology,” which they defined as “the attitudes or standards that a society, or a definable group within a society, maintains toward basic emotions and their appropriate expression; ways that institutions reflect and encourage these attitudes in human conduct.” 6 Key to the claim of Stearns and Stearns is the recognition that societies and cultures differ in their repertoire of emotions, in the priority assigned to different emotions, in their positions regarding occasions appropriate for displaying different emotions, and, most basically, in their very definition or understanding of the nature of particular emotions. Stearns and Stearns also provide a working definition of emotion at the start of their article as “a complex set of interactions among subjective and objective factors, mediated through neural and/or hormonal systems, which gives rise to feelings (affective experiences as of pleasure or displeasure) and also general cognitive processes toward appraising the experience; emotions in this sense lead to physiological adjustments to the conditions that aroused response, and often to expressive and adaptive behavior.” 7 This definition reflects a major stream of scholarship on emotions that notes cognitive dimensions in particular. Work by philosophers such as Robert Solomon and Martha Nussbaum have made a forceful case for the role of thought in the experience of emotions. 8 Stearns and Stearns 5 Peter Stearns and Carol Stearns, “Emotionology: Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards,” American Historical Review 90 (1985): 813–36. Susan J. Matt, “Current Emotion Research in History: Or, Doing History from the Inside Out,” Emotion Review 3 (2011): 117–24 offers a brief overview of the place of the study of emotions in historical scholarship. 6 Stearns and Stearns, “Emotionology,” 813. 7 Stearns and Stearns, “Emotionology,” 813. 8 See, e.g., Robert Solomon, The Passions (Garden City, NY: Anchor Doubleday, 1976); Solomon, The Passions: The Emotions and the Meaning of Life (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett,

62 · joel gereboff do not reduce emotions to these cognitive elements but also include bodily, neural, and hormonal components, as well as feelings. A key question about this definition is to what extent it presumes a modern notion of the human self, a Cartesian self, one consisting of body and mind. Recent scholarship on emotions in the Hebrew Bible by Françoise Mirguet, David Lambert, and others in a way extends the idea of emotionology to consider whether, in fact, ancient Israelite authors thought in terms of a category of experience generally labeled “emotion,” and whether they thought of the human subject as a being with a bifurcated mind and body. At the center of this work is a challenge to the view that, in biblical texts, words that are usually translated by terms such as “love,” “hate,” “anger,” or “fear” should be understood as emotions and treated as if they are primarily experiences interior to individuals. Below I will explore whether this critique also fits the data from rabbinic texts. In “What is an ‘Emotion’ in the Hebrew Bible? An Experience that Exceeds Most Contemporary Concepts,” Mirguet makes a strong case for caution in treating, without careful definition, various terms in the Hebrew Bible as being the same as what our culture labels “emotions.” 9 She notes that there is no term for “emotions” in the Hebrew Bible. More importantly, based on analysis of biblical usages of terms such as “love,” “hate,” “fear,” and “grief,” she concludes that these terms are not limited to the expression of what we call emotions; rather, they also include actions, movements, ritual gestures and physical sensations without strict dissociation between these different dimensions . . . The Biblical Hebrew words studied here do not quite correspond to the linguistic space we allot to 1993); Solomon, True to Our Feelings: What Our Emotions Are Really Telling Us (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007); Martha Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Nussbaum, Political Emotions: Why Love Matters for Justice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013); and Nussbaum, Anger and Forgiveness: Resentment, Generosity and Justice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016). 9 Françoise Mirguet, “What is an ‘Emotion’ in the Hebrew Bible? An Experience that Exceeds Most Contemporary Concepts,” Biblical Interpretation 24 (2016): 442–65.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 63 emotions in modern languages. The experiences that the words evoke exceed what we call emotions as they also include actions and bodily sensations. 10 Thus, for example, one enacts joy rather than merely feeling joyful. Mirguet also demonstrates that at times these words “only represent what is happening inside the characters’ bodies.” Accordingly, she suggests, “[t]he physical sensation or bodily experience is the emotion. Such texts describe how it physically feels to be in a situation without separating between an emotional feeling and a bodily sensation.” 11 Finally, Mirguet observes that “emotional terms” often serve to represent various types of social relations and power dynamics when they portray how one person felt or ought to have felt in relation to another. This insight will be especially useful in my analysis of rabbinic texts referring to hate. At the end of her essay, Mirguet draws out the implications of such findings for future research when she writes: “Studies inspired by affect theories, with their attention to bodily sensations and affects prior to conceptualization constitute a promising avenue of research.” 12 In these comments, Mirguet underscores that biblical authors appear to subscribe to what we might term “embodied ways of knowing,” and, in so doing, she questions whether it is appropriate to assume that these authors presumed the modern sense of the subject composed of a body and a mind. Lambert has advanced these challenges in a recent article that explores the legacy of James Barr’s critique of inappropriate philological analyses in much of biblical theology. 13 Lambert analyzes such biblical terms as Ğďĕ (“know”), čĘ (“heart”) and čĐČ (“love”) to analyze the truly different ancient Israelite representations of mind and emotions. He strongly challenges the typical interiorizing of these terms whereby biblical Hebrew words are made to conform 10 11 12 13

Mirguet, “What is an ‘Emotion,’” 443, 455. Mirguet, “What is an ‘Emotion,’” 451. Mirguet, “What is an ‘Emotion,’” 464–65. David Arthur Lambert, “Refreshing Philology: James Barr, Supersessionism and the State of Biblical Words,” Biblical Interpretation 24 (2016): 332–56.

64 · joel gereboff to a modern dichotomy of mind and body. He notes that Barr had already shown how standard dictionary definitions of the Hebrew term čĘ (“heart”) imported Victorian psychology and religion and translated biblical words into the terms of individual subjectivity. Lambert observes: “It seems clear that leb is a Hebrew equivalent of neither ‘heart’ nor ‘head.’ The possibility of a radically different ontology of the person in ancient Israel remains.” 14 Similarly, he observes that the word čĐČ, which is generally rendered as “love,” is not the description of a feeling, what is interior to the person, or even an act but of a social relationship. 15 Thus, like Mirguet, we have in Lambert a rethinking of what are typically labelled “emotions” in the Hebrew Bible, with the contemporary understandings of that notion and of the human subject. Ishay Rosen-Zvi has similarly contested assumptions about the mishnaic view of the subject, contending that “Tannaitic halakha has no interest in humans’ inner realm unless it is connected to actions and deeds and that the halakhic practice imagines, and participates in forming, subjects of a specific kind whose inner realm is but an internalization of the outer realm.” 16 Such ideas will contribute below to my discussion of hate in rabbinic literature in that I show that these texts primarily indicate inappropriate social relationships. A second line of scholarly analysis relevant to the project of 14 Lambert, “Refreshing Philology,” 342, 348. Elwin Hofman, “How to Do the History of the Self,” History of Human Sciences 29 (2016): 8–24, reviews various competing approaches to various discourses about self and provides a constructive suggestion for studying “practices of the self ” through which the self is created. His comments draw upon the work of Pierre Bourdieu and Monique Sheer. Sheer, “Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and Is That What Makes Them Have a History)? A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding Emotion,” History and Theory 51 (2012): 193–220 has developed a richly textured application of the views of Bourdieu and others to the emotions that seek to overcome the mind-body dichotomy. Lynn Hunt, “The Self and Its History,” American Historical Review 119 (2014): 1576–86 advances a strong case for historians to rethink the nature of the self in light of neuroscientific research that yields a meaningful sense of a subject with agency while challenging the classic mind-body distinction and treats embodiment and emotions as key factors in forming the subject through social interaction. 15 Lambert, “Refreshing Philology,” 350. 16 Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “The Mishnaic Mental Revolution: A Reassessment,” Journal of Jewish Studies 66 (2015): 36–58.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 65 understanding the uses of emotional terms in rabbinic literature involves theories that emphasize the embodied nature of humans. A broad range of diverse views with differing emphases all stress that individuals constitute themselves, come to be who they are, to a substantial extent through their embodied interactions with others. Scholars within neuroscience, cognitive psychology, anthropology, and phenomenology all stress that bodily processes, often shaped through cultural practices, contribute to neural-psychological developments that can be treated as part of human cognition. 17 What is especially important here is not only the claims made about how people actually come to develop themselves but, more significant for this essay, the increased sensitivity to how particular cultures represent those processes, even if implicitly. In an analysis of texts from the Dead Sea community, Judith Newman demonstrates the value of these insights to the study of Judaic sources in her article, “Embodied Techniques: The Communal Formation of the Maskil’s Self.” 18 She argues that the prostrations of the Maskil in prayer served “as an indispensable mode of formation of the [Maskil’s] self and communication to others in ritual performance . . . As a ritually dense community, the Yahad would certainly have formed its own subculture with distinctive techniques of the body.” Drawing upon Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of habitus – “the non-discursive aspects of culture that forge people into social groups, including unspoken habits and patterns of behavior and refinement of bodily 17 Thinkers who adopt this approach include Marcel Mauss, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Thomas Csordas, Lawrence Barsalou, Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, affect theorists such as Melissa Gregg and Gregory Seigworth, and Pierre Bourdieu. Due to its just being published, I am not able to integrate comments from Lisa Feldman Barrett, How Emotions are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017), in which she lays out her views on the complex interactions of the brain, a portion of the body, with the rest of the body. 18 Judith Newman, “Embodied Techniques: The Communal Formation of the Maskil’s Self,” Dead Sea Discoveries 22 (2015): 249–66. The embodied worldview of biblical texts is also stressed in analysis of biblical notions of the senses and sense experience by Yael Avrahami, “The Study of Sensory Perception in the Hebrew Bible: Notes on Method,” Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel 5 (2016): 3–22, and Greg Schmidt Goering, “Attentive Ears and Forward-Looking Eyes: Disciplining the Senses and Forming the Self in the Book of Proverbs,” Journal of Jewish Studies 66 (2015): 242–64.

66 · joel gereboff techniques” – as Newman notes, “[r]itual acts enter and define the habitus of groups becoming ‘natural’ behavior.” 19 Newman also considers how the representation of the submissive prostrations in the actual writings of the community also served to shape the humble self of the Maskil, as well as the mindful bodies of the members of the community. This attention to the impact upon formation of communities by actual experiences and by the textual representation of such experiences is emphasized as well in the work of Ari Mermelstein and serves as the third insight about emotional language relevant to the study of rabbinic texts. 20 In “Love and Hate at Qumran: The Social Construction of Sectarian Emotion,” Mermelstein presents a discursive analysis of “how the sect used the language of emotion as a vehicle for communicating its system of norms and values. Initiates seeking to acquire a new identity first had to internalize the appropriate ways in which to view their world – which objects, people, or behavior were so dangerous as to be worthy of fear; so offensive as to arouse shame or anger.” 21 He states explicitly that we cannot recover the actual experiences of the members of this group. For him, analysts should adopt a social constructivist approach to such use of emotional terms in order to focus not on the emotions per se but on the discursive use of them. “In other words, we should focus on the role of emotions in communicating beliefs, values, social roles and expectations that animate social life.” 22 Emotional terms serve to express social relationships, 19 Newman, “Embodied Techniques,” 255–56. 20 Angela Kim Harkins, “The Emotional Re-Experiencing of the Hortatory Narratives Found in the Admonition of the Damascus Document,” Dead Sea Discoveries 22 (2015): 285–307, explores how the embodied and emotionally charged experiences of members of the Qumran sect upon hearing or reading the admonition portion of this document “implicates each reader and hearer in the classic event of covenant breaking and could have generated a sensational self-diminishment, the very effect that would naturally arise from an encounter with a sovereign and terrifying warrior-deity” (290). 21 Ari Mermelstein, “Love and Hate at Qumran: The Social Construction of Sectarian Emotion,” Dead Sea Discoveries 20 (2013): 237–63, quote 239. See also Mermelstein, “Constructing Fear and Pride in the Book of Daniel: The Profile of a Second Temple Emotional Community,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods 46 (2015): 449–83. 22 Mermelstein, “Love and Hate,” 244.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 67 including those of power, authority, and exclusion. 23 This discursive approach to the use of emotional terms in ancient texts will also contribute to the analysis of a select number of early rabbinic texts that use the term ČĜĥ, generally translated as “hate.” Like the other two briefly described recent analyses of emotional terms in biblical texts, Mermelstein cautions against importing into the decipherment of rabbinic texts modern understandings of the emotions that define them as the interior feelings of a Cartesian self composed of a physical body and a mind that differs from it. Only a small number of sources in Tannaitic documents and in the Babylonian Talmud refer to hate. These comments are episodic, and the issue of hate is not the focus of any sustained discussion. In this regard, early rabbinic texts are similar to biblical and other earlier Jewish documents. 24 Also as in the Bible, although most texts 23 Sara Ahmed, Cultural Politics of Emotions (New York: Routledge, 2014) explores the political uses of emotional discourse. 24 In this essay, I limit my detailed comments to these rabbinic sources, and only in the conclusion I offer some brief observations that compare these statements to views expressed in earlier Jewish and non-Jewish culturally relevant works. I have discussed biblical sources in my contribution to a jointly authored article on hate in the writings of a number of religious and philosophical traditions; see Joel Gereboff, Keith Green, Diana Fritz Cates, and Maria Heim, “The Nature of the Beast: Hatred in Cross-Traditional Religious and Philosophical Perspective,” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 29 (2009): 175–205. I speak there about the challenges of identifying texts that refer to hate given that it is not clear exactly how to understand the meaning of the two key relevant Hebrew terms, ČĜĥ and ęĔĥ. My comments in this present essay only reinforce the uncertainty regarding whether these biblical texts refer to what we label an “emotion.” My portion of the essay also contains relevant bibliographical citations for additional literature on hate in Jewish thinking. I add to those references the following studies: Saul Olyan, Friendship in the Hebrew Bible (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2017) and Helene Nutkowicz, “Concerning the Verb SN’ in Judaeo-Aramaic Contracts from Elephantine,” Journal of Semitic Studies 52 (2007): 211–25, which demonstrates that the verb ČĜĥ is used as a technical term meaning “to divorce.” Olyan, Friendship, argues that many uses of the words for love refer to actions, although he also comments that in several instances these words and those for hate appear to have an emotional resonance. His comments presume a self-evident understanding of emotions and do not engage any of the literature cited in this essay on emotions in the Hebrew Bible because they appeared nearly simultaneously with his book. Several works discuss hate in early Christian texts: Nguyen Dunh Anh Nhue, “What Could Jesus Mean in Recommending his Disciples to Hate Their Parents (LK 14:26)? The Perspective of Qumran Texts,” Colloquium 47 (2015): 292–317, and Qinping Liu, “On a Paradox of Christian Love,” Journal of

68 · joel gereboff speak negatively about it, several sources endorse its legitimacy. The analysis of hate in rabbinic texts is greatly enriched when approached in terms of the cautionary remarks above regarding challenges to understanding emotional terms in these early documents. Seven Tannaitic traditions, two in the Mishnah, one in Tosefta and four in halakhic midrashim, use the words generally translated as “hate.” Hate is seen in all instances as negative. m. Sanhedrin 3:5 contains definitions of “a friend” (čĐČ) and an “enemy” (ČĜĥ). The word for enemy can also be translated as “one who hates.” According to this text, a “hater” is one who has not spoken with the other person for three days due to enmity (ĐčĕČ). While not all texts that speak of an enemy should be treated as if they refer to hate, the occasion for the lack of interaction in this case is enmity. In any case, the text does not refer to any inner feelings. Rather, hate is manifested in what can be taken to be negative bodily actions, the distancing of the hater from the person whom he hates. Similarly, the text defines a friend, or a person one loves, in behavioral terms, as one who serves as a groomsman. The second mishnaic text, m. Avot 2:11, while seeming to treat hate as a character trait, notes its behavioral impact. It states: “R. Joshua says, ‘An evil eye (ĐĞĤ ěĕĞ), and an evil ĤĢĕ (inclination) and hatred of people (ĦČĕĤč) remove a person from the world (ĦČ ěĕČĢđĚ ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ ęďČĐ).” The exact meanings of each of the key terms in this Biblical Literature 35 (2007): 681–94. David Konstan analyzes ancient Greek views on the emotions in general and hate in particular in several articles, and especially in The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006). In my conclusions, I will briefly compare the rabbinic views with those of these sources. Douglas Cairns, “Look Both Ways: Studying Emotion in Ancient Greek,” Critical Quarterly 50 (2008): 43–62, critiques Konstan and other students of emotions for their focus on specific emotional lexemes rather than on “emotional scripts.” Psychologists continue to publish a good deal on aspects of hate, especially hate speech and hate crimes. As an example of recent analyses see the essays in Katherine Aumer, ed., The Psychology of Love and Hate in Intimate Relationships (Basel, Switzerland: Springer, 2016). The comments of Edward B. Royzman, Clark McCauley, and Paul Rozin, “From Plato to Putnam: Four Ways to Think about Hate,” in The Psychology of Hate, ed. Robert J. Sternberg (Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 2005), 3–35, clarify that the literature on hate suffers from a lack of clarity about the type of definition of hate they use.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 69 statement are not entirely clear. Rosen-Zvi, in his study of ĤĢĕ, defines it, as well as the other two terms here, as character traits. 25 Evil eye means being envious. 26 Similarly, hatred of people is a character trait. But to what extent it has an emotional element, an element involving inner feelings, is not clear. The consequence of having these character traits is that they “remove a person from the world.” This expression appears in the Mishnah only in Avot three times (m. Avot 2:11, 3:10, 4:21). I follow Maimonides in seeing the effect of these traits as “causing the person to loath the sight of his kind and to hate him, and his solace is in his isolation in the deserts and forests and in desolate places. Thus all of these [traits] cause a person to be destroyed.” 27 Hatred removes a person from social relations. 28 The text of t. Menahot 13:23 contains remarks by R. Yohanan b. Torta regarding factors leading to the destructions of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. According to him, the destruction of the later Temple is attributed to hatred among Jews. It states: Said R. Yohanan b. Torta, “On what account was Shiloh destroyed? Because of the degradation of Holy items in it. [As to] Jerusalem, the first building [Temple] in it on what account was it destroyed? Because of the idolatry, sexual licentiousness and bloodshed which was in it. But as to the latter [Temple] we recognize regarding them that they work diligently regarding the Torah and are punctilious regarding tithes. Why were they exiled? Because they loved money and hated each other. This is to teach you that the hatred of a person for his fellow is difficult 25 Ishay Rosen-Zvi, Demonic Desires: Yetzer Hara and the Problem of Evil in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 29. 26 Richard Kalmin, “The Evil Eye in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” in JudaeaPalaestina, Babylon and Rome: Jews in Antiquity, ed. Benjamin Isaac and Yuval Shahar (Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 112. Similarly, Adam Becker, “The ‘Evil Inclination’ of the Jews: The Syriac Yatsra in Narsai’s Metrical Homilies for Lent,” Jewish Quarterly Review 106 (2016): 179–207, argues that the gaze of the eye is seen as the embodiment of envy in Syriac and rabbinic texts. 27 Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Deot 6:5–9 correlates the presence of these traits to a physiological factor: black bile. 28 This is analogous to the meaning of ęĘđĞĐ in the concept of tiqqun ha‘olam, improving social relations.

70 · joel gereboff for God. 29 And Scripture weighed [these two actions as equal to] idolatry, sexual licentiousness and bloodshed. But with regard to the final Temple that will be built in our lifetime and in our days, what is written regarding it?” [The text continues with citations from Isa and Jer]. The nature of hatred and what occasioned it are left unclarified. But this comment articulates a very negative view of hatred because it is a primary cause of God’s destruction of the Temple and the exile of Israel. Its heinousness is evident from its equation with violations of the three sins that rabbinic texts never allow, even at the pain of death. Three of the four texts in Tannaitic midrashim, Sifra Qedoshim 4:3, Sifre Deuteronomy 186, and Sifre Deuteronomy 235 focus on Leviticus 19:17–18, while the fourth, Mekhilta de-R. Simeon b. Yochai, comments on Exodus 15:15. Leviticus 19:17–18 states: “You shall not hate your brother in your heart; you shall surely rebuke your neighbor and not bear sin because of him. You shall not take vengeance or bear any grudge against the children of your people. But you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Through an analysis of these verses, Sifre Deuteronomy 186 offers an interpretation of Deuteronomy 19:11, and Sifre Deuteronomy 235 uses the same comments in remarks on Deuteronomy 22:13. Deuteronomy 19:11 pertains to rules of murder and manslaughter, and it deals with the case of a man who “hates his neighbor and lies in wait for him and attacks him and wounds him mortally.” Deuteronomy 22:13 relates to marriage law and details what to do when “a man takes a wife and goes in unto her and hates her.” In both instances, the biblical text does not clarify what hate entails, what if any are the inner psychological or physiological aspects. 30 29 The first printed edition, Vienna MS, and genizah fragment Paris VIII 472 have this reading. However, genizah fragment T-S F2(2).7b reads: “Each hates the others, for baseless hatred (ęĜē ĦČĜĥ) is of great concern before [God] equivalent to . . . ” I adopt here the reading of the majority of the versions and assume that the genizah fragment reflects a revision of the Tosefta in light of the versions of Yohanan’s comment in the Jerusalem and Babylon Talmuds. 30 Bruce Wells, “The Hated Wife in Deuteronomic Law,” Vetus Testamentum 60 (2010):

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 71 The midrash on both passages opens by remarking: “Hence you learn that if one transgresses a minor commandment, he will eventually come to transgress a major commandment.” The midrash continues by spelling this out through its parsing of Leviticus 19:17–18, to which it adds Leviticus 25:36. “If he transgresses, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself’ (Lev 19:18), he will eventually transgress, ‘You shall not take vengeance or bear any grudge’ (Lev 19:18), ‘You shall not hate your brother in your heart’ (Lev 19:17), and ‘That your brother may live with you’ (Lev 25:36), until he ends up shedding blood.” This exegesis fits better with Deuteronomy 19:11, as that passage focuses upon the instance of murder. However, Deuteronomy 22:13–21 indicates that the hate leads to accusations about the virginity of the bride, which, if proven true, result in the stoning of the woman. If the accusations are false, thereby impugning the reputation of the woman, the man is flogged, must pay a fine, and remain married to her all his days. According to this midrash, the progression of attitudes in both cases moves from failure “to love one’s neighbor,” which is classified as the minor transgression, to the more severe sins specified in Leviticus 19:18 and 19:17, with their order changed here such that hatred is a more serious violation than taking vengeance and bearing a grudge. It is acting on hatred that eventually leads to death, thereby transgressing Leviticus 25:36, which calls for Israelites to live together. The text does not comment on the interior nature of hate but, like m. Avot 2:11, identifies its negative social consequences. If a person loves his neighbor, none of the subsequent developments would occur. Exactly what love entails again is left unclear. Scholarship on love in biblical and rabbinic texts has noted that often it has more to do with behavior or with maintaining loyalty toward those deserving of it than it does with emotional feelings. 31 By contrast, hate results in not “living with one’s brother.” A more extended treatment of Leviticus 19:17–18 appears in Sifra

131–46, analyzes texts in Deuteronomy that speak of hate with an emphasis on those pertaining to the so-called hated wife and argues that the terms indicate an action of repudiation and demotion in status, not a subjective feeling. 31 See comments on čĐČ in Lambert, “Refreshing Philology,” 349–52.

72 · joel gereboff Qedoshim 4:3. It contrasts various actions that are deemed appropriate with failing to do anything if the person retains the hatred in his heart. The text again does not delineate the characteristics of hatred other than that it does not lead to action, particularly to rebuking the other party. In context, the passage details an incident involving the two parties in which one of the parties has done something the other deems objectionable or most likely a sin. Sifra interprets the biblical passage as follows: “Might one suppose that one should not curse him, set him straight or contradict him? Scripture says, ‘[Do not hate] in your heart.’ I spoke only of hatred that is in your heart.” As the next portion of Sifra makes clear, the party who feels injured may do the above so as to fulfill the requirement of rebuking the other person. Focusing on the doubling of the verb “to rebuke” via use of the infinitive absolute, ēĕėđĦ ēėđĐ, the exegesis states that one must rebuke the person even four or five times. But the biblical passage, as interpreted in Sifra, also indicates there is a limit to how one may rebuke. “One must not bear sin because of him,” the offending party, if the rebuke leads to causing his face to be blanched by embarrassing him. All in all, whatever are the particular traits of hate, the interpretation sees the failure of taking actions with the intent of rebuking the other party as wrong while also cautioning against improperly administering it. 32 The final Tannaitic midrashic source, Mekhilta de-Rabbi Simeon b. Yochai, also notes the long term negative impact of hate. In commenting on Exodus 15:15, “Now the clans of Edom are dismayed,” one of several references in Exodus 15:14–16 about the fear experienced by various nations due to Israel’s deliverance at the Sea of Reeds, the text remarks: “They [the Edomites, the descendants of Esau] said, ‘Now they are coming to collect (ĦđčĎĘ) [on the debt due to the] hatred between their ancestor and our ancestor,’ [for Gen 27:41 states], ‘And Esau hated (ęĔĥĕđ) Jacob.’” The text does not state that Israelites continued “to hate” the Edomites; rather, the latter 32 James Kugel, “On Hidden Hatred and Open Reproach: Early Exegesis of Lev 19:17,” Harvard Theological Review 80, no. 1 (1987): 43–61, provides a detailed analysis of various Jewish and early Christian interpretations of this biblical text.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 73 feared that the Israelites might seek retribution for the hatred, or the grudge, Esau retained in relation to Jacob. Hatred again leads to negative consequences. By contrast to these Tannaitic texts, passages in the Babylonian Talmud offer a more complex view of hatred, noting its legitimacy in a limited number of circumstances. An important change is that two passages in the Babylonian Talmud use the term, ęĜē ĦČĜĥ, or baseless hatred, thereby implying, and as we shall demonstrate, that these passages and others in the Babylonian Talmud see some types of hatred as appropriate and assume a cognitive dimension to hate requiring appraisals of circumstances. One of these, b. Yoma 9b, contains a different version of R. Yohanan b. Torta’s comment in t. Menahot 13:23. 33 The sugya has a lengthy discussion of the causes of the destruction of the Temple and, after citing portions of Yohanan’s sayings, interjects citations from the Bible supporting the attribution of the particular sin. I cite only Yohanan’s remarks that read: Said R. Yohanan b. Torta, “On what account was Shiloh destroyed? Because . . . The First Temple, on what account was it destroyed? Because of three matters: idolatry, sexual licentiousness, and bloodshed. But the Second Temple, when they were engaged in Torah, in mitsvot and acts of loving kindness, on what account was it destroyed? Because there was baseless hatred in it to teach you that baseless hatred is equivalent to three sins: idolatry, sexual licentiousness and bloodshed.” Once again we gain little understanding of the nature of hatred or what occasioned it. 34 But, as in the version of Yohanan b. Torta’s 33 A version of his saying on y. Yoma 1:1 38c also contains the words ęĜē ĦČĜĥ, “baseless hatred,” so it seems that the concept first appears in the Jerusalem Talmud. The Babylonian Talmud, however, contains a number of traditions that legitimate hate; I therefore analyze those sayings here. 34 Although commentators and homilists often draw a connection between the notion of baseless hatred and the story on b. Gittin 55b–56a about Qamtza and Bar Qamtza that does report that the incident resulted in in the destruction of the Temple, the actual story neither speaks of baseless hatred nor explicitly refers to any emotions. In context, the Talmud introduces the story with a citation by the Amora R. Yohanan of Prov 28:14: “Fortunate is the man who always fears [the consequences of his action],

74 · joel gereboff statement in Tosefta, which speaks of hatred without an adjectival qualifier, baseless hatred leads to dire consequences in this instance. The Talmud continues after citing this comment with an exchange about whether there was also baseless hatred in the era of the First Temple. It says there was, but only among the leaders. The text asserts that this baseless hatred is exemplified by a particular behavior: while these princes of Israel would eat and drink together, they would “stab each other with the daggers of their tongues [with verbal barbs].” Thus, rather than equating hatred with inner feelings or motivations, this passage identifies hatred with reference to overt actions. Hate and what the rabbis call lashon hara‘ – evil speech, gossip – cause rifts among people, distancing them from one another, an understanding of hatred evident in previously cited texts. Baseless hatred is so heinous that, in essence, it led to the distancing of God from the people of Israel. Baseless hatred among people, which is enacted as people distance themselves from one another, leads to God’s decision to remove the Divine Presence found in the Temple from the people of Israel. What occurs below is mirrored in the interactions between the deity and the people in this world. An individual saying with the same import appears on b. Shabbat 32b, where it is attributed to the Tanna R. Nehemiah. “R. Nehemiah says, ‘Because of the sin of baseless hatred quarrels increase in a man’s house, his wife gives birth to stillborn children and the sons and daughters of a man die while they are young.’” Death again is a consequence of baseless hatred, although no definition of the behavior appears. Several additional statements in the Babylonian Talmud also speak negatively of hate, in these instances without the modifier “baseless.” A saying attributed to R. Chiya on b. Pesahim 49b appears in a long sugya that condemns ġĤČĐ ĕĚĞ, or common people. Negative portrayals of such individuals in contrast to Torah scholars are found only in the Babylonian Talmud. R. Chiya says: “The hate of the ĕĚĞ and he who hardens his heart will come to harm.” These are the failings that led to the destruction of the Temple. A parallel version of the story in Lamentations Rabbah 4:3 follows a story that remarks that none of the precious sons of Zion would attend a banquet unless invited twice.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 75 ġĤČĐ for a Torah scholar is greater than the hate of the nations of the world for Israel. And their wives hate [scholars] even more than they do.” The preceding portion of R. Chiya’s statement may provide insight into the basis for this hatred. There R. Chiya says that Deuteronomy 33:4, which states that “Moses taught us Torah, an inheritance (ĐĥĤđĚ) for the congregation of Jacob,” should be interpreted to mean that the Torah is the betrothed (ĐĥĤđĚ) of Israel. Chiya graphically spells out the significance of this homiletical observation by remarking that when a sage studies Torah in the presence of an ġĤČĐ ęĞ, it is as if the sage were engaging in sex with the betrothed of the ġĤČĐ ęĞ right before him. Such behavior would occasion anger, jealousy, and hate. In any case, the reference to hate in this source can be seen as part of the discursive construction by the rabbis for their audience of boundaries between themselves as students of Torah and those whom they seek to denigrate and exclude. A saying in the name of the Amora R. Elazar on b. Berakhot 7b also implies a negative evaluation of hate. He contrasts the actions of Esau and Reuben in their having lost their birthrights as the firstborn. According to Genesis 27:41, Esau harbored hate, or a grudge (ęĔĥĕđ), toward Jacob. But Reuben, who had his birthright taken from him and given to the sons of Joseph due to his action with Bilhah, was not jealous (ČĜģ); according to Genesis 37:31, he rescued Joseph from being killed by the other brothers. In this statement, as in m. Avot 2:11, jealousy is related to hate. 35 A final use of hate to portray groups negatively is a short baraita on b. Pesahim 113b. It states: “There are three [groups] who hate one another: dogs, roosters and Chabarin [Persian priests]. And some say, ‘Also harlots.’ And some say, ‘Also Torah scholars in Babylonia.’” 36 All of these are prone to engage in violent and self-serving behavior that can destroy group cohesion. The inclusion of Torah scholars is consistent with a motif in a number of stories in the Babylonian 35 Genesis Rabbah 19:4 is explicit in making a connection between jealousy and hate when it observes: “A craftsperson always hates his fellow craftsperson.” 36 On Chabarin, see the comments in Jason Sion Mokhtarian, Rabbis, Sorcerers, Kings and Priests: The Culture of the Talmud in Ancient Iran (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015).

76 · joel gereboff Talmud that portrays the potentially negative social consequences of the competitive and agnostic qualities of the Babylonian academies. 37 While baseless and other socially destructive types of hatred are clearly unwarranted, several traditions in the Babylonian Talmud do indicate when hatred is legitimate and can be used to distinguish the traits of each type of hating. In the famous story about Hillel, Shammai, and potential converts, Hillel responds to the request that he teach the inquirer the entire Torah while he stands on one foot by stating: “That which you hate you should not do to your neighbor. This is the entire Torah, while the rest is commentary, go and learn it.” This is a nonlegal saying and an alternative formulation of the more frequently cited biblical command in Leviticus 19:18 “to love your neighbor as yourself.” It presumes that hate is legitimate, although how to apply it is left to each individual. Moreover, exactly what the traits of hate are, whether it has bodily or interior aspects, is not indicated. If nothing else, those behaviors that one seeks to keep far from oneself and from which not to have to suffer can serve as a basic guide to action. A second tradition that uses hate in a positive manner is a saying by the fourth generation Babylonian Amora R. Nahman b. Isaac. This saying appears in the midst of a sugya about factors leading to drought, one of which is the presence of brazen individuals. A comment by Rabbah b. R. Huna follows, according to which anyone who has [the trait] of brazenness, it is permitted to call him ‘wicked,’ as it is said, ‘A person who is brazen [call him] wicked to his face’ (Prov 21:29).” According to R. Nahman, citing and interpreting Ecclesiastes 8:1, it is permitted to hate him. 38 Hate here appears to be used as 37 See Jeffrey Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 54, and Shai Secunda, The Iranian Talmud: Reading the Bavli in its Sasanian Context (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 85. 38 I leave out the actual exegesis that yields this remark. A similar use of hate to label individuals to be marginalized appears in Avot de-Rabbi Natan a16. In its expansion of m. Avot 2:11’s comment about hatred of humans, it states that one should hate sectarians, apostates, and informers. Psalms 139:2, which speaks of hating that which God hates, serves as the prooftext. The three to be hated have excluded themselves from the community, which should respond by marginalizing them.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 77 a way of labelling inappropriate behavior and marginalizing those who act this way. By stating that God hates certain individuals, two statements in the Babylonian Talmud rhetorically use these comments to indicate that people should not engage in the specified behavior. On b. Sukkah 30a, R. Yohanan in the name of R. Simeon b. Yohai interprets “I [God] hate robbery” in Isaiah 61:8 to indicate that humans ought to keep away from such behavior. On b. Niddah 16b, the anonymous voice of the Gemara claims that R. Yohanan interprets “One who is heedless of His ways shall die” in Proverbs 19:16 to apply to a verse from Ben Sira (21:23) that lists four types of people to be hated. In both cases, “hate” serves to identify discursively unacceptable behaviors. The remaining three talmudic texts, b. Arakhin 16b, b. Pesahim 113b, and b. Bava Metz‘ia 32b are interconnected, as the latter two presume the view found in b. Arakhin and present circumstances describing hate as legitimate. The passage on Arakhin 16b contains an expanded version of Sifra Qedoshim 4:3 about the requirement to rebuke individuals, which does not allow hatred of them. The passage in Sifra pertains to an offense suffered by the individual who must rebuke the offending party. In the instance of b. Arakhin – “One who observes something improper in his neighbor must rebuke him” – the person offering the rebuke did not directly suffer the offense. The remarks on b. Pesahim 113b also pertain to the obligations of a person who sees an offensive action. The larger sugya consists of numerous examples of various types of threesomes. Among those are “three whom the Holy One, blessed be He, hates”; these are: “One who says one thing with his mouth while meaning another in his heart, one who knows testimony about his neighbor and does not testify and one who sees his friend involved in some sexual transgression and testifies alone about him.” The ensuing comments focus upon this latter case. The upshot is that appearing in court would only embarrass the alleged perpetrator because the testimony of an individual is not valid. However, a statement by R. Samuel b. R. Isaac in the name of the first-generation Babylonian

78 · joel gereboff Amora Rav follows, according to which “[i]t is permitted to hate him.” The Gemara supports this claim by referring to the case discussed on b. Bava Metz‘ia 32b regarding the biblical command, “If you see the donkey of the person you hate (ĖČĜĥ) lying under its burden . . . you shall surely assist him” (Exod 23:5). This indicates that Israelites do hate (are the enemies of ) others. The verse is understood to apply to a particular fellow Israelite, or Jew, whom one may legitimately hate and is then applied to the case of his being the single witness to a sexual transgression. Such a heinous act is in essence a violation of basic community norms; thus, one may hate, or in principle marginalize, such an individual. Several other important comments on hate appear in the course of the discussion in the Gemara. It notes that all Jews are permitted to hate people who are known to violate prohibited actions. In this case, similar to the discourse of texts from Qumran, these comments use the notion of hate to distinguish between members of the community and other Jews who are willful violators of commandments. A statement by the fourth-generation Babylonian Amora R. Nahman b. Isaac goes one step further by indicating: “It is a commandment (mitzvah) to hate him, for it [Scripture] says, ‘Fear of the Lord is hatred of evil’ (Prov 8:13).” This is an extreme rhetorical usage of the idea of hate to indicate that which and those whom one seeks to exclude from a group’s self-definition. 39 There is, however, no elaboration of the emotional dimension of hating. The passage from b. Bava Metzi‘a 32b pertaining to the case of assisting the donkey of the person whom one hates, however, does provide some insight on interior dimensions of hate. The sugya seeks to clarify several aspects of the requirements to assist the donkey of the person whom one hates. It addresses the

39 Tractate Semahot 2:8, translation by Dov Zlotnick, The Tractate on Mourning (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1966) notes explicitly the connection between hate and the treatment of one who has rejected community norms. It states: “At the death of one who had severed all ties with his people, no rites whatsoever should be observed. His brothers and relatives should dress in white and cloak themselves in white. They should eat, drink and be merry for an enemy of God has perished. As it is written, ‘Do not I hate them, O Lord that hate You . . . I hate them with an utmost hatred, I count them mine enemies [those whom I hate]” (Ps 139:21–22).

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 79 question of whether the biblical text presumes an obligation not to cause suffering to animals and, if so, whether unloading or reloading the burden takes precedence. The discussion also, as noted above, limits the application of the rule to the donkey of a fellow Jew. The following baraita is cited, and it underscores the embodied nature of hate. It states: “[If one comes upon one’s] friend’s [animal] needing to be unloaded, and [the ass of ] the person whom you hate [needing to be] loaded – it is a commandment [to assist] the one you hate, in order to subdue one’s ĤĢĕ.” 40 The physical action of assisting the person whom one hates works to subdue the inclination. Exactly what “inclination” refers to here is not entirely clear. But it may well be the inclination to maintain one’s hatred, to distance oneself from the other Jew. Understood in this way, analogous to the idea of embodied emotions discussed earlier, this passage understands behavior to directly impact one’s interior life. Overall, however, the actual psychology or interior aspects of people remain rather opaque. Moreover, if we interpret this case in light of the issue of its context, the suffering of animals, as well as in conjunction with the intertext on Pesahim 113b, then it depicts a situation involving a conflict between key values. On the one hand, the hater may have legitimately distanced himself from his fellow Jew who has committed a grievous sin, and the hater might be seen as not having to change his posture. In addition, out of concern for the animal that is yet suffering under its load, the legitimate hater should aid the Jew with whom he has a positive relationship, with the person 40 In his Code of Laws (Hilkhot Rotseah 13:14), Maimonides explicitly connects hating with the requirement of rebuking. He explains that the person whom one may hate without violating the commandment of Lev 19:17 is a Jew whom only the viewer sees violating a transgression and who persists in his transgression after having been rebuked. In this instance it is a mitzvah to hate that person until he repents and abandons his wickedness. Maimonides goes on to explain the reason for assisting that individual should his animal fall under its burden. Maimonides notes that, due to the potential financial loss, the offender may linger with his animal and valuable load and expose himself to danger from thieves. Maimonides ends by noting that the Torah is concerned for the lives of all Jews, whether evil or righteous, for they are attached to God and believe in the fundamentals of faith. He ends by citing Ezek 33:11, which notes that God does not desire the death of the wicked, but that the wicked return from his ways and live.

80 · joel gereboff whom “he loves.” But the ruling makes clear the limits of legitimate hatred, of distancing oneself from one’s fellow Jew. In this instance, when in the immediate presence of that individual, the hater must transcend his legitimate hate and also not have the suffering of the animal override the obligation to not overtly remove himself from his fellow Jew. 41 The above exploration has made clear that the language of hate appears infrequently in early rabbinic texts, and that it is questionable to what extent these passages refer to hate as an emotion understood along modern lines. There is virtually no elaboration of the interior aspects of people’s experience of hate. Yet, on the whole, references to hate serve a discursive function. In Tannaitic texts, hate is defined in behavioral terms. Hateful actions or inactions are to be avoided, as they result in unacceptable social distancing. Hate in these texts is never acceptable. Although some texts in the Babylonian Talmud condemn certain types of hate – in particular, baseless hatred – several traditions deploy the unmodified term “hate” to mark persons whose actions endanger the very norms of the community. As a result, these passages endorse, via the discursive use of the term “hate,” marginalizing those behaviors and individuals and groups who engage in them. One may hate such people. These rabbinic texts largely overlap with notions of hate and the use of the language of hate in earlier biblical, Qumran, and New Testament sources. These sources also tend to focus on behavior or deploy the language of hate to identify inappropriate behavior. They do not include any discussions of psychological factors. While 41 In an explanation of the phrase on b. Pesahim 113b (“That he saw him engage in a heinous sexual act”), the medieval commentators of the Tosafot offer a rich psychological interpretation of the interpersonal dynamics. In this instance, if he saw the person who could aid him turn to the other Jew, the sinning Jew would realize that his fellow Jew hates him and has distanced himself from him. We can imagine that this person had until now merely avoided the sinner. Citing Prov 27:13 (“A face answers to a face in water; so does one man’s heart to another”), the Tosafot contends that the purpose of overcoming the legitimate desire to hate the sinner is to prevent the situation from turning into one of “total hatred” (ĐĤđĚĎ ĐČĜĥ). The sinner, because he sees neither the hatred in the face nor actions of his fellow Jew, will not himself come to hate and completely cut off himself from his people.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 81 many texts in the Hebrew Bible note negative consequences of hate, describing hatred as stirring up strife or as indicating a lack of fear of God, a number of passages do call upon people to hate either certain phenomena or certain people. For example, Amos 5:14–15 and Proverbs 8:13 endorse hating evil, Psalms 45:8 extols a king who hates wickedness, and Psalms 119 (vv.104, 163) speaks positively of hating every false way. Several passages commend hating certain types of people: Psalms 119:113 legitimates hating “men of divided heart,” while Psalms 139:21–22, a frequently cited passage in later rabbinic homiletical texts, describes the speaker as hating with a perfect hatred those who hate the Lord. In these instances, hate serves to express values that are deemed either undesirable or inappropriate. Similarly, as noted above, Mermelstein has traced discursive uses of hate in the Community Rule from Qumran. Appeals to hate serve to convey those values that distinguish the sect from others. That text makes strong use of the language of hate and love to shape the values of the members of the sect and to cement their social allegiance to each other. One passage from the New Testament, Luke 14:26, also uses the term “hate” not to describe an inner experience but to communicate the social consequences of following Jesus. The text has Jesus state: “If someone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters and even his soul, [he] cannot be my disciple.” Nguyen Dinh Anh Nhue concludes a long analysis of this passage in comparison with texts from Qumran that use the term “hate” by claiming: “The strong verb ‘to hate’ in Jesus’ difficult saying might underline not the negative sentiment towards parents, but the zeal for God required in being Jesus’ disciple . . . The hate language seems to focus more on the radical action to join the community of the New Covenant than on the sentiments the verb could convey.” 42 By comparison, Tannaitic statements never endorse hating, but some Amoraic traditions speak positively of hate under quite limited circumstances. Like the biblical texts discussed above, these texts use the language

42 Nhue, “What Could Jesus Mean?,” 317.

82 · joel gereboff of hate to articulate social boundaries and generally the desire to maintain social connections among Jews. In contrast to the Jewish and early Christian texts discussed above, which lack a detailed psychology, Greek thinkers, including Aristotle and some Stoics, note both interior and behavioral features of hate and of other emotions. 43 Moral emotions, according to Aristotle especially in Rhetoric (2:1–11) “are those things of which people change their minds and differ in regard to their judgments, and upon which attend pain and pleasure.” Emotions thus include sensations and cognitive judgments, which in turn connect to desired behavior. For Aristotle, when based on correct judgment, hate may be directed at classes of people as well as individuals, not necessarily individuals who have done anything wrong to the person who hates, but individuals who are deemed to be morally corrupt or full of vices. An assessment of the character of those individuals is thus a necessary component of legitimate hate. The goal of the hate is to cause harm, not just pain, to the hated ones, including desiring that they cease to exist. Aristotle does recognize that hatred can be unyielding in light of new experiences or reason, yet there are people deserving of hatred. By contrast, Stoics, including Diogenes and Seneca, condemn hatred. Consistent with a larger view that treats all passions as forms of distress analogous with diseases, they call for people to resist the disturbances of hate and not to desire to act upon them. For Seneca, hatred is equivalent to a will to brutality, a desire to harm others and take pleasure from doing so. Keith Green notes that Seneca argues against hating wickedness for such hatred can be a danger to humanity in general. 44 Hatred has no place in the human soul. The richly textured psychological underpinnings of these Greek thinkers are absent from the early rabbinic texts analyzed above. However, later Jewish literature – moralistic, kabbalistic, and Hasidic texts, in part influenced by exposure to elements of these Greek thinkers via Islamic and then Jewish translations of the works 43 Here I draw upon the analyses of Konstan, Emotions and Keith Green in Gereboff, Green, Cates, and Heim, “Nature,” 181–86. 44 Gereboff, Green, Cates, and Heim, “Nature,” 185 and Seneca, De Ira l, xiv–xv, 2.

hate in early rabbinic traditions · 83 of these Greek philosophers – goes on to develop a richer psychology, thereby expressing more complex understandings of hate. But even today, with our much more developed psychological theories, it is the case that mere discursive use of the language of hate still remains a powerful and at times dangerous tool for societies.

Naming Names: The Meaning and Significance of Disputes and the Use of Attributions to Named Authorities in Mishnah Jack N. Lightstone brock university ACADEMIC STUDY OF ATTRIBUTIONS TO NAMED EARLY RABBINIC AUTHORITIES Mishnah is replete with the attribution of legal rulings to named early rabbinic authorities. 1 This essay honoring my once teacher and thereafter longtime colleague, Professor Levy, returns to what three and four decades ago was a hotly debated topic: the use and significance of attributions to named authorities in Mishnah, the first official magnum opus of early rabbinic circles and, for several centuries after its initial promulgation, the most important object of study within those circles, rivaling Scripture itself. I choose to revisit this topic in honor of Professor Levy for two related reasons. One reason is biographical, having to do with my own first encounters with Professor Levy in the 1970s in an early 1 However, even the foregoing sentence shows some of the circular reasoning upon which the historian of early Judaism sometimes has no choice but to rely: with very few exceptions, the very mention of a rabbinic sage’s name in the Mishnah remains to date the best evidence in hand to place the sage’s life and career in the century and a half preceding the Mishnah’s production and promulgation near the turn of the third century. Only a miniscule number of these names are known to us from nonrabbinic sources of the period, e.g., that of Gamaliel the Elder in Acts and Simeon b. Gamaliel i in Josephus. And, of course, all other rabbinic sources are postmishnaic.

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86 · jack n. lightstone period of his academic career. The second reason is that the topic warrants revival, but now through a different lens and set of questions. That lens is not the scholarly enterprise of writing histories of the early rabbinic movement via the recovery of the lives and careers of, and traditions attributed to, its named authorities, notwithstanding whether this is achievable within appropriate methodological strictures. Rather, I wish to (re)problematize the extensive use of attributions of traditions to named rabbinic authorities, particularly in Mishnah, because it is not self-evident or natural that such a use of attributions should have been the case. This essay, consequently, invites (re-)posing questions such as: To what ends and with what effects does Mishnah use attributions to named rabbinic authorities? This essay proffers at least one answer among others that may be proposed. But permit me to return to Professor Levy’s early academic biography as a rationale for addressing this essay’s theme. I first met Professor Levy when he taught at Brown University in the early 1970s, before he joined McGill University. I was undertaking doctoral studies; Professor Levy was teaching at Brown while finishing his doctoral dissertation at New York University. His expertise complemented that of my own supervisor, Professor Jacob Neusner. Neusner was intent that his students learn from Professor Levy. And we did. When Professor Levy was at Brown, almost all of Professor Neusner’s doctoral students were writing dissertations on the traditions attributed to named authorities in Mishnah, using such methods as form analysis and tradition history. 2 The organizing principle for our work was twofold: the name of the authority, on the one hand, and, on the other, the rabbinic document in which the traditions attributed to that named authority appeared. So the topic of this essay in honor of Professor Levy revisits a matter that was front and center for me and my student colleagues when we first benefited from Professor Levy’s expertise. 2 This period of Jacob Neusner’s career is described well in his biography by Aaron W. Hughes, Jacob Neusner: An American Jewish Iconoclast (New York: New York University Press, 2016), 62–65, 90–162.

naming names · 87 As a prelude to the proposals articulated later, permit me to recall the rise and fall of studies such as those undertaken by us at Brown on attributed early rabbinic traditions. We sought to explore whether the body of traditions attributed to an early rabbinic sage could be shown to have a tradition history of its own (within tradental circles of that sage’s disciples and disciples’ disciples). And we endeavored to discern whether we could identify some form of conceptual unity and coherence reflecting the approach of that individual sage, at least in the earliest strata of that tradition in Mishnah and Tosefta. This last qualifier was important; we hypothesized that the rabbinic document in which an attributed tradition appeared might well have imposed its own agenda and literary canons upon the traditions embedded in it. We also assumed that an attributed tradition first appearing in an earlier rabbinic compilation – for example, Mishnah – was more likely to have originated closer to the career of the named rabbinic authority than a tradition first appearing in a later compilation such as the Babylonian Talmud. One could inquire whether the organizing principle of the name or the literary canons of the document in which the attributed tradition appeared was the greater or lesser force. 3 3 The impetus for these dissertations came from the work of our supervisor, Jacob Neusner, and his own scholarly journey, as documented in Hughes, Jacob Neusner, 62–65, 90–162. His own doctoral dissertation, written for Columbia University in 1959, was later published as Neusner, A Life of Yohanan ben Zakkai ca. 1–80 ce, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1970). This volume assumed that the integrity of the tradition was the stronger force, and that deflections that came from the literary agenda and canons of the rabbinic documents in which the traditions were embedded were relatively unimportant in using and interpreting the evidence of the traditions. In these regards, Life trod the dominant path of scholars of the day, associated, e.g., in Israel with Gedalyahu Alon, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1977) or Ephraim Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1979), or in the United States with Louis Finkelstein, Akiva: Scholar, Saint and Martyr (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1962), to which I would compare and to a great extent liken a more recent attempt to recover the life and thought of Akiva by Reuven Hammer, Akiva: Life, Legend, Legacy (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 2015). An excellent account of the force and trajectory of Alon’s work may be found in Seth Schwartz, “The Political Geography of Rabbinic Texts,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, ed. Charlotte E. Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee

88 · jack n. lightstone In all of our studies, those of Neusner and of the cohort of doctoral students at Brown during the period of Professor Levy’s sojourn there, the force exercised by the literary canons of the rabbinic documents’ framers looked ever more significant, and the hypothesis that there was to be discovered a coherent, reliable tradition history of the teachings of a Joshua or a Tarfon or an Eliezer seemed ever more problematic. We did not deny or disprove that the teachings of a historical Yose the Galilean were conveyed in the traditions attributed to him. But we could not show that they were, while the effects of the literary canons of the documents’ authors were everywhere in evidence. And what coherence and unity of thought we might identify across a corpus attributed to a Yose or a Joshua constituted thin soup indeed. Looking across all of the traditions attributed to a particular named sage, even those traditions appear(New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 75–97. By the late 1960s, Neusner had come about 180 degrees. In Neusner, Development of a Legend (Leiden: Brill, 1970), he argued the case against his own earlier work and began a decade-long process of exploring and validating a new set of working assumptions. The process ultimately culminated in Neusner, Judaism: The Evidence of the Mishnah (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981) in which he argues that the “systemic” forces of the “authorship” of each rabbinic compilation, even of early compilations like the Mishnah, significantly influenced both the substance and the language of each document’s constituent passages, including the substance bearing attributions to named rabbinic figures. While I directly experienced a good deal of this transition while a graduate student at Brown, Schwartz, “Political Geography,” 75–97, has done a good job describing it in context. See also Hughes, Jacob Neusner, 90–162. Following Development of a Legend, Neusner, Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees before 70, 3 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1971) proceeded to examine the rabbinic traditions attributed to rabbinic or protorabbinic figures whom early rabbinic literature placed before the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans. Thereafter he turned to the traditions attributed to Eliezer b. Hyrcanus, in Neusner, Eliezer ben Hyrcanus: The Tradition and the Man, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1973). Over the course of the 1970s, Neusner’s students examined the traditions attributed to such figures as Ishmael b. Baroka, in Gary G. Porton, The Traditions of Rabbi Ishmael, 4 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1976–82); Joshua b. Hananiah, in William Scott Green, The Traditions of Joshua ben Hananiah (Leiden: Brill, 1981); Tarfon, in Joel Gereboff, Rabbi Tarfon: The Tradition, the Man and Early Rabbinic Judaism (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979); Meir, in Robert Goldenberg, The Sabbath-Law of Rabbi Meir (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978); Eleazar b. Azariah, in Tzvee Zahavy, The Traditions of Eleazar ben Azariah. Brown Judaic Studies 2 (Missoula, MT: Scholars and New York: Zohar, 1977); and Yose the Galilean, in Jack N. Lightstone, Yose the Galilean: Traditions in Mishnah-Tosefta (Leiden: Brill, 1979).

naming names · 89 ing in the earliest rabbinic compilations, produced little of significance that could count as a discrete approach stemming from an individual rabbinic authority. 4 The findings of Neusner and of the generation of doctoral students present at the time when Professor Levy was at Brown led inevitably to the cessation of studies in which the named authority was the organizing principle for gathering rabbinic materials for examination. Focus shifted to understanding the agenda and literary character of each rabbinic document in its own right. Neusner himself and the generation of his doctoral students that followed my cohort adopted this new focus. And Professor Levy had moved on to McGill University in Montreal. In the late 1970s, just as the monograph versions of our dissertations were beginning to be published, William Scott Green, a fellow graduate student at Brown, published what to my mind still stands as the authoritative epitaph on the tombstone of academic studies organized by attribution to named early rabbinic masters. 5 Build4 Only one important finding modulated this otherwise negative set of conclusions. When using attributions, the Mishnah (and toseftan passages too) tended to group names – particularly in disputes, a rhetorical-literary form about which we will say more below – implying that those figures so grouped were contemporaries. The Mishnah thereby placed late first- and second-century rabbis within “generational” strata. Neusner further observed that legal rulings attributed to sages of an “earlier generation” deal with issues that are logically prior to issues treated in rulings attributed to the “next generation” of sages. This was articulated in the earlier mentioned Neusner, Judaism, a distillation of Neusner, The Redaction and Formulation of the Order of Purities in Mishnah and Tosefta, parts 21–22 of A History of the Mishnaic Law of Purities (Leiden: Brill, 1977) and Neusner, The Mishnaic System of Uncleanness: Its Context and History (Leiden: Brill, 1977). But it did not follow that we were on any firmer historical ground in tying any particular ruling or unified, coherent legal approach to any particular rabbinic sage. 5 William Scott Green, “What’s in a Name? The Problematic of Rabbinic Biography,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, ed. William Scott Green, 5 vols. (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978), 1:77–96. In 2006, Neusner reprised his own reflections on the historical status of named attributions in light of his studies in the late 1960s of the rabbinic traditions about the Pharisees; see Jacob Neusner, “Why We Cannot Assume the Historical Reliability of Attributions: The Case of the Houses in Mishnah-Tosefta,” in The Mishnah in Contemporary Perspective, ed. Alan J. Avery Peck and Jacob Neusner, 2 vols. (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2016), 2:190–212 (repr. of Leiden Brill, 2002). For a good survey of what various modern

90 · jack n. lightstone ing on Green, among the points I would make on the headstone’s inscription are the following: • the attributed traditions we have in hand make all rabbis speak in

the same voice and in accordance with the very same, very strict literary forms and canons; • these canons and forms are those of the documents; so, whatever content may have come from the named sage or the sage’s circle of disciples, little or nothing of the sage’s language can have been preserved in the traditions in hand; and • the language comprising case definitions to which sages’ rulings are attached comes from the authors/editors of the intermediatesized units (“chapters”) 6 in which they appear. This is particularly so in Mishnah; therefore, even if an attributed ruling’s content might somehow reflect a preserved legal tradition going back to that sage, we cannot know that that tradition was attached to a case definition that is the same as the one articulated in the document in which the extant attributed tradition appears. 7 Even though the questions that drove the attribution-driven, attribution-organized scholarship at Brown in the 1970s appear to have been definitively answered for those of us who were part of that endeavor, there are to my mind some remaining nagging questions that, forty years later, have yet to receive enough attention in context. Why, or to what effect, do early rabbinic documents use names or have attributions? How are we to understand them in our quest scholars have argued concerning the nature and historical status of attributions to named figures in early rabbinic literature, see Marc Bregman, “Pseudepigraphy in Rabbinic Literature,” in Papers of the Symposium on Pseudepigraphic Perspectives: The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Hebrew University of Jerusalem ( Jerusalem: Orion Centre, 1997), http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/symposiums/2nd/papers/Bregman97.html. 6 Neusner referred to them as “chapters,” in quotation marks, because they did not necessarily coincide with how the Mishnah’s extant manuscripts divided mishnaic tractates into chapters; see also Neusner, Redaction and Formulation, 12. 7 See Green, “What’s in a Name?” and Jack N. Lightstone, “Names without ‘Lives’: Why No ‘Lives of the Rabbis’ in Early Rabbinic Judaism?,” Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 19, no. 1 (1990): 43–57. On the literary traits of “intermediate units” in the Mishnah, see, e.g., Neusner, Redaction and Formulation, 12.

naming names · 91 to better comprehend these texts and the early rabbinic group that produced them? To ask such questions is not to return to quests for rabbinic biography or to name-based tradition history. Rather, it refocuses our attention on the place and significance of the use of attributions in each rabbinic document’s substantive literary and rhetorical agendas, and it invites us to surmise what purpose or effect(s) their use within the nascent rabbinic movement may have had. I think these remain open questions, notwithstanding the fair amount of excellent scholarship concerning early rabbinic documents and the early rabbinic movement undertaken since the end of the 1970s. These questions are all the more cogent when one considers context. In context, rabbinic literature’s use of attributions is not a trivial trait. It is quite unlike the antecedent literature of ancient Judaism, much of which the early rabbis knew well. In the biblical Scriptures, for example, names and attributed speech tend to appear primarily in narratives. The principal exception is the attribution of legal edicts to Moses in the Pentateuch. And the utter uniqueness of Moses’s authority is, of course, a foundation stone for just about all Judaic groups in the Greco-Roman period. Nor does the quite varied collection of documents from Qumran proffer anything like the use of attributions to named authorities in early rabbinic texts. Within early Christian literature, only attribution of sayings to Jesus, such as those in the chreia or Q materials in the Gospels come close at times to what we find in early rabbinic literature. However, the Gospels take great pains to place these materials in narrative contexts and so resemble in some respects the use of attributed language in Hebrew Scriptures. In any case, these early Christian materials are probably more intent on portraying Jesus as a new Moses – that is, speaking with a unique authority – than casting Jesus as the counterpart of the quintessential first-century Jewish sage (“scribes” and “Pharisees”) with whom Jesus was contrasted, not likened. My point here is not to provide a grand tour of antecedent or contemporary Judaic, Christian, or Greco-Roman literary norms about the use of attributed sayings and place early rabbinic literature’s use of attributions within that context. Rather, it is simply to reproblematize

92 · jack n. lightstone early rabbinic literature’s use of attributed sayings – to give some indication that, in context, their use is not as natural as it might seem to those of us who work regularly with these documents. In the remainder of this essay, then, I begin to point to some possible fruitful hypotheses regarding the significance and effects of the use of names in Mishnah. I say “point to” because that is what I can reasonably accomplish in the confines of an essay such as this. I hope that this discussion will push others to take up the matter more systematically. I focus on Mishnah because, as the initial, officiallymandated magnum opus of the early rabbinic movement, its use of attributions to named early rabbinic authorities would have set the stage and proffered norms for postmishnaic rabbinic documents. The tendency to use attributions to named rabbinic authorities does not abate in postmishnaic, early rabbinic literature, but neither does it remain exactly the same. The conceptual lens and methodological approach that I adopt in the reminder of this essay stem from two quarters. The first has to do with what to my mind are well-substantiated claims about the production, promulgation, and place of Mishnah within the early rabbinic movement around the turn of the third century. Mishnah was promoted as a core object of study for rabbinic novices and rabbinic masters. The second quarter is that of sociorhetorical or socioliterary approaches to ancient texts that were authoritative within known communities. The patterns of argument or expression in authoritative texts will reflect or engender authoritative patterns of expression or argument in the circles that revered and studied these texts. 8 As a core object of study for the early rabbinic group, Mishnah would have had specific formative effects upon its students by reason of its most pervasive literary and rhetorical features. We 8 See Jack N. Lightstone, The Rhetoric of the Babylonian Talmud: Its Social Meaning and Context (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1994); Lightstone, Mishnah and the Social Formation of the Early Rabbinic Guild: A Socio-Rhetorical Approach (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2002); and esp. Burton L. Mack and Vernon K. Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion in the Gospels (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge, 1989). Mack and Robbins pioneered the development of sociorhetorical approaches to New Testament literature.

naming names · 93 may, therefore, fruitfully ask of the Mishnah text: What specific forms of reader engagement are demanded of Mishnah’s students, and, by extension, what specific skills and knowledge are engendered by that engagement? This, then, is the frame for the discussion that follows, in which attributions in Mishnah of sayings to named rabbinic authorities are placed and examined within the context of Mishnah’s pervasive literary-rhetorical traits. Once placed within this context, we may ask how they reflect, contribute to, or modulate the early rabbinic reader’s engagement with Mishnah and so reflect and shape the early community of Mishnah’s devoted students, that is, the nascent social formation of the rabbis.

THE SIGNIFICANCE AND MEANING OF THE USE OF ATTRIBUTIONS IN MISHNAH To place the use of attributions in Mishnah in the context of Mishnah’s overarching frame of rhetorical and literary conventions, let me begin by rehearsing the literary forms in Mishnah in which the names of rabbinic authorities are used. As a result, what constituted a barrier to the historical study of early rabbinic masters’ lives, careers, and legal views becomes a boon to understanding the possible effects and significance of the use of attributions on reader engagement within the early rabbinic movement. It has been well recognized since the studies by Neusner and my fellow graduate students during the early 1970s at Brown that attributions to named authorities in Mishnah – tractate Avot aside 9 – usually appear in one of four forms: • the independent saying, • the several variations of the dispute, • the debate, • and the precedent story. 9 It is generally agreed that Avot is a later addition to the Mishnah and, in any case, is of a completely different literary genre than the rest of the Mishnah. One way or another it does not belong in our set.

94 · jack n. lightstone Independent sayings are generally appended by Mishnah’s authors to antecedent passages to which they are topically germane. Independent sayings rely minimally upon their antecedent passages for an intelligible context and for their language. Consequently, independent sayings are largely or comparatively speaking intelligible on their own. Debates appear relatively infrequently in Mishnah. They are more frequently found in Tosefta and in later early rabbinic documents. Debates take disputes as their point of departure. Without the latter as antecedent context, the former are unintelligible. Precedent stories, too, are relatively infrequent in Mishnah. There are about one hundred across all of Mishnah’s sixty-three tractates, or a little over 1.5 precedent stories per tractate on average. This is paltry. Again, like debates, precedent stories appear more frequently in Tosefta and the Talmuds. I have argued elsewhere that, from a literary-analytical perspective, most precedent stories in Mishnah can be recast as other, more commonly encountered mishnaic forms with the removal of a few linguistic formularies (e.g., “it once happened that,” “and”) and their replacement with one or another attributional formulary (e.g., “x says/sages say,” “the words of Rabbi x,” “Rabbi x permits/forbids,” etc.). 10 In Mishnah, the dispute form is the construct most commonly used with attributional formularies together with the name of a rabbinic authority. All this said, anonymous, unattributed material by far exceeds attributed material in Mishnah, largely, as just noted,

10 See Jack N. Lightstone, “When Speech is No Speech: The Problem of Early Rabbinic Rhetoric as Discourse,” Semeia 34 (1985): 53–58. The most recent book-length examination of the use of precedent stories in the Mishnah is Moshe Simon-Shoshan, Stories of the Law: Narrative Discourse and the Construction of Authority in the Mishnah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Simon-Shoshan argues that we should reexamine the sharp distinction historically made by scholars of early rabbinic literature between law (halakhah) and story or narrative (aggadah). He is correct in focussing on the Mishnah as a text in which story/narrative and legal articulation of matters are interconnected. The point I am making is related but focused on the disciplined rhetorical-literary conventions of Mishnah’s precedent stories; the language of precedent stories and of legal declarative sentences in the Mishnah is cut from the very same cloth.

naming names · 95 cast in dispute form. 11 Thus the question with which I began this section of the essay: To what end or effect, intended or not, are disputes used in addition to the dominant tendency in Mishnah to proceed without attributions? To anticipate my conclusions, when disputes are used, they serve, among other things, to intensify the specific type of analytical engagement Mishnah requires of its students. What some of these other things may be are listed later in this essay’s conclusions. But the importance of this essay’s claims, if substantiated, about the effects of disputes upon reader engagement derives from a related claim that I strongly support, but the detailed examination of which is beyond the scope of this particular essay: that Mishnah study was among the core preoccupations within the early rabbinic group near and after the turn of the third century. 12 Therefore, the specific type of engagement engendered by Mishnah study was, in all likelihood, highly formative of the desired professional expertise of members of the early rabbinic movement. Let us consider more closely the mishnaic dispute and, in the process, look at mishnaic disputes in light of Mishnah’s most common literary form, the unattributed (that is, anonymous) declarative sentence. The dispute in Mishnah usually juxtaposes two (rarely more) diametrically opposed legal rulings (apodases) for one and the same legal case (protasis). 13 In some instances one legal ruling is anonymously given, while the other is attributed. At other times, two attributed, opposing rulings are presented. Sometimes the anonymous ruling in the dispute is attributed to the “sages.” For more than forty years, the several variations of the dispute form in 11 See Neusner, Redaction and Formulation; see also Neusner, Judaism. 12 I treat this matter more extensively, but still not comprehensively, in Jack N. Lightstone, “Textual Study and Social Formation: The Case of Mishnah,” Studies in Judaism, Humanities and the Social Sciences 1 (2017): 21–43; the remainder of this essay draws extensively on this article. 13 Neusner, Rabbinic Traditions first articulated this as the “dispute form” and also documented its variations. He had in mind the type of form criticism that took hold in New Testament scholarship. Neusner preferred the term “form analysis” to describe his own endeavor.

96 · jack n. lightstone Mishnah have been well known and documented. I recently I schematized some of their principal variations as follows: 14 1. circumstances, ruling, Rabbi x says, opposite ruling; 2. circumstances, Rabbi x says, ruling, sages say, opposite ruling; 2’. circumstances, ruling, the words of Rabbi x, sages say, opposite ruling; 3. circumstances, Rabbi x says, ruling, Rabbi y says, opposite ruling. 3’. circumstances, ruling, the words of Rabbi x Rabbi y says, opposite ruling.

14 Lightstone, “Textual Study.”

naming names · 97 Note, too, that, in disputes in Mishnah, operative verbs in the present participial form (e.g., “x permits,” “sages forbid,” “y declares unclean”) will often appear instead of the attributional formulae (e.g., “x said,” “the words of Rabbi x”) followed by a ruling. A highly salient observation about disputes in Mishnah only alluded to earlier is that, stripped of its names and attributional formulae (“x said,” “the words Rabbi x,” “y forbids,” etc.), the language of disputes is indistinguishable in terms of literary and rhetorical characteristics from unattributed declarative sentences in Mishnah. Indeed, variation 1 of the dispute form merely juxtaposes a mishnaic declarative sentence and an attributed ruling. As intimated, unattributed declarative sentences are well known to comprise most of Mishnah’s material. Let me restate these claims in the most stark terms, because the conclusions I draw later derive from them. In my view, in terms of the literary and rhetorical canons that appear to govern Mishnah, disputes in Mishnah seem to be nothing more or less than variations on declarative sentences. 15 The former are, rhetorically speaking, merely a subspecies of the latter. Thus, when one asks about the effects of Mishnah’s dominant rhetorical patterns upon the intended readership, I propose that we proceed to consider disputes within the context of mishnaic declarative sentences generally. What would it look like to do this, and with what results? The rest of this essay proposes an answer to this question. 16 Permit me to begin with the presentation of a typical mishnaic declarative sentence followed by an opposing opinion attributed to R. Judah (b. Ilai). The passage is therefore an example of variation 1 of the dispute.

15 See the cataloguing of mishnaic literary forms in Neusner, Redaction and Formulation, which I still take to be the first catalog of its kind. 16 The discussion that follows draws upon a broader treatment of the role of Mishnah study in the early rabbinic social formation in Lightstone, “Textual Study.”

98 · jack n. lightstone m. Yevamot 4:7a: 17 1. He who loosens [the sandal of ] his brother’s childless widow (đĦĚčĕĘ ġĘđēĐ) [that is, he performs the rite that absolves him of the obligation to marry his brother’s childless widow in order that she may bear a child by him to be his late brother’s progeny and heir] – 2. Lo, he is one among [the late brother’s] brothers as regards (Ę) inheritance [of his late brother’s estate]. 3. If there is among them (ęĥ) [i.e., still living] a [i.e., the brothers’] father, 4. the property [of the late brother] belongs to (-Ęĥ) the father. 5. He who takes his brother’s childless widow [as a wife] (ĦČ ĝĜđėĐ đĦĚčĕ) [in order that she may bear by him offspring to be an heir for his late brother], 6. acquires the property of his [late brother]. 7. R. Judah says, “One way or the another, 8. If there is among them (ęĥ) [i.e., still living] a [i.e., the brothers’] father, 9. the property [of the late brother] belongs to (-Ęĥ) the father.” The passage juxtaposes two contrasting circumstances in order to rule about inheritance matters: (a) “He who loosens [the sandal of ] his brother’s childless widow (đĦĚčĕĘ ġĘđēĐ)” versus (b) “He who takes his brother’s childless widow [as a wife] (đĦĚčĕ ĦČ ĝĜđėĐ).” The only other salient factor that is varied is whether (c) “there is among them (ęĥ) [i.e., still living] a [i.e., the brothers’] father.” All of the protases of this passage are constructed by the varied use of these three clauses. But clauses (a) and (b) do not originate with this passage. Their juxtaposition ipsissima verba marks the beginning of chapter 4 of the tractate. Yevamot 4:1 commences with clause (a), 4:2 with the contrastive clause (b). Clause (a) also commences the passage following our own at 4:7b and appears one last time at the beginning of 4:8. Thereafter, the Mishnah text moves on to other matters, using different language in its formulations. Thus two-thirds of the language governing the protases of our passage 17 Translation mine, following Henoch Yalon’s Hebrew text in Shishah Sidre Mishnah, ed. Chanoch Albeck, 6 vols. (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1952–58).

naming names · 99 stems from the language of the larger (intermediate) literary unit of which our passage, with its concerns about inheritance, is a part. Only clause (c) is particular to our passage, but it is unintelligible on its own, without (a) or (b) as a context. Let us now turn to the opposing view attributed to R. Judah. Other than the stock connecting language “one way or another,” every word of what Judah says repeats language of an antecedent declarative sentence in the passage. I am not trying to imply that the historical R. Judah could not have held the view here attributed to him or some closely related opinion from which his view on these particular circumstances was deduced. I have no way of knowing, one way or the other. My point is that the language of the saying here attributed to Judah is • nothing more or less than another use or variation of the pas-

sage’s language for its other apodases, and, • like the other apodases in m. Yevamot, 4:7a relies on the language

of the passage’s protases for an intelligible context, which in turn • repeats or varies language in passages that both precede and follow our own in chapter 4 of m. Yevamot. In sum, leaving aside questions about the historical R. Judah and his views, the language attributed to him here provides another opposing apodasis concerning a putative case (a protasis) that, literarily speaking, is part of a larger series in which the same language is repeated, varied, and augmented. What is the likely effect, intended or not, on the reader of having to confront two diametrically opposing rulings concerning the same circumstances? It seems evident that the engaged reader is thereby invited to ask: What is the opposing logic or reasoning that can account for two divergent rulings on one and the same circumstances? I contend that, from the reader’s perspective, from the vantage point of the devoted Mishnah student, it is as if the mishnaic declarative sentence composed of protasis and apodasis hit a fork in the road and bifurcated, and one has now to follow both paths to understand the passage. The attribution signals that the road is about to fork. Later I will elaborate on these observations and offer an opinion

100 · jack n. lightstone on their significance. Before doing so, I should provide some indication that what we observe in m. Yevamot 4:7a and m. Yevamot chapter 4 generally is not idiosyncratic within Mishnah. As my first line of defense, I should like to note that my selection of m. Yevamot 4:7a was fairly random. I took one of the six orders of Mishnah off my bookshelf, and I randomly opened it up looking for the first dispute I encountered. But let me now turn to a Mishnah passage – m. Bekhorot 8:3–6a – that, admittedly, I have not randomly selected. I have specifically chosen it because of its literary and rhetorical traits, traits that I would characterize as “extreme Mishnah.” By this, I mean that it takes what one finds throughout Mishnah and, in literary and rhetorical terms, pushes matters to the limits of the rhetorical canons of Mishnah. In the translation of the passage that follows, I distinguish the protases (in boldface), that is, the phrases and clauses that constitute the circumstances upon which Mishnah rules, from the apodases (underscored), or the language that conveys the rulings, including attributed rulings. It will become apparent that at times some of the language that forms part of a ruling (and therefore is underscored) in effect adds to the concatenation of circumstances that further differentiate the case being ruled upon (and therefore is also in boldface). Interestingly, in m. Bekhorot 8:3–6a, these instances of double-duty language appear in disputes. This distinction between protases and apodases will serve our subsequent discussions. m. Bekhorot 8:3–6a 18 8:3 1. [Concerning] the one whose wife had not yet given birth [to children] – 2. and she gave birth to two males [and it is not known which of the two was born first] – 3. he gives five selahs to the priest [for the redemption of a firstborn son, as per Numbers 18:15–18]. 4. [If ] one of them [the two newborn sons] died within thirty days [of birth], 18 Translation mine, following Yalon’s Hebrew text in Albeck, Shishah Sidre Mishnah.

naming names · 101 5. the father is exempt [from the payment of the redemption money]. 6. [If ] the father died [before having paid the five selahs to the priest] and the sons live on (lit., endure) – 7. R. Meir says, “If they [the inheritors] gave [the five selahs to the priest] before they divided [the father’s estate among the inheritors], “[then] they have given [and the priest does not return the five selahs]; 8. “and if not, they are exempt [from paying the five selahs to the priest, on the grounds that the obligation to pay was the father’s not the inheritors’].” 9. R. Judah says, “The [father’s] estate assets were liable [and consequently the five selahs must be paid to the priest].” 10. [If she gave birth to] a male and a female [and it is not known which of the two was born first] – 11. there is nothing here for the priest [that is, no redemption money is paid to the priest]. 8:4 12. Two women who had not yet given birth to children, 13. And they gave birth to two males – 14. he gives ten selahs to the priest. 15. [If ] one of them [the newborn sons] died within thirty days – 16. if to a single priest he gave [ten selahs] – 17. he [the priest] shall return to him [the father] five selahs. 18. If he gave [the ten selahs] to two priests [that is, five selahs were given to each priest], 19. he cannot exact [a refund of five selahs] from their possession. 20. [If the two women who had not yet given birth to children bore] a male and a female, 21. or two males and a female [and it is not known which was born first or to whom] – 22. he gives five selahs to the priest [since only one of the males must under any circumstances be a firstborn].

102 · jack n. lightstone 23. [If the two women who had not yet given birth to children, bore] two females and a male, 24. or two males and two females [and it is not known which was born first or to whom] – 25. there is nothing here for the priest [that is, no redemption money is paid to the priest, since we cannot presume that any of the male newborns are firstborn]. 26. [If of the two women] one had given birth [previously to a child] and one had not given birth [to a child], 27. and they gave birth to two males [and we do not know which wife gave birth to which male child] – 28. he gives five selahs to the priest [since one of the males must under any circumstances be a firstborn]. 29. [If ] one of them [the newborn sons] died within thirty days – 30. the father is exempt [from paying the five selahs, since we cannot know whether the surviving male newborn is a firstborn]. 31. [If ] the father died [before having paid the five selahs to the priest], and the sons live on (lit., endure) – 32. R. Meir says, “If they [the inheritors] gave [the five selahs to the priest] before they divided [the father’s estate among the inheritors], “[then] they have given [and the priest does not return the five selahs]; 33. “and if not, they are exempt [from paying the five selahs to the priest, on the grounds that the obligation to pay was the father’s not the inheritors’].” 34. R. Judah says, “The [father’s] estate assets were liable [and consequently the five selahs must be paid to the priest].” 35. [If the two women, one of which had previously given birth to a child, gave birth to] a male and a female [and it is not known which of the two was born by whom] – 36. there is nothing here for the priest [that is, no redemption money is paid to the priest].

naming names · 103 8:5 37. Two women, [each married to one] of two men, who had not yet given birth [to children], 38. and they gave birth to two males [and it is not known which woman gave birth to which child] – 39. this [one of the two men] gives five selahs to the priest, 40. and this one [that is, the other of the two men] gives five selahs to the priest. 41. [If ] one of them [the newborn sons] died within thirty days – 42. if to a single priest they [each] gave [five selahs] – 43. he [the priest] shall return to them [the fathers] five selahs [to split between them]. 44. If they gave [the twice times five selahs] to two priests [that is, five selahs were given to each priest], 45. they cannot exact [a refund of five selahs] from their [the priests’] possession. 46. [If the two women, each of whom was married to one of two men, and neither of the two women had yet given birth to children, gave birth to] a male and female [and it is not known which woman gave birth to which child] – 47. the fathers are [each] exempt [from paying the five selahs to the priest, since we cannot know which father owes the five selahs], 48. and the son is liable to redeem himself [by paying the five selahs in the future]. 49. [If the two women, who had not yet given birth to children, bore] two females and a male, 50. or two males and two females [and it is not known which was born first or to whom] – 51. there is nothing here for the priest [that is, no redemption money is paid to the priest, since we cannot presume that any of the male newborns are firstborn]. 8:6 52. [Two women,] one [of whom] had given birth [previously] and one of whom had not given birth [previously], [and each woman was married to one] of two men –

104 · jack n. lightstone 53. and they gave birth to two males [and it is not known which woman gave birth to which child] – 54. the one [man] whose wife had not given birth [previously] gives five selahs to the priest. 55. [If the two women in question gave birth to] a male and a female [and it is not known which woman gave birth to which child], 56. there is nothing here for the priest [that is, no redemption money is paid to the priest]. 57. [If ] the son died within thirty days [of the birth, and it is known that this son was a firstborn] – 58. Even if he [the father] had given [five selahs] to the priest – 59. he [the priest] shall return to him the five selahs. 60. [If the son died] after thirty days – 61. Even if he [the father] had not [yet] given [five selahs to the priest], 62. he shall [proceed to] give [it nonetheless]. 63. [If the son] died on the thirtieth day – 64. it is [treated] like [i.e., as if it were] the previous day. 65. R. Akiva says, “If he [the father] has given [the five selahs to the priest], he shall not reclaim [it back]; 66. “and if he has not [yet] given [the five selahs to the priest], he shall not [proceed to] give [the five selahs to the priest].” 67. [If ] the father [of the firstborn son] died within thirty days [of his son’s birth] – 68. it is presumed that he [the firstborn son] was not [yet] redeemed [by the time his father died], until one brings proof that he [the son] was redeemed. 69. [If the father of the firstborn son died] after thirty days [from his son’s birth] – 70. It is presumed that he [the firstborn son] was [already] redeemed, until [someone at a later time] says to him [the son] that he was not redeemed. 19 19 Please note that there are substantive textual variants to this last phrase, as noted in the comment on this passage in Albeck, Shishah Sidre Mishnah, 5:184.

naming names · 105 71. [In in a case where one is a firstborn and learns that he was not redeemed, and at the same time one has a firstborn son who must also be redeemed], he is to be redeemed [that is, he redeems himself first], and his son is to be redeemed [thereafter] – 72. he precedes his son. 73. R. Judah says, “His son precedes him, 74. “since the commandment [with respect to] him [to be redeemed] was [an obligation set] upon his father, 75. “and the commandment [with respect to] his son [to be redeemed] is [an obligation set] upon him.” I begin with a literary overview of this extended passage. (I will not get into the halakhic issues.) Sections 1–55 comprise the main body of the passage. Sections 56–69 and sections 70–73 are supplementary and serve to mark the end of the extended passage and/or to aid the transition to the next topic of the tractate. The references to the death of the newborn son “within thirty days” or “after thirty days” at sections 56 and 59 hearken back to and recall language that first appears in section 4 of the extended passage and repeats at regular intervals thereafter. From the literary-rhetorical perspective, the impetus at 56 and subsequent sections to duplicate language that appears repeatedly in sections 1–55 is so strong that it overrides even intelligibility. How so? Sections 56 and following make sense only if the male child in question is known to be a firstborn, and it is known to whom he was born. But most of sections 1–55 are predicated on the opposite, equally unspecified circumstances. Namely, it is not known whether the son is the firstborn, or it is not known to which woman the child was born and consequently which father bears the obligation to pay the redemption money. Absolutely nothing in the transition from section 55 to 56 alerts us to this about-face in operative assumptions. To signal the change, all the creator of the passage needed to do was slightly alter and supplement the language at 56, something like: [concerning] a known firstborn son that died within thirty days (Ĥđėč ęđĕ ęĕĥĘĥ ĖđĦč ĦĚĥ ĕČďđ). 20 But the creator of the extended passage 20 I adopt the language, “a known firstborn son” directly from commentary to m. Bekhorot 8:6 in Albeck, Shishah Sidre Mishnah, 5:184.

106 · jack n. lightstone could not do that without denaturing the literary and rhetorical canons of Mishnah, which place a high value on laconic economy of language and on the repetition of language to spin out topically united extended compositions. It is to these latter canons and the place of attributed, disputing rulings within these literary norms that we turn our attention via a more in-depth look at them in m. Bekhorot 8:3–6a. First, let us look at the protases, the parts of the declarative sentences that define the set of circumstances for which rulings are provided. To this end, the reader may refer to the language in the passage that is boldface without the interpolations that I have added to make the passages more readable and intelligible. In passing, just take note along the way for now where attributional formulae (“says”) with a name of a rabbinic figure appear after protases. Stripped of both my interpolations and the apodases (i.e., rulings), one may readily discern how Mishnah’s literary-rhetorical conventions have spun out the series of tightly defined protases (cases) and thereby generated the entire extended composition. Also evident is the extreme economy of language. Indeed, look at how much language I have interpolated into the passage to make it intelligible to readers not already experienced in reading Mishnah – an indication in and of itself of the type of reader engagement required. Just a few highly laconic, predicate phrases are systematically varied, largely by a process of permuting terms: one, two; had not given birth; two males; one died; a male and a female; two who have not given birth; two males; one died; a male and a female; two females and a male; and so on. After each main predicate is varied – one who had not given birth; two who had not given birth; two who had not given birth of two men, and so on – the subordinate predicate language is run through all over again with all of its permutations repeated. By the end of the extended composition, the appearance is given of having defined a comprehensive set of topically related hypothetical cases so that rulings can be provided for each. Earlier I labeled m. Bekhorot 8:3–6 as “extreme Mishnah.” Why? First, I would point to the length of the extended composition and the number of highly specific, topically related cases that have been

naming names · 107 generated by the literary-rhetorical techniques and laconic language so evident in this passage. Second, m. Bekorot 8:3–6a is just one of three such extended passages in the tractate similarly generated, using essentially the very same laconic phrases and clauses permuted in much the same fashion and in more or less the same order. Our passage is closely paralleled by m. Bekhorot 1:3–4a and m. Bekhorot 2:6–8. The former concerns the firstborn of she-asses, the latter of ewes. Throughout all three extended passages (which includes our own), Mishnah provides rulings that, in effect, invite the reader-student to consider whether, if so how, and by implication why each highly specific, hypothetical circumstance generated by the permutative process differs from its kin. Indeed, the rulings (apodases) specified for the individual hypothetical cases provide normative indicators for such considerations. Each of the rulings on the set of related cases effects a taxonomy among them, placing them in categories with respect to which law applies or does not apply to each case. 21 At this juncture, perhaps my use of the adjective “hypothetical” requires some comment. I do not claim that rabbinic authorities in the era preceding Mishnah’s composition never ruled on cases such as these. Consequently, I cannot assert that traditions about such cases do not in some instances lie behind our extended composition or the parallel extended compositions at chapters 1 and 2 of m. Bekhorot. My point is that one cannot know one way or another. What I do claim, and what I believe is evident, is that the list of cases in our extended passage and its two parallel extended compositions have been generated, indeed spun out, by the permutative rhetorical-literary norms referenced earlier. And further to the point I am making, how each case has been precisely articulated as well as the order in which they are presented are determined by this rhetorical-literary process, not by any antecedent legal traditions that may (or may not) underlie the text. In sum, the reader-student is thereby being systematically asked to contemplate a series of logically possible (and in that sense, hypothetical) cases spelled out in 21 See also Neusner, Redaction and Formulation, and Neusner, Judaism. This claim is related to one made by Neusner when he speaks of the Mishnah’s Listenwissenschaft.

108 · jack n. lightstone the most economical of language. The logical-mechanical nature of the rhetorical-literary process is so pronounced that even cases the rulings for which ought to be self-evident appear in the extended list of hypothetical circumstances. That is certainly so, for example, at 8:3, sections 1–3 and at several other junctures in the passage. Because Mishnah study was known to be the most important element in the early rabbinic curriculum (apart from mastery of Scripture itself ), it is germane to ask: What appears required of the ancient reader-student in confronting such an extended passage of Mishnah? 22 I suggest that three forms of required reader engagement stand out. First, the student must know (or be taught) any antecedent Torah law that renders the extended composition penetrable. The starting point is Scripture, where relevant. But often scriptural injunctions are not sufficient. Additional legal principles are antecedents as well, but these are often not specified in Mishnah. Nevertheless, knowledge of them must be acquired. Second, the student must fill out the salient substance that is missing in Mishnah’s highly laconic language; the reader must supply interpolations, just as I have done, to begin to render the passage intelligible. In effect, the reader-student must complete the definition of the case, must answer the question: What precisely are we talking about here? This is not a trivial enterprise. Often (oddly enough) only by thinking about the ruling that follows the case and by contemplating the rationale for that ruling can one proceed to interpolate appropriate language into the protasis that renders the matter fully intelligible. Again, we need look no further for an example than the opening of the extended composition at 8:3, sections 1–3 and note other instances at regular intervals throughout. How so? The first two-thirds of the composition is predicated on the posited circumstance that we do not know which offspring came out first, and/or, from 8:4 on, that we do not know which of two mothers gave birth to which offspring. These core assumptions change about two22 And it is safe to assert that all Jewish literati of the Greco-Roman period, not just early rabbis, had to command in-depth knowledge of Scripture (in one language or another). E.g., Philo certainly commanded the biblical text, but seemingly in Greek.

naming names · 109 thirds of the way through, at section 56. From that point on, the core assumptions are exactly the opposite: we do know that the offspring is a firstborn male and to whom the child was born. Yet nowhere are these core assumptions initially stated; nor are we explicitly alerted at section 56 that assumptions have been reversed. Rather, it is by contemplating the logic of the rulings that one discerns that these must be salient, albeit unstated, aspects of the cases at hand. In short, the rulings are essential aids in retroactively, as it were, defining the circumstances to which the rulings apply. I will return to this point soon, when we consider the implications of Mishnah’s presentation at some junctures of disputing rulings. Third, to return to a point registered earlier but worthy of repetition here, the reader is invited to inquire whether, how, and why each generated case differs from the others in ways that are substantive and significant. And, as just mentioned, the ruling for each serves as an authoritative indicator for these differential judgments, and the reader must figure out why the ruling makes sense. So, whatever the intentions of those who composed the Mishnah with these particular rhetorical-literary traits – and, of course, we can never really know their intentions – we can readily see that Mishnah’s rhetorical-literary canons require a deep, logical-deductive engagement on the part of the reader-student on a number of fronts. We have highlighted three. As we have seen at several junctures in these passages, we have disputes with opposing rulings attributed to named rabbinic authorities. Disputes appear at four places in m. Bekhorot 8:1–4. They are (without interpolation): dispute 1: 6. the father died, and the sons live on – 7. R. Meir says, “If they gave before they divided, “they have given; 8. “and if not, they are exempt.” 9. R. Judah says, “The estate-assets were liable;” dispute 2: 31. the father died, and the sons live on –

110 · jack n. lightstone 32. R. Meir says, “If they gave before they divided, “they have given; 33. “and if not, they are exempt.” 34. R. Judah says, “The estate-assets were liable;” dispute 3: 57. the son died within thirty days – 58. even if he had given to the priest – 59. he shall return to him the five selahs, 60. after thirty days, 61. even if he had not given, 62. he shall give; 63. he died on the thirtieth day – 64. it is like the previous day; 65. R. Akiva says, “If he has given, he shall not reclaim; 66. “and if he has not given, he shall not give;” dispute 4: 71. he is to be redeemed, and his son is to be redeemed – 72. he precedes his son; 73. R. Judah says, “His son, precedes him, 74. “since the commandment [re.] him was upon his father, 75. “and the commandment [re.] his son is upon him.” Disputes 1 and 2 are identical; the second has just been repeated holus-bolus in circumstances comparable to those to which dispute 1 has been applied. We may note that the same economy of language, repetition, and linguistic inversions characterize the disputants’ sayings as characterize unattributed rulings in Mishnah. Generally speaking, there is nothing particular to the language that is attributed to named rabbinic sages and, as Green long ago noted, certainly nothing bespeaking personal, idiomatic speech. 23 Note, too, 23 See Green, “What’s in a Name?” In fact, as noted by Bregman, “Pseudepigraphy,” Green concludes that, because the language attributed in the Mishnah and Tosefta to named figures is so obviously in the same idiom as the language of the compositions in which the attributions appear, attributions serve (merely?) to provide the composition’s framers with an occasion to provide opposing apodases. The “merely”

naming names · 111 that in three of the disputes (disputes 1, 2, and 3) language in the attributed sayings further differentiates the cases at hand (wording that is both underscored and boldfaced at sections 7, 8, 32, 33, 65 and 66) before proffering alternative rulings in the name of the designated rabbinic authority. So, what if there are two diametrically opposed rulings for one and the same case, as occurs in disputes? What type of reader engagement is spurred beyond the basic recognition that there are differences of opinion on the subject, each attributed to a revered authority, to a rabbinic master? I suggest that there are two related but nevertheless distinct elements that we must consider when addressing these questions. First, we must consider what questions and issues are raised, with which the ancient student of Mishnah is likely to have had to contend when confronted with two diametrically opposed rulings. Second, we should inquire what the inclusion of names of rabbis effects. After all, it is not a self-evident requirement that attributions to named rabbinic authorities be attached to one or both of two opposing apodases to a single protasis. Mishnaic disputes could have taken the form: case a + ruling b + “there are those who say” + ruling not b, without any names used. 24 Indeed, just such a version of the dispute form is not infrequently found in the Babylonian Talmud along with Mishnah-type attributed disputes. But disputes without attribution of at least of one of the opposing rulings to a named rabbinic authority is decidedly unmishnaic. In answer to the first query, I recall my earlier point that Mishnah’s rhetorical-literary characteristics call upon the Mishnah student to grasp the finely defined differences among closely related cases. The apodases (the rulings) of Mishnah passages provide in the foregoing is my language, and I am not entirely sure it accurately reflects the views in Green, “What’s in a Name?” But “merely” does reflect Bregman’s reading of Green, although “merely” does not reflect my views as articulated at the conclusion of this essay. 24 The observation that the Mishnah, like some later rabbinic compositions, could have registered disputing rulings without attributions using the attributional formula, “some say” + opposing ruling, suggests that more is going on for the Mishnah’s creators than using named attributions (merely?) as literary hooks on which to hang opposing rulings.

112 · jack n. lightstone normative signposts about whether these differences are of sufficient significance that one ruling applies here, but another ruling applies there. The reader is necessarily invited to ponder why this should be the case. Moreover, as I have noted above, because of the highly laconic nature of Mishnah’s language, rulings sometimes provide a basis for the reader’s interpolation of necessary conditions into the protases in order to make the latter fully intelligible in light of the rulings. The contemplation of an opposing ruling might even force the student at times to consider a different set of assumptions that (by interpolation) would have to be understood as germane to the circumstances of the case. And, at three junctures in m. Bekhorot 8:3–6a (in disputes 1, 2, and 3), further case differentiation, the logical force of which the early rabbinic Mishnah student must contemplate, is specified within the language attributed to a disputant. All of this serves to effect a high level of reader engagement in rendering a Mishnah passage fully intelligible. In disputes, generally with two opposing rulings to a single protasis, the reader’s engaged task is doubled or squared. The reader must consider how one may fully define and then classify the case circumstances so that the first one of the opposing views is a sensible conclusion, and then redo the logical analysis such that the other ruling is reasonable. The taxonomic mental exercise is thus rendered more complex, asking more from the engaged reader’s intellect and logical-analytical capacities. What now of our second question? Why use attributions to specific named authorities, or what are the effects of such attributions, rather than registering the opposing view with the more generic “there are some who say . . . ”? Unless we have reason to assert that the names that appear in Mishnah are those of nearly all of the rabbis of the early rabbinic movement prior to the production of Mishnah, then we would be on firm ground to view these named figures as the great rabbinic masters of their respective generations. They are likely a select and singularly important group of early rabbinic figures. I think the latter claim is a more likely working assumption than the former. If so, their names carry greater weight and invite greater attention than a reference to “some who say . . . ”. This is important when one considers that the named disputant’s ruling is often the

naming names · 113 counterbalance in Mishnah to the anonymous ruling of Mishnah’s authors, or to the collective opinion of “the sages.” “Some who say” some minority ruling may not be as weighty and compelling an invitation to rethink the taxonomy at hand from a different, indeed opposite, perspective. Rather, noting that some hold otherwise might be glossed over as merely an interesting parenthetical remark, not worthy of equal consideration and logical-analytical attention to discern the possible basis for a different classification of matters. And learning to think taxonomically about complex situations seems to be the very point of Mishnah’s rhetorical-literary conventions. Yet, attributions in Mishnah to named authorities may convey other important things. Attributions to dissenting rabbinic authorities may say something about the tolerance for dissent (within boundaries, of course) and creating a big tent movement, to recall Shaye Cohen. 25 Attributions may also convey meaning about the importance of rabbinic discipleship through the generations, to recall Neusner’s observation about the underlying generational strata of Mishnah’s agenda and Avot’s normative reflections on rabbinic discipleship and study. 26 But these impacts of the Mishnah’s use of attributions make attributed dissenting views all the more compelling occasions and stimuli for serious, alternative taxonomic analysis on the part of the Mishnah student. How may I provide some indication that the foregoing claims are more than interesting speculative hypotheses about the purpose or at least about the impact of Mishnah study, and about the significance of attributions to named authorities in achieving that 25 Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis and the End of Sectarianism,” Hebrew Union College Annual 55 (1984): 27–53, proffered that the presence of opposing, attributed sayings in the Mishnah help effect a “big tent” ethos in nascent rabbinism that, in his view, served to stave off the reversion to sectarianism that had characterized the latter half of the Second Temple period. I do not dispute Professor Cohen’s hypothesis. In fact, I agree with him in this respect. That said, the effect on reader engagement of the presence of opposing rulings on individual cases goes beyond the communication of a big tent ethos, particularly when opposing apodases are viewed in light of the work the reader must do to render the Mishnah’s protases fully intelligible. 26 Neusner, Judaism.

114 · jack n. lightstone purpose and impact? After all, my proposed claims concern a core aspect of the culture and praxis within an institutionalized group of elites (or would-be elites) within late Roman, Palestinian-Jewish society, elites who significantly defined their social formation around lifelong Mishnah study. How can I know that such forms of intense reader engagement were in their collective heads and not just in my imaginings in my own head? First, to repeat matters at the outset of the essay, we can be quite certain about the role, even the centrality, of Mishnah study in the early rabbinic formation. 27 Second, and tellingly, an examination of the rhetorical traits and literary forms of immediately postmishnaic rabbinic literature lends weight to my claims. Many of these forms arose specifically to serve as supplement, complement, and commentary to, as well as critical analysis of Mishnah. 28 That is, they arose 27 More fully argued and documented in Lightstone, “Textual Study.” 28 It seems quite clear that the extended compositions (sugyot) in the Jerusalem Talmud and Babylonian Talmud, as well as the conventional rhetorical and literary forms characteristic of each Talmud that serve to generate these compositions, have their origins in the rabbinic ethos of institutionalized Mishnah study. The literary-historical relationship of Tosefta to Mishnah is, however, a matter of recent scholarly debate. It is also fairly clear that the extant Tosefta as a whole (whenever that whole was produced and became reasonably stable) served Mishnah study, by providing a collection of materials that complement, comment upon, and supplement discrete Mishnah passages. In this, I agree with Jacob Neusner, Tosefta: An Introduction (Tampa: University of South Florida Press, 1992). That all constituent passages of Tosefta in their current formulation are postmishnaic is in contention. Some recent scholarship, especially since the late 1990s, has argued for the historicalliterary primacy of many Tosefta passages over their mishnaic counterparts. See Joshua Kulp, “Organizational Patterns in the Mishnah in Light of their Toseftan Parallels,” Journal of Jewish Studies 58, no. 1 (2007): 52–78; Judith Hauptman, “Does the Tosefta Precede the Mishnah: Halakhah, Aggada, and Narrative Coherence,” Judaism 50 (2001): 224–40; Hauptman, “The Tosefta as a Commentary on an Early Mishnah,” Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal 4 (2005): 109–32, https://www.biu.ac.il/JS/ JSIJ/4–2005/Hauptman.pdf; Shamma Friedman, Tosefta Atiqta, Pesah Rishon: Synoptic Parallels of Mishna and Tosefta Analysed with a Methodological Introduction (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2002); Friedman, “The Primacy of Tosefta to Mishnah in Synoptic Parallels,” in Introducing Tosefta: Textual, Intratextual, and Intertextual Studies, ed. Harry Fox, Tirzah Meacham, and Diane Kriger (Hoboken, NJ: KTAV, 1999), 99–121; and Alberdina Houtman, Mishnah and Tosefta. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 59 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996). See also Judith Hauptman, Rereading Mishnah: A New Approach to Reading Ancient Jewish Texts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,

naming names · 115 in service of Mishnah study as a core activity in the early rabbinic movement. And a substantial number of postmishnaic literary forms and rhetorical constructs model Mishnah analysis for its intended readers. To demonstrate this requires more than another lengthy essay and cannot be done in the confines of this one. 29 But let me 2005). A similar position on Tosefta may be found in Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah: The Shaping Influence of Oral Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). More recently, Robert Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2014), part 2, has called into question the trend to see toseftan passages as predating their parallel sections in the Mishnah, as well as concluding therefrom that a protoversion of Tosefta, if not some core of the extant Tosefta itself, was produced prior to the Mishnah and functioned as a source, or even a model, for the authorship of the Mishnah. My own position on the debate is nuanced and probably accords more closely with the view of Harry Fox and what I take to be the upshot for my stance of the caution recently articulated by Brody regarding the work of Friedman, Hauptman, Houtman, and others. Tosefta draws, often independently, upon the same pool of premishnaic traditions upon which the authors of the Mishnah draw. See Harry Fox, introduction to Introducing Tosefta: Textual, Intratextual, and Intertextual Studies, 21–37. In this sense, the content of many Tosefta passages reflects premishnaic materials. But I am not convinced that their specific literary-rhetorical formulation in Tosefta is premishnaic, and I suspect that Fox shares this view based on my reading of his remarks in Fox, introduction. Indeed, in my view, in case after case, when compared, it seems more probable that the language of the Tosefta passages was formulated with the language of our Mishnah in hand. If one wishes to argue that there is evidence of a proto-Mishnah that is the basis for the formulation of the Tosefta’s passages, then maybe so. But is it a necessary postulate to explain the evidence? Perhaps not. Mishnah’s text took time to stabilize, but, again as Fox argues, it did stabilize and did so fairly early, with more minor changes introduced thereafter on an ongoing basis for a number of centuries. But the proto-Mishnah, if there was one at all, must have looked a lot like our extant Mishnah, in my view. And for my own purposes, it matters little whether toseftan passages rely on our Mishnah or on a proto-Mishnah that resembled our Mishnah. This debate is less relevant for my argument in this article, important as it may be to mapping the precise literary history of the Mishnah’s relationship with the Tosefta. What is not in dispute, as far as I am concerned, is the primacy of Mishnah study in the early rabbinic movement. What should not be in dispute is that the Tosefta never seems to have had such a role. And, I would further argue, the Tosefta could not have played such a role, because so much of Tosefta is not fully intelligible without Mishnah open beside it to provide context and agenda. 29 Again, see Lightstone, “Textual Study.” I see this as clearly conveyed in, for example, Avot de-R. Nathan, version a, chapter 8, which discusses the rabbinic curriculum of study. Controversies about the dating of Avot de-R. Nathan (versions a or b) as a whole aside, most see the shank of chapter 8 as representing a third- or fourthcentury rabbinic ethos.

116 · jack n. lightstone very briefly reference some examples that give some indication of the validity of my claims. When Tosefta, in contrast to Mishnah, makes liberal use of the debate form, assigning supporting reasons for or counterarguments to each of the Mishnah’s disputants’ rulings, the framers of these toseftan debates are engaging analytically with Mishnah’s attributed sayings exactly as I have suggested they might. Dispute-debates follow one or another variation of the following structure: • case, • Rabbi x says + ruling a, • Rabbi y says + ruling b, • Said to him Rabbi x + reason for ruling a or counterargument

to ruling b, • Said to him Rabbi y + reason for ruling b or counterargument

to ruling a. What the reasons or counterarguments attributed to the disputants achieve is to make explicit the bases for their opposing taxonomies. At other junctures, when Tosefta redefines the case (the protasis) in order to harmonize the disputants’ views and then posits slightly different circumstances, effectively revising the protasis of the dispute, the toseftan passage is again modeling or reflecting what we have characterized as deep logical-analytical engagement with Mishnah. Such literary-rhetorical constructs are cast in one or another variation of the following: • case z • Rabbi x says + ruling a, • Rabbi y says + ruling b, • Rabbi x and Rabbi y did not dispute case z, • [in] which [case] + ruling a [applies], • concerning what did they dispute? • concerning case z’, • [concerning] which, • Rabbi x says + ruling a, • Rabbi y says + ruling b.

naming names · 117 In such a toseftan construct, the solution to the logical-analytical task is to differentiate still further the protasis in order to posit not just case z, but also case z’. Still later, the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds are also replete with standard literary-rhetorical constructs that model or reflect analytic engagement with Mishnah, a full presentation of which is obviously beyond the scope of this essay. 30 In sum, Mishnah’s pervasive literary-rhetorical traits generally beg forms of deep logical-analytical reader engagement on the part of those in the early rabbinic group, for all of whom Mishnah study was a prescribed and formative lifelong activity. Disputes, where the Mishnah student confronts two opposing rulings, serve to intensify that engagement because disputes effectively expand the matrix of circumstances to be classified, analyzed, and understood. The logic of the case defined by circumstances (a) plus (b) plus not (c), producing ruling “x” must then be recontemplated, where (a) plus (b) plus not (c) produces ruling “not x.” Whatever else attributions to named, important rabbis are intended to do in mishnaic disputes – reflecting Cohen’s big-tent policy of the early rabbis or modeling the importance of discipleship in the generational preservation of traditions – they serve to heighten reader engagement by demanding that both of the opposing views be afforded equally deep analytical consideration. One of the rulings in a dispute is not to be seen as just an edifying footnote to the principal opinion. Finally, even a cursory consideration of immediately postmishnaic, literary-rhetorical forms and constructs lends weight to our claim that Mishnah served to engender just such forms of intense, analytical reader engagement as a formative pursuit among members of the early rabbinic group.

30 See Lightstone, Rhetoric.

A Cairo Genizah Fragment of Genesis Rabbah from the Collection of McGill University Introduced by Jason Kalman hebrew union college, cincinnati, ohio university of the free state, south africa Transcription by the Students of 135–535a: Exegetical Midrash (McGill University, 2000) The objectives for Professor Levy’s Fall 2000 course in exegetical midrash at McGill University were what one might expect, that we students would “learn some of the philological skills, such as manuscript reading and comparative philology, needed to work with midrashic texts.” As in other classes, we imagined we would look at the many reproductions of rabbinic texts published by Makor in Jerusalem in the 1970s. Yet halfway through the course we found ourselves in McGill’s McLennan Library Rare Books division having high-definition photographs made of a fragment of Genesis Rabbah from the Cairo Genizah. Although Professor Levy had known of the fragment, studying it had not been his (explicit) intention for the course. However, his untiring efforts to encourage students’ curiosity (fortunately) pushed us all in unexpected directions. Bryna Brodt and Jason Kalman assembled the materials and coordinated the project. John Milton, Michael DiStefano, Carla Sulzbach, Tobi Liebman, Bryna Brodt, and Jason Kalman transcribed the fragment and checked for variants. The opportunity to honor Professor Levy along with recent interest in Genesis Rabbah has made updating our student work appropriate and timely. 1

1 For recent discussions of Genesis Rabbah, see Sarit Kattan Gribetz, David M.

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120 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a

THE DONOR Although it has been eighteen years since the project began – given Professor Levy’s distaste for gematria, no further comment on the number of years will be made – the fragment has resided in the McGill University collection since September 1904. It is one of three genizah fragments given to McGill University by Joseph Offord, the younger, of London, whose interest in antiquities is evident from the important role he played in the acquisition of nearly one thousand more for the Bodleian Library in the first months of 1906. 2 Following his death at age sixty-eight on January 31, 1920, a short obituary appeared in the pages of Revue Archéologique, written by French archaeologist Salomon Reinach. There Offord was described as “Carrossier de profession.” 3 To speak of Offord as a coachbuilder is to speak of Henry Ford as an auto mechanic. The House of Offord, established in 1790, came to be coachbuilders to royalty with an international reputation throughout the British Empire and beyond. In 1857, soon after Offord’s birth, his father took ownership of the entire company and renamed it “Offord and Sons.” 4 Both father and son introduced a variety of innovations in coach building and design, and, as of the mid-1880s, Offord had produced coaches for the Lord Mayor of London, the governor and commander-in-chief of New South Wales, the viceroy of Egypt, the emperor of Germany, the

Grossberg, Martha Himmelfarb, and Peter Schäfer, eds., Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016). 2 In 1906, the Bodleian purchased approximately nine hundred manuscripts from the genizah through the collector Joseph Offord; see Rebecca J. W. Jefferson, “The Cairo Genizah Unearthed: The Excavations Conducted by the Count D’Hulst on behalf of the Bodleian Library and Their Significance for Genizah History,” in “From a Sacred Source”: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif, ed. Ben Outhwaite and Siam Bhayro. Cambridge Genizah Studies 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 193. 3 Salomon Reinach, “JOSEPH OFFORD,” Revue archéologique 13 (1921): 152. Additional biographical information is found in “Obituary for Joseph Offord,” Near East 17 (February 5, 1920): 180. 4 See the listing concerning the dissolution of the partnership between Joseph (the elder) and Robert Offord and registering Offord and Sons, London Gazette, November 27, 1957, 4196.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 121 king of Spain, the emperor of Japan, and the king of Siam. 5 By the 1890s the company had also moved into motorized vehicles. 6 Offord’s financial dealings led him to considerable real estate holdings, and he died leaving a twenty-seven-room mansion with staff to the care of his wife, along with buildings elsewhere in London for showrooms. 7 Offord’s wealth and business interests gave him substantial opportunity for travel and exploration, and he was by all accounts enamored with archaeology. Reinach’s obituary also noted that he “had made archaeology, and in particular Egyptian archaeology, the study of his leisure moments for a long period.” 8 Although Offord’s education is not clear, he certainly had knowledge of Latin and Greek, as well as French and Italian. Throughout his adulthood, he had given papers before scholarly societies and published in their journals, and he seems to have turned this interest into a second career late in life: While the censuses of 1881 and 1901 list his occupation as coachbuilder, in 1911 he listed his occupation as journalist. 9 “Journalist” may well be an apt description for his later occupation. In the journal Biblia between 1900 and 1906, he published dozens of articles summarizing and surveying scholarship on Greece, Rome, the ancient Near East, and biblical themes. Between 1903 and 1913, he averaged more than four articles a year devoted to matters of ancient Greek art and archaeology, the Bible and the ancient Near East, and especially the archaeology and texts of ancient Egypt in 5 On the company and its products, see “Mr. Joseph Offord’s Specialties in Coach Building,” British Trade Journal, September 1, 1880 and “Carriage Building, No. V: The English Exhibits,” Age (Exhibition Supplement), November 6, 1888. 6 Nick Walker, A–Z British Coachbuilders: 1919–1960, enl. ed. (Beaworthy, UK: Herridge and Sons, 2007), 154–55. 7 On his death, see “Re JOSEPH OFFORD, Deceased.,” London Gazette 31849 (April 2, 1920): 4082. On his home and household, see Census of England and Wales, 1911 for Courtfield Gardens, South Kensington, London S.W. 35, UK Census Online, https://www.ukcensusonline.com. On other real estate acquisitions, see “The Alexander Estate,” in Survey of London: Volume 42: Kensington Square to Earl’s Court, ed. Hermione Hobhouse (London: n.p., 1986), 168–83, British History Online, http:// www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-london/vol42/pp168–183. 8 Reinach, “JOSEPH OFFORD,” 152. 9 See “The UK 1881 Census,” “The UK 1901 Census,” and “The UK 1911 Census,” UK Census Online, http://www.ukcensusonline.com/.

122 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a the American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal. He published similar quantities in the Palestine Exploration Quarterly between 1912 and 1920. Many of the articles surveyed or summarized specialized scholarly literature and included reviews of archaeological reports and other similar volumes. 10 The bylines to his various articles show that Offord was a member of the Society for Biblical Archaeology, the Palestine Exploration Fund, the Egypt Exploration Fund, L’Association pour l’encouragement des études grecques, Associazione Archeologica Romana, and the Japan Society. 11 His connection to an expansive international academic network is attested by his frequent participation in the meetings of various societies, particularly the Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce and the Society for Biblical Archaeology, where he often read papers. 12 He was also active in the archaeological community, visiting sites abroad and maintaining correspondence with various scholars of archaeology, Semitics, history, and Classics. 13 The great Egyptologist Sir William Matthew Flinders Petrie recalled that Offord “did much to spread the knowledge of the French works on Egypt; both for his work and his genial personality he will be much missed and regretted.” 14 10 His broad range of interests extended to ancient medicine as well, and his writings appeared in the Journal of the National Medical Association and the Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine. 11 Offord’s correspondence with Amelia B. Edwards of the Egypt Exploration Society is preserved. See Egypt Exploration Society, Lucy Gura Archive, List of letters and papers relating to Amelia B. Edwards and her associates in the archives of the Egypt Exploration Society, London, Box III.d / 66. J. Offord, jr. 12 See, e.g., the description of his participation listed in “Meetings for the Ensuing Week,” Journal of the Society of Arts (April 22, 1892): 594. 13 See, e.g., the notes of appreciation from the English scholar Frederic G. Kenyon in “Graeco-Roman Egypt, 1901–1902,” Archaeological Report (Egypt Exploration Fund) (1901–2): 46; from the Hungarian scholar Louis Felberman in Felberman, “Arts and Industries in Hungary in Ancient and Modern Days,” Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 55 (April 1907): 577; and from the French scholar Salomon Reinach in Reinach, “JOSEPH OFFORD,” 152. Approximately a dozen letters from Offord are preserved in the papers of Swiss archaeologist Edouard Naville at the Bibliothèque de Genève; see Cote: MS fr. 2531, f. 330–54; MS fr. 2531, f. 355–57; MS fr. 2531, f. 356–57. For his visit to archaeological sites in Egypt, see Joseph Offord, “Letters from Egypt,” American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal 34 (February 1912): 17–18. 14 William Matthew Flinders Petrie, “Reviews,” Ancient Egypt (1920): part 1, page 92.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 123 Offord was an avid collector of antiquities, a habit his travels helped fuel. 15 His collection of Babylonian clay tablets was published in 1900 and his Babylonian cylinders and Coptic ostraca in the following years. 16 A posthumous auction of his antiquities lists twenty cylinder seals, fifty-eight Assyrian and Babylonian tablets, two dozen Roman lamps, and a significant variety of other items, including Egyptian scarabs. 17 Another auction catalog from a few years later lists a group of Egyptian statues in bronze, inscribed scarabs, an ushabti inscribed with the Book of the Dead, multiple cartouches, five Babylonian cylinder seals, eleven cuneiform tablets, and Greek terracotta statuary. 18 As a wealthy collector, Offord used his connections to make privately held antiquities available to scholars for publication. 19 Ultimately his contributions were valued by the community,

15 For a late description of his interactions with dealers in Egypt, see Joseph Offord, “Second Letter from Egypt,” American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal 34 (May 1912): 96–100. 16 Theophilus Pinches, “The Collection of Babylonian Tablets Belonging to Joseph Offord, Esq.; The Babylonian Tablet in the College Museum, Beirût,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 32, no. 3 (1900): 258–73; E. J. Pilcher, “A Cylinder Seal Bearing the Name ‘Gehazi’,” Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 23 (1901): 362; Theophilus Pinches, “Cylinder-Seals in the Possession of J. Offord, ESQ.,” Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 24 (1902): 87–94; and Henry R. Hall, “Two Coptic Acknowledgements of Loans,” Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 33 (1911): 254–58. 17 Catalogue of Egyptian, Greek, Roman & Babylonian Antiquities, Etc. Comprising . . . Third Day’s Sale . . . The Collection Formed by the Late Joseph Offord (London: Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, 1924). An earlier auction sold volumes on Egyptian and ancient Near Eastern archaeology and literature from Offord’s library; see Catalogue of Printed Books, Autograph Letters and Historical Documents (London: Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge, 1924). 18 Catalogue of Egyptian, Greek and Roman Antiquities, Textiles from Egyptian Burial Grounds, Native Art, Etc. (London: Sotheby and Co., 1932). 19 See, e.g., Joseph Offord, “Three Syrian or Hittite Cylinders,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 41, no. 1 (1909): 60–63; Joseph Offord and Salomon Reinach, “L’Aphrodite Stuart Welles,” Revue archéologique 1 (1903): 233–34; Joseph Offord, “A Hittite Bronze Statuette,” Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology 4 (1911): 88–89; and Reinach, “JOSEPH OFFORD.” On Offord’s relationship with the well-known Cairo-based Italian numismatist and collector Giovanni Dattàri, see Adriano Savio, Tomaso Lucchelli, and Alessandro Cavagna, eds., Giovanni Dattàri Un Numismatico Italiano Al Cairo. Collana Di Numismatica E Scienze Affini 9 (Milan: Societa’ Numismatica Italiana Onlus, 2015), 54–56. According to the authors, Offord may have been granted

124 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a as his obituary in the American Journal of Archaeology apologetically described: “Joseph Offord, hardly a professional archaeologist, but nevertheless author of numerous notes and articles on Egyptian, Syrian, and even Greek archaeology . . . ” 20 Among the antiquities Offord acquired were three genizah fragments which he donated to McGill University. According to his letter that accompanied the gift, he purchased them from an Arab in Egypt in the winter of 1903–4. 21 Offord’s knowledge of antiquities would have allowed him to recognize fragments like those from the Cairo Genizah, and he would certainly have understood their significance and collectability already by 1903. 22 Based on the notes rare access to Dattàri’s collection of antiquities and coins. I thank Vadim Putzu for his help with the Italian sources. 20 Sidney N. Deane, “Archaeological News,” American Journal of Archaeology 26, no. 1 (1922): 90. 21 Joseph Offord to Principal William Peterson, September 20, 1904, Hebrew MS 1, Subject file, Rare Books and Special Collections, McGill University Library and Archives, Montreal, Canada. Offord published a poem apparently inspired by his visit in the months following. Offord elsewhere described purchasing a GreekChristian papyrus through an Arab in Cairo in 1899. See Seymour de Ricci, “Un Papyrus Chrétien Épistolaire de L’ancienne Collection Offord,” Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 2 (1934): 857. He also visited Egypt to do research in the Cairo Khedivial Library; see “Oil in Bible Countries,” Petroleum World 15, no. 216 (September 1918): 361. 22 The history of the acquisition of the genizah fragments by various institutions in Great Britain is a somewhat convoluted story. Offord appears to have become an insider with at least some knowledge of the goings on. Although he seems to have been on good terms with George Margoliouth, his choice to aid the Bodleian Library with the purchase of nearly one thousand fragments may be explained by the following note in Offord’s review of Neubauer and Cowley’s second volume of Catalogue of Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library, “Egyptiaca,” American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal 31 (1909): 157: “Mr. Crowley says that the contents of the Cairo Geniza were first brought to notice by the Reverend Greville J. Chester, but we believe that some year or so previous Count d’Hulst sent a case containing specimens of the manuscripts from it to the British Museum, when the authorities neglected to even examine its contents, and that by the time that Mr. Chester came across some of the manuscripts the majority of the great store had been destroyed and all more or less mutilated.” On Count d’Hulst and the genizah finds, see Rebecca J. W. Jefferson, “A Genizah Secret: The Count d’Hulst and Letters Revealing the Race to Recover the Lost Leaves of the Original Ecclesiasticus,” Journal of the History of Collections 21, no. 1 (2009): 125–42, and Jefferson, “Cairo Genizah.” In a letter to the Bodleian librarian dated January 8, 1906, Offord notes that he discussed the genizah

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 125 included with his letter, a Mr. Margoliouth appears to have generally identified the fragments for him and encouraged him to ensure their preservation and publication. According to Offord’s letter, the fragments consisted of: Manuscript a – Eight paper leaves probably of xiv Century. Subject: Treatment of the Poor. It is written in the form of question and answer in connection with Deuteronomy xv 7–11. Saadyah Gaon is refered [sic] to. It is perhaps part of a lengthy Karaite commentary upon the Pentateuch. Language: Arabic in Hebrew characters. 23 Manuscript b – A double paper leaf probably of xiii century. A rhymed composition mainly upon the function of the high priest in connection with Leviticus xvi. Hebrew. It is Rabbinite [sic] (not Karaite). Probably a text to be chanted on the Day of Atonement. 24 Manuscript c – Four leaves of early Hebrew Manuscript of the Midrash Rabbah §53. 25 The Mr. Margoliouth in question was likely George, the keeper of Hebrew and Semitic manuscripts at the British Museum, although it may also be George’s contemporary and cousin, David Samuel Margoliouth, the orientalist of Oxford. George would certainly have been known to Offord through their common investment in the Society for Biblical Archaeology, where Offord eventually came to serve as a

manuscripts with Count d’Hulst (Bodleian Library Records d. 1083), which suggests a personal relationship. The two men were subscribers and donors to the Egypt Exploration Fund, and both spent time in London and Cairo and were active collectors of antiquities. I thank Rebecca Jefferson for directing me to this letter and for sharing her thoughts on the relationship between the two men. Rahel Fronda, Hebraica and Judaica deputy curator of the Bodleian Libraries, kindly acquired a copy of the letter for me. 23 Hebrew MS 1, Subject file, Rare Books and Special Collections, McGill University Library and Archives, Montreal, Canada. 24 Hebrew MS 2, Subject file, Rare Books and Special Collections, McGill University Library and Archives, Montreal, Canada. 25 Hebrew MS 3, Subject file, Rare Books and Special Collections, McGill University Library and Archives, Montreal, Canada.

126 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a member of the general committee. 26 Both Margoliouths were well known in the circle of those interested in the Cairo Genizah, and Offord knew about their respective scholarship in the years before he presented the fragments to McGill. 27 Deborah Abecassis, a Levy PhD who catalogued McGill’s Hebrew manuscripts, noted that Offord had no particular connection to McGill. 28 Precisely why he chose to gift the fragments to McGill remains unclear. The link may be a shared academic and social network. David Samuel Margoliouth had been a student of classics at New College in the late 1870s while McGill’s principal William Peterson was across the way at Corpus Christi. 29 Peterson’s training as a classicist meant that he and Offord shared interests as well as academic connections. The Margoliouths were one possible connection, but it appears that Offord and Peterson both had relationships with Lord Leicester whose library at Holkham Hall included numerous important manuscripts. 30 Peterson, in fact, made his reputation publishing a previously unknown manuscript of Cicero from Lord Leicester’s collection. 31 The news coverage of the publication would have brought Peterson renown in the circles in which Offord trav-

26 “Notes and News,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 52, no. 2 (1920): 49–68. 27 On the Margoliouths and the Genizah, see Stefan C. Reif, A Jewish Archive from Old Cairo: The History of Cambridge University’s Genizah Collection (Richmond: Curzon, 2000), 85. On Offord’s awareness of the two men, see Joseph Offord, “A New Hebrew Manuscript of Ecclesiasticus,” Biblia 14, no. 3 (1901): 81–84. 28 Deborah Abecassis, “Hebrew Manuscripts and Codicology: Towards a McGill Catalogue” (unpublished course paper, McGill University, Graduate School of Library and Information Studies, 2007), 15–16. Abecassis notes that Offord also donated a number of coins and a book concerning Napoleon’s explorations in Egypt to McGill. The latter was donated in response to a request from Peterson and the university librarian. 29 On Peterson and his education, see Reginald Edwards, “The Education of a Principal: Sir William Peterson – Principal of McGill (1895–1919),” McGill Journal of Education/ Revue Des Sciences de L’éducation de McGill 28, no. 3 (1993): 373–405. 30 Offord’s connection to Lord Leicester is suggested in Felberman, “Arts and Industries,” 577. 31 William Peterson, Collations from the Codex Cluniacensis S. Holkhamicus. A Ninth-Century Manuscript of Cicero . . . With certain hitherto Unpublished Scholia, Three Facsimiles and a History of the Codex (Oxford: Clarendon, 1901).

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 127 elled. 32 For all the years he served as principal of McGill, Peterson returned each summer to London. 33 According to press reports, he was at several high publicity events the summer before Offord’s gift, including the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Hellenic Society. 34 Another factor in Offord’s gift of these genizah fragments to McGill may have been his particular interest in promoting and supporting British-style higher education abroad. 35 His letter to Peterson includes a list of scholars who might have been willing to publish the fragments. Recognizing that McGill did not have a Hebrew scholar, he first suggested James McCurdy of the University of Toronto. “If you have any difficulty in getting a Canadian Editor for them (I think Dr. McCurdy might perhaps kindly undertake it).” Given Offord’s awareness of this situation, that McGill was a deliberately selected recipient for the gift is clear. Offord’s primary desire was to place the fragments in the collection of a prominent Canadian university and then into the hands of a Canadian scholar. Publishing genizah fragments was a substantial way to establish and perpetuate academic reputations. If McCurdy was not willing, Offord recommended Morris Jastrow, then at the University of Pennsylvania, or Richard Gottheil of Columbia University. If an American would not take on the task, he recommended Hartwig Derenbourg in Paris. Although Peterson forwarded the fragments to McGill librarian Charles Gould, who acknowledged the “kind and valuable gift,” no correspondence is preserved evidencing an effort to find an

32 See, e.g., “Notes,” Nation 74, no. 1918 (April 3, 1902): 270. 33 During the summer of 1903, Peterson appeared at the Allied Colonial Universities’ Conference in London; see “The Allied Colonial Universities’ Conference.” Times, July 10, 1903, 9. The topic of the conference, the expansion of British modes of higher education abroad, was of particular interest to Offord. See next note. 34 “Dominion Day Dinner.” Times, July 4, 1904, 21, and “The Hellenic Society,” Times, July 6, 1904, 14. 35 “Lecture by Mr. Joseph Offord: At the Said Mahommed Effendi College, Cairo,” American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal 34, no. 3 (September 1912): 183. On the expansion of British academe, see Tamson Pietsch, Empire of Scholars: Universities, Networks and the British Academic World, 1850–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015).

128 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a appropriate editor. 36 Further, McGill did not establish its Faculty of Religious Studies until 1948, and the various McGill-affiliated theological colleges which predated it did not have professors with the expertise to publish the fragments earlier. 37 As a result, the fragments remained largely untouched until their rediscovery in the 1980s by Richard Virr, the curator of manuscripts in McGill’s Rare Books and Special Collections. 38

THE MANUSCRIPT McGill Hebrew Manuscript 3 is described in Abecassis’s preliminary catalog as follows: The Manuscript is written in black ink, in Oriental semi-cursive script, on paper 26x18 cm. It consists of 4 leaves, and the middle two leaves – leaves 2 and 3 – are a bifolium. There is one column of text on each leaf, 21 lines of text in each column, and the writing block measures 20 × 13 cm. A ruling scheme is not evident and there are no catchwords or decorations. The manuscript is faded and stained, and there are some holes. No suggestions have been made for its date. As part of the Cairo Genizah, the presumed location is Egypt. The language is Hebrew. 39 Examination of the fragments shows the ink to be more brown than black, but the description is otherwise accurate. Although numbered 1r through 4v, the pages are correctly ordered 4r, 4v, 3r, 3v, 36 Abecassis, “Hebrew Manuscripts,” 15. 37 On the history of the faculty, see H. Keith Markell, The Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University, 1948–1978 (Montreal: Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University, 1979). 38 Dr. Virr is now senior curator. His tremendous help in bringing this manuscript to publication is gratefully acknowledged. The long delay in the publication is not unique to these fragments or even the Cairo Genizah manuscripts more generally. See James M. Robinson, “Commentary: Handling Future Manuscript Discoveries,” Biblical Archaeologist 54, no. 4 (1991): 235–40. We are grateful to Dr. Virr for securing permission for the publication of these fragments. 39 Abecassis, “Hebrew Manuscripts,” 18.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 129 2r, 2v, 1r, 1v. The scribal hand, the size of the text block and the page, and the number of lines on each page suggest that McGill’s fragment along with several fragments in the Taylor-Schechter Collection at Cambridge and the Adler Collection at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York are the scattered and incomplete remains of what was once a single text. Michael Sokoloff has documented these other fragments, which he describes as nine pages written in brown ink on paper with each containing twenty-one lines in the text block. 40 The fragments are arranged here according to their sequence in the original document: Collection JTS Adler 1627

T-S, AS 79.74 JTS Adler 2633, 13 McGill Hebrew 3

Manuscript folio 4b 4a 3b 3a 2b 2a 1b 1a r v a b 4a 4b 3a 3b 2a 2b 1a

Genesis ch:vv

Th.-A. pg:ln

Size (cm)

28:2–3 28:3–5 28:5–6 28:6–9 28:9–29:4 29:4–30:2 30:2–6 30:68 44:12–14 44:15–17 46:7–9 46:9–12 53:2–3 53:3–4 53:4–6 53:6–8 53:8–10 53:10–11 53:11–12

260:7–262:1 262:1–264:2 264:2–265:6 265:6–267:3 267:3–269:5 269:5–271:1 271:1–272:4 272:4–274:5 435:3–437:2 437:7–438:8 464:4–466:7 467:1–469:3 555:11–557:1 557:1–558:9 558:9–560:7 560:7–563:3 563:3–565:5 565:5–568:2 568:2–569:7

25.7 × 17.4

13.6 × 17.5 25.9 × 17.7 26 × 18

40 Michael Sokoloff, ed., ďĕąĕčĦė ĤĥĞąęĕĜĥ ĕĠąĘĞ ĤđČĘ ęĕČĢđĕ :ĐĒĕĜĎĐ ěĚ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ĕĞĔģ ĦđĤĞĐđ ČđčĚ ğđĤĕĢč ęĕĔĝĝĠĚĕĘČĠđ ( Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, 1982).

130 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a Collection

T-S Bo × C1, 53 T-S Bo × C1, 30

Manuscript folio 1b r v 1r 1v 2r 2v

Genesis ch:vv

Th.-A. pg:ln

53:12–14 55:4–7 55:7 59:11–60:2 60:2–3 60:8–11 60:11–13

569:7–572:6 588:2–590:2 590:2–592:4 638:4–640:8 640:8–642:1 650:7–652:7 652:7–654:8

Size (cm)

26.1 × 17.5 26.5 × 18.5

An examination of the scribal of the ductus shows an identical hand. JTS 1627

McGill Hebrew 3

4v line 13

4b line 7

2r line 6

3a line 14

3r line 6

3a line 16

3r line 3

2b line 15

3r line 11

3b line 17

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 131 JTS 1627

McGill Hebrew 3

3r line 6

3b line 7

1v line 8

2a line 14

2r line 14

2a line 13

Given the common size, the ink and paper, the number of lines per page, the scribal hand, and the fact that the McGill fragment fills a lacuna in the other fragments, it can be ascertained that it belongs to the same manuscript and originated in the Cairo Genizah like the others. With twenty-six pages of text preserved, this manuscript is now the second-largest single version of Genesis Rabbah from the Cairo Genizah. Sokoloff considers these fragments late because they include many errors, and because the written composition is far from Galilean orthography and syntax. Further, while the vast majority of the fragments are written on parchment, McGill Hebrew 3 and the related fragments are all on paper. 41 Precisely identifying “late” is somewhat difficult. The best and oldest texts described by Sokoloff date to the tenth and eleventh centuries (e.g., his MS 2, Vatican 30 and Vatican 60) thus providing a clearer ceiling for “early.” 42 41 Sokoloff, ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ĕĞĔģ. 42 For Sokoloff’s most recent discussion, see Michael Sokoloff, “The Major Manuscripts of Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 23–32.

132 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a The semi-cursive Eastern script of the McGill fragment is attested already at the beginning of the twelfth century, but, again, this does not allow for clear dating. 43 Like the other related fragments, McGill Hebrew 3 contains many textual emendations, as well as many insertions, that are absent from the best extant early manuscripts, Vatican 30 and Vatican 60. A few textual issues in the McGill fragment are worth noting to provide an accurate depiction of the manuscript and its contents. The McGill fragment includes five marginal or interlinear insertions of missing words plus one word struck out. As is typical in medieval manuscripts, the scribe in some cases included more or less of a biblical verse than did other manuscripts. Almost every line of the manuscript contains words that differ in orthography from the texts preserved in Vatican 30 or Vatican 60, with an apparent preference for defective (Ĥĝē) spellings. In lists, the scribe has sometimes changed the order of clauses. The text of folio 4b line 10–3a line 1, for example, includes eight clauses starting with . . .ĥ ĐĞĥč. The fragment follows the order found in Vatican 60 but not the text of Vatican 60, which is heavily abbreviated and truncated. The text hews closer to Vatican 30 but the order changes: What might be numbered 1 through 8 in the McGill fragment is ordered 1, 2, 3, 6, 5, 4, 7, 8 in Vatican 30. In a discussion of numbers of items in folio 3b lines 12–15, the scribe has listed both the Hebrew letter indicating numerical value as well as writing out the number (ĐČĚ ģ). ċ All the numbers are written in biblical Hebrew form (ęĕĞĥĦ as opposed to ěĕĞĥĦ) except the number eight, which is written in Aramaic (ĐĕĜĚĦ). Here the wording follows Vatican 30, but Vatican 60 has ĐĜđĚĥ. Elsewhere, the repetition of words has allowed minor errors, as in 1b line 21 where ĕďĕ ĘĞ ĕėĜČ ĤĎ ĕė ĤĎ ĕĜČ ğČ Đčĕčē ĐĦĕĐ ĦĤđĕĎ ĐĦĕĐĥ has become ĦĤđĕĎ ĐĦĕĐĥ ĕďĕ ĘĞ ĕėĜČ ĤĎ ĕė ĤĎ ĕėĜČ ğČ Đčĕčē ĐĦĕĐ. Some erroneous spellings also appear. Folio 3a line 16 has Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĐĘ ğĘĕđ, which should read Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĐĘ ğĘĎđ as in Vatican 30 and Vatican 60, or line 13, where ěĦĤđĞĜ should read ěĦđĤĞĜ.

43 For discussion, see Ada Yardeni, The Book of Hebrew Script: History, Palaeography, Script Styles, Calligraphy and Design ( Jerusalem: Carta, 1997), 220–21.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 133 Haplography has also resulted in errors. According to folio 3b lines 2–5: ĘčČ ĐđČĦĐ ĘĞ ĐĜđĚĚ ČđĐĥ ĐđĐ ĖČĘĚ ČĜđē ċĤĚČď ċ čĎ ĘĞ ğČ ěđĚĕĝ ċĤč ĐďđĐĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ĤĐĦđ [ĤĚČ] ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ đďđčėč ČđĐ ČĘČ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤčďĘ ĐėĤĢĜ ČĘ ĐĤĥ ÏđĘ ĐĚđď đĘĥ ěĕĕģđČ ĐĕĐĥ ďĚĘĚ [đĕĜ]đģĒĘ ěč ęĐĤčČĘ ĐĤĥ ďĘĦđ Vatican 30 and Vatican 60 both have extended passages which follow đĕĜđģĒ. According to Vatican 30, the passage should read ďĚĘĚ đĕĜģĒĘ ěč đĕĜģĒĘ ĤēČ ęđģĚĚ ĞĤĒ đĘ ĐčĜĕĎ ČĘĥ, while Vatican 60 similarly has ģĒĘ ċ ěč .ĤēČ ęđģĚĚ ĞĤĒ đč ĐčĜĕĎ ČĘĥ ĘĚ. ċ Here the scribe appears to have copied from a manuscript with wording similar to Vatican 30 such that his eye skipped from one đĕĜģĒĘ to another, losing the subsequent phrase. In folio 3a lines 3–4, an entire biblical verse appears to have been dropped: ĦČĘĚ Ėďĕčđ ĖĕĠč ĤčďĦđ đĘ ĦĤčď ĤĥČ ęĐĤčČ ĐĒ ĖďčĞĘ ĦĤĚĥ ĤĥČ ĐĒĐ ęđĕė. According to both Vatican 30 and Vatican 60, the biblical verse Genesis 18:14 should appear between đĘ and ĤčďĦđ. According to both earlier versions the text should read as follows: ĦĤĚĥ ĤĥČ ĖĕĠč ĤčďĦđ ěč ĐĤĥĘđ Đĕē ĦĞė ĖĕĘČ čđĥČ ďĞđĚĘ đĘ ĦĤčď ĤĥČ ęĐĤčČ ĐĒ ĖďčĞĘ ĐĒĐ ęđĕė ĦČĘĚ Ėďĕčđ. Perhaps the error arose from the eye skipping from ĦĤčď to ĤčďĦ. Although Sokoloff has correctly noted the lateness of the text and its numerous errors, the addition of the folios from the McGill collection to those already documented by Sokoloff deserves a more detailed examination particularly for establishing dating. Although this is unlikely to clarify the origins of Genesis Rabbah, it may well add to a fuller understanding of the transmission and study of rabbinic sources in North Africa in the Middle Ages.

134 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a

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a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 135

legend [ĐďĎčČ] Text is unclear due to hole in paper, stain, or ink having faded or flaked away. Text completed with the aid of Theodor-Albeck and the manuscripts Vatican 30 and 60. Đċ ďċ ċĎ ċčČċ Dots appear over individual letters in the manuscript (typically an abbreviation or acronym). ĐďĎčČ Erasure by scribe. 1 ĐďĎčČ Biblical verse with indicator of note to identify it. Marginal or interlinear insertion in the manuscript.

136 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a Folio 4a – Genesis Rabbah 53:2–3 đĤĚČ Ėė ĐĤĥ ĦČ đĤĥčĥ ęĕėČĘĚĐ ěĦđČ 44 ĖĦēĠĥč čĒėĦ ęĕėČĘĚĐ ěĦđČ [ĐĘ ĤĚČ 45 ěč ĐĤĥĘđ Đĕē] ĦĞė ĖĕĘČ čđĥČ ďĞđĚĘ [čđĥČ ďĞđĚĘ đĤĚČ ęĘđĞĘ ěĕĚĕĕģđ] ęĕĕē ěĐĥ ęĕĞďđĕ đĕĐĥ [ęđĕĐ ęĕĕģ ęďđ Ĥĥč ĕĜČĥ ĕĜČ ĘčČ 46 ěč ĐĤĥ]Ęđ Đĕē ĦĞė ĖĕĘČ [ĐĚđ 47 ěč Ħģčđē ĦČ Đĕē ĦĞė ĐĒĐ ďĞđ]ĚĘ [ĦĚ ěĕč ĕē ěĕč ĤēĚĘ ĦĚđ] [đĕĤčďđ] 48 Ğĥ[ĕĘČ] ĐĕĘČ [Ĥ]čď ĤĥČ [ďĞđĚĘ] ěč ďĘĦđ Đĥ[ČĐ ĤĐĦđ ęĥ čĕĦė] ~[ďĕĚ] ěĕĚĕĕģ[ĦĚ] đĜĕČ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ [Ęĥ đĕĤčďđ ęĕĕģĦĚ ęďđ Ĥĥč Ęĥ] ~Ęđ[čĕ ěĕČđ ēĤĠĦ Č]Ę ĐĜČ[Ħ ĕė] 49 ĪđĎ[đ ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ] 50 ĪĎđ ČĘėĚĚ [ĤĒĎ ĘėČ ĐĥĞ] ČĘ ĦđĚďĥ ĦĕĒ Đ[ĥĞĚ ĥēė ęĕĜĠĎč] ĐĚ ĖĕĐ ęĐĤčČ ĐĒ 52 ēĤĠĦ ČĘ ĐĜČĦ ĕė .51 ęĕĦĠĤč Ĥģč ěĕČđ ěČĢ ěĕČđ ČĘČ 53 ęėĕĦđčČ ĕĦĕČĤ ĐĦĕĥČĤč ĐĜČĦč ċ [ĐĤđėĕčė ĚČ ċ Ħ]Čď ĥēė55 ĪĎđ ĐĕĤĠ ěĠĎė ĖĦĥČ Ě ċ Č ĦČď ĐĚ ĖĕĐ ĐĤĥ đĒ 54 ęĕĜĠĎč Ęđčĕ ĐĕĜĠ đĤĕČĐ ĐĤĥ ĦČ đĤĥĕčĥ ęĕėČĘĚĐ ěĦđČ 56 ĦĕĒ ĐĥĞĚ ęĕďĥĐ ěĦđČ 57 ĘėČ ĐĥĞ ČĘ ĦđĚďĥ ČĘČ đĕĐ ęĕĥēđė ĦĕĒė ĤĚČ ĦČď ĐĚ ĖĕĐ 58 ě[ČĢ] ČĘėĚĚ ĤĒĎ ĘėČ đĥĞ ČĘ ęĕĦĚĐ 60 ęĕĦĠĤč Ĥģč ěĕČđ ČĘČđ 59 ÏęĦČ ęďČ ĕĦĕĞĤĚ ěČĢ ĕĜČĢ ĐĜĦČđ ĐĤĒē 61 ĥđďĘ ĕĦčĐČ ĐďĚđĘĚ ĐĘĎĞ ęĕĤĠČ ĚČ ċ ĦČď ĐĚ ĖĕĐ ČĜČ ĦĕĘ ęđĘĥđ ĝē ĕČĤđč ěĕĚ ĕĤčĝ ĐďčđĚ ČĜČ ĐĚ ĐĤĚČđ ĐĤĥ ·62 ĕĞĥĕ ĕĐĘČč ĐĘĕĎČ ĐĒđĘĞČ ĕĕč ĕĜČđ ČĘ[Č] ĕĕĤč ěĕĚ ĕĤčĝ ĐďčđĚ ďčđĚ ČĜČ ĦĕĘ ČĜČ ğČ ĖĕĤčĝ ĦďčđČ ČĘ ĦČ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĐĘ ĤĚČ 64 ĘčĜ ĤĕĢē ĥčĕ 63 [ĪđĎđ] ĤĚČ ĤĥČė [ĐĤ]ĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ĕĕ[đ ČĘČ] ĖĕĤčĝ

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

44 2 Kgs 4:16. 45 Gen 18:14. 46 Gen 18:14. 47 2 Kgs 4:16. 48 2 Kgs 4:17. 49 Gen 21:1. 50 Hab 3:17. 51 Hab 3:17. 52 Hab 3:17. 53 Hos 9:10. 54 Hab 3:17. 55 Ps 128:3. 56 Hab 3:17. 57 Hab 3:17. 58 Hab 3:17. 59 Ezek 34:31. 60 Hab 3:17. 61 Hos 10:11. 62 Hab 3:18. 63 Gen 21:1. 64 Isa 40:8.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 137 Folio 4b – Genesis Rabbah 53:3–4 66 ÏĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ 65 ÏęĘđĞĘ ęđģĕ đĜĕĐĘČ Ĥčďđ ġĕĢ ĦĤĚČĥ ĐĚ ČĘČ ČĘ ġĤČč ČĐ 67 ÏęĕĚĥč čĢĜ ĖĤčď ‫ ׵‬ęĘđĞĘ ĐĚēĜĚ Ĥċ 68 Ïěč ĐĤĥĘđ Đĕē ĦĞė ĖĕĘČ čđĥČ ďĞđĚĘ ęĕĚĥč ęĐĤčČĘ ĔčĐ ČĜ čđĥ ĦđČčĢ ęĕĐĘČ ēĦĠ ěĕĤĝģď čģĞĕ ċĤ ęĥč [đ]Ġ[ĕ ěĚď] ěĚēĜ ċĤđ ęĕĚĥĚ ĔčĐ ęĐĤčČĘ ĦĤĚČĥ ĐĚ ĐĥĞđ čđĥ 69 ÏĐČĤđ ęĕĚĥĚ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ 72 ĦČĒ ěĠĎ ďģĠđ 71 ÏęĕčėđėĐ ĤĠĝđ ĐĚĕĚĥĐ ČĜ ĔčĐ 70 ĐČĤđ čĒėĕđ Ś ĥĕČ ČĘ ēĦĠ ěĚēĜ Ĥč ĘČđĚĥ ċĤ 73 ÏĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ĐĒĐ ģđĝĠĘĥ đĥČĤ ČĘ ěĚēĜ Ĥč ĘČđĚĥ ċĤĚČ ċ 74 ÏęēĜĦĕđ ęďČ ěčđ ĤĚČ ČđĐĐ 75 ęēĜĦĕđ ęďČ ěčđ čĒėĕđ ĘČ ĥĕČ ČĘ đĥČĤ đĠđĝ ČĘđ đĠđĝ ČđĐĐ ĐĘ ĤĒđĎ Đċ ċčģĐĥ ċ ĐĞĥč ČĘČ 76 ÏĐĜĚĕģĕ ČĘđ Ĥčďđ ĐĥĞĕ ČĘđ ČĤģĕ ģēĢĕč ĕė ęĐĤčČĘ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč 77 ĐĥĞĕ ČĘđ ĤĚČ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč 79 ÏęēĜĦĕđ ęďČ ěčđ čĒėĕđ ĘČ ĥĕČ ČĘ 78 ÏĞĤĒ ĖĘ ČĘđ Ĥčďđ ĐĥĞĕ ČĘđ ĤĚČ ČđĐĐ 80 ĪđĎđ Ėďĕēĕ ĦČ ĖĜč ĦČ ČĜ ēģ đĘ ęėĦČ ĕĦďģĠ ďģĠ ĘČĤĥĕĘ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč 81 ÏĐĜĚĕģĕ 83 ą ęēĜĦĕđ ęďČ ěčđ čĒėĕđ ĘČ ĥĕČ ČĘ 82 ęĕĤĢĚč ęėĘ ĕđĥĞĐ ĦČđ ČĘđ ĤĚČ ČđĐĐ 84 ÏĪĎđ ęďĕĚĥČđ ĕĜĚĚ ğĤĐ ĐĥĚĘ đĘ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč ĤĥČ ĕđĎĐ ĦČ ęĎđ ęĐĤčČĘ Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč 85 ÏĐĥĞĕ čĒėĕđ ĘČ ĥĕČ ČĘ 86 ÏĘđďĎ ĥđėĤč đČĢĕ ěė ĕĤēČđ ĕėĜČ ěď đďčĞĕ ĞčĤČ ęĦđČ đĜĞđ ęđďčĞđ đĘ ĤĚČĥ ĐĞĥč 87 ęēĜĦĕđ ęďČ ěčđ ĐĞĥč 89 ĐĜĚĕģĕ ČĘđ Ĥčďđ ĐĥĞĕ ČĘđ ĤĚČ ČđĐĐ 88 ĐĜĥ ĦđČĚ 90 ĐĤĥĘđ Đĕē ĦĞė ĖĕĘČ čđĥČ ďĞđĚĘ ęĐĤčČĘ Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ ĤĚČĥ

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65 Isa 40:8. 66 Gen 21:1. 67 Ps 119:89. 68 Gen 18:14. 69 Ps 80:15. 70 Ps 80:15. 71 Gen 15:5. 72 Ps 80:15. 73 Gen 21:1. 74 Num 23:19. 75 Num 23:19. 76 Num 23:19. 77 Num 23:19. 78 Gen 21:12. 79 Num 23:19. 80 Gen 22:2. 81 Num 23:19. 82 Exod 3:16. 83 Num 23:19. 84 Deut 9:14 85 Num 23:19. 86 Gen 15:14. 87 Num 23:19. 88 Gen 15:13. 89 Num 23:19. 90 Gen 18:14.

138 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a Folio 3a – Genesis Rabbah 53:4–6 ĤĥČ 92 ĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ 91 ÏčĒėĕđ ĘČ ĥĕČ ČĘ ěč Ėďĕčđ ĖĕĠč ĤčďĦđ đĘ ĦĤčď ĤĥČ ĕčČ ďĕđď ĖďčĞĘ ĐĦĤĚĥ ĦĤčď ĤĥČ ęĐĤčČ ĐĒ ĖďčĞĘ ĦĤĚĥ ĤĥČ 93 ÏĐĒĐ ęđĕė ĦČĘĚ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ 94 ĐĒĐ ęđĕė ĦČĘĚ Ėďĕčđ ĖĕĠč ĤčďĦđ đĘ ĐĒ ĦĕčĐ ĦĤģĞ ĕčĕĥđĚ 96 ĪđĎđ ĦĕčĐ ĦĤģĞ ĕčĕĥđĚ 95 ĤĚČ ęĕĜč ĐģĕĜĐ Ĝĥ ċ ĐĤĥ ĐĒ 98 ĐēĚĥ ęĕĜčĐ ęČ 97 ÏĐĤģĞ ĕĤĥ ĕĐĦđ ĐĤĥ ĐĤĕĚČč ĐĘ ĤĚČĥ ĐĚ 100 ÏĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ 99 ÏĐĤĥ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ ĤĚČ ĐĕĚēĜ Ĥċ 101 ÏĤčď ĤĥČė ĐĤĥĘ ‫ ׵‬ĥĞĕđ 103 ÏĤčď ĤĥČė ĐĤĥĘ ‫ ׵‬ĥĞĕđ ĖČĘĚ ĕďĕ ĘĞ ĐĘ ĤĚČĥ ĐĚ 102 ĤĚČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ ĚČ ċ ĐďđĐĕ ċĤ ĐĕĚēĜ ċĤđ ĐďđĐĕ Ĥċ ÏČđĐ ĐĘ ĤĚČĥ ĐĚ 105 ÏĤčď ĤĥČė ĐĤĥĘ ‫ ׵‬ĥĞĕđ ěč ĐĘ ěĦĕĘ 104 ĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ČĘČ čĘēč ĐĤĥčĦĜ Ĥčė ĕėđ ĐĕĚēĜ ċĤ ĐĕĘ ĚČ ċ ÏčĘēč ĐėĤčĘ ěč ĕĝđĕ Ĥċ ęĥč ČđĐčČ ċĤ ěĦĤđĞĜ ĕĚĕĘ Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ ěĤĕĒēĐĥ ďĚĘĚ ěĕēđĢđ ĐĘ ěĕĕĜđĚ ěđĐĕ ČĘď ęĘđĞĐ ĦđĚđČ ĘĞ ĐĦČĤĕ ĕĜČ ěĦđĜ ČĜĕĜē ČĘ ěĕĤĔĕĚ ĤģĕĞ ĥĕģĘ ěč ěđĞĚĥ Ĥċ ęĥč ĐďđĐĕ ċĤ ÏČĦĤģĞ ĐĘ ĦđĜđďģĠ ĘĞč ČēČ Ĥċ ĚČ ċ ěĕĤĔĕĚ ĤģĕĞ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĐĘ ğĘĕđ ĐĘ ĐĕĐ Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ đĘ ĤĕĒēĐ ęĕĢđģĘĥ ĦđĘĕčē Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ ĘĢČ ďĕģĠĐ ģĘĚĞ ĕĜČ 106 ÏĘČĤĥĕĘ ģĘĚĞ ĐĥĞ ĤĥČ ĦČ ĕĦďģĠ ÏęĕĢđģĘĥ ĦđĘĕčē ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ ęĕčđĔ ęĕĥĞĚđ ĦđĢĚ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĘĢČ ĐďĕģĠĐ ĐĤĥ ĐČĚĔĜ ČĘ ęČđ čđĦė ģēĢĕ Ĥċ ĚČ ċ 107 ÏĤĚČ ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ đĦĕčĘ ĐĝĜėĜ đĒđ 108 ÏĞĤĒ ĐĞĤĒĜđ ĐĦģĜđ ČĕĐ ĐĤĐĔđ ĐĥČĐ

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91 Num 23:19. 92 Gen 21:1. 93 1 Kings 8:24. 94 1 Kings 8:24. 95 Gen 21:1. 96 Ps 113:9. 97 Gen 11:30. 98 Ps 113:9. 99 Gen 21:7. 100 Gen 21:1. 101 Gen 21:1. 102 Gen 21:1. 103 Gen 21:1. 104 Gen 21:1. 105 Gen 21:1. 106 1 Sam 15:2. 107 Gen 21:1. 108 Num 5:28.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 139 Folio 3b – Genesis Rabbah 53:6–8 ÏďģĠĦĥ ěĕďč đĜĕČ ĐĤđĐĔ ĐČĢĕđ ĖĘĚĕčČĘĥ đĦĕčĘ ĐĤđĐĔ ĐČĢĕđ ČđĐĥ ĐđĐ ĖČĘĚ ČĜđēĤċ ĚČď ċ čĎ ĘĞ ğČ ěđĚĕĝ ċĤč ĐďđĐĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ČđĐ ČĘČ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤčďĘ ĐėĤĢĜ ČĘ ĐĤĥ ĘčČ ĐđČĦĐ ĘĞ ĐĜđĚĚ ĐĤĥ ďĘĦđ ĤĐĦđ 109 [ĤĚČ] ĤĥČė ĐĤĥ ĦČ ďģĠ ‫׵‬đ đďđčėč ďĞđĚĘ ÏđĘ ĐĚđď đĘĥ ěĕĕģđČ ĐĕĐĥ ďĚĘĚ 110 [đĕĜ]đģĒĘ ěč ęĐĤčČĘ ęĕĥďē ĐĞĥĦĘ ĚČ ċ ěďđĕ ċĤ ČĚē ċĤđ ěďđĕ ċĤ 111 ęĕĐĘČ đĦđČ Ĥčď ĤĥČ ĚČ ċ ČĕĜđē Ĥċ ÏĖĘĚĕčČĘĥ đĦĕčĚ ČđĐ ğđĤĎ ęĕĤĚđČ đĕĐĕ ČĘĥ ďĘđĜ ęđĕ ĦđĢēč ĐĕģĒē ęĥč ČĜđēĤċ ÏěĕĚĔģđĚ ĐĞĥĦ ěĐĥ ĐĞčĥĘ ĖĦČĢ ďĞđĚ ĥĚĥĐ Čđčė ěĘĐĘ ĚČĜđ ċ ďĞđĚ ěČė ĤĚČĜ ďĘđĜ đĘ ĐďĘĕ ĤĥČ đĘ ďĘđĜĐ đĜč ęĥ ĦČ ęĐĤčČ ČĤģĕđ 112 ÏęĕĤĢĚĚ ģēĢĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ÏęĘđĞĘ ĐĕĕĤđď ěĦđĜ ęĘđĞĘ ģđē ČĢĕ 113 ģēĢĕ ĐĤĥ ĐĤĥ ęđČ ęĕĞĥĦ Ģċ ĦđĤčďĐ ĤĥĞ ďĎĜė ĐĤĥĞ ďđĕ ÏĦĕĥđĠē ĐĕĜĚĦ ēċ 115 ÏďĘđĕ ĐĜĥ ĐČĚ ěčĘĐ ĐČĚ ģċ 114 ÏďĘĦ ĐĜĥ ęĕĞĥĦ ĦčĐ ěč đĜč ģēĢĕ ĦČ ęĐĤčČ ĘĚĕđ ÏĐĜđĚĥĘ ĐėĜēĥ ĐĘĕĚĐ ďĎĜė 117 ÏęėĕĦđĤďĘ ĤėĒ Ęė ęėĘ ĘđĚĕ ęĕĚĕ ĦĜĚĥ ěčđ 116 ÏęĕĚĕ ĦĜđĚĥ ĕčĤ ěđĚĕĝ ċĤč ěďđĕ Ĥċ ĐĕėĤč ċĤ 118 ÏĪđĎđ ęĕĐŚ ĕĘ ĐĥĞ ģēĢ ĐĤĥ ĤĚČĦđ ĐĕĘ ĦĠėČ ĐĚ ěđĞĚĥ ĐēĚĥč ěčđČĤ ģēĢĕ čĤ Ĥč ŚđĚĥ ċĤč ěĜē ĐďģĠĜĥ ĐĞĥč ČŚ ęĐĘ ĦĠėČ ĐĚ ęĕĤēČ ĐďģĠĜ ĐĤĥ Ėė đēģĠĦĜ ęĕĥĤē ĐčĤĐ ĐĚĞ đďģĠĜ ĦđĤģĞ ĐčĤĐ ĐĤĥ đĜĕĚČ ěČė ĤĚČĜ đĠĦĥĜ ęĕĔđĥ ĐčĤĐ đēĦĠĦĜ ęĕĚđĝ ĐčĤĐ ĤĚČĜĥ ĐĕĥĞ ĐĚ 119 ĐĥĞ ĦđĜĕďĚĘ ĐēĜĐđ ěĘĐĘ ĤĚČĜđ

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109 Gen 21:1. 110 Gen 21:2. 111 Gen 21:2. 112 Deut 16:6. 113 Gen 21:3. 114 Gen 17:17. 115 Gen 17:17. 116 Gen 21:4. 117 Gen 17:12. 118 Gen 21:6. 119 Esth 2:18.

140 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a Folio 2a – Genesis Rabbah 53:8–10 ĐĕĕĤđď ěĦĕĜ ěČė ĤĚČĜĥ ĐĕĥĞ ğČ ęĘđĞĘ ĐĕĤđď ěĦĕĜ ěĘĐĘ ĐĕĥĞ ěČė ĤĚČĜ ĦđĤđČĚĐ ĘĞ ĐĠĕĝđĐ ĤĚČ ĕđĘ ċĤ ÏęĘđĞĘ ĕĚ ĤĚČĦđ 120 ĦđĤđČĚĐ ĕĜĥ ĦČ ęĕĐĘČ ĥĞĕđ ěĘĐĘ ĤĚČĜđ ĕĚ ĐĕģĘē Ĥċ ęĥĚ ĝēĜĕĠ ċĤ 121 ÏĐĤĥ [ęĕĜ]č ĐģĕĜĐ ęĐĤčČĘ ĘĘĚ ďĕĘđĚ ČđĐĥ đĒĚĤ ĘĘĚ ĕĚ ČĘČ ěė ĕĦė ċ ěĕČ Ĥčď ĕĚ ĤĚČ đĜĕčČ ęĐĤčČĘĥ đĦĚģ ĐĕģĘē ċĤ ęĥĚ ĝēĜĕĠ ċĤ ÏĐĜĥ ĐČĚĘ ěĕĜč ĐģĕĜĐ 122 ÏĐĤĥ ęĕĜč ĐģĕĜĐ ĦđĘĕĘĚ ĦĥĞĜđ Ħđĥčĕ ĐĕĐ đĜĕčČ ĐĘ ĤĚČ ĕČďĚ ĤĦĕ ĐĞđĜĢ ĐĦĕĐ ĐĤĥ ÏđĜĕĚČ ĐĤĥ đĞďĕĥ ĕďė Ėĕďď ĦČ ĕĘĎ ČĘČ ĞđĜĕĢĐ ĦĞĥ đĒ ěĕČ ęĐĤčČ ęĕĞčđĜ đĕĐđ Đĕďď ĦČ ĐĘĕĎ ęĕĝĜ ĐĥđĞ Đċ ċčģĐ ċ ĘĕēĦĐĥ ĘėĐ ěĐĕĜč ĦČ ĦđģĕĜĚđ ĦđČč ĦđĕČĜđĤĔĚ đĕĐ ĦđĜĕĕĞĚ ĕĜĥė čĘē ~đčĘēĚ đĜĕĜč ĦČ ģĕĜĐĘ ĕďė đĜČ ěĕČ ĦđĤĚđČ đĕĐđ ĐĜĚĚ ęĕĚĥ ęĥĘ Ččĥ ĕĚ Ęė ěĕĤĚČ ěĜčĤ ČēČ ċĤ đ ěĜčĤ ÏģĕďĢĘĥ ęĕĚĥ ęĥĘ Čč ČĘĥ ĕĚ ğČ ĚČ ċ ČēČ Ĥċ ęĕĚĥ ČĤĕ ĐĥĞĜ ěĚĢĞ đĎĕĘĠĐĥ ěđĎė ČĘČ đĥĞ ČĘđ ęĘđĞč ĐĘĥĚĚ đĘ ěĦĕĜ ČďĐ ĐĘĥĚĚĐ ĐĦđČ ěĐĚ ĐĘĔĕĜ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČ đĘčģ ČĘđ ĕĜĕĝč ďĘĕĐ ĘďĎĕđ 123 ęĐĕĜĦĚč ĤđĒČ ĤĚČĕđ ēĦĠ ęĕėĘĚ ĤĝđĚ ČĕĐ ěĕĤĚČ ěĜčĤ ĞĤĐ ĤĢĕĚ ĘĚĎĕĘ ĚČ ċ ĐčĤ ĐĕĞĥđĐ ċĤ 124 ÏĘĚĎĕđ ĚČ ċ Ĥč ċ ĐďđĐĕ ċĤ 125 ĘđďĎ ĐĦĥĚ ęĐĤčČ ĥĞĕđ đčĘēĚ ĘĚĎĜ ĚČ ċ ěđĚĕĝ ċĤč ěďđĕ ċĤ ČĦĤĠĝĚ Ĥč ěďđĕ ċĤ ęĥ ĐĕĐ ęĕĚĘđĞ ĘđďĎ 126 ĘđďĎ ĐĦĥĚ ĖĘĚĐ ĥĞĕđ ČĜĕĜē ċĤč ĕĝđĕ ċĤ ęĥ ĐĘĕĔĚ ĐĤđĦĐ

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120 Gen 1:16. 121 Gen 21:7. 122 Gen 21:7. 123 Job 12:18. 124 Gen 21:8. 125 Gen 21:8. 126 Esth 2:18.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 141 Folio 2b – Genesis Rabbah 53:10–11 ċ ČĕĐ ČďĐ ęĥ ĐĕĐ ęĕĚĘđĞ ĘđďĎ čđĔĘ ĖĕĘĞ ĥđĥĘ ‫ ׵‬čđĥĕ ĕė ĕĦėď ĤĥČė ĤĦĝČđ ĕėďĤĚ ĕĚĕč 128 čđĔĘ ĖĕĘĞ ĥđĥĘ ‫ ׵‬čđĥĕ ĕė 127 ĪđĎđ ĕčĤč ĐďđĐĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ÏčģĞĕđ ģēĢĕ ęĐĤčČ ĕĚĕč 129 ĖĕĦđčČ ĘĞ ĥĥ ęĥ đĕĐ đĚĞ ęĕĘđďĎ Ęėđ ĎđĞ ęĕĘđďĎ ĐĦĥĚ 130 ĘđďĎ ĐĦĥĚ ěđĚĕĝ ~ěĜĕČđ ČđĐ ĐĤģĞ ĐďĤĠ ęĐĤčČ ĚđČ ċ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ĎđĞĘ đĤĚČ ĐĜČ čĐĕ ěĕČ ĐĠĕĠĥ ČĘ ČĕĐ ĐĕĦĜĦĚ đĕĥėĞ ěđĐĘ ĚČ ċ ďĕĘđĚ ĕĦĜĦĚ ĘĞ ĐĒčĚ ĦČ ĐĚ Đċ čċ ģĐ ċ đĘ ĚČ ċ ÏĐĕĘ ČĜĝēĠ ĕĞčĢČ đĠđĝ ěĕČđ đĕĜč ĕĜčĚ ĦđččĤ ĕčĤđ ęĕĠĘČ ĕĠĘČ ĐČđĤ ĦČĥ Ėĕĕē ČĤĕĦ ĘČ ĐĥĚ ĘČ ‫ ׵‬ĤĚČĕđ Ĝĥ ċ đďĕč ČĘČ ĘđĠĕĘ ĥĕČĐ đĦđČĘĥ ĐĘēĦ ĐĝđĤĞ ĐďĜďĜ ČĘ ĕđĘ Ĥċ ĚČď ċ 131 ÏĪđĎđ đĦđČ ĕĦĦĜ Ėďĕč ĕė đĦđČ ěĦđČ ĐĕĚēĜ Ĥč ĞĥđĐĕ ċĤĚČď ċ ęĐĤčČ đĜĕčČĘĥ đĦĕčč ČĘČ đĜĕčČĘĥ ĐĦĥĚč đĕĐ ęĘđė ĞĥđĐĕ ĎĤĐĥ ĖĘĚ ęĕĜĥđ ęĕĥĘĥ ĕčĤđ ĐĕėĤč ċĤĚČď ċ ČĕĐĐė đĕĐ ďēČđ ęĕĥĘĥ ČĘđ ęĐĤčČ ČĘČ ďēČ ĚđĘ ċ ĘĦ ċ ěĕČ 132 đēĕĤĕ ĖĘĚ ěĜēđĕĤċ ęĥĚ ĖĜĤĠ ċĤ đčĘē ĤĚČ 133 ÏĪđĎđ ĦĕĤĢĚĐ ĤĎĐ ěč ĦČ ĐĤĥ ČĤĦđ ÏđĘĥ ĤĝĕģĕĔČđ Ĥčď đč ĚđČ ċ ĕĜČđ ĕČĜĎĘ Ĥčď đč ĚđČ ċ ĐĕĐ ĐčĕģĞ ċĤ ěđĞĚĥĤċ 134 ÏĪđĎđ ĦĕĤĢĚĐ ĤĎĐ ěč ĦČ ĐĤĥ ČĤĦđ ČčĕģĞ ċĤ ĥĤď ÏēčĥĘ ďčĞĐ ĕĘČ Čč ĚČ ċ ĦČď ĐĚ ĖĕĐ ÏĦđĕĤĞ ĕđĘĕĎ ČĘČ ģēĢĚ ěĕČ čėĚ ĐĤĥ đĜĕĚČĥ ďĚĘĚ 135 Ïĕč ģēĢĘ đĜĘ ĦČčĐ ĤĥČ ĕĤčĞĐ ÏęĦđČ ĐĜĞĚđ ęĕĥĜČ ĕĥĜ ďĢđ ĦđĎĎ ĥčėĚ ŚĞĚĥĕ ĦČ ĐČđĤ ĤĒ ċ ċčĞ ěđĥĘ ČĘČ ģđēĢ ĐĒĐ ěđĥĘĐ ěĕČ ĚđČ ċ ŚĞĚĥĕ Ĥċ ĕĜĦ

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127 Deut 30:9. 128 Deut 30:9. 129 Deut 30:9. 130 Gen 21:8. 131 Num 21:34. 132 Josh 12:9. 133 Gen 21:9. 134 Gen 21:9. 135 Gen 39:17.

142 · jason kalman and the students of 135–535a Folio 1a – Genesis Rabbah 53:11–12 ĐĦĕĐĥ ďĚĘĚ 136 ÏģēĢĘ đĚđģĕđ đĦĥđ ĘėČĘ ęĞĐ čĥĕđ Ĝĥ ċ ęĕčĎē ďĢđ ĦđĕĝĚđč ĐĜđč ŚĞĚĥĕ ĦČ ĐČđĤ ĐĤĥ đĜĕĚČ ~ěĕČ ĚđČ ċ ĕĘĕĘĎĐ ĕĝđĕ ĤĘĥ ċ đĜč ĤĒĞĘČ ċĤ ÏęĐĕĘĞ čĕĤģĚđ ĚČ ċ ĦČď ĐĚ ĖĕĐ ęĕĚď ĦđėĕĠĥ ěđĥĘ ČĘČ ģđēĢ ĐĒĐ ěđĥĘĐ đĤĚČ ĕđĘ ċĤ ęĥĚ ĐĕĤĒĞ ċĤ 137 ÏđĜĕĜĠĘ đģēĢĕđ ęĕĤĞĜĐ ČĜ đĚđģĕ ęĕĢēđ Ħĥģ ĘĔđĜ ŚĞĚĥĕ ĐĕĐđ Đďĥč đĜĕģĘē ĐČĤĜđ ĖĘĜ ČĕĐ ČďĐ ģēĢĚ đĘČė đĚĢĞ ĐĥđĞđ ģēĢĕ ĕĠĘė ĐĤđĚđ ģēĢĚ ČĘĐ ĤĚČđ đĐĞĤ ĦČ ĐĚĤ ĥĕČ ěė ĦđĚđ ęĕĢē ęĕģĒ ĐĤđĕĐ ĐĞĥčĥ ĐĥđĤĕ ěđĥĘ ČĘČ ģđēĢ ĐĒĐ ěđĥĘĐ ěĕČ ĚđČ ċ ĕĜČđ 138 ÏĕĜČ ęĕĔđĥ ŚĞĚĥĕ ęĐĘ ĚČ ċ ęĕēĚĥ ĘėĐ đĕĐ ģēĢĕ đĜĕčČ ďĘđĜĥ ĐĤĚČĥ ĐčđĥĦĚĥ ÏęĕĜĥ ĕĠ ĘĔđĜ ĕĜČđ Ĥđėč ĕĜČđ ęĦČ ĐĚČĐ ěč ĥĤĕĕ ČĘ ĕė ÏďĚĘ ĐĦČ ęĐĤčČ đĜĕčČĘ ĐĤĥ đĜĕĚČ Ġċ Ğċ Čċ ģēĢĕ ęĞ ģēĢĕ đĜĕČĥ Ġċ Ğċ Čċ ĕĜč ęĞ 139 ģēĢĕ ęĞ ĕĜč ęĞ ĦČĒĐ ďČĚ ĤčďĐ ĞĤĕđ ÏģēĢĕ ęĞ ĕĜč ęĞ ĤĚđēđ Ęģ ĕĜč đĜĕČĥ ĤĚČĕđ 141 ÏĞĤč ĦđČĤĚ đĕĜĕĞ ęĔČ ČĕĐ ČďĐ 140 ÏęĐĤčČ ĕĜĕĞč 142 ĪđĎđ ĖĦĚČ ĘĞđ ĤĞĜĐ ĘĞ ĖĕĜĕĞč ĞĤĕ ĘČ ęĐĤčČ ĘČ ęĕĐĘČ Ĥč ęĥč ĐĤĕđĞ ċĤ 143 ģēĢĕč ČĘČ ĕĦė ċ ěĕČ ęđĘĥ ċĤč ěďđĕĤċ ĚČ ċ ěďđĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ÏęĕĚĘđĞ ĕĜĥč ĐďđĚ ČđĐĥ ĕĚč ěĕĕĤĦ ċč ĐĔđē ĕĦĦĜ ĦĠđĚ 144 ĪđĎđ ĐĥĞ ĤĥČ đĕĦđČĘĠĜ đĤėĒ čđĦė ęđĘĥ Ĥč ċ ĕĜĥč ĐďđĚ ČđĐĥ ĕĚ Ęė đĕĠ ĖđĦĚ ČĕĢđĚ ČđĐĥ ĕĚĘ ČĤģĕ ďĞ ĦđĚĘđĞ ĕĜĥč ĐďđĚ đĜĕČĥ ĕĚ Ęėđ 145 ÏĞĤĒ ĖĘ ČĤģĕ

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136 Exod 32:6. 137 2 Sam 2:14. 138 Prov 26:18–19. 139 Gen 21:10. 140 Gen 21:11. 141 Isa 33:15. 142 Gen 21:12. 143 Gen 21:12. 144 Ps 105:5. 145 Gen 21:12.

a cairo genizah fragment of genesis rabbah · 143 Folio 1b – Genesis Rabbah 53:12–14 147 ĪĎđ ęĕĚ ĦĚēđ ęēĘ ēģĕđ Ĥģčč ęĐĤčČ ęėĥĕđ 146 ÏĞĤĒ ĖĘ Ĥģčč ęĐĤčČ ęėĥĕđ Ĝĥ ċ đĕĐ ęĕĜĤĦđđ ęĐĤčČ đĜĕčČĘĥ ĕĦĕč ęĕďčĞ ĖĤď ěėĥ 148 ÏĤĎĐ ĘČ ěĦĕđ ęĕĚ ĦĚēđ ęēĘ ēģĕđ ęĕĤĥĞ ěč 149 ÏďĘĕĐ ĦČđ ĐĚėĥ ĘĞ ęĥ [ęďĕč] ęĕĚ [ČĐĕ]ĥ ČĘČ 150 ÏďĘĕĐ ĦČđ ĐĚėĥ ĘĞ ęĥ ĤĚČĦČđ ęĕĜĥ Ğčĥđ ĞďĦ ĦđčČčČđ ĐĚē đč ĐĝĜėĜđ ĞĤ ěĕĞ đč ĐĝĕĜėĐĥ ďĚĘĚ ĦđĕĐĘ ĐĘđēĐ ĖĤď ěėĥ 151 ĦĚēĐ ěĚ ęĕĚĐ đĘėĕđ čđĦė ěėĥ ĖĘ ĚČ ċ 152 ÏęĕēĕĥĐ ďēČ ĦēĦ ďĘĕĐ ĦČ ĖĘĥĦđ ÏĐĞĥ Ęėč ĐĦđĥ ĕĝĕČ ċĤĚċ Čċ ÏĤčďĚč ęĕĘđďĎ ĦđĕĐĘ ęĕĚĦĤĐ ĖĤď ěėĥ ĤĕČĚ ċĤ ďĎĜĚ ĐĘ čĥĦđ ĖĘĦđ ÏĦĤĥĐ ĕėČĘĚ ĐĚĞ đēĕĥĐ ęĥĥ ďĎĜĚ ĐĘ čĥĦđ ĖĘĦđ ĚČ ċ ĦČ ČėĐ 153 ÏĦĥģ ĕđēĔĚė ģēĤĐ ęėĕĜĕč ĐĕĐĕ ģđēĤ ĖČ ĚČ ċ ĦČ ěĘĐĘđ 154 ÏĦĥģ ĕđēĔĚė ģēĤĐ ģēĤĐ ÏčĎĜĚ ďĎĜ đĜďĚĘ ČĐ 155 ÏĐďĚč ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ đĜĕčđ Ĥċ ĚČ ċ ĘĕĚ Ħĥģč ęĕĔđē ĕĜĥ ģēĢĕ ċĤĚČ ċ ÏģđēĤĚ ĐĦĤĚČ ĘđĚĦČ ĐĤĚČ ěĘĞĚĘ ĕĠĘė ę[ĕĤčď] ĦēĔĚė ĐĕėĤč ČĕĐ ČďĐ ÏČĚĢč ĦĚ ČđĐ đĕĥėĞ 156 ĖĞĤĒ ĦČ ĐčĤČ ĐčĤĐ ĕĘ ĦĘĞč ĐĦđČė 157 ÏĖďČĜč ĕĦĞĚď ĐĚĕĥ ĐĦČ ĐĦĤĠĝ ĕďđĜ ĕĦĘĠĦ ĐĞĚĥ ęĕĘĦ ĤĠĝč čđĦėĥ ęĥė 158 ĖĦĤĠĝč ČĘĐ ďđĜ ĐĦĞĚď ĘČ 159 ĪđĎđ ĥĤēĦ ĘČ ĕĦĞĚď ĘČ ĐĜĕĒČĐ ĕĦĞđĥđ ‫׵‬ ĤĚČĦ ęČđ ĥĕĤēĚ ĐĦČ ĕĦĞĚď ĘĞđ ĐĦĥĤēĐ ČĘ ĤĎĐĘĥ 160 ĕėĜČ ĤĎ ĕė ĤĎ ĕėĜČ ğČ Đčĕčē ĐĦĕĐ ĦĤđĕĎ ĐĦĕĐĥ ĕďĕ ĘĞ

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146 Gen 21:12. 147 Gen 21:14. 148 Gen 21:14. 149 Gen 21:14. 150 Gen 21:14. 151 Gen 21:15. 152 Gen 21:15. 153 Gen 21:16. 154 Gen 21:16. 155 Josh 3:4. 156 Gen 16:10. 157 Ps 56:9. 158 Ps 56:9. 159 Ps 39:13. 160 Ps 39:13.

Between Narrative and Exegesis: ďĕĚ in Midrash Genesis Rabbah Shawn Zelig Aster bar- ilan university

Rabbinic exegetical narratives both interpret the biblical text and, in the process, create original narrative. 1 Joshua Levinson noted that these narratives, many of which are found in the compilations of aggadic midrashim, are characterized by “this synergy of narrative and exegesis.” 2 This essay examines this balance or synergy by examining the use of the term ďĕĚ in Midrash Genesis Rabbah and in several subsequent and related works. This term illustrates how, in Genesis Rabbah, the exegetical imperative often exercises decisive influence on the formulation of the narrative. The essay is based on an MA thesis the author completed at McGill University under Professor Levy’s direction in 1996, which benefited greatly from his suggestions, recommendations, and corrections. It is a privilege and a pleasure to contribute to this volume in his honor.

1 For this essay, I focus on the activity of exegesis of narrative, rather than distinguishing between compilations based on the books of the Bible to which they relate. Therefore, I consider as aggadic midrash any comment on Scripture which contains an element of narrative. For this reason, I cite relevant passages from compilations known as “halakhic midrashim.” They are known by this name because they comment on the portions of Torah primarily dedicated to law. However, they also contain comments on the narratives interspersed in these portions of the Torah. 2 Joshua Levinson, “Composition and Transmission of the Exegetical Narrative in Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 178.

145

146 · shawn zelig aster

INTRODUCTION: VIEWING MIDRASH AS NARRATIVE AND AS EXEGESIS “There are many recent works that seek to define midrash . . . since these studies have not defined midrash in ample detail, there is little purpose in our not defining it again here.” 3 In a methodological article, Carol Bakhos collects a broad spectrum of responses to this challenge. 4 These show that the term refers both to a method of interpretation and to a corpus of collections that include a diversity of text types. Each definition struggles with whether to give priority to the narrative or the exegetical aspect of midrash. Despite the lack of any commonly accepted definition, any theory about the essential nature of midrash will almost invariably mention its two salient aspects: 1) midrash as a form of exegesis and 2) midrash as a form of narrative. But, as I show below, even elements that function primarily as narrative have an important exegetical function. There is a long tradition of writers who emphasize the exegetical aspect of midrash. Pride of place belongs to the medieval biblical commentator Rashi (1040–1105), who highlighted the exegetical aspect of midrash in his famous formulation (Gen 3:8): ĦčĥĕĕĚĐ ĐďĎČ đĕĜĠđČ ĘĞ Ĥđčď Ĥčď ČĤģĚĐ ĕĤčď. 5 A similar view of midrash is implied by Rashbam (ca. 1080–1174), who portrays midrash as a system of interpretation (albeit one he does not choose to follow) in his comments on Genesis 1:1 and Genesis 37:2. 6 Twentieth-century compendia of 3 James L. Kugel, “Two Introductions to Midrash,” Prooftexts 3 (1983): 144. 4 Carol Bakhos, “Method(ological) Matters in the Study of Midrash,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. Carol Bakhos. JSJ Supp 106 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 87–161, esp. 162–67. 5 Sarah Kamin, ČĤģĚ Ęĥ đĥĤďĚđ ČĤģĚ Ęĥ đĔđĥĠ :ĕĥĤ ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1985), esp. 63–71 and 225–26, argued that an overall methodology governs Rashi’s selection of midrashim, and that he consistently chooses midrashim that can be integrated into the flow of the plot and/or the context of the biblical text. 6 Rashbam’s comments on the former verse, in which he argues that extra letters or unusual formulations in the text form the basis for midrash, corresponds to the statement in Kugel, “Two Introductions,” 144, that “midrash’s precise focus is most often what one might call surface irregularities in the text.” Elazar Touitou, ĦđĔĥĠĐ ĐĤđĦĘ ęīčĥĤĐ ĕĥđĤĕĠč ęĕĜđĕĞ :ęđĕ Ęėč ęĕĥďēĦĚĐ (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press,

between narrative and exegesis · 147 midrashim in the form of biblical commentaries (such as ĐĚĕĚĦ ĐĤđĦ of R. Baruch HaLevi Epstein and ĐĚĘĥ ĐĤđĦ of R. Menachem M. Kasher) also highlight this aspect. The narrative aspect is highlighted by many narrative compendia, including ĐĜĕČĤđ ĐĜĕČĢ, first compiled in the sixteenth century, and ĒĞđĘ ęĞĚ in the eighteenth, as well as ĐďĎČĐ ĤĠĝ by Haim Nahman Bialik and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitzky and Louis Ginzberg’s The Legends of the Jews in the twentieth. These different approaches in the medieval and modern periods emphasize different aspects of midrash, and different midrashic corpora integrate exegesis and narrative in differing proportions. 7 The early Tannaitic midrashim, such as the Sifra, Mekhiltot, and Sifre tend to emphasize exegesis in their concise style. 8 But later midrashim, such as those of the Tanhuma-Yelammedenu corpus and Song of Songs Rabbah are less terse, and the narrative they present is often more fully developed. The dual nature of aggadic midrash is demonstrated nicely by its treatment of the issue of sequence. As an exegete, the midrashist is concerned with the sequence of events narrated in the biblical text. Simultaneously, however, the same midrashist is a writer of narrative and may add to the biblical story so as to create a fuller sequence of events and eliminate gaps. It is here that the dual nature of midrash, as narrative and as exegesis, comes into play. When midrashim retell biblical narratives, the midrash necessarily creates its own new narrative, and the creators of the new narrative

2003), 52–67, reviews some previous discussion of Rashbam’s attitude to midrash and provides a detailed discussion of it. He argues that Rashbam sees midrash as an alternate exegetical method that responds to the same narrative irregularities using different hermeneutical tools. 7 A strict definition of midrash as exegesis might lead us to argue that some of the aggadah in these corpora cannot qualify as biblical interpretation. However, it is not clear that the rabbis perceived expanded narrative on biblical subjects as a different genre than interpretation of the biblical text. For a fuller discussion of whether rabbinic midrash and rewritten Bible really constitute distinct genres, see Steven D. Fraade, “Rewritten Bible and Rabbinic Midrash as Commentary,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. Carol Bakhos. JSJ Supp 106 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 59–78. 8 Although considered halakhic midrashim, they do contain narrative exegesis.

148 · shawn zelig aster are necessarily concerned about the sequence of events in formulating it. 9 Jonah Fraenkel has discussed how aggadic narratives increase their dramatic intensity through use of sequence expressions such as ďĕĚ and ĥ ďĞ. 10 Because the midrashic narrative takes as its basis the biblical text, however, the midrash necessarily addresses questions of sequence in the biblical narrative. Such questions include: In what order did the events of the biblical narrative happen? What are the sub-actions that make up each event? And, of course, the perennial question of ęďģđĚ ĤēđČĚđ: How do the sequences of different narratives interrelate? Dealing with sequence in the biblical text is difficult because of the subtlety of the text. Biblical narrative often omits explicit markers of sequence such as adverbs or time indicators. 11 Rather, it tends to use more subtle techniques to convey sequence. Such techniques include verb form and verb order. The midrash will then find it necessary to interpret these subtle techniques or, when lacking clues within the biblical text, establish sequence. This interpretation of biblical clues and establishment of sequence takes place within the midrashic narrative.

ďĕĚ MEANING

“IMMEDIATELY”

Midrashic narrative generally does use explicit terms to portray sequence. Below, we focus on one of these terms, ďĕĚ, and discuss its role in both the narrative and exegetical aspects of midrash. This word indicates a basic aspect of sequence: the immediacy with which one action follows another. As we demonstrate, it has a highly specific use in some texts. 9 The importance of temporality to narrativity is emphasized by literary critic Paul Ricoeur, “Narrative Time,” in On Narrative, ed. W. J. T. Mitchell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 165–82. 10 Jonah Frankel, “ĐďĎČĐ ĕĤđĠĕĝč đčđĢĕĞđ ěĚĒĐ”, in ĤėĒĘ ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĘĕĠĦđ ęĕĚđĎĤĦ ,ĐďĎČč ęĕĤģēĚ ěĚĜĕĕĐ ğĝđĕ, ed. Ezra Fleisher and Jacob Petuchovsky ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1981), 133–65. 11 Such indicators are found in verses such as Gen 24:45 (ĤčďĘ ĐĘėČ ęĤĔ) and Gen 27:30 (ČĢĕ ČĢĕ ĖČ ĕĐĕđ), but these are the exception rather than the rule.

between narrative and exegesis · 149 Its meaning of “immediately” does not seem to appear prior to rabbinic texts. 12 Within rabbinic texts, an interesting pattern emerges. While the word in this sense appears neither in the Mishnah nor in Targum Onkelos, it is widely used in later halakhic and midrashic texts as well as in targumim. It appears in both Targum Neofiti and the Tosefta, and frequently in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael and in Midrash Genesis Rabbah. (The Tosefta and the Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael are thought to have been redacted during the third or fourth century bce, giving us an indication of when this meaning of ďĕĚ developed.) In the Mekhiltot, ďĕĚ is widely used to mean “immediately.” Used in this sense nearly thirty times in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, it often appears in the flow of the midrashic comment. For example: “God said: If I bring Israel into their land now, they will each immediately (ďĕĚ) take to their fields. 13 In other cases, it is used more directly in connection with the exegesis of a biblical verse, as in the terse comment of Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Exodus 13:5, which defines as “immediately” the biblical word ďĕĚ ĐĘČ ĐĕĐđ ěĕČ :ĐĕĐđ. 14

ďĕĚ IN

MIDRASH GENESIS RABBAH

The word ďĕĚ appears nearly fifty times in the sense of “immediately” in Midrash Genesis Rabbah, for which a date of composition early in the fifth century is often cited. 15 Thought to have been composed 12 A full history of the term appears in Shawn Zelig Aster, “Between Exegesis and Narrative: The Use of Miyyad in Genesis Rabba” (MA thesis, McGill University, 1996), 9–10. 13 Parashat Beshalah 1. 14 The comment appears in the reconstruction of David Zvi Hoffmann, Mekhilta deRabbi Simon b. Jochai (Frankfurt: J. Kauffmann, 1905), based on citations from Midrash Hagadol. In the edition of J. Epstein and Ezra Zion Melammed, eds., Mekhilta d’Rabbi Shim’on b. Jochai (Jerusalem: Mekitse Nirdamim Society, 1955), 42, the quote appears in reference to a similar verse, Exod 13:11, based on the Firkovitch II 268 manuscript. Note that ĐĕĐđ, which can be translated as “it shall be” is the first word in many biblical verses, such as Exod 13:5, 13:11, 13:16. 15 Moshe D. Herr, “Genesis Rabbah,” in Encyclopedia Judaica 7:399–401; H. L. Strack and Gunter Stemberger, Introduction to Talmud and Midrash, rev. and trans. Markus

150 · shawn zelig aster a century after the earliest texts using this term, this midrash constitutes an important stage of the developing use of ďĕĚ in rabbinic texts. The word ďĕĚ has highly specific uses in structured exegetical forms in Midrash Genesis Rabbah, and these will form the focus of our discussion below. One of the first scholars to discuss the use of this term in Amoraic midrash was Wilhelm Benjamin Ze’ev Bacher, who notes that: “This expression is used to present the Biblical narrative in a more lively manner, especially in order to increase momentum. Generally, it is used together with a Biblical text . . . or after a paraphrase of the beginning of a Biblical verse . . . Sometimes several other words appear after ďĕĚ as an introduction. ďĕĚ is used in the middle of a Biblical paraphrase.” 16 Bacher’s comments are accurate as far as they go. They recognize and emphasize the role of the term ďĕĚ in midrashic narrative. But they ignore the important role that ďĕĚ plays as an exegetical form in Genesis Rabbah. Bacher notes in passing the use of ďĕĚ together with biblical verses, but he still sees the primary function of this term as “moving the (midrashic) narrative forward.” In the following, we show that ďĕĚ in Genesis Rabbah has two highly specific uses, both related to event sequence. These illustrate how Genesis Rabbah engages both in exegesis and in narrative construction. Genesis Rabbah is an interesting work in which to examine the interplay of narrative and exegesis. It is an aggadic midrash, mostly presented in narrative form. At the same time, it is a verse-by-verse exegesis of Genesis. 17 Of the aggadic midrashim, it is one of the most Bockmuehl (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 291–92; Sarit Kattan Gribetz, “Between Narrative and Polemic: The Sabbath in Genesis Rabbah and the Babylonian Talmud,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 32. 16 Wilhelm Benjamin Ze’ev Bacher, ĥĤďĚĐ ĕėĤĞ, trans. Alexander Ziskind Rabinovitz, 2 vols. (Tel Aviv: Achdut, 1923), 2:197. Although he speaks here about Amoraic midrashim generally, the passages he cites as prooftexts in this passage are nearly all from Genesis Rabbah. The English translation in my own. 17 Chanoch Albeck, Einleitung und Register zum Bereschit Rabba (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1931), subsequently published in vol. 3 of the Theodor-Albeck critical edition, notes that Genesis Rabbah is the only one of the aggadic midrashim structured as a commentary on Scripture (except for certain portions of Exodus Rabbah). Citations from Genesis Rabbah in the following discussion are taken both from the

between narrative and exegesis · 151 closely tied to the biblical text: unlike later midrashim, it contains little narrative that does not relate to biblical verses. Its narrative is more terse than that of later midrashim, such as Tanhuma or Song of Songs Rabbah. Moreover, it is densely packed with biblical quotes, and the percentage of biblical citations as part of the overall word count of the text is relatively high. While our primary focus will be on the use of ďĕĚ in passages directly related to biblical verses, the following passage, which relates only tangentially to a verse, is helpful in clarifying the exact sense of ďĕĚ. It relates to the statement in Genesis 1:8a that God called the heavens “sky.” It does this by means of a parable involving the process of solidifying milk. R. Isaac said: ęĕĚČĥ = containing water. This is like milk which was placed in a bowl. So long as a drop of rennet is not placed in it, it is liquid. As soon as a drop of rennet is placed in it, ďĕĚ it solidifies and stands. So, “The pillars of the sky tremble” (Job 26:11 [cited to prove that originally heavens were “liquid”]). 18 As soon as rennet is added, “There was evening and there was morning” (Gen 1:8b [cited to indicate that the process of “solidifying” the heavens was complete]). 19

MS Vatican 30, following the facsimile edition Midrash Bereshit Rabba: Ms. Vat. Ebr. 30 ( Jerusalem: Makor, 1970) and from the revised critical edition, J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck, eds., Bereschit Rabba mit kritischem Apparat und Kommentar, rev. ed., 3 vols. ( Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1965). Where minor differences appear, we have followed the manuscript. As is well known, MS Vat. 30 is thought to represent the original version of the midrash, and its importance was not fully appreciated when the Theodor-Albeck edition was issued. See the discussion in Michael Sokoloff, “The Major Manuscripts of Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 23–32. 18 The verb here is the same as that used above for “liquefy”: ğĠĤ. 19 The passage is from parashah 10, it appears in MS Vat. 30, p. 4b and Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 31.

152 · shawn zelig aster This passage indicates that ďĕĚ means both “immediately” and “as a result.” Here it joins the cause of an action (the addition of rennet) to the resulting action (solidification). We present here two separate ways in which ďĕĚ is used in Genesis Rabbah in its exegesis of verses. The first presents a type of exegetical problem that the midrash solves through narrative, while the second uses ďĕĚ as a direct comment on the biblical text. These patterns are related to each other, as we show below.

THE WORD ďĕĚ AS A BRIDGE BET WEEN NARRATIVE EXPANSIONS AND BIBLICAL VERSES This usage, which appears in at least twenty passages in Genesis Rabbah, uses ďĕĚ in the following structural pattern: (1) a narrative in which a midrashic expansion of biblical verses is presented, followed by (2) the term ďĕĚ, followed by (3) another biblical verse (henceforth referred to as the “focus verse”). Furthermore, the narrative (part 1 of the pattern) is seen by the midrash as the cause of the event described in the focus verse. 20 This pattern appears in two midrashim (which appear in succession) related to Joshua’s command of the sun, an event narrated in Joshua 10. In these midrashim, Joshua 10:13 serves as the focus verse, and events that preceded it are narrated. R. Simeon b. Yohai said: The book of Deuteronomy was the sign of Joshua. When the Holy One, blessed be He, appeared to Joshua, He found him sitting, and the book of Deuteronomy was in his hand. He said to him: Be strong, Joshua! Be brave, Joshua! Let not this book of the Torah depart from your mouth night and day . . . ” (paraphrasing Josh 1:6–8). Joshua took the book of Deuteronomy, showed it to the sun, and said to it: “Just as I have not 20 This pattern was already noted by Albeck, Einleitung, 30, who noted that, when the midrash mentions the sequence of events that in its view preceded what is related in the Bible, the word ďĕĚ appears before the verse.

between narrative and exegesis · 153 desisted from this (i.e., from Deuteronomy) so you, stand still from before me! 21 Immediately (ďĕĚ), “The sun stood still, and the moon stood . . . ” (Josh 10:13) And immediately thereafter: R. Isaac said: [Joshua said to the sun,] “You bad slave, is it not the case that you were purchased by my ancestor? Is it not the case that my ancestor [Joseph] saw you in a dream, [as it is said]: “Behold the sun, and the moon and the stars bowed to me.” (Gen 37:9) Immediately (ďĕĚ), “The sun stood still, and the moon stood . . . ” (Josh 10:13) 22 In each of these, the part before the term ďĕĚ contains a narrative woven together from strands of several biblical verses. Both attempt to explain exactly what Joshua said. The first midrash ties the sun’s actions to Joshua’s, while the second ties the sun’s actions to Joseph’s dream. Their primary exegetical focus is to explain what exactly caused the sun to stand still, narrated in Joshua 10:13. In both midrashim, ďĕĚ joins a narrative that describes the cause of an event narrated in a biblical verse to the citation of that verse. The narrative describes events that took place immediately before those narrated in the verse. Such narratives end with focus verses from a variety of sources. As can be seen from this passage, not all come from Genesis; some come from Judges or Samuel. 23 Nearly all of the focus verses come

21 .ĕĜĠĘĚ ęđď ĦČ Ėė ,ĐĒĚ ĕĦĕĚď ČĘĥ ęĥė 22 These are presented in parashah 6 (Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 50; this section of MS Vat. 30 is missing), parashah 84 (MS Vat. 30, p. 150b and Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, p. 1013), and parashah 98 (MS Vat. 30, p. 183b and Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1247). Albeck, Einleitung, 2 notes that one of the salient characteristics of Genesis Rabbah is that midrashim are often repeated in multiple locations. 23 A midrash in parashah 99 (MS Vat. 30, p. 189; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1264) focuses on Judg 15:19. A midrash in parashah 59 (MS Vat. 30, p. 93a; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 639) focuses on 2 Sam 21:17; two midrashim in parashah

154 · shawn zelig aster from narrative sources and tend to begin with the wayyiqtol verb form which predominates in narrative texts. 24 In each case, the focus verse is the exegetical focus of the larger midrashic unit’s attention. The midrashim that focus on Joshua 10:13 are part of a larger discussion of Joshua’s command of the sun, which forms the surrounding context of the midrash, and this is also the case in the midrashim that focus on verses from Judges or Samuel. None of the midrashim that use this pattern are part of petihtot. 25 Ten of them have focus verses from Genesis, and, in these, the focus verse comes from the section of Genesis on which Genesis Rabbah is at that point giving a running commentary. Thus we see that the focus verse is in each case the conceptual starting point (and exegetical impetus) for the midrash. The midrash seeks to explain what caused the events of the focus verse and often expands upon a “textual irregularity” in the focus verse. A further example of this pattern appears in relation to the wellknown narrative gap that appears between Genesis 37 and Genesis 38: the former narrates Joseph’s sale, the latter Judah’s dalliance with Tamar. They (the eleven brothers) said: “Let us go and take care of ourselves! In the past, he [Jacob] was engaged in finding us wives. But now, he is busy with his

93 (MS Vat. 30, p. 175; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1183) focus on verses in 2 Sam 20. 24 An exception is a midrash at the end of parashah 22 (Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 220; section missing from MS Vat. 30) which has Ps 92:1 as its focus verse, but there the Psalms verse is made into a narrative. 25 A petihtah is a midrashic passage beginning with a distant verse, usually from a passage in Job, Psalms, or prophetic literature, which is apparently unconnected to the biblical passage under discussion. The distant verse is then interpreted in multiple ways, the last of which explains the opening verse of the passage under discussion. The petihtah thus leads from the distant verse to the opening of the passage under discussion. See the basic introduction to this form in Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 244–45. See further discussion in Sarit Kattan Gribetz and David M. Grossberg, “Introduction: Genesis Rabbah – A Great Beginning,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 4–5.

between narrative and exegesis · 155 sackcloth and his fasting, and it is not meet that he should be engaged in finding us wives.” So they said to Judah: “Aren’t you our leader? Get up and take care of yourself!” Immediately (ďĕĚ), “It came to pass at that time: Judah went down . . . ” (Gen 38:1) 26 The question of what caused the events of Genesis 38:1 could be answered more directly, in a sentence beginning “because. . . . ” But the midrash chooses to develop a narrative to answer the question. The gap in the event sequence of the biblical text is closed by the midrash’s own narrative, and that narrative is joined to the biblical text by means of the term ďĕĚ. The narrative developed in the midrash is a sophisticated and developed literary form in its own right and not simply an explanation of the abrupt transition between the end of Genesis 37 and Genesis 38:1. It draws heavily on the concluding verses of Genesis 37. In it, the brothers speak of Jacob’s “sackcloth and fasting” in a derisory way (emphasizing his sackcloth and his fasting), while also evincing some sympathy for Jacob’s mourning in saying, “it is not meet that he should be engaged in finding us wives.” Furthermore, the recognition of Judah as leader seen in Genesis 37 (and elsewhere in Gen 37–50) is preserved here: Judah is recognized as the first to shoulder responsibilities. This midrash shows the use of ďĕĚ to respond to a real or perceived event gap in in the biblical text prior to the focus verse. The perceived gap between the end of Genesis 37 and Genesis 38:1 led to Judah striking out on his own to start a family, as narrated in Genesis 38. Such an event gap is also dealt with in a midrash about Adam. Genesis 4:1–24 deal with Cain, Abel, and Cain’s progeny, ending with the enigmatic story of Lamech. Genesis 4:25 (“Adam knew his wife again, and she bore son and named him Seth”) begins a new topic. There is therefore a break or narrative gap between 4:24 and 4:25. The

26 Parashah 85 (MS Vat. 30, p. 154b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1033–34). The link in time implies a causal as well as a temporal connection.

156 · shawn zelig aster following midrash uses Genesis 4:25 as its focus verse and fills in the narrative gap using themes from the preceding verses. “Lamech said to his wives . . . ” (Gen 4:23) – [The midrash interprets this as a demand for sexual relations, a demand opposed by his wives, who counter that any future children will be consumed by the flood. The midrash then continues as follows.] Lamech said to his wives: “Let us go see Adam” [to adjudicate our dispute]. They went. He [Adam] said to them: “You do your part, so that the Holy One, blessed be He, may do His part.” He [Lamech] said to him [to Adam]: Physician, heal thyself ! You have separated yourself from Eve for 130 years; is it not the case that this was so you would not produce progeny from her?” As soon as Adam heard this, he found it necessary to immediately (ďĕĚ) produce progeny: “Adam knew his wife again . . . ” (Gen 4:25) There is an obvious difference between the midrashim cited above in regard to Adam and Judah, on the one hand, and that regarding Joshua, on the other. In the former, a real narrative gap can be noted in the verses, where there is an abrupt transition to discuss a new and apparently unconnected event. The midrash introduces a causal link between the events, a link expressed with the temporal phrase ďĕĚ. In the latter, the sequence of events is clear, but the motivation for the events is not evident. The midrash asks a real question about why the sun stood still, but such a question is not equivalent to the narrative gap created by the shift in topic in the biblical narratives about Judah and Adam. The midrash on the story of the meeting of Isaac and Rebecca may also indicate a perceived narrative gap, one which appears only if one seeks out such gaps. Genesis 24:64–65 describes how Rebecca perceives Isaac, and Genesis 24:66 describes how the servant tells Isaac how he found Rebecca. Genesis 24:67 then states: “Isaac brought her to the tent of Sarah his mother.” The midrash develops a narrative expansion to explain why he did so:

between narrative and exegesis · 157 As long as Sarah was alive, the doors were wide open; when she died, this ceased; when Rebecca arrived, it returned. As long as Sarah was alive, there was a blessing in the dough; when she died, it ceased; when Rebecca arrived, it returned. As long as Sarah was alive, a light burned from Sabbath eve to Sabbath eve; when she died, that light ceased; when Rebecca arrived, it returned. When Isaac saw that she followed the practices of his mother, making her dough in purity and removing the hallah in purity, then immediately (ďĕĚ), “Isaac brought her to the tent of Sarah his mother.” 27 The obvious question is why Isaac, who was so wealthy, brought her to Sarah’s tent rather than giving her one of her own. The midrash creates a narrative that answers the question based on the midrashic image of Sarah, and drawing on the narrative of the angels in Genesis 18:6. Although the timeline of the story appears clear, Isaac’s behavior lacks a clear motivation. The midrash’s expansion here fills in this perceived gap in the narrative. Another example of such a perceived gap appears in a midrash regarding 2 Samuel 21:16–17. The biblical text reads: “Ishbi-benob, among the descendants of the giant, his bronze spear weighing three hundred shekels, and he being girded in new armour, tried to kill David. Abishai, son of Zeruiah came to his aid.” No narrative gap is evident here, but the midrash nevertheless uses the form described above: “Ishbi-benob, among the descendants of the giant . . . ” (2 Sam 21:16) He waved his shield. David jumped backwards eighteen cubits. Each was scared of the other. This one [Ishbi-benob] was scared of that one [David], saying: “If he could jump backwards like that, what must his forward jump be like?” And that one was scared of this one, saying “If he can wave his shield like that, how can I stand up against him?” 27 Parashah 60 (MS Vat. 30, p. 96b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 656).

158 · shawn zelig aster At that moment, David said: “If only I had one of my sister’s children to help me.” Immediately (ďĕĚ), “Abishai son of Zeruiah came to his aid . . . ” The absence of any narrative gap is obvious to any reader of Samuel. Abishai was one of David’s most loyal retainers (as appears in 1 Sam 26), and the preceding verses state that David and his men fought the Philistines (2 Sam 21:15). That Abishai should appear to help David fits the flow of the narrative. Yet all this is of little consequence for the midrash. If there is no exegetical necessity to fill in a gap, there is at least an exegetical possibility, and that is good enough. So the midrash, in its expansion, heightens the dramatic tension in its own narrative by describing how David and Ishbi-benob are uncertain who will win, describing David’s desperate plea for help, and by then portraying Abishai as saving David. This is good narrative. Is it exegesis? Perhaps less so than in the other cases cited above because there is no real exegetical imperative in the form of a narrative gap. But the midrash’s narrative expansion is filled with characterizations and motifs from the biblical narrative. The story of Ishbi-benob’s shield is based on the mention of his new armour in 2 Samuel 21:16, and David’s cry for help is based on the cry for water, recounted in 2 Samuel 23:15. The midrash’s insertion of a gap into the time and space between the events of 2 Samuel 21:15 and 2 Samuel 21:16 raises an interesting point: in some cases in the pattern the midrash’s exegesis is based not so much on filling in a gap as on expanding the biblical narrative. The midrash seeks not so much to fill in the gap as to amplify the sequence of events. This type of amplification is the focus of the next section, in which the midrash adds ďĕĚ to join together two phrases in a single verse. Why does the midrash do this in verses that run smoothly? This will be the focus of our next discussion.

ďĕĚ USED

TO JOIN VERSES

The midrashic passages discussed in this section share a structural pattern with those discussed in the previous section. They, too, have

between narrative and exegesis · 159 the pattern: (1) a narrative in which a midrashic expansion of biblical verses is presented, followed by (2) the term ďĕĚ, followed by (3) the focus verse. In the midrashim treated in this section, however, the midrashic expansion that precedes ďĕĚ always deals with the section of the biblical text that immediately precedes the focus verse. The midrashic expansion tends to be much briefer, and it comments on sequence and causes of events. The key feature distinguishing the midrashim in this section from those in the previous one is their emphasis on the sequence of events in the biblical text. “Dinah, daughter of Leah . . . went out to see the daughters of the land.” (Gen 34:1) R. Berekhiah said in the name of R. Levi: A parable to one who was carrying a pound of meat. As soon as he uncovered it, the birds swooped down and grabbed it from him. So too, “Dinah . . . went out.” (Gen 34:1) Immediately (ďĕĚ), “Shechem, son of Hamor . . . saw her, and took her, and slept with her, and raped her.” (Gen 34:2) 28 The structural pattern of this midrash is identical to the midrashic pattern discussed above. This midrash, however, emphasizes the sequence of events in Genesis 34:1 and 34:2. The element of time plays a crucial role in the midrashic expansion, which includes the temporal element “as soon as . . . ” This element appears in the parable, while the term ďĕĚ occupies the parallel position in the interpretation of the parable (ĘĥĚĜ). These two expressions together emphasize one of the main exegetical points of this midrash, namely, that the events of 34:1 and 34:2 are juxtaposed because they are temporally and causally connected. Not only are they adjacent in the text, but the events they narrate are connected. Another example of this pattern appears in regard to the story of Abraham and the angels, commenting on Genesis 18:2:

28 Parashah 80 (MS Vat. 30, p. 141b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 956).

160 · shawn zelig aster “He (Abraham) lifted his eyes, and he saw, and behold, there were three men standing near him. He saw, and he ran towards them from the entrance of the tent, and he bowed down.” R. Abahu said: The gateway of Abraham our father was open at both ends. R. Jodan said: Like that of Romulus He (Abraham) said: “If I see that they go out of their way, 29 I will know that they are coming to me.” As soon as he saw that they had gone out of their way, Immediately (ďĕĚ), “He saw and he ran towards them . . . ” (Gen 18:2) 30 This midrashic retelling of Genesis 18:2 uses expressions of time (“as soon as,” “immediately”) both for exegetical ends and to enhance the narrative. The exegetical component in this midrash comments on the unusual sequence of verbs in Genesis 18:2: “He saw, and behold, there were three men . . . he saw, and he ran.” The midrash seeks to explain the repetition of the verb “he saw.” The midrashic expansion both explains the repetition of this verb and comments on the succession of wayyiqtol verbs in the verse: the expressions of time emphasize the rapid succession of actions implied by these verbs. These midrashim demonstrate how ďĕĚ serves as an indicator of a rapid sequence of events in midrashim with the structural pattern discussed above (consisting of midrashic expansion, followed by ďĕĚ, followed by a focus verse). But ďĕĚ also accomplishes this role in midrashim with different structural patterns. For example: “She (Rebecca) went down to the well and she filled her jug, and she came up (ĘĞĦđ).” (Gen 24:16) 31

29 đĎĕĘĠĐĥ 30 Parashah 48 (MS Vat. 30, p. 68b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 486). Translation follows the text in MS Vat. 30. 31 The verse could also be translated “She went down to the well and she filled her jug and brought it up.” This verse, like others treated in this section, contains a string of wayyiqtol verbs, indicating a sequence of actions in which each is connected to the previous.

between narrative and exegesis · 161 All of the women would go down and fill (their jugs) from the well. But in regard to Rebecca, when the waters saw her, they immediately (ďĕĚ) came up. 32 In this midrash, two of the verbs in the verse (“she filled” and “came up”) are implicitly placed in quick temporal succession and interpreted as cause and effect. The midrash leaves open the possibility that the word ĘĞĦđ might refer to the water rising to meet Rebecca (despite the obvious grammatical problem) and the more grammatically correct options, namely, that the word ĘĞĦđ indicates Rebecca coming up from the well or raising the jug. In any case, the midrash uses ďĕĚ to link the time of the event described by the first verb to that of the event described by the second. This link serves, as Bacher indicated, to give the midrashic narrative a greater sense of “liveliness” or “narrativity,” but it also serves as an exegetical comment on Genesis 24:16. 33 There is a clear tendency to use ďĕĚ as an indicator of temporal sequence in verses containing a chain of wayyiqtol verbs. Such chains are recognized as an element of biblical Hebrew syntax indicating a series of continuous actions. 34 Genesis Rabbah recognizes this function of the chain in the midrash regarding Rebecca cited here, as well as in those concerning Abraham (where such a chain appears in Gen 18:2) and Dinah (where such a chain appears in Gen 34:1). Three other examples of this tendency appear elsewhere in Genesis Rabbah. 35

32 Parashah 60 (MS Vat. 30, p. 94a; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 645). The midrash continues: “The Holy One, Blessed be He, said to her “You are a sign for your descendants. Just as the waters saw you and immediately (ďĕĚ) came up, so too as soon as the well sees your children, it will immediately (ďĕĚ) come up to meet them. As it is written: ‘Then did Israel sing this song: “Rise up O well!” they called to it’” (Num 21:17). 33 See note 16. 34 See, e.g., S. R. Driver, A Treatise on the Use of Tenses in Hebrew, 3rd. ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1892), 71–72 and, more recently, Bruce Waltke and Michael O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 547–54. Waltke and O’Connor discuss a variety of functions of such chains, but the function indicated above is the most common. 35 Parashah 99 (MS Vat. 30, p. 189a; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1264), regarding Judg 15:19, parashah 34 (MS Vat. 30, p. 36a; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba,

162 · shawn zelig aster It is clear based on other midrashic comments that Genesis Rabbah’s exegetes understood chains of wayyiqtol verbs as indicating a sequence of actions related in time. These other comments do not use the term ďĕĚ, but they do call attention to the rapid sequence of such verbs. One example of such a comment regards Genesis 24:10: “He (Abraham’s servant) arose and went to Aram Naharaim to the city of Nahor,” where the midrash comments that the servant arrived on the same day he left, implying that he made the trip in a single day. A similar comment appears in regard to Genesis 28:10: “Jacob left Beersheba and he went to Haran.” Here, too, the comment relates to the chain of wayyiqtol verbs. 36 Both comments serve exegetical ends but also create new narratives by adding temporality to the biblical story. The interplay of narrative and exegesis is evident in the midrash’s use of ďĕĚ here. But equally interesting is its attention to an aspect of biblical Hebrew syntax. While many have commented on the midrash’s tendency toward creative philology and creative grammar, it is worth noting that the midrash here uses an aspect of standard biblical Hebrew grammar as the basis for its exegesis. 37

ďĕĚ IN POSSIBLE ADDITIONS TO GENESIS RABBAH In the following section, I discuss passages in additions to Genesis Rabbah which use ďĕĚ in a manner very similar to Genesis Rabbah. 317) regarding Gen 8:20, and parashah 22 (Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 214; section missing in MS Vat. 30) on Gen 4:8. 36 The comment on Gen 24:10 appears in parashah 59 (MS Vat. 30, p. 93b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 638), and the comment on Gen 28:10 appears in parashah 68 (MS Vat. 30, p. 115a; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 776). It should be noted that the comment on Gen 24:10, at least, contains two exegetical steps. “He rose and he went” (the phrase which appears in Gen 24:10) is a hendiadys and is generally used to indicate departure. The midrash interprets this pair of verbs as though it indicates two separate actions, and then it interprets these actions as part of a chain that occurred in rapid succession. 37 The terms “creative philology” and “creative grammar” go back to Isaak Heinemann, ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1950).

between narrative and exegesis · 163 Other, later aggadic collections, such as the narrative expansions in Targum Neofiti and Tanhuma, use ďĕĚ in a variety of ways, including as a dramatic indicator of a shift of scene. This is clear in Targum Neofiti to Genesis 38:25, which contains a dramatic presentation of Tamar facing punishment for adultery. The word ďĕĚ is used to highlight shifts in narrative focus from the central character to another character whose actions occur simultaneously. First the text’s focus moves from Tamar to the heavenly court, then returns to Tamar, and then moves to Judah’s activities. Each shift away from Tamar is prefaced by ďĕĚ. 38 In Midrash Tanhuma, Lekh Lekha, parashah 7, ďĕĚ is also used in indicating the shift from Hanun of Ammon’s actions in regard to David’s emissaries to Hanun’s actions in hiring mercenaries from Aram. 39 Because there are other ways in which ďĕĚ is used in later midrash, the consistent imitation of the way this term is used in Genesis Rabbah suggests an awareness, implicit or explicit, of how Genesis Rabbah uses this term. Below, I discuss passages that appear to be additions to Genesis Rabbah. These passages appear in the TheodorAlbeck edition, based on but absent from MS Vat. 30. In each case, it appears fairly clear that the passage was added to Genesis Rabbah after MS Vat. 30 was written. 40 38 See discussion in B. Barry Levy, Targum Neophyti 1: A Textual Study (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1986), 227. 39 A similar usage appears in paragraph 17 in the same parashah, in ęđďģĐ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚ ěĥĕĐđ, repr. (Jerusalem: Ortsel, 1964 [1914]). 40 While it is entirely possible that multiple editions of Genesis Rabbah circulated simultaneously, with some containing these passages and others omitting them, Albeck, Einleitung, 103, argues against such a view. An extensive debate between Chaim Milikowsky, on the one hand, and Peter Schäfer and Hans-Jurgen Becker, on the other, regarding whether and when an accepted “original” text of Genesis Rabbah developed is summarized in David Grossberg, “On Plane Trees and the Palatine Hill: Rabbi Yishmael and the Samaritan in Genesis Rabbah and the Later Palestinian Tradition,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 195. See also Chaim Milikowsky, “Reflections on the Practice of Textual Criticism in the Study of Midrash Aggada: The Legitimacy, the Indispensability and the Feasibility of Recovering and Presenting the (most) Original Text,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash, ed. Carol Bakhos. JSJ Supp 106 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 79–109. Of the specific passages under discussion here, none are from sections which are missing

164 · shawn zelig aster The first of these treats Genesis 32:25: “He ( Jacob) caused all that was his to cross (the Jabbok river), and Jacob remained alone and a man fought with him.” On this, the apparent addition to Genesis Rabbah comments: “R. Huna said: He appeared to him in the image of a shepherd. Each had sheep, and each had camels. He said to him: ‘Cause what is yours to cross, and I will cause mine to cross.’ Jacob caused his possessions to cross. He returned to see if he forgot anything. Immediately (ďĕĚ), ‘a man fought with him’ (Gen 32:25).” 41 Here, the midrash exhibits several of the characteristics discussed above. It has the same structural pattern as many of the midrashim described. Furthermore, it recognizes the syntactic function of the chain of wayyiqtol verbs. Interestingly, although the midrash seems to present the dialogue between Jacob and the man as the cause of the subsequent fight, it is unclear how the dialogue leads to the fight. 42 This midrash appears in Song of Songs Rabbah, without the word ďĕĚ. There, instead of ďĕĚ, the phrase “when he had returned” (ěČĚ ĤĒēď) appears. 43 This phrase fits better in the flow of the narrative, and it is likely that it represents the original form of the midrash. I would suggest, cautiously, that the midrashic comment was taken from Song of Songs Rabbah and added to Genesis Rabbah, where an editor recognized how Genesis Rabbah uses ďĕĚ and added this term to the midrashic comment. While the form resembles that of Genesis Rabbah, the lack of a cause and effect relationship between the midrashic comment and the focus verses suggests that this is not the standard Genesis Rabbah usage of this term. The second text discusses the story of the wise woman of Abelfrom the Vatican 30 manuscript; each is from a section present in the manuscript, but the specific midrash is absent in it. A fuller bibliography of the Genesis Rabbah manuscripts and genizah fragments may be found in Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 280–81; Louis Barth, An Analysis of Vatican 30 (Cincinnati, OH: Hebrew Union College Press, 1973); and Sokoloff, “Major Manuscripts,” 23–32. 41 Parashah 77 (Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 910). 42 Contrast this with the midrash that appears later on in parashah 77 (MS Vat. 30, p. 135; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 911) which describes how Jacob accuses the angel of being a magician, leading to the fight. 43 Cited from Shimshon Dunsky, ed., Midrash Rabba Shir Ha-Shirim, repr. (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1980 [1973]), on Song 3:6.

between narrative and exegesis · 165 beth-maacah, which appears in 2 Samuel 20:18–22. I first present the text as it appears in MS Vat. 30, and then note the additions which appear in the Theodor-Albeck version: Joab said to the woman: “Who are you?” She said to him: “I am among those who seek the peace of the faithful in Israel” (2 Sam 18:19). I was the one who completed the count of Israel in Egypt. I was the one who completed from faithful to faithful, (who connected) Joseph to Moses. “But you seek” to destroy “a city and mother in Israel” (paraphrase of 2 Sam.18:19).* “Joab answered: Far be it, far be it from me” (2 Sam 18:20). Rather, Sheba son of Bichri rebelled against King David. “Give him over to us” (2 Sam 18:21), and I will go. Immediately (ďĕĚ), “the woman came to all the people in her wisdom.” (2 Sam 18:22) 44 Here, we have the standard Genesis Rabbah pattern discussed above, in which a midrashic expansion is joined to the focus verse by means of ďĕĚ. The midrashic expansion serves to explain the events of the focus verse. But in the Theodor-Albeck edition, a further ďĕĚ is added before the citation of Joab’s comment from verse 20 (the location is indicated above by an asterisk). 45 This use of ďĕĚ fits the format used in Genesis Rabbah but differs in content. It does not join a midrashic narrative to a focus verse (because the narrative is not explaining the passage that follows this added word ďĕĚ), nor does it mark a chain of wayyiqtol verbs. This indicates that the editor who added this word to the text understood that ďĕĚ often appeared before verses in Genesis Rabbah but did not fully understand its function. 46

44 Parashah 94 (MS Vat 30, p 175). 45 Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 1183. 46 In the continuation of the passage in the Theodor-Albeck edition, there are further points where ďĕĚ is used in this way. See further discussion in Aster, “Between Exegesis and Narrative,” 48–50.

166 · shawn zelig aster

ďĕĚ AS

USED IN RASHI’S COMMENTARY TO GENESIS

Rashi’s commentary to Genesis often follows the way ďĕĚ is used in Genesis Rabbah, even when the content Rashi cites does not appear in Genesis Rabbah but is known to us from Midrash Tanhuma. 47 Below, examples of Rashi’s use of the phrase ďĕĚ both in passages where he draws on Genesis Rabbah and in those where he draws on Tanhuma are cited. A passage in which he draws on Genesis Rabbah is cited first. It relates to Genesis 2:21: “The Lord God cast a deep sleep upon man.” Note the threefold structural pattern in this comment: When He brought them [the animals before Adam to be named], He brought every species before him, male and female. Adam said, “Everyone has a partner, but I have none.” Immediately (ďĕĚ), “the Lord God cast a deep sleep upon man.” (Gen 2:21) Here, following the pattern noted above, ďĕĚ is used to join a midrashic comment to the focus verse. The midrashic comment is causally connected to the focus verse. Rashi’s source here is a comment in Genesis Rabbah that also uses ďĕĚ in this way. 48 Rashi abbreviated the midrashic comment but kept its use of ďĕĚ. This seems to indicate an awareness of the way ďĕĚ is used in Genesis Rabbah. Two other comments of Rashi also use ďĕĚ in a similar way. 49 But

47 Rashi is cited here based on the text in ĦđĤđģĚ ,ęĘĥĐ ĕīĥĤ :ĘČĕĤČ À ĐĤđĦ ĕĥĚđē ĐĥĚē ĦđČēĝđĜ ĦđĤĞĐ ( Jerusalem: Ariel and the Harry Fischel Institute, 1986– ). I cite only passages in which all early printings agree in large measure on the text of Rashi’s commentary. The question of what form of Tanhuma was available to Rashi is far beyond our scope in this discussion. 48 The comment appears in parashah 17 (MS Vat. 30, p. 10b; Theodor and Albeck, Bereschit Rabba, 156) with the same focus verse (Gen 2:21). 49 Gen 3:25, where Rashi’s comment is based on the passage from parashah 23 (regarding Adam), cited above, and Gen 18:2, where Rashi’s comment is based on the passage from parashah 48 (regarding Abraham), cited above. In Gen 24:67, Rashi reworks a comment from Genesis Rabbah so as to emphasize its exegetical component. The appropriate context for the word ďĕĚ is therefore eliminated, and Rashi does not use this term in this passage.

between narrative and exegesis · 167 there are also comments in which Rashi draws on sources that do not appear in Genesis Rabbah (but do appear in Midrash Tanhuma). Thus Rashi’s comment on Genesis 39:6: “As soon as he ( Joseph) saw that he was ruler, he began to eat and drink and curl his hair. The Holy One, blessed be He, said to him: ‘Your father is mourning and you curl your hair? I will set the bear on you.’ Immediately (ďĕĚ), ‘his master’s wife set her eyes upon Joseph’ (Gen 39:7).” Rashi here clearly uses the structural pattern we noted above, found in Genesis Rabbah. It is interesting that the source of the midrashic comment itself is found not in Genesis Rabbah but in Midrash Tanhuma. 50

CONCLUSION The pattern noted here, in which a midrashic expansion is followed by the word ďĕĚ, and then by a focus verse, appears at first glance to be a simple structural device. But a closer examination shows that this is not just a structural device but also an exegetical device, one which shows that the midrashic expansion is the cause of the events described in the focus verse. This can be seen from the differences between the use of this pattern in the passages original to Genesis Rabbah (as appears from MS Vat. 30) and those that appear in later editions of Genesis Rabbah (in the Theodor-Albeck edition only). Furthermore, this structural pattern was noted by Rashi and adopted by him even when citing ideas whose source is not Genesis Rabbah. This shows the exegetical value of this structural pattern, as well as its importance in highlighting the exegetical function of the midrashic expansion. A further use of ďĕĚ is noted in regard to wayyiqtol verb chains. These verb chains are recognized by modern scholars of biblical Hebrew syntax as indicating a rapid flow of actions, and it appears 50 In the standard printed editions in Parashat Vayyeshev, para. 8, and in the 1563 printing (facsimile ed.) ( Jerusalem: Makor, 1971), 18b end of col. 2. A similar example of Rashi’s use of ďĕĚ appears in his commentary on Gen 4:15 but appears in only one of the early editions.

168 · shawn zelig aster that Genesis Rabbah also recognizes this meaning of such chains. Genesis Rabbah often uses ďĕĚ to indicate the rapidity of action implied by the biblical text when it uses such verbal chains. By examining its use of ďĕĚ, we see how Genesis Rabbah is concerned not solely to generate a new narrative, but also to connect its narrative to that of the biblical text. Genesis Rabbah uses ďĕĚ both as a temporal device in creating its own narrative and as a means of tethering its narratives to those of the biblical text. More broadly, we see here that unstated exegetical questions lie at the basis of Genesis Rabbah’s formulation of its own narrative. These implied exegetical questions are highlighted by the specific ways in which Genesis Rabbah uses ďĕĚ. This recalls a point argued by Rimon Kasher: the foundations of the peshat method are to be found in rabbinic midrash. These foundations are not found, of course, in the method midrash uses to answer exegetical questions; rather, they are found in the types of questions asked, in attention to literary and stylistic aspects of the biblical text, and in sharing with peshat a consideration of the narrative continuity in the biblical text. 51 Recent scholarship has highlighted Kasher’s point with specific reference to Genesis Rabbah. Martin Lockshin’s essay, “Peshat in Genesis Rabba,” provides many examples of Genesis Rabbah’s attention to the immediate context of the verse being explained, a hallmark of peshat-style interpretation. He also cites examples of Genesis Rabbah presenting explanations that avoid depending on information extrinsic to the biblical text. 52 Maren Niehoff’s interesting essay, “Origen’s Commentary to Genesis as a Key to Genesis Rabbah,” argues that the basis of Genesis Rabbah’s exegesis, including the basis for its creative stories, is “a careful study of the biblical 51 Rimon Kasher, “The Interpretation of Scripture in Rabbinic Literature,” in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Martin Jan Mulder (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 547–94. This view of midrash is similar to the understanding of Rashbam’s view by Touitou, ęĕĥďēĦĚĐ ĦđĔĥĠĐ, 52–67: a hermeneutic sensitive both to literary cues and literary gaps. 52 Martin Lockshin, “Peshat in Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 213–32.

between narrative and exegesis · 169 text. New attention is paid to the historical significance of biblical words.” 53 The present discussion of how ďĕĚ is used in exploring causes of events in the biblical text, as well as in in commenting on temporality of the narrative, adds to these scholars’ observations on the exegetical methodology of Genesis Rabbah.

53 Maren Niehoff, “Origen’s Commentary to Genesis as a Key to Genesis Rabbah,” in Genesis Rabbah in Text and Context, ed. Sarit Kattan Gribetz et al. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 146.

Stories of Excess: Abraham and Vessantara Vanessa R. Sasson marianopolis college

In Genesis 22, in the biblical story known as the Akedah, Abraham is commanded to take his son, his only son, and bring him to a mountain to offer as a burnt sacrifice. Abraham does not object. He brings his son to the appointed place, raises his arm with a knife clutched in his hand, and, just as he is about to fulfill the divine command, is told to stop. In a story about the Buddha in his past life known as the Vessantara Jātaka, Prince Vessantara vows to perfect generosity to the point that he will give whatever is asked of him. This vow creates foreseeable problems, forcing the king to banish his son from the kingdom before too much has been given away. His wife and two children accompany him into exile, where an evil man named Jūjaka appears and asks for the children as slaves. Because he cannot refuse a request, Vessantara agrees and hands his children over to the vile stranger; as he says in the Pali text, reaching Buddhahood is dearer to him than his own children. Jūjaka drags the crying children away, but they are later ransomed by their grandfather the king, and the family is reunited for an abruptly transitioned happy ending. 1

1 There are many versions or tellings of the Vessantara Jātaka, and I will be consulting a number of these for this essay. The Pali version is one of the most elaborate written versions available. For an English translation, see Naomi Appleton and Sarah Shaw, trans., The Ten Great Birth Stories of the Buddha: The Mahānipāta of the Jātakatthavaṇṇanā, 2 vols. (Bangkok: Chulalongkorn University Press and Chiang Mai: Silkworm, 2015), vol. 2.

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172 · vanessa r. sasson Some Jewish Studies scholars may not recognize how striking the similarities between these two stories are, but scholars in Buddhist studies have been quick to point out the parallel. 2 Indeed, many of my colleagues in Buddhist studies teach the Vessantara Jātaka by making reference to the Akedah. (I doubt the same is true in Jewish Studies.) Aaron Hughes recently argued that the majority of Jewish Studies scholars in North America are Jewish (he estimates the number to be around 95%), 3 making of Jewish Studies a kind of area studies with Jews talking to Jews about Judaism. Contemporary scholars of Buddhism in the West, by contrast, come from a wide range of backgrounds and, even without any biblical training, inherit the biblical cultural context by virtue of working in this part of the world. The similarities between the Vessantara Jātaka and the Akedah are therefore appreciated by many scholars in Buddhist studies, at least in a cursory way, 4 whereas this might not be the case in Jewish Studies to the same extent. If Hughes is right about the state of his field (and there is certainly some debate on this), 5 then Professor Levy is one of the exceptions to the rule. Twenty years ago, I came to Professor Levy as a graduate student proposing to compare Buddhist and Jewish texts. His willingness to venture into (and experiment with) comparative religion and interpretation speaks to his willingness to combat any

2 Parallels may also be drawn with a number of Indian narratives, where historical contiguity may easily be argued for. See David Shulman, The Hungry God: Hindu Tales of Filicide and Devotion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). 3 Aaron W. Hughes, The Study of Judaism: Authenticity, Identity, Scholarship (New York: SUNY Press, 2013), 7. 4 I am grateful to Annabelle Pitkin for a wonderful discussion about the many parallel themes that emerge from these two stories we spontaneously had at the AAR in 2015. My gratitude also goes to Jason Kalman and Maria Heim for reading earlier drafts of this piece. 5 Hughes’s argument has not sailed through the academy without turbulence but has been reviewed and challenged on numerous fronts. See, e.g., Amy Weiss, review of The Study of Judaism by Aaron W. Hughes, Religious Studies Review 43, no. 1 (2017): 69 and Hannah Holtschneider, review of The Study of Judaism by Aaron W. Hughes, Religion 46, no. 2 (2016): 269–308. His work reached a wider audience with Aaron Hughes, “Jewish Studies is Too Jewish,” Chronicle of Higher Education (March 28, 2014): B4–5, which stimulated further responses.

stories of excess · 173 sense of insularity. It points to his remarkable qualities as educator and scholar, highlighting in particular his openness to new and innovative approaches to the text – indeed, to any text. It is with tremendous gratitude that I offer this essay. Abraham and Vessantara are upheld as ideals in their respective traditions. Vessantara is the Buddha’s penultimate self. In his next life, he will complete the long process that is rebirth and achieve awakening; Vessantara therefore represents the culmination of hundreds of thousands of past lives of effort. He is just a moment away from perfect enlightenment, and it is in this context that we find him giving his children away to an evil stranger. Abraham is the first patriarch, the father of three traditions, and is the one who seals the covenant between himself, his descendants, and the almighty God. Both of these men are towering figures in their respective communities, and both of them sacrifice their children in exchange for their ideals. In fact, it is by giving their children away (either to slaughter or to a violent slave driver) that both men are able to fulfill these ideals. Even more so, it is the enthusiasm with which the fathers hand their children over that makes these stories most similar – and most difficult to wrap our heads around. Both stories have endless interpretive potential, but what strikes me as most significant is the fact that the interpretive traditions in both contexts see the fathers as exuberant in their desire to sacrifice their children. And it is this exuberance, as tortured as it may sometimes appear, this emotion of “moral excess,” to follow Maria Heim’s language, that paints both narratives with such similar strokes. 6 The astonishment, fear, horror, and awe that arise as the reader encounters these narratives – emotions that are to a large extent predictable – make both narratives difficult to respond to. Abraham and Vessantara disturb with their excess, and they demand not necessarily that we follow in their footsteps, but that we at least recognize the great chasm that separates our ordinary ability to persevere from theirs. 7 This is what the two 6 Maria Heim, “The Aesthetics of Excess,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 71, no. 3 (2003): 531–54. 7 Heim, “Aesthetics,” 545.

174 · vanessa r. sasson characters share most. This study will therefore look at various early readings of the Akedah in rabbinic literature and compare it with various tellings of the Vessantara Jātaka in the hopes of bringing these shared struggles into conversation. As Wendy Doniger has shown, “[c]omparison makes it possible for us literally to crossexamine cultures, by using a myth from one culture to reveal to us what is not in a telling from another culture, to find out the things not ‘dreamt of in your philosophy’ (as Hamlet said to Horatio) . . . Comparison defamiliarizes what we take for granted. We can only see the inflection of a particular telling when we see other variants.” 8 By examining these two narratives alongside each other, both will (hopefully) be rendered defamiliarized and, in the process, become new again. The emotional excess of one will highlight the excess of the other, providing us with new light by which to read them both.

THE FATHERS I: ABRAHAM Let’s begin with the fathers themselves. Perhaps the most challenging feature of the biblical version of the story lies in the fact that Abraham does not appear to hesitate when he is asked to slaughter his son. God asks him to take his son, his only son, the son whom he loves, and offer him as a burnt sacrifice, with no explanation provided as to why this request is being made. Abraham quietly sets out to do as he is asked without the faintest glimmer of an objection. Hundreds of pages have been dedicated to this moment of trial in the biblical story, and this study certainly cannot provide an exhaustive assessment of it all, but one of the most dominant interpretive threads to have emerged from the early writings on this passage emphasizes Abraham’s willingness to obey instead of problematizing it. Consider the picture produced by Genesis Rabbah: Samael (a version of Satan) taunts Abraham as he makes his way up the mountain 8 W. Doniger, The Implied Spider: Politics and Theology in Myth (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 33–34.

stories of excess · 175 with what he seems to hope will be destabilizing questions. Samael asks: “What means this old man! Hast thou lost thy wits? Thou goest to slay a son granted to thee at the age of a hundred!” But Abraham remains unruffled and responds, “Even this I do.” Samael tries a second time and asks: “And if he sets thee an even greater test, canst thou stand it?” Abraham’s response is: “Even more than this.” Finally, Samael exclaims: “Tomorrow He will say to thee, ‘Thou art a murderer, and art guilty’” – a devastating accusation that would presumably cause anyone to waver in resolve. But Abraham is as steady as ever. His answer: “Still I am content.” 9 A passage in the talmudic tractate Sanhedrin agrees with this characterization. Here, after Isaac was weaned, Abraham prepared a great banquet to celebrate. Satan and God were watching the feast being prepared from their position in the heavens above, and Satan pointed out that, of all the food being laid out, nothing was reserved for sacrifice. God replied to his adversary: “Yet were I to say to him, ‘Sacrifice thy son before Me,’ he would do so without hesitation.” 10 Immediately after this exchange, in a moment reminiscent of Job, God tempts Abraham to prove his point by asking for the sacrifice of Isaac. And, of course, Abraham proves to be just as eager as God predicted he would be. These narrative interpretations of Abraham make of him an even more forbidding character than he appears to be in the biblical text. The rabbinic response is to strengthen Abraham’s resolve to the point of almost superhumanity. These interpretations present not a man who struggled with the decision to kill his son, but one who would accept anything his divine commander asked of him – including killing his son. Even more striking is the midrash that appears a few paragraphs later in Genesis Rabbah. The text describes the angels above crying as they watch Abraham lift his knife over his son’s head. Their heavenly tears dissolve the knife, leaving Abraham

9 Genesis Rabbah 56:4. For a translation, see H. Freedman and Maurice Simon, eds., The Midrash Rabbah: Genesis, trans. H. Freedman (London: Soncino, 1977). 10 b. Sanhedrin 89b. All translations of the Talmud are taken from Isadore Epstein, ed., Soncino Press Babylonian Talmud (London: Soncino, 1961).

176 · vanessa r. sasson without a weapon to perform the sacrifice. “I will strangle him,” is Abraham’s shocking response to the situation. 11 Abraham is, in other words, supremely prepared to perform the sacrifice, even if he needs to strangle his son with his bare hands to do so. Midrash Tanhuma adds another layer to this characterization. In this account, Samael assumes the form of a raging river to block Abraham’s access to the mountain. Abraham plunges into the water and quickly finds himself immersed up to his neck. When he can go no further, Abraham raises his eyes and says, Master of the Universe, You have chosen me, You have instructed me. You revealed Yourself to me. You have declared: I am one and You are one, and through You shall my name be made known in my world. You have ordered me: offer Isaac, Thy son as a sacrifice and I did not refuse; but now, as I am about to fulfill Thy command, the waters endanger my life. If either I or my son Isaac should drown, who will fulfill Your decrees and who will proclaim the Unity of Your Name? 12 Abraham does not express concern about his own life or the life of his son. His concern, rather, is that he will not be able to fulfill God’s command. No matter what the cost, Abraham is presented as being desperate to do as God has asked. If these representations were not sufficient evidence of Abraham’s zeal, Genesis Rabbah has another detail to add. Just as Abraham raises his hand and prepares to strike, “tears streamed from his eyes, and these tears, prompted by a father’s compassion, dropped into Isaac’s eyes.” 13 At first glance, this might seem as though Abraham’s heart has finally softened, but the intention is in fact quite different: Abraham’s tears are said to be the result of his heart rejoicing at finally being able to obey God’s command. 11 Genesis Rabbah 56:8. 12 Midrash Tanhuma-Yelammedenu 4:22. For a translation, see Samuel A. Berman, Midrasha Tanhuma-Yelammedenu: An English Translation of Genesis and Exodus from the Printed Version of Tanhuma-Yelammedenu with an Introduction, Notes, and Indexes (Hoboken: KTAV, 1996). 13 Genesis Rabbah 56:7.

stories of excess · 177 These characterizations obviously do not tell the whole story. Although much of early rabbinic literature seems to emphasize Abraham’s willingness to obey, rabbinic literature is far too textured and much too prolific to be limited to one impression. More challenging representations bring Abraham into conversation with a more profound internal struggle, something Kierkegaard would have greatly appreciated. 14 One example of such a reading can be found in the medieval Pesiqta de-Rab Kahana, in which Abraham tells God the following: Master of the universes, it is revealed and known unto Thee that when Thou saidst to me, Take thy son, thine only one, etc. (Gen 22:2), there was in my heart an answer I could have given Thee. There was in my heart the temptation to say to Thee: Yesterday Thou didst tell me, In Isaac shall seed be called to thee (Gen 21:12), and now Thou sayest to me Take thy son, thine only one. Accordingly, even though in my heart I felt an impulse to argue with Thee, still I restrained myself and did not argue with Thee . . . 15 Abraham is here revealed to have had the impulse to argue with God about the Akedah, which is certainly more consistent with his biblical portrayal in Genesis 18 when he challenges God with his decision to obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah. According to the Pesiqta de-Rab Kahana, Abraham did not comply with single-minded enthusiasm; rather, he struggled with the request and then made sure to remind God of the herculean effort he made to restrain himself. 16

14 Interpreting the Akedah as being a story of inner struggle is not limited to rabbinic interpretation. Some scholars have likewise moved mountains in the hope of reinterpreting Abraham’s behavior as being more turbulent. Most notable is Omri Boehm, The Binding of Isaac: A Religious Model of Disobedience (New York: T&T Clark, 2007), in which he makes every argument to support the notion that Abraham did not obey but actually refused. 15 Pesiqta de-Rab Kahana 23.9. For a translation, see William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein, Peskita de-Rab Kahana: R. Kahana’s Compilation of Discourses for Sabbaths and Festal Days (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1975). 16 A similar interpretation can be found in Pesiqta Rabbati 40.6. For a translation, see William G. Braude, Pesikta Rabbati: Discourses for Feasts, Fasts and Special Sabbaths, 2 vols. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968).

178 · vanessa r. sasson This is an extraordinary picture of the patriarch, but it is not the most dominant in classical rabbinic sources. For the most part, the interpretive trend surrounding the Akedah becomes one that emphasizes Abraham’s willingness to obey God’s command. Indeed, as Bruce Chilton has argued, the Akedah is eventually used as the foundation block upon which Jewish martyrdom would be built. 17 Far from challenging the concept of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, biblical interpreters have focused on Abraham as a model for future generations. Indeed, the greatest criticism the Akedah receives in this regard is that Abraham did not go far enough with his zealous obedience. The mother of the seven martyred sons in 2 Maccabees is the first to give voice to this concern. 18 She is forced to witness the execution of each of her sons because they refused to bow to foreign deities. 19 In a talmudic commentary on the narrative, the mother is said to have whispered to the last son before he marched to his death: “My son, go and say to your father Abraham, ‘Thou didst bind one [son] to the altar, but I have bound seven altars.’” 20 She bested Abraham in her devotion to the Almighty, and she wants to be sure Abraham hears all about it when her son finds him in the afterlife. Lamentations Rabbah goes even further in its commentary, with the mother’s message one of blatant accusation against Abraham: “My son, go to the Patriarch Abraham and tell him, “Thus said my mother, ‘Do not preen yourself [on your righteousness], saying I built an altar and offered up my son Isaac.’ Behold, our mother built seven altars and offered up seven sons in one day. Yours was only a test, but mine was in earnest.” 21 As the late Shalom Speigel passionately 17 Bruce Chilton, Abraham’s Curse: Child Sacrifice in the Legacies of the West (New York: Doubleday, 2008), esp. ch. 2, “Martyrdom, the Jewish Invention.” 18 Followed by a later expansion in 4 Maccabees. 19 For a discussion of the mother in this narrative and the parallels with Abraham, see Robin Darling Young, “The ‘Woman with the Soul of Abraham’: Traditions about the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs,” in “Women Like This”: New Perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco-Roman World, ed. Amy-Jill Levine (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1991), 67–81. 20 b. Gittin 57b. 21 Lamentations Rabbah 1.16.50.

stories of excess · 179 declared, the story in Genesis is nothing compared to what the Jews were forced to experience under Roman occupation. Isaac ultimately survived the trial, but countless others were forced to experience their own Akedah without God’s intervention. “And through the outcry of that mother in the Talmudic haggadah, the whole Shemad generation registered its pain and the formidable achievements of its children that could make the biblical hero blush: Yours was a trial, mine were the performances!” 22 These interpreters do not shield us from the emotional excess presented by the text. On the contrary, these passages highlight the challenge and remind us how far most of us are from the ideal when it comes to divine obedience. For many rabbinic interpreters, Abraham’s greatness lies in the fact that he was willing to kill his son. The zeal with which he followed divine orders is the source of his greatness, and the only criticism launched against him is that he could have tried harder. But, regardless of his success rate, Abraham is generally painted as single-minded in his resolve. He does not waver, argue, or express much torment. God commands, and Abraham follows through to the best of his abilities. The same, however, cannot be said of Vessantara, our Buddhist counterpart to this discussion. Although Vessantara does give his children away with recorded enthusiasm, the act itself is much more painfully drawn out in many renditions of the narrative.

THE FATHERS II: VESSANTARA In the Pali version of the Vessantara Jātaka, 23 parental torment is an ongoing theme, and it is not limited to Vessantara’s situation. 22 Shalom Spiegel, The Last Trial: On the Legends and Lore of the Command to Abraham to Offer Isaac as a Sacrifice: The Akedah (New York: Schocken, 1967; repr., Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights, 1993), 16. 23 As briefly noted in the introduction, the Vessantara Jātaka is a past-life story of the Buddha. The Pali edition of the story is one of the most elaborate currently available and one of the oldest put into writing, but many other versions are available throughout the Buddhist world. I will therefore weave my way among some of the

180 · vanessa r. sasson It is associated with the king and his attachment to his own son (Vessantara) as well. For example, after Vessantara gives the magical elephant away, the king is faced with an angry mob. He realizes that his subjects want to kill his son, and he says: Let my country cease to exist, and my kingdom be ruined – I could not send my son, who is blameless, away from his own kingdom Just because the Sivis say so: For he is my son, the child of my heart. Let my country cease to exist, and my kingdom be ruined – I could not send my son, who is blameless, away from his own kingdom Just because the Sivis say so: For he is my son, born from myself. I would not cause him harm, for he is nobly good. It would be disreputable of me, and would cause great evil. How could I kill with a sword Vessantara my son? 24 The king voices his anguish as he finds himself forced to choose between his responsibility as king and his attachment as father. The Sivis eventually agree not to kill Vessantara so long as he agrees to leave the kingdom. The king accepts the compromise, and Vessantara is forced into exile the next day. It cannot be a coincidence that the text highlights the father’s anguish just a few pages before we are met with Vessantara’s parental crisis. The king is faced with a terrible predicament, and he says that he would rather lose his entire country than have any harm come to his son, “the child of my heart . . . Born from myself.” Indeed, one cannot fail to notice the striking contrast with Abraham when the king says that he could never raise a sword against his son. Abraham

different tellings of this narrative, treating each one as a thread in a great net of connected stories. 24 Vessantara Jātaka,” vv. 39–41 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:548–49.

stories of excess · 181 was prepared to raise his knife against his child, but this king is in agony because the prospect is impossible for him. But this king is not a great biblical patriarch. He is an ordinary man, attached to his son. This is precisely how the king is distinguished from his son: Vessantara, like Abraham, will prove himself prepared to deliver his children into dire straits. The king is the Everyman, while Vessantara is someone of an entirely different caliber. Indeed, Vessantara provides evidence of this difference a few verses after his father’s scene when he exclaims, If I saw anyone who came and asked me, I would give my arm! I would give, and I would not hesitate: my mind delights in giving. Let all the Sivis expel me and even kill me! I will not give up giving, even if they cut me in seven pieces. 25 Vessantara does not make reference to the giving of his children in these verses, but the difference between him and his father is clear: Vessantara will give anything away – even his own body – because Vessantara’s very purpose is to delight in giving. His father, by contrast, has clear (and perhaps more natural?) limitations where generosity is concerned. Parental anguish continues to be emphasized as the royal couple attempt to negotiate the details of Vessantara’s departure. The queen expresses her sorrow at the prospect of losing her son and begs her husband to find another way, but he responds that he must do what is right for his kingdom, which forces him to “banish [his] own son, dearer to [him] than life itself.” 26 In a Sinhalese version of the narrative, the queen weeps with grief and declares, “I will jump from a rock and die, I will bite off my tongue and die, I will take poison and die, I will burn myself in the fire and die; for I cannot bear that they should take away to the forest my son who is entirely faultless . . . If you do not keep your son here, I cannot prolong my life.” 27 The king

25 “Vessantara Jātaka,” vv. 59–60 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:550. 26 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 107 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:555. 27 Vidyāchakravarti, trans., “Butsarana,” in An Anthology of Sinhalese Literature up to 1815, ed. C. H. B. Reynolds (London: Allen and Unwin, 1970), 140.

182 · vanessa r. sasson is stricken by his wife’s words, but he cannot stop the process and eventually finds a way to calm her down. Next come exchanges surrounding the departure of Vessantara’s wife, who wants to join her husband with the children. Both king and queen beg the wife to stay behind. They warn Maddī that she is too soft to live in the forest and will not survive the hardships, but Maddī is certain she will adapt. Finally, they turn their attention to the children and beg Maddī to at least consider leaving them behind, but this Maddī also refuses. The Pali text has her reply, “the young children, Jāli and Kanhājīna, both of them, are so dear to me. They will bring joy to our sorrowful life in the forest.” 28 The king and queen continue with a long series of arguments in the hope of changing her mind, but Maddī is firm in her resolve. She eventually closes the discussion by promising that the children are more capable than the royal couple imagines: “the children will get by just as we will.” 29 These exchanges highlight the love and attachment that binds this family together. Vessantara does not leave his father’s kingdom without pages of recorded anguish, and the children are not separated from their grandparents without the same. These tellers of the Vessantara Jātaka take great pains to ensure that the reader recognizes the profound attachments that characterize this family unit, thereby heightening the anguish of separation to come. Just as the biblical text emphasizes Abraham’s attachment to Isaac with the famous refrain, “take your son, your only son, the one that you love,” the Vessantara Jātaka likewise emphasizes this family’s ties. Once the family is settled in their forest of exile, they are described as establishing a pleasant routine. The wife wakes up in the morning and sets out to look for food, while Vessantara remains behind to watch the children. The setting is one that is repeatedly described as happy, with Vessantara living peacefully with his children. 30 The night before the evil Jūjaka arrives, however, Maddī is woken by a

28 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 197 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:565. 29 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 207 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:566. 30 See, e.g., “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 349 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:584.

stories of excess · 183 nightmare in which a man grabs her by the hair, throws her to the ground, digs out her eyes, cuts off her arms and splits her breast open to tear out her heart. The man then walks away with her heart in his possession as it drips with blood. 31 Maddī runs to Vessantara to tell him about the nightmare, and he immediately understands its meaning. He thinks to himself: “I am going to fulfill the perfection of giving. Tomorrow a suppliant will arrive and he will ask for the children.” 32 Vessantara does not, however, share this knowledge with her. Instead, he suggests that she might be suffering from indigestion and sends her back to her hut. He is presumably hoping that, by assuaging her fear, she will not become an obstacle to his mission. The next morning, Maddī leaves the hut as is her routine, but she remains haunted by her nightmare and asks her husband to be especially careful that day. In the Sinhalese rendition, she says, “My lord, in this jungle forest my only family, my only people are you and my two children. Please be careful of your two children until I return and be prudent yourself. My lord, you know that though I leave you for a moment, my thoughts are always with you.” 33 She then takes her basket and leaves, tears flowing from her eyes. Vessantara seems to be just as zealous as Abraham. He is eager to give his children, has already proclaimed that he would give anything that is asked of him, and lies to his wife to ensure she does not get in the way. When Jūjaka presents himself and makes his fateful request (“give me your children!”), 34 Vessantara is filled with joy. He then roars: “I give and I do not waver, take them, brahmin, as master!” 35 Everything seems to point to an uncomplicated and uncompromised zealousness, but, immediately after this declaration about his unwavering generosity, Vessantara seems to betray himself as all kinds of wavering ensues. First, he suggests that Jūjaka wait until Maddī returns from the forest so that she can prepare the children 31 32 33 34 35

“Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:594. “Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:595. Vidyāchakravarti, “Butsarana,” 152. “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 445 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:597. “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 446 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:597.

184 · vanessa r. sasson for their journey, but Jūjaka refuses, arguing that women are “obstacle makers” and that they “know spells.” 36 Then Vessantara suggests that Jūjaka stop to see their grandfather, the king, who will be happy to see them and will provide Jūjaka with all kinds of wealth as a result, but once again Jūjaka refuses: “No, I will not do as you suggest: I will take the children as servants for my wife.” 37 These requests seem to reveal Vessantara’s parental concern. Although it is possible that these requests are not actually stalling tactics, it does seem as though he is trying to avoid the predicted outcome, first by attempting to delay Jūjaka until his wife returns, and then by hoping that the king might ransom the children for a price. It is the kind of tactic we would have expected from Abraham, given his famous negotiations in Genesis 18, but Abraham never attempts to negotiate his way out of the Akedah. Vessantara, by contrast, is not commanded to give his children away by a divine entity. He gives them of his own free will because the path to omniscience demands it, yet he is the one oscillating, negotiating, and presumably attempting to delay. Vessantara’s first instinct may have been a zealous one, but he appears increasingly insecure about his decision as the scene unfolds. The children in the Vessantara Jātaka are not silent bystanders to this transaction but make repeated attempts to save themselves. At one point, after they have run away and then returned to their father’s side, the children cry as they hold onto their father’s legs, and the father sheds tears of sorrow that fall upon their backs. According to Ārya Śūra’s Sanskrit telling of the story, the water that fell from his eyes was “dark red as lotus petals,” but still he did not change his mind. 38 In the Sinhalese version, Vessantara thinks to himself: “If I weep I shall not attain Buddhahood. I will give the children away.” 39 In each of these versions of the narrative, Vessantara is depicted as

36 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 450 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:597. 37 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 457 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:598. 38 Peter Khoroche, “Viśvaṃtara,” in Once the Buddha was a Monkey: Ārya Śūra’s Jātakamālā, trans. Peter Khoroche (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 61. 39 Vidyāchakravarti, “Butsarana,” 156.

stories of excess · 185 filled with anguish, but this does not stop him from pursuing his goal. Yet, when the children are finally ripped from his grasp, Vessantara collapses. His resolve may have been firm, but the emotions he experiences are devastating. The Pali text describes his pain as harrowing: “Powerful grief for the children arose for the Great Being, and the very flesh of his heart was burning . . . Shaken right to the core, he could not bear it and, with tears flowing from his eyes he entered the leaf hut and grieved in compassion.” 40 The verses then describe his grief as follows: Where will the children be today, when they cry in hunger and thirst, In the evening and when it is bedtime: who will give them food? . . . How will they travel on the road, by foot, and without their sandals, And with swollen feet? Who will take their hands? How could he not be ashamed, beating those children who have done no wrong, Right in front of me! That brahmin has no shame! 41 Ārya Śūra’s rendition describes his heart as being “consumed by a burning grief that was not to be assuaged. He felt so greatly disturbed, it was as though he were being drugged by some powerful poison, and he sank down on the spot.” 42 Vessantara’s pain is so devastating, so difficult to bear, that he thinks: “I will follow the brahmin and kill him and bring my children back.” 43 It is this moment more than any other that expresses the raw power of the Vessantara Jātaka. Vessantara is repeatedly described as having been thrilled by the opportunity to perfect his generosity, but such an opportunity comes at an inordinate cost. In a Laotian version, Vessantara cannot contain his concerns about their little

40 41 42 43

“Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:603. “Vessantara Jātaka,” vv. 497–501 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:603. Khoroche, “Viśvaṃtara,” 69. “Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:603.

186 · vanessa r. sasson bodies and the pain they will be forced to endure: “My children will confront a violent fate. No one will take care of them . . . Their tiny legs, feet, and soles, which are used to stepping along a short way on smooth ground, will walk a distant way on rough ground; they will swell, blister, and be bruised painfully.” 44 He considers chasing Jūjaka down to take his children back and then asks himself: “Why do I not untie the knot that I have knotted myself? I should pick up my sword, bow, and arrows and force him to give back my children.” Vessantara’s inner dialogue is agony incarnate. We must remember that Vessantara is a Buddha almost made, and it is at this point in his multilife trajectory that we find him contemplating murder. This alone is stunning, but the situation is all the more dramatic given the fact that Vessantara is the one to have created the situation in the first place. He chose to practice absolute generosity, and he is tortured to the point of contemplating murder as a result. He was not commanded by a higher power the way Abraham was but took the yoke onto his own shoulders and then feels tortured by the weight of it all. The story spins on itself, challenging every traditional concept of morality to the point of virtual incomprehensibility. No sooner than he considers murder, however, Vessantara calms himself down and lets the children go, because “to feel regret after the gift has been given, because my children are suffering too much, this is not the practice of good men.” 45 Resigned to his reality, Vessantara watches as the children are being led away. At the last moment, however, the daughter cries out in distress. Seeing his little girl going off wailing and trembling, powerful grief welled up in the Bodhisatta, and his heart became hot. His breathing through his nose became snatched, and he sighed hot breaths from his mouth; the tears from his eyes were drops of blood. Recognizing that such pain had arisen through no 44 Patrice Ladwig, “Emotions and Narrative: Excessive Giving and Emotional Ambivalence in the Lao Vessantara Jātaka,” in Readings of the Vessantara Jātaka, ed. Steven Collins (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 64. 45 “Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:603.

stories of excess · 187 other cause than the fault of his own affections, he put aside his affection and through the power of his self-knowledge he pulled out the dart of grief, and knew that middleness and equanimity should be developed. 46 These descriptions (and many more) demonstrate that Vessantara’s giving is not an uncomplicated act of enthusiasm. Although he expresses zeal at the thought of perfecting his generosity, the act itself – as described in the textual renditions consulted – is much more textured and haunting. Vessantara does not share Abraham’s silent submission as presented in the biblical text, and this makes of the Vessantara Jātaka perhaps an even more excessive narrative than the Akedah. Vessantara is haunted by his own will to practice generosity, and we watch him with our fingers gripping our knees as he forces himself to let go, because that is the way “of good men.” The emotional excess presented by this story leaves us in anguish, too.

THE CHILDREN Isaac is a relatively passive character in the biblical story of the Akedah. God makes his request of Abraham but requests nothing from Isaac. God does not interact with Isaac, and Abraham says very little to Isaac. Isaac is simply and passively brought to the mountain, along with the saddled donkey and the servants. He is given the wood to carry but does not offer to carry it himself, and he climbs the mountain in almost complete silence. The only time Isaac does speak is when he asks about the lamb that is to be sacrificed, and Abraham is ambiguous in his response. Isaac is, in other words, almost a background character, even though he is the one around whom the entire narrative pivots. In the Vessantara narrative, by contrast, the children are very active players. They are thoughtful, argumentative, and challenging figures who do all they can to save themselves. For example, in the 46 “Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:605–6.

188 · vanessa r. sasson Pali version of the narrative, Vessantara’s son Jāli rises to greet Jūjaka when he first arrives and pays him all the appropriate respects. But Jūjaka is harsh with him, causing the son to notice “the eighteen human defects that denote bad character.” 47 This detail speaks to the boy’s intelligence and capacity for discernment. When the children hear Jūjaka’s bid for their bodies, they do not sit passively and wait to be taken away. Instead, they run about in all directions, looking for a way to save themselves. Eventually, they put on their bark clothing and immerse themselves in the water, covering their heads with lotus leaves. Vessantara follows their footprints to the pond and calls his children. He asks each of them to be a steady boat that will take him “on the ocean of becoming” and across to the other shore. 48 Neither of the two children is capable of ignoring their father’s request, and each emerges from the water in obedience. But then they rush at their father’s legs and clutch him by the ankles, their tears falling on his feet. The father hands his children over, and Jūjaka binds them with a creeper, but trips and falls as he tries to pull them away. The children grab the opportunity to run back to their father. The son pleads with Vessantara not to give them away, at least until their mother returns so that she has a chance to see them. When no response ensues, Jāli changes strategy and argues that Jūjaka cannot be a human but must be a terrible monster, for who else would ask “for your wealth, dear father?” 49 He then challenges his father with a heart-wrenching question: “How can you just watch as we are taken away by this monster? Surely your heart is made of iron, or bound tightly up, if you do not react at this money-grabbing, cruel, profligate brahmin who drives us like cattle?” 50 When none of these tactics work, Jāli closes with what is perhaps his most painful request: he asks that his sister be permitted to remain behind, because “she does not know anything. She cries like

47 48 49 50

“Vessantara Jātaka” in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:596. “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 461 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:599. “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 477 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:601. “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 478 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:601.

stories of excess · 189 a little doe separated from its herd, crazy for milk.” 51 Each of these arguments demonstrates the child’s will to live and his rejection of his father’s commitment to his path. He does not passively hand himself over but repeatedly runs, hides, and argues in the hopes that his father will change his mind. When he realizes that nothing he says has an effect, both children resign themselves to their fate and call out as they are being dragged away: “Wish our mother well, Father, and please may you be happy! These little elephants and horses and bullocks of ours [i.e., their toys], please give them to our mother so she can keep her grief in check.” 52 Whether the children are sincerely resigned to the situation when they make this final plea or whether they are using guilt as a lastditch attempt is irrelevant. Either way, the children are demonstrating an extraordinary agency in the narrative, particularly obvious when compared with Isaac’s behavior in the biblical story. They are handed over like cattle – indeed, the father even puts a price on each of their heads if they ever hope to be ransomed! – but the children themselves are anything but passive. They are key players in the drama and not just silent characters around whom others negotiate. This feature of the story is repeated in other renditions of the narrative. In a Chinese translation of Sanghasena’s now lost Sanskrit text, the son makes a particularly eloquent speech in which he challenges his father on multiple levels at once. Father, for what motive are you giving us, brother and sister, to this evil Brahmin? From now on, we will be forever separated from our father and mother. By age, we are still babies with no knowledge. With no shelter, no protection, how can we live? Due to what cause must we endure that suffering? . . . Why must we today meet such a pain? . . . Father, why are you holding such a painful and venomous particular view? Acting as if the law should be abandoned, moreover losing sympathy, is that the law? 53

51 “Vessantara Jātaka,” v. 479 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:601. 52 “Vessantara Jātaka,” vv. 494–95 in Appleton and Shaw, Ten Great Birth Stories, 2:603. 53 Hubert Durt, “The Offering of the Children of Prince Viśvantara/Sudāna in the

190 · vanessa r. sasson Jāli is confronting his father with legitimate ethical and legal arguments and accuses his father of holding a painful and venomous worldview. There is no filial submission behind his words. Rather, Jāli proves himself to be a strong opponent to the Buddhist argument, and readers are likely to find themselves siding with him as a result. Jāli is asking the question that most readers are bound to be asking themselves: Why is Vessantara holding to this particular interpretation of virtue? The nineteenth-century Sinhalese version of the story provides an equally emphatic response from the children. In this account, after the children have run to hide in the pond, the father at first only finds his son. He asks him where his sister is hiding and Jaaliya (the Sinhalese rendition of Jāli) replies, “My father, when wild creatures flee in fear of death, do they tell each other where they go? And it has been so with us.” 54 Jaaliya is telling his father that his decision puts his children in fear of their lives, but, like all the other arguments made by the children, this does not alter Vessantara’s position. When Jaaliya makes his final plea (right after Jūjaka trips and they manage to momentarily escape his grasp), his arguments are perhaps even more piercing than in the Pali telling of the events: When mother cannot find us, how will her heart bear it? Keep us until mother returns and we can fall at her feet with tears and tell her our troubles. If we leave you, where can we go for refuge? I ask you to wait a little; do not give us to this ugly Brahmin, but rather to someone else . . . Or if you will not refrain from giving, give me. For my sister is very tender, and because she is delicate she cannot work. Because I am older than she, I can bear pain, and I will do her work also. For Krshnajinaa to be a servant would be a disgrace to the family of the great Sivi kings. Keep my sister, and give me to him as a servant. Tell mother you have given me, but give her back my sister; comfort her with words and look after her.55 Chinese Tradition,” Journal of the International College for Advanced Buddhist Studies 2 (1999): 253. 54 Vidyāchakravarti, “Butsarana,” 155. 55 Vidyāchakravarti, “Butsarana,” 156–57.

stories of excess · 191 We find here the same kinds of arguments used in other tellings of this narrative, but they are devastatingly delivered here. The son is willing to work as a slave for someone else, but not for Jūjaka. The problem, in other words, is not that he is unwilling to be sacrificed, only that he will not sacrifice himself into Jūjaka’s hands in particular. He then begs that his sister be left behind, not only because she is delicate, and he fears that the work will be too difficult for her, but also so that she can be a source of comfort for their mother. Jaaliya tries a number of courageous and selfless arguments, but Vessantara’s determination is unwavering once again. The emotional impact of this scene is highlighted not just in textual renditions of the story but equally in its performance. In a wonderful chapter on Laotian performances of the Vessantara Jātaka, Patrice Ladwig describes the many ways the performance is directed at enhancing particular emotions, especially around the gifting of the children: “the intensification and production of certain emotional states is indeed a main feature of the VJ recitations, as both the chanting-education by monks and the reactions of the audience confirm.” 56 Audience members weep as the children are torn from their father, and women sometimes run from the temple hall, so distraught do they become.” 57 The gifting of the children is the dramatic turning point in the story, and everything is done to render the scene as emotionally provocative and ethically confusing as possible. One means by which this is accomplished is giving the children prominent roles to play. When the biblical story of the Akedah is examined in light of the Vessantara narrative, Isaac’s role appears particularly passive. In the biblical text, Isaac barely speaks or acts of his own accord. As mentioned above, the story pivots around him, but he adds little to the story himself. He submits to the situation without protest and then is saved without so much as a sigh of relief. It is as though he is not there at all. 56 Ladwig, “Emotions and Narrative,” 63; Peter Skilling, “Jātaka and Paññāssa Jātaka in South-East Asia,” Journal of the Pali Text Society 28 (2006): 120 makes a similar reference to the Tibetan performance of the Vessantara Jātaka. 57 Ladwig, “Emotions and Narrative,” 64.

192 · vanessa r. sasson But what happens in the biblical text is not all that happens with the story. Isaac goes through a number of transformations in the interpretive literature, eventually developing into a young man who participates in the act of sacrifice in a much more pronounced way. James Kugel points to the apocryphal book of Judith as the first place where this shift in Isaac’s role takes place, as it states: “Remember what he did with Abraham and how he tested Isaac.” 58 The fact that Isaac is the one who is referenced as having been tested (rather than Abraham, who is traditionally associated with the testing) suggests that Isaac participated in the Akedah, that he had a part to play and was tested to see if he would go through with it. From here, a long line of interpreters developed this shift in focus away from Abraham and toward Isaac. Kugel points to 4 Maccabees, Pseudo-Philo, Josephus, and 1 Clement as some of the many early sources that participated in the process of bringing Isaac’s agency into the picture. 59 By the time we reach Genesis Rabbah, Isaac has been transformed into a central character, offering himself and taking much of the weight off of Abraham’s shoulders. One means by which this is accomplished is unpacking the verse in which Isaac is described as having been bound and then placed on the altar before Abraham raises the knife. The obvious question to be asked is why he needed to be bound at all, and an answer is provided as follows: “When Abraham wished to sacrifice his son Isaac, he said to him: ‘Father, I am a young man and am afraid that my body may tremble through fear of the knife and I will grieve thee, whereby the slaughter may be rendered unfit and this will not count as a real sacrifice; therefore bind me very firmly.’” 60 The rules of burnt sacrifice are not being followed as accurately as this midrash suggests. As Jon Levenson has argued, biblical regulation concerning burnt sacrifice would have required that the victim be bound, slaughtered, and only afterward placed on the altar. Isaac is placed on the altar before he is slaughtered. 61 But this technicality 58 59 60 61

Jdt 8:26. James L. Kugel, The Bible as It Was (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 1997), 174–75. Genesis Rabbah 56:8. Jon D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of

stories of excess · 193 seems ultimately irrelevant where narrative flow is concerned. What Genesis Rabbah accomplishes with this story is to create tenderness between the father and son where none was revealed before, and it gives Isaac a voice he did not have before, either. This commentary transforms the narrative, diverting our attention away from a father who is willing to sacrifice his child and toward a son who is willing to be martyred instead. Taking his cue from Genesis Rabbah, Rashi provides a story about an argument Isaac and Ishmael had prior to the event that explains Isaac’s role in the Akedah. According to Rashi, the reason the chapter opens with “After these words, God tested Abraham” is that it is referring to the words Ishmael and Isaac exchanged prior to the Akedah. Ishmael prided himself over Isaac because he underwent circumcision when he was thirteen, whereas Isaac was circumcised when he was only eight days old and had no say. Isaac’s response to this classic one-upmanship was to retort: “Do you try to instill fear in me through boasting of what you did with one organ? If the Holy One Blessed is He would say to me, ‘Sacrifice yourself before Me,’ I would not refrain from doing it.” 62 Isaac is given the opportunity to prove himself right after with the Akedah. Another conversation is recorded in Pesiqta Rabbati, this time between Isaac and Satan. In this later midrash, Satan approaches Isaac and says to him: “O hapless one, son of a hapless mother! How many fasts did thy mother fast, and how many prayers did she pray, until thou camest to her! And yet this old man, gone mad in his old age, is about to cut thy throat!” Isaac does not reply to this attempt but instead turns to his father and says: “Father, see this man and hear what he is saying to me!” It sounds as though Isaac is incredulous at Satan’s audacity. Abraham reassures him that Satan’s mission is to dishearten him, and nothing more is said about the matter. 63 Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993), 135. 62 Rashi on Gen 22:1. For a translation, see Yisrael Isser Zvi Herczeg, ed., The Torah with Rashi’s Commentary, Translated, Annotated, and Elucidated. ArtScroll Series 1 (Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah, 1995). 63 Pesiqta Rabbati 40.6.

194 · vanessa r. sasson Pesiqta Rabbati ensures that the Akedah belongs to both father and son, and that both of them together readily and enthusiastically participated in the request. As it says: “Even as the one rejoiced to make the offering, the other rejoiced to be made an offering of. Abraham rejoiced to bind his son as the sacrifice and Isaac rejoiced to be bound as a sacrifice. Abraham rejoiced to cut the throat of his sacrifice and Isaac rejoiced to have his throat cut.” 64 This is a view upheld by Genesis Rabbah as it says: “And they went both of them together: one to bind and the other to be bound, one to slaughter and the other to be slaughtered.” 65 In Rashi’s words, the two of them went towards the sacrifice together, “with an equal heart, i.e., with the same enthusiasm.” The Akedah has become Isaac’s accomplishment as much as it was Abraham’s. These interpretations (and many others) provide Isaac with a more active role to play, but his role is not to run from the Akedah to save himself. Nor is it to challenge his father on ethical or legal grounds. Rather, Isaac’s emerging role is to participate in the divine command with his father. Unlike Vessantara’s children, who do everything in their power to dissuade their father from going through with his promise, Isaac is presented in these commentaries as doing everything in his power to enable the sacrifice instead. It is as though he does not have a survivor’s reflex at all. The desire to fulfill God’s command is stronger than any will he might have to survive. This is certainly not the case with Vessantara’s children when the road to Buddhahood is evoked. One explanation for this difference can be linked to the roles each of these children plays in their respective traditions. Isaac will become a biblical patriarch much like his father, so it is appropriate that he take the burden onto his own shoulders and share the Akedah with his father in the rabbinic imagination. He, too, will have to prove himself worthy of divine blessing, and he will carry that blessing into the next generation just as his father did before him. He is a link in the chain of divine promise. Vessantara’s chil64 Pesiqta Rabbati 40.6. 65 Genesis Rabbah 56:3.

stories of excess · 195 dren, by contrast, are not Buddhas in the making. They do not have particularly elaborate roles to play in Buddhist cosmology, so they can carry a lighter load by comparison. Both of Vessantara’s children become prominent Buddhist characters in their next lives, with Jāli being reborn as Rāhula (the Buddha’s son) and Kaṇhājinā reborn as Uppalavaṇṇā, one of the Buddha’s most accomplished female monastic disciples. They will therefore become prominent players in the larger Buddhist narrative, and it is surely for this reason that they have the honor of being reborn as Vessantara’s children in this episode, but they are not future Buddhas. They are future disciples of the Buddha. Isaac, by contrast, is a future patriarch and therefore has to prove himself in ways that Vessantara’s children simply do not. This makes all the difference.

MORAL BEWILDERMENT There is no one version of the Vessantara Jātaka, but multiple tellings, each of which generates a particular emotional flavor or emphasis. And there is no ultimate rabbinic interpretation of the Akedah, but an entire corpus of options. We cannot come to any comprehensive conclusion about stories that have so many variants and embody so much possibility, but we can note the fact that, in both cases, the struggle is a deeply emotional one in which the hero is prepared to act in a way that challenges every ordinary moral assumption of human behavior. We are necessarily horrified by the fathers’ commitments to their ideals and the effects of these ideals on their children (be they silent or not), yet, at the same time, it is precisely their absolute commitment that makes both Abraham and Vessantara so heroic. Suzanne Mrozik has argued that the Vessantara Jātaka generates “moral astonishment” (vismaya) in some renditions, with such astonishment not interpreted negatively. On the contrary, astonishment is, according to her assessment, experienced as a powerful emotion that combines great surprise, joy, and admiration, and it is this emotion more than any other that Ārya Śūra in particular cites

196 · vanessa r. sasson when describing Vessantara’s great acts of generosity. 66 Maddī may at first be angry with her husband when she learns about what he has done with the children, but her heart quickly turns to astonishment as she realizes the magnitude of his commitment. It is perhaps this emotion with which Kierkegaard struggled most in his analysis of the Akedah: In the realm of ordinary morality, Abraham was prepared to murder his child. But in the realm of the transcendental, he was a Knight of Faith, and we find ourselves astonished by the lengths to which he was prepared to go. These are not easy emotions to generate in the face of such challenging narratives. Indeed, Mrozik argues that responses such as joyful astonishment require cultivation and education. The Milindapañho provides an often-cited discussion in which the emotional challenge of the Vessantara Jātaka is wrestled with openly. King Milinda begins his inquiry into the text by first asking whether the gifting of the children is an act performed by all future Buddhas, or whether this extreme practice was specific to Vessantara. Nāgasena, the learned Buddhist monk who plays the Socratic role in this exchange, confirms that it is indeed the way of all Buddhas. Extreme generosity is what Buddhahood requires. Nāgasena then adds that, done by the Bodhisatta, revered sir, was what was difficult to do in that he gave the dear children of his own breast to be a brahman’s slaves. And this second thing he did was even more difficult to do in that he bound the dear children of his own breast, young and tender though they were, with jungle-creeper, and when he saw them being flogged by that brahman with the jungle-creeper he did not interfere. And this third thing he did was even more difficult to do in that when his son had freed himself by his own efforts from the bonds and had come back overcome by fearfulness, once again he bound him with jungle-creeper and gave him back (to the brahman). . . 67 66 Suzanne Mrozik, “Astonishment: A Study of an Ethically Valorized Emotion in Buddhist Narrative,” in Embedded Languages: Studies of Sri Lankan and Buddhist Cultures, Essays in Honor of W. S. Karunatillake, ed. Carol S. Anderson et al. (Colombo: Godage International, 2012), 265. 67 Milindapañho, 275. For a translation, see I. B. Horner, trans., Milinda’s Questions, 2 vols. (Oxford: Pali Text Society, 1991).

stories of excess · 197 The text does not end here but continues as Nāgasena describes each step of Vessantara’s painful generosity. King Milinda listens patiently, but, as soon as Nāgasena is finished, he challenges his guest with his next question about how a gift that causes anguish in another can be conducive to rebirth in heaven. How, in other words, can the gift of the children be applauded when it led to such pain? Nāgasena’s answer is that sometimes that which causes anguish is also what is right. King Milinda, however, is not prepared to accept this logic, and he presses further: “Excessive was the gift, revered sir, given by King Vessantara in that he gave his own wife to be the wife of another and gave the children of his own breast to be the slaves of the brahman. Such an excessive gift, revered Nāgasena, is censured, found fault with by the wise of the world.” Nāgasena, however, disagrees. Giving excessive gifts is what causes one to be praised, extolled, and commended by the wise of the world. Had he been asked for his own life, Vessantara would gladly have given it, but he was asked for his wife and children, so he gave what was asked of him. It was as a result of “the dearness of the jewel of omniscience, and for the sake of omniscient knowledge that King Vessantara gave the brahman such an ineffable, far-reaching, incomparable and noble gift – of his wife and children who were as dear to him, as beloved and as cherished as his own life.” 68 It was, in other words, the fact that he gave so excessively, leading to a devastating effect on his children, that we are to be so astonished and, by implication, so inspired. If we apply this Buddhist argument to the Akedah, it is Abraham’s excessive willingness to give his only son that produces such astonishment. Had God asked Abraham for his own life, he would gladly have given it, but God asked for his son. The wise of the world apparently commend such devotion. Heim argues that “emotions of fear and horror direct us to sense our own vulnerability in the world as a way to generate urgency and admiration of moral heroism.” 69 The complicated layers of emotion that inevitably arise when we encounter stories of excess like those of Abraham and Vessantara are challenging perhaps because they 68 Milindapañho, 105. 69 Heim, “Aesthetics,” 551.

198 · vanessa r. sasson oscillate between fear, horror, and profound admiration. We may find ourselves horrified by Abraham and Vessantara, but the genius behind these stories – the very reason we return to them again and again – is that we find ourselves strangely in awe of them at the same time. It is this paradox, Nāgasena suggests, that renders both of these narratives so profoundly compelling in the end.

Taking Stock of the Text(s) of Rashi’s Torah Commentary: Some Twenty-First Century Considerations and the Case for Leipzig 1 Yedida Eisenstat

In 1988, Barry Levy published a short review article entitled “Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah: A Survey of Recent Publications,” effectively an annotated bibliography of worthwhile publications relating to Rashi’s Torah commentary. 1 Also around then, my father officially finished his MA under Professor Levy’s supervision at McGill. A few years later, my parents took me and my little sister to visit the Levys in Montreal. My memory of the rows of books composing Professor Levy’s personal library in their Montreal basement has stayed with me, along with the second-generation echoes of his wise counsel to buy books. There is little question in my mind that I grew up in a house full of scholarly Jewish books because of Professor Levy. I am honored to revisit in the following pages the problem of the text of Rashi’s commentary touched upon in his 1988 article. And I am able to do so in large part because of his multigenerational influence. Among the books in our family home was a copy of Abraham Berliner’s 1905 second critical edition of Rashi’s Torah commentary with a nameplate in it showing that it once belonged to the Levy library. For the moment, suffice it to say that Berliner’s critical editions of 1 B. Barry Levy, “Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah: A Survey of Recent Publications,” Tradition 23, no. 4 (1988): 102–16. For their invaluable suggestions after reading an early version of this essay, I am indebted to David Freidenreich, David Shyovitz, Jason Kalman, Gregg Gardner, Jonathan Kaplan, and Phillip Lieberman.

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200 · yedida eisenstat Rashi’s Torah commentary reflect modern scholarly awareness of the difficulty of establishing a usable text of the commentary, a difficulty complicated by the many extant variant witnesses but the lack of an autograph manuscript. As Avraham Grossman explained: No other work of a medieval Jewish scholar arouses such doubts and arguments in respect of his text, mainly because different editions were written within Rashi’s own lifetime. He himself revised and corrected his Bible commentaries, as he testifies in one of his responsa, and his closest pupil, Shemaiah, made further emendations, some in accordance with his master’s own request, some based on exegetical traditions that Shemaiah heard from other scholars shortly after Rashi’s death. There is no question of an Urtext, as there were already alternative versions in Rashi’s lifetime. 2 The following pages demonstrate that the history of the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary – and the factors that raise doubts regarding the reliability of the many versions of the text – are best understood in light of recent scholarship regarding medieval Hebrew manuscript production and transmission. The many extant witnesses of Rashi’s Torah commentary make this text an excellent – but extremely complex – case study in the nature of medieval manuscript production and transmission. 3 The early popularity of Rashi’s com2 Avraham Grossman, “The School of Literal Exegesis in Northern France,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Volume i: From the Beginnings to the Middle Ages (Until 1300). Part 2: The Middle Ages, ed. Magne Sæbø et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 333–34. 3 Other recent scholarship that engages the problem of manuscripts and establishing a usable text for analysis includes the debate between Shäfer and Milikowsky specifically regarding rabbinic texts: Peter Schäfer, “Research in Rabbinic Literature: An Attempt to Define the Status Quaestionis,” Journal of Jewish Studies 37 (1986): 139–52; Chaim Milikowsky, “The Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature,” Journal of Jewish Studies 39 (1988): 201–11; and Peter Schäfer, “Once Again the Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature: An Answer to Chaim Milikowsky,” Journal of Jewish Studies 40 (1989): 89–94. These articles were reprinted twenty years later in Martin Goodman, ed., Rabbinic Texts and the History of LateRoman Palestine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), along with more recent reflections on the subject. See also Daniel Abrams, Kabbalistic Manuscripts and Textual

taking stock of the text(s) · 201 mentary resulted in its frequent copying and recopying centuries before the advent of the printing press. Even if a scribe hoped to faithfully copy his model text, which was not always the case, each manually produced text nevertheless differed from its model. Aware of the indisputably corrupt nature of the many extant versions of this text, which is characteristic of medieval manuscript production and transmission, scholars have for centuries attempted to reconstruct a best text of Rashi’s Torah commentary for study and analysis. Establishing a reliable text necessarily precedes any substantial analysis, so this task is foundational for Rashi scholarship. The following survey of recent scholarship regarding medieval Hebrew manuscript production and reproduction describes the process through which medieval Hebrew authored texts, including Rashi’s Torah commentary, became corrupt in the course of their transmission. The term “corrupt” is actually inadequate to describe this process because it implies that it is accidental, but the efforts of late medieval protocritical editors, early printers, and even modern textual critics to improve their texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary were often quite intentional. And this process renders efforts to reconstruct an original – or best – text of Rashi’s Torah commentary impossible and futile. Each reconstructed text is yet another variant of the text. 4 Given that current scholarship on medieval Hebrew text Theory: Methodologies of Textual Scholarship and Editorial Practice in the Study of Jewish Mysticism ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2013) and Ivan G. Marcus, “Sefer Hasidim” and the Ashkenazic Book in Medieval Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). A summary of the conclusions of these works (except for Marcus) may be found in the ĦđėĘĥĐ section of chapter 13 of Malachi Beit-Arié, ĕĦČđđĥĐđ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĔčĕĐč ęĕĕĜĕčĐąĕĚĕč đčđĢĕĞđ ĕĤčĞĐ ĤĠĝĐ ĦėČĘĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĎđĘđĠĕĔ :ĦĕĤčĞ ĐĕĎđĘđģĕďđģ 1540 ĦĜĥ ďĞ ĖĕĤČĦ ĕĜđĕĢč ďĕĐąĕčĦė ďđĞĕĦ ĘĞ ĦďĝđĕĚĐ ĦĕĦđĚė ĐĥĕĎ ĖđĦĚ, http://web.nli.org. il/sites/NLI/Hebrew/collections/manuscripts/hebrewcodicology/Documents/ Hebrew-Codicology-continuously-updated-online-version.pdf, which is continuously updated. 4 In this, I echo the conclusion of Burton Visotzky, “On Critical Editions of Midrash,” in Recent Developments in Midrash Research: Proceedings of the 2002 and 2003 SBL Consultation on Midrash, ed. Lieve Teugels and Rivka Ulmer (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2004), 157–58, regarding the relative merits of eclectic versus diplomatic editions. Generations of scholars produced eclectic editions, “wherein various manuscripts are collated and the best individual reading is selected for the base text, line by line, often word by word.” However, “such an edition actually creates a new version of the

202 · yedida eisenstat production leads to the conclusion that there never was an Urtext of Rashi’s Torah commentary that scholars may hope to reconstruct, a reconsideration of the much-debated legitimacy of using Leipzig 1 – the manuscript that scholarly consensus suggests is the best witness to Rashi’s Torah commentary – as the diplomatic textual foundation for further analysis of Rashi’s Torah commentary is now in order. This manuscript, which includes Rashi’s Torah commentary, was copied by Makhir b. Karshavia, likely in the first half of the thirteenth century in France. Makhir repeatedly testifies that his model text was that of Rashi’s student and secretary, Shemaiah. 5 The close relationship between Rashi and Shemaiah contributed to the import of Makhir’s copy of Shemaiah’s manuscript. Leipzig 1 is also noteworthy because it shows that Rashi emended his comments in at least eighty-two places, and because it maintains distinctions between Rashi’s own comments and Shemaiah’s interpolations into Rashi’s text, distinctions that were later elided. Thus Leipzig 1 is a relatively early textual witness that preserves relevant evidence of the text’s development during Rashi’s own lifetime. Given the current state of knowledge and the particular and intriguing characteristics of Leipzig 1 (to be discussed at greater length below), the diplomatic use of this authentic witness over and above the use of eclectic and reconstructed texts, perhaps in consultation with other exceptional textual witnesses, is clearly to be much preferred. 6 Reliance on a single best witness in consultation with other selected texts allows one to circumvent the centuries of textual corruption and rely on an early and authentic text. 7 text, possibly one which never previously existed in any form. Too much depends upon the skill and stylistic sense of the editor for the ‘recovery’ of a presumptive Urtext.” In this, Visotzky echoes Schäfer, “Research.” 5 One may read more about Shemaiah in Grossman, “School,” 356–58, and Avraham Grossman, ĦĕĜēđĤĐ ęĦĤĕĢĕ ,ĤđčĕĢĐ ĦĎĐĜĐč ęėĤď ,ęĐĕĦđĤđģ :ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2001), 347–426. 6 This conclusion is in agreement with the findings in the ĦđėĘĥĐ section of chapter 13 of Beit-Arié, ĦĕĤčĞ ĐĕĎđĘđģĕďđģ. Like the medieval Hebrew authors he studies, BeitArié has chosen a medium for publication of his magnum opus that allows him to continuously update his work. 7 Images of this manuscript are freely available, along with a transcription of the

taking stock of the text(s) · 203 I now turn to a relatively brief survey of recent scholarship’s essential insights regarding the particular characteristics of medieval manuscript production and transmission. 8

MEDIEVAL HEBREW AUTHORSHIP, PUBLICATION, AND TEXTUAL REPRODUCTION After “a long and intensive review of the medieval Hebrew book,” Israel Ta-Shma concluded that: quite often books were not meant by their authors to serve as final statements, but rather as presentations of an interim state of knowledge or opinion, somewhat like our computerized databases, which are constantly updated and which give the user a summary of the data known at the time of the latest updating. In a similar way, the medieval book was sometimes conceived of as no more than a solid basis for possible future alterations by the author himself. There were many reasons – some philosophical and psychological, others purely technical – for this profound phenomenon, which can give rise to serious problems as to finality, authorship and authority of a given text of a work. 9 For our purposes here, we must note that when an author released a text for copying – the equivalent of medieval publication – he conceived of the text not as a final statement but as a snapshot of his current thought that he might update or revise in the future. To wit, text of Rashi’s Torah commentary contained therein and a developing apparatus of variants, online at “MS Leipzig 1 (Universitätsbibliothek Leipzig, B.H.1) – Rashi’s Torah Commentary,” http://alhatorah.org/Commentators:Rashi_Leipzig_1. Note that the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary in the Miqra’ot Gedolot is a reconstructed text. Such texts will be discussed below in the section on modern editions. 8 It should be noted that the scholarship I am about to survey dates mainly from 1993, the same year that Elazar Touitou and Avraham Grossman’s debates over the use of Leipzig 1 in the journal Tarbiz concluded. Bibliography for the debate is given below in note 80. 9 Israel M. Ta-Shma, “The ‘Open Book’ in Medieval Hebrew Literature: The Problem of Authorized Editions,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 75 (1993): 17.

204 · yedida eisenstat a text released for publication – that is, copying – was not an author’s final version but a current version, one to be continually updated. Collette Sirat called this phenomenon “fluid redaction.” 10 Thus, a final version is “final” only in the sense that it reflects the text of the author’s last update. Such a text, however, was not necessarily the author’s intended final statement. Multiple copies of a text that reflected various stages of the text’s development would have circulated simultaneously and also served as models for subsequent copies. Malachi Beit-Arié calls this phenomenon “multi-linear reproduction.” 11 This accounts for some of the variation among manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary that give rise to the “serious problems as to finality, authorship and authority” Ta-Shma describes. 12 Scribes produced variant texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary depending on whether their model text was an earlier or later version of the commentary. Nevertheless, as long as the model texts reflect only the author’s own emendations, each copy is an authentic version of the text. Once an author determined that his text was ready to be shared, there were two primary modes of publication. In instances where precise wording or even orthography was a primary concern of the author, he might have deposited a master text in a central location where copies could later be checked and verified. 13 The author simply granted access to his master text for copying as he continued to correct and update it. 14 Regarding Rashi’s comment on Numbers 32:17, on 157b–158a of Leipzig 1, Makhir records that in his model,

10 Colette Sirat, Hebrew Manuscripts of the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 277. 11 Malachi Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction of Literary Texts in Medieval Jewish Civilization,” in Transmitting Jewish Traditions: Orality, Textuality, and Cultural Diffusion, ed. Yaakov Elman and I. Gershoni (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 228. 12 Beit-Arié’s eminently reasonable hypothesis that “multi-linear reproduction” was a source of manuscript variation accords with the findings in Jordan S. Penkower, “ĐĤđĦĘ đĥđĤĕĠĘ ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal 6 (2007): 141–88, which will be discussed at greater length below. 13 Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 18. 14 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 227.

taking stock of the text(s) · 205 Shemaiah’s text, Shemaiah wrote “Rashi instructed me to emend, ĐĕĎĐĘ ĕĜđĢ ĪĤ.” 15 This note and others show that Rashi updated his commentary. Among the features to recommend and authenticate Leipzig 1 is the evidence it preserves of Rashi’s continued emendations to his Torah commentary. Alternatively, an author might release a manuscript text to be copied. 16 The initial decision to release a manuscript for copying was a momentous one in that, once released, the author lost control over the text even if he imagined his “community of potential readers” as a small group with whom he imagined he would remain in contact. An author could not be responsible for distributing updated copies of his text to decentralized and small Jewish communities throughout the Franco-German sphere. 17 An author’s hoped-for contact with his community of potential readers was essential if any changes or updates were to be made to existing copies of his text. Of course, authors were aware of the impracticality and difficulty of updating the sometimes many disseminated copies of their works. In their efforts to rectify this situation, some authors subsequently released a new authorized version and made clear that the most recent version represented their current perspectives on the subject. 18 Shraga Abramson has shown that some authors released their works section by section, which allowed them to propose changes to earlier passages in later parts of their works. 19 He also showed that medieval authors would even appeal to their readers and copyists to correct mistakes found in their works. 20 An author’s appeal to subsequent copyists to make changes to his earlier work could pertain to 15 Regarding this emendation, Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 164–65, notes that this comment appears in Bomberg 1524 without any indication that it is an emendation. 16 Below, we will discuss who exactly copied these texts and their modes of textual reproduction. 17 Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 18–19. 18 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 227. Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 20, claims that he found evidence of an earlier and a later version of Rashi’s Torah commentary. To the best of my knowledge, unfortunately, he did not explain further. 19 Shraga Abramson, “ęĐčđ ęĐĚ”, in ĦđĤĠĝđ ěđĕĞ ĕĤčď ĦĠđĝČ :ěđĕĝ ęđĘĥ ĤĠĝ, ed. A. EvenShoshan et al. ( Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1980), 7–12. 20 Abramson, “ęĐčđ ęĐĚ”, 3–7.

206 · yedida eisenstat contents, omissions, and linguistic errors. These phenomena reflect a kind of tacit partnership in textual production between the author and the “users of their works” 21 and account for the freedom felt among medieval Ashkenazi scribes and scholar-copyists to emend their texts. According to Beit-Arié, a medieval Hebrew author’s “encouragement to correct, emend and add to authorial texts may also reflect a medieval concept of intellectual ownership altogether different from the modern one, namely, a concept of collective ownership.” 22 Apart from the phenomena discussed above – that medieval Hebrew authors conceived of their texts not as final but as works in progress that they updated, and that authors made changes to earlier parts of their work upon release of later sections – authors also left the work of completing citations to subsequent scribes and copyists. 23 Surely, this further contributed to the sense of the text as a work in progress ripe for continual improvement at the hands of agents of text reproduction. This likely accounts for Shemaiah’s interpolation of his own insights into his text of Rashi’s Torah commentary, marked as “additions, ĦđĠĝđĦ.” Two examples of this appear on fol. 49b of Leipzig 1 of Rashi’s commentary on Exodus 3, where Makhir recorded two of Shemaiah’s clearly marked interpolations on Exodus 3:15 and 3:18, only the first of which became part of the textual tradition of Rashi’s Torah commentary and is included in the Bomberg 1524 text. 24 21 22 23 24

Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 228, employs this useful term. Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 229. Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 228–29. Shemaiah’s interpolation on Exod 3:15 s.v. ĕĤėĒ ĐĒđ is ĖĤėĒ ĕīĕ ĪĞĘ ĖĚĥ ĕīĕ ĪđČ ČđĐ ďđď ěėđ ĪĦ ĪĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĪĦ Īďđ ĪďĘ. This interpolation is not included in the undated Rome edition, the Reggio de Calabria 1475, or the Guadelajara 1476 edition. It is in both Berliner 1866 and 1905, in both cases without any annotation that it was an interpolation of any sort; see Abraham Berliner, ed., ĕĤėĒĘđ đĚĥĘ đĕĦČĤģ ĤĥČ ĤđČč ęĞ :ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ ęĕģĕĦĞ ęĕĤĠĝ ĤČĥđ ęĕĜĥĕ ęĕĝđĠďđ ďĕ ĕčĦė ĕĠ ĘĞ ĘėĐ :ęĕĜđģĦđ ĦđĤĞĐ ĘĘđė .ęĐĤčČĘ ĤđėĒ (Berlin: Levent, 1866) and Abraham Berliner, ed., ĘĞ ĐĎđĚ :ĘīĒ ģēĢĕ Ĥč ĐĚĘĥ đĜĕčĤĘ ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ ĤĜĕĘĤč ęĐĤčČ ĕīĞ ęĕĤđČĕčđ ,ĦđĤĞĐ ,ĦđĚđģĚ ĕČĤĚ ,ČđčĚ ęĞ ęĕĜĥĕ ĝđĠď ĕĤĠĝđ ďĕ ĕčĦė ĐČĚĚ ĤĦđĕ ĕĠ, 2nd ed. (Frankfurt: J. Kauffmann, 1905). The 1866 edition is available online at https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rashi-Berliner-1866.pdf. A pdf of the 1905 edition is available online on Google Books. The Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot includes this interpolation in square brackets and in a smaller font but without other indication

taking stock of the text(s) · 207 Based on his study of colophons, Beit-Arié distinguished between two kinds of agents of textual reproduction: the lowly hired scribe who would have been hired by a talmid hakham and the learned scholar who copied a text for his own use. He explained that while the hired scribe would have endeavored to be relatively more faithful to his model than a learned copyist and would not have interpolated content into the text, this scribe also would have been more susceptible to mechanical errors than the better-educated learned copyist. The scholar-copyist who produced a text for his own use “might intentionally interfere in the transmission, revise his exemplar, emend and reconstruct the text, add to it and modify it according to his knowledge, memory, conjecture or other exemplars, and indeed regard copying as a critical editing and not merely as duplicating.” 25 A scribe, though, was hired to duplicate a text as best he could. Whereas a learned scholar-copyist who reproduced a text for his own use felt free to improve the text not only in the copy he made for himself but even to emend his model text! 26 Of course these efforts to correct and improve the text – and even the exemplar – are predicated on the awareness that those model texts contained errors, to which scribes and copyists testify in their colophons beginning in the mid-thirteenth century. 27 Hired scribes were also especially aware that the copies they produced likely contained their fair share of errors as well. 28 Medieval Jewish attitudes toward authored texts as works in progress ripe for further correction also account for the freedom

25 26

27 28

that the comment is Shemaiah’s. The Exod 3:18 interpolation is ďīđĕ ęĕĕĤčĞĐ ĕģĘČ ĪĦ Īĥ ĪĤ ĪĦ ĦđėĚ ĤĥĞĘ ĒĚĤ ĐĤĕĦĕ. It appears only in the Guadelajara 1476 text of Rashi’s Torah commentary and neither in the Rome, Reggio de Calabria, or Bomberg 1524 editions, nor in either edition of Berliner or the Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot. Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 230–31. It remains unclear to me whether such efforts to correct the text were to subjectively improve the text or an effort to create a final, perfect version. Efforts to produce critical editions today are typically aimed at recovering an imagined Urtext. Given the medieval scribe’s awareness of the author’s text as a current version subject to change, however, what did it mean for a copyist to improve his text other than to correct spelling and obvious copying errors? Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 233. Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 233.

208 · yedida eisenstat personal copyists felt to insert their own ideas into the text. There is much manuscript evidence, including in Leipzig 1, that scholars interpolated their own clearly distinguished ideas into their userproduced copies. 29 There is further evidence, also in the transmission of Rashi’s Torah commentary, that the notations or symbols indicating a scholar’s interpolation were not well maintained in subsequent copies; the distinction between the author’s text and the interpolations of subsequent copyists was erased and the interpolation thereby appeared to be part of the author’s own text, as is the case with Shemaiah’s two interpolations into Rashi’s commentary on Exodus 3:15 and 3:18 discussed above. In Bomberg 1524, Shemaiah’s gloss on Exodus 3:15 appears as an undifferentiated part of the text, as if it were Rashi’s own comment. Shemaiah’s interpolation on Exodus 3:18 appears similarly indistinct in the Guadelajara 1476 text. Hebrew manuscripts were thus produced by individuals – either commissioned scribes, scribes anticipating the sale of a popular book, or learned copyists who produced a text for their own personal use. The “individual nature of Hebrew manuscript production,” as Beit-Arié called it, is yet another peculiar feature of Hebrew manuscript production in the medieval period. This feature is significant especially in contrast to the relatively large scale and more centralized mode of medieval Latin manuscript production. Hebrew manuscripts were produced on an individual scale and used privately. Latin manuscripts were produced institutionally in scriptoria and reflect textual standardization. There is no such standardization among medieval Hebrew texts. 30 According to Sfardata, the database of extant dated medieval Hebrew manuscripts, of the 360 extant Ashkenazi Hebrew manuscripts produced before 1540, 43% (156) of them were commissioned from a scribe, 21% (77) were user produced, and 35% (126) were pro29 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 235–36. With specific respect to Leipzig 1, see Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 190–91. 30 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 229. See also Malachi Beit-Arié, “The Individual Circumstances of Hebrew Book Production and Consumption,” in Manuscrits hébreux et arabes: mélanges en l’honneur de Colette Sirat, ed. Nicholas de Lange and Judith Olszowy-Schlanger, Bibliologia 38 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014).

taking stock of the text(s) · 209 duced by scribes to be sold to an anticipated buyer. 31 Nearly 80% of extant Ashkenazi manuscripts were produced by scribes, who made the types of errors that scribes make. And the rest, 21%, were copied by learned copyists who sought to improve their texts – both their own copies and their models – even though the so-called improvements often further contributed to the textual corruption and chaos. It is reasonable to extrapolate such a distribution from this data for the production of manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary in Ashkenaz as well.

L ATE MEDIEVAL PROTOCRITICAL TEXT REPRODUCTION The fluid-redactional and open-book nature of medieval authorship and text production, along with the sense of collective intellectual ownership of texts, resulted in copyists’ awareness of the corrupt nature of their model texts. This awareness eventually led copyists to conceive “it as their duty to improve their exemplars and produce a better edition of the copied text,” making them protocritical text editors. These copyists not only corrected obvious mistakes in the copies they produced but even corrected their models. From the early fourteenth century, colophons reflect the critical nature of scribal activity and indicate that scribes were working to create eclectic texts, effectively “recreating the text” from multiple textual models and usually without a critical apparatus. 32 With specific respect to Rashi’s Torah commentary, a fourteenthcentury manuscript of a Rashi supercommentary, Vilna 640, 33 cites the mid-thirteenth-century French exegete Hizqiah b. Manoah observing the problem of scribal error and copying mistakes in

31 Beit-Arié, “Individual Circumstances,” 28. 32 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 234–35. See here for specific examples of this phenomenon. 33 This manuscript is the text of Hizquni found in Mosheh Menahem Aaron, ed., ĥđĤĕĠ ĕĜđģĒē :ēđĜĚ Ĥīč ĐĕģĒē đĜĕčĤĘ ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Mosdot Keneset Sheraga, 1992).

210 · yedida eisenstat the text of Rashi’s comment on Genesis 8:22. If this observation really originated with Hizqiah himself, it demonstrates at least his own awareness of the problems of copying – specifically of copying Rashi’s Torah commentary – as early as the mid-to-late thirteenth century. 34 While, to the best of my knowledge, there is no extant manuscript colophon that testifies to a particular scribe’s protocritical reconstruction of Rashi’s Torah commentary, it is reasonable to hypothesize based on the prevalence of this activity that Rashi’s Torah commentary, too, was subject to late medieval scribal protocritical activity. 35 Such protocritical activity precludes the possibility of using stemmatic analysis to reconstruct the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary. 36 Before turning to the early printed editions, the collective impact of the peculiar features of medieval Hebrew textual production on Rashi’s Torah commentary must be considered more fully. Quite a combination of factors contributed to the development of a medieval Hebrew text from the author’s original until even after the text was printed: fluid redaction, multilinear production, the open-book nature of medieval Hebrew authorship that contributed to the freedom felt among scribes and copyists to improve their own texts and even correct their models, the private unstandardized nature of textual production, and eventual efforts to create protocritical texts. And surely, the more popular the text, the greater the likelihood of textual corruption in that more scribes and copyists contributed to its transmission and likely also attempted to improve it. The sheer number of extant manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary makes clear that it was a very popular text, especially given the Church’s propensity to gather and burn or repurpose Jewish texts. 37 The fact 34 Deborah Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary on Genesis from Citations in the Torah Commentaries of the Tosafot” (PhD diss., McGill University, 1999), 16–17. 35 While there is no such extant late medieval manuscript colophon, there is such testimony from the early printed editions, discussed below. 36 Beit-Arié, ĦĕĤčĞ ĐĕĎđĘđģĕďđģ, especially in the ĦđėĘĥĐ section of chapter 13, concludes that this is the case for medieval Hebrew manuscripts in general. 37 I here direct the reader to the surviving “Ashkenazi genizah” increasingly documented digitally in “Books within Books: Hebrew Fragments in European Libraries,”

taking stock of the text(s) · 211 that there are more than one hundred complete extant copies of Rashi’s commentary on the Torah and many more fragments going back to the thirteenth century is nothing short of remarkable. 38 To put that number in perspective, there was one complete extant manuscript copy of the commentary on the Torah written by Rashi’s grandson, R. Samuel b. Meir (Rashbam, ca. 1085–ca. 1158), published by the Wissenschaftlich scholar David Rosin in 1882, which was later lost in the Second World War. Ta-Shma explained that these manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary “differ, for the most part, in richness of style and verbosity, while remaining faithful to the actual exegetical content and context. But comparison of the manuscripts also shows that they have many additional, and/or missing, paragraphs.” 39 One way to account for the sheer number of manuscripts is that students copied Rashi’s Torah commentary both to produce their own copies and in their study of it. They also wrote their own notes in the margins of their texts, which perhaps would be copied right into the text by a future scribe or copyist. 40 One may reasonably posit that the popularity of the text contributed to its amplified corruption. Late medieval awareness of the textual corruption of such a popular text as Rashi’s Torah commentary contributed to the efforts by learned copyists to produce an improved text. Such efforts continued to be undertaken especially by early printers, to whom we now turn our attention. www.hebrewmanuscript.com. Some of this project’s findings have been published in Andreas Lehnhardt and Judith Olszowy-Schlanger, eds., Books within Books (Leiden: Brill, 2014). See also Andreas Lehnhardt, ed., “Genizat Germania”: Hebrew and Aramaic Binding Fragments from Germany in Context (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 38 Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 19. Devorah Schoenfeld, Isaac on Jewish and Christian Altars: Polemic and Exegesis in Rashi and the Glossa Ordinaria (New York: Fordham University Press, 2012), 1, notes that there are more manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary than any other Jewish Bible commentary. To the best of my knowledge, there is no single complete list of manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary. The closest to such a list is D. S. Blondheim, “Tentative List of Extant Manuscripts of Rashi’s Talmudical Commentaries,” Jewish Quarterly Review 8 (1917): 55–60, and D. S. Blondheim, “Liste des manuscrits des commentaires bibliques de Raschi,” Revue des études juives 91 (1931): 71–101, 155–74. 39 Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 19. 40 Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 4–5.

212 · yedida eisenstat

EARLY PRINTED EDITIONS On the heels of late medieval scribal efforts to improve their texts, printers too worked to improve the texts they printed. Whereas each Hebrew manuscript is unique, a printing press could produce identical copies on a large scale. 41 The first five printings of Rashi’s Torah Commentary – printed without the accompanying text of the Torah – were: 1. the undated Rome edition, likely printed between 1469 and 1472, which appears to have survived in eleven copies, five of which are no longer complete; 42 2. the first dated Hebrew book, printed on February 18, 1475 in Reggio de Calabria in southern Italy, of which there is one extant copy in Parma; 43 3. the Guadelajara edition, published by Solomon b. Moses Alkabetz Halevi in 1476, which survives in a single copy; 44 4. the Soncino edition, published in 1483, of which six copies are extant, not all complete; and 5. the Zamora edition, dated to 1491–92, printed by Samuel b. Musa, of which one copy is extant in the Jewish Theological Seminary collection. 45

41 It is not known how many copies of each early edition were printed given that printers’ records are unavailable, and that only one or a very few copies of each edition are extant. Presumably, enough copies would have been printed for the printer to profit beyond his significant investment in producing the volume. 42 The text of the Rome edition is available at “Digital Collections,” Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, http://garfield.jtsa.edu:8881/R/-?func=dbin-jumpfull&object_id=25917&silo_library=GEN01; and from http://hebrewbooks. org/45936. 43 The text of the Reggio de Calabria edition is available at https://www.otzar.org/ wotzar/Book.aspx?14110&. My thanks to Yisrael Dubitzky at the National Library of Israel for these links. 44 Note also that the Rome, Reggio de Calabria, and Guadelajara texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary on Genesis and Exodus are printed synoptically in the back of each of the seven volumes of The Pentateuch with Rashi Hashalem, 7 vols. (Jerusalem: Ariel, 1986). 45 A. K. Offenberg, “The Earliest Printed Editions of Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch: On Some Rare and Partly Unique Incunabula,” in Rashi, 1040–1990: Hommage

taking stock of the text(s) · 213 Despite the large-scale production of the printed editions – largescale relative to the individual nature of manuscript production – of the first five standalone printings of Rashi’s Torah commentary, three of them are extant in only single copies. For this reason, A. K. Offenberg suggests that “if out of five editions three have survived in one copy only, how many were the editions of which no copies are left at all? I do indeed assume the probability that this popular text was originally printed in more editions than we now know, editions which have been used out of existence or destroyed without leaving any trace.” 46 In some cases, the preparers of these printed texts, like their late medieval predecessors, included colophons. In two colophons, the editors testified that they “corrected” the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary for publication. Solomon b. Moses Alkabetz Halevi, the publisher of the 1476 edition, notes that he employed “logical reasoning” to correct textual errors in Rashi’s Torah commentary, although without indicating when he did so or explaining how he determined the text. 47 Abraham b. Hayim of Pesaro in Bologna – the first to print the Torah alongside Rashi’s Torah commentary and Targum Onkelos in 1482 – engaged Joseph Hayim Strasbourg Zarfati as the proofreader of his volumes. Zarfati wrote in his colophon: I was careful to correct the commentary of Rashi, to restore it to its pristine glory as much as possible. And this was my duty. For I knew the students would find in it rest for their souls, where the tired can find rest. Because the words which were obscured in their minds from so many errors, will now be for them as a light, and they will be sweet for them in their mouths. 48 Apart from Alkabetz’s claim to have corrected the text according to “logical reasoning,” neither of these editors explained their methodology. In her discussion of the early printed editions, Deborah à Ephraim E. Urbach: Congrès Européen Des Études Juives, ed. Efraim Elimelech Urbach and Gabrielle Sed-Rajna (Paris: Cerf, 1993), 493–500. 46 Offenberg, “Earliest Printed Editions,” 500–1. 47 Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 10. 48 As quoted in Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 10.

214 · yedida eisenstat Abecassis insightfully suggested that printers’ claims to have corrected the text reflect that potential purchasers and readers of these books were aware that the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary was corrupted. As such, a corrected text was a marketing advantage. Like their protocritical predecessors, the early printers prepared eclectic corrected texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary. Yet even printing did not fix or fully determine a single authoritative text. In Abecassis’s words: “Like the centuries of scribes and students that preceded them, the printers continued to alter and corrupt the texts in much the same way as the ‘manual’ transmitters.” 49 The comparison of these corrected and prepared early printed versions immediately shows that the text – although not necessarily the content – of each of the editors’ final products is significantly different from every other text. 50 The text of Rashi’s Torah commentary that eventually became the textus receptus is that of the 1524 second rabbinic Bible, printed by Daniel Bomberg in Venice and edited by Jacob b. Hayyim ibn Adoniyah. 51 The second rabbinic Bible was considered an improvement over the first, also printed by Bomberg in Venice between 1516 and 1517. The second edition included a better-edited biblical text, targum, the masorah, and the commentaries of Ibn Ezra and Rashi. 52 Taking account of both the accidental mistakes to which all medieval scribes – and, to a lesser extent, copyists – were subject and the purposeful interventions of copyists, one must admit that medieval and even early modern printed texts continued to be essentially vulnerable to change. 53 Every time a new manuscript copy or printed edition was produced, so, too, was a new version of the text.

49 Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 9. 50 Such a comparison is greatly facilitated by the synoptic presentation of the first three printed editions in the back of each volume of Pentateuch with Rashi Hashalem. 51 Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, introduction to Biblia Rabbinica 1525 (Jerusalem: Makor, 1972). 52 See B. Barry Levy, “Rabbinic Bibles, Mikra’ot Gedolot, and Other Great Books,” Tradition 25 (1991): 65–81. 53 Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction,” 232, wrote of the “vulnerability of texts transmitted by medieval scribes and learned copyists.”

taking stock of the text(s) · 215

THE SEARCH FOR A MORE ACCURATE TEXT: MODERN EFFORTS AT RECONSTRUCTION The text of Rashi’s Torah commentary continued to be corrected and improved – or, perhaps, corrupted – into the modern period as well, with some added twists. 54 Among scholars, there remained an awareness of the corruption of the text and of the many variants preserved in earlier manuscripts. Upon the rise of the Wissenschaft des Judentums movement in the nineteenth century, Jewish scholars took an increased interest in the northern French school of exegesis. 55 Among the products of this interest were Berliner’s two critical editions of Rashi’s Torah commentary, the first in 1866 and the second in 1905. In his introduction to the 1866 edition, he offered an explanation as to how the commentary text had become corrupt and added that, beyond the problem of interpolations, the preparers of the printed texts could not always read the hands in which the many manuscripts were written – writing styles varied centuries earlier and in far-off places – and thereby introduced even more problems into the text. 56 He also explained that he found instances in which Ramban’s or Mizrahi’s gloss explanations of Rashi’s comment were interpolated into the text. To justify his text-critical undertaking, Berliner wrote:

54 Please note that my treatment of the many editions and text versions of Rashi’s Torah commentary produced from the dawn of printing is not exhaustive. For a more in-depth treatment, see Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary.” 55 For a historiography of the study of the northern French exegetes, see Sara Japhet, “Major Trends in the Study of Medieval Jewish Exegesis in Northern France,” Trumah 9 (2000): 43–61. The classic study is the introduction to Samuel Poznanski, ĘĞ ĥđĤĕĠ ČĤģĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē Ęė ČđčĚ đĘ ēĠĝđ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ęĞĠč ĤđČĘ đČĕĢđĐ :ĤĥĞąĕĤĦđ ĘČģĒēĕ (Berlin: Mekize Nirdamim, 1913). A more recent relatively concise study of this school is Grossman, “School,” 321–71, which is an abbreviation of Grossman, ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ. 56 Note, though, that his explanation is specifically with respect to Rashi’s Torah commentary and does not make any claims regarding the general phenomena observed by Malachi Beit-Arié, Israel Ta-Shma, Shraga Abramson, and Collette Sirat described above; presumably, he was not even aware of these phenomena.

216 · yedida eisenstat And there is no doubt that any who understands the matter would recognize and acknowledge that only by comparing manuscripts and early printed editions that are closer to the time of initial authorship will there blossom hope to clarify from them the truth of the versions. And so commented the wise Zunz in his aforementioned book, 57 to say, “Anyone who wants to take on this heavy and important work must search the various manuscripts and early printed editions and the books relevant to Rashi’s commentary that they all are united in his hand.” 58 With respect to his methodology, Berliner explained: And I had a rule not to change the text within the commentary from my own opinion even when I saw in many cases as clearly as the sun in the afternoon that one or another version would be more fitting. I left nearly everything as I found it in the printed editions. Apart from this [rule] is that which I corrected in a few places [with respect to] past and future tense, male and female grammatical gender or periods to distinguish between one saying and the next, or corrections in the ordering of scriptural comments. For in many places I found that it [a comment out of order] originated as a scribal error or a printer’s error, and the next person came along and added insult to the first injury. And then the explainers arose and assumed the need to investigate why Rashi inserted a comment early and explained the biblical texts out of order, or they expounded from it whatever they expounded, but the matter is really simple, as I have written. And I did not decide of my own mind except in a few places to say, “Accept my opinion for this is the best reading in my opinion, and it is the best of them all.” Rather, I presented it to the discerning eye, and the wise one who sees will judge and choose . . . 59

57 Berliner here refers to Leopold Zunz, Zur Geschichte und Literatur (Berlin: Veit, 1845), 64. 58 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1866), x. 59 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1866), xi. I would like to thank Amit Gvaryahu for generously helping me clarify a few phrases in this passage.

taking stock of the text(s) · 217 The 1866 edition was prepared based on ten manuscripts, which Berliner identified in the volume. 60 For the 1905 jubilee second edition, he used many more. While he acknowledged that it would have been appropriate to list each manuscript he consulted, he explained that it would make the volume too long. If he listed each individually, just that information alone would be enough to fill a whole book! “For this reason, I will speak generally,” and he listed the many places where these manuscripts could be found. 61 After many more years of critical study of the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary after the publication of the 1866 first critical edition, Berliner explained the differences in his methodology between the two editions in the introduction to his 1905 edition: In the first edition of my book, I presented all the variants that I found in the manuscripts and early printed editions, and I placed them in the edition’s footnotes among my own notes. I could not do this in this second edition. For in the majority of the many books I found a great number of variants. The volume is too short to include them all, and the benefit of these is sometimes only very minimal, and more than it benefits, it rather detracts as it confuses the reader who is not an expert in [textual] criticism and prevents him from uncovering the truth that he seeks and which uplifts his soul. On the one hand, here, at the bottom of the pages of my research among all the many manuscripts and printed books, I have adapted for myself the possibility of knowing what to reject and what to include and to distinguish between the correct and essential reading and the mistaken corrupted one. And in this many-years-long endeavor into the words of Rashi, may his memory be for a blessing, and his commentaries in deep thought and investigation, my palate learned to identify the flavor of his pure speech. Therefore, there is great excitement in my soul to rely on my knowledge and to lean on my understanding. And 60 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1866), xi–xiii. Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 147, also lists these manuscripts with updated catalog information. 61 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1905), xiv. For a list of the manuscripts Berliner likely consulted in preparing this later edition, see Blondheim, “Liste,” 71–101, 155–74.

218 · yedida eisenstat it was my practice to place the more-corrected manuscripts in a line, with their different variants – this one beside this one – to determine the extent to which they agreed and how different one was from another, word by word. And the reading that I found agreed most in words and fit Rashi’s methodology with respect to [his] use of language is the one I chose and the one I put before the reader. And my hope is this: that in this way my desire has succeeded – to return Rashi’s commentary to its original in most places, its variants to [how they were in] the beginning, to purify the words, to refine them to their purest – as they were before they were corrupted. Nevertheless, there were instances in which I found a good and direct variant in only one or two manuscripts, or that I found two readings that were both equally good, or that a doubt arose in my heart with respect to whether the best variant was original or not – [in those cases] I left the reading as it was in the early printed editions, and the new reading, which according to most [witnesses] is the best and most original reading, I have added between square brackets. And the reader will embrace the one he chooses. And sometimes, with such symbols, I added variants to complete a reading we have before us that is defective, and through the addition in a manuscript, words that are closed and sealed may be understood. 62 Berliner explained that, in his first edition, he limited himself to correcting straightforward errors of grammar, gender, and sequence of comments. In the later edition, granted after spending decades engrossed in the textual criticism of Rashi’s Torah commentary, Berliner’s choices remained ultimately subjective. As he wrote, “my palate learned to identify the flavor of his pure speech.” While his project and the text he produced were unquestionably steeped in learning and engagement with the manuscripts, by current standards, the lack of a critical apparatus and their default to the 1524

62 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1905), xv, where he also footnoted a number of examples of the readings in square brackets, including but not limited to Gen 12:11, 24:29, 30:8, 35:1.

taking stock of the text(s) · 219 Bomberg text of Rashi’s Torah commentary calls the value of these texts into question. 63 In the words of Abecassis: The object of the Berliner edition was to fix the corrupted text and to establish the true text of Rashi, but while it became a standard version of the commentary, it does not represent the text of the original commentary and therefore should not be the measure by which other texts are judged. Berliner’s lack of proof for his textual choices, as well as the lack of alternate readings and objective methodology, only adds his version to the number of textual layers that need to be stripped away before the original commentary can be revealed. 64 Levy, too, questioned the value of Berliner’s 1905 edition: “Never before had anyone consulted over one hundred manuscripts and early editions in order to determine the correct text of Rashi’s commentary. And never since has anyone attempted to issue a clear statement of exactly what was contained in it as it left his hand.” 65 Given the above presentation of the current state of knowledge regarding fluid redaction and the vulnerability of texts in the hands of generations of copyists, Berliner’s explicitly stated goal, to “purify the words [of Rashi’s Torah commentary], to refine them to their purest – as they were before they were corrupted,” is untenable in that there never was an Urtext of Rashi’s Torah commentary that scholars might hope to reconstruct. 66 Further, Berliner explained that he inserted new variants in square brackets to indicate that he believed these to be “better and more original.” 67 A further methodological flaw in light of current knowledge is reflected in his explanation that

63 Deborah Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 23, explains: “Berliner’s failure to include a critical apparatus that lists alternatives to the readings he had chosen or a verifiable methodology justifying them has created a new edition of the commentary, but not necessarily the original. The reader has only Berliner’s word that he discarded the extraneous material correctly.” 64 Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 53–54. 65 Levy, “Rashi’s Commentary,” 103. 66 Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 191, reached the same conclusion. 67 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1905), xv.

220 · yedida eisenstat he judged the quality of the variants based on a majority reading. 68 Surely, some manuscripts are superior witnesses to Rashi’s Torah commentary than others and so ought not be weighted equally in this effort. Not all manuscripts were created equal. Thus, the majority reading is not a sound means of textual criticism. (Charles) Hayyim Chavel, who edited, annotated, and translated numerous medieval biblical commentaries, published an edition of Rashi’s commentary in 1981. 69 Chavel employed Berliner’s 1866 and 1905 editions, the recently reprinted Reggio de Calabria 1475 text, 70 and Oxford Bodleian 2440 71 in his effort to produce a best text of Rashi. Chavel’s eclectic text gained popularity because it was reprinted, although without his notes, in the widely used Torat Hayyim rabbinic Bible published by Mossad HaRav Kook in 1988, which continues to be reprinted. In the words of Levy, Chavel’s edition “too falls short of being the fully annotated, scholarly, desideratum.” 72 The problem of the lack of a transparent methodology and critical apparatus was not resolved even upon the publication of the more recent Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot beginning in 1992. Led by Menachem Cohen and his team at Bar-Ilan University, this project endeavored to reconstruct a best text of Rashi’s Torah commentary as part of their larger effort to prepare critical texts of rabbinic commentaries alongside the biblical text transcribed from the Aleppo Codex. 73 This newly prepared eclectic text of Rashi’s Torah commentary employed only a few selected manuscripts and, as such, is arguably an improve-

68 Berliner, ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ (1905), xv. 69 Charles B. Chavel, ed., “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ” ( Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1981). 70 Yitzhak Yosef Kohen, ed., ĐīĘĤ ĐĕĤčĘģ ĕď đĕĪĎĤ ,ěđĥČĤ ĝđĠď :ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ (Jerusalem: Makor, 1969). 71 This manuscript is also listed in the Corpus Christi catalog as MS 165. Its IMHM reel number is 20753. It was also once referred to as Neubauer 862. See Peter E. Pormann, ed., A Descriptive Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts of Corpus Christi College, Oxford (Cambridge: Brewer, 2015), 98–105. This manuscript will be discussed further below. 72 Levy, “Rashi’s Commentary,” 104. 73 The project’s website, http://mgketer.org, reads: ĐĤđďĝ ĐĔĕĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĐĎĐĜđĐ ĤĦėĐ ĘĞĠĚč ďĕĐ ĕčĦė ĤđĦĕČĘ ,ĥđĤĕĠđ ĥđĤĕĠ Ęėč ęĘđĞč ęđĕė ęĕĚĕĕģĐ ďĕĐ ĕčĦė Ęė Ęĥ ĦĕĚĎďĚ ĐģĕďčĘ Ħĕďđēĕĕđ .đĘČ ďĕ ĕčĦė ĕĠ ĘĞ ĕĠđĝĐ ĔĝģĔĐ ĦĞĕčģĘđ ,ĤđģĚĘ ęĦčĤģ ĦĜĕēčĚ ĤĦđĕč ęĕčđĔĐ

taking stock of the text(s) · 221 ment over the 1905 Berliner critical edition for which Berliner used so many manuscripts he declined to even list them. 74 Among the most significant contributions of this edition of Rashi’s Torah commentary is that, informed by Leipzig 1, they have restored the distinction between Shemaiah’s comments and Rashi’s comments by placing them in square brackets and distinguishing the interpolations as Shemaiah did in Leipzig 1, with a Īĥ ĪĤ ĪĦ, “addition of R. Shemaiah.” 75 Unfortunately, the Keter volumes do not include a critical apparatus that indicates the details of the editorial process in preparing the reconstructed text. In the introduction to the second volume, Cohen stated that a means to digitally access the manuscript variants and the edition’s apparatus would eventually be made available. 76 The release of the first volumes was met with much scholarly excitement about the project’s potential to advance the field of medieval Jewish Bible commentary. However, scholars have grown increasingly circumspect largely due to the lack of transparency regarding the project’s text-critical methodology. 77 With respect to eclectic texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary, this text is an improvement over its predecessors in that it more consistently distinguishes known interpolations from Rashi’s own comments, but, lacking any substantial critical apparatus 74 Menachem Cohen, ĦĕĥČĤč :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, ed. Menachem Cohen, 2 vols. (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 1992), 1:12, introduced the manuscript problem with regard to Rashi’s Torah commentary in his introduction to the Keter edition in the first Genesis volume and listed the manuscripts used in the preparation of the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary for the Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot. He went into more detail regarding the process of preparing the text in his introduction to the second volume of Genesis (Cohen, ĦĕĥČĤč :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, 2:7–8). The general introduction to the series is Mehahem Cohen, ęĕĔĠđĥąĞĥđĐĕ :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, ed. Menachem Cohen (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1992), 7–9. 75 This is explained in Cohen, ĦĕĥČĤč :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, 1:12. 76 Cohen, ĦĕĥČĤč :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, 1:11. See also Cohen, “ąĞĥđĐĕ :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ ęĕĔĠĥ,” 89–90. In 2017, scholars still await access to the critical apparatus, variants, and explanation of the methodology employed in producing this edition. My perusal of the project’s website yielded the critical eclectic texts of the medieval commentaries but not an apparatus. 77 One recent critique to this effect may be found in Barry Walfish, review of Song of Songs: The Traditional Hebrew Text with New JPS Translation, by Michael Fishbane, Review of Biblical Literature (May 2017), https://www.bookreviews.org/pdf/10536_13026. pdf.

222 · yedida eisenstat and transparent methodology, its utility as a best text for scholarly study of Rashi’s Torah commentary is called into question. These sometimes valiant and surely labor-intensive efforts to reconstruct a best text of Rashi’s Torah commentary reflect an earlier era of scholarship that assumed that it would be possible, through the careful and methodical comparison of extant manuscripts, to reconstruct this popular medieval Hebrew text. However, each attempt has produced yet another version of Rashi’s Torah commentary but not an authoritative text. In light of current understanding of medieval Hebrew authorship and scribal practice, textual transmission, and book production, this assumption is irretrievably flawed. A noteworthy exception to the effort to reconstruct the text may be found in Devorah Schoenfeld’s Isaac on Jewish and Christian Altars. Aware of the methodological difficulty of using the critical texts as the basis for analysis of Rashi’s Torah commentary, she acknowledged the open-book nature of medieval Hebrew textual production and explained that “Rashi was not the sole author of his commentary . . . later scribes continued to supplement his exegesis through the twelfth century.” 78 For her study of Rashi and the Glossa Ordinaria’s exegesis of Genesis 22, she supplemented the critical editions by identifying and examining thirty-one manuscripts of Rashi’s commentary on Genesis 22. She did not compile a full critical edition of all the variants because they are late textual witnesses. Rather, she identified the substantive variants that change the meaning of Rashi’s comment and presented only those. 79 This is a very reasonable strategy for dispensing with the problem of establishing a best text. It circumvents the problem by acknowledging the impossibility of purifying the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary to an original while also recognizing that the many obscure variants did not become part of the textual tradition and likely did not originate with Rashi but nevertheless exist.

78 Schoenfeld, Isaac, 3. This supplemental activity – students’ interpolations – continued well beyond the twelfth century, which Schoenfeld acknowledges (173). Her Appendix B includes a discussion of the problems with each of the critical texts. 79 Schoenfeld, Isaac, 165–66.

taking stock of the text(s) · 223 The above synopsis of the current state of knowledge regarding medieval Jewish scribal practice, manuscript production, and fluid redaction that led to multilinear production shows that texts continued to evolve long after their initial publication. Authors never intended them as final statements but as snapshots of their current thinking, as works in progress. Students and scholars alike received these texts as open-book works in progress and felt free to correct, emend, and add to them, sometimes marking their changes and sometimes not. Scribes made mistakes and omissions, and subsequent scribes copied those mistakes, while later copyists tried to correct them. Learned copyists interpolated their own ideas into their user-produced texts, which may then have been copied in due course without any effort to distinguish such insertions. Later copyists made their own protocritical eclectic editions, as did succeeding early printers and even modern scholars. Thereby, the user-produced and decentralized nature of Hebrew manuscript reproduction led to increasingly variant manuscripts. Late medieval, early modern, and modern critical efforts have produced eclectic texts that preserve Rashi’s own comments alongside the interpolations of generations of the commentary’s students and supercommentators. The wellintentioned interventions of these textual critics have only further complicated the transmission of this text. Along with the centurieslong popularity of Rashi’s Torah commentary, these factors have resulted in what can only be described as a holy textual mess. Taken together, these factors confirm the impossibility of reconstructing a best text, not least because there never was an Urtext of Rashi’s Torah commentary that scholars may hope to reconstruct. How, then, might a scholar hope to study Rashi’s own exegetical method and thought rather than the product of centuries of textual corruption? Given that there is no extant autographed manuscript and there never was an Urtext to reconstruct, as well as the inexact nature of medieval Hebrew scribal reproduction, a single early and authentic textual witness should be preferred over an eclectic text. What characteristics might scholars hope for in such a manuscript? Ideally, it would be an early manuscript, as close to Rashi’s own time as possible, the product of relatively few generations of

224 · yedida eisenstat scribal recopying; a text that distinguishes the interpolations of subsequent students or copyists from Rashi’s own comments; and because of fluid redaction and multilinear production, a text that reflects a late or the latest stage in the commentary’s development within the author’s own lifetime, that is, a late snapshot. Such an early and authentic single text would allow the modern scholar to circumvent the difficulties of textual reconstruction based on the many adulterated witnesses of Rashi’s Torah commentary. Leipzig 1 is exactly such a manuscript. 80

CONTENTS, FEATURES, AND CHARACTERISTICS OF LEIPZIG 1 Produced by a scribe named Makhir bar Karshavia, Leipzig 1 likely originated in early thirteenth-century France. Leipzig 1 is one of the earliest examples of the study Bible, defined by David Stern as codices “with more than one commentary on the page or those in which the commentary occupies so prominent a position that it is fair to assume that the Bible was produced specifically for studying

80 On this there is relative consensus. While Avraham Grossman and Israel Ta-Shma agreed that this manuscript is the best text of Rashi’s Torah commentary we could hope for, Elazar Touitou was much more skeptical. Elazar Touitou, “ēĝđĜĐ ĕĘđĎĘĎ ĘĞ ĐĤđĦĘ ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ Ęĥ”, Tarbiz 56 (1987): 211–42, had earlier written and established his minimalist position, but the debate about Leipzig 1 began with Avraham Grossman, “ĐĤđĦĘ ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ ēĝđĜđ ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, Tarbiz 60 (1990–91): 67–98. This was followed with a succession of responses: Touitou, “ĕĤđģĚĐ ēĝđĜĐ ĦČ Ȇ ĎĕĢĠĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė ğģĥĚ ęĜĚČĐ ?ĐĤđĦĘ ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ Ęĥ”, Tarbiz 61 (1991–92): 61–84, and then Grossman, “Ȇ ĎĕĢĠĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė (đĔĕđĔ ĤĒĞĘČ Ęĥ đĤĚČĚĘ ĐčđĎĦ) ĐĤđĦĘ ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ đĥđĤĕĠđ”, Tarbiz 61 (1991–92): 305–15. The last word on the question was Touitou, “ēĝđĜĐ ĤđĒēĥĘ Ȇ ĎĕĢĠĕĕĘ ĕīė Ęĥ ĦĕĤĥĠČĐ đĦĚđĤĦ ěĚĝđĤĎ ęĐĤčČĘ ĐčđĥĦ À ĐĤđĦĘ ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ Ęĥ ĕĤđģĚĐ”, Tarbiz 62 (1993): 297–303. Ta-Shma, “‘Open Book,’” 19, appears to agree with Grossman. For brief summaries of this debate, see Yedida Eisenstat, “Rashi’s Midrashic Anthology: The Torah Commentary Re-Examined” (PhD diss., Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2014), 51–61 and Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 27–28, 32. Note, though, that this debate took place for the most part before Beit-Arié, Sirat, and Ta-Shma published their analyses of the nature of medieval Hebrew manuscript reproduction, which are outlined above.

taking stock of the text(s) · 225 that commentary with it.” 81 The manuscript contains the text of the Pentateuch; the haftarot readings at the end of each parashah; Targum Onkelos; passages from Targum Yerushalmi; Makhir’s notes on the text of the Torah and the targumim from other manuscripts before him; Rashi’s Torah commentary; Rashi’s commentary on the haftarot; Shemaiah’s notes on Rashi’s Torah commentary; 82 a few of Makhir’s notes on Rashi’s Torah commentary, which also include the comments of his father, R. Karshavia; and the five megillot, along with Rashi’s commentaries on them. Avraham Grossman provided three primary reasons why Leipzig 1 should be considered the closest version to Rashi’s own Torah commentary, the first of which is the manuscript’s early date, established along two lines. Grossman identified two prominent figures with the name Karshavia in the thirteenth century, one earlier and the other later, either (or neither) of whom may have been Makhir’s father. More importantly, the manuscript’s codicological features, assessed by Beit-Arié, also point to its production in the first half of the thirteenth century. The surface of its parchment was lined with a hard point, so it must have preceded the mid-thirteenth century, when parchment preparers in northern Europe began to line their surfaces with a light-colored ink. 83 According to the manuscript’s internal testimony, Leipzig 1 purports to be a near duplicate of its model text, Shemaiah’s own copy of Rashi’s Torah commentary, 84 in which Shemaiah distinguished 81 David Stern, “The Hebrew Bible in Europe in the Middle Ages: A Preliminary Typology,” Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal 11 (2012): 68. MS Leipzig 1 is also briefly treated in Stern, The Jewish Bible: A Material History (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2017), 117–18, 123. 82 See Grossman, “ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 70; Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”; and Jordan S. Penkower, “ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ đĥđĤĕĠĘ ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ”, in ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ,ĦđĜđĥĘč .ČĤģĚč ęĕĤģēĚ :ĤĕČĚĘ ĤđČ ĐĜĥ ĥĚēđ ęĕĥĕĥ đĘ ĦđČĘĚč ĤčđĤĎ ĤĕČĚĘ ęĕĥĎĕĚ ĦđģĕĦĞ ĦđĕđčĤĦčđ, ed. Yona Shamir (Beer Sheva: Ben-Gurion University, 2010). 83 Grossman, “ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 92 n. 63, mentions that Beit-Arié established the dating of the manuscript. See also Grossman, “1 ĎĕĢĠĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė”, 314 n. 22. I am grateful to Malachi Beit-Arié for explaining this element of the dating of MS Leipzig 1 to me at the Manfred R. Lehmann Memorial Master Workshop in the History of the Jewish Book at the Katz Center for Jewish Studies in May 2013. 84 Some of the places where Makhir claims to be copying from R. Shemaiah’s copy

226 · yedida eisenstat between his own interpolations and Rashi’s. For this reason, Leipzig 1 allows for the discernment of a relatively uncorrupted text of Rashi’s Torah commentary because Makhir endeavored to duplicate his model including Shemaiah’s notations of interpolation, ĪĤ ĦĠĝđĦ ĐĕĞĚĥ, “addition of R. Shemaiah.” As shown above regarding the examples of Shemaiah’s interpolated glosses on Exodus 3:15 and 3:18, the distinctions between R. Shemaiah’s interpolations and Rashi’s own comments are elided in later copies and manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary. 85 Beyond Makhir’s effort to distinguish Shemaiah’s interpolations from Rashi’s own text, Makhir also annotated instances in which one might doubt the text of Rashi’s comment as he presented it. For example, on folio 16b of Leipzig 1, a well-known comment of Rashi’s on Genesis 22:17 is crossed out with an X. 86 In this crossedout comment, Rashi ascribed meaning to the double use of the verb “to bless” in the infinitive absolute in God’s promise to bless Abraham after his near-sacrifice of Isaac, ĖėĤčČ ĖĤč, “surely I shall bless you [Abraham].” Rashi explained that there was one blessing for Abraham himself, the father, and one blessing for the son, Isaac. Makhir’s note that accompanies the crossed-out comment informs us that “Rabbi Shemaiah erased ģēĚ all this,” which, because Makhir was able to copy it, probably means that the comment was crossed out in Shemaiah’s text, too, just as Makhir copied it. That Makhir copied the crossed-out comment as it appeared in Shemaiah’s model of Rashi’s Torah commentary are in the margins of Rashi’s comments in Leipzig 1 on Gen 35:13 (31a), Gen 36:43 (32b), and Num 12:13 (133b). See also the crossed-out comment on Gen 22:17 (16b) where Makhir notes that the comment is also crossed out in R. Shemaiah’s model. 85 As noted above, one of the contributions of the Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot project is their reinstitution of the distinction between R. Shemaiah’s interpolated comments from those of Rashi, presumably based on the evidence of Leipzig 1. Shemaiah’s comments are printed in square brackets marking them as a ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦĠĝđĦ. See Cohen, ĦĕĥČĤč :ĤĦėĐ ĦđĘđďĎ ĦđČĤģĚ, 1:12. See also Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 185–86; Grossman, “ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”; and Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 188–90. 86 This comment appears in most texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary without any indication of Rashi’s effective deletion of it. Reggio de Calabria 1475, Guadelajara 1476, Bomberg 1524, Berliner 1866 and 1905, and the Keter Miqra’ot Gedolot all include this text. Rome does not.

taking stock of the text(s) · 227 text reflects Makhir’s effort to duplicate the text. On folio 31a, Makhir noted regarding the interpolation he included on Genesis 35:13 “thus I copied from the manuscript of Rabbi Shemaiah” (ĪĦėĚ ĕĦģĦĞĐ Ėė ĐĕĞĚĥ đĜčĤ ďĕ). So, too, many such annotations appear in the places where Makhir sought to reinforce the authenticity of Leipzig 1 by reminding the reader that Shemaiah’s text was his model. 87 These notes suggest that Makhir was quite careful in his effort to copy Shemaiah’s model. In the rare instance in which Makhir was forced to offer a text that differed from his model, he appears to have indicated as much. On fol. 161a, Makhir reported that the corner of the page of his model was torn, and that he copied Rashi’s comments on Numbers 34:7–9 from another manuscript. 88 On fol. 160b, Makhir explained that he changed the direction of the text of the verse that appears underneath the map on that page from upside down to right side up. 89 So, too, on fol. 75b, Makhir noted that he moved Rashi’s summary description of the ephod, which, in Shemaiah’s model text, appeared at the end of his commentary on Exodus 28:6. Jordan Penkower has suggested that Makhir’s different placement of this comment is proof that he consulted and took into consideration manuscripts other than Shemaiah’s model even when not explicitly stated. 90 However, contra Penkower, Makhir’s annotations of these instances support the contention that Makhir indicated when he differed from Shemaiah’s model text, as he did in the above examples. Given Makhir’s annotations that testify to his efforts to effectively duplicate Shemaiah’s model, he also carefully noted those places where he differed from it. 87 One may see these quite easily by perusing Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”. See discussion of these notes in Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 189–90. 88 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 369–70, discusses Makhir’s use of other manuscripts to supplement Shemaiah’s text, as does Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 188. 89 For Makhir’s change of the direction of the text underneath the map, see Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē, 207–9. 90 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 368–73, discusses how Makhir consults other manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary to inform the text Makhir reproduced in Leipzig 1. This discussion comes in the context of what Penkower shows is Makhir’s different placement of Rashi’s summary description of the ephod relative to Shemaiah’s placement.

228 · yedida eisenstat Makhir the scribe claims to have copied his text from R. Shemaiah’s own manuscript of Rashi’s Torah commentary. Grossman hypothesized that because R. Shemaiah was Rashi’s secretary and none of the notations marking Rashi’s emendations are followed by a blessing for the dead (ĐėĤčĘ đĜđĤėĒ, “may his memory be a blessing”), R. Shemaiah likely produced his copy during Rashi’s lifetime. 91 If this is the case, the text of Rashi’s Torah commentary extant in Leipzig 1 likely harks back to the late eleventh century. Given Shemaiah’s close relationship with Rashi presumably until the end of Rashi’s life, Shemaiah’s text likely includes Rashi’s last emendations. Leipzig 1 is thus superior to other extant manuscripts of Rashi’s Torah commentary in that it contains a text that is the closest scholars will likely ever get to a late or final version of Rashi’s own text of his Torah commentary. In addition to the reasons Grossman offered for assuming the reliability of Leipzig 1 as a witness to Rashi’s thought, another feature to recommend it is the presence of Rashi’s maps. In Rashbam’s comment on Numbers 34:2, he noted that “our teacher, my grandfather, explained and drew borders, ěĕĚđēĦ ĤĕĕĢđ ĥĤĕĠ ĕĜĕģĒ đĜĕčĤ.” But these maps were never printed, which Mayer Gruber showed is because they were not in the manuscripts from which the early printers prepared their texts. Scribes and copyists had earlier ceased to copy Rashi’s maps. Gruber showed that, at a relatively early stage, a scribe left a space in his copy into which he expected an artist to subsequently copy Rashi’s diagram. The diagram was never copied, and subsequent scribes eliminated the space and eventually the textual tag indicating that an image was to follow. The result of their absence from the manuscripts was their absence from the printed editions. 92 91 Grossman, “ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 80. 92 For a more detailed summary of this process, see Abecassis, “Reconstructing Rashi’s Commentary,” 12–13. Mayer I. Gruber’s work on this topic includes Gruber, “What Happened to Rashi’s Pictures?” Bodleian Library Record 14 (1992): 111–24; Catherine Delano-Smith and Gruber, “Rashi’s Legacy: Maps of the Holy Land,” Map Collector 59 (1992): 30–36; and Gruber, “Light on Rashi’s Diagrams from the Asher Library of Spertus College of Judaica,” in The Solomon Goldman Lectures vi: Perspectives in Jewish Learning, ed. Nathaniel Stampfer (Chicago: Spertus College of Judaica, 1993), 73–85. There is no question as to the printer’s technical ability to print maps because diagrams from Rashi’s Talmud commentaries were printed.

taking stock of the text(s) · 229 To some extent, the absence (for the most part) of Rashi’s emendations extant in Leipzig 1 from the textual tradition of the Torah commentary may be accounted for as a function of fluid redaction and multilinear production. Scribes and copyists reproduced texts of Rashi’s Torah commentary from its initial release and throughout its period of development during and after Rashi’s life. According to Makhir and Shemaiah, they preserved the record of Rashi’s textual emendations likely until the text’s latest stage of development during Rashi’s life. Berliner began a list of the places in Leipzig 1 that preserved such an emendation but presented only select examples. 93 Grossman likewise sought to expand the list, but the most exhaustive treatment belongs to Penkower. 94 In his view, Leipzig 1 includes eighty-two places that record Rashi’s emendations. 95 He classified the eighty-two emendations into seven different types: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

additions according to rabbinic literature; clarifications of linguistic matters; clarifications regarding the general meaning of the verse; expansions and clarification of his original comment; interpolations of an old French translation (ĒĞĘ) for clarification; a few notes that explain the borders of Israel, and additions that are similar to other comments of Rashi’s elsewhere in the commentary. 96 Penkower’s distribution shows that Rashi’s emendations were more frequent in the last three books of the Torah: Genesis: 3, Exodus: 2, Leviticus: 14, Numbers: 29, Deuteronomy: 34. 97 Penkower and his researchers also investigated whether Rashi’s own emendations are reflected in later textual witnesses: twenty-two manuscripts, nine incunabulae, and two early printed editions. They concluded that these manuscripts and printed editions include fewer than one quar-

93 Avraham Berliner, “ĕīĥĤ ĥđĤĕĠ ĦđďĘđĦĘ”, in Sefer Rashi, ed. Y. L. Maimon (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1956), 129–64, esp. 135–37 for Rashi’s emendations to the text. 94 Grossman, “ĐĕĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”. 95 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”. 96 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 179. 97 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 144.

230 · yedida eisenstat ter of Rashi’s emendations at most, and none of them indicate that these were later changes to the text. 98 Thereby, Penkower further showed the importance of Leipzig 1 for reconstructing those comments that Rashi changed and also showed that the vast majority of those changes are not reflected in the printed editions. This further supports the case that scholars ought to employ the text of the Torah commentary extant in Leipzig 1 as the most complete, reliable, and latest snapshot version of Rashi’s own text. Despite this conclusion, Penkower’s subsequent work also shows that scholars ought not rely only on Leipzig 1. While it is the best text, it does not paint the whole picture. 99 Bodleian 2440 is one of the oldest extant manuscripts of Rashi’s biblical commentaries that dates to perhaps as early as 1200 ce. 100 It contains fifteen annotations of changes to the commentary, three of which are marked with “from the mouth of my teacher,” ĪĤ ĪĚ, namely, Rashi himself, and not all of which appear in Leipzig 1. 101 He thereby showed that at least one manuscript other than Leipzig 1 contains evidence of Rashi’s changes to his commentary and that not all such changes are reflected in Leipzig 1. Penkower’s work suggests Leipzig 1 ought not be relied on alone to establish a best text of Rashi’s Torah commentary, and that perhaps a reconstructed text based on textual witnesses that preserve annotations like ĪĤ ĪĚ would be superior to a diplomatic text based only on Leipzig 1, although this would require an editor to articulate 98 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 146 and 185. 99 Penkower, ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”. 100 Peter Kidd, 500 Years: Treasures From the Library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford (London: Scala Arts and Heritage Publishers, 2017), 38, explains: “This manuscript’s past seems to be laced with larceny. It was given to the College in 1540 by Richard Collier, who claims in an inscription that he had obtained it from a former rector of Biddendan, in Kent. Within the book, however, are annotations in the handwriting of Robert Wakefield (d. 1538?), a gifted Hebraist who had some of his books stolen by a man named Richard Collier, vicar of Sittingborne (less than 20 miles from Biddenden). Wakefield, in turn, seems to have stolen at least one of his Hebrew manuscripts from Ramsey Abbey, a medieval centre of Hebrew scholarship, and it is thus possible that the present one comes from the same source.” 101 Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 181; Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 374. See notes 71 and 100 above. This was the second category of analysis in Penkower, “ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ”, 374–88.

taking stock of the text(s) · 231 a methodologically sound process for her textual reconstruction. Whatever the eclectic product, it remains inauthentic in that it is not truly a reflection of a single real medieval text. 102 The obvious solution to this would be a diplomatic text based on Leipzig 1 with an apparatus for such noteworthy variants as are preserved in, for example, Bodleian 2440. 103

CONCLUSION The incredible popularity of Rashi’s Torah commentary and the peculiar features of medieval Hebrew manuscript authorship and production – fluid redaction, multilinear text reproduction, the freedom scribes felt to improve their texts, scribal protocritical activity – followed by the critical efforts of the early publishers, challenge the student and scholar of Rashi’s Torah commentary to interrogate the text. A number of Leipzig 1’s features support its employ as the diplomatic basis of an authentic text of Rashi’s Torah commentary: its relatively early date; that it reflects the particular features of medieval Hebrew scribal practice; the great lengths to which Makhir went to distinguish Rashi’s own comments and emendations from Shemaiah’s interpolations; the likely late stage of textual development (although still within Rashi’s own lifetime); the presence of original maps, and the fact that the majority of Rashi’s own emendations are not reflected in subsequent manuscripts and printed editions of 102 Penkower also demonstrates the utility of examining manuscripts other than Leipzig 1 to identify places where Rashi updated his commentary and the many and unpredictable ways Rashi emended his comments. While insights into the development of particular comments are in themselves interesting and have the potential to resolve riddles and seeming problematic inconsistencies within the text, these are beyond our concern here. The question of the text’s development concerns us here only inasmuch as it relates to the possibility of establishing a usable text of Rashi’s Torah commentary upon which to base analysis of his exegesis and methodology. 103 Note, though, that, as mentioned above, Bodleian 2440 preserves fewer changes to the commentary, and that the fourth category of analysis in Penkower, “ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĐĎĐ ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ” is updated comments of Rashi’s that appear in Leipzig with a notation of “so I heard” but without such an annotation in Bodleian 2440.

232 · yedida eisenstat Rashi’s Torah commentary. The text of Rashi’s Torah commentary found in Leipzig 1 is not a perfect text, but no such text exists, nor can such a text be reconstructed. Ironically, the very popularity of Rashi’s Torah commentary is the source of the trouble. Early awareness of interpolations and textual corruption on the part of learned scribes motivated their initial protocritical efforts to improve their texts, an effort that continues to this day. 104 While earlier scholarship was, to a limited degree, aware of the problems involved in reproducing and transmitting Rashi’s commentary, what is now known of Hebrew scribal practice and material book culture makes clear that undoing centuries of corruption and emendation to return to an original is impossible – even if an Urtext had once existed. Given the absence of clearly articulated and sound methodological principles of textual reconstruction, these improved editions are each the subjective product of their respective editor(s) and do not purify the adulterated text nor reveal the original Rashi. The advantage of employing a diplomatic text of Leipzig 1 in consultation with other excellent textual witnesses is that studies of Rashi’s Torah commentary are then based on an authentic text – albeit not necessarily a perfect one – that reflects the eccentric features of medieval textual production and reproduction. Without Rashi’s own autograph of this text, there is no perfect text. Given that Leipzig 1 is a relatively early textual witness that distinguishes between Rashi’s own comments and textual interpolations and even preserves comments that Rashi subsequently emended, this manuscript is the best extant witness to an authentic early text of Rashi’s Torah commentary. As such, it allows us to circumvent the pitfalls of eclectic textual reconstruction. Leipzig 1 is a unique treasure of history, one that permits us a long-exposure image of the development of Rashi’s Torah commentary and thus may soundly serve, in consultation with other excellent witnesses, as the basis for scholarly study of Rashi’s Torah commentary. 104 alhatorah.org is reconstructing yet another text of Rashi’s Torah commentary for their online Miqra’ot Gedolot. This text is separate from their transcribed text of Leipzig 1.

“The Earth is Only for the Strong”: Interpretations of b. Sanhedrin 58b in High Medieval Europe Jesse Abelman yeshiva university

The most distinctive memory I have of Professor Levy as a mentor comes from a class I took with him in the winter semester of my second year as an undergraduate. The previous semester I had taken the first half of his full-year graduate sequence for MA students. As an undergraduate, the class was grueling. The required reading for each meeting – and the parallel expectation for the amount we as students needed to absorb before even arriving in the classroom – was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was challenging and exhilarating, but it was also exhausting. I decided I could not handle the second semester immediately and resolved to take it the following year, but I did not want to surrender the experience of studying with Professor Levy. Consequently, I enrolled in a 300-level undergraduate course he taught on scriptural interpretation across religions. When Professor Levy saw me in class on the first day, he said only one sentence: “You do not belong here.” This seemed harsh, and I did not take it well at first. I explained my rationale defensively. Professor Levy was understanding, but I do not think he changed his evaluation. I finished out the semester, did an independent study with him the following semester, and finally completed the graduate seminar during my third year. But that one sentence remained with me. Although sharp, it carried with it Professor Levy’s high expectations for his students, his desire for us to push and challenge ourselves to grow, and, of course, his skill in pushing us to exactly those limits through which 233

234 · jesse abelman we could most effectively grow. We may have disagreed on what my limits were in that moment, but he never stopped believing in my potential. Even in the context of a class he felt was below my level, Professor Levy pushed me to challenge myself and work harder than I had before. This is one of his greatest gifts as a teacher: to remind his students that we can do more, push harder, learn more deeply. Professor Levy’s seminars introduced me to reception history as a field, and I owe him thanks for where I am today. The final project for that full-year graduate seminar is a paper in which the interpretation of a single biblical verse is traced in depth through Jewish history. In that spirit, if on a smaller scale, I here focus on a single short passage in the Babylonian Talmud (which itself is engaged in the interpretation of Scripture) and note the varieties of its interpretation during a two-hundred-year period. “Legal interpretation is either played out upon the field of pain and death or it is something less (or more) than law.” 1 This insight, says Robert Cover, is too often overlooked by those of us who study the hermeneutical tools used by jurists, who insist on recognizing the central role language and its interpretation play in legal decision making. This is even more true, I suspect, for those of us who study the history of law, especially a legal system as rich with overtly interpretative material as halakhah. Nevertheless, Cover argues, we must never forget this central fact, as judges certainly never do, that law depends on violence. 2 As a result, “legal interpretation is 1) a practical activity 2) designed to generate credible threats and actual deeds of violence 3) in an effective way.” 3 Leaving aside the question of whether Jewish courts ever had coercive power to the extent that Cover imputes to judges, in most cases their interpretations needed to maintain these standards in order to be viewed by their public as credible, viable venues for the resolution of their disputes. The perennial problem of creating legal interpretation that is effectively and credibly enforceable by the violence available to the 1 Robert Cover, “Violence and the Word,” Yale Law Journal 95, no. 8 (1986): 1606–7. 2 Cover, “Violence,” 1601–2. 3 Cover, “Violence,” 1610.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 235 court was especially acute during the Middle Ages among the jurists of the northern French and German communities. Two sets of factors contributed to this, one related to the authority of texts and the other to the authority of courts. The question of which texts to interpret and what methods to use was knotty. Their core authoritative text was the Babylonian Talmud, but its role was complicated, and it competed with established custom as a source of law. 4 Even within the Talmud itself, the question of what passages should be read as authoritative legal texts is not simple. 5 Additionally, the authority of Jewish courts relative to non-Jewish courts, as well as other means of conflict resolution, could not be taken for granted by Jewish jurists. 6 Although these problems existed in other communities to some extent, the particular combination of textual and legal uncertainty lent particular urgency to the situation in France and Germany in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The variety of interpretations of a brief passage in the Babylonian Talmud, b. Sanhedrin 58b, by high medieval Jewish jurists in northern France and Germany provides an interesting case study of the means by which Jewish jurists navigated these dangerous shoals. This passage, which addresses how to treat a person who has 4 On the question of the authority of the Babylonian Talmud in medieval Ashkenaz, see Talya Fishman, Becoming the People of the Talmud: Oral Tradition as Written Torah in Medieval Jewish Cultures (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013); Haym Soloveitchik, “The Authority of the Babylonian Talmud and the Use of Biblical Verses and Aggadah in Early Ashkenaz,” in Collected Essays, 2 vols. (Portland, OR: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2013–14), 2:70–101; Avraham Grossman, “ěĕč đĜĦĦč ęĥĐ ĥďĕģĘ ĕĦĤčēĐđ ĕĦđčĤĦĐ ĞģĤĐ : ȆȅȎȋ ěĕčĘ ȆȅȆȇ ,” in čĘĢĐ ĘđĚ ęĕďđĐĕ , ed. Yom Tov Assis (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), 55–73. 5 Soloveitchik, “Authority”; Israel M. Ta-Shma, “ĦĘČĥĘ :ęĥĐ ĥđďĕģ ĘĞ ĦĘđĒĐ ēĢĤđ ĦđďčČĦĐ čĘĢĐ ĘđĚ ęĕďđĐĕ ĦĘČ ĦĕĒĜėĥČĐ ĐģĕĝĠĐ ĦĤđĝĚč ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĚđģĚ”, in čĘĢĐ ĘđĚ ęĕďđĐĕ, ed. Yom Tov Assis ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), 150–56; Haym Soloveitchik, “Halakhah, Hermeneutics and Martyrdom in Ashkenaz,” Jewish Quarterly Review 94 (2004): 77–108, 278–97; Israel M. Ta-Shma, “ĐĠģđĦĘ :ĤĝđĚ ěĕďč ěģĒĐ ĕīĤ ĦčđĥĦ ĦĕĒĜėĥČĐ ĐėĘĐč ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ”, in ęĕĤģēĚ ĦĝĜė :ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ĦĕĜčĤĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĜđĕĞ, ed. Yeheszkel Hovav, 4 vols. (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2004–10), 4:159–69; and Haym Soloveitchik, “On the Use of Aggadah by the Tosafists: A Response to I. M. Ta-Shma,” in Collected Essays, 2 vols. (Portland, OR: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2013–14), 2:101–5. 6 Rachel Furst, “Striving for Justice: A History of Women and Litigation in the Jewish Courts of Medieval Ashkenaz” (PhD diss., Hebrew University, 2015), 20–70.

236 · jesse abelman threatened to strike his fellow but has not hit him, is discussed in several distinct ways by medieval Ashkenazi rabbis. The text itself is of ambiguous legal standing; it reads as didactic rather than legal, but it at least in part suggests a punishment for a crime. Should this be taken as prescriptive? It discusses the threat of violence and, in turn, threatens violence to the perpetrator, but did Jewish jurists have the ability to credibly follow through on that threat to the same extent that strongmen in their communities might? Surveying the interpretations of this passage opens up the world of medieval Ashkenazi legal thinking. ĤĚČĜĥ ,ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ À đĐėĐ ČĘĥ ĕĠ ĘĞ ğČ ,đĤĕčē ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ :ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĤĚČ ĘĞ ğČ ,ĐėĦ ĐĚĘ ČĘČ ,ĤĚČĜ ČĘ ĦĕėĐ ĐĚĘ ,ĖĞĤ ĐėĦ ĐĚĘ ĞĥĤĘ ĤĚČĕđ (Ďĕ:č ĦđĚĥ) ĘČđĚĥ) ĤĚČĜĥ ,ČĔđē ČĤģĜ :ČĜĕĜē ĕčĤ ĤĚČ ĕĤĕĞĒ (ĤĚČ) ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ đĐėĐ ČĘĥ ĕĠ ĐĘđďĎ ęĕĤĞĜĐ ĦČĔē ĕĐĦđ (đĘ:Īč ĪČ ĘČđĚĥ)čĕĦėđ ĐģĒēč ĕĦēģĘ ČĘ ęČđ (đĘ:Īč ĪČ ČĜđĐ čĤ .ĤčĥĦ ĐĚĤ ĞđĤĒđ (đĔ:ēīĘ čđĕČ ĤĚČĜĥ) ,đďĕ ġĢģĕĦ :ĤĚČ ČĜđĐ čĤ .ďČĚ ĥĕČđ (ē:čīė čđĕČ )ĤĚČĜĥ ,ĐĤđčģ ČĘČ ĐĜģĦ đĘ ěĕČ :ĤĚđČ ĤĒĞĘČ ĕčĤ .Čďĕ ġģ ġĤČĐ đĘ ĞđĤĒ Resh Laqish said: “One who raises his fist to his fellow, even though he did not strike him, is called a wicked man, as it is said (Exod 2:13) ‘Then [Moses] said to the wicked man, “Why will 7 you strike him?”’ ‘Why did you strike’ [in the past tense] is not written, rather ‘Why will you strike?’ [Thus], even though he did not strike him, he is called wicked.” Ze’iri said in the name of R. Haninah: “He is called a sinner, as it is said (1 Sam 2:36) ‘I will take it by force’ and it is written ‘the sin of the youths was very great’ (1 Sam 2:36).” R. Huna said: “His hand should be cut off, as it is said, (Job 38:15) ‘and a raised hand should be broken.’” R. Huna would cut off his hand. R. Eli’ezer said: “He has no remedy but death, as it says (Job 22:8) ‘The earth belongs to the strong.’” 8 7 The imperfect ĐėĦ is treated by Resh Laqish as future tense, although it would be more accurately translated as, “Why are you striking your fellow?” in this context. 8 b. Sanhedrin 58b. All translations of talmudic and medieval sources are my own; biblical translations are also my own but done with reference to Tanakh (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1917). This is another practical insight I attribute to Professor Levy: use the 1917 JPS translation when working with rabbinic exegesis of the Bible.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 237 This brief passage in the Babylonian Talmud addresses a threat of physical violence that is not carried out. The passage has four separate opinions about the status of a person who threatens violence without following through on his threats. The first two discuss his personal status: what sort of human being is he? Resh Laqish, by reading Moses’s statement to the quarreling Hebrew in Exodus 2:13 hyperliterally, 9 determines that he has yet to hit his fellow, and thus that even one who has only threatened violence is considered “wicked,” as the Egyptian slave driver is. Ze’iri reads the story of the sons of Eli, which includes the threat of violence and the statement that they committed great sins. Consequently, he calls one who threatens violence a sinner. Although the possibility exists that being classified as either a wicked person or as a sinner may have practical or legal consequences (and, as we shall see, some jurists have understood the text in this way), there is no prima facie reason for this to be case. The following two opinions present remedies for the person making the threat, although the intended effect of the remedies is unclear, whether punishment, atonement, or something else. It is also possible that the remedies should not be understood literally as actions to be taken against the threatener. Rather, they may be read as hyperbolic statements designed to highlight the severity of the act. R. Huna says that his hand should be cut off based on a straightforward, if noncontextual, reading of Job 38:15. Based on Job 22:8, R. Eli’ezer says his only remedy is the grave, reading “The earth is only for the strong.” He implies that the strong – those who make use of violence and physical force – will be buried in the earth. This should not be taken literally, because imposing the death penalty for merely making a threat is disproportionately severe and has no precedent in Jewish law. Given this context, I suspect that R. Huna’s statement should also be taken as hyperbolic. This passage reads not as a legal passage, which is intended to have normative force, but rather as didactic. The first half uses the 9 The concept of hyperliteral reading as a form of midrashic interpretation was first introduced to me in Professor Levy’s seminar room.

238 · jesse abelman epithets “wicked” and “sinner” to refer to the threatener rather than imposing any explicit penalty. Equally, the hyperbole of the second half should not be taken at face value as penalties that were intended to be imposed by a court. A reasonable parallel to this passage is the passage on b. Arakhin 15b, which reads: ČėĐ čĕĦė ěčČč đĘģđĝĘ ĕđČĤ ĞĤĐ ěđĥĘ ĤĠĝĚĐ Ęė ČčģđĞ ĤĚ ĤĚČ Čďĝē čĤ ĤĚČ ĕč ěčČ đďĕđ ĕĕē Ĥđčč đĦĚĢ ęĦĐ čĕĦėđ ĦĕĚĢČ đĦđČ R. Hisda said in the name of Mar ‘Ukva: “Anyone who speaks wicked language, 10 it is appropriate to stone him with stones, as it says here (Ps 101:5): ‘Him I will destroy’ and it says there (Lam 3:53) ‘they have ended my life in a pit and cast stones at me.’” Although R. Hisda says that those who speak wickedly should be stoned, this passage has never been read literally to impose the death penalty on gossips. In context, surrounded by other such hyperbolic statements about wicked speech, this statement should be read as a didactic tool to express the seriousness with which the prohibition against wicked speech should be taken. The passage on b. Sanhedrin 58b should be read similarly. Indeed, this is how Sefer Hasidim understands the passage. Sefer Hasidim, which dates sometime from the late twelfth to the early thirteenth centuries discusses this passage in a moral/didactic mode. 11 đĤĚČđ ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ ďĕ ĦĚĤĐčđ đĐėĐ ČĘ (Ďīĕ Īč ĦđĚĥ) ĖĞĤ ĐėĦ ĐĚĘ ĞĥĤĘ ĤĚČĕđ Ęĥ đĕēĘ ĐėĚĐ Ęė ĪĕĠ ĐĜĕėĥ Ęĥ đĞđĘ ĤĔđĝ đĘČė đĤĕčē Ęĥ đĞđĘ ĤĔđĝĐ Ęė ęĕĚėē ČĘČ ĐĜģĦ đĘ ěĕČđ ĐĜĕėĥĐ ĐėĐ đĘČė (Īč Ďīė ĕĘĥĚ) ĖĞđĘč ěĕėĝ ĦĚĥđ đĚė ĘČĤĥĕ ĤđĚĥđ ĤĐĒĐ ęďČ ěč ĐĦČ ěėĘđ .ĤčĥĦ ĐĚĤ ĞđĤĒđ (đīĔ ēīĘ čđĕČ) ĤĚČĜĥ đďĕ ĦĢĕĢģ ĘĞ ČĘ ęČ ęĕĘđďĎ ěĐ ęĕĜĔģ ěĐ ĐĥČ ĘĞ ČĘđ ĥĕČ ĘĞ ČĘ Ėďĕ ęđĤĦ ěĠ ďđČĚ ĖĥĠĜ đĜĕčĤ ĦĜģĦ ĘĞ ĤčĞĥ ęĕĥĜ ĕĦĥ ČĥĜĥ ĥĕČė ĦđĥĞĘ ĖčĘč čđĥēđ .đēĕėđĐĘ ĖĜč ĤĦđĕ đĦđďĜĘđ đďĤĔĘ ČđĐ ĕđČĤ ĥĕČĐ đĦđČ ğđĢē ĐĚė đĕĘĞ ęĕĤĚđČ ęĘđĞĐ Ęė ęđĥĤĎ .Ďīĕ ěč ĪĕĐ ČĘ ĪĕĠČđ đĕĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ ęĎđ đĤĕčē ĦČ ĐėĚĐ ĤčđĞ ĐĒĚ ĤĦđĕđ 10 “Wicked language” would more typically be translated as “gossip,” but I have chosen in this instance to translate it literally to emphasize the quality of wickedness. 11 On Sefer Hasidim and its cultural milieu, see Ivan Marcus, Piety and Society (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1981), 1–20.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 239 Then he said to the wicked man, “Why will you strike your fellow?” (Exod 2:13). He did not strike him, and he is called a wicked man for raising his hand. The sages said: “Anyone who strikes his fellow’s jaw, it is as if he struck the jaw of the Divine Presence.” 12 This means anyone who hits the jaw of a Jew, it is like “And you should place a knife at your throat” (Prov 23:2). It is as if he hit the Divine Presence, and there is no remedy except the amputation of his hand, as it says: “A raised hand should be broken” ( Job 28:15). And thus you, human, should be careful, and watch yourself very much lest you raise your hand, either against a man, or a woman, adults or children, except against your child in order to punish him. Consider yourself to act as a man who married two women, who violated the decree of Rabbenu Gershom, about whom the entire world says: “How brazen is that man, it is appropriate to harass him and to excommunicate him more.” One who strikes his fellow violates more than this, as does one who raises his hand to him, even if he is younger than thirteen. 13 Two features stand out in this treatment. The first is the way in which the separate elements of the passage, including the line immediately before it, are combined and homogenized. Each of the statements found in the Talmud except R. Eli’ezer’s are included in Sefer Hasidim’s discussion, although none of the talmudic rabbis are mentioned by name. This severity is emphasized by means of equating several different statements on b. Sanhedrin 58b. Threat in our passage is equated with the physical striking of another human being mentioned in the adjacent passage, which itself equates violence with striking the Divine Presence. This equation becomes the justification for R. Huna’s suggestion that the threatener’s hand should be cut off. A threat is just like the act threatened, which itself is an attack on the divine. Such an attack deserves the severest of punishments: the destruction of the weapon, in this case, the hand. However, Sefer Hasidim steps back from suggesting that a hand actually be cut 12 b. Sanhedrin 58b. This is the line which immediately precedes our passage. 13 ęĕďĕĝē ĤĠĝ ( Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1957), section 49.

240 · jesse abelman off. Instead, a different paradigm is provided as a means to guard against threats. The reader is cautioned to view himself or herself as worse than a violator of R. Gershom’s decree against polygamy, 14 which leads to excommunication and public humiliation. In some ways the ruling by Meir b. Baruch of Rothenberg (Maharam) echoes this. He rules that public humiliation should be imposed on the threatener externally, as Sefer Hasidim rules that it should be feared internally. This is not because it is a likely consequence of the action, but because the act is so severe that its perpetrator should rightly be ashamed of himself. This fear of humiliation will keep the reader from committing the crime. Yet Sefer Ḥasidim is exceptional in this regard. The passage on b. Sanhedrin 58b received significant attention in the halakhic literature of northern France and Germany during the High Middle Ages, and this literature for the most part takes the passage as a source for the legal rulings of judges. In Sefer Ra’avan, R. Eli’ezer b. Natan (Ra’avan) issued a legal ruling based on the statement of Resh Laqish that was clearly intended for implementation. Ra’avan’s ruling is disputed by R. Meir b. Baruch of Rothenberg in a responsum, while the author of Sefer Hasidim presents the passage in a framework about self-discipline. R. Eli’ezer of Metz takes up a different way of understanding the text in his Sefer Yere’im, which is picked up by R. Moses of Coucy in his Sefer Mitsvot Gadol. There is a separate line of interpretation of R. Huna’s statement, beginning with the eleventhcentury exegete and jurist R. Solomon b. Isaac (Rashi), that could not have been applied in the courts of his community or any other northern French or German Jewish court of the period. This mode of interpretation was taken up by the Tosafists and eventually made its way into the printed Tosafot. R Meir b. Baruch and his student R. Hayyim b. Isaac Or Zarua‘ continue this line of interpretation by deploying R. Huna’s statement in responsa. Finally, R. Eleazar b. Judah of Worms interprets the text as one about repentance.

14 On the decrees of R. Gershom, see Avraham Grossman, ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĒĜėĥČ ĕĚėē (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1988), 132–49, esp. 147–48.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 241 Ra’avan wrote: 15 đĦđČ ěĕČĤđģ ěĕďĘ đĞčĦ ęČđ .ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ đĤĕčē ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ Ęė ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĤĚČ ČĘČ ěĕďĘ đĞčĦ ČĘ ęČđ .ěĕď ĐĥĞĕđ đĦĞĥĤĚ čđĥĕĥ ďĞ ĦđďĞĘ ĘđĝĠđ .ĞĥĤ ěĕď Ħĕč đďĕ ĐĕčĎĐĥ ęĕďĞ ČĕčĚ đďĎĜėĥ ęČ ,ĐĕčĎĚĐ ĐĞđčĥ čĕĕēĦĜđ ěĕďĘ đĞčđĦ ĤēČ ęďČ .ĘĔđĜđ ČđĐ ĞčĥĜđ ĐĞđčĥĚ đĘĝđĠ đĤĕčē ĘĞ Resh Laqish says: “One who raises his hand to his fellow, even though he did not strike him, is called a wicked man.” And if he prosecutes him in court, the court declares him a wicked man, and he is disqualified from serving as a witness until he repents his wickedness and is judged in court. If he does not prosecute him in court, but another prosecutes him [for another issue], and the one who raised his hand is obligated to swear an oath, if the other party brings witnesses that he raised his hand to his fellow, he disqualifies him from swearing the oath, and he [the plaintiff ] swears and takes [the property in dispute.] 16 Ra’avan presents Resh Laqish’s statement not just as a moral judgment but also as having legal force. The threatener, after due process, is not permitted to testify in court, nor are his oaths believed. This puts him at a disadvantage in litigation and may have broader implications for his social status. He does not make use of any of the other three opinions in the passage; this is not an interpretive move based on a desire to assign specific legal meaning to each statement. Instead, Ra’avan has a consistently applied legal definition of the term ĞĥĤ “wicked man,” which he inserts into this passage while ignoring the other opinions on b. Sanhedrin 58b. Ra’avan also specifically declares to be a “wicked man” a person who preempts another Jew by buying merchandise that his fellow had intended to buy. He does this on the basis of b. Qiddushin 59a, which reads: ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ ĐĘĔĜđ ĤēČ Ččđ ĐĤĤēč ĖĠĐĚĐ ĕĜĞ, “[If ] a pauper is 15 Eliezer b. Natan was born in Mainz in 1090 and lived there most of his life. His major work is Even Ha‘ezer, better known by the name of its author as Sefer Ra’avan. For fuller biographical and bibliographical information see Ephraim E. Urbach, ĕĘĞč ęĦĔĕĥ ,ęĐĕĤđčĕē ,ęĐĕĦđďĘđĦ :ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1980), 178–84. 16 Eliezer b. Natan, ĤĒĞĐ ěčČ ČđĐ :ěīčČĤ ĤĠĝ, ed. David Dublitzki, 3 vols. (Bnei Brak: David Dublitzki, 2011), 3:353–54.

242 · jesse abelman handling a cake and another comes and takes it, he is called a wicked man.” In context, the case of the pauper and the cake is presented as an analogy to the case of the commercial preemption. R. Jacob b. Meir Tam (Rabbenu Tam), 17 Ra’avan’s contemporary in northern France, shares his reading of b. Qiddushin 59a, although no mention is made of legal consequences for being designated “wicked.” 18 Sefer Ra’avan is not clear whether or not the same legal consequences apply in this case. But a responsum identified by Ephraim Kupfer as having been authored by Maharam contains a significant expansion of Ra’avan’s logic that directly connects the two cases. 19 Additionally, it contains a narrative about the application of these laws by R. Eli’ezer of Metz, providing an important illustration of how the case of preemption was adjudicated. đč ČĢđĕė ,ĕĦĞĚĥ ČĘ đĒ .ĕĜĕĚ ĪģĠĜ ĕČĚ ,ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ đĤĕčē ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ ĘĞ ĪĦėĥđ ĤēČ Ččđ ĐĤĤēč ĖĠĐĚĐ ĕĜĞ ,ěĕďč čĥĕ ĦĐČ ęĞĠ ,ġĕĚĚ ĪĞĕĘČ ĪĕčĤ ęĥč ĕĦĞĚĥ ĐĚ ĕĜČ ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ ČĘČ ęĕĚėē đĤĚČ ČĘ ,ĕďĕč ĤđĝĚ đĜĕď ěĕČ ĪĚČđ , đ Ĝ Ě Ě ĪĘĔĜđ ĕďĕ đĜČĢĕ ČĘ ĐĒč ĪĤ đĘ ĪĚČđ ,ĤĕĞčĥ ęĕĦč ĕĘĞčĚ ďĐČ ěĕďč đĚĞ čĥĕđ .đĘ ĐĥĞČ đĘ ĐďđĐđ ,đĜĝĕĕĠĕĥ ďĞ ĞĥĤ đĦđĤģĘ ĤĦđĚĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĒĕĤėĐĘ ĖĘ ĥĕ ,đĜĕĦčđē ĐČđĤđ ,Đč ĖĠĐĚ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĜĞĘ ĞģĤģĐ ĤĕĒē ĤĕĥĞ đĦđČĥ ďĞ ęĥĚ ĒĒ ČĘ .Īěė ĐĥĞđ ĘčČ .ĐĦČ ęĎ ĐĥĞĦ ěėđ ,đĠđĎĚ čĕčĐ đĜđĚĚ ČĐĕ ČĘ ,ĕĜđĚĚč ėīČ đīģ ęĕĤčďĐĥ ĕĜČ ČĘĘėđ ,ĐĞđčĥĘđ ĦđďĞĘ ĘđĝĠ ĞĥĤ ĕĤģĕĚď ĕėĕĐ Ęėď ,ěīč ĪĕčĤ ęĥč ĦčĦėĥ ĐĚ ĪĤĠ ĪĕĤč ĪĦĕČďė ,ęĕĞĥĤ đĤģĕĚ đĐĕđĤĦ ,đĞĕčĥĚđ ěđĞĚĥ ĞčđĦ ěčđČĤ ,ĕĤĐđ ,ČĕĐ ěēėĥČ ČĘđ ĐĘČĐ ĪĕĞĥĤĐ ĪĕĥĜČĐ ĕĘĐČ ĘĞĚ ČĜ đĤđĝ ĪĕĤģ đĐĕđĤĦČď ěĕĜĕĕďĐ ĦđĞđčĥ ĪĞđčĥ ďēČđ Čđĥ ĪđĞđčĥ ďēČ ,Ĥģĥ ĘĞ ĞčĥĜĥ ĕĚ ČĘČ ,ĐĞđčĥ ĪđĥĚ ĘĕĝĠĕĚď ĦđĘĕčĜ ĘėđČ ďĚđĥĚ đĚė ,đČĘč ĤčĞď ĕėĕĐ ČĘČ ,ĐĕĘ ĪĕĘĝĠ ČĘ ĕČďđ ČĘČ ĕ ěđĚĚ ĦđĜĚđČ ĤĐĘ ĦĕĘď ĪėĕĐ ,đĐĜĕĘĝ ĪĜčĤď ,ęĕĜđĕ ĕĐĕĤĠĚđ Čĕčđģč ģēĥĚ đČ ĝĕĞėĐĘ ģčČč ĪĕĠČđ ,ěė ěĕĥđĞ ěđĚĚ ďđĚĕē Ęĕčĥčď ,ĪĕĞĕčĥ ĕĤēđĝđ ĦĕčĕĤč ĕđĘĚđ ,ČĕĐ ČĘČ ĦđģĘĚ Ħĕč ĦĕĘđ ,ČĜđĚĚ Đĕč ĦĕĘď ĤđĝĕČ ĘčČ ,ĘđĝĠ ĐĒĐ ěĚĒč ĦĕĞĕčĥčđ ĦĕčĕĤ ,đĤĕčĐ ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ ěđĎė ,ČĤģČ ĪĜčĤ ĐđėĚĝČđ ěĜčĤďĚ ČĘČ ,ČĦĕĤđČďĚ ĪčĕĦė ČĘđ 17 For biographical and bibliographic information on Rabbenu Tam, see Avraham Reiner, “ďđĚĘĦč đďđĚĕĘ ĕėĤďđ ĦđĞĠĥĐ ,ęĕĤĥģ: đĤđď ĕĜčđęĦ đĜčĤ” (PhD diss., Hebrew University, 2002). 18 Tosafot to b. Qiddushin 59a s.v. 59a, “A pauper . . . ” 19 Ephraim Kupfer, ĦĠĤĢđ ĒĜėĥČ ĕĚėē ĦČĚ ęĕģĝĠđ ĦđčđĥĦ ( Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1973), 151–52, sec. 93. The identification is on 150 n. 1. For biographical and bibliographic information on Maharam, see Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 521–70.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 243 ĪĕĚ .ĐĞđčĥĘđ ĦđďĞĘ ęĘĝđĠĘ ĐĕČĤ đĜĘ ěĕČ ,đĜĚĚ ĐĘĔĜđ ĤēČ Ččđ ĐĤĤĐ ĖĠĐĚĐ ĕĜĞđ ěĕģĝđĠĥ čĦė ĕĜģĒ ,đĦč ěč ĕĤĒĞĐ ĕīčČ ĪĕčĤ ĪđĥĘ ĐĒđ ,Ėė čĦė ěīčČ ĪĤĥ ĕĦČĢĚ čđĥ đĞĥĤĚ čđĥĕĥ ďĞ ,ĘĔđĜđ ĞčĥĜ đďĎĜėĥđ ,ĐĞđčĥĘđ ĦđďĞĘ ĘđĝĠđ ,ĞĥĤ đĦđĤģĘ đĜĕď ĘīėĞ ĤēČ ČĘČ .ěĕĕďĘ ĐĒ đĞčĦ ČĘ ĪĕĠČđ ,ěĕď Ęčģĕđ And regarding what you wrote about “One who raises his fist against his fellow is called a wicked man,” what is the practical application? I have not heard about this case specifically, but I have heard about a similar case in the name of R. Eli’ezer of Metz. He was once adjudicating a case about a pauper who was handling a cake, and another came and took it from him, and he said: “I am unable to judge, as the sages said nothing but that he is called a wicked man, and so what can I do to him?” One of the laypeople in the city was sitting with him in judgment and said to him: “Master, we have not done our duty in this. You must announce in the synagogue that it is permitted to call him wicked until he [the preemptor] appeases him [the pauper].” And he did this. He did not move from there until that rich man returned the land to the pauper who was planning to buy it. It seems to me [Meir b. Baruch] that if this is the case with money, his money would not be more beloved by him than his body, and you [who asked about the case of one who raises his hand] should do so as well. But what you wrote in the name of Ra’avan, that everybody who is called “a wicked man” is invalid to testify and to take an oath, and this is a general principle, [is contradicted by the case of ] Reuben who sues Simeon and forces him to swear an oath. [In this case] they are both declared wicked, as it says in the beginning of the chapter “Oaths of the Judges” (b. Shavuot 39b), the verse “Leave the tents of these wicked men” (Num 16:26) is applied to both of them, and we do not find that they are invalid to swear an oath unless they swear falsely, whether it is a false oath or a money oath; rather they are certainly not invalid except in a case where they have violated a negative prohibition, for example an apostate who eats improperly slaughtered meat in order to anger [God], or one who plays with dice or dove chicks, whom the sages invalidated in a case where they have no other trade, and those who lend money at interest or trade in produce grown in the Sabbatical Year, as they do this out

244 · jesse abelman of desire for money, and even in cases of rabbinically prohibited interest, and produce of the Sabbatical Years now [when the prohibition is rabbinic]. However, a prohibition which has no monetary penalty and no corporal punishment, and it is not a prohibition which is written in the Torah, rather it is rabbinic and the sages referenced a verse in the case, as in the case of one who raises his hand to his fellow or a pauper turning a cake and another comes and takes it from him, we have no evidence to invalidate them from testimony and oaths. However, I later found that Ra’avan did write this, and this is the language of R. Eli’ezer b. Yoel HaEzri the son of his daughter: “My grandfather wrote that he is legally declared a wicked man, and his testimony and oaths are invalid, and thus his opponent [in court] swears and takes [the property at question in the litigation] until he repents from his wickedness and accepts punishment, and even if he [the person threatened] did not sue him, but another did.” R. Meir is asked what to do in precisely the case of b. Sanhedrin 58b. His answer takes a tour through the positions of the twelfthcentury rabbinic jurists who dealt with the question, beginning with the story of R. Eli’ezer of Metz’s ruling in this case. 20 R. Eli’ezer’s initial uncertainty reflects the ambiguity in the text I alluded to earlier. Do these texts have legal ramifications, or are they only moral guidelines without specific legal implications? R. Eli’ezer clearly thinks, at least to begin with, that no specific legal consequences can be imposed on this sort of wicked man in the case of the preempted sale. His fellow judge essentially agrees but points out a way around the court’s lack of power. The text judges the preemptor to be a wicked man, so the court should shame him by publicizing his wickedness. If there is no room for monetary or physical punishment, perhaps shame will be a sufficient remedy. This is the approach that Maharam advocates in a case where physical violence is threatened. As Resh Laqish calls the threatener a 20 Hagahot Maimoniyot to Hilkhot Hovel Umazik 5:2; Shabtai Frankel, ed., ČđĐ À ĐĤđĦ ĐĜĥĚ ĐģĒēĐ ďĕĐ, 14 vols. ( Jerusalem: Shabtai Frankel, 1975–2003), 11:1470, also cites this position of R. Eliezer. Kupfer, ĦđčđĥĦ, 152 n. 4, argues that this responsum is the source for Hagahot Maimoniyot.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 245 “wicked man,” he is just like the wealthy man who preempts the poor man’s purchase. There is no specific action the court can take against him, but he should be publicly shamed. We see that the connection between the two passages in b. Qiddushin and b. Sanhedrin that was earlier drawn implicitly is here drawn explicitly. The same connection is found in a reading of Ra’avan by Maharam’s anonymous correspondent, as it is presented by Maharam. This summary does not agree with his position as articulated in the printed Sefer Ra’avan. The correspondent expands Ra’avan’s ruling from the case of one who raises his hand against his fellow to “everybody who is called a wicked man.” This discrepancy may be an artifact of paraphrase presented to the reader thirdhand by a hostile witness. It may also be that Maharam’s correspondent had a different version of Sefer Ra’avan, or that his source for Ra’avan’s position is a different written work that is unavailable to me. Whatever the reason is, this more expansive reading of Ra’avan mirrors Maharam’s expansion of R. Eli’ezer of Metz’s position (and may have inspired it, as it appeared in the question to which he is responding). Just as R. Eli’ezer of Metz’s position on the wicked man in b. Qiddushin is expanded to include Resh Laqish’s wicked man in b. Sanhedrin, Ra’avan’s position on the wicked man in b. Sanhedrin is expanded to include every case where a person is called a “wicked man.” Maharam rejects both the Ra’avan’s position as stated and the formulation he has from his correspondent. He objects that the case of b. Shavuot 39b – when two men force each other to swear in contradiction to each other, necessitating that one or the other is swearing falsely – calls both men “wicked” but does not prohibit them from swearing the oaths. If one is discovered to be swearing falsely, or if he violated some other prohibition, only then he is disqualified from testifying and swearing oaths. Indeed, the implication of his statement is that Ra’avan could not have made such a blatantly incorrect assertion, as he wrote: “However, I later found that Ra’avan did write this . . . ” His citation is to R. Eli’ezer b. Yoel HaLevy (Rabiah), 21 Ra’avan’s grandson, indicating that he did not have access to Sefer Ra’avan, or at least not an edition which contains this position. 21 For biographical and bibliographic information, see Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 378–88.

246 · jesse abelman Aside from Maharam’s extended discussion, Ra’avan’s position is well attested throughout northern French and German sources in the later twelfth century and into the thirteenth century. As is clear from Maharam’s responsum, R. Eli’ezer b. Yoel HaLevy cites it, although the citation is to his Sefer Aviasaf, which has not survived. 22 In the middle of the thirteenth century R. Eli’ezer’s quote is cited by R. Zedekiah b. Avraham in his book Shibbolei Halekhet, although, in his quote, Ra’avan’s position was attributed to R. Avigdor of Würzberg. 23 Though R. Zedekiah was Italian and wrote his Shibbolei Halekhet in Italy, he trained with German and northern French scholars and is a good representative of their thought and work. 24 Despite Maharam’s opposition to Ra’avan’s position, it appears to have been popular with his students. R. Mordekhai b. Hillel (1250–1298) 25 cites it in his Sefer ha-Mordekhai on tractate Bava Qamma. 26 Though the date is uncertain, the work was likely written in the last quarter of the thirteenth century given how young R. Mordekhai was at his death. It also appears in the work of R. Mordekhai’s contemporary, another student of Maharam, R. Meir HaCohen of Rothenberg (d. 1298). 27 The catalog above is heavily weighted toward German jurists. The one exception is R. Zedikiah, who lived in Italy. However, he studied in Regensberg in Germany and so has a German intellectual pedigree. In addition to the German jurists who directly quoted Ra’avan, R. Isaac Or Zarua‘ of Vienna, teacher of R. Eli’ezer, cited the statement of Resh Laqish without comment. 28 Maharam’s anonymous corre22 On Aviasaf, see Simcha Emmanuel, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč Ęĥ ęĕďđčČ ęĕĤĠĝ :ĦđēđĘ ĕĤčĥ (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2006), 86–100. 23 Solomon Buber, ed., ęĘĥĐ ĔģĘĐ ĕĘčĥ (Vilna: Romm, 1887), 71 (text #100). Avigdor of Würtzberg’s identity is unknown. It could be a reference to R. Avigdor Katz, who was R. Zedikiah’s teacher and colleague, although R. Avigdor Katz has no known connection to Würtzberg. 24 Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 565 n. 4. 25 Avraham Halperin, “ČĚģ Ččč ĦėĝĚ À ęĘĥĐ ĕėďĤĚĐ ĤĠĝ”, 2 vols. (PhD diss., Hebrew University, 1978), 1:1. 26 Chapter 8, section 16, of Halperin, ęĘĥĐ ĕėďĤĚĐ ĤĠĝ, 2:118. 27 See footnote 8. For biographical information, see Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 553–56. 28 Isaac Or Zarua‘, ĞđĤĒ ĤđČ ĤĠĝ, ed. Yaakov Frebstein, 3 vols. ( Jerusalem: Machon Yerushalayim, 2009), 3:118. (Bava Qamma Siman 379).

“the earth is only for the strong” · 247 spondent also cannot be ignored. He was clearly aware of Ra’avan’s position and thought that it should be the correct law. Indeed, the later citation of the position by Maharam’s students cannot simply be seen as the influence of Maharam because he vociferously objected to it. The threat of physical violence was an issue that was of interest to German jurists, and they had need of legal options. A comparison of the position first attested in Sefer Ra’avan to Sefer Hasidim is worthwhile. Ra’avan reads “wicked” as a legal category and immediately describes the characteristics of that category. However, this is a selective reading, as he does not do the same for Ze’iri’s designation of such a person as a “sinner,” nor does he engage with the punishments the end of the passage decrees. In contrast, Sefer Hasidim has no interest in the legal ramifications of being declared wicked and certainly no interest in removing anybody’s hand. Instead, the book is concerned with the moral dimension of the threat and uses the talmudic text in order to emphasize the seriousness of the act. Through this comparison, we can already see the ways in which legal interpretation differs from other hermeneutics. Ra’avan needs to provide a ruling which can credibly be imposed on violators; the solution he proposes is one that is entirely within the power of the court to enforce because it revolved around the wicked person’s status in court. The story about R. Eli’ezer of Metz illustrates this dilemma effectively. He is at a loss for what to do, as the wicked man has the power of wealth at his disposal, and the Talmud only gives the court the power of an epithet. The lay judge provides him with a solution: publicize the Talmud’s opinion of such behavior and create social pressure for the rich man to return the land to the pauper. 29 The issue is framed around the power of interpretation; the lay judge reads the text in order to discover the power it gives the court that the scholar could not divine. However, it could equally be understood to be discussing the power of the court more generally. Ra’avan is deeply attuned to the amount of pain he is able to impose with his 29 On lay judges in Ashkenaz, see Moses Frank, ğđĝ ďĞ čīĕĐ ĐČĚĐĚ :ěĐĕĜĕď ĕĦčđ ĒĜėĥČ ĦđĘĐģ đīĔĐ ĐČĚĐ (Tel Aviv: Devir, 1937), 60–61 and Furst, “Striving,” 36–40.

248 · jesse abelman word in order to enforce order in his community, and, in this case, the violence is limited not only because of the text, but also because of the status of Jewish courts in twelfth-century Germany. He would like to help the plight of the pauper, but he cannot credibly punish the wealthy man. The rereading of the Talmud by the lay judge provides him the means to do something. Maharam’s selection of R. Eli’ezer of Metz’s reading over Ra’avan’s seems to be made on purely scholastic grounds. With both options presented to him, he initially deems Ra’avan’s too preposterous to even consider because it contradicts a passage in b. Shavuot. He does not, explicitly or otherwise, seem to take into account the violence being done in the community, or the violence that is available to him. He does not, however, appear to be addressing an explicit case of threatened violence. The only question addressed is: “‘One who raises his fist against his fellow is called a wicked man,’ what is the practical application?” 30 The question is one of theory and therefore is at a greater distance, even though the possibility of violence in application is present. Another approach to this passage in the Babylonian Talmud is found in the work of R. Eli’ezer of Metz and, later, R. Moses of Coucy. 31 In his work Sefer Yere’im (1171–79), 32 while discussing the prohibition against punishing a criminal with more lashes than he has earned, R. Eli’ezer of Metz argues a fortiori that one also may not strike an innocent man. In this context, he cites the entire passage on b. Sanhedrin 58b, which he follows with this brief comment: 33 ĖĕĤĢ ĖėĕĠĘ đĦĥČ ĘĞ đĘĕĠČ đĦđėĐĘ đĤčē ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĕ ČĘĥ ĤĐĒĐĘ ęďČĐ, “Therefore, a man must be careful not to raise his hand against his fellow in order to strike him, even against his wife.” He then continues, discussing the cases in which it is appropriate to strike one’s wife or another man. 34 30 Kupfer, ĦđčđĥĦ, 151–52, sec. 93. 31 For biographical and bibliographical information on R. Eli’ezer of Metz and R. Moses of Coucy, see Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 154–64, 465–79. 32 Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 162. 33 R. Eli’ezer of Metz, ęĕČĤĕ ĤĠĝ, ed. Abraham Abba Schiff (Vilna: Romm, 1892), #217. 34 Spousal abuse is not a simple subject in medieval Ashkenaz. Although R. Eli’ezer of Metz provides tacit approval of certain cases, other authorities such as R. Isaac

“the earth is only for the strong” · 249 This is the same rhetorical move that Sefer Hasidim makes, eliding the threat of violence into its discussion of actual violence. Where Sefer Hasidim emphasizes the consequent severity of threats, however, R. Eli’ezer of Metz uses the strong language about threats to emphasize how much more serious actually striking a person must be. R. Moses of Coucy, in his Sefer Mitsvot Gadol paraphrases Sefer Yere’im when he discusses the same prohibition without quoting it explicitly. 35 Rashi interprets R. Huna’s statement thus: ĘĕĞĘď ěĕģĤĠč ĤĚČďė Ėėč đĝĜģđ ,đĤĕčē ĦČ ĦđėĐĘ ĘĕĎĤ ĐĕĐĥ ďēČ ęďČĚ À Čďĕ ġģ .ĤčďĘ ĤďĎđ Ďĕĕĝ ĦđĥĞĘ ĐĤđĦĐ ěĚ ČĘĥ ěĕĥĜđĞđ ěĕėĚ đĕĐ ěĕď Ħĕč /ěĕĤďĐĜĝ/ Cut off his hand – from one man who was in the habit of striking his fellow, and they fined him with this, as it says in the chapter above (b. Sanhedrin 46a): “the courts would lash and punish [in ways] not prescribed by the Torah in order to make a ward and fence around the issue.” This is a strictly exegetical point. Rashi is not saying that the hand of somebody who regularly engages in violent behavior was, or should have been, cut off in the northern French communities of the eleventh century. He is explaining that R. Huna’s position, which has no direct precedent or source in rabbinic law, is valid based on the principle that courts are allowed to legislate in order to maintain civil order. This could have been applied historically, but he is making no claims about the law as it should be practiced in his community. He also takes R. Huna’s statement out of the context in which Resh Laqish interpreted it, the case of one who threatens his fellow, and replaces it with the case of one who regularly strikes

Or Zarua‘ completely forbid it. See Avraham Grossman, “The Relationship of the Medieval Jewish Sages to the Beating of Women (8th–13th centuries),” in The Proceedings of the Tenth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem, August 16–24, 1989, ed. David Assaf, 7 vols. (Jerusalem: World Congress of Jewish Studies, 1990), B.1:117–24 and Mikhal Wolf, “ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝč :đĦĥČ ĕĠĘė ĘĞč ďĢĚ ēđė ĦĘĞĠĐ Ęĥ ĦđĕĚĕĔĕĎĘĐ ĦđĘđčĎ ĕĤčĞĐ ĔĠĥĚčđ” (PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 2001). 35 Negative mitsvot 199 in Moses of Coucy, ĘđďĎ ĦđđĢĚ ĤĠĝ, ed. S. Schlesinger (Jerusalem: S. Schlesinger, 1995). Much of Sefer Mitsvot Gadol is based on Sefer Yere’im. See Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 474.

250 · jesse abelman his fellow, presumably because he is not comfortable with the idea that mutilation is a fit punishment for a threat. In response to Rashi, Tosafot objects that b. Niddah 13b presents R. Huna’s statement not as a rabbinic fine but as an essential Torah regulation. 36 No answer to this question is provided in the standard Tosafot, although R. Asher b. Yehiel does provide an answer in his Tosafot. 37 He suggests that even b. Niddah believes not that it is a Torah regulation to cut off his hand, but that he is fined, and that the particular fine exacted should follow R. Huna. This entire discussion, however, is taking place on a very abstract plane. The question is what precise authority R. Huna claims for his ruling. Neither suggests that R. Huna’s ruling is not to be taken literally, which may be why they insist, despite the context, that it is about somebody who regularly commits violence. They also do not attempt to use it to promote self-regulation, as Sefer Hasidim does. At the same time, neither attempts to suggest it as part of practical legal regime. These are exegetical texts intended to interpret the Babylonian Talmud, not practical legal compendia or responsa. They are far removed from the violence inherent in the law. Maharam does address R. Huna’s position in a practical halakhic context, although he does not suggest that those who threaten their fellows be dismembered. The case is one in which a Jew brought a case of assault to a non-Jewish court, and the attacker countersued in the Jewish court in Würzburg on the basis of the prohibition against informing. 38 The court ruled against the informer on the basis of a local takkanah which exempted informers from punishment in cases 36 Tosafot to Sanhedrin 58b s.v. “Cut off his hand.” See also the parallels in ĦđĠĝđĦ ġĜČĥ, Yaakov HaLevy Lipshitz, ed., ěĕďĐĜĝ ĦėĝĚĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĕĤďĐĜĝ (Jerusalem: Harry Fischel Institute, 1973), 6:197. 37 Binyamin Lipkin, ed., ěĕďĐĜĝ ĦėĝĚĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĕĤďĐĜĝ, 8 vols. ( Jerusalem: Harry Fischel Institute, 1969), vol. 3. It is unclear whether this is an original reading that was dropped from the standard Tosafot, or whether Lipshitz could not read the Rosh’s addition at the end of the passage in his MS of ġĜČĥ ĦđĠĝđĦ, so it is unclear whether or not the continuation there contains the parallel. On the Rosh, see Judah Dov Galinski, “ĪĥīČĤĐ ĦđĠĝđĦĪ ĪĥīČĤĐ ĕģĝĠĪ, ĥīČĤĐ Ħčĕĥĕ :ďĤĠĝč ĕĒĜėĥČĐ ĥīČĤĐ”, Tarbiz 74, no. 3 (2005): 389–422. 38 On informing in medieval Ashkenaz, see Frank, ĒĜėĥČ ĦđĘĐģ, 117–22.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 251 in which they are the victims of violence. 39 Maharam, who generally does not approve of this exemption, 40 nevertheless felt that the court acted appropriately in this case. He explains: ěĕĜď ĕĦđčĤ ĪĦĕČĤĥ ĐĚ ĘĢČ ĕĦĞď ĐĘĔč ,ĦđėĐĘ ĘĕĎĤđ ĦđėĐĘ ďĞđĚ ČđĐĥ ěđďĜč đĐĕĚ ČĜĕď ěđďĘ đĜĘ ĐĕĐ đĕĘĞ ęĎ ,đďĎĜėĥ ĘĞ ěĕďĐ ģĚđĞ ĦđĢĚĘ đĜČč ęČĥ ,ģĤđĠĢĤđĕđč ĪĕĘ ĪĜĕĜĕĕď ĕėĐ ďđĞđ .đďĎĜėĥ čĕĕēĦĜ ČĘ ęĎ ,ĐĒ ĪĕĜď đĜČ ěĕČĥ ęĥėđ ,Īĕďĕ ġģ ĪĜđĐ čĤď .ĤčĥĦ ĐĚĤ ĞđĤĒđ ,ĪĕĤčē ĪĕĚĘČď ĘėĘđ In this case, where [the attacker] is established as violent and regularly attacks others, I cede my opinion to what I saw our masters rule in Würzburg. For if we were able to properly apply the law to his opponent, we should have also applied the ruling of R. Huna, to cut off his hand against him. Just as we cannot rule thus, so, too, we cannot obligate his opponent. And furthermore, this is how we judge him and all of his violent friends, 41 “an upraised arm should be broken.” 42 Maharam, following Rashi and Tosafot, claimed that R. Huna’s ruling applies in cases of repeat violent offenders. But he asserted that “we cannot rule thus.” He did not explain the reason for this constraint. It may be internal to Jewish law, following the ruling of b. Bava Qamma 84b that “we do not collect fines in Babylonia [the diaspora].” It may be a constraint imposed externally, by Christian rulers in Germany. 43 In either case, Maharam makes clear his belief that the correct ruling in such a case is to cut off the attacker’s hand, although he acknowledges that this is not possible.

39 Other sources that discuss this exemption include R. Meir b. Baruch of Rothenburg, ĎĤđčĜĔđĤĚ ęīĤĐĚ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ (Budapest: Y. Shternberg, 1895), 146b–147a, text #994 and Irving A. Agus, ed., ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč ĦđčđĥĦ (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1954), 156, text #65. 40 Aside from his clear statement to that effect in this responsum, see the sources cited in footnote 39. 41 This phrase is a reference to b. Ketubbot 27b. 42 Simcha Emanuel, ed., ĎĤđčĜĔđĤĚ ęīĤĐĚ ĦđčđĥĦ (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2012), 778, text #402. 43 For a full discussion of this issue see Jesse Abelman, “Justice without Annals: Violent Disputes among Jews and Their Resolution in Christian Europe during the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries” (PhD diss., Yeshiva University, 2018).

252 · jesse abelman Maharam’s student, R. Hayyim b. Isaac Or Zarua‘, wrote a responsum in which he takes issue with his teacher’s general opposition to the exemption for informers who are the victims of violence, in which he made clear that R. Huna’s punishment should be enforced: ČĜđĐ čĤď ,ĐĥĞĕ ęĕđĎĐ ęČ ĦđĥĞĘ Ęėđĕ ęČ đďĕ ġđĢģĘ đĘĕĠČ ,Ėėč ĘĕĎĤ ĐėĚĐ ęČđ ČđĐĐė ,đĎĤđĐĘ ĤĦđĚ ĐĤĐ ČĚĥ ,đĦėĐĘ ĖĘđĐ ČĘČ ,đĐėĐ ČĘ ěĕĕďĞ ęČ đĘĕĠČđ .Čďĕ ġģ .ĐĕĞđģĘ ČĜĐė čĤ ĐĕĔĚĥđ ČĜĕđēĚđ ČĜĕđēĚ ĤĚČď If the attacker does so habitually, one can even cut off his hand, whether it is possible to do so [yourself or whether] the non-Jews can do it, as R. Huna says: “cut off his hand.” Even if he has not yet struck him but only is going to strike him, let it be permitted to kill him, like the one who said “I will show [a Jew’s property to non-Jewish authorities,” so R. Kahana cut his throat. 44 R. Hayyim asserts that somebody who regularly engages in violent action, following Rashi and Tosafot, should have his hand cut off or perhaps even be killed. He even goes so far as to suggest that if a Jewish court cannot impose the penalty, it should be imposed by a nonJewish court. Despite this, it is extremely unlikely that R. Hayyim ever imposed such a penalty. No records exist of Jewish courts in high medieval Ashkenaz imposing the death penalty or even mutilation. R. Asher b. Yehiel expressed his surprise that Spanish Jewish courts were executing criminals, in contrast to Ashkenaz, around the turn of the fourteenth century. 45 This is a rhetorical strategy to emphasize the severity of the crime, and thus to justify exempting his victim from the penalties for informing. The mode of interpretation found in the responsa of R. Hayyim and his teacher Maharam is highly attuned to the ability of a court to cause pain and perhaps death. Maharam, ever concerned with 44 b. Bava Qamma 117a. The responsum is found in Hayyim b. Isaac Or Zarua‘, ĦđĘČĥ ĞđĤĒ ĤđČ ēīĤĐĚ ĦđčđĥĦđ, ed. Menahem Avitan (Jerusalem, 2002), 132–33, text #142. 45 Asher b. Yehiel, ĥČĤĐ ĦđčđĥĦ (Vilna: Yehuda Leib Metz, 1885), Kelal 17:8. Israel TaShma, “ĎīĕĐÀčīĕĐ ĦđČĚč ěĕĘđĠč ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđďĘđĦĘ”, in ĦĝĜė ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ĦĕĜčĤĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĜđĕĞ ęĕĤģēĚ, ed. Yeheszkel Hovav, 4 vols. (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2004–10), 1:232–33 has argued that the death penalty was practiced in limited cases, but that self-censorship kept this out of the literature. This seems very unlikely.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 253 the authority of the Babylonian Talmud, does not want to deny or explain away such a powerful tool as mutilation, but he also knows he cannot enforce it. He maintains its binding authority, as well as its literal correctness on this question of law. At the same time, he notes that his court does not have the power to enforce this powerful law through the imposition of violence that enforcement would require. The consequence is that he also relinquishes the power his court might have over the informer. By admitting that he does not have the power to enforce the law against the violent offender, he chooses not to enforce the law against the informer. This effectively unleashes the violent power of the non-Jewish court to which the victim turned. Thus an interpretation which claims to lack the power of violent enforcement actually creates a powerful enforcement mechanism which would otherwise be lacking. R. Hayyim, on the other hand, simply advocates handing over all such violent offenders directly to non-Jewish authorities. Although the result is the same in both cases, Maharam’s interpretive stance maintains some of the Jewish court’s autonomy, while R. Hayyim’s does not. R. Eleazar Ba’al ha-Roqeah, 46 an author in the orbit of the German Pietists, discusses the issue of a physical threat in a register similar to that of Sefer Hasidim, as well to Rashi and the Tosafists, but he draws a different conclusion. Like Sefer Hasidim, he equates the statement of Resh Laqish with the prior statement that one who strikes his fellow Jew is striking the divine. Instead of suggesting an internal regime of self-shaming in order to prevent threats, however, R. Eleazar provides a remedy for people who have already threatened others. He is interested in the legal ramifications of the passage, and he discusses it practically, not theoretically. His practical answer is not a fine imposed by a legal authority. Rather, the threatener personally takes action in order to be forgiven for the sin of threatening his fellow: 47

46 For biographical and bibliographic information, see Urbach, ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč, 388–402. 47 Eleazar of Worms, ĘđďĎĐ ēģđĤĐ ĤĠĝ ( Jerusalem: Otsar ha-Poskim, 1967), 27 (Laws of Repentance #16).

254 · jesse abelman ġĢģĦ ĤĚČ ČĜđĐ čĤ ČĔđē ČĤģĜđ ĞĥĤ ČĤģĜ đĐėĐ ČĘĥ ĠīĞČ đĤĕčē ĘĞ đďĕ ĐĕčĎĚĐ ĦČ đĘ ěĦĕĥ čđĔ (ďĠ ğď) ĘčđēĐ ģĤĠč ěĜĕĤĚČďė Ęččč ěĕĜď ěĕČĥ ĠīĞČ đĐėĐ ęČđ đďĕ .ĐĜĞĦĕđ đĦđėĐĘ ğĕĝđĕ ěĠ đČĘ ĘĞ ĤčĞ ĕė ĐģđĘđ ĐĘĕēĚ ĥģčĘ đĦđČ ĐĢĤĕ ęĎđ đĜđĚĚ One who raises his hand against his fellow is called “wicked” even if he did not strike him, and he is called a “sinner.” R. Huna said, “Cut off his hand.” And if he struck him, even though we do not judge in Babylonia, 48 as it says in the chapter “One who damages” (b. Bava Qamma 84b), it is appropriate that he [the attacker] should pay him [the victim] the value of his hand and approach him to ask for forgiveness and be beaten because he violated the prohibition against striking his fellow excessively and he should fast. R. Eleazar has two interesting innovations here. The first is his transformation of R. Huna’s punishment by mutilation into a monetary fine, in the spirit of the rabbinic interpretation of lex talionis. 49 The second, more central innovation is that he thinks the fine should be exacted but not formally as a punishment meted out by a court. The fine is part of a course of penitential actions that should be taken on voluntarily by the one who made the threat. He must appease his victim by paying him the value of his hand in order to achieve forgiveness. He must also take additional penitential steps, including fasting and being beaten. The latter maintains continuity with the position of R. Eli’ezer of Metz and R. Moses of Coucy, who include their discussions of b. Sanhedrin 58b in their treatments of the prohibition against excessive corporal punishment. By placing the legal prohibition in a penitential context, R. Eleazar is able to solve the problem of how to cope with this crime in the absence of a legal apparatus with the power to enforce sanctions against violent criminals, the same issue that plagued Maharam explicitly, and which was subtextual in the other approaches. R. Eleazar’s sensitivity to the power he wields is perhaps the most finely attuned of the scholars we have surveyed, although this may 48 On this principle see Simcha Assaf, ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦĚĕĦē ĕĤēČ ěĕĥĜđĞĐ (Jerusalem: Hapoel Hatzair, 1922), 17–18. 49 See b. Bava Qamma 83b.

“the earth is only for the strong” · 255 be a function of the genre in which he wrote. He recognizes that perhaps the courts lack the tools of violence that would give them the power to impose the appropriate fine. Instead, he invokes a different power. The role of religious piety, the desire to be right with God, is imposed in place of the sword. R. Eleazar explicitly denies his ability to enforce such a fine but asks that it be imposed regardless. 50 These sources present a variety of approaches to interpreting b. Sanhedrin 58b. The practical legal approaches of Maharam’s first responsum and Ra’avan bracket the period we are examining. Sefer Hasidim presents a psychological approach to deterring threats of violence, as well as violence itself. R. Eli’ezer of Metz and R. Moses of Coucy also elide the threat of violence into a discussion of violence itself and incorporate the prohibition against threats into the prohibition against actually striking another individual. Rashi and the Tosafists take an exegetical approach to the text, ignoring whatever practical implications it may have, while the second Maharam responsum and R. Hayyim Or Zarua‘ use the passage as a part of extremely practical interpretations. Finally, R. Eleazar Ba’al haRoqeah presents a practical interpretation focused on repentance and atonement rather than strict legal interpretation. These positions become more concerned with the violence they may be imposing on their subjects the closer to practical reality they come. Rashi and Tosafot’s interpretations, written in completely scholastic contexts, thus show no concern for the violence they intend to do to the bodies of their subjects. Contrast these with R. Eli’ezer of Metz, sitting in judgement and at a loss for what to do, witnessing force being applied to a pauper but powerless to help. Textual interpretation in this case provides him with the power to impose some measure of justice, although perhaps with less overt force than he would like to apply. Think also of the two responsa of Maharam we have seen. The first, written in a scholastic mode, ridicules the practical suggestion 50 The relationship between the penitentials of the Roqeah and the school of the German pietists and the Jewish courts in medieval Ashkenaz is not well understood, and I hope to address that question in my future work.

256 · jesse abelman of Ra’avan for contradicting an unconnected passage of the Talmud in the Tosafist style. The second neatly rejects his own typical approach to informers in favor of an approach that recognizes the violence being done in his community and permits courts to abdicate their own power over Jewish legal matters in order to combat that violence with the violence of the non-Jewish authorities. Judicial violence does not seem to have been a large part of Ashkenazi court practice in the Middle Ages. Despite this fact, Jewish courts practiced violence in subtler ways through their interpretation of authoritative sources, in particular the Babylonian Talmud. And they practiced it both explicitly, in the cases where they granted leave to litigants to take their cases to non-Jewish courts, and implicitly, in cases where they imposed penance or otherwise asked litigants to do violence to themselves. All of these sources provide interpretations of b. Sanhedrin 58b; only those in the Tosafist tradition are exclusively exegetical, without any practical application. Even their interpretations had some power as part of the legal discussion that influenced the direction the law would move, as an influence on jurists like Maharam and R. Hayyim Or Zarua‘. These interpretations changed the lives of people who passed through Jewish courts, and their stamp was impressed on both the bodies and the fortunes of the litigants. This, more than anything else, encapsulates what I have learned from Professor Levy, as both a teacher and a scholar: the interpretation of text has the means to affect the world and those of us who live in it in powerful and permanent ways.

Radak’s Preemptive Exegesis: Concealed and Revealed Polemic in the Book of Kings Bryna Jocheved Levy matan: women’s institute for tor ah studies, jerusalem

R. David Kimhi (Radak) of Narbonne was among the greatest biblical interpreters of his age. 1 His biblical commentaries are distinguished by their clarity and usefulness. 2 As a result, they rapidly 1 For a thorough description of his life and works see, A. Geiger, “ģīďĤĐ ĦđďĘđĦ”, in ĤĎĕĕĎ ĪČ ĦČĚ ęĕĤĚČĚ ĦĢđčģ, ed. Samuel Poznanski (Warsaw: Tushya, 1910); E. Z. Melamed, ęĐĕĦđĔĕĥđ ęĐĕėĤď ČĤģĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ, 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1978) 2:719–23; Ma’aravi Perez, “ĕēĚģ ďđď ĪĤ Ęĥ ĦĕĜĥĤĠĐ đĦĔĕĥĘ”, Beit Miqra 45 (2000): 305–28; Louis Finkelstein, ed., The Commentary of David Kimhi on Isaiah. Columbia University Oriental Studies 19 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1926), xxiii– xlii; Frank E. Talmage, David Kimhi: The Man and the Commentaries. Harvard Judaic Monographs 1 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), 189–93; Mordechai Z. Cohen, Three Approaches to Biblical Metaphor: From Abraham ibn Ezra and Maimonides to David Kimhi (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Mordechai Z. Cohen, “The Qimhi Family,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Volume i: From the Beginnings to the Middle Ages (Until 1300). Part 2: The Middle Ages, ed. Magne Sæbø (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2000), 388–415; Yitzchak Berger, The Commentary of Rabbi David Kimhi to Chronicles: A Translation with Introduction and Supercommentary. Brown Judaic Studies 345 (Providence: Brown University Press, 2007); Eran Viezel, “ČĤģĚĐ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ ęĤđčĕē ĘĞ ĕēĚģ ďđď ĪĤ”, Jewish Studies 50 (2017): 49–82; and Naomi Grunhaus, The Challenge of Received Tradition: Dilemmas of Interpretation in Radak’s Biblical Commentaries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 2 In his commentary to Chronicles (his first exegetical work), Radak points out that Chronicles was rarely studied due to a lack of suitable peshat commentaries. In response to a request from his father’s student, Radak decided to write a commentary in order to facilitate the study of that obscure biblical book. In a similar vein, in his introduction to Proverbs, he relates to the confusion on the part of common

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258 · bryna jocheved levy achieved a remarkable degree of popularity. Radak’s primary goal was to elucidate the biblical text through grammar and lexicography. 3 Additionally, his interpretive methods include allegory and philosophy. 4 Moreover, Kimhi was an eminent polemicist. 5 As Frank Talmage notes, his polemical material proved particularly influen-

folk in reading and understanding the book as the primary motivating factor for composing his commentary. 3 In the introduction to his commentary on Jeremiah, he states that his overall objective is to explain those words which require grammatical explication. In his introduction to the commentary on Joshua, he outlines his interpretative goals and techniques. In addition to general grammatical matters, Radak mentions his use of targum and his concern with masoretic issues. For an in-depth discussion of his treatment of masorah, see Perez, “ĦĕĜĥĤĠĐ đĦĔĕĥĘ”, 311–12 nn. 31–32 and Uriel Simon, “ČĤģĚĐ ēĝđĜ ĦđĜĚĕĐĚ ĦĘČĥĘ ĦđĥĕĎ ĕĦĥ :ģīďĤđ ĞīčČĤ”, Bar-Ilan Annual 6 (1968): 191–237. Radak also refers to his use of midrash in cases where it aids the understanding of peshat; he also provides a smattering of midrash for lovers of derash. For a thorough discussion of his posture toward midrash, see Perez, “ĦĕĜĥĤĠĐ đĦĔĕĥĘ”; Mordechai Z. Cohen, “ģīďĤ Ęĥ ĔĥĠĐ ĦđĜĥĤĠ ĘĞ ĦđĕĥĤďĚ ĦđĞĠĥĐ”, in Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies, June 2–29, 1993: Division A, The Bible and Its World (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1994), 143–50; and Finkelstein, Commentary, xxv–xxvii. 4 Kimhi authored an allegorical commentary on Ezek 1, which is incorporated in Miqra’ot Gedolot. He also composed an allegorical commentary on Genesis, which was published for the first time by Louis Finkelstein in Finkelstein, Commentary, liii–lxxiv. Cf. Perez, “ĦĕĜĥĤĠĐ đĦĔĕĥĘ”, 308 n. 18, and Talmage, David Kimhi, 120–21. On philosophical interpretation, see Geiger, “ģīďĤĐ ĦđďĘđĦ”, 247, and Talmage, David Kimhi, 27. Radak’s philosophical ideas are interspersed throughout his commentaries. He often makes reference to Maimonidean concepts as a springboard for his own ideas, e.g., Josh 6:26; Judg 10:16; Isa 3:3, 6:1; Jer 1:5, 9:23. See Melamed, ČĤģĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ, 2:749–51, and Mordechai Cohen, “ČĤģĚč ĘĥĚ ĖĤďĘ Đĥďē ĐĥĕĎ À ęīčĚĤĐđ ĞīčČĤ ĘđĚ ģīďĤ”, in Proceedings of the Twelfth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem, July 29–August 5, 1997: Division A, The Bible and Its World, ed. Ron Margolin (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1999), 27–41. 5 Radak is actually credited with having written his own disputation: ģīďĤĐ ēđėĕđđ ĦđĤĢĜĐ ęĞ. The work was first printed in Đčđē ĦĚēĘĚ (Constantinople, 1710) and reprinted as “ģīďĤĘ ĝēđĕĚĐ ēđėĕđđĐ”, in Ephraim Talmage, ĦĕĤčĐ ĤĠĝ (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1974), 83–96. Talmage is of the opinion that the composition was not authored by Radak himself but was written in the late twelfth or early thirteenth century in northern Italy. See Frank Talmage, “R. David Kimhi as Polemicist,” Hebrew Union College Annual 38 (1967): 214 n. 6. Radak’s polemical ideas are largely derived from his father’s book, ĦĕĤčĐ ĤĠĝ, as well as from Jacob b. Reuben’s ĦđĚēĘĚ ĪĐ; see Talmage, “R. David Kimhi,” 214 nn. 9–10.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 259 tial because it was strategically distributed through his widely read commentaries. 6 It is not surprising that most of the disputational material in Radak is found in his commentaries on Isaiah and Psalms and relates to classic Christian dogmas that were linked to verses from these books. 7 By and large, Radak openly states the Christian claim and proceeds to demonstrate its untenable nature. 8 Beyond these explicit polemical passages in the commentaries to Isaiah and Psalms, however, there are cases where Radak’s comments do not appear polemical at first glance, but further investigation shows these seemingly casual comments to be the tips of polemical icebergs. 9 Two such examples can be found in 1 Kings 17. The chapter describes the exploits of Elijah following his declaration of a drought brought on by the sins of Ahab. Elijah was first commanded to hide from the king at the Brook of Cherith. 10 He is then commanded to travel to the Phoenician city of Zarephath: ęđģ ĤĚČĘ ĕĘČ ĪĐ Ĥčď ĕĐĕđ 6 Talmage, “R. David Kimhi,” 214–15. 7 The polemical comments are found in Isa 7:14 and in comments to Pss 2, 7, 19, 21, 22, 45, 72, 87, 110. These comments were censored in printed editions of Radak’s commentaries and collected in a short treatise entitled ęĕĤĢđĜĘ ģīďĤĐ ĦđčđĥĦ, which was printed along with Yom Tov Lipmann Muelhausen, ěđēĢĕĜĐ ĤĠĝ (Altdorf, 1644) and reprinted in ĝīĥĐ ĦđĜđĤĝē (Tel Aviv: Sinai, 1954). These comments are reintegrated into the commentary in Avraham Darom, ed., ęĕĘĐĦ ĘĞ ęĘĥĐ ĥđĤĕĠĐ :ĕēĚģ ďđď ĪĤ ( Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1974). See also Perez, “ĦĕĜĥĤĠĐ đĦĔĕĥĘ”, 306 n. 5. 8 Talmage, “R. David Kimhi,” 215–22, categorized the methods employed by Radak to disprove Christological interpretation as follows: (1) the context of the passage disproves such an interpretation; (2) the biblical text has been corrupted by the Christians; (3) the interpretation leads to a dilemma; (4) allegorical interpretation is untenable in the particular instance; (5) the doctrine propounded is irrational. In all five categories Radak expressly states the claim made by the Christians and counters it. 9 Explicit comments of a polemical nature, similar to those found in Psalms and Isaiah, include Mic 5:1 and Mal 3:22. Talmage, David Kimhi, 88–89, proposes that awareness of the Christian reading of the text of the Bible may be intimated in Radak’s commentary to Gen 18:3, where he seems to be implicitly averting a Trinitarian interpretation. In that case, though, comparison of Radak’s straightforward grammatical comment with that of Ibn Ezra (who is explicitly polemical) indicates that Radak was making a simple interpretive point without any polemical undertones. 10 The exact location of the Brook of Cherith is a matter of debate. Scholars are divided as to whether it was east or west of the Jordan. The prevalent opinion is that it was

260 · bryna jocheved levy ĖĘėĘėĘ ĐĜĚĘČ ĐĥČ ęĥ ĕĦĕđĢ ĐĜĐ ęĥ Ħčĥĕđ ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ ĖĘ, “And the word of the Lord came to him: Go at once to Zarephath of Sidon, and stay there; I have designated a widow there to feed you” (1 Kgs 17:8). All interpretive considerations lead to the identification of this place as Zarafand, a Phoenician city outside the land of Israel, deep in the heart of Baal country. 11 There Elijah is to bear witness to God’s word become deed so powerfully that it extends beyond the borders of the land of Israel. It is in the heartland of Phoenicia that the impotence of Baal in wake of the drought is placed in stark relief. Moreover, Elijah is the archenemy of Jezebel, the daughter of Ethbaal the king of Sidon. While she pursues him with a vengeance, he, ironically, has taken refuge on her father’s turf. 12 Radak is not swayed by these exegetical considerations. In an attempt to identify the location of Zarephath, he makes the following observation: ĤĥČī đĕĘĞ ĤĚČĜĥ ČđĐđ ĤēČ ĦĠĤĢ ĥĕĥ ĕĠĘ .ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ (ė ĐĕďčđĞ) īĦĠĤĢ ďĞ ęĕĜĞĜė ĖđĚĝ ČđĐ ęĥ ĖĘĕĥ đĐĕĘČĘ ĐīčģĐ ĤĚČĥ ĦĠĤĢ ĐĒđ ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢī ,ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ ěđďĕĢĘ. “Since there is another Zarephath about which it is said, ‘The Canaanites as far as Zarephath,’ (Obad 20). This Zarephath where the Holy One, blessed be He, told Elijah to go is near Sidon, and it belonged to Israel.” 13 A resident of the Provençal within the boundaries of the land of Israel, although in a secluded area. See Randall W. Younker, “Cherith, Brook of,” Anchor Bible Dictionary 1:899. 11 Zarephath is situated fourteen kilometers southwest of Sidon and twenty-three kilometers northwest of Tyre. See “ĦĠĤĢ”, ĦĕČĤģĚ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČ 6:777–78, and Magnus Ottosson, “The Prophet Elijah’s Visit to Zarephath,” in In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G.W. Ahlström, ed. W. Boyd Barrick and John R. Spencer. JSOTSup 31 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 192–94. Ottoson contends that Elijah was sent to Israelite territory, now under Sidonian control, to assert the dominion of the God of Israel. Cf. James Bennett Pritchard, Recovering Sarepta, a Phoenician City: Excavations at Sarafand, Lebanon, 1969–1974 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978). On Baal, see William F. Albright, Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1969), 208–64 and F. Charles Fensham, “A Few Observations on the Polarisation Between Yahweh and Baal in 1 Kings 17–19,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 92 (1980): 227–36. 12 It would seem that the reason Elijah was not sent directly to Sidon itself was in order that he maintain a low profile. After all, Jezebel was the daughter of Ethbaal, the king of Sidon. In 1 Kgs 18:10, we are informed that, in his absence, there wasn’t a country where Ahab did not send messengers to extradite Elijah. Presumably, going to a big city governed by Ahab’s father-in-law would have endangered the prophet. 13 Manuscript evidence (Paris 197, Paris 199, Vatican 71, Rome Angelica 72/2 Or, Madrid

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 261 city of Narbonne, Radak points out that the Zarephath mentioned in our text is not France. According to Radak, “Zarephath” refers to France in Obadiah 20: ĦĘĎđ ĦĠĤĢ ďĞ ęĕĜĞĜė ĤĥČ ĘČĤĥĕ ĕĜčĘ ĐĒĐ ĘēĐ ĦĘĎđ čĎĜĐ ĕĤĞ ĦČ đĥĤĕ ďĤĠĝč ĤĥČ ęĘĥđĤĕ, “And that exiled force of Israelites [shall possess] what belongs to the Phoenicians as far as Zarephath, while the Jerusalem exile community of Sepharad shall possess the towns of the Negeb.” Obadiah predicts that the exiles of Israel will return from the far corners of the earth, such as Zarephath of the Canaanites. Seemingly this reference is also to the Phoenician city of Zarephath. 14 However, Radak in his commentary ad loc. contends that the Zarephath referred to is France: . . . ĦĠĤĢ ďĞ ęĕĜĞĜė ęĞ ęĐđ đĘĎ ĤĥČ ĤĚđĘė .ĦĠĤĢ ďĞ ęĕĜĞĜė ČĜĕĕĚĘČ ĦđĢĤČ ęĕĚĞĐ ęĐđ ĦđĢĤČč ĐĘĎĐĥ ĝđĔĕĔ ĦđĘĎ ČđĐ .ĐĒĐ ĘēĐ ĦĘĎđ ĕĜčđ ČĕĜĠĝ ěĕČĤđģĥ ďĤĠĝ ĦđĢĤČđ ČĢĜĤĠ ęĕČĤđģĥ ČđĐ ĦĠĤĢđ ČĕĜđĘģĥČđ ęĦđĥĤč đĕĐĥ .ęĕĤėĒĜĐ ĦđĢĤČ ĤČĥĘ đĘĎ ęĕĤēČđ ďĤĠĝč đĘĎĥ ęĐ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ .ĘČĞĚĥĕ ĦđĢĤČč đĕĐ ęĐĥ ęĦđČ ęĚĢĞĚ đĘĎ đĘČ ĦđĢĤČĚđ ĦđĢĤČč đĔĥĠĦĐđ đĚė ĞĥđĐĕ ĕĜĠĚ ĕĜĞĜė ĐĜĠĥė ĕė ęĕĜĞĜė đĕĐ ČĕĕĜĚĘČ ġĤČ ĕĜč ĕė ĐĘčģč ęĕĤĚđČđ .ĒĜėĥČ ġĤČ ěĕČĤđģĥ ČĕĜđĘģĥČđ ČĕĕĜĚĘČ ġĤČĘ ęĐĘ đėĘĐ ĞĥđĐĕ ĤĠĝč đĜčĦėĥ .ĪđĎđ ęĕĕĜĞĜė ęĦđČ ěĕČĤđģ ęđĕĐ ďđĞđ Canaanites as far as Zarephath. That is the exiles who will be with the Canaanites as far as Zarephath. . . And that exiled force. The exile of Titus who exiled them to the countries of Almaynia and Ashkiluniya, and Zarephath is what is called France and the country of Sefarad is Spain. 15 The residents 241, Vatican 13,1 Or) indicates that the correct reading is not ĘČĤĥĕ Ęĥ ČĕĐđ as it appears in Miqra’ot Gedolot but ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ. 14 E.g., Ehud Ben Zvi, A Historical-Critical Study of the Book of Obadiah. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 242 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996), 22: “Zarephath, in Obadiah, can only point to the land to be possessed, namely the southern part of Phoenicia, or more precisely, the coastal area of Tyre, south of Zarephath.” Cf. Paul r. Raabe, Obadiah: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 24 (New York: Doubleday, 1996), 266 and Ben Zion Liuria, ęđďČ ĘĞ ęĕČĕčĜĐ ĕĤčďđ ĐĕďčđĞ ĤĠĝ ( Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1972), 102. 15 For the identification and nomenclature of Almaynia and Ashkiluniya, see Henri Gross, Gallia Judaica: Dictionnaire geographique de la France d’après les sources rabbiniques (Paris: Cerf, 1897), s.v. ĦĠĤĢ, 537–38, and s.v. ĐČĕĢĜČĤĠ, 483–89; Jehuda Rosenthal,

262 · bryna jocheved levy of Jerusalem are those who will be exiled to Spain and the others to the other countries mentioned. 16 Since they were under their domain they were dispersed to these countries and those in Moslem countries exiled themselves. According to tradition, residents of Almaynia are the Canaanites since when they fled before Joshua as we wrote in the Book of Joshua they went to Almaynia and Ashkelunia which is called Ashkenaz. 17 To this day they call them Canaanites. The same clear dichotomy is set up by Radak in Sefer Hashorashim: ĦĠĤĢ ďĞ .ĦĠĤĢ (ė ĐĕďčđĞ) ęđģ ĘčČ ĐīĢĜĤĠ ČĤģĜĐ ġĤČĐ ČĕĐ ĕė ęĕĤĚđČ ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ ĖĘ (Ĕ:Ēĕ ČīĘĚ) .ěđďĕĢ ġĤČč ĤĕĞ ęĥ ČĕĐ, “Zarephath. As far as Zarephath. They say that it refers to the land called France but ‘Go to Zarephath near Sidon’ (1K 17:9) is the name of a city in the Land of Sidon.” It is therefore clear that, according to Radak, Elijah is headed for Phoenician Zarafand. This being the case, it is quite surprising to find that he concludes his comment in Kings with the words ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ, “‘it belonged to Israel”! What motivated Radak to make this claim? One possible motivation is geographical information supplied by Scripture. Although Zarephath is mentioned only twice in the Bible, in our verse and in Obadiah, the city of Sidon is referred to often. Determining whether Sidon was within the boundaries of the land of Israel will clue us in to whether or not ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ might have been as well. 18 “Ashkenaz, Sefarad and Zarefat,” Historia Judaica 5 (1943): 58–62; Luitpold Wallach, “Ashkenaz = Germany,” Historia Judaica 3 (1941): 102–6, 423–35; Samuel Kraus, “ĦđĚĥĐ ďĤĠĝđ ĒĜėĥČ”, Tarbiz 3 (1932): 423–35; Yaakov Zussman, “ęĕĤĠČ ĤđĝĠđĤĠ Ęĥ ĕĞďĚĐ đĘĞĠĚ ĖčĤđČ ĖĘĚĕĘČ”, in ĦĕĤģēĚ ĐĕĠĤĎđĕĘčĕčąđĕč ĖčĤđČ ĖĘĚĕĘČ ęĕĤĠČ, ed. Yaakov Zussman et al. Supplement to Jewish Studies 1 ( Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1993), 49 n. 81. Kimhi was preceded in the identification of Zarephath with France by Rashi and Abraham ibn Ezra in their commentaries to Obad 20. The common source of this identification in medieval exegetes may have been Jossipon. David Flusser, ed., ěđĠĕĝđĕ ĤĠĝ ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1978), 9. 16 Moshe ibn Ezra, ĘČĤĥĕ ĦĤĕĥ, trans. B. Z. Halper (Leipzig: Shtibel, 1924), 62–63, was the first to suggest this motif explicitly, and other thinkers drew upon his suggestion. Apparently, Radak was among them. 17 Josh 19:28–29; see below. 18 The expression ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ indicates that Zarephath was under the jurisdiction of

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 263 The initial reference to Sidon is in Genesis 49:13, the blessing of the tribe of Zebulun: ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ đĦėĤĕđ ĦđĕĜČ ğđēĘ ČđĐđ ěđėĥĕ ęĕĚĕ ğđēĘ ěđĘđčĒ, “Zebulun shall dwell by the seashore; He shall be a haven for ships, and his flank shall rest on Sidon.” The distal border of the territory of Zebulun is here predicted to extend to Sidon. 19 Whether Sidon itself is included in the territory or is simply its furthermost border is a matter of exegetical debate. Rashi’s opinion is that Sidon is not included within the tribal territory: ĖđĚĝ ČĐĕ đĘđčĎ ğđĝ .ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ đĦėĤĕđ ěđďĕĢĘ, “And his border shall be unto Sidon – the end of his territory will extend close up to Sidon.” 20 Radak, in his biblical commentary, seems to subscribe to this view: đĚė ĘĞ ĥđĤĕĠđ ęĕĐ ğđēĘ ČĕĐ ěđďĕĢ ĕė ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ ĐĕĐĕ đĘđčĎ ğđĝ .ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ đĦėĤĕđ .(Ďė:đė ĦđĚĥ) ěėĥĚĐ ĕĦėĤĕĘđ đĚė đĦėĤĕđ ďĞ đĚė (Ē:č ĞĥđĐĕ) ĦđĤčĞĚĐ ĘĞ ěėđ ďĞ And his flank shall rest on Sidon. The end of his border shall be Sidon, since Sidon is on the seashore. The meaning of al is like “down to the fords” (Josh 2:7) as in “until.” And “his flank” is like “and for the flanks of the tabernacle.” (Exod 26:23) Although the matter is less clear in his Sefer Hashorashim: .ĖĤĕ ěđďĕĢ ĐĕĐĕ đĢĤČ ĦČĠ ĤĚđĘė ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ đĦėĤĕđ, “Yerech. ‘And his flank shall rest on Sidon’. That is, the corner of his land shall be Sidon.” This definition may indicate that Sidon was included in the territory of Zebulun. In Joshua 19:28–29, where the Bible records the allocation of the territory to each tribe, Sidon is listed among the cities assigned to the tribe of Asher: čĥđ .ĐčĤ ěđďĕĢ ďĞ ĐĜģđ ěđĚēđ čēĤđ ěčĤĞđ ĤĥČ ĕĜč ĘđčĎ ĤĢ ĤĢčĚ ĤĕĞ ďĞđ ĐĚĤĐ ĘđčĎĐ, “The boundary of the sons of Asher: Erbon, Rehob, Hammon, and Kanah, up to Great Sidon. The boundary Sidon. A similar usage is found in 1 Kgs 15:27, 16:15 regarding ęĕĦĥĕĘĠĘ ĤĥČ ěđĦčĎ. See Yehuda Kil, ČĤģĚ ĦĞď ĥđĤĕĠ ęĞ ęĕėĘĚ ĤĠĝ (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1989) 336 n. 7. 19 Cf. b Megillah 6a. 20 Targum Onkelos renders the phrase ěđďĕĢ ďĞ ĕĔĚ ĕĐĕ ĐĚđēĦđ, meaning “this territory will reach Sidon.” Rashi, Saadya Gaon, Hizqiah b. Manoah and Abraham ibn Ezra in their commentaries ad loc. all concur that the territory of Zebulun reached but did not include Sidon. Radak, it would seem, is in agreement with this contention. In his commentary to Josh 2:7, he notes: ČđĐ ěėđ ěđďĕĢ ďĞ À ěđďĕĢ ĘĞ đĦėĤĕđ ěėđ ,ďĞ đĚė ,ĘĞ .ĦđĚ ĘĞ đĜĎĐĜĕ (đīĔ ,ēīĚ ęĕĘĐĦ) ĦđĘĚ ĕĦĥ ČđĐ ĕė ĦđĚ ďĞ đĚė

264 · bryna jocheved levy turned to Ramah and on to the fortified city of Tyre.” Although the territory intended for the tribe of Asher 21 was to extend into the realm of Phoenicia – Tyre and Sidon – Judges 1:31 indicates that this goal was not achieved: čĘēČ ĦČđ ěđďĢ ĕčĥĕ ĦČđ đėĞ ĕčĥĕ ĦČ ĥĕĤđĐ ČĘ ĤĥČ ĕė ġĤČĐ ĕčĥĕ ĕĜĞĜėĐ čĤģč ĕĤĥČĐ čĥĕđ čēĤ ĦČđ ģĕĠČ ĦČđ ĐčĘē ĦČđ čĕĒėČ ĦČđ đĥĕĤđĐ ČĘ, “Asher did not dispossess the inhabitants of Acco or the inhabitants of Sidon, Ahlab, Achzib, Helbah, Aphik and Rehob. The tribe of Asher dwelled among the Canaanite inhabitants of the land because they did not possess it.” Yet, at a later phase in biblical history (2 Sam 24:6–7), during the time of David’s census, these cities seem to be under Israelite rule with a notable Israelite presence there: Ęėđ ĤĢ ĤĢčĚ đČčĕđ ěđďĕĢ ĘČ Ĥĕčĝđ ěĞĕ ĐĜď đČčĕđ ĕĥďē ęĕĦēĦ ġĤČ ĘČđ ĐďĞĘĎĐ đČčĕđ Ğčĥ ĤČč ĐďđĐĕ čĎĜ ĘČ đČĢĕđ ĕĜĞĜėĐđ ĕđēĐ ĕĤĞ, “They continued to Gilead and to the region of Tahtim–hodshi, and they came to Dan-jaan and around to Sidon. They went into the fortress of Tyre and all the towns of the Hivites and Canaanites, and finished at Beer-sheba in southern Judah.” 22 Radak explains ad loc.: ĕđēĐ ĕĤĞ Ęėđ ĤĢ ĤĢčĚ ĤĕĞ ďĞđ ĤĥČ ĕĜč ĦĘēĜč ĞĥđĐĕ ĤĠĝč ČđĐ ěėđ .ĤĢ ĤĢčĚ đĕĐđ ĘČĤĥĕ ĕĜč ęđĥĕĤđĐ ČĘĥ ĘČĤĥĕ ęĞ ĕĜĞĜėđ ĕđē ęĐč ęĕčĥđĕ đĕĐĥ .ĕĜĞĜėĐđ .ĝĚĘ The fortress of Tyre, as it is mentioned in the Book of Joshua in the territory of the tribe of Asher. Until the city Mivtzar Zor, and all of the cities of the Hivites and the Canaanites. The Hivites and the Canaanites dwelt there with the Israelites, since they were not dispossessed by the people of Israel but rather subjected them to forced labor.

21 Cf. Genesis Rabbah 98:11. 22 See André Lemaire, “Asher et le royaume de Tyr,” 135–52 and E. Lipinski, “The Territory of Tyre and the Tribe of Asher,” 153–66, both in Phoenicia and the Bible: Proceedings of the Conference held at the University of Leuven on the 15th and 16th of March 1990, ed. E. Lipinski. Studia Phoenicia 11/Orientalia Lovaniensa Analecta 44 (Leuven: Peeters, 1991); as well as Alberto R. Green, “David’s Relations with Hiram: Biblical and Josephan Evidence for Tyrian Chronology,” in The Word of the Lord Shall Go Forth: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Sixtieth Birthday, ed. Carol L. Meyers and M. O’Connor (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1983): 373–97. Cf. b. Gittin 8a.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 265 Radak’s comment in Kings, ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ . . . ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĦĠĤĢ, may be a consequence of his statement in the commentary on Samuel. If Sidon were under Israelite control during the time of David, might Radak, by extension, have thought that ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ was under Israelite control during the time of Ahab? The problem with such a view is that the political situation described in Kings appears to be quite different than the one portrayed in Samuel. Jezebel is described as the daughter of Ethbaal the king of the Sidonians; on the face of it, this would seem to indicate that Sidon (and almost certainly ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ) was not under Israelite rule at this time. Moreover, Radak himself comments on 1 Kings 16:31 that Ahab travelled to Sidon to worship his wife’s ancestral gods: đĘ ĐđēĦĥĐđ ęĕďčđĞ ęĥ đĕĐĥ ĘĞčĘ ďčĞđ ěđďĕĢĘ ęĥ ĖĘĐ .ďđčĞĕđ ĖĘĕđ, “And he got up and worshipped. He went to Sidon and worshipped and prostrated himself to Baal as they did there.” Why, then, would Radak make the claim ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ? It should be noted that, according to Radak’s comment in Samuel, the city of Sidon was inhabited by a mixture of Israelites, Canaanites, and Hivites. Therefore, the widow of Zarephath herself might have been Israelite even if the city had reverted to Sidonian rule. 23 This lends a different complexion to the account than the one we outlined earlier. Additionally, as we shall now see, it seems to be the regnant midrashic view. Requiring a change of venue when the waters of the Brook of Cherith dried up, Elijah is assigned by God not only a particular destination but a specific contact person. In Zarephath he is to meet a widow who will sustain him. Is this widow Sidonian or Israelite? Jopie Siebert-Hommes makes the interesting observation that the widow in this story is sketched in striking contrast to the other Sidonian woman in the Elijah cycle, Jezebel. 24 The contrast, of course, lies 23 See, in this vein, David ibn Zimra, ĒīčďĤĐ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ, 8 vols. (Warsaw: Aharon Volden, 1882), 6:60, responsum 2203: ĘČĤĥĕĘ ěđďĕĢĘ ĐėđĚĝ ĦĠĤĢ ĕė ĐĦĕĐ ĦĕĘČĤĥĕ ĕČďđ ČĘČ ĐĦĕĐ. 24 Jopie Siebert-Hommes, “The Widow of Zarephath and the Great Woman of Shunem: A Comparative Analysis of Two Stories,” in On Reading Prophetic Texts: GenderSpecific and Related Studies in Memory of Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes, ed. Bob Becking

266 · bryna jocheved levy in the fact that, whereas the widow protects and sustains the prophet, Jezebel seeks to kill him. Jezebel adamantly denies acknowledging the prophet as a man of God; the widow openly declares her belief in his apostolic veracity. Whereas Elijah revives the son of the widow, he predicts that Jezebel’s son Ahaziah will die. The contrast between the two Sidonian women would seem to accentuate that our widow is indeed a gentile, and a righteous one at that. 25 Rabbinic literature, on the other hand, was not content to leave the widow unidentified, or to accept that she was gentile. 26 The and Meindert Dijkstra (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 238. See also Uriel Simon, “đĐĕĘČ ĦĚēĘĚ đĕĐđĘČ ĘČ ĘČĤĥĕ ĦčĥĐč ČĕčĜ Ęĥ đģĘē :ĘĞčĐ ĦďđčĞč”, in ęĕČĕčĜ ĕĤđĠĕĝ :ČĤģĚč ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĐČĕĤģ, ed. Uriel Simon ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1997), 201. Cf. Sebastian P. Brock, “A Syriac Verse Homily on Elijah and the Widow of Sarepta,” Le Muséon 102 (1989): 112, line 107. 25 In addition, Siebert-Hommes, “Widow,” points out that they both sustain prophets; Jezebel the prophets of Baal and Asherah and the widow the lone prophet of God. She also highlights the irony of the widow’s fear that Elijah has brought her iniquity to bear on the fate of her child, whereas it is the son of Jezebel who will have his mother’s sins visited directly upon him. 26 Rabbinic discussion begins by debating not whether the widow was Jewish but what tribe she was from; see y. Sukkah 22b. The possibility that she was gentile is not found directly in midrashic literature, although it may be implied; see Ecclesiastes Rabbah 8:10 and Genesis Rabbati 7:1. That view is explicitly stated in the medieval biblical commentary of R. Bahya b. Asher to Num 25:11, who links it to b. Bava Metzi‘a 114a–b: Ĥč ĐčĤ ĐĕēėĥČ Ěīčč čđĦėĥ ĐĚĚ đĦđČ đĜďĚĘ đĐĕĘČ ĐĒ ĝēĜĠ ĕė ĘīĒĤ ĦĞďđ ĐĕĐ ČĘĥ ĘĞ đĕĘĞ ĐĚĦ ĐĕĐ ĪđĘė ĦČ ČĜĐė đČĘ ĐĕĘ ĤĚČ ęīđėĞ Ęĥ ĦđĤčģĐ Ħĕčč ĕČģ ĕđĐď đĐĕĘČĘ ĐđčČ Ĕīĕ ĤčďĚč) ĪČĜĥ ĘČĤĥĕ ČĘČ ĘĐČč ěĕČĚĔĚ ęīđėĞĐ ěĕČĥ ĐĕĘ ĤĚČđ ĘĐČ ĦČĚđĔč ĤĐĒĜ) ĦđĚĕ ĕė ęďČ Īėđ ĘĐČč (ďīĘ ĘČģĒēĕ) ĕĠĘ ĦĚĐ ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěč ĘĞ ēĔĦĥĜĥ đĜĕĢĚ ĖėĘ ,ęĦČ ęďČ ĕĦĕĞĤĚ ěČĢ ĕĜČĢ ĐĜĦČđ .ĦđĘĒĚđ ęĕčėđė ĦďčđĞ ěč ĐĕĐĥ. By adducing this talmudic passage (cf. Midrash Mishle 9:3), Bahya makes several interesting claims. The first is that Elijah was a priest, an identification well documented in rabbinic literature. See, e.g., M. Ish-Shalom Ĥďĝ ĐčĤ đĐĕĘČ, (Vienna-Warsaw: Achiassaf, 1902), 2–12; Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 7 vols. (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1968), 6:316 n. 3; and Eliezer Margaliot, đēđĤ ĕĕēčđ đĦĜĚČč ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĤĠĝč ČĕčĜĐ đĐĕĘČ (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1960), 12–19. Cf. targum 1 Kgs 17:13 where Elijah’s request that the widow give him the first cake is a result of his priestly status. Radak himself cites this position as derash in his comment to 1 Kgs 17:13. The second claim is that, as a priest, Elijah is concerned with the impurity caused by contact with the dead. The talmudic resolution involves the fact that the corpses of non-Jews do not defile. See Rashi on b. Niddah 70b incipit ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ěč and Menachem HaMeiri in his commentary on b. Niddah 70b in Avraham Sofer, ĦĕčĘ ĐĚĘĥ ěč ęēĜĚ Ĥčē ĤĥČ ĐďĕĜ ĦėĝĚ ĘĞ ĐĤĕēčĐ Ħĕč ĤĕČĚ ( Jerusalem: Kedem, 1970), 313. The innovation in Bahya’s commentary is that he applies the situation to Elijah’s revival of the dead boy, solving the problem of priestly defilement by turning the boy into a gentile. Bahya’s assertion is seriously

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 267 rabbis identified her as the mother of the prophet Jonah the son of Amittai: ęĕĎď ĦĞĕĘčč ğĤĢĜ ,ĤđĚĎ ģĕďĢ ĐĕĐ ,ĕĦĚČ ěč ĐĜđĕ ČđĐ ,ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĦĠĤĢ ěč ĘčČ đĕĕēč ĝĜėĜđ ,ĐĥčĕĐ ĘČ ĐĜđĕ ĦČ Čģĕđ ĎďĘ ĪĐ ĤĚČĕđ ČĘČ ,ĦĚ ČĘđ ,ęĕĚĕ ĦđĘđĢĚčđ .(Ē:đė ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ) ěďĞ ěĎĘ đďđčėč But the son of the Zaraphite widow was Jonah the son of Amittai. He was thoroughly righteous, refined by being consumed through fish and the ocean depths, he did not die, as it says and God said to the fish to vomit Jonah on to dry land, and he entered alive and with full glory into Paradise. (Midrash Tehillim 26:7) 27 What might have led to the rabbinic identification of the widow with the mother of Jonah? Perhaps the widow being given the important mission of feeding the prophet Elijah motivated them to make her a woman of status. 28 Alternatively, her kindness in sharing

contested by Ibn Zimra, ĒīčďĤĐ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ, 6:60, responsum 2203, who raises the following points: (a) If the widow were a gentile, then her son, rabbinically identified as Jonah the son of Amittai, would be a gentile as well. How would we explain a gentile prophet? (b) How would Elijah have lived with a gentile? (c) How would this non-Jew have been familiar with the classic formula for taking a vow in the name of the Lord God of Israel, as she does? (d) Why would God have performed a miracle for this non-Jew? (e) Zarephath is in Israelite territory. Radbaz then proceeds to resolve the defilement problem raised in b. Bava Metz‘ia by offering the following suggestions: (a) it was a ĐĞĥ ĦČĤđĐ, an emergency measure; (b) it was clear to Elijah the prophet that the boy would live so that he was not really a corpse (cf. Rashi ad loc.); (c) saving a life annuls all other prohibitions (cf. Tosafot ad loc.); (d) he didn’t actually touch the boy; (e) there was an issue of sanctifying God’s name; (f ) transgressing one injunction allowed the boy to uphold all the rest. All of these points are intended to support an alternative to Bahya’s resolution that the boy was a gentile. K. Budde, “Jonah, Book of,” Jewish Encyclopedia 7:226, mistakenly ascribed Bahya’s view to earlier rabbinic literature. For a thorough survey of the rabbinic sources pertaining to this question, see Pinchas Zabihi, ĒĠ ĦĤĔĞ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ ĤĠĝ (Tel Aviv: Yad Tiferet Raphael, 1995), part 1, vol. 3: Even Ha‘ezer, siman 9. 27 S. Buber, ed., čđĔ Ĥēđĥ ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ (New York: Om Publishing, 1947), 220. 28 The rabbis similarly identify the great woman of Shunem with a known character. She is said to be the sister of Abishag or the mother of the prophet Iddo. Another opinion suggests that she is the mother of the prophet Habakkuk. See Pirqe de-R. Eliezer 33; Seder ‘Olam 20; Zohar 1:7b, 2:44a; and Ginzberg, Legends, 6:345–46 n. 10. Radak quotes these midrashic identifications in 2 Kgs 4:1 and 2 Kgs 4:8. Cf. Mordechai Sabato, “ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ĤđĠĕĝ”, Megadim 15 (1992): 50 and Naomi Grunhaus,

268 · bryna jocheved levy her last morsels of food was midrashically rewarded by according her this great honor. 29 It is more likely that the rabbis were less concerned with the mother and more concerned with the son. 30 They identified the son of the widow with Jonah because of abundant literary parallels between him and Elijah. In the closing chapters of their prophetic careers, both Elijah and Jonah express disdain for their constituencies. They are both outraged by the possibility of divine mercy, while, ironically, they themselves benefit from it. They are both portrayed as men of justice and men of truth, preferring to forfeit life itself rather than hew to anything less than absolute standards. 31 Accordingly, establishing this initial point of physical contact between them – Elijah blowing life breath into Jonah – was an innovative interpretation. As early as Jerome, we find the episode of Elijah reviving the widow’s son being used to explain the emergence of the identity of the anonymous orphan. 32 “ģīďĤ Ęĥ đĕĥđĤĠč ĕčĔđģąđďĐ ĐĜčĚĐ ąĥĤďčđ”, in ČĤģĚ Ęĥ đĔđĥĠ čĥĕĕĘ, ed. Eran Viezel and Sara Japhet ( Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2011), 193–205. 29 In Pirqe de-R. Eliezer 33 the revival of the boy is a reward for the widow’s charity: ĘČ ĤĐĚ ĖĘđĐ ĐĕĐĥ ĕčĥĦĐ đĐĕĘČĚ ?ěĕďĚĘ đĜČ ěĕĜĚđ ĦđĕēĘ ěĕďĕĦĞ ęĕĦĚĐ ĐģďĢ ēėĚ ĤĚđČ ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĐĦĕĐ ĐĜđĕ Ęĥ đĚČ ĘđďĎ ďđčėč ĐĜĚĘČ ĐĥČ đĦĘčģđ ĦĠĤĢĘ ĖĘĐ .ĐĤĞĚĚđ ĤĐ. Cf. Song of Songs Rabbah 2:18. See Elchanan Samet, “đĤĥĠđ ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ĐĥČĐđ ĞĥĕĘČ ĘĞ ĤđĠĝĐ À ĘđĠėĐ ģđčēĐ”, Megadim 13 (1991), 84 n. 31. 30 The identification of the widow’s son as Jonah is found in the following midrashic sources: Midrash Tanhuma, Hayyei Sarah 4; Midrash HaGadol, Hayyei Sarah 4; Pirqe de-R. Eliezer 33; Pesiqta Rabbati 3:10; Genesis Rabbah 50:11; and y. Sukkah 20a. Many later biblical commentators take their cue from rabbinic texts and assume that the son of the widow was Jonah ben Amittai. See, e.g., the introductions to the commentaries by Abarbanel and Meir Leibush Malbim on Jonah. 31 This integral link between Elijah and Jonah finds expression in the Zohar: ĤēČ Ĥčď (ď:Ę ĕĘĥĚ) ęĕĚĥ ĐĘĞ ĕĚ ČĘĕēĚ ĐĜđĕ .ČĚĕ ĕģĚĞĘ ĕĚđĐĦ đĎ ČĜđĜ ĐĕĘ ĦēĜď ĐĜđĕ Čď ďĤĕđ .đĐĕĘČ Čď ĕĤģČ Ėė ěĕĎčđ ĦĚĕĚĘ ĐĕĥĠĜ ĘĕČĥ Čďđ ĦĚĕĚĘ ĐĕĥĠĜ ĘĕČĥ Čď .ĦĕēĜ ĐĜđĕ ģĕĘĝ đĐĕĘČ ČĦČ Čģ đĐĕĘČď (Ēĕ Č ęĕėĘĚ) čĕĦėđ .ĕĦĚČ ěč (čīĕĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĘđĝĐ ĥđĤĕĠ ęĞ ĤĐđĒĐ ĤĠĝ] .ĦĚČ ĖĕĠč Īĕĕ Ĥčďđ, ĘĐģĕđ [ĒĔ ĪĚĞ ,Čĕ ģĘē ,ĒĚ. The phrase ČĦČ Čģ đĐĕĘČď ČĘĕēĚ ĐĜđĕ, “Jonah came from the power of Elijah,” forges a powerful connection between the two. This is transposed into a teacher-pupil relationship in the late medieval midrash Pirqe Rabbenu HaKadosh. For the midrash, see Eleazar Grünhut, ęĕĔđģĕĘĐ ĤĠĝ, 6 vols. (Jerusalem: B. Z. Koinka, 1898–1903), 4:64, where Jonah is listed as one of Elijah’s protégés: đĕĐ ęĕďĕĚĘĦ ĐĞčĤČ ĞĥĕĘČđ ĐĕďčđĞ ,ĐĜđĕ ,ĐėĕĚ đĐĕĘČĘ đĘ. 32 Jerome, Commentaire sur Jonas: Introduction, texte critique traduction et commentaire, ed. Yves-Marie Duval, SC 323 (Paris: Cerf, 1985), 163–65. Cf. Benjamin Kedar-Kopfstein,

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 269 The Hebrews claim that he was the son of the widow of Sarepta who was resuscitated by the prophet Elijah. His mother, therefore, said to Elijah, ‘I now know that you are a man of God and that the true word of God is in your mouth.’ It is for that reason that the child received the name Amittai, meaning truth in our parlance, and because Elijah spoke truth the one resuscitated was called the son of truth. Radak himself makes reference to this claim in his commentary to 1 Kings 17:9: ČĕčĜĐ ĐĜđĕ Ęĥ đĚČ ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĦČĒ ĕė ĥĤďč đĤĚČđ, “They (the rabbis) in derash claimed that this widow was the mother of Jonah the prophet.” Perhaps this contention led to Kimhi’s claim that Zarephath was in Israelite territory. After all, how else could Jonah the Israelite have been the son of this widow? There are several factors, however, that militate against this. Firstly, Radak makes mention of this claim quite tangentially. 33 After discussing how we are to understand the directive to the widow to sustain Elijah, he notes that there is a derash claiming that Jonah was her son. If Kimhi felt that this midrashic claim justified his conclusion about Zarephath, why didn’t he explicitly make the connection between the Israelite identification of the widow and the territorial claim? Moreover, there are other anonymous characters whose midrashic identification with Jonah is mentioned by Radak. In 2 Kings 9:1, when Elisha summons one of the ęĕČčĜĐ ĕĜč, Radak accepts the rabbinic supposition that this was Jonah the son of Amittai: ĕĜčĚ ďēČĘ ĐĕĐ ĕĦĚČ ěč ĐĜđĕ ĕė đĤĚČ .ęĕČĕčĜĐ, “To one of the sons of the prophets.

“Jewish Traditions in the Writings of Jerome,” in The Aramaic Bible: Targums in Their Historical Context, ed. D. R. G. Beattie and M. J. McNamara. Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies 166 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 420–30. Cf. Ginzberg, Legends, 6:318 n. 9; and Zabihi, ĦđĘČĥ ĤĠĝ, part 1, vol. 3, Even Ha‘ezer, siman 9. 33 Naomi Grunhaus, “The Significance of Order of Interpretations in the Twofold Comments of Rabbi David Kimhi” (paper presented at the meeting of the Association for Jewish Studies, Boston, MA, December 18, 2000). Cf. also Naomi Grunhaus, “Peshat and Halakhah in Radak’s Exegesis,” in Between Rashi and Maimonides: Themes in Medieval Jewish Thought, Literature and Exegesis, ed. Ephraim Kanarfogel and Moshe Sokolow (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 2010), 343–64.

270 · bryna jocheved levy They (the rabbis) said that it was Jonah the son of Amittai.” 34 Similarly, in his commentary on 2 Kings 10:30, Radak quotes Seder ‘Olam in identifying the prophet sent to Jehu with Jonah as well: ĪĐ ĤĚČĕđ ĕĦĚČ ěč ĐĜđĕ đĘ ĤĚČ ĕĚ ęĘđĞ Ĥďĝčđ ČĕčĜ ĕīĞ .ČđĐĕ ĘČ, “And God said to Jehu. Through a prophet. And in Seder ‘Olam: who was it? Jonah the son of Amittai.” 35 Radak can comfortably adduce all these identifications, as they are not contradictory. However, citation of these claims does not imply exegetical commitment to them. The tendency to catalog this type of midrash is prevalent in Radak’s writings. 36 It appears to be standard operating procedure, included for his readers with a penchant for midrash. 37 There are even occasions where Radak openly expresses his reservations regarding midrashic identifications. 38 It would therefore seem that Radak’s mention of the midrashic 34 This idea is predicated upon the midrashic identification found in Seder ‘Olam 18: ďĞĘĎ ĦđĚĤč ČđĐĕ ĦČ ēĥĚđ ĕĦĚČ ěč ĐĜđĕ ĦČ ēĘĥđ ęĤČ ĘĞ ĖĘĚĘ ĘČĒē ĦČ ēĥĚđ ģĥĚďĘ ĞĥĕĘČ ĖĘĕđ. See Ber Ratner, ed., ęĘđĞ Ĥďĝ ĥĤďĚ (Vilna: Romm, 1897), 74 n. 4 and 75 n. 2. 35 The picture is elaborated upon in Mishnat R. Eliezer, where Jonah is said to be on the level of Elijah because he is appointed to the task for which Elisha was intended. See Hyman Enelow, ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĪĤ ĦĜĥĚ (New York: Bloch, 1933), 153. 36 E.g., in his commentary to 2 Kgs 4:8, Radak cites the midrashic identification of Iddo, the prophet, as the son of the great woman of Shunem; in his comment on 1 Kgs 13:11, Iddo becomes the old prophet, and, in the same breath, Radak lists the possibility that the old prophet was Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, or perhaps Yonatan, the son of Gershom. Cf. Ma’aravi Perez, “Ęĥ ĦđĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĘčģĘ ģīďĤ Ęĥ đĝēĕĘ ĘīĒē”, Sinai 92 (1983): 71–85. 37 See Radak on 1 Sam 4:12, 9:1, 28:7; 2 Sam 17:27, 20:16; 1 Kgs 11:26; 2 Kgs 13:21; Obad 1; 1 Chr 3:15, 6:5, 6:8, 6:39, 7:12, 8:33, 9:2, 11:18, 13:21, 6:13; 2 Chr 13:2; and Ps 34:1. One such midrashic analogy that particularly intrigued Radak was the equation of Phinehas with Elijah. See his comments to Judg 20:28; 1 Kgs 17:1; 2 Kgs 19:4; 1 Chr 9:20; and Mal 2:5. This identification is first mentioned in Pseudo-Philo 48:1–2. See Ch. Perrot and P.-M. Bogaert, Pseudo-Philon: Les Antiquities Bibliques, 2 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1976), 1:321. Cf. Ginzberg, Legends, 6:316 n. 3; Ratner, ęĘđĞ Ĥďĝ ĥĤďĚ, 61 n. 52; Joachim Jeremias, “Ηλ(ε)ίας,” Theological Dictionary of the New Testament 2:933 n. 38; Robert Hayward, “Phinehas – the Same is Elijah: The Origins of a Rabbinic Tradition,” Journal of Jewish Studies 29 (1978): 22–23; and Berger, Commentary, 38–39. 38 Rashi also tends to midrashically identify anonymous characters, but he does it less frequently than Kimhi. Among the cases cited above, the same identifications are found in Rashi in 2 Kgs 9:1, 10:30; 1 Sam 4:12; and 2 Sam 17:24. Cf. Cohen, “Qimhi Family,” 397 and Naomi Grunhaus, “The Dependence of Rabbi David Kimhi (RADAK) on Rashi in His Quotation of Midrashic Traditions,” Jewish Quarterly Review 93 (2003): 415–30. This may corroborate the claim by Melamed, ČĤģĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ, 2:751 n. 91, that Radak was freer with his use of midrash than Rashi.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 271 identification of the widow’s son as Jonah is simply another example of this practice, one which is not exegetically compelling. Although it is in consonance with Kimhi’s statement that ěđďĕĢĘ ĤĥČ ĐĦĠĤĢ belonged to Israel, it does not provide sufficient motivation for that claim. Why, then, did Radak assign Zarephath to Israelite provenance? It is entirely possible that Radak’s stated view on the territorial status of Zarephath resulted from polemical considerations. Several New Testament passages of which Radak might have been aware may have influenced his interpretation of our story. The first is the incident of the Syro-Phoenician woman (Matt 15:21–28): Jesus left that place, and went into the district of Tyre and Sidon, and a Phoenician woman from those parts came to him calling out, “Take pity on me, Lord, Son of David, for my daughter is badly demon-possessed.” Not a word did he answer, and his disciples approached him: “Send her away,” they said, “for she is calling after us.” He replied, “I was not sent, except to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” She, however, came and threw herself before him and said: “Lord, help me.” But he replied: “It is not right to take children’s bread and throw it to dogs.” “Yes, Lord,” she said; “yet even the dogs eat the crumbs which fall from their masters’ tables.” “Woman,” said Jesus in reply to her, “your faith is great, Let it be as you wish.” Her daughter was made well from that time. The parallels with our story are striking. Jesus makes his way to “the district of Tyre and Sidon.” 39 It is there that he encounters a Phoenician woman, who implores him to use his miraculous powers 39 A parallel version of the story is found in Mark 7:24–30. See Mark 7:31 for a more explicit itinerary. Luke 10:13, 15 and 6:17 mention other examples of gentiles receptive to Jesus’s preaching in Tyre and Sidon. For a general study regarding the interplay between these Gospels and the Old Testament, see P. M. K. Morris, “Elijah and Jesus in Mark’s Gospel,” Trivium 1 (1966): 121–33. On the Gospel of Matthew and the Jews, see Donald Senior, “Between Two Worlds: Gentiles and Jewish Christians in Matthew’s Gospel,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 61 (1999): 1–23; Anthony Saldarini, “The Gospel of Matthew and Jewish-Christian Conflict in the Galilee,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity, ed. Lee I. Levine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 23–38; John A. T. Robinson, “Elijah, John and Jesus,” in Twelve New Testament Studies

272 · bryna jocheved levy to cure her child. He is hesitant, but he eventually accedes to her request. The thrust of the New Testament passage is to indicate Jesus’s attitude towards the gentiles. Despite his initial resistance, he comes through and ministers to them. In addition to the Matthew passage, Luke 4:24–26 is particularly relevant to our discussion: “But he said; believe me no prophet is accepted in his own country. I can assure you, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heavens were stopped up for three and a half years 40 and a great famine befell all the land, yet Elijah was not sent to any of them but rather to a widow in Zarephath near Sidon.” In this pericope, it is clear that the Elijah story demonstrated that the Jews were not receptive to the words of the prophet, whereas the gentiles were. As Thomas Louis Brodie has pointed out, Luke’s principal aims in adapting the Old Testament story were “positivation, universalization, and Christianization.” He concludes: “Summing up, it may be seen, first of all, that the relationship between the texts is not haphazard, but rather is consistent and systematic. Every element of the Old Testament text has been integrated and transformed in the New Testament.” 41 Given these New Testament allusions to our story, it is quite possible that Radak’s comment ĘČĤĥĕĘ ĐĕĐđ is a case of preemptive exegesis. By declaring Zarephath to be Israelite territory and transforming the widow into an Israelite, Radak leaves no room for the (London: SCM, 1962), 28–52; and Robert Alan Hammer, “Elijah and Jesus: A Quest for Identity,” Judaism 19 (1970): 207–18. 40 TDNT 934, n. 52, and M. Ohler, Elia in Neuen Testament (NY, 1877): 178–79. For a general discussion of Elijah in the New Testament see D. de Brouwer, “Elia dans le Nouveau Testament” in his Elie le Prophete (France, 1956), 1:116–130; H.L. Strack and P. Billerbeck, “Exkurs Elias,” in Kommentar Zum Neuen Testament aus Talmud und Midrasch (München, 1928), 4:2:746ff. 41 Thomas L. Brodie, “Towards Unraveling Luke’s Use of the Old Testament: Luke 7:11–17 as an Imitatio of 1 Kings 17:17–24,” New Testament Studies 32 (1986): 258–59; Brodie, “The Departure for Jerusalem (Luke 9,51–56) as a Rhetorical Imitation of Elijah’s Departure for the Jordan (2 Kings 1,1–2, 6),” Biblica 70 (1989): 98–99; Brodie, “Luke the Literary Interpreter: Luke–Acts as a Systematic Rewriting and Updating of the Elijah–Elisha Narrative” (PhD diss., Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas, 1981); and C. A. Evans, “Luke’s Use of the Elijah/Elisha Narratives and the Ethic of Election,” Journal of Biblical Literature 106 (1987): 73–75.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 273 New Testament reading. 42 Although it is not possible to definitively prove that Radak was familiar with these New Testament passages, it is nonetheless quite tenable that he was not only aware of them but was reacting to them. 43 I have chosen to characterize this interpretative strategy as preemptive in order to distinguish it from many other cases in which Radak engages in explicit polemic with Christian interpretations. 44 By using preemptive exegesis, Radak undermines the textual basis of Christian expository claims. In our case, the rejection of the Christian reading of our passage is subtle and implicit. Those familiar with the Gospels will understand Kimhi’s agenda; the uninitiated may pass it by. This particular statement in Radak’s biblical commentary raises an interesting question regarding his use of preemptive exegesis 42 Avraham Grossman suggested to me the following possibility: Tyre and Sidon represented the two key cities in the Crusader kingdom. Sages of Israel, contending with Christian claims in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, saw this as the greatest obstacle in their polemic with Christianity. They found it difficult to grapple with the Christian claim that their conquest of the land, and of the Crusader kingdom, was the ultimate testimony to their having become Verus Israel (the true Israel). Radak’s emphases on Sidon belonging to Israel could possibly be understood in the context of this polemic. Regarding the serious Jewish distress during this period, see, e.g., Avraham Grossman, “ĘČĤĥĕ ġĤČĘ ĐĕĘĞĘ ĦđĜđēĢĕĜ”, in ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĤģēĚ ,ĐďđĐĕĘ ĦČĒđ ĦĤđĠ ěč ĐďđĐĕĘ ęĕĥĎđĚ Đčđĥĕĕđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ, ed. Elchanan Reiner and Yehoshua Ben-Arieh ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2003), 362–82. My thanks to Professor Grossman for this insightful comment. 43 In 1913, Abraham Marmorstein published a genizah fragment that included several comments from Kimhi’s commentary on Psalms, along with an extensive introductory passage attacking the Gospels. Marmorstein ascribed the introduction to Kimhi as well. See Arthur Marmorstein, “David Kimhi apologiste: Un fragment perdu dans son commentaire des Psaumes,” Revue des études juives 66 (1913): 246–51. The passage relates primarily to the book of Matthew but quotes Luke 4:25 directly: ĐĚčđ .ěĚĒ ďđčČ ČđĐ ĐĒč ĖĕĤČĐĘ ęĜđĤĝē ĘĞ ĐĤđĚĐ ĦđĞďč ęĕģđĝĠ ěĕČĕčĚ ěđĕĘĎ ěđČĚ ĦđĚđģĚč ĐčĤĐčđ ĐĕĐ ČĘđ ęĕĚĥĐ ĤĢĞĜ ęĕĥďē Đĥĥđ ęĕĜĥ ĥđĘĥ ĕė ĤĚđČ ČđĐĥ đĚĢĞ ĕĤčďĚ ęĎ đĕďĕĚĘĦĚ ĕď ĥĕ ĕĦčĦėĥ čČēČĘ ĐČĤĐ ĖĘ đĐĕĘČĘ ĪĐ ĤĚČ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐĜĥč ĕė ČđĐ Ĥģĥđ ĤĔĚ. . . . N. Porges, “Sur un fragment de polémique anti-chrétienne,” Revue des études juives 67 (1914): 128–31 counters the claim, suggesting that the text was not authored by Radak but was taken from Profiat Duran’s polemical treatise Kelimat Hagoyyim. See “ęĕđĎĐ ĦĚĕĘė”, in ĔĕĠđĤĠĘ ĝđĚĘđĠ ěČĤđď, ed. Ephraim Talmage ( Jerusalem: Ben Zion Dinur Center, 1981), 54: ĕė ĤĚČ ęĥ ęĥĐ ĤĚČ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐĜĥč ĕė Ĥģĥđ đĐĕĘČ ĕĚĕč čĞĤ ĕĐĕđ ĤĔĚ ĐĕĐ ČĘđ ęĕĕĚĥĐ ĤĢĞĜ ĕĢēđ ęĕĜĥ ĥđĘĥ ĤĔĚ ĐĜĦČđ čČēČ ĘČ ĐČĤĐ ĖĘ :đĐĕĘČ ĘČ. The similarity between the two passages would seem to substantiate Porges’s claim. 44 See Talmage, “R. David Kimhi,” 215–22.

274 · bryna jocheved levy elsewhere. In the last scene of the chapter, the widow’s son is stricken with a mortal illness: ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ ďČĚ ģĒē đĕĘē ĕĐĕđ, “His malady intensified until he had no breath left in him” (1 Kgs 17:17). The widow expresses her outrage, stating: ĥĕČ ĖĘđ ĕĘ ĐĚ đĐĕĘČ ĘČ ĤĚČĦđ ĕĜč ĦČ ĦĕĚĐĘđ ĕĜđĞ ĦČ ĤĕėĒĐĘ ĕĘČ ĦČč ęĕĐĘČĐ, “She said to Elijah, ‘What harm have I done you, O man of God, that you should come here to recall my sin and kill my son?’” (1 Kgs 17:18). When Elijah appeals to God to save the boy, he reiterates this claim: ĕĐĘČ ĪĐ ĤĚČĕđ ĪĐ ĘČ ČĤģĕđ ĐĜč ĦČ ĦĕĚĐĘ ĦđĞĤĐ ĐĚĞ ĤĤđĎĦĚ ĕĜČ ĤĥČ ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĘĞ ęĎĐ, “He cried out to the Lord and said, “O Lord my God, will You bring calamity upon this widow whose guest I am, and kill her son!” (1 Kgs 17:20). After performing artificial resuscitation, Elijah again implores God: ČĜ čĥĦ đčĤģ ĘĞ ĐĒĐ ďĘĕĐ ĥĠĜ, “‘Let this child’s life return to his body!’” (1 Kgs 17:21). And voilà: ĕēĕđ đčĤģ ĘĞ ďĘĕĐ ĥĠĜ čĥĦđ đĐĕĘČ Ęđģč ĪĐ ĞĚĥĕđ, “The Lord heard Elijah’s plea; the child’s life returned to his body and he revived” (1 Kgs 17:22). Was the boy absolutely dead, or had he merely fallen into a coma? At first glance, it seems that the boy was dead and was revived by Elijah. 45 Yet the expressions describing death can be understood hyperbolically as well. The phrase ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ “until he had no breath in him” is similar to ĕč ĐĤČĥĜ ČĘ ĐĚĥĜđ in Daniel 10:17, meaning “I was breathless.” 46 As for the dramatic conclusion of our story – ĕēĕđ đčĤģ ĘĞ ďĘĕĐ ĥĠĜ čĥĦđ, “and the child’s life returned to his body and he revived” – the identical phrase is found in Judges 15:19, where it figuratively describes Samson’s rehydration. Taking the story to mean that the child was deathly ill and was healed by Elijah is in compliance with biblical parlance, which often describes healing in terms of life after death. 47 Additionally, in the account of Elisha’s revival of the Shunammite woman’s son (2 Kgs 4:20, 32), the word ĦĚĕđ appears explicitly twice, while here it is noticeably absent. 45 See, e.g., Genesis Rabbah 96:4; cf. Matt 9:23–24. 46 Cf. 1 Kgs 10:5. 47 See, e.g., Num 21:8–9; Josh 5:8; 2 Kgs 1:2, 8:8, 20:7. This reading is subscribed to by Alexander Rofé, The Prophetical Stories: The Narratives about the Prophets in the Hebrew Bible, Their Literary Types and History (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1988), 134.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 275 Both positions are found among ancient interpreters. Targum Jonathan translates verse 20 as follows: ĘĞ ęĤč ĕĐĘČ ĕđĕ ĤĚČđ ĕđĕ ęďģ ĕĘĢđ ĐĤč ĦđĚĕ ČĘđ ĐĘ ĥČčĦĕ ČĘ ĐĚĞ ĤČď ČĜČď ČĦĘĚĤČ, “And he prayed to God and said: O Lord my God indeed upon the widow with whom I am residing let there not be evil to her and let her son not die!” The clear exegetical agenda of the targum is to transform Elijah’s words from an anguished complaint against God into a prayer. Because the request is couched in preventative terms (“Let there not be evil . . . let her son not die”), it may be read as an indication that the boy is still alive. Josephus leaves no room for doubt. In his reworking of the biblical story, the child only appeared to be dead and was healed by Elijah. Now this woman of whom we spoke before, that sustained the prophet, when her son was fallen into a distemper till he gave up the ghost, and appeared to be dead, came to the prophet weeping and beating her breast with her hands, and sending out such expressions as her passions dictated to her, and complained to him, that he had come to her to reproach her for her sins, and that on this account it was that her son was dead. ( Josephus, Ant. 8.13.3) On the other hand, rabbinic literature views the incident not as a medical miracle but as the ultimate supernatural event: the revival of the dead. 48 The rabbinic position is expressed in picturesque fashion on b. Sanhedrin 113a: ČďĕĘģČ ĐĕĘ ěĦĕĚĘ ĕĚēĤ ČĞč .ĦĕčĐ ĦĘĞč ĐĥČĐ ěč ĐĘē ĐĘČĐ ęĕĤčďĐ ĤēČ ĕĐĕđ ,ęĕĚĥĎ Ęĥđ ,Đĕē Ęĥ :ēĕĘĥĘ đĤĝĚĜ ČĘ ĦđēĦĠĚ ĥĘĥ :ĐĕĘ ĕĤĚČ ,ęĕĦĚĐ ĦĕĕēĦď ,ĕČĐ Ęĕģĥđ ČĐ ĕĦĕĕČ čĤĐ ďĕč ĦēČđ ďĕĚĘĦ ďĕč ęĕĦĥ :đĤĚČĕ .ęĕĦĚĐ ĦĕĕēĦ Ęĥđ .ĤĔĚ [ĐĜĦČđ] čČēČ ĘČ ĐČĤĐ ĖĘ (Ēīĕ ĪČ ęĕėĘĚ) čĕĦėď “And it came to pass after these things, that the son of the woman, the mistress of the house, fell sick.” Elijah prayed that the keys of resurrection might be given him, but was answered: Three keys 48 A wide variety of rabbinic passages definitively assert this claim, e.g., y. Berakhot 5:2; Exodus Rabbah 4:2; Numbers Rabbah 14:1. See also Sir 48:5 and the polemic attributed to Radak in Talmage, ĦĕĤčĐ ĤĠĝ, 88–89.

276 · bryna jocheved levy have not been entrusted to an agent: of birth, rain, and resurrection. Shall it be said: Two are in the hands of the disciple and [only] one in the hand of the Master? Bring [Me] the other and take this one, as it is written, “Go show thyself unto Ahab; and I will send rain upon the earth.” Elijah was granted the key to resurrection, a power ordinarily reserved exclusively for the Almighty. 49 In his comment on verse 17, Kimhi questions the condition of the widow’s son. In the printed versions of the commentary, the text reads as follows: ģĒē đĕĘē ĐĕĐ ČĘČ Ęėđ ĘėĚ ĦĚ ČĘĥ 50 ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ .ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ ČĘđ ĐĚĕĥĜč ČĘ Ħđĕē ěĚĕĝ ęđĥ đĜĚĚ ěĕĤĕėĚ đĕĐ ČĘđ đĦĚĕĥĜ ĐĤĢĞĜĥ ďĞ ďČĚ .ĐĚĥĜ ĕč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĘČĕĜďč ĤĚđČ ČđĐ ěėđ .ČđĐ ĦĚ ĕė đĚČ Đčĥēĥ ďĞ ęĕďĕĎĐ ģĠďč .ęĘđĞĐ ĕĜč ěĕĤčđĝĥ đĚė ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ĕė ěđėĜĐđ .ĐĎĘĠĐĐ ĖĤď ĘĞ ČđĐ đĦđČ ĘčČ Until he had no breath left in him. There is someone who says that he did not die completely, rather his illness was so severe that he stopped breathing and there were no visible life signs; no breath, no pulse, so that his mother thought he was dead. Similar to what it says in Daniel, “I was breathless,” but that is hyperbole. The correct view, as people generally think, is that he died completely. 49 Although the wording of the account of Elijah’s revival of the ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěč is equivocal, the explicit statements ĦĚĕđ (2 Kgs 4:20) and ĦĚ ĤĞĜĐ ĐĜĐ (2 Kgs 4:32) in the parallel account of the revival of the ĦĕĚĜĥĐ ěč by Elisha leave no room for doubt that he performed an actual resurrection of the dead (as noted above). In the rabbinic mind, because Elisha was the protégé of Elijah, any miracle performed by the disciple must have been within the power of the master (cf. Pirqe de-R. Eliezer 33). This assumption generated an interesting creative expansion. On b. Niddah 70b, mention is made of the dead ĦĕĚĜĥĐ ěč revived by Elisha: ĕē ěĕČđ ČĚĔĚ ĦĚ ěĐĘ ĤĚČ ?ČĚĔĕĥ đĐĚ ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ěč ČĚĔĚ. Joseph ibn Kaspi and Isaac Last, eds., ğĝė ĐĜĥĚ, 2 vols. (Pressburg: Alkalay, 1905–06), 1:14 n. 3 and Don Yitzhak Abarbanel in his commentary to Moreh Nevuchim 1:42 quote the Gemara as if it contained a parallel reference to Elijah’s revival of the ČĚĔĕĥ đĐĚ ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ěč ČīĤĘ ěėđ ČĚĔĕĥ đĐĚ ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤĘ đĘČĥ :ĦĕĠĤĢĐ Ĝč. But there is no witness to this reading in any extant versions or MSS of the Babylonian Talmud! The Spanish scholars’ statement regarding the ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěč seems to be their own addition. 50 The phrase ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ is found in two other instances in Radak’s commentary: 2 Kgs 14:25 and 1 Chr 24:3. In both cases, Radak is referring to a midrashic opinion. Generally, when he quotes Rambam, he does so by name. See n. 5 above.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 277 The first position presented by Kimhi is identical to the view cited in Guide of the Perplexed 1:42 and attributed to the Andalusians: Living [hay] is a term denoting a being that grows and is sentient. Thus: Every moving thing that liveth. It is also a term denoting recovery from a very severe illness. Thus: And lived from his illness; In the camp till they lived. Similarly in the expression: A living flesh. Similarly death [mavet] is a term denoting both death and severe illness. Thus: And his heart died within him, and he became as a stone, which refers to the severity of his illness. On this account Scripture makes it clear with regard to the son of the woman of Zarephath – that his sickness was so sore, that there was no breath left in him. For if it had said: And he died, it would have been possible to interpret this as meaning that it was a case of severe illness in which the sick individual was near death, as Nabal was, when he heard the news. Some of the men of Andalusia interpret the verse as meaning that his breath was suspended so that no breath at all could be perceived in him – as happens to people struck with apoplexy or with asphyxia deriving from the womb, so that it is not known if the one in question is dead or alive and the doubt remains a day or two. 51 Was Maimonides himself of this opinion? This question led to considerable debate among his interpreters. In general, Maimonides was accused not only of mitigating miracles but of denying corporeal resurrection. 52 In their commentaries on the Guide, Profiat Duran, 51 Moses Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Shlomo Pines, 2 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 1:92. A fascinating modern parallel to the medieval attempt to exonerate Maimonides of charges of heresy may be found in Yosef Kapach’s comments in his edition of the Guide: Ğďđĕ ĕĜĕČĥ ğČ ęĕďĤĠĝĐ ďēČ ĤĚČ Ĥčė ĥđĤĕĠĐ ĘĞč ČđĐ đĜčĤĥ ęĕĜĞđĔĐ ęĦđČ đģďĢ ČĘĥ ĤđĤč ĕĤĐ ,Ėė ĥĤĕĠ đĜĕčĤĘ đĚďģĥ ďĤĠĝ ĕĚėēĚ ĕĚ Č ,ČđĐĥ ĕĚ ĕĤđēČĚ ĤĦĦĝĐĘ ĐĢĤĥ ČĘČ ĐĒĐ) ĦĚĕČ ČĘČ đĕĘĞ ěĕČĥ đĜčĤ Ęĥ đėĤďđ đĦďĚ đĒ ěĕČĥ ęđĥĚ (č .đĜĕčĤ ĕĜĕĞč ęďČ ĕĜč ĦđĚďė ęĐĥ ęĦđČ ĔĤĠčđ ĦđĕĤčĐ đĤĚČĕ ĐĚĘ ĘĘė ĥĥđē đĜĕČđ ďčĘč ęĕĚĥ Ĥčė ČĘĥ ĕĘ ĤđĤč ĖČ đĜčĤ ĦĠđģĦ ĤēČĘ ĐĜĥ ĐČĚė ęĜĚČđ ĐĢĜčđĤĠ ĕĤĞčđ ĦĠĤĢč Ğđďĕđ ġđĠĜ ĐĒ ĥđĤĕĠ đĜČĢĚ ĥĚĚ ĦĚ ČĘďī č ďĕģ ČĞĕĢĚ ČččĘ ĦĢčđģĚ ĐĔĥč ČčđĐ ěėĥ ,ĤēČ ĤđģĚĚ ČĘČ ęĕėđčĜĐ ĐĤđĚ ĦĞĠĥĐč ĥĕĤČĠĚ ĘČĕēĕ đĜĕčĤ ďĕĚĘĦ ĐĕĐĥ ğīĤĐ ďĕĚĘĦ ęĥč īğĘĞĦĜ ČĘČ. See ęĕėđčĜ ĐĤđĚ, trans. Yosef Kapach (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1977), 63 n.10. 52 For a thorough discussion of the Maimonidean controversy in general, and Maimonides’ position on resurrection and miracles in particular, see Daniel Jeremy Silver,

278 · bryna jocheved levy Moses of Narbonne, Joseph ibn Kaspi and Shem Tov ibn Al Falaquera are quite certain that Rambam shared the view of the Andalusians. 53 They contend that his ambiguity was deliberate, but his position clear: Maimonides was of the opinion that the boy was not really dead. As Falaquera writes: đĜĘ ĦđĤđĐĘ ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ ďČĚ ģĒē đĕĘē ĕĐĕđ ĦĕĠĤĢ ěčč ĤČĕč ĐĒĘđ ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ đč ĤĚČĜĥ ğČ ĕė đĤĚČ ęĕĝđĘďĜČĐ ĦĢģ đĤĚČđ .đĜĚĚ đĥĠĜ ĐČĢĕđ ĦĚĥ Maimonidean Criticism and the Maimonidean Controversy, 1180–1240 (Leiden: Brill, 1965); Bernard Septimus, Hispano-Jewish Culture in Transition: The Career and Controversies of Ramah. Harvard Judaic Monographs 4 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982); Joseph Saracheck, Faith and Reason: The Conflict over the Rationalism of Maimonides, 2 vols. (Williamsport, PA: Bayard, 1935), 1:82–83 (“In defending the Maimonidean writings, Qimhi fought for his own self-preservation, for he advocates views identical to those of the great sage”); Joshua Finkel, “Maimonides’ Treatise on Resurrection: A Comparative Study,” in Essays on Maimonides: An Octocentennial Volume, ed. Salo W. Baron (New York: AMS Press, 1966): 93–123, originally published in Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research 9 (1938–39): 63–71, and Elisha Russ-Fishbane, “Maimonidean Controversies after Maimonides: The Egyptian Context,” Hebrew Union College Annual 88 (2017): 159–202. Cf. Robert S. Kirschner, “Maimonides’ Fiction of Resurrection,” Hebrew Union College Annual 52 (1981): 163–93; Alvin J. Reines, “Maimonides’ Concept of Miracles,” Hebrew Union College Annual 45 (1974): 243–85; Lawrence Kaplan, “Maimonides on the Miraculous Element in Prophecy,” Harvard Theological Review 70 (1977): 233–56; Joseph Shatzmiller, “ĦĜđĚĦĘ ęīčĚĤĐ ĕčĦė ĘĞ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦģđĘēĚĐ”, Sinai 34 (1969): 127–44; and E. E. Urbach, “Ęĥ ęģĘē đĕĤĠĝ ĘĞđ ęīčĚĤĐ ĘĞ ĝđĚĘđĠč ĦĠĤĢđ ĒĜėĥČ ĕĚėē”, Zion 12 (1947): 149–59. Cf. also Ĥč Ħīđĥ Ħĥĥ ( Jerusalem, 1960), siman 45, describing the Guide as a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, citing the case of the widow’s son as an example: ęīčĚĤĐ ĔĘĚĜ ČĘ ĒīėĞđ ĕĜĕĝ ĤĐ ďĚĞĚčđ ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěčč ěđĎė ęĕĦĠđĚĐ ĦĢģč ĐĚėēĐ ĤēČ ĦĢģ ĖĥĚĐĚ ĘīĒ. 53 See Duran/Ephodi in standard printings of the Guide. See Moses Narboni in ĐĥĘĥ ĐĤđĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ ĕĜđĚďģ ( Jerusalem, 1960), 5, and Joseph ibn Kaspi in the same volume on pages 53–54. It is noteworthy that Ibn Kaspi is far more discreet in his biblical commentaries. In his commentary on 1 Kgs 17:22, we find an enigmatic comment: čīĘĚ) ĐĕģĒē ĘĞ ĕēĕđ đĚė ĐĒ ěĕČ .ĕēĕđ .Čđčĕ ĪĐ ĤĢđČ ďđĞđ (čĕ:Ę ČīĚĥ) đĕĦĥĤĕĠ .đčĤģ ĘČ ďĘĕĐ ĥĠĜ čĥĦđ Čđčĕ ĪĐ ĤĢđČ ęĎđ (Ē:ė. On the one hand, he contrasts our verse with two other cases, one of restoration of strength after eating (2 Sam 30:12, where the contrast to our case is also explicitly mentioned) and the other of recovery from illness (2 Kgs 20:7, implying that our verse refers to resurrection proper). On the other hand, the phrase Čđčĕ ĪĐ ĤĢđČ, which twice appears in those comments, implies that there is more here than meets the eye. Čđčĕ ĪĐ ĤĢđČ refers to a work known as ğĝė ĞĕčĎ which Ibn Kaspi promised but never delivered. The work was intended to deal with controversial exegetical and philosophical issues. See Isaac Last and Joseph Kaspi, eds., ğĝė ĕĜďČ, 2 vols. (London: I. Narodiczky, 1911), 1:60 and Hannah Kasher, ed., ěēĘđĥ :ĕĠĝė ěčČ ğĝđĕ ĝė ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi), 26–27 n. 124.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 279 ĕĤĐĥ ĘĘė ĐĚĕĥĜ đĘ ĐĤČĥĜ ČĘĥ ďĞ đĦĚĕĥĜ ĐĘĔčĦĜ ĘčČ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕė ĐĚĥĜ đč ęĕĝđĘďĜČĐ ĦĞďė čĤĐ ĦĞďđ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕČďđ ČđĐđ ĕč ĐĤČĥĜ ČĘ ĐĚĥĜđ ĘČĕĜďč čĕĦė 54 .ěĕĜĞĐ ęĕĘĞĐĘ ęĐĘ đĝēĕĕĥ ČĘČ In this manner, he interpreted the case of the Zaraphite woman “and his illness grew worse, until he has no breath left in him” (1K 17:17) to teach us that he died, his soul departed from him. Several of the Andalusians claimed that although it says “his soul departed from him” he did not die, but was lifeless, rather, his breath waned until he was not breathing at all. As it says in the book of Daniel “and no spirit is left in me” (Daniel 10:17) – and he certainly did not die! The opinion of Maimonides is that of the Andalusians, however, it was attributed to them to obfuscate the issue. Abarbanel goes to great lengths to refute this claim. 55 Maimonides, in his estimation, was convinced that the boy was fully dead. He concludes: ĐĤđĚ ČđĐđ ĞĤĐ ĘČ čĤģĦĚđ ĕĘēĐ ěđĤėĒ ĕĤēČ ĐČč ėīĎ ČĕĐĐ ĐĦĕĚĐ ĐĜĐ ĦĔĘēđĚ ĐĦĕĚ ČĕĐĥ ĤČčĚđ, “Indeed this death also followed mention of the illness and approached the worse and he indicates and explains that this was certain death.” So much for Maimonides, who was an important formative source for Radak’s philosophical views. 56 What 54 See Shem Tov ibn Falaquera, “ĐĤđĚĐ ĐĤđĚ”, in ĐĤđĚĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ ĕĜđĚďģ ĐĥĘĥ ( Jerusalem, 1960). 55 In his commentary printed in ęĕėđčĜ ĐĤđĚ ĤĠĝ. Cf. Moses Maimonides, Le Guide des Égarés, ed. and trans. Solomon Munk, 3 vols. (Paris: G.-P. Maisonneuve and Larose, 1856–66), 1:149–50 n. 1. The same point appears in Abarbanel’s commentary on 1 Kgs 17:16. Cf. Menachem HaMeiri’s comment, “ĐĔđĜ ĦđĕĐĘ đĠģĜ đčĘĥ ĕĚ ČĘČ ěė ĥĤĕĠ ČĘđ ďĞč ĤĠėĕ čđĔĐ ĪĐđ ęĕĕĝđĘďĜČĐ ĦĞď ĤēČ,” in Sofer, ĐĤĕēčĐ Ħĕč, 313. 56 See n. 5 above. A fascinating parallel attempt on the part of contemporary scholar R. Yosef Kapach in his commentary to the Guide, to protect Maimonides from accusations of sacrilege: “One of the Spaniards has said. Although I do not know which Spaniard, who predated Maimonides, interpreted it as such, it is clear that those who claim that Maimonides is of this opinion and was trying to hide behind someone, were wrong. a) Because it is neither the method nor approach of Rabenu, who had only the fear of the Lord upon him and was not daunted by what others would say; certainly others who were mere mortals in his eyes. b) This approach was already extant and well known in France and Provence, however, it appeared approximately one hundred years after Maimonides, making it clear to me that it was not under the influence of The Guide of the Perplexed, but rather from another source. As it is adduced in Shita Mekubbetzet to Baba Meziah 114 b ‘That he did not

280 · bryna jocheved levy about Kimhi himself? He was a firm believer in corporeal resurrection. Evidence of this can be found in his commentary to Psalms 78:39 and 104:30. 57 The final words of his comment in Kings presumably reflect his personal position: ĕĜč ěĕĤčđĝĥ đĚė ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ĕė ěđėĜĐđ ęĘđĞĐ, “Indeed he was absolutely dead as most people think.” Radak also refers to Elijah’s revival of the dead in his comment to Genesis 19:18: ĖČĘĚĐđ . . . ĦđĕēĐĘđ ĦĕĚĐĘ đďĕč ĥĕĥ ĕĚ .đĥĠĜ ĦČ ĦđĕēĐĘ đĘ ĤĚČ ĕĤĐĥ . . . .ĕĜďČ ĞĥĕĘČđ đĐĕĘČ đĚė ęĕČĕčĜĐ đĘĕĠČđ ĘČĐ ĦđēĕĘĥč ĦđĕēĐĘđ ĦĕĚĐĘ đďĕč ĥĕ ěė ęĎ, “My Lord . . . since he told him to revive him. [This word refers to] he who has in his power to kill and revive . . . The angel also has the power to kill and revive on divine command as do the prophets such as Elijah and Elisha.” It is therefore quite surprising to find the following statement in Radak’s comment on 1 Kgs 17:20: ęĜđĞ ęđĕĐ ďģđĠ ĐĦČĥ đĚė ěđĞĐ ĦďģĠ ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĘĞ đĘĕĠČ ĤĚđĘė .ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĘĞ ęĎĐ ĐĜč ĦČ ĦĕĚĐĘ ĐĜđĞ ĐĦďģĠ ĐĜĚĘČĐ ĦČĒ ĘĞ ĤĚČđ ęĕĚĥĎĐ ĦĤĕĢĞč ĘČĤĥĕĘ Ĥď ČĜČ ĕď ČĦĘĚĤČ ĘĞ ęĤč ęĎĤĦ ěĦĜđĕđ .ĐĚĞ ĤĤĎĦĚ ĕĜČĥ ?ĕĦđėĒč đĐĕĕēĦ ČĘ .ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕė đĜčĦėĥ ĐĚĘ Ğđĕĝ ĐĒđ .ĐĤč ĦđĚĕ ČĘđ ĐĘ ĥČčĦĕ ČĘ ĐĚĞ And upon the widow as well. That is to say, even upon the widow you have visited the sin, just as you currently visit the sins of Israel by withholding the rains? And he said: Upon this widow whom you have visited her sin, putting her son to death – will you not bring him to life on my merit? With whom I dwell. Targum Jonathan: “Upon the widow with whom I am residing let there not be evil to her and let her son not die.” This supports what we wrote that he did not die a complete death. To what is Radak referring with the words “what we wrote that he did not die a complete death?” If he is merely alluding to the position of ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ (i.e., the Andalusian view as cited by Maimonides), why did he not say: “This supports the position which states . . . ”? The expression “that we wrote” seems to indicate that this is Kimhi’s own view! actually die, but fainted,’ cited in the name of a student of R. Peretz, who was a student of R. Yehiel of Paris” (ęĕėđčĜ ĐĤđĚ, 63 n. 10). 57 See Cohen, “Qimhi Family,” 399.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 281 Talmage suggests that Radak’s ambiguity reflects the tension between tradition and rationalism. The contradiction between Radak’s comments about the boy’s condition is “the same kind of prevarication with respect to these miracles of resurrection as that evinced by Maimonides.” 58 What Talmage has failed to consider is that the ambiguity in Kimhi’s commentary may have resulted not from philosophical considerations 59 but from polemical needs. Perhaps this is another case of preemptive exegesis, resulting from Kimhi’s discomfort with the Christian rendering of the story. Elijah’s revival of the widow’s son is echoed clearly in the New Testament account of Jesus raising the widow’s son in Nain (Luke 7:11–17): Soon afterwards Jesus happened to go to a town called Nain accompanied by his disciples and a great crowd of people. As he drew near to the gate of the town, a dead man was being carried out; he was the only son of a woman who was a widow. And a considerable throng of people from the town was with her. When the Lord saw her, he had pity on her, and said, Do not cry. Then he went up and touched the coffin. The bearers stopped, and he said, young man, get up I tell you! And the dead man sat up and began to speak, and he gave him back to his mother. Deep awe came over all of them and they glorified God, saying: A great prophet has been raised in our midst and God has taken note of his people. And talk like this about him went abroad in all Judea and in all the countryside. 58 Talmage, David Kimhi, 39–40, 132–34. Cf. Frank Talmage, “The Rationalist Tradition ii: Literary Sources,” in Studies in Jewish Bibliography, History and Literature in Honor of I. Edward Kiev, ed. Charles Berlin (New York: KTAV, 1971), 460–65. Similarly, Cohen, “Qimhi Family,” 399, claims that Radak’s need to affirm that the boy died reflects the tempering of his rationalism in the wake of the Maimonidean controversy. In his opinion, this also explains Radak’s staunch declaration of faith in resurrection in Ps 104:3 (in contrast to Ibn Ezra’s straightforward rationalistic position). 59 Which pertain more aptly to Radak’s explanation of the method used by Elijah to revive the boy (v. 21): đĕĜĠĚ ČĢđĕĐ ĕĞčĔ ęđēč đĚĚēĘ đĕĘĞ ęĕĥĜĐĘ ěė ĐĥĞ ĕė ěė ęĎ ĤĥĠČđ . . . .ďďĚĦĕđ ęĘđĞĐ ĖĤďĚ ĐĘđčēĦ ĔĞĚ ĕďĕ ĘĞ ęĕĥĞĜ ęĕĝĜĐ ęĕĚĞĠ čđĤ ĕė đĤĥčĚđ. In this comment, Radak attempts to integrate supernatural and natural explanations of the revival; cf. his comment on 2 Kgs 4:34.

282 · bryna jocheved levy In his commentary to Luke, Joseph A. Fitzmyer notes: The passage recalls the raising of the son of the widow of Zarephath by Elijah in i Kgs 17:8–24. Jesus comes to a town (Nain), as did Elijah (Zarephath, i Kgs 17:10); a widow is met at the gate of the town (17:10); the son of the widow is restored to life (17:22); and an explicit allusion to i Kgs 17:23 is made in Luke 7:15 . . . The identification of Jesus as “a great prophet” (7:16c) and the allusion to the Elijah story (7:15) suffice to show that Luke uses this incident to cast Jesus in the role of Elias redivivus. 60 It is eminently possible that Radak’s presentation of the possibility that the boy was not completely dead was intended to temper the associations with the New Testament account. In this case, preemptive exegesis blurs the obvious parallelism between the two characters and weakens the implied claim of Elijah’s prefiguration of Jesus. If this is so, why did Radak leave two contradictory views in his commentary? It is possible that the end of the comment on verse 17 (asserting that the lad was dead) was a later addition, which Radak felt obligated to append when he found himself embroiled in the Maimonidean controversy. As an old man, Radak set out to visit Judah ibn Al Fakhar to assuage the latter’s vituperative views on Maimonides’ provocative posture regarding miracles and resurrection expressed in the Guide. Unable to reach his destination, Kimhi wrote to Al Fakhar instead. 61 Al Fakhar responded, taking Maimonides to task. Among the out60 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke i–ix: Introduction, Translation, and Notes. Anchor Bible 28 (New York: Doubleday, 1981), 656. 61 Several editions of the correspondence are extant: ęīčĚĤĐĚ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ ĦđĤĎČ (Amsterdam, 1712); Avraham Lichtenberg, ed., đĕĦđĤĎČđ ęīčĚĤĐ ĦđčđĥĦ ġčđģ (Leipzig: H. L. Shnoys, 1859); and Yosef Kobak, ĦđĤĦĝĜ ĕĒĜĎ (Bamberg: Druck der Schmidt’schen Officin, 1868–78). For a translation and discussion of the letters, see Jacob Adler, “Letters of Judah Alfakhar and David Kimhi,” Studia Spinozana 12 (1996): 141–67; Steven Harvey, “Falaquera’s Epistle of the Debate and the Maimonidean Controversy of the 1230s,” in Torah and Wisdom: Essays in Honor of Arthur Hyman, ed. Ruth Link-Salinger (New York: Shengold, 1992), 86–75; Steven Harvey, Falaquera’s Epistle of the Debate: An Introduction to Jewish Philosophy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1987); Talmage, David Kimhi, 27–29; and Sarachek, Faith and Reason, 1:97–103.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 283 rageous remarks made by Rambam to which Al Fakhar reacts is his denial of the death and resurrection of the widow’s son. The following excerpt is from the first letter of Al Fakhar responding to Kimhi: ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ đč čđĦėĥ ĕĜĠĚ ĐīĞ đĐĕĘČ Ęĥ ĦĕĠĤĢĐ ěčč ĤĚČĥ ĐĚĘ ĐĚđď ĐĒđ čđĦėđ .ĦĚ ĤĞĜĐ ĐĜĐđ đč čđĦėĥ ĦĕĚĜđĥĐ ěčč ĐĥĞĕ ĐĚ ěė ęČ .ĦĚ ĤĚČĜ ČĘđ đč ĐĥĞĕ ĐĚđ .ĦĚĕđ ęĕĤĐĢĐ ďĞ ĐĕėĤč ĘĞ čĥĕđ ČĥĕĤč čĕĦėđ .ĦĚĐ ĦČ ĐĕēĐ ĤĥČ ęĕĦĚĐ ĦĕēĦč ĐĥĞĕ ĐĚđ .đĕĘĎĤ ĘĞ ęģĕđ ĕēĕđ ĐīĞ ĞĥĕĘČ ĦđĚĢĞč ĞĎĜĥ đĦđČč 62 .ČčĐ ęĘđĞĘ ģĘē đĘ ěĕČ Đč ĤĠđėĐ Ęėĥ This is similar to what it says about the son of the Zaraphite of Elijah of blessed memory since it says, “until he had no breath in him” and it does not say he died. If that be the case, what shall be said with regard to the son of the Shunammite, where it explicitly states “and behold the boy is dead.” And it says “he revived the dead.” In the beginning it says “and she held him in her lap till the afternoon and he died.” What will he do with the one who touched Elisha’s bones and came to life? And what will he do with the Revival of the Dead, since he who doubts resurrection has no portion in the world to come? We do not have Radak’s response to this particular diatribe of Al Fakhar, but it is likely that such criticisms of Rambam would have sensitized Radak to the loaded nature of interpretative comments about resurrection. Radak’s biblical commentary was composed long before 1232, when he wrote to Al Fakhar, 63 a time when there was no reason for Radak to think twice about presenting the position that Elijah did not perform a resurrection. In later years, the philosophical controversy overshadowed the interfaith polemic, which may explain the uneven character of the commentary as we have it. There is manuscript evidence supporting my contention that the passages in the commentary that attribute the view that the boy was not dead to others (and not to Radak himself ) are later additions. 62 In ĦđĘČĥ ĦđĤĎČ, 25. 63 Cf. Finkelstein, Commentary, xviii, who claims that Radak started writing commentaries at age forty, and Talmage, David Kimhi, 58–59, who mentions age fifty. In any event, the correspondence dates from shortly before Radak’s death at age seventytwo.

284 · bryna jocheved levy In sixteen of twenty-three manuscripts of Radak’s commentary on Kings available for inspection (see Table 1), the words ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ (which attribute the view to others) and ĕė ěđėĜĐđ (which explicitly assert that Radak is of the opposite view) are lacking. Without those additions, the statement ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕė đĜčĦėĥ ĐĚĘ Ğđĕĝ ĐĒđ makes complete sense: this was indeed Radak’s own view, a preemptive strike against the Christian reading of the passage, which he (or a student or copyist?) felt the need to disguise or tone down later, in the wake of the Maimonidean controversy. We have seen two examples of Radak’s preemptive exegesis. Further perusal of his commentaries may reveal additional cases of this resourceful strategy by which Radak subtly wins the polemical battle before it has even begun. 64

64 My sincere thanks to Yeshayahu Maori, Yitzchak Berger, Eric Zimmer, Warren Harvey, Joshua Berman, Tamar Quinn, Naomi Grunhaus, Mordechai Cohen, Bezalel Mannekin, and Ahron Batt for valuable advice, and to Benjamin Richler and the staff of the Institute for Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts of the Jewish National and University Library for assistance.

radak’s preemptive exegesis · 285

Manuscript Evidence Vatican 71 .ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ

Parma 471/3261 .ĐĚĥĜ đč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĤĥČ ďĞ

ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ ģĒē đĕĘē ĐĕĐ ČĘČ Ęėđ ĘėĚ ĦĚ ČĘĥ ěĕĤĕėĚ đĕĐ ČĘđ đĦĚĕĥĜ ĐĤĢĞĜĥ ďĞ ďČĚ ČĘđ ĐĚĕĥĜč ČĘ Ħđĕē ěĚĕĝ ęđĥ đĜĚĚ ĦĚ ČđĐ ĕė đĚČ Đčĥēĥ ďĞ ěĕďĕĎĐ ģĠďč ĘčČ .ĕč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĐĚĥĜđ ĘČĕĜďč ĪĚČ ěėđ .ĐĎĘĠĐ ĖĤď ĘĞ đĦđČ ĪĚČ

ďČĚ ģĒē đĕĘē ĐĕĐ ČĘČ Ęėđ ĘėĚ ĦĚ ČĘ ěĕĤĕėĚ đĕĐ ČĘđ đĦĚĕĥĜ ĐĤĢĞĜĥ ďĞ ČĘđ ĐĚĕĥĜč ČĘ Ħđĕē ěĚĕĝ ęđĥ đĜĚĚ ĦĚ ČđĐ ĕė đĚČ Đčĥēĥ ďĞ ěĕďĕĎĐ ģĠďč ĘčČ .ĕč ĐĤĦđĜ ČĘ ĐĚĥĜđ ĘČĕĜďč ĪĚČ ěėđ .ĐĎĘĠĐ ĖĤď ĘĞ đĦđČ ĪĚČ đČ

ĕė ěđėĜĐđ ĕĜč ěĕĤčđĝĥ đĚė ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ĕĜč ěĕĤčđĝĥ đĚė ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ .ęĘđĞĐ .ęĘđĞĐ ĐĚĞ ĤĤđĎĦĚ ĕĜČĥ ĐĚĞ ĤĤđĎĦĚ ĕĜČĥ ČĘ ĐĚĞ Ĥď ČĜČď ČĦĘĚĤČ ĘĞ ęĤč Ħīĕđ ČĘ ĐĚĞ Ĥď ČĜČď ČĦĘĚĤČ ĘĞ ęĤč Ħīĕđ ĐĚĘ Ğđĕĝ ĐĒđ .ĐĤč ĦđĚĕ ČĘđ ĐĘ ĥČčĦĕ ĐĚĘ Ğđĕĝ ĐĒđ .ĐĤč ĦđĚĕ ČĘđ ĐĘ ĥČčĦĕ .ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕė đĜčĦėĥ .ĐĤđĚĎ ĐĦĕĚ ĦĚ ČĘ ĕė đĜčĦėĥ MSS in which the phrases ĤĚđČĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ and ĕė ěđėĜĐđ (see text) are found include: Paris 199, London Padro [1], Parma 1070/1, Parma 870, New York Columbia C8931X56. MSS lacking the phrases include: Oxford Bodlean 303, Oxford Bodlean 305, Oxford Bodlean 306, Oxford Bodlean 2329, Paris 159, Paris 197, Madrid 5467, Rome Or. 72, New York–Jewish Theological Seminary 24074, Parma 452, Parma 646, Parma 1328 [1894], St. Petersburg 123C, Rovigo 5, Madrid National Library 5476.

The Maharshal and Two Inverted Nuns Sholom Eisenstat

Despite the pervasive myth among modern Jews that all Torah scrolls are the same, textual variants have been acknowledged by Jewish authorities since antiquity. As Professor Levy argued in Fixing God’s Torah, part of the interest in these texts was intellectual, but textual questions were brought to the attention of halakhic authorities. 1 Their treatment of these issues both drew on and contributed to the ongoing efforts of scribes and rabbis to fix the correct text. In fact, the rabbis’ major concern was the halakhic need for precise scrolls. 2 Although modern scholars have largely paid attention to variants to reconstruct the history of the biblical text, rabbinic authorities sought a letter-perfect scroll in order to fulfill liturgical obligations that included reading set portions aloud from Torah on the appropriate day. The theoretical question of proper orthography of the so-called original Torah text extended to all aspects of what the scribe put on the scroll, including the “dotted texts” and specially designed letters. 3 Among the various extratextual scribal markings prescribed by the tradition are two characters which appear as flipped Hebrew letter nuns – “inverted nuns,” as they are frequently called. The text of Numbers 10:35–36 is bracketed by such characters, which are similar to square brackets, in modern Torah scrolls, as shown in the

1 B. Barry Levy, Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 10. 2 Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 34. 3 Emanuel Tov, The Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, MN: Fortess, 2001), 55.

287

288 · sholom eisenstat following illustration, as well as those from antiquity, as attested in early rabbinic sources. 4

3KRWRJUDSKE\6KRORP(LVHQVWDW This phenomenon is visually striking. While the need for their inclusion in the Torah was never an issue for discussion in early sources, the issues of their design, placement, and significance or purpose are discussed and well documented in related texts. The quest for perfection in the Torah scroll included the need for authenticity and accuracy in the design and placement of the markings at Numbers 10:35–36. The sixteenth century was host to a maelstrom of intellectual activity wherein traditional Jewish learning was not only itself being codified in a process culminating in Joseph Karo’s Shulkhan Arukh, but was also coming to grips with developing mystical interpretations of Judaism and, most importantly for this investigation, the influence of the popularized Zohar as well as the rise of the printed book. 5 There was by this time much literature and lore about the 4 Similar nuns also appear seven times in textual witnesses to Ps 107. 5 For discussion of this intellectual activity generally, see Lawrence Kaplan, “Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe and the Evolution of Jewish Culture in Poland in the Sixteenth Century,” in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Bernard Dov Cooperman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 266. For discussion of the popularized Zohar, see Jacob Katz, “Post-Zoharic Relations between Halakhah and Kabbalah,” in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Bernard Cooperman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 283, and Yaacob Dweck, The Scandal of Kabbalah: Leon Modena, Jewish Mysticism, Early Modern Venice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011). And for the rise of the printed book, see David Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry: A New Cultural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), 99.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 289 markings of Numbers 10:35–36. Some was rational interpretation based on the talmudic teachings. The earliest rabbinic sources suggest that the inverted nuns were simply scribal marks intended to set the text of Numbers 10:35–36 apart. The Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 115b–116a) preserves several interpretations of the markings: Our Rabbis taught: “And it came to pass when the ark set forward that Moses said, [etc.]”: for this section the Holy One, blessed be He, provided signs above and below, to teach that this is not its place. Rabbi said: It is not on that account, but because it ranks as a separate book. With whom does the following dictum of R. Samuel b. Nahmani in R. Jonathan’s name agree: She [Wisdom] hath hewn out her seven pillars: 6 this refers to the seven Books of the Law? With whom? With Rabbi. Who is the Tanna that disagrees with Rabbi? It is R. Simeon b. Gamaliel. For it was taught, R. Simeon b. Gamaliel said: This section is destined to be removed from here and written in its [proper place]. And why is it written here? In order to provide a break between the first [account of ] punishment and the second [account of ] punishment. What is the second [account of ] punishment? – And the people were as murmurers, [etc.]. The first [account of ] punishment? – And they “moved away from the mount of the Lord,” which R. Hama b. R. Hanina expounded [as meaning] that they turned away from following the Lord. And where is its [rightful] place? – In [the chapter on] the banners. [Num 2:17] 7 Whichever of these interpretations is to be preferred, the rabbis agree that the nuns were introduced into the text of the Torah as editorial markings to indicate that Numbers 10:35–36 was transposed in some fashion from its original or proper location. In this, the Babylonian Talmud’s understanding of the markings parallels the explanations offered by academic scholarship. 8 Saul Lieberman was the first to 6 Prov 9:1. 7 Translation from Isidore Epstein, ed., The Babylonian Talmud: Tractate Shabbath, trans. H. Freedman (London: Soncino, 1961), 115b–116a. 8 For discussion, see, e.g., Sid Leiman, “The Inverted Nuns at Numbers 10 and the Book of Eldad and Medad,” Journal of Biblical Literature 93 (1974): 348–55; Baruch

290 · sholom eisenstat demonstrate that the inverted nuns were likely editorial markings similar to those used in Hellenistic literature and certainly used at Qumran. 9 What rabbis of the first millennium began to call an “inverted nun” (ĖđĠĐ ěđĜ) is most likely a Greek sigma or anti-sigma character. 10 Examples of ancient nun characters are very “sigma-like.” 11 Buttressing this argument is a paleo-Hebrew scroll of Leviticus from Qumran showing a perfect example of a sigma-shaped character offsetting a transposed text. 12 Yet non-rational interpretations were becoming popular, and the

Levine, “More on the Inverted Nuns of Num 10:35–36,” Journal of Biblical Literature 95 (1976): 122–24; Menachem M. Kasher, Torah Sheleimah, 44 vols. (Jerusalem: Beit Torah Sheleimah, 1991), 29:78 and 124; Daniel C. Matt, trans. and comm., The Zohar: Pritzker Edition, 9 vols. (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004–2016), 8:535–38; Tov, Textual Criticism, 54; Saul Lieberman, “Critical Marks in the Hebrew Bible,” in Hellenism in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission, Beliefs and Manners of Palestine in the i Century b.c.e.–iv Century c.e. Texts and Studies 18 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1962), 38; Abraham Joshua Heschel, ęĕĚĥĐ ěĚ ĐĤđĦ ĦđĤđďĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĤĘģĠĝČč, 3 vols. (London: Soncino, 1962–65), 2:417; and Jacob Milgrom, Numbers. The JPS Torah Commentary (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1990), 375. 9 Lieberman, “Critical Marks,” 39–43. On the uses of the markings in Second Temple period Jewish sources, see Guy Darshan, “The Twenty-Four Books of the Hebrew Bible and Alexandrian Scribal Methods,” in Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters, ed. Maren Niehoff (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 230–32, and Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 189–90, 202. 10 The intention of any author’s usage of the word ĖđĠĐ is difficult to determine. Either ĖđĠĐ is intended to mean “inverted” top to bottom, or it is meant to mean “reversed” left to right. It is possible that some scribes used ĖđĠĐ to mean both “inverted” and “reversed.” Considering how sigma/nun characters were used in the ancient world, we can easily see this as an early use of contemporary square brackets to enclose text. Using a nun-shaped character, reversed left to right and/or top to bottom can surely contribute to the confusion that has ensued at many turns in the history of the markings. Some authors described the orientation of the nuns as “head to foot” or “facing backwards,” making their comments more accurate. 11 Kasher, Torah Sheleimah, 29:58. 12 Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 190–91. An image of this unique text appears in Richard S. Hanson, “Ancient Scribes and Scripts and the Clues They Leave,” Biblical Archaeologist 48 (1985): 86. This fragment is dated no later than 100 bce by Colette Sirat, Hebrew Manuscripts of the Middle Ages, ed. and trans. Nicholas de Lange (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 22. See also Tov, Textual Criticism, 201–2.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 291 Zohar played a role in them. 13 As Professor Levy has shown, R. David ibn Zimra (1479?–1573) discussed the halakhic question of modifying the text of the Torah based on supporting evidence taken from the Zohar. 14 Significantly, the Zohar interpreted the markings as graphic representations of the Shekhinah and her posture toward the people Israel in its desert travels. 15 Rabbi El’azar said, “Here one should examine: Ĝ (Nun) that is inverted, facing backward – why in two places here?” “If you say, ‘A bent Ĝ (Nun)’ – well, it is known that a bent nun is female; and a straight one, totality of male and female. They have already established, regarding this place: ‘As the ark journeyed.’ But why is it turned afterward like this: ?” . . . “But what is written previously? ‘The Ark of YHVH’s Covenant journeyed before them a three days’ distance to scout out a resting place for them’ (Num 10:33). As soon as the ark journeyed, nun journeyed above it – surely, Shekhinah rests upon the ark.” “Come and see: the love of the blessed Holy One is toward Israel; for even though they stray from the straight path, the blessed Holy One does not wish to abandon them, and He constantly turns His face toward them. Otherwise, they could not endure in the world.” “Go and see: The ark journeyed before them a distance of three days, and nun remained inseparable from it, accompanying it. Due to the love of Israel, it turned its face toward them, turning away from the ark – like a gazelle who, when going, turns its face back to the place it has left. So, ‘as the ark journeyed,’ nun turned its face toward Israel and its shoulders toward the ark.” “Therefore, when it journeyed, Moses said, ‘Arise, O YHVH!’ (Num 10:35) – do not abandon us, turn Your face toward us! Then nun turned back toward them, like this: , like someone turning his face toward his beloved. And when the ark and Israel began to 13 Early mystical interpretation can be found in the commentaries of Bahya b. Asher and Menahem Recanati. 14 Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 42. 15 This notion of graphics in the Torah text seems to be a unique phenomenon.

292 · sholom eisenstat rest, nun turned its face from Israel and turned back toward the ark, turning completely.” R. Shimon said, “El’azar, my son, certainly so! But here, it did not turn its face away from Israel. For, if so, the nun would have to be the opposite of the other one, above; that one inverted, and this one straight, facing the ark. But surely it did not turn its face away from them. What did it do? As the ark rested, Moses said, ‘Return, O YHVH’ (Num 10:36). Then the ark rested, and Shekhinah stood on the other side, with Her face toward Israel and toward the ark. So then She encompassed both the ark and Israel. 16 But afterward Israel ruined this, as is written: The people were ęĕĜĜđČĦĚė (ke-mit’onenim) complaining.” This descriptive comment was interpreted and applied as the basis upon which to redesign the symbols used to offset Numbers 10:35–36, as well as to determine the position of the markings in the scroll. This is a fine example of what Jacob Katz refers to when he states: “Kabbalah requires the body of commandments and related halachic details to express its ideas in symbolic fashion through them; from the opposite viewpoint, the interpreters use Kabbalistic concepts to explain the source (rationale) of the commandments and their halachic details.” 17 This is exactly what happened with the markings under the influence of the Zohar. The details of design and position of the markings, as expressed through the scribal halakhah, were used to express ideas assumed to be symbolized by the markings. The interpretive tradition used those kabbalistic concepts from the Zohar to provide a rationale for the design and position of the markings. Halakhic discourse and ruling was clearly influenced by popular mystical traditions. This question of the proper design and position of the inverted nuns was considered in a lengthy responsum by Solomon Luria, the Maharshal (1510–73). This responsum provides a logical complement to the responsum of Ibn Zimra presented by B. Barry Levy in Fixing 16 Matt, Zohar, 8:535–37. 17 Jacob Katz, “ĤĦĝĜĐđ ĐĘĎĜĐ ěĕč”, in ĐĦģĕĒđ ĐĕĤđďĚ ĘĞ ĘČĤĥĕ Ħď ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĤģēĚ À ĐĘčģđ ĐėĘĐ ĦĕĦĤčēĐ ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1984), 10.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 293 God’s Torah, and my translation and commentary of it below a fitting tribute to Professor Levy. Although Ibn Zimra and Luria did not write in response to the same question, they both discuss halakhic justifications for changes to the text of the Torah. Ibn Zimra in Egypt is concerned with determining the evidence required to substantiate a change, while Luria in Poland is challenged to explain how the inverted nuns of Numbers 10:35–36 are to be designed and positioned in the text, if they belong in the text at all. Both scholars show us that there was discussion about modifying the text, and that some of the discussion was based on interpretations found in the Zohar. Luria’s statements about the markings in Numbers 10:35–36 show how changes in the halakhah pertaining to the nuns were substantiated based on interpretations of this pericope found only in the Zohar. Although the nuns captured in the image above are representative of the contemporary appearance of these markings, a vast range of designs are preserved in synagogue scrolls, manuscripts, and printed texts. 18 Biblical manuscripts now available online equally evidence the dynamism in the tradition of the inverted nuns. Both responsa – by Luria as well as Ibn Zimra – testify to the dynamism in the process of fixing the text of the Torah in two centers of the Jewish world in the early age of printing.

HOKHMAT SHELOMO We do not have much information about Solomon Luria’s early years. 19 He appears to have been an autodidact from his youth who benefitted from the tutelage of his grandfather. He rose to the leadership of several institutions of higher Jewish learning and estab18 Kasher, Torah Sheleimah, 29: 124–32, 162–64. 19 Cf. Meyer Waxman, A History of Jewish Literature, 6 vols. (New York: Thomas Yoseloff, 1960), 2:116–17; Israel Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, ed. and trans. Bernard Martin, 12 vols. (New York: KTAV, 1972–78), 6:39; Simcha Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”, in Louis Ginzberg Jubilee Volume: On the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, 2 vols. (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1945–46), 2:45–63; and Meir Raffeld, “The Maharshal and the ĐĚĘĥ Ęĥ ęĕ” (PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 1990).

294 · sholom eisenstat lished himself as a major decisor of Jewish law. Luria’s writings show scholarly independence and an ability for creative thinking, both of which are readily visible in the bold, somewhat strident statements he makes about many things, including the markings at Numbers 10:35–36. Referring to Luria’s criticism of the philosophical tradition, Lawrence Kaplan writes: “Just as R. Solomon Luria manifested intellectual independence in examining critically the received halakhic tradition and subjecting it to a searching analysis on the basis of the Talmud itself, so he also manifested intellectual independence and daring – albeit, obviously not to the same degree.” 20 According to Edward Fram, Luria rejected contemporary talmudic and legal methodology and dismissed the then current belief that legal opinions of earlier generations were sacrosanct. Maintaining that his generation had as much access to knowledge as those that preceded it, Luria believed it incumbent upon scholars in each generation to comb the sources from their talmudic beginnings through the Tosafists to their own day, analyzing and weighing each matter and all opinions before coming to a well-considered opinion. 21 To Luria’s thinking, the halakhic process was empowered by the original thinking of local rabbis who were most familiar with the issues. 22 Contrary to common practice among rabbis, Luria felt that a good argument could decide an issue contrary to the opinion of earlier and greater rabbis. He encouraged his colleagues to respect local customs and cogent arguments in halakhah. The established organic and dynamic process of recording new thinking, glosses, and comments in the manuscripts was a function of the depth to which talmud torah could be pursued. Luria’s introduction to his Yam Shel Shelomo clearly expresses the value of that dynamic traditional evolutionary process. 23 He writes passionately about the need for 20 Kaplan, “Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe,” 270. 21 Edward Fram, Ideals Face Reality: Jewish Law and Life in Poland, 1550–1655 (Cincinnati, OH: Hebrew Union College Press, 1997), 10–11. 22 Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”, 2:47. 23 Luria actually wrote several introductions. The version referred to here is the introduction to Bava Qamma; see Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”. He wrote in his introduction to Bava Qamma that the breadth and depth of Torah was too great

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 295 halakhic independence and local autonomy. He thought that a blanket ruling or a compendium of halakhah like the codes that were being developed at the time could never suffice for the intricacies and specificity of halakhic decision making. He champions new thinking to challenge existing rulings and traditions even when this thinking challenged established major authorities. 24 Luria thus opposed the codification process that would mitigate the halakhic dynamism he championed. 25 His famous glosses to the Babylonian Talmud, Hokhmat Shelomo, were based on much research done to establish accurate readings as the foundation for a thorough analysis of each issue. 26 Although Luria was now dealing with the text of Torah, his process to establish proper texts for halakhic decision making is evident in his pursuit of the proper orientation and position of the markings in Numbers 10:35–36. Luria made his first explicit pronouncement concerning the inverted nuns in his gloss to b. Shabbat 115b–116a, where the inverted nuns are mentioned. The text reads: [This comment is found] at the lemma “He made markings etc.” 27 [Above and below, to differentiate it] “from the adjacent [texts]” 28 [These marks denote that] this is the end of the section 29 and,

24

25

26

27 28 29

for any one work by any scholar to properly encompass all that is contained on any subject; see Raffeld, “Maharshal.” Shlomo Brody, “Against the Shulchan Aruch: The Critique of the Maharshal,” Text and Texture Blog, July 26, 2010, http://text.rcarabbis.org/against-the-shulchanaruch-the-critique-of-the-maharshal-by-shlomo-brody/. A binding code, with its privileged commentary in the pages of the printed book, would arrest the elasticity of the tradition, diminish the importance of local customs, and degrade the authority of individual rabbinic commentators; see, e.g., Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry, 99–132. Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”, 2:47. See also Kaplan, “Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe,” 269, who says: “[Luria] exemplified a spirit of critical independence . . . manifested both in his halachic activities and in his attitude to the place of philosophy within the Jewish tradition.” It would be interesting to consider to what extent Luria’s interest in accurate texts of talmudic literature was influenced by the need for accurate Torah scrolls, or vice versa. b. Shabbat 115b This is quoted from Rashi’s comments on b. Shabbat 115b–116a. Luria here uses the term Ĥđčď to mean a section of text, here Num 10:35–36. His point

296 · sholom eisenstat following it, the next section [begins]. Above and below [Rashi says this means] “at the beginning and the end of “when the Ark began to travel.” [facsimile of an inverted nun] “In a corrected copy of Rashi’s commentary, 30 I personally saw it written like this [facsimile of an inverted nun inserted into text] . . . It is upon this that the pointers 31 base the insertion of two nuns, one before “when the ark began to travel” and another after it. But in corrected scrolls, I have not seen this. 32 I see this as nullifying [the scroll] according to (the principle) that even one extraneous letter nullifies a scroll. Ab initio, for all, this is forbidden. As for the markings which are said to be at this place in the text, he intended to say that a (ĐĥĤĠ) section space was made before this and after this. It seems to me that perhaps this drawing of the inverted nun was made by a student. He declared that, in his opinion, any Torah scroll that contained markings at Numbers 10:35–36 was not fit for ritual use. This surely must have been a huge surprise to the community, which depended on the available scrolls in the synagogue, long in use, all of which had some version of the inverted nuns. 33 This decision flies in the face not only of Luria’s own research, which shows the scrolls to be hugely inconsistent in their designs, but also of ritual scribal practice up to his time. As Levy notes: “In some contexts, the majority of scrolls available in a town was deemed satisfactory evidence, as if this choice would typify the situation everywhere and provide testimony to a theoretical majority of all extant scrolls.” 34 So why did Luria make this particular ruling? It is noteworthy

30 31 32

33 34

is that the eighty-five letters of this text constitute an independent narrative, that is, the preceding narrative ends with 10:33, and the story picks up again in 11:1. Presumably the commentary to b. Shabbat 115b. Here Luria refers to the text experts and/or artisan scribes who vocalized the text and added masoretic notes. This is evidence pointing to the scroll research Luria did. It is not clear what distinguished these scrolls from others, e.g., their provenance or the reputation of the scribes who wrote them or those who checked them. It should be noted that I have not found any evidence of the community or individual reaction. Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 17.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 297 that we read here of his deep, almost scientific, inquiry into the state of things. 35 He had a copy of Rashi’s commentary, which depicts a marking that can be seen reproduced in some manuscripts of Hokhmat Shelomo. 36 But he was also a disciple of the Rambam, who did not mention the inverted nuns in Mishneh Torah even though he otherwise listed several types of anomalous letter designs that appear in the Torah and sought to explain why Maimonides was silent on these particular markings as part of his consideration of whether they were required in a Torah scroll. 37 Luria creatively vocalized what he saw as implied in Maimonides’ exclusion of the inverted nuns from his list – namely, that it is not the inverted nuns but the common spaces found before and after sections of the Torah that are indeed the markings intended for the text. Inverted nuns are thus not intended, and their presence nullifies a scroll. Of course, this only further confounds the history of the markings if Luria is reflecting honestly, or “scientifically,” on the evidence he found in scrolls. Until this time, the presence of the markings at Numbers 10:35–36 35 Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”, 2:48, 55–56. 36 Shapes drawn into the text of the manuscripts that refer to the inverted nuns have been used throughout the years. In general, I have not considered the designs produced by the publisher or the scribe as accurate representations of what the author of the text intended. Importantly, the accuracy of such graphic representations is dependent on the author’s interpretation of ĖđĠĐ – that is, “inversion” up/down, or “reversal” right/left – as well as the skill of the scribe who penned a manuscript or a scroll. 37 ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝ ,ĐĒđĒĚ ,ěĕĘĕĠĦ ĦđėĘĐ :ĐĤđĦ ĐĜĥĚ, 7:8. Isadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah). Yale Judaica Series (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982), 234–35, states: “While the role of human fallibility, the impact of forgetfulness, and the possibility of inadvertent omission must be taken into account, an attempt should also be made to identify a few basic reasons for deliberate omission. One must be attuned to the silences as well as the sounds of Maimonides’ writing. It is known that Maimonides systematically omitted laws and practices which he considered to be rooted in accidental, transient, non-obligatory beliefs. As part of his quest for a sensitized and rationalized view of religion and morality, he wanted to jettison certain objectionable beliefs and improper customs.” Similarly, they were not mentioned in the Arbah Turim of Jacob b. Asher. On whether the Rambam might have mentioned them, see Jacob S. Levinger, “ĝēđĕĚĐ 'Ęđēđ ĥďģ ĦđĚĥ ĤđČĕč' ĤĠĝĐ ĘĞ ęīčĚĤĘ,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 4 (1984): 19–30, and Kasher, Torah Sheleimah, 29:106. Of course, it is possible that Maimonides did not include the markings at Num 10:35–36 because they were not included in the Aleppo Codex.

298 · sholom eisenstat had never been questioned. There is overwhelming evidence in rabbinic literature, from the Mishnah through the Talmud and geonic literature, of the special status of this text and the presence of the markings in the Torah text. The Mishnah (Yadayim 3:5) establishes the eighty-five-letter text of Numbers 10:35–36 as the shortest text which can be considered holy. To a similar point, Avot de-Rabbi Natan A, chapter 34 refers to this text as a “short text” – that is, a fragment. 38 These sources may point to the text’s provenance. 39 In b. Shabbat 115b–116a, R. Yehuda recognizes this text as a “an important (or significant) text unto itself ” – in other words, it can stand alone as a book by itself. We see this recognized by R. Shemuel b. Nachman who saw the book of Numbers as a compilation of three books: Numbers 1:1–10:34; Numbers 10:35–36; and Numbers 11:1–36:13. Sifre debei Rav is the first reference to markings in the text: ĐĘĞĚĘĚ đĕĘĞ ďđģĜ ĐĔĚĘĚđ, “It is dotted (marked) above and below.” 40 Tractate Soferim 6 more clearly guides the scribe to make a space ĤđĠĕĺ or ĤđĞĕĺ before and after the text. 41 The shofar shape mentioned here jibes with the shape of the sigma or inverted nun shape that became popular. There is no reason to assume that the “space” mentioned in Soferim 6 is the same “space” before and after Numbers 10:35–36 that Luria reads into Maimonides’ silence, which is how the text traditionally appears. 38 Avot de-R. Natan, Solomon Schechter, Avot de-Rabbi Nathan with References to Parallels in the Two Versions and to the Addenda in the Schechter Edition (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1997), 99 (recension #1, ch. 34). 39 Midrash Mishle tells of a tradition of a rabbi who told that this text had been an “independent” text that was “taken out of circulation” (ĒĜĎĜđ đĚĢĞč ĕĜĠč ĐĕĐ ĤĠĝ). See Leiman, “Inverted Nuns” and Levine, “More on Inverted Nuns.” ĦđĤĝē ĕĚĞĔ ĥĤďĚ ĦđĤĦĕđ (Wertheimer), 2:274 brings another tradition of provenance whereby the source of Num 10:35–36 is the prophecy of Eldad and Medad, which we read about in Num 11:26–30. 40 This should be understood as “preceded and followed by marks”; see Saul Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1962), 38. Dotted texts are familiar from elsewhere in the Torah; see Tov, Textual Criticism, 55. Texts dotted “above and below” are familiar from elsewhere in the Torah, but there is no evidence for such dots at Num 10:35–36. Another reference to marking the text with dots is found in Burton L. Visotzky, Midrash Mishle: A Critical Edition based on Vatican MS Ebr. 44 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2002), 171. 41 A ĤđĠĕĺ is a “horn”; see Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature, repr. (New York: Pardes, 1950), 2:1566 s.v. ČĤđĠĕĺ. One variant to this text uses ĤđĞĕĺ, “space.”

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 299 If the nuns are an anomaly not intended to be in the scroll, how did they get there? Luria says that the markings at Numbers 10:35–36 were inserted into the text by a student scribe. This statement is conjecture, yet it likely articulates the phenomenon that is truly at the source of the inverted nuns. Given the proven use of sigma and anti-sigma characters by ancient scribes to denote transposed, misplaced, or short texts, it is very likely that some ancient student who transposed this text into this location made a note of his error with the proper sign: the sigma, the editorial mark used to mark transposed text. Luria used this imagined event to square his position with Maimonides, arguing that the space of nine letters before and after should rightly be left blank. 42 Moreso, through his personal halakhic reasoning, Luria was reversing a tradition that had clear roots in the Talmud and was obviously much older than that.

YAM SHEL SHELOMO: RESPONSUM #73 The responsum, number 73, shows how a relatively minor scribal issue had evolved and become the focus of a sophisticated halakhic inquiry by a major scholar. 43 It also clearly demonstrates the influence of the Zohar on normative Jewish practice. 44 Some of the halakhic issues known to be contentious because of Zoharic influence on rituals were relatively minor issues: removal of tefillin before musaf on rosh hodesh, wearing tefillin on hol hamo‘ed, the washing of hands by priests before the priestly benediction, yibum/halitzah preferences, 45 and our subject: the markings at Numbers 10:35–36. While the issue of the inverted nuns is neither earth shattering nor part of everyday ritual practice, it is significant because it is necessary to have proper, 42 Some early references only refer to the text being “marked” (ďđģĜ), that is, with no hint at their design; thus a space before and after can be “markings” to offset this text, as seen throughout the Torah. 43 Cf. Kasher, Torah Sheleimah, 29:124–32. 44 On the influence of the Zohar and other kabbalistic texts on halakhic practice, see Moshe Hallamish, The Kabbalah in Liturgy, Halakhah, and Custom (Ramat Gan: BarIlan University Press, 2000), 686. 45 Katz, “ĤĦĝĜĐđ ĐĘĎĜĐ ěĕč”, 52–69.

300 · sholom eisenstat kosher scrolls that scribes, rabbis, and members of the community agree are accurate and fit for ritual use. While mystical interpretations of the inverted nuns were not new to the scene, the Zohar’s purported authenticity and antiquity gave authority to radical changes in the textual tradition vis-à-vis the design and location of the markings at Numbers 10:35–36. 46 Both ancient, evolving halakhic traditions and new, nonrational interpretations of the various markings were driving scribal practice. Issues of design and position of the markings fed or encouraged the nonrational interpretation, while that interpretation was at the same time used as the basis for creative interpretation and design that influenced the scribing of Torah scrolls. Ibn Zimra very much worked against using the Zohar’s interpretation of Numbers 10:35–36 to establish the design and position of the markings. 47 But Luria took it up. While he had once pressed for total removal of nuns from scrolls, halakhic considerations and his own study of the scrolls forced him to begrudgingly concede the validity of the markings. The abundance of new halakhic materials from the flourishing of rabbinic culture in Poland, as well as the expansion of printing and distribution of halakhic works, may have demonstrated to him just how much out of sync his earlier ruling had been. Certainly, his research into the facts on the ground in local scrolls must have demonstrated to him how deeply entrenched in the tradition the markings had become, albeit in some very problematic ways. We do not have much evidence of the mystical influences that brought Luria to incorporate mystical interpretation in his halakhic thinking. Yet Luria does tell us that while he was doing his research and thinking about the problem of the markings, he was apprised of new mystical interpretations of them, whereupon he delved into the source of these new interpretations: the Zohar. We know that Luria’s contemporary, Mordechai Jaffe (the Levush), spent time learning with the mystic Matityah b. Solomon Delacrut. 48 Jaffe could surely have been instrumental in the Maharshal’s 46 On the notion that mystical interpretations were not new, see, e.g., Recanati, Bahya, and others. Attribution of scribal traditions originating in the Zohar lent them authority; see Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 138. 47 Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 42–66. 48 Ephraim Kupfer, “Jaffe, Mordecai Ben Abraham,” Encyclopedia Judaica 11:67–68.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 301 appreciation of the Zoharic design and position of the markings. A variety of other sixteenth-century greats influenced Luria’s thinking, including not only Jaffee but also Moses Isserles (Ramah). 49 Luria fell under the powerful influence of the Zohar and ultimately ruled that changes should be made to scrolls based on Zoharic traditions, which prompted him to shift his focus to specifying their proper design and position. In doing so, Luria acknowledged that the nun markings are visual representations of the Shekhinah and must be properly designed and positioned to reflect the interpretation found in the Zohar. By modifying the design of the markings based on the interpretation of the Zohar, Luria effectively designed the proper artwork to accompany this text. Luria must have been moved to apply such creative thinking to the problem again because there is no specific mention of the inverted nuns in Maimonides’s list of unique letters and other markings that ought to appear in the Torah scroll. In the end, Luria managed to find the golden path that allowed him to honor the Rambam’s silence on the markings and the need to include them according to the established talmudic tradition. Meir Raffeld notes that Luria’s comments on this topic use the same research and analytical skills seen in his overall halakhic work, although this issue is analyzed using the Zohar’s mystical interpretations. 50 Whereas one would think that the Zoharic material is merely spiritual mystical interpretation and ideation, here Luria’s responsum reflects “kabbalistic interpretation being the rationale for halacha.” Luria thus used his halakhic expertise to justify modifications or corrections to scrolls based on the Zohar’s description and interpretation of the markings. Luria concludes his responsum with a short compendium of instructions on how, where possible, to correct the existing designs and placement of the markings to conform to his understanding 49 Kaplan, “Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe,” 269, states: “Rabbi Moses Isserles was challenged by his most famous contemporary, R. Solomon Luria, who, we may say, exemplified a spirit of critical independence. And this spirit was again manifested both in his halakhic activities and in his attitude to the place of philosophy within Jewish tradition.” 50 Meir Raffeld, “On Some Kabbalistic Elements Underlying the Halakhic Teaching of R. Shlomo Luria (Maharshal),” Da’at 36 (1996): 21.

302 · sholom eisenstat of the proper design and location. Professor Levy has written that the plethora of variations for textual issues encountered by the rabbis during the medieval period often caused them to abandon initiatives to arrive at a “fixed” proper text and simply accept a range of textual variants. 51 Luria effectively traversed the path described by Professor Levy but ended his research and consideration of this thorny problem with suggestions for correctives to the problems in most of the local scrolls. We see him do this by complementing his usual thorough halakhic analysis with heavy influence from the interpretation of the Zohar. In doing so, Luria permits modifications to be made to the Torah, another “fix” toward the perfect text and another turn in the evolving history of the text of the Torah.

TEXT AND ANNOTATED TRANSL ATION Question: The nuns of “When the ark began to travel” (Num 10:35–36). There are those who invert them at the beginning and the end, and there are also those who add some nuns, and there are various designs among the scribes. Will the Master please instruct us how to act? Response: I wrote about this in my great composition 52 in the chapter “All Temple Documents” (b. Shabbat 116), and I will copy for you exactly what I said.

:ĐĘČĥ (36À35 ĪĚč) īěđĤČĐ ĞĝĜč ĕĐĕđī Ęĥ ěĕĜđĜĐ ěĕĠĕĝđĚ ĥĕđ .ğđĝđ ĐĘĕēĦč ěĦđČ ěĕėĠĐĚĥ đĜĕĤđĕ ęĕĤĠđĝĐ ěĕč ĦđĜđĥ ĪĕĜĠ ĐĚėđ ěĕĜđĜ .ĎđĐĜĘ ĖĕČ ĤĚ

:ĐčđĥĦ Ęėī ģĤĠč ĘđďĎĐ ĕĤđčēč ĕĦčĦė ĐĒ Ĥčď ĦđČ ĖĘ ģĕĦĞČđ (đīĔģ Ħčĥ ĕĘčč) īĕčĦė .ĦđČč

51 Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 158. 52 Luria uses this term to refer to his Yam Shel Shelomo; see Assaf, “ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ đĐĥĚ”, 2:49.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 303 It is agreed upon in the discussion at b. Shabbat 115b, 53 “The rabbis taught: ‘When the Ark began to travel’ (Num 10:35–36), Moses said, ‘The Holy One Blessed is He, made markings 54 on this section, above it, to signify that this is not its proper location,” as we learned, R. Shimon b. Gamiel said, “in the future this section will be moved from here and written in its (proper) place” (b. Shabbat 116a). Rashi (Shabbat 116a) interprets this to refer to the section about the ‘flags’ 55 in the section bemidbar Sinai, which is its (proper) place (b. Shabbat 116a). Why was it written here? In order to separate calamities. The first calamity is “They travelled from the mountain” (Num 10:33). R. Hamah b. Haninah said that they abandoned God – i.e., they were fleeing from Mount Sinai, three day’s journey, like a child who flees from school, as many have taught. The second calamity is “The people were as murmurers”

ĤīĦ (đīĔģ Ħčĥ ĕĘčč) ČĕĎđĝč ěĜĕģĝĚ ĐĥĤĠ īĐĥĚ ĤĚČĕđ ěđĤČĐ ĞđĝĜč ĕĐĕđī ĐĘĞĚĘĚ ĦđĕĜĚĝ ĐīčģĐ ĐĘ ĐĥĞ đĒ ĎīčĥĤ ČĕĜĦďė ĐĚđģĚ đĒ ěĕČĥ ĤĚđĘ ěČėĚ ĤģĞĕĦĥ đĒ ĐĥĤĠ ĐďĕĦĞī ĤĚđČ ĐĦĕĕĐ ęĕĘĎďčī ĕīĥĤ ĪĕĠ .īĐĚđģĚč čĦėĦđ ČđĐ ęĥđ ĕĜĕĝ ĤčďĚ ĪĤĠč īčĦėĐĘ ĐĕđČĤ ģĕĝĠĐĘ ĕďė ?ěČė ĐčĦėĜ ĐĚĘđ .ĐĚđģĚ ĐĜđĥČĤ ĦđĜĞĤđĠ .ĦđĜĞĤđĠĘ ĦđĜĞĤđĠ ěĕč ČĜĕĜē Ĥč ČĚē ĪĤ ĤĚČđ īĐ ĤĐĚ đĞĝĕđī ĤĐĚ ęĕēĤđč đĕĐĥ ĪĕĠ īĐ ĕĤēČĚ đĤĝĥī ĦĕčĚ ēĤđčĐ ģđĜĕĦė ęĕĚĕ ĪĎ ĖĤď ĕĜĕĝ ĐĕĕĜĥ ĦđĜĞĤđĠ .ĐčĤĐ đďĚĘĥ ĕĠĘ ĤĠĝĐ Ęė đĕĐĕĥ ďĕĦĞĘđ ,īęĕĜĜđČĦĚė ęĞĐ ĕĐĕđī ĦđĜĞĤđĠĘ đĎČďĕ ČĘđ ęĕĘĔč ĦđĜĞĤđĠĐ ěĚ ČĘī ĤĚđČ ĪĤ .ĐĚđģĚĘ ĐĥĤĠĐ ĤđĒēĦ ČđĐ čđĥē ĤĠĝĥ ĕĜĠĚ ČĘČ ĐĒ ČđĐ ęĥĐ ęĕĤĠĝ ĪĎ đč ĥĕ ĤčďĚč ĤĠĝ ČĢĚĜ īđĚĢĞĘ đĚĢĞč ČđĐđ ďēČ ĤĠĝ īĞđĝĜč ĕĐĕđī ďĞ ĕĥĕĘĥ ĤĠĝ ĤĠĝĐ ĦđĘė ďĞđ ĕĜĥ ĤĠĝ ĪĤ ĤĚČ ĕĜĚēĜ Ĥč ĘČđĚĥ ĪĤ ĤĚČď đĜĕĕĐđ ĐĞčĥ đĘČ īĐĞčĥ ĐĕďđĚĞ ĐčĢēī ěĦĜđĕ .ĐĤđĦ Ęĥ ęĕĤĠĝ

53 This quotation from b. Shabbat 115b is incomplete or was used selectively to make his point. 54 This can be rendered as “markings” or as “symbols”; see Lieberman, “Critical Marks,” 39–43, and Christian David Ginsburg, Introduction to the Massoretico-Critical Edition of the Hebrew Bible, rev. ed. (New York: KTAV, 1966), 342. 55 Presumably after Num 2:17; see Milgrom, Numbers, 375, and Ginsburg, Introduction, 343.

304 · sholom eisenstat (Num 11:1). In the future, when all the calamities will be nullified and there will be no worry about calamities, this text will return to its (proper) place. Rabbi (b. Shabbat 116a) says, “This is not the reason; rather it is because this is considered a separate book. 56 Thus we find that Numbers has three books in it: until “When the ark began to travel” is one, it itself (Num 10:35–36) is the second book, and [from there] to the end of the book is the third book. This is why R. Shemuel b. Nahmani said in the name of R. Yonatan (Prov 9:1), “‘She has hewn out seven pillars’ – these are the seven books of the Torah.” Commentary: Luria begins his responsum with a concise review of the traditional rabbinic ideas about the markings. He incorporates Rashi’s comments from relevant Talmud and Torah commentaries and supplies an idea as to when the text will go back to its proper place. Given Luria’s penchant for finding and using sources, it does seem odd that, to this subject, he brings only the talmudic sources and Rashi for his background. Thus Rashi commented (b. Shabbat 115b), “He made symbols above and below to differentiate it from those texts adjacent to it,” and later he interpreted “above

ęĕĜĚĕĝ ĐĘ ĐĥĞī (đīĔģ Ħčĥ) ĕīĥĤ ĪĕĠđ ĦđėđĚĝĐ ěĚ ĐĘĕďčĐĘ ĐĔĚĘ ĐĘĞĚĘĚ ĐĘĞĚĘī ĪĕĠ (:đīĔģ Ħčĥ) ėīēČđ īĐĘ īěđĤČĐ ĞđĝĜč ĕĐĕđ ī ğđĝđ ĐĘĕēĦč īĐĔĚĘđ .đĜĘĥ ĕīĥĤĕĠč ČĢĚĜ Ėė .ėīĞ (36À35 ĪĚč)

56 That is to say, these markings are editorial markings to tell the scribe or reader that this text is a separate book. Thus follows the reference to a seven-book Torah.

the maharshal and two inverted nuns · 305 and below” [to mean] at the beginning and the end of “when the ark began to travel” (Num 10:35–36). This is what we find in our commentary of Rashi. It is necessary to explain (what is meant by) “the beginning and the end” of “when the ark began to travel” (Num 10:35). However, in an accurate text (ģĕđďĚ ğĘģ) of Rashi’s commentary, I have found written about this issue, “at the beginning and end” (Rashi on b. Shabbat 115b) [image of reversed and inverted nun in text] ‘When the ark began to travel’ (Num 10:35) [image of reversed and inverted nun ]. If so, these ěĕĜĚĕĝ (markings) at the beginning and at the end are the two inverted nuns. This is what some few scribes do, but I am surprised at them that they unnecessarily write two letters into the Torah scroll and invalidate it. After all, even one extra letter invalidates; even a cantillation mark or a drop of ink invalidates a Torah. How much the moreso in this example.

ĕĐĕđī Ęĥ īğđĝđ ĐĘĕēĦī ĥĤĠĘ ĖĕĤĢđ ĪĕĠč ĘčČ (36À35 ĪĚč) īěđĤČĐ ĞđĝĜč ĐĒč čđĦė ĕĦČĢĚ ģĕđďĚ ğĘģ Ęĥ ĕīĥĤ ĪĜ ĤđĕĢ ěČė ĥĕ/ ğđĝđ ĐĘĕēĦč ěĕĕĜĞĐ / īěđĤČĐ ĞĝĜč ĕĐĕđī / ĔĝėĔč ĐėđĠĐ ėīĞ / ĔĝėĔč ĐėđĠĐ ĪĜ ĤđĕĢ ěČė ĥĕ ěĕĜđĜ ĕĦĥ ěĐ ğđĝđ ĐĘēĦč ěĕĜĚĕĝ đĜĕĕĐď ĐĚĦđ ęĕĤĠđĝ ĦĢģĚ ěĕĥđĞ ěėđ .ěĕėđĠĐ ČĘĥ ĐĤđĦč ĦđĕĦđČ Īč čđĦėĘ ęĐĕĘĞ ĕĜČ ĦēČ ĦđČ ĪĕĠČ ĕĤĐĥ ĐĘĝđĠĘđ ĖĤđĢĘ đČ ęĞĔ ģđĝĕĠ ĪĕĠČ ěėđ ĦĘĝđĠ ĐĤĕĦĕ ĎīĐė ĥīė ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĝđĠ đĕďč ďđģĕĜ

Commentary: Luria begins the discussion by pointing out, quite rightly, that Rashi’s comments on the markings have confused the issue. He uses both “at the beginning and end” as well as “above and below” in different references. Surely, when using the language “above and below,” Rashi is thinking of the phrase ĐĘĞĚĘĚ đĕĘĞ ďđģĜ ĐĔĚĘĚđ, “dotted above and below,” which is found in the Sifre to

306 · sholom eisenstat Numbers text 57 and is certainly reminiscent of the descriptions of Torah texts which are, in fact, dotted above and below. 58 That likely led to instances wherein Luria brings eyewitness evidence of scrolls he himself saw where nun characters were inverted and/or reversed, appearing above and/or below the line – superscripted, so to speak, as shown in this facsimile:

6LPRQ+XUZLW]The Responsum of Solomon Luria (MAHARSHAL) (New