“Follow the Wise”: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine 9781575066257

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“Follow the Wise”

Lee I. Levine

“Follow the Wise” Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine

Edited by

Zeev Weiss, Oded Irshai, Jodi Magness, and Seth Schwartz

Published for The Jewish Theological Seminary of America and The Hebrew University of Jerusalem by

Eisenbrauns

Winona Lake, Indiana 2010

© 2010 by Eisenbrauns Inc. All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America www.eisenbrauns.com

Acknowledgments The volume editors are grateful to the copy editors for their assistance: Israel Ronen (Hebrew essays), Bev McCoy (English essays; Eisenbrauns), Hani Davis (Hebrew and English essays), and Alan Cooper, provost of the Jewish Theological Seminary and editor of JTS Press, for seeing this volume through every stage of the production process. The publication of this volume was made possible thanks to the generous support of the Ruth and David Amiran Foundation at the Institute of Archaeology of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and the Ben Zion Dinur Center for Research in the History of the Jewish People at the Mandel Institute for Jewish Studies of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data “Follow the Wise” : studies in Jewish history and culture in honor of Lee I. Levine / edited by Zeev Weiss . . . [et al.].    p.  cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-57506-200-6 (hardback : alk. paper) 1.  Judaism—History—Post-exilic period, 586 b.c.–210 a.d.  2. Jews—History—586 b.c.–70 a.d.  3.  Rabbinical literature—History and criticism.  4.  Synagogues—Middle East—History. 5.  Palestine—Antiquities.  I.  Levine, Lee I.  II.  Weiss, Zeev, 1959– BM176.F65 2010 296.09′014—dc22 2010040186

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. †Ê

Contents Biography of Lee I. Levine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  ix Publications of Lee I. Levine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  xii Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxv

Part 1 Hellenism, Christianity, and Judaism Hellenism and Judaism before and after World War II: Two Case Studies—A. D. Momigliano and E. J. Bickerman . . . . . . . .  3 Albert I. Baumgarten The Name of the Ruse: The Toss of a Ring to Save Life and Honor. . . . . . .  25 Shaye J. D. Cohen Jesus and the Galilean Am ha-Aretz: A Reconsideration of an Old Problem . .  37 Sean Freyne Hellenism and Judaism: Fluid Boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  53 Erich S. Gruen Porphyry on Judaism: Some Observations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  71 Pieter W. van der Horst The Bishops of Sepphoris: Christianity and Synagogue Iconography in the Late Fourth and Early Fifth Centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  85 Hillel I. Newman The Humanistic Evaluation of Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 E. P. Sanders

Part 2 Art and Archaeology: Jerusalem and Galilee The Observance of Ritual Purity after 70 c.e.: A Reevaluation of the Evidence in Light of Recent Archaeological Discoveries . . . . . . . . . 121 David Amit and Yonatan Adler v

vi

Contents

The Tomb of Jason Reconsidered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Dan Barag  ‫ל‬′′‫ז‬ The Hippo-Stadium /Amphitheater in Jerusalem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .163 Amos Kloner and Sherry Whetstone Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period from a Farmhouse North of Jerusalem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Ronny Reich and Eli Shukron An “Encore” on the Bar Kochba Tetradrachm: A Re-vision of Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Elisheva Revel-Neher Burial Practices in Beth Sheʿarim and the Question of Dating the Patriarchal Necropolis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 Zeev Weiss

Part 3 The Rabbis Abbaye’s Family Origins: A Study in Rabbinic Genealogy . . . . . . . . . . . .235 Aaron Demsky The Miracle of the Septuagint in Ancient Rabbinic and Christian Literature . 241 Richard Kalmin The Rabbinic Class Revisited: Rabbis as Judges in Later Roman Palestine . . . 255 Hayim Lapin Rabbis, Preachers, and Aggadists: An Aspect of Jewish Culture in Third- and Fourth-Century Palestine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 David Levine Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and Babylonia: Ties and Tensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 Aharon Oppenheimer The Religious Orientation of Non-Rabbis in Second-Century Palestine: A Rabbinic Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 Adiel Schremer Martyrdom, the Middle Way, and Mediocrity (Genesis Rabbah 82:8) . . . . . . 343 Daniel R. Schwartz Sinai—Mountain and Desert: The Desert Geography and Theology of the Rabbis and Desert Fathers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355 Joshua Schwartz Rabbinic and Roman Honor and Deference: Y. Berakot 5.1, 9a, and Y. Bikkurim 3.3, 65c–d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375 Seth Schwartz

Contents

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Part 4 The Ancient Synagogue The Dura-Europos Synagogue Wall Paintings: A Question of Origin and Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403 Rachel Hachlili Priests and Purity in the Dura-Europos Synagogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421 Jodi Magness The Problem of the Scarcity of Synagogues from 70 to ca. 250 c.e.: The Case of Synagogue 1 at Nabratein (2nd–3rd Century c.e.) . . . . . . 435 Eric M. Meyers The Synagogue as Foe in Early Christian Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449 Leonard V. Rutgers

Hebrew Section Part 1 Sages and Patriarchs Epistles of the Patriarchs in Talmudic Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   3* Isaiah Gafni On Aggadic Midrashim: Formation, Editing, Survival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11* Moshe David Herr

Part 2 Archaeology, Art, and Historical Geography Gader, Migdal Gader, Hammat Gader: Historical and Geographical Considerations in Interpreting a Talmudic Sugya in ʿErubin . . . . . . . 41* Motti Arad The Zodiac and Helios in the Synagogue: Between Paganism and Christianity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63* Rina Talgam Was King Herod Indeed a Megalomaniac? In Light of Kasher and Witztum’s New Book, King Herod: A Persecuted Persecutor . . . . . . . . 81* Ehud Netzer Is “Bezer in the Wilderness” (Deut 4:43) Bozrah (Bostra, Roman Arabia)? On the Intricacies of a Rabbinic Tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93* Oded Irshai

Biography of Lee I. Levine Lee Israel Levine was born on Feb. 1, 1939, in Bangor, Maine, to Rabbi Dr. Harry O. H. Levine and Irene R. Levine (née Ginsburgh). He attended the Akiba Academy in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and a public high school in Steubenville, Ohio, where his father served as a congregational rabbi. Summers were spent at Camp Ramah. Lee attended Columbia College in New York, majoring in philosophy. At the same time, he studied in the undergraduate program at the Jewish Theological Seminary, majoring in Talmud. He graduated from both institutions in 1961, earning a B.A. from Columbia and a B.H.L. in Talmud from JTS. In June 1961, he married Mira Karp of Buffalo, New York. Lee and Mira spent the 1959–60 academic year at Machon Greenberg (Hayyim Greenberg Institute for Teachers from the Diaspora) and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. From 1961 to 1965, Lee studied in the rabbinical program at the Jewish Theological Seminary with the distinguished rabbis and scholars Saul Lieberman, David Weiss Halivni, Moshe Zucker, and Gerson Cohen. He received his M.H.L. in Talmud in 1963 and rabbinic ordination from JTS in 1965. In 1963, Lee pursued his graduate studies in Jewish and Ancient History at Columbia University with Professors Gerson Cohen and Morton Smith. After receiving his M.A. in 1966, he continued his doctoral studies under the mentorship of Cohen and Smith and was awarded his Ph.D. in 1970. While researching his dissertation on Caesarea under Roman Rule, he spent the 1968–69 academic year at the Institute of Archaeology of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. During that year, Lee established close ties with members of the Institute of Archaeology and Professor Yigael Yadin, who recognized the need for an interdisciplinary approach that would give graduate archaeology students a solid base in Jewish history and rabbinic sources to supplement their archaeological training. He accepted Prof. Yadin’s invitation to return to Israel and teach at the Institute of Archaeology upon completion of his dissertation. In the summer of 1971, Lee, Mira, and their growing family made ʿaliyah to Israel. Their home is in Jerusalem to this day. Lee was granted a joint appointment in the Institute of Archaeology and the Department of Jewish History at the Hebrew University. In 1985, he was promoted to the rank of Full Professor, and since 2003, he has held the Rev. Moses Bernard Lauterman Family Chair in Classical Archaeology at the Hebrew University. Lee ix

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Biography of Lee I. Levine

served in a number of administrative capacities at the Hebrew University, including Head of the Dinur Research Center for the Study of Jewish History (1997–2001) and Chair of the Department of Jewish History (2001–3). He received numerous fellowships as well as appointments as a visiting scholar and lecturer at the Jewish Theological Seminary, Yale University, and Harvard University. Lee was awarded honorary doctorates from JTS (1991) and Lund University, Sweden (2000). In the nonacademic sphere, Lee and Mira, together with a group of close friends, founded Ramot Zion, a Conservative/Masorti synagogue on French Hill in Jerusalem in 1973. They remain active and closely involved in the development of the synagogue to this day. Lee and his friends saw the need for an alternative public school system in Israel, a system that would instill in the young the values and practices of Judaica yet also encourage modern pluralistic education and religious inquiry. As a result, Lee was instrumental in founding and developing the TALI (an acronym for Tigbur Limudei Yahadut, Enriched Jewish Studies) track of Israel’s state school system. He was also a founding member of the Seminary of Judaic Studies in Jerusalem (now known as the Schechter Institute for Jewish Studies), which opened its doors in 1984 for studies toward rabbinic ordination and graduate studies in Judaica. In addition to teaching, Lee headed the Schechter Institute (first as dean and then as president) from 1987 to 1994. Lee was an active member of the Masorti Movement in Israel and represented it abroad as Director of the Foundation for Masorti Judaism (1986–87) and Vice-Chancellor of Israel Affairs at the Jewish Theological Seminary (1987–94). In the course of his career of teaching and research at the Hebrew University, Lee supervised graduate students in Archaeology and Jewish History. He codirected excavations at Caesarea Maritima in 1975–76 with Professor Ehud Netzer and was director of the excavations at the Horvat ʿAmmudim synagogue in 1979. Lee’s professional service includes: member of the editorial board of Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi (1978–92), member of the board of the Israel Exploration Society (1984 to present), and member of the advisory board of the World Union of Jewish Studies (1989 to present; since 2006, he has been a member of its executive committee). Lee has published 12 monographs, edited or coedited 11 volumes, and published more than 180 articles. Among Lee’s most important works are The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1989), which is the first systematic study of the social and political role of the rabbis in late antique Palestine; The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000; 2nd rev. ed., 2005), which offers a comprehensive synthesis of all available information on the diverse aspects of the ancient synagogue; and Jerusalem: Portrait of the City in the Second Temple Period (538 b.c.e.–70 c.e.) (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2002), a thorough historical investigation of the city in this era. He is currently preparing a volume entitled Visual Judaism in Late Antiquity: Historical Contexts of Jewish Art. He was also commissioned by the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities to head the Onomasticon project, an exhaustive annotated compilation of geographical place-names in the land of Israel in the Second Temple,

Biography of Lee I. Levine

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mishnaic, and talmudic periods according to Hebrew and Aramaic sources, the first volume of which will soon be published. Lee has organized several international conferences: The Synagogue in Antiquity (1984), The Galilee in the Greco-Roman Period (1989), Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity and Islam (1996), Jewish Cultural Life of Late Antiquity in Its Byzantine-Christian Context (1999), and Jewish Identities in Antiquity: In Memory of Menahem Stern (2007), for each of which he has edited a volume of the proceedings. Lee often lectures on popular and academic subjects in Israel, Europe, and the United States on ancient Jewish history, archaeology, and art, as well as on issues of contemporary Judaism. His scholarship encompasses a broad range of topics relating to ancient Judaism, especially in archaeology, rabbinic studies, and Jewish history. Within these disciplines, he has dealt with a variety of subfields, including ancient synagogues and liturgy, ancient Jewish art, Galilee, Jerusalem, Hellenism and Judaism, and the historical geography of ancient Palestine. He is one of the first major scholars to draw upon and integrate data from all of these fields in order to afford a better understanding of ancient Judaism. The contributions to this volume are a tribute to his influence on this field of study and reflect the broad spectrum of his own interests. In recognition of Lee’s accomplishments and expertise, we selected a passage from the Baylonian Talmud (b. Sanhedrin 32b) as the title of this volume: . . . ‫ הלך אחר חכמים‬,‫צדק צדק תרדף‬

Publications of Lee I. Levine Books 1. Caesarea under Roman Rule. Leiden: Brill, 1975. 2. Roman Caesarea: An Archaeological-Topographical Study. Qedem 2. Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University, 1975. 3. The Rabbinic Class in Palestine in the Talmudic Period. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1985. [Hebrew] 4. Excavations at Caesarea—1975, 1976, 1979: Final Report. Qedem 21. Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University, 1986. [co­authored with Ehud Netzer] 5. The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity. Jerusalem: Yad BenZvi and Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989. [revised and expanded from Hebrew] 6. Jerusalem in Its Splendor: A History of the City in the Second Temple Period. Jerusalem: Ariel, 1996. [Hebrew] 7. Jerusalem in Its Splendor: A History of the City in the Second Temple Period. Rev., expanded ed. Tel-Aviv: Modan, 1997. [Hebrew] 8a. Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity: Conflict or Confluence? Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1998. b. Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity: Conflict or Confluence? Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 1999. [Hebrew] 9a. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000. b. La sinagoga antica. 2 vols. Brescia: Paideia, 2005. 10a. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. 2nd rev., expanded ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005. b. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. Hebrew trans. of 2nd ed. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, in preparation. 11. Jerusalem: A Portrait of the City in the Second Temple Period (538 b.c.e.–​ 70 c.e.). Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2002. 12. Visual Judaism in Late Antiquity: Historical Contexts of Jewish Art. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, in press.

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13. Geographical Place-Names in Eretz-Israel during the Second Temple–Talmudic Periods according to Hebrew and Aramaic Sources, vol. 1. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, forthcoming. [Hebrew]

Books Edited 14. Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981. 15. The Jerusalem Cathedra: Studies in the History, Archaeology, Geography and Ethnography of the Land of Israel, vol. 1. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1981. 16. The Jerusalem Cathedra: Studies in the History, Archaeology, Geography and Ethnography of the Land of Israel, vol. 2. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1982. 17. The Jerusalem Cathedra: Studies in the History, Archaeology, Geography and Ethnography of the Land of Israel, vol. 3. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1983. 18. The Synagogue in Late Antiquity. Philadelphia: American Schools of Oriental Research and Jewish Theological Seminary, 1987. 19. The Galilee in Late Antiquity. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992. 20. Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. New York: Continuum, 1998. 21. From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 40. Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000. [co­edited with Z. Weiss] 22. The Controversy over the Historicity of the Bible. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi and Dinur Center, Hebrew University, 2001. [Hebrew; coedited with A. Mazar] 23. One Thousand Years of Jewish History (1000–2000 c.e.): Change and Upheaval. Jerusalem: Dinur Center, Hebrew University, 2002. [Hebrew] 24. Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine. Jerusalem: Dinur Center [Hebrew University], Yad Ben-Zvi, and Jewish Theological Seminary, 2004. [Hebrew and English] 25. Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 130. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009. [coedited with D. R. Schwartz]

Articles 26. “Philo and the Allegorical Method.” Yavne Review (1961) 17–28. 27. “Some Observations of the Coins of Caesarea Maritima.” Israel Exploration Journal 22 (1972) 131–40. 28. “A propos de la fondation de la Tour de Straton.” Revue Biblique 80 (1973) 75–81.

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29. “The Hasmonean Conquest of Strato’s Tower.” Israel Exploration Journal 24 (1974) 62–69. 30a. “The Jewish-Greek Conflict in First Century Caesarea.” Journal of Jewish Studies 25 (1974) 381–97. b. “The Jewish-Greek Conflict in First Century Caesarea.” Pp. 173–94 in The Great Jewish Revolt, ed. A. Kasher. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 1983. [Hebrew] 31. “Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea.” Pp. 56–76 in Christianity, Judaism and Other Greco-Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith at Sixty, vol. 4, ed. J. Neusner. Leiden: Brill, 1975. 32. “La Palestine sous la loi romaine.” Les dossiers de l’archéologie 10 (May–June 1975) 17–22. 33. “Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea.” Pp. 47–50 in Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. 2. Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1976. [Hebrew] 34a. “The Zealots of the Late Second Temple Period in Modern Historiography.” Cathedra 1 (1976) 39–48, 59–60. [Hebrew] b. “The Zealots of the Late Second Temple Period in Modern Historiography.” Pp. 365–88 in The Great Jewish Revolt, ed. A. Kasher. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 1983. [Hebrew] 35. “New Light on Caesarea.” Qadmoniot 11 (1978) 70–75. [Hebrew] 36. “Pella.” Pp. 939–43 in vol. 3 of Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. M. Avi-Yonah and E. Stern. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1978. 37. “Caesarea.” Pp. 658–61 in vol. 29 of Encyclopedia Hebraica. Jerusalem: Encyclopaedia Publishing, 1978. [Hebrew] 38. “On the Political Involvement of the Pharisees under Herod and the Procurators.” Cathedra 8 (1978) 12–28. [Hebrew] 39a. “R. Simeon bar Yohai and the Purification of Tiberias.” Hebrew Union College Annual 49 (1978) 143–85. b. “R. Simeon bar Yohai and the Purification of Tiberias.” Cathedra 22 (1982) 9–42. [Hebrew] 40. “The Jewish Patriarch (Nasi) in Third Century Palestine.” Pp. 649–88 in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II:19.2. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1979. 41a. “Toward an Appraisal of Herod as a Builder.” Cathedra 15 (1980) 52–55. [Hebrew] b. “Toward an Appraisal of Herod as a Builder.” Pp. 1–10 in The Jerusalem Cathedra, vol. 1, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1981. 42. “Ancient Synagogues: A Historical Introduction.” Pp. 1–10 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981. 43. “The Inscription in the ʿEn Gedi Synagogue.” Pp. 140–45 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981. 44. “The Synagogue at Dura Europos.” Pp. 172–77 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981.

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45. “The Synagogue at Ḥorvat ʿAmmudim.” Pp. 78–81 in Ancient Synagogues Revealed, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981. 46. “The Political Struggle between Pharisees and Sadducees in the Hasmonean Period.” Pp. 61–83 in Studies in the History of Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period: Scha­lit Memorial Volume, ed. A. Oppenheimer, U. Rappaport, and M.  Stern. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1981. [Hebrew] 47. “Ḥorvat ʿAmmudim Excavations.” Qadmoniot 51–52 (1981) 107–11. [Hebrew] 48. “The History of Caesarea in the Roman and Byzantine Periods.” Qardom 18 (1981) 7–30. [Hebrew] 49. “On the History of the Study of Caesarea.” Qardom 18 (1981) 64–68. [Hebrew] 50. “Excavations at the Synagogue of Ḥorvat ʿAmmudim.” Israel Exploration Journal 32 (1982) 1–12. 51. “The Age of R. Judah the Prince.” Pp. 94–118 in Eretz-Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest, vol. 1, ed. Z. Baras et al. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1982. [Hebrew] 52. “Palestine in the Third Century c.e.” Pp. 119–43 in Eretz-Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest, vol. 1, ed. Z. Baras et al. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1982. [Hebrew] 53. “The Rabbinic Class of Third Century Palestine.” Pp. 5–8 in Proceedings of the Eighth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division B. Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1982. [Hebrew] 54. “Messianic Tendencies at the End of the Second Temple Period.” Pp. 135–52 in Messianism and Eschatology, ed. Z. Baras. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 1983. [Hebrew] 55. “Archaeological Discoveries from the Greco-Roman Era.” Pp. 75–87 in Recent Archaeology in the Land of Israel, ed. H. Shanks. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1983. 56. “Césarée et la synagogue de Ḥorvat Ha-ʿAmmudim.” Pp. 227–31 in Recherches Archéologiques en Israel, ed. E. Lipiński. Leuven: Peeters, 1984. 57. “Roman Rule in Palestine at the End of the Second Temple Period (63 b.c.e.–74 c.e.). Pp. 11–280 in The History of Eretz-Israel, vol. 4, ed. M. Stern. Jerusalem: Keter, 1984. [Hebrew] 58. “The Archaeological Finds from Beth-Shearim and Their Importance for the Study of the Talmudic Period.” Eretz-Israel 18 (Avigad volume; 1985) 277–81. [Hebrew] 59. “Herod: The Man and His Times.” Pp. 2–10 in King Herod and His Times. Idan 5. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1985. [Hebrew] 60. “An Onomasticon of Ancient Palestine in the Second Temple–Talmudic Periods according to Hebrew and Aramaic Sources: A Preliminary Report.” World Union of Jewish Studies Newsletter 25 (1985) 39–46. [Hebrew]

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61a. “The Second Temple Synagogue: The Formative Years.” Pp. 7–31 in The Synagogue in Late Antiquity, ed. L. I. Levine. Philadelphia: American Schools of Oriental Research and Jewish Theological Seminary, 1987. b. “The Second Temple Synagogue: Its Character and Development.” Pp. 11–​29 in The Synagogue in Israel and the Diaspora in Antiquity, ed. A. Oppenheimer, A. Kasher, and U. Rappaport. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1987. [Hebrew] 62a. “The Age of Hellenism: Alexander the Great and the Rise and Fall of the Hasmonean Kingdom.” Pp. 177–204, 254–57 in Ancient Israel: A Short History from Abraham to the Roman Destruction of the Temple, ed. H. Shanks. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1988. b. “Okres hellenistyczny.” Pp. 247–84 in Starozytny Izrael: Od czasow Abrahama do zburzenia Jerozolimy przez Rzymian. Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1994. 63. “La synagogue de Doura Europos.” Le Monde de la Bible 57 (1989) 20–27. 64. “Les fonctions de la synagogue ancienne.” Le Monde de la Bible 57 (1989) 28–31. 65. The Interior of the Ancient Synagogue and Its Furnishings: From Communal Center to ‘Lesser Sanctuary.’” Cathedra 60 (1990) 36–84. [Hebrew] 66. “The Jewish Community at Caesarea in Late Antiquity.” Pp. 268–73 in Caesarea Papers: Straton’s Tower, Herod’s Harbour, and Roman and Byzantine Caesarea, ed. R. L. Vann. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 5. Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1992. 67. “Judaism from the Destruction of Jerusalem to the End of the Second Jewish Revolt: 70–135 c.e.” Pp. 125–49 in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development, ed. H. Shanks. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1992. 68. “The Sages and the Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of the Galilee.” Pp. 201–22 in The Galilee in Late Antiquity, ed. L. I. Levine. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992. 69. “Herod the Great.” Pp. 161–69 in vol. 3 of Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman et al. New York: Doubleday, 1992. 70. “Jewish War (66–74 c.e.).” Pp. 839–45 in vol. 3 of Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. D. N. Freedman et al. New York: Doubleday, 1992. 71. “Synagogues.” Pp. 1421–24 in vol. 4 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. 72. “Synagogue Research since the 1970s.” Pp. 258–61 in vol. 1 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. [Hebrew] 73a. “The Synagogue of Ḥorvat ʿAmmudim.” Pp. 1242–44 in vol. 4 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. b. “The Synagogue of Ḥorvat ʿAmmudim.” Pp. 55–56 in vol. 1 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. [Hebrew]

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74a. “Excavations at Caesarea.” Pp. 280–82 in vol. 1 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. b. “Excavations at Caesarea.” Pp. 1379–82 in vol. 4 of The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, ed. E. Stern. Jerusalem: Carta, 1993. [Hebrew] 75. “Caesarea’s Synagogues and Some Historical Implications.” Pp. 666–78 in Biblical Archaeology Today 1990. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993. 76. “Introduction.” Pp. 13–32 in Synagogues in Eretz Israel: From Antiquity to the Present, ed. H. Klil-Hahoresh. Tel-Aviv: Israel Defence Forces Educational Division, 1993. [Hebrew] 77. “The Relationship between Rabbinic Literature and Archaeological Finds: Remarks in Response to D. Amit.” Cathedra 68 (1993) 36–40. [Hebrew] 78. “Synagogue.” Pp. 721–24 in The Oxford Companion to the Bible, ed. B. M. Metzger and M. D. Coogan. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. 79. “The Synagogue as a Communal Institution: Who Determined Its Policy? ” Pp. 1–8 in Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies, division B, vol. 1: The History of the Jewish People. Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1994. [Hebrew] 80a. “Josephus’ Description of the Jerusalem Temple: War, Antiquities, and Other Sources.” Pp. 233–46 in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period, ed. F. Parente and J. Sievers. Leiden: Brill, 1994. b. “The Temple of Jerusalem: Josephus’ Description and Other Sources.” Cathedra 77 (1995) 3–16. [Hebrew] 81. “The Background of the Antiochan Persecutions and the Hasmonean Revolt.” Pp. 9–20 in In the Days of the Hasmonean Dynasty, ed. D. Amit and H. Eshel. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1995. [Hebrew] 82a. “Diaspora Judaism of Late Antiquity and Its Relationship to Palestine: Evidence from the Ancient Synagogue.” Pp. 139–58 in Studies on the Jewish Diaspora in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods, ed. B. Isaac and A. Oppenheimer. Teʿuda 12. Tel-Aviv: Ramot, 1996. b. “Uniformity and Diversity in Judaism of Late Antiquity: Evidence from the Diaspora Synagogues.” Pp. 379–92 in The Jews in the Hellenistic-Roman World: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern, ed. I. Gafni, A. Oppenheimer, and D. Schwartz. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 1996. [Hebrew] 83. “Synagogue Officials: The Evidence from Caesarea and Its Implications for Palestine and the Diaspora.” Pp. 392–400 in Caesarea Maritima: A Retrospective after Two Millennia, ed. A. Ra­ban and K. Holum. Leiden: Brill, 1996. 84a. “The Status of the Patriarchate in the Third and Fourth Centuries: Sources and Methodology.” Journal of Jewish Studies 47 (1996) 1–32. b. “The Status of the Patriarchate in the Third and Fourth Centuries: Sources and Methodology.” Pp. 103–37 in Kehal Yisrael: Jewish Self-Rule through the Ages, vol. 1, ed. I. Gafni. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 2001. [Hebrew]

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85a. “The Nature and Origin of the Palestinian Synagogue Reconsidered.” Journal of Biblical Literature 115 (1996) 425–48. b. “The Nature and Origin of the Palestinian Synagogue Reconsidered.” Pp. 143*–62* in Tehillah le-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg, ed. M. Cogan, B. L. Eichler, and J. H. Tigay. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997. [Hebrew] 86. “Archaeology and the Religious Ethos of Pre-70 Palestine.” Pp. 110–20 in Hillel and Jesus: Comparative Studies of Two Major Religious Leaders, ed. J. Charlesworth. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997. 87. “Beth Sheʿarim.” Pp. 309–11 in vol. 1 of The Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East, ed. E. M. Meyers. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. 88. “The Revolutionary Effects of Archeology on the Study of Jewish History in Roman–Byzantine Palestine: The Case of the Ancient Synagogue.” Pp. 166–89 in The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the Present, ed. N. A. Silberman and D. Small. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement 237. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997. 89. “Hasmonean Jerusalem: A Jewish City in a Hellenistic Orbit.” Judaism 46 (1997) 140–46. 90a. “The Menorah in the Synagogue.” Pp. 99–101 in In the Light of the Menorah: The Evolution of a Symbol, ed. Y. Israeli. Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1998. [Hebrew] b. “The Menorah in the Ancient Synagogue.” Pp. 109–12 in In the Light of the Menorah: Story of a Symbol, ed. Y. Israeli. Jerusalem: Israel Museum / Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1999. 91. “Second Temple Jerusalem: A Jewish City in the Greco-Roman Orbit.” Pp. 53– 68 in Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, ed. L. I. Levine. New York: Continuum, 1998. 92. “Synagogue Leadership: The Case of the Archisynagogue.” Pp. 195–213 in Jews in a Greco-Roman World, ed. M. Goodman. Oxford: Clarendon, 1998. 93. “Bilderkult IV: Judentum.” Col. 1571 in vol. 1 of Religion in Geschichte und Ge­genwart, ed. J. Persch. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998. 94. “Synagogue.” Pp. 708–10 in Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, ed. G. Bowersock, P. Brown, and O. Grabar. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999. 95. “The Age of Hellenism: Alexander the Great and the Rise and Fall of the Hasmonean Kingdom.” Pp. 231–64 in Ancient Israel: A Short History from Abraham to the Roman Destruction of the Temple, rev. ed. H. Shanks. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1999. 96. “The Development of Synagogue Liturgy in Late Antiquity.” Pp. 123–44 in Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures, ed. E. M. Meyers. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999.

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97. “The Patriarch and the Ancient Synagogue.” Pp. 87–100 in Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue, ed. S. Fine. London: Routledge, 1999. 98. “The Hellenistic-Roman Diaspora ce 70 – ce 235: The Archaeological Evidence.” Pp. 991–1024 in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 3, ed. W. Hor­bury et al. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. 99. “Synagogues in the Judaean Desert.” Pp. 905–8 in vol. 2 of Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. 100. “Les fonctions de la synagogue ancienne.” Pp. 48–54 in Aux origines du christianisme, ed. P. Gé­oltrain. Paris: Gallimard, 2000. 101a. “The History and Significance of the Menorah in Antiquity.” Pp. 131–53 in From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity, ed. L. I. Levine and Z. Weiss. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 40. Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000. b. “The History and Significance of the Menorah in Antiquity.” Cathedra 98 (2001) 7–32. [Hebrew] 102. “Archaeology and the Bible.” Pp. 1339–44 in Etz Hayim: A Torah Commentary, ed. D. Lieber et al. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2001. 103. “Synagoge.” Pp. 499–508 in vol. 32 of Theologische Realenzyklopaedie, ed. G. Mueller et al. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001. 104. “The First-Century Synagogue: New Perspectives” Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift 77 (2001) 22–30. 105. “Art, Architecture, and Archaeology.” Pp. 824–51 in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Studies, ed. M. Goodman. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. 106. “The First Century c.e. Synagogue in Historical Perspective.” Pp. 1–25 in The Ancient Synagogue: From the Beginning to about 200 c.e.: Papers Presented at an International Conference at Lund University, October 14–17, 2001, ed. B. Olsson and M. Zetterholm. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2003. 107. “Contextualizing Jewish Art: The Synagogues of Hammat Tiberias and Sepphoris.” Pp. 91–131 in Jewish Culture and Society in the Christian Roman Empire, ed. R. Kalmin and S. Schwartz. Leuven: Peeters, 2003. 108a. “The First-Century Synagogue: Critical Reassessments and Assessments of the Critical.” Pp. 168–94 in Studies in the History of Eretz Israel: Presented to Yehuda Ben Porat, ed. Y. Ben-Arieh and E. Reiner. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2003. [Hebrew] b. “The First-Century Synagogue: Critical Reassessments and Assessments of the Critical.” Pp. 70–102 in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches, ed. D. R. Edwards. London: Routledge, 2004. 109. “Between Rome and Byzantium in Jewish History: Documentation, Reality, and the Issue of Periodization.” Pp. 7–48 in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine, ed. L. I. Levine. Jerusalem: Dinur

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110. 111. 112a. b. 113a.



b.

114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121.

122. 123.

Center [Hebrew University], Yad Ben-Zvi, and Jewish Theological Seminary, 2004. [Hebrew] “Dura Europos.” P. 133 in A Dictionary of Jewish-Christian Relations, ed. E. Kess­ ler and N. Wen­born. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. “Sardis.” Pp. 397–98 in A Dictionary of Jewish-Christian Relations, ed. E. Kessler and N. Wenborn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. “Figurative Art in Jewish Society.” Ars Judaica 1 (2005) 9–26. “The Use of Figural Art and Its Avoidance in Ancient Jewish Society.” Pp. 13–41 in Image and Sound: Art, Music and History, ed. R. I. Cohen. Jerusalem: Shazar Center, 2007. [Hebrew] “Bet Šeʿarim in Its Patriarchal Context.” Pp. 197–226 in “The Words of a Wise Man’s Mouth Are Gracious” (Qoh 10,12): Festschrift for Günter Stemberger on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, ed. M. Perani. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005. “Bet Sheʿarim and Its Patriarchal Context.” Pp. 115–29 in Man near a Roman Arch: Studies Presented to Professor Yoram Tsafrir, ed. L. Di Segni et al. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2009. [Hebrew] “Jewish Archaeology in Late Antiquity: Art Architecture, and Inscriptions.” Pp. 519–55 in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4, ed. S. Katz. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. “In Search of the Synagogue, Part I: Unearthing the Oldest Jewish Houses of Prayer.” Reform Judaism 35/4 (2007) 42–47. “In Search of the Synagogue, Part II: The Temple Destroyed: The Synagogue Takes a Turn.” Reform Judaism 36/2 (2007) 48–54, 60. “In Search of the Synagogue, Part III: A Synagogue Boom of Surprising Diversity—in Response to Christians? [4th century c.e.–7th century c.e.].” Reform Judaism 36/4 (2008) 74–80. “In Search of the Synagogue, Part IV: Diaspora Synagogues in Late Antiquity.” Reform Judaism 37/2 (2008) 38–44. “Jerusalem in Jewish History, Tradition, and Memory.” Pp. 27–46 in Jerusalem: Idea and Reality, ed. T. Mayer and S. A. Mourad. London: Routledge, 2008. “‘Common Judaism’: The Contribution of the Ancient Synagogue.” Pp. 27– 46, 232–37 in Common Judaism: Explorations in Second-Temple Judaism, ed. W. O. McCready and A. Reinhartz. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008. “Jewish Collective Memory in Late Antiquity: Issues in the Interpretation of Jewish Art.” Pp. 217–54 in Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World, ed. G. Gardner and K. Osterloh. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 123. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008. “Archisynagogos.” Cols. 675–76 in vol. 2 of Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, ed. H.-J. Klauck et al. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008. “In Search of the Synagogue, Part V: Women in the Synagogue.” Reform Judaism 37/3 (2009) 42–46.

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124. “Synagogues.” Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, ed. C.  Hezser. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. 125. “The Age of Hellenism: From Alexander the Great through the Hasmonean Kingdom (332–63 b.c.e.).” In Ancient Israel: From Abraham to the Roman Destruction of the Temple. 3rd rev. and expanded ed., ed. H. Shanks. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, in press. 126. “Judaism from the Destruction of Jerusalem to the End of the Second Jewish Revolt: 70–135 c.e.” Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development, ed. H. Shanks. Revised ed. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, in press. 127. “The Emergence of a New Jewish Art in Late Antiquity.” In Was 70 c.e. Really a Watershed? On Jews and Judaism before and after the Destruction of the Second Temple, ed. D. R. Schwartz. Leiden: Brill, in press. 128. “Patriarch, Patriarchate.” Encyclopedia of Religion. 2nd ed. Woodbridge, CT: Macmillan Reference, in press. 129. “Caesarea.” Dictionary of Early Christianity, ed. J. J. Collins and D. Harlow. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, in press. 130. “Jerusalem.” Dictionary of Early Christianity, ed. J. J. Collins and D. Harlow. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, in press. 131. “Jerusalem Temple.” In Dictionary of Early Christianity, ed. J. J. Collins and D. Harlow. Eerdmans, in press. 132. “Synagogue.” In Dictionary of Early Christianity, ed. J. J. Collins and D. Harlow. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, in press. 133. “Israelite Art.” In Rachel Hachlili Festschrift, ed. A. E. Killebrew et al. Leiden: Brill, in press. 134. “The Synagogue.” In The Jewish Annotated New Testament, ed. M. Brettler and A.-J. Levine. Oxford: Oxford University Press, in press. 135. “Caesarea.” In Encyclopedia of Ancient History, ed. Roger Bagnall et al. Oxford: Wiley, in press. 136. “Patriarchate.” In Encyclopedia of Ancient History, ed. Roger Bagnall et al. Oxford: Wiley, in press. 137. “Jerusalem in the Hellenistic Era (332–141 b.c.e.).” In Sepher Yerushalayim, ed. J. Schwartz, I. Gafni, and R. Reich. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, in press. [Hebrew] 138. “The Synagogues in Jerusalem.” In Sepher Yerushalayim, ed. J. Schwartz, I. Gafni, and R. Reich. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, in press. [Hebrew] 139. “Jerusalem in the Herodian and Early Roman Periods (63 b.c.e.–66 c.e.).” In Sepher Yerushalayim, ed. J. Schwartz, I. Gafni, and R. Reich. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, in press. [Hebrew] 140. “Synagogue Art and the Rabbis in Late Antiquity.” Journal of Ancient Judaism (in press).

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Book Reviews 141. “The Causes of 66–70 c.e.: Review of The Roman-Jewish War (66–70 a.d.): Its Origins and Consequences, by M. Aberbach.” Judaism 20 (1971) 244–48. 142. “The Hellenistic Age: The World History of the Jewish People, ed. A. Schalit.” Jewish Social Studies 35 (1973) 161–63. 143. “Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, by E. Goodenough.” Qadmoniot 18 (1973) 66–67. [Hebrew] 144. “Sefer Tiberias, by O. Avissar.” Qadmoniot 25–26 (1974) 62. [Hebrew] 145. “Understanding the Sacred Text: Essays in Honor of Morton S. Enslin in the Hebrew Bible and Christian Beginnings, ed. J. Reumann.” Israel Exploration Journal 25 (1975) 181–83. 146. “Césarée de Palestine: Étude historique et archéologique, by J. Ringel.” Israel Exploration Journal 26 (1976) 215–16. 147. “The Joint Expedition to Caesarea Maritima, vol. 1: Studies in the History of Caesarea Maritima, ed. C. T. Fritsch. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Supplement 19.” Israel Exploration Journal 27 (1977) 262–64. 148. “Roman Palestine 200–400: The Land, by D. Sperber.” Israel Exploration Journal 29 (1979) 128–31. 149. “The Tabernacle Menorah, by C. Meyers.” Israel Exploration Journal 30 (1980) 243–45. 150. “The Temple of Solomon, by J. Gutmann.” Israel Exploration Journal 31 (1981) 247–49. 151. “The Excavations at Dura Europos, by C. H. Kraeling.” Israel Exploration Journal 34 (1984) 61–62. 152. “Excavation at Hammath Tiberias, by M. Dothan.” Israel Exploration Journal 34 (1984) 284–88. 153. “State and Society in Roman Galilee, a.d. 132–212, by M. Goodman.” Israel Exploration Journal 36 (1986) 115–17. 154. “Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Land of Israel, by R. Hachlili.” Israel Exploration Journal 41 (1991) 212–15. 155. “Galilee in the Mishnaic Period, by A. Oppenheimer.” Zion 57 (1992) 213–16. [Hebrew] 156. “Jewish Civilization in the Hellenistic–Roman Period, ed. S. Talmon.” Scripta Classica Israelica 13 (1994) 205–7. 157. “Seeing and Hearing God with the Psalms: The Prophetic Liturgy of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, by R. J. Tournay.” Jewish Quarterly Review 86 (1995) 233–36. 158. “Jerusalem under Siege, by J. Price.” Jewish History 9/1 (1995) 114–15. 159. “Material Culture in Eretz-Israel during the Talmudic Period, by D. Sperber.” Bekhol Derakhekha Daehu: Journal of Torah and Scholarship 1 (1995) 111–14. [Hebrew]

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160. “Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery, ed. D. Ur­ man and P. V. M. Flesher.” Ioudaios Review 5 (August, 1995). ftp://ftp.lehigh​ .edu/pub/listserv/ioudaios-review/5.1995/urman.levine.012. 161. “Die Institution des jüdischen Patriarchen, by M. Jacobs.” Religious Studies Review 23 (1997). 162. “The Monarchic Principle: Studies in Jewish Self-Government in Antiquity, by D. Goodblatt.” Jewish Quarterly Review 88 (1998) 317–24. 163. “Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World, ed. S. Fine.” Journal of Roman Studies 88 (1998) 188–89. 164. “Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture, ed. R. M. Nagy, C. Meyers, E. M. Meyers, and Z. Weiss”; “Promise and Redemption: A Synagogue Mosaic from Sepphoris, ed. E. Netzer and Z. Weiss.” Biblical Archaeology Review 25/1 (1999) 66–68. 165. “The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, by C. Hez­ ser.” Jewish Quarterly Review 90 (2000) 483–88. 166. “The Holy Place: On the Sanctity of the Synagogue during the Greco-Roman Period, by S. Fine.” Hebrew Studies 41 (2000) 306–11. 167. “Into the Temple Courts: The Place of the Synagogues in the Second Temple Period, by D. Binder.” The Journal of Religion 81 (2001) 171–72. 168. “Lod and Its Sages in the Period of the Mishnah and the Talmud, by B.-Z. Rosenfeld.” Zion 66 (2001) 235–37. [Hebrew] 169. “The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity, by R. Kalmin.” Journal of Semitic Studies 46 (2001) 337–40. 170. “Hellenism in the Land of Israel, ed. J. J. Collins and G. E. Sterling.” Journal of Biblical Literature 122 (2003) 562–66. 171. “Jews and Christians in the Holy Land: Palestine in the Fourth Century, by G. Stemberger.” Journal of Religious History 28/1 (2004) 105–7. 172. “The Jews of Syria as Reflected in the Greek Inscriptions, by L. Roth-Gerson.” Zion 69 (2004) 361–63. [Hebrew] 173a. “The Menorah, the Ancient Seven-Armed Candelabrum: Origin, Form, and Significance, by R. Hachlili.” Israel Exploration Journal 57 (2007) 119–20. b. “The Menorah, the Ancient Seven-Armed Candelabrum: Origin, Form, and Significance, by R. Hach­lili.” Qadmoniot 132 (2007) 122–23. [Hebrew] 174. “Sages and Commoners in Late Antique Erẹz Israel, by Stuart S. Miller.” Cathedra 131 (2009) 129–32. [Hebrew] 175. “Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, by C. Hezser.” Israel Exploration Journal (in press). 176. “Reconstructing the First-Century Synagogue, by Stephen Catto.” Journal of Religion (in press). 177. “Excavations at Ancient Nabratein: Synagogue and Environs, by Eric M. Meyers and Carol Meyers” (forthcoming).

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Internet Course 178. Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period. Jewish Theological Seminary, fall 2001–5. http://www.courses.jtsa.edu/hist/sectemp.

Articles on Contemporary Judaism 179. “The M’sorati School: A Pioneering Endeavor in Jewish Education in Israel.” The Melton Journal (Spring–Summer 1983) 5–6. 180. “Masorti Judaism in Israel: Challenge, Vision and Program.” Pp. 381–89 in The Seminary at 100: Reflections on the Jewish Theological Seminary and the Conservative Movement, ed. N. B. Cardin and D. W. Silverman. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1987. 181. “Masorti Judaism in Israel: Challenge, Vision and Program.” Pp. 79–92 in Towards the Twenty-First Century: Judaism and the Jewish People in Israel and America, ed. R. Kronish. Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1988. 182. “Religious Pluralism in Israel: A Jewish State or a State for Jews? ” Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly 50 (1988) 49–69. 183. “TALI Education: Its History and Principles.” Shedemot 112 (1990) 26–33. [Hebrew] 184. “Conservative Judaism and Zionism: Toward the Twenty-First Century.” Pp. 7–14 in Deepening the Commitment: Zionism and the Conservative/Masorti Movement, ed. J. Ruskay and D. Szonyi. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1990. 185. “Jewish Education as a Means of Dialogue between the Religious and Secularist.” Yad LʾOri (1993) 37–39. [Hebrew] 186. “The TALI Schools.” Pp. 259–77 in Origins: The Beginnings of Jewish Educational Institutions, ed. W. Ackerman. Jerusalem: Magnes, 1995. 187. “Identification.” In The Tribes of Israel Together: A Dialogue with the President of the State of Israel, ed. S. Eilati. Jerusalem: President’s House, 1996. 188. “Therefore Man Was Created Alone (M. Sanhedrin 4:6).” Pp. 25–27 in Human Dignity, ed. A. Satrikovsky. Jerusalem: Ministry of Education, 1998. [Hebrew] 189. “Professor Israel Levine.” Pp. 229–47 in Learning in Jerusalem: Dialogues with Distinguished Teachers of Judaism, ed. S. Freedman. Northvale, NJ: Aronson, 1998.



Abbreviations General b. Bavli (Babylonian Talmud) BL British Library col(s). column(s) ET English translation frag(s). fragment(s) IAA Israel Antiquities Authority LXX Septuagint m. Mishnah ms(s) manuscript(s) MT Masoretic Text n(n). note(s) nab New American Bible version no(s). number(s) nrsv New Revised Standard Version NT New Testament OT Old Testament P. papyrus R. Rabbi rsv Revised Standard Version t. Tosefta y. Yerushalmi (Jerusalem, Palestinian Talmud)

Reference Works AASOR AB ABD

Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research Anchor Bible Freedman, D. N., editor. The Anchor Bible Dictionary. 6 vols. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1992 ACW Ancient Christian Writers AGJU Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums AJA American Journal of Archaeology AJSReview Association for Jewish Studies Review ALGHJ Arbeiten zur Literatur und Geschichte des hellenistischen Judentums ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt BAR Int. Series British Archaeological Reports, International Series

xxv

xxvi BASOR BIOSCS BJS BTAVO BZ CCSL CHJ

Abbreviations

Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bulletin of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies Brown Judaic Studies Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients Biblische Zeitschrift Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina Davies, W. D., and Finkelstein, L., editors. Cambridge History of Judaism. 4 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984–2006 CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum CJZC Lüderitz, G. Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, Reihe B: Geisteswissenschaften 53. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1983 Coniectanea Biblica, New Testament ConBNT Tcherikover, V., editor. Corpus papyrorum judaicarum. 3 vols. Cambridge: CPJ Harvard University Press, 1957–64 Comptes rendus de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres CRAIBL CSEL Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum DJD Discoveries in the Judaean Desert DMOA Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui DNP Cancik, H., and Schneider, H., editors. Der neue Pauly: Enzyklopädie der Antike. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1996–2003 Dumbarton Oaks Papers DOP DSD Dead Sea Discoveries EncJud Roth, C., editor. Encyclopaedia Judaica. 16 vols. Jerusalem: Keter, 1972 ErIsr Eretz-Israel ESI Excavations and Surveys in Israel GCS Griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller GLAJJ Stern, M., editor. Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism. 3 vols. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–84 Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies GRBS HTR Harvard Theological Review HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual IEJ Israel Exploration Journal IJO Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies JETS Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society JIGRE Horbury, W., and Noy, D., editors. Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992 JJS Journal of Jewish Studies JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies JQR Jewish Quarterly Review JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology JRelS Journal of Religious Studies JRS Journal of Roman Studies

Abbreviations JSJ JSOT JSOTSup JSP JSQ JSS JTS LCL MGWJ NEAEHL

NTS OCD PAAJR PEQ PG PW RAC RB REJ SBLDS SC ScrHier SJLA StPB SNTSMS StPatr TAPA TDNT TLL TLZ TSAJ TUGAL VC VT VTSup WUNT ZDPV ZPE

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Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Jewish Studies Quarterly Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Theological Studies Loeb Classical Library Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums Stern, E., editor. New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land. 4  vols. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and Carta / New York: Simon & Schuster, 1993. Supplement, vol. 5. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society / Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 2008 New Testament Studies Hammond, N. G. L., and Scullard, H. H., editors. Oxford Classical Dictionary. 3rd ed. Oxford: Clarendon, 1999 Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research Palestine Exploration Quarterly Migne, J.-P. Patrologia graeca. 162 vols. Paris: Garnier, 1857–1886 Pauly, A. F. Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft. New edition, G. Wissowa. 49 vols. Munich: Druckenmüller, 1980 Klauser, T., et al., editors. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1950– Revue biblique Revue des études juives Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Sources chrétiennes Scripta Hierosolymitana Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity Studia Post Biblica Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Studia patristica Transactions of the American Philological Association Kittel, G. Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Trans. and ed. G. W. Bromiley. 9 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1965–74 Thesaurus linguae latinae Theologische Literaturzeitung Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur Vigiliae christianae Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästina-Vereins Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

Hellenism and Judaism before and after World War II Two Case Studies— A. D. Momigliano and E. J. Bickerman Albert I. Baumgarten Bar Ilan University

Questions concerning the relationship between Hellenism and Judaism in Antiquity have been of special interest to Jewish scholars since Jews began to enter the larger cultural world of the West, learn Greek and Latin in school as one of the most prestigious parts of the curriculum, and ponder the nature of the ancient connection between Jerusalem and Athens. Like the Russian stacking dolls in which each larger one is an exact copy of the smaller ones, matters concerning Hellenism and Judaism in Antiquity had their homologues in modern issues, particularly when one is thinking about the relationship between contemporary Judaism and the surrounding Western culture. As the analogy makes explicit, changes in one of the dolls had consequences in all the others. The goal of this essay is to examine the impact of World War II on the thinking and writing of two outstanding Jewish scholars who studied the lives of ancient Jews in the Greco-Roman world, A. D. Momigliano and E. J. Bickerman.1 1.  This essay draws on research conducted as part of an intellectual biography of Elias Bickerman, underway since March 2004, now published as Elias Bickerman as a Historian of the Jews: A Twentieth Century Tale (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). As part of this project, I have consulted numerous archives. I refer to material from the following archival sources in this paper: Bickerman Archive—Elias Bickerman Papers, Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, ARC 19. Most of the material consists of the contents of Bickerman’s office, as found after he died in Israel in August 1981. I thank Ellen Kastel, Archivist, for her untiring help and encouragement over the course of a project that has taken far longer than I originally imagined. On a formal note, I thank David Kraemer, Librarian of the Jewish Theological Seminary, for permission to refer to and cite from Jewish Theological Seminary ARC 19 archival material in this article. These archival sources appear courtesy of the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

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In particular, after showing the fit between changes in the experience of the historian and the history written, I would like to argue a point first made by E. H. Carr. In most cases, the impact of the time and place of the historian on the history that he or she wrote is rightly seen as deleterious. Conclusions posed that suited the ideology of the era are quickly revealed as being time bound to the next generation(s) of scholars. In rarer cases, however, Carr argued that the historian’s time, place, and life story created the possibility of conclusions that lasted, that would not have been Drancy Records—Records of the Drancy internment camp from Archives du Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine, Paris. Fichier (Adultes) du Camp de Drancy. I thank Diane Afoumado, Mémorial de la Shoah, Paris, for her cooperation and assistance throughout the time of my research on Bickerman. Gabba Archive—Emilio Gabba presented his entire collection of correspondence to the University Library at Pavia, Italy, where these letters are kept. Heichelheim Archive—Fritz Heichelheim (1901–68) taught ancient history at the University of Toronto, where his correspondence is on deposit. Hengel Files—Martin Hengel of Tübingen University carried on an extensive correspondence with Bickerman. He has been kind enough to make photocopies of these letters available to me for my research. HIAS/HICEM Files—Records of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, New York, and of HICEM, the umbrella organization based in Europe devoted to organizing Jewish emigration during World War II. Microfilmed files are on deposit at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, New York. Hans (Yohanan) Lewy Archive—Lewy (1901–45), Bickerman’s close friend from Berlin, taught classics at the Hebrew University. His correspondence is on deposit at the Jewish National and University Library of Jerusalem, Israel, ARC ms, VAR 376, folder 71. Rockefeller Foundation Archives—Records of the Rockefeller Foundation program to rescue refugee European scholars during World War II, on deposit at the Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow, NY. My thanks are due to Ken Rose, Assistant Director of the Archive Center. Schoonmaker Files—Dina Schoonmaker, daughter of Jacob Bikerman, has sent me material regarding her uncle that she found among her father’s papers. Surrogates Court—Surrogates Court, New York County, New York City. Estate of Anita Suzanne Bickerman, File 2572-1998. Westermann Archive—William L. Westermann (1873–1954) was Professor of Ancient History at Columbia University. His correspondence is on deposit at the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Manuscript and Archival Collections of Columbia University, New York. In addition, I have had the benefit of conversations with several of Bickerman’s friends and students. They include Emilio Gabba in Pavia, Italy, on March 13, 2006; Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski in Paris on May 10, 2007; Fausto Parente in Rome on March 26–27, 2007; Burton Visotzky in New York on September 11, 2006. I met numerous times with Shaye J. D. Cohen in New York City and Jerusalem and with Hayim Tadmor (1923–2005) in Jerusalem, Israel. Because oral memories have a special character and are remarkably malleable, I have set these recollections of Bickerman in italics. In writing this paper, I have had in mind the model of the studies of Abraham Schalit by Daniel R. Schwartz, “On Abraham Schalit, Herod, Josephus, the Holocaust, Horst R. Moehring, and the Study of Ancient Jewish History,” Jewish History 2 (1987): 9–28; idem, “More on Scha­lit’s Changing Josephus: The Lost First Stage,” Jewish History 9 (1995): 9–20.

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possible but for the particular circumstances of the historian’s life.2 I believe that the case studies to be presented below are two examples, each in their own way, of Carr’s insight.

A. D. Momigliano (1908–87) I begin with Momigliano, because he was much more candid than Elias Bickerman about the impact of his life experience on his scholarship. For this reason, Momigliano suggests points to be investigated concerning Bickerman for comparison and contrast. Momigliano’s life story is well known from a number of essays in which he reflected on his past and its impact on his scholarship. In addition, there are many scholarly assessments, of which the most outstanding is by Peter Brown.3 Before the war, Momigliano wrote a number of studies on aspects of Judaism and Hellenism arguing, for example, that the Maccabean revolution was best understood as a civil war between Jewish factions, one group more Hellenizing and the other devoted to older values. The extreme Hellenizers, however, had gone too far, and the Maccabees had been victorious.4 This explanation anticipated the one proposed by Elias Bickerman in Der Gott der Makkabäer;5 not surprisingly, Bickerman reviewed Momigliano’s book in favorable terms.6 As Momigliano saw it at the time, No fully self-aware historian of the ancient world, that is, no person conscious of the fact of living in a civilization of Christian origin, can get away with the refusal to recognize that ancient history makes sense only when it is seen to evolve in such a way as to end naturally in the rise of Christianity.7

Later in life, reflecting on this period in a speech at Brandeis University in 1977, Momigliano noted candidly: “the need to put order between the Jewish and the Italian side of ourselves daily conditioned our life, besides filling our reading and our 2.  Edward H. Carr, What Is History? (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1987). For the sake of intellectual honesty, equal attention should be paid to the well-argued attack on Carr mounted by Jack H. Hexter, “The Historian and His Society: A Sociological Inquiry, Perhaps, in Doing History (ed. J. H. Hexter; London: Allen & Unwin, 1971), 77–106. 3.  Peter Brown, “Arnaldo Dante Momigliano 1908–1987,” Proceedings of the British Academy 74 (1988): 405–42. Perhaps the most significant other study I have seen is Glen W. Bowersock, “Momigliano’s Quest for the Person,” in The Presence of the Historian: Essays in Memory of Arnaldo Momigliano (ed. Michael P. Steinberg; History and Theory: Studies in the Philosophy of History Supplement 30; Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1991), 27–36. 4.  Arnaldo D. Momigliano, Prime linee di storia della tradizione maccabaica (Turin: Chiantore, 1931). 5.  Elias Bickerman, Der Gott der Makkabäer (Berlin: Schocken, 1937). 6.  Idem, “Review of A. Momigliano, Prime linee di storia della tradizione maccabaica,” MGWJ 78 (1934): 310–12. 7.  Momigliano, as translated by and quoted in Brown, “Momigliano,” 408. I have been unable to find the source of the quotation.

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conversation.”8 Just what sort of order it was can be inferred from his writings. As he stated explicitly, in reviewing Cecil Roth’s Gli Ebrei in Venezia: “Anyone reminding an Italian Jew of his Jewish background as opposed to his Italian one deserves the answer that, as history shows, the Hebrew tradition . . . is, indeed, what has made him Italian.”9 In practical terms, Momigliano embraced Fascism. De Sanctis had resigned his post in Rome in 1931, rather than take an oath of loyalty to the Fascist regime. Momigliano replaced De Sanctis in 1932, and then was appointed at Turin in 1936. I presume that both in Rome and in Turin, Momigliano was obligated to swear the oath that De Sanctis had refused to take, but apparently this oath of loyalty posed no bar to Momigliano at the time.10 In fact, Momigliano joined the Fascist party in November 1932. Before he made a final decision to emigrate, on November 3, 1938, Momigliano wrote to the Minister of Education stressing his loyalty (and that of his parents) to the regime and to Fascism, hoping that this would exempt him from the new racist legislation.11 As Bowersock has pointed out, in the 1930s, Momigliano thought he could accommodate the intellectual climate of the age with his own research. As a good Italian, he thought he could somehow make his peace with Fascism: the Jews would be a nation within a nation, both Italian and Jewish.12 In the end, however, Momigliano was obliged to flee Italy for England, where he arrived in April 1939.13 He had been desperate, appealing for help from M. Rostovtzeff (1870–1952) of Yale University in a letter dated October 13, 1938.14 An even more pathetic letter to William L. Westermann of Columbia, dated November 28, 1938, in which Momigliano offered to do anything possible, even teach Italian in high school just in order to get out of Italy, is in the Westermann archive at Columbia University.15 Once in England, Momigliano experienced numerous difficulties as 8.  Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “After-Dinner Speech on the Occasion of the Award of the Degree of D.H.L. H.C. at Brandeis University, 22 May 1977,” Ottavo contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1987), 431. 9.  Idem, “Cecil Roth’s Gli Ebrei in Venezia,” in Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (ed. Silvia Berti; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 226. 10.  Brown, “Momigliano,” 410–11. 11.  See Giorgio Fabre, “Arnaldo Momigliano: Materiali biografici/2,” Quaderni di Storia 53 (2001): 309–20. 12.  Bowersock, “Momigliano’s Quest for the Person,” 35–36. 13.  Brown, “Momigliano,” 405. 14.  Momigliano was only one of many European scholars to turn to Rostovtzeff. For Momigliano’s letter in the framework of Rostovtzeff’s tireless efforts on behalf of refugee scholars, which likely cost Rostovtzeff his health, see Marinus A. Wes, Michael Rostovtzeff, Historian in Exile: Russian Roots in an American Context (Historia Einzelschriften 65; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1990), 84–87. 15.  The Fascist regime openly embraced Nazi-German-style anti-Semitic racism, with the first series of laws passed in September and October 1938. A second series was passed in November 1938. The dates of Momigliano’s letters to Rostovtzeff, Westermann, and the Italian Minister of Education are therefore no accident.

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a refugee; he was interned;16 once released, he had to deal with the worries of living off research stipends and part-time jobs, with no real position until appointed first at Bristol in 1947, and then at University College, London, in 1951. In addition, his parents, Riccardo and Ilda Momigliano, fled to Nice in 1941, where they opened a boarding house. Presumably they chose Nice because it was in the Italian zone and felt safer there.17 Momigliano was in touch with them by letter until sometime in 1942,18 but after the war he learned that they were deported to Auschwitz, where they died at the end of 1943. Momigliano dedicated Alien Wisdom “Per mia madre/presente sempre nel suo vigile amore (Torino 1884—campo nazista di sterminio 1943) Ps. 79.2–3.”19 When one checks the verses in Psalms, they are powerful: “they have left Your servants’ corpses as food for the fowl of heaven, and the flesh of Your faithful for the wild beasts. Their blood was shed like water around Jerusalem, with none to bury them.” He also recalled his parents in the inscription he prepared for his own tombstone: Here rests Arnaldo Dante Momigliano (1908–1987), professor of ancient history in the Universities of Torino, London, Chicago, and the Scuola Normale Superiore of Pisa. His faith was free thought without dogma and without hatred, but he loved with filial affection the Jewish tradition of his fathers. And here he wants to be joined together with him in memory his parents, Riccardo and Ilda Momigliano, killed in German land in November 1943 through insane racial hatred.20

Some sense of how painful this experience was can be obtained by examination of a small detail. Momigliano wrote that his parents died in November 1943, but this is incorrect. The Klarsfeld records indicate that the Momiglianos were deported from Drancy on convoy 64 on December 7, 1943.21 Judging from the journeys of other 16.  Compare Momigliano’s letter of October 24, 1940, written to the commanding officer of the Metropole Camp, where he insisted that he and his family members had always been on the liberal, anti-Fascist side of politics: Fabre, “Arnaldo Momigliano,” 317–18. 17.  Brown, “Momigliano,” 412. 18.  Ibid. In Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “Preface,” in Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (ed. S. Berti; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), xxvi, Momigliano wrote that the last letter he received from his father was in 1942, from Switzerland. This is an error. The Italian version of this essay, published several years before the English and therefore probably the original, reads: “attraverso la Svizzera, via Switzerland.” See idem, “Prefazione,” Pagine ebraiche (Turin: Einaudi, 1987), xxx. 19. Idem, Alien Wisdom: The Limits of Hellenization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), vi. See also the quotation of this verse in 1 Macc 7:17 to refer to the martyrs of the Maccabean era. 20.  I quote the tombstone according to the translation of Bowersock, “Momigliano’s Quest for the Person,” 36. 21.  Serge Klarsfeld, Memorial to the Jews Deported from France, 1942–1944: Documentation of the Deportation of the Victims of the Final Solution in France (New York: B. Klarsfeld Foundation, 1983), 481. December 7, 1943, is also stamped at the top of the Momiglianos’ Drancy cards: Drancy #7668 and 7669.

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convoys, the trip took about four days; hence, convoy 64 should have arrived at Auschwitz around December 11–12. On arrival, about half of the 575 male deportees on the convoy were selected and received numbers; of 422 females, only 72 received numbers.22 As older people,23 the Momiglianos presumably did not survive the first selection, and they probably died around December 11–12, 1943. Where did Momigliano get the date of November 1943? I presume, from speaking with survivors who knew his parents in Nice and knew that they had been arrested in November 1943. This date is, in fact, confirmed by the Drancy records, which show that his parents were arrested in Nice on November 6, 1943.24 However, November 1943 is definitely incorrect as the date of their death. Now I enjoy a certain advantage over Momigliano in having access to Drancy files, but Klarsfeld published the French original of his work in 1978, and the English version, Memorial to the Jews Deported from France, 1942–1944, appeared in 1983— both well before Momigliano’s death. The Klarsfeld lists also made quite a stir in public at the time. Either would have sufficed to inform Momigliano that his parents died in December 1943, not November. When one wonders why this distinguished historian did not do the most basic research to clarify a date of great personal significance, the answer seems obvious: the matter must have been too painful, even 40 or more years after the fact.25 Indeed, Moshe Idel has made this point in more general terms. According to Idel, for Momigliano, “neither the Holocaust nor the establishment of the State of Israel elicited special or elaborated treatments. . . . His parents’ death during the Holocaust and his visits to Israel were not, presumably, topics that invited his analysis.”26 After the war, Momigliano made a career choice of great importance. He was offered his old job back in Italy and took up the offer, at least for a while, but quickly chose to return to England, even though he did not yet have a regular position there.27 He retained Italian citizenship and visited Italy frequently,28 but eventually his career settled down with the appointment at University College, London in 1951, and activity at the Warburg Institute; he also mastered the English language to the highest degree. Nevertheless, it was also a life of wandering between London and Chicago, with regular teaching stints in Pisa in summers. In light of the war experi22.  Klarsfeld, ibid., 477. 23.  Riccardo Momigliano was born in 1883, and his wife in 1884, according to the Drancy and Klarsfeld records. They were both around 60 years old at the end of 1943. 24.  See the Drancy records, cited above, n. 21. 25.  Brown, “Momigliano,” 412. According to Brown, as Momigliano told a friend, when Momigliano learned of the death of his parents, “he could not even bring himself to cry; he had lost, for the rest of his life, the ability to weep.” 26.  Moshe Idel, “Momigliano and Scholem on Jewish History and Tradition,” in Momigliano and Antiquarianism: Foundations of the Modern Cultural Sciences (ed. Peter N. Miller; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 327. 27.  See Carlo Dionisotti, Ricordo di Arnaldo Momigliano (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1989), 22–23; Brown, “Momigliano,” 418–19. 28.  Ibid., 420.

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ence, being Italian was apparently no longer quite as important to him. In addition, as Moshe Idel has suggested, Momigliano was probably adopting for himself a pattern he believed he had discerned in classical Antiquity: “[T]o acquire and convey his knowledge and wisdom, the historian had to detach himself from the surrounding society. In Greece the ‘great’ historians were almost invariably exiles or at least expatriates.”29 He too would be an expatriate for life. At the same time, especially toward the end of his life, Momigliano turned back to studying ancient and modern Judaism.30 As part of his interest in modern scholars who studied Antiquity, some of whom were Jewish, Momigliano came to believe that it was important for Jewish scholars who had been denied the benefit of knowledge of the tradition as a result of their lack of education in youth to return to the resources of ancient dignity that they had not known. They should accept the fact that their life stories—World War II experiences included—were part of their belonging to Jewish history. Otherwise, not only would they miss a key aspect of their own life story, but they would also err as scholars in understanding the place of Judaism in the ancient world. As the discussion just concluded makes clear, this demand made of others was deeply rooted in Momigliano’s personal experience and had an important autobiographical component—even though, formally, the call was to others.31 It was through this lens that Momigliano perceived the example of Eduard Fraenkel, raised with virtually no knowledge of the Jewish tradition, who saw himself primarily as German; yet in exile in England after 1934, and especially after a trip to Israel in 1963, he “became more disposed to admit . . . that his own vicissitudes belonged in the context of millenarian Jewish history.”32 Another scholar who was an outstanding example of the processes that Momigliano intended to encourage was Gershom Scholem, “the greatest Jewish historian of our century.”33 Commenting on Scholem’s autobiography, Momigliano noted the totally German environment in which Scholem was raised, against which Scholem broke violently. For Scholem, there was no place for a Jew in Germany or in German culture. Accordingly, Scholem left for Jerusalem in 1923, long before the threat of Nazism. Scholem was “a man who is certain that the beginning of truth for a Jew is to admit his Jewishness, 29.  Arnaldo Momigliano, Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1977), 174; as cited and discussed by Idel, “Momigliano and Scholem,” 324. 30.  I owe the observation of the large gap in Momigliano’s writing on Jewish topics to Fausto Parente, “Arnaldo Momigliano e il Giudaismo Tra storia e autobiografia,” Storia della storiografica 16 (1989): 65–72, although I interpret this gap somewhat differently. See also Bowersock, “Momigliano’s Quest for the Person,” 27–36. In the last years of his life, Momigliano also resumed a minimal level of Jewish observance, accepting invitations to the Passover Seder at the home of friends. See Brown, “Momigliano,” 436. 31.  Ibid., 433. 32.  Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “Eduard Fraenkel,” in Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (ed. S. Berti; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 215. 33.  Idem, “Gershom Scholem’s Autobiography,” in ibid., 190.

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to learn Hebrew, and to draw the consequences—whatever they may be (which is the problem).”34 According to Calder, Momigliano’s wrestling with his own Jewish identity led him to overstate the Jewishness of some of the scholars about whose lives he wrote. Thus, Momigliano’s Fraenkel was the quintessential yeshiva bochur of the modern sons of Israel, a conclusion denied by those who knew Fraenkel well. Momigliano also denied the self-flagellating anti-Semitism of Felix Jacoby, again attested by those who knew Jacoby. Contra Momigliano, neither Kurt von Fritz nor Ernest Kapp was Jewish. Finally, according to Calder, Momigliano’s loyalties as a Jew led him to conceal the most important fact of the personal life of Jacob Bernays (1824–81)—the great Orthodox Jewish classicist of the nineteenth century—his homosexual relationship with Paul Heyse; Freud, who was married to Bernays’s niece Martha, knew the truth.35 When Momigliano wrote about himself as a Jew, it was now no longer part of wrestling with Italian-Jewish identity. As he wrote in a critique of Hayden White: “I am a Jew myself and I know from my own experience what price Jews have had to pay to be Jews. I am not collecting facts for academic purpose when I try to understand what moved Jews to refuse assimilation to surrounding civilizations.”36 Or, in the same speech at Brandeis from which I quoted above: “I must, however, admit that events have made my research literally a question of life and death, which I had not anticipated when I began to work on these problems about 1925.”37 As Momigliano now summarized his life experience, he had grown up as a knowledgeable and religious Jew in Italy. His family was the only Jewish family in Caraglio, with an apartment for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in nearby Cuneo, where there was a Jewish community. The family was Orthodox, but its observance was open and tolerant. Momigliano was taught by nuns, and his four cousins, products of a mixed marriage, were welcome in his father’s home. The atmosphere for discussion in this 34.  Ibid., 191. Momigliano makes it sound as though only Scholem had the insight to reach this conclusion so early. In fact, any number of German Jews had reached the same conclusion. See further Michael Brenner, The Renaissance of Jewish Culture in Weimar Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 133–34. At the other end of the spectrum, the war years did not change the minds of some who believed that their integration into German society had been nearly complete—in fact, had saved their lives. They were certain that, if not for their German non-Jewish friends, they would probably have ended up in the gas chambers. See the discussion of Peter Gay in Steven E. Aschheim, Beyond the Border: The German-Jewish Legacy Abroad (Prince­ ton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 73. 35.  William M. Calder III, “Review of M. Steinberg, The Presence of the Historian,” Bryn Mawr Classical Review (1992), http://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/1992/03.03.18.html. See now William M. Calder III and T. Günther, “Du von dem ich Lebe”: Briefe an Paul Heyse (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2010). 36.  Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “The Rhetoric of History and the History of Rhetoric: On Hayden White’s Tropes,” Settimo contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1984), 54. 37.  Idem, “After-Dinner Speech,” 432.

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religious household was very free. Momigliano had many non-Jewish friends who died for the freedom of Italy in the resistance during World War II. Nevertheless, for all this exposure to the larger world during his youth, Momigliano had direct access to traditional Jewish texts in Hebrew and Aramaic, a fact of which Momigliano was proud. He considered himself fortunate to have had this sort of education, which he believed was unusual among Italian Jews of his time.38 It was in accordance with this retrospective view of his life that Momigliano chose to be buried in Cuneo, under the tombstone with the inscription quoted above. When Momigliano now analyzed the Jews of Antiquity, they had successfully maintained their particularity while being part of the ancient world. As Brown wrote, for Momigliano: “What was best in the confused history of the Hellenistic Age were those groups—Jews and Romans—who showed an intelligent appreciation of the ideas of others without surrendering their own identity.”39 As Momigliano wrote, himself, in Alien Wisdom: The Jews basically remained convinced of the superiority of their beliefs and ways of life and fought for them. Yet they continuously compared their own ideas with Greek ideas, made propaganda for their beliefs, absorbing many Greek notions and customs in the process.40

Or, even more strikingly, “we are no longer surprised that Jews talked to Greeks in the third century b.c. . . . What is remarkable is the energy and independence with which the Jews turned Greek ideas upside down.”41 Returning to Antiochus IV, his persecutions, and the Maccabees in Alien Wisdom, Momigliano now favored the evidence of the second half of the book of Daniel, which he understood as suggesting that the Hellenizers had little or no part in initiating the decrees of the king. The Samaritan petition to the king preserved by Josephus (Ant. 12.258–64) now indicated to Momigliano that the king was responsible for the forced Hellenization of Jerusalem, and the Samaritans needed to address Antiochus IV if they wanted their temple to avoid a similar fate. Furthermore, Momigliano wondered out loud whether the analogy to Reform Judaism in Germany of the nineteenth century—on which Bickerman had relied in drawing a picture of the ideology of the extreme Hellenists and which led Bickerman to the conclusion that the extreme Hellenizers had initiated the persecution of Antiochus IV—had misled Bickerman.42 In another essay written a few years earlier than Alien Wisdom, Momigliano asserted that the objections raised by I. Heinemann against Bickerman’s 38.  See idem, “Preface,” xxv–xxviii. 39.  Brown, “Momigliano,” 434. 40. Momigliano, Alien Wisdom, 10. 41.  See Brown, “Momigliano,” 434. I have been unable to find the source of this quotation. 42. Momigliano, Alien Wisdom, 106–12. On this analogy and its importance in Bickerman’s reconstruction, see my “Elias Bickerman on the Hellenizing Reformers: A Case Study of an Unconvincing Case,” JQR 97 (2007): 162–69.

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explanation of the persecutions deserved very serious consideration.43 In sum, as Momigliano remarked in passing in another study not directly on the topic of the Maccabees, he now favored the more traditional explanation of Antiochus’s decrees, which Bickerman had set out to overturn, according to which a royal plan to Hellenize the world that ran into Jewish resistance was the principal cause for the events that led to the Maccabean revolt.44 What was responsible for this change in understanding the events in Jerusalem in the 160s b.c.e.? Of course, at the most basic level, Momigliano had reexamined the evidence. Yet, how were these actions in the distant past now events that “made my research literally a question of life and death, which I had not anticipated when I began to work on these problems about 1925? ” I propose the following. In the years before World War II, Jews were under attack by Nazis and Fascists; they were held responsible for all the ills of the world, from socialism to capitalism, by other anti-Semites. This was the era of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion in Europe and the U.S.A.45 Some even insisted that Hitler and members of his circle were Jewish,46 so that even Nazism was supposedly also part of the Jewish conspiracy to rule the world. Matters were effectively no different in the aftermath of the destruction of large parts of European Jewry by the Nazis—Jews still felt threatened. I suggest that in this atmosphere Momigliano was reluctant to concede any improper behavior by other Jews, ancient or contemporary. The “blame” for Antiochus’s decrees had somehow to be shifted away from the extreme Jewish Hellenists and back to the king. If this analysis is correct, we may be closer to an answer to the difficult and awkward question posed by Guy Stroumsa concerning Momigliano’s scholarship: “Did he remain free from any apologetic undertone or intention when dealing with the place of Judaism in the ancient world? ”47 Probably not. On the other hand, placing the Jewish response to the surrounding Greco-Roman world in the larger context of “an intelligent appreciation of the ideas of others without surrendering their own identity,” as set out in Alien Wisdom, was a scholarly contribution that has lasted. To conclude, Alien Wisdom was dedicated to the memory of Momigliano’s mother. I see it and other studies that Momigliano wrote toward the end of his life as more than just dedicated to her memory. They are the products of the wartime experience, as a result of which Momigliano’s parents died and he himself underwent

43.  Arnaldo Momigliano, “Review of M. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus,” JTS 21 (1970): 153. Momigliano referred to Isaak Heinemann, “Wer veranlasste den Glaubenszwang der Mak­ka­ bäerzeit? ” MGWJ 82 (1938): 145–72. 44.  Parente, “Momigliano e il Giudaismo,” 69. 45.  See Robert Singerman, “The American Career of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” American Jewish History 71 (1981): 48–78. 46.  See Bezalel Bar Kochva, “E. Bickermann’s Research of the Second Temple Period,” Cathedra 23 (1982): 7 [Hebrew]. 47.  Guy G. Stroumsa, “Momigliano and the History of Religions,” in Momigliano and Antiquarianism (ed. P. N. Miller; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 294–95.

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the diffiulties of emigration. If not for all these troubles, I suggest, Momigliano might have continued in the comfortable path that he followed before the war.

Elias Bickerman (1897–1981) Elias Bickerman was Momigliano’s friend of long standing. When Bickerman died, Momigliano wrote in his memorial notice: “[I have known Bickerman] personally and followed him in his extraordinary life for more than fifty years”—that is, since the late 1920s or early 1930s.48 This friendship was carried on through correspondence until August 1959,49 when the two scholars first met face to face at a conference in London, where, as I learned from Emilio Gabba, he introduced them. It was appropriate for Gabba, who was close to both men, to make the introduction.50 In Momigliano’s letters to Gabba from the 1960s and 1970s, there are numerous references to meetings between Momigliano and Bickerman as well as very appreciative comments by Momigliano on the high merit of Bickerman’s publications.51 Bickerman was the son of Joseph and Sara Bikerman,52 born in Kishinev, in Bes­ sa­rabia, in 1897. His father had been enthused with the romance of European civilization and Russian culture; hence, Elias Bickerman received a minimal traditional Jewish education, and the family’s lifestyle was far from observant. As one indication: Elias’s brother Jacob wrote of himself as the first family member in some time to fast on Yom Kippur from the age of 13 on or go to the synagogue after the death of his mother. Writing retrospectively, Jacob asserted that all this was with his father’s approval; however, the facts of lack of observance remain.53 I also find it significant that Elias Bickerman’s parents saw to it that Elias received a first-rate education in Greek and Latin but first bothered to have him learn Hebrew when he was 17 (and that, quite ineffectively). As Elias’s brother Jacob wrote: 48.  Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “The Absence of the Third Bickerman,” Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (ed. S. Berti; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 217–21, quotation from p. 217. In Momigliano’s Inaugural Lecture at Turin in 1936 (Dionisotti, Ricordo di Arnaldo Momigliano, 121), Momigliano already referred to the work of “mio amico Bickerman.” 49.  See Silvia Berti, “Introduction,” in Momigliano, Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), xiv. 50.  Gabba later dedicated his Sather Lectures (Emilio Gabba, Dionysius and the History of Archaic Rome [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994]) to “Elias Bickerman/Arnaldo Momigliano/magistris et amicis.” 51.  See Francesco De Nicola, Le lettere di Arnaldo Momigliano a Emilio Gabba: Ricostruzione di un rapporto culturale (Como: New Press, 1998), 46 n. 162. 52.  Elias Bickerman and his family spelled their last name at least three different ways over the course of their lives. Elias was Bickermann during his German years, Bikerman in Paris, and Bickerman in the U.S.A. His father and brother, Joseph and Jacob, also experimented with various spellings but eventually settled on Bikerman. 53.  Joseph Bikerman and Jacob Bikerman, Two Bikermans: Autobiographies by Joseph and Jacob J. Bikerman (New York: Vantage, 1975), 81, 83, 177.

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Albert I. Baumgarten In 1914 another relative often visited us. He was supposed to teach the two sons Hebrew. Unfortunately, the story of Eden was enacted again. Our garden had many apple trees, and the fruit was ripening when study hours came. The boys were tempted by the apples and could not concentrate on work.54

The family moved to St. Petersburg in 1905, where Elias attended the university, studying with M. Rostovtzeff. After the revolution and the Civil War, Bickerman and his family left Russia via Poland for Berlin, arriving in April 1922. The next stages of Bickerman’s education and career were all at the Friedrich-Wilhelm University of Berlin, where Bickerman completed a doctorate in 1926, Habilitation in 1930, and served as Privat-Dozent from 1930 until September 1933, when he lost his position due to Nazi race laws.55 The changes necessary in 1933 to cope with the loss of work in Berlin were relatively easy. With the support of his St. Petersburg teacher M. Rostovtzeff and others, and with generous funding supplied largely by the Rockefeller Foundation, Bickerman was teaching in Paris by December 1933. The real crisis came with the German conquest of Paris in the summer of 1940. An appointment at The New School, again with Rockefeller funding,56 was arranged in October 1940, but it took a year and a half of waiting and appeals for Bickerman and his wife, Anita Suzanne Bickerman (1913–98), to receive visas to the U.S.A. There were several moments of panic when Bickerman feared that the position at The New School would be his undoing, because the complications involved in obtaining visas would trap them in Europe.57 All 54. Ibid., 99. See much the same account for Osip Mandelstam (1891–1938), another St. Petersburg Jew and only a few years older than Bickerman. See Osip Mandelstam, The Noise of Time (trans. Clarence Brown; Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1965), 78. Bickerman and Mandelstam were far from alone. A survey of Russian Jewish university students conducted from 1911 to 1914 showed that one-third replied that they knew no Hebrew, with the percentage of students who knew Hebrew being lowest among those who had grown up outside the pale. See further Benjamin Nathans, Beyond the Pale: The Jewish Encounter with Imperial Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 303. 55.  For a more detailed discussion of these dates in Bickerman’s German career and of his life in general, which differs from discussions found in many other places, see my Elias Bickerman, 18–25. 56.  For an account of Rockefeller Foundation efforts on behalf of refugee scholars, see The Rockefeller Foundation 1940 Annual Report, 12–15, and also The Rockefeller Foundation’s Refugee Scholar Program, an exhibit available on the Rockefeller Foundation Archive Web site, http:// archive.rockefeller.edu/collections/rf/refugee.php. 57.  From among many possible examples, I cite the telegram that Bickerman sent the Rockefeller Foundation on November 11, 1941: prie intervenir personnellement Washington pour visas dois prouver police arrive immediate visar autrement residence forcee cablez reponse Bikerman (Folder 548, Box 48, series 200, RG 1.1, Rockefeller Foundation Archives, RAC). At about the same time as this telegram, Mrs. Bickerman’s American cousin, Max Berns, wrote to the Rockefeller Foundation that he had heard from Mrs. Bickerman’s parents, his aunt and uncle, Georges and Toni Bernstein, that they feared that Elias would be extradited to Germany as a Russian alien (Max Berns to Alexander Makinsky, November 24, 1941, Folder 548, Box 48, series 200, RG 1.1, Rockefeller Foundation Archives, RAC).

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did work out well, however: Elias Bickerman and his wife finally arrived in the U.S. at the end of July 1942. Once in the U.S., the Bickermans tried to save Mrs. Bickerman’s parents, Georges and Toni Bernstein,58 who had escaped from Berlin to Nice in 1939. It was too late. Mrs. Bickerman’s mother was arrested in Nice on January 23, 1944, according to Drancy records,59 and deported to Auschwitz on convoy 67 on February 3, 1944.60 As in the case of Ilda and Riccardo Momigliano, Toni Bern­ stein also was not young when she reached Auschwitz; she was born on either May 4, 1885, or May 4, 1887.61 As a woman close to 60, she stood virtually no chance of being selected to live. Mrs. Bickerman’s father, Georges Bernstein, survived the war and joined his daughter in the U.S., at least for a while, on November 11, 1947.62 Toni Bernstein’s fate was viewed by the family as a great tragedy; for some time after the war, they continued to nourish hopes that she might somehow have survived. I believe she is the mysterious “T.B. Deported by the Germans, Ps. 35:17,” to whom Bickerman, her son-in-law, dedicated the English translation of his popular book on the Maccabees in February 1947.63 The dedication expressed the wish that against all odds T(oni) B(ernstein), who had been deported, but whom the family hoped might still be alive (note that Bickerman wrote that T.B. was “deported,” rather than “murdered” by the Germans), had been saved from the clutches of the lions, as the verse from Psalms implores.64 The Jewish community went to some trouble in the immediate aftermath of the war to determine who had not died; hence, the odds that someone who was still missing in 1947 might still be alive were very low, and 58.  Exit application of July 30, 1942, in HIAS/HICEM files, MKM, film 18/4. 59.  Drancy #12631. 60.  See Klarsfeld, Memorial, 501. 61.  1885 is the birth date of Tomi Bernstein on the Klarsfeld lists (ibid.), but “Tomi” is an error and should be corrected to “Toni” to agree with Toni Bernstein’s Drancy card. 1887 is her birth date on the HIAS/HICEM exit application (see above, n. 58). 62.  Arrival card in HIAS/HICEM files, MKM, film 27/59. According to family recollection, Georges and Toni never went out together, so that, if they were arrested, only one would be caught. Toni once went out for groceries and never returned. See Ruth Berns (widow of Max Berns; above, n. 57), affidavit of September 7, 1999, in files of the Surrogate’s Court, Estate of Anita Suzanne Bickerman. 63.  See Elias Bickerman, The Maccabees (New York: Schocken, 1947), 5 = idem, From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees (New York: Schocken, 1962), 92. The former was a translation of Elias Bickermann, Die Makkabäer: Eine Darstellung ihrer Geschichte von den Anfängen bis zum Untergang des Hasmonäerhauses (Berlin: Schocken, 1935). On the mysteriousness of the dedication to T.B., see further Martin Hengel, “Introduction: Elias Bickerman—Recollections of a Great Classical Scholar from St. Petersburg,” in Elias Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History: A New Edition in English (ed. Amram Tropper; Leiden: Brill, 2007), xlvii. 64.  On the usual understanding of the verse, the Psalmist is praying for his own salvation. The terms used in the Greek translation, esp. tēn monogenē mou for ‫יחידתי‬, open up the possibility that the hopes are for a third party. My explanation of the dedication to T.B. assumes the latter meaning of the verse, which I believe would have been virtually obvious to a scholar with Bickerman’s linguistic background.

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the hope that T.B. had survived represented the last embers of optimism, eventually to be extinguished by reality.65 Elias Bickerman endured 10 years of low salary and the uncertainty of no fulltime position in the U.S., years in which grants from the Jewish Theological Seminary and work teaching at their West Coast branch were crucial. Bickerman first received what would be his “real” job in the U.S. in 1952, at Columbia University, a post that he held until retirement in 1967. In the U.S. Bickerman became minimally more observant as a Jew, probably as a result of contact with colleagues at the Jewish Theological Seminary, Louis Finkelstein and Saul Lieberman, who invited him to their homes for the Seder and expected him to attend services on the High Holidays.66 By later in life, at the very least, these observances, new at the time for Bickerman, had become a matter of habit and choice.67 This likely reinforced a turn in his life that I believe began when he left Russia, in which anti-Communist émigrés often became more supportive of traditional forms of religion as a result of the encounter with atheistic Communism. 68 In addition, from 1960 on, Bickerman regularly visited Israel.69 He spent every summer wandering around the Mediterranean and was proud that he had reached all corners of the ancient Roman Empire. Writing to his friend and colleague Emilio 65.  Mother-in-law jokes aside, I believe that Elias Bickerman had special reasons to feel close to his in-laws. My impression is that, by marrying Anita Suzanne Bernstein, Elias Bickerman improved his financial position significantly. He had been notoriously poor as a student. I suspect that financial assistance from the Bernsteins was also important in the trying war years and helped the Bickermans to survive. I suppose that Elias Bickerman and his wife gave up all hope for Toni Bernstein sometime after Georges Bernstein arrived in the U.S. in November 1947 (above, n. 62). 66.  Baumgarten, “Elias Bickerman,” 163 n. 43. 67.  Emilio Gabba told me that when Bickerman was in Italy in the Spring of 1974, he asked Gabba to arrange an invitation to the home of Rabbi G. Laras of Livorno for the Seder. When Gabba picked up Bickerman at the end of the evening it was clear to Gabba that Bickerman had enjoyed himself very much. I heard a similar story from Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski, who was asked by Bickerman to arrange synagogue seats for him to attend services over the High Holidays, when Bickerman was once in Paris at that time of year. In a similar vein, I learned from Hayim Tadmor that Bickerman told Tadmor with pride that he had not eaten at the grand banquet of a conference held in Leningrad on September 29, 1971. That day was Yom Kippur, and Bickerman chose to attend the banquet, and even walked there (compare his going by car to the Seder at the home of Rabbi Laras), but did not eat, in order to make his point—that he was Jewish and this day was a special one for Jews. This level of observance was about all. To reinforce this point, I recount two anecdotes that I heard from Burton Visotzky, Bickerman’s student at the Jewish Theological Seminary after Bickerman had retired from Columbia. One year Bickerman arrived at the Jewish Theological Seminary synagogue for the evening reading of the Scroll of Esther wearing a tallit. When someone explained that one did not normally wear a tallit in the synagogue in the evenings, Bickerman defended his gaffe by explaining that he wore a tallit the one other evening of the year when he was in the synagogue (Kol Nidre). In the aftermath of this incident, when his students asked him about his Jewish practice, Bickerman explained that he was a Conservative Jew—“no strings (tallit), no straps (tefillin).” 68.  Baumgarten, “Elias Bickerman,” 167–68. 69.  Ibid., 178.

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Gabba of Pavia on October 16, 1977, he commented: “As Morton Smith says of me: I had to stay 6 months in Europe to be able to stand 6 months in the USA. It is not easy to be a ‘Cosmopolitan.’”70 By the end of his life, however, when he could have “settled down” in New York, he had a series of regular summer stops that included Paris, Italy (Montecatini and Pavia), and Bat Yam. He died in Tel Aviv and was buried in Jerusalem. By contrast to Momigliano, as Bickerman himself conceded at times, he never really mastered English.71 Already in Berlin and then in France, Bickerman wrote extensively on ancient Jewish topics based on sources in Greek. Bickerman had trained in Berlin as a papyrologist, and he took advantage of his expertise in documents in writing about sources in Greek that concerned ancient Jews.72 In a sense, there was nothing surprising or unusual about this. What was new was Bickerman’s studies of works written in Hebrew, the products of his American years, to be discussed in greater detail below. Bickerman was never as explicit as Momigliano in elaborating the impact of the war years on his identity as a Jew. Bickerman did note that his scholarly book on the Maccabees, Der Gott der Makkabäer, had been written in the shadow of the rise of Hitler, and he was pleased that some readers found consolation for their sorrows and suffering from his scholarly, pedantic work.73 Indeed, the contemporary message of loyalty to Judaism in the face of the impending necessity for martyrdom was stated in the clearest possible terms in the concluding sentences of the book, in a manner that no reader could miss: Through the blood witness of the martyrs, through the service in the rededicated temple, the one truth was saved which mankind during its wanderings of a thousand years has found unchangeable and eternal. Man has been deceived and disappointed by innumerable alleged truths—but never by the one truth of the uniqueness of God. Thus, those men and women and children who sacrificed their lives during the persecutions under Epiphanes in order to remain faithful to the Eternal One, remain forever and for all peoples examples of true heroism. “May men learn from them to die for the truth,” says Augustine (P.L. 38, 1379).74 70.  Gabba Archive, #346468. 71.  From among numerous examples, I note Elias Bickerman to Jacob Bikerman, February 2, 1976 (Dina Schoonmaker files), in which Elias praised his brother’s command of English, in Two Bikermans, “flawless metal,” as he added by hand in Russian, and contrasted it with his own publications that needed serious revision and editing to make them conform to correct usage. 72.  There are numerous examples, such as Der Gott der Makkabäer, and articles such as Elias Bickerman, “Ritualmord und Eselkult,” in Studies in Jewish and Christian History, Part Two (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 225–55 = Bickerman, Studies . . . A New Edition, 497–527; idem, “Zur Datierung des Ps. Aristeas,” in Studies in Jewish and Christian History, Part One (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 123–36 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 109–33; idem, “La charte séleucide de Jérusalem,” Studies, Part Two, 44–85 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 315–57. 73. Idem, The God of the Maccabees: Studies on the Meaning and Origin of the Maccabean Revolt (trans. Horst R. Moehring; Leiden: Brill, 1979), xii = Studies . . . A New Edition, 1030. 74.  God of the Maccabees, 92 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 1126. Note that in this case, in order to be certain that all readers got the point, the passage from Augustine was translated, and

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Bickerman’s comments on World War II in the archival material I have seen are fairly general—in a letter to Hans (Yohanan) Lewy, he explained that he was not reading much Greek lately because he was spending his time listening to the radio for news about the victory of the allies over the Germans, which Bickerman added, was “in sight, her steps are within our hearing.” In this same letter to Lewy, Bickerman remarked that: “you must have been in Europe under German domination to understand the full meaning of the word Victory for us.”75 In a similar vein, when Fritz Heichelheim, a fellow German-Jewish refugee scholar, suggested that Bickerman apply for a position open in Vienna in 1947, Bickerman replied: As to your suggestion about Vienna, why don’t you seek the post for yourself if you care so much for German universities? I don’t give a damn whether the bastards have or have not professors. Likewise, I am not prepared to write in German. But we agree about the Zionist agitation.76

Despite this relative silence, I would like to focus on the products of Bickerman’s American years, when he studied ancient Jewish sources written in Hebrew. I propose seeing this in the light of Momigliano’s example, as a new approach on Bickerman’s part to Hellenism and Judaism and as his response to the war experience. Bickerman chose to go about this task in an unusual way. First, he did not learn Hebrew. Perhaps he felt he was too old (he was already 45 when he arrived in the U.S.); but whatever the case, as noted above, he had not learned the language well as a child, and he never mastered it. As he wrote to Martin Hengel, commenting on his collected papers on Jewish and Christian topics that Hengel encouraged him to publish: I am often saddened to see how imperfect these papers are. I hardly know Hebrew, I am ignorant of the Talmud, of the Akkadian, or of other Oriental languages. Thus my work in our field is amateurish—Stuckwork [sic]. I should have stick to Latin and Greek, to papyri, to the Urkundenlehre. But here, thinking of my teachers, Wilcken and Norden, I see my limitations. As a matter of fact, my only advantage is longevity. By some chance, I survived while better ones disappeared: for instance Hans Lewy. On the other hand, I still had the chance to learn from Rostovtzeff and at the Friedrich-Wilhelm University in Berlin before 1933.77 Bickerman gave the reference. Normally, he left quotations of this sort untranslated and with no reference. See, for example, the quotation from Seneca, Nat. Quaest. 6.5.2, that concludes Elias Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988), 305. Making his point on the Maccabees and on their message for the Nazi era via an explicit citation from Augustine also helped Bickerman evade Nazi censorship. 75.  Bickerman to Lewy, February 15, 1943. Hans (Yohanan) Lewy Archive. 76. Bickerman to Heichelheim, January 28, 1947, Heichelheim Archive, B2004–0018/​ 002(08). On Bickerman’s anti-Zionism, see further my “Elias Bickerman,” 178–79. In fact, Bickerman did not write in German after Der Gott der Makkabäer appeared in 1937. He was also reluctant to visit Germany after the war. See Hengel, “Introduction,” liii. 77.  Bickerman to Hengel, November 14, 1976, Hengel Files. On Hengel’s correspondence with Bickerman, see further Hengel, “Introduction,” l.

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His friends were well aware of this lacuna in his knowledge. Furthermore, even if he had some meager knowledge of Classical Hebrew, he had none of the modern language. As Bickerman wrote to Hans Lewy, explaining why he had not read the latter’s article on Tacitus, “Hebraica sunt non legantur [sic].”78 In reply, Lewy invited Bickerman to join the editorial board of a new journal on Jewish-Hellenistic topics, that he, Moshe Schwabe, and Avigdor Tcherikover were planning, in which the subject would be treated properly, in a sound and unbiased way, and thus would be reclaimed from the clutches of Christian theologians or Jewish feuillitonists. The journal would be called Yephet, based on Gen 9:27.79 Lewy explained that, if Bickerman were to join the editorial board, “it would demand from you one effort: to learn modern Hebrew in order to understand the articles published. But I think, generally, that you can no longer avoid this effort, and I am sure that it will be worth while from many regards.”80 Lewy, as noted above, was one of Bickerman’s closest friends. Nonetheless, his advice has a rebuking tone, something like “it is about time that you did this.” In any case, the advice was disregarded. Bickerman’s minimal knowledge of Hebrew can best be summarized in an anecdote told to me by Burton Visotzky (see above, n. 67). Visotzky once asked Bickerman whether Philo of Alexandria knew much Hebrew, to which Bickerman replied in his heavily accented and unidiomatic English: “Philo knew Hebrew like Bickerman knows Hebrew,” by which Bickerman intended to make clear that in his view (as opposed to that of some other scholars) Philo knew very little Hebrew. Instead, Bickerman relied on a team of “research assistants,” his friends at the Jewish Theological Seminary and Columbia. In the preface to The Jews in the Greek Age, he mentioned Boaz Cohen, H. L. Ginsberg, Saul Lieberman, and Morton Smith.81 In the footnotes of his papers on Jewish topics, he regularly cited these scholars, as well as Louis Finkelstein, Gerson Cohen, and Judah Goldin.82 Indeed, if anywhere in his published work Bickerman offered a comment on a Hebrew source based on knowledge beyond what is available to all from the most standard translations, one of these friends was always cited as the source. Next, he was unwilling to acknowledge openly his interest in ancient Jewish history as his principal work. He was a classicist. On one occasion, he explained 78.  Bickerman to Lewy, January 12, 1944, Hans (Yohanan) Lewy Archive. Bickerman did publish two short articles in Hebrew, “Some Observations on Megillat Taanit,” Zion 1 (1935–36): 351–55 [Hebrew]; and “On the Sanhedrin,” Zion 3 (1937–38): 356–59 [Hebrew]. As stated at the outset of “Notes on the Megillath Taʿanith,” 351 n. 1, these contributions were translated into Hebrew. I presume this was organized by Hans (Yohanan) Lewy. Shaye J. D. Cohen told me that Bickerman referred to these articles as his own publications which he could not read. 79.  “May God extend Japhet’s bounds, let him dwell in the tents of Shem.” This verse has long been understood as expressing the glorious role of Greek culture when domesticated in the context of biblical values. 80.  Lewy to Bickerman, February 15, 1943, Hans (Yohanan) Lewy Archive. 81. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age, ix. 82.  See, for example, the preface to Elias Bickerman, Four Strange Books of the Bible (New York: Schocken, 1967), iii.

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that studying the ancient Jews was merely the fun of a specialist working outside his field, enjoying himself in learning new things.83 In another place, he insisted that he “really” was not interested in the Maccabees and continued not to be particularly interested in them but only wanted to study Seleucid provincial administration. He therefore had no choice but to turn to the Maccabees as the best preserved case of Seleucid practice in their empire. He “really” wanted to understand Roman law as it was applied in the provinces, so he analyzed the trial of Jesus.84 Writing to his friend Emilio Gabba on March 21, 1977, Bickerman explained that he was busy with his collected works on Jewish and Christian topics, but these were only parerga. His real work, his ergon, was on Greek and Roman history, and it was to this achievement that he hoped to turn as soon as he finished with the collections of Jewish and Christian papers.85 The reasons for this self-description need not detain us here. What is important is that Bickerman approached the Jews of Antiquity from the perspective of a classicist. As he wrote, again in the preface to The Jews in the Greek Age: “As a Hellenist, the writer sees the men and events he describes not as a link between the Hebrew Scriptures and the rabbinic period, but as a part of universal history, the final meaning of which only He knows, before Whom a thousand years are like one day.”86 Or as he wrote elsewhere, he was a servant of Clio, and Clio was pagan: his task was to read all texts alike; to approach the Bible as one reads Tacitus or Livy.87 Effectively, Bickerman relied on his knowledge of the surrounding ancient world to offer a “horizontal” setting of the Jews in the context of Antiquity—one that set them firmly in that time and place rather than in the ongoing saga of the history of the Jews from ancient to modern times. The results were outstanding, a tour de force of scholarship, to such an extent that placing the Jews in such a “horizontal” framework is no longer considered unusual but is a widely followed scholarly procedure. Bickerman’s publications based on this approach included Four Strange Books of the Bible and numerous articles, such as “The Maxim of Antigonus of Socho,” “La chaîne de la tradition pharisienne,” “The Civic Prayer for Jerusalem,” and “The Altars of the Gentiles.”88 The scholarly method is not so much Athens and Jerusalem or Athens in Jerusalem but, rather, Jerusalem in Athens—that is, the Jewish world seen from the perspective of classical Antiquity. All this research was intended as proof for a point that Bickerman had already articulated in a preliminary way in his earlier popular book on the Maccabees, pub83. Idem, Studies, Part One, ix = Studies . . . A New Edition, xi. 84. Idem, God of the Maccabees, xi = Studies . . . A New Edition, 1029. 85.  Gabba Archive, #346461. 86. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age, ix. 87.  Idem, “Utilitas Crucis,” Studies, Part Three, 138 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 792–93. 88.  Idem, “The Maxim of Antigonus of Socho,” Studies, Part Two, 270–89 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 543–62. “La chaîne de la tradition pharisienne,” Studies, Part Two, 256–69 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 528–42. “The Civic Prayer for Jerusalem,” Studies, Part Two, 290–312 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 563–84. “The Altars of the Gentiles,” Studies, Part Two, 324–46 = Studies . . . A New Edition, 596–617.

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lished shortly after he escaped Nazi Berlin for Paris. When Jerusalem was placed in Athens, especially when one extended the scope of inquiry to sources written in Hebrew and Aramaic, one could see how Hellenic culture had been incorporated into the Jewish realm. One could then understand how spiritual movements that might have destroyed traditional Judaism were parried. As a result, one could recognize how Judaism neither lagged behind the times nor became rigid. One could then identify the ancient Jews who got the relationship between Judaism and the larger culture “right,” such as the Maccabees, Pharisees, and rabbis; as well as those who had gotten it “wrong,” such as the extreme Hellenizers at the time of Antiochus IV.89 Though it might seem contradictory or paradoxical at first, Jerusalem in Athens revealed how Athens was selectively naturalized to become an integral part of Jerusalem.90 One way of summarizing the story I am telling in this part of this article is to see Bickerman as a scholar raised with little knowledge of traditional Judaism or its literature, who heeded Momigliano’s call to academic scholars of that background to recognize that their personal experiences were part of Jewish history and to draw the consequences—learn Hebrew, study the traditional texts, and thereby fully integrate aspects of their lives. This would also enhance their understanding of ancient Judaism. True, Bickerman never learned Hebrew well, but he found other ways to compensate for this ignorance. This way of summarizing the story has real merit. After all, Momigliano and Bickerman were good friends, in close touch with each other over the course of five decades (see above). Their war experiences contain numerous echoes of each other’s story. It is reasonable to assume that Momigliano and Bickerman discussed Momigliano’s convictions of what Jewish scholars raised without the benefit of a traditional education should do and that Bickerman’s turn to studying ancient Jewish sources in Hebrew might have had something to do with Momigliano’s prescriptions. Furthermore, this way of summarizing my story emphasizes the similarities between the ways in which Momigliano and Bickerman came to view the Jewish encounter with the Greco-Roman world in their scholarly efforts. I prefer to conclude this part of the paper, however, with one more piece of archival evidence. When The Jews in the Greek Age appeared, it had no epigraph. However, a draft version found in the Bickerman material at the Jewish Theological Seminary has the following quote from Augustine, Sermo 362.7 as the epigraph for the book as a whole: architectus aedificat per machinas transituras domum manentem/ mansuram91 (‘A builder employs transient or ephemeral means to erect a permanent building’). In Augustine’s original context, the architect is God and the structure 89. Idem, Die Makkabäer, 53–62 = The Maccabees, 83–98 = From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees, 156–65. 90.  In the context of the study of another period, Ivan Marcus has suggested the term “inward acculturation” for this process. See Ivan Marcus, “A Jewish-Christian Symbiosis: The Culture of Early Ashkenaz,” in Cultures of the Jews: A New History (ed. David Biale; New York: Schocken, 2002), 461–63. 91.  Bickerman Archive, Jewish Theological Seminary, Box 3, folder 47. The text, as printed in PL 39.1615 reads mansuram, although Bickerman’s quotation reads manentem. Perhaps Bickerman was quoting from memory.

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is the human body, made of transient material but achieving permanence by being raised to immortality through resurrection. I believe that Bickerman also meant the architect to be God. For Bickerman, as epigraph to The Jews in the Greek Age, the everlasting edifice built out of human and mortal materials was the eternal building of faith in one God as believed by the Jews and then spread to all mankind, in part as a result of the Jewish experience in the Hellenistic age. Another epigraph that Bickerman considered using, written in his hand on the same page of the draft was Anaxagoras, fr. 21a (DK) = 537 (K&R), “appearances are a glimpse of the obscure.”92 I venture to suggest that Bickerman meant to imply that the task of the historian was to work from appearances to understanding what was obscure. This was no small challenge, and which obscure things would be revealed in research is even less certain. Perhaps, in a religious vein, understanding the two epigraphs in light of each other, the historian’s goal was to reveal the hand of God found in history but obscured there. If so, a man who had grown up without a faith found faith in history93—unconventional and maybe even a bit idiosyncratic, as the outcome of an intellectual journey that might seem implausible at first—from studying sources written in Hebrew, which he hardly knew, from a pagan perspective.94 All this, I submit, was a result of the combination of academic expertise and unusual life experience, including, perhaps especially, the years of World War II. The mature Bickerman, in September 1978, concluded the preface to (the ET) God of the Maccabees with Ps 127:1, “Except the Lord keeps the city, the watchman waketh in vain.” It is therefore appropriate to conclude this discussion with Ps 121:2, the verse with which Bickerman ended his popular book The Maccabees, written when he had recently escaped from Germany into France and had even greater troubles—then, fortunately unknown—ahead of him.95 Perhaps it is best to cite the entire psalm: I lift up my eyes to the hills. From whence does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The Lord will protect your coming and going from this time forth and for evermore. 92.  I do not know why both of the epigraphs found in this draft were dropped from the final version. Perhaps, if Bickerman had seen the final version of the book through to publication, instead of its appearing posthumously, he would have included at least one of the epigraphs. 93.  The formulation is intended to echo, in contrast, Momigliano’s comment on Jacob Bernays. See Arnaldo D. Momigliano, “Jacob Bernays,” in Essays on Ancient and Modern Judaism (ed. S. Berti; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 169: “Having received a faith, he did not have to look to history to find one, as many of his contemporaries did.” 94.  On the unusual nature of Bickerman’s faith, see also Hengel, “Introduction,” xlii. 95. Bickerman, The Maccabees, 118 = From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees, 182.

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Conclusion Momigliano and Bickerman were exceptions both as young scholars and as mature historians of the Jews in Antiquity in that, as David Wasserstein has noted, few classicists of Jewish faith or descent who were active before World War II treated the Jews of the ancient world in their scholarship. They needed to appear to be full-fledged Germans, French, Italians, and so on. Too much interest in the Jews of Antiquity might mark them as too parochial.96 After the war, as elaborated in detail by Jeremy Popkin, few of the historians who were Jewish who wrote memoirs were prepared to accept the apparent lesson that their Jewish origins were the determining fact of their life, even though their stories are framed by the arbitrary way in which Nazi anti-Semitism affected them.97

Popkin offers numerous examples of this phenomenon.98 Momigliano and Bickerman were different both before and after the war. Indeed, perhaps the fact that Momigliano and Bickerman were willing to write about the Jews of Antiquity before the war had something to do with what I see as their unusual response to the war years and their impact on their scholarship. The war experiences of Momigliano and Bickerman, I submit, encouraged both of them to deeper engagement with the history of the Jews in Antiquity and to modify their approach to the issues of Judaism and Hellenism from the approach that they had taken before. The results were outstanding. Neither took a conventional route: as discussed above, neither became an observant Jew in any usual sense—far from it (see nn. 26, 30, and 66–67), nor was either scholar a Zionist (see n. 76). The real impact was on their scholarship, where they became examples for future historians of how to understand the place of the Jews in the ancient world—in part at least, thanks to their suffering during World War II.99 96.  David Wasserstein, “Refugee Classicists in Britain after 1933,” Scripta Classica Israelica 24 (2005): 243–44. 97.  Jeremy Popkin, History, Historians and Autobiography (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 236. 98. Ibid., 236–45. As Popkin demonstrates, making their private peace with old national identities, German or French, seemed much more important to these historians. 99.  This paper is based in part on presentations made at the VIIIth Congress of the European Association for Jewish Studies, Moscow, Russia, July 2006, and at a session on “Historiography on Hellenistic Judaism” at the Hellenistic Judaism Section at the annual meeting of the Society for Biblical Literature, Washington, DC, November 2006. I thank Gideon Bohak, Glen Bowersock, William M. Calder III, Martin Hengel, Eyal Mizrahi, Tessa Rajak, and Lucio Troiani for comments on drafts of this essay. Responsibility for the contents and all its errors, however, remains mine.

The Name of the Ruse The Toss of a Ring to Save Life and Honor Shaye J. D. Cohen Harvard University

The Death of the Mother and Her Seven Sons is one of the most affecting and best known stories in ancient Jewish literature. It first appears in 2 Maccabees 7, is developed in 4 Maccabees 8–17, is presented in different forms in rabbinic literature, and finds a home in the Jewish folktales and historical writings of medieval times. It also entered the Christian literary tradition. The tale continues to attract scholarly attention from students of history, folklore, literature, and rabbinics. In this essay, I would like to focus on a little-discussed detail that appears in several of the rabbinic versions.1 Author’s note: Many thanks to my student Adam Strich for assistance in tracking down the Christian martyrological material; my colleague Prof. Christopher P. Jones for reading a draft of this essay; and especially my friend Prof. Jan Willem van Henten for numerous helpful references and suggestions. 1.  Recent studies (aside from commentaries on 2 and 4 Maccabees) include: Shmuel Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 19–25, 54–59, 69–73; Simha Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom (Israel: Dvir, 2002), 81–84 [Hebrew]; Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts (London: Routledge, 2002), 66–70 and 145–51; Tessa Rajak, “Dying for the Law: The Martyr’s Portrait in Jewish-Greek Literature,” in The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 99–133; Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 114ff.; Eli Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale (trans. J. S. Teitelbaum; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 95–98; Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees (Leiden: Brill, 1997). On the figure of the mother in medieval Jewish retellings of the story, see Elisheva Baumgarten and Rella Kushelevsky, “From ‘The Mother and Her Sons’ to ‘The Mother of the Sons’ in Medieval Ashkenaz,” Zion 71 (2006): 273–300 [Hebrew]. A classic study is Gerson D. Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons in Hebrew Literature,” in Studies in the Variety of Rabbinic Cultures (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 39–60, first published in Hebrew in the Mordecai M. Kaplan Jubilee Volume (1953), 109–22. (Cohen’s article is a response to an

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Shaye J. D. Cohen Here is the story according to Lamentations Rabbah:2   It is related of Miriam, the daughter of Tanhum, that she was taken captive with her seven sons. The emperor took and placed them in the innermost of seven rooms.   He had the eldest brought and said to him, “Prostrate yourself before the image.” He answered, “God forbid! I will not prostrate myself before an image.” “Why? ” asked the king. “Because it is thus written in our Torah. . . .” He immediately had him taken out and slain.   [Each of the next five brothers is similarly slain after quoting an apposite verse from the Bible explaining his refusal to bow to the image.]   He had the seventh brought, who was the youngest of them all, and the king said, “My son, prostrate yourself before the image.” He answered, “God forbid!” “Why? ” asked the king. “Because it is thus written in our Torah. . . . Not only that, but we have sworn to our God that we will not exchange him for any other god.”   The emperor said to him, “Your brothers had had their fill of years and of life and had experienced happiness; but you are young, you have had no fill of years and life, and have not yet experienced happiness. Prostrate yourself before the image and I will bestow favors upon you.” He replied, “It is written in our Torah. . . . You are of no account and so are his [God’s] enemies. . . .”   The emperor said to him, “See your brothers are slain before you. Behold, I will throw my ring to the ground in front of the image; pick it up so that all may know that you have obeyed my command.” He answered, “Woe unto you, O emperor! If you are afraid of human beings who are the same as yourself, shall I not fear the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be he, the God of the universe!” [The conversation continues, the youth citing numerous biblical verses to prove that the gods of the Gentiles have no power.]   The king immediately ordered him to be put to death. [The youth and his mother bid each other a fond farewell.]

Other recensions of Lamentations Rabbah differ somewhat from the text translated here, but these differences are not germane to my discussion.3 In this essay, I am article, also a classic, by Yehoshua Gutman, in Commentationes Iudaico-Hellenisticae in ­Memoriam Iohannis Lewy [ed. M. Schwabe and Y. Gutman; Jerusalem, 1949], 25–37 [Hebrew].) R. Doran (“The Martyr: A Synoptic View of the Mother and Her Seven Sons,” in Ideal Figures in Ancient Judaism [ed. J. Collins and G. Nickelsburg; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1980], 189–221) gives an English synopsis of some of the versions. On the Christian retellings of the story, see Raphaëlle Ziadé, Les martyrs Maccabées: De l’histoire juive au culte chrétien­­—Les homélies de Grégoire de Nazianze et de Jean Chrysostome (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 80; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 2.  Lam. Rab. 1.16, §50, as translated by A. Cohen, Midrash Rabbah: Lamentations (London: Soncino, 1939), 130–33. (This is a translation of the standard recension of Lamentations Rabbah.) 3.  In the recension edited by Solomon Buber (Vilna, 1899, frequently reprinted), 42b–43a differs in numerous minor details from the standard recension. It also differs in two large points that may be relevant here. First, in Buber’s edition the Caesar incarcerates each of the brothers separately and interrogates each of them separately, pretending in each case that the other brothers have yielded to his demands; this is a ruse of sorts, and there is no hint of it in the standard printed text. Second, Buber’s edition omits the emperor’s solicitude for the boy’s youth and the offer to bestow favors upon him if he yields.

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interested in the ruse of the ring, the emperor’s offer to the young man that he save his life by bowing down to retrieve the emperor’s ring, thus pretending to bow down before the image. A midrashic collection known as Lamentations Zuta has this version of that episode:4 The Caesar said to him, “I see that there is much wisdom in you. You are young. I have pity on your life. Come here.” The youth went to him. He [the Caesar] said to him, “Come, I will throw you my signet ring before the idol; you go and bring it. Let them [the onlookers] see you and say, ‘It is on account of the Caesar5 that he is worshiping the idol.’ Thus you will save yourself and we shall not kill you, the way we have killed your six brothers. But please do me honor before my enemies.”6 He said to him, “Woe to you, Caesar. If your own honor is so important, how much more so is the honor of the King of the kings of kings, who lives forever and ever!”

Here is the Bavli’s version:7 The emperor said, “I will throw down my seal before you and you can stoop down and pick it up, so that they will say of you that you have conformed to the desire of the king.” He replied, “Woe to you, Caesar, woe to you, Caesar; if your own honor is so important, how much more the honor of the Holy One, blessed be He!”

Other versions offer additional variations, and some versions omit the ring episode altogether; none of these is my concern here.8

Why Does the Persecutor Offer a Ruse? Why does the persecutor offer the martyr a ruse? The answer is threefold: the persecutor offers a ruse in order to save face; to save the martyr’s life; and to win the contest. I shall discuss each of these points in turn. The persecutor offers the ruse to save face and preserve his authority in front of the crowd of onlookers. In Lamentations Rabbah, the persecutor wants the martyr to pick up the ring “so that all [the onlookers] may know that you have obeyed my command.” In Lamentations Zuta, the persecutor tells the youth, “Let them [the onlookers] see you and say, ‘It is on account of the Caesar that he is worshiping the 4.  Solomon Buber, Midrash Zuta on Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, and Ecclesiastes (Vilna, 1925, frequently reprinted), 31a. My translation. 5.  Lit., ‘on our account’. My thanks to Yosef Yahalom for assisting me on this point. 6.  Apparently the bystanders are the enemies of the emperor. I am not sure that I have understood this correctly. 7.  B. Gịt. 57b, as translated by Maurice Simon, The Babylonian Talmud: Gittin (London: Soncino, 1936), 268 (slightly modified). 8.  Other versions of the ring ruse: see esp. Seder Eliahu 28 (ed. Ish Shalom, 151–53; and ­Micha Joseph Bin Gorion [Berdyczewski], Mimekor Yisrael: Classical Jewish Folktales (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), 1:272 (no. 130). Omit the ring ruse: Pesiq. Rab. 43 (ed. Ish Shalom, 180b; ed. R. Ulmer, vol. 2:965–66); and Mimekor Yisrael, 1:273 (no. 131). For an excellent discussion of many of these versions, see Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons.”

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idol’ . . . please do me honor before my enemies.” In the Bavli he says, “so that they [the onlookers] will say of you that you have conformed to the desire [lit., the order] of the king.” The martyr flouts the persecutor’s authority, and the persecutor wants it back if only for appearance’s sake. The persecutor is not a pathological monster. He does not want the martyr to die; he wants the martyr to be reasonable and to live. In Lamentations Rabbah, he tells the martyr, “Your brothers had had their fill of years and of life and had experienced happiness; but you are young, you have had no fill of years and life, and have not yet experienced happiness. Prostrate yourself before the image and I will bestow favors upon you.”9 The narrator provides no sign that these blandishments are insincere; on the contrary, the persecutor wants the martyr not to be a martyr. The persecutor offers the ruse in order to win the contest. He does not demand the conversion of the martyr. For the martyr, the confrontation with the persecutor is a battle between Right and Wrong, Good and Evil. For the persecutor, however, the confrontation is simply a struggle to get the martyr to obey the laws of the empire. The martyr wants to convert the persecutor to the Truth (hence the strings of biblical verses that flow out of the mouths of the seven sons); the ruse demonstrates that the persecutor will be satisfied with mere compliance. If the martyr would just bow down to the idol, the persecutor would declare victory, everyone would go home, and the would-be-martyr could continue to believe in whatever God he wished. For the persecutor, this is a battle about compliance; formal compliance, even if insincere and via a ruse, suffices.10 In other words, the ruse and all that is implied by the ruse humanize the persecutor, making him almost a sympathetic figure. Why then does the narrator, who obviously regards the martyr as the hero of the tale, include the ruse? Would it not have been simpler to make the persecutor wicked through and through? The answer is twofold: the narrator is beholden to literary tradition, and the narrator knows how real persecutors behave. The narrator is beholden to literary tradition. In 2 Maccabees, the ultimate source of the rabbinic story, the persecutor offers the brothers various rewards if they accept his demands (he does so in 4 Maccabees too).11 What is more significant, perhaps, is that 2 Maccabees and 4 Maccabees also tell of a persecutorial ruse, not in the story of The Mother and Her Seven Sons but in the story of Eleazar that precedes it. The king’s agents try to compel the aged Eleazar to eat pork; he refuses. Then:12 9.  The recension published by Buber omits this paragraph (see n. 3 above), perhaps because its authors thought that it makes the persecutor look too good. 10.  Well noted by Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons,” 43. The same point had been made by Edmond Le Blant with reference to Christian martyrologies; see his Les persécuteurs et les martyrs (Paris: Leroux, 1893), 144–45. 11.  2 Macc 7:24 // 4 Macc 12:5 (to the youngest son), 4 Macc 8:5–11 (to all the sons together at the beginning of the ordeal). Whether the rabbinic narrator knew either 2 Maccabees or 4 Maccabees is an open question. 12.  2 Macc 6:21–22 // 4 Macc 6:12–15 (nab).

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Those in charge of that unlawful ritual meal took the man aside privately, because of their long acquaintance with him, and urged him to bring meat of his own providing, such as he could legitimately eat, and to pretend to be eating some of the meat of the sacrifice prescribed by the king; in this way he would escape the death penalty, and be treated kindly because of their old friendship with him.

Here too the persecutor offers a ruse in order to save the martyr’s life. Formal compliance with the persecutor’s demands (in this case pretending to eat pork while really eating kosher meat) will suffice. A humane persecutor who does not wish to execute the martyr is an image that our narrator inherited from his sources. The historical reality of religious persecutions in the Roman Empire contributed as well. When confronted by would-be Christian martyrs, Roman persecutors (at least some of them, at least some of the time) begged the martyrs to reconsider and even on occasion suggested a ruse by which the martyr could give the impression of sacrificing to the emperor while not actually doing so.13 Rabbinic literature also knows of a ruse that was offered by a Roman persecutor to two Jewish martyrs. The story appears in a discussion in the Yerushalmi about the conditions that mandate martyrdom. In private, that is, when a Gentile compels a Jew to violate a commandment of the Torah in a one-on-one situation, the Yerushalmi says that the Jew should violate the Torah in order to save his life, unless the Gentile is compelling the Jew to violate the prohibition of idolatry, murder, or prohibited sexual intercourse, in which case the Jew should surrender his life. But, continues the Yerushalmi, in public, that is, in the presence of other Jews, the law is different:14 13.  Begged the martyr to reconsider: this is a common motif in the texts assembled by Herbert Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), as noted by J. den Boeft and J. Bremmer, “Notiunculae Martyrologicae,” Vigiliae Christianae 35 (1981): 43–56, esp. pp. 47–49 with references (my thanks to Jan Willem van Henten for alerting me to this article); see also Le Blant, Les persécuteurs, 144. Offered a ruse: ibid., 145, to which I was referred by Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons,” 44–45; Le Blant writes as follows, “Quelquefois même on renonçait à exiger un semblant de sacrifice. ‘Renie seulement le Christ, ou laisse croire à la foule que tu l’as fait par écrit.’” In n. 3, Le Blant documents this statement by adducing “Rufin. Hist. eccl. IV, 14; Passio s. Platonis §11 (Bolland. 22 jul.).” Something is wrong with these references. Rufinus, Historia Ecclesiastica, is simply a Latin translation of Eusebius’s Historia Ecclesiastica, and Hist. eccl. 4.14 has nothing germane to Le Blant’s point. Neither in section 11 nor anywhere else does the Passio Sancti Platonis (which is available online in the Acta Sanctorum of the Bollandists for 22 July) have the persecutor offer the martyr a ruse, although it does document well the kindly persecutor motif, who offers all sorts of blandishments and arguments to the martyr in the hope of saving his life. So I am puzzled. Le Blant was a great expert in Christian martyrologies, and, if Le Blant says that ancient Christian martyrologies have persecutors offering ruses to martyrs, then I am sure that ancient Christian martyrologies have persecutors offering ruses to martyrs. But I cannot document this statement. Nor can I find the ruse motif anywhere in Musurillo’s collection. 14.  Y. Šeb. 4.2 35a and y. Sanh. 3.6 21b; see the edition of y. Šebiʿit by Yehuda Feliks (Jerusalem: R. Mass, 5761/2000), 1:230. This passage was adduced by Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons,” 44–45 n. 24 ; Le Blant (Les persécuteurs, 145 n. 4) also referred to it, on the basis of

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Shaye J. D. Cohen In public he [the Jew] should not listen to him [the Gentile] even as to a light commandment. [Rather he should allow himself to be killed.] Just like Lulianus and his brother Pappus, who were given water in a colored glass and did not accept it from them.

Lulianus and Pappus are remembered in any number of rabbinic texts as martyrs in the period of Trajan or Hadrian.15 This Yerushalmi passage gives a one-sentence summary of what must have been originally a much longer story, which, alas, is not extant. Lulianus and Pappus were offered a ruse (water in a colored glass) in order to allow them to pretend that they were violating a “light commandment” when they were not actually doing so. Apparently this means that the persecutor was trying to compel them to drink Gentile wine; this they refused to do. The persecutor then offered them a ruse: do not drink wine; drink water from a wine colored glass instead. This would give the illusion of compliance. The martyrs refused, because in a time of persecution and in the presence of other Jews, loyal Jews may not give the appearance of violating even a “light” commandment of the Torah. If I have interpreted the story correctly, it too has a persecutor who offers the martyrs a ruse in order to give them a chance to save their lives.16 His behavior conforms to the behavior of Roman persecutors in Christian stories. Literary tradition and the behavior of Roman persecutors gave our narrator the image of a reasonable persecutor who wished to save the life of the martyr if he could, even by a ruse.

Why Does the Martyr Refuse the Ruse? The persecutor offers the martyr a ruse by which to save his life, and yet the martyr refuses. According to 2 Maccabees, the refusal of the aged Eleazar to accept the ruse that would have saved his life made his former admirers look upon him as insane.17 Indeed, Christian martyrologies are filled with passages showing that Christian martyrs were looked upon by their persecutors as, at best, completely unreasonJ. Derenbourg, Essai sur l’histoire et la géographie de la Palestine (Paris, 1867), 422. The redaction of the passage is discussed at length by Alyssa M. Gray (“A Contribution to the Study of Martyrdom and Identity in the Palestinian Talmud,” JJS 54 [2003]: 242–72), but she does not discuss the Pappus and Lulianus story. My translation follows Gray, pp. 244–45. 15.  Lea Roth, “Pappus and Julianus,” EncJud 14 (1972) 69; William Horbury, “Pappus and Lulianus in Jewish Resistance to Rome,” in Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century: Proceedings of the Sixth EAJS Congress, Toledo, July 1998, vol. 1: Biblical, Rabbinical, and Medieval Studies (ed. J. Targarona Borrás and A. Sáenz-Badillos; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 289–95. Lulianus is sometimes spelled Julianus. 16.  On the interpretation of this story, see the note of Feliks, ad loc.; and Cohen, “Hannah and Her Seven Sons,” 44–45 n. 24. 17.  See 2 Macc 6:29, “Those who shortly before had been kindly disposed, now became hostile toward him because what he had said seemed to them utter madness.”

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able and, at worst, completely mad.18 Why, in fact, does the martyr of our story refuse the ruse of the ring? Why does he prefer death to pretense? The narrator does not have to explain this point because it would have been obvious to rabbinic readers. The abhorrence of images and image worship was deeply ingrained among rabbinic Jews, as is evident from Mishnah tractate ʿAbodah Zarah (“Idolatry”) and numerous other texts. This abhorrence is well attested also in Second Temple times.19 Perhaps if the martyr had been alone in a room with the persecutor, he might have accepted the ruse, but he was not alone. Although the martyr does not refer to the onlookers in his reply to the persecutor, surely the narrator wants us to understand that their presence was an important consideration for the martyr (compare with Pappus and Lulianus). The martyr does not want to give them the impression that he is bowing to the idol because, if he does, they may conclude that under duress violating the law is permitted, thus weakening their own resolve to resist the persecutor. This is the argument by which the elderly Eleazar in 2 Maccabees explains his refusal to accept the persecutor’s ruse, and we may assume that the same logic is at work here.20 If this is correct, the martyr’s decision is illuminated by the following text from the Babylonian Talmud:21   If a thorn becomes seated in one’s foot in front of an idol, he must not bend over to remove it because he might appear to be bowing to the idol. But if he [can bend over in such a way that he] does not appear [to be bowing to the idol], it is permitted.   If one’s coins became scattered on the ground in front of an idol, he must not bend over to retrieve them because he might appear to be bowing to the idol. But if he [can bend over in such a way that he] does not appear [to be bowing to the idol], it is permitted.   If a fountain [or: spring] flows before an idol, one must not bend over to drink from it, because he might appear to be bowing to the idol. But if he [can bend over in such a way that he] does not appear [to be bowing to the idol], it is permitted.

The text continues with a fourth paragraph in the same vein. Appearing to bow to an idol is just as prohibited as actually bowing to it, so much so that our martyr is prepared to die rather than give such an appearance. In the eyes of the narrator, this stance is clearly heroic; the martyr is a religious virtuoso, setting an example of piety and determination to which we, the readers, should aspire. 18.  See, e.g., Arthur Droge and James Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Christians and Jews in Antiquity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), 140 nn. 56 and 57, and 141 n. 59. 19.  For example, see the refusal of the three young men to bow to an idol in Daniel 3. For discussion, see, e.g., Martin Hengel, The Zealots (trans. David Smith; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1989), 190–96. There is enormous bibliography on this point and little reason to assemble it here. 20.  2 Macc 6:24–25. 21.  B. ʿAbod. Zar. 12a. The text of the standard printed edition (translated here) is confirmed by the Spanish manuscript edited by Shraga Abramson, Tractate Abodah Zarah: Ms. Jewish Theological Seminary (New York, 1957) [Hebrew]. I have translated the text in accordance with the talmudic discussion ad loc. These rulings find their way into the medieval halakic tradition; see Tur, Yoreh Deʿah, 150.

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In other contexts, rabbinic narrators do approve of a ruse to save one’s life, even if the ruse gives the impression that one is violating Jewish law. In a long, fantastic, and picaresque Aramaic tale, the Talmud describes how R. Meir, the hero, facilitates the escape of his wife’s sister from a brothel to which she had been consigned by the Romans as punishment. As a result, R. Meir is a wanted man. The story continues:22 They [the Romans] then engraved R. Meir’s likeness on the gates of Rome and proclaimed that anyone seeing a person resembling it should bring him there. One day [some Romans] saw him and ran after him, so he ran away from them and entered a harlot’s house. Others say he happened just then to see food cooked by Gentiles and dipped in one finger and then sucked the other. Others again say that Elijah the Prophet appeared to them as a harlot who embraced him. God forbid [has ve-shalom], said they; were this R. Meir he would not have acted thus! [They left him.] He then arose and ran away.

R. Meir is wanted by the authorities in Rome. He eludes capture by acting conspicuously in a manner that so ill befits the real R. Meir that the authorities conclude that he is not their quarry. And what un-Meir-like act did R. Meir perform so as to give his chasers the slip? The story provides three versions, the first and third of which seem to be variations on the same idea. He was seen entering a whore house in version number one; he was seen being embraced by a whore—in reality, the prophet Elijah in disguise—in version number three. (For some reason, brothels and whores play a large role in this tale.) The middle version is the most interesting for our purposes. “He happened just then to see food cooked by Gentiles; he dipped in one finger and then sucked the other.” His pursuers thought that they saw him eating non-kosher food and concluded that he could not be R. Meir. By means of this ruse, R. Meir escaped. R. Meir’s ruse resembles the ruse offered to the aged Eleazar in 2 Maccabees, the crucial difference being that R. Meir used the ruse successfully to save his life, whereas Eleazar refused. Why does R. Meir employ a ruse shunned by the aged Ele­ azar? Shall we conclude that the two stories stand in ideological opposition one to the other? Was forbidden food more of an ideological boundary marker for Greekspeaking Jews of the Western Diaspora (like the author of 2 Maccabees) than for the Aramaic-speaking Jews of Babylonia? Note also that in its rabbinic version the tale about The Mother and Her Seven Sons revolves around, not the eating of pork, as in 2 Maccabees, but the worship of idols. So perhaps 2 Maccabees is tougher on forbid22.  B. ʿAbod. Zar. 18b, as translated by A. Mishcon and A. Cohen in the Soncino Talmud translation (London: Soncino, 1935) (except that I have substituted “Gentiles” for “heathens”). There are different versions of this story in the manuscripts and testimonia. A glossator has brought the text of the Spanish manuscript (see previous note) into conformity with the text of the printed edition. Maimonides (in his Iggeret ha-Shemad) also knew a version of this story that differs somewhat from the version translated here; see Abraham Halkin and David Hartman, Crisis and Leadership: Epistles of Maimonides (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1985), 20. For the text, see Yitzhak Shilat, Iggerot ha-Rambam (3rd ed.; Jerusalem: Shilat, 5755/1995), 1:37–41.

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den food than the Babylonian Talmud. Perhaps. An alternative and I think a more likely explanation would be that Eleazar sets the paradigm of behavior in a time of general persecution and in front of Jewish onlookers. In this situation, as the Talmud itself says, the violation of even “a light commandment” is sufficient warrant for martyrdom. R. Meir’s incident, however, did not take place during a time of general persecution, and the only onlookers apparently were his Gentile pursuers. In this situation, perhaps even Eleazar would have performed R. Meir’s ruse to save his life.

The Toss of a Ring In the rabbinic tale, obeisance to an idol was the ultimate un-Jewish act; for Greeks, at least of the classical period, obeisance to a human being was the ultimate un-Greek act. Obeisance (proskynesis in Greek) was a gesture of submission not fitting for a human to give or receive. The fact that Persian monarchs and dignitaries regularly received obeisance from their inferiors was an unmistakable sign of their un-Greekness. When Alexander the Great demanded the Persian proskynesis from his Greek and Macedonian courtiers, they balked at his command. An act of this sort was appropriate for barbarians, not the free sons of Hellas.23 However, Greek states had much traffic with the Persian court in the classical period. What was a Greek legate to do when he came on a mission to the Great King? Should he perform obeisance, that most un-Greek ritual, or should he refuse, thereby preventing him from gaining proximity to the king? Here is a story told by Cornelius Nepos, the Latin biographer of the first century b.c.e., about Conon the Athenian. The story is set in 395 b.c.e.:24   [After arriving at the Persian court] Conon went first, according to the Persian custom, to Tithraustes, chief of the Thousand, who held the highest power next to the king, and explained that he wished an interview with the monarch.   Tithraustes replied to his request: “There is nothing to prevent, but do you consider whether you prefer a personal interview rather than to communicate what you have in mind by letter. For it is essential, if you come into his presence, to do homage to the king (which the Greeks call proskynesis). As a matter of fact no one is admitted to the royal presence without that formality.25 If that is repugnant to you, you may equally well accomplish what you wish through me, by instructing me as to your wishes.” 23.  “Proskynesis,” in Der Neue Pauly 10:443–44. Persian monarchs: Herodotus 1.134 (and elsewhere). Alexander the Great: Arrian 4.11–12. 24.  Cornelius Nepos, Conon 3, translated by John Rolfe (LCL 467; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929). On Conon’s mission to the Persian court, see Josef Hofstetter, Die Griechen in Persien: Prosopographie der Griechen im persischen Reich vor Alexander (Archaeologische Mitteilungen aus Iran Ergänzungsband 5; Berlin: Reimer, 1978), 106–11; on the date, see p. 108. 25. This sentence is out of place in the manuscripts. See the textual note in the Loeb edition.

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Shaye J. D. Cohen   To this Conon answered: “To me personally it is not repugnant to pay any possible honor to the king, but I fear that my country may be shamed if, having come from a state which is accustomed to command the other nations, I should conform rather to the customs of barbarians than of Athens.” Accordingly, he wrote out what he wished and handed it to the satrap.

All visitors to the royal court who wished to see the king in person were required to do obeisance; if they did not wish to do so, they could submit their requests in writing instead.26 Conon would have been willing to do obeisance to the Persian king (when in Persia, do as the Persians . . .), but he realized that this would not go over well back home in Athens. So he handled his business with the king via the courtier and not in person. The events of 367 b.c.e., at least as remembered centuries later, illustrate this theme dramatically. In that year, several Greek cities sent legates to the Persian king Artaxerxes Mnemon, who was then a power broker in Greek politics. Our earliest and best source, Xenophon, a contemporary of the events, reports that the Thebans, who had just been victorious over the Spartans at the battle of Leuctra, were the big winners, largely through the diplomatic skills of their legate, Pelopidas. They received all that they requested. The big losers were the Athenians, so much so that the Athenian legate, Timagoras, was condemned to death on his return home. He had abandoned the rest of the Athenian delegation, it was said, and took counsel with their archrival, Pelopidas.27 In other words, at that moment the Theban star was on the ascendant, the Athenian star was in decline; Artaxerxes recognized this fact, as did Timagoras, but the Athenians refused to do so. When these events were told and retold centuries later, something interesting happened. The diplomatic triumph of Pelopidas and the diplomatic disaster of Timagoras became a morality tale. Plutarch, the famous essayist and biographer (ca. 100 c.e.), explains that the king favored Pelopidas because he had heard of the Theban’s mighty exploits and was impressed by his probity and noble bearing. Pelopidas did nothing to shame or compromise himself and as a result enjoyed the king’s favor all the more. Timagoras, in contrast, allowed himself to be bribed and bought by the Persian monarch. Upon his return home, he was executed for venality bordering on treason.28 (Xenophon had said nothing of this.) Valerius Maximus, an orator and collector of anecdotes in the early first century c.e., tells yet another version of the story:29 26.  See below for other appearances of this motif. See also Plutarch, Themistocles 27. 27. Xenophon, Hellenica 7.1.33–38. On Timagoras, see Hofstetter, Griechen, 183–84; on Pelopidas, see Hofstetter, Griechen, 146–47. 28. Plutarch, Pelopidas 30–31; Artaxerxes 22; the accusation that Timagoras had been bribed, omitted by Xenophon, is attested in other fourth-century b.c.e. sources; see Hofstetter, Die Griechen, 183. 29.  Valerius Maximus, Memorable Doings and Sayings (trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey; LCL 493; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000), 2:6.3. Valerius incorrectly names the king “Darius.”

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The Athenians inflicted capital punishment on Timagoras because in the ceremony of saluting King Darius he had followed the adulatory custom of that nation. They were indignant that the glory of their whole city should be humbled before Persian dominion by the crawling flattery of a single citizen.

Timagoras was executed for doing obeisance to the king. Conon the Athenian had acted wisely in refusing to do so. Between the uncompromising probity of Pelopidas and the venality of Timagoras was the cleverness of Ismenias the Theban. Plutarch narrates:30 Ismenias the Theban also, and Pelopidas, who had just been victorious in the battle of Leuctra, went up to the king. Pelopidas did nothing to disgrace himself [ouden aischron epoiêsen]; but Ismenias, when ordered to make the obeisance to the king, threw his ring down on the ground in front of him, and then stooped and picked it up, thus giving men to think that he was making the obeisance.

A fuller version of the story about Ismenias appears in the Historical Miscellany of Aelian (ca. 200 c.e.):31 I would not wish to conceal an action of Ismenias the Theban which was both ingenious and typically Hellenic [sophon hama kai Hellênikon]. This man was an envoy for his country sent to the Persian king. On arrival he wished to meet the Persian personally to discuss the business for which he had come. The official who took messages in to the king and presented petitioners said to him, “But there is, Theban visitor (he spoke in Persian, using an interpreter, and the official’s name was Tithraustes), a national custom in Persia that a person who has audience with the king should not converse with him before kneeling in homage. So, if you wish to meet him personally, this is the moment for you to do what custom prescribes. Otherwise, if you do not kneel, the same result will be achieved by us on your behalf.” Ismenias said, “Take me in.” Entering and coming into full view of the king, he surreptitiously took off the ring he happened to be wearing and let it fall at his feet. Looking down quickly he knelt to pick it up, as if he were performing an act of homage. This gave the Persian king the impression of obeisance, but he had not done anything that causes Greeks a feeling of shame. He achieved everything he wished, and did not fail in any of his requests to the Persian king.

Plutarch and Aelian agree on the outlines of the story but disagree in assessing Ismenias’s behavior. Plutarch says that Pelopidas did nothing shameful at the court of the great king, clearly implying that Ismenias did. Aelian, in contrast, says that Ismenias’s action was “clever and Hellenic.” Thus the events at the Persian court in 367 b.c.e., as remembered by writers of the Roman period, show us three responses to despotism: uncompromising resistance (Pelopidas); complete surrender (Timagoras); and something between resistance and surrender (Ismenias). That interstitial act 30. Plutarch, Artaxerxes 22.4 (trans. B. Perrin; LCL 103; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1926) On Ismenias, see Hofstetter, Griechen, 95–96. 31. Aelian, Varia Historia 1.21 (trans. N. G. Wilson; LCL 486; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997).

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was accomplished by a ruse, the toss of a ring, and was regarded by some as shameful (Plutarch) and by others as clever and quintessentially Hellenic (Aelian). Whether shameful or clever, Ismenias’s ring toss resembles the persecutor’s proposed ring toss in the rabbinic version of the story of The Mother and Her Seven Sons. Clearly the two stories are not the same. Ismenias tosses his own ring in order to comply with the demand of the king while simultaneously preserving (or, as Plutarch would have it, trying unsuccessfully to preserve) his own honor. Since this is not a martyrology, we miss the clash of wills that is the heart of the rabbinic story. On the rabbinic side, the ruse of the ring is offered by the persecutor to the martyr as a way for both of them to extricate themselves from the aporia in which they find themselves. Both the emperor and the youth will be able to save face; in addition, the emperor will be able to maintain his authority, and the youth will be able to save his life. But this is a martyr story, so of course the youth refuses the ruse of the ring. Better to die with honor than to appear to have yielded to idolatry/tyranny. No doubt Ismenias the Theban would have taken the ruse. What is the relationship of the ring toss in the rabbinic version of th e story of The Mother and Her Seven Sons to the ring toss in the story of Ismenias the Theban as told by Plutarch and Aelian? I do not know. I see three possibilities. Perhaps the retrieval of a tossed ring, calculated to give the appearance of obeisance, is a common narrative motif in the literatures of antiquity. Or perhaps it is a Greek narrative device in a Jewish story, or a Jewish narrative device in a Greek story. Of these three possibilities, my favorite would be the second. Wouldn’t it be delicious if it could be shown that the ruse of the ring is a Greek narrative motif that appears in a rabbinic story extolling resistance, even resistance unto death, to the ways of the Gentiles?32 Let others come and investigate the matter further. 32.  At least this suggestion has chronology in its favor. Plutarch and Aelian antedate Lamentations Rabbah and the Bavli by at least two centuries.

Jesus and the Galilean Am ha-Aretz A Reconsideration of an Old Problem Sean Freyne Trinity College, Dublin

Jewish scholar Geza Vermes has repeatedly drawn the attention of students of Second Temple Judaism to the importance of the New Testament writings as a source for the pre-70 period. For various reasons, some to do with the specialization of New Testament studies but also because of more-historic problems associated with the so-called parting of the ways, this resource has often been neglected when it comes to discussions of Jewish life and practice of the period. Despite the anti-Jewish, or should we say the intra-Jewish polemics of this set of documents, there is much that early Christian literature can offer the perceptive but critical historian seeking to unravel some of the many issues that arise in reconstructing Jewish belief and practice in the early first century c.e. It is a great pleasure to offer a reexamination of one such topic to our honoree, Prof. Levine, who has made notable contributions to some of the issues being touched on in this essay. The question of the nature of Jewish life in Galilee prior to the first revolt is much discussed today, for many reasons shared by Jews and Christians. Thanks to the intense archaeological investigation of the region, there is a growing consensus that the dominant ethos was indeed Jewish (or Judean) in the wake of the Hasmonean expansion from the mid-second century b.c.e. onward. Yet relatively little attention has been given to the question of regional and local differences that may have already emerged in the early stages of the expansion, despite the fact that they are clearly signposted in the later rabbinic sources.1 It is here that the New Testament writings, 1.  M. Goodman, “Galilean Judaism and Judean Judaism,” in Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Early Roman Period (ed. W. Horbury and W. D. Davies; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 596–617, especially pp. 596–600; S. Freyne, Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 213–18. The formula “three countries are distinguished concerning . . . Judea, Galilee, and Beyond the Jordan”

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purporting to deal with the pre-70 period, even though many of them were written somewhat later, as we shall discuss below, can supplement the knowledge that may be gleaned from Josephus and other sources about the earlier period in Galilee.

The Debate about the Am ha-Aretz in Galilee The so-called Galilean am ha-aretz is one example of an issue of this sort. The topic of the am ha-aretz does indeed feature prominently in the later sources, but the question whether or not it should be used solely to designate Galileans of any period is highly debatable. The fact that the rabbinic movement had its home in Galilee after the second revolt (132–35 c.e.) has given rise to the assumption that the discussions regarding relations of the ammei ha-aretz with the haverim, on the one hand, and with the talmidei hakhamim, on the other, applied to Galileans only. The implication was that they not only ignored specific regulations of tithing and ritual purity but were actually ignorant of the basics of the Torah itself. Some earlier construals by Christian scholars of Jesus as the champion of the ammei ha-aretz, often based on uncritical and synthetic use of the rabbinic sources, transposed this understanding of Galileans back to the early first century c.e.2 Adolf Büchler’s study (1906) sought to refute those claims, arguing for a distinction between the am ha-aretz le mizwoth and the am ha-aretz le-Torah, and claiming that the latter term applied to a specific group of people, the descendants of the priests, and to a particular epoch, the Ushan (i.e., post-135 c.e.) period. Thus, according to Büchler, it should not be used to describe the earlier situation in Galilee.3 Emil Schürer, the distinguished historian of the period, who had his own controversial views about the Galileans, reacted to Büchler’s book, suggesting that it also was a case of special pleading with regard to the sources dealing with the am ha-aretz.4 Jewish scholars have not accepted Büchler’s reconstruction either. Building on the studies of G. Alon and E. E. Urbach, Aharon Oppenheimer has argued that the contrast between the am ha-aretz le-Torah and the talmidei hakhamim was a direct result of occurs frequently in the Mishnah to distinguish differences in applying various regulations to the different regions: m. Giṭ. 7:7; Ketub. 13:10; B. Bat. 3:2; B. Qam. 10:9; Pesaḥ. 4:5. 2.  H. Strack and P. Billerbeck, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament aus Talmud und Midrash ‌(5 vols.; Munich: Beck, 1922–56), 2:494–519. E. Schürer, Die Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes im Zeitalter Jesu Christ (Leipzig, 1907), 2:454–75; W. Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums (Tübingen, 1926), 187ff.; M. Friedländer, Zur Entstehungsgeschichte des Christentums (Vienna, 1894), 37–58; K. Kohler, “ʿAm ha-aretz,” Jewish Encylopedia (ed. I. Singer; 12 vols.; New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1925), 1:484–85. 3.  A. Büchler, Der galiläische ʿAm-HaʾArez des zweiten Jahrhunderts (reprint, Hildesheim: Olms, 1968). 4.  E. Schürer voiced this criticism in his review of Büchler’s book in TLZ 31 (1906): 619– 20. Cf. R. Meyer, “Der Am ha-Ares: Ein Beitrag zur Religionssoziologie Palästinas im ersten und zweiten Jahrhundert,” Judaica 3 (1947): 169–99, especially p. 181 n. 39.

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the destruction of the Temple, when worship and sacrifice were replaced by study as the most sacred duty for all the people.5 Consequently, according to Oppenheimer, the concept of the am ha-aretz le-Torah did not exist before the Jamnia period, unlike the concept of the am ha-aretz le-mitzwoth, which did indeed exist, as can be inferred from Josephus’s description of the Pharisees and the Essenes, as well as from the regulations laid down for the members of the Yaḥad in the Manual of Discipline.6

The Perspective of the New Testament However, there are problems with the New Testament account as well, not least the claim that the notion of the am ha-aretz le-Torah did not exist before 70 c.e., at least if we are to take the New Testament seriously as a witness to this period. True, neither designation is mentioned explicitly in the New Testament, yet the issues underlying both do occur in relation to Galilee. Ironically, it is not the Synoptic Gospels, the shared narrative world of which concentrates mainly on Galilee, but the Gospel of John which, while focusing mainly on Jesus’ career in Jerusalem and Judea, is most explicit with regard to the topic under discussion, the knowledge or lack of knowledge of Torah in first-century Galilee. This is not to deny that the Synoptics are significant for our purposes as well. It has been claimed that every idea that is rough-hewn in the Gospel of Mark is finely honed in John.7 In Mark, there is an assumption that there are native Galilean Pharisees who are critical of Jesus’ apparent cavalier attitude toward dining with “tax collectors and sinners”—that is, those presumed to be ritually impure (Mark 2:15–17 and parallels). In the latter instance, “scribes who had come from Jerusalem” join the local Pharisees in observing Jesus and his disciples. From the outset, the Markan narrator assumes that the people of Capernaum were able to distinguish between Jesus’ charismatic style of teaching and the teaching of the scribes (Mark 1:22). Subsequently, it is reported that scribes from Jerusalem also appeared in Galilee, seeking to discredit Jesus’ healing ministry (Mark 3:22). The charge that his demon expulsions showed that he was in league with Beelzebul, the prince of demons, indicates how seriously the experts viewed the matter. Likewise, the sharpness of Jesus’ reply suggests that he also treated the issue with the utmost seriousness. There was more at stake here than the violation of some aspects of the purity laws, it seems. Ultimately, it was a question of authority: the authority of the charismatic versus the authority of the representatives of the institution.

5.  Aharon Oppenheimer, The ʿAm ha-aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 5–7 and 104–7. 6.  Ibid., 156–69. 7.  R. H. Lightfoot, “A Consideration of Three Markan Passages,” in In Memoriam Ernst Lohmeyer (ed. W. Schmauch; Stuttgart: Evangelisches Verlag, 1951), 111–14.

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Slightly later in the narrative, Mark has the townspeople of Nazareth ask about the source of Jesus’ knowledge and wisdom in a synagogue setting, implying that as a τέκτων, he could not be expected to have this sort of knowledge (Mark 6:2–3). This was deemed to be the preserve of the Jerusalem scribes since the mid-second century b.c.e. at least, according to Jesus ben Sirach. His contrast between the everyday chores of various craftsmen and the unique role of the scribes dramatically portrays the elite nature of their role and how seriously they saw their own responsibility (Sir 38:24–39:11). Thus, the rigid distinction between the two types of ammei ha-aretz appears to break down. In some circles at least, nonobservance of the mizwoth led to deeper suspicion about the more basic aspects of Jewish identity and highlighted the need for maintaining strict boundaries. As is well known, the Fourth Gospel is structured around Jesus’ attendance at various feasts in Jerusalem. Repeatedly, the symbols of the festival in question are presented as being realized on a higher, symbolic level in the person and ministry of Jesus. Thus, his true identity was under debate from the outset. Chapter 7, coming at the midpoint of the Book of the Signs (chs. 2–12), deals with his attendance at the Feast of Sukkoth, where the action is described as taking place on two different stages: Jesus and the crowd in the midst of the Temple court and the religious authorities in private session, while the Temple police act as go-betweens. From the outset, there is division in the crowd (Galileans?) regarding Jesus’ identity, but the Ἰουδᾶιοι (Judeans?), on hearing his teaching, sarcastically inquire: “How does this one know letters [is able to read], not having been a disciple?’ (Πῶς οὗτος γράμματα οἶδεν, μή μεμαθηκώς), articulating the suspicion that the Markan account had already suggested. As the scene unfolds, the division is exacerbated by his claims to be the fulfillment of the three rituals associated with this particular festival—light, water, and the divine name—by which God proclaims his presence with Israel in this joyous festival.8 The Temple police are sent to arrest Jesus but refuse to do so, claiming on their return, “Never has anyone spoken like this one” (v. 42). At this point, an internal dispute arises among the authorities. Those who want Jesus arrested claim that the “crowd” of people who are favorable to Jesus “do not know the Law and are accursed” (v. 49). When one of them, Nicodemus, reminds them that the Law does not condemn anyone before first trying him, they accuse him of being a Galilean (v. 52). Clearly, in the eyes of the Jerusalem authorities, “not knowing the Law” is equivalent to “being a Galilean.” In terms of the earlier discussion, the Galileans are deemed to be ammei ha-aretz le-Torah. What was implicit in Mark in terms of Jerusalem scribes coming to Galilee is now explicit in John, it seems. As mentioned previously, the fact that all the Gospels were written toward the end of the first century c.e. has given rise to a lively debate among Christian scholars regarding their primary referent; either Jesus and his time or the particular evangelist 8.  C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 348–50.

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and his concerns, appeared for many to be the only feasible alternative. For scholars wishing to negotiate this dilemma, the usual procedure was through a search for earlier traditions embedded in the later redactional layers. Various criteria were employed to discover so-called bedrock traditions, but the results were often ostensibly arbitrary and very diverse. In particular, a rigid application of the criterion of dissimilarity meant that any traditions that could plausibly be attributed either to the Jewish matrix or to early Christian kerygmatic concerns were not to be assigned to Jesus. This had the effect of isolating him from both his own historical context and the movement that emerged in his name. In this approach, Jesus was neither Jewish nor Christian but a free-standing figure that could be clothed in whatever manner seemed most appropriate to the particular researcher. This twentieth-century Jesus figure has become the cipher for many different portrayals of Galilean life and culture, one of which is the portrayal of Galileans in general as more lax in regard to Torah observance and showing independence, if not hostility toward Jerusalem and its ruling elite.9 Today, there is growing resistance to this methodology. Genre studies of the Gospels in the light of the standards of ancient biography as well as more independent research into the Galilean context have offered new possibilities for seeking a realistic objectivity about both Jesus and his Galilean context, free of confessional considerations. Notions such as “local coloring” and “contextual plausibility” have been employed to adjudicate various possible scenarios with regard to their likelihood, leading to the recognition that the Gospel writers were much better informed about the world of the early first century within which Jesus operated than had previously been alleged.10 At the same time, this does not exclude a consideration of the concerns of the various Gospel writers for telling the story of Jesus in terms that addressed their own very different audiences at the end of the first century. In particular, the Fourth Gospel is no longer excluded a priori from containing important information, despite its high-level theological content.

Torah Observance in Galilee In view of these general considerations regarding the Gospels’ verisimilitude, we are entitled to pursue further the question of Torah observance in Galilee in the early first century by investigating the leads that the Gospels have given. This will involve discussion of both aspects of the question, namely, observance of the sectarian mizwoth and knowledge of Torah, since Mark, our earliest source, does not 9.  W. Bauer, “Jesus der Galiläer,” in Aufsätze und Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1967), 91–108; W. Bertram, “Der Hellenismus in der Urheimat des Evangeliums,” Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 32 (1935): 265–81. 10.  G. Theissen and A. Merz, The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (London: SCM, 1996), 117–21; S. Freyne, Jesus a Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus Story (London: T. & T. Clark, 2004), 17–23.

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seem to separate these two dimensions of the problem, even when John highlights the extremely negative view of Galileans shared by some of the Jerusalem elite. It is tempting to see this Johannine characterization as reflecting the post-70 Jamnia period, especially in view of the claims of Oppenheimer that it was with the loss of the Temple that this particular category of am ha-aretz le-Torah emerged.11 It would fit neatly with another rabbinic saying attributed to the Jamnia sage Yohanan ben Zakkai but more likely reflecting a much later situation: “Galilee, Galilee, because you hate the Torah your end shall be destruction” (y. Šabb. 16.8, 15d).12 This judgment of the relevance of the Johannine evidence would receive further support from the fact that many scholars place a strong emphasis on the reference to the banning from the synagogue of Johannine Christians as one of the major formative influences on the community (John 9:22; 16:2), a ban that is linked to the alleged declaration of the birkath ha-minim at Jamnia.13 This situation is seen as explaining the very negative characterization of theἸουδαῖοι in the Gospel, who are often identified with the Pharisees. In line with this interpretation, the negative insinuation regarding the Galileans and, by implication, the Jesus movement, in ch. 7 would also reflect this polemic. However, the fact that Mark, writing earlier than John (c. 70 c.e.), also implies this Jerusalem view of Galileans, though in a less trenchant manner, encourages further consideration of the matter. Indeed, the rather rigid distinction between the two categories of am ha-aretz seems somewhat forced in the light of descriptions such as in b. Ber. 47b; t. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.10, and so on. As these texts indicate, the list of what constitutes an am ha-aretz includes both lack of knowledge and respect for the basics of the Torah (recitation of the Shema, for example) and failure to observe the purity laws, such as eating food in ritual purity. Thus, this late rabbinic view appears to cohere rather well with the view of Mark, who was writing much earlier. 11.  In a recently published essay (“Die jüdische Bewohnerschaft Galiläas zur Zeit von Jawne and während des Bar-Kochba-Aufstands,” in Between Rome and Babylon: Studies in Jewish Leadership and Society [Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 108; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005], 225–41), Aharon Oppenheimer develops his argument with regard to the significance of the destruction of the Temple for Jewish national life. The change that occurred was not so much the abandonment of observances associated with the Temple but the value that was placed on them by the rabbinic movement, leading to a deepening of the involvement with Torah by all levels of society. 12.  Goodman consigns the story to a later legend (“Galilean Judaism and Judean Judaism,” 604); Oppenheimer, while also acknowledging the much later date of the transmission, is inclined to see it as reflecting an earlier tradition relating to the period of the Second Temple, when the alleged sojourn of Johanan ben Zakkai at Arav in Galilee should be dated (“Die jüdische Bewohnerschaft Galiläas,” 228). 13.  J. Louis Martyn, The Gospel of John in Christian History: Essays for Interpreters (New York: Paulist Press, 1979); Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1979). However, John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), makes a strong case for viewing the disputes and debates of the Fourth Gospel as being an intra-Jewish discussion.

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The Literary Evidence Josephus repeatedly describes the Pharisees as “the most accurate interpreters of our laws” ( J.W. 1.110; 2.162–66; Ant. 13.296; 18.12–19), implying an emphasis on study and learning, as well as their concern to extend the Temple purity to the home and village.14 Elsewhere Josephus boasts: “Should anyone of our nation be questioned about the laws, he would repeat them all more readily than his own name” (Ag. Ap. 2.178). Of course, these statements cannot be taken uncritically either, in view of the fact that they are made by a self-confessed admirer of the Pharisees who is writing his apology in the 90s in Rome. However, as indicated earlier, the second-century b.c.e. Jerusalemite Jesus ben Sirach could extol the role of the sage and his pursuit of wisdom above every other profession. In doing so, he was clearly including himself in that class, because he offered an explicit invitation to others to come near to him and “lodge in the house of instruction” (Sir 51:23). The linkage of wisdom and Torah that this author had articulated so forcefully (Sir 24:23) generated an atmosphere of learning in Palestinian Judaism, particularly after it had come in direct contact with the Hellenistic Zeitgeist.15 Both wisdom and Torah learning were necessary for the life of holiness. We do not have to wait until the second and third centuries c.e., therefore, to find the emergence of the scribal class as an elite social phenomenon in Judaism and a preoccupation with study of the Torah. In addition to ben Sirach’s school, the Theodotos inscription from Herodian Jerusalem refers to both the reading of the Law and the teaching of the commandments as activities that were conducted in the building (συναγωγή) that he had dedicated.16 It was a school as well as a place of meeting for religious purposes, therefore. The fact that the building complex also had guest rooms (ζενῶνα) implies that visitors to Jerusalem lodged there, perhaps in order to study the Torah at the feet of an important teacher such as the young Saul of Tarsus (cf. Acts 22:3). In addition to this datable evidence there are numerous references in rabbinic literature to houses of study (as distinct from synagogues) in Jerusalem during the period of the Second Temple. Clearly, the holy city was not just a temple city but also a place of learning and study from the mid-second century b.c.e. onward, at least.

14.  For a fuller discussion of the Pharisees and their relation to the scribes in the Gospels, see my Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels, 198–213. The study of Anthony Saldarini, Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1998 / Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1999), is the most thorough discussion of the evidence for a distinction between Pharisees and scribes within Judean society, based on social-scientific models and a careful reading of the various sources. 15.  Meyer, “Der Am ha-Ares,” 172–73. M. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus: Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2. Jhs. v. Chr. (WUNT 10; Tübingen: Mohr, 1973), 143–52. 16.  For a detailed discussion and interpretation of this important inscription, see John Kloppenborg, “The Theodotos Synagogue Inscription,” in Jesus and Archaeology (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 236–82.

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What of Galilee? Is the attitude of the pharisaic leaders and the chief priests toward “this crowd [of people] who do not know the Law and are accursed”—linked to the jibe about Nicodemus’s being “a Galilean”—likely to be typical of Jerusalem attitudes toward the regions? As already noted, it is important to emphasize that the designation am ha-aretz is never specifically applied to Galileans in the rabbinic sources. As a term of censure, if not opprobrium, its use was not restricted to any one region or class, and even the high priest could be an am ha-aretz. As indicated above, circumstances dictated that many of the debates dealing with the issue took place in Galilee in the second century, but this fact should not be uncritically projected back onto the first century so that all Galileans are deemed to be ignorant of Torah and unconcerned about purity matters. There is a growing consensus today that the ethos of first-century Galilee was Jewish in the sense that the dominant strand of the population had Judean roots, with their ancestors settling there after the Hasmonean conquests.17 Indeed, it is quite possible that the family of Jesus had been internal migrants to Galilee. A reconsideration of Josephus’s narrative of the Hasmonean expansion to the north, allied to the cumulative evidence of the intensive archaeological investigation of the region, has effectively sealed the fate of what has been described as The Myth of a Gentile Galilee.18 While E. P. Sanders’s discussion of a common Judaism, as distinct from the particular emphases of the various philosophies, is highly significant, it seems necessary to ask how this may have been practiced differently at the center and the periphery. Did all the stipulations apply equally in all the regions?19 Evidence from the Mishnah shows that regional variations with regard to certain halakic matters were accepted in later rabbinic circles. Earlier still, attendance at the great feasts (the setting for the discussion in John 7) must have been highly demanding if not downright impossible for many Galilean peasants, removed by as much as a 7-day journey from the holy city, if they lived in Upper Galilee. Attendance at all three feasts would have taken up to 10 weeks for such people, at times when seasonal demands had to be met in terms of harvesting, tending of animals, and processing the grape crop. 17.  Freyne, “Archaeology and the Historical Jesus,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (WUNT 125; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 176–82; idem, “Galilean Studies: Old Issues and New Questions,” in Religion, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. J. Zangenberg, H. Attridge, and D. Martin; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 13–29; Jonathan L. Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), especially ch. 2: “The Identity of the Galileans: Ethnic and Religious Considerations,” 23–61. 18.  Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (SNTSMS 118; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); idem, Greco-Roman Culture and the Galilee of Jesus (SNTSMS 134; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 19.  E. P. Sanders, Judaism: Practice and Belief, 63 bce–66 ce (London: SCM, 1992), especially pp. 47–51.

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The discussion between Jesus and his brothers as to whether or not he would be going up to the festival (John 7:1–11) is highly charged with Johannine theological irony, yet issues of how to travel, which festival to attend, and how many from the village or household should make the journey must surely have been of real concern for those struggling to eke out subsistence from their traditional plots of land, not to speak of the logistics of bringing the agricultural tithes to Jerusalem.20 That many did not or could not fulfill their obligations in this regard is clearly evidenced from Josephus’s report that the servants of the high priests had to go down to the villages and forcibly confiscate the tithes (Ant. 20.181). In Galilee, paying the tithes to the local priest does not seem to have been an option, but yet, if we are to believe Josephus, the Galileans were willing to discharge their obligation to him and his fellow priests, who had come to the region in 66 c.e. (Life 63.80). For Jesus and his permanent retinue, who had left family, home, and lands to follow him, there were no such impediments. Going to Jerusalem on the occasion of the great festivals was, for a country prophet, a highly significant opportunity to challenge the values that the aristocratic priestly elite and their retainers held. Nor should the economic benefits for cities of pilgrimage, then as now, be overlooked when assessing the range of religious influence and control that such centers seek to generate with the populace at large. Equally, however, these practical difficulties for Galilean Jews—the attitudes they engendered and the perceptions they gave rise to—should not be overemphasized to the point of suggesting a climate of implacable opposition and hostility between Galilee and Jerusalem.21 The artifacts and other material remains in the archaeological record (stone jars, miqvaot, or stepped pools, coins, burial practices, the absence of pig bones in the deposits) all point to a Judean orientation. This evidence is scattered throughout the various subregions of Galilee, and while we are not yet in a position to offer a complete picture of the ethnoreligious identities of all the ancient settlements that have been surveyed, there are unmistakable signs of a consistent pattern of Jewishness throughout the region.22 Places such as Gamla and Yotapata, both centers of strong resistance to Rome in 66 c.e. (the former ­producing a locally minted coin with an inscription in Paleo-Hebrew that reads, “For the freedom 20.  The mention in the Jerusalem Talmud of caravans of tithe-bearing carts traveling from various centers in Galilee (Migdal, Shiknin, and Cabul, y. Taʿan. 4, 69a) may be fanciful rabbinic imagination at work. Yet it does highlight the problem. 21.  S. Freyne, “The Geography of Restoration: Galilee-Jerusalem Relations in Early Judaism and Early Christianity,” NTS 47 (2001): 289–311. 22.  M. Aviam, “Distribution Maps of Archaeological Data from Galilee: An Attempt to Establish Zones Indicative of Ethnicity and Religious Affiliation,” in Religion, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge, and D. B. Martin; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 115–32; D. Edwards, “Identity and Social Location in Galilean Villages,” in ibid., 357–74. R. Frankel et al., Settlement Dynamics and Regional Diversity in Ancient Upper Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Upper Galilee (Jerusalem: IAA Publications, 2001); U. Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee (TSAJ 127; Tü­ bingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009).

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of Zion, Jerusalem the holy”), show that some centers in Galilee felt close emotional ties with the symbolic world of the Jerusalem Temple. The concern with purity maintenance that the miqvaot and the remains of stone jars demonstrate (a point noted in the Fourth Gospel’s mention of the six stone jars “according to the Jewish rites of purification,” John 2:6) is indicative of the fact that the expansion of purity concerns associated with the pharisaic movement had also occurred in first-century Galilee.23 This suggestion is further confirmed by the literary evidence already alluded to. The “outreach” by the Jerusalem elite’s retainers, which the presence in Galilee of scribes from the city during Jesus’ ministry there suggests, calls to mind the makeup of the Jerusalem delegation sent to remove Josephus from the governorship of Galilee in 66 c.e. Of the four members of the delegation, three were Pharisees (two described as δημοτικοι [i.e., plebeian] and one a priest) and the fourth member, Simon, was from the high priestly faction (Life 197–98). Presumably, the preponderance of Pharisees on the delegation suggests that they were chosen because of their probable acceptance by a significant number of Galileans, thereby leading to the ousting of Josephus from office. Where did Jesus and his movement stand with regard to these concerns of the Jerusalem priestly and lay aristocracy? Scholarly opinion varies with regard to his attitude. Whereas Sanders claims that he did not seriously challenge the Law as it was practiced in his day, even by the strict rules of observance of pietist groups such as the Pharisees (except in the matter of the food laws), others such as Markus Borg and James Dunn believe that issues of purity were “not central to his understanding of what constituted the Israel of God.”24 It is interesting to note that in addition to the absence of any mention in the Gospel record of Sepphoris and Tiberias as places visited by Jesus, there is no mention of Gamla or Jotapata. One can understand his avoidance of the Herodian centers, but the latter places were strongholds of Jewish resistance during the first revolt. Perhaps the archaeological record from both may help to explain this apparent avoidance, since in both cases there is evidence from pottery and coins that in the first century c.e. a decided shift toward a more observant Jewish ethos was occurring in each place. If we were to look for places in Galilee where the native Pharisees were active, both of these sites appear to fit the bill in a way that Capernaum, Bethsaida, and Corazin, all situated in the valley region, do not.25

23.  R. Deines, Jüdische Steingefässe und pharisäische Frömmigkeit: Ein archäologisch-historischer Beitrag zum Verständnis von Joh 2,6 und der jüdischen Reinheitshalacha zur Zeit Jesu (WUNT 52; Tübingen: Mohr, 1992). Thomas Kazen, Jesus and Purity Halacha: Was Jesus Indifferent to Impurity? (ConBNT 38; Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 2002), especially pp. 263–97. 24.  E. P. Sanders, Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah (London: SCM, 1990), 96. M. Borg, Jesus in Contemporary Scholarship (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994), 112; J. D. G. Dunn, “Jesus and Purity: An Ongoing Debate,” NTS 48 (2002): 449–67, esp. p. 467. 25.  A. Berlin, “Romanisation and Anti-Romanisation in Pre-Revolt Galilee,” in The First Jewish Revolt. Archaeology, History, Ideology (ed. A. Berlin and A. Overman; London: Routledge,

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Galilean Houses of Study? Unfortunately, we are poorly informed about schools and schooling in Judaism prior to the second century, when we hear of various rabbinic “houses of study” in Galilee, both communal schools and those belonging to individual rabbis. That there were centers of Torah learning in Jerusalem during the days of the Second Temple has been mentioned already, but there is no comparable evidence for Galilee in the same period.26 One inscription found at Daburra in the Golan proclaims: “This is the house of study of Rabbi Eliezer Ha-Qappar.” This discovery has lead Dan Urman to hypothesize that perhaps there were others also in the region that have been wrongly identified as “prayer houses” rather than “community centers” or “study houses.”27 While there is indeed merit in this suggestion, it does not assist us in dealing with the situation in the first century. According to one later tradition, the beth sefer was extended to every town and village by Joshua ben Gamala (Gamaliel), who may be the high priest of that name from 63 to 65 c.e. (b. B. Bat. 21a). However, it is always difficult to rely on one piece of evidence, given the possibility of later retrojection and in the absence of any other solid evidence from first-century sources such as the Gospels or Josephus. The one pre-70 building generally identified as a “synagogue” in the region, that of Gamla, could easily be a case in point, with its stepped benches around the walls facing an open space in the center. This suggests a more communal type of meeting place, which could also function as “a house of study,” even though the excavators have designated a smaller adjoining room, also with benches, for this purpose.28 It would be good to know more about the “Babylonian Jews” who inhabited the region close to Gamla after receiving a bequest of land from Herod the Great. Josephus tells us that many people “devoted to ancestral customs” flocked there because of their leader Zamaris’s accurate understanding of the law (Ant. 17.23–31), implying at least that he functioned as an authoritative teacher. One straw in the wind might be the links between these inhabitants of the Gamla region and the Jews of Caesarea who wished to use native rather than pagan oil and were exploited by John of Gischala (Life 54–55, 74). Without going as far as Nodet and Taylor in claiming Babylonian provenance for the Jewish practices of the Galileans,29 we must at least consider the possibility that there were influences of 2002), 57–73; D. Adan-Bayewitz and M. Aviam, “Iotapata, Josephus and the Siege of 67: Preliminary Report of the 1992–4 Seasons,” JRelS 10 (1997): 131–65. 26.  Goodman (“Galilean Judaism and Judean Judaism,” 604–6) believes that the evidence for Galilean centers of Torah learning during the Second Temple period is a weak and unconvincing argument from silence, especially since even the later rabbis, while living and working in Galilee, seem to assume that the main centers of learning were in Jerusalem before 70 and afterward in Jamnia and Lydda, not Galilee. 27.  D. Urman, “The House of Assembly and the House of Study: Are They One and the Same?” JJS 43 (1993): 237–57. 28.  S. Gutman, “Gamala,” NEAEHL 2:459–63. 29.  E. Nodet and J. Taylor, The Origins of Christianity: An Exploration (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press / Michael Glazier, 1997), 127–64.

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this sort at work in the region already from the first century and that these may have played a role in the instruction of at least some of the native population, thereby also possibly raising the suspicion if not the ire of Judean/Jerusalem scribes. At Tiberias, Josephus intimates, the meeting house could be described as a προσευχή, literally, a ‘house of prayer’ and yet function as a location for political business (Life 280). In terms of knowledge of the Torah in Galilee, it is interesting to note that on another occasion one Jesus, son of Sapphias, the leader of the revolutionary party in the city, could brandish a copy of the Law of Moses as he harangued the populace (Life 134). Luke’s description of Jesus’ visit to the synagogue at Nazareth, which mentions his reading from the βιβλίον τοῦ προφήτου Ἡσαίου (Luke 4:17, 20), is the only other reference to a written text in a Galilean setting of the first century, though this may well represent a Lukan transposition from a Diaspora setting onto the Galilean situation. We must, however, presume that Torah scrolls were more widely diffused than our evidence suggests, on the basis of various reports in Josephus ( J.W. 2.229–30, the burning of a Torah scroll by a Roman soldier in Caesarea Maritima; J.W. 7.150, 162, the display of a Torah scroll in victory parade after the Jewish War). In addition, Josephus assumes widespread knowledge of and respect for the 22 books that make up the Jewish Scriptures (Ag. Ap. 1.37–43). How and to what extent this ideal was achieved is a much more difficult question to answer. Perhaps the search for signs of formal study houses focuses too much on the professional scribal training and ignores the informal schooling that took place in the home and the village within an oral culture, particularly a Jewish oral culture. Even Josephus, who prided himself on his upbringing, emphasizes the role of his father in his education and the importance of memory (Life 8). While Catherine Hezser has challenged the widespread idea of Judaism as a religion of the book, nevertheless the importance of written documents can be seen from historic incidents such as the “discovery” of the book of the Law in the Temple, on which Josiah’s deuteronomic reform was based (2 Kgs 22:8–10), and Ezra’s reading of the Torah in front of the congregation of the restored community from morning until midday (Neh 8:1–8). Hezser’s argument, based on comparable evidence of the period from elsewhere, is that Jewish society was no more literate than other parts of the GrecoRoman world. This means that only a small percentage (as few as 1% in some towns, increasing to a maximum of 5% in urban settings) were literate. While the numbers may have increased with the intensive urbanization of Palestine in the second and third centuries, one has also to reckon with what has been described as the “secondary orality” of the rabbis in the same period.30 If these figures are at all accurate, we would have to reckon with an oral rather than a literate culture in Galilee of the first century, even if the situation had improved somewhat later, which is the main focus of Hezser’s pioneering study. Furthermore, the ability to read (and write) would belong to the elite and retainer 30.  C. Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 81; Tübingen: Mohr, 2001), 34–36.

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classes: royal officials, village scribes, priests, leading Pharisees, and the like. Such competency only helped to widen the gap between the urban and rural populations. However, this need not imply “ignorance of Torah,” given what we know about oral cultures and their capacity for memory, storytelling, and respect for tradition.31 Harry Gamble draws attention to the fact that the early Christians were “bookish” (note, for example, the appeal to the γράφαι as early as 1 Cor 15:3b–4), and yet there is the “unquestionable fact that few Christians could read”—thereby replicating the situation in Judaism as a whole. Gamble goes on to remind us, however, that in using terms such as literacy and illiteracy we are in danger of overlooking an important aspect of the situation in the ancient world, namely, the overlap between the oral and literary modes. There was a complex synergy between the two modes, in terms of both production and reception, since most writing was based on dictation aloud and, equally, texts were not read in silence but aloud.32 This aspect of ancient writing and reading points to the communal, “outdoors” aspects of ancient societies and the implications of this for the dissemination of knowledge and familiarity with community stories. The role of the father of the household in terms of the Passover ritual is one concrete example we know of whereby faithful transmission of the tradition took place (Exod 13:8–10). In addition, the emergence of the targums as Aramaic paraphrases of the synagogue readings, though difficult to date on the basis of our present textual evidence, was widespread and early. It demonstrates the insistence on knowledge of not just the Torah but the Prophets and other writings as well, something that the emergence of the Greek translations also underlines, well before the first century c.e.33 The studies of Bruce Chilton in particular are highly significant in discussions of the Torah literacy of Jesus’ Galilean audiences.34 Jesus is repeatedly described as a “teacher” or as engaged in teaching activity in the Synoptic Gospels, often when, as in Mark, we are not given much of the content of this teaching. The Fourth Gospel also acknowledges this aspect of Jesus’ ministry, and John 7 in particular emphasizes the point. The verb διδάσκειν occurs three times in the chapter (vv. 14, 28, 35), initially sparking off the debate about Jesus’ 31.  J. D. G. Dunn, “Altering the Default Setting: Re-envisaging the Early Transmission of the Jesus Tradition,” NTS 49 (2003): 139–75, especially pp. 147–56 on the characteristics of orality. 32.  Harry Y. Gamble, “Literacy, Liturgy and the Shaping of the New Testament Canon,” in The Earliest Gospels: The Origin and Transmission of the Earliest Christian Gospels—The Contribution of Chester Beatty Gospel Codex, P45 (ed. Charles Horton; London: T. & T. Clark, 2004), 27–39, especially pp. 28–31. 33.  See in general the articles by Emanuel Tov and Philip Alexander on the Septuagint and the Jewish Aramaic translations, 161–87 and 217–54, respectively, in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (Compendia Rerum Judaicarum ad Novum Testamentum 2/1; ed. Jan Mulder; Assen: Van Gorcum / Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988). 34.  B. Chilton, A Galilean Rabbi and His Bible: Jesus’ Use of the Interpreted Scripture of His Time (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1984).

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identity and climaxing in the prophetic action of his “crying out” in the Temple (vv. 28 and 37: κράζειν). This performance leads to the report (spoken with typical Johannine irony and hyperbole) of the high priest’s servants sent to arrest him: “Never [Οὐδέποτε] has anyone spoken as this man” (v. 46; cf. John 4:42; 6:68). This reaction is similar to reactions found in the Synoptics, where both Mark and Matthew stress the contrast between Jesus’ teaching and the scribes’: Mark 1:22, 27; Matt 7:28 (see Luke 4:32, 36, where the contrast with the scribes is softened, but compare Luke 4:22). What can be said about this contrast and how might it have given rise to the charge that Jesus was a member of the ammei ha-aretz le-Torah? Here it is only possible to make some brief suggestions. To begin with, we can definitely say that, on the basis of the evidence, Jesus’ approach to Scripture was not the same as that of either the scribes or groups such as the Essenes. Efforts to see his teaching within the framework of a school system are unconvincing, since they fail to take account of his wandering ministry and his emphasis on deeds rather than learning, as Martin Hengel rightly points out.35 While Jesus does allude directly to the Scripture on occasion, his style of teaching is not scriptural.36 His most characteristic form of speech is perhaps the parable (mashal). Even then, his appropriation of a traditional form displays his own original style and perspective—what Gerd Theissen has called Risikofreudigkeit, that is, a joyful celebration of risk-taking on behalf of the Kingdom of God.37 It was this central conviction that determined Jesus’ hermeneutical stance with regard to his own inherited tradition and that caused him to be highly selective with regard to the elements of this tradition that were to shape his own ministry.38 This independent perspective on what was, together with the Temple, one of the central symbols for all Jews would inevitably have made Jesus highly suspect in terms of the Jerusalem scribal authorities, whose role the Johannine Pharisees seem to represent.39 Indeed, the initial reaction of the Jerusalem crowd about Jesus’ lack of learning is quite similar to that of his own family and townspeople in Mark 6:2–3. 35. B. Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript: Oral Tradition and Written Transmission in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity (Lund: CWK Gleerup, 1961; R. Riesner, Jesus als Lehrer (WUNT 7; Tübingen: Mohr, 1981). But compare with M. Hengel, The Charismatic Leader and His Followers (London: T. & T. Clark, 1981), 42–57. 36.  For example, his dealing with the issue of divorce (Mark 10:6), the Shema, and the love commandment (Mark 12:29–31), the Sabbath, the Jonah story (Q Luke 11:30; Matt 12:40–41), biblical characters such as the patriarchs (Matt 8:11; Luke 13:28), Solomon (Matt 6:28–29), and the Queen of the South (Q Luke 11:31; Matt 12:42), the figures of the Son of Man in Daniel, Elijah, the Passover meal, and so on. 37.  G. Theissen, “Jesusbewegung als charismatische Wertrevolution,” NTS 35 (1989): 343– 60, esp. pp. 354–55. 38. In Jesus, Jewish Galilean: A New Reading of the Jesus Story (New York: Continuum, 2004), I have attempted to develop this approach with regard to Jesus’ emphasis on creation over election and the influence of Isaiah and Daniel on his approach and strategy in his proclamation of the Kingdom of God in Roman Palestine. 39. Saldarini, Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees, 187–98.

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The pejorative note with regard to being a Galilean and the implication of belonging to the ammei ha-aretz le-Torah is additional in John. However, this does not necessarily mean that the charge is a Johannine creation. It was already present in the Synoptics, as we have seen, and may well represent a Jerusalem perspective on Galilee and Galileans in the first century already, among a certain elite scribal class. Regional differences, when judged from the center can easily become pejorative labels. The Synoptic writers were aware of such differences with regard to accent (Matt 26:73; cf. Mark 14:70; Luke 22:59) with at least a certain implication of inferiority. Much later this trait was developed in a highly negative way in rabbinic circles to exclude Galileans from reading in the synagogue because of their alleged mispronunciation of certain vowels (b. ʿErub. 53a–b; cf. b. Meg. 24b)!

Conclusion If we are to take seriously Ben Sirach’s description of the scribe’s role, in contrast to all manual activities, as being typical of the way that Jerusalem-based scribes thought of their own activity, then the point of view of the Jerusalem authorities in the Fourth Gospel is not at all surprising or indeed implausible for the actual career of Jesus. Indeed, once it is recognized that the historical Jesus’ championing of the poor and the marginalized was intended as a not-so-subtle attack on elitist values, then there was all the more reason to discredit him by whatever means possible. One of the most prized values was that of wisdom and the education by which it was acquired.40 Jesus of Nazareth declared that wisdom belonged to the very type of people whom Jesus ben Sirach had excluded from its ambit, while recognizing their contribution to life in general. He invited those who were “weary and heavily burdened” to come to him in order to partake of the wisdom he had to offer. The tendency to interpret the beatitudes (Matt 5:2–10; Luke 6:20–26) in spiritual rather than material terms ignores the concrete images of Jesus’ style and expression. Indeed, he had deliberately chosen the idioms and images of peasant people to describe the kingdom that he proclaimed, thereby also giving real value to his audiences’ everyday lives— lives that in Herodian Galilee were often drab and care-worn. To declare that these people were the wise and the blessed was anything but good news for those, whether in Galilee or Jerusalem, who owed their privileged positions to the exploitation of such people. This man was indeed accursed, in league with Beelzebul, and a blasphemer for not merely making such assertions but actually enacting them through his ministry of healings, exorcisms, and community-building in the name of Israel’s God and his promises of restoration. 40.  Theissen, “Jesusbewegung als Wertrevolution,” 253–55.

Hellenism and Judaism: Fluid Boundaries Erich S. Gruen University of California, Berkeley

The dichotomy between “Hellenism” and “Judaism” has a long history. Tertullian framed it most famously in the third century c.e.: “What does Athens have to do with Jerusalem? ” The formulation gained extensive acknowledgment and influence through Matthew Arnold’s familiar phraseology, “Hebraism and Hellenism,” in 1869 (Shavit 1997: 46–47; Stone 1998: 179–97; Rajak 2001: 535–57). The resonance remains. Lee Levine’s valuable and learned book Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity retains the demarcation in his title. But he wisely complicates it in his text. Levine nuances the bifurcation by challenging the assumption “that Hellenism was a given phenomenon, to be either affirmed or denied.” And he goes on to rob the idea of “Hellenization” of some of its Hellenic content. As Levine puts it, “indeed, the Hellenistic world was the scene of a veritable potpourri of cultural forces, a marketplace of ideas and fashions from which one could choose. . . . Hellenization is not merely the impact of Greek culture on a non-Greek world, but rather the interplay of a wide range of cultural forces on an oikoumene” (Levine 1998: 16–19). The reminder is a salutary one. Both “Hellenism” and “Judaism” are complex categories, not subject to reductionist characterizations. Jews spread themselves around the Mediterranean in increasing numbers, especially after Alexander’s conquests vastly expanded the impact of Greek society and culture in the Near East. But the “Hellenism” they encountered encompassed a range of cultural phenomena in which Hellenic features intermingled with Egyptian, Phoenician, Mesopotamian, Anatolian, and indeed Roman elements. In Palestine itself, moreover, the Greek ingredient had become part of indigenous communities in Galilee, in Idumea, and even in Jerusalem.1 Judaism, for that matter, resists a uniform definition, with a variety of manifestations ranging in diversity from the Qumran community to the Jews of Rome. Scholars in recent years have increasingly questioned the dichotomy and 1.  The classic study of Greek influences in Palestine remains Hengel 1974. For recent reflections on the subject, see Hengel 2001: 6–37; Collins 2001: 38–61.

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challenged the very notion of a Kulturkampf.2 But use of the terminology itself risks misunderstanding. The categorization of “Judaism” and “Hellenism” presupposes distinct entities that present the alternatives of confrontation or assimilation. But the concepts themselves may be inappropriate and anachronistic. A significant fact needs to be stressed. The terms “Hellenism” and “Judaism” rarely surface in the ancient texts as modes of designation—let alone as competing concepts. That absence itself is noteworthy. The locus classicus occurs in the Second Book of Maccabees. “Hellenism” and “Judaism” appear there for the first time, in conjunction with the Maccabean upheaval as resistance to the policies of Antiochus IV.3 But the relevant passages are highly exceptional rather than representative, and none of them actually counterposes the two terms as opposites (compare Rajak 2001: 61–80; Gruen 1998: 1–40). The Greeks did not come to the Near East to spread “Hellenism.”4 Nor is it obvious that use by (some) non-Greeks of the Greek language or adoption of Greek names or the importation of Greek artifacts or the adaptation of Greek institutions such as theaters and gymnasia amounts to “Hellenization.” Greeks were no more interested in proselytizing than Jews were in converting (there being nothing to convert to). Lee Levine, although he still employs the term “Hellenization,” in the sense of an “ongoing process of cultural symbiosis,” qualifies and expands it in fitting fashion: “Hellenization cannot be measured only by the extent to which the peoples and cultures of this region were drawn to the one regnant culture. What took place was as much a process of selection, adoption, and adaptation as it was of conquest and subjugation” (Levine 1998: 18–19). A different form of conceptualization might be warranted. For the Jews of antiquity who grew up in the Greek-speaking world of the Mediterranean, especially those in the Diaspora (where the vast majority of Jews lived) and, to a significant degree, even those in Palestine, Hellenic culture was no alien entity to which adjustment was necessary but a significant part of their own lives. That culture need not represent a dilution of their traditions but could serve as a mode whereby they expressed them. It is appropriate to question the idea of a tense and continuous struggle between competing societies or even an internal agonizing by Jews over how best to accommodate to adverse circumstances. Inherent overlapping rather than calculated interweaving may be a more suitable characterization. A few literary texts can serve as examples at the level of the intelligentsia—then a larger number of epigraphic instances to illuminate the lives of ordinary Jews. We begin with a celebrated passage from the so-called Letter of Aristeas. The narrator, a supposed Greek nobleman at the court of Ptolemy II in Alexandria, seeks to 2.  In addition to Levine 1998: 3–32, see, e.g., Will and Orrieux 1986: 120–36, 177–93; Gruen 1998: 1–40; Aitken 2004. 3.  2 Macc 2:21; 4:10, 13, 15; 6:9; 8:1; 11:24; 14:38; cf. Himmelfarb 1998. 4.  This fact is now widely recognized; see, e.g., Green 1990: xv–xvi.

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persuade the king to release the Jewish captives in his land. To this end, he employs the argument that the god whom Jews worship, the overseer and creator of all, is the same one worshiped by all, including “us” (Greeks), except that we call him Zeus and Dis.5 The statement, put into the mouth of a Greek by a Jewish author, does not make a claim for syncretism or an amalgamation of the deities, nor does it breathe the spirit of some abstract universalism. The god in question here is certainly the Jewish god. “Aristeas” makes this clear in the preceding sentence that has God who gave laws to the Jews also serve as protector of Ptolemy himself (Let. Aris. 15). In fact, the high priest Eleazar later insists on a sharp differentiation between Jewish religious practices and the practices of idolaters (Let. Aris. 134–42). The passage has a different significance. It expresses a Jewish sense that their monotheistic faith can be ascribed without strain to Gentiles as well. The text makes no issue of this, and the matter does not surface again in the work. A congruence of belief in a single divinity could be taken for granted. A text probably contemporary (or nearly so) with the Letter of Aristeas adds a relevant and intriguing report. The Jewish historian Eupolemus, of whose work, On the Kings of Judaea, only fragments survive, rewrote parts of the Bible, including a noteworthy recasting of Solomon’s reign.6 Among other things, Eupolemus embellishes the biblical tradition on Solomon’s international connections by inventing an exchange of correspondence between the Israelite king and the rulers of Phoenicia and Egypt. The former exchange concerns us here. It builds on the narrative in 1 Kings and 2 Chronicles that letters passed between Solomon and Hiram (“Souron” in Eupolemus’s account), the king of Tyre, a friendly collaboration in the building of the Temple in Jerusalem (1 Kgs 5:1–17; 2 Chr 2:1–18). Eupolemus has Souron not only as lord of Tyre but ruler of Sidon and all Phoenicia. His compliance with Solomon’s requests for building materials and assistance in constructing the Temple thus adds to the Judean king’s stature (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.33.1–9.34.3). And Solomon was generous in return. Not only did he return the Phoenician craftsmen and laborers to their homeland with extensive pay for services, but he sent to Souron the king nothing less than a golden column which, according to Eupolemus, was set up in the Temple of Zeus at Tyre.7 The gift to honor a pagan shrine by Solomon who had just completed the Temple, a monumental act of piety to Yahweh, has brought modern commentators up short. How to account for such incongruity? It seemed necessary to explain away the passage or to postulate a later addition (see Wacholder 1974: 217). But the ancient author may not have felt any incongruity. Eupolemus presented Solomon both as 5.  Let. Aris. 16: τὸν γὰρ πάντων ἐπόπτην καὶ κτίστην θεὸν οὗτοι σέβονται, ὃν καὶ πάντες, ἡμεῖς δέ, Βασιλεῦ, προσονομάζοντες ἑτέρως Ζῆνα καὶ Δία. 6.  The fragments of Eupolemus are conveniently collected by Holladay (1983: 112–35). See the discussion by Wacholder 1974: passim, especially, on Solomon, pp. 151–201; Sterling 1992: 207–22; with the cautionary comments of Gruen 1998: 143–46. 7. Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.34.18: τῶι δὲ Σούρωνι εἰς Τύρον πέμψαι τὸν χρυσοῦν κίονα, τὸν ἐν Τύρωι ἀνακείμενον ἐν τῶι ἱερῶι τοῦ Διός.

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dedicated servant of the Lord and as patron of a foreign prince who honored the cult of Zeus. Here again, application of the concept of syncretism would be inaccurate and misleading (as, e.g., Hengel 1974: 1.94). The Jewish historian describes something quite different from amalgamation of the deities. Souron’s assistance made possible Solomon’s great tribute to Yahweh, and Solomon’s reciprocal act of generosity expressed itself as enhancing the shrine of the supreme pagan divinity.8 A third passage deserves notice. Josephus’s Against Apion ostensibly devotes itself to refuting Greek criticisms of Jewish character, values, and attitudes. And it delivers a host of harsh judgments on Hellenic misperceptions and misdemeanors.9 Josephus on several occasions draws contrasts between the laws of the Jews and the practices of the Greeks (e.g., Jos. Ag. Ap. 1.61, 68; 2.74–75, 163–67, 250–51; Barclay 2007: 232). Yet amidst these broadsides, he delivers a remarkable statement. In the course of his refutations of Apion, Josephus asserts that Jews stand apart from Greeks more by geography than by institutions.10 This receives no elaboration, except to say that many Greeks have adopted the institutions of the Jews—a point that Josephus reiterates elsewhere in his text (Jos. Ag. Ap. 2.168, 257, 280–82). The historian was no innovator here. The claim of Jewish priority and Hellenic imitation goes back at least to the Jewish philosopher Aristobulus in the second century b.c.e. (Euseb. Praep. ev. 8.10.4; 13.12.1–8; Holladay 1995: passim). Its reiteration by Josephus, however, in a tract otherwise sharply critical of Greeks, carries special meaning. To be sure, the statement serves a rhetorical purpose in this instance, as does so much of Against Apion in general. But this does not lessen its significance. It offers a telling reminder that readers of Josephus found the compatibility of Jewish and Greek institutions to be a perfectly plausible proposition. These hints at interconnectedness between Jews and others are evocative—and they do not stand alone. A host of imaginative writings, whether the recasting of biblical stories, adaptation of Greek genres, or creation of historical novels attest to the Jewish construction of links to the non-Jewish world. We limit ourselves to just a small selection. The most fascinating author under this heading is a relatively obscure figure named Artapanus. This at least is the name that has come down to us, a Persian name, perhaps a pseudonym, belonging to a writer known only from a few fragments quoted by Alexander Polyhistor and preserved for us by Eusebius. Of his life and 8.  By contrast, 2 Macc 4:18–20 tells the tale of a delegation sent by Jason, the Hellenizing high priest, to Tyre with cash for sacrifices to Herakles (Melqart). The delegates, upon arrival, however, thought better of it and spent the money on triremes. This indicates some qualms on the part of the envoys. But they do not appear to have suffered for it. Different individuals drew their lines differently. Jason presumed, as did Solomon in Eupolemus’s narrative, that a gift to finance reverence for the Phoenician god was compatible with the duties of a Jewish head of state. 9.  On this work, the excellent commentary by Barclay (2007) supersedes all previous studies. One may dispute whether Josephus reacted against serious allegations by Greek writers or engaged largely in a rhetorical exercise. A case for the latter is made by Gruen (2005). 10. Jos. Ag. Ap. 2.123: τῶν Ἑλλήνων δὲ πλέον τοῖς τόποις ἢ τοῖς ἐπιτηδεύμασιν ἀφεστήκαμεν.

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times, we are ignorant, except to say that he lived sometime between the mid-third and early first centuries b.c.e., between the composition of the Septuagint and the floruit of Alexander Polyhistor.11 He composed his work, On the Jews, in Greek and he was, almost certainly, a Jew.12 The extant fragments consist of two short excerpts from his treatment of Abraham and Joseph and a somewhat lengthier treatment of Moses.13 They exhibit an inventive mind and an idiosyncratic manipulation of his material. They also provide an arresting example of an intellectual’s conception of interrelationships between Israelite traditions and other cultures of the ancient world. The name alone may be suggestive. “Artapanus” need not indicate actual Persian ancestry. Adoption of this name or pseudonym could signify the very outreach that his work embodies. The figure of Abraham, even in the short fragment that we possess, exemplifies the approach (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.18.1). Artapanus presents the patriarch as coming to Egypt with his entire household, there to instruct the Pharaoh in astrology. This particular notice both alludes to Abraham’s Babylonian origins and makes him a contributor to Egyptian learning. And Artapanus adds another element. The same fragment includes a peculiar notice assigning the name “Hermiouth” to the Jews as a Greek translation. Whatever this might mean, it hints at a connection with the Greek god Hermes, a name elsewhere employed by Artapanus as an alternative designation for Moses. Abraham thus does quadruple duty as forerunner of the Jews, conveyer of Chaldean traditions, mentor of Pharaoh, and a link to the Hellenic world. In the fragment on Joseph, Artapanus molds the Genesis story to his own taste, leaving out most of it and shaping the rest as it suits him (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.23.1–4). The biblical version has Joseph sold to the Ishmaelites, who took him to Egypt (Gen 11.  A lengthy bibliography on Artapanus’s dates and provenance existed already when summarized by Holladay 1977: 199–204; subsequent references to the scholarship appear in Sterling 1992: 167–69; Gruen 1998: 150–53; Collins 2000: 38–39. Artapanus has drawn increased attention in recent years; see Flusser and Amorai-Stark 1993–94; Koskenniemi 2002; Johnson 2004: 95–108; Kugler 2005; Jacobson 2006. Zellentin (2008) rightly points out that the assumption of Artapanus’s dependence on the Septuagint is not water-tight—but it remains most plausible. Zellentin’s efforts to find a more precise date for Artapanus by having his work respond directly to a Ptolemaic decree of 118 b.c.e. are ingenious but highly speculative. How many readers would have the knowledge and acuity to draw the inferences required by this theory? 12.  The point was argued with force and cogency long ago by Freudenthal (1874–75: 147– 74), who added, more dubiously, the suggestion that Artapanus was masquerading as a pagan; rightly questioned by Sterling (1992: 167–68). A cautious doubt about Artapanus’s Jewishness was injected by Fraser (1972: 1.706; 2.985) and Feldman (1993: 208) and has now been more seriously challenged by Jacobson (2006). Jacobson is quite right that a favorable attitude toward the Hebrew patriarchs and Moses does not establish Artapanus as a Jew. But he obviously belonged to a circle that was thoroughly conversant with biblical traditions on these figures and in a position to discern the author’s witty twists on and deviations from the standard version. A knowledgeable and discerning readership for such a work would include few Gentiles. 13.  See the collection of fragments by Holladay 1983: 204–25.

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37:28). In Artapanus, they become “Arabs,” a perfectly reasonable designation from a Hellenistic vantage point. However, they are no longer slave traders but neighboring peoples whom Joseph on his own initiative asked to bring him to Egypt—which, in friendly fashion, they did. Artapanus adds the explanation that the rulers of the Arabs, as sons of Abraham and brothers of Isaac, were descendants of “Israel.” There is obvious confusion here, the name “Israel” perhaps garbled in transmission (see Holladay 1983: 228). But Artapanus plainly evokes the tradition that has Arabs stemming from Ishmael, thus from the house of Abraham. Further, among the deeds of Joseph in Egypt singled out by our author (in addition to organizing the economy and introducing Egyptians to weights and measures) was his wedding to Aseneth, the daughter of a Heliopolite priest. The stress on ethnic interconnections can hardly be accidental. Artapanus takes still greater liberties in rewriting the Moses story. He employs the book of Exodus as no more than a frame to construct his own adventure tales that make Moses a foiler of plots and assassinations, military hero, inventor, author of Egyptian institutions, and prime benefactor of humanity. And he made sure to associate Moses with a variety of cultures. In Artapanus’s re-creation, Moses was named Mousaios by the Greeks and became the teacher of Orpheus, the legendary singer and father of Hellenic poetry (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.27.3–4). The Egyptian priests for their part called him Hermes because he was able to interpret hieroglyphics (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.27.6). In this they had more in mind than the Greek divinity; they associated Moses with the Egyptian version of Hermes, Thot, who, like Moses, possessed the skills of craftsmen and the capacity to interpret sacred writings.14 By having Greeks and Egyptians make the identifications and the ascriptions, Artapanus gives Moses a central place in both cultures, the amalgam that was Ptolemaic Egypt. The creativity of Artapanus is breathtaking. There was little in Egyptian society or experience that could not be traced to Moses. The Hebrew hero was responsible for inventing ships and weapons, for hydraulic and building devices, and for the introduction of philosophy. He divided the land into the nomes that became the basis of political organization, he set aside property for the priests, he apportioned divinities to each nome, and he even introduced animal worship to the people.15 Nor was that all. When Moses buried his mother, Merris, he named the river and 14.  See the valuable discussions of Gutman (1963: 120–22) and Mussies (1982: 97–108). 15. Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.27.4–5: ἔτι δὲ τὴν πόλιν εἰς λς᾽ νομοὺς διελεῖν καὶ ἑκάστωι τῶν νομῶν ἀποτάξαι τὸν θεὸν σεφθήσεσθαι τά τε ἱερὰ γράμματα τοῖς ἱερεῦσιν, εἶναι δὲ καὶ αἰλούρους καὶ κύνας καὶ ἴβεις. For most scholars, Moses’ responsibility for Egyptian religious institutions, especially animal worship, is hard to swallow, thus leading to the conclusion that Artapanus must have been a polytheist, a syncretist, a half-Jew, or a pagan—or a shrewd legislator who was patronizing inferior Egyptians without “buying into” their beliefs. See the summary of views by Koskenniemi (2002: 26–31, who adopts the last solution) and Jacobson (2006: 215–16, who reckons Artapanus a non-Jew). It does not help much to label Artapanus a “henotheist” or one who believes in “monolatry” rather than “monotheism.” Almost all scholars overlook the playful and whimsical character of the text. See Gruen 2002: 201–11.

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the site Meroe after her, thus establishing this designation for the greatest city of Ethiopia. He founded the city of Hermopolis, named after him (Hermes), and made the ibis sacred there. It was Moses also who introduced Ethiopians to the practice of circumcision. His magical rods so impressed the Egyptians that they installed rods in all their temples and associated them with the worship of Isis. And his advice on the best oxen to till the land turned out to inspire the consecration of the sacred bull Apis, a central element of Egyptian religion (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.27.9–10, 12, 16, 32). The puckish quality of all this is plain. The idea that the Hebrew lawgiver actually brought Egyptian institutions into being (no mention is made of Moses giving laws to the Israelites) and endorsed, even introduced, animal worship could only invite amusement. But there is more than jocularity here. The theme, repeated in an ingenious variety of ways, of interconnections between the founder of the Israelite nation and other peoples and cultures pervades the text. Artapanus even brings Arabs into the mix. He alters the biblical narrative that has Moses wed the daughter of a Midianite priest, describing the union more broadly as marriage into the leading house of Arabia (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.27.19). Egyptians saw him as Thot, Greeks as Mousaios; he brought hieroglyphics to Egypt and circumcision to Ethiopia; and his family could trace its bloodline to Arabia. The work qualifies as a prime document of cultural integration. Artapanus’s capricious book exemplifies the self-perception of Jews who reckoned insight into other cultures as an enrichment of their own. Artapanus was not alone in fitting figures of the biblical past into a cultural amalgam. An extended fragment attributed to a certain Eupolemus by Alexander Polyhistor and transmitted to us by Eusebius discloses a comparable design. The author rewrote parts of the Abraham story in Genesis and added elements that derived from both Babylonian and Greek legendary material. Polyhistor’s attribution may or may not be accurate. Most moderns question it and have attached the label “Pseudo-Eupolemus” to the author. The case is far from definitive but matters little for our purposes. The text itself counts. And it shows remarkable similarity to the mind-set of Artapanus.16 The fragment uses a portion of Genesis as springboard but leaps well beyond it. The initial focus is on Babylon, first built by those who survived the Flood, according to “Pseudo-Eupolemus.” He proceeds then to assign the building of the Tower of Babel to giants who were subsequently scattered over the earth after God destroyed the structure (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.17.2–3). The report has echoes of Greek myths on the 16.  The fragment is preserved by Eusebius, Praep. ev. 9.27.19. See text and commentary in Holladay 1983: 170–75, 178–87. The case for the author of this fragment as a “Pseudo-Eupolemus” rather than the historian Eupolemus (usually identified with the like-named Maccabean supporter of the mid-second century) was made long ago by Freudenthal (1875: 82–103) and followed by almost all scholars thereafter. See discussion and bibliography in Sterling 1992: 187– 200; Collins 2000: 47–51. But it is not definitive. See the arguments of Doran 1985: 873–78; cf. Gruen 1998: 147–48. That the historian Eupolemus himself is identical with the Maccabean supporter should not be taken for granted—although almost no one has questioned it. See Gruen 1998: 139–41.

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Gigantomachia, here imported into biblical exegesis. The author next introduces Abraham, the chief figure of the fragment, as discoverer of astrology and master of Chaldean craft. The phraseology recalls a line from the Babylonian historian Berossus, who wrote in Greek, thus suggesting that our author dabbled in Babylonian as well as Hellenic sources.17 Abraham not coincidentally imparts his Mesopotamian knowledge to other Near Eastern peoples. The patriarch, according to “Pseudo-Eupolemus,” taught the cycles of the sun and moon and much else besides to the Phoenicians (here perhaps equivalent to Canaanites), ingratiating himself with the Phoenician king. And later, when he moved to Egypt, Abraham became mentor to Egyptian priests, teaching them astrology and a range of other matters (Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.17.4, 8). This cross-cultural mix becomes still more explicit in the author’s gloss on Abraham’s explanation to the Egyptians of the origins of astrology. The patriarch ascribed the discovery to Enoch. “Pseudo-Eupolemus” then went on to recount a mythical genealogy stemming from Kronos, also known as Belos (Baal) by the Babylonians, one of whose descendants, Canaan, became ancestor of the Phoenicians (Canaanites); another, Kush, the forefather of the Ethiopians; and still another, Mizraim, sired the Egyptians. The connection of all this with Enoch is quite unclear. But the author adds that Greeks acknowledge Enoch as the discoverer of astrology, although they call him Atlas. And through the line of Enoch, knowledge has come down through the ages to “us” (presumably the Jews; Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.17.8–9; see Gutman 1963: 100–101; Wacholder 1963: 89–99). The jumbled genealogy defies sorting out. But the author has clearly dug about in Babylonian, Israelite, and Greek lore and swept into its vortex Ethiopians and Egyptians as well, all of this connected, however awkwardly, with the narrative of Abraham. What did “Pseudo-Eupolemus” have in mind with this conglomerate? One need not read the purpose as verifying Jewish tradition by finding external confirmation, let alone as elevating that tradition against pagan or polytheistic versions. There is no hint of apologetics or polemics here. The author wove together diverse strands drawn from Hellenic and Near Eastern legends into the Jewish fabric to produce a new—though hardly seamless—tapestry. The Abraham narrative in Genesis became altogether transformed, the patriarch becoming associated with the legendary figure of Enoch, whose story had been inflated and embellished by Hellenistic Jews.18 The Hebrew patriarch stands in the midst of this extraordinary intercultural web. He is both progenitor of Israelites and purveyor of culture to other peoples of the Mediterranean—both national hero and world historical figure. This imaginative network engineered by our anonymous author reinforces the idea of overlapping links and reciprocal advantages among the nations.

17. Euseb. Praep. ev. 9.17.3. See, especially, Gutman 1963: 97–99. The line of Berossus is preserved by Josephus (Ant. 1.158), who took it as a reference to Abraham. 18.  On the complex Enochic traditions, see Nickelsburg 2001: passim.

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Such are some samples from the reflections of the intelligentsia. Constructs of the intersections between Jewish tradition and Hellenic legend, as expressed in learned speculation and inventive fiction, stem from the upper echelons of JewishHellenistic society. How much can they tell us about the attitudes, behavior, and experience of everyday Jews or the routine existence within communities where the prevailing elements were Greek culture and Roman authority? Not very much. But another avenue exists whereby to gain some glimpses of this level of existence: epigraphic evidence. For the most part, unfortunately, the testimony consists largely of fragments, usually lacking context and supplying minimal information. Space allows only for selective examples, but important clues can emerge from the limited material. Does one find a congruence of practices and institutions on the ground to provide tangible counterparts to the fancies of the intellectuals? We begin with a subject that would seem least conducive to overlap: religion. But overlap there is. A surprisingly early inscription provides a remarkable instance. From Oropus on the Attic/Boeotian border, probably in the first half of the third century b.c.e., a certain Moschus, who identifies himself as a Jew, set up a stele at the altar of the god Amphiaraus. The offering commemorated Moschus’s manumission by his former master Phrynidas, with a formula common to manumission documents known elsewhere in the Greek world, notably at Delphi. But Moschus went beyond the usual epigraphic conventions. He records a dream vouchsafed him by the god Amphiaraus and Hygieia (Health), presumably while he slept within the shrine. The divinities had instructed him to inscribe the manumission document on a stele and to install it by the altar.19 It might seem natural to infer that Moschus was “thoroughly assimilated to his Greek environment” and was unlikely to have possessed “much communal Jewish feeling” (so Lewis 1957: 265–66). But the fact that he identifies himself as a Jew, thereby underscoring his ethnic affiliation, cannot be ignored. A “thoroughly assimilated” Jew would presumably have repressed his origins.20 That Moschus can depict himself publicly and unabashedly as a Jew who is making a votive dedication to pagan divinities suggests that the act did not erase his Jewish identification. Moschus appealed to the protective agency of the shrine to guarantee the endurance of his new status as freedman—without abandoning his connection to Judaism. The point is buttressed by two revealing inscriptions from the Temple of Pan at El-Kanais near Edfu in Egypt, probably of the Ptolemaic period. Each delivers praise 19.  IJO 1 (2004): Ach45, lines 11–15: Μόσχος Μοσχίωνος Ἰουδαῖος ἐνύπνιον ἰδὼν προσ­ τάξαντος τοῦ θεοῦ Ἀμφιαράου καὶ τῆς Ὑγιείας καθ᾽ ἃ συνέταξε ὁ Ἀμφιάραος καὶ ἡ Ὑγιεία ἐν στήληι γράψαντα ἀναθεῖναι πρὸς τῶι βωμῶι. 20.  Nor is there any reason to take Ἰουδαῖος here as a geographical designation. A strictly geographical allusion would more likely take the form of “Jerusalemite,” “Tiberian,” or “Sepphorite.” See Williams 1997: 251–52. Cohen (1999: 96–98) claims that the word should be translated ‘Judean’ here but acknowledges that the sense of “inhabitant of Judea” is nowhere attested and very unlikely for the Hellenistic period. For him, “Judean” has both ethnic and geographical significance.

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to “god,” the first, dedicated by “Theodotos the Jew” who had been saved from the sea, the second by “Ptolemy the Jew.”21 To be sure, the “god” is not specified. But the dedications inscribed on the rock face west of the Temple of Pan can leave little doubt as to their recipient. The first dedicator possesses a theophoric name, the second a common Greco-Egyptian name. But both unhesitatingly label themselves as Jews. Thanksgivings paid to Pan, a frequent practice among pagans, evidently did not compromise the men’s Jewishness. In yet another part of the Mediterranean, a quite different instance of Jewish engagement with Gentile religion deserves notice. From Iasos in Caria, we possess a list of donors who contributed to the Dionysiac festival in that city around the mid-second century b.c.e. Among the benefactors, the inscription lists two metics who supplied 100 drachmas each. One of them is designated Niketas, son of Jason, from Jerusalem.22 No good reason exists to question Niketas’s status as a Jew (as does Schürer 1986: 25). “Jason” serves frequently as a Jewish name in the Hellenistic era, and, although some non-Jews lived in Jerusalem, it would be a stretch to claim that Niketas’s family had been among them. Jewish contributions to a pagan ceremony in a Greek city that included Jews among its inhabitants should cause no surprise. Nor should it prompt presumptions about apostasy or “conversion.” The fluidity of the Hellenistic world allowed for a range of permutations and combinations. This fluidity continued into the Roman period. Two epitaphs from different parts of the vast Roman world, both probably sometime in the second or third century c.e., can serve as illustration. In each case, the deceased, a woman, carries the ethnic marker of “Iudea,” but the gravestone is headed by “D.M,” a standard formula in pagan epitaphs denoting Dis Manibus (to the divine spirits of the dead).23 The first comes from Pannonia, with a mother commemorating her daughter, dead at 18, who carried the name Septima Maria Judea. Efforts to explain away this ostensible anomaly by suggesting that “Judea” was simply a personal name or that the deceased was a convert whereas the mother was a pagan are quite unnecessary (see Scheiber 1983: 42–45; Kraemer 1989: 41–42; 1991: 156–57). They operate on the assumption that no Jew would employ the formula dis manibus—which simply begs the question. The second inscription comes from Cirta in Numidia, applying the same formula to a Julia Victoria Judea (Le Bohec 1981: #71: DM Iuliae Victoriae [Iu]deae). There is no more reason here than in the first document to see “Judea” as a personal name. A tripartite name, including Judea, which is virtually unknown as an onomastic, would be altogether extraordinary (so, rightly, Williams 1997: 250–51, 253; Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn 2004: 16). The appearance of dis manibus, to be sure, is rare in Jewish inscriptions, a wording that many perhaps were reluctant to embrace 21.  JIGRE (1992): #121: θεοῦ εὐλογία. Θεύ[ο]δοτος Δωρίωνος Ἰουδαῖος σωθεὶς ἐκ πελ[άγ] ους´; JIGRE (1992): #122: εὐλόγει τὸν θεόν. Πτολεμαῖος Διονυσίου Ἰουδαῖος. On the date, see Fraser 1972: 2.302 n. 353. 22.  IJO 2 (2004): 21, lines 8–9: Νικήτας Ἰάσονος Ἱεροσολυμίτης, ἑκάτερος δ(αχμὰς). 23.  IJO 1 (2004): Pan4: DM Septimae Mariae Iudeae quae vixit annis XVIII Actia Sabinilla mater.

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(compare van der Horst 1991: 42–43; Rutgers 1995: 269–72). But plainly no prohibition prevented Jews from adopting a Gentile formula alluding to spirits of the dead and interpreting them in their own fashion. That Jews could freely acknowledge pagan divinities (whatever they may have thought of them) can be exemplified in the manumission documents. At Delphi a certain Ioudaios emancipated his slave in conventional Hellenic fashion through fictitious sale to Pythian Apollo in the late second or early first century b.c.e. (IJO 1 [2004] Ach44). Ioudaios here is obviously a personal name, but it is hardly likely to have been appropriated by a Gentile. He is plainly a Jew at home in this Hellenic institution. Adaptation to Greek practice seems quite comfortable and smooth and the recourse to Apollo perfectly natural. What bears special notice is the fact that the Jewish manumitter elected to liberate his slave in a pagan shrine under the aegis of a pagan deity. The manumission declarations from the Black Sea region show that Jews were fully at home with the forms and procedures familiar from Greek paramone documents.24 The transactions themselves took place in Jewish synagogues, but the proceedings regularly followed Hellenic models. One record bears special attention. In an inscription from Gorgippia in the Bosporan kingdom on the Black Sea, dated explicitly to 41 c.e., the manumitter invokes “the god most high, all-powerful, blessed,” and emancipates his slave in the synagogue (proseuche) in accordance with a vow that she be untouched and unmolested by every heir, under (the protection of) Zeus, Earth, and Sun.25 The formula “god most high” appears commonly in Jewish inscriptions, as do “all-powerful” and “blessed,” and reference to the “prayer-house” makes it nearly certain that this is a Jewish document. However, placing the liberated slave under the pagan deities Zeus, Earth, and Sun has troubled commentators, some of whom have found the incongruity insurmountable and reckon the dedicator as less than a Jew, while others have concluded that the formula serves only as a meaningless formality (for summaries of opinions, see Kraemer 1991: 146; Gibson 1999: 119–21; Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn 2004: 307). Neither interpretation seems compelling. The Jewish features of the document, often paralleled, point powerfully to a Jewish inscriber. On the other hand, it seems less than plausible that a Jew would simply mouth empty phraseology in invoking major pagan divinities, when there was no need for him to do so. (The phrase does not normally occur in synagogue manumissions.) An easier inference is at hand. The dedicator found no strain or inconsistency between appealing to the Jewish god and calling upon the protection of Zeus, Earth, and Sun, a comfortable application of divine powers as understood by Gentiles. Religious differences, in short, need not represent insurmountable barriers for the Jews of the Diaspora. 24.  See the valuable collection of these texts, with extensive discussion, by Gibson (1999). They are republished now, with additional commentary, in IJO 1 (2004): BS1–28. 25.  IJO 1 (2004): BS20: θεῶι Ὑψίστωι παντοκράτορι εὐλογητῶι . . . ἀνέθηκεν [ἐν] τῆι προσευχῆι κατ᾽ εὐχὴν . . . ὑπὸ Δία Γῆν Ἥλιο[ν].

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Jews could also fit themselves conveniently and capably into the frame of other pagan institutions. A fascinating funerary text from Hierapolis in Phrygia, probably from the early third century c.e., supplies an instance. The author of the inscription, P. Aelius Glykon, declares the burial place to be reserved for his family and announces two endowments that he will supply for decorating the grave sites on specified occasions annually. The first, a gift of 200 denaria to the guild of purple dyers to administer the ceremony each year at Passover, and the second a gift of 150 denaria to the association of carpet weavers to distribute the proceeds, half at the celebration of the Kalends and half at the festival of Pentecost.26 Recourse to associations as recipients of grants for maintaining grave sites and conducting annual or periodic ceremonies to honor them was not uncommon in pagan communities (compare Harland 2006: 234). Glykon, who specified two Jewish holidays, Passover and Pentecost, as occasions for commemoration, plainly identified himself as a Jew or as an adherent of Jewish practices. Yet there is no reason to believe that the guilds of purple dyers and carpet weavers were Jewish associations. The purple dyers, at least, had been a prominent feature of Hierapolitan society for many generations (Strabo 13.4.14; Ameling 2004: 417; Harland 2006: 235–37). And Glykon conspicuously included an endowment for decorating the grave site at the festival of the Kalends, a pagan event that celebrated the Roman New Year. It is quite unnecessary to infer that Glykon was a partial convert to Judaism, a sympathizer or “god-fearer,” who balanced his allegiances in this fashion, or to suppose that the guilds contained a mixed assemblage of Jews and non-Jews (compare Ritti 1992–93: 61–68; Miranda 1999: 142–45; Ameling 2004: 422; Harland 2006: 228–29, 236–39). Postulates of this sort cannot be disproved, but they lack any attestation and are, in any case, superfluous. They depend on a presumption that Glykon’s links to both Jewish and pagan festivals create a problem that requires explanation or justification. Was there a problem? The rabbis may have been unhappy about participation in observance of the Kalends. But Glykon evidently saw no difficulty in it. The burial prescriptions for this Jewish family adopted standard pagan practices such as the stipulation of a workers’ association as tender of the grave site and annual festivals as the time for commemoration. That one of the guilds would honor the site both on a Jewish holiday and on a civic holiday was, in this instance at least, perfectly acceptable and demanded no special explication. Glykon could operate within conventional pagan institutions by enlisting purple dyers and carpet weavers to commemorate the deceased of a Jewish family and could anticipate ready cooperation. 26.  IJO 2 (2004): 196, lines 4–11: κατέλιψεν δὲ καὶ τῆι σεμνοτάτηι προσεδρία τῶν πορπυραβάφων στεφανωτικο[ῦ] (δηνάρια) διακόσια πρὸς τὸ δίδοσθαι ἀπὸ τῶν τόκων . . . ἐν τῆι ἑορτῆι τῶν ἀζύμων. ὁμοίως κατέλιπεν καὶ τῶι συνεδρίῶι τῶν ἀκαιροδ[α]πιστῶν στεφανωτικοῦ (δηνάρια) ἑκατὸν πεντήκοντα . . . τὸ ἥμισυ ἐν τῆι ἑορτῆι τῶν καλανδῶν . . . καὶ τὸ ἥμισυ ἐν τῆι ἑορτῆι τῆις πεντηκοστῆς.

See the revised publication of Ritti (1992–93); the remarks of Miranda 1999: 140–45; the commentary in Ameling 2004: 413–22 and the valuable discussion in Harland 2006: 222–42.

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A comparable example bolsters this conclusion. At Akmoneia, also in Phrygia, a funerary inscription signals a different form of endowment for maintenance of a tomb in the early third century c.e. The owner of the site, on which his children had built a tomb to honor their parents, promised it and supplied implements to the “Neighborhood Association of the First Gate,” with the proviso that they decorate the grave of his wife each year with roses.27 The institution of the “Rosalia” had its origin in Italy and migrated through Roman influence to Greece and Asia Minor, becoming a standard mode of reviving the memory of a beloved deceased (discussion and bibliography in Trebilco 1991: 80–81; Ameling 2004: 360–61). The inscriber here, almost certainly a Jew, embraced this institution, familiar to the Akmoneian community in which he resided, and added a formula indicative of Jews that, if they failed to carry out the annual Rosalia, they would answer to the justice of God.28 Whether the “Neighborhood of the First Gate” was a Jewish association, a pagan one, or a mixed group cannot be determined and matters little. The practice of annual commemoration through the Rosalia represents yet another instance of Jews adapting without difficulty a pagan convention. A pagan convention of a different sort illuminates further the ready adaptation of Hellenic practice by Jews. An inscription from Kyme or Phokaia in Ionia of uncertain date brings it to attention. The Jewish community in the city expresses its gratitude to Tation, a wealthy benefactress who had financed a major building and a surrounding enclosure out of her own private funds. As the inscription discloses, the congregants honored her with a golden crown and the proedria, a seat of honor.29 Whether the woman was herself a Jewess or a pagan patron of the synagoge cannot be fully determined. But those who accorded the honors to Tation were certainly Jews acting on behalf of their community. And the nature of the honors warrants scrutiny. The golden crown and the privilege of a prominent seat follow closely the conventions of Greek cities recorded in innumerable documents as a means of acknowledging generous benefactions through civic distinctions (see the valuable remarks of Trebilco 1991: 110–11; and the commentary of Ameling 2004: 162–67, with bibliography). The bestowal of such awards is still another sign that the Jewish collective worked smoothly within the traditional structures of the broader community. 27.  IJO 2 (2004): 171, B, lines 1–10: ὑποσχόμενος τῆι [γ]ειτοσύνηι τῶν πρ[ωτ]οπυλειτῶν ἄρμ[ε]να, δικέ[λ]λας δύο κ[αὶ] ἀμὴν καὶ λ[ίστρο]ν ὀρυτόν ἔδωκεν, ἐφ᾽ ὦι κατὰ ἕτος ῥ[ο]δίσωσιν τὴν σύμβ[ι]όν μου Αὐρηλίαν. 28.  IJO 2 (2004): 171, C, lines 1–4: [ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἐθέλωσιν] ῥοδίσαι κατὰ ἔτος, [ἔσ]ται αὐτοῖς πρὸ[ς τὴ]ν δικαιοσύ[νην] τοῦ θεοῦ. The expression appears in Phrygia only in Jewish and Christian inscriptions. But, since Jewish inscriptions are far more common in Akmoneia than Christian inscriptions, a strong presumption prevails that the author was a Jew. See Robert 1960: 408– 12; Trebilco 1991: 79–80; Ameling 2004: 360–61. 29.  IJO 2 (2004): 36: Τατιον Στράτωνος τοῦ Ἐνπέδωνος τὸν οἶκον καὶ τὸν περίβολον τοῦ ὑπαίθρου κατασκευάσασα ἐκ τῶ[ν . . . ἰδ]ίων ἐχαρίσατο τ[οῖς . . . Ἰο]υδαίοις. ἡ συναγωγὴ ἐ[ . . . τείμη]σεν τῶν Ἰουδαίων Τατιον Σ[ . . . τράτ]ωνος τοῦ Ἐνπέδωνος χρυσῶι στεφάνωι καὶ προεδρίαι.

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There is hardly a more Hellenic establishment than the gymnasium and its attendant institution, the ephebate—the cadet corps of Greek youth in training for elite leadership in their communities. Jews may have had little desire for and limited access to the ephebate in most cities. Evidence for their participation is far from plentiful. Yet epigraphic testimony shows that they did gain admission to this exclusive club in certain locations, and perhaps in many more lost to us. Lists of ephebes in certain communities include persons with distinctly Jewish names. Two documents from Cyrene in the late first century b.c.e. and early first century c.e., for example, disclose names such as Jesus, Elazar, Judas, Theodotos, and Simon. The fact that one of these lists included an invocation to Hermes and Herakles evidently presented no stumbling block for the Jewish participants (CJZC, #6–7). A comparable roster from Iasos in Caria from the early Roman period includes the names Judas, Theophilos, and Dositheos (IJO 2 [2004] 22). At Hypaepa in Lydia, an inscription probably from the late second century c.e. records what is apparently an association of “younger Jews,” possibly a separate corps within the city’s ephebate.30 Perhaps most notable, however, is a document from Hierapolis, only recently published, from the mid-second century c.e. It belongs to the sarcophagus of a certain Hikesios, “also named Judah,” whose accomplishments deserved record. The inscription calls him “most famous victor in sacred contests”; indeed, it adds “multiple victor.”31 Whether his triumphs came in athletic or musical contests is unspecified. But that a man who carried the name “Judah” could enter—and win—numerous “sacred contests” (that is, consecrated to pagan deities) holds real significance. Not only were gymnasial games open to Jews, but they advertised their participation proudly in these preeminently pagan competitions. Jews could also move into positions of some authority within largely Gentile communities. A few texts will serve as illustrations. A third-century gravestone from Akmoneia identifies an individual, very likely a Jew, as member of the boule and archon in the community, plainly a man of considerable prominence.32 Another Jewish councillor of the third century appears in Korykos in Cilicia.33 The synagogue at Sardis records the vow of a Jew who held the rank of comes, probably in the fourth century c.e. (IJO 2 [2004] 64). And one individual from Moesia, perhaps also in the fourth century, not only enjoyed the title archisynagogos among his own people but attained the rank of principalis, signifying either a military or a civil office in the larger society.34 The sparse testimony allows for no sweeping conclusions. But in 30.  IJO 2 (2004): 47: Ἰουδα[ί]ων νεωτέρων. Compare Trebilco 1991: 177. 31.  Miranda 1999: 114–16; IJO 2 (2004): 189, lines 1–2: ἡ σορὸς καὶ τὸ ἡρῶιον προγονικὸν Ἱκεσίου τοῦ [καὶ] Ἰούδα τοῦ Θέωνος [ἐνδ]ο[ξο]τάτου ἱερονίκου πλιστονίκου. 32.  IJO 2 (2004): 172, line 6: βουλεύσας, ἄρξας. The document includes a warning to anyone who violates the tomb of “curses which are written” (lines 14–16). This clearly is shorthand for “curses written in Deuteronomy,” as is explicit in IJO 2 (2004): 173, thus identifying the author of the inscription as a Jew. 33.  IJO 2 (2004): 236, line 2. The sarcophagus on which the inscription was found also contains a menorah, thus making clear that its occupant was a Jew. 34.  IJO 1 (2004): Moes.1. The name of the official, Joses, is plainly Jewish.

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some cities, at least in Late Antiquity, Jews could rise to coveted civic positions and even combine them with lofty posts within the Jewish community. We conclude with two recently published inscriptions. They provide examples of overlap and interchange that are quite striking. The first, a Phoenician epitaph from the fourth century b.c.e., gives the Hebrew name of a father and the Phoenician name of his son. Both of them possess theophoric names. The startling fact here is that one of the names alludes to Yahweh and the other to Astarte (IJO 3 [2004]: Cyp7)! This is a remarkable form of shared religious and ethnic identity. The second document exhibits the other face of the adaptation that has been surveyed here. Pagans could appropriate from Jews, as Jews did from pagans. In a text from Aspendos in Pamphylia, dating from the first or second century c.e., one can witness Jewish influence even upon a pagan dedication. The word is directed to a god who is infallible and is not made by hand.35 The document is pagan, but the unusual expressions sound decidedly more Jewish than Gentile. The resonance could echo from either side. None of this, of course, implies that Jews had submerged or subordinated their identity to a broader oikoumene. The large number of synagogues that existed far and wide in the Roman Empire both before and after the destruction of the Temple make this abundantly clear.36 The epigraphic testimony confirms it. Not only do numerous inscriptions sport decorations with Jewish symbols such as the menorah, the shofar, the lulav, and the ethrog. We also have several texts that put biblical quotations on display, including one long quotation from Deuteronomy, written in Hebrew, that comes from Palmyra.37 If the evidence assembled here can serve as a guide, it challenges the notion of a Kulturkampf or of insurmountable boundaries that rendered “Hellenism” and “Judaism” incompatible. At the same time, it discourages resort to the loaded terminology of “assimilation” or “integration.” The Jews of Palestine and in scattered parts of the Mediterranean retained a powerful grasp on their distinctive traditions. But many of them participated actively in the social, cultural, and even religious realms of the Hellenic and Roman worlds. They were not forever adjusting to alien circumstances. They were part of a broader society in which they could articulate, reshape, and contribute their own heritage. 35.  IJO 2 (2004): 218: θεῶι ἀψευ[δεῖ καὶ] ἀχειροποιήτωι εὐχήν. 36.  See the excellent and thorough survey by Levine 2000. On Second Temple synagogues, see also Binder 1999, and the briefer summary by Gruen 2002: 105–23. 37.  IJO 2 (2004): Syr44 (possibly third century c.e.).

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Rajak, T. 2001 The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Social and Cultural Interaction. Leiden. Ritti, T. 1992–93  Nuovi dati su una nota epigrafe sepolcrale con stefanotico da Hierapolis di Frigia. Scienze dell’ antichità storia archeologia antropologia 6–7: 41–68. Robert, L. 1960 Hellenica. Vols. 11–12. Paris. Rutgers, L. V. 1995 The Jews in Late Ancient Rome: Evidence of Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora. Leiden. Scheiber, A. 1983 Jewish Inscriptions in Hungary. Leiden. Schürer, E. 1986 The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, vol. 3/1. Revised by G. Vermes, F. Millar, and M. Goodman. Edinburgh. Shavit, Y. 1997 Athens in Jerusalem. London. Sterling, G. E. 1992 Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke–Acts and Apologetic Historiography. Leiden. Stone, D. D. 1998 Matthew Arnold and the Pragmatics of Hebraism and Hellenism. Poetics Today 19: 179–98. Trebilco, P. 1991 Jewish Communities in Asia Minor. Cambridge. Wacholder, B. Z. 1963 Pseudo-Eupolemus’ Two Greek Fragments on the Life of Abraham. HUCA 34: 83–113. 1974 Eupolemus: A Study of Judaeo-Greek Literature. Cincinnati, OH. Will, E., and Orrieux, C. 1986 Ioudiasmos-Hellenismos: Essai sur le judaisme judéen à l’époque hellénistique. Nancy. Williams, M. H. 1997 The Meaning and Function of Joudaios in Graeco-Roman Inscriptions. ZPE 116: 249–62. Zellentin, H. 2008 The End of Jewish Egypt: Artapanus and the Second Exodus. Pp. 27–73 in Antiquity in Antiquity. Edited by G. Gardner and K. L. Osterloh. Tübingen.

Porphyry on Judaism: Some Observations Pieter W. van der Horst Utrecht University

Porphyry (born ca. 232 in Tyre, died ca. 305 in Rome) was the most important and influential student of Plotinus, the founder of Neoplatonism. He was an extremely prolific writer, whose works covered an impressively wide range of subjects.1 Although some of his many works (at least 75) have been handed down intact, by far the most of his vast output is either completely lost or has been preserved only in fragmentary form.2 In some of his works on religion, Porphyry speaks about the Jews and their beliefs and practices.3 His attitude toward Judaism seems to be ambiguous at first sight: on the one hand he severely criticizes the Jewish Bible; on the other he regards the God of the Jewish people as the highest divinity and the Jews as belonging to the wisest of nations. It is the purpose of this modest essay to shed some light on this problem.4 It has been written in honor of my highly esteemed colleague Lee I. Levine, whose important work on various aspects of the relationship between Judaism and Hellenism has enriched our knowledge so much.5 1.  For good surveys of Porphyry’s works, see R. Beutler, “Porphyrios,” PW 22/1 (1953): 275– 313; and, more concisely, M. Chase, “Porphyrios,” DNP 10 (2001): 174–80. An old but still valuable introduction to Porphyry’s philosophy is E. Zeller, Die Philosophie der Griechen in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung (3 vols.; Leipzig: Reisland, 1923; repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1963), 3/2: 693–735. 2. The most recent edition of Porphyry’s fragments (unfortunately not complete) is A. Smith, Porphyrii philosophi fragmenta (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1993). 3.  These texts have been collected in M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–84), 2:423–83. This work will henceforth be referred to as GLAJJ followed by Stern’s number of the fragment. Stern also wrote the short lemma “Porphyry” in EncJud 13 (1972): 905. 4.  Some useful remarks may be found in G. Rinaldi, La Bibbia dei pagani, vol. 1: Quadro storico (Bologna: Dehoniani, 1998), 155–75 (“Porfirio e il popolo d’Israele”). 5.  See, e.g., L. I. Levine, Judaism and Hellenism in Antiquity: Conflict or Confluence? (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1998).

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Let us first briefly review the evidence. The works in which Porphyry speaks about the Jews are De abstinentia (a defense of vegetarianism), the Vita Pythagorae (an encomiastic biography of Porphyry’s hero), Contra Christianos (a lengthy and frontal attack on Christianity), De philosophia ex oraculis haurienda (a work in which he tries to demonstrate that a solid philosophy can be derived from the oracles of the Greek gods), Ad Gaurum (on the way embryos receive a soul), and De antro nympharum (an allegorical exegesis of a scene in Homer’s Odyssey). Some neutral remarks on Jewish history in his Chronika can be set aside for our purposes. Apart from Porphyry’s own works, it should be noticed that, when he collected and edited the lectures of his teacher, Plotinus, he decided to arrange this material in the form of six Enneads, which is a striking parallel to the ordering of halakic material in the six sedarim of the Mishnah by Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi.6 Is this sheer coincidence? It probably is, for Porphyry could not read the Mishnah in Hebrew, even though there was a Jewish community in Tyre, the city where he lived before his move to the West,7 and the Mishnah was never translated into Greek. It has sometimes been suggested that Porphyry’s acquaintance with Jewish traditions was due to the fact that he was married to a Jewish woman, an elderly widow called Marcella. But it should be objected that it is only a late and otherwise unreliable source that calls Marcella a Jewish woman, never Porphyry himself or any other author. It is found in the so-called Theosophia Tubingensis, a Christian apologetic work of the late fifth or early sixth century, which states that Porphyry had married an elderly Jewish woman who was a mother of five children (egēme gynaika pente paidōn mētera gegērakuian ēdē kai Hebraian—§85, pp. 54–55 Erbse = 2:25, p. 36 Beatrice = frag. 10T Smith).8 It is highly likely that the idea that Porphyry had a Jewish wife was suggested by the fact that in his works he speaks several times about Judaism in very positive terms. 6.  For six as “the first perfect number” according to Philo, see his Opif. 13 with the comments by D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria on the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 124–31 (see p. 127 for parallels in other ancient authors). 7.  See, convincingly, F. Millar, “Porphyry: Ethnicity, Language, and Alien Wisdom,” The Greek World, the Jews, and the East (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 331–50. Rinaldi (La Bibbia dei pagani, 170–72) unnecessarily speculates on the basis of Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 6.19.2–8, that Porphyry stayed for a while in Caesarea Maritima, where he met not only Origen but also the famous rabbi Abbahu, from whom he could have received his knowledge of Jewish beliefs and practices. 8.  The references are to the editions of the Tübinger Theosophie by H. Erbse, Theosophorum Graecorum fragmenta (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1995); and by P. F. Beatrice, Anonymi Monophysitae Theosophia: An Attempt at Reconstruction (Leiden: Brill, 2001). Porphyry himself says that the widow he married had seven (not five) children, Ad Marc. 1.1. It is strange that W. Pötscher is inclined to believe the untrustworthy statement in Theos. Tub., on the basis of the following argument: “Die Tatsache, dasz Porphyrios die Witwe seines Freundes geheiratet hat, würde in die jüdische Vorstellungswelt nicht schlecht passen” (Porphyrios, ΠΡΟΣ ΜΑΡΚΕΛΛΑΝ [Leiden: Brill, 1969], 60–61). On the Christian agenda of the Tübinger Theosophie, see P. F. Beatrice, “Pagan Wisdom and Christian Theology according to the Tübingen Theosophy,” JECS 3 (1995): 403–18.

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I begin with Porphyry’s critical remarks, most of which are found in his major work, Against the Christians.9 That title already indicates that it is not Judaism but Christianity that is his main target there; he slams Christianity by criticizing its Jewish matrix.10 For instance, he accuses the Christians of having become “zealots for the strange mythologies of the Jews, which are in ill-repute among all men” (GLAJJ 458 = Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 1.2.3). As an example of these “strange mythologies,” he mentions Gen 2:17 and says: “Why did God forbid the knowledge of good and evil? He forbade the evil, rightly so, but why also the good? For in saying, ‘Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat,’ he says that he prevents him from knowing the evil, but why also from knowing the good? ” (GLAJJ 463 = Severianus of Gabala, De mundi creatione 6). It is clear that to a Platonist such as Porphyry the idea of a deity’s preventing humankind from knowing the good is a very “strange mythology” indeed.11 On the other hand, throughout the same work, Porphyry never ceases to emphasize that the Christians committed a grave error by abandoning the old and venerable traditions of the Jewish religion: the newness of their faith was its most fatal flaw.12 In terms of criticism of biblical accounts, the best-known instance is Porphyry’s extensive investigation of the historical circumstances in which the book of Daniel was written.13 He was the first to point out that this book was not composed by the person to whom it is inscribed in the title, but rather by some individual living in Judaea at the time of that Antiochus who was surnamed 9.  Unfortunately, the fragments of this work were not included in Smith’s edition of Porphyry’s fragments, so we still have to consult the old (and now incomplete) edition by A. von Harnack, “Porphyrios: ‘Gegen die Christen,’” Abhandlungen der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-hist. Kl. 1916 (Berlin: Reimer, 1916), 1–115 (some later additions by Harnack and others are not mentioned here). The fragments in which Jews or Judaism are mentioned are nos. 458–65 in GLAJJ. On the dubious nature of Harnack’s (and others’) attribution to Porphyry of the anonymous fragments in Macarius’s Apokritikos, see my review of the new edition of Macarius by R. Goulet in VC 58 (2004): 332–41. 10.  As Stern says: “Porphyry attempts to undermine the specific sanctity accorded to the Old Testament in order to weaken the basis of the Christian religion, but in the crucial issue between Pauline teaching and Judaism his sympathy is with Jewish tradition” (GLAJJ 427). According to Porphyry, true piety was ‘to honour the deity in the ways our forefathers did’ (timan to theion kata ta patria); see Ad Marc. 18. 11.  J. G. Cook, The Interpretation of the Old Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 247: “His admiration for the traditional nature of Judaism did not include OT narratives which he called ‘mythologies.’” 12.  See P. de Labriolle, La réaction païenne: Étude sur la polémique antichrétienne du Ier au VIe siècle (Paris: L’artisan du livre, 1950), 225–96; R. L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984), 126–63. Also see A. Busine, Paroles d’Apollon: Pratiques et traditions oraculaires dans l’Antiquité tardive (IIe–VIe siècles) (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 284, on frag. 323 Smith. 13.  For the fragments, see now esp. G. Rinaldi, Biblia gentium: Primo contributo per un indice delle citazioni, dei riferimenti e delle allusioni alla Bibbia negli autori pagani, greci e latini, di età imperiale (Rome: Sacre Scritture, 1989), 338–98.

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Thanks to Jerome’s elaborate critique of Porphyry’s position in his own Commentary on Daniel, we know much about our Platonist’s acute observations and criticism regarding the book of Daniel, which made him “a distant precursor of the modern biblical critics.”14 Since Porphyry’s critique of Daniel was a part of his 15-volume work Against the Christians, here again we must conclude that it was directed not (or at least not primarily) against the Jews but against the Christians, who relied so heavily on the “prophecies” of Daniel for their own eschatological expectations. As we now turn to the more positive statements of Porphyry on Judaism, we first take a look at some of the minor remarks in his works.15 In Life of Pythagoras 11, he says that, in order to learn the exact manner of dream interpretation, Pythagoras traveled to the Egyptians, Arabs, Chaldeans, and Hebrews (GLAJJ 456a).16 Although our author claims to have found this information in a work by Antonius Diogenes, he certainly believed it to be true, as did his contemporary Iamblichus in his own De vita Pythagorica 3.14 (where he has Pythagoras visit Mount Carmel). In De antro nympharum 10, he approvingly quotes the Middle Platonist philosopher Numenius to the effect that the Jews believe that “the souls rest on water, which is divinely animated (hudati . . . theopnoōi onti)” and that for this reason “the prophet had said that the spirit of God [theou pneuma] is carried above the water” (GLAJJ 456b). Here, Gen 1:2 is said to be the words of “the prophet” Moses. In a similar vein, in his discussion of how the soul enters the newly formed embryo in Ad Gaurum 11, Porphyry says: “The theologian of the Hebrews also seems to signify this when he says that, when the human body was formed and had received all of its bodily workmanship, God breathed the spirit into it to act as a living soul” (GLAJJ 466), with an unmistakable reference to Gen 2:7 (kai enephusēsen eis to prosōpon autou pnoēn zōēs kai egeneto ho anthrōpos eis psychēn zōsan). That Moses is 14.  Stern, GLAJJ 428. On Jerome’s commentary on Daniel, see J. Braverman, Jerome’s Commentary on Daniel (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1978); on Porphyry in Jerome’s commentary, see esp. Cook, The Interpretation of the Old Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism, 187–247. For Porphyry’s attack on the New Testament, see idem, The Interpretation of the New Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism (Tübingen: Mohr, 2000), 103–67. 15.  I set aside here the much-debated problem of the chronology of Porphyry’s works and the question whether or not there is a development in his thought. These issues have reached no consensus whatever and should therefore, regrettably, not be taken into account for the moment. For one issue regarding our topic, see idem, The Interpretation of the Old Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism, 155–59. 16.  J. H. Waszink (“Porphyrios und Numenios,” in Porphyre [Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 12; Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 1966], 35–78) thinks that Numenius (on which, see more below) was Porphyry’s source for his knowledge of Jewish dream interpretation.

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called here “the prophet” and “the theologian” without any qualification is certainly remarkable. The same positive stance is also clearly discernible in the way Porphyry describes the Essenes. In De abstinentia 4.11–14, he devotes several pages to this Jewish group in a passage that is by and large an abridgment of Josephus’s description in J.W. 2.119–61. What is striking is not only that he does not restrict his rendering of the Josephan passage to the elements that could serve his purpose (advocating vegetarianism), although he does stress the simplicity of their diet, but that he dwells at considerable length on the Essenes’ strict and noble way of life. Where Josephus expresses his admiration for the Essenes, Porphyry makes no effort to diminish it; on the contrary, his own sympathy goes undisguised—he calls the Essene sect the ‘most august’ (semnotatē) among the Jews. And in the end he adds, with obvious appreciation, that the lawgiver did not allow the parent birds to be taken away together with their nestlings, a statement he owes to his own knowledge of Deut 22:6–7 (or perhaps to Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.213). The most remarkable passages in terms of positive and sympathetic statements about Jews and Judaism are to be found in Porphyry’s Philosophy to Be Derived from Oracles.17 In it, Porphyry quotes quite a number of oracles, uttered at various oracular sites in Greece and Asia Minor (especially the sites of Apollo at Claros and Didyma), among them several mentioning the Jewish faith in an approving manner. At first sight, this may seem surprising: Why would a Greek oracular deity say positive things about Judaism? But, as we will see, this phenomenon fits well into the cultural atmosphere of the time, and there is no reason to believe that Augustine is right when he suggests that Porphyry made up these oracles himself (Civ. Dei 19.23.2).18 To begin with, let us look at a number of oracles quoted in the first book and preserved as excerpts in Eusebius’s Praep. Ev. 9.10.1–5 (GLAJJ 450 = frags. 323 and 324 Smith). Eusebius says that Porphyry has his own god (Apollo) bear witness there to the wisdom of the Hebrew nation as well as other ancient nations renowned for intelligence and insight. Speaking about sacrifices, Apollo adds (in dactylic hexameters): 17.  See Smith, Porphyrii philosophi fragmenta, nos. 303–50. For bibliography on this treatise from 1856 to 1978, see J. Hausleiter, “Prolegomena zu einer Neuherausgabe der Orakelphilo­ sophie des Porphyrios,” Helikon 18–19 (1978–79): 438–96; also A. Smith, “Porphyrian Studies since 1913,” ANRW II 36/2 (1987): 717–73. See also J. J. O’Meara, Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles in Augustine (Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 1959); and idem, “Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles in Eusebius,” Recherches Augustiniennes 6 (1969): 103–39. A recent study is M. Edwards, Culture and Philosophy in the Age of Plotinus (London: Duckworth, 2006), 111–26. 18.  On the authenticity of most of the oracles in De philosophia ex oraculis haurienda, see now esp. Busine, Paroles d’Apollon, 227–95; also L. Robert, “Trois oracles de la Théosophie et un prophète d’Apollon,” Opera Minora Selecta, vol. 5 (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1989), 584–615; idem, “Un oracle gravé à Oinoanda,” ibid., 617–39 (both originally in CRAIBL 1968 and 1971). As these three studies demonstrate, some of the oracles of Apollo in Porphyry’s book and in the Theosophia Tubingensis were also found in inscriptions. This is not to deny that the Theosophia does contain falsifications, for some of them are patently Christian fabrications; see Busine, Paroles d’Apollon, 403–6.

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Porphyry then comments that as far as the roads to the gods are concerned the Greeks went astray; it is the wise barbarian nations, including the Jews, who found them. By way of confirmation, he adds another oracle of Apollo: “Only Chaldaeans and Hebrews found wisdom in the pure worship of a self-born god” (frag. 323 Smith). Finally, he quotes an oracle in which Apollo answers the question why men speak of many heavens instead of one: “One circle girds the earth on every side, but it rises in seven circles to the starlit paths. These the Chaldaeans and the widely famous Hebrews named ‘heavens’ as they roll in their sevenfold orbits” (frag. 323 Smith).19 Augustine says in general that, in his Philosophia ex oraculis haurienda, Porphyry asserts that the Jews have a theology that is much superior to Christian theology (Civ. Dei 19.23 = frag. 343 Smith; cf. frag. 344a . . . cum pietatem laudet Hebraeorum).20 As Lane Fox remarks, “Apollo’s texts are firmly pagan, but they do discuss God in a language which Jews could endorse.”21 These “theological oracles,” as Nock has dubbed them,22 were a common phenomenon only from the third century c.e. onward, and it is from these that Porphyry wanted to distill a philosophy (as the title of his book indicates).23 That Porphyry was not the only one to do so is made clear by a fragment from a lost writing by another third-century Neoplatonist author, Cornelius Labeo, in whose De oraculo Apollinis Clarii one finds the following oracle: When Apollo of Clarus was asked who among the gods should be identified with the one called Iao,24 he spoke as follows: “Those who have learnt the orgia should keep them secret, but if the understanding is little and the mind feeble, then consider 19.  On this fragment, see Cook, The Interpretation of the Old Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism, 154–55. 20.  See Busine, Paroles d’Apollon, 373–82 (“Apollon, admirateur des Hébreux”). In frag. 343F (= Augustine, Civ. Dei 19.23.2), Porphyry says that Jesus was justly condemned to death by ‘right-thinking judges’ (iudices recta sentientes)­—that is, the Jewish high priest and the Sanhedrin. This motif is also found in the Talmud; see P. Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 63–74. 21.  R. Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians (New York: Knopf, 1987), 257. 22.  A. D. Nock, “Oracles théologiques,” in Essays on Religion and the Ancient World (ed. Z. Stewart; Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 160–68. On these oracles, see also Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians, 256–61. 23.  Influence of philosophical ideas upon several of these oracles is clearly discernible; see R. van den Broek, Apollo in Asia: De orakels van Clarus en Didyma in de tweede en derde eeuw na Chr. (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 9–16. 24.  On Iao as a rendering of Yhwh, see D. E. Aune, “Iao,” RAC 17 (1996): 1–12.

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that Iao is the supreme god of all. In winter he is Hades, when spring begins he is Zeus, in summer he is Helios, while in autumn he is the delicate Iacchus.” (frag. 18 = Macrobius, Sat. 1.18.19–20 = GLAJJ 445)25

Instead of “Iacchus” (= Bacchus or Dionysus), the manuscripts read “Iao,” but the epitheton habros (‘delicate, mild, gracious’) fits the conjectural reading “Iacchus” much better,26 and the implication is that these four major deities (including Zeus!) are nothing but Erscheinungsformen, or manifestations, of the truly Highest God, which is Iao, the God of the Jews.27 Behind the multitude of traditional gods, there is only one overriding divine principle. As Polymnia Athanassiadi has suggested: it is even possible that, in producing their collections, men like Porphyry and Labeo did not act wholly spontaneously, but responded to invitations to conduct research in the archives of the oracles and to help proclaim that God is One by producing a publication which would both codify and spread the new theology.28

The same sentiment is expressed in an oracle preserved in the Theosophia Tu­ bingensis, in which Apollo says that he and the other gods are nothing but angels who form only ‘a small particle of God’ (mikra theou meris), that is, of the Highest God (Theos. Tub. 13 Erbse = 2 Beatrice); this text was also found as an inscription 25.  See the elaborate comments in P. Mastandrea, Un neoplatonico latino: Cornelio Labeone (Leiden: Brill, 1979), 159–92. It is striking that there are eight cultic inscriptions from outside Claros that are dedicated diis deabusque secundum interpretationem Clarii Apollinis or, in Greek, theois kai theais apo exēgēseōs chrēsmou Apollōnos Klariou (‘to the gods and goddesses according to the interpretation of the [oracle of] Clarian Apollo’); for references to their editions see Busine, Paroles d’Apollon, 184–85. 26.  See Mastandrea, Un neoplatonico latino, 161 n. 6; also Stern’s note in GLAJJ 412; H. W. Parke, The Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor (London: Helms, 1985), 163–65; S. Levin, “The Old Greek Oracles in Decline,” ANRW II 18/2 (1989): 1599–1649, esp. p. 1635. The reading with “Iac­chus” is confirmed by the fact that in the immediately preceding lines Macrobius quotes “Orpheus” to the effect that Zeus, Hades, Helios, and Dionysus are one and the same deity (Sat. 1.18.18). On the identification of Yhwh with Dionysus in ancient sources, see M. Smith, “On the Wine-God in Palestine,” in Studies in the Cult of Yahweh (ed. S. J. D. Cohen; 2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 1:227–37. 27.  This term is used in this connection by G. Zuntz, Griechische philosophische Hymnen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 76. As Nock (“Oracles théologiques” 165) says: “Un point paraît du moins assuré, c’est qu’il y avait à Claros une tendance systématique à une unité de foi qui pouvait comprendre jusqu’au dieu du judaïsme et réaliser la conciliation du monothéisme et du polythéisme.” But the antiChristian “pointe” of these (and Porphyry’s) statements should be kept in mind; see M. Zambon, Porphyre et le Moyen-Platonisme (Paris: Vrin, 2002), 203: “L’estime exprimée à l’égard des Hébreux était destinée à jeter le discrédit sur les chrétiens et sur leur façon d’interpréter les écritures sacrées.” To assume that there is a direct Jewish influence on these oracles is unwarranted; contra C. Picard, Éphèse et Claros: Recherches sur les sanctuaries et les cultes de l’Ionie du nord (Paris: Boccard, 1922), 718. 28.  P. Athanassiadi, “The Chaldaean Oracles: Theology and Theurgy,” in Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (ed. P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 179.

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in Oenoanda.29 It is clear that to the mind of the priests of the Clarian Apollo the traditional gods of the Greeks were not God but only his angels; in fact, they proclaimed a kind of monotheism.30 Another oracle in the Theosophia has Apollo answer the question whether it is possible to come nearer to the Highest God by a careful and attentive way of life (di’ epimeleias biou); he says that this is impossible for common people, for it is a privilege that was only given to Hermes Trismegistus among the Egyptians, Moses among the Hebrews, and Apollonius of Tyana among the Cappadocians; only those who have received a divine sign (or password, synthēma) are able to see the immortal nature, that is, God (Theos. Tub. 44 Erbse = 1.40 Beatrice).31 At first, it seems amazing that Apollo would have spoken in such a positive vein about the God of the Jews and Moses and that Porphyry quotes several of these oracles approvingly, but a closer look at Porphyry’s predecessors among the Middle Platonists and some other important thinkers will make clear that his attitude is not especially exceptional. As early as the first century b.c.e., the Roman antiquarian Varro states that, if the Romans had followed the Jews in their aniconic form of worship, their religion would be more devout (frag. 15 Cardauns = Augustine, Civ. Dei 4.31 = GLAJJ 72a). Elsewhere he says that Jupiter and the God of the Jews are one and the same deity invoked with different names (frag. 16 Cardauns = Augustine, Cons. 1.22.30 = GLAJJ 72b); he also states that the God of the Jews is called Iao in the Chaldaean mysteries (frag. 17 Cardauns = Lydus, De mens. 4.53 = GLAJJ 75).32 29.  It is no. 26 in the collection of R. Merkelbach and J. Stauber, “Die Orakel des Apollon von Klaros,” Epigraphica Anatolica 27 (1996): 1–53 (see esp. pp. 42–44). On this oracle, see Robert, “Un oracle gravé à Oinoanda,” 617–39; H. Lewy, Chaldaean Oracles and Theurgy (new ed. by M. Tardieu; Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 1978), 18–22; D. S. Potter, Prophecy and History in the Crisis of the Roman Empire: A Historical Commentary on the Thirteenth Sibylline Oracle (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 351–55. Nock (“Oracles théologiques” 165) rightly speaks of “oracles qui affirment l’unité des différentes divinités et enseignent qu’elles ne sont que les pouvoirs et les functions de l’Être supreme.” 30.  See P. Athanassiadi, “Philosophers and Oracles: Shifts of Authority in Late Paganism,” Byzantion 62 (1992): 45–62. In her article “The Chaldaean Oracles,” 180, she rightly says: “It is only worth pointing out that by this demotion of the old pantheon and its identification as mere angels, philosophical monotheism could accommodate tradition.” 31.  For a comprehensive study of this oracle, see A. Busine (“Hermès Trismégiste, Moïse et Apollonius de Tyana dans un oracle d’Apollon,” Apocrypha 13 [2002]: 227–43), who convincingly argues that this oracle is not a Jewish or Christian hoax. The Church Father Lactantius also confirms that in his oracles Apollo (in this case Apollo of Didyma) spoke in praise of the God of Israel (De ira dei 23.12). 32.  On these fragments, see E. Norden, “Jahve und Mose in hellenistischer Theologie,” in Festgabe von Fachgenossen und Freunden A. von Harnack zum siebzigsten Geburtstag dargebracht (Tübingen: Mohr, 1921), 292–301, esp. pp. 298–300; L. H. Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 206. A concise commentary is found in the edition by B. Cardauns, M. Terentius Varro: Antiquitates rerum divinarum (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1976). In general, see M. Simon, “Jupiter – Yahvé,” Le christianisme antique et son contexte religieux: Scripta varia (Tübingen: Mohr, 1981), 622–48.

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This demonstrates more than just a vague knowledge of the Jewish religion; it is a clear expression of appreciation of some aspects of the Jewish faith, and he was not the first to express sentiments of this sort.33 But for our present purposes, it is best to direct our attention to a Middle Platonic philosopher for whom Porphyry demonstrably had great admiration, Numenius of Apamea.34 This second-century c.e. philosopher (like Porphyry, originating from Syria) is well known for his extraordinarily positive stance toward Judaism.35 A Pythagoreanizing Platonist, Numenius, like others, cherished the idea that some of the ancient barbarian (= non-Greek) nations had traditions containing an old and primeval doctrine of a profound truth and wisdom, the Alēthēs Logos (True Doctrine), as Celsus called it.36 Now Origen points out that Celsus misrepresents the Jews by excluding them from the list of ancient nations that possessed this primeval wisdom, this archaios logos (Contra Celsum 1.14).37 Numenius, however, does include the Jews in this list of “nations of high repute” (frag. 1a = Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.7.1 = GLAJJ 364a), as Origen approvingly remarks (Contra Celsum 1.15).38 33.  Ever since Aristotle’s pupil Theophrastus (see GLAJJ 4), there had been Greek philosophers who had a positive view of the Jewish religion, although by no means all of them. See further Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World, 201–7, 214–19. 34.  On Numenius, see J. Dillon, The Middle Platonists (London: Duckworth, 1977), 361– 79. For what follows, see Waszink, “Porphyrios und Numenios”; and esp. Zambon, Porphyre et le Moyen-Platonisme, 171–250. 35.  For the fragments on Judaism, see GLAJJ 363–69. Also E. Des Places, Numénius: Fragments (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1973). I quote the fragments according to the numbering of Des Places. 36. Zambon, Porphyre, 249: Numénius est pour nous le représentant le plus typique d’une conception de la philosophie qui—souhaitant un retour aux origins—laisse de la place à la sagesse des barbares, en tant que dépositaires d’une antique—et par conséquent honorable—connaissance des principes, de la structure du cosmos et du destin de l’homme.

On this motif of an old, Oriental “barbarian” wisdom, see Busine, Paroles d’Apollon, 214–21; H. Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), xvi–xxii; G. G. Stroumsa, “Philosophy of the Barbarians: On Early Christian Ethnological Representations,” in Geschichte – Tradition – Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. H. Cancik, H. Lichtenberger, and P. Schäfer; 3 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 2:339–68. The motif is as old as Plato; see Philebus 16c5–9; Timaeus 21e–25d. For Numenius, Pythagoras was the bridge between the old Barbarenweisheit and Platonic philosophy. Other authors as well, both pagan and Jewish, are convinced that Pythagoras drew on Judaism for several of his ideas; see Feldman, Jew and Gentile, 201–2 (and 525 n. 11). 37.  N. R. M. de Lange, Origen and the Jews: Studies in Jewish-Christian Relations in ThirdCentury Palestine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 63–73. Note the parallel with the prisca theologia of Marsilio Ficino in the fifteenth century. 38.  On the importance of the motif of the antiquity of the Jewish people, see L. H. Feldman, Studies in Hellenistic Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 188–95. Cook, The Interpretation of the Old Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism, 154: “The fact that Porphyry is willing to ascribe wisdom to the Hebrews is a fundamental step beyond Celsus.”

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Numenius goes even further, for according to him the Jews were more important than the other nations of high repute, which can best be illustrated by his deeply felt admiration for Moses expressed in his famous dictum that Plato is nothing less than “a Moses who speaks Greek” (lit., ‘Attic’, Mōüsēs attikizōn, frag. 8 = Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 11.10.14 = Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1.22.150.4 = GLAJJ 363), undoubtedly because he saw an essential similarity in their teachings, as did Philo before him (Numenius knew Philo’s work).39 Louis Feldman rightly remarks: “In view of the tremendous reputation enjoyed by Plato and in view of the revival, in modified form, of his teachings in the guise of Neo-Platonism, of which Numenius was the main forerunner, this is a tremendous compliment.”40 In Numenius’s eyes, Judaism was a philosophy as lofty as Platonism. In frag. 9, Numenius identifies Moses with Musaeus, the great mythical poet and musician of the Greeks, an identification that had already appeared in the second-century b.c.e. Jewish historian/novelist Artapanus (frag. 3 = Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.27.3).41 It certainly implies the highest praise. He also calls Moses a man “most powerful in prayer to God” (frag. 9 = Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.8.1. = GLAJJ 365) and, according to Origen, Numenius quotes Moses and the prophets in many passages in his writings and interprets them allegorically (frags. 1b and 1c = Contra Celsum 1.15 and 4.51 = GLAJJ 364 and 366). John Lydus even states that Numenius was of the opinion that the God whose Temple was in Jerusalem was the father of all the gods and that he deems any other unworthy of having a share in his honor (frag. 56 = De mensibus 4.53 = GLAJJ 367). And, finally, as was already shown above, Porphyry quotes Numenius to the effect that “the prophet” said that the spirit of God is carried above the water (frag. 30 = GLAJJ 368). This quotation occurs in Porphyry’s De antro nympharum, a work in which he repeatedly quotes Numenius with approval. Numenius’s influence on Porphyry was very great, as can be gauged by the Index fontium in Des Places’s edition of Numenius’s fragments (p. 147).42 But there is more behind Porphyry’s stance toward Judaism than Numenius’s influence. As Michael Frede has recently argued, since the beginnings of Greek philosophy among the pre-Socratics, Greek thinkers assumed that there was one particular, individual, active principle that governs the world. To quote him at some length: 39.  D. Ridings, The Attic Moses: The Dependency Theme in Some Early Christian Writers (Gothenburg: Gothenburg University Press, 1995), deals with the history of this motif. 40. Feldman, Jew and Gentile, 241; cf. pp. 203–4. 41.  On this fragment of Artapanus and its equation of Moses with Musaeus, see C. R. Holladay, trans., Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol. 1: Historians (Society of Biblical Literature Texts and Translations; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 231–32 nn. 44 and 45. Recently, doubts about Artapanus’s Jewishness have been expressed by H. Jacobson, “Artapanus Judaeus,” JJS 57 (2006): 210–21. 42.  Waszink (“Porphyrios und Numenios” 52–53) argues that also passages such as Nemesius, Nat. hom. 12, and Calcidius, In Tim. 256, testify to Porphyry’s admiration for Jewish traditions (although he is not mentioned explicitly there). Waszink (ibid., 60–62) even suggests that all passages where Calcidius speaks about Hebraica philosophia derive from Numenius via Porphyry.

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There is a clear sense in which Platonists, Peripatetics, and Stoics and thus the vast majority of philosophers in late antiquity believed in one God. They believed in a god who not only enjoys eternal bliss, but in a god who as a god is unique in that he is a first principle which determines and providentially governs reality. There are, as part of the divinely imposed order of things, derivative beings which also enjoy immortality and bliss, and which, hence, following Greek usage, are also called “divine.” But in the case of Plato’s and the Stoics’ created gods even this immortality exists only through divine benevolence and, for the Stoics, is not even a genuine immortality.43

This tendency, which has been called variously henotheism, weak monotheism, and so on, for lack of a better term, became stronger in the imperial period than it had been before, although its roots went back as far as Xenocrates and Plato.44 In Roman times, this tendency also began to have its effects on religious practice. As Stephen Mitchell has demonstrated, all over the eastern Mediterranean there were groups of worshipers of Theos Hypsistos (God Most High).45 He collected and studied some 300 inscriptions in which this cult is attested and came to the conclusion that this somewhat elusive cult most likely concerned syncretistic groups that consciously attempted to bridge the religious gap between paganism and Judaism. Its origins did not lie in Jewish but in henotheistic pagan circles, where the attractiveness of monotheistic Judaism was so strongly felt that they looked for common ground. As Mitchell says, The cult of Theos Hypsistos had room for pagans and for Jews. More than that, it shows that the principal categories into which we divide the religious groupings of late antiquity are simply inappropriate or misleading when applied to the beliefs and practices of a significant proportion of the population of the eastern Roman empire.46

Mitchell also shows that, what we know about ‘Godfearers’ (theosebeis, sebomenoi), pagan sympathizers with Judaism, is so much in agreement with the information we have about the adepts of Theos Hypsistos that the two groups could very well be 43.  M. L. Frede, “Monotheism and Pagan Philosophy in Later Antiquity,” in Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (ed. P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 41–67, esp. p. 55. See also the caveats (in reaction to Frede’s essay) by M. Edwards, “Pagan and Christian Monotheism in the Age of Constantine,” in Approaching Late Antiquity: The Transformation from Early to Late Empire (ed. S. Swain and M. Edwards; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 211–34. 44.  See J. H. Lesher, Xenophanes of Colophon. Fragments: A Text and Translation with a Commentary (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 78–119; and M. Bordt, Platons Theologie (Freiburg: Alber, 2006); in general, M. West, “Toward Monotheism,” in Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (ed. P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 21–40. 45.  S. Mitchell, “The Cult of Theos Hypsistos between Pagans, Jews, and Christians,” in ibid., 85–148. 46.  Ibid., 115.

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identical. It is interesting to notice that almost all the epigraphical evidence for the cult of Theos Hypsistos is from the imperial period, but the overwhelming majority dates from the second and third centuries c.e., the centuries of Numenius and Porphyry.47 Apart from this, or perhaps as a result of this kind of development in the philosophical and religious culture of the time, the Severan emperors also furthered a climate in which respect for Judaism could and did prosper.48 This Severan Dynasty (Septimius Severus, Caracalla, Geta, Heliogabalus, Alexander Severus) reigned over the Roman Empire for more than 40 years (193–235 c.e.) and was—like Numenius and Porphyry—of Syrian origin. Although the data about these emperors’ attitude to Judaism derive from the Historia Augusta (a not altogether reliable source from the late fourth century), there must certainly be a reliable kernel in what they tell us about these emperors’ attitude toward Judaism, since it is consistently and almost only with respect to the Severans that this document informs us about the emperors’ Jew-friendly posture.49 I will mention here only a selection of the relevant passages. We are told of Septimius Severus that he revoked the punishment that had been imposed on the people of Palestine (Sept. Sev. 14.6 = GLAJJ 513). Caracalla, when still a child of seven, is said to have been very angry at his father when the latter had one of his son’s playmates severely scourged for adopting the Jewish religion (Ant. Car. 1.6 = GLAJJ 517). About Heliogabalus, we learn that he established his native Syrian deity Elagabal as a god on the Palatine Hill and that he declared that the religions of the Jews and the Samaritans as well as the rites of the Christians must be transferred to this place in order that the priesthood of Elagabal might include the mysteries of every form of worship (Ant. Heliog. 3.4–5 = GLAJJ 518). Most of the evidence deals with Alexander Severus: he is said to have respected the privileges of the Jews and to have allowed the Christians to live unmolested (Alex. Sev. 22.4 = GLAJJ 520). The people of Antioch and Alexandria had irritated him by calling him an archisynagogus and a high priest (28.7 = GLAJJ 521). When he rose early in the morning, he worshiped the statues of the deified emperors and also of some holy souls, including Apollonius of Tyana, Abraham, Orpheus, and Christ, a very mixed bag indeed (29.2 = GLAJJ 522). When he appointed a man to a high position or office, he always announced his name publicly and exhorted the people, if they wished to bring an accusation against him, to prove it by irrefutable evidence; for he used to say that it was unjust that, when Christians and Jews observed this custom in announcing the names of those who were to be ordained priests, it should not be observed in the case of governors (45.6–7 = GLAJJ 523). 47.  As Mitchell’s catalog shows (ibid., 145), the cult is well attested in Syria, where both philosophers were born and raised. 48.  J. G. Gager, “The Dialogue of Paganism with Judaism,” HUCA 44 (1973) 89–118, esp. pp. 93–97. 49.  The relevant texts can all be found in GLAJJ 509–28.

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In his work as a judge, he sometimes rebuked the accused by saying, “Would you want this to be done to your land which you are doing to another’s? ” and explained that he had heard from a Jew or a Christian the saying, “What you do not want a man to do to you, do not do that to him” (51.6–8 = GLAJJ 524).50 As Gager points out, Jerome provides independent testimony to this phenomenon in that he says that some of the Severi esteemed the Jews very highly (Comm. in Dan. 11.34).51 All this probably helped to bring about a more positive view of Judaism among the emperors’ subjects. In Porphyry’s attitude toward Judaism, we find a confluence of four streams, all of which were at their strongest in the third century c.e.: (1) the syncretism of the Severan emperors with a notable openness toward Judaism; (2) the trend toward dealing with theological problems in the oracles, especially those of Apollo in Asia Minor, a trend that both encouraged and was encouraged by the growing tendency toward a form of henotheism or semimonotheism in philosophical circles; (3) the rise and popularity of the cult of Theos Hypsistos; and (4) the heavy stamp of the philosophical theology of Numenius, who included the Jews among the wise nations of old. When these tributaries came together in the person of Porphyry, the result was a remarkably positive stance toward the Jewish religion on the part of one of the most radical opponents of Christianity in antiquity. In this respect, he differed markedly from both earlier and later critics of Christianity, such as Celsus and Julian.52 50.  On this “golden rule” and its variegated history, see A. Dihle, Die goldene Regel: Eine Einführung in die Geschichte der antiken und frühchristlichen Vulgärethik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962). 51.  Gager, “Dialogue,” 93–94. On the problem which of the Severi are meant in Jerome’s rather vague formulation, see Braverman, Jerome’s Commentary, 120–21. 52.  See Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World, 216–17. I owe thanks to Dr. James N. Pankhurst for his never-failing willingness to remove the barbarisms and solecisms from my English.

The Bishops of Sepphoris Christianity and Synagogue Iconography in the Late Fourth and Early Fifth Centuries Hillel I. Newman University of Haifa

Commenting on the methodological challenges of interpreting Jewish synagogue art of Late Antiquity, Lee Levine has written that “it seems incumbent to try and enlist additional criteria for interpretation, such as the immediate historical and social context of the art in question. This information may then allow for a more judicious appraisal of the meaning and significance of a given depiction.”1 In the spirit of this recommendation, I address two sorts of problems in this essay. First, I examine a chapter in the history of the Christians of Sepphoris in the late fourth century, one that has not enjoyed the attention it deserves in recent accounts of the city’s social fabric at the time. Second, I contend in light of the first discussion with a problem of interpretation of the remarkable synagogue mosaic of Sepphoris.2

Christians in Sepphoris under Valens Following the first attempt of Joseph, who was appointed comes by Constantine, to establish a foothold for the church in Sepphoris in the first part of the fourth century, there is surprisingly little trace of Christian influence and presence there 1. Lee I. Levine, “Synagogue Art: Interpretation and Methodology,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 94. This essay is presented as a token of appreciation to my teacher, Prof. Lee Levine, who together with Prof. Gideon Foerster first introduced me many years ago to the study of synagogue art and archaeology. 2.  For the synagogue and its mosaic, see the excellent volume of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005).

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till the late fifth or early sixth century.3 It is only then that we encounter the first evidence of the presence of a local Christian bishop, Eutropius, and the remains of two churches in the city center, adjacent to the cardo.4 An exception to the relative silence of our written and material sources (subject, of course, to tomorrow’s archaeological discoveries) is the abundance of data concerning the arrival in Sepphoris of a group of exiled Egyptian clerics in the time of the emperor Valens. It is this chapter in the history of the city that I wish to examine in detail.5 Valens pursued a policy of promoting the Homoian creed and clergy in a battle against Nicene Christology.6 The conflict came to a head in Alexandria in 373, with the death of the Nicene bishop Athanasius, whose hand-picked successor, Peter, was arrested to clear the way for the assumption of the see by the Homoian bishop Lucius. Peter succeeded in escaping and making his way to Rome, where he enjoyed the protection and patronage of the bishop Damasus. Meanwhile, priests, deacons and monks who opposed Lucius in Alexandria were arrested and exiled to pagan Helio­ polis/Baalbek in Syria or sentenced to hard labor in the mines. Subsequently, Lucius 3.  Sean Freyne, “Christianity in Sepphoris and Galilee,” in Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture (ed. Rebecca Martin Nagy et al.; Raleigh, NC: North Carolina Museum of Art, 1996), 67–89, 208 (= Sean Freyne, Galilee and Gospel [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000], 299–307). Pottery decorated with the sign of the cross has been found in Sepphoris and is dated by some as early as the late fourth century. 4.  Zeev Weiss and Ehud Netzer, “Sepphoris in the Byzantine Period,” in Sepphoris in Galilee, 84. One occasionally encounters the erroneous claim that a bishop of Sepphoris/Diocaesarea participated in the ecumenical Council of Chalcedon in 451. See, for example: Stuart S. Miller, “New Perspectives on the History of Sepphoris,” in Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures (ed. Eric M. Meyers; Duke Judaic Studies Series 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 151 n. 31; Günter Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2000), 77. The error derives from a corrupt reading in G. D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio (repr., Graz: Akademische Verlag, 1960–62), 6:1091 = Eduard Schwartz, Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1933) 2/1/2:40, referring to Dorotheus of Neocaesarea (metropolis of Pontus Polemoniacus) as bishop of “Diocaesarea.” Compare with the prosopographical index of Rudolf Schieffer in ibid., 4/3/2:142. 5.  This topic has, naturally enough, received more attention from historians of Christianity than from students of Jewish history, for whom it occasionally features (following Theodoretus [see below]) as testimony to the Jewish presence in Byzantine Sepphoris or as evidence of the limited scope of the Jewish uprising under Gallus. See, for example, Moshe Schwabe, “The Synagogue Inscription of Sepphoris,” in Minha le-David: Kovetz maʾamarim be-hokhmat Yisrael (Jerusalem: Reuven Mass, 1935), 110; Samuel Klein, Sefer Ha-yishuv (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1939), 132; Saul Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries,” JQR 36 (1945–46): 338–39. 6.  In the following discussion, I am particularly indebted to the work of Noel Lenski, Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century (Berkeley: University of California, 2002), 242–63; idem, “Valens and the Monks: Cudgeling and Conscription as a Means of Social Control,” DOP 58 (2004): 93–117. To avoid the more tendentious and imprecise terms Arian and orthodox, I follow Lenski’s example in adopting the terms Homoian and Nicene, respectively, to describe two of the contending parties in the time of Valens. For the sources and events of the period following the death of Athanasius in 373, see also Annick Martin, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’église d’Egypt au IVe siècle (328–373) (Rome: École française de Rome, 1996), 789–817.

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struck at the monks of the desert of Nitria, some 60 miles south of Alexandria, and exiled 11 ascetic bishops to Diocaesarea of Palestine, otherwise known as Sepphoris. The chronology of the exile of the Egyptian bishops is not altogether clear. The most sustained and coherent narrative of the persecutions under Lucius is found in a letter written by Peter himself, an encyclical apparently composed as an appeal for aid on behalf of the afflicted Egyptians, much of which is preserved by Theodoretus in his Historia ecclesiastica (4.22 [GCS n.s. 5:249–60]). Peter does not indicate how much time passed between the first stage of events in Alexandria and the attacks against the monks and bishops of Nitria. It is generally assumed that the letter itself was composed in 373, and the prevailing scholarly opinion is that the bishops of Nitria were exiled in that year.7 Lenski, on the other hand, has argued plausibly that Nitria was raided only in 375.8 There is also some uncertainty regarding the date of the repatriation of the clerics exiled under Valens, including the Egyptian bishops of Sepphoris. Some scholars argue that the recall occurred under Valens in 377, while others favor a date in 378, after the death of Valens.9 We learn more of the life of the Egyptian bishops in Sepphoris from the Historia Lausiaca of Palladius, in an encomium of his friend Melania the Elder, written more than 40 years after the fact. Melania, he relates, spent half a year on a pilgrimage to visit the holy men of Nitria. Palladius then proceeds to describe the persecution of the Nicene monks and the assistance extended to them by Melania:   Subsequently the Augustial prefect banished Isidore, Pisimius, Adelphius, Paphnutius, and Pambo, as well as Ammonius Parotes along with them, and twelve bishops and priests, to Palestine near Diocaesarea (περὶ Διoκαισάρειαν). She followed them and served them from her own private treasury. Now they said they were not allowed servants (I happened to meet the holy Pisimius and Isidore and Paphnutius and Ammonius), so she wore a slave’s hood and used to bring them what they needed at evening. Now the consul (ὑπατικός) of Palestine knew of this, and desiring to fill his pocket he decided to blackmail her.   He seized her and cast her into prison, not knowing that she was a freewoman.   But she made it clear to him: “I am So-and-so’s daughter and So-and-so’s wife. I am Christ’s slave. Pray do not look down upon my shabby clothes, for I could make more of myself if I would. I have made this clear to you so that you may not fall under legal charges without knowing the reason.” . . . 7.  On the letter, see Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 180–82; Martin, Athanase, 791. 8.  Lenski, “Valens and the Monks,” 97–99. Because of the web of chronological linkage, this suggestion has implications for the chronology of an array of texts and events, not least of which is Peter’s letter cited above. Note that this alternate chronology was anticipated in part, albeit noncommittally, on the basis of other data by Nicole Moine, “Melaniana,” Recherches augustiniennes 15 (1980): 10–25. 9.  For the earlier date, see Rochelle Snee, “Valens’ Recall of the Nicene Exiles and AntiArian Propaganda,” GRBS 26 (1985): 395–419; Lenski, Failure of Empire, 261. For the later: Martin, Athanase, 797–801; Timothy D. Barnes, “The Collapse of the Homoeans in the East,” StPatr 29 (1997): 3–16.

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Several points warrant discussion. For one thing, this is the only source that speaks of the Egyptians’ being “near” or “around” Sepphoris, not in the city itself. For another, the names and numbers of exiled Christians are not consistent with what we find elsewhere. Palladius names 6 banished monks and then alludes to another 12 bishops and priests. Peter’s encyclical speaks merely of 11 bishops, a statement confirmed independently by a letter to the bishops preserved by Epiphanius, complete with a list of 11 names: Eulogius, Adelphius, Alexander, Ammonius, Harpocration, Isaac, Isidore, Anoubion, Pitimus, Euphratius, and Aaron.11 Returning to Palladius, we observe that Isidore, Pisimius (= Pitimus), and Adelphius are shared with Epiphanius’s list, Ammonius Parotes (one of the so-called “Tall Brothers”) is apparently not the Ammonius of Epiphanius,12 and Paphnutius and Pambo are also unique to Palladius. There is no way to resolve these inconsistencies without assuming that one or more of these testimonies is faulty or incomplete. Pambo’s appearance is surely an error, given the fact that, at the time, he was dead and buried in Egypt.13 As for the rest, there is nothing implausible about the presence of Egyptian monks in Sepphoris above and beyond the 11 bishops of Peter and Epiphanius, though it is difficult to justify the number 12 cited by Palladius. Several of our sources speak not only of bishops but also of presbyters and deacons in Sepphoris. The complex textual history of the Historia Lausiaca must also be taken into account. Remarkably, according to the manuscript tradition of Butler’s B version there were no fewer than 126 Nitrian bishops, presbyters, clerics, and monks in Diocaesarea. An independent source may confirm, at least in broadest outline, Palladius’s account of the charity and subsequent arrest of Melania by the governor of Palestine in Sepphoris. In the year 400, Paulinus of Nola composed his own panegyric of Melania, which he addressed to Sulpicius Severus:   During the notorious reign of Valens . . . Melania was the leader or companion of all who stood fast for the faith. She gave refuge to fugitives or accompanied those arrested. . . . 10.  History Lausiaca 46. For the Greek, see Cuthbert Butler, The Lausiac History of Palladius (repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1967), 2:134–35. The English translation is that of Robert T. Meyer, The Lausiac History (ACW 34; New York: Newman, 1964), 123–24. 11. Epiphanius, Panarion 72.11.1 (GCS 37:265). Basil of Caesarea sent a letter of his own (Letter 265) to three of these bishops in Sepphoris: Eulogius, Alexander, and Harpocration (for Harpocration, see the critical apparatus in Yves Courtonne, ed., Saint Basile: Lettres [Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1966], 3:127). Adelph(i)us and Isidore are mentioned by name in a letter sent by the bishops in Sepphoris to the monks of Nitria. The letter is found in Facundus of Hermiane’s Pro defensione trium capitulorum 4.2.48 (CCSL 90A:116). All these sources are discussed at greater length below. 12. Martin, Athanase, 794 n. 11. 13.  Adelheid Wellhausen, Die lateinische Übersetzung der Historia Lausiaca des Palladius (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 17 n. 65.

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  She was ordered to be haled forth for holding the state law in contempt and to suffer the fate awaiting her hidden protégés unless she agreed to produce them. . . . Though she had not anticipated arrest, she flew along before her would-be escort to the judge’s tribunal. His respect for the woman before him troubled him, and his surprise at her bold faith caused him to drop his heretical rage.   About the same time she fed five thousand monks, who lay in hiding, for three days with her own bread, so that by her hand the Lord Jesus again fed in the desert the same number as of old. . . .14   But Melania did not fear arrest. Untroubled she provided the assistance which was forbidden.15

It is generally assumed that this passage refers to the same events as those described by Palladius. The description of Melania’s arrest and trial are indeed reminiscent of what we found in the Historia Lausiaca.16 On the other hand, we should note some of the outstanding differences between the sources. Paulinus names no names and makes no mention of where these events took place. He speaks of Melania’s hiding and feeding fugitives, not of illegally serving monks already sentenced to exile. Particularly striking and farfetched is the account of the 5,000 monks fed in hiding. This astronomical sum, compared explicitly with a biblical miracle, cannot be taken seriously. But does it reflect in any way the presence of some large but more plausible number of persecuted Christians in Sepphoris? Not necessarily. In other contexts, Palladius refers twice to a total of 5,000 monks on the mountain of Nitria.17 The use of the same number by Paulinus may indicate that, without regard to the order of events, he has conflated descriptions of two stages of bold acts of charity by Melania: first for the hunted masses of Nitrian monks and then for the individuals whom she accompanied in exile to Sepphoris.18 14.  See Matt 14:21 and parallels. 15.  Letter 29.11 (CSEL 29:257–58). The translation is that of P. G. Walsh, Letters of St. Pau­ linus of Nola (ACW 36; New York: Newman, 1967), 2:113–14. 16.  See, for example, Butler, Lausiac History, 2:223; Francis X. Murphy, “Melania the Elder: A Biographical Note,” Traditio 5 (1947): 69. Murphy doubts whether Melania remained in Sepphoris throughout the entire period of the Nitrian exile and conjectures that she made occasional visits to Jerusalem. 17.  Historia Lausiaca 7.13 (ed. Butler, 25, 37). In the additions to his translation of Eusebius’s Historia ecclesiastica, Rufinus writes that Lucius, the Homoian bishop of Alexandria, attacked 3,000 or more monks in the Nitrian Desert (Historia ecclesiastica 11.3 [GCS n.s. 6/2:1004]). In his description of Paula’s pilgrimage to Palestine and Egypt in 385, Jerome mentions “thousands” of monks in the Nitrian Desert (Letter 108.14 [CSEL 55:324–25]). There Paula encountered the confessor Isidore, who, as we have seen, had been among the exiled bishops at Sepphoris. 18.  In a letter sent to Rufinus in Nitria from Antioch ca. 375, Jerome mentions making the acquaintance of Melania’s servant Hylas (Letter 3.3 [CSEL 54:15]). Some speculate that Hylas was sent by Melania to Syria to aid Egyptians in exile. See Moine, “Melaniana,” 18–19; Stefan Rebenich, Hieronymus und sein Kreis: Prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1992), 82–83. In the same letter, Jerome writes that he has received word of Rufinus’s whereabouts from an Alexandrian monk sent on a mission to assist Egyptian

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For several years, the bishops at Sepphoris constituted a significant hub in the ecumenical network of church politics and doctrinal debate. They were embroiled in a number of the pressing controversies of the day, besides the conflict between Homoian and Nicene Christians. Their stature was such that they attracted petitioners and correspondents who sought their approbation or, in the case of Basil of Caesarea, who wished to dispute respectfully.19 I open the survey with a letter from the disciples of Marcellus of Ancyra preserved in the Panarion of Epiphanius.20 Marcellus, a staunch anti-Arian who died in 374 or 375, stood accused of being a Sabellian heretic. After describing the Marcellian “heresy,” Epiphanius writes that “orthodox persons, brethren of mine and confessors, say that they have received a confessional statement in defense of Marcellus’ faith from some of the disciples he left behind him.” We see that Epiphanius was in communion with the Egyptian bishops of Sepphoris.21 He proceeds to quote the letter from the Marcellians of the church of Ancyra, written in 375 or 376,22 which opens with a greeting “to the most reverend and holy bishops in Diocaesarea who have been banished for the orthodox faith in our Savior Jesus Christ,” after which 11 bishops are named, as noted above. Before declaring their Nicene orthodoxy, the Marcellians allude to a recent visit to the bishops: “While we were staying with your Reverences, far from our aforementioned fatherland,23 during the visit we fittingly made you, we were asked by your Holinesses how we hold the faith that is in us.” confessors (Letter 3.2 [CSEL 54:13]). The fact that the monk reached Antioch suggests that he was sent to the exiles in Syria, not in Sepphoris. 19.  See Jerome, Letter 15.2 (CSEL 54:64). In this letter to Damasus (ca. 376), Jerome points to “the Egyptian confessors” (apparently the bishops of Sepphoris) as benchmarks of orthodoxy in the East. For a dissenting opinion on the identity of these confessors, see Ekkehard Mühlenberg, Apollinaris von Laodicea (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), 55 n. 1. 20. Epiphanius, Panarion 72.10–11 (GCS 37:265–66). The translation is that of Frank Williams, The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis: Books II and III (Sects 47–80, De Fide) (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 430–32. 21.  Compare Epiphanius’s visit to Eusebius of Vercelli during his exile at the home of Joseph the comes in Scythopolis. Eduard Schwartz suggests that the bishops of Diocaesarea were Epiphanius’s informants for some of the material presented in Books 68 and 69 of the Panarion (Schwartz, Gesammelte Schriften [5 vols.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1959], 3:87–88). For their part, the bishops acknowledged Epiphanius’s orthodoxy in a letter sent from Diocaesarea to the monks of Nitria (Facundus, Pro defensione trium capitulorum 4.2.49 [CCSL 90A:117]); this letter is discussed below. 22.  See Joseph T. Lienhard, “Basil of Caesarea, Marcellus of Ancyra, and ‘Sabellius,’” Church History 58 (1989): 164–65; idem, “Ousia and Hypostasis: The Cappadocian Settlement and the Theology of ‘One Hypostasis,’” in The Trinity: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Trinity (ed. S. Davis, D. Kendall, and G. O’Collins; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 116–17. Lienhard wavers between the two dates. 23.  This is the meaning of ἀπὸ τῆς προειρημένης ἡμετέρας πατρίδος. The reference is to Ancyra, mentioned in the letter’s opening paragraph. Williams’s translation, ‘your Reverences our countrymen’, makes no sense (The Panarion of Epiphanius).

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We read in a letter sent by Basil of Caesarea in 377 to “Eulogius, Alexander and Harpocration, exiled bishops of Egypt,” that the bishops of Sepphoris ultimately consented to receive the Marcellians into communion.24 Basil begins the letter, delivered by his deacon Elpidius, with an inversion of the biblical typology of exile: For behold, after the Lord has removed your Charities from the regions of Egypt, He led you into the midst of Palestine and established you there in imitation of the Israel of old, by leading whom through captivity into the land of Assyria, He extinguished the idolatry there by the visit of His holy ones. So now also, if we consider the matter in this way, we find that the Lord, by placing before you the contest for the true religion, has opened up to you by means of your exile a stadium of blessed struggles, and to those who have met with your noble principles He has given visible examples for salvation.

This exodus from Egypt to Palestine, rather than liberating the bishops from slavery, brought them into exile, yet their exile could be for the greater good in the battle against heresy. Basil proceeds to encourage the bishops in their opposition to the teachings of Apollinaris of Laodicea, but in the second part of his letter he chastises them for having received the Marcellians into communion without first consulting other ecclesiastical authorities. For Basil, this was a stumbling block in the way of his larger program for unifying the church and healing its schisms.25 Though the Marcellians loomed large in Basil’s personal agenda, Apollinaris and his teachings were far more significant and controversial in the intellectual landscape of the time.26 An original thinker and prolific author, Apollinaris could count Jerome of Stridon among his pupils at Antioch, though Jerome would later repudiate his erstwhile teacher as a heretic. His Christology was censured at a synod in Rome organized by Damasus in 377, and the ecclesiastical offensive against him and his teachings led to the suppression of most of his writings. Their perceived threat is evident in the polemics that they aroused well into the sixth century. Apollinaris wrote to the Egyptian bishops, seeking communion, but received no reply. The letter is now lost, but we know of it from Apollinaris’s second letter to “the honorable lords, the bishops in Diocaesarea.”27 He disingenuously suggests that their silence was a result of the prolixity of his first letter, so trying again, he reiterates his 24.  Basil of Caesarea, Letter 265. For the Greek, see Courtonne, Saint Basile, 3:127–33. The translation is that of Roy J. Deferrari, Saint Basil: The Letters (LCL 270; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1961), 4:104–19. 25.  See Lienhard, “Basil of Caesarea,” 164–65; Martin, Athanase, 803–6. In Letter 266 to Peter of Alexandria, still in Rome, Basil alludes to Letter 265 and to his rebuke of the Egyptian bishops over their handling of the appeal of the Marcellians. 26. Hans Lietzmann, Apollinaris von Laodicea und seine Schule (Tübingen: Mohr, 1904), 1–42; Mühlenberg, Apollinaris von Laodicea, 26–63. 27.  The second letter is preserved in Leontius of Byzantium, Adversus fraudes Apollinaristarum, PG 86:1969–72 = Lietzmann, Apollinaris von Laodicea, 255–56. Leontius reports that he copied the text from a manuscript found in the library of Andreas, bishop of Sidon. See Mühlenberg, Apollinaris von Laodicea, 93–95.

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doctrine of Incarnation. Subsequently, the bishops acknowledged his overtures, but the outcome was not as Apollinaris had wished. Facundus of Hermiane preserves a letter aduersus Apollinarem from “the Egyptian bishops exiled to Diocaesarea under Valens” to the monks of Nitria.28 In it they write: It is truly strange that Apollinaris, having received such a letter in our name and having received as he wished a special letter in the name of Adelphus and Isidore, held us in such contempt as to dare afterwards to make charges against the blameless and pious archbishop of Antioch, Paulinus, who had been in communion with our thrice blessed pope Athanasius and all the orthodox bishops of the West.

At issue was not only the question of Apollinaris’s orthodoxy, but the political conflict that plagued Antioch, where a schism in the church pitted three competing bishops against each other: Paulinus, Meletius, and Vitalis the Apollinarian. Paulinus enjoyed the support of Athanasius, Peter, and the other Egyptian bishops, as well as that of Damasus in Rome and the churches of the West. The letter continues to describe how the exiled bishops examined Apollinaris’s teaching on the Incarnation and found them unacceptable. They note further his attacks against Epiphanius and Diodorus of Tyre,29 both of whom had enjoyed communion with Athanasius and whose credentials were thus in good order. The bishops of Sepphoris were not impressed. Basil’s remarks of encouragement to the bishops and his attack on Apollinaris in Letter 265 of the year 377 should be read in light of all these exchanges. Basil did not limit himself, however, to a critique of Christology, but turned also to Apollinaris’s “Jewish” eschatology: He proclaims the renewal of the temple afresh, and the observance of the worship according to the law, and again a typical high priest after we have had the true high priest, and a sacrifice for sin after we have had the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world; and partial baptisms after the one baptism, and a heifer’s ashes sprinkling the Church, which through faith in Christ has not spot or wrinkle or any such thing, and cleansing of leprosy after we have had the painless state of the resurrection; and an offering of jealousy, when they neither marry nor are joined in marriage; shew-bread after the Bread from heaven; burning-lamps after the true light; and, in short, if the law of the commandments has now been abolished in 28.  Pro defensione trium capitulorum 4.2.47–50 (CCSL 90A:116–17). See Facundus d’Her­ miane: Défense des trois chapitres (à Justinien) (SC 478; Paris: Cerf, 2005), 2/1:170–73, with translation and notes by Anne Fraïsse-Bétoulières. Fraïsse-Bétoulières dates the letter of Apollinaris copied by Leontius later than the letter of the Egyptian bishops brought by Facundus, contrary to the opinion of most scholars. According to Luise Abramowski, “Reste von Theodorets Apologie für Diodor und Theodor bei Facundus,” TUGAL 63 = StPatr 1 (1957): 63, the letter was copied from the lost Apologia pro Diodoro et Theodoro of Theodoretus of Cyrrhus. 29.  On Diodorus of Tyre versus Diodorus of Tarsus, see Mühlenberg, Apollinaris von Laodicea, 55. Fraïsse-Bétoulières understands the passage as referring to the latter (Défense des trois chapitres, 2/1:173).

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dogmas, clearly some day the dogmas of Christ will be made void in the injunctions of the law.

I will return to the problem of Apollinaris’s eschatology in the second part of this paper. The dossier of correspondence closes with a letter sent to Sepphoris from Rome by Peter of Alexandria. It also is preserved by Facundus, who brings several fragments of what is apparently a single letter. According to Facundus, the first fragment is from a letter sent by Peter “to the bishops, presbyters and deacons residing in exile on account of the true faith”;30 the second fragment is described as having been written by Peter “to the bishops, presbyters and deacons who had been exiled to Diocaesarea under the emperor Valens.”31 In the first, Peter consults with the bishops over the proper response to Timothy, the Apollinarian bishop of Berytus, who sought to anathematize him, Basil of Caesarea, Paulinus, Epiphanius, and Diodorus. In the second, Peter invokes the Pseudo-Athanasian Letter to the Antiochenes, from which he quotes several passages.32 Peter’s letter should be understood in the context of Damasus’s Roman synod of 377, which condemned the teachings of Apollinaris.33 Yet another significant event in the history of the church in Palestine might be connected with the bishops of Sepphoris. In the days when Lucius still occupied the see of Alexandria, the Saracen queen Mavia chose a certain holy man named Moses to serve as bishop of the Arabs. Brought before Lucius, Moses refused consecration at the hands of the Homoian bishop. According to Rufinus, Lucius was forced to capitulate and allowed Moses to be consecrated by the bishops whom he himself had driven into exile.34 This certainly seems to imply the bishops of Sepphoris.35 On the other hand, Socrates writes that Moses was consecrated at ‘the mountain’ (τὸ ὄρος), 30.  Pro defensione trium capitulorum 4.2.14–15 (CCSL 90A:109–10). According to Abram­ owski (“Reste von Theodorets Apologie,” 62), Facundus’s source is again the lost Apologia pro Diodoro et Theodoro of Theodoretus. 31.  Pro defensione trium capitulorum 11.2.3 (CCSL 90A:334). See Facundus d’Hermiane: Défense des trois chapitres (à Justinien) (SC 499; Paris: Cerf, 2006), 4:38–41. 32.  On this source, see the note of Fraïsse-Bétoulières in ibid., 4:36–37. 33. Lietzmann, Apollinaris von Laodicea, 27. Theodoretus (Historica ecclesiastica 5.10) brings a letter of Damasus to the bishops of the East that mentions the condemnation of Timothy in Peter’s presence. For a critique of the suggestion that the letter was in fact addressed to the bishops of Sepphoris, see Charles Pietri, Roma christiana: Recherches sur l’Eglise de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte III (311–440) (Rome: École française de Rome, 1976), 841–42. 34.  Rufinus’s account is found in his additions to Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica 11.6 (GCS n.s. 6.2:1011–12). On Mavia and Moses, see Irfan Shahîd, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fourth Century (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1984), 152–58; Zeev Rubin, “On Mavia, Queen of the Saracens,” Cathedra 47 (1988): 25–49 [Hebrew]; Theresia Hainthaler, Christliche Araber vor dem Islam (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 37–40. 35.  See Alphonse Couret, La Palestine sous les empereurs grecs, 326–636 (Grenoble: Allier, 1869), 74; Martin, Athanase, 796–97. Sozomen reports the exile under Lucius of the bishop Melas of Rhinocorura, without saying explicitly that he joined the Nitrian bishops in Sepphoris

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which, with all due respect to the elevation of Sepphoris, would be an odd way of describing that city in the absence of any other indication.36 The details of the consecration of Moses remain unresolved, but the connection to Sepphoris stands as an intriguing possibility. Why were the Egyptian bishops exiled to Sepphoris, of all places? The encyclical letter of Peter of Alexandria written at the beginning of the persecutions suggests the reason. Peter writes that the bishops were banished to “a city called Diocaesarea, inhabited by the Jews, killers of the Lord [τῶν κυριοκτόνων Ἰουδαίων].”37 Their exile was analogous to that of the Egyptian monks who were banished, as Theodoretus reports, to an island of idolaters; it may also be compared to the exile of the 19 presbyters and deacons who were deported, as Peter describes, from Alexandria to Heliopolis/Baalbek, a city of pagans.38 We should also recall the considerable evidence for a pagan presence in Sepphoris. The Egyptian confessors were condemned to surroundings both remote and uncongenial.39 For a brief period in the 70s of the fourth century, Sepphoris became a cosmopolitan Christian center of Nicene opposition. At the same time, several prominent rabbinic sages resided there, among them R. Mana, and we may imagine Jewish rabbis and Christian bishops strolling past each other along the city’s cardo.40 Nevertheless, Christian sources, though acknowledging the presence of Jews, volunteer no information about relations between the Egyptian confessors and the Jews of Sepphoris, and Jewish sources say nothing about the Egyptians.

(Historia ecclesiastica 6.31). On the exile under Valens of bishops from other provinces, see Lenski, Failure of Empire, 257–59. 36. Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica 4.34.11 (GCS n.s. 1:271). Shahîd (Byzantium and the Arabs in the Fourth Century, 155–56) argues that Moses was consecrated somewhere in Arabia. 37. Theodoretus, Historia ecclesiastica 4.22.35 (GCS n.s. 5:260). Theodoretus is the source for Cassiodorus and Epiphanius, Historia ecclesiastica tripartita 7.36 (CSEL 71:452): exilio direxerunt in civitatem Iudaeorum nomine Diocaesariam. 38. Theodoretus, Historia ecclesiastica 4.21.7–13; 4.22.22. 39.  It has recently been suggested that Sepphoris was chosen because of the orthodoxy of its Christian inhabitants and as recrimination against the Jews for their revolt under Gallus (James F. Strange, Thomas R. W. Longstaff and Dennis E. Groh, Excavations at Sepphoris, vol. 1: University of South Florida Probes in the Citadel and Villa [Leiden: Brill, 2006], 23). We are hard-pressed, however, to find any evidence for Christians in Sepphoris, let alone orthodox Christians, at the time of the Homoian persecutions. Furthermore, it goes without saying that the purpose of exile was to discomfit the confessors, not to resettle them in agreeable surroundings. It is also unlikely that the Jews of Sepphoris were earmarked by Valens for punishment on account of the events that occurred there more than 20 years before. Valens was intent on hounding Nicene Christians, not Jews. On Valens’s tolerance of the Jews, see Lenski, Failure of Empire, 238; cf. my “Jerome’s Judaizers,” JECS 9 (2001): 435–36. 40.  I have argued elsewhere that R. Mana’s presence in Sepphoris can be dated as late as the 80s of the fourth century. See my “Early Halakhic Literature” (forthcoming).

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Christianity and Synagogue Iconography in Sepphoris The results of the first part of this paper shed some light on the nature of the Christian community in Sepphoris in the generation preceding the construction of its famous synagogue, dated by the excavators to the early fifth century, though at the same time highlighting how little evidence we have for the influence of Christianity beyond the extraordinary case of the exiled Egyptian clerics.41 We found that the Jews of Sepphoris were in a better position than most to observe Christianity, not as a monolith, but as a house divided against itself. Their new Christian neighbors were, for all their stature, victims of persecution in an internecine conflict. They received, moreover, correspondence and delegations representing several participants in the great theological controversies of the day. The most important of these was Apollinaris. Several of the studies of the synagogue mosaic of Sepphoris propose interpretations based on comparisons with contemporary Christian iconography or literature. These interpretations deal in isolation with particular details of the mosaic, as well as with putative programs for the entire tableau. Generally they presume that the mosaic’s designer and at least some of the Jews who frequented the synagogue had some familiarity with the ideas and motifs found in these Christian sources and that Jewish influences were similarly at work in Christian iconography.42 This approach rests on the reasonable premise that the Jews of Byzantine Palestine in general and Sepphoris in particular could not help but be exposed to such elements, which became­—in an atmosphere of historic religious competition—increasingly prominent in their surroundings. I would like to examine more closely one of these readings of the Sepphoris mosaic. Zeev Weiss has argued that the mosaic must be seen in part as a polemical response to a Christian critique of Jewish eschatology.43 Without meaning to exclude 41.  Zeev Weiss has recently reported the discovery of the remains of a pagan temple beneath one of the churches adjacent to the cardo in the center of Sepphoris. The date and circumstances of its destruction might teach us more about the Christianization of the city. 42.  See, for example, Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, 245–56; idem, “Biblical Stories in Early Jewish Art: Jewish-Christian Polemic or Intracommunal Dialogue,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. Lee I. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center, 2004), 245–69 [Hebrew]; idem, “Reconstructing and Deconstructing Jewish Art: Between Rome and Byzantium,” Ars Judaica 3 (2007): 7–18; Rina Talgam, “Similarities and Differences between Synagogue and Church Mosaics in Palestine during the Byzantine and Umayyad Periods,” in From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine and Zeev Weiss; Journal of Roman Archaeology supplement 40; Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000), 93–110; eadem, “Comments on the Jewish-Christian Dialogue in the Mosaic Floor of the Sepphoris Synagogue,” in And Let Them Make Me a Sanctuary: Synagogues from Ancient Times to the Present Day (ed. Y. Eshel et al.; Ariel: College of Judea and Samaria, 2004), 77–86 [Hebrew]; Herbert L. Kessler, “The Sepphoris Mosaic and Christian Art,” in From Dura to Sepphoris, 65–82. 43. Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, 252–55; idem, “Biblical Stories,” 265–69.

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the possibility of such an interpretation, I would like to qualify and temper this conclusion with a few cautionary remarks. Weiss contrasts Christian typological interpretations of the Tabernacle and the Temple cult with Jewish hopes for their concrete restoration at the end of days. The representations of Aaron, the altar and its sacrifices, the showbread table, the water basin, the baskets of firstfruits—all of these are, according to this interpretation, declarations of faith in the ultimate renewal of the cult in conscious opposition to Christian claims of their obsolescence and of the emptiness of Jewish hopes for the end of days. When making such comparisons, in the analysis of written texts no less than in the interpretation of iconography, one must recognize that there is scarcely a biblical verse for which one cannot find opposing cases of exegesis among Christians and Jews. This poses a methodological hazard for the historian, for whom the contrasts are necessary but insufficient for demonstrating polemical intent, since by and large the internal dynamics of a given religious system’s underlying assumptions are sufficient to explain the emergence of the exegesis of a particular biblical locus. To show polemic, the bar must be raised, and circumstantial or explicit evidence of a confrontation, or at least of a confrontational state of mind, should be presented.44 Ostensibly, Weiss does just that by pointing (following Wilken) to Jerome’s repeated attacks on Jewish eschatology, including the hopes for restoration of the Temple, particularly in his commentaries to the Prophets. Jerome was, after all, writing roughly at the time of the construction of the synagogue in Sepphoris. Here, however, we encounter a different problem. I have argued elsewhere that Jerome’s fulminations against the eschatology of Jews and “Judaizers” must be understood first and foremost as an inner-Christian polemic against escalating Christian millenarianism in the late fourth and early fifth centuries.45 That Jerome is in fact threatened by what other Christians believe is apparent in the very passage from his Commentary on Ezekiel that Weiss cites as a proof text. Jerome prefaces his spiritual interpretation of Ezekiel 36 by saying: 44.  See especially Alon Goshen-Gottstein, “Polemicomania: Methodological Reflections on the Study of the Jewish-Christian Debate in Light of the Interpretations of the Sages and Origen of the Song of Songs,” Jewish Studies 42 (2003–  4): 119–90 [Hebrew]. Each argument for a reading of the Sepphoris mosaic (in its entirety or in part) as a polemic against Christianity must be judged on its own merits. Compare, for example, a different case made by Oded Irshai, “The Priesthood in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity,” in Continuity and Renewal (ed. Lee I. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center, 2004) 92 n. 66. 45.  Newman, “Jerome’s Judaizers,” 421–52. Cf. Martine Dulaey, “Jérôme, Victorin de Poe­ to­vio et le millénarisme,” in Jérôme entre l’Occident et l’Orient (ed. Y.-M. Duval; Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1988), 83–98; Wolfram Kinzig, “Jewish and ‘Judaizing’ Eschatologies in Jerome,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 409–29; Laurence Vianès-Abou Samra, “L’eschatologie d’Apollinaire de Laodicée à travers les Fragments sur les Psaumes,” Annali di storia dell’esegesi 21 (2004): 331–71; Michael Graves, “‘Judaizing’ Christian Interpretations of the Prophets as Seen by Saint Jerome,” Vigiliae christianae 61 (2007): 142–56.

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Let us now move on to the spiritual understanding . . . ; we do not, in accordance with the Jewish fables which they call deuteroseis, look forward to Jerusalem from heaven, bejeweled and golden, nor to suffering the injury of circumcision, nor to sacrificial offerings of bulls and sheep, nor shall we sleep in Sabbath rest, which many of our own [i.e., Christians] promise, especially Tertullian’s book entitled On the Hope of the Faithful, and volume seven of Lactantius’s Institutes, and the numerous Expositions of Victorinus, bishop of Pettau, and recently our own Severus in the dialogue which he calls Gallus, and . . . Irenaeus and Apollinaris.46

Jerome caricatures the members of this rogues’ gallery of millenarians, old and new, as Judaizers, though their own writings show them to be nothing of the sort. His repeated attacks reveal how troubling he finds the phenomenon. For our purposes, the most significant name in the list is that of Jerome’s former teacher, Apollinaris, whom we recall from our previous discussion. Earlier we saw Basil’s diatribe against Apollinaris’s “Jewish” eschatology in his letter to the bishops of Sepphoris, in which he attributed to Apollinaris the belief in the restoration of several elements that happen to be found in the Sepphoris mosaic, including the Temple/Tabernacle, high priest, sacrifices, showbread, and lamps. Though his opponents distorted his teachings, Apollinaris did believe in the ultimate reestablishment of the Temple cult. He envisioned this, however, not as the eschatological destiny of Gentile Christians but as an inferior reward promised to subaltern Jews who would accept Christ at the end of days.47 By the fifth century, even as millenarian anticipation grew, Apollinarianism in Palestine was on the wane, but it had not disappeared.48 We do not know how much the Jews of Sepphoris knew of Apollinarian eschatology, but the sources we examined above suggest that they had an opportunity to appreciate better than most how Apollinarianism had divided the church. If we really take social context seriously when hypothesizing about an iconographic message, then this too should be taken into account. The Christianity that the Jews of Sepphoris faced at the time was not uniformly inimical to their hopes of restoration. Moreover, even contemporary rhetorical attacks against Jewish eschatology serve primarily as a weapon against Apollinarian eschatology and Christian millenarianism. It is no simple matter to express the subtle possibilities of multiple intent and complex reception of a given work, whether we are dealing with a written text or a mosaic floor. I do not wish to exclude entirely the possibility of an interpretation of the Sepphoris mosaic that identifies a polemic focusing on the restoration of the Temple cult directed against Christianity, but I do think that in light of the available evidence one is entitled to be skeptical. We may, of course, distinguish between primary and secondary levels of signification. There is no denying that even a work of 46.  Commentary on Ezekiel 36:1–15 (CCSL 75:500). Cf. Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, 252–53, where, however, the reference to Christian authors has been omitted. 47.  See especially Vianès-Abou Samra, “L’eschatologie d’Apollinaire de Laodicée,” 331–71. 48.  See Lorenzo Perrone, La chiesa di Palestine e le controversie cristologiche (Brescia: Paideia, 1980), 61–63; Newman, “Jerome’s Judaizers,” 441 n. 73.

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art created without primary polemical intent might, at another level, strike in some viewers a chord of polemical resonance.49 Frequently, the archaeology of Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Palestine surprises us with realities that we did not or could not anticipate from literary sources. Thus, one of the outstanding challenges in the study of Jewish history of the period is the problem of integrating data. Synagogue mosaics, which feature so often in these discussions, are mute texts, and inevitably we try to invest them with speech by comparing them to written sources, even as we argue over choosing the most meaningful comparisons and dispute their significance. Ironically, a picture may be worth a thousand words, but in the case of synagogue mosaics many of us would admit that a few extra words would have been helpful.

49.  I take this opportunity to address briefly another question of interpretation of the Sep­ pho­ris mosaic. From surviving patches of the panel closest to the synagogue’s main entrance, Weiss reconstructs the image of a female figure standing at the entrance of a roofed structure (might the skewed picture represent the inner side of a broad doorframe?). He identifies the woman as Sarah, listening as the angels announce to Abraham the birth of a son (The Sepphoris Synagogue, 153–61). The objection has been raised that this interpretation is untenable because the biblical narrative in Genesis 18 describes Sarah standing in the entrance of a tent, not a proper house (Seth Schwartz, “On the Program and Reception of the Synagogue Mosaics,” in From Dura to Sepphoris, 169 = idem, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 to 640 [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001], 251). Strictly speaking, this is true, but I believe that Weiss’s interpretation remains defensible. If we examine postbiblical descriptions of Abraham’s dwelling in Mamre, we find it is often described as a house, even a substantial house. Jubilees frequently refers to a “house” or a baris of Abraham, the latter term probably rendering the Hebrew bira (‫)בירה‬, which is precisely what is found in the Aramaic Levi Document (‫)בירת אברהם‬. Bira may describe a large house surrounding a courtyard; in some contexts it has the sense of “fortress” (Paul Mandel, “‘Bira’ as an Architectural Term in Rabbinic Literature,” Tarbiz 61 [1992]: 195–217 [Hebrew]). The Testament of Abraham also refers to a “house” of Abraham. See Jonas C. Greenfield, Michael E. Stone, Esther Eshel, The Aramaic Levi Document (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 70, 153–54; cf. Henryk Drawnel, An Aramaic Wisdom Text from Qumran: A New Interpretation of the Levi Document (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 121. We read in Genesis Rabbah that, according to R. Nehemiah, when the Bible says that Abraham “resided in Elonei Mamre” (Gen 14:13), it means that he resided in the palace (‫)פלטין‬ of Mamre (Gen. Rab. 41:8 [ed. J. Theodor and C. Albeck; Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1965], 414–15). Particularly relevant in terms of both content and provenance is the liturgical poem of Shimon b. Megas, whose piyyut on Genesis 18 describes Abraham as inviting the angels to his ‘house’ (‫)בית‬ at Mamre (Joseph Yahalom, Liturgical Poems of Šimʿon bar Megas: Critical Edition with Commentary and Introduction [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1984], 67: ‫גדודים בחזותם‬ ‫)בית קראתם‬. Finally, note that, in his description of the holy site of Mamre, Sozomen (Historia ecclesiastica 2.4.5 [GCS 50:55]) writes that there were no houses (οἰκήματα) there except for ‘those next to the oak itself belonging to Abraham long ago’ (οὐκ ἔχων οἰκήματα ἢ μόνον τὰ παρ᾽ αὐτὴν τὴν δρῦν πάλαι τοῦ Ἀβραὰμ γενόμενα). I understand πάλαι τοῦ Ἀβραὰμ to refer to the οἰκήματα, though some translators take it to refer to the oak; cf. Evaristus Mader, Mambre: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen im heiligen Bezirk Râmet el-Halîl in Südpalestina, 1926–1928 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Wewel, 1957), text vol., 296. In light of these sources, the mosaic remains at Sepphoris may plausibly be seen as representing Sarah in the doorway of a house.

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Archaeology rivets us with the novelty of its revelations and with its tangibility. Precisely for this reason, I conclude with a modest reminder of what we all know though sometimes tend to forget: material remains, as much as they enrich our understanding, can never tell us all we need to know of historical events and phenomena, many of which probably never left a material imprint of the sort that we would be able to identify in the first place, even if we could uncover every artifact (which we cannot). Material traces of the Egyptian bishops of Sepphoris, for example, have yet to be found, but the rich paper trail they left behind shows them to have been as real as any mosaic floor. We are all engaged in the restoration of a mosaic of sorts, burdened by the knowledge that so many pieces—literary and material—are missing.

The Humanistic Evaluation of Religion E. P. Sanders Arts and Sciences Professor Emeritus of Religion, Duke University

Introduction One evening in the 1980s, I had the opportunity of playing host to Geoffrey de Ste. Croix 1 at The Queen’s College, Oxford. He arrived a few minutes before the meal, and we had a glass of sherry in my room. Almost immediately, he told me something of his upbringing: his mother was a devout Christian who had drilled the stories of the Bible into his head. He proceeded to narrate one of them to me, often echoing the language of the King James (or Authorized) version of the Bible. Unfortunately I do not remember which story from Joshua he chose, but it was one of the horrific narratives of the extirpation of the populace of a Canaanite town or village. He then said to me, “That is the God you believe in.” My response was that all religions are human creations and that in long-lasting religions the ideas of God change, no less in Judaism and Christianity than in ancient Greece. It surprised him that a professor in the Faculty of Theology would say that all religions are human institutions, but the rest of our conversation is immaterial. Geoffrey had offered a humanistic criticism of the God of the Bible. The implication was that anyone who belongs to a religion in which God acts the way he does in Joshua is a member of an organization that is immoral at its roots. The principal purpose of this essay is to suggest that the nineteenth-century Christian criticism of Judaism (which continues in a modified form) owes its character not only to the Reformation (as has been widely recognized) but also to the 1.  G. E. M. de Ste. Croix (1910–2000), whose two best-known works are The Origins of the Peloponnesian War (London: Duckworth, 1972) and The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981). De Ste. Croix was for many years a fellow of New College, Oxford.

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Enlightenment of the eighteenth century. In brief, the character of criticism changed from dogmatic to humanistic. I wish also, however, to give some of the history of humanistic evaluations of religion, which has ancient roots. All but one of the examples will illustrate negative assessments. The word humanistic in this essay has a very general sense. It does not refer to the studia humanitatis of the Italian Renaissance (grammar, rhetoric, moral philosophy, and so on) 2 but, rather, to any sort of argument about religion in which there is an assumption of commonly agreed moral and humane standards that are independent of any particular religion or culture. I have identified five main types of humanistic criticism of religion, but I make no claim that this list is comprehensive: (1) the God or gods in question are immoral (Geoffrey de Ste. Croix’s criticsm); (2) God or the gods require human immorality; (3) certain theological beliefs necessarily lead to human immorality; (4) some theological beliefs are injurious to people and make them bad humans (though not necessarily immoral); (5) religion indirectly encourages immorality because it promises atonement and salvation without requiring moral reform: hypocrisy is tacitly accepted. Humanistic criteria may be brought forward in defense of a religion: our religion makes us good people. Not infrequently humanistic defense of one’s own religion accompanies similar criticism of some other religion. Humanistic criticism is to be contrasted with creedal, theological, or dogmatic criticism, which dominated most of Christian history. It began early. In Rom 9:32, Paul writes that the Jews “stumbled over the stumbling stone.” He quotes Isa 28:16: “Behold I am laying in Zion a stone that will make people stumble . . . and he who believes in it will not be put to shame.” This stone, Paul thinks, is Jesus Christ, and the Jews, by not believing in “it”—the stone, which Paul understands to mean in “him,” Jesus—have stumbled. In this passage, the failure of Israel is failure to believe in Jesus as the Messiah or Christ and Son of God. This is a straightforward and accurate theological or dogmatic criticism. As everyone knows, the human brain requires comparisons and contrasts: we understand ourselves, our parents, our culture, our nation, and our religion by saying what they are like and what they are not like. Many of these contrasts are crudely stated as polar opposites, though more careful analysis might reveal shades of gray. Polar contrasts are common because they are useful: each pole can be reduced to a slogan, and so we can speak in shorthand. Today some Christians speak casually of the “Old Testament God” and the “New Testament God,” meaning by the first (I suppose) the God of Joshua and by the second the God of the Sermon on the Mount (“love your enemy,” “turn the other cheek”). This ignores, on the one hand, the God of the Psalms and Isaiah and, on the other, the God of the book of Revelation (or the Apocalypse)—who is even more bloody-minded than the God of Joshua. 2.  See, for example, Charles G. Nauert, Humanism and the Culture of Renaissance Europe (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2006), 8–13.

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These polarizing slogans are neither accurate nor helpful, but to many people they are convenient and rhetorically potent. They seem to be used principally to define positively who the speaker is (for example, a follower of the “New Testament God”), though they are also polemical. We shall find some important polar opposites in what follows. I shall give a few examples or make a few comments on each type of criticism in the ancient world before turning to the eighteenth century (which paved the way for nineteenth-century criticism).

The Ancient World The Gods Are Immoral 1. The Greek criticism of the behavior of the gods in the poets (Homer and Hesiod) is, as far as I know, the beginning of the humanistic evaluation of religion. According to Walter Burkert, it goes back at least to Solon (seventh–sixth centuries b.c.e.), to whom is attributed a saying that may already have been proverbial: “Much the poets lie,” presumably because they attribute immoral activities to the gods. 3 A statement of Xenophanes of Colophon (sixth–fifth century b.c.e.) is clearer and more comprehensive: “Homer and Hesiod have attributed to the gods all things which among men are reproach and blame: stealing, adultery and mutual deception.” 4 Despite withering criticism, the Greek gods survived in worship extremely well, and the old religions proved hard to eradicate when Christians began governing the empire. The ancient cults had in their favor custom and tradition, as well as social pleasure and civic usefulness. Metaphysical speculation could incorporate belief in a supernatural being, and allegory or symbolism could reinterpret the unpalatable parts of the poetic works. Plato provides a good example of how an intellectual could preserve religion. In the Republic, he argued that children should be taught “the true quality of God” (2.379A), although he favored “censorship over our story-makers,” who teach opinions that are undesirable for children to hold when they grow up (2.377B–383C). In The Laws, he left the traditional religion of the polis intact (e.g., 5.738C–D, 6.759A–C, 8.848D). 5 2. The principal figure from the ancient world who criticized the god of the Hebrew Bible as immoral was Marcion, a second-century Christian who was later branded a heretic. Marcion was impressed by the amount of evil and unhappiness in 3.  Walter Burkert, Greek Religion (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985; hereafter cited as Burkert), 246; referring to Solon, Fragment 29 in M. L. West, Iambi et Elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum cantati, vol. 2: Editio altera (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). 4.  Burkert, 246, citing Xenophanes in H. Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (3 vols.; 6th ed.; rev. W. Kranz; Berlin: Weidmann, 1951), 21 B 11. 5.  On moral criticisms, see Burkert, 246–50; on philosophical criticisms from Sophists and atheists, see pp. 311–17; on the “deliverance” of the old religion by cosmic religion and metaphysics, see pp. 317–32; on Plato’s Laws, pp. 332–37.

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the world. He agreed that the god of Hebrew Scripture is the creator of the world, but he emphasized that god’s immorality: for example, he advised the Hebrews to steal from the Egyptians before the exodus. A higher God sent Jesus, who saves those who reject the world: celibates, eunuchs, and widows who remained chaste. 6 God or the Gods Require Obvious Immorality An orgiastic cult might be accused under this heading, but I shall mention only accusations of human sacrifice or cannibalism: Plutarch accused the Gauls, the Scythians, “and above all the Carthaginians” of human sacrifice. 7 Hadrian prohibited human sacrifice in Cyprus. 8 Damocritus stated that every seventh year the Jews “caught a foreigner and sacrificed him. They used to kill him by carding his flesh into small pieces.” 9 Beginning in the second century c.e., Christian apologists such as Athenagoras had to defend their religion against charges of incest and cannibalism (as well as atheism). 10 It appears that human sacrifice actually did continue in some parts of the ancient world, though not in Judaism and Christianity. 11 Here the point is not the accuracy of the charge but the fact that in the Roman Empire it was accepted as obvious that human sacrifice was evil, and some religions were thought to require it, for which they were morally condemned. Certain Theological Beliefs Lead to Human Immorality The logic of the position has never been entirely clear to me, but the author of the Wisdom of Solomon and Paul asserted that idolatry (a theological error) necessarily led to various immoral activities, especially sexual sins. “The idea of making idols was the beginning of sexual immorality” (porneia; Wis 14:12). 12 A long list of diverse sins then follows (14:22–29). 13 Paul attempts a causal connection between 6.  The best short treatment of Marcion is Henry Chadwick, The Church in Ancient Society: From Galilee to Gregory the Great (Oxford History of the Christian Church; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 89–92. 7.  Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1976–84), 1:547, citing Plutarch, De Superstitione 13. Hereafter cited as Stern. 8.  Stern, 2:621, citing Lactantius, Divinae Institutiones 1.21.1. 9.  Stern, 1:531. He tentatively dates Damocritus to the first century c.e. 10. Athenagoras, A Plea [or Supplication] Regarding Christians, in (for example) The Library of Christian Classics, vol. 1 (ed. Cyril Richardson; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1953), 300–340. 11.  Literary accusations of human sacrifice and/or cannibalism are notoriously difficult to evaluate, since they may be only cultural polemic. There is a brief account of archaeological evidence in favor of infant sacrifice in Henry Hurst, “Carthage: The Punic City,” in Origins: The Roots of European Civilisation (ed. Barry Cunliffe; London: BBC Books, 1987), 144–47. See recently Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition (ed. Karin Finsterbusch, Armin Lange, and K. F. Diethard Römheld in association with Lance Lazar; Numen Book Series 112; Leiden: Brill, 2006). 12.  David Winston provides several parallels: The Wisdom of Solomon (AB 43; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979), 271–72. 13.  For a wealth of references to discussions of idolatry, see ibid., 247–80; for the list of vices, see p. 280 n. 25.

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idolatry and sexual transgressions: since polytheists “exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped . . . the creature rather than the Creator,” therefore God gave them up to “degrading passions.” The first are sexual in nature; a list of other vices follows (Rom 1:24–32). Some Theological Beliefs Are Injurious to Humans and Make Them Bad People The Epicureans constituted the principal group that regarded the ancient civic religions of Greece and Rome as having a bad effect on humanity: they created fear of death and fear of the gods. The charge presumably goes back to Epicurus himself, but it is most easily accessible in the great work of Lucretius, On the Nature of Things. 14 Before Epicurus, humanity was oppressed: it lay “throughout the lands . . . miserably crushed beneath religion [sub religione].” Since the teaching of Epicurus, however, “religion now is under foot.” 15 The religion in question is not what Lucretius regarded as true reverence for God but, rather, the common religious idea that the gods govern the world and mete out rewards and punishments after death. Lucretius wished to relieve humanity of the “terror of the mind,” dispelling the “gloom . . . by the . . . law of nature” (6.39–42 and elsewhere, LCL). To do this, he assured his readers that the soul was mortal and that there was nothing that the gods could do to it after death. The “gods exist, atomic compounds like everything else, but take no thought for this cosmos or any other, living an ideal life of eternal, undisturbed happiness—the Epicurean ideal. It is good for men to respect and admire them, without expecting favours or punishments from them.” 16 A Religion Indirectly Encourages Immorality Because It Promises Atonement and Salvation without Requiring Moral Behavior: Hypocrisy Is Tacitly Accepted For the purposes of this paper, individual hypocrisy is of no interest, because charges against individuals do not amount to criticism of a religion. It is, however, difficult to discern the breadth of many accusations of hypocrisy: do they apply to one or two people, a small group of the super pious, or a major segment of a population? I shall take four examples that seem to me to be broad in scope.

14.  Titus Lucretius Carus, De rerum natura. 15.  Lucretius 1.62–79. Translation by W. E. Leonard, On the Nature of Things: Lucretius (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2004), 2–3. In the LCL, religio is translated ‘superstition’ to avoid misleading the reader into thinking that Lucretius opposed all forms of religion: ET by W. H. D. Rouse (rev. Martin F. Smith; LCL 181; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992). 16.  David John Furley, “Epicurus,” The Oxford Classical Dictionary (ed. Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth; 3rd ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 532–34, quotation p. 533. Compare the article on Lucretius by Peta G. Fowler and Don P. Fowler, OCD3, 888–90. For the removal of the gods from concern with humans and the world, see Lucretius 2.645–51.

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1. We begin with the argument of Adeimantos in Plato’s Republic 2.363A– 2.367E. 17 Several of the participants challenge Socrates’ view that justice is better for the individual than injustice. Adeimantos makes three points: (a) The standard parental advice to obtain a good reputation may be construed as advice to pretend to an uprightness that one does not have (2.363A). (b) According to the poets (presumably Homer and Hesiod, though playwrights may also be included), “the gods assign to many good men misfortunes and an evil life, but to their opposites a contrary lot” (2.364B). 18 That is, one can get away with only seeming to be good and may even benefit. (c) Finally, Adeimantos points to the teaching of religion as represented not by the official civic cults but by “begging priests and soothsayers” (agurtai and manteis), who go to rich men’s doors and make them believe that they by means of sacrifices and incantations have accumulated a treasure of power from the gods that can expiate and cure with pleasurable festivals any misdeed of a man or his ancestors, and that if a man wishes to harm an enemy, at slight cost he will be enabled to injure just and unjust alike, since they [the begging priests] are masters of spells and enchantments that constrain the gods to serve their end. (2.364B–C, LCL)

He then quotes Homer to the same effect: the gods listen to entreaties and forgive the transgressions of those who bring prayers and sacrifices (2.364D). Adeimantos concludes, We had better do wrong and use part of the proceeds to offer sacrifice. By being righteous we may escape the punishment of heaven, but we shall be renouncing the profits of unrighteousness; whereas by doing wrong we shall make our profit and escape punishment into the bargain, by means of those entreaties which win over the gods when we transgress. (2.365B–366A) 19

The goal of these arguments is to force Socrates to prove that righteousness is worth having for its own sake, even if it brings no reward. Socrates finds the proof a little difficult: to produce it, he must enlarge the category. He proposes to begin by analyzing what righteousness means in a state and then to see how it might be proved that it is of intrinsic worth to the individual (2.368E–369A). We need not follow the rest of the discussion. Adeimantos’s argument contains a strong criticism of the segment of Greek religious life represented by the “begging priests and soothsayers” (plus Homer). It is not a rejection of the sacrificial cultus of the various Greek cities. 2. Similar concerns about morality and sacrifice occur in the Hebrew Bible. In view of the ground to be covered in this essay, I shall assume that it is not necessary 17.  See especially A. E. Taylor, Plato: The Man and His Work (New York: Meridian, 1956), 271–72. 18.  Text and translation by Paul Shorey, Plato: The Republic, vol. 1 (LCL 237; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1930). 19.  Translation by Francis M. Cornford, The Republic of Plato (New York: Oxford University Press, 1941), 51.

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to quote passages to prove that humans can hide neither deeds nor thoughts from God and that the sacrifices of the unrighteous are worthless in God’s sight. I have in mind such passages as Prov 15:11; Qoh 12:14; Amos 5:21–24; Hos 6:6, 10:1–2; Isa 1:11–17, 7:8–11. The prophetic passages are collective in nature and indicate a general criticism of the piety of the people (or at least the leaders) of either the Northern Kingdom (Israel, Ephraim) or the Southern Kingdom (Judah). No individual, no group of individuals, and no nation can appease God by sacrifice unless their hearts and deeds are upright. In the Hebrew Bible, Adeimantos’s suggestion that sacrifices will get transgressors off the hook would be quickly shot down. 3. Philo of Alexandria was well acquainted with and used the standard biblical and postbiblical criticism of idolatry (e.g., Decal. 52–80), which is a dogmatic criticism, but he also brought forward humanistic arguments against polytheism. I shall quote a long extract from Philo’s description of Gentile festivals. During these times, wickedness like a rushing torrent spreads over every place and invades and violates the most sacred temples (hierōn tois hagiōtatis), it straightway overturns all that is venerable in them, and as a result come sacrifices unholy, offerings unmeet, vows unfulfilled, their rites and mysteries a mockery, their piety but a bastard growth, their holiness debased, their purity impure, their truth falsehood, their worship a sacrilege. They cleanse their bodies with lustrations and purifications, but they neither wish nor practise to wash off from their souls the passions by which life is defiled. They are zealous to go to the temples white-robed, attired in spotless raiment, but with a spotted heart they pass into the inmost sanctuary and are not ashamed. And if an animal be found to be blemished or imperfect, it is driven out of the area [that had been] sprinkled from basins and is not suffered to approach the altar, though it is through no will of its own that it has any of these bodily defects. But they themselves—their souls are a mass of wounds from the hideous maladies with which the irresistible power of vice has smitten them, or rather they are mutilated, docked of their noblest parts, prudence, courage to endure, justice (dikaiosynē), piety (eusebeia) and all the other virtues of which human nature is capable. And though it is with free deliberate judgement that they have imbibed the mischief, yet they dare to handle the holy thing (hierougein tolmōsi), and think that the eye of God sees nothing but the outer world through the co-operation of the sun. (Cher. 94–96) 20

One of the most remarkable things about this passage is that for the purpose of his polemic Philo is willing to refer to polytheists performing sacred acts (hierougein) in the most sacred temples (hierōn tois hagiōtatis). In the preface to the passage, he had said that the festivals of Greek and barbarian nations are “the product of myth and fiction” and that “their only purpose is empty vanity” (Cher. 91), but in employing the rhetoric of humanistic or moral criticism he assumes the stance of a neutral critic, one who holds common values. If the hearts and minds of Gentiles were pure, their worship would be true piety (eusebeia) rather than sacrilege, and their treatment of humans would correspond to the ideal of righteousness (dikaiosynē). 20.  Translation by F. H. Colson in Philo, vol. 2 (LCL 227; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929), 65–67.

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We also note that Philo’s accusation is sweeping: apparently all Gentiles are hypocrites, lacking righteousness and piety. We shall note below that his own religion succeeds on both counts. 4. The Gospel of Matthew, ch. 23, attributes to Jesus criticisms of the Pharisees that are similar to Philo’s denunciation of Gentiles. Matt 6:1–6 contains related material, in which the objects of the criticism are specified only as “hypocrites.” Matthew 23 opens by advising Jesus’ followers to follow the Pharisees’ teaching but not their practices. Among other things, the Pharisees are accused of concealing what lies inside by external actions: “they do all their deeds to be seen by others” (23:5); they tithe mint, dill, and cumin but neglect “the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith” (23:23); they “clean the outside of the cup and the plate,” while inside they are “full of greed and self-indulgence” (23:25); they are like whitewashed tombs, fair on the outside but full of death and impurity within (23:27). According to Matthew 6, the hypocrites sound a trumpet when they give alms; they also pray in public—in synagogues and on street corners. The truly pious give alms and pray in secret (6:1–6). These passages read like the complaints of a super-pietist subgroup that has partially separated from a larger pietist group: as if the Amish were accusing the rest of the Mennonites for not being sufficiently super-pious. There is no disagreement on the teaching: one ought to tithe mint, dill, and cumin (23:23). The accusations are of outward show, failure to align the heart or soul with one’s actions, and substituting trivial acts for substantive obedience. More than once an old and dear friend, who has now passed away, objected to my view that these passages are probably not from the historical Jesus and that in any case they are invalid criticisms of the pharisaic party as a whole. He attributed them to Jesus himself and held that their validity requires only that some Pharisees were hypocritical. But these accusations, like Philo’s attack on the hypocrisy of Gentile worshipers, are meaningless if they apply only to a few individuals, since they could equally be directed against some individuals in any and every group under the sun. For them to have force, they must be at least general, even if not universal: pagans in general, Pharisees in general. As such, they must be rejected as valid historical descriptions. We can know with a good deal of certainty that many polytheists and Pharisees worshiped sincerely and lived their religion as best they could. Assessment The last category, the charge that observable upright behavior hypocritically masks an evil or morally deficient inner person is perfect polemical rhetoric: it cannot be disproved. If one cannot determine from a tree’s fruit that the tree is healthy, and must always suspect that the more a quadruped looks like a sheep, the more likely it is to be a wolf (cf. Matt 7:15–20), the person accused of being wicked within has no defense. What would constitute proof that the accusation is wrong: still more obvious indications of piety, such as giving even more money to the poor? The accusation of hypocrisy is even better than the charge of human sacrifice, which is difficult enough to refute. If a Christian who was accused of human sacrifice

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and cannibalism, for example, invited the accuser to attend a worship service where the consumption of blood and flesh was symbolic, the accuser could maintain that nevertheless the Christians had secret rites of human sacrifice. The heart is even more impenetrable than a secret society. If we wish to believe that Mr. and Mrs. Simon Guggenheim created a foundation named for their deceased son, John Simon, in order to conceal their iniquitous hearts, we may do so. If we wish to believe that Muslims who pray at the times of prayer, even if they are in public, are interested only in showing off to tourists, we may do so. Personally, I am not this skeptical. True, we all try to cover up or explain away actions and words that are embarrassing or shameful. And criminals strive not to be caught. But I have never known a person who was as thoroughly hypocritical as Uriah Heep (in Dickens’s David Copperfield), and I cannot think that major religions were based on wholesale hypocrisy. Similarly I do not believe that all idolaters committed adultery or “murder, theft and deceit, corruption, faithlessness, tumult, perjury . . .” (Wis 14:25). The immorality of the gods and unseemly reports in sacred books (such as Homer and the Bible) were often taken care of by interpretation, including especially the universal solvents: symbolism and allegory. I shall illustrate how these and other methods allowed interpreters to evaluate their own religions as being in accord with the principles of humanism. Humanistic Arguments in Defense of a Religion Jewish thinkers justified the peculiarities of Jewish Law on humanistic grounds. The author of the Letter of Aristeas drew a humane moral from the limitations on what birds were suitable to eat. The Jewish food laws forbid, among other things, birds of prey, such as eagles and falcons. The permitted birds—doves, geese, and so on—teach that humans should not abuse someone who is weaker, “nor deprive him of anything, but to govern their lives righteously, in the manner of the gentle creatures . . . that feed on . . . plants . . . and do not exercise a domination that leads to the destruction of their fellow creatures” (Let. Aris. 145–48). The only quadrupeds that can be sacrificed are domestic animals—cattle, goats, and sheep. The point of this was to ensure that Jews sacrificed only animals from their own herds, which meant that the man who presents a sacrifice makes an offering of himself (170–71). Philo explained circumcision as a practical measure that was good for hygiene and the prevention of disease (Spec. Leg. 1.4–5). Using allegory, he also argued that it represented the “excision of excessive and superfluous pleasure” (1.8–9). Pork was forbidden because it was the most succulent meat (Spec. Leg. 4.100–101). God wished to discourage gluttony, and so he prohibited the meat that was most likely to lead to this vice. All these explanations count as “humanistic.” Philo gives a moving account of Jewish sacrificial worship. The Law requires the person to be “pure in body and soul” (“soul” is not in the priestly code, but this was probably a widespread understanding). The worshiper waits outside the Temple for seven days while he or she is purified (of corpse impurity: Numbers 19). The careful scrutiny of the sacrificial victim is “a symbol representing in a figure the reformation of your own conduct.” The use of the mixture of ashes and water requires the worshiper

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to “know himself and the nature of the elements of which he is composed, ashes and water, so little worthy of esteem.” He will then turn away from pride. The body, the soul, the mind, and the heart must all be purified before entering the Temple (Spec. Leg. 1.257–70, quotations from §260 and §264, LCL). Thus, Jewish sacrifices make a person a better human being, pure within and reformed without. These explanations combine the Jewish view that all of God’s commandments are important with the need to defend their religion on humanistic grounds. The Bible covers all of life, and its defenders in the Western Diaspora wanted to preserve and observe all of it; they added fresh meaning to observance by humanistic interpretations of their laws. The Humanistic Assessment of Religion in the Ancient World: Conclusion The Greeks, the Jews, and the Christians had ancient sacred books written in whole or in part before the values of humanism entered society. As humane and moral values became increasingly accepted in society, and as definitions of morality changed, the Greeks and Jews evaluated their own practices and beliefs on humanistic and moral grounds. And, of course, when faced with other religions and cultures they employed humanistic arguments to criticize them. The alternative was to break with tradition, culture, and the sacred books. Thinking Jews did not want their armies to emulate the stories of Joshua but, rather, to save even the enemies’ fruit trees from destruction (Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.212, based on Deut 20:12–20). Thinking Greeks did not want the poets’ stories of their gods’ sexual activities and dishonesty to be the model of human society. But neither group could deny its own history or its sacred books and create an entirely new, commonly accepted set of rules and beliefs. To some degree, the Greek philosophical schools tried to replace the old beliefs, but they ended up competing with each other for relatively few followers. By interpretation, including especially humanistic interpretation, leaders of both groups saved their sacred texts. We turn now to a later age, an age that faced the issue of freshly invigorated humanism.

The Enlightenment It has become fashionable in humanities departments in U.S. universities to bash the Enlightenment. Despite its shortcomings, I am an unabashed fan. I much prefer the Enlightenment to wars of religion and to trials for heresy and witchcraft— with which it did away, at least temporarily. The Enlightenment (sometimes called the Age of Reason) was the mainstream of thought in eighteenth-century Europe and America. It fostered belief in natural law and universal order and encouraged confidence in human reason; these ideas spread to influence all of Western society. Enlightenment thinkers sought universally valid principles governing humanity,

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nature, and society. They attacked authority (crown, church, traditional customs), dogmatism, intolerance, and censorship. Like the “Deacon’s Masterpiece” of Oliver Wendell Holmes, the Enlightenment ran a hundred years to the day; fortunately its principles, unlike the deacon’s shay, did not totally disintegrate when the subsequent intellectual movement, Romanticism, succeeded it. We may date the beginning of the Enlightenment to 1689, when the Glorious Revolution in England overthrew James II, the last English-speaking king who believed that he ruled by divine right, and installed a man from the freest nation in Europe, his son-in-law William of Orange, as King William III. In the same year, and in fact in the same ship that brought William’s wife, Mary, to England, John Locke returned from exile in the Netherlands and began to publish the essays that changed British and American political thought, the Two Treatises of Government. 21 The Enlightenment ended in 1789, when the second republic founded on its principles—the French Republic—was destroyed by the Terror, which was eventually followed by a dictatorship. History since that time shows that what we now call “democracy” is difficult and requires preparation of the populace and the institutions of society. The populace needs to be accustomed to legislative bodies, courts, and armed forces that are based on the main principles of the Enlightenment: government must be by consent of the governed; people are by nature free and independent; all humans have equal rights. There was of course a long buildup to the Enlightenment, going back to diverse sources, such as the Italian Renaissance, the Reformation, the rise of religious Dissent (especially in England), and the burgeoning insistence that scientific knowledge be obtained by verifiable experiment. In some ways, the Enlightenment’s confidence in Reason rested on the very broad shoulders of Isaac Newton (1642–1727), who showed that the human mind could penetrate the mysteries of the solar system. Scientific success was proved by its predictive power: soothsayers had a low success rate, but science began to acquire a high success rate. Newton’s friend, disciple, prodder, and supporter, Edmond Halley (1656–1743), published a map predicting the progress of a coming solar eclipse. When the eclipse took place as predicted, and the moon’s shadow fell on each part of England at the time predicted, the response was dramatic. Later, of course, Halley’s comet would also return more-or-less when predicted. 22 Reason worked. Reason was also necessary for commerce. As trade became more international, legal questions could not be settled by appeal to the decree of a European king or even by appeal to revealed law in the Christian Bible, since Muslims and inhabitants of the Far East acknowledged neither authority. And so began the search for “natural law,” a law that rested on reason and covered all human beings. Natural law became an essential component of the Enlightenment and was soon joined by 21.  See Peter Laslett, ed., Locke: Two Treatises of Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 22.  James Gleick, Isaac Newton (New York: Pantheon, 2003), 178.

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natural rights—rights that belong to humans as humans, whether or not a monarch or a religious institution has graciously bestowed them. It followed that religion should be interpreted and modified in accord with Reason. At the end of the Enlightenment period, in 1793, Immanuel Kant published Religion innherhalb der Grenzen der blossen Vernunft, but the idea was much earlier. Christian dogma had fallen into disrepute. The least rational of its doctrines—the Trinity, the incarnation of the second person of the Trinity in Jesus, and the existence in him of two entire essences, the human and the divine—were widely ignored. Newton himself, an expert in Greek and Hebrew, along with his other talents, proved to his own satisfaction that the doctrine of the Trinity is not biblical. 23 This did not mean that he was irreligious. Near the end of the Principia, he included a passionate defense of theism on well-known grounds: Though these [heavenly] bodies may . . . persevere in their orbits by the mere laws of gravity, yet they could by no means have at first derived the regular position of the orbits themselves from those laws. . . . It is not to be conceived that mere mechanical causes could give birth to so many regular motions. . . . The most beautiful system of the sun, planets, and comets, could only proceed from the counsel and dominion of an intelligent and powerful Being.

Newton then carried out a brief biblical word study to determine the correct name of the Being, finding both “God” and “Lord” to be inadequate on their own, and settling on Lord God pantakratōr, which he translated ‘Universal Ruler’. 24 Newton and many others were as sincerely committed to their theism (or Deism) as were orthodox Christians. 25 They did not “water down” Christianity; they interpreted it. The two main points of agreement between the Enlightenment and the Bible were the doctrine of creation (as seen in the quotation from Newton above) and ethics (the focus of Kant’s book, also cited above). This revision of religion, like the Enlightenment’s philosophy of government, swept Europe and the American colonies. When William Paley (1743–1805) was a tutor in metaphysics at Christ’s College, Cambridge, he taught not church dogma about the Trinity but John Locke’s Essay concerning Human Understanding. 26 A student noted that they did not learn “any rigmarole stories about the Trinity, or such stuff.” Moreover, “the Thirty-nine Articles were never hinted at; the creed of Calvin . . . was never thought of.” At Cambridge, Newton and Locke carried all before them, though Oxford stuck with Aristotle. 27 Paley praised Edmund Law because he 23.  Ibid., 107–13. 24.  See the “General Scholium” at the end of Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica, originally published in 1687. I have quoted from a recent edition of the English translation, ed. Stephen Hawking, Principia (Philadelphia: Running Press, 2002), 424. The ET was originally pub­lished by Daniel Adee, 1848. 25.  Views such as Newton’s were often called “Arian” rather than “Deist” (after Arius, a Christian of the third–fourth centuries). 26.  M. L. Clarke, Paley: Evidences for the Man (London: SPCK, 1974), 14. 27.  Ibid., 5.

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“never lost sight of one purpose, namely, to recover the simplicity of the gospel from beneath that load of unauthorized additions, which the ignorance of some ages, and the learning of others, the superstition of the weak and the craft of designing men have . . . heaped upon it.” 28 A contrast between “the simple precepts of the founder” and “jargons incomprehensible” (referring to dogma) was widespread. 29 Resistance to classical Christian dogma was not limited to the intellectual elite: it was a main aspect of religious Dissent. The Enlightenment view that religion was private and should not be imposed by the government also had a lot of popular support, especially in the colonies, where persecution for being in the wrong Christian sect was becoming unpopular. Widespread Dissent from the creeds and the privacy of religion together led to religious freedom. Opposing orthodox Christian dogma, as did many, or ignoring it because it was neither biblical nor meaningful, as did many more, did not incline people to give up Christianity. Above all, they did not wish to give up the “simple gospel” of Jesus. From the convoluted dogmas—three persons in one Godhead and two essences in one person—they turned with relief to Jesus of Nazareth, the simple, unadorned teacher whose humane views carried immediate conviction. The dead letter of dogma or the living voice of a vibrant, wise, compassionate human being? The choice did not seem hard to make. Enlightenment Christianity discovered Jesus the man and paid little attention to Jesus the incarnation of the second person of the Trinity. Albert Schweitzer began his history of the search for the historical Jesus with Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694–1768). Reimarus seems to have written the manuscript that contained his thoughts on Jesus near the end of his life, approximately 1767. 30 A few years later, controversies over religion pushed Thomas Jefferson to reflect on Jesus as well. Both Reimarus and Jefferson were deeply influenced by English Deism, and both shared the view that one needed to strip away the overburden of dogma that blocked access to the founder of the movement. They differed in that Reimarus emphasized Jesus the eschatological preacher (whose expectations were not fulfilled), while Jefferson focused on Jesus the ethical teacher (whose system was worthy of emulation). 31 Jefferson disliked the organized churches of the American colonies or states (depending on the date). He refused, on grounds of principle, to reply to public attacks for his supposed anti-Christian views, 32 but he thought about them. Partly spurred 28.  Quoted from ibid., 14. 29.  The quoted phrases are from Jefferson’s letter to John Brazier, Aug. 24, 1819, in Thomas Jefferson, Writings: The Library of America (New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 1984), 1424; hereafter cited as Writings. 30.  See Charles H. Talbert, Reimarus: Fragments (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1970), 18–20. 31.  Besides Reimarus, ibid., see Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus (ET William Montgomery; repr. New York: Macmillan, 1961; originally pub. in 1906 as Von Reimarus zu Wrede), 13–26. 32.  Letter to Dr. Benjamin Rush, April 21, 1803; Jefferson, Writings, 1123: Jefferson refused to debate his religious beliefs, since the laws of the U.S. had proscribed invasion of conscience,

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on by discussions and correspondence with Joseph Priestley 33 and Benjamin Rush, he put his mind to the topic of religion. On April 9, 1803, he wrote to Priestley that he had promised Rush a few years earlier to give him his view of “the Christian system.” He now sketched a partial outline for Priestley: he would include “the life, character, & doctrines of Jesus,” who had tried to bring Jews to “the principles of a pure deism, and juster notions of the attributes of God, to reform their moral doctrines to the standard of reason, justice & philanthropy, and to inculcate the belief of a future state. This view would purposely omit the question of his divinity.” 34 A few days later, Jefferson wrote to Benjamin Rush, including a “syllabus of an estimate of the merit of the doctrines of Jesus, compared with those of others” (April 21, 1803). 35 On January 29, 1804, Jefferson proposed that Priestly prepare “a digest of [Jesus’] moral doctrines, extracted . . . from the Evangelists.” 36 During the coming years, Jefferson worked on his own digest, which he completed around 1820. He selected from the Gospels the passages that he regarded as authentic teaching of Jesus, eliminating supernaturalism, and pasted them into a large book, with Greek, Latin, French, and English texts in parallel columns. The work was published after his death. 37 Though Jefferson did not believe most elements of Christian dogma, we know from his private letters that he considered himself a Christian: To the corruptions of Christianity I am, indeed, opposed; but not to the genuine precepts of Jesus himself. I am a Christian, in the only sense in which he wished any one to be; sincerely attached to his doctrines, in preference to all others; ascribing to himself every human excellence; and believing he never claimed any other. 38

In a later letter, he wrote, “I am a real Christian,” that is, a disciple of the doctrines of Jesus. His critics, who claimed to be Christians, were in fact “Platonists,” who draw their doctrines from heathen texts, not from the teaching of Jesus. 39 which was private. It behooves everyone “to give no example of concession . . . by answering questions of faith, which the laws have left between God & himself.” This principle has now vanished from political life in the United States. 33.  Priestly published on government, religion, oxygen, and electricity. His political and religious views were very similar to Jefferson’s. See Joe Jackson, A World on Fire: A Heretic, an Aristocrat, and the Race to Discover Oxygen (New York: Viking Penguin, 2005) (on Priestly and Lavoisier); Jenny Uglow, The Lunar Men: Five Friends Whose Curiosity Changed the World (London: Faber & Faber, 2002). 34.  Letter to Dr. Joseph Priestley, April 9, 1803; Jefferson, Writings, 1120–22. 35.  Jefferson, ibid., 1122–26. 36.  Ibid., 1142. 37. See The Jefferson Bible: The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, with an introduction by F. Forrester Church and an afterword by Jaroslav Pelikan (Boston: Beacon Hill, 1989). On January 9, 1816, Jefferson described the work in a letter to Charles Thomson; he had begun making his extracts of the Gospels, which he called “the Philosophy of Jesus,” but he had not yet added the Greek, Latin, and French texts (Writings, 1372–74). 38.  Jefferson, letter to Doctor Benjamin Rush, April 21, 1803, ibid., 1122–23. 39.  Letter to Charles Thomson, January 9, 1816; ibid., 1373.

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Besides being loyal to the true Jesus, Jefferson kept another part of Christianity: he accepted the usual denigrating attitudes towards the Jews of Jesus’ day. His plan for a future comparative work on Jesus and others included the expectation that he would “take a view of the deism and ethics of the Jews, and show in what a degraded state they were, and the necessity they presented of a reformation.” 40 Elsewhere he referred to the God of the Hebrew Bible as “a being of terrific character, cruel, vindictive, capricious and unjust.” Moses bound the Jews to “idle ceremonies, mummeries and observances, of no effect towards producing the social utilities which constitute the essence of virtue.” To be safe from the practitioners of a religion of this sort, Jesus had to walk carefully: “a step to right or left might place him within the gripe of the priests of the superstition, a blood thirsty race, as cruel and remorseless as the being whom they represented as the family God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob.”   41 Jefferson was radical, more-or-less as radical as Priestley (who had been persecuted until he left England). He rid himself of Christian theology much more thoroughly than Newton or Paley, and he was ruthlessly vigorous in dismissing irrational sections of the Bible (not unlike Reimarus): We find in the writings of [Jesus’] biographers matter of two distinct descriptions. First, a groundwork of vulgar ignorance, of things impossible, of superstitions, fanaticisms and fabrications. Intermixed with these . . . are sublime ideas of the Supreme Being, aphorisms, and precepts of the purest morality and benevolence, sanctioned by a life of humility, innocence, and simplicity of manners, neglect of riches, absence of worldly ambition and honors, with an eloquence and persuasiveness which have not been surpassed. These could not be the intentions of the groveling authors who related them. . . . Can we be at a loss in separating such materials and ascribing each to its original author? 42

Conclusion I believe that we can now understand some important aspects of the new form of Protestant criticism of Jews in the nineteenth century—which had begun just before Jefferson wrote the letters from which I have quoted. To have a reasonably complete picture, we would need to add a history of the words “legalist” and “legalism” beginning with the Reformation. Most Jewish scholars do not understand the full and vicious weight of the word “legalism” in the hands of Protestant polemicists. It does not refer to what Heikki Räisänen called “soft legalism,” having divine law as a crucial element in religious life, but “hard legalism,” a view that God has no favor toward a person or group at all except what is earned by their deeds; hard legalism is “anthropocentric,” a “system of

40.  Letter to Joseph Priestly, ibid., 1121. 41.  Letter to William Short, August 4, 1820, ibid., 1435–40; quotation from p. 1437. 42.  Ibid., 1436.

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human achievement” that leads to boasting of one’s own merits. 43 If the individual is not boastful for being meritorious, he or she is anxious and fearful; these are the only two possibilities within legalism. The God of the supposed Jewish form of legalism is totally remote and inaccessible, he does not heed prayer, and he shows no compassion; he adamantly requires behavior, and only sufficiently meritorious behavior will force him to admit the person to heaven. Elsewhere, I have done what I could to describe legalism and to show that it fails as a description of ancient Jews and Judaism; others have made similar efforts. 44 Here I have wanted only to explain the place of this accusation in the history of religious criticism. This untrue and inhumane charge owes its creation as much to the humanism of the Enlightenment as it does to the polemics of the Reformation. The connection between the Enlightenment and the accusation of “legalism” is this: as the creeds declined in importance, Christianity came to be defined as a humanistic religion, based on high moral and ethical standards, taught by Jesus, who superseded the dogmatician Paul as the main focus of Christian teaching. 45 This did not, however, lead Christians (not even deistic Christians) to give up the view that Christianity was vastly superior to Judaism. But instead of being wrong on dogmatic grounds (refusing to see Jesus as the second person of the Trinity, for example), Judaism was now wrong on humanistic grounds: if Christianity was the religion of commonly agreed human virtues (such as love of others and morality), and if the Christian God was a God of love, mercy, and grace, Judaism must be the opposite. And so it was said that Jews were bad human beings (greedy, vicious, arrogant, or insecure) and that they did not believe in a God of love, mercy, and grace but in a strict judge whose only interaction with humanity was to require meritorious achievement or, failing that, to condemn. My own roots are set in a humanistic version of Christianity, and I favor the evaluation of religions on the grounds of human and humane values—values such as seen, for example, in Matt 25:31–46: “just as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” I am therefore very disappointed in the history of humanistic evaluation of religion, both ancient and modern. It has tended toward false characterization created by the need to have a polar contrast. Historically, it has 43.  Heikki Räisänen, “Legalism and Salvation by the Law: Paul’s Portrayal of the Jewish Religion as a Historical and Theological Problem,” in Die Paulinische Literatur und Theologie (ed. Sigfred Pedersen; Arhus: Aros / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 63–83. 44.  E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM / Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977); see the index, s.v. “Works-righteousness.” Recently: “Covenantal Nomism Revisited,” JSQ 16 (2009): 23–59. In addition to these works, “Legalism and Salvation” by Räisänen, and Moore’s article below (n. 45), see Bernard Jackson, “Legalism,” JJS 30 (1979): 1–22. 45.  George Foot Moore, describing the work of Wilhelm Bousset, points out that “the specific difference between Christianity and Judaism is to be sought in the teaching of Jesus”—the first time in his long article that this point had come up: Moore, “Christian Writers on Judaism,” HTR 14 (1921): 197–254, quotation from p. 242. Besides inserting the Enlightenment into Moore’s history of Christian writers on Judaism, I have tried to explain the turn toward Jesus and away from the Christological authors such as Paul.

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often meant maligning other people for supposed rather than actual humanistic failings. It almost makes me believe in a very unattractive and antihumanistic dogma: the total depravity of humanity. But not quite: we humans can purify our hearts and reform our lives.

The Observance of Ritual Purity after 70 c.e. A Reevaluation of the Evidence in Light of Recent Archaeological Discoveries David Amit

and

Israel Antiquities Authority

Yonatan Adler Bar-Ilan University

Ritual-purity regulations played a central role in Second Temple period Judaism. The nature and scope of the practical observance of these laws is evidenced in Second Temple period literature as well as in rabbinic texts that purportedly relate to the period. Ritual-purity concerns were paramount in the shadow of the Temple because the maintenance of a strict state of purity was incumbent upon anyone entering into the sacred precincts and was requisite for the handling and eating of hallowed foodstuffs. Over the course of the past few decades, the literary sources have been supplemented with rich and diverse archaeological findings that have provided evidence of ritual-purity praxis during the late Second Temple era—mostly ritual baths (miqwaʾot) and domestic stone vessels. This picture changes dramatically after the destruction of the Temple, particularly in the period after the suppression of the Bar Kochba revolt. On the one hand, the rabbinic literature compiled during this period deals intensively with ritualpurity issues. Purity regulations are treated extensively in the rabbinic sources that were redacted in the land of Israel during the Tannaitic and Amoraic periods: the Mishnah, Tosefta, halakic exegetical literature, and the Jerusalem Talmud. Some scholars have noted indications in the rabbinic sources of a tendency toward stricter observance of the ritual purity laws after 70 c.e., apparently a premeditated trend designed to counterbalance the devastating loss of the Temple. 1 Authors’ note: We would like to express our sincere gratitude to Prof. Zeʾev Safrai and Prof. Shlomo Naeh for reading an earlier manuscript of this essay and for sharing their advice and astute comments with us. 1.  Gedalyahu Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (70–640 c.e.) (trans. G. Levi; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980), 1:259 n. 23; see also: Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah (2nd ed.;

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In contrast to the wealth of literary sources from this period, archaeological finds that provide evidence of ritual-purity observance during the historical periods postdating the destruction of the Second Temple, particularly after the suppression of the Second Revolt in 135 c.e. (that is, the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods) have been very scanty until recently. The goal of the present essay is to introduce up-to-date archaeological evidence from recent finds that shed novel light on the question of ritual-purity praxis during the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods. First we shall preface this new evidence with a brief survey of the state of research, both talmudic and archaeological, with regard to the evidence of ritual-purity observance during the period after the destruction of the Second Temple.

The State of Research Talmudic Scholarship on Ritual-Purity Praxis after 70 c.e. Ritual-purity regulations continued to be of practical halakic concern even after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 c.e. While in the absence of the Temple it was no longer possible to offer sacrifices or bring firstfruits and secondtithes to Jerusalem, rabbinic Halakah still prescribed that priests must eat heave offerings (terumah and hallah) in a state of ritual purity. 2 Ritual purity was also a central concern of individuals, not necessarily priests, who were meticulous in eating all of their food in a state of purity. 3 Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1993), 5:1309 [Hebrew]; Aharon Oppenheimer, The Am Ha-aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (trans. I. H. Levine; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 63–66; Shmuel Safrai, “Religion in Everyday Life,” in The Jewish People in the First Century: Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions (ed. S. Safrai and M. Stern; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976), 2:793–833, esp. p. 832. Most recently, see Stuart S. Miller, “Stepped Pools, Stone Vessels and Other Identity Markers of ‘Complex Common Judaism,’” JSJ 41 (2010): 214–43, esp. pp. 225–42. 2.  For a survey of the relevant literature on the topic and an exploration of various aspects relating to the realia of ritual-purity observance in agricultural contexts, see Yonatan Adler, “The Observance of Ritual Purity in the Agricultural Industry during the Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods,” Jerusalem and Eretz-Israel 4–5 (2007): 59–83 [Hebrew]. 3.  This historical phenomenon has been treated in numerous studies. See esp.: Adolf Büchler, Der galiläische “Am-haʾAres” des zweiten Jahrhunderts: Beiträge zur inneren Geschichte des palästinischen Judentums in den ersten zwei Jahrhunderten (Jahresbericht der Israelitisch-Theologischen Lehranstalt in Wien 13; Vienna: Israelitisch-Theologischen Lehranstalt, 1906); Gedalyahu Alon, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World: Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud (trans. I. Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1977), 205–23; E. P. Sanders, Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah: Five Studies (London: SCM, 1990), 131–254; Hannah K. Harrington, “Did the Pharisees Eat Ordinary Food in a State of Ritual Purity?   ” JSJ 26 (1995): 42–54; Martin Hengel and Roland Deines, “E. P. Sanders’ ‘Common Judaism’, Jesus, and the Pharisees,” JTS 46 (1995): 1–70, esp. pp. 41–51; Eyal Regev, “Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism,” JSJ 31 (2000): 176–202; Hanan Birenboim, The Observance of the Laws of

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Rabbinic literature clearly indicates that the ability to achieve and maintain ritual purity was not dependent on the presence of the Jerusalem Temple but on the continued supply of red-heifer ash, which was used to purify individuals afflicted with the most severe level of ritual defilement—namely, corpse impurity. 4 While after the destruction of the Temple it was no longer possible to sacrifice the red heifer and to prepare a new supply of ashes, it still remained possible to purify individuals defiled with corpse impurity as long as a reserve of red-heifer ashes remained preserved from Second Temple times. Consequently, the practical observance of ritual-purity regulations continued to be viable even after 70 c.e. Studies by Shmuel Safrai and Yaʿacov Sussmann have shown that red-heifer ashes continued to be used for purification of the corpse-impure throughout the Tannaitic period. 5 Sussmann has asserted that tannaitic rulings regarding the use of red-heifer ashes in the practice of ritual purification indicate an animate and vital praxis carried out in daily life and not simply an intellectual exercise confined to the cloisters of the rabbinic college. 6 Safrai and Sussmann have shown that red-heifer ash was still in use during the Amoraic period (from ca. the mid-third century c.e. until the second half of the fourth century). 7 Sussmann has pointed out that nowhere does the talmudic literature report on the discontinuation of the rite of red-heifer ash purification and that no allusions are found to the effect that ritual purity had become impossible to maintain during this period. 8 On the contrary, numerous talmudic passages indicate that ritual-purity law continued to be observed throughout the Amoraic period and that priests continued to consume heave offerings. Some sources indicate that even the phenomenon of the haverim continued into the Amoraic period, although Sussmann maintained that the practice of eating profane food in a state of ritual purity appears to have become less prevalent by the beginning of this period. 9 Louis Ginzberg has suggested that the supply of red-heifer ash began to wane by the late Amoraic period and that the observance of the ritual-purity laws slowly Bodily Purity in Jewish Society in the Land of Israel during the Second Temple Period (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2006) [Hebrew]; Vered Noam, “The Dual Strategy of Rabbinic Purity Legislation,” JSJ 39 (2008): 471–512. 4.  Louis Ginzberg, A Commentary on the Palestinian Talmud (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1941), 2:82–83 [Hebrew]; Shmuel Safrai, “Beth Sheʿarim in Talmudic Literature,” ErIsr 5 (Mazar Vol.; 1959): 206 n. 5 [Hebrew]; Yaʿacov Sussmann, Babylonian Sugiyot to the Orders Zeraʿim and Tohorot (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1969), 310 n. 16 [Hebrew]. 5.  Safrai, “Beth Sheʿarim,” 206–7; Sussmann, Babylonian Sugiyot, 310 n. 16. 6.  Ibid., 311. See also Ginzberg, A Commentary, 82–84. 7.  Safrai, “Beth Sheʿarim,” 206–7; Sussmann, Babylonian Sugiyot, 311–13. 8.  Ibid., 311–12. 9.  Sussmann (ibid., 312) has pointed out that a number of traditions relate to individuals active during the Amoraic period who were meticulous about eating even regular food in a state of ritual purity but that, from the context, we may infer that this was not standard practice (see y. Šabb. 1.3 [3c]; b. Ḥag. 25a; b. Ḥul. 106a; b. Nid. 6b; cf. Saul Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim [Jerusalem: Bamberger and Wahrmann, 1938], 2:190–91).

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dissipated around this time. 10 Sussmann, on the other hand, has argued that the ritual-purity laws came to be discontinued sometime after the redaction of the Jerusalem Talmud (second half of the fourth century c.e.). 11 The historical development of ritual-purity observance after the close of the Amoraic period in Israel as evidenced by post-Talmudic-era literature has yet to be explored in any comprehensive manner. 12 Archaeological Studies on the Observance of Ritual Purity after 70 c.e. Ritual Baths While Yigael Yadin’s discovery of miqwaʾot at Masada during the 1960s initiated the beginnings of scholarly interest in the subject, systematic research of ancient ritual baths began in earnest only in the wake of the wide-scale excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem in the late 1960s and during the course of the 1970s. Dozens of stepped water installations were uncovered in the excavations conducted by Benjamin Mazar adjacent to the Temple Mount as well as in the excavations carried out under the supervision of Nahman Avigad in the Jewish Quarter. Ronny Reich, at the time one of Avigad’s senior assistants, identified these installations as ritual baths and proceeded to research the subject comprehensively. The fruit of this research was summarized in Reich’s groundbreaking doctoral dissertation, a monumental work that laid the foundations for all subsequent scholarly inquiry on the topic of ancient ritual baths. 13 In his study, Reich counted approximately 300 miqwaʾot that have been discovered throughout the land of Israel; of these, over 90% date to the Second Temple period, while no more than 10% date to the period after 70 c.e. On the basis of these data, Reich concluded that concern for ritual-purity observance declined drastically after the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple. 14 Reich’s model of a radical decline in the extent and nature of ritual-purity practices after 70 c.e. has been widely accepted by scholars and continues to enjoy broad scholarly consensus until today. 10. Ginzberg, Commentary, 84. 11. Sussmann, Babylonian Sugiyot, 312. 12.  The earliest reports concerning the discontinuation of ritual-purity observance appear to be found in the Geonic literature; see Sefer Halakhot Pesuqot (ed. S. Sasoon; Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1950), 39. For the identity and time frame of the author of this work, see Neil Danzig, Introduction to Halakhot Pesuqot (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1999), 109–29 [Hebrew]. For other references to ritual purity in the Geonic period, see Louis Ginzberg, Genizah Studies—In Memory of Doctor Solomon Schechter: Geonic and Early Karaitic Halakah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1929), 2:437, 491–93, 637 [Hebrew]; Sussmann, Babylonian Sugiyot, 312. 13.  Ronny Reich, Miqwaʾot (Jewish Ritual Immersion Bath) in Eretz-Israel in the Second Temple and the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1990) [Hebrew]. 14.  Ibid., 142–44.

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Before we proceed with the presentation of new evidence that undermines this model of a stark dichotomy between the Second Temple era and the post-70 c.e. periods, it is important to note the “optical illusion” created by the statistical data presented in Reich’s study. While it is true that less than 10% of the ritual baths in Reich’s corpus date to the historical periods postdating the destruction of the Second Temple, it should be observed that the vast majority of the Second Temple–period miqwaʾot were discovered at sites such as Jerusalem, Masada, and Jericho—sites that were completely devoid of Jewish settlement after 70 c.e. and where we may harbor no expectations of finding remains of Jewish ritual baths. In addition, we may note that during the course of the last 20 years, mikwaʾot have been discovered at dozens of sites throughout the rural countryside of the Judean Hills and lowland that were occupied during the period between 70 and 135 c.e. 15 These discoveries have shown that the drastic decline in the number of mikwaʾot in Judea previously noted by Reich should not be dated to the immediate aftermath of the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 c.e. but, rather, to the final sack of Judea after the Second Revolt in 135 c.e. Since Jewish settlement in these areas ended at this time, we naturally should not expect to find remains of Jewish ritual baths here postdating 135 c.e. Stone Vessels As with ritual baths, stone vessels found in the archaeological record of a particular site serve as solid evidence for the observance of ritual-purity laws. The stone vessels under discussion, made of soft limestone, served as domestic tableware and were used for the storage of food. According to rabbinic Halakah, stone vessels are impervious to ritual impurity, in contrast to ceramic vessels, which cannot be purified after becoming ritually defiled. 16 The extensive excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem were instrumental in igniting scholarly interest in stone vessels. Yitzhak Magen, who assisted Mazar in his excavations near the Temple Mount, dedicated himself to the study of stone-vessel 15.  Most of these finds have been documented in: David Amit, Ritual Baths (Mikwaʾot) from the Second Temple Period in the Hebrew Mountains (M.A. Thesis, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1996) [Hebrew]; Boaz Zissu, Rural Settlement in the Judean Hills and Foothills from the Late Second Temple Period to the Bar Kokhba Revolt (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2001) [Hebrew]. See also Rachel Bar Nathan and Deborah A. Sklar-Parnes, “A Jewish Settlement in Orine between the Two Revolts,” in New Studies in the Archaeology of Jerusalem and Its Region: Collected Papers (ed. J. Patrich and D. Amit; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2007), 57–64 [Hebrew]. 16.  “Stone vessels, dung vessels, and clay vessels are not subject to impurity—neither from Torah law nor by decree of the scribes” (b. Šabb. 58a; b. Menah. 69b); cf. Sifre, Matoth 157 (ed. Horowitz, 212). Ceramic: “. . . it cannot be purified save through breakage” (Sifra, Shemini 7 [ed. Weiss, 54b]).

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typology and manufacturing methods, publishing important research on the topic. 17 Following Magen, numerous studies on the topic have been published; worthy of mention are Jane Cahill’s comprehensive and systematic study of the stone-vessel assemblage from Yigal Shiloh’s excavations in the City of David, 18 and Roland Deines’s important study of the archaeological and textual evidence relating to the use of stone vessels during the Second Temple Period. 19 On the basis of the archaeological data available at the time, Magen and those following him noted a sharp decline in the use of stone vessels after 70 c.e., asserting that stone vessels disappeared completely after the failure of the Bar Kochba revolt. 20 This evidence corroborated Reich’s conclusions that concern for ritual purity declined drastically after the destruction of the Temple and played a minor role in daily life during the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods, although as with mikwaʾot, a continuity in the use of stone vessels during the period between 70 and 135 c.e. has been clearly noted. 21

Recent Archaeological Discoveries Ritual Baths from the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods In the decade following its publication, Reich’s study served as the basis for a number of subsequent studies on miqwaʾot, most of which focused on ritual baths discovered in Judea. 22 As archaeologists in the field came to recognize the miqweh as a regular feature in both rural and urban settings, progressively frequent discoveries of miqwaʾot were announced in the framework of archaeological surveys, planned excavations, and salvage digs. Whereas in 1990, Reich was able to report on 300 known ritual baths, today we are able to speak of over 550 additional miqwaʾot that have been discovered in the interim. It should be stressed that the majority of the new discoveries (as well as most of the recent hermeneutical treatments of the subject) relate to Second Temple–period ritual baths, whereas research relating to the miqwaʾot of the Mishnaic and Talmudic 17.  Magen’s study was published first in Hebrew (Yitzhak Magen, The Stone Vessel Industry in the Second Temple Period [Tel Aviv, 1988] Hebrew) and later in a revised and expanded English version (idem, The Stone Vessel Industry in the Second Temple Period: Excavations at Hizma and the Jerusalem Temple Mount [ed. Levana Tsfania; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2002]). 18.  Jane Cahill, “Chalk Vessel Assemblages of the Persian/Hellenistic and Early Roman Periods,” in Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985, vol. 3: Stratigraphical, Environmental, and Other Reports (ed. A. de Groot and D. T. Ariel; Qedem 33; Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1992), 190–274. 19. Roland Deines, Jüdische Steingefässe und pharisäische Frömmigkeit: Ein archäologischhistorischer Beitrag zum Verständnis von Joh 2,6 und der jüdischen Reinheitshalacha zur Zeit Jesu (WUNT 2/52; Tübingen: Mohr, 1993). 20.  Cahill, “Chalk Vessel Assemblages,” 232–33; Magen, Stone Vessel Industry (2002), 162. 21.  Cahill, “Chalk Vessel Assemblages,” 232–33. 22. Amit, Ritual Baths; Zissu, Rural Settlement.

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Fig. 1.  Distribution map of ritual baths postdating the Second Jewish Revolt.

periods remains very much in a state of infancy. Nevertheless, already today we are in a position to point out important new finds of Mishnaic- and Talmudic-era miqwaʾot unearthed in the recent excavations of residential quarters in Jewish settlements of this period—finds that can potentially contribute to our understanding of contemporary Jewish purity practices (see fig. 1). A salient example is the residential quarter on the western acropolis of Sepphoris, where 22 stepped water installations have been unearthed (see fig. 2). 23 23.  Information on these installations has yet to be published comprehensively in a scientific format. For preliminary details, see Eric M. Meyers, Ehud Netzer, and Carol L. Meyers, “Sepphoris: ‘Ornament of All Galilee,’” BA 49 (1986): 4–19, esp. pp. 17–18; idem, “A Mansion on the Sepphoris Acropolis and Its Splendid Mosaic,” Qadmoniot 83–84 (1988): 87–92 [Hebrew]; James F. Strange, “Six Campaigns at Sepphoris: The University of South Florida Excavations,”

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Fig. 2.  Plan of excavations on the acropolis of Sepphoris, with ritual baths highlighted. Published courtesy of Eric M. Meyers, Carol Meyers, and Kenneth Hoglund.

Although a minority of scholars have voiced reservations about identifying these installations as ritual baths, preferring to view them as large household bathtubs, this position fails to withstand critical scrutiny. 24 Most of these installations remained in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine: New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 339–55, esp. p. 345; Zeev Weiss and Ehud Netzer, “Archaeological Finds from the Byzantine Period at Sepphoris,” Michmanim 8 (1995): 75–85 [Hebrew]; idem, “Zippori 1994–1995,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 18 (1998): 22–27; Kenneth G. Hoglund and Eric M. Meyers, “The Residential Quarter on the Western Summit,” in Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture (ed. R. M. Nagy, C. L. Meyers, and Z. Weiss; Raleigh, NC: North Carolina Museum of Art, 1996), 39–43; Zeev Weiss and Ehud Netzer, “Architectural Development of Sepphoris during the Roman and Byzantine Periods,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 143; ed. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 117–30, esp. pp. 122, 126; Katharina Galor, “The Stepped Water Installations of the Sepphoris Acropolis,” in The Archaeology of Difference: Gender, Ethnicity and the “Other” in Antiquity—Studies in Honor of Eric M. Meyers (ed. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough; AASOR 60/61; Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2007), 201–13; cf. n. 24 below; Stuart S. Miller, “Stepped Pools and the Non-existent Monolithic ‘Miqveh,’” in ibid., 215–34. We extend our thanks to Prof. Eric Meyers for allowing us to publish the plan that appears in fig. 2. 24.  The topic has been treated in a series of polemical articles; see Hanan Eshel, “A Note on ‘Miqvaot’ at Sepphoris,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman

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Fig. 3.  Entrance to ritual bath no. 7 at Susiya. Published courtesy of Yuval Baruch.

in use throughout the Roman period and the early Byzantine period, falling out of use only after the great earthquake of 363 c.e. (with the exception of two miqwaʾot, which continued to function into the late Byzantine period). 25 Archaeozoological evidence of swine consumption in this residential quarter for the first time only after 363 c.e. appears to indicate the introduction of a Gentile population into the quarter during the Byzantine era, 26 and thus, the decline in the number of miqwaʾot during this period should be viewed as the consequence of shifts in the religious identity of the resident population rather than as evidence of transitions in the nature of ritualand Byzantine Periods (ed. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 131–33; idem, “The Pools of Sepphoris—Ritual Baths or Bathtubs: They’re Not Ritual Baths,” BAR 26/4 (2000): 42–45, 49; Eric M. Meyers, “The Pools of Sepphoris—Ritual Baths or Bathtubs: Yes, They Are,” BAR 26/4 (2000): 46–49, 60–61; Ronny Reich, “They Are Ritual Baths,” BAR 28/2 (2002): 50–55; Eric Meyers, “Aspects of Everyday Life in Roman Palestine with Special Reference to Private Domiciles and Ritual Baths,” in Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities (ed. J. R. Bartlett; New York: Routledge, 2002), 193–220, esp. pp. 211–15; Galor, “Stepped Water Installations.” 25.  Ibid., 206. 26. Ibid.

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Fig. 4.  Interior of ritual bath no. 7 at Susiya. Published courtesy of Yuval Baruch.

purity observance in the Jewish population. Additional ritual baths that remained in use throughout the late Roman period have been uncovered in excavation areas elsewhere in Sepphoris, in both the upper city and the lower city. 27 The town of Susiya, in the southern Hebron hill country, represents another example of a site with a large concentration of miqwaʾot that date to the Rabbinic period. Approximately 30 ritual baths have been uncovered in Susiya. The form of these miqwaʾot differs somewhat from the form of the miqwaʾot of Sepphoris, although this should come as no surprise considering that the general architecture of this rural town on the fringes of the Judean Desert differs greatly from the architecture of the Galilean metropolis of Sepphoris. The typical house in Susiya was built around a courtyard, generally furnished with a water cistern and a storage cavern in which a miqweh was hewn (see figs. 3–4). The vast majority of the ritual baths uncovered in Susiya were discovered in residential complexes dating to the Byzantine period 27.  Weiss and Netzer, “Architectural Development,” 121; idem, “Zippori 1994–1995”; Zeev Weiss, “Zippori (Sepphoris): 1998,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 110 (1999): 20*–23*.

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(from the mid-fourth century onward), while only a small minority can be dated to the Second Temple period. 28 In addition to the large concentrations of ritual baths from the Rabbinic period that have been uncovered in Sepphoris and Susiya, miqwaʾot from this period have been found at numerous other sites, particularly in the north. Ritual baths dating to the late Roman and Byzantine periods have been unearthed at Meiron, Khirbet Shemaʿ, Sasa, Horvat Kor, Horvat Hoquq, Meroth, Chorazin, Arbel, Horvat Parod, Khirbet Qana, Tiberias, Tel Yinʿam, and En Rani. 29 In Beth Sheʿarim, four miqwaʾot 28.  Yuval Baruch, Horbat Susya and Rujum el-Hamiri as a Case Study for the Development of the Village and the Rural Settlement in the Southern Hebron Hills from the Early Roman to the Early Muslim Periods (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2009) [Hebrew]; idem, “H. Susiya: The Chronology of the Site in Light of Recent Excavations,” Judea and Samaria Research Studies 14 (2005): 159–66 [Hebrew]; idem, “Horbat Susya,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 20 (1998): 121*–22*; Avraham Negev, “A Town without History: Excavations at Horvat Susiya (Karmel) during 1984,” Qadmoniot 71–72 (1985): 100–105 [Hebrew]; idem, “Excavations at Carmel (Kh. Susiya) in 1984: Preliminary Report,” IEJ 35 (1985): 231–52. Most of these miqwaʾot had been mapped in the framework of a 1988 survey of the caves at Susiya; see Anan Moran and Amos Frumkin, “Survey in Khirbet Susiya,” Niqrot Zurim: Journal of the Israel Cave Research Center 18 (1992): 37–52 [Hebrew]. We extend our thanks to Yuval Baruch for allowing us to publish the photographs that appear in figs. 3–4. 29.  Meiron: Eric M. Meyers, James F. Strange, and Carol L. Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Meiron, Upper Galilee, Israel, 1971–72, 1974–75, 1977 (Cambridge, MA: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1981), 41–44. Although the form of this installation is that of a standard miqweh, its small dimensions (the height of the entranceway measures only 0.7 m!) raise questions as to its identification as a ritual bath. On these grounds, Reich has rejected the excavators’ identification of this installation as a miqweh (Reich, Miqwaʾot, 328). Khirbet Shemaʿ: Eric M. Meyers, A. Thomas Kraabel, and James F. Strange, Ancient Synagogue Excavations at Khirbet Shemaʿ, Upper Galilee, Israel, 1970–1972 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1976), 113–17. Sasa: Reich, Miqwaʾot, 325. Horvat Kor: Yigal Tepper, Gil Derin, and Yotam Tepper, The Environs of Nahal ʿAmud (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2000), 67–69 [Hebrew]. Horvat Hoquq: ibid., 73–75. An additional ritual bath has been found nearby during the course of a recent study of the site conducted by Amit and Jodi Magness in June 2010. Meroth: Zvi Ilan and Emanuel Damati, Meroth: The Ancient Jewish Village (Tel Aviv: Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel, 1987), 51–52 [Hebrew]; the excavators noted the possibility that this ritual bath was in use contemporaneously with the synagogue at the site (Byzantine period) but that this could not be proven conclusively. Chorazin: Zeʾev Yeivin, “A Ritual Bath (Miqveh) at Chorazin,” Qadmoniot 66–67 (1984): 79–81 [Hebrew]. Arbel: Mordechai Aviam, “First Century Jewish Galille: An Archaeological Perspective,” in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches (ed. Douglas R. Edwards: London: Routledge, 2004), 27 n. 10. Horvat Parod: personal communication with Yigal Tepper. Khirbet Qana: Douglas R. Edwards, “Khirbet Qana: From Jewish Village to Christian Pilgrim Site,” in The Roman and Byzantine Near East (ed. John H. Humphrey; Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 49; Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2002), 3:101–28. Tiberias: One miqweh was discovered in a residential building dated to the Byzantine period. See Ariel Berman, “The First Discovery of a Synagogue in Tiberias,” in Tiberias: From Its Founding until the Moslem Conquest (ed. Y. Hirschfeld; Idan 11; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1988), 49–52 [Hebrew]; an additional installation, which may possibly be identified as a miqweh, was unearthed in a Byzantine-era public building. See Yizhar Hirschfeld, Excavations at Tiberias, 1989–

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Fig. 5.  Plan of ritual bath no. 24 in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis (reconstruction).

have been unearthed in the settlement itself, while three additional miqwaʾot have recently been identified on the grounds of the adjacent cemetery (see figs. 5–6). 30 On the Carmel mountain range, miqwaʾot from this period have been found at Sumaqa, ʿIsfiya, and the site of the Roman-Byzantine city commonly known as Castra (although the identification of this site with the historical Castra is less than clear). 31 1994 (IAA Reports 22; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2004), 8–11. Tel Yinʿam: Reich, Miqwaʾot, 330. Ein Rani: Yardenna Alexandre, “En Rani,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 117, 4 November 2005, http://www.hadashot-esi.org.il/report_detail_eng.asp?id=158&mag_id=110. 30. Reich, Miqwaʾot, 330–32; Yigal Tepper and Yotam Tepper, Beth Sheʿarim: The Village and Nearby Burials (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2004), 174 [Hebrew]. David Amit and Yonatan Adler, “Miqwaʾot in the Necropolis of Beth Sheʿarim,” IEJ 60 (2010): 72–88. 31.  Shimon Dar, Sumaqa: A Roman and Byzantine Jewish Village on Mount Carmel, Israel (BAR International Series 815; Oxford: Archaeopress, 1999), 38–40; careful analysis of the plan and a cross-section of an additional installation at the site, termed “reservoir no. 74” by the excavator (ibid., 70–71), leads us to the conclusion that this installation also should be identified as a large ritual bath. Samuel Wolff, “ʿIsfiya,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 111 (2000): 21*. Excavations at the site known as Castra were carried out in 1998 under the supervision of Edwin

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Fig. 6.  Ritual bath entrance located to the right of the landing of the staircase leading down to the courtyard of Burial Complex 11 in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis.

Just recently, six miqwaʾot dating from the Roman period through the late Byzantine period have been unearthed during excavations of the ruins of Kefar ʿOthnai (located on the grounds of the present-day Megiddo prison facility). 32 C. M. van den Brink. A series of subterranean cavities was discovered; however, only four of these contained archaeological material. Although the excavator did not initially recognize it as such, we have confidently identified cavity no. 1070 (one of the above-mentioned four) as a miqweh, based on its description in the excavation report (Edwin C. M. van den Brink, “Horbat Castra,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 111 [2000]: 17*–18*), an identification that has since been accepted by the excavator (personal communication). Additional Jewish remains dating to the late Roman period were uncovered at the site of this predominantly pagan urban settlement during the course of large-scale excavations carried out in 2000. Among other things, a ritual bath sealed at the end of the Roman period was discovered beneath a Byzantine-period structure. Our appreciation is extended to Dr. Gerald Finkielsztejn for sharing this important information with us. 32.  Yotam Tepper and Leah Di Segni, A Christian Prayer Hall of the Third Century c.e. at Kefar ʿOthnay (Legio): Excavations at the Megiddo Prison 2005 (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2006), 17; a reexamination of old excavation reports of the site has recently led to the identification of two additional ritual baths; however, they could not be dated. See Boaz Zissu, Yotam Tepper, and David Amit, “Miqwaʾot at Kefar ʿOthnai near Legio,” IEJ 56 (2006): 57–66.

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Fig. 7.  Ritual bath no. 2 at Kibbutz Mishmar David. Aerial view. Published courtesy of Eli Yanai and the Israel Antiquities Authority.

Numerous ritual baths dating to the late Roman and Byzantine periods have been discovered in southern Judea as well: at Rujm a-Dir, Horvat Maʿon, at a site west of Benei Naʿim, and at Horvat Rimon. 33 In the course of excavating the late Roman–Byzantine synagogue at Ein Gedi during in the early 1970s, archaeologists uncovered a number of contemporaneous structures and alleyways to the west of the synagogue, beneath which were discovered two Second Temple–period ritual baths. The southern of these two miqwaʾot may have been reused later as a ritual bath in the Byzantine-period complex. 34 33.  Rujm a-Dir: David Amit, “Yatta, Survey 1989/1990,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 9 (1991): 165–66; idem, “The Riddle of Yuta,” Israel Land and Nature 17/2 (1991–92): 85–86. Horvat Maʿon: David Amit and Zvi Ilan, “The Ancient Synagogue at Maʿon in Judah,” Qadmoniot 91–92 (1990): 115–25 [Hebrew]. Benei Naʿim: Michael Dadon, “Pene Hever,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 13 (1995): 126. Horvat Rimon: Yael Abadi-Reiss and Nir-Shimshon Paran, “Horbat Rimon Final Report,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 121, 20 January 2009, http://www .hadashot-esi.org.il/report_detail_eng.asp?id=1019&mag_id=115. 34.  Gideon Hadas, “ʿEn Gedi,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 15 (1996): 102; idem, “Excavations at the Village of ʿEn Gedi: 1993–1995,” ʿAtiqot 49 (2005): 41*–71* [Hebrew]; we extend our appreciation to Dr. Hadas for his clarifications regarding details published in the afore-

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Fig. 8.  Isometric reconstruction of winepress complex at Horvat Shelach with entrance to ritual bath in the right foreground. Published courtesy of Mordechai Heiman and the Israel Antiquities Authority.

In recent years, various structures and installations dating to the Byzantine and early Islamic periods have been uncovered at Khirbat Deiran (located in the modernday town of Reḥovot); among other things, two ritual baths were uncovered that should be attributed to an earlier occupational phase. 35 In one of the ritual baths, excavators discovered pottery sherds and a glass cruse dating to the early Roman period, two glass vessels dating to the late Roman–early Byzantine period (fourth–fifth centuries c.e.), and one coin dating to the fourth century c.e. 36 Accordingly, while we should attribute the construction of these miqwaʾot to the Second Temple period, mentioned articles and for the additional information that he has shared with us in personal communication. The excavations of Yizhar Hirschfeld in the Byzantine strata of the settlement at Ein Gedi uncovered an installation that the excavator termed a “bathroom”; however, this too may be a ritual bath. See Yizhar Hirschfeld, En-Gedi Excavations II: Final Report (1996–2002) (Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2007), 93–95. 35.  Aviva Bouchenino, “Building Remains and Industrial Installations from the Early Islamic Period at Khirbat Deiran, Rehovot,” ʿAtiqot 56 (2007): 119–44 [Hebrew]; Bouchenino mentions only one ritual bath in her report; however, a second miqweh located to the north of the first can be clearly recognized on the excavation plan published in the aforementioned article. 36.  Ibid., 123, 142; Yael Gorin-Rosen, “Glass Vessels from Khirbat Deiran, Rehovot,” ʿAtiqot 56 (2007): 145–49 [Hebrew].

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the two installations apparently continued to function as ritual baths at least until the end of the Roman period. In the Judean shephelah, two relatively large miqwaʾot have been discovered on the grounds of Kibbutz Mishmar David (near Huldah) in the context of a settlement complex that was occupied continually into the early Islamic period 37 (see fig. 7). An additional ritual bath was found at Horvat Shelach in the fields of the cooperative settlement Sedeh Moshe (east of the modern town of Kiryat Gat) adjacent to industrial-size winepresses dating to the Byzantine period 38 (see fig. 8). It should be noted that the basic design of the late Roman and Byzantine-era ritual baths does not differ in any significant way from the earlier Second Temple– period miqwaʾot. The same diversity in form that characterizes the miqwaʾot of the Second Temple period (deriving from variances in topography, nature of the local bedrock, and the architectural context within which the installation was situated) characterizes the later ritual baths as well. We fully anticipate that future archaeological finds will enhance our understanding of ritual bathing during the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods. It is not unreasonable to assume that the discovery of miqwaʾot in Yavneh and Lod is only a matter of time and presents a challenge that awaits us in the years ahead. Nonetheless, we should not expect that new discoveries will drastically affect the diachronic disparity in the quantity of miqwaʾot between the Second Temple period and the Rabbinic period. A statistical incongruence will no doubt remain, considering the diminution of the Jewish settlement in Israel after 70 c.e., and especially after 135 c.e. This decline finds expression in a decreased number of Jewish settlements, a reduction in the relative size of these settlements, and a weakening in the economic standing of the population. A reduced and impoverished population can be expected to construct and maintain fewer ritual baths. Under the circumstances prevailing during the Rabbinic period, when on the one hand the population was smaller, and on the other hand each miqweh could be expected to serve a larger number of people, the significance of each post-70 c.e. miqweh that is unearthed is that much greater relative to Second Temple–period miqwaʾot. These factors must be given serious weight when proffering quantitative comparisons between the two historical periods under discussion. 37.  We extend our thanks to the excavator of the site, Dr. Eli Yanai, for allowing us to publicize this find (as well as the photograph that appears in fig. 7) prior to the publication of this excavation. Evidence of Jewish settlement in the area during this period has been found in nearby Huldah, where an industrial winepress with a mosaic floor depicting Jewish symbols (a menorah, shofar, incense shovel, and the four species) has been uncovered. See Amos Kloner, “The Structure and Installations at Hulda and Their Function as a Jewish Winepress,” in “I Will Speak the Riddles of Ancient Times”: Archaeological and Historical Studies in Honor of Amihai Mazar on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday (2 vols.; ed. A. M. Maeir and P. de Miroschedji; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 2:853–64. 38.  We express our appreciation to the excavator of the site, Dr. Mordechai Heiman, for permitting us to publicize this find (as well as the isometric reconstruction of the site that appears in fig. 8) prior to the publication of this excavation.

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In any event, the archaeological data available today help to shed new light on the nature and extent of ritual-purity observance during the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods and present an opportunity to explore new questions that could not have been addressed when Reich first published his pioneering study only 20 years ago. For example, the question arises whether the plethora of ritual baths at Sepphoris is representative of other contemporary Jewish settlements and whether we may infer from this evidence that the Jewish population at large continued to practice frequent ablutions for many generations after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. It must be remembered that literary sources point to a strong priestly presence in Sepphoris already in the Second Temple period, and certain evidence indicates that the “Yedaʿyah” clan, one of the 24 priestly courses, emigrated from Judea to Sepphoris after the suppression of the Bar Kochba revolt. 39 If this is indeed the case, the strict observance evidenced at Sepphoris should perhaps be viewed as a phenomenon particular to members of the priestly class and consequently not representative of general praxis. Similarly, it is questionable whether the miqwaʾot of Susiya should be regarded as representative examples. Certain architectural and artistic elements found throughout the region (notably in synagogue inscriptions found at Susiya and neighboring Eshtemoʿa) would seem to indicate that the population of southern Judea comprised a dominant priestly contingent in the generations following the destruction of the Temple. 40 If this was indeed the case, the plethora of ritual baths found at Susiya should be seen in light of a sizable priestly presence at the site and should not be regarded as indicative of practices outside of the priestly areas of settlement. It should be pointed out that, even after the bulk of ritual-purity regulations could no longer be observed as a result of the decline and eventual disappearance of the supply of red-heifer ashes, miqwaʾot continued to be used by menstruants and women after childbirth in order to permit marital relations. 41 At such a time, 39.  The demographic extent of the priestly population in Sepphoris during the various historical periods has yet to be clarified. See Stuart S. Miller, Studies in the History and Traditions of Sepphoris (SJLA 37; Leiden: Brill, 1984), 62–172; idem, “Those Cantankerous Sepphoreans Revisited,” in Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine (ed. R. Chazan, W. W. Hallo, and L. H. Schiffman; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 543–73; idem, “Priests, Purities, and Jews of Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge, and D. B. Martin; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 375–402; Dalia Trifon, “Did the Priestly Courses (Mishmarot) Transfer from Judea to Galilee after the Bar-Kokhba Revolt? ” Tarbiz 59 (1989–90): 77–93 [Hebrew]; Zeʾev Safrai, “Did the Priestly Courses (Mishmarot) Transfer from Judea to Galilee after the Bar Kokhba Revolt? ” Tarbiz 62 (1993): 287–92 [Hebrew]. 40.  D. Amit, “Priests and the Memory of the Temple in the Synagogues of Southern Judea,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center for the Study of Jewish History, 2004), 143–54 [Hebrew]. 41.  The practice of ritual ablutions prior to prayer and Torah study was for the most part discontinued at the beginning of the Amoraic period; see Yonatan Adler, “The Ancient Synagogue and the Ritual Bath: The Archaeological Evidence and Its Relevance to an Early Rabbinical Enactment,” Cathedra 128 (2008): 51–72 [Hebrew].

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however, there would have been no need for numerous miqwaʾot in any one settlement, since one public miqweh would have sufficed for an entire village or urban residential quarter. It is therefore significant that large concentrations of domestic ritual baths were uncovered at sites such as Sepphoris and Susiya—finds that indicate the observance of ritual-purity regulations in daily life, whether in connection with the priestly consumption of heave-offerings or with regular food that was eaten in a state of ritual purity. The recent identification of three miqwaʾot in the cemetery of Beth Sheʿarim indicates that a practice of immersing after taking part in funeral services, evidenced by numerous Second Temple–period miqwaʾot located near tombs, continued to be observed into the third and fourth centuries of the Common Era. 42 While in the past this practice was viewed as sectarian and considered exclusive to the Second Temple period, it appears that the practice of ritual bathing after participating in a funeral is in fact well grounded in tannaitic Halakah, a conclusion bolstered by the recent identification of miqwaʾot in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis. 43 Similarly, the recent discovery of a ritual bath adjacent to winepresses at H. Shelach in the Judean foothills has provided the first example of a miqweh near agricultural installations, a phenomenon that until now has been recognized only at Second Temple–period sites. 44 The construction of a ritual bath adjacent to these winepresses was apparently intended to ensure the ritual purity of the wine produced in these installations. Another important issue raised by these new finds relates to the question of the association between the synagogue and the ritual bath during the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods. In the past, Reich has pointed out that Second Temple–period synagogues tend to have a miqweh located nearby, a phenomenon that he claimed was not to be found in later synagogues. 45 Today, we can refer to a few examples from

42.  Amit and Adler, “Miqwaʾot in the Necropolis.” 43.  Yonatan Adler, “Ritual Baths Adjacent to Tombs: An Analysis of the Archaeological Evidence in Light of the Halakhic Sources,” JSJ 40 (2009): 55–73. 44.  See idem, “Second Temple Period Ritual Baths Adjacent to Agricultural Installations: The Archaeological Evidence in Light of the Halakhic Sources,” JJS 59 (2008): 62–72. Late Roman and Byzantine period ritual baths adjacent to oil presses have been found at the Samaritan site of Qedumim; see Yitzhak Magen, “Qedumim: A Samaritan Site of the Roman–Byzantine Period,” in Early Christianity in Context: Monuments and Documents (ed. F. Manns and E. Alliata; Collectio Maior [SBF] 38; Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1993), 167–80. Two additional fifth-century c.e. ritual baths were uncovered adjacent to an oil press at the Samaritan site of Tsur Natan; see Etan Ayalon, “Horbat Migdal (Tsur Natan): An Ancient Samaritan Village,” in The Samaritans (ed. E. Stern and H. Eshel; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2002), 272–88, esp. pp. 281–82 [Hebrew]. 45.  Ronny Reich, “The Synagogue and the Miqweh in Eretz-Israel in the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic Periods,” in Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery (ed. D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher; StPB 47; 2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 1:289–97. For hermeneutical treatments of the topic, see Adler, “The Ancient Synagogue”; David Amit,

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Fig. 9.  Distribution map of chalk vessels postdating the Second Jewish revolt.

Judea where miqwaʾot have been found in the proximity and in contextual relation to Byzantine-era synagogues: at Maʿon and perhaps at Susiya 46 and Ein Gedi as well. 47 Stone Vessels from the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods Over the course of the past few years, our data-base regarding Jewish stone vessels has grown considerably. Whereas Magen’s research focused mainly on stone vessels uncovered in Jerusalem and Judea, growing information about stone vessels found at sites in the Galilee and the Golan together with recent discoveries of Galilean stone-vessel workshops have called scholarly attention to the phenomenon of stone vessels in the north. While in 2002, Magen knew of only 12 sites in northern Israel where stone vessels had been discovered, we are now able to report more than 70 of these sites in the region. In late 2001, David Amit conducted a limited archaeological probe in a cave located near the village of A-Reina (near Upper Nazareth) that served as a quarry “Miqwaʾot at Gamla,” in Gamla II: The Architecture (ed. D. Syon; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, forthcoming). 46.  David Amit, The Synagogues of Hurbat Maʿon and Hurbat ʿAnim and the Jewish Settlement in Southern Hebron Hills (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2003), 184–85 [Hebrew]; see, however, Adler, “The Ancient Synagogue,” 57 n. 27. 47.  See the discussion above regarding the southern of the two ritual baths discovered to the west of the synagogue at Ein Gedi.

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Fig. 10.  Fragments of stone kraters from beneath the floor of the Sepphoris synagogue. Published courtesy of Zeev Weiss.

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and workshop for the production of stone vessels. 48 The manufacturing area was located in the forward section of the cave, where a small probe (2 × 2 m, 1 m deep) unearthed approximately 600 conical cores that had been extracted from the interior of stone vessels (mostly stone “measuring cups”) on a lathe and an additional 40 stone vessels (cups and bowls of various typological forms) that had broken in the course of the manufacturing process. In addition to the A-Reina workshop, we know of one stone-vessel workshop that functioned in Bethlehem of Galilee, where Ariel Berman discovered stone-vessel debitage. 49 At this point, we can note finds of stone-vessel fragments from third–fourthcentury contexts discovered at a number of sites in the north (see fig. 9). 50 An almost complete barrel-shaped krater dated to the third–fourth centuries c.e. was uncovered in the excavation of a farmstead east of Sepphoris. 51 Five fragments of similar stone kraters were found in sealed loci beneath the synagogue of Sepphoris, together with a pottery assemblage dated to the third and fourth centuries c.e. (see fig. 10). 52 It appears that some of the stone vessel fragments found on the acropolis of Sepphoris may date to the Middle Roman period (135–250 c.e.). 53 Additional stone vessels dating to the late Roman and early Byzantine periods have been uncovered at Meiron, Hammath Tiberias, Khirbet Nasr ed-Din (identified as “Beth Maʿon”), Sumaqa, and Jalame. 54 At Nabratein, at least one stone vessel fragment has been dated to the 48.  David Amit, “The Manufacture of Stone Vessels in Jerusalem and Galilee: Technological, Chronological, and Typological Aspects,” Michmanim 22 (2010): 49–66 [Hebrew with English abstract: pp. 35*–36*]. Debitage finds deriving from nearby, within the modern village of A-Reina, have previously been reported (Zvi Gal, “A Stone-Vessel Manufacturing Site in the Lower Galilee,” ʿAtiqot 20 [1991]: 25*–26* [Hebrew]). 49.  Aviram Oshri, “Bet Lehem of Galilee,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 18 (1998): 29–30. 50.  A fragment of a stone krater discovered in Ashdod has been dated by its excavators to the fourth century c.e. (M. Dothan and D. N. Freedman, Ashdod I: The First Season of Excavations, 1962 [  Jerusalem: Graphpress, 1967), 35. See Magen (Stone Vessel Industry [2002], 159), however, who argued that this find should be dated to the first century c.e. 51.  Zeev Weiss, “Zippori: 2002,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 115 (2003): 25*–26*. 52. Idem, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005), 309–10. We extend our appreciation to Prof. Weiss for allowing us to publish the drawings of these fragments (fig. 10). 53.  The finds from the excavations conducted at the acropolis of Sepphoris await final publication. For a preliminary discussion of the stone vessel finds at the site, see Jonathan L. Reed, “Stone Vessels and Gospel Texts: Purity and Socio-Economics in John 2,” in Zeichen aus Text und Stein: Studien auf dem Weg zu einer Archäologie des Neuen Testaments (ed. S. Alkier and J. Zangenberg; Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 42; Tübingen: Francke, 2003), 381–401, esp. pp. 386–87. 54.  Meiron: Meyers, Strange, and Meyers, Excavations at Meiron, 234. Hammath Tiberias: Moshe Dothan, Hammath Tiberias: Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman Remains (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1983), 63, 66. Khirbet Nasr ed-Din: Haya Ben Nahum, “Tiberias, Khirbet Nasr ed-Din,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 109 (1999): 15*–16*. “Beth Maʿon”: Mordechai Aviam and Peter Richardson, “Josephus’ Galilee in Archaeological Perspective,” in Steve Mason, trans., Life of Josephus: Translation and Commentary (Flavius Josephus: Translation and

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Middle Roman period (135–250 c.e.). 55 The new archaeological evidence of stone vessels dating to the late Roman and Byzantine periods presents the opportunity for future comparative studies with the earlier material from Jerusalem and Judea in which chronological, typological, and technological aspects that relate to the phenomenon can be comprehensively explored. While treatment of the topic has only just begun, already today we are in the position to note clear continuity in the use of stone vessels in Galilee, as in Judea, even after the destruction of the Temple and throughout the first half of the second century c.e. Since the material culture of Galilee does not exhibit any of the clear signs of discontinuity after the Bar Kochba revolt that are displayed in the archaeological record of Judea, it is not surprising to find that the phenomenon of stone-vessel usage in the north does not disappear at once but continues to a limited extent into the third and fourth centuries c.e., as the finds from a growing number of sites have shown.

Summary The archaeological evidence relating to the observance of ritual purity during the Second Temple period merited intensive treatment in the last third of the twentieth century, with the works of Ronny Reich and Yizhak Magen laying the foundations for the study of the ancient ritual baths and stone vessels of the period. Based on preliminary archaeological data, most of which originated from Jerusalem and Judea, scholars have concluded that ritual-purity observance declined after the destruction of the Temple and became more or less obsolete after the suppression of the Bar Kochba revolt. In contrast to the Second Temple period, the subsequent Mishnaic and Talmudic periods were seen as a time when ritual-purity concerns had lost relevance. New archaeological data, the bulk of which has been presented in this paper, have provided us with an opportunity to reexamine previous conclusions. We have seen how recent discoveries point to continuity in the use of ritual baths and (to a lesser extent) stone vessels from Second Temple times throughout the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods. The sharp discrepancy between the literary evidence and the archaeological evidence that has been observed in previous studies is no longer so evident. The dozens of miqwaʾot and a handful of stone vessels dating to the Mishnaic and Talmudic periods that have recently been unearthed present a new picture that Commentary 9; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 177–201. Sumaqa: Dar, Sumaqa, 98. Jalame: Walter Berry, “The Minor Finds,” in Excavations at Jalame: Site of a Glass Factory in Late Roman Palestine (ed. G. D. Weinberg; Colombia: University of Missouri Press, 1988), 243–44. 55.  Jonathan Reed, “Chalkstone Vessels,” in Excavations at Ancient Nabratein: Synagogue and Environs (ed. E. M. Meyers and C. L. Meyers; Meiron Excavation Project 6; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 296–305, esp pp. 301–2.

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corresponds closely with the Talmudic sources that indicate a continuing practical interest in ritual purity for generations after 70 c.e. It must be stressed that the archaeological evidence presented in this study reflects a concern for ritual purity in its broadest sense, as opposed to the restricted concern of later Jewish practice (beginning sometime in the post-Talmudic era and continuing until today) in which the observance of ritual-purity regulations was confined almost exclusively to the ritual immersion of married women after menstruation and childbirth. As we have noted previously, rabbinic sources indicate that ritual-purity regulations continued to be of practical halakic concern even after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 c.e.—specifically with regard to the consumption of priestly heave-offerings and the practice of individuals, not necessarily priests, who were meticulous in eating all of their food in a state of purity. 56 The large concentrations of post-70 c.e. domestic ritual baths at sites such as Sepphoris and Susiya, the ritual baths found in the cemetery of Beth Sheʿarim, and the miqweh uncovered adjacent to winepresses at Horvat Shelach all provide clear evidence for the observance of ritual purity in its broader sense, as these were clearly not intended solely for the use of women after menstruation. These ritual baths and stone vessels deriving from post-70 c.e. contexts reflect concern for the ritual-purity regulations that remained relevant after the loss of the Jerusalem Temple—namely, regulations regarding the consumption of priestly heave-offerings and the practice of eating ordinary food in purity. At what point was this broader concern for ritual-purity regulations discontinued? As we have seen above, ritual purity in its broader sense could no longer be observed, at least in the eyes of the rabbis, once the supply of red-heifer ash had been depleted. We have also noted above that rabbinic literature fails to provide any clear evidence about the point in history when this actually occurred, although we may presume that the abandonment of ritual-purity observance was a process that spanned some time. The archaeological evidence presented in this study indicates that ritual-purity regulations continued to be observed to one degree or another throughout the Byzantine period. As we have seen, a limited number of stone vessels have been discovered in contexts dating to as late as the fourth century c.e. At a number of sites, such as at Sepphoris, Castra, and Beth Sheʿarim, miqwaʾot went out of use during the course of the Byzantine era as a result of shifting demographics— that is, the influx of a Christian population and the concurrent dissolution of the indigenous Jewish presence. At other sites, ritual baths remained in use throughout the Byzantine era, such as at Susiya, and even into the early Muslim period, such as at Mishmar David. We are hopeful that future archaeological discoveries will help to clarify further the evolving picture presented in this essay. 56.  See above, n. 3.

The Tomb of Jason Reconsidered Dan Barag  ‫ל‬′′‫ז‬

The Hebrew University of Jerusalem

Blasting operations on a building site on Alfasi Street in the Rehavya Quarter in western Jerusalem on February 7, 1956, revealed a burial cave of the Hasmonean period.1 The importance of the discovery was recognized instantly and Mrs. (later Prof.) Trude Dothan started to copy the inscriptions and wall paintings on the evening of the day of discovery. The excavation of the cave was conducted by L. Y. Rahmani and M. Dothan on behalf of the Dept. of Antiquities, from the next day to March 25th, 1956. A short report was published in the summer of the same year (Dothan and Rahmani 1956). The external sections of the monument were reconstructed and restored by the architect A. Hiram of the Dept. of Antiquities. The excavation report followed in 1964 in Hebrew and in 1967 in English.2 Over half a century after the discovery and four decades after the publication of the excavation report, it seems worthwhile to reconsider and reexamine this important find.

The Tomb A long, narrow corridor was hewn into the slope of the limestone rock in a NNE direction, measuring ca. 19.5 × 4.5–5 m. This area was subdivided along its axis into 1.  I wish to express my deep respect for the scholarly work of Dr. L. Y. Rahmani, the excavator of the tomb, (License 4/1956), Prof. N. Avigad and P. Benoit O.P., who published the inscriptions, and the architect, Dr. A. Hiram, who planned and supervised the reconstruction of the tomb. It is their excellent work that makes it possible to reconsider this outstanding monument. I am indebted to the Israel Antiquities Authority for their kind permission to reproduce figs. 1–3 from the excavation report and the unpublished reconstruction by Dr. A. Hiram from the IAA archive of excavation files. I benefited from help extended to me by Mr. A. Rochman-Halperin, Assistant Director of the Archive of the IAA, and Prof. A. Kloner and Dr. B. Zissu of Bar-Ilan University for permission to reproduce information from their maps of the Jerusalem necropolis. For documents regarding the discussions and negotiations before the reconstruction of the tomb and the site, see Kletter 2006: 267–69. 2.  Hebrew: Rahmani 1964; Avigad 1964; Benoit 1964. English: Rahmani 1967; Avigad 1967. French: Benoit 1967.

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Fig. 1. Jason’s Tomb, looking northeast (reproduced courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority).

three sections: a forecourt, outer court, and inner court open to the sky. The walls of the forecourt (8.75 × 5 m) were plastered, leading to the arched entrance of the outer court (1.61 m wide; the reconstruction includes several original stones, height 2.17 m). The walls of the outer court (5.40 × 4.30 m) were built of dressed ashlars and small stones with plaster. The inner court was entered through a narrow doorway, on the axis of the corridor (0.75 m wide), originally blocked by a heavy door, perhaps of stone, which left its marks in the plastered floor. The walls and floor of the inner court were plastered as well. On the western wall of this court, there is a drawing of a palm branch.3 3.  According to the report in Hebrew, Rahmani 1964: 10; however, in the report in English (Rahmani 1967: 73), it is in the inner court; its location is not marked in section 1-1 in fig. 3.

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Fig. 2.  Jason’s Tomb: plan and sections (reconstructed by A. Hiram from the Israel Antiquities Authority archive of excavation files). Used by permission.

The portico (5.8 × 5.4 m) forms the fourth unit along the N–S axis of the narrow corridor, its ceiling is about 2.5 m high. The walls and the floor of the portico are plastered and bear inscriptions, a wall painting, and graffiti (discussed below). The entrance to the portico, on its southern side, is 4.6 m wide. It is divided by a column into two passages (2.1 m and 1.9 m wide, respectively) and thus is a monostylos in antis façade. This feature is exceptional and without a parallel in the eastern Mediterranean area; perhaps it was the result of the narrow space available, which was unsuitable for a regular distylos in antis façade. The façade and pyramidal monument above the tomb collapsed in antiquity, mostly on the floor of the inner court. The remaining stones show that many stones, especially architectural members, were subsequently plundered. In front of the column base, a Doric capital and a fragmentary drum of the column were found, and the excavator concluded therefore that the façade is Doric. (Diameter of the column at the base: 0.51 m; reconstructed height: 2.33 m.) The base, however, contrary to Doric design, is richly molded and is Ionic.

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Fig. 3.  Jason’s Tomb: the façade and pyramidal monument (A. Hiram). Reproduced courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority.

The burial chamber (A) of the tomb proper was hewn into the rock NW of the portico with a very small entrance (0.65 m wide and high) close to its northwestern corner. This chamber (3.2 × 3.3 m) has eight burial kokhim at floor level and two other kokhim at a lower level. The fifth and last unit along the N–S axis of the tomb is the charnel-chamber (B) in which were piles of bones transferred from the kokhim of the burial chamber. It is roughly quadrangular (4.7 × 4.5 m). The stones that blocked the entrance to chambers A and B as well as the kokhim had been removed by grave robbers soon after the tomb went out of use.

The Pyramidal Monument The stones of the pyramidal monument (figs. 1, 3) and the façade collapsed onto the floor of the inner court. Despite stone-robbing, the stones that were left behind enabled Dr. Hiram to carry out a convincing and trustworthy reconstruction.4 The available original stones were mounted on a hollow concrete pyramid constructed on the site of the ancient structure. The inclination of the sides was established by 4.  One may wonder why a report on the reconstruction and the reconstruction of the façade suggested by Dr. A. Hiram was not included in the reports in 1964 and 1967. Unfortunately, the area above the portico was not excavated, and the pyramid was reconstructed without any attempt to trace remains of the original structure.

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stones from the three lower courses of the pyramid, which were reassembled on its SW corner (lower course: 1.20 × 2.85 m). Other original stones were placed mostly on the front side of the pyramid. The pyramid has 11 horizontal courses, measures 5.02 × 5.79 m, and is 5.30 m high. The shorter face on the southern and northern sides resulted from the narrow size of the corridor. The pyramid rests on a square base (6.20 × 5.40 m) with a reconstructed molded cornice (0.2 m wide). On its SW corner are four courses of original stones (0.87 m high, each stone 0.21 m high). At the top of the façade, there is a reconstructed molded cornice (0.2 m wide) and below, on the SW corner, three courses of original stones (each 0.3 m high). The total reconstructed height of the pyramid and façade is 9.25 m. A. Yardeni suggested a corrected reading of the Aramaic lament inscription (see below), reading in line 1: ‫‘ די בנת לך קביר ונפש‬who hast built thyself a tomb and ne­fesh’ (Yardeni 2000: 1:224, 2:78) (nefesh = ‘sepulchral monument, mausoleum’). Thus the inscription refers to the tomb and pyramidal monument above it. The pyramid of Jason’s Tomb is reminiscent of the pyramid of the monolith of Siloam (Silwan) from the period of the Judean monarchy (Avigad 1947: 114; 1954: 22–23). Avigad suggested that the pyramid of the latter tomb (5.30 × 4.92 m) was constructed mainly of built stones. D. Ussishkin rejected this suggestion which, however, remains vaguely possible.5 Did this monument serve as a source of inspiration for the builders of the pyramid on Jason’s Tomb? The pyramid of the Tomb of Zechariah monolith in the Kidron Valley dates to the second half of the first century b.c.e. and is, thus, about a century later than Jason’s Tomb (Barag 2003: 95–99).

The Location of the Tomb The Tomb of Jason is located about 780 m above sea level on the southern slopes of a mountain ridge, about 1.8 km west of the Upper City or Western Hill of Hasmonean Jerusalem (fig. 4). The tomb and pyramidal monument were an impressive sight, visible to those who passed it from south, looking northward, and certainly for those who passed on the track immediately to the south of the forecourt (now Alfasi Street). The age-old road to Gaza began at Jaffa Gate (that is, from the Citadel), continued to the northwest about 0.5 km, and then turned toward the southwest (passing near the Birket Mamilla pool and on the present-day Mamilla-Agron Street 5. Ussishkin 1986: 54–58, figs. 34–36. Ussishkin established that at least one course of stones was removed from the pyramid. Its calculated height reached 2.4 m—that is, 1.9–1.8 m above the present height of the rock around it. Alas, there is no indication of the period in which the rocks around it were quarried extensively. His statement that above-ground structures are unknown from the necropolis of Jerusalem is contradicted by the existence of the pyramid of Jason’s Tomb, the superstructure of the nefesh of the Tomb of Benei Hezir (Barag 2003: 84–90), and the Tomb of Absalom (Avigad 1954: 23, 91ff.).

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Fig. 4.  Location of Jason’s Tomb (reproduced courtesy of A. Kloner and B. Zissu, Bar-Ilan University).

and Gaza Road). Jason’s Tomb is 180 m NW of the road to Gaza, at a higher level, and may have been visible from that road as well. On its discovery in 1956, it was commented that “this and other earlier finds in the vicinity suggest that the necropolis of Jerusalem extended much farther in a westerly direction than was formerly supposed” (Dothan and Rahmani 1956: 128). The survey and study of the necropolis of Jerusalem by A. Kloner and B. Zissu, published in 2003, presents an exhaustive and up-to-date analysis of the tombs, mainly from the second century b.c.e. to 70 c.e., with a few rare examples of a slightly later date. It demonstrates that the necropolis of that period surrounded Jerusalem from all directions (Kloner and Zissu 2003: map on p. 10 [in Hebrew numerals]). The tomb-location maps of Kloner (1980: maps 4 and 5) and Kloner and Zissu’s corpus of tombs show that in an extensive area north of Jason’s Tomb there is no evidence of any tombs. It is roughly a rectangular area measuring 700 m from east to west and 1,250 m from north to south, some 8,750 dunams. The rocks of this area are not particularly suitable for hewing tombs. However, three other tombs were discovered in the same vicinity along a stretch of 300 m from east to west, and there are numerous tombs along the eastern escarpment of the valley to the west (Valley of

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the Monastery of the Cross). Jason’s Tomb is the only impressive and important tomb in this neighborhood, constructed at the southern limit of this area. It is therefore possible that this extensive plot was the estate of Jason and his descendants and thus was unavailable for other tombs. This raises a more general observation and question: there are other areas around Jerusalem that did not yield evidence of any tombs from the second century b.c.e. to 70 c.e. Were some of these plots of estates unavailable for tombs? One must bear in mind that many tombs were destroyed over time, others were not detected, and the available information is incomplete. Regardless, the vast area north of Jason’s Tomb may very well have been an estate that was unavailable for hewing tombs.

Inscriptions, Drawings, and Graffiti Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions The Aramaic and Hebrew inscriptions were published by N. Avigad.6 The only reasonably well-preserved inscription was written, in charcoal, on the plaster of the northern wall of the portico, to the left of the entrance to the charnel-chamber (B). It is a funeral lament in Aramaic, written in four lines in the Jewish script, and beginning 2.05 m above the floor. It was evidently written by Hony(o) [Onias], a brother of Jason. The first line reads: ‘A powerful lament make for Jason son of P . . . (my brother). Peace. . . . Who hast built thyself a tomb. Elder, rest in peace’. It tells us that the tomb was built by Jason (hence its name, Jason’s Tomb) in his lifetime. Avigad read the third word before the end of the line as saba ‘grandfather’ and interpreted it as a title of honor. A. Yardeni suggested a corrected reading of the text, nefesh instead of saba—that is, ‘sepulchral monument, mausoleum’—which removes the difficulty of Hony(o) referring to his brother as ‘grandfather/Elder’.7 Furthermore, it presents a parallel to the epitaph on the architrave of the Tomb of Bnei Hezir: ‘This [is the] tomb and the nefesh of . . .’ (Barag 2003: 92–94). On the plaster of the eastern wall of the porch were three badly preserved inscriptions: 1. In calligraphic Jewish script, in ink: ‘on the 26th of Elul . . .’ and ‘on the 24th of Elul in the year . . .’ (fig. 5).8 Avigad noted that there were no more than three to four letters or numerals in the damaged space after ‘in the year’. One may wonder whether the year was marked according to the Seleucid Era (the Era of Deeds), 6.  Avigad 1964; 1967. Puech (1983: 481–99) presented a detailed discussion of the inscriptions in Jason’s Tomb with hypothetical readings and interpretations that are beyond the scope of the present discussion. 7.  See Yardeni 2000: 1:224, 2:78. Avigad translated ‫‘ קינא‬lament’; Yardeni as ‘[nest?]’, which seems unlikely in this context and has no parallel in an epitaph. See Jastrow 1903: 1362–63, ‫קינה‬/‫ ;קינא‬p. 1387, ‫קן‬. 8.  The numerals are 20+ . . . and a dividing mark between the numeral and ‘Elul’.

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Fig. 5.  Hebrew inscriptions: (top) ‘on the 26th of Elul . . .’ and (bottom) ‘on the 24th of Elul in the year . . .’.

which is in general use in 1 and 2 Maccabees (and still in use, occasionally, by Yemeni Jews today). 2. Four lines, in ink (lines 3–4, written by a different hand), in Hebrew; contents obscure. 3. A single line, in ink, perhaps in Hebrew; contents obscure.

On the plaster of the western wall of the portico below the painting of the ships was a two-line inscription, in charcoal, in Hebrew. Despite its lamentable condition, it preserves one word, which may be of importance for the interpretation of the painting (see below). The Greek Inscription Above the entrance to the charnel-chamber (B), a two-line inscription was written in charcoal, which was published by P. Benoit and discussed by B. Lifshitz (Benoit 1964; 1967; Lifshitz 1966). It reads: ΕΥΦΡΑΙΝΕΣΠ[sic]9Ε ΟΙ ΖΩΝΤΕΣ / [Τ]Ο ΔΕ (ΛΟΙ)ΠΟ[Ν . . .] ΠΕΙΝ ΟΜΑ ΦΑ[ΓΕΙΝ] ‘[You] the living rejoice! For the rest . . . drink and eat’. The inscription, which was intended to console the mourners, displays strong Hellenistic influence. Drawings A depiction of three ships in charcoal was represented on the plaster of the western wall of the portico (fig. 6). Rahmani presented a detailed description and thorough study of the ships. The drawing measures 5.3 × 1.2 m, its base being at a height of 1.2–1.5 m above the floor; it shows two galleys and a merchantman between them. The right-hand galley (1.68 m long) is a swift monoreme with a tridented ram. The stern terminates in an aphlaston. The ship has a large unfurled mainsail. On the masthead is a pointed oval standard bearing a symbol similar to a Greek Λ or A. Fourteen oars are visible (originally 15). Just aft of the prow, on the bow is a forecastle in which two helmeted warriors are standing. The front warrior holds a bow with an arrow, and the second grasps a spear. The other members of the crew are 9.  The writer wrote Θ instead of Π.

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Fig. 6.  Drawing of the naval battle.

apparently concealed by the bossed shields arranged along the bulwarks. The merchantman (0.85 m long) in the middle of the scene has an unfurled mainsail with a palm branch–shaped standard on the masthead. The ship’s crew bear round shields as if to fend off arrows shot from the right-hand galley. Only traces remain of the left-hand galley. It has a high stern and an aphlaston similar to that of the right-hand galley and is smaller than the latter warship. Rahmani referred to parallel representations of ships dating to the second and first centuries b.c.e. He concluded that “these detailed drawings seem to be the work of a person well-acquainted with the technical aspects of ships and sailing” (Rahmani 1967: 70). In Rahmani’s opinion, “there is reason to assume that the scene is one in which the deceased took a leading part, and that it is he who is clearly shown on the forecastle of his ship. It seems reasonable to assume that the original occupant of the tomb (and probable founder of the family) was in some way connected with the naval exploits off the coast of Palestine in the years 100–63 b.c.” (1967: 96–97). He did not adduce any evidence that Jason is the helmeted person with a bow and arrow on the forecastle of the right-hand galley. Furthermore, a Greek Λ or A seems unlikely as the symbol of a Jewish ship. Even more unlikely is the suggestion that the wealthy elder of a family in Hasmonean Jerusalem would be depicted as a pirate in his own tomb! Jason may be connected with the merchantman in the center of the scene. A clue may have survived in the inscription below the painting, which uses the Hebrew verb ‫שסכל‬, meaning ‘who frustrated, stultified, made ineffective’.10 The name Jason and the merchantman being attacked by galleys bring to mind Eupolemos, the son of Johanan, son of Kotz, and Jason, son of Eleazar, the envoys of Judas Maccabeus to Rome (1 Macc 8:17–19). Their journey is described as “very long” or “very violent” or perhaps both, which would fit the picture of a naval engagement. Alas, the name of Jason’s father begins with a P, which rules out a connection 10.  Avigad 1967: 111, pl. 25:D; the same word appears in an epigram on an ossuary published by Naveh (1980), translated ‘abolished’. The lamentable condition of the inscription on Jason’s Tomb, probably an epigram as well, leaves its context and intention (rather than meaning) enigmatic. I am indebted to Dr. B. Zissu for drawing my attention to this parallel.

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Fig. 7.  Graffiti of the Temple menorah.

with this episode. Simon sent two envoys to Sparta: Numenius, son of Antiochus, and Antipater, son of Jason (1 Macc 14:22).11 Hyrcanus I (135–105 b.c.e.) sent a delegation of three envoys to Rome: Simon, son of Dositheus, Apollonius, son of Alexander, and Diodorus, son of Jason (Josephus, Ant. 13.259–66). May one conjecture that the painting is connected with either Antipater, son of Jason, or Diodorus, son of Jason? The identification of the scene remains enigmatic, but it seems to be a scene of liberation rather than piracy, which would be a source of embarrassment to the family of Jason. On the plaster of the northern wall of the portico, left of and below the Aramaic funeral lament inscription, there is a painting of a reclining stag. Its meaning in this context is obscure (Rahmani 1967: 97). Graffiti Into the plaster of the eastern wall of the portico, five representations of the seven-branched menorah of the Temple (fig. 7) were scratched with a sharp instrument at eye level. These are not just small graffiti, because the representation occupied a space of ca. 0.70 × 0.80 m. Two of the menorahs are mounted on a rectangular base. To the left of the left-hand menorah is a T-shaped incision, which may be the remnant of a representation of the showbread table. These are the only representations of the menorah on the wall of a tomb in Jerusalem earlier than 70 c.e. Rahmani cautiously remarks that these graffiti are from no later than 30/31 c.e., the date of the final sealing of the tomb. However, there is no particular reason to posit that the graffiti are not contemporaneous with the period of the tomb’s use and the drawings 11.  Josephus erroneously attributed this mission to the reign of Hyrcanus II (Ant. 14.144– 48), referring to Alexander, son of Jason. The suggestion that one should read Antipater instead of Alexander was put forward earlier by Ritschl 1875: 420.

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and inscriptions in the portico.12 The appearance of the Temple menorah in a tomb preserving the names of Jason and his brother Onias supports the position that this was a priestly family. These names were apparently prevalent in priestly families during the second century b.c.e. (Josephus, Ant. 12.238–40, 15.41). The menorahs are apparently the earliest representations of the Hasmonean menorah and are yet another indication of the major importance of Jason’s Tomb. However, a complete discussion of this matter is beyond the scope of the present discussion. Other graffiti on the plaster of the portico include a representation of a stemmed chalice and three obscure graffiti.

The Date of Jason’s Tomb General Considerations Rahmani dated the construction of the tomb to the reign of Alexander Jannaeus (103–76 b.c.e.) and suggested that Jason’s family was annihilated when Herod came into power in 37 b.c.e. It was one of the tombs of the Sadducees and was thus plundered. It suffered extensive damage, and the constructed parts collapsed in the earthquake of 31 b.c.e. (Rahmani 1967: 97–99). In chamber A, 9 kokhim were found that were associated with another single burial, and 42 coins. One coin of Alexander Jannaeus (coin no. 2) probably belonged to an earlier burial, and 41 were struck by Roman procurators in 5/6–30/31 c.e. The secondary burial dates, therefore, to 30/31 c.e. Four coins from 24/25–30/31 c.e. were found at the bottom of a fill of stones and earth above the damaged wall between the outer and inner courts. The fill covered the courts of the corridor and reached the portico. It was intentionally filled to the level of the nearby surface (Rahmani 1967: 98–99). This explains its preservation until its unexpected discovery on February 7, 1956. Rahmani published the finds from the tomb—pottery vessels and lamps, small finds of various materials, as well as the coins—that led him to the date and the suggested reconstruction of the history of the tomb (Rahmani 1967: 76–94). Architectural Data G. Foerster discussed the architectural fragments of the façade of Jason’s Tomb showing that the antae of the portico had Corinthian capitals.13 He compared them to similar capitals from ʿIraq el-Emir in the land of the Tobiads in the region of the Ammonites. The palace was built, but not finished, by Hyrcanus son of Joseph 12.  Rahmani (1967: 73) mentions that a deep vertical scratch on the sixth oar of the righthand galley represents an abandoned attempt to etch a menorah, which shows that the menorah graffiti are later than the drawings of the ships. However, is there any evidence that the vertical scratch is necessarily connected with the other graffiti? 13.  Foerster 1978. Foerster was apparently not aware of Hiram’s reconstruction from 1957 (preserved in the excavation file in the Israel Antiquities Authority’s archives), which shows the façade with Corinthian antae.

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ca. 182–175 b.c.e. (it is sometimes referred to as a temple or even a mausoleum).14 Foerster also referred to parallel capitals from the Temple of Zeus in Olba-Diocaesarea in Cilicia, attributed to Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–164 b.c.e.). Closer to Jerusalem are two fragments of a Corinthian capital from Tell el-ʿAqabeh, the Threx or Taurus of the Hasmoneans and Kypros of Herod, in the oasis of Jericho (Foerster 1978: 155, 157, pl. 28:B–C). These fragments, which resemble those from Jason’s Tomb, were found below the Herodian level and date to the Hasmonean period. They certainly do not antedate the reign of Simon (143/2–135/4 b.c.e.). Foerster (1978: 156) attributed the construction of Jason’s Tomb to the first half of the second century b.c.e., pointing to the parallels from ʿIraq el-Emir and Olba-Diocaesarea. The parallels from Tell el-ʿAqabeh indicate, however, that the date of the construction of the tomb may be sought in the second half of the second century b.c.e. Fischer suggested lowering Foerster’s date to at least the mid-second century b.c.e. (Fischer 1990: 9). The composite style of Doric and Corinthian elements in Jason’s Tomb has parallels in the ʿIraq el-Emir palace, as was demonstrated by Will, Larché, and Zayadine (1991: 152–54, pls. 12–18, 20–22, 36–37, 39, 62–64, 66–67, 100), and in the Mous­ tapha Pasha cemetery at Alexandria (Foerster 1978: 155). Foerster (1978: 155 n. 3) defined the molded base of the Doric column of Jason’s Tomb as “unorthodox.” The base of the Doric column of Jason’s Tomb is Ionic and is yet another example of these composite styles.15 Hiram included a Doric frieze of metopes and triglyphs in his reconstruction of the façade, perhaps because there was a fragment among the finds (Rahmani 1964: pl. 7:3). The Numismatic Evidence All the coins are bronze coins and belong to two groups: (1) Hasmonean and Herodian, and (2) Roman procurators.16 Since 1967, when Rahmani published the excavation report, changes and advances made in the field of Jewish numismatics require additional examination of the evidence. Coin no. 7, attributed to Hyrcanus II (67–40 b.c.e.), dates to the reign of Hyrcanus I (135–105 b.c.e.).17 Coin no. 6, a wreath with traces of a legend/cornucopias, is either of Hyrcanus I or Alexander Jannaeus. Coin nos. 2 and 4 are of the Year 25 series (79/78 b.c.e.) of Alexander Jannaeus.18 Coin nos. 1 and 3 are of his lightweight 14.  For Hyrcanus and his palace, see Josephus, Ant. 12.230–36. 15.  Rahmani (1967: 93 n. 7) compared it with the Ionic bases of the columns of Absalom’s Tomb. 16.  Rahmani 1967: 92–93. Rahmani lists the Herodian coins as a separate group, attributing them to the period of or after the robbery, when the tomb was not used anymore by its original owners, who were probably killed in 37 b.c.e. This seems improbable for reasons discussed below. I am indebted to Dr. D. T. Ariel of the numismatic section of the Israel Antiquities Authority for making the coins from the excavation available to me for inspection. 17.  IAA 3891; Meshorer 2001: 44, Group I, pl. 19, 1:1–12. 18.  IAA 3880, 3882; Meshorer 2001: 39–41, Group O, pl. 26, 50:1–8.

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issues,19 and no. 5 is of the same monarch, but the precise type is obscured. Coin nos. 8–9 are of Herod (40–4 b.c.e.).20 The 46 coins of the Roman procurators belong to different types issued from 5/6 to 30/31 c.e. (Rahmani 1967: 92–93) There are no coins from Year 18 of Tiberius struck by Pontius Pilatus (Meshorer 2001: pl. 75:334), which are found less frequently than the coins of the previous year, and none of the prolific issue of Agrippa I from 41/42 c.e. (Meshorer 2001: pl. 52:120). The tomb did not yield any Seleucid coins of the second century b.c.e., and the earliest coin (no. 7) of Hyrcanus I (135–104 b.c.e.) may have reached the tomb during his reign or that of Alexander Jannaeus (103–76 b.c.e.). The coins of Herod (nos. 8–9) may belong to the years 37–31 b.c.e. (31 b.c.e., year of the earthquake). The secondary burial and covering up of the tomb may have happened in 31 c.e. but, at any rate, before 41/42 c.e. Pottery and Glass Pottery lamps and vessels were discovered in the tomb (fig. 8). Four types of lamp were represented among the finds (Rahmani 1967: 77–79, fig. 9, pl. 23:B): (A) Small folded wheel-made lamps found in chambers A and B. (B) Hellenistic-period molded radial lamps. (C) Judean molded radial lamps. Types B and C were found in chambers A and B, the portico, and one on the floor of the inner court. (D) Wheel-made spatulate nozzle lamps found in the opening of chamber B and in the portico. The small folded lamps of type A date from the mid-second century to the third quarter of the first century b.c.e. (Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 11–13, fig. 1). Molded Hellenistic radial lamps of type B date to the second half of the second century and early first century b.c.e. (1994: 13–14, fig. 1a). Judean molded radial lamps of type C date from the first century to the end of Herod’s reign (1994: 14–24, figs. 2–3). Wheel-made spatulate nozzle lamps of type D do not appear before the end of the first century b.c.e. or early first century c.e.21 Debased examples of this type (not represented in the tomb) occur as late as the days of the Bar Kochba War (132–35 c.e.). The lamps of types A and B indicate that the tomb may have been constructed during the second half of the second century b.c.e. and, together with type C, the lamps show that the tomb was in use during the first century b.c.e. The lamps of type D (about 20–25% of the lamps) were found in the opening of chamber B and the portico and may be connected with the plundering of the tomb not before the very end of Herod’s reign or later. A detailed review of the other pottery vessels—bowls, juglets, flasks, and bottles—is beyond the scope of the present discussion (Rahmani 1967: 80–88, figs. 10–17, pl. 23:A). Suffice it to refer the reader to parallels in strata 4 and 3 of the excavations in the Upper City of Jerusalem from the second half of the second 19.  IAA 3833, 3883; Meshorer 2001: pl. 26, 50:9–13. 20.  IAA 3881, 3890; Meshorer 2001: pl. 46:60. 21.  Barag and Hershkovitz 1994: 24–53; for the earliest examples, see p. 45 (with references); and Geva and Hershkovitz 2006: 115.

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Fig. 8.  Pottery lamps, vessels, and a glass bowl.

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century to the late first century b.c.e.—that is, the same chronological range of the lamps of types A–C.22 The finds include three fragments of cast-glass drinking bowls characteristic of the symposia during the Hellenistic period. The present fragments date to the second half of the second century or the first century b.c.e.23 The Evidence for Dating Jason’s Tomb The architecture of the tomb, the coins, pottery lamps, and vessels, as well as fragments of glass drinking bowls show that the tomb was constructed during the second half of the second century b.c.e. and was in use until the reign of Herod I. The suggestion that the façade and pyramid collapsed during the earthquake of 31 b.c.e. is plausible. No ossuaries were found in the Tomb of Jason. The use of ossuaries in the necropolis of Jerusalem began in the late first century b.c.e. (Rahmani 1994: 21; Kloner and Zissu 2003: 56). The tomb antedates the introduction of ossuaries. The family of Jason may have used the tomb after the collapse of the façade and not adapted to the use of ossuaries; however, the finds do not support this conclusion. Jason’s Tomb dates, therefore, from the second half of the second century b.c.e. to the reign of Herod, perhaps ca. 135–31 b.c.e. In 31/32–41/42 c.e., after the burial of a deceased person whose connection to Jason’s family is unknown, the visible parts of the tomb were filled up with about 200 cubic m of earth and stones and were concealed from sight. Before that event, during a period of about six decades, architectural elements and building stones were removed, probably stolen, from the inner court, and the tomb was plundered.

Summary and Conclusions Jason’s Tomb belonged to a wealthy family and was built on the southern limit of their extensive estate. This monumental tomb was constructed north of and above the road to Gaza and probably formed an imposing sight from the road. The façade presents an original monostylos in antis structure with an eclectic Doric, Ionian, and Corinthian style as well as a monumental pyramid. The Aramaic lament legend in the portico identifies the builder of the monument as Jason, son of P. . . .24 The naval scene in the portico presents, perhaps, an important liberation scene in the history of the family. The graffiti of the menorahs and the names Honio and Jason show that this was a priestly family. The legend in Greek, “[You] the living, 22.  Geva and Hershkovitz 2006: 99–143; for the chronology, see p. 99. 23.  Jackson-Tal 2004; see in particular fig. 8; Gorin-Rosen 2003: 365–66, G. 1–8, pl. 15:1; 2006: 241, G. 4, pl. 10:1. 24.  Puech (1983: 490) identifies Jason as the grandson of the high priest Jason ousted by Menelaus (2 Macc 4:23–27) and the tomb as belonging to this family and renovated by Hyrcanus I. However, this suggestion is rather hypothetical.

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rejoice! For the rest . . . drink and eat,” displays Hellenistic influence beyond the architectural style of the tomb. Only a few of the funeral gifts survived, for example, fragments of a silver-plated mirror, a ring covered with gold leaf, a few fragments of glass drinking bowls, and a fragment of a cotton hairnet, possibly imported from India (Rahmani 1967: 93–94, pl. 24:A). Funeral gifts from the Hasmonean period were also found in the tombs at Nahal David near Ein Gedi and Jericho (Avigad 1962: 181–83, pl. 22:A; Hachlili and Killebrew 1983). The tomb dates from the period of Hyrcanus I (135–105 b.c.e.) to early in the reign of Herod (40–4 b.c.e.). It is noteworthy that two coins of Herod were found in the tomb. The demise of Jason’s family is probably connected to the major political and social changes that resulted from the fall of the Hasmonean Dynasty. The tomb preserves important testimony of a priestly family that belonged to the wealthy stratum of society during the days of the Hasmoneans. One may wonder how many similar monuments were built around Jerusalem that did not survive the perils of time.

References Avigad, N. 1947 Architectural Observations on Some Rock-Cut Tombs, I: The Monolith at Silwan. PEQ 79: 112–15. 1954 Ancient Monuments in the Kidron Valley. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] 1962 Expedition A: Nahal David. IEJ 12: 169–83. 1964 The Aramaic Inscriptions. ʿAtiqot, Hebrew Series 4: 32–38, pls. 16–19. 1967 Aramaic Inscriptions in the Tomb of Jason. IEJ 17: 101–11, pls. 25–27. Barag, D. 2003 The 2000–2001 Exploration of the Tombs of Benei Hezir and Zechariah. IEJ 53: 78–110. Barag, D., and Hershkovitz, M. 1994 Lamps from Masada. Pp. 7–78 in Masada IV: The Yigael Yadin Excavations, 1963– 1965, Final Reports. Jerusalem. Benoit, P. 1964 The Greek Inscription. ʿAtiqot, Hebrew Series 4: 39, pl 20. 1967 L’Inscription grecque du tombeau de Jason. IEJ 17: 112–13, pl. 28. Dothan, M., and Rahmani, L. Y. 1956 Notes and News, Jerusalem. IEJ 6: 127–28. Fischer, M. L. 1990 Das korintische Kapitell im Alten Israel in der hellenistischen und römischen Periode. Mainz. Foerster, G. 1978 Architectural Fragments from “Jason’s Tomb.” IEJ 28: 152–56, pls. 27–28. Geva, H., and Hershkovitz, M. 2006 Local Pottery of the Hellenistic and Early Roman Period. Pp. 94–143 in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem, Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1969–1982: III. Jerusalem.

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Gorin-Rosen, Y. 2003 The Glass Vessels from Area A. Pp. 364–400 in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem, Conducted by Nahaman Avigad, 1969–1982: II. Jerusalem. 2006 Glass Vessels. Pp. 239–65 in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem, Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1967–1982: III, Jerusalem. Hachlili, R., and Killebrew, A. 1983 Jewish Funerary Customs in the Second Temple Period in the Light of the Excavations at the Jericho Necropolis. PEQ 115: 109–32. Jackson-Tal, R. E. 2004 The Late Hellenistic Glass Industry in Syro-Palestine: A Reappraisal. Journal of Glass Studies 46: 11–32. Jastrow, M. 1903 A Dictionary of the Targumim, Talmud Babli, Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature. New York. Kletter, R. 2006 Just Past? The Making of Israeli Archaeology. London. Kloner, A. 1980 The Necropolis of Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period. Ph.D. Dissertation. The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Kloner, A., and Zissu, B. 2003 The Necropolis of Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Lifshitz, B. 1966 Notes d’épigraphie palestinienne, 1: L’Exhortation à la jouissance de la vie dans une inscription tombale juive à Jérusalem. RB 73: 248–55, pl. 10. Meshorer, Y. 2001 A Treasury of Jewish Coins from the Persian Period to Bar Kokhba. Jerusalem and Nyack, NY. Naveh, J. 1980 An Aramaic Consolatory Burial Inscription. ʿAtiqot, English Series 14: 55–59, pl. 9:4. Puech, E. 1983 Inscriptions funéraires palestiniennes: Tombeau de Jason et ossuaires. RB 90: 481–533. Rahmani, L. Y. 1964 The Tomb of Jason. ʿAtiqot, Hebrew Series 4: 1–31, pls. 1–15. 1967 Jason’s Tomb. IEJ 17: 61–100, pls. 13–24. 1994 A Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries in the Collections of the State of Israel. Jerusalem. Ritschl, F. 1875 Nochmals der römische Senatsbeschluss bei Josephus: Antiqu. XIV, 8, 5. Rhei­ni­ sches Museum für Philologie 30: 419–35. Ussishkin, D. 1986 The Village of Silwan: The Necropolis from the Period of the Judean Kingdom. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Will, E.; Larché, F.; and Zayadine, F. 1991 ʾIraq Al Amir: Le château du tobiade Hyrcan I. 2 vols. Paris. Yardeni, A. 2000 Textbook of Aramaic, Hebrew and Nabataean Documentary Texts from the Judaean Desert and Related Material. 2 vols. Jerusalem. [Hebrew]

The Hippo-Stadium /Amphitheater in Jerusalem Amos Kloner

and

Bar-Ilan University

Sherry Whetstone Bar-Ilan University

Types of Entertainment Buildings Four kinds of late Hellenistic and early Roman architectural buildings intended for the entertainment of the general public are known in scholarly works: the theater, the amphitheater, the stadium, and the hippodrome (also known as the circus in the Roman period). It is generally accepted among scholars that each type of building provided the venue for one specific kind of public entertainment. The theater, built as two-thirds or three-quarters of a circle in the Hellenistic period and as a semicircle in the Roman period, was used for dramatic performances, plays, and staged entertainments. The amphitheater, built as an oval, was used for various kinds of gladiatorial combat (munera), animal hunts and exhibitions (venationes), fights between men and beasts (bestiarii), and even executions. The classical stadium, built like a long rectangle (to which a rounded end was added in the Late Hellenistic period), was used for competitions and sporting events that required a longer playing field than was available in an amphitheater. The competitions were performed in the lowest area of the edifice, the length of which was one stadion (600 feet, or approximately 186 m); because the Greek foot was not uniform, the length of stadia used for playing arenas actually varied between 192 m and 196 m. The hippodrome/circus was used for chariot-racing competitions. The arena was longer than the stadion/stadium and was usually divided along its length by a barrier similar to a traffic divider (spina); the competitions were arranged along its length. In the first century t and the first century c.e., when these entertainment buildings and the different kinds of entertainments themselves came to this region, it appears that, contrary to usual custom, no clear distinction was made in the exact use of each building. The same entertainment may have been performed in both the hippodrome and the stadium. The exceptions were the amphitheater, which was used mainly for combat; and the theater, which was mostly used for dramatic productions, because it was impossible to produce entertainment that required a long arena in the 163

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smaller, enclosed space of a theater. Sporting competitions could not be held in the theater or amphitheater, while combat could be held in a multifunctional stadium/ hippodrome. Examples do exist of theaters that were also used for munera, however, especially in Asia Minor (Golvin 1988).

The Evidence from Caesarea for a Multifunctional Entertainment Building A hippodrome measuring 315 m × 64 m was found and identified along the seashore by J. Porath during the excavations at Caesarea at the beginning of the 1990s (Porath 1995a; 1995b; 1996; Patrich 2001b; 2002a). The construction can quite definitely be identified with the Herodian “amphitheater” mentioned by Josephus (Ant. 15.341; J.W. 1.415). In the period under discussion, the term amphitheater was used to designate either a stadium or a hippodrome rather than the oval Roman amphitheatrum, which was known in the first century b.c.e. as a spectaculum (Humphrey 1996; Patrich 2002a: 29 n. 3). Josephus recorded that various contests and rites were held during the inauguration of the city (Ant. 16.136–37). Most of these celebratory activities, which usually occurred in different types of entertainment buildings, were held instead in the “amphitheater.” The excavator’s assumption—that in Palestine (and probably in other areas of the eastern Empire in the first half of the first century c.e.) the term amphitheater had the wider meaning of “an entertainment building in which seats were arranged around an arena” (Porath 1995a; 1995b)—is accepted. Many kinds of shows, chariot and sports contests, gymnastics, riding exhibitions, munera, and hunting competitions were held in the multifunctional entertainment building at Caesarea.

The Evidence from Jericho for a Multifunctional Entertainment Building The remains of a multifunctional entertainment building hewn into the southern slope of an artificial hill were found by E. Netzer during the excavation at Tell el-Samarat in Jericho (Netzer 2004: 195–225). The southern end of the construction consisted of a level platform more than 300 m long and ca. 80 m wide (see also, among others, Netzer 1980; 1993; 1995; and 2001: 64–67). According to the excavator, this leveled platform was used as a racetrack for chariot races. This unique Herodian entertainment building thus consisted of a hippodrome with a theater incorporated into its northern end. The audience sat in the theater to watch the races in the attached hippodrome, a unique combination of the two types of constructions. Josephus describes several events that occurred in the amphitheater (Ant. 17.161, 194) and hippodrome (Ant. 17.175, 178, 193) at Jericho during the last days

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of Herod’s reign and shortly thereafter. It is logical to assume that these constructions were parts of the same above-mentioned complex. It is clear that the hippodrome’s arena was used for some activities, such as combat, that were normally held in amphitheaters. The terms hippodrome and amphitheater may have been used more-or-less interchangeably by Josephus for the same types of construction, in which the audience was seated in tiers along raised inner walls facing a central arena. Unfortunately, very few remains of the seating areas were found during Netzer’s excavations (see references cited above).

Jerusalem: The Evidence from Josephus’s Writings Josephus describes the public entertainment buildings constructed and used in Second Temple–period Jerusalem as follows (emphasis in bold by the authors): For this reason Herod went still farther in departing from the native customs, and through foreign practices he gradually corrupted the ancient way of life, which had hitherto been inviolable. As a result of this we suffered considerable harm at a later time as well, because those things were neglected which had formerly induced piety in the masses. For in the first place he established athletic contests every fifth year in honour of Caesar, and he built a theatre in Jerusalem, and after that a very large amphitheatre in the plain, both being spectacularly lavish but foreign to Jewish custom, for the use of such buildings and the exhibition of such spectacles have not been traditional (with the Jews). Herod, however, celebrated the quinquennial festival in the most splendid way, sending notices of it to the neighbouring peoples and inviting participants from the whole nation. Athletes and other classes of contestants were invited from every land, being attracted by the hope of winning the prizes offered and by the glory of victory. And the leading men in various fields were assembled, for Herod offered very great prizes not only to the winners in gymnastic games but also to those who engaged in music and those who are called thymelikoi. And an effort was made to have all the most famous persons come to the contest. He also offered considerable gifts to drivers of four-horse and two-horse chariots and to those mounted on race-horses. And whatever costly or magnificent efforts had been made by others, all these did Herod imitate in his ambition to see his spectacle become famous. All round the theatre were inscriptions concerning Caesar and trophies of the nations which he had won in war, all of them made for Herod of pure gold and silver. As for serviceable objects, there was no valuable garment or vessel of precious stones which was not also on exhibition along with the contests. There was also a supply of wild beasts, a great many lions and other animals having been brought together for him, such as were of extraordinary strength or of very rare kinds. When the practice began of involving them in combat with one another or setting condemned men to fight against them, foreigners were astonished at the expense and at the same time entertained by the dangerous spectacle, but to the natives it meant an open break with the customs held in honour by them. For it seemed glaring impiety to throw men to wild beasts for the pleasure of other men as spectators, and it seemed a further impiety to change their established ways for

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Josephus uses the technical Greek terms for “theater,” “amphitheater,” and “hippodrome” in his writings. From the detailed descriptions given above, it is clear that various sports competitions and entertainment were sponsored by Herod in Jerusalem, including events such as races and sports competitions usually held in a stadion/stadium, although the term stadion itself is the only term (among the four) not used by Josephus. We propose that these activities were held in a multifunctional entertainment building similar to those at Caesarea and Jericho: a combination of a hippodrome/stadium and probably also an amphitheater. These activities of King Herod also suggest that he may have encouraged tourism to Jerusalem at this time to increase the city’s income. Josephus describes the many groups, including Galileans, Idumeans, and persons from Perea (Trans-Jordan) and Jericho who gathered in Jerusalem during the Feast of Pentecost in 4 b.c.e. immediately after the death of Herod (Ant. 17.254; J.W. 2.42– 43). These crowds, who came on a religious pilgrimage to the Temple but primarily in anger against Sabinus, were housed in three areas along with even more Judeans, who were also agitating against Sabinus. They organized themselves into three camps, which are described by Josephus differently in his two records of the events. The first record states that the camps were located “on the north of the Temple, another on the south, adjoining the hippodrome, and the third near the palace, on the west” (  J.W. 2.44); the second states: “the first group took possession of the hippodrome; of the other two groups, one went to the north quarter of the Temple, and facing south, held the eastern part, while the third group held the western part, where the palace was” (Ant. 17.255). These two records can only be reconciled if it is understood that one group held the Temple area from north to south mainly along the eastern side (another interpretation could be that this group was located outside the temenos of the Temple, although we do not agree with this interpretation), while a second group held the palace and the area of the towers, and a third group was located in or near the hippodrome. Josephus describes the fighting in the rebellion that ensued, which occurred only on the Temple Mount and on the western side of the city, near the Phasael Tower and the palace of the king (Ant. 17.256–68).

The Evidence from Jerusalem for a Multifuntional Entertainment Building According to Josephus’s descriptions, it seems to us that the rebel camps were located at three sites in Jerusalem: north and south of the Temple Mount on the east1.  We assume that all these activities were held in Jerusalem, although in Josephus’s text cited here, only the theater is specifically mentioned as having been built in Jerusalem. The amphitheater mentioned here is also assumed by all scholars to have been built in Jerusalem.

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ern side of the city, near the palace of the king with the towers adjacent to it on the western side of the city, and in the hippodrome. Because of the description given by Josephus in the J.W. (2.44), scholars have in the past suggested that the hippodrome was located south of the Temple Mount (as can be seen in Vincent and Abel 1914: pl. 1, for example) or even slightly southwest of the Temple Mount, in the region of the Tyropean Valley. These suggestions do not accord with past or current archaeological studies and excavation findings. It is important to note that the excavations in these regions of the central valley and near the present-day Dung Gate have not reached Second Temple–period levels except in very limited exposures. However, during large-scale excavations in the area of the present-day Givati parking area in the northern part of the City of David, remains of large Herodian buildings were exposed, but no indication of a hippodrome was found.2 The present writers are confident that the Second Temple–period hippodrome in Jerusalem that was founded, built, and used during the time of King Herod was renewed and reused in the time of Aelia Capitolina (second–third centuries c.e.) and probably during the Byzantine period as well. A comprehensive study of the lost circus of Aelia Capitolina, based mainly on literary sources and not on archaeological finds (Patrich 2001a; 2002b), cites the many problems with the identification and location of the hippodrome/circus as being located in Jerusalem; we will not repeat all the arguments and information here. According to Patrich, the Herodian hippodrome was probably also Aelia Capitolina’s circus, based on Aramaic translations (Patrich 2001a: 50) that reflect topographic realities, and this construction was to be found at a short distance outside the walls of the city. We are discounting suggestions that Josephus’s hippodrome/amphitheater and Aelia Capitolina’s circus were built in distant locations outside the city, such as in the northern neighborhoods of present-day Jerusalem or in the present-day neighborhood of Baqaʿa, Rachel’s Tomb, or elsewhere (see discussion in Patrich 2001a: 49–50; 2002b: 188).

A Multifunctional Entertainment Building in the Hinnom Valley We suggest that a multifunctional entertainment building used for athletic sports events and combat, the largest component of which consisted of an arena shaped like a hippodrome, 200 m × 25 m and oriented north–south was built in the area of the Sultan’s Pool (Birket es-Sultan) in the Hinnom Valley southwest of Second Temple–period Jerusalem (fig. 1). This narrow and slightly shortened building was 2.  These excavations were first headed by R. Reich and E. Shukron and now, in 2007, by D. Ben-Ami; see http://www.antiquities.org.il/Dig_Item_eng.asp?id=751. Another large excavation by E. Shukron and R. Reich is now being conducted (2007) along the sewage and run-off water system in the Tyropean Valley. More than 130 m in length have been exposed, but no evidence of a hippodrome has been found on the surface.

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Fig. 1.  The plan of Sultan’s Pool drawn by Conrad Schick in 1898.

necessitated by the topography and is an example of the way that Herod and his architects brilliantly fitted the needs of their construction within the physical constraints available to them, creating a multifunctional entertainment building sufficient even for chariot competitions (figs. 2–4). This suggestion was previously proposed by Kloner (see 1985: 130, where it is suggested that this was the site of the Herodian stadion; Kloner and Hubsch 1996: 104–5; Kloner 2000; 2001: 164–65, Site 399; English, p. 127*). This area, south of the Phasael Tower and the king’s palace, may be where the rebels’ third contingent camped and was thus the site of the “hippodrome” mentioned by Josephus. While our suggestion seems to contradict Josephus, who seems to state that the hippodrome was “south” of the Temple, this difficulty can be explained as a misreading of the text or a distortion by later copiers of Josephus; the designation “southern” should be related to the Palace, as noted above.3 The audience was seated along tiered rows on the long, sloping eastern and western sides of the construction. It is not beyond possibility that seats were also arranged in a semicircle on the northern side (cavea). We do not exclude the possiblity that the northern end may also have been used as a theater. 4 All the constructions identi3. Contra Lee I. Levine, to whom we are honored to dedicate this article (see Levine 2002: 205 n. 76). 4.  No evidence has been found for the existence of a theater here, in part because excavations could not be deepened to bedrock. In any case, the phenomenon of a theater with an attached hippodrome has been demonstrated by the excavations at Jericho cited above. And, as at

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fied with King Herod in all other sites were made of stone, including the cavea. No evidence of any wooden cavea has been found in the Roman and Byzantine buildings revealed in the area of Jerusalem and elsewhere (although earlier Hellenistic and Republican edifices incorporating wooden furniture have been found). Therefore, the suggestion that the multifunctional entertainment building in Jerusalem (or its cavea) was made of wood, either during the time of King Herod or later, is not convincing (contra Patrich 2002b: 186–88). Among other things, eleven worked stones that were originally used as seats in a public building west of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem were found in secondary use in the walls of the Umayyad Palace IV west of the Temple area (Reich and Billig 2000). The first reuse of these stones was as part of a latrine, recently identified as belonging to a large latrine from the Late Roman period (unpublished); they were then reused in the walls of the Umayyad building. Reich and Billig suggest that the original public construction in which these seats were used might be from the Hellenistic, Early Roman, or even Late Roman periods. The location of the bouleterion in which they may have been used, according to our interpretation, could have been at a distance of 100 m–200 m from the later Umayyad building. The reused stones could have come from a building north of their last use; it is possible that the bouleterion was located west-northwest of Wilson’s Arch since, according to J.W. 5.142, the first wall went from the Hippicus in the west toward the western stoa of the Temple, passing along the Xystus and the council building (bouleterion). While this suggestion sounds plausible, we cannot exclude the possibility that these seats may also have come from the hippodrome in the Hinnom Valley. Geographically just outside the western city wall of Second Temple–period Jerusalem, the Hinnom Valley was an intensively built-up area used for many public functions. The multifunctional entertainment building was encircled by other Second Temple–period constructions, such as the Lower Aqueduct that encircled it on its western, northern, and eastern sides and Iron Age and Second Temple–period burials on its eastern and western sides (Kloner 2001: 159–69, 126*–129*).5 The Hinnom Valley defines the border of the Old City on the west to the western slope of Mt. Zion, from the southwest corner of the Old City in the east and the neighborhood of Yemin Moshe in the west. Today it is called Gai Ben-Hinnom in Hebrew, ‘the Vale of the Son of Hinnom’, its biblical name (in Arabic, Wadi er-Rababi or Rababe). The valley begins at the watershed close to King George Street in the west, and directs runoff water from most of Jerusalem (from Prophet Street and the Jericho, we propose that, if a theater was constructed here, it must have had some sort of portable scaenae frons that would have been used as a backdrop during dramas or other theatrical productions and dismantled or moved for larger athletic or sporting events, such as races, in which the longer oval track was needed. Additionally, the lower water aqueduct circles around rather than crossing the valley, which supports the idea that the northern end of the cavea was built simultaneously with it. 5.  Interestingly, a Hellenistic tomb was discovered near the hippodrome at Jericho (Stacey 2004).

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Fig. 2.  A schematic drawing of a hippo-stadium/amphitheater superimposed on the topography of the present-day Sultan’s Pool; note the sewage channel along the length of the installation. Drawn by Felix Portnow.

Russian Compound in the north) toward the southeast. Rainwater is diverted today into a modern sewage system that does not travel to the valley. Excavations were conducted in the Sultan’s Pool in the Hinnom Valley in 1973– 74 and 1983 (Kloner 2000; 2001: 164–65; 127*). Probably originally constructed as a water reservoir prior to the twelfth century c.e., the pool was created by a dam 85 m long and 16 m wide, constructed perpendicular to the valley (for a mid-nineteenthcentury plan, see the map in Wilson’s Ordnance Survey of Jerusalem, 1865; for a physical description of the area, see Warren and Conder 1884: 376; see also fig. 1). The pool was often depicted in nineteenth-century visitors’ photographs of Jerusalem because of its impressive size and its location along Jerusalem’s western city wall. The southern face of the later Ottoman-period dam was strengthened by retaining walls and stone fillings and widened in the 1870s, when a new road for diljences was built from the Old City toward Bethlehem along Hebron Road; further widening of the dam’s southern face also occurred in the twentieth century. The dam’s northern face has the appearance of a massive wall. According to Schick (1898: 225), from the deepest point of the valley to the highest point of the dam at its center (where the Ottoman sibyl is located) was about 20 m. The dam’s exposed northern face was about 10–11 m high in 1974, and we therefore assume that the fill of dirt and stones that accumulated during the last century in the southern

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Fig. 3.  An isometric drawing of a hippo-stadium/amphitheater viewed from the southwest and superimposed on the topography of the present-day Sultan’s Pool; note the sewage channel along the length of the installation. Drawn by Felix Portnow.

part of the reservoir is about 8 m–9 m deep.6 Because of the rocky slope on both sides of the valley, it seems that the lower, covered part of the dam once had the appearance of a large, inverted triangle, but this area has been completely filled in and is no longer visible. The fill is composed of several layers; the upper layer was intentionally filled during the process of changing the area into a venue for modern entertainment in the 1970s 7 and again in the 1980s and 1990s. 6.  C. Schick (1898: 225) also sank a 5.5-m shaft along the dam’s northern face. According to the 1865 ordinance survey map (Wilson 1865), the surface was 2,355 feet (717.8 m) above sea level. Schick deepened the shaft to 712.3 m above sea level and found a 50-foot (16.5 m) long and 3-foot (2.5 m) wide wall, clearly earlier than the dam and attached to its northern face; he assumed that it provided support to the dam. The middle of the wall (22 feet [7.2 m] long) was indented and sloping. This wall was not found during our soundings in 1973–1975 and 1983; we assume that, if it existed, it was totally removed by unknown individuals between Schick’s excavations and the 1970s. It may have been removed during construction in the Sultan’s Pool at the beginning of the twentieth century. Schick could not deepen his excavations to bedrock, because his probes filled with water. Water appeared about 2 m below the surface during our attempt in 1973 to excavate the center of the northern face of the dam, but in 1975, no water appeared in a much lower cut (about 6 m below the surface) in the fill at the same place (see Kloner 2001: 164, Site [102] 399.1). 7.  The northern face of the dam was plastered, but only a few patches can be seen today. The accumulation in this area is mainly dirt and earth that has collected here since the dam’s construction. It is possible that the lower part of the valley was intentionally filled and leveled in

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Fig. 4.  An isometric drawing of a hippo-stadium/amphitheater viewed from the west and superimposed on the topography of the present-day Sultan’s Pool; note the sewage channel along the length of the installation. Drawn by Felix Portnow.

In 1983, a previously unknown east-to-west wall paralleling the Ottoman wall was discovered during the cutting of a tunnel to divert the flow of accumulated rainwater along the northern side of the dam.8 The wall (only three lines of ashlar could be seen), which was probably built across the width of the valley, was exposed for only 1.8 m of its length (for a photo, see Kloner 2001: 165, fig. [102] 399.2). This well-built wall is earlier than the present-day dam and was later incorporated into the dam. It may originally have been constructed during the Roman period to serve as a dam or retaining wall in the valley. Alternatively, and more likely in our opinion, it may have been part of the southern wall of the multifunctional entertainment building that we are proposing was constructed here in the Roman period. Another wall, 176 m north of the northern face of the present-day dam formed the northern end of the Sultan’s Pool. Schick (1898: 226) suggested the existence of an “ancient pool,” at least 6 m deep, north of this wall and continuing to where the lower aqueduct crossed the valley. Evidence of this ancient upper pool was not found in the excavations between the large still-growing pine trees in 1973, because the order to facilitate an earlier use of the area, before the construction of the dam. It is difficult to state what the original surface of the valley looked like in earlier periods, because the surface was altered several times during its preparation as a modern entertainment site. In order to facilitate the modern seats, the valley now inclines from south to the north—that is, it is lower in the southern area where the dam is located than in the northern area. 8.  The work in 1983 was inspected by the architect/conservator Giora Solar, to whom we give our thanks for the information here.

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work had to be discontinued when the depth of the section became too dangerous for the workers to continue. The Sultan’s Pool was used as a reservoir during the Crusader period, when it was called the “Germanus Pool” (Lacus Germani);9 it was used as a reservoir during the Mameluke and Ottoman periods as well. The public water fountain on the dam itself was built during the time of Suleiman the Magnificent. It must be remembered, however, that during the Roman and Byzantine periods no reservoir existed in the Hinnom Valley at all. A long north–south trench cut in the bedrock was also discovered during the excavations in the 1970s. The trench, about 75 cm wide and about 6.5 m–7 m deep, was covered by a mortar-and-stone vault along its full length. Cut before the reservoir was constructed, the deep narrow trench facilitated the flow of large quantities of water from the Old City opposite the present-day Kishle and running into the Hinnom Valley without damage to the surface of the valley or to any constructions that may have been located there (see figs. 2–4). No plausible explanation for the existence of this conduit during the life of the reservoir has been found by the present writers. The trench and vault were plastered on their interiors with a very high-quality plaster, so that running water would not damage them. The Sultan’s Pool itself was similarly plastered, many hundreds of years later, to prevent seepage. Only scant remains of this plaster were found in several patches on both sides of the pool’s length, because the majority of the rock was quarried, mainly at the end of nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century. After the reservoir went out of use in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the area was used as a weekly animal market (Ben-Arieh 1977: 93; see photo). Remains of two buildings attached to the northern face of the dam still existed in the 1970s. A line of several well-plastered square tanks were built in 1908 in the southwestern corner of the pool, below Mishkenot Shaʾananim. The tops of their upper walls were lower than the dam itself, and the tanks were used to store water. A veterinary hospital was constructed after 1911, and before World War I, it was still in use at the end of the British Mandate in the southeastern corner of the pool. The roof of the hospital was also lower than the top of the dam. The remains of the building were removed after the Six Day War in 1967.

Summary We believe that the archaeological and textual evidence cited above supports our suggestion that a multifunctional entertainment building was constructed in the 9.  Some researchers postulate that the reservoir was constructed shortly after 1176 c.e., because in this year, according to the sources of the period, the area was still being prepared for the construction of the pool. Contrary to this opinion, the pool is mentioned in a document from 1173 c.e., where a farmhouse is mentioned “alongside the Lacus Germani.” It seems more logical to posit that the pool was renovated and enlarged after 1176 c.e. but was originally constructed prior to 1173 c.e. (Kloner 2000: 82).

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Second Temple period in the area of the Sultan’s Pool. Although a multifunctional building of this sort is a new concept, it seems to us to provide a better understanding of Josephus’s use of various terms to describe a variety of activities brought to Jerusalem by King Herod. This type of construction, incorporating an amphitheater, hippodrome/stadium, and perhaps even a theater, built by King Herod in Jerusalem is well attested by the excavations at Jericho, and without a theater at Caesarea as well. Josephus’s phrase “to the south” is not problematic and should be related to the group camped in the Palace area. King Herod’s multifunctional entertainment building in the Hinnom Valley at Jerusalem continued to be used during the late Roman and Byzantine periods. The vaulted trench cut in the bedrock was replastered and revaulted and also continued to be used during the Late Roman and Byzantine periods.

References Ben-Arieh, Y. 1977 A City Reflected in Its Times: Jerusalem in the Nineteenth Century, the Old City. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi. [Hebrew] Golvin, J.-C. 1988 L’amphithéâtre romain. 2 vols. Paris. Humphrey, J. 1996 ‘Amphitheatrical’ Hippo-Stadia. Pp. 121–29 in Caesarea Maritima: A Retrospective after Two Millennia. Edited by A. Raban and K. G. Holum. DMOA 21. Leiden: Brill. Josephus Flavius 1997 Bellum Judaicum (Jewish War). Translated by H. St. J. Thackeray. LCL 203, 487. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1998 Antiquitates Judaicae (Jewish Antiquities).Translated by H. St. J. Thackeray and R. Marcus. LCL 489–90. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Kloner, A. 1985 The Archaeology of Jerusalem during the Time of King Herod. Pp. 113–31 in King Herod and His Time. Edited by M. Naor. Idan 5. Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi. [Hebrew] 2000 Hippodrome/Amphitheater in Jerusalem. Pp. 75–86 in New Studies on Jerusalem: Proceedings of the Sixth Conference. Edited by A. Faust and E. Baruch. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Institute of Archaeology. [Hebrew; English abstract, p. 9*] 2001 Survey of Jerusalem: The Northeastern Sector. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. [Hebrew and English] Kloner, A., and Hubsch, A. 1996 The Roman Amphitheater of Bet Guvrin: A Preliminary Report on the 1992, 1993 and 1994 Seasons. ʿAtiqot 30: 85–106. Levine, L. I. 2002 Jerusalem: Portrait of the City in the Second Temple Period (538 b.c.e.–70 c.e.). Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society.

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Netzer, E. 1980 The Hippodrome That Herod Built at Jericho. Qadmoniot 13/51–52: 104–7. [Hebrew] 1993 Tell es-Samarat. Pp. 691–92 in vol. 2 of NEAEHL. 1995 The Herodian Theater, Amphitheater and Hippodrome at Tell es-Samarat in the Plain of Jericho. Pp. 135–42 in Judea and Samaria Research Studies: Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Meeting 1995. Edited by Y. Eshel. Kedumim-Ariel: Research Institute, College of Judea and Samaria. [Hebrew; English summary, pp. xiv–xv] 2001 The Palaces of the Hasmoneans and Herod the Great. Translated by R. Amoils. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi and Israel Exploration Society. 2004 Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho—Final Reports of the 1973–1987 Excavations II: The Stratigraphy and Architecture. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Patrich, J. 2001a The Lost Circus of Aelia Capitolina. Cathedra 102: 29–50. [Hebrew; English summary, p. 209] 2001b The Carceres of the Herodian Hippodrome/Stadium at Caesarea Maritima and Connections with the Cirens Maximus. JRA 14: 269–83. 2002a Herod’s Hippodrome-Stadium at Caesarea and the Games Conducted Therein. Pp. 29–68 in What Athens Has to Do with Jerusalem: Essays on Classical, Jewish, and Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Honor of Gideon Foerster. Edited by L. Rutgers. Leuven: Peeters. 2002b The Lost Circus of Aelia Capitolina. Scripta Classica Israelica 21: 173–88. Porath, Y. 1995a Herod’s ‘Amphitheatre’ at Caesarea: A Multipurpose Entertainment Building. Pp. 15–27 in The Roman and Byzantine Near East: Some Recent Archaeological Research. Edited by H. H. Humphrey. JRA Supplement 14. Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology. 1995b Herod’s ‘Amphitheatre’ at Caesarea (Preliminary Notice). ʿAtiqot 25: 11*–19*. 1996 Herod’s ‘Amphitheatre’ at Caesarea. Qadmoniot 29/112: 93–99. [Hebrew] Reich, R., and Billig, Y. 2000 Excavations near the Temple Mount and Robinson’s Arch 1994–1996—Appendix: A Group of Theater Seats from Jerusalem. Pp. 350–52 in Ancient Jerusalem Revealed. Expanded Edition. Edited by H. Geva. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Schick, C. 1898 Birket es Sultan, Jerusalem. Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement for 1898: 224–29. Stacey, D. 2004 Tombs in the Vicinity of the Hippodrome at Jericho. Pp. 226–28 in Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho—Final Reports of the 1973–1987 Excavations, II: The Stratigraphy and Architecture. Edited by E. Netzer. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Vincent, L. H., and Abel, F.-M. 1914 Jérusalem nouvelle. Fascicle 2. Paris: Lecoffre.

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Warren, C., and Conder, C. R. 1884 The Survey of Western Palestine, vol. 4: Jerusalem. London: Committee of the Palestine Exploration Fund. Wilson, C. W. 1865 Ordnance Survey of Jerusalem. Originally published by Authority of the Lords Commissioners of Her Majesty’s Treasury. Reprinted Jerusalem: Ariel, 1980.

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period from a Farmhouse North of Jerusalem Ronny Reich

and

Zinman Institute of Archaeology University of Haifa

Eli Shukron Israel Antiquities Authority

The ostraca presented here were discovered in a room of a small farmstead excavated at Pisgat Zeev, north of Jerusalem (Old Israel Grid 1747 1370).1 This farmhouse contained, among other things, an oil press, a wine press, and some other installations (Shukron and Savriego 1994). The site was dated by its architectural affinities, as well as by the artifacts (coins, pottery, stone vessels, and so on) to the late Hasmonean and early Herodian periods: that is, to the first half of the first century b.c.e.

The Ostraca 1.  Inscribed Sherd, Reg. No. 1137 Four pottery sherds from a storage jar were repaired as one large piece with the outer measurements of 18.5 × 20 cm. Unfortunately, not all parts of the ostracon were retrieved, and the absence of two pieces creates a lacuna in the inscribed part in the center. It also appears that the lower part of the ostracon is missing. The script is arranged in three parallel columns (see transcription, p. 180).

1.  The dig was carried out in the summer of 1991, by E. Shukron and A. Savriego (Permit no. G-35/91). Thanks are due to Prof. J. Naveh for his comments. The responsibility for the ideas expressed rests only on the authors of this essay.

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Fig. 1a.  Ostracon No. 1: drawing.

The text is Aramaic in the cursive or semicursive script of the late Hasmonean (Yardeni 1991: pl. 5) or Herodian (Yardeni 1991: pl. 9) period. This dating co­incides with the date of the other finds of the excavation. Each line of each column begins with a vertical stroke. On one occasion (col. C, line 4) there is a vertical stroke in the middle of the line. Texts that are lists in which each line begins with a stroke of this kind appear in the late Second Temple period, such as the list on the Bethpage ossuary lid (Milik 1971; Naveh 1992: 50–51), in which the strokes are almost hori-

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period

179

Fig. 1b.  Ostracon No. 1: photo.

zontal and appear in various lengths. It seems that this type of sign, whether horizontal or vertical, as in the present case, should be defined as a verification sign on a checklist. J. Naveh, on the other hand, is of the opinion (verbal communication) that each of these vertical strokes at the beginning of the lines is the cursive form of a lamed that may indicate the destination of a payment or goods.

180

Ronny Reich and Eli Shukron C

B

21

‫א] ברסין מובלין‬

1

11 ‫ם‬

‫| מגלגול לנוקיס‬

2

A

10 ‫ ם‬1‫ד‬

‫| פעליא‬

3

10 ‫ד‬

‫| גבעתא  | נוקיס‬

4

3‫ם‬4‫ח‬

‫| פעליא‬

5

?

1‫ם‬ 11 ‫ מ‬13

‫| צלע ברמא לנוקיס‬ ‫| געואת זבן‬

6 7

3 10 ‫[ם‬

[          ] ] ‫| נט‬

1 2

1‫ד‬

‫| גלגול‬

8

11 ‫ם‬

‫ ] הוב‬  [ ‫| צלעב‬

3

1‫ף‬3‫ד‬

] ‫| דבש‬

9

10 ‫ם‬

‫| צלע צפו שה‬

4

] ‫ | ר‬10

10 ‫ם‬

‫| כרמה ד‬

5

3

] | 11

‫| קוקלה‬

6

] ‫| כרמ‬

7

]‫|ר‬

8

] ‫|פתחה‬

1

Translation and Comments Column A Line 1.  ‫פתחה‬. The opening. Column B Line 2.  ]‫נט‬. Two letters survived. Assuming that we are dealing here with a list of agricultural commodities, various reconstructions can be suggested: ‫נטיעה‬, such as ‫( נטיעת קישואין‬b. Sanh. 68a); or ‫ נטע רבעי‬,‫נטע‬. Also possible is ‫נטף‬, which are grapes connected to the end of a stem (m. Peʾah 3:4), and perhaps ‫ נטופא‬,‫נטפא‬, which is some kind of perfumed ointment used in drop form (b. Giṭ. 69b; Krauss 1910: 1.237). However, these letters may also be the remains of a toponym (see below). Line 3. ‫צלע‬. This word occurs three times on the ostracon (also in col. B, line 4; col. C, line 6). The simple, straightforward meaning of the word is rib, that is, one of several curved bones protecting the thoracic cavity of humans and other vertebrates; however, this does not make sense in this context. The word might indicate a plant with parts that grew in segments, such as ‫( פואה של צלעות‬m. Šeb. 5:4; y. Šeb. 4.36a). Feliks (1957: 301–2) understands this passage in tractate Šebiʿit as pertaining to a rugged and rocky terrain, as opposed to ‫פואה של עדית‬. There is also the meaning of ‫ההר‬-‫צלע‬, that is ‘the hillside’ (2 Sam 16:13); this is a topographical term that indicates vegetation that grow on the lower slope of a hill. It seems that this word in Rabbinic Hebrew as well as the passage in 2 Samuel is a toponym that was used in the First Temple period to refer to the territory of the tribe of Benjamin as well as in the Second Temple period (and see the summary below).

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period

181

Line 4.  ‫צלע צפו שה‬. It is evident that the second ṣade was inserted after the line was already inscribed. The word division after the initial ̣selaʿ is problematic and the reading is even more difficult. Based on the assumption that this inscription contains several toponyms and that in the late Second Temple period a site existed close to the western boundary of the area under discussion that bore the name Sappho (see below), we divide the line as suggested. We have no suggestion for the last letters. Line 5.  ‫כרמה‬. The vineyard. This word is perhaps repeated in line 6. Line 6.  ‫ קיקלה‬,‫קוקלה‬. The Jerusalem Talmud (y. Peʾah 8.21a; y. ʿErub. 3.20d; b.  Pe­saḥ. 114c) presents a list of edible herbs that includes one named ‫קקולי‬, which is identified as Nasturicum or Cardamum. Löw (1881: 296, 349–51) identifies it as Amomum Cardamomum Cardamon. Column C Line 1.  If the second letter is a yod or waw, then several edible plants should be considered, such as ‫ בלובסין‬,‫ בלובס‬,‫ בלוסין‬,‫בולבוסין‬, which are types of fig (y. Maʿaś. 2.50a). If it is a reš, we can reconstruct ‫אברסין‬, which is a type of olive (b. Ber. 39a; ‫ אווריסי‬in y. Bik. 63d; Krauss 1911: 2.215; 1898: 2.7). The word ‫ מובלין‬seems to be a passive participle that refers to some kind of load carried by beasts of burden (y. Ḥal. 84b; y. Demai 3.23b; y. Taʿan. 1.64b). Line 2.  ‫גלגול‬. This word occurs again in line 8 of col. C. Rabbinic literature mentions Bet Gilgul. From m. Ṭehar. 6:6, one can have the impression that we are dealing with a toponym that became an example of an area that is public for certain matters and private for other matters. From t. B. Bat. 2.16, it seems that Bet Gilgul refers to some technical device, because it is mentioned together with a well in the courtyard and the miqweh designated for the public (see also b. ʿErub. 22b). Bet Gilgul, as a certain installation or technical device may relate to Bor Hagola, from which water was drawn with the help of a wheel (galgal, m. Mid. 5:4; m. ʿErub. 10:14). On the possibility that Gilgul is indeed a toponym in the local region, see below. Noqis or Niqis. ‫ ניקיס‬,‫נוקיס‬. This word appears three times. The second letter appears to be a waw or yod. On this reading, we cannot provide a meaning. It may be a private name or a toponym, perhaps of Greek origin. Line 3 and line 5.  ‫פעליא‬. The workers. Line 3.  ‫גבעתא‬. The hill. Although this word can refer to any hill of the type on which the present site is located, a second possibility presents itself: the inscription refers to a toponym. While in the Iron Age, several sites with names derived from Givʿa (‘hill’) are known in this region (see below), in the late Second Temple period, only Givʿat Shaʾul is mentioned: the site near which Titus’s army camped (   J.W. 5.51). Line 6.  ‫צלע ברמא לנוקיס‬. The reading ‫ ברמא‬is a conjecture, because the letters are barely visible. Rama may be another toponym in this area. If the first letter is a kap, another vineyard is indicated. Line 7.  . . . ‫געואת‬. We cannot provide a coherent reading of this array of letters. The succeeding zbn refers to something that is purchased.

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Line 9.  ‫דבש‬. May refer to honey. However, the dalet may indicate the possessive case: ‘of bš[’, for which we can suggest no reconstruction. Numerals The signs at the left hand side of cols. B and C are combinations of numerals and acronyms that indicate measured amounts or payments, typical of this period. Milik (1961: 90–91), Yadin and Naveh (1989: 60), and others have identified the numerals 1/2, 1, 10, 20, 100, and 1,000. Some of these numerals appear here. The sign designating the value 10 is the only unusual sign. Usually, this sign is inscribed with a long upper bar and a short vertical right stroke. It seems that in this case there is a short upper bar with an inclination upward, which causes it to resemble the sign that is sometimes used for 1. The signs used to abbreviate measured amounts are not entirely clear. The circular sign with a stroke on the left-hand side, which resembles a final mem, may indicate maʾah, which is equivalent to a Roman obol (1/6 denarius). Because it differs considerably from the samek, which appears often on this ostracon in various words, it should not be identified as an abbreviation for the measure seʾah. Toponyms An overall view of the ostracon raises the question whether it is a list of agricultural commodities and place-names (toponyms). These places probably had commercial relations with the farmhouse in which the inscribed sherd was found. Most of the names mentioned above as place-names could also refer to general topographical names or definitions (hill, hillside, heap of stones, etc.), and the presence of only one of them would not permit us to identify them as toponyms. However, the fact that several of these topographical terms are mentioned here together, especially in a region where they were mentioned as toponyms in the OT, emphasizes the suggestion that here we have place-names of settlements. In addition, the mem and lamed prefixed to Gilgul and Noqis in col. C, lines 2 and 6, translated ‘from . . . to . . .’ support the suggestion that they and other words are toponyms. ‫ צלע‬ṣelaʿ The most plausible explanation is to see this word as a toponym located within the territory of the tribe of Benjamin, where it was mentioned several times in the OT. Once it was mentioned in the separate form Ṣēlāʿ (2 Sam 21:14), and twice it was connected to another word: ṣēlaʿ hāʾelep (Josh 18:28) and ṣēlaʿ hā-hār (2 Sam 16:13). It is also possible that ‫ צלצח‬ṣelṣaḥ on the border of Benjamin (1 Sam 10:2) is just a scribal corruption of the toponym Ṣelaʿ. It should be stressed that no site with this name or a similar name is known from the historical records in this region during the late Second Temple period. ?‫ נט[ופא‬net[ofa? This might be the beginning of a toponym. Netopha was a settlement in the tribe of Judah, near Bethlehem, in the First Temple period (Neh 7:26). However,

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period

183

in the early days of the Second Temple period, a village by that name is mentioned together with Beth-gilgal, Geba, and Azmaveth (Neh 12:28–29) in the area north of Jerusalem. ‫ גלגול‬gilgul On the possibility that gilgul refers to a site in the vicinity of ours, it deserves a few comments. S. Klein (1967: 11–12) explained the word in m. Ṭehar. (6:6) as a toponym and identified it with 1 Macc 9:1–2, a place in Lower Galilee. We need not go as far as Galilee. Besides the site of Gilgal that existed in the early Iron Age in the Jordan Valley, north of Jericho, another settlement bearing the name Gilgal or Beth ha-Gilgal existed in the hill country in the vicinity of Jerusalem. This site existed in the Persian period, as mentioned in Neh 12:29. The site of Gilgal in the hill country is listed among the sites that marked the border between Judah and Benjamin (Josh 15:7). It seems that in the Iron Age, and in the Persian period, the name Gilgal or Beth-gilgal existed in the vicinity of Geba and Azmaveth, north of the valley (that is, Wadi Qilt). Finally, it seems that the personal name Gilgula or Galgala, which was the nickname of Joshua, one of the men in the close circle of Bar Kochba, is derived from the term gilgul or the toponym Gilgal, Beth-gilgal (Benoit, Milik, and de Vaux 1961: nos. 42:2, 115:12; Milik 1953: 282). ‫ גבעתא‬givʿata The site in which this ostracon was found is located ca. 3.5 km south of Jabaʿ (Grid Ref. 1749 1405), which is identified with Gevaʿ; ca. 7.5 km southeast of alJib (Grid Ref. 1676 1394), which is identified with Gibeon. The site is located only 2.7 km east of Tell al-Ful, which is identified with Gibeʿah (Gibeʿah of Benjamin, Gibeʿah of Saul). For our purpose, what is important is to clarify which of these sites existed as a settlement in the Second Temple period, and which of these sites is mentioned as a settlement in the historical record. On Tell al-Ful (Lapp 1981: 63–78) and alJib (Pritchard 1964) remains were found that date to this period. In the “Valley of Thistles,” close to Givʿat Shaʾul, Titus encamped for the night before arriving at Jerusalem (  J.W. 5.50), 50 stadia (ca. 9.5 km) from the city (Avi-Yonah 1962: 99). The precise identifications of Gevaʿ/ Givʿa  /  Givʿat Binyamin /  Givʿat Shaʾul are not of concern to us here. J. M. Miller (1975: 160–62) suggested that all these biblical references refer to one place, which should be identified at Jabaʿ. He also claimed that the finds excavated at Tell al-Ful are not decisive for the identification of the place with Givʿat Binyamin/Shaʾul, and, actually, the historical-geographic identification influenced and biased the interpretation of the archaeological finds. Based on the assumption that Givʿata on our ostracon is also a toponym, it seems that a site bearing the name Givʿa existed in the vicinity of the present farmhouse and had commercial relations with it.

184

Ronny Reich and Eli Shukron

‫ צפו‬ṣafo Josephus mentions a fortified Jewish settlement by the name of Sappho that was hit during the campaign of Varus in 4 b.c.e. (Ant. 17.290; J.W. 2.70). Avi-Yonah (1976: 92, s.v. Sappho) identified it as Safa (Grid Ref. 155 146), that is, ca. 6 km southeast of Modiʿin. Summary The historical-geographic research that has been done on the territory of the tribe of Benjamin in the Iron Age is considerable. Although the OT knows of many toponyms in this region, geographers and archaeologists cannot supply adequate locations with which to identify these toponyms. However, the historical-geographic and archaeological research done on this area in the late Second Temple period is scant. In this particular period, the state of the available data is reversed. The historical records hardly mention names of towns and villages at all. On the other hand, archaeologists today know of a considerable number of small sites that were occupied in this period, such as Gibeon, Hizma, Mispa, Bethel, Qalandiya, Issawiya, Ras Tawil, and more, of which only a few are identified with locations named in the historical record. And, due to the recent excavations around Jerusalem, additional settlements can be added, mostly small farmsteads, in which finds from the late Second Temple period have been found: Khirbat Kaʿakul, Pisgat Zeev, Ras Abu Maʾaruf, Shuʿafat, Sur Bahr, and more. The Persian period provides the missing link between these periods. The namelist in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah indicate that groups of people returned from the Babylonian Exile to their former native settlements. Based on this fact, we assume that settlements that existed in the Iron Age and in the Persian period continued to exist during most if not all of the Second Temple period under their original names, even if they are not mentioned in the historical records of that period. Some are mentioned, such as Geba and Beth-gilgal, while others are not, such as Ṣelaʿ. We assume that the magnitude and importance of the metropolis of Jerusalem of the late Second Temple period, especially from the Hasmonean period onward, put the entire neighborhood in its shadow. The many sites in the region around Jerusalem provided the city with food but played no role in the historical events that might have left their name as a mark on the historical record. Although the present ostracon does not provide any topographical data that might help in locating the sites of Ṣelaʿ, Geba, Beth-gilgul, Net(opha), and Sappho, at least it testifies that these settlements existed, probably as villages, under their original biblical names in the hill country north of Jerusalem in the late Second Temple period. This topographical discussion does not venture to identify the farmhouse where the ostraca were found with one of the settlements mentioned above, since there are no finds from the Iron Age on this hill. It seems that the farmhouse where this ostracon was found, the name of which (if it had any) is unknown, had commercial

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period

185

Fig. 2.  Ostracon No. 2.

contacts with these sites that existed in its vicinity. The appearance of these names on the present ostracon alerts us to the need to reopen the historical-geographic questions about the region in both periods—the Iron Age and the Second Temple period—because Beth-gilgal and Ṣelaʿ still do not have convincing identifications. Klein (1939: 30) dealt with the lists in Ezra and Nehemiah. He dated the list in Nehemiah 11 to the early Persian period. He stated that many settlements that no literary source mentions were added to the ones known from the historical record. It seems that this can apply also to the latter part of the Second Temple period: the Hasmonean and the Herodian periods. The number of large and small farmhouses is far larger than the number of names that we know. 2.  Inscribed Sherd, Reg. No. 1136 Ostracon No. 2 is a sherd from the body of a storage jar and measures 6 × 9 cm. The sherd bears a single word written in ink that defines it as a token: ‫תמד‬.

186

Ronny Reich and Eli Shukron

Fig. 3.  Ostracon No. 3.

Temed (or tmad) is a by-product of the wine industry. Ben-Yehuda’s Hebrew dictionary explains it as being made by soaking grapes in water, but it seems that it is made by soaking the dry residue (grape skins and seeds) of the wine industry in water (m. ʿOr. 1:8). This process extracts the last drops of grape juice in the skins and seeds and uses it to turn the water into an inferior type of quasi-wine. Because the amount of juice in this residue is meager, the process lasted for some time, and the temed could even turn into vinegar (m. Maʿaś. Š. 1:3). Up to the moment in which it acidified, temed was considered water. As such, it could be added to a miqweh (m. Miqw. 7:2) that was in desperate need of water to fill it to the required volume of 40 seahs. Since vinegar could be produced from real wine, some distinction was made between the types (t. Demai 1.2). Krauss (1911: 2.239) related this word to the Latin temetum. The similarity is striking, but the Latin term refers to a strong wine—that is, wine with a high alcoholic value—which definitely is not characteristic of temed. Sukenik (1942; Avigad 1965: 86, photo) published a stone seal bearing this same word that was palaeographically quite similar to our inscription. Sukenik suggested dating the seal to the Second Temple period based on the paleographic affinities of the script. The present inscription confirms this suggestion and supports the view that in this particular period storage jars containing temed were marked either with ink inscriptions on the jars or with seals impressed on the clay stopper. Both inscriptions refer to the fact that temed was produced in the vicinity of Jerusalem. The relation between temed and miqwaʾot (‘ritual baths’), which is mentioned in the rabbinic writings (m. Miqw. 7:2), is now well established because of this site where the ostraca were found. On this site, agricultural installations, including a wine press where temed was also produced, were found side by side, as well as a nicely

Aramaic Ostraca of the Late Second Temple Period

187

preserved miqweh. The occasional use of temed to fill a miqweh to the required level is thus a concrete possibility. 3.  Inscribed Sherd No. 1630 A sherd from the body of a storage jar was found that still bore faint traces of an inscription in ink. It measures 9 × 9 cm. The lower left side is broken and missing. Originally, six lines were inscribed in ink. Based on the extant inscribed parts, it is evident that this ostracon also contained a list. It seems that the same text was written on lines 2, 5, and 6. It is impossible to offer a reasonable reading for most of the blurry text. The last two identical lines may contain the word ‫קזז‬, which means ‘to deduct or to give a rebate’, and is followed by some numerals. The letters ‫ ג ף ר‬and several vertical strokes are probably part of a commodity with the sum indicated by these letters.

Summary The extensive archaeological research that was carried out during the last generation in the hill country surrounding the city of Jerusalem has clearly shown that a large number of small farmsteads were established in this area. These farms date to the last one and one-half centuries of the Second Temple period—say, from the Hasmonean period to the sack of Jerusalem in 70 c.e. These farmsteads most likely supplied the big metropolis. These agricultural sites are certainly not villages but are far smaller. They included at the most 2–3 houses, 1–2 agricultural installations such as a wine press or olive press, and a miqweh (‘ritual bath’). The miqweh points to the fact that the products were produced in ritual purity so that the tithe levied from these products could be handed directly to priests and to the Temple in Jerusalem, and the products themselves could be sold in the markets of Jerusalem. The ostraca support the idea that the language used in the rural areas around Jerusalem for everyday use and for keeping simple records was Aramaic.

References Avigad, N. 1965 “Ḥotam.” Pp. 67–86 in vol. 3 of Encyclopaedia Biblica. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute. [Hebrew] Avi-Yonah, M. 1962 Historical Geography of Palestine. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] 1976 Gazetteer of Roman Palestine. Qedem 5. Jerusalem. Benoit, P.; Milik, J. T.; and de Vaux, R. 1961 Les Grottes de Murabbaʿat. DJD 2. Oxford. Cowley, A. 1923 Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century b.c. Oxford.

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Feliks, J. 1957 Plant World of the Bible. Tel-Aviv. Klein, S. 1939 The Land of Judah. Tel Aviv. [Hebrew] 1967 The Land of Galilee. 2nd ed. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Krauss, S. 1898 Griechische und Lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum. 2 vols. Berlin. 1910–12  Talmudische Archäologie. 3 vols. Leipzig. Lapp, N. L., editor 1981 The Third Campaign at Tell el-Fûl: The Excavations of 1964. AASOR 45. Cambridge, MA. Löw, I. 1881 Aramäische Pflanzennamen. Leipzig. Miller, J. M. 1975 Geba/Gibeah of Benjamin. VT 25: 145–66. Milik, J. T. 1953 Une lettre de Siméon Bar Kokheba. RB 60: 276–94. 1961 Textes hébreux et araméens. Pp. 67–205 in Les Grottes de Murabbaʿ̂at. Edited by P. Benoit, J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux. DJD 2. Oxford. 1971 Le couvercle de Bethphagé. Pp. 75–94 in Hommages à André Dupont-Sommer. Paris. Naveh, J. 1992 On Sherd and Papyrus. Jerusalem. [Hebrew] Shukron, E., and Savriego, A. 1994 Jerusalem: Pisgat-Zeev (Villa Quarter). Excavations and Surveys in Israel 12: 56–58. Sukenik, E. L. 1942 A Stamp of a Jewish Wine-Merchant from the Vicinity of Jerusalem. Qedem 1: 20–23. [English summary on p. v] Pritchard, J. B. 1964 Winery, Defenses, and Soundings at Gibeon. Philadelphia. Yadin, Y., and Naveh, J. 1989 The Aramaic and Hebrew Jar Inscriptions from Masada. Pp. 1–68, pls. 1–59 in Masada, vol. 1: The Yigael Yadin Excavations, 1963–1965—Final Reports. Jerusalem. Yardeni, A. 1991 The Book of Hebrew Script. Jerusalem. [Hebrew]

An “Encore” on the Bar Kochba Tetradrachm: A Re-vision of Interpretation Elisheva Revel-Neher The Hebrew University of Jerusalem

The importance of coins, whether isolated or in hoards, has long been recognized by archaeologists as a valuable tool for dating purposes. They can also play a role in deciding disputes and controversies over sites and objects.1 The coins of the Second Jewish Revolt2 against the Romans have known a unique and strange fate. Bearing inscriptions as well as dates, they were struck with figurations, the interpretation of which is still controversial. There seems to be no doubt about the general iconography, but the precise interpretation of some of the motifs depicted remains questionable. The purpose of this essay is to clarify the imbroglio in which the argumentation on these topics has become frozen. To this effect, later Jewish and Christian works of art will be used as methodological elements of comparison. Word and image (text and picture) will be read together, taking historical and cultural circumstances into account as a living background. This re-vision will lead to an interpretation of the primary visual motif of the coins, enabling us to put forward an answer to the question: what is really inscribed on the tetradrachm of Bar Kochba? 1.  The longlasting scholarly battle around the dating of the synagogue in Capernaum as well as the controversy about the dates of early synagogue mosaics in Israel are only some examples. J. Magness, “The Question of the Synagogue,” in The Problem of Typology. Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism—The Special Problem of the Synagogue (ed. A. J. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner; Leiden, 2001), 1–38. R. Talgam, “Mosaics in Israel in Light of Recent Discoveries,” Qadmoniot 31/116 (1998): 74–89 [Hebrew]. 2.  An autonomous coinage appeared in the land of Israel only under the Hasmoneans. This came to an end with the quelling of the Second Revolt in 135 c.e. A. Kindler, Coins of the Land of Israel (Jerusalem, 1974) [Hebrew]; L. Mildenberg, The Coinage of the Bar-Kochba War (Aarau, Switzerland, 1984); Y. Meshorer, Ancient Jewish Coinage (New York, 1982); idem, A Treasury of Jewish Coins from the Persian Period to Bar Kochba (Jerusalem, 2001) [Hebrew].

189

190

Elisheva Revel-Neher

Objects of Different Media The fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple, if they bore the mark of religious tragedy, were not the only cultual disaster. They resulted in a total and far-reaching eradication of the people of Israel from their land.3 The loss for the Jewish people of their geographic unity—of the fixed point of what constitutes for any people the normative frame of its collective identity—was felt as a catastrophe no less severe than the fall of the cult center. Sixty-two years after the destruction of the Second Temple, in 132 c.e., a second war against the Roman Empire broke out. Triggered by Hadrian’s prohibition of circumcision and the erection of a temple to Jupiter Capitolinus on the Temple Mount, it became a fierce, proud, armed struggle. The Twenty-Second Legion was defeated to such an extent that, in his report to the Roman Senate, Hadrian refrained from adding the customary reference to his health and the well-being of his army. Three years later, in 135, with the death of Bar Kochba at Betar, the war came to a bitter end and so did Jewish independence in Israel for many centuries. Lacking a historiographer such as Josephus, we are still unclear about the Second Revolt’s territorial conquests.4 Did Bar Kochba take Jerusalem, if only for a short time? There is no certainty about this. But the centrality of Jerusalem in the goals and, equally, the symbols of the revolt is evident. There was a consensus on the ideological issues of the war, in which Rabbi Aqiva was the spiritual leader and Simon Bar Koseva was the military commander.5 The inscriptions on the coins are witnesses to its ideological background. Deciphering their motifs will allow us to understand their visual language. Just as Bar Kochba learned civil administration from the Romans,6 he also borrowed one of the Romans’ media; using coinage as a means of propaganda to touch the masses, he struck his coins with wording and symbols rooted in the nation’s past and eschatological hopes. Bar Kochba’s coins were not struck on cast flans but, probably for lack of means, made use of current Roman coinage, restriking Jewish motifs over Roman designs and lettering, which sometimes even appear underneath.7 The silver tetradrachms (fig. 1a–b) are dated with the years of the revolt, and the wording 3.  The First Temple, destroyed and followed by the exile of the people to Babylon in 586, was rebuilt under the reign of Darius. The Second Temple was destroyed in 70 c.e. after a long war against Roman procuratorial rule in Judea. 4.  Probably Hebron was taken and part of Idumea and the Dead Sea region, where the last of Bar Kochba’s soldiers took refuge in the caves. 5. L. Finkelstein, Akiba: Scholar, Saint and Martyr (Philadelphia, 1962). Y. Yadin, Bar Kochba: The Rediscovery of the Legendary Hero of the Second Revolt against Rome (Jerusalem, 1971) [Hebrew]. For the Jewish sources for the two heroes of the Revolt and their roles, see ibid., 23ff. and 255–56; y. Taʿan. 4.68. For Christian typological interpretations based on Matt 2:2–7, 9 and literary witnesses including the name Bar Kochba, see Yadin, ibid., 257–59. 6.  Records of leasing transactions were found in the Judean caves (ibid., 175–76). 7.  Ibid., 26.

An “Encore” on the Bar Kochba Tetradrachm

191

Fig. 1a–b.  Tetradrachm of Bar Kochba (obverse and reverse). Used by permission of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem.

used is different from year to year. The undated coins are the last issues in the third year of the war, 134–35 c.e.

Obverse and Reverse: Sukkot and the Temple Façade The obverse of a coin usually bears the name of the authority that issued it.8 During the first year of the revolt, “Jerusalem” can be read on the Bar Kochba coins. Later, the tetradrachms are inscribed with the name Shimʿon, the leader of the revolt. The reverse is engraved with a different inscription every year: • “Year one of the Redemption of Israel” • “Year two of the Freedom of Israel” • “For the Freedom of Jerusalem” (without a date)

It is important to note that “Jerusalem” appears on the obverse of the coins of the first year on which the reverse speaks of the redemption of Israel. When the obverse stresses the leadership of Bar Kochba, the word “Jerusalem” is struck on the reverse, emphasizing the hope for freedom. Both sides convey figural motifs framed by the inscription. The controversy arose with the attempts to decipher the motif in the center of the architectural façade on the obverse. Unlike the lulav-etrog depiction 8.  In antiquity, this authority included kings, emperors, conquerors, or rulers. The coins of the First Jewish War against the Romans, struck in silver (which was the sole privilege of the emperor), do not bear the names of the leaders of the revolt. They are issued with the name “Jerusalem the Holy.” On bronze coins, the wording “Freedom of Zion” or “Redemption of Zion” is inscribed.

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on the reverse side, this was a new formula that had not been used during the First revolt. As an “unseen” figuration, it was thus holding the “secret” of the message of the coin. Although used here for the first time on a Jewish coin, temple façades frequently appeared on Roman coinage. Framing a statue of the emperor or a god,9 they had either four or eight columns topped by a gable. On the tetradrachm, the architrave is supported by four columns with capitals. Between the two inner columns, an aedicula, a square structure with a rounded top stands on two little feet. Many options were offered in attempts to identify this structure. If the façade was the Temple, was it the First or Second Temple? Or were the coins perhaps showing a messianic Third Temple? And what is depicted inside the façade? An additional difficulty is the lack of a specific referent for an object that could be framed by the Temple façade. Whether the Paroket, the Ark of the Covenant, an Ark or Torah shrine (in a synagogue?) with shelves and scrolls, or (recently) the showbread table10—nothing in the depiction is a clue to its identity. With the fall of the Temple, the veil (Paroket) dividing the two spheres of sanctity in the holy precinct no longer existed.11 Moreover, according to the Gospels (Matt 27:51; Mark 15:38), it was miraculously torn in two at the hour of Jesus’ death. The Ark had disappeared at the time of the destruction of the First Temple, under unknown circumstances,12 never to be replaced. The dvir, the inner sanctum of the Second Temple was totally empty. The showbread table was taken into exile as a spoil of Roman victory and figures along with the menorah on the Arch of Titus, which dates to about 50 years prior to the Second Revolt.13 9.  J. P. C. Kent, Roman Coins (London, 1978), pl. 87:304 and 125:453. 10. J. Patrick, “The Golden Vine, the Sanctuary Portal and Its depictions on the BarKochba Coins,” Jewish Art 19–20 (1993–94): 56–61. A. Reifenberg, Coins of the Jews (Jerusalem, 1947), 31–32 [Hebrew]. E. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period (13 vols.; New York, 1953–68), 1:277 and 4:114. L. Mildenberg, “The Bar Kochba Didrachm,” Israel Numismatic Journal 8 (1984–85): 33–36. D. Barag, “The Table of Showbread and the Façade of the Temple on the Bar Kochba Coins,” Qadmoniot 20/77–78 (1987): 22–25 [Hebrew]. 11.  H. L. Kessler, “Through the Temple Veil: The Holy Image in Judaism and Christianity,” Kairos 32–33 (1990–91): 53–77. Reprinted in his Studies in Pictorial Narrative (London, 1994), 49–73. 12.  M. Yoma 5:2. Y. Yoma 5.3, 43a; Taʿan. 2.1, 65a. B. Yoma 21b, 54a. The high priest on Yom Kippur put his censer inside the empty Holy of Holies, on the Even Shetiya, the stone of the foundation of the world, marking the place of the Ark. The circumstances of that disappearance are only hypothetical. It does not appear on the list of objects taken into exile to Babylon (2 Kgs 25:13–17; Jer 52:17–23). It may have been hidden by Josiah so that it would not be taken as spoil (b. Yoma 52b). Or it may have been hidden under the ground of the Temple, where a priest, discovering an uneven spot in the soil, was struck dead (y. Šeqal. 6.1, 49c). According to Maimonides (Hilḥot Bet ha-Beḥira 4:1), Solomon himself prepared a hiding place for the Ark when he was building the Temple. 13.  M. Pfanner, Der Titusbogen (Mainz am Rhein, 1983); W. Eltester, “Die Siebenarmige Leuchter und der Titusbogen,” Judentum, Urchristentum, Kirche: Festschrift für Joachim Jeremias (ed. W. Eltester; BZNW 26; Berlin, 1960), 69–74. L. Yarden, The Spoils of Jerusalem on the Arch of Titus: A Re-investigation (Stockholm, 1991).

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The question had to be raised on a larger scale. Was the figure a building from the past, an image of the lost Temple being used as a national-religious concept? Alternatively, was it a projection into the eschatological-messianic future envisioned by Rabbi Aqiva? Or was the intention much more sophisticated, offering what had been a clear, valid motto for the war designed by the leader based on his own spiritual vision and destined to be read and deciphered by the Jewish public? Elsewhere, I have offered a reading of the tetradrachm of Bar Kochba, linking the two inseparable sides of the coin and identifying the little structure as the Ark of the Covenant.14 The reverse, showing the lulav-etrog, is an “ancient” Jewish motif that had already been used on coins and objects and had a long life in late antique and early medieval Jewish iconography up to the seventh century.15 The Feast of Sukkot is one of the three feasts that required pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem.16 After the destruction of the sanctuary, Sukkot was maintained in the synagogue liturgy. Bar Kochba himself was strikingly respectful toward it.17 In the biblical literature, Sukkot is called he-Ḥag, the feast par excellence. This privileged appellation is based on two sources, the first historical and the second eschatological. The Temple of Solomon was dedicated on Sukkot (1 Kgs 8:2, 12:3), thus marking the beginning of the link between Jerusalem, Temple, and people. This link was obviously the background behind the goals of the Revolt and was clearly intentional in an inscription using the name “Jerusalem.” But Sukkot is also the feast of the end of days, when all peoples will come to Jerusalem and recognize the Unique God.18 It is not only an eschatological message, stressing the continuity of an unbroken promise, emphasizing the permanent link of the Jewish people to Jerusalem, the unique Jewish space.19 It is also an ecumenical message intended for all religions and peoples willing to accept the end of the war against Jerusalem and the monotheism of the Jewish people.

14.  E. Revel-Neher, Le Signe de la Rencontre: L’Arche d’Alliance dans l’art juif et chrétien du second au dixième siècles (Paris, 1984), 75–80; idem, Le Témoignage de l’Absence: Les objets du Sanctuaire à Byzance et dans l’art juif du XIe au XVe siècles (Paris, 1998), 98–100. 15.  R. Ben Sasson, Jewish Gold Glasses: A New Iconographic Discussion (M.A. diss., Jerusalem, 2002) [Hebrew]. Z. Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering and Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem, 2005), 75–77. 16.  Lev 23:39, Judg 21:19; m. Sukkah 3:4; b. Sukkah 50b. 17. Yadin, Bar Kochba, 128–29. Right in the midst of the armed struggle, he ordered the four species necessary to celebrate the feast to be sent to him for his men. The letter he wrote in Aramaic and found in the caves is proof of Bar Kochba’s determination to obey the commandments of the Jewish faith and, more specifically, of his approach to Sukkot and its meaning. 18.  Zech 14:16: “And it shall come to pass that everyone who is left of all the nations that came up against Jerusalem shall make a pilgrimage year by year to worship the King, the Lord of Hosts, and to keep the Feast of Tabernacles (Sukkot)”; Revel-Neher, Le Signe, 40–44. 19.  A. Neher, Clefs pour le Judaïsme (Paris, 1977): “Evocation d’une Terre dont l’espace est indispensable, autant que le Temps de l’histoire humaine à l’édification du Royaume de l’alliance. C’est dans cet espace et en lui seul que se joue le destin d’Israel. C’est en lui que se réalise la réussite ou l’échec de sa vocation. Eretz est le lieu-test de l’élection” (pp. 99–100).

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The reverse of the tetradrachm cannot be read on one level only. It is much more than a depiction stressing an actual detail of Jewish cultural and liturgical life. It is much more than a reminder of the main event in Jewish history. It is even much more than a projection into the future. It can only be read on all three levels simultaneously, linking together Past, Present, and Future in one figuration. There is no doubt that only the Jewish public would be able to understand this threefold message and, hence, that the reading could solely be Jewish. Was it also meant as a weapon to be used against Christians, some sources of which seem to have been accusing Bar Kochba of trying to wipe them out?20 Turning the tetradrachm over and looking at the façade on the obverse, one must keep in mind the approach just stressed for the Sukkot depiction.21 The identification of the tetrastyle façade as the Temple façade (even without specifying which Temple) did not raise any objections. The design itself emphasizes the little structure, the relevance of which is a key to the imagery. It cannot be taken as a chance drawing. A closer look at the aedicula may reveal the identity of the object itself. The simple or double semicircular top is obviously one of its main components. Underneath this is a flat, box-like structure delimited by dotted lines. Inside the square-box shape, on its upper part, the two dots were sometimes interpreted as scrolls lying on shelves, as in later fourth-century Roman gold glass.22 On some coins, two little feet support the object. Noticeable also is the fact that this architectural structure is shown precisely en retrait of the façade, feet standing on the ground at about the upper height of the columns’ bases. In the flat classical perspective, 23 this means that the structure standing inside the façade is farther away from our eye than the columns. “Inside” the Temple, after the Tabernacle, three objects—the menorah, the showbread table, and the laver—stood together in the Kodesh or Heḥal. The altar stood in the outer precinct. On the so-called Avigad plaque24 from the time of the Second Temple menorah, the incense altar and showbread table form a unique composition. On the Arch of Titus, the menorah and the showbread table are taken as spoils into Rome, translating the confirmation of an actual situation into a figuration. The Ark of the Covenant was the most sacred object and symbolized the presence of God; it stood alone in the Kodesh ha-Kodashim (Holy of Holies) of the Tabernacle and the Dvir of the First Temple. During the wanderings of the people of Israel from 20.  Justinus quoted by Eusebius, in Ecclesiastical History 4.8 (LCL 153; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1926), 322–23: “During the present Jewish War, Bar Kochba, leader of the revolt of the Jews, gave the order to severely punish only the Christians, if they did not deny Jesus as Christ and desecrate his name.” 21.  G. Sed-Rajna, Jewish Art (New York, 1997). 22. Revel-Neher, Le Signe, 102–8, figs. 21–26, and n. 16. 23.  A. Posèq, Format in Painting (Tel Aviv, 1978). 24.  B. Narkiss, “A Scheme of the Sanctuary from the Time of Herod the Great,” Journal of Jewish Art 1 (1974): 6–15. L. Habas, “An Incised Depiction of the Temple Menorah and Other Cult Objects of the Second Temple Period,” in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1969–1982 (ed. H. Geva; Jerusalem, 2003), 2:329–42.

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the wilderness to Jerusalem, it was covered by three types of material.25 It could not be seen by anyone except Moses and Aaron, and after them, the high priest, once a year, on Yom Kippur (m. Yoma 5:1–3). Under mysterious circumstances, with the fall of the First Temple, it disappeared without being taken as spoil by the Babylonians. It was not found, nor was it made anew, and the inner holiest place of the Second Temple, the Dvir, was totally void of any object. According to Jeremiah’s vision,26 the Return of the people of Israel to the land would replace the Ark. Speaking before the catastrophe, Jeremiah states that there will be no “remaking” of the Ark, thereby giving way to an interpretation of the Ark as a kind of concession to the presence, for which the fulfillment of the Promise of Redemption would be the only possible replacement. Why, in that case, would Bar Kochba choose precisely an object that nobody had seen, that ceased to exist 6oo years earlier, and that would never be made anew? Why, and on what basis, is it possible to maintain this identification?

A Meaningful Form According to the measurements given in the Bible (Exod 25:8–22, 37:1–9), the Ark of the Covenant was a rectangular box with a flat, decorated lid on which the cherubim stood, touching each other with their wings.27 On its sides were two long bars that were never to be removed, a sign of the impermanence of the Ark. A restitution on the basis of the biblical sources and later commentaries was given by M. Levine28 and followed by many others. Inside the Ark, witnesses to the history of the people of Israel had been kept29 that disappeared with the Ark. It was never opened and, because no one could enter the Dvir for the year between one Yom Kippur and the next, the only way to be sure of its presence was to check, from inside the Heḥal, the marks left by the bars against the fabric of the Paroḥet.30 25.  Three covers were hiding the Ark from the people during the wandering in the wilderness: the veil (Paroket), the skin of the taḥaš, and an azure-colored cloth (Num 4:5–6). 26.  Jer 3:16: “And it shall come to pass, when you are multiplied and increased in the land, in those days, says the Lord, they shall no longer speak of the Ark of the Covenant of the Lord, nor shall it come to mind. They shall not remember it, or miss it, or make another.” Rashi on these verses: “For all your entries into the land will be sanctified and I will dwell in it as if it were the Ark.” 27. Revel-Neher, Le Signe, 33 n. 24. Rashi on Exod 25:18: “They had the form of the face of a small child.” If the people of Israel were behaving according to God’s will, the faces of the cherubim were turned toward each other. Otherwise, they faced the interior of the sanctuary (b. B. Batra 99a). 28.  M. Levine, Meleḥet ha Mishkan (Tel-Aviv, 1968), 84–90. 29.  The jug of manna (Exod 16:33–34), Aaron’s flowering rod (Num 17:25–26; Num. Rab. 18:23; Yal. Shimoni, Num. 763; Pirqe R. El. 40; b. Pesaḥ. 54a), the tablets of the Law (Exod 40:20; m. Yoma 5:22; Tanḥ. Qedoshim 10), and the first Sefer Torah, written by the hand of Moses (Deut 31:24–26). 30.  Y. Šeqal. 6.1, 49c: “the heads of the poles could be seen from the Kodesh, facing the Dvir . . . ̣[They were] apparent and protruding like two female breasts.”

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Thus, it seems that the structure inside the façade of the tetradrachm could not have been the Ark; it bore no resemblance to its biblical description and, moreover, depicted an object that had been unobserved by any artist up to the sixth century b.c.e., and had disappeared thereafter. Case closed? Or alternatively, are there any depictions of the Ark in the art and iconography of the pagan, Jewish, or Christian world at the time? Is the specific form of this aedicula known from elsewhere? These questions cannot be avoided. There is no image of the Ark of the Covenant from either the Tabernacle or the Temple in pagan art before the tetradrachm. As an object that was no longer in existence, it must have been of no interest to artists. When the Romans took the spoils from Jerusalem, there was nothing in the inner precinct of the Temple to use for a figurative proclamation.31 The sort of structure that appears on the coin resembles doors or cupboards that could open, which were intended for books or shoes in classical and late antique art.32 However, these are not depicted inside an architectural façade but stand on their own on sarcophagi or frescoes. With regard to Jewish art, the terminus a quo is, as in many other cases, the frescoes of the Dura-Europos synagogue.33 Over the niche of the Torah shrine, in the middle of the composition showing the menorah, lulav-etrog, and the Akedah stands a façade with a little structure inside. Some considered it to be a depiction of the Tabernacle-Temple with the closed doors of the inner sanctuary; others interpreted it as the Ark or a Torah shrine. On the panel of the dedication of the Tabernacle,34 a little rectangular structure topped by a semicircular conch stands in the upper part of the inside of the building. On the ground next to Jeremiah,35 in the lower right individual panel over the ciborium, the shape of the same object is still visible under the long red cover, under which only two little feet appear. Both may be depictions of the Ark of the Covenant, the identification of which is attained through literary references coming from “outside” the pictures. No titulus strengthens this identification, and these references may be subject to obvious objections.36 The only solid identification of a structure of this sort in Dura is the panel of Dagon (1 Sam 5:1–5, 6:1–12).37 The Ark of the Covenant, captured by the Philistines and placed in the temple of Dagon destroys the statues of the idol and is then 31.  For the myth of the ass’s head kept by the Jews and worshiped inside the sanctuary, see Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.80. When Pompey entered Jerusalem, he found the Holy of Holies of the Temple empty (Tertullian). 32.  B. Goldmann, The Sacred Portal: A Primary Symbol in Ancient Judaic Art (Detroit, 1966); Revel-Neher, Le Signe, 197–201, figs. 90–107. 33.  K. Weitzmann and H. L. Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art (Washington, DC, 1990). See there for a complete bibliography. 34.  Ibid., 55–63, figs. 4, 80. 35.  Ibid., 153–74, figs. 175 and 193. 36.  Such as the identification of the prophet figure as Moses, Joshua, or Jeremiah. H. L. Kess­ler, “Prophetic Portaits in the Dura Synagogue,” Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 30 (1987): 149–55. Repr. in his Studies in Pictorial Narrative, 349–56. 37.  Weitzmann and Kessler, Frescoes of Dura, 75–80, fig. 105.

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Fig. 2.  The Ark in the temple of Dagon. Fresco of the synagogue of Dura-Europos, 245 c.e., preserved in the National Museum in Damascus. Photo by Prof. Gabrielle Sed-Rajna.

sent back by the Philistines (fig. 2). A cabinet with a rounded top, it is placed under a canopy on a cart drawn by two bullocks. Although it is partially covered by a piece of fabric, the shape is strikingly similar to the shape on the tetradrachm. The biblical text is the only background that fits this image, so there is no question that the aedicula on the chariot is really the Ark. But the book of Samuel has no depiction of the Ark that would corroborate the actual form of the structure. However, in the description in Exodus, the movement of the touching wings of the cherubim obviously could suggest a round top. If one tries to imagine the Ark of the Covenant, covered by three pieces of fabric that conceal its details but outline an arc made by the touching wings of the cherubim under the cloth, the shape visible from the outside would be a square topped by a semicircle. On the Dagon panel, the covered-uncovered Ark shows the same shape as the little structure inside the façade of the tetradrachm. Of course, the coin is more than one hundred years earlier than the fresco. But the latter paves the ways for this identification and is secured by the biblical narrative. Although the Dura synagogue provides only partial certainty to skepticism, there is one work of art that finally and convincingly solves the problem. Strangely enough, it is an early Christian treatise ornamented with miniatures interspersed between the chapters of the text, Christian Topography of the so-called Cosmas Indicopleustes. Very little is known of its author, who wrote in Greek in the middle of

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the sixth century. The original work has disappeared. The illuminated manuscripts are later, dated from the ninth to the eleventh centuries.38 But they hold important information, both historical and theological. The close correlation between text and illustration in the Topography is one of its hallmarks.39 The name Cosmas Indicopleustes appears only in the eleventh century in the first reproduced fragments of the work and is probably a fabrication, based on the idea generally accepted then that the author had traveled to India. The author signed the text simply “a Christian” (as opposed to the “false Christian” who, according to him, opposed his own cosmological theory and adopted the monophysite theology and spherical cosmology). In 1989, Wolska-Conus40 identified the author as Constantine of Antioch, of whom not much more is known. It seems that the author of the Topography was a merchant, a traveler surely, but also a scholar and a theologian, aware of the polemics raging at the time and of the pseudo-sciences accompanying it. Even if he never visited India, he knew Palestine and Sinai well.41 The text is a composition of cosmography dealing with theological themes based on the biblical narrative. The Old Testament, typologically linked to the New Testament is the material that demonstrates to the author how to expand his theory of the universe. The name given to the work by its author is A Christian Topography Embracing the Whole Universe. It has two central themes. In the cosmological theme, the building of the Tabernacle given to Moses with a divine schema is a replica of the scheme of the universe. The prophetic theme sees the two inner spaces of the Tabernacle as an echo of the division of the universe into two spheres—two degrees in the hierarchy established by the Creator.42 38.  Rome, 2 Vat. Gr. 699, ninth century; Sinaiticus, Gr. 1186, eleventh century; Florence, Laur. Plut. 9.28, eleventh century. 39.  W. Wolska-Conus translated and presented the 12 books of the Topography in a “critical edition” in the Sources Chrétiennes edition of 1968. W. Wolska-Conus, Recherches sur la Topo­ graphie Chrétienne de Cosmas Indicopleustes: Théologie et Science au VIe siècle (Paris, 1962); idem, ed., Cosmas Indicopleustes,Topographie Chrétienne (3 vols.; Sources Chrétiennes 141, 159, 197; Paris, 1968–73); S. Laderman, “Ma-aseh Ha-Mishkan and Ma-aseh Bereshit”: The Pentateuchal Tabernacle—A Symbolic Model of the Creation of the World, as Found in Jewish and Byzantine-Christian Iconography (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 2000) [Hebrew]. 40.  W. Wolska-Conus, “Stéphanos d’Athènes et Stéphanos d’Alexandrie: Essai d’identifica­ tion et de biographie,” Revue des études byzantines 47 (1989): 28–30. 41.  S. Laderman proved amply that Constantine knew of Philo and Josephus and, what’s more, he knew midrashic material as a background to his biblical themes. Because both authors were considered by the Church to be Church Fathers rather than by the Jewish world to which they belonged, this may very well be indirect rather than direct knowledge. E. Revel-Neher, “Some Remarks on the Iconographical Sources of the Christian Topography of Cosmas Indicopleustes,” Kairos 32–33 (1990–91): 78–96. 42.  Those themes were closely examined in the publications cited above and in H. L. Kess­ ler, “Gazing at the Future: The Parousia Miniature in the Vatican gr. 699,” in Byzantine East, Latin West: Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann (ed. D. Mouriki and C. Moss; Princeton,

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Fig. 3.  Christian topography: the symbol of the universe. Drawing after W. Wolska-Conus, Cosmas Indicopleustes, Topographie Chrétienne (Paris, 1968) 1:186.

In most cases, the author claims authorship of the pictures—a very rare case in the Middle Ages. He writes, “we are drawing . . .” or “here is the drawing of . . . ,” thus adding his signature as an artist to his original claim as a scholar. The lost sixthcentury archetype already included drawings, and in some cases, these drawings seem to have been taken directly from a model. The texts framing the pictures are also accompanied by tituli, which are late additions. 1995), 365–75. And in the same volume, E. Revel-Neher, “On the Hypothetical Models of the Byzantine Iconography of the Ark of Covenant,” 405–14. The relationship between the Jewish Creation-Tabernacle scheme and the Topography was presented very convincingly by K. KogmanAppel and S. Laderman, “The Sarajevo Haggadah: The Concept of Creatio ex nihilo and the Hermeneutical School behind It,” Studies in Iconography 25 (2004): 89–127. Also see my “Jews, Judaism and Jewish Sources in the Iconography of the Christian Topography,” in Publications of the First Israeli Congress of Byzantine Studies (Jerusalem, forthcoming).

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In Book V, paragraph 36, the Ark, “covered by a veil and invisible to all,” is presented as a Christological prototype. The author calls the Ark the “Ark of propitiation,” χιβωτοΰ τοΰ ίλαστηρίου, using the wording of the Septuagint: In the interior space was the Ark of propitiation, covered with the veil and invisible to all. The Propitiation was the figure of the Lord Christ according to the flesh, as says the Apostle, “God brought him forth, an instrument of propitiation by his own blood” [Rom 3:25]. Besides the high priest, there was also a figure of the Lord Christ. Inasmuch as the high priest, says the Apostle, enters, once a year, in the interior tabernacle, so did Christ “enter, once and for all, the sanctuary, having acquired eternal redemption” [Heb 9:7–12]. I remember having said it often. Here is the drawing of the Ark of propitiation.

On folio 82 of the Sinaiticus (fig. 3), the Ark is introduced by this text. Tituli confirm the identification “ark of testimony,” “cherubim,” “propitiation.”43 The Ark is a flat cupboard, presented frontally without perspective and topped by a semicircular lid. It is the exact replica of the symbol of the universe in Book V (fig. 4).44 On folio 89, illustrating paragraph 65, Joshua is crossing the Jordan River. The Ark is standing on the shoulders of the Levites, it has feet, and bars are inserted into its four sides. Although it is a rather unrealistic drawing, it still holds the main visual components of the Ark: a round top, bars, and feet. The shape of the Ark, which is a replica of the symbolism of the universe and its formal depiction, echoes the depiction of the frescoes of Dura. As in the panel of the temple of Dagon, the identification is based on a text, but this time the text frames the miniatures, introducing the image with a precise nomenclature repeated by the tituli. Text and image form an intimate and meaningful design, leaving no doubt about the identification of the structure. One detail, however, remains puzzling. The presence of cherubim-tetramorphos45 seems indispensable owing to the visual translation of the biblical text. But they frame the top of the Ark, hovering over it and repeating the semicircular shape. Although they needed to be drawn, they do not fit the lid, the form of which in Dura could only be explained by the touching wings of the cherubim under the fabric covering them. Although the artist of Dura may have understood this detail, as I tend to believe, the author of the Topography, probably copying from a model, did not. He copied the form without understanding its reasons and then added the cherubimtetramorphos, thus creating a second semicircular frame over the semicircular lid. 43.  The two figures on the two sides of the Ark should be Moses and Aaron (as in the Byzantine Octateuchs; see my book Le Témoignage, 32–33), the only human beings who were allowed to enter the Holy of Holies of the Tabernacle, and only at God’s invitation. The two names Zachariah and Abia are related to the digression in the text concerning John the Baptist (WolskaConus, Christian Topography, Book V, 36–37, pp. 62–63). 44.  Fols. 65 and 69 of Sinaiticus 1186. 45.  Rev 4:6–8. The symbols of the Evangelists (man, lion, ox, and eagle), based on the vision of Ezek 1:5–13, appear on the six wings of the biblical “cherubim.”

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Fig. 4.  Christian Topography: Sinaiticus 1186, folio 86. Photo by the author.

As for the showbread table, it is a flat rectangular form in Vat. 699 folio 46v, having nothing in common with the actual shape of the Ark or the tetradrachm. Closely following the Topography, the miniatures of the Octateuchs showing the Ark in the illustration of the Pentateuch repeat the same schema (fig. 5).46 It must now be accepted as an iconographical axiom: the aedicula with a rounded top is the formula chosen to figure the Ark of Covenant in Christian iconography of early Byzantium. The identification is established by the text that is next to the illustration and introduces it and the tituli. At this point, the identification of the structure inside the façade on the tetradrachm as the Ark of the Covenant is rendered certain by the examples of the Christian Topography and also the frescoes of the Dura synagogue. Later Jewish and Christian examples prove not only the identification but the strong influence of the model, which was used in the original depiction of the coin as well as in other times and places. However, although the identification imbroglio seems to be resolved, 46.  Contrary to the iconography of the Topography, where the round-topped structure is the only form of the Ark, in the Octateuchs, this form exists only in the pentateuchal scenes. The cherubim-tetramorphos open their wings to let a Christian ciborium sit on the Ark. The miniatures of the book of Joshua show the Ark in the form of a gabled reliquary. Weitzmann and Bernabo, The Byzantine Octateuchs; see also my book, Le Témoignage, 36–39, pls. 1–4.

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Fig. 5.  Seraglio Octateuch, Istanbul, cod. gr. 8, folio 333. Reprinted by permission of École Pratique des Hautes Études—Collection Gabriel Millet, Paris.

there still remains the essential question of the reason for the choice of this image on the coin of the Second Revolt, precisely there, at that time, in that place. Out of all the objects related to the Temple, why the Ark? In the context of the biblical narrative of the synagogue, or in the context of a manuscript with a theoretical parallel between the Tabernacle and the universe, the choice seems obvious. But why did Bar Kochba decide to depict, inside the façade of the Temple, an object that had disappeared more than 600 years earlier? Why not choose the menorah, which was already a Jewish symbol,47 or, for that matter, the showbread table48 or the laver—all objects that had stood in the now-destroyed Temple and would have been easy to remember or even to reproduce in drawings such as the Avigad plaque? It is this very question that has caused scholars, over and over again, to try not to identify the aedicula inside the façade of the tetradrachm as the Ark of Covenant. 47.  Lee I. Levine, “The History and Significance of the Menorah in Antiquity,” in From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine and Z. Weiss; Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000), 131–54. 48.  Is the didrachm discussed in L. Mildenberg, “The Bar-Kochba Didrachm” (Israel Numismatic Journal 8 [1984–85]: 33–36, pl. 28) a view of the profile of the Ark or this time really the showbread table? See Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, 95–101.

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Meeting and Return: Rhetorical Symbols Contrary to other objects, made and remade, profaned and rededicated, taken in exile to Babylon, drawn in triumph through the streets of Rome,49 the Ark had a singular destiny. Described by the Bible with altogether precise and determinedly imprecise details, it was built for the Tabernacle by Bezalel according to the instructions of Moses, who had himself received the divine schema. It led the people of Israel on their way to Canaan, then traveled with David to Jerusalem, where it was deposited in the Temple of Solomon. Invisible, resting inside the most inaccessible part of the sanctuary—a square without windows—its precise form could only be imagined. It was not an object destined for veneration, but a sign, the Sign of Meeting—the meeting between God and his people on very rare and limited occasions. It was not a cult object, it was not to be approached with offerings, not to be knelt before, not to be touched. When it happened to be taken to war as a trophy in hopes of victory against the Philistines, the battle was lost, and the Ark was captured. The Ark is only a sign, a witness to the Promise. Moreover, its very existence and its presence are ephemeral. It disappears under obscure circumstances, unresolved by contradictory commentaries, with the fall of the First Temple. Neither the Second Temple nor the reconstruction by Herod contains the Ark anymore. The recognition of the Unique God continues without this sign, without an object, even far away, untouchable, and untouched. The Holy of Holies of the Second Temple is empty, remains so and, in spite of this, the cultural and national life of Israel remains unchanged for more than 600 years. When the Second Temple falls into the hands of the Romans, when Jerusalem burns, and the Temple is eradicated, there has been nothing for six centuries inside the inner holy sanctuary. Long before the fall of the First Temple and the exile to Babylon, Jeremiah’s prophetic vision sends the Jewish people on the road toward the eschatological Return, along the lines of the continuity of Jewish history. For Jeremiah, once the Ark had disappeared, it should not reappear, much less be made anew. The continuity of Jewish history, the perennity of the Promise would replace it. It would not be necessary anymore, its role as a witness being just as clear in the hereafter for religious and national Judaism. The Return from exile would be the accomplishment of the prophecy and the assurance that after disaster comes redemption, according to the rhythm of the divine plan, without rupture, notwithstanding the breaches of contract. The menorah becomes the main object of the sanctuary and the main visual 49.  H. L. Kessler and J. Zacharias, Rome 1300: On the Path of the Pilgrim (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 90–94; H. L. Kessler, Seeing Medieval Art (Peterborough, ON: Broadview, 2004), 73. “Of papal liturgies, none was more elaborate than the procession of the Acheropita from the Lateran to Santa-Maria Maggiore on the eve of the Feast of the Assumption. When the great icon was paraded through the Arch of Titus, it re-enacted the triumphal procession with the Spoils of the Jerusalem Temple pictured there in the first-century relief sculpture. It was . . . dramatizing the abrogation of Judaism and the relocation of the cult to Rome and to the new high priest,” p. 162.

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symbol of the rebuilt Temple.50 It was and would remain until this day51 the very symbol of Jewish identity. In fact, it is precisely this menorah that the Romans deliberately chose and used as a sign—now a sign of their victory. The relief on the Arch of Titus was not only the announcement, the publication of the conquest; it was a reversal of symbols. The symbol of the rededication of the Temple after the Greek profanation in 165 b.c.e. became the symbol of defeat and loss. It was introduced into the polemical vocabulary by the Hasmoneans, and knowingly, totally aware of its role, the Romans two centuries later used the same visual motif to proclaim and publicize their victory. When Bar Kochba tries to find a unifying spirit for his battle, he deliberately renounces the use of the visual vocabulary soiled by the Romans. For this reason, he does not choose the menorah, although he knows perfectly well that it is a symbol identifiable everywhere and by all, a symbol bearing the meaning of another struggle, this one crowned by success in the past. The heavy weight of the Roman use marks the menorah as a live spoil of defeat. The same reason prevents him from using the showbread table, which is also related to a negative iconographic message. For Bar Kochba, fully aware of Jewish background sources, there is only one choice: the Ark of the Covenant must replace the menorah. Indeed, it disappeared from the Temple; but, unlike the menorah (and the showbread table), it did not fall into the hands of the conqueror. It was not taken as a spoil in a victory procession. The Return has happened—not despite the absence of the Ark but because of it—because its own role is over. It was not replaced; the Temple is empty. The phenomenon of Redemption has crossed more than six centuries, during which all the religious and national structures of the Jewish people’s life have been in function, according to the prophets. Protected from the impurity of human touch, the Ark is a Sign of Continuity, in spite of fall and exile. It proclaims loud and clear the renewed Meeting between God and his people, in the land of Israel. The same hope must now dwell in the spirits of the people of the second century and inspire the armed struggle: it is not an appeal to reconquer and take over the spoils of the Past but to fight the Present battle, thus opening the way to the Future. The formal scheme of the Ark on the coin represents a desire to refrain from exactly reproducing an object, the details of which were shrouded in a long-lost past, without a model or a copy, without an artistic tradition. The aim of the tetradrachm is to suggest a sacred object for which invisibility was the hallmark. The presence of two salient dots on the body of the Ark, a reminder of the bars attesting the presence of the Ark behind the Paroket, inside the Holy of Holies, only reinforces this interpretation. The identity of the object on the coin is confirmed by Christian iconography. 50.  Y. Israeli, ed., By the Light of the Menorah:The Evolution of a Symbol (Jerusalem, 1998). The menorah appears at the end of the first century b.c.e. in Jewish art. D. Sperber, “The History of the Menorah,” JJS 16 (1965): 135–59. L. Yarden, The Tree of Light: A Study of the Menorah, the Seven-Branched Lampstand (London, 1971). See Narkiss, “Scheme of the Sanctuary”; L. I. Levine, “History and Significance of the Menorah.” 51.  The menorah became the symbol of the State of Israel.

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Bar Kochba’s choice is representative of his personality, clearly tinted with messianism, but also representative of his attachment to and reverence for Jewish heritage. On his coins, it is a sophisticated message delivered to his men and to the entire people. It is a message that the Romans can only begin to perceive but that the Jews are able to grasp in all its amplitude and eschatological dimension. And in this message, the Ark is not alone. The rhetoric is completed by the inscription on the tetradrachms. After the term “liberation” of Israel, of Jerusalem, comes the wording of the final year of the revolt, “For the Redemption of Jerusalem.” Moreover, the reverse of the coin is no less an inversion of symbols. The lulav and etrog have their own language, already well known. But in the historic context of the revolt, they are a reply to the imperial minting by Vespasian of the coins of Judea Capta.52 In the ten years after the conquest before the erection of the Arch of Titus, coins bearing the laureate head of the emperor depict on the reverse a soldier in armor, standing before a feminine figure symbolizing Judea, weeping under a palm tree. Their message also is clear enough. The weeping woman, the very personification of defeat and loss, of national and religious annihilation, paves the way toward the medieval allegory of Synagoga.53 For Bar Kochba, the lulav and etrog are as much an answer to the Judea Capta coins as the Ark is an answer to the Arch of Titus. They not only symbolize the Temple and land of Israel, they are the guarantee of the messianic future. It is the accomplishment of the history of the Jewish people; but it is also the culminating point of an eschatological concept uniting all of humanity. The sheer complexity of Bar Kochba’s message links the two sides of the coin. It is a means of unifying the Jewish people in their struggle, emphasizing the eschatological dimension. But it is also directed against the Romans as an “answer” to their claim of victory, the inverse of their own figurative symbols. It becomes a polemical tool within an iconographical dialogue of aggression. The choice of the image of the Ark of the Covenant inside the façade of the Temple on the coins minted by Bar Kochba, repeated throughout the years of the revolt, is not a chance decision. It is totally, deeply deliberate. It will leave an indelible mark on the development of Jewish art.54 It is precisely with this conception that it will be revived and inserted into a new dialectical, figurative language by Christian theology. And again, Christian iconography has handed us the keys to an early Jewish visual message. 52. Kindler, Coins, 113–22, no. 180. 53.  For the iconography of the medieval allegory of Ecclesia and Synagoga and for a complete bibliography, see my Image of the Jew, 88–94, 106–7; idem, “By Means of Colors: A Judeo-Christian Dialogue in Byzantine Iconography,” in Christians and Jews in Byzantium: Images and Cultural Dynamics (Publications of the International Conference of the Scholion Interdisciplinary Research Center in Jewish Studies; Jerusalem, in press). 54.  It is and will remain a polemical language of survival and hope against Rome and Christianity. For a survey, see my Le Témoignage de l’Absence, 99–123. It may have played a role identical to the fragment of Ezekiel 37 containing the vision of the Dry Bones that was found on top of the Genizah pit at Masada.

Burial Practices in Beth Sheʿarim and the Question of Dating the Patriarchal Necropolis Zeev Weiss Institute of Archaeology, The hebrew University of Jerusalem

The ancient necropolis of Beth Sheʿarim is one of the largest Jewish cemeteries known in ancient Palestine. Located in the southwestern hills of Lower Galilee, it was first discovered in 1936 and subsequently explored and excavated. The first expedition, led by Benjamin Mazar (1936–40), revealed several catacombs (nos. 1–4, 11) on the western slope of the site as well as several others on the hills across from them (nos. 5–10). Nahman Avigad and his team (1953–55, 1958) excavated some more catacombs on the northern slope (nos. 12–21), while Mazar (1956, 1959) unearthed additional ones (nos. 22–27) nearby. Both teams conducted their excavations in Beth Sheʿarim, a small town by any standard, as well as in its extensive necropolis on the hillside, and the archaeological results from both locales together with the historical sources were studied and analyzed jointly. 1 Author’s note: For Lee—teacher, colleague, and true friend, who has accompanied me for many years on the paths of ancient Galilee. 1.  The results of the excavations in the necropolis were published in three volumes: Benjamin Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim Report on the Excavations during 1936–1940: Catacombs 1–4 (Beth Sheʿarim 1; New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1973); Moshe Schwabe and Baruch Lifshitz, Beth-Shearim: The Greek Inscriptions (Beth Sheʿarim 2; New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1974); Nahman Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim: Catacombs 12–23 (Beth Sheʿarim 3; New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1976). Preliminary reports describing the other unpublished catacombs and the excavations conducted in the town were published in several places; for a brief summary with references to earlier publications, see N. Avigad and B. Mazar, “Beth Sheʿarim,” NEAEHL 1:236–48. For a description of the more recent finds, see Yigal Tepper and Yotam Tepper, Beth Sheʿarim: The Village and Nearby Burials (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2004) [Hebrew]. For additional studies on the history of Beth Sheʿarim and the significance of the finds, see Shmuel Safrai, “Beth Sheʿarim in Talmudic Literature,” ErIsr 5 (Mazar Volume; 1958): 206–12 [Hebrew]; Lee I. Levine, “The Finds from Beth Sheʿarim and Their Importance for the Study of the Talmudic Period,” ErIsr 18 (Avigad Volume; 1985): 277–81 [Hebrew].

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Five archaeological phases were identified at the site. Beth Sheʿarim in the Herodian period was a small village. It was significantly expanded by the end of the second–early third centuries , at the time of the Partriarch Rabbi Judah I, the editor of the Mishnah, and was further developed after his death. Beth Sheʿarim was destroyed by fire during the Gallus Revolt in 351–52 , when burial also ceased in the cemetery. According to the excavators, Beth Sheʿarim never recovered from this destruction; the scanty remains found at the site testify that it was now a small, poor village, the inhabitants of which built their simple houses amid the ruins. 2 The Beth Sheʿarim necropolis has abundant architectural, epigraphic, and artistic finds that shed light on many spheres of research related to Jewish society during the Roman and early Byzantine periods. An analysis of these finds in light of talmudic traditions concerned with burial and burial customs offers insight into the organization and operation of this Jewish cemetery and possibly others in the period of the Mishnah and Talmud. 3 Evidence of burial at the site exists from the first century c.e. on; however, the cemetery gained significant momentum only in the days of Rabbi Judah I and especially after his death, when the necropolis became the burial estate of the patriarchal family, drawing many Jews from ancient Palestine and the Diaspora who wished to be buried there. 4 While the majority of excavated catacombs have been published in both preliminary studies and final reports, it is believed that many other catacombs still remain buried. 5 The deceased in Beth Sheʿarim were buried inside hewn caves containing arcosolia (arched cells), kokhim (loculi), and sarcophagi. Less prevalent was burial in mausolea or directly in the earth, as is customary in Israel today. Great efforts were made in Beth Sheʿarim to hew elaborate catacombs that branched out in several directions. Each catacomb had from two to four burial halls organized, in most cases, around a small open courtyard, sometimes reached by a flight of stairs cut into the 2. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:17–20; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:1–4. 3.  Zeev Weiss, “Social Aspects of Burial in Beth Sheʿarim: Archaeological Finds and Talmudic Sources,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 357–71. 4. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:2; Benjamin Mazar, “Those Who Buried Their Dead in BethSheʿarim,” ErIsr 18 (Avigad Volume; 1985): 293–99 [Hebrew]. Rajak maintains that the local patriarchs and rabbis had only a minor role in the development of Beth Sheʿarim yet emphasizes the role of the Jews residing in Galilee and the adjacent Diaspora; see Tessa Rajak, “The Rabbinic Dead and the Diaspora Dead at Beth Sheʿarim,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture (ed. P. Schäfer; 3 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 1:349–66. Levine, in contrast, highlights the role of the patriarchal dynasty at Beth Sheʿarim and its close circles, which at this stage were not composed of rabbis but of affluent Hellenized Jews residing in Galilee; see Lee I. Levine, “Bet Šeʿarim in Its Patriarchal Context,” in “The Words of a Wise Man’s Mouth Are Gracious” (Qoh 10, 12): Festschrift for Günter Stemberger on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (ed. M. Perani; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), 197–226. 5.  See above, n. 1. Additional catacombs were found more recently in the vicinity of the necropolis; see Nurit Feig, “A New Burial Cave at Beth-She’arim,” Qadmoniot 79–80 (1987): 102–5 [Hebrew]; Doron Lipkunsky, “Beth Sheʿarim,” ESI 19 (1998): 20 [Hebrew].

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bedrock. A few catacombs contained a large number of burial halls arranged along the side walls of a long (and sometimes very deep) rock-hewn corridor. Each burial hall usually contained several rooms hewn in a row. The actual burial was in arcosolia that included one or several trough graves, in kohkim hewn into the side walls of each room, and sometimes even in burial pits cut into the floor, usually adjacent to the side walls. 6 An analysis of the burial halls in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis must consider all the catacombs and the relationship between them. In his chapter on the classification and chronology of the catacombs in Beth Sheʿarim, Avigad shows that they exhibited a certain typological development. 7 Burial in kokhim was the oldest, dating to the first or early second century , while in the third and fourth centuries the arcosolia developed, completely eliminating the kokhim. Between these two periods, a special type of catacomb developed and for various reasons ceased to be hewn shortly after the death of Rabbi Judah I. Avigad includes Catacombs 11, 14, 20, and 23 in this group, which had spacious halls and rooms; sometimes there was one large hall and sometimes a row of rooms from which additional rooms branched out. Except for Catacomb 14, the private tomb belonging to the patriarchal family, burial in these rooms was largely in stone and marble coffins (sarcophagi) that stood in the hall, as in Catacomb 20, or in coffins (made of wood or clay) piled one on top of the other, as in Catacomb 11, which also contains an inscription to this effect; 8 a minority of burials were in kokhim (as in the early period) or arcosolia that were found later in Beth Sheʿarim. The suggested typology and its chronological implications for the duration of the cemetery’s existence raise many questions. As Avigad points out, the disadvantage of the suggested chronology lies in the fact that it is not based on dated finds; rather, it is a relative chronology, formulated by Mazar and further developed by Avigad, 9 that is based on the typological development of the many burial places excavated in Beth Sheʿarim. Today, with the abundance of new archaeological finds unearthed in Galilee, the time seems propitious to reassess earlier assumptions. The following discussion will evaluate the relationship between the different types of burial places and burial practices in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis and determine whether the disparity between them has any chronological significance. I will open with an assessment of the sequential relationship between the kokhim and the various types of arcosolia in Beth Sheʿarim, because it is crucial for understanding Avigad’s suggested typology of the catacombs as well as my discussion below. 6.  For the terminology used in Beth Sheʿarim, see Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:33–34. In referring to the various parts of each catacomb, I shall use the numeral and alphabetical system appearing in the final reports: arabic numeral for catacombs, capital letters for burial halls, roman numerals for individual rooms inside a hall, and arabic numerals for arcosolia or pit burials. 7. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:259–67. 8.  Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:116–19, inscription no. 131. 9. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:259.

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Fig. 1.  Expanded arcosolium with four trough graves. Catacomb 12, Hall B, Room V, Arcosolium 2 (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).`

Arcosolia, Kokhim, and Their Use in Beth Sheʿarim Avigad’s classification of the burial places in Beth Sheʿarim assigns great importance to the arcosolium and its typological development, from the early simple unit with one trough grave to the later, expanded arcosolium containing three–five burial places. 10 This hypothesis seems logical at first glance, but it is questionable whether there is enough evidence in Beth Sheʿarim to support his assumption. The determination of early versus later arcosolia does not depend solely on the number of burial places in each unit but should also consider their actual location inside the catacomb (fig. 1). One would expect to find some consistent patterns in the distribution of simple arcosolia inside each catacomb as well as in their position relative to the expanded units. Each catacomb contains several burial halls arranged around a courtyard. The first hall that was quarried is the one located opposite the courtyard entrance, while the others were cut into bedrock along the side walls at a later stage. The arrangement of the rooms in each hall follows a sequential order as well; the room closest to the entrance was quarried first, and the rooms farther along were dug later. Accordingly, the arcosolia in the innermost rooms should contain more than one or two burial places because they were introduced last into the hall; but, in fact, the opposite is true. 11 The simple arcosolium with a single trough grave was placed, in most cases, next to the entrance to the hall. In some catacombs, these arcosolia appear throughout the entire hall; in others, only in the first room. Simple arcosolia appear in burial halls dating, according to Avigad, to the early third century but are also found in the later catacombs dating to the late third and fourth centuries  12 Moreover, Hall A in 10.  Ibid., 259–61. 11.  See, for example, burial halls that contain simple arcosolia in their innermost rooms; Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, vol. 1: Catacombs 1 A, M, N, and O; 3 A and C; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, vol. 3: Catacomb 13 A, B, F, and G. 12. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:57–58, 154, 162–63; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:25, 74.

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Catacomb 13 is definitely not among the earlier quarried spaces here, even though it contains only simple arcosolia. 13 This is also the case in Halls G and H of the same catacomb, which was quarried, according to Avigad, in the early fourth century. 14 These examples thus testify that the simple arcosolium continued to be used in the early fourth century along with the expanded type. Is it possible, however, that in the early third century this was the only form that characterized burial places at this time? In his discussion of Catacomb 1, Mazar indicates that the simple and expanded arcosolia in this period were in use simultaneously in Beth Sheʿarim, from the late second or early third century until burial ended there, in late antiquity. 15 An examination of the various catacombs makes it patently clear that the expanded arcosolia were already in use by the early third century and even slightly earlier, by the end of the second century. 16 Therefore, no chronological significance can be attributed to either type of arcosolium. One type of arcosolium was more common in several burial halls, while the other type prevailed in another. Kokhim, compared with arcosolia, were more common in Jewish burial tombs throughout Galilee; except for Beth Sheʿarim, none of these burial types predominated in any one geographical area. In fact, the numerical proportion between the two types is maintained throughout the various regions of Galilee. 17 Why were arcosolia the preferred burial form in Beth Sheʿarim at this time? Regarding the use of kokhim and arcosolia and their chronological relationship, Avigad states: “The kokhim per se are not always a reliable chronological criterion”; he assumes that “at Beth Sheʿarim the kokh grave was apparently supplanted very quickly by the arcosolium grave, though not all at once.” 18 Should one deduce from his conclusion that, except for some isolated places where single kokh graves existed, halls or rooms containing only kokh graves were no longer hewn in the third and fourth centuries? This cannot be fully accepted, since some catacombs were built in the third and fourth centuries, when arcosolia were in full use, with rooms and even halls containing only kokh graves (fig. 2). 19 Therefore, one cannot speak of a complete abandonment of kokh graves in Beth Sheʿarim but should look elsewhere for an explanation. 13.  Avigad, ibid., 3:29. According to the architectural plan (p. 32, fig. 11), and especially section 1–1 (p. 34, fig. 13), it is clear that Halls C, D, and E were hewn in the first stage, and only later were Halls A, B, G, and H dug deeper into the corridor. 14. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:42. 15. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:56–58, 133–34. 16.  The two types of arcosolia appear together, for example, in Halls M, N, and O or in Room XI of Catacomb 20, which belonged to the early period, according to Mazar (Beth Sheʿarim, 1:139) and Avigad (Beth Sheʿarim, 3:115). 17.  Zeev Weiss, The Jewish Cemetery in the Galilee during the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods: Architectural Analysis in Light of Talmudic Literature (M.A. thesis, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1989), 54–59 [Hebrew]. 18. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:262–63. 19.  See, for example, Catacomb 13, Halls K and M; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:39–40. Avigad hardly discusses Hall B in Catacomb 20, which also has only kokhim but only in its northern wall. This evidence no doubt indicates that Hall B represents a later development inside the

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Fig. 2.  Plan of Catacomb 13, Halls F–L. Note the kokhim in the back room of Hall K, located at the bottom of the corridor in Catacomb 13 and the latest hall to be quarried here (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

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Digging a tomb was not an easy task and undoubtedly incurred great costs. The available space in many tombs was used to the fullest in order to provide the maximum number of graves. This trend was especially marked in Beth Sheʿarim due to the special character of the necropolis and the increasing demand to be buried there from the third century onward. Hewing single kokhim in any given room was probably considered a waste of space. In comparison, the arcosolium, containing four trough graves and sometimes even more, was preferred to the kokh grave, even though the latter still existed at a later stage. For example, an average-sized room (3 × 4 m) could hold no more than twelve kokhim—four on each wall, not including the one next to the entrance. In the same available space, it was possible to install five arcosolia, two on each side wall and one across the entrance, while each arcosolium held four trough graves, resulting in a total of almost double the number of actual burial places. 20 Cemetery policymakers at Beth Sheʿarim preferred the arcosolium to the kokh and possibly also implemented other solutions to meet the increasing demand for graves. Their guideline was to create the maximum number of burial places in the minimum available space, 21 for example, by expanding the arcosolia and hewing several trough graves in each; by adding kokhim in the spaces between arcosolia, below them, or in places that were not large enough for arcosolia; and by cutting pit graves into the catacomb’s floor. Thus, the abandonment of kokhim in favor of arcosolia, generally speaking, has no chronological significance but instead reflects a practical solution to a demanding “housing” problem in the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis.

Typology and Chronology of the Catacombs: A Reassessment of Earlier Assumptions The preference for arcosolia graves in Beth Sheʿarim does not necessarily reflect a chronological development in burial practice but instead a restricted modification that would accommodate the increasing demand for tombs after the cemetery catacomb, because it was hewn only after Rooms II–III in Hall A were completed; otherwise, it would also contain kokhim in its remaining walls. A similar phenomenon was also found in Hall B of Catacomb 11 which, according to Mazar, should be dated, based on his typology, to the Herodian period; see Benjamin Maisler, “The Fourth Campaign at Beth Sheʿarim, 1940,” Bulletin of the Jewish Palestine Exploration Society 9 (1941): 17–19. His conclusion is untenable for various reasons. If this were a Herodian tomb, where would its entrance be? The orientation of the tomb and the location of the current entrance are in an odd position in relation to the natural slope. In addition, and as mentioned above, everywhere else in Beth Sheʿarim side halls represent a second stage in the catacomb. Furthermore, here, as in Hall B of Catacomb 20, kokhim were not added on the northern side, adjacent to Hall A, and this definitely indicates that it was added in Catacomb 11 only at a later stage. 20.  Room II in Catacomb 31, for example, measures 2.2 × 2 m and has only five kokhim; compare this with Halls B and C in Catacomb 15, which measure 1.3 × 2 m, each equipped with three arcosolia and a total of nine trough graves; see Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:68, 124. 21. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:133; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:265.

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Fig. 3.  Rooms V and III in Catacomb 20, looking west. The sarcophagi were arranged along the side walls, whereas additional arcosolia were hewn into the walls themselves (photo by Zeev Weiss).

became the burial place of the patriarchal family. There is a consensus among scholars that burial caves with simple, small kokhim, used primarily in the first and second centuries , represent the earlier stage of interment in Beth Sheʿarim, whereas large catacombs with arcosolia signify the phase following the expansion of the necropolis in the third century. The question arises whether the intermediate group of catacombs—that is, large halls containing sarcophagi that, according to Avigad’s typology, were quarried in the time of Rabbi Judah I—characterizes burial practice at this time (fig. 3). Avigad maintains that the dating of this group of catacombs to the late second or early third centuries depends mainly on the absence of later arcosolia, which constituted almost the only type of burial practiced in the third and fourth centuries. Avigad does not ignore the fact that some arcosolia appear infrequently in these catacombs, but he notes that they are the only simple type with a single trough grave that deviate from the predominant form in the ensuing period. 22 Furthermore, he continues, the simple arcosolia there serve as a chronological milestone to use in dating these catacombs to the time of Rabbi Judah I. This as22.  Avigad, ibid., 3:262–63.

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Fig. 4.  Plan of Catacomb 20 (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

sumption, however, is not accurate since the two types of arcosolia, simple and expanded, were used simultaneously, as mentioned above, at least from the early third century on. Moreover, the distribution of arcosolia and the number of trough graves in each does not differ much from what is found in “the beautiful, spacious catacombs,” to quote Avigad, that are dated to the third century c.e. and later. 23 The sparse number of arcosolia in Catacomb 20 and in similar catacombs therefore have no typo-chronological significance other than their designated use: to contain burials primarily in stone and marble sarcophagi. The appearance of simple arcosolia in Catacomb 20, for example, should be attributed here, as elsewhere, to the general trend in Beth Sheʿarim to use any available space and to increase the number of graves in each catacomb. Catacomb 20, according to Avigad, was hewn and used, for the most part, in the days of Rabbi Judah I, even though burial continued there until the abandonment of the necropolis (fig. 4). 24 A comparison of the size, number of burial places, and duration of use of Catacomb 20 with the other tombs in Beth Sheʿarim challenges his theory. Over 210 burial places of various forms are known in Catacomb 20, while the actual number of people buried there should be higher, given the fact that several 23.  Ibid., 265. 24.  Ibid., 262–64.

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inscriptions on either sarcophagi or arcosolia refer to multiple burials in one grave. 25 The relatively large number of burial places here is comparable to the sum total found in several other catacombs. This somehow renders an uneven and illogical picture, because the time span of Catacomb 20 was comparatively very short, whereas the other, smaller catacombs were in use for a longer period of time. Quarrying an entire catacomb or hewing a single hall containing several rooms as well as preparing the graves for actual burial were done in several stages that have even been proven in some cases. 26 It is likely that every room with an arched entrance and several arcosolia hewn into its walls represents one stage in the development of a hall. It should not be regarded merely as a technical stage but as a chronological marker connected to the increased demand for burial places in Beth Sheʿarim—even though it is almost impossible to assign a precise date based on the available information. Therefore, it cannot be assumed that Catacomb 20 was hewn in its entirety and used solely in the time of Rabbi Judah I; in fact, architecturally speaking, it was quarried in several stages and was used for a much longer time. An analysis of other catacombs in Beth Sheʿarim may show that they were hewn in several stages but following a preconceived plan. Catacomb 20, in contrast, was neither well organized nor systematically planned and, consequently, developed haphazardly. Running through Catacomb 20 is a long central hall—a passageway flanked by several rooms giving access to the adjacent burial chambers. Entrances to these side rooms or to corridors branching from them were set along either side of the central hall. These rooms and side corridors, which developed independently of each other and without a set plan, were quarried and used to their fullest to house sarcophagi. This same random organization finds expression in the ongoing addition of graves throughout the catacomb and in the quarrying of rooms one after the other that branch out from these graves. Even if the final layout of Catacomb 20 were the result of the prevalent quarrying conditions or the nature of the local bedrock, it would not sufficiently explain the unique plan other than the fact that it was expanded gradually, in stages, until burial ended in Beth Sheʿarim. The continual development of Catacomb 20 is also attested by the additions and changes made to the entrance and in the courtyard in front of the cave. 27 Avigad also assigns Catacomb 23 to this group, maintaining that it was originally designated for placing the sarcophagi and only later, at a second stage, was it hewn with arcosolia. 28 Judging by the placement of the sarcophagi in Catacomb 20, it seems that in many instances the sarcophagi here were introduced intentionally so as to block the entrance and access to the arcosolia. 29 If this were the case in Catacomb 23, 25.  Ibid., 94, 241–54. 26. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:68, 86–87, 103–4, 116, and 133–34; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:28, 68–69. In analyzing the architectural plans, one can add other examples in which new graves were introduced at a later phase, e.g., Catacomb 12 A VII; 13 D I; Arcosolia 2–4; 19 A II; Arcosolia 1–3. 27. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:83–86. 28.  Ibid., 122–24, 265. 29.  Ibid., fig. 43, Rooms XI, XVI, and XXI.

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how, then, was it possible to quarry arcosolia along the walls and afterward remove the debris from the catacomb? How were the deceased transported to their burial places if all the other sarcophagi, we may assume, filled the space of the hall? It is therefore inconceivable that the arcosolia were hewn only at a later stage; rather, they were used for burial at the same time that sarcophagi were used in the hall. Consequently, Avigad’s theory could take one of two forms. If, on the one hand, the expanded arcosolium was in use only after the third and fourth centuries, then this catacomb may be removed from the transitional group of Avigad’s typology. Alternatively, its existence during these centuries may provide additional evidence for the use of the extended arcosolium already in the third century c.e. Having learned earlier that the arcosolium and its shape do not point to a specific date, we can now conclude that burial in this catacomb was practiced simultaneously in both arcosolia and sarcophagi during the third and fourth centuries. Avigad indicates in his discussion that sarcophagi were used throughout the entire period; 30 however, in his final analysis of the Beth Sheʿarim finds, he claims that quarrying catacombs to house such huge stone containers was terminated for technical and economic reasons sometime in the third century, after the death of the Patriarch and the introduction of large-scale catacombs for general consumption. 31 Does this mean that burial in sarcophagi was halted immediately thereafter but was still available on special demand and contingent on vacant space in some of the deserted catacombs that could accommodate large containers? If this were true, then why would burial in sarcophagi in Beth Sheʿarim be confined only to the time of the Patriarch rather than, as elsewhere, to the following period as well? The excavators maintain that Beth Sheʿarim was greatly expanded after the death of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, who was buried there together with his family. Stone sarcophagi, and especially those manufactured in marble and decorated in relief represent power and wealth. Their usage undoubtedly complies with the significant changes that took place in Beth Sheʿarim after the death of the Patriarch and conforms to the already existing tastes of people buried there, when the necropolis was the burial center for the Jews of ancient Palestine and the Diaspora. Sarcophagi were generally used on a relatively small scale, even in the early fourth century ; in fact, several archaeological finds and talmudic references attest that such containers were still in use in Beth Sheʿarim at this time. 32 30.  Ibid., 164. 31.  Ibid., 263–64. 32.  Jacob Kaplan, “A Mausoleum at Kefar Giladi,” ErIsr 8 (Sukenik Volume; 1967): 104–13 [Hebrew]; Mordechai Aviam, Jews, Pagans and Christians in the Galilee: 25 Years of Archaeological Excavations and Surveys—Hellenistic to Byzantine Periods (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2004), 264–76. Fischer dates the marble sarcophagi in ancient Palestine between 250 and 310 , after the peak of marble imports to Palestine; see Moshe L. Fischer, Marble Studies: Roman Palestine and Marble Trade (Konstanz: Universitätsverlag Konstanz, 1998), 205–30. Y. Moʿed Qaṭ. 1.5, 80d (top): . . . ‫‘( אמר רבי אחא הדא דתאמר בארון של אבן‬Rabbi Aḥa said: “  That is to say, ‘in a stone coffin’   ” ’) and its parallel in y. Sanh. 6.11, 23d: ‫‘( בארון שיש‬in a marble coffin’).

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Fig. 5.  Courtyard of Catacomb 19, looking south (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

All of the above information indicates that the Beth Sheʿarim catacombs that were intended to house sarcophagi were not sui generis to Rabbi Judah the Patriarch’s day; even if they were initially used in Rabbi’s time, they continued to be quarried and used perhaps until the final days of Beth Sheʿarim’s existence as an operational necropolis. Just as these catacombs were not unique to a specific period, so also, in the absence of dated archaeological data, we may assume that halls with arcosolia do not characterize late burials only but also the early expansion of necropolises, both in Rabbi’s time and until the end of the period. Having reached the conclusion that the suggested typological division has no chronological significance and that in a given time Beth Sheʿarim contained various types of burials, we will find it worthwhile to clarify the relationship between them and explain this variegated presence in one necropolis.

Multiple Tombs and the Organization of the Patriarchal Necropolis With the establishment of Beth Sheʿarim in the time of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch and the expansion of the cemetery after his death, the entire range of burial

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forms appeared side by side to compose the necropolis’s landscape as we know it today. It seems that there was one central organizational body at the site that was responsible for preparing and selling the burial plots, as well as for offering any accompanying services to the Jews of Galilee and the Diaspora. 33 Most burials were placed in hewn hypogea, or catacombs quarried into the rock beneath the earth’s surface, and fewer were the built stone tombs, or mausolea, that can be seen from afar in the necropolis’s landscape. The burial itself was in a simple or complex arcosolium, a kokh, or even a sarcophagus. External graves were also found, in which the deceased were either interred in coffins or covered in shrouds only. Designating areas and choosing the specific type of burial were based on the type of rock and the occupancy of the already existing catacombs. The burial places at Beth Sheʿarim can be categorized into groups the characteristics of which are determined largely by the catacomb’s internal organization or burial method, as follows: 1. Catacombs with a central courtyard surrounded by one to four burial halls of different sizes, in which the burial itself was largely in a simple or complex arcosolium or possibly a kokh (nos. 12, 15, and 17) (fig. 5) 2. Catacombs with a large number of burial halls hewn along a corridor. The burial itself was similar to Group 1 (nos. 1 and 13) (fig. 6) 3. Spacious halls for sarcophagi and other burial containers (nos. 11, 20, and 23) 4. Mausolea (near Catacomb 11 and the square base near Cistern 24) (fig. 7) 5. Tombs built of stone outside the catacomb, either above ground or sunken into the earth Every burial hall in Beth Sheʿarim is characterized by variable features that may be clustered into several subgroups. A classification of this sort will afford us a better understanding of the architectural, functional, and practical relationship between the various burial halls. It is generally accepted that small or isolated tombs with kokhim predate Rabbi Judah the Patriarch and the building projects that he initiated in Beth Sheʿarim and therefore are not included in the following typological classification of the various halls: 34 1. A hall that is, in fact, a small-sized room in which arcosolia are hewn on two or three of its walls (except that of the entrance; nos. 12 C–D, 15 B–C) (fig. 8) 2. A hall in the form of a long, narrow corridor, in which arcosolia were hewn in one row (nos. 1 D, 15 A) 3. A hall composed of a number of rooms hewn in succession (nos. 2 B, 13 F) and in which passage from one room to the next was marked by an arch or engaged pilasters (fig. 2). The division into rooms, as mentioned, indicates development and expansion over time, but it is possible that it was meant to demarcate the burial places clearly 4. An elongated hall—a sort of corridor sometimes divided into rooms, usually without graves, and from which additional rooms containing hewn arcosolia branched out (nos. 2 C, 4 A) 33.  Weiss, “Social Aspects,” 362–66. 34. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:22; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:124–25.

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Fig. 6.  Corridor of Catacomb 1, with entrances located along its walls (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

5. Spacious halls housing sarcophagi (nos. 11 A, 20 A). Although these halls were designated primarily for burial in sarcophagi, the wish to use the area efficaciously led to the quarrying of additional kokhim or arcosolia in the walls (fig. 4).

The burial places themselves can be subdivided further. Burial in simple or expanded arcosolia was indeed the predominant practice in Beth Sheʿarim. Moreover, it is impossible to point to a special trend in choosing the location of the single arcosolia in the Beth Sheʿarim catacombs as opposed to the expanded, as we have seen above; in isolated cases, we notice a trend to dedicate an entire hall (nos. 12 A, 13 A) or most of one (nos. 13 B, 2 B) to single arcosolia. Choosing between a simple or expanded arcosolium also depended, among other things, on the status of the deceased, as is evident from several burial inscriptions appearing beside some simple arcosolia— for example, Aidesios, head of the council of elders from Antioch; Lady Calliope

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Fig. 7.  Suggested reconstruction of the mausoleum next to Catacomb 11 (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

from Byblos; an unnamed priest from Beirut; and family heads whose names are mentioned explicitly. 35 It should not be inferred from this that only individuals of distinguished lineage were buried in simple arcosolia; this option was also available to anyone else who wanted and could afford such a grave. 36 Furthermore, even though the use of kokhim was limited in this period, there were rooms and halls in which burial was entirely in kokhim, in the latest stages as well (nos. 11 B 1, 13 K III, 20 B). 35.  Aidesios: Avigad, ibid., 3:27; Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:127–28, inscription no. 141. Lady Calliope: Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:26; Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:124–25, inscription nos. 136–37. Unnamed priest: Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:29–30; Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:133, inscription no. 148. Family heads: Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:39–40; Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:144, inscription no. 171. 36.  On the burial of affluent people in expanded arcosolia, see Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:152; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:36, 80–81.

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Fig. 8.  Plan of Catacomb 12 (reprinted courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society).

Burial in coffins made out of wood, clay, lead, stone, or marble was also possible in Beth Sheʿarim. All coffins were designed to hold a corpse but varied in their dimensions, mode of manufacture, and degree of decoration. Wooden or clay coffins without decorations were installed inside the catacomb either in pit burials hewn

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into the floor or in arcosolia. 37 Lead coffins were placed in built-graves outside the catacombs, whereas sarcophagi were used in the spacious halls. 38 The assemblage of graves discovered in Beth Sheʿarim is unique, attesting to the range of available burial options in late antiquity. Interment in this period was familial, and some of the inscriptions found in Beth Sheʿarim attest that this custom was widespread there, too. 39 The selection of a burial place or its form was at times done in the lifetime of the interred or after his death by his family; this decision was entirely according to the wishes of the deceased, his family, their burial tradition, financial capabilities, or even social status. It is likely that every type of grave had its own price, depending on the material, location, and effort required to produce the burial place, and was ranked accordingly, in ascending order. So, for example, the cost of a simple grave dug into the ground differed from the cost of a grave hewn into a catacomb, and both of these differed from the cost of a stone sarcophagus or, for that matter, anything made from imported and ornately decorated marble. While some could afford only lead, clay, or wooden coffins, anyone who could pay a considerable amount of money for his sarcophagus and for its placement in the catacomb would buy one made of marble or local stone. Similarly, we may assume that the price of a grave in a simple arcosolium was higher than that of a burial place located in a complex arcosolium containing four trough graves. And, indeed, the size and degree of crowding in the burial hall, or in the entire catacomb, affected the price of the single grave. The type of catacomb, whether the burial halls were arranged around a courtyard or along a corridor to which access was difficult, especially to the deep halls, apparently also influenced the price of the grave. Although burial was largely in arcosolia, whoever wished could purchase a burial kokh at a certain price, and these, as noted, also continued to appear in Beth Sheʿarim in the latest levels uncovered at the site. Various studies dealing with cemeteries and burial customs in antiquity emphasize the relationship between the socioeconomic status of the deceased (and their family) and their ability to purchase impressive burial plots, a fact that reinforces my suggested interpretation of the Beth Sheʿarim necropolis. Mass graves and simple graves in small plots were found in Rome in between the grand monuments to the dead constructed by wealthy citizens. 40 Harry J. Leon presents evidence for burial in one of the Jewish catacombs in Rome that was based on the socioeconomic status 37. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:115–16, 222–24; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:55. On the use of clay coffins in Galilee, see Mordechai Aviam and Edna J. Stern, “Burial in Clay Sarcophagi in Galilee during the Roman Period,” ʿAtiqot 33 (1997): 151–62 [Hebrew]. 38. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:125–27. Lead coffins were used in the third–fifth centuries by pagans, Jews, and Christians and were manufactured in several places in ancient Palestine; see L. Y. Rahmani, A Catalogue of Roman and Byzantine Lead Coffins from Israel (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 1999), 3–84. 39.  Weiss, “Social Aspects,” 358–62. 40.  Keith Hopkins, Death and Renewal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 205–10.

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and cultural orientation of the deceased and his family. 41 Avraham Negev also brings to our attention the fact that the diverse types of tombs found in the Nabatean necropolis of Egra in Hejaz did not have any chronological significance but was also due to the socioeconomic status of the deceased buried there. 42 Michael J. Fuller also attributes the variation of tomb architecture and grave offerings in Abila to three distinct social classes residing in the city in the Roman and early Byzantine periods: the wealthy elite had larger tombs decorated with paintings and sometimes even containing basalt sarcophagi; the commoners had less elaborate tombs; and the poor could afford only shaft graves. 43 All three types of tombs were clustered together in several areas at the western end of the site, resembling the combination of catacombs in Beth Sheʿarim. Gideon Avni offered a similar though less far-reaching approach to the various tombs found in the cemeteries around Beth Guvrin. 44 Several halakot (Jewish laws) in talmudic literature relating to funerary expenses or burial practices imply, too, that the adoption of various burial customs was contingent upon the buying power of the various socioeconomic strata of Jewish society in late antique Palestine. 45 At first glance, the entire necropolis of Beth Sheʿarim seems unorganized; catacombs, mausolea, and outside graves were positioned on both sides of the road leading to the town, while others were located along the northern and western slopes below the summit. 46 The architectural analysis presented above defines several subgroups characterized by certain features that create quite a different impression, in41. Harry J. Leon, The Jews of Ancient Rome (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1960), 240–44. 42.  Avraham Negev, “The Nabatean Necropolis at Egra,” RB 83 (1976): 203–36; J. McKenzie, The Architecture of Petra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 115. 43.  Michael J. Fuller, Abila of the Decapolis: A Roman-Byzantine City in Transjordan (Ph.D. diss., Washington University, 1987), 253–74; W. Harold Mare, “Abila: A Thriving Greco-Roman City of the Decapolis,” ARAM 4 (1992): 69–70. According to Wineland, the three types of burial and their proximity can be explained in light of the clan hierarchy model, which had a powerful influence over the society of Abila; see John D. Wineland, Ancient Abila: An Archaeological History (BAR International Series 989; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2001), 108–9. 44.  Gideon Avni, The Necropolis of Jerusalem and Beth Govrin during the 4th–7th Centuries a.d. as a Model for Urban Cemeteries in Palestine in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Periods (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997), 274–78 [Hebrew]. 45.  ‫ התקינו שיהו הכל‬,‫ והיו עניים מתביישין‬,‫בראשונה היו מוציאין עשירים בדרגש ועניים בכליבה‬ ‫‘( מוציאין בכליבה מפני כבודן של עניים‬At first, the wealthy would be brought out on a sumptuous couch and the poor on a plain bier, and the poor would be humiliated. So they enacted that all would be brought out on a common bier out of reverence for the poor’; b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 27a–b). See also the discussion of Nissan Rubin (The End of Life: Rites of Burial and Mourning in the Talmud and Midrash [Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1997], 130–59 [Hebrew]), who lists additional burial customs attesting to social differences within the Jewish community. 46.  On the location of the necropolis on the periphery of the Galilean settlements and the roads leading into them, see my “Location of Jewish Cemeteries in Galilee in the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods,” in Graves and Burial Practices in Israel in the Ancient Period (ed. I. Singer; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1994), 230–40 [Hebrew].

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dicating that those in charge of cemetery affairs may have had some sort of guiding principles for expanding the site and preparing it for future burial places for Galilean and Diaspora Jews. They would tender a range of graves at varying prices and would cluster them in different ways throughout the necropolis, sometimes separating them by similar burial techniques. Several catacombs were quarried around a central courtyard, sometimes along a corridor, and still others were wider because they were intended for housing sarcophagi. The empty areas between the catacombs were allocated for burial in the ground, but it is also possible that these areas were reserved for building custom-made mausolea for the wealthy. In addition to the catacombs and other burials on the grounds of the necropolis, ritual baths (miqwaʾot), and structures with benches for congregating and sitting were also constructed, such as those discovered above Catacombs 14, 20, and apparently also 23. 47 It seems that eulogies were sometimes held in these assembly areas during a funeral and on the anniversary of a death. The quarrying and sale of graves at Beth Sheʿarim was vested in a central group, as noted, but the different types of graves and catacombs attest indirectly to the existence of multiple burial societies that operated there, each with its own area of expertise. 48 Not only the shape of the hall but also the arrangement of the catacombs around the courtyard or along the corridor, and especially the large catacombs (nos. 1, 2, and 13), reinforce the idea of the involvement of burial societies. One may have buried in sarcophagi and quarried special halls to house them; another may have buried in the field, either in pits or in built-graves; another may have quarried spacious catacombs around a courtyard; and yet another may have quarried split-level catacombs alongside long corridors. Each society owned a number of catacombs and performed a specific burial practice that was carried out according to the wishes, social status, and financial means of the individual.

The Gallus Revolt and the Duration of Burial in Beth Sheʿarim The Beth Sheʿarim necropolis gained great momentum in the days of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch and especially after his death. The excavators reached the conclusion during their work at the site as well as in the necropolis that Beth Sheʿarim was destroyed and burial was terminated following the revolt and was immediately suppressed in Sepphoris during the reign of the emperor Gallus (351–52 ). 49 Consequently, they maintained, Beth Sheʿarim never recovered from this destruction, 47. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:56–62, 111–14, 124; Weiss, Jewish Cemetery in the Galilee, 96– 100. On miqwaʾot, see D. Amit and Y. Adler, “Miqwaʾot in the Necropolis of Beth Sheʿarim,” IEJ 60 (2010): 78–88. 48.  On the gravediggers, buriers, and those involved in the funerary matters, see my “Social Aspects,” 362–66. 49. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:13–20; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:2–3.

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and although it continued to exist in the Byzantine period, it was very poor, and the large necropolis went into complete disuse. They unanimously held the Gallus Revolt liable for the demise of the town and the cessation of burial, despite the fact that Beth Sheʿarim is never mentioned in sources describing the revolt—neither as being actively involved in it nor as being damaged, destroyed, or even burned during the suppression of the insurrection. The destruction of Beth Sheʿarim in the aftermath of the Gallus Revolt is emphasized in the excavators’ preliminary reports and, especially, in the final publication—even though their supporting archaeological evidence is paltry. In retrospect, it seems that their archaeological findings were ambiguous and their explanations tailored to conform to the historical events. The excavators’ verdict served and is still valid as a chronological peg for many scholars who later on dealt with Beth Sheʿarim and the demographic history of the Jews in Galilee in its transition to the Byzantine period. 50 The scope of this article does not permit a reexamination of this entire historical episode in light of an analysis of the finds unearthed in Mazar and Avigad’s excavations. I must therefore be content with a broad presentation of the evidence from the necropolis and the town itself, as well as from other sites in the Galilee and beyond. In light of the data, I claim that the quarrying of the catacombs and burial in Beth Sheʿarim did not end following the Gallus Revolt, in the mid-fourth century, but continued on a large scale also in the fifth and sixth centuries and perhaps even later. Although I maintain that burial in the necropolis probably continued in the Byzantine period as well, it is difficult to determine, in light of the information at hand, what caused Beth Sheʿarim to wane and when exactly burial ceased there. However, as noted, this question is not sui generis to Beth Sheʿarim but is relevant to Galilean settlement generally at the close of this era. 51 An analysis of several burial complexes in Beth Sheʿarim and clarification of the relationship between the various halls in the catacombs indicate that some of them were hewn only after the mid-fourth century. So, for example, five generations of the Mokimos family were buried in Hall G, Catacomb 1. Coming from Tadmor close to the time of that city’s fall, the family bought the hall probably around 273 c.e. or a bit earlier. 52 If we calculate a generation as having been about 25–30 years, then 50.  See, for example, Tepper and Tepper, Beth Sheʿarim, esp. 167–68; Yehudit Turnheim, “Architecture and Architectural Ornamentation in Beth Sheʿarim,” Rivista di Archeologia 29 (2005): 81–96; Mira Waner and Zeev Safrai, “Hoards and Revolts: The Chronological Distribution of Coin Hoards in Eretz Israel during the Roman and Byzantine Periods,” Cathedra 101 (2001): 71–90, esp. pp. 76–77 [Hebrew]. 51.  See, for example, Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 207–29. For evidence from the Golan, see Chaim Ben-David, The Jewish Settlement on the Golan in the Roman and Byzantine Periods (Qatzrin: Institute for the Study of the Golan, 2005), 193–95 [Hebrew]. 52.  Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:10–26. Since it cannot be assumed that all four rooms of Hall G were hewn at the same time, it appears that the front two rooms that were purchased by Isaac son of Mokim were hewn first; then Room III, and, finally, Room IV, which were intended for the fourth and fifth generations of the Mokimos family.

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Hall G was in use for at least 125 years, and if it was purchased around 273 c.e., then burial in it continued at least until 400 c.e. and possibly even later. Moreover, Mazar notes that the burial in Hall I of this catacomb continued until the early fifth century but its actual quarrying began at the end of the third century. 53 This explanation for the development of the catacomb is untenable; the beginning of quarrying in Hall I postdates the front two rooms in Hall G, in which at least two generations of the Mokimos family were buried. 54 Thus, the quarrying of the hall could not have begun before the second third of the fourth century. Room IV in Hall I, in which three generations of one family were interred, 55 was undoubtedly the last to have been quarried. Even if we cannot point to a precise date for the quarrying of Room IV, which was the last room hewn in Hall I, it is likely that it took place toward the end of the fourth or the beginning of the fifth century. This conclusion, which emerges from a stratigraphical analysis of Hall I, indeed also applies to Hall J, which by consensus is the later hall in Catacomb 1. 56 In the course of the Byzantine period, Jews continued to bury their dead in arcosolia and even to hew catacombs containing several rooms with arcosolia inside them, similar to the catacombs found in Beth Sheʿarim. Catacombs of this sort were discovered throughout the Galilee, in Tivʿon, ʿAraba, and ʿIbillin; and in Judea, at Ḥorvat Rimmon and Beth Guvrin (excavations in the latter yielded a large necropolis dating from the fourth to eighth centuries). 57 Several halls in Beth Sheʿarim are no more than small single burial rooms containing three expanded arcosolia, such as the one in Catacomb 12, Halls C and D, or Catacomb 15, Halls B and C. This model in the Galilee and outside it was especially prevalent in the Byzantine period among Jews and Christians alike. 58 The similarity between the catacombs in Beth Sheʿarim and catacombs found elsewhere in terms of burial customs and the size of burial tombs as well as the fact that they were used for burial in the Byzantine period allow one to posit that the quarrying and use of the catacombs at Beth Sheʿarim continued in the Byzantine period as well. The oil lamps and glass objects are dated by the excavators to a period preceding 352 c.e. Quite a few of these objects are especially characteristic of the Byzantine period, however. It was only because the excavators attributed great importance to the Gallus Revolt that they dated them prior to 351/352 , just as had been the case, for 53. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:94. 54. Ibid. 55.  Schwabe and Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, 2:26–29. 56. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:95–97. 57.  Nurit Feig, “A Burial Cave at Tivʿon, ʿAtiqot 30 (1996): 61–65 [Hebrew]; Danny Syon, “Iʿbillin,” ESI 16 (1997): 45; idem, “ʿAraba,” ESI 19 (1997): 16*; Peter Fabian and Haim Goldfus, “The Cemetery of Horbat Rimmon in the Southern Judean Shephelah,” ʿAtiqot 46 (2004): 87*–98*; Avni, Necropolis, 156–209. 58.  E. J. Stern, “Burial Caves at Kisra,” ʿAtiqot 33 (1997): 103–5 [Hebrew]; Zvi Lederman and Mordechai Aviam, “Rock-Cut Tombs from the Byzantine Period in the Tefen Region,” ʿAtiqot 33 (1997): 137–49 [Hebrew].

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example, with one of the only assemblages of objects discovered in situ in Arcosolium 1 of Hall B in Catacomb 15. 59 They distinguish between the clay objects, the lamps, and the glass vessels that were actually used in the necropolis (whether in the burial itself or as burial gifts) and those dated conclusively to the early Arab period, when grave robbers sought treasures and vandalized the site. However, among the few objects discovered there that belong to the first group were objects dated conclusively to the Byzantine period. This conclusion takes on additional importance in light of new excavations throughout Galilee, where similar objects were found that were clearly dated to the Byzantine period. For example, the group of oil lamps from Beth Sheʿarim having a piriform body and stamped decoration belongs to a larger group known as “the Northern Stamped Oil Lamp,” dating from the fourth to seventh centuries. 60 Also among the glassware discovered in Beth Sheʿarim are forms that appeared primarily in the Byzantine period. 61 For example, bottles with a wide body and broad shoulder (Cat. nos. 32–34), lamps with handles that served as suspension loops (Cat. nos. 40–41), or lamps with a beaded solid stem (Cat. nos. 42–44) are dated in Beth Sheʿarim prior to 352 c.e. but, nevertheless, usually characterize Byzantine wares. 62 Mazar and Avigad’s finds from the Beth Sheʿarim excavations led them to conclude that the town was significantly damaged in the mid-fourth century. A hoard containing 1,200 bronze coins discovered in the burnt level of Room 8 in Building B, located northwest of the synagogue in Beth Sheʿarim, contained, according to Mazar, coins “starting in the time of Constantine the Great (306–337 ) and ending with Constantius II (337–361 ),” and, as a result, he maintained that the destruction was a direct outcome of the Gallus Revolt. 63 A renewed examination of half of the hoard by Gabriela Bijovsky informs us that it also contained later coins, such as those dating to the end of the fourth and the beginning of the fifth centuries. 64 This evidence challenges the excavators’ conclusions and joins the many and varied finds over the years from Beth Sheʿarim that attest not only to the continuity of the town’s settlement in the Byzantine period but also to the economic flourish and prosperity at this time. The various finds attesting to the continuity of Beth She’arim have been surveyed and updated comprehensively by Fanny Vitto, who lists the remains from the Byzantine period—diverse ceramic wares, including imported fine ware; 59. Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:68–69; and Dan Barag, “Glass Vessels,” in Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3: nos. 22, 32–34, and 42. 60. Varda Sussman, “Northern Stamped Oil Lamps and Their Typology,” Michmanim 4 (1989): 23–58; E. J. Stern, “Burial Caves at Kisra,” 118–21. 61.  Barag, “Glass Vessels,” 198–209, esp. fig. 98 and the related discussion. 62.  See, for example, ibid., nos. 40–44; and cf. Shulamit Hadad, “Glass Lamps from the Byzantine through Mamluk Periods at Bet Shean, Israel,” Journal of Glass Studies 40 (1998): 63– 76; Yael Gorin-Rosen, “The Glass Vessels from Khirbet Tabaliya,” ʿAtiqot 40 (2000), 88*–92* [Hebrew]. 63. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:18–19; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:3. 64.  Gabriela Bijovsky, “Numismatic Evidence for the Gallus Revolt: The Hoard from Lod,” IEJ 57 (2007): 187–203.

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evidence of glassware production in Byzantine Beth Sheʿarim; and an impressive repertoire of glasswares discovered at the site. 65 These finds attest not only to the economic flourishing of Beth Sheʿarim in the Byzantine period but also to the wide commercial ties with other locales, both in the immediate vicinity and in more distant places. Furthermore, several colorful mosaics with geometric patterns uncovered in two of the dwellings in Beth Sheʿarim also appear in one of the dwellings in Sepphoris dated to the early fifth century. The appearance of identical patterns in both places may suggest that a mosaic artist, in all probability from Sepphoris, traveled to Beth Sheʿarim to decorate the dwellings there with patterns used in the big city. 66 Even if there is no decisive evidence to corroborate this theory, the social, economic, and cultural ties between Sepphoris and Beth Sheʿarim were maintained also in the Byzantine period, when the latter continued to thrive. 67 Finally, the broader significance that the excavators of Beth Sheʿarim placed on the Gallus Revolt and the destruction of the town in Galilee in its aftermath should be questioned. 68 Today, in light of historical research and the archaeological excavations in Galilee, especially in Sepphoris where the revolt erupted, one does not speak of the destruction of Jewish towns in Galilee as a result of the suppression of the revolt but of partial damage from the earthquake of 363 and continuity followed by recovery through rebuilding. 69 Moreover, the silence of the talmudic sources regarding the revolt, the fact that sages such as Rabbi Jonah, Rabbi Yose, and Rabbi Mana were ordered to give supplies to the Roman army on the Sabbath and even met with the military commander Ursicinus in Antioch, 70 as well as the information about the ongoing activity of the Patriarchate in the course of the fourth century lead us to conclude that this revolt was rather limited in scope and that the damage it incurred on the Jewish populace was not very great. 71 65.  Fanny Vitto, “Byzantine Mosaics at Beth Sheʿarim: New Evidence for the History of the Site,” ʿAtiqot 28 (1996): 115–46, esp. pp. 136–41. 66.  Zeev Weiss, “Mosaic Art in Early Fifth-Century ce Sepphoris: Iconography, Style, and the Possible Identification of a Local Workshop,” in La mosaïque gréco-romaine, vol. 10 (Conimbriga, in press). 67.  Yehudah Neeman, “Sepphoris and Beth Sheʿarim: The Extent of the Relationship between Them,” Sinai 103 (1989): 100–107 [Hebrew]. 68. Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim, 1:18–19; Avigad, Beth Sheʿarim, 3:3. 69.  Saul Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries,” JQR 36 (1946): 336–41; Joseph Geiger, “The Gallus Revolt and the Episode of the Rebuilding of the Temple by Julian,” in Eretz Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest (ed. Z. Baras et al.; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1982), 202–8 [Hebrew]; Menachem Mor, “The Events of 351–352 in Palestine: The Last Revolt against Rome? ” in The Eastern Frontier of the Roman Empire: Proceedings of a Colloquium Held at Ankara in September 1988 (BAR Int. Series 553; 2 vols.; ed. D. H. French; Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, 1989), 2:335–53; Günter Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land: Palestine in the Fourth Century (trans. R. Tuschling; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2000), 161–84. 70.  Y. Ber. 5.1, 9a; y. Šeb. 4.2, 35a; and cf. y. Sanh. 3.3, 21b. 71. Stemberger, Jews and Christians, 181–84. On the patriarchal house from the fourth century until its abolition in 429, see Michael Avi-Yonah, The Jews of Palestine: A Political History

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The literary sources highlight Sepphoris’s role; it is there that the revolt broke out in 351 , and it is there that it was quashed shortly afterward. The Christian sources describe the events many years later, specifying that the city was razed to the ground with the suppression of the revolt. The credibility of the Christian sources is suspect of bias in their attitude toward the Jews. No less important is the fact that the excavations conducted in Sepphoris since 1985 yielded no evidence of a fire-related destruction that can be attributed with certainty to the suppression of the revolt in 352, thereby confirming that it was only a marginal event having minimally damaging effects on the inhabitants. Sepphoris, as it emerges from recent excavations, sustained damage in the mid-fourth century that was most likely incurred by the earthquake of 363 c.e. The city recovered from the earthquake, expanded its size in the course of the early Byzantine period, and even experienced an extensive building spurt and a flourishing revival. 72 Various buildings for public and private use were constructed in Byzantine Sepphoris, including notably two synagogues dating to the early fifth century and possibly a third. 73 The existence of these synagogues in early fifth-century Sepphoris clearly indicates that the Jewish community was dispersed throughout the city at this time and probably succeeded in wielding political and socioeconomic power. The finds from the Sepphoris excavations clearly indicate that the city was not destroyed at all following the Gallus Revolt and that the Jewish community there continued to flourish after the mid-fourth century as well. What is true with regard to Sepphoris, which is mentioned in the literary sources describing the revolt and its suppression, certainly also applies to Beth Sheʿarim, which is not listed among the places that rebelled against Rome or were destroyed (to some degree) by the suppresfrom the Bar Kokhba War to the Arab Period (New York: Schocken, 1976), 225–29; Yaron Dan, “Leadership of the Jewish Community in Eretz Israel during the Fifth and Sixth Centuries,” in Nation and History: Studies in the History of the Jewish People (ed. M. Stern; Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1983), 211–14 [Hebrew]; Oded Irshai, “The Byzantine Period,” in Israel, People, Land, State: A Nation and Its Homeland (ed. A. Shinan; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2005), 111–14. 72.  For further discussion of the archaeological remains at Sepphoris, see Ehud Netzer and Zeev Weiss, Zippori (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1994); eadem, “The Hebrew University Excavations at Sepphoris,” Qadmoniot 113 (1997): 2–21 [Hebrew]; Eric M. Meyers, “Roman Sepphoris in Light of New Archaeological Evidence and Recent Research,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 321–38; Rebecca Martin Nagy et al., eds., Sepphoris in Galilee: Crosscurrents of Culture (Raleigh: North Carolina Museum of Art, 1996); Zeev Weiss and Ehud Netzer, “Architectural Development of Sepphoris during the Roman and Byzantine Periods,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough; South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 143; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 117–30. 73.  Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005), 2–3; R. P. Prosper Viaud, Nazareth et ses deux églises de l’Annonciation et de Saint-Joseph d’après les fouilles récentes (Paris: Picard, 1910), 179–84.

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sion of the revolt. In light of the above, we may conclude that Beth Sheʿarim was not destroyed at all with the suppression of the revolt; even were we to accept the data attesting to the possible damage of a town in the mid-fourth century, we may assume that it was the result of the 363 c.e. earthquake that hit many places throughout Palestine. Beth Sheʿarim, like Sepphoris, was renovated and restored to its former state. Dwellings that were decorated with mosaics as well as the rest of the finds from the Byzantine period discovered in the town of Beth Sheʿarim undoubtedly reinforce this conclusion. What holds true for the town also holds true for the necropolis, which also continued to exist in this later period.

Summary The Beth Sheʿarim necropolis holds a central place in the study of Jewish society in late antiquity. The uniqueness of this necropolis is in the number of graves, their variety, and the quality of the finds, which include many burial inscriptions in Aramaic and Greek, as well as artistic portrayals in stone and in relief. This rich inventory enables us to sketch in broader lines the burial customs of the Jews in this period and the scope of influence that the surrounding world had on them. 74 The suggestion posed in this article, according to which the choice of a specific type of grave in Beth Sheʿarim was determined by the socioeconomic status of the deceased or his family offers an opportunity to look at the social stratification of the Jews in late antiquity from a different perspective. The variety of graves and the basic structure of the necropolis were determined in the days of Rabbi Judah I or immediately after his death, and it actively functioned as the burial estate for the patriarchal family and its close circles at least until the abolition of the Patriarchate in 429 c.e. The imperial legislation at that time damaged the political standing of the patriarchal family but did not impose policy upon its property or land, allowing one to assume that the patriarchal family as well as others who chose to be buried in Beth Sheʿarim continued to maintain their burial estates and bury their dead there even after the Patriarchate ceased to exist. Nevertheless, it is difficult to determine when exactly burial at Beth Sheʿarim came to an end; it seems that this was not a single event but was a gradual process that terminated sometime at the end of the Byzantine period. It is also clear that, in the early Arab period, when grave robbers had penetrated the necropolis, there was already no one to supervise the patriarchal cemetery, guard its treasures, or prevent destruction. 74.  On the extent of foreign influences on Jewish burial in late antiquity, see my “Hellenistic Influences on Jewish Burial Customs in the Galilee during the Mishnaic and Talmudic Period,” ErIsr 25 (Aviram Volume; 1996), 356–64 [Hebrew].

Abbaye’s Family Origins: A Study in Rabbinic Genealogy Aaron Demsky Bar-Ilan University

  ‫ׁשלָל ָרב‬ ָ ‫ַל־א ְמָר ֶתךָ ְּכמוֹצֵא‬ ִ ‫—ׂשׂש ָאנ ִֹכי ע‬Ps ָ 119:162

It is a pleasure to take part in this book honoring Lee Levine. A jubilee is literally a celebration of 50 years. Our friendship exceeds that figure, going back to 1956, when we began our undergraduate studies in Bible and Talmud at JTS. I have enjoyed following Lee’s contribution to scholarship in understanding the Jewish presence in Galilee and in Caesarea, as well as learning from him about the ancient synagogues and the world of the rabbis. We share like interests in onomastics, especially the toponymy of ancient Israel. Not only in his scholarly research but in his communal work, especially in Jewish education, he and Mira—‫—אשת חבר כחבר‬have dedicated themselves to bridging the gap between Israel and the Diaspora, emphasizing the best aspects of both. This short essay will attempt to touch upon some of these areas of Lee’s interest. Abbaye is one of the most prominent of the Babylonian amoraim. 1 He and his colleague Rava (R. Abba b. Joseph b. Hama; b. ʿErub. 54a) of Mehoza were instrumental in shaping the Talmud Bavli. Their discussions are summarized in the phrase: havayot diAbbaye va-Rava (b. Sukkah 28a). For those of us interested in genealogy and family history, Abbaye’s family is of particular interest, for there are biographical details about them scattered throughout rabbinic literature. His father’s name was ‫( כייליל‬Kaylel), with the possible meaning ‘small crown’ or ‘wholeness’. 2 He died young while his wife was pregnant. Abbaye’s 1.  For a summary of his life and works, see A. Haiman, Toldot Tannaim veAmoraim (Jerusalem, 1954), 74–87; M. Margolioth, Encyclopedia of Talmudic and Geonic Literature (Tel Aviv, 1960), vol. 1, cols. 33–37 [Hebrew]; E. E. Urbach, “Abbaye,” EncJud vol. 1, cols. 44–45. 2.  See the early Second Temple name ‫( כלל‬Ezra 10:30 and LXX: Χαληλ).

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mother passed away in childbirth (b. Zebaḥ. 118b; Qidd. 31b). Abbaye was raised by his paternal uncle and mentor, Rabbah, who was the Rosh Yeshivah of Pumbeditha, and by a wise foster-mother whom he called ʾEm and whom he often quotes with much respect (b. Ber. 33b; esp. b. Šabb. 134a, etc.). His real name was Nahmani, named for his grandfather, and he was given the nickname Abbaye ‘My (little) father’ by his uncle in order not to be disrespectful in invoking the name of the senior namesake. While the name Abbaye is borne by other Babylonian scholars, in this case, the name was explained in a late midrash as an acronym based on Hos 14:4: ‫אשר בך ירחם יתום‬. 3 Abbaye was married at least twice; his second marriage was to the beautiful Homa, who was probably much younger, for she was the great-granddaughter of his mentor Rav Yosef. Even so, this was her third marriage (b. Yebam. 64b; b. Ketub. 65a). He had children from his first marriage (b. Ber. 56a; b. Ned. 23a). The best known was Rav Bebai. 4 It is noteworthy that Abbaye was very receptive of Torat Eretz-Israel as these traditions were conveyed to Babylon by emissaries such as Rav Dimi and Rabin (Nehoutei demaʿarava). The comparison that “one of them [from Israel] is equal to two of us” is also attributed to Abbaye 5 (b. Ketub. 75a). He deferred to the western tradition in halakic matters and in customs (b. Pesaḥ. 51a). It is interesting, that he permitted the speaking of Hebrew even for secular conversation (b. Šabb. 40b). Even from afar, he displays knowledge and interest in Israel’s geography, 6 as seen from his determining that the Spring of ʿEitam was 23 amot higher than its destination in Jerusalem (b. Yoma 31a), a number close to the present-day difference of 30 meters in altitude between the lower aqueduct beginning at the Pools of Solomon (Tel ʿEitan, 765 meters) and its end on the Temple Mount (at 735 meters). 7 This pronounced tendency in Abbaye’s teachings seems to have been bolstered by identification with the Palestinian tradition. In this light, it is of interest to note that Abbaye’s uncle and mentor, Rabbah, was influenced by Rabbi Yohanan and may even have spent some time in the latter’s yeshivah in Tiberias (b. Ned. 59a; Šebu. 10b). From b. Ketub. 111a, we see that Rabbah’s brothers indeed lived in Israel, probably in Tiberias, where they were shoemakers in the local marketplace (b. Pesaḥ. 113b). They tried to encourage him to join them and make ʿaliyah (see Rashi). Who were these brothers? It seems reasonable

3.  See S. Lieberman, Mehqarim beTorat Eretz-Yisrael (Jerusalem, 1991), 558. 4. Haiman, Toldot, 265–66. A name found among the returnees to Zion: Ezra 2:11, 8:11, 10:28; Neh 10:16; see T. Ilan, Lexicon of Jewish Names in Late Antiquity, pt. 1 (Tübingen, 2002), 80. 5.  To which Rava countered, “But when one of us goes there, he equals two of them!” 6.  See his argument, based on the biblical text, against the suggestion that the Shiloh tabernacle was located in the territory of Benjamin and not in the territory of Joseph (b. Zebaḥ. 118b). 7.  See A. Mazar, “A Survey of the Aqueducts Leading to Jerusalem,” in The Aqueducts of Ancient Palestine (ed. D. Amit, Y. Hirschfeld, and J. Patrich; Jerusalem, 1989), 169–95, esp. pp. 174–​ 75 [Hebrew].

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that they were none other than Rabbi Hanina and Rabbi (H)Oshaia, the sons of Nahmani, the disciples of Rabbi Yohanan (b. Sanh. 14a). 8 A recurrent theme that binds the members of this family is their priestly lineage: descended from the line of Ithamar, particularly that of the family of Eli (b. Roš Haš. 18a). 9 This tradition was associated with the unfortunate fact that many male family members were short-lived. At least two or three of Abbaye’s closest male relatives died young: his father, Kaylel, his uncle Rabbah who, according to one tradition, died at the age of 40, and probably his grandfather Nahmani as well, though apparently not Abbaye, who lived to the age of 60. 10 This genetic characteristic of a short life span was attributed to the curse on the House of Eli and their descendants (1 Sam 2:31–33). 11 Taking all of these sources together, we can draw a family tree for this illustrious family:           Nahmani     Rav Yosef                         Rav Yizhak R. Hoshaia  R. Hanina  Rabbah   Kaylel     Rav Issi           Hiyya   Rava  First Wife = Abbaye/Nahmani = Homa                  Rav Bebai

In light of this family tradition, I would like to expand upon a difficult and seemingly pejorative phrase used by Rav Papi and by Rav Huna, son of R. Joshua, when referring to the opinions of their esteemed colleague Rav Bebai, the son of Abbaye: ?‫ אמריתו מילי מוליתא‬,‫משום דאתיתו ממולאי‬ (b. ʿErub. 25b; Yebam. 75a–76b; Ketub. 85a; B. Meṣ. 109a; B. Bat. 137b, 151a). 8. Haiman, Toldot, 116; See S. Y. Friedman, “The Spelling of the Names Rabbah and Rava in the Babylonian Talmud,” Sinai 110 (1992): 156–58 [Hebrew]. I thank Prof. Friedman for sharing his erudition and illuminating the talmudic and later sources. 9.  Immediate descendants of Eli were the priests at Nob (1 Samuel 21–22), including David’s fellow-traveler Ebiathar, the son of Ahimelech. This branch of the family took up residence in Anathoth (1 Kgs 2:26–27). More than likely, the prophet Jeremiah from Anathoth and his family were descendants of Ithamar as well. Note Jeremiah’s lament over Shiloh (Jer 7:12; also 26:6ff., 41:5), which he probably visited early in his career on a mission to the remnant of the northern tribes (3:11ff.). In Ezra’s time, there were also members of the priesthood who could say that they were descendants of Ithamar, as distinguished from the line of Eleazar/Pinhas (Ezra 8:2). 10.  ‫ אביי דעסק בתורה ובגמילות‬,‫ רבה דעסק בתורה חיה ארבעין שנין‬,‫רבה ואביי מדבית עלי קאתו‬ ‫( חסדים—חיה שיתין שנין‬b. Roš Haš. 18a). 11.  There were other amoraim of the priestly class who also had traditions that they were descendants of the family of Eli, to wit, one of several amoraim called Rav Kahana (y. Roš Haš. 2.7, 58b; y. Sanh. 1.2, 18c).

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Rashi in Ketubot makes two suggestions regarding the meaning of the word ‫ממולאי‬: )1( ‫ מולים‬is a reference to their being “cut off ” as the short-lived descendants of Eli; (2) the word is an Aramaic translation of ‫‘ גבנון‬blemished’, based on the fact that they are genetically short-lived. In both cases, the term refers to their lineage. Again in his commentary in b. Yebam. 76a, Rashi explains the word ‫ ממולאי‬from ‫ממשפחה‬ ‫אומללה‬. 12 In the light of Rashi’s approach, we could translate this statement thus: ‘Since you come from an unfortunate family, your words are impaired’. It should be noted that this well-honed statement plays on the assonance of three words, ‫מילי‬, ‫ממולאי‬, and ‫מוליתא‬, while maintaining the balance between the three-word strophe in each half, which is further strengthened by the two rhyming verbs, ‫ אמריתו‬and ‫אתיתו‬.  However, Tosephot (b. Yebam. 76a) interpret this term as the toponym Mamla, a town in Galilee. 13 R. Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) spells it out clearly from a linguistic and literary point of view in his commentary to b. B. Bat. 137b: 14 ‫ש) רבה (!) ואביי מדבית עלי קאתו ועל שם מקומן‬″‫ה (דף יח ע‬″‫ממולאי—כדאמר בר‬ ‫  ואברהם זקן עטרת‬1 ‫ט‬″‫נקראו בני עלי ממולאי כדאמר בבראשית רבה בתחלת פרשה נ‬ ‫מ אזל לממלא ראה אותם שחורי ראש אמר להם שמא ממשפחת עלי‬″‫ ר‬′‫תפארת שיבה וגו‬ ‫אתם דכתיב ביה וכל מרבית ביתך ימותו אנשים אמרו רבי התפלל עלינו אמר להם לכו‬ ‫ה (שם) אם יתכפר עון בית עלי בזבח‬″‫נ אמר בר‬″‫ וה‬′‫וטיפלו לצדקה ואתם זוכין לזקנה כו‬ .‫ח‬″‫ומנחה בזבח ומנחה הוא דאין מתכפר אבל מתכפר בתורה ובגמ‬ ‫נ‬″‫אמריתו מילי מוליאתא—דברים כרותים שאין בהם ממש לשון ימל קצירו (איוב יח) א‬ ‫כגון מוליא במוליא בחזקת הבתים (לעיל בבא בתרא דף נד) גבשושיות כלומר דברים בעלי‬ .‫מומין ועל שם מקומם מגדפם כדכתיב בתי אכזיב לאכזב ועקרון תעקר‬

In the commentaries of the Rishonim, this illuminating connection between the words of the Babylonian amoraim and a Galilean toponym is attributed to Rabbeinu 12.  M. Jastrow, Dictionary of the Targumim, Talmud Babli, Yerushalmi and Midrashic Literature (New York, 1950) 2:794: “frail, short-lived people . . . frail words (untenable arguments) . . . because you are frail, you speak frail words.” But see M. Sokoloff (A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic [Baltimore, 2002], 647), who conjectures that ‫ ממלואי‬is derived from ‫מעולי > ממולאה‬, i.e., ‘excellent’, ‘important’, so that we read: ‘because you are from high places, you say excellent matters’.

13.  This possibility is mentioned in passing by Jastrow. See S. Klein (Sefer Hayishuv [Jerusalem, 1978], 105), who notes the form ‫ ממלח‬in the baraita of the priestly courses and in the midrashic references to R. Yosi Mamlaḥaya. He identifies the site as the Lower Galilee Kh. Ma­ melia, northwest of Migdal on the Kinneret. However, Klein did not make the association with the above statement about R. Bebai’s ancestry. 14.  Actually, if we want to be more precise, the text should have read ‫מממלואי‬, that is, with three mems! See the spelling in the Shittah Mekubbetzet below. However in cases like these, the preposition probably assimilated to the same letter in the root. For a biblical example, see Zech 8:14; A. Demsky, “The Temple Steward Josiah ben Zephaniah,” IEJ 31 (1981): 102. 15. Theodor-Albeck, Bereschit Rabba (Jerusalem, 1965), 630–31. Cf. Mahzor Vitri 296 for a variant tradition.

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239

Hananel. See the ʿArukh ‫ ;ממלא‬16 Shiṭṭah Mekubbetzet, b. B. Meṣiʿa 109a; and Tosephot HaRosh, b. B. Meṣiʿa 109a: ‫רבנו חננאל גריס דאתון ממלואי ועל שם מקומם הוא קורא אותם‬

This observation opens up a door for the genealogist as well as the historian. If we go one step farther and look at the priestly courses in the traditions found in the piyyutim of Rabbi Pinhas HaKohen and Rabbi Eleazar HaQallir, enhanced by the epigraphic evidence of synagogue inscriptions, one of which is from Caesarea, 17 we see that the priestly family of Hezir 18 lived in the town of ‫ממל(י)ח‬. In the Galilean dialect, the ḥet was pronounced like an ʾalep, giving the form ‫ממל(י)א‬, which in the Babylonian tradition became ‫ממלואי‬. 19 We know some things about this family prior to the destruction of the Temple. They probably lived in or around Jerusalem 20 because the family’s burial monument, which was strongly influenced by Hellenistic design, was located in the Kidron Valley near the Tomb of Zechariah and Yad Avshalom. 21 The Hebrew inscription records the names of some ten members of the family. 22 Is there evidence that the Benei Hezir were descendants of Ithamar/Eli? Perhaps we can deduce their origin from the list of 24 families in 1 Chr 24:15 (see also Neh 10:21 for one of the signers of the Amanah in the time of Nehemiah), where we read that 16 families were of the line of Eleazar and 8 were of the line of Ithamar. 23 While the text does not identify them specifically or say that there is an appointed sequence, it is noteworthy that the family of Hezir is number 17, which may point to the possibility that the biblical list was arranged so that the last 8 families were of 16.  ʿArukh Hashalem (ed. A. Kohut, 1878–92), 164, but see also p. 142, ‫מל‬. 17.  S. Klein, Sefer Hayishuv, 162–65; idem, The Land of the Galilee (2nd ed.; Jerusalem, 1967), 63; T. Kahane, “The Priests according to Their Courses and the Towns of Settlement,” reprinted in J. Naveh (ed.), Liqqutei Tarbiz 2 (1981): 296–316 [Hebrew]. For an early literary fragment, see y.Taʿan. 4.6, 68d. J. Naveh, On Stone and Mosaic: The Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Synagogues (Jerusalem, 1978), 87–89, 91, 142–43. 18.  See S. E. Loewenstamm, who suggested that the name may be related to the Ugaritic term bn. ḫnzr, a kind of artisan, and is not related to the impure animal (EncBib 3, cols. 94–95 [Hebrew]. 19.  On the Galilean pronunciation and the venerability of the gutturals, particularly in regard to this place-name, see E. Y. Kutscher, Studies in Galilean Aramaic (trans. M. Sokoloff; Ramat Gan, 1976), 87–89. 20.  Note the similar story of the anonymous Jerusalemite family who also suffered from a short life-span and who came before R. Yohanan b. Zakkai (b. Roš Haš. 18a). 21.  L. I. Levine, “Second Temple Jerusalem: A Jewish City in the Greco–Roman Orbit,” in Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity and Islam (ed. L. I. Levine; New York, 1999), 53–68, esp. p. 58; D. Barag, “The 2000–2001 Exploration of the Tombs of Benei Hezir and Zechariah,” IEJ 53 (2003): 78–95. 22.  Ibid., 92–95, 99. 23.  See Y. Liver, Chapters in the History of the Priests and Levites (Jerusalem, 1968), 33–52 [Hebrew].

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the branch of Ithamar. 24 In any case, if indeed Abbaye’s family stems from Mamlaḥ in the Galilee, then he was probably a descendant of the priestly Benei Hezir clan who lived in Jerusalem prior to 70 c.e. In tracing the family origins of Abbaye, we have traveled from Pumbeditha in Babylon to Mamlaḥ in Galilee and then back to Jerusalem. It is not only amazing that Abbaye’s family kept their tradition and oral history, and perhaps continued to live in the area, but also others such as Rav Papi and Rav Huna, son of Joshua, were wont to remind them of their Galilean origins. Postscript: In these days of testing the DNA of Kohanic and Levitic families, 25 perhaps one could trace the DNA of this line of the sons of Aaron. It is noteworthy that the Tawil family of Aleppo and Egypt, in explaining their surname, claim to be descendants of Eli, an oral tradition remembered when they receive a congregational blessing (misheberakh) after reading the Torah; they are greeted by their fellowcongregants with the Arabic blessing ṭawil ʿamrak ‘May your life be long’. 26 24.  However, playing on the name Bene Hezir, Zeʿeri in the name of Rav Huna says, ‫חזר‬ ‫המחזור לאלעזר‬, thereby suggesting that the first 8 priestly families stem from Eleazar, followed by the next 8 from Ithamar, and the last 8 are from Eleazar (y. Taʿan. 4.2, 68a). 25. For a handy introduction to the study of Jewish DNA analysis, see D. Behar and K. Skorecki, “Jewish Genetic Ancestry,” EncJud (2nd ed.), 7:450–58, esp. pp. 453–55. 26.  I thank Rabbi Refael Tawil of Alon Shvut for this information.

The Miracle of the Septuagint in Ancient Rabbinic and Christian Literature Richard Kalmin Jewish Theological Seminary, New York

In recent research, I attempted to document a significant change in rabbinic literature and society during the mid-fourth century c.e., a time when traditions and modes of behavior amply documented in pre-fourth-century Palestine are attributed to Babylonian rabbis, often for the first time. One striking illustration of this phenomenon was my conclusion that some culturally significant traditions from Josephus, or from a source drawn upon independently by Josephus and the rabbis, were known to Babylonian rabbis who flourished in the mid-fourth century, resulting in a dramatic shift in Babylonian rabbinic portrayals of important figures from the distant past. The Josephan or Josephus-like material in the Bavli forms part of a larger picture pointing to the mid-fourth century as a time when rabbinic Babylonia is particularly receptive to Palestinian literature and modes of behavior. The fact that Palestinian literary motifs and modes of behavior manifest themselves in mid-fourth-century (and later) Babylonia may constitute the literary record of a process set in motion or, to be more precise, accelerated in the mid-third century, when King Shapur I of Persia transplanted thousands of inhabitants of the eastern Roman Empire and settled them in Mesopotamia, eastern Syria, and western Persia. The ensuing discussion attempts to buttress these conclusions by focusing in detail on several traditions, most of them clearly of nonrabbinic origin, which are first attested in the Bavli by rabbis of the mid-fourth century and later. We find further proof, therefore, that the mid-fourth century is a watershed in Babylonian Jewish history and in the history of the entire region, notably eastern Syria, western Persia, and Mesopotamia, affecting Jew and non-Jew alike. Parallels between traditions in the Bavli and in literature deriving from the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire support my theory that rabbinic Babylonia was part of the Mediterranean world in late 241

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antiquity, and/or that Palestine and other provinces of the eastern Roman Empire were part of a shared elite culture emerging in late antique Syria and Mesopotamia. A sugya in b. Meg. 8a–9a together with its Jewish and non-Jewish parallels will illustrate these claims. The sugya opens with a baraita quoted in contradiction to the Mishnah. According to the Mishnah, Torah scrolls can be written in any language, while according to the baraita, a Torah scroll must be written in the Hebrew language and in Hebrew script. 1 Several responses to the contradiction follow, but the one of interest to me here is that of Rav Ashi, a late fourth-, early fifth-century Babylonian rabbi, according to which the baraita that requires Hebrew refers to books of the Bible other than the five books of Moses, “and [the baraita] follows the opinion of R. Judah.” 2 The statement alluded to by Rav Ashi reads as follows: “Said R. Judah, ‘Even when our rabbis permitted Greek, they only permitted it in the case of a Torah scroll, because of the case involving Ptolemy the king.’” 3 Rav Ashi proceeds to quote still another baraita, 4 which tells the story of King Ptolemy, as follows:   (A) As it is taught [in a baraita]: 5 It happened that Ptolemy the king gathered 72 elders and put them in 72 houses but did not reveal to them why he gathered them. 1.  The term used in the Mishnah is Ashurit, that is, “modern” as opposed to Paleo-Hebrew, referred to by the ancient rabbis as Ivrit. 2. Ms Göttingen 3 reads “Rabbah” instead of “Rav Ashi,” but mss Vatican 134, Oxford Opp. Add. Fol. 233, Columbia X 893 T 141, Munich 95, Munich 140, London-BL Harl. 5508 (400), and Cambridge-T-S F2 (2) 73 all read “Rav Ashi.” The name “Rabbah” is conventionally understood as referring to the late third- or early fourth-century Pumbeditan older colleague of Rav Yosef and teacher of Abbaye. Regarding the difficulty of distinguishing between “Rabbah” and “Rava” (the mid-fourth-century Mahozan colleague of Abbaye), see Shamma Friedman, “Ketiv ha-Shemot ‘Rabbah’ ve‘Rava’ ba-Talmud ha-Bavli,” Sinai 55 (1992): 140–64; and my Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia (BJS 300; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 175–92. In the case before us, the name “Rabbah” most likely refers to the mid-fourth-century Mahozan, because his comment is placed after that of the late third- or early fourth-century Pumbeditan teacher of Abbaye (see b. Meg. 8b–9a), to whom Abbaye responds with an objection. Even according to the reading of ms Göttingen 3, therefore, the chronological picture does not change significantly. 3.  Before the statement by R. Judah, tannaitic material that provides the context for his statement is quoted and is interrupted several times by anonymous editorial objections and responses. The substance of the opinion of R. Judah, however, is not affected by this anonymous give and take. It is conceivable that the words concluding Rav Ashi’s statement, “and [the ba­ raita] follows the opinion of R. Judah,” are an interpolation by anonymous editors who postdate Rav Ashi, but since in either case the “western” material in question is attested later than the mid-fourth century, this possibility has no effect on my argument. To simplify the discussion, I proceed as if Rav Ashi definitely authored the entire statement. 4.  Once again, it is conceivable that anonymous editors based on Rav Ashi are quoting the baraita and, once again, this possibility has no effect on my argument. 5.  De-Tanya in Aramaic. Mss Oxford and BL Harl. 5508 (400) preface this word with the question, “What is it? ” If this reading is correct, then the anonymous editors are apparently quoting the tradition alluded to by Rav Ashi. Ms Munich 140 reads in the margin, “The case of Ptolemy, what is it? ” The body of the text then reads, “It is taught” (Tanya) instead of “As it is

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  He went to each one of them and said to them, “Write for me the Torah of Moses your rabbi.”   God put counsel into the mind of each of them and all of them agreed.   (B) And they wrote to him, “God created in the beginning” (see Gen 1:1); “I will make a man in the image and in the likeness” (see Gen 1:26); “And He ceased on the sixth day and rested on the seventh day” (see Gen 2:2); “Male and female He created him,” but they did not write “He created them” (see Gen 5:2); “I will go down and mix up their languages” (see Gen 11:7); “And Sarah laughed to those close to her” (see Gen 18:12); “For when angry they slay an ox, and when pleased they uproot a crib” (see Gen 49:6); “And Moses took his wife and his sons and rode them on an animal that carries people” (see Exod 4:20); “And the people Israel dwelled in Egypt and in other lands for 430 years” 6 (see Exod 12:40); “And he sent the chosen ones 7 of the Israelites” (see Exod 24:5); “And He did not send forth His hand on the chosen ones 8 of the Israelites” (see Exod 24:11); “I did not take a beloved object of any one of you” (see Num 16:15); “That the Lord your God apportioned to give light to all of the nations” (see Deut 4:19); “And go and worship other gods that I did not command to worship” (see Deut 17:3); and they wrote to him, “And hairy legs,” 9 and they did not write to him “And the arnevet” (see Lev 11:6 and Deut 14:7), since Ptolemy’s wife’s name was Arnevet, so that he would not say, “The Jews are mocking me by placing the name of my wife in the Torah.” 10 taught [in a baraita]” (De-Tanya), which is found in most versions. According to the reading of ms Munich 140 as well, Rav Ashi alludes to but does not quote the baraita that tells the story of King Ptolemy. Ms Vatican 134, however, does not read “As it is taught [in a baraita]” but instead reads, “because of the case involving Ptolemy the king, who gathered seventy-two . . . ,” according to which there is a smooth transition between R. Judah’s statement and the story of King Ptolemy. According to the reading of ms Vatican 134, there is no need to posit a change of speaker, and there is a greater likelihood that Rav Ashi (rather than the anonymous editors) cites the story. See the discussion below. Ms Vatican 134, however, may reflect a later editorial attempt to smooth over the rough spots in the text. 6.  The printed edition reads “400 years.” Ms BL Harl. 5508 (400), Munich 140, Munich 95, Oxford, Vatican 134, and T-S F2 (2) 73 all read “430 years.” 7.  Or “the little ones.” For these possible translations of zaʾatutei, see Emanuel Tov, “The Rabbinic Tradition concerning the ‘Alterations’ Inserted into the Greek Pentateuch and Their Relation to the Original Text of the LXX,” JSJ 15 (1984): 13–14 and 19–20. 8.  See n. 7. 9.  See Tov, ibid., 7. 10.  For earlier scholarly analysis of the rabbinic traditions about the Septuagint, see, for example, Avigdor Aptowitzer, “Die rabbinischen Berichte über die Entstehung der Septuaginta,” Ha-Kedem 2 (1908): 11–27 and 102–22; and 3 (1909): 4–17; Karlheinz Müller, “Die rabbinischen Nachrichten über die Entstehung der LXX,” in Wort, Lied und Gottesspruch: Beiträge zur Septuaginta, Festschrift für Josef Ziegler (ed. Josef Schreiner; Würzburg, 1972), 1:527–36; Tov, “The Rabbinic Tradition,” 65–89 (a revised version appeared in idem, The Greek and Hebrew Bible: Collected Essays on the Septuagint [Leiden: Brill, 1999], 1–20); idem, “Review of G. Veltri, Eine Tora für den König Talmai,” Scripta Classica Israelica 14 (1995): 178–83; Itamar Gruenwald, “HaPolmos be-Inyan Targum ha-Torah le-Yevanit,” in Teʾudah, vol. 4, Mehkarim le-Madaʾei ha-Yahadut (ed. Mordechai Friedman and Moshe Gil; Tel Aviv: University of Tel Aviv, 1986), 65–78; Abraham Wasserstein, “On Donkeys, Wine and the Uses of Textual Criticism: Septuagintal Variants

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I have divided the Ptolemy baraita into two parts (A and B), since only part A is without parallel in Palestinian rabbinic compilations but has close parallels in Jewish Hellenistic and Christian sources. 11 It is likely, therefore, that this tannaitic statement is a combination of originally independent traditions, one of which (part B) was a list of passages purportedly sent to Ptolemy that depart from the Hebrew text of the Pentateuch. The Jewish “elders” sent these passages to Ptolemy to prevent the king from taking offense at or forming mistaken impressions about the beliefs of the Jews. 12 The second originally independent tradition constituting the baraita (part A) was apparently a story depicting the translation of the Torah of Moses into Greek as having been aided by divine inspiration (but see below). The fact that the Bavli’s account consists entirely of striking motifs found in texts composed in Alexandria and elsewhere in the eastern (and, in the case of Irenaeus, western) Roman provincial world makes it almost certain that the account reached Babylonia from the Roman Empire. 13 The Ptolemy baraita provides another example of a tradition from the eastern Roman provinces attested in the Bavli, introduced into the discussion by a rabbi (in this instance, Rav Ashi) of the mid-fourth century or later. 14

in Jewish Palestine,” in The Jews in the Hellenistic-Roman World: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern (ed. Isaiah M. Gafni et al.; Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1996), 119–41 (= Ha-Yehudim ba-Olam ha-Hellenisti ve-ha-Romi: Mehkarim le-Zikhro shel Menahem Stern); Giu­seppe Veltri, Eine Tora für den König Talmai: Untersuchungen zum Übersetzungsverständnis in der jüdisch-hellenistischen und rabbinischen Literatur (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994); idem, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts: The Septuagint, Aquila and Ben Sira in the Jewish and Christian Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 2006); and Abraham Wasserstein and David J. Wasserstein, The Legend of the Septuagint: From Classical Antiquity to Today (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 51–94. 11.  For parallels to part B in Palestinian rabbinic compilations, see Mekilta Bo, Pisha, Parashah 14 (ed. Jacob Z. Lauterbach, 1933–35; repr. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1976), 111–12; ed. Haim Shaul Horowitz and Yisrael Avraham Rabin (1931; repr. Jerusalem: Wahr­ mann, 1960), 50–51; and y. Meg. 1.8, 71d. For a discussion of Jerome’s attestation of the tradition in Quaestiones hebraica in Genesim, see Veltri, Eine Tora, 168. Not surprisingly, the parallel versions of part B in the Mekilta, Yerushalmi, and Bavli are not identical, but they are easily recognizable as different versions of the same tradition. For an account of the differences, see Veltri, ibid., 22–112. Veltri greatly exaggerates the extent to which manuscript variants destabilize the tradition. He clouds the waters by treating versions and variants of the traditions found in posttalmudic compilations such as Tanḥuma, Midraš ha-Gadol, and the like. If we restrict ourselves to ancient versions of the tradition—that is, to the Mekilta, the Yerushalmi, and the Bavli—the chaos documented by Veltri is substantially reduced, and the variants reduce themselves to matters of detail. 12.  As documented by Veltri (ibid.), part B itself is probably an amalgam of originally independent traditions, but since my interest in this discussion is in part A, a source-critical analysis of part B is outside the purview of this study. 13.  Compare Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 89–94. 14.  I have expressed my opinions in numerous publications regarding the possibility of false attribution in ancient rabbinic texts, and I see no need to repeat these arguments here. See, for

The Miracle of the Septuagint

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As far as I have been able to ascertain, the earliest attestation of the legend of the Septuagint in Syriac Christian sources dates from the latter half of the sixth century c.e. It is found in an ecclesiastical history attributed to Zachariah of Mitylene, but most of the work was composed by an anonymous monk of Amid, in Mesopotamia, who finished his work in 569, and who also drew from other sources. 15 This account was composed by someone living geographically near the Babylonian rabbis, but it contains no mention of the miraculous elements found in the rabbinic account. The earliest version of the miracle story in this part of the world is a version in Georgian of Epiphanius’s de Mensuris, which many date to the seventh century and may have an even earlier background. Epiphanius’s version of the story also survives in an Armenian version, although the Georgian version appears to be earlier. 16 Traces of the miracle story are also found in the Syriac writer Moses bar Kepha (ca. 815–903 c.e.), bishop of Mosul in Mesopotamia. He describes King Ptolemy’s commissioning of a translation of the Hebrew Bible into Greek and continues: “He assigned each of them a separate cell to live in, in order to see whether they agreed with each other or not [in their translations]. And it turned out that all of them agreed with each other exactly.” Wasserstein and Wasserstein observe that “this is not Epiphanius’s division of the translators into thirty-six pairs [see below—R. K.], each pair working together as a team, but separation of all seventy translators each one on his own. This is the version of the miracle story which we find in Ps.-Justin,” 17 one of the earliest Christian versions of the legend (see below). What are the western antecedents of part A? 18 The tradition has a close parallel in Philo, who wrote in Alexandria in the first half of the first century c.e. 19 The rabbis of the Bavli probably knew the tradition from any one of a number of western sources dependent on Philo, several of which will be examined in detail in the ensuing discussion. Philo’s account is as follows: example, my Jewish Babylonia between Persia and Roman Palestine (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 10–11 and 194–95. 15.  For Amid, see F. J. Hamilton and E. W. Brooks, trans., The Syrian Chronicle Known as That of Zachariah of Mitylene (London: Methuen, 1899), 325. See Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 132–34. For Amid’s other sources, see also Pauline Allen, “Zachariah Scholasticus and the Historia Ecclesiastica of Evagrius Scholasticus,” JTS 31 (1980): 472. 16.  Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 134–35. 17.  Ibid., 137. See also p. 138. 18.  See Veltri (Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 31 n. 12) for references to collections of ancient accounts of the Septuagint legend. See also pp. 32–77 and 100–146. Wasserstein and Wasserstein (Legend of the Septuagint, 63–65) believe that the Bavli’s account derives from Aristeas, but their arguments are unconvincing. 19. See Philo, De Vita Mosis 2.36–40, translation adapted from Colson by Jennifer M. Dines, The Septuagint (London: T. & T. Clark, 2004), 67. See also pp. 67–69 for commentary; and Mögens Müller, The First Bible of the Church: A Plea for the Septuagint (JSOTSup 206; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 61–64; Moses Hadas, ed. and trans., Aristeas to Philocrates: Letter of Aristeas (New York: Harper, 1951), 73; Veltri, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 37–40; and Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 35–45.

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Richard Kalmin Judging [the island of Pharos] to be the most suitable place in the district, where they might find peace and tranquility and the soul could commune with the laws with none to disturb its privacy, they fixed their abode there; and, taking the sacred books, stretched them out towards heaven with the hands that held them, asking of God that they might not fail in their purpose. And He assented to their prayers. . . . Sitting here in seclusion, with none present save the elements of nature—earth, water, air, heaven—of whose genesis they were about to give the first sacred exposition—for the laws begin with the story of the world’s creation—[and] as if divinely possessed, they proclaimed [lit., “prophesied”], 20 not some one thing and some another, but all of them identical words and phrases, as though a prompter was calling out to each one individually without being seen. . . . If Chaldeans [i.e., Hebrew speakers] have learned Greek, or Greeks Chaldean, and read both versions, the Chaldean and the translation, they regard them with awe and reverence as sisters, or rather one and the same, both in matter and words, and speak of the authors not as translators but as prophets and priests of the mysteries, whose sincerity and singleness of thought has enabled them to go hand in hand with the purest of spirits, the spirit of Moses.

While the wording of the Bavli’s account is unmistakably different from that of Philo, the ideas are very similar. Like Philo, the Bavli unambiguously speaks of the divinely inspired agreement between the translators, 21 unlike the Letter of Aristeas, which describes the elders as conferring with one another to reach agreement. 22 20. Dines, The Septuagint, 67. 21.  Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 44; however, note that Philo does not explicitly say that the elders produced identical translations of the same material. Rather, he may be saying that they rendered the same Hebrew words and phrases with identical Greek equivalents. Nevertheless, already in Philo the translation partakes of the miraculous and is in part the product of divine intervention. 22.  The Letter of Aristeas, apparently composed by an Alexandrian Jew in the second century b.c.e., is the earliest extant account of the translation of the Pentateuch into Greek. See also Aristobulus, quoted in Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 12.12.2. For bibliographical references on the Letter of Aristeas, see Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 47, and the references cited in n. 4; Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 b.c.–a.d. 135) (rev. and ed. Geza Vermes et al.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1986), 3/1:677–87; Elias J. Bickerman, “Zur Datierung des Pseudo-Aristeas,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 20 (1930): 280–98 (reprinted, in revised form, in idem, Studies in Jewish and Christian History (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 1:109–36; Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, 3–59; Emanuel Tov, “The Septuagint,” in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. Martin J. Mulder; Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum, sec. 2; The Literature of the Jewish People in the Period of the Second Temple and the Talmud 1; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990), 164; and Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 19–26. Compare Erich Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 210–11. For the relationship between the accounts in Philo and Aristeas, see, for example, Sidney Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 39–41; and Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 61; Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, 21–26; Robert Hanhart, “Fragen um die Entstehung der LXX,” VT 12 (1962): 145–47. Aristeas 307 hints that God may have played a role in the translation: “The outcome was such that in

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The Bavli briefly but unambiguously describes God’s direct intervention, and Philo clearly implies the same. Philo, unlike the Bavli, does not specify the number of translators, but other western versions claim, like the Bavli, that the translation was carried out by 72 men. 23 Significantly, however, the earliest Jewish witnesses to the tradition­—Aristeas, Philo, and Josephus—mention the role of the king in initiating the translation, 24 but they omit the detail of the enforced separation of the translators. On the one hand, Philo’s emphasis on the translators’ independently arriving at the exact same words by means of divine inspiration could have led to the motif of forced separation in different houses or rooms found in the Bavli and in Christian literature from the Roman Empire beginning in the third century; on the other hand, the motif is so odd that it is unlikely to have arisen independently. 25 It is likely that the Bavli and Christian literature drew the tradition from a common source deriving from the eastern Roman provinces or that Christian literature is the source of the Bavli’s tradition, although certainty escapes us at present. 26 Irenaeus, bishop of Lyons in Gaul and apparently a native of Asia Minor, 27 who flourished in the third quarter of the second century, is the earliest Christian author to preserve most of the elements found in the Bavli’s account. According to Irenaeus, Ptolemy separated the 70 translators to prevent collusion between them; like Philo, however, Irenaeus makes no mention of the king’s providing private dwellings for the translators. Irenaeus puts these motifs to Christian use, arguing for the Septuagint’s seventy-two days the business of translation was completed, just as if such a result was achieved by some deliberate design.” 23.  Josephus’s account vacillates between 70 and 72 translators. This inconsistency may not be significant, however, since the numbers in Josephus are probably modeled on the biblical account of the 70 elders who, together with Moses and Aaron, ascended Mount Sinai and beheld a vision of God just prior to the revelation of the Torah, on which several versions of the Septuagint story appear to be modeled. See Exod 24:1–17 and Num 11:16–17; Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, 71–72; and Harry Orlinsky, “The Septuagint and Its Hebrew Text,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 3: The Early Roman Period (ed. W. D. Davies and Louis Finkelstein; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 539 and 544–45; and Veltri, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 134–35. 24.  Tov, “The Septuagint,” 163; and Veltri, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 157. 25. Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, 79. 26.  Compare Veltri (Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 157–62), who distinguishes sharply between the Christian and the rabbinic traditions. Certainly there are differences but, pace Veltri, it is possible that one tradition borrowed certain elements from the other and did not incorporate other elements. Veltri is inappropriately certain that the Bavli’s baraita is a Babylonian invention and is based on the Babylonians’ reading of Epiphanius. In contrast, Wasserstein and Wasserstein (Legend of the Septuagint, xxii and 54) are inappropriately certain that the miracle story is a rabbinic invention and that the Christians borrowed the story from the rabbis. 27. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, 43; and Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 101.

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superiority over competing Greek translations composed by Jews. His account is as follows: 28 Before the Romans established their dominion and the Macedonians still ruled Asia, Ptolemy, the son of Lagus . . . eager to supply the library in Alexandria with the most important writings of all humanity, communicated to Jerusalemites his wish to possess their writings in the Greek language. They . . . sent Ptolemy seventy elders, especially learned among them in scriptural exegesis and in both languages, so that they might fulfill his wish. Since Ptolemy, fearing that they could obscure the true content of the writings by agreement, wanted to test each one, however, he separated them from one another and commanded that all should translate the same work; he did this for all the books. But when they assembled before Ptolemy, and compared their translation to one another, glory be to God, the writings were proven to be truly divine. For all had rendered the same texts with the same words and the same meanings . . . so that even the pagans present acknowledged that the books had been translated by divine inspiration. 29

Another Christian work, the Cohortatio ad Graecos, probably of third-century provenance, features the same motifs, and is the first Christian text to mention the translators’ confinement in separate rooms. 30 It is thus closer still to the Bavli’s version of the story: Ptolemy charged the attendant ministers to see that they wanted for nothing, but to keep them from communicating with each other, in order that their agreement might afford a further proof of the accuracy of the translation. When he found that the seventy men had not merely expressed the same ideas but had employed the very same phraseology, and had not so much as in a single word failed to agree with each other . . . he held the books to be divine and laid them up in his library. . . . We ourselves have been in Alexandria and have seen the traces, still preserved, of the cells in the island of Pharos, and have heard the story which we tell you from the inhabitants, who have had it handed down as a tradition of their country. You may learn it from others also, and chiefly from those wise and distinguished men who have written of it, Philo and Josephus, but there are many others besides. 31

28. Irenaeus, Against Heresies 3.21.2–3, quoted in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.8.11–15. See Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 72–73. 29.  The translation is by Martin Hengel, The Septuagint as Christian Scripture: Its Prehistory and the Problem of Its Canon (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2002), 38–39. 30. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, 44. See also Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 72; Veltri, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 44–47; Hengel, The Septuagint as Christian Scripture, 37–38; Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 100 and 106–8. Pseudo-Justin, Cohortatio ad Graecos (ed. M. Marcovich; Patristische Texte und Studien 32; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), 4–6 (= Cohor. 14 [Opera Iustini, 56]). 31.  The translation is by Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates, 75. See also Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 72; and Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 106–7.

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After this time, the motif of enforced separation in different rooms or houses becomes a commonplace in works of Christian authorship. 32 Returning to the question of the relationship between the talmudic and Christian traditions, we must note that the Bavli presents the tradition as a baraita—that is, as a source that derives from Palestine and dates to the early third century or earlier. If we take seriously the tradition’s status as a baraita, then as a Palestinian rabbinic tradition it might have given rise to the Christian traditions, taking on a polemical Christian slant, and also might have traveled from the rabbis of Palestine to the rabbis of Babylonia. On the other hand, this purported baraita is preserved only in the Bavli, which argues in favor of the Bavli’s having received these details from nonrabbinic traditions in the west, especially since none of them is preserved in Palestinian rabbinic compilations. One could argue that Palestinian rabbis were familiar with but suppressed the story due to its importance in Christian propa­ganda. 33 We know that Jews produced other Greek translations of the Bible in antiquity, perhaps in part to counteract Christian claims based on the Septuagint, and these translations are attested in Palestine. 34 In Babylonia, however, the argument might run, where there was less pressure from Christian groups, the Septuagint tradition lacked polemical bite, and Babylonian rabbis therefore had no compunction about quoting from it. On the other hand, recent scholars have forced us to rethink the earlier scholarly tendency to characterize rabbinic Babylonia as relatively “Christian-free,” and the above conjecture therefore loses much of its explanatory power. 35 In addition, the fact remains that the story is absent from Palestinian rabbinic compilations, and the burden of proof rests on those who wish to claim that Palestinian rabbis knew it but suppressed it. It is extremely unlikely that the Christian sources derived the tradition from the Bavli. While ideas and traditions traveled from east to west as well as from west to east (that is, from Babylonia to Palestine as well as from Palestine to Babylonia), 32.  See Paul Wendland, ed., Aristeae ad Philocratem epistula cum ceteris de origine versionis LXX interpretum testimoniis (Leipzig, 1900), 87–166 and 228–29; Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates; Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, 43–47; Hanhart, “Fragen um die Entstehung der LXX,” 148–49; Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 68–78; Orlinsky, “The Septuagint and Its Hebrew Text,” 553–54; Hanhart, “Fragen um die Entstehung der LXX,” 149–50; Müller, The First Bible of the Church, 68–94, especially the survey of bibliographical references on pp. 68–69 n. 1; and Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 95–137. The ancient Christian author cited most often is Jerome, Prologus in Pentateucho 1.3.29–30. 33. Schürer, History of the Jewish People, 3/1:480; Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 66–67. 34.  See, for example, Dines, The Septuagint, 81–93, and the bibliography cited on pp. 106–7; Tov, “Review of Veltri,” 76–77; Schürer, History of the Jewish People, 3/1:493–96. 35. See, for example, Naomi Koltun, Jewish-Christian Polemics in Fourth-Century Persian Mesopotamia: A Reconstructed Conversation (Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 1993); and Adam Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom: The School of Nisibis and the Development of Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 18 and the references cited on p. 219.

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scholars of Jewish as well as general history have argued that the flow of traditions was more frequently from west to east (from Rome to Persia and Mesopotamia) than from east to west (from Persia and Mesopotamia to Rome). 36 It is likely, therefore, that the Bavli received the tradition from the Roman Empire, although we cannot as yet pinpoint a particular author or work as the direct source. The motif of the translators’ working in enforced isolation but nevertheless producing identical translations due to divine inspiration is central to Christian claims that the Septuagint is divinely inspired and therefore on a par with or superior to the Hebrew Bible. Some Christian authors explained the Septuagint’s many departures from the Hebrew text as the result of Jewish tampering with the Hebrew text, resulting in the removal of prophetic references to the Christian Messiah. 37 It is ironic that the Bavli preserved intact the motif of enforced separation as proof of divine inspiration, given its importance in Christian propaganda. Perhaps the Bavli did so not because of the relative lack of Christian pressure in Mesopotamia but because this pressure had nothing to do with the Greek language. A Greek translation of the Bible played no role in the self-definition of Mesopotamian Christian communities, and therefore a tradition about the divine role in its production could be transmitted by Babylonian rabbis without fear that they were playing into the hands of their Christian adversaries. 38 It is also possible that the Bavli preserves the tradition because it uses its portrayal of divine inspiration in a strikingly original way. In the Bavli, Ptolemy is perhaps not the benevolent, knowledge-seeking king he is for Philo and the Letter of Aristeas. Rather, for the Bavli, the king’s act of placing the elders in separate dwellings with 36.  See Shamma Friedman, Talmud Arukh, vol. 1: Ha-Perushim (Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1990), 1–37, especially n. 90 on p. 31; idem, “La-Aggadah ha-Historit ba-Talmud ha-Bavli,” in Sefer Zikaron le-R. Shaul Lieberman (ed. S. Friedman; Jerusalem: Saul Lieberman Institute for Talmudic Research, 1993), 119–64; Fergus Millar, The Roman Near East, 31 bc–ad 337 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 510 and 516–17; Jeffrey Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 24–26, and the bibliographical references cited in nn. 96–97 on pp. 310–11; and my Jewish Babylonia, 3–10 and 173–86. 37.  Hanhart, “Fragen um die Entstehung der LXX,” 149–51. 38.  Compare Veltri (Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 135–39), who is certain that Babylonian rabbis read Christian sources, from which they took the peculiar element of “cells.” Veltri also claims that the use of Exod 24:5 and 24:11 in Epiphanius’s and Hilarius’s accounts of the Septuagint legend and the fact that, among rabbinic compilations, only the Bavli includes these verses on the list of things the elders changed for Ptolemy further prove that the Bavli read Christian authors. Veltri’s argument here is ingenious but unconvincing. Veltri has no doubt that the baraita in the Bavli is of Babylonian origin, since no Palestinian rabbinic source prior to the Bavli tells the Septuagint legend. He believes that “Babylonian teachers read the legend of the Septuagint in the edition of Epiphanius of Salamis, the only Patristic source which collected all the elements the Rabbis needed with the notable exception of the number, because Epiphanius speaks of 36 rather than 72 ‘cells.’ ” It is, however, quite possible that the Bavli’s account is a reworking of earlier traditions, and the difference in number between Epiphanius and the Babylonian rabbis is significant. See also n. 26 above.

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no explanation may have been the act of a tyrant taking prisoners. Ptolemy’s request to them to “write the Torah of Moses your rabbi” is perhaps an attempt to discover if there is anything offensive, self-contradictory, or embarrassing to rabbinic belief in the Pentateuch. The text according to the Babylonian rabbis does not say that they translated the entire Pentateuch the same way 39 but only that they translated potentially problematic verses the same way, several verses that appear to support beliefs that the rabbis found obnoxious, 40 and one verse that if translated literally would have personally insulted the king. 41 Perhaps in the Bavli we have an echo of a slant on the story found already in Irenaeus, according to whom Ptolemy separated the translators because he suspected that they might try to hide the truth contained in Scripture (see above). In Irenaeus’s account as well, therefore, we may find a precedent for the Bavli’s depiction of a hostile king. There is no unambiguous evidence, therefore, pace Veltri, that the ancient rabbis approved of the Septuagint. On the contrary, perhaps the Bavli’s version of the tradition is evidence that the rabbis were not happy with it. 42 It bears emphasizing that I am not claiming that it is impossible to read the Bavli as glorifying the Septuagint as the product of divine inspiration. 43 In fact, it may have appealed to the Babylonian rabbis simply as a miracle story, depicting God’s intervention in the affairs of his people in the distant past and in a foreign land. 39.  Although Ptolemy does command them to “Write for me the Torah of Moses your rabbi.” 40. Veltri, Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, 138–39. 41.  Hanhart, “Fragen um die Entstehung der LXX,” 152. 42.  Veltri restates his claim regarding the lack of evidence for ancient rabbinic disapproval of the Septuagint in Libraries, Translations, and ‘Canonic’ Texts, ix. On pp. 6–7, he writes that rabbinic rejection of the Septuagint was not a reaction to its acceptance by Christianity. Rather, it was the result of the loss of the Greek language among the Jews and the disappearance of the Jewish community of Alexandria. Wasserstein (“On Donkeys, Wine, and the Uses of Textual Criticism,” 122 and 125) also assumes that the Bavli account is favorable to the Septuagint. See also Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 59. 43.  See Müller (“Die rabbinischen Nachrichten über die Anfänge der Septuaginta,” 73), who explains that the Bavli’s tradition describes the identical translation of 10 passages rather than of the entire Torah. The “miracle” was that they and the Jewish people were spared Pto­ lemy’s wrath and ridicule, since they did not render literally the offensive and embarrassing passages, not that they produced a divinely inspired translation. Müller says explicitly that the Bavli’s account of the divinely given agreement can be interpreted not only in the sense of inspiration of the translation but also as God intervening to save the 72 translators from Ptolemy’s prison (ibid., 91). Only in the Bavli is it said explicitly that Lev 11:6(5) was altered “so that [the king] could not say that the Jews put the name of his wife in the Torah in order to mock him.” This appears to be the implication in the Yerushalmi’s account, but it is not stated explicitly. See also Veltri (Eine Tora für den König Talmai, 16–17), who cites other scholars who interpret the tradition the same way. Veltri claims, incorrectly in my view, that these scholars interpret the Bavli’s tradition through the lens of later rabbinic versions of the legend. See Veltri, ibid., 160, for references to other scholars, medieval and modern, who interpreted Ptolemy’s intentions as malevolent and viewed the divine inspiration as enabling the translators to free themselves from Ptolemy’s compulsion.

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Rather, I am simply claiming that an alternative understanding is equally plausible, according to which only the specific verses changed for Ptolemy’s benefit were inspired by God. The divine inspiration, according to this understanding, enabled the translators, or even the entire Jewish people, to escape harm and embarrassment at the hands of the pagan king. This interpretation makes it easy to understand why the story found a home in the Bavli, since the theme of the Jewish people’s being rescued by God from a would-be pagan oppressor is one that clearly would have resonated in any one of a variety of late antique settings. 44 Avraham ibn Daud, the twelfth-century author of Divrei Malkhei Yisrael, interpreted the king’s motives negatively, although ultimately, God’s intervention produced a happy ending: The Torah was written [for Ptolemy] in Greek. His malice impelled him and he sought a quarrel with Israel. He sought a pretext in Israel’s teaching to exile [the Jews] from society, for “Since my youth they have often distressed me, let Israel now declare” (Ps 129:1). Seventy elders wrote it down. King Ptolemy separated them from one another and lodged each one in his own house. . . . Come and see how he guarded them from Greece’s sentence. “They have never overcome me” (Ps 129:2). King Ptolemy honored the seventy elders with great and royal gifts. He let them return, joyous and happy, and he himself rejoiced at their wisdom. 45

Similarly, Yaaqov Emden, an eighteenth-century Dutch talmudic commentator, also understood the king in the Bavli’s story to be wicked. This understanding forces Emden to conclude that the Bavli’s story differs from that of the book of Aristeas, which Emden knows involves a virtuous king: 46 This [story] is not dealing with Talmios Philadelpho [i.e., Ptolemy Philadelphus], for it is known that he was a lover of Israel, and that he requested the well-known translation from the high priest with humility and by plying them with silver and great gifts for the holy Temple, the high priests, and for the elders [who] translated the Torah, as is well known [from] the Book of Aristeas.

Emden thus contrasts the Ptolemy of the book of Aristeas with the malevolent king portrayed in the Bavli. To conclude, this essay has contributed to the growing body of evidence pointing to the mid-fourth century and later as a period of the Palestinianization or westernization of Babylonia, Mesopotamia, western Persia, and eastern Syria. In case after case, we are finding that literature deriving from Palestine and from elsewhere in the eastern Roman provinces achieved literary expression in the Bavli at precisely this

44.  Compare Wasserstein and Wasserstein, Legend of the Septuagint, 60. 45.  Veltri, Eine Tora für den König Talmai, 246–47 (English translation of the German is mine). 46. Hagahot ve-Hidushim al Massekhet Megillah, printed in the back of the standard printed Talmuds.

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time, although by no means am I suggesting that contacts between west and east and vice versa were nonexistent earlier. 47 One significant implication of our conclusions regarding the western, nonrabbinic and even non-Jewish provenance of many traditions in the Bavli is that, when the Bavli designates a tradition as a baraita, we should not assume that if we can find no parallel to the tradition in a Palestinian rabbinic compilation that we must conclude that the tradition is a Babylonian invention. 48 While many purported Palestinian traditions in the Bavli are in all likelihood Babylonian inventions, this study demonstrates that, at least in some cases, other explanations should be sought to the problem of the absence of Palestinian rabbinic parallels to ostensibly Palestinian traditions in the Babylonian Talmud. In contrast to many modern scholars of classical rabbinic literature, we must take seriously the possibility that the tradition derives from nonrabbinic sources, whether Jewish or non-Jewish, Palestinian or eastern provincial Roman, and that the tradition was rabbinized by the Babylonians, minimally, via its designation as a baraita (and therefore as having been authored by a rabbi), which accompanied or made possible its inclusion in the Bavli. The absence of the story of Ptolemy’s isolating the elders from Palestinian rabbinic traditions, for example, is not proof that the story is a Babylonian rabbinic invention; it is one of many manifestations of the Bavli’s tendency to incorporate nonrabbinic material from the west and to rabbinize it. Here we have clear western nonrabbinic antecedents of the Bavli’s tradition, which it presents as a baraita, one of many indications that scholars should hesitate before making facile generalizations about the frequency of Babylonian rabbinic invention of material and false claims about its antiquity and western provenance, simply because of the silence of Palestinian rabbinic compilations. 47.  See also my Jewish Babylonia, 3–10 and 173–86. 48.  Compare Jeffrey Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), for example, pp. 2–9 and 31–35.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited: Rabbis as Judges in Later Roman Palestine

Hayim Lapin University of Maryland

In 1985, Lee Levine published :‫מעמד החכמים בארץ ישראל בתקופת התלמוד‬ ‫היבטים היסטוריים‬, subsequently published in English as The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity. 1 Dwarfed in scale by his more recent study of the ancient synagogue, Levine’s book has turned out to be an equally fundamental contribution to the project of placing rabbis within the history of late antique Palestine. Levine argued that rabbis were a self-contained “class” with limited authority but an increasingly strong engagement with and influence over the wider Jewish community. In this essay, I will reexamine an area mentioned but not developed in Levine’s book: the role of rabbis as judges. Whom did they serve in this capacity? What kinds of cases were brought to rabbis? 2 For a social history of the rabbinic movement, two areas of legal activity are of particular interest: property and family. Property matters are significant since there certainly were other venues for resolving disputes in second- through fourth-century Palestine: governor’s assizes, city or village courts, or arbitration through intermediaries. More precisely put, rabbinic judges were an alternative venue for adjudicating cases within the provincial context of Roman Palestine. The documents relating to Babatha from the early second century (that is, contemporaneous with the Yavnean Author’s note: This material was first presented as a seminar at the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. It has benefited from the criticism of the Fellows, and in particular that of Lee Levine. 1.  L. I. Levine, ‫ היבטים היסטוריים‬:‫( מעמד החכמים בארץ ישראל בתקופת התלמוד‬Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1985); idem, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad BenZvi / New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989). 2.  Levine (Rabbinic Class, 128 n. 3) noted the historical significance and the surprisingly small number of cases attested.

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generation) clearly show that at least some Jews in southern Palestine (the Roman province of Arabia) availed themselves of both the administrative functions of the cities and the governor’s courts. 3 Moreover, the state had an interest in the outcome of property cases. If, for instance, marriage settlements for divorced or widowed women were collected in the form of real property, the transfer of property would in theory need to be registered in city registries and would be one basis for taxation. 4 Indeed, one measure of rabbinic legal or judicial authority is the extent to which (and the means by which) they could compel parties to alienate property that belonged to them. Family issues (marriage, divorce, inheritance) are clearly intertwined with property in rabbinic law. The same is true in the case of the documents from the Judean Desert. 5 An additional interest in family law is the possibility of tracing the continuities and gaps between rabbinic ideologies of gender and the lived experience of men and women and the relationships between them. In many respects, rabbinic law does its discursive work through study among rabbis and their immediate interlocutors. The Mishnah’s transformation of the sôṭâ rite for the suspected adulteress (Num 5:11–31) into a drama of shame and exposure (m. Soṭa 1:4–3:5) is an example of rabbinic men “thinking with” women, particularly since the rite is explicitly said to be practiced no longer (9:9). 6 Where a rabbinic law was put into practice or held in abeyance, we may have some insight into the interface between the material lives of men and women in the rabbinic orbit and the ideological world of rabbis. To pursue the question of rabbinic activity as judges, we examine 197 stories depicting cases (tables 1, 2). 7 The list of stories aims at completeness within certain 3.  E.g., H. M. Cotton, “The Guardianship of Jesus Son of Babatha: Roman and Local Law in the Province of Arabia,” JRS 83 (1993): 94–108. 4.  On this, see M. A. Friedman, Jewish Marriage in Palestine: A Cairo Geniza Study (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University / New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1980), 451–57. 5.  See my “Maintenance of Wives and Children in Rabbinic and Documentary Texts from Roman Palestine,” in Rabbinic Law in Its Roman and Near Eastern Context (ed. Catherine Hezser; Texte und Studien in Antiken Judentum 97; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 177–98; idem, “The Origins and Development of the Rabbinic Movement in the Land of Israel,” in Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman–Rabbinic Period (ed. Steven T. Katz; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 206–29. 6.  M. L. Satlow, “‘Texts of Terror’: Rabbinic Texts, Speech Acts, and the Control of Mores,” AJSR 21 (1996): 273–97. 7.  The cases are based on a search of the Bar Ilan Responsa CD, version 11 (2003), with independent cross-referencing. For the tannaitic period, results are similar to those of S. Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” in Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 3: The Early Roman Period (ed. William Horbury et al.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 922–90, but yield different numbers from M. Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee, a.d. 132–212 (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanheld, 1983), 93–112. H.-P. Chajes (“Les juges juifs en Palestine,” REJ 39 [1899]: 39–52) remains fundamental; and G. Alon, “Those Appointed for Money,” in Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple, the Mishna, and the Talmud (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1967), 2:15–57 [Hebrew] is an important point of reference. S. Albeck, Law Courts in Talmudic Times (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1980) [Hebrew]

257

The Rabbinic Class Revisited Table 1.  Tannaitic Corpora

Status

Property

Vows

Other

Rabbinic Actor

Explicit Case

Percent Rabbinic Actor

Rabbis as Parties to Cases

Purity

Legal Areas

Ritual

Corpus, Generation, Number of Traditions

 Early

9

2

3

1

1

1

4

1

6

17%

 Yavnean

8

1

2

3

2

2

3

1

9

11%

 Ushan

4

2

1

1

1

 Other

13

6

1

5

2

1

Subtotal

34

11

6

9

6

5

4

1

1

1

2

8

6

Mishnah

3

 Late 9 8

2

27

7%

Tosefta  Early  Yavnean

20

7

 Ushan

6

3

 Late

2

2

4 2

1

2

1

3

17

18%

1

3

33%

 Other

27

6

11

9

2

1

1

1

20

5%

Subtotal

59

19

20

16

5

5

2

5

44

11%

1

1

Midrash  Early

1

 Yavnean

1

1

 Other

1

1

Subtotal

3

2

1

1

1

 Ushan  Late 2

1

1

2

3

Combined  Early

14

3

4

2

3

2

5

1

11

9%

 Yavnean

29

8

10

10

2

5

3

4

27

15%

 Ushan

10

5

2

3

2

1

6

17%

 Late

2

2

 Other

41

12

12

15

4

2

2

1

30

3%

Total

96

30

26

27

11

12

12

7

74

9%

258

Hayim Lapin

constraints. The tannaitic stories (96) were all culled from the much larger category of narratives labeled ‫מעשים‬, typically introduced with the formula -‫‘( מעשה ב‬a case/ story/event happened that’). Amoraic cases (122) used the more narrowly applied formula ‫‘( אתא עובדא קומי‬the case came before’) or, in a very few instances, ‫אעיל‬ ‫( עובדא קומי‬someone ‘brought the case before’). The discussion focuses primarily on the stories assigned to Palestinian amoraim (101). Even in the case of amoraic stories, however, ‫‘( עובדין‬cases’) are not always circumstances in which rabbis offer a verdict or a ruling; the stories presenting them sometimes reflect rabbinic comments on an event. 8 Thus, by definition, the list of cases is provisional and reflects my judgment at each step. Tannaitic cases are taken solely from “tannaitic” corpora; amoraic cases from the Palestinian Talmud, although for comparison I tabulate late-tannaitic traditions and Babylonian amoraic cases as well. In addition, I have divided the rabbinic judges by generation and have grouped the cases into six subject categories. Most stories are quite brief and schematic. A typical full or “explicit” case usually has (a) a very brief description of the circumstances; (b) “the case came before Rabbi X”; and (c) the ruling. Cases that are longer generally add additional phases to the story rather than making the circumstances themselves more complex. 9 “Implicit” cases below do not provide the circumstances at all, which must be inferred from the preceding discussion. Thus, for instance, m. ʿAbod. Zar. 4:12 discusses a question of Jews preparing wine belonging to Gentiles for Jewish use and concludes: “Such a matter happened in Bet Shean and the sages prohibited.” Nearly all of the circumstantial information that might have attached to these narratives, if indeed they go back to actual cases, has been stripped away in the course of composition and transmission.

Rabbis as Judges: Tannaitic Corpora The most notable thing about the distribution of cases in the Mishnah, Tosefta, and midrashim is how different they are from one another. The halakic midrashim include many stories but few “cases.” Compared with the Mishnah, the Tosefta favors cases of the Yavnean generation and deemphasizes the pre-70 c.e. material. The Tosefta has a higher proportion of unassignable cases (for example, where unnamed is generally ahistorical, but the argument that standing courts did not exist is important. See also C. Hezser, Form, Function, and Historical Significance of the Rabbinic Story in Yerushalmi Neziqin (TSAJ 37; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 292–303; H. Shapira, “The Court at Yabneh: Status, Authorities, and Roles,” in Studies in Jewish Law: Judge and Judging (ed. Y. Habah and A. Radziner; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2007), 305–33 [Hebrew]; A. Sivertsev, Private Households and Public Politics in 3rd–5th Century Jewish Palestine (TSAJ 90; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 140–60; compare the approach of A. Oppenheimer, “Jewish Penal Authority in Roman Palestine,” in Between Rome and Babylon (TSAJ 108; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 173–82. 8.  Compare the “cases” introduced by ‫אעיל עובדא קומי‬, which appear to be cases presented primarily for discussion. 9.  See, e.g., y. Ketub. 7.7, 31c.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited

259

“sages” are the judges) and, over all, a higher proportion of cases on purity matters. Neither the Tosefta nor the Mishnah assigns many cases to the “Ushan” generation. This is notable since in both the Tosefta and the Mishnah the number of Ushan rabbis is comparable with the number in the preceding generation, and in general Ushan traditions are more numerous than the preceding generation. 10 In the Mishnah and Tosefta and in the Palestinian Talmud, narratives such as our case stories function to give evidence of legal precedent or of a given rabbi’s view with respect to a legal problem. There does not seem to be any discernible reason to withhold case narratives with respect to a particular generation, as in the case of “Ushan” narratives. On the other hand, favoring by particular circles, selection by editors, or the production of new traditions might inflate a given generation’s profile. Inflation may be the case with the “Yavnean” generation in the Tosefta or possibly (although the sample is quite small) with the “late” generation in the Yerushalmi. Similarly, there is no obvious reason for rabbinic editors, or tradents before them, to withhold cases about particular areas of legal activity (for example, property law or vows in the tannaitic corpora or purity in the Yerushalmi), although one could imagine a scenario in which certain issues were so significant that tradents created case stories about them. 11 These observations about the way different corpora preserve or present material have a bearing on the conclusions we draw from the sources. It may seem reasonable to infer that the tannaitic cases in aggregate roughly reflect the distribution of cases that rabbis actually judged both chronologically and within any given generation. What is reasonable is not necessarily correct, however. The differences between the tannaitic corpora examined mean that we have no way of controlling for the interference of redactors or transmitters. Rabbinic activity as judges may have declined in the mid- to late-second century relative to the generation preceding, for instance, but we cannot be sure. Any correlation between the distribution of cases and the history of rabbinic judging, my own work included, will therefore need to be tentative. Property Cases Strikingly few of the tannaitic cases relate directly to property matters. These cover settlements for divorce or widowhood, financial terms within marriage, damages for public shaming, payment of rents in intercalated years, carrying out a mother’s unwritten will, the preparation of written documents, deeds dated to the Sabbath 10.  For tannaim in the Mishnah, see H. Albeck, Introduction to the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik / Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1959), 221–24; the index in M. S. Zuckermandel, “Supplement zu Tosefta” (Tosefta [Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1970], xxxvi–xlii) implies a larger number, some of the late generation. The number of attributed traditions per generation varies considerably by tractate. Based on tallies of sample tractates, there is no significant correlation between the number of cases by generation in the Mishnah and Tosefta, or between the number of cases in the Mishnah or Tosefta and the number of tannaim or tannaitic traditions in the Mishnah and Tosefta, respectively. See n. 34 below. 11.  Note that three cases appear in t. ʾOhal. 15.12–13, where the Mishnah has one tradition that is by no means clearly a “case” (m. ʾOhal. 16:1).

260

Hayim Lapin

or festivals (presumably erroneously dated), and wine belonging to a Gentile but prepared for Jewish use. 12 In these cases, there are two notable areas of overlap: marriage and family (to be discussed presently) and issues related to documentary practice. Family, Household, and Women Rather more cases relate to issues of status, of which the overwhelming majority involve family or marriage matters. 13 Of the tannaitic cases, the single largest group deals with the status with respect to remarriage of the wife of an absent and reportedly dead man. Next come the consequences of vows taken by a wife or other family members, and the concern with documentary practice that we have already seen. Two cases involve the application of ḥalîṣâ (the ceremony for severing the obligation of a man to marry his brother’s childless widow; Deuteronomy 5–10). Two examples deal with financial obligations in marriage or widowhood, both exceptional: the case already noted involving the son of Aqiva, whose wife had agreed to maintain him; and the fabulously high maintenance assigned to the widow of Naqdimon (Nicodemus) b. Gorion. 14 An additional case considers a conditional betrothal: a woman made her agreement to betrothal dependent on her father’s agreement, but the groom died (t. Qidd. 3.16), potentially leaving the bride with the status of a widow. The most curious case is the tradition that Shemaʿya and Abtalion, Second Temple–period antecedents of the rabbis (contemporaries of Herod?), had carried out the sôṭâ procedure on a freedwoman (m. ʿEd. 5:6). 15 Assessment For reasons stated above, we cannot be certain how much judging rabbis did and for whom. We can say something, however, about “implied claimants,” a construction within the texts of the parties who brought cases to rabbis, their social loca12.  Marriage, widowhood: m. Ned. 9:5; t. Ketub. 5.9; finances within marriage: t. Ketub. 4.7; shaming: m. B. Qam. 8:6; rents and intercalation: m. B. Meṣiʿa 8:8.; mother’s will: m. B. Bat. 9:7; preparation of deeds: m. ʿEd. 2:3; t. Giṭ. 2.10; deeds dated to the Sabbath: t. Mak. 1.3; wine: m. ʿAbod. Zar. 4:12. 13.  Perhaps the only tannaitic exception is Mek. Boʾ, Pisḥāʾ 15 (ed. Horovitz, p. 57), dealing with the status of the slaves of a convert who converted before her. 14.  Absent husband: m. Yebam. 16:4; 16:6 (two examples; cf. t. Yebam. 14.7); m. Yebam. 16:7; t. Yebam. 4.5; 14.7 (3 examples; cf. m. Yebam. 16:6); t. Yebam. 14.8; 14.9; 14.10. Vows: of wife: m. Ned. 9:5; of others: m. Giṭ. 4:7; t. B. Qam. 8.16; t. Nid. 5.15 (two examples; cf. Sipre Z. 30:4); Sipre Z. 30:4 (ed. Horovitz, p. 326; cf. t. Nid. 5.16). Documentary practice: m. Giṭ. 1:5 (cf. t. Giṭ. 1.4); t. Giṭ. 1.3, 4, 5. Ḥalîṣâ: m. Yebam. 12:5; t. Yebam. 12.9. Financial obligations in marriage: Joshua b. Aqiva, t. Ketub. 4.7; widow of Naqdimon b. Gorion, t. Ketub. 5.9–10, serving homiletical purposes. 15.  What makes it curious is the denial by Aqavia b. Mehalalel that a legitimate ritual was carried out, and his subsequent excommunication. See A. J. Saldarini, “The Adoption of a Dissident: Akabya ben Mahalaleel in Rabbinic Tradition,” JJS 33 (1982): 547–56; see also D. Steinmetz, “Distancing and Bringing Near: A New Look at Mishnah Tractates ʿEduyyot and ʾAbot,” HUCA 73 (2002): 53–54 n. 15.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited

261

tion, and their legal or religious concerns. The property cases, for instance, reflect a world of substantial wealth: ownership of a bath; its lease at a “golden dînar” (aureus) a month (300 denarii annually); a fine for shaming of 400 zûz (denarii); a kĕtûba amount of 400 zûz (although the husband pleads insufficient funds). In only one of these is the party clearly a direct member of rabbinic circles: Joshua, son of Aqiva, whose wife undertook to support his life as a scholar (to “teach him Torah”). This is also, interestingly, a case of financial hardship brought on by drought. Since drought is the catalyst, presumably the wife had owned property sufficient to their needs. Overall, only seven cases involve rabbis or members of rabbinic households— about 10% of cases. Nevertheless, the subjects covered in the case narratives imply a claimant who is a close adherent of rabbinic circles. Property and status cases together make up just over one-third of the total number of cases in tannaitic corpora (counting the three cases listed under both headings only once). This is far from negligible, but it leaves nearly two-thirds of cases addressing other concerns, the overwhelming majority of which (and 58% of all tannaitic cases) are “purity” and “ritual.” Cases involving purity include the susceptibility of ovens to impurity if they were accidentally fired; the evaluation of menstrual bloodstains; the susceptibility of low installations that might be used for sitting to impurity transmitted through sitting; the purity of a cistern in which fetuses are thought to be cast. 16 Examples of ritual include the status of priestly gifts (tĕrûmâ) separated by a Gentile and then remixed with the produce; whether a non-Jew’s handling of wine makes it impermissible; the inspection of firstborn animals; whether circumcision should be carried out for the son of a fourth sister, when the sons of the first three died due to the procedure. 17 Purity matters and priestly and levitical gifts were areas of law that distinguished rabbis and their adherents from others whom they designated ʿam hāʾāreṣ. 18 The other matters also reflect concerns for piety by the parties. The same is true of vows (a recurrent topic in the cases), the release of which required the special expertise of rabbis. The case of a man whom Aqiva would have required to divorce his wife and to pay the sizable marriage settlement of 400 dînārîm turns on the consequences of the husband’s vow restricting his wife from any benefit from him (m. Ned. 9:5). In the end, the husband’s complaint gives Aqiva the opening to nullify the vow, obviating the need for divorce. Neither problem nor solution needs to exist outside the rabbinic construction of vows. 16. Ovens: m. Kelim 5:4; cf. t. Kelim, B. Qam. 4.4; bloodstains; m. Nid. 8:3; installations for sitting: t. Kelim, B. Bat. 2.1–2, three cases; fetuses in cisterns: t. ʾOhal. 16.13. 17.  Priestly gifts: t. Ter. 1.15; Gentile contact with wine: m. ʿAbod. Zar. 4:10 (two cases); firstborn animals: m. Bek. 4:4; circumcision: t. Šabb. 15.8. 18. See t. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.10 and, conveniently, A. Oppenheimer, The ʿAm ha-aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (ALGHJ 8; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 69–96; S. S. Miller (Sages and Commoners in Late Antique ʾErẹz Israel: A Philological Inquiry into Local Traditions in Talmud Yerushalmi [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005], 302–38) reassesses the term and its uses. Note t. Suk. 3.1 regarding the Temple practice during Sukkot, here opposed to the “Boethusians.”

262

Hayim Lapin

As the preceding example suggests, the property and marriage issues may be read within a similarly circumscribed community of concern. What appears to be a straightforward case about contractual obligations, the lease of an urban bathhouse at Sepphoris (m. B. Meṣ. 8:8), turns on a matter of significance to rabbis, and perhaps to other Jews but by no means to all Jews in Palestine. At issue is the consequence of intercalation, the addition of a thirteenth month to adjust the lunar calendar to the solar, where the contract overspecified the terms “for 12 golden dînārîm per year, one golden dînār per month.” The problem of the thirteenth month existed for those Jews who followed a Jewish calendar in their contractual interactions with one another. 19 The Judean Desert documents reflect no such concerns in the first part of the second century in what was administratively the province of Arabia. One pair of documents suggests that this is not entirely an argument from silence. 20 If second-century Sepphoris followed the pattern of other cities in the Roman east, it would have used a version of a solar Macedonian or, increasingly, the Roman calendar. In addition, authority to set the calendar was an important element in the self-fashioning of the early rabbinic movement. Thus, this case may reflect the more restricted concerns of members of a particular religious association rather than the needs of the population as a whole, or even its Jewish sector. The recurrence of references to aspects of documentary practice in the cases is also illustrative. A deed dated “on the Sabbath or the tenth of Tishre [Yom Kippur]” poses problems for rabbis because of presumed festival observance but would pose no problem in other judicial contexts; nor would the signatures of Samaritans as witnesses or the problem of whether a document was brought from outside the boundaries of the notional “land of Israel.” Rabbis may have objected to the practice of composing blank forms to be completed as needed (as opposed to writing them in full for the express purpose for which they were to be used), but at least some use 19. See, however, Galen, In Hippocratis Epidemiarum Libros Commenarius 1.1; M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–84), no. 394. The reference is to the lunar ‘reckoning of those in Palestine’ (tois de kata Palaistinē arithmousin), not to Jews specifically. Galen can refer to Jews when he wishes to, and it may make more sense to view this as a regional peculiarity rather than an ethnic or religious one. In any case, the Judean Desert documents do not demonstrate this peculiarity explicitly, and in part contradict it (see the following notes and S. Stern, Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar, 2nd Century bce–10th Century ce [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001], 18–26, 41 nn. 170, 172). 20.  The documents are dated “four days before the ides of October according to the reckoning of the province of Arabia, in the twentieth year, on the twenty-fourth of Hyperberetaios, called Tishre,” P. Yadin I 14.3–4, 18–20; 15.2, 15–16, thus coordinating the Roman, Macedonian, and Babylonian calendar, with an error of one day. For the coordination of Macedonian months with the Roman Julian calendars in eastern Roman cities, see E. J. Bickerman, Chronology of the Ancient World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 47–51; A. E. Samuel, Greek and Roman Chronology, Calendars and Years in Classical Antiquity (Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 1/7; Munich: Beck, 1972), 170–88.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited

263

of blank forms is attested from contemporary Egypt for such transactions as customs orders or receipts for corvée labor. 21 These need not be considered the concerns of rabbis alone, but neither do they reflect the priorities of all Jews in Palestine. The eleven cases that deal with the remarriage of the wife of an absent husband invoke rabbis as authorizers of remarriage. It is by no means clear that from the point of view of Roman administrators or municipal courts such deciders were needed. And in fact, in a related context, the Mishnah and Tosefta both recognize that women in situations of this sort remarried on their own authorization (‫על פי‬ ‫עצמה‬, t. Yebam. 11.4, 5), without permission (‫ )רשות‬or court order (‫)על פי בית דין‬ (m. Yebam. 10:1–2). 22 When the woman got it wrong—when she remarried, and the husband returned—the general consequences, according to the anonymous view in one Mishnah (m. Yebam. 10:1), were the mandatory unraveling of all marital ties with both husbands (including claims of the wife on the husbands’ property toward her settlement, claims of the husbands on the productive labor of the wife), as well as the diminished marriageability of the wife, and the highly limited marriageability (that is, mamzērût) of any offspring from the second marriage. The disputing views (all “Ushan,” mid- to late-second century) maintain the marital tie to the first husband. 23 In other words, what is put at risk in such remarriage is not marriage in general but the wife’s and her children’s status in a community that regulated marriage in the way that the early rabbinic corpora did. For rabbis and their adherents, the subsequent marriageability of a Jewish woman was a potential marker of communal boundaries. 24 Tannaitic corpora, it seems, ruled largely on matters of piety that were of concern to rabbis. As with the Mishnah as a whole, “piety” extends to the structure of marital unions and property contracts and other matters of “private law,” although we have noted that other issues entirely outside the scope of provincial or urban law predominate. In the limited number of cases where rabbis did rule on matters of 21.  Dated to the Sabbath: t. Mak. 1.3. Compare P. Yadin I 18, dated to 15 Xandikos, which, if calibrated with the Aramaic/Hebrew (Babylonian) months should be 15 Nisan, or Passover. S. Stern (Calendar and Community, 40) all but denies that a Jew could have written P. Yadin I 18 intending “Jewish” Nisan. Samaritan witnesses: m. Giṭ. 1:5; t. Giṭ. 1.4; 1.3. Blank documents: t. Giṭ. 2.10. Compare blanks for corvée: H. C. Youtie, “Critical Notes on Documentary Papyri,” TAPA 92 (1961): 553–56, with additional references. Customs orders: O. Ber. II 185–88; assignment of uncultivated land: SB VI 9242b; the latter two references cited from the Advanced Papyrological Information System (APIS) (http://www.columbia.edu/cgi-bin/cul/resolve?ATK205/). 22. Cf. Dig. 48.5.12.12 (Papinian), where the issue is raised, but the concern was whether she had committed adultery; the decision to remarry was clearly the woman’s alone. 23.  M. Yebam. 10:1–2 is problematic on several levels (for different aspects, see Friedman, Jewish Marriage in Palestine, 361–62; C. Albeck, “Studies in the Babylonian Talmud,” Tarbiz 9 [1938]: 169–72 [Hebrew]; S. Lieberman, Tosefta ki-fshuta [10 vols.; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1955–88], 6:108–10). This suggests redactional seams that might reward further study. For our purposes, the most problematic aspect of this pericope is why a woman might appeal to a “court” for permission to remarry, given its (at best) indifferent consequences. 24.  See, for example, m. Yebam. 1:4.

264

Hayim Lapin

contracts or property, they staked out positions important to themselves or possibly to a wider set of Jewish provincials (for example, the ethnic or religious background of witnesses or the calendar used), but of indifference to city or provincial courts. We could expand the set of cases somewhat by including a group of narratives excluded in the preceding discussion: maʿaśîm that present calendrical decisions as taken in a “court.” 25 However, calendar issues, far from marking the general reach of rabbis, may have marked rabbis and their piety as distinctive—perhaps “sectarian.” 26 Can we move from implied claimants to the question of rabbinic authority in the second century? Earlier, Goodman and Cohen drew from the rabbinic narratives (differently and somewhat more expansively selected than here) the conclusion that rabbis’ influence with nonrabbis was limited. 27 In this, they are undoubtedly correct. No methods of enforcement are attested. This is no doubt a feature of the highly stylized form of the case stories, but it is notable that case narratives do not, for example, force contributions to joint expenditures on courtyard or village members, planting after a bad year on a lessee, ḥalîṣâ on a reluctant levir, divorce on a husband in the interest of a wife or betrothed, relocation on reluctant marital partners, or the emancipation or relocation of a slave to Palestine on a slave owner. In all these cases, the Mishnah or Tosefta authorizes forcing (‫ )כופין‬a party to perform an obligation. 28 Rabbis also did not rule in matters involving compliance with their own rules on charity contributions at the village level (t. Meg. 2.15). There was no obvious reason for tradents and editors to suppress cases of this sort if they had access to them. It seems reasonable that rabbis had no ability to and perhaps no interest in enforcing these cases. Even at the level of implied claimants, the cases judged presuppose voluntary arbitration. In one important respect, however, a refinement of their views is necessary. The principal significance of the cases may not be the influence of rabbis on “others”— due to rabbis’ known expertise in matters of purity, or in general because of their moral suasion or reputation as holy men. 29 The case stories construct the judicial clients of rabbis as people who regulated their lives in ways that overlapped in significant ways with the rabbis’ own rules. To the extent that there is some correlation between remembered cases and judicial activity, these people are probably best described as adherents of the rabbinic movement. If so, there are surprising omissions. Lacking are cases relating to Sabbath boundaries and related rules. The latter are especially notable given the likely significance

25.  M. Roš Haš. 1:6; 1:7; 2:8; m. ʿEd. 7:7; t. Roš Haš. 1.16. 26.  Cf. Goodman, State and Society, 108. 27.  Cohen, “Rabbi”; Goodman, State and Society, 93–111. 28.  Village or courtyard obligations: m. B. Bat. 1:5; t. B. Meṣiʿa 11.15, 16, 18, 22; forced planting: t. B. Meṣ. 9.16; ḥalîṣâ: m. Yebam. 13:12, 13; t. Yebam. 13.7; divorce: m. Ketub. 7:9, 10 (the “case” in the latter is better understood as a “comment”); t. Ketub. 3.7; 12.4; m. ʿArak. 5:6; relocations: t. Ketub. 12.5; slaves: m. Giṭ. 4:4 (m. ʿEd. 1:13); t. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.18–19. 29.  Cohen, “Rabbi,” 961–71; Goodman, State and Society, 107–11.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited

265

of the practice of ʿerub as a peculiarly rabbinic institution. 30 Cohen and Goodman note the relative absence of rulings about slaughtering meat. 31 However, despite the technical niceties addressed in prescriptive texts, tractate Ḥullin in the Mishnah and Tosefta seems to presuppose dispersed individual knowledge about slaughtering technique and hence debate relying on the presumption that, where “the majority” of a place prepare meat properly, it may be eaten. 32 No doubt uncertainties could and did arise, but slaughtering meat does not appear to be an area of particular ritual anxiety. Tannaitic cases may thus serve as an index of critical areas of rabbinic piety at a particular moment, rather than rabbis’ reach to outsiders. Arguably, we can date this moment to before the middle of the second century, given the absence of “Ushan” cases and the large number of Yavnean cases. However, the large number of unassigned traditions and the clearly biased selection or invention in the Yavnean stratum of cases allow for another interpretation. We should perhaps posit instead a lag between the development of new legal thought, which the Mishnah as a whole represents, and the distinctive piety of rabbis still focused on “sectarian” issues such as tithes, purity, and marriageability.

Rabbis as Judges: The Palestinian Talmud The Yerushalmi provides 122 cases, of which 101 are assigned to Palestinian amoraim (see table 2). The remainder involve the late tannaitic generation and Babylonian amoraim, which are sometimes included for broader assessment. Together, “status” and “property” make up a sizable majority of all the Yerushalmi cases. For Palestinian amoraim, these two areas account for 77% (allowing for 12 overlapping cases); this is more than twice the proportion in tannaitic cases. The increase in the number of property cases is most striking: now, half of all the cases attributed to Palestinian amoraim fall into this category. 33 Unlike the tannaitic cases, here we rely on a single corpus for the reporting of cases. It is therefore more difficult to spot redactional intervention. One area of bias that appears absent in the Yerushalmi is the disproportionate weighting of generations in the case narratives as compared with their overall distribution. 34 30.  C. E. Fonrobert, “From Separatism to Urbanism: The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Rabbinic ʿEruv,” DSD 11 (2004): 43–71. 31.  Cohen, “Rabbi,” 968. 32. See m. Ḥul. 7:2 (whether butchers at large are trusted with respect to removal of the sciatic nerve from the hind quarters (“porging”) but not the fitness of the meat in general); t. Demai 4.9; t. Ḥul. 2.5, 6; t. Ṭoh. 6.1. See also y. Šeqal. 7.2, 50c. 33.  The dominance of property cases is even stronger if we count only explicit cases (that is, where at least a minimal narrative of the case is provided): 62% of all explicit amoraic cases involve property. It is unclear how significant this is. 34.  For what it is worth, there is a strong correlation between the number of amoraim in the Yerushalmi (Levine, Rabbinic Class, 67, after Albeck) and the number of cases attributed to each

266

Hayim Lapin Table 2.  Palestinian Talmud

4

38

13

13

21

  Generation 4

26

4

1

13

12

  Generation 5

7

2

1

4

3

 Other

9

4

2

5

102

30

43

48

  Generation 1

11

4

4

  Generation 3

1

2

  Generation 2

16

  Generation 3

Percent Rabbinic Actor

9

6

Explicit case

5

  Generation 1

Rabbinic Actor

3

3

Other

2

7

Rabbis as Parties to Cases

Vows

4

Late Tannaim

Purity

2

Ritual

Property

Legal Areas

Status

Generation and Number of Traditions

1

2

6

33%

Palestinian Amoraim

Subtotal

1

3

1 2

2

5

13

38%

5

3

21

14%

5

6

17

35%

1

5 3

1

5

20%

15

15

62

24%

4

1

9

11%

1

1

1

100%

2

11

18%

19

79

24%

3

Babylonian Amoraim

 Other Subtotal Total

2

2

14

4

123

37

3

4

7

49

59

1 3

16

Property Cases Half of the property cases attributed to Palestinian amoraim are single-topic cases that do not overlap with other areas of law. In this respect alone, the amoraic cases clearly differ from their tannaitic counterparts, where at most only three generation in table 1 (Pearson’s r = 0.92, p = 0.03). For comparisons of series with five items each (that is, amoraic generations 1–5), the threshold for statistical signficance is very high. If we compare the number of Palestinian amoraic cases and the number of overall traditions using the same criteria (using y. Šebiʿit, H. Lapin, “Institutionalization, Amoraim, and Yerushalmi Shebiʿit,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture [ed. Peter Schäfer and Catharine Heszer; TSAJ 71; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002], 179, table 1 as a sample), the correlation is low and does not meet this threshold (r = 0.40, p = 0.5). If, however, y. Šebiʿit is roughly representative of the distribution of traditions in the Yerushalmi, and we extend our comparison also to late tannaitic and early Babylonian amoraic traditions, there is a statistically significant correlation between the number of cases and the number of traditions, although smaller than the correlation between cases and numbers of amoraim (r = 0.68, p = 0.02). The implication is that the Yerushalmi regularly invented or preserved case traditions at a different rate than it did other amoraic traditions.

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property cases were not in some way bound up with some other area of law. 35 In these amoraic cases, rabbis are said to have dealt with (roughly in descending order of prominence): collection of debts and other claims, sale and lease of property (interestingly, residential rather than agricultural); inheritance, wills, and gifts in contemplation of death; other financial arrangements involving household members; damages (including shaming); documentary practice; liability of depositaries; disputes over property; evaluation of coins; and whether coins “of danger” (the Bar Kochba revolt?) may be used. 36 To these, we can add cases overlapping with other areas. Property law intersected with ritual law in two cases of found property (involving ownership but also, presumably, permissibility); three involving the ability of a priest to eat priestly or levitical dues, one involving damages (making a priest impure), one sale of property (with the priest’s retention of rights to tithes), and the last involving loans (use of tithes to repay a loan to a priest); and one involving the suspension of loans during the sabbatical year. The one property case overlapping with purity issues has just been mentioned (liability for having made a priest impure). With emendation, one case involving monetary disputes also deals with an oath taken by one of the parties. An additional two cases (variants of the same case) involving vows and property also involved divorce: requiring the husband to take an oath forbidding benefit from his ex-wife when she recovers her marriage settlement to avoid the possibility of defrauding the creditor or the surety. 37 These last two are among the single largest group of cases overlapping with property matters, a group of 13 cases involving “status.” Two cases deal with children: sale by a minor and the maintenance or marriage settlement of a daughter. The remainder all deal with wives who are currently married, divorced or divorcing, or widowed, and they mostly address some aspect of payment or collection of the marriage settlement (9 cases). Two additional cases address a wife’s ability to effect the sale of her property and the payment of the scribe for a divorce document. 38 35.  T. Giṭ. 2.10. See also m. B. Bat. 9:7 (reading ‫וקיימו חכמים את דבריה‬, against the Kaufman, Parma [de Rossi 138], and Cambridge [Lowe] mss; without ‫חכמים‬, the subject of the verb may well be the sons) and t. B. Bat. 10.12 (‫ חכמים‬absent in the editio princeps). 36.  Y. Peʾah 3.9, 17d (cf. y. B. Bat. 8.7, 16b; y. Kil. 7.4, 31a [b]; y. Ter. 5.8, 43d; y. Maʿaś. Š. 1.2, 52d; y. Ketub. 5.1, 29c; 6.6, 30d; y. Giṭ. 5.3, 46d); y. Ketub. 6.7, 31a; 10.6, 34a; 11.2, 34b; y. Giṭ. 4.2, 45c; 7.6, 49a; y. Qidd. 2.1, 62c (y. B. Meṣiʿa 4.2, 9c); y. Qidd. 3.4, 64a (three cases); y. B. Qam. 2.5, 3a; 6.7, 5c (y. Šebu. 7.2, 37d); y. B. Qam. 8.8, 6c; y. B. Qam. 10.3, 7c; y. B. Meṣiʿa 3.13, 9b; 5.1, 10a; 8.11, 11d; y. B. Bat. 2.2, 13b; 2.3, 13b (two cases); 9.4, 17a (two cases). 37. Ritual: y. Šeqal. 5.7, 50c (found wineskins and sausages; implied ritual concerns); damages: y. Sanh. 1.1, 18b; sale: y. Demai 6.3, 25c; loan: y. Giṭ. 3.7, 45a (see Qorban ha-ʿEdah and Pene Moshe); loans in sabbatical year: y. Šeb. 10.1, 39b; dispute and oath: y. Šebu. 7.5, 38a, with the proposed emendation of M. Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press / Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 242, s.v. ymy; vows, property, and divorce: y. Naz. 5.1, 54a; y. B. Bat. 10.9, 17a. The texts are problematic; see Hezser, Form, Function, and Historical Significance, 222–26. 38.  Sale by a minor: y. B. Bat. 9.8, 17a; support of daughter: y. Ketub. 4.13, 29b. The latter depends on a statutory clause in the marriage document and may be read technically as dealing

268

Hayim Lapin Family, Household, and Women

Cases dealing with family, household, and women are again grouped under “status.” These overwhelmingly deal with women and their marriage or marriageability. 39 Among tannaitic cases, the single largest group (39%) involved the remarriage of the wife of an absent husband. In Palestinian amoraic cases, the issue recurs, but only once. Instead, the predominant issue is the drafting and delivery of divorce documents (in 40% of cases). (By contrast, only one deals with betrothal documents.) A substantial number of cases overlap with property issues, as we have seen. Almost all of the remaining one-third of the cases are distributed among areas specific to rabbinic (or perhaps, more generally, Jewish) practice and law: yibbûm, ḥalîṣâ (3); child marriage of a fatherless girl (2); consequences of marriage or sexual contact between family members (2); a requirement to delay remarriage to assure paternity (1); forcing a “blemished” husband to divorce (1); eligibility of women or slaves in a priest’s household to eat priestly dues (1); marriageablity to priests (1). Interestingly, of the three cases dealing with the consequences of rape, captivity, or seduction, two deal with the ability of the woman in question to eat priestly dues. 40 Assessment The third case, involving a divorce proceeding for a woman found kissing her husband is among the most interesting cases in the Yerushalmi. 41 Although procedural issues are murky—they “came before R. Yose,” but other rabbis weigh in as well—the rabbis are doing what we expect judges to do: hearing the facts of the case, with the terms of the mother’s marriage. Payment of marriage settlements: y. Ketub. 1.2, 25b; 4.14, 29b; 4.15, 29b; 7.7, 31c; 11.2, 34b; y. Qidd. 3.2, 63d; y. B. Bat. 10.15, 17d (cf. y. Naz. 5.1, 54a); y. Ketub. 9.3, 33a (a); y. Qidd. 1.3, 59d; y. Naz. 5.1, 54a (cf. y. B. Bat. 10.15, 17d). Sale by wife: y. Ketub. 8.2, 32a (if this is truly a case and not a comment). Payment for scribe: y. Giṭ. 4.2, 45c. 39.  Exceptions are: sale by a minor: y. B. Bat. 9.8, 17a; priests married to daughters of converts (punishment involves the priests): y. Bik. 1.5, 64a (y. Qidd. 4.6, 66a); marriage to a man with one testicle: y. Yebam. 8.2, 9b (cf. y. Yebam. 15, 15a). 40.  Absent husband: y. Yebam. 15, 15a (cf. y. Yebam. 8.2, 9b). Earlier in the same section is another case given a Babylonian context. Drafting and delivery of divorce: y. Ter. 1.1, 40b; y. Yebam. 16, 15d (y. Giṭ. 3.3, 44d; cf. y. Qidd. 3.10, 64b); y. Giṭ. 7.1, 48c (2 examples); 1.1, 43b (5 examples); 2.2, 44b; 2.6, 44c; 3.1, 44d; 6.1, 48a (2 examples); 9.5, 50b; y. Qidd. 3.10, 64b (cf. y. Yebam. 16, 15d; y. Giṭ. 3.3, 44d). An additional case mentioned above in connection with property issues deals with deciding which party pays for the document, y. Giṭ. 4.2, 45c.; of betrothal: y. Qidd. 3.2, 63d. In a second case, discussed in conjunction with overlapping property and status cases, the marriage document is read in the context of the divorce arrangements: y. Ketub. 7.7, 31c. Yibbûm, ḥaliṣâ: y. Yebam. 12, 12d; 12, 13a (2 cases). Child marriage: y. Yebam. 1.2, 2d; 1.2, 3a. Marriage/sex with family/kin: y. Yebam. 2.4, 3d; 10.8, 11a. Delayed remarriage: y. Yebam. 4.11, 6b. Divorce for “blemishes”: y. Ketub. 7.10, 31d. Priestly dues for household members: y. Yebam. 7.2, 8a; see also y. Ned. 11.13, 42d. Marriageability: y. Giṭ. 8.10, 49c. Rape, captivity, seduction: priestly dues: y. Ned. 11.13, 42d (2 cases; an additional case does not fit the formal criteria for this study). See also y. Ketub. 1.6, 26c, attributed to Babylonian rabbis. 41.  See, e.g., y. Ketub. 7.7, 31c with S. Lieberman, Laws of the Palestinian Talmud (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1947), 61–62.

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269

listening to the claims of the parties (notably the relatives of the woman, not the woman herself), and examining the document that governs the contract between husband and wife. Compared with the tannaitic cases, this episode implies new areas of legal intervention. The rabbis here are involved in adjudicating the terms of a divorce on the basis of a marriage contract allowing the wife to initiate divorce. The contract may reflect conventional, even traditional practice but does not reflect a standard rabbinic contract, which elsewhere construes divorce as unilateral by the husband alone. 42 In general, the Palestinian amoraic cases reflect a concern with the formal and property aspects of divorce, a negligible area in tannaitic cases, and a more extensive range of property cases. Vows have all but disappeared in comparison with tannaitic cases: the three cases dealing with oaths are all special cases having to do with property settlements and have been mentioned above. Rabbinic expertise in releasing vows does not arise. There are only three cases dealing with purity, a remarkable difference from the earlier cases. One deals with menstrual purity; the other two directly or indirectly deal with priestly dues. 43 Particularly the combination of priestly dues and purity suggests some sort of continuity of practice with what had been elements of rabbinic selfidentity in (early) tannaitic strata. There is evidence from outside rabbinic literature for the salience of menstrual purity issues within Jewish or formerly Jewish circles. 44 “Ritual” cases (about the same in number and proportion as in tannaitic corpora) are surprisingly similar to their tannaitic counterparts. The largest group addresses biblical agricultural rules, specifically priestly dues and tithes (12) and the sabbatical year (4). A number of cases deal with Gentile contact with wine (6) and permissible and prohibited food (5), and a few with Sabbath and festival practice (4). 45 There are some unexpected differences. There are, for instance, more rather 42.  Unilateral divorce: m. Ketub. 14:1; t. Ketub. 12.3; m. Ned. 11:12, revising an “earlier” tradition. See further Friedman, Jewish Marriage in Palestine, 312–22. 43. Menstrual: y. Nid. 2.6, 50a. Purity of priestly dues: y. Ter. 8.9, 46a. The case of a priest made impure (because of monetary damages due to loss of priestly dues) occurs in y. Sanh. 1.1, 18b and has been discussed above. 44.  See C. E. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity: Rabbinic and Christian Reconstructions of Biblical Gender (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000), 160–210 on a woman’s discourse of menstrual practice in the Didascalia. See also Jerome’s (polemical) reference to synagogue heads evaluating menstrual blood by taste (Epistulae 121, CSEL 56, 48). 45. Agriculture: y. Demai 4.3, 24a; 6.3, 25c; y. Ter. 3.3, 41c; 8.9, 46a; y. Maʿaś. 1.3, 48d; 5.7, 52a; y. Maʿaś. Š. 2.6, 55b. Y. Yebam. 7.2, 8a; y. Ned. 11.13, 42d (two cases) is mentioned in connection with women and family; y. Giṭ. 3.7, 45a; y. Sanh. 1.1, 18b in connection with property; sabbatical year: y. Šeb. 2.4, 33d (y. Maʿaś. Š. 4.6, 55b); y. Šeb. 9.5, 39a; y. Beṣ. 1.1 60a (cf. y. Šeb. 9.1, 38d). See also y. Šeb. 10.1, 39b mentioned in connection with property. Gentile wine: y. ʿAbod. Zar. 4.8, 44a; 4.12, 44b; 5.4, 44d; 5.8, 45a. See also y. Šeqal. 7.5, 50c; y. ʿAbod. Zar. 2.4, 41c above in connection with property. Prohibited food: y. Beṣ. 1.1, 60a (cf. y. Šeb. 9.1, 38d); y. ʿAbod. Zar. 2.9, 41d; 4.8, 44a; y. Nid. 3.5, 51a. See also y. Šeqal. 7.5, 50c in connection with property. Sabbath and festival: y. Kil. 4.4, 29b (y. ʿErub. 1, 19c; y. Sukkah 1.1, 52a); y. Sukkah 1.1, 52a; y. Moʾed Qaṭ. 1.1, 80a; y. Taʿan. 2.14, 66c (y. Meg. 1.6, 70d).

270

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than fewer amoraic cases involving the sabbatical year (absent in tannaitic cases) or priestly dues but none dealing with other agricultural rules such as intermixing seeds (kilʾayim). In the Yerushalmi, amoraim do not evaluate firstborn animals for nonsacral use by priests. It is difficult to know in these cases whether there is an underlying shift in practice, a shift in the kinds of cases heard by rabbis, or a shift in the interests of transmitters and collectors of rabbinic traditions. For instance, above I noted the absence of cases involving ʿērûb in tannatic corpora. Amoraic corpora include this issue, but the cases are attributed to Babylonians or to a “transitional” late tannaitic figure. Two of the three cases are transmitted by late Palestinian amoraim. The case closest to this issue deals with carrying on the Sabbath, not identical with ʿērûb. 46 This case is assigned to a fourth-generation amora (Jeremiah) and the narrative is attributed to a rabbi of the same generation (Pinḥas). This could mean long continuity of practice and commonality between Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis. However, the late attributions may be an indicator of discontinuity, and ʿērûb may have entered (or reentered) the discourse of implied practice within amoraic circles of influence in the fourth century. Who are the implied claimants? In terms of scale, the general run of cases assigned to amoraim again suggests substantial wealth: they deal with the buying, selling, and leasing of property. The recurrence of written contracts and deeds places the transactions within the documentary economy. The few cases that offer amounts support the presumptive wealth of the claimants in rabbinic cases: deposits or penalties of a pound of gold; a dowry of 20 dinar (presumably, in this case, gold solidi); the seizure of a slave; sale of a camel. 47 Very few cases address individuals’ interactions with the state or the city. Judah the Patriarch (never a “typical” rabbi) is said to have mediated the claims of the bouleutai and the stratēgoi of Tiberias. Members of the household of Nehemiah (a “late” tanna) are said to have lent money to the “public,” and the “rabbis” address the case that arises (apparently regarding collection). Two cases assigned to Ami address the question of people appointed “scribe” or “emissary.” In both cases, the appointment may be to a civic or provincial office. Civic office or appointment to the boulē is explicit in a case that follows closely after, although here the appointment is clearly negative. 48

46. Babylonians: y. ʿErub. 6, 24a; 8, 25b; late tanna: y. ʿErub. 7, 24d. Carrying: y. Kil. 4.4, 29b (y. ʿErub. 1, 19c; y. Sukkah 1.1, 52a), about carrying on the Sabbath but not about ʿērûb. 47.  Pound of gold: y. B. Qam. 6.7, 5c (y. Šebu. 7.2, 37d); y. B. Qam. 8.8, 6c. Dowry: y. Ketub. 4.14, 29b. For dînār as solidus in later Palestinian texts, see D. Sperber, Roman Palestine, 200– 400: Money and Prices (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1991), 34 and passim. The case of a betrothal document for less than the statutory amount, y. Ket. 1.2, 25b, does not necessarily imply poverty. Seizure of a slave: y. Ketub. 9.3, 33a (y. Qidd. 1.3, 59d). Sale of a camel: y. Pesaḥ. 4.3, 30d (y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1.6, 39d). 48. Judah, y. Yoma 1.2, 39a; household of Nehemiah, y. Giṭ. 3.7, 45a; appointments, y. B. Bat. 9.4–5, 17a.

The Rabbinic Class Revisited

271

In tannaitic cases, the implied parties were adherents of the rabbinic movement. The amoraim heard a wider range of cases, and rabbis ruled on “general” law in addition to cases of specific rabbinic concern. On one interpretation, the implied claimant is an adherent, now even more enmeshed in a world adjudicated by rabbis. The implication would be increased separatism or sectarianism. Alternatively, parties are drawn from a pool that is wider than adherents alone, implying greater influence and social significance to rabbinic judges. Cases about civic appointments might imply the latter, although one of these cases explicitly involves a rabbi as the appointee. Two subgroups of amoraic cases are worth stressing here: groups involving members of rabbinic circles and groups reflecting modes of enforcement. The number of cases in both groups is small but suggestive. Among the amoraic cases, 15 (almost 1 in 4 of the “explicit” cases) involve members of rabbinic circles (rabbis as well as people designated relatives or household members of rabbis). Among the tannaitic cases, the ratio was 1 in 10. The Yerushalmi thus connects a sizable minority of cases with people with attachments to rabbinic circles. Should we assume that cases involving generic men or women (‫ההוא גברא‬, ‫ )ההיא איתא‬also involve claimants with connections to rabbinic circles? 49 The second to the fourth generations constitute more than 75% of all Palestinian amoraic cases. Not surprisingly, almost all of the cases involving members of rabbinic circles are assigned to these generations. The proportion of cases involving rabbis or their circle for these generations is comparable to the cases of all the amoraim combined (27%). However, for these generations almost 1 explicit property case in 3 (32%) involves rabbis and their circles. On the basis of the cases the Yerushalmi presents for these generations, existing social or familial connections with rabbis may well have been the major reason for rabbis to hear the case. Even among cases that do not involve property—arguably reflecting the rabbis’ role as general ritual experts—a substantial minority of the (miniscule) sample (4 of 20, or 1 in 5 for these generations) still involve people with prior reasons to approach rabbis. In a small but significant number of amoraic cases, the narrative does specify some sort of enforcement. Three cases involving fines are all curiously assigned to Simeon b. Laqish (second generation). The one case of (aborted) corporal punishment is assigned to Abbahu a generation later. The cases involving unspecified force are all of the third generation or later. 50 These cases are rather peculiar when seen against all the others. Five deal with marriage and its rabbinic ramifications (none directly with property implications). Of the three that involve property, two have 49.  It is possible (in my opinion likely, although hardly provable) that, in cases where a person is mentioned by name but not explicitly linked to rabbis, this person should also be viewed as a member of rabbinic circles. See: y. Ter. 2.3, 41c; y. Ketub. 9.3, 33a; y. Giṭ. 4.2, 45c; see also y. ʿOr. 3.8, 63b (Babylonian). This would increase the proportion to 29%. 50. Fines: y. Kil. 7.4, 31a; y. Pesaḥ. 4.3, 30d (y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1.6, 39d); y. B. Qam. 8.8, 6c; an additional case involving the Babylonian Samuel appears at y. ʿOr. 3.8, 63b. Corporal punishment: y. Bik. 1.5, 64a (y. Qidd. 4.6, 66a). Unspecified: y. Yebam. 10.8, 11a; 12, 13a; y. Ketub. 7.10, 31d; y. Giṭ. 1.1, 43b.

272

Hayim Lapin

rabbis as parties to the case (a fine for shaming a rabbi; and the liability of a rabbi who erred in evaluating a coin). In the last, there is a penalty for selling an animal to a Gentile, hardly an area where we should assume broad compliance. A case assigned to the Babylonian Samuel adds the forced uprooting of commingled species (kilʾayim). These cases are in some respects similar to the tannaitic cases: what are at issue in these cases are largely matters of indifference to Roman and (with the possible exception of the public shaming of a local notable) city magistrates but of considerable interest to rabbis themselves. I am inclined to think that, as with tannaitic cases, the client base derives largely from connection to the rabbinic movement. But, whereas the implied party to the cases in tannaitic examples was an adherent of the movement, in amoraic cases the nature of the connection is broader and includes kinship and other social relations. 51 Finally, as with the tannaitic cases, there remains the question of the relationship between this picture, based on highly truncated narratives, and rabbinic authority in judicial practice. That rabbis served as adjudicators of ritual and property matters for people connected to them is plausible. If so, they did this in ways that were significantly different from the tannaim. Rabbis claimed to, and may well have expanded their activity and their reach in the third and fourth centuries. We have no direct way of measuring how far rabbinic influence extended, but the expansion of property and related issues in rabbinic judging may well be an index of the weakness of the Roman imperial state and the practical necessity, even institutionalization, of arbitration by its subjects. 52 What, then, of the underlying theme of coercion in some of the narratives? In the cases of Simeon b. Laqish, for instance, who fined someone for selling an animal to a Gentile, and of Abbahu, who wanted to flog a priest who had married the daughter of proselytes, there is no indication of how the “case” came to be judged at all. 53 Are these merely rabbinic fantasies of authority and power? One possible alternative is that on occasion disciples and other members of the rabbinic social network might have been mobilized to bring members before “judges” for correction. 54 If there was an increase of rabbinic enforcement, we should understand this in terms of the extension and intensification of the rabbinic social relations that were subject to such correction. It is also possible that the growth of rabbinic authority might be measured in terms of how often (and how effectively) rabbis were able to seize the opportunity 51.  See also Miller, Sages and Commoners. 52.  See J. Harries, Law and Empire in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 172–90; T. Gagos and P. van Minnen, Settling a Dispute: Toward a Legal Anthropology of Late Antique Egypt (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994); J. Modrzejewski, “Private Arbitration in the Law of Greco-Roman Egypt,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 6 (1952): 239–56. 53.  Y. Pesaḥ. 4.3, 30d (y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1.6, 39d); y. Bik. 1.5, 64a (y. Qidd. 4.6, 66a). 54. E.g., y. Yebam. 2.5, 4a; y. Qidd. 3.14, 64d (cf. Pesiq. Rab Kah. 4:3 [ed. Mandelbaum, 63–64; ed. Buber 35b–36a]; Gen. Rab. 7:20 [ed. Theodor-Albeck, 51–52]; and other parallels), the disciplining of Jacob of Kefar Nevoraya.

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to coerce people generally outside their reach (for example, a miscegenating priest) or in a broader community. 55 Discussing “the place of the sages in Jewish society,” Levine drew on evidence from the Yerushalmi that exertions of authority (institutions of practice, orders, announcements) were overwhelmingly directed at rabbis and their household members. 56 Judgment was perhaps distributed to a wider audience but would nevertheless have served a limited and precarious function. The situation is encapsulated by three traditions involving Abbahu. On the one hand, he is the one rabbi in our corpus to try to impose corporal punishment in a case, as we have seen. Yet attributed to him is the strongest statement of rabbinic judgment as arbitration. 57 Finally, there is the following curious letter attributed to Abbahu.   R. Hiyya, R. Yose, R. Imi judged Tamar.   She went and appealed to the proconsul of Caesarea with respect to them.   They sent and wrote to R. Abbahu.   R. Abbahu sent and wrote to them: We have already appeased the ‫ליטורין‬, TobYeled, Tob-Lamad, and Tarshish (Eutokos, Eumathes, Thalassios). But bitter Tamar remains in her bitterness, and we have sought to sweeten her, but “in vain the refiner refines” (Jer 6:29). 58

Is this a case of refusal to comply with a rabbinic verdict in a conflict, a kind of “arbitration” from the perspective of the governor in question, with an attempt to penalize nonconformity with rabbinic expectations, or something else altogether? Frustratingly, the passage does not say. It suggests, however, that a woman with wealth or political connections could cause trouble for rabbis who imposed judgment if she did not choose to accept the verdict. It is this precariousness—rooted also in class and status conventions—that underlies the history of the rabbinic class of Roman Palestine in late antiquity. 55. Cf. y. ʿAbod. Zar. 4.1, 43d: Yohanan orders bar Derosai to destroy the images, presumably of Tiberius, in the public bath. Is this an example of the use of force in imposing rabbinic will on a wider population? 56. Levine, Rabbinic Class, 127–33; his emphasis is slightly different from mine. 57.  Y. Sanh. 1.1, 18a. 58.  Y. Meg. 3.2, 74a. I thank Lee Levine for suggesting that I discuss this passage in this context. Proconsul: ‫ = אנטיפוטה‬ἀνθύπατoς. This term for ‘governor’ may imply a date of composition or alteration no earlier than the late fourth century. See L. Di Segni, Dated Greek Inscriptions from Palestine from the Roman and Byzantine Periods (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1997), 95–96. The text is difficult in several respects. For possible interpretations of ‫ליטורין‬, see D. Sperber, A Dictionary of Greek and Latin Legal Terms in Rabbinic Literature (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1984), 198–99. On balance, I wonder whether delatores ‘informers’ might not be correct after all. For the names and alternatives, see F. G. Hüttenmeister, Megilla, Schriftrolle (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1987), 119.

Rabbis, Preachers, and Aggadists An Aspect of Jewish Culture in Third- and Fourth-Century Palestine

David Levine Hebrew Union College, Jerusalem

Jewish Society and Rabbinic Perspective A century ago, Adolph Büchler published his monograph The Political and Social Leaders of the Jewish Community of Sepphoris in the Second and Third Centuries (1909). Four decades later, Gedalyahu Alon penned an essay entitled “‘Those Appointed for Money’: On the History of the Various Juridical Authorities in Eretz Yisrael in the Talmudic Period” (1947). Even now, these studies illuminate the variegated nature of ancient Jewish society. Both scholars present a society with different groups laying claim to positions of authority, each endeavoring to ensure itself this status. Büchler identified elements of Galilean society that constituted the region’s leadership throughout the centuries after the destruction of the Temple. These leaders were not associated with rabbinic circles. With the demographic shift northward in the aftermath of the Bar Kochba revolt, the relocating rabbis found a community with its own indigenous leadership. These leaders and their constituents had their own social and cultural agenda, which was not always to the liking of the talmudic rabbis. Alon, in his essay, described the parallel judicial systems functioning in third-century Palestine. He demonstrated the complexity of the situation by pointing, among other things, to a limited talmudic recognition of a “court of laymen” that did not preclude biting criticism of nonrabbinic judges who did not adjudicate according to rabbinic halakah. 1 1.  Adolph Büchler, The Political and Social Leaders of the Jewish Community of Sepphoris in the Second and Third Centuries (London: Jews’ College, 1909); Gedaliah Alon, “Those Appointed for Money,” Jews, Judaism and the Classical World (trans. Israel Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1977),

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While these two studies share the perspective of a variegated Jewish community, they differ fundamentally in their interpretive method. Büchler basically adopts the value judgment of the talmudic perspective. He speaks of “the corruption of the minds of all the people who had any dealings with the judges in Sepphoris” (p. 29); and says that the rabbis “soon learnt of the anomalies prevailing in the Galilean Jewish courts . . . they easily discovered serious mistakes and great injustice in the decisions of the Jewish judges” (p. 31). Judicial practice not based on talmudic norms is perceived as faulty and corrupt, and its correction is correlated with heightened rabbinic influence. For Büchler, the more the judicial process and the identity of its practitioners are associated with the rabbis and their halakah, the more positive the assessment of their mores and morals. Alon’s historical interpretation is conceptualized differently. He attempts to distinguish the evaluative context from the data that may be gleaned from it. Not all appointments to public office of a person who was not a member of the bet midrash or who did not uphold rabbinic standards were the result of corruption and bribery. [T]hese traditions testify to the conflict between the Sages—or some of them—and the Patriarchs on public issues. In other words, these traditions primarily reflect the clashes between the Patriarchs and the Sages, particularly in the sphere of their interrelationship and views. Hence, it is not surprising that our sources, which emanate from the world of the Sages, present the incidents tendentiously and with some suppression of the truth. (pp. 378–80)

By defining the agendum of his sources, Alon avoids constricting his interpretation to one specific perspective. Disentangling potential historical “data” from their interpretive or evaluative context—even before examining the nature and reliability of these “data”—is indeed a methodological imperative. The importance of this imperative is underscored when the majority of sources at our disposal come from the literature of just one group and therefore do not represent the variety of social forces active in this ancient Jewish society. Since the contributions of Büchler and Alon, this picture of social and cultural heterogeneity in the first centuries of the Common Era has been broadened and deepened. This is one of the major contextual-interpretive contributions of the past

374–435 (original Hebrew in Zion 12 [1947]: 101–35). For perspectives on these two historians and their comparison, see: Zalman Dimitrovsky, “Gedaliah Alon,” Kiryat Sefer 26 (1951): 308–9 [Hebrew]; Isaiah Gafni, “On Gedalyahu Alon and His Role in the Study of Rabbinic Historiography,” Jewish Studies 41 (2002): 80 [Hebrew]. For assessments and critiques of Alon, see Jewish Studies 41 (2002): 71–106; Doron Mendels, Memory in Jewish, Pagan and Christian Societies of the Graeco-Roman World (London: T. & T. Clark, 2004), 130–42; A. Oppenheimer, “Gedalyahu Alon Fifty Years On,” Zion 69 (2004): 459–86 [Hebrew]. A critical-contextual portrayal of Büchler’s role in the development of talmudic historiography is a desideratum. I hope to address this point in a forthcoming essay on the conceptual role of biography in the formation of talmudic historiography in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

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two generations of critical historiography addressing this period. 2 For the most part, historians no longer posit Yavneh as a focal point that united Jewish society under rabbinic auspices or as a cultural event determining the basic contours of Judaism from then on. 3 No longer do they deem Jewish spiritual and religious expression 2.  For a comprehensive overview with ample annotation, see the contributions of Shaye J. D. Cohen, David Goodblatt, Hayim Lapin, and Seth Schwartz in The Cambridge History of Judaism (vols. 3–4; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999–2006), 3:922–90; 4:23–52, 206–29, 404–30. The priests present another identifiable group with aspirations of leadership. On their continuing presence and influence in Jewish society after the destruction, see the literature cited in Daniel Schwartz, “From Priests at Their Right to Christians at Their Left,” Tarbiz 71 (2005): 22 n. 3 [Hebrew]. For the kohanim in the Byzantine period, see Oded Irshai, “The Priesthood in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center and Yad Ben-Zvi, 2004), 67–106 [Hebrew]; idem, “Confronting a Christian Empire: Jewish Culture in the World of Byzantium,” in Cultures of the Jews: A New History (ed. D. Biale; New York: Schocken, 2002), 192–204; D. Amit, “Priests and the Memory of the Temple in the Synagogues of Southern Judaea,” in Continuity and Renewal, 140–54 [Hebrew]. However, the issues of social leadership and political control are far more diversified than hakhamim and kohanim; we must account for patriarchs, urban aristocrats, landed gentry, Diaspora Jews present in Galilean society, Jewish elements associated with the Roman administration, and more. See Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee: a.d. 132–212 (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanheld, 1983), 93ff.; Lee I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi / New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989), 98ff.; David Goodblatt, The Monarchic Principle: Studies in Jewish Self-Government in Antiquity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 131ff. Compare, however, the perspectives of Zeev Safrai, The Jewish Community in the Talmudic Period (Jerusalem: Shazar, 1995), 243ff.; Chana Safrai and Zeev Safrai, “Sages in a Struggle for Communal Leadership,” in Between Authority and Autonomy in Jewish Tradition (ed. A. Sagi and Z. Safrai; Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1997), 261–80 [Hebrew]; idem, “Were the Sages a Dominant Elite? ” in The Path of Peace: Studies in Honor of Israel Friedman Ben-Shalom (ed. D. Gera and M. Ben-Zeev; Beer-Sheva: Ben Gurion University Press, 2005), 373–440 [Hebrew]. See also the contributions of Hillel Newman, Chana Safrai and Zeev Safrai, David Levine, and Moshe David Herr in Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern (ed. L. I. Levine and D. R. Schwartz; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009). 3.  The following references portray Yavneh as a unifying religious and social focal point: Gedalyahu Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (2 vols.; trans. Gershon Levi; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1984–85), 1:86–118; S. Safrai and M. Stern, eds., The Jewish People in the First Century (2 vols.; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1974–76), 1:404–12; Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish Pe​ople in the Age of Jesus Christ (ed. Geza Vermes and Fergus Millar; 3 vols.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1973–87), 1:524–27; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis and the End of Jewish Sectarianism,” HUCA 55 (1984): 27–53. For a more skeptical perspective, see the following: David Goodblatt, “The Jews of Eretz Yisrael: 70–132,” in Judea and Rome: The Jewish Revolts (ed. U. Rappaport; Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1983), 163–81 [Hebrew]; idem, “Iudaea between the Revolts: Trends in Recent Scholarship,” in Jüdische Geschichte in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit (ed. A. Oppenheimer; Munich: Oldenbourg, 1999), 101–18; Dalia Ben-Haim Trifon, “Some Aspects of Internal Politics Connected with the Bar-Kokhva Revolt,” in The Bar-Kokhva Revolt: A New Approach (ed. A. Oppenheimer and U. Rappaport; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1984), 13–26, esp. pp. 13, 25 [Hebrew]; Daniel Boyarin, “A Tale of Two Synods: Nicaea, Yavneh, and Rabbinic

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during these centuries as basically coterminous with talmudic creativity. 4 Much more was going on. It is important to distinguish between the issue of rabbinic hegemony and authority on the one hand and the matter of the normativity of rabbinic religion on the other. 5 The question of whether the rabbis of mishnaic and talmudic fame were the religious and social leaders of Jewish society is not to be conflated with the problem of whether the beliefs and practices of these rabbis are to be seen as representative of the way most of Jewish society viewed its culture. One can posit a connection between these two interpretive issues, but it is crucial to distinguish between them.

Ecclesiology,” Exemplaria 12/1 (2000): 21–62; idem, “The Yavneh Legend of the Stammaim,” Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 151–201; Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 bce to 640 ce (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 103–28; Hayim Lapin, CHJ 4:206–29. For a reexamination of the talmudic evidence resulting in a curtailed picture of rabbinic authority in Yavneh, see Haim Shapira, “The Court in Yavneh: Status, Authority and Functions,” in Studies in Jewish Law: Judge and Judging (ed. Y. Habba and A. Radzyner; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2007), 305–34 [Hebrew]. 4.  I will only supply a sample of the studies devoted to this issue, listing a few of the pioneering works of half a century ago and some current scholarship devoted to central topics in Late Antique Jewish culture. Mid-twentieth-century pioneers: Erwin R. Goodenough, “The Rabbis and Jewish Art in the Greco-Roman Period,” HUCA 32 (1961): 269–79; idem, “Judaism at Dura Europos,” IEJ 11 (1961): 161–70; Morton Smith, “Goodenough’s Jewish Symbols in Retrospect,” JBL 86 (1967): 53–68. Smith speaks of an “enormous variety of personal, doctrinal, political, and cultural divergences which the rabbinic and other evidence reveals” (p. 67). Art: Lee Levine, “Contextualizing Jewish Art: The Synagogues at Hammat Tiberias and Sepphoris,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. R. Kalmin and S. Schwartz, Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 91–131; idem, “Figural Art in Ancient Judaism,” Ars Judaica 1 (2005): 9–26; Steven Fine, Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). Magic: Yuval Harari, “The Sages and the Occult,” in The Literature of the Sages (ed. S. Safrai et al.; 2 vols.; Assen: Van Gorcum / Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987–2006), 2:521–64; Michael D. Swartz, “Jewish Magic in Late Antiquity,” CHJ 4:699–720. Synagogues: Lee Levine, The Ancient Synagogue (2nd ed.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), ch. 13; Stuart S. Miller, “The Rabbis and the Non-Existent Monolithic Synagogue,” in Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue (ed. S. Fine; London: Routledge, 1999), 57–70; idem, “Epigraphical Rabbis, Helios, and Psalm 19: Were the Synagogues of Archaeology and the Synagogues of the Sages One and the Same? ” JQR 94 (2004–5): 27–76. Mysticism: Joseph Dan, History of Jewish Mysticism and Esotericism: Ancient Times (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Shazar, 2008) [Hebrew]; Rachel Elior, Temple and Chariot, Priests and Angels, Sanctuary and Heavenly Sanctuaries in Early Jewish Mysticism (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2002) [Hebrew]. Piyyut: Joseph Yahalom, Poetry and Society in Jewish Galilee of Late Antiquity (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1999) [Hebrew]; Ophir Münz-Manor, “Thoughts on the Character of Jewish and Christian Poetry in Late Antiquity,” Peamim 119 (2009): 131–72 [Hebrew]. 5.  The expression normativity of rabbinic religion addresses the issue of the representative character of talmudic culture; that is, was it the norm (actual or ideal) of the average person, and so rabbis served as religious guides, or was the religious-cultural reality much more diversified with the rabbis present but not necessarily a benchmark of Jewish spiritual expression?

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The Büchler and Alon studies we have been quoting focus on the social standing of the rabbis and the negotiation of power between them and other forces in society. I would like to use this multivocal perspective in presenting an issue that falls within the realm of the latter domain, addressing the cultural heterogeneity of Jewish society. The public sermon of Jewish antiquity, the derashah betzibbur, is commonly presented as being a rabbinic activity, and historians have seen the high-profile public oration as an expression of the religious leadership of this elite. Closer scrutiny will show that this rubric was not the exclusive domain of rabbinic figures and did not necessarily exemplify talmudic ideals. Non-rabbis filled this function, and their preaching was not always looked on with favor by talmudic rabbis. The issues and concerns articulated did not necessarily coincide with those of the rabbinic academy. These preachers are treated with ambivalence and sometimes with outright animosity when they are mentioned or alluded to in talmudic tradition. As we will demonstrate, this attitude extends to the subject matter as well, with extralegal explication, creativity, and preaching at times being treated with suspicion. This tension vis-à-vis nonrabbinic preachers and nontalmudic aggadah highlights yet other challenges for our understanding of Late Roman Jewish society.

Rabbis as Preachers Talmudic sources portray the phenomenon of the derashah betzibbur—the public sermon or homily—in some detail. This event brought a communal audience before a speaker, filling a social-cultural function. A person who delivered an oration intending to instruct, guide, comfort, cajole, excite, reprimand, or entertain, while using Scripture and its interpretation, stories and folktales, legends, parables, and aphorisms—this person’s appeal to his public would be enhanced by his authority and position of leadership. Even though there are those who would date the beginnings of this institution to pre-Hasmonean times, for our purposes it will suffice to say that during the first centuries of the Common Era this was a familiar and prevalent cultural institution among the Jews of Palestine.  6 6.  Leopold Zunz, Die gottesdienstlichen Vorträge der Juden historisch entwickelt (Berlin: Asher, 1932), 329–42 [Hebrew trans. C. Albeck; Jerusalem: Bialik, 1947], 163–68; Joseph Heinemann, Public Sermons in the Talmudic Period (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1982), 7–29 [Hebrew]; Itzchak Dov Gilath, “Teaching and Reading the Torah in the Synagogue on the Sabbath,” Studies in the Development of the Halakhah (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1992), 350–54 [Hebrew]; Jonah Fraenkel, The Methods of Aggadah and Midrash (2 vols.; Givataim: Yad Latalmud and Massada, 1991), 1:16–43 [Hebrew]; Hananel Mack, The Aggadic Midrash Literature (Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense, 1989), 38–48; Marc Hirshman, “The Preacher and His Public in Third Century Palestine,” JJS 42 (1991): 108–14. For a patristic perspective on preaching in antiquity, see F. B. Craddock, “Preaching,” ABD 5:451–54; Ramsey Macmullen, “The Preacher’s Audience (a.d. 350–400),” JTS 40 (1990): 503–11. On the need to distinguish between the sermon as preached

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Who was the darshan delivering the sermon? Who was deemed appropriate by the community to fill this position? When turning to the sources at our disposal, we would answer immediately that he would have been one of the rabbis or their dis­ciples, the group of religious intellectuals who occupy center stage in talmudic culture. This is the expected and natural answer of talmudic sources regarding the identity of a preacher held in esteem by his public. Let us illustrate this obvious assertion with the following well-known source, found in Genesis Rabbah and the Yerushalmi, describing R. Yohanan and his two students as active darshanim: ′‫רבי יהודה בר נחמן ורבי לוי הוון נסבין מן תרתין סלעין בכל שובה למצמתא ציבורא דר‬ ‫ הדין יונה משל‬,‫ על רבי יוחנן ודרש‬. . . ‫ הדין יונה משל זבולון הוה‬,‫ על רבי לוי ואמר‬.‫יוחנן‬ ‫ אף על גב דשבתא דידך סב תרתין סלעין‬,‫ אמר ליה רבי לוי לרבי יהודה בר נחמן‬. . . ‫אשר‬ ‫פ שלמדנו רבי יוחנן בשבת זו שעברה הדין יונה משל‬″‫ אע‬,‫ לוי ואמר‬′‫ על ר‬.‫ושבקי דניעול‬ ‫ אמרתה מן קאים תזכי‬,‫ אמר ליה‬. . . ‫ אלא אביו משל זבולון ואמו משל אשר‬,‫אשר היה‬ .‫ ושמש דרוש שתים ועשרים שנה‬.‫ותימרינה מן יתיב‬ R. Judah bar Nahman and R. Levi would take two selaʿim every Shabbat for [preaching to facilitate] assembling the audience of R. Yohanan. R. Levi entered [to preach] and said, “Jonah was from [the tribe of] Zebulun.” . . . R. Yohanan entered and said, “Jonah was from Asher.” . . . R. Levi said to R. Judah b. Nahman, “Even though this is your Shabbat, take two selaʿim and let me enter [instead of you].” R. Levi entered and said, “Even though R. Yohanan taught us this past Shabbat that Jonah was from [the tribe of] Asher, his father was from Zebulun and his mother from Asher.”. . . . He [R. Yohanan] said to him, “You have said [preached] it standing, may you achieve saying it while sitting down [i.e., may you be appointed as a regular, permanent preacher].” And he served as a darosh [preacher] twenty-two years. 7 and the literary refraction that is extant, see: Joseph Heinemann, “Profile of a Midrash: The Art of Composition in Leviticus Rabbah,” JAAR 39 (1971): 143–45 [see also the expanded Hebrew version in Hasifrut 2 (1971): 808–11]; Fraenkel, Methods of Aggadah, 1:435–60; Avigdor Shinan, “Aggadic Literature: Between Oral Performance and Written Tradition,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore 1 (1981): 44–60 [Hebrew]; Richard S. Sarason, “The Petihtot in Leviticus Rabba: ‘Oral Homilies’ or Redactional Constructions? ” JJS 33 (1982): 557–65; Marc Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), 23–30; Isaiah Gafni, “Public Sermons in Talmudic Babylonia: The Pirqa,” in Knesset Ezra, Literature and Life in the Synagogue: Studies Presented to Ezra Fleischer (ed. S. Elizur et al.; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1994), 125 nn. 21–23 [Hebrew]. 7.  Gen. Rab. 98:11 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 1261–62); y. Sukkah 5.1, 55a. See the literature cited in Stuart S. Miller, Sages and Commoners in Late Antique Erẹz Israel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 267–71; Avigdor Shinan, “From Where Did Jonah Come? ” in The Old Shall Be Renewed and the New Sanctified: Essays on Judaism, Identity and Culture in Memory of Meir Ayali (ed. Y. Friedlander et al.; Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2005), 182–95 [Hebrew]. On the term ʿal vedarash as indicating a public setting, see my Communal Fasts and Rabbinic Sermons (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 2001), 174–75 [Hebrew]. “Twenty-two” is to be construed as a typological number, indicating completeness or multitude, possibly because of the 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet or the 22 books in the Bible. See L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews (7 vols.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1909–38), 5:107 n. 98; J. Goldin, “Notes on the Fathers according to

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This maʿaseh, or δρᾶμα, as presented in the Yerushalmi, is instructive in the details of the setting it assumes. We may glean from this source that preaching, at least sometimes, was awarded compensation; that this could be a long-term occupation; and that a number of preachers could participate in a staged production: lesser-ranked sages or students would offer their words of Torah as a preface to the main part of the event, ensuring a large crowd when the senior sage appeared. This depiction takes for granted that rabbis and their immediate circle were the appropriate figures for public preachers. Similarly we read in the Bavli: ‫ חייא בר אבא‬′‫ אבהו דרש באגדתא ר‬′‫ ר‬.‫ חייא בר אבא איקלעו לההוא אתרא‬′‫ אבהו ור‬′‫ר‬ .‫ חלש דעתיה‬,‫ אבהו‬′‫ חייא בר אבא ואזול לגביה דר‬′‫ שבקוה כולי עלמא לר‬.‫דרש בשמעתא‬ ‫ אחד מוכר אבנים טובות ואחד‬,‫ לשני בני אדם‬,‫ אמשל לך משל למה הדבר דומה‬,‫אמר ליה‬ ‫ לא על זה שמוכר מיני סידקית? כל יומא הוה מלוה רבי‬,‫ על מי קופצין‬,‫מוכר מיני סידקית‬ ‫ ההוא יומא אלויה רבי אבהו‬.‫ משום יקרא דבי קיסר‬,‫חייא בר אבא לרבי אבהו עד אושפיזיה‬ .‫ ואפילו הכי לא איתותב דעתיה מיניה‬,‫לרבי חייא בר אבא עד אושפיזיה‬ R. Abbahu and R. Hiyya bar Abba happened upon a certain location; R. Abbahu preached on aggadic matters and R. Hiyya b. Abba preached on [halakic] traditions. All the public left R. Hiyya b. Abba and went to R. Abbahu. He [Hiyya] grew faint [with distress]. He [Abbahu] said to him, “I will offer you a parable: to what might this be likened? To two people—one selling precious stones and the other selling petty merchandise. Who is sought after? Is it not the one selling the petty merchandise? ” Every day [= usually] R. Hiyya b. Abba would accompany R. Abbahu to his lodgings because of the honor due to the authorities [lit., to the House of Caesar], 8 but on that day R. Abbahu accompanied R. Hiyya b. Abba to his lodgings [to show him respect and offer consolation]. Even so, his [Hiyya’s] mind was not at ease. 9 Rabbi Nathan,” Studies in Midrash and Related Literature (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1909), 80. This number may also have a midrashic-interpretive origin. In the Mek. deRabbi Ishmael (Bahodesh 3, ed. Horowitz-Rabin, p. 212), the number is derived from an interpretation of Num 10:36, “Return Lord, to Israel’s myriads of thousands [ribĕbôt alpê yiśrāēl],” understood (by miʿut rabim) to mean two 10,000s and two 1,000s. The same technique is employed in the Pesiq. Rab Kah. (Bahodesh Hashlishi 22, ed. Mandelbaum, p. 219 and parallels cited there), where Ps 68:18, “The chariots of God are myriads upon thousands [ribbōtaim alpê],” is taken to indicate 22,000 ministering angels accompanying God to Sinai. In ʾAbot R. Nat. A 3 end (ed. Schechter, 17); and b. B. Bat. 11a, 22 years are added to the life of “Binyamin HaTzaddik,” who supported a needy woman out of his own pocket. 8.  On this Caesarean sage and yekara debei keisar (b. Soṭah 40a, Yoma 73a, Sanh. 14a), see Lee Levine, “Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea,” in Christianity, Judaism and Other Greco-Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith (ed. Jacob Neusner; 4 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 4:67–69. 9.  B. Soṭah 40a (see The Babylonian Talmud with Variant Readings: Tractate Sotah II [Jerusalem: Yad Harav Herzog, 1979], 182–83). There are several late textual witnesses that indicate that R. Abbahu intended his words of comfort—the parable of the two salesmen—for the audience who attended the two public sermons. Some designate the sage’s words as plural: “R. Abbahu said to them,” and some have no specific addressee: “R. Abbahu said.” This would have the parable resonate as a public defense of and a show of solidarity with the chagrined rabbi.

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Here also, the scene described incorporates many features of the derashah and its communal setting. There had been more than one sermon offered to the public at a given time; 10 the public reception for these preaching performances was important to the people delivering the oration: preaching to an empty room was devastating. For our purposes, the role of rabbi as preacher is unself-consciously taken for granted by this source. 11 We have demonstrated the expected perception of a group that had slated itself in the principal position. Talmudic tradition was in the habit of casting its rabbinic protagonists as preachers, communicating their “words of Torah” to the public at large. On the other hand, there are sources—however few and far between—that indicate that this public function was more than the exclusive domain of rabbinic circles.

Nonrabbinic Preachers The source to which we now turn refers explicitly to the two main points of this essay, the nonrabbinic preacher and the marked ambivalence with which talmudic tradition regards the aggadic content of his public performance. In a telling text, two amoraim, R. Joshua ben Levi and R. Hiyyah bar Abba, rail against people who are associated with aggadah and illustrate the dire personal consequences of using this material: ‫ השומעה אינו‬,‫ הדורשה מתחרך‬,‫ הדא אגדתא הכותבה אין לו חלק‬,‫ יהושע בן לוי‬′‫ ר‬′‫אמ‬ ‫ אנא מן יומוי לא איסתכלית בספרא דאגדתא אלא חד זמן‬,‫ יהושע בן לוי‬′‫ ר‬′‫ אמ‬.‫מקבל שכר‬ ‫ אי‬,′‫ אמ‬,‫ חייה בר בא חמא חד ספר דאגדה‬′‫ ר‬.‫ אפילו כן אנא מתבעית בליליא‬. . . ‫איסתכלית‬ .‫ טבאות תקטע ידה דכתבתה‬′‫מה כת‬ R. Joshua b. Levi said, “This aggadah, whoever writes [copies] it has no place [in the world-to-come], whoever says [expounds, studies] it will scorch himself, whoever hears it receives no reward.” R. Joshua b. Levi said, “Never in my life [lit., in my days] have I looked at [consulted] a book of aggadah, except for once . . . and even so I am afraid at night.” R. Hiyyah b. Ba saw a book of aggadah and said, “[Even] if it is written properly, may the hand of whoever wrote it be cut off.” 12

This source describes an attack both on aggadic content and on the people who serve as its disseminators. Several issues appear here: the production of written copies of However, all these attestations are late medieval and found only in aggadic abridgments of the Bavli (see ibid., nn. 66–67 to line 21). 10.  On the distinction between shemaʿata—halakhic traditions—and aggadeta—their status in and out of the academy—see below on aggadah as an intellectual discipline. 11.  For a historical analysis of this source, see appendix: The Bavli and Palestinian Traditions, pp. 293–96 below. 12.  Y. Šabb. 16.1, 15c (ed. Academy for the Hebrew Language, 437–38); Soperim 16.2 (ed. Higger, p. 286); see Higger’s comments in his introduction to Masekhet Soperim, ibid., 24–25.

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aggadic books, the threatening heretical content, and the performance of aggadic content for an audience. Since articulating and hearing are coupled together, some public context is indicated. What stands out is the highly charged language directed at the preacher of aggadah and his audience. If we keep in mind that Joshua b. Levi is credited with many aggadic traditions throughout the talmudic corpus, and other aggadic traditions are recorded as being offered in his approving presence, then we cannot describe him as shunning aggadic material as such. 13 While the critique here is obvious, I suggest that aggadah was viewed by this sage (or the transmitters of this tradition) as a domain not totally under his control that he shared with other aggadic practitioners—authors and disseminators of a different aggadah—whom he saw as subversive. If we envision a generic phenomenon of scriptural exegesis and other rhetoric cast in the form of public preaching, in which different ideological elements of Jewish society took part, then the rivalry becomes clear. With rivalry come reservations and attempted delegitimation. The danger perceived by talmudic tradition was of such proportions—for how else are we to account for this unusually strong language—that even the potential audience of this preaching was censured. Our source forcefully condemns books of aggadah. The circulation of this written material must have been wide enough to warrant a biting reaction of this sort. This brings us to one of the unique characteristics of talmudic tradition: its oral nature. 14 The literature of the sages in these formative centuries was a body of oral material; its publication and circulation, its study and review were all done without the use of written copies. This was a mark of rabbinic identity during these centuries, and as such was meticulously upheld by them. 15 Therefore, a cultural field-of-play that 13.  Joshua b. Levi is referred to in the Bavli as baki beʾaggadah, an expert in aggadah (b. B. Qam. 55a, b. Moʿed Qat. 28b). On the meaning and etymology of baki, see Yizhak Wartsky, The Language of the Midrashim (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1970), 177–83 [Hebrew]; Henoch Yalon, Studies in the Hebrew Language (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1971), 314–15 [Hebrew]. 14.  Saul Lieberman, “The Publication of the Mishnah,” Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1950), 83–99; M. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 bce–400 ce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 65ff.; idem, “Oral Transmission of Knowledge as Rabbinic Sacrament,” in Study and Knowledge in Jewish Thought (ed. H. Kreisel; Beer-Sheva: Ben Gurion University Press, 2006), 65–79; Yaakov Sussmann, “Torah Shebeʿal Peh Understood Literally,” Mehqerei Talmud 3 (2005): 209ff. [Hebrew]; Marc Bregman, “The Mishnah as Mystery,” Mehqerei Talmud 3 (2005): 105 n. 16 [Hebrew]. On written copies of aggadic books, see M. B. Lerner, “Works of Aggadic Midrash,” in The Literaure of the Sages (ed. S. Safrai et al.; 2 vols.; Assen: Van Gorcum / Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987–2006), 2:144–45. 15.  See, inter alia, y. Peʾah 2.6, 17a; Pesiq. Rab. 5 (ed. Friedman, 14b; Rivka Ulmer, ed. Pesiqta Rabbati: A Synoptic Edition [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997], 51–52); Tanh. Ki Tissa 34; Num. Rab. 14:10. On these texts, see A. Baumgarten, “Justinian and the Jews,” in Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Memorial Volume (ed. L. Landman; New York: Ktav, 1980), 40–43; Marc Bregman, “Mishnah and LXX as Mystery,” in Continuity and Renewal (ed. L. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center and Yad Ben-Zvi, 2004), 333–42. In one form or another, this commitment to the oral nature of

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consulted written books was by definition at odds with rabbinic norms. Of course, the issue was not limited to the written work, because it would be difficult to imagine this reaction having nothing to do with the content of the material. The immediate context of this tradition in the Yerushalmi is a discussion of appropriate and legitimate texts to be studied. Gilyonim and siprei minin (Gospels and books of heretics) are mentioned as being unworthy of rescue from a fire. 16 This nexus of form and content indicates how much potential there was for this rival, subversive aggadah to be widely disseminated and to acquire a popular audience. One of the most explicit sources commenting on this type of occurrence served Alon in his aforementioned essay: ,‫ אמרו ליה ליהודה בר נחמני מתורגמניה דריש‬.‫דבי נשיאה אוקמו דיינא דלא הוה גמיר‬ ‫ פתח ואמר “הוי אומר לעץ‬,‫ גחין עליה ולא אמר ליה ולא מידי‬,‫ קם‬.‫ קום עליה באמורא‬,‫לקיש‬ ‫ וכל רוח אין בקרבו” (חבקוק‬,‫ הנה הוא תפוש זהב וכסף‬,‫ הוא יורה‬,‫ עורי לאבן דומם‬,‫הקיצה‬ ”‫ בהיכל קדשו הס מפניו כל הארץ‬′‫ שנאמר “וה‬,‫ה ליפרע ממעמידין‬″‫ ועתיד הקב‬,)‫יט‬ ,‫ב‬ .)‫כ‬ ‫(שם‬ The patriarchal house appointed a judge who was not learned. They instructed Judah bar Nahmani, the meturgeman [interpreter, explicator] of Resh Laqish, to serve as his [= the appointed judge’s] amora [interpreter]. He [Judah] bent over [to hear his words], but he [the judge] said nothing. He [Judah] began explicating and said, “‘Oh you who say, ‘Wake up’ to wood, ‘Awaken’ to inert stone! Can that provide instruction? Behold, it is entangled in gold and silver, and there is no spirit inside it’ (Hab 2:19). The Holy One Blessed be he is destined to exact payment from those who have appointed them, as it is said, ‘But the Lord, from his holy sanctuary, will have all the earth silent before him’ (2:20).”  17 tradition continues into the fifth and sixth centuries: Augustine on deuterosis (CCSL 94:87–89); and Justinian prohibiting the deuterosis from public preaching in his Novella 146 of 553 c.e.; see Amnon Linder, The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1987), 402–11. 16.  The halakic context of this source is the problem of rescuing different items from a fire on Shabbat. The legal issue conflates the prohibition of extinguishing the flames (of course, when the consideration of endangering human life is not present) with the restriction of carrying objects from one domain to another (in this case, from the burning house to the common yard). Scrolls of Scripture were deemed worthy of recovery but not other writings, even if they included the Tetragrammaton (t. Šabb. 13.5, ed. Lieberman, 58; y. Šabb. 16.1, 15c; b. Šabb. 116a [see Dikdukei Soperim, ad loc., note samekh]). Our source adds books of aggadah to the list of writings not worthy of a potential Sabbath infraction. 17.  B. Sanh. 7b. On the text of this passage from the Bavli, see Mordechai Sabato, A Yemenite Manuscript of Tractate Sanhedrin and Its Place in the Text Tradition (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi and Hebrew University, 1998), 115–16 [Hebrew]. For a comparison of this passage with a partial Palestinian parallel (y. Bik. 3.3, 65d), see Martin Jacobs, Die Institution des jüdischen Patriarchen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), 176–79. Here too, we are marshaling sources from the Bavli in order to demonstrate a facet of life in Israel (see appendix). Indeed, these sources are ascribed to Palestinian provenance—an anecdote concerning Palestinian amoraim and a purported baraita (see below on b. Taʿan. 15a)—but this literary convention is of course not proof. The main con-

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This parody is directed toward an appointment that did not meet the approval of talmudic tradition. 18 The incompatibility of the appointed person with the demands of the position is presented in a public venue. One of the expectations was that such a person would be able to preach in public. He was therefore supplied with an amora (= meturgeman) in the person of Judah b. Nahmani. The role of the (me)­turgeman was to repeat loudly and provide additional explanation for the words spoken by his principal in public, thereby enhancing his public image. 19 The unnamed judge is presented as a caricature of a public official who is unable to perform. Judah is used to attending upon the best and the brightest, and his personal affront reflects the inner perspective of talmudic expectation. He seizes the opportunity and delivers an oration ridiculing the unlearned judge and challenging the corrupt system that had appointed him. Distinguishing between the scathing talmudic critique and the reality to which it might be responding is crucial for our analysis. The assumed ignorance of the appointed official is first and foremost an indicator of his not being part of the reference group of the protagonist Judah. We will never know the true depth (or lack thereof) of this type of person’s knowledge, but the evaluation of talmudic tradition cannot be posited as the standard, just as the alleged corruption of the appointment process cannot be established on the basis of the data at hand. As mentioned, public preaching is presented as being part of the job description and public expectation of this appointment. While it may be possible to ridicule the inability to preach, it is revealing that belittling a nonrabbinic public preacher was deemed necessary. The circumstances of this public speech and its content are unclear, but we can discern a coalescing of features associated with a derashah betzib­bur: a figure of authority, a public context, a speech, and a meturgeman/amora. Nonetheless, the person filling this function is not a rabbi, and even though a cultural or social portrait of this “other” preacher is not possible, his basic “otherness” to rabbinic circles is clear. The verifiability of the criticism is moot; the tension that this tradition exhibits with regard to a nonrabbinic leader’s oration is plain. The story sideration that tilts the issue in favor of accepting the attributed Palestinian context is the nature of the interaction between rabbis and nonrabbis that is implied in these texts. The Bavli will seldom characterize the sages of Sura and Pumbedita as being in competition with or as being encroached upon by other, nonamoraic elements of society. This would not accord with the Bavli’s socially self-assured portrayal of its local protagonists. See the discussion and annotation in the appendix. 18.  Alon, “Those Appointed for Money,” 374 n. 1; Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 168–70. 19.  The Palestinian turgeman is the Babylonian amora or meturgeman (Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period [Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1990], 578; idem, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic of the Talmudic and Geonic Periods [Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2002], 139, 719). On this role, see Henry Malter, The Treatise Taʿanit of the Babylonian Talmud with a Translation and Notes (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1967), 42–43 n. 53; Heinemann, Public Sermons, 10–11; Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kifshutah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1962), 5:1223–24; Y. M. Kosovsky, “The Meturgeman in the Public Sermon in the Synagogue,” Sinai 45 (1959), 233–43 [Hebrew].

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expresses vociferous opposition to the appointment of nonrabbinic figures as judges and preachers. Its response indicates the ongoing nature of this challenge. The Mishnah preserves a detailed description of a fast-day ritual. The public gathered in the city square in times of communal distress, and a key element of this activity was the sermon delivered by an elder: ‫ אחינו לא נאמר באנשי נינווה וירא אלהים את שקם‬,‫ לפניהם דברי כיבושים‬′‫הזקן שבהן אומ‬ ‫ ובקבלה‬,)‫ י‬,‫ואת תעניתם אלא “וירא אלהים את מעשיהם כי שבו מדרכם הרעה” (יונה ג‬ .)‫ יג‬,‫” (יואל ב‬′‫ אלהיכם וגו‬′‫ “וקרעו לבבכם ואל בגדיכם ושובו אל ה‬′‫מהוא אומ‬ The zaken [elder] among them speaks words of admonition [divrei kibbushim] to them, “Brethren, it was not said of the people of Nineveh that God saw their sackcloth and their fasting; rather, ‘God saw their actions, how they turned back from their evil ways’ (Jonah 3:10), and in tradition [= Prophets] it is said, ‘Rend your hearts and not your clothes, and return to the Lord your God’ (Joel 2:13).” 20

Talmudic tradition presents the derashah betzibbur, the public sermon, as the singular contribution of the rabbis to the fast-day ritual. It is always the sage, representing rabbinic perspective, who is slated as preacher. Other roles in this communal rite are often associated with nonrabbinic elements of society—Patriarchs, holy-men, communal leaders—but the sermon advocating introspection and good works is always placed in the mouth of a talmudic sage. This is the way talmudic tradition expresses the character of rabbinic participation in the colorful experience of the communal fast-day ritual. 21 The natural role of the rabbis in this setting as envisioned by their own traditions was that of the darshan. In this way, the fast-day sermon represents a meeting point of rabbi and community, where the rabbi offers guidance and conveys a message that is seen as appropriate for the day. With this in mind, it is anomalous and surprising to find a non-rabbi alluded to, however fleetingly, as a preacher in the fast-day setting. The Bavli presents a baraita that builds on the core of the mishnaic text: . . . ‫ ואם לאו אומר אדם של צורה‬,‫ ואם לאו אומר חכם‬,‫ אם יש שם זקן אומר זקן‬,‫תנו רבנן‬ ‫ שכן מצינו באנשי נינוה‬,‫ לא שק ותענית גורמים אלא תשובה ומעשים טובים גורמים‬,‫אחינו‬ ‫ אלא “וירא האלהים את מעשיהם כי‬,‫שלא נאמר בהם וירא האלהים את שקם ואת תעניתם‬ .)‫ י‬,‫שבו מדרכם הרעה” (יונה ג‬ Our rabbis taught, if an elder [zaken] is present then the elder speaks; if not then a sage [hakham] speaks . . . if not then a person of stature [adam shel tzurah] speaks . . . “Brethren, it is not sackcloth and fasting that determine [the worth of the ritual] but rather repentance and good deeds, for we have found it said of the people of

20.  M. Taʿan. 2:1 (copied from the Kaufman manuscript [Hungarian Academy of Science, Budapest, Kaufman collection A50], facsimile edition; The Hague: Beer, 1929; repr. Jerusalem: Makor, 1968). For perspectives on the fast-day ritual, see Levine, Communal Fasts, passim. 21.  Ibid., 142, 159, 167ff.

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Nineveh not that God saw their sackcloth and their fasting; rather, ‘God saw their actions [for they turned back from their evil ways]’ (Jonah 3:10).” 22

This preaching is designated as a main focus of the event. The congregated public listens to these “words of admonition” that convey the message of the day: repentance and good deeds are the appropriate means to alleviate public distress. The baraita prioritizes the people suitable to deliver the sermon: an elderly sage, a sage not advanced in years and, finally, an adam shel tzurah is named as an option. The translation for this expression would be ‘person of stature’, meaning one who commands the attention and respect of the community. 23 Though the descending order makes the preference clear, there is still the possibility of having an adam shel tzurah preach. There is no negative portrayal of this lay preacher and providing the sermon on the fast-day, even though the person is defined precisely as not being a rabbi or disciple. The context here presents itself as one in which assorted types of leaders may give a speech, and although talmudic tradition ideally assigns this role to its protagonists— the rabbis—it is aware that others may also fill this function. If we have been able to demonstrate that public preaching in Palestine was not the exclusive domain of the amoraim and that there were others who filled this cultural-social role, then we need to address this cultural reality. One could posit that around a nucleus of scholars and students others coalesced, having come from the group’s margins or originated from the outside. The preaching of these people may have been to the liking of the rabbinic establishment or may have been cause for consternation. Accordingly, this type of pararabbinic homilist or lay preacher would still not constitute a culturally or ideologically defined group but, rather, a less 22.  B. Taʿan. 16a (I have copied from the standard Vilna edition. For critical annotation, see Henry Malter, The Treatise Taʿanit of the Babylonian Talmud [New York: American Academy of Jewish Research, 1930], 58). On the use of a Bavli source for a Palestinian description, see appendix and n. 17 above. 23.  Pseudo-Rashi (ad loc.) suggests that an adam shel tzurah is a person of physically towering stature, “so that they [= the public] will heed and accept his words.” The Yerushalmi (y. Šeb. 8.11, 38b end) interprets the Mishnah (m. Šeb. 8:11) with the following source (possibly a baraita): “If he is mitḥashev he should not bathe, if he is adam shel tzurah he should not bathe.” Whether we see both parts of this sentence as synonymous—that is, that a “person of stature” is one well regarded by the community (S. Lieberman, “Religious Persecution in Israel,” in Studies in Palestinian Talmudic Literature [Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991], 380 n. 52)—or we see the Hithpael conjugation of mitḥashev as indicating that he only appears to be important (Pene Moshe commentary on the Yeru­shalmi, ad loc.), what is indicated is a person who is held in esteem by the community, or at least seems to be. Maimonides explains: “that is to say, if he is an important person and is respected and well regarded by people” (commentary on m. Šeb. 8:11). This definition of adam shel tzurah is borne out in other talmudic contexts. A Babylonian “person of stature” who had brought his bekhorot, his firstborn livestock, to the Temple was refused because a precedent would have been set (Midr. Tanaʾim ad Deut 14:22). Compare: Eikhah Rabbati 2:10 (ed. Buber, 58a); Tanḥ. Genesis 13, where this term seems to be associated with “rabbinic” activity; that is, members of the Sanhedrin or individuals engaged in Torah study. On the related halakic concept of adam ḥashuv, see the literature cited in Dinei Yisrael 18 (1995–96): 259 n. 25 [Hebrew].

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professional, less learned substitute for the darshan of the intellectual elite. This line of thinking posits the rabbis and their discourse as the standard for cultural creativity, and any such activity not emanating from their ranks and not having undergone their scrutiny is of lesser worth and lower quality. This type of conclusion rests on assumptions that reflect the perspective of talmudic sources—their values, their assumptions of hierarchy. This interpretive paradigm is untenable. The ancient rabbis and their literature had no interest in comprehensive historical depiction or in presenting a nuanced account of the society around them. Hence, the assumption that their vantage point captures the complexity of their surrounding society and culture is unacceptable and misleading. In many areas of public activity—including areas with religious and spiritual dimensions—we find other people and other groups filling similar functions. Therefore, preachers criticized by rabbis are not necessarily marginal or less competent but are simply parallel practitioners who were perceived as competition by rabbis. We must bear this in mind when we attempt to evaluate figures such as Yose of Maʿon, whose harsh public rebuke of the Patriarch is presented as a synagogue sermon. The contemporary Patriarch, Judah II, took offense, and Resh Laqish and R. Yohanan were needed as brokers in resolving the conflict. 24 In this case, the preacher, Yose, is presented in a sympathetic light and elicits the support of rabbinic figures. No reservations are articulated regarding the practice of this preaching or (implicitly) regarding the volatile content of this oration. This tradition serves to illustrate the problem of identifying and characterizing various figures and positions that we may encounter in the talmudic corpus. This Yose of Maʿon appears only once in the literature—in this tradition (in its various parallels). How are the relations between this character and rabbinic circles to be defined? Was he part of the academy, a sage, or student? Did he emerge from other circles? His serving as preacher and his familiarity with Scripture and its interpretation cannot be determining criteria. If we see all intellectual pursuit involving biblical verses or contemporary application as quintessentially rabbinic, placing its practitioner in the halls of the academy, then we are adopting one perspective and have fallen into the snare of not appreciating the heterogeneous character of the society and its culture. Who indeed was this Yose? Resh Laqish saw fit to shield him from the anger of the Patriarch, but is this enough to place him in rabbinic circles? It has been suggested that Resh Laqish’s counsel to the Patriarch was to absorb this venting of verbal opposition and criticism in order to avert any subversive action by the masses. 25 If so, then Yose represents a wider segment of society, specifically as a public preacher who was actualizing scriptural 24.  Gen. Rab. 80:1 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 950–53); y. Sanh. 2.5, 20c–d; cf. Tanḥ. Vayishlah (ed. Buber, 171). For a full textual presentation of the two parallel texts, with copious references, see Moshe D. Herr, “Synagogues and Theatres (Sermons and Satiric Plays),” in Knesset Ezra (ed. S. Elizur et al.; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1994), 105–19. 25.  Herr, quoting G. B. Shaw: “as long as men can talk politics they will never do anything except work for their daily bread” (Herr, ibid., 111 n. 26).

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interpretation, and not the rabbinic component of society. The one-time appearance of this figure in talmudic tradition cannot provide a clear resolution. In the absence of unambiguous evidence, the historian’s (pre)conception of ancient Jewish society will sway his answer and cast the figure of Yose one way or the other. A cautious approach will leave his social and cultural affinities unsettled. Whatever classification of the Yose of Maʿon figure one prefers, the concepts underlying the above analysis are important. The vicious circle must be avoided; automatically to place rhetorical prowess and biblical knowledge in the bet midrash is to assume a conclusion while still addressing the problem.

Aggadah and Aggadists Deut 11:22 speaks of “loving the Lord your God, walking in all His ways and cleaving to Him.” Sipre Deuteronomy asks the following: ,‫רשומות אומרים‬/‫ דורשי הגדות‬. . . ‫וכי היאך איפשר לו לאדם לעלות למרום ולדבק באש‬ ‫ שמתוך כך אתה מכיר את מי שאמר‬,‫רצונך להכיר את מי שאמר והיה העולם—למוד הגדה‬ .‫והיה העולם ומדבק בדרכיו‬ How is it possible for a person to ascend to heaven and cleave to fire? . . . Expounders of haggadot/reshumot would say, “If it is that you desire to know ‘He who spoke and the world came to be,’ study aggadah. As a result, you will come to know ‘He who spoke and the world came to be,’ and you will cleave to His ways.” 26

No source celebrates the spiritual potential of aggadah as explicitly and eloquently as this one. Studying aggadah will not only promote knowledge of God but will enable adhering to Divine ways, with almost physical overtones. Thus, aggadah finds pride of place in the rabbinic pursuit of Torah. It is puzzling, therefore, to encounter talmudic traditions, especially those of Palestinian provenance, that articulate reservations about aggadah as an occupation. 27 Moreover, some sources give the impression of reserve and mistrust toward people who are occupied with scriptural interpretation 26.  Sipre Deuteronomy 49 (ed. Finkelstein, p. 115). The ascription of this tradition remains elusive. The manuscript evidence records two text variants, one crediting aggadists and the other referring to dorshei reshumot. This last phrase has been alternately explained as allegorical interpreters, expounders of obscure or sealed verses, and interpreters by analogy. See Jacob Z. Lau­ terbach, “The Ancient Jewish Allegorists in the Talmud and Midrash,” JQR n.s. 1 (1910): 304–5; Ephraim E. Urbach, The Halakhah, Its Sources and Development (Givataim: Yad LaTalmud, 1984), 71 and 74 n. 34 [Hebrew]; Daniel Boyarin, “Dorshei Reshumot Amru,” Beer Sheva 3 (1988): 23–35 [Hebrew] and references there, nn. 2 and 4. 27.  Levi Ginzberg, Halakhah and Aggadah (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1960), 220–21, 295 n. 3 [Hebrew]; Joseph Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), 14–15, 163–70 [Hebrew]; idem, “The Nature of Aggadah,” in Midrash and Literature (ed. G. H. Hartman and S. Budick; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986), 52–53; Judah Goldin, “The Freedom and Restraint of Haggadah,” Studies in Midrash (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1909),

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and its use for religious, ideological, and even esthetic purposes. An occupation of this sort had subversive and heretical potential. Therefore, the practitioners who were outside rabbinic circles were deemed a threat. We have reviewed R. Joshua b. Levi’s diatribe foreseeing dire consequences for those who engage in aggadah, whether actively or passively, whether orally or in writing. Another extreme articulation of this reservation is R. Zeʿera’s harsh censure of ʾeilin deʾaggadetah (those of aggadah): ‫ זעירא מקנתר לאילין דאגדתא‬′‫ לוי הוון יתיבין והוה ר‬′‫ אבא בר כהנא ור‬′‫ זעירא ור‬′‫ ר‬,‫דלמא‬ ‫ שאל ואינון מגיבין‬.‫ למה את מקנתר לון‬,‫ בא בר כהנא‬′‫ ליה ר‬′‫ אמ‬.‫ סיפרי קיסמי‬,‫וצווח להון‬ .)‫ יא‬,‫ “כי חמת אדם תודך שאירית חימות תחגור” (תהילים עו‬′‫ מהו הדין דכת‬,‫ ליה‬′‫ אמ‬.‫לך‬ ,‫ ליה‬′‫ אמ‬.‫ “שאירית חימות תחגור” לעולם בא‬,‫ “כי חמת אדם תודך” בעולם הזה‬,‫ ליה‬′‫אמ‬ ′‫ ר‬′‫ אמ‬.‫ “שאירית חימות תחגור” בעולם הזה‬,‫או נימר “כי חמת אדם תודך” בעולם הבא‬ ′‫ ר‬′‫ אמ‬.‫ כשתעורר חמתך על הרשעים צדיקים רואין מה את עושה להן והן מודין לשמך‬,‫לוי‬ .‫ לא שמעינן מינה כלום‬,‫ היא הפכה והיא מהפכה‬,‫זעירה‬ A story, R. Zeʿera and R. Abba b. Kahana and R. Levi were sitting, and R. Zeʿera was harshly rebuking “those of aggadah” and howling at them, “Scribes [maybe: books] 28 of magic!” R. [Ab]ba b. Kahana said to him, “Why are you rebuking them? Ask them and let them [or: us] respond.” He [Zeʿera] asked them, “What is the meaning of the verse ‘For the fury of man will acknowledge You, and You will gird the remaining fury’ (Ps 76:11)? ” They answered, “‘The fury of man will acknowledge You’—in this world; ‘You will gird the remaining fury’—in the world to come.” He [Abba b. Kahana] responded, “Or we might say, ‘The fury of man will acknowledge You’—in the world to come; ‘You will gird the remaining fury’—in this world.” R. Levi said, “When Your rage at the wicked is awakened, the righteous will see what is done to them [to the wicked] and will give thanks to Your Name.” R. Zeʿera said, “It [lit.: she] turns and it overturns, and we learn nothing from it.”  29

Besides the subversive content of aggadah—magic, no less—it is possible that the written form alluded to is unacceptable to the rabbi, though the ensuing response of his colleagues does not dwell on this point. 30 The conclusion formulating the un­ 264–67; Avraham Rosenthal, “Oral Torah and Torah from Sinai,” Mehqerei Talmud 2 (1993): 456–60 n. 34 [Hebrew]. 28. Compare t. Ḥul. 2.20 (ed. Zuckermandel, 203), where things associated with a min are ostracized, among them “their books are sifrei kosmin [books of magic, or of magicians].” 29.  y. Maʿaś. 3.10, 51a (ed. Academy for the Hebrew Language, 276; ed. Y. Feliks [Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2005], 173–74; Synopse zum Talmud Yerushalmi, 1/6–11 [ed. P. Schäfer and H. J. Becker; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992], 196–97). On this source, see Heinemann, “The Nature of Aggadah,” 52; Fraenkel, Methods of Aggadah, 2:493–95; Moshe David Herr, “Aggadah and Midrash in the World of the Rabbis in Palestine,” in ‘Higayon l’Yona’: New Aspects in the Study of Midrash, Aggadah and Piyut—In Honor of Professor Yonah Fraenkel (ed. J. Levinson et al.; Jerusalem: Magnes, 2007), 142 [Hebrew]. 30.  See above, n. 14. Shlomo Yehudah Rapaport in his Sefer ʿErekh Milin (repr. Jerusalem: Makor, 1970), 8 (s.v. ‫)אגדה‬, sees this and other criticism of aggadah pointed specifically at its written form: “Indeed with all the affection some Tannaim had for circulating aggadot orally . . .

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acceptability of aggadah turns attention directly toward the content of this pursuit: “It turns and it overturns, and we learn nothing from it.” The equivocal nature of its teaching cannot be the basis of legitimate instruction. The appellative baʿalei aggadah (‘masters of aggadah’)—in contrast to rabbanan deʾaggadeta (‘rabbis of aggadah’)—seems to forge the middle ground. 31 While the term carries with it a sense of distance from the mainstream of rabbinic society, the interpretive traditions of these people are considered worthy and legitimate. They are presented as possessing a body of knowledge, and rabbis are presented as approaching them for that knowledge. R. Joshua b. Levi formulated the following: “I have sought out all baʿalei aggadah of the south [in order] to explain [lit., say] this verse to me, and they were not able until I met [lit., stood] with Judah b. Pedayah.” 32 Even R. Shmuel b. Nahman was referred to as a baʿal aggadah whose expertise seems distant but was still sought: “Because I have heard that you are a baʿal aggadah, what is the meaning? ” 33 R. Abbahu’s well-known sparring with the minim (‘heretics’) of Caesarea (even if the idiom is generic and the group not specifically identifiable) shows clearly that part of the motivation for developing and strengthening a discipline of scriptural interpretation is a sense of rivalry and polemic with others who engage the same texts and who have comparable theological issues. 34 The distinction drawn between there were others who criticized the books written on these matters (of aggadah). This is without doubt because of the support it could provide the fools in understanding only the simple meaning of things (‫ )דברים כפשוטם‬. . . and (supporting) overly clever people (‫ )מתחכמים‬in their ridicule.” 31. Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development, 212 n. 4; Fraenkel, Methods of Aggadah, 1:23–26; Marc Hirshman, “Where Were the Aggadic Midrashim Situated? Who Are Baʿalei Haʾaggadah? ” Mehqerei Talmud 3 (2005): 203–7 [Hebrew]. 32.  Gen. Rab. 94:5 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 1174). 33.  Gen. Rab. 3:4 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 20); Gen. Rab. 12:10 (108). On baʿalei (h)aggadah, see Fraenkel, Methods of Aggadah, 1:23. 34.  B. ʿAbod. Zar. 4a. Levine, “Rabbi Abbahu”; Samuel T. Lachs, “Rabbi Abbahu and the Minim,” JQR 60 (1970): 197–212. Adiel Schremer asserts the Babylonian provenance of this story, notwithstanding its characters and purported venue, because of no Palestinian parallel and the assumed nature of Jewish Christian dialogue in Sassanian Babylonia (“Stammaitic Historiography,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors to the Aggada [ed. J. L. Rubenstein; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2005], 223–24); see appendix and n. 17 for criteria in using Babylonian traditions for evaluating Palestinian contexts. On minim in talmudic literature, see Yaakov Sussmann, “The History of Halakah and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 53– 55 n. 176 [Hebrew]; Stuart S. Miller, “The Minim of Sepphoris Reconsidered,” HTR 86 (1993): 377–402; Richard Kalmin, “Christians and Heretics in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” HTR 87 (1994): 155–69; Martin Goodman, “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in Geschichte, Tradition, Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel (vol. 1; ed. P. Schäfer; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1996), 501–10; Christine E. Hayes, “Displaced Self-Perceptions: The Deployment of Minim and Romans in b. Sanhedrin 90b–91a,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Roman Palestine (ed. H. Lapin; Betheseda, MD: University Press of Maryland, 1998), 249–89. On the issue of birkat haminim, see the literature listed by Joseph Tabory, Jewish Prayer and Yearly Cycle: A List of Articles (Supplement to Kiryat Sefer 64; Jerusalem, 1992–93), 114–15; David Hentshke,

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Babylonia and Palestine attributes this developed intellectual pursuit within Palestinian rabbinic circles to the reality of engaging other interpretations and tenets. This might be collated with the numerous parallels between rabbinic midrash and patristic tradition, often interpreted as being in dialogue. 35 Whatever the extent of this dialogue—whether ubiquitous or of more modest proportions 36—these conscious responses create a common ground of scriptural exposition and public preaching that is perceived as competitive and intimidating. Aggadah is prominent in this common ground. It goes without saying that the rabbis themselves dealt with aggadic material and creatively negotiated Scripture and its extralegal application in their various literary compilations. This material in itself was deemed legitimate and was included as a matter of course in the totality of subject matter that comprised the object of Torah study. 37 The reservations, when voiced, are directed toward aggadic practitioners who did not emerge from the talmudic academy or who did not necessarily stay within the contours of rabbinic form and content. We find traces of this attitude in several sources, and the issue taken with these people, who represent a rival creativity, is at times acerbic.

Diverse Cultural Expressions Our study warrants the following conclusions. The appropriate interpretive context in which to examine and assess rabbinic activity in Late Antiquity is one of social diversity and cultural heterogeneity. A “Parshat HaIbur and the Blessing of the Apostates,” in From Qumran to Cairo: Studies in the History of Prayer (ed. J. Tabory; Jerusalem: Orhot, 1999), 90–96 [Hebrew]; Philippe Bobichon, “Persécutions, Calomnies, Birkat Haminim,” REJ 162 (2003): 416 n. 61; Yaakov Teppler, Birkat haMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflict in the Ancient World (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). 35.  Judith R. Baskin, “Rabbinic-Patristic Exegetical Contacts in Late Antiquity: A Bibliographic Reappraisal,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism 5 (1985): 53–80; Hirshman, Rivalry of Genius; Burton Visotsky, Fathers of the World: Essays in Rabbinic and Patristic Literatures (Tübingen: Mohr, 1995); Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); idem, Border Lines; Israel J. Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Age (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 1–91; Adam Kamesar, “Church Fathers, Rabbinic Midrash and,” in Encyclopedia of Midrash (ed. J. Neusner and A. J. Avery-Peck; Leiden: Brill 2005), 20–40; idem, “The Church Fathers and Rabbinic Midrash: A Supplementary Bibliography,” Review of Rabbinic Judaism 9 (2006): 190–96; Moshe Halbertal and Shlomo Naeh, “Exegetical Satire and a Response to Heretics,” in ‘Higayon l’Yona’ (ed. J. Levinson et al.; Jerusalem: Magnes, 2007), 179–97 [Hebrew]; Menahem Kister, “Some Early Jewish and Christian Exegetical Problems and the Dynamics of Monotheism,” JJS 37 (2006): 548–93. 36.  Alon Goshen-Gottstein, “Polemomania: Methodological Reflections on the Study of the Judaeo-Christian Controversy in Light of the Interpretations of Origen and the Rabbis to Canticles,” Jewish Studies 42 (2003–4): 119–90. 37.  Rosenthal, “Oral Torah,” 456–60 n. 34.

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convenient correlation between the perspective of our main body of sources (talmudic literature) and the complexity of Jewish society and its culture is not possible. Cultural domains previously thought to be quintessentially rabbinic, such as synagogue practice (whether prayer texts, Aramaic translation of Scripture, the derashah betzibbur, or decorative art), must now be cast within the diversity of expression that characterizes Jewish society of the times. Public preachers and aggadic creators, not of the rabbinic academy and its immediate environment, are present and attested by the talmudic protestations we have surveyed. Here too, a cultural occupation formerly thought to be associated with the rabbis of the Talmud is now perceived as a socially diverse and culturally cacophonous area. From a talmudic perspective, this diffuse occupation with scriptural interpretation and homiletic presentation was a sign of shallow popularity or heretical persuasion and was often satirically depicted as both. This perspective should not limit the purview of a more nuanced appreciation. Acknowledging the perspective of talmudic tradition is not the methodological point that has been encountered in this presentation. 38 The basic phenomenon of the literary quality of talmudic tradition, its textuality, renders the assumption of transparency impossible. A talmudic text is forever an active intermediary between the reader and the background that gave rise to the creation of that text. It is not a transparent agent devoid of added value or a contribution of its own. This is true of Palestinian talmudic tradition, from the Mishnah down to the aggadic midrashim, no less than it is true of the Bavli. If criteria may be formulated for using the former in a quest for a historical depiction of Palestinian society, then the same should be true for the latter. To be sure, these criteria will be different, even more burdensome for the Bavli than for the Yerushalmi, but the potential of the Babylonian traditions is too great for a blanket renunciation of this material. We have encountered an infrequent rabbinic admission of rivalry in a field they felt should be exclusively their own. This is not an isolated occurrence but instead serves to illustrate the potential of fashioning a broad panorama in our evaluation of both rabbinic activity and Jewish cultural creativity in Late Roman times.

Appendix: The Bavli and Palestinian Traditions I have intentionally chosen a source from the Babylonian Talmud as an illustration of the communally high-profiled Palestinian derashah betzibbur. The following methodological point requires elaboration. Recently, scholars have correctly pointed out the error of indiscriminately viewing the Bavli as a repository of tradition emanating from rabbinic Palestine. 39 Talmudic tradition was transmitted in ways that 38.  See the appendix. 39.  The necessity of distinguishing between Palestinian and Babylonian traditions in the ancient rabbinic corpus has been demonstrated in all strands of talmudic scholarship—philological, historical, literary, and legal: S. Safrai, “Tales of the Sages in the Palestinian Tradition and

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brought together continuity and creativity. Therefore texts and traditions were constantly modified, consciously or not, as they were repeated from person to person and conveyed from master to disciple. The Bavli must be viewed as an essentially Babylonian document reflecting the literary creativity of Babylonian rabbis of talmudic times (third–fifth centuries) and subsequent transmitters and editors (fifth– seventh centuries). That said, one should not disregard the contacts between the two rabbinic centers of Palestine and Babylonia. I am pointing to the obvious when I mention the ubiquity of material ascribed to Palestinian rabbis in the Bavli and the reported interrelationships and exchange of traditions between the two centers of learning. Moreover, creative transmission characterizes all of ancient rabbinic culture—not just the Babylonian tradents—and therefore, using any text will not exempt the critical scholar from the task of searching for the matrix that produced it. This is as true of a Yerushalmi passage as of a Bavli passage. The Palestinian talmudic tradition is no less a literary artifact reworking its received material than its Babylonian counterpart is. The molding and the creative transmission of both must be taken into consideration. It is therefore necessary to posit criteria that will establish a plausible and falsifiable method for the use of texts from the Bavli in examining Palestinian reality. These will serve as correctives and warning signs to an undiscerning overuse of this material. One such criterion of Palestinian provenance is the presence of an anomalous relationship between a Bavli text dealing with Palestine and what we have come to recognize as distinctive Babylonian constructs of reality. Another criterion is the existence of corroborating material from the Yerushalmi and early aggadic midrashim. To be sure, the wording of the above anecdote in b. Soṭah 40b and some of the Babylonian Talmud,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971): 209–32; Joshua Efron, “Bar-Kokhva in Light of the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmudic Traditions,” in The Bar-Kokhva Revolt (ed. A. Oppenheimer and U. Rappaport; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1984), 47–105 [Hebrew]; idem, Studies on the Hasmonean Period (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 143–61, 190–306, 215–18; Shamma Friedman, “Literary Development and Historicity in the Aggadic Narrative of the Babylonian Culture,” in Community and Culture: Essays in Jewish Studies (ed. N. M. Waldman; Philadelphia: Gratz College and Seth Press, 1987), 67–80; idem, “On the Historical Aggadah in the Babylonian Talmud,” in Saul Lieberman Memorial Volume (ed. S. Friedman; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1993), 119–64 [Hebrew]; idem, “The Further Adventures of Rav Kahana: Between Babylonia and Palestine,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture III (ed. P. Schäfer; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 247–71; idem, “A Good Story Deserves Retelling: The Unfolding of the Akiva Legend,” Jewish Studies: An Internet Journal 3 (2004): 55–93; David Rosenthal, “The Transformation of Eretz Yisrael Traditions in Babylonia,” Cathedra 92 (1999): 7–48 [Hebrew]; Richard Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1999), 1–24; idem, Jewish Babylonia between Persia and Roman Palestine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 3–17; Jeffrey Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), inter alia, 7–8, 24–28, 45–47, 68–70, 81–83, 97–98; Vered Noam, “A Story Held Captive: The Evolvement of a Tale between Eretz Yisrael and Babylon,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 19 (2003): 9–21 [Hebrew]; Paul Mandel, “Tales of the Destruction of the Temple: Between the Land of Israel and Babylonia,” in Center and Diaspora (ed. I. Gafni; Jerusalem: Shazar, 2004), 141–58 [Hebrew].

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the concepts employed are distinctly Babylonian, 40 but this passage adheres to both aforementioned criteria. (1) The general (nonrabbinic, if you will) context in which the anecdote is set and the dependency on popular approval that the rabbi clearly displays are not generally found in the Bavli. These have been recognized as markers that set apart the Palestinian rabbinic context from its Babylonian counterpart. While the Palestinian material presents rabbis in interaction with other elements of society, Jewish and Gentile, with their authority and hierarchy being a frequent issue and not being taken for granted, the Bavli’s social horizon is much more limited, with an inneramoraic perspective. The rhetoric of the Bavli is much more self-assured, and the social standing of the rabbi is almost taken for granted. 41 Therefore, the situation in which Hiyya bar Abba finds himself is of a distinctly Palestinian nature. In a similar Babylonian institution (the pirka as it appears in the Bavli), the public is never afforded an active role, never engaging and influencing the preacher, who is always identified as one of the Babylonian amoraim. 42 (2) The general picture of public preaching is certainly corroborated from parallel material in the Yerushalmi and midrashim, but more specifically, the issue of the waning popularity of halakic subject matter is found in several texts and seems to indicate a concern within later amoraic circles in Palestine: ,‫ר יצח[ק] בראשו[נה] היתה הפרוטה מצויה היה אדם מתאוה דבר משנה ודבר תלמוד‬″‫א‬ ‫ אדם מתאוה לשמוע דבר‬,‫ וביותר שאנו חולים מן המלכיות‬,‫ועכשיו שאין פרוטה מצויה‬ .‫מקרא ודבר אגדה‬ R. Yitzhak said, “In former times when income was available, a person desired to hear a word of mishnah or a word of talmud; now when income is not available and furthermore we are afflicted by the Empire, a person desires to hear a word of Scripture and a word of aggadah.” 43

Similarly: ‫ בון “חכם בעיניו איש עשיר ודל מבין יחקרנו” (משלי‬′‫ יוסי ביר‬′‫ שמואל בריה דר‬′‫דרש ר‬ .‫ “ודל מבין יחקרנו” זה בעל אגדה‬,‫ “חכם בעיניו איש עשיר” זה בעל התלמוד‬,)‫ יא‬,‫כח‬ 40.  Inter alia, the word for ‘inn’ (ʾushpiza) is found only in Babylonian Aramaic, and the expressions ʾikla lehahu ʾatra and halash daʾateih are not used in the Yerushalmi and early midrashim, only in the Bavli. 41.  David Levine, “Public Fasts in Talmudic Tradition: Palestinian and Babylonian Contexts,” in Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies, division C/1: Rabbinic and Talmudic Literature (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1994), 63–70 [Hebrew]; idem, Communal Fasts, 153–59, 163–66; Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 5–14, 22–24; idem, Jewish Babylonia, 8–17, 87–101; Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, passim. 42.  David Goodblatt, Rabbinic Instruction in Sasanian Babylonia (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 171– 96; Isaiah Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era (Jerusalem: Shazar, 1990), 204–13 [Hebrew]; idem, “Public Sermons,” 121–29. 43.  Pesiq. Rab Kah. 12:3 (ed. Mandelbaum, p. 205); see also Song Rab. 2:5 (Vilna ed., 15a; ed. Dunsky, 59), Soperim 16:4 (ed. Higger, p. 286), Song Zutta 2:4 (ed. Buber, 12a).

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David Levine ‫ זה שבידו עשתות שלזהב‬,‫שנכנסו לעיר ביד זה עשתות שלזהב וביד זה פרוטרוט‬ ‫לשנים‬ .‫אינו מוציא וחיה וזה שבידו פרוטרוט מוציא וחיה‬ R. Shmuel the son of R. Yose b. R. Bun interpreted, “‘A rich man is clever in his own eyes, but a perceptive poor man can see through him’ (Prov 28:11)—the ‘rich man’ is a master of talmud and the ‘poor man’ is a master of aggadah. [To what may this be likened?] to two people who entered a city; one had bars of gold and the other had coins [of low value]; the one with bars of gold cannot spend them and is unable to sustain himself, but the one with the coins can spend them and is able to sustain himself.” 44

The high value of “talmud” is inversely related to the difficulty of putting it into currency. “Aggadah” is more easily negotiated because of its accessibility. This last tradition is ascribed to one of the last known Palestinian amoraim. 45 The source in b. Soṭah 40a describing the two scholar-preachers reads like a dramatization of the parable put forth by this late Palestinian amora. The basic contours of the parable are found both in the Bavli anecdote and the Yerushalmi parable. While this parallel provides a literary link between the two, the positing of any direct dependency is gratuitous. The most one can venture is a common source, possibly only a familiar adage or image, which each parallel subsequently develops. Precisely because direct dependency is a moot point, the parallel motifs provide corroboration of the Palestinian resonance of this anecdote, even though it is found in the Bavli. In conclusion of this observation, I am not advocating abandoning the insight that links literary-geographical provenance with historical setting. We must be modest in our expectation, curtailing much of what the Bavli has to offer regarding Roman Palestine. This insight must inform us as we leaf through the Bavli. We must actively demonstrate Palestinian resonance and cannot allow attribution alone to identify and situate the source. This said, we should not lose sight of the fact that the textuality of Palestinian talmudic literature is no less pronounced than the textuality of the Bavli, and if a method can be fashioned to use the former corpus for our historical discourse then, prima facie, the same method should hold for the latter. This type of disciplined analysis will yield results more modest in scope, but we cannot afford to jettison a compilation that still holds potentially relevant material.

44.  Y. Hor. 3.8, 48c (ed. Academy for the Hebrew Language, 1430); see also Qoh. Rab. 6:2 (Vilna ed. 17a). Daniel Sperber, Roman Palestine 200–400: Money and Prices (2nd ed.; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1991), 96. Compare Sipre Deuteronomy 306 (ed. Finkelstein, 338– 39), where greater denominations of coinage are thought more convenient for transportation, and exchanging gold dinars for smaller coins is presented as routine and convenient. 45.  On this amora and the final generation of amoraim in Palestine, see Zechariah Frankel, Mevo haYerushalmi: Einleitung in den jerusalemischen Talmud (Breslau, 1870; repr. Jerusalem, 1967), 55a, 125b [Hebrew]; Chanoch Albeck, Mavo laTalmudim (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1969), 401 [Hebrew]; Yaakov Sussmann, “Yerušalmi Nezikin Revisited,” Mehqerei Talmud 1 (1990): 123, 132–33 [Hebrew].

Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and Babylonia: Ties and Tensions Aharon Oppenheimer Tel Aviv University

In 219 c.e., Rav, the pupil of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, returned from Palestine to his home country of Babylonia. 1 In spite of the fact that the first signs of the presence of yeshivot are detectable in Babylonia at least 80 years earlier, from after the Bar Kochba revolt and the subsequent arrival of many refugees from Palestine in Babylonia, 2 this date symbolizes the foundation of the yeshivot of Babylonia: Nehardea headed by Shmuel and Sura headed by Rav, both of whom were considered the principal spokesmen of the first generation of amoraim. Whether or not it was indeed Rav who brought the Mishnah of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi from Palestine to Baby­lonia, it was certainly the final redaction of the Mishnah by Rabbi Judah haNasi so close to Rav’s leaving that led to the beginning of the creation of the Babylonian Talmud in the Babylonian yeshivot, based on the Mishnah, and often relating directly to it. The Mishnah of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi was the principal subject of study in the yeshivot of the amoraim throughout the generations. They explained it in different ways; they examined its sources; they answered the questions of the Mishnah, such as mina lan (from where do we get this?) and mina hane mile (where are these things from?). They clarified who the tanna was whose opinion was debated in the Mishnah: man tanna (who is the tanna?). Aliba de-man (according to whom?). They explained and defined certain cases using oqimta, a stance, or asked hakha be-mai asqinan (what are we dealing with here [in this Mishnah]?). Similarly, in the yeshivot of the amoraim, they compared parallel sources and harmonized discrepancies and conflicts with baraitot. 3 Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi’s halakic and literary masterpiece was 1.  Iggeret Rav Sherira Gaon (ed. Levin, p. 78); Seder tannaim ve-amoraim II (ed. Grossberg, p. 62). 2.  A. Oppenheimer, “Batei Midrash in Babylonia prior to the Completion of the Mishnah,” in Yeshivot and Batei Midrash (ed. E. Etkes; Jerusalem, 2006), 19–29 [Hebrew]. 3.  See, for example, S. Z. Havlin, “Babylonian Talmud,” in Hebrew Encyclopedia (Jerusalem, 1981), 32:858 [Hebrew]; G. Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch (8th ed.; Munich, 1992), 198.

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the foundation for creating the Babylonian Talmud. It is this creation that has been accepted for generations, up to our own times, as fixing halakic rulings and that more than any other work has shaped the form of Judaism from the point of view of its way of thinking, way of life, and relationship to the world around. As noted, the rise in the status of Babylonian Jewry began with the arrival of the refugees from the Bar Kochba revolt. In Babylonia, they found the largest Jewish Diaspora community outside the borders of the Roman Empire, who enjoyed reasonable political and economic conditions. Perhaps the rise in status had existed even earlier, growing as a result of the arrival of refugees from the First Jewish War, and from the Diaspora revolt in the days of Trajan. This was the first time that rabbis had left Palestine for Babylonia in order to study Torah, and the most distinguished of them established academies in Babylonia. 4 After the Bar Kochba revolt, it is possible to identify the first signs of the great Babylonian yeshivot, as well as the beginning of the role of the exilarch. These developments led to the strengthening of ties with Palestine through the waves of refugees, but they also led to tensions between the two great Jewish centers. A substantial example of these developments is the question of the fixing of the calendar. Sanctification of the month and intercalation of the year set the pulse rate for the Jewish year and its festivals. Intercalation of the year by adding an extra month of Adar was also economically significant. It was only after the ceremony of waving the omer sheaves in the Temple on the first day of Hol ha-Moʾed Pesaḥ that it was permisible to eat the new produce of that year, and the extra month delayed this. It is possible that the ban on eating new produce before this date was also current in Babylonia and maybe even after the destruction of the Temple (see below, n. 7). Fixing the calendar was the prerogative of the leadership institutions of the land of Israel, but already in Second Temple times and the Yavneh period, we can see that the Babylonian Diaspora was being considered more than all the other Diaspora communities. The flares announcing the sanctification of the month ran in a line from the Mount of Olives to Sartaba (the fortress of Alexandrion on a hilltop overlooking the Jordan Valley, now called Massuah after the flares), Grippina (the fortress of Agrippina, present-day Kokhav HaYarden), Horan (the hilltop of Hauran in Horan), and to Bet Biltin (Biram in Babylonia): “And they did not go beyond Bet Biltin, but there the flare was waved to and fro and up and down until a man could see the whole Diaspora [golah = ‘Diaspora’ by itself refers to Babylonia] before him like a sea of fire.” 5 There was no line of flares to other Diaspora communities, such as Egypt, for example. The letters notifying the intercalation of the year were sent by Rabban Gamaliel I and the elders “to our brothers in the Babylonian Diaspora and the Diaspora community of Media.” 6 4.  Sipre Deut. 80 (ed. Finkelstein, p. 146); b. Sanh. 32b (see variants in Diqduqei Soperim). 5.  M. Roš Haš. 2:7. B. Roš Haš. 23a–b: “What is Bet Biltin? Rav said: Biram.” Biram is west of the Euphrates, about 40 km north of Pumbedita. See A. Oppenheimer, in collaboration with B. Isaac and M. Lecker, Babylonia Judaica in the Talmudic Period (Wiesbaden, 1983), 96–97. 6.  T. Sanh. 2.6.

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In the Yavneh period, Rabbi Aqiva went to Nehardea to intercalate the year: the intention seems to have been to involve the Babylonians in deliberations about the intercalation. 7 After the Bar Kochba revolt, Hananiah, son of Rabbi Joshua’s brother, tried to intercalate the year in Babylonia. 8 A deputation was sent from Palestine to Babylonia, in order to demonstrate to Hananiah the seriousness of his act, according to the Jerusalem Talmud: “Rabbi sent him three letters with Rabbi Isaac and Rabbi Nathan.” On the face of it, it is Rabbi (that is, apparently, Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi) who sent this deputation of two Babylonian-born rabbis, whom the Babylonians would be less likely to ignore, together with three letters for Hananiah himself. However, all the people mentioned are from the Usha period, so it is more likely that the event itself took place not long after the Bar Kochba revolt and the repressive legislation that followed it, when the chaotic situation in Palestine must have influenced Hananiah to fix the calendar in Babylonia. Thus, it looks as though this is one of the very few places in the Palestinian talmudic literature where the title “Rabbi” alone is given to a different leader from the patriarchal dynasty close to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi’s time, although this title is usually reserved for Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi himself. 9 In this particular case, the text seems to be relating to Rabban Simeon b. Gamaliel. Hananiah did in fact go back on his attempt to intercalate the year in Babylonia, but the very fact of an attempt to raise the status of Babylonia is significant and can be seen as the beginning of a series of struggles between Babylonian and Palestinian Jews over the calendar, up to the debate between Ben Meir and Rav Saʿadiah Gaon, who abandoned the struggle in the tenth century. The rise in the status of Babylonia is also reflected in Palestine. It is no accident that in the Usha generation, before Rabbi became patriarch, the above-mentioned Rabbi Nathan, who was Babylonian born, served as av bet din, head of the Bet haVaʿad. The same is true of the generation immediately following Rabbi Judah haNasi, when the Babylonian-born Rabbi Hanina bar Hama had the same post. This was a time when a distinction was beginning to be made between the patriarchate, which became a secular political authority, and the Bet haVaʿad, headed by the av bet din, which constituted the spiritual and religious authority. Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi held all these functions together, and he had no deputies. However, Rabbi Hiyya, who was born in Babylonia, still appears to have been the most important of the rabbis of his generation among those who were active together with Rabbi. This series of people of Babylonian origin over three generations demonstrates that Palestinian Jews were very aware of the rise of Babylonia but were still attempting to preserve a 7.  M. Yebam. 16:7; and see G. Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (Jerusalem, 1980), 1:236–46. 8.  Y. Sanh. 1.19a, col. 1269; b. Ber. 63a–b. See A. Oppenheimer, “The Attempt of Hananiah, Son of Rabbi Joshua’s Brother, to Intercalate the Year in Babylonia: A Comparison of the Traditions in the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and GraecoRoman Culture (ed. P. Schäfer and C. Hezser; Tübingen, 2000), 2:255–64. 9.  On this phenomenon, see Z. B. Rabinovitz, Shaʿare Thorat Eretz Israel (Jerusalem, 1940), 275; 404–5 [Hebrew].

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certain degree of their previous hegemony over them by appointing someone from the Babylonian Diaspora as a sort of deputy to the head of the leadership institutions. Be that as it may, Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi does speak somewhat disparagingly of the rabbis of Babylonia: Rabbi Hanina bar Hama himself was not ordained by Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi because he had corrected him in public. When Rabbi asked him from whom he had learned this, he replied: from Rav Hamnuna in Babylonia. To this, Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi responded: “When you arrive in Babylonia, he can ordain you as rabbi.” 10 From this source, it is clear that Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi did not recognize Rabbi Hamnuna’s authority to ordain rabbis. It should be noted that in the will that is attributed to him, Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi attempted to mend the damage he had done to Rabbi Hanina bar Hama and may even have enjoined his son to make him av bet din. 11 The Jews of Babylonia saw themselves as the faithful guardians of the purest Jewish lineage. This guardianship was carried out by extreme meticulousness over marriage arrangements and rejection of those whose lineage was unacceptable for any reason. The Babylonians saw to it that proselytes who had not been properly converted according to Halakah, priests who had been born to women who were forbidden to marry a priest (such as a divorcee), non-Jewish slaves who had been irregularly freed, illegitimate children, and other similar individuals should not be accepted into their community. 12 The careful definition of the boundaries of purity of lineage by Babylonian Jews arose because of the need of Diaspora Jewry to preserve the purity of their Judaism and to beware intermarriage or indeed any marriage with the slightest suspicion of irregularity of any kind. It was also aimed, however, at demonstrating that the best kind of Judaism was to be found in the Babylonian Diaspora. In their eyes, the glory of the center in the land of Israel had already been transferred to Babylonia in the days of the Exile in biblical times. Ezra the scribe had indeed seen to the removal of foreign women from Judah and Jerusalem, but before this he did not move from Babylonia to Israel until he had made Babylonia like the “purest fine meal” in relation to purity of lineage. 13 Clearly, from the perspective of the Babylonian amoraim, the source of the purest and most refined Jewish lineage was in Babylonia. Thus they ruled that, although the Jews of Palestine were preferable to other Diaspora communities with regard to their lineage, the Jews of Babylonia were even better than the Jews of Palestine in this respect: “All countries are as a hotch-potch [that is, a mixture of people forbidden to marry] to the land of Israel, and the land of Israel is as a hotch-potch to Babylonia.” 14 The halakic result of this approach was as follows: 10.  Y. Taʿan. 4.68a, col. 728. 11.  B. Ketub. 103b; cf. the Jerusalem Talmud, loc. cit. 12.  See H. L. Poppers, “The Déclassé in the Babylonian Jewish Community,” Jewish Social Studies 20 (1958): 153–79. 13.  B. Qidd. 69b; 71b. 14.  B. Qidd. 69b, 71b; b. Ketub. 111a. I have translated the word ʿissa as ‘hotch-potch’ to preserve the culinary image in English: however, it comes from the world of baking and is used for the mixture of flours and water that make up dough.

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Shmuel said on the authority of his grandfather: “Babylonia is assumed to be kosher, until you know something that will disqualify it. Other countries are assumed to be disqualified, until you know something that will make them kosher. [As for] the land of Israel, if someone is held to be disqualified, he is disqualified. If he is held to be kosher, he is kosher.” 15

In other words, a Babylonian family is presumed kosher unless it becomes clear that it includes people who were forbidden to marry; a family from any other country is presumed forbidden, unless it can prove that it is of pure lineage; a family from Palestine that is suspected of being forbidden to marry is forbidden to marry, while a family from Palestine that is assumed to be of pure lineage is permitted to marry. A striking example of the way in which the Babylonians saw themselves as genealogically purer than Palestinian Jews is found in connection with Zeʿeri, who was from the second generation of Babylonian amoraim and who came from Babylonia to Palestine in the middle of the third century. When he arrived in Palestine, he joined the yeshivah of Rabbi Yohanan, the pupil of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, and achieved the status of the most important Palestinian amora of Palestine of the second generation—and even, according to some, of all time. Zeʿeri was forced to avoid Rabbi Yohanan, because the latter wanted him to marry his daughter: Zeʿeri was avoiding meeting Rabbi Yohanan, who was urging him: “Marry my daughter!” One day they were walking on the road and came to a pool of water. He [Zeʿeri] lifted Rabbi Yohanan on his shoulders and was taking him over. He said to him [Rabbi Yohanan to Zeʿeri], “Our Torah is kosher but our daughters are not kosher?!” 16

Rabbi Yohanan was not only the greatest and most learned of Palestinian rabbis, but he was also known for his great physical beauty. He tells a story about himself that he would sit at the entrance to the miqweh/ritual bath so that women who had bathed and were hurrying home to perform their duties would see him on the way, and the children that were born to them would be beautiful like him and learned in Torah like him (b. B. Mẹsiʿa 84a). We may therefore surmise that at least some of Rabbi Yohanan’s brains and beauty were present in his daughters. But all this together could not withstand the extreme strictness over purity of lineage that Babylonian Jews thought necessary, and Zeʿeri refrained from marrying the daughter of Rabbi Yohanan because of the suspicion of impurity that was attached to all the Jews of Palestine in the eyes of Babylonian Jewry. The critical attitude of Babylonian Jewry to the purity of lineage of the Jews of Palestine gave rise to tensions between the two centers. When Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi was on his deathbed in Palestine, he accused the inhabitants of different settlements in Babylonia of failing to care about purity of lineage and committing grave sins over this:

15.  B. Qidd. 71a. 16.  B. Qidd. 71b.

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From all that has been said on the meticulousness of Babylonian Jewry over purity of lineage, the words of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi on his deathbed appear very strange, accusing settlements in Babylonia of failing to be careful about this. However, although there were settlements within genealogical Babylonia 18 that prided themselves on the extreme purity of their lineage, there were also settlements that were not as careful. But why should the purity of settlements in Babylonia worry R. Judah ha-Nasi, the patriarch of the Jews of the land of Israel, when the Jews of Babylonia themselves cast doubt on the purity of lineage of the Jews of the land of Israel? The beginning of Rabbi’s words suggest that we should not relate to them at face value, for the accusation that the inhabitants of the settlement of Humaniya in Babylonia were mixed with Ammonites appears to be more of a play on words than an authentic piece of information. Indeed, it is reminiscent of Rav Judah’s statement later in the same passage: “A person from Gubai is like a Gibeonite; Durnonita is a village of netinim.” 19 In other words, the inhabitants of the Babylonian village of Gubai are like Gibeonites, while Babylonian Durnonita is a village of netinim, descendants of the Gibeonites who are forbidden to join the normative community— that is, to marry Jewish women. It seems, therefore, that we must see the statement of Rabbi in the context of the tensions between Babylonia and the land of Israel over which he would be leader. These tensions began after the Bar Kochba revolt against Rome, when many refugees fled from the land of Israel to Babylonia, where there were better political and economic conditions than in the land of Israel at the time. Among those leaving for Babylonia were also rabbis such as R. Hananiah, son of R. Joshua’s brother, who, as we have noted, tried to fix the calendar from Babylonia, thus endangering the hegemony of the land of Israel. The fact that the Jews of Babylonia prided themselves on their purity of lineage was also a threat to this hegemony. It is therefore more understandable for Rabbi to deride the Jewish settlements in Babylonia, which not only failed to be careful about this but also included people who transgressed other Halakot, such as those who profaned the Sabbath out of greed. There is another source that includes criticism by Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi aimed at Jews in one of the areas of Babylonia. This was also close to his death, when he was making a sort of 17.  B. Qidd. 72a (Soncino ed., adapted). 18.  The Jews of Babylonia defined the borders of talmudic Babylonia according to a yardstick that examined the strictness of the observance of purity of lineage. I have called this concept “genealogical Babylonia.” See also n. 57 below. 19.  B. Qidd. 70b.

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will for his sons. Here Rabbi Judah characterizes the inhabitants of Shekhantziv in talmudic Babylonia as frivolous company: “Four things our Holy Rabbi commanded his sons: ‘Do not live in Shekhantziv, for they are jesters, and they will involve you in their frivolities. . . .’” 20 It should be noted that these condemnations attributed to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi are only found in the Babylonian Talmud. It is possible that these statements in fact were never made by him but that they derive from conceptions of the Babylonian rabbis when discussing among themselves how people talked about them in the land of Israel. Either way, these words contain evidence of a certain degree of tension between the land of Israel and Babylonia. But it is also true, as we have seen, that even the Babylonian amoraim themselves accused various settlements in talmudic Babylonia of a lack of proper strictness over purity of lineage or of some sort of improper behavior. The relations between Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and the exilarch are of particular interest. The patriarchate in Palestine and the exilarchate in Babylonia reached the peak of their power at the turn of the second and third centuries, in the time of Rabbi and the time of Huna, the first exilarch to be known by name. In this period, both dynasties were claimed to be related to the royal House of David, claims that do not appear to be authentic 21 but that do demonstrate the status of the two leaderships. When Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi himself asks Rabbi Hiyya, “Am I required to offer a seir ezim, a male kid? ” he expects a positive answer that would make him analogous to a king, who is required, should he have sinned, to offer a male kid, 22 whereas an ordinary person who has sinned unwittingly is required to sacrifice a female kid. Rabbi Hiyya answers him: “Your tzarah/rival is in Babylonia.” 23 Just as a woman in a polygamous marriage has a co-wife who is her tzarah, her rival, so Rabbi has a rival in Babylonia in the person of the exilarch. Had the Temple still been standing, the exilarch would have had to bring a male kid to atone for his sins, for his dynastic link with the royal House of David takes precedence, being through the male line, while Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi’s link is through the female line. The passage continues: He said to him: There [in Babylonia], there is a sceptre, here a law-giver. And there is a tannaitic source: “The sceptre shall not depart from Judah” (Gen 49:10); this is the exilarch who pursues Israel with a stick; “and the ruler’s staff from between his feet” (Gen 49:10); these are the children of the children of Hillel, who teach Torah in public. 24

In other words, the political and secular authority of the exilarch surpasses the religious and halakic authority of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, in spite of the fact that the patriarchate also holds secular political authority. Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi recognizes this superiority himself: 20.  B. Pesaḥ. 112b. 21.  See on this: J. Liver, The House of David (Jerusalem, 1959), 37–46 [Hebrew]. 22.  B. Hor. 11b; m. Hor. 3:2–3. 23.  B. Hor. 11b. 24.  Ibid.; cf. b. Sanh. 5a; Iggeret Rav Saadiah Gaon (ed. Levin, p. 76).

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Aharon Oppenheimer Rabbi was a very modest man and used to say: “Everything someone says to me, I will do, except for what the elders of Betayrah did to my revered elder [Hillel the Elder], when they resigned from the patriarchate and appointed him. If Rav Huna the exilarch comes here, I will set him above me, for he is from Judah and I am from Benjamin; he is from the male line and I am from the female line [of the House of David].” On one occasion Rabbi Hiyya the Great came in and said to him: “Rav Huna is outside.” Rabbi’s face fell. He said to him: “His coffin has arrived.” He replied: “Go and see who wants you outside.” He went out and found nobody and knew that he was angry with him. He would not allow him to come in for thirty days. 25

The spirit of myth hovers over this episode, but several parts of it are taken from reality, such as the bringing of the dead from the Diaspora for burial in Palestine, or suspension from the leadership institution for a set time as a punishment. We can imagine the ironic smile on the face of the author of this episode, who describes Rabbi as “a very modest man,” but whose modesty is expressed by being unwilling to vacate the patriarchate except to the exilarch, who he believes of course will not come to Palestine (presumably, the “very modest man” was based on the model of Moshe Rabbenu). When he hears that the exilarch has arrived, in spite of everything, his face falls, thinking that someone of the status of Rabbi Hiyya, who was Babylonian born, might encourage him to keep his word. Rabbi Hiyya’s sons also criticize Rabbi’s demonstrations of power, and in the following paragraph they compare him with the exilarch: Judah and Hezekiah, the sons of Rabbi Hiyya, were sitting at a meal before Rabbi and did not say a word. He [Rabbi] said to them [the waiters]: “Give lots more wine to the children, so that they say something.” When they got drunk, they began and said: “The son of David [Messiah] will not come until the end of two dynasties in Israel: these are the exilarchate in Babylonia and the patriarchate in the land of Israel, as it is said: ‘He shall be for a sanctuary, a stone men strike against: a rock men stumble over for the two houses of Israel’” (Isa 8:14). He said to them: “My sons, are you offering me thorns? ” Rabbi Hiyya said to him: “Don’t take this badly. ‘Wine’ is equivalent [in gematria] to seventy, and ‘secret’ is also equivalent to seventy. Wine goes in, the secret comes out!” 26

The polemical sting of the words of Judah and Hezekiah is clear, for they are saying that the Messiah will not come until the dynasties of the patriarch in Palestine and the exilarch in Babylonia end. This is based on the background of the claims of both to be descended from the House of David. When Rabbi Hiyya begins to defend his sons, he says, “Wine went in, the secret came out”—in other words, their drunkenness did not cause them to lie or talk nonsense but to reveal a secret in public. Rabbi Hiyya’s defense does not help his sons, and they are punished by being denied ordination all their lives. 27 25.  Y. Kil. 9.32b, col. 174; y. Ketub. 11.35a, cols. 1009–10; Gen. Rab. 33:3 (ed. TheodorAlbeck, pp. 305–6) 26.  B. Sanh. 38a. 27.  Qoh. Rab. 1:11.

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However, it is Rabbi Hiyya who tells us, relating the glory of kingship to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, that at the funeral of Rabbi the holiness or priesthood of the priests ceased, so that they were allowed to participate in the funeral and to contract impurity, just as priests were allowed to participate in the funeral of a king. As Rabbi Hiyya said: “On the day Rabbi died, holiness was abolished.” 28 Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi had at his disposal a kind of police force that helped him to enforce the sentences he had pronounced on individuals brought before him for judgment. This police force may have been given to him by the Roman authorities: A wise man’s heart tends toward the right hand; a fool’s toward the left (Qoh 10:2). . . . When a person came before Rabbi [Judah ha-Nasi] for judgment, if he accepted his verdict, well and good; if not, he would say to a member of his household, “Show him the left side,” and he would show him a chopping movement in that direction. 29

The function of the “member of his household”—that is, Rabbi’s bodyguard or policeman—was to threaten the man sentenced by the patriarch, and if he did not agree, presumably to beat him. The members of Rabbi’s household mentioned in this source are presumably the qetzutzei mentioned in the following source: Rabbi, after he had prayed, used to add this: “May it be Your will, O Lord our God and God of our fathers, to deliver us from the insolent and their insolence, from a bad man and a bad injury, from the evil inclination, from a bad friend, from a bad neighbor, from the destroying accuser, and from a harsh judgment and a harsh judge, whether he be a Jew or not.” And this was in spite of the fact that Rabbi had qetzutzei at his disposal. 30

Based on this passage, it seems that the term qetzutzei also refers to policemen of some sort who served Rabbi and whose function was to guard him, to deal with various problematic people such as are mentioned in the source, and to give them their deserts. The expression qetzutzei itself, like gavaza in other sources, 31 is literally a eunuch. Gavaza is kawas in Turkish Arabic, a term that primarily denotes a bodyguard. 32 It is difficult to imagime, however, that Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi had bodyguards who were eunuchs. Both Roman law and the Halakah definitively prohibited castration, although the Romans did allow the import of eunuchs from the Persian Empire, where castration was not forbidden. The ban on castration in the Halakah 28.  B. Ketub. 103b. The Munich ms has “priesthood was abolished.” 29.  Qoh. Rab. 10:2. 30.  B. Ber. 16b. 31. E.g., b. Šabb. 152a: “that gavaza” (see Diqduqei Soperim, ad loc.). 32.  The function, with small changes, stayed the same throughout history. For example, in Constantinople in the nineteenth century, distinguished guests were received by this sort of bodyguard. The kawas still preceded the Chief Rabbis in Palestine during the Mandate: haRav Yaaqov Meir and Harav Ben-Zion Meir Uziel. A kawas who tapped his stick even walked in front of haRav Abraham Yitzhaq haCohen Kook at the beginning of his candidature.

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is mentioned in many places, some of which rule that it is even included in the Noahide laws. 33 Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi himself dealt with the problem and ruled that a castrated slave must be freed. 34 Ulpian, the Roman legal writer who was contemporary with Rabbi Judah haNasi, quotes a law of the emperor Hadrian (117–138 c.e.) that extended a previous ban and categorically forbade any form of castration, either of slaves or of freemen, voluntary or enforced. 35 However, castration was allowed in Babylonia and was common among bodyguards there. It is reasonable to suppose, therefore, that the qetzutzei whom the Babylonian Talmud describes as the bodyguards of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi in fact reflected the situation in Babylonia. Another possibility is that Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi imported his bodyguards from somewhere such as Babylonia where, as noted, castration was allowed. Bodyguards continued to accompany the patriarchs even after the days of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. Goths (that is, one of the Germanic peoples) are mentioned in this context in the days of Rabbi Judah Nesiah, the grandson of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. The Germanic peoples in general and the Goths in particular were widely reputed to be excellent fighters with exceptional military abilities, and it is not surprising that they would have been chosen as personal bodyguards for the patriarch. 36 In another source, there is reference to a “German slave of Rabbi Judah Nesiah,” which presumably refers to one of his Gothic guards. 37 At the end of the third century, Rabbi Abbahu also had a bodyguard of Goths 38 for, although he was not actually a patriarch himself, he certainly had special privileges because of his high status. He functioned as the head of the beth midrash/academy in Caesarea, the seat of the Roman governor. It is possible that even Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi had a bodyguard made up of Goths. It is possible to surmise that this force, which stood at the disposal of the patriarchs from the days of Rabbi Judah Nesiah onward, was given to them by the Roman authorities, but there is no real evidence for this. It is reasonable to suppose that, like the German bodyguards of the Roman emperor, the patriarch’s guards were recruited privately or were bought by him as slaves. 39 33. E.g., t. ʿAbod. Zar. 8.6. 34.  B. Qidd. 25a. 35.  Digesta 48:8:4:2. 36.  Y. Sanh. 2.19d, col. 1274. 37.  Y. Šabb. 6.8c, col. 400. Employment of mercenaries from another country has been common among rulers throughout history, because they are more faithful to the rulers than bodyguards from their own people. For example, at the time of the French Revolution, the royal family’s French bodyguards fled, while the Swiss bodyguards remained faithful to their task. Swiss guards are employed at the Vatican to this day. 38.  Y. Beṣah 1.60c, col. 685. 39.  It should be noted that the earliest evidence of a massive presence of Goths near the Danube on the borders of the Roman Empire is from the second and third quarters of the third century. Individual Goths, or even whole units made up mostly of Goths joined the Roman army in the third century. The earliest evidence for this is an inscription from the year 208 c.e.: P. J. Heather and J. Matthews, The Goths in the Fourth Century (Liverpool, 1991), 1ff.; M. P. Speidel,

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Whether this police-type force was actually given to the patriarchs from the time of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi onward by the Roman authorities or whether it was created by the patriarchs themselves, the very existence of such a threatening and violent body used by the patriarch to enforce his sentences is in itself evidence of the recognition by the Roman authorities of the legal authority of the Jewish patriarch. Because of this recognition, the powers of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and his successors were strengthened, and they could enforce their will and their halakic and legal system on the Jewish community. However, Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and his successors still did not possess all the functions of a fully independent national leadership, as did the Hasmoneans at the height of their power, for they did not have an army or independent foreign relations. This situation meant that the independent Jewish leadership institutions did not always carry out the full legal procedures enjoined in the Halakah but took an active and even threatening stand, with no small degree of violence, and laid down the law without due legal process in order to push the community and the individual to toe the line marked out by them through halakic rulings. This sort of approach, with death sentences meted out, not through due legal process in the rabbinical court but with qanaʾim pogʿim bo/zealots attacking the victim (a possibility recognized by the Halakah), was also influenced by the world around them at the time. It is against this background that it is possible to understand the activities of the patriarch’s policetype force, as reflected in the sources quoted above on the “household” of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. As already noted, the most far-reaching evidence of the Roman recognition of Jewish law in the time of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi is found in the evidence of the church father Origen. Origen writes about the authority to decide capital cases that was given de facto to the patriarch. As is well known, the Romans did not usually recognize the authority of the inhabitants of the various provinces to condemn people to death. In Origen’s letter to Julius Africanus, a Christian writer at the turn of the second and third centuries, he replies to his correspondent’s question whether Susanna and the Elders, one of the books of the Apocrypha and an addition to the book of Daniel, is a forgery. One of the proofs that Julius Africanus presents for its being a forgery is that the story tells of a capital sentence given under foreign rule. Origen rejects this proof, saying: Now, for instance, that the Romans rule, and the Jews pay the two denarius tax to them, what great power by the concession of Caesar the ethnarch has; so that we, who have had experience of it, know that he differs in little from a true king! Private trials are held according to the Torah, and some are condemned to death. And though there is not full licence for this, still it is not done without the knowledge “The Roman Army in Arabia,” ANRW II/8 7112–16. If indeed Goths did serve as bodyguards for Rabbi Judah Nesiah, this could be seen as further early evidence for this phenomenon. Another possibility, which is in fact more likely, is that Rabbi Judah Nesiah simply had German rather than Gothic bodyguards.

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Aharon Oppenheimer of the ruler, as we learned and were convinced of when we spent much time in the country of that people.  40

Origen, born in Alexandria, was a theologian and one of the great commentators of the church fathers. He stresses in his letter that he is relying on indirect evidence obtained when he was living in Palestine, and indeed we know that he was in the country during the time of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi’s patriarchate, during the years 215–19. He provides evidence that, in spite of the fact that the Jews were subject to the two-denarius tax, 41 the power of the patriarch was so great that he passed death sentences de facto. In spite of the doubts of many scholars and in spite of the suggestions that have been made about this evidence, there is no real reason to doubt its veracity. 42 This is contemporary evidence; the special status of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi vis-à-vis the Roman authorities and the Jewish community certainly accords with the conjecture that the authority given to the patriarch to rule in capital cases was a tacit approval of sorts, because in the same period the Romans authorized the free cities to punish. 43 This still leaves unanswered the question whether this letter concerns the accepted form of presenting a capital case before a small Sanhedrin of 23 judges, as prescribed by Halakah. This possibility is remote, for in fact we have no evidence that the small Sanhedrin ever functioned in the days of the Mishnah and the Talmud. Another possibility, much more likely, is that this was a case of a sort of “kangaroo court,” in which the judges perhaps took advantage of the police-type force that was at the disposal of the patriarch for carrying out sentences. It has already been noted that in certain cases the Halakah itself permitted “zealots” to attack individuals considered guilty, such as agents provocateurs, without instigating formal legal proceedings. This conceptual possibility was based on the biblical precedent of the sin of Baal-peor, during which incident Phinehas, son of Eleazar and grandson of Aaron the high priest, in his zeal for God, killed the Israelite Zimri b. Salu and the Midianite woman Cozbi b. Zur with his spear and thus stopped the plague that had broken out among the Israelites (Num 25:1–16, Ps 106:28–31). An example of the similarity between the exilarch’s methods of enforcement and those of Rabbi can be found in an episode described in both Talmudim. Two envoys from Palestine went to Babylonia to obtain a sum of money or its equivalent to take back to Palestine. After the two refused to accept full responsibility for the deposit 40. Origen, Letter to Africanus 14 (PG 11), 82–84. Trans. Ante-Nicene Fathers, adapted. 41.  This tax was imposed on the Jews of Palestine and the rest of the Empire after the destruction of the Temple and was intended for the Jewish treasury—fiscus Iudaicus—in Rome, in honor of Jupiter, the chief Roman god, instead of the half-sheqel tax that was paid to the Temple while it still existed; thus, it was an intentional means of insulting the Jews. 42.  For a different opinion, see E. Habas-Rubin, The Patriarch in the Roman-Byzantine Era: The Making of a Dynasty (Ph.D. diss., Tel Aviv University, 1991), 64–71; 265–73. For the history of scholarship on the question, see M. Jacobs, Die Institution des jüdischen Patriarchen (Tübingen, 1995), 248–51. 43.  J . Colin, Les villes libres de ľOrient gréco-romain et ľenvoi au supplice par acclamations populaires (Brussels, 1965), 77–93.

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given to them, they were subjected to aggression by the local rabbinical court, presumably the court of the exilarch: “Rabbi Ahi, son of Rabbi Josiah, had a silver goblet in Nehardea. He said to [the envoys] Rabbi Dostai, son of Rabbi Yannai, and to Rabbi Yose bar Kipar: ‘When you come [from Babylonia to Palestine], bring it to me.’” 44 Rabbi Josiah, father of Rabbi Ahi, mentioned in the passage, was the pupil of Rabbi Ishmael, a tanna who was active in the Usha generation in Palestine. Rabbi Ahi is thus from the same generation as Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, Rabbi Dostai, son of Rabbi Yannai, and Rabbi Yose ben Kipar. According to this source, the two envoys were asked by Rabbi Ahi to bring back a silver goblet from his property in Nehardea. In the parallel in the Jerusalem Talmud, the envoys are asked to collect money for their colleagues in the batei midrashot/academies of Palestine. It may even be possible to see this as a sort of fundraising trip for the rabbis of Palestine, a practice that was more common in the days of the amoraim. In both the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, the envoys from Palestine at first receive what they ask for from the Babylonians, whether it was the silver goblet (Babylonian Talmud) or the contributions for their colleagues in Palestine (Jerusalem Talmud). According to the Jerusalem Talmud, the envoys refuse to accept any further responsibility, claiming that they are unpaid guardians who are not being rewarded for their trouble, and thus they should also be absolved in cases of theft or loss: they should not have to take on further responsibility. In response, the Babylonians demand that they return what they had given them. Rabbi Dostai, son of Rabbi Yannai, agrees to their demand, but Rabbi Yose b. Kipar refuses. His refusal leads the Babylonians to attempt to enforce their wishes by violent means. According to the Babylonian Talmud, they beat him, and according to the Jerusalem Talmud, they tie him up and flog him in order to force him to return what had been given to him. In both versions, Rabbi Dostai explains why he agreed to return the property to the Babylonians, thereby jeopardizing him further and leaving him quite isolated. His words are cited thus in the Babylonian Talmud: Rabbi Ahi, son of Rabbi Josiah, said to [Rabbi Dostai]: “Why did you do that? ” He replied, “Those people are terrifying, and their hats are terrifying, and their words [come out of] their middle and their names strike fear—Arda and Arta and Pyly Brys. If they say, ‘Tie him up,’ they tie him up; if they say, ‘Kill him,’ they kill him, and if they had killed Dostai, who could have given Yannai, his father, another son like me? ” He said to him, “Are these people connected to the ruling powers? ” He replied, “Yes.” “Do they have horses and mules running behind them? ” He replied, “Yes.” He said to him, “If so, you did right.” 45

Here, I am in agreement with scholars who see this as a depiction of the court of the exilarch, 46 although it is not clear whether it was staffed by Jews or non-Jews. It is clear from the source that both the tall hats and the names of the judges were 44.  B. Giṭ. 14a–b; cf. y. Giṭ. 1.43c, col. 1058. 45.  B. Giṭ. 14b. 46.  See M. Beer, The Babylonian Exilarchate (2nd ed.; Tel Aviv, 1976), 58–65 [Hebrew]; I. M. Gafni, The Jews in Babylonia in the Talmudic Age (Jerusalem, 1990), 57 [Hebrew].

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unfamiliar and strange to the envoys from Palestine. We know that the exilarch wore a special belt called a qamar, a symbol of office that he received from the Parthian authorities and that signified their recognition of him. Similarly, there is no reason to doubt that these judges wore the tall hats described in the source, which they received from the authorities as a sign of their function and status and which were also worn by non-Jewish officials in Babylonia. 47 Hats such as these are known from ancient paintings and Parthian coinage and are found on the frescoes of the synagogue at Dura-Europos, which was completed in the years 244–45 c.e. and was discovered in 1932–33. 48 The episode in the Babylonian Talmud makes the height of their hats equivalent to the height of the judges, so it is clear from the plain meaning of the words, as the author of the Arukh ha-Shalem has already noted, why they appear to be speaking from their middle, for their faces are in the middle, between the ground and the top of their hats. 49 The use of Persian names such as Arda, Arta, and Pyly Brys does not mean that the judges could not have been Jews with Persian names, just as the Jews in Palestine used Greek names, such as the name Dostai itself. Pyly Brys is a single name, and according to one suggestion the meaning is ‘Rider on Elephants’, while another scholar suggests that what is meant is a judge called Pyly who was the head of the judges. 50 The version in the Jerusalem Talmud supports the theory that this is a court, for thus it calls them explicitly, and Rabbi Dostai stresses, “I saw them as a court which is shaveh,” in other words, unlike the normal procedure of law, a kind of kangaroo court. 51 This court has at its bidding, according to the Jerusalem Talmud, “a band which rises and falls,” with which they flog people or, as the Babylonian Talmud says, “If they say, ‘Tie him up’—they tie him up; if they say, ‘Kill him’—they kill him.” In other words, they can bind a man or put him to death, as they wish. This court 47. E. S. Rosenthal, “For the Talmudic Dictionary: Talmudica Iranica,” Irano-Judaica 1 (1982): 86–87 n. 129; 50–52; 116–24 [Hebrew]. 48.  S. Shaked, “Items of Dress and Other Objects in Common Use: Iranian Loanwords in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic,” Irano-Judaica 3 (1994): 106–17. Dura-Europos is situated on the banks of the Euphrates, ca. 60 km southeast of Circesium, present-day al-Tsalahiya near the borders of Iraq and Syria. 49.  A. Kohut, ed., Aruch Completum (8 vols.; Vienna, 1882), 3:11, s.v. davar (2). 50.  For the names, see J. Neusner, “Arda and Arta and Pyly Brys,” JQR 53 (1963): 238–305; and his History of the Jews in Babylonia, 1:95 n. 2. 51.  In one of the Bar Kochba letters, Simon bar Koseva requests that Jonathan and Masabbalah, the commanders of Ein Gedi, send him Elazar bar Hita shaveh, immediately, before the Sabbath: Y. Yadin et al., eds., The Documents from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters (Jerusalem, 2002), 290–92, Papyrus 50. In a fragment of Midrash published by Mann as well as in Aqdamut, this word appears with a similar meaning: “They call one to another ‫שוי‬, that they may not retard.” In other words, a shaveh court is a sort of sped-up process of law, a kind of kangaroo court, typified by the instantaneous tying up and beating of Rabbi Yose bar Kipar. See also S. Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine (New York, 1942), 176–77; E. Y. Kutscher, “The Hebrew and Aramaic Letters of Bar Koseba and His Contemporaries,” in Hebrew and Aramaic Studies (Jerusalem, 1977), xliv.

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is also a capital court. This fits the warning of Rav to his pupil Rav Kahana, who broke the neck of a man because he had insisted on informing on another Jew to the ruling powers: “Until now the Greek [i.e., Parthian] Empire who [was in power] here did not take much notice of bloodshed, [but] now the Persians [i.e., the Sasanians] are here, they are particular regarding bloodshed. . . . Get up and go to the land of Israel.” 52 It is true that in the days of Rav and Rav Kahana, in the second decade of the third century, the ruling dynasty in Babylonia changed. Instead of the Parthians, whose methods of ruling were decentralized and even allowed impulsive imposition of the death penalty, the Sasanians came to power with a more centralized authority. Rav’s warning to Rav Kahana is completely authentic and points to fear of interference by the Sasanian Kingdom in the Jewish judicial autonomy, especially in its more extreme expression, the imposition of the death penalty. As we have seen, there are considerable similarities between the status of the Jews of Palestine in the Severan period at the time of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and the position of the Jews of Babylonia at the end of the Parthian period. At this time, both the patriarch in Palestine and the exilarch in Babylonia had the right to confer the death penalty, although the Romans only granted this to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi de facto. It is clear that this was the peak time with regard to recognition of the autonomy of Jewish institutions by both Romans and Parthians. Both Jewish leaders had at their disposal a means of enforcing their rulings: the guard of Goths that accompanied Rabbi Judah Nesiah, which already existed in some form or another in the days of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, and the violent and threatening men who acted for the exilarch. Both in Palestine and in Babylonia, it appears that these bodies did not act as part of an organized legal process, but it is evident that their use of brute force against offenders was seen as an unavoidable temporary necessity. Corroboration of this may be found in the words of Rabbi Eliezer ben Jacob (who was active during the Yavneh period) that have been preserved in the following baraita: There is a tradition that Rabbi Eliezer ben Jacob says, “I have heard that the beit din may impose flagellation and pronounce [capital] sentences even where not [warranted] by the Torah; yet not with the intention of disregarding the Torah, but [on the contrary] to safeguard it.” 53

Similarly, the Jerusalem Talmud says: “There is a tannaitic saying: Rabbi Eliezer b. Jacob said: ‘I heard that there are punishments according to the Torah and there are punishments not according to the Torah.’” 54 In other words, the court may punish someone for crimes or misdemeanors not covered by the Torah or Halakah. 52.  B. B. Qam. 117a, according to the Munich ms (trans. Soncino Talmud, adapted). For the authority of the exilarch in dealing out the death penalty, see Beer, Babylonian Exilarchate; and Rosenthal, “For the Talmudic Dictionary,” 54–55, 87 [Heb.]. 53.  B. Sanh. 46a (trans. adapted from the Soncino Talmud). 54.  Y. Ḥag. 2.78a, col. 788.

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According to this outlook, expressed in the words of Rabbi Eliezer b. Jacob in both the Jerusalem and the Babylonian Talmudim, there is a place for extra severity as a safeguard. The modus operandi of the Jewish leadership institutions in Palestine and Babylonia in the time of the exilarchate of Huna and the patriarchate of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi at times included brute force, kangaroo courts, and even the imposition of the death penalty without due legal process. The wide measure of freedom of action in the field of judicial autonomy can be seen as an expression of the power of the institutions of independent leadership in both places. The degree of recognition given to them by the Roman authorities during the Severan period in Palestine and by the Persian authorities during the Parthian period in Babylonia must have been considerable. Neither of the parties involved rejected the option of using brute force when dealing either directly with offenders or merely with people who seemed to them in need of being taught a lesson. In the Jerusalem Talmud, there is an episode that seems to imply that Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi had close relations not only with the Roman emperor “Antoninus” but also with King Artaban (IV or V), the last of the Parthian dynasty, who ruled from 231 to 224: Artaban sent our Holy Rabbi a single pearl of unsurpassed value. He said to him: “Send me something of equivalent value.” He sent him a mezuzah. [Artaban] said to [Rabbi]: “Why, when I sent you something that is beyond valuation, did you send me something that is worth one polar [small coin]? ” He replied: “All your possessions and all my possessions are not equivalent to this [mezuzah]. For you sent me something that I have to guard, but I sent you something that will guard you even when you are asleep, as it is said (Prov 6:22): ‘When you walk it will lead you [and when you lie down it will watch over you.]’” 55

Chronologically, the time of Artaban who is mentioned in this source fits the time of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. Gift exchanges between rulers and leaders were common at the time and also took place between “Antoninus” and Rabbi, just as they are an accepted part of modern diplomacy. The fact that this episode is found in the Jerusalem Talmud gives it a greater likelihood of being true, although it is possible that there are some aggadic elements. However, the authenticity of this particular episode is problematic, both because of the tensions that existed between the patriarch in Palestine and the Babylonian center and because of the antagonism between the Roman Empire and the Parthian Empire, where Babylonia was situated. However, there were not only tensions between Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and the Babylonian Jewish leadership but also friendship and esteem. As for Rome—this was not a gift that should be interpreted as a conspiracy between Rabbi and Artaban but a routine exchange of gifts whereby the gift that Rabbi sent to Artaban was not significant from the point of view of the Romans. 55.  Y. Peʾah 1.15d, col. 82.

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Artaban also had good relations with Rav, the head of the yeshivah at Sura. We know this from b. ʿAbodah Zarah, which even compares these relations with the relationship between Rabbi and “Antoninus”: “ ‘Antoninus’ served Rabbi, Artaban served Rav, so that when ‘Antoninus’ died, Rabbi said: ‘The union is broken.’ And when Artaban died, Rav said: ‘The union is broken.’” 56 Jewish Babylonia defined its halakic boundaries according to the degree of meticulousness over the purity of Jewish lineage but also linked them to the administrative and political boundaries of Babylonia. In the same way, the halakic borders of the land of Israel for the places that were obliged to keep the mitzwot relating to the produce of the land were fixed in relation to the administrative borders between the provinces of the Roman Empire. Most Jewish settlement in Babylonia was naturally concentrated in the fertile territory between the Tigris and the Euphrates, and these rivers were even fixed as boundaries for Jewish Babylonia. The Euphrates was also seen as the eastern boundary of the greater ‘land of Israel as promised’ (gevulot hahavtahah).The northwest corner of genealogical Babylonia on the Euphrates was for many years the political border between Persia and the Roman Empire, while the southwestern corner of the river at the time marked the border with the Arabian Peninsula. The line of the borders of Jewish Babylonia on the Upper and Lower Tigris is the same as that of the secular administrative borders of the districts of Babylonia: on the Lower Tigris in the south, the border reached the territory of Mesene, while on the Upper Tigris, it reached up to the administrative border of Sasanian Babylonia. 57 The Babylonian Talmud expresses contempt for the territories outside Jewish Babylonia, because of their lack of meticulous preservation of the purity of lineage: Rav Pappa the Elder said in the name of Rav: “Babylonia [from the point of view of purity of lineage] is healthy [free of people forbidden to marry], Mesene/Meishon is dead [because everyone there is forbidden to marry], Media is sick [because most Jews are kosher and a minority forbidden], and Elam is fatally ill [because most are forbidden and a minority kosher]. And what is the difference between sick and fatally ill? Most sick people live, and most fatally ill people die.” 58

We may presume that these statements also reflect the general tensions that existed between Jewish Babylonia and the Jews of the neighboring areas (in present-day southern Iraq [Mesene] and Iran [Elam and Media]). It is thus hardly surprising that these areas turned to the center in Palestine to solve their halakic questions, bypassing the nearer Babylonian center, as we see in the following episode, cited in tractate 56.  B. ʿAbod. Zar. 10b (following the Spanish ms edited by Abramson). The printed version has “Adrakhan,” which is clearly a corruption of “Artaban.” 57.  A. Oppenheimer (with Michael Lecker), “The Genealogical Boundaries of Jewish Babylonia,” Between Rome and Babylon (Tübingen, 2005), 339–55. 58.  B. Qidd. 71b. In the Munich ms and in Vatican 111, “Mesene” appears as “Meishan” instead of “Meishon” in the printed versions. These variations also appear in other sources that mention “Mesene” and may reflect variant pronunciations.

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Pesạhim of the Jerusalem Talmud, in which the Jews of Mesene turn to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi: For thus said Rabbi Ba: “The people of Mesene/Meisha took it upon themselves not to sail on the Great Sea. They came and asked Rabbi, saying to him: ‘Our fathers used not to sail on the Great Sea; what should we do?’ He said to them: ‘Since your fathers kept this ban, do not change the custom of your late fathers.’” 59

Palestinian sources tend to use the form “Meisha” for “Mesene,”  60 and it is reasonable to suppose that this source is speaking of the Kingdom of Mesene, although there are scholars who disagree. 61 The people of Mesene turn to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi to cancel the vow of their fathers not to sail on the sea, presumably for the purposes of trade. There is no reason given why the people of Mesene needed to restrict themselves in sailing or why Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi should support the continuation of these restrictions, except for his comment that the Jews of Mesene should behave like their fathers before them. We may speculate about Rabbi’s position: Was he concerned about leaving the Jewish center in Mesene and sailing to faraway places? Or was it a fear of sailing on the Sabbath? 59.  Y. Pesaḥ. 4.30d, col. 517 (and see Baer Ratner, Ahavat Zion viYerushalayim [Vilna, 1901– 17], 60–62). 60.  See, e.g., Y. Yebam. 1.3b, col. 835; y. Qidd. 4.65c, col. 1180; Gen. Rab. 37:8 (ed. TheodorAlbeck, p. 350). 61.  In the continuation of this passage in the Jerusalem Talmud, Rabbi Hananiah makes the ruling of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi dependent on a statement of Rabbi Judah (ben Ilai): “It is forbidden to sail on the Great Sea” (see y. Moʿed Qaṭ. 3.81c, col. 809). This ruling is mentioned in y. Moʿed Qaṭan in the context of the ban on leaving the land of Israel to go abroad, and in this case we might identify Meisha with a settlement in Palestine and not with Mesene, south of Babylonia. This is the opinion of S. Lieberman, HaYeryushalmi KiFshuto (Jerusalem, 1934), 434, and following him, M. Baer, Amoraei Bavel (2nd ed.; Ramat-Gan, 1982), 157 n. 3. In addition, Prof. M. Assis has shown me that when the “the Great Sea” is mentioned in the Jerusalem Talmud, it means the Mediterranean. In b. Pesaḥ. 50b, there is evidence that the people of Beishan ‫—ביישן‬according to the Munich ms, the people of Mesene/Meishan ‫—מישן‬refrained from traveling from Tyre to Sidon on the eve of the Sabbath, and their sons came to Rabbi Yohanan to ask him to permit them to change the custom of their ancestors (see Diqduqei Soperim, ad loc.). Klein, who prefers the reading “Meishan” here, wanted to claim that this episode is a parallel to the one we discussed from y. Pesaḥim, since in both of them the question that arises is connected to the concern that someone will be involved in sailing on the Sabbath. Klein would like to identify Meisha ‫ מישא‬in b. Pesaḥim with Mesene/Meishan (Beishan in the printed versions) in the Babylonian Talmud as a place near Tyre: S. Klein, “The Letter of R. Menahem haHevroni,” Bulletin of the Israel Exploration Society 6 (1939): 20–22; idem, Sefer haYishuv (Jerusalem, 1939), 1:106–7. The problems that are produced by the dovetailing of these two sources when using the statement of R Judah b. Ilai in y. Moʿed Qaṭan mean that his Meisha must be identified as being in the land of Israel, while the parallel to b. Pesaḥim means that Meisha must be identified somewhere in the area of Tyre and Sidon—all this makes us doubt the attempts to remove the evidence of the request of the people of Mesene to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi from the plain meaning, which is that the text is referring to Mesene south of Babylonia.

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The importance of Mesene lay in its location, at the junction strategic for controlling the roads connecting Mesopotamia and the Persian Gulf. As a result, Mesene was the focus of trade with India, the Far East, and the southern Arabian Peninsula. In the Syriac work “Hymn to the Soul,” from around the same time as Rabbi, Mesene is described as “a paradise for traders sited on the sea coast.” 62 In the first and second centuries c.e., Mesene was also an important center for trade with Rome. The people of Mesene turned to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi in the period when Palmyrene control over the sea trade between India and the West, via Mesene, had ceased, and this trade was taken over by the people of Mesene. A series of inscriptions found in Palmyra give evidence of the involvement of the local inhabitants in this trade route. These inscriptions cease for the first time in the year 161 c.e., parallel to the war of Emperor Lucius Verus against the Parthians, and afterward cease completely in 193 c.e., parallel to the conquest of northern Mesopotamia by Septimius Severus. 63 Against this background, the timing of the approach of the Jews of Mesene to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, who was then at the height of his power, is more significant. The involvement of the Jews of Mesene in sea trade should also be connected with the presence of Jews in Mashmahig, present-day Samahig, a port on the island of Muharraq, northeast of Bahrain. 64 In any case, the direct approach of the Jews of Mesene to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi, in spite of the fact that there were already the beginnings of Torah institutions in neighboring Babylonia, demonstrates both the tensions already noted between the Jews of Mesene and those of Babylonia on the question of purity of lineage and the tensions between them. It also shows the status and authority of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi in their eyes. The links between Mesene and Palestine are also visible in other areas. For example, there is an inscription on a grave at Beth Sheʿarim, the place where Rabbi himself was buried, that reads: μισηνὴ Σάρα ἡ Μαξίμ[α] (‘Sarah from Mesene, also called Maxima’). 65 This appears to be evidence of the bringing of the dead from Mesene to Palestine for burial. The network of connections between Mesene and Palestine continued even after the death of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. Thus, for example, a debate that deals with Sabbath laws notes that Babylonian Jews fixed their Halakah according to the amoraim of Babylonia, while the Jews of Mesene followed the amoraim of Palestine. 66 Mesene was not the only place near Babylonia that had links with Palestine and Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi at the time. There is further evidence from a question 62.  See A. A. Bevan, trans., The Hymn of the Soul Contained in the Syriac Acts of St. Thomas (Texts and Studies 5/3; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1897). On the question of the author of this work, see H. J. W. Drijvers, Bardaisan of Edessa (Assen, 1966), 209–11; J. B. Segal, Edessa ‘The Blessed City’ (Oxford, 1970), 31, 68. 63.  M. Rostovzeff, “Les inscriptions caravanières de Palmyre,” in Mélanges Gustave Glotz (2 vols.; Paris, 1932), 2:793–811. 64. Cf. b. Roš Haš. 23a; b. Yoma 77a. 65.  M. Schwabe and B. Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, vol. 2 (Jerusalem, 1974), no. 101 (pp. 80–81, 212, 217). 66.  B. Šab. 37b.

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to Rabbi from Nineveh: “The Jews of Nineveh sent to Rabbi [asking], ‘People like ourselves, who need rain even in Tammuz [at the end of the summer], how should we behave?’” 67 Biblical and talmudic Nineveh is situated north of Babylonia, on the eastern bank of the Tigris, opposite present-day Mosul in northern Iraq. The Jews of Nineveh claim that, while it is usual to pray for rain in the winter, they also need to request rain in their prayers in the summer months. They ask in which of the blessings of the Eighteen Benedictions they should insert their request. The problem with this is that there is no rain at Nineveh in the summer. Several scholars have suggested that the source therefore relates to Naveh in the Bashan, 68 for it is known that Rabbi had estates in the Bashan. This suggestion is of no help, however, for there is no rain in the Bashan in the summer either. It appears that Rabbi was relating to Babylonia and the neighboring lands, as is seen in the following sources. Two places in the Babylonian Talmud mention Abbimi, from the fourth generation of Babylonian amoraim, who lived in the first half of the fourth century in Be Hozai (Huzistan in modern Iran) near Mesene. He used to take to the Babylonian yeshivot tannaitic traditions that were unknown to them and presumably originated in Palestine. 69 When the Talmud wants to give examples of Rabbi’s riches, it stresses that throughout the year there were vegetables on his table, both in and out of season. 70 It seems that at times people imported them into Palestine from far away. From the following source, it looks as though Rabbi also received them from Naʾusa, a settlement on an island in the river Euphrates, between Ihi deQira and Alush, about 32 km northwest of Hit in northern Iraq, known from classical sources, 100 km northwest of Pumbedita, near present-day al-Faluja: “When Rav Dimi came, he said: ‘Bonius sent Rabbi a modya [= modius; ‘measure’] of artichokes from Naʾusa, and Rabbi estimated [that it contained] two hundred and seventeen eggs [a unit of volume, like an olive].” 71 Bonius (Munich ms: ben Bonyas) was a man known for his riches who 67.  B. Taʿan. 14b. 68.  In the parallel source in y. Taʿan. 1.63d, col. 704: “The people of Naveh needed to fast after Passover. They came and asked Rabbi; and Rabbi said to them: ‘Go and do it.’” But the editor of the Leiden ms drew a line to join the words ‘people of Naveh’ ‫בני נווה‬, thus making it into one word, ‘in Nineveh’ ‫בנינווה‬. However, Prof. M. Assis wrote to me that it is possible that the correct version was the ms with two words, but the editor joined the words together under the influence of the Babylonian Talmud. 69.  B. Ḥul. 68b; b. Nid. 5b. 70.  “God said: ‘There are two nations [‫ ]גוים‬in your womb’ (Gen 25:23). Do not read nations [‫ ]גוים‬but rich men [‫—]גאים‬this refers to ‘Antoninus’ and Rabbi. For there did not cease from their table radishes or lettuce or cucumbers, either in the hot days or the rainy days” (b. Ber. 40b, acc. to Munich ms). The expository comparison between Rabbi and the emperor also relates to the verse because of the common concept in aggadah that Esau is Rome. 71.  B. ʿErub. 83a. Dr. Susan Weingarten informs me that there appears to have been a considerable trade in artichokes all over the Empire and beyond as a very expensive luxury item: The first-century Roman author Pliny (Nat. Hist. 19.43) writes: “It is well known that at Carthage, and particularly at Cordova, crops of thistles [= artichokes] yield a return of 6,000 sesterces from

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had various sorts of connections with Rabbi. 72 The Talmud shows him as an owner of ships, which would be appropriate to a stay far away on an island in the middle of the Euphrates. It should be noted that this statement is made by Rav Dimi, one of the nahotei—the amoraim whose function was to convey the Torah of Palestine to Babylonia—who lived at the turn of the fourth century; thus it appears that Bonius/ ben Bonyas sent artichokes from Nawsah to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. small plots. . . . They are also preserved in honey diluted with vinegar . . . so that there should be no day without thistles for dinner” (trans. H. Rackham; LCL 371; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1950), 519. Artichokes in the first course of a formal dinner are also depicted in the Mosaic of the Buffet Supper at Antioch: D. Levi, Antioch Mosaic Pavements (Princeton, 1947), 127–36. 72.  B. ʿErub. 85b–86a: “Ben Bonius came before Rabbi. Rabbi said to them [his pupils]: ‘Make way for the wealthy man [lit., man of 100 maneh].’ Another man came, and Rabbi said to them: ‘Make way for the very wealthy man! [lit., man of 200 maneh].’ Rabbi Ishmael b. Rabbi Yose said to him: ‘Rabbi, this man’s father has a thousand ships, and also a thousand cities on dry land!’ Rabbi said to him: ‘When you go to his father, tell him not to send him to me in such clothes!’”

The Religious Orientation of Non-Rabbis in Second-Century Palestine A Rabbinic Perspective

Adiel Schremer Bar-Ilan University and Shalom Hartman Institute

Beyond Power and Authority Not “what was the role of the rabbis in Palestinian Jewish society of the first few centuries of the common era? ” but, rather, “what was the religious orientation of the masses? ” and “what was the relationship between this type of religiosity and the religiosity of the rabbis? ” are the questions that will be the focus of the present essay. To be sure, these questions are related to one another; indeed, in studies devoted to the place of the rabbis in Palestinian Jewish society in Late Antiquity, the question about the religious identity of the masses is frequently presented as deriving from the question about the place of the rabbis in society. However, these two questions are not identical, and it is unnecessary to arrive at the former only as a by-product of the latter. Quite the contrary: it seems to me that a more nuanced awareness of both the nature of halakic discourse and the relations between a society and its normative system in general may contribute to a more sophisticated assessment of the place of rabbis in the Palestinian Jewish society of their time as well. The perspective characterizing much of the scholarly treatment of these questions is political-institutional. Its focal point is the rabbis (as a group within Jewish society), and the primary question it addresses relates to the rabbis’ role in society as a group aspiring to political, social, and religious leadership. Consequently, the key concepts governing the discussion are authority, power, and influence. Thus, for example, in describing an “old” view, from which he wished to distance himself, Lee I. Levine has written: 319

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Adiel Schremer In much of the historical research of this period, the treatment of the rabbis as a socio-religious phenomenon often suffers from marked tendentiousness. There is a clear penchant among some scholars to romanticize both the rabbis and their world, viewing them as having been spiritual leaders whose opinions directly influenced and largely shaped society as a whole during this period. According to these scholars, the rabbis were the central force within Jewish society of Roman Palestine both in the religio-cultural and the socio-economic realms. On the other hand, certain scholars cast grave doubts upon the centrality of the rabbis at this time, and there are even those who adopt a more extreme position wherein any influence the sages might have had over the people is greatly minimized. 1

The key concept guiding Levine’s thought here is influence, but in the immediately following passage he writes: “In this period, the rabbis per se did not control any communal institutions through which they could force their views upon the masses.” 2 Hence, as he writes elsewhere in the same work, “The degree to which rabbinic ideas and norms penetrated Jewish life was a function of the . . . status and authority of the sages in the eyes of the people.” 3 Martin Goodman also, in his book State and Society in Roman Galilee, devotes a chapter to “rabbinic authority in Galilee” and speaks of the “sphere of rabbinic jurisdiction,” and of the “limitation of rabbinic jurisdiction.” 4 He often refers to “rabbinic authority” and maintains that “rabbis, then, attempted to control Jews in Galilee only in religious rather than secular matters, and even in this sphere were largely unsuccessful in this period in imposing their decisions.” 5 The same conceptual perspective is evident in Shaye J. D. Cohen’s study devoted to the rabbis in second-century Palestinian Jewish society. “Who were the rabbis of second-century Palestine (the ‘tannaitic’ period)? ” he asks and continues to unpack this very broad question by setting forth the following questions: “What was their role in Jewish society? What was their relationship with their fellow Jews? In what areas did they exercise authority? What were the institutional bases of their power? ” 6 In a manner resembling Levine’s presentation, he writes: 1.  See Lee I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi / New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989), 21–22 (emphasis mine). Compare Levine’s similar exposition in The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 440–41. 2. Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 21–22 (emphasis mine). 3.  Ibid., 98 (emphasis mine). 4.  See Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee 132–212 (2nd ed.; London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2000), 93–111. 5.  Ibid., 107 (emphasis mine). Note, however, Goodman’s comment, in his introduction to the second edition of his book, that: “It is probably correct that in State and Society I underestimated the desire of ordinary Jews to find in rabbinic leaders both political and secular guidance” (p. xi; emphasis mine). The shift in Goodman’s terminological usage from “power” to “guidance” is precisely the shift in view from the “authority” and “power” of the “rulers” to the identity of the “ruled” that I suggest in this paper. 6.  See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 3: The Early Roman Period (ed. W. Horbury, W. D. Davies, and J. Sturdy;

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According to the “traditional” answer, the rabbis were the leaders of the Jews and the moulders [!] of Judaism. Drawn from all segments of the population they were the elite of Jewish society. Their position as judges, teachers and synagogue leaders enabled them to propagate the way of Torah among the masses. In this view rabbinic Judaism is synonymous with Judaism, and rabbinic society is synonymous with Jewish society. 7

And, again like Levine, he asserts that: “This view is false in almost every detail.” 8 In another publication, entitled “The Place of the Rabbi in Jewish Society of the Second Century” (which is, in fact, based on the former publication, although it appeared in print earlier), Cohen views the issue as pertaining first and foremost to “rabbinic power” (as the first subhead in the study indicates) and therefore concludes: “The tannaim had no means . . . to enforce their decisions and decrees. They were neither agents of the state nor communal leaders. In sum, the rabbis did not control the religious and civil life of second-century Palestinian Jewry.” 9 Cohen thus discloses a line of thought similar to that guiding Levine and Goodman. Seth Schwartz sets the stage with the same terminology and conceptual approach. He speaks of “the authority of the rabbis” (which, in his opinion, “was neither absolute nor unchallenged”) 10 and maintains that “the rabbis did not control Jewish life. . . . they . . . aspired but never in antiquity attained widespread authority over the Jews.” 11 Elsewhere Schwartz reiterates his view and asserts that: “The rabbis did not control anything in rural Palestine—not synagogues, not charity collection or distribution, nor anything else.” 12 While he allows for the possibility that “patriarchal and rabbinic authority may have increased between 150 and 350,” 13 he nonetheless argues that “patriarchs and rabbis always remained in important ways marginal.” 14 As Schwartz puts it: The Palestinian Talmud itself, interested though it is in playing up rabbinic authority, never describes the rabbis as possessing jurisdiction in the technical sense. No one was compelled to accept rabbinic judgment. The rabbis could threaten, plead, and cajole but could not subpoena or impose a sentence. Only the Roman governor and his agents had such authority. 15 Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 922. See also ibid., 967–71 (“Range of Authority”); 974–77 (“Conclusion”; emphasis mine). 7.  Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 975. The bracketed exclamation mark is Cohen’s. 8. Ibid. 9.  See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi in Jewish Society of the Second Century,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 157–73, esp. p. 164 (emphasis mine). 10.  See Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 b.c.e. to 640 c.e. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 6. 11.  Ibid., 7–8 (emphasis mine throughout). 12.  Ibid., 124. 13.  Ibid., 120. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid.

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The terminology of legal authority and political power characterizing this scholarly approach is nowhere clearer than in these lines. 16 The basic argument expressed by this scholarly approach is that, since the rabbis lacked any authority and power over the masses, they could not force anyone to accept their teachings or follow their norms. For this reason, it is to be assumed—so this line of thought runs—that the religious identity of the masses was very much at odds with that of the rabbis. As recently noted by Michael Satlow, this position has achieved the status of “consensus.” 17 However, in spite of the popularity that this line of argumentation has gained in various scholarly circles, in my opinion the logic underlying it is not as simple as it may appear. How, really, does the question of rabbinic authority affect the question of the religious identity of the masses? Since it is entirely possible, at least on a theoretical level, that the religious orientation of the masses would be very much in line with that of the rabbis (even if the rabbis did not have any authority and political power), the presentation of the former issue as dependent on the latter calls for a more nuanced explanation. Only if we approach the question with an already existing presupposition that the religious identity of the masses must have been different from that of the rabbis does the issue of rabbinic authority and power become relevant. The logic of the argument then is that, had the rabbis been authoritative and politically powerful, they could have enforced their teachings and norms on Jews whose religious identity was not “rabbinic.” However, since they lacked political and judicial authority and power they could not, in reality, enforce anything, and therefore the religious identity of the masses remained “non-rabbinic.” This argument is obviously circular, because it assumes that which needs to be shown. My contention, therefore, is that the question of the religious identity of Palestinian Jews of the first few centuries of the Christian era needs to be addressed for its own sake and not only as an offshoot of the question of rabbinic authority and power. 16.  The concept of “power” also governs Daniel Boyarin’s thinking on Palestinian Jewish society in the first few centuries. However, Boyarin’s implicit view must be different from that of Cohen and Schwartz, for, in putting forth his view of the “social outcomes” of the discourse of “orthodoxy and heresy,” he speaks of the “decision of the ‘legislative’ bodies, the metaphorical parliaments of religious power” (see Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004], 21). And although the identity of those who belonged to the “metaphorical parliaments of religious power” is not explicitly stated, the materials discussed by Boyarin throughout his book to support this view are rabbinic, and this makes it clear that the rabbis are those who stand behind the symbolic language. Clearly, looking at the rabbinic construction of minut as an act of political exercise of power implies an assumption concerning the rabbis’ social position. That is, it implies that the rabbis were not peripheral in the Jewish society of their time but had some kind of power over other members of Jewish communities in Palestine. Otherwise, there is no sense in thinking about these cultural constructions in terms of political power. 17.  See Michael Satlow, “A History of the Jews or Judaism? On Seth Schwartz’s Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 b.c.e. to 640 c.e.,” JQR 95 (2005): 153, 157.

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Put differently, even if we were to agree that “the power of patriarchs and rabbis depended on the consensus of the ruled,” 18 still we are surely allowed to ask: what was this “consensus”? The question is not whether the rabbis could force anyone to accept their halakic opinions but rather: what was the religious orientation of the masses? On this question, our knowledge appears to be quite limited, so it is this question on which I would like to focus in this paper instead. The following example will illustrate the difference between the perspective I am suggesting and the perspective that is prevalent in the above-mentioned scholarly literature. The Mishnah and the Tosefta refer to various practices of the “people of Jericho” that were not approved by the rabbis. One of these practices was to leave the corners of their vegetable fields for the poor (peʾah), in contrast to the view of the rabbis, according to which one need not give this type of charity from vege­tables. 19 A story in the Tosefta tells of a person whose father left the corner of his vegetable field for the poor (that is, like the practice of the landowners of Jericho and in contrast to the opinion of the rabbis), but when the son found the poor at the entrance to the field he told them: “My sons, shall we not pay attention to the words of the sages? Drop that which is in your hands!” As the story goes, “They dropped that which was in their hands, and he gave them twice as much food out of his tithe on other produce. And it was not because he was grudging but because he was concerned about the words of the sages.” 20 How can such a text be used for our purposes? In his discussion of the “range of authority” of the rabbis, Shaye Cohen claimed that: “In religious matters the rabbis certainly could rely only upon their powers of persuasion.” 21 And in support of this assertion, he refers to our passage in the Tosefta and writes: “The men of the south left the corners of their vegetable fields unharvested for the poor, although the rabbis declared that charity of this type did not apply to vegetables. But the rabbis had no means of enforcing their decision. One wealthy land-owner asked himself, ‘Shouldn’t we be concerned about the decision of the sages? ’” 22 The perspective from which Cohen approaches the text is the cause for his understanding of the phrase ‘against the will of the sages’ (‫ )שלא כרצון חכמים‬as an implied refusal to accept rabbinic teaching, and hence it leads to the view that the landowners of Jericho had split away from the rabbis. However, the same phrase also appears in m. Šabb. 5:4 with respect to one of the most prominent rabbis of the Mishnah: “Rabbi Elazar ben Azzariah’s cow would go out with a strap between its horns against the will of the sages.” The use of this phrase in the Mishnah suggests that “the sages” is a rhetorical device that actually stands for the halakic opinion that was favored by the author of the text. In order to endow it 18. Schwartz, Imperialism, 121. 19. See m. Pesaḥ. 4:8; t. Pesaḥ. 3.19–20 (ed. Lieberman, 156–57). Cf. Shamma Friedman, Tosefta Atiqta Pesaḥ Rishon (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2002), 380–404. 20.  T. Pesaḥ. 3.19–20. 21.  See Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 970. 22. Ibid.

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with authority, he labeled it as the opinion of “the sages.” 23 Certainly the phrase does not imply that the marginalized opinion (by means of its presentation as the opinion of but a single rabbi) reflects a nonrabbinic stance, since one would surely not suggest that Rabbi Elazar ben Azzariah was opposed to or alienated from rabbinic Halakah. And just as one would not reach this wrong conclusion regarding Rabbi Elazar ben Azzariah, so also we need not assume that in the view of the Tosefta the “people of Jericho” were alienated from rabbinic Halakah. Once we shift our attention from the question of rabbinic authority to the question of the religious orientation of the masses, the testimony of the text can be read differently. To begin with, the landowners of Jericho were certainly “Torah-oriented” Jews, because they followed the biblical precept to leave a corner of the field for the poor (peʾah). One landowner was even minded to follow the specific halakic opinion of the rabbis. 24 Thus, the text is not depicting Jewish landowners who are bereft of Torah; precisely the opposite is true. To be sure, the story is told by a rabbinic “narrator,” and therefore it reflects a rabbinic perspective. According to the rabbis’ interpretation, the son of the landowner had a desire to follow rabbinic instruction. Whether or not this was indeed his motivation we cannot know, but it is clear that the rabbis sought to present the issue this way. This, then, is important evidence regarding the image of the religious orientation of some Palestinian Jews in the eyes of the rabbis. My contention, then, is that although, admittedly, this is a rabbinic text, and therefore its testimony reflects a rabbinic point of view, approaching it only from the perspective of rabbinic authority limits its meaning as potential historical evidence.

Imperfect Obedience The scholarly presumption that the religious identity of Palestinian Jews during the first few centuries of the Christian era was indeed profoundly different from that of the rabbis is frequently presented as being founded primarily on the impression left by various archaeological remains from synagogues and cemeteries of late antique Palestine, which appear to many scholars to exhibit a Judaism that is profoundly different from the Judaism of the rabbis. 25 Assuming that these remains reflect the 23. See b. Ḥul. 85a: ‘Said Rabbi Yohanan: Rabbi [Judah the Prince] accepted Rabbi Meir’s view . . . so he presented it as the opinion of “the sages” ’ (‫ ושנאה‬. . . ‫ראה רבי דעתו של רבי מאיר‬ ‫)בלשון חכמים‬. Cf. Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to Tannaitic Literature (Jerusalem: Magnes / Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1957), 225–26; idem, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (2nd ed.; Jerusalem: Magnes / Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1964), 1141–54 [Hebrew]. 24.  Cohen’s formulation “asked himself ” is misleading: the man about whom the story is told does not speak to himself; he is actually addressing the poor and persuades them to follow the ruling of the sages. 25.  The argument is presented clearly by Erwin R. Goodenough (Jewish Symbols in the GrecoRoman Period [13 vols.; New York: Pantheon, 1965], 12:184–98), who was followed by many others.

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religious identity of the masses much more than rabbinic texts do, the conclusion these scholars reached was that the religious identity of the masses was indeed “not rabbinic,” and therefore the rabbis must have been “a marginal group with little or no impact on wider Jewish society.” 26 This line of thought is guided by various hidden assumptions about the nature of rabbinic Halakah as a normative system and by very strict conceptions of observance in the realm of religious life that are difficult to accept. These assumptions, I maintain, lie at the basis of statements such as Erwin R. Goodenough’s, founded on the archaeological remains, that “we have no right to assert that all the Jews at Tiberias were living by the halacha of the rabbis.” 27 On the one hand, this statement is obvious. On the other hand it seems to be misguided, because it reflects, in my opinion, a misapprehension of the complex relations existing between a living community and its normative system. According to this conception, “observance” is a virtue demanding totality. Any sort of failure to follow the law completely is automatically deemed a severe crime. Even the slightest deviance from the law is treated in the strictest manner, and the deviant is looked upon as a felon. This approach does not leave room for any “misconduct”: a person who fails to follow the law, however slightly and no matter in what area of life, is seen as undermining the very authority of the law and can by no means be considered a loyal member of society. 28 It seems that because of his holding of this view Goodenough (as well as some of those who followed his lead) could not have perceived the meaning of the remains of artwork from Jewish synagogues and cemeteries in Palestine except as a representation of a Judaism that was divorced from the Judaism advocated by the rabbis. This sort of view, however, is entirely alien to the Halakah as a normative tradition. Anyone who is familiar with the halakic responsa of rabbinic authorities, of whatever period, knows very well that actual situations in which the practices prevailing among observant Jews did not follow the formal demands of Halakah were very common throughout Jewish history. Yet neither contemporary rabbinic authorities nor these Jews themselves ever conceived of these Jews as “nonhalakic” because of their misconduct (and therefore neither should we). 26. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 441. 27. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 12:186. 28.  One wonders whether a view of this sort might not be inspired, for one thing (and unconsciously, of course), by the very common understanding of Paul’s famous argument in Gal 3:10–14. According to this common understanding, the Torah demands complete and total obedience, so even the slightest failure to follow the law causes one to be “under a curse.” See Thomas R. Schrei­ ner, “Is Perfect Obedience to the Law Possible? A Re-Examination of Galatians 3:10,” JETS 27 (1984): 151; Christopher D. Stanley, “‘Under a Curse’: A Fresh Reading of Galatians 3.10–14,” NTS 36 (1990): 481–511; Michael Cranford, “The Possibility of Perfect Obedience: Paul and an Implied Premise in Galatians 3:10 and 5:3,” Novum Testamentum 36 (1994): 242–58; James Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 309–12; Norman H. Young, “Who’s Cursed—and Why? (Galatians 3:10–14),” JBL 117 (1998): 79–92.

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A few examples from medieval Ashkenaz—a period during which it is agreed by all scholars that “the rabbinic Way” was normative—are instructive for the purposes of the present discussion. 29 Throughout the Middle Ages, Jews in France and Germany used to sell goods to their non-Jewish neighbors on Gentile holidays. This practice, which is attested by various medieval halakic texts, stands in sharp contrast to the rulings of the Mishnah and the Talmud. The Tosafot to tractate ʿAbodah Zarah, who testify to this habit, find no other way to justify it but with the apologetic concession: “What shall he [the Jew] do? Shall he lose it?!” 30 Whether one finds this argument convincing or not is immaterial to the historical conclusion one can draw from the Tosafot’s comment, which is that Jews in medieval France did not entirely follow the Halakah in laws pertaining to the relations between Jews and Gentiles, which were considered part of the halakic laws of idolatry. 31 Likewise, many of the Jews in France and Germany in the high Middle Ages traded in wine touched by non-Jews, although according to rabbinic Halakah any profit from such a wine (let alone its consumption) was prohibited. 32 Rashi, who is one of the earliest witnesses to the fact that this was a prevalent practice among observant Jews in Ashkenaz in the Middle Ages, admitted that it contradicted Halakah. 33 To be sure, Rashi (as well as many other Ashkenazic rabbis of that period) also attempted to justify the practice by suggesting a legal distinction, the heart of which was the claim that the basis of the halakic prohibition was irrelevant in his days. And it is not impossible (at least theoretically) that this rationale was indeed at the basis of Ashkenazic Jewish behavior (although we have no way of confirming this conjecture). However, it would be a mistake to think that what Rashi did was nothing but the uncovering of a consideration that was already implied by (and therefore, in a sense, embedded in) halakic tradition. Quite the contrary: the argument that halakic prohibition in matters of yên nĕsĕk should be treated based on historical background had never been heard before, so Rashi’s justification of the practice among the Jews of his days was a novum! 34 We could, therefore, imagine a scenario in which Rashi would have responded negatively to the nonhalakic practice prevailing in his days and demanded its radical alteration, since it contradicted the 29.  I make no claim for novelty in the following examples, of course. However, their overall possible relevance to the present discussion is, to the best of my knowledge, rarely seen (if at all), and it is this overall implication to which I wish to draw attention. 30.  See Tosafot to b. ʿAbod. Zar. 15a, s.v. ‫אימור‬. 31.  See Israel M. Ta-shma, Ritual, Custom and Reality in Franco-Germany, 1000–1350 (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996), 242 n. 8 [Hebrew]. 32.  See Haym Soloveitchik, Principles and Pressures: Jewish Trade in Gentile Wine in the Middle Ages (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2003) [Hebrew]. As Soloveitchik himself noted, “Of course there were Jews who did trade in ‘wine of gentiles’” (p. 68). Furthermore, there were many places where Jews did not even refrain from drinking the “wine of Gentiles” (see pp. 48 n. 22, 49, 96, 97 n. 21, 99–100, 107, 108 end of n. 53). See also Daniel Sperber, Ways of Pesika: Methods and Approaches for Proper Halakic Decision Making (Jerusalem: Rubin Mas, 2008), 104–13 [Hebrew]. 33.  See ibid., 41–43. 34.  This is the manner in which Rashi himself viewed his rationale. See his responsum, cited by Soloveitchik, ibid., 52.

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formal demands of Halakah. 35 The fact that he did not choose this path is certainly revealing, 36 but it must not mislead us mistakenly to consider this practice perfectly legitimate halakic behavior. The fact remains that the practice of these Jews was not in accordance with the formal demands of Halakah, as stated very clearly in the Mishnah and the Talmud. 37 Similar examples with respect to Sabbath laws can easily be cited. According to mishnaic and talmudic law, it is forbidden for a woman to go out in the public domain on the Sabbath wearing her jewelry. However, as we learn from numerous halakic sources, Jewish women in medieval Europe did not follow the halakic prohibition and wore their ornaments on Shabbat without further ado. As noted by Israel Ta-shma, this practice caused bewilderment among halakic authorities throughout Europe in the Middle Ages, who knew very well that the halakic basis for this practice was extremely feeble and that on principle it should have been prohibited. 38 The case of labor by non-Jewish servants on the Sabbath may be cited as another powerful example. According to talmudic law, a Jew may not enjoy the benefits of labor done for him by a non-Jew on the Sabbath. Only if the non-Jew has done the work solely for his own sake may a Jew benefit from the work. However, in spite of the talmudic ruling, it was the habit of northern European Jews to enjoy the heat of a fire started by their non-Jewish servants on Shabbat, even though it was very clear that the servant had done so for the sake of the Jewish master or the Jewish residents of the house. Some halakic authorities engaged in arguments against this habit, yet they eventually gave up. Rabbi Jacob ben Moshe haLevi (known to students of Halakah by his soubriquet Maharil) writes in one of his responsa that this habit is “a grave prohibition,” yet he admits that he has “no ability to stop it.” 39 Jacob Katz, who devoted a whole monograph to the halakic institution of a “Sabbath Gentile,” summarized the issue as follows: “The community developed its own behavioral patterns not necessarily according to the logic of formal halakhah. . . . A ‘Sabbath Gentile’ for heating homes became a permanent institution, and only halakhic experts were likely to limit its use in accordance with halakhic criteria.” 40 35.  Such was, indeed, the reaction of some rabbinic authorities, who condemned the Ashkenazic practice in the most severe words. See ibid., 97 n. 21. 36.  What Rashi’s choice should teach us about his view of the religious standards of his contemporaries or about his view of the significance that economic pressures and needs have in halakic considerations are questions into which I shall not enter here. 37.  In fact, there is much evidence in the halakic writings of Ashkenazic rabbis of the Middle Ages that many Jews did not consider it problematic that non-Jews participated in the very production of wine for Jewish use (by treading the grapes). To be sure, this habit was not approved by halakic authorities (see H. Soloveitchik, “Can Halakhic Texts Talk History? ” AJSR 3 [1978]: 186–88). Yet no one ever claimed, on the basis of these examples, that the practices prevailing among Ashkenazic Jews of the Middle Ages in these matters imply that “rabbinic Judaism” was not normative in medieval Ashkenaz. 38.  See Ta-shma, Ritual, Custom and Reality, 130. 39.  See Jacob Katz, The Shabbes Goy: A Study in Halakhic Flexibility (trans. Yoel Lerner; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 53–60. 40.  Ibid., 60–61.

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As Katz has observed, “There was always a certain tension between basic ha­ lakhic teachings and the ability and readiness of the public to adapt its behavior.” 41 However, rabbinic authorities rarely conceive of this state of affairs as casting doubt on the religious orientation of the masses. On the contrary, in many cases rabbinic authorities tend to reinterpret halakic tradition so as to reconcile the discrepancy existing between the formal demands of Halakah and the actual practices prevalent in their communities, rather than condemning the masses for their problematic halakic behavior. As Katz put it: “Tension and actual difference between what halakhic authorities considered obligatory under Jewish law and what was prevalent in practice and even approved of retroactively by these authorities” are inherent to Halakah. 42 To be sure, there are many examples of attempts of halakic authorities to uproot wellestablished practices that they considered illegitimate from a halakic point of view. 43 These examples also reveal, time and again, however, that gaps between what halakic leaders thought ought to be and what the actual religious practices of the masses were always existed in Jewish history. These gaps have never been taken (either by ordinary Jews or by halakic authorities) to imply that the religious orientation of the masses was “nonhalakic” in any sense. Goodenough, whose background was far from the world of halakic literature and tradition, was apparently unable to comprehend the construct of a Judaism that, on the one hand, is “Torah-oriented” (and perhaps also closely related to “the rabbinic Way”) but, on the other hand, does not follow rabbinic instruction in its entirety. Such a construct apparently seemed to him (and to the scholars who followed his lead) to be self-contradictory. Having seen, however, the many examples of precisely this state of affairs in medieval Ashkenaz—a Jewish community whose rabbinic identity has never been disputed—we are in a better position to reevaluate the meaning of the archaeological remains from late antique Palestinian synagogues and cemeteries upon which Goodenough’s hypothesis rests.

Rabbinic Way(s) To begin with, in the second and early third centuries, it is not at all clear whether we can speak of “deviance from the Halakah,” because there was no such thing then. Rabbinic Halakah was only beginning to take shape in those remote days. There were many halakic opinions among Palestinian rabbis, and only rarely was a single halakic norm accepted by all halakic authorities. In what sense, then, are we allowed to speak of “deviance from the Halakah”? Would the disciples of Rabbi Meir, for example, whose halakic opinion on a specific matter had been rejected by the editor of the Mishnah in favor of the opinion of, say, Rabbi Yosi, abandon their 41.  Ibid., 4. 42.  Ibid., 6. 43. Ibid.

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master’s halakic stance merely because Rabbi Judah the Prince did not accept it? 44 Surely not! Would it be justified, then, to deem the norm that they followed “nonhalakic” behavior? Clearly, a more nuanced conception of both “the Halakah” (as a body of normative teaching) and the meaning of the gap between halakic ideals and practical reality is needed. Second, the claim that various archaeological remains contradict rabbinic hala­ kah may be too rigid. Would mosaics, such as the fourth-century mosaic found in Hammat Tiberias or later mosaics that were found in other places in Palestine 45 necessarily seem to second- and third-century Palestinian rabbis to be countering “Halakah” (if such a thing existed at all)? Levine maintained that “the depiction of Helios holding the globe and a staff clearly defies an explicit mishnaic injunction.” 46 Yet the passage (m. ʿAbod. Zar. 3:1) to which he refers does not lend itself so easily to such a harsh judgment. This passage in the Mishnah states: “All images are forbidden because they are worshiped once a year; these are the words of Rabbi Meir. The sages say: No image is prohibited, except for that which has a staff, or a bird, or a sphere. Rabbi Simeon ben Gamaliel says: Any [image] that has anything in its hand.” As has been correctly noted by Sacha Stern, the Mishnah’s concern is with images that were actually worshiped (or were suspect of having been worshiped). 47 As he has shown, for the Mishnah (here, as well as in other places) what establishes the status of “idolatry” for an object is not the image it represents but the fact that it was dedicated to idolatry and worshiped as such. In other words, it is one’s attitude to an object as an idol that confers the status of “idolatry” on the object. 48 Accordingly, the mosaic floor in the synagogue of Hammat Tiberias presents no halakic difficulty, since the image of Helios at its center presumably had been never worshiped as a pagan deity. Put differently: if we were to imagine a situation whereby some Jews came to one of the rabbis and asked for his advice on the construction of the mosaic in Hammat Tiberias, I see no reason to exclude the possibility that he would have 44.  True, in y. Ber. 1.1, 3a, the Palestinian Talmud expresses its astonishment that Rabban Gamaliel would follow his own halakic opinion, in contrast to the opinion of his colleagues. This sugya is clearly ideological, however, and should not be taken as evidence for actual practice among the rabbis and their disciples. Its precise text, moreover, is far from certain, so it would be hazardous to rely on it. See Talmud Yerushalmi according to Ms. Or. 4720 (Scal. 3) of the Leiden University Library with Restorations and Corrections (ed. Yaacov Sussmann; Jerusalem: Academy of the Hebrew Language, 2001), 5–6. 45.  See Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005), 104–10 (and notes on pp. 184–85); Lee I. Levine, “Jewish Archaeology in Late Antiquity: Art, Architecture, and Inscriptions,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period (ed. Steven T. Katz; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 543 n. 17. 46. Levine, Rabbinic Class, 181. 47.  See Sacha Stern, “Figurative Art and Halakha in the Mishnaic-Talmudic Period,” Zion 61 (1996): 405. 48. See also Noam Zohar, “Idolatry and Its Abolishment,” Sidra 17 (2001–2): 63–77 [Hebrew].

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answered them: “Well, based on Halakah, as I understand it from the Mishnah, I see no halakic problem here.” Of course, it is also possible that our imaginary rabbi would have replied in a less favorable manner. 49 However, Levine’s assertion that a mosaic floor of this sort “would certainly have offended rabbinic sensitivities” 50 is not truly established in the sources. Quite the contrary: the report in the Palestinian Talmud that “in the days of Rabbi Yohanan they began drawing on walls, yet he did not protest against them; in the days of Rabbi Abun they began drawing on mosaic floors, yet he did not protest against them” 51 seems to depict a very similar rabbinic reaction to that of halakic authorities in the Middle Ages to practices prevailing among the masses, 49.  See, for example, Mek. de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh 10 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 241; ed. Lauterbach, 2:283): “You shall not make to yourself ” (Exod 20:20)—Lest you say: Since the Torah has given permission to make [the cherubim] in the Temple, I am also going to make them in the synagogues and the school-houses, Scripture says: “You shall not make to yourself.” Another interpretation: “You shall not make to yourself ”—Lest you say: I am going to make them merely for adornment as others do in the various provinces, Scripture says: “You shall not make to yourself.”

Note, however, that these statements follow Rabbi Ishmael’s reading of that verse, while Rabbi Aqiva’s reading is entirely different: “You shall not make with me”—Rabbi Ishmael says: You shall not make a likeness of My sevants who serve before Me in heaven, not the likeness of angels, not the likeness of the cheribum, and not the likeness of the ophannim. . . . Rabbi Aqiva says: “You shall not make with me”—you shall not behave towards Me in the manner in which others behave toward their deities. (Mek. de-Rabbi Ishmael 10 [ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 239; ed. Lauterbach, 2:276–77])

See also Mek. de-Rashbi to Exod 34:14 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 222): “‘You shall not make for yourself [molten gods]’—even as mere decoration.” The latter passage, however, is attested only by Midrash ha-Gadol, which is a medieval midrashic compilation, and its tannaitic origin cannot be taken for granted. 50. Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 181. Levine does not explain what precisely his notion of “rabbinic sensitivities” implies. In my opinion, this notion may be misleading, because it unintentionally introduces the false “orthodox” notion that treats “the rabbis” in the singular, as if all Palestinian rabbis of the second and third centuries represent a single body, adhering to a single halakic opinion in all matters, without differences in world view, taste, or social and religious orientation—a view that Levine himself undoubtedly does not share. Levine also does not detail the specific “sensitivities” about which he is speaking. For example, the widespread assumption that “the rabbis” must have been offended by figurative depictions of God is not sensitive enough to the complexity of voices regarding God’s image heard throughout midrashic literature itself. See Martin Goodman, “The Jewish Image of God in Late Antiquity,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 137–39; Yair Lorberbaum, Image of God: Halakha and Aggadah (Tel Aviv: Schocken, 2004); Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, 231–35. Compare Jodi Magness, “Heaven on Earth: Helios and the Zodiac Cycle in Ancient Palestinian Synagogues,” DOP 59 (2005): 1–52. 51.  Y. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.3, 42d, as preserved by a Genizah fragment. See Jacob N. Epstein, Studies in Talmudic Literature and Semitic Languages (3 vols.; ed. Ezra Z. Melamed; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), 2/1:251–56.

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which appeared to be contradicting the formal demands of Halakah. 52 And just as the existence of cases of this sort in the Middle Ages is never taken as evidence for a claim regarding the marginality of “the rabbinic Way” among medieval Jews, so also their existence in Palestinian Jewish society of Late Antiquity should not be taken in this direction. 53 As Eric Meyers and James Strange put it: “From those few references alone, not to mention many others, it may be concluded . . . that a good portion of rabbinic leadership in the talmudic period saw no conflict between representational art and Jewish learning.” 54 I do not wish to be misunderstood as claiming, positively, on the basis of the above considerations that the religious identity of Palestinian Jews of the first few centuries was rabbinically oriented. To make such a claim, one needs to adduce positive evidence, and this, admittedly, I have not done thus far. My purpose was only to problematize the manner in which scholars treat what they perceive as the disparity between the archaeological remains and “the rabbinic Way.” These scholars never undertake to clarify what, in their opinion, “the rabbinic Way” is. Indeed, “the rabbinic Way” is a vague concept, which in truth cannot be defined, because it rests on the fallacious “orthodox” notion that there is such a thing as “rabbinic Judaism” in the singular. Yet, as surprising as it may sound, these scholars share this orthodox fallacy and therefore introduce the binary opposition “rabbis versus the masses,” which 52.  Indeed, the issue of figurative art in the decoration of synagogues continued to be a halakic question throughout the generations, as can be seen from various halakic discussions by halakic authorities from the Middle Ages to modern times. See Stuart S. Miller, “‘Epigraphical’ Rabbis, Helios, and Psalm 19: Were the Synagogues of Archaeology and the Synagogues of the Sages One and the Same? ” JQR 94 (2004): 28–31. 53.  As Stuart Miller (ibid., 30) put it: “That the rabbis from time to time seem to lack influence, in this instance with regard to figurative art, is no indication that they were seen as peripheral or without authority.” Schwartz is correct, of course, that “the rabbis’ dismissal of much of the pagan material as ‘meaningless’ was part of their attempt to cope with life in the Palestinian cities” (Imperialism, 136). However, the historical meaning of this rabbinic attempt is not, as Schwartz seems to suppose, that the rabbis were distanced from the masses, for the rabbis’ approach in this case is the most typical rabbinic way of dealing with the norms held by the people: a reality that presents a halakic problem is reconceptualized in order to enable Jewish participation in the reality. This is what halakic authorities very frequently do. See Haym Soloveitchik, Pawnbroking: A Study in the Inter-Relationship between Halakhah, Economic Activity and Communal Self-Image (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1985) [Hebrew]. Legal reconceptualizations by no means imply that rabbinic authorities are divorced from the world of the masses; quite the contrary, they testify to the intimate relations between the latter and the former. I therefore argue the opposite: had “the rabbis” sensed that the use of pagan images by their compatriots had a religious meaning exceeding mere decoration (as Schwartz would have us think), they would not have made the effort to legitimize the use of these images. The common rabbinic reaction to such situations is the opposite­—that is, to impose stricter prohibitions. See, for example: m. Šeqal. 1:2; t. Šeb. 3.8–9 (ed. Lieberman, 176); t. Šabb. 3.3 (ed. Lieberman, 12); t. Šabb. 14.1 (ed. Lieberman, 64), and its more detailed parallels in y. Šabb. 17.1, 16a and b. Šabb. 123b. 54.  See Eric M. Meyers and James F. Strange, Archaeology, the Rabbis and Early Christianity (London: SCM, 1981), 153.

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does not leave room for nuance. As a result, in the end they simply reaffirm their own assumption, that “the masses” were “not rabbinic” in their religious orientation. In contrast to this oversimplified approach, I have emphasized that deviation from Halakah is a constant and regular feature of “the rabbinic Way” itself, so the fact that a given practice prevalent in a given Jewish community does not comply with the formal demands of Halakah (as it is known to us from contemporary and earlier halakic texts) means very little. These sorts of deviation, unless they are pervasive, cannot carry the heavy burden that recent scholarship wishes them to bear, which is to serve as evidence for the nonhalakic orientation of the religiosity embraced by the masses. 55

Torah-Oriented Jewishness Being a “Torah-oriented Jew” (or “a halakic Jew”) is a matter of attitude and self-perception. A “Torah-oriented” Jew is a person who views the Torah as guiding his or her way of life and, if asked, would agree that living according to the Torah is essential for his or her Jewishness. The fact that this person does not always follow halakic norms (insofar as there are such) in itself does not distinguish him or her as a “nonhalakic” Jew. True, we expect a certain degree of harmony between one’s selfproclaimed loyalty to the Torah and one’s actual life-style. If the gap is too large and pervasive, it would be difficult to see in what sense a person can be truly regarded a “Torah-oriented” Jew. Likewise, a person who consciously violates certain vital precepts that are known and acknowledged by the members of the community to be the core of the halakic system cannot be regarded a “halakic Jew.” 56 However, as long as the gap between one’s self-proclaimed adherence to the Halakah and one’s actual behavior is not extremely large, the measure of one’s adherence to halakic ruling is not the most crucial criterion for evaluating one’s religious orientation. What is 55.  Levine may be correct in asserting that “this type of artistic expression was definitely not rabbinically inspired” (The Rabbinic Class, 180). Goodenough also should be credited for emphasizing that the mosaic floor of the synagogue of Hammat Tiberias raises not only the question “what was permissible in the decoration of a synagogue? ” but also the question “what sort of Jews would have wanted such ‘decoration’ anyway? ” (Jewish Symbols, 12:186). However, Levine’s claim that “there is simply no way in which we can square this daring mosaic floor with R. Yohanan’s or R. Abun’s (fourth century) grudging consent to figural representation” (Rabbinic Class, 180) rests, in my opinion, on excessively rigid expectations in the context of halakic discourse. It is not required that Rabbi Abun would “happily approve” of such a mosaic for us to conclude that the community that chose it for the decoration of its synagogue was not divorced from the halakic teachings of the rabbis. The fact that Rabbi Abun did not protest against the construction of such mosaic floors is enough to indicate that they met the religious standards of the rabbis. For this reason, they accepted their legitimacy. 56.  To be sure, there can hardly be found a clear definition of these core issues agreed on by all. Nonetheless, the members of the community know very well, by intuition, which precepts they themselves consider core values and which are of lesser significance.

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important is one’s fundamental attitude toward the observance of Halakah. Hence, what we should look for is evidence regarding the attitude of the masses toward the observance of Halakah, much more than their actual adherence to rabbinic standards or lapses from them. The problem is, of course, that we do not have direct access to the self-perceptions of most of the members of the different Jewish communities in late antique Palestine. Except for the rabbis, most of these Jews did not leave any record of their religious thoughts and inclinations, and most of the evidence at our disposal originates from rabbinic circles. This drawback should be acknowledged in the clearest possible manner: the most significant evidence is found in rabbinic texts, and the rabbinic perspective is limited. The rabbis were interested in the observance and promulgation of Jewish law, and therefore their perspective would never be able to give us a truthful (let alone complete) picture of the desire of Jews outside rabbinic circles to “live halakically.” To assume that all Palestinian Jews in Late Antiquity accepted for themselves the halakic teachings of the rabbis and were following “the rabbinic Way” (however this may be defined) is surely a mistake. 57 Notwithstanding this caveat, the rabbinic evidence is not without value, and it is still worth considering the picture that emerges from rabbinic literature with regard to the religious orientation of the masses. What do early rabbinic texts of the second and early third centuries c.e. tell us, then, about the observance of Jewish law and about the attitude toward observance of Jewish law among Palestinian Jews of their time? First, it should be noted that, in contrast to a widely heard allegation, early rabbinic literature does not attempt to play up the role of halakic observance among nonrabbinic Jews in general. The rabbinic texts do not attempt to portray Palestinian Jewish society of their time as if it were a “rabbinic community.” Quite the contrary: these texts tell us very bluntly that many Jews do not follow halakic norms in various areas of Halakah. Thus testifies Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel (mid-second century) in the clearest possible manner: Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel says: “Any commandment for which the Israelites laid down their lives during the time of the shemad [i.e., the Hadrianic persecutions] they continue to observe it in public. But any commandment for which the Israelites did not lay down their lives during the time of the shemad it is still loose in their hands.” 58

Which religious duties Palestinian Jews did not lay down their lives for during the time of the Hadrianic persecutions and which are therefore “still loose in their hands” we are not told. It is clear, nonetheless, that Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel was well aware of the fact that there were various religious duties that were not properly observed by his compatriots in the years following the failure of the Bar Kochba revolt. 57.  This truism was stated long ago by Lieberman in Greek in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1941), 91. 58.  Sipre Deut. 76 (ed. Finkelstein, 141).

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A similar tradition appears in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, and there we are given some examples: And so you find that anything to which the Israelites were devoted with their whole souls has been preserved among them. But anything to which the Israelites were not devoted with their whole souls has not been retained by them. Thus, the Sabbath, circumcision, the study of Torah, and the ritual of immersion, for which the Israelites laid down their lives, have been retained by them. But such institutions as the Temple, civil courts, the sabbatical and jubilee years, to which the Israelites were not whole-heartedly devoted, have not been preserved among them. 59

Because the laws pertaining to “the Temple” are not a matter that can be voluntarily observed in a post-destruction reality, it is possible that this tradition views the fact that certain issues are not retained by Jews as a sort of divine punishment. Nevertheless, this tradition testifies that Palestinian Jews do not observe the laws of the sabbatical and jubilee years. This is indeed confirmed by t. Šabb. 2.21, which says very explicitly that: “Israel is suspected of [transgressing the laws of] the sabbatical year.” 60 Indeed, tannaitic sources refer frequently to Jews who do not observe the laws of the sabbatical year. 61 Nonetheless, in one place, the Tosefta asserts that: “Israel is not suspected of [transgressing the laws of] the sabbatical year.” 62 And according to the view of “the sages,” charity collectors do not have to be “scrupulous about those who eat the produce of the seventh year [shmitta], and even if they were given a loaf of bread they accept it from him, since they [Israel] were not suspect to give but coins and eggs.” 63 59.  Mek. de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shabta, 1 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 343; ed. Lauterbach, 3:204–5). The translation is Lauterbach’s. 60.  T. Šabb. 2.21 (ed. Lieberman, 11). 61. This is the meaning of the phrase ‫‘( עוברי עבירה‬transgressors’), which appears very frequently in the Mishnah and Tosefta tractate Šebiʿit (e.g., m. Šeb. 3:1 [variant reading: ‫עובדי‬ ‫]עבודה‬, m. Šeb. 4:1, 5:9, 9:1; t. Šeb. 3.9 [ed. Lieberman, 176]). See also the case reported in m. Kil. 7:5: “Said Rabbi Yosi: There was a case with one who sowed his vineyard in the sabbatical year and the case came before Rabbi Aqiva,” etc. A story in y. Taʿan. 3.1, 66c depicts both this reality, the strict reaction of some of the rabbis, and the more liberal reaction of other rabbinic authorities: “A certain teacher of children was suspect of [doing business with] fruits of shmitta. They brought him before Rabbi [Judah the Patriarch]. He said to them: What shall this poor person do? He does so to live.” See also the story in y. Šeb. 4.3, 35b, which is, however, posttannaitic. See also the many tannaitic sources discussed by Shmuel Safrai, “The Observance of the Laws of Shmitta in the Historical Reality after the Destruction of the Second Temple,” Tarbiz 36 (1967): 322–27 (= idem, In Times of Temple and Mishnah: Studies in Jewish History [Jerusalem: Magnes, 1994], 2:439–44) [Hebrew]. 62. See t. ʿErub. 5.10 (ed. Lieberman, 113). I do not know how to reconcile the flat contradiction between this statement and the entire picture emerging from all other tannaitic sources. See, however, below, n. 75, for another example of this same state of affairs. 63. See: t. Demai 3.17 (ed. Lieberman, 77–78). As to the meaning of the last phrase, see Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1955–88), 1:233.

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In contrast, with respect to the Sabbath it is clear to the above-cited homiletical tradition in the Mekilta that the attitude of Jews was entirely different, and therefore the observance of its laws is taken for granted. Indeed, “Israel is not suspect [of transgressing the laws] of the Sabbath,” we are told by the Tosefta. 64 Surely this is the assumption underlying the ruling of the Tosefta that “a document dated to Shabbat or to the tenth of Tishre . . . Rabbi Yosi considers it invalid.” 65 The assumption is that it is inconceivable that Jews would sign a document on the Sabbath. 66 Although the Tosefta is familiar with cases of “a Jew who desecrates the Sabbath in public,” 67 it nevertheless maintains that in general “the fear of the Sabbath is upon the am haaretz.” 68 It is therefore no surprise to see various tannaitic sources assuming a reality of Jews who follow rabbinic instruction concerning ʿErub. 69 Various tannaitic sources presuppose that ordinary Jews observe the biblical prohibition of mixed kinds, kilayim. For this reason, the Tosefta rules that “an Israelite who allowed kilayim to grow in his field, his brothers, the priests, do not enter it, but rather consider it as a sign of a graveyard.” 70 The underlying assumption here is that a Jew normally does not transgress the prohibition to grow kilayim in his field. Therefore, if someone did allow kilayim to grow in his field, it is to be assumed that he did so intentionally in order to publicize that the field is a graveyard and that priests should avoid entering it. 71 Stories demonstrating the observance of this biblical prohibition are indeed found in tannaitic literature. 72 Although tannaitic Halakah relates very frequently to a reality of Jews who do not tithe their produce in accordance with rabbinic standards, 73 various tannaitic 64.  T. Šabb. 2.21 (ed. Lieberman, 11). 65.  T. Mak. 1.3 (ed. Zuckermandel, 438). 66.  See Rashbam’s commentary ad b. B. Bat. 171a, s.v. ‫ל כשהכשרתי בזה‬″‫א‬. 67.  T. ʿErub. 5.18 (ed. Lieberman, 115). 68.  T. Demai 5.2 (ed. Lieberman, 85). 69.  See, for example: t. ʿErub. 2.11 (ed. Lieberman, 95); t. ʿErub. 3.17 (ed. Lieberman, 103). 70.  T. Kil. 2.16 (ed. Lieberman, 212). 71.  See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 2:620. 72.  See, for example, the two stories in t. Kil. 1.3–4 (ed. Lieberman, 203): (1) “In the district of Ariaḥ they used to graft apple onto Syrian pear. A certain student found them; he said to them: ‘You are forbidden [to do this].’ They went and cut them off, and they came and inquired in Yavneh. They [the sages] said: ‘That student said it well.’” (2) “In the irrigated fields of Sepphoris they used to graft crustaminum onto pear. A certain student found them; he said to them: ‘You are forbidden [to do this].’ They went and cut them off, and they came and inquired in Yavneh. They [the Sages] said: ‘Who was it that met you? He is none other than one of the students of Rav Shammai.’” There is, of course, evidence that the law of mixed kinds was not always observed. See, for example, m. Šeqal. 1:2. However, Martin Goodman’s sweeping claim, on the basis of that Mishnah, that “Kilaim, the law of mixed kinds, was generally disregarded” (State and Society, 103), is not sufficiently documented. Furthermore, if we are to believe this Mishnah, then the rabbis [?] had the power to declare a Jew’s fields ‘ownerless’ (‫ )הפקר‬if he did not follow the biblical precept. 73. Tractates Demai, Terumot, Maʿaśerot, and Maʿaśer Šeni of both the Mishnah and the Tosefta refer very frequently to Jews who are considered “untrustworthy”; that is, Jews who are

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sources maintain that the masses do care about this and similar biblical commandments. Thus, for example, says Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel unequivocally: “The laws of Holy Things, sin-offerings, and tithes truly are the essentials of the Torah, and they are given to am ha-aretz.” 74 As Saul Lieberman explains, the meaning of the phrase “are given to the am ha-aretz” is that the latter is trustworthy regarding these halakic issues. 75 Indeed, according to the Tosefta: “Just as the fear of the Sabbath is upon am ha-aretz, so the fear of contamination [of tithed and untithed produce] is upon him.” 76 This testimony serves as a basis for the Tosefta’s following ruling that, “If an am ha-aretz said, ‘This is untithed produce and this is a heave offering; this is certainly untithed and this is demai,’ even though they [the sages] said: ‘He who is suspected regarding some matter does not render judgment concerning it and does not give testimony concerning it,’ the people of Israel are not suspected on that account.” 77 This fact indicates that the observation regarding the halakic adherence of am ha-aretz in itself is reliable, for had it not been reliable, the rabbis surely would not have based a further Halakah on it. The Tosefta thus reveals that the religious standards of the masses (in these matters) were in accordance with the standards expected by the rabbis. This impression is corroborated by Rabbi Yohanan ben Torta’s reproach of the religious standards of late Second Temple–period Jews (that is, in fact, his reproach of the standards of the Jews of his own generation), in which he is forced to admit that: “We know that they devoted themselves to Torah and were meticulous about tithes.” 78 supposed by the rabbis not to tithe their produce properly. See also t. Soṭ. 13.10 (ed. Lieberman, 235). 74.  T. Šabb. 2.10 (ed. Lieberman, 9). 75.  See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 3:35. Following medieval commentators, Lieberman found the Tosefta’s claim difficult to accept, because the am ha-aretz is known to be untrustworthy, at least regarding tithes. He sought to solve the difficulty by suggesting, based on a possible interpretation of the parallel in y. Šabb. 2.7, 5b that the word “tithes” in the Tosefta is not genuine. However, he himself rejected this possible interpretation of the parallel in the Yeru­ shalmi and followed, therefore, a different path. I would note, however, that a similar situation exists with respect to the masses’ observance of the laws of the sabbatical year: as noted above (n. 62), tannaitic sources know very well that many Jews do not observe these laws, and so indeed they claim that Israel is suspect of not keeping these laws, but at the same time we find other tannaitic sources claiming the entire opposite. However this contradiction is explained (different places? different times? different laws?), it is unnecessary to amend the text—either by removing a difficult word or by a forced interpretation. 76.  T. Demai 5.2 (ed. Lieberman, 85); compare y. Demai 4.3, 24a. 77. Ibid. 78.  T. Menaḥ. 13.22 (ed. Zuckermandel, 534). As noted by Lieberman, Rabbi Yohanan’s reproach is based on historical observation, which is confirmed by the documents from the Judean Desert. See Saul Lieberman, Greek and Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (2nd ed.; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute and Yad Ben-Zvi, 1984), xi [Hebrew]. See also Aharon Oppenheimer, “Bar Kokhva and the Practice of Jewish Law,” in The Bar Kokhva Revolt: A New Approach (ed. Aharon Oppenheimer and Uriel Rappaport; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1984), 140–46 [Hebrew]; idem, “The Keeping of Sabbath during the Bar Kochba Uprising,” in Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple,

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Additional support for this picture may be found in the manner in which the principal legal issue of minority and majority is treated by the Tosefta. The examples that the Tosefta presents to illustrate the problem are cases such as: “All the [vendors in] the city sell fully tithed produce and one sells [produce] which is not fully tithed. . . . All the [vendors in] the city sell properly slaughtered meat and one sells carrion. . . . All the [vendors in] the city sell pure wine and one sells unclean wine.” 79 These examples could have been theoretical, but the Tosefta goes on to rule: “In the case of one who purchases in the marketplace we follow the majority.” 80 Had the Tosefta not assumed that the majority of Jewish vendors indeed sold kosher food, it would surely not have ruled so! Instead, it would have ruled that one may not take for granted the permissibility of the produce for consumption but must verify it by checking its precise origin. The fact that the Tosefta permits one to consider food kosher the origin of which is uncertain indicates that in the Tosefta’s view the majority of Jewish vendors indeed sold kosher food. 81 These testimonies, which are of a broad nature, are confirmed by various concrete examples. Thus, m. Ḥal. 4:7 refers to the case of Jews who were sharecroppers on the land of non-Jews in Syria and who followed the lenient halakic ruling of Rabban Gamaliel that exempted them from tithing their produce. The manner in which the Mishnah depicts these Jews’ practice reveals the rabbinic perspective on the religious standards of nonrabbinic Jews of their time in matters relating to laws of tithes: these Jewish sharecroppers’ practice is intentionally presented as related to and based on rabbinic teaching. In t. Maʿaś. Š. 3.18, we are told of a householder at Kezib who was criticized by three rabbis because of the specific manner in which he separated the second tithe. 82 As much as one may wish to emphasize the fact that the householder did not know the specifics of the rabbinic rulings regarding the second tithe, the fact remains that he did tithe his fruit. As we have seen above, t. Pesaḥ. 3.20 presents a case in which a certain Jew’s keeping of the laws of peʾah is explicitly seen as being based on a desire to follow rabbinic instruction. In t. Peʾah 2.21, we are given a testimony of broader character by Rabbi Aqiva, according to whom ‘landowners’ (‫ )בעלי בתים‬acted generously with respect to peʾah and set aside certain crops for the poor that they were not obligated to leave. Likewise, in t. Makš. 3.5–6 we read:

Mishna and Talmud Period (ed. Isaiah Gafni, Aharon Oppenheimer, and Menahem Stern; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1993), 226–34 [Hebrew]; Zeev Safrai, “Jewish Law in the Judaean Desert Documents,” in New Studies on the Bar Kokhba Revolt (ed. Hanan Eshel and Boaz Zissu; RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Faculty of Jewish Studies, 2001), 125. 79. See t. Demai 4.8–10 (ed. Lieberman, 79). 80.  Ibid. (ed. Lieberman, 80). See Lieberman’s comment in Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1:237–38. 81.  In this context, t. Ḥul. 3.2 (ed. Zuckermandel, 504) is of much interest: one “Ben Shila,” who is described as ‘chief butcher’ (‫ )ראש טבחים‬of Sepphoris, testifies to a halakic ruling in the name of Rabbi Nathan. 82.  Cf. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 2:763.

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Without doubt, this text portrays an image of the people of Sepphoris as “Torahoriented” Jews who are seeking to improve their halakic standards, at least with respect to the laws of purity. This picture is corroborated by the testimony of t. Ṭehar. 5.3, which rules: “People may purchase and borrow urine from any source, and they do not have to worry about the possibility that it derives from menstruating women, since the daughters of Israel are not suspected of collecting their urine during their period.” 84 The Tosefta’s testimony must be taken seriously, for the rabbis would not have issued their permissive ruling unless they were certain about the halakic devotion of Jewish women with respect to the laws of Niddah. Another testimony found in the Tosefta indicates that this was not restricted to purity laws. According to t. Pesaḥ. 3.7, on the evening after a holiday, Jewish women refrained from kneading in water that had been heated up on the holiday itself. 85 Although we do not actually know the motivation behind these women’s practice, it is clear nevertheless that the rabbinic text understood it as halakically motivated. Furthermore, several tannaitic texts maintain that the religious standards of the masses were sometimes even stricter that those of the rabbis. Thus, for example, we read in the Tosefta:   I. There was a case with Rabban Gamaliel, who sat down on a chair of Gentiles on the Sabbath in Acco. They said to him: “It is not customary to do so, to sit on a chair of Gentiles on the Sabbath!” He did not want to say, “You are permitted [to do so].” Instead, he got up and went on his way.   II. There was a case with Judah and Hillel, the sons of Rabban Gamaliel, who entered a bath in Kabbul. They said to them: “It is not customary to have two brothers take a bath together!” They did not want to say to them, “You are permitted [to do so].” Instead, they entered and bathed one after the other.   III. Another case came up with Judah and Hillel, the sons of Rabban Gamaliel, who would go out in golden slippers on the Sabbath in Biri. They said to them: “It is not customary to do so, to go out in golden slippers on the Sabbath!” They did not 83.  T. Makš. 3.5–6 (ed. Zuckermandel, 675). The concluding sentence is added in accordance with the citation of the text in Rabbi Shimshon of Cens’ commentary. See Saul Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim, Part III–IV: Seder Tohoroth (repr. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1999), 116. 84.  T. Tehar. 5.3 (ed. Zuckermandel, 664). In ancient times, urine was used by launderers for cleaning and whitening various kinds of clothes. See Dominique Laporte, History of Shit (trans. N. Benabid and R. el-Khoury; Cambridge: MIT Press, 2002), 34–36. 85.  T. Pesaḥ. 3.7 (ed. Lieberman, 152).

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want to say to them, “You are permitted [to do so].” Instead, they sent them with their servants. 86

The identity of the individuals who reproached Rabban Gamaliel (in the first story) or those who reproached Judah and Hillel (in the other two stories) is not stated. It is not impossible, of course, that the stories are referring to some rabbis or their students. However, Acco, Kabbul, and Biri are not known to have been centers of rabbinic activity. It seems to me, therefore, that some ordinary Jews are the subject of the phrase “They said to them: ‘It is not customary to do so.’” Accordingly, these stories depict Galilean Jews who were even stricter than some of the rabbis in various areas of religious observance. 87

In Place of a Conclusion In a recently published paper, Seth Schwartz has asserted that, as a result of the destruction of the Second Temple and the failure of the Bar Kochba revolt, the religious identity of most Palestinian Jews ceased to be guided by the Torah: “We should certainly expect that Palestinian Jewish life after the revolts had a very different texture to that in the Second Temple period, probably for most Jews, a texture little influenced by the norms of the Torah.” 88 In Schwartz’s view, “[T]he core ideology of Judaism . . . ceased, after the two revolts, to function as an integrating force in Palestinian Jewish society. The intermediaries of the Torah lost not only their legal authority but also their status as cultural ideals.” 89 Furthermore, in his opinion, only a very small number of Palestinian Jews (among them were the rabbis) “still insisted on the importance of the Torah, of Judaism, in their symbolic world,” 90 and “it would be misleading to focus attention only on the rabbis and implicitly suppose the rest of the Jewish population either to have been basically inert, quietly waiting to be convinced or, alternatively, under the temporary religious control of some nonrabbinic group of intermediaries of Torah.” 91 In the present paper, I attempted to challenge these claims. As noted by Shaye Cohen, “Tannaitic literature gives us frequent glimpses at the religious life of second86.  T. Moʿed Qaṭ. 2.15–16 (ed. Lieberman, 372). 87.  See also Rabbi Yosi’s testimony in m. ʿErub. 10:10: “There was a case in the great synagogue of Tiberias. . . . They treated it as prohibited [until] Rabban Gamaliel and the elders came and permitted it for them.” 88. See Seth Schwartz, “Political, Social, and Economic Life in the Land of Israel 66– c. 235,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman–Rabbinic Period (ed. Steven T. Katz; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 33. 89. Schwartz, Imperialism, 103. 90. Ibid. 91. Ibid.

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century Jewry.” 92 It also expresses, either explicitly or implicitly, its general view of the religious standards of non-rabbis in various areas of religious life. The picture emerging from this body of literature stands in complete opposition to Schwartz’s assertion. The assumption of tannaitic texts is that, by and large, Palestinian Jews did live a life of Torah, although these texts know very well that not all Jews kept the Torah in every detail of Halakah as the rabbis wanted them to do. However, tannaitic literature does not leave its reader with the impression that these were the majority of Palestinian Jews in the wake of the destruction of the Second Temple. Quite the contrary: the numerous case-stories collected by Cohen from tannaitic literature in which a halakic decision of a rabbi was asked for by lay people indicate that many of these Jews had a desire on various occasions to receive halakic guidance. Let us set aside for a moment the question whether these stories should be taken as an indication of rabbinic power or not. As Steven Fraade has recently written: “The alternatives should not be reduced to complete rabbinic control or no rabbinic influence at all.” 93 For the purposes of the present discussion, it is sufficient to see the simple evidence we are given by these sources—that is, their depiction of Palestinian Jews as “Torah-oriented” Jews who have a desire to live “a life of Torah,” however this is defined. And this is a good place to recall Cohen’s observation that “none of the tannaitic cases seems legendary.” 94 Martin Goodman has already made the point that: It is not the legislation itself that can provide social historians with evidence so much as the assumptions that lie behind that legislation. When a law is issued it can be inferred that the society to which it is addressed could, even if it did not, respond to that law. If certain terms and concepts are used by the jurists it can be assumed that those would have some meaning in contemporary society. There was no point in inventing homilies and laws about everyday life unless that life was recognizably that of the audience. 95

If we were to assume that rabbinic Halakah addressed itself only to “the rabbis,” our ability to use its evidence would obviously be dramatically decreased. However, reading through tannaitic literature does not leave the reader with this impression; furthermore, in various places, tannaitic sources reveal the rabbis’ own perception of 92.  Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 159; idem, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 961. 93.  See Steven D. Fraade, “Locating Targum in the Textual Polysystem of Rabbinic Pedagogy,” BIOSCS 39 (2006): 78. See also, most recently, Stuart S. Miller, “Stepped Pools, Stone Vessels, and Other Identity Markers of ‘Complex Common Judaism,’ ” JSJ 41 (2010): 214–43, esp. pp. 231–32. 94.  See Cohen, “The Rabbi in Second-Century Jewish Society,” 969 n. 211; idem, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 162 n. 13. 95.  See Goodman, State and Society, 7. See also Michael Satlow, “Rhetoric and Assumptions: Romans and Rabbis on Sex,” in Jews in a Graeco-Roman World (ed. Martin Goodman; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 136. As Fraade (“Locating Targum,” 78) writes: “We need not presume the mishnaic rules to be complete fictions.”

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their Halakah as being directed to the entire Jewish population. 96 This fact too can hardly be understood unless we assume that the rabbis worked under the assumption that Palestinian Jews of their time were basically “Torah-oriented” Jews who could (even if they did not) respond to rabbinic Halakah. To be sure, tannaitic literature reflects a rabbinic perspective that must not be naïvely taken as representing the full historical picture. This principal insight should be unequivocally acknowledged. However, the perspective of the rabbis cannot be dismissed either, merely because rabbinic literature is not engraved in stone or on a mosaic floor. It needs to be incorporated into our picture together with all other possible sources of data, such as the documents found in the Judean Desert, patristic literature, and archaeological remains. 97 This work still remains to be done, but the rabbinic evidence will always constitute an important element in our historical reconstructions of the religious identity of Palestinian Jews in Late Antiquity. 96.  See Hayim Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents: Rabbis as a Late Antique Provincial Population,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 340. See, for example: t. Sanh. 2.13 (ed. Zuckermandel, 418): “Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel and Rabbi Elazar ben Zadoq say: ‘They do not intercalate the year, and they do not carry out any public need except with the stipulation that the majority of the community concurs.’” See also t. Šeb. 3.13 (ed. Lieberman, 177): “They did not decree any rule unless it could be enforced . . . they built only such a fence that can stand.” Indeed, as noted by Stuart Miller: “The interplay of ‘common’ and ‘rabbinic’ Judaism was more complex than is often maintained.” See Stuart S. Miller, Sages and Commoners in Late Antique ʾErẹz Israel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 12. 97.  The significance of the documents from the Judean Desert for our topic has been raised in different directions by various scholars in recent years. See, for two different examples, the studies of Safrai, “Jewish Law in the Judaean Desert Documents,” and that of Hannah M. Cotton, “The Rabbis and the Documents,” in Jews in a Graeco-Roman World (ed. Martin Goodman; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 167–79. The patristic evidence has yet to be collected. An interesting example appears in Bardaiṣan of Edessa’s Book of the Laws of the Countries, composed in the later second or early third century c.e.: All the Jews who received the Law through the hand of Moses, . . . whether they are in Edom or in Arabia or in Greece or in Persia, whether in the north or in the south, they observe that Law given to them by their ancestors. . . . Wherever they live, they do not worship idols and one day in seven they and their children refrain from all work, . . . from all building, and from all traveling, and from all buying and selling; nor do they kill an animal on the Sabbath day or kindle a fire or administer justice; and there is not found among them anyone whom fate compels either to go to law on the Sabbath day and gain his cause, or to go to law and lose it, or to pull down or to build up, or to do any of the things that are done by all those men who have not received this Law.

See Bardesanes, Liber Regum Regionum (ed. F. Nau), in Patrologia Syriaca (2 vols.; Paris: Didot, 1894–1907), 2:604–7. As noted by Hillel Neuman, in a lecture delivered in Jerusalem in June 2007 under the title “The Normativity of Rabbinic Judaism: Obstacles on the Way to a New Consensus,” the prohibitions in this list are not explicitly biblical, yet “we of course recognize all of them from Mishna Shabbat 7:2 and Mishna Betza 5:2.” The significance of such evidence must not be underestimated, although its relation to Philo, De Migratione Abrahami, 91 should be carfully examined (I am indebted to Daniel Schwartz for the latter reference).

Martyrdom, the Middle Way, and Mediocrity (Genesis Rabbah 82:8) Daniel R. Schwartz The Hebrew University of Jerusalem

In a central section of his 1972 article about the Hadrianic decrees against Judaism, M. D. Herr argued in some detail that “no unanimity existed among the Sages in their attitude toward the decrees.” 1 Herr delineated four different responses, which may be arranged in order of the degree of “knuckling under”: 1. “Many Sages prefer[red] to obey the laws outwardly,” even if “this submission for the sake of appearance, just like the non-participation in the Bar Kochba rebellion, did not arise out of any particular affection for the Roman government.” Chief example: R. Yosi b. Qisma, according to a story in b. ʿAbod. Zar. 18a, in which he rebukes R. Ḥanina b. Teradion for violating the decrees, although God obviously supports Rome. 2. Others “secretly disobeyed the decrees of persecution and when apprehended attempted to deny everything.” Chief example: R. Eleazar b. Perata, according to a story in b. ʿAbod. Zar. 17b that contrasts him to R. Ḥanina b. Teradion. 3. “Some first endeavoured to appear as obeying the decrees of persecution, but, when they were discovered, they endangered their lives by admitting the truth.” Chief example: two disciples of R. Joshua, according to a story in Gen. Rab. 82:8. 4. “Only a very few deliberately and provocatively disobeyed the decrees.” Chief example: R. Ḥanina b. Teradion, according to both of the above-mentioned stories in b. ʿAbod. Zar.

Obviously, the main rabbinic text that sets out these options is b. ʿAbod. Zar. 17b– 18a. Accordingly, it was only natural that when, 12 years after the appearance of Herr’s study, Gerald J. Blidstein published an article that addressed not “what really happened” but rabbinic attitudes toward martyrdom, it focused on the stories Author’s note: My sincere thanks to Richard Kalmin and Paul Mandel for their comments on an earlier draft of this essay. 1.  M. D. Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days,” Studies in History (ScrHier 23; ed. D. Asheri and I. Shatzman; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1972), 103. The lines from this article quoted in our four numbered paragraphs above are found on pp. 109–15.

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assembled on those two pages. 2 As so often happens, the move from the real world, which poses various options, to theory entails the collapsing of a number of positions into a balanced triad: two polar options and one middle way. At the one extreme, R. Ḥanina ben Teradion demonstratively violated the Roman decree against studying Torah, and the Romans executed him. At the other extreme, R. Yosi b. Qisma accepted the Roman decree and was honored by the Romans. In the middle, there is R. Eleazar ben Perata, who in fact violated the Roman decree and also fought against the Romans but who, when arrested, denied doing both, thus hoping to live to fight again, and to learn Torah again, another day. 3 In the last lines of his study, Blidstein asserts that the talmudic author does not recommend one or the other option: “The narrator, I think, does not judge his characters or their political postures; each, we are led to believe, has its virtues.” 4 But this conclusion is somewhat surprising. Given the fact that talmudic literature usually means to guide us, and given the fact that talmudic stories are usually meant to illustrate this guidance, abstention from judgment, thus leaving it up to each reader to choose the path that suits him or her in such a weighty context is, although not impossible, hardly what we should expect. In fact, it seems clear to me that, with regard to the polar alternatives, R. Ḥanina versus R. Yosi, the talmudic storyteller comes down firmly in favor of the former—the demonstrative martyr. For the story rather pointedly tells us that R. Yosi was sick at the beginning of the story and died by its end, so his acceptance of Roman rule got him nowhere. True, R. Ḥanina died, but so did R. Yosi, and so the only choice the story leaves readers who also may be considering their options in the face of persecution is between dying as R. Yosi did, 2.  G. J. Blidstein, “Rabbis, Romans, and Martyrdom: Three Views,” Tradition 21/3 (1984): 54–62. There is, of course, much comparable material for, although no religious tradition recommends apostasy, debates may often be found about the relative merits of flight, dissimulation, or martyrdom in times of religious persecution. See, for example: H. G. Kippenberg, “Ketmān: Zur Maxime der Verstellung in der antiken und frühislamischen Religionsgeschichte,” in Tradition and Re-Interpretation in Jewish and Early Christian Literature: Essays in Honour of Jürgen C. H. Le­ bram (ed. J. W. van Henten et al.; Studia Post-Biblical 36; Leiden: Brill, 1986), 172–83; E. Horo­ witz, Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 63–80. My thanks to Jan Willem van Henten for the reference to Kippenberg’s fascinating article. 3.  That is, although Herr discussed martyrs and apostates at the poles and two types of dissimulators in between, Blidstein’s stories deal with only one of the latter. Similarly, where Herr treats armed resistance to Rome as another option altogether, opining (“Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 102–3) that “it is difficult to assume that many of the Sages actively supported Bar Kochba” (but also that “it cannot be assumed that most of the Sages actively and openly opposed the rebellion”), the first of the two stories that Blidstein studied grouped this issue together with the issue of violating the decrees, on the assumption that Eleazar ben Perata had indeed been active, as accused, in both ‫ספרא וסייפא‬. For the latter assumption, see also Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 111; idem, “The Participation of the Galilee in the ‘War of Qitos’ (= Quietus) or in the ‘Ben-Kosba Revolt,’” Cathedra 4 (July 1977): 69 [Hebrew]. 4.  Blidstein, “Rabbis, Romans, and Martyrdom,” 61.

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with “the great men of Rome” eulogizing and burying him, and dying as R. Ḥanina did, with the Torah wrapped around him and seeing the letters going up to heaven. The story obviously recommends the latter path, indicating that the former is not only not respectable but also fruitless. 5 To make this point all the clearer, I would note that the story in b. ʿAbod. Zar. 18a, where R. Yosi b. Qisma confronts R. Ḥanina b. Teradion, is closely paralleled by the Babylonian Talmud’s story about the death of R. Aqiva (Ber. 61b). That famous martyr of the period has not yet been mentioned here, for Herr excluded him from this discussion: “[I]t must be remembered that he was not executed for his disobedience of the decrees of persecution but for his participation in the rebellion.” 6 However, it is obvious that it is precisely this point that the Babylonian Talmud did not remember (or choose to remember). 7 Rather, it tells a story just like the story of R. Ḥanina b. Teradion: both couple the prohibition of Torah study with the prohibition of public assemblies. 8 Just as R. Yosi b. Qisma tells R. Ḥanina that it is reasonable to obey the Roman decrees rather than endanger himself (but R. Yosi is sick when he says this, and in the end they both die), so too b. Ber. 61b has one Pappos b. Judah urging R. Aqiva that it is dangerous to violate the Roman decrees. However, Pappos too is in prison, and readers may assume that he suffered severely for some reason not even worth mentioning and described only as ‘bagatelles’ (‫)דברים בטלים‬. 9 The very fact that the stories are so similar means that their major elements are part of a standard topos, as suggested above: that there is not much to lose by violating the decrees and becoming a martyr, because we are all going to die anyway. 10 Given this 5.  Indeed, Blidstein himself concludes his study somewhat enigmatically with two sentences that qualify his assertion that the talmudic stories do not express a preference: “If survival is a virtue, both Elazar b. Perata and Hanina b. Teradion survive, although of course in different ways. Who suffers the most? R. Yosi b. Qisma.” 6.  Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 113. Similarly, D. Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999), 120. 7.  And Herr’s argument for his assertion is based, of course, on other sources; see ibid., 111–12 n. 88. In general, for the Babylonian Talmud’s tendency to make these stories focus on the decree against Torah study and its violation, see R. Kalmin, “Rabbinic Traditions about Roman Persecutions of the Jews: A Reconsideration,” JJS 54 (2003): esp. pp. 24–33—pages that address, as we now shall, the Babylonian Talmud’s stories of the deaths of R. Aqiva and R. Ḥanina b. Teradion. 8.  According to P. Schäfer, the combination of the two is found only in these two texts and is probably redactional (Der Bar Kokhba-Aufstand: Studien zum zweiten jüdischen Krieg gegen Rom [Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 1; Tübingen: Mohr (Siebeck), 1981], 214). 9.  Boyarin has argued (Dying for God, 103–5) on the basis of other sources that Pappos was arrested on the charge of Christianity. Perhaps this is true. However, whether or not it is, there is no justification for translating ‫‘ דברים בטלים‬superstitio’ (ibid., 103). What is important for this story, as a story, is that it tells us, in so many words, that it does not matter what the charge was; what is important is that it was not Torah study and that abstaining from Torah study did not save Pappos. 10.  For the argument that this topos was a common theme in early Palestinian rabbinic tradition as well (using Lev 18:5—as, for example, in Sipra, ad loc. [ed. Weiss, p. 85d] and Deuteronomy Rabbah [ed. Lieberman, p. 44]—in the sense that observance of the commandments brings

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fact, why not die for the Torah rather than dying pointlessly? But since R. Ḥanina in our story obviously parallels R. Aqiva in that story, and there R. Aqiva is indisputably the hero and the model, it must be that we are to prefer R. Ḥanina b. Teradion’s way to R. Yosi b. Qisma’s way in our story. But what about the choice between R. Ḥanina ben Teradion and R. Eleazar ben Perata (b. ʿAbod. Zar. 17b)? Here things are more difficult, which is natural given the fact that the contrast is between views that are not so diametrically opposed to one another: both sages agree that the Roman decrees should be violated, and the only question is whether this should be demonstrative (and suicidal) or circumspect and (if caught) dissimulative. Moreover, as the story goes, there is even divine intervention to save the dissimulating sage: God himself saved Eleazar in a series of miracles (just in the nick of time) that made his lies credible and thus convinced the Romans to release him. This sounds like approbation. 11 However, I should note that even considering the possibility that the story recommends the other option, martyrdom, runs against the trend of modern research on early rabbinic attitudes on this topic. Note Herr, for example, who thought martyrs were quite rare and also opined that there was no prevalent “martyr-consciousness” in early rabbinic Judaism; 12 Boyarin, who argued that R. Eleazar ben Perata is a folk hero in this story, a “trickster” of the type minority traditions like to adore; 13 life in the next world, since it cannot promise life in this world, for here we all die, no matter what we do), see my lecture (originally published as a Hebrew essay) Leben durch Jesus versus Leben durch die Torah: Zur Religionspolemik der ersten Jahrhunderte (Franz-Delitzsch-Vorlesung 2; Münster: Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum, 1993]). This lecture focuses on the story in y. ʿAbod. Zar. 2.2, 40d–41a. S. Shepkaru (Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006], 311 n. 117), referring to the original Hebrew version of that essay (in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom: Studies in Memory of Amir Yekutiel [ed. I. M. Gafni and A. Ravitzky; Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 1992], 69–83 [Hebrew]), notes in arguing for a rabbinic tendency away from martyrdom that my interpretation of that story is different from his (Jewish Martyrs, 93–97). His interpretation follows the Babylonian version of this story (b. ʿAbod. Zar. 27b), using Lev 18:5 to underscore the obligation to preserve one’s life in this world. But Shepkaru does not cite or attempt to refute my arguments that the Palestinian Talmud’s version of the story means the opposite. For my general response to Shepkaru’s argument, see the final section of this paper. 11.  For another similar story, see b. Šabb. 49a = 130a on one Elisha, whose illegal phylac­ teries turned miraculously into innocuous pigeons when he was stopped by a Roman quaestor (see D. Sperber, A Dictionary of Greek and Latin Legal Terms in Rabbinic Literature [Ramat-Gan: BarIlan University Press, 1984], 184; and S. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshuṭah [11 vols.; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1955–88], 3:406 [Hebrew]). 12. “[T]here was no continuity to the prosecutions [sic] by Antiochus and the martyrconsciousness of the Hellenistic Jews evoked no real echo among Jews in Palestine. This, presumably, is the main reason for rabbinic literature maintaining complete silence on the experiences of the condemned of Antiochus’ days. . . . there was a total lack of martyrdom among Jews, both in fact and in attitude” (Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 105–6). 13. Boyarin, Dying for God, 50–56.

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and most recently, Shepkaru, who argues that, as a whole, early rabbinic literature played up the value of life and urged the avoidance of martyrdom. 14 Nevertheless, I would take up the issue on the basis of the approach taken above regarding R. Yosi b. Qisma—namely, recourse to a parallel. But whereas the parallel I used in that case, b. Ber. 61b, contrasted only the two polar options, what we now need is a parallel that refers to the middle option as well. A middle option will, perhaps, afford us guidance in determining how the story in b. ʿAbod. Zar. 17b evaluates the middle option (which is, there, personified by R. Eleazar b. Perata). As it turns out, there is such a parallel in Genesis Rabbah. Moreover, a perusal of scholarly literature indicates that this story has not received as much attention as it seems to deserve. Hence, discussing it may be worthwhile for its own sake—whether or not it may be thought to govern the interpretation of the b. Perata story. The story is the one that Herr cited as the only example for the third of the responses listed above: “some first endeavoured to appear as obeying the decrees of persecution, but, when they were discovered, they endangered their lives by admitting the truth.” Like Herr, other scholars have cited this story as evidence that some rabbis endangered their lives during the Hadrianic persecution; 15 Oppenheimer even points to it in support of his general claim that the option it depicts was the most common. 16 But I am not aware of any analysis of the way that the story views this behavior. Does it recommend it? Genesis Rabbah 82:8 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, pp. 984–87)   Two disciples of R. Joshua changed their attire at the time of persecution. 17 An apostate soldier encountered them and said to them: “If you are its sons give up your 14. Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 97–106. For some quotations and my response, see the final section of this paper. 15.  So, for example: Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 111; Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 98, 100; G. Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1984), 2:648–49. 16. See A. Oppenheimer, “Sanctity of Life and Self-Sacrifice in the Wake of the BarKokhba Revolt,” in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom (ed. I. M. Gafni and A. Ravitsky; Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 1992), 93–94 [Hebrew], where our source is one of the two cited in support of the statement that “from the sources it appears that the usual response to the decrees against Judaism was not Kiddush Hashem but, rather, attempts to observe the religious precepts in some modified form that allowed for the fulfillment of the precept’s central component along with the attempt to avoid being caught by the Roman authorities.” The other source he cites for this is t. Ber. 2.13 (ed. Lieberman, pp. 8–9), where Rabbi Meir reports that once, he and other disciples of R. Aqiva recited the Shemaʿ quietly, so as not to be overheard by a Roman guard. 17.  For the assumption that Torah scholars were recognizable by their attire, ‫עטיפתם‬, see Sipre Deut. 343 (end, ed. Finkelstein, 400); D. Sperber, A Commentary on Derech Erẹz Zuta, Chapters Five to Eight (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1990), 33–35 (on 5:3: “A Torah scholar is recognizable in four ways: . . . by his attire”); b. B. Bat. 57b; and S. Stern, Jewish Identity in Early Rabbinic Sources (AGJU 23; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 69.

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Daniel R. Schwartz lives for it, and if you are not its sons why are you killed for it? ” 18 They said: “We are its sons and we are killed on its account.” 19   He said to them: “I will ask you three questions. If you answer them [properly], fine; if not, I will cause you to apostatize.” 20   (1) He said to them: “One verse says ‘God stands in dispute’ (Isa 3:13), [so why does] another verse say, ‘for there I will sit to judge the peoples’ (Joel 4:12)? ” They said to him: “When the Holy One, blessed be he, judges Israel he stands while he judges them [for] he is brief in judgment and abrogates the indictment, 21 but when he judges the Gentiles he sits, takes a long time, and is stringent.” He said to them: “That is not how Joshua, your teacher, explained the verses. Rather [he taught], both verses refer to the Gentiles: The Holy One, blessed be he, sits while he judges the Gentiles, judging them stringently and at length—and then he stands up and acts [anew] like an adversary 22 against them.”

18.  ‘It’ here is feminine; evidently the reference is to the Torah, which is explicit in several manuscripts of the midrash that read ‫ בניה של תורה‬here (see the critical apparatus in TheodorAlbeck, p. 985, ad line 1. True, as is noted in the commentary to that edition, p. 985, some later collections quote the midrash as if it refers to ‘sons of Rachel’, but this has little to recommend it and only serves to indicate that the original version had ‫ בניה‬simpliciter). For ‘sons of Torah’, see, for example, t. B. Qam. 7.6–7 (ed. Lieberman, pp. 30–31); and I. Hazani, “From Myth to Ethos: ‘Ben Tora,’ ‘Ben Navi,’ and the Study of Torah,” Derekh Aggadah 10 (2006–7): 124–36 [Hebrew]; an appendix offers a long list of “sons of the Torah” passages in talmudic and midrashic literature. 19.  Printed editions add a concluding phrase here: “but it is not normal for a person to commit suicide” (‫)אלא שאין דרכו של אדם לאבד את עצמו לדעת‬. However, these words are not found in any manuscript (apart from a Yemenite manuscript that was copied from a sixteenth-century edition; see Theodor-Albeck, 3:115–17), and their origin is unknown. Note that the phrase ‫לאבד‬ ‫(את) עצמו לדעת‬, which is common in medieval Hebrew, does not appear in talmudic literature or in the classical midrashim; although A. Even-Shoshan’s dictionary labels the phrase as belonging to the talmudic and midrashic stratum of Hebrew (Millon Even-Shoshan [n.p. (Israel): HaMillon HeḤadash, 2004], 1:3, s.v. [Hebrew]), our text is the only evidence cited for it. As far as our documentation goes, the phrase seems to appear for the first time in the extratalmudic tractate Semaḥot (2:1–3; ed. Higger, pp. 101–3), and even there, as Higger’s apparatus shows, there is fluctuation between ‫( לדעת‬as in our text) and ‫בדעת‬. However, Semaḥot itself dates to the talmudic period or shortly thereafter (for datings between the third and the eighth centuries, see D. Zlotnick, The Tractate “Mourning” [New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1966], 4–9), and there is nothing about the phrase itself to imply a late dating; cf. ‫ מקשה את עצמו לדעת‬in b. Nid. 13b (top). Be this as it may, the line seems to conform well to the spirit of the disciples’ response, as well as to their behavior. Similarly, the phrase ‫ אין דרכו של אדם‬could be perfectly at home in Rabbinic Hebrew; see Y. Muffs, Love and Joy: Law, Language and Religion in Ancient Israel (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1992), 116–20 (on our text: n. 19). 20.  What this (‫ )הריני משמד אתכם‬might mean is not clear: ‘Demand that you apostatize like me’? ‘Kill you’? 21. For ‫ מפשר בדין‬meaning ‘release/rescue from judgment’, see S. Lieberman, Tosefta Kifshuṭah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 2001), 1:266 [Hebrew], following H. Yalon, Bulletin of Hebrew Language Studies (Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1963), 1:86 [Hebrew]. 22.  That is, ‘makes new accusations’. On antidiqos, see Sperber, Dictionary of . . . Legal Terms, 44–46.

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  (2) He said to them: “What is the meaning of the verse ‘He who works his land will be sated with bread [but he who pursues vanity will be sated with poverty]’ (Prov 28:19)? ” They said to him: “It is better to lease one field, plow it and fertilize it and hoe it, than to lease many fields but leave them fallow.” He said to them: “That is not how Joshua, your teacher, explained the verse. Rather: “He who worships God and [works] His land will be sated with his bread in the world to come; ‘but he who pursues vanity will be sated with poverty’ refers to the peoples of the world, who chase after nothingness, that is, after their idolatrous worship.”   (3) He said to them: “What is the meaning of the verse ‘And it happened when she was having difficulty in childbirth [the midwife said to her: Do not be afraid, for this too is a son’] (Gen 35:17)? ” They said to him: “This is the way people comfort a woman in childbirth, telling her ‘Do not be afraid, for you are giving birth to a son.’” He said to them: “That is not how Joshua, your teacher, explained the verse. Rather, when [the eponymous forefather of] each tribe was born, a female twin was born with him, as Abba Ḥalfo b. Quraia said: ‘An additional female twin was born with Benjamin.’” ‫ פגע בהם איסטרטיוט אחד‬.‫ יהושע שינו עטיפתם בשעת השמד‬′‫שני תלמידים משלר‬ ?‫ ואם אין אתם בניה למה אתם נהרגין עליה‬,‫ אמר להם אם בניה אתם תנו נפשכם עליה‬,‫משומד‬ .‫אמרו לו בניה אנו ועליה אנו נהרגין‬ .‫ אם תשיבום הרי מוטב ואם לאו הריני משמד אתכם‬,‫ שאלות אני שואלכם‬′‫אמר להם ג‬ ‫” (ישעיהו ג יג) וכתוב אחד אומר “כי שם‬′‫ וגו‬′‫) אמר להם כתוב אחד אומר “נצב לריב ה‬1( ‫ה דן את ישראל דן אותם‬′′‫אשב לשפט את כל הגוים” (יואל ד יב)—? אמרו לו בשעה שהקב‬ ‫ אמר להם לא‬.‫ מאריך ומדקדק בדין‬,‫ ולאומות דן אותם מיושב‬,‫ מקצר הדין ומפשר הדין‬,‫מעומד‬ ‫ה דן את האומות‬′′‫ שהקב‬,‫כך דרש יהושע רבכם אלא אחד זה ואחד זה באומות הכתוב מדבר‬ .‫ ואחרכך הוא עומד ונעשה אנטידיקוס כנגדן‬,‫ מדקדק בדין ומאריך‬,‫מיושב‬ ‫” (משלי כח יט)? אמרו לו מוטב מי‬′‫ “עובד אדמתו ישבע לחם וגו‬′‫) אמר להון מהו דכת‬2( ‫ אמר להם‬.‫שהוא חוכר שדה אחת נרה ומזבלה ומעדרה ממי שהוא חוכר שדות הרבה ומבירן‬ ‫ “ומרדף‬,‫ אלא עובד אלהים ואדמתו ישבע מלחמו שלעולם הבא‬,‫לא כך דרש יהושע רבכם‬ .‫ריקים ישבע ריש” (שם שם) אילו אומות העולם שהן מרדפין ריק—אחר עבודה זרה שלהם‬ ‫ “ויהי בהקשותה בלדתה [ותאמר לה המילדת אל תיראי כי גם זה‬′‫) אמר לון מהו דכת‬3( ‫”] (בראשית לה יז)? אמרו לו כך ממסמסין נפשה שלחיה ואומרין לה בשעת הלידה אל‬′‫לך בן‬ ‫ אלא כל שבט ושבט נולדה תאומתו‬,‫ אמר להם לא כך דרש יהושע רבכם‬.‫תיראי כי בן זכר ילדת‬ .‫ תאומה יתירה נולדה עם בנימין‬:‫ כההיא דאמר אבה חלפו בר קורייה‬,‫עמו‬

According to this story, the Roman soldier, who was a Jewish apostate and himself (so we may surmise) 23 a former student of R. Joshua, thought that, in the face of persecutions, there are only two respectable options: martyrdom or apostasy. Those who are “sons of the Torah” must “give up their souls for it,” actively, as did R. Ḥanina b. Teradion in the stories that Blidstein studied (b. ʿAbod. Zar. 17b–18a), but those who are not its sons must not even “be killed for it,” passively. The two disciples, however, who had persisted in studying Torah but had changed their appearance in the hope of not being caught, espoused the middle way: “we are [indeed] its sons, but [nevertheless] we are [only willing to be] killed for it.” That is, they deny that being a 23.  As Alon did, in Jews in Their Land, 2:648–49.

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“son of the Torah” entails being demonstrative and polar about it and, hence, martyrdom; rather, they posit a middle way, a balance between devotion to the Torah and preserving one’s life. The question I am asking is: What does this story teach about this middle way? Does it recommend it? Three considerations indicate that it does not. Rather, it emphasizes how unsatisfactory this way is. 1. Who has the last word?  The apostate soldier has the last word. Three times he asks the dissimulating disciples questions, three times they respond, and three times he tells them that their response is wrong, for it is not the response their own teacher had taught. All three times, readers awaiting some clever rejoinder are sorely disappointed. The obvious implication, time and again, is that the apostate is right. 24 2. More-impressive answers.  It is not just that the apostate has the last word. His answers are also more “professional” and impressive than the answers given by the two disciples. This is most apparent in the second and third cases, in which their responses hew very closely to the plain sense of the biblical verses involved, while his depart from it completely. However, it is also true concerning the first case, for there the verse from Joel explicitly refers to God’s judging the Gentiles, so any tyro could resolve the contradiction from Isaiah as the two disciples do, by having the latter verse refer instead to judgment of Israelites. In contrast, an interpretation that has both verses apply to Gentiles is less self-evident and more worthy of a virtuoso. 3. Advocating mediocrity?  But especially telling, I believe, is the fact that, just as the two dissimulators are shown to be forgetful disciples and also biblical interpreters of only middling capacity, so too the responses they give all bespeak the same basic stance with which the story began: in the contents of their preaching, just as in their own behavior, they aim only for mediocrity. Namely: a. They claim that Isa 3:13 means God himself is compromising with the Jews: when he judges us, he does so only briefly and soon drops the charges. That is, he does not expect much from us; just as we are compromising, so also is he. b. They claim that Prov 28:19 means that a person should not aspire to tending many fields. In claiming that it is better to have one field and tend it well, rather than to have more fields and then leave them fallow, they do not even broach the possibility that someone might undertake to care for more and actually do so properly.

24.  I shall here raise and dismiss a possible objection, based on the obviously similar story in y. Ḥag. 2.1, 77b, where the apostate Elisha b. Abbuya asks R. Meir several questions about what the latter was teaching and each time expresses dismay (in language nearly identical to that used in our story: ‫ )עקיבה רבך לא הוה דרש כן‬because R. Meir was teaching something different from what his own teacher had taught. It may be thought that this parallel means that, in our story too, as obviously in that story, it is not the apostate who “comes out on top.” However, two differences are crucial. First, that story presents the apostate as speaking with R. Meir, who was a rabbinic great, whereas our story features only two unnamed students of R. Joshua. Moreover, and more importantly, it is obvious that R. Meir’s responses to Elisha are meant to maneuver him into saying things that might lead him to repent; there is nothing like this in our story.

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c. They claim that Gen 35:17 endorses just what it describes: telling a woman in childbirth what she wants to hear, in order expedite the birth. Here the important point to note is that, in those pre-ultrasound days, anyone who told a woman in labor that her child would be a boy had no way of knowing if it were true. Phrased more generally, the disciples are asserting and claiming biblical authority for the assertion that, given human weaknesses, it is, when useful, common and acceptable to prevaricate.

If on the basis of this analysis we review the three options this story offers—martyrdom at the one pole, apostasy at the other, and compromising dissimulation in the middle—it seems clear that the point of the story is to show how unsatisfactory the third option is. Since it is clear that apostasy is condemned, the story invests all of its effort into showing that compromising dissimulation, while perhaps reasonable, is hardly worthy of our respect; those who choose that route may survive, but they will not be great scholars. Taking the middle way in a dilemma satisfies no one. The point of our story, told from the point of view of rabbis who hold on dearly to Torah study (and as I noted above, who underscore in related contexts, in Palestinian texts as in Babylonian texts, that there is not much to lose by dying for the Torah, since one dies anyway), is that those who do take the middle road will, appropriately, be merely mediocre. By default, this leaves our story endorsing the only path that it does not criticize, the path that even the apostate recommends as a—the only—respectable alternative to his own: martyrdom. * * * In the final sections of his discussion of the talmudic-period rabbis’ attitudes toward martyrdom, Shmuel Shepkaru emphasizes the rabbinic insistence on the message that Jews “‘live by them’ (Leviticus 18:5), that is, the mitzvot, and not die for them.” 25 This lies behind his conclusion that, “although obligatory death is endorsed to maintain identity, there is minimum rabbinic adulation for the act; in fact, attention and admiration is given to those who deceitfully and miraculously avoided executions.” 26 Shepkaru deduces this message (favoring “live by them” rather than martyrdom) particularly from a rabbinic story about the death of R. Eleazar ben Dama, a story that he analyzed in the preceding pages of his book. I have already noted my disagreement with him about the interpretation of this story, underlining that Lev 18:5 can be used and often was used in the opposite sense; namely, that it can be used not (as in the Babylonian Talmud) to mean that life in this world takes precedence over the Torah but rather (as in the Palestinian Talmud) that observing the Torah in this world ensures life in the next. Now I would add, more broadly, another interpretation of the major phenomenon that Shepkaru noted. According to Shepkaru: 25. Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 97. 26.  Ibid., 104.

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Daniel R. Schwartz The ruling of you “shall live by them” challenged the Christian fascination with voluntary death and its reward. “True life,” instructed Paul, may be achieved by self-sacrifice for God (Philippians 1:21). In response to such views that maintained their popularity for centuries, the halakhic emphasis on life became more acute. Thus the early first-century Jewish and pagan notions that the Christians had adopted in support of martyrium appear less dominant in the rabbinic material of late antiquity. In the previous chapters [of Shepkaru’s book, that deal with martyrdom in Jewish sources of the Hellenistic and early Roman period—D. R. S.], potential and a few “actual” martyrs emphasized the importance of their blood, the revenge through blood, the innocent martyr as the nation’s atonement and salvation, the assurance of the resurrection of martyrs, the idea of the divine-fatherless-martyred child (as implied already by 2 Maccabees). These fundamental Christian elements have no place in the rabbis’ theology. 27

Apart from this or that detail, 28 it seems to me that both this summary of what motifs and beliefs may be found in prerabbinic Jewish literature and the concluding assessment about their general absence from rabbinic literature are basically acceptable. However, this does not mean that the rabbis preached the avoidance of martyrdom, bespeaking an “acute” emphasis on life. Shepkaru illustrates this claim a few lines later (as also on p. 100), among other places, by the story on which we focused, which shows that “rabbinic students are reported to have followed the anti-selfkilling advice already in Roman times.” As I have argued, while this story reports that they attempted to avoid martyrdom, it does not recommend this behavior. Rather, the data Shepkaru assembled about what was to be found in earlier literature but not in rabbinic literature mean what they mean: that the rabbis did not preach that martyrdom brought any results, such as atonement or salvation. 29 They mean that the rabbis did not consider martyrdom a price paid in return for some expected, or even only hoped-for boon. But this does not mean that they preached against martyrdom. Rather, the material we have studied in this paper indicates that they—or many of them—viewed it as a duty, as well as an act of love for God. 30 More especially, note the symmetry here. Although in 2 Maccabees, the martyrs of chs. 6–7 are the direct cause of the salvation that begins in ch. 8 (because the spilled blood causes God’s anger to change to mercy, 8:2–5), and although in the Assumption of Moses, the death of Taxo and his sons is expected to move God to redeem his covenantal partners, nothing of the kind is promised by the rabbinic stories of 27.  Ibid., 97–98. 28.  Such as the reference to 2 Macc 7:22 (where the mother of the seven boys says, “I do not know how you came into being in my womb. It was not I who gave you life and breath, nor I who set in order the elements within each of you” [rsv]) for the notion of a “divine-fatherless-martyred child.” See also n. 29. 29.  However, this does not mean that (as Shepkaru might be implying) rabbinic literature assumed that martyrs would not be resurrected. In general, it took resurrection for granted (e.g., m. Ber. 5:2 and ʾAbot 4:22), and something explicit is needed to justify the notion that martyrs were excluded. 30.  See also my Leben durch Jesus versus Leben durch die Torah.

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martyrs. 31 This is precisely because these rabbinic stories also emphasize that life in this world, which the martyrs give up, is fleeting, and so it is not worth very much anyway; as the cases of Pappos and R. Yosi b. Qisma show, people die whether or not they choose to be martyrs. In other words, if for the earlier works (2 Maccabees and Asssumption of Moses) life in this world was valuable, and giving it up voluntarily entitled martyrs or those they represented to something valuable in return, the message of the rabbinic stories we have been studying is that neither is the case. Instead, Jews are required to fulfill the Torah and to study it. If this engenders martyrdom, so be it. As R. Aqiva is said to have phrased it, martyrdom is a—or the—way of showing ultimate love for God, 32 a love that (as m. ʾAbot 5:16 puts it) is not dependent on requital. 31.  On 2 Maccabees and the Assumption of Moses, see, respectively, J. W. van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees (Leiden: Brill, 1997); J. Licht, “Taxo, or the Apocalyptic Doctrine of Vengeance,” JJS 12 (1961): 95–103. 32.  For this emphasis on love, rather than fear (as in 2 Macc 6:30) and (following Boyarin, Dying for God, 94–96) even in contrast to observance of the law per se, see K. Berthelot, “L’idéologie maccabéenne: Entre idéologie de la résistance armée et idéologie du martyre,” REJ 165 (2006): 119.

Sinai—Mountain and Desert The Desert Geography and Theology of the Rabbis and Desert Fathers

Joshua Schwartz Bar-Ilan University

Introduction During the academic year 1972–73, I studied archaeology and Jewish History with Lee Levine at the School for Overseas Students of the Hebrew University. More then a decade later, I was privileged to serve on the research staff of his Onomasticon project dealing with talmudics, historical-geography, history, and archaeology of the land of Israel. 1 While my interests in historical geography took me in different directions from Lee, the lessons I learned from him were invaluable. My interest in desert and wilderness—whether the Sinai or the Judean Desert or the desert of Samaria—is not new and has occupied me on and off for two and a half decades. It is the Sinai, however, that initially attracted my attention, and the first article I published dealt with the Sinai Desert in Jewish tradition and thought. 2 The thrust in those early studies was on Judaism, with a very small amount of comparative 1.  The results of the Onomasticon should be published soon. See Lee I. Levine, Geographical Place-Names in Eretz-Israel during the Second Temple–Talmudic Periods according to the Hebrew and Aramaic Sources, vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, in preparation) [Hebrew]. 2.  See my “Sinai in the History of Israel and in Jewish Thought,” in Qadmoniyot Sinai (ed. Israel Finkelstein and Zeev Meshel: Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Meuhad, 1980), 79–87 [Hebrew]. An abridged English version appeared as “Sinai in Jewish Thought and Tradition,” Immanuel 13 (1981): 7–14. On subsequent studies on different deserts, such as the deserts of Judea and/or Samaria during the Hasmonean revolt or relating to the baptismal activities of John the Baptist, see Joshua Schwartz and Joseph Spanier, “On Mattathias and the Desert of Samaria,” RB 98 (1991): 252–71; Joshua Schwartz and Joseph Spanier, “On Mattathias the Hasmonean and the Desert of Samaria,” Cathedra 65 (1992): 3–20 [Hebrew]; and my “John the Baptist, the Wilderness and the

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Christian material. There was nothing that even vaguely resembled “desert studies” or “desert theology” in either Judaism or Christianity and certainly nothing on ecotheology in either religion. 3 Moreover, desert and wilderness in general have since become trendy topics of research in modern and postmodern studies. 4 It was time, therefore, to return to the study of the desert and particularly to that which had first aroused my attention, the Sinai Desert.

Desert and Wilderness Desert and wilderness left an indelible imprint and an “eternal” imprint on both Judaism and Christianity. Israel received the Torah and became a people in the desert. While Christians may not have accepted this as the Jews did and may not have seen it in the same light as the Jews, these events likewise made a lasting imprint on them, with the route of the exodus and the giving of the Torah in the desert serving as geographical typologies for their future. John preaches in the wilderness and meets Jesus there, and following his baptism, Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness and tempted by the devil for 40 days (Matt 4:1–11, Mark 1:9–13, Luke 4:1–4). 5 Without going into detail here, I think it is clear that these events described as taking place in the desert or wilderness made a lasting impression on Christian thought and theology. Before we proceed, it is necessary to make one point of a technical nature. In English, desert and wilderness are often used interchangeably, reflecting the Hebrew midbar and the Greek eremos. ‘Wilderness’ is the better translation, although because of the monks of Palestine and Egypt, ‘desert’ is the term that has entered the theological lexicon. The eremos or midbar refers to an area that is usually lonely, uncultivated, and uninhabited but not necessarily a desert in the modern sense of the word in that it is deprived of water, although it may indeed be. 6 Both eremos and midbar Samaritan Mission,” in Studies in Historical Geography and Biblical Historiography Presented to Zechariah Kallai (ed. Gershon Galil and Moshe Weinfeld; VTSup 81; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 104–17. 3.  These are categories that are not usually found or discussed in the study of Judaism. On Christianity, see in general James E. Goehring, “The Dark Side of Landscape: Ideology and Power in the Christian Myth of the Desert,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33 (2003): 437–51; Laurel Kearns, “The Context of Eco-Theology,” in The Blackwell Companion to Modern Theology (ed. Gareth Jones; London: Blackwell, 2003); and Judith Adler, “Cultivating Wilderness: Environmentalism and Legacies of Early Christian Asceticism,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 48 (2006): 4–37. 4.  See, for example, David Jasper, The Sacred Desert: Religion, Literature, Art, and Culture (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004). In a similar vein, we await Yael Zerubavel’s work in progress, Desert Images: Visions of Counter-Place in Israeli Culture. 5.  See, for example, Ulrich Mauser, Christ in the Wilderness: The Wilderness Theme in the Second Gospel and Its Basis in the Biblical Tradition (London: SCM, 1963). On John’s desert mission, see the sources and studies cited in my “John the Baptist, the Wilderness and the Samaritan Mission.” 6.  Yehoshua Amir, “Midbar,” Encyclopaedia Biblica (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1962), 4:674–78.

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might also be translated ‘grazing land’ or ‘steppe’. We shall in any case continue to use the English terms wilderness and desert interchangeably, although it is clear that wilderness might have other definitions in English. And one final caveat: obviously, we cannot present the entire spectrum of Sinai desert-wilderness traditions by either the rabbis or the desert fathers. My purpose is limited to pointing out the connection between the understanding of the geography of the region by both rabbi and church or desert father and the subsequent religious thought or theology of both groups and religions that developed as a consequence of their understanding of that geography or of the physical reality of the desert. Because the attitude of both the rabbis and the Christian fathers to desert and wilderness derives to some extent from the Bible, we shall briefly point out the basic biblical motifs that influenced both Judaism and Christianity. The first and most blatant motif is that the desert is a bad place (Num 20:5; Deut 8:15; Jer 2:2, 6; Ps 107:4–5; etc.). 7 It is deprived of fertility and God’s benediction. It is a place of desolation and demons and is often a place of punishment for human error and sin, such as the punishment of wandering in the desert for 40 years. 8 However, biblical theology also knows a second, more positive motif. The desert, particularly in relation to the exodus is where the nation gelled, being in constant contact with God, who often showed his power through both miraculous appearances and acts. 9 An offshoot of this develops during the prophetic age, when the desert serves as a counter to the corruption of the city and civilization. It becomes a place of purification in which humans worship God in their hearts. 10 These basic biblical motifs served as the basis of desert theology for both rabbi and desert father but with one major difference, and this was such a major difference that in my view it affected both theologies in their entirety: when it came to the desert of the exodus, there was no Jewish settlement and very little Jewish presence in the Sinai Desert. It was far away from the heartland of Jewish settlement—was probably not even in the halakic land of Israel—and few Jews and/or rabbis had any 7.  For a list of additional sources, see ibid. See also James K. Hoffmeier, “Sinai: The Great and Terrible Wilderness,” Ancient Israel in Sinai: The Evidence for the Authenticity of the Wilderness Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 35–46 and the references cited there. Cf. idem, Israel in Egypt: The Evidence for the Authenticity of the Exodus Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). 8.  And this might have implications far removed from that wilderness. See Todd A. Wilson, “Wilderness Apostasy and Paul’s Portrayal of the Crisis in Galatians,” NTS 50 (2004): 550–71. 9.  We in no way need to discuss the question of the validity of the wilderness traditions, a question that would not have existed for ancient Jew or Christian. There are scholars of the Bible and of archaeology who would jettison the biblical wilderness tradition. See, however, Hoffmeier, Ancient Israel in Sinai, 235–49. 10.  Amir, “Midbar”; see also Shemaryahu Talmon, “The Desert Motif in the Bible and in Qumran Literature,” in Biblical Motifs: Origins and Transformations (ed. Alexander Altman; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1966), 31–63. See also Mante Lenkaityte, The Model of a Monk in “De Laude Eremi” of Eucherius of Lyons and in the Latin Monastic Literature up to the Early Fifth Century (Ph.D. diss., Vilnius University, 2006), 38–40 and the bibliography cited ad loc.

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business there or really knew anything about it. 11 Their knowledge was based on the Bible and not on firsthand knowledge of the area. Ironically, the same was also true of the other “closer” deserts, such as the Judean Desert and its various subbranches. Thus, although the Dead Sea sect may have been in the Judean Desert and although all the deserts of the land of Israel or surrounding it may occasionally have been used as a refuge, there were few “normative” settlements in the Judean Desert. 12 In any case, the Dead Sea sect had very little influence on the rabbis, and if it did influence them, it was not necessarily on matters of the desert and wilderness. 13 The rabbis wrote about the desert as “outsiders”; as we shall see below, the Christians wrote as an “indigenous” desert people. Bible or holiness traditions regarding the Judean Desert did not seem to excite Jewish interest or visits; they did not entice them to establish settlements, even though these areas were in the halakic land of Israel. Much less did the Sinai inspire them, which as just mentioned was not in the land of Israel. The rabbis, seemingly because of the inhospitality of these regions and distance (at least in the case of some deserts), were willing to make do with a virtual acquaintance, based on the Bible and the motifs briefly mentioned above. This in turn resulted in further development of negative desert traditions to continue to explain the rabbis’ lack of physical acquaintance. Ironically, as we shall see, their lack of knowledge also limited their ability to develop negative traditions. This is not to say, of course, that they were totally ignorant of basic geographic reality. One need not have the experience of Marco Polo to describe the desert somewhat, or its inhospitality. And of course, there may have been the odd rabbi who had personal knowledge of the desert and its lore, and this may have filtered into the talmudic tradition. General knowledge was not a problem; specific knowledge hardly existed. The Fathers, however, reacted in exactly the opposite manner. The Bible drew them, like a magnet, to these desert sites—the “desert a city,” as in the title of D. J. Chitty’s classic 14 (and based on the famous phrase of Athanasius, who was referring to Anthony)—even though at times this was a city of anchorites. Obviously there were other reasons for this in addition to the Bible, as we shall point out, but these secondary reasons and surrounding traditions and motifs became possible and de11.  Y. Sussmann, “The Boundaries of Eretz-Israel,” Tarbiz 45 (1976): 213–57 [Hebrew]. In ancient times, Sinai was considered neither Egypt nor Canaan. See Hoffmeier, Ancient Israel, 37. See also the comment of the medieval tosaphist R. Issac b. Samuel on b. Šabb. 98a, “midbar zin,” in relation to the various names for the Sinai Desert: “It is all one great desert.” Geographical distinctions were blurred in rabbinic thought as well as in the understanding of the later commentators. 12.  Y. Sussmann, “ Boundaries.” On Jewish settlement in the deserts in general, see my Jewish Settlement in Judaea after the Bar-Kochba War and until the Arab Conquest (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986) [Hebrew]. 13.  See Peter Tomson (Paul and the Jewish Law [Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990]), who claims that there was some influence by the sect on the rabbis in matters such as faith and righteousness. 14.  Derwas James Chitty, The Desert a City: An Introduction to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism under the Christian Empire (London: Mowbrays, 1977 [1966]).

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veloped only because there was a physical presence in the desert. While one might argue that the Christian presence kept the Jews away, the Jews would have been there first if they had been interested. Also, while one might argue that Christianity was pilgrimage-oriented, and Judaism or at least Roman–Byzantine Judaism was not, this was not the case regarding other regions in Palestine. Thus the same biblical basis apparently had a contrasting influence on Jews and Christians. The thinking and influences were, of course, much more complex than this, and we will discuss them further below. We can now begin with a discussion of Sinai in rabbinic literature. Although the sources are few, we cannot present them all. It would be nice to abide by methodological strictures and to maintain a strict chronological framework in differentiating tannaitic and amoraic material; unfortunately, this is not always possible, although when it is, I shall try to abide by the standard chronological methodologies. For the most part, however, our discussion of desert motifs in the writings of the rabbis will be topical and/or thematic, and this is basically the result of the paucity of the material in general. The Christian material is much more plentiful than the rabbinic traditions, and this makes it easier to place the various traditions of the monks and desert fathers in a chronological framework. We cannot make a perfect comparison between rabbis and desert fathers, but we can note trends and differences between the two types of traditions.

The Rabbis and the Sinai Desert The rabbis echo the first desert motif of biblical tradition. The desert is a place of danger and desolation, full of poisonous reptiles (Exod. Rab. 24:4), and it is difficult to imagine why anyone would want to enter it. 15 Jethro, for instance, deserves extra praise because he left all the amenities of home at Midian to go into the desolation and emptiness of the desert (Mek. Yitro, Masekhta d’Amalek, 1:192). Traveling in the desert without sufficient provision is obviously foolhardy (Mek. Beshalah, Masekhta de-Va-Yissa, 1:152). Not only is travel dangerous, but it is exceedingly difficult because of physical conditions such as sand that prevent the establishment of permanent routes. Caravans can travel only at night, guided by the stars, and not by day (Tanḥ. Masei 3; Num. Rab. 23:3), unless, of course, one has a guide. This was the case for the talmudic traveler Rabbah b. Bar Hanna, whom we shall now describe. This is the longest rabbinic desert tradition available, and I shall cite a good part of it: Rabbah b. Bar Hanna related: “We were once traveling in a desert and there joined us an Arab who, [by] taking up sand and smelling it [could] tell which was 15.  Cf. Jos. Ant. 3.1: “The country was absolute desert, devoid of anything for their sustenance, while the scarcity of water was extreme; not only could the soil furnish nothing for man but it was even incapable of supporting any species of beast, being in fact sandy and without a particle of moisture propitious to vegetation.”

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Rabbah needed an Arab guide in order to traverse the chaotic desert safely. The Arab clearly was at home in the desert, and Rabbah was not. 17 We mentioned above that the rabbis had limited first-hand knowledge of the desert. This tradition seems to belie that claim, although Rabbah clearly needed a guide and needed tutoring in the ways of the desert. However, it is important to remember that Rabbah b. Bar Hanna was an exception to the rule. He was one of the nehutei, 18 the sages who traveled back and forth between Palestine and Babylonia, bringing traditions from one Torah center to the other. B. B. Bat. 73b–74a includes his detailed itineraries and travel, although not necessarily the Palestine–Babylonia circuit, which in any case would have been of limited help to our present study. While much of the account seems to fall within the realm of the fantastic, some of the desert traditions seem to be grounded in reality. 19 In any case, Rabbah apparently spent a good deal of time in travel, and consequently he was not totally unfamiliar with deserts. As for the fantastic, the tradition continues: He said unto me: “Come and I will show you the Dead of the Wilderness.” I went [with him] and saw them; and they looked as if in a state of exhilaration. They slept on their backs; and the knee of one of them was raised, and the Arab merchant passed under the knee, riding on a camel with spear erect, and did not touch it. I cut off one corner of the purple-blue shawl of one of them; and we could not move away. He said unto me: “[If] you have, per adventure, taken something from them, return it; for we have a tradition that he who takes anything from them cannot move away.” I went and returned it; and then we were able to move away.

He subsequently reported this to the sages, who did not seem very surprised at hearing these adventures. 16.  On this and on the Rabbah b. Bar Hanna travel traditions in general, see Reuven Ki­ per­wasser, “Rabba Bar Bar Hana’s Voyages,” in Literature and Revolt: Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature XXII (ed. Hannan Hever, Ariel Hirschfeld, and Joshua Levenson; Jerusalem: Faculty of Humanities, Hebrew University, 2008), 216–41 [Hebrew]. On desert traditions, see pp. 237–38. 17.  See Richard Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia (Brown Judaic Studies 300; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 263–72. According to Kalmin, the form ‫טעיה‬ that appears in our tradition should be understood in a positive manner, as opposed to the generic Arab -‫ערבי‬, which is negative. The fact that ‫ טעיה‬is also the name of a tribe indigenous to the Arabian Peninsula does not mean that the trip took place there. 18.  On Rabbah b. Bar Hanna, see Aaron Hyman, Toldoth Tannaim Ve’Amoraim (Jerusalem: Pri HaʾAretz, 1987), 1076–78. 19.  See Kipperwasser, “Rabba.” Kipperwasser plays down the “tall tale” aspect of these travel traditions and sees them as having a core of reality dealing with cultural opposition. I shall expand on this idea in the continuation of the tradition as it relates to Mt. Sinai.

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Skipping over part of the tradition relating to Mt. Sinai, which we shall discuss later on, we find the following at the end of the tradition: He said unto me: “Come, I will show you the men of Korah that were swallowed up.” I saw two cracks that emitted smoke. I took a piece of clipped wool, dipped it in water, attached it to the point of a spear and let it in there. And when I took it out it was singed. [Thereupon] he said unto me: “Listen attentively [to] what you [are about to] hear.” And I heard them say: “Moses and his Torah are truth and we are liars.” He said unto me: “Every thirty days Gehenna causes them to turn back here as [one turns] flesh in a pot and they say thus: ‘Moses and his law are truth and we are liars.’”

As fantastic as this may be, the relationship of the desert to Gehenna seems to strengthen the motif of the desert as a punishment. As we shall see in the Mt. Sinai pericope of this tradition, there may also be a polemical element to this tradition. We must bear in mind that Christian monks used to show visitors St. Catherine’s Monastery and, in particular, the Valley of the Forty, the place in which in their tradition the earth opened up and swallowed Korah. 20 Bearing in mind the negative characteristics of the desert, some of which we have described, one might ask why the Israelites went through the desert to begin with, when they departed from Egypt. The Bible (Exod 13:17–18) of course provides an answer. The short route through the land of the Philistines might have resulted in war, and the Israelites might have been disheartened by this and returned to Egypt. For the rabbis, however, this served as an excuse to elaborate on the second desert motif found in the Bible, which allows for something positive in the negative framework of the desert. The desert was chosen precisely because of its harsh characteristics: it would “toughen up” the Israelites, especially in the spiritual realm. Thus, for example, had the Israelites entered Canaan immediately, they would have engaged in everyday life and not in Torah. The miracles of the desert, the manna and water, brought them into close contact with God and allowed them to engage in Torah (Mek. Beshalah, Masekhta de-Va-Yehi Beshalah, Petihta 76). This period was also necessary because, according to the continuation of the tradition, when the Canaanites heard about the exodus, they destroyed their own land. The 40 years in the desert allowed the land of Canaan to recover. The Canaanites assumed that the Israelites were lost forever and doomed in the desert (ibid.; Exod. Rab. 20:16). However, they had a gnawing fear that somehow the Israelites would survive the desert, eventually come out much stronger than before, and conquer their land (Exod. Rab. 20:16). The continuation of the midrash in Mekilta provides four basically positive elements of the desert vis-à-vis the exodus: “But God led the people about, by the way of the wilderness by the Red Sea” (Exod 13:18). Why? In order to do for them miracles and wondrous deeds with 20.  Joseph J. Hobbes, Mount Sinai (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995), 127.

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Joshua Schwartz the manna, the quail, and the fountain. R. Eliezer said: “ ‘by the way of’—in order to tire them out . . . ‘wilderness’—in order to purify them . . . ‘Red Sea’—in order to test them. . . .” R. Joshua said, “ ‘by the way of’—in order to give them the Torah . . . ‘the wilderness’—to feed them the manna . . . ‘Red Sea’—in order to do for them miracles and wondrous deeds.”

Thus, the positive elements can be summed up as follows: (1) desert and Torah, (2) desert and the inhabitants of Canaan, (3) desert and purification, (4) desert and miracles. Just as the two biblical motifs were positive and negative and were basically able to coexist, the same seems to be true regarding the rabbis’ view of the desert. None of this, however, seems to have aroused interest in the rabbis or Jews in general to visit or live in the desert. In the final analysis, it is in the messianic era that the deserts of Israel (or surrounding Israel) will become settled, and the settled areas (of Esau) will become desert (Tanḥ. Masei 3 and parallels). However, the underlying negative perception of the desert is clear. Thus it is not surprising that, in spite of all of the above-mentioned traditions, God did provide some comforts to Israelites there and even cured some who were maimed during their servitude, as a result of their hard work, so the Torah would be accepted by those who were whole. 21 Up to this point, my comments have related to the Sinai Desert in general. We turn briefly to the way that the rabbis related to particular sites in the desert—briefly, because the knowledge of the rabbis on this matter was indeed brief, and they were fully aware that they were lacking in this matter: “For Moses did not know how to write an itinerary of travels, until the Holy One, blessed be He, provided a hint” (Midr. Ha-Gadol on Num 33:2). 22 We shall not deal with all the desert sites but provide a few examples of rabbinic methodology regarding these sites. 23 The Israelites entered the Desert of Shur after they crossed over the Sea of Reeds and could not find any water (Exod 15:22). A tradition in Mekilta (Mek. Beshalah, Masekhta de-Va-Yissa 1:153) identifies this desert with the otherwise unidentified Desert of Kov but adds that it is a place of poisonous reptiles, which is a standard desert motif. Exod. Rab. 24:4 admits, however, that it has no idea where this wilderness is. Other traditions made feeble attempts at etymological explanations, none of which really has anything to do with the desert or even established halakic prin21.  Num. Rab. 1:3. A king in the desert would have little in the way of the material comforts to which he was accustomed, but God gave the children of Israel, as it were, and in accordance with the conditions a king might expect, sigmitin, semicircular couches for reclining at meals. On God healing the maimed, see Num. Rab. 7:1. 22.  For attempts at identifying the wilderness sites, see, for example, Michael D. Oblath, The Exodus Itinerary Sites: Their Locations from the Perspective of the Biblical Sources (Studies in Biblical Literature 55; New York: Peter Lang, 2004). See also Hoffmeier, Ancient Israel in Sinai, 47–109, 149–75; cf. idem, Israel in Egypt, 135–222. See also Anson F. Rainey and R. Steven Notley, The Sacred Bridge: Carta’s Atlas of the Biblical World (Jerusalem: Carta, 2006), 118–22 (= Excursus 9.3: “The Epic of the Exodus and Wilderness Wanderings”). 23.  For an expanded discussion on some of these sites, especially on the etymologies of their names, see the articles on Sinai cited in n. 2.

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ciples. 24 Elim was the site of springs and palms (Exod 15:27). Bearing in mind the trouble that the Israelites had with water in Shur and at Marah (Exod 15:26), it is not surprising that the rabbis praise these springs and palms, and according to one tradition, the palms and springs were there from the very time of the creation of the world. 25

The Rabbis and Mt. Sinai As seen above, the attitude of the rabbis toward the Sinai Desert was ambivalent. The desert, any desert, including the Sinai was a bad, hostile place, although this very characteristic might have some positive benefit for the Israelites. They had nothing good to say about the physical nature of Mt. Sinai and, while the wilderness itinerary seems to point to a location for the mountain in southern Sinai, there is hardly enough information in the Bible to determine the mountain precisely. This vagueness of wording may have been intentional in order to stress the message and not the mountain. 26 Not only did the rabbis basically ignore the physical geography of the mountain, but they made every effort to play down any intrinsic connection 24. See Exod. Rab. 24:4. Shur is explained as rows (of Israelites) or as a wall in the Aramaic sense of the word. Mek. Beshalah, Masekhta de-Va-Yissa 1:155 determines when the Torah should be read, comparing Torah to water and pointing out that the Israelites went three days without water. 25.  Mek. ibid.: 158–59. Josephus (Ant. 3.9ff.) describes the springs and palms as being rather limited, perhaps reflecting what Josephus thought springs and palms of the desert should be. This motif is also found in the rabbis, but for the rabbis, it is the miraculous nature of the springs and palms that is stressed. Needless to say, none of these views of the rabbis has any grounding in reality. 26.  See Hoffmeier, Ancient Israel in Sinai, 111–48. See also Rainey and Notley, The Sacred Bridge, 120. See, however, Alan Kerkeslager, “Jewish Pilgrimage and Jewish Identity in Hellenistic and Early Roman Egypt,” in Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt (ed. David Frankfurter; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 99–125, esp. pp. 146–213. Kerkeslager points out that Jews in the Hellenistic and early Roman periods had only minimal interest in pilgrimage to “Sinai” or to “Mt. Sinai” or to other sites along the route of the exodus. However, the Sinai to which these purported pilgrims traveled was not the Sinai Desert that we have discussed and continue to discuss. Rather, Mt. Sinai, in his view, was located near the city of Madyan in northwestern Arabia. His evidence for this pilgrimage is quite convoluted and, in any case, adds little to our study. As for his identification and propensity to transfer as many of the Sinai traditions as he can to Arabia, I cite Anson Rainey regarding the location of Mt. Sinai in The Sacred Bridge, 120 (see also above): “There have been at least a dozen proposals for alternate locations [= not southern Sinai], in different districts of Sinai or in Saudi Arabia. All of them will be ignored in this study.” We can only agree with Rainey. As for “our” Sinai (i.e., in the Sinai Peninsula), Kerkeslager states: “Inscriptions from the Christian pilgrimage routes in the southern Sinai Peninsula demonstrate that Jews in the pre-Christian period had absolutely no interest in pilgrimage to this region. Christian pilgrimage to this region was . . . a completely new innovation” (“Jewish Pilgrimage,” 150). On this point we are in agreement with Kerkeslager. Kerkeslager’s “patterns of (Jewish) pilgrimage” to

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between the eternal sanctity of the giving of the Torah and the site of the mountain itself. This is somewhat strange, because this is in marked contrast to a number of traditions in Second Temple–period literature that expand on the sanctity of Mt. Sinai and praise the nature of the mountain. 27 But then, there was no competition from Christianity at that time. The rabbis are quite adamant that just the opposite is true. The mountain is inconsequential; it has no inherent holiness; rather, its holiness is dependent on the presence of God there (b. Taʿan. 21b) or on the fact that Mt. Sinai was originally part of Mt. Moriah and was “‘ripped off’ that mountain as hallah from dough.” Any sanctity that Mt. Sinai had was borrowed, and indeed the Sinai mountain was destined to return to Jerusalem (Midr. Ps. 68:9: 318). The message was always more important than the mountain. The children of Israel traveled there in a state of repentance (Mek. Yitro de-va-Hodesh 1:204; Mek. D’Rashbi 19:2: 137), and traveling away from that Divine presence led to sin (b. Sabb. 116a)—and this, after eleven months of camping around Mt. Sinai (Sipre Num. 62:61). Why then did God choose to reveal himself on Mt. Sinai? One tradition maintains that famous mountains such as Mt. Tabor and Mt. Carmel came before God to be chosen, but they were rejected because they had been sites of pagan worship (Gen. Rab. 99:1: 1271). 28 Another tradition maintains that it was the very unimportance of Mt. Sinai that made God decide to give the Torah on it as opposed to the haughty mountains. God sought out the unimpressive mountain, a “humble” mountain, and the others are “blemished” in contrast to lowly Sinai (Pesiq. Rab. 7:21a; Midr. Ps. 68:9; Num. Rab. 13:3; b. Meg. 29a; b. Soṭah 5a). 29 It is not surprising, therefore, to find the following in the Rabbah bar Bar Hanna tradition that we cited above, relating to his arrival at Mt. Sinai: “He said unto me: northwestern Arabia (pp. 201–7), theoretically along the route of the exodus(!), have nothing of substance to add to our discussion. 27.  See, for instance, Jub. 8:19, which mentions Mt. Sinai as one of the holiest sites in the world, together with the Garden of Eden and Mt. Zion. See also Jos. Ant. 2.265. Josephus mentions the height of the mountain and states that it was the highest mountain in the area and that it was fertile. Cf. Jos. Ant. 3.75–76. Kerkeslager (“Jewish Pilgrimage,” 189, 191) places the Mt. Sinai of Josephus in Arabia, but see contra this idea Graham I. Davies, The Way of the Wilderness: A Geographical Study of the Wilderness Itineraries in the Old Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 10–11 on the standard Sinai Peninsula identification. Davies makes reference to Ag. Ap. 2.25, in which Josephus appears to have placed Mt. Sinai between Egypt and Arabia. Compare with Kerkeslager (“Jewish Pilgrimage,” 177) on “vision quests” into the desert in a conscious effort to follow the pattern established by the experiences of Moses and Elijah on Mt. Sinai. This need not require an actual trip into the desert, but at times this is implied. See Apoc. Ab. 12:1–3 on the description of a journey that Abraham took to Mt. Horeb to receive divine revelation. 28.  Mek. Yitro, Masekhta de-Va-Hodesh 5:220. 29.  A small mountain but, miraculously, 22,000 chariots of angels descended upon Sinai together with God (Tanḥ. Bub. Yitro 14:76 and parallels).

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‘Come and I will show you Mount Sinai.’ [When] I arrived I saw that scorpions surrounded it and they stood like white asses. I heard a Bath Kol saying: ‘Woe is me that I have made an oath and now that I have made the oath, who will release me?’” (b. B. Bat. 74a). Rabbah reported these adventures to the rabbis, who expressed distress at the fact that he did not absolve God of his oath. This is the third leg, as it were, of the Rabbah bar Bar Hanna traditions relevant to our discussion of the desert. The Rabbah bar Bar Hanna traditions in general and these traditions in particular explore the process of the incorporation of foreign values by rabbinic culture. 30 Cultural opposition is the background of these traditions. While the overall cultural milieu in the background of this opposition is that of the Pahlavi-speaking, Zoroastrian culture, 31 it is also likely that this tradition and the other two cited above reflect the proliferation of monasticism in the Sinai, especially around Mt. Sinai, as we shall see below, in spite of the fact that Rabbah clearly lived before the expansion of monasticism in Sinai. The later editors of the traditions as well as the editors of the Babylonian Talmud, however, were late enough to have been aware of or apprised of the fast-growing monastic presence in the Sinai. There may also be a polemical strain in the traditions that associate hatred toward non-Jews with Mt. Sinai. Thus, a tradition trying to understand the different names of Mt. Sinai associates the name Mt. Horeb with the root ḥrb meaning ‘destruction’ and states that the verdict decrying the destruction of the non-Jews was handed down at Mt. Sinai. 32 The name Sinai is interpreted in light of the root śnʾ meaning ‘hatred’, and from Mt. Sinai, hatred descended on non-Jews (Exod. Rab. 2:4; b. Šabb. 89a; Num. Rab. 1:8). 33 The plain fact is that the desert and this mountain belonged to no one, and this was another reason that the Torah was given there. Anyone could have come there and accepted the Torah; it was open to all (Num. Rab. 1:7). 34 The vehemence and hatred found in these etymologies might be explained as part of a Jewish polemic against the massive Christian presence in the Sinai and in the Mt. Sinai area. I repeat, everyone had a chance to go there, and it belongs to all or none; it is not acceptable for anyone to claim the area or take it as his own. 30.  Kipperwasser, “Rabba.” 31. Ibid. 32.  However, the decry of “destruction” was not limited to non-Jews, and other sinners’ fates, such as that of Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, were sealed there even though punishment was meted out somewhere else (Lev. Rab. 20:10: 464–65, and numerous parallels). 33.  Obviously, this is not the original or correct etymology for the toponym Sinai. Suggestions have ranged from sĕneh (‘bush’) to Sin (the Egyptian name for Pelusium), to Sin (the Mesopotamian moon deity). Sinai is not mentioned in Egyptian texts, and it has been suggested that the term biz, meaning ‘mining country’, might be the Egyptian term. See Hoffmeier, Ancient Israel in Sinai, 38–40. 34.  On the personal level—just as the desert was hefker, i.e., ‘free to and for all’, so it was necessary for one to become hefker in order to receive the Torah. The desert was a “freeing” experience and provided an emotional model, as it were, for accepting the Torah.

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Philo: Bridge to the Church Fathers As we already mentioned, the attitude of the desert fathers to Sinai and to Mt. Sinai was quite different from what has been discussed above. However, before we begin our discussion of Christian Sinai, I should mention a tradition in Philo that seems to serve as a bridge between the Jewish and Christian traditions. Philo, while a Jewish philosopher, introduces elements into his Sinai traditions that are not found in the rabbis but are prominent in the Fathers. Thus, Philo mentions four reasons for the sojourn in the desert (Decal. 2–17): (1) The rampant paganism found in cities in general. For this reason, the Torah was given in the wilderness. While we pointed out above that this motif is found in the prophetic tradition, and while the rabbis pointed out the pagan milieu of Canaan, they did not seem to pay any attention to cities per se. (2) Isolation can lead to purification and repentance. (3) The “civil constitution” of the Israelites should be received and studied before establishing settlements. (4) The miracles of the desert prove that the Torah is divine. All of these reasons go far beyond whatever the rabbis found in the desert and are very similar to strains of Christian thought. Philo also often explains the Hebrew midbar, in general, as seeking good. 35 There is of course much more of the positive here than in the rabbis and much less harping on the negative. While a direct connection cannot be postulated between Philo and the church fathers, the similarity of the ideas is interesting. 36

Monks and the Sinai Desert Obviously, we cannot discuss in detail all that there is to mention regarding the desert and the wilderness in the desert fathers, and I shall make do with comparing certain prominent Christian concepts with the reality that I have described above. As I have pointed out a number of times, it is important to remember that the Bible is always in the background for Christians as well as for Jews. Geographically speaking, there are three areas of concern for us in terms of the development of the Christian desert traditions. Although they sometimes parallel the development of monastic communities, this is not always the case: (1) Anthony left his village in Egypt for the desert around 271 c.e., and the Thebaid became the region of the Egyptian desert that was idealized in early monastic tradition. 37 (2) Chariton arrived in Palestine in 275 c.e., and monasticism began to spread in the 35. Philo, QG 3.27; 4.31. 36.  See, e.g., David T. Runia, Philo and the Church Fathers: A Collection of Papers (Leiden: Brill), 1–21. Compare Kerkeslager (“Jewish Pilgrimage,” 167–68), who, true to form, claims that Philo located Mt. Sinai in the Arabian Peninsula. Philo, in his view, would have identified Mt. Sinai as the highest mountain near Madyan in Arabia. It is hard to be convinced by all this. 37.  William Harmless, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 61 (= “Table 3.1. Outline of the Life of Antony).

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Judean Desert (= deserts of the Jordan, Kotila, Calamon, Rouba, Netopha, Zif, and the Southern Desert). 38 (3) The Sinai Peninsula: it is clear that by the mid-fourth century c.e. monks lived as hermits in communes in Sinai. Subsequently, monasticism flourished in Sinai throughout the Byzantine period. 39 As mentioned above, Sinai was neither in Egypt, nor was it in the halakic land of Israel, although some of the monastic centers were at least nominally connected with those in Egypt or Palestine, while some were more ideologically independent. For the desert fathers and monks, the attractiveness of the Sinai Desert was that it was the route of the exodus, the 40-year wandering, and the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai. Monasticism spread along the purported route of the exodus and wandering, at least within the realms of geographical and physical possibility. There are of course desert references outside of these geographical areas. Desert became “wilderness” for the Fathers of the Jura Mountains, but Merovingian Gaul is outside the scope of this study, and De Laude Eremi of Eucherius of Lyons (fifth century c.e.), while containing many important data of a theoretical nature on the wilderness, is also outside the scope of our study. 40 I shall discuss the general attributes of the desert and wilderness in the desert fathers based on a number of rather broad categories. 41 As for the rabbis, I shall first discuss the Sinai Desert in general and then Mt. Sinai. See in general also David Frankfurter, ed., Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt (Leiden: Brill, 1998). 38.  G. Garitte, ed., Vita Charitonis, “La vie prémétephrastique de S. Chariton,” Bulletin de l’Institut Historique Belge de Rome 21 (1941): 16–42. On the location of these deserts, see Leah Di Segni, ed., Cyril of Scythopolis: The Lives of Monks of the Judaean Desert (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2005), 80 [Hebrew]. 39.  Uzi Dahari, Monastic Settlements in South Sinai in the Byzantine Period: The Archaeological Remains, with contributions by R. Calderon, W. D. Cooke, Y. Gorin-Rosen, and O. Shamir (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2000), 13, 21–24. The earliest cases of Sinaitic monasticism may have been caused by persecution during the time of Decius. See the examples cited in Dahari, Monastic Settlements, 21. This form of anchoresis, however, does not really relate to the desert qua desert, nor does it provide theological input for our purposes, and I shall not relate to this phenomenon within the framework of this study. 40.  Mante Lenkaityte, The Model of a Monk in “De Laude Eremi” of Eucherius of Lyons and in the Latin Monastic Literature up to the Early Fifth Century (Ph.D. diss., Vilnius University, 2006). 41.  I have made use, inter alia, of the ‘sayings of the desert fathers’, the Apophthegmata Patrum, a collection of sayings, dialogues, and short narratives that preserve the words of the monks of the period. While it had been assumed that the work originated in the monastic center at Scetis, in the Wadi Natrun Valley, south of Alexandria in Lower Egypt, there are those who ascribe it to the Scetis Diaspora, when many renowned figures had left there. There are also those who argue that the text originated in Palestine, and a number of Palestinian monks appear there. We use these stories only for general monastic desert traditions. See in great detail Graham Gould, The Desert Fathers on Monastic Community (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), esp. pp. 9–17. See also Columba Stewart, “The Desert Fathers on Radical Self-Honesty,” Sobornost 12 (1990): 25–39 (repr., http://monasticmatrix.org/MatrixTextLibrary/mn-S14562-stewartc-thedesertf.html, to which I refer).

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The desert fathers sought to establish a “New Society” in the desert. 42 This New Society was an “active society”—a stadium, as it were—in which athletes could perform, and a good part of this performance was cultivation of the self, although monastic routine was often also physically demanding. 43 To achieve this active, new society, there first had to be liberation from the old, and the desert fulfilled this task. In the words of Peter Brown: “Desert was a myth of liberating precision. It delimited the towering presence of the world from which the Christian must be set free, by emphasizing a clear ecological frontier.” 44 It was necessary to withdraw from the old, and Near Eastern landscapes and geography provided a good backdrop for the Christian interpretation of this withdrawal. Thus, the geography of the new “community” or “society” allowed for solitaries and anchorites, in spite of the occasional tension between ideal levels of solitude desired by certain leading monks and the desire for an active community by their disciples. While there was asceticism in the cities, the new community was possible only in the desert, and there seems to have been a connection between rising ascetic power and withdrawal from the oikoumene—the inhabited world. 45 What made someone like Anthony unique was not his ascetic lifestyle but where he practiced it: no longer in his home village but in the great desert. 46 There were few ascetics among the rabbis, and fewer still practiced their asceticism in a desert of any kind; in fact, I know of none. While the desert community for the church fathers was initially a transient community—a city of monks who left their previous communities and homes but eventually sought for themselves the citizenship of the heavens, as it were—eventually the desert began to include elements of “paradise” (of monks) and became, nominally at least, a final destination in itself. Jewish tradition, including even the Dead Sea sect, never exalted the wilderness or desert as a final destination. At best it was a temporary refuge to be endured or redeemed by cultivation. While there was something of a transient nature to the desert in Christian thought, as pointed out, 42. Gould, Desert Fathers, 106. The desert was also full of monastic women, but their experiences at this time basically went unrecorded or were suppressed. See Stewart, “Desert Fathers on Radical Self-Honesty.” The rabbis too would have ignored or suppressed any parallel Jewish traditions, but apparently there were none. If “men” refrained from pilgrimage or visits to Sinai, it is likely that the matter never even came up for women. Moreover, not all monks who went to the Sinai (or other deserts) were seeking spirituality, and some of the first monks there were fleeing taxation or military service or the long arm of the law seeking them for criminal actions, and not necessarily a spiritual experience. See Joseph J. Hobbs, Mount Sinai (Austin: University of Texas, 1995), 66. 43.  Adler, “Cultivating Wilderness,” 25. Ascesis is often better translated ‘exercise regimen’ than ‘asceticism’. 44.  Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (London: Faber and Faber, 1988), 216. 45. Harmless, Desert Christians, 65. 46.  Ibid., 60.

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the final destination was Heaven. For the Jews, it was the earthly Canaan or land of Israel. 47 Transience for Christians helped to facilitate the final destination; for the Jews, it was just a necessary evil. The desert, free of the problems of the cities and the vices harbored there, also offered a universally accessible spirituality serving as a bridge to the Scripture of God, even for the ignorant and unlettered. The desert gave the monks a landscape that mirrored what they sought for their own hearts: an uncluttered view through clean air. 48 Anthony tells us that a monk out of desert is like fish out of water—the monk loses his spiritual life. 49 This spirituality may be accessible through the “community” or may be found in solitude. In the case of spirituality, at first the desert was a final destination, a living afterlife. By the fourth century, however, the desert became identified with spiritual stability which, ironically, returned a bit of the transient nature to the desert, which now could serve as a vehicle for bigger and better things, even perhaps contributing to the reversal of the Fall. 50 This Christian spirituality at first glance might seem to parallel the Jewish motif of purification in the desert mentioned above, but it goes far beyond anything that the Jews might have imagined or postulated. For the desert monks, the desert allowed a full expression of spirituality, even in such mundane matters as clothing (or the rag-like nature of the clothing). 51 We learn from Antony that living in the desert in spiritual solitude delivered one from three conflicts: hearing, speech, and sight—one is left only to worry about fornication. 52 Desert became for the monks the geographical equivalent of celibacy. This is as far removed from Judaism as celibacy itself. For some, the desert could free them from all cares, as in the case of John the Dwarf (born 339 c.e.), who went to the desert to be like the angels who did not work. 53 Ironically, spirituality, as it soars, might become “virtual” and become detached from desert or wilderness geography, at least in the pristine sense. Thus, mountains and forests might provide a different geographical background for wilderness, replacing the desert and creating a new type of wilderness asceticism and spirituality, similar perhaps to the purification motif in Judaism but far beyond it. 54 47.  Adler, “Cultivating Wilderness,” 20. 48. Harmless, Desert Christians, 250. 49.  Saint Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria, Life of Antony (trans. Robert Gregg; New York: Paulist Press, 1980), 85, 93; Sozomen, Histoire ecclesiastique (trans. A. J. Festugière; Paris: Cerf, 1983), 175; and Benedicta Ward, ed., Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1975), 3, 49. 50.  Adler, “Wilderness,” 18, 23, 27. 51.  Joshua Schwartz, “Material Culture in the Land of Israel: Monks and Rabbis on Clothing and Dress in the Byzantine Period,” in Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity (ed. Joshua Schwartz and Marcel Poorthuis; Jewish and Christian Perspectives 7; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 121–37. 52. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 3. 53.  Ibid., 86. 54. Lenkaityte, The Model of a Monk.

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As was the case for the Jews, the desert is the site of divine epiphany and intimacy with God. 55 However, unlike the Jews who limited this to Mt. Sinai and to basically a single experience, for the desert monks, the entire desert could provide epiphany and intimacy and it was ongoing, as we find in the words of Jerome: ‘O Desert! . . . O Solitude! . . . O Wilderness that rejoices in intimacy with God!’ (O desertum Christi . . . O solitudo . . . O heremus familiari Deo gaudens!). 56 This could be a “high-grade” epiphany in keeping with Christian motifs and typologies, such as John Cassian (d. 435), who left Bethlehem for the Egyptian desert. He tells us that the monk experiences in the desert what the apostles did in the Transfiguration. 57 In this case, the mountain “wilderness” of Tabor is transferred to the (Egyptian) desert. On the other hand, the epiphany could be a “low-grade” constant, such as when Euthymius (5th century c.e.) speaks of being guided to caves in the Judean Desert as if by God himself. 58 The sites of these epiphanies, major or minor, are usually also the site of additional miracles, far beyond the paltry Jewish miracles described by Rabbah bar Bar Hanna. Only the Jewish desert miracles of the past might compare with any of this. Because the desert was such a hard place, one might meet God there, and it was common for monks to wander in the desert in general during “hard times,” such as Lent. 59 However, it was not only God who could be found in the desert. Sacred landscape may induce a feeling of either well-being or of fear. The desert was the site of demonic temptation, whether “high” temptation in the form of the devil or “low” in the case of snakes and scorpions. This was not just a matter of anti-epiphany, as it were, but often a translation of the difficult conditions of the desert into the de­ monic. 60 For desert Christians, the desert atmosphere was a place of epiphany but also a place fraught with fresh danger from the constant presence of hosts of demons and devils. Taming them was part of the challenge. 61 Whether the desert fathers considered the dangers of the desert real or supernatural, many did seem to have a sense of the physical realities (and dangers) of the desert and the caution that desert dwellers should exercise in everyday life, such as being aware of snakes and scorpions that might hide under pots or pans or be found in dark places in the house. There were men such as Abba Poemen who used this realistic desert imagery in their writings. They were also aware of the psychological 55.  See, for example, David Frankfurter, “Introduction: Approaches to Coptic Pilgrimage,” in Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt (ed. David Frankfurter; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 26 on Coptic desert prophets. 56. Jerome, Letter 14.10 (http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf206.v.XIV.html). 57. Harmless, Desert Christians, 397. 58.  Life of Euthymius 8 in Cyril of Scythopolis: The Lives of the Palestinian Monks (trans. R. M. Price; annotated John Binns; Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publishers, 1991), 11. 59. Dahari, Monastic Settlements, 24. 60. Harmless, Desert Christians, 86. 61.  Monks such as Anthony were often depicted as taming the desert and reclaiming it from the demonic. See ibid.

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dangers of desert life and the fact that there was no guarantee that the experience would be positive. 62 The Jews seemed to be aware of the dangers inherent in desert life and stayed away; the Christians, monks, and pilgrims went anyway. One may expect that the difficult desert conditions had a harmful effect on the health of the Fathers. Moreover, in addition to the dangers, the sources indicate that the diet of the monks was often quite limited. Perhaps all this did impair their health, but one does not receive this impression from the sources—at least not regarding the prominent solitaries, who are often depicted as being robust and healthy. Many seem to have acquired a good knowledge of wild plants and potential edibles in the desert and, as desert monasticism developed, so did the agricultural prowess of the monks. 63 In spite of all of the theology and other-worldly aspects of their attitude to the desert, the Fathers often became quite adept desert dwellers. When all was said and done, however, there was a constant tension between “landscape” and “mindscape,” between imaginative and geographical space: ultimately, it is possible to find an “inner desert” almost anywhere. 64 While it may be best, for example, to walk or sleep in the desert (obviously, in an ascetic manner), if one cannot do so in the desert, he or she should do so as though in the desert. 65 Historically, much of monasticism, especially desert monasticism had a built-in irony. Anchorites and solitaries, some of whom were charismatic, attracted an everwidening circle of monks of all types and persuasions. The monastic communities also tended to attract pilgrims, especially in the case of sacred landscape, although there was not necessarily any automatic interaction between monk and pilgrims and often the monks sought to avoid the pilgrims. In spite of this, the relatively large numbers plying the Sinai Desert resulted in the need for the establishment of administrative mechanisms, which brought even more people to the area. 66 This in turn aroused more and more interest, even imperial, and some of the monasteries may have even served as defense and protection for monks and pilgrims. 67 As we shall see below, Mt. Sinai was the major pilgrim attraction in Sinai, and more people traveling to Sinai meant the development of more traditions associated with Exodus. By the time one arrived at Sinai, there had been opportunities to stop at many supposed stations of the exodus. 68 The rabbis, for instance, made do with the occasional 62.  Ibid., 208, 289. 63. Adler, Cultivating Wilderness, 18. See also Dahar, Monastic Settlements, 43. 64.  Ibid., 16–17. 65. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 49. 66. Dahari, Monastic Settlements, 63 (on the growth of the administrative system), 164 (on the lack of interaction between monk and pilgrim). 67. Hobbs, Mt. Sinai, 73, 77. 68.  Ibid., 140. However, geographical conditions and food supplies often had more to do with establishing identifications than with the exodus account. In any case, by the fifth or sixth century there was much that a pilgrim could see along the route to Mt. Sinai. See Simon Coleman and John Elsner, “The Pilgrim’s Progress: Art, Architecture and Ritual Movement at Sinai,” World Archaeology 26 (1994): 75–76.

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feeble etymology of an exodus site. The monks established monasteries at these sites, such as the monastery at Elim identified with Raitho in southern Sinai. Local monks guiding the fourth-century pilgrim Egeria pointed out Kibroth Ha-Taavah (Num 11:34) and many other sites near Mt. Sinai. 69 Perhaps not surprisingly, and most conveniently, the majority of popular exodus sites were close to Mt. Sinai, allowing for a more efficient sweep of the holy sites. We conclude this section on the Sinai Desert with a description of travel there, not by a monk, but by one of the many pilgrims who traveled through the desert on the way to Mt. Sinai. The sixth-century Piacenza Pilgrim described his travel in the desert from Elusa in the Negev to Mt. Sinai and beyond, apparently with Saracen guides: For five or six days we traveled through the desert. Our camels carried our water, and each person was given a pint in the morning and a pint in the evening. When the water in the skins had turned bitter like gall we put sand in it, and this made it sweet. . . . The people that traveled through that utter desert numbered twelve thousand six hundred. 70

It is doubtful that Rabbah bar Bar Hanna had met many travelers, at least two centuries before. By the sixth century, the desert roads to Mt. Sinai apparently could become congested. Water remained an important motif in desert travel literature, and the skills of the local guides were a sine qua non for desert survival, as evident in this tradition as well as in the Rabbah bar Bar Hanna tradition above.

Monks and Mt. Sinai While it was the exodus that drew monks and pilgrims to Sinai, it was around Mt. Sinai (Jebel Musa) and its environs that Sinaitic monasticism flourished. The geography of the region allowed for both solitude and the development of monastic centers or, in the words of Procopius of Caesarea: “A precipitous and terribly wild mountain, Sina [Sinai] by name, rears its height close to the Red Sea, as it is called. . . . On this Mt. Sina live monks whose life is a careful rehearsal of death and they enjoy without fear the solitude which is very precious to them.” 71 To some travelers, 69. Dahari, Monastic Settlements, 138. The monks at Raitho lived in great poverty with no property except for their robes and lived a great distance from one another. Others identified Elim as Wadi Gharandal, farther north along the coast. See the map on p. 13. On Kibroth HaTaavah, see Egeria 1.2 in John Wilkinson, ed., Egeria’s Travels to the Holy Land (rev. ed.; Jerusalem: Ariel and Aris, 1981), 91. 70.  Antoninus Piacenza 36 (translation from John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades [Warminster: Aries and Philips, 2002], 146). 71. Procopius, De Aed. 5.8 (translation in H. B. Dewey and Glanville Downy, Procopius VIII: Buildings [LCL 355–57; Cambridge: Heinemann, 1954]). Cf. Philip Mayerson, “Procopius or Euthychius on the Construction of the Monastery at Mount Sinai: Which Is the More Reliable Source? ” BASOR 230 (1978): 33. The death motif is somewhat ironic. See, for instance,

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the very geography of the place looked to them as they imagined the end of days would. 72 The geography heightened the fear and solitude, and monks tried to keep it that way. Byzantine tradition states that people avoided the mountain and that even hermits and solitaries never spent the night there. Later traditions relate that the mountain should be ascended only by people who have undertaken spiritual preparation, and here too geography was instrumental. The spiritual preparation could be earned by climbing the “Stairway of Repentance,” which begins just southeast of the Monastery of St. Catherine and traces a steep route up Jebel Musa. According to tradition, the steps were carved by sixth-century monks. At a place two-thirds of the way up the mountain, monks tested the knowledge and piety of the pilgrims. Ironically, the tradition was that Jews could not make it up the mountain, but this information relates to the fifteenth century and afterward, when apparently there was some Jewish travel in and pilgrimage to the Sinai. 73 For the pilgrim, at least, Mt. Sinai and its environs embodied the geography of movement from sacred space to sacred place. In a rather brief paragraph, the sixthcentury pilgrim Antoninus of Piacenza (mentioned above) lists the rock where Moses struck water (a day’s journey from St. Catherine’s), the burning bush, the spring where Moses watered sheep, the cave where Elijah fled from Ahab, and the peak of Mt. Sinai where Moses received the law. In the case of Antoninus, he was met and accompanied by monks who initiated pilgrims into some of the liturgy and ritual associated with the sites. Antonius describes Mt. Sinai as rocky, with little soil. However, Mt. Horeb, Jebel Sufsafa near Mt. Sinai, had good soil. In the valley between the two, one could find manna that could be drunk. 74 The fourth-century c.e. pilgrim Egeria (also mentioned above) provides even more detail regarding biblical sites in the environs of Mt. Sinai. We mentioned above Kibroth Ha-Taavah. She continues and mentions, all in the area of Mt. Sinai, the Valley of the Golden Calf, the spot where Moses pastured Jethro’s cows and saw the burning bush, the church and cave of Moses on the summit of Mt. Sinai, Elijah’s mountain and cave, the place where Aaron and the 70 elders stood, the site of the burning bush, the place where Moses stood in front of the bush, the site of the Israelites’ camp, the place where the golden calf was made, the rock on which Moses broke the first tablets of the law, the places where Moses had ordered the Israelites to run from gate to gate, where they destroyed the calf, where they drank its remains, and more. 75 In spite of the detailed description of the sites, she does not spend much time Rom 8:2. In dying, Christ freed the people from the antiquated law of sin and death prescribed at Mt. Sinai! (Hobbs, Mt. Sinai, 32–33). 72.  Ibid., 124. 73.  Ibid., 110–11. 74.  Antoninus Piacenza 37–38.146–47 (Wilkinson, ed., Jerusalem Pilgrims). As to the relative fertility of Horeb, see Dahari, Monastic Settlements, 48–49. There were many small monastic complexes there with small plots, orchards, and sufficient water. There were also Saracens at Horeb who held a local festival there. 75.  Egeria 2.1–5.12, 91–98 (Wilkinson, ed., Egeria’s Travels).

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on the surrounding physical geography, but it seems clear that all of these sites were located where at least some degree of access was possible. Access, convenience, and proximity to Mt. Sinai were apparently the most significant factors in the proliferation of these sites throughout the centuries.

Conclusion Both Jews and Christians began at more or less the same point. However, the Jews related to the desert grudgingly. From a theological standpoint, they had to do so because of the Bible traditions, and there were indeed some mitigating positive elements. The Christians took the same starting points from the Jewish Bible, or Old Testament, and built an empire in the desert, both real and virtual. Perhaps the fact that they benefited from the support of the Byzantine Empire helped, but this does not explain the lack of Jewish interest, even before the Christians poured into the area. In general, the Jews and the rabbis of the Roman-Byzantine period seemed to prefer their theology and normative life-style in some degree of comfort. Perhaps this was because they had to fight for it in the face of ever-growing surrounding hostility. Why fight to suffer in the desert? One wonders, however, why the rabbis ignored desert traditions, specifically the Sinai traditions, even if they had no desire to experience the physical reality behind them. By ignoring physical elements, they missed out on the opportunity to develop both positive and negative traditions. It is a commonplace that sacred place is a storied place. It is my contention that Sinai was not really a “sacred place” for the Jews. This was true before the advent of Christianity, when the Jews might have developed some sort of Sinai or pilgrim tradition, perhaps for the reasons just cited; it was certainly true during the period of monastic hegemony in the Sinai during the Byzantine period. The more the Christians flourished there and the more sites they identified, the more the Jews turned aside. If this were Jerusalem, for instance, they would have fought back theologically. In the Sinai Desert, they did not do so. The Christians, whose position improved over the course of the Roman-Byzantine period, took much more to asceticism. The Bible jump-started their view of the desert; they just let these motifs develop, and they did not let Jewish tradition get in the way. The Bible became alive through a tapestry of physical sites, ritual, liturgy, and material remains such as mosaics and inscriptions. Indeed, they might have felt a large degree of satisfaction from their Verus Israel status there. The desert may have had its disadvantages, but its advantages were much greater (and one could be an ascetic elsewhere). The physical separation in the desert, exposure to sacred sites, and knowledge led to transformations on a personal and religious level. The Jews sought their personal and religious transformations elsewhere.

Rabbinic and Roman Honor and Deference Y. Berakot 5.1, 9a, and Y. Bikkurim 3.3, 65c–d Seth Schwartz Columbia University

The rabbis rejected Roman values in at least two ways. First, the rabbis produced a body of literature quite unlike anything else ever written in the Roman world. Its alienation or self-alienation from the classical tradition is nearly absolute, which is not to deny the fact—demonstrated by the exegetical work of Saul Lieberman and his followers—that the Palestinian Talmud and earlier aggadic midrashim are in straightforward ways products of the late Roman urban East. The Yerushalmi is certainly much easier to understand if the reader knows something about the High and Later Roman Empire, but expertise in the classical literary tradition provides diminishing returns. 1 To borrow a precise (oral) formulation from my former colleague, the Latinist John Henderson, rabbinic textuality is utterly un-Western (I would add: it is not very Eastern either). This sense of rabbinic alienation is surely heightened by the rabbis’ decision to compose their texts in Hebrew and Aramaic rather than Greek, Author’s note: Richard Kalmin and Beth Berkowitz read a much earlier version of this essay and made many important comments (without thereby incurring any responsibility for the content of the paper). I also benefited from the opportunity to present it at a joint meeting of Patricia Crone’s and Peter Schäfer’s seminars at Princeton (Institute and University) and from the discussion that ensued. The appropriateness of a study of the culture of the Palestinian rabbis in this volume that celebrates the scholarship of Lee Levine, who set the study of the topic on an entirely new footing, presumably requires no justification. 1.  Appropriations of / reactions to the classical literary tradition may in fact be present but, if so, are well concealed. For some suggestive case studies, see J. Levinson, “The Tragedy of Romance: A Case of Literary Exile,” HTR 89 (1996): 227–44; idem, “‘Tragedies Natural and Performed’: Fatal Charades, Parodia Sacra, and the Death of Titus,” in Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. R. Kalmin and S. Schwartz; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 349–82. For an evaluation similar to the one offered here, see C. Hezser, “Interfaces between Rabbinic Literature and Graeco-Roman Philosophy,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture (ed. P. Schäfer and C. Hezser; 3 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998–2000), 2:161–87.

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which was, on the face of it, an effective declaration of independence from classical norms. In fact, however, the rabbis were much further from those norms than Christians who chose to write in Coptic or Syriac but whose language, rhetoric, and ideas were nevertheless suffused with literary and intellectual Hellenism. The Talmud’s status as Roman literature needs to be argued in ways that the status of other literary artifacts of the same time and place does not. The rabbis proclaimed their alienation from normative Roman culture in every line that they wrote. Second, the rabbis expressed their hostility toward, contempt and fear of Rome and its values quite openly, though to be sure the Mishnah—like Pausanias and, in much of his work, Plutarch, for example—mainly consigns the Romans to oblivion. 2 Ostensibly, all that mattered to the rabbis was piety—God, Torah, and commandments; they attributed no significance to power or to the sort of glory or honor that results from domination. They told story after story about how right the Torah was and how wrong the Romans. They constantly advertised their refusal to collaborate with and their contempt for their rulers. On the whole, their laws were based on exegesis of the Torah and on other specifically Jewish sources. Unlike the Babylonian rabbis, some of whom, at least, regarded (some) Sasanian laws as valid, 3 the Palestinian rabbis theoretically rejected the validity of Roman law (though this statement requires much nuancing), 4 and in doing so almost explicitly denied to the Roman state a legitimate monopoly on violence. They regarded Jews’ attendance of sanguinary games as tantamount to murder unless there was a chance they could save the human victims (t. ʿAbod. Zar. 2.7; y. ʿAbod. Zar. 1.7, 40a), and even prohibited the sale of wild beasts to pagans for fear they would be used in such entertainments (m. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:7). Jews were not permitted to help build amphitheaters, gallows, or even basilicas to be used in the judgment of criminals (m. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:8). Unlike some church fathers, the rabbis never considered the ethical and legal problems raised by legionary service or municipal honors, because they never seem to have considered the possibility that a Jew might be a Roman soldier. 5 Jews indubitably did serve in 2.  See S. Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism and Power in the Greek World, ad 50–250 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 135–86; J. Elsner, “Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim in the Roman World,” Past & Present 135 (1992): 3–29. 3. On dina de-malkhuta dina, see M. Beer, The Babylonian Exilarchate in the Arsacid and Sassanian Periods (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1970), 88–91 [Hebrew]; J. Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia (5 vols.; Brill: Leiden, 1965–70), 2:111–19; Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era (Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar, 1990), 42–43; and in greatest detail and most authoritatively, S. Shilo, Dina De-Malkhuta Dina: The Law of the Land Is the Law (Jerusalem: Jerusalem Academic Press, 1974), 1–43 [Hebrew]. 4.  For a compelling discussion of the limitations on dina de-malkhuta dina, see G. Herman, The Exilarchate in the Sasanian Era (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 2005), 231–36 [Hebrew]. 5.  Contrast Tertullian, De idololatria 17.2–18.9 (ed. and trans. J. H. Waszink and J. C. M. van Winden; Leiden: Brill, 1987). Tertullian unambiguously prohibited military and municipal service. The Yerushalmi does occasionally mention bouleutai (see M. Kosovsky, Concordance to the Talmud Yerushalmi [Palestinian Talmud] [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities and Jewish Theological Seminary, 1982], 2:373) [Hebrew], some of whom were clearly Jewish;

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the legions, however, and rabbinic silence must imply that the rabbis simply did not consider this a remotely legitimate career option for a Jewish man. 6 Jewish legionaries were ipso facto blatant sinners, and the rabbis wasted no energy providing them with religious rationalizations or palliatives for their misbehavior. The rabbis did not recognize the right of the government to expropriate land from convicted criminals under the lex cornelia de sicariis et veneficis (Justinian, Digest 48.8) or the proprietary rights of the purchasers of this land from the state (m. Gịt. 5:6; t. Gịt. 3[4].10). 7 The rabbis neither required nor (suicidally) prohibited the payment of taxes to the state. 8 They seem to have regarded taxes and other obligations imposed by the government as if they were a natural disaster, to be evaded when possible but generally accepted with resignation. 9 But there is a paradoxical aspect to this account. Not only is such thoroughly elaborated and extensively theorized hostility to a state quite unprecedented in ancient Jewish literature, but for all their ostensible resistance, the rabbis lived and worked at a time when the Jews were at peace with their rulers, when after two disastrous centuries or more (beginning with Pompey’s conquest in 63 b.c.e.), Jewish Palestine was at last successfully integrated into the Roman Empire. Indeed, the world that we can get a glimpse of—to be sure a partial and very hazy one—between the lines of the rabbinic texts (especially the Talmud and midrashim; the Mishnah, but the only apparent rule—though in fact it sounds more like advice—is the statement of Rabbi Yohanan that, “if they mention you [probably meaning, ‘appoint you’] to the boule [city council], let the Jordan be your border” (y. Sanh. 8.2, 26b). Did curial service in Tiberias and Sepphoris involve pagan religion? For discussion, see my Imperialism and Jewish Society from 200 bce to 640 ce (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 129–61. 6.  On Jews in the Roman army, see A. Oppenheimer, “Jewish Conscripts in the Roman Army? ” in Between Rome and Babylon: Studies in Jewish Leadership and Society (ed. A. Oppenheimer and N. Oppenheimer; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 183–91. The rabbis occasionally told stories about Roman soldiers and other officials who converted to Judaism, but these stories had no impact on rabbinic law—they never imagined a figure like the biblical Naʿaman (see 2 Kings 5). 7.  For the rabbinic siqariqon as receivers of land expropriated under the Lex cornelia, see G. Alon, Toldot Hayehudim Beʾeretz Yisrael Bitequfat Hamishnah Vehatalmud (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hame’uhad, 1961), 2:122–23 (this discussion is condensed in the English translation); S. Safrai, “Sikarikon,” Zion 17 (1952): 56–64 [Hebrew]. The rabbis regarded the intervention of the state as legally valid if it occurred before “the war” (unspecified), but not after. The rules about such land in the Mishnah and Tosefta are complex and contradictory, but both texts take it for granted that, after the war, the state’s action had no impact de jure on the status of the land, though practical concessions in some cases had to be made. 8. In t. Ned. 2.2 and y. Ned. 3.4, 38a, they seem to permit lying to toll collectors (see S. Lie­ ber­man, Tosefta Kifshutah, part 7, Order Nashim [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1967], 418–19). Elsewhere, they seem troubled by the possibility that the shirking of the well-to-do may increase the tax burden on the poor; see D. Sperber, Roman Palestine: 200–400, The Land (RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1978), 125–26. 9.  There were limits to the rabbis’ rejectionism: for example, there is no hint that they rejected the government’s right to coin silver, though they admired a rabbi who refused to look at the images on coins (though presumably he used them; y. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.1, 42c).

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by contrast, seems heavily idealizing) seems to have been calmer, stabler, more orderly, and much less violent than Jerusalem or Tiberias or Caesarea as these towns were described by the integrationist Josephus. Indeed, the cities and big villages that constituted the rabbis’ world were demonstrably much more typically Roman places than they, or Jerusalem, had been in the first century. It is a correct truism that the rabbis were not apocalyptists: for all their show of resistance to Rome, they evidence an important accommodationist strain in their writings. It is necessary, then, to produce a more-nuanced and tension-filled account of the rabbis, their laws, and narratives than I have provided in the pages above. Rabbinic resistance is only part of the story, though one that requires emphasis (especially in America). We must also pay careful attention to the rabbis’ embrace and even internalization of some Roman values: while they claimed, not totally incorrectly, to live outside the Roman system and recommended alienation of this sort to their constituents, their actual position was far more complex and interesting.

Honor, Deference, Precedence J. E. Lendon argued that honor was one of the main ideological mechanisms of Roman rule, to the extent that its circulation through the social networks that bound the Roman Empire may help explain why the Empire was able to survive so long with only a tiny bureaucracy and, relative to the size of its population, a very small army and no police forces worth mentioning at all. 10 As his critics have observed, Lendon’s account is damagingly short on theoretical self-consciousness. Honor is a complicated, ramified, and ultimately mercurial and vague topic. If one is sloppy or improvident enough, one can use the word to connote so many social, cultural, and psychic phenomena that it loses its analytic utility. Lendon’s account certainly flirts with this disaster, identifying as or conflating with honor things his sources fail to, but it can be salvaged through severe pruning. Honor per se is neither a corollary of nor a tracer for dominance: there is honor among thieves, as among slaves. This—honor as emotion, as lens through which life is subjectively viewed, as disposition toward one’s social environment—has been a crucial and controversial issue in Mediterranean ethnography. 11 But an account of 10.  See J. E. Lendon, Empire of Honor: The Art of Government in the Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997); terror also played a role: see K. Hopkins, Death and Renewal (Sociological Studies in Roman History 2; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1–30. For criticism of Lendon, see W. V. Harris, “The Mediterranean and Ancient History,” in Rethinking the Mediterranean (ed. W. V. Harris; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 27–29. C. Barton, Roman Honor: The Fire in the Bones (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), is highly unreliable. 11.  See M. Herzfeld, “Honour and Shame: Problems in the Comparative Analysis of Moral Systems,” Man 15 (1980): 339–51; F. H. Stewart, Honor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); and J. de Pina-Cabral, “The Mediterranean as a Category of Regional Comparison: A Critical View,” Current Anthropology 30 (1989): 399–406.

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honor as political capital in Roman public life, as a property possessed by certain Romans as a perquisite of rank or as a reward for domination disguised as generosity, can proceed quite independently of ethnographic controversies (which remain important because they can help us sharpen our investigation). We can extract from Lendon’s account more modest, precise, and conceptually aware conclusions than its author may have intended: quite apart from its ultimately unrecoverable role in daily life and from its ramified and porous definition, honor (time) had a highly specific function in Roman politics, which Lendon described accurately. It thus seems useful to ask about the reception of this core Roman value among the rabbis.

Honor in the Yerushalmi Honor is a surprisingly important concept in the Yerushalmi, figuring in both legal and nonlegal contexts. The reason that this is surprising is that honor is part of a complex of praxes and concepts that the Bible, especially the Torah, either rejects or severely limits. The Torah regards Israel as a community of equals, bound by shared dependence on God, who thus assumes alone—to the exclusion of all humans—the role of lord and patron. Honor is an important concept in the Hebrew Bible but as a divine, not a human attribute. Thus, honor hardly figures at all in biblical law. By contrast, rabbinic law, beginning with the Mishnah, assigns to honor and shame a significant role: it is a sensitive issue in the laws of charity, which mandate the preservation of the honor of the recipient as far as possible, even to the extent of providing extra support to an impoverished person of refined taste (that is, former wealth: y. Peʾah 8.8/9, 21b; t. Peʾah 4.11)—a concern that is in some tension with the implicit egalitarianism of biblical poor-relief laws. Wounded honor is subjected to formal evaluation in the assessment of damages for seduction, rape (y. Ketub. 3.7/8, 27d), 12 and assault (y. B. Qam. 8.3–6). The Mishnah and the Yerushalmi following it, which tend to oppose the practice of taking vows and to encourage rabbis to find technical ways of releasing people from their vows, advise trying to convince vowers that their vow has brought dishonor on themselves or their families; if they then express regret for having undertaken the vow, it can be legally nullified (m. and 12.  The Yerushalmi may prescribe in this case an inverse relationship between the honor of the injured party and the damage assessed (“the shame of the great person is great, but his damage is little”). The difficulty, however, is the meaning of the word nezeq (‘damage’) here. Does it refer to the penalty assessed for shame or to something else? The commentators and later legal decisors (e.g., Shulhan Arukh, Hoshen Mishpat, chapter 420, title 24) all agree on the latter, but their agreement ends there. Pnei Moshe argued (the more plausibly, in my view) that it referred to the pegam (‘injury’) payment (not explained in the Yerushalmi but in the Bavli said to be the impact of the rape or seduction on the victim’s “market value”): “a great person is not so easily injured.” Qorban Ha-Edah, however, reads the text to say not that the damage assessed for the humiliation of the grandee is little but that the damage the grandee causes is little, because it is hardly a dishonor to be humiliated by a great man.

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y. Ned. 9). In this last case, the rabbis imagined that ideas about personal or family honor were broadly popular without themselves necessarily endorsing them. Honor/disgrace (kavod/bizayon) also appear frequently in rabbinic literature in the sense of basic public dignity, unrelated to social rank—honor in the sense of the disposition or emotion discussed above. People are expected to behave with restraint. The burden is certainly heavier on women here than on men—their kavod is exceedingly fragile, in constant danger of injury, and if injured, especially prone to bring their husbands and other relations into disrepute. Thus, it is preferable for them to live outside public scrutiny altogether, as far as possible, though even in private any interaction with another individual can injure a woman’s modesty and bring her and her family into disgrace. The rabbis believed that Jewish women themselves were extremely sensitive to honor in this sense of modesty or restraint. The rabbis seem to have been more committed to this central trope of ethnographic Mediterraneanism (one regarded with skepticism by many) 13 than their Roman contemporaries. This impression is surely created in part by class and geographical difference. All the famously licentious Roman women came from a tiny segment of the metropolitan aristocracy, and even in such circles much lip service was paid to the ideal of pudor, while the rabbis were part of a provincial “middle class.” 14 Some of the rabbis’ concern at least for feminine kavod was also due to their legal rigor, which made them exaggeratedly anxious about sexual misbehavior. It is nevertheless striking that the rabbis conceptualized the danger inherent in female sexuality and the fragility of all attempts to constrain it in terms, not (only) of sin or of purity or sanctity, but of honor. This constitutes a significant departure from pentateuchal (though not necessarily general Scriptural) conceptions and shows that there were other factors besides halakic scrupulosity in the rabbis’ “Mediterranean” sensitivity to this issue. 15

Rejection of Honor For its part, masculine kavod in general did not intersect so much with halakic scruples. Though the rabbis certainly expected Jewish men to behave in a dignified way—and the rabbis held themselves to higher standards than they held oth13.  See J. Davis, People of the Mediterranean: An Essay in Comparative Social Anthropology (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1977). 14.  On the Roman imperial middle class, see W. Scheidel, “Stratification, Deprivation and Quality of Life,” in Poverty in the Roman World (ed. M. Atkins and R. Osborne; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 40–59. 15.  See J. Romney Wegner, Chattel or Person: The Status of Women in the Mishnah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 18–19; M. Peskowitz, Spinning Fantasies: Rabbis, Gender, and History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 49–76; in general, L. Grushcow, Writing the Wayward Wife: Rabbinic Interpretations of Sotah (Leiden: Brill, 2006); and C. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity: Rabbinic and Christian Reconstructions of Biblical Gender (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 276 n. 47, on the absence of an adequate study of rabbinic shame.

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ers 16—on the whole, their anxiety about the issue was less intense. Indeed, they even thought that kavod in this sense was sometimes best sacrificed to higher causes. They repeatedly told the story of Rabbi Samuel bar Rav Isaac, who made a fool of himself in the performance of mitzvot in a way that his fellows mocked but God himself endorsed (y. Peʾah 1.1, 15d): 17 “And gemilut hasadim” [‘the bestowal of deeds of lovingkindness’]: 18 As it is written, “He who seeks righteousness and lovingkindness will find life, righteousness and honor” (Prov 21:21)—“honor” in this world, and “life” in the world to come. Rabbi Samuel bar Rav Isaac would take branches and dance joyfully before brides. Rabbi Zeʿeri would see him and hide, saying, “See how this old man embarrasses us!” And when Rabbi Samuel died, there were three hours of thunder and lightning in the world, and a divine echo [berat qala] was heard to say, “Rabbi Samuel bar Rav Isaac has died, the bestower of deeds of lovingkindness!” When they went out to bury him [lemigmol leh hesed!], fire descended from heaven and formed a kind of hedge of flaming branches between his bier and the congregation, and the people said, “Look at this old man who has received his recompense for his branches.”

In this story, Rabbi Samuel customarily humiliated himself to perform the mitzvah of helping brides rejoice, an act of gemilut hasadim. 19 In contrast to the derash that 16. See y. Sanh. 2.6(5), 20c: public manual labor inappropriate for a memuneh; y. Maʿaś. 3.4, 50d: eating in public. 17.  Parallels (the sugya begins with the second sentence quoted here: “Rabbi Samuel . . .”) appear in y. ʿAbod. Zar. 3.1, 42c; Gen. Rab. 59:4; b. Ketub. 17a. On the relationships between the parallels, see H.-J. Becker, Die grossen rabbinischen Sammelwerke Palästinas zur literarischen Ge­ nese von Talmud Yerushalmi und Midrash Bereshit Rabba (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 134–48; C. Milikowsky, “The Formation and Transmission of Bereshit Rabba and the Yerushalmi: Questions of Redaction, Text-Criticism and Literary Relationships,” JQR 92 (2002): 521–67, esp. pp. 550–60. 18. Quoting m. Peʾah 1:1: “These are the things which have no measure [i.e., legal limits] . . . and gemilut hasadim; and these are the things whose fruits a man eats in this world but whose principle exists to sustain him in the world to come . . . and gemilut hasadim.” 19.  Suggestively, another story of rabbinic self-humiliation also involves marriage (y. Soṭah 1.4, 16d): Rabbi Meir was accustomed to preaching in the synagogue of Hamatha (near Tiberias) every Sabbath eve, and there was a woman there who was accustomed to listening to his voice. One time he ran late, and the woman went home to find that the candle had gone out. Her husband asked her, “Where were you? ” She responded, “Listening to the voice of the preacher.” He said, “I swear that this woman shall not return to this house until she spits in the face of the preacher.” Rabbi Meir divined this through the Holy Spirit, and pretended to develop an eye ailment. He said, “Any woman who knows the correct incantation to recite over my eye, let her come and do it.” The woman’s neighbors said to her, “Here is your answer: Go to his house, pretend to recite an incantation, and spit in his eye!” She went, and he asked her if she knew the incantation for eye ailments; due to her fear of him, she responded, “No.” He said, “In that case, it also helps if you spit in the eye seven times.” When she had done so, he said, “Go and tell your husband, ‘You told me to spit once and I spat seven times.’” His students said to the rabbi, “Is this how you disgrace [mevazin] the Torah? If you had asked, would we not have brought him here and beat him until he took his wife back? ” He responded to them, “Let not Meir’s honor be greater

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introduces the anecdote here (though not in the parallels), Rabbi Samuel was never honored for this in his lifetime but only after his death, which was commemorated by signs and miracles. Thus, those who once had mocked him learned that God rewards gemilut hasadim with public acclamation, with the bat qol (divine echo) playing the role of the honorary inscription in the euergetistic economy of the Roman city. The rabbis also preserved a series of stories set in the time of the Second Temple about an aristocratic Ascalonite pagan who had so respected his parents that he allowed himself to be publicly humiliated by them; he too achieved divine reward, not to mention the rare status of being one of the very few pagans the rabbis remembered for their piety and moral excellence (y. Qidd. 1.7, 61b, the story of Dama b. Netina, head of the patrobouloi—ancestral curiales—of Ascalon). As usual, stories of this sort have a certain ambiguity. On the one hand, they implicitly prescribe ideals, and it is by no means insignificant that the rabbis sometimes idealized strongly countercultural behavior: the rabbis admired “holy fools” like Rabbi Samuel bar Rav Isaac, extremists who utterly rejected standard behavioral norms in the pursuit of higher ideals—in the rabbis’ case, Torah and mitzvot. But the same stories tend to marginalize these ideals—they are not even really prescriptions. Rather, they are admiring accounts of types of behavior even the rabbis themselves were not expected to emulate day by day: their moral frisson is intentionally vicarious, achieved through the telling of the story itself, not through the mimetic enactment of its values. These stories are the rabbinic equivalent of the Christian martyr act or saint’s life, glorifying forms of behavior not meant to be generally imitated. Indeed, normally, rabbis are meant to act in a dignified way, not to disgrace themselves publicly (for example, y. Maʿaś. 3.4, 50d; less severe than the parallel at b. Qidd. 40b). Furthermore, though the rabbis admired extremist renouncers, unlike their Christian contemporaries they never developed an institutional setting in which behavior of this sort might be considered normative. The rabbis had no monasteries, where honor was simply irrelevant. In the highly social setting of the rabbinic study house or disciple circle, 20 not to mention the towns where students of the sages sometimes acted as religious functionaries, honor in the sense of basic public dignity was an important value. than the honor of his Creator! For if Scipture says that the Holy Name, written in holiness, must nevertheless be erased in the waters (of the ritual of the bitter waters) in order to restore peace between a man and his wife, does the same not apply to Meir’s honor a fortiori? ” 20.  The following story illustrates the rabbis’ preference for havruta (‘fellowship, collegiality’) while acknowledging the attractions of solitary contemplation (y. Šeb. 8.5, 38b): Judah of Hutzai hid in a cave for three days because he wished to understand the reason for [a certain Ha­lakah—omitted here for the sake of brevity; in the Yerushalmi, taʿama ‘reason’ usually refers to a law’s scriptural foundation]. Afterward, he visited Rabbi Yosi bar Halafta, who said to him, “Where have you been? ” Judah responded, “I was hiding in a cave for three days because I wished to understand the reason for [this Halakah].” Rabbi Yosi summoned his son, Rabbi Eurydemos (!) and said to him, “Tell this man the reason for [the Ha­lakah].” [And he told him.] Rabbi Yosi said to Judah, “Who caused you [to be unable to answer such a simple question]? It happened because you did not investigate it with your friends.”

Cf. b. Taʿan. 23a, the well-known mot: o havruta o mituta—‘give me havruta or give me death’.

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Honor and Domination In these environments, honor-as-public-dignity shaded off into another major sense of honor: honor as political/social currency, as a tracer for dominance. This is the type of honor that is supposed to have been an important element of the Roman imperial system, and honor in this sense is surprisingly important in Palestinian rabbinic texts as well. Of kavod in this sense, there are two subforms: standard public kavod, not specifically rabbinic, and kavod as social currency within the rabbinic subculture. It is impossible to analyze here every rabbinic account of public honor; rather surprisingly, it is far too common a theme, especially in its inner-rabbinic form. Instead, I have selected two pericopes—in the first case, because it seems to me quite typical; in the second, because it is the most extended and penetrating Palestinian rabbinic discussion of the issue.

The Rabbis, Deference, and Roman Honor: Y. Berakot 5.1, 9a The stories I am analyzing here concern acts of deference. The main theoretical problem this raises is the relationship between deference and honor. In fact, as Erving Goffman long ago demonstrated, deference exists in societies where a strong sense of honor is absent. For our purposes, however, this concern seems minor. The large corpus of rabbinic stories about deference are simultaneously, in every case, stories explicitly about honor. Though the second passage I am discussing here is an analysis precisely of the relationship between deference, honor, and the formal requirements of a mitzvah, on the whole it seems legitimate to suppose that Palestinian rabbinic texts regard deference and honor as being closely related: to act deferentially toward someone routinely, but not invariably, means to acknowledge that he possesses honor. Y. Ber. 5.1 preserves a small collection of anecdotes about rabbis’ encounters with Roman officials and the competition over honor and deference that these encounters entailed, at least in the imaginations of the storytellers, if not in real life. 21 This collection is part of the Talmud’s commentary on the Mishnah’s rule that, if 21.  On the importance of deference in Roman political and social life, see the cautious account of Lendon, Empire of Honor, especially for the present purposes, pp. 58–63; J. Hall, “The Deference-Greeting in Roman Society,” Maia 50 (1998): 413–26. Almost all the stories discussed here concern rising and not more intimate gestures of deference, such as kissing (the hand, for inferiors; the lips for notional equals) or perhaps baring the head (cf. b. Qidd. 33b where, in an anecdote set in Babylonia, a commoner is expected to cover his head in the presence of a rabbi). This is reminiscent of Simmel’s notion of the “ideal sphere”: in Goffman’s elaboration, the greater the social distance between the two actors, the greater the “ceremonial distance” between them tends to be and the less physically intimate rituals of deference are likely to be: see the seminal E. Goffman, “The Nature of Deference and Demeanor,” American Anthropologist 58 (1956): 473–502, especially pp. 481–82.

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someone is in the process of reciting the tefillah (the main canonical daily prayer), one may not interrupt: “Even if a king greets him, he may not respond; even if a snake has wound itself around his leg, he may not stop.” Now none of the Talmud’s anecdotes here concern the interruption of the tefillah, but they seem collectively to constitute a paradoxical consideration of the limitations on the deference due to the powerful, an underlying concern of the Mishnah as well: 22   Rabbi Yohanan was sitting and reading [the shemaʿ; or perhaps “studying” other biblical texts] in front of the “Babylonian synagogue” of Sepphoris. An archon passed by and the rabbi did not rise for him. [The archon’s attendants] sought to strike him, but the archon said to them, “Leave him alone, since he is studying the Law of his Creator [namosa de-baryeh].”   Rabbi Hanina and Rabbi Joshua ben Levi went to visit the proconsul of Caesarea [anthupata de-Qisrin]. When he saw them, he stood before them. [His attendants] said to him, “Are you rising before these Jews [yehuda’ei]? ” He responded, “I saw [in them] the visages of angels.”   Rabbi Jonah and Rabbi Yosi visited Ursicinus [a historical figure: the magister equitum per orientem (commander-in-chief of the eastern cavalry) under Constantius II, 349–359; in the Yerushalmi, often the embodiment of Roman might] 23 in Antioch. When he saw them he rose before them. [His attendants] said to him, “Are you rising before these Jews? ” He responded, “I saw [or, had a vision of] the faces of these men in battle and was victorious.”   Rabbi Abun visited the emperor [malkhuta], and when he left, he turned his back [qadla, literally, ‘the nape of his neck’]. [The emperor’s attendants] sought to kill him, but they saw two bolts of lightning issuing from his neck and left him alone, in fulfillment of the verse, “And all the peoples of the land will see that the name of the Lord is called over you [applied to you], and they will be afraid of you.”

The obvious—if rather fantastic—point of this pericope is that, in the competition between rabbis and powerful outsiders over honor and deference, the rabbis, as embodiments of Torah and representatives of the God of Israel, always win. It thus resembles a great many stories told about encounters between Christians, philosophers, or magicians such as Apollonius of Tyana and emperors or other powerful Romans—all illustrating the profound impact that Roman might had even, or especially, on some of the more marginal inhabitants of the Empire—but the rabbinic stories focus unusually tightly on issues of deference. The pericope has two 22.  Indeed, the Mishnah’s comment here is certainly intended homiletically and not as actual law, since there is nothing else in the Mishnah that would justify martyring oneself in order to recite a prayer (this objection is raised in b. Ber. 32b–33a). The Palestinian Talmud, ad loc., accepts the legal force of the Mishnah’s statement but limits its applicability nearly out of existence. 23.  See W. Portmann, “Ursicinus,” Der Neue Pauly 12/1: 1054–55; in much greater detail, A. Lippold, in the old Pauly-Wissowa, sub verbo. For a positivistic treatment of the numerous talmudic stories about Ursicinus, see G. Stemberger, Juden und Christen im heiligen Land: Palästina unter Konstantin und Theodosius (Munich: Beck, 1987), 132–50.

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complementary principles of organization: it is organized chiastically, in that the first and fourth episodes both concern a rabbi who fails to offer proper deference to an official in a way that arouses the anger of the official’s slaves; and the second and third both concern officials who unexpectedly pay honor to rabbis over the protests of their attendants. 24 The pericope is also organized as a crescendo of terror and implausibility—each story features a more frightening official than the previous one and a more supernatural punchline. 25 The first anecdote is realistic: a rabbi engaged in Torah study fails to rise to greet an archon, a member of the governing board of the Sepphorite city council and thus a rather minor local grandee, who is unable to do more to avenge the rabbi’s insult than have his slaves beat him up. The archon—who is probably meant to be Jewish (see below) but could conceivably be Christian or pagan—restrains his slaves by acknowledging the superiority of the rabbi’s pursuit. In fact, he basically repeats the mishnaic law about interrupting study to pay one’s respects to a passing dignitary, but it is translated from Rabbinic Hebrew into quasiphilosophical pidgin Greek (a possibly not-unrealistic imitation of the rhetorical style of small-town eastern curiales)—be-namosa de-barya hu ʿasiq. The second anecdote raises the stakes: the Roman official is now governor of Palestine, a figure massively more powerful than a city councilor. 26 His attendants’ response to his paradoxical display of deference to the rabbis expresses the rabbinic storytellers’ sense of alienation (their own and the Jews’ collectively) 27 from the 24.  I thank Beth Berkowitz for pointing this out to me. 25.  I wonder also if there is not meant to be a decrease in the prestige of the rabbinic protagonists, the point that the Torah confers more honor than worldly power does being thereby strengthened—even Rabbi Abun was greater than the emperor; the reason I think this is that Rabbi Yohanan is one of the most prominent and distinguished figures in the Palestinian Talmud, with Rabbi Joshua ben Levi following close behind; the other rabbis mentioned figure somewhat less importantly in the Talmud (just a thought). 26. The anecdote’s terminology (“the anthypatos of [= in] Caesarea”) reflects somewhat imprecisely the period before the Diocletianic reforms that split Palestine into two or three provinces and lowered the governors’ rank to praeses. Until that time, the governor of Palestine was not a ‘proconsul’ (which is the translation of anthypatos) but a legatus Augusti pro praetore, of consular rank—hence, presumably, his colloquial designation here as ‘proconsul’. This may reflect in turn the Talmud’s fairly consistent placement of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi in the middle of the third century or a bit earlier, and so constitutes an interesting case of a rabbinic storyteller’s striving for historical accuracy—all the more striking here, since this collection of stories was demonstrably assembled in the middle of the fourth century at the earliest. See E. M. Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule from Pompey to Diocletian: A Study in Political Relations (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 478–86; on the Diocletianic reforms, see A. H. M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284– 602 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1964), 1:42–52; Palestine: Y. Dan, “Ha-Minhal Ha-Bizanti Be-Eretz Yisrael,” in Eretz Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Muslim Conquest (ed. Z. Baras et al.; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1982), 1:387–418, esp. pp. 387–91. 27.  In the Yerushalmi, the word yehuda’ei frequently expresses contempt, as a glance through the concordance shows; ‘Jew’ is not necessarily a sufficiently strong translation. The Hebrew yehudi seems not to convey the same sense.

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Roman system—a perhaps carefully cultivated sense that they had no place in the Empire-wide economy of honor. The idea that the Jews are inherently contemptible is one the rabbis or editors of the Talmud frequently put into the mouths of their Gentile characters (and the absence of a comment of this sort in the first anecdote may argue that the storyteller imagined the archon as a Jew, though a rather compromised one). But, despite this alienation, they still fantasize not about crushing the Romans but about forcing the Roman authorities to recognize their true quality as living exemplars of the divine Law and mediators of God’s power. Thus, they defer to them (in these stories, then, honor is moralized—detached from its association with power and presented as an ethical category). In other words, in dreaming about beating the Romans at their own game, they tacitly accept the rules of this game. That the rabbis’ fantasies about the Romans contained this conservative or integrationist impulse is perhaps expressed most clearly in the third anecdote, which raises the stakes yet again—this time, the rabbis visit the ferocious General Ursicinus, the subject of a large number of anecdotes in the Yerushalmi, most of which concern his power and arrogance. His capitulation to the rabbis, his acknowledgment of their numinosity, and their status as divine messengers are thus all the more striking—yet the rabbinic storytellers appear to acquiesce in the general’s military glory. Given the story’s obvious resonances with Constantine’s widely publicized vision at the Milvian Bridge, 28 it is hard not to detect here at the very least a trace of competition with Christianity, in which the (presumably—though far from definitely!) Christian general, or at least a general understandably seen as promoting the cause of Christianity is nevertheless forced to acknowledge the superiority of the rabbis. 29 The final story is obviously meant as a climax; it involves an encounter with the emperor himself, and the miracle now occurs onstage, as it were. In other ways, it breaks the pattern or perhaps reverts to the theme of the first anecdote, in which a rabbi fails to show appropriate respect to an official. But no one shows any deference to Rabbi Abun; the response of the emperor’s slaves is not deference but fear—a hint at a more subversive type of rabbinic fantasy about Rome—and here for the first time in the pericope a biblical verse is quoted, which concludes the pericope by declaring that the nations automatically fear anyone called by God’s name (any Jew? a pious Jew? a rabbi?)—a sentiment that would have been far less poignant if it had been any truer.

28.  On which, see H. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 10–11. 29.  The sources collected in A. H. M. Jones, J. R. Martindale, and J. Morris, Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 1:985–86, appear to give no indication one way or another whether Ursicinus was Christian. To the rabbis, this detail would scarcely have mattered.

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Honor among Rabbis Honor was an important currency in intrarabbinic exchange. There is a little evidence that leading rabbis patronized their junior colleagues in conventional ways, by providing them with judicial and other appointments, by helping them financially, and perhaps especially by organizing with some frequency one of the most important ritual manifestations of precedence and hierarchy in a small society or subculture—the dinner party. Honor played an important part in all relationships of this sort. There is also evidence that rabbis and “disciples of sages” sometimes had nonrabbinic patrons, which reminds us that the image of complete rabbinic social and cultural cohesion that they produced in their texts is partial and selective. But in the quotidian economy of the rabbinic study house, this exchange was far less significant than the exchange of knowledge, which the senior hakamim bestowed on their students as a group and that the latter reciprocated with honor and with deference. 30 In this way, the characteristic social exchange of the study house replicated in Judaized form the euergetistic economy of the Roman city. One of the standard forms that this honor took in rabbinic circles was the practice of attributing a teaching to the person from whom it was received. A prominent example is an oft-repeated sugya that describes Rabbi Yohanan’s zeal to attain memorialization among his students, and their students, by having his name mentioned by them, precisely as municipal benefactors sought to secure memorialization by being named on honorary inscriptions. 31 Another rule, whose articulation in the Talmud is far more vehement, forbids a student to teach in the presence of his teacher. Students were expected to engage in shimush hakamim ‘service of sages’, though this expectation was not invariably met. 32 30. Jeffrey Rubenstein’s view that honor/shame was important in the Babylonian study house but not in the Palestinian (“what we do not find in the Yerushalmi is the theme of shame in an academic setting”) needs to be refined. Honor and shame are pervasively important in the Yerushalmi’s story of intrarabbinic relations; what is less important, though still not wholly absent (see, for example, the prayer of Rabbi Nehuniah ben haQaneh in y. Ber. 4.2, 7d), is the theme of dishonor resulting from defeat in argument. This is perhaps because there are far fewer anecdotes about rabbinic arguments in the Yerushalmi than in the Bavli—one difficult anecdote, omitted above, seems to say that an argument of this sort ended badly for all the parties involved. The Bavli and Yerushalmi are not polar opposites on this point but feature slightly different inflections of a shared set of themes. The real distinction between them is not in their attitude toward honor or shame but in their attitude toward dialectical argumentation. See J. Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 67–79. The quotation appears on p. 79. 31. See y. Šeqal. 2.6, 47a, paralleled in y. Moʿed Qaṭ. 3.7, 83c, with partial parallels in y. Ber. 2.1, 4b and b. Yebam. 96b–97a. And see G. Woolf, “Monumental Writing and the Expansion of Roman Society in the Early Empire,” JRS 86 (1996): 22–39. 32.  On the rabbinic master-student relationship, see C. Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine (TSAJ 66; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 332–52; L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi / New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1989), 59–65.

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Though all rabbinic texts valorize the rabbi-disciple relationship, and none suggests that students should not respect their teachers, the Yerushalmi does not present the broader exchange of knowledge for honor and memorialization in a consistently approving way. Sometimes it is presented simply as a matter of course; at other times with profound ambivalence. Even the story of Rabbi Yohanan just mentioned seems to imply that the rabbi’s concern to be quoted and to be deferred to by his students was somehow unseemly or excessive. As we will see, y. Bik. 3.3 subjects the idea that rabbis ipso facto merit deference to a profound critique, while not discarding the value of honor. Y. Bik. 3.3 focuses on the rabbis’ own embrace of deference and honor as innerJewish cultural values. 33 But the embrace was ambivalent, and the focus is loose. Unlike the previous passage, which is brief and well organized, the sugya about rabbinic deference here occupies most of a very long Halakah and appears to be little more than a random aggregation of sayings, both tannaitic and amoraic, and anecdotes about the issue. On the surface, it proposes no very clearly defined point of view, and as is often the case in long sugyot in the Yerushalmi, it is very difficult for the reader to know whether the juxtaposed elements are meant to be read together, with the reader drawing out logical connections presumably implicit in the juxtaposition, or whether the editor is simply providing the reader with raw material to treat as he sees fit. 34 33.  See ibid., 55–59. See too the conclusion of m. Horayot: there, the Mishnah begins by laying out practical rules of precedence (m. Hor. 3:7: “The man precedes the woman in being saved from death and for the return of lost property; the woman precedes the man for charitable gifts of clothing and redemption from captivity [this resonates with both ‘Mediterranean’ and Jewish/biblical cultural biases]”) and then generalizes but in a very schematic way (m. Hor. 3:8: “A priest precedes a levite [the commentators add, ‘for all matters of honor’], a levite an Israelite, an Israelite a bastard, a bastard a natin, a natin a proselyte, and a proselyte a freedman. When does this apply? When all are equal. But if the bastard was a disciple of the sages and the high priest an ignoramus, a bastard disciple takes precedence over an ignorant high priest”). The Tosefta (t. Hor. 2.8–11) greatly extends the Mishnah’s list of general precedence but, significantly, it is fleshed out with ranks that had existed only before the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70, if not earlier (e.g., prophet, anointed priest, captain of the Temple, Temple treasurer, etc.). If these figures are removed from the Tosefta’s list, it is identical to the Mishnah’s. There may be a nostalgic implication here that truly complex and substantial rules of precedence applied only when the Temple still stood and no longer matter in our disenchanted age. 34. Further complications are generated by the existence of two partial parallels in the Babylonian Talmud, in b. Qidd. 32b–33b and b. Sanh. 7b (the latter parallels only the sugya on “those appointed for money”), especially since the former preserves some ostensibly tannaitic material (in particular, the Bavli’s discussion takes off from a baraita that also appears, though without the final clause, in Sipra, parashat Qedoshim, chapter 7). In general, it seems clear, however, that the Babylonian versions of the Palestinian traditions are secondary, normally constituting expansions and clarifications in ways that are in one or two cases quite helpful but otherwise should be treated with utmost caution since they manifestly reflect the very different concerns of their Babylonian tradents. A thorough study of the parallels would be an interesting exercise but will not be undertaken here. One immediately obvious difference, however, should be noted:

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All this having been said, however, I argue for the following as a broadly valid approach to the sugya. In the background of the discussion is the biblical verse, “Before the hoary head shalt thou rise, and thou shalt honor the face of the elder” (Lev 19:32). A rigorous interpretation of this verse, which underlies the tannaitic teachings scattered through the sugya about the obligation to rise for holders of certain ranks (zaqen–hakam–memuneh, patriarch, Father of the Court, and high priest), and apparently some of the amoraic anecdotes as well, is constantly subverted by the other components of the sugya, which are strongly critical of the notion that the biblical obligation to rise for people of a certain rank implies that rank confers honor. 35 Rising not only fulfills a legal obligation but also constitutes a true act of deference that technical zeqenim do not always merit, while non-zeqenim sometimes do. Thus, story after story concerns zeqenim who rise for mere talmidei hakamim (non-memunim) and for commoners. 36 The obligation to rise for the high priest is criticized on the grounds that its biblical foundation is insufficient—in the best case, the Israelites rose for Moses because of his personal righteousness, not because of his rank or office. Anyway, according to this passage, rising does not always indicate deference; or rather, sometimes acts of deference are meant ironically. The Israelites may have risen for Moses to get a better look at his corruption and exploitativeness (and perhaps we are meant to understand that one might rise for the patriarch or high priest for the same reason). And finally, along similar lines, minui itself is no guarantee of honorability: some memunim are completely undeserving—their judicial gowns, and high titles and expectations of deference are all meaningless. These components of the sugya seem, then, to constitute a penetrating if unsystematic criticism of the view of some of the teachings quoted in the sugya that rank deserves deference, and it argues as a kind of corollary that acts of deference themselves are not always what they seem to be: sometimes they signal not honor but disgrace. Y. Bik. 3.3 embraces deference ambivalently, then, with one strand arguing formalistically that the Torah requires Jews to honor zeqenim, but the other strand responding that, inasmuch as the act of rising is thought to have content and meaning, it should be performed only the Bavli conveys or implies absolutely no doubt that technical zeqenim—that is, recipients of semikah (the Babylonian equivalent of minui)—deserve deference, and not simply the formalistic fulfillment of the pentateuchal obligation. Even the Sanhedrin passage has transformed the Yerushalmi’s class of inappropriate judicial appointments into individuals who turn out to be incompetent or corrupt but whose existence by no means calls into question the legitimacy of the institution of judicial appointment. 35.  Compare the rule in y. Ber. 2.1, 4b, that one is obligated “to greet one’s master or someone greater than one in Torah”—a rule that precisely ties deference not to rank but to relationship. 36.  The Yerushalmi, unlike its Bavli parallel, does not treat the two clauses of the verse (“before the hoary head . . . and thou shalt honor”) as separate commandments. Thus the Bavli can restrict the second clause to zeqenim stricto sensu and can interpret the first clause as an obligation to show some tokens of respect to all elderly people, even Gentiles (“Arameans”); in the Yerushalmi, by contrast, Rabbi Meir’s practice of rising for elderly ammei haʾaretz is presented as supererogatory observance of the obligation to show honor to the Torah—see below.

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for the Torah, whatever the formal rank, position, or age of the human vessel that contains it. The law may require one to rise when confronting a person of a certain rank, but this act does not constitute deference and conveys no honor. I argue that this rabbinic debate has a real though oblique connection to what has recently been characterized as the standard Roman view (though I suspect that things were quite different in the late Empire, with its professional bureaucracy, formally hierarchical senatorial classes, and numinously remote emperor, than in the high empire) that honor resides not in rank but in the qualities of the individual— his birth, liberality, and so on. 37 The rabbis struggled with the same issue and reached no definite conclusion. But those who agreed with the view of Roman aristocrats in formal terms, nevertheless disagreed in substance. For these rabbis, the only honor that mattered was the honor of the Torah, and this spilled over to the humans who possessed it or embodied it; as Rabbi Yannai said of his son-in-law, who never attained the rank of zaqen, it is forbidden to remain seated in the presence of Mount Sinai. Why Rise? Indeed, what I described above as the subversive view is set out with tolerable clarity at the very beginning of the sugya. It begins with a brief discussion of the limitations on the obligation to stand before a zaqen, a term almost certainly used here in the technical sense: not an old man but a memuneh (a hakam/sage who has received a judicial appointment). It quotes a Tosefta that declares that the pentateuchal obligation to rise for a zaqen does not apply if the one rising will incur thereby a monetary loss and extrapolates from this to the case of the Mishnah’s Jerusalemite artisans, who apparently were expected to interrupt their work to show honor to the pilgrims bearing firstfruits; 38 it resolves this tension by observing that the arrival of pilgrims is a special, rare occurrence, and so the artisans of Jerusalem are not released from their obligation to greet them.

37.  See Lendon, Empire of Honor, 16–17. In the Berakot passage discussed above, the rabbis seem to assume that among Romans deference is owed to rank—probably the view of many provincials of relatively modest social background, for whom it was reasonable to fear and wise to placate anyone with an official title. This does not tell us anything about what the elites themselves thought about the issue. 38.  M. Bik. 3:3: Those who live near [the Jerusalem Temple] bring [as their] firstfruits grapes [or, in other versions, bring as their firstfruits figs and grapes], and those who live far away bring dried figs and raisins. And the ox walks before them, its horns gilt and an olive wreath on its head, and the flute plays before them until they arrive near Jerusalem; when they did so they sent ahead to Jerusalem and decorated their firstfruits with wreaths. And ‘the satraps, officers’ [pahot u-seganim, a biblical cliché: cf. Jer 51:23; Ezek 23:6, 12, 23] and treasurers come out to greet them—according to the honor of those entering did they come out; all the craftsmen of Jerusalem would stand before them and greet them [presumably, when they arrived in the city] and say, “Our brothers from X, welcome!”

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But the Talmud then veers away from pentateuchal law in a way that suggests that more is at stake in the Mishnah’s displays of deference than observance of biblical prescription. In fact, no biblical text declares that pilgrims bearing firstfruits to Jerusalem must be greeted by the citizen body, as the Mishnah requires. Clearly the Mishnah has something else in mind. R. Yosi bar Rabbi Bun in the name of R. Huna bar Hiyya: “Come and see how great is the power of performers of mitzvot, in that one does not stand for elders [if this will cause monetary loss], but one does stand for the performers of mitzvot.” R. Yosi bar Rabbi Bun said, “[Furthermore], those who rise for the dead are rising not for the dead but for those who perform for them deeds of lovingkindness [i.e., those participating in the funeral procession].” 39

In this view, the practice of greeting the pilgrims and their ilk is unconnected with the biblical commandment of rising “before the hoary head”; it is, rather, a ritual of deference directed at the performers of mitzvot in a way that suggests, as the Mishnah itself seems to do by describing the reception at Jerusalem of villagers bearing their firstfruits as an adventus ceremony, 40 that the pilgrims, however modest, are comparable to emperors and so, receive similar treatment. Implicit here I suggest is the notion that it is the pious who are truly honorable—an idea very hard indeed to find in the Hebrew Bible but given repeated emphasis in the Wisdom of Ben Sira. Standing for Rabbis   Rabbi Hizqiyah in the name of Rabbi Hanina son of Rabbi Abbahu in the name of Rabbi Avduma [some texts add: of Haifa]: [One stands] for an elder [when he is at a distance of] four cubits; when [the elder] passes, he sits. The high priest: [one stands] from the time he comes into view until the time he is no longer visible. Why? [i.e., what is the pentateuchal source for this rule?] “And it came to pass when Moses went out to the Tent [of Meeting] all the nation stood” [Exod 33:8, slightly misquoted in all mss and early printed editions].   Two amoraim interpreted this verse, one [that the nation stood in] praise [of Moses], the other [that they stood in order to] shame [him]. For the first, [the nation was saying,] “Behold the righteous man and acquire merit.” For the second, [the nation was saying,] “Look at his thighs and his belly, see how he grows fat exploiting the Jews, how everything he owns he took from the Jews! [yehudaʾei].”

39.  The Bavli parallel is subtly but significantly different (b. Qidd. 33a): “Rabbi Yosi bar Abin said, ‘Come and see how beloved a commandment is at its proper time, for they stand before them [the pilgrims bearing firstfruits] but not before talmidei hakamim.’” This appears to merge the view attributed to R. Yosi Bar Rabbi Bun (= Abin) in the Yerushalmi with the view cited immediately preceding it—opinions presented in the Yerushalmi as being in conflict. 40. The closest parallel to the Mishnah in tone and content is the contemporaneous Menander Rhetor, peri epideiktikon 281 (advising the orator what to say on the occasion of an adventus); on the adventus, see S. MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 17–89.

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This section 41 begins with a teaching that strongly resembles the text from t. Sanhedrin that the Talmud quotes a few lines down; this text, like the Sanhedrin text, has no explicit connection to any biblical prescription; both seem interested in presenting schematic hierarchies of deference in ways that almost seem drawn from the classical sociological literature on social hierarchies and rituals of avoidance. Rabbi Hizqiyah et al.’s contribution seems to be to provide the scriptural foundation for the requirement to stand for the high priest in a way that would subordinate tannaitic teachings about deference to Torah-derived legal formalism. The biblical verses describe how Moses, having built the Tent of Meeting on the outskirts of the Israelite camp, would from time to time go out to consult God there. When he left the camp, all the Israelites would stand at the entrances to their tents and watch him until he entered the Tent of Meeting. The rabbis identified the Tent of Meeting with the Tabernacle and thought that Moses, who frequented the former, performed a quasi-priestly role: hence, the force of the biblical prooftext. 42 I believe that the second paragraph is meant as a refutation of the first, or at least partly so. Certainly the second amoraic interpretation manifestly deprives the law about the high priest of its scriptural foundation. But arguably, the friendly first interpretation does as well, by attaching “the nation’s” behavior strictly to the personal qualities of Moses, the tzadiq. In this view, deference is due, not to office alone, but to a person.   The ark faces the nation, and the priests [at the time of the priestly blessing] face the nation, but Israel [stands and?] and faces the Holy Place. Rabbi Lʾazar said, “The Torah does not stand before its son.” Samuel said, “One does not stand before a haver [lit., an associate, which in this context probably means, following Pnei Moshe, talmidei hakamim who have not received minui].”   Rabbi Hila and Rabbi Jacob bar Idi were seated. Samuel bar Ba 43 [whose lack of the title “Rabbi” indicates that he had not received judicial appointment] passed by, and they rose for him. Samuel said to them, “You have made two mistakes: first, I am not an elder; second, ‘The Torah does not stand before its son.’”

The first sentence describes the arrangement of priests and laypeople during the priestly blessing, in which priests and people stand facing each other while the To41.  I omit the brief sugya that intervenes between the two paragraphs quoted here, since I have failed to make complete sense of it; its gist, however, seems to be more or less that zeqenim should not abuse their right to be deferred to, either inside the lecture hall or outside it (following the interpretation of Rabbi Hayim Kanievski, Masekhet Bikkurim min Talmud Yerushalmi ʿim biʾur mesudar mi-pi ha-shemuʿah mi-shiʿurei Moreinu Rabbi Hayim Kanievski Shlitʾa [Benei Berak: n.p., 1990], 43, following, perhaps legitimately in this case, the implications of the Bavli parallel, b. Qidd. 33b, top of the page). 42.  In the Bavli parallel, b. Qidd. 33b, by contrast, the verses are used as a prooftext for a teaching derived from a source very similar to t. Sanhedrin, quoted in the Yerushalmi a few lines down, about the obligation to stand for the nasi for the entire time he is visible, until he is seated in his place. 43. In b. Qidd. 33b, the protagonists are named Rabbi Ilaʾi, Rabbi Jacob bar Zabdi, and Rabbi [sic] Shimon bar Abba.

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rah scroll sits in its ark. This may be intended simply as a literal account of how the priestly blessing is performed, or it may be meant somehow metaphorically—for example, to convey the idea that the Torah alone deserves deference; or that the Torah, the priesthood, and lay Israelites are bound in some relationship of mutual dependency (Israel depends on the Torah and the priests, but the Torah and the priests depend on Israel). The next two statements may be meant either as contradictory or as complementary. In the first case, Rabbi Lʿazar means that only the Torah (and its human possessor) must be deferred to (and rank is irrelevant); while the second one means (following the explanation of Pnei Moshe) that one is required to rise only for people who are technical zeqenim—recipients of judicial appointments—but not for scholars who have not yet been appointed. In other words, one rises for rank, not personal achievement. Of course, Samuel’s view may assume that Torah truly belongs to the memuneh and not yet to his student; and if a similar assumption underlies Rabbi Lʿazar’s view, it too can be reconciled with a hierarchical approach. The anecdote cited to illustrate these rules both clarifies and complicates our interpretation: two memunim rise for a non-memuneh, who rebukes them by citing the Gemara’s two rules. Apparently they are understood as having separate but complementary force: Samuel bar Ba seems to be saying that not only is he not a zaqen but he is also inferior in Torah—a view paradoxically refuted by his citation of laws apparently unknown to the two rabbis. 44 The Mitzvah of Rising for a Zaqen   Rabbi Zeʿeri said, “Rabbi Aha used to interrupt [his studies] and rise [for an elder], 45 because he was scrupulous about the following tannaitic teaching: ‘Scribes writing Torah scrolls, phylacteries and mezuzot interrupt for the recitation of the Shemaʿ but not for the tefillah.’” Rabbi Hananiah ben ʿAqaviah said, “Just as they interrupt for the reading of the Shemaʿ, so they interrupt for the tefillah, for the donning of phylacteries, and for all the commandments of the Torah [including ‘For the hoary head’, etc.].”   When Hizqiyah Beribbi had worn himself out studying Torah, he would go and sit in front of the study house, in order to see elders [sabin, clearly here in the sense of technical zeqenim] and rise before them.

These two anecdotes clearly belong together in that both present rabbis engaged in supererogatory (and in the second case, conceivably, slightly absurd) observance of 44.  H. W. Guggenheimer, following Rashi on the Bavli parallel (b. Qidd. 33b), explains the episode differently: the two seated rabbis were studying when Samuel bar Ba approached, and the latter’s quotation of the law of Rabbi Lʿazar means that it was unnecessary to interrupt study of the Torah to greet a scholar (a son of the Torah). This interpretation is difficult, first for the obvious reason that the Gemara does not say that the rabbis were studying, and second, if Guggenheimer is correct, Samuel bar Ba’s response is excessive. 45.  Even though this was not strictly required, or may even be forbidden, this is how the rule that “the Torah does not stand before its son” is meant to be understood, following the commentators on the b. Qiddušin parallel.

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the formal biblical commandment to rise for a zaqen, unambiguously understood in the second case as a memuneh. The first anecdote relies on an analogy, here untheorized, of the hakam studying Torah and the scribe copying holy books. The analogy is manifestly imperfect, which is why Rabbi Aha’s practice is characterized as supererogatory. The Mitzvah of Rising for the Torah Judah bar Hiyya was accustomed to going and paying his respects [sheʾil bi-shelameh] to his father-in-law, Rabbi Yannai, every Friday. He [Rabbi Yannai] would sit in a high place [atar teli, following Sokoloff; contrast Pnei Moshe] in order to see him coming and rise before him. 46 His students said, “[Even] for elders [which Judah is not] one is required to stand only when they are within four cubits.” [Rabbi Yannai] responded, “It is forbidden to remain seated before Mount Sinai.” One time [Judah] was late in arriving and [Rabbi Yannai] said, “It is impossible that Judah has changed his practice, nor is it possible that infirmities have attacked that righteous body; the only possible conclusion is that Judah is no more.”

This story concerns (to subordinate it crudely to my theme here) the way per­sonal qualities trump rank: Judah is Mount Sinai—meaning either that he is a great scholar or that he is filled with mitzvot—and a tzadiq (‘righteous man’), not least because of his deference to his father-in-law in the form of weekly visits so regular that only death could interrupt them. We may indeed be supposed to imagine here an exchange: deference for deference, and not far in the background, affection for affection. But this would not in my view change the larger point of the story, which is at the very least that there are things more important/honorable than rank and age. Rabbi Meir would see even an old ʿam haʾaretz [non-rabbi; common Jew, unlearned or not scrupulous in his observance of some elements of Jewish law] and rise before him; he would say, “It is no accident that this man has lived so long [he must have engaged in some righteous acts].”

This anecdote provides the clearest indication that the normal rabbinic understanding of the biblical law restricts it to zeqenim in the technical sense, to the extent that a rabbi’s literal observance of the law is thought to require justification. And the justification offered is not exegetical; that is, it does not challenge the rabbinic consensus about the legal sense of the biblical verse. Rather, it ignores the legal formalities and resorts directly to the notion that the Torah, or observers of mitzvot, require deference. 47 46.  In my opinion, the story only makes sense if the riser is Rabbi Yannai; this is also the view of Pnei Moshe and of Z. W. Rabinovitz, Shaʿarei Torath Eretz Israel (Jerusalem: Weiss, 1940), 144. The latter cites with disapproval the view of two commentators that Judah is the riser, and this is how Neusner translates the passage. 47.  In the partial parallel in b. Qidd. 33b the point is different. There, Rabbi Yohanan’s (!) practice of rising even for aged “Arameans” (“He said, ‘How many vicissitudes [harpatqei; Soko­ loff: “events”] have these people experienced?’”) is used to illustrate the (pseudo-?)tannaitic view

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More on the Mitzvah of Rising for an Elder   Rabbi Hanina would strike one who did not rise before him and would say, “Are you trying to abrogate a commandment of the Torah? ”   Rabbi Simon said, “The Holy One, Blessed be He, said, ‘Before the hoary head shalt thou rise, and thou shalt honor the face of the elder, and thou shalt fear your God, I am the Lord’—I was the first to observe the commandment of rising before the elder” [Gen 18:2].

The sugya returns to considering the obligation to rise for a zaqen: Rabbi Hanina appears to be someone who was exceedingly sensitive about his honor, but, the little anecdote concludes (ironically? seriously?), he was only being strict about the observance of a mitzvah: the rules of deference are themselves Torah. 48 Regarding the second statement: though God is obviously under no obligation to observe commandments, Rabbi Simon’s comment conforms to a common homiletical trope. The reference may be to one rabbinic understanding of Gen 18:2 (cf. Gen. Rab. parashah 48:7—Theodor-Albeck vol. 2, p. 482), where the three divine messengers are said to ‘stand over’ Abraham (nitzavim ʿalav—probably meaning ‘they approached’; the rabbinic interpretation reverses the sense of the verse, which describes Abraham’s deference to the men, not vice versa). More on the Mitzvah of Rising for the Torah  [T. Sanh. 7.8:] When the patriarch enters, the whole nation [i.e., assembled body] rises before him, and none has the right to sit until he says to them, “Be seated.” When the Father of the Court [the patriarch’s deputy] enters, they form rows for him, and he enters whichever one he pleases [and they remain standing while the others may sit]. When a sage enters, each one he passes rises in turn and then sits, until the sage reaches his seat.   Rabbi Meir was accustomed to going to the study house, and everyone there would see him and rise for him as a group. When they learned the baraita quoted above, they wished to alter their practice in accordance with it [and rise individually as he passed]. Rabbi Meir grew angry and left, saying, “I have learned that one raises in sanctity, and does not lower!” [and so the students were obligated by Jewish law to retain their more respectful practice even though it was not strictly speaking required by the law].

The Tosefta here prescribes a well-defined hierarchy of deference based on rank, which the anecdote reported immediately following once again subverts when the non-patriarchal but very great Rabbi Meir is given the wrong type of deference; as in the story of Rabbi Hanina above, it is impossible to tell how seriously we are meant that the first clause of Lev 19:32 applies to all old people, and only the second clause applies to technical zeqenim. The Bavli then explains why this display of deference to non-Jews/nonscholars dishonors the rabbi who performs it, in order to justify Rav Nahman’s practice of asking his eunuch attendants (!!) to fulfill this chore on his behalf. 48.  A formulation I owe to Beth Berkowitz.

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to interpret Rabbi Meir’s response, since, as in the earlier case, it seems so blatantly self-interested behind the legalistic sanctimony. They wished to appoint Rabbi Zeʿeri to a judgeship but he declined. Then he learned the following baraita: “For a sage [that is, a recipient of minui], a bridegroom, and a patriarch, their rank atones for their sins”—and he accepted the appointment. Why a sage? Because it is written, “Thou shalt rise before the hoary head and honor the elder,” and then “If a stranger [ger—according to conventional rabbinic intepretation, a ‘convert’] dwells among you, thou shalt not oppress him.” Just as a convert is forgiven for all his sins when he converts, so also a sage is forgiven for all his sins when he is appointed.

This story, like the material below, appears in a way to be part of the Talmud’s critique of minui—a prominent scholar (one of the most frequently quoted in the Yerushalmi) refuses minui until he learns that, like marriage and appointment to the patriarchate, it automatically confers the benefit of atonement for sins.   Rabbi Mana spoke slightingly of those who were appointed for money. Rabbi Imi applied to them the verse, “You shall not make for yourselves gods of silver and gold.” Rabbi Josiah said, “And his judicial gown is like an ass’s saddle blanket.” Rabbi Shian said, “One does not rise before one of those appointed for money, nor does one call him ‘Rabbi,’ and his judicial gown is like as ass’s saddle blanket.” Rabbi Zeʿeri and one of the rabbis [sic] were sitting and one of those appointed for money passed by. The rabbi said to Rabbi Zeʿeri, “Let us pretend to be studying and not rise before him!” 49   Jacob of Kefar Nevoraya recited the following paraphrastic homily [tirgem—applying Hab 2:19–20 to judicial appointees]: “Woe to the one who says to wood, ‘Awake’; ‘Arise’, to the silent stone; should this one teach? ” 50 Does he know what to teach? “Lo, this one is caught up [or dressed up—referring to an idol] in gold and silver [kesef].” Has he not been appointed for money [kaspayya]? “And he has no breath [ruah—‘breath, spirit, soul’] in him”: he knows nothing; “Woe to the one who says, ‘I wish to be appointed.’” And the Lord is in the chamber of His sanctuary”—this refers to Rabbi Yitzhak bar Lʿazar in the Synagogue of Madartha in Caesarea.

Alon was clearly right to regard this as a historical source of fundamental importance, an issue I have written about elsewhere and will not discuss further here. For our purposes, its importance is to continue the critique of minui and of the signs of rank and expectations of deference that were understood to accompany it. “Those appointed for money [and not for knowledge of the Torah—that is, because they were wealthy and/or paid off the patriarch for the appointment]” were nevertheless appointed and so wore a gown, were addressed as “rabbi,” and were deferred to but were widely disrespected by “our” rabbis (who included both memunim and talmidei hakamim). In the last episode but one, Rabbi Zeʿeri (just encountered as a reluctant 49.  Contrast the bizarrely labored translation of Guggenheimer. 50.  The translation of this last phrase (hu yoreh)—a crux interpretum and most likely corrupt—reflects the rabbinic understanding of the verse.

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memuneh) plots with a fellow rabbi to deny the mitmeni biksaf the deference obviously due him, even from other memunim. Ironically, the mitmeni biksaf is apparently sufficiently knowledgeable and respectful of rabbinic Halakah (which allows individuals who are studying to forego rising) not to take offense (then again, in the rabbinic imagination, even a Sepphorite archon knew this much). It is of some interest that the rabbis feel they need to conceal their disrespect. Jacob’s homily continues the critique, though in fact there is no way of knowing whether in its original context it was meant as a critique of all memunim, not just a limited group. 51 The point of the final clause seems to be that, if other memunim are analogous to idols, Rabbi Yitzhak bar Lʿazar is akin to God—a reference that resists explication.

Honor among Rabbis: Conclusion Not all rabbinic discussions of deference/honor-as-item-of-exchange are so fraught. A brief but difficult sugya in y. Taʿan. 4.2, 68a, for example, seems to report without criticism the rabbis’ acceptance of and participation in the highly developed system of precedence in the court or entourage of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch, as does a brief passage concerning a much later patriarch, y. Šab. 12.3, 13c, which may furthermore constitute a claim for a rabbinic role in rank-ordering access to the person of the patriarch—a concern with a markedly late imperial feel to it. 52 Conversely, other stories praise rabbis who modestly declined to receive the honor or acknowledgment they merited. 53 But these stories probably do not constitute a serious critique of the value of honor or deference. Like other stories of supererogatory piety, they express a set of ideals that are extreme even within the rabbinic system; in their transgression of the standard rabbinic behavioral norms—which valorize the exchange of honor and deference, the importance of precedence and hierarchy—they serve to highlight those norms and so, paradoxically, to strengthen them. Indeed, an interesting set of stories purports to praise the modesty of Rabbi Judah the Prince but actually describes his sophisticated and paradoxical manipulation of rituals of deference to 51.  On the problematic teachings of Jacob and the accusations of minut (probably Christianity) made against him in one text, see O. Irshai, “Yaʿakov of Kefar Niburaia: A Sage Turned Apostate,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 2 (1982–83): 153–68 [Hebrew]. But here there appears to be nothing noteworthy about the derash attributed to Jacob or the way it is presented. 52.  “Each day Rabbi Hoshaya and his associates [ilen de-Rabbi Hoshaya, which I am taking as a calque of the Greek expression hoi peri tou deina] and Bar Pazzi and his associates would greet [shaʾalin bi-shelameh de-] the patriarch, and Rabbi Hoshaya et al. would enter before Bar Pazzi et al. The latter then married into the patriarchal family and requested to enter first. Rabbi Imi was asked, and he responded to them, ‘And thou shalt erect the Tabernacle according to its law.’ Does wood have laws? Rather, the beam which is supposed to be put in the north shall be put in the north, the one supposed to be put in the south will be put in the south [so the order of access to the patriarch may not be changed].” 53.  Y. Soṭah 1.4, 16d; y. Soṭah 9.12, 24b.

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enhance his own honor. 54 Stories of this sort thus bear a family resemblance to y. Bik. 3.3 while being less subversive. In sum, the rabbis acknowledged the importance of honor in their worlds—the narrowly rabbinic, the broadly Jewish, and the generally Roman—and for the most part accepted it as a positive value. They regarded it as a desirable feature in all human interchange and especially valued, encouraged, and strove to legislate honor or a sense of modesty or shame in women. They thought of themselves, their God, and their Torah as being in competition with the Roman state for honor (in this way demonstrating their awareness of the state’s importance to the Romans) and knew that, whatever happened in real life, they were the truly honorable, not Rome. What the rabbis were less certain about was the relationship between formally appointed sages as an institutionalized group and the general (Jewish) public, including the class of talmidei hakamim (‘disciples of the sages’). On the one hand, they understood Lev 19:32 as prescribing the duty to rise for a zaqen, an appointed sage. On the other hand, there was a tendency to regard this as a purely formal obligation without emotional or social content—it was not a show of honor or respect, even though that is what the act of rising normally conveys. You can fulfill the commandment even in the presence of a totally merit-free zaqen. The only thing, in this view, that truly merits the deference or honor implicit in the act of rising is the Torah: humans who possess it, whether in the form of learning or in the form of mitzvot, are the ones who truly merit honor, regardless of their formal rank. In historical terms, this ambivalence is almost self-explanatory. The rabbis of the Talmud were trying to make sense of their own status, which was, in the third and fourth centuries, in the process of institutionalization. That is, the rabbis were changing from an unauthorized, loosely knit group of arbitrators and legal consultants (whose claim to distinction was that they used the laws of the Torah, to which they were utterly committed) into an organized class of formally appointed minor religious and judicial officials operating in a regime that, in the course of the fourth century especially, was beginning to acquire some trappings of autonomy. Torah was the core ideological commitment of this group that was in the throes of institutionalization, too, but the rabbis grasped that institutions have their own social and political dynamics. Some of them clearly felt the need to introduce distinctions into the broad class of Jewish scholars, judges, and legal experts between those they regarded as genuine vessels of Torah and those they did not. (By contrast, Babylonian rabbis expressed no detectable ambivalence about the value of rabbinic ordination as a

54.  Y. Ketub. 12.3, 35a: Rabbi [Judah the Patriarch] was very modest; he would say, “I will do anything anyone tells me to do except for what the Elders of Batirah did for my ancestor [Hillel], in that they stepped down [some texts add: and appointed him (head of the court)]. If Rav Huna the Exilarch were to visit, I would seat him above me, since he is of the tribe of Judah and I am of the tribe of Benjamin, and he is [descended from King David] through the male line, and I through the female.”

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tracer for possession of Torah: they internalized their institutional values far more than the Palestinian rabbis did.) Roman aristocrats of a somewhat earlier period had wondered whether honor inheres in rank or in modes of behavior: do senators or knights ipso facto deserve honor, or do the liberal, public-spirited, and high-minded deserve honor, whatever their census valuation? I argue that the resemblance between this debate and its rabbinic counterpart is structural, not genetic. Early, high imperial Roman aristocrats were experiencing the same type of ambiguous and partial political institutionalization as the slightly later Palestinian rabbis, though on a much larger scale. What is of interest to us, however, is that, like the Romans, the rabbis framed their debate in terms of honor. Just as the rabbi in his own study house was structurally equivalent to the euergetes in his city, the rabbis as an institutionalizing bureaucracy were structurally equivalent to senators and knights in the process of transformation into a civil service—equivalencies that extended to the very terms in which internal group relations were understood and described. At the moment, then, that the rabbis were striving to extricate themselves from the Roman system to provide for the Jews a coherent and apparently radical alternative, they were also demonstrating their commitment to some of its core values. Even deep inside the developing rabbinic group, the groundwork for the restoration of the compromise between the Jews and the state—abrogated in the summer of 70 c.e. but essential for the long-term survival of the Jews as a distinct group—was being laid.

The Dura-Europos Synagogue Wall Paintings: A Question of Origin and Interpretation Rachel Hachlili University of Haifa

The third-century c.e. Dura-Europos wall paintings are considered some of the most important and unique in the ancient world. The synagogue assembly hall walls are covered with narrative compositions and ornamentation that from the very beginning were an integral part of the synagogue design concept and remained so throughout all three building stages. At each phase of the building, wall paintings were executed as part of the decoration of the synagogue. 1

Description of the Wall Paintings The painted walls of the assembly hall are divided horizontally into three registers (A [the topmost], B, and C) and two narrow zones (a painted imitation of molded architraves at the top and a dado at the bottom) above and below the registers. The registers run around all four walls and are divided into panels of irregular lengths framed by decorated bands. Each panel narrates a biblical episode (figs. 1, 2), and each panel’s name is derived from the register it is in and the wall on which it appears. The paintings as a whole were probably planned as one complete unit and were executed in a short time. 2 The overall impression of the Dura paintings was 1.  Carl H. Kraeling, The Synagogue (The Excavations at Dura-Europos, Final Report 8/1; 2nd ed.; New Haven, CT: Ktav, 1979). Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the GrecoRoman Period, vols. 9–11: Symbolism in the Dura Synagogue (New York: Pantheon, 1964). 2.  Kraeling (The Synagogue, 67) reads the registers as follows: Register B begins on the north wall and ends at the central group called the reredos on the west wall; Register C begins on the south wall and continues round the room to the central reredos; Register A probably ran in the same direction as Register C. By comparison, Eliezer Lipa Sukenik (The Synagogue of Dura-Europos and Its Paintings [Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1947] [Hebrew]) and Goodenough ( Jewish Symbols)

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Fig. 1.  Diagram of Dura-Europos synagogue paintings: later building, second stage (courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery archive).

of a nearly symmetrical organization with a central axis and flanking episodes. The direction of movement in the episodes is either toward or away from the focal area. Twenty-eight panels of the wall paintings survive, consisting of approximately 59 biblical-narrative episodes. Most panels (21) depict one or two scenes. A typical scene consists of an event in which one or several persons are engaged, surrounded by the objects, buildings, or landscapes required for the occasion and helping to explain and emphasize the biblical story. Kraeling assumes that the artists combined and abbreviated scenes from their large repertoire to fit the size of the chamber and to accommodate their employers’ requests; sometimes, in the interests of compression, the artist went so far as to depart from the biblical story. 3 The visual focal point of the Dura hall is at the center of the Jerusalem-oriented west wall, on and above the Torah niche, which is opposite the main doorway (fig. 2). 4 There is no real unity of composition in the narrative paintings, apart from the focus on the panels of the west wall above the Torah shrine. Each panel narrates choose to discuss the Dura scenes by walls—the west wall described from the lower register to the upper; the north, south, and east walls from the upper register to the lower. See also Joseph Gutmann, “Early Synagogue and Jewish Catacomb Art and Its Relation to Christian Art,” ANRW II:21.1 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1984), 1313–42. 3. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 387–89. 4. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, vol. 11, pl. 1.

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Fig. 2.  Dura-Europos synagogue west wall paintings (courtesy of Yale University Art

Gallery archive).

a story that bears no thematic relation to the adjacent panels, except for the Elijah cycle (WC1, SC2, SC3, SC4) and panels WB4 and NB1. Apparently, the formalism of the paintings and their repetitiveness made them acceptable to the Dura Jewish community. The iconographic repertoire of figures and scenes at Dura is a rich and fascinating collection of depictions. One of the most striking aspects of the iconographic repertoire is a repetition of conventions and formulas. Many scenes are presented in the same manner, even if the narrative content is different. 5 For example, the audience scenes and the riders appear exactly the same (figs. 3, 4). Each episode is rendered in a static, hieratic manner. Figures, objects, and accessories appear to be arranged randomly at different levels and do not coalesce into a unified composition. 6 Figures are portrayed in a hierarchical and isocephalic manner, their costumes identifying their rank and providing clues to their stories. Furniture, accessories, and objects seem to be contemporary items rendered by the artists from everyday life. Synagogue iconography reflects local artistic conventions and is similar to the repertoire of paintings and sculpture in other buildings, temples, and houses found at Dura and Palmyra. 7 Images are portrayed according to the perception of local people 5.  Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 35–173, figs. III-32–37. 6. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 125; Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, vol. 11, fig. 336. 7.  Susan B. Downey, The Stone and Plaster Sculpture: Excavation at Dura-Europos (Los Angeles: University of California, Institute of Archaeology, 1977), 57–60; Malcolm A. R. Colledge,

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Fig. 3.  Audience scenes: WC2, WC4, Reredos, lower and upper panel (drawing by Orit Zuf). of the mid-third century. Their understanding did not always coincide with the way an object was perceived in another time or place, or in fact, the way an object really is. Many images were probably copied from a source without the artist’s having seen the original. Architecture, nature, and landscape backgrounds are painted in one dimension, without perspective or visual reality, being provided only for identification. The Dura artists must have consulted an iconographic source for the recurring scenes and figures, but it is difficult to identify the origins. Dura-Europos wall paintings are the visual expression of a community’s religious philosophy. The Art of Palmyra (London: Thames & Hudson, 1976); idem, Parthian Art (London: Elek, 1977). Jan Willem Han Drijvers, The Religion of Palmyra (Leiden: Brill, 1976).

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Fig. 4.  Dura-Europos synagogue panel WC2: the Purim miracle (courtesy of Yale

University Art Gallery archive).

Interpretation of the paintings was usually constructed around the registers: Central Reredos. The reredos painted already in the early building underwent several redecorations. In the final stage, two central panels (the reredos) were flanked by four narrow panels (the Wing Panels), all being slightly off-center on the west wall (fig. 2). This stage is contemporary with the narrative scenes on the other walls. The reredos consists of three different themes. 8 On the upper panel, an enthroned seated figure, apparently a king, is depicted flanked by two attendants in Greek dress and thirteen figures in Iranian dress; the figure’s pose is similar to the posture of the Pharaoh and Ahasuerus. On the upper face of the lower panel, a lyre-player (an interpretation determined by most scholars to be David-Orpheus) is portrayed flanked by an eagle at his right shoulder (?), a lion, a monkey (?), and birds. On the lower face of the lower panel, two scenes of Jacob’s blessing are illustrated. Due to the importance of these paintings, any interpretation of the synagogue wall paintings must consider these three scenes—symbolizing as they do episodes in the history and tradition of the Jewish people. Little has survived of Register A on the west and north walls, and it is difficult therefore to discuss its sequence, organization, or meaning. Kraeling’s general observations are that the action in the panels of the west wall moves toward the center. 9 Panel WA3 and Wing Panels I to IV portray scenes of Moses, WA2 depicts a Solomonic scene, and NA1 shows Jacob’s dream. Only 70% of Register B, the largest register, has survived on all walls; the panels do not appear to show a progression of scenes. 10 Scholars agree that Register B 8. Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 104–11, figs. III-8–10. 9. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 92–93. 10.  Ibid., 131–32.

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contains cultic themes such as the Tabernacle and the Jerusalem Temple (fig. 2). Wing Panel III portrays the covered ark; WB1, the Tabernacle objects, menorah, and altar; WB2 shows Aaron and the Tabernacle; WB3, Solomon’s Temple; WB4, the Temple of Dagon (fig. 2); NB1, the capture of the Ark; and SB1 depicts an Ark or Temple scene (?). Panel NB2 is badly destroyed but may portray Hannah and Samuel at Shiloh. Kraeling suggests that three ideas lie behind the organization of Register B. 11 Du Mesnil du Buisson calls these scenes (including Wing Panels III and IV and WC3) a “liturgical cycle,” portraying in his opinion the relationship between Israel and God. 12 Grabar maintains that Register B implies the important role of the cult and Temple in the Messianic Age. 13 Sonne starts the cycle with panel WB2 and claims that the scenes express the “Crown of Priesthood.” 14 Wischnitzer suggests that the scenes move from the ends toward the center and portray the misfortunes of the Ark of the Covenant and the coming of a Messianic Age. 15 Gutmann maintains that the register’s theme of the history of the ark and the substitution of the biblical Ark for the prominent Torah ark was done intentionally. 16 Register C has survived on all walls and seems to be composed mainly of narrative cycles. The infancy of Moses (WC4) and the Purim story (WC2) appear predominantly in the center of the west wall, as does Samuel anointing David (WC3). The Ezekiel cycle (NC1) and the Elijah cycle (SC1–4 and WC1) are depicted on the north and south sidewalls. The most important issue regarding the meaning of the Dura-Europos synagogue wall paintings is whether the paintings’ program was unified into one theme. 17 Three positions are taken by scholars, mostly based on their interpretations of the west wall paintings: 18 11.  Ibid., 133: The first [idea] is that the choice of at least the two scenes flanking the Central Group and calling attention to the Tabernacle, the Priesthood, and the Temple is significant and reflects the intention of the artist to illustrate the formal aspects of Israel’s covenant relation to God. The second is that the principle governing the choice of additional scenes may well have been—in part, at least—the result of happy combinations suggested by a wealth of available material, the Dedication of the Temple in SB1 being a particularly apt selection on historical grounds and in terms of the Festival Calendar. The third is that historical and Biblical context is not without significance for the choice and arrangement of the supplementary material.

12.  R. du Mesnil du Buisson, Les peintures de la Synagogue de Doura-Europos 245–256 après J.-C. (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1939), 16. 13.  André Grabar, “Le thème religieux des fresques de la synagogue de Doura,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 124 (1941): 20–23, 28–32. 14.  Isaiah Sonne, “The Paintings of the Dura Synagogue,” HUCA 20 (1947): 290–92, 302. 15.  Rachel Wischnitzer, The Messianic Theme in the Paintings of the Dura Synagogue (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1943), 66–69. 16.  Joseph Gutmann, ed., The Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation 1932–1992 (South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 25; Atlanta: Scholar Press, 1992), xx–xxi. 17. Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 180–82. 18.  Joseph Gutmann, “Programmatic Painting in the Dura Synagogue,” in Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation 1932–1992 (ed. J. Gutmann; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 145, 149;

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1. Several ideas are portrayed in the paintings. Du Mesnil du Buisson suggests a cycle of various historical and liturgical subjects: Register A shows the Law, Register B shows the covenant between Israel and God, and Register C shows the prophecy. 19 Kraeling thinks that the paintings illustrate many religious ideas concerning Israel’s sacred history and depict incidents in the lives of prominent men, “divine guidance and protection of the righteous and the punishment and defeat of the wicked.” 20 2. One comprehensive theological theme is the purpose of all the paintings. Grabar asserts that the Dura program of the west wall is similar to Roman imperial art, portraying scenes commemorating the sovereignty of God. 21 Sonne maintains that the paintings illustrate three crowns (Pirqe ʾAbot 4:17): Register WA has several scenes of Moses as the Crown of the Torah; Register WB with the figure of Aaron as the Crown of Priesthood; and Register WC as the Crown of the Kingdom, showing kingdoms eventually to be replaced by the Messianic kingdom. 22 Wischnitzer contends that the messianic theme governs the cycle of paintings: the Messianic Temple above the aedicula with the three registers (A, B, C) representing salvation, ancestors, prophets, and heroes. 23 Goodenough explains the decorated synagogue to be a popular “mystical” Judaism based on the writings of Philo. 24 Smith and Avi-Yonah refute his ideas. 25 Goldstein assumes a messianic theme for the scenes on the central west area of the west wall. 26 3. No unifying idea is expressed in the paintings. Scholars such as Rostovtzeff, Leveen, and Sukenik (1947) see no general idea behind the paintings. 27 They suggest that the panels were connected to liturgical readings in the synagogue. Wharton maintains that “the program is a pastiche.” 28 Scholars do agree, however, that the Dura paintings follow a program and probably portray religious ideas or “sermons.” 29 Kraeling and other scholars differentiate idem, “Early Synagogue,” 1322–28; idem, “The Dura-Europos Synagogue Paintings: The State of Research,” in The Synagogue in Late Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine; New York: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1987), 62–63. 19.  Du Mesnil du Buisson, Les peintures. 20. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 213–14, 350–51. 21.  Grabar, “Le theme religieux . . . Doura,” 28–32. 22.  Sonne, “Paintings of the Dura Synagogue,” 290–93. 23. Wischnitzer, Messianic Theme, 67–69. 24. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 10:137–38, 206. 25.  Morton Smith, “Goodenough’s Jewish Symbols in Retrospect,” JBL 86 (1967): 53–68. Michael Avi-Yonah, “Goodenough’s Evaluation of the Dura Paintings: A Critic,” in The DuraEuropos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation 1932–1992 (ed. Joseph Gutmann; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 117–35. See also Jacob Neusner, “Judaism at Dura-Europos,” in ibid., 155–92. 26.  Jonathan A. Goldstein, “The Central Composition of the West Wall of the Synagogue of Dura-Europos,” Semites, Iranians, Greeks, and Romans (BJS 217; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 78ff. 27. Michael I. Rostovtzeff, Dura-Europos and Its Art (Oxford: Clarendon, 1938); Jacob Leveen, The Hebrew Bible in Art (London: Milford, 1944); Sukenik, The Synagogue of Dura-Europos. 28.  Annabel Jane Wharton, Refiguring the Post Classical City: Dura-Europos, Jerash, Jerusalem and Ravenna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 42. 29.  Neusner, “Judaism,” 191. Gutmann, “Early Synagogue,” 1325.

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between the earlier paintings that are depicted in an abstract and symbolic form and the “register compositions” that are “narrative and historical in intent.” 30 Kraeling maintains that two different traditions of ancient Jewish art are represented at Dura. The Sacrifice of Isaac’s symbolic character in the earlier phase of the Dura paintings is similar to other biblical scenes on mosaic pavements discovered in Israel. Goodenough sees a deep, symbolic meaning in the wall paintings. 31 Kraabel contends that the function of the Dura paintings was to present biblical stories visually for the new Jewish generations and that the Jews were aware of the competition from the other religions at Dura. 32 Gutmann claims that the Dura paintings represent and are organized around liturgical prayers and ceremonial ideas also expressed in the synagogue ritual performance and concentrated around the Torah shrine and the paintings of the Torah ark on the west wall. 33 He suggests that the Dura paintings are based, “not on biblical narratives, but on contemporary Palestinian targumim and Midrashic works” and that the function of the synagogue paintings was perhaps intended to gain converts.

Comparisons and Influence Scholars have found influences and comparisons for the Dura paintings in Near Eastern, Hellenistic, and Roman art. 34 The monumental pictorial annals of the ancient Near East, especially in northern Syria and Assyria portray scenes of kings and heroes in stories of historical events on wall reliefs and wall paintings and could be the forerunners of the style and composition of the Dura synagogue wall paintings. Similar episodes and conventions are common in pagan art at Dura and Palmyra. 35 The pictorial formulas used such as the artistic technique of frontality is prevalent in the Dura paintings as it is in Palmyrene and Parthian art of the period. Figures differ in scale and size to signify their relative importance. Furniture and cult objects are anachronistically painted in the style of the iconography of royal furniture and cult objects of the period. Kraeling assumes that the Dura synagogue paintings are copied from a source belonging to a long-established artistic tradition with strong Iranian elements in the iconography and style, a source close to the centers of Parthian and Sassanian art and influenced by similarly painted pagan temples in the area. 36 He 30. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 361–63. 31. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 10:165. 32.  Thomas A. Kraabel, “Social Systems of Six Diaspora Synagogues,” in Ancient Synagogues: The State of Research (ed. Joseph Gutmann; BJS 22; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 83. 33. Gutmann, “Early Synagogue,” 1325–26; idem, “Dura Europos Synagogue Paintings,” 65; idem, ed., Dura: A Re-evaluation, xix–xxii. 34. Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 190–93. 35.  Dalia Tawil, “The Enthroned King Ahasuerus at Dura in Light of the Iconography of Kingship in Iran,” BASOR 250 (1983): 57–62. 36. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 391–92.

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maintains that the immediate prototypes for the Dura synagogue and its paintings are larger decorated synagogues in upper Mesopotamia and eastern Syria, probably dating to the first century, although none has been found. Perkins maintains that the style of Durene paintings is Asiatic with mixed western elements. Specific elements and motifs are Durene in origin, and the combination of all these features is characteristic of the Durene style. 37 Aubert lists Hellenistic comparisons with details of the buildings, and dado elements in the Dura-Europos wall paintings with the mosaics of Antioch. 38 Avi-Yonah maintains that the style of the Dura paintings with the features of frontality, isocephaly, and hierarchic perspective is a third-century style representative of Alexandria and that the basic elements of the Dura paintings are Hellenistic, not Oriental in character, with visible Parthian influence. 39 He believes that Goodenough, although for the wrong reasons, was right in suggesting that the place of origin for Jewish figurative art was Alexandria, because it was also the center of Jewish Philonic mysticism, which may have inspired the paintings. The Hellenized Jews of Alexandria desired to make Judaism respectable and attractive in the eyes of the Gentiles by giving the religion a Greek form. Hill enumerates three systems for presenting narrative scenes in the Dura fresco, all of which (especially the third system) are inspired by Roman historical reliefs from the second to the early third centuries c.e. 40 Comparisons include the arrangement of the settings, the way space is rendered, and economy of detail in which only the elements needed for the story, such as buildings, rivers, trees, and accessories, are recorded. Similar styles are available for comparison in superimposed motifs and spatial representation. Moreover, Hill maintains that the temples and walls at Dura derive from a Western, Roman imperial art prototype, because they do not bear any relation either to Eastern traditions or to Jewish iconography. Brilliant contends that the Dura paintings are a local hybrid style—a Semitic-Iranian base with GrecoRoman features. However, he suggests a strong connection between the Dura synagogue wall paintings and Roman imperial art. 41 Moon thinks that the programmatic nature of the paintings is Greco-Roman, because aspects of the narrative devices and elements of the visual sources are traditionally Roman and form an addition of Roman provincial art. 42

37.  Ann Louise Perkins, The Art of Dura-Europos (Oxford: Clarendon, 1973). 38.  Marcel Aubert, “La peinture de la synagogue de Doura,” Gazette des beaux-arts 20 (1938): 23–24. 39.  Avi-Yonah, “Goodenough’s Evaluation,” 127–29. 40.  E. Hill, “Roman Elements in the Settings of the Synagogue Frescoes at Dura,” Marsyas 1 (1941): 1–3, 8, 11. 41.  Richard Brilliant, “Painting at Dura-Europos and Roman Art,” in Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation 1932–1992 (ed. Joseph Gutmann; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 29–30. 42.  W. G. Moon, “Nudity and Narrative: Observations on the Frescoes from the Dura Synagogue,” JAAR 60 (1992): 590–98, 603, 614.

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The Dura synagogue painted panels show some long-established diverse artistic traditions—a mixture of East and West with new elements added; Dura as well as Palmyra may have created a distinctive new style. Although the Dura paintings are reminiscent of Greco-Roman art, the iconography attests strong local influence, where, apart from the addition of specific Jewish symbols, many of the formulas, architectural schemes, postures, objects, and costumes are similar to local Durene art found in other structures.

Origin and Interpretations Any examination of the sources and origins of the Dura synagogue must consider both the architecture of the structure and the wall paintings. 43 The Dura synagogue structure passed through three stages from its beginnings as a typical residential house to a religious edifice, the most important structure of the Jewish community in Dura-Europos. In the first stage, the building was a dwelling. In the second stage, during the second century c.e., changes were made to the interior of the house by the construction of an assembly hall and the addition of the Torah shrine niche on the west wall, oriented toward Jerusalem, with the main entrance clearly positioned opposite the niche. In the final stage of the late synagogue, renovations and modifications changed the entrances and the assembly hall, added rooms, and decorated the assembly hall with wall paintings of narrative biblical scenes. The alterations to the structure also imply that there were social improvements in the status and wealth of the Dura Jewish community. The character of the synagogue was principally determined by the addition of the Torah shrine niche and by the ongoing modifications to the building throughout the existence of the synagogue. 44 The painted program and the narrative organization of the late Dura synagogue have similarities with a local tradition of composition and decoration. The continuation of a tradition of wall paintings and the use of panels for the composition seem to have originated in northern Syria and Assyria. 45 Two diverse traditions are employed in the two phases of the wall decoration; the traditions have different origins, and they perform different functions. 46 The tradition of the later synagogue, first stage, includes (1) the decoration of the focal point on and above the Torah shrine and (2) the ceiling tiles. Although presented in a narrative manner, the decoration is symbolic and abstract. Kraeling claims that this symbolic tradition appears throughout many periods and in many places and that its place of origin was Palestine, at the beginning of the Maccabean period at the latest. 43. Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 182–90. 44. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 33; Michael L.White, Building God’s House in the Roman World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 77, 93–97. 45.  André Parrot, Sumer: The Dawn of Art (London: Thames & Hudson, 1961), pls. 69, 74, figs. 346–48; idem, The Arts of Assyria (London: Thames & Hudson, 1961), figs. 109–20; 332–47. 46. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 361–62.

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The tradition of the later synagogue, second stage, includes compositions of biblical cycles in a narrative form. Kraeling argues that the tradition of compositions in registers is in fact narrative and historical, not symbolic or allegorical, and derives ultimately from illustrated manuscripts. Scenes appear in cycles, especially if they originated in a manuscript tradition. It is difficult to accept Kraeling’s notion of two traditions to explain the change in decoration from the first stage to the second stage of the later synagogue. The decoration of the later synagogue, first stage, is restricted to the Torah shrine area and could have been symbolic because of its position at this focal point. Furthermore, the few themes that appear in the early decoration—the tree, the sanctuary, the menorah, and the Sacrifice of Isaac—cannot be compared with the many narrative scenes of the later synagogue, second stage, also because of the quantitative difference. It seems more plausible that the decoration of wall paintings and the organization in registers and panels were influenced by the traditions of northern Syria and Assyria. Although there is no agreement among scholars regarding the correct sequence for the paintings and their interpretation, there is accord that the scenes do not follow a biblical sequence but illustrate various books, such as Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, 1 Samuel, 2 Samuel, 1 Kings, 2 Kings, Jeremiah? Ezekiel, Daniel? Nehemiah? and Esther. 47 Although scenes usually follow the biblical narrative, scholars suggest that many include nonbiblical aggadot as well as targumic and midrashic embellishments in the iconographic details. 48 One of the best examples of added details borrowed from the midrash is the scene of the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel, SC3. Two details are not found in the biblical story (1 Kings 18): the small figure of Hiel inside the altar and the serpent in front of him (fig. 5). 49 The details attest to the targumic and midrashic tradition reflected in many of the biblical scenes, a tradition that must have been part of the visual origins of the Dura wall paintings. The orbit of the aggadic tradition has a Palestinian-Babylonian rather than an Egyptian sphere of influence. 50 The artists at Dura painted the biblical scenes within an existing tradition, and the question has been raised about what the source was that they consulted for their paintings. The answer regarding the sources for the biblical paintings is: (1) illuminated manuscripts, (2) monumental works, and (3) cartoons, copybooks, or pattern books. Many scholars suggest that illuminated Jewish manuscripts served as models for the Dura artists. Jewish illustrated narrative cycles of the Septuagint scrolls and other manuscripts may have existed that were similar to classical Greek, Homeric, or 47.  Ibid., 349–54; Gutmann, “Programmatic Painting in the Dura Synagogue,” 140. 48.  Kraeling (The Synagogue, 57, 77, 107–8, 123–24, 140–41, 176–77, 352–53) cites about 40 targumic and midrashic stories; Gutmann, “Early Synagogue,” 1320–21; Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 184–85. 49. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, vol. 11, fig. 341. 50.  Kraeling (The Synagogue, 140–41) mentions that the midrashic materials were already known and used in the mid-third century c.e.

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Fig. 5.  The prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel, SC3: Elijah Cycle (courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery archive).

other illustrated cycles; these Jewish manuscripts were created in Alexandria. 51 The explanation for this hypothesis is that Hellenized Jews of Alexandria tried to make Judaism attractive to Gentiles by transforming the biblical stories into epic poems, illustrating them in a cycle based on similar Greek mythological scenes. Kraeling argues that illuminated manuscripts were the main source because of the close relationship between the depicted scenes and the literary narration. Furthermore, he thinks that the existence of a divine book was an important force in the pictorial, narrative programs of Jews and Christians, because it explains the character of the art and the symbolic and narrative purpose shared by both. 52 Goodenough suggests that only 51.  Aubert, “La peinture,” 7–8; Sukenik, Synagogue of Dura Paintings, 165–66; Kraeling, The Synagogue, 395–97; Kurt Weitzmann, “Narration in Early Christendom,” AJA 61 (1957): 83–91; idem, “The Illustration of the Septuagint,” and “The Question of the Influence of Jewish Pictorial Sources on Old Testament Illustrations,” both in No Graven Image: Studies in Art and the Hebrew Bible (ed. J. Gutmann; New York: Ktav, 1971), 201–31; 309–28. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, vol. 9; Avi-Yonah, “Goodenough’s Evaluation,” 128. 52.  Carl H. Kraeling, The Christian Building (The Excavations at Dura-Europos, Final Report 8/2; New Haven, CT: Dura-Europos Publications, 1967), 221.

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details such as the ark depictions are related to a manuscript tradition. 53 Weitzmann contends that the particular type of narrative method used in the Dura paintings has its source in cyclical book illumination, a method of illustrating books that began with the Greeks. He uses the example of the Ezekiel panels, which are part of a fuller cycle and depict a theme that was divided into a number of episodes. He maintains that monumental painters used manuscripts as models, giving as examples two early manuscripts that were used as direct models by fresco painters: the fifth-century Cotton Genesis in the British Library, and the seventh century Ashburnham Pentateuch in Paris. 54 Weitzmann thinks that, although no illustrated manuscripts are preserved, prototypes for the Dura paintings probably existed before the middle of the third century c.e.; an illustrated Septuagint used as a primary source could well have been available to both Jews and Christians. He concludes that, in the mid-third century, narrative art was fully developed, and the Dura frescoes prove the existence of Old Testament representations rooted in illustrated manuscripts. Moreover, Weitzmann asserts that the illustrated manuscripts used by the Dura fresco painters came from the library of Antioch, the nearest metropolitan city; he sees the impact of Antioch on Dura both iconographically and stylistically. The thesis that illuminated manuscripts were the source for the Dura paintings can be refuted for many reasons. There is no proof that illuminated manuscripts existed in the third century. It is important to note that the Dead Sea Scrolls, dated between the second century b.c.e. and the second century c.e., are not illustrated. All the examples Weitzmann gives of the relationship between known manuscripts and pictorial narrations are from much later periods. Gutmann remarks that no illustrated manuscript actually existed before the fifth century (Christian) or the ninth century (Jewish) and observes that, if the sources had been illustrated manuscripts, “it would have required a large library . . . since the Dura scenes range from Genesis to Maccabees.” 55 It would have been very complicated to use an actual manuscript as a source for wall paintings. Weitzmann himself doubts that “a whole set of richly illustrated manuscripts was available in the small provincial town” and suggests that a collection of illustrated codices such as this was available at a metropolitan center (Antioch), where intermediary drawings could have been made. 56 This hypothesis would have made the process even more complicated. If illustrated manuscripts were used, the result would be uniform iconography and style in the biblical scenes, in the Dura paintings as well as on mosaic pavements of synagogues in the land of Israel and the Diaspora. Most of the Dura paintings depict detailed narrative episodes that 53. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 10:12. 54.  Kurt Weitzmann and Herbert L. Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art (Dumbarton Oaks Studies 28; Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, 1990), 5–9, 143–47. 55.  Joseph Gutmann, “The Illustrated Midrash in the Dura Synagogue Paintings: A New Dimension for the Study of Judaism,” PAAJR 50 (1983): 100–104; idem, “Early Synagogue,” 1333. 56.  Weitzmann and Kessler, The Fresco, 9.

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have not been found in any other biblical scene appearing in Jewish art. The only exception is the detailed renditions of the Samson cycle on the Misis-Mopsuhestia pavement, episodes that do not appear at Dura. 57 The iconography of Dura reflects a local Durene-Palmyrene style, not the Hellenistic style it would have reflected if the source were illustrated manuscripts from Alexandria or Antioch. The decoration in registers and panels is in contrast to the style of illustrated manuscripts. Monumental pictorial works, such as pagan temple wall paintings and domestic decorated buildings or mosaics are claimed by some to be the origin for the Dura narratives cycles. Kraeling suggests that other synagogues in Mesopotamia or Syria may have provided the model for the paintings at Dura and that the wall division is remotely related to earlier domestic and funereal traditions. 58 Thompson adds ex­ amples and asserts that the synagogue rooms are domestic cult rooms in both location and style. 59 Thompson rejects the idea that illuminated manuscripts are the source for the Dura scenes; they are monumental compositions, and “their antecedents must be found in monumental art . . . in the 3rd century.” Tronzo, noting similarities in subject matter between the Via Latina catacomb and the Dura paintings, doubts that illuminated manuscripts served as an intermediary. He prefers a monumental source with roots in the late second and early third centuries c.e. in Rome. 60 Cartoons, copybooks, and pattern books have also been suggested as the source for the Dura paintings. Du Mesnil du Buisson suggests that cartoons were models for the Dura paintings. 61 Kraeling concedes that the art of the Dura artists could be called in some respects “copybook art.” In fact, he proposes all three sources: (1) other monumental buildings provided a source from which to copy; (2) some kind of divine book existed as a source for both Jews and Christians; and (3) the artists used some kind of copybook. 62 Thompson contends that the paintings were copied from cartoons or pattern books, similar to those used for the decorated houses in Pompeii. 63 Moon proposes that “the synagogue paintings derive from a popular tradition of hand-held pinakes or placards, which may have been used by a meturgeman as he paraphrased the Torah and other lessons for a Jewish community that was multilingual but, probably, scarcely familiar with Hebrew,” and that the paintings accom57. Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 209–16. 58. Kraeling, The Christian Building, 157, 221; idem, The Synagogue, 240–50, 392. He cites the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii, the underground basilica at Porta Maggiore, and Mithraea as having antecedent examples of programmatic paintings. 59.  Mary Lee Thompson, “Hypothetical Models of the Dura Paintings,” in Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation 1932–1992 (ed. Joseph Gutmann; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 37–38, 41–43. 60.  William Tronzo, The Via Latina Catacomb: Imitation and Discontinuity in Fourth-Century Roman Painting (University Park, PA: College Art Association of America and Pennsylvania State University Press, 1986), 30–31. 61.  Du Mesnil du Buisson, Les peintures, 149. 62. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 368–70, 379–80, 383. 63.  Thompson, “Hypothetical Models,” 41; also Gutmann, ed., Dura: A Re-evaluation, xiv.

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panied sermon and worship. 64 Wharton suggests that the synagogue elders “working in conjunction with a local workshop, may have been the authors of the fresco.” 65 Pictorial formulas, repetitive iconography, and the stylistic details that the artists used all indicate that pattern books were the most likely source for the Dura paintings. The Dura artists possibly had sets of iconographic conventions that they used in the scenes they portrayed as well as extensive cycles of biblical scenes that they could copy, abbreviate, or even improvise according to their needs. Themes and schemes, styles and composition were probably inherited from prototypes. The following observations should help to clarify the meaning and interpretation of the Dura paintings: the central and most prominent part of the synagogue is the center of the west wall. The paintings above and around the Torah shrine are the focal point of the synagogue. Emphasis is on a unity of cult and ritual expressed by the Sacrifice of Isaac and the Temple and menorah on the arched panel above the niche. The tradition is connected with themes such as Jacob blessing the tribes, King David, and the Moses episodes that decorate the reredos. Cult scenes showing Tabernacle and Temple objects are depicted on Register B. Cyclical narratives are portrayed either on one long panel, such as Ezekiel on NC1, or on several panels, such as the Elijah cycle on SC3 and SC4. Narrative scenes are portrayed on either one panel (Ezekiel in NC1) or two panels (the exodus and Moses on WA3, the Purim story on WC2, and the infant Moses on WC4). A prominent place is given to the Purim story (fig. 3). 66 One conjectures that this story appears because it is a Diaspora story and took place at a location geographically near Dura. The dipinti on the west wall were painted either during the final stage of the painting or shortly after completion. Their careful execution so as not to cover any of the paintings, their location even on the highest Register A (4.25 m above the benches) which could not have been reached by a random act of vandalism, and their content that includes names of figures and explanations of actions all suggest that the dipinti were meant to strengthen the identification of the pictorial episodes. The use of dipinti inscriptions that were not direct biblical citations to explain a scene or to name an important person would have helped to serve a didactic function. One question remains, which is why these dipinti appear on the west wall only. The answer may be that the artists began to add dipinti to their paintings on the west wall, but a decision was made that these additions were unnecessary, so the artists stopped and did not continue on the other walls. 64.  Moon, “Nudity and Narrative,” 599, 610, 612. 65. Wharton, Refiguring, 49. 66.  Note that this is the only story not found in the Qumran Cave 4 biblical scrolls. See also the articles dealing with this specific Purim panel: Dalia Tawil, “The Purim Panel in Dura in the Light of Parthian and Sasanian Art,” JNES 38 (1979): 93–109; idem, “Enthroned King Ahasuerus at Dura”; Shalom Sabar, “The Purim Panel at Dura: A Socio-historic Interpretation,” in From Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine and Z. Weiss; Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 40; Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000), 155–63.

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The subjects of the Dura synagogue do not seem to have one general theme or to be chosen at random, nor do they seem to illustrate the Bible as a whole. Specific books are illustrated. Composition and style as well as the conventional iconographic repertoire indicate that the sources for the paintings to which the artists could refer were readily available. Most likely, the artists and community leaders consulted pattern books, which would have included many of the biblical scenes portrayed at Dura. Moreover, the iconographic manner would have been similar to that used in other arts, especially at Dura and Palmyra. The iconographic repertoire available to the Dura synagogue artists consisted of compositional forms, conventions for entire scenes, and formulas for pattern details and elements. Taken together, this repertoire indicates two main sources for the narrative paintings: first, a copybook or pattern book consisting of religious and secular scenes, with examples of conventions, patterns, and compositions; and second, a large and extensive repertoire of biblical scenes from which to choose that could be used in the space allotted and in the program on which they had decided. The function of this repetition of conventions and the use of stereotypes and patterns was to elucidate the meanings of the scenes. Moreover, the existence of a painted repertoire would enable the artists to execute a great number of scenes relatively quickly. Kraeling maintains that the organization and choice of subject matter suggest a basic plan with two stages, with a marked difference between them in iconographic detail, execution, the use of conventions, and the use of different hands. These differences between the paintings (about six years apart) reflect a change in the thematic and stylistic approach of the Jewish congregation. 67 Many of the Dura paintings depict narrative scenes that are not only based on biblical chapters but include additional details, embellishments, and interpretation from midrash and aggadah. By this time, therefore, these stories must have become traditional popular folk legends that were then rendered in art. The narrative scenes were probably based on artistic forerunners, albeit sketches only, but allowing for much artistic freedom. Furthermore, the fact that the paintings were narrated within a contemporary iconographic repertoire indicates that this repertoire had traditional inherited graphic origins and was not based on the written word. The scenes were chosen for their connotative force and their ability to illuminate Jewish traditional stories based on well-known biblical themes and enhanced and elaborated by legendary details. Artistic depictions of folk tales apparently existed already by the third century c.e. The Dura synagogue paintings are an eclectic stylistic mix of local, Palmyrene, Parthian, and Hellenistic-Roman, Greek, Semitic, and Iranian elements combined in each register, sometimes even in a single composition. This is probably due to the ethnic diversity in the city population that intensified cultural and artistic in-

67. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 348, 381.

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fluences. Most scholars, although still debating the sources, prefer to seek artistic inspiration from one ethnic community only. 68 Several facts allow us to draw the conclusion that the Dura paintings are visual representations of highly developed, stylized Jewish folk tales and are not illustrations for a written text but are visual stories in themselves. 69 No general theme or program is expressed in the paintings. The scenes and episodes portray important figures in Jewish tradition and history as well as important biblical episodes with aggadic additions; they have themes that could be construed as symbolizing traditional historical events, divine intervention, the covenant between God and his chosen people, and his protection of some and his punishment of others. However, these general themes with their many interpretations do not create a comprehensive program. Moreover, because only about 60% of the paintings have survived, one cannot use an analysis of the choice of scenes to draw any conclusions. The iconography of Dura attests a rich repertoire of scenes, patterns, and compositions; this iconography also appears in local art and is based on similar Durene and Palmyrene conventions. Examples are audience scenes in which a king is presented in a specific posture and costume, although a different king is represented in each scene (figs. 3, 4). Horsemen in riding and hunting scenes are depicted in the same convention in all scenes, regardless of the story, and are similar to horsemen in Durene and Palmyrene sculpture and paintings. 70 These iconographic conventions show strong local affinities and attest to an immediate source for the illustrative visual style. These depictions seem to indicate that a visual source, not the biblical text, was the guide to the paintings. The fact that there is no agreement among scholars proves that the immediate source was not the biblical text itself but a readily available graphic repertoire. 71 Inscriptions found next to certain paintings are important evidence for the view that the Dura paintings do not illustrate a text. Most of the Aramaic and Greek dipinti inscribed on the west wall are identification inscriptions. 72 Only three inscriptions consist of a sentence that clearly explains and interprets the painting beside it. Only 68.  Michael I. Rostovtzeff, “Dura and the Problem of Parthian Art,” Yale Classical Studies 5 (1935): 183–288. Tawil, “The Purim Panel”; idem, “The Enthroned”; Joseph Gutmann, “Early Christian and Jewish Art,” in Eusebius, Christianity and Judaism (ed. H. W. Attridge and G. Hata; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 281. 69.  See also Annabel Jane Wharton (“Good and Bad images from the Synagogue of DuraEuropos: Contexts, Subtext, Intertexts,” Art History 17 [1994]: 1–25; idem, Refiguring, 42, 45), who discusses the priority given to the literary text by most scholars. 70.  Hachlili , Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 165–66, figs. III-34, 35, 45. 71.  See also Wharton, “Good and Bad images,” 9, 14. 72. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 255–317; Joseph Naveh, On Stone and Mosaic: The Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Synagogues (Jerusalem: Carta, 1978), 126–39 [Hebrew]; Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Diaspora, 403–7, figs. IX-2–4; see the Dura inscriptions: Moses, nos. 4, 6; Elijah, no. 7; Mordecai, no. 8; Ahasuerus, no. 9; Esther, no. 10; Aaron, no. 29; Solomon, no. 30.

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the two Greek names for Aaron and Solomon are integrated into the paintings, whereas the others are dipinti, probably added to the paintings after they were executed. 73 The inscriptions without doubt are secondary to the paintings and are not biblical citations. They are appended to identify figures or, in a few cases, scenes. Hence, they explain the existing illustrations. Thus, the text glosses the Dura paintings, but the paintings do not illustrate the biblical text. 74 The Dura-Europos synagogues paintings are an original, unique, and distinctive work of art attesting the importance that the Jewish community placed on their national-religious tradition—visual, written, and oral. The wall paintings of the Dura synagogue are thus the earliest confirmation that folk tales based on biblical stories with legendary additions found artistic expression in painted narrative scenes. The Jewish community of Dura wanted to decorate their central religious and social structure with didactic, narrative paintings expressing their legacy, their religious and national tradition, and their shared experiences evoking memories of past glory. 73.  Hachlili, ibid., pls. III-8, 11; fig. IX-2. 74.  See also the indirect biblical quotations on Bands 3 and 4 (Exod 29:39–41) on the mosaic floor at Sepphoris: Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historic Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University, 2005), 199–200, figs. 2, 3.

Priests and Purity in the Dura-Europos Synagogue Jodi Magness University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

Introduction In the year 70, the Romans destroyed the Second Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. In the centuries that followed, Judaism was transformed from a religion centered on a temple building where a sacrificial cult was conducted by a priestly caste to a religion consisting of community worship and prayer in synagogues. Although Jewish society after 70 was presumably no less diverse than it had been previously, nearly all of the evidence we have for this period relates to the rabbinic class. 1 The rabbis (or sages) Author’s note: It is a pleasure to offer this article in honor of Lee Levine, a colleague, mentor, and friend whose scholarship has defined the field of ancient synagogue studies. All dates refer to the Common Era unless otherwise indicated. 1.  See, for example, Lee I. Levine, “Judaism from the Destruction of Jerusalem to the End of the Second Jewish Revolt: 70–135 c.e.,” in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: A Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development (ed. H. Shanks; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1992), 126: “Many of the Jewish sects that had played a central role in Jewish religious life during the first century disappeared [after 70].” On the other hand, see Martin Goodman, “Sadducees and Essenes after 70 ce,” in Crossing the Boundaries: Essays in Biblical Interpretation in Honour of Michael D. Goulder (ed. S. E. Porter, P. Joyce, and D. E. Orton; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 355, for the following observation: The standard assumption that these Jewish groups disappeared soon after 70 is therefore no more than an assumption. Furthermore, the presuppositions which have encouraged the assumpution are so theologically loaded that historians’ suspicions should be instinctive. . . . My hypothesis is that groups and philosophies known from pre-70 Judaism continued for years, perhaps centuries, after the destruction of the Temple.

Goodman’s observation may be supported by evidence for third-century Galilean Jewish-Christians (Christians who were apparently ethnic Jews) with pharisaic leanings; see Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 29; Albert I. Baumgarten, “Literary Evidence for Jewish Christianity in the Galilee,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary,

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preserved and codified a mass of legal rulings on Judaism—most prominently the Mishnah and Talmud—that remain authoritative until today. 2 Although most of the existing literary and archaeological evidence for Judaism after 70 relates to Palestine, Diaspora communities flourished around the Mediterranean, including in Egypt and North Africa, Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy. 3 Perhaps the most important Diaspora population was in Babylonia, descended in part from the Judean exiles of the late seventh and early sixth centuries b.c.e. The illustrious rabbis and academies in Babylonia produced the Babylonian Talmud, which is considered more authoritative than the Palestinian Talmud. 4 Aside from the Babylonian Talmud, little evidence of Babylonian Jewry in the first five centuries of the Common Era has survived. However, in the early 1930s, an ancient synagogue decorated with a stunning cycle of wall paintings was discovered at Dura-Europos in modern Syria. 5 The paintings are preserved thanks to an earthen embankment piled along the inner face of the city wall, which buried the synagogue during the Sasanian siege in 256, when Dura was destroyed and abandoned. 6 The synagogue is located in a residential block next to the western wall of the town. It was originally a private dwelling that was converted for use as a synagogue, probably between 165 and 200. 7 In 244/245, the building was remodeled and decorated with

1992), 39–50. Also see Michael D. Swartz, Scholastic Magic: Ritual and Revelation in Early Jewish Mysticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 11, “Recently, though, there has been increased recognition that ancient Palestinian and Babylonian Jewish societies were complex ones, encompassing tensions between circles within the rabbinic estate, and between the academy and other sectors of the population.” Even if Jewish groups changed or were reconfigured after 70, the fact remains that rabbinic norms were just one of many and that different Jewish groups were in dialogue and tension with each other. 2.  For introductions, see Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Judaism to the Mishnah: 135–220 c.e.,” in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: A Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development (ed. H. Shanks; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1992), 216–23; Isaiah M. Gafni, “The World of the Talmud: From the Mishnah to the Arab Conquest,” in ibid., 251–55. 3.  For surveys with bibliography, see Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (2nd ed.; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 250–309 (Diaspora synagogues); John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 bce–117 ce) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996) (Diaspora communities). 4.  See Gafni, “The World of the Talmud,” 226–27, 261–65. 5.  Carl H. Kraeling, The Synagogue (Excavations at Dura-Europos Conducted by Yale University, Final Report 8/1; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1956), remains the definitive study of the building and wall paintings. 6.  For the possibility that Dura-Europos was occupied by the Sasanians in 253, see ibid., 337; Michael I. Rostovtzeff, “Res Gestae Divi Saporis and Dura,” Berytus 8 (1943): 53; Frantz Grenet, “Les sassanides à Doura-Europos (253 ap. J.-C.), réexamen du matériel épigraphique iranien du site,” in Géographie historique au Proche-Orient (Syrie, Phénicie, Arabie, grecques, romaines, byzantines): Actes de la Table Ronde de Valbonne, 16–18 septembre 1985 (ed. P.-L. Gatier, B. Helly, and J.-P. Rey-Coquais; Paris: Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1988), 133–58. 7. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 327.

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a new set of paintings. 8 The paintings on the west wall are preserved to their full height. On the north and south walls fewer than half the paintings are preserved, and on the east wall only parts of the lowest registers are preserved. 9 The main hall or hall of assembly consists of a single room lined with benches and a Torah shrine in the center of the west (Jerusalem-oriented) wall (fig. 1). The synagogue was accessed through an open courtyard surrounded by additional rooms that presumably served the Jewish community. The building had a flat roof with wooden ceiling beams forming a framework for ceiling tiles. 10 The Dura synagogue provides important archaeological evidence for Diaspora Judaism in the third century. Furthermore, in my opinion it is the earliest surviving synagogue building with permanent liturgical furniture (a built Torah shrine) and distinctive Jewish iconography. 11 However, because Dura is located in Mesopotamia, far from the major Babylonian and Palestinian centers, scholars have long recognized the problems inherent in understanding the Dura synagogue and its community in light of rabbinic writings. 12 We simply do not know to what extent the Jews of Dura were familiar with or observed rabbinic law (Halakah) or whether the rabbis exercised any authority at Dura. 13 8.  Ibid., 6. 9.  Ibid., 39. 10.  Ibid., 12–15. 11.  Earlier synagogue buildings such as those at Masada and Gamla lack these features and instead are simply Jewish congregational buildings in the most basic sense; for these synagogue buildings, see Gideon Foerster, “The Synagogues at Masada and Herodium,” in Ancient Synagogues Revealed (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1981), 24–29; Shmaryahu Gutman, “The Synagogue at Gamla,” in ibid., 30–34; Zvi Maʿoz, “The Synagogue of Gamla and the Typology of Second-Temple Synagogues,” in ibid., 35–41; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 42–73. Even if we assume that the building at Ostia functioned as a synagogue already in the first or second centuries (an unfounded assumption, in my opinion), there is no evidence for the installation of permanent liturgical furniture (such as the Torah shrine) and Jewish symbols before the fourth century. For the Ostia synagogue, see L. Michael White, “Synagogue and Society in Imperial Ostia: Archaeological and Epigraphic Evidence,” HTR 90 (1997): 23–58; Anders Runesson, “The Synagogue at Ancient Ostia: The Building and Its History from the First to the Fifth Century,” in The Synagogue of Ancient Ostia and the Jews of Rome: Interdisciplinary Studies (ed. B. Olsson, D. Mitternacht, and O. Brandt; Stockholm: Åströms, 2001), 29–99. 12.  For example, Erwin R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period: Abridged Edition (ed. J. Neusner; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 184: “We may question, however, that the Judaism of Dura ever resembled at all closely the Judaism of the Babylonian communities.” 13.  Steven Fine (Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005], 174–77) argues that a prayer (apparently related to the blessing after meals) found on a parchment fragment outside the Dura synagogue that displays similarities to rabbinic texts from late antiquity attests to rabbinic influence at Dura. However, he ignores the fact that rabbinic literature is our only source of information for Judaism (at least, for the interpretation of Jewish law) in this period. The practices of groups other than the rabbis are not preserved. In other words, although this fragment could indicate rabbinic influence

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Fig. 1.  Plan of the Dura synagogue (from Kraeling, The Synagogue, Plan VI, reproduced with permission of Yale University Press).

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The extent to which rabbinic law (Halakah) was followed by the Jews of Dura has been an important factor in discussions of the synagogue and its paintings. In this essay, I consider a find that has also been viewed through the lens of rabbinic Judaism but has received much less attention than the paintings: a deposit of human bones buried under the threshold of the main doorway to the synagogue. Contrary to the prevailing view, these bones would not have conveyed ritual impurity to those entering the building even if rabbinic law was followed at Dura. I propose that this deposit represents the remains of someone who the congregation hoped would intercede with God on their behalf, perhaps a priestly leader.

The Bone Deposit Carl Kraeling, the excavator of the Dura synagogue, described the bone deposit as follows: The doorpost [of the main dooway into the hall or house of assembly] pivoted in the hollowed block and rested on the iron plate. Toward the east the cavity housing the socket had a noticeable extension. This lay under the doorsill itself, being gouged out of the rubble bedding upon which the sill was set. In the pocket of the cavity was found a collection of bones that are reported to have been parts of two human fingers. Their presence at this point cannot have been the result of an accident, because of the genuine inaccessibility of the pocket and because of the discovery of analogous remains in the socket of the south doorway. The bones, whatever their character, must therefore represent a foundation deposit of the kind known to us also at Dura from pagan structures. 14

According to Kraeling, these bones would have rendered the site and people approaching it impure. 15 Other scholars have made the same assumption. For example, Christopher Beall recently suggested that the bones were deposited secretly by nonJewish builders at the time of construction, in an attempt to curse or render impure the individuals who were entering the building. 16 This suggestion is problematic because it assumes that non-Jews participated in the construction of the synagogue and that they understood Jewish purity laws. More problematic, however, is the at Dura, Fine’s argument is based on circular reasoning; he associates the prayer (which was found outside the synagogue) with rabbinic Judaism, and by way of extension the paintings inside the synagogue with rabbinic Judaism. However, nonrabbinic Jews presumably also pronounced blessings in connection with meals. In fact, many of the sectarian prayers and liturgies from Qumran display similarities and parallels with rabbinic tradition; see Lawrence H. Schiffman, Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1994), 294–95. 14. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 19. 15.  Ibid., 19 n. 86. 16.  Christopher Beall, “A Bone of Contention: Foundation Deposits from the Dura Synagogue,” Abstracts of The Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Philadelphia, PA, 19– 22 November 2005, 18, http://www.sbl-site.org/meetings/Congresses_Abstracts.aspx?MeetingId=4.

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widespread assumption that these bones would have rendered those entering the synagogue ritually impure. In fact, the Mishnah and Talmud stipulate that individual human bones without flesh convey impurity only through direct contact: Two hundred forty-eight limbs [are] in man: thirty in the foot, six in each toe; ten in the ankle; two in the shin; five in the knee; and one in the thigh; three in the hip; eleven ribs; thirty in the hand; six in each finger; two in the forearm; two in the elbow; one in the upper arm; four in the shoulder—one hundred one on one side, one hundred one on the other. Eighteen vertebrae are in the spine; nine in the head; eight in the neck; six in the breast; five in the genitals. Each one conveys uncleanness through contact, and through carrying, and through the Tent. When? When there is on them an appropriate amount of flesh. But if there is not on them an appropriate amount of flesh, they convey uncleanness through contact and through carrying but do not convey uncleanness in the Tent. (m. ʾOhal. 1:8) 17

A tannaitic source quoted in the Babylonian Talmud states: “For we have learnt: ‘A bone the size of a barley grain causes defilement by contact and carrying, but not by cover’” (b. ʿErub. 4a). 18 The Tosefta contains the following discussion: “Is it possible that the flesh should render unclean through contact, carrying, and Tent, while the limb should be clean? Said R. Simeon, ‘I should be surprised if [under all circumstances] R. Eliezer declared it unclean. He declared it unclean only when there is on the limb appropriate flesh, so that this and this should render unclean through contact, carrying, and Tent’” (Ahilot 2.7). 19 These passages indicate that, even according to rabbinic Halakah (which may or may not have been followed at Dura), the human bones buried beneath the synagogue’s threshold would not have conveyed impurity.

An Apotropaic Deposit? Kraeling interpreted the buried bones as a foundation deposit, a common phenomenon in the ancient Near East. 20 However, he noted that the parallels for this practice come from pagan, not Jewish contexts. 21 Near Eastern foundation and building deposits were generally built into the walls or placed under the floors of buildings (usually palaces and temples), and most of them are much earlier in date than the 17.  All translations of the Mishnah are from Jacob Neusner, The Mishnah: A New Translation (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1988). 18.  Unless otherwise noted, all translations of the Talmud are from the Soncino Talmud; see Maurice Simon, The Soncino Talmud: Hebrew-English Edition of the Babylonian Talmud (London: Soncino, 1960–). The note to this passage states that “only a backbone, a skull, and the like cause the defilement of a person in the same tent or under the same roof or cover” (ibid., 19 n. 10). 19.  Translation from Jacob Neusner, The Tosefta (6 vols.; New York: KTAV, 1977), 6:84. 20. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 19. 21.  In addition to the references cited in ibid., 19 n. 86, see Richard Ellis, Foundation Deposits in Ancient Mesopotamia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968).

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Dura synagogue. Human remains are rare and consist mostly of infants, and the burial of individual human bones is unparalleled in Near Eastern foundation deposits. 22 The placement of human bones under the threshold of the main doorway leading into the synagogue suggests apotropaic motivations. 23 Richard Ellis noted that the reasons for ancient Near Eastern foundation and building deposits included sanctification and a desire to protect the building against hostile powers. 24 Similar practices are evident in the Jewish necropolis at Beth Sheʿarim in Israel’s Galilee, which is contemporary with the Dura synagogue. Symbols and inscriptions with apotropaic value were placed on the archways of passages between rooms in the burial halls: an abecedary in Catacomb 1, Hall N; two winged figures in Catacomb 1, Hall G; and an Eis theos boethei inscription in Catacomb 7, Hall A. 25 Similarly, in the Christian baptistery at Dura, an Eis theos inscription was written on a doorjamb leading from the courtyard, and several abecedaries were written on the walls near doorways in the Christian building. 26 The possibility that the bones were buried for apotropaic reasons does not explain why such a deposit occurs in the Dura synagogue alone. Why would human finger bones protect the entrance to the building from evil or sanctify it? A passage from the Babylonian Talmud may shed light on this phenomenon: Why do they go to the cemetery? With regard to this there is a difference of opinion between R. Levi b. Hama and R. Hanina. One says: [To signify thereby], we are as the dead before Thee; and the other says: In order that the dead should intercede for mercy on our behalf. (b. Taʿan. 16a)

This passage indicates that the dead were considered intercessors for the living. 27 Perhaps the bones buried under the threshold of the Dura synagogue represent the remains of someone who the congregation hoped would intercede with God on their 22.  See ibid., 35–42. 23.  In fact, Kraeling (The Synagogue, 361) suggested that the bones were buried for magical purposes. 24. Ellis, Foundation Deposits in Ancient Mesopotamia, 165–66. 25.  Benjamin Mazar, Beth Sheʿarim: Report on the Excavations during 1936–1940, vol. 1: Catacombs 1–4 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1973), 80–81, 122; Moshe Schwabe and Baruch Lifshitz, Beth Sheʿarim, vol. 2: The Greek Inscriptions (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1974), 89. 26. Charles B. Welles, in C. H. Kraeling, The Christian Building (Excavations at DuraEuropos Conducted by Yale University, Final Report 8/2; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1967), 95, 125; on p. 126, he discusses how this inscription and other elements in the Christian building attest to magical and apotropaic practices. For the abecedaries in the Christian building, see ibid., 90–92, nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 8. For abecedaries on the walls of the temples of Bel, Gadde, and Azzanathkona at Dura, see ibid., 89; on p. 90, he lists examples from secular contexts at Dura. 27.  Peter Brown (The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981], 3) cites Midr. Psalms 16.2 to show that veneration of tombs or relics of saints existed also among late antique Jews (in this case, the Tombs of the Patriarchs in Palestine); also see p. 10.

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behalf. 28 In this regard, the Christian cult of the relics of saints might provide a better analogy than ancient Near Eastern foundation deposits. 29 Could it be that the buried bones belonged to a priest, who in this capacity acted as an intercessor for the congregation? 30 Although this is admittedly speculative, it is interesting to note that there are depictions of priests elsewhere in the synagogue and that this congregation’s leader was a priest, as we shall see.

Evidence for Priests and Priestly Influence in the Dura Synagogue Oded Irshai has noted that the Babylonian priesthood preserved its status and occupied a leadership position that was recognized even by the Palestinian sages. 31 The Dura synagogue provides evidence for the prominence of priests (both past and contemporary), only a few examples of which I cite here. The most important paintings in the synagogue are concentrated on and around the Torah shrine, which was the focal point of the building. A large figure of Aaron, labeled with his name in Greek, is represented prominently in connection with the consecration of the Tabernacle and its priests, above and to the left of the Torah shrine (Panel WB2). Aaron is clothed as a high priest and stands next to an altar in front of the Tabernacle, inside which the Ark of the Covenant can be seen. Kraeling identified the scene with the episode described in Exodus 40 and Numbers 7, when the Tabernacle was erected and Aaron, the high priests, and the Levites were installed in office. 32 28.  For this concept in late antique Christianity, see ibid., 66. 29.  Ibid., 4 notes that “the Christian cult of saints rapidly came to involve the digging up, the moving, the dismemberment—quite apart from the avid touching and kissing—of the bones of the dead, and, frequently, the placing of these in areas from which the dead had once been excluded.” On the other hand, Eleazar L. Sukenik (The Synagogue of Dura-Europos and Its Frescoes [Jerusalem: Bialik, 1947], 187 n. 2 [Hebrew]) says there is no support for the suggestion that the Dura bones belonged to a saint who was buried there in order to sanctify the spot. I thank Hanan Eshel for bringing this reference to my attention. 30.  Although I propose identifying the human remains as being the remains of a priest, they could belong to someone else who served in a leadership capacity in the synagogue. For example, in ancient synagogues a sheliaḥ tzibbur typically led the congregation in prayer; see Zeev Weiss, “The Location of the Sheliah Tzibbur during Prayer,” Cathedra 55 (1990): 8–91 [Hebrew]. I thank Weiss for bringing this reference to my attention. 31.  Oded Irshai, “The Priesthood in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Yad BenZvi, 2004), 81. Not all scholars accept the claims of priestly prominence or agree on the extent of priestly influence; see, for example, Steven Fine, “Between Liturgy and Social History: Priestly Power in Late Antique Palestinian Synagogues? ” JJS 56 (2005): 1–9. 32. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 130. This event took place on the first day of the month of Nisan. Kraeling based his identification of this scene on the fact that one bull and two lambs are included in the scene, animals that were sacrificed as part of the consecration of the priests as de-

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Kraeling noted horizontal thematic connections between the panel depicting the consecration of the Tabernacle and the panel on the other side of the Torah shrine, which shows a building that he identified as the Jerusalem Temple (Panel WB3; see fig. 2): “What the Encampment and the Wilderness Tabernacle inaugurated only foreshadowed, from the later point of view, what Jerusalem and its Temple brought to monumental and perfect expression.” 33 There are also vertical thematic connections between the anointing of David to the right of the Torah shrine and the panel above the Torah shrine showing David as king over all Israel. 34 The panel immediately above the Torah shrine initially depicted a vine flanked by a table and an empty throne, which Kurt Weitzmann and Herbert Kessler identified as a celestial throne that is the seat of the future king (fig. 3). 35 This panel was repainted with an enthroned man representing David at the top center of the vine (fig. 4). He is flanked by two togate figures and a lion (referring scribed in Exod 29:1. The animal in the left foreground is a red heifer (Num 19:1–13), the ashes of which were used to make the water of purification that was necessary for the sprinkling of the Levites; see ibid., 130–31. The first day of Nisan was also the beginning of the year according to the solar calendar, falling on the vernal equinox and on a Wednesday, the day that the heavenly luminaries were created (as expressed in the book of Jubilees); see Rachel Elior, The Three Temples: On the Emergence of Jewish Mysticism (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization), 46–48, including n. 48. 33. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 131. The building in Panel WB3 probably represents the seven heavenly temples described in Jewish mystical literature; see Elior, The Three Temples, 79 n. 77: “[A] wall painting on the western wall of the ancient synagogue at Dura Europos portrays a heavenly Temple with seven walls, each behind another, surrounding a central sanctuary; perhaps there is some connection between this 3rd-century depiction and priestly traditions of septuples in the style of Heikhalot literature.” 34. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 168, 225. Only seven (rather than eight) of Jesse’s sons are depicted in the anointing of David scene; ibid., 168. The highly charged symbolism of the number seven counters the claim by Kurt Weitzmann and Herbert L. Kessler (The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art [Dumbarton Oaks Studies 28; Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, 1990], 81) that “there was simply not enough space for an additional figure.” Kraeling (The Synagogue, 168, 220) noted that the depiction of David in these panels is not just historical but expresses eschatological or messianic hopes. In contrast, Paul V. M. Flesher (“Rereading the Reredos: David, Orpheus, and Messianism in the Dura Europos Synagogue,” in Ancient Synagogues, Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery [ed. D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher; New York: Brill 1995], 346–66) argues against messianic and eschatological messages in the Dura synagogue paintings, mainly on the basis of his claim that David in the central panel above the Torah is not depicted as Orpheus. 35.  Weitzmann and Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art, 160; on p. 158, they suggest that the fruitless vine must refer to the eschatological idea that the tree will bear fruit only when the Messiah comes. Also see Kraeling, The Synagogue, 65, where he discusses the original paintings in the panel immediately above the Torah shrine and identifies a possible theme of a messianic banquet. The repainting of this panel strengthened its eschatological message; see Elisheva Revel-Neher, “An Additional Key to the Program of the Dura-Europos Synagogue Frescoes: Ezekiel 37,” in And Let Them Make Me a Sanctuary: Synagogues from Ancient Times to the Present Day (ed. Y. Eshel et al.; Ariel: The College of Judea and Samaria, 2004), 74.

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Fig. 2.  Paintings on the north half of the west wall of the Dura synagogue (from Kraeling, The Synagogue, pl. 19, reproduced with permission of Yale University Press).

to David’s ancestral tribe of Judah and, by way of extension, the genealogy of the messiah) underneath. 36 Kraeling and others have identified the two togated figures as David’s priests Zadoq and Abiathar, who represent the tribe of Levi. 37 Weitzmann and Kessler believe that the figures are the priest Joshua ben Jehozadak and Zerubabbel, who rebuilt the Second Temple after the return from the Babylonian Exile. 38 Both possibilities emphasize the centrality of the Zadokite priests. Weitzmann and Kessler suggested that the repainting of the panels above the Torah shrine strengthened an eschatological message regarding the future arrival of a messianic king who would rebuild the Jerusalem Temple, countering Christian claims that the messiah had already come. 39 36.  Weitzmann and Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art, 164. For the lions as a symbol of Judah and David’s ancestry, see also Bianca Kühnel, “Jewish Symbolism of the Temple and the Tabernacle and Christian Symbolism of the Holy Tabernacle and the Heavenly Tabernacle,” Journal of Jewish Art 12–13 (1986–87): 148. Flesher (“Rereading the Reredos,” 363) argues that the vine was painted over in the second phase. 37.  See ibid., 362. 38.  Weitzmann and Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art, 165–66. 39.  Ibid., 169.

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Fig. 3.  Original painting on the central area of the west wall of the Dura synagogue (panel above the Torah shrine; from Kraeling, The Synagogue, pl. 17, reproduced with permission of Yale University Press).

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Fig. 4.  The Torah shrine in the Dura synagogue (from Kraeling, The Synagogue, pl. 24, reproduced with permission of Yale University Press).

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Just as the Dura paintings emphasize the prominent role played by priests in the history of Israel, Aramaic dedicatory inscriptions painted on ceiling tiles leave no doubt about the leadership role of priests in the Dura congregation. One inscription reads: “This house was built in the year 556, this corresponding to the second year of Philip Julius Caesar; in the eldership of the priest Samuel son of Yedaʿya, the archon. Now those who stood in charge of this work were: Abram the treasurer, and Samuel son of Sapharah, and . . . the proselyte. . . .” 40 A similar inscription on another ceiling tile (C) apparently referred to Abram the treasurer and Samuel bar-Sapharah as priests. 41 Kraeling noted that the priest Samuel, son of Yedaʿya, “more than anyone else represents the community, and in his official capacity as well as in his personal dignity gives expression to its character and purpose. . . . He is a man of high religious station, being proudly referred to as priest in all three Aramaic texts.” 42 Samuel’s family may be the same family known from the books of Chronicles, Ezra, and Nehemiah. 43 He held the offices of presbyter (Aramaic kashish; Hebrew zaken) and archon. 44 According to Kraeling, “Samuel’s eldership is of such import for the historical and chronological life of the community that it is in effect eponymous, Samuel as elder being mentioned in one breath, so to speak, with the emperor Philip Julius Caesar.” 45 To conclude, the bone deposit may indicate that Jews at Dura believed the dead could act as intercessors for the living. In light of the evidence for priestly prominence in the Dura synagogue, I tentatively suggest identifying these bones as belonging to a priest. The presence of this deposit in a synagogue is surprising since, according to Jewish law, corpses are a source of ritual impurity. 46 In this regard, Judaism stands in direct opposition to Christianity, which venerates saints and holy people by burying their remains inside churches. 47 In other words, whereas in Christianity human burials consecrate sacred space, in Judaism they pollute it. No bone deposits have been found in other ancient synagogues, making the Dura find exceptional. Although this deposit might reflect localized beliefs and practices among the Dura Jews, these bones did not convey ritual impurity even according to rabbinic Jewish law, because the flesh was not left on the bones. 40.  On Tile A, see Kraeling, The Synagogue, 263. 41.  Ibid., 268. 42.  Ibid., 331. 43.  Ibid. For dedicatory inscriptions by priests in Palestinian synagogues, see David Amit, “Priests and Remembrance of the Temple in the Synagogues of Southern Judea,” in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2004), 148–49. 44. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 331. 45. Ibid. 46.  For example, Lev 22:4. 47.  See, for example, Brown, The Cult of the Saints.

The Problem of the Scarcity of Synagogues from 70 to ca. 250 c.e. The Case of Synagogue 1 at Nabratein (2nd–3rd Century c.e.) Eric M. Meyers Duke University

Lee Levine has raised the question of the scarcity of material evidence for the ancient synagogue after 70 c.e. until the third century and referred to it as a gap of some two hundred years. 1 He is at pains when identifying this gap to emphasize that there are abundant tannaitic and early amoraic literary sources that make it perfectly clear that the existence of the synagogue in this critical period after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple during the First Great Revolt against Rome was functioning as a vibrant institution. 2 Levine expresses himself in regard to this issue in the following way: “Thus, any attempt to base far-reaching conclusions regarding the nature and importance of the synagogue in the post-70 period on the availability or absence of archaeological evidence is fraught with danger. Only an assessment that balances the archaeological and literary remains within the historical context of the Late Roman era can hope to achieve some degree of credibility.” 3 The more difficult issue is what has caused the physical evidence to be in such short supply, and further, what is the nature of the synagogue in these two centuries before the burst of synagogue building that we may associate with the second half of the third century in so many places, not to mention the large number of synagogues that date to the fourth to the sixth centuries c.e.? Levine, in a footnote to his programmatic study of the ancient synagogue, 4 dismisses the evidence from Synagogue 1 at Nabratein (Nevoraya) dated to the second– third centuries c.e., on the basis of the fact that it had only been published in a 1.  The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (2nd ed.; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 184. 2. Ibid., 193–206. 3.  Ibid., 187. 4.  Ibid., 183 n. 27.

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preliminary report. Now that the final report is in print, 5 it is a good time to present some of the data in more detail, which are the focus of this essay in Levine’s honor. But first, let us examine some of the reasons that have been used to bolster the idea of the two-century gap after 70 c.e. Levine lists the chaos of the two wars with Rome as possible factors in the destruction of Second Temple synagogues, which were of a different character (to be sure) from the later, post-70 synagogues, which had a greater emphasis on the idea of holiness, taken from the Temple, and less emphasis on its communal character. So, for example, he mentions the Chronicle of Malalas, which records that Vespasian had destroyed a synagogue at Daphne and replaced it with a theater, inscribing on it “from the spoils of Judaea” and doing the same with a synagogue at Caesarea. 6 We may add to this the possible destruction of a synagogue in Tiberius and Alexandria, and the Hadrianic persecutions; and we are not hard-pressed to find ample other examples of the difficulties Jews faced soon after 70. The problem is that we do not have much hard evidence for these claims, and the literary traditions that report some of these events are not always reliable, something Levine readily admits. 7 The second hypothesis Levine advances is the possibility that the synagogue at this early stage of development was a domus ecclesiae, or a space in a private home akin to a house-church, which would make it very difficult to identify in a material context. Levine dismisses this explanation in the following way: the Palestinian synagogue in the pre-70 era was a communal structure and separate edifice with columns and benches on four sides as at Masada and Gamla, and judging from the Theodotos inscription was a building that could be identified by its individual construction. 8 If anything, he suggests that the pre-70 synagogue building could well have survived into the next centuries since the tannaitic sources for it are so rich and incontrovertible. 9 Levine offers one final explanation for justifying the possibility of a two-century gap in the Palestinian synagogue, and it is an archaeological reason. Because of the construction of so many new synagogue buildings in the Late Roman and Byzantine periods, earlier materials could easily be discarded in the renovation and/or building stage. This was certainly the case in Jerusalem, where Herodian construction obliterated much of the earlier phases of occupation in so many places. This is especially 5.  Eric M. Meyers and Carol L. Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Nabratein: Synagogue and Environs (Meiron Excavation Project Report 6; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009). See also the following, which Levine had access to: E. M. Meyers, J. F. Strange, and C. L. Meyers, “Preliminary Report on the 1980 Excavations at en-Nabratein, Israel,” BASOR 241 (1981): 1–25; and idem, “Second Preliminary Report on the 1981 Excavations at en-Nabratein, Israel,” BASOR 246 (1982): 35–54. 6. Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 126. 7.  Ibid., 182. 8.  Ibid., 185. 9.  Ibid., and see the appendix at the end of this article, which lists some of the key tannaitic texts that mention “synagogue.” It has been prepared by my doctoral student Yael Wilfand.

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true where bedrock rises high and is used in the later building phase(s). In thinking of Khirbet Shemaʿ for example, the first preserved synagogue is built over a series of bedrock structures and underground cavities that had to be filled in and leveled off in order to build anything over them. In the process of constructing the first building, these structures and the surrounding context were virtually erased, leaving it most difficult to reconstruct the nature of the earlier materials with any degree of certainty, except for sealed pockets here or there. 10 A similar situation existed at Nabratein, where cavities in bedrock, underground chambers, and tunnels had to be sealed up when Synagogue 1 was constructed (see below). Thus, Levine has a very strong point in this line of reasoning, and I believe the accidental nature of the survival of Synagogue 1 at Nabratein (Nevoraya) makes an explanation of this sort more plausible, as the presentation of the data below will hopefully show. Levine goes on to advance his theory that the Palestinian synagogue took on more and more of the holiness and sacrality of the Jerusalem Temple over time. One of the features of the later, third-century Galilean synagogues that he points to is the feature of sacred orientation. 11 With their interiors oriented toward the holy city and three rows of columns, it was the southern wall facing Jerusalem that had no columns that was dubbed the “Jerusalem” wall of orientation. Often such synagogues would have a bema and Torah Shrine on them to accentuate the importance of the southern wall of orientation, which was the case at nearby Gush Halav and Khirbet Shemaʿ and each of the synagogues at Nabratein. 12 In the case of Nabratein, however, we may associate this pattern with the earliest phase of Synagogue 1, which is why we will present the details of its founding and construction in greater detail. If we succeed in making our case for Nabratein, then we may say with a good degree of conviction that the post-70 synagogue assumed these distinguishing features: namely, sacred orientation and a Torah Shrine with or without a bema, soon after the two wars with Rome and not later, as Levine was inclined to believe in 1999. This would also support the view that the post-70 synagogue assumed more and more of the sanctity of the Temple at a very early stage, when the liturgy of the synagogue was taking final shape. 13

Synagogue 1 at Nabratein There is ample evidence at Nabratein for the construction of a perimeter wall in the late Second Temple period or Early Roman (ER) period. Moreover, the Duke 10.  E. M. Meyers, A.T. Kraabel, and J. F. Strange, Ancient Synagogue Excavations at Khirbet Shemaʿ, Upper Galilee, Israel, 1970–1972 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1976), 39–45. 11. Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 195–97. 12.  E. M. Meyers, “Ancient Synagogues: An Archaeological Introduction,” in Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World (ed. S. Fine; New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 13–19. 13. Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 197–200.

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Fig. 1.  View to the north of the perimeter wall in Field IV with ER structures attached.

excavation team and M. Aviam, some years later, 14 discovered a series of underground chambers and tunnels, both of which date to the second half of the first century c.e. Their purpose remains a mystery to me, but they were chock full of ER remains including chalk-stone vessels that are normally associated with the end of the Second Temple period. The houses and industrial-type installations built adjacent to the perimeter wall in the ER period (fig. 1) also testify to the fact that the site was expanding and growing in the first century in a way that is not apparent at all in the earlier, Hellenistic period. To give the reader a sense of the growth in this early period, we note that there was abundant ceramic evidence from the site from the late Hellenistic period, especially in Field IV, where the industrial materials were largely dated to the Early Roman period. In the synagogue area at founding levels and on bedrock, the pottery was overwhelmingly Early Roman with a regular smattering of Middle Roman materials alongside the stylobates and two bemas, all of which protruded above the pilaster floor level (L 1015). The underground chambers and tunnels, though their function and purpose remain somewhat enigmatic (they could always be for storage) run very close to where the synagogue was built—namely, to its southern side—which suggests to me that the first and succeeding synagogue buildings were constructed over space that was 14.  M. Aviam, Jews, Pagans and Christians in Galilee: Land of Galilee 1 (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2004), 127, 132.

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Fig. 2.  Interior of Synagogue 1 with two bemas indicated and a Torah shrine in the southwestern corner. Note the main entrance in the southern façade wall (drawing by Lindsey Bute).

at one time used for other purposes and in the heart of the small settlement. The cavities, underground chambers, and tunnels thus had to be filled in and leveled over in preparation for the first synagogue construction project. The first synagogue structure to be built on the site was a broadhouse building (11.2 × 9.35 m), with two rows of benches running on every side except the south side, where the southern facade was located with an entrance in it. This would mean that the building incorporated the principle of sacred orientation into its philosophy from the outset. This is also apparent from the fact that there are two bemas attached to the interior of the southern wall, and within them are bits of earlier walls that have been incorporated into their founding to support the two platforms better (fig. 2). There is a second entrance in the northeast corner. The floor of Synagogue 1 is thickly plastered, making the task of separating materials above and below the floor much easier. In the center of the plaster floor was an imprint or negative of what appears to have been a table or lectern (fig. 3). It was impossible for a variety of reasons to establish definitively whether this building had four interior columns or not, but the stylobate, which served the later phases as well, also existed in this structure, so we have conjectured that the building would have easily accommodated them in this earliest building phase and made the roofing a bit easier. Moreover, the plaster floor

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Fig. 3.  Synagogue 1 plaster floor with impression of table (?) in center, looking east. A wall running north–south between the stylobates preexisted the earliest synagogue structure.

ran up to but did not cover the stylobates or run beneath them. The structure is small enough, theoretically, to have supported a roof without internal columniation. In our plans, however, we have included four columns. One additional factor that has led us to believe that there were four columns is the plethora of columns, drums, and bases as well as other architectural fragments found around the site and in later contexts, some of which could have been used in Synagogue 1. The two stylobate walls are founded on bedrock along the short axis of the 11.2 × 9.35 m building. It is difficult to imagine why the builders would have left these walls unused, since they have been so carefully incorporated into the building. This is yet another reason for proposing that there were four interior columns. The interior space of the entire synagogue structure is 104.5 square meters. The well-plastered surface (L 1015), best preserved in the southern part of the building, has no material associated with it that can be dated later than the Middle Roman (MR) period (that is, ca. 135–250 c.e.), either on top of it or below it (fig. 4). Even taking apart pieces of the stylobate walls and later putting the stylobate back together, we found only Middle Roman pottery. In digging along the eastern stylobate wall with many buckets of clean pottery, we found nothing later than MR pottery and one coin of the second century. In view of the possibility that Synagogue 1 would have under-

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Fig. 4.  Photo of all the synagogues, looking south. The woman at left has her feet on the plaster floor of Synagogue 1. Note where the north closing wall of Synagogue 1 would have stood (where the meter stick lies).

gone repairs over its lifetime, especially the plaster flooring, it is very significant that at no place in and around the stylobates was there any Late Roman pottery or any evidence that could be dated other than MR, with a high incidence of ER material in every bucket. L 2027 in and around the eastern stylobate and well under floor level produced many buckets of MR pottery (nos. 43, 45, 46, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, and 85) and one coin dated to the second century (coin catalogue no. 27, identified as coming from Sidon or Tyre with a head of Tyche/galley). 15 The fact that so much material has been well preserved in what the excavators call Period II, or the Middle Roman period, when Synagogue 1 stood is possibly the result of the manner in which the Nabratein synagogues were rebuilt over time by extending the length of the building northward, first to a six-column building (fig. 5) in the Late Roman period (Synagogue 2) and then to an eight-column building in the Byzantine period (Synagogue 3). Expanding the building’s size in this manner and continuously raising floor levels and then plastering them over and in Synagogue 3 even covering over the two bemas and laying a new floor on top of them 15. The coin catalogue and essay in Meyers and Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Nabra­ tein,were prepared by Gabriela Bijovsky; see chapter 10, “Numismatic Report.”

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Fig. 5.  Interior of Synagogue 2a, ca. 250 c.e. to 306 c.e., looking south (drawing by Lindsey Bute).

had the indirect consequence of preserving a good amount of chronologically related materials (coins and pottery) so that the various earlier building phases could be dated securely. In addition, because the southern façade wall remained the same in all phases, founded on bedrock at an elevation of 678.185 m, and bedrock is deeper at the southern end, the debris levels allowed a better buildup of phases to be discerned by the excavators. We are assuming that the southern façade wall would have been of ashlar construction in this early phase, as it was in all its later phases. Although the closing wall on the north side of the building, interrupted in the northeast by a second entrance, is the least well-preserved of all the walls (surely because the building expanded in a northerly direction in each phase), soundings into the floor and up against the lowest sections of the wall allowed the recovery of

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Fig. 6.  Stone-by-stone site plan. Note the remains of the synagogue(s) in NE in Field I. Note the underground chambers in the foreground, Field III.

ceramics that were uniformly ER–MR in date and nothing later than MR (L 1015, 1025, 1026), no doubt recoverable because they were sealed by the plaster flooring above from Synagogue 2 and also by the latest floor of Synagogue 3. The situation in respect to the interior sections of the eastern wall as well as the western wall, soundings up against each of them produced additional clean Middle Roman ceramic data from the materials sealed by the Synagogue 1 flooring, L. 1015.1 and L. 2019.1. The point-1 loci (L 1015.1 and L 2019.1) represent the 10 cm of silt-type earthen fill that was recovered under the plaster. Nothing in these fills and buckets dated later than MR, and many if not the majority of the sherds recovered dated to the ER period, no doubt relating to the structures from the pre-synagogue phases in the first century and after. Among the objects found in the makeup for the plaster floor of Synagogue 1 were a bone weaving tool, a chalk-stone mug base, lamp fragments, and a painted piece of plaster—all pointing to domestic space. Soundings up against the western wall, from the exterior down to bedrock and under the later pathway of Synagogue 3, produced a surprising amount of MR materials, including

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two second-century coins of Severus Alexander (coin catalogue nos. 21 and 22) dating to 222–35 c.e., but always with a few Byzantine period sherds, which is not surprising since the courtyard there and the alleyway were laid down in the sixth century, when Synagogue 3 was dedicated. The internal furnishing of the broadhouse structure included benching (that was not well preserved) on each wall. On the interior of the western wall, it was preserved only at founding level, and on the eastern wall a much larger section of the benching is preserved down to its foundation, which is on bedrock and consists of two rows of fieldstones with a rubble core. The bench is plastered on its inner face. The evidence for the benching on the northern wall is less certain since, when the building was extended northward and enlarged, the bench would have been dismantled. Nonetheless, a “shadow” of a bench was visible in the plaster floor during excavation. As we have already noted, Synagogue 1 also included the two bemas attached to the southern wall of the building on either side of the main entrance. The bema to the west is L 1014, which is keyed into the southern wall (L 1007 = 6006) and the western wall (L 1005 = 6033), and the one to the east is L 2028, which is keyed into the southern wall east of the doorway (L 2003 = 5011) and the eastern wall (L 2002 = 5010). Both are laid down on bedrock and have three founding courses, upon which are placed two additional fixed courses to raise the height to 92 cm, the top level at elevation 679.465, or about 1 m above floor level, which is at 680.35 m. The west platform is preserved to a width of 3.17 m and is thus somewhat wider than the eastern platform, which extends 2.62 m along the southern wall. The discrepancy in height may arise from the nature of bedrock underneath and the existence of underground chambers that predate Synagogue 1. Since each platform protrudes nearly 1 m above the plaster floor of Synagogue 1 (L 1015), which is not preserved in either corner because of the existence of these structures, it is most likely that they had some sort of function in the building. Similarly, the stylobates were founded on bedrock, and the plaster floor of Synagogue 1 (L1015) ran up to and not beneath the stylobates, indicating that they also protruded above floor level and hence were probably used to support columns. This is not clear in the block plan and only barely visible on the stone-by-stone plan (fig. 6). 16 So just as in the case of the stylobates, it is clear that the two bemas also jutted out well above floor level (L 1015) and therefore in all probability had some sort of function  that could be associated with the liturgy of the synagogue. In my opinion, the most likely scenario for explaining these structures is that they were used in association with the reading of Torah during the service. In view of the fact that we have an indication that there was something in the dead center of the building, on the basis of the break in the flooring (L 1015)— possibly a reader’s lectern or table—the excavators suggest that the SW bema was for storage of the scroll(s) and the bema in the SE had another function, possibly for display of the scroll in use or for the seat of honor. 16.  See also Meyers and Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Nabratein, 22, fig. 5.

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The case of the southwest corner is helpful in understanding the situation of each of the two corners and the role of these unusual platforms. The southwest corner is where the German team of Kohl and Watzinger 17 made a few soundings and hence is somewhat disturbed, judging by the nature of the rubble found there. Nonetheless, because of the state of preservation of the bema with the upside-down ark pediment in it from Synagogue 2a, we must posit that boards or beams were attached onto the stubs as they were preserved, and in the case of Synagogue 1 at a lower level, and keyed into the western wall, or the eastern wall in the southeast corner. John Younger, in his essay in the final report, suggests that the ark block pediment was probably sculpted for the original Middle Roman structure on the basis of stylistic and other considerations. 18 Regardless of one’s opinion on the date of the ark block pediment with rampant lions, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that the two rectangular platforms attached to the southern wall and protruding well above the surface of the floor of Synagogue 1 had anything but a liturgical function. If we relate them to the impression in the middle of the plaster floor building, designated L 1029 and measuring ca. 70–80 cm, then we might think of the medieval synagogue plan which featured a Torah Shrine on the orienting wall facing Jerusalem and a reader’s platform or table in the middle of the building where the Torah was read. The bema in the southwest, then, would have had a repository for the Torah scrolls, possibly wooden and portable, since we are not certain of whether there was a fixed stone repository or not, and the one in the southeast might have had a standing menorah or several seats of honor. In any case, the organization of the internal space is most suggestive of what becomes so common in later synagogues. Doron Chen 19 has been so interested in the dimensions of Synagogue 1 and the fact that it is a broadhouse plan that he has suggested that the plan of the building reflects the design pattern and unit of measurement of the standard Roman pes. In addition, he recognizes in the proportion of 4:3 the use of the Pythagorean triangle (3:4:5), regularly used in antiquity for laying out right angles on the ground. If he is correct in his analysis, the layout for Synagogue 1 is the result of a very careful planning process, using known classical standards and procedures of measurements. In addition, he suggests that the adoption of the broadhouse plan at such an early date gives further credence to Avigad’s view 20 that the Galilean synagogues may be traced back to the plan of the Masada synagogue. Whether or not I would go so far as to agree on this point, it is clear that as one of the earliest if not the earliest of the 17. H. Kohl and C. Watzinger, Antike Synagoge in Galilaea (Leipzig: Wissenschaftliche Veröffenlichung der deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 1916), 103 and pl. 14. 18.  See chapter 2, section 3 in Meyers and Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Nabratein: “Architectural Elements and Sculptures,” 78–92. 19.  “The Ancient Synagogue at Nabratein: Design and Chronology,” PEQ 119 (1987): 45. 20.  N. Avigad, “The ‘Galilean’ Synagogue and Its Predecessors,” in Ancient Synagogues Revealed (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982), 42–44.

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Galilean synagogues, Synagogue 1 at Nabratein is surely important in considering the development of the synagogue in post-70 Israel. Now let us briefly consider how the excavators arrived at a Middle Roman date for Synagogue 1 if it is not already clear. What I have not done in this brief essay is go through the evidence for the dating of the two phases of Synagogue 2, which overlays Synagogue 1 and certainly influences the dates chosen for the earlier structure. In the final report, the excavators date the construction of Synagogue 2a to the Late Roman period, ca. 250 c.e., and its collapse by earthquake to 306 c.e., with its final phase after renovation standing till 363 c.e. Synagogue 3 is constructed according to the date formula in the lintel inscription to 564 c.e., along with coins in its refounding, and survives till ca. 700 c.e., once again based on extensive numismatic evidence under the last floor. This implies that the site was abandoned for two centuries. What is important about this chronology is that Synagogue 1 was extensively rebuilt and enlarged around the mid-third century c.e. The question, then, is how long might the earlier synagogue have been used and when was it constructed? I have given only a summary of some of the most important data that led the team to conclude a second-century date for Synagogue 1’s construction. First, the chalk-stone vessels, lamps, coins, and pottery sealed by Synagogue 1 can date no later than to around the Second Revolt or the early second century. Among the lamp fragments was a huge supply of Herodian lamp nozzles, clearly manufactured in the south and indicative of the changing demographics after 70 c.e. The ceramics, chalk-stone vessels, and a first-century inkwell recovered either in the declivities or in the structures attached to the perimeter wall in Field IV are uniformly ER. So at the very least, the earliest synagogue is post-ER and MR. The final report has a fairly extensive discussion of the pottery related to this structure. The fact that so much of it was recovered in the founding layers of Synagogue 1 and was excavated below its plastered floor and must be dated MR is striking and in my opinion decisive. Only three coins were found in loci that could help date the founding of the building. Coin no. 27, found in Locus 2027 and excavated in the accumulated debris and fill below the plaster flooring is key. While it has no specific date on it, it can clearly be dated to the second century c.e. and is of a type that fits well into the mid-second century. The other two coins found outside the western wall at or near bedrock are dated to the third century and to Severus Alexander (222–35 c.e.). But there are no Roman-period structures there, and hence the coins are not sealed by anything from above and may simply point to a time in the history of the building or possibly to the renovations associated with the expansion associated with Synagogue 2a, which would put it a bit earlier than we have suggested. In any case, the building, in the view of the excavators, is securely dated to the second century on the basis of Coin no. 27 and the sealed pottery associated with the critical loci recovered from many locations within the building itself. In my view too, even when the pottery readings were MR, which theoretically ranges from the second to third centuries, depending on the forms we are talking about, the large and oftentimes dominant number of ER sherds in each bucket suggested to me a date

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on the earlier MR side of things than on the later side. This is a principle of ceramic typological analysis that has been operational in many circles for a very long time but is at the same time a principle that does not enjoy universal acceptance or even much scholarly elaboration, though I have done this in a few places. 21 All this has led me and our excavation team to believe that Synagogue 1 may be responsibly assigned a date of the mid-second century. Its internal configuration with the two bemas and wall of orientation facing south toward Jerusalem and the possible reader’s table in the middle clearly suggest that, at an early date, many of the characteristics of the later synagogues can be identified and associated with Synagogue 1. In addition, Synagogue 1 certainly puts another face on the situation of the so-called synagogue gap after 70 c.e. and makes it quite likely that future excavations will find other ancient synagogues from the period of the so-called gap. The suggestion that Synagogue 1 also used classical standards of measurement and design in the planning process offers a possibly intriguing line of interpretation. If indeed the broadhouse plan and design along with its use of the Pythagorean triangle and Roman pes have been correctly identified, then we may tentatively say something quite important about the population of Upper Galilee in the period after the two wars with Rome—namely, that in their use of Roman architectural standards they demonstrate a willingness to participate, up to a point, in the Greco-Roman culture that was enveloping much of the larger world around them. However, the number of Herodian lamp fragments, chalk-stone vessels, and the unique interior arrangement of space demonstrate that the Jewish population was absolutely devoted to its own unique traditions that were reflected in its distinctive Jewish character. Nabratein’s relative isolation in the Upper Galilee but accessibility to the Phoenician coast allowed it to participate in both worlds, the Jewish world of Roman-period Palestine and the classical world of antiquity that was enveloping much of the eastern Mediterranean. 21.  The issue of ceramic analysis and the percentage of a particular kind of sherd in a bucket is very complicated, and most excavation records are not able to determine this successfully without actually counting. I have dealt with this question in two places: in the final report of Gush Halav by the author and Carol Meyers, Excavations at the Ancient Synagogue of Gush Ḥalav (Meiron Excavation Project 5; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 130–38; and in my essay, “The Dating of the Gush Halav Synagogue: A Response to Jodi Magness,” in Judaism in Late Antiquity, part 3; Where We Stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism, vol. 4: The Special Problem of the Synagogue (ed. A. Avery-Peck and J. Neusner; Leiden, Brill, 2003), 49–70.

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Appendix of Tannaitic Sources That Mention Beth Hakneset (bt hknst) Prepared by Yael Wilfand The purpose of this list is simply to support the contention of Levine quoted at the outset of this paper that the literary sources for the “early” synagogue and its liturgy are abundant in tannaitic materials and that the lack of archaeological support for a purpose-designated structure may not be decisive in any way in drawing conclusions about its status in the post-70 era, when synagogue building is amply documented in the material record—namely, in the second half of the third century c.e. Not all of the following references may clearly be understood to refer to such a purpose-designated structure, though the vast majority certainly do. Mishnah Ber. 7:3; Ter. 11:10; Bik. 1:4; Pesaḥ. 4:4; Sukkah 3:13; Roš Haš. 3:7; Meg. 3:1, 3:2, 3:3; Ned. 2:9, 5:4–5; Šebu. 4:10; Neg. 13:12; and ʾAbot 3:10 (not a synagogue but study house). Tosefta Ber. 2.4; Ter. 1.10; Maʿś. 2.20; Bik. 2.8; Šabb. 16.22; Pesaḥ. 10.8; Taʿan. 2.4, 3.4; Roš Haš. 2.7; Yoma 3.18; Sukkah 2.10, 4.5, 4.6; Meg. 2.3, 2.5, 2.12, 2.13, 2.14, 2.16, 2.17, 2.18, 3.12, 3.21, 3.22; Soṭah 6.3; B. Qam. 11.3; B. Meṣiʿa 11.23; ʾOhal. 4.2; Neg. 6.3, 7.11; Ṭehar. 8.10. In addition, there are at least six references in tannaitic midrashim.

The Synagogue as Foe in Early Christian Literature Leonard V. Rutgers Universiteit Utrecht

Introduction One of the salient characteristics of late antique urbanism is that synagogues began dotting the urban landscape. This phenomenon was not limited to the land of Israel, where such a development might have been expected. In the Diaspora too—and particularly in the later Roman Empire’s eastern half—synagogues now began to stand out architecturally. Frequently located in prominent positions within the cities’ urban topography, the synagogues of Late Antiquity took on the shape of monumental buildings. And not just of any monumental building, but of monumental buildings that were clearly recognizable as Jewish houses of worship. Dedicatory inscriptions, distinctive iconographic programs, and specific architectural elements such as apses for the installment of Torah shrines were all instrumental in helping to ensure that no one would mistake these buildings for anything but Jewish. In light of the history of modern research on the ancient synagogue, it should not surprise us that scholars have begun to come to grips with this phenomenon and its implications only recently. Even as little as 30 years ago, Lee Levine’s magnum opus on the ancient synagogue could not have been written for lack of consistent archaeological evidence. 1 It is only now that continued excavations and publications allow us to deal with the evidence in toto as we try to integrate exciting recent discoveries in such far-away places as Bova Marina, Plovdiv, and Saranda—let alone sites excavated in the land of Israel, including a fascinating synagogue discovered one and a half decades ago at Sepphoris, among several others. 2 1.  Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (2nd ed.; New Haven, CT: Yale Uni­ver­sity Press, 2005). 2.  Liliana Costamagna, “La sinagoga di Bova Marina (secc. IV–VI),” in I beni culturali ebraici in Italia (ed. Mauro Perani; Ravenna: Longo, 2003), 93–118; David Noy, Alexander Panayotov,

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But it is not just the geographical scope of this phenomenon—the architectural rise to prominence of the synagogue in Late Antiquity—that impresses. The chronology of the phenomenon is no less intriguing. It was precisely in the fourth century as Christianity became a major force in terms of popular support as well as imperial backing that synagogues were constructed on a massive scale. In the early fifth century, imperial law as enshrined in the Theodosian Code began to forbid Jews to build new synagogues. 3 Less than a generation later, Roman lawgivers then reformulated this law in even more aggressive terms, specifying that any newly erected synagogue would be transformed into a Christian church automatically. 4 This chain of events hints at a pattern documented more fully by the archaeological evidence itself: namely, that in spite of such legislation, Jews regularly continued to build and rebuild synagogues whenever they had the means to do so. Thus, there is nothing in the history of synagogue architecture toward the very end of Antiquity that forbids the late chronology of the Sardis and Hammath Tiberias synagogues as proposed by Jodi Magness in two recent, carefully documented essays. 5 Once built, late antique synagogues were used intensively, sometimes for decades and, at other times, for centuries on end. It is hard to imagine that the redactors of the Theodosian Code would have been able to fathom that some of the late antique synagogues they disliked so much would indeed continue in service long after the reality of Roman and Byzantine rule had vanished irrecoverably into the past. While we cannot help but be impressed by the intensity, monumentality, nay, by the very scope of synagogue architecture in Late Antiquity, we should not forget that in itself the rise of monumental synagogue architecture in Late Antiquity is not surprising at all. In fact, it could only have occurred during this period and not earlier or later. After all, it was in the fourth century that the Jews got caught up in a maelstrom from which escape soon turned out to be impossible—one that intensified as the century progressed—namely, the Christianization of the later Roman world. Although the Christianization of Roman society during this period was evidently still far from complete, this process nonetheless affected society deeply in that it brought about an unprecedented structural change in the way different groups interacted with one another. Christianity was not just a monotheistic faith; it was also a faith that insisted on enforcing uniformity in belief (as defined by those who did the enforcing), using, not infrequently, violent means. The direct—and undoubtedly unintended—consequence of Christianity’s insistence on orthodoxy was a substanand Hanswulf Bloedhorn, Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, vol. 1: Eastern Europe (TSAJ 101; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 38–48; Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue: Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2005). 3.  CTh 16.8.25 of 423 c.e. 4.  Novella 3 of 438 c.e. 5.  Jodi Magness, “The Date of the Sardis Synagogue in Light of the Numismatic Evidence,” AJA 109 (2005): 443–76; eadem, “Heaven on Earth: Helios and the Zodiac Cycle in Ancient Palestinian Synagogues,” DOP 59 (2005): 1–52, esp. pp. 8–12.

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tial intensification of the process of identity-formation and boundary maintenance among groups that were not orthodox Christians. As for the Jews, their identity now came under attack, on a variety of levels, yet always in ways that would have been inconceivable in the pagan Roman Empire. They reacted by making their own identity more manifest. The monumentalizing and iconographic Judaization of the synagogue in Late Antiquity is one example of this process of self-manifestation. The committing onto paper of the massive corpus of rabbinic learning is another. Although I thus believe that Christianity is likely to have strengthened this process among the Jewish communities of Late Antiquity, I do not generally think that Christianity shaped it internally in the way proposed by Seth Schwartz in a wide-ranging and important recent study. 6 Whatever the correct interpretation of this phenomenon may be, it is well known that Judaism’s need to manifest itself through its religious architecture did not sit well with those trying to enforce orthodox Christianity during this same period. From the late fourth century onward, whenever the occasion arose, Christians tried to destroy synagogues or to convert them into churches—violently so, of course. It is surely no coincidence that late Roman law trying to prevent this sort of behavior comes into being in the very same years that saw the illegal and much-advertised appropriation by Christians of a synagogue belonging to the Jewish community in Callinicum on the Euphrates. 7 What is particularly striking about the laws in question is not so much their repetitiveness but the fact that they were promulgated in relatively rapid succession and that they were addressed to officials in different parts of the Roman Empire. 8 In the late fourth and early fifth centuries, then, attacks on synagogues were not just a recurring phenomenon; they also occurred Empire-wide, in very different locations. Archaeological remains of churches on top of synagogues in such diverse places as Gerasa in Jordan, Apamea in Syria, and Stobi in former Yugoslavia provide us with further, tangible proof that the framers of the Theodosian Code were not just imagining things. 9 All of this justifies the conclusion that the 6.  Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 b.c.e. to 640 c.e. (Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). 7. Ambrose, Ep. 40 and 41. And see Neil B. McLynn, Ambrose of Milan: Church and Court in a Christian Capital (Transformation of the Classical Heritage 22; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 291–313. 8.  CTh 16.8.9 of 393 c.e. addressed to the comes and master of both services in the East; CTh 16.8.12 of 397 c.e. addressed to the praefectus praetorio of Illyricum; CTh 16.8.20 of 412 c.e. addressed to the praefectus praetorio of Italy; CTh 16.8.21 of 420 c.e. addressed to the praefectus praetorio of Illyricum (the same official but not the same person as in CTh 16.8.12); CTh 16.8.25, 16.8.26, and 16.8.27, all of 423 c.e. and all addressed to the praefectus praetorio of the East. 9.  Beat Brenk, “Die Umwandlung der Synagoge von Apamea in eine Kirche: Eine menta­ litätsgeschichtliche Studie,” in Tesserae: Festschrift für Josef Engemann (ed. Ernst Dassmann; Münster: Aschendorff, 1991), 1–25. Estée Dvorjetski (“The Synagogue-Church at Gerasa in Jordan: A Contribution to the Study of Ancient Synagogues,” ZDPV 121 [2005]: 140–67) fails to add anything substantial to the discussion concerning this monument.

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fourth century not only saw the architectural rise to prominence of the synagogue; it saw—concurrently and in various locations—its physical demise. In a passage dealing with the destruction of the synagogues in Late Antiquity, Lee Levine has tried to explain this phenomenon by pointing at the evidence provided by this same Theodosian Code—evidence that indicates that this took place in a climate generally characterized by a change in attitude toward Jews and Judaism. 10 On a general level, this is surely correct. However, contemporary evidence such as this does not fully explain either the viciousness or the scale of the destruction, let alone the change in mentality that led to it in the first place. As I will argue at some length below, I believe that the changed climate was the result of a new, typically Christian mentality that had been in the making for some time. Careful analysis of the writings of the church fathers reveals that in the centuries leading up to the era of synagogue destruction there was an interesting semantic shift in the ways these theologians talked about “the synagogue.” It is this shift that, in my view, stands at the basis of synagogue destruction in Late Antiquity. Without it, this activity would have been inconceivable.

Semantic Shifts A well-known mid-first-century Jewish inscription in Greek from Berenice in Roman North Africa provides us with all the evidence we need to show that from early Roman times onward the Greek term συναγωγή had a double meaning. In this inscription, συναγωγή is used to describe a specific Jewish community, yet in the very same sentence it is also employed to refer to the actual communal center used by this community. 11 Contemporary textual and inscriptional evidence originating from all parts of the Roman Empire indicates that this double meaning of the term συναγωγή was widespread. Not only in Greek but also in Latin the term synagoga was borrowed and commonly used by Jews and non-Jews alike either to describe a particular Jewish community or to refer to a particular, architecturally distinct Jewish communal center. 12 As time went on, and especially in the later Roman Empire, the term συναγωγή came to replace the earlier term προσευχή almost completely. Even though there is 10. Levine, Ancient Synagogue, 298–99. 11.  Gert Lüderitz, Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika (BTAVO B 53; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1983), no. 72. 12.  In his classic essay “Proseuche und Synagoge: Jüdische Gemeinde, Gotteshaus und Gottesdienst in der Diaspora und in Palästina” (in Tradition und Glaube: Das frühe Christentum in seiner Umwelt—Festgabe für Karl Georg Kuhn zum 65. Geburtstag [ed. G. Jeremias et al.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1971], 157–84, esp. pp. 181–83), Martin Hengel argued that the use of the term synagogue as a building occurred only after the term proseucha had been pushed into the background. Note that these two meanings are, in any case, closely related: it is not difficult to see how a building can be considered pars pro toto for the community using it or, alternatively, how a community can be seen through the prism of the building in which it congregates.

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isolated evidence to suggest that users of Latin likewise borrowed this latter term from the Greek, thus ensuring its survival into Late Antiquity, the actual documentation for such a survival beyond the second century is lacunose to the extreme. 13 To judge from the writings of the church fathers, especially those writing in Latin, in Late Antiquity hardly anyone still knew what was meant by προσευχή/proseucha. The meaning of the term συναγωγή/synagoga, by contrast, was known to all. When one peruses patristic literature that refers to “the synagogue,” there is much evidence for continuity in that the church fathers understood the term in the same way as their non-Christian predecessors, their contemporaries such as the redactors of the Theodosian Code, and indeed the writers of the NT—namely, as reference to either a building or to a Jewish community. Thus, Justin in the second century, Hippolytus in the third, and John Chrysostom and Ambrose in the fourth all have actual buildings in mind when they use the term “synagogue” in their writings. 14 In the first half of the fifth century, Socrates Scholasticus obliges his readers by observing that that “synagogue” is the term used to refer to “houses of prayer.” 15 Even so, toward the very end of the sixth century, Gregory the Great can be found using the term regularly and as a matter of course to refer to synagogue buildings in the possession of Jewish communities in Terracina, Palermo, and Cagliari. 16 Careful study of these patristic texts also reveals that in due course the authors of these texts began moving beyond the two meanings observed above. In fact, a subtle yet consequential semantic shift began to manifest itself in these writings—a shift that took its departure from the idea that “synagogue” was used frequently to denote a given Jewish community. The best way to illustrate this semantic shift is by citing a passage from Augustine’s massive commentary on the book of Psalms. In his commentary on Psalm 82, Augustine observes: By the synagogue we understand the people of Israel, because synagogue is the word properly used of them, although they were also called the church. Our congregation, on the contrary, the apostles never called synagogue but always ecclesia; whether for the sake of distinction, or because there is some difference between a congregation whence the synagogue has its name and a convocation whence the church is called ecclesia: for the word congregation (or flocking together) is used of cattle and The intimate linkage of these two meanings explains why it is sometimes difficult to determine which of these two meanings was intended by the ancients. 13.  Second century: Juvenal, Sat. 3.296; CIL 6.9821 (normally assumed to refer to a Jewish house of prayer); Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn, Eastern Europe, Pan 5 (conjectural, and possibly not Jewish); CPJ no. 432.57 (113 c.e.). Fourth century: David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, vol. 1: Italy (excluding the City of Rome), Spain and Gaul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), no. 180 (in Greek, and likely to be Jewish); Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn, Eastern Europe, BS 4 (survival of earlier local usage). 14. Justin, Dial. 16, 17, 72, and 96; Hippolytus, Haer. 9.7; John Chrysostom, Adv. Jud., passim; Ambrose, Ep. 40 and 41. 15. Socrates, Hist. eccl. 7.13. 16. Gregory, Ep. 1.34; 2.6; 8.25; 9.38; 9.195.

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In this passage, at least three things happen that merit our attention. First of all, Augustine equates “synagogue” with “the people of Israel.” This is a clear and definite departure from earlier practice. Traditionally, whenever the term “synagogue” was used in its meaning of “community,” it was always understood as referring to a specific community. That this is so follows, for example, from a famous passage in the book of Acts or from the rich collection of third- and fourth-century funerary inscriptions from the Jewish catacombs of Rome that contain references to no less than a dozen specific Jewish communities. 17 In our passage, however, Augustine moves away from such an understanding by expanding the original meaning: rather than considering the term “synagogue” as merely referring to a specific community, he now defines it as referring to all the Jews or, as he phrases it, the entire “people of Israel.” By expanding its original meaning, Augustine thus substitutes a concrete notion for one that is unspecified, potentially stereotypical and, in any event, completely atemporal. In Augustine, then, “the synagogue” and “the Jews” are not just coterminous. They have become interchangeable and synonymous. To substantiate this declarative expansion of the original meaning of the term “synagogue” further, Augustine then moves on by contrasting the synagoga with an institution he presents as wholly different from it: the ecclesia. This sort of strategy is interesting, not only in terms of substance, but also in terms of terminology. As is well known, the term ecclesia was used from an early time period onward by Christian communities to refer to individual communities. 18 However, it could also be used to refer to the sum or totality of these early Christian communities. In these cases, ecclesia simply meant ‘the church’. 19 It is evident that in this particular respect the term ecclesia differed fundamentally from the term synagoga. After all, as we have seen, synagoga when used to refer to a Jewish community was always used in Roman times in reference to a specific Jewish community. Even though many of these communities saw themselves as constituent part of a larger, overarching whole—the Jewish people and its history—there never was such thing as “the synagogue.” This state of affairs—a fundamental difference between synagoga and ecclesia in organizational characteristics—does not seem either to have impressed or to have bothered Augustine. Instead, he freely superimposed the generalized notion of “the church” onto the individual Jewish “synagogues” so as to create two institutions that henceforth could be contrasted fully and unreservedly with one another. In Augustine, “the church” 17.  Acts 6:9; David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, vol. 2: The City of Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 539–40 with references to the inscriptions in question. 18.  In the NT, the early Christian community is always called ecclesia, never “synagogue,” with one exception, Jas 2:2. 19.  Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 74–110.

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and “the synagogue” are not just on a par. They have become each other’s significant other. The result of depriving the term synagoga of its specificity and of imposing a more generalist notion on it is that from then on the term became a hollow vessel, as it were, that could begin to be filled at will with new meaning. It should hardly come as a surprise to note that the new meaning that was now being imputed was decidedly negative. In our passage, Augustine observes that the difference in terminology between the ecclesia and the synagoga is not merely fuelled by a desire for the one to be distinct from the other. While trying to find Latin equivalents for these terms, Augustine also argues that there is a substantial difference between the two institutions in that the one is but a congregatio or gathering of cattle, whereas the other is a true convocatio or gathering of people. Being the only church father who links the synagoga to the term congregatio in its meaning ‘gathering of animals’, Augustine does not merely deny the Jews reasonability as human beings. 20 He is effectively saying that the synagogue is an animal’s den and implying that the Jews congregating in it are beasts. In Augustine, then, “the synagogue” is so much more than just the church’s significant other: it also is an evil twin that must be abused verbally whenever the occasion arises. 21 To characterize the ensemble of Augustine’s thoughts on the synagogue as relativement moderé is to speak utter nonsense. 22 In conclusion, it is evident that, despite its brevity, our passage reflects a fundamental change in the way the term synagoga was defined in late antique Christian circles: being turned into the church’s quintessential other, the term “synagogue” 20.  The term congregatio as such derives from the Vetus Latina, where it is used to translate the term συναγωγή of the LXX, pace Israel Peri, “Ecclesia und synagoga in der lateinischen Übersetzung des Alten Testaments,” BZ 33 (1989): 245–51, esp. p. 249. Congregatio in the sense of animal’s den is one of the several standard meanings of this term; see TLL 6:288–89 and Mittellateinisches Wörterbuch 2:1410–12. The application of this particular meaning to “the synagogue,” however, is Augustine’s doing. The only other Father to use this explanation is Cassiodorus, Exp. Ps. 81.41. Inasmuch as Cassiodorus was greatly impressed by Augustine’s commentary on the Psalms and used it for his own work on the Psalms, we may assume that Cassiodorus borrowed this idea directly from Augustine. Cf. also Eusebius Gallicanus, Coll. Hom. 49.31: Synagoga est nationis unius congregatio, ecclesia est universarum gentium multitudo. 21.  Note that the same kind of reasoning also appears in Augustine’s commentary on Ps 74:1 and in Exp. Quaest. Rom. 2. There (and in Enarrat. Ps. 73 and 86.1) Augustine adds the interesting observation that Asaph is yet another term for congregation or synagogue. It is not clear to me whence Augustine—who was not a vir trilinguis—derived this notion. Even though the Hebrew Bible understands Asaph as a name and therefore as a reference to an actual person or set of persons (see Harry P. Nasuti, Tradition History and the Psalms of Asaph [SBLDS 88; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988], 161–91), Augustine’s explanation reflects the original Hebrew meaning of this name; cf. Martin Noth, Die israelitischen Personennamen im Rahmen der gemeinsemitischen Namengebung (Hildesheim: Olms, 1980 [1928]), 181–82. In light of what was observed in n. 20 above, it is not surprising that Cassiodorus frequently refers to Asaph in precisely the same fashion, in Exp. Ps. 49.6, 72.27, 75.8, 77.6, 78.3, 78.6, 80.34, and 81.41. 22.  As does Émilien Lamirande in his descriptive essay “Reliquit et matrem synagogam: La synagogue et l’église selon Saint-Augustin,” Augustiniana 41 (1991): 677–88, esp. p. 688.

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now became synonymous not just with the entire Jewish people but with everything that was bad and despicable. Although the passage in Augustine provides us with a prime example of a semantic shift that came about among Christian theologians writing about the synagogue, it should be stressed that Augustine was neither the first nor the only church father to conceive of “the synagogue” in this way. As early as the second century, this shift (one by which the term “synagogue” was abstracted into a construct that existed only in the minds of early Christian theologians but that lacked a counterpart in real life) was already well underway. Early church fathers such as Justin Martyr and Origen in the East and Tertullian in the West can already be observed to speak of “the synagogue” in abstract rather than in concrete terms as they sought to highlight the contrast between the church and the synagogue as dogmatically uniform yet mutually exclusive and diametrically opposed categories. 23 It also figures that we should encounter, in the works of these same early Fathers, the term “synagogue of the Jews” or “synagogue of Israel.” 24 Terminology of this sort reflects the desire to equate, in a generalizing fashion, a particular religious institution with an entire yet otherwise consciously undefined group within the later Roman Empire. By the fourth century, everyone was using the term synagoga Iudaeorum— this in spite of the fact that, by this time, the addition “of the Jews” had very much become a pleonasm. 25 In the later fourth century, the term “synagogue” no longer needed any additions for it to be used synonymously with “the Jews.” As Augustine stated rather plainly, “the synagogue has come to be held for a kind of proper name for the Jewish people,” and “wherever we may have heard synagogue, we are no longer wont to understand any but the people of the Jews.” 26 No special pleading is needed to argue that these developments did little to strengthen the societal position of the Jewish communities of Late Antiquity. In the perception of some of the major figures of the early Christian movement, the term “synagogue” conjured up a whole range of interrelated and alarmingly negative meanings: from the innocuous individual building to the entire community of unbelievers assumed to be associated with it, and from an isolated locus of sin and evil to the church’s quintessential opponent. However, the emergence of such views—important and pervasive though they were—still does not explain fully the ferociousness of the attacks on synagogues that began to materialize in the later fourth century, or even the fact that they occurred at all. Rather, it was the constant negative rhetoric that accompanied this new, typically early Christian notion of “the synagogue” that must be blamed for transforming early Christian communities from passive listeners into active rabble-rousers vis-à-vis the Jews. 23. Justin, Dial. 53; Apos. Con. 2.56; Origen, Comm. Matt. 14.17; Tertullian, Marc. 5. 24. Pseudo-Justin, Coh. Gr. 13; Tertullian, Marc. 5; idem, Adv. Jud. 5. 25. Hilary, Comm. Ps. 54.8; Chromatius, Sermo 30.1; Augustine, Doctr. chr. 4.14. Cf. also CTh 16.8.2. 26. Augustine, Enarrat. Ps. 83.1 and 74.1. For similar usage of the term, see Jerome, Epist. 32.

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Early Christian Rhetoric against “the Synagogue” We have just seen that in the writings of the church fathers there is strong tendency no longer to understand the term “synagogue” as a reference to a concrete institution located in place and time. Depriving the term of its historicity and denying the community it referred to all of its individual features, the Fathers opted for an abstracted, more generic understanding instead. The generalization of this term then allowed the Fathers their next move, which was to begin infusing it with new layers of meaning. Inasmuch as “the synagogue” had become coterminous with “the Jews,” it is only to be expected that the whole repertoire of prejudices against the Jews now began to be transferred onto the “the synagogue” as well. In fact, from this point on, the synagogue becomes a pars pro toto: in patristic literature, the mere mentioning of the term “synagogue” induced the Fathers to tap into a larger, preexisting reservoir of generic and often hermeneutically constructed anti-Jewish sentiments. In sermons in particular, the Fathers can be seen to develop some sort of a “free style”—that is, a type of exegetical exposition in which all kinds of (frequently outlandish) associations are proposed and presented as proper theological exercise. Among the most characteristic features of early Christian rhetoric regarding the synagogue is, on the one hand, its variety and, on the other, the consistent recurrence of certain standard motifs. While the categorizing of all this evidence is a rather daunting task, early Christian writing on the synagogue may nonetheless be classified into the following three categories. On the most basic level, there is name-calling. As is well known, the irascible John “Goldmouth” Chrysostom holds the dubious honor of being early Christianity’s undisputed champion in the area of anti-Jewish vituperation. He compares the synagogue to a theater or gathering place of “effeminates and a great rubbish heap of harlots,” calling it “a dwelling of demons and place of idolatry,” a “shrine of men who have been rejected, dishonored, and condemned,” “a lodging place for robbers and cheats,” a place containing an “invisible altar of deceit on which they sacrifice not sheep and calves but the souls of men,” and, finally, a “fortress of the devil . . . the precipice and pit of destruction.” 27 Yet, in the later fourth century, Chrysostom was not alone in this kind of anti-Jewish verbal abuse. In these very same years, he was joined in the West by Latin Fathers such as Zeno of Verona, who called the synagogue a spelunca latronum; by Chromatius of Aquileia, who compared the synagogue to an inn that harbored every kind of infidelity and error; and, naturally, by the bellicose Ambrose of Milan, who not only defined the synagogue as blind and as a place of shadow, but who agreed with Chrysostom on the point of reverting to the image of the “shameless harlot.” 28 In the early fifth century they, in turn, were joined by an equally uncongenial Maximus of Turin. In his sermons, he variably called the 27.  John Chrysostom, Adv. Jud. 1.2; 1.3; 1.4; 1.6; 4.7; 5.12; 6.7. 28. Zeno, Tract 25 (11.68); Chromatius, Sermo 32.3 lines 83–89; Ambrose, Job 2.9; idem, Jacob 2.5.

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synagogue “polluted,” a site filled with “vile and brackish water . . . that does not wash away sins by its baptism,” “sacriligeous,” and “a place of irreligion . . . where Christ is always denied.” 29 Other proponents of Latin Christianity could not have agreed more. Thus, while allowing himself a bit of theological wishful thinking in the process, we find Caesarius of Arles preaching to his community, rather wryly, that the synagogue was simply “dead.” 30 Incidentally, this was to be expected, inasmuch as the same Caesarius noted in another sermon that the synagogue had been leprosa from the beginning. 31 On a second level, we encounter remarks on the synagogue that seem to reflect or report on real events taking place in and around actual synagogues. A series of well-known and frequently studied passages to the effect that the Jews were cursing Christians during services as well as Tertullian’s familiar indicting declaration that synagogues were “fountains of persecution” all fall into this second category. 32 As for the anti-Christian prayers, modern scholarly consensus holds that the Fathers confused Gentile Christians with Jewish Christians. 33 More pertinent still, the observations of the Fathers are not indicative of intimate familiarity with the substance of contemporary Jewish liturgical practice or, on a more general level, with the workings of the synagogue as a complex, multifaceted institution. With regard to Tertullian, there can be no doubt that his accusation is historically incorrect. Not only are there a variety of reasons why systematic persecutions of Christians are unlikely to have originated in the synagogues of the Roman Empire, we also lack independent external evidence to confirm or even suggest that this was ever the case. However, we do have quite a bit of evidence that church fathers picked up this idea as a scriptural motif as they were reading their Matthew—a Gospel that relates that no one but Jesus himself had predicted that, while he was sending them “into the midst of wolves,” the apostles would be delivered “up to councils” where “in their synagogues they will scourge you.” 34 Thus we encounter references to this particular passage in the writings of Cyril of Alexandria in the East and of Augustine in the West. 35 Their work is characteristic of a larger trend in patristic literature that uniformly understands the synagogue as a locus of persecution because it was considered specifically through the prism of the NT. By the mid-sixth century, the 29. Maximus, Sermo 20.5; 28.3; 57.3; and 87.1. 30. Caesarius, Sermo 85.5. 31.  Ibid., 95.6. 32.  For these passages, see the evidence collected by Kimelman, cited in n. 33; Tertullian, Scorp. 10. 33.  See the classic essay by Reuven Kimelman, “Birkat ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period (ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alan Mendelson; London: SCM, 1981), 226–44. Most recently, Yaakov Y. Teppler, Birkat haMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflict in the Ancient World (TSAJ 120; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007) (non vidi). 34.  Matt 10:17, 23:34. 35. Cyril, Sermo 50; Augustine, C. litt. Petil. 2.14.

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idea had put such a spell on early Christian minds that Cassiodorus found it wholly natural—in his substantial commentary on the book of Psalms—to link the notion of persecution directly to “the synagogue” and the “faithless Jews who dwell round the synagogue and not in it”—this in spite of the fact that there is absolutely nothing in the psalmist’s text that justifies an interpretation of this sort. 36 These observations bring us, rather smoothly, to the third and final category. The absolute majority of passages in patristic literature that refer to the synagogue refer to it from the perspective of texts. These texts include, naturally, the NT. They also include the Hebrew Bible, because the Christians appropriated it as their OT. It hardly needs to be stressed that the above-named phenomena—looking at “the synagogue” through the eyeglass of authoritative texts—had far-reaching ramifications for the ways in which the synagogue would henceforth be perceived in early Christian circles. This was particularly so because from an early period onward (long before the canon of the Christian Bible was finally agreed upon), Christian exegetes began reading these texts figuratively. Importantly, these efforts were not dictated by clearly defined and universally accepted hermeneutical rules. Thus, one of the less-desirable side effects of this rather uncontrolled approach to Scripture was that it permitted exegetes to read statements into the biblical texts that no longer bore any resemblance at all to whatever original meaning or meanings the texts may have had. Once this procedure had been established, it was not just the NT that could be employed to argue that “the synagogue” had become historically superfluous; the OT also could be mined indefinitely to show that God’s rejection of “the synagogue” had been imminent all along. As an example of the way that “the synagogue” was perceived through texts that were interpreted allegorically, one may refer to the patristic view of the biblical matriarchs Leah and Rachel. Beginning with a passage in the writings of Justin, from the mid-second century onward, “weak-eyed” Leah was being interpreted as prefiguring the rejected synagogue, whereas the beloved Rachel was seen as symbolizing a victorious early Christian church. 37 Once coined, the image held an enormous appeal among the Fathers in both East and West down to the very end of Antiquity and beyond. Although the following list is probably incomplete, we know that, in any case, figures such as Justin in Asia Minor, Cyprian in Roman North Africa, Commodian at an undisclosed location somewhere in the West, Jerome in Roman Palestine, Ambrose and Maximus in Italy, Gregorius of Elvira and later Isidorus of Seville in Spain, Caesarius of Arles in France, and Pope Gregory the Great in Rome were all familiar with it and propagated it in their work. 38 The reason that this image gained such popularity was not just, as Ambrose phrased it, because 36. Cassiodorus, Exp. Ps. 30.279. 37. Justin, Dial. 134. 38. Cyprian, Test. 1.20; Commodian, Instr. 1.39; Jerome, Epist. 22.21, 123.13; idem, Jov. 1.19; Maximus of Turin, Con. Jud. 5; Gregory of Elvira, In Cant. Cant. 4.5; Ambrose, Jac. 5.25; Caesarius, Sermo 88.2–4 and 104.1; Isidorus Hispalensis, All. ex Vet. Test. 28.105; Gregory, Moral. 30.25.

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Leah with her infirm eyes was “like the synagogue that could not see Christ from the blindness of spirit.” 39 Nor was it because, in the words of Cyprian, “the younger beautiful Rachel . . . brought forth Joseph, who also was himself a type of Christ.” 40 It was especially because Rachel, although the younger wife, had taken precedence over Leah. Thus, it could be argued that there was something deeply and inevitably biblical about the fact that God now favored the younger church over the much older synagogue. It is worthwhile to note in this context that this kind of early Christian supersessionist reasoning—hunting out the biblical text for models of superior, or rather, of unbeatable quality—was not an invention on the part of the Fathers. Rather it was of Pauline origin. In Rom 9:12–13, Paul observed, while paraphrasing Gen 25:23, that “it was said unto her [Rebecca], the elder shall serve the younger, even as it is written, Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.” And in Gal 4:22–31, Paul had remarked that the biblical story of the son born of the “bondswoman, Hagar” versus the son born subsequently of the “freewoman,” Sarah, should be understood allegorically as referring to two covenants. According to this second, longer passage, one of Abraham’s wives was “bearing children unto bondage,” while the other had to be understood as being the mother of us “brothers,” who “are, as Isaac was, children of promise.” Paul was perfectly clear as to what needed to be done in this situation: “cast out the handmaid and her son, for the son of the handmaid shall not inherit with the son of the freewoman.” Not surprisingly, the Fathers were all too eager to follow in Paul’s exegetical footsteps. Thus, above-mentioned themes recur in the works of Tertullian, Augustine, Maximus of Turin, and Ambrose, with the latter in particular taking this opportunity to stress that the synagogue was “the son of the slave-girl” and therefore nothing but a slave herself. 41 None of these Fathers, however, could surpass Caesarius of Arles when it came to tracking down scriptural precedents showing that in biblical times the younger had almost always been favored over the older. His preaching on “the synagogue” in one of his sermons led him to draw up a long list of pairs fitting into such a bipartite scheme: Cain and Abel, Hagar and Sarah, Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob, Leah and Rachel, Ephraim and Manasseh, Moses and Joshua (on the count that Moses, although leader of the Jewish people, was not allowed to enter the Promised Land), and Saul and David. 42 In the eyes of the Fathers of the church, then, the OT was nothing but an enormous treasure-trove in which God had ingeniously enshrined the idea that the one and only role of the synagogue in history was that of going to be surpassed by Christianity in general, and by the church in particular. As for the Fathers’ reading of the NT, one cannot but expect that the same kind of approach—the allegorical approach—was common, as in fact it was. Thus, the 39. Ambrose, Jac. 5.25. 40. Cyprian, Test. 1.20. 41. Tertullian, Adv. Jud. 5; Maximus, Sermo 28.3; Augustine, Enarrat. Ps. 78.10; Ambrose, Jac. 3.10 and 3.13; idem, Exp. Luc. 3.29. 42. Caesarius, Sermo 104 passim. See also idem, Sermo 85.5 and 86.3.

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parable in Luke 13:6–9 that relates the story of a man who wanted to cut his fig tree because it had failed to produce fruit was understood by Ambrose as referring to the Jews who, Ambrose said, fell on the ground “as unripe figs.” Ambrose also believed that it concurrently referred to the synagogue, because it should be cut down “as a barren tree.” 43 Augustine’s image of the synagogue as a withered (fig) tree has similar NT roots, as does Zeno’s notion of the synagogue as a vine no longer capable of producing grapes. 44 It hardly needs stressing that also in the case of the NT this procedure—trying to understand Scripture figuratively without the restraint of clear hermeneutical rules—enabled the Fathers to engage freely in associative thinking and to pass this off as good exegetical and, ultimately, as good pastoral practice. A few examples should suffice to show that the connections made by the Fathers in the process are really quite astonishing. Matt 24:41, which states that, at the end of times, “two women shall be grinding at the mill; one is taken and one is left” led Maximus of Turin to expand and observe that “the synagogue grinds in vain; indeed it attempts to work with one millstone, the old covenant alone and consequently it does not so much grind as scatter and destroy.” 45 The same Maximus understood the story of Jesus healing a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath as recounted in Mark 3:1–6 as having a deeper meaning: “the hand of the synagogue grew unhealthy, for whoever deserts the source, who is Christ, immediately gets sick.” 46 And the reference to two boats, one of which served Jesus as he was preaching to the masses on the shores of the Sea of Galilee (Luke 5), was again seen by Maximus as a reference to the synagogue and the church, respectively, with the synagogue-boat all of a sudden lying “empty and useless” on the shore and the church-boat belonging to Simon Peter and carrying Jesus. 47 To be sure, Maximus was not alone in approaching the NT in this way. Ambrose interpreted Luke 21:6, “there shall not be left here one stone upon another that shall not be thrown down,” not so much as a reference to the Jerusalem Temple, but as a prediction of what was about to happen to “the synagogue of the Jews.” 48 Luke 11:33—a passage stating that no man puts a lamp under a bushel but on a stand instead—was regarded by Ambrose as referring to the high priest and to the synagogue, where “the light has gone out” because it was placed under “the bushel of the law.” 49 But it was the story of the healing of the daughter of the synagogue’s archon Jairus in Luke 8:40–56 that inspired Ambrose to let go of his last bit of interpretational moderation. Thus, in his long Exposition on the Gospel of Luke, he argued that Jairus’s real 43. Ambrose, Exp. Luc. 7.172–73. Compare Luc. 7.161–65; idem, Isaac 4.36. For other passages, see Gregory Figueroa, The Church and the Synagogue in St. Ambrose (Studies in Sacred Theology 2.25; Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1949), 31–34. 44. Augustine, Sermo 39.1; cf. Matt 21:19. Zeno, Tract. XB (II.28); cf. John 15:1. 45. Maximus, Sermo 20.4–5; cf. 33.5–6. 46.  Ibid., 43.2. 47.  Ibid., 49.2. 48. Ambrose, Exp. Luc. 10.6. 49.  Ibid., 7.98–99.

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concern was not his dying little daughter but the synagogue, because it was on the brink of destruction, being driven into death after having been deserted by Jesus. 50 This totally fabricated explanation clinches the more general argument that, while none of the NT passages discussed in this paragraph has anything to do with actual synagogues, they had everything to do with the Fathers’ preconceived and hostile notions regarding “the synagogue of the Jews.” Although none of the comments we have just seen can be considered particularly congenial toward Jews, there was one area where the Fathers’ associative, free-style hermeneutics vis-à-vis “the synagogue” was to take on an especially nasty and consequential twist: in discussions of the death of Jesus. Inasmuch as patristic literature blamed the execution of Jesus on the Jews, and inasmuch as the Fathers concurrently equated “the Jews” with “the synagogue,” it was only a matter of time before “the synagogue” became coterminous with “the crucifiers of Christ.” Augustine’s work is indicative of this development. He states plainly, in his Commentary on Psalms, that “the synagogue was indeed the murderer of the Lord.” 51 To be sure, the idea can be seen to surface from a very early time onwards already—in the East in the works of Origen and in the West in a fragment of Hippolytus. 52 At this time it also makes its appearance in the earlier layers of such works as the Apostolic Constitutions. 53 Later, as the destruction of actual synagogues was underway toward the end of the fourth century, the idea that Jesus “was crucified from their synagogue” had become wholly self-evident. 54 Not only did Ambrose and Augustine refer to it as a matter of course, in far-away corners of the later Roman Empire, hymnists such as their slightly older contemporary Ephraem the Syrian did so as well. 55 It is not hard to imagine that this notion, the idea that “the synagogue” was responsible for the killing of the son of God, the savior of all of humankind, infuriated the Fathers to no small degree. However, it was only because of the pervasiveness of their associative reasoning that this idea took on a life of its own—with the result that patristic exegesis on “the synagogue” was now really spinning out of control. Where in earlier patristic thought, “the synagogue” had been considered the murderer of Jesus alone, Gregory of Elvira began expanding this idea by saying that “the synagogue” was responsible for killing everyone who had believed in Christianity’s Messiah. 56 Wherever the Fathers encountered “murder” in their texts, they now began linking it to the synagogue. Thus, commenting on the story of the death of John the Baptist in Matt 14:6–11, Maximus of Turin observed that the request of Herodias’s daughter (she had asked for the head of John as compensation for her dancing 50.  Ibid., 6.54. 51. Augustine, Enarrat. Ps. 73.4. 52. Origen, Comm. Matt. 14.17; Hippolytus, Fr. Prov. 53.  Apos. Con. 2.56. 54. Ambrose, Jos. 9.47. 55.  For Augustine and Ambrose, see the previous notes. Ephraem, Sermo de Dom. Nostro 1.25. 56.  Gregory of Elvira, In Cant. Cant. 2.3.

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on Herod’s birthday) must “be compared to the synagogue which kills Christ.” 57 In turn, Chromatius of Aquileia made the synagogue into a murderer of prophets. The passage that induced him to make this allegation, Matt 23:37, did not speak of “the synagogue” but of Jerusalem instead, but this did not bother him much. After all, were not Jerusalem and “the inhabitants of Jerusalem” and “the synagogue of the Jews” all identical? For Chromatius, Jews were the quintessential persecutors that engage in this activity “even now.” 58 What else was the synagogue but an image of that evil and heathen queen, Jezebel, the idolatrous and merciless persecutor of the prophet Elijah? 59 This rhetorical question brings us, finally, to one of the vilest and most artificial passages on the “murderous” synagogue in the work of Chromatius. Agreeing with the idea that the Jews were “serpents,” Chromatius noted that they were not to be considered just any kind of serpent but a specific subspecies, “the race of vipers.” Why? Because, unlike other snakes, vipers kill their mother instantly. The Jews had done exactly this. Through their “impiety,” they slew their mother, the synagogue. And by calling, “His blood be on us, and on our children,” they also killed their own offspring. 60 This passage completes our picture. What had begun with the allegation of the killing of a single person had now been generalized into something far more comprehensive and detrimental: in fourth-century patristic literature, “the synagogue” did not just kill Jesus, or even his followers; it was perceived as wont to kill everyone it could lay its hands on. In conclusion, three remarks need to be added. Perhaps as a result of the particular reception history of the book of Revelation in the early church, the term “synagogue of Satan” (Rev 2:9 and 3:9) does not seem to have enjoyed much of an afterlife in patristic literature. The only church father to use it freely as a standard pejorative term seems to be Jerome. 61 Second, in the absolute majority of cases, the Fathers associated the synagogue with the Jews. This is not to deny that individual Fathers were aware of the fact that Jewish-Christians might use the same term to denote their own houses of worship. 62 Nor should one wish to gloss over the fact that terms such as “the synagogue of the heretics,” “the synagogue of the Magi from Egypt,” or “the synagogue of the Antichrist” occasionally pop up in the writings of the Fathers. 63 The fact that terms of this sort exist in the first place is not so much the 57. Maximus, Sermo 88.4. 58. Chromatius, Sermo 13.1. 59.  Ibid., 25.4. The same notion recurs in Ambrose, Ep. 63.79. 60. Chromatius, Sermo 9.4. 61. Jerome, Epist. 75, 84, 112, 123, 149; Ruf. 2.12 and 2.30. Also Augustine, Bapt. 7.24. 62.  E.g., Epiphanius, Pan. 30.18.2. And compare the evidence cited by Schrage, “Συναγωγή,” TDNT 7:839. 63.  Synagogue of the heretics: Cyprian, Ep. 74.14–16; Apos. Con. 2.56. Synagogue of the Magi: Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 7.10. Synagogue of the Anti-Christ: Jerome, Lucif. 2 (referring to Arians) and Lucif. 28 (referring to Marcionites and Valentinians). Note also that CTh 7.8.2 speaks of the synagoga Iudaicae legis.

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result of the historical reality to which these terminologies purport to refer. Rather, they result first and foremost from the associative thinking of the Fathers: once the notion of “the synagogue” as the locus of evil had come into existence, it was not difficult to extend it, by means of associative reasoning, to other, non-Jewish kinds of evil, including groups of heterodox Christians. 64 The fact that fourth-century canon law decreed that the term ecclesia should never be used in reference to heretics surely strengthened the Fathers’ resolve to subsume heretics and their houses of worship under the general notion of “the synagogue.” 65 These developments also explain, third, the fairly idiosyncratic use of the terms ecclesia and synagoga in Vetus Latina and the Vulgate: while the LXX regularly translates ‫ עדה‬as συναγωγή, the Vetus Latina employs the Latin equivalent synagoga, especially when it can do so in conjunction with negative notions. The Vulgate then brings this development to a close in that it tries to eschew the term synagoga altogether whenever the word ‫ עדה‬turns up in the Biblical Hebrew sources. 66

Implications The writings of the Fathers of the early church leave no room for doubt: in Late Antiquity, a semantic shift occurred that affected the term “synagogue” deeply and definitively. “The synagogue” ceased to be an actual place or a living institution. Instead it was abstracted into something else: the very essence of evil. Sure enough, “the synagogue” did not just become the church’s significant other. From the perspective of the early church, it evolved into the quintessential nemesis. Thus, for Christians “the synagogue” became the kind of arch-enemy that pagan or heterodox Christian groups could never be. What is perhaps most striking about this process is its comprehensiveness in every possible way. For example, it was comprehensive in chronological and geographical terms. We have seen that it began manifesting itself early on in the second century and that, once this had happened, Fathers in all parts of the Roman Empire and down to the very end of Antiquity immediately picked up on it, only to elaborate on it further. There is also comprehensiveness in terms of the literary genres used to further this process. It occurs in commentaries on books of the Hebrew Bible—as in Augustine and Cassiodorus’s Psalm commentaries; in exegetical works on the NT—as in Ambrose’s exposition on the Gospel of Luke; in sermons—as in those of Chromatius of Aquileia, Maximus of Turin, or Caesarius of Arles; as well as in letters that were sent to communities all over the Mediterranean—as in those 64.  This is particularly evident in Apos. Con. 2.56. 65.  On canon law, see the short discussion and the reference in Amnon Linder, The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation (Detroit: Wayne State University Press / Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1987), 131 n. 17. 66.  For a short discussion, see Peri, “Ecclesia und synagoga”; to which add the remarks of Cassiodorus, Exp. Ps. 7.178.

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authored by Jerome. These remarks even occur occasionally in poetic works such as Commodian’s Instructiones. Finally, there is an uncanny comprehensiveness in terms of the imagery employed. As follows from the materials presented in the previous section of this essay, it is clear that the Fathers were at pains to represent the synagogue as an institution that was wholly incongruent with Christian society or, in fact, with any society. Thus they censured the synagogue from every conceivable angle: from a societal angle—the synagogue as slave and therefore socially defunct; from a legal angle—the synagogue as a home of robbers and murderers and therefore outside the law; from a moral angle—the synagogue as brothel and therefore incompatible with the ideals of Christian society; from a medical angle—the synagogue as leper and therefore both mortally ill and potentially infectious; and, naturally, from a theological angle—the synagogue as an institution that has been superseded, once and for all, by the church and therefore devoid of whatever raison d’être it may once have had. What were the effects of the Fathers’ anti-Jewish rhetoric vis-à-vis the synagogue? Were their misappropriations of Scripture nothing but exegetical exercises that arose in the heat of the moment? Or was there more to it than just that? One of the observations one could make is that the pronouncements presented in the section above should not be taken too seriously: this evidence is nothing but a condensation of ideas that, in reality, are spread evenly through an enormous corpus of literature that also deals with a great variety of other issues. Is it not true that the Fathers merely speak about the synagogue in passing? And is it not correct to observe that systematic treatises on “the synagogue” do not appear to have been very common? 67 Rather than arguing against any possible impact, we must argue that it is precisely the pervasiveness of the Fathers’ aggressive rhetoric against the synagogue that explains why, in the end, their writings had such lethal consequences for the Jews. We have seen that, without exception, the Fathers defined the synagogue in excessively negative terms. The fact that they did so—not just once, but again, and again, and again—could only have resulted in one thing: the readers of their writings and the listeners to their sermons began automatically to link “the synagogue” with everything that was undesirable and bad. The equation of “the synagogue” with “the Jews” made matters incomparably worse. After all, a whole range of dreadful things initially believed to apply to the Jews could now be applied without any restraint to the synagogue as well. By this point, the one term automatically triggered all the negative connotations associated with the other, and vice versa. By denouncing “the synagogue of the Jews” whenever the occasion arose, the Fathers were not just systematically indoctrinating their flocks. They were programming them neurolinguistically. Even worse, however, was the fact that this new definition of “the synagogue” kept interacting with the original definition. In Late Antiquity, the term “synagogue” 67.  Gennadius (De vir. ill. 58) observes that Cyril of Alexandria wrote a treatise “On the Downfall of the Synagogue.”

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was not just an abstracted notion that had been stripped of its specificity; it could still be used to refer to the actual building, as has already been observed. Having been brainwashed to regard the synagogue as the very incarnation of evil, not just naturally but inevitably, Christians began to see the actual synagogue buildings of Late Antiquity as local manifestations of a much larger phenomenon. They thus commenced to consider individual synagogue buildings as the perfidious local outgrowths of a much more abstract, deeply troubling, and fundamentally threatening kind of problem. It is at the point where the abstracted, wholly negative notion of “the synagogue” collided with the ongoing reality of the actual buildings—buildings in which people congregated who had lost their individuality as a result of patristic exegesis—that Christian theologians and the masses they addressed began to think that they now needed to translate thinking into practice. What other conclusion could one possibly draw when major ecclesiastical figures such as Ambrose argued, in reference to the dispersion of the Jewish people, that the Jews did not possess “a prescribed place of exile, but an unlimited one,” and that the purpose of this was so that “the place of the synagogue may never remain in the world”? 68 There can be little doubt indeed that the Fathers of the early church were directly responsible for what the Theodosian Code calls, in reference to the spoliation and destruction of synagogues, “illegal deeds” performed “under the name of Christian religion.” 69 Modern empirical research indicates that exposure to violent media generally increases aggression in people, especially when violence seems justified, or when it is believed to have been sanctioned by God or has biblical support. 70 In the sources we have studied in the course of this contribution, we have seen that all the ingredients necessary for the eruption of such religiously inspired violence are present in our materials as well: early Christian communities were continually exposed to preaching that stressed by means of allegorical exposition of Scripture that an immoral synagogue had killed Jesus and that God had punished this same synagogue for this through the agency of the church. Thus, it was no longer a question “if ” but “when” early Christian preaching on “the synagogue” would lead to actual violence. Early Christian writings concealed a time bomb that was ticking away ever more loudly as the fourth century entered its second half. By the time the really nasty patristic invectives against the synagogue appeared—John Chrysostom in the East; Ambrose, Zeno of Verona, Chromatius of Aquileia, and Gregory of Elvira in the West—this bomb finally exploded. 71 68. Ambrose, Exp. Luc. 9.21–22. 69.  CTh 16.8.9 of 393 c.e. Along similar lines, CTh 16.8.26 of 423 c.e. 70.  Brad J. Bushman et al., “When God Sanctions Killing: Effect of Scriptural Violence on Aggression,” Psychological Science 18 (2007): 204–7. 71.  Ramsay MacMullen (“The Historical Role of the Masses in Late Antiquity,” Changes in the Roman Empire: Essays in the Ordinary [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990], 250–76, esp. pp. 271–73) argues that in Late Antiquity the masses were not propelled into action by

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Why it happened at this point in time rather than earlier or later was probably not only the result of sustained and ever-more-intense preaching against “the synagogue” during this period by the early Christian ecclesiastical leadership. The fact that, during these same years, Christianity was declared a state religion is likely to have contributed to this process as well. So did a more general trend in early Christian thinking: coercion was a legitimate means to further the spread of what the proponents saw as the one and only true Christian religion. 72 The sheer violence that ensued as a result of all these developments was, in any case, enormous. As evidenced by the Theodosian Code, aggression was not directed only at synagogues. By the early fifth century, Jewish houses needed protection by the state as well. 73 Legislators wanting to maintain law and order passed edicts against this sort of behavior and appear to have done the best they could. Nevertheless, they were not impervious to change, nor could they go against the spirit of the times. In fact, once the example had been set with the Callinicum affair in 388 c.e., it took Christian theologians a mere 35 years to obliterate the age-old tradition of Roman legal tolerance toward Jews and to force upon the late Roman legislature their conviction that the construction of new synagogues should be outlawed once and for all. 74 Taken together, the evidence allows us to draw the following conclusion. By the end of the fourth century, “the synagogue” had become not just a formidable opponent. It had become Christianity’s quintessential foe. While this foe was largely a hermeneutical construct, Christians were not blind. In real life, the synagogue as a building assumed more monumental proportions than ever before. In addition, the community associated with it kept its appeal for Christians. For the Jews themselves, the synagogue of Late Antiquity was more than just a building: throughout the later Roman Empire in inscriptions composed in Greek, the term ὁ ἄγιος or ὁ ἁγιώτατος τόπος began to replace the more traditional συναγωγή. 75 All of this bothered sermons and preaching but by slogans that were set to music. Such an explanation is too onedimensional to be convincing. 72.  Peter Brown, “St. Augustine’s Attitude to Religious Coercion,” JRS 54 (1964): 107–16. On the lethal combination of monotheistic religion and a coercive state, see also the useful but rather declarative statements of Rodney Stark, One True God: Historical Consequences of Monotheism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 119–22. 73.  CTh 16.8.21 of 412 c.e. 74.  This happened in 423; cf. CTh 16.8.27. 75.  A quick count produced the following results as to the number of late antique (late third through mid-sixth century) inscriptions in which these terms occur: “synagogue” (as building): four versus “holy” or “most holy synagogue” or “place”: fourteen (includes one inscription in Latin). For the evidence, see Yann le Bohec, “Inscriptions juives et judaïsantes de l’Afrique romaine,” Antiquités Africaines 17 (1981): 178, no. 13; Lea Roth-Gerson, The Greek Inscriptions from the Synagogues in Eretz-Israel (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1987), nos. 10, 17, 21, and 23 [Hebrew]; William Horbury and David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), no. 17; Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn, Incriptiones Judaicae Orientis, vol. 1, Mac 7, Ach. 23, 47, 54, 58; Walter Ameling, Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, vol. 2: Kleinasien (TSAJ 99; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), nos. 20, 49, 158, 191 B, 219; D. Noy and

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Christians. Their exegetes had long told them that “the synagogue” was theologically extinct. How, then, could the existence of such monumental synagogue buildings be explained, let alone endured? While the late Roman state protected the integrity of Jewish property, at least in writing, it was the Christian redefinition of the term “synagogue” that provided early Christian preachers the powerful weapon for which they had been looking. By stripping the term “synagogue” of its particular characteristics and then appealing to a sense of retributive justice and a desire to be counted good Christians, early Christian preachers successfully turned their communities into overly excited crowds— or rather, into raging mobs ready to torch actual synagogues or to turn them into churches. Thus, the destruction of synagogues in Late Antiquity documents the fact that there is a rather sinister flip side to John Chrysostom’s infamous Adversus Judaeos. Typically used to document the continued importance of meaningful contacts between Jews and Christians and as evidence of Christianity’s inability to prevent these contacts, Chrysostom’s treatise should also be seen as part of larger and all-toosuccessful effort on the part of the Fathers to create an atmosphere in which hate crimes against the Jews and their synagogues were considered both desirable and mandatory. That the early Christian exegetical construct of “the synagogue” should spill over into reality in the way it did shows that in the later fourth century early Christian self-definition was characterized not just by a strong desire to maintain boundaries by force. The need to behave punitively toward people believed to be identical with a hermeneutically constructed “other” was no less an integral part of Christianity. Hanswulf Bloedhorn, Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, vol. 3: Syria and Cyprus (TSAJ 102; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), Syr 34. On the phenomenon of synagogue sanctity in general, see Steven Fine, This Holy Place: On the Sanctity of the Synagogue in Greco-Roman Times (Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity 11; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997).

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ĕĤčďčĥ ĐĚĕĥĤė ČĘĥđ) ĤĢč ěĐčđ ,Čė ĞĥđĐĕčĥ ęĕĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤĚ ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜčĥ ęĕĤĞ Ęĥ ěĦđĤďĞĕĐ 25.(Ďĝ đ ,Č ęĕĚĕĐ ĥĚĚ ,Βοσόρα Ēė ,Čė ĞĥđĐĕčĥ ĦĤđĝĚč ĦđČĤĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕĥ ĤĥĠČ đĘĘĐ ĦđĜģĝĚĐ ĦđčģĞč ĐĦĞ ĕĤĞč ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞė ĐĤĢđč ĦČ ěđėĜ ĘČ ĐĐĒĚĐ ĦĕČĚĢĞ ĦĤđĝĚ ęđĥĚ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĘĢČđ Č ęĕčģĚč đĚė ,ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČč ĐĕđĢĚĥ ĦĕČĚĢĞĐ ĦĤđĝĚĘ ĤđĥĕČ ęđĥĚ ģĤ ČĘ ĥĕ đĒ ĦĤđĝĚč 26.ęĕĕđđĘĐ ęĎ ĕĘđČ Đč ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕĥ ČĘČ 27,ĘĕĞĘ ĤėĒĜĐ ęĕĞčĥĐ ēĝđĜĚ ĐĕĘČ ĞďđđĦĜ ęČ ĦđČďđđč ĞđčģĘ Đĥģ ěėĥ .ěđĕďĐ ĦČ ĕĦēĦĠ đčđ ,ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĒĚĤ đĕĘČ ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĕĤĥĠČ ĤđģĚ ĦĜĕēčč Ęĥ đĦĜĞĔ ĦČ ĥďēĚ ĐĘĞĐ đĚĢĞ ďĘđČ .11 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ ĕĦĤĞĐĥ ĐĚ đČĤđ ,ĐĤđĝĚĐ ĕēĝđĜĚ ģĘēč Ėė .25 Max L. Margolis, The Book of Joshua in Greek, Part V: Joshua 19:39–24:33, with a preface by E. Tov Á ĝĕĘđĎĤĚ ĞĥđĐĕčĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤ ĘĞ ěČė đĚĢĞ ĖĚĝ (B ďĕąčĦė) ĕĜđđĕĐ ęĎĤĦĚĐĥ Á (Philadelphia, 1992), p. 411, note 2

,ĘĕĞĘ) ĤđČĕčđ ęđĎĤĦ , ďĘđČ) ,īěčđČĤ ĐĔĚĚ ĤĥĚč ĤčďĚč (Βοσορ :ęđĎĤĦčđ) ĤĢč ĦČ đĜĦĜ ĐēĤĒĚ ěďĤĕĘ ĤčĞĚđī :ē ,ė ĤĕĞĚ ČđĐ ,τήν Βοσοράν :Ēė ,Čė ĞĥđĐĕč ģđĝĠč ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĚĥ ĐĞĕĠđĚ Đčĥ ĝđčĕĔĒđģČĐ ĦĤđĢ ĘĞđ 207 ĪĚĞ ,(21 ĐĤĞĐ ĤĕĞĐ ęĥĚ ģĦĞĚ ĐĤđČėĘ đĜĕĜĠĘ ěė ĘĞ ĤĥČ .ĝđčĕĔĒđģČĐ ĦČ ĘĕėĚ Ĥčė ,Βόσορα ,đĠđĎ ęĥĐĥ ęđĥĚ ĦĤĦđĕĚ ĐĤđĢ đĒĥ ěĘđĎĘ ĦđėĕĚĝĐđ ĕĠĤĎđČĎĐ ĤĥģĐĐ ěĚ ĤđĤĕčč ĐĘđĞĐ Ĥčď ,ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđč ĤĕĞĐ ęĞ ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĤđĥĕČđ ,ĦĕĜđđĕĐ đĦĤđĢč ĤĢč ĐĚĥ ,ĕĤčďė ęČđ ,ĤĢč ęĥĐ Ęĥ ģĦĞĚ ,ďĘđČ ĦĞďė ,đĜĕĜĠĘ ęČ ,Ėė đČ Ėė .ČđĐ ĐĥģđĚ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ đĚĢĞ ĕĜĠčĥ ğČ ,ěĥččĥ ĐĤĢģĐ ĐĦĤĞĐ ęĎ đČĤ .ĦđĤĦĥĞ đČ ĐĤĦĥĞ Ęĥ ĥđčĕĥ ĖČ ĐĒ ěĕČ ĐĤđČėĘ ,ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĦđĐĒĘ ĦđģģĒĕĐ ĕĘčđ ĐĤĢđč ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ Ęĥ ĐĦđēėđĜ ęĢĞ ,ĦČĒ ęĞ .Jacqueline Moatti-Fine, La Bible d’Alexandrie: Jésus (Josué) (Paris, 1996), p. 217 Ęĥ đĘČ ĦđĘČĥ ęĘđČ ,đĘĘĐ ĦđĚĕĥĤĐ ěĕčĥ ĐģĕĒĐ čĕĔ ĘĞ ĦđĘČĥ ĦČĒ Ęėč ĦĤĤđĞĚ đ ,Č ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďč ĐĘĕčģĚĐ ĐĚĕĥĤč ĤĢč .ğĝđĜ ěđĕĞ ěđĞĔ ĤčďĐđ ,ěČė ěđĕďĐ ěĚ ĦđĎĤđē ĦđĐĒĘ ĥģčĚ ,(22 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ) ěĚĤĘģ đĚė ,ĦĕČĚĢĞ ĦĤđĝĚė ĦČĒĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ĘčģĘ ěėđĚ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĚ ĕė ğČ .26 .(49–48 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ďđČĚ Đģđēď ĦĕČĤĜĥ ĐĞĢĐ ,ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĐĤĢđčĘ ěđĠĢĚĥ ĕĤĕĤēąĘČ ĤĕĢđčč Čģđđď (Bostra) đĒ ĐĤĢđč ěĕčĥ ĐģĕĒč ěĕēčĐ ČĘ ČđĐĥ ĐČĤĜ .ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞė ĐĤĢđč ĘĞ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ĝđĕčĝđČ čČĥ ěėĕĐĚ ĤđĤĕčč ĦĞďĘ Đĥģ .27 ĕĜĥĘ ĤĥģĐč ěĕĕĢ ČĘđ ,đĚĢĞ ĕĜĠč ĖĤĞ đĘČĐ ĦđĚĥĐ ěĚ ďēČ ĘėĘ ģĕĜĞĐ ěėĥ ,ęĕĕĜĤģ ĦđĤĦĥĞ đČ ĦđĤĦĥĞĘ ĐĤĦĥĞč ĖđĚĝĘ ęČ ,ĐĒ ēĝđĜ ĕĤĐĥ .ĤĕėĐ ČĘ ęĕĞčĥĐ Ęĥ B ďĕąčĦė ēĝđĜ ĦČ ęĎĥ ēĕĜĐĘ čđĤģ .ĔĘģĚ ĕĤĞ ěĦđĕĐ ĦČ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ .ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČĐ Ĥđčĕē ĦĞč ĝđĕčĝđČ ĖĚĝ ĐĕĘĞĥ ,đĘĥ ĐĘĠĝģĐĐ ĦČ đĜĕėĐč ĝĜĎĕĤđČ ĕĜĠĘ ęĎ ďĚĞ ČĘ ,ęĕĤģđēĐ ĦĞď ĘĞ đĤđģĚ ĦČĥ ,B ďĕąčĦė ēĝđĜ ,(XVII–XVI ĪĚĞ ,ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĦĤđģĕčĐ ĐĤđďĐĚĘ ČđčĚč) ěĚĤĔĝđĘģ ĤĕĞĐĥ ĕĠė ĦĚĥ ĤĕĔĤĚĐ ğđĥĕčĐ ,ĝđĕėĕĝĐ ĕďĕč ĐĜėđĐĥ ęĕĞčĥĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĤĘĠĝģĐąĤĦč ĐĕĒĜĢĤ ğģĥĚ ,ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČč ĦđČĤĘ ĘčđģĚ .ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČĚ ĝđĕĝĜĦČ ĐĕĐ ĥđĚĕĥ đč ĦđĥĞĘ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦđčČ čĤģĚ ĐĤđČėĘ ěđĥČĤĐ .ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ęĕĤĢĚč ,Ĕĕģĝ ěĞĔ ĐĜđĤēČĘ ęĘđČđ .S. Jelicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study (Oxford, 1968), pp. 153, 178–179 đČĤ Th. Skeat, “The Codex Sinaiticus đČĤ .ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤĝĕģč đĥčđĎ ĝđģĕĔĕČĜĕĝ ĝģďđģ ěĐđ ĝđĜģĕĦđ ĝģďđģ ěĐĥ ąĘĞ ,ĐĦĞĚ ĤđĚČ .604 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥđ ,and the Codex Vaticanus and Constantine”, JThS 50 (1999), pp. 583–625 ĐĦđČ Ğģĕĥ ğČĥ ĤĥĠČđ ,ęĕĤėĒĜĐ ęĕĝģďđģĐ ěĚ ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč ĦČ ĐĐĒĚĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ģĜĕ ěėČ ĝđĕčĝđČĥ ,ĕĦēĜĐ ĕĠ đĤđčĕēĘ đĦĚďģĐč ďĕĞĚ ČđĐ ĐĚđĕģ ĘĞĥ ,ĤđĢ ğđĥĕč ĝđĜĕĘđČĠ đďĕďĕ ĤđčĞč ĔĔĤĥĥ ĦĕČĤģĚĐ (chorographia) ĐĠĚč ĦĕĕĎđĝč ĕĠĤĎđĔĤėĐ ģđĝĕĞĐĥ ěĕĕĜĞĚ .GCS, Bd. 3 (Leipzig 1904), pp. 2–3 ,ěĚĤĔĝđĘģ ĪČ ĦĤđďĐĚ đČĤ .ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČĐ ĤĠĝ ĤđČĕčĘ ĐēĠĝĜĥ ĐĠĚč ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚč (ďēČ ĐĤģĚč ĦđēĠĘ) ĥďēĚ ġĢ ČđĐđ ,Ğģĥ ČĘ ĞĥđĐĕ ĤĠĝčĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ Ęĥ čđĥēĐ ęĚđģĚđ ĐĒ Ĥđčĕēč ĦĕĔĚėĝĐ ĐĠĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĥĤđĥ ĘĞ .(BNF lat. 11561) ĝĕĤĠ ďĕąčĦėčĥ ĞĥđĐĕ Th. O’Loughlin, “Map and Text: A Mid Ninth-Century Map for đČĤ ,ĕČĤģĚĐ čĕĔĤĜč ęĚđģĚĘ ĤčĞĚđ ĘĞĚ đč .the Book of Joshua”, Imago Mundi 57 (2005), pp. 7–22

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ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ

ēĝđĜčĥ ęĕĤĞĐ ĦđĚĥ ĕė ,ĤČĥĐ ěĕč đĘČ ęĕĤģđē đĘĞĐ (ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦčĥ ēĝđĜĐ ĕďĞđ ĕĦĤđĝĚĐ ĔĝģĔĐ ěđėĜ ĘČ ęĕĠģĥĚ (ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ Codex Vaticanus 1290) ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦ Ęĥ B ďĕąčĦė ĐĤđĝĚĐ ēĝđĜč ĐĜĐđ 21.đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĐĤđĝĚĐ ēĝđĜ ĘĞ ğĕďĞđ ęđďģ ēĝđĜ ęĕĠĕĝđĚ ęĐđ ,ĐĜđĥ ĕĤčĞ ēĝđĜ ěđĥĤĎ ĕĜčĘđī:ĤĚČĜ Ēė ,Čė ĞĥđĐĕčĥ (ĐĥĜĚĐ Ĕčĥ ĕĢē Ęĥ ęĦĘēĜĘ ĐĘčģĐč) ěđĥĤĎ ĕĜč ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤĘ ĐĤĦĥĞč ĦČđ ĐĕĥĤĎĚ ĦČđ ěĥčč ěĘđĎ ĦČ ēĢđĤĐ ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞ ĦČ ĐĥĜĚ ĐĔĚ ĕĢēĚ ęĕđđĘĐ ĦđēĠĥĚĚ đģģĒĜĥ ĕĚ .īĐĕĥĤĎĚ ĦČđ ĦđĤĦĥĞ ĦČđī :đĜ ,đ ,Č ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďčĥ ĐĘĕčģĚčđ ,īęĕĦĥ ęĕĤĞ ĐĕĥĤĎĚ ĦČđ ĞĕĢĐ ĘĥĚĘ Ėė .ĕĤģĕĞ ēĝđĜė īĦđĤĦĥĞī ēĝđĜĐ ĦČ ĦđĤĚĥĚĐ ĦđĜđĥ ĦđĞĢĐ đĞĕĢĐ ĐĒ ēĝđĜč ĦăđĕĜĥĘ ĐĞĢĐ .(ĦđĤĦĥĞ =) ĐĤĦĥĞąĕč đČ ĐĤĦĥĞąĦĕč Ęĥ ĤđĢĕģ ěĕĞĚ īĐĤĦĥĞčī ęĥč ĦđČĤĘ ěĕĕĘģ ĘČđĚĥ ĐĜĐđ 22.īĦđĤĦĥĞī ęĥĐ ěĚ ĥđčĕĥ ČĘČ đĜĕČ īĐĤĦĥĞčīĥ Ĥčĝ ČđĐ ğČ ęĘđČ ,ĔĕĕĤčĘđČ ĕďĕč ĐĦēďĜ đĒ 23.καί τήν Βοσοράν Á īĐĤĦĥĞč ĦČđī ğđĤĕĢĐ ĦēĦ ĞĕĠđĐ ĞĥđĐĕčĥ ČĤģĚĘ B ďĕąčĦė ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦč đĜĕĜĠĘ .(ěĥčč ěĘđĎĘ ĦđėĕĚĝčđ ĐĥĜĚĐ Ĕčĥ ĕĢē Ęĥ đĚđēĦč) ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ ĐĜđđėĐĥ ēĕĜĐĘ đĜĕĘĞ ČĕĐ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ ģĒēĘ ĕđĥĞĥ ĐĚđ 24,ĐĤĢđčąĤĢč ĕđĐĕĒĘ ,ĕĘĜđĕĢģĜđĠ ĦđēĠĘ ĕĚĥ ČĘ ęČ ,ĥĚĚ Ęĥ ĒĚĤ ČđĠČ A. G. Auld, “The ‘Levitical Cities’: Texts and History”, ZAW 91 (1979), pp. 194–206 ; idem, “Cities of .Refuge in Israelite Tradition”, JSOT 10 (1978), pp. 26–40 ĘĞ ĖĚĦĝĐč ,ĖĘĕČđ 276 ĪĚĞ ,đĘĥ ĐĕĢĔĤĝĕďč ĐčēĤĐ ĤĦĕčđ ,200 ĪĚĞ ,“The ‘Levitical Cities’” ,ďĘđČ Ėė .21 Joshua: Jesus Son of Naue¯ ,đĤđčĕēč ĐĜđĤēČĘ čđĥđ ,“The Cities of the Levites in Joshua” ĝđĤ Ęĥ đĕĦđĜģĝĚ ęĕĞčĥĐ Ęĥ B ēĝđĜ Ęĥ ģđēĕĤĐ đČ ĐčĤģĐ ěĕĕĜĞ .in Codex Vaticanus (Leiden–Boston, 2005), pp. xxi–xxii

ĐĜđĥ ĐĞď .ěČė ěđĕĞĐĚ ęĕĎĤđē ,ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞđ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤ Ęĥ ěĤđčĕē ĦĘČĥ ęĎ đĚė ,ĕĦĤđĝĚĐ ĔĝģĔĐ ēĝđĜĚ ,ěđĜĎĝ đĚė ęĕĜđđĎĚ ęĕĤĥģĐč) ĐĤđĝĚĐ ēĝđĜĘ ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦ ěĕčĥ ĝēĕč ĤĦđĕ ĦčėĤđĚ ĐĕđđĐ ĐĎĕĢĚĐ ,ďĘđČ Ęĥ đĒĚ ĐĤĕĝĚĐ ĦĤėĐĘ đĦĚđĤĦ Á ĞĥđĐĕ ĤĠĝĘ ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦč ęĕĜđĕĞī ,ĤđĒĚ ĐČĘ Ęĥ đĒ ČĕĐ ,(ďđĞđ ĦĕĜĥĤĠ ĦđĞĚĥĚ,ĤĕčēĦ ,(ďīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĦĕĜđĕĞĤĐđ ĦĕĦđĤĠĝĐ đĦđēĦĠĦĐĘđ ĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĘČđĔĝģĔĐ .ďđĞđ 170–149 ,26–1 ĪĚĞ W. F. Albright, “The List of Levitic Cities”, in Louis Ginzberg Jubilee Volume ;(17 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ) ěĕĕĘģ .22 ĐĤĦĥĞ ĘĦ ęĞ ĐĐđĒĚ ĐĠđĎ ĦđĤĦĥĞ .69 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥđ ,(eds. S. Lieberman et al.; New York, 1945), pp. 49–73 ,ěėđ .D. Kellerman, “Astarot-Astarot Qarnaim-Qarnaim”, ZDPV 97 (1981), p. 54 ff. đČĤ ĐĕĦđďđČ ĘĞđ ,ěĤđēčĥ .(18 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ) ĤđĢĕĘČ A. .(ēĝđĜĐ ĕĕđĜĕĥĚ ęĕčĤč ęĥ ČđĐ ěėđ) ęĦĤđďĐĚ ĝĕĝčĘ B ďĕąčĦė ĦČ đĥĞĥ ,ěĕĘģĚđ ģđĤč Ęĥ ęĦĤđďĐĚč Ėė .23 E. Brooke and N. McLean (eds.), The Old Testament in Greek, I/4 (Cambridge, 1917), p. 765; S. Holmes, ęĦĤđďĐĚĘ M. A. Margolis Ęĥ đĕĦđĠĝđĦč ęĎ đČĤđ .Joshua the Hebrew and Greek Texts (Cambridge, 1914), p. 73 Biblia Sacra (Libri Iosue) (Roma,đČĤ .ĐĔĎĘđđĐ ĦđČĝĤĎĚ ĦđčĤč đĕĦđčģĞčđ , JBL 49 (1930), p. 259 ,ěĕĘģĚąģđĤč Ęĥ .ęĥ ēĝđĜĐ ĕĠđĘĕēčđ ,1939), p. 164 Ĥčė .ęĕďēČ ĖĤď ĕĜđĕĢč ģĠĦĝČđ ,ĐĒĐ ĕđĐĕĒč ěđĕďĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđĘĥĘĦĥĐĐ ĤēČ čđģĞĘ đĒ ĦĤĎĝĚč Đĥģĕ .24 A. Reland, Palestina e monumentis veteribus đČĤ .ĐĤĢđčąĐĤĦĥĞč ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĘĞ ďĚĞ ,ĥīĐĦĚ ĐĘđĞĐ ĦđčģĞč ,Relandus đČĤ .ĐĚđď ĕđĐĕĒ ěĕĕĔĥĜĢđ ĞĕĢĐ ,ĕĜđđĕĐ ēĝđĜĘ Ĥĥģ ĕĘč ,1860 ĦĜĥč .illustrata, lib. III (Utrecht, 1714), pp. 621, 662 Ęĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ .J. H. Wetzenstein, Reisebericht über Hauran und die Trachonen (Berlin, 1860), pp. 110–111 ĦđĔčĘĦĐč ĎĕĢĚ ČđĐ ,109–108 ĪĚĞč ,ěė ĕĜĠĘ ęĘđČ ,ęĥ ĦĕĘĞđĚ ČĕĐ ğČ ĐĤĦĥĞ ĦĕčąĐĤĦĥĞč (ġđđĕė) ĐĕĢģĤĔĜđģĐ ĐĤĢđčąĐĤĦĥĞč ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦĞĢĐ .ĐĤĢđč ęĞ (īĦĚĕĕģ ĐĜĕČ ĦĞė ĤĥČī) ĎđĞ Ęĥ đĤĕĞ ĦđĤĦĥĞ Ęĥ ĐĕđĐĕĒ ĦđĤĥĠČ ĦČ ĦĤėĕĜ ęĕčĤ ęĕĤģđē đėĘĐ đĕĦđčģĞčđ ,Noeldeke, ZDMG 29 (1875), p. 431 ĘĢČ (ęĕĕĜđĥĘ ęĕĕĥģ Ęĥč) ĦčģđĜ ĦĤđģĕč ĐĤĤđĞ G. Hölscher, “Bemerkungen zur Topographie Palästinas”, ZDPV 29 ĘĥĚĘ ,đĦđČ đĘĔĕč đČ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒĚ đĚĘĞĦĐđ M. Noth, Das Buch ĕĤčď ęĎ đČĤđ .ĥđčĕĥė đĒ ĦđĤĥĠČ đēď ,(22 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ) ĔĕĕĤčĘđČ ĖėąĤēČđ ,(1906), pp. 142–143 ĦĎĕđĝĚĐ đĦĞĢĐ ĦČ ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ ,ĐČđĘĚč ěĕĕĔĥĜĢđ Ęĥ đĦĞĢĐ ĦČ ġĤĎ ġĚĕČ ďĎĜĚ . Josua (Tübingen, 1953), p. 129 H. Graetz, “Astaroth Karnaim und Bostra”, MGWJ 27 (1878), đČĤ .ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ,ĎđĞ Ęĥ đĤĕĞ ,ĦđĤĦĥĞ Ęĥ ĐĕđĐĕĒĘ H. Hildesheimer, “Beiträge zur Erklärung einiger ,ĤĚĕĕĐĝďĘĕĐ ęĎ ĖĘĐ ěĕĕĔĥĜĢđ Ęĥ đėĤďč .pp. 240–247 ĤĥĕĠ ďĘđĠđČĕĘ ĕďĕč ęĝĤĠĦĜĥ ,ĐĒ ĤĚČĚĘ) 6 ĪĚĞ ,(1914 ,ěĕĘĤč) ěĚĠđĐ ĢÂďĘ ĘčđĕĐ ĤĠĝ ,geographischer Bibelstellen” .(đĚĢĞ ĤĥĕĠ ĦČĚ ěĕĕĜĞ đĦđČč ĐĤĞĐ ęĥ ĐĠĝđĜ ,1910 ĦĜĥč ĦĚĥ ,ĤĚĕĕĐĝďĘĕĐ Ęĥ đĜđčĒĕĞĚ

ĕĥąĤĕĞ ďďđĞ

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ĥĕĤ ĕĠčĥ ęĕĥĤđĠĚĐđ ,ĝđĠĝđĕ ĕĠčĥ ęĕĤĞđĥĚĐ ęĕĕđĐĕĒĐ Ęĥ ęĤđģĚ ĤĥĠ Ĥčďč ĐĐĕĚĦĐ ĐĤĝ ČĘ ěĕĕďĞ đĥģĕč ,ĘĕĞĘ ĕĦĕĜĚĥ ęĕĕĥģĐ ĐĕĜĠč đďĚĞ ČĤģĚ Ęĥ đĔđĥĠčĥ đĒ ĦĤđĝĚ .īĐĤĢđč Á ĤčďĚč ĤĢčī :ĥĕģĘ đĒ ěĥččĥ ěĘđĎī ĦđĚďč ĕĠđĘēĐ ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦČ ęĞĕĢĐč ěģĦĘ (ĘĕĞĘ ĤđĚČė) ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ Ęĥ đĦčĕčĝĚ ęĕĚėē .īĐĤĢđč ĦĥĤč ĐĤĢđč Ęĥ ĐĦĘĘėĐĘ ĤĦđĕ ďģđĚĚ ěĠđČčđ ĐĤĢđč = ĤĢč ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĕĥĤđĥ ĦĜčĐĘ ĦĤēČ ĖĤď ĐėĘĐĘ ĐĤđĥģ ,đĐĜĥĚĘ ďēČ ęđģĚĚ ĦđĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ěĦģĦĞĐĘ ģģĒĕĐĘ ČĘč ,ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞčĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĘēĜč ĤčďĚčĥ ĤĢč ĐĦĐđĒ ĤđĚČė 19.ĔĘģĚ ĕĤĞ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĘĘė đĥĚĕĥ ĐĕĠąĘĞđ ,ĤđĤč đĜĕČ ĐĜĚĒĥ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤĚ ĦĤďĞĜ ČĕĐ ęĘđČ (ĪđĎđ ĕĤĤĚ ĕĜčĘ Ďĝ đ ,Č) ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďčĥ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤč ěčđČĤ Ęĥ ĤēČ ěĠ ğĥđē đĘČ ĦđĚĕĥĤč ğĝđĜ ěđĕĞ ,ĦČĒ ęĞ ,ĘĕĞĘď ĐĐĕĚĦĐ ĐĤĝ ČĘ Ėėč ęĎ ,ęĘđČ .Čė ĞĥđĐĕčĥ .ĞĢđĚĐ ĕđĐĕĒĐ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ęĕĤđĥĞč đėĒ đ ,Č ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďčĥ ĐĘĕčģĚčđ Čė ĞĥđĐĕč ,ČĤģĚčĥ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤ ĐĒ ĤĥģĐč .ĕČĤģĚĐ čĕĔĤĜč ěĚđģĚĘđ ěĦĘēĜĐ ĖđĤČĕĦĘ ĞĎđĜč ĤģĕĞč ęĕĔĤđĠĚ ęĕĜđĕĞĘ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĤĥģĐč ēĝđĜ) ěĦČđđĥĐđ đĘĘĐ ĦđĚĕĥĤĐ ĦĜĕēčč 20.A. G. Auldąđ J. P. Ross Ęĥ ęĐĕĤģēĚ ěđĕĢĘ ďēđĕĚč ęĕĕđČĤ ġđĞ ġĤČ ĦČ ĐĞčģĥ ĦĤđĝĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥĐ ĐĕĘđĎĘĎ ĘĞ .(Č ,ĒĘ ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ ,īĐĤĢčĚ ĐčĐĜďĚ ęđďČč ĖđĘĚĕđī ēđĝĕĜĘ đđĥĐđ) Ęĥ ěĐ ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ ěĐ ,ĤđČĕĦĐ ĕĠĘ .G. Schmitt, “Die Haimat Hiobs”, ZDPV 101 (1985), pp. 56–63 đČĤ ěĥčč ęĕĜđĦĜĐ ęĞ ďēČ ĐĜģč ĐĘđĞ đĜĕČ ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦ ĕė ĐĚďĜ ěėąĕĠąĘĞąğČ .ěĥčĐ Ęĥ ĕĠĤĎđČĎĐ čēĤĚč ĤčđďĚ ,ĐĕĤĎČ Ęĥ ģĕđďĚĐ ĐĕđĐĕĒĥ Ėė ,ĦĕČĤģĚĐ ĕĞĤďČ ČĕĐ ,ĞĤďČĚ ęđģĚĐ ģēĤĚĘ ĞĎđĜĐ Ęėč ďđēĕĕč ,ęĐĕĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĥ ęĕĕčēĤĚĐ Y. Elitzur, Ancient Place Names in the Holy Land: ĐĜđĤēČĘ ĤĕĞĐ ĐĒ ĕĥđģ ĘĞ .ĦčėĤđĚ ĐĕĎđĝ ČđĐ ęĕĕĜĤģ ĦđĤĦĥĞ ĦďđčĞĘ ēĠĝĜč ĐčēĤĐ ĤĦĕč .Preservation and History (Jerusalem – Winona Lake ID, 2004), p. 253, note 10 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ) īęĕĕčĤĞĐ ĕĠč đĤĚĦĥĜĥ ĦđĚđģĚ ĦđĚĥ ęĕĤĥĞč ĕĜđĥĘ ěđĕĞī ,ĤđĢĕĘČ Īĕ ,đĘĥ ĤĚĎĐ ĦđĤđĝĚ ĦđĞĢĚČč ,ĐĤĢđč ĤĕĞĘ čđĕČ ĦČ Ĥĥĕģĥ ğĝđĜ ĕģĘē ģĦĞĚ Ęē ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦĤđĝĚč ĐĜĐđ .113–103 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĚĥĦ Acta Sanctorum, 6 đČĤ .ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ Á ĦđĤēČčđ ,ęđďČčĥ ĐĤĢčĘ čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĝēđĕ ěĐčĥ ĦđĕĤĢđĜ ĦđĕĎĤđĔĕĘ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĐĕĕĝĜėđ ĐĝēĚ Ħĕč Á ĤđčĕĢ ĕĜčĚĘ ĐĥďģĐ ĦđčđĦė ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčč đĘĎĦĜ ĐĤĥĞąĞĥĦĐ ĐČĚč .Mai, col. 494 M. Sartre, Inscriptions ęĝĤĠĥ ğĝđČč đČĤ đĘČ ĦđčđĦė ĘĞđ ĕĤĢđĜĐ čđĕČ ěēĘđĠ ĦđďđČ ĘĞ .čđĕČĘ đĥďģđĐĥ Á ĦĕĥĕĥĐ .Grecques et Latines de la Syrie, XIII/1 (Paris, 1982), nos. 9137–9138 đĒ ĐėĘĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĘēĐ ĦČ ęĕďģĐĘ ĥģĕč ,5 ĪĚĞ ,(3) Ď ,ęĕĕĘČĤĥĕĢĤČ ęĕĤģēĚ ,ěĕĕĘģ .ČīĞ Ďĕ ,ČīĞ ĕ ĦđėĚ ,ĕĘčč .19 ĕėī :430–429 ĪĚĞ ,(ēīĕĥĦ) Ēė ġĕčĤĦ ,īĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđČĕĢĚđ ĐĕĠđĔđČ :ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞī ,ěĤĐ ĪĚ Ĥčĝ đĦĚđĞĘ .ČĤģĚĐ ĕĚĕĘ ęĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĖĤČđĦ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤ Ęĥ ěĠđĎ .īĖėĘ ĤėĒ ěĕČ ěđĥČĤ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĦĕĘČĕĤĐ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐčđ ĕĜĐđėĐ ĤđģĚĐ ĦĝĕĠĦč B. Mazar, “The Cities of the Priests and the Levites”, VT Suppl. 7 (1960), đČĤ .ĐĚĘĥđ ďđď ĕĚĕĘ ęĕĤģđēĐ ěĚ ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤč ĥďđēĚ ěđĕĞī ,ěĚČĜ ĪĜ ĞĕĢĐ ĐĕĦđĚĎĚđ đĒ ĐĚĕĥĤ ĘĞ ĐĜđĥ ĐĠģĥĐ .ęĕĠĝđĜ ęĕĤģđē ĘĢČ ČđĐ ěėđ ,p. 195 ĕĤĞ ,ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĕĕĎđĝ ĦĤėĕĜ ĐčēĤĐč ĐĜđďĕĜ ĐĜđĤēČĘ .ĦčēĤĜ ĦđĤĠĝ ęĥđ ,252–237 ĪĚĞ ,(čīĚĥĦ) ĒĚ ěđĕĢ ,īęĕĕđĘĐ E. Ben Zvi, “The List of the Levitical đČĤ .ĦđĎĢĕĕĚ ěĐĥ ĐĚđ ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďđ ĞĥđĐĕ ĕĤĠĝčĥ ĦđĚĕĥĤĐ Ęĥ ěĜĚĒđ ĔĘģĚĐ ďđĎĕĜč ,đĘĘĐ ĦđĚĕĥĤĐ Ęĥ ěĦđđĐĦĐ ĦČ ĖĤČĦĚ ĕčĢąěč .ĦčēĤĜ ĦđĤĠĝ ęĥđ ,Cities”, JSOT 54 (1992), pp. 77–106 ĎĕđđďđĘ Ĥđčĝ đĦĚđĞĘ .(100–99 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĦĕĜėđĘĚąĤĦčĐ ĐĠđģĦĘ đĘĕĠČđ đĐĕĥČĕ ĤēČĘĥ ĐĠđģĦĘ ,ĤčĞč đēđđĤĥ ĦđĞďĘ Ħėĕĕĥ ė ĞĥđĐĕčđ ęĕĤčď ĤĠĝčđ ĤčďĚč ĤĠĝčĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĥĤĠĥ ČĘČ ,ďčĘč ĦđĕĔĤđČĦ đĕĐ ĦđėĤĞĚĐ ĕĦĥĥ ,ĔďĕĚĥ “die Levitenstädte sind :ĦĕĦđĘĎąĤĦč ĐĕĤđČĦė ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤ ĦČ đĘĕČđ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĚđĜđĤĔĕđďĐ ĐĠđģĦĘ L. Schmid ,”Leviten und Asylstädte in Num. XXXV und Jos. XX; đČĤ .eine (spat)nachexilische Theorie” ĐĘđėĝČĐ Ęĥ ĐėĕĤĞ ĦĠĝđĦė đĘČ ĦđĚĕĥĤ ěĕĕĢĘ ěĚČĜ čďĜ čĥ ĐĜđĤēČĘ .XXI 1–42”, VT 52 (2002), pp. 103–121 ěđĥČĤĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕ ğđĝč ĦĕČĤģĚĐ ĐĕĠĤĎđĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ Ęĥ ĐčđĢĕĞ :ĐđđĐĐ ĦČ ěĜđėĚĐ ĤčĞĐ đĤĠĝč ,ěđĕĢ Ħčĕĥ ĦĠđģĦč ĦĕĜĐđėĐ .64 ĪĚĞ ,(čīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĦĤĠĞ ĪĎđ ĞĚĥąČĦ Īĕ ,ĤĜĕĕĤ ĪČ ĦėĕĤĞč ,Ď ,ĦđĞĕĤĕ ĐĤďĝč) ěčĤđēĐ ĤēČĘđ ęĐ ęĕĤėĒĜĐ ęĕĤģēĚĐ .đĜĕĕĜĞĘ ĖĤĢĜĘ ģĤ ģģĒĜ ĕĜČđ ,ęĕčĤ đč đĥď Ĥčėđ ,ČđĐ ďčėĜ ČĤģĚĐ Ĥģēč ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞ .20 J. P. Ross, “The Cities of the Levites in Joshua Ęĥ ĦēČĐ .(Edinburgh) ĎĤđčĜĕďČ ĦĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĚ ĦđĕĢĔĤĝĕď A. G. Auld, “Studies in Joshua: Ęĥ ,ĦĤēČĐđ ,ěĕĕĞĘ ĕďĕč ĐĘĞ ČĘ đĒ ĐĕĢĔĤĝĕďč .and I Chronicles VI”, 1973 ,ęĕĤĚČĚ ĕĜĥč ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞđ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ěĕĕĜĞč đĕĦđĜģĝĚ ĦČ ęĝĤĠ ěđĤēČĐ .Texts and Literary Relations”, 1976

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ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ

ęĎ ěĥčĘđ ďĞĘĎĘ ęđďČčĥ ĐĤĢčđ īěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜčĥī ĤĢčĚ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ Ęĥ ěĦģĦĞĐ ĦČ ĦđĘĦĘ ČĘĥ ęĎ ĕďđĐĕĐ čđĥĕĕĐ Ęĥ đĒđėĕĤđ ,ĦĕĘČĤĐ ý ĐĠĚĐ ěĚ đĘČ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĕČĤģĚ ęĕĤĦČ Ęĥ ěĚĘĞĕĐđ ěĦĞĕģĥč ,ĐĚďĜ Ėė ,ĦđĠĝđĜ ęĕĜĠ đĕĐ ,ĦČĒ ęĞ .đĜđĠĢč ĤģĕĞč ,ĕĒėĤĚĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč đĕĤēČđ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĖĕĘĐĦčĥ ĤĞĥĘ ĤĥĠČ .Đĥďē ĐĤĕĒč đĦĞĕčģđ ęđďČ Ęĥ ĕĦĕĚĐąĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĐĚĢĞĐĐđ ĐģĦĞĐĐ ĖĕĘĐĦĘ ,(Bostra) ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčč ĦđĠĝđĜ ĦđĤđĝĚ ĦđĘĦĘ đĘēĐ ,ěĚĒ ĤēČĘđ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ ĦģĦĞĐ Ęĥ ĤČđĦĚĐ .ĕČĤģĚĐ īĐĤĢčĚ ēĤĒ ěč ččđĕī ęĞ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĚĕč Ĥčė ĐĐđĒĥ ,čđĕČ Ęĥ đĦčĕĥĕ ęđģĚ ęĞ ĘĥĚĘ ĐĦđĐĒĘđ ,čđĕČ ęČ Ęĥ ĐĚĥė ĐĤĢč ĦĜĕđĢĚ ,čđĕČĘ ęĕĞčĥĐ ęđĎĤĦ ĦĠĝđĦč ĐĘĞđĐ Ĥčėĥ ,ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒč ďđĞč ęĘđČđ ,ĤđĚČĐ Ęė ęĞ 18.ĐĤĢđč ĤĕĞĘ čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚĥ ĤĥģĜ ĦđĕĤĢđĜ ĦđĤđĝĚč ĤĦđĕ ďđĞđ ęđĎĤĦĐ ĦđĤđĝĚč ĕĤĐ ,ččđĕ ĐĝĕĠĦĘ ěĚĒĐ ĖĥĚč đĥĞĜĥ ĦđĚČĦĐđ ęĕĜđĥ ĦđēĦĠĦĐ ĕčĘĥ ĘĞđĠč ĦĠģĥĚ ČĕĐđ ,ĦēČ ĐĥģĚ ĐĕđĥĞ ĐĜĕČ ČĤģĚčĥ ĕĚĕ ĦĕĥČĤĘ ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĦđēĦĠĦĐč ěđĤēČĐđ ĕĥĕĘĥĐ čĘĥĐ ĦČ ĖĤČĦĘ ĥĕ đĦĞďĘ .ĔĘģĚĐ ĤĕĞ ěđĕĞĤ ďđĝĕčĥ ĦĕĜđĤģĞĐ ęĕĜĐđėĐđ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞī) ěĕĕĘģ Īĥ ęĞ ęĕėĝĐĘ ĐĔđĜ ČđĐĥ ğČ ,(236 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĜīĐĝĠĘ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĐĜĠĚč ,ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč đĒ Đģđē Ęĥ ğĝđĜ ĐĠĕėČ ěđĕĝĕĜ Ĥčďč (ĖĘĕČđ 21 ĪĚĞ ,[ďīĢĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] (3) Ď ,ęĕĕĘČĤĥĕĢĤČ ęĕĤģēĚ ,īĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞđ ęĕđđĘĐ ĕĤĞđ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞĘ ĞĎđĜč ěđĕďĐ (19 ĐĤĞĐ) ěĘĐĘ ďđĞ đČĤđ .(238 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĕČĜĕ ĤďĜĝėĘČ ĕĚĕč ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦėĘĚĚ ĦĕČďĕēĕĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ĤēđČĚĐ ĕČĜđĚĥēĐ čĘĥĘ ĤĥģĐč ěĕĕĢĘ ěĕĕĜĞĚ .ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďčđ ĞĥđĐĕč ĦđĚĕĥĤĐ Ęĥ ěĦđđĐĦĐ ěĚĒđ ĐĤĢđčĥ ,(242 ĝģďđģ ,ĝđĕĔđĠ Ęĥ ĐģĦđĕĘčĕč) 196 ,ĝđĤđďĕĒĕČ ĕĕē ,(ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ) ĝđĕģĝĚď ĤēđČĚĐ ĕĜđđĕĐ ĤĠđĝĐ ĘĢČ ĦĤđĝĚ ĘĞ .(ěĤđēčĥ Suweida¯’ =) ĝČĕĝĕĜđĕď Ęĥ ĐĕčĥđĦ ĕĜĠĚ ĐĜĎĐė (ęĕĔčĜĐ ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė) čĤĞ ĕėĘĚ ĕďĕč ĐĚđē ĐĠģđĐ .280 ĪĚĞ ,The Armies of the Hasmonaeans and Herod ěĚĢĥ ĐĤĢģč đČĤ ,ĐĦĚČĘ Đĥģĥ ,đĒ đĕĦēĦ ĖđĘĚĕđ ĞĘč ĦĚĕđī :ĎĘ ,đĘ ĦĕĥČĤčč čđĦėĐ ĘĞ ĦđĚĥ ĥĤďĚč ġđĞĜ ĐĤĢđčč čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĕđĐĕĒ ĥĤđĥ .18 đĚĥ đĕĠąĘĞđ ,īčđĕČ Ęĥ ĕĚĤČĐ ĤĠĝĐī ęĥč (Ēĕ ,čĚ ĤēČĘ) čđĕČĘ ĕĜđđĕĐ ęđĎĤĦĘ ĐēĠĝĜĥ ĐĤĞĐč ,īĐĤĢčĚ ēĤĒ ěč ččđĕ čđĕČ ĤĠĝĘ ĕĚĤČĐ ęđĎĤĦĐ ,ĝĕĕđ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĦĤĞĐ đČĤ đĒ ĦĠĝđĦ Ęĥ ĐčĕĔĘ .ĐĤĢč đĚČ ęĥđ ,ččđĕ ĐĕĐ čđĕČ Ęĥ ĕĤđģĚĐ Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica 9, Á ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ đĤđčĕēč ĥĕ ĐĘĕčģĚ ĦĤđĝĚ .ĖĘĕČđ 37 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĘĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ěĠđČč đĒ ĦĠĝđĦč ěđďĘ Đčĥ ĐĜđĤēČĘ .(ěĥĤĠĐ ĝČĔĝĕĤČ ęĥč) 25 (ed. K. Mras), GCS 43/1 (Berlin, 1954), p. 518 ĐĥđčĕĎ ěĚĒ ĦČ ĖĤČĦĘ ĥĕđ ,đĐĥĘė ĕĚĤČ ĤđģĚ ĘĞ ĘĘė ĐėđĚĝ đĒ ĦĠĝđĦ ěĕČ ĐĕĤčďĘđ ,ďĕĤąđģĕĥđĕ ĔĜČ ģĕĚĞĚđ ĘĘđė ĐĤčēĘ đčĤģĦĐ ,ĐďđĐĕ Ęĥ ĐĚđĤďĘ ęĦčĕĥĕ ĦČ đģĕĦĞĐĥ ,ęđďČ ĕĜč đčĥ ěďĕĞč Á ęđĢĚĢ ĤĦĕčđ ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 150–60 ęĕĜĥĘ ,ĐĕĤčďĘ .ĜīĐĝĠĘ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĐĘĥ ĦČĤģĘ ĝđĜģĤđĐ ěĜēđĕ ĕĚĕč ,đĜĕĕĐ (ĐĚėĝĐč ęČđ ēđėč ęČ) đĤĕĕĎĦĐ ğČđ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč čđĕČ Ęĥ ĐďĕĝēĐ đĦđĚďĘ ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĐĕĥČĤ ěĕč ĐģĕĒ ĤĢĕđ ęđďČ ĕĜčĘ ĥďē ĕđĚĕď ĔĔĤĥĘ ĦĠĝđĦĐ ĘĞč ĥģĕč đĚđģĚ ĦČ .ĐĤĢč đĚĕČ ĖĤď ,ĐĚđČĐ ĕčČ ęĐĤčČĘ ĕĥĕĚēĐ Ĥđďč ,čđĕČ ČđĐ ččđĕ ČđĐ ,đĦđČ ĐďĕĚĞĐĥ Đĥďē ĐĕĎđĘđČĜĎ .ęđĎĤĦĐ ĦĠĝđĦčĥ ĤđČĕĦĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ĐĒđ ,čĤĞđ ęđďČ ĘđčĎčĥ ĐĒđĞ ĦčĤđēč Čģđđď ĐĐĒĚ ČĕĐ ġđĞ ġĤČĚ ĕČĤģĚĐ čđĕČ Ęĥ A. Yoshiko-Reed, “Job as Jobab: The Interpretation of Job in LXX Job 42:17b–e”, JBL 120 (2001), đČĤ ĦĤđĝĚčĥ Ėė ĘĞ ĐďĚĞ ęĎ ďĕĤąđģĕĥđĕ .(ĐĒ čđĥē ĤĚČĚĘ ĐĕĜĠĐĐ ĘĞ ĕģĘđđĜĕČ ĐĜĕĤčĝ ĕĦĤčēĘ ĕĦďđĦ) .pp. 31–35 ęĞ ęđďČ ĦČ ĐĐĒĚĐ ĕđĚĕďĐ ĤđčĕĎ ęĞ ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦČ ĥĔĥĔĘ Ččėđė Ĥč ďĤĚ ěđĘĥĕėđ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ěčĤđē ĤēČĘ đĥģĕč ęĕĚėē ĐđđĘ (ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤččĥ ĦđĤđĝĚč đčđĤč ĕđĢĚĐ) ĥđĔĥĔ Ęĥ ĐĒ ĖĘĐĚ ĕė ĐĜĕĕĢ ČĘ ČĕĐ ęĘđČđ .(53–48 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ČĚđĤ ĤėđĚĐ čēĤĚčĥ đĒ ęČđ ČĤģĚĐ ĕĚĕ Ęĥ đĒ ęČ ,ĐĚđďģĐ ęđďČ Ęĥ ĐĘđčĎĚ ģēĤĐ ,ěĥčĘ čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĦģĦĞĐč ęĎ ĤĦĕĘ .ěĥččĥ ġđĞ ġĤČč čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĦČ ĦđĞčđģĐ ęĕĚėē ĦđĤđĝĚ ĦđĞđďĕ ěėČđ .ĐďđĐĕ Ęĥ ĐĚđĤďč ,ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕĚ (đĔ ,Č čđĕČ) ĪęĕĤĞĜĐ ĦČđ ęēģĦđ Ččĥ ĘĠĦđĪī :ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚč đĜĕĢĚĥ đĚė ,ęĕĕĜĤģ ĤĠėč čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĐĐđĒ ģđĕď ĦĤđďĐĚ) ď ,Ēĕ ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ .īęĥ đĦĚđ ČĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚĘ đČčđ ěĕĘĕčČ Ęė ĦČ đėĘĐđ ĝđĜĕĤģ ĤĠėĚ đČĢĕ ČĜĐė Ĥč ČčČ ĪĤ ĪĚČ ęĦĤđĝĚ ěĕĕĜĞč ĥĚĚ Ęĥ ĦđģĠĝ ĤĜčĕĘ ĕĒđĞ ĐĘĞĐ ĐĜđĤēČĘ ęĘđČđ .([ĦđĘĕčģĚđ] ĔĞĥ ĪĚĞ ,ďīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ ĪĚ ĕĤĞĜ ĞĝĚ ĘĞ ĕĘĕĘĎ ĕĠĤĎđČĕĎ ĥĤďĚī ,đĤĚČĚ đČĤđ ,čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ęĞ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč ęĕĕĜĤģ Ęĥ ĕđĐĕĒĐ Ĥčďč ęĕĚėē Ęĥ čđĕČ Ęĥ đĦčĕĥĕ ęđģĚ ĦČ đĐĕĒĥ ĕĚ ęĕĚėē čĤģč đĕĐ ,ďđĞđ .47–43 ĪĚĞ ĤģĕĞčđ ,54–34 ĪĚĞ ,(2006) 120 ĐĤďĦģ ,īčđĕČ Ęė ĘĞ .73 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ ,ěĎąĦĚĤ) ĘÂĒē ĕĜĕĞčđ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĦđĤĠĝč čđĕČ :ÂĐĕĐ ĘĥĚ ČĘČī ,ģČĚ Īē ĘĢČ Ėė ĘĞđ ,ĐĕĤčĔč ,ĝđĕčĝđČĘ ĐĞđďĕ ĐĦĕĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč čđĕČ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĕđĐĕĒ Ĥčďč ĦĤđĝĚĐ ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĦĤđĝĚ ČĐĦ ĤĥČ ČĐĦ ,ęĕĜĠ ČĤģĜĐ ČĕčĤĞč ďČĚ ĘđďĎ ĤĠė ęđĕĐī :ĥĤđĠĚč ĤĚČĜ ęĕĕĜĤģ ĦđĤĦĥĞąęĕĕĜĤģ ĖĤĞčđ ,đĘĥ ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČč ĐČĕčĐ ČđĐđ ,đīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ďĚĘĚ ĢīĞ ĦĤđďĐĚ) īčđĕČ Ęĥ đĦĕč ęĕČĤĚ Á ĐĤđĝĚĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ęĥ Á ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč (Καρναία) ČĕĜĤģ ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚ ĕĦČĢĕ Ėėđī :đĒ ĐďčđĞ ĦĜĕĕĢĚ (ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĚĥĐ ĦđĜĥč) ĐĕĤĎČ ĦĕĜĕĕĘĢĐ ęĎ .([576 ĪĝĚ] 54 ĪĚĞ ĦđĘđčĎč ġđĞ ġĤČč ,ĐčĐĜď ěėĘ ęďđģ ĐČĤģĜ ,čđĕČ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĞ ĦČĤģĜĐ ęĕĕĜĤģ . . . ęĕĤčđĞ ęĕĕĜĤģ ďĞđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚ ĖĤďč . . . 72 ĪĚĞ ,ēīĜĥĦ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ,ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ęĕĤĢđĜ ĘĎĤ ĕĘđĞ :ĥďđģĐ ġĤČ ĦđĞĝĚ ,ĤđĚĕĘ ĪČ đČĤ Ėė ĘĞ .īĐĕčĤĞđ ęđďČ

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ĤĞĥĘ ěĦĕĜ ęĕĤčďĐ ĦďĚĞĐ Ĥďĝ ĕĠąĘĞĥ ęĎĐ 15.čĔĕĐ đĘ ĤėđĚ ĐĕĐĥ ęđģĚč đĤĐĤĐč ČĤģĚčĥ ĕĜđģĘĐ ĕĚĕčĥ ,ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ ĦČĒ Ęėč ĐĦĕĕĐ đĦĜđđėĥ ĕĤĐ ,ęđďČ Ęčēč ( ęđĤďčĥ) ĐĤĢđčĘ ěđđĕė ĕė ĐĤđČėĘ ĦđĥĞĕĐĘ ĐėĤďč đĦėĘĚĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĜĥĚĐ ĐĦĤĕčĘ ĐĦĕĕĐ (ĜīĐĝĘ 105À70) ĕĔčĜĐ ĪčĐ ĘČčĤ Ęĥ đĦđėĘĚ ĖĚĝĜ ĝđĠĝđĕ ĕĠčĥ ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĐĒ ĤđČĕč .ĜīĐĝĘ 106 ĦĜĥĚ ĐĕčĤĞ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĥČĤĐ ĐĦĤĕčĘ ęčđĥĕĕ ęđēĦ ĦČ ĘĘė ĖĤďč ğĠđēĥ ,đĤđčĕēč ęĕčĤ ĦđĚđģĚč čĤĞ ēĜđĚĘ đĕĤđČĕĦđ đĕĤčď ĦĜĕēč ĘĞ ęĎ ,ĐĤđČėĘ ČđĠČ ČĢĚĜ 16.ęčđĥĕĕ ęđēĦ Ęĥ ĕĜđĠĢĐ čēĤĚĐ ĐĢģč ĐĜėĥ ěėČ ĐĤĢđčđ ,ęĕĔčĜĐ Ęĥ ęĦĝĕĤĠđ .ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč Ęĥ ĐĕđĐĕĒč ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤĘ ęďģ ĝđĠĝđĕĥ ęđĥĚ ĥĕ ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜčĥ ĤĢč ĔĘģĚĐ ĤĕĞ ĘĞ ĦĤđĝĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĦģĦĞĐčĥ ĤĥĠČ ĐĦĐđĒ Ėė .ĦĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ěĚ đĞďđĜĥ ęĕĤĞ ęĞ ĦđĕČĤģĚĐ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ Ęĥ ě ĀĕđĐĕĒ ĦĞĠđĦĘ ĦđďĞ ąġĤČĐ ČĤģĚĐ ĕĚđĎĤĦč đĜĕĢĚĥ đĚė ,ČĤčď đČ ČĕģđĘĝ ęĞ ěĥččĥ ěĘđĎđ ,(ĥĤĪĎ) ĐĝĤĎ ęĞ ďĞĘĎčĥ ĦđĚĤ ĕĤĞ Ęĥ ĖĤĞĚĚ ģĘēė ěĘđĎč ČĘĚĎ đĚė ęĕĤĞ Ęĥ ěĤđėĒČ ěďĢĘđ ,ĦđĚđďģ ĦđĤđĝĚ Ėėč ęĕĤĚĥĚĐ ,ęĕĕĘČĤĥĕ ĥďđēĚ ĖĘĐĚĚ ģĘēė ďĘđĜ ĦđĤėĒĜĐ ęĕĤĞĘ đĘĘĐ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ Ęĥ ěĦģĦĞĐ ĐĥĞĚĥ ěėĦĕĕ .ĦđĕĜĚĒ ĔĘģĚ ĤĥĠČąĕČ 17.ĦĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĐėĘĚĚĐ ĕĚĕ ęĢĞč ĐĞĤĕČ ĦđĚĕđĝĚ ĦđĞď ĕĠĘĥ ,ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ Ħģđē ĦĠĕėČ Ęĥ Ęĥ đĕĦđĞĕďĕĘ ĤĥČ .(Βοσάρα; Βόσορα) ĐĒĕĜ ĦĤđďĐĚč ēĝđĜĐ ĕĠđĘĕē ďđĞ đČĤ .173 ,ď ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ .15 C. Möller and G. Schmitt, Siedlungen Palästinas nach Flavius Josephus đĤĕĞĐĥ ĐĚ đČĤ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđďđČ ĘĞ ĝđĠĝđĕ .(Wiesbaden, 1976), pp. 51–53 (p.52: “er hat also wohl an einen ihm bekannten Ort gedacht”)

Ęĥ ęĢĤČĘ ĐĜđđėĐ ęĕĤģĚĐ Ęĥ ĞĕĤėĚ čđĤčĥ ,ĐĘđĞ ĝđĠĝđĕ ĕĤđčĕēč čĤĞ ġĤČ/ĐĕčĤĞ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđėĒČ ĦģĕďčĚ .16 (ĝđĤĕĔ) ĐĒ ęđģĚī :(ĔĕĘĥ ĪČ Ęĥ đĚđĎĤĦ ĕĠąĘĞ) 233 ,čĕ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĕĜđĚďģč ,ĘĥĚĘ .ĐĕčĥđĦĘđ ĐĕĦđĘđčĎĘ ,ęĕĔčĜĐ ĐĚđģĚ ěđĕĢč ěČė ĝđĠĝđĕ ĕĤčďĥ ,ēĕĜĐĘ Đčĕĝ ČđĠČ ěĕČ .īčĤĞ Ęĥ ĐĤĔĠī :362 ,ďĕ ęĥ ;īěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč ĐďđĐĕ ěĕčđ čĤĞ ěĕč ĦĕČĤģĚĐ ĤĢčĘ ęĕĜđđėĚ īčĤĞ ĦđĘđčĎčī (ĘĕĞĘ ĐĒĕĜ ĦĤđďĐĚ đČĤ ,ďĕĐąĕčĦėĚ ĐĚė ĕĠąĘĞ) Βωσάρα đČ Βόσορα Ęĥ ğČ đČ ęđďČčĥ ĐĤĕĢđčĘ đČ (b ĐĤĞĐ 559 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ęđĎĤĦĐ ĦĤđďĐĚč Thackeray Ęĥ đĦĒĕĚĤĘ ďđĎĕĜč) ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜčĥ (Bostra) ĐĤĢđčĘ ĕČďđđĘ čđĤģ ěđđĕė ČđĐ .īčĤĞ ĦđĘđčĎčī ĐĤďĎĐĐ ĦČ ĐĚČĦ đĘČĚ ĦēČ ČĘ ğČ ěėĥ ,ďĞĘĎčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ The Armies ěĚĢĥ Ęĥ đĜđĕď đČĤ ,ěĤđēĐ ęđĤďč ĜīĐĝĠĘ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐČĚč ęĕĔčĜĐ Ęĥ ĦĕčđĥĕĕĐ ęĦĝĕĤĠ ĘĞ .ěĤđēčĥ ĐĦĥĤđĕ) ĐĕČĤĔĠ ĐĕčĤĞ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠč ęĞĠĐ ,ĘđčĎ ĤĕĞė ĐĤĢđč ĕđĐĕĒ .281–279 ĪĚĞ ,of the Hasmonaeans and Herod ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĝđĕČĚĘđĔĠ ĝđĕďđČĘģ Ęĥ ĕĠĤĎđČĎĐ ĖĕĤďĚĐ Ęĥ đēđėĚ ęĎ ęĕĕģĦĚ ,(ęĕĔčĜĐ ĦėĘĚĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĚđĤĐ J. Fischer, Claudii Ptolemaei Geographiaiae Codex Urbinus Graecus 82, tomus prodromus (Leiden– đČĤ .ĜīĐĝĘ ĦđĠĚĐ ĘĞđ ĝđĕČĚĘđĔĠ Ęĥ ĖĕĤďĚĐ ĘĞ .13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ,Leipzig–Turin, 1932), fol. 45 (r. et v.), Tab. XIX O. A. W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (Baltimore and Ęĥ đĕĦđĤĕģĝ đČĤ ĦđĤđďĐ ĖĥĚč ěĐĕĘđĎĘĎđ đĘ ĦđĝēđĕĚĐ ĞďĕĚĚ ĕĠĤĎđČĎ Ğďĕ ĦĤĕĢĕč đČ ęĐĕĦđĞđĜĦč ęĕČĚđĤĐ đĜđĒĕĜ ęČĐ ĐĘČĥĐ .London, 1998), pp. 75–86, 154–156 ĐĜđĤēČĘ đČĤ .ĕđđĥėĞĐ ĤģēĚĐ ĦČ ģĕĝĞĐĘ ĐėĕĥĚĚ (itineraria picta) ĤĕđČĚ ęĎ đČ (itineraia adnotata) ďčĘč čđĦė K. Brodersen, “The Presentation of Geographical Knowledge for Travel and Transport in the Roman World”, in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire (eds. C. Adams and R.Laurence; London, 2001), .pp. 7–21 ČĤčďī Ėė .ęĕĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ČĤģĚĐ ĕĚđĎĤĦč ĦđĘĕčģĚ ĦđĤđĝĚ đĜĕĢĚ ,ĘĕĞĘ đĞĢđĐĥ ęĕĚėē ĦđĤđĝĚ ďčĘĚ .17 E. G. Clarke, Targum Pseudo–Jonathan on the Pentateuch: Text and Concordance (New .īĐĥĜĚ ĔčĥĘ ěĜĦĚč ěĕĜĦđčč ĐĤčď Ħĕđī :(ĜīĐĝĘ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ đČ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐČĚĘ đėĤČĦĚ đĤĕďĐĚĥ) I ĕĔĕĠđČĜ ęđĎĤĦčđ ;Jersey, 1984), p. 215 ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞė ČĕĐ ğČ ĐĜĕđĢ ĐĝĤĎ ,D. Macho, Vol. V (Madrid, 1978), p. 53 ĦĤđďĐĚč .īĐĥĜĚ ĕĐđĜčď ĐĔčĥĘ .Ď ,č ĦđėĚ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤ ĦĕĜĚĒ ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞė ČĘĚĎ ĘĞđ ;ī. . . ĐďĞĘĎč (?ĝĤĎ) ęĤĎ Ħĕđ . . . ĐĤčďĚč ĤĢč Ħĕī :ďĞĘĎčĥ čđģĤģ ;Ĥčđč Īĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ) īĥĤĎ ĐďĞĘĎĐ Čđčĕđī :č ,Ę ĐĥĤĠ ,ĘČđĚĥ ĥĤďĚč ,ĐĝĤĎ ęĞ ďĞĘĎ ĦČ đĐĕĒĥ ĦđĤđĝĚ ęĎ ĥĕ ěĕđĢ ČĘ ĐĒ ěĕĞĚ ĕđĐĕĒ ęĜĚČ .ĥđčĕĥ ČđĐ ĕė Ĥčđč ĤĕĞĐ Ėė ĘĞđ ,(140 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) Ď ,čĘ ĐĥĤĠ ,ęĥ ěėđ ,(136 ĪĚĞ ,ĎīĜĤĦ ĦČ ěĕĚĕĜčđ ěđĤĚĥ Đďĥ ĦČđ . . . čĎĜĐ đĥĤĕđī :Ĕĕ ĐĕďčđĞĘ đĥđĤĕĠč ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐ ĘĢČ ęĘđČ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČč “quae prius vocabatur :ďđČĚ ďĞ čēĤĦĐ ĐĚđēĦĥ ĐĝĤĎ ĦĞė ČđĐ ,ďĞĘĎ ĕđĤģ ĐĕĐĥ ,ĐĒ čēĤĚ ĕė ĤČčĚ ČđĐ ,īďĞĘĎĐ .Galaad et nunc Gerasa”, Hieronymus, in Abadiam (ed. M. Adriaen), CCSL 86 (Turnholt, 1969), p. 371 “The History of the Cities ,ČĠđĤ ĪČ ĐčēĤĐč ěď ęĕĤĞĐ Ęĥ ěĜđĎĤČđ đĒ Đģđē ĦĕĕđđĦĐč ĤēđČĚ čĘĥ Ęĥ đĚđĕģ ęĢĞ ĘĞ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ Ħģđēĥ ģĕĝĐ ČĠđĤ .of Refuge in Biblical Law”, Scripta Hierosolymitana 31(1986), pp. 205–239

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ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ

ĤčĞč ĦđĚđģĚ ďđĞ ĥĕ ČĤģĚč ĐĦđĚėđ ,ĤĢčĚ ĕĤĞ ěĚĥĥ ĦđĚĥ ĦĢđčģĘ ĖĕĕĦĥĚ ĤĢč ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĚĥ ĕė ĐĕĚĤĕč ĦĤėĒĜĐ đĒ ęĎ đĚė ,Č ,Ďĝ ĐĕĞĥĕđ ĎĘ ,đĘ ĦĕĥČĤč) ęđďČ ġĤČčĥ ĐĤĢđč ČĕĐ ěĐčĥ ĦĔĘđčĐđ 7,ěďĤĕĐ ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđč ęĎ 8.ěđĜđĠ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕčĝč ĐĤĔĠĘ ěđĠĢĚ Ěīģ 30ąė ,(al-Bse¯ra) ĐĤĕĢč ęĞ ĐĐđĒĚĐ ,(Ďĕ ,ĔĚ ĔĤĠĚĐĥ ČĢĚĜ ĖėĕĠĘ 9.(Busruna) ěĤĢč :ęĕĕĤĢĚĐ ĦđĤČĚĐ ĕčĦėč ĕĘđČ ĦĤėĒĜđ ČĤģĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ Ħėĕĕĥ ĘĕĘĢ ĥĕ ěĚĥĘĥ ĦđĤēČ ęĕĤĞĚ ĐĘĕďčĐĘ ěėČ ďĘđĜ ,ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜč ĔĘģĚĐ ĤĕĞĘ ĤĢč ĦČ ĖĕĕĥĚĐ ,ĕČĤģĚĐ ęĎ ĞģĦĥĜ ,ČĤģĚĐ ĕĚĕč Ĥčė đĒ ĤĢč Ęĥ ĐĜčĤđē ęĞ 10.ęĕĚėē ĕĠčĥ ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĘĘė ęđģĚ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ěėĘđ ,ĐĚđď 11.ĐĚĥ ĐďđĐĕ Ęĥ đĞĝĚ ĤđČĕĦč .ĤĢčĘ ĐĚđď ěĚĥĥ ďĞĘĎč ęĕĤĞ ĕĦĥ čđĥ ĦđĢĢ ĦĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĐĠđģĦč ĐĜĐđ đďėĘĜ (ęĕďđĐĕĐĚ) ęĐĚ ęĕčĤ ĕėī ĤĚČĜ ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 163 ĦĜĥč ,ďĞĘĎĐ ĕďđĐĕĘ đģĕĢĐĥ ęĕčĤĞĐ ďĎĜ ĕčģĚĐ ĐĤĢđč ĐĕĕĜĥĐđ ,ěĤđēčĥ (Bostra) ęČĥ ĕģĝąČ ĐĤĢđč ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė ČĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ 12.īĤđĢđčđ ĐĤĢđčč ĕčĤĞĐąĕĚĥĐ čēĤĚĘ ġđēĚ ĐĦđĕĜđĚĘČč ĐĤĢđč ĐĤĦđĜ ěĕĕďĞđ 13.ďĞĘĎčĥ ďĕčĤĕČĘ ēĤĒĚĚĥ (Bušra) ěĦĤĕēč ĦČ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦč ĐĚĥ ĐĘĞđ čĥ ĜīĐĝĘ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĐĘĥ ĦČĤģĘ 14.ęđďģĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĘđčĎ ĘĞ ĐĕđĢĚĐ ĤĕĞī :ěđĥĘĐ đĒč ĤĢč Ęĥ ĐĚđģĚ ĦČ ĤČĦĚ ĝđĠĝđĕ .ĐĥĚ ĕďĕč ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ Ęĥ ĤđČĕĦĐ ěĚ ĝđĠĝđĕ ĎĤē ĦĕČĤģĚĐ ĤĢč Ęĥ ĐĤđČĕĦč ģĤ .(Βοσάρα μὲν ἐπὶ τοῖς ὁρίοις τῆς Ἀραβίας) īčĤĞ

Donner and Rollig, ďđĞ đČĤđ ;ČčďĕĚĘ ēĤĒĚĚĥ ,Um el-Amedąč ĦđČďđđč ČĘ ĐĐđĒ ĐĚđģĚđ ,29 (1961), p. 247 ĤĢč ĦČ ďďđĞ Īč ĐĐĕĒ ęĦĚđĞĘ .Kanaanaische und aramäische, Bd. II (Kommentar) (Wiesbaden, 1964), p. 178 ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ ) "[ěđĤĚđĥ ěčĤđē ďĞ] ĐėđĘĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĕĘČĤĥĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ Ęĥ ĕĜĕďĚĐ ďĚĞĚĐī ,ĘīĜĐ đČĤ .ĤēČ ęđģĚč

.47–46 ĪĚĞ ,(ēīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ L. Koehler, W. Baumgartner et al., The ĘĢČ ęĎ ĦĞėđ .īĤĢčī ĖĤĞ ,ĦĕČĤģĚ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČ ĐĤĢģč đČĤ .7 .Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (Eng. ed.) Vol. I (Leiden, 2001), p. 149

ĐĕĞĥĕ) ęđďČ ĦėĘĚĚ ĦČ ęĕČĕčĜĐ ĕĜĕĞč ĐĘĚĕĝđ (ĎĘ ,đĘ ĦĕĥČĤč) ęđďČ ĕĠđĘČĚ ēĤĒ ěč ččđĕ Ęĥ đĤĕĞ ęĞ ĐĦĐđĒ .8 ĤđĚČė ČĕĐđ .36 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĕĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĕēĤĒĚĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ ,ģĕĘĎ ĪĜ ,ĐĤĢģč đČĤ ĐĕđĐĕĒ ĘĞ .(ěĘĐĘ ďđĞ đĘČ ĘĞđ ,ďđĞđ đ ,ďĘ .63–62 ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčďĘ đĦĤđďĐĚč ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤĞĐ đČĤđ ;ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ ĐĞđĔĐ ĤĥĐ ĐĘđĎ ĐĕĘČĥ ĤĕĞĐ ĥĕģĘ ěč ĥīĤ ĕĠąĘĞ .ĖĘĕČđ 20 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĘČĤĥĕđ ěĞĜė ,ĤĒĚ Īč đČĤ .9 ,ĦĘĘđė Đďĕēĕ ěĕĞĚĘ ďĎ ĦĘēĜ ęĞ ĐĦđČ ęĕĠĤĢĚĐ đĘČ đČ ČĤģĚčĥ ęĕĎĕĘĠĚĐ ęĕĤđČĕĦĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ęĎ ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜ .10 ĦđĘēĜĦĐĐ ĖĕĘĐĦ ĘĞ ďđĞ .204 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĘČĤĥĕ ĕĔčĥ ĦđĘēĜ ,ĕČĘģ ĪĒ đČĤ .ěĥčĐ ďĞ ĐĜđĠĢ ĐĞĤĦĥĐ ČĘ ,īĕĘČĤĥĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ Ęĥ ĕĜĕďĚĐ ďĚĞĚĐī ,ďďđĞ ĘĢČ ,ďĎ Ĕčĥ Ęĥ đĚđēĦĘ ĐČđđĥĐč đĦđĘēĜĦĐ ęđēĦđ ěčđČĤ Ĕčĥ Ęĥ .144–111 ĪĚĞ ,ē ,ė ĞĥđĐĕ đđĥĐđ ,ĕĤĤĚ ĕĜčĘ) Ďĝ ,đ ,Č ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčď ĤĠĝčĥ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĚĕĥĤč ČđĐ ČĤģĚč ěđĤēČĐ ĐĤđėĒČ .11 đďĚĞ ĤĢčĘ ĤĥģĐč đĘČ ĦđĚĕĥĤčĥ ěđĕđđĥĐąĕČ ĘĞ .(Čė ĞĥđĐĕčĥ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦđĚĕĥĤč ČĘ ĖČ ,ĎĚ ,ď ęĕĤčďĘ ĐĘčģĐčĥ .ĒĞ Īĕĝ ,(ēīĤĦ ,ěĕĘĤč) ĘĞĝČģ Īď ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ęĕĜđĚďģ ęĕĜđČĎ ĦđčđĥĦ ,ěđČĎ ĕČĐ čĤĘ ĐĦĜĠđĐĥ ĐĘČĥč ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĕĚĕč Ĥčė ĦĚĤ ĦČ ēĢđĤĐ ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞ ĦČ ďĎ ĐĔĚĚđī :ĘĕēĦĚ ģđĝĠĐ ęĥ ,đĘ ,Čė ĞĥđĐĕĘ ĔĝģĔĐ ĕďĕĢč ĐĠĝđĜĥ ĐĝđĘĎč ďđĞ đČĤđ ČĘ ęĕĜĥĕĐ ęĕģĕđďĚĐ ęĕĤĠĝĐ Ęėčđ ĪđĎđ ĪĤĢč ĦČ ěčđČĤ ĐĔĚĚđĪ ęĐč ĐĎđĚĥ ęĕĤĠĝ ĥĕī Á ĪđĎđ īĐĕĥĤĎĚ ĦČđ ďĞĘĎč .21 ĐĤĞĐ ěĘĐĘ đČĤ Ėė ĘĞđ ,ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĘČĥĘ ĐĤĕĥĕ ĐģĕĒ ĥĕ ęĕĕđĘĐ ĕĤĞ ĦĕĎđĝĘ ĕė ĥĕĎďĐĘ ĥĕ .ī. . . ČĢĚĜ .336 ,čĕ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ đđĥĐ ;ĔėÀđė ,Đ ,Č ęĕčģĚ .12 ĐĤĢđč ęĞ Á W. Kappler, Maccabaeorum liber I (Göttingen, 1976), p. 77 đČĤ Á Βόσορα Ęĥ ĐĕđĐĕĒ .13 đĤđČĕčč ďđĞ đČĤđ .Benzinger, Pauly-Wissowa RE III/1 (Stuttgart, 1897), col. 790 ĘĥĚĘ đČĤđ ,ęĕčĤ ĦĞď ĘĞ ĘčģĦĜ I. Shatzman, The Armies of ;177–176 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĥđĤĕĠđ ęđĎĤĦ ,ČđčĚ :Č ęĕčģĚ ĤĠĝ ,ĔĤđĠĠĤ ĘČĕĤđČ Ęĥ .the Hasmonaeans and Herod: From Hellenistic to Roman Frameworks (Tübingen, 1991), pp. 104–105 ĘĞ ĒĚĤ Ĥčėđ ,ĦĞďĐ ĘĞ ĘčģĦĚ đĜĕČ (Ad Quint. Frat. II, 11.3) đĤģĕģ Ęĥ čĦėĚč ĐĦđĐĒĘ ĦđĜđĕĝĕĜĐ ,ĘĥĚĘ .14 H. MacAdam and N. J. Munday, “Cicero’s Reference to Bostra”, CP ĕďĕč ĐēďĜđ čĥđ ,789 ĤđĔ ,ęĥ ,ĤĎĜĕĢĜč Ėė .78 (1983), pp. 131–136

ĕĥąĤĕĞ ďďđĞ

94

ĕĤĞ ĕĜĕĕĠČĚ ĤđČĘ đĚĕĕģĘ ďđČĚ Đĥģ ĤģĕĞč 2.ěĚĤčĕĘ ĘđČĥ Ėė ĘĞ ĤĕĞĐ Ĥčėđ ,ĐđĚĦĚ ĤĦđĕ ČđĐ ,ĐēďĜ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ďĎĜĚ 3.īęĤėčĥ ęĕĜĠĎ ĦđĤđĥė ěđĤčē ďĎĜėī ĦĜđđėĚ ĤĢč ęĐĕĠąĘĞĥ ,ČĦĠĝđĦč đĜĕđĢĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĦđĜđĥ ęĕėĤďč čđĥĘ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĜđĕĝĕĜ ęĕďĕĞĚ Ėė ĘĞđ ,ďčĘč ĦđĚĥ ĥĤďĚė ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ ĤđĦĠĘ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ęĞ ĐĤĢđč ĐĐđĒĚ ęĕĤčď ĥĤďĚč ěėČđ .ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞčĥ ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞ ĖĤĞĚĚ ģĘēė ĐĤĢđč ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĦđĜđđėĚ đĕĐ ĖČĕĐđ ,(Ď ,Ĕĕ ,ęĥ) ĖĤďĐ ĖĘ ěĕėĦ ĪČĜĥ ęĕėĤď ěĐĘ ĦđĜđđėĚ ěĜĕĜĦ ěĚĦī :(ĎĚ ,ď) ęĕĤčď ĤĠĝčĥ ČďĐđ .ěĥčč ěĘđĎ ďĎĜė ĘĕĘĎč ĥďģđ ,ďĞĘĎč ĦđĚĤ ďĎĜė ęĕĤĠČ ĤĐč ęėĥ ,ĤčďĚč ĤĢč ďĎĜė ĐďđĐĕč ěđĤčē 4.ī. . . ĘĕĘĎč ĥďģ ďĎĜė ěđđėĚ ěĕď ěđĘ ĤĚČ . . . ĐĤĢčĘ ĘĒČ ĝēĜĠ ĪĤ .ĐĤĢč ĤĚČ ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤ . . . ěĘđĎ ČĕĐ ĐĘĕčģĚ đĘ ĥĕĥ ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĦĤđĝĚč ĐĒ īĐĥģđĚī ĕđĐĕĒ Ęĥ đĕĥĤđĥ ĦČ ěđēčĘđ čđĥĘ đďĞđĜ ěĘĐĘ đĜĕĤčď ĤčĞĚĪ ĪĤčďĚčĪ ĤĢčī :đĜđĥĘ ĐĒđ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ čČ Ęĥ (ĦđĚđģĚĐ ĦđĚĥ ĤĠĝ) ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČč ĦĜĕĕĜĞĚ ČĤĢč ČĕĐ .ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞĚ ĐĜđĐė ĤĕĞ .(ē ,ė ĞĥđĐĕ ,ĎĚ ,ď ęĕĤčď) ĪđēĕĤĕ ĐēĤĒĚĪ ĪěčđČĤ ĐĔĚĚĪ ĪěďĤĕĘ ,Ďĝ) ĐĕĞĥĕĥ ,ęđďČ ġĤČ ĕĤĐč đĕĥĞ ĤĕĞ ,ĦĤēČ ĤĢč ęĎ ęđĕĐ ĥĕđ .ČĕčĤĞ Ęĥ ěĕĘđĠđĤĔĚ ęđĕĐ ,(Βόστρα) 5.ī ĪĐĤĢčĚ ęĕďĎč ġđĚē ęđďČĚ Čč ĐĒ ĕĚĪ:ĤđĚČĘ ĐĤĕėĒĚ (Č .īĐĤĢđč ČĕĐ ĤčďĚč ĤĢčī ĕđĐĕĒĐ Ĥčďč ,ĥĕģĘ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤĘ ĦĝēđĕĚĐ ,ĘĕĞĘď ĦĤđĝĚč ēĦĠĜđ čđĥĜ ĔĤĠĚĐ ĘĞ ĘĘė ĐĜđĞ ĐĜĕČđ ,(Bosra¯ Eski Sham) ęČĥ ĕģĝąČ ĐĤĢđčė ĐĞđďĕĐ ,ěĤđēčĥ ĐĤĢđč ,ĤđĚČė ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė ČĕĐĥ ,(ĎĚ ,ď ęĕĤčď) īĕĜčđČĤĘ ĤĥĕĚĐ ġĤČčī ĤĕĞė ĤĢč Ęĥ ĐĚđģĚ ĦČ ĤČĦĚĐ ,ĕČĤģĚĐ ,ĤđėĒĘ ĕđČĤ ĦČĒ ęĞ 6.īěĕĞ .ĕė .ĤĢč .ĕĦĜč .ĖĜČī:čČđĚ ĖĘĚ ĞĥĕĚ Ęĥ ĦĚĝĤđĠĚĐ ĦčđĦėč ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĤĢč ĞĚĦĥĚ ĐĤđČėĘĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒč ęĕĕĥģĐ ĦđĤĚĘ .17 ĐĤĞĐ 62 ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčďĘ đĦĤđďĐĚĘ đĕĦđĤĞĐč .2 ēĤĒĚĘ ĤčďĚč ĤĢčđī :Ďđĕĝ ČĘč ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ ĔģĜ ēĤĠđ ĤđĦĠė ĘĞč ĕēĤĠĐ ĕĤđĦĥĕČ ĕĤĐ ,(ČīĞ čĕ ĦđėĚ ,ĕĘčč) đč ĤĒēĥ đĕĤčďĚ .ČĕĥÀĕĥ ĪĚĞ ,ēīĜĤĦ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ,ġĜđĘ ĚīČ ĦĤđďĐĚ đČĤ .īĐĤĢč đĘ ěĕĤđģđ ęđĕ ĕĢēė ĕĞĤďČ .čīĞ Ĕ ĦđėĚ ,ĕĘčč đČĤđ ;č ,Ď ĦđėĚ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ .3 ęĤĕĞĘ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ ġĚČĘ Đĥģĥ ,ĤĚČĕĐĘ ĐĜĦĕĜ ĦĚČĐ .63–62 ĪĚĞ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď .4 ĕđĐĕĒĐ .Bostra ĐĚĥč ĐĞđďĕĐ ,ĐĕčĤĞ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĐ Ęĥ ĤĦđĕ ĦĚĝĤđĠĚĐ ĐĦĤĕčĘđ ęĕĔčĜĐ Ęĥ ĦĚĝĤđĠĚĐ ďĎĜė ĦĜđđėĚ ĐĦđĕĐ ĘĞ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĕĤčď ĤđČĘ ďđēĕĕč ,đĕĤēČĘĥ ĤđďĐ ěĚđ ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ Ęĥ đĤđďĚ ęĕĚėēĐ ĦĢđčģ ĐĞĕĢĚĥ ĦČĒ Ęėčđ .ĕĤĕĤēąĘČ ĤĕĢđč ęĥč ĞđďĕĐ ĤĦČ ,ĐĚđď ĐĚĥ ĘĕĘĢĥ ĕĜđĠĢĐ ěĤđēč ĦĤēČĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ĤĦđĕ ęČđĦ ,ĘĕĘĎč ĥďģ ĐĘđĎ ČđĐĥ ,ČĕĐ ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ ĤĥĐ Ęĥ đĦđĞĔ đĘĕČđ ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĤĢđč ěėČ ČĕĐđ ,ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ Ĥčĕď ĐĕĦđďđČ ĘĞĥ ĐĤĢđč ČĕĐ ĤĢč “The Martyrs of Caesarea”, JQR 36 (1946), ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Ėė ĘĞ ĤĕĞĐ Ĥčėđ ,ĤčďĚčĥ ĤĢč ĐĜĕČ đĒđ ,ęđďČčĥ ĐĤĢđčĘ G. W. Bowersock, Roman Arabia ĐčēĤĐč đČĤ ĦĕĚđĤĐđ ĦĕĔčĜĐ ĐĤĢđč Ęĥ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĐĕĘđĎĘĎ ĘĞ .pp. 250–251 (Cambridge Mass., 1983); M. Sartre, Bostra: des origines à l’Islam (Paris, 1985); M.Sartre, The Middle East ĘĞ ĐčēĤĐ ĤĦĕčđ .Under Rome (English Trans.; Cambridge Mass., 2005), pp. 197–198, 223–224, 338 ,ī ĪĐĕčĤĞĪ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĐ ĦĤĕč ,ĐĤĢč Ęĥ ĕĦėĘĐĐ ĐďĚĞĚī ,ĝčē ĪČ đČĤ ďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĕĚĕč ĤĕĞč ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĘĕĐģĐ ČĕĐ ,ĐĕčĤĞ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĤĕč ,đĒ ĐĤĢđčĥ ,ęĕčĤ Ėė ĘĞ đĤĕĞĐ Ĥčėđ ,ĥĕĎďĐĘ ďđĞ ĥĕ .393–375 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĜĥĦ) ĝ ěđĕĢ ĐďčđĞ ,īĐĤĢđčĘ ęēĦĚď ĐĤĚĕĒ ěđėĤĔī :ĕēĤĒĚĐąĕĜđĠĢĐ ĞđĢģĚĐ ĦČ ĔĔĤĥĚĐ đģ ĐĢģč ěĕĚđēĦď ČĦĕĕĤčč ĦĤėĒĜĐ đĒ .ĘīĚėČđ ,ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĦĤđĝĚč đĒ ĤĕĞ Ęĥ ĐĦđĕĒėĤĚđ ĐĦđēėđĜ ĦČ ĐĤĕČĚĐ đĚđĎĤĦč ěČė ;Eusebius, Onomastikon (ed. E. Klostermann), GCS 11/1 (Leipzig, 1904), p. 112 đČĤ .5 Ęĥ đĕĤčď ğĤđĦĘ ĝđĕčĝđČ ĕĤčď ěĕčĥ ěđĕĚďč ěĕēčĐĘ ČĘĥ Đĥģ .(209 ĪĝĚ) ,22 ĪĚĞ ,(đīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ďĚĘĚ ĢīĞ Ęĥ đĒč ďđēĕĕčđ ,ĦđĤđĝĚĐ ĕĦĥč .(1 ĐĤĞĐ ĘĕĞĘ) ěĚĤčĕĘ ęĤČĕčĥ ĕĠė ,ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ ĐĤĥ ĦđĥĞĘ ďĕĦĞĥ ĦđĞĔĐ ěĕĕĜĞč ĘīčĥĤ ,ĐĕčĤĞ Ęĥ ěĕĘđĠđĤĔĚ ĐĤĢđčĘ īđēĕĤĕĘ ĐēĤĒĚī īěčđČĤ ĐĔĚĚī ĤĢč ĦĕČĤģĚĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĕđĐĕĒč ģĦĞĚĐ ĤėĕĜ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ Ęĥ ęĕĤĞ ĕĦĥĘ ěđđėĚė ĘĕĞĘ ĘīčĥĤ ĐĥĞĥ ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦČ ĤđĦĠĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐĕĐ ĐĤđČėĘ ,ďđĞđ .ĕĠĤĎđČĎ ěđĕĎĕĐ ĘėĘ ďĎđĜĚĐ ĕđĐĕĒ ,(ĐĤĔĠĘ ěđĠĢĚ Ěīģ 45ąė) Bosra = el-Buseira ęđďČ ġĤČčĥ đĒđ ěčđČĤ ĦĘēĜč ĤčďĚč ĤĢč ,ĐĚđďĐ ĘĕĘĢĐ ĦđĘĞč ĦđĤēČ ĤĥģĐč ĘĕĞĘ ĦĤėĒĜĐ đĒđ) ęĕďđĚĘĦčđ ĥĤďĚč ĦđĚđģĚ ĐĚėč ĦđĤđĒĠĐ ĦđĔđďģĜČĐ ęĘđČ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ ĕĤčďč ČĕĐ ğČ ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĝčē ĦĤĠČ ęĎ ĐģĝĞ đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦĕĕĎđĝč .ĐĕčĤĞ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĐ ĦĤĕč ,ěĥččĥ ĐĤĢđčč ěĘđėė ěčđĤ ĦđģĝđĞ (ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĘ .380–378 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,đĜĜĕĕĜĞĘ .đč ĤďĎĦĐĘ ęđģĚ ĐēĕĜĐ ęĘđČ ,(ĦĚďđģĐ ĐĤĞĐč) ĐĤĚČĚč H. Donner and W. Rollig, Kanaanaische und aramäische đČĤ .īĦđĝĕĤĐč ĐĜėĥ ĕė ĤĢč ĦČ ĕĦĕĜčī :đĤđČĕčđ .6 S. Segret, ArOr đČĤ .(ĎĚ ,ď) ęĕĤčď ĤĠĝčĥ ĤĢč ČĕĐđ ,Inschriften, Bd. 1 (Wiesbaden, 1962), p. 33 (no. 181)

ČĕĐ (ěĤđēčĥ Bostra) ĐĤĢđč ęČĐ ?ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞĚ īĤčďĚč ĤĢčī ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ

ĕĥąĤĕĞ ďďđĞ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

ęĕďĎč ġđĚē ęđďČĚ Čč ĐĒ ĕĚĪ :čĕĦėď ,ĦđĞĔĘ ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ đĤĥ ďĕĦĞ ĦđĕĞĔ ĥđĘĥ :ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĤĚČī ďĕĒĚ ČđĐđ ĎĎđĥ ČĘČ ĦĔĘđģ ĐĜĕČĥ ĐĞđĔ ,ĐĤĢčĘ ĐĘđĎ ČđĐđ ĤĢč ČĘČ ĦĔĘđģ ĐĜĕČĥ ĐĞđĔ ,ĪĐĤĢčĚ ĐĒ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĠđĎč ěČė ěđďČ ČĘ .(ČīĞ Ďĕ ĦđėĚ ,ĕĘčč) īĖČĘĚ ČđĐđ ęďČ ĘČ ĦĔĘđģ ĐĜĕČĥ ĐĞđĔ ,ĐĕĐ ĕđĐĕĒĐ .ęđďČ ġĤČ đĢĤČč ĐĎĎĥč ēĢđĤ Ęĥ ĔĘģĚ ĥĠēĚĐ đĕĥĞ Ęĥ đĤĥ ĘĤđĎ ĘĞđ ęĕĚĕĐ ĦĕĤēČ ĘĞ ęĐ ĥĕģĘ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤ Ęĥ ęĕĢĤēĜĐ đĕĤčď .đĜĜđĕď ĒėĤĚč ďĚđĞĐ ČđĐ ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč Ęĥ ĥĤďĚč ĒđĚĤĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ,ĤēČ ĤĥģĐč đĚĢĞ ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĐĥĞĥ (ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč Ęĥ đĜĕĕĐď) đĠđĎ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒĚ ĐĤĒē ěĕĞĚ īĐĤĢč đĜĕĕĐ đČĘ ĤĢčī :ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĦđĢĤēĜ Đēďĥ ĖĘĐĚ ,ęĕĤĢĚ ĕĘđĞ Ęĥ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕĚđēĦč ĐĦĘĘėĐ ĤđĚČėĥ ěđĕĝĕĜ ,ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ ěđĕĝĕĜĐ ęĢĞ ĕė ĤĚđĘ ĖĕĤĢ ,ěėČđ 1.(čīĞ ēĜ ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ĕĘčč) ĦČ ĕĤčĞĐ ČĤđģĐđ ĤģđēĐ ĤđčĞč ďĕĚĞĐĘ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ęĕĤđĥĞč ĘĚĞĥ ,ěĕđĘ ĪĘ ĘČĤĥĕ ĪĠđĤĠĐ ĘčđĕĐ ĘĞčĘ ĐĜĔģ ĐēĜĚ ěđĥČĤ ĕĜđĕĞ ĤĒĞ ĕĘė ĥĚĥĘ ďĕĦĞĐ ,(ęĕĤĞđĚ ĦđĤđģĚ ĘĘĥ ĘĕėĚĐ) ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ěĚ ĦđĚđģĚĐ ĦđĚĥ ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČ .ĐĘĞĚč (ęĥ) ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĦĥĕĤď ĦČ đĚĢĞ ĘĞ Ęčĕģ ęČ ęĎ ,ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒĚ ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ đč ĤĒē ěėČ ęČ ģĠĝĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕ .1 ;ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ěĜēĦČđ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčďčĥ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ēĝđĜč .đĦđĞĔ ĘĞ ęđģĚĐ ĕďđĐĕ ĦČ ďĕĚĞĐĘđ ĐĤĢđčĘ ĦđĤĕĐĚč čđĥĘ ěĚ ČĕĐ ĦĕĘ ,Ęččč ĐĤĢč [Ė]Ę ĦĕČđ . . . ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĘīČī :ĕĘččĥ ĐĒĚ ĤĦđĕ ĤĕĐč ēđĝĕĜĐ (62–61 ĪĚĞ ,ďīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĦđĤēČĐ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ đđĥĐđ ,īĐĤĢč đĒ ěĕČđ ,(ĎĚ ,ď ęĕĤčď) īĤčďĚč ĤĢč ĦČī :čĕĦėď .ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞĚ ĐĜĕČđ ĘČĤĥĕď ČĞĤČ ęĥĥ ČĘČ) ďīĞ đĘ ,đ ĦĕĞĕčĥ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ :ĐĤĢđč = ĤĢč ĕđĐĕĒĐ ĦČ ĦđĚĕĕģĚđ ĥĕģĘ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĦĞď ĦČ ĦđČĕčĚĐ ĐďđčĞč ĕĘččĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ĐĕĎĐ ěđČĎĐđ ,ĤČčĘ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĥĤĠĚ đģēďĜđ ,ĐĤĢđč ęĞ ĤĢč ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ ĤĒēĥ ČđĐ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĐĤđČėĘ ,ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč ĦĤĞĐ đČĤ ęĘđČđ .4 ĐĤĞĐ 61 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ ĦĤĞĐđ ,Ďĕ Īĕĝ ,ĕĞĝĚ ČĚđēĜĦ ěėđ ;(ĐĤĒ ĦđĞĔĘ ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ Ĥĥ ďĕĦĞ ĦđĕĞĔ ĪĎ ,ĦđėĚď ģīĠč ĘīčĥĤ ĤĚČď ČĐđī :ĐĤĢč đĜĕĕĐ đČĘ ĤĢč Đīď ,ęĥ ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ĕĘčč ,ī. . . ĕĚđĤ Ęĥ Ĥĥ ĐĞĔĕ ĐĒ ĦđĞĔč ęĎ ĕė ĐďđĐ ĒČ ĐĤĢč đĜĕĕĐ đČĘ ĤĢčď đĐĕČ Ĥčĝď ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĚ ĐĞĚĥď ĤĦčĘ đĜĕĕĐ . . . Īđėđ ĕĠąĘĞ) Č ,ĎĘ ĦĕĥČĤčĘ ĤĕėčČ ĥĤďĚč ĐĕđĢĚ ĥĕģĘ ĥĕĤ ĕĠčĥ ĦĤđĝĚĘ ĦĜĕĕĜĞĚ ĦĕģĘē ĐĘĕčģĚ .ĦđČčĐ ĦđĤĞĐč ďđĞ đČĤđ ĦĕĔĜĒĕčĐ ĐĕĘĔĕČč ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė đĦďĕĘĥ ,ĐĒ ĥĤďĚčĥ ĦĤđĝĚč .(ĎĘģ ,ĒĚĤ ,ĎĘ ,ēĘĥĕđ ĕĜđĞĚĥ ĔđģĘĕč ĤĚĦĥĐĥ ēĝđĜĐ ěĕČđ ,ĔĘģĚ ĤĕĞė đĘ ĦĕĚďĜĐ ĐĤĢđčĘ ěĕĤčđĎ Ħĕč ČĕĐ ĤĕĞĥĚ ęđďČ Ęĥ Ĥĥ Ęĥ đĦēĕĤč ĘĞ ĤĠđĝĚ ,ęĕĕĜđėĕĦĐ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕč đČĤ đĒ ĦĤđĝĚĘ ĕĤĥĠČĐ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĞģĤĐ ĘĞđ ĐĒ ĕďđēĕĕ ĥĤďĚ ĘĞ .đĔēđĥ ČĘČ ,đēĕĜĚ ,ęďĐ ĘČđĎ ČđĐĥ ,ČđĐ ĖđĤč ĥđďģĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īČĔđĒ ęĕĤčďđ ,ĐĠĝČ ,ĤĕėčČ :ďčĘč ĒĜėĥČĚ ęĕĞđďĕĐ ęĕďđčČ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚī ,ĐĘđČĎ ĪĞ ĘĢČ ĐčēĤĐč .103–100 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,đĜĜĕĕĜĞčđ ,113–15 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

93

91

?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ ęđēĦč ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ęĕďēđĕĚĐ đĕĎĥĕĐč ĐĘĞĚč ęĕĜđĥČĤ ęĕĚĤđĎ ,ĦĕĜĕĕĜĞđ ĦĕĥĞĚ ĐĥĕĎ ďĢč ,ĐĕĕĜčĐ ąĦĥĕĠĦ ĘĞč ,ĕďđĝĕđ ĕĥĞĚ ĐĕĐ ĕĤĐ đĦđĕĥĕČ ĘĞ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐąĕĘĞĠĚĚ ďđĚĘĘ ĤĥĠČ ęČ .ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęĕčĢĚĘđ đĦčĕčĝĘ ĐĚČĦĐ ,(ĎĥđĚĐ Ęĥ čđĔĐ ěčđĚč) ĤđĦĘČ ĦĘđėĕ ,ĐĘđĞĚ ěđĎĤČ Ĥĥđė ,ĐčēĤ ęĘđĞ 19.ĞģĤģĐ ĘĞ đĕĘĎĤ ĕĦĥč ĕđĢĚđ ďĘđĜĐ ĦČ ĐČđĤĐ ęďČ Á ęĕĜĦĥĚ

ĤđČĘ ČĢĕĥ ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐ ĦČ ęėĝĚĐ ,ĤėĒĜĐ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĕĒėĤĚĐ ģĘēĐ ĦČ ĕĦĚĕĕĝ ęĎ đĒ ĐČčđĚč .19 .306 ĪĚĞ ,The Architecture of Herod ,2006 ĦĜĥč

ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ

90

ĐĚ ĘĕĞĘ ĕĦĤďĎĐ ?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĚ ēĤėĐč ĞčđĜ ĘđďĎ ĐĕĕĜč ĘĞĠĚ Ęė ęČĐ !ģĠĝč ĘĔđĚ ,ĕďĕďĘ ,ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ ęĕĕģ ČĘ ĘĕĞĘ ĕĦĜĕĕĢĥ ęĕĜĕĕĠČĚĐ ěĚ ďēČ ğČ Á ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐđ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęđēĦč ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ČĔčĘ ĕđĥĞ .ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕĜĕĕĜčč ĝđĝĕčđ ĐģĒē ĐĕĢĕčĚČ ,ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦčĐČ ěĕč čđĘĕĥė ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ ĦĚģĐĘ ĐĕĢčĕĔđĚĐ ĦČ ĖėĘ ĦđēėđĐĐ ĦēČ !ĐĕđĜĤĠđ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤĚ ĦĞčđĜĐ ĦđĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĦđĕĔĜ Ęĥ ĕĤĠė ČĘđ ,ĐėđĘĚĐ Ħĕč ďĚĞĚ :ęĠģĕĐđ ęĕĘĞĠĚĐ ĦĚģĐ čĢģ ĤēČ čđģĞĘ ĦĤĥĠČĚ 16,ĕĦĚĝĤĠĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦĥĕĤĠ ĦĘčĔ .ĐďĚĦĐĐ ČĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤčđ ĥČĤč) ĤĢčĚĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČĘ ĤģĕĞč čĘĐ ĦĚđĥĦ ĐĜĦĕĜ čđĤĕģč ĜīĐĝĠĘ 27–37 ęĕĜĥč .Č .ěđĤĚđĥąĐĕĔĝčĝ Ęĥ ĐēđĦĕĠĘ ĐĠđģĦĐ ğđĝčđ ,(ĐĕĜđĔĜČĘ đĕĤēČđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ěđĚĤČĐ Á ęĕĕĒėĤĚĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČĐ ĕĜĥ đĚģđĐ ĖĤĞč ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 22–27 ęĕĜĥč .č .ěđĕďđĤĐč ĘđĘėĚĐ ęĕģĐĥ ĤĦđĕč ęĕčđĥēĐ ęĕĔģĕđĤĠĐ ĕĜĥĘ ěđĦĜ ġĚČĚĐ ĤģĕĞ ĐĕĐ ĖĤĞč ĜīĐĝĠĘ 10–22 ęĕĜĥč .Ď ĝđĠđČīĐ ĕĜčĚ ĦĥđĘĥ đĚģđĐ ĐĒĐ ěĚĒĐ ģĤĠ ğđĝ ĦČĤģĘ ģĤ .ĐĘĚĜđ ă ĐĕĤĝĕģđ ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ Á ĝđďĤđĐ Ęėėđ ,(ĝČĕĜčč ĥďģĚĐđ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĐēĠĥĚĐ ĕĜč Ęĥ ęđČĕĘđĒđČĚĐ ,đēĕĤĕč ĕĥĕĘĥĐ ěđĚĤČĐ) īęđĔĘđģĕĔĤ .đēĕĤĕč ęđĤďđĠĕĐĐ ęĎ ĐČĤĜĐ ,ěđďĦĜČ ý ,ĝĕĤĔĠĕĔĜČ Á ĐĕĕĜč ĦđĘĕĞĠ ĐĚĕĕģĦĐ ěĕďĞ ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 4–10 ,ĦđĜđĤēČĐ đĕĕē ĦđĜĥč .ď .ĘČĢĠđ ĕĥĎĤĚ ĦĞčđĜ ēĤėĐč ČĘĥ ,ĖđĤČ ēđđĔĘ ĦđĕĜĕďĚđ ,ěđĜėĦ ,čĤ ěđĕĎĕĐ ,ĦĤďđĝĚ ĐčĥēĚ ĥĕ đĒ ĐĥĕĤĠč ĦđĝĝčĦĐđ ĦđēĦĠĦĐ ĦČ ĐČĤĥ ęďČč ěĕēčĐĘ ĤĥĠČ .ęĦČĜĥ đČ ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ęĞ ĦđĤēĦ ,ĦđĦĕēĜ ĐČĢđĦ ĦđĕĐĘ ĦđĘđĘĞĐ 17,īěĦđĚĐ ěĚ ĦđĕĤĕī ĘĞ đČ īĦđĒĕĤĠģī ĘĞ ěČė ĞĕčĢĐĘ Đĥģ .đĕĜĕĞ ďĎĜĘ đĦėĘĚĚ .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚđ ĐĕđĜĤĠ Ęĥ ĦėĤĠđĚ ĕĘ ĦĕČĤĜ ,đĘĥ ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ ěĚ ģĘēė ,ĐĕĤđĝđ ęĕĤĢĚ ĘĞ ęĎ ěđĔĘĥĘ ğČĥ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ :ęĕĤčēĚĐ ęĕĜĞđĔ Ėėđ .ĐďđĝĕĚ ĐĕėĤČĤĔĔĐ ĦČ ĝČĤđĤĠ ĤĕĞĢĐ đĕēČĘ ģĕĜĞĐĘ ĝđďĤđĐ ĦĥģčĘ ĝđĔĝđĎđČ ĦđĜĞĕĐ ĦČ ęĎ ĥĤĠĘ ĖĕĤĢ Ėėđ ĝđģĤĚĘđ ĤĝĕģĘ ĦĝēĕĕĚĐ ĐĞđĚĥĐ ĦđĚĥĎĦĐĘ ęĎ ĒČ Ęēĕĕ ČđĐ ĦĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĦđĘĞĦĐ Ęĥ ĐĥđēĦč .ĐĕČĤĠ ĦĕďĤđĝčČĐ ĐĞđĚĥĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ęĢĞ .ęĕĤĢĚđ ĐĕĤđĝ Ęė ĘĞ ęĎ đėĕĘĚĐĘ ČđĐ ĕđČĤĐ ěĚĥ ěđĕĞĤĐ ĦČ ČĠĕĤĎČ ČđĐ Ęđėĕ ,ČĕĚĠĝČč ęđĘē ģĤ ĐĒ ĐĕĐ ęČđ ;ĦđĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ đĕĦđĠĕČĥ ĘĞ ĦĒĚđĤ ĝđĠĝđĕ Ęĥ đĕĦđĤđģĚ ĘČ ĤĕčėĐ ĕĒđĕĢĕčĚČĐ ğēďĐ ěĕčĘ (đĘĥ ĦđĦĕēĜĐ ĥĎĤ ĤĚđĘė) ĐėđĚĜĐ ĦĕĚĢĞĐ đĦėĤĞĐč ĤĞĠĐ ĘĞ ďĚĘĘ .(189 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĐĞčđĥ Ğďĕ ČĘĥ đĘĥ

ęĕĜĠĐ ĦđĕĜĕďĚ ĦČ ,čĤ Đė ěđĤĥĕėč ,ęĕĜĥ 33 ĘĐĕĜĥ ęďČ Ęĥ đĦĞď Ęđģĕĥč ĘĒĘĒĘ ĤĥĠČ Ėė ĕďė ďĞ ęČĐ ĐĥđĜČ ĐĞĕĎĠĘ đĚĤĎĥ ęĕĕĥĕČ ęĕĠēď ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ) đĕĜĠĘ čĢĕĜĥ ęĕĕĥģĐ Ęė ĦđĤĚĘ ,đĦėĘĚĚ Ęĥ ġđēĐđ ?(đĕĘČ ęĕčđĤģĐ ěĚ ĐĚėč

18

:ĕčĢąěč ģēĢĕ ďĕč ĖĤĞĜĥ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐ ĘĞ ěđĕď ĦđčģĞč ĕĦčĦėĥ ęĕĤčď ĘĞ ĤđĒēČ ęđĕĝĘ ěđĢĤĐđ đĦĠđģĦ ĕĜč ęĕĤēČ ęĕĔĕĘĥ ĕėĤďč ĐėĕĘĐĐ ,ĘđčĎ ČĘĘ ĐĕĢĕčĚČĐ ,ĐĤĚđĕĐ ĦČ ĘĔčĘ ęĕĢđĤ đĜČ ěĕČ ĦėČĘĚč ĕĥĕČĐ ěĕĕĜĞĐ ĦČ ĦđČĤĘ ęĕėĕĥĚĚ đĜČ ĖČ .ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕĘĞĠĚ ĞģĤč đĕĐĥ ,ęĘđĞ ęĥ ĦđĜģĘ .150–143 ĪĚĞ ,(1996) 120–119 ĘČĕĤČ ,īĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ ĦđēĦĠĦĐī ĕĤĚČĚĘ ĐđđĘĜė .16 .ĝđĕĜđĔĜČ ĝđģĤĚ ęĞ ĐĕđĠĢ ĐĥĕĎĠ ĘĢč ĐĦĜčĜ ĐďĢĚĥ ĦđĤĞĥĐ ,ĘĥĚĘ .17 .67 ĪĚĞ ,(ęīĥĦ) 15 ĐĤďĦģ ,ĕĥĕČ ĖĤđĢ đČ ĐėĘĚĚĐ ĕėĤđĢ Á ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ .18

89

?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ

đĘ ĤĥĠČĚ ĐĕĐĥ ĐĚ ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦčēĤ ĤČĥ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ěĕč ,ďč ĦđĞĕĤĕ đČ ĦđģĤĠĦĚ ĦđĢĕēĚ .đččĘė ęĕĤēČ ęĕĝģĔ đČ ĦđďđĞĝ ,ęĕĜĠ ĦđĘčģ ĐČđĔĝĐ ĖđĦč ęĕĕģĘ :ęĕĚĤđĎ ĐĥđĘĥ ěđčĥēč ČĕčĐĘ ĥĕ ěđĠĢđ čĤĞĚ ĕĠĘė ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦčēĤĐĘ ĤĥČ ģĠĝĥ ,ęĕĥĜĐ ĦĤĒĞ ěėđ ,đĦđČ đččĝĥ ĦđėĥĘĐ ęĞ ďēĕ ęĕĤĞĥĐ Á ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĘĘđėĐ ēĔĥĐ .Č ĦČ ččĝĥ ēđĦĠĐ ēĔĥĐĥ ,ĐĒĚ ČĢđĕ 15.ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęĞ ĕČďđđĘ čđĤģ ĘďĎ Á ěė ĕĜĠĘ ĐĚĕĕģĦĐ ęČ ĐĕĐ Á ĘĎĤĐ ĕĘđĞ Ęĥ čēĤĐ ĘĐģĘ ĦđĥĤĘ ĘĞđĠč ďĚĞĥ ēĔĥĐ Á ęĕĥĜĐ ĦĤĒĞ ĦČđ ĐĤĒĞĐ ĦČ ,ĥďģĚĐ !ĤĦđĕ ěĔģ ĐĦĞĚ .ĘĎĤĐ ĕĘđĞ ĤĠĝĚ ĦČ ĕČďđ đĘĕďĎĐ ĕĘėĘėĐ čĢĚĐ ĤđĠĕĥđ ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČĐ Ęĥ ĕĞčĔĐ ĘđďĕĎĐ .č Ĥĥģ ęĕĕģ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĐČĤĜ ęĚĞĥ ,ĐĘđĎĐ ĕďđĐĕ ĘČ īĐĢĕĤģī ęĎ ĕĘđČ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦĘďĎĐč .Ď ěĞĚĘ ĦđĜĘďĦĥčđ ,ěĘđĎč ęĕĘčč ĦĢđčģ čđĥĕĕč ,ĐĘđĎĐ ěĚ ęĕĘđďĎ ęĕĜĐđė ĕđĜĕĚč ĕđĔĕč ĕďĕĘ Ččĥ ,ďēđĕĚ .ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ ęĞ ęĥ ğĦđĥĚĐ đĤđģĕč ĦĞč ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 14 ĦĜĥč ĐĜĔģĐ ĐĕĝČ ĕďđĐĕ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĒėĤĚĐ ęđģĚĐ ĖČ ,đĢĤĦ ęČ īĕĒđĕďĜĤĎī ,ęĕďĚĚąčĤ ĘĞĠĚ ĐĕĐ ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦčēĤĐ ĘĞĠĚ ěėČ ĐĞģĥĐĐ ěĚ đĘĥ ęĕĜĠĐ ĦđĕĜĕďĚ ĘđĐĕĜ ęđēĦč ĝđďĤđĐĘ ĐēĚĢĥ ĦĘĞđĦĐđ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ęĞĐ ĕĕēč ĦĕčĐ ĤĐĘ ,ĐĒĐ ĘĞĠĚĘ ĤĦđĕč ĐĤđĤčĐ ĦđďĞĐ ęĐ ēĔĥč ęĕďĕĤĥĐ .ĦģĠĝĚđ ĐĤđĤč ĐģďĢĐ ĤďĎč đĕĐ ,ěČė ĞĕģĥĐĥ .ĦđčĤ ęĕĜĥ ĐėĥĚĜ đĦĚģĐĥ

ĕĘĘė ěđĕď ,ęĕĚĞĠđ) đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ĎĦđ ĎĦ ĘėĘđ ĔĤĠđ ĔĤĠ ĘėĘ ęĕĝĠĦĜ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ďēČ ďĢĚ ęĕĥĚĥĚ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ ďđĞč ,ĤēČĐ ďĢĐ ěĚđ ;(ĦĕĦĚĎĚ ĐčĕĦėĐĥ ęĕĜĞđĔ ęĐ ,ęĐĘ ęĕČĤĜ ęĜĕČ đĕĤčďĥė ĞđďĚ ěĕčĐĘ ěđĕĝĕĜ ĐĥĞĜ ČĘđ ęĕĤĦČĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĘĘė ĐĜđĚĦ ĦĎĢđĚ ďĕĚĦ ČĘ ,ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĘ ĦēĢĕĜ ĐēėđĐ ęĐĘ đĕĤĠĝč Ħĕĝēĕ ĔĞđĚ (ĤĢēĐ īĦđĘĕėĤī đĚė ČĘĥ) ĐėĘĚĚĐ ěđĎĤČ ĘĞđ ęđĕąęđĕĐ ĕĕē ĘĞ ĞďĕĚĐ .đĚģđĐ ďĢĕėđ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ Ęĥ ĕĘėĕĤďČ ēđĦĕĜ Čģđđď .ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĕėĚĦĝĚ ęĐĕĘĞĥ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ Ęĥ ęĕčđĥēĐ .đĕĘČ ęĕđđĘĜĐđ ĐėđĘĚĐ Ħĕč Ęĥ ęĕĕēĐ ēĤđČ ĘČ ĐĢĢĐ ĕĦĞďĘ ĤĥĠČĚ ęđĤďđĠĕĐĐ .ďĞĕ ĘĐģ ĦĤĥĘ đďĞđĜ ČĘČ ,ęĚĥĘ ęĕĔĜĚđĜđĚ ēĤėĐč đĕĐ ČĘ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚĥ ĤđėĒĘ ĥĕ ģĤ đēĕĤĕč đĤĤđĎĦĐ ęČ ęĎ ,ęĕĠđĢ ĕĠĘČ ĦĤĥĘ ĐĜčĜ ČđĐ .ģĕĤ ďđĚĞĘ ďĞđĜ ČĘ ĕČďđ đēĕĤĕ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĤĕĞč ČĘČ ,ęĕĤĕďĜĐ ęĐĕĤđģĕčč ĕĚđĤĐ ěđĔĘĥĐ ěĚ ęĕĤĕėč ĥĚĥĘ ģĤ ďĞđĜ ČĘ ĐĕĤĝĕģ ĘĚĜ .ĐĜĥĐ ěĚ ģĘēč .ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĘČ ęėĤďč ĘĎĤ ĕĘđĞ Ęĥ ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ęĕĞĝđĜ ,ĦđĤđēĝ Ęĥ ĐĤĕďĝ ĐĞđĜĦ ĤĥĠČĘ ĐĜđĥČĤčđ ĥČĤč .ĘĚĜĐđ ĤĕĞĐ ĐĕĤĝĕģčđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐč đĕĐ ĐĕĕĜčč ĞĕģĥĐ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ęĕĕčĤĚĐ ęĕĢĚČĚĐ ,ĤģĕĞčđ

ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ īĦĕĘĝđĘđģ ĐĕĕĜčĘ ĦĕčĕĝĝčđČĐ đĦđĤėĚĦĐč ĤģĕĞč ĤėĕĜ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦđĕĥĕČč ĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ ĔčĕĐĐī ęĕĚĞĠ 15ąė ĤĒđē ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĎĥđĚĐĥ ,ęĐĘĥ ĐĒĦč ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĕĞĜėđĥĚ Ėė ĕďė ďĞ .(86 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ěĕĕĜĞ Ęėĥ ęĎ ĐĚ ,ĐĕĢĤđĠđĤĠ ĘėĚ ĎĤđē ĕĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĐĚ ,(ĐĤĕĠĝč ĕĦĕĞĔ ČĘ ęČ) ęĤĠĝ ĕģĤĠ 20ąč

.ěė ĕĜĠĘ ĤĦđĕ ěĔģ ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė ĐĕĐ ęĕĤĞĥĐ ĕĘďĎĚ ĤĠĝĚ ,ĘĥĚĘ .15

ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ

88

ęĕĥĤĚĐđ ĐĠĕĐ ĦĜĎĠĐĘ ĦđĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ đĕĦđĕĔĜī Ę ĦĠĝđĜ ĐēėđĐ ĐđđĐĚ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĦĞďĘĥ ,ĦđĤēĦ .(185 ęĥ) īĤĦđĕč ęČĐ .ĦđĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĦđĕĔĜĚ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĕĤčďĘ ,đĕĘČĚ ěčđĚ ,đĞčĜ ĐĕĤĝĕģč ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęđĕĝĘ ĦđĎĕĎēĐ ęĎ Á ĘĚĜĐ Ęĥ ĤĦđĕč ĐčđĥēĐ ĐĕĢģĜđĠĐ ?ěđĕĢĘ ĕđČĤ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ęĕģđĚĞ ęĕĚ ĘĚĜ ĦĕĕĜč Ęĥ ĤĕďČ ĔģĕđĤĠ ęđĕĝ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦč ĤđĤč ĕđĔĕč ĘĘėĘ Čč Á ěđėĕĦĐ ęĕĐ ĕĠđē ĖĤđČĘ đĜėĥĥ ĦđĜĕďĚĐ ęĞ Ĥĥģ đĕĐ ĐĕĤĝĕģ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦĚĘĥĐ ęĞ đėĤĞĜĥ ĐđđČĤĐ ĦđĎĕĎē ,ĐĠđĢĚėī :ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĕčĦđėĥ ĕĠėđ ęĕĚĞđ ęĕĤĞ ,ĦđĢĤČĚ ĎĤď ĦđĚĤđ ĦđĕĎđĢĕĕ ĦđēĘĥĚ Ęĥ ďĚĞĚč đėĤĞĜ ěĐđ ,ěĠģĕĐčđ ěĦĤČĠĦč ěĠđď ĦđČĢđĕ Ęĥ ĦđĎĕĎēĐ Ęė ;ĐĘČė ęĕĤģĚč ĘčđģĚĐ Ęė ĘĞ ĐĘĞ ĦđēĘĥĚĐ ēđĤĕČ ęĎ .ěđėĕĦĐ ęĕĐ Ęĥ ĕēĤĒĚĐ ěĎČč đĤĒđĞ đĐđĚėđ đĚĢĞ ĤĝĕģĐ đĘĕĠČ ĤđĚČėđ ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĕĤĠĚĕČč ĤĦđĕč ęĕĐđčĎĐ ęĕĎđēč Ĥčď ęĥĘ ý đĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐ đĕĐ ĦđĎĕĎēĐ ,ĞģĥđĐĥ ĤĕďČĐ ġĚČĚĐ ēėđĜ ěėČ .(242 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īĖė ĘĞ đĐđēčĕĥ ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ ĞďđĜĐ .ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ġđēĐđ ęĕĜĠĐ ĦđĕĜĕďĚ ĦēĘĢĐ ĦČ čĔĕĐ ĦđČĔčĚ ěĐđ ,ĦđģďĢđĚ

(215–203 ;198–195 ĪĚĞ) ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕč čĘ ĦĚđĥĦ ĦĦĘ ĥĕĥ ĕĘ ĐČĤĜ ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐč đĘĞĠĚ ĦĘĕēĦ ĕĜĠĘ đčĘč ĝđďĤđĐĘ đĕĐĥ ęĕĘđģĕĥĐ ěĕč :ĐĘČĐ ĦđďđģĜĐ ĕĦĥĘ ĦďēđĕĚ đĕĦđĜđđė ĦđĜėč ęĕĜĐđėĐ ĦČđ ĕďđĐĕĐ ęĞĐ ĦČ ĞĜėĥĘ đĦĘđėĕ ČĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦđėĒĘ Đčđĥē ĐďđģĜ .1 .ĐĚĕĥĚč ďđĚĞĘđ ěč ğĝđĕ ĕčĦėĚ ďđĚĘĘ ĤĥĠČĥ ĕĠė :ĕĘĥ ĕĘėĕĤďČĐ ēđĦĕĜĐ ĕĤĠ ĐĤģĕĞč ČĕĐ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐďđģĜĐ .2 ,(ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕč čĕčĝ) ĐĤĒĞĐ ěđĜėĦ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ ĐĜđĥČĤčđ ĥČĤč ,ęĕĤēČĐ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐĚđ đĐĕĦĦĚ ĖĘĚĐĥ ěĚĒĐ ģĤĠ ęđĦ ĕĜĠĘ ďđĞ ĕĘđČ ,ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦĚĘĥĐđ ,ĘĕēĐđ ĐĚđēĐ ,ęĕđđĔĝĐ ,ęĕĤĞĥĐ ,ĦđėĥĘĐ ĤĚđĘė ĘĞ ďĕĞĚ ĐĒ ĐĘđĞĠ ğđĦĕĥ ęČĐ .ĐĜđĐėĐ ěĕčĘ đĕĥĜČđ ĝđďĤđĐ ěĕč ģđďĐ ĐĘđĞĠ ğđĦĕĥ ĘĞ ďĕĞĚ ,đĘ čĕĕēĦĐ ěđĕď ĤĤđĞĘ ĕđĥĞĥ ďĕēĕĐ ĘĞĠĚĐ !ĦĕĜĕĕĜĞđ ĦĕĘĜđĕĢĤ ĐĥĕĎ ĘĞ Á ĖĠĐĘ ĕĘđČ đČ ?ĐĕđĜĤĠ ĘĞ đČ ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ,ĦēČ ĐĥģĚ đĘđė ęēĦĚč ěđďĘ ĕĦĞďĘ ěĕČ đĒ ĐĕĎđĝč .ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦčēĤ ĦĘďĎĐ ČđĐ ĦđĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĦđĕĔĜ ĘĞ ěĕčĘ ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĚđĤďĐ ěĠđďĐ ĖĤđČ ĘėĘ ĐĥĤĠĦĐĥ ,ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ĦĚģĐ ěĕč ďĕĤĠĐĘ ĥĕ ČĘČ .ěđĠĢđ čĤĞĚ ĕĠĘė đĦčēĤĐ ,ĕĦĞĕďĕ čĔĕĚ ĕĠąĘĞđ 14,ĤĠĝĚ ęĕĚĞĠ ĕĦďĚĞ Ĥčė ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ĦĚģĐč ĕĝĕĝčĐ ĖĤđĢĐ ĘĞ đĚĢĞĘ ĤđĢĕĘ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĒĞĐ ĖĤđĢĐ Á ĥĚĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĞďĚ ĦĤđģĕč Ęėč ęđĕĐ ďĞ ĘģĦĜ ČĘ ĕĦĞĢĐĥ ĤčĝĐĐ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ .ĐĜđĐėĐ ĦĔĕĘĥč ĐĕĐĥ (ĐĚČ 500 u 500) ĥďđģĚĐ ęđēĦĘ ġđēĚ ĐĕĐĕĥ ,ďčđėĚ ęđģĚ ĐĠēď ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĚ ďēČĘ ęĦĝĐ ěĚ ,ĤēČ ęďČĘ ĤčĞđĕđ đĕďĕĚ ēģĘĕĕ ěđĔĘĥĐĥ ĦďĚĦĚĐ ,ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ĦČ ęĕģĐĘ ĕďė ĕĘėĕĤďČĐđ ĕĝďĜĐĐ ęđēĦč ęĕĤĕďČ ęĕĢĚČĚĘ ,ģďĢč đĦĜĕēčĚđ ,đĦđČ đĚĢĞĘ ĤđĢĕĘ Ėėđ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ęĞĐ ĕĜč đĕĐ ęĘđė ČĘĥ ,đĕēĤđČĘ ĦđĤČđĠĚ ęĕĜĠ ĦđĘčģ ęĕĕģĘ đĘ ĐĤĥĠČ đĒđ .ĤėđĜĚđ ĤĒ ĐĜčĚ ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĘĞ ďĕĚĞĐĘ ČĘĥ ĝđďĤđĐ ĘĕėĥĐ ĦČĒ ęĞ .đĘđė ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ęđēĦč ĕđČĤ ďĚĞĚ ęĕđđĔĝĐ ęĞ ĐĘĥ ĕĘėĕĤďČĐ ĤĥģĐđ ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ĐĜčĚ ĤđČĘ ĘčČ ,ĦČĒ ēĕėđĐĘ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ęĜĚČ ĦĕĦđėĘĚĐ ĐČđĔĝĐ ,ęĕĤđĠĕėĐ ęđĕđ ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ,ĘĎĤĐ ĕĚĕĚ ġđēĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ,ĕēĤĒĚĐđ ĕčĤĞĚĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ,ďĕĤĠĐĘ ĖĘĚĐ Ęđėĕ ęĕĎēĐ ĤČĥčđ ęĕĘĎĤĐ ĦĥđĘĥč ,ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ .čēĤĐ ĘĐģĘ ĐēđĦĠ ĐĦĕĕĐ Netzer, The Architecture of ;131–128 ĪĚĞ ,(2000 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĘđďĎĐ ĝđďĤđĐđ ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČ ,ĤĢĜ ĪČ đČĤ .14 .Herod, pp. 165–171

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?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ

(180–179 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ěđĤĚđĥ ĘĕĘĎĐ ěĕč ďĕĤĠĐĘ ĦčĥđēĚđ ĦĕĘĘė ĦĕĜėĦĚ ģĘēė ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĕĤčďĘ ,ĐĦĜčĜ ěđĤĚđĥąĐĕĔĝčĝ ěĕČ .ęĕĥĤĠĐ ĞčĎđ ĐĕĤĝĕģ ęĎ ęĕĜĥĐ ĦĢđĤĚč ģĘē đēģĘ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ęĦĞďĘ ,đĒ ĐďĤĠĐč .ĐďđĐĕĘ ĦĚđĞĘ .ěđĤĚđĥ Ęĥ ĐĤđĢĕčđ ĥďēĚ ĐĦĚģĐ ĕĤđēČĚ đčĢĕĜĥ ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ đČ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤĘ ĒĚĤ ęđĥ ęĘĢČ ďĕĞĐĘ ĕđĥĞĥ ĐĚ ,ĘĕĘĎĐ ĕďđĐĕĘ ĐďđĐĕ ĕďđĐĕ ěĕč ďĕĤĠĐĘ ĐďĞđĜĥ ,ēđđĔ ĦėđĤČ ĐĕĎĔĤĔĝČ đČĢĚ ęĐ ,ĦČĒ .ĐĜĕďĚĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞ ĘđĐĕĜč ęđėēĦ ĘĞ

(245–241 ,190–181 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĐĕĤĝĕģ ĤĕĞč ěĐ ,ĐĚĢđĞčđ ĤČĠč ęĘđĞĐ ĦČ ęĕĥĤĐĘ ĕďė ęĕĢĚČĚĐ čĤĚ ĦČ ĝđďĤđĐ ĞĕģĥĐ ĐĦĕĕĜčč ĕė ĐĚđď ĘĎĤĘ ďđēĕĕč ,ĐĕĤĞĥč ęĕČčĐ ĘėĘ đĦđėĘĚ Ęĥ ĐđđČĤĐ ěđĘē ĦđĕĐĘ đďĞđĜ ęĐ ĕĤĐĥ ,ĐĘĚĜč ěĐđ ĐĚĢĞ .(181 ĪĚĞ) īęĥ đėĤĞĜĥ ęĕĠĚĕĘđČĐ ęĕģēĥĚĐ đĚė ĕĚđČĘąěĕč ĕĠđČ ĕĘĞč ęĕĞđĤĕČ

?ĐĜĥ 12ąė ĖĥĚč ěČė ĞģĥđĐĥ ĤĕďČĐ ġĚČĚĐ ĘėĘ ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐčĕĝĐ đĒ ęČĐ ,ęĕĢĚČĚĐđ ęĕčČĥĚĐ čĤĚ đĞģĥđĐ ěđĤēČč ĕė ĐĘđĞ ĝđĔĝčĝ ĘĚĜ Ęĥđ ĐĕĤĝĕģ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĤđČĕĦĚ 15 ĦĜĥč ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ Ęĥ đĤđģĕčč ČĘĚ ĕđĔĕč đĘ ěĦĕĜĥ Ĥčď ,ďēđĕĚč đĕĘĞ ĐČĎ ĐĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĐČĤĜđ .(184 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĜīĐĝĠĘ

ĤēĝĚĐ ēđĦĕĠ đĚė ,ĦđčđĔ Ħđčĕĝ đďĚĞ ĘĚĜĐ ĦĚģĐ ĞģĤčĥ ĤēČĚ ĐČĎ ĦđĕĐĘ ĦđčđĔ Ħđčĕĝ đĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐĘ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ěėČđ .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ Ęė ČĘč ęĎ ,ěđėĕĦĐ ęĕĐ ĦđĢĤČ ęĞ ěĕģĦ ĕĚĕ Ĥĥģđ đĢĤČ Ęĥ ĐĘėĘėĐđ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠĘđ ĝđďĤđĐ ĦėĘĚĚĘ ĐĕĤĝĕģč ĘĚĜĐ ČĕčĐĥ ĦĕĘėĘėĐ ĦĘĞđĦĐ ĘĞ ěĕĤĤđĞ ěĕČī :ęĕčĦđė ęĚĢĞč .(185 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īěđėĕĦĐ ęĕĐ Ęĥ ĕēĤĒĚĐ ěĎČč ĕĘČĕĤĠĚĕČĐ ĤēĝĐ ēđĦĕĠĘ ĐĘđďĎĐ đĦĚđĤĦ Ęĥč ĐĕĤđĝ ĐĘČ .ęĕĘđďĎĐ đĕĎĥĕĐ ĦČ ęĕčĤč ĎĕĢĐĘ đĕĦđĤĚđĕč Čģđđď đĜĘ ĥĕ ďēđĕĚ ěĕĕĜĞ ęĘđČđī :ęĕėĕĥĚĚ ęĐ ĖČ ĥĕ Ėė ĘĞđ .(ęĥ) īĝđĔĝđĎđČ Ęĥ ĪĕČĚđĤĐ ęđĘĥĐĪ ĦđĕĜĕďĚ Ęĥ ĎđĥĎĥĘđ ĐēĕĤĠĘ ęĥđĤ čĤ ĕđĔĕč đĜĦĜ !ĘĚĜĐ ĦČ ĐĜč ĝđĔĝđĎđČ ĕėđ ,ĤĚđĘ ĦČ ěĕĎĠĐĘ ĒĠ ĦđĜĚďĒĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒ (ĕĥĕČ ěĠđČč) ĝđďĤđĐď ČčĕĘČī :ęĕĤģđēĐ ĕĜĥ ęĕĜĕĕĢĚ ĖĥĚĐč 12ąė ĝđďĤđĐ ĞĕģĥĐ Ėė ęĥĘ ęČĐ .(185 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īđĕĠđČč ĕĜĚđĘĎĚĐ ěĠĐ ĘĞ ęĎ ěčđĚė ĦďĚĘĚĐ ,đĦĘđďĎ ĐėĒ ĝđďĤđĐ ;ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕč ĖĜēĜđ ĐĜčĜ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘđ ,ĕĔĕĘđĠ ēĢĤ ęđĥ ĞĤĕČ ČĘ ěĐčĥ ęĕĜĥ ,ĦđĠđĢĤ ęĕĜĥ ĐėĕĥĚĐ đĢĤČđ ,ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĕčĥđĦĘ ĞĕĕĝĘđ ĐĜĔģĐ ĐĕĝČ ĕčēĤč đĚĞ ĤĕĕĝĘ ğČđ đĢĤČč ČĠĕĤĎČ Ęĥ đĤđģĕčĘ ,ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤ đĕĐ ĐĕĤĝĕģč ĦđĚĕĥĤĚĐ đĕĦđĘđĞĠĘ ĕĤģĕĞĐ ĞĕĜĚĐ đĘČ ęĕĜĥč ęĎ ęČĐ .ĎĥĎĥĘ ēĦĠĦĐĘ ĤĐ ĦčēĤĐđ ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĥďēĚ ĐĚģĐĐ ĕĠĘė ęĎ ,đĕĘČĚ ěčđĚė ,ĝĠđĦ ěČė ĤĚČĜĐ Ęė ?ĘđėĝĦđ ĐĕđĜĤĠ !ęĕĜĥĐ ěĦđČč ĔĞĚė đĥēĤĦĐĥ ,ĦĕčĐ đĒ ĐĕĜĠĐč .ĦđĕĜđČč ĘĚĜĘ ęĕĝĜėĜĐ ĘČ ĐĜĠđĐ 13(ęĕĕĜĥ ČĘđ ďēČ ĥďģĚ) ĐĕĤĝĕģč ĥďģĚĐ ,ěėČ ĦđčđēĤ Ęė ĦČ ĐĜĕĕĠČĥ ĐďĕēČĐ ĐĕĢĔĜĕĕĤđČĐ ĘĞ ęĤĦđđč īčČđėī ĖĘĐĚ đĕĘėĕĤďČđ ĝđďĤđĐ đĥĞ ěėČ đčĢĕĜĥ đĘČĘ ęĕĘĝĠĐ ĕĜĥ ěĕč đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĐĥđĞĥ ĐČđđĥĐĐ ĘčČ .(ěđĤĔČĦĐĚ ġđē) ĐĕĜčĚđ ĤĕĞĐ ěČė ĦđĕĐĘ Ħčĕĕē ĞđďĚđ .ĘďđĎč ČĘđ ĦĕĦđĜĚČĐ ĐĚĤč ČĘ ,đĜĦđČ ĦčĕĕēĚ ĐĜĕČ ĝđĎĤČčđ ĐĕĠĚĕĘđČč

.ĥďģĚĐ đĦđČ ĖđĦč ĕČďđ đčĢĕĜ ęĕĘĝĠĐ ĕĜĥ ;ĐĒĐ ěĕĕĜĞč ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĕĞđĔ ęĕĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ ęĕĜđĦĜĐ ĕĠąĘĞ .13

ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ

86

.ĤĝĕģĐ ďđčėĘ ęĕģēĥĚĐđ ĐĕĤĝĕģ ĦėđĜēĘ ĦđĎĕĎēĐ Ęĥ ČĢđĕ ĘĞđĠ ĐĦĕĕĐ čĘđĥĚĐ ĐĜčĚĐ Ęĥ đĦĚģĐĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ ĕĤĐ ,ęĕģēĤĚĚ ęĕčĤ ęĕēĤđČđ ęĕĔĘĦČ đĦėĘĚĚ ĘČ ČĕčĐĘ ĘđďĎ ġĚČĚ ĐĥĞ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĤēČĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ,đēĕĤĕ Ęĥ ĤčďĚĐ ĦČĜč ģēĥĚđ ĦđĤēĦ ĕĞđĤĕČĘ ĐĘĢĜĘđ ,ğĤđēč ęĎ ,ġĤČč ęĦđĐĥ ĦČ ĖĕĤČĐĘ ĤĕĥĞĐ đĜđĕĚď ĕĤĠ ĦđĕĐĘ ĐĕđĥĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦČĒė ĐĚĒđĕ .ęĕģēĤĚĚ đČčĥ ęĕĥĜČĘ ĐĕĢģĤĔČ ĦđĕĐĘ ĐĕđĥĞ ĦĤĎĝĚč Á ěđĕĝĜĚĕĎđ ěđĤĔČĦ ,ęđĤďđĠĕĐ Á ęĕďĤĠĜ ĦđďĝđĚ ĐĥđĘĥ ğĤĢĘ ĐĚĒđĕĐĥ ĕĠė ĥĚĚ ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ěč ğĝđĕ ĕčĦėĚ ĞĚĦĥĚ ĤčďĐ ěĕČ ęČ ęĎ .ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĤđĠĐ đĜđĕĚď ĕĤĠ ĕĦĞďĘ ĐĦĕĕĐ ,ĦēČ ĦĕĘėĕĤďČ ČĢĚĚĐ ĕĤĐ ,đč ĥēĤĦĐĥ ĞđĤĕČĘ ĐģĕĒč ďĤĠĜč đĘĘĐ ęĕĜģĦĚĐ ĦĥđĘĥĚ ďēČ Ęė ěĕĕĢĚĐ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ Ęĥ ĐĘďđĎč Đďĥ ĤĕĞ ĦĚČđĦđ ,ĐĚĢĞ ĕĜĠč ĤĦđĕč ĦĕĜđĕĎĐ ČĕĐĥ ,ĦČĒė ĦđĤĥĠČ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĚ ĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĚģĐ ęđĕĝĘ ĦđĎĕĎēĐ ęđĕģĘ ĖđĚĝĥ ĐĚđď ĖČ ,ĤĞđĥĚ ČđĐ ĞĢđĚĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ěĚĒ ,ęđģĚ ĘėĚ .đēĕĤĕ .đēĕĤĕč ĐĕĕĜč ĞĢčĚĘ ęĦđĜĠĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐĕĐđ ,ĐĚĕĕĦĝĐ ęĦďđčĞĥ ěĕĕĜč ĕĘĞđĠ Ęĥ ęĕĠĘČđ ĦđČĚ đĕĐ ĐĕĤĝĕģ ĕĤĢđĚ Čđčĕĕč ęĎ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĕĜď đēĕĤĕčđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč đĕĐĥ ĦđČĤĔČĦčđ ęĕĜđĕďĔĢČč ěďĐ ģĤĠč :ĐđđČĤĐđ ĦđĤĦđĚĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČ ,ĦđČĢēĤĚ đĚė ,ęĐĕĜĕĚĘ ęĕĜčĚ ĔĥģĘ ĕďė ęĕČĜč ĦđčĤĘ ĦĕĚđĤ ĦđĘėĕĤďČđ ĐĕĕĜč ĦđĕĜėđĦ ĐĘČ Ęėĥ ěčđĚ .ĐĚđďėđ ęĕĝĠĕĝĠ (đģĝĤĠ) Ĥĕģ ĕĤđĕĢ ,ĕĚđĤ ěđĜĎĝč ęĕĕĜđĔģĔĕėĤČ ęĕĤđĔĕĞč ,ĦđĤďĝėČđ ęĕĦĞĘ ęĐč Ĥģĕč ģĤ ęČ đČ ,ĘĘė ęĐč ĥĚĦĥĐ ČĘ đĚĢĞ ČđĐ ęČ đĘĕĠČđ ,ęĥđĤđ ĦđĘĞĠĦĐ ĤĤđĞĘ đďĞđĜ .(174 ĪĚĞ) ī. . . ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ đĚė ĐĘĞĚ ĕĚĤ ęĕĥĕČ ęĕĥĤĐĘ đĘ ĐĕĐ ĕď .ĦđĤĕďĜ ğČđ ĦđģđēĤ

ĦđđĢĐ) đĜđĜĕĎđ đĤđĔĕĞ ,đĦĚģĐč ğĦĦĥĐđ ĐĕĘĔĕČĚ Ččĥ ĦđđĢ ĘĞ ďĕĞĚ đēĕĤĕč ĕĥĕĘĥĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ěėČ ĦđĤĞĐ ĕĦĥ ĤĕĞĐĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕ ĖėĘ ĤčĞĚ ĖČ ,(ĝČĕĜčč ĥďģĚđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ęđČĕĘđĒđČĚ ĦĕĕĜčč ğĦĦĥĐĥ :ěČė ĤĚČĜĘ Ħđčđĥē ęĕďĕĚČ ĕĦčč Ğđčģ īēĤđČī ĦģĒēč đĕĐ ĐĘČč ČĢđĕėđ ęĕĝĠĕĝĠ ,đģđĔĝčđ đģĝĤĠč ĤđĔĕĞĐ .1 ęĕĞĠđĥĚ đēĕĤĕč ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ Ęĥ ğĤđēĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČ .ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕĚĕ ĕĜĠĘ Ĥčė ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđĜđĚĤČčđ .(?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ) ęĐĘĥ ĕđđĐĐ ěĚ ģĘē đĕĐ Đĕĕēĥ ĦđėĤčđ ý ęĕĜĎ ęĞ ĤČĠ ĕĕēđ ,ęĐč ĕčĕĝĜĔĜĕČ ĥđĚĕĥĘ ĐĜđĥČĤčđ ĥČĤč đĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĜčĥ ĦđĜđĚĤČĐĥ Ėėč ģĠĝ ĦđĕĐĘ ĖĕĤĢ ČĘ .2 ĐĎĤďĐč ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĜčĥ ĦđĜđĚĤČĐ ĦĥđĘĥ .ĐėĘĚĚĐ ĘĐĜĚĘ ęĎ đĥĚĕĥđ ,đĕĞĤđ đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜč Ęĥ ,đĘĥ ĤČđĠĚ ČĘ ,ĐĚĎđďĘ ,ĕĜĥĐ ěđĚĤČĐ .ęĕĘďĎđ ęĕėĘđĐ ęĕėĤĢ Ęĥ ,ĦđēĦĠĦĐ Ęĥ ĖĕĘĐĦ ęĕČĔčĚ đēĕĤĕč ęĕėĤĢ Ęĥ ĕđĔĕč ĥĕ ĕĥĕĘĥĐ ěđĚĤČč ęĎ .ččđĝĐ ğđĜĐ ĘČ ĤĦđĕ Ĥđĥģđ đĜĚĚ ĤĦđĕ ēĦđĠĚ ĖČ ,ěđĥČĤĐ ěĚ ĕĚđĤĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦđđĢ Ęĥ đČđč ęĞ ĐĦĤģĜĥ ,ĦđĜĚďĒĐ Ęĥ ĘđĢĕĜ ęĎ đĦĕĕĜčč ĐĕĐĥ ĐĚđď ĖČ ,ęĕčĤđ ęĕėĘđĐ ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ 15 ĦĜĥč ĝđďĤđĐ ĦėĘĚĚč ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ Ęĥ đĤđģĕč ĤēČĘ ĐĕĘĔĕČĚ ēĘĥĜĥ .ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚĚ đĦđĘĞĠĦĐĘ ĕđĔĕčėđ ĐđđēĚė ďđĝĕ ęđĥ ĐĘ ěĕČ (173 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĕĠĘė ĐĝĤĦĐė đĥĞĜ đēĕĤĕč ęĕĘĞĠĚĐĥ ĐĤĐĢĐ ĐėĘĚĚĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞ ĘđĐĕĜ ĦČ ęĎ ğĤđēĐ ěđĚĤČ ĦĤĕĥ đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčđ ĖĘĚĐ ĦČ ďčĘĚ .ęĐĐ ęĕĚĕĐ Ęĥ ĦđČĕĢĚč ďēđĕĚč đďĤĕĥ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĕčĥđĦ ęČđ đēĕĤĕ Ęĥ ęĕĕĦĜđĞĐ ĐĕčĥđĦ ęČ ,ęĕēĤđČ Ęĥ ĘđďĎ ĘĐģđ (ĘĕĞĘ ĤėĒĜė) ęČĐ .ęĕčĤ ęďČ ĕĜč ēĤČĘ ĕČďđ đďĞđĜ đēĕĤĕč đĠĥēĜĥ ęĕĕģĜĞĐ ęĕĜĕĘģĤĔĐ .ĖĘĚĐ ĘĢČ ēĤČĦĐĘ đēĕĤĕĘ đĜĕČ ĤčďĐ ?ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ěČė đĘĐĕĜĥ ęĕĕēĐ ēĤđČĚ ĦĤėĕĜ ĐďĕĚč ĐĜđĥ ĐĕĐ đēĕĤĕ ĦđĜđĚĤČč ęĕĕēĐ ēĤđČ ,(ĐĤĢģč) đēĕĤĕč ğĤđēĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČ ĦČ ĤČĕĦ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ,ęđģĚ ĘėĚ .ĦđĤĕĠēĐ ĕČĢĚĚ ēđĦĕĜĚ ĐĘđĞ ĦČ ČĘ ĖČ ,(ĐčēĤĐč đĦđČ ęĎ) ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĕĒėĤĚĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ĦČđ (ĐčēĤĐč) ěđĕďđĤĐč ġĕģĐ ěđĚĤČ ĦČ ,ęĕĤĞđĝ ęĕĕē ęĐč đĘĐĜĦĐ ČĘĥ Á ěđĕďđĤĐ ĕčĎĘ ďđēĕĕčđ Á ēĕĜĐĘ ČĘĥ Đčĕĝ Ęė ěĕČ .ęĐč ęĕĕēĐ ĦđēĤđČ .ĖĘĚĐ ĕēĤđČė ĐĜĥč ĐĜĥ ĕďĚ ęĐĕĘČ đČč ęĕēĤđČ Ęĥ ęĕĠĘČđ ĦđČĚ ĕėđ

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?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ

ęĕĞđĤĕČ ĐĥđĘĥ ĘĞ ęĕĤčďĚ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ęĎ) čĤģĐ Đďĥč ĝđĜđĎĕĔĜČ Ęĥ đĕĥĜČ ĘĞ ěđēĢĕĜĐđ ,(ĐēĕĤčĐ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚ ĐĘĕĘč ĦĕĔĚđČĤĔĐ ĐēĕĤčĐ ĦČ ĐĒ ęĜđĕďĚ đĔĕĚĥĐ ĐĚ ęđĥĚ ĖČ ,(70 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ęĕĕĔĚđČĤĔ .(ďēČ ĞđĤĕČė ĕĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĐĚ ,ĦđďčČĦĐĐ ěđĕĝĕĜ ĦČđ ęĕėĤďĐ ĦĜđČĦ ĦČ ęĕĕĜĥĘ đďĕĤĠĐ ĤēČ ďĢĚđ ğģđĦ ĤĦĕ ĦĦĘ ĕďė ďčĘč ĐĒ ĤĦČĘ īěđĕďđĤĐī ęĥĐ ĦđČĜģč ĝđďĤđĐ ĤĚĥ ĕĦĞďĘ ;ĦČĒĚ ĐĤĦĕ ĘģĜč Ęđėĕ ĝđďĤđĐ .ĤčďĚĐ ĤĠĝč ĕďđēĕĕĐ ĤĦČĐ Ęĥ đĦĚģĐĘ ďđčėĐđ čĘĐ ĦĚđĥĦ ČđĘĚ ĦČđ ĦđĞĚĥĚđ ęĥ ĘĞ ČĤģđ ĐĜčĥ ĦđĤēČĐ ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐ ĦđĜĕĜĠĚ ĐĚė đČ ěđĔĤĔĝ ĘďĎĚ ĦČ ,ěđĤĚđĥ ĦČ đĚĥ ĘĞ ČđĤģĘ ĤčĞč ,čĤĞ ġĤČ ĘČ ĐĜđĠĐ ĤĐč ěđĕďđĤĐ ęĥč ęđģĚ ,ĕĦĞďĘ .đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜč đČ đĕďĕďĕ ,ęĕČĚđĤĐ đĕčĕĔĕĚ ĕĚĕč ĐĜčĜĥ ,đĐĥĘė ēďĕĜ ĤĢčĚĘ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦđĚ ĤēČĘ Ĥčė ěĦĕĜ ęĥĐĥ đČ 10,ęģđĐ ČĘ ęĘđĞĚ ,ěďĤĕĐ 11.ĤĦČĐ ĕđĐĕĒĘ ĦđďēČ ĦđĕđĤĥĠČ ĥĕđ ,ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ đĕĕē ČđĠČ ĞĜĚĜĐ ěĚ ĐĒ ěĕČ .ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ěđĚĤČĐ ĦĚģĐĘ ęĕĜĚĒ ĦđėĕĚĝč ĐĦĥĞĜ ěđĕďđĤĐč ĘđĘėĚĐ ĦĕĕĜč ęĕĦđđĢ Ęĥ ĐďđčĞ ĘĥĚĘ ,ĦđēĚĦĐĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ,ęĕČĜčĐ ĦđĢđčģ ěĕč ęđČĕĦĘ ĦđĕđĤĥĠČĐ ěđčĥēč đČčđĐĥ ĦĚđĞĘ .ęĐĕĜĕč čĤ ČĘĐ ģēĤĚĐ ĦđčģĞč ęĥĕĕĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐĕĐĥ ĐĚ ,ĐĕĢĔđĤč ęĕĤĦČĐ ĕĜĥč ęĕĕĞđĢģĚ .(171 ĪĚĞ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė) ěđĕďđĤĐ ĦĚģĐĘ ĐĕĤĝĕģđ ěđĤĚđĥ ĦĚģĐ ěĕč Ĥĕĥĕ Ĥĥģ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĘ ĐČĤĜ ČĘ ĦČĒ ĕĜĥ ĦČ ĦđĜčĘ ĘĕēĦĐĘ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĜĠĦĐ ěđĕďđĤĐčđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦđĜđĚĤČĐ ĦĚĘĥĐ ĤēČĘĥ ĐČĤĜ ,ĦČĒ ęĞđ .ĦĕčĐ ĤĐčđ ĐĕĤĝĕģč ,ęĕĘđďĎĐ đĕĘĞĠĚ ęĕĜĕĦĜĐ Ďđēđ ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕďĕďĕ Ďđēĥ Ėė ĘĞ ęĕĞĕčĢĚ ěđĕďđĤĐč ěđĚĤČĐ Ęĥ đĕďĚĚ ĕė ěĕĕĢĘ čđĥē ĝđģĤĚ đĚė ,ĎĤď ĦĚĤ ĦđĕĥĕČ Ęĥ ĤĕďĜ Ĥđģĕč ,ęđģĚ ĘėĚ .ęĕĜĔģ đĕĐ ČĘ ,ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ đĕēĤđČ ĦđĕĐĘ đėĒĥ ĘĞĚ ČĘ ĖČ ,ĐĐđčĎ ĤđĚĕĎ ĦĚĤč ęĜĚČ ĐĜčĜĥ ,ĤĦČč ęđĕąęđĕĐ ĕĕē ĦČ ĘĘėđ ĘĘė ğģĥĚ đĜĜĕČ ,ČĠĕĤĎČ đĠĥēĜĥ ĤČĠĐ ĕĦčĚđ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤēČĐ đĕĦđĜđĚĤČĚ ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČĚ đĜĘ ĦĤėđĚĐ ĐĚĤĐ ěĠđď ĕČĢđĕđ ęĕďčėĜ ęĕēĤđČ ĦĘčģ ęĥĘ ěėđĐ ēĤėĐč ČĘĥ ĤČĠč ČđĠČ ĤčđďĚ .ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĕďđĐĕĐ ĞčđĤč .ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ đĚė

(174–172 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) đēĕĤĕđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ Á ęĕĜđĚĐĘ Ĥđďĕč ĕĜčĚ ĐĕĦđĜđėĦ ęĞ ĤĕĞ Ęė Á đēĕĤĕ Ęĥ đĘČ ęĞ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕĦđĘđĞĠ ĦČ ĖđĤėĘ ĐģďĢĐ ęđĥ ěĕČ ęĕĠĘČ ĦđĤĥĞ ďĞ ęĕĠĘČč ĐČĘĚĦĐ ęĕĘĎĤĐ ĦĥđĘĥčĥ ,ĐĤĕčĐ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ .ęĕďēđĕĚĐ ĐďĚĞĚđ ęĕĕē ěĕč ĐďĤĠĐĘ ęĤĎ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč Đč ēĦđĠĥ ĕĠĤđēĐ ĔĕģĐĥ ,ęĕĜĎ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ đēĕĤĕ ďđĞč ,ĘĎĤ ĕĘđĞ .ġĕģĐ ĕĚĕč ,ĐčĤĐč ĐĜĔģ ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČ ęĞ ,ęĕĔģĥ ęĕĕē ěĕčĘ ğĤđēĐ ĕĚĕč ęĕĝĝđĦ ĐĦđČč ĝēĕĕĦĐĘ Đĥģ .ĐĤĕčĐ ĤĕĞ ĐĦđĕĐč ěĐĕĘČĚ ĦđĜčđĚ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦđĕčĕĝĚĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦđĘđĞĠ ĕĘĞĠĚ ĖČ ,ĕĠĤđē Ĕĕģčđ (ĦĕĔĤĠđ ĦĕĦėĘĚĚ) ĦēĦđĠĚ ĦđČĘģēč ĐėĤčĦĜĥ ĤĕĞ ,đēĕĤĕĘ ĐďĕĚąĦĚČ ęĕĜĚĕĝ Ęė đč ěĕČđ ,ęĕčĘĥč ĐĜčĜĥ) ğĤđēĐ ěđĚĤČĘ ,đĜĘ Ğđďĕĥ ĐĚė ďĞ ,Đč đĚĢĚĔĢĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ,čĎČ .ĤĠĞ ĕĕđĘĕĚđ ġđč ĕĜčĘĚ ĐĜčĜ đčđĤđ ,ěđĕĝĜĚĕĎđ ěđĤĔČĦ ,ęđĤďđĠĕĐ đĕďēĕ čĘĕĥĥ ĐĜčĚĘđ (ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĘ ĕđĢĚ ,ĐčĤĐ Ėė ĘĞ đĜčĦė Ĥčėđ ,ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ .ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČĐ ĘĞ ĐĠėĜ čĘđĥĚĐ ĐĜčĚĐĥ ĖėĘ ĒĚĤ Ęė ěĕČ ěėĦĕĕ ĘčČ ,ēĕėđĐĘ ĕĦĘđėĕč ěĕČ 12.ĕĝČĘģĐ ęĘđĞč ęĕďģĦ đĘ ĐĕĐ ČĘĥ ,đĜĕĚč ďēđĕĚ ĕĘėĕĤďČ ĥđďĕē ěČė

.[421–419] ĕ ,Čė ,Č ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦĚēĘĚ .10 .I. Shatzman, The Armies of the Hasmoneans and Herod (Tübingen, 1991), p. 261, note 171 đČĤ .11 .Netzer, The Architecture of Herod, p. 280 .12

ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ

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(128–125 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĐĕĜđĔĜČ ěđđėĦĐ ČđĐĥ ģĠĝĘ ęđģĚ ĤĕĦđĚ đĜĕČ (238ą246 ,149 ,146 ,Đ ĪēĘĚ) ĐĕĜđĔĜČ Ęĥ ĔĤđĠĚĐ ĤđČĕĦĐ đĦĘđďĎī ĦČ ěĕĎĠĐĘ ęĎ ģģđĦĥĐ ĦĞč Đč ĘčČ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ęĕčđĥēĐ ęĕĒđĞĚĐ ďēČĘ ęđģĚĐ ĦČ ĦđĥĞĘ ĤđČĕĦĐĚ ĐĘđĞ ĘčČ ,ģĥĚď ĥĕČ ĝđČĘđģĕĜ ĕčĦė ČđĐ ĦČĒĐ ĐĤĚđĕĐ ĤđČĕĦĘ ĤđģĚĐ ęĜĚČ ,īĐďĕĘĚ ĦđĕĒđĕďĜĤĎĐ đĕĦđĤĚđĕ ĘĞ ĤđČ ĞđĤĒĘ ěčđĚė ĕđĥĞ ĤčďĐ .đĦČĤĥĐčđ ĝđďĤđĐ ěđĢĤ ĕĠĘ čĦėĜ ČđĐĥ ęĥđĤĐ .(126 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĐďđĢĚĐ Ęĥ čĤĐ ĐĤČĠđ ęĕĤĕčėĐ ĐĕďĚĚĚ Ėė ĘĞ ĔđĠĥĘ ĕďđ ,ĐĒĐ ĔģĕđĤĠĐ ĦĚģĐč

ěĚđ 8,ĐĜčĚĐ ĤđČĕĦĚ ěėČ !ĖėĚ ĞĚĦĥĚĐ Ęė ĘĞ ĕĦđĤĠĝ ĤđČĕĦ ČđĐ ĘđėĐ ĕĤēČ īĐďĕĘĚ ĐĘđďĎī ĦĜĎĠĐ ĦČ ęĘđČđ .ęĕĕĦđėĘĚ ęĕĠĎČ ęĎ ĘĕėĐĥ ęĕďĚĚąčĤ ĐĜčĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĕĜđĔĜČĐĥ ĞĚĦĥĚ ,ěđĕďđĤĐĘ ĐČđđĥĐĐ ,đėĤď ĦĕĥČĤč ĕČďđ ,ĝđďĤđĐĘ ĐĕĐĥ īĕĜđĕē ĖĤđĢīč ğĕĘēĐĘ ĕĦĞďĘ ĕđČĤĐ ěĚ īĦĕĒđĕďĜĤĎ ĐĤĚđĕī ĕđĔĕčĐ .đėđĦĘ ĝĜėĕĐĘ ĕĘč ęĎ ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĘĞ ĦĔĘđĥĐ đĒ ĐďđģĜč ďđēĕĕč ,ĐĤĕčĐ ĤĕĞč ěĦĕČ ĝĕĝč đĚĢĞĘ ĦđĜčĘ

(172–171 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ěđĕďđĤĐ ,ĕĦĜčĐ čĔĕĚĘ .ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ęĦĥĕĎ ěĕčĘ ěđĕďđĤĐ ĦĚģĐ ĦČ ĕĦĜčĐđ ĕĦĕĕČĤ ěĕč ĕĚđĐĦ ĘďčĐ ĥĕ ,ĤďĜ ěĕĞĚ ,ĦĕĚĕĜĠ ĦđčĕđēĚ đĘĢČ ĐĤĢđĜ ČĘđĘ ěđĕďđĤĐč ģĜĞĐ ĘđĘėĚĐ ĦČ ĐĜđč ĐĕĐ ČĘ ęĘđĞĚ ĝđďĤđĐ ĖĤđĢĐ ģĤđ ĖČ .ĜīĐĝĠĘ 40 ĦĜĥč Đđđēĥ ęĕĞđĤĕČĐ ĦđčģĞč ,ĤčďĚĐ ĤĠĝč ĐĒ čĥđĜ ČĘ ęđģĚč ĤčģĕĐĘ ,đĕďēĕ ğđĤĕĢ Á ĕĜđČĎĐ ěđĤĦĠĐ ĦČ Ĥčď Ęĥ đĠđĝč ĐČĕčĐ ,đĕďĕ đĚč ĤĢĕ đĚĢĞ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ,ĐĚĘĕďĐ ĦČ ĤđĦĠĘ čĔĕĚĘ .ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĦđčĕčĝĚ đĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČđ ,ģđēĤĚĘ ğģĥĜĐ ĔĜĚđĜđĚ ęĞ ģĜĞ ġĕģ ěđĚĤČ Ęĥ ,īęđģĚđĥīč .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ Ęĥ ĔčĕĐ ęđĥ ěČė ČđĢĚĘ ěĕČ ,ĕĔđĠĕĥ ĔĘđčđ ČĥĕĜ ęđģĚč ĐĜčĜ ĤčģĐ ĐĕĐ ,ĦĠĘđēĐ ĐĚđČĤĔĐ ĐĤĢĕĥ ,ĦđčĕđēĚĐ ČĘđĘĥ ģĠĝ ĕĘ ěĕČ ęđČĕĘđĒđČĚĐ ĦČ ęĕĜĥ ĤēČĘ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĜč đĕĘĞĥ ,ģĥĚď ĤĞĥ ĘđĚĥ ĞĘĝĐ ĘĥĚĘ ,ĐĤĕčĐ ĤĕĞĘ ĖđĚĝ ,ĐĤđĚČĐ ĦđčĕđēĚĐ ČĘđĘ ĘĘė ĐĜčĜ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ěđĕďđĤĐč ģĜĞĐ ġĕģĐ ěđĚĤČĥ ,ēĕĜĐĘ Ĥĕčĝ 9.đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĘ ęĘđČđ .ęĕďĕďĕđ ĐēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĘ ēđĤĕČđ ĥĠđĜ ęđģĚ ĐĚđď ĐďĕĚč ĥĚĥĘ đĘėĕ đēĕĤĕč ğĤđēĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČ ĕĤĐĥ ęđēĦč ĤĦđĕč ĘđďĎĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕĚĕč ĐĕĐĥ Á ěđĚĤČĐ Ęčĕģ ,ěđĕďđĤĐ ĦČ ęĕģĐĘ ĔĕĘēĐĥ ĞĎĤĚ ęđĕ ďĞđ ěđĕďđĤĐ ĦĕĕĜč ĐĚĘĥđĐĥ ęđĕĚĥ ,Ėėč ģĠĝ ĕĘ ěĕČ .čĘĐ ĦĚđĥĦ ČđĘĚ ĦČ Á ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĕĤĠĚĕČĐ ĤČĥđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ Ęĥ ĐĔĕĘČĐ ĕĜč ,ĐēĠĥĚĐ ĕĜč Á ęĕēĤđČ ĦđČĚ ĦĞ ęĕĕē ěđĚĤČĐ ģģĥ ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦđĚ .ĤĦČč đĘĕčđ đĥĠĜĥ Á ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦėĘĚĚ ĕģĘē ĞĚĦĥĚĐ ĕĠĘ ;40 ĦĜĥč ěČė ĘĐĜĦĐĥ čĤģč ěđēĢĕĜĐ ĦēĢĜĐ ęĥĘ ēĤėĐč ĐĜčĜ ČĘ ěđĕďđĤĐč ĘđĘėĚĐ ;(70 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė đďĚĞ Ėė ĘĞđ) ĥĚĚ Ęĥ čĤģ ĘĘđēĦĐ ęČ ģĠĝ ,đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĕĤčďĚ ĦĥđĘĥ ěĕč ğđĤĕĢĐ čģĞ ĐĦđđĐĦĐĥ ĐĚđČĤĔĐ ĕĤĠ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦđčĕđēĚĐđ ,ĦđďĤĥĕĐĐ ęĢĞč ĐĕĐ ĎĥĕĐĐ ĘčČ ęĞ ęČĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđČĦĐ ,(čĤ ĕĥĕČ ēĦĚč ĐĦđđĘ ĕČďđđĥ) ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚ ĐēĕĤčĐ :ęđĕĐ đĦđČč đĞĤĕČĥ ęĕĞđĤĕČĐ ĞĢčĚ ĘđĐĕĜ čģĞ ĐĞĥĐ ĐĦđČč īęĕēđĦĚī đĕĐ ěĕĕďĞ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĕčĢĞĥ ĐĚđď) ĐĕĦđčģĞč ĦđĥĎĤĦĐĐ

.143–134 ĪĚĞ ,(2007) ģĘđģ ĕďĔ ĤĠĝ :ēĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īĐĦĤđĢ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĚđ ĐĕĜđĔĜČĐ ĐďĚĞ ĐĠĕČī ,ĤĢĜ ĪČ đČĤ .8 ĦđĤĕģ ęĞ ,đĚĦđē ĦČ ĞĕčĔĐ ĐĒ ĦđđĢ .ČĠĕĤĎČ ĝđģĤĚ ĕďĕąĘĞ ĕČďđđĘ čđĤģ ,ġĤČĘ ēĘĥĜĥ ĦđđĢĐ ĦĤĒĞč ĦČĒ .9 .315 ĪĚĞ ,The Architecture of Herod ,ĤĢĜ đČĤđ .ěđĕďđĤĐč ČĘ ĖČ ,ęĕĤĦČ ĐĚėč ,īęđĔĘđģĕĔĤ ĝđĠđČī

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?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ

(116–115 ĪĚĞ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė) ĐďĢĚ ďĢĚ đĦėĘĚĚ Ęĥ ęĕģĘēč ĝđďĤđĐ ěđĔĘĥ ĘĞ ğēĕĤĥ ęđĕČĘ ĐďĢĚ ĦĕĕĜč ĦČ Ĥĥđģ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ČĘ ĕĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĐĚ 4.ĐĒĐ ęđĕČč ĐĤđģĚ ĤĐĐ ĘĞ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦĕĥČĤĘ ĐĚĒđĕĐĥ ĐēĜĐĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕđ ,ĐĤĔĠđČĘģ ĐČģĕďđČĘč ĝđĕĜđĔĜČ ęĞ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĦĜĜėđĦĚĐ ĐĥĕĎĠĘ ĤĐĐ ĘĞ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĦĕĥČĤ ĦČ ĤđĥģĘ ČđĐ Ĥĕčĝ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĕĤčď ĕĠĘ ĕĤĐ ;ĕĚĞĠąďē ĞđĤĕČĘ ĦčēĤĜ ĐĕĕĜč ĦĘđĞĠ ĤđĥģĘ Ĥĕčĝ ĐĒ ěĕČ Á (115 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) đĕėĤĢĘ ĐĜĞĚ ģĠĝĘī ďĞđĜ ęĥ ĐĥĞĜĥ ĐĚđ ,ĦĤĦđĕĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĤĐĐ ĘĞ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ,ĐĜėĝĐ ĐĠĘēĥ ĞĎĤĚ ĐĚĢđĞ Ęĥ ęĕĚĕč Čģđđď ĦČĒ Ęėđ ,đĚĢĞ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĦđĜđĕĎĕĥĘđ ĦđĕĥĠĜĐ ĦđģđĢĚĘ ĤĚđĘė ,ęĕĕĥĠĜĐ :ěđčĥēč ěČė đČčđĐ ČĘ ĦđďđģĜ ĕĦĥ .īČĘĚ ěđēĔĕčđ ĕĤĐđ .ĝđďĤđĐđ ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ đĜčĥ ęĕĤĢčĚĐ ĘėĚ ĐĜĎĐĘ ĤĦđĕč čđĔĐđ ,ĕĞčĔ ĤĢčĚ ČĕĐ ĐďĢĚ .1 ęĥ đďĚĞ đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĥ ĐĞĥč ,ĦđĚđē ČĘč đĘĕĠČ ,ĤĢčĚė ĐďĢĚ Ęĥ ĐďđģĠĦč ēėđĜ đĚĢĞ ĝđďĤđĐ .(ĜīĐĝĠĘ 40 ĦĜĥč) ĝđĜđĎĕĔĜČ đĐĕĦĦĚ Ęĥ đĕĥĜČ ęĐĕĘĞ đĤĢĥ ĤđĢĚč ĐēĘĢĐč ,ĤĦČč ĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦđĜđĚĤČĐ ĖĤĞĚ ĦĚģĐĘ ĐČĤĥĐ ĤđģĚ ģĠĝ ĕĘč ĐĕĐ ĤĦČĐ Ęĥ ĕĠđĜĐ đďđēĕĕ .2 .ĕĜđĠĢĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ĦĕĕĜčĘ ěėĚ ĤēČĘđ đĜĕĎĠĐ đčĥ ĐĕĕĜč ĘĞĠĚ ĐĕĐ ĦđĕĞčĔĐ ĞĘĝĐ ĦđĎĤďĚ ĘĞ ĕĜđĠĢĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ĦĚģĐĥ Ėė ĘĞ ĕĦďĚĞ Ĥčė ěĐ .ęĕČĜčĐ čĤģĚ ęĕčĤ ęďČ ĕĕē ĦčĤģĐ ĕďė ĖđĦ ĐĜčĜ ĕė ēĕĜĐĘ Đčĕĝ ęđĥ ěĕČđ ,ęĦĘđėĕ ĦČ ęĕĜĝĠĔĐ ĕĜđĠĢĐ ěđĚĤČč ĦđČĤĘ ĐģďĢĐ ęđĥ ĕĦĞďĘ ěĕČ ,đĘďđĎ ĦĜĕēčĚ ěĐđ ĕďđēĕĕĐ ěđĚĤČĐ ĦĕĕĜčč ĐĒđĞĦĐ ĦĜĕēčĚ 5.ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚĘ ĕđĔĕč ĐďĢĚ Ęĥ ĕĜč đČ ,ęďĕģĠĦ ĘĎĤĘ ĤđĒČč đĐĥĥ ęĕďĕģĠ ĤģĕĞč ,ęĕĔĞĚ ģĤ ĕČďđ đČč ĐďĢĚ ĤĦČčĥ ĦđĜđĚĤČĘ ,ěđĕďđĤĐč đČ đēĕĤĕč ĦđĜđĚĤČĚ ĐĜđĥč ĐĒ .ĐĤĔĠĘ đĘĕĠČ đČ ĤđđėĚĘ ,ĤĞđĢĘ ,ĕďĎ ěĕĞĘ ęėĤďč đĕĐĥ ĐēĠĥĚ ČĕčĐ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĞĜĚĜĐ ěĚ ĐĒ ěĕČ ,ĦČĒ ęĞ .ĐĜĥč ĐĜĥ ĕďĚ ęĕēĤđČ ĕĠĘČ ğČđ ĦđČĚ ĞĥĞĥĘđ ēĤČĘ đďĞđĜĥ ,đĚĢĞĘ ďĞđĕ ĐĘĕēĦėĘĚĥ ,ĕĜđĠĢĐ ěđĚĤČč ďđēĕĕčđ Á ĦđģđēĤ ęĕĦĞĘ ęČ ęĎ ,ęĕďčėĜ Ęĥ Ĥđģĕč ěđčĥēč ĘĞ đĥĞĜĥ ęĕĕđĜĕĥĐđ ĕĜďĠģĐ ěđĜėĦĐ ,ęĕčĘĥč ĐďĢĚ ĦĚģĐ .ĤĦđĕč ęĕčđĤģĐ đĕďĕďĕĘđ đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĘ ĦđēĦĠĦĐĚ đĞčĜĥ ęĕėĤĢ ĕđĘĕĚ ĘĞ ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ,ĦĞď Ęđģĕĥ ĘĞ ęĕĞĕčĢĚ ĐĘČ Ęė Á 6ęĕĜĥĐ ĦĢđĤĚč ĤĐĐ čĘĥč ĐĦĜčĜĥ ,ęĕĤĎđĝĐ ĦĚđē ČđĐ ĐďĢĚč ĤĦđĕĚ ĐĤđČėĘĥ ģĘēĐ .ĐėĘĚĚč đČ ĐĚĢĞ ĐďĢĚč ęĕĕēĐ ęČđ ęĕĔčĜĐ ěĚ ęČ Á ęĕĒĤĠđĚ Ħđĥĥē ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĘ ĕđĥĞĥ ĐĚ ,(ĜīĐĝĠĘ 15 ĦĜĥĘ ĖđĚĝ) ěđĤēČĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ 7.ĦđĕĥĕČĐ đĕĦđĕĞč ĘĞ ĕĘđČđ Á ĦĕčĚ ęĕčĕđČĚ ęĕĤēČĐ ęĕĔģĕđĤĠĐ čđĤ Ęĥđ ĐďĢĚ Ęĥ čĤĐ ĤČĠĐđ ęĕĘđďĎĐ ęĕďĚĚĐīĥ ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĕĤčď ĖėĕĠĘ ęĕėĤĢ ĦĠģĥĚė ęĎ ĐėĕĤĞĐĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ,ĦĕĜĕďĚ ĐĚĢđĞđ ĦĕĒđĕďĜĤĎ ĐđđČĤ Ęĥ ĐĜĢēĐė ĥĤĠĦĐĘ ęĕĜĦĕĜ čĔĕĐ ĤĕėĚĥ ĕĚ ĘėĘ ęĕĕđĒĐ ęĕĞĚĥĜ ,(116 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īĐģđĚĞ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĦĥđēĦĘ (ęĕĕĤđĔĝĜĠĚđģ) ęĕĢĠĚ .ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ ĘĘė ĦČđ ĤĦČĐ ĦČ

,47 ĪĚĞ ,(2004) 13 ěđĤĚđĥđ ĐďđĐĕ ĕĤģēĚ ,īĐďĢĚ ĦđďĘđĦĘ ĦđĤĞĐī ,ĘĥĚ čČĒ Ęĥ đĦĞĢĐ ĦČ ğĝĐ ĘĞ ĘĘđĥ ĕĜĕČ .4 ĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĤđĥĕĚč ČĕĐ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč ĐčđĥĦĐ .ĐĘčģĘ čĐĘĜ ĕĜĕČ ęČ ęĎ ,ĝđĤĔĠĕĔĜČ ĕďĕč đĜčĜ ĤĐĐ ĘĞ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ęĕĜĕĕĜčĐĥ .ĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ ČĘđ Netzer, The ;ĤĕĤĠĢ ęĤđĕ ĕĤčďĚ ĔđĔĕĢ 116 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥđ ,63–61 ĪĚĞ ,īĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚī ,ĤĢĜ đČĤ .5 .Architecture of Herod, p. 29 E. Netzer, Masada III, The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965. The Buildings: Stratigraphy and .6 .Architecture (Jerusalem, 1991), chap. 16 .637 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ .7

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,ĦČĒ ęĞđ .ĦđēĠđ ĦđēĠ ĕđĠĢ ĐĥĞĜ ĤĎčĦĐĥ Ęėėĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČđ ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĦđĕĤĒėČ ĘđėĘ ĐĞđďĕ ĘĚĜ ĦĚģĐ đĚė ,ęĕĕĦėĘĚĚ ęĕėĤĢĚ đĞčĜ đĘČ ęĕĘĞĠĚ .đĘĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚč ĦđĤėĕĜ ČĘ đĘČ ĦđĜđėĦ ĖĘĚ đĦđĕĐč ,ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĕĘđĥč đĚĢĞ ĘĥĚ ďčđėĚ ęđģĚ ĦĚģĐ đĚė ,(ęģĘēč ęĕĕĥĕČ đČ) ęĕĕĥĕČđ ,ĐĕĤĝĕģ .ęĕĕĜđēĔĕčđ ęĕĕĥĕČ ,ęĕĕĦėĘĚĚ ęĕėĤĢ ĦēČ ĐĠĕĠėč đĤď ęĕĘĞĠĚĐ ĦĕčĤĚč ĘčČ 2.ěĐđė ĐĕĐ ČĘĥ ģđĠĕĝĘđ ,ĐĒĐ ęđēĦč ĐģđĚĞĐ đĦĜčĐĘ ĔĘđč ĕđĔĕč ęĕČĢđĚ đĜČ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ģĜĞĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĘĞĠĚč ČĘ ęĎđ ,ěđĕĘĞĐ ĕĚđĤĐ ěđĔĘĥĘ ĐĠđĜē đČ ĦđČĥĜĦĐ ,ĦđĦĕēĜ Ęĥ ĕđĔĕč ĘĘė đč ĐĕĐ ČĘđ ,đĜĚĚ Ęčĕģĥ čĤĐ ĦĞď Ęđģĕĥ ČĘč ,īęĦĝ Đėėī ĐĜčĜĥ ĐĕĕĜč ĘĞĠĚ ęđĥ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĘ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ĕĦĞďĘ 3.ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ Ęĥ ĕđĔĕč ĦđĕĥĠĜ ĦđĞĤĠĐ ęĕĜĥĐ ęĞ ĐĎĤďĐč đĘĢČ đēĦĠĦĐ ęČĐ .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ đĚė ,ęĕĕĘĜđĕĢĤ ČĘ ęĕĞĕĜĚ ĖđĦĚ đČ Ęėč ,đĘĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚč ěĕēčĐĘ ěĕČ ,ĖĥĚĐč ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč čĕēĤČđ ĤđĒēČ ďđĞđ ,ĤđĚČė ĖČ .ěėĦĕĕ Á ĐĕđĜĤĠ đČ !ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ Ęĥ ęĕĜĚĕĝ ,đĜđĔĘĥ ĕčĘĥĚ ďēČ ČĔčĚ ďĕģĠĦĐĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĥĕ ;ĐČĕĚđďČ ĘĞ ĝđĠđĤĔĕĠČ ĥĚĕĥ đčĝ ĝĠĕĔĜČ .ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đėđĜĕē ěĕĕĜĞĘ đĢĞđĕ ĐĕĐ ĝđĤĔĠĕĔĜČ đĜč .ĕČĜĕ ĤďĜĝėĘČ Ęĥ đĕĚĕĚ Ĥčė ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦēĠĥĚ đč ĐĜĦĜĥ čĤĐ ěđĚČĐ ĦČ ĦđēĦĠĦĐĘ ĤđģĚ đĘČ ęĕĕĦėĘĚĚ ęĕďĕģĠĦ ęđĕģč ĦđČĤĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕ ęČĐ .ĕĜĥĐ ĝđĜģĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĞĠĥĐĐąčĤ ęĕēĦđĠĚĐ ęĕĕĜĕďĚĐ ęĕĥđēĐ ?ĤĕĞĢĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đčĘč ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĕĠĘė ĐČĜĥ đČ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤ Ęĥ ĐėđĘĚĐ ĤĢēč ĥēĤĦĚĐ ĤēČ ěĕĕĜĞč čģĞ đĦđĤĕĞĢč Ĥčėĥ Ėė ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĘ ęĕĕđĥĞ ,ĝđďĤđĐ ęĐč ĖĤčĦĜĥ ęĕĜĥĐ ĦđĤĥĞ ĕĦĥč (ĕĦđďĘĕđ) ęĕĚĕ ĘđĞė ĝđďĤđĐ ĦČ ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė ĦĎĢĐĥ ČđĠČ ĕĘ ĐČĤĜ .ččđĝĐ ęĘđĞčđ .ĦđĤĕčĝĐ ĤďĎč ĐĜĕČđ ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĦČ ĦĠģĥĚ ĐĜĕČ (45 ĪĚĞ ,2007 ,ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė) đĕĕēĘ ĦđĜđĥČĤĐ ďĕēĕĐ ěĕĘđĠđĤĔĚč ĕĤĐđ ,ĐĤĕčĐ ěĚ ģēĤĐ ĖĜēĦĐĘ ĤĕĞĢĐ ĝđďĤđĐ ĦČ ēđĘĥĘ ĖĤđĢ ĐĕĐ ĞđďĚ ĝĠĕĔĜČĥ ęĥė .ęĐč ĐėĤčĦĜ ĤĕĞĐĥ ęĕĕĦĤčēĐ ęĕĚĤĒĐ ěĚ ďēČ ĘėĚ ęĕĘđĞĚ ęĕĤđĚ ĕČďđ đĕĐ ĐėĘĚĚč ,ēĕĜĐĘ ęĎ Ĥĕčĝ .ĐČĕĚđďČĚ ęČĢđĚĥ ęĕēĤĒČ ďđĞ Đč ĦđĕēĘ ęĕĕđĥĞ đĕĐ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĕČďđ đĕē đĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčđ ęĕĚđēĦ ěđđĎĚč ęĕĤđĚ ĦĤĒĞč ęĦĘėĥĐ ĦČ ěđđĕĎđ ĦĕĜĕďĚ ĐĤĕĕĤģĘ đĕĜč ĦĤĥėĐ ĘĞ ďģĥ ĝđĤĔĠĕĔĜČĥ ĘĥđĚ ĥĚĥĘ Ħĕĝēĕ ĤĕĞĢ ĘĕĎč ĐĜĚĦĜ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĐďčđĞĐ .(ęĕĘĥđĤĕĘ ďēđĕĚč đČčđĐĥ ęĕĤđĚ ğČ ĕĘđČđ) ěėĘđ ,đĘ ĐĕĐĥ čĤ ĕĚĢĞ ěđēĔĕč ĘĞ ĤēČĐ ďĢĐ ěĚđ ,Ęčĕģĥ ĦĕĜĕĢĤ ĐĤĥėĐ ĘĞ ďēČ ďĢĚ ĐĞĕčĢĚ ĘĕĘĎĐ .ęĕģđĚĞ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤ đč đĜĜĕģ ěĚĒč đč ęČ čĤ ģĠĝ ĤďĝĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ęĐč ěđďČ ;ęđĔĢĕđđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ęĤĠĝč ęĕĜđďĕĜĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚĘ ďēĕĕČ ĕĤčď ĤģĕĞ ĦČ ,ĕĦĞďĘ .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ĘĞ ,ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐđ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęđēĦč ,ĞĕčĢĐĘ ĕđĥĞ ĐĚ Ęĥ ĐĤďĎĐč ēĦĠČ .ęĤĠĝčĥ :ĐĘČĐ ęĕĜĕĕĠČĚč ,ĦĕĘėĕĤďČ ĐĜĕēčĚ ,ČĔčĦĐĘ ĐĕđĥĞ ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ;ĤĕčĝĐ ěĚ ĘđďĎ ĐďĕĚ ĐĜģč ĐĕĕĜč ;ĕďĤđĝčČ ęđģĕĚč ĐĕĕĜč ;ěĐč ĖĤđĢ ěĕČĥ ĦđĕĢģĜđĠ čđĘĕĥ ;ĘčđģĚĐ đČ ĤĕčĝĐ ĖĤđĢĘ ĤčĞĚ ĐĕĕĜč ĕĤĚđēč ĥđĚĕĥ .ĘčđģĚĐ đČ ĤĕčĝĘ ĤčĞĚ ęĕĤđĔĕĞ Ęĥ ĦđĚėđ ĐĚĢđĞ

.1 .2 .3 .4 .5

.ęĕĎēĐ ĕĚĕĚ ġđē ,ĐĜĥĐ ĕĚĕ ĦĕčĤĚč ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĕČč Ęė ĦđĥĤĘ ĐĜčĚĐ ďĚĞ ěĕĕďĞ ,ěĘĐĘ ěĕđĢĕĥ ĕĠė .2 .306–295 ĪĚĞ ,The Architecture of Herod ,ĤėĒĜĐ ĕĤĠĝč ĐčēĤĐč ĕĦďĚĞ Ĥčė Ėė ĘĞđ .3

ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ ?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ :ęđĔĢĕ üđăđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ĥďēĐ ęĤĠĝ ĤđČĘ (2007) īğđďĤđ ğďđĤ ĖĘĚ ,ĝđďĤđĐī

ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

ĤĔČĕėĕĝĠĐđ Ĥĥė ĐĕĤČ ěđĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ Ęĥ ĥďēĐ ęĤĠĝč ĥďē ĔčĕĐĘ đėĒ ĖĘĚĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đĘĞđĠđ đĕĕē ĦČ đč ĐđđĐĚ ĐĠĜĞĐ đĦđĘĕĞĠ ĘĞ đĦĞĠĥĐđ ĝđďĤđĐ ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ ĕĥĠĜĐ đčĢĚ ĤĥČ ĤĠĝ Á ęđĔĢĕđ ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕďđĐĕ ĐĤđČėĘ đĦđĕĐđ ĝđďĤđĐ Đč ĘďĎĥ ĐčĕčĝĐĥ ,ĐēĜĐĐ ĐĒ ĤĠĝč ĦĤčđĞ ĕĜĥĐ Ĕđēė .ĕĒėĤĚĐ ČĥđĜĐ đĞĕĕĝ ĐĘČ ĦđĥĎĤđ ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĕĠĘė ĤģĕĞč ,ęĕĒĞ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤ ĦđĤĢđđĕĐč čđĥē ęĤđĎ đĕĐ ,ĐĢēĚĘ .ĕĜĚđĘĎĚ ğēď ĖđĦĚ ęĕĤĕďČ ĐĕĕĜč ĕĘĞĠĚ ęđĒĕĘ ,ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ,đĘ ęĤĎ ĐĒđ ,ĕďĕČđĜĤĠ čĢĚ Ęĥ đĦđēĦĠĦĐĘ ĤĦđĕč čĥđēĚ ĐĕĐ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ,ĐĜģĝĚĘ ĕĦđČ ĐČĕčĐ ĖĘĚĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚ ęĞ ĦđĤėĕĐ ĦĕĘĔĜĚđĜđĚĐ ĐĕĕĜčĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤģĚč ęĎ .ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚ Ęĥ ęĕĜĚĕĝč Đč ěĕēčĐĘ ěĕČđ ,ĐĕĕĜčĘ Ĥđĥģĥ ĐĚ Ęėč Ęĥ đėđĜĕē ěĕĕĜĞč ęđĔĢĕđăđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ďđĝĕĐ ĦēĜĐĥ ĐĚđď 1.ĦđĚēĎ ēĤėĐč ČĘđ ,ĦđģĚđĜĚ Ħđčĕĝ ĖėĘ đĕĐ ,ĖĥĚĐč ďđĚĞČ Ėė ĘĞđ ,ĞđčģĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐĤĞĥĐ Ęĥ ĦđĠģĦ ĦďĕĚ ĐĦđČčđ ,ĦĥďđēĚ Đģĕďč ĦĥĤđď ĝđďĤđĐ .ęĦČ ĦđĤēĦ ĕďė ĖđĦ đČ ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĕĠĘė ĐčĕČ đČ ĦđĦĕēĜ ĕĥĎĤ ēđĦĕĠ ĕďė ĖđĦ ĘďĎ ČĘ ĝđďĤđĐĥ ĐĘđĞĠĐ ğđĦĕĥđ ĜīĐĝĠĘ 40 ĦĜĥč ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĥđčĕė ĦđčģĞč ďđĝĕĐ ěĚ ĐĜĦĥĐ ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ đďĚĞĚ ČĚđĤĘ ĝđďĤđĐ ĔĘĚĜ ęĐĕĦđčģĞčĥ ęĕĞđĤĕČ ,ęĕĥčđėĐ ęĕĦĤĠĐ ęĞ ĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĝđĜđĎĕĔĜČ đĐĕĦĦĚ Ęĥ ,ĦĕĥČĤ :ěė ĕĜĠĘ đĚĕĕģĦĐ ČĘĥ ęĕĕĥģ ĕĜĥ đĕĜĠĘ đďĚĞ ĐĒ ĞĎĤĚ .ĕĚđĤĐ ĔČĜĝĐ ĕďĕč ĖĘĚĘ ęĥ ĤĦėđĐđ ĐĜėĝĐ ,ĦĕĜĥ ;ĘđďĎĐ ěĐđėĐ ĦĤĥĚč ęĎđ ĔĕĘĥĐ ďĕģĠĦč ęĎ ĥĚĥĘ ,đĕĚďđģė ,Ęđėĕ ČĘđ ěĐđė ĐĕĐ ČĘ ČđĐ ęĘđČđ .ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĦēĠĥĚ ĕĜčĚ ďēČ ĕďĕĘ ĐďđĐĕč ěđĔĘĥĐ ĦČ ĤĕčĞĕ ĕĚđĤĐ ěđčĕĤĐĥ ,đĥČĤ ĘĞ ĐĠēĕĤĥ đĘĘĐ ęĕĜĥčđ ,ĐĎĥĎĥ ğČđ ęĕĜĥĐ ęĞ ĐčēĤĦĐđ ĐėĘĐ đĒđ ,đĦĜĕďĚč ĐĜĥ 33 ĝđďĤđĐ ĔĘĥ Ĥčď Ęĥ đĠđĝč .ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęđēĦč ĘđďĎĐ đĘĞĠĚ ĞĢčĦĐ

.ĦđĘĕĞđĚĐ ĦđĤĞĐĐ ĘĞ ĐĤđčď ĕĦĕĕĞĤĘđ ěĐė ęĕĕēĘ ,ĝĕĤđĘąĕĪĢČĪĢ ĘēĤĘ ĐďđĚ ĕĜČ ,51–38 ĪĚĞ ,(ęīĥĦ) 15 ĐĤďĦģ ,(ęĕĤģđē ěđĕď) īĕĥĕČ ĖĤđĢ đČ ĐėĘĚĚĐ ĕėĤđĢ Á ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕĘĞĠĚī .1 E. Netzer, The Architecture of Herod, the Great ,ĝđďĤđĐ Ęĥ ĦđĘėĕĤďČĐ ĦČ ęėĝĚĐ ĕĤĠĝč ĐčēĤĐč đČĤ .67–61 .Builder (Tübingen, 2006)

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ęđėĕĝ ĦđĜđĞ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥ ęĕĕĠĤĎđĜđģĕČĐ ęĐĕĦđĤđģĚĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ĕė ,ĦđČĤĐĘ ĕĦĥģĕč ĐĒ ĤĚČĚč ĦĕĕČĤ ĕĘč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ęĢđĚĕČĘ ĞĕĜĚĐ ĦČ ěĕčĐĘ ěĕČ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČč ęĕĕđĢĚ ĥĚĥĐ ĦčėĤĚđ ĐĜĥĐ ĐĦĥĞĥ ĘĕĞĕĐ ĥđĚĕĥĐ .ĕĤĢđĜĐ ęĘđĞč ČĕĐĐ ĦĞč đĥēĤĦĐĥ ĦėĘĐ ĦđģĕēĤĚ ĦđĤđĚĦĐ ĘČ ĐģĕĒĐ đĘĘđē ,ĦđĕĜČĎĠĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĥĘēĕĐ ďčč ďčđ ,ĐĦĜđĚČ ĕĤģĕĞ ĦĢĠĐ Ęĥ ęĕĕĔģďĕď ęĕėĤĢĘ ĦđĜĚČč ĦđĤĢĜĐ Ħĕč ĦĠĢĤ ĒėĤĚč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦĞĠđĐ Ęĥ ĕđĦĕĞĐ .ĦđĚďĐ ĦđĜĚČ ĘČ ęĕďđĐĕĐ Ęĥ ęĝēĕč ĕĦđĐĚ ĕđĜĕĥ ĘĞ ĤĞĤĞĘ ĤĝĕģĐ ĦėĕĚĦč ĕĦĕĕĝĜėĐ ĕĤĢđĜĐ ďĝĚĚĐ Ęĥ đĕĦđĜđĕĝĕĜĘ đĦđČ ĤđĥģĘ ĥĕđ ,ĕĤģĚ đĜĕČ ĦĝĜėĐ ĐĤĐĢĐ ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕ ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĎđēĘ ĤđĥģĐ ĦĝĜė Ħĕčč ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ ĦĞĠđĐč .ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđĜĚĕĐĚ ĕĦčč ĦđĜđĞĐđ ĥĚĥĐ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĤđČĕĦĘ ĞĎđĜč ęĕĚďđģ ęĕĜđĕďĘ ğĕĝđĐĘ ĕĦĥģĕčĥ ĤēČ ďĚĚ .ďĎĜėĥ đĘēĐĥ ,ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđģĕĘĕĝčĐ .ęĕĕĚĝđģ ęĕĥďģĚĘ ĕĘĚĝ ěĠđČč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč Ęĥ ęĦėĕĠĐ ČĕĐ ,ĦĝĜėĐ .ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕĚĝđģ ęĕčĕėĤ ĦđĞĢĚČč ĐĎĕĢĐĘ đĤēč ĖČ ,ĦČĒ ĦđĕĘĚĝ ěė ęĎ đĢĚĕČ ,ČĕĐĐ ĦĞč ĦđĜčĕĐĘ ĤđČĕĦ ĦđČēĝđĜ Ęĥ ĐĤčĞĐĘ ĦĜđđėĚ ěĐč ĐĜđĥČĤĐĥ ,ĦđĕĎđĘđďđĦĚ ĦđĤĞĐ ĕĦĥč ęĦēĜ ĤĚČĚĐ ĞĤĕČ ĐĚ ĦđĤĕĐĒ ĐĜĥĚč ěđēčĘ ĥĕ ,ęĕĔĤĠč ĕđĜĕĥ Ęē ČĘ ěĕĞ ĦĕČĤĚĘ ęČ ęĎ .ĦĤēČĘ ĦēČ ĦđčĤĦĚ ĦĕĢēĚĘ ĖĤČđĦĚĐ ĦĝĜė Ħĕč ĒėĤĚč ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ ĦđĚďč ĥĚĥĐ .ĥďēĐ ęĤĥģĐč ęĕĤČđĦĚĐ ęĕČĥđĜĘ ĦđĜĚČĐ Ęĥ ĤČđĔĤĠĤĐ ěĚ ĦĕĦđĜĚČ ĐĚėĝđĚ Ęĥ ĐĔđĥĠ ĐĘĕČĥ ĐĜĕČ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐčēĤ ĐĕĢĕĒđĠĚđģ Ęĥ ĐĒėĤĚč ęĎďĐ Ęĥ đĦĞĕčģ .ĦđĞĚĥĚąčĤ ĕĜČĎĠ ĘĚĝ Ęĥ ġđĚĕČ ČĘČ ,ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĐĤĞĐĐ .ĤēČ ěđĕĞĤĘ đĦĠĠėĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ĦĕĤđģĚĐ đĦđĞĚĥĚĚ đĦđČ ĦĘĤĔĜĚ ,ęĕĐĒĚ ęĕĕďđĐĕ ęĕĘĚĝ Đčđ ĦĕĦđĒēĐ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ ĐĕĠĘđ ,ęĕĤģđē ĕĠč ĐĤđĎĥĐ ĐēĜĐĐ ĘĞ ĤĞĤĞĘ ĐďĞđĜ ěđĕďĐ Ęĥ đĠđĝč ĦĕĎđĘđďđĦĚĐ ĦđĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠ ĦđĤđĠĔĚ Ā ĦĞĠđĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤģĚč ĤģĕĞčđ ,ęĕďēČ ęĕĤģĚč .ĐčđĦėĐ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ ĤēČ ĦčģđĞ .ĖĠĐĘ ČĘđ ĔĝģĔĐ ĘĞ ĐĞĕĠĥĐĥ ČĕĐ ĦĕĦđĒēĐ ĦđĜĚČĐĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ ĦČ ěđēčĘ ĥĕ ,ĦđĤĠĝč

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

ęĕĔĝģĔĘ ĐČĤĥĐ ĤđģĚ đĕĐ ęĕĕĦđĒē ęĕĕđĚĕďĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ ĘĞ Ęĥ đĒ ĦđĘĦ .ęĕĕĦđĒēĐ ęĕĕđĚĕďĐ Ęĥ ęĦđĞĚĥĚ ĦČ ěĕčĐĘ ĕďė ęĕĔĝģĔč ęĕĤĒĞĜ ĦđĜĚČĐ ĕĤģđē ,ĕĤģēĚĐ ĖĕĘĐĦĐ Ęĥ đĠđĝčĥ ĖėĘ ĦĚĤđĎ ĦĕĦđĜĚČĐ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ ēđĜĞĠĘ ēĦĠĚė ĔĝģĔč ĦđĜĚČĐ ěđĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĤđĠĔĚ Ā ĦđĤĠĝč ĦđĞĕĠđĚĥ ęĕĤģĚčĥ ,ĐĞĕĢĚ ĕĜČ .ĕĦđĒēĐ ĕđĚďĘ ĐČĤĥĐ ĤđģĚ ĝĠĦĜ ĔĝģĔĐ ĘĥĚĘ Ėė .ĖĠĐĘ ČĘđ ĤđģĚĐ ČĕĐ ĦĕĦđĒēĐ ĦđĜĚČĐĥ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ ĦČ ĥČĤ ďčđėč ěđēčĘ ĥĕ ,ĦđĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠ :(ď ,čĕ ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč) ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĞĕĠđĚĐ đĦčėĤĚ ĦČ ĎĕĐĜĚĐ čėĤė ĥĚĥĐ Ęĥ ĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠĐ ĕđĚĕďĐ ěĦēė ČđĐđ ČĚĕĦď ĐĚė ęĘđĞĘ ĤĕČĚđ ĐčėĤĚč čėđĤ ČđĐđ ĐĘĞĚĘ ěđĦĜ ČđĐĥ ,ĥĚĥĐ ĐĒ ěĚĎĤČ đčėĤĚī đĤđģĚĥ ěėĦĕĕ Á ī. . . ĦđĤĕĠ ĐĘĞĚ ġĤČĐ ĥĚĥĐ ēđėĚđ ,ęĕďĤđĕ ęĕĚĥĎĐ ĥĚĥĐ ēđėĚđ .ĪđĎđ đĦĠđēĚ ČĢđĕ 81.ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĜĚČč ęĕĕđĚĕďĘ ģĤ ČĘ ĐČĤĥĐ ĤđģĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĜĚČĥ ĦđĤĥĠČ ĘĘėĚ ČĕĢđĐĘ ěĕČ ,ěė ĘĞ ĤĦĕ ĦđĕĎđĘđČĕďĕČ ęĕĠģĥĚĐ ęĕĤđčĕēč ęĕĞĕĠđĚĐ ĦđĜđĕĞĤĘđ ęĕĕđĚĕďĘ ęĎ ČĘČ ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠ ĤĚđĥĐ ,čđĔĐ ēĘĚĐ ,ēĤĒĚč ĐĘđĞĐ ,ĝđĕĘĐ ,ĖĢĕĤĞČī :ęĕĒĤĐ ĤĠĝč ĝđĕĘĐ ĤđČĕĦ ĘĥĚĘ ,ĦđĕĤĔđĒČ ĦđĕĎČĚ ĘĞ ĘĥđĚĐ ,ęĕčėđėĐ Ęĥ ĥđďģĐ ĤďĝĚĐ ,ĦĞčģ ĤĕčėĐ ĘĎĘĎĐ ĦČ ęďģĚ ĤĥČ ,ěĚČĜĐ ĎĕĐĜĚĐ ,ęĕĜđĚČ ČĘ ĐĒ ĎđĝĚ ĦđĕĤĔđĒČ ĦđĕĎđĘđČďĕČ 82.ī. . . ęĕčėđėĐ ĦČ ĞčđģĐ !ĖĘĚ ,ĤĕĐĒĚĐ ĎĕĐĜĚĐ !ěđďČ ,ęĕĤĕĢĐ .ęĕĚėēĐ Ęĥ ęĦđĎĕĐĜĚ ĦČ đĘčĕģĥ ĦđĘĕĐģĐ ĕĘđĥč ČĘČ ,ęĕĘďčĦĚ ęĕĎđē ĦĤĎĝĚč đĚĕĕģĦĐ ēĤėĐč đĚĘđĞ ĦĝĕĠĦč čĘĕĥ ČđĐđ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĕČčĚ ĦđĕĐĘ ęĕĕđĥĞ đĕĐ đĕČĤđģđ ęĕĒĤĐ ĤĠĝ ĤčēĚ ,ĦđĤēČ ęĕĘĕĚč ĦđČĕĤģ ĐĤĥĠČč ĦđĜĚČĐ Ęĥ ĘđďĎĐ Đēđė .ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĦĠĢĤ ĒėĤĚč ĐČĤĥ ęĕčĕĔđĚĐ ĦČ ĦĕĔĝĕĚĐ .ęĕĕĎđĘđČďĕČđ ęĕĕĎđĘđČĦ ęĕĤĝĚ ĦĢĠĐĘ ĕĞĢĚČė ĦĝĕđĎĚ ČĕĐĥė ĐĦĥĘđē ĤđģĚ ęĎ đĐĒ ĖČ ,ĦđĜđĥ ,ęĚĘđĞ ĦĠģĥĐĘ ęČĦĐč ĐĦđČ ęĕēĜĞĠĚ ęĐ ěėĥ ,ęĕĠđĢĐ Ęĥ ĦđĜĥĤĠč ĐĕđĘĦ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĞĚĥĚ ĝđĜĕĘđČĠ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦĕĥČĤ Á ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ĤĚČĥ ĕĠė .ęēđĚč ęĕĘđĞĐ ęĕĤđĥĕģĐđ ęĐĕĦđĞĕďĕ 83.ĦĚČ Đč ĐČđĤ ĐĠđĢĐĥ ďĞ ĐĘđĘē ČĕĐ ĐĜđĚĦĐ :ĐĘđĜĚ ,ĐĜđĦĜ ĐĤĕĢĕč čĕĔđĚĘ ĝēĕĕĘ ĥĕ ĦđĞĚĥĚ đĒĕČ ĞĕĤėĕ ďĢĕė :đĜĜĚĒ ěč ĤģđēĐ ĕĜĠĘ ĐĕĞč ĦčĢĕĜ ĖėĕĠĘ đĕĦđĕđĞĚĥĚ ĘČ ĞďđĚč đĜđđĕėĥ đČ ,ĤēČ ĕĜĠ ĘĞ ďēČ ĥđĤĕĠĘ ĦđĠĕďĞ ĦĦĘ đĥģĕč đĕĜđĤĔĠđ ěĚČĐ ęČĐ đĤĥģĐ ĘČ ĐģĕĒč ĕđĚĕďĐ ĘČ ĝēĕĕĦĐĘ đĜĕĘĞ ?ĐĒĐ ĖčĝĐ ěĚ ęĕČĢđĕ ĖĕČ ?ĤČđĦĚĐ čĕĔđĚĐ Ęĥ ĦđčĤĐ ĥđĤĕĠĐ Ęĥ ĦĕČĤģČ ĐĤĕēčĚ ĞĜĚĕĐĘ đĜĕĘĞ ,ĕĘČđĔĝģĔĐ ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ ĐĘČĥĐčđ .ĐĘ ĐĢđēĚđ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ ĖđĦč ĝđĕĘĐ .ĐĤđĒĥ ČĕĐ đčĥ čēĤĐ ĕĦđĤĠĝĐđ ĕĤĕčēĦĐ ĐĜčĚĐ ĘĞ đĜďĚĞĥ ĕĜĠĘ Ħďďđč ĐĘĕĚ Ęĥ ĕĜđĘĕĚĐ ĐĠĢĤč ęĕčĘđĥĚĐ ęĕĤēČĐ ęĕčĕĔđĚĘ ĦĞďĐ ĦČ ĦĦĘ ĥĕ ěėĘđ ,ĤĦđĕ čēĤ ĖĤĞĚĚ ģĘē ęĐ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎđ .ęĕĒĚĤ đĜĕďĕč ęĕĜĦđĜ ĕĦĤčēĐđ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĤĥģĐĐ ęĎ 84.ęēĜĞĠĘ ĦđēĦĠĚ đĜĕďĕč ęĕĜĦđĜĐ ęĕĔĝģĔĘđ ,ĐĞđďĕ ĐĦđĐĒĥ ĐĘĕĐģĘ ĐģĕĒč ČĕĐ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥđ ĝđĕĘĐ Ęĥ ĤĦđĕč ĦĤĎĦČĚĐđ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ęĦĞĠđĐ .ęĘĞĦĐĘ ěĕČ đĒ ĐďčđĞĚđ

ĦĝĜėĐąĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ ďĚĞ Ĥčė ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĤđĔĕĞ ěĕčĘ ęĕĔđĕĠĐ ĦĤĕĚČ ěĕčĥ ģđďĐĐ ĤĥģĐ ĘĞ .81 .84 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ đČĤđ .232–231 ĪĚĞ ,īĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞč .14–12 ĪĚĞ ,(1977 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ęĕĒĤĐ ĤĠĝ ,(ĤĕďĐĚ) ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ ĪĚ .82 Paulinus of Nola, Carmen 27 vv, 511–515; J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation .83 .of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity (Cambridge, 1995), p. 249 Z. Weiss, “The Sepphoris Synagogue Mosaic and đČĤ ĕĤđĠĕĢ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ęĕĥĤďĚč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ĘĞ .84 .the Rôle of Talmudic Literature in its Iconographical Study”, in From Dura Europos to Sepphoris, pp. 27–28 ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĕĤģēĚ ,īĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ĔđĕĠč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ęđĘĐĕ Īĕ đČĤ ęĕĥďđēĘđ ĦđĘĒĚĘ ęĕĔđĕĠĐ ěĕčĥ ĤĥģĐ ĘĞ .234–225 ĪĚĞ ,īĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞč ĦĝĜėĐąĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ ;322–313 ĪĚĞ ,(1986) Ĕ ĦĕĤčĞ

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ęĕĚĎďĘ čĤģĦĐ ,ęĕĥĚ ĕĘč ĕČďđđĘ čđĤģ ,ĐĒ ěđĕĝĕĜč ĖČ ,ĦđĕĜČĎĠĐ ěĚ ęĜĚČ ģēĤĦĐ ĕĤđĠĕĢč ĤđČĕĦĐ 75.ĦđēĠ ČĘ ęĕĕĦĕĕĞč ęĕĕĤĢđĜ ĦĚđĥĦĘ .ĐčđĤģĐ ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ Đčĕčĝč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎč ĥđĚĕĥĘ čĔĕĐ ęĕĞďđĚ ĕČďđ đĕĐ ČĕĥĜĐ ĕĎđēč ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ Á ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦđČĚč ęĕĕĔčĜĐ ęĕĥďģĚč ĕĤđĔĕĞ čĕėĤė ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦĞĠđĐ ĐĕđČĤ ďēđĕĚ čĘ ČĥđĜĐ ĦđĚĘĞĕĐ ěĕč ěĚĒ Ęĥ ĤĞĠ ěĕČĥ Ėė ,đĥĔĕĜđ 363 ĦĜĥč ĐĚďČĐ ĦďĕĞĤč đčĤē đĘČ ęĕĥďģĚ .ĜīĐĝĘ ĕĔčĜĐ ĥďģĚĐ ĦĕĒēč ĤĚĦĥĜĥ ĤđČĕĦĐ ČđĐ ďēđĕĚč ęĕĥĤĚ .ĕďđĐĕ ĤĥģĐč đĦĞĠđĐĘ ĕĜČĎĠ ĤĥģĐč ğĘđĎĚ ĒĕĤĠČ ĘĕėĚ ČđĐđ ,ĥďģĚĐ ĦĕĕĜč Ęĥ ĕĜĥĐ čĘĥč ĐĥĞĜ ĐĒ ĤđĔĕĞ .(edh-Dariah) ĐĕĤČď ĦčĤĪēč ěđēĢĕĜ ĦđĘČ ěĜĕčđ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦČ ĦđĎĢĕĕĚĐ ĦđĕĠĤđĚđĠđĤĦĜČ ĦđĕđĚď ěĕĎđĤĕĝĘ ĦđĞĕĠđĚ đčđ ,ĐđčĎ ĔĕĘčĦč ĕĜĥ ĦČ ęĕĎĢĕĕĚĐ ,ĐėĕĔđ ĝđČĒ ĐČĤĜĐ ĕĠė ,ęĕĘČ ĎđĒ ĤČđĦĚ ĘĞĚĥ ęđĜĠĚĕĔč .ěĦđČ ĦđĤĕĦėĚĐ ĦđĠĜđėĚ ĕĔčĜĐ ĥďģĚč ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĕčĘĥĚ ęĕĕĜĥč ęĎ đĤČđĦ ĦđĘĒĚĐ 76.ĐĒđĞąĘČđ ĐĤĥđď ęĕčđĥēĐ ęĕĕĔčĜĐ ęĕĘČĐ 77.ĤđĜĦ ĦčĤđēč ĘėĚ ĤĦđĕĥ ĤđĤĕčč ĐČĤĚ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ Á ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦđČĚč ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĜĚČč ĕĚĝđģĐ ěĚĒĐ ĕĎđĢĕĕ ĦĤĕģĝ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ĦĔĘēđĚĐ đĦĤďĐ 78.ěđĕČ Ęĥ đĦđĚďĘ ĦđĤđĥģ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ đĕĐ ĦĤēČ ĦđĚď ĤĤčĘ ěėČ čđĥē ĕĤĐĥ ,ĦđĘČĥ ĦĤĤđĞĚ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ęĎ ďđČĚ ĐčĤ ĐďĕĚčđ ĦČ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĥĕĥ ěėĦĕĕ .đĞĜĚĜ ĐĚĚ ĤĤčĘ čđĥē ĦđēĠ ČĘ ĘčČ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ĦēģĘ đĤēč ĐĚ đčĦėĜĥ ęĕĕďđĐĕĐ ęĕĤđčĕēč ĐĕĠĘđ ,ěĤĔĥ Ęĥ đĦĜēčĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ěđĕČ Ęĥ đĦđĤďĞĕĐ ĘĕďčĐĘ ,ĐĚĢĞ ĕĜĠč ĦďĚđĞĐ Ħđĥĕ ěĚĒč đČĤ ČĘ ęĕĚėē ,ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥ ďĞ ĦĕĚĤČč đČ ĦĕĤčĞč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ěĚ ĦđĞĜĚĕĐĐ ĦČĥ ĕĜĚđď 79.ĜīĐĝĠĘ ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĒČĚ ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđčĤĦč ěĚĒĐ ĦĝĕĠĦĚ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦĕĜđĔĘĠČąđČĜĐ ĐĕĠđĝđĘĕĠč đĦđčĕĥē ĞģĤ ĘĞ ĕĘđČ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĥĕ ĦđĕĝĜėč ěđĕČ Ęĥ đĦđĚďč ěđĕČ Ęĥ đĦđčĕĥēĘ ĕĘČđĒĕđ ĕđĔĕč .đĚĢĞ ĘČĐ ĦČ ěČėĚđ ,ĕĐđĘČĐ ěĚĒĘ ĘĚĝ đč đČĤĕ ęĕĤĢđĜĥ ĥĥēĐđ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĚ ĝĠĕĝĠč ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤč ĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČč ĦđďĕČĤĜĐ ěĕč ĦđĤēĦč ĔĠđĥđ ĐĘĕĐ ĤđĔĞ ĞĕĠđĚ ěđĕČ ĐĒ ĝĠĕĝĠč 80.ěĕĝĕĤĠģčĥ ĝđĠČĠ ĐČ ýĜč ěđĕČ Ħĕčč ďĢčđ ,ĐĜĦČđ ĝđČĒ ęĕĚĥĐ ěĚ ęĕēĕĎĚ đĤČđĦ đĘĥ ďēČ ďĢč .ĕĚĝđģĐ ĤďĝĐ ĦČ ĦĘĚĝĚĐ ,ĐČĀ ĠđĕĝģĘ ý .ĐĜĘĝ ĐČĤĜėđ ĝđĕĘĐ ĤēČĐ

ĤđČ ĕĜĤģ Ğčĥ đĤČđĦ ,ĐĤđĥčĐ ĤĠĝ ēĜđĐ đĕĘĞĥ ,ĔĥđģĚĐ ĕĔĠĕĘģđĠČĐ ĝėĐ ĘĞĚ ,ģĕĜĒĕČč ĝĕĒĚĕđģĐ ĦĕĕĝĜėč .75 ĕĜĥ ĔčĚč ĖČ ,ęĕčđĤģ ęĕČĤĜ ģĕĜĒĕČčđ ĕĤđĠĕĢč ęĕĤđČĕĦĐ ěđĥČĤ ĔčĚč .ĦđĕĒėĤĚąďē ĦđĞčĔ ĥđĘĥĚ čėĤđĚĐ ĝđģĝĕď ďĎĜė C. Barber, Figure and Likeness: On the .ĦčĘĢđĚ ĐĘĕĐ ęĞ ĐĜđĕ ěėđ čĘĢ ĘĕėĚ ģĕĜĒĕČč ĥĚĥĐ ĤđČĕĦ .ęĕĤėĕĜ ęĕĘďčĐĐ .Limits of Representation in Byzantine Iconoclasm (Princeton and Oxford, 2002), pp. 63–69 F. Villeneuve and Z. al-Muheisen, “Dharih and Tannur, Sanctuaries of Central Nabataea”, in .76 .Petra Rediscovered (ed. G. Markoe; New York – Cincinnati, 2003), pp. 83–100 J. Mckenzie, “Carvings in the Desert: The Sculpture of Petra and Khirbet et-Tannur”, Petra .77 .Rediscovered, pp. 165–191 D. Levi, “Aion”, Hesperia 13 (1944), pp. 269–314; D. Parrish, Season Mosaics of Roman North .78 .Africa (Roma, 1984), pp. 46–50 .S. Stern, Time and Process in Ancient Judaism (Oxford, 2003) .79 W. A. Daszewski, Dionysos der Erlöser: Griechische Mythen im spätantiken Cypern (Mainz am Rhein, .80 1985); D. Michaelides, Cypriot Mosaics (Nicosia, 1987), pp. 28–31, nos. 27–31, pls. XXII–XXIV; W. A. .Daszewski and D. Michaelides, Guide to the Paphos Mosaics (Nicosia, 1988), pp. 63–71

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

,ĥĥēč ĦČĒ đČĤ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦđčČ .ĦđĤĢĜĐ ĦČ ęĚĢĞ ĘĞ đĘčĕģĥ ĤēČĘ ęĎ ěĐĚ ďĤĠĕĐĘ đĜČĕĚ ĐĕĤĠĚĕČĐ .(Sol Iustitiae) đč ĤĥČ Ęėđ ęĘđĞĐ ĤĢđĕ ĕĦĕĚČĐ ĥĚĥĐ ĘČ ,đĥĕ Ęĥ đĦďĘđĐ ęđĕ ěđĕĢĘ đĘČ ĦđĎĕĎē đĔĕĐđ ĐČĚč ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĦČ ĤĦđĕč ęĘđĐ ĐĒĐ ĖĕĘĐĦĐ 69.360ąĘ 354 ĦĜĥ ěĕč ĥēĤĦĐ ĐĒ ĕđĜĕĥ 70:ĤĜĝĘČ Īĕ čĦėĥ ĕĠė ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐĤďĎĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ ďēČ ďĢĚ .ĦĕĦđĒēĐ ĦđĜĚČč ĦđĚĎĚ ĕĦĥč ěĕēčĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ,đĒč đĒ đĤēĦĐ ĦđĕĦď ĦđĦė ĤĥČė ĐĕĐ ĤēČĐ ďĢĐ ěĚđ ,ĦđĤēČĐ ĦđĦďĐ Ęĥ ęĕĕĠĕĔĕėĤČ ęĕĜĕĕĠČĚ Ęĥ Đĕĕēď ĦđĞĢĚČč ĦĕčĕĝĤĎČ ĦĕĚĢĞ .ęĕĘďčĐĐ ĦČ ĥĔĥĔ ĤĥČ ,ęĒĕĔĤģĜĕĝ Ęĥ ĖĕĘĐĦ

ęĕĔđčĕĤĔČĐđ ęĕĕđĚĕďĐ ěđĘĕĚ ĦČ ġĚČĘ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ đĘēĐ ĝđĜĕĔĜĔĝĜđģ ĕĚĕč ĦđĤĢĜĐ Ęĥ ĐďĚĞĚ ĕđĜĕĥ ęĞ Ħĕč ĝĠĕĝĠ ĕĜĜėĦĚ .ĕĘĝĤčĕĜđČ ĔĕĘĥė đĥĕ Ęĥ ĐĘđĚĞĦĐ ĕėĤđĢĘ ęĕĕĘČĕĤĠĚĕČĐđ ęĕĕĜČĎĠĐ ęĕĕĐđĘČĐ ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđčĤĦĐ ěĚ čđČĥĐ ęĕĕđĚĕďĐ ĤĢđČ ĘČ đĜĠ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ĘČĐ Ęĥ đēđė ĦČ ĤĕďČĐĘ ęĥģčč ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĝđĕĘĐ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĜĚČč Ĥčė 71.ĘČĐ Ęĥ đēđėĘđ đĦđĜđĕĘĞĘ ĕĘČđĒĕđ ĕđĔĕč ĦĦĘ ĕďė ,ĘđėĘ ĤėđĚĐđ ĦđĥĕĘ đĦđĠĕĠė ĦĤėĕĜ đĤđČĕĦ ĖĤďčđ ,ĦĕĐđĘČ ĦđĚďė ČĘđ ęđģĕč ĞčĔ ĦĞĠđĦ Ęĥ ĦđĚďč ĞĕĠđĐĘ ĕđĥĞ 72.ĜīĐĝĘ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ đĜĚĒđ ěđďĕĢč đĤđģĚĥ ,ĕČĤĦĕĚ ĔĕĘčĦč ĤčďĐ Ėė .ęđģĕč ĦĔĘĥĐ ĦĤēČ ĦĕĐđĘČ ĐĜĘĝ ĦČđ ĝđĕĘĐ ĦČ ,ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ĞčĤČ ĦČ ĘĕėĚĐ ĕĚĝđģ ĤđČĕĦ ĒėĤĚč ĞĕĠđĚ ĤĠĐ ĦČ ĞĕĜėĚĐ ĝČĤĦĕĚ ęĕĤđČĕĦĐ đĚė ČĘĥ ęĘđČ ,ĥĚĥĐ ĦČ ęĘĎĚ ĘđĝąĝđĕĘĐ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ęĎĥ ĕĜĚđď .ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦČđ .ĦĕČĤĜąĕĦĘč ĦđĐđĘČ ĕĐđĒ ěėĥ ,ĤČđĦĚ đĜĕČ ĤđĔĤģđĚĝđģĐ ,ęĕĕĜČĎĠĐ ęĕģđēĘ ĐĦđĕĢ ČđĐ ĐĦĘĞĚđ ĦĕĐđĘČ Ħđĥĕė ĥĚĥĐ ďđĞ ĦĝĠĦĜ ČĘ ,ĦđĤĢĜĐ ,ĐĤēĦĚĐ Ħďčĥ ĐĞĥĚ ęĕĕđĚĕďč ĥĚĦĥĐĘ ĐĞĕĜĚ ďđĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ,ĐČĤĜĘ ęĕĕģĐ ĤďĝĐ ĦČ ĖđĠĐĘ ĐĦĘđėĕ Ęĥčđ ĘČĐ Ğčģĥ ĐĝĕĠĦĘ ĤĦđĕč ĤĕĐčĐ ēđĝĕĜĐ .ĐĦĤēĦĚ ęĞ ďďđĚĦĐĘ čĕĔĕĐĘ ĕďė Ėė ĎđĐĜĘ ēĤđė ğČ ĥĕ ĖėĚ ĤĦđĕđ ,đĘĘĐ :(6 ğĕĞĝ ,Čĕ) ęĕĕđďĕđ đĤĠĝč (430–354) ĝđĜĕĔĝđĎđČ Ęĥ ČđĐ ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ đĜĕĕĐ ČĘ đĜĦđĕĐ ĕĜĠĘ .đĜĕĥĞĜĥ ęđĥĚ ęĕĚĕĕģ đĜēĜČī :ęĚĢĞ ĦČ đĥĞ ęĐ ČĘ ĕė ęĕĒĕĤėĚ ġĤČĐđ ęĕĚĥĐ ęĦđČ ĦĕĥĞ čđĔĐ ĐĦČ ;ęĕĠĕ ęĦđČ ĦĕĥĞ ĐĠĕĐ ĐĦČ .ęĐč ďĕĞĚ ęĕĤčđďĐ Ęđģ .īđĜĚĢĞ ĦČ ĦđĥĞĘ ĕďė 73.ęĤĢđĕ ,ĖđĚė ęĕĚĕĕģ ęĐ ěĕČđ ,ĖđĚė ęĕčđĔ ęĐ ěĕČ ,ĖđĚė ęĕĠĕ ęĐ ěĕČ .ęđĕģ ęĐĘ ĦĦĜ ęĕĕģĐ ĐĦČ ;ęĕčđĔ

ěĕĕĜĞč đĦĝĕĠĦ ĘĞ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕēđĝĕĜč ĝđĜĕĔĝđĎđČ ĤĒđē ,ěĚĒĐ ĦĝĕĠĦč đĘđė ģĝđĞĐ ,ģĤĠč ęĕĤēČ ĦđĚđģĚč .(41 ,40 , 15 ěėđ ,16 ğĕĞĝ) īęĕĜĚĒĐ ĘėĘ ĦĚďģ ĐĦČđ ęĕĜĚĒĐ Ęė ĦČ ĦĕĥĞ ĐĦČī :đĤĚČč ěĚĒĐđ ĘČĐ đĐĒ .ěĕĤģĚ ĐĚē ĘĎĘĎč ĕĤđĠĕĢč ĐĠĘēđĐ ęĕĝđĝ ĐĞčĤČĘ ĐĚđĦĤ ĐčėĤĚ ĕčĎ ĘĞ ĝđĕĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđĚď .ĕĜČĎĠĐ ĕđĚĕďč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ěĚ ĦēĜąĕČ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĕĜĜėĦĚ čĤģčĥ ďĕĞĚĐ ,ĕĦđĞĚĥĚ ĕđĜĕĥ ģĠĝ ČĘĘ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ĦđČĕĢĚĐ !ČĘ ĘĘėđ ĘĘė ?ĐĘĕĐģĐ ĕĜč ĤđčĞč ĤĦđĕ ēđĔč ĐĕĐ ĐĒ ěđĤĦĠ ęČĐ 74.ĐĦđĚďč ĦđĜĚČč ĤČđĦ ĦđďēČ ęĕĚĞĠđ ,ĥĚĥĘ ĦđčĤ ęĕĚĞĠ đĥĕ ĐđđĥđĐ ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĤĠĝč .Đėđčĝ

.G. Hlsberghe, The Cult of Sol Invictus (Leiden, 1972), pp. 144, 174–175 .69 .J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph (Oxford, 1998), pp. 211–212 .70 .Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp. 231–235 .71 H. G. Gundel, Zodiakos, Tierkreisbilder im Altertum: Kosmische Bezüge und Jenseitsvorstellungen im .72 .antiken Altagsleben (Mainz am Rheim, 1992), pp. 113–114, Abb. 53, cat. no. 77, 229–232 .(2001 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĎĤčĜĕĕĘģ ĪČ Ĥčď ĦĕĤēČđ ĦđĤĞĐ ,ČđčĚ ğĕĝđĐđ ĦĕĜĕĔĘĚ ęĎĤĦ ,ęĕĕđďĕđ ,ĝđĜĕĔĝđĎđČ .73 F. Dölger, “Das Sonnengleichnis in einer Weihnachtspredigt des Bischofts Zeno von Verona: .74 Christus als wahre und ewige Sonne”, Antike und Christentum, VI (Münster, 1940), pp. 51–56; E. H. .Kantorowicz, “Oriens Augusti — Lever du Roi”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 17 (1963), pp. 135–145

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ĘđĤĔ üĜ ĖĤđĢĘ ġđĚĕČ ĝĠĕĝĠ ĕĜĜėĦĚ đĤēč ĞđďĚ ,ČĕĐ ĐĕĘĞ čĕĥĐĘ ęĕĥģĦĚ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ĕĤģđēĥ ĦđĘČĥĐ ĦēČ ąĕĦĘčĐ ĥĚĥĐ ĘČ Á ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ Ęĥ đĦđĚďč đĦčėĤĚč ĥĚĥĐ ĦČ ĤČĦĘ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĐĕĤĠĚĕČĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĚĥĤĐ ĦďĘ ĦđĤĢĜĐ ĐĦĥĞĜĥ ďĞ ĕĥČĤĐ ĕĘČĕĤĠĚĕČĐ ěēĘđĠĐ ĐĕĐ đĜēĘđĠĥ ,ēĢđĜĚ ĤđČĕĦ ĦđČēĝđĜč ĥĚĦĥĐĘ ĐĞĕĜĚ Ęė ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ěėĘđ ,ĦđĕĜČĎĠĐ Ęĥ Đēđė ĥĦĥ ĤčĝĐĐ .ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĕďė đč ĥĕĥ ěėĦĕĕ ,ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ Ęĥ ĐĜėĝ Ėėč ĐĕĐĦĥ ĕĘčđ ěĕĕĠđĕ ĦđėĒč ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ĦđčđČĥĐ ĐģĒē ĐģĚĜĐ ĐĥđĤď ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚčĥ ĕĜĚđď ĘčČ ,ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦđČĚč ęĕĚĎďĐ ĦČ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĦČ ĘđďĎĐ ĝđĜĕĔĜĔĝĜđģđ ĝđĜČĕĘĤđČ ,ĝđĘčĎĘČ ęĕĤĝĕģĐ đČĤ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĦĕĥČĤčđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚč .ĦČĒĚ ĐĒĘ ĕĘČĕĤĠĚĕČĐ ěēĘđĠĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤĥģĐ 63.ĤđĔĤģđĚĝđģĐ Ęđĝ Ęĥ (ĐĕĢĜĤģĜĕČ) Ĥĥčč ĦđĚĥĎĦĐė ęĚĢĞ ĝđĜĕĔĜĔĝĜđģ ĞčĔ 323 ĦĜĥ ďĞđ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĥČĤč ďēđĕĚč ęĕģĒē đĕĐ ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ Ęĥ ęĕďĕĞĚ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕĚđĤ ĦđĤđģĚđ 354 ĦĜĥ Ęĥ ĐĜĥĐ ēđĘ 64.ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ Ęĥ ęĕĤđČĕĦ ęĞ ĦđĞčĔĚ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕčĥ ĘīĒē ĦđĤđģĚč 65.ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČ ďĞ ĦđēĠĘ ĐĒ ěēĘđĠ Ęĥ đĦđĕĜđĕē ĘĞ ĤđĤĕčč ĐĘđģđ ĐĜčĐ ĦĚđĞĘ ĐĒđ ,ĤđĝĕČ ĦģĒēč ĐĕĐ ĤĝĕģĐ ěēĘđĠĘ ĤđĥģĐ Ęė ,ĦđĚďĐ ĦđĜĚČč ęĕģĝđĞĐ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĘ ęĕĔđčĕĤĔČĐ ĦĚĕĥĤ ĦČ ęĕĜđĚ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ,ĦđĞĔ Ęė ĞđĜĚĘ ĕďė 66.ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠ ęĕĤđČĕĦ ĕĠĘė đĘĕĎĥ ČđĐ ,ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĘđĝąĝđĕĘĐ ĕďĕč ģĒēđĚĐ ,ęĘđĞĐ Ĥđďė .ĤđĔĤģđĚĝđģĐ Ęĥ ęĕģĐčđĚĐ ęĕĤďĐĦĚĥ ĕĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĦėĘĐĐ ĦĕĜĠĦĘ đČ ĐĒ ĤđĝĕČĚ ĦđĚĘĞĦĐĘ ďēđĕĚ Đčĕĝ ČđĠČ ĐĥđĤď .ęĐĚ ďēČ ĐĥĕĎďĚĐ ,đĐčČ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĜč ČĤĕĞĒ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĦĥĤď ĦČ ĤĕėĒĚ ĝĕĕđ .ČĕĥĜĐ ĦēĠĥĚĘ čđĤģ ĝđēĕĕ ĕĘĞč ęĦđĕĐč ĤđĔĤģđĚĝđģĐ ĤĝĕģĐ Ęĥ ĘčĎđĚĐ đēđė ěĕč ďđĎĕĜĐ ĦČ Ĥđďė đČ ĘģĚ đďĕčĥ ĕĚ ĤČĦĘ ĤđĝĕČĐ Ęĥ ĤĥģĐč 67.ĘčĎđĚąĕĦĘč đĜđĔĘĥĥ ęĕĐđĘČ ěĕčĘ ęĕčĕĔđĚĐ ĦĤčĞĐ .ęėđēĚ ĕĔģĔ ďĞĢ ČđĐ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč đĘ ęĕďĞ đĜČĥ ĖĘĐĚĐ ĐČĤĜąĕĦĘčĐ ĘČĐ Ęĥ đĜđĔĘĥĘ ęĦđČ ĐĠĕĠėĚĐ ,ĐĤĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĘđĞĠ ČĕĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĦĕčĘ ęĕĜČĎĠĐ ęĕĕĚĝđģĐ ĦČ ģďĢč čĦė ĥĤč ĐĥĚ .ĕđĚĕďĐ Ęĥ đĦđĞĚĥĚĘ čĔĕĐ ęĕĞďđĚ đĕĐ ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ đĎđē ĕĥĜČ .Ęđėč ĔĘđĥĐ :ĐĘČĐ ęĕĤčďĐ ęĕđĝĚ ČĥđĜĚ ģĘēė ĕčĕĔģĘđģĐ ěđĤėĕĒč ĐĚđĥĕĤ ĦČ ĐĤĕĦđĚ ĐĕĢĕĒđĠĚđģ ,ĐĕĢĤđĎĕĠĜđģ ,ĐĤđĢ ĤĥČė ěĕĕĜĞ ĐĜĕČ ĐĦĤčĞĐ ĐĒ ĐĤģĚč .ĦĕĘĤĔĕĜĘ ĐčĕĥēĐĘ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ,ĦĚĕđĝĚ ĦďĘ Ħėĕĕĥė ĕĤĘđģĕĔĤĠ ěĠđČčđ 68.ĞďđĚĐ ĐĠđĢĘ čĔĕĐ ĤđđēĚĐ ĤĝĚ ĦČĥđĜ ĥďē ĤĥģĐč ĐĦĞ ĐĞĕĠđĚ ČĕĐĥ ĐďčđĞĐ .Ėėč ĐĚ Ęĥ

ĘĚĝ Á Sabazius Ęĥ ďĕĐ ĐĤČđĦ đĒėĤĚčđ ,đĘĪĢĤđĔ Ęĥ ĐĘĤďĦģč čĘĢĐ ČĕĐ ěĐč ěď ĥĤčĥ ĦđČĚĎđďĐ ĦēČ ďĞđĜ čĘĢč ďĕĐ ġđčĕĥ .Đĕđēďđ ĦčĒđė ĐĜđĚČ Ęĥ ĘĚĝĘ ĕēėđĜĐ đĚđģĕĚč ĖĠđĐĐ ,Ħđčĕĥē čĤ ĕĜČĎĠ ĕĜēĘđĠ đĦđĞĢĚČčĥ ,ĝđėĕĜ Ęĥ ĤēČ ĖĘĐĚ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ đĥĞ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč .ĦđĕĜČĎĠĐ ĘĞ ĦđĤĢĜĐ ěđēĢĕĜ ĘĞ ĤĕĐĢĐĘ 25ąč ĕė ĤđĤĕčč ďĕĞĚ 354 ĦĜĥĚ ĝđĘČģđĘĕĠ Ęĥ ēđĘĐ .ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ Ęĥ ĕĤĘđĠđĠĐ đĜēĘđĠ ĦČ đĘĤĔĜ ĕēĤĒČĥ ĦđĎĕĎēč ěĕđĢ ĞđĤĕČĐ .(Dies Natalis Invicti) ĝđĔģĕđđĜĕČ Ęđĝ Ęĥ đĦďĘđĐ ęđĕ Ęē ĤčĚĢďč .391–380 ĪĚĞ ,1985 ,īęĕĕĠČĤĎđĜđģĕČĐ đĕĦđĤđģĚđ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ .63 .G. Halsberghe, Cult of Sol Invictus (Leiden, 1972), pp. 144, 167 .64 .Salzman, Roman Time, pp. 151–152 .65 ĦđėĘĐī ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ;ĎīĞÀčīĞ čĚ ,Č Ď ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;Č ,Đ ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ ;Č ,Ď ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ĐĜĥĚ .66 .199 ĪĚĞ ,(1958) Đ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚčđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚč ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČĐ ĦđČĕĢĚĐđ ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ .Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp. 232–233 ;ĎīĞ čĚ ,Č Ď ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .67 M. Barasch, “The Idol in the Icon: Some Ambiguities”, in Representation in Religion, Studies in .68 .Honor of Moshe Barasch (eds. J. Assmann and A. I. Baumgarten; Leiden, 2001), p. 11

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đĦĔĕĘĥđ đēđėĘ ĕđĔĕčė ČĤčĜĐ ęĘđĞĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤđČĕĦ ęĕĞĕĠđĚ ĦđĕĝĜėč ěĐđ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ěĐ ĤđĔĕĞĐ ĦĕĜėĦč đĕđĔĕč ĖĤď ęĘđČ ,ĦĞĐ ĐĦđČč ĦđĦďĐ ĕĦĥč ĐĘđĞ ĕĔĤđČĦĐ ěđĕĞĤĐ .ęđģĕč ęĕĐđĘČ Ęĥ ĝĠĕĝĠ ĦđĠĢĤ ĤđĔĕĞĘ ęĕČĦĚė ĕĚĥĎĐ ęĘđĞĐ ĝĠĦĜ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ğđĝĚ Ĥčė 60.ęĕĜđĥ đĕĐ đĕđĦĕĞđ ,đĒ ĦđĜĥĤĠ .ĤĢđĕ ČđĐĥ ęĕĤčďĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč īĐČĤĜī ĘČĐĥ ĐĝĕĠĦĐ ěĚ ģĘēė ĐĒđ ,ęĕĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦďĐ ĕĜčĚč ęĕĤđČĕĦĘ ďđĚĢč ĦđĞĕĠđĚĐ ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦđčđĦėĚ ĐĤđĥĕČ ĦČ ĦĘčģĚ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĤĔĠĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ĘĞ ĦėĚĝĜĐ ĤĢđĕī :ęĕĘĕĚč ĐĥďģĐĐ ĦčđĦė ĦēĦĠĜ đčĜ ĤĐč (ĘČĐ ĦďĘđĕ) ĝđģđĔđČĦĐ Ęĥ ĐĘĠģč ĘĥĚĘ Ėė .ęĚĢĞ ĐčĕĔĕĚĥ ĕĠė ,ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĝĕĠĦĘ Đĝĕĝčč ĐĚđď ,đĒ ĐĝĕĠĦ 61.ĪđĎđ ,īđĜĕĐđĘČ ĝđĔĝĕĤė ,ęĕĤčďĐ Ęė ĐĥđĞđ ĐĥđĞ ĖđĤč ĤĚđČ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦČđ ęĕčėđėĐ ĦČđ ĐĜčĘĐ ĦČđ ĐĚēĐ ĦČ ĐČđĤĐī :(đ đ ĦđėĤč) ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ČĔčĘ ĘčĎđĚ ĐĕĐ ĦđĕĝĜėč ĐĠĢĤĐ ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ČĤčĜĐ ęĘđĞĐ ĤđČĕĦ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝ ďĞ ęĘđČđ .īĦĕĥČĤč ,ĝđĜČĕģđČ ,ĐĕĎ ,ęĕĕĚĝđģ Ħđďđĝĕ Ęĥ ĦđĥĜČĐč ĥđĚĕĥĐ .ęĕĕēĚĢ ęĕčĕĔđĚđ ęĕĢĠē ,ęĕĕē ĕĘĞč ĤđČĕĦĘ .ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĥđĘĥĐ ĦđĜĥč ģĤ ĘēĐ čīđĕėđ ĐĜĥ ĦđĜđĞ ,ĐĜĘĝ ,ĐĝĘĔ đĢĚđČ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚč Ĥčė ĤđĚČėđ ,ěĕĔđĘēĘ ĐĜđĥ ĐĥĕĎ ĐĔģĜ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ĐčđĎĦĐĥ ěėĦĕĕ .ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞđ ĝđĕĘĐ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĤđČĕĦč ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ĦđčđČĥĐ ĦđĥĜČĐ ĐĤđĚĥĐ ĐĕĎĘĕčĕĤĠĐ ěĚ ĦĞčđĜ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐđ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĦđČĚč ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ đĒ Ęĥđ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥĐ ģĕĜĞĐĘđ ĦĕĜđĚĎĐĐ ĦđčĤĦĐ ěĚ ęĕĘĚĝ ĐĚĢĞĘ ĝėĜĘ ĐĘđėĕ ĕďĚĘ ęďģđĚ čĘĥč Ĥčėĥ ,ĔđĞĕĚĐ ĦđčĤĦĘ ĦČ ĤČĦĘ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ .ĥďēĚ ĐĚĢĞ ĦČ ĤĕďĎĐĘ ĕďė ęĦđēďĘ ĦĢĘČĜ čđĤĐ ĦđčĤĦĥ čĘĥč ,ĥďē ěėđĦ ęĐĘ .ĦČĒ ĦđĥĞĘ ęĐĕĘĞ ĐĘģĚ ęĕĕĚĝđģĐ ĤđČĕĦĘ ĦđďĕĚĢč ęĕĐĒĚĐ ęĕĕďđĐĕĐ ęĕĘĚĝĐ Ęđėđ ĘđėĚ đĘĘĥ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦđčČ .ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčĘ ĕďđēĕĕ ČĥđĜ đĕĐ đĒėĤĚč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĤđČĕĦ ĥĚĦĥĐĘ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĘĞ ęĦĝĐ ěĚ ĘģĐĥ ĐĚ ,ĦđĕĝĜėč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĞĕĠđĚ ČĘ ĖėĕĠĘđ ,ĐĕĎđĘđĤĔĝČĐ ĦČ ,ĐĞđčģ ĦĤĦđĜ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ĐĞĕĠđĚĐ ĐēĝđĜĐ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČč ,ĦČĒĚ ĐĤĦĕ 62.đč ĐĠďĞĐĐ ČđĐ ğĝđĜ ĘďčĐ .ěĚĒĐ ĦĢđĤĚč ĐĦđĘĘėĦĥĐĘ ęĕďĞ đĜČ ĦđĕĝĜėĐ Ęĥ ĤđĔĕĞĐ ĦđĕĜėĦč đĘĕČđ ĦėĕĠĐĘ ĕĞĢĚČė ęĕĕĠĤĎđĔĤė đĘĕĠČđ ęĕĕĠĤĎđĠđĔ ĦđďđĝĕĘ ĦđĕĝĜėĐ ĕĝĠĕĝĠ ĕĜĜėĦĚ ęĕĘĎĚĥ ĦĔĘđčĐ ĐĚđď ěđĕĞĤ ĎĢĕĕĘ ĦĞďđĚĐ ĐĤĕēčĐ .ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠĚ ĕĤĚĎĘ ĤďĞĜĐ čĕėĤ ,ĝđĚĝđģđĤģĕĚĘ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĐĕĕĝĜėč ĝđĚĝđģĐ ĤđČĕĦĥ ğČ ĘĞ .ęĕĜčĚĐ ĕĝđĠĕĔ ĕĜĥ ěĕč ġĕē ďĕĚĞĐĘ ĐĞĕĕĝ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĞĢĚČč đĝĕĝčč ĦČĒ Ęėč ,ĦĕĦďĐ ĦđĘėĕĤďČč ĕĘĝĤčĕĜđČ ěđĕĞĤ ČđĐ ,ęĘđĞĐ Ęĥ ĎĢĕĕĚ ęĎďĘ ęĦđČ ęĕėĠđĐĐ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕččđ .ĦđĢĕēĚ ęĕĤĐĘ ęĕďďĢĐ ĕĜĥ ĘĢČ ěđĢĤĐ ĤėĕĜ

Eliade, “Der heilige Raum und die Sakralisierung der ,ĐďČĕĘČ ĐĪĢĤĕĚ ĐčēĤĐč ěď ĐĒ ČĥđĜč .60 ĐĕĕĘĞ ,ĤĜĕĕĤ ĪČđ ĤđĚĕĘ ĪČ ĦėĕĤĞč ęĕĤĚČĚĐ ĦĠđĝČč ęĝĤđĠ ĦĕĤčĞĘ ęđĎĤĦ .īęĘđĞĐ ĥđďĕģđ ĥđďģĐ čēĤĚĐī Á Welt”

čđĥē ĥďģĚč ęĘđĞĐ ĎđĢĕĕ .210–209 ĪĚĞ đČĤ ĤģĕĞčđ ,211–193 ĪĚĞ ,(2005 ,ĐĜĜĞĤ) ęĕĚĘĝđĚ ,ęĕĤĢđĜ ,ęĕďđĐĕ :ĘĎĤĘ .ěĚĒđ ęđģĚ Ęĥ ĦđĘđčĎĘ ĤčĞĚ ČđĐ ĘČĐ ěĐčĥ ĦđĦďč ĤģĕĞč .S. Saller, The Memorial of Moses on Mount Nebo (Jerusalem, 1941), pp. 255–259 .61 ďĎĜī đĤđčĕēč .(ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČ) ĝĕĚČĘĝĚ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ğđĥĕčĐ ČđĐ đĜĕĕĜĞĘ ďēđĕĚč čđĥēĐ ĤđģĚĐ .62 ĐĕĚđĜđĤĔĝČč ęĦđģčďđ ęĦĜđĚČ ĘĞ ĦđėĕĤČč ęĦđČ ğģđĦđ ęĕĥđĤĠč ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ěď (Panarion XVI, 2) īĦđĥĤđĠĐ ĦđĦėĐ ĦđĚĥ ĦČ đĚĎĤĦ ,ęĕĥđĤĠĐ ,ęĐĥ ĦČ ĥĕĎďĚ ČđĐ ďēđĕĚč .ęĦĞĠĥĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐđ ęĕčėđėĐ ĦĚėēč ęĕģĝđĞ đĜĕĕĐď ,ĘĤđĎčđ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ Ęĥ đĤđģĚ .228 ĪĚĞ ,1987 ,īĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ đČĤ .ĦĕĤčĞĘ ĦđĘĒĚĐđ ęĕčėđėĐ .ĘČĤĥĕ ġĤČčĥ (ěĕĤčđč Ħĕč) ĝĕĘđĠđĤĦđđĘČč

ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ

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ĐĕĠĤĎđĠđĔĐ ĤčēĚ ,ĐĕėđĕĔĜČĚ ĝđĜĕĔĜĔĝĜđģ ĘĢČđ 53,ĐĕĔĝĐđĝĠđĚĚ ĝđĤđďđČĦ ĘĢČ ĖėąĤēČđ 52,ĝĜĕĎĕĤđČ ĦđĤđģĚč ęĎ ČĕĐĐ ĦĞč ĞĕĠđĐĘ ĖĕĥĚĚ ęĕĚĥĐ ĕĚĤĎđ ęĘđĞĐ ĦČĕĤč ěĕčĘ ěėĥĚĐ ěĕčĥ ĤĥģĐ 54.ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĕĕĜĕ Ęĥ ĔđĕĠč ěėđ ,ď ,Č (ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĘ ĖĤČđĦĚĐ) ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠč ĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČĥ ĕĠė ,ęĕĕďđĐĕ ęĐĕĦđĘĕčģĚ ĦČđ ěėĥĚĐ ĕģĘē ĦČ ěĕĎđĤĕĝĘ ęĕĔĤĠĚĐ ęĕĤđĔ ĕĜĥĚ ĕđĜčĐ ,ĐėđĜē ĦčĥĘ (ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ) ĤčďĐđ 55,ĞĕģĤčĥ ĦđĔĜĘĠĐ ĞčĥĘ ĦđĚďČ ĕĘĞ ĐĤđĜĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤĜ ĦĞčĥ ęĕđđĥđĚ ĘĥĚĘ ęĥđ ,ĦđĕĚĕĚĥĐ ĔđĕĠč čĦėĜ ĤČĥĐ ěĕč 56.(ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ) ĐėđĜē ĦčĥĘ ĤĕĘģ ĕčĤĕč ĤĒĞĘČ Ęĥ ĔđĕĠč ĐĥĎďĐ ĤĦĕč ĤĒđē :ĤĕĘģĐ Ęĥ ĥĚĥ ĘđĚ/ĤđČĚĐ ĦĤđĜĚ . . . /ęĘđĞ ĦđĘĞĠĚ Ęė đč ęĕĜđđėĚ /ęĘđĞč ĘĐđČ ěėđĐ /ęĘđĞ ĦĤĕĢĕ ďĎĜė ĕė .Ĥģĕ ĦđĘĒĚ ĘđĚ /Ĥģč ĤĥĞ ęĕĜĥ /ęĕčėđė ĘđĚ/ęĕčđĜĞđ ęĕĝĤģ /ĦđĤđČ ĐĞčĥ ĘđĚ/ĦđĤĜĐ ĦĞčĥ/ĤđČĚđ

ĐĥĞ ĤĥČ ĘČĐī :ĝđĘđČĠ ĤĚđČ (17 ,Ēĕ) ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĐĥĞĚč .ĕėĤĞąđď ĐĕĐ ĐĜčĚė ĐĕĕĝĜėĘ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ Ęĥ ęĝēĕ ĦđĝĝčĦĐ ęĞ ęĘđČđ .īęĕĕďĕ ĐĥĞĚ ĦđĘėĕĐč ěėđĥ đĜĕČđ ġĤČĐđ ęĕĚĥĐ ěđďČ ČđĐ .đč ĤĥČ Ęėđ ęĘđĞĐ ĦČ ĐĕĒĘģČ ĝđĚđď ģĤ ĐĜĜĕČ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐĥ ĐĝĕĠĦĐ ĐĝĝčĦĐđ ĐėĘĐ ,ĦđĕĝĜė Ęĥ ĦĤčđĎđ ĦėĘđĐĐ ěĦĕĕĜčđ ĦđĤĢĜĐ :ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦčđĦėĐ ĦČ ěĎĚč ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĒėĤĚč ęĕČĤđģ đĜČ Ėėđ .ĕĕď ĝđĚđď ČĘČ ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĦĕčĘ ĐĚđďč Ħč ĦčđĦėđ 57;īĐĒĐ ęđģĚĐ Ęĥ đĒėĤĚč ČĢĚĜ ęĕĐđĘČ ,ĘđėĚ ĐĘĞĜĐ Ęĥ ĤĦđĕč ĥđďģĐ đĜėĥĚ ęđģĚī 58.īęĕĚĕ ĖĤđČĘ ĪĐ ĥďģ ĐđČĜ ĖĦĕčĘī :ęĕĘĕĐĦĚ ĐČčđĚ ĦČ ĐĘĕėĚ ěēč Ęĥ ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĕĝĜėč ĦđĤđĥ ĤĥĞ ,ĦďĝđĚĚĐ ĦđĤĢĜĐ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĜĕĘđČĠĐ ĐďĚĞĐ ěĕč ĤĥĎĘ ĕďė ĐĕĕĝĜėč ęĕĕĚĝđģĐ ęĕĕđĚĕďĘ ĐĥĤďĜ ĦđĤĢĜĐ ĦđĥĕĎĐ ĕĦĥ ěĕč ĤĥĎĘ ĕĥđģĐđ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĐĜčĚ Ęĥ ĦđĞĚĥĚĘ ĝēĕč đĒ ĦđĕĜĥ .ęďČ ĕďĕ ĕĥĞĚ ĦđĘėĕĐ ĐĜđčĐ ĘĚĝ ĐĚĢĞĘĥė ČĕĐ ĐĥđďģĐ ĘČĐ ĦĕĕĝĜėī :ĤđĝĠĜđģĐ ĝđĚĕĝģĚ Ęĥ đĕĤčďč ĕđĔĕč ĕďĕĘ ĐČč ĦđĕĚđĔđėĕďĐ ĖėĘ ĐĚđďč .ġĤČė ĐĠĕĐ ęĘđČĐ ĦČđ ęĕĚĥė ĘČĐ ĘėĕĐ ĦČ ĐėđĦč ĐĘĕėĚ ČĕĐ ěėĥ ,ĕĚĥĎĐ ęĘđĞĐ Ęĥ 59 .īđĜĕĘģĤĔ ČĕĐ ġĤČĐđ ,ĘėĕĐĐ ĦČ ęĕĚČđĦĐ ęĕĚĥĐ ĦČ ĘĕėĚ ČđĐ ěėĥ ,ĐĕĕĝĜė ČđĐ ęĘđĞĐ

sous les auspices de l’Is.M.E.O. à Rome avril–mai, 1955), Institutio Italiano per il Medio ed Estermo Oriente, .serie orientale, 14 (Roma, 1957), pp. 83–90 .In Exodum Homilia IX, 4 .52 R. Devreesse, Essai sur Théodore de Mopsueste (Città del Vaticano, 1948; Studi e Testi, 141), 26, .53 note 1; W. Wolska, La Topographie Chretienne de Cosmas Indicopleustès: Théologie et Science au VI e siècle .(Paris, 1962), pp. 40–41 W. Wolska, La Topographie Chretienne, pp. 41–42; Cosmas Indicopleustès, Topographie Chrétienne .54 (Introduction, texte critique, iIlustration, traduction et notes par W. Wolska-Conus, Paris, 1970). Exposition du sujet, 6 (56 C–D); II, 2 (72 D-73 A); 35 (89 D-92 A); III, 16 (141 D); 51 (160 C–D); 55 (161 D-164 A); V, 20 (201 A–B); 22 (201 D); 27 (205 C–D); 33 (208 C); 112 (245 B); VII, 11 (344 C); 71 .(373 C); 82 (380 B); 86 (381 B–C) .Fine, Art and Judaism, p. 160 .55 ĐĜĠĐĥ ĘĞ ĤčēĚĘ ĐďđĚ ĕĜČ .267–265 ĪĚĞ ,(2002) ČĞ ġĕčĤĦ ,īěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚđ ěėĥĚĐ ,ĐČĕĤčĐī ,ĤđĜĚąġĜĕĚ ĪČ .56

.đĤĚČĚĘ ĕčĘ ĦĚđĥĦ ĦČ V. Tzaferis, “Early Christian Churches at Magen”, in Ancient Churches Revealed (ed. Y. Tsafrir; .57 .Jerusalem, 1993), pp. 283–285

č ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČ ĦđĤĕĠēĘ Đĥďē ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČ ĖđĦč ,īĦđĕĝĜėī ,ĐĕďčđĞ ĪČ ,ěĐė ĪĤ ,ĐĜđĕąĕčČ ĪĚ .58 .309 ĪĚĞ ,(1993 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĞđčĘĎ ĪČđ ěĤĔĥ ĪČ ęĕėĤđĞ) Maximus Confessor, Selected Writings, đČĤ .ĐĜĕĔĝĘĠč ĘĞĠĥ ĤĤčĦĚ ĦđĜđĤēČĐ ęĕĜĥĐ Ęĥ ĤģēĚĐĚ .59 .translation and notes by G. C. Berthold (London, 1985), pp. 188–189 (The Church’s Mystagogy, ch. 3)

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

,ĕĦĞďĘ 46.ęĐĤčČĘ ĐĜĦĕĜĥ ĐēĔčĐĐ Ęĥ ĐĚđĕģĘ ĐčđĤĞĐ ČđĐĥ ,ĕĐđĘČĐ ĤďĝĐ ĦČ ĘĚĝĚĐ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĤČĦĚĐ ,ĐďģĞĐ ĘĜČĠ .ĦđĠĝđĜ ěĚĒ ĦđĕĤđĎĔģ ĝĠĕĝĠč ĦđĎĢđĕĚ ,ďĕĦĞĘđ ĐđđĐĘ ,ĤčĞĘ ĦđĝēĕĕĦĐĐ ĘĞ ğĝđĜ ,ĕĤđĒēĚĐąĕĘĎĞĚĐ ěĚĒĐ ĘČ ęĕĜđđėĚ ęĕĥďđēĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ;ĕđđģĐ ěĚĒĐ ĘČ ĝēĕĕĦĚ ,ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĞđĤĕČ ĦČ ęĕČĔčĚđ ,ĥďģĚĐđ ěėĥĚĐ ĕĘė ęĕĤČđĦĚ đčđ) ĥďđģĐ ĕĘė ĘĜČĠ đĘĕČđ ;ěđēĔĕč ěĦđĜĐ ěĚĒĐ ěėČ ČđĐĥ ęĘĎĚ (ēĕĥĚĐ ĦđĚĕč ĥďģĚĐ Ęĥ ĥďđēĚĐ đĜđĜĕėĘ ĐĐĕĚėĐ ĦČđ ĔĞĚ ĥďģĚ ĘČė ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĘČ ĝēĕĐ ďđĎĕĜč ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ĎĢđĕĚ đĜĕČ ĦđčĕģĞčĥ ,ēĝĠĐ Ďē Ęĥ ĦĔĘēđĚĐ ĐĤďĐĐ (č) .ĕĘĔĜďĜĝĜĤĔ ěĚĒ Ħĕčč ĦđĝēĕĕĦĐĘ ĐėđĒ ęĕĤđėĕčĐ Ďēđ ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč čđĤč ĎĢđĕĚ ĦđėđĝĐ Ďē .ęĕĤēČĐ ęĕĘĎĤĐ ĕĜĥĘ ĤđĚĎ .ĕĤĢđĜĐ ČēĝĠĐ ĎēĘ ĕďđĐĕĐ ēĝĠĐ ěĕčĥ ĕĦĕĕĞčĐ Ĥĥģč ġđĞĜ ĤčďĐĥ ĞĜĚĜĐ ěĚ ĐĒ ěĕČ .ĕĤđĠĕĢ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ

ĕĚĝđģ ĥďģĚė ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ,ĦđĞĚĥĚ Ęĥ ďčđĤ ďđĞ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĤđČĕĦĘ ğĕĝđĐĘ ĦĥģčĚ ĕĜČ ĞĕĜĚĐ ĐĕĐ ČĘđ đĦđčĕĥēč ĕĜĥĚ ČđĐ ĐĒ ďčđĤ 47.ĝĜĎČĚ Ęĥ ĐĜđĕď ĦČ ČĕĢđĐĘ ĤģēĚĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ĤėĒĜ đĜĜĕČĥ .đĚđĕģĚ ęĘĞĦĐĘ ěĕČ ĖČ ,ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦĠĢĤ Ęĥ ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤĐ ĦČ ęĕčĕėĤĚĐ ęĕčĕĔđĚĐ ĦĤĕēčĘ ĕĤģĕĞĐ ęĕĕĚĝđģ Ħđďđĝĕ ĤČĦĘ ĖĤđĢĐ ĐĘĞ ěĕČĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ČĕĐ ğČ ĐĕđĥĞ ĕĚĝđģ ĥďģĚė ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĝĕĠĦ .ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĐĝďČč ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦėđĜē ĘĎĤĘ čĦėĜĥ ěđĜĚĐč čĔĕĐ ĦĤėĕĜ ĝđĚĝđģđĤģĕĚ ĐĕĕĝĜėč ĐČđĤĐ ĐĝĕĠĦĐ ČĘČ ,ĘďđĎč ČĘ ,ĘđďĎĐ ęĘđĞĘ ĦđĚďĘ ĐĕĘĞ ěĔģĐ ĐĘďđĎčĥ ĐĢĤĞĐĘ ĕđČĤ ĤčďĐ ěėČī : ĝđĜČĕĜĕĔĝđĕ ĕĚĕč 48.īęĕďđĚĞ ČĘĘ ,ęĕĚĥė ĦēĦĚĜ ĐĦĤģĦ .ĐĚďČĐ ĦČ ğĕģĚ ęĕĐĥ ĕĠė ,ĐĦđČ ęĕĠĕģĚ ęĕĚ :ĝđĠĕĔč 49.ĘĘėč ĦĕĦďĐ ĦđĘėĕĤďČč ĕĘĝĤčĕĜđČ ěđĕĞĤ ČđĐ ,đĦđČ ĥďģĚđ ø ęĘđĞĐ ĦČ ĘĕėĚ ĥđďģĐ ęđģĚĐĥ ěđĕĞĤĐ ĦĝĕĠĦĥ ,ĐČĤĚ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕčč ęĕĜĠĐ ęēĘ ěēĘđĥ ĦČđ ĦėđĤĠĐ ĦČ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦ :ĦđďĐĕĘ ĐĤĒ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ęĘđĞĐ ęĘĢė ĥďģĚĐ ęČ ĕė ,ĐĜđčĦđ ĦĞď ĕĘč ĐĦĥĞĜ ČĘ ĐĘČĐ ęĕĜĕĚĐ ĦčđĤĞĦ ĕė ,ĐČĘĠĜ ĐĦĕĕĐ (ĦėđĤĠĐ) ĖĝĚĐ ĦďđčĞđ ,ĐĚďČĐ ĘĚĝ ĦČ ġđččđ ,ĥČĐ ĘĚĝ ĦČ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĞĘđĦč ĦĦĘ ĐčĥēĚč ĐĘĞđ ,ęĘđĞĐ ęĘĢ ĦČ ĦđČĤĐĘ ĘĎĘĎĘ đĒĚĤ ,ĦĤĥĐ ěēĘđĥ ĘĞ ĤĥČ ,ęēĘĐ ĤĥĞąęĕĜĥđ . . . ęĕĐ ĘĚĝ ĦČ ěĚĎĤČčđ ĤĕđđČĐ ĘĚĝ ĦČ ĦĘėĦč ęĕĚĕĐ ĞĠĥĚ ĦĤđĔģ ĕĚĝ ĤĥĞąĐĥđĘĥ đĕĘĞ ČĥđĜĐ ,ēčĒĚĐđ .ĐĜĥĐ ĕĥďđēĘđ (ĐĚēĐ ĦđĘĒĚ) ĦđĕēĐ 50.ęĕĐđĘČĘđ ęĕĐđĘČĐĚ ČĕĐ ĐČđĘĚđ ĘčĦ ĕė ,ĐČĤĐ ,ĐčĥđĜĐ ġĤČĐđ ĤčďĚĐđ

ĐČđĤđ ĕĤđĎĘČ ěĠđČč đčĥ ĥďđģĐ ĕĘė ĦČđ ěėĥĚĐ ĦČ ĥĤĠĚĐ ,ěđĘĕĠ ĘĢČ ęĕĞĠđĚ ęĕĚđď ĦđĜđĕĞĤ ĘĢČ ĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČĥ ĕĠė ,ĐĚđďģĐ ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĐĕĎđĘđČĦĘ đĝĜėĜ đĘČ ĦđĝĕĠĦ 51.ĝđĚĝđģĐ Ęĥ ĎđĢĕĕ ęĐč .Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp, 228–242. .46 .Magness, “Heaven on Earth“, pp. 15–16 .47 C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453 (Toronto, Buffalo and London, 1986), .48 .pp. 57–60 M. Eliade, “Der heilige Raum und die Sakralisierung der Welt”, Das Heilige und das Profane: Vom .49 .Wesen des Religiösen (Hamburg, 1957), pp. 13–39 .(1971 ,ěĎąĦĚĤđ ęĕĕĦĞčĎ ;ĕĜđēĚĥ Ĝīĕ ęđĎĤĦ) ĐÀď ,Đ ,Đ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦĚēĘĚ .50 The Life of Moses II, 74–88; III, 179–189 (F. H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker, LCL, Philo, pp. 1–10); .51 idem, Questions and Answers on Exodus II, 83 (Ex. XXVI) ( R. M. Marcus, LCL, suppl. 2, pp. 132–133); idem, The Preliminary Studies 117; J. Daniélou, “Le symbolisme du temple de Jérusalem chez Philon et Josèphe”, Le symbolisme cosmique des monuments religieux (Actes de la conférence internationale qui a eu lieu

ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ

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ĦČ ģĒēĘđ ,ęĕĕđĎĥ ěĚĒ ĕčđĥĕē Ĥčďč ęĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĜĞĔ ĦČ ğđďĐĘ Ğĕĕĝ ĦĞč Đčđ ,ĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ēđĘĐ ĦČ .ęĕďđĐĕĐ čĤģč ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđėĚĝ ěĕč ĐĚČĦĐĐąĕČ .ěĤĞĜ Ęĥđ (3 ĤđĕČ) ČĠĘČ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ěĜđčĦĐĘđ čđĥĘ đĜĕĘĞ ęĕĜĚđČĐ Ęĥ ĦđĜĘĥĤĘ ĕđĔĕčė ęĕĤģđēĐ ĘĢČ ĐĥĤĠĦĜ đĘĘĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĜĥč ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĠđģĦ ěĕčĘ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ęĕĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĕčĢĞĚ Ęĥ ęėĤď ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒ ,ĕĦĞďĘ .ČďĕĤĎ ĕĦđĜĚČ ĤđČĕĦč ĤčđďĚĥ ĦđďĞėđ ,ęĦĜčĐ ĤĝđēĘđ ĐĕĕĔĝ ĕĥĚĥ ēđĘč ěėĥ ,ĕĥĚĥąĕēĤĕĐ ēđĘĐ ČđĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĤČđĦĚĐ ēđĘĐĥ ,ěĕĕĢĘ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤēđČĚĐ .ĐĜĦĥĚ ēđĘ đĐĒĥ ęĕĥĕĎďĚ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤđČĕĦč ęĕČđĤ đĜČĥ ĐĚČĦĐĐ Ĥĝđē .ĤĢđđĕĐĘ ĐĘđėĕ ĐĜĕČ ĦČĒė ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘĐ .čėđėđ ēĤĕĐ ďĘđĚ ęĎ ęĕĞĕĠđĚ ĐďĢĘ ĖČ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĕĤđČĕĦ Ęėč ĦĕĔĜĜĕĚđď ęĜĚČ ĥĚĥĐ ęďČĐ Ęĥ đēđė .ęĕďĞđĚĐ Ĥčďč ĞĕĤėĐĘ ĦđėĚĝ ĐĎĐĜĐĘ ěĦđĜ ČđĐđ ,ĥďēĚ ęĞĠ Ęė ĞčģĜĥ ēđĘ ČđĐ ěĕĝĜėĦĚī :(103 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕđčĘďĜĚ ĦĤđďĐĚ) Ďĕ ,Đ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠč čĔĕĐ ĦĤėĕĜ ĥďđģĚĐ ěĚĒĐ ĦĞĕčģč ęĦČ ĕĘđ ,ĤĚđČ ČđĐđ ,ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ČđĐ ĕĦĚĕČ ěĕĚĘđĞĐ ěđčĤ ,đĕĜĠĘ ěĕĤĚđČđ ĐīčģĐ ĘĢČ ĦĤĥĐ ĕėČĘĚ Ęė ĤĝđēĚ ĞčđĜ ĦđĜđĞĘ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ěĕč ĐĚČĦĐĐ Ĥĝđēĥ ĐĜĞĔĐ .īĐĔĚ Ęĥ ěĕď ĦĕčĘ ĘČĥĜ ęĦČđ ĕĜČ ,ěĕĘČđĥ ĦđĚČĦĐ ĦđĥĞĜ ĦĕĦđĜĚČĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĘĞ ĐĤĕĚĥ ĕďė ĖđĦĥ ,ĐĜēčĐč ğĘēĦĐĘ ĐėĕĤĢ ĦđĜĘĥĤĚ đČ ĐĜčĐ ĥďē ěđĤģĕĞ ĦĜĕēčč ďđĞ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē .ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦĠĢĤč ęĘđĎĚĐ ĤĝĚĐ ĦČ ĦđĘĕĞĕč ĦđĦĤĥĚĐ .ĕĥĚĥąĕēĤĕ ēđĘ ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđĕĐ ĦČ ĤđČĕĦĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ěĕĕĢĘ ĐĕĐ ĤĦđĕ čđĥē ;ęĕčĤč đĚĝĤĠĘ ĥĕĥ ĥĕ ĖČ ,ĦĚĒĎđĚ ęĜĚČ ČĕĐ ČĠĘČ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĝĠĕĝĠč ĦđĠđģĦĐ ĦĚđĞĘ ęĕĥďđēĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĔĝĐ ēđĘĐ ĦĦĥđĚ đĕĘĞĥ ĕĝĕĝčĐ ěđĤģĕĞĐ ĦČ ĤĕĐčĐĘ ČĘČ ,ĕĞďĚ ēđĘ ĤČĦĘ ĐĜđđė ěČė ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘĥ ĤđėĒĘ ĐĤĥĠ ĦČ ĐĤĕčĝĚ ĐĜĕČ ĖČ ,ĕĥĚĥ ēđĘ ČđĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĤČđĦĚĐ ēđĘĐĥ ,ĐĤđčĝ ĝĜĎČĚ ĕďđĪĎ .ĕĤčĞĐ ĕďĚ ĔĞĚ .ĕĥĚĥąĕēĤĕ đČ ĕēĤĕ ēđĘč ģĤ ĤĢđđĕĐĘ ĐĘđėĕĐ ,ęĕĥďđēĐ ěĕčĘ ĦđĠđģĦĐ ěĕč ĐĚČĦĐĐ Ĥĝđē Ęĥ .ĐĒĐ ĔčĕĐĐ ĦČ ęĐč ěđēčĘ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ěėĘđ ,ĞĕĠĕčđ ĐĠĕĝđēč ,Čĕĝđĝč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ęĕĤđČĕĦĐ ěĚ ĤĦđĜ ĕĤēČđ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕčĥ ěĕď Ħĕč ĕďĕĘ ĐĤđĝĚ ęĕĥďđēĐ ĕĥČĤ ĦĞĕčģ ĐĦĕĕĐ ęĕĕģ ĐĕĐ ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕčĥ ěĚĒč ĦĞĠđĐ .ĐĕĤčĔđ ĕĤđĠĕĢ ,ęĕĤĞĥ Ħĕč ,ęĞĤĠĥ ,ČĥđČ ,ĐĜčĕ :ĐĎĐĜĐĐ čĥđĚ ęđģĚč ĐĦĥĞĜ ĦĕčĐ ěčĤđē ģĘēĥ ,ĐďĕĞĚ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĠĢĤč ĦđĤđČĚĐ ĕĜĥđ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ęĞ ďēđĕĚč čđĥē ĐĥĞĜ ĐĒ ĖĤđĢ .ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĚđĕģ ĦČ ēĕĔčĐĘ ĐĕĐ ĐĒ ĕĦĘĕĐģ ďĝđĚ Ęĥ đďĕģĠĦĚ ĥďģĚė ĖČ ,ěĕď Ħĕč Ęĥ ĦđėĚĝ đĚĢĞĘ ĘĔĜ ČĘ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč .ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĘđĔĕč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤĐĥ ,ĐĞĕĢĚ ĕĜČ ĖėĕĠĘ .ęĕďĞđĚĐ ĦĤĕĚĥč čđĥē ďĕģĠĦ đĚĢĞĘ ĘĎĕĝ ĔĞĚ ĦďĕĚ ĘĞ ĐďĕĞĚ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĐĦđĒē ğČ ĘĞ ,Čĕĝđĝđ ČĠĘČ Ħĕč ,ĞĕĠĕ ,ĐĠĕĝđē ,ěĤĞĜ ,ĕĤđĠĕĢ ,ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ēđĘĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĦđďēČĐ ěĞĚĘ ĐĚĢĞ ĘĞ ĐĘčĕģ Ęčč ĦđďĐĕ 44.ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĘīĒē Ęĥ ęĦđčĤđĞĚđ ęĦĞĠĥĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ēđĘĐ ĕĤđČĕĦĥ ,ĦđĤĥĠČ ĘĘėĚ ČĕĢđĐĘ ěĕČ ĖėĕĠĘ 45.ĘČĤĥĕ ġĤČ ĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĦđĤĚ ĦČ .ĦĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ĦĕĜēđĤĐ ĐĎĐĜĐĘ ĐĜĦĕĜĥ ĦđėĚĝĐ ĘĞ ĦĕĚđģĚ ĐđđČĎ ęĎ ęĕČĔčĚ ęĕĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦĢđčģč ęĕďĞđĚĐđ ěĚĒĐ ĎđĢĕĕĘ ĦđĞĎđĜĐ ,ĦđĚĕĘĥĚ ĦđĤĞĐ ĕĦĥ ěđĕďĐ Ęĥ ĐĒ ģĘē ęđĕĝĘ ĤčēĚ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎĥ ,ĝĕĕđ čČĒ ěĕĕĢĚ ĕĤđĠĕĢč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĤđĔĕĞĐ ĦĕĜėĦ ĦČ đēĦĜč (Č) .ěČė ĐĜđďĕĜĐ ,ĘĎĘĎđ ,ĥďđģĐ ĕĘė ĘĜČĠ ĦđĞĢĚČč ĦĘĚđĝĚĐ ,ĐĘđČĎĘ ĐĕĕĠĕĢĐ ěĕčĘ ĐďģĞĐ ĘĜČĠč ĤČđĦĚĐ ĤčĞĐ ěĕč

L. I. Levine, “The Sages and the :ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĦĞĠĥĐ ĦďĕĚč ęĕģĠģĠĚ ġĤđđĥđ ěĕđĘ .44 Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of the Galilee”, in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. idem; New York – Jerusalem, 1992), pp. 201–222; S. Schwartz, “On the Program and Reception of the Synagogue Mosaics”, in From Dura Europos to Sepphoris, pp. 165–182; idem, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 B.C.E. to .640 C.E. (Princeton – Oxford, 2001), pp. 245–259 .Stern, Calendar and Community, pp. 247–252 .45

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

ĦĕĚđĜđĤĔĝČ ĐĞĠđĦ ČđĐ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ .ĤđčĕĞĘ ďĕēĕ ěđĕĤĔĕĤģ ĥĚĥĘ Ęđėĕ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē đĒ ĐĞĕčģ ĕĠ ĘĞ ēĜđĚĐ .ĐĘĕĘĐ ĖĤđČĘ Đđđĥ ęđĕĐ ĖĤđČ ĐĒ ĖĕĤČĦč .ĦđČĘģēĘ ĐĤđĥģ ČĕĐ ěĕČđ ,ēĤĕĘ ČĘđ ĥĚĥĘ ĐĤđĥģĐ ĦđĥĜČĐ ďĢč ĞĕĠđĚ ĐĒ ēĜđĚ 38.īĐĠđģĦī ČđĐ ĖđĠĕĐĐ ęđĕ ĦČ đČ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ĦČ ĘīĒē ĦđĤđģĚč ěĕĕĢĚĐ ĕĤđĠĕĢč ĦđĠđģĦĐ ĤđČĕĦč ĦđĕĤčĞĐ ĦČ ĦđđĘĚĐ ĦđĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđčđĦėĐ .ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ęĜĕČ ĦđĜđĞĐ ĦđĚĥ .ĦČĒĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚĐ ĘĞ īĐĠđģĦī ĐĘĕĚĐ ĦĤĚđĥ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠč ęĎĥ ,ĦđĤĥČĚ ēĕėđĚĥ ĕĠė ,ĐĥđĤĕĠĥ ,τροπή ĐĘĕĚĐ ĕđđĕĘč ČĘČ ,īĐĜđĞī ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĐĘĕĚĐ ĦĠĝđĦč ČĘđ ęďčĘ ęĕĞĕĠđĚ 39.ĖđĠĕĐĐ ęđĕ đČ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ČđĐ ,ĕĜĎĝ ĕď ĐČĘ Ęĥ ĐĜđĕď ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĐ) ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĐĒ ,(2ąđ 1 ęĕĤđĕČ) ĤĦđĕč ęĕĚďģđĚĐ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĕĘĎĘĎ ĕĜĥč ĦđĜĜđčĦĐ ęđĕ ģđēĘ ĐĕĢĤĔĝđĘĕČ ęĕđđĐĚ ęĐĥ ĐĘĎĚ ,(ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤ) ĕĤđĠĕĢ Ęĥ ĐĒđ (ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĦčĕĦė ĦČ 40.čĕčČĐ ĦĠđģĦ ĦČ ęĐč ęĕēĦđĠ ,đĘ ęČđĦĐ ,ĐĘĔ ĘĒĚ đČ ěĝĕĜ ĥďđē ěėĥ ,čĕčČĐ Ęĥ ěđĕđđĥĐ ďĞđĜ ĖĠđĐĚĐ čĦėĐ .ĤđčĕĞĐ ĘČ ĐģĕĒč ěĕčĐĘ ĥĕ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĕČĤ čĦėč ĕĘď ĐĘĕĚĐ ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ěĜėĦĚ Ęĥ đėĤď ĕĐđĒ 41.ĤďČ ĥďđē ,čģđĞĐ ĥďđēč ĐĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞ Ęĥč ĘĕĎĤĐ ğĢĤĐ ĕđĜĕĥ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĘ ĐĜĥĐ ĕĥďđēĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,ĕĥĚĥąĕēĤĕ ēđĘ ČĘČ ĕĥĚĥ ēđĘ đĜĜĕČ ĤČđĦĚĐ ēđĘĐĥ ,ĤĕĐčĐĘ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč .ĦđĠđģĦĐ ĕĥďđē ĦČ ģĕđďĚč đč ęĕĚČđĦ ęĕčĥđēĚ ĦđēđĘč ĥĚĦĥĐĘ đĘēĐ ĤĥČė ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚč ĦđĤĢĜč ęĎ ġĚđČ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē ĝđĕĘđĔĜČ ĕďĕč 277 ĦĜĥč Ĥčė ĞčģĜĥ ,ęĕĜĥĐ 19 ěč ĤđĒēĚĐ ĞčģĜ ĐČģĕĜ ĦďĕĞđđč .ČēĝĠĐ ďĞđĚ ĦĞĕčģĘ đĞĠĥđĐ ĘīĒēĥ ěėĦĕĕ ęČĐ :ĘđČĥĘ ĥĕ ĐĒ ĞģĤ ĘĞ 42.ĘčđģĚĐ ĤđĒēĚĘ ,(ĐĕĤđĝč ĤĤđĎĦĐĥ) ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČĚ Ęĥ ĐČĢđĦ ĐĦĕĕĐĥĚ ĤĦđĕ ĦĕĚĕĜĠ ĦĕďđĐĕ ĦđēĦĠĦĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒĥ Ĥđčĝ ěĤĔĥ ?ĐĘČ ęĕĕĤĢđĜ ęĕĤđĒēĚĚ ďĞđĜ ,čĥđēĚĐđ ĞđčģĐ ēđĘĘ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ēđĘĐĚ ĤčĞĚĐ đĦĞďĘ 43.ġđēčĚ ġēĘ Ęĥ đČ ĐĞĠĥĐ ęĦđČč ęĕďĞđĚĐ ĦČ đĎđēĕ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČđ Ęčč ĦđĘĕĐģĥ ēĕĔčĐĘđ ,ęĕďđĐĕĐ Ęĥ ĕĠĤĎđČĎĐ ĤđĒĕĠĐ ĘĞ ĦđĜĞĘ ĐĞĠĥĐĐ ĦďĕĚč ěĤĔĥ ĔĕĞĚĐ ĞđďĚ ěĕčĐĘ ĕĘ Đĥģ ęĘđČ ,ĘģĥĚ Ħďčėđ ĦĞĜėĥĚ ĐĜĞĔ ĕĐđĒ .ęĕėĕĤČĦĐ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ęĕĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐ .ĘīĒē ĘĞ ĕĤĢđĜĐ ęĘđĞč ĦđĕđēĦĠĦĐĘ ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĐĠĕĤē ĦĕĤĢđĜ ĐĠģĦĚ ĐĠĝđĜ ČĤģĚĐ ĦđĜĥĤĠ ěĕĕĜĞč ĝđĚĘđĠĘĥ Ėė ĘĞ đĜĦđČ ęĕďĕĚĞĚ (ĘĕĞĘ đĤėĒđĐĥ) đģĕēĥ ĕĜĠĚ ČĘ ,ĥČĤĚ čĥđēĚ ēđĘĘ ĐĎĤďĐč đĤčĞđ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē ĦČ đĢĚĕČ ĘīĒē .ęĕĜĚĒĐ ĕčđĥĕē ĘĞ ĦđĒēĘ ĦđĢđĠĦĐ ĕďđĐĕ ĘĞ ĘģĚĐ ,ďĕēČ ēđĘ Ęĥ đĚđĕģ ĦČ ĦđĘĕĞĕč ĦĤĕĥ ĤčďĐĥ ĕĜĠĚ ČĘČ ,ęĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦČ

.č ,č ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ ĘĥĚĘ ĐČĤ .38 Ĥđčĝ ĝĕĕđ .L. Di Segni, “The Greek Inscriptions”, in Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp. 212–214 .39 Weiss, The Sepphoris ;ĖđĠĕĐĐ ęđĕ đČ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ĦČ đČ ĐĜđĞ ěĕĕĢĘ ĐĕđĥĞ ČĕĐđ ,ĐĘđĠė ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĥĕ īĐĠđģĦī ĐĘĕĚĘ ĕė .Synagogue, pp. 200 ĤĥĠČ ęĘđČ ,Stern, Calendar and Community, pp. 98 ,ĕĤđĠĕĢč ĦĝĜėĐ ĦĕčĘ Ĥĥģč ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč ěĕēčĐ ěĤĔĥ .40 .ěĝĕĜ ĥďđē ęĞ ĐĘĔ ĘĒĚ ĕđĐĒ Ęĥč ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēĘ ęĎ đĒ ĐĜēčĐ čĕēĤĐĘ Dothan, ĦĕĤčĞ Ğďĕ ČĘĥ ,ěĚČĐ Ęĥ ĦđĞĔ đĒĥ ęĕĤđčĝĐ ĥĕ .ęĕĤčĝĐ ĐĚė đĜĦĕĜ ĕČĤ čĦėč ĕĘď ĐĘĕĚĐ ĦčĕĦėĘ .41 ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĕĝĜĤĠ čĤģč ĦĕĤčĞ ĕĞďđĕ đĕĐĥ ĕČďđđ ,ĘģĜč ěģĦĘ ĤĥĠČ ĝĠĕĝĠč ĦđĞĔ ęĘđČđ .Hamath Tiberias, p. 53 čĦėĥ ĕĚđ ,ěđĥČĤĐ ĦđĘĒĚĐ Ĥďĝ ĐĕĐ Ėėĥ ,ĕďĎĘ ęďđģ ĕĘď Đčĥ ĐĚđďģ ĐĜĕģ ĖĚĝ ĘĞ ,ĞĕĢĐ ĕģĝĤĕĚ .Ėėč ěĕēčĐĘ đĘėĕĥ ,īęĕĜđĚďģ ĕĔđĕĠčđ ĕďĎąěĕĞ ĦčđĦėč ĕĘďđ ĕďĎī ,ĕģĝĤĕĚ ĪČ .ěđĥČĤĐ ĤďĝĐ ĘĞ ĒđĚĤĘ ĖĤđĢ ĐČĤ ĥďēĐ Ĥďĝč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦČ ĐĦĥĞĜ ĕČĤ čĦėč ĐčĕĦėĐĥ Ĥđčĝ ,303 ĪĚĞ ,īĦđĕĚĤČĐđ ĦđĕĤčĞĐ ĦđčđĦėĐ ,ĐđĜ đĘĕČđ .384–376 ĪĚĞ ,(1971) Ě ġĕčĤĦ .ĐĕĎČĚ ĕĘđģĕĥĚ ģđēĥ ,ĐĜĞĔč ĐđđĘĚ ēĝĠĐ čđĥĕēĘ ĞĎđĜĐ Ęėč ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘĐ ěĚ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ Ęĥ ĦđģĦĜĦĐĐĥ ,čĘ ęĕĥĘ ĕđČĤĐ ěĚ .42 Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 7.32. 16–17; Stern, .ĕđĎĥ ĐĥĞĜ ęĕĜĥĐ ęĞđ ,đĥĕ ĕĚĕč ęĕďđĐĕĘ Ğđďĕ ĐĕĐ ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ .Calendar and Community, pp. 50–53, 66 .Stern, ibid., pp. vii, 211, 257 .43

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ĦĕĤčĞĐ ďđĞč ,ĦĕĚĤČčđ ĦĕĜđđĕč ěĐ ęĐč ĐĥďģĐĐ ĦđčđĦėĥ ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč čĔĕĐ ĤėĕĜ ĤčďĐ .ĦĕĜđđĕđ ĦĕĚĤČ ČĘ ěĚĒĐ ěč ěĜđčĦĚĘ .ęĕĕČĤģĚ ęĕĤđČĕĦč ęĕĢĠē đČ ĦđĕđĚď ĕđĐĕĒĘ đČ ČĤģĚĐ ěĚ ģđĝĠ ĔđĔĕĢĘ ĐĤđĚĥ .ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ đĕĜĠĘĥ ģĠĝ ĐĕĐ ĦčĥĐ ĦĤĕĚĥ ĦČ ,čĤĞčđ Ĥģđčč ĦđĘĕĠĦĐ ĕďĞđĚ ĦČ ĤĕďĝĚĐ ,ěđĚĒĦĘ ĐčĤ Ħđčĕĥē ĦĞďđĜ ĦđďĐĕč ęĎ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĠĕģĚ ęĕĜđĕďĘ ęĕėđĒ ĐĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞđ ĥďđēĐ ĥđďĕģ ĕėĤď .ďĞđĚđ Ďē ĕĚĕĘ ęĕĤđĥģĐ ęĕĝģĔĐ ĦČđ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ęĕģčČĚđ ĦđĞď ĕģđĘĕē .ęĞč ďđĤĕĠ ęđĤĎĘ ĘđĘĞ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĚĕ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥ čđĥĕēĥ ĐĤėĐ ĖđĦĚ ĐėĘĐĐ ĖđĜē ĤĠĝč ,ęĕĘčđĕĐ ĤĠĝč ęĕĠģĦĥĚĐ ęĕĕĥĚĥ ĦđēđĘ 32.ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ĦđďĐĕĐ ĦČ đĜĕĕĠČ ēđĘĐ ĎĐĜĚĐ ĦČđ ęĕĚėēĐ ĦĎĐĜĐ ĦđĔĘēĐ ĦČ đĘčĕģ ĘđėĐ ČĘĥ ĤđĤĕčč ęĕďĕĞĚ ěČĤĚđģ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĤđčĕēčđ ěčĤ Ęĥ ĦđčđĥēĐ đĕĦđĜģĦ ęĞĥ ČđĠČ ČĕĘĠĚ ĐĒ ěĕČ .ēĤĕĐ ďĘđĚĘ ęČĦĐč ęĕĥďđēĐ ĕĥČĤ ĦĞĕčģ Ęĥ ěĚ ĐĒ ěĕČ 33.ęĕĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞđ ĥďđēĐ ĥđďĕģ ĦĜģĦ ĦĕĜĚĜ ĥďģĚ ěĕČč ęĕĕďđĐĕĐ ęĕĕēĐ ęđģĕĥĘ ĕČėĒ ěč ěĜēđĕ ĕčđĥĕē ĘĞ ĦđĠĕĤē ĦđĚĥČĐđ ,ęĚĢĞ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ čĤģč ēđĘĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĦĕĚĕĜĠĐ ĦģđĘēĚĐ ēėđĜĘĥ ĞĜĚĜĐ đĘČĘ ĐĚđďč ,ĦđĜĥĕ ĦđģđĘēĚ đĤĤđĞĦĕ ČĚĥ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĎĐĜĐĐ ĕĥČĤ đĥĥē ęĕďđĐĕĐ Ęĥ ęĕĞĔđĚĐ ěĚĒĐ .ĕĤĢđĜĐ ēđĘĘ ęČĦĐč ēĝĠĐ ĦČ đĎĎēĕĥ ĕĚ ęĕďđĐĕĐ čĤģč đĕĐĕĥ đČ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕĚ ĐĕĐ đčĥ ĕĥĚĥĐ ďđĝĕĐ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĥČĤ ďĞ ęĘđČ ,ĕĥĚĥąĕēĤĕ ēđĘ ČđĐ ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ ēđĘĐ ĦČ ĐĢĚĕČ ĐĕĢĒĕĜĚđĤĐ ĕėĕĘĐĦĚ ģĘēėĥ ,ĦĕĤėĜĐ ĐčĕčĝĐ ĞģĤ ĘĞ đďđēĕĕ ĦČ ĔĕĘčĐ ĐĒ Ĥčď .ĕĘđĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ) Č ĘČĞĚĥĕ ĕčĤď ČĦĘĕėĚč ,ĘĥĚĘ .ĘīĒē ĦđĤđģĚč čĔĕĐ ĦĤėĕĜ đĒ ĦđĘďčĜ 34.ĕĥĚĥĐ ĕĜČĕĘđĕĐ Ď ,đ ČčĤ ĦĕĥČĤččđ ;(103 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕđčĘďĜĚ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ďĕ ,Đ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ đČ ,(7 ĪĚĞ ,ěĕčĤąġĕčđĤđĐ ēđĘĐ .īĐĜĔģ ČĕĐĥ ĐĜčĘĘ čģĞĕđ ĐĘđďĎ ČĕĐĥ ĐĚēĘ ĐĜđĚ đĥĞī :ĤĚČĜ (42 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČ ĤđďđČĕĦ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ,ěđĞĔĘ ĐĤđČėĘ ĤĥĠČ ĐĒ ĞģĤ ĘĞ .ĐĤđĢĕĜ ĤēČĘ ęĎ ĐĕĤĠĚĕČĐ Ęĥ ĕĚĥĤĐ ēđĘĐ ĥĚĥĘ ğĕĝđĐ ĕĜČĕĘđĕĐ ,ĐĚēĐ ĘĎĘĎĚ ĐčĤĐč ĐĜĔģ ĐĦđĕĐđ ĐĥĜČĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč ČĘĥ ĐĜčĘĐ ĤđČĕĦđ ĥĚĥĘ ěĦĕĜĐ ĔĘđčĐ ęđģĚĐĥ ĤĤčĘđ ĦđĝĜĘ ĥĕđ ,ĐĘĕĐģĐ ĕĥČĤ Ęĥ ęĜĕĞĚ ęĘĞĜ ČĘ ĕČďđ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞ .ĕĤčĞ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđĕĐ ĦČ ęĕĥĔĥĔĚ .Ėė ęĕĤčďĐ ĦČ ĤČĦĘ ęĦđČ ĞĕĜĐ ĐĚ Đĥĝ ĐČĤĐĥ ĕĠė .ĐďĕēĐ ěđĤĦĠĘ ĐĘĕčđĚ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĕĦđĤđģ ĤēČ ĦđģēĦĐ čđĥĕēč ęĕĕđĜĕĥ ĐĚė đĘĘđēĦĐ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚčĥ ,ęĕďĚĘ đĜČ ęĕĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ěĚ ,ěĤĔĥ (Ĥėĥĥĕ) ĕĠđĘĕēč ĦđĜĜđčĦĐđ ēĤĕĐ ďĘđĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĕČĤ ĦđďĞ ĘĞ ĝĝđčĚĐ ēđĘĚ ĤčĞĚ đč Ęē ĐĎĤďĐčđ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĜĥĐ ēđĘ ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĠđģĦ ğđĝ ĦČĤģĘ ģĤ ęĕĕĦĝĐ ĐĒ ĖĕĘĐĦ 35.čĥđēĚđ Ğđčģ ēđĘ ĘČ ,ĦđČĘģēčđ ĞčĔč ĦđĜđĞĐ Ęĥ đĚĥđĤ .ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČč ĐĘēĥ ĐĤđĚĦĐ ěĚ ęĘĞĦĐĘ ěĕČ ęĘđČ ,(Ęččč ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč) ďđĝ ęđĝĤĠ ĦČ ĦđĝēĕĕĚ 11ąĐ đČ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĐĘĥĚ ĦđĕďđĐĕ ĦđĤđĝĚ ĞđďĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĕđĥĞ ĐĒ ĕđĜĕĥ ĖĤĞĜĥ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦč .ĐĠđģĦĐ ĕĜč ĦđĤđģĚč ĦđėĚĦĜ ěĐĥ ĕĘč ,(358/9 ĦĜĥč) ĕĜĥĐ ĘĘĐĘ ĤđčĕĞĐ ĥďđēč ĐĦĕĥČĤĥ ĐĠđģĦĘ ĦđēĠĘ ĥČĤĚ čĥđēĚ ēđĘ ĘĞ ĐďĕĞĚĐ ĐģĝĠ ĥĕ (ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ďđĚĘĦč ĝēđĕĚĐ ,ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē ČđĐ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĚ ęĕģđēĐ ďēČ 36.ĕĤĥĦ ĥďđēč ĐĠđĝđ ĤďČ :Ęččč čĥđĕĐ ČčĤĘ ēĘĥ ĤĥČ ,ěĕčČ Ĥč ČĜđĐ čĤ ĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ČĤđĚČĘ (ČīĞ Čė ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ) ĕĘččĐ ĐĤčĞ ,ěĝĕĜč (ĤĥĞ Đĥĕĥ) ĤĝĦĕĥ ďĞ ĦčĔ ĦĠđģĦ ĐėĥĚď ĦĕĒē ďė :ČčĤĘ ěĕčČ Ĥč ČĜđĐ čĤ ĐĕĘ ēĘĥī 37.īěĝĕĜ ĥďēč ČĐĕĥ ,ĐĠđģĦ Ęĥ čĕčČ ĤđĚĥ čĕčČĐ ĥďē ĦČ ĤđĚĥ :čĕĦėď ,ĐĘ ĥđēĦ ČĘđ ČĦĥ ČĕĐĐĘ .(1993 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĐĜĥĐąēđĘ ĕĠ ĘĞ ęĕĘĕĐĦ ĕĤđĚĒĚ ĦėĕĤĞđ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĦĠđģĦč ĐĜĥĐąĦđēđĘ ĦĚēĘĚ ,ěĕĔđĕē ĪĚ .30–18 ĪĚĞ ,ĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ďĞđ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ěčĤđēĚ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īĐĜčĕ Ĥđďč ĕďđĐĕĐ čđĥĕĕĐ ĦđĥĥđČĦĐī ,ĕČĤĠĝ Īĥ .Stern, Calendar and Community, pp. 42–43 .Ibid., pp. 139–140, 164–172 .Stern, ibid., pp. 140, 170–172 ;čīĞ ĝ ,č Č ĐĘĕĎĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .Stern, ibid., pp. 167–170

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

ĤēČ čđģĞĘ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ ĘĞ ĕėđ ,ěđĕđđĥĐ ęđĕ ģđē ęĕĕģĦĐ ĒČĥ ,ĥďģĚĐ ěčĤđē ĒČĚ ęĐ ęĕĕđĎĥ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ēĝĠĐ ĖĕĤČĦ ĤēČ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ đčģĞĕ ęČĥ ,ĔđĤĔđĤĠč ĤĕčĝĚ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ 22.đĥĕ ĕĚĕč čĥđē ĐĒĥ ĕĠė ēĝĠĐ ĐĠđĝč 23.ĘĘė đĦđČ ĎđĎēĘ ČĘ ěėĚ ĤēČĘĥ ĐĜĥčđ ,ĐĜĥč ęĕĕĚĞĠ ČēĝĠĐ ĦČ ĎđĎēĘ ęĕĘđĘĞ ęĐ ĕďđĐĕĐ Apostolicąč ĐĕđĢĚ ČēĝĠĐ ěĚĒ ĦĞĕčģč ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘč ĦđĘĦĐ ěĚ ďĤĠĕĐĘ ĐĥĕĤďĐ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ 25.ĝđĚđĔĝđĒĕĤė ĝĜĐđĕ Ęĥ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ďĎĜ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐĥĤďčđ 24,Constitutions ĥĥēĐ ěĚ ĦĞčđĜĐ ,đĘČ ĦđĚĥČĐ ĘĞ ĦĕďđĐĕ ĐčđĎĦ ĦđĕĐĘ ĐĕđĥĞ ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘč Ħđģčď Ĥčďč ĐĤĐĢĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ đĦĞĠđĐ ĖėĕĠĘ .ĕĤĢđĜĐ ēĝĠĐ ďĞđĚ ĤēČ đčģĞĕĥ ĕĚ đĕĐĕ ĐčĕčĝĐ ĦĞĠĥĐč ĕė ĐĤđĚĥĐ ĦđĕēĚđĚ ČđĐ ěĚĒĐ čđĥĕē .ĐĞĕĦĠĚ ĐĜĕČ ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĕĎđē ĘČ ĤđĥģĐ ĦĝĜė Ħĕčč Čģđđď ĦđĘĒĚĐ īČĕĥĜ ĐĢĤĕ ěė ęČ ČĘČ ĐĜĥĐ ĦČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ěĕČī :ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĘđĔĕč ďĞ ,ČĕĥĜĘ ĦČ ĤčĞĘ ĕďė đčđĥĘ ęĕĚėēĐ đĜĕĦĚĐ ,ĐĕĤđĝč ĕĜĥĐ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤ čėĞĦĐ ĤĥČė .(ČīĞ Čĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĘčč) ęĕĚėēĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕčđĥĕē ĦČ ĘčģĘ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤ Ęĥ đčđĤĕĝ ĘĞ ĦĤĠĝĚ ĦĤēČ ĦĚĝĤđĠĚ ĦĤđĝĚ 26.ĐĜĥĐ đĕĜĠĘ ĞĕĠđĐĘ ,ĤđďĐ ĕĘđďĎĚ ,ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĘĞ ĐđđĕĢ ,đĦđėĚĝ ĦČ ěĕĎĠĐĘ ĕďė .ĥďđēĐ ĥđďĕģĘ Ĥĥģč ęĕĤēČĐ 27.đĦďđģĠĘ ĞĜėĜ ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤđ ,ęĕĤđĠĕėĐ ęđĕ đč Ęē ęėēĐ Ęĥ đĕčđĥĕē ĕĠąĘĞĥ ęđĕč đĘĕĚĤĦčđ đĘģĚč ĘėĘ ĤčĞĚ ĤĕĐčĚ ,ĥďđēĐ ęĥ ęĎ đĚĥđ ĘĒĚĐ ĤđČĕĦ ďĕĘ čĦėĜ đčĥ ,ĕĤđĠĕĢ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĝĠĕĝĠ ĐĞđčģĐ ĐėĕĤĞĐ .ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ ĦČ ěĕĕĢĘ ĐďĞđĜ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĦĠĢĤč ĐĘđďĎĐ ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤĐĥ ģĠĝ ęĐĘ Đĝēđĕĥ ĞđčģĘ đĜĘ ĦĤĥĠČĚ ,ęĕĤēČĐ ęĕĤđČĕĦč ģđĕďč ĦĜđėĦĚ ĐĦđČ ĕĠąĘĞ ĤđČĕĦĐ ĕčĕėĤ Ęĥ ęĕĥďđēĐ ĕĘĎĘĎĘđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĕĘĎĘĎĘ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĕĤđČĕĦ ĦČđđĥĐ ,ěė ĘĞ ĤĦĕ .ĐĚđď ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĦđĜĚČč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĞĚ ĦĚđĞĘ ĐčēĤđĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦĞđĢĤĥ ĦďĚĘĚ ,ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĜĚČč ĘĎĘĎ ĕĤđČĕĦĚ ĐēģĘĜ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥ ĦĜđėĦĚĐ 28.ĘĘė ĖĤďč Đģď ĐĞđĢĤ ČĕĐĥ ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ďĚĘĚ ĤčďĐ 29.ĐĕėđĕĔĜČč ęĕĥďđēĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĤđČĕĦč ĘĥĚĘ ĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČĥ ĕĠė ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĜĚČč ęĕĥďđēĐ ĐĤĥģĜ ĦĜđėĦĚĐ ěėĥ ,ęĕĥďđēĐ ĘĞ ęĎ ĒđĚĤĘ ďĞđĜ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĤđČĕĦ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ĝĠĕĝĠč Ĥčėĥ ,ĕĘđČ ęĕĥďđēĐ ĘĞ ęĎ ęĕĒĚĤĚ ĦđĘĒĚĐĥ ĖėĘ ĦĤēČ ĐĕČĤ .ęĕĥďđēĐ ĕĘĎĘĎĘ ĦĞĎđĜė ěĚĒĐ ĕĜč Ęĥ ęĦĞďđĦč ,ĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠĐ ĤđĔĕĞĘ ĕĘđĘĕĚ ğĕĘēĦ ČĕĐ đĒ ĦčđĦė 30.ĕďĎ ěĕĞ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĦĠĢĤč ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦčđĦė ČĕĐ ęĕĔđĕĠč ĤėĕĜ ęĕĥďđēĘ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĕĜĚĕĝ ěĕč čđĤģĐ ĤĥģĐ .ęĕĥďđēĐ ĦđĚĥđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦđĚĥ ĦČ ĐĘĕėĚ ČĕĐđ ĦđĜđĞĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĦđĚĥ ęĕčđĦė ęĕĝĠĕĝĠĐ Ęėč 31.ęĕĝĠĕĝĠĐ Ęĥ ęĦđĤĢđđĕĐ ěĚĒĘ ĖđĚĝ đĤčđēĥ ęĕčĤ đĕĐ ĦđĤčđďĚĐ ĦđĠĥĐđ ,ĥďđģĐ ĦĠĥ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠ đĥĞĜĥ ĐĠđģĦč .ĦĕĤčĞč .Stern, Calendar and Community, pp. 66–67 .22 .Panarion 70.11. 5–6; Stern, ibid., p. 81 .23 .Stern, ibid., p. 69 .24 ęĕčĥđēĚ ĐĜĥ ĦđēđĘ .John Chrysostom, Adversus Iudaeos, PG 48, pp. 861–872; Stern, ibid., p. 69 .25 Stern, .ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚč Ĥčė ĕĤĢđĜĐ ęĘđĞč ęĕĞĕĠđĚ đĘēĐ ,ęĕďđĐĕĐ ěĚ ďĤĠĕĐĘ ĐĥĕĤďč ęĕđđĘĚđ ČēĝĠĐ ďĞđĚĘ ęĕĞĎđĜĐ .ibid., pp. 223–224 ĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ďĞđ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ěčĤđēĚ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĖđĦč ,īČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĦĠđģĦī ,ěĕđĘ Īĕ ;Ē ,Ē ĦđĕđďĞ ,ĐĜĥĚ .26 .108–107 ĪĚĞ ,(1982 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ěĤĔĥ ĪĚđ ĤĕĤĠĢ Īĕ ,ĕČĤĠĝ Īĥ ,ĝĤč ĪĢ ęĕėĤđĞ) (ĦĚĘĎĚ ČĕĐĥ ěđĤģĕĞč ČĘ ĖČ ,ĐĕĔĤĠč ĐĜđĥ ĐĝĤĎč) ĐĒ ĤđĠĕĝ .108 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ěĕđĘ ;ĔÀē ,č ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ,ĐĜĥĚ .27 ĕĜĥč ęĕĤđėĒČ ďđĞĚ ďđĚĘĘ ĤĥĠČ ęĕĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞĘ ĞĎđĜĐ Ęėč ČĕĥĜĐ ĦđėĚĝ ĘĞ .ČīĞ Đė ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ,ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĐĕđĢĚ .ČīĞ Ďĝ ĦđėĤč ,ĕĘčč ;ČīĞ Ě ,Ďĕ Ē ęĕĤďĜ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ,ĐĚĎđďĘ ;ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ .Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp. 121–123 .28 .D. Levi, Antioch Mosaic Pavements (Princeton, 1947), pp. 36–38 .29 .23–18 ĪĚĞ ,(1971) Ě ġĕčĤĦ ,īĕďĎąěĕĞč ĦĝĜėĐąĦĕč ĦĠĢĤ ĘĞ ĦčđĦėī ,ĤĒĚ Īč .30 .Fine, Art and Judaism, pp. 202–203 .31

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.ĐĜđĦČč (Agios Eleutherios) ĝđĕĤĦđČĘČ ĝđĕĎČ ĦĕĕĝĜė ĦĕĒēč ĕĜĥĚ ĥđĚĕĥč čĘđĥĥ ,ĒĕĤĠČ ČđĐ ěĚĒ ĦđĘĕĞĠĐ Ęĥ ĕđĔĕčđ ĐĜĥĐ ĕĥďđē ĦĥĜČĐ ,ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ĞčĤČ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĕĜĚĕĝ ęĕČĤĜ ĒĕĤĠČč ĐĚĕďģĚ ĐĜĥĐ ĦĜđĞĥ Ėė ,ĦĕĤČ ýĜĕĘ ĖđĤĞ ĤđČĕĦĐ .ęĕĕĦďĐ ęĕĘčĕĔĝĠĘ ĥĎď ěĦĚ ęĞ ,ĦĕĜĕĕĠđČĐ ĦĕĥđĜČĐ ,ĔĕĘčĦĐ ēģĘĜ ĐĜčĚ ĐĒĕČĚ ęĕĞďđĕ đĜĜĕČ .ĦĕĥďđēĐ ĦđĘĕĞĠĐ ĤēČ čģđĞ ĘĒĚĐ ěĚĕĝđ ,ĥďđēĐ ĦĥĜČĐ ĦČ .đĐĥĘė ĤđčĕĢ ĐĜčĚĚĥ ĕČďđđĘ čđĤģ ĖČ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ěđĤėĕĒ ĕĚĕ ,ęĕĕĘČĕĤĠĚĕČ Ęčđĕ ĕĚĕ ,ęĕĕĜČĎĠ ęĕĎē ěđĕĢ đĘĘėĥ ,ęĕĔĤđĠĚĐ ęĕĕĚđĤĐ ĦđēđĘĐ đĕĐđ ČĚđĤ ĕēĤĒČ ĕĕēč ęĕĕĦĤčēđ ęĕĕĦď ęĕĞđĤĕČ Ęĥ ĝđĚĦĕĤĐ ĦČ đĤĕďĝĐ ,ĦđĕĎđĘđĤĔĝČ ĦđĞĠđĦ ěđĕĢđ ďđĚĘĘ ĤĥĠČ ĦĕĜĦČĐ ĦđĐĒĐ Ęĥ ĕĦđĐĚ čĕėĤė ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđčĕĥē ĘĞ 17.ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĐĒĐ ĦĤďĎĐĘ ĕĞĢĚČ Ęĥ ĕďĎČĐ ĐďĝĕĕĚ Á ĝđĘđĚđĤĘ đČ ĤĦđĕč ęďģđĚĐ ĐĜĥĐ ēđĘ ĦČ đĝēĕĕ ęĕĕĚđĤ ęĕĤčēĚĥ ĖėĚ ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ďđĚĘĘ ĤĥĠČ ĦĕēĤĒČĐđ ĦĕĦďĐ ĦėĤĞĚĐ ĦĤďĝĐč ĥđčĕĎč ēđĘĐ Ęĥ đĦđčĕĥē ĘĞ .ĐĚđĜ ĖĘĚĘ đČ Á ČĚđĤ ĘĞ ĦđĞđčĢ đČ Ħđģđģē ĦđčđĦė ĦĤđĢč đĕĐ ęĕĕĚđĤĐ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđēđĘ .(59 ,Ĥĝĕģ) ĝđėĤĔđĘĠ Ęĥ đĦđďĞĚ ęĎ ęĎ đĕĐ ,ęĕĝģďđģ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚđ ,ĦđĘĕĎĚ .ęĕĥďģĚč đďģĠđĐĥ ĦđĘĕĎĚ ĦĤđĢč đČ ęĕĥďģĚ ĦđĤĕģ ĘĞ đďĚĘ ęĕĕĚđĤ ęĕďĘĕ .ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ęĕĎĢĕĕĚĘ đčĥēĜđ ,ęĕĞĢĚČ ĕĘĞč ęĕĕĔĤĠ ęĕĥĜČ Ęĥ ęĦĘēĜ ęĎ ĖĥĚĜ ĐĜĥĐ ēđĘ Ęĥ ĕĔģďĕďĐ ďĕģĠĦĐ .ĕĚđĤĐ ĤčĞĘ ĦĞĎđĜĐ ĐĘėĥĐĐ ĦĥĕėĤĚ ģĘēė đĕĜēĘđĠđ ēđĘĐ ĦĜĥ Ęĥ ĤĕđČĚĐ ĝģďđģĐ ČđĐ ĐĘČĐ ęĕĝģďđģč ęĝĤđĠĚĐ .ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦđČĚč ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĐĠđģĦč 18.đĘĥ ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĕģĦĞĐ ĦđĞĢĚČč đĜĦĞĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĥ ,ĜīĐĝĘ 354 ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦďĕĞđđč Ĥčė ĤėĕĜ ęĦđĐĒ ĥđčĕĎĚ ģĘēė ěĚĒ ěĜĕĕĜĞĥ ĦđĘČĥč ęĕĤĢđĜ Ęĥ čĤĐ ěĕĕĜĞĐ .ČēĝĠĐ ďĞđĚ ĦĞĕčģč ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘč ďđĞ ęĕĕđĘĦ đĕĐĕ ČĘ ęĕĤĢđĜĐ ĕė ĔĘēđĐ Đčĥ ,325 ĦĜĥč ĐČģĕĜč ēĝĠĐ Ęĥ đďĞđĚč đĜĕĕĐ ,ěĝĕĜč ďīĕč ČēĝĠĐ Ďē ĦČ ęĕĕģĘ đďĕĠģĐ đĕĠĘđ ,QuartodecimaniąĐ ĎĐĜĚ ęĎ Đč ĥĕ ęĘđČ ,ĦĕĎĤđĔĕĘ ĦđďēČ ēĕĔčĐĘ ěđĢĤĐĚ ĐĜđĥČĤčđ ĥČĤč ĐĞčĜ đĒ ĐĔĘēĐ .ĦđĜĕĚ ĒĤėđĐ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ 19.ĕđĎĥ ĐĕĐĜ ęĦĜĞĔĘĥ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ēđĘĐ ěĚ ģĦĜĦĐĘ đĥģĕč ęĕĤĢđĜĐ .ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĕĠĘė ĐďĚĞ ĦĔĕģĜ ,ĔĔĢĚ ČđĐĥ ĤĝĕģĐ ĕčĦėĚč ęĎ ęĕĤĚČĜ ęĕĤčďĐđ 20,ĦđĥĤđĠĚ ĦČĒ ĤĚđČ ,ĝđĜĕĔĜĔĝĜđģ ĕĕē đĤđčĕēč ,Ęđėč ĔĞĚė ęĕĎđĥ ęĐĥ Ėėč ęĕĚĥČđĚ ęĕďđĐĕĐ .ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ĦďĕĞđ ĦĔĘēĐĘ čĕĕēĚ ĕĤĝĕģ ğģđĦ ěĦĕĜ ęĐčđ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦČ ęĕĥČĚĐ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ďĕēĕĐ ĕĤĢđĜĐ đĜĜĕČ ĝđĕčĝđČ 21.ĐĜĥč ęĕĕĚĞĠ ēĝĠĐ ĦČ ęĕĎĎđēđ Ęĥ ěĚĒĐ ĕčđĥĕēĥ ,ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČ ğđĥĕč ĝđĤĔĠ ěĞĔ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč Ĥčė .đĘČ ěĕĞĚ ĦđĚĥČĐč 16

ĐĜčĚĐ ĖđĦčđ ,ĥĚĥ ěđĞĥ ĔĔĤđĥ ĦđēđĤĐ ěĚ ĦēČ ĘėĘ ĦēĦĚ .ęĕĚĥĐ ĦđēđĤĚ ĦēČ Ęĥ ĐĥĜČĐč ĔĕĘčĦč ěđĕĘĞĐ ĐģĘēč ěč ĕėĤđĦ ĘĕĕĔĚ .ęĕčėđėĐ ĦėĤĞĚđ ēĤĕĐ ,ĥĚĥĐ đĚė ,ęđģĕĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤēČ ęĕčĕėĤĚĘ ĝēĕč ĐĞĥĐ ĦČ ĐČĤĐĥ ęĕĚ ěđĞĥ ĘĞĠ ĕĔĕĘčĦ .ęĕČĦĚĐ ĦėĘĐ čėđė ěĚĕĝđ ĘĒĚĐ ěĚĕĝ ĤČđĦ ģĘē Ęė ĘĞđ ,ęĕģĘē 12ąĘ ĐģĘđē ĐĜčĚĐ ĦĠĕėĥ ,ěĕĕĢĚ 17ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦđĤĒđē ěĐđ ,ĦĕĚĕĚĥĐ ĐĕĜđĚĤĐĐ Ęĥ ďĤĠĜąĕĦĘč ģĘē ěĐ ĦđĕĎđĘđĚĝđģ ĦđĕĤđČĦč ěėĥ ,ĐĒĐ čēĤĐ ĖĤĞĚč čĕėĤ đĕĐ ĦđēđĤĐ .ĦđĘĒĚđ ĦđĜđĞĐ Ęĥ ĕĦĜĥĐ ĖĘĐĚĘ ĐĚđďč ,Ğđčģ ěĚĒč ĐĜĥ Ęė G. M. A. Hanfmann, The Season Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks (Cambridge, MA, 1951), vol. I, .16 .pp. 124, 135, 214, 272; vol. II, pp. 169–170 – no. 382 M. R. Salzman, :ěĚĢĘĒ ĪĚ Ęĥ ęĕĕĜĕĞĐ ĤĕČĚ ĐĤĠĝč ĤČđĦĚ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđčĤĦč ĐĜĥĐ ēđĘ Ęĥ đďĕģĠĦđ đĕĠđČ .17 .On Roman Time: The Codex Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, 1990) .H. Stern, Le Calendrier de 354 (Paris, 1953); Salzman, Roman Time .18 S. Stern, Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar Second Century BCE – Tenth .19 .Century CE (Oxford, 2001), pp. 67–69, 80–84 .Vita Constantini 3.5; Stern, Calendar and Community, p. 67 .20 Eusebius, Vita Constantini 3.18; Stern, Calendar and Community, pp. 80–81; R. T. Beckwith, .21 Calendar, Chronology and Worship: Studies in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (Leiden and Boston, .ĤĝĕģĐ Ęĥ đĒ ĐĚĥČĐ ĐĜđĥ ěĠđČč ęĕĥĤĠĚ ęĕĤģđēĐ ĕĜĥ .2005), pp. 9–10

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ČĠĘČ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ .3 ĤđĕČ E. L. Sukenik, The Ancient Synagogue of Beth Alpha, Jerusalem 1932, pl. X

ĐĘĕĐģĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĦďĐ ĐĦđĐĒ ĦĕĕĜčĐč ěĚĒĐ čĕėĤ ĦđčĕĥēĘ ĕđĔĕčė ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĕĎĤđĔĕĘĐ ĤđĒēĚĐ ĦČ Ğčđģ ČđĐ .ĐĢđčģĐ ĕĕē ęĕĘĞđĠ ĐėđĦčĥ ĦĤĎĝĚĐ ěđĎĤČč ĕēĤėĐ čĕėĤ ČđĐ ěĚĒĐ ģĤ ČĘ ĐĕĐ ęĕĚĥĐ ĕĚĤĎ ĦĞđĜĦ ĦđĞĢĚČč ďďĚĜĐ ěĚĒĐ .ĦĕčĕĔģĘđģĐ ĦđĐĒč čđĥē čĕėĤ ĐđđĐĚ ěėĘđ ĦđČĚĎđďĐ ĦēČ .ęĕėĤď ěđđĎĚč ĕĤđčĕĢĐ čēĤĚč ĎĢđĕ ĐĚđďģĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦč Ĥčėđ ,ęĕĜĞďĚ Ęĥ ęĜĕĕĜĞ ,ĜīĐĝĠĘ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ,(ĐĕĜđďģĚč ĤĥČ) īĝđĤĕģĚ ĝđģĕĜđĤďĜČ Ęĥ ěĕĎđĘĤđČĐī ČđĐ ĦđĚĕĥĤĚĐ ģĤĠ đĦđČĚ ĦĤēČ ĐĚĎđď 15.īĦđēđĤĐ ĘďĎĚī ęĥč ęđĕĐ ĞđďĕĐđ ,ĐĜđĦČč ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĤđĎČĐ ďĕ ĘĞ čĢĕĜĐ J. von Freeden, OIKIA ΚΥΡΡΗΣΤΟΥ — Studien zum Sogenannten Turm der Winde in Athen, .15 ĦĤĔđĞĚ ĘďĎĚĐ Ęĥ ĐČĠ Ęė .ĦĜĚđĦĚ đĦĤđĢđ ĪĚ 15 ĐčđĎĘ ČĥĜĦĚ ĥĕĥ ĕđĥĞĐ ĘďĎĚĐ .Archaeologia 29 (Rome, 1983)

ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ

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ĕĤđĠĕĢ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ .2 ĤđĕČ (ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĕĤđĠĕĢ ĦđĤĕĠē ĦēĘĥĚ ,ĝĕĕđ čČĒ ĦđčĕďČč) Ħĕčĥ ĐĞĕčģč ģĠĦĝĐĘ ĥĕ ĘĘėĐ ĘĞ ĔĤĠĐ ěĚ ĖĕĘĥĐĘ ěĕČđ ĘĕČđĐ .ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎčđ ĝđĕĘĐč ĤĔđĞĚĐ ĕčĤđ ěĦĜđĕ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đďĢčĥ ĞĜĚĜĐ ěĚ ĐĒ ěĕČĥ ęĥė ,đĦĠđģĦč ęĕđĝĚ ĤđčĕĢ čĤģč ēđĤ ĖĘĐ ĎĢĕĕĚ ĐĒĐ ĦĝĜėĐ 14.ĤĦđĕ ĦĕĜĤĚĥ ĐĥĕĎč đďďĕĢĥ ĕĚ đĕĐ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĦđĜĚČ ĕĠĘė ĦĕĜĘčđĝ ĐĥĕĎ ĘīĒē čĤģč ęĕĎĢĕĕĚĐ ,ěđčČ ęĕĒėĤĚč ĥĚĥĐ ĦčėĤĚ ĦČđ ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞ ĦČ ,ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦČ ęĕČĢđĚ đĜČ ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚč Čĕĝđĝ ,(3 ĤđĕČ) ČĠĘČ Ħĕč ĦĚĎđď ĘĕĘĎĐ ěĚ ĦđģēđĤĚ ĦđĕĤĠė ĦđĘĕĐģčđ ,(2 ĤđĕČ) ĕĤđĠĕĢ ĦĚĎđď ęĕĕĜđĤĕĞ .ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĜĚČč ĤėđĚđ ēĕėĥ ęĎďĘ đĦđĕĐ ĘĞ ĐĞĕčĢĚ ęĎďĐ Ęĥ ĐčēĤĐ đĦĢđĠĦ .ěĤĞĜđ .J. B. Baumgarten, “Art in the Synagogue, Some Talmudic Views”, Judaism 19 (1970), pp. 196–206 .14

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ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ

ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ĝđĤđđĝ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ .1 ĤđĕČ M. Dothan, Hammath Tiberias: Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman Remains, Jerusalem, 1983, pl. 29:1

ĞďĕĘ Ħėĕĕĥ ěđĤĔČĔĚ Ęĥ đĦđĚď ,ěė ĘĞ ĤĦĕ 11.ĐĕĤčĔč ĝđĤđđĝ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ęĞ ďēČ ĐĜģč ĐĘđĞ ĐĜĜĕČ .ďĝĚĚĐ ĕĎđēč ĦĕĒėĤĚ ĐĚĕčĘ ĐĒ Ğďĕ ĐėđĒ ĞđďĚ ĤđĤč ČĘđ ,ĕĤĔđĒČ ěĕč ęĕčėĤđĚĐ ęĕĝēĕĐ ĤđĤĕčč đďģĚĦĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦĞĠđĐč ęĕĚďđģ ęĕĜđĕĞ Ęĥ Đēđė ĦďĕĤĕ ,ĕĦĞďĘ 12.đĘĘĐ ęĕĕĦđĒēĐ ęĕĕđĚďĘ ĤđģĚĐ ČĕĐĥ ,ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČĘ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ęĘđĞĘ ,ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ěĚ ĦđčđČĥĐ ,ĤđČĕĦ ĦđČēĝđĜ Ęĥ ĐĘĕČĥ ĐĤĥĠČ ěėČ ĦđĕĜČĎĠĐ ďďđĚĦĐĘ ďĞđĜ ĥĚĥĐ ĦČ ğĕģĚĐ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ęĕĞĕĠđĚĐ ęĕĤēČ ęĕČĥđĜĘ ĐĚđďč ęĘđČ 13.ĦđĤĢĜĐ Ęĥ ĐĘđĞĐ Đēđė ďĕĚĞĐĥ ęĕĥďēĐ ęĕĤĎĦČĐ ęĞ ęĕĘďčĐĐ ĦČ ęĎ ěđčĥēč ČĕčĐĘ ĥĕ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦĞĠđĐ ĦČ ěđēčĘ đĜČđčč ĦĚēč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĝĠĕĝĠ .ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦđČĚĐ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕč ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđČĕĢĚč ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ďĕēĕĐ ĐĞĥ ĕĠĘ ČđĐ ,ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĕĎđēĘ ĤđĚČė ĤđĥģĐ ,(1 ĤđĕČ) ĐĕĤčĔ ĥďģĚ ,ĤđČĕĘČ ĪĤ Ęĥ ğĕģĚĐ ĐĤģēĚ ĘĞ ĦėĚĦĝĚ ĝĜĎČĚ ,ęĕĜĐđėĐ ĕĎđēĘ ĦđĘėĕĐĐ ĦđĤĠĝ ĦČ Đėĕĕĥč .11 ĦĕĜđĢĕēĐ ĦđďĞĐĥ ,ĐČĤČ ĖĥĚĐč .(ĎīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĐĚđďģĐ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐģĕĔĝĕĚč ĦđĘėĕĐđ ĘėĕĐ ,ęĕėČĘĚđ ęĕĜĐđė ,ĐčėĤĚđ .ęĕĜĐđėĐ ĕĎđēĘ Čģđđď đČĘđ ,ęĕĚėēĐ ĤĚđĘė ,ęĕĥđĤĠĘ Čģđđď ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦČ ĦĤĥđģ đĜĕďĕč ĥĕĥ .391–380 ĪĚĞ ,(1985) ēĕ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īęĕĕĠČĤĎđĜđģĕČĐ đĕĦđĤđģĚđ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ .Ď .12 ĐĥĚ ĤĠēĥ ĐĚĕĥĤĚĐ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐ ČĕĐ ĘĕĘĎč ĕďđĐĕĐ čđĥĕĕĐ ĕĒėĤĚ Ęĥ ęčĘ čĘĘ ĦđĤĢĜĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĤĕďēĘ ĦđďĞ .13 ĝđĤđđĝ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč Ęĥ đĜĚĒ Ħč ČĕĐ ĐĕĕĝĜėĐĥ ĞđčģĘ ĤĥĠČ ęĕĕĜđĜĎĝđ ęĕĕĠĤĎĕĠČ ęĕĘđģĕĥ ĖĚĝ ĘĞ .ĐĕĤčĔč ĘĔĤĐ .ęĝĤđĠ ęĤĔ ĐĒ ČĢĚĚ .ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč

ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ

64

Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ĕĜĥĐ ĘĘĐ ČĕĥĜĐ ĕďĕč ĤđčĕĞĐ ďđĝ ęđĝĤĠĘ đĦđČ Ĥĥđģĥ ĕĚ ĥĕđ 5;ĐĕĎđĘđĤĔĝČč ĥĚēė ĦĕĔĚėĝĐ ěĦĎĢĐđ ĤģēĚĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ĦđēđđĤĐ ĦđĞďĐ Ęĥ ĐĒ ĕĘĘė ęđėĕĝ 6.ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĐĜđĤēČč ĐĦėĒ đĒ ĦđĤĠĝĥ ěđđĕėĚ ęĘđČ ,ĐĢđčģ Ęė ĖđĦč ęĕĜđđĎĐ ĕĘďčĐĚ ęĘĞĦĚ đĜĜĕČ ĦđĕĦĕĘđĜđĚ ĦđĞď 7.ĖėĘ ĤčĞĚ čĕēĤĐĘ ČĘĥ ĕĚĢĞĘ ĐĥĤČ ,ĐĠĕģĚ ĦĕĦĤđģĕč ĐĤĕģĝĘ 8 ěĠđČč ĐĕĘČ Đčĥ ĐĜđĤēČčđ ,ğČĜĕďđĎ ĤīČ ĐĜđĥČĤč ĐĘĞĐĥ ĐďĚĞĐ ĦČ ĘčģĘ ĕĘ Đĥģ ,ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĚ ĦđďĐĕĘ ĕđĔĕč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎđ ĝđĕĘĐ ĤđČĕĦč ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕĥ ęĕĤđčĝ ęĕĤģđēĐ ĕĜĥ 9.ĝĜĎČĚ ĕďđĪĎ ĐĜđĥ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĜĘĐ ĦđďĐĕĘ ĦČĒ ĝēĕĕ ğČĜĕďđĎ .ĘīĒē ĦđĤđģĚč ĦĠģĦĥĚĐ ĦĕĜčĤĐ ĦĕčĕĔĚĤđĜĐ ĦđďĐĕĐ ěĚ ĐĜđĥĐ .ěđĤĔČĔĚ ĦČ ęĎ ĎĢĕĕĘ ďĞđĜ ĝđĕĘĐĥ ĐĤđčĝđ ,ĐčėĤĚĐđ ĦđĘėĕĐĐ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ĦČĒ ĦĤĥđģ ĝĜĎČĚ đĘĕČđ ĤĚČĚč ĐĤđĒĥĐ ,ĝĜĎČĚ Ęĥ ĐĦĞĢĐ 10.Đč ěđďČ ČĘ ěėĘđ ĤģēĚč đĜđďĕĜ ğČĜĕďđĎ Ęĥ đĦĥĕĎ ĐĘĞĚĥ ęĕĕĥģĐ ěđėĜĘ ĦČĢđĚ ĕĜČ ěėĘđ ,ĐĜēčĜ ęĤĔ ,ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĜĚČĘ ęĕĞĎđĜĐ ęĕĔčĕĐ ĐĚėđ ĐĚė ĤĕČĚĐ ,ďđČĚ ğĕģĚ ęĦĞĠđĐ ČĕĐ ,ĐĦĥĕĎč ĦČĢđĚ ĕĜČĥ ĐĠĤđĦĐ ĦđďđģĜĚ ĦēČĥ ,ĤĚđČ ĐĒ ęďģđĚ čĘĥč Ĥčė .Đč ěđďĘ ĕĎđēĘ đĦđėĕĕĦĥĐ ĘĞ ĐďĕĞĚ ĐĥďģĐĐ ĦčđĦėĥ ĦĝĜė Ħĕčč Čģđđď ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎđ ĝđĕĘĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ đĒ ĐĜĞĔ ęĎđ ,ęĕĜĐđėĐ ĕĎđēĘ ĦđĘėĕĐĐ ĦđĤĠĝ ĦČ ĦĤĥđģ ĝĜĎČĚ .ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĎĐĜĐĐ Ęĥ ĐĒđĞĚ Á ĦđČĕĥĜĐ

JSQ 9 (2002), pp. 232–237; S. Fine, Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World: Toward a New Jewish .Archaeology (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 199–205

,Ĥĥė ĪČ ęĕėĤđĞ) ęĕģĕĦĞ ĦĝĜė ĕĦč ĖđĦč ,īĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ęĕģĕĦĞĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦđĜĚČī ,ĐĕďčđĞ ĪČ .5 J. H. Charlesworth, “Jewish Interest in Astrology ;204–185 ĪĚĞ ,(1987 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĔĤđĠĠĤ ĪČđ ĤĚĕĕĐĜĠđČ ĪČ during the Hellenistic and Roman Period”, ANRW II.20.2 (1987), pp. 940–949; L. J. Ness, “Astrology and Judaism in Late Antiquity”, The Ancient World 26 (1995), pp. 126–133; idem, “Zodiac in the Synagogue”, Journal of Ancient Civilizations 12 (1997), pp. 81–92; L. Roussin, “The Zodiac in Synagogue Decoration”, in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Greco-Roman and Byzantine Periods, (eds. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCollough; Atlanta, 1997), pp. 83–96; B. Kühnel, “Synagogue Floor Mosaic in Sepphoris: Between Paganism and Christianity”, in From Dura Europos to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity, Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement 40 (eds. L. I. Levine .and Z. Weiss; Portsmouth, RI, 2000), pp. 31–43 ĤčĝĐĘ ďđČĚ ĐčđĤģ ĎĤčĜĤĔĥ Ęĥ đĦĞĢĐ ;(1972 ,ĐĕĤčĔ) ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ,ĎĤčĜĤĔĥ Ď”Č .6

Ęčĕģ ĎĤčĜĤĔĥ .ęĕĘģ ęĕĕđĜĕĥ čĎČ ,ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ đĦĞĠđĐĘ ĞĕĢĐĘ ĦĥģčĚ ĕĜČĥ ěđĥČĤĐ ĐČĤČĥ ĕĠė ĖČ ,ĦČĒ ĘčģĚ đĜĜĕČ ĕĜėďĞĐ ĤģēĚĐ .ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐďčđĞė ĤđčĕĞĐ ďđĝ ęđĝĤĠ ěĕĕĜĞč ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ .ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČč ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ ĕčđĥĕēĘ ĞĎđĜĐ Ęėč ĦđĕĦđĞĚĥĚ ĦđĤđĚĦ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĚ ĝđĤđđĝ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĖđĤČĕĦ Ęĥč ęĕĜĥĐ ĖĘĐĚč ĐģēďĜ ĎĤčĜĤĔĥ Ęĥ đĦĞĢĐ .ĐĘČĐ ęĕĕđĜĥĐ ĦČ ĝĝčĘđ ęĝĤĠĘ ďĞđĜ M. Dothan, Hammath Tiberias, Early Synagogues (Jerusalem, 1983), Á ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤĘ ěĦđď ĐĥĚ ĕďĕč ĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĦČ ĖĤČĦĘ ĥĕđ ,ĕďĚ ęďģđĚ ĐĒ ĖĕĤČĦĥ ĞđčģĘ đĜĘ ĤĥĠČĚ ĦđĜđĤēČĐ ęĕĜĥč ęĕĝĠĕĝĠĐ ĤģēĚ .pp. 45, 66–67 .ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĘ ĐĒ čĘĥĚ .Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, pp. 231–235 .7 .E. R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, VIII (Princeton, 1958), pp. 167–218 .8 J. Magness, “Heaven on Earth: Helios and the Zodiac Cycle in Ancient Palestinian Synagogues”, .9 ĦĕčĘ ĐĤďē ęĕĕĎČĚ Ħđēđėč ĐĜđĚČĐĥ Ĥđčĝ ČđĐ .ĝĜĎČĚ Ęĥ đĒĘ ĐčđĤģ ĐđĜ Ęĥ đĦďĚĞ .DOP 59 (2007), pp. 1–52 ė ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īęĕģĕĦĞĐ ĦĝĜėĐąĕĦčĚ ĦđĕĤčĞĐđ ĦđĕĚĤČĐ ĦđčđĦėĐī ,ĐđĜ Īĕ ;ĖČĘĚ ĝđĕĘĐč đČĤ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĕėđ ĦĝĜėĐ .303–302 ĪĚĞ ,(1989) J. Neusner, “The Symbolism of Ancient Judaism: The Evidence of the Synagogues”, in Ancient .10 Synagogues: The State of the Research (ed. J. Gutmann; Brown Judaic Studies no. 22; Ann Arbor, 1981), pp. 7–17; M. Smith, “Goodenough’s Jewish Symbols in Retrospect”, in J. Gutmann, The Synagogue: Studies .in Origins, Archaeology and Architecture (New York, 1975), pp. 194–207

Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

ĐĚĐďĦč ĐėĕĐ ĐĤčĞĥ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤĥĞĐ ĦđĜĥč ěĤĞĜđ ČĠĘČ Ħĕčč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠ Ęĥ ęĕĕđĘĎ ĕĦčĥ ĤĤčĦĐ ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝĚ ĐĘĞĥ ęĥđĤĘ ĤđĚĎ ďđĎĕĜč .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ ĐĤčĞ ĕĤģđē ĦČ ĐĤĔđĞ ĐĠĢĤč ĐĘđďĎĐđ (ĘĜČĠ) ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤĐđ ,ęĕĤĕĥĞ ęĕĕčĕĔĤđĎĕĠ ęĕĝĠĕĝĠč đĔĥđģ ĦĝĜėĐ Ęĥ ģĐčđĚ ĤėĕĐ ěĚĕĝĘ ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ đĕĐ ęĕĜĥĐ ĦđčĤč .ĦĕĜČĎĠĐ ĦđĜĚČč ęĤđģĚĥ ęĕčĕĔđĚč ,ĐĠĜĞ ĦĕĤģēĚ ĦđĤĠĝ .ĦđĕĐĦ ĤĤđĞĘ ĐĠĕĝđĚ ęĐč ĐĤĕēčĐ ęĘđČ ,ęĕĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĕĝĠĕĝĠ ĐĥďģđĐ ,ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ĕĐĘĥč ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĤčēč ēđĤĐ ĕėĘĐ Ęĥ ĐĤĕĥĞđ ĦčėĤđĚ ĐĜđĚĦ đĜĕĜĠĘ ĐĥĤĠĥ ęĠĕĘēĐĘ đďĞđĜ ČĘĥ ,ęĕĚďđģĐ ęĕĜđĕĞĘ ęĕďĚĚ ĐĥđĘĥ ğĕĝđĐĘ ĦĥģčĚ ĕĜČ ĐĒ ĤĚČĚč .ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĤđĤčĘ .ĐĕđČĤĐ čĘĐ ĦĚđĥĦĘ đėĒ ČĘĥ ęĕčĕėĤ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐĘ ČĘČ ĤĥĠČ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦčč ĦĕĒėĤĚĐ ĐĞđĢĤĐ ĦČ ęĕČĘĚĚĐ ęĕĕĦđĒēĐ ęĕĕđĚĕďĘ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ĦČ ęĕĥĤĠĚĐ ĥĕ 1.ĐĒĘ ĐĒ ĐĤĕĦĝč ęĕďĚđĞ ęĜĕČĥ ,ĦđĞĚĥĚ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕďčĤ ĝēĕĕĘ ĐČđĤĥ ĕĚ ĥĕ 2;ęđģĕč ĕĐđĘČĐ Ĥďĝč ĐĜđĚĔĐ ĐėĤčĘ ĕđĔĕčė ĐĜĥĐ ĦđĜđĞč ĐđđĘĚĐ (ģČĕďđĒ) ;ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĦĠģĦĥĚ ČĕĐĥ ĕĠė 3,đĚĞ ěĕčĘ ĪĐ ěĕč ĦĕēĢĜĐ ĦĕĤčĘ ęĕďĞ ĦđĜđĞĐđ ęĕĚĥĐ ĕĚĤĎč ĦēđđĤĐ ĐĜđĚČĘ ĕđĔĕč đč ęĕČđĤ ęĕĤēČ 4;ĕĎĤđĔĕĘ ĐĜĥ ēđĘ ĤČĦĘ ďĞđĜ ĖĤĞĚĐĥ ęĕĤđčĝĐ ĥĕ H. Maguire, Earth and Ocean, The đČĤ ěĚĒĐ Ħč ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĜĚČĐ ĦČ ĦĜĕĕĠČĚĐ ĦđĕĔĜĘđđĕčĚČĐ ĘĞ .1 Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art (University Park and London, 1987), pp. 8–15; E. Sears, “Medieval Sign Theory”, in Reading Medieval Images, the Art Historian and the Object (eds. E. Sears and T. K. Thomas; .Michigan, 2002), pp. 16–17

ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĕĎĤđĔĕĘčđ ĐčĥēĚč đĚđģĚđ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞč ĦĝĜėĐąĕĦčč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎī ,ĤĔĝĤĠ .Ď .2 Z. Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue, Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its ;234–225 ĪĚĞ ,(1987) Ĕĕ Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts (Jerusalem, 2005), pp. 231–235; M. Friedman “The Meaning of the Zodiac in Synagogues in the Land of Israel during the Byzantine Period”, Ars Judaica 1 (2005), .pp. 51–62 ,(2000) 98 ĐĤďĦģ ,īĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ęĕĚđďģĐ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĦđĠĢĤč ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ Ęĥ đĦđĞĚĥĚ ĘĞī ,ďĤĘĎĜČ .ĕ .3 .48–33 ĪĚĞ idem, Art in Ancient ;28–24 ĪĚĞ ,(1964) Ē ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ,īĐĜđĐėĐ ĦđĤĚĥĚ ďīėđ ĐĕĤĝĕģ ĦčđĦėī ,ĐĜđĕąĕčČ ĪĚ .4 Palestine (Jerusalem, 1981), pp. 396–397; R. Hachlili, “The Zodiac in Ancient Jewish Art: Representation and Significance”, BASOR 228 (1977), pp. 61–77; idem, “The Zodiac in Ancient Jewish Art: A Review”,

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ęĥ ěĘđĎĐ Ĥģĝ ĦĕĕĘđē 73.ĜīĐĝĘ ĐĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚč ęĎ čđĥē ĤēĝĚ ĤĕĢ ĦđĕĐĘ ĖĕĥĚĐ ĖđĚĤĕĐĥ ,Ĥčāď ĘĦĘ ĖđĚĝ ģĕĠđČĦ Ħčĕčĝč ěĘđĎĐ ĘČ ĐĝĠĕĔĥ ,ĐčģĞąĘČ ĐĜĔĘĝ ,ĦĠĝđĜ ĐĚđďģ ĖĤď ĘĞ Đēđđĕď ,ęĕĘďĎĚđ ĦđĚđē đčđ ,(ĦđĤĜė čĎĜ ĤđĠĢĚ ,21092338 .Ģ.Ĝ) ČĕĤđĦąČ ĘĦ ČĢĚĜ đĒ ĖĤďĘ ĘĞĚ ģđĢĚĐ ĥČĤčđ ĖĤďĐ ęĎĥ ,ĐĤčĝĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕ 74.ęĕėĘĚĐ ĦĠđģĦ ďĞđ ĦđčČĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ęĕĝĤēđ ,ģĜĞ ĕĜčĚ Ęĥ ęĕďĕĤĥđ 75.Ĥčāď ĘĦ ďĕĘ ĐĤčĞ ,ěČĥ ĦĕčąČĦĕĝđĝ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĐ ĦČ ĐĠĠē ĐĒ ĤđĒČčĥ ,ěČĥ Ħĕč À ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĘĞ ģĘđē ĕĜČ ěĕČđ ,ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ęĞ Ĥčāď ĘĦ ĕđĐĕĒč ĞĜėĥĚ ĤĜčĕĘ ĕĒđĞ Ęĥ đĤģēĚ ĕĦĜĕĕĢĥ ęĕĤģđēĐ čđĤ đĤčĝ ęĎ Ėėđ ,čđĥĕĕĘ ĦđĚĥ ĕĜĥ ęđĕģč ĘđĝĠ ČĢđĚ ĕĜĕČ ,đĘ ďđĎĕĜč ĘčČ .đĕĦđĜģĝĚ ĕđĜĕė ĐĚđď đĜĕČ .Ĥčāď ĘĦč đĦđČ đĐĕĒĥ ĕĚ ěĐđ ,ĐčĕĕēđĚąĘČ Ħčĕčĝč ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ĦČ đĐĕĒĥ ĕĚ ěĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ ĤđČĕĦ .đĕđĜĕė ČđĐ ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚđ ,ęđģĚĐ ęĥ ČđĐ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ;ęČĐ ĤĕĞ ĕďĕąĘĞ ěĦĕĜĐ ĕĚĥĤ ęĥĘ ĕďđĚĘĦ ĘďĎĚ ĐĕĐ ęđģĚĐ Ęĥ ĕĚĥĤĐ đĚĥĥ ,Ĥčđăđ ĤĒĚ ,Ġĝ Ęĥ ęĦĤĞĥĐ ĦČ ĤĥČĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦčĥ ĖĤďĐ ĕčĤđ ,ęĕčĤ ęĕďđĐĕ Đčđ ,Ħđčđĥē ęĕėĤď ĘĞ ĦĥĘđēĐ ,ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ Đčđĥē ĦĕĚďģ ĐďĚĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒ ;ĤďĎ .ĤĥĎĐ ďĕĘĥ ĤĢēč ęĕČĢĚĜĐ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦđČĢēĤĚĘ ĦėĘĘ ęĐĘ ĤĕĦĐ

ęđėĕĝ ĦđĞĕďĕĐ ĦĤĒĞč ĐĠĕ ĦĥĤĠĦĚ ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ Ħčĥč ĦėĘĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĕčĤ ěĦĜĥ ĤĦĕĐĘ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦĝĤĎ ČĚĎ ěĕĚė ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦĤđĢ .ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦđČĚč ĤďĎ ĦĞģč ĘĞ ĦđĕĠĤĎđĠđĔĐđ ĦđĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĐĦđĕĐđ ;ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐėČđč ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞĥ ĤĥĎĐĚ Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ĕďė ďĞ ĐĚđēĦ ĦčēĤĐđ ĤĕĞĐ ĤđčĕĞ ĦČ ĐĤĥĠČ ĦđėĘĐč ĐĘČ ĦđĜđĤģĞ ĕĜĥ .īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞīđ īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĕĝēĕ ěĐĕĜĕč ĐĤĢĕ ĐĦĚē Ęĥ ęČĐąĤĕĞ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĚ ĘĞ ěĐĘ ĥĕ ,īēĔĥĐī ĦČ đĤĕėĐĥ ,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĜĥ ĦđĞďđ ,ĐĥĞĚĘ ĐėĘĐ ěČė ęĕĚĕĕģĦĚ ęĕĚđēĦ ĕčđĤĕĞ ĤčĦĝĚ ĐĜĚĚđ ,ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĚ ĦėĘđĐĐ ĖĤďĐ Ęĥ ĦģĕđďĚ ĐĠĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦĝĤĎč ĥĕ ěėđ .đėđĚĝĕĥ .ĐĒĐ ĕđĐĕĒč ďđĚĘĦĐ ĘĞ ĖđĚĝĘ đĜĘ ĥĕđ Á Ĥčāď ĘĦ ęĞ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ ĐĕđĐĕĒ

W. H. Mare, “Abila: A Thriving Greco-Roman City of the Decapolis”, ARAM 4, 1–2 (1992), .73 ĐčĤĞĚ ,ĕĞĤďČĘ ĐēĤĒĚ ,ČĦĕĝđĝĘ ĐĜđĠĢ :ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĘčČĘ ěđĠĢĚ ĦđģĕĦĞ ęĕėĤď Ęĥ ĦĚđĢ ĤČĦĚ ,pp. 59–60, and n. 5 .ĐĦĚē ěĐčđ ,ģĕĦĞ ĤēĝĚ ĤĕĢ ĘĞ ĦđčĥđĕĐ ęĕĤĞ ĦđĚĥ ĤĕĕĚ ĦĞďĘ ĐĘĕėĚ ěčČ ĘĞ ĦčđĦė .ěďĤĕĐ ĦĞģčĘ .ĤģĝĐ ĦĠĚč 207 ĤĦČ ,ĐĕĤđĦąČ ĘĦ :ěĘđĎđ ěđĤĚđĥ ĐďđĐĕ Ĥģĝ ěėđ ,9 ĪĚĞ ,īěĘđĎĐ Ĥģĝī ěĕĔĥĠČ đČĤ .74 ,ĞĔģ đĦđČč ěďĤĕĘ čĤĞĚĚ ĐĞđĜĦĘ ęĕĥģ ēĔĥ ĕČđđĦđ ,ĞĚĎĚąĘČ ĤĝĪĎĘ ěđĠĢĚĥ ĖĤďĐ ĞĔģč ĘĕĚ ĕĜčČ ĤďĞĕĐ .75 ĐģĒē ,ĦČĒ ęĞ .ěďĤĕĘ ēĤĒĚĚ ĖĤďĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĒ ĞĔģčĥ ,51–50 ĪĚĞ ,īčđĕČ ĕĤĞĜ ĞĝĚ ĘĞī ,ĤĜčĕĘđ ěĐė ďđď ĦĞďč ęĕėĚđĦ ĕēĤĒĚĐ đĤčĞĚ ĕĚđĤ ĖĤđČ ĥĕčė Ęĥ đĚđĕģ ďĎĜ (“Imperial Roads Across and Trade Routes”) ĘđĤ Ęĥ đĦĞĤėĐ đĜĕĘĞ .(ĕĘČ đčĦėĚč đĒ đĦĞď ĘĞ ĤĒē ĘđĤ ĘČĤĥĕ ĪĠđĤĠ) ěďĤĕĐ Ęĥ

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,Ġĝ ěĐđĕ Ęĥ ĐĞĢĐ ğĕďĞĚ Ĥčđ 66.ĘčČ ĤĕĞĐ ęđēĦ ęĞ ĐĘđčĎč ,ĤďĎ ęđēĦč ĤēČ ēĔĥč ĦđĤĕĠēč ČĢĚĥ Ħĕč ďĕĘ ěďĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĕĚđĤĐ ĤĥĎĐ ěĕč ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĦČ Ğčģ đčđ ,1863 ĦĜĥč ĞĝĚ ĤĠĝ ęĝĤĠĥ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ Ĥčđ ĞĕĢĐ đĕĦđčģĞč 67.ĐĤĢđčÀĤďĎÀĐĕĤčĔ ĖĤď ĘĞ ĤďĎĘ ĐĘĞĚĐ ĦĘĕēĦ ěĕčĘ ēĤĕ ČĦĕĝđĝ ęĞ ęđēĦĐ ĘđčĎ ĘĞđ ĖĤďĐ ĘĞ ĥĘđēĐ ęđģĚč ,Ĥĕčė đčČ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĒĪĎĕēĐ ĐĘĕĝĚĐ ěĕčĥ ĦđčĤđēč 68.(2091–5/2321–4 .Ģ.Ĝ ĤĕđđďąČ ĦčĤđē) Ĥčāď ĘĦĘ ĐČĤĜė đĦĜđđė ,ĥĤđĠĚč ĦČĒ ěĕĕĢ ČĘĥ ğČ .ĘĕĘĎĐđ ,ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ęĞđ ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ęĞ ,ĤđĥĎ Ęĥ đĘďĎĚ ęĞ Ĥčāď ĘĦ ĦČ đĐĕĒĥ ,ěĕčĕĕ ĘČđĚĥđ (ĤĘĒĕĕĚ) ĤĒĚ ěĕĚĕĜč .ĦĕĎĔĤĔĝČ ĐďđģĜč ĔĘĥĥ ĤĢčĚ ęđģĚ ĘĞ ĒĚĤĚ īĘďĎĚī ęĥĐĥ đėĕĤĞĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ ěĕč īĕēĤėĐ ĤčĞĚī ĦĜĕēčč ČĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ģĚĞ ĘČ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĦēĦĠ ,ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĚđēĦ Ęėč Ĥģĝč ĤģĝĜ ĤĦČĐ 69.Ččėđė Ĥč ďĤĚ ěĚĒč ĘĕĘĎĐ ĥđčĕėč ēĦĠĚ ĦďđģĜ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒĥ Ĥčĝ ěĕčĕĕđ ,ĐďđĐĕĘ 70.ĐĜđĦēĦĐ ĤĕĞč ĐĒėĤĦĐ đĒđ ,1997 ĦĜĥč ĐĘĢĐ ĦĤĕĠē đč ĐĦĥĞĜđ ,1968 ĦĜĥč ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĤĘģ Ęĥ ěĘđĎĐ Ęĥ ĤėĕĜ ĘđďĕĎ ĘĞ ēđđĕď đĜČđĕĠĤ ĐďđĐĕ .ĦĕėđĘĚĚĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ďĞđ ĦĕĦĕĘđČĜĐ ĐĠđģĦĐĚ ęĕďĕĤĥ đĘĎĦĜ ĤđčĕĢ ĕĜčĚč ČĔčĦĚĐ ĎđĥĎĥ ĘĞ ,(ĐďđĐĕĚ ęĕĘđĎ ĐČĤĜė) Ččėđė Ĥč ďĤĚ ĤēČĘĥ ĐĠđģĦč ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČĐ ĘĦĐ ęđĤč ,ĐĜđĕĘĞĐ ĤĕĞč 71.ĘēĜĐ ĖĤđČĘ ĦĘĕĕĔđ ,đĜđĝēČđ ēĚģ ĦĜĕēĔ ĕĜģĦĚ ,ĦđĕđĜē ,ęĕĤđĎĚ ĕĦč ďĢč ,(ĝĕĘđĠđĤģČĐ) ĤĕĞĐ ĦďđĢĚ ĦĚđē ĕďĕĤĥ čĔĕĐ ęĕĤėĕĜ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ģĕĠČĘ ěđĠĢĚ ęĕĤĔĚ 150ąė čĢĕĜĐ ĐĚđēĐ ĕčđĞ .čĤĞĚąěđĠĢđ ēĤĒĚąěđĠĢ ěđĠĢ ďĢĚ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ĐĠĕģĐĥ ĐĚđē ĕďĕĤĥđ ,ďēČ ęĜđďė ĐēĔĥĥ ĤĕĞĐ ĤĞĥ đč ĐĕĐĥ ęđģĚč ,ĕēĤĒĚĐąěđĠĢĐ ĐĢģč ĔĘđč ĘďĎĚ ĕďĕĤĥ Đč ęĕĤėĕĜđ ,ĕĢēđ ęĕĤĔĚ ĐĞčĤČė ĦĜĚđĝĚ ĐĜĕČ đĒ ĖĤď .ĐĤĢđč ĤčĞ ĘČ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĦĤģĜ ĐĘĞĚč ēĤĕ Ħĕčđ ĐĕĤčĔĚ ĦėĘđĐĐ ĖĤďĐ ĘČ ĐĜđĠĐ ,Tabula Imperii RomaniąĘ ĦĠĤđĢĚĐ ,ĘđĤ ĘČĤĥĕ Ęĥ ĦđĕĚđĤĐ ęĕėĤďĐ ĦĠĚč ČĘ ęĎđ ,ĤĎĜĕĔĕđĠ ĦĠĚč ,ęĕďĕĞĚ ĘčČ ĐĜėĥĐ ĤĕĞĐĚ ęĕČĢĚĚđ 72,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦč ęĎ čđĥē ĐĞđĜĦ ĤĕĢ ĐĦĕĐĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ ĘčČ

T. M. Weber, “Gadara 1998 the Excavation of the Five-Aisled Basilica at Umm Qays: A .66 ,ĤďĎĘ ēĤĒĚĚ Ěīģ 12 ,ĐĤĜĚąĘČ ęđĪĎđĤč ĘđĎĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕďĕĤĥ ĘĞ ēđđĕď ,Preliminary Report”, ADAJ 42 (1998), p. 453

ĤėĒĜĐ đĤĠĝč .ĘčČ ęĞ ĤďĎ ęđēĦ ĘđčĎ ĦČ ěĚĕĝ ĐĜčĚĐĥ ,ĤėĚđĥ Ęĥ đĦĤĞĥĐ ĦČ ĤĥĕČđ ,ěĤđēĘ ĦėĘđĐĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĐ ĘĞ .Ėė ĘĞ ĤĒē (48 ĪĚĞ) Gadara — Umm Qes J. N. Sepp, Jerusalem und das Heilige Land, II ;375 ĐĤĞĐđ ,52 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes ,Ĥčđ .67 .(Schaffhausen, 1863), p. 154 Ħđĥďē ,īĤčđď ĘĦī ,đĜČđĕĠĤ ĐďđĐĕ Ęĥ ĐĤĕĠēĐ ĦđČĢđĦ ĦČ ČĘđ ,ěĕčĕĕ Ęĥđ ĤĒĚ Ęĥ ęĐĕĤģēĚ ĦČ ĤĕėĒĚ đĜĕČ Ĥčđ .68 .ěĘĐĘ đČĤđ ,23–21 ĪĚĞ ,(2001) 113 ĦđĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČ ĐďĎČĐ ĦČ .91 ĪĚĞč ĐĠĚđ ,93–90 ĪĚĞ ,(1952 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ČčėđėąĤč ĦĚēĘĚ ,ěĕčĕĕ Īĥ ěėđ ;10 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ đČĤ .69 ĐĤĕďē ĞđĜĚĘ ĐĕĐ ďĤĚĐ ěĚĒč đďĕģĠĦĥ ĤĢčĚ ĐĦđĕĐĘ ěĕčĕĕ Ĥĥģ (ČīĞ Ĕĝ ,Đ ď ĦđĕĜĞĦ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ) ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ěčĤđē ĘĞ .66 ĐĤĞĐđ ,51–50 ĪĚĞ ,īčđĕČ ĕĤĞĜ ĞĝĚ ĘĞī ĤĜčĕĘ ęĎ đČĤ .ĖđĚĤĕĐ ěĎČ ěđđĕėĚ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĘ ěđĤĚđĥ ĐďđĐĕ ęĎ đČĤ .9–7 ĪĚĞ ,(1968) đė ĦđĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČ Ħđĥďē ,ī(2 ĪĝĚ Á ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĤĘģ ĦĕĕĘđē) ěĘđĎĐ Ĥģĝī .70 .īĤčđď ĘĦī ,đĜČđĕĠĤ đČĤ ĐĘĢĐĐ ĦĤĕĠē ĦđČĢđĦ ĘĞ .208 ĤĦČ ,(čīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ēīėĥĦ ĦĜĥč ĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČ Ĥģĝ :ěĘđĎĐđ .ĐĜđĦēĦĐ ĤĕĞč ĤčđďĚ ęđģĚ ĘėĚđ ,ĘďĎĚĐ ĕďĕĤĥ ęđģĕĚ ĦČ ĤČĦĚ đĜĕČ ēđđĕďĐ .22 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,đĜČđĕĠĤ .71 ęĕėĤď ģĤ ĐĜĚĕĝ ĤĎĜĕĔĕđĠ ĦĠĚĥ ěĕĕĢĚ ,110 ĪĚĞ ,“The Roads in Roman-Byzantine Palaestina” ĘđĤ .72 ĕČđđĦ ĖĤđČĘ đĘĘĝĜ ĦđĕĚđĤĐ ęĕėĤďĐ ĦĕčĤĚĥ ěĕĕĢĚ ęĎ ĘđĤ .ĦđĕĒėĤĚ ęĕėĤď ģĤ ěĚĕĝ ČđĐ ęĎĥ ĤĥĠČđ ,ĦđĜēĦđ ĦđĕĥČĤ Selah Merrill, East) ĤďĎĘ ĐėĕĘđĚĐ ĦĕĚđĤ ĖĤď ĕďĕĤĥ ĘĞ ēđđĕď ,đĒ ĖĤďč ĐĘĞĥ ĘĕĤĚ ĎđĘđČĕėĤČĐ .ĤĦđĕ ĦđģĕĦĞ ęĕėĤď Á ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ēĤĕ ĦĕčĚ ĥĕčėī :ěĕĕĢĚ ,92 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĕĠČĤĎđČĕĎ ,ĐĜđĕąĕčČ .(of the Jordan, New York 1881, p. 141 ĦĚē ĖđĦč ĦĘĢĠĦĚ ĐĕĤčĔĚ ĖĤďĐ (3 ĤđĕČ) ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ Ęĥ ĐĠĚč .īĐėĘĝ Á ĐĤĢč Á ĕĞĤďČ Á ČĦĚĤ Č Á ČĥĕĤ Ħĕč Á ĤďĎ ĦČ ĘčģĚ (51–50 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes) Ĥčđ ;ĐĤĢđč ěđđĕėĘ ĖđĚĤĕĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĜđĠĢĐ ĐďĎĐ ĘĞ ĖĕĥĚĚ ĐĘĥ ğĕĞĝđ ,ĤďĎ .ĐČčĐ ĐĤĞĐĐ ęĎ đČĤđ .ĐĤĢđčĘ ĖĤďč ģĝđĞ đĜĕČ ĕė ęČ ,ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ Ęĥ ęĕėĤďĐ ĦĠĚ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ ĤēČ ęđģĕĚ 58.ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ęĦėĕĘĐĚ ĐĕĤčĔ ĕĚėēĘ ĦĤėđĚĐ ĖĤďč ĐĦĚēĘ ĘďĎĚĚ ęĕĘđĞ đĕĐđ ęĕĕģ đĜĕČđ ĦĕĠĤĎđĠđĔ ĐĜĕēčĚ ĕĤĥĠČ đĜĕČ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĞĕĢĐĥ ĕĠė ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ěđĥĘĘ ęĕČĦĚĐ ĖđĚĤĕĘ ěđĠĢĚ ,ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ěĕč ĖĤďĘ Ėĕĕĥ đĜĕČ ,ęĕČĜĦ ĥĤďĚč ČĢĚĜĐ īĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐĘĞĚī ēĜđĚĐ ęĎ 59.ĦđČĕĢĚč 60.Ĥčđ ĝĚđĦđ ĕģĢĪĒĤđčď ĕĦĝČ đĜĕĕĢĥ ĕĠė ,ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ěĕč ĘđĘĦĐ ĐĘĞĚĘ ČĘČ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Ĥčĝĥ ĕĠė ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĕđĐĕĒĘ .2č ČĘČ ,ĕĠĤĎđČĎĐąĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĤģēĚč ęĎ ĦđĘđĞ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ Ĥčďč ČĦĕĕĤčč ĦđĠđĘēĐ ĕĦĥ ęĥč ĤēČ čđĥĕĕč ģđĝĞĘ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ĦđĤđďč ęĕĤģđē đĤēč ,ĐĒĐ ĕĦėĘĐĐąĕČĜĦĐ ĤđģĚč ěđĕĞĐ ęđģĚčĥ ĦČ đĐĕĒ ęĕĤģđēĐ čđĤ 61.ęĕĥĤďĚčđ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦč ęĕĥĞĚ ĕĤđĠĕĝčđ ĦđďĎČč ĤėĒĜĐ ,ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ĤčĞč ĘďĎĚĐ ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ ĞĕĢĐ ČđĐđ ,ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ČđĐ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ěĕĕĘģ ĕĤčďĘ .ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ęĞ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ēĤĒĚąęđĤďĚ ĤĦČ ģĕĜģđĝ ĞĕĢĐ đĕĦđčģĞč 62.ĖđĚĤĕĐ Ęĥ ĕĚđĤďĐ đĤčĞčĥ ČčĕĕēđĚąĘČ ĕđĤģĐ ĤĦČč ěďĤĕĐ ĐĕĐĥ ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦĐĚ ĘđďĎ ĐĜčĚ ĕďĕĤĥ đčđ ďđČď Ĥĕď đĚĥđ ,ĤďĎĘ ĐĘđĞĐ ĖĤďĘ ĖđĚĝ ,ĐčĕĕēđĚąĘČĘ ĐčĕĝĚ đĒ ĐĞĢĐĚ ĎĕĕĦĝĐ Ĥčđ ĝĚđĦ 64.ĕģĢĪĒĤđčď ĕĦĝČđ ĔĔĥĕĕĜ ĕėďĤĚ đėĘĐ ęĐĕĦđčģĞčđ 63.ĘďĎĚ ĕĘđČ ĕĠė 65,Ħđčđĥē ĐĥĕĎ ĕėĤď ĘĞ ęĕĔĘđĥ ĦđĚđģĚčđ ,ĐĜėĥ ĤĕĞ ęĞ ĤĠĝ ĕĤđĒČč đĚģđĐ ęĕĘďĎĚ ;ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ

,īģĘĝī đČ īěĕĘđĞī ěđĥĘ ęĕĔģđĜ ęĘđėđ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĕČĢĚĜ ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ęĕĚėē ĦėĕĘĐ ĘĞ ęĕĤĠĝĚĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐ Ęė .58 :ĐĜĕĜē Ĥč ČĚē ĪĤī :ďīĞ Đ ,Č Ď Ħčĥ ;Īđėđ īĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ČĤĕĞĒ ĪĤ ęĞ ģĘĝ ĦđĦĜĞ ĐĜĕĜē ĪĤī :čīĞ ČĚ ,Č č ĦđĚđĤĦ :ęĐ đĘČđ ĕčĤđ ČĜĜĕē ĕčĤī :ĎīĞ Ďė ,ď đ ěĕčđĤĞ ;īĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĕčĤ ęĞ đĜĕĕĐ ěĕĘđĞ ČĜĕĜē ĪĤ ĤĚďī ,ČīĞ Ē ,Č ď ;īĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ đĜĕĘĞ ČčČđ ĕĜČ ,ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ĦđėĘĐ ěėđ ;īĤďĎď ČĦĚēĘ ČĕĕĥĜ Đďđĕ ĪĤ ęĞ ģĘĝ ěĦĜđĕ ĪĤī :ďīĞ ďĝ ,ďĕ Ď ěĕĥđďĕģ ;īĤďĎď ĐĦĚēĘ ěđģĘĝ ěĦĜđĕ .čīĞ ĐĚ ,đĔ Đ ;ČīĞ čĚ ,Ĕ Ď ;ďīĞ Ě ,č č ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ :ěđĎė .ĐĦĚē ĤĕĞĘ ĤďĎď ĐĦĚē ěđĠĢčĥ ĐĞģčĐ ĖĤď đĜĚĚ ęĕĘđĞ đĕĐđ ,ĐĦĚē ěđĠĢč ĐĕĐĥ ĘďĎĚī :ěĚĤčĕĘ ĕĤčď ĐĜĐ .59 ČĦĠĝđĦ) īĖđĚĤĕĐ ĤĥĎĘ ĖđĚĝ ďĞ ĐĘđė ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ęĕėĘđĐ đĕĐđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ďĕ ĘĞ ĐĦĚē ęđĤďč ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ĐĦĕĐ ĒīĠĘđ ĘČ ĘđĘĦ ĐĘĞĚ ĥĕ ĐĦĚēĘ ěđĠĢĚ ĘčČ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĖđĦč ĐėĕĘĐĐ ĘđĘĝĚč ģĕĕď ěĚĤčĕĘ .(84–83 Īđĥ ,385 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė .ĐĞģč ęĥ ěĕČđ ,ěĘđĎĐ ĝđĜĕĕĤďĐ ĐĘĞĥėī (26 ĪĚĞ ,ěĚĠđĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ęĕĤčďĘ ęĕČĜĦ ĥĤďĚ ěĕč Ĥĥģ (82 ĐĤĞĐ ,385 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ěĚĤčĕĘ .60 ĐĘĞĚĥ ČĘČ .ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĚ ĐĕĕĘĞĐ ěĕčĘ ,īĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐĘĞĚ ěĥ ĘĞ ĘČĤĥĕ Ħč ĦēČ ĐĜĔģ ČĢĚ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐĘĞĚč ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĤďĎ ďĤđĚ ĤĚđĘė ,īĤďĎď ČĜĦēĚī ČĤģĜ ęĎ ČđĐđ ,ĤďĎĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚēĚ ĐĘĞĚĘ ĤđĚĥĐ ęĥ ČđĐ ĥĤďĚ đĦđČč ĤďĎ ĦĚē E. Dvorjetski, :đČĤ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐĘĞĚ Ęĥ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒ ĘĞ .īĤďĎī ĖĤĞ ,ęĘĥĐ ĖđĤĞđ ,ĕ ,ēĤĠđ ĤđĦĠė ĘĞč ĤĕĞĚĥ ĕĠė ,(čīĞ čė Gadara — ,Ĥčđ ;“Roman Emperors at the Medical Hot Springs in Eretz Israel”, Latomus 56 (1997), p. 571 ,110 ĪĚĞ ,“The Roads in Roman-Byzantine Palaestina” ,ĘđĤ Ęĥ ĐĠĚč .475 ĪĚĞ ěėđ ,58 ĐĤĞĐđ ,463 ĪĚĞ ,Umm Qes .ĤďĎĘ ĐĕĤčĔĚ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĘ ěđđėĚ īĤďĎ ĐĘĞĚī ēĜđĚĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ď ,Ēĕ ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ;đčĤēĥ ęĕčđĥĕĕ ĘĞ ČīĞ Ĕĝ ,Đ ď ęĥ ;ęĕĔĕĥ ĕĢĞ ĘĞ ĎīĞ ďĝ ,đ Č ĦđĕĜĞĦ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .61 ĘĞ 41–34 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đČĤđ ,ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĘĞ ĐĒ ĞĝĚĚ ďĚĘ ,īčđĕČ ĕĤĞĜ ĞĝĚ ĘĞī ,ĤĜčĕĘ .(ēĞĥ ĪĚĞ ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ .ĤģēĚĐ ĦđďĘđĦ .MGWJ 29 (1880), p. 487 ąč ġĤĎ Ęĥ ĐĞĢĐ ĘĞ ĖĚĦĝĚ ,40 ĪĚĞ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ ,ěĕĕĘģ .62 ĐĤđďĐĚč ĘīĜĐ ęĎ đČĤ .E. L.Sukenik, The Ancient Synagogue of El-Hammeh (Jerusalem, 1935), p. 24 .63 .61–59 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĢĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĤďĎ ĦĚēč ģĕĦĞĐ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ :ďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ,ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĕĚĕč ĤďĎ ĦĚēī ,ĕģĢĪĒĤđčď ĪČ ;94–91 ĪĚĞ ,(1968 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ěĘđĎĐ ,ĔĔĥĕĕĜ ĪĚ .64 .14 ĪĚĞ ,(1988 ,ĐĠĕē ĦĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČ ;ĖĚĝđĚ ĤČđĦĘ ĤĚĎ ĦďđčĞ) īĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ēđĦĕĜ ěđēĕĎ ęĜĚČ .376 ĐĤĞĐč ěđēĕĎ ĪĚ Ęĥ ĤĚČĚĘ đĦĕĕĜĠĐ đČĤ ĤĠĝ ĕĘďĎĚ ěĕĕĜĞč .52 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes Ĥčđ .65 ĕďĕč ĐēďĜ ĐĒ ęďģđĚ ĖđĤČĕĦđ ,ĐĜĕĔĝĘĠ ĝĚĕĘč ęĕĕđđČĘĠĐ ęĕĤĝĕģĐ đĚĕģĐĥ ĐĜĎĐ ĖĤĞĚ ĘĞ ĐĕĤđČĦĚ ģĘēė ęĕĘďĎĚč ěď Ėėč ěĕČ ĘčČ ,32–3 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĚĥĦ) 30 ĐĤďĦģ ,īĘđďĎĐ ďĤĚĐ ĤēČĘĥ ĐĠđģĦč ĐďđĐĕąęđĤďč ěđēĔčĐ ĦđĕĞčī ,ěĚĢĥ ĘČĤĥĕ .ĕĤđĒČ ĐĜĎĐ ĖĤĞĚč ęĕĘďĎĚĐ ĦđčĕĥēĚ ĞđĤĎĘ ĕďė

ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ

58

ĐĦĕĐ ęĕĥĜĐ ĦĤĒĞī :ęĕĥĜ ĦĤĒĞĘ ĦđďĕĚ ĐĜĥĚč ěĦĕĜ ČđĐđ ,čĚÀĚ ęĕģĤĠ ĘČģĒēĕč ČđĐ ēĜđĚĐ ĤđģĚ ęĕĞčĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĞĢģĚ ĞčĤČč đĕĐ ĦđėĥĘ ĞčĤČđ ĥĚēđ ęĕĥĘĥđ ĐČĚ čēĤ ĘĞ ĥĚēđ ęĕĥĘĥđ ĐČĚ ĖĤđČ ī(Čė đĚ ĘČģĒēĕ) ĪĐ ĀĜ āđĢĕēü Đÿ ĤĢý ēĀ Đþ ĘČþ ĕ üĜČý Ģü āđĕă ÿđĪ ĤĚČĜĥ ĦđĕĐĘ ęĕďĕĦĞ ęĐ Ėėđ ĦđĤđģĚ đĕĐ ČĘđ ĐĚČ ęĕĞčĤČ ĖėĘ ĐĚđďč .ģđĝĠĐ ęĎ ĐĤđĚĥ ĕĠė ,ġđēĐ ĘČ ĥďđģĐĚ ČĕĐ ĐČĕĢĕĐ ĥďģĚĐ Ħĕččĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ .(Đ č ĦđďĕĚ) ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐđ ,ĐĢđēĐ ęĕĥďđģĐ ĥďđģĚ ęĕčđĤėĐ Ęđģ ĦČĕĢĕ ,ČĤĠĝč ,ĤēČ ĕČĜĦ ĤđģĚč ęĎ ęĕČĢđĚ đĜČ ĕĜĠĚ Ęđėĕ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ďĞ ĞĚĥĜ ęĕčđĤėĐ ĕĠĜė Ęđģđ ĤĚđČ ĐĦČ Ĥčďč ČĢđĕėī :ĘđģĐ ĦČĕĢĕ ĘđčĎ ČĕĐ ďĞ ĞĕĎĚ ĐĕĐĥ ěđĕė ČĘČ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ďĞ ĤĚČĜ ĐĚĘ ėīČđ ĕĜĕĝč đĤčďč ĕďĥ Ęđģė ĘīĦ ĖđĚĜ ĘđģĐ ĐĕĐĥ ĐĘČ ĦđĤđģĚ ĕĜĥč .(ČīĞ ď ,ĝĕĕđ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,Čĕ ,č ģĤĠ ,ĐčďĜď ČĤđčĕď ČĤĠĝ) īģĝĠĜ ĐĕĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĦđėĘĐđ ĦđĥĤĚ ĐČĢđĐ Ęĥ ĤĥģĐč ĘčČ .ĖĤďĐ ĐĢģč đĕĘČ ęĕČĢđĕĥ ęđģĚĐ ČĕĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ĕčĎĘ ĐėĘĐ ĐĞčģ ĐĜĥĚĐ .ĐėđĠĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚč īĐĜđĢĕē ĤĢēī ēĜđĚĘ ęĕģģĒĜ ęĕĕČĜĦĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐĥ ĐČĤĜ ěēĔđĥ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĞĕĎĐ ĥĥđē đĜĕČđ ěĐč ĖĘĐĚ ęĕĚč ĖĤďč đĕĘė đĤĥĜĥ ĕĚī ,đĕďĎč đčĔĤĜđ ĖĤďč ĖĘđĐĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēč Á ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦđĜĚďĒĐčĥ ,ČĕĐ ĐĜđđėĐĥ ĤđĤčđ ,(ď čė Ħčĥ) īęĞĐ ďĎĜė ČĘ ĘčČ ĐĚēč ĐĚĎđď ďđĞ ģĤ ĥĕ ČĦĠĝđĦč 57.ĐĜĥĚč ĦđĚđģĚ ďđĞč ĥĕ ĐĒč ČĢđĕėđ ;đĕďĎč ĔđĥĠĕ Á ĖĤďĐ ěĚ ĐĕĘČ ĞĕĎĕĥ đēĕĜĚ ĕĤėĜ đĚĞ ěĕČ ęČđ ĕĤėĜĘ đĝĕė ěĦđĜ ĖĤďč ĖĕĥēĐĥ ĕĚī :ĐĤĞĐč ĕĦČčĐĥ ĐĜĥĚĘ ĐĘĕčģĚ ČĕĐđ ,ĦēČ ęĕģĥĐđ ęĕĘčēĐ ĦČ ĤĕĦĚ ěĕĘĔĕĜ ěĕČĥđ Ħčĥč ěĕĘĔĕĜĐ ęĕĘėĐ ĦČ ĘĔđĜ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĞĕĎĐ ,ĤđĚēĐ ĘĞ đĦĝĕĜėč Đč ĥĎđĠ ęďČĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĤĢēĘ ČĕĐ ĐĜđđėĐ ěČė ęĎ .(84 ĪĚĞ ,ė Ēĕ Ħčĥ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) īęĕĘĠđĜ .ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦđĜĥĤĠĘ ĐĔđĜ ğėĐđ ,ęĕĜĠ ĕĜĥĘ ĥĤĠĦĐĘ Ęđėĕ īĐĜđĢĕē ĤĢēī ēĜđĚĐ :ęđėĕĝĘ .ĖĤďĐĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĕčĤ ĦĜđđėĥ ,ĐĜģĝĚ ĘĘėĘ ČđĠČ Čč ĕĦĕĕĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĐĘĕčģĚĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ đĘĕČ ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč Ęĥ ĐĝĕĜėĐ ĦČ ĘĕčĎĐĘ ČĕĐ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚĥđ ,ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĤĢēĘ ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ęđĤďĚ ĦČĢĚĜ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĥ ĞđčģĘ ČĘČ đĜĘ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ,Ėėĥ ěđđĕėĚ .ďčĘč ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĤĢēĐ ĘČ ĖĤđĞĥ ČĕĐđ ,ĐėđĠĐ ĐĜģĝĚ Čģđđď ĦģĒēĦĚ ĐĘČ ĦđĤđģĚ ĞģĤ ĘĞ ĘčČ .ĐĜĚĚ ĐđčĎđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ēĤĒĚĚđ ěĕĞĕĎĚđ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚđī ČĦĠĝđĦč ěĜĕČĥ ęĕĘĕĚĐ ĦČ ěđđėĚ ĦĜđđėč ğĕĝđĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĥĕĎďĐĘđ ,ĦĚĢĚĢĚĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚĘ ČĕĐ ĐĜđđėĐ ČĚĥ ģĠĝ Ęė ĞđĜĚĘ ĕďė ĐĒđ Á īĤĥĎĐ ďĞ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦĝĤĎ .đĚĢĞ ĤĥĎĐ ďĞ ĐČĘĐ ęĎđ ,ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ęĕĞĕĎĚĥ ĕĜĠĘ īĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚīĥ .ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘČ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĖđĦĚ ČđĐ ĘđĘĝĚĐĥ ģĠĝ ĐĤĕĦđĚ ĐĜĕČ ęĕĔđĜ (ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞčđ ěīčĚĤĐ) ēĝđĜĐ ĕďĞđ ČĦĠĝđĦč ďĕĐąĕčĦė Á ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕĘđĞ đČ ,ěĕČč ,ěĕďĤđĕ .4 čđĥ ĦčĢĕĜ ĤēČĐ ĤčĞĐ ěĚ ;ęĐĘ ĦďĎđĜ ēĤėĐč ĐĜĕČ ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦė Ęĥ īěĕČčī ĦĝĤĎđ ,īěĕďĤđĕī ĐĝĤĎĘ Á ĘĕĞĘ ĕĦĞĢĐĥ Đčĕĝ ĐĦđČĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦĝĤĎ ĦČ ğĕďĞĐĘ ĕĘ ĐČĤĜ ěČė ęĎ .īěĕĘđĞī Á ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦĝĤĎ ĘĞ Ĥčđď ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐč ;ĐĤĕĝĚč ĘđĥĕĤ ĘĞ ČĘđ ĦđĜģďģď ĘĞ ĐĤđĚ ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ ĤČĥ ĘėĚ ĐĜđĥĐ ěđĥĘĐ ĥđčĕĥ Ęē ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĦĤĕĝĚč ČĚĥ ,ďĥēĐ ĤĤđĞĦĚ .ĐĦĚēĘ ęĕĘđĞ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĘĕČđ ,ĐĦĚēĘ ĐďĕĤĕ ,ģĠĝ ěĕČ ďēČ Ĥčďč .ęĕďĤđĕ ĘďĎĚĚĥ ĐĤčĝĚ đČ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĤĦĕĐĐĚ ĐĦĚē ĘČ ĐďĕĤĕ Ęĥ ěđĥĘ ĦĤĎĥČ Ęĥč ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕČĤđĚČĘ ĤėđĚĐ čēĤĚč ęĕČĢĚĜ ęĕĜđďĕĜĐ ęĕčđĥĕĕĐđ ,ĐėĘĐč ĕĜđĕē ĔĤĠ ČđĐ ĐėĕĘĐĐ ĘđĘĝĚ ,ĐĦĚēĘ (ęĜđĥĘč īĘďĎĚī ęĦĝ đČ) ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĥĜČ Ęĥ īĐėĕĘĐ ĦĠĚī ĥĕ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĘĥ ĤėĕĜ .īĕĥĕČ ĞďĕīĚ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĠĘĥ ,ęďđģĐ ěđĕďĐĚ ĤđĤčĥ ęĥė .ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ěėĕĐ ęĕĔčĘĦĚ ęĐ ěĕČđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ čĤĞĚĚ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ďĤđĚč čđĥĕĕĐ ČĢĚĜ đĦĔĕĥĘĥ ĐĦĞ ĤĤčĦĚ ęĎ Ėė ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ěđĠĢ ďĢĚ ČĢĚĜ

ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĞĕĎĐ ĤđĚēĐ ĘĞ đēĕĜĚ ĕĤėĜ đĚĞ ěĕČ ęČđ ĕĤėĜĘ đĝĕė ěĦđĜ ĖĤďč ĖĕĥēĐĥ ĕĚī :Č ďė Ħčĥ ęĎ ěėđ .57 ČĢđĚĐ ĕčĎĘ ęĎ đĐđĚėđ .īęĐĕĘĕČĚ ěĕĘĠđĜ ěĕģĥĐđ ęĕĘčēĐ ĦČ ĤĕĦĚ Ħčĥč ěĕĘĔĕĜ ěĜĕČĥđ Ħčĥč ěĕĘĔĕĜĐ ęĕĘėĐ ĦČ ĘĔđĜ .(č ĕ ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĞĕĎĚĥ ďĞ ĥĕČĘ ĥĕČĚ ěĕĘĕĠĦĐ ĦČ đĤĝĚĕĥ ģĝĠ ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤ ,ĖĤďč ěĕĘĕĠĦ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ęĕĐ ĦĠĥ ĘĞ ĘĕĕĔĚđ ĤđĚēĐ ĘĞ čđėĤ ĐĕĐđ đčĤ ĦĕčĚ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĚ ěđĞĚĥ ěč ĤĒĞĘČ Ččĥ ĐĥĞĚī :ČčĐ ĤĦđĚ ĘčČ ,ĐďĕĚĐ ĘĞ ĤĦĕ ĐĒ ĤđĠĕĝ ĘĞ ĖĚĦĝĐĘĚ đĜĦđČ ĞĜđĚ ĦđČĝĤĎĐ ĕđčĕĤ 53.(ČīĞ ė ĦĕĜĞĦ) ī[. . .] 54.ĐĕĤčĔ Ęĥ ĐĚĕĚ ģēĤĐ ČĘ ČĢĚĜ ęđģĚĐĥđ ,đĚĥ ĤģĕĞ ČđĐ īĤďĎ ĘďĎĚīĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĘĞ ĤĥĎč ĤčđďĚĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ .ēĝđĜĐ ĕďĞ Ęėč ĤĒđē ĐĒ ęđģĚ ěđĕĢ Á ĤĥĎĐ ďĕĘĥ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ .3 ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĕēĤĒĚĐąĕĚđĤďĐ ĐģĘēč ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĤĥĎ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĐĐđĒ ěėČ ěĘĐĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĕĠėđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĐĞģčĐ ĖđĦč ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ęđĤďĚ ČđĐ ęĎ ČĢĚĜĐ ĐčĕĕēđĚąČ čđĥĕĕĘđ ĤďĎĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚēĚ đĕĘĞ ĐĤčĞĥ ĖĤďđ ĦđĜĕĕĞĚĐ ĕĜĥ ęĕČĢĚĜ ęĥĥ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĖđĦč ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐčĕčĝĐ ČđĠČ ĐĜĕĕĜĞ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ .ĐēĤĒĚ ĖĥĚĐč ĐčēĤĐ ĤĦĕč čđĥČ ĐĘČ ęĕĔĤĠ ĘČ .(ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ đĜčĜ ĤĦđĕ ęēĐđ ĕčĤĞĚĐ ěĕĕĞĚĐ ĘĞ) ęĕĕĤģĕĞĐ :ĐėĘĐĐ ěđĥĘĘ ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ ĦČ ěĕĕĢČ ĐĦĞđ ,(2č) ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒ :ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦė ČĦĠĝđĦ ¤ .ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĪĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ,ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒ :ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦė ČĦĠĝđĦ ¤ 55.ĤĥĎĘ .ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ ČĦĚēĘ ěĕČč ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒ :ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦė ČĦĠĝđĦ ¤ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ěĕĞĕĎĚđ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚđ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕĘđĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĜČ ĤđėĒ :ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ¤ ďĞ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ěĕĞĕĎĚđ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚđ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕĘđĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĪĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ;ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ .ĤĥĎĐ ĤĢēĐ ďĞ ěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒ :(ďđĞđ Đīď ,ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĕĘččč) ĦđĠĝđĦ ¤ .ĤĕĞĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ďĞ ěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐ ,ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĘďĎĚĥ ,ČĕĐ ĦēČĐ ĐĠđĘēĐ :ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĚ ĖĤďĘ ĦđĠđĘē ĕĦĥ ĐĘĎĚ ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ Ęĥ Đģĕďč ĦČ đĢēĕ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘČ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đďĤĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĚ ĐđčĎ ęđģĚčđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ęđĤďĚ ĦĜėđĥ ĤďĎ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĦĥĤđĠĚ ĦĤēČĐ ĐĠđĘēĐđ .ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĤĢēĘ ĤčĞĚ đėĕĥĚĕ ČĘđ ,ĐĜđĠĢ ĤĥĎĐ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĘĞĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĐĒĚ ĖđĚĜ ęđģĚčđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ěđĠĢĚ ĦČĢĚĜ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĥ ČĕĐđ ,ĤđĚČė .ĤďĎ ĐėČđč ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦČ ČĢđĕĐ ĤĥĎĐ ďĞ đĞĕĎĕđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē Ęė ĦČ đėĘ ýĕ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĐĘđĞĐ ĖĤďč ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ čĤĞĚĚđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĘ ěđĠĢĚ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĦČ ĥĠēĘ ĦčĕĕēĚ ČĕĐđ ,ĦĥĤđĠĚđ ĐĤđĤč ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐĠđĘēĐ ,ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ěđĥĘč īĐĜđĢĕē ĤĢēī ēĜđĚĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚč ĕđĘĦ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐĠđĘēĐ Ęĥ ĐĘĤđĎ 56.ĖđĚĤĕĐ ďĤđĚč ĕĜĠĘ ĐĜđĤēČĐ ĤĢēĘ đČ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĝĜėĜĘ ĤĦđĕč ĐčđĤģĐ ĤĢēĘ ĐĜđđėĐ ęČ ČĕĐ ěČė ĤĤčĚ ĕĜČĥ ĐĘČĥĐđ .ĐĜĚĚ ĐČĕĢĕĐ (ĎđĢĤĐ čĤĐ ďĕ) ĕĜĚĕĦ ďĕąčĦėčđ ,īĤďĎ ĤđĢ ĘďĎĚī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ 23 ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦėčđ ,140 ěėĜĕĚ ďĕąčĦėč Ėė .53 :(Č ĪĚĞ đĝ) ČĚ ,Č ēĝđĜ ,ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČčđ .īĤďĞ ĘďĎĚī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėčđ 95 ěėĜĕĚ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ .īĤđďĎ ĘďĎĚī ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤđ .īęĕĐ ĦĠĥ ĘĞ ĘĕĕĔĚđ ĤđĚē ĘĞ čėđĤ ĐĕĐđ đčĤ ĦĕčĚ ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚĚ Ččĥ ĤĒĞĘČ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤč ĐĥĞĚī .74 ĐĤĞĐ ,384 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ďĕĘ ĐďđĐĕč ČĘČ ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚ ęĥč ęđģĚ ěĕČđ ,(ěīčĚĤĐ ĦĝĤĎ) đĜĘĥ ČĦĕĕĤčč ęĎ ęĕĠĘēĦĚ ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ .54 ,ĐĜĕđ) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕ ďĞđ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ěĚĒĚ ĕďđĐĕĐ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞ ,ěĕĕĘģ Īĥ ęĎ đĜĕĕĞđ .528 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČ đČĤ .ěđĤčē ,(ďīĠĤĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) Č ,ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ ,ĝĕđĤģ Īĥ ĘčČ .ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĘ ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚ ęđģĚ Ęėč ěģĦĚĐ ,40–39 ĪĚĞ ,(1924 .ęĕĚėē ěđĥĘč ČĕĕĞčĢ ĘďĎĚ ČđĐ ČĤģĚĐ ěđĥĘč ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚĥ ěĞđĔ ,39 ĪĚĞ .ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦėč đĚė ĤģĕĞĐđ ,ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėč ęĎ ĤčďĐ ěėđ ,ĦđĚđďĐ ĕĜĠĚ Ĥĝē ĖĥĚĐĐĥ ĐČĤĜ .55 :83–82 Īđĥ ,384 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤ .ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ĞĎđĜč ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĤčď ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĘĞ ďĚĞ ěĚĤčĕĘ .56 ęĎ Đčđĥēđ .īĤĕĞĐ ğđĝč ,ĐĦĚē Ęĥ ĕĜĥĐ ďĢĚ ČĘČ ĐĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ěĕč ČĘ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĐ ĐĦĕĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĠĘđī ĤĢē ěđĎė ,ĐĦģĝĠĚ ęĕčĤĐ ĖĤďĥ ďĕēĕ Ęĥ ĤĢēčī :Ē ģĤĠ ğđĝ ĦđĤĐĔč ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĤđČĕčč ěĕĕĘģ ĪĥĘ ,75 ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥ đĦĕĕĜĠĐ .īěĦĚēđ ĤďĎ Ħĕč

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ęĕĘĥĐĘ ĥĕ ěđĠĢčĥ ĐĤđčģĐ ĤđĒČ ěĕčĘ čĤĞĚč ĝĘėđČĚĐ ĤđĒČĐ ěĕč ĐĤĢđĜĥ ČĚĎĐ ĦČ 52.īĐďĕĚĐ ěĚ ĦČĢĚĜĐ ,ČĚĎĐ ďđģďđģĘ ĦĕďĎĜĐ ĦĕđđĒĐĚ ďđďĚĘ ĥĕ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ěđđĕėĘ ĐĚČĐ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦČđ ,ĦĕĘĕčģĚ ĘĘėĘ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĤĥĎĐĚ ďēČ ĤĔĚđĘĕģ ģēĤĚ ,ĐčĕĕēĚąĘČ ĦĞĤĒĚ ĘČ ĦėĘđĐĐ ĖĤďĐ ęĞ ģđģĚ ĕďČđ Ęĥ ĥĎĠĚč .ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐėČđč ĦđĜģĝĚđ ęđėĕĝ Á ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ .6Č ĤďĎ ĦĞģč Ęĥ ĦĕĠĤĎđČĎĐđ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ęĞ ĦčĥĕĕĦĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦģđĘēĚ ĘėĚ ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČĘ ĤĕĦĐ ĕčĤ ,đĦĜĞĔĘ .ĤĕĞĐ ĤđčĕĞ ĦĤđĢč ĕčĤ Ęĥ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĐĘĦ ČĜĚ ĪĤ .ęĦĠđģĦč ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ ČĕĐ ĤďĎĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ęĕĤĔĚđĘĕģ ĐĥĕĥÀĐĥĕĚē ĖĘĐĚ ,ĐėđĤČĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĐ ĘĞ ,ĤďĎ ĦđĢģ ĦĚē ĕĥĜČ đĘĕČđ .Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ĖđĦč ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĚ ďēČ ĤĔĚđĘĕģ ĕďė ďĞ ĞĕĎĚ ĐĤđčĕĞđ ,ČĚĎ ĦđČĐ ĦđĚďč ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĤĥĎĐĚ ĕĢēđ ęĕĤĔĚđĘĕģ ĕĜĥ ĦđēĠĘ ęĕģēđĤĚĐ ,ČĚĎĐ ĦđĢģ ĘČ ĦėĘĘ ęĕĤĦđĚ đĕĐ ČĘ ĤďĎ ĦđĕĐč ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĐĘĦ ěđč ĪĤč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ,đĦĚđĞĘ .ĐčĤĐč ĐėđĤČĐ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĐ ĘĞ ČĘ ĐĚėđ ĐĚė ĦēČ ĘĞđ ęĜĕď ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜč đĘĕČđ ;ĦđČĢēĤĚč ĦđĕđėĒ ĥĕ ĐĕēĤĒČĘđ ,ĐĦĚē ĦČ ęĎ ĘĕėĚ ĐĚđēĦĥ ,īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĤďĎ .ĤďĎč ĕēĤĒČ ďĚĞĚ ęĐĘ ěĕČĥ ,īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞī ĕĜčė

ĤďĎ ĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ .č ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčđ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ .1č ,ďđČĚ ĔĤđĠĚ ČđĐ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĘČ Ħčĥč ČđčĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč Ęĥ ęĎĐĜĚ ĦČ ěģĒĐ ĐĞđĤĐ Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦ ĤēČ čđģĞĜ .ĦĕĦėĘĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ČđĠČ ĥĕ ĤĦĕĐč ĤėĒĜĐ ĔĤĠ ĘėĘ .ĐĒĐ ĎĐĜĚĐ ĘĞ ģđĕďč ĤĒđē ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĤĦĕĐđ :ĐĘČė ęĕĔĤĠ ĐĞčĤČ ĥĕ īĕĜđĘĠ ęđģĚ ĕĜčī ēĜđĚĘ .ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ ęĕĞđčģĐ ĐĕčĥđĦĘ ěĦĕĜ ĤĦĕĐĐ Á ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč .1 īĐĕĕĘĞ ĕĜčī ĦĚđĞĘ īĤĢē ĕĜčī ČĦĠĝđĦč đĜČĢĚ Ėė .ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĦđėĘĐĘ ĞĎđĜ ĤčďĐĥ Ęėė ĦģĕđďĚ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ěĠđČ đĦđČč ,Ħđėĕĕĥ Ęĥ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĥĕ ĐĘČ ĘėĘ Á (Č đ) īĕđčĚ ĕĜčīđ ,(Ē Ē) īĦĝĠĤĚ ĕĜčī ĦĚđĞĘ đČ (ďė đ) .ēĝĠĐ ěčĤđģ ĘĞ đĜĚĜĥ ĕĚ ĦČ ĤĕďĎĐĘ ĦģĕđďĚ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĥĕ (Ē ď ęĕēĝĠ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) īĐĤđčē ĕĜčī ēĜđĚĘĥ ,Đč ĕđĤĥ đĘĕĠČ đČ ,ĤĕĞč Ħĕč đĘ ĥĕĥ ĕĚĘ ĐĜĕČ ĐĜđđėĐđ ,ĘĕĞĘ đĜģĝĞ Ĥčė (ĐĜĔģđ ĐĘđďĎ) īĤĕĞ ĕĜčī ĎĥđĚč ęĕĞđčģĐ ęĕčĥđĦĘ ěČė ĐĜđđėĐ ;(Ēĕ Čĕ ČĞĕĢĚ Ččč) ČĦĠĝđĦĐĚ ĤĤčĦĚĥ ĕĠė ,ĐĕĜč ęĞ ĐĜĚĜ đĜĕČ ĘčČ .ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĕĕĠđČ ĘĞ ĖėĚ ģĕĝĐĘ ěĕČ ĦČĒ ęĞđ ,ęĕďđĐĕĘ ĐĜđđė ĐėĘĐĐĥ đĕĘČĚ ěčđĚ ,ğđĝčĘ .ďčĘč ĎĕĐĜĐ ĕĚđĤ ĥĕČ ĝđďđĦī ĕėđ ,(Ĕ ď ĦđčđĦė ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) ęĕĥĜ ęĕĥďģĚ đĕĐ īČĕĤďĜĝėĘČ ĕĜčī ĕė đĜČĢĚ ĐĜĐ ĐčđĤĥ ĤĕĞ ěč ĦđĕĐĘ ęďČ Ęđėĕ ĕĤĐđ .(đĔ č ĐĢĕč ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) īęĕēĝĠ ĕĘĕĘč ęĕČĘĔ ēģĕĘ ĕĚđĤ ĕĜč ĦČ .ęĕĤėđĜ ČĕĐ ĕė ğČ ,īĤďĎ ĘďĎĚī ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦė ĦĝĤĕĎĥ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦđčģĞč ,ĞđčģĘ ĥĕ ĦĕĥČĤ Á ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ .2 ĐĝĤĎĐ ģĠĝ ĕĘčī :ęĕĢĤēĜĐ đĕĤčď ĐĜĐ .ĐĜđėĜĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ČĕĐ ,ĖĥĚĐč ĦĤĒđē īĤďĎī ĐĘĕĚĐ ěĕČđ ĦĕČďĕēĕ ČĕĐ ěīčĚĤĐ ēĝđĜĘ ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚ ČĕĐđ ,ĤďĎď ĐĦĚēĘđ ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞčĥ ĤďĎĘ ĐĜđđėĐđ ,ĐĜđėĜĐ ČĕĐ ĪĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĪ ĘďĎĚ ČđĐ ,ČĦĚē ęĞ Ĥĥģč ĘďĎĚ ęĦĝĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ĪĤďĎĪ ĘďĎĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĤĕėĒĐ ČĘĥ ĐĚđ .đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ :ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĦĔĔđĢĚ čīĞ ĕ ěĕĘđēĘ ěīčĚĤĐ ĕĥđďĕēč ęĜĚČđ .(82 Īđĥ ,384 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ) īĤďĎ ĐĥĞĚč ęĎ īĤďĞ ĘďĎĚī ęĞ ğĘēĦĚ īĤďĎ ĘďĎĚīđ ,Īđėđ īěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđ[ĕ] ĤďĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒī

.ĤĦČ ĘĞ ĐĚĘĥ ĦĚėē ęĎ đČĤđ ,īęĕĦč ĐČĘĚ ČĕĐ đĘĕČė ĐĦđČ ěĕČđĤī Đīď ,ČīĞ ĐĜ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĕīĥĤ .52

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ĤďĎĘđ ĐĤĢđčĘ ,ĐĕĤčĔĘ ĦđėĕĘđĚĐ ęĕėĤďĐđ ĤďĎ ĦĚē .3 ĤđĕČ .3 ĤđĕČ 3 ĪĚĞ ,Roman Baths ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ ĖđĦĚ) .(ĐĕĦđģĕĦĞđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĦĤĕģēĘ ĐĤčēĐ ĦđčĕďČč ĤĠēĜ ĐėđĦĚđ ,ęĕĤčģ ĐĞđĤĒ ĐĘđė ĐĞčĎĐ ;ČĦēĦąČ ĐčĕĕēĚ ĤčĞ ĘČ ĐĜđĠĢ Ħĕĝēĕ ĦđĜĕĦĚč ĐĘĠĦĥĐđ ěĕĚė ,ĤĕĞĐ ĦĤđĢ ĦČ đđĦĐ ĝĕĘđĠđĤģČĘ ēĤĒĚĚĥ ĤĞĥĐ ĤđĒČč ĦđĥĎĠĜĐ đĘČ ęĕėĤď ĕĦĥ 51.ęđČĘđĒđČĚ ,ĐĤđďąČąĦĘē ĦđĘĎĤĚĘ ĐĘĦĠĦĐ ,ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĕēĤĒĚĐ ĤĞĥĐĚ ĐČĢĕ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘČ ĦĕĤģĕĞĐ ĖĤďĐ .ČĚĎ ďĎĜĚ ,ĦđĕĜĤďđĚĐ ĦđĠĚč ęĎ ĤčĞĚė ěĚđĝĚĐ ĤđĒČč ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĦČ ĐĦĢēđ ,ĦĕĞĕĤčąĘČ ĕďČđđĘ čĤĞĚĚ ,ěďĤĕĐ ģĚĞ ĤčĞ ĘČ ĐčĤĞĚ ĖđĚĤĕĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĜđĠĢĐ ĐďĎĐ ĖĤđČĘ ĖĤďĐ ĐėĕĥĚĐ ęĥĚ ;ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦđČĢēĤĚĘ .(3 ĤđĕČ) ěĤđēĐ ĤčĞĘ ĐēĤĒĚđ čĤĞĚč ęĕĦč ěĕČĥ ĠīĞČ čĤĞĚĘ ēĤĒĚĐ ěĚ ČĢđĕĐī ?ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĦđėĘĕĐ ĦĜĕēčĚ đĒ ĖĤď ęĕďďđĚ ďĢĕėđ đĘ ĐĘđĞ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ģĘēĐ ĘĘē ěĕČ đĦĕčĚ ČĢđĕĐđ ěđĠĢĘ ęđĤďĐ ěĚ ěėđ ęĕĦč ĘĘēĐ Ęė ČĘĚ đĘĕČė ěĕČđĤ

.B. Devries, “The North Mausoleum at Umm Qeis”, ADAJ 18 (1973), pp. 77–78 đČĤ .51

ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ

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,ĦđČĢēĤĚĘ ĖđĚĝč ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘĞ ĤĥĎĐ ěĚđĝĚ ęĕĥĤĦč :ĤďĎ ĦĚē .2 ĤđĕČ .7 ĤđĕČ 9 ĪĚĞ ,Roman Baths ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ ĖđĦĚ) ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĤčĞĘ ĐĚđĤď ĐĜđĠĐ ĖĤďĐđ .(ĐĕĦđģĕĦĞđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĦĤĕģēĘ ĐĤčēĐ ĦđčĕďČč ěĕč ĦđĥĞĜ ęĕĠĥė ĥđĤĕĎĘ ĦđĞčĥĐđ ,ĦčĤđĞĚ ĐĢēĤ Ęĥč ĕĜĕĚ ĕđĦĕĠđ ĦđĘĘđĐ ,ěĔĥ ĦđĘđčēĦđ ęĕĠĥė 50.ĐĘĕĘĐ ĦđĞĥč ĐĤđčģĐ ĦđĤĞĚ ďēČ ďĢĚĥ ,ĤĞĥĘ ģĤ ĤĥĠČ ?ęĐĕĦđĘĎĤĚĘĥ ĐĞģčč ĐĔĚĘ ĐĥĞĜĐ ĘĞ ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ đĘėĦĝĐ ďĢĕė ęđģĚĐ ,ĤēČ ďĢĚ .ĦđĝĜėĐčđ ęđĝĤĠč đēĚĥđ ,ęĕĘđē ĕđĠĕĤĘ ęĕĚĤđĎĐ ĦđĘČĐđ ęĕĘČĐ Ħđēđėč đĜĕĚČĐ Ĥĕčĝ .ęĕĜĢčģ ĕĜđĚĐ ęĎđ ,ĘĕĘČ ĕČĠđĤ ,ĦđĜđĒ ,ęĕĘėđĤ ,ęĕĘĘđĐĦĚ ęĕĘĕĕē ,ęĕĞĤđĢĚđ ęĕĚđĚ ĕĘĞč đĕĘČ ĖĥĚ đĎČď ĕČďđđ ,ĦđČĢēĤĚč ĦĕĦđčĤĦ ĐĚĤ ĘĞ ĤđĚĥĘ ĕďė ęĕĕĜđĤĕĞ ĤĒĞ ĕģđē đģģđē ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđĕđĥĤĥ ēĕĜĐĘ đĝĜĤĠĦĐ ęģĘēĥ ,ĤďĎč ęĕčĥđĦĐ 20.000 .ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĕĤĞč ĐĘĕėĥĚĐ ,ĐĚĢĞ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĦĕĚďĦĐ ĘĞ ĤđĚĥĘ ĕĠĘė ęĕĕčĕĔģĘĝ đĕĐ ĘčČ ,ęĕĞđĥĞĥĘ đČ ęĕģĝĞ ęĥĘ ĐĦĚēĘ ĦďĤĘ ĦđėĒ ęĚĢĞĘ đČĤ ĕČďđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĚ .ĐĘĕėĥĚĐ ĤďĎ ĕĤĞĥč Čđčĕ ĕĚ ,ęĐĕēĤđČđ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĥĜČ ĐĦĚēĘ ĐĜĚĚ ĦėĘđĐĐ ĖĤďĐđ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĕĠĤĎđĠđĔĐ .3 ĐėĘĐ ęĎ ĐĒ ĤĕĢ ĘĞđ ,čĤĞĚ ěđđĕėĘ đĦčĕčĝđ ĝĕĘđĠđĤģČĐĚ ,ĤĐĐ ĦĚč ĘĞ ĐĤģĕĞč ĐēĦĠĦĐ ĤďĎ ,ĦĕĞĕĤčąĘČ ĕďČđđĘ ēĤĒĚĚ ,ĐĜđĠĢ ĝĕĘđĠđĤģČĐ ĦčĕčĝĚ ĐČĢĕ ĦĤēČ ĖĤď .ĐĤĢđčĘ ĐĕĤčĔĚ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĖĤďĐ (ĎīĚĥĦ) 26 ĐĤďĦģ ,īĐĤĕĠĝĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ĘĕĘĎĐ ĤđĢĕĜĘ ĦđĜđĕĝĕĜĐđ ğĝđĕ ĝĚđģĐ ĦĥĤĠī ,ěĕčđĤ ĪĒ đČĤ .50 .ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ďđĝĕ ĤđĠĕĝĘ ěĕČĥ Ĥđčĝ đĚĢĞ ěĕčđĤ .109–108 ĪĚĞ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ĦČ đĦĕēĠĐ ČĘĥ ģĤ ČĘ ,ĐďđĐĕč ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĦĘĘėĐđ ,ĝđĜČĕĤĔ ĕďĕč ĜīĐĝĘ 106 ĦĜĥč ĐĕčĤĞ ĐĕģĜĕčđĤĠ Ęĥ ĦĠđģĦ đĕĐ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĘĕēĦđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĐ ,ČčĤďČ ČĘČ ,ĝĕĘđĠė ĐďĚĞĚ .ĐĦđēĦĠĦĐč Čĕĥ ĐĜĕč đďĕĤĠĐ ęĕĤėđĚđ ęĕĕĞčĔ ĦđĘđčĎđ ,ĐĚđēĦčĥ ęĕĤĠėč ĐĔĘĥ ,ĝĕĘđĠģďč ĦđĤēČ ęĕĤĞ đĚė ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘĚ) đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĕĤčďĘ ĘĕĘĎĐ ĘđčĎ ČđĐĥ ,ěďĤĕĐ ďĞ ĤďĎ ęđēĦ ĞĕĎĐ čĤĞĚč :ĐĕĦđĜėĥ ěĕčĘ ĤĠėĐ ĤĥČė ,ĐĥĕĤ Ħĕčđ ĘčČ Á ēĤĒĚĚ ;ĘēĠđ ěČĥ Ħĕč ĐĕĦđĜėĥ đĕĐ ęđĤďč ;([37] Č Ď Ď ęĕďđĐĕĐ ęĞ ĐĘđčĎ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĐĕĐ ěđĠĢĚđ ;ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĚđēĦč ĘĘėĜ ,ĤďĎ Ęĥ ęĕĚĐ ĦĚČ ĐėĥĚ đĜĚĚĥ ,ĐčĕĤĪēĘČ ČĦĕĝđĝ ĘđčĎ ěėĘđ ,ĤďĎ ęđēĦč ĐĦĕĕĐ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦĞģč Ęėĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ :ģĕĕďĘ ĕđČĤĐ ěĚ đĒ ĐďđģĜč .ČĦĕĝđĝ 47.ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĖĤđČĘ ČĘđ ,īěđĕĞđ ĤďĎąĦĚē ěĕč ĤĐĐ ĦđďĥČčī ĐĕĐ ĐĒ ĤđĒČč ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĤďĎ ĦĚē .2 Γάδαρα :ĤĚđČ ČĚ đ ěĜēđĕĘ ĥđĤĕĠč ĝĜĎĕĤđČ .ĤďĎĘ ĖĕĕĥĐ ĤĠėė ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĐĞĕĠđĚ ĦđĤđģĚĐ Ęėč ČĕĐ ĤďĎī :ęĎĤĦ ěĕĕĘģ ĘČđĚĥđ ,γἀρ πόλις μἐν ἐστιν Ἰουδαίας περἰ ἣν τὰ διαβόητα θερμὰ τυγχάνει

đČ ,ęĕĞĘĝ ĕīĞĥ ęĎČ ęĘđČī :ğĕĝđĚ ČđĐđ ,īęĕĚĝĤđĠĚĐ ęĕĚēĐ ęĕĚĐ ęĕČĢĚĜ ĐĦčĕčĝčĥ ĐďđĐĕč ĤĕĞ (κώμη πλησίον Γαδάρων) ĤďĎ ĝĕĘđĠĐ Ęĥ ĤĠė (Ἐμμαθᾶ) ĐĦĚē ĦČ ĤĕďĎĐ ĝđĕčĝđČ 48.īĘĘė Đč ěĕČ ęĕ 49.čĕēĤĐĘ ĖĕĤĢ ěĕČđ ,đĒ ĐĤďĎĐ ęĞ ęĕĚĕėĝĚ đĜĜĚĒ ĕĤģđē Ęė .(22 ,ěđģĕĔĝĚđĜđČ) Ęĥ đĕĚĕč ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐĚĒđĕĐ .ĦđČĢēĤĚ ēĦĠĘ ČĘČ ,ĤĕĞ ęĕģĐĘ ĥČĤĚ ěĜėđĦ ČĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚēč ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ,ĤĝĕģĐ ĕďĕĚ (ĕĘđČ) ğĝđĜ ĕĠĝė Ğđĕĝđ ,ĐĤďĎ ĦđĕđĥĤ đĠĝČĥ ęĕĝĚ ĕĠĝėđ ,ĝđĕĠ ĝđĜĕĜđĔĜČ ĤĝĕģĐ ĞčĔĚ ĘĞ .ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĥČĤĐ čĘĥĐ ĦČ ĦđĜčĘ ďēĕ đĤčē ,Đčĕčĝč ĐĜēĥ ěđĕĎĘĐ Ęĥ ĐďđčĞ ēėč ĐĤĒĞ 161 ĦĜĥĘ ČĕĐ ĐĜđđėĐ .ī242 ĦĜĥč ĤĐĜĐ ĘĞ Đ ĀĕėĚăÿ đČĜĐ ěđĕĢĘ ĐĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ ĦČĚī :ĤĚČĜ ĤďĎč ĞčĔđĐĥ .161 ĦĜĥč ęĕĚ ĕģēĥĚč ĐĜĕđĢĥ ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ ĦėđĜēč ĤčđďĚĥ ĤĥĠČđ ,(ĕĜČĕĠĚđĠĐ ěĕĕĜĚĐ ĕĠĘ) ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĜđčĕĤĐ ĦđĥĤĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĕĐđ ,ĤďĎ ęđēĦč đĕĐ đďĕĘĥ ęĕĚēĐ ĦđČĢēĤĚĐđ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĤĐĜĥ ĤđĤč ,ęđģĚ ĘėĚ .ĦđĞčĔĚĐ ĦĞĕčĔ ĘĞđ ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ ēđĦĕĠ ĘĞ ,ęĕđđĘĜ ęĕĦđĤĕĥ ĦđČĢēĤĚĘ ģĠĝĘ ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ Đčĕĕē ,ĔģĕđĤĠĐ Ęĥ ĦĕďĕĕĚĐ ĦĕĘėĘėĐ ĐēĘĢĐĐ ĦđĕĜēĘđĠĐđ ĦđĕČđĠĤĐ ęĐĕĦđĘđĎĝ .ěēĘđĠđ ęĕĞđĥĞĥ ĕĜģĦĚđ ,ĦđĕđĜēđ ěđĒĚ ĕĦđĤĕĥ ĦĦĘ ,ĦđĕĜĝėČ ęĕģĐĘ ĖĥĚĐĘ ęĕĠĝė đĚĤĦ ĐĘČđ ,ęĕĠĝėđ ĐĘđĢČ ĕĥĜČ ęĐčđ ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČĐ Ħđčėĥ ĘėĚ ęĕĥĠđĜ đėĥĚ ęĕĚĐ Ęĥ ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ ěĞĚĘ ĦđĝĕĕĎĦĐ ĘĞ ĦđďĕĞĚ ĐĢēĤĐ ĦđĚĘđČ ĦČ ĦđĤĔĞĚĐ ĦđčđĦėĐ ęĕĥĕĚē .ĤĦČĐ ēđĦĕĠ ĐĜčĚ đčĕĕē ĘđĞĠĦĐđ ēđĦĕĠĐ ,ĐĕĕĜčĐ ĘĞĠĚ ĘđĐĕĜđ ęĕĠĝėĐ ĝđĕĎĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ .ęĕĤĝĕģ ęĎ Đč đĠĦĦĥĐĥ .(2 ĤđĕČ) ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđĕđĥĤ ĕďĕąĘĞ ēģđĠĚđ Ğđčģ ĕĘĐĜĚ Đč ĐĤĤđĎĦĐ ĘčČ ,ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĘĞ ĦĕĘĐĜĚ ĦĜĞĥĜĐ ČĠĤĚ ĦĤĕĕĞĘ ĐĦĕĕĐđ ĐēĦĠĦĐ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĘĞ ĦđĕĜđĢĕē ĦđĞĕďĕ đĜĘ ěĕČ .ĐĘ ĦďēđĕĚĐ ĦđĐĒ ĦĘĞč ,ęĕĦđĤĕĥ ĕĜĦđĜ Ęĥ ĐĘĥĚ ĐĞđčģ ĐĕĕĝđĘėđČ ĕĥĞĚ đč ęĕĥĞĜĥ ďĕĤĕ ĘĞ čĦđė (8–7 ,ěđĕĤČĜČĠ) ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ĘčČ ;ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ ĕĜĕĞč ĤďĎ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦĕĚďĦĐ Gadara, ĤĠĝĘ đĘĥ ĎđĘđĤĠč ęĕĜĥ ĤĥĞ ĤēČĘ đĕĤčď ĘĞ ĤĒē ğČĤĎ .34–33 ĪĚĞ ,“Hellenization and the Decapolis” .Gerasa und die Dekapolis (A. Hoffmann und S. Kerner eds; Mainz, 2002), pp. 4–5

ĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĦĕĥČĤ ďĞđ ěđĕĢ Ħčĕĥ ěĚĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĕĠČĤĎđČĕĎ ,ĐĜđĕąĕčČ đČĤ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĚđēĦ ĘĞ .47 .ČĦĕĝđĝ ęđēĦ ĘĞ ęĥ đĕĤčďĚ ČđĐ ĔđĔĕĢĐ ;159 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) .28 ĪĚĞ ,Č 1 ,(ĔīĢĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) čđĥĕĕĐ ĤĠĝ ,ěĕĕĘģ Īĥ .48 D. Sperber, The City in Roman Palestine (Oxford University Press, ;4 ĪĚĞ ,Roman Baths ,ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ .49 ęđēĦĘ ĝđĕčĝđČ ěđđėĦĐ īĤĕĞīđ īĤĠėī ęĕēĜđĚčĥ ,ěĞĔ ĝĜđĪĎ .474 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes Ĥčđ ;(1998, p. 183, n. 88 .A. H. M. Jones, “The Urbanization of Palestine”, JRS 21 (1931), p. 83 đČĤ .ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦĐĚ ĤĕĞĐ

ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ

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ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĐĚđēĦđ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐďĚĞĚ .1 (ĘđďĎĐ) ĝđėđĕĔĜČ ĕĥđčĕė :ęĕĕĒėĤĚ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĦĚĢč ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ĤĕėĒĚ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ,(75,ďĕ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ĝđĕĠĚđĠ ĕĥđčĕė ,(356 ,Ďĕ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ĕČĜĕ ĤďĜĝėĘČ ĕĥđčĕė ,(136 ,čĕ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ĐĘČ ęĕģĘē ĦĞĕĤģ ,(217 ,đĔ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ĝđĔĝđĎđČ ĦĜĦĚč ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞč ĝđďĤđĐ ĦėĘĚĚ ĦđčēĤĦĐ ġđĤĠč ęĕĜČĎĠĘ ęĕďđĐĕ ěĕč ĐčĕČĐ ĕĥĞĚđ ,(320 ,Ēĕ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ĐĕĤđĝĘ ęēđĠĕĝđ ĝđČĘėĤČ ĦėĘĚĚĚ Ĥčė ďĞĘĎč ĐģĒēĐ ĤĕĞĘ ĐčĥēĜ ĤďĎ .(423 ,ğĝđĕ ĕĕē ;[459–458] Č ēĕ č ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦĚēĘĚ) ĘđďĎĐ ďĤĚĐ ĜīĐĝĠĘ 63 ĦĜĥč ĝđĕĠĚđĠ ĥđčĕė ĤēČĘ ĥďēĚ ĐĦĕĕĜč ĦČ ěĕĕĢĚ ğĝđĕĥ ĐďĕēĕĐ ČĕĐ 41;ĦĕĚĘĦĐ ĐĠđģĦč ęĕĤĐĒĜĥ ĕĚ ęĕģďđĢ ęČ ęĎ ,ĒČ ďĝđĜĥ ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĕĤĞ ęĞ ĐĦĜĚĜ ĤďĎĥ ēđėĕđ ěĕČđ ,(75,ďĕ ĦđĕĜđĚďģ) ģĠĝ ęĕĘĕĔĚĐ ĐĘČ ęĕģďđĢ đČ ,ĐĕĤđĝĘ ĦđĠđĠė đĤĦđĜ ĕĤĐĥ ,ĐČĘĚ ĐĕĚđĜđĔđČĘ đėĒ ęĕĤĞĐĥ ĞđčģĘĚ ĕĚĕ ĕĜĠĘ Ĥčė ęĕĕĚđĜđĔđČąđďđČĝĠ ĦđĞčĔĚ ĐĞčĔ ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ 42.ęĕĤĞ ěđĎĤČė ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĦĤďĎĐ ęĢĞč 43;ĝđĔĝđĎđČ ĕĚĕč ĜīĐĝĠĘ 30/31 ĦĜĥč ĐĒĜđĤč ĦđĞčĔĚ ĞđčĔĘ ĐĦĥĤđĐĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐĦĕĕĐđ ,ĝđĔĝđĎđČ đėĕĥĚĐĥ ĦđďĕēĕĐ đĕĐ ěČĥ Ħĕčđ ĤďĎđ ;ĐĘģĤģ ĤĝĕģĐ ĕĚĕč ĦđĚėĤďĤĔĔ ĞđčĔĘ ĐĦĥĤđĐĥ ĐďĕēĕĐ ĐĦĕĕĐ Ęĥ čđĥē ďĚĞĚ ĘĞ ĦđďĕĞĚ đĘČ ĦđďčđĞ 44.ĜīĐĝĘ 240 ĦĜĥč ĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĝđĜČĕďĤđĎ ĕĚĕ ďĞ ĦđĞčĔĚ ĞđčĔĘ Čĕĥ ĦĠđĜĦ ĘĞ ĦĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ ĦđďĞĐ ĦČ ĖėĘ ğĤĢĘ ĥĕ .ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĤđĒČč ĕĚđĤĐ ĘĥĚĚĐ ĕĜĕĞč ĤďĎ ĝđĕĠ ĝđĜĕĜđĔĜČ ĕĚĕĚ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚč ĤģĕĞč ,ęĕģđđĥđ ĦđČĢēĤĚ ,ĦđČĤĔČĦ ĦĕĕĜčč ĦđĚĥ ĦđČĢĚĕĐđ ,ĐĦĚēčđ ĤďĎč ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚč ĦđČĤĔČĦ ĦĕĕĜč ĕđčĕĤ 45.ęĕĤđđĝĐ ęĕĤĝĕģĐ ďĞđ ĕēĤĒČ ěđĎĤČ ĘĞđ ĕĜđĤĕĞ ēđĦĕĠ ĘĞ ęĕďĕĞĚ ,īĕĜČĕĤďČī ęĥĐ ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ ĥĤĎč ěđĤĔČĦč ęĕčĥđĚ ĘĞ ęĕĔčĥ ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĝĕĘđĠĐ ĦČ ęĕĜĕĕĠČĚĐ ĦđčĤĦĐ ĕĜģĦĚ čđĤ .ĝđĜČĕĤďĐ Ęĥ đĤđģĕč ĤēČĘ Čģđđď ĝĕĘđĠģďč ĤčđĎ ;đĕĤēČđ ĝđĜČĕĤďĐ ĕĚĕč ĤģĕĞčđ ,ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦč ČĘČ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ĐĠđģĦč ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĕĤĞč đĜčĜ ČĘ đĒ ĦđĜĚďĒĐ ĘđĢĕĜčđ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ĦđčĤĦĘ đĕĤēČĥ ęĕĤĝĕģĐ Ęĥđ ĝđĜČĕĤďĐ Ęĥ ęĦďĐČč ĤčĝđĐ ĐĒ Ĥčď 46.ęĕĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ěĐĕĥĤđĥ ęĥč ĝĕĕĘđĠĐ ęđēĦč ēđĦĕĠĐđ ĐĕĕĜčĐ ęđďĕģĘ ,ĤďĎ ěĐčđ ęĕĤĞĐ ĦđĎĐĜĐ ĕďĕč ĐĜđĜĕė ęĞ ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĕĤĞ Ęĥ ěĘđĢĕĠĥ ,ęĕēĕėđĚ ęĕĕĎđĘđČėĤČĐ ęĕČĢĚĚĐ ,ĐĜĕĕĐĦ ĤĥČ ĦđčĕĝĐ ĐĜĕĕĐĦ đČĤ .ĦĕĝĤĠĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ĦĚđĞĘ ęĢĚđĢĚ ĒđēĚ ČđĐ ĦĕĚĘĦĐ ĐĠđģĦč (Galaaditis) ďĞĘĎ .3–2 ,71 ,Đ ĝđĕčĕĘđĠ .41 ,(ďīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) 4ĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĦĕĥČĤ ďĞđ ěđĕĢ Ħčĕĥ ěĚĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĕĠČĤĎđČĕĎ ,ĐĜđĕąĕčČ ĪĚ .62–60 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes ,Ĥčđ ęĎ đČĤ ĦĕĚĘĦĐ ĐĠđģĦĐĚ ĤďĎč ęĕĤđĢĕč ĕďĕĤĥ ĘĞ .30–26 ĪĚĞ A. H. M. đČĤ .ĤďĎ ĦĘĘėĜ ěĘđėčđ ,ĦđĜđĥĐ ĦđĚĕĥĤĘ ęđďģĐ ĤđģĚĐ ČđĐ (N.H. V xvi, 74) ěģĒĐ ĝđĕĜĕĘĠ .42 D. Graf, “Hellenisation and) ğČĤĎ .Jones, The Cities of the Eastern Roman Provinces (Oxford, 1971), p. 259 ĤĕĞ ĐĦĥĞĜ ČĘ ĖČ ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ ĕďĕĚ ĐĤĤēđĥ ĤĕĞĐĥ ģĕĕďĚ (the Decapolis”, ARAM 4, 1–2 (1992), pp. 1–48 Gadara — Ĥčđ ęĎ đČĤ ĤďĎ ĦđďĘđĦč đĒ ĐĠđģĦ ĘĞ .(69 ĐĤĞĐ ,23 ĪĚĞ) ĐĕĤđĝĘ ĐēĠđĝ ČĘČ ,(civatas libera) ĦĕĥĠđē .68–67 ĪĚĞ ,Umm Qes I J. M. C. Bowsher, “Civic Organisation within the Decapolis”, ARAM đČĤđ .24 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ğČĤĎ .43 ĐďĚĞĚ ĦĘčĎĐĚ ĐĞčĜ ĝđĕĤčĕĔ ĕĚĕĘ ďĞ ĤĕĞč ĦđĞčĔĚ ĦĞĕčĔ ĦģĝĠĐĥ ĤĞĥĚĐ ,4, 1–2 (1992), p. 271, and note 29 .ĝđďĤđĐ ěđĔĘĥ ĦēĦ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĘĞ ĐČĢĚĜ īĦĕĜČĕĠĚđĠĐ ĤďĎī ĦčđĦėĐ .ĐĤđĤēĥ ĦČ ĐĕĦđĞčĔĚč ěĕĕĢĘ ĐėĕĥĚĐ ĤďĎ .271 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĥđČč đČĤ .44 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦč ěďĤĕĐ ĤčĞđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕĤĞ ĦđĞčĔĚ ,ĤĤđĥĚ Īĕ đČĤ .220 ĦĜĥĚ ĞčĔĚ ĘĞđ ,180 ĦĜĥĚ ěđĕĘďĚ .119 ,82–81 ĪĚĞ ,(1984 ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ ;ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđēĦĠĦĐč ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦđĕĒėĤĚ ĘĞ ,88–87 ,77–75 ĪĚĞ ,Gadara — Umm Qes Ĥčđ đČĤ .45 đČĤ ęĕĥĕčėĐ ĦėĤĞĚ ĘĞ ;ĐĕĤĠĚĕČĐ ĕčēĤč ĦđČĢēĤĚ ęĕģĐĘ ĝđĕĠ ĝđĜĕĜđĔĜČ Ęĥ ĐĚĎĚ ĘĞ ,478 ĪĚĞ ,Roman Baths I. Roll, “Imperial Roads Across and Trade Routes Beyond the Roman Provinces of Judaea-Palaestina and .Arabia: The State of Research”, Tel Aviv 32 (2005), pp 108–111 ,ęĥ ,ĤĥđČč đČĤ ĐĕĠĘďĘĕĠčđ ĐĝĤĎąĥĤĪĎč ęĕČĢĚĚĐđ (ᾠδεῖον) ěđČĕďđČĐ ďēđĕĚčđ ěđĤĔČĦĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĘĞ .46 ğČĤĎ đČĤ ĦĕĜđđĕ ĦđčĤĦĘ ĤđĒēĘ ĐĚĎĚĐ ĘĞ .137–133 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,Ĥčđ đČĤ ĐĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ĦđČĤĔČĦ ĘĞ .278–276 ĪĚĞ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ ĕĜč ĘčČ ,ěĦĚēĘ ěĕČč ĖėĕĠĘđ ĤĦĕĐ ěĚ ęĐĘ đďďĚđ ,Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞ ĤĕĞ ĤďĎ ĥĤĕĠ ĘīĒ ĘČĜĜē đĜĕčĤđ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĤĦĕĐ ďĞ ĦĥģĐ ęđģĚĚđ ġēĐ ęđģĚ ďĎĜė Ħčĥđĕ ČĕĐĥ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĦđĘĞĘ ěĕĘđėĕ ěĜĕČ ěĦĚē . . . .ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞĘ ĤĒđē ĘėĐ ęđģĚ ĘėĚď ĕĦĕĥģĐĥ đĚė ĦđĥģĐĘ ĥĕ ĐĒ ĥđĤĕĠč ęĎđ ,ěĐĘ ęĕČč đĕĐ ČĘ ĖėĕĠĘ

;ĐĕĥđģĐĚ ęĘĞĦĐđ ,ĕīĥĤ ĦĔĕĥ ĦČ ġĚĕČ (ĐĕĎđĝĘ īĐĤĕēčĐ Ħĕčī) ĕĤĕČĚĐ ;īěđĕĞ ĖĕĤĢīč ĤČĥĜ ČīčĥĤĐ ĦĔĕĥĘĥ ĞĕĢĐđ ,(ĦČĒ đĥģĐĥ ęĐ ęĚĢĞ ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ĕĘĞč đĦĝĤĎĘ) ČīčĥĤĐ ĦĘČĥ ĘĞ ĤĒē ČīčĔĕĤĐđ ęĐĘ ěĕďďđĚ ěĕČ ęĕĠĘČ Īď ĦĥģĐ ĥČĤč ĥĕĥ Ęėďī ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞč ěĕČĥ ČĤĠĝ čĤĘ ĥđďĕē ĦČĒ Ęėč ĥĕ ĕīĥĤ ěĦĚēĥ ĐČĤĚ ĐĠĚč ěđĕĞ ĕĤĐđ ;ĦđČĕĢĚĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚ ĕīĥĤ ĦĔĕĥ ęČĐ ,ĐĥģĐ ČĘ ęĐĚ ĥĕČ ĘčČ .īĤĦĕĐ ěĚ ĘĥĚ ģĤ đĒ ěĦĚē Á ĐĚČ ğĘČ ģēĤĚ ĤďĎĚ ĦģēđĤĚĐđ ,ęĕĠĘČ ĪďĚ ĤĦđĕ ĥĕ ĐĕĦđĢģ ěĕčĥ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ 39.ĐĦĕĕĐ ěĐĚ ĦēČ Ęėđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĦđĤĕčĝĚĐ ĦđĞď ĞčĤČ ĞĕĢĐ ĕĘččĐ :ęđėĕĝĘ ĐĦĚē ĕĜčĚ đĞĜĚ ĤďĎ ĕĜč ;ĘēĜĐ ďĕ ĘĞ ĦčĥđĕĐ ĤĕĞ ČĕĐ ĤďĎ :ĐĤĕčĝ ĦĕĠĤĎđČĎąĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĜĞĔč ĐėđĤė ĐďĚĞĚĘ ęĕĞĎđĜ ęĕĤčĝĐ ĐĥđĘĥ .ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ČĕĐ ĤďĎ ;Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ ČĕĐ ĤďĎ ;Ħčĥč ęĤĕĞĘ ĝĜėĕĐĘ ĤĕĞī ĘĘėĐ ĕďĞĘč .ĐĚđēĦč ęĕČĢĚĜ ĘēĜĘ ěđĠĢĚĥ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ęĎđ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ďĞ ēĔĥĐĥ ,ĝĕĘđĠė ĤďĎ Ęĥ ČĘđ ,Ħčĥ ĕĚđēĦ ĐĥđĘĥ ĖĘĐĚ ĐĜĚĚ ģēđĤĚĐ ĘēĜ ďĕ ĘĞ ĦčĥđĕĐ ĤĕĞ ĦčĥēĜ ĤďĎ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ īĐĘđďĎ ęČ ČĕĐ ĦĕĤģĕĞĐ ĦģđĘēĚĐĥ ,ēĕėđĚ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĐĜčĚ ęĎ .ĐĦĚē ĕčĥđĦĘ ĐĕēĤĒČ ěĕč ĦđĘĠĐĘ ĤĕĞĐ ĐĘėĕ ČĜĚ ĪĤ Ęĥ ĦģđĘēĚĘ ěđĕĚď Ėėč ĥĕ .ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĐĦđĕĐč đČ ,ĤĕĞĐ ĦĤđĢč ČđĐ ĐĦĚē ĘĞ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĜđĤĦĕ .ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĝĕĝč ĥĕ ĦđĞďĐ ĕĦĥĘĥ ĐČĤĜ ěĘĐĘ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤđ Ėėđ ,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĤčď ĦČ ęĕĕģĘ ĕďė ĦđĤĞĥĐč đĎĕĘĠĐ ,đĜĜĚĒ ĕĜč ęĕĤģđē ěĐđ ęĕĜđĥČĤ ěĐ ,ęĕĜĥĤĠĐ ĕčđĤĕĞ ĦđėĘĐ ,ĦČĒĚ ĐĤĦĕ .ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĤđģĚė ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĐĕĎđĝč ěđĚČĐ ĦČ ĦĤĞĤĞĚĐ ,ĦĕĜđĕďč ĐĠĚ đĤĢĕ ĦĜčĐč ĞĎđĠ ĦĕĜđĕďč ĐĠĚ ĤĢđĕĥ ĕĚ ěėĘđ ,ČĚđĤ ěđĔĘĥ ĦēĦ ĘĕĘĎĐ Ęĥ đĕĦđďĘđĦčđ đĠđĜč đģĢđĜ ěĕĚđēĦ .ĐĕĎđĝĐ ęĢĞ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĤďĎ ĦĚēđ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĦĕĠĤĎđČĎ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐ .5Č ĘĔđĚ đĜĕČ ĕēėđĜĐ ęĚđģĚč ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ęĐĘĥ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĕđĐĕĒĐĥ ęĕčđĥĕĕ ĕĜĥč ĤčđďĚĥ ěđđĕėĚ ęĕČĥđĜ ĐĥđĘĥ .ĦĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐďĕĚąĦĚČč ĐĕĎđĝč ĦđĜđĥĐ ĦđĔĕĥĐ ĦČ ěđēčĘ ĤĥĠČ 40,ģĠĝč ;ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĤďĎ ĦĚē (2) ;ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĐĚđēĦđ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐďĚĞĚ (1) :ČĦĕĕĤčĘ ęĕĕĦđĞĚĥĚ ęĐ ĦđĜģĝĚč ģĠĦĝČ .ěĐĕĜĕčĥ ēĔĥč čđĥĕĕ ĕĜĚĕĝđ ęĕĤĞĐ ěĕč ĖĤďĐ ,ĐĦĚēđ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĕĠĤĎđĠđĔĐ (3) .ďčĘč ČĦĕĕĤčč đĘĞĥ ĦđĘČĥĘ ĦđĞĎđĜĐ

ĐĕđČĤ .ĤďĎĚ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ęđēĦč ĐĦĕĕĐ ěĦĚē Ęėĥ ĐĤčĝč ĐĞđĔ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ČĕĐ ĤďĎĥ ĦīĤ ĦĔĕĥ ęĎ .39 ĐĞĢĐ ,ĦĠĝđĜ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ěĕčĥ ĞĕĢĐĥ (4 ĞĔģĘ ĝēĕč Đēďđ ČīčĔĕĤĐ ČĕčĐĥ) ďīčČĤĐ ĦĔĕĥ ěđĕĢĘ ĐčĕĕēđĚ ěĕčđ ,ČĦēĦąČ ĐčĕĕēđĚĘ ĤďĎ ěĕč ęĕģēĤĚč ĐĞĔ ČđĐ ĘčČ ,ČĦēĦąČ ĐčĕĕēđĚąĘČč ęĕďĕĤĥ ĦđČĕĢĚĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚĐ .ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ČĘ ĦđĚđģĚĐ ĕĜĥč .1888 ĦĜĥč ěĘđĎčđ ďĞĘĎč đĘĥ Ĥģĝč ĤėĚđĥ ĤČĕĦ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦČđ ĝĕģ ęČč Ă ĤďĎ ĦđčĤđē ĦČ .40 ,ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤđČĕĦ đčđ ,1875 ĦĜĥč ĘĕĤĚ ĕĜģĕĤĚČĐ ĎđĘđČėĤČĐ Ęĥ đĞĝĚ ĤđČĕĦ ĐĚĎđďĘ đČĤđ ,ĕđĐĕĒč ĥđďĕē ĐĕĐ ĦđĤĕĠēĐ ĤģĕĞ .S. Merrill, East of the Jordan (New York, 1881), pp. 140–157 đČĤ .ĦđĕĚđĤĐ ęĕėĤďĐđ ĦđČĤĔČĦĐ T. M. Weber, Gadara — Umm Qes I Gadara .Ĥčđ ĝĚđĦ ęĝĤĠ ęĕĕĜĕč ęđėĕĝđ ,ĦđĕĜĚĤĎ ĦđēĘĥĚ Ęĥ đĕĐ ĤďĎč Decapolitana Untersuchungen zur Topographie, Geschichte, Architektur und der Bildenden Kunst einer “Polis ;ģĕĜģđĝ ĪĘ ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕďĕč 1932 ĦĜĥč ĤĠēĜ ĤďĎ ĦĚē Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč .Hellenis” im Ostjordanland (Wiesbaden, 2002) Yizhar .ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ ęĝĤĠ ĦđĤĕĠēĐ Ęĥ ĕĠđĝ ēīđďđ ,ęĕĤēČđ ĤĘđĝ ČĤđĕĎ ,ďĘĠĥĤĕĐ ĤĐĒĕ đĘĐĕĜ ĦđČĢēĤĚč ĦđĤĕĠēĐ ĦČ .Hirschfeld, The Roman Baths of Hammat Gader: Final Report (Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem, 1997)

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čĤ ĦđčģĞč .īęĐĕĦč ēĦĠĚ ČĘČ ĐĘ ěĕďďđĚ ěĕČ đČĘ ęČđ ĘēĜĐ ĦĠĥĚ ěĕďďđĚ ĦđĚČ ĞčĤČ (ČīĚ .ęĕĚĐ :ĞĔģĐ ĐĜĐđ ;ĦđĤĚĕĚ ĥđĘĥ ďđĞ đĜĦĕĜ ğĝđĕ ěĦĚē ĕĜč ěĕČđ ěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎĐ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐ ĐĒ ďđĞđī ČĕĜĦď ?ĐĘ ČĜĕĚČ ČĜĚ :ğĝđĕ čĤ ĤĚČ .1 ?Đģď ďđčĞ ČĘ ĕĜĐđ Đģď ďđčĞ ĕĜĐď ęđĥĚ đČĘ ,ČĚĞĔ ĕČĚ ;īĤďĎĘ ěĕĘđĞ ČĜĥ ĕČĚđ .ěĕģĦĐ Á ĤĕĦĐ ĕČĚđ .ěĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĤďĎĐ ĕĜč đĐĘ ĕĎđĤĔĔĚ ĕĎđĤĔĔ :ĤĚČ ĕĚĕď čĤ ČĦČ ĕė .2 Ğčĥ ĐĕĦČĚ ČĘč ČčĘė ?đĐĘ ĕĎĤĔĔĚ Á ěĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĦČ ĕė ,ĕėĐ ĕČ .ĦđĤėĕĥ Đč ēĕėĥď Á Ħčĥ .đĐĘ ĕĘĕĠĥ ČĘ ĕČĐ ĕĘđė ?!ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ěĦĚē ĕĜč đĐĘ ĕĎĤĔĔĚ ĕĚĜ ČĦĥĐ .ēčĜ ČĘ ěĕĜĥ .ĕČđĐ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ :ĤĚČ ČĤĠĝ čĤ .3 .ĕČđĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ :ĤĚČ ČĜĜĕē Ĥč ĕĚĕď čĤ .4 ďēđ ĕČđĐ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ ĪĚČ ďē ČĜĜĕē Ĥč ĕĚĕď čĤđ ČĤĠĝ čĤ :ĕĜĦĚ ĕĚđĕčĔ čĤ ,ĕėĐ ĕĜĦĚ ČĜĐė čĤ .5 .ĕČđĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ĪĚČ

ĤďĎĥ Ğďĕĥ ĤėĕĜ ĖČ ,ĤĦĕĐĐ ęĞĔč ēđĔč ĐĕĐ ČĘ đĚĢĞ ČđĐĥ ęĕēĕėđĚ Īđėđ īęđĥĚ đČĘī ğĝđĕ čĤ ĕĤčď ĦđČĕĢĚ ęĕĤČĦĚ ęĜĕČ ,ęĕĜđĥČĤĘ ĝĕĝč đĥĚĕĥĥ ,ĘČĜĜē đĜčĤđ ĕīĥĤ .ĘēĜ ĦĠĥ ĘĞ Ħđčĥđĕ ĐĦĚēđ ĤđčĞĜ .ČĦĕĕĤčč ğĝđĕ čĤ Ęĥ ĤčĝĐĘ ĐĔđĜ ČĕĐ ěĕČĥ ,ēĕėđĚ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĖĘĐĚ ęĎđ 37,ĤďĎ ĤđĒČĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚĐ .ĦđĤēČĐ ĦđĞďĐ ĥđĘĥĘ ČđĠČ ĕĎđĤĔĔī .ďđĚĘĦĐ ęĦĝ Ęĥ ěđĕďĚđ ,ĕĕčČđ ğĝđĕ čĤ ĕĚĕĚ ĕĦđēĜĐ ,ĕĚĕď čĤ Ęĥ ĐĤĚĕĚĚ čėĤđĚ 2 ĞĔģ ĤėĕĜ 38.ďđĚĘĦĐ ęĦĝ Ęĥ ěđĕďĐĚ ĞĠĥđĚ ĥđĤĕĠĐđ ,ĐĦĚē ĕĥĜČĘ ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ ěĕč čĕĤė ĥĤĠĦĜ īĕĎđĤĔĔĚ ęČđčč ĤďĎ ĕĜč ĦČ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜč đėĕĐ ČĘ ĞđďĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĕďė ęĕģđēď ęĕĢđĤĕĦĘ ĥĤďĜ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĖĤđĞĥ ĦĚē ĕĜčĚ đĞĜĚĥ ĤďĎ ĕĤĔđĥĘ đĦĜđđėĥ ĤĥĠČ .ĦđĞĚĥĚĐ ĐĦđČĘ ěđđĕė ĕĚĕď čĤĥ ĤđđēĚ ĐĒ ěĕČđ ,ĐĦĚēĘ .ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ęĕĕĜđĤĕĞ ĤĒĞ ĕģđē ĕĠąĘĞ ,ĦđĤėĥ ĦđĕĞč Ęĥč Ğđčĥ ĕĠđĝč ęĥ ĦđĘčĘđ ĤďĎĘ ĦđĘĞĘ ĤďĎ ĕēĤĒČĘ ĐĜĦĕĜĥ ēĕĜĐĘ Ĥĕčĝđ ,ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđĕđĥĤ ĕďĕąĘĞ đĜčĜ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĦđČĢēĤĚ ,ČčĐ ğĕĞĝč ĐČĤĜĥ ĕĠė čĤ ĕĤčď .ęĥĠĜ ĦđđČė ĤďĎč ĤģčĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕčĥđĦĘ ĦđėĒ ēĤėĐč ČĘđ ,ĦđČĢēĤĚč ĤģčĘ ĦđėĒ ĝĕĘđĠĐ .ĕĦĤčēĐ ęĞĔĐ ĦČ ĥĕĎďĐ ČđĐĥ ČĘČ ,īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ēĜđĚĐ ęĞ ĐĠĕ ęĕčĥĕĕĦĚ ĕĚĕď ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕČĤđĚČ ęĎ ęĐč đģĘēĜĥ ęĕĤĞĐ ěĕč ĘďčĐĘ ęĕĤčĝĐĐ ĕĜĥ ĦČ ęĕĞĕĢĚ 5–3 ęĕĞĔģ ěđĕď Ęĥ ĦđĕĦĕĕĞčĐ ĦČ ĔĕĘčĚ đĘČ ĦđģđĘēĚč ěđĕĞđ ,ęĕĤčĝĐĐ ĕĜĥ ĥđĤĕĠč đģĘēĜ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĥĕ ĐĕĦđĢģ ěĕčĥ Ħĥģ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞ ĐĦĚēĥ ,ĕīĥĤ ĥĤĕĠ 3 ĞĔģĘ .ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĞģĤģč ĐĒĕēČ ČĘč ĔĥĠđĚ đĥĤĕĠ (īĦĥģ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞī Đīď ĦđĠĝđĦ) ęĦ đĜčĤđ ĘČĜĜē đĜčĤ đĘĕČđ ,ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦĞčĤČĚ ĤĦđĕ Ėė ĘĞ ďĚĞ .īĦĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞī ěĕčĘ īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ěĕč đččĤĞ đĘČđ đĘČ .Ħĥģ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ČĕĐ ĤďĎĥ :(ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĐĕĎđĝĘ đĕĥđďĕēč ČīčĥĤĐ ĦĞčĤČĚ ĤĦĕ ĦĥģĐ ĕĥČĤ ĕĜĥ ěĕč ĥĕđ ,ĕČđĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĐ ěĦĚē ĘīĒ ĕīĥĤ ĥĤĕĠ ěĦĚē Ęĥ ĤĦĕĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚđēĚđ ĐĚČ ğĘČ ěĦĚē ĐĦĕĐđ ĦĥģĐ ěĚ ČĘČ ĦĥģĐ ĕĜčĘ ěĕďďđĚ ěĕČđ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĕĜĠĚ ĦđĚČ Īďč ČĘČ ęĐĘ ĐĘđĞ ěĦĚē ěĕČđ ěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĕčĤ ęĐĘ ĤĕĦĐ ĖėĕĠĘđ ,ĐĚČ ğĘČ ĖđĦč ĝĜėĕĘ ěĕĘđėĕ ěĜĕČ ěĦĚē Ħĥģč ęĕčĥđĕĐ ĘčČ ,ĤČĥĐ ĦČ ęĐĘ ěĕĚĕĘĥĚđ ĤĕĞĐ ğđĝč ĐĘė ěĦďĚĥ .ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞđ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ đĜĕĕĐ ěė ęČď ĐĚĕĦđ ,ĘīĒ ĕīĥĤ Ęĥ đĥđĤĕĠ ğĤđĦ đĐĒ ,ęđēĦĐ ĦďĚė ČĘČ ĤďĎ

ĦđėĕĤĢ ĞđĠĕĥč Ħđčĥđĕ ěĐĕĦĥđ ĘĕČđĐ ,ĐĔĚĘ ěĦĚēđ ĐĘĞĚĘ ĤďĎ ,ĞđĠĕĥč ĤĐč ěĕčĥđĕ ěĦĚēđ ĤďĎī :ĥĤĕĠ ĕīĥĤ .37 ,ĥčĕ ČđĐ ęĕĦĞĐ čđĤĥ ĘēĜ ĘĞ đĤčĕď (čīĞ ēĕ ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ğīĕĤĐ ęĎ đĕĦđčģĞčđ ēīĤ đĘĕČđ .ěĐĕĜĕč ĤĚđĘė ,īěĘđĠĕĥč Đģď ěĐĕĦĥ ĥĤĕĠđ ĖĕĥĚĐ ČīčĔĕĤĐ .ĖđĚĤĕĐ đĚė ěĦĕČ ĕĘēĜĘ ČĘđ ĦđĕďČđđĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚĐ ĦđČĕĢĚ ,ČĘĚ đĜĕČĥė đč ęĕĥĚĦĥĚ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜčđ .ĕīĥĤė ěĕčĕĤĚ ĪĕĠ ěĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĕĎĤĔĔĚ đđĐđ ęĕĢĕĤĠ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đđĐď ęđĥĚī :ČđĐ ĕĚĕď čĤ ĕĤčďĘ (ĕīĥĤ đĘ čđĤģđ) ēīĤ ĥđĤĕĠ .38 .īĤďĎĘ ěĦĚē ĕĜč ěĕĘđĞ đĕĐĕ ČĘĥ ĪĤ đĐĘ ěĕģĦĐ ĦđĤėĥ Đēĕėĥď Ħčĥčđ ,ěĦđČ ěĕėĚđ ěĐĚĞ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

đďĎĜė ĞĕčĤĚ ĞĢĚČĘ đĝĕĜėĚ ,ĦđĤĕĢēđ ęĕĦč ČĘĚ đĘĕČė ĤĢĐ ęđģĚ ĦČ ěĕČđĤ ,ĤēČ ĐĥČĤĚ ĐĤĢđ ĦēČ ,ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ĦĤđĢ ĦČ đĤĕėĐčđ ,đĒ ĐėĘĐ ĤĕėĐ ČĜĚ ĪĤĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĤĦđĚ .(105 ĪĚĞ ,ĐÀď ,ď ěĕčđĤĕĞ) īďďđĚđ ,ĞčđĤĚĐ ĦĚĘĥĐ đĤĥĠČ ĐĒ čĢĚĘ ĤđčĕĞĐ ĕĘĘėđ ,īęĎ ěĕĚėī ęĦĝĐ ěĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ īĦđĕđĥ[Č]ĤĐ ĕĜĠĚīč đĦĜđđė 33.ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ čđĤģĐ ,īčĤēĐ ĕĞĕčĤĐ ěĤģĐīĚ ĐďĕďĚđ ěĚĤčĕĘđ ,ęĕĕĦĤđĝĚĐ ęĕĜĥĤĠĐ .īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĘĘėč ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĐĘĦ ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ēĔĥčđ ęĕĤĞĐ ĕĦĥ Ęĥ ĕĝĕĠĐ ĘďđĎč ĐĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ ěĕč ĐėĘĐĘ ĘďčĐĐ ĦČ đģĚĕĜ ,ęĐĕĦđčģĞč ĐĦĕĐ ĤďĎĥī :ěĚĤčĕĘ ĕĤčď ĐĚĎđďĘ ĐĜĐ 34.ĕĘččč ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĘĞ ĤčĝĐĐ ĖĚĦĝĚ ĐĒ ĐĤģĚč ęĎđ ,ěĐĕĜĕčĥ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĐČĢĚĜ ęĐĚ ęĕďďđĚ đĕĐĥėđ ĐĤĕďĘ đĠģđĐĥ ęĕĠĕĠĤģ ĐčĤĐ ĐčĕčĝĚ đĕĐĥ ĐČĤĜėđ ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ęĕĠĕĠĤģĐ ĖđĦč ĐĘė ĐďĕĚĐ ĐĦĕĐ ,ĐĦĚē ğđĝĚ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ęĕďďđĚ đĕĐĥė ĘčČ ,ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĚđēĦ ĖđĦč ęĎ ,ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔ ěĕďč đĚė ģđĕďč .(386 ĪĚĞ ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ) īĤďĎĘ ĝĜėĐĘ ęĕĘđėĕ ĐĦĚē ĕĜč đĕĐ ČĘđ đčĥ čĢĚ đĤĥĠČ (īęĕĠĕĠĤģ ĐčĤĐ ĐčĕčĝĚ đĕĐĥ ĐČĤĜėī) ēĔĥč ęĕĕĞčĔĐ ęĕĜđĦĜĐĥ ēĕĜĚ ěĚĤčĕĘ ěČė ĤĦĕĐč ČĘđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĤđĝĕČč ČđĐ ĥđďĕēĐ đĦĔĕĥĘĥ ēĕĜĚ ĕĜČđ ,ęĕĕĠĘČ ęđēĦč ĐĘĘėĜ ĐĦĚē Ęė ,ĕĘččĐ ĕĠąĘĞ īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ēĜđĚĐ ĦĜčĐ ĘĞ ĦđĦĦĥđĚ đĒ ĦđĜĥĤĠ Ęĥ ďđĝĕĐ ĦđēĜĐ ĘčČ 35.ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČĘ ĐĘĞĚĘ ĐĦĚēĚ ĦģēđĤĚ ĤďĎĥ ěđđĕėĚ .ēĔĥč ĦđČĕĢĚč ĦđĜĜđčĦĐ ĕďĕąĘĞ ĤģđčĚ đĜĕČĥ ĔĥĠđĚ ďđĚĕĘĚđ ĥđďĕēĐĥ ĐĤđĚ īĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐī ěđĥĘĐ ęĎđ ,ĤĕĦĐĥ ĐĚ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐ ĐĚ ĕĜĠĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĥĕ ,ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĦĥĥĚ :ĦĕĔĠĥĚ ĦđĞĚĥĚ īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ēĜđĚĘ ĥĕ ,ĕĦĔĕĥĘ .ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐč ČĘČ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ĤđĝĕČč ĐĕĐ ČĘ ĦđĕđėĒ ĐĘ ĥĕĥ ,(ĝĕĘđĠ ĐĒ ĐĤģĚč) ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĦđĕĐ Ęĥč ěĦĕĜ ĤĦĕĐĐĥ ĤĕčĝĐ ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ěĕčĥ ďčĘčđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĦėĘĘ ĤďĎ ĕĥĜČ ęĕĘđėĕ ěėĘđ ;ęĘĘėč ĐĦĚēđ ,ĐĦčĕčĝĥ ęĕēĔĥĐ Ęė ĘĞ ĦđĘĞč đĕĐ ČĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜčĘ đĘĕČđ ;ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĘ ęĕėĕĕĥĐ čđĥĕĕ ĕĜĚĚĝĚ ęĕģĕĤĐ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ đďĕĤĠĕ ČĘ ęĕĤĞĐ ĕēĤĒČ đĕĐ ČĘĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,(ČĦĕĕĤčč ČĥĕĤĐ ĕĠĘ) ęĤĕĞ Ęĥ ĕĚđĤďĐ ĐĘđčĎ ČđĐĥ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐĚ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ČĘČ .ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĐĕĤčĔ Ħčĕĥĕ ĥČĤ ĕĠĚ ĤĝĚĜĥđ ,ęčĥđĚ ĤđĒČč ĎĐĜĥ ĤĦĕĐ ĦĜčĐč đģĘēĜ ęĕČĤđĚČĐ :ęđėĕĝĘ ĦďđģĜ ĐĤĢĕĥ ,ČĚĎ ěĕĚė ,ĤĕĞĐ ĦĤđĢč ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĐĘĦ ČĜĚ ĪĤ 36.ęĐĕĜĠĘ ĦđĤđď ĕĜĥ ĐĕĚĤĕ ĪĤ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĕđėĒč ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĐĘĦ ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ đĘĕČđ ;ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĤčĞĘ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕďĚĘ ĐčđĤģ ČĢđĚ ĕĦĥ ĕĠĘ .ĐĚđēĦč ČĕĐ ğČ ĦČĢĚĜ ĤďĎ ĦĚēđ ,Đčĕčĝĥ ēĔĥč ĦđėĚĝĐ ĦĘĞč ČĕĐĥ ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞė ĤďĎ .ĐĦĚē ĕĜč ĘĞ ĘđēĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ Ęđėĕ ČĘ ĦđĔĕĥĐ ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĕĘččč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ .4Č ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ČĕčĐ ğĝđĕ čĤ ;ĐĦđĚĘĥč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ĦČ ĔĔĢĚ ĕĘččĐ ěĕČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ đĚė ČĘĥ ĕĜĠĚ ěĎĚ Ĥĕģ ĤĚđĘė) Đģď ĐĕĜĠĘ ĥĕ ęČ ĘēĜĐ ĦĠĥ ĘĞ Ħčĥđĕĥ ĤĕĞī :đĕďĕčĥ ĦĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĤđĝĚĘ ģđĒĕēė đĜĦĜ ČĘ ęČĎ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞčđī :īęĕĦĞĐ ĤĠĝī ĦČ ĔĔĢĚ (24–23 Īđĥ 368 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ) ěĚĤčĕĘ .33 ęĕĜđĥČĤĐđ) īęĕĦĞĐ ĤĠĝī Ęĥ đĦĞď ęĜĚČ .īČĢđĕĐ ďĎĜė ĕđĤģĐ ,čĤēĐ ĕĞĕčĤĐ ěĤģĐ ďĞ ęČĎĐ ĕĥČĤ ěĕč ČĐĕ ĐĚė ĤđĞĕĥ ĘčČ ;ĤĦĕĐ ěĚ ęĕďďđĚđ ,ęĎĐ ĕĥČĤ ĕĦĥ ĦČ ęĕĤčēĚĥ ĤĚđĘė ,īĦĥģė ĐĕđĥĞė ĐĜĕď ęČĎ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞĥī ,ČĕĐ (ęĥ .ďĞĕĘ ĤĦđĕč čđĤģĐ ęđģĚĐĚ ęĕďďđĚđ ,ĞčđĤĚ ĕďėĘ ĦđĤĝēĐ ĦđĕđđĒĐ ĕĦĥ ĦČ ęĕĚĕĘĥĚĥ ĐČĤĜ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ěđĥĘĚ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ đČĤđ ,ČīĞ Čĝ ĕĘččč ĕīĥĤ ĕĤčďĘ đđĥĐđ ,ĤĦČ ĘĞ īĐďĞĐ ěčĤģīđ īĐĥĚ ĕĜĠī đČĤ .34 .386 ĪĚĞ ,ěĕčđĤĕĞ đĚė ,ĤĚČĦ ęČđī :ĘĘėč ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞč ĐėĘĐĘ ĞĎđĜč ĥĤđĠĚč ĦČĒ ĤĚđČ ,Đĝģ ĪĚĞ ,ĦđĤđĝĚđ ĦđĤđģĚ ,ĕĜčĘĐ .35 ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč ČĕĐ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęėĥė ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ĦėĘĘ ęĕĘđėĕ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĜčĥ ČĔĕĥĠ ,ĕīĥĤ ĤĚČĥ .ī ĪĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ęĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕČđĪ ,ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐėĘĐĐ ČđĐ ĥđďĕēĐ .ĕĚĜ ĕėĐ ěĕČ ,ČĕĐ ĐčđĥĦĐ ?ĐĘđďĎĐ ;633 ĪĚĞ ,ďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĚėēĘ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČ đČĤ ,(ĐĕĚĤĕ ĪĤ ĕĤēČ ĐĕĤčĔ Ħčĕĥĕ ĥČĤ ĐĕĐĥ) ĐĜđĕ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĜč ,ČĜĚ ĪĤ ĘĞ .36 .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĕČĤđĚČĐ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĤđďĐ ęĞ đĜĚĜ ęĕĚėēĐ ĕĜĥ .529 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đČĤ ěđč ĪĤč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ĘĞ

ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ

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đĘĕČđ ,ČĦĠĝđĦč ĤčďĐĥ ęĥė ,ĐĜĥĚĘ ĤĦđĕ ģĐčđĚ Ĥĥģ ĐĤđĥģ ĐĦĚēĘđ ĐĕĤčĔĘ ĞĎđĜč ĐėĘĐĐĥ ęđĥĚ ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ģĤđ ,ęĕČĤđĚČ ĦģđĘēĚĘ ĤđģĚ ęĐđ ,ĤĦđĕ ęĕčėĤđĚ (4 ĞĔģ) ČĦĕĕĤčĐĚ ĕčĤ Ęĥ ęĕĤĦĕĐĐ .īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĦĜĥĚĚ ČđĐ ğČ ĞčđĜ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĕčĤ Ęĥ ĤĦĕĐĐĥ Ĥđčĝ ,ĐĒĐ ęĞĔĐ ěĚ ČĘ :ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČ ;ĦđĕđĥĤĐ ĕĜĠĚ :ČĜĚ ĪĤ ĤĚČī :ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦģđĘēĚ čđĥ ĐĜĐ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ(đ) [ěĕČđ] ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČĪ ěĜĕĜĦď ěĕĎč ČĘČ ěđĥĘĚ đČ ĦĕĘĐĜĚ ĦđĥĤ ěđĥĘĚ ČđĐ īĦđĕđĥĤĐ ĕĜĠĚī ęČĐ ,ęĕĥĤĠĚĐ đģĘēĜ ČĜĚ ĪĤ ĕĤčďč .ī ĪĐĘđďĎ ğđĎĘ đĦĜđđė īĦđĕđĥĤī ěđĥĘĥ đĜČĢĚ :ĦđĔĕĥĐ ĕĦĥĘ ĕĥđģ ĥĕ ĦĕĜđĥĘ ĐĜĕēčĚ 30.īĤĕĞĐ (ĦđđĢģ) ĕĥČĤī ĘčČ ,ĦđĎĎđ ĦđČđčĚ ,ĦđĤĢē ěđĎė ,ĤĕĞ ĖđĦč ĦđĕđĥĤĘ ĦđĞĎđĜ ĦđĕđĤģĕĐĐ Ęėĥ ČĘČ ,ěđďĕĜĐ ēĔĥč ěđčĕĤĐ īĥČĤī ēĜđĚĐ ,ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ 31.ĦĤēČ ĤĕĞ Ęĥ ĦđĥĤ ďĎĜė īĦĕĜđĤĕĞ ĦđĥĤī Ęĥ ěčđĚč īĦđĕđĥĤī ĕĦČĢĚ ČĘ ĦđĔĕĘč ĦĘĞč ČĕĐ ČĘČ ,ĦĞčđĤĚ đČ ĐĘđĎĞ ĐĜĕČ ěĦĤđĢĥ ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĦđėĘĐč Ğđďĕ īĤĕĞĐ ĐĢģī Ęĥ ěčđĚč đČ) īĦđĕđĥĤī ěđĥĘĐ ĐĒ ĕĠĘ ĘčČ ;ČĚĎ ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđČĐ ěĕĚė đČ īĦĥģ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞĐī ĤĕĞč ěđĎė ,īęĕĥČĤī đČ 32.Đĥģ ČđĐ (Ħđĕđĥ[Č]Ĥ ĤĚđĘ ĤĦđĕ ěđėĜ ĐĤĞĐč ĕĦĔĔĕĢĥ ĕĠė ,ěĚĤčĕĘđ ġĕčđĜĕčĤ ĦĞď ĘĞ ęĎ ĐĘčģĦĐĥ) īĐĥĚ ĕĜĠī Ęĥ đĒ ,ĦđĜĥĤĠĘ ĤĥČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĤėĒĜ đĜĕČ ĐĒ Ĥčď Á ĐĦĚē ĕĜč ĦČ ęĕėĚ đĕĐ ĤďĎ ĦđĥĤĐ ĕĜčĥ ČĕĐ ĐĜđđėĐĥ ĐĞĕĢĐĥ ,(30 ĕĜč đĘĞ ČĘ ĞđďĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĐĒ ęĞĔ Čč ĕĘččč ,ĦČĒĚ ĐĤĦĕ .ČčĐ ğĕĞĝč ĐČĤĜĥ ĕĠė ,ĕĘččč ĐĕĎđĝĐĚ đĤđģĚđ ĐČĤĜ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĐĕĎđĝĐ Ęĥ ĐĔđĥĠĚ ĘčČ .ĐĦĚēĘ ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐ ĞđďĚ ČĘ ĘčČ ,ĤďĎĘ ĐĦĚē (ĤĕđđČ đģč) ĐĦĚēĚ ĦģēđĤĚ ĤďĎ ĕĤĐĥ ,đĕĦđĘčĎĚ ĘĞ ČĘđ đĚĢĞ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĤĥĠ ĘĞ đģĘēĜ ęĕČĤđĚČĐĥ čđĥē ĤĦĕĐč ĤčđďĚĥ ěĕčĐ ĕČďđ ,ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĕĤčĔ Ħčĕĥĕ ĥČĤ Ęĥ đĜč ĐĕĐĥ ,ČĜĚ ĪĤđ ,ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ Ħĥĥė Ęĥ ĦďēđĕĚĐ ěĦĤđĢč ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ ĦģĚĜĚ ČĕĐĥ ĕĜĠĚ ĤĦđĕ ĐĤĕčĝ īĐďĞĐ ěčĤģī Ęĥ ĦđĜĥĤĠĐ .ĤĦđĕč ,īĦđĕđĥ[Č]Ĥī ěđĥĘĚ ĦčĕĕēĦĚ ĐĜĕČ īĦĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞī đĦđĜĥĤĠ ĘčČ ;ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ (Ħđĕđĥ[Č]Ĥ) ĦđđĢģ ĘčČ .ďēČ ĤčďĘ ęĕĜđđėĚ ČĤĠĝ čĤđ ČĜĚ ĪĤ ĕĤčďĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĦđĥĤ ěĕČđ ,ĕĘččč ČĤĠĝ čĤ ĕĤčďč ĐĤđģĚđ ĤĕĞĐ ĕė ĐĘĞĕ (5Č ğĕĞĝ ěĘĐĘ) ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĕĠĤĎđĠđĔč ěđĕĞ .ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĦČ ĤČĕĦ ČĜĚ ĪĤĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĦđĥĤ ĥĕ ĤģĕĞ) ĦēČ ěĤģ ,ĤĕĞĐ ēĤĒĚč Đďđģďđģĥ ĐĤĥĕ ĦĕđđĒ ĐĦĕĐ ĐĦĤđĢĥ ČĘČ ,īęĕĥČĤī ĦĘĞč ęĜĚČ ĐĦĕĕĐ (ęĕĤčģ ĐČĘĚ) ĐēđĘĥ čĎ ĘĞ ĐĜđĠĢ ĐďĤĕ ĦĤēČĐ ěĤģĐđ ,ĤĐĐ čĎ ĘĞ čĤĞĚĘ ēĤĒĚĚ ĐĞĤĦĥĐ (ĤĕĞĐ ,(īČĚĎī ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđČĐ) īęČĎ ěĕĚėī đĒ ĐĤđĢ ĐĜđėĚ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ěđĥĘč .đĜĕĚĕ Ęĥ ČĦēĦąČ ĐčĕĕēđĚ ěđđĕėĘ ĦđĞčđĤĚ ,ĦđĕđĒ ĐĘ ěĕĥđĞ ĐĘđĎĞ ,ČđĐĥ ĦđĚė ĐėđĤČ ,ęĕĤĞĐ ĦČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėī :ęĥ ĦđĔĤđĠĚ ĐĕĦđėĘĐđ ĐĥČĤĚ ĐčēĤ ĐĦĕĐ .Đđĥ ČĕĐ đĘĕČė ĐĦđČ ěĕČđĤ ęĎ ěĕĚė Ħĥģ ěĕĚė ĐĕđĥĞ ĐĦĕĐ ,ĦđĕđĒ ĐĘ ěĕĥđĞ ěĕČ đČčĥė ěĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ěĕĔčđēđ ěĕėĚ đĕĐ ĤďĎ ĕĜčđ đĘČĚ ĦĤēČ ĐĤĤĥđ ĦđĥĤ ĦēĦ đĘČ đĕĐĥī ,ĝĤđĎ īĐĥĚ ĕĜĠī ĘĞč .30 ČĘđ ,ĕČđĐ Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĤĕĞ ĤďĎďī :ĤĕčĝĚ ġĜČĥ ĦđĠĝđĦ ęĥč ĘīĥĤĐĚ ĦđčģĞč īĐďĞĐ ěčĤģī ĘĞč đĦĚđĞĘ ,īěĦđĥĤč ĕĘččč ĞĚĥĚĥ đĚė ĐĥĚ ĕĜĠė ĤģĕĞĐī :303 ĪĚĞ ,đĔđĥĠė ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ đČĤđ .Īđėđ ,īĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ Īď ĐĕĥČĤ Īč ěĕč ĐĕĐ ĕĜĠĚ ĘīĢ Á ĦđĕđĥĤĐ ĕĜĠĚī :ĐĕĎĐĥ ,(201 ĪĚĞ ,[ĐīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĘČĤĥĕ ġĤČ ĦĤđĦ ĕĤĞĥ) ġĕčđĜĕčĤ đĚĕďģĐđ ;īČīĞ Čĝ ĕĜčĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĐĘ ĕĎĤĔĔĚ ĕĎđĤĔĔ ČīĞ Čĝ ĕĘččč ĐĒ ěĕĞėđ ,ěĦĚē ĕĜčĘ ęĕėĚ đĕĐĥ ęĕĞĤ ęĕĥĜČ ĤďĎč đĕĐĥ ĪĕĠ ,ęĕĞĥĤĐ .ČčĐ ğĕĞĝč ěĘĐĘ ,ČīĞ Čĝ ĕĘččč ČĜĜĕē Ĥč ĕĚĕď čĤđ ČĤĠĝ čĤ ĦģđĘēĚ đđĥĐđ .īěĦĚē ĕĦĥ ěĕČī ĐėĘĐĐ .ĐĕČĤ ęĕėĕĤĢ ęĜĕČ īĦđĕđĥĤ ĞčĤČī ,īĦđĕđĥĤ ĕĦĥī ,īęĕčĤĐ ĦđĥĤī ,īďĕēĕĐ ĦđĥĤī ęĕēĜđĚĐ .31 ĦđĤėĒđĚĐ đĘČ ěđĎė ĦđĕđĥĤĘ ĝēĕč ĐČč (128 ĪĚĞ ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,đ ,Ē ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) īĦēČ ĦđĥĤč ĦđĥĚĦĥĚ ĦđĕđĥĤ ,ē đ ;ĎīĞ ēĕ ,Č Č ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĤčďĐ ěėđ ,(Ē ĐėĘĐ ,ęĥ) īěĐ ĦēČ ĦđĥĤ ěĘđė ĐĤďĝėČđ ĤĢēĐđ ĦĝĠĤĚĐđ ĎĎĐī :ęĥ .(čīĞ đė ,ď ĕ ;ČīĞ Đė ,đ ē ;ĎīĞ ďė ,Đ Ē ;ČīĞ ďė ĦēČ ĐĥČĤĚ ĐčēĤ ĐĦĕĐī :īęĕĤĞĐ ĦČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėī ĦđėĘĐĐ ġčđģč Čč ĤĕĞ Ęĥ ĐĢģĘ ěđđėĚė īĥČĤī ēĜđĚĐ .32 :(čīĞ čė ,Č Đ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĎ ĤĥģĐ đĦđČčđ ;(105 ĪĚĞ ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,Đ ,ď ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) Īđėđ īĤēČ ĐĥČĤĚ ĐĤĢđ ĤĕĞī :(ČīĞ ĐĜ) ĕĘččĐ ĘĞ ĖĚĦĝĚ īĐďĞĐ ěčĤģīĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ ĘčČ .ĤĕĞĐ ĐĢģ ďĞ ĤĚđĘė ,īČĦĜĕďĚď ĐĥČĤ ďĞ ěĚēĜ čĤ ĤĚČī .Īđėđ īĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĦĞčĤČĚ ĦđēĠ ĐĕĥČĤ ĕĜĥ ěĕč ĥĕ ęČ ,Ħĥģė ĐĕđĥĞĐ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ēĜđĚĘ ěĚĤčĕĘđ ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ęĥ ęĦĞďĚ ĐĜđĥ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĘĞ ęĕďĚĘĚ ,ęĥ ĐĚĘĥĐĐ ĖĥĚĐč ģčĘČ ĕĤčď :īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĘ ğĕĜĝė ĦčĥēĜ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč ČĕĐĥ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĥ ,đĒ ĐĝĤĎ ĥĤĠĘ ĥĕ ęĜĚČ ęČ ěĕč ,ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČĚ ĤĦđĕ đĘĕĠČ ĐĘđė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĕĥĜČđ ,ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦĜđėĥė ĐĜĕďđ ,ĐėđĚĝĐ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ęĜĕČ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĥĜČ ĘčČ .ĤĕĞĐ ğđĝč ĐĘė ČĕĐ ęČ ěĕčđ ,ĤĕĞĐ ĞĢĚČč ĐĘė ęđēĦĐ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĤĕĦĐ ĕčĤĥ ęĞĔĐ đĐĒđ .ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĠđĎĚ ģĘēė ĦčĥēĜ ČĕĐ ěĕČĥ ĕĠĘ ,ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜč ěĕČđ ČĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ČĕĤčĔ ĕĜč đĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤčĥ ěėđ . . . ĤďĎĘ ěĕĘđĞ ěĦĚē ĕĜč ěĕČđ ,ěĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ Á ĘďĜČĚĤģđĢ ĦĤđďĐĚ ĕĠĘ] ĎīĐ ĒīĠ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ěĚ ČĢđĕ ĐĒ ĥđĤĕĠ . . . ČĠđģĐ ęđģĚ ďĞ ČĘČ ěĕČč ČĦĚē .čīĞ ĝ ĕĘččč ĕďĕČ čĤ ęĎ ČĚĥđ ,đĒ ĖĤďč đĜĦĜĥĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ęĎ ĥĤĕĠ ĐČĤĜėđ [ČīĚ

ĕĜč ěĕč ĐėĘĐĘ ĘďčĐĐ ĦČ ĤĕčĝĐ Ėėčđ ,ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđėĥė đČ ğĕĜĝė ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ĤČĕĦ ģčĘČ ĤėĕĜ đĦĕĕēď ĖđĦĚ ĘčČ ;ęĦđČ Đēďđ ģčĘČ ĕĤčďč ěď ,ĕĘččč ĐĕĎđĝč đĜđĕĞč ,ĕĜčĘĐ ďđď .ęĕĜđĥĐ ęĕčđĥĕĕĐ 28:đĕĤčď ĐĘČđ ,ěĚĤčĕĘđ ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĦĔĕĥĘ ğĤĔĢĐĘ Ĥēčĥ ČĘČ ,ęĕēĜđĚĐ ĦĤďĎĐč ĔčĘĦĐ đĚĢĞ ČđĐĥ đč īĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĘ ğĕĜĝė ĐčĥēĜ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞī ęČ .ĤčĦĝĚ ČĘ ěČė ĐĜĥĚĘ đĕĦđĚĘĥĐč ģčĘČ ēīĤ Ęĥ đĥđĤĕĠ ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ĦėĘĘ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČĘ ĤđĝČ ĐĚĘ ,(ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĜč ěĕėĘĐĚ Ėė ęđĥĚđ) ?ĐĘ ğĕĜĝė ĦčĥēĜ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞĥ ĕď ,Ėėč ĐĚ ,īĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĠđĎĚ ģĘēė ĦčĥēĜ ČĕĐ ěĕČĥ ĕĠĘī ęČđ .ęĕĜđĥČĤčđ ,Īč ĪĚĞ ĥČĤ čĢ ,ěĚģĘ ěĕĕĞ ĘčČ

ĤĢēč ĐĜďĐ ĐĕĎđĝĘ ěĕĕĢ ČđĐ ĕĤĐĥ ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞĘ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ěĕč ĘďčĐĐ ĘĞ ďĚĞĥ ĤėĕĜ ĕĜčĘĐ ĕĤčď ğđĝ ĖđĦĚ ĐĜĕĥ ČĘ ĦČĒ Ęėčđ 29.ęĥ ęĕĜđĥČĤĘ ĐĜĠĐđ ,(č ,Ĕ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĐĚ ĐģĝĠ) ĐĜĔģ ĤĢēĘ ĐĢĤĠĜĥ ĐĘđďĎ ĕĤčďė ĦĚČčđ ,ĦĠĘČĚ ęĕĜĕĕĜĞĐ ĕĜĥ ěĕč ĐČđđĥĐĐ ĕĤĐĥ ,Ėė ĘĞ ĐĐđĦ ĕĜČđ ;ģčĘČ ĦĔĕĥ ĕĠĘė đĚĞĔ ĦČ ČĕĐĥ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĜčĘ ĘĕĞđĚ ČĘđ ,īĐĘđďĎč ĦĘĥđĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ěĕČĥī ĤĚđĘ ĥĕ ěČė ĐĕĎđĝč ęĎ ,ęĥ ĕĤĕČĚĐ .ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĢēĘ ğĕĜĝ ČĕĐ đĒ ĤĢēĥ ĐďčđĞĐ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĢēč ĦČĢĚĜĐ ĐĥĕČĘ ĐĘĕĞđĚ ČĘĥ ęĥė ,ĐĘđďĎĘ ğĕĜĝ ,ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĐĜĕēčĚ ğĕďĞ īęĕĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐĥėī ēĜđĚĘ đĤčĝĐ (Č) :Ħđčĕĝ ĕĦĥĚ ģčĘČ ęĞ ęĕėĝĚ ĕĜČ ĕĤĞ ďĚĞĚ ĘĞ ĦđĞĕďĕĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ğĕĜĝė ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ģčĘČ ĦĤďĎĐ (č) ;ĘĕĞĘ ĤđĚČė ĦđĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđĕđďĞĘ ěđĕď ďēĕĕČ .ěĚđēĦčĥ ęĕĤĠėĐ ĕĠĘė ĦđĕėĤĠđĔĐ Ęĥ ĐĤĕčĐ ĕĤĞ ďĚĞĚđ ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ęĕĘĥđĚ ěėČ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĜčĥ ,ĘĘėĐ ěĐĚ ĤĥČĦĚĥ ĐČĤČđ ,ĐĦĚē ĕĠĘė ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĕĔĠĥĚĐ ĐďĚĞĚ ĘĞ ęĎ īĦđĘđďĎ ęĕĤĞī đĕĐ (ĤďĎ ,ěđďĕĢ ,ĤđĢ ,ĕĤđĠĕĢ ,ĐĕĤčĔ) ČĦĠĝđĦč ĦđĤėĒĜĐ ęĕĤĞĐ Ęė ,ĤđĚČė .ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞč ēĕĜĐĘ Đčĕĝ ěĕČ ĘčČ ,ęĜđĕĝĕĜĚ ĐĘČ ęĕēĜđĚ đĤĕėĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕČĤđĚČĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĥĕ ;ĕĚđĤĐ ĘĥĚĚĐ ĕĜĕĞč ĕĝĕĠĐ ĘďđĎĘ ģĤ ĞĎđĜė īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ēĜđĚĘ ĕĘččč ĦđĝēĕĕĦĐĐ ĦĞčđĜ ěČėĚĥ ĤĥĠČ ;Ęčč ĕĚėē ęĎ Ėėĥ .ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĤďĎ ĘĞđ (3 ĞĔģ) ĐĕĤčĔ ĘĞ ĦđĦĕĕĤčĐĥ ēĕĜĐ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĖĤđĞĥ ,ęĕďĚĘĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĕČčĐ ęĕĞĔģĐ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕč Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ĦđėĘĐč ĘďčĐĐ ČđĐđ ,đč ĐģĝĞ (1 ĞĔģ) ĐĜĥĚĐĥ ČĥđĜč ĦđģĝđĞ (4 ĞĔģ) ĤĕĞī ĕĦėĘĐĐ ĘĘėĐ :ĖđĠĐ ěĤďĝ ĘčČ ,ČĦĠĝđĦčĥ ĐĒĘ ĐĚđď ĦđėĘĐĐ ěđĥĘ .ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕčĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĥĠČ ;ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐĚĎđďĐ ğđĝčđ ,ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔ Ęĥ ĐĚĎđďĐ ĐČč đĕĤēČ ,ěđĥČĤ Čč īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ .ĤđģĚč ęĕĕĤĎđĝĐ ęĎ .10 ĐĤĞĐ đĝģ ĪĚĞ ,ęĕēĝĠđ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĦđĦėĝĚĘ ĦđĤđĝĚđ ĦđĤđģĚ ,ĕĜčĘĐ Īď .28 ĐĜĔģč ĦđĥĤ ęĐĘ ĥĕ ĤĚđĘė ĐĜĔģč ęĕĘĥđĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĕĤđĕďĥ đĜĦĜĥĚĚ ĦďĚĘī :ČīĞ čĢ ,ęĥ ĐĕĎđĝĘ ĕĤĕČĚ .29 ĤēČ ĐĘđďĎĐ ČĘđ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤēČ ĦĤĤĎĜ ĐĜĔģĐĥ đĘĢČ ęėĥĚĘ ĐĘđďĎč ęĕĘĥđĚ ĐĜĔģ ĕĤđĕď ěĕČđ đĘĢČ ĐĦđČ ęĕėĥđĚđ ęĥ ĎĕĕĦĝĚ ČīčĔĕĤĐ ęĦĚđĞĘ .ęĥ ĕīĥĤ ĘĞ ęĕėĚĝĜ đĕĤčďđ ,īĐĘđďĎĐ ĖđĦč ĦĞĘčĜ ĐĜĔģĐ đĘČė ěĕĜĞĐ ĕĤĐđ ĐĜĔģĐ ĘĠĔĐ ęĤĢēĘ ęĕČĢđĕĐ ęĕĦč ĕĜčė ĐĜĔģĐ ĖđĦĘ ĐČĢĕ ĐĘđďĎĐ đĘĕČė ěđďĜĥ ĤĚđĘ ěĕĘđėĕ ěĕČī :ĦđĘĞč Ęĥ ĦđĞĚĥĚĐĚ .ĕĤĕČĚĐ đĚė ĤĕčĝĚ ČđĐ ęĎ (īĐĜĔģč ĔĎđ ĐĘđďĎč ĐĥČī Đīď ,čīĞ čĢ) ĖĥĚĐč ĘčČ ;īęĐĘ

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ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđ .(ĤĕĞĐ ĖđĦč ęĦďĕĚ ĐĦĘėĥ) ďčĘč ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ČĘČ ęĐĘ ěĕČ ,ěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐ 23 .(ĐĘđďĎĐ ĕĢēč ďĕĚĦ ĐĘė ęĦďĚĥ) ďčĘč ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ČĘČ ěĐĘ ěĕČ ĐĜĔģ

ģēĤĚĐĥ ,ČĕĐ īěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐĥėī ęĕĘĕĚĐ ĦđĞĚĥĚ (ěĚĤčĕĘđ) ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ęĥ đĦđĜĥĤĠ ĕĠĘ ĤĕĞĐđ ,ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĐĢģĚ ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĘĞ ĐĘđĞ đĜĕČ ďēĕ ęĎ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ēĔĥ Ęĥđ ĖĤďĐ Ęĥ ĘĘđėĐ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĘĞĚ Á ĐĘđďĎđ ,ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČĚ ĐĦđēĠ ĐĦďĕĚĥ ĤĕĞ ČĕĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ :ĕĒĕĠĐ ĐĘďđĎ ĕĠąĘĞ ĦĤďĎđĚ ĦďĕĚč ĘĘėĜ ĐĕĘČ ęĕėĘđĐĥ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĘďđĎ ęČ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĦģđĘēĚĐ ĦČ ĤĕčĝĐ ğČ ěĚĤčĕĘ 24.ĐĚČ ĝĤĎ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ęĎĥ ĤĚđĘė ,ĐĒĐ ěđĤģĕĞĐ ĘĞ ęĕĚĕėĝĚ ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤđ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĥ ČĢđĚ ĦēĜĐ ĖđĦĚ (ęĕĕĠĘČ ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤ ěĕčĘ đĜĕč ĦģđĘēĚĐ ĐĒ ĕĠĘđ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęė ĖĘĐĚ ęĥĘ ģĕĠĝĐĘ ęĕėĕĤĢ ĐĚČĐ ęĕĕĠĘČĥ ěĕč ģēĤĚĐ ĐĕĐ ĐĚĎđďĘ ęČ 25.ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĘ ĤčĞĚĥ ĖĤďĘ ĞĎđĜč ģĤ ĦđĞĚĥĚ ĦĘĞč ĐĦĕĕĐ ĤĦđĕ ĤĕĚēĚĐ ČĘČ čĥēĜ ČĘ ĐĚĢĞ ĤĕĞĐ ĖĘĐĚ Ęė ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĕĠĘĥ ĕĤĐ ,ĐĚČ ğĘČ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĘďđĎđ ,ĐĚČ ğĘČ ęĕĤĞĐ ĤčĞĚ ĦėĘĘ ĖĕĥĚĐĘ ĤĕĦĚ đĜĕČ ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤ đĘĕČđ ;ĦđĚČ 996 ďđĞ ĤĕĞĘ ĤčĞĚ ĖĕĥĚĐĘ ĤĦđĚđ ,ĦđĚČ ĞčĤČ ĕĜčĥ ęĕėĝĚ ĐĕĐ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ęĎ ,ĐĚČ ĦđČĚ ĞĥĦđ ğĘČ ĐĕĐ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĘ ģēĤĚĐ ęČ ,đĒ ĐĔĕĥ ĕĠĘ ĘčČ .ĤĕĞĘ .ęĥ ęĕĦčđĥđ ,ĦđĤĦđĜĐ ĐĚČĐ ĐČĚ ČĘČ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęė ĦČ ĖĘĐĘ ęĕČĥĤ ęĜĕČ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ :ĐĜĥĚĘ đĕĦđĚĘĥĐč ģčĘČ ĤĕĞĐĥ ĕĠė ĕĤĐĥ ,ČĦĠĝđĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ěđĥĘĚ ĦēėđĚ ĐĜĕČ đĒ ĦđĜĥĤĠ 26.īĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ęđēĦ ĖđĦč ĐĘđė ĐĕđĤĥ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐĥ ,ĐĜĥĚč ĥĤđĠĚ ěĕČĥ ,Đĥģ ĪĕĥĜČ ěĕČđĪ ĐĝĤĎĘī ĦėĘĘ ĖĕĥĚĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ęČ ,ĐĘČĥč ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦģđĘēĚ ĦČ ďĕĚĞĐĘ ĕĜĕĞč ĐđĚĦ ,đĚĢĞ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĘ ĤĥČ ĤĕĞĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞĚ ĐėĕĘĐĐ ČđĐ ěđďĕĜĐ ČĥđĜĐĥ ęĕĤčď Ęĥ ęĔđĥĠĚ ĐČĤĜĥ ĐĞĥ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĘ ĤčĞĚ ČčĤ Ęĥ đĦČĤĥĐč ČĕĐĥ ĐČĤĜđ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Ęĥ ĦđĜĥĤĠč ĖđĚĦĕĥ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĒĚĤ ęđĥ ęĎ ěĕČ .ĐĚĢĞ ĐĜĔģ Ĥčĝ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ :ĐĚĢĞ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĖđĦč ĐėĕĘĐĐ ĦĘČĥč đģĘēĜ ęĕČĤđĚČĐĥ Ĥđčĝ ĕĜČ 27.ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĤĕĞĘ ĐĝĕĜėĐ ďĞ ģēĤĚĐ ďđĞ Ęėĥ ,ĤĚđĘ ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ĦĜđđėĥđ ,ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕĚč ĦĘĘėĜ ĐĜĕČ (ĐĜĔģĐ) ĤĕĞĐĥ ĦďĕĚĥ ,Ĥčĝ ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤđ ;ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęė ĦČ ĦėĘĘ ęĕĤĦđĚ đĕĐĕ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜč ĕĒČ ,ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČĚ ěĔģ ĖđĦč ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČĐ đĘė ęČđ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĠđĝ ďĞ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐĚ ĖĤďĘ ģĕĠĝĐĘ Ħčĕĕē ęĕĕĠĘČ ěđĥĘ ęĞ ĦđčĥĕĕĦĚ ĦđĞďĐ ĕĦĥ .ďčĘč ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ČĘČ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜčĘ ęĐĘ ěĕČ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ .ĕĘččĐ ĦĔĕĥĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚ (ĕĘččĐ) ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤ ĦĞďđ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ

ČĦĠĝđĦ) đĚĞ ęĕėĝĐ ěĚĤčĕĘĥ ĤėĕĜđ ,(434 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ ēĝđĜĘ ČđčĚ) ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ęĥ ČđĐ ęĕĕĤĎđĝč ĤčĝĐĐ .23 .(387 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ĐĦĚēđī :387 ĪĚĞ ĥČĤč ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤ .ĥĤđĠĚč ĔĞĚė ĦČĒ ĤĚđČ ěĚĤčĕĘđ ,ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĕĤčďĚ ĤčĦĝĚ Ėė .24 ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĐ ČĕĤčĔ ĘčČ ,ęĐĘĥ ęđēĦĐ ĖđĦč ĐĦĕĐĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ĐĘđė ĦČ ĖĘĐĘ ČĕĤčĔ ĕĜč đĘėĕ ĖėĕĠĘđ ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĐĦĕĐ :9–8 ĪđĥĘ ,ęĥ ěėđ .īęĐĘĥ ęđēĦĐ ĦďĚ ĐĦĘė ęĥĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ĐĕĤčĔč ĐĠĕėĐ ęđģĚ ďĞ ČĘČ ĦėĘĘ đĘėĕ ČĘ ĐĦĚē ĕĜčđ đĜĕĕĞ) ęĕĠĘČ ĘĞ ęĕĠĘČĚ ĐĦđēĠ ĐĜĕČ ČĕĐ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ęĦĝĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ďčĘč ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ČĘČ ęĐĘ ěĕČ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđī .ěĘĐĘ đČĤđ .đĝģ ĪĚĞ ,ěĕčđĤĕĞĘ ĦđĤđĝĚđ ĦđĤđģĚ ,ĕĜčĘĐ Īď ĘĢČ ęĎ ĕĦČĢĚ đĒ ĦĕĦđĚė ĐĔĕĥ .ī(čīĞĝ čė ,Č Đ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ . . . ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĥ ĐČĤĜ ĔđĥĠĐ ĔĥĠĐ ĕĠĘī :īęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕĚĚ ĐĘĞĦĥ đĐĚ ĤĕĞī Đīď ,303 ĪĚĞ ,đĔđĥĠė ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .25 đĜĘ ĦĤĚđČ ĐĜĥĚĐđ ,ęĕĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč ĐĘė ĐĜĔģĐ ĦďĕĚ ęČ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČĥ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦČ ĥĤĠĚ ĕĥĜČ ĘčČ .ęđēĦĐ ĖđĦč ČĕĐĥ ĕĜĠĚ ,ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦČ ęĎđ ČĕėđĔĜČė ČĕĐ đĘĕĠČ ęĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČĥ .īĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐ ĦĘĕēĦč ĐĘė ęđēĦĐ ĦďĕĚĥ ĕĜĠĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ěĕČ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ .ĤĚČĚĐ ğđĎč ěĘĐĘ đČĤđ ,ē ĐĜĥĚĘ ,434 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĕĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ďĞđĚ ĤďĝĘ ĦđĠĝđĦđ ĦđĚĘĥĐ ,ģčĘČ Īē .26 ČčĤ ĦĔĕĥ ĔģĜ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĥ đēĕĜĐ ęĐ ğČĥ ,ęĕĕĦĤđĝĚĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĜĥĤĠ ĦđčģĞč ěĚĤčĕĘ ĖĘĐ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞčĥ ĐČĤĜđ .27 ĕĜĐď ęđĥĚ đČĘ ĔīĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕČđ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī :ĕĘččč ĥĤĕĠ ĐČĤĜėđī :(ĐĚĘĥĐĐ ğđĝč ,ĦĚďđģ ĐĤĞĐ) ,ģčĘČ đĦĚđĞĘ đČĤđ .īĤĕĞĐ ğđĝč ěĦďĚ ĐĦĘė ĕĜĐđ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĢēč ěĦďĚ ĐĦĘė .īČĦĕĕĤčė ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤđ ,đĜĦĜĥĚ ěđĥĘė ĐĜđĥ ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ . . . (ČĦĠĝđĦč đĚė ĤĚđĘė) đĒ ĖĤďč đĜĦĜĥĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ęĎ

ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

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ĦđėĚĦĝĐ ĦČ ČĔčĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĦđėĘĐ ěĕčĘ ęđēĦĐ ĦďĕďĚđ ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĦđėĘĐ ěĕč ĖđđĦč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤĞĐ Ęėĥ ,ČĕĐ ČĦĠĝđĦč ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĘĞ ĦđėĘĐĐ ġčđģč ĐĘĎĦĚĐ ĦĤēČ ĐďđģĜ .ęĕĘĘėĐ ĕĜĥ ĘĞ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĕĔĠĥĚĐ ěďĚĞĚ ęĎ ĤĒĎĜ ěČėĚđ 18;ĕĚđĤĐ ĕĚđģĚĐ ěđĔĘĥĐ Ęĥ ĐĜčĚč īĦđĘđďĎ ęĕĤĞī ěĐ ěĐč ĤčđďĚĥ ĕĠĘė ĤďĎ Ęĥ ĐďĚĞĚĘ ĞĎđĜč ĦđĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĕđďĞ ČĕčČ (5Č) ěĘĐĘ .ěĚđēĦčĥ ęĕĤĠėĐđ ēĔĥĐ ĦđĘĞčė .ĤďĎ ĤĕĞĐ ęđēĦ ěĕĕĜĞĘđ ,ĐĦĚē ďīĞ čė ,Ē Đ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ .3Č 19

:ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĐĜĐ .đĠđĎĘ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěđďČ ĐĦĞđ ,ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĘĞ ěđĕďč ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦďĚĞ ĘĞ ĕĦĒĚĤ Ĥčė

.ĪĘđė īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī :ĪĝĕĠ .1 ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ěĜĕČ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĥĜČ .ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞĐ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ] (ĪĘđė) ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī .ĪĦĕĜĦĚ ĕĜĕė .2 ęĥč ěđĚĕĝ ĪĤ ĐĕģĒē ĪĤ ĪĚČ ?ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕĚĚ ĐĘĞĦĥ đĐĚ ,ĤĕĞ .ďĢĕė ěČė ĦĕĘ .īďĢĕė 20.[ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė .ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕĚĚ ĐĘđĞ ĤĕĞ :ĤĒĞĘČ ĪĤ ĤĚČ .ęĕĕĠĘČ ĦďĕĚĚ ĐĘđĞ ĤĕĞ ěĕČ :ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĕĜč đĕĥėĞđ ;ĐĠĕėĐ ďĞ ČĘČ ěĕĞĕĎĚ ěĜĕČ ĐĦĚē ĕĜčđ ,ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ČĕĤčĕĔ ĕĜč đĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤč .3 .ČĕĐ ĦēČ ĤĕĞ ČĕĤčĕĔ ĕĜčđ ĐĦĚē ĐĦĚēĘ 21ěĕĘđĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ĕĜČ ĤđėĒ ,ĪĤ ĕĜĠĘ ĤĚČđ Ččĥ ěģĒ ďēČ ĐĞđĤč ĐĥĞĚ :ĐĕĚĤĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČ .4 ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕĘđĞ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĪĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ;ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ěĕĞĕĎĚđ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚđ ěĕĘđĞđ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĪĤ ĤĕĦĐ ďđĞđ .ĤĥĎĐ ďĞ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢēĘ ěĕĞĕĎĚđ ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚđ .ĤďĎĘ ěĕĘđĞ ěĜĕČ ĐĦĚē ĕĜčđ ,ĤďĎĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī ěĜĕĜĦď ěĕĎč ČĘČ ,ĐĒĐ ęĞĔĐ ěĚ ČĘ :ěđč ĪĤĕč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČ ;ĦđĕđĥĤĐ ĕĜĠĚ :ČĜĚ ĪĤ ĪĚČ .5 .ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ(đ) [ěĕČđ] ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ

ĐĒĘ ĐĚđď ēĝđĜč Ĥēč ČđĐđ ,ē ĐĜĥĚ Ęĥ ęĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥ đĕĐ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĖĤđĞ ĕĜĠĘĥ ,ĞĚĦĥĚ 2 ĞĔģĚ īěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđī ēĝđĜĐ ĦČ Đēďđ Á īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕČđī Á ČĦĠĝđĦčĥ đčđĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĦĜđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞč ĐĕĐĥ ĕĚ ,ďĢĕėī :ĐĜĥĚĐ ĖĥĚĐĘ ęđģĚ ěĕČ ěėĘđ ;ĐĜĥĚč ĞčģĦĐĥ ,Īđėđ ,Īđėđ īĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĐĘ ĐĢđēđ ĐĘđė ĦČ ĖĘĐĚ ,ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞč đčđĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĦĜđ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞč đČ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞč ĤĚđĘ ęĕčĕĕē ,ĐĜĥĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĒ ģĘē ĤďĞĐč 22.ęĕĤĞĐ ěĕč ĐđđĥĚĐ ,ĐēďĜĥ ēĝđĜč ĕđĘĦ ĐĒ ĖĥĚĐ ĕĤĐĥ Á ěĕĕĔĥĠČ .ĦđĜėĥ ęĕĤĞ ĕĚđēĦ ĦďĕďĚ ĦđėĘĐč ČĘČ ĦĤēČ ĤĕĞč đčđĤĕĞ ěĦĜĥ ĕĚč ĦģĝđĞ ĐĜĥĚĐ ěĕČĥ :Ėė ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦČ ĤĕčĝĐ Á ěĚĤčĕĘ đĕĦđčģĞčđ ĕĥĜČ) ĕĦĚĕČ ;ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕČđ ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ČĘ .(ěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČč ĦĝĜėĜ ĐĜĔģĐ ĤĕĞĐ Ęėĥ) ěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐĥė (ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ

,(Čĕ ,ď) īęĐĕĜĕčĥ ĦđĘďĎĚđ ĦđĤĞĚ ĕĜĠĚ ěďĕĢĘ ĤđĢĚđ ĕĤđĠĕĢĘ ČĕĤčĔĚ ěĕĘđĞ đĐĕĥ ĕĜČ ĕĜĘđėĕī ,ěđĞĚĥ ĪĤ ĕĤčď .18 .ĝĕĘđĠģďĐ ĕĤĞĚ ĦēČ Ğđďĕė ĐĦĕĕĐ ĤďĎđ ,đĘđė ĤđĒČĘ ĐĤĕč đĥĚĕĥĥ ęĕĤĞ ģĤ ęĕĤĕėĒĚ ďđģĕĜč ęĕĘģ ęĕĕđĜĕĥđ ĐĜĥĚ ĦģđĘē ęĞ ,477 ĪĚĞ ,[ČīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ďđĚĘĦ ,ěďĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė ĕĠąĘĞ .19 .ĕĘĥĚ (ĪĪĘđėĪ) ĤđĢĕģĐ ęđģĚč ęĕĘĥĐĘ ĥĕđī :(434 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ ēĝđĜĘ ČđčĚ) ĤĕĞĚ ěĕĕĔĥĠČđ .ĦĤēČ ďĕč ĐĥĞĜ ĕđĜĕĥĐ .20 .īęĎĚđĎĚ ĘĘėč ĐĜđĥĘđ ČīĞ Ďė ğďčĥ ĔČĔĕĢĘ ĐĚĕČĦĚ ĐĜĕČĥ ĐĕĎĚĐ ĦĠĝđĐė ČĘđ) ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ěĕČđ :Ęīĕėčĥ ,303 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) đĔđĥĠė ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ;ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞĘ đĕĥđďĕēč ČīčĥĤ đČĤ ĐĒ ēĝđĜĘ .21 ,12 ĖĤė ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĘĎĜČĐ ĐĤđďĐĚĐ đČĤ) ďđĝĕ ěĕČ ,go down :ĤĜĒđĕĜ Ęĥ đĚđĎĤĦĘ .385 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦčđ .(168 ĪĚĞ ,1991 ĕĦĥĚ đĞďĕ ĘČĤĥĕ ġĤČ ĕĜčĥ ČđĠČ ĐČĤĜđī ,ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ęĥ đĦĤĞĐ Đčđĥē .13 ĐĤĞĐĘ ěđĕĢĐ ďĕĘ ĘĕĞĘ đČĤ .22 .(434–433 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ ēĝđĜĘ ČđčĚ ,ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ĝīĕ) īĤģĕĞė ĪĕĥĜČ ěĕČđĪ ēĝđĜ ĦČ Ğčđģ ĪĥđĤĕĐĥ ČĘČ . . . ĦđČēĝđĜĐ

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ĦĚēĥ ,ĐēĚđĚĐ ďďđĚĐ ĦĞĕčģ ĦđĤĚĘ ĦČĒđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ (ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčđ ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėč ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ ěđĥĘė .ĤĚČĚĐ ĖĥĚĐč đč ěđďĘ čđĥČ ďđĞđ Á ĐĚĥ ĦėĘĘ ęĕĤđĝČ ěėĘđ ,ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ Ħčĥ ęđēĦč ĐĜĜĕČ ĤďĎ ěĕČ Á 16īĤĕĦĐ ďđĞđī ěđĥĘ ĐĤđĚĥ ĕĠė ,ěđĥČĤĐ ĤĦĕĐĘ đėĕĚĝĐ ġčđģĐ ĖĤđĞ ĕė ğČ Á ĕĜĥĐ ĤĦĕĐĐ đĘĕČđ ĕĜčĘ ĤĕĦĐĘ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĚĞĔđ ,(ĤďĎ ĕĜč ĘĞ ČĘđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč ĘĞ ģĤ ďĕĞĐ ĐĒ ĕĤĐĥ) ĐĞđĤĐ ĕĤčďĘ Ĥđĥģ ČđĐ ĕĜĥč ĦĔĘđčĐ ĐĞĢĐĐđ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĤĦĕĐĐ Ħčĕĝ ĘĞ đĐĦ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥč .ĤĝĚĜ ČĘ ĐĦĚēĘ Ħčĥč ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ąĕčĦė Ęėč ,ČĦĠĝđĦč ĘčČ .ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĝēĕė đĕĐ ĐĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ěĕč ęĕĝēĕĐĥ ,ĐĦĕĕĐ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĜččđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČč ĐėĘĐĐ đĘĕČđ ,ďďđĚč ģĝđĞĐ ď ģĤĠ ğđĝč ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ Čč ,ďĕĐ ,ĤĕĞĘ ġđēĚ đčđĤĕĞ ěĦĜĥ ĕĚč ĦģĝđĞĐ ĐėĘĐč ēĦđĠĐ ,Đ ģĤĠč ĐČč (ĐĕĜĠĘĥ ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔč ĐėĘĐĐđ) ,ĦđĞđčĤ ěĜĕČĥ ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĕĘĘėč ĤĦĕĐĐ ĦČ đĘĦ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥč ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĢģĚ ęĜĚČđ .ďďđĚč ČĘđ ĤĕĞī ĕĘĘėĚ ĞčĜ ĤĦĕĐĐĥ ĐĞďĘ ĐĤđĚĥ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥč īĐĜđĤēČĐ ĐĘĕĚĐī ,ĦČĒ ęĞ .ěĘĐĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĕĠė ĕĜĥĚ ĐĒđ ,ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĕėĤđĞ Ęĥ ęĐĕĜĕĞ ďĎĜĘ ĐĕĐ Ĥčė ĐĒ ģđĚĕĜĥ ĤčďĘ ęĕĜĚĕĝ ĥĕđ ,īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ :ęĕĚĞĔ ĦđĥĤ ĐĜĦĕĜ ęĕĤģĚĐ ĕĜĥč ěėĥ ,ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔč ĐėĘĐĐ ěĕčĘ ĐĦĚēđ ĤďĎč ĐĥĞĚĐ ěĕč ěđĕĚď ĥĕ .Č ęĦĕĕĘĞč đĘčĎđĐ ĦđČĢēĤĚĐ ĕčĥđĦ đĘĕČđ ,(ĐĕĦđČĢēĤĚč ĤĚđĘė) ĐĦĚēč ĤģčĘ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜčĘ ĐĘčĎĐ ČĘč đĦđČ ČđĐ ĐĦĚē ĕĜč ĕĜĠ ĘĞ ĤĕĞĐ ĕĜčĘ ĐčđĔĘ ĐĕĘĠĐĘ ģđĚĕĜĐ ęĎĥ ĒĚĤĚ ĐĒ ĕĦđĤĠĝ ěđĕĚďđ ;ęĤĕĞĘ .ģđĚĕĜĐ ģĤĠĐ ĥČĤč ĦēČ ĐėĘĐ ĤđĚČė ĐďĕĤĠĚ ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔ Ĥčďč ĐėĘĐĐ ěĕčĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ěĕč .č ġđē đĜĦĜ . . . ęđēĦ Ęĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đčđĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĦđĜĐī ĐĜĕĕĜĞĥ ,(111 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,Đ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ) ęĕčĤ Ęĥ ĤĕĞ ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ,ĐĦĚēđ ĐĕĤčĔ) ĐĕĤēČ ĦđČčĐ ĦđėĘĐĐ ĘčČ ;Īđėđ ,īĦēČ ĐĚČ ęđēĦĘ ĖĥĚĐ ěĐ Ėėčđ ,ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞč ĐďĕďĚ ĦđėĘĐč ģđĝĞĘ ĦđĤĒđē (ęĕčĤ Ęĥ ĦĕĥĞĜĥ ďĕēĕ Ęĥ ĤĕĞđ ,ĐčĤēĥ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ,ďēČ ďĢĚ :ģĠĝč ěĕĕĞĚĐ ĦČ ĤĕĦđĚ ĐĒ ĕĦđĤĠĝ ēđĦĕĜ 17.ęďđģĐ ģĤĠčĥ ĦđėĘĐĘ Ĥĕĥĕ ĕďė Ėėč ĕď ČĘđ ;ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĦėĘĐĘ ĐĚđď ČđĐ ĤēČ ďĢĚđ ,ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĕĘĘėč ģĝđĞĐ ģĤĠč ĘĘėĜ ĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ěĕč ģēĤĚĐĥ ěĕĕĢĘđ ,ĕĠĤĎđČĎ Ęđģĕĥ ğĕĝđĐĘ ĖĤĞ ĥĕ ěČė .ğĕďĞ ęĐĕĜĥĚ ĐĚ ĐĜģĝĚĘ ĞĕĎĐĘ ,(ĐĜđĥČĤč ęĎ ĐĕĤčĔ ĦĚēĘ ĐĕĤčĔ ěĕč čĢĚĐ ěė ěĕČĥ ĐĚ) Ħčĥ ęđēĦĚ ĐĥđĘĥ ĕĠ ĘđďĎ (Ěīģ 3.5) ĤďĎ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ .īěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐĥėī ĐĕĐ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞĘ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞĚ ĐėĕĘĐ ĤĕĦĐĘ ĕČĜĦĐ ďđĞč đČĢĚĜĥ ĐĤĕď ĕĦčđ (ĐĤđčģ) ĦđĥĠĜ ,ĦđĤĞĚđ ęĕĘďĎĚ ěđĎė ,čđĥĕĕ ĕĜĚĚĝ ČĘč ČđĠČ ěĦĜĕĐĘ Ęđėĕ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ĦĤĕĠĝĘ ČĢđĚĐ ĦďđģĜ ĦĞĕčģ ĖĤđĢĘ ĐĘđďĎĐ ĤĕĞĐĚ ģĘē čĥēĕĐĘ đĘėĕ ĤĥČđ ,ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘČ ĤďĎ Ęĥ ďĤđĚč ĕďė ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĦėĘĐĘ ęĎđ ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĦđėĘĐĘ ęĎ đģģĒĜ ęĕĚėēĥ ,ĖėĚ ČĢđĕ .ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĐĚđģĚđ ;ĤďĎĘ ĦđĘĞĘ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĕĜč đĘėĕ ČĘ ĐĚ ęđĥ ĘĞđ ,ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĦėĘĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĘėĕ ďĢĕė ĤĕčĝĐĘ 15

ĝĝčĦĚ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ęĞ Ĥčāď ĘĦ ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ ĐĞĢĐĐ ĦĕĕēďĘ ,īĕĘĕĘĎ ĕĠĤĎđČĎ ĥĤďĚī ,ĤĜčĕĘ ĐĘĞĐĥ ĕďĕēĕĐ ģđĚĕĜĐ .15 ĦčĥĐ ęđēĦč ĐĕĐ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕė ĐČĤĜ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ěĚ ĕė ĤĕĞĐĘ ĕđČĤī :(66 ĐĤĞĐ ,50 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) đĕĤčď đĘČđ ;ĐėđĠĐ ĐēĜĐ ĘĞ ,đĕĤčď ĘĞ ĐĚĦ ĕĜČ .īĖĕĤČĐĘ ęđģĚ ěČė ěĕČđ ,Ĥčđď ĘĦ ĦČ ęĘđĐ đĜĕČĥ ģēĤĚ ,(ĐĜĚĚ Ěīģ 1.2ąė ďĞ đĜĕĕĐ) ĤďĎąĦĚē Ęĥ :(385 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ) ěĚĤčĕĘ ĕĤčď đČĤđ ?ĤĦĕĐ ġđēĜ ĐĚ ęĥĘ ,Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ĖđĦč đĕĐ ęĕčđĥĕĕĐ ĕĜĥ ęČ ĕĤĐĥ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč ĖĕĤČČđ .Īđėđ īĦčĥ ęđēĦĚ ĤĦđĕ ĤďĎď ĐĦĚēĚ ĐģđēĤ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĐĦĕĐ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĜĚĒčĥ ĐČĤĜ ěĕĕĜĞĐ ęĢĞĘđī .ĤĚČĚĐ Ęĥ ĕĜĥĐ ģĘēč ,ěĘĐĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĤėĒĜ ČĘ ęĐčĥ ,ĕĘččč ęĎđ ,(7 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ đČĤ) ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėčđ ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėč ęĎ ,ēĝđĜĐ ĕďĞ Ęėč .16 ěđĥĘč ěĘĐĘ ĐČĤĜĥ ĕĠėđ ,đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦėĚ ĤđĤčĥ ĕĠė ,ěđĥČĤ ĤĦĕĐ ĐĕĐĥ ,īĤĕĦĐ ďđĞđī ěđĥĘĐ ēĕėđĚ ,ěđĥČĤĐ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ īęĕĤĞĐ ĦČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėī ěđĥĘĘ Đđđĥ (111 ĪĚĞ) ď ĐėĘĐč īĐĦđČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėīđ īĦĤčĞĦĚ đĒ ĕĤĐī ěđĥĘĐ .17 ġđē ČĢĕĥ ĕĚī :Čĕ ĐĜĥĚ) ď ģĤĠč ĐĜĥĚĘ ĐĤđĥģ Đ ģĤĠ ĥČĤčĥ īđčđĤĕĞ ĦČ ěĦđĜĐī ĐėĘĐĐ đĘĕČđ ;(ď ,ď) ġčđģĐ ĥČĤč .(2–1 Īđĥ ,386 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤ) īěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėī ģĤĠĐ ĦđĕĜĥĚĘ ČĘđ ,(Īđėđ īĝĜėĕĕ ČĘ . . . ęđēĦĘ

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ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ

ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĘđĎĘĎ :īĐĞđĤ ďēČ ěģĒč ĐĥĞĚī .Č ĦđĚĕďģĚ ĦđĤĞĐ :ČĦĠĝđĦč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ .1Č ĐĞčģĥ ĘĘėĐ ěĕč Ĥĥģ ĥĕĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ ĘčČ ,ĐĜĥĚč ĦĤėĒĜ ĐĜĕČ ČĦĠĝđĦĐĚ ĘĕĞĘ ĐČčđĐĥ ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ěĕĜĚČĜ ,ĐēĠĥ đĘĕĠČ ,ďčĞ đĘĕĠČ . . . ĐēĚđĚĐ ěĚ ČĘČ ěĕďďđĚ ěĕČī :(Đ ,Đ ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĐĜĥĚĐ ěĕčĘ ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ęĕĢčđĥĚ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ĕĜĥ .īĘģĐĘ ČĘČ ĤĕĚēĐĘ ĤčďĐ ĦČ ęĕĚėē đĤĚČ ČĘĥ ,Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ěČė ďĞ ĤĚđĘ ĦďĕďĚĘđ ĤĕĞĐ ĦđĘđčĎ ĦĞĕčģĘ ęĕĘĘėĐ ęĐčđ ,īęĕĤĞĐ ĦČ ěĕĤčĞĚ ďĢĕėī ęĦĤĦđėĥ ĦđėĘĐ ĕĢčđģ ĖđĦč ĕĜĠ ĘĞ ĦĕĚđģĚĐ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĦČ đĠĕďĞĐ ęĕĚėēĥ ĦđďĕĞĚ ČĦĕĕĤčĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ 11.ĤĕĞĘ ĤĕĞ ěĕč ĐĚČ ęĕĕĠĘČ ĐģĠĦĝĐ ČĦĠĝđĦĐĚ ĐĜđĥčĥ ČĘČ ;ĤĕĦĐĘđ ĘģĐĘ ĐČč đĒ ĐĠďĞĐĥ ěĕđĢ ěĐĕĦĥčđ ,ĐēĚđĚĐ ĦďĕďĚ ĐĜĥĚ :ČĦĠĝđĦĘ ĐĜĥĚĐ ěĕč ĐĚđď ĝēĕ ĤėĕĜ ģĤĠĐ ĖĥĚĐč ęĎ 12.ĐĥĞĚĐ ĦČ ĐĜĕĕĢ ČĘđ ,ĘĘėč ĐĜĥĚĐ ;īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ęĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČ ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ęĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī :ĐėĘĐ ĐĞčģ ē ĐĦĚē ĕĜč ěĕČđ ,ĐĦĚē Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĕĤčĔ ĕĜč đĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤčī :ĐĥĞĚč ĐēĦĠ (č ,Đ) ČĦĠĝđĦĐ đĘĕČđ ĘĘėĐ ĦČ ĐĠĕĝđĐ ďĕĚđ ;īĦēČ ĤĕĞ ĦđĕĐĘ đĤĒē ĐĦĚē ĕĜčđ ČĕĤčĔ ĕĜč đĕĥėĞ ,ĐĠĕėĐ ęđģĚ ďĞ ČĘČ ěĕČč ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĜč ěĕČđ ,ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ Ęė ĦČ ěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī :đĜĚĚ ĤĒĎĜ ĐĥĞĚĐĥ ĐĤģĚčđ ,ĕĦėĘĐĐ ĘĘėč ĐĜĥĚĐ ĐģĠĦĝĐ ěČė ęĎ .(Ď ĐėĘĐ) īěĐĘĥ ĐĚČ ęĕĠĘČ ĖđĦč đĕĐĥė ,ĐĘđďĎ ,ČĦĠĝđĦč ġčđģĐ ęĞ ĐĜĥĚč Đ ģĤĠ Ęĥ ĦĘĘđė ĐČđđĥĐ ,ğđĝčĘ 13.ČĦĠĝđĦčĥ ěđĥĘĐĚ ĐĦĜĕĥ ęĎ ĐĒ ĐčēĤĐđ ĥđĤĕĠ ĐĜĕČ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĕĤčďĥ ĦďĚĘĚ ,(ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦė ĕĠĘ) ď ĐėĘĐ Đ ģĤĠ ďĞđ ď ĐėĘĐ ď ģĤĠĚ ,ČĕĐ ĐĜģĝĚĐ .īēĔĥĐ ěĚī ĦđČĚĎđďđ ĦđėĘĐ ĘĕėĚĐ ,đĜĦĜĥĚĘ ĘĕčģĚđ ęĘĥ ĕĦėĘĐ ġčđģ ČĘČ ,đĜĦĜĥĚĘ ĖĚĝĚ ČĕĐ ĐĜĥĚĐ đĘĕČđ ,ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĦđėĘĐ ĦėĕĤĞč ĤĦđĕ ęđďģ čĘĥ ĦĎĢĕĕĚ (ĐĒĐ ęđģĚč) ČĦĠĝđĦĐĥ 14.ęĕĤĞ ĤđčĕĞ ĦđėĘĐĘ ęĕčđĥēĐ ęĕĘĘėč ģĠĦĝĚĐđ ĦđČĚĎđďĚ ĐĠđĜĚĐ ,ĤĦđĕ ďčđĞĚ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĤĦĕĐĐ Ħčĕĝ .2Č ĞčģĜĥ ĘĘėĐ ĦČ ęĕĎďĚ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜčĘ ěđĥČĤĐ ĤĦĕĐĐ ģĤĥ ěĕĕĢĘ ĥĕ ,ęĚĢĞ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĕĤčďĘ ĤĥČ ,ĦđĘĞĘ đČ ČđčĘ đČ) ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜčĘ ĤĕĦĐđ ,ĦĕĚđģĚ ĦĤđĝĚ ĘĞ ĖĚĦĝĐ ĕčĤĥ Ėėč ,ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ĥČĤč đģđĚĕĜ ĦČ .đĦđČ Đēďđ ĐĒ ĕđĐĕĒč ěď (66 ĐĤĞĐ ,50 ĪĚĞ ,[đīĝĥĦ] 120 ĐĤďĦģ ,īčđĕČ ĕĤĞĜ ĞĝĚ ĘĞ ĕĘĕĘĎ ĕĠĤĎđČĎ ĥĤďĚī) .15 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ đČĤ đĕĘĞ ĕĦčđĎĦđ ĤĜčĕĘ Ęĥ ,ď ĐėĘĐ ď ģĤĠč) ěđĥĘĐ đĦđČč ġčđģĐ ēĦđĠ ČĦĠĝđĦč ęĎ ;Đ ģĤĠ Ęė ĦČ ğĕģĚ ġčđģĐđ ,Č ĐĜĥĚ ěđĥĘ ĐĒ .11 .ď ĐėĘĐ Đ ģĤĠ ďĞ ĖĥĚĜ ġčđģĐđ ,(105 ĪĚĞ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ đČĤ) ĐĜĥĚč đĚė ģĤĠ ĥČĤ đĐĒ ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėčđ ęđēĦ ěČė ďĞ ĤĚČđ ďēČ Ččđ ĖĘđĐđ ďďđĚ ĐĕĐī đĕĜĠĘĥ ĔĠĥĚĘ Ĥđĥģ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĐĥĞĚĐ ĤđĠĕĝĥ ēĕĜĐ ěĚĤčĕĘ .12 ČĘČ ,(83–82 Īđĥ 385 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ đČĤ) đĕĜĠĘĥ ĘĘėĐ ĘĞ ďĕĞĚĐ ĐĥĞĚ ĦĜĕēč ,īěĚČĜ Ħčĥ ĐĜĥĚĘ ĐėĕĚĦė ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ĦČ ČĕčĚ đĒ ĐĜĥĚĘ đĥđĤĕĠč ĎĤčďĘđĎ ,đĦĚđĞĘ .ĐĜĥĚĐ ĕĤčďĘ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞ Ĥĥģ ČĘ ěĚĤčĕĘĥ ,īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđ ĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČī ĐĜĥĚĘ đĤčĝĐđ ,(147 ĪĚĞ ,[đīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ěĕčđĤĕĞ ĐĜĥĚĘ ĥđĤĕĠ ,ĎĤčďĘđĎ ęĐĤčČ) .ġčđģĐ ĖĥĚĐčĥ īĐĘđďĎ ĤĕĞī ĦđėĘĐĘ Ĥđĥģ ĐĥĞĚĐĥ ěČėĚđ ,156–155 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĐĔđĥĠė ČĦĠĝđĦ) ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥđ ,(434–432 ĪĚĞ ,[ČīĝĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ] ĐĜĥĚĐ ēĝđĜĘ ČđčĚ) ěĕĕĔĥĠČ Ĝīĕ .13 ,ĐĜĥĚč ĕĤđģĚĐ ěđĥĘĐ ČđĐ Īđėđ īĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĜč ěĕČđī ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ēĝđĜĥ ,ĐĜģĝĚ ĘĘėĘ ęĐĕĜĥ đĞĕĎĐ ,(7–5 Īđĥ ,387 ĪĚĞ ,ĤēČ ďĢĚ .īĕĥĜČ ěĕČđī ęĦĜĥĚč ęĐĘ ĐĕĐ (ČīĞ Ďė ,Ē Đ ęĥ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěđč ĪĤč ĕĝđĕ ĪĤđ (ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ĕĘččč ČčĤ ęĎĥđ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĦđĤđĝĚđ ĦđĤđģĚ ,ĕĜčĘĐ Īď đČĤđ .Īđėđ īěĕėĘĐĚ ĐĜĔģ ĤĕĞ ĕĥĜČđī ĐĜĥĚĐ ěđĥĘĘ ęđĕģ ĥĕ Ĥčė ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥč .īČĤĝēĚ ĕĤđĝēīĘ ĦģģĒĜ ĐĜĕČĥ ,ĐĠĕďĞ đĒ ěđĥĘ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĞďĘĥ ,ĐĝģÀďĝģ ĪĚĞ ,(čīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ČĦĠĝđĦčđ ČĦĕĕĤčč ęĕĤģēĚ) ģčĘČ ĖđĜē ďĚĞ ,ĕčĤ ĕĤčďĘ ĞĎđĜč ČĦĠĝđĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ěĕč ĝēĕĐ ĘĞ .14 ČĦĕĕĤčč ĕčĤ ĦĞďĚ ĘđďĎ ĕėĐ čđĤĐđ .ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ěĚ ĐĜĥĚč đĠĝđĜĥ ĤĥĠČđ ,ČĦĠĝđĦč ęĎ đĤďĝĜ ęčđĤđī :(174 ĪĚĞ ,[ďīĥĦ ģĐčđĚĐ ĤčđďĐ ČđĐ ěĚďĕĤĠ Īĕ ČĚĥ ,đĜĤđďčđ .īĐĜĥĚč đĚĢĞ ĕĤčď ğĕĝđĐ ČĘ ČđĐĥ ĕĠĘ ,ĐĜĥĚč ĘĘė đĤėĒĜ ČĘ ČĦĠĝđĦđ đČĤ .ĤĦđĕ ĦĘĘėđĥĚĐđ ĦďčđĞĚĐ ĐĜĥĚĐĚ đĜėđĦčđ đĜđĥĘč ĤĦđĕ ĕĤđģĚ ČđĐ ęĕĚĞĠĥ ĤđģĚ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĐČđĤĐ ĐĔĕĥĐ Ęĥ .(ĎīĝĥĦ ,ěĘĕČąĤč ĦĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČ) ĕĘĘė ČđčĚđ ĥđĤĕĠ :ČĦĠĝđĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦđĘĕčģĚ ,ěđĥČĤ ēĝĠ ĦėĝĚ ČĦģĕĦĞ ČĦĠĝđĦ ,đĤĠĝ

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(đģđđģĚ đģč ěĚđĝĚ ĕČđđĦĐ) ĦĕĚđĤ ĖĤď :ĐĦčĕčĝđ ĤďĎ ĦĞģč Ęĥ ĦĕĠĤĎđĠđĔ ĐĠĚ .1 ĤđĕČ .ĐĕĤčĔĘ ęĥĚđ (Ĥčāď ĘĦ) ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĘ ęđĤďĚ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĘČ (ĝĕģý ęČ) Ă ĤďĎĚ ĐďĤĕ .ĦđČĢēĤĚĘ ēĤĒĚąęđĤďĚ ĖđĚĤĕĐ ĦČ ĐĦĢē ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĘČ ĤďĎĚ ĦĤēČ ĖĤď ĤđģĚĐ ďĚĞĥ ĐĞĥĚ ,ĤēČ ďĢĚđ ;ęĕĕĜđĢĕē ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĤđģĚ ĦĤđģĕčč ďđĚĞĘ (ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕďđĚĘĦ ĦđĤđģĚ 8.đĚđģĚĘđ đĜĚĒĘ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĤđģĚ ĥĚĥĘ ĕđČĤ ČđĐđ ,ĕĥĚĚ ĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĖĤĞ ĘĞč đĐĕĤĐ ,đĒ ĦĤđģĕčč ĕďđĚĘĦĐ ČĦĕĕĤčĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĘđĎĘĎ ĦČ ěēčČ ěđĥČĤĐ ģĘēč :ĐČđđĥĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕďďĢĐ ĕĜĥ ĦČ ęĕĎďĚ ĐĒ ĤĚČĚ ĤđĢĕģč đČ) ĤďĎ ĦĚēĘ ĦďĤĘ ĤďĎ ĕĜčĘ ĕčĤ ěĦĜĥ ĕĜĥĐ ĤĦĕĐč ďģĚĦČ 9,ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥčđ ČĦĠĝđĦč Ęĥ đĤđČĕĦč ĥĚĦĥČ ĕĜĥĐ ģĘēč ;ĕĤđĔĝĕĐđ ĕĠĤĎđČĎ ěēčĚč đĘĘĐ ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ ĦČ ďĕĚĞČđ ,(ĐĦĚēĘ ă ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ČĦĕĕĤčĐ ěđĥĘĥ ěđđĕėĚ .ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĘ ĕđĐĕĒ ĞĕĢČđ ,ĐĦĚēĘ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚĚ ĖĤďĘ ĐĠĚė ěģĒĐ ĐĞđĤĐ ĤčĞč ĞĢđĐĥ ĕđĐĕĒ ,(Ĥčāď ĘĦ) ĤĕđďąČ ĦčĤĪēč ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĦČ ĦđĐĒĘ ĞĢđĚ ,ĐĕĘČĤĐ ěēčĚč ğĕďĞ ČĢĚĜ 10.(1 ĤđĕČ) Ęđėđ ĘđėĚ ĐĜđĤēČĘ ĐēďĜđ

.ĕďďĐČ ďđĚĘĘ ęĦđĝĜč ęĕĜđĕĤđĔĝĕĐđ ďđĚĘĦ ĕĤģđē ĕĜĠĘ đĕďĕĚĘĦđ ĤĜĒđĕĜ đčĕĢĐĥ ęĕĤĎĦČĐĚ ęĘĞĦĚ ĕĜĕČ Ėėč .8 ĕīĥ Ğčģ ,ĕĘččč ĦČčđĚĐ ĦĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĐďĎČ đĒ ęČ ęĎ ,ĕďđĚĘĦ ĤđģĚĚ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ďđĚĘĘ ēĦĠ ęĕēĦđĠĐ ĦđĤĕĐĒ ĕĘĘė ,163–119 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕđ ģĤđĕąđĕĜ) ěĚĤčĕĘ ĘđČĥ ĕčĤĘ ěđĤėĕĒĐ ĤĠĝ ,īĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĐďĎČĘī ,ěĚďĕĤĠ R.Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia ĐĜđĤēČĘ đČĤ ĕĘččĐĚ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ďđĚĕĘ ĘĞ .6 ĐĤĞĐđ ,121–119 ĪĚĞ ĐēĕĦĠč ďđēĕĕčđ .between Persia and Roman Palestine (Oxford University Press, 2006) .ČīĞ Čĝ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĕĘčč ;ďīĞ čė ,Ē Đ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .9 ěďĤĕĐ ģĚĞč Ĥđĕĝ ĕĚĥĤī) ěĕčĕĕ ĘČđĚĥ ęĞ ĐĥĞĥ Ĥģĝ ĦĞč 1943 ĦĜĥč Ĥčė ĤĒĚ ěĕĚĕĜč ĐĘĞĐ đĒ ĐĞĢĐ .10 ĐĘČĚ ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĕĚđĝĤĠč đĦĞď ĘĞ ĤĒēđ ,(21–20 ĪĚĞ ,[ďīĥĦ] Čĕ ĦđĞĕďĕ ;100–99 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīĥĦ] ĕ ĦđĞĕďĕ ,īĕĜđĠĢĐ ;193 ĪĚĞ ,[đīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđĘĕĘĎđ ęĕĤĞ ,ĘīĜĐ ;117 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĕĥĦ) ďėąĎė ěđĕĢ ,īĐėĞĚđ ĤđĥĎī ,ĤĒĚ Īč) ĤĜčĕĘ ĕĒđĞ .(B. Mazar, The Early Biblical Period: Historical Studies, [Jerusalem 1986], p. 116 ęĕĤģēĚĐ ġčđģčđ

ĤďĎ ĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ,ĤďĎ ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč

ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ ĤĔėĥ ěđėĚ

:(110 ĪĚĞ ,ĎīĜĥĦ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĒĔ ,ď ěĕčđĤĕĞ) ČĦĠĝđĦč đĜĕĜĥ ĤĚČđ 3ĕčĤ ĕĜĠĘ Ččĥ ĐĞđĤ ďēČ 2ěģĒč ĐĥĞĚ .ěĚČĜ Á 1Ħčĥ ęđēĦ ěČė ďĞ ĤĚČđ ďēČ Ččđ ,ĖĘđĐđ ďďđĚ ĐĕĐ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐđ ;ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝĐ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ 6ĐĦĚēĘ 5ěĕďĤđĕ 4ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ĕĜč đĕĐĥ ,ĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒ :đĘ ěĕĘđĞđ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĤďĎ ĕĜč đĐĕĥ ĕčĤ ĤĕĦĐ ďđĞđ 7.ĤĥĎĘ ĐėđĚĝ ĐĜđĢĕēĐ ĤĢē ďĞ ĐĦĚēĘ ěĕďĤđĕ ĘďĎĚ .ĤďĎĘ ěĕĘđĞ đĕĐ ČĘ ĐĦĚē ĕĜčđ ,ĤďĎĘ

ēĔĥčĥ (ĝĕĕģ ęđČ) ĤďĎ ĦđčĤđēč Ĥđĕĝ ĦĞč ,ęĕďđĚĘĦč ĐĕĘđĎĘĎ ĘĞ ,ČĦĠĝđĦĐ ěĚ đĒ ČĦĕĕĤč ĕĦďĚĘ (ĪĚ 143) ĖđĚĤĕĘ ĤčĞĚĥ ĤďĎ ĦĚē ĤčĞ ĘČ (ĪĚ 378) ĘĦĐ ęđĤĚĚ ĐĜđĠĢ ęĕĠĕģĥĚ đĜČĥė ,ěďĤĕ ĦėĘĚĚ ĘďĎĚ Ęĥ đĕđĐĕĒ ĘĞđ ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ Ęĥ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĤĥĠ ĘĞ ęĕĐđĦđ ,ĤđĠĕĢĐ ğđĞĚč ęĕĤĔĚđĘĕģ 3.5 ĖĘĐĚ .ĘčđĕĐ ĘĞčĚ ĕĦďĚĘ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐđ ęĕĕĎđĘđČėĤČ ęĕČĢĚĚ ęĞ ĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĤđģĚĐ ĦČ čĥĕĕĘ ĦđčĕđēĚĐ ĦČ .ĤďĎ ďĢĚ ĦĤđģĕčĐ ĘĞ ğĝđĜ) čĕĕē ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ČčĐ ĐĥĞĚ ,ďēČ ďĢĚ :ęĕĜĠ ĕĜĥĘ ĦĞĚĦĥĚ đĒ ĦđčĕđēĚ

ĐĜĕĕĘďđč ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦėč čīĞ ēĜ ěĕčđĤĕĞčđ ,Đ ,Đ ěĕčđĤĕĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĘ ĐĚĤĠ ďĕąčĦėčđ ,ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ .1 .īĦčĥĐ ęđēĦī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ .īĕĦĕĕĐ ĤđėĒī ĖĥĚĐĐ ęĞ ĕĦđĤĠĝ ęđĕģ đĒ ĐĝĤĎĘ ěĕČđ ,īĐĞđĤ ďēČ ěĔģč ĐĥĞĚī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėč .2 .īđčĤī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ ;ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤĘ ĐĜđđėĐđ ,ěđďĜđĘđ ĐĜĕđ ďĕĐąĕčĦėč Ėė .3 ęĕĝĤđĎ ēĝđĜĐ ĕďĞ ĤČĥđ ,īĤďĞ ĘďĎĚī ĝĤĎ čīĞ ĕ ěĕĘđēĘ đĕĥđďĕēč ěīčĚĤĐ ;īĤďĎ ĘďĎĚī ĝĤĎ ĐĜĕđ ďĕąčĦė ģĤ .4 .īĘďĎĚī .īĐĦĚēĘ ěĕĘđĞī Á ĐėđĠĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĐĘĕčģĚčđ ,īěĕČčī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ .5 ĥĕ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĎ .īČĦĚēī ČĕĐ ĐĝĤĎĐ ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĎ Ėėđ ,ěđďĜđĘđ ĐĜĕđ ďĕĐąĕčĦėč Ėė .6 ;(ĐĕĤčĔ Ęĥ) īČĦĚēď ČĦĥĕĜėī Á ďīĞ ĒĔ ,ď Č ĐĔđĝ ;īĘēĠď ČĦĚēī Á ĎīĞ đĘ ,Č đ ĦĕĞĕčĥ :īČĦĚēī ČđĐ ěđĥĘĐĥ .īĤďĎď ČĦĚēī Á (čīĞ ĐĚ ,đĔ Đ ęĥ ;ČīĞ čĚ ,ē č ĐĤĒ ĐďđčĞ ;ĎīĞ ďĝ ,čĕ Ď ěĕĥđďĕģ) ĦđĚđģĚ ĐĥđĘĥčđ ĐĕĐĥ ēėđĚ īĤĕĦĐ ďđĞđī ĖĥĚĐĐĚ ĘčČ ,ěđďĜđĘ ďĕąčĦėčđ ĔĤđĠĤĞ ďĕąčĦėč Ĥĝē īĤĥĎĘ Á ĤĕĦĐđī ĔĠĥĚĐ Ęė .7 .đĕĜĠĘ ĤĦĕĐ ĤđģĚč

41

č

,ĐĕĎđĘđČėĤČ ĦđĜĚČ ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĕĠĤĎđČĎđ

37

ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ĖđĦč đĘđĘėĥđ đĦĤčĝĐ ĦĘđĞĠ ĘčČ ,ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ĐģĝĠ ĕďđĚĘĦĐ īĤĚđēīĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĤģĕĞĐ đĦĤĕĢĕ đĘđ ,ěėĚ ĤēČĘ ğČ ČĘČ ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ĤėĕĜ ģĘēčđ ęĕČĤđčĝĐ ĕĚĕč ģĤ ČĘ ĐėĥĚĜ đĠđĎ ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĠĝđĐđ ēĝđĜ ĕĜđģĕĦ đĝĜėĜ ěĕĕďĞ ĝđĠďĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĥČĤ ďĞ ěėĥ ,ĦėĘđĐđ ĦĦēđĠ ĦđĕđđĕĝĜĔĜĕČč ęĎ ěĦĜ ĐĒ Ĥčďĥ ĐĚĦ Ęė ěĕČ .đĠđĎ ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ēĝđĜ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥ ďĕąĕčĦė ĖđĦĘ ęĐĕĥđĤĕĠč ęĕĜĥĤĠ Ęĥ ĦđĚė ,ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦčĥ ĦđďĎČ Ęĥ ěēĝđĜč ęĕĜđĥ ďĕąĕčĦė ěĕčĥ ęĕĘďčĐč ĤĦđĕ ďđĞ ĦĤėĕĜ ĐďĕĚč đĕĦđĦđČ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,īĐďĎČĐ ĕĤđĠĕĝ Ęĥ ĔĝģĔĐ ĦĤđĝĚ ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĔĘđč ęĕđđģī ,ĘģĜĤĠ Īĕ ĐĠĕ ĐČĤĐĥ ĤđĠĕĝ ,ĘīĜĐ =] 62–59 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĥĤďĚđ ĐėĘĐ ,ďđĚĘĦč ęĕĤģēĚ [:Ď] ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ ĕĞĕčĥĐ ĘĞ ĞĕčĢĐ ČđĐ ,[68 ĪĚĞ =] 64–63 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) [68–62 ĪĚĞ ,(2001 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĐĤđĢđ ěėđĦ Ęĥ ĦđďēČ :ĐďĎČĐ .(ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ Ęĥ ďĕĐąĕčĦėč ęĎ ĐĚđď ĐĞĠđĦ

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

36

ēĠĝĜ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ Ęĥđ ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ĘĞ ĦďĎČ Ęĥđ ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĐĘđčĎ ĘĞ ĦđčĤ ĦđĜĕēčĚ ĕđĢĚĐ ,ĦĕĜĥĤĠ ĐĕĠĤĎđĜđĤė ,đĜĕĚč ďēđĕĚ Ĥđčĕē ,ĜīĐĝĘ 100 ĦĜĥĘ ĖđĚĝ ĐČĤĜė ČđĐ ęđďģĐ đēĝđĜč ĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ đĤđčĕē ěĚĒ .(ĐčĤ) ęĘđĞ Ĥďĝ ČđĐ ,ĘīĒē đĤđčĕēč ,đĦđĐĚč ĦđėđĤėĐ ĦđďēđĕĚĐ ĦđĕĞčĐ ĘĞ .ěėĚ ĤēČĘ ęĕďēČ ĦđĤđď ĐĦĕĕĐ ĦĕĠđĝĐ đĦėĕĤĞ ĖČ ;Ch. Milikowsky, “Seder Olam”, CRINT (supra, n. 100), pp. 231–237 đĜĕĕĞ ĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞčđ ĐĕĚďģČč čđĤģč ĤđČĘ ĦČĢĘ ĦďĚđĞĐ ,ęĘđĞ Ĥďĝ Ęĥ ĦĕĞďĚĐ đĦĤđďĐĚĘ ĕģĝčđģĕĘĕĚ Ęĥ đČđčĚ đđĥĐđ .ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ,ęĕĞďĚĘ ĦĕĘČĤĥĕĐ ĦĕĚđČĘĐ ĕĜĥĐ ĤđĥĞĐ ĦĕĥČĤč đČ ěđĥČĤĐ ĤđĥĞč ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĐėĤĞĜđ ĐĤďđĝ ,ĐĔģđĘ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤ đČ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝ ČđĐ ěėĥĚĐ ĦėČĘĚď ČĦĕĕĤč Ęĥ ĐĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ .ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ R. Kirschner, Baraita de-Melekhet ha-Mishkan: A Critical Edition with Introduction đĜĕĕĞ ;ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ đėĤĞĜđ đĤďđĝ ,đĔģđĘ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚđ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ .and Translation (Cincinnati, 1992), pp. 1–93 ęĕĤģēĚ ,ģčĘČ Īē đĜĕĕĞ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ Ĥčďč ;ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĞčĤĐ ĕĜĠĘ ČĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ,čĕčČąĘĦ) Č ,ęĕďđĚĘĦĘ ČđčĚ ,ĘīĜĐ ;137 ,88 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ďđĚĘĦĘ ěĝēĕđ ČĦĠĝđĦđ ČĦĕĕĤčč Ch. Albeck, đĜĕĕĞ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ěĕĕĜĞĘđ ;163 ĪĚĞ ,Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ,ĤĐ ;57 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīėĥĦ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ,ĤĐ ;Untrersuchungen über die halakischen Midraschim (Berlin, 1927), pp. 119–120 đĜĕĕĞ ęĐčĥ ĦđďĎČĐ Ęĥ ěĕĕĠđČđ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĚĕĜĠĐ ęĦģđĘēĘ ĤĥČđ .164 ĪĚĞ ,Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĐďĎČĐ ĦĕĕĞčđ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĎđđĕĝ Ęė ęĘđČđ .ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;154 ĪĚĞ ,(ĦĕĜĚĤĎč) ĘīĜĐ đĤĠĝč ,ģčĘČ ,ČĜĐė ĪĚ đĜĕĕĞ :ČĜĐė ĪĚ ĕďĕč ęĕĤčďĘ ČĔđĒ ĕĤĠĝ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĕđĘĕĎ ĤđČĘ ĥďē ěđĕĞ ĐĦĞ ęĕĜđĞĔ ęĐčĥ ĦĚďđģ ĐģđĘēĚ đč ĤĒē ,2 ĐĤĞĐ ,109 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥđ) 110–109 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĤčď ČĔđĒ ĕĤĠĝ M. I. Kahana, “The đđĥĐđ ;(ĖĘĕČđ 92 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đĜĕĕĞ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚč ĐďĎČĐ Ĥčďčđ ;đĠđĎ ČđĐ ĞĕĢĐĥ ĐĕēĝđĜ ĦđĘĥĘĦĥĐđ ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČ ĦėĝĚ ĘĞ .Halakhic Midrashim”, CRINT, ibid., pp. 3–105 Ęĥ ęĦđđĐĦĐ ğđĝ ěĕčĘ ,ĐČĤĜė ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ,ęđďģĐ ĕĤđģĚĐ ĤđčĕēĐ Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞ ěĕčĥ ěĚĒĐ ēđđĤĚ ĘĞđ ĐėĕĤĞ ,ēĝđĜ :ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČč ęĕĜđĕĞ ,ĤĔĝĕģ ĪĚ ĐĦĞ đĜĕĕĞ ,ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚč ĕĘđČ ,đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ęĕēĝđĜĐ ĕĜĥ Á ĤĔėĥ Ēīĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČī ,ĘīĜĐ đđĥĐđ ;222–217 ĪĚĞ ďđēĕĕčđ ,(ēīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦđĜĥĤĠđ ĘĞđ .39–37 ,14–10 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕÀģĤđĕ đĕĜ) ĤĔėĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČ ,īěĕĘĕĚ ĦđĚďģČ .426–319 ,22–19 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĜĞĦ ĦĘĕĎĚ ,ęĞĜ đĜĕĕĞ ĦĕĜĞĦ ĦĘĕĎĚĘ īěđĕĘđėĝī ęČ ģĠĝ) đĔđģĕĘđ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ ĐģĝĠ (ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ) ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐďđĚĘĦ ĦđđĐĦĐ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ ;400 ĦĜĥĘ ĖđĚĝ ĐĒĠđēč ĐĥĞĜ (ĐėĕĤĞđ Ĥđďĕĝ ĘĞ ěČė ĤčďĘ ĤĥĠČ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ěđĕĢ ,62 ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥđ ,145–144 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ đčĥ ĐďĎČĐ ĘĞ .169–168 ĪĚĞ ,Đ .ěĕĕĜĞĚ ĖĕĘĐĦ Ęē ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč đĘĕČđ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčĥ đĒĘ ĕĘčččĥ ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦČđđĥĐ ěĕĕĜĞĘ ĦĚďđģ ĤĚĎ ěėĕĐ ďĞī ĦĞďĘđ ĦđĘĎĘ ęĞĠ ĕČ ĤĥĠČ ČĐĕ ęČ čĤ ģĠĝ ĖėĕĠĘđ ,īęĤđĒīđ ĕĥĠđē ďĕĚĦ ĐĕĐ ĕĘččĐ ēĝđĜ ĖđĜē ĤĠĝ ,ī?đĦđēČąěč ęĎ Đĕĕē ĪĤ ĕēČąěč čĤī ,ĘĔĜĒđĤ ĥīČ) ī?đĕĦđďĘđĦđ ēĝđĜĐąĦĤđĝĚ ěėĕĐ ěĚ ;ĐėĕĤĞĐ ĐĚ đđĥĐđ ;331–329 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ďđēĕĕčđ ,337–281 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ęĕĤēČđ ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ ĦėĕĤĞč] ěđĘĕ ”Prof. Shimshon Rosenthal: In :ĕĤĚČĚč ĘĔĜĒđĤ Ęĥ đĒ ĦēėđĚ ĐĞĕčģ Ęĥ ĐĦđĞĚĥĚ ĘĞ ĕĦčĦėĥ ĕĜĥ ěĕč ĐėđĦē ĐďĤĠĐ ĘĘėč ĐĦĕĕĐ ęČ čĤ ģĠĝ ěėĥ .(Memoriam”, Immanuel 12 [1981], p. 57 Ęĥ ĘĕĎĤĐ ěčđĚč ďđĚĘĦĐ ĤđďĝĚ ĤčďĘ ęđģĚ ęđĥ ĘĘėč ěĕČĥī :ĤĦđĕ ĒĞđĜđ ĐĜđĥ ēđĝĕĜčđ ;đĘĘĐ ęĕėĕĘĐĦĐ ęĢĞĥ đĚĢĞ ĞčĔĚĐ đĦđČ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕďďĢ ĕĜĥ ģĤ ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđđĐĦĐč ęĐ Ĥđďĕĝđ ďđĚĕĘ [. . .] ĦČĒĐ ĐĘĚĐ ęĜĚČ .(255 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīĥĦ ,ģĤđĕ đĕĜ] đĦđĚĘĥč ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđđĐĦĐ ,ĝĕĕđ ĪČ) īĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĤĚđēĐ ĦĤĕĢĕ ČđĐ đĦđĐĚ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ĤĚČ ěđČĎ ĐĕďĞĝ čĤ .ĥĤďĚĐđ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĠĘė ďđČĚ ęĕĕĦĤđģĕč đĕĐ ěđČĎ ĕĜĠē ěč ĘČđĚĥ čĤ Ęĥ đĕĚďđģ ęĎ ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ĕĤģĚđ ĕģđĝĠĚ ĕģĠĜď ĕĘĕĚ ĕĜĐī :čĦė ěđČĎ ČĤĕĤĥ čĤđ 127.īĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ĘĞ ěĕėĚđĝ ěĕČīĥ ęĕďĕĚĘĦĐ ĕďĕĚĘĦ đĤĚČĥ ĦđďĎČ ěėđ Īđėđ ěė đĜĕČĥ ĥĕ ĐčĤĐđ Īđėđ Ėė ČđĐĥ ěĐĚ ĥĕđ đĐĜĕĜ ČĜďĚđČ ČĤģĚĐ ěĚđ ĘėĥĐ ěĚ ģĒēĦĚĥ ĐĚ ęĐĚ ěđėĜĐđ ,ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ĘĞ ěĕėĚđĝ đĜČ ěĕČ ĖėĘđ ěė đĜĕČ ęčđĤ Īđėđ ĐĚĚ ČđĐ ĤđđēĚ ďđĚĘĦč ĞčģĜĥ ĐĚ Ęėī :čĕĥĐ ěđČĎ ĕĕČĐ čĤ đĜčđ 128.īĦđďĎČĘ ĐĘėĦđ ğđĝ ěĕČđ ęĐĕĤčďĚ ěĕČ ČđĐ ĘĘė ĕė ęĐĕĘĞ ĖđĚĝĘ ěĕČ đĥčĦĥĕ đČ đĜđđėĕ ČĘ ęČ đč ĦđčđĦėĐ ĦđďĎČ ėīĠĞČđ đč ĞčģĜ ČĘĥ ĐĘĞĥ ĐĚ ĥĤđď ďēČ Ęė ČĘČ ęĐ ĐĞđĚĥė đČĘ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ĕė ęĕĞďđĕ đđĐ :ĪĦė Ėėīđ 129.īĐďĎČ ĘĞ ěĕėĚđĝ đĘĘĐ ĦđĥĤďĚĐđ :Īđėđ čĦė ďđĞđ .ęĐĕĘĞ ęĕėĚđĝ ěĕČ ĖėĕĠĘ ĖđĦē Ĥčď ČĘ ĤĚđĘ ĥĕđ ĤĥĠČ ěđĎė đčĘ ĘĞ Ęėčđ Đčđ ČĕĐ ČĦďĎČ ČĦĘĕĚ ČĐī :ěėđ 130.īĤĚČģ ęĘđĞč ĤĥĠČ ČĘČ ĐėĘĐ Ĥčď ČĘđ ęĐ ĐĞđĚĥ Ĥčď ČĘ ĦđďĎĐ ěĐč ĥĕđ ęĕēđėĜ ěĐč ĥĕ ĕĥČĤď ĤČĥđī :ďđĞđ 131.īČďĕĎĐ ĕĤčď ĘĞ ěĕėĚđĝ ěĕČ ěĜčĤ ĤđĚČ [ĐĘ] ĕĚČďď ďēėĜ ČĘđī :ęĕĚđď ęĕĤčď čĦė ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ěđČĎ ,ĐďđĐĕ ěč ĐĚĘĥ čĤ ğČ 132.īěđĜĕČ ČėČĚĝď ČĘđ ĦđģđēĤ ĥĕČđ đĤĚČĜ ęĐĕĘĞ ĤĥČ ęĐĕĥđĤĕĠ ČđĐ ěĐč ĤđĚČĐ ĕė ĤĚČĘ ęďČ Ęėđĕ ČĘ ěĐ ĦđĞď ĦđďĎČĐ čđĤ ĕė đĜĚĚ :ęĕĥĤďĚčđ ęĕďđĚĘĦč ĐďĎČč ĘīĒē ĦđĥĤď ĦČ ĐĜĕė ČđĐ ;īđĘ đĞĚĥĕ ČĘ ĥđĤďĕ ęČ ĦČĒĐ ĦĞč [ĕĜ]Č đĚė ęĕĤčď čĦė ,ĐģĕĤĠČ ěđĠĢ ĥĕČ ,ĘČĜĜē đĜĕčĤ ęĎđ 133.īĐĜĕčī ęĐč ĥĕĥ īęĐĕĞĚđĥĘ đčĤĞĕĕ ČĘĥ ěĕĥđĤĕĠī 134.đĘČĚ ęĕģđēĤ ęĜĕČĥ đĘēĐ ,ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚč ,ĐčĤĐ ĦđĤđď ĤēČĘ ;ĦđĥĤďĐ ĦČ đģēďđ ęĕĔđĕĠĐ đČč ĐĘĕēĦĥ ČđĠČ ĐĚđď ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤčđ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚč ,ěĚĒč đč ĥĚĚ ,ğđĝčĘđ ;ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦČ đģēďĥ ęĕĤđĠĕĝ čĦėč ĞĕĠđĐĘ ĐĤđĤčĐ ĦĕĜĦĘėĥĐ ęĦĞĤėĐ ĦČ ,ĕďđĐĕĐ ęĘđĞĐ ĕĎĕĐĜĚ ,Ęčč ĕĜđČĎ đĞĕĚĥĐđ đĤĒēđ đĞĕĚĥĐđ đĒĕĤėĐ ,11ąĐ 135.ĦĘđĝĠ ČĘČ ęĜĕČ ,ĘđčĎđ ġģ ČĘĘ ęĕčđĤĚĐ ,ĐďĎČ ĕĤčďĥđ ġĠē Ęėđ ĥĚĚ Ęė ĐĕĥĤďĚčđ ĐďĎČč ěĕČĥ ĦĚēĚ 12ąĐđ 11ąĐ ,ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĦđČĚĐ Ęĥ ěėĘĐĚč ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ đďčČ ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ĐĚė Ğďđĕ ĕĚđ ĦđďĞ ęđĥĚ Ėėč ĥĕ ,ęĕčĤ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ đďĤĥ ěĕĕďĞ đĘČ Ęė ĦđĤĚĘ ęČđ .đĒ ĐĒĤėĐđ đĒ ĐĝĕĠĦ ,ĕĘčč) īĐďĎČč ęĕĚė ęďČ Ęĥ đčĘ ěĕėĥđĚĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĘĞčī ĕĠĘė ĤđčĕĢč ĐĞďđĜĥ ĐĚđĢĞĐ ĐčĕēĘ ĦģĐčđĚ .(ČīĞ ďĕ ĐĎĕĎē

.65 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ěĕđĘ .127 ĐĤĞĐč ĘīĜė) ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĤĢđČ ,ěĕđĘ ;ĒĚģĦÀđĚģĦ ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĕĤďĐĜĝĘ ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĤĢđČ ,ĥčĕđĔ Ģīē .128 . . . . ęĐ ěďĚđČ [. . .] ęĕĕđĤģđ ęĕģđĝĠĚ ęĕČĢđĕĐ đĘČ ęĕĤčď :ęđĎĤĦ .60 ĪĚĞ ,(126 .īĐĕĘĞ ěĕėĚđĝ ěĕČ ĐďĎĐđī :4 ĪĚĞ ,Ĕ Īĕĝ ,(ĒīĚĤĦ ,ěĕĘĤč) ĕčėĤĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĦđčđĥĦ đđĥĐ ;ęĥ ,ěĕđĘ .129 .60–59 ĪĚĞ ,(126 ĐĤĞĐč ĘīĜė) ęĥ ,ěĕđĘ .130 ,ęĕĥđĤĕĠĐ ,(ēīĠĤĦ ,ĐĠĕē) ĦđėĤč ,Č ,ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĤĢđČ ,ěĕđĘ .[. . .] đĤĚČ [ĐĘ] ĐĚđďĥ [. . .] ĐďĎČ ĐĒ Ĥčď :ęđĎĤĦ .131 ,ĦđčđĥĦĐ ,ęĥ ;[ęĕĤčďĐ Ęĥ ęĤđģĚĘ ěĕĕĢ ,90 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥđ] (īĐďĎĐč ěĕĥģĚ ěĕČīĥ ĦđČčđĚĘ ěĕĕĢ ,ĕ ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥđ) 91 ĪĚĞ .131 ĪĚĞ .(ěĐĕĘĞ ĖđĚĝĘ ěĕČĥ ,ĤĚđĘė) ěĐ ĦđėđĚĝĥ ČĘđ [. . .] ĦđĥĤď ĤČĥđ :ęđĎĤĦ .45 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĥđĤĕĠĐ ,ęĥ ,ěĕđĘ .132 ĕĜĤĕĞĐĥ ĤĜĤĘ čīĚ ĪĠđĤĠ ĕĤčēĘ ěē ěē) J. Mann, Texts and Studies, I (Cincinnati, Ohio, 1931), p. 322 .133 .(Ėė ĘĞ = ČīĞ čĕ ,ĐĎĕĎēĘ đĥđĤĕĠč) īěĐĚ ĦĘčģĦĚ ĦĞďĐĥ ĐĚĘ ěĦđđĥĐĘ ěĐĕĘĞ ěĕģďģďĚ ěĕČđ ěĐ ĦđĥĤďĚ ěĘđė đĘČī .134 .(54 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĎĕĎē ,ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĤĢđČ ,ěĕđĘ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;ĒĝÀĐĝ ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĐĚ ,ĤĐ ;Mann, Texts and Studies, I, p. 312 đđĥĐ .135 .64–47 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĚėē ĕĤčď ěĕčĐĘ ,ęĕđčĘČ Īĕ ;700–699 ,507–504 ĪĚĞ

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

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Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ģĤ ĦđďĎČč ĦđĕĦėĘĐ ĦđčđĥĦđ ĦđĘČĥ Ğčģ ĖĤďđ ĦđĕĦĔĕĥč ĦčĘĥĚĐ ,ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤď ĐĤĕĢĕč ĐĥđčĕĎ ęĘđČđ .ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦđČĚč ĐČĕĥĘ ęĦĝĐ ěĚ ĐĞĕĎĐ ĐĞĠđĦĐđ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč đČĕĥĘ ĞĕĎĐđ ,ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚč ģĤ ĔĞĚ ĔĞĚ ĐČĤĜė ĘēĐ đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚč .ĐĒĐ ĝđĠĕĔĐĚ đĕĐ Đč đėĤĞĜĥ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęė ĔĞĚėĥ ,ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚčđ ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěđėĦĚĐ ČđĐ ĐĒė .ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ Ħđĥďē ĦđĕĜčĦ ĤđĢĕĘ ,ĤĦđĕč ęĕēĘĢđĚ đĕĐ ČĘĥ ,ĦđĜđĕĝĕĜ ĐĚė đĥĞĜ ĐĕĐ .ĖĥĚĐ đĘ ĐĕĐ ČĘĥ ĐĚđď ĖČ ,ĦĕĥČĤč ĦďĎČčĥ ,ęĕĘĐĦąČĕčĜč ĐĤĔĠĐĐąĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ ,ĥĘđĥĚĐ ąČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĥďēĚ ęĦčėĤĐđ ęģđĤĕĠ ĖđĦĚ ğČ (I ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ) ĕĜĥĤĠ ĥĤďĚĘ ĤđĒēĘ ěđĕĝĕĜ ęĎ ęĕĤđĠĤĠ ĤďĎč đĘČ ęĕĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦđĜđĕĝĕĜ ğČ đĕĐ ,Ĥčė ĐĒ ĐėĞď ĤđčĕĢč ĐĕēĐ ĐĥĤďĐĥ ĤēČĘ ęĘđČđ .đĜďĚĘĕ đĘďĘďĕĜ ,ĦĕĦđĤĠĝĐ đĦĤĕĢĕ ĕĕđĘĕĎ đĚĞđ ,ġĤČč ĕďđĐĕĐ čđĥĕĕĐ .ęĕĥĤďĚ ĦĤĕĢĕ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĤēČ ĐĞĕģĥ ĕĚđďĚďđ ĔĞĚė đĘĝđēđ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĥĕĘĥĐ ĒČĚ ĦđėđĤČĐ ĦđĚēĘĚčđ ĦđďĕĤĚč ,ĦđĚđĐĚč ďđČĚ ęĕĒėĤĚč ĐĒ ęđēĦč ĐĤĕĢĕ ĐĘēĐ Ĥčė ěė ĕĜĠĘ .11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ đĘēĐĥ čĘĢĐ ĕĞĝĚ ĘĘĎč ěĕĔđĘēĘ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĐĘēĐ ěėĘ ęďđģ Ĥčėđ .ĕĠđĝĐ ġģĐ ĕĜĠĘ ĦĕĜĚĒ ĐēĕĤĠ ģĤ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒ ęĎ ĘčČ ,ġĤČĘ ġđēč ęĕĕďđĐĕ .ęĕĔđģĘĕ ČĘČ ęĜĕČ ĖĘĕČđ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚĘ ęĠđĎ ęĕĥĤďĚĐĚ ęĕčĤ ęĢĞčđ ,ęĕĔđģĘĕ Ęĥ đĞĕĎĐĥ ĥĕđ ,ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ đďčČđ đďĤĥ ČĘ ęĕĔĞĚ ČĘ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ ęĕĥĤďĚ .Habent sua fata libelli 12ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕč đėĤĞĜĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĤĠĝĚ ĖČ .ěĕĞĔđģĚĘ ,ęģĘēč ģĤ đĜĕĘČ ĕĥĤďĚĥ ĐĚđď .ĘĘė ĘĔđčĚ đĜĕČ (12ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĕč đĤčēĦĜĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ đČ) .ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕ Ęĥ ĦđĜđĥČĤĐ ęĕĜĥĐ ĦđČĚč đČ ģĕĦĞĐ ěĚĒĐ ğđĝč Ĥčė ęĘđėė ęčđĤ đďčČ đďĤĥ ČĘĥ ĐďĎČĐ 13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĕĜđĞĚĥ ĔđģĘĕ ,ęĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ęĕĜĕĕĢĚĐ ęĕĔđģĘĕĐĥ ĐďčđĞĐ ,ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ,ďĕĞĦ Ėė ĘĞ .đĜĕĜĠĘ ęĜĕČđ đďčČĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĔĞĚĘ ģĤ ęĕĜĕĕĢĚ ,14ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĕĤĕėĚĐ ĔđģĘĕđ ĐĤđĦ ďđĚĘĦ ĔđģĘĕđ Ęĥđ ģĕĦĞĐ ěĚĒĐ ğđĝ Ęĥ ęĕĜĥĐ ĦđČĚ Ęĥ ěėĘĐĚč đďčČĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ ĐđĚĦĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕĥĚ ĤĦđĕ ěėČđ đĘČ .đĤĚĦĥĜđ đďĤĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĔĞĚ ČĘĥ Ėė ĘĞ ęĚđĦĥĐĘđ ĦđĐĦĘ ęđģĚ ĥĕ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕ Ęĥ ęĦĕĥČĤ ěėđĦčđ ,ĐĘđĎč ĘČĤĥĕ ęĞ Ęĥ đĕĦđČĘĦ ĦĚēĚ ģĤ ČĘ ęĐĕĘĞ ČđčĘ ĐĘđĘĞ ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĐĕĘėĚ đĘĢĕĜ đďĤĥĥ ęĕĥđĤď ęĦĢđĠĦĘđ ęĦģĦĞĐĘ ěėĥ ,ďĕąĕčĦė Ęĥ ęĔđĞĕĚ ĦĚēĚđ ,ēčĔ ĕĥĞĚđ ĦđĕĘĎĐ ,ĦđďĚĥ ,ĦđĠĕďĤ ĘĘĎč ęĎ ČĘČ ,đĕĦđĕđĘĎč ĘČĤĥĕ Ęĥ ęĕďēđĕĚĐ ęĕČĜĦĐ ČĘč ęĎ Đĥģ ĐĕĐĥ Ĥčď ,čĤ ěđĚĚđ čĤ ĕČĜĠ đĕĐ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĜč ČĤđĝđ ČĦĕďčĚđĠ Ħđčĕĥĕ ĕĥČĤ ,ęĕĘččĐ ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĕĘđďĎ Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčď ĤđČĘ .ğĝđĜ ęĞĔ ,ěđČĎ ĐĕďĞĝ čĤė ,ęĕĞďĚĐđ ĐčĥēĚĐ ,ĐėĘĐĐ ĕģĜĞ ,ęĕĜđĢĕģĐ ęĕĔĝĕĘĜđĕĢĤĐ ,11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĥČĤđ ČĘĥ ĤĦđĕč Đĥģ ,ĘīĒē ĕĥĤďĚđ ĘīĒē ĦďĎČ ĘĞ ,ěđČĎ ĕĜĠē ěč ĘČđĚĥ čĤđ ěđČĎ ĕĕČĐ čĤ đĜčđ ěđČĎ ČĤĕĤĥ čĤ ęďĕ ĐĒ Ĥčďč ĐĦĕĕĐ đĘĕČđ ,ęĕčĤ ĦđĤđď ďđĞ ĦėĥĚĜ đĒ ĐĞĠđĦ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĘĕČ :ĐČčĐ ĐĤĞĥĐĐ ĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĘ ĐďĎČĐ ĦđĤĠĝĥ ďđČĚ ěėĦĕĕ ,ĘččĚ ęĕģēđĤĚ ĦđĚđģĚč ęĎ ěĕĔđĘēĘ ĦĔĘĥđ ĐĠĕģĦ ,ĐĚĤ Ęčč ĕĜđČĎ Ęĥ đĦĜđđė ĐĦĕĕĐ đĒ ěėĥ ,ĘĘė ĦĎĘĠđĚ ĐĤĞĥĐ đĒ ěĕČđ .ĐĚđČĐ čĤģĚ ĐĘđė ĔĞĚė ĦďčđČ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĥĤďĚĐđ :đĕĦđĤĎĕČĚ ĦēČč čĦėĥ ,ěđČĎ ĕĜĠē ěč ĘČđĚĥ čĤ Ęĥ đĦĚĎĚđ ęĕĕđĢĕĤđ ĦđďĎĐ ĕĤčď ęĐĕčĦėĚ čđĦėĘ ęĕĎĐđĜ ěďĞč ęĞĢĚ ęĕĥđďģĐ ęĕĜđČĎĐ đĜĕĜđĥČĤ đĕĐ ĕė ĕĠ ĘĞ ğČđ ĦđĞđĚĥđ ĦđėĘĐ čđĦėĘ ĦđĤēČ ęĕėĤď đĜĘĘĝ đĜēĜČ ěėČ čďĜĐĘ ęėĦđĦĠĘđ čďĜĦĐĘ ęėĦđĢĤĘ ęĕĕđĦĕĠđ ĕĤĚĥ đĦĘđĒđ ĝĕĝĞĐ ěĕĕ ęĐ ĐĘČđ ěĎĞĜ đĦĘđĒđ ěĎďĐ ęĐ ĐĘČ ęĎđ ĦĘđĝĠ ĦđďĎĐĐ ĕĤčďđ ĦĘđĝĐ ęĐ ĐĘČđ 126.ĝĕĝĤ

150 ĪĚĞ ,(ĥīĦ) Čĕ ġĕčĤĦ ,īĘčč ĕĜđČĎĚ ęĕčĦėĚī ,ğĝČ Īĥ ;T. S. 38, 15 ĪĎďĕĤčĚģ ,ĤĕĐģ ĦĒĕĜĎĚ ďĕąčĦė .126 ęČ ęĕĜđĚďģĐ ĕĤčď ĕėī :ĐďĎČĐ ĘĞ ĎīēčĥĤ ĕĤčď đđĥĐđ ;(ĎĠĤ ĪĚĞ ,[đīĔĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĐĦđĤĠĝđ ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĦĠđģĦ ,ĘīĜĐ =) .(4 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĎĕĎē ,[čīĢĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ď ,ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĤĢđČ ,ěĕđĘ Ěīč) īęĘčģĘ ęĕčĕĕē đĜČ ěĕČ ĘėĥĐĘ ęĕĤĦđĝ ęĐ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĚĕĚ ěĕč (ĦđĦĕĕĤč) ęĕČĜĦĐ ĕĚĕĚ ěĕč ,(ęĕĝģĜĠč) čĦėč đČ ĐĠ ĘĞč ,ĐďĎČ ĕĤčďđ ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ Ęĥ ĐėĘĐĚč ģĤ ČĘ đĘČė ęĕĠĝđČ đĕĐĥ ĤđĤč ďēČ ďĢĚ ?ęĕėđĤĞđ ęĕĤďđĝĚ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĦĤĎĝĚč ČĘĥ ěĕĕďĞĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ďđČĚ Đĥģ ĤēČĐ ďĢĐ ěĚ đĘĕČđ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ĤėĕĜ ģĘēč ęĎ ČĘČ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ěđĠĢč ,ēĤĒĚĐ ĦđĢĤČč ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĘ ġđēĚ ĤģĕĞč ĤčđďĚ ěČėđ) 12ąĐđ 11ąĐ ĦđČĚč đĘČė ęĕĠĝđČ đĕĐ ĦēĠ ,(čĦėč ĤģĕĞčđ) ęĕĥĤďĚ ĤĦđĕ đėĤĞĜđ đĤďđĝ ĦđĤđďĐ ĦĢđĤĚčĥ Ęėėĥ ęĎ ěčđĚ .(ĐĠđĤĕČčđ ĐģĕĤĠČ đĚĘĞĜĥ ďĞ ,ČĞĚģ ČĞĚģü đĔĞĚĦĜđ đėĘĐ ęĐ ČĘČ ĦēČ Ħčč ĐģĝĠ ČĘ ęĦđČĕĢĚĥ ,đĘČė ęĕĠĝđČč ĖĤđĢĐ .ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ đĦđēĦĠĦĐđ ĖĕĘĐĦĐ ęĢĞ ĘĞ ĦđĞĕďĕ Ęė đĜĕďĕč ěĕČ ęĘđČđ .ěĕĔđĘēĘ Ĥďĝč ĥĤďĚĐđ ĐďĎČĐ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđďĘđĦč ğĕģĚ ěđĕď ĖĤĞĜ ČĘĥ ĔĞĚė ęđĕĐ ďĞĥ ,ĤĕĞĐĘ ĥĕ ěČė ġĜđĢ ĔģĜ ĦđĥĤďĐ ĘĞ ĕĘĔĜĚđĜđĚĐ đĤĠĝčĥ ,ČđĐ ĐĦĞ ďĞ ĐĒ ěĕĞĚ ğĕģĚ ěđĕď ĤďĞĐĘ ęĞĔĐ .ĕĎđĘđĜđĤė ;ęĕČĕčĜĘ ;ĐĤđĦĘ ęĕĥĤďĚ) ČĤģĚĐ ĕĤĠĝ ĕĠąĘĞđ ,ĐĒĚ (ĦĕĔĝĕĚ ;ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ;ĦĕĤĝđĚ ĐďĎĐ) ĕĔĚĦ Ďđđĕĝ 122,ģĤĔĥ ĘīĐ 121,ĝĕĕđ ĐīČ ,đĕĦđčģĞč ęĕČčĘ ęĎ ěđĕďĐ ĦĜđėĦĚ ĦČ ĐčĤ ĐďĕĚč čĢĕĞ Ėėđ ,ĐĒĚ (ęĕčđĦėĘ đĘĘĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĤģēĚč ČĤđģĐđ ěĕĕĞĚĐ ģĤ ČĘ ČĢĚĜ ěė ĦĚēĚ .ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ĪĎđ 124ĖčĤđČ ČīČ 123,ģčĘČ Īē ĦđēĦĠĦĐĘ čĔĕĐ ęĦĞď đĜĦĜĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,ęĠđĎ ęĐ ęĎĥ ČĘČ 125,ĦĕĜđĤėČĕď ĐĜđĚĦ ğĤĢĘ ĐĥģĦĚ .ěČė ęĕĜđďĕĜĐ ęĕĤčď ĦĢģ ĘĞ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč đďĚĞ ČĘ ,Ħđčđĥē ĦđĜģĝĚĘ ĐĒ ęđēĦč đĞĕĎĐ ğČđ ,ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ

Ē ,ĤĦđĕč ęĕĠĕĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč đėĤĞĜ Đčĥ ,ĦĕĦđĤĠĝĐ ĦĕĥĤďĚĐ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ Ęĥ ĤĐđĒĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĠđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ .ĦĕĥĕĥĐđ ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĦđČĚč ĐĘē ,đĜĕĘČ đĞĕĎĐĥ ,ęĦĤđĢ ĦĜĕēčĚ ěĐ ęĜėđĦ ĦĜĕēčĚ ěĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĥđĚĕĥ ĘēĐ ĖĘĕČđ ěČėĚ .ĕĚĘĝđĚĐąĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĤēČĘ ĐĤčĎ đĒđ ,ĐďĕĤĕ ĐČč ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ .ĐĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠĐđ þ ĐģĕĔĝĕĚĐ ĦđēđđĤ đĥĞĜ ęĕĥĤďĚč ěĐ ęĐč ěĐđ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕĤĠĝ ĦĜĠđČ ĐĔĥĠĦĐđ ĕĘččĐ ĦđČĚč ġĤČč ĦđĕĝĜė ĕĦččđ ĦđĥĤďĚ ĕĦčč ĐĦēĕĤĠ ČĕĥĘ ĐĞĕĎĐ ,ĦđĕĝČĘģĐ ĐĕĦđĤđĢ ĘĞ ,ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ ,ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚč ģĤ ĐČĤĜė ĘēĐ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĦđĤĠĝĐ ĐĤĕĢĕč ĐĥđčĕĎ ęĘđČđ .ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĞĕĠđĐĘ ĐĘēĐ Ėė ĥĚĚ .ĦđĥĤď ĕĥĤďĚč (ĤĦđĕđ ĤĦđĕ ęĕĚĕĘđ) ęĎ Ėė ĤēČđ ęĕĕĜĥĤĠ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĐĘĕēĦ .297–252 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,đĕĥĤđďđ Ĥđď Ĥđď ,ĝĕĕđ .121 ęĕĥĤďĚĘ đĘĥ ĐģđĘēĐ ;H. L. Strack, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch (München, 19215) .122 ĦđĚĥĐ ĦēĦ ěđĤēČĐ Ęĥ đĤĠĝ ĞĕĠđĐ ĐĘĕēĦđ ĘĕČđĐ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ĕďĕč ĐĤĚĥĜ ęĕĕĔĎĝėČ ęĕĥĤďĚĘđ ęĕĕĔĘĕĚđĐ ĘĞ) ĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ ĐĒ ģĘēč ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ĤĚĥ ěėĚ ĤēČĘ ęĎ ĖČ ,ģĤĔĥ Ęĥ đĤĠĝĘ ĦđĚĘĥĐ ĤďĎč ĐĕĐđ ĤĎĤčĚĔĥąģĤĔĥ .(ęĤďĝč ďēČ Ęģ ĕđĜĕĥĚ ġđē) ęĕģĤĠĐ ĦģđĘē ĘĞ ĦđĜďĠģč (ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĖđĜē ĪĠđĤĠī ,ĤĐ ďīĚ đĜĕĕĞ) ĥďē ĤĠĝ ĐĥĞĚĘ ČđĐ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢĘ đĕĦđĚĘĥĐč ģčĘČ Ęĥ đĦďđčĞ ĕĤĠ .123 ĦĤĎĝĚĘ Ęđčė ĐĕĐ ČđĐ ęĘđČ ,(18 ĪĚĞ ,1973 ĤČđĜĕč 5 / ĎīĘĥĦ ĦčĔč Ďīė ,[ĦđĤĠĝđ ĦđčĤĦ] ġĤČĐ ,īđĘĞĠĚđ ĘīĒ ģčĘČ .đĤĠĝĘ ġĜđĢ Ğčģĥ ęĜĕČĥ ęĕĤĠĝĘ ČĕĐ đĘĥ ĐģđĘēĐ ;(EJąč ěėĚ ĤēČĘ ĐĜĥ ęĕĕĦĥđ ęĕĤĥĞ đĦĜđėĦĚė ĞĕĠđĐđ ĤĒē) ĐďĎČ ,ĖčĤđČ .124 .(ęĤďĝė) ČĤģĚĐ ĕĤĠĝ ĕĠĘ ęĕĤďđĝĚĐ (ęĕĥĤďĚ) ęĕĤĠĝ ĦĚđĞĘ ČĤģĚĐ ĕĤĠĝĘ ęĕĤđĥģ ,ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĜđĕď .ĦĕĎđĘđĜđĤė ĐĜĕČ ,99–65 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĚĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĐďĎČĐ ĥĤďĚ ,ģČĚ Īē Ęĥ đĦĤĕģĝ ęĎ .125 ĐďĎČĐ ĕĤĠĝđ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęčđĤč ĘĘė ģĝđĞ đĜĕČ ĖČ ,ĕĎđĘđĜđĤė Ĥďĝč ęĜĚČ ČđĐ ,846–681 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęė ĦČ ģĘēĚ (Lerner, “The Works of Aggadic Midrash,” pp. 133–229) ĤĜĤĘ .(841 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ęĕĤēđČĚĐ ,(1200–1000) ĐĠđĤĕČ ĦĠđģĦđ (900–700) ĦĤēđČĚ ,(700–600) ĦĕĜđĜĕč ,(600–400) ĐĚđďģ :ĦđĠđģĦ ĞčĤČĘ ĐďĎČĐ ,ěČė đĤėĒĜĥ ęĕĤģđēĐ Ęĥ đĘČĚ ĐĜđĥ đĦĝĕĠĦ .[161–149 ĪĚĞ] (1500–1100) ęĕĔđģĘĕĐ ĦĠđģĦ ĐģĘēč ĐĘ ĦĠĠđēĥ ďĕĚĦ ģĚĜĚ đĜĕČ ğČđ ,ęĐčĥ ęĕčđĥēĐ ěĚ ĐĚė ĦđčĤĘ ,ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęėč ģĝđĞ đĜĕČđ ĤĢģ đĜđĕď ęĘđČ ,ĕĠđĎ ĕĜČđ ĘģĜĤĠ ĦđčĤĘ .ěČė đĦĝĕĠĦ ĕĔĤĠč ěđďČ ČĘ ěėĘđ ,ĕĤĚČĚ ĦčĕĦė ĦČ ĕĦĚĘĥĐĥ ģĤ ĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐ đĤĚČĚ .đĕĦđĞĤėĐ ĦČ

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

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ęĕĤēČ ęĕĜĠ ,Č ēĝđĜ ,ĤĦĝČĘ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĜĠ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ęĎ ęĐ (12ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤĚ ĕĘđČ) ęĕĔđģĘĕ ěĕĞĚ ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤ ĖĤĞ 13ąĐ ĐČĚč 112.ęĕďĞđĚĘ (ĪĐ ĖĕĥĞĚ đčĤ ĐĚ ĪĥĤďĚĪ) ČĦďē ČĦģĕĝĠđ 111,č ēĝđĜ ,ĤĦĝČĘ ČđĐ 113.đĜĕďĕčĥ ĤĦđĕč čđĥēĐ ĔđģĘĕĐ ČđĐĥ ,ČĤģĚĐ ĘėĘ ĕĜđĞĚĥ ĔđģĘĕ ĦČ (ĒĜėĥČĚ ĐČĤĜė) ěĥĤďĐ ĔđģĘĕ ěĕĚ ČđĐ (ěģÀĔĕģ ęĕĘĐĦĘ) II ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ ęĎ .ęĜđĥĘė ęĦđČ ČĕčĐĘ ģĕĕďĚđ đĕĦđĤđģĚ ĘėĘ ěĕĕĢĚ ĘđďĎĐ ĥĤďĚ 114.đĠđĎ ĕĜđĞĚĥ ĔđģĘĕč ğČđ ,I ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ,ďčČ ęĕĚĕĘĥ ,ĕĜĥĐ đģĘēč ĥĚĦĥĜĥ ěĕĕĢĚ đĜĕČ ,(ěĚĕĦĚ) ĕĜďĞĘČ ęĤĚĞ ěč ďđď ĕčĤ ĕďĕč 13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ĐČĤĜė ĤčēĦĜĥ (ĤĦĝČĘđ ĐĤđĦĘ) ğīĕĤĐ Ęĥ ęĕģĝĠđ ĦđėĘĐ ğČđ ęĕĥđĤĕĠ ęĐĕĘĞ ğĕĝđĐđ ęďēĕČđ ęďčĕĞ ĤčēĚĐĥ ČĘČ ďđĞ ČĘđ ,đĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ,ĐĤđĦĘ ĔđģĘĕ ĕĘĕģĕĝ ĘČĜĜē ěč čģĞĕ ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĖĤĞĜ 14ąĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĕĢēĚč 115.ęīčĚĤĐđ ěč ĤĕėĚ ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĖĤĞĜ ĐČĚ ĐĦđČ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚč đĘĕČđ 116,đĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ěĕĕĢĚĐ ,ĐĤđĦ ďđĚĘĦ ĔđģĘĕ ęĎ đĤčēĦĜ ĖĘĕČđ 11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ 117.đĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ČđĐ ğČ ěĕĕĢĚĐ ,ĕĤĕėĚĐ ĔđģĘĕ ĦĠĤĢ ęđĤďĚ ĕĤČĚ ČčČ ĕĢčđģĚ ĤĦđĕ 119(ĦđďĎČ ĦĕĕđđĘč ęĕĚĞĠ) ęĕĥđĤĕĠ ĕĢčđģ đČ 118,ęĕĤđĠĕĝđ ĦđďĎČ ĕĢčđģ đĕĐĥ ĪęĕĔđģĘĕĪ .ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđďĎĐ Ęĥđ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ (ĦđďĎČ đČ) ĦđďĎĐ Ęĥ ęĕĢčģ ęĎ đĤďđĝ .ęĕĥĤďĚ ĤēđČĚĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč đėĤĞĜĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĎ .ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ęĕĔģđĘĚ ęĕĢčģ ęĐ ęĕĔđģĘĕĐ ęĎ ĕđĢĚ Ĥčė ęĕĤēđČĚĐ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĥĕĥ ĐĚ Ęė ČĘ ęĜĚČ .ęĕĚďđģ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ĐčĤĐ ęĕĚĞĠ đčČĥ ĦđčĤĘ ,ęĕĤēđČĚĐ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĥĕĥ ĐĚĚ ĐčĤĐĥ ĤčĦĝĚ ĖČ .đĜĕďĕĘ đĞĕĎĐĥ ĤĦđĕ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĖđĦĚ čČĥĜ 120,ęĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦĤĕĠĝĘ ĐĕĕĜĥĐđ (ĦĕčĐ ĕĜĠčĥ ęĕĚĕĐ ğČđ) ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦđČĚĐ ěĜĕĕĜĞĥ ĦđďĎČ ęĕĠĝđČ ęĕĚėē ĕďĕč ęĕĕđĢĚ đĕĐ ěĕĕďĞ ĕĦĚ ďĞ :ČĕĐ ĐčđĥēĐ ĐĕĞčĐ ęĘđČđ .đďčČĥ ĤĦđĕ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĝĕĠďĐĥ ĐĒĕĜĎĐ ĞĔģ .1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;425–424 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ ęĐĕĜĥ ĘĞ đĜĕĕĞ .111 ĦđčĤĘ ,ęĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ .314 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ĦĞďė ČĘĥđ ,12ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĕĘđČ ČđĐ ,178–171 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚ ĕĒĜĎ ,ġĕčđĜĕčĤ .Lerner, “The Works of Aggadic Midrash,” pp. 176–229 đĜĕĕĞ ĤĦĝČĘ ,ęĕĠĝđĜ .1518 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;XV–XIV ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ;389 ,121 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .112 .342–341 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;447–443 ,149–146 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .113 .316 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;409–407 ,131 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ .114 ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢĘ đĕĦđĠĝđĐč ,ģčĘČ ;7–3 ĪĚĞ ,(ěīĜĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĚĕĦ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ đĜĕĕĞ .115 .345–343 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;447 ,150–149 ĪĚĞ ė ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČĐ ,īĕĘĕģĕĝ ĘČĜĜē ěč čģĞĕ ĪĤī ,ĤĠĠđģ ĪČ ,ĐĞĥ ĕĠĘ ,đĜĕĕĞđ .ďĕąčĦėč ěĕĕďĞ đčđĤ .116 .27 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĘĥĦ) ;415 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢĘ đĕĦđĠĝđĐč ,ģčĘČ đĜĕĕĞđ .ĕĘĥĚđ ęĕĘĐĦ ,ĤĥĞ ĕĤĦ ,ĐĕĞĥĕĘ ęĕģĘēĐ đĝĠďĜ .117 .343–342 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ .ěČđĤĕģĚ čģĞĕ ĕčĤč ęĕĝĜ đĜĕčĤ ĦČĚ (ĐĞđĥĕĐ ěĚ ĐĠĕ Ĥđčĕē) ĐďĥĘČ ďĞč ĪĎĤĠĘČ čČĦė Ėĕĕĥ đĒ ĐĎđĝĘ .118 ĕĘđČ] (1139 ĦĜĥĚ) ĐĚĘĥ ĕčĤč ęēĜĚ đĜĕčĤ ĦČĚ (ĦđĚĥąĦĕĥČĤč ĕĤĠĝĘ ģĤ ĤĚĦĥĜ ;ĐĤđĦĘ) čđĔ Ęėĥ .119 ĕĤčď ;ĐĕĚēĜąČĤĒĞ ;ĘČĕĜď ;[ęĕĜĎ ěĕĞĚ] čđĕČ ;[ČĔđĒ ĦĕĥČĤč] ĦĕĥČĤčĘ) ĦđĜĝĚ ęĕĝĜ ĕčĤ ěč ĘČđĚĥ ĕčĤ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ;[ĐĕĘĔĕČĚ ;13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ;ĦĕčĤĞč ;ĐĤđĦĘ] (ęĕĤĢĚĚ) ďĕĎĜĐ ďđď ĕčĤ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ;[13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ] ([ĝĠďĜ ČĘ ěĕĕďĞ ěđĤēČĐ ĐĒ] ęĕĚĕĐ ģĤ đĚĝĤđĠđ đĤĦđĜ đĜĚĚĥ) ĐĤđĦĘ ĕĜĚĕĦ ĔđģĘĕ ;[čČč ĐĞĥĦđ ĕĞĕčĥĐ ĥďđēĐ ĕďĞđĚĘđ ĦđĚĥąĦĕĥČĤčĘ :đģĘēč ģĤ ĝĠďĜ ;(8 ĪĚĞ ,ěĚĕĦ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ đĜĕĕĞ ;HUCA, XII–XIII [1937–1938], pp. 523 ff. ,ěĕĕĔĥĘģĜĕĠ ĘīČ ĕďĕč ęĕďēČ ęĕĞĔģ ,ĕĤČĚĪďĘČ ĤđĢĜĚ ĦČĚ (ęĕĘėĥĐ ĤĜ) ĘđģĞĘČ ĪĎČĤĝ ;(10–8 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĘīĜĐ đĜĕĕĞ ;ęĕĔĞĚ ęĕĞĔģ ģĤ đĤĦđĜ đĜĚĚ ğČ) ěĕĕĜĚ ęĕĜĥĐĚ) ĐĕĞĥĕ ěč ĘČĜĦĜ ĕčĤ ĦČĚ (ĐĘĠČĐ ĤđČĚ) ęČĘĪĢĘČ ĤđĜ ;(22–18 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĘīĜĐ đĜĕĕĞ) ĐĚĘĥ ěč ĤĔđē ĕčĤ ČđĐ ĦĜĥĚ) čĕčĔĘČ ěČĚĕĕĘđĝ ěč Čĕēĕ ČđĐ ,ČĠđĤĐ ĐĚĘĥ ěč ĐĕĤėĒ ĕčĤ ĦČĚ (ĦĕčĤĞč ;ĐĤđĦĘ) ġĠēĐ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ;(1329–1327 ĥĤďĚ ;[28–11 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦđĚĥÀĦĕĥČĤč :ġĠēĐ ĥĤďĚ ,ĦĘĢčē ĪĚ ;32–22 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĘīĜĐ đĜĕĕĞ] (1427 .ďđĞđ ;(1440 ĦĜĥĚ ;ďĕąčĦėč ;ĦđĤĔĠĐĘđ ĐĤđĦĘ) ĤđČĕčĐ ,ĦđďĎČ ĕĦĥ ĦđĕđĢĚ ,(1396–1386 ĦđĤđĥ ,47 ĪĚĞ ,ĤĔėĥ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ďĕ ,ē ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĦďĎČč ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,Ėė .120 ğČĥ ,ĦĤđĝĚ ĥĕ ,209 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč .ĦĕčĐ ĕĜĠčĥ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ĦđĤđďĘ ĦđĞĎđĜĐ ,ĦđĘĕčģĚ ěĐĘ ěĕČĥ .ĝđĤđđĝ Ęĥ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč đĐđĒĜĎ ęĕĚĕĘđ ĕĚđĤĘ ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚ ĘĘĥė đĘĔĜ ęĕČĚđĤĥ ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝ Ĥčďč ,ĐĘĕčģĚ Ęė ěĕČ ĐĘ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

đĘĕČđ ,ĕĜĥĐ đģĘē ČđĐ II ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČĥ ęĘĥĐ ĤēđČĚĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ěĚ čČĥ ,đĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥč ,(ĤĦĝČĘ) ěđĕĤđĎ .11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĘĥĈ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ĐČĤĜė đėĤĞĜĥ ęĕĕĜĥĤĠ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĐ đĘČ Ęė 101.ďčČ ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘē Ęėč ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐ 102.ďēĕ ęĎ ĕĜĥĤďđ ĕĜĥĤĠ ,ĔģđĘĚ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘČđĚĥ ĥĤďĚ ęĎ ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐĐ ěĚĒč .ďčČĥ ĤĦđĕ ęđďģ ĘČđĚĥ ĥĤďĚčđ ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠč ,ČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚč ,ĐčĤ ĦĘĐģč ,ęĕĕĝČĘģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ đėĤĞĜ 12ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč 103.ęĕĤĢģ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ĐĚė ęĎ đĤčēĦĜ 11ąĐ ĐČĚč .ĦđĥčđĥĚ đĕĦđēĕĦĠ ďđČĚ ğĕģĚđ ĖđĤČ ,ĘđďĎ ĥĤďĚĚ ęĕĤĢđģĚ ęĕďđčĕĞđ ęĕĔđģĕĘ ĤďĎč ĦĤėĕĜ ĐďĕĚč ęĐĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĐĥđĘĥ ĐČĚč 104ĦĠĤĢ ęđĤďčĥ ěđčĤĜĚ ěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚ ĕčĤ Ĥčĕēĥ ,ďčČĥ ,(ęĕčđĦėđ ęĕČĕčĜĘ ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ;ĐĤđĦĘ) ęĎ 107.(ĐĤđĦĐ ĘėĘ) ĪĐďĎČ ĥĤďĚĪ 106;(ČĥĜąĤčďĚčĘ ,ďĕÀČ ĦđĥĤĠ) I ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč 105;ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč :11ąĐ 108.ęĕĤĢģ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ đĤčēĦĜ 12ąĐ ĐČĚč ĦđĕĐĘ ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ đėĠĐĜĥ ĐĚ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥČĤ ęĕĤĥčĚ ĞĕĠđĐĘ đĘēĐ ęđďģĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč Ĥčė ĐĒ ĤďĎĘ Ħėĕĕĥ ěėĚ ĤĦđĕ ďđĞ .ĔđģĘĕąđĔđĤĠ ěĕĞĚ ČĕĐ ,ĐģĘēč ĦđēĠĐ ĘėĘ ,ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ .ęĕĔđģĘĕ ěĕĕĢĚ đĜĕČĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,ĥĚĚ ěđĥČĤ ĔđģĘĕ .ĪĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĥďē ĥĤďĚĪ ęĎ ęĕđĝĚ ěčđĚčđ ,ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠ ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ēĤĒĚč ĤčēĦĜĥ ,ĐĤđĦ ěđĤĦĠ ĤĠĝ ČđĐ ,ęĕĥđĤĕĠ ęĐĘ ğĕĝđĚ ęĕĚĞĠđ ,đĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ēģĘ ĤĒĞĕĘČ ěč ĐĕčđĔ ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĦĕĔĜĒĕčĐ ĐĕĤĠĚĕČč ĤčēĦĜ 11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč 109.ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĦĕĥČĤč đČ 110.ęĕĥđĤĕĠ ęĎ ĘĕėĚđ đĕĦđĤđģĚ ĦČ ěĕĕĢĚ đĜĕČ ČđĐ ğČĥ ,ĦđĘĕĎĚĘđ ĐĤđĦĘ ĔđģĘĕ ,(ČĦĤĔđĒ ČĦģĕĝĠ) čđĔ ĕĘđČ ČđĐ ĐĒĕĜĎĐ ĞĔģ ěėĥ) 161 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚ ĕĒĜĎ ,ġĕčđĜĕčĤė ČĘĥđ ;425–423 ,141 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .101 .[ĔĜĤĔĜĕČč ĤĦČč ĐĕđĢĚĐ ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ Ęė Ęĥ ĦĕĔĠđĜĕĝ ĐĤđďĐĚ ěđĚĢĞ ĪČđ ĕĤđčĦ Īĕ đĜĕėĐ ĐĜđĤēČĘ] (11ąĐ ĐČĚĐĚ J. Elbaum, “Midrash Shmuel”, EJ, 11 (1971), cols. ;414–413 ,133 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .102 ĘČđĚĥ ĥĤďĚ ,ġĕĥĠĕĘ Īč ĐĜđĤēČĘđ] 347 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ đđĥĐđ ;179 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚ ĕĒĜĎ ,ġĕčđĜĕčĤė ČĘĥđ ;1517–1518 .[ĐĠÀĎ ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦĤĕĔĠ ;(328 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;317–316 ,170 ,67 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ĐīĞ đĜĕčĤ ĐĥĚ ĦĤĕĔĠ .103 ,ĤĐ ;430–429 ,142–141 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) Ğĥđĕđ ;(ęĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;67 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ěĤĐČ īěđĕďđ ĔĝģĔ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ČđčĚ :Ğĥđĕđ ĥĤďĚī ,ěĕĕĔĥĜĕĕĠąĝďĤĠ ĪĒ ;329 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1517 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĤĢģ Ĥđčĕē) ĖĘĚĐ ĐĚĘĥ Ęĥ ěĕĚđĤďđĠĕĐđ Čĝė ;([ďīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĤČđĦĘ ęđĕĝ ĦďđčĞ] ,[(76 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĐĘĞĚĘ) ĤĦĝČĘ] ĕĜĥ ęđĎĤĦč ĐĕđĢĚĐ ĐďĎČ Ęĥ ĐĕĢČĕĤđ ČđĐ ,ĤĦđĕ ęđďģĐ ,ěđĥČĤĐ :ęĕģĘē ĕĜĥĘ ģĘēĜĐ E. Ville-Patlagean, “Une image de Salomon đĜĕĕĞ ;12ąĐ ĦĕĥČĤč đČ 11ąĐ ĐČĚč ,ĐČĤĜė ,ĤčēĦĜ ĕĜĥĐ ģĘēĐ đĘĕČđ ąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) đĜĕčĤ ĐĥĚ Ęĥ ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčď .(1517 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;en Basileus Byzantin”, REJ 121 [1962], pp. 9–33 ąĕĚĕĚ ĕĤčĞ ĤđĠĝ Ęĥ đčĕĔđ đĕĦđĤđģĚ ,đĜĚĒ ĦĘČĥĘ :đĜčĤ ĐĥĚ Ęĥ ęĕĚĕĐ ĕĤčďī ,ěČĜĥ ĪČ ;316 ,67 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČ ĤďĎč ĤĦđĕ ČđĐ (328 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;152–151 ĪĚĞ ,č ,ěđĠĕĝđĕ ,ĤĝđĘĠ ;116–100 ĪĚĞ ,[ēīĘĥĦ] ďė ĦđĤĠĝĐ ,īęĕĕĜĕčĐ .ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝĚ (čĦėđĥĚ ČĤģĚ) ĤđĠĕĝ ,ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ,ģčĘČ ;(98 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ) ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĪČ ;441–436 ,145–144 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĕĘĞ đĜĕĕĞ .104 .137–107 ĪĚĞ ďđēĕĕčđ ,(ĞīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚ Ęĥ đďđĝĚ ,ģČĚ Īē ;5–1 ĪĚĞ

.194–188 ĪĚĞ ,đďđĝĚ ,ģČĚ ;346–345 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;37–1 ĪĚĞ ,ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ,ģčĘČ .105 ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč ĥĤďĚī ,ģČĚ Īē ;20–9 ĪĚĞ ,ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ,ģčĘČ ;88 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ ĐĚĥĤĜĥ ĦđĤĠĝč đĜĕĕĞ .106 ;(ČīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐĤđďĐĚĘ ČĚĎđďđ ČđčĚ ,ČđĥĜđ ĤčďĚč ĦđĕĥĤĠ :ĪČ ģĘē ĦĜĥĚ ,ĤēČ đĘĕČđ ,I ĤīčďĚč ĦČ ģĤ ,1418 ĦĜĥĚ ,ďēČ ĘĕėĚ ĤīčďĚč Ęĥ ďĕĐąĕčĦė ĖđĦĚ .187–171 ĪĚĞ ,đďđĝĚ ,ĘīĜĐ ,đĠđĤĕĢ ĖĤďđ I ĤīčďĚč Ęĥ đĦđđĐĦĐ ĖĤď Ĥčďč ĦĞďĐ ĦČ ĔĘēĐč ēĕĜĚĐ ĤčĝĐ ěĕČ .(ĤčďĚč ĦĥĤĠ) ĐÀČ ĦđĥĤĠ ģĤ ,1291 Ğđďĕ đĜĕĜĠĘ ČđĐĥ ĦđĚė ęĘĥĐ ĥĤďĚĐ .đĜĕĜĠĘ ČđĐĥ ĦđĚė ĤīčďĚč ĤĢđĜ ęĐĕĜĥĚĥ ,(ČĚđēĜĦ =) II ĤīčďĚčĘ ,ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ .13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤĚ ĘēĐ .187–185 ĪĚĞ ,đďđĝĚ ,ģČĚ ;1518–1517 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;ĖĘĕČđ 6 ĪĚĞ ,ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ,ģčĘČ đĜĕĕĞ .107 ;296 À295 ,57 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ] (ĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠ þ ĕďĎČ ĤĝđĚ Ĥđčĕē) ĐĤđĚĦ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ěđĎė .108 .[334 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1518 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ .ĎĘÀČ ĪĚĞ ,(ēīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĐĤđĦ ěđĤĦĠ ĤĠĝ ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ đĜĕĕĞ .(ęĕĤčďąČĤģĕđ ĕĤĠĝĘ) đģĘēč ģĤ ĤĚĦĥĜ .109 .346 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;443–441 ,146–145 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .110

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

30

ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ 94.ďđčČ ČĔđĒ ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚĚ ĤĢđģĚ ĔđģĕĘ ĕĘđČ ČđĐ ,ĐėĕČ Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ęĕģđĝĠĐ ĘĞ đĘĥ ĦđēĕĦĠĐ .ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠčđ ČĚđēĜĦč ,ĕĘčč ďđĚĘĦč ĥĚĦĥĐ Ĥčė ,ĕĜĥĤĠ ĥĤďĚ ,(ēĕģÀČ ęĕĘĐĦĘ) ĦđĚĥ ĥĤďĚ ĐČĤĜė Ėĕĕĥ ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ 95.ĤĦđĕč ęĕčĤ ęĕĜđĥ ďĕąĕčĦė ěĕč ęĕĘďčĐĐđ ĦđĥčđĥĚ ĦĕĥČĤč ěĕč ĤĥĎĚ ğĢĤ ěĕĞĚ ĤđĢĕĘ ĥģĕč đėĤđĞĥ ĕĜĥĤĠ ĥĤďĚ đĐĒ 96.(ĕÀČ ĦđĚĥĘ ,ďĕÀČ ĦđĥĤĠ) I ĐčĤ ęđĘė I ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥč ěĕČ ĐĚ ęđĥĚ) čĕ ģĤĠ ĥČĤ ,ĦđĚĥč ĐĦĘĕēĦĥ ĘČĞĚĥĕ ĕčĤď ČĦĘĕėĚ ěĕčĘ ĐčĤ ĦČĥ ,ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ěĚ ěėđ ,ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒĕČĚ ĤģĕĞčđ ,ęĕčĤ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ čČĥ ČđĐ .(Čĕ ģĤĠ ĦđĚĥĘ ĥĕ đĒ ĐĠđģĦĚ ęĎ .ĦĕĤčĞĘ ęĎĤĦ ĦĕĘččĐ ĦĕĚĤČĐ đĜđĥĘ ĦČđ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĒĘ ĐĜĕĥ đĘĥ ēđĜĕĚĐ 98.ęĕĤĢģ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ 97,ęĕĞĔģ ģĤ ęĐĚ đďĤĥĥ ,ęĕĥĤďĚ

I

đ (ĔđĐĜĕĤĎ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĥĤďĚ .ĤĦđĕč ęĕĤēđČĚĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ đėĤĞĜ 12ąĐđ 11ąĐ ĦđČĚč .ďčČ ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘēĥ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĕĜĥĐ đģĘē ČđĐ II ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ 99.ĤēČ ĥĤďĚĚ ĤĢđģĚ ĔđģĕĘ ČđĐ ČčČ ĥĤďĚ .(ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚč ĤčēĦĜĥ) ěđĠĕĝđĕ ĤĠĝč ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐ .ěĕĔđĘēĘ ĦđĥčđĥĚ đĘĥ ĦđēĕĦĠĐ

100

,ĤĐ ;131–130 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢĘ đĕĦđĠĝđĐč ,ģčĘČ đĜĕĕĞ ĐėĕČđ ĦĘĐģ ,ĦđĤĘ ĪČĔđĒĪ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ .94 Ĥđčĝ ,277 ,92–90 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĘĐģ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĝđđĤĠĕģ ĖČ ;314 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ đĜĕĕĞ ĒīĐģ ĘĞ ;1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ .ęĕĜĥ ĦđČĚ Ęĥ ěėĘĐĚč ęĕčĤ ęĕĘđĎĘĎ ĤčĞĥ ČĘČ ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚč Ĥčė đďđĝĕĥ ĦđĜđĥ ĦđĥĤďĚ Ĥ ď đ ĝ Ě ĕ Ħ Ę č ġ č đ ģ ģĤī) 412–407 ,132–131 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .95 ;([132 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČ] īĤēđČĚ ěĚĒĚ ČđĐ đĜĕďĕčĥ ĥĤďĚĐ ęđģĚ ĘėĚī ;īęĕĘĐĦĘ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĦđĘĕčē ģĤ đĜĘ ĥĕī ;īđĜĕĜĠĘ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤĚĎ ĦďđčĞ) īęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚč ĤđĠĕĝĐī ,ěđĔĕč ĪĦ ;316–315 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ĤĠĝĐ ĘėĘ ęĘĥ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒ ĐĕĐ ęĘđČ ,I ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ ĦČ ģĤ ęĕĘĕėĚ ěđĥČĤĐ ĝđĠďĐđ ďĕĐąĕčĦė .11–7 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĝĥĦ .đĠđĝ ďčČ ęĕĚĕĘđ ,čĕčČąĘĦÀęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ďĕÀČ ĦđĥĤĠ ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ ĥĤďĚ ,ěČĜĥ ĪČ ;89 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ ĐĚĥĤĜĥ ĦđĤĠĝč đĜĕĕĞ .96 ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘēĥ ĤēČĘ 12ąĐ ĐČĚč ĐČĤĜė ĐĦĥĞĜ đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥĘ ďēĕ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĕĜĥ ĦčėĤĐ .28–1 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĚĥĦ đČ (Čĕ ģĤĠ ĦđĚĥĘ ĦđĥĤď ęĎ ĘĕėĐ ďđčČĐ ģĘēĐĥ ěėĦĕĕ) ďčČ (ĦđĚĥ ĤĠĝ ĘėĘ ĥĤďĚ ĐĘĕēĦ ĐĕĐĥ) II ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ Ęĥ .ĐčėĤĐĐ ĐĥĞĚ ĖĤđĢĘ II ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ Ęĥ ěđĥČĤĐ ģĘēĐ ĦČ ěđĤēČĐ ĖĤđĞĐ ĔĕĚĥĐ ěđđėĦĚčĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1517 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;428–427 ,141 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) đĘėĕđ .97 ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ĤīĕėčČ ;(290–169 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,ęĕďđčČ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ĐĘđČĎ đĜĕĕĞ) ČĔđĒ ęĕĤčď ;(308 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ .(113–93 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,ęĥ ,ĐĘđČĎ ;308 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1517–1516 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;431–430 ,142 ĪĚĞ ČĦĕĕĤč) ČĥďĦ ;(1516 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ) ĘĘĐ ;(407 ,141 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ĐĜĜĤĜ đėĘ .98 ĖČ ;1517 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;427–426 ,157 ,141 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) [ĕĔĝĕĚđ ĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠ þ ĤĠĝ] (ĤĕČĕ ěč ĝēĜĠ ĕčĤď ,ĥĚĦĥĐĥ ,ĐĒ ĤĠĝ ęČ ,ČĕĐ ĦģđĘēĚĐ] G. Scholem, Ursprung und Anfänge der Kabbala [Berlin, 1962], p. 14 đđĥĐ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ěđčĤĜĚ ěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚ ĪĤ ĕďĕč ĤčēĦĜ ,ęĕĘčđĕĐ ĤĠĝč ,đĕĜĠĘ ĐĜĥ ęĕĥĕĚēđ ęĕĕĦČĚė ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠ đĚė č ,ěĕĕĔĥĠĞ ÄČ ÄĤ ĕčĦė Ęė ,īČđčĚ :ĤĕČĕ ěč ĝēĜĠ ĕčĤď ČĦĕĕĤč đČ ČĥďĦ ĥĤďĚī ,ěĕĕĔĥĠČ ĪČ ĦĞďė ,11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ đČ ;ęĥ ,ęđĘĥ ;ďĚĤÀĎĕĤ ĪĚĞ ,(ĕīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) Č ,ęĥ ,īĐĜđčĤĜĚ ěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚ ĪĤī ,ĘīĜĐ ;ĎĚģÀĘģ ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĕĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ,(ĥīĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĕĦčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ĥĤďĚ ,ģčĘČ Īē ĦĞďė ,đĜĚĒ ĕĜĠĘ Ĥđďė ĤčēĦĜĥ ,ČĥďĦ ĥĤďĚč ĥĚĦĥĜ ěĥĤďĐ ĐĥĚ ĪĤĥ ;315 ,67–66 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) [čģĞĕ ĕĜč ĦđĚēĘĚ] đĞĝĕđ ĪĥĤďĚĪ .(336 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;[17–16 ĪĚĞ ĦĕďđĐĕđ ĐėđĜē ĪĕĥĤďĚĪđ (329–328 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;196–195 ,[516 ĐĤĞĐ] 185 ,150–149 ĪĚĞ ,č ,ěđĠĕĝđĕ ,ĤĝđĘĠ .ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕĚ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĦĤđĠĕĝĘ ęĕėĕĕĥ ČĘČ ,ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ęĜĕČ (1518 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ) .313 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;129 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .99 M. B. Lerner, “The Works of Aggadic ;406–405 ,403–402 ,130–128 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .100 Midrash and the Esther Midrashim”, CRINT, Section II, Vol. 3, Second Part (eds. Sh. Safrai, Z. Safrai, .44–43 ĦđĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ đĜĕĕĞđ ;J. Schwartz, P. J. Tomson; Assen, 2006), pp. 176–229

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ĐĥĤĠĚ) II ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ 88.ČĚđēĜĦĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĕĜĥč đĘ ęĕĘĕčģĚĐ ęĕģĘēĘ đĤģĕĞč ĐĐĒ (ĖĘĕČđ ,ĖĦđĘĞĐč Ĥďĝ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒĕČĚ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ęĕĜđĥ ĦđĤđģĚĚ ĔģđĘĥ ĦđĥĤď ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ (ĖĘĕČđ ,ĐĒĐ ĥďēĐ Ĥďĝ ĥČĤĚ đĜĕĕĐ ,đĔ ,ĦđďēđĕĚ ĦđĦčĥĘ ĦđďĞđĕĚĐ ĦđģĝĠ ęĕĥĕĚēėĘ ģĘđēĚĐ ĥĤďĚ 90,ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠ 89.ČĚđēĜĦ ĦēĠĥĚĚ ,ĦđĜđĥ ĦđčĕĔēĚ čėĤđĚ ,čČč ĐĞĥĦĘđ (ĐėđĜēđ ,ĥďđē ĥČĤ ĦđčĤĘ ,ĐĤđĦčĥ ęĕďĞđĚđ ęĕĎē) ęĕčđĔ ęĕĚĕĘ ďēĕđ ,ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĕĢēĚĚ ĤĦđĕ ĐĘĕėĚ ,đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĎđĝĚ ,ĦĕĤģĕĞĐ ĐčĕĔēĐ .ĤĠĝĚč (ĞčĤČ đČ) ĥđĘĥ ĕďĕąĘĞ ĥďģĐ ēđĤč ĐĤĚČĜĥ ČĕĐ đĒī :ČĚđēĜĦč ĐĕđĢĚĐ ĐēĝđĜč ĦđēĦđĠĐ ĦđģĝĠ Ęĥ ĦĠĝđĜ ĐĢđčģ ęĞ ĐčĕĔē .ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČ ČđĐ ĐĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒĥ ĐĚđď .ĥĤďĚĐ ěĚ ęĕĥĕĘĥ ĕĜĥĚ ĐĘĞĚĘ Đč ĥĕ ī Īđėđ ,ĦđģĝĠ ĥĚē ,ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐčĕĔēĐ .ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠĚ ěĐĥ ĦđĚė đģĦĞđĐĥ ĦđģĝĠ ĥĥ ČĕĐ ĦĤēČ ĦđģĝĠĐ Ęĥ ěĦĕĢēĚė) ĦđĥĤď ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠ .(ĦđĞđčĥĘ) ĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞĘ ĥĤďĚ ČĕĐ ęĕĘĐĦ ĕĤđĚĒĚĘ ĦĕĤĕĥĞė ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝĘ ĥĕĘĥė ,ĦđĤĔĠĐĘ ĦđĥďģđĚ ČĚđēĜĦąđĜďĚĘĕ ĕĥĤďĚ .ĕĜĥĤĠ ĥĤďĚ ČĕĐĥ ,ĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞ ĦčĕĔēĚ ġđē ,(ĐėĕČĘ ęĕĕĦĥđ [ęđĕĘĥ Ĥĕĥ] ąđĜďĚĘĕ ĕĥĤďĚ ęĞĠ đĕĐ ęČĐ ?ĐėĕČĘđ ęĕĘĐĦĘ ,ęĕČĕčĜĘ ĦđģĝĠĐ đČč ČđĠČ ěĕĕĜĚ ;ĐĤđĦĘ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĐ ČđĠČ ČĕĐ ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠ ?ĖĤđĞĐ ĕďĕ ĐĥĞĚ ěĐ đĘČ ĦđģĝĠ ČĚĥ đČ ,ęĕčđĦėđ ęĕČĕčĜ ĕĤĠĝĘ ęĎ ČĚđēĜĦ ďĕąĕčĦė ěĕč ĦđģĝĠĐ ĤĠĝĚč ęĕĘďčĐ ęĎ ĥĕđ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ģĦĞđĚ ğČ đģĘēč ĦđēĠĘđ ĔģđĘĚ ĥĤďĚ .ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč Ĥčė ĤčďĐ ĞĤĕČ ĕĘđČ ĘčČ ,ďēČ ĤĠĝĘ ĦđčĕĔēĐ Ęė đėĤĞĜ ĕĦĚ ĞđčģĘ Đĥģ .ęĕĜđĥ ČđĐ ğČĥđ ,ĪĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĥďē ĥĤďĚĪ đĤĕďĐĚ ĕďĕč ĐĜđėĥ ,ĐĤđĦĘ ęĘĥ ĥĤďĚ ĐČĤĜė ĖĤĞĜ ěĚĒĐ đĦđČč ĖĤĞč 91.ČĚđēĜĦąđĜďĚĘĕ ĕĥĤďĚĚ ĤģĕĞč ĐČĤĜė ĔģđĘĚ Ĥčė Ħėĕĕĥ ,ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐĠđģĦĐąĦĦĥ ĤĚđĘ ĤĥĠČ ĦđčĤ ĦđĜĕēčĚ Ĥďĝ Ęĥ đĦĕĥČĤĘ ĐĥĤď Ęė ĕĤēČ đčĥ ĦđĥĤď ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ĦďĎČ .ĥĚĚ ĤēđČĚĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ Ęĥ đĦĕĥČĤĘ ĐĥĤď ĐĕĤēČđ ČĕčĜč ĐĤĔĠĐĐ ĦĕĥČĤĘ ĐĥĤď ĐČč ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĐ ,ęĕĕĜĥĤĠ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ČĔđĒ ĦĘĐģđ ČĔđĒ ĦđĤ 93,(ČĔđĒ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ) ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĦďĎČ 92.ęĕĘĐĦ ĤđĚĒĚ ĐĕđĜčĐ ěčĤđēĐ ĘĞ ĐĥĤď ,ęĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥč ,ČĔđĒ ĐėĕČ ĪĥĤďĚĪ .đďčČĥ ęĕėđĤČ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ęĕĔģđĘĚ ęĕĤđĢĕģ

M. D. Herr, “Numbers Rabbah”, EJ, 12 ;ĖĘĕČđ 397 ,ĖĘĕČđ 125 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .88 .ČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚč ěĜĕČĥ ĦđĤēđČĚ ĦđĠĝđĦ ĐĚė ĥĤďĚč ĥĕ .306–305 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;(1971), cols. 1261–1263 M. D. Herr, “Exodus Rabbah”, EJ, 6 (1971), cols. 1067–1069 ;397–396 ,125 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ .89 K. E. Grözinger and H. Hahn, “Die Textzeugen der ;389–376 ,121–117 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ .90 Pesiqta Rabbati”, Frankfurter Judaistische Beiträge I (1973), pp. 68–104; N. J. Cohen, “The Manuscripts ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) and Editions of the Midrash Pesikta Rabbati: A Prolegomenon to a Scientific Edition” ĐĤđďĐĚđ ēĝđĜ ĕďĞ :ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠī ,Ħĥģ ĪĘ ;297–292 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;(1977 ,ģĤđĕ đĕĜ ,Hebrew Union College ;[ĎīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĖĚĝđĚ ĤČđĦ ĦĘčģĘ ĐďđčĞ] ī(ĥīČĚĤ ĦđĠĝđĐč ĪĎ ĪĝĕĠ) Đčđĥ ĪĝĕĠ Ęĥ īČđčĚ ĕģĤĠ :ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠī ,ĤđĢĕĘČ Īč ;R.Ulmer, Pesiqta Rabbati, I (Atlanta, Georgia, 1997), pp. xv–xxvii .270–263 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) .ĔėģÀĒ ĪĚĞ ,č [,ĐĜăþ ĀĒąěĚ] ;ĔĝĤÀĔĚģ ĪĚĞ ,Č ,The Bible as Read ,ěĚ .91 M. D. Herr, “Aggadat Bereshith”, EJ, 1 (1971), ;394 ,124 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .92 ěėđĦ ĕĜĕĕĜĞđ ĦĕĦĤđģĕč ĐĤđďĐĚĘ ĐĞĢĐ ,ČđčĚ :ĦĕĥČĤč ĦďĎČī ,ĕĜĘĐģ ĪĞ ;309–306 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;col. 366 ěĕčĘ ĐĒ ĥĤďĚ ěĕč Ĥĥģ ĥĕĥ ĐČĤĜ .322–308 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐĜčĚđ .L. M. Teugels, Aggadat Bereshit (Leiden, 2001) đđĥĐ .ČĚđēĜĦąđĜďĚĘĕ ;S. Schechter, Agadath Shir Hashirim (Cambridge, 1896), pp. 100–104 ;129 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .93 .313 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ

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ĦđčĘĥĚĐ ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ěĦđĚďč ĐĜďĞ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĘ ĐĦĕĕĐ ,ĦĔĕđĠĚĐ ĐĘĕĠĦĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĔĥĠĦĐđ ĐĦĕĕĘĞ .ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĤđčĕĢč ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ěĜđĕčĢč ĤĦđĕđ ĤĦđĕ đčĢđĞ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ .ĪđĜďĚĘĕĪ ēĝđĜ ĐėĘĐč ĐďĎČ ęĕĤĠĝĘ ęĎ (ęĕĕĜĥĤĠĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĘ ďđĎĕĜč) ĦđĥĤďĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĦĜĠđČ ĐĔĥĠĦĐ ďĢĕė ĘģĜĤĠ ĐĠĕ ĤĕčĝĐ Ėė ĔĞĚė ČđĐĥ ,ČĤģĕđ đĚė ĤĠĝĘ ďđĎĕĜč) ęĐĕčĎĘĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ĐĚėē đČ ĐČđčĜ ,ĤđĠĕĝ ęĤģĕĞĥ ęĕĕČĤģĚ ĕĒėĤĚ ęđģĚ ĐĘ Đĥčėđ ĪđĜďĚĘĕĪ ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ĐĜĠđČĐ ĐėĘĐĥĚ ,ęĕĚĕĘ .ĕĜđĕē ĖĤđĢ Đč ĐĕĐ ČĘ (ĐėĘĐ đĘđė 85.ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞđ ęčđĢĕĞ ęđēĦĘ ğČ ĐĔĥĠĦĐ ČĕĐ ęĎđ ęĕčđĤĚ ĦđĤđď đČĢĕ ČĘ ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč đĤďđĝ čĤ ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ ģĤđ ,ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĚĕđĝĚ ęĕĤďĝĘ Ħđďďđč ĦđĥĤď ĐČĤĜė đėĤĞĜ ĐĘĕēĦ ĕĜĥ đĞĕĠđĐ 86.ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ČđĐ đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĥ ęĐčĥ ęđďģĐĥ ĐĚđď .ĦČĒĐ ĐēĠĥĚĐĚ ęĕĚĘĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĎ ,ĕđĤģĐ ēĝđĜĐ .ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ Ęĥ ęĕēĝđĜĐ ĕĜĥ ěĕčĥ ĐĒĚ čĤ ĖđĤĞ ěĕČĘ ,ďđČĚ čĤ ęĐĕĜĕč ĐĜđĥĐĥ ,đĘĥ ęĕēĝđĜ ;ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ čđĤģ ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐ ęĎ ĘčČ ,ęđďģĐ ČđĐ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ,đĤĕďĐĚ ęĥ ĘĞ ďĎĜ ěđđėĚĐ ĝđĚĘđĠ ,ęĥ ĤĕĞĒ ĐĠ ĤĕĞĒ ,ĥĕ Ĥčė ,đĒ ĐēĠĥĚĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęĘđėė ęčđĤč đĚė ,đč ęĎ ěėĥ ĤēČ čĤ ČĘ ěĚĒ ĖĤĞĜ ,(ĝĠďĜĐ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď) 16ąĐ ĐČĚč ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĝĠďĜĥ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĥĤďĚ ęĎ .ęĕĕĜĜĞĐ ,ĤēČĐđ (ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ) 16ąĐ ĐČĚč ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĝĠďĜ ďēČĐ :ĐĤđĦĘ ČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ ĕĜĥ đĝĠďĜ .Ėė ęĕĚđď ,ĦđĚĥčđ ĦĕĥČĤčč ĐĒĚ ĐĒ ĐčĤĐ ęĕĜđĥ ęĐ 87.19ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč Ĥčđč Īĥ ĕďĕč ,ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦėĚ ęĐĕĜĥđ đĤčēĘ ęđďģ ęĐĚ ďēČ ěĕČĥ ĐĚđď .ĤčďĚčč ěĕĔđĘēĘ ęĕĐĒđ ęĕĤčďč ęĕĐĒ ĔĞĚė ,ČĤģĕđč ďđČĚ ĥČĤĚ đĜĕĕĐ ,đĔ ĐĥĤĠĚ) II ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč .đĒ ĐēĠĥĚĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĤČĥ čđĤ ęĎ đĚė ,ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚč đėĤĞĜ 84

đĜĕĕĞ ĐĥĤďĐ ěĕčĘ ĔđĕĠĐ ěĕč ĝēĕĐ ĘĞ .đėĤĞč ,ęĕĥĜČĐ ĦđĚĥ ēĦĠĚ ,(²ĒīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĠĤĢ ĕĚėē ,ěĚĝđĤĎ ĪČ 3–1 ĦđĤĞĐčđ ,ĖĘĕČđ 41 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĘĥĦ) Ě ġĕčĤĦ ,īęđďģĐ ĔđĕĠĐ ĕĎđĝ Ęĥ ĕĎĤđĔĕĘĐ ęďĕģĠĦ ĦđĕĞčč ęĕĜđĕĞī ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ ĪĞ .43–41 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĦĜĥąďē ĐČĕĤģ ,ĘīĜĐ ;ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ĐĜĠĐ .459 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ .84 .ęĥ .85 ąČĚđēĜĦ ĦđĤĠĝ ,ěĚĎĤč đĜĕĕĞ .T.S. C1 46, ff. 6–7 ,ĪĎďĕĤčĚģĚ ĐĒĕĜĎĐ ĞĔģč ĐĕđĢĚ ďēČ ĤďĝĘ ĦČĒė ĐĥĤď .86 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĥĤďĚ .5–1 ĪĚĞ ,Č ĐĠĝđĐ ;180–176 ,165–163 ,ĖĘĕČđ 97 ,72 ĪĚĞ ,đĜďĚĘĕ ČĔĥđģč ĐĜđĥČĤĘ) ĝĠďĜĥ ĐĒĚ ĐĜđĥ ČđĐ ,īďĤĠĝ ĕĜč Ęĥ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčďī đČ ,147 ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦė ĕĠ ĘĞ ,(²ĐīėĥĦ ĥĤďĚĪ ĐĞĔđĚĐ ęĥĐ ěČėĚđ ;ĪĦđčĤĪ ęĥč ,ĦđĘĕĎĚ ĥĚēĘđ ĐĤđĦĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤĠĝĐ ĤČĥĘ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĐĞĥĦ ďđĞ ęĞ ďēĕ ,čīĞĤ ĥĕĥ ĐĚĘ ĐĐĒ ĐĜđĥĥ ĐĚĚ ģĘē ęĎđ ,ďčĘč đĠđĝčđ đĦĘĕēĦč [ĦĠĤĢđ ĒĜėĥČ ĕĜč Ęĥ ČđĐĥ ,ĝĠďĜĐ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď] (ĪĐčĤ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ ;123–122 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .ęĕĠĝđĜ ęĕēĝđĜ ęĎ ĥĕ ĐĒ ĥĤďĚĘ .ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦč ,ĘģĜĤĠ .M. D. Herr, “Deuteronomy Rabbah”, EJ, 5 (1971), cols. 1584–1586 ;XXIII–V ĪĚĞ ,(đĦĤđďĐĚĘ) ČđčĚ ěĕčĥ ěĚĒ ĘĞ ĤčďĚ ,303–301 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;600 ĦĜĥĘ ęĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ęĕďģĚ ,833 ,765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ĕĥĤďĚĚ ęĕčĤč ĐĕđĢĚĐđ ęĐĕĚđďđ ęĕČĤģĐ ęĞ ĝđĚĘđĠ Ęĥ đĦĞĠĥĐ ĕĤĠ ČĕĐĥ ĐďĎČĘ ĦģĐčđĚ ĐĚĎđď .800–450 ęĕĜĥĐ Ħčĥč ĐĚēĘĚ ĦđėĘĐ ĦĕĕĞčĘī ,ĕĤĚČĚč ĕĦēėđĐ ,ďčĘč ęĐč ģĤđ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĦđčĤĘ ,đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčďč ĐďĎČĐĥ ĕĦĕČĤĐ ęĎ ęĥđ ,349–347 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīėĥĦ) Ę ġĕčĤĦ ,īďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦčđ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĕĚĕč đĦđĚď [Č] :ďĤĠĝ ĕĜč Ęĥ ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĘĞ ĥďē ĤđČī ,ĤĜĤĘ čīĚ ďđĞ đĜĕĕĞ .ĦČĒĐ ĐĢđčģĐĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĤČĥčĥ đĒĚ ĐĚđďģ čīĚ ĦėĕĤĞč) ġĕčđĜĕčĤ ĤĕČĚ ĕčĢĘ ěđĤėĕĒ ĤĠĝ Á ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚč ęĕĤģēĚ :Čĕ ĐďđĞĦ ,īěĚĤčĕĘ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ .145–107 ĪĚĞ ,(đīĜĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ ;ěĚďĕĤĠ ĞīĚđ ĤĜĤĘ ĦđčĤ ĦđĤđďĐĚč ,ĐĒ ĝđĠď ĕĠ ĘĞ ,ĖĘĕČđ ěČėĚđ ,Ďīėĥ ĐčđĔĜĚč ĦđĠĝđĐ ęĞ ĝĠďĜ ;čīĠĤ ČĔĥđģ ,ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚ .87 ąčĦė ĕĠ ĘĞ ,(Ĥčđč ČĚđēĜĦ) ĐīĚĤĦ ČĜĘĕđ ,čÀČ ,(īěĥĕĐđ ęđďģĐī) ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚ ĤđČĘ ČĕĢđĐ Ĥčđč Īĥ .(ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ) ČĘ đĦďđčĞ ĦĔĕĥđ ęĕĕģĘē đĘĥ ĦđČĝĤĎĐ ĕĠđĘĕē ĘčČ ,ęĕĜđĥ ďĕąĕčĦė ďđĞč ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐ) 154 ĤČđČčĕđĜ ,ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕ ČĚđēĜĦ Ęĥ čđĤĕĞ ęĐčđ ďĕąĕčĦė ğČđ ,ęĕĞĔđģĚ ęĐĚ ,ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ Ęĥ ęĕčĤ ďĕąĕčĦė đĘĎĦĜ ęĕĚĕĘ .(ĦģĕđďĚ ĐĦĕĕĐ ĐĢđčģ ĐĦđČĚ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥđ Ĥčđč ČĚđēĜĦ Ęĥ ęĕčĤ ęĕĞĔģ ęĎđ ,ęĕĤēČ ĦđĤđģĚ ďđĞđ Ĥčđč ČĚđēĜĦđ ĝĠďĜĐ J. Mann, The Bible as Read and Preached in the :ěĚ Īĕ ęĝĤĠĥ ďĕĐąĕčĦė ĦČ ĤĕėĒĐĘ ĥĕ ďđēĕĕč .ĝĠďĜ ęģĘē ģĤĥ ĥĤďĚ“ ďēđĕĚ ěđĕĢĘ ĕđČĤ ęĐĚĥ ,Old Synagogue, I–II [ J. Mann and I. Sonne] (Cincinnati, Ohio, 1940–1966) A. D. Kensky, “ ‘Midrash Tanhuma :(ēĘĥčÀĦđĚĥ) ĦđĚĥĘ ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ Ęĥ ĦĕĞďĚ ĐĤđďĐĚ .”ĐĤđĦĐ ĘĞ ĥďē .(1990 ,ģĤđĕ đĕĜ ,JTSA ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) Shmot’: A critical edition etc.”, I–II

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ęĕĕđĢĚĐ (ęĕĞĔđģĚ ęĐĚ) ęĕĥĤďĚ ďđĞđ ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠĚ ęĕĥĕĘĥ ĕĜĥė ,II ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ ,II ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč ĐĜĚĚ ģĘēĘ đČ ĐĤđĦĘ ĦđĥĤď ĕĥĤďĚ ęĐ đĘČ .ĤđČĘ đČĢđĐ ČĘ ěĕĕďĞ ęĦĢģĚđ đĝĠďĜ ęĦĢģĚĥ ,ďĕąĕčĦėč ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝĐ ĕĥČĤĘ čđĤąĕĠąĘĞ ěĐ ęĐĕĦđĥĤďĥ ,(ĕĦčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒ ĘĘėĚ ČĢđĕ) ĦđčĘĥĚĐ ,ĦđĕĚĕĜđĜČ (ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĐēĕĦĠĐ ěĚ ěĕĕĠđČč ĦđĜđĥĐ) ĦđēĕĦĠ ęĐč ĥĕ .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė ĘČĤĥĕĚ ęďČ ĐėĘĐī :đČ ī?Īđėđ đĜčĤ đĜďĚĘĕī :ĦēĝđĜĚĐ ĐėĘĐč ĐĘČĥč Ğčģ ĖĤď ĦđĘĕēĦĚđ ĐďĎČč ĐėĘĐ đĜĥ Ėėī :ĐďĢč ü ĦēĝđĜĚ ĐĦčđĥĦđ ,(ī?Īđėđ đĐĚī ęĦĝ ğČđ ī?Īđėđ đĐĚ ĐėĘĐī :ĤđĢĕģčđ) ī?Īđėđ đĐĚ Īđėđ ęĥĐđ) ī Īđėđ (ČčČ Ĥč) ČĚđēĜĦ ĕčĤ (ĥĤď đČ) ēĦĠ Ėėī :ĐēĝđĜĐ ěĥČĤčĥ ĦđēĕĦĠ ěėđ ,ī Īđėđ đĜĕĦđčĤ (đ)ĐĒī :ēĜđĚĐ đČ (ČĚđēĜĦ ĕčĤ ęėēĘ Čģđđď đČĘđ ,Ėė ĐĜđėĚĐ ,ęďđģ ĥĤďĚĘ đČ ĤđģĚĘ ěđĕĢ ČđĐ ČĚđēĜĦ ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĥĤďĚĚ ęĕėĤđĞĐ đčČĥ ęĐčĥ ĦđĚđģĚčđ ,ĦĕĤčĞ đĘČ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĜđĥĘ .īčđĦėĐ ĤĚČĥ ĐĜđĥ ęĕėĤđĞĐ Ęĥ ĕĜđĕĞĤĐ ęĚĘđĞ .ĕĤčĞ ęđĎĤĦč ěČė ęĕĤčďĐ ęĕČč ĦĕĚĤČĐ ěđĥĘč ĦđĥĤďđ ęĕĥĞĚ ĕĥĤďĚčđ ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚč ,ČĦĠĝđĦč ,ĐĜĥĚč ĕđĔĕč ĕďĕĘ ČčĐ) ęĕČĤđĚČđ ęĕČĜĦ Ęĥ ĐĒĚ ĦĤėĕĜ ĐďĕĚč ďđēĕĕč ĔĘđčĥ ĐĚ ,Đčĥ ĦđĕĦĕĕĞčĐ ĦĚĘĞĐ ĖđĦ ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĦĎĢĐĘ ĐĕĕĔĜĐ đč ĦĤėĕĜđ (ęĕĕĝČĘģĐ ĐďĎČĐ .đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚč ěĐ ęĕĕĝČĘģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚč ěĐ ęĕĞĕĠđĚĐ ęĕĤĚČĚđ ĦđĥĤď ,ĦđďĎČ ĦČđđĥĐč ęĦđĜģđĤĦĐđ ęĦđĘďĘďĕĐ ,ęĦďĕĤĕ ęĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕČĤđĚČ Ęĥ ęĦĠđģĦ ğđĝĘ ĖđĚĝĥ ĤĞĥĘ ĤĥĠČ ,ĐėĘĐĐ ďđĚĕĘĚ ĦĢģĚ ĦđēĠĘ ĤĕčĞĐĘ ęĕĚėē đĥģĕč 81,ĐėĘĐč ģđĝĕĞĐ Ęĥ đĦđĔĞĚĦĐđ ĥĤďĚĐ ĕĦč Ęĥ ,ĐďĎČ ĐĤģĕĞ ęĜĚČĥ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤď Ęĥ ĝđĠĕĔ ĤĢđĜ Ėė .ĦĝĜėĐ ĦĕčĘ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĕčĚ ,ĕĘĚĝ ěĠđČč ģĤ đĘđ đČĢĕ ČĘ .ĐďĢč ü ĐĦčđĥĦđ (ĦĕĤđĔĤ ,ďđČĚ ĐĔđĥĠ ĐĘČĥ ĘĘė ĖĤďč) ĐėĘĐč ĐĘČĥč ĦēĦđĠ ČĕĐ ęĘđČ ĔĞĚ ĐďčĕČđ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ ĐėĘĐ čĦėĐ ĘĞ ęĦČĘĞĐđ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĔđģĕĘ ĕĥĞĚ ęĞđ ,ęĕčđĤĚ ęĕĚĕ ěĦčĕĦė ďĎĜė đĤĕĐĒĐĥ ęĕĜđĥČĤ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĥĥē ęĥĎĦĜ ěėČ .ĦđĕĝČĘģĐ ĐĕĦđĤđĢ ĦČđ ĐĤĐđĒ ĦČ ĔĞĚ ģēď ĐĕĦđĥĤďđ ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĕĦđĤĠĝĐ ,ęđĝĤĠĐ ğČ ęĕĚĕĘđ ,ĝđĜĕėĐ ĐĥĞĚ .đč ĦđĘėĦĝĐđ ĤĠĝč ĦđďĎČ Ęĥ ęĐ ğČĥ ,ęĕĔđĕĠĐ ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ đĝĠĦ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĕĕēč ĤĞĠĜĥ ĘĘēĐ ĦČ 82.ěĦĤĕĢĕ ěĕĕĞĚ Ęĥ đĦđĕē ĦČ Čėĕďđ ěĕčĘ ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĞĕģĥ ěĕč ,ęĕďēČ ĦđĤđď ĖĥĚč ĘčČ 83.ĐĕĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČĐ ěĚ đĜđĒĕĜ ĕĤđģĚ ďēČ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚī đĦđČĥ ěĞĔ ğČĥ ,(832 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘīĜĐ đđĥĐ ĘčČ) 9 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ĦĞď ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,đĕĤčď ĤđČĘ ęĘđČ ,īĕĝČĘģĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ĕĚĕč ĕĘđČī ďđĞ ĖĤĞĜ īęĕĤēđČĚĐ ĦđĤđďĐĚĐđ ęĕēĝđĜĐ ĘėĘ čČĐ ČđĐĥ ĖđĤČđ ĘđďĎ ĤĠĝ ĐĒ ĐĕĐ ,ĐĒė ĕĤđģĚ ĥĤďĚ ęĞĠ ĕČ ĐĕĐ ęČ ęĎ ĘčČ .ĐĤĕčĝ ĦĕČĤĜ đĒ ĦĠĝđĜ ĐĤĞĥĐ ěĕČ ,459 ĪĚĞ ,ěĘĐĘ đĦđďĤĥĕĐ ĕĕđėĕĝ ěĕčĘ ĤĠĝ Ęĥ đĦđĕďđĝĕđ đĦđĕĤđģĚ ,đėĤđČ ěĕč ĖđĠĐ ęČĦĚ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕčđ ģĕĦĞĐ ěĚĒč ĐĕĐ Ğđďĕėđ .ĤĦđĕč ęĕĤģēĚ :ĕĚđĤĐđ ĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ęĘđĞč ęĕďđĐĕĐ ,īĐĕĦđčĕĝđ ĐĜĚĒ :ĦĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐąĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĤēČī ,ĤĐ ďīĚ đĜĕĕĞđ) Čģđđďĥ ęĎ ěėĦĕĕ .(370–368 ,365 ĪĚĞ ,[đīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ġĤđđĥ Īďđ ĕĜĠĎ Īĕ ,ĤĚĕĕĐĜĠđČ ĪČ ĦėĕĤĞč] ěĤĔĥ ęēĜĚ Ęĥ đĤėĒĘ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęė ĕčĎĘ (ěĕďč ČĘĥ) ĤĠĥ ĪĠ ĞĕĢĐĘ ĐĝĕĜĥ ĐĒ ěĕĞĚ ,ĕĘđĕĐ čĢĚ ĤĤĥ (ďčĘč) đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĐĒ ęđēĦč P. Schäfer, “Research into Rabbinic Literature: An Attempt to Define the Status Quaestionis”, đĜĕĕĞ) ĘīĒē Ch. Milikowsky, “The Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic :đďĎĜėđ ;JJS 37 [1986], pp. 139–152 Ėė Ĥđčĝ đĒ ĐĢđčģ ĕčĎĘ ěėČđ ,đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĪĦēĠĥĚĪ ĘĞ ĕĜČ ĤčďĚ ĖėĕĠĘ .(Literature”, JJS 39 [1988], pp. 201–211 .ĘđďĎ ěđĕĞ đĒ ĐēĠĥĚĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĕĕĞč Ęė ĐėĕĤĢ ěĕĕďĞ ęđģĚ ĘėĚđ .(210–209 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĕģĝčđģĕĘĕĚ ęĎ Đģĕďčč ęĎ ĐĜđĤēČĘ ĤđĥĕČ đĘčĕģ ęĕĤčďĐ ;169 ĪĚĞ ,Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ :ĕĦčĦėĥ ĐĚ đĜĕĕĞ .81 U. Leibner, “Settlement and Demography in Late Roman and Byzantine Eastern đĜĕĕĞ ;ĦĕĎđĘđČėĤČ Galilee”, Settlements and Demography in the Near East in Late Antiquity: Proceedings of the Colloquium, Matera, 27–29 October 2005 (Biblioteca di Mediterraneo antico, 2) [ed. A. S. Lewin and P. Pellegrini; Pisa–Roma, .2006], pp. 105–130 .41 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĦĜĥąďē ĐČĕĤģ ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ čĦėĥ ĐĚ đđĥĐđ .174 ĪĚĞ ,Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ .82 ěĕĚĕĜč ĕčĤ čĤĐ Īđėđ ĥĕďģđ ĤĕĞī ĕĠĚ ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĞĕĠđĚ ĐĥĤďĐ ęđģĚč Čč ĔđĕĠĐĥ (?ĐĤĞĥĐ đČ ĦĤđĝĚ) ěđĕĞĤĐ .83 ěč ĕĦĠĤĢ ěĔĕĕĠ ,(ĔėĤÀēėĤ ĪĚĞ ,[ďīĠĤĦ ,ĔĥĞĠČďđč] ĖĕĕĤĜĞĤĐĞ ĕīē ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ĕīĥĤĘ ĝďĤĠĐ ĤĠĝ) īĕĜĔĝđģĚ ĘČđĚĥ ĪĤč ;ĖĘĕČđ 3 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĚĥĦ) Čĕ ,Đĥďē ĐĤďĝ ,ďĕ ĘĞ ġčđģ ,īěĔĕĕĠ [ĘČđĚĥ ěč] ěĚĕĜč ĪĤĘ ĦđĤĐĒČī ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ ĪĞ đČĤ .11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ

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ĤēČĐ ďĢĐ ěĚđ ,ĘīĒē ĦďĎČ Ęĥ ĐĤĥčĚ Ĥĥčđ ĐĤčČĚ ĤčČ ČđĐ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠĥ ĤđĤč ďēČ ?đĞĝĕđ ĪĥĤďĚĪ đČ ĝėđĕĔĜČ ĦĘĕĎĚ Ĥčďč ĐĚ ĘčČ .ĘīĒē ĦďĎČĘ Ėĕĕĥ đĜĕČ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď 77,đĥĕ ĦđďĘđĦĥ ĤđĤč ďĕĚĦ ęĜĕČ ęĕĘđčĎĐ ęĘđČ 78,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕĚ ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĒđĤĠĘ ęĕėĕĕĥĐ ęĕĤđĠĕĝ đĘČ ęĦĞďĘĥ ęĕĤģđē ĥĕ ęĕĜĢĕĜ ĞĕĠđĐĘ đĘēĐ ģĕĦĞĐ ěĚĒĐ Ęĥ ĦđĜđĤēČĐ ĦđČĚč Ĥčė .ěČėĘđ ěČėĘ ęĕĜĠ Ĥčďč ĥĕđ ,ęĕėđĦēđ ęĕďē ĕĚĕč ĐėĥĚĜ đĒ ĐĞĠđĦ .(đĥĕ ĦđďĘđĦ Ęĥ ęđďģ ēĝđĜ) ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝĘ ġđēĚ ĦĤđĠĕĝ ęĕĤĥčĚĐ ęĕĜđĥČĤ ěđĥĘ Ęĥ ĕĦđėČĘĚ ĕđģĕē ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĦĕĚĤČ čĦėđ ĦĕČĤģĚ ĐĎđĝ Đģĕē ĐĤčēĚĥ ,ĝėđĕĔĜČ ĦĘĕĎĚ .ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦČ ęĕČĤđģĥ ĐĚ ěĕĞĚ ,ĐėđĜēč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĤđčĕĢč ČĤģĕĕ đĤđčĕēĥ ĐČĤĜė ğČĥđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ęđĎĤĦ ĤēđČĚ čĘĥ .ĘīĒē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞĘ ġđēĚĥ ĦĤđĠĕĝĘ ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ ěĕč ĤčĞĚ čĘĥ ęđĥĚ Đč ĥĕ ,ęĕĤđĠč ĤĦĝČ ĖđĦč ĕĚĚĞ ĤđģĚĚ ĦđĕĥĞĚ ğĝđČ ČđĐĥ ,ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĪĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞ ĥĤďĚĪč ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕ ĤĦđĕ Ęĥ ĦđĕĥĞĚĐ ğĝđČđ ,čĢĚĐ ĐĜĦĥĜ 11ąĐ ĐČĚč .ĘīĒē ĦďĎČ Ęĥ Ęģ ģđď ĥĕ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ Ęė ĘĞđ ,ĦĤĎĝĚ ĤđĠĕĝ đĚđĎĤĦč ĞđďĕĐ ,ĐģđĢĚĐ ĤēČ ĐĞđĥĕĐ ĤĠĝ] ĐďĥĘČ ďĞč ĪĎĤĠĘČ čČĦė ,ěČđĤĕģĚ čģĞĕ ĪĤč ęĕĝĜ đĜĕčĤ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ġđēĚ (ĦĕčĤĞ čĦėĜĥ ęđĥ ĘĞ Čģđđď đČĘđ) ĔĘēĐč ĕđĢĚ ,[ĪĐĞđĥĕĐ ěĚ ĐĠĕ ĤđčĕēĪ ęĥč ĦĕĤčĞĘ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĚđēĦ Ęĥ ęĦđďĤĠĕĐ ĖĕĘĐĦ .đĒ ĦđĤĠĝĚ čđČĥ ęĕďčđĞĚĐ đĕĤđĠĕĝĚ ĘđďĎ ģĘēĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,ĘīĒē ,ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ ğđĝč Ĥčė ČĞĚģ ČĞĚģ đĦĘĕēĦĥ ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĘđĘėĚĐ ěĚ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĦđĜđĥ ĦđĎđĝđ 79.ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĦĕĢēĚč ěđČĎ ĐĕďĞĝ čĤ Ęĥ đĘĞĠĚč ĞĕĤėĚĐđ ĤđĚĎĐ đĕđĢĕĚ ĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐ 80:đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ (ĦĢđčģ đČ) ĪĦēĠĥĚĪĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĘ ĞďđĜ đĒ ĐĠđģĦĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ čĤģč ďčėĜ ęđģĚ ,(ĐĤđĦĐ ĘėĘ ęĐ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ĕĜĥ) Ĥčđč ĦĤđďĐĚ ČĚđēĜĦ ,ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ ,(ęĕĜđĥĐ đĕēĝđĜĘ) ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď ĦđďĘđĦĪĚ ĥďē ĞĔģī ,ģĘĠ ĪĒ ;275–274 ,ĖĘĕČđ 122 ĪĚĞ ,(1974 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĕĜĕčĐąĕĚĕč ĕĤčĞĐ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ,ěď Īĕ đĜĕĕĞ .77 .ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĘđĎĘĎ ęĕĚĕĘ đĕĐ ,ęĕĜđĕĘĎĜđđČĐ ĘĞ ĐĕďđĤĠ ČđĐĥ ,ĐĒ ĕĤĢđĜąĕĔĜČ ĤĠĝĘ .ĖĘĕČđ 319 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĘĥĦ) đĚ ġĕčĤĦ ,ī Īđĥĕ đĜĕĕĞ ;ĪČĤĕĝ ěč ĤĠĝĪ ,ĐčĤĐč ĕĤĎĘđđ ĝĎ ,ĦĕĤĢđĜąĕĔĜČ ĦđĜĢĕĘ Ęĥ ĤēČ ĤđĠĕĝ ĤčēĦĜ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ đĦĞĠđĐ ĤēČĘ ęĕĜĥ ĦđČĚ .ĦĕĠĤĎđĜĤđĠ ěĕĞĚ ĦĕĝđĚĘđĠ ĥĔĕģ ĦĤđĠĕĝ ęĐ đĘČ ĕĜĥ .(ĐīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ČĤĕĝ ěč ĕĤđĠĕĝ ,ğĕĝĕ ĪĞ R. Bonfil, “Can Medieval Storytelling Help Understanding đđĥĐ ;32–1 ĪĚĞ ďđēĕĕč ,ĕĤčĞĐ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ,ěď .78 Midrash? The Story of Paltiel — A Preliminary Study on History and Midrash”, The Midrashic Imagination — ĥĤďĚ ,ČĤĕĠĥ ĪĞ ;Exegesis, Thought, and Jewish History (ed. M. Fishbane; Albany, NY, 1993), pp. 228–254 .189–187 ,ĖĘĕČđ 11 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞ ĥĤďĚĪč ęĕĕďđĐĕđ ęĕĕĚđČĘĜĕč ęĕĝđĠĕĔī ,ĕđĜ Īď ;315–314 ,66 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .79 ,ĕĤčĞĐ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ,ěď ;355–353 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) č ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ ĕĞĕčĤĐ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,ī ĪĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞ čĤ ěĕĕĜĞĘ .237–230 ,189–99 ,17–11 ĪĚĞ ,ĦđĤčĕďĐ ĦĤĥĞ ĥĤďĚ ,ČĤĕĠĥ ;326–325 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;85–79 ĪĚĞ .17–4 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĜĥĦ) 54 ęĕĚĞĠ ,īĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĤĕĥĐ ĦđďĘđĦč ěđČĎ ĐĕďĞĝ čĤ Ęĥ đĚđģĚī ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ ĪĞ đĜĕĕĞ ěđČĎ ĐĕďĞĝ ĐĤģēĚ ĦđďĘđĦđ ĐĕĞčĐ ęđėĕĝĘ .ďđČĚ ĐĠĜĞ ĦđĤĠĝ ĥĕ đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ ĦēĠĥĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĞčĐ ĘĞ .80 M. D. Herr, “Tanhuma- ;455–452 ,375–362 ,159–157 ,116–108 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ ,(ČīĚĥĦ) čĘ ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČĐ ,īČĚđēĜĦī ,ĤĜĤĘ čīĚ ;Yelammedenu”, EJ, 15 (1971), cols. 794–796 ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īęĦđđĐĦĐ ĕėĤďč ęĕĜđĕĞđ ĐĕēĝđĜ ĤđČĕĦ :đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĦđĤĠĝī ,ěĚĎĤč ĪĚ ;949–947 ĪĚĞ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ęĎ đđĥĐđ ;(ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝ ĐĚĥĤĜ đĘČ Ęė ĘĢČ) 301–298 ĪĚĞ ,ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ ;(ČīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ Ęĥ ęĤģēĚč ĤĦđĕč ĦčėĤđĚĐđ ĐėđčĝĐ ,ĐĥģĐ ČĕĐ đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĦēĠĥĚĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĕĕĞč .832–830 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ęĕēđģĘĐ ęĕčĤ ęĕĞĔģ ęĕČčđĚ (ĕĤĕėĚĐ ĔđģĘĕđ ĕĜđĞĚĥ ĔđģĘĕ ,ĖđĤĞĐ ěđĎė) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕĚ ęĕĤĠĝ ĐĚėč .ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ěĕč đĘČĚ ěĕč .īČĚđēĜĦī ĥĤďĚĚ ęĕēđģĘĐ ęĕčĤ ęĕĞĔģ ěėđ (ĐĤđĦ ďđĚĘĦ ĔđģĘĕč ęĎ ĥĕ đĘČė) īđĜďĚĘĕī đĚĥĥ ĥĤďĚĚ ,ěĘĐĘ đĜĕĕĞ) Ĥčđč ĦĤđďĐĚ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚč ęĕčĤ ęĕĕđĢĚ đĘČĚ ěĕč đĘČĚ ěĕčđ ĝĠďĜĐ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚč ęĕčĤ ęĕĕđĢĚ đĘČĚ Ğđďĕ ĥĤďĚ ęđĥč ęĎđ đĘĘĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĕĜĥĚ ďēČč ğČ ęĕĕđĢĚ ęĜĕČĥ đĘČĚ ěĕč đĘČĚ ěĕč ęĕčĤ ęĎ ĥĕ ęĘđČđ .(87 ĐĤĞĐ ęĥ ČĘČ īđĜďĚĘĕī ěĕČ ČĚĥ đČ ?(ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ ęĕĚĕĘ ďčČĥ) īđĜďĚĘĕī ĥĤďĚ ęĞĠ ĕČ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ :ĐĘČĥĐ ĦĘČĥĜđ .ĤēČ ěđĎė ,ęĕĤģđē ĐĚė Ęĥ ęĦĤĞĥĐĘ ĐĕČĤ ěĕČ ?ĥĤďĚ đĦđČĘ ĞĤĕČ ĐĚ ,ěė ęČđ ?đĘ ĐĐĒ ČđĐđ īČĚđēĜĦī ĥĤďĚ ĐĒĕČĘ ĤēČ ęĕĤģēĚ ,ĘīĜĐ =) 3 ĪĚĞ ,(đīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) Č , đ ,Đĥďē ĐĤďĝ ,ďĕ ĘĞ ġčđģ ,īđĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĕďĕĤĥī ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ęĕĞčđĜ đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦĐ ĎđĝĘ ęĕėĕĕĥĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ĦđĤđďĐĚĐ Ęėĥī ,(574 ĪĚĞ ,[ēīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] č ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚč ĘĞ ęĎ ĐĘčģĦĜ đĒ ĐĤčĝ .ĤđĦĝĘ ĐĕČĤ ęĎ ěĕČĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,īĐĘđďĎ ĐĢđĠĦĘ ĐėĒĥ ,ĕĘČĤĥĕĢĤČ ĥĤďĚ Á ğĦđĥĚ ĤđģĚĚ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ģĤĠ ğđĝč 71.ĔģđĘĚ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ĦđĤĦĕđ ĦđĤĝē ĥĤďĚ 70.ĦđĘėĕĐĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ğČ ČĘČ đĘ đĚďģĥ ęĕĥĤďĚč 72.đďĤĥ đĜĚĚ ęĕĞĔģ ģĤĥ ,ĐĠĝČ ěđĎė ,ġĤČĘ ġđēč đėĤĞĜĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĎ ęĕĞĕĠđĚ ĐĒĐ ěĚĒĐ ęĐ ěĕČ ,ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ĘĕďčĐĘ .ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĐĘđďĎ ĐĢđčģ ęĎ Ħėĕĕĥ ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐđ ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĦđČĚĘ ,ĦđĜđĥ ĦđĠđģĦĚ ęĕĜđĥĚđ ęĕĜđĥ ĦđĤđģĚ Ęĥ ĔđģĕĘ ĐĥĞĚ ęĐ ěĕČđ ęĕčđĦė Ęĥ ĦđĥĤďĚ ĤģĕĞč ęĕĕđĜč đĚĦđēĥ ďēČ ĤčēĚ ĕďĕ ĐĥĞĚ ,ĦĕĦđėČĘĚđ ĦēĢēđĢĚ ĦĕĤčĞ đĜđĥĘĥ ,ęĘĥ Ĥđčĕē ČđĐ ęĐĚ ďēČ Ęė ČĘČ .(ęĕĥĤďĚđ ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥ ęĐčđ) ęĕĚďđģ ĦđĤđģĚč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ğČ ĘĞ đč ęĕĤėĕĜ ĦďēđĕĚĐ đĦĕĜėĦđ ĕĥĕČĐ þ ęĕĤĚČĚ ęĕĢđĠĜ ęĘđėė ęčđĤč ĞĢĚČĘ ĖđĚĝ ĤčēĦĜĥ 73,ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠ ęĕėĕĕĥ đĘČĘ .ęĕĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠ đĐĕĘČ ĕčď ČĜĦ ,ĖĤĞč ěĚĒĐ đĦđČč ĐČĤĜė ĤčēĦĜĥ 74,(ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĦĜĥĚ) ĤđĎČ ĥĤďĚ ,ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĐĕĞčĐ 76.ĤĦđĕ ęĕĤĢģ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ ,ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚč ĐČĤĜė Ĥčđēĥ 75,(ČĔđĒ đĐĕĘČ Ĥďĝđ ĐčĤ đĐĕĘČ Ĥďĝ) ?ĘīĒē ĦďĎČĚ ģĘē đĜĕČĥ ĤđĠĕĝ đč ĦđČĤĘ ĥĕ ěėĕĐĚđ ,ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ ęĕđĝĚ Ĥđčĕēč ĦđČĤĘ ĕđČĤ ěėĕĐ ďĞ :ČĕĐ ĐĒė Ĥĥģĥ ęđģĚč .ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčđ ĥĤďĚĐ Ħĕč ěĕčĘ Ĥđčĕē ěĕč ĤĥģĐ ČđĐ ĐĜēčĐĘ ĕĤģĕĞ ěđĕĤĔĕĤģĥ ĐĚđď ďĢĚ .ĐĘģ ďĕĚĦ ĐĜĕČ ĐĜēčĐĐ ęĘđČ ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝĘ Ėĕĕĥė ĤđčĕēĐ ĦČ ĦđČĤĘ ęĞĔ ěĕČ ęĕĕģ đĜĕČ čđĥ

B. L. Visotzky, “Midrash Mishle: A Critical Edition Based ;133 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .70 on Manuscripts and Early Editions with an Introduction and Annotated English Translation of Chapters .Ē ĪĚĞ ,(ěīĥĦ ,ģĤđĕąđĕĜ) ĕĘĥĚ ĥĤďĚ ,ĕģĢČĝĕđ Īč ;(1982 ,ģĤđĕ đĕĜ ,JTSA ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) One through Ten”, pp. 5–77 M. D. Herr, “Midrashim, Smaller”, EJ, 16 (1971), col. ;432 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .71 .(ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ :ěĘĐĘ)1516

ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚī ,ĐĘđČĎ ĪĞ ;1516 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;426 ,141 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .72 ,(ĒīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īČĔđĒ ęĕĤčďđ ĐĠĝČ ,ĤĕėčČ :ďčĘč ĒĜėĥČĚ ęĕĞđďĕĐ ęĕďđčČ .168 ĪĚĞ ,Č G. Friedlander, Pirkê de Rabbi Eliezer ;420–419 ,140 ,136 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .73 ;(London, 1916), pp. liii–lv; M. D. Herr, “Pirkey de Rabbi Eliezer”, EJ, 13 (1971), cols. 558–560 B. Heller, “Muhammedanisches und đĜĕĕĞ ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠč ęČĘĝČĐ ęĞ ĝđĚĘđĠđ ĦđĕĚĘĝđĚ ĦđĞĠĥĐ ĘĞ ĦđďĎČ ,ěĚĕĜĕĕĐ Īĕ ;Antimuhammedanisches in den Pirke Rabbi Eliezer”, MGWJ 69 (1925), pp. 47–54 M. Ohana, “La polémique judéo-islamique et l’image ;247–242 ,199–183 ĪĚĞ ,(1974 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĐĕĦđďĘđĦđ d’Ishmael dans Targum Pseudo-Jonathan et dans Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer”, Augustinianum 15 (1975), .pp. 367–387 ,(ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ) ģčĘČ đđĥĐđ .ĐďĎČĐ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ (ĤĜĪĒ) ĐĎđĝĘ Ėĕĕĥ ČđĐ ĖČ ,ĥĤďĚ ĐĒ ĐĤđČėĘ .74 .1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;143–142 ĪĚĞ ĤĠĝ Ęĥ đĕĦđĤđģĚđ đĜđĥĘ ĦĘČĥĘī ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ;295–288 ,57–53 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .75 ,īđĐĕĘČ ĕčď ČĜĦī ,ęĕđčĘČ Īĕ ;(433–418 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞĚ ,ĘīĜĐ =) 197–183 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĕĥĦ) Čė đĜĜđĥĘ ,īđĐĕĘČ .942–941 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĚĥĦ) čĘ ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČĐ ,[ĔīĕĥĦ] Ďė đĜĜđĥĘ ,ī?ĝėđĕĔĜČ ĦĘĕĎĚ ĐčĦėĜ ĦĕĚĤČ đĒĕČčī ,ĕĤďģ ĢīĚ đĜĕĕĞ ;ĦĕĚĤČ ĐĜđĥĘ) ĝėđĕĔĜČ ĦĘĕĎĚ .76 ,214–178 ĪĚĞ ,[ďīėĥĦ] č ;105–81 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīėĥĦ] Č ěĘĕČąĤč ěđĦĜĥ ,īĦĕĚĤČĐ ĝėđĕĔĜČ ĦĘĕĎĚī ,ĘīĜĐ ;145–129 ĪĚĞ đČ ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐĚ ĦĕĦđėČĘĚ ĕđģĕē ěđĥĘ ČĕĐ ČĘČ ,ďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ ĐĚĕďģĐĘ ěĕČ ,đĦĞďė ČĘĥ ,ĖČ G. Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud đĜĕĕĞ ;ĦĕĚĤČč ĐĒ ĤčēĚ ĐĥĞ ĦĕĤčĞč ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ĕĤčēĚ đĥĞĥ ĐĚ ;ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ īęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐī ęĕĤđčĕē ěĕčĘ ĐĜĕč ĤĥģĐ ĘĞ ;[ČđčĚ ,ĤĎĤčĚĔĥ :ěĘĐĘ] und Midrasch [München, 1992], pp. 323–324 ĕĜĥ ęđĎĤĦ ;(150 ĪĚĞ ,[ČīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] č ,ěđĠĕĝđĕ ĤĠĝ ,ĤĝđĘĠ Īď đĜĕĕĞ ,īĕČĤĠĐī ĐĜđĕĚďč ĐĚđď ČĕĐ ęĐĘĥ ,ĦĕĜđđĕč ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ęđĎĤĦ ĤĥČĚ ĦĕĚĤČč ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ ĤĦđĕ ČđĐ ,ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚč ĖĤĞĜĥ ,(ĤĦĝČĘ) ,ĤĐ ;416–415 ,133 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ĐĜđĕ ĪĥĤďĚĪ ;(97–94 ĪĚĞ ,ęđĎĤĦĐ ĤđČč ČĤģĚĐ ,ĥđĘĚđģ ;264 ĪĚĞ ,ĕĜĥ ĤČđĦĘ ĤĚĎ ĦďđčĞ] īěđĕďđ ĔĝģĔ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ČđčĚ :ĪČĕčĜĐ ĐĜđĕ ĦčđĥĦĪī ,ĕĤďģ ĪĦ ;1516–1515 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ČčĕģĞ ĕčĤď (ĦđĕĦđČ :đČ) Ħĕč ğĘČ ;(27–1 ĪĚĞ ,[ĒīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ đĜĕĕĞ] (ĥđďģĐ đĜčĤ ĕģĤĠ ;ĐĤđĦ ĐĥĞĚ :đČ) ĐĞčĤČđ ĐĥđĘĥ ;(1516 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĜĔģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ,ĤĐ ;334–333 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč .(ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;434–433 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ) ĦđĕĘĎ ĤĥĞ ;[ęĥ ,ĤĐ ;433–432 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

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ČĕĐĥ ,ġĜđĢ ĦĔĕĥč ģĕĒēĐĘ ,ęĘđėė ęčđĤ ,ęĕĤģđēĐ ęĕėĕĥĚĚ ,ĘĕĞĘ ĤĚČĜĥ ĕĠė ,ęĘđČđ 65.īęĕĚđďģĐ .ĤĦđĕ ĐčĤĐ ĐĤĕčĝ ĞđčģĘ ĐČĤĜė ĥĕ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĥČĤĘ đČ ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĠđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ ĦđēĚĥ ĦđėĝĚ Ęĥ ěėđ ,ĐďĎČ ěĜĕĕĜĞ ĤģĕĞĥ ,ĐĘėđ ġĤČ ĖĤď ĦđėĝĚ Ęĥ (ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč) ěĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ,(č ęĕĤĠđĝ ;ęĕĤĎ ;ęĕĕĦđė ;ęĕďčĞ ;ĦĕĢĕĢ ;ěĕĘĕĠĦ ;ĐĒđĒĚ ;ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝ) ĪĦđĜĔģĪĐ ĦđėĝĚĐ ,ęĕĤĠđĝđ ęĎ ěČė ĤĕėĒĐĘ ĥĕ 66.ĐďĎČ ęĎ ęĐč ĥĕ ĐėĘĐ ęĤģĕĞĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČĥ ,ĐďĜ ĦėĝĚď ČĦĕĕĤčđ ęĕĞĤĒ ģĤĠ ,(ČīĞ Ēĕ – čīĞ ĕ ĐĘĕĎĚ) ĤĦĝČĘ :ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč đďĤĥĥ ęĕĞĔđģĚĐđ ęĕĤĢģĐ ęĕĕĘččĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦČ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ .ĕĦčĤ ĐĘė ĦėĝĚ ĦČ ěėđ 67,(ČīĞ Ďĕ – ČīĞ Čĕ ĐĔđĝ) ĦđĚĥĘđ (čīĞ – ČīĞ ďģ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ) ĐėĕČĘ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ĦČ ČĘ ğČđ 68,ĐģĕĔĝĕĚĐđ ĕďđĐĕĐ ĝĕĝđĜĎĐ ,ĐĕĎĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĚđďģĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ĦČ ĘĘđė đĜĜĕĕĜĞ ěĕČ .(ĘččđĤĒ ĤĠĝ ěđĎė) ĖĘĕČđ ĦĕĔĜĒĕčĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ĕĠĘĥĚ ĦĕĔĠĕĘģđĠČĐ

Đ ,ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝ ďĞ ĦėĥĚĜ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ :ĦđĠđģĦąĦĦ ĕĦĥĘ ģĘēĘ ĥĕ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ ĦČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐ .ĐčĤ ĦĘĐģ ĕĜĥĤĠĐ ĥĤďĚĐ Ėĕĕĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĘ .ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ČĕĐ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ đĘĕČđ ,ĐČĤĜė ,ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐ .ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ğČ ĕĘđČđ I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČčđ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČč ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđč ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ĕĚĕĚ ěĥĤĠ Ęĥ đĜđĥĘĘ ĤčĞĚĐ Ĥčė đč ĤėĕĜĥ ĥĕĥ ĕĜĥĤĠ ĥĤďĚ ,ĕĘĥĚ ĥĤďĚč 69.ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚč ęĕĕĔĝĕĚ ęĕĜĕĕĜĞ ,ęĕčĤ ęĕĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠ þ ęĕĤĚČĚ đč ĥĕ ;ĦđĕĝČĘģĐ ĦđĤđĢĐ ěĕĔđĘēĘ đĚĘĞĜ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ģĤ ČĘ ĥĚĦĥĜđ ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚč ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐ .ęĕĜđČĎĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ĦđėĘĐđ ęĕĎĐĜĚ ěėđ ,ĕČĤģąĕĔĜČ ĝđĚĘđĠđ đĒ ĐĝĕĠĦ ďĎĜė .125 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ ěĕĕĞ ĤĜĤĘ ĦĞď ĘĞ .(XXII–XII ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ęĎ đĜĕĕĞđ) 63 ĐĤĞĐ ,XXIII ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ .65 14 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ,ĘďĜĚ đĜĕĕĞ đĜĜĕĕĜĞĘ ęĕĤģđēĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĞď ęđėĕĝĘ .795–794 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ đĜĕĕĞ .ĖĘĕČđ M. B. Lerner, “The External Tractates”, Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum đĜĕĕĞ .66 [CRINT], Section II: The Literature of the Jewish People in the Period of the Second Temple and the Talmud, Vol. 3: The Literature of the Sages, First Part (ed. Sh. Safrai; Assen–Maastricht–Minneapolis, 1987), pp. ąġĤČ ĦđėĘĐ ,ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ ĪĚ :ĖđĦč ,đĦĤđďĐĚĘ ĝģĕĘĠ Īĕ Ęĥ đČđčĚ đĜĕĕĞ ;ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ĕĘđČ ČđĐ ęĕĞĤĒ ģĤĠ .379–403 ;ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ,ĐČĤĜė ,ČĕĐ ,ĕĔĚĘčđĤĠ Ĥđčĕē ,ĐďĜ ĦėĝĚď ČĦĕĕĤč .ġģÀĎĜģ ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĐĒĕĜĎĐ ěĚ ĘČĤĥĕ ĐĤĞĐ ,185–184 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐďĕĜ ĦėĝĚ ĦĜĥĚī ,ęĥĔĕĚ ĒīĦ đĜĕĕĞ :ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĚ ęĕĕĚĤČĐ ęĕĚđĎĤĦĐ ěĚ ęĕčĤč ğČ ĐĕđĢĚ ĐďĎČ .E. Marienberg, Niddah (Paris, 2003), p. 252 ;272 ČĤģĚĐ ,ĥđĘĚđģ Īĕ đĜĕĕĞ] (ďđĞđ ;īČĦĠĝđĦī ;ĕĔĕĠđČĜ ;[ĞĔđģĚĐ] č ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;[ěĦĜđĕĘ ĝēđĕĚĐ] Č ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ :ĤģĕĞč) ĐĤđĦĘ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) đč ĐďĎČđ ęđĎĤĦ ,ĘīĜĐ ;(ĔīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ęĕĜĚĎĤđĦĚ Ęĥ ęĦďĎČ ,ěČĜĥ ĪČ ;(ĎīĘĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ęđĎĤĦĐ ĤđČč ;ĘČĕĒđĞ ěč ěĦĜđĕ) ęĕČĕčĜĘ ;[ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝ ĐĚĥĤĜ đĘČ Ęėčđ Á (1993 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĐčĤĐ ęĕĚđĎĤĦđ ďēČ ČĤģĚ ,ĘīĜĐ ;(ĎīĜĥĦ .[ęĥ ,ĘīĜĐ đĜĕĕĞ] (ĔĥĠ ČđĐĥ ĕĘĥĚ ęđĎĤĦĚ ġđē ,ĤĠĝ ĘėĘ ĐĜđĥ ęđĎĤĦ) ęĕčđĦėĘ ;[ęĥ ,ĥđĘĚđģ đĜĕĕĞ] (īČĦĠĝđĦī ęĕĞčĤČė ĦđĚĥ ĦĘĕēĦĘ ĥĤďĚč ęĎ ;140 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĕĜĥ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤđģĚ ĘĞ .67 .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕĚėē ĘĥĚ ęĐ ęĕĤĚČĚ ęĕĥĕĥė ĖđĦĚ ĐĥĕĚēđ ;ĕĦĤĔđĒ ĦđĘėĕĐ ěđĎė) ĦđĘėĕĐĐ ĦđĤĠĝ ;ĘČģĒēĕ ĦđĕđČĤ ;ĐĚđģ ĤđĞĕĥ ;ĐĤĕĢĕ ĤĠĝ ;ĐĥĚď ČčĤē ;ęĕĒĤĐ ĤĠĝ ěđĎė .68 .(ĦđėĘĚ ĕĎđĤĐ ĐĤĥĞ ĕĥĞĚė) ĐĕēĕĠĝđ (ĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĖđĜē ;ĕĦčĤ ĦđĘėĕĐ M. D. Herr, “Ecclesiastes Rabbah”, EJ, 6 ;404–403 ,129–128 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .69 (1971), col. 355; M. G. Hirshman, “Midrash Qohelet Rabbah, Chapters 1–4: Commentary (Ch. 1) and ĞĢĚČĘ ĤīĐģ Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞ ęĕďģĐ ,765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .(1982 ,JTSA ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) Introduction”, Part I ,ĤĝđđĤĠĕģ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĦĞď ęĎ đĒ .ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĜĠĘ ČĘ ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐĥ ĒĚđĤ ČđĐ ,824 ,822 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ĘčČ ,ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ .278–274 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ ,ěĎąĦĚĤ ,ěĘĕČąĤč ĦĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐėĕĤĞđ ĦđđĐĦĐ :ĦĘĐģ ĕĥĤďĚī

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČč ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđč ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĥĚĦĥĜ ĐčĤ ĦđĤ ĥĤďĚ 55.ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤĘ Ęĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐĦĕĢēĚ ĖĘĐĚč ĖĤĞĜ ČđĐĥ ĐĚđď ĖėĕĠĘ .ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ğČ ĕĘđČđ ,ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠčđ .(641) ġĤČč ĕĔĜĒĕčĐ ěđĔĘĥĐ ĦĠđģĦ ğđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ 56,ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěčđĚ .ęĕĚĘĝđĚĐ ĕďĕč ġĤČĐ ĥđčĕėĘ ĖđĚĝ ĐĚĕĕĦĝĜ ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĥ ČđĠČ ĤčĦĝĚ ęĕĜđĤēČĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ĦČ ĤēČĘ đČ ęĕďģĐĘ ĥĕĥ ěėĦĕĕđ ,Ĥčďč ĦđĤĚĝĚ ĞđčģĘ ěĕČĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒč ĤēđČĚđ ęďģđĚ Ĥčďč ĐĝĕĠĦĐ Ęėĥ ěĕĕĢĘ ĥĕ 57.ĦđĔĞĚ ęĕĜĥ ĦđĤĥĞč đĜĦĥĜ ęĐđ ěĕĤĤđĞ ,ěĕďčđ ,đČĢĕ Ğčģĥ ęĕĔĘēđĚĐ ęĕďĞđĚĐ ĘĞĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČđ 58.ġĜđĢ ĘīĔĕ Ęĥ đďđĝĕĚ ČĕĐ ĦđĕĝēĕĐ Ĥčďčđ đĘČč đĘČ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĥđĚĕĥ Ĥčďč ĐĝĕĠĦĐ ĐĜĕĞč ĦďĚđĞ ,(ĐčĤ ĐďĕĚč ğČ ęĕĚĞĠ) ęĕĕđĜĕĥ ČĘČ Đč đĘē ČĘđ ,ġĜđĢ ĐĞčģĥ ĦđĚė ĦĤėĕĜ ĐďĕĚč ęĕĜđĥĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ěĕč ĤēđČĚđ ęďģđĚ Ęĥ ČīČ ěėđ 60,ģčĘČ Īē ęĥČĤčđ ,(đĜĕĚĕ ďĞđ ġĜđĢĚ) ęĕĤģđēĐ čđĤ ,ěĕďčđ ,ęĕĔģđĜĥ đĒ ĐĔĕĥ ďĎĜė 59.ęĕĔĞĚ ĦĥđĘĥĥ ěĞĔ ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ .ĤĜĤĘ čīĚđ ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ ĪĚ 63,ĤĜĤĘ ĪĚ 62,ĝĕĕđ ĐīČė ,ęĕĔĞĚ ģĤ đČĢĕ 61,ĘģĜĤĠ Īĕđ ĖčĤđČ ČĘ ěėđ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ęĤđģĚ ĐĕĐ ČĘī Á ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠđ ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč Á ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦđĤĕĢĕĐ Ęėĥī ĐĤđĤč ĐēėđĐ ĥĕĥđ ;īĤĦđĕ ęĕĕĜđĚďģ ĐďĎČ ĦđĤđģĚĚ đčČĥ ęĘđė ČĘČ ,ĐĒč ĐĒ đĥĚĦĥĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĥĚē ęĎĥđ 64;īĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĘĕēĦčī ČđĐ ěĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒđ īĦēČ ĐĠđģĦ ĦđĜč ěĐ đĘĘĐ đėĤĞĜ ęĐ ğČ ,īĤīģĕđč ęĕĥĚĦĥĚĥ ĕīĠĞČī ,ĐčĤ ĦĘĐģđ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ĦđĘĕĎĚĘ (ĪĦđčĤĪ) ęĕĥĤďĚĐđ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĦėĕĤĞ ĤđďĘ ĤēđČĚ ĦđĕĐĘ ĐČĤĜ đĜĕČ ĐčĤ ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚ ďđēĕčīđ ĐĒ ěĚĒĘ ĖđĚĝč

,(ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠč ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ Ęĥ đĥđĚĕĥ ĘĞ) 361 ,107 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .55 M. D. Herr, “Song of Songs Rabbah”, ;(ĐĒč ĐĒ ęĕĕđĘĦ ęĜĕČ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČđ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥĥ Ėė ĘĞ) 401 ĪĚĞ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,īĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĥĤďĚč ĦđĕĜđđĕ ęĕĘĚ ĐĚė ĘĞī ,ěđĤĕē ĪĘ ;EJ, 15 (1971), cols. 152–154

ĞĢĚČĘ đĦėĕĤĞ ęĕďģĚ ,765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .52–47 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) Č/ď ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ ĤĥĞ ďēČĐ ęĕĤĕĥĐ ĤĕĥĘ ěĕČ .(132–131 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞđ) 566–565 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠė ČĘĥ ,ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĝģĘ ęĝĤĠ ,ęĕĔĞĚ ďĕąĕčĦė ĕĠąĘĞ ģĤđ ,ďčĘč ĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ Č ĐĥĤĠĘ ĦĕĞďĚ ĐĤđďĐĚ) ĐĚĘĥ ĦĕĞďĚ ĐĤđďĐĚ ĐčĤ đđĥĐđ ;([(1958 ,ĐĕĠĘďĘĕĠ ,ĪĎĘđģ ĕĝĠđĤď ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) S. T. Lachs, “A Critical Edition of Canticles Rabbah”] ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĕĜđĥČĤ ĤđČĕĦī ,ěđĤĕē ĪĘ ;idem, “Prolegomena to Canticles Rabbah”, JQR 55 (1965), pp. 235–255 H. E. Steller, “Preliminary Remarks ;160–129 ĪĚĞ ,(ěīĥĦ) ď ěđĥĘč ęĕĤģēĚ ,īđĦĤđďĐĚ ĦĚĎđďđ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ to a New Edition of Shir Hashirim Rabbah”, Rashi 1040–1090: Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach (ed. ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĥĤďĚč ĐėĕĤĞĐ ĦėČĘĚĘī ,ĕĤďģ ĪĦ ;G. Sed-Rajna; Paris, 1993), pp. 301–311 .9 ,5–1 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĐčĤ ĦđĤ ĥĤďĚđ ĦđĤ ĦďĎČī ,ĤĜĤĘ čīĚ ;130 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .56 ;M. D. Herr, “Ruth Rabbah”, EJ, 14 (1971), col. 524 ;ĎĞģÀČĞģ ĪĚĞ ,Č ,(ČīĘĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ęĕĜĠ Ęė ĘĞđ) 822 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đđĥĐđ ;ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĘ đĦėĕĤĞ ęĕďģĚ ,765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .([132–131 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞđ] 566–565 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ďĎĜė Ĥĕĥđ [101 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ đČĤ] I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ,(đĦđĚĘĥč) ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ Ęĥ ĦđĜģđĦĚ ĦđĕĞďĚ ĦđĤđďĐĚĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ .57 .đĘĘĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ Ęĥ ĤĦđĕ ĦģĕđďĚ ĐĞĕčģĘ ďđČĚ ĐĜĞĕĕĝĦ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ .ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ .58 ĦĕĎđĘđĜđĤė ĐĜĕēčĚ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĚđģĚ ĦČ ,79–78 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢ Ğčģ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,Ėė .59 .(342 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČ) ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČĘ ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĦČ ęĕďģĐ ĤĦđĕ ĥďēĐ ĤģēĚĐ đĘĕČđ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ěĕčĘ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ěĕč .ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ :ġĜđĢĘ đĕĦđĠĝđĐč ďđēĕĕčđ ;ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ,ĘīĜĐ ;ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčĘ ČđčĚ ,ģčĘČ .60 .ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĘīĜĐ ;Midrash ,ĤĐ ;ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘīĜĐ ;ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;365–353 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČ ,ĖčĤđČ .61 .297–252 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĚĤĦ ,ĐĜĕđ) Ď ,đĕĥĤđďđ Ĥđď Ĥđď ,ĝĕĕđ ĐīČ .62 .M. Lerner, Anlage und Quellen des Bereschit Rabbah (Berlin, 1882), pp. 72 ff. .63 .XXXII ĪĚĞ ,(ĖīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĥĤďĚĘ ĦđēĦĠĚđ ęĕēĠĝĜ ,ČđčĚ ,ĦđĕĘĎĤĚ ĪĚ .64

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đĘČ ĦđģĝĠ Čģđđďĥ ęĎ ĐĚ ,đĕĜĠĘ đĕĐĥ ,ĤĦđĕ ęĕĚđďģ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚč ěėđ ,ęĕĝģĜĠč đČ ĐĠ ĘĞčĥ ęĕĠĝđČč ěĜĕĦČď ČĦĥĐ 50.ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝĐ Ęĥ ęĦĕĥČĤ ĘĞ ĦđĕđĜčĐ ĦđģĝĠč ĕđĢĚĐ ěđđĕĎĐ ěčđĢĕĞč ěĕČ ĞčĤč ĖĤĞĜđ Ĥďđĝ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĤďĚĥ ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĦēĜĐ ĦČ ĘčģĘ ďđČĚ Đĥģĥ ĐĚđď ,ČėĐĘ ĦĕĕĞč .ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđčđ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ,ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ,ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐ 51.ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĥČĤĐ ĤēđČĚ đĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ,ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČč đĜĚĚ ģĘē ĥĚĦĥĜ ěėČ ęČ 52.Ėđčĝ ěĕĕĜĞ ČĕĐ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ěĕčĘ đĜĕč ĝēĕĐ ěĕČ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĚĞĔĚ ęĎ ĘčČ ;(ęĕĜđĥ ęĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥĘ ĘĢĠĦĜđ ĎĘĠĦĜ ĐĒĥ ĕĜĠĘ) ęđďģĐ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČĘ ČđĠČ ėīĤďĝĠ ĖĤđĞĥī ĐĤĞĥĐĐ ĕĕĜĕĞč ĦĕČĤĜ ěĕČ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ 53.ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ ČĘČ đĦđČ ĞđčģĘ ĐĕĐĥ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒĕČĚī (Ħđėđĝđ) ēĝĠ ďĞđĚĐ Ęđē ĦčĥĘ ĦďĞđĕĚĐ ĤĥĞĦ ĤĥĞ īČģĝĕĠĐ ĦČ ĘĔĜ ,ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ ďĞ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ Ęĥ ĐĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ĤēČĘ ĦčĕĕēĚ ĦČĒė ĐĜģĝĚ ěėĥ 54,īđĕĜĠĘ .ĦĞďĐ ĘĞ ĘčģĦĚ đĜĕČ ĕČďđđĥ ĐĚ ČĤģĕđčđ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ĥĚĦĥĜ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ .ĤđČĕč ĕĥĤďĚ ĕĜĥ ęĕėĕĕĥ ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ğđĝĘ ĐĚđď đĘĘĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĕĜĥč ĦđĘĕčģĚ ĦđďĎČ ĥĕĥ ĦđĚđģĚč ;ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČč ĥĚĦĥĜ ČđĐĥ ĐĕČĤ ěĕČ .ĐčĤ ČĦģĕĝĠč ĥĚĦĥĐ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥĥ ĐČĤĜ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ .ĤēČ ğĦđĥĚ ĤđģĚĚ ěĦđČ đčČĥ ęĐĕĜĥĥ đĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ĞđčģĘ ĥĕĥ ĐĚđď ĖėĕĠĘ .đĜĕĜĠĘĥ đĒĚ ĦĢģĚč ĐĜđĥ ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĐĤđďĐĚč ČĜĐė čĤď Casanatense ĕĚđĤđ (148 ēīĕė ,ĝĕĤĠ) ĦĠĢ ,151, 1 ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąĕčĦėč .460 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ đđĥĐđ .50

152 ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦėč ĘčČ .ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤč ĐĦĕĥČĤ 2339, 11 ďĤđĠĝģđČ ďĕąčĦėč đĘĕČđ ,ĐėđĜēč ČĦģĕĝĠĐ ĦēĦđĠ 66 ČĘČ] (Add. 1479 ĪĎďĕĤčĚģ) ĕĘđĚĤė ďĕąčĦėč ęĎ ĤďĝĐ ĐĕĐ Ėėđ ,ĦđĤĔĠĐĘ ĦđģĝĠĐ ĦđČč ĥČĤčđ ĐĜđĥ ĦđģĝĠĐ Ĥďĝ ĐĤĥĞąĦēČ ĦČ ģĤ ĘĕėĚ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ Ęĥ (261 ĕĝđĤ Đď) ĐĚĤĠ ďĕąčĦė .[ēĕ ĪĚĞč ĘĕēĦĚ ČđĐđ Ĥĝē đĥČĤĥ .īĦđĤĔĠČĐ ĥĤďĚī đĕđĜĕėđ ĦđĤĔĠĐĘ ĦđģĝĠĐ ĐĘĕēĦ .(107 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ) īĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĕĜĠĘ ĐĦėĕĤĞ ĦČ ęĕďģĐĘ ěĕČī ģčĘČ ĦĞďĘ .51 ,īĤīģĕđđ Ĥīčė ,ĪęĕĚđďģĐ ĕīČ ĕĥĤďĚĪ ĦĢđčģĘī ęĜĚČ Ėĕĕĥ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĤďĚĥ ,7 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ Ĥčĝ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ Īđėđ čđĤģ ČđĐđ ĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ĦĕĝČĘģĐ đĦĠđģĦ ğđĝčī ďĚđĞĐ ěđĤēČđ ĕĥĕĘĥ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ đĒ ĐĢđčģč ĖČ ęĘđČ .(132–131 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ) ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĘ ĖđĚĝ ĐĦĕĐ đĦėĕĤĞđ ,(460 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īĤēđČĚĐ .525 ĦĜĥĘ ĖđĚĝ ĖĤĞĜ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĤďĚĥ ,765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ěĞĔ ęĕĚĕĘ ĐďĢčĥ ü ,Ğčģ ęĕĚĕĘ ęĘđČ ,ĤīėĕČč ĥĚĦĥĜ ėīĤďĝĠ ĥĤďĚĥ ěĕĕĢ ,ĔĘÀēĘ ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĥĤďĚ ,ģčĘČ .52 ĦđģĝĠĐ Ęė ČĘĥī đĦĞĕčģč ĦČĒ ĐĘĦđ (361 ,107 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ) ĐėđĠĕĐ ęĎ ĕđĢĚ đĒ ĐĞĠđĦ Ęĥ ,11 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ,ĘďĜĚ ĕĠĘ .(106 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) īęĕĜđĥ ęĕĜĚĒĚ ĦđĥĤď ġčđģ ČđĐ ČĦģĕĝĠĐđ ďēČ ěĚĒč đĤďđĝđ đĤčēĦĜ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĤČđĦĘ ĤĚĎ ĦďđčĞ] īěđĜĎĝđ ēĝđĜ :ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚč ĤđĠĕĝĐī ,ĘīĜĐ đđĥĐ ĘčČ) ėīĤďĝĠĚ ĤīėĕČ ĥĤďĚ čČĥ ,23 ĐĤĞĐ ĥĕ ėīĤďĝĠ Ęĥ ĐĦđĐĚ Ĥčďč ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĦĜģĝĚ ĤđČĘ ęĘđČđ .(97*–96* ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ĐĤđĦĘ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ģĦĞđĐĥ ĥĤďĚ ČĘČ ĐĜĕČ ĐĘđė ėīĤďĝĠ ęČ :ĖĥĠĜ ĐĚĚ ,ěėĥ .ĐĜđĥ ĖĤďč ĐĕĞčĐ Ęė ĦČ ĦđČĤĘ ěėĦĕĕĥ ĕĠĘ ,đĜĚĚ čČĥ ĤīėĕČ ĥĤďĚĥ ĤĚđĘ ęĎ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ĘčČ ,ĤīėĕČĚ čČĥ ČđĐĥ ĤĚđĘ ĘĘė ĤĥĠČąĕČĥ ĤđĤč ,ęĕČĕčĜĘđ ĕĥČĤ ĘĞ ĦđģĝĠĐ) ėīĤďĝĠĚ ģĘē ģĤĥ ēĕĜĜ ęČ ęĎ ĖČ .ęĕČĕčĜĘđ ĐĤđĦĘ đďčČĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ ęĦđČĚ čČĥ ĤīėĕČ ĥĤďĚĥ ĐĒ ģĘēĥ ĤĚđĘ ČĐĕ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ěĕĕďĞ ,ĐĤđĦĘ (đďčČĥ) ęĕĤēČ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ đĦđĚĘĥč ģĦĞđĐ (ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝĐ ĘĞ ĦđģĝĠčĥ ęĕĞĔģĐ ĕčĎĘ ĐĕĞč ĤĦđđĕĦ ĤĦđĕĐ ĘėĘ .đĘđė ĥĤďĚĐ ĕčĎĘ ĘĕĞĘ ĤėĒĜĥ đĠđĎ ęĞĔ đĦđČ ĘĘĎč ,ĤīėĕČĚ čČĥ ģĦĞđĚ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ėīĤďĝĠ Ęė ęČĐ :ĐĕĞčĐ ĦČ ĤđĦĠĘ ĥĕ ĐĘĕēĦĥ ČđĠČ ČĢđĕ .ĤīėĕČč ĦđĘĕčģĚ ęĐĘ ĥĕĥ ĦđĤĔĠĐĐ ěĐĕčĎĘ ,ģđďčĘ ęđģĚ ČĐĕ ,ĐģĦĞĐ ĕĤĠ ěĦđĚĘĥč ěĜĕČ ĦđĤĔĠĐĐ ĘĞ ĦđģĝĠĐĥ ČĐĕ ĐĕĞčĘ ěđĤĦĠĐ ü ęČ ģĤđ ?đģĘē ģĤ đČ .ĘđďĎ ěđĕĞ ĖĕĤĢ ěĕĕďĞđ .ĤīėĕČ ěĕčĘ ěĐĕĜĕč ĝēĕĐ ĐĚ ,ďčĘč ģĘēĐ Ęĥ đĔđģĕĘ đČ ,ęĕČĕčĜĘ ĦđĥĤď ĕĥĤďĚĚ ğČ ĕĘđČđ ĐĤđĦĘ ĦđĥĤď ĕĥĤďĚĚ ĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ đĦģĦĞĐ .53 īČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ Īđėđ ĤēđČĚĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ěđĜĎĝ Ĥčė ĤėĕĜ ęĕĦĞĘī ĐĒ ĥĤďĚčĥ ĐĞĕčģĐ ěėđ ,ęĕĜđĥ ĦđĤđģĚĚ ĦđĤĔĠĐĘ ęďđģ đĜĕČ đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĦēĠĥĚĚ ĥĤďĚ ęđĥ ěėČ ęČ ĤģĕĞč ,đĒ ĐĜģĝĚ ĕďĕĘ ęĕČĕčĚ ,(460 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ) .(ěĘĐĘ đĜĕĕĞ) ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĞčĤĘ ĐĦđČ ĕčĎĘ ĐėđĠĐ ĐĜĞĔ đĚĢĞ ČđĐ ěĞĔ ěė ĕĜĠĘ ďčĘč ĦđĔĞĚ ęĕĜĥ ęĘđČ ,802 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .54 ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ) īĞīĢ ďđĞđī :ďĕĚ ğĕĝđĐĥ ČĘČ ,īČĦģĕĝĠĐ ěĚ ĦČĒė ĐĥĤď ēģĘ ČĚđēĜĦ ĥĤďĚĥ ĤĚđĘėī :ĐĠđĎ ČģĝĠ .(686 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

13ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ,ĦđĤđďĐ ĦĢđĤĚč ĘčČ ,ĤĦĝČ ĘėĘ ęĘĥ ĥĤďĚ ĐĒ ĐĕĐ ĐĘĕēĦĥ ĤčĦĝĚ 43.ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĕĜĥĐ đģĘē ĦģčďĐ ĕďĕąĘĞ ĤĝēĐ ģĘēĐ ĦČ đĚĕĘĥĐ ďĕąĕčĦė Ęĥ ęĕģĕĦĞĚ .đĠđĝ ďčČ ,ĐČĤĜė ĖĤďč ĤĢđĜ Ėė .(I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ) ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ,ĤĦđĜĐ ,ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘēĘ (II ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ) ĤĦĝČĘ ĤēđČĚ .9:14 ČđĐ ęđĕė đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ĥĤďĚĐ ĕģĘē ĕĜĥ ěĕč ĝēĕĐ 44.đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĥ ĦđĚė ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĥĤďĚ ĦĕĦđėČĘĚ .ĤđČĕč ĕĥĤďĚ ęĐ I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ěĐ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ěĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĘėĚ ěĕĔđĘēĘ đĕĠđČč ĐĜđĥ ČđĐ ęĘđČ ,ĕĔĘĕĚđĐ ,ĦđĥĤď ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĚēĚ đČ (ČĤģĕđ ;ĦĕĥČĤč) ĐĤđĦĐ ěĚ ,ČĤģĚĐ ěĚ ďēČ ĤĠĝĘ ęĐ đĘĘĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęė .Đė ďĞ đĤėĒĜĥ đĘĥ ČģĝĠ Ęė .ęĕĎēĘđ ĦđďēđĕĚ ĦđĦčĥĘ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ đĘĕČđ ,(ĤĦĝČ ;ĐėĕČ) ĦđĘĕĎĚ Ęĥ ĐĤĔĠĐĘ đČ ęĕĎēčđ ĦđďēđĕĚ ĦđĦčĥč ęđďģĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ĤďĝĘ ĦĥďģđĚ đĦđĐĚ ĦĕĕĞč ĘĞ .(Đčđĥ Ħčĥ ;ČĦĚēĜď Ğčĥ ;ČĦđĜĞĤđĠď ĦĘĦ) ĦđĤēČĐ ĦđďēđĕĚĐ ĦđĦčĥĐ ěĚ ĦēČ ĦČ ,ēčĥĘ ĐĕđČĤĐ ĦđĤĕĐĒč ęĎ đĘđ ,ĞĕĢĐĥ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ďĚĞ Ĥčė ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞđ ąĖĤđĞĐ ĕĜĠĘ đĕĐĥ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĥĤďĚĚ ĔģĘ ČđĐ ČĘČ ,ĕČĚĢĞ Ĥđčĕē đĜĕČ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠīĥ ĐĜģĝĚĐ ĦđĥďģđĚĐ ĦđģĝĠĐ ĕčĎĘ ĤĦđĕč ĐĤĕčĝ ĐĤĞĥĐ đĒ 45.īđĜĘ đďčČ ĐĘČ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęčđĤĥ ČĘČ ,ĔģĘĚĐ đčČĥĜ ĦđģĝĠ ĥĚēĥ ĤđĤč 46.īěĐĘĥ čđĢĕĞč đĒĚ đĒ ĦđĜđĥ ěĐīĥ Ğčģ ĘģĜĤĠĥ ,ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝĘ ĦđĤēČ ĦđģĝĠ ĐĤĥĞąĦēČ đĘĕČđ ,đĜĘ ĤĚĦĥĜĥ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐĥ 47,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĖđĦĚ ěĦđĚĘĥč ěĐĥ ĦđĚė ĕĥĤďĚ ęĐ ğČ đĕĐĥ Ĥĕčĝĥ ,ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĖđĦĚ ,ěĐĥ ĦđĚė ,ěĦđĚĘĥč ěĐ ğČ ĐČĤĜė đčČĥĜ đĤĚĦĥĜ ČĘ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤĠĝĐ ĘėĘ ęĘđČ ,(ęĕĕĦĥ) ęĕĤčďĘđ (ĞčĤČ) ĤčďĚčĘ ,(ĦđģĝĠ ĥĚē) ĦđĚĥĘ ,ĦđĥĤď II ĐčĤ ĤčďĚč ,đĕĦđĤđďĐĚ ĕĦĥ ĘĞ ,ĐčĤ ęĕĤčď) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ęĕĥĤďĚ ģĤ ČĘČ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ đĜĘ ęĕĚĕĕģ đĕĐĥ ČđĠČ ĐĚđď .(I ĐčĤ ĤčďĚčđ I ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥ) ęĕĤēđČĚĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ đČ (II ĐčĤ ĦđĚĥđ ĐĘČĥ 48.ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ đďčČ ęĐĥ ČĘČ ,ĦđĥĤďĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĝđĠĕĔĚ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤĠĝĘ ęĦĕĥČĤ ĘĞ ĦđĕđĜč ěĜĕČĥ ĦđģĝĠĐ ĦČ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ Ęĥ ĔģĘĚĐąĖĤđĞĐ čČĥ ěĕĕĜĚ :ČĕĐ ĦĤēČ ěėĦĕĕ .Đĥģđ Đėđčĝ ĐĕĞč đĒ ?(ęĕČĕčĜĐ ěĚ) ĦđĤĔĠĐ Ęĥ ěĦĕĥČĤ ĘĞ ČĘČ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ Ęĥ ęĕĤďĝ Ęĥ ęĕČĕčĜ ĕĤĠĝĘ ĦđĥĤďĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĝđĠĕĔĚ (đďčČ ęĕĚĕĘĥ) ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ĔģĘĚĐąĖĤđĞĐ ĕĜĠĘ đĕĐĥ ,ĔđģĕĘ ĐĥĞĚ ěĐ đĘČ ĦđģĝĠĥ ęĎ ěėĦĕĕ ęĘđČđ 49.đĘČ ĦđģĝĠ čČĥ ęĐĚđ ,(ĤĥĞ ĕĤĦ ;ĐĕĚĤĕ ;ĐĕĞĥĕ) čČĥĥ ęĕĜđĥ ĦđĤđģĚ Ęĥ ,ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ĖĤđĞ ĕďĕč ,ęĕĕČĚĢĞąęĕĕĜđĥČĤ ,ęĕĕĤđģĚ ĐėĕĤĞđ ĐčėĤĐ ęĕĕđĢĚ đĕĐĥ ęĕČĤđĚČđ ęĕČĜĦ Ęĥ ĦđĥĤďđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ,ĦđėĕČĐ čĤđ ĦđĚėĐ čĤ ,ěđđĎĚĐ ĤēčĚĐ ĖđĦĚ M. D. Herr, “Esther Rabbah”, EJ, 6 (1971), cols. ;130–128 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .43 –131 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ] 566–565 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠĘ ďđĎĕĜč) 825 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;915–916 .([132 Ęĥ ,ďđčČĐ ,ĕĜĥĐ ģĘēĘ ĐČĤĜė ęĕėĕĕĥĐ ĐĒĕĜĎ ĕĞĔģ .825 ,788–787 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ đĜĕĕĞ .44 Č ,ĦđĥĤďĚ ĕĦč ,ĤĚĕĐĔĤđ ĕīČąĤĚĕĐĔĤđ Čīĥđ ,160–155 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĘĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĥĤďĚ ĕĒĜĎ ,ġĕčđĜĕčĤ ĚīĢ đĚĝĤĠ I ĤīĦĝČ ĦđĠĝđĦĐ ,ĖđĤĞĐđ ,đč đĥĚĦĥĜ II ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČđ I ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ ,ĐčĤ ĦĘĐģĥ ĐĚđď .ĎĚĥÀĚĥ ,ēĕĥ ĪĚĞ ,(čīĕĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) 100 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ ,ĤĜĤĘ đĜĕĕĞđ .ěīčĚĤĐ ĐĕĐ đĜĕĜĠĘ ČđĐĥ ĦđĚė ĤīĦĝČ ĦČ ĤĕėĐĥ ěđĥČĤĐ .đĦđČ đĤĕėĐ ďĤĠĝ ĕĜđĥČĤđ .[101 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ đĜĕĕĞđ] .460–459 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘīĜĐ Ĥčė đđĥĐđ ;799 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .45 .799 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘīĜĐ .46 .ĔĘÀđĘ ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĥĤďĚ ,ģčĘČ ēĕėđĐ Ĥčė Ėė .47 686 ,460 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;192 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīėĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ĕĕĜĕ ĕĔđĕĠč ĐďĎČđ ĐėĘĐ ,ġĕčđĜĕčĤ ĚīĢ đĜĕĕĞ .48 ,Ďĕ ģĤĠĘ 91 ĐĤĞĐ ,686 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,đĦĤĞĥĐ .799 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;(ĎĤđčĢĜĕĎ ĪĘ ĕĤčďĘ ěĕĕĢ ęĥđ) .ĦĕēĤėĐ ĐĜĕČ ĖČ ĤĥĠČĐ ĤďĎč ČĕĐ ,īčĦė ĘĘėĘ ęĘđĞĚī đĞĕĎĐ ČĘ ęĐĥ īĐĒč ĤČčĦĚī đĘČ ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĤđĚĎĐ ęĜďčČĥ .đĦđďĤĥĕĐ ĕĕđėĕĝ ĦČ ĤĦđĕč ęĢĚĢĘ ĕďė ,īēĜđĚīąĕĦĘč ĘčČ ,čđĦė ĐĕĐ ęĕđĝĚ ĥĤďĚĥ Ėėč ĐĕĐ ĕď .(ĐĘĞĚĘ đĜĕĕĞ) đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐ ČĘđ ďčČ ČđĐ ğČĥ ,ęĕĘĐĦĘ ęđďģ ĥĤďĚ ĐČĤĜė ĐĕĐĥ ęĥė .49

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,ěĚĒ ĤēČĘđ ,ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚč ĞĕĠđĐĥ ęĤĒĐ ,ęĕĕĜĜĞĐ ęĞ ĝđĚĘđĠ ĘēĐ ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĘ čđĤģ ČĢđĕ .ěĚĒĐ đĦđČĘ ĖđĚĝ ęĕĕĜĜĞĐ ěĚ đēĚĢĥ ęĕČĤģĐ ęĞ ,ĖĘĕČđ ĦĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĐ ěĚ .ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĞčĤĘ ęďđģ đĜĕČ đč ĕđĢĚ ĐĒė ĝđĚĘđĠĥ ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ đČ ĐďĎČ ĥĤďĚ Ęėĥ ČđĠČ ĐĕđĢĚ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚčđ ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝčĥ Ėė ĘĞ ďĚĞ ĘģĜĤĠ ĐĜđĕĥ ,ěĕĕĢĘ ďđĞ čđĥē ğđĝčĘđ Ęĥ đĜđčĕĤ ěĕčĘ ęďČ ěĕčĥ ĐĚč ďđēĕĕčđ ,ĕĥđĜČĐ ęđĕģč ,ęĘđĞč ,ęĘđĞĐ ČĤđč Ęĥ đėĤďč ĐČđĤĐ ĐĠģĥĐ ĤĦđĕ ęĕĔđĜĐ ,ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĕĥĤďĚč ěė ěĕČĥ ĐĚ ,ĦĕďĤđĝčČđ ĦĕģĝĔđĤĎ ğČđ ,ĦĕĦĕĕĞčđ Đĥģ ĦđČĕĢĚ ęĘđĞ 38.ĐĞĤĐđ ĐĥģĐ ĦđČĕĢĚĐ ĦČ ęĕĘĞĚ ğČđ ďđČĚ ĥĔĥĔĚĐ ,ĕĜđĚĤĐ ĤđČč đĘČ Ęė ĦČ ĤĕĕĢĘ ĤĦđĕđ

ď ĦČ ĥĤđďĐ ,ĕĔĎĝėČ ,ĤđČĕč ĥĤďĚ ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ČđĐ đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĥ ĤĦđĕč ęđďģĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĥĤďĚ ĐĤđďĐĚč ĕĘđČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĥĚĦĥĐ ČđĐ .ģđĝĠ ģđĝĠ ,đĠđĝ ďĞđ đĦĕĥČĤĚ ,đĤďĝė ĦĕĥČĤč ĤĠĝ ČđĐĥ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ČđĐ ěĚĒč đĘ ĕĜĥ 39.ĐČĤĜė ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĘ ĖđĚĝ ĖĤĞĜđ ,đĜĕĜĠĘĥ đĒĚ ĦĤēČ (ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ęĕģđĝĠĘ ęĕģĤĠĘđ) ěđĥČĤĐ ģđĝĠĘ ģĤ ĦđĥĤď ĘĕėĚĐ ,ĕĔĘĕĚđĐ ,ĦđĥĤď ĥĤďĚ ,đĕĠđČč ĐĜđĥ ĦČ ČđĤģĘ đĚĕĕĝ Đčĥ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė Ħčĥč ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ ĕĤďĝĘ ĦđđĥĐ ,đĕĦđĥĤĠĚ ĦēČ Ęė Ęĥ ĐĥĤď ęĢĞč ČĕĐ ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđč ĐĥĤĠ Ęė .ęĕĜĥ Ğčĥč ęĕĕĚĞĠ đČ ĐĢēĚđ ęĕĜĥ ĥđĘĥč ęĞĠ ĐĤđĦĐ Ęė ĦĤēđČĚ ĐĜĕČ đĦėĕĤĞ .ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ěĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěĐ ĥĚĦĥĜ ĐĒ ĥĤďĚ .ďēČ ěĕĕĜĞĘ ĦĥďģđĚĐ ĐėđĤČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĥĚĦĥĜ Ĥčė ČđĐ .ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ ěĚĒč đĜĚĚ ĤēđČĚ ĐčĤĐ ČĘ 40.ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝĚ ČđĐ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ěĕčĘ đĜĕč ĝēĕĐ) đč ĥĚĦĥĜ ĐčĤ ĦđĤ ĥĤďĚ đĘĕČđ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđčđ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ,I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ 42.ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤ ČđĐ ,ęĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥĘ ĎĘĠĦĜĥ ĕĜĠĘ ,đĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒĥ ĐĚđď 41.(ĕĦĕĕĞč ,(čÀČ ęĕģĤĠ ,ĤĦĝČ ĦĘĕĎĚĘ ,đÀČ ĦđĥĤĠ đĜĕĕĐ) đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐĥ ĦđĚė ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘē .ęĕĜĥ ĦđČĚč đĜĚĚ ĤēđČĚĐ ,(II ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ) ĐĒ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ đģĘēĚ ěĕĔđĘēĘ ĐĜđĥ ĥĤďĚ ČđĐ Ĥčė ĤĦĝČĘ ĕĜĥ ęđĎĤĦ đĘĕČđ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđčđ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĥĚĦĥĜ I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĥĤďĚ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČ ĤēČĘ I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ĞđčģĘ ěĕČ ĖėĕĠĘ .I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČč ĥĚĦĥĜ

ęĎ ĥĚĚ đĒ ĐĞĕčģ ĕĦĞĚĥ ĐĜđĤēČĘ .ĦđčĤ ęĕĜĥ ĕĜĠĘ ĘģĜĤĠ ĐĜđĕ ĪĠđĤĠ ĕďĕďĕ ĕĠĚ ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĕĦĞĚĥ đĒ ĐĞĕčģ .38 ěĠđČč ĐĠđĎ ĐĜģĝĚ ĐĦđČĘ đĞĕĎĐ ęĐĕĜĥĥ ĐĚđď .ĝđĠďč đĕĤčď ĦČ ęĝĤĠ ČĘ ęĐĚ ĥĕČ .ęĕđčĘČ čģĞĕ ĪĠđĤĠ ĕďĕďĕ ĕĠĚ .ĕđĘĦąĕĦĘč M. D. Herr, “Genesis Rabbah”, EJ, 7 (1971), ;96–94 ,74–44 ĪĚĞ ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčĘ ČđčĚ ,ģčĘČ đĜĕĕĞ .39 .([6 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ] ĦĚďđģĐ đĦĞĕčģė ČĘĥđ) 765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;cols. 399– 401 ;čĚ ĪĚĞ ,(đīĥĦ ,ģĤđĕ đĕĜ) ĕĤčĞĐ ģĘēĐ ,ĎĤđčĢĜĕĎ ĕđĘ ďđčėĘ ĘčđĕĐ ĤĠĝ ,īĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ĥĤďĚī ,ģĞčĘČ Īē đĜĕĕĞ .40 ęĞĔĐ ĘĞ .[565 ,7 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠĘ ďđĎĕĜč] (795–790 ĪĚĞ ,ěĘĐĘ ,ęĥđ) 765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .457–456 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĘīĜĐ đĜĕĕĞ ČĤģĕđ ĤĠĝĘ Čģđđď ,ĕĔĘĕĚđĐĐ ,ĦđĥĤďĐ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĦĞĠđĐĘ .52 ĐĤĞĐ ,ěĘĐĘ đĜĕĕĞ ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ěĕčĘ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ěĕč ĝēĕĐ ĘĞ .41 M. D. Herr, “Lamentations Rabbah”, EJ, 10 (1971), ;342 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .42 ĐČĚĐ ğđĝč ĐĒĘ ĐĒ ęĕďđĚĢ ĤīėĕČđ Ĥīģĕđ ęĕĞĕĠđĚ ęĕĥĤĦč) 765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;cols. 1376–1378 ďĞ đĦđČ ĤēĕČ ğČ ĤčĞč ;[803 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đđĥĐ] ĐčĤĐ ĘģĜĤĠ ĝĝĕĐ ĤīėĕČ Ęĥ đĜĚĒ ĦĕĕĞččĥ ĐĚđď ęĘđČ ,ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĘĞ .566–565 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ] ĦĕčĤĞĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĕĥČĤĘ ĤĚđĘė ,ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦĕĢēĚĐ ĐĤđďĐĚđ ČđčĚ :ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ĥĤďĚī ,ĘďĜĚ ďīĠ ;([132–131 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đĜĕĕĞ ĦČĒ ģĕĝĐĘ ĤĥĠČ Đčĥ ĖĤďĐ .14 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,(ĒīĜĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ ,ĤđĔģđď ĦďđčĞ) īĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐĥĤĠĘ ĦĕĦĤđģĕč

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

.ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĦđČĚč ,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĚĕč ĤĦđĕč ĐēĦĠĦĐ ČĕĐ ĖČ 34,ęĕČĜĦĐ ĕĚĕč Ĥčė ĤđčĕĢč .ęĐĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĦđĥĤĠĐ ĥČĤč ĦđēĕĦĠ đčĕĢĐ ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĕĝČĘģĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĐĕėĤđĞđ ęĐĕĤďĝĚ ĦđēĕĦĠ ,ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĤĚČĚđ ĦđĥĤď ĕĠđĤĕĢ ĕďĕąĘĞ ,đĤĢĕ ęĕĚĞĠ ęĘđČ ,Ħđĕē ĦđēĕĦĠč đĥĚĦĥĐ ęĕĚĞĠ ĦĕĥČĤč ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĐĤĐđĒđ ĐĦĞĠĕ ,ĐĦđĚĘĥ ČđĘĚč ĐĞĕĠđĚ ĐēĕĦĠĐ .ĦđĕĦđėČĘĚ ĦđĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦČ ęĎ ĤĕėĒĐĘ ĥĕ ĐēĕĦĠĐ ďĢč .ĐĦďĕĤĕ ĐĎĤďĐč ĐĘĕēĦĚ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕĝČĘģ ęĕĥĤďĚč .ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđđ ĐčĤ .ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđč ęČĕĥĘ đĞĕĎĐđ 35ďđĞĕĕč đČ ĐĚēĜč ,ĐĘđČĎč čđĤąĕĠąĘĞ đĕĐĥ ,ęđĕĝĐ đČ ĐĚĕĦēĐ Ęĥ ĐĤđĢĐ .ĦđĕĔĘĕĚđĐđ ĦđĕĔĎĝėČ čđĤĕĞ ęĐĥ ęĕĥĤďĚ :ĦđĎđĝ ĥđĔĥĔ ğČ ĞĕĠđĚ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐėĘĐĚč .ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕĘ ĦĕĜĕĕĠđČĐ ČĤģĚĐ ĦđĜĥĤĠĘ ĤĦđĕđ ĤĦđĕ čĤģĦĚđ ĖĘđĐ ĕĜĥĤĠĐ ďđĝĕĐ ČđĐ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞđ ęĤđďĕĝ ,ęĔđģĕĘ ěĚĒ ĦĞĕčģĘ ĤēČ čđĥē ěđĕĤĔĕĤģ ęĐĘĥ ęĥđĚĕĥđ (ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ đČ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ěđĎė) ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝĚ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĤđčĕēč ęĥđĚĕĥ ęĤďĝ ĦĞĕčģĘ ĐčĤĐ ĞĕĕĝĚ ĐĒ ěđĤēČ Ĥčď .ĤēČ ĥĤďĚĚ ĐĒ ĥĤďĚ Ęĥ đĦčĕČĥ ĤĚđĘė ,đĘČč đĘČ ęĚĢĞ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ęĞĠĘ ĐĤĦĕ Ħđčĕĥē ěĕČ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ .ěĘĐĘ ĐĒč ģđĝĞĜ ďđĞđ .ęĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĕĝēĕĐ ĕĎđĘđĜđĤėĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕčĦėč ěđĎė ,ĥĤďĚĐđ ĐďĎČĐ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ġđēĚĥ Ĥđčĕēč ĥđĤĕĠč ęĕđĝĚ ĥĤďĚ ĔĔđĢĚ đČ ĤėĒĜ Đčĥ ĘėĘ Ęđėĕ ĐĒ Ĥčď .ęĕđĝĚ ĥĤďĚč ,ěĔĕĕĠ ěđĎė ,ĤčēĚ ĥĚĦĥĚ Đčĥ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ęĞĠĘ ČĘ ğČđ ,Ęčč ĕĜđČĎ ęĕčĤ ĦđĤđď đĠĘē ĐčĤĐ ęĕĚĞĠĥ Ğđďĕ ęĘđČđ .ĐėĕĤĞĐ Ęĥ ĐĜĚĒĘ terminus ante quem ĞđčģĘ ĤĦđĕĐ .đč ěđĥČĤĐ ĤĞđĥĚĐ ĥđĚĕĥĐ ěĕčĘ đČ ĐĜđĥČĤĘ đĦĤėĒĐ ěĕčĘ Ĥđčĕē Ęĥ đĦėĕĤĞ ěĕč ,ęĕĜĥ ĦđČĚ ğČđ ,ďđČĚ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ ,ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčďč .ěėđĦĘ ĤģĕĞč ęĕĞĎđĜ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĜđĕĤĔĕĤģ .ĦđĤĢĜĐ ęĞ ,ĒĚđĤĚ ,ĤĦĝĜ đčđĤđ ĕđĘĎ đĦĢģ ,ĝđĚĘđĠ ĔĞĚ ČĘ ĕđĢĚ ęĕĕČĤđĚČĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚčđ ,ĖĘĕČđ ąĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ďĞđ ĖĤĞč ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĚ .ĕĚĘĝđĚĐąĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĤēČĘ ęĘĞĜ ĐĒ ĝđĚĘđĠ ,ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĕĚĕĚ ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĤĠĝč ďđČĚ ęĕĕđĢĚĐđ ęĕēđđĤĐ ęĕđđĕĔđĚč ĥđĚĕĥ ĘīĒē ĦďĎČč ěĕČ ĕĚĘĝđĚĐ ĦĤđĦđ ęĕėČĘĚĐ ĦĤđĦ ,ěĐĕēĕĠĝđ ĐģĕĔĠĕĘģđĠČđ ĐģĕĔĝĕĚ .ĦđĤĢĜč ĤĦđĕč čđĥē ĐĥĞĜ ęĐĚ ďčėĜ ģĘēĥ ęĜĕČĥ đČ ěĕĔđĘēĘ ĔĞĚė ęĕĚėē ĦđĤĠĝĚ đĚĘĞĜ ĐĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠĐ þ ĦĜĠđČ ěėđ ,ęđĜĕĐĕĎđ ěďĞ ěĎ ,ęĕďĥĐ ĦđĤĠĝč čĤ ĞĠĥčđ ĕđĘĎč đĞĕĠđĐđ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤčďĐ Ęė đĤĒē ĕĚĘĝđĚĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĤēČĘ ęĘđČđ .ĘĘė Đč ęĕĕđĢĚ ĐďĎČĐ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ęĕĚĕđĝĚ ęĕĤđčĕē ĕčĎĘ ěėĥ ,ČďĕĤĎ petitio principii ěČė ěĕČ 36.ĥĤďĚĐđ ĐďĎČĐ ęĕĒĚĤ .ęĦėĕĤĞ đČ ęĤđčĕē ěĚĒ Ĥčďč ,ĦđĕđĘĦąĕĦĘč ,ĦđĤēČ ĦđģĢđĚ ĦđēėđĐ đĜĕďĕč ĥĕ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ĞđčģĘ ęĕĚĞĠĘ ĤĥĠČ ęĐĕĠ ĘĞĥ ĤĦđĕč ęĕģĐčđĚ ęĕĜĚĕĝ ęĐ ĦđĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĕđĚďĘđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĦđĞĤđČĚĘ ĤĥĠČ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,Ėė .(terminus post quem) ęĕĥĤďĚ đČ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥ ęĤđčĕē đČ ęĦėĕĤĞ ěĚĒ ĦČ ĦđĞĕďĕĐ ĖĚĝ ĘĞ ,ĦĕĜĕĚĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČč ,ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠ Ęĥ đĤđčĕē ěĚĒ ĦČ ĐčĤ ĦđĜģĕĕďč ĞđčģĘ ĐĕĚăđČ Ħĕč Ęĥ đĦďĕĤĕĘđ ĐĚđďģĐ ĦĕĚĘĝđĚĐąĦĕčĤĞĐ ĐĠđģĦĘ ęĕĞĎđĜĐđ đč ęĕĕđĢĚĐ ęĕĔĤđĠĚĐ ęĕĒĚĤĐđ ęĕĤčďĐ Ęė ęĐč ęĕĕđĢĚĥ ęĕĤēČ ĥĤďĚ đČ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝĥ ěČėĚ ģĕĝĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ĖėĕĠĘ 37.(čĘ ,Ę ,ēė ęĕģĤĠ) ĥĤďĚĐ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ (ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĐĠđģĦĘ ğČ ęĕĚĞĠđ) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ ęĐ ğČ ęĕėĕĕĥ ęčđĤ đČ đĘĘĐ .ĐďĎČĐđ Ď ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ ĕĥĕĚēĐ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,īĦđĕĜĤđĢĐ ěĐĕĦđĜđėĦđ ęĕČĜĦ Ęĥ ĦđČĦēĕĦĠī ,ěĚĕĜĕĕĐ Īĕ đĜĕĕĞ .34 .(ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝ ěĕĕĢ ęĥđ) 134–121 ĪĚĞ ,(1972 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) .678–677 ,444–443 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ đĜĕĕĞ .35 L. Ginzberg, “Some Observations on the Attitude of the Synagogue Towards the Apocalyptic- đĜĕĕĞ .36 ,īĕĤĢđĜąĕďđĐĕĐ ēđėĕđĐđ ĐđĜĕĜ ĕĥĜČ ĦčđĥĦī ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ;Eschatological Writings”, JBL 41 (1922), pp. 115–136 ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐč ĕĦčĦėĥ ĐĚđ ;(560–556 ĪĚĞ ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞĚ ,ĘīĜĐ =) 122–118 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĥĦ) ė ġĕčĤĦ .178–177 ĪĚĞ ,Đ .140–134 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ .37

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ČĚđēĜĦąđĜďĚĘĕ īĦēĠĥĚīĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦČđ ĐčĤ ĦĘĐģ ĦČ ěėĚ ĤēČĘđ ,ĐčĤ ĦđĤđ ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ĐĠđģĦĘđ ĐĒĚ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ ĕĘĢČ ĦģĘēĜ ĤēđČĚĐ ĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦ ĘģĜĤĠ ĘĢČĥ ĐĚ đĘĕČđ ,(ďēĕ ęĎ ĘģĜĤĠ ĦĞďĘ ęĕėĕĕĥĐ ,đĜďĚĘĕąČĚđēĜĦ ĕĥĤďĚ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ęĕĥĤďĚĐĥ ĥĕĎďĐĘ ĥĕ ĦČĒ ęĞđ .ĐĒĚ ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĦĞďĘ ďđĞčĥ ČĘČ ,ĕĘĥ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĘ ĕĘĢČ ęĎ ęĕėĕĕĥ ,đĘĥ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ěđĤēČĐ ĐģĘēĘ ďĞđĚĘ ĐčĤĐč ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒĥ ĕĜČ Ĥđčĝ ,ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĞĢĚČĘ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ęĕĚďđģ ĘģĜĤĠ ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĒ đĘĕČđ ,(ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ đČ) 11ąĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč ĐĘĕēĦĚ ĕĘĥ ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ,ğđĝčĘđ .ĐĒĐ .ěĘĐĘ Ėėč ěđďĜ ďđĞđ .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėč ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ĦĞĕčģĘđ 32ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĕĥĤďĚ ěĕčĘ ęĕĚđďģ ęĕĥĤďĚ ěĕč ĐĜēčĐĘ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĜđĕĤĔĕĤģ ĥĕ ĔĞĚė ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčď đĕĐ ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦĠđģĦč .ěđĥĘĐ ČđĐ ďēČ ěđĕĤĔĕĤģ .ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ĦđĤđĒĥ đĕĐ ęĥ ĤĕĞĒ ĐĠ ĤĕĞĒĥ ,(Č ęĕĚėē ěđĥĘ) ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěđĥĘč ęĕĤĝĚĜđ ęĕďĚĘĜ ,ĘĘėĐ ěĚ ČĢđĕ Ęė ČĘč ĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčďđ ĕđĜĕĥ Ęē ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĠđģĦč .(ĦđĕĚđĤ ęĕĘĕĚ ĔĞĚĐ ěĚ ĔĞĚđ) ĦđĕĜđđĕ ęĕĘĕĚ ęĎ Đč đĕĐ ĦđĤđĒĥ ęĥđ ĐĠđ ,ĦĕĤčĞč ĦčĤđĞĚ ĦĕĘĕĘĎ ĦĕĚĤČč đĤĝĚĜđ đďĚĘĜ ğČ ČĘČ đĤĚČĜ ģĤ ČĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĦĠđģĦ ĤēČĘ .ĐďĎČ ĕĤčďč ěĕč ĐėĘĐ ĕĤčďč ěĕč ĤđĚČ ĐĒ Ęė .(ĦđĕĚđĤ ęĕĘĕĚ ďđČĚ ĔĞĚđ) ĦđĕĜđđĕ ęĕĘĕĚ ěĐč ěĤđĞĕĥ ğČđ ,ĦĕĤčĞč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ĤĦđĕč ĤčĎĦĜđ ĦĕĚĤČč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĤĦđĕč ęĢĚĔĢĜ ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĕĚĤČč ĥđĚĕĥĐđ ĕĚĘĝđĚĐąĕčĤĞĐ ĥđčĕėĐ ĒČĚ ęĕčĤ ĦđĤđď đČĢĕ ČĘ .ĐĘĞ ĦĕĜđđĕĚ ĦđĘđČĥĐ ęĕĘĕĚĐ Ęĥ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĐėĤĞĜĥ đČ ĐĤĢđĜĥ ĦđĤĠĝĐ .ĦĕĜđđĕĚ ĦđĘđČĥ ęĕĘĕĚč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ęĘđĞĐ ěĚ ĤčĞ ěėđ ,ęĘĞĜ ěĕč ,ęĕĤēČ ęĕĜđĕĤĔĕĤģ ĤđČĘ ęĎ ,čĔĕĐ ěĕēčĐĘ ĥĕĥ ěčđĚ .ĦĕĤčĞ ĘĘė ĖĤďč ĐĜđĥĘ ĦĕčĤĞĐ ĐĠđģĦč ,ĐĜĚĚ ĦĤēđČĚĐ ,č ęĕĚėē ěđĥĘ ĝđĠĕĔĚ ĦĕĤčĞ ěĕčĘ ,ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ,Č ęĕĚėē ěđĥĘ ĝđĠĕĔĚ ĦĕĤčĞ ęĕĚėē ěđĥĘ ĦČ ĐģēĚĐ ĦĕĦđėČĘĚĐ đĒ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĕĚĕ ĦĕĥČĤĚ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěĕčĘ đĘČ ĕĦĥ ěĕč ĤģĕĞčđ ęĕĤđčĕē) ęĕĕĠĤĎĕĠČđďăđĝĠ þ ęĕĤđčĕē ęėđĦčđ ,(ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ) ĕĕďĚĘ ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĕĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝč ĥĤďĚ ,ČĔđĒ đĐĕĘČ Ĥďĝđ ĐčĤ đĐĕĘČ Ĥďĝ ,ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĕģĤĠ ěđĎė ,(ęđčĦė đČ ęđĤĚČ ČĘĥ ĕĚĘ ęĕĝēđĕĚĐ .ĕĘĥĚ ĥĤďĚđ (ĤĒĞĕĘČ ĕčĤ ĦĜĥĚ) ĤđĎČ ,ĥđčė ČđĐ ěđĜĎĝĐ ,ęĕĕĝČĘģĐ ,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĥĤďĚčđ ęĕČĜĦĐ ĕĥĤďĚč .ěđĜĎĝĐ ČđĐ ĐĒĘ čđĤģ ěĕĕĜĞ ěđĜĎĝč ĦĕĦĎĤďĐ ĐďĕĤĕ ęĕĚĕđĝĚ ęĕĥĤďĚč ĦĤėĕĜ ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ Ęĥ ĐėĘĐĚč Ĥčė .ĕĦĕĢĚĦđ ĤĢģ ĐĠđģĦčđ ĕĢĕĘĚ đĦđĜėĘ ĤĥĠČĥ ěđĜĎĝ ĞĕĠđĚ ğČ ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦč đĘĕČđ .ĤĦđĕ ęĕĤēđČĚ ęĐĥ ěČėĚđ ,ĐĒĐ .ěĕĔđĘēĘ ěđĜĎĝĐ ĐĜĦĥĚ ĦĤēđČĚĐ 33 ĐĜčĚč ďēđĕĚĐ .ĦĕĝČĘģĐ ĐēĕĦĠĐ ĦČ ĘđėĘ ęďđģ ĤĕėĒĐĘ ĥĕ đĘČĚ .ĦđĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦđĤđĢ ĐĒč ČĢđĕė ĐĞĕĦĠĚ ĦĕĦđĤĠĝąĦĕĦđĜĚČ ĖĤďč đĦđČ ĦĤĥģĚđ ďēČ ĕČĤģĚ ĤĠĝĚ čđĦėč ĦēĦđĠ ČĕĐĥ ,ČđĐ ĐĘĥ ĐĥĤďč đĒ ĐĤđĢ Ęĥ Đďđĝĕ .ĐĥĤĠĐ ĥČĤčĥ ,ĥĤďĚĐ ĕđĜč đĕĘĞĥ ĕČĤģĚĐ ĤĠĝĐ ěĚ ,ģđĝĠĐ ĘČ ĦģĦĤĚđ 31

.ęĕĥĤĦč 765 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ .31 ,ĤĐ ;ĖĘĕČđ 451 ,ĖĘĕČđ 156 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ ĤđēĕČĘ ĦđĚďģ ěĕč ęĕĜĕēčĚ ęĕĜđĕĤĔĕĤģ ĘĞ .32 ĕĞĕĥĦĐ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,īĦĤēđČĚĐ ĦĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ ĐĕĕĠđČĘ Á čđĦėĥĘ ĐėĕĤĞ ěĕčī ,ęĕđčĘČ Īĕ ;Midrash .460 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;62–57 ĪĚĞ ,(đīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) Ď ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ P. Bloch, “Studien zur ;ĖĘĕČđ 471 ,173–172 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ đĜĕĕĞ ĦđēĕĦĠĐ ĘĞ .33 Aggadah”, MGWJ 34 (1885), pp. 166 ff., 210 ff., 257 ff., 385 ff.;W. Bacher, Die Proömien der alten jüdischen ĦđĦēĕĦĠĐī ,ěĚĕĜĕĕĐ ğĝđĕ ;19–11 ĪĚĞ ,(đīĢĤĦ ,ěĕĘĤč) ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤčĘ ČđčĚ ,ģĞčĘČ Īē ;Homilie (Leipzig, 1913) ;47–43 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) č ,ĦđďĐĕĐ ĕĞďĚĘ ĕĞĕčĤĐ ĕĚĘđĞĐ ĝĤĎĜđģĐ ĕĤčď ,īěďĕģĠĦđ ěĤđģĚ Á ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚč ;J. Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim”, Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971), pp. 100–122 ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;36 ĐĤĞĐ ,38 ĪĚĞ ,(čīĜĥĦ) Čĝ ġĕčĤĦ ,īęđďģĐ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĐĤđĦč ĦĕĦĜĥąĦĘĦđ ĦĕĦĜĥąďē ĐČĕĤģī ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ ĪĞ Ęĥ ęčđĤčđ) 82–49 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜđĕĘ ěđĕĎĕĐ ,īĥďē ěđĕĞ :ĐēĕĦĠĐ ĘĞđ ĪēĦĠĪ ĘĞī ,ĘďĜĚ ĪĠ ;ĖĘĕČđ 678 ,ĖĘĕČđ 445 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď .(ĦĠĝđĜ ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝ ĐĚĥĤĜ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤģēĚĐ

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

Ĥč Ĥč ĐčĤ ĤĠĕĝĥ ĐĚ ěĕĞĚ .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĐĕĐ ęĤđģĚĥ ďđČĚ ěėĦĕĕđ ,Ęččč ęĎ ęĕĤėĒĜ ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ČĝĕėĐ ĦĕčĘ ĝĜėĕĘ ĥģčĚ ĐĕĐĥėĥ ,(čģĞĕ Ĥč) ěĚēĜ čĤ ĘĞ ČčĤ ĤĠĕĝ (ĐĘĞĚĘ ĤėĒĜė) ěĜēđĕ ĕčĤ ĘĞ ĐĜē ĕďĕč ĐĕĐĥ īČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝī ČčĤ ĕĚĕč ĤėĒĜ ěėđ .(čīĞ Ďė ĦđėĤč ,ĕĘčč) īěĘ čĕĐĕ ČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝī đďĕč ĐĕĐđ 26.(čīĞ đĚ ĦđĞđčĥ = ČīĞ čĜ ČĤĦč Ččč = ČīĞ ĒĔģ ČĞĕĢĚ Ččč ,ęĥ) ęĕĚđĦĕ ĐČĚčđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚč đĕĐ ęĕĕđĢĚ Ęččč ěĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ěĐĥ ČđĠČ ĐĚđď đĘĘĐ ĦđĤđģĚĐ Ęė ĤđČĘ đĤďđĝ ,đĔģđĘĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ęĕĚĕĕģ đĕĐ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč Ĥčėĥ ĐČĤĜ .ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐďĎČ čČĥ ęĐĚĥ ęĕĠĝđČĐ ęĦđČč ĤģĕĞč đĥĚĦĥĜ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤĠĝ ĕėĤđĞĥ ĐĚđď .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč đėĤĞĜđ ĤĠĝč ęĕĤčďĐ ęĕĤđĚČ ,īĐďĎČ ĤĠĝī ĤėĒĜĥė ęČĐ ,ČđĐ ĘĘė ĤđĤč đĜĕČĥ ĐĚ ęĘđČđ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ěėČ đĘČ ęĕĤģĚčĥ ďđČĚ ěėĦĕĕđ .īēĜđĚī đĜĕČĥ ĘčČ čđĦė ĤĠĝ ČĘČ ĐĒ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ČĚĥ đČ īēĜđĚđ čđĦėī Ęė ęĎ ěĕČ ĖėĕĠĘ .ĕčĚđĠč đĚĝĤđĠ ČĘĥ ęĕĤĠĝ ĤĚđĘė ,īęĕēĜđĚī ęĜĕČĥ ĘčČ ęĕčđĦė ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝč ĤčđďĚ .đĜĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĐđ ĤĚĦĥĜ đĘĘĐ ęĕĤĠĝĐ ěĚ ďēČ ČĘ ğČĥ ĐĚĦ

Ď Ęė ĦČ ģĘēĘ ĥĕĥ ĐČĤĜ .ĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚč đėĤĞĜ đĜĕďĕĘ đĞĕĎĐđ đďĤĥĥ ĤĦđĕč ęĕĚđďģĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ 400 ĦĜĥ ěĕč ĐĜĚĒĥ) ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ :ĦđĠđģĦ ĥđĘĥĘ ,ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ĕĠĘ ,đĜĕďĕĘ đĞĕĎĐĥ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĐĠđģĦĐđ (ĦĕĤĕĥĞĐ ĐČĚĐ ğđĝ ďĞđ ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ ğđĝĚ ĐĜĚĒĥ) ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦ ,(ĖĤĞč 640 ĦĜĥĘ ĘģĜĤĠ ĐĜđĕ ęĎ ĐĥĞ Ėė 27.ęĕĔđģĘĕĐ ĦĠđģĦ ĐČč ĐĕĤēČĘĥ ,(12ąĐđ 11ąĐ ĦđČĚĐ ĐĜĚĒĥ) ĦĤēđČĚĐ ĕĠĘ ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐ .ĕĘĥ ĦđĠđģĦĘ ĦđĐĒ đĘĥ ĦđĠđģĦĐ ěĕČĥ ČĘČ 28,ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč ěď đčĥ ěđĤēČĐ đĤĠĝč ĤĠĝĚč ĐĞčĥ ęĐĥ ,ęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ęĕĚđďģĐ ,īęĕĕĝČĘģīĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ĦĠđģĦ ČĕĐĥ ,ĕĦģđĘē 29,(ĐčĤ ĦđĤ ;ĐčĤ ęĕĤĕĥĐ Ĥĕĥ ;ČĜĐė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠ ;I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ;ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ;ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ;ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč) ĐĜĚĒ đĦĝĕĠĦ ĕĠĘĥ) ĐĚđďģ ĐĠđģĦ ěđĤēČĐ đĤđčĕēč ĐĜėĚ ĘģĜĤĠĥ ĐĚ ĦČ ĦĕĎđĘđĜđĤė ĐĜĕēčĚ ĦĘĘđė čĤď ČĦģĕĝĠđ ĕĦčĤ ĐėĕČ ,ĐčĤ ČĤģĕđ ,ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč :ęĕĥĤďĚ ĐĞčĤČ ģĤ ĐĕĘČ ęĕėĕĕĥđ ,ĖĤĞč 525–400 ,I ĐčĤ ĤĦĝČ ĦČ ĐĘĕēĦ ĝĕĜėĚ ČđĐ ĐĕĘČĥ ,640–525 ĐĜĚĒ đĦĝĕĠĦ ĕĠĘĥ) ęĕĕĜĕč ĦĠđģĦđ (30ČĜĐė īĐĥĤĠđ ĖĕĦďĎČč . . . čđĦėī :ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ěĚ ĦđĘđČĥĐ Ħđĥģ ęĕĘĕĚ ĥđĘĥ ěĕĕĜĞč ČĠĕĘēĦ čĤĘ Čďĝē čĤ ĕĤčďĚ .26 ęĕĘĕĚ đč đĚĥĤĜĥ ĦđďĎČ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ĝģĜĠč ĐČĤĜė ĤčđďĚ .ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ Ęĥ đĦđČĕĢĚ Ĥčďč ĐĕČĤ Ęė ěĕČ (čīĞ ĝ ěĕĘđē ,ĕĘčč) .ěĐĕĥđĤĕĠđ Ħđĥģ .133–132 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ đđĥĐđ ;M. D. Herr, “Midrash”, EJ, 11 (1971), cols. 1509–1514 đĜĕĕĞ .27 ĕĥĤďĚ Ęė Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒ ĦČ ĐĤēĕČ ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ ĦĢģĚč ĦĚďđģ ĐĠģĥĐ .765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .28 565 ,463 ,460 ,10–6 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ đĜĕĕĞ ;đĦĝĕĠĦ ĕĠĘ ,ęĕĕĜĕčĐ ĦĠđģĦĚ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęėđ ęĕĚđďģĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒč ěďĐ ,(134–131 ĪĚĞ) ěđĥČĤĐ đģĘēčĥ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĕĤĚČĚ ĦČ ĕĦčĦėĥ ĐĞĥč .ĖĘĕČđ ČđĐĥ ĕĜĚĚ ęĘĞĜ ,ęĥ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď đĤĠĝč ,ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞč ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĦĝĕĠĦ ĘĞ ĕĦģĘē ,ĕĦĝĕĠĦ ĕĠĘ ,ĐĚđďģĐ ĐĠđģĦĐĚ ĕėĤď) īĦĤēČĚīĐ đĦĝĕĠĦĚ đč ĤĒē ęĥĥ ČĘČ ďđĞ ČĘđ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ đĤĠĝč đĘĘĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒč ěďđ čĥ ģčĘČ ęĐčđ ,ġĜđĢ ĤēČĘ ęĕĥďēĐ ęĕĤģđēĐ čđĤ ĦĝĕĠĦĘ ĤĦđĕ ĐčđĤģĐđ ęĦđČ ĐĚĕďģĚĐ ,ĐĜđĥ ĐĝĕĠĦ ĔģĜđ (ęĥ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĐĤĞĐč) ĕĜČ ğČđ ,(365–353 ĪĚĞ ,[ĔīĥĦ] Č ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČĐ ,īĐďĎČī) ĖčĤđČ ,(ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČąġĜđĢ) ČđĐĥ ĕĘ ĤđđēĦĜđ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ Ęĥ đĤĠĝč ĕĦĜĕĕĞ ĘīĜĐ ĕĤĚČĚ ĦĞĠđĐ ĤēČĘ ęĕďēČ ęĕĥďđē ęĘđČđ .(ĦĚďđģĐ .ĐĕĒĕĒĎĘ ĐĕĤčĦ Ĥčė đĠđĎ ,ěĘĐĘ ęĎ đđĥĐđ .173 ĪĚĞ ,Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ :ĕĘĥ ĤĢģĐ ęđėĕĝč ěėđ ;27 ĐĤĞĐč ĘīĜĐ ĕĕĤčďč đĜĕĕĞ .29 .125 ĐĤĞĐ ČĕĐī ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĕĥĤďĚĐ ĦĠđģĦĥ ,ČđĐ čĦđė ,780 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ đĘĕČđ ;ęĕĥĤĦč 765 ĪĚĞ ,Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ .30 .īĦĕĥĕĚēĐ ĐČĚĐ

ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

16

ĘėĦĝĚī :ČĕĐ ěđĥĘĐ ĘĕčģĚ ĤđģĚč đĠđĎ ĐĥĞĚ đĦđČčđ .īĐďĎČ ęĕĘĕĦ ĤĠĝ Ęėč 19ĕĕĜĕĞ ĦĕĤĎĥČ ČĦĞĥ ĥĤĠĘ ďđČĚ Đĥģĥ ĤčĦĝĚ 20.([307 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČąĤđďđČĕĦ ĪďĐĚ] Ď ,ĎĘ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč) īĐďĎČ ęĕĘĕĦč ĕĦĕđĐ đďĕč ĤĠĝđ ġēĤĚč ĘčđĔ ĦđĕĐĘ ęďČĘ đĘ ĤĥĠČ ĕČ ěėĥ ,đďĕč ģĕĒēĐĥ ĤĠĝč ČĤđģ ĥĚĚ ĐĕĐ Đĕĕē ĕčĤĥ ĐďĎČ ěė ĕĜĠĘ ČĤģ Đĕĕē ĕčĤ :ĐĕĐ Ėė ĐĕĐĥ ĐĥĞĚĥ ĥĤĠĘ ĥĕĥ ĐĚđď ĖėĕĠĘđ .(ī. . . Ħĕēĝ ěĕČď ĕĘĞ ĘđĞĕī) ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĦđĚė ĐďĎČĐ ĦČ đēđĤ ĕĜĕĞč ĐĘĞĐ ,ġēĤĚč ĐĕĐĥė ,ęĕĚĕĘđ (?ęđďģ ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚ) čđĦė ĤĠĝč đĕĜĕĞđ ĦČĒĘ đĕĐ ęĕĜđĦĜ ,đēđĤđ đĦĞďđ đčĘ ,đĕĦđčĥēĚđ đĕĜĕĕĞĚ Ęėĥ Ėė ĕďė ďĞ đĜđĕĞč ĞģĦĥĜđ ĤĠĝč ĐčđĦė 21.đĕĜĠĘĥ ĐĚč ĘĘė đēĕĎĥĐ ČĘ ĦđĤčďĚĐ ĦđďēČ ĦđĤđĝĚ 22.(ČīĞ đĜģ Ħčĥ ,ĕĘčč) đĘĥ ĝģĜĠ ĘĞ ĐďĎČ Ĥčď čĦė đĠđĎ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤ ČđĐ ĐĤĐĚč ČĘ ĤĠĝĐ ĖđĦĚ ĐďĎČ ďĚĘĐ ČĕĐ ĐĦđĤė ĦĕĤč :ěĜēđĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČī .ěĜēđĕ ĕčĤč ĦđėđĤė ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝč ĐĞĥ ,ěĜēđĕ ĕčĤ ĕĤēČ ĖĘĐĚ ĐĕĐĥėĥ ,ĤĠĝĚ ĐĜē Ĥč Ĥč ĐčĤ 23.(ČīĞ Ĕ ,Č Đ ĦđėĤč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ) īēėĥĚ Ďė ĦđėĤč ,ĕĘčč) īěĘ čĕĐĕ ĐđĐ ČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝī đďĕč ĐĕĐ ęČ ,ČĝĕėĐ ĦĕčĘ ĝĜėĕĘ ĥģčĚ (ěĜēđĕ ĕčĤ) ĐĕĐĥ = ČīĞ ĝ ěĕĔĕĎ ,ęĥ) īČĦčĥč ČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝčī ęĕĜĕĕĞĚ đĕĐ ĥĕģĘ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤđ ěĜēđĕ ĕčĤ ěėČđ 24.(ČīĞ ĖČ] (čīĞ ĒĜ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ęĥ) īčĤ ĕčď ČĦďĎČ ĤĠĝč čĕĦė ĐđĐďī ČĢĚ ČēČ Ĥč čģĞĕ ĕčĤ .(čīĞ ďĕ ĐĤđĚĦ 25.[ĐėĘĐ Ĥčď Čģđđď ČđĐ ęĥ čđĦė ČĢĚĥ ěĕĕĢĚ ČđĐĥ ĤčďĐ .ĕĦĞďĕ ČĘ ĕĦĕēĥ ęČĥ ĕĕĘĞ Čđčĕ :ęđĎĤĦ .īĕđĜĕĞī :(1010 ĪĚĞ) ĦđčđĦėč đĘĕČđ ,(175 ĪĚĞ) ęĕČĘėč ĐĝĤĎĐ Ėė .19 . . . ĕĕĜĕĞ ĕĦĠĞĐ ĐĞĥ ĐĦđČč .30 ĐĜģĕĔđ ďĕąčĦė ĕĠ ĘĞ ČĕĐ ęĕĜĠč ĐĝĤĎĐ .20 ěėĦĕĕ ČĘ ĐĒė ĐĜčĚ ěėĥ ,ďđČĚ Đĥģ (Ĥīčč) īĐďĎČ ęĕĘĕĦčī đČ (ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč) īĐďĎČ ęĕĘĕĦ ĤĠĝ Ęėčī ěđĥĘĐ .21 L. Löw, Graphische Requisiten und Erzeugnisse bei den Juden, I/II (Leipzig, 1871), p. 106: đĜĕĕĞ .ĦĕĤčĞč ĘĘė ,(ĐīĝĥĦ) č ,Ď ďđĚĘĦ ĕĤģēĚ ,īĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĔĝģĔ Ęĥ ĦđĕĜčĦđ ěđĤėĕĒ Ęĥ ęĕĜčĚ ,ěđĤėĕĒĐ ĦđĜĚđČī ,ĐČĜ Īĥ ;“Monstrum” ěĕČđ ęĕĥđĤĕĠĐ ĕĜĥĘ Đĥģ ěđĥĘĐ] (556–555 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ĐČĜ ĞĕĢĚĥ ęĕĕĤĥĠČĐ ęĕĥđĤĕĠĐ ĕĜĥ ěĕč .62 ĐĤĞĐ ,556 ĪĚĞ ĖđĦĚ ęĕĘĐĦ ĦďĎČ ĦČ ďĚĘ Đĕĕē ĪĤī) ěđĥČĤĐ Čģđđď ,ĦĕĜĕĕĜĞ ĐĜĕēčĚ ,ĤĦđĕ Ĥĕčĝ ĕĕĜĕĞč ĐČĤĜ [ĐĕĠąĘĞ ęĐĕĜĕč ĞĕĤėĐĘ ĖđĦč ĖĤĞ Đĕĕē ĪĤī) ĕĜĥĐ ,ĐČĜ ĦĞďė ,ČĘđ (īĤĠĝč ĐČĤĥ čĦėĐ ĐČĤĚ ĦČ đēđĤ ĕĜĕĞč ĤĒēĥ ġēĤĚč đĦđĕĐčđ ,čđĦė ĤĠĝ ĐĕČĤ .(īčĘĐ ēđĘĚ ĔĝģĔĐ ĦČ ĪČĤđģĪ ĐĕĐ ġēĤĚč đĦčĥčđ ,ĐĠąĘĞč đčĤĚ ďĚĘĥ ğđĢĤ ĔĝģĔ Ęĥ čđĦė ĐČĤĚ đĜđĤėĕĒ ,čīĞ Ĕ ,č Ē Ħčĥ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĦēČ ęĞĠ ďđĞ ĞĕĠđĚ īĐĜĕĕĞ ĦĤĎĥČī ĕđĔĕčĐĥ ,ČĕĐ ěđėĜĐ ČđĐ ěđĥČĤĐ ĥđĤĕĠĐĥ ĤčďĘ ĐčĦėė ĐĤđĚĥĐ ĐĤđĦĐ Ęė ĦČ đēđĤ ĕĜĕĞč ČĤģī ,čđĦė ĤĠĝĚ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČ ďĚĘĥ ,ČēČ ĕčĤĥ ĤđĤč ęĥđ ,ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝĘ Ĥĥģč ,ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ĦĕĥČĤč Ĥčė ęĕčđĦė ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝ đĕĐ ěėČĥ ĐĚđď ĖėĕĠĘđ .(62 ĐĤĞĐ ,556 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĐČĜ) īđĜđĤėĕĒč ČĤđģ ĐĕĐ Đĕĕē ĕčĤĥ ěėĦĕĕĥ ,45 ĐĤĞĐđ ,294 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĠ ĘĞčĥ ĐĤđĦ ,ěĚĝđĒ Ęĥ đĦĞĢĐ ĤĦđĕ ďđĞ ĐģđēĤ .ĐČĜ ĦĞďė ČĘĥđ ğĝđĜ ĐĥĞĚ ďđĞđ) ĕčĤ Ĥč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤčđ Đĕĕē ĕčĤč ĐĚđď ĐĥĞĚ ČčđĚ ČīĞ ĎĘ ěĕĥđďĕģ ,ĕĘččč .đĠđĎ ČĤģĚčĥ ęĕĘĐĦ ĤĠĝč ĤđĐĤĐč ČĘČ ĤĠĝč ěđĕĞč ĘĘė ĤčđďĚ ěĕČ ęĐĕĜĥčđ ,(ěđĥČĤĐ ĐĥĞĚĐ Ęĥ đĘđĎĘĎ ČĘČ đĜĕČĥ ĤĥĠČĥ ĤēČ ęėēč đč ČĢđĕė .ĕĘččĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčĥ ĐĥĞĚĐ ĦČ ĥĤĠĘ ěĕČĥ ĤđĤč ęĘđČ .ĐĠ ĘĞ đďĚĘĜĥ ęĕĤčďč ěĕČ (ČīĞ ĕ ĦđėĤč ,ĕĘčč) īĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤď ĐĕĚģ ČĦďĎČ ĤďĝĚī ĐĕĐĥ ĕĒĠ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤ ĘĞ ĤĠđĝĚĥ ĐĚĚ .22 .Čģđđď ęĕčđĦė ęĕĤčď đĘČ đĕĐĥ ĐĕČĤ ČĤģĚĐ ĤĠĝ ĖđĦĚ ĐďĎČ ďđĚĕĘč ěČė ĤčđďĚĥ ĐēĜĐĐ .43 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěđĥĘĘ ĐĕĚďģČĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ěďĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė .23 ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢ ;īđĚĢĞ ČĤģĚĐ ĖđĦĚī :ĤĠĝĐ ĖđĦĚ Đīď ,ĤĦČ ĘĞ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĘ đĥđĤĕĠč ,đĕĘĕĤĕĝ ĐĚĘĥ ĪĤ) đĚĢĞ ĘĞčĥ ĐĤđĦ ,ěĚĝđĒ ;573 ,28 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;[(ģďĢč Ėėč ģĠģĠ ,ęĥ ,ģčĘČ ĖČ) Ĕĕ ģĤĠĘ 65 ĐĤĞĐ] 457 ĪĚĞ ĐĚ đĜĕĕĞđ ;ĘĘė ĦĕČĤĜ ĐĜĕČ (īĕĘđČ ěėĦĕĕī ;īđĘĕĠČ ĕĘđČđī ;īĤĥĠČđī ;īĕĘđČ ěėĦĕĕī :čĤ ĝđĝĕĐč ĖČ ,45 ĐĤĞĐđ ,294 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĠ .71 ĐĤĞĐ ,558 ĪĚĞ ,ěđĤėĕĒĐ ĦđĜĚđČ ,ĐČĜ ĐďĎĜė čĦėĥ :ĤĚČĜ ,īęĕĚĐ ĦĕčĘī ĐĝĕĜė ěĕĕĜĞĘ ,(16 ĪĚĞ) ĎīĞ ď ,č č ĦđėĤč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč .đĜĘ ěĦđĜ ĐĕĐ ĐďĎČ Ęĥ ĤĠĝ :ęđĎĤĦ .24 ĤĥĠČĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČđ .(ĤēČĘ đĦđČ ěĦđĜ ĐĕĐ đďĕč ĤĠĝ ĐĕĐĥė :ęđĎĤĦ) īěĤđēĘ ĐĕĘ čĕĐĕ ĐđĐ Đĕďĕč ČĤĠĕĝ ĐđĐ ďė ěĜēđĕ ĪĤī đĕĘĕĠĦđ đĕĤĠĝđ ęĕĚĐ ĦĕčĘ ęďČ ĝĜėĜī :ĥĕ ,ěĘĐĘ ,ęĥ ěėĥ ,ĤēČ ĤĠĝč ĤčđďĚĥ ěėĦĕĕ ,ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝ = īČĤĠĕĝī ĥĤĠĘ ĐĕĐ .ďēČ ĐĤđĦ ĤĠĝĚ ĤĦđĕ đďĕč ģĕĒēĐĘ ęďČĘ Đĥģđ ,īđĤĠĝī ČĘđ īđĕĤĠĝī ;īđďĕč ;ĎīĞ ēĜ ,Č Č ěĕĥđďĕģ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęĎ ęĕČčđĚ ęĥ ČĢĚĥ ęĕĤčďĐ .čĤ Ħĕč Ęĥ ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝč čđĦė ĐĕĐĥ :ęđĎĤĦ .25 .(325 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČąĤđďđČĕĦ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ĕ ,ďĘ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč

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ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

ęĞĔ ěČė ĥĕ ČĚĥ đČ 16?ĦģďĢđĚąĕĦĘčđ ĐĤĦĕ ĦđėĚĝ ĐďĎČĐ ĘčģĦ ĐĦčĕĦė ęĢĞ ĕďĕąĘĞĥ đĥĥē ĕĘđČđ ?ĤēČ ĐĥĤďĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĕĜđĕē ĦģĝĠĐĘ ĥĥēĐ ĐĕĐ ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕĦė ĤđĝĕČ Ĥčďč ĕĤģĕĞĐ ęĞĔĐĥ ĐĚđď .ĐĤđĢčĥ đĘČ ěĕč ěėđĦčĥ đĘČ ěĕč ,Đĕĥđďĕēč ęĕĞĚđĥĐ ĤđčĕĢ ĦĞĦĠĐ ĐĕĐ Đč čđĥēđ ĘđďĎ ěĕĕĜĞĥ ĤđčĕĢč ČđĐ ęČ ĤĦđĕčđ ,ĤĠĝč ĐĚėđ ĐĚė ĦēČ ĘĞđ ,ĝģĜĠč đĘĕĠČ ,čĦėĐ ĘĞ ĐďĎČč ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ěĦČĘĞĐ đĘĕČđ ĤĠĝĚ ČđĢĚĘ ĤĥĠČ ĤĠĝčđ ĝģĜĠč ěėĥ .ĐģĕĝĠĐĘ ğČđ ěĦđĕēč ĤĦđĕč ĞđĎĠĘ ĐĘđĘĞ ĐĦĕĕĐ ,īēĜđĚđ čđĦėī Ħĕčč ĦĚĕđĝĚ Ħčĥč ęĕĞĕĚĥĚ ęĕĜĥĤďĥ ĦđĥĤďĐ čđĤĚ ĐčĤĐč ĦđĜĕĕĜĞĚđ ĦđĠĕ ĦđĥĤďđ ĦđďĎČ Ęĥ čĤ ęĎ ČĘČ ČčĐ ęĘđĞĘ īģĘē đĘ ěĕČī ĐďĎČ čĦđėĥ ĕĚ ģĤ ČĘĥ đĤĕĐĒĐ ĖėĕĠĘđ 17.ĥĤďĚĐ Ħĕčč đČ ĦĝĜėĐ ČĢĚĜ čĦėĐ ěĚ ĐĞĚđĥĐ ęĎđ ,ĥĜĞĕĐĘ ČđĐ ďĕĦĞ đĕĘĞĥ ,ĐĥĞĕĕ ČĘĥ ĐĥĞĚ ĐĥđĞ čĦėĐ ěĚ ĐĥĤđďĐ ĤĠĝč ĐČĕĤģĚ ĤĦđĕ ČđĠČ ĐĜđĎĚ čĦėĐ ěĚ ĦĥĤďĜĐ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤď Ęĥ ĐĦĞĕĚĥ .ĐĜđĎĚ ČđĐĥ ĤčďĘ ĞĕĕĝĚ Ęėčĥ đĚĢĞ ĘĞ ďĕĞĚ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤĥ ĐďčđĞđ .ĐĜđĎĚ Ĥčď ČđĐ ĐĒė ĤĠĝč ĦđĘėĦĝĐĐ ęĢĞ ęĎ ĖČ .ĐďĎČ ęĎ ěėąĕĠąĘĞąğČđ ,ĞĤ Ĥčď Ęė ĐĕĐ ČĘ đč ČĤģĥ ĐĚčĥ ĤčĦĝĚđ ,ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝč ĦēČ ęĞĠ ģĤ ĘėĦĝĜ đĕĚĕ .ĐĦĞčč ĐĘĕĘč ĤđĞĕĜ ĐĕĐ ěĕĕďĞ ěĚĒ ĤēČĘ ĦđČčĔ ĪĦė ĐĚ ĕČ :ĪĚČ .ĐďĎČď ĤĠĝ ďē ČĚē Čč Ĥč Đĕĕē ĪĤī :ěĘĐĘ ,ęĥ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ďđĚĘĦč ĥĕ ďđĞđ .ĐĦčĦėď Đďĕ ĞĔģĦ ,[ĕ]ĦĤĚČ ěė :ĐĕĘ ĪĚČ .ĐčĦė ČĤčĎ Čđ[Đ]Đď ĕđčČ :ďē ĐĕĘ ĪĚČ .ĐĦčĦėď Đďĕ ĞĔģĦ ĕĠ ĘĞ ğČ ČĦďĎČ ĕĤĠĝđī :đĜĕĢĚ ĤēČ ĤđģĚčđ 18.ī(Đ ,ĕ ĦĘĐģ) ĪĔĕĘĥĐ ĕĜĠĘĚ ČĢđĕĥ ĐĎĎĥėĪ ěė ĐĕĘ ĦđđĐđ ī(đėģ ,Ĕĕģ ęĕĘĐĦ) ĪĖĦĤđĦ đĤĠĐ ĪĐĘ ĦđĥĞĘ ĦĞĪ ?ęĞĔ ĐĚ ;ĐģĕĘďĐ ěĚ ěĦđČ ěĕĘĕĢĚ čĦėĕĘ đĜĦĜ ČĘĥ ęĕĤģĚč ęĞĔė đč ęĕĥĚĦĥĚ ęĕĚėēĥ ,ĐĒ čđĦėĥ ĐĚđď .[(297–296 ĪĚĞ ,ĤĞĎĕĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ĕ ,ĒĔ ęĕĤĠđĝ] .ĪĐĘ ĦđĥĞĘ ĖĤđĢ ĥĕĥ ĐĞĥ ĐĤđĦ ĕĤčď ĤĠĐĘ ĤĦđĚĥ ĦđĞĚĥĚč ČčđĚ ,ęĕĜđĥ ĕĝđĕ ĕčĤč ĘČĞĚĥĕ ĕčĤĥ (ČīĞ ĐĘ ,č čĕ ĦđčđĦė = čīĞ čĘ ,ď Ĕ ęĕČĘė ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ) ĤĠđĝĚ ĦČĒ ĦĚđĞĘ ġēĤĚĐ Ħĕčč đĦđČ ĐČĤ ĦēČ ęĞĠĥ ,ĐčđĤ Đĕĕē ĕčĤ ,(ĕčĤ Ęĥ) đďĕĚĘĦ ĘĞ ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĕĜĠĘ ěĜđĘĦĐ ČĕĐĐč .ĦĕĞďĕ ČĘ Ħĕēĝ ěĕČď ĕĘĞ ĘđĞĕĕī :Đĕĕē ĕčĤ čĕĥĐ Ėė ĎĐĜ ĖČĕĐ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĦĐĕĚĦ ĘĞ .đĕĜĠĚ ęģ ČĘđ ĦđĤđďĘ ČđĠĕČ ĤČĥĜđ čĦėĜĥ ĕĥĠēĐ ěđĕĞĤč ĐĞĤĘ đĥĚĦĥĕ ČĚĥ ĥĥēĚī :76 ĪĚĞ ,ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ġĜđĢ ĕĤčďė .16 :(đĔ ģĤĠĘ 63 ĐĤĞĐ) 696 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ ęĎ ĥĕĎďĚ ĐĤĦĕ ĦđėĚĝ ĕĜĠĚ ĥĥēĐ ĦČ .īĦđėĚĝ ēė ĕďĕĘ ĞĕĎĚđ ĦđėĚĝ ĐčĕĦė ĕďĕąĘĞ đĘčģĕ ĤĥČ) ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ěđĎė ęĕĤďĎđĚąĕĦĘč ęĕĜĕĕĜĞ ğģđĦ ĤĦĕč ĘĘė ĠīĞčĥđĦ ĦčĕĦė ĘĞ ĤđĝĕČĐī ěĕĕĜĞĚ ĐĦėĕĠĐ ĕĜĠĚ ĥĥēĐ ĦČ ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕĦė ĤđĝĕČĘ ęĞĔė ěĕĕĢ ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ĪĠđĤĠ ĤīđĚ .ī(ĕĤĚĎĘ ĦģďĢđĚąĕĦĘč ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČč đĕĤđĞĕĥč đĕĠĚ ĕĦĞĚĥ đĘČ ęĕĤčď) đĕĘĞ ğĕĝđĐĘ ěĕČđ đĜĚĚ ĞđĤĎĘ ěĕČĥ Ğđčģđ ęđĦē ĤčďĘ ĕĥĠđē Ĥđčĕď Ęĥ ĦĜĥč] īęĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦĠđģĦ :ĥĤďĚĘđ ĐďĎČĘ ČđčĚīđ [ďīĕĥĦ ĦĜĥč] īęĕČĜĦĐ ĦĠđģĦ :ĥĤďĚĘđ ĐďĎČĘ ČđčĚī :ĦĕĤčĞĐ .([đīĔĥĦ .172 ĪĚĞ ,(1985 ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĤĐ ďīĚ ĦėĕĤĞč) Đ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ :ĤĠĝč ĐĜđĥČĤĘ ĐĚĝĤĠĦĜ ĕĦĞď .17 īēĜđĚđ čđĦėīĘ .ĦĚďđģĐ ĐĤĞĐč ęĕĤėĒĜĐ ĖčĤđČđ ġĜđĢ Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčď Ęĥ ĐĕĢČĕĤđ ĐĒ ęĞĔč ĦđČĤĘ ĤĥĠČ ęĕđĝĚ ěčđĚč ďđĝĕė ĐĥĤďĐī ,ĖčĤđČ ČīČ ;(215–214 ĪĚĞ ,ĦđĜđđĕđ ĦĕĜđđĕ =) 86–85 ĪĚĞ ,Hellenism in Jewish Palestine ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ đĜĕĕĞ ;(65–64 ĪĚĞ ,[ēīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞĚ ,ĘīĜĐ =) 181–180 ĪĚĞ ,(ēīĕĥĦ) Ēė ġĕčĤĦ ,īęĕĤĠđĝĐ ĦĕĞčđ ĐėĘĐĐ ;135–134 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĚĥĦ) ĒĚ đĜĜđĥĘ ,īČĤĕĝąěč ĤĠĝ ĕĘđĥčī ,ĤĔĝĕģ ĪĚ ;ē ĪĚĞ ,PAAJR 31 (1963) ,īĐĤđĚĐī ,ĘĔĜĒđĤ ĥīČ ;52–49 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĚĥĦÀďīĚĥĦ) ĔĚÀēĚ ęĥ ,ī ĪēĜđĚđ čđĦėĪ ĕđĔĕčĐ ĘĞ :ĥďģĚč đĦēĜĐ ĕďĕąĘĞ ĤĠĝ ęđĝĤĠī ,ěĚďĕĤĠ ĞīĚ “Actualisations ĕĤĚČĚč ĕĦčĦėĥ ĐĚđ ;48–44 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĚĥĦ) ĎĜ ęĥ ,ī ĪČĤĕĝąěč ĤĠĝ ĕĘđĥčĪ ĤĚČĚĘ ĦđĠĝđĜī ,ĤĔĝĕģ ĪĚ des Écritures et intolérance dans la Judée du 1er siècle”, Les retours aux Écritures: fondamentalismes présents et ,ęĕēĝđĜĐ :ĦĕĜĞĦ ĦĘĕĎĚ ,ęĞĜ Īđ ;passés (éd. E. Patlagean et A. Le Boulluec; Louvain–Paris, 1993), pp. 390–391 .362 ,336 ,215 ,208 ,22 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĦĕĦĤđģĕč ĐĤđďĐĚ ğđĤĕĢč Á ęĐĕĦđďĘđĦ ,ęĤĥĠ ĐĚ ęČ :ĤĚČ .ĐďĎČ Ęĥ ďēČ ĤĠĝ ĐČĤ :ęđĎĤĦ .438 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěđĥĘĘ ĐĕĚďģČĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ěďĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė .18 ĐĦĕĕĐđ .ĐĦčĦėĥ ďĕĐ ĞĔģĕĦ . . . :đĘ ĤĚČ .ĐčĦė Čđ[Đ]Đ ĥĕČĐ Ęĥ đĕčČ :ďēČ đĘ ĤĚČ .ĐĦčĦėĥ ďĕĐ ĞĔģĕĦ čđĔ čđĦėĥ . . . đĘ

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ěČė ěĕČ ğČ 12,ĐďĎČč ĐčĤĐ ģĝĞ đĠđĎ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤĥ ęĎ ĐĚđ 11,ĘĘėč ĐďĎČĘđ ĐĥĤďĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐ ěČė ěĚ đĥĤďĥ ĐďĎČč ęĕĜĥĤďĘ ,ĦđďĎČ Ęĥ ěĦčĕĦėĘ ģĤ ČĘČ 13,Čģđđď ĦđĚĕđĝĚ ĦđďĎČ Ęĥ ěĜėđĦĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐ đĔČ ĐďĎČ ěČė đĤĒĎ ęđĘė ?Ĥčď Ęĥ đĚĞĔ ĐĚ ęĘđČđ 14.čĦėĐ ěĚ ĦđĥĤďĜĐ ĦđĥĤď Ęĥ ěĦĞĕĚĥĘđ čĦėĐ 15?ĐėĘĐ ĕĤčďč ďđĞ đģĝĞĕ ČĘđ ĐĕĤēČ ĤĦđĕ đėĥĚĕĕ ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕĦė ĖđĦĚĥ đĥĥē ČĚĥ đČ ?ĐėĘĐ

ąġĤČĘ ĘččĚ ĐĘĞĥ ,ČĤĕĞĒ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĕĠč ģĤ ĦČĢĚĜ ĘĘėč (īČĦďĎČď ěĕĘĕČī) ĐĕĚėēĘđ ĐďĎČĘ ĦČĒė ĦđďĎĜĦĐ .11 đĜčĘ ġĞĕđ ĐĕĤĢđĕ ĦČ ĤĔĜģ ĖėĕĠĘ .ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĐĚđ ĐčĕĔ ĦČ ,Ęččč ęĕĤēČ ęĕĚėēė đĐđĚė ,ĘĘė ěĕčĐ ČĘđ ĘČĤĥĕ Č ,ģ ęĕĕĜēĚ ,īĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦđĐĚī ,ĤĐ ďīĚ đĜĕĕĞ .(ČīĞ ČĜ ,ĕ Ď ĦđĤĥĞĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ) ĘĘė Đč ģđĝĞĘ ČĘđ ĐĜĚĚ ģēĤĦĐĘ ,ęĕĕĦĞčĎ) č ,ĥĤďĚĐđ ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ Īĕ đđĥĐ ĤđĠĕĝĐ Ęĥ ĐĠĕ ēđĦĕĜĘ .142 ĪĚĞ ,ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČ ,ĤĐ ;Đĝ ĪĚĞ ,(đīėĥĦ) ěĕčĘ ,ĘĘėč ĐďĎČĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐ đč ĥĕĥ ,ĐĒė ĤđģĚ ěĕč čĔĕĐ ěĕēčĐ ,63 ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥđ .696 ĪĚĞ ,ĦđĤĞĐčđ ,495–493 ĪĚĞ ,(1991 ěĚ ĐĕĤĒĞ đĜčĤė ČĘĥđ ;īĐĚĢĞ ĐďĎČč ČĘđ ,ďčĘč ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝč ,ĐďĎČ ĕĤĠĝč ĥđĚĕĥđ ĐčĕĦėī ĤđĝĕČ ęĐč ĥĕĥ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ,ęĕĤčďĐ ĕĜĥ ĦČ čĤĕĞĥ ,ĖĘĕČđ 196 ĪĚĞ ,đĔ ģĤĠ ,ĐĜĕč ĕĤĚČ ,(đīėĤĦ ,ĐĜĘĕđ) čģĞĕąěč ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ęĕĜĕĞ ĤđČĚ ,ęĕĚđďČĐ ĕđĜĕĎĘ ęĎ .ęĕĤēČ ęĕčĤ ďđĞđ ,đĜĤÀēĘĤ ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĠĤĦ ,ěĕĘĤč) ġĕčđďĕčČĤ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ěĚĒĐ ĕėđčĜ ĐĤđĚ ,ĘČĚėđĤģ ěĚēĜ ĪĤ đĐđĚėđ ĐĚėč ĕđĢĚĐ ,(ĐĠđĎ ĐďĎČč ğČ ęĕĘđďĎ ęĜĕČ ęĕĚĞĠđ ĘĘė ĐėĘĐ ęĕĞďđĕ ęĜĕČĥ đĘĘĐ Ęĥ) īĐďĎČ ĕĘĞčī Ęĥ ĤĦđĕ ěđĦĚ ĦĤđďĐĚ] č ,ČĠ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč :đĦĘĕčģĚđ ČīĞ Ďĕ ,čĕ ĦđĚčĕ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;[ĦĕĘčč ČĦĕĕĤč] čīĞ ĐĚģ ČĤĦč Ččč ,ĕĘčč) ĦđĤđģĚ đĜĕĕĞđ] (ĎīĞ ēĚ ,Ē Ď ĦđĕĤđĐ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;[388 ĪĚĞ] Č ,[ČĚ] Ě ;[108 ĪĚĞ] ĕ ,čĕ ;[1174 ĪĚĞ] Đ ,ďĢ ;[969 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČąĤđďđČĕĦ .ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕĦė ĤđĝĕČĘ ěĕĕĜĞ Ęė ěĕČ ,[573–572 ĪĚĞ ,ĦđĤĞĐčđ ,26–23 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČĐ ĕėĤď ,ĘģĜĤĠ Ēīč =) W. Bacher, Die Agada der palästinensichen Amoräer, I (Strassburg, 1892), pp. 124–194 đĜĕĕĞ .12 .(192–123 ĪĚĞ ,[ĐīĠĤĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ] Č/Č ,[ġĕčđĜĕčĤ ĒīČ ęĎĤĦ] ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕČĤđĚČ ĦďĎČ ,Ĥėč ĤđĝĕČčĚ ĤĦđĕ ďđĞ ĐČĤĜė đĤĕĚēĐ ĐďĎČ ĦčĕĦė Ęĥ ĤđĝĕČčĥ ,20 ĐĤĞĐ ,112 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜĥĚĘ ČđčĚ ,ģčĘČė ČĘĥ .13 ęĕĤđĤĕčī ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ ĪĞė ČĘĥđ .īĐėĘĐč ęĐĘ đĥĤĐ ČĘĥ ĦđĞďđ ęĕĥđĤĕĠ ęĐĘ đĥĤĐ ĐďĎČčĥ ĕĠĘī ,ĐėĘĐ Ęĥ ĐĦčĕĦė ěČė ĥĕĥ ,66 ĐĤĞĐ ,ēĜ ĪĚĞ ,ĕĤčĞ ģĘē ,HUCA 62 (1991) ,īęĕĚđďģĐ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕĜč Ęĥ ĐĤđĦč ĐČĕĤģĐ ĦđĔĕĥč Ęĥ ĕĦĜĥąĦĘĦĐ ĤđĒēĚĐ ěđĕčĢĘ ĦđĤĞĐī ,đĤĚČĚčđ ,īęĕĜĕĕĞĚĐ čđĤ ,ĐĒĘ đĞĥ ČĘ đČ ,ĐĒč đĥē ČĘĥī ,ĦđĥĤďĐ Ęĥ ĕđĜĕĎ ČčđĚ ČđĐĥ ĕĠė ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĤĚČĚ ĤĥĠī :90 ĪĚĞ ,(ďīĝĥĦ) ĎĞ ġĕčĤĦ ,īĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĎĐĜĚė ĐĤđĦč ĐČĕĤģĐ ČđĐĥ ,ĪČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝĪĚ ĔđĔĕĢ ČĘČ ,ČĤđĚČĐ ĕĤčď ęĥ ěĕČĥ ĤđėĒĘ ĥĕī :Ğčđģ ČđĐ ,27 ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥ ĖČ ,īęđĚĞ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ,(ĎīĝĥĦÀČīĝĥĦ) čė ĕĤčĞĐ ĔĠĥĚĐ ěđĦĜĥ ,īĐĠąĘĞčĥ ĐĤđĦ ĦđďĘđĦč ĐĚđģĚđ ĪĐďĎČĪī ,ġĕĥĠĕĘ Īčė ČĘĥđ .īđĕĘĞ ĎĕĞĘĚ Ęĥ ěĚđģĚ đĐĒĕČī ,ěĚĥĤĕĐ ĪĚė ČĘĥđ .Đč ęĕĕđĢĚĐ ęĕĤĦĝĜĐ ĦđďđĝĐ ĘĘĎč ĘĘėč ĐďĎČĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐ ěČė ĥĕĥ ,248–246 ĪĚĞ ĐĜĕČ īĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ ĦČ ĘĕĐčĐĥ ĐĚīĥ ,207 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ) Č ,Ď ďđĚĘĦ ĕĤģēĚ ,ī?ĪĐďĎČĐ ĕĘĞčĪ ęĐ ĕĚđ ĐďĎČĐ ĕĥĤďĚ ,ČđĐĥ ,ĐīčģĐ Ęĥ đĝđĘĕģč ČĘČ ěĜĕģĝĞ ČďĕĤĎ ĦđĥĤďč ČĘ .ĦđĐđĘČĐđ ĐĤĕĢĕĐ Ħđďđĝ ęĢĞč ęĐĥ ęĕĤčď ĦčĕĦėī ČĘČ ĤĠĝī đĦđČč ČĢĚ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤĥ ĐĚč ěĕČ ĦĚČč ęĘđČđ .īĐčėĤĚč ģđĝĕĞč ęĕĕĦđĐĚĐ ęĕĤčďĐ ěĚ ďēČ đĜĤėĒĐĥ ĕĠė ěĚĥĤĕĐđ ġĕĥĠĕĘ ,ĤĥĕĕĘĠ Ęĥ ęĐĕĤčď ĦČ Đēď Ĥčėđ .đĕĘĞ ĎĕĞĘĚ ęėēĐ ěĕČ ğČđ ęĕĘĕĐčĚ ęĕĤĦĝĜ īĦđďđĝī ęđĥ īĐďĎČ đĕĤčďđ ,52 ĐĤĞĐ ,52 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ) ďĞ ġĕčĤĦ ,īĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĐĤđĦč ĐČĕĤģĐ Ęĥ ĕĦĜĥąĞčĥĐ ĤđĒēĚĐ ĘĞī ,ĐČĜ Īĥ ĐĦĕĐ ĦđďĎĜĦĐĐīĥ ČĝĕĎ ďēĚ ěĞĔ ,ĘīĜĐ Ħčĥ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ĘĞ đĕĤčďč ,43 ĐĤĞĐ ,294 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĠ ĘĞčĥ ĐĤđĦ ,ěĚĝđĒ ğČ .ęĕēđėĜ ĦđďĎČ ĕčĦđė Á ĐĒč ĐĒ ęĕĤđĥģ ęĕĤčďĐ ęĕĚĞĠĘđ) ęĕĤčďĐ ě ė đ Ħ Ę ęĎđ ĐďĎČĐ Ħ č ĕ Ħ ė ęĢĞĘ ęĎ :ĐĘđĠė ęĕĦĞĘ ĐČĤĜė ęĎđ ,ęđĘė ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞĘ ěĕČ ,295 ĪĚĞč ,49 ĐĤĞĐč ,ęĥ ĘčČ] ī(49 ĐĤĞĐ ěĘĐĘ Á ĦđĤĥė ĦđĞď ĕĘĞč ĦģĒēč ĘĘė ĖĤďč đĕĐ ČĘ ĐĞčĜ ĐďĎČ ĦčĕĦėĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐĐĥ ĐēĜĐĘ ďđĝĕ ěĕČīĥ ,(ęĥ) ěĞĔ ČĝĕĎ ĖďĕČĚ đĘĕČđ ,[đĦĜĞĔĘ ĐĕČĤ Ęė ČĕčĐ ČĘ 43 ĐĤĞĐč ěĜĕČĥ ĦđĞďđ ĦđĜđĚČĚ ĥĥēĐ ĘĘĎč ģĤđ Á ĐčĕĦėĐ ęĢĞĚ ĦđĎĕĕĦĝĐĐ ěĚ ČĘđ Á ęĕĤčďĐ Ęĥ ęĜėđĦĘ ĦđďĎĜĦĐĐ ěĚ ģĤđ ĖČ .ĐĕČĤ Ęė ěĕČ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐĜĞĔĘ đĘĕČđ ,ĐĜđėĜ đĒ ĐĜđĤēČ ĐĜĞĔ .īĘīĒē ĘĞ ĦđĘčđģĚ čĦđėĐ ČĘČ ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĤĕĚēĐ ČĘĥ ČĦĘĚď ČĘĘėī :čīĘĤ Īĕĝ ,ď ,ĒīčďĤ ĦđčđĥĦ ,ČĤĚĒ ěč ďđď ĕčĤ Ĥčė ĥĤĕĠ Ėė .14 ,Ĥīĕĥ ęĎ đđĥĐđ ;194 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĢĤĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) Č/Č ,đĔđĥĠė ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ đĦđĚė ĥĤĕĠđ đĕĤčď ČĕčĐđ .ī Īđėđ ČĦďĎČ .(ĦđĤĒ ĦđďĎČ ďĎĜė ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ Ĥčĕď ĕĘđČĥ ĤĕĞĐ ,9 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ) 8 ĪĚĞ ,ĐďĎČ ĪĞ ,(čīĕĤĦ ,ĎČĤĠ) ěĕĘĚ ĖĤĞ đĒ ěĕĞĚ ĐĤčĝ ĒīčďĤ Đēď Ĥčėđ .ģĘē đĘ ěĕČ Đīď ,ĤĦČ ĘĞ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĘ ,ĐďĞĐ ěčĤģ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ďđď ĪĤ Ęĥ đĥđĤĕĠė .15 ěĚ ęďČ ĘĔčĦĚđ čĘĐ ĦČ ĦėĥđĚ ĐďĎČĥ ĕĜĠĚ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤď ĐĕĚĞĔď ČĚĕĦ ĕėđī :(ĦĚďđģĐ ĐĤĞĐč) ĘīĜĐ đĦčđĥĦč .ī Īđėđ ĐĜĥĚĐ

13

ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ

Ęė ĦČ ĖĤđĞĐ ĝĕĜėĐ ĐėĘĐ ĕĥĤďĚ Ęĥ ęĕĕďĎČĐąęĕĕĤđĠĕĝĐ ęĕģĘēĘĥ ěėĦĕĕ ğČ 8.đĜĚĚ ģĘē ĔĕĚĥĐĘđ ĦēĦ đĕĐĥ ,ĐĤđĦčĥ ĤĠĝĐ Ęĥ ęĕĕĤđĠĕĝĐ ęĕģĘēč ęĕĚĕČĦĚĐ ęĕčđĦėĘ ĦđĤđĥģĐ ,ĐďĎČč ĦđĦĕĕĤčĐ ęĕĚėē ĕďĕč ęĕĕđĢĚ đĕĐĥ ęĕĤēČ ęĕĠĝđČč ĦđĤēČ ĦđĚĕČĦĚ ĦđĦĕĕĤč ĥĠēĘđ ĥģčĘ ĤđĦĘ ēĤĔ ČĘđ ,đďĕ ęĕĚĞĠ ĥĕ ĐĤđĦč ĤĠĝ Ęĥ ęĠđĎ ęĕčđĦė ęĦđČĘ ĞđďĚ ĤĕčĝĐĘ ĤĥĠČ Ėė .ęĕĤēČ ĥĤďĚ ĕĦčč ęĕĤēČ ĤēČĘĥ ,ĐďĎČč ĦđĦĕĕĤč Ęĥ đĘČė ęĕĠĝđČ ĖđĦĚ .ęĕĜđĥ ĐėĘĐ ĕĥĤďĚč (ĐėĘĐč ęĎ) ĦđĜđĥ ĦđĦĕĕĤč ĐčĤĐ ĐďĎČč ĦđĥĤďđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ęĕĚĕĘ đĝĜėĜ ,ęĕČĤđĚČ Ęĥ ĦđĥĤďđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ęĕĠĝđČ ęĐĕĘĞ đĠĝđĜ ěĚĒ .(ĤĚČĚĐ ğđĝčĥ ēĠĝĜč đĜĕĕĞđ) ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦĘ ęĎ đĚė ,(ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ) ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ęĥ ĐďđĚĘĦĘ ęĎ

č ĞčģĜĥ 9,ĤĠĝč ĦđėĘĐ čđĦėĘ (ďčĘč ĎĐđĜčĥ Ĥčď ČĘČ ĥĤđĠĚ ęĘđĞĚ ĐĕĐ ČĘ ĕĘđČĥ) ĤđĝĕČĐ ěĕĞĚ ęĎ ,đĠđĎ ęĞĔ đĦđČ ĦĚēĚ ČĘĥ ďđČĚ ĤĥĠČđ ,ęčĤģč ĐđđĐĦĜ ,ĦĕčĐ ĕĜĠčĥ ęĕĚĕč ďđĞ ęĕĚėē čĤģč :đĜĕĢĚ Ėėđ .(ĤĠĝč) ĦđďĎČ čđĦėĘ ĤđĝĕČ .Ĥėĥ ĘčģĚ đĜĕČ ĐĞĚđĥĐ ĖĤēĦĚ ĐĥĤđďĐ ģĘē đĘ ěĕČ ĐčĦđėĐ ČĦďĎČ ČďĐ :ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČ čđĦė ĦĕēėĥČ ĦĕĘėĦĝČ ěĚĒ ďē ČĘČ ČĦďĎČď ČĤĠĝč ĦĕĘėĦĝĕČ ČĘ ĕđĚđĕ ěĚ ČĜČ :ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ ĪĚČ :ĪĦėď ęĐĤčČ đĜĕčČĘĥ đĕĦđĜĥ ďĎĜė ĕđđĕĢ ĐĤĕĚČ Ĥčď ĐĤđĦč čđĦėĥ ĦđĕĥĤĠ ĥĚēđ ęĕĞčĥđ ĐČĚ :Đč ęĕĞčĤČđ ĐČĚ .(đĔ ,ďĕ ĞĥđĐĕ) īęĕģĜĞč ĘđďĎĐ ęďČĐī :ĪĦėđ ;(Ĕĕ ,ēĝ ęĕĘĐĦ) īęďČč ĦđĜĦĚ ĦēģĘī ěĕĝĘģĚ ĪĤĥĕĥ ěĕĝđĘĕģĐ Ęėĥ ďĚĘĚ] čģĞĕ đĜĕčČĘĥ đĕĦđĜĥ ďĎĜė ęĕĘĕĦč ĪĦėĥ ĦđĤđĚĒĚ ĐĞčĥđ ĐČĚ .(ď ,čė ęĕĘĐĦ) īĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĘĕĐĦ čĥđĕ ĥđďģ ĐĦČđī :[ĪĚČĜĥ čģĞĕ Ęĥ đĕĦđĜĥ ďĎĜė Đīč ĥđďģĐĘ ,ęĥ) īđĥďģč ĘČ đĘĘĐ Đĕ đĘĘĐī :ěĤĐČĘĥ đĕĦđĜĥ ďĎĜė ĐĕđĘĘĐ ěĕĜđĞ ĘČĤĥĕĥ ęĕĚĞĠ ĐĥĘĥđ ęĕĤĥĞđ Ħčĥ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ) ČĕĘĕĘč ĦĕĞčĦĚ ČĜČ ěė đĘĕĠČ .(ĒĔ ,đģ ,ęĥ) īĕĪĕ ĥđďģ ěĤĐČĘī đĥđďģ ěĤĐČĘ :(Č ,Ĝģ 10.(ĎīĞ đĔ ,Č ĒĔ

ĖĤēĦĚ ĐĥĤđďĐĥ ,ČčĐ ęĘđĞĘ ģĘē đĘ ěĕČ ĐďĎČ čĦđėĐĥ ,ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĦĞĕčģĘ ęĞĔĐ ěĕČĥ ĤđĤč .ęĕĤģđēĐđ ęĕĥĤĠĚĐ Ęė ĐčĤĐ Ĥčďč đĥģĦĜ Ĥčėđ .ĥĤĠĦĜ ČĘ ,Ĥėĥ ĘčģĚ đĜĕČ ĐĞĚđĥĐĥđ

ČĤģĚč đĜĥĕĥ Ęė . . . đĘ ěĕčĕĔĚ ĦēČ ĐđĢĚ ĐĥđĞĐ Ęėī :ĕ ,Č ěĕĥđďĕģ ,ĐĜĥĚčĥ ĐďĎČĘ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,ĞĤĕČĥ ĦđĚė .8 ęđĥ ĘĞ ģĤ ěČė ĐČčđ (ěĕĥđďĕģ ĦĜĥĚč Č ģĤĠ Ęĥ đĜĕĕĜĞ ČđĐĥ) ěĕĕĜģĘ đČ ěĕĥđďĕģĘ Ĥĥģ Ęė ĐĘ ěĕČĥ ,ī. . . ĐĜĥĚčđ ī. . . ęĕĚď ĐĥĞĜĐ Ęėī :(ĖĘĕČđ đ ,ęĥ) īĘėī ěđĥĘč ĦđēĦđĠ ěĘđėĥ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĦđėĘĐ Ęĥ ęĘĥ ĤđģĚĚ ģĘē ĐĦĕĕĐĥ Ęėī ;(Ē ,ęĥ) ī. . . ĐĥĞĦ ČĘ ĦđĢĚ Ęėđ . . . ĐĥĞ ĦđĢĚ Ęėđ . . . ĐĥĞ ĦđĢĚ Ęėđ . . . čČĐ ĦđĢĚ Ęėđ . . . ěčĐ ĦđĢĚ Ęėī ;(đ ,ęĥ) ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ ,ĘģĜĤĠ ;89 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĕĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦÀęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĐĜĥĚĘ ČđčĚ ,ģčĘČ Īē đđĥĐđ .(Ĕ ,ęĥ) ī. . . ĐĕđĘĦ ČĕĐĥ ĐđĢĚ .ĖĘĕČđ 311 ĪĚĞ ,ĐĜđĕĘ ěđĕĎĕĐ ,īČĦĠĝđĦĐ Ęĥ ĐĦėĕĤĞ ĕėĤďč ěđĕĞ :ĐďĎČĐđ ĐėĘĐĐ ďđēĕČī ,ĥĕĠĘđđ ĪČ ;34 ĪĚĞ ,Č ,īďīđĕ Ęĥ đĢđģ Ęĥ đēđė Á ĐĞĚĥĚė ĐĔđĥĠ ĪĐĠ ĘĞčĥ ĐĤđĦĪī ,ěĚĝđĒ Īĕ ĐĜđĤēČĘ đĜĕĕĞ .ďđČĚ ĐčĤĐ ěđďĜ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞ .9 .ĦĚďđģ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ěĕĕĢĥ ,384–209 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ) Č ,Ď ďđĚĘĦ ĕĤģēĚ ĕĦĘėĦĝĜ ČĘ ĕĕĚĕĚ ĕĜČ . . . đĒ ĐďĎČ :ęđĎĤĦ .438–437 ĪĚĞ ,ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěđĥĘĘ ĐĕĚďģČĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ ,ěďĕĕĘ ďĕąčĦė .10 ĦđĘĕčģĚ ĥĕ ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ Ęĥ đĕĤĚČĚ ĕĜĥĘ .ĐĘĕĘč ĦĞčĜ ĕĜČ . . . ĕĦČĢĚ ĕĦĘėĦĝĜ ĦēČ ęĞĠ ČĘČ ĐďĎČ Ęĥ ĤĠĝč Ĕĕ ,čė ,ęĕĘĐĦ ĥĤďĚč ęĎ ĐĘĕčģĚ ĥĕ ĕĜĥĐ ĤĚČĚĘ ;(294–291 ,284 ĪĚĞ ,ĤĞĎĕĐ ĦĤđďĐĚ) ē ,č ,ĒĔ ęĕĤĠđĝ ĦėĝĚč ČĘČ ĕĕĚĕĚ ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝč ĕĦĘėĦĝĜ ęČ Ėėđ Ėė ĕĘĞ Ččĕ :ĕđĘ ěč ĞĥđĐĕ ĪĤ ĤĚČī :ęĥ ěđĥĘĐđ ,(190–189 ĪĚĞ ,Ĥčđč ĦĤđďĐĚ) .Ĥĝē īČĕĘĕĘč ĦĕĞčĦĚ ČĜČ ěė đĘĕĠČī :ğđĝĐđ ;ī. . . đč ĕĦĕČĤđ ĐďĎČ ĤĠĝ ĕĦČĢĚ ĦēČ ęĞĠ

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ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ ĐĦĥĞĜ ĖĘĕČđ ĐĜđĥČĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěĚ .(175 ,č ěđĕĠČ ďĎĜ) đĜčĤ ĐĥĚĘ Ħčĥč ĐďđĚĕĘđ ĐĤđĦč đČĘ ğČ ęĕĚĕĘđ) ĦđĦčĥč ģĤ ČĘđ .ĥĤďĚĐ Ħĕčč ěĕč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ěĕč ,ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞč ęĎ ĕĒėĤĚ ěĕĕĜĞ ĐčđēĤč ĤđčĕĢ ĦđĕĜĞĦč ěėđ ,ęĕďĞđĚčđ ęĕĎēč ğČ ČĘČ 2,(Ħčĥ ĕĘĕĘč ęĎ ČĘČ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ ĤēČĘ Čģđđď .ĐĘĕĚ ĦĕĤččđ ěĕČđĥĕĜ ĦēĚĥč ,ĐĦĥĚĐ Ħĕčč ęĎ đĚė ,ĘčČĐ Ħĕččđ ĦĚĐ ĦĕĕđđĘĐčĥ ďĠĝĐč ,ĤĕĞ Ęĥ .ĐėĘĐ Ęĥ ĐďđĚĕĘ čĎČ ęĎ ĐďĎČč đĥĤď ĥĤďĚĐ Ħĕčč Ħĕčč đĤĚČĜ ČĘĥė ęĎ ,ĦđĤđďĘ ĐďĎČč ęĐĕĦđĥĤď ĐčĤĐ ęĕĚĞĠ đĤĚĥĜ ,ęĕĚėē đĕĐ ęĕĜĥĤďĐđ ĘĕČđĐ ĖĤďĥ ĐĚđď 3.ĐĦĥĚĐ Ħĕčč đČ ĘčČĐ Ħĕčč ,ĦĚĐ ĦĕĕđđĘĐč ,ĤĕĞ Ęĥ ĐčđēĤč ,ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ČĘČ ĥĤďĚĐ Ęĥ ěĦđĤĚĦĥĐ ĖĤďĚ čđĤąĕĠąĘĞ ĐĜđĥ ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ĐďĎČč ĤđčĕĢč ĦđĥĤďđ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ęĦđĤĚĦĥĐ ęĕĚĞĠđ ĐĠ ĘĞ ĤđďĘ ĤđďĚđ ĥĕČĘ ĥĕČĚ đĤčĞđ đĤĝĚĜ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞč ĐďĎČč ĦđĥĤďđ ĦđďĎČ .ĦđėĘĐ ü đčĦėĜ ğČ ĐČĚĐ ĕĐĘĥč ,ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦĠđģĦ Ęĥ ĐĠđĝĘ ĖđĚĝ Ĥčė 4.ĦđĕĔĤĠ ĦđĤčēĚ ěĕĞĚ đĜĕĕĐ ,ęĕĝģĜĠč ĐĚđď .ęĕĝģĜĠč ü ěĦĢģđ ĐĠ ĘĞ ěčđĤ ,đĘČė ĦđĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ďđČĚ ĘđďĎ ĤĠĝĚ ĐĕĐ ,ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĦĕĥČĤčđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ,ĦđēĠ ęĕĘđďĎ ęĐĚđ ĤĦđĕ ęĕĘđďĎ ęĐĚ ,ęĕĜđĥđ ęĕčĤ ęĕĠĝđČč ČĘČ ďēČ ĘđďĎ 5ğĝđČč ěČė ĤčđďĚ ěĕČĥ .ęĕĜđĥ ĥĤďĚ ĕĦčč ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĐĕĝģĜĠč đČ ęĜđĤėĕĒč ęĥđ ĐĠ đĤĚĦĥĜĥ đĞĕĎĐ ęĐĚĥ ,ĦđĦĕĕĤč Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĢčģĘ ęĎ ęĕĚĕĘđ ĐĜĥĚĘ ęĎ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď đĝĜėĜ đĘČė ęĕĠĝđČ ĖđĦĚ ęĦĕĢēĚĚ ĐĘĞĚĘ) ďđČĚ ĐčĤ ĐďĕĚč ğČ ęģĘēčđ ĐďĎČ ĥĕ ęĘđėčĥ ,ĐėĘĐĐ ĕĥĤďĚđ ČĦĠĝđĦĐ đĜĕďĕĘ ěėđ 6,(ĐďĎČ ČĕĐ ĥĕĘĥė ĤčďĚčĘ ĕĤĠĝč đĘĕČđ ,ĐďĎČ ČĕĐ ęĕĤčďĘ ĕĤĠĝ Ęĥđ ĘČĞĚĥĕ ĕčĤď ČĦĘĕėĚ Ęĥ ,ęĕĜđĥ ęĕēĝđĜ ĕĜĥ đĜĚĚ đđĐĦĜĥ ĕĜĠĘ ,ěĦĜ ĕčĤď ĦđčČ Ęĥ ěđĥČĤĐ ēĝđĜĐ ğČđ ,ěėĥĚĐ ĦėČĘĚď ČĦĕĕĤč Ęĥ ęĕĜđĥĐ ęĕĢčģĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕėĤđĞĥ ęĕĤđčĝĐ ĥĕ .ĦĕĜĞĦ ĦĘĕĎĚĘ īěđĕĘđėĝīĐ ĕĜĥ Ęĥ ęĕĚđďģĐ ęĐĕēĝđĜđ ĐĚđďđ .ČĘ ĐĚđ đĘĘĐ ęĕĢčģĘ ĝĕĜėĐĘ ĕđČĤ ĐĚ ,ęĕĜđĥĐđ ęĕčĤĐ ęĕĠĝđČĐ ĖđĦĚ ,đĤēč ęĕČĜĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝ đČĢĚĜĥ ęđĥ ĘĞ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď đĝĜėĜ ĦđėĘĐ đĤģĕĞĥ ġčđģĘĥ ęĎ ĞĤĕČ ęĘđČđ 7.ęĕĚĞĠĘ ĞĤĕČ Ėė ěėČĥ ĤđģĚĐ ĦČ ģĘēĘđ ĞĔģĘ ĐĢĤ ČĘ ĖĤđĞĐąĤďĝĚĐąĔģĘĚĐđ ęĐĘ ęĕďđĚĢ ęĐĥė ĐėĘĐ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ĤđģĚč

ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĤđČĕĦĥ ĐďčđĞĐ ĦĠĘČĚ .127 ,č ,ĦđĚđĘēĐ ĘĞ ;216–215 ,č ,ĐĥĚ ĕĕē ĘĞ ;7.13 À 7.12 ,ĐģĕĔĦđĠĕĐ Ęĥ đĕĤđčĕēč ěėđ ,ĕĘĕĘČ ěėĘ ęďđģ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĤĢđĜ ĕĜđđĕ ,ĝģđĘ Ęĥ đĤđčĕēč ,ĦĕĜđđĕ đčĦėĜĥ ęĕĤĠĝč Čģđđď đĤĚĦĥĜ ęĕĔĤđĠĚ .ĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ĕďđĐĕĐ ,ěđĘĕĠ .ďīĞ ĒĔ ,ď Č ĐĔđĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,đČĤ .2 460 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ĦđĤĞĐčđ ,ĖĘĕČđ 164 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ĘČĤĥĕč ĦđĥĤďĐ ,ģčĘČ Īē À ġĜđĢ ĘīĔĕ đĜĕĕĞ ĐĒ Ęė ĘĞ .3 ĘīĒē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞč ĥĤďĚđ ĐďĎČī ,ĕĤĚČĚ ĐĜđĤēČĘ đĜĕĕĞ ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝčĥ ĐďĎČĘ ĤđģĚė čēĤĐ ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ ĘĞ .ĖĘĕČđ ,ĥĤďĚĐ ĦđĤĠĝ Ĥģēč ęĕĥďē ęĕĔčĕĐ :ĐĜđĕĘ ěđĕĎĕĐ :ĖđĦč ,īĐėĕĤĞ ĕĜĚĒđ ĐēĕĚĢ Ħđčĕĝ ,ĦđđĐĦĐ ĦđĚđģĚ :ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ęĕđčĘČ Īĕ ,ěđĝĜĕđĘ Īĕ ĦėĕĤĞč) ęĕĜĥ ĥĚēđ ęĕĞčĥ đĘ ĦđČĘĚč ĘģĜĤĠ ĐĜđĕ ĤđĝĠđĤĠ Ęĥ đďđčėĘ ęĕĤģēĚ ġčđģ Á ĔđĕĠĐđ ĐďĎČĐ .148–131 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ęģđĤąěĒē ĪĎđ ;ĔđĔĤĥĘ đČ ĐčĕĦėĘ ĥĚĥĚĐ ġĞ ēđĘ :ěČėĚđ ;ġĞ ēđĘ :ĐĘĕēĦėĘ đĜčđĚĥ ,(πίναξ :ĦĕĜđđĕ) ĝģĜĠ :ďĕēĕ ěđĥĘ .4 ęĕĘė ,ĐĜĥĚ ,ĘĥĚĘ đČĤ .(ĝđĤĕĠĠ) ČĚđĎĚ ęĎ ęĕĚĞĠ ĖČ ,ġĞĚ ,ęĕĠď ęĕĠď đĜĕĕĐ ,ĦđēđĘ ĦđēđĘ ĐĕđĥĞĐ ĦĤčēĚ :ěČėĚđ S. Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, III (Leipzig, 1912), p. 144; S. Lieberman, Hellenism in đĜĕĕĞđ .Ē ,ďė ;Ēĕ ,Ēĕ 301 ĪĚĞ ,[ĎīėĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđĜđđĕđ ĦĕĜđđĕ ,ěĚĤčĕĘ Īĥ =) Jewish Palestine (New York, 1950), pp. 203 ff. .(ĖĘĕČđ ;ĐēđĦĠĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ) Ď ,ĐďĎČđ ĥĤďĚ đĤĠĝč ,ĘĥĚ ĖĤď ,đĜĕĕĞ .ĪĤĎČĚĪ ĕĜĤďđĚĐ ēĜđĚč ĥĚĦĥĚ ĘģĜĤĠ Īĕ .5 .731 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĜĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦ ,(ĤčďĚčĘ) ČĔđĒ ĕĤĠĝč ,ĕĕēđĕ ěč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤď ČĦĘĕėĚč ĐďĎČĐ Ęĥ ĐĤđĞĕĥ ĐĕĐ ĐĚ ģđĕďč ĞđčģĘ ĦđĤĥĠČ ěĕČ .6 ęČđĘĚč đĤĚĦĥĜ ČĘ đĘČ ęĕĥĤďĚđ ĘĕČđĐ ,ęĕĤčďĘ ČĔđĒ ĕĤĠĝč ĐĚėđ ĐĚė ĦēČ ĘĞđ ęĕĤčďĘ (ęĕČĜĦ ĥĤďĚ) ČĦĘĕėĚč .ęĕĞĔđģĚ ęĐĥė đĜĕďĕĘ đĞĕĎĐđ ĐĜđĤēČĘ đĜĕĕĞđ ;ęĕģĤĠ Ęĥ ęĦĚĕĦēč ęĎ ęĕĚĞĠđ ĦđėĝĚ Ęĥ ěĦĚĕĦēčĥ ĐďĎČ ĕĤčď ĕčĎĘ ,ĐĜĥĚč ,ěđĎė .7 .683–655 ĪĚĞ ,(ĐīĝĥĦ) č ,Ď ďđĚĘĦ ĕĤģēĚ ,īĐĜĥĚčĥ ĐďĎČĐī ,ĘģĜĤĠ Īĕ

:ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

Č đĤĝĚĜ ěĐčĥ ęĕėĤďĐ Ęĥđ ęĚĘđĞč đĎĐĜĥ ďđĚĕĘĐ ĕĤďĝ Ęĥ ęĕĤđČĕĦ ĔĞĚė đĜĘ ěĕČ ęĕĚėē ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĜđĥĐ ĐĕĤđčĕē đėĤĞĜđ đĤďđĝ ,đĔģđĘ ,đđĐĦĜ ěĐčĥ ęĕėĤďĐ Ęĥ ČĘ ğČ ĤđďĘ ĤđďĚ ęĐĘĥ ęĐĕĤčď đĤĚĦĥĜđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ĤēČĘĥ ęĕĜđĥČĤĐ ĦđĤđďč đĘČ ęĕĤđčĕē Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤđģ ęĎ .ĐďĎČč ěĕč ĐėĘĐč ěĕč đĒ ĦđĤĠĝ Ęĥ ĤĕĞĒ ĐĠ ĤĕĞĒ ęČ ğČđ .ęĘĞĜđ ęđĦēđ ęđĦĝ ĤďĎč Ĥčď Ęĥ đĤģĕĞč ČđĐ ĐĒ Ęė .ĘĘė ĔĞĚė đĜĘ ęĕĞđďĕ ęĜĕČ ęĕĞĥĦ ĐĝėĚ ,čĢĚĐ ĦČ ĤĦđĕ ęĘđĐĥ ĐĚ đČ ,ĐĞĥĦ ĐĝėĚđ ēĠĔ ,ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞĘ ,ĐĘĎĚĐ ĤđģĚ ĐĒĕČ ĥĕ ęĥ ĤďĎč ,ĐČĤĜė ,ęĘđĞĘ đĤĦđđĕĕĥ ęĕėĕĘĐĦđ ęĕĤčď ,ďđČĚ ĐčĤ ĦđĤĕĐĒč ,đĕĠ ĘĞ ĤĒēĥĘđ ĦđĝĜĘ ĤĥĠČ ,ĐĞĥĦđ .ęđĦĝĐ ěĚ ęđĦĝ ďđĚĘĘ ĐčĤ ĐďĕĚč đĜČ ęĕĢĘČĜ đĘČ ęĕĚđēĦč ěėĥ .ĦđĤĞĥĐ Ęĥ đĦđĚďģ ĦČ ěĕĕĢĚ ĝģđĘ .ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĕĚĕĚ ČđĐ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĤđčĕĢč ĐĥĤďĐ ĎĐĜĚ Ęĥ đĦĕĥČĤ ĕĥĞĚ) īĤĕĞđ ĤĕĞ Ęėč ČĤģĕĕ đĦčĥč Ħčĥ ĕďĕĚđ ĤĕĞđ ĤĕĞ Ęėč ęĕĥĤđď ĐĥĚĘ ĥĕ ęĘđĞ ĦđĤđďĚ ĕėī :ĎĐĜĚĐ ĐĢđēč ěĕč ġĤČč ěĕč ,Ħčĥč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĐĥĤďĐ ĐėĤĞĜ ĕĦĚ ÿ ęĎ ĤėĒĜ Ĥđčĕē đĦđČč .(21 ,đĔ ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĐČĕĤģĐ Ęĥ ĐĦĎĐĜĐ ĦČ đĐĕĦĦĚ ěč ğĝđĕ ĝēĕĕĚ ěėđ 1.ČĕčĜč ĐĤĔĠĐĐđ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ ĤēČĘ Á ġĤČĘ (Encyclopaedia Judaica) ĐģĕČďđĕ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČč ĕĦĤčĕēĥ ęĕėĤĞ ĐĚėč ĕĦčĦėĥ ęĕĤčďĚ ęĥđ ĐĠ ĕč ĕĦĤĒē ĐĒ ĤĚČĚč ęĕĕđĜĕĥĐ .ĘīĒē ĦďĎČ ęđēĦč ęĕĤēČ ďđĞđ ĥĤďĚĐ ęđēĦč ĕĘĥ ęĕėĤĞ ęĕĤĥĞė Đčđ 1971 ĦĜĥč ĐĞĕĠđĐĥ [EJ :ěĘĐĘ] ĕĘĥ ĕĕĤģēĚ ĤđČĘ ,đĠĘēĥ ęĕĜĥĐ ęĕĞčĤČė ĦĢđĤĚč ,đČč (ĕđĜĕĥ Ęē ČĘĥ ĔĞĚė ĦđĕďđĝĕĐ ĕĕĦđĝĕĠĦč) ęĕĜđĥ ęĕĔĤĠč ĕďė .īęĘđėĚ ĤĦđĕ ĕĕďĕĚĘĦĚđī :ĕč ęĕĕģĦĜĥ ĕĦĕėĒđ ,(ĦđĤĞĐč ęĐĘ ĕĦĜĕĕĢđ) ĕĕďĕĚĘĦ Ęĥ ğČđ ĕĕĤčē Ęĥ ęĐĕĤģēĚ ĤđČĘđ ĦČđđĥĐ ĖđĦĚ ,đĦĞďĚ ďđĚĞĕĥ ČĤđģĐ ĘĞ ĕĦėĚĝ ČĘČ ĕĦĕĜĕĥ ĐĚđ ĕč ĕĦĤĒē ĐĚč ęđģĚ Ęėč ĕĦĥĤĕĠ ČĘ ĖĕĤČĐĘ ČĘĥ ęĕĜđďĜĐ ęĕčĤ ęĕĜĕĕĜĞĥ ĥĕĎďĐĘ ĥĕ ĦČĒ ęĞ .ĦđĜđĤēČĘ ĦđĜđĥČĤ ěĕč ĐĚ ,ĕĕĦđĤĞĐč ĕĦĜĕĕĢĥ ĘīĜĐ ęĕėĤĞĐ ęĞ ěČė ĕĕĤčď .ĐģĕČďđĕ ĐĕďĠđĘģĕĢĜČč ĕĦĤčĕēĥ ęĕėĤĞč ĘĘė đĜđďĜ ČĘ ĐĒ ĕĤĚČĚč ęģĕđ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĘČ ĦčĥĐ ęđĕč đĔĠĥĚė ĖĘĕđ ęĥ ĘďđĎ ĤĥČ ĦĤĢĜ ĘČ Čđčĕđ . . . Ğđĥĕ čĥĕđī :ġĤČč ĐĕĐ Ėė .1 ěĞĕ ĕĘĞ ęĕĐĘČ ĪĐ ēđĤĪ :đč čđĦė ĐĕĐ ĤĥČ ęđģĚĐ ĦČ ČĢĚĕđ ĤĠĝĐ ĦČ ēĦĠĕđ ČĕčĜĐ ĐĕĞĥĕ ĤĠĝ đĘ ěĦđĕđ .ĤĠĝč ČđĤģĘ :ęĐĕĘČ ĤĚČĕđ Ęēĕđ .đĕĘČ ĦđČđĥĜ ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĤĥČ Ęė ĕĜĕĞđ čĥĕđ ěĒēĐ ĘČ đĐčĕĥĕđ ĤĠĝĐ ĦČ ĘĘĎ ĤĥČė ĕĐĕđ .Ī. . . ēĥĚ ĐĕĐ Ėėđ .(2 ,đ ;22–21 ,Č ĝđģĤĚ ęĎ đđĥĐđ ;32–31 ,ęĥ đđĥĐđ ;28–16 ,ď ĝģđĘ) ī. . . ęėĕĜĒđČč ĐĒĐ čđĦėĐ ČĘĚĦĜ ęđĕĐ đēĘĥĕđ ęĕČĕčĜĐđ ĐĤđĦĐ ĦČĕĤģ ĤēČ ĕĐĕđ .đčĥĕđ ĦčĥĐ ęđĕč ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕč ĘČ đČđčĕđī :ĐĕďĕĝĕĠčĥ ĐĕėđĕĔĜČč ,ĐĘđĎč ęĎ ĘČĤĥĕ ĕĥĜČ :ĤĚČĕđ đďĕ ğĜĕđ ĝđĘđĠ ęģĕđ .đĤčď ęĞĘ ĤĝđĚ Ĥčď ęėĘ ĥĕ ęČ ęĕēČ ęĕĥĜČ :ĤĚČĘ ĦĝĜėĐ ĕĥČĤ ęĐĕĘČ ĘĞ] 156 ,ĝđĕČĎ ĘČ ĦēĘĥĚĐ ,ěđĘĕĠ ;4 ,ēĕ ęĥ ;44 ,ęĥ ęĎ đđĥĐ ;ĖĘĕČđ 14 ,Ďĕ ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĕĥĞĚ) ī. . . đĞĚĥ ęĕĐĘČ ĕČĤĕđ ;(ęĕĔĕđĠĤĦĐ ĘĞ) 32–30 ,ěđĕĞĐ ĕĕē ĘĞ ,ĘīĜĐ ďđĞ đđĥĐđ ;(63–62 ,č ,ęĐĕĔĤĠĘ ęĕģđēĐ ĘĞ ;[ĝđĔĝđĎđČ ĕĚĕč ĕĚđĤč ĎĐĜĚĐ

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ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ

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īđĕĦđĤĕĕĜīĥ Ėė ĘĞ .ęĐĕēĘđĥ ĘĢČ ęĎ đĕĐĥ ĤĥĠČ ,ČĕĥĜĐĚ ęĕčĦėĚ ĕĘčģĚ ĘĢČ ęĕĜđĕėĤČ đĕĐ ęČ ďĢĕė ĤĠĝĚĐ ,ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐ Ęĥ čĦėĚĚ ęĎ ďđĚĘĘ ĕĘđČ ĤĥĠČ đĐĥĘė ďĤĥĚč ęĕĝĜđėĚ đĕĐ ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ĤĥČ ,ĤčĞĥĘ ĕĚđĤ ĘđĝĜđģ ,(Hesychius) ĝđĕėĕĝĕĕĐ đĚĥđ ęďČ ĎĤđĐĘ ČĕĢđĐ ěđĥČĤĐ ĝđĕĝđďđČĦ ĤĝĕģĐ Ęĥ ęĦđĥĕĎĤĥ ĐĚđď Á ďđĞđ ĦČĒ 44.ĕĥĕĚēĐ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ČĕĥĜĘ ĦđėĕĕĥĐ ĦđďđĞĦ čđĜĎĘ đĐď ěČĚ Ęďĕĥ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĘĞ ĦēČ ĐďĎČč ĦĒĚĤĜ ĦĕĚĥĤĐ ĦčđĦėĦĐ ĕĘĘė Ęėč ďđĚĞĦĥ ĦĕĘĚĤđĠ ĦčđĦėĦĘ ęĕČĕĥĜĐ ĕčĤ .īĝđĜĕĜđĔĜČ ČėĘĚ ěĤĚĘ ĐČĕĥĜ ĐďđĐĕ ěĚ :čĦėī Á ĝĠČ ĪĤ Á đĤĠđĝđ ,ĤĝĕģĘ ĦĤĎĕČ čĕĦėĐĥ ,ČĕĥĜĐ ĐĚė čĔĕĐ ĞďđĚ ČĕĥĜĐĥ ĐĚđď 45.īĖďčĞ ĐďđĐĕ ěĚ ČėĘĚ ěĤĚĘī :čĦė ĐĚđģĚčđ ,ĐĞĤģđ ĦĤĎĕČĐ ĦČ ČĤģ 46.čĦđėĚĘ čĦđėĐ ěĕčĥ ďĚĞĚĐ ĕĘďčĐ ĘĞ ďđĚĞĘ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĤĝĕģč ęĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ęĦēĕĦĠč čđĥē čĦėĚĥ ĤĥĠČđ ,ČĘ đČ ęĕĕĔĜĦđČ ęĕČĕĥĜĘ đĝēđĕĥ ęĕčĦėĚĐ ęČ ĦĞďĘ ĤĥĠČąĕČ ,Ĥčď Ęĥ đĠđĝč ĕēĝĜĚĘ ĤėđĚ ĐĕĐĥ ĕĘĚĤđĠ čĦėĚ Ęĥ ēĝđĜĘ ĦđēĠĘ đČ ,ĖėĘ čđĤģ ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĪĤĘ ěĦĕĜĥ īĦđēĕĘĥīĐ ęĘĝĠĘ ĕďė ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ģĤ ĐĘČė ęĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ īęĦđďĤĥĕĐī ęĢĞč ěĕČ ęĘđČđ .ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĤđĠĕĝĐ ĤđģĚč ĞďĕĚ Ęĥ đėĤĞč ĐĘĕēĦėĘĚ ĔĕĞĚĐĘ đČ ğĝĐ ĘĞ ĘđĝĠĘ ěĕČī :ěĕđĘ ĘČĤĥĕ đĜďĚĕĘĥ ĕĠėđ ,Ęđėđ ĘđėĚ ČĢĚĕĚĘ ĘīĒē ĦđĤđģĚ ěĕč ,ęĕĕĜđĢĕē ĦđĤđģĚĘ ęĕĕĚĕĜĠ ĦđĤđģĚ ěĕč ĕĦđĤĕĤĥ ěĠđČč ĘĕďčĐĘ ěĕČđ ,ĤēČ đČ ĐĒ ĎĐĜĕĥ ĤĕĐĒ Ĥģđē ĘėĘ ĕđČĤđ ,đĕĤģēĚ Ęėč ěĕđĘ Ęĥ đĘĎĤĘ ĤĜ ĥĚĥĚ ĐĒ čđĥē ĘĘė ěėČđ 47.īĕĎđĘđČĕėĤČĐ .đĕĠąĘĞ ěėđ ,582 ĪĚĞ ,GLAJJ, 2 ,ěĤĔĥ ,đČĤ ĕĥĕĚēĐ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤ ęĞ ĐĒ ČĕĥĜ ĕđĐĕĒ ĘĞ ;(PL 22, 570) 57 ĪĝĚ čĦėĚ .44 .266–265 ĪĚĞ ,Die Institution ,ĝčđģČĕ Ēĕ ,ČīĠ ĐĔđĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ęĎ đđĥĐđ .(ęĥ ĦđĘĕčģĚĐ đČĤđ ,883 ĪĚĞ ,ģčĘČąĤđďđČĦ ĦĤđďĐĚ) Đ ,ĐĞ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč .45 .īďđď Ęĥ đĚĥĘ đĚĥ ęĕďģĐĥī ěđđĕėĚ ĎĤĐĜĥ ĤĜčČ ĘĞ ,ĦđĘĕčģĚđ ,čīĞ ČčđĐĥ ,Ars Rhetorica, 27 đĤđčĕēč ,ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚĐ ěč ĤđĔĤ ,ĤđĔģĕđ ĝđĕĘđĕ ĝđĕČĎ ĥĤđďĥ ĕĠė .46 ĐĠđģĦč Ĥčė ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč đĜĕĢĚ ĦČĒė ĐďĠģĐ .189–184 ĪĚĞ ,Greek and Latin Letters ,ĠČĤĔ Ęĥ ĐĕĎđĘđĦĜČč đĚĥĘ ĖĘĚĐ Ęĥ đĚĥ ĦČ ęĕďģĐĘ ďĕĚĦ ďĕĠģĚĐ ,ěđĜĒ Ęĥ ĞďđĜĐ ěđĕėĤČč đĘĎĦĜ đĕčĦėĚĥ ,ĐĕčđĔ ĘĢČ ĘĥĚĘ ,ĦĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ V. Tcherikover and A. Fuks, Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum, I đČĤ .(ĝđĕĜđĘđĠČ ĤĥĐ ĕĠĘė Ėė ĎĐĜ ČĘĥ ğČ) đĘĥ .5 ĪĝĚ ĝđĤĕĠĠ Ęĥ 9 ĐĤđĥĘ ĐĤĞĐ ,(Cambridge, 1957), p. 129 .131–130 ĪĚĞ ,īĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĦđČĚč ČĕĥĜĐ ďĚĞĚī ,ěĕđĘ .47

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ęĕČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ

ęĕĤčď ,Ęīđēč đĦĝĜĤĠĘ ĦČĢĘ đĦĜđđėč īĤģĕď ČĤĎĕČī ĘčģĘ đĜđĢĤ ĦČ ĖđĤėĘ Ğďđĕ ğČ Đĕĕē ĕčĤ 39.ęđģĚĐ đĘĕČđ 40.īĦđēĕĘĥĐĚ ĐĝĜėĐĐī ĦČ ČĕĥĜĐĚ Ęčĕģĥ ,ĝĚđģĐ ğĝđĕ ĘĞ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ĕĤčď ĦČ ģđĕďč ęĕĚČđĦĐ ďĕģĠĦĐ ČđĐđ ,Đĕĕē ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ČĕĥĜĐ ĕēđĘĥ Ęĥ ĤēČ ģĐčđĚ ďĕģĠĦ ĕđĘĕĚĘ ĒĚĤ ĥĕĥ ĐĚđď ĦĤēČ ĐĕĎđĝč :īęĕĝĜĤĠī ĦđĜĚĘ ĥĕ ďĢĕė ęĕĜď (ČīĞ Čė ,ēīĠ ĐČĠ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĐĕĎđĝč .ĐĘĕĐģ ĕĥČĤ ĦđĜĚĘ ĘčģĘ ĕđĜĕĚĐ ĕčĤĝĚ ĦČ ęĕĞĜėĥĚ ďĢĕėđ ĕđĜĕĚĐ ĦĞĥč ęĐĘ ęĕĤĚđČ ĐĚ ,(ęĕēČ ĕĜĥ) ęĕĜĚĚ ČĘ ĕĚ ĦČ ęĕĞĕĎĚĥ ďĞ ,īěĕĝĜĤĠī đČ īĝĜĤĠī ČĕĐ ĐĕĎđĝĐ Ęėč ēĦĠĚĐ ĦĘĕĚ .ĦăđĝĜĤĠĐ ĘđĞ ĦČ ĦČĒ Ęėč ęĐĕĘĞ Ęĥ ěđėĤČĐī ČĕĥĜĐ ĦČ ĝđĕĜČčĕĘ ĐĜĕė ĤđĚČė .īěĕĜđėĤČ ęĕģĚī ĐĕĐĥ ĤĚČĜ đĕĘĞ ģĤđ ,ČčČ Ĥč Čĕĕē ĕčĤĘ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěĐ ,ęĕĜđĥĐ ęĕĤĠĝĚĐĥ ø ĐĚđď .ČĕĥĜĐ ěđĢĤč ĐĜĚĦĚ ĕĚđģĚĐ īěđėĤČīĐĥ đĜĕĕĐď ,īęĕĜđėĤČĐ ęĕďĕģĠĦ ĘĞ ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ Á ĦđēĕĘĥĐ ďĕģĠĦ ĘĞ ďđČĚ ĐčĤĐ ĦĞďĘ ęĕčĕĕē đĕĐ ,ĐČĠ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěĐđ ĐĎĕĎē ĐĜĕĚđ īēĕĘĥī Ęĥ ĦđĤĎĕČ Ęčĕģ ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĕčĤĥ ĤĚđĘ đĘėđĕĥ ĕďė Á ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĥĤđĠĚ ęĜĕČĥ 41.īěĕĜđėĤČī ĕĠąĘĞ ĕĘđČ ĐēĝđĜ đĒĥ ĤĚČĜĥ ěĕčđ ,Đĕĕē ĕčĤĘ ĐĤĝĚĜĥ ĦĤĎĕČĐ Ęĥ ĦđĕĔĜĦđČĘ ěđĞĔĘ ĐĢĤĜĥ ěĕč ĦČ čđČĥĘ ęĕēĝĜĚĐ đĘėĕ ěĕĕĜĚ ĘđČĥĘ ĤĦđĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčĥ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĕĥčĎĚ ĕďĕč ĐĦĕĕĐĥ ĕĐĥĘė ĐĞĕďĕ đĞĕĎĐĥ ęĕčĦėĚ ĕĘđČ đďģĠđĐ đčđ ,ČĕĥĜĐ ĤĢēĘ ĖđĚĝč ěđĕėĤČ ěĕĞĚ ĐĕĐĥ ,ČĕĐ ĦēČ ĦđĤĥĠČ .ęĐĕĦđĞĕďĕ ĦČĒė ĦđČĕĢĚĥ ĤēČ ęđģĚĚ ęĕĞĚđĥ đĜČ ĘčČ ,ĐĤĞĥĐ đĒĥ ěčđĚ .ēĘĥ ČđĐĥ ĐĘČĚ ęĕģĦĞĐ ğČđ đĕĘČ ěđĕėĤČĘ ĒĚĤ .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ČĕĥĜĐ ĦĤĥĚĘ ĐĘĕčģĚĐ ĐĤĥĚĐ ĘĞč ,Ęččč ĐĘđĎĐ ĥČĤ Ęĥ đĤĢēč ĐĦĕĕĐ čĕĦė Čďēč ,ěĤĎĕČ ěĕĤĦ ēėĥČ ČčģđĞ ĤĚī ĕė ĤĠĝĚĐ ,(ČīĞ ČĞ ,ČīĠ ĐĘĕĎĚ) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč Čģđđď ČĢĚĜ ĐĒė ĐĘČ ęĕēĝđĜ ,đĜĕČĤĥ ĕĠė .ī. . . čĕĦė Čďēčđ ĪěĕĚđĕ ěĕĦĘĦ ČĦĥ ĘĞ ĐĠĝđĚ ĕĕĤčē ĕĠČčđ ĕĕĠČč ĤĠĥđĪ .ęĦđĕĤđģĚ ĦĘČĥč ĞĕĤėĐĘ ěĕČđ 42,ęĕďđĚĘĦčđ ČĦĠĝđĦč ĐĔĔđĢĥ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤ Ęĥ ĦĤĎĕČĐ ĘĞ ęĕĝĝđčĚ đēĘĥĜĥ ĒĚĤ ěĕĞĚ ,Ęččč ĐĘđĎĐ ĥČĤ ČčģđĞ ĤĚ ĕďĕč īđČĢĚĜī ĦđĤĎĕČĐĥ ,đĚđĦ ĕĠĘ ēĕĥĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĘčČ 43.īčĕėĤČ ěĕĞĚīč ĐĘđĎĐ ĥČĤ Ħĕčč ęČĢĚ ČčģđĞ ĤĚ ĐĘđĎĐ ĥČĤđ ,ĐĤĥĚč đĕĚďđģĚ đĐď ěČĚĘ ,ĦđĜĚĘČĘđ ęĕĚđĦĕĘ ęģĘēĘ ĦĜĚ ĘĞ ęĕĠĝė Čĕĕē ĪĤ ĐčĎ đĒ ĦĤđĝĚč ĕė ĤĕĞĐĘ ĥĕ ;ČīĞ ďĞ ,ĎīĠ ĐĘĕĎĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .39 S. Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. ģďđĢ .ęĕĚėēĘ ęģĘĕēđ ęĕĠĝėĐ Ęĥ ęďĞĕ ĦČ čĝĕĐĥ ČĘČ ĐďĕĚ ĐĦđČč ĖČ ,ČĕĥĜĐ ęĞĔĚ ĐĚĤĦĐ ĞĝĚĘ ĐĕČĤ ěČė ěĕČĥ ,to 640 C.E. (Princeton and Oxford, 2001), p. 115

ĤėĜč ĐĚĤĦĐ Ęĥ ĞĝĚ Ęė ġčĥĘ ęĕĠĕďĞĚ đĕĐ ĕČďđ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ĕĚėēđ ,ġĚđēĘ Čĕĕē ĪĤ Čč ĦđēĕĘĥ đĒĕČ ĦĤĎĝĚč ĦĞďĘ ěĕČ .ĦđĢđĠĦč ěĐđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ěĐ ,ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĘĕĐģ ĕĎĕĐĜĚė ęĕĚėē Ęĥ Á ģďđĢ đĜĕČĥ ęČđ ģďđĢ ęČ Á ĕĚĢĞĐ ę ĀĕđĚĕď ĖđĦ ĘČ ęČ ĐĐđĦ ĕĜČ ,ġĚđē ĕďđĐĕ ĦĘĕĐģ ĦČ ĐĞĔĐ ęėēĐĥ ĤĚđĘđ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕčĥ ĤđĠĕĝĘ ěĕĚČĐĘ ğĕďĞĚ ġĤđđĥ ďđĞč :ĦĤēČ ěđĥĘ .ęĚĢĞ ęĕĚėēĐ Ęĥ rabbino-centricąĐ ęĦĕĕĔĜĚ ģĘēė ,đĚĢĞ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ĕĔĤĠč ĐĘē ČĘ īĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĦđČĕĢĚīĐ ĦčĝĐ Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, ĕĤčďė ČĘđ ,ČčČ Ĥč Čĕĕē ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĦĥģčč ĐĜđđėĐ đĒ ěėČđ .40 p. 269: “R.Chiyya b. Ba asked R. Eleazar to recommend him to R. Yudan Nesi’ah, so that the latter would write a letter of recommendation for him. He allegedly intended to move to another town to make čĦėĚĐĥ ĐĤđčĝĐ ,Cotton, Documentary Letters of Recommendation ĕĤčď ĘĞ ģđĘēĘ ĥĕĥ ĕĜĚđď ěė đĚė .a living.” “may simply reflect the practice of helping impoverished scholars to seek their fortune ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ,īęĕēđĘĥīĐ ĦđĤĎĕČĘ ğĤĔĢĚđ ,ĐĒĚ ĤĦđĕ ĐčĤĐ ČđĐ ,đĤĥģĐ ĕĠąĘĞ ěĐđ đĜėđĦ ĕĠąĘĞ ěĐ ,đĜĕĜĠĘĥ čĦėĚĐ .abroad” (p. 3) .ĦĕĜČĎĠĐđ ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ěĚ ęĎ đĜĞďĕ ęĐĕĘĞ ĕĐĘĥč Ĥčė ĐĚĕĕģĦĐ đĒ ĦđĘĕĞĠ ĕĤĐ ,ČčČ Ĥč Čĕĕē ĕčĤ ĕĚĕč Ĥčė ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĢđĠĦ čĤģč ĐĘĞĠ ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ěėČ ęČđ .41 Schwartz, “The Patriarchs and the Diaspora”, Ĥđčĝĥ ĕĠė ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ĐĘēĐ ČĘđ ,ĜīĐĝĘ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ ğČđ ,ĜīĐĝĘ 279 ĦĜĥč (ěđČĎ ČĤĕĤĥ čĤ ĦĤĎĕČ ĕĠąĘĞ) ĤĔĠĜĥ ,ěĜēđĕ ĪĤĘ ĤČĥĐ ěĕč đĕĦđĞĝĚ ĘĞ ēđđďĚ Čĕĕē ĕčĤ .p. 217 ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚĐ Ęĥ ęĕĞĥĦĐ ĦđĜĥč ęĞĠđ ęĕĜđĚĥĐ ĦđĜĥč ęĞĠ ,ĝđĜČĕĔĘģđĕď ĤĝĕģĐ Ĥģĕč ĤđĒČčĥ ĐĞĥč ĤđĢč ĐĐĥ .ĜīĐĝĘ .čīĞ Čĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĘčč ;ďīĞ ēĕ ,ČīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;đīĐ čīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ .42 ,Č ĖĤė ,ĘČĤĥĕ ĘĐģ :ĖđĦč ,īĦĕĔĜĒĕčĐđ ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĐĠđģĦč ĦđĢđĠĦĐđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕĤĥģī ,ĕČĤĠĝ Īĥ Ęĥ đĜđĥĘ Ėė .43 .16 ĪĚĞ ,Ęččč ĐĘđĎĐ ĦđĥČĤ ,Ĥč đđĥĐ ;214 ĪĚĞ

ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ

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ČđĠČ ČĕĐ ěĕČđ ,ĥĤďĚĐ Ħĕčč ĐĦĘĞĥ ĐĘČĥ ĤđĦĠĘ ĕďė (īČďĐ ěĚ ĐĜĕĞĚĥĕĜī) ěČėĘ ĐĝĕđĎĥ ČĘČ ,ĕČĚĢĞ 29.ĕĚďģČĐ ěđĕĞĐ Ęĥ ĕĤĠė ěČė ĐďĘđĜĥ ĐĕĢģđĤĔĝĜđģ ęĕčĤ ĦđĤđģĚ ĤđČĘ čĔĕĐ đĜĘ ĦĤėđĚĐ ĦĕďĝđĚ ĦĤĎĝĚ ĦĘđĔĜ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĒ ĐĞĕďĕ ěĕČ ,đĜĕČĤĥ ĕĠė ĔĠĥĚč 30,(ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐđ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ,ĝđĕčĝđČ) ĦĕĤĢđĜĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĕđĢĚĐ ĐĘČė ęĐčđ ,ęĕĕđĘĦąĕĦĘčđ ,ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ĦĤĎĕČč 31.ĝđĕĜČčĕĘđ Ĥĝĕģ ĝđĜČĕĘđĕ ęĐčđ ęĕĜČĎĠ ęĕĤĠđĝ Ęĥ ęĐĕčĦėĚ ĖđĦĚ ğČđ ĕĚđĤĐ ČđĐ īđĜēđĘĥī ĕė ĐĚđďđ ,īđĜč ČĢđĕė đĜĕēđĘĥ . . . ęėĕĘČ đĜēĘĕĥ ĕĤĐī :ěđĥĘ ĘĠė ČĢĚĜ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĐČčđĐĥ ģģđēĚĐ ęĎ .ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČđ ĝđĕčĝđČ ĘĢČ ĤėĒĜĐ ,apostolos Ęĥ ĕĚĥĤĐ đĕđĜĕėĘđ ďĕģĠĦĘ ĐĐĒĐ ĕĘĚĤđĠ ēĜđĚ ğĝėđ čĐĒ ĞđčĦĘ Ğđčģ ďĞđĚč ČĕĥĜĐ ĕďĕąĘĞ ęĕēĘĥĜĐ ,ĪęĕēđĘĥĪ ęĐĕĠč ęĕĜđėĚĐī ĘĞ ĤđĝĚĘ Ğďđĕ ĕĚđĤĐ īĝđĘđĕīĚ ĥģĕč ďĢĕė ĤĝĕģĐ ĤĠĝĚ ,ęĕďđĐĕĘ Ĥĝĕģ ĝđĜČĕĘđĕ Ęĥ ĞďđĜĐ đčĦėĚč ęĎ 32.īĦĝĜėĐ ĕĦč ĘėĚ . . . 33.īęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĝĚī ĦČ ĘĔčĕĥ ČĕĥĜĐ (ĐČĤĜė ĕĜĥĐ ĘĘĐ) 34,ĦđĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđĘĕĐģĐ čĤģč ęĕďĕģĠĦ ĕĘĞč ęĕĜĚĚ ęĕČĕĥĜĐĥ ĐĞĕďĕ ğģĥĚ ğČ ĤēČ ĕĚđĤ ģđē ěđėĤČĐī ęĕĜđėĚĐ ęĕČĕĥĜĐ ĘĞ ęĜĚČđ .ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ ĤČĕĦĥ ĕĠė ,ĝĚđģĐ ğĝđĕ ēđĘĥĐ ČĘĕĚ ĐĒ ěĕĞĚ ďĕģĠĦđ 35.ĝđĕĜČčĕĘ ĥĤđĠĚč ĤĠĝĚ ,ĤėĜč ĦđĘĕĐģ ĕĥČĤ ĕđĜĕĚč ęĦĞĠĥĐ ĘĞđ ,ęĕďđĐĕĐ Ęĥ īęĕĜđėĤČĐ Ęĥ ĦČĚ ĦđēĕĘĥĐ ĦĤĎĕČ ĘĞč ,ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĪĤĘ ęĕĝēđĕĚĐ ęĕĥĞĚč ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ğĕģĚ ěđĕĞ ,ĐĜĐđ ĦđĤđģĚĐ ĖđĦĚ ęĕĤĕĕĔĢĚ ĐĘČĥ ĕĠė ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĕďĕģĠĦĘ ĦēČĘ ĦēČ ĦđĚĕČĦĚ đĕĦđďĘđĦ ĕė ĐĘĞĚ ,ČĕĥĜĐ ČĕģďđĘđ ġĚđē ěĐčđ Ęīđēčĥ ĦđĤĕĕĞč Đĕĕē ĪĤ ĦČ đĜĕĢĚĥ ďčĘč đĒ ČĘ .đĜĕĜĚĥ ęĕĜđđĎĚĐ ęĕĕĜđĢĕēĐ ĕďđĐĕĚ ęĕĠĝė ĐčĎĥ ęĕĞĚđĥ đĜČ đĕĦđĞĝĚĚ ďēČčĥ ČĘČ 38,ČĚđĤ ĤĕĞĐ ğČđ 37,ěđĜčĘčĥ ĤđĢ 36,ĐĕĤđĝčĥ

ěđđĕėĚ Čģđđď ,đĦĞďĘ .ĖĠĐĘ ģđĕďč ĤđčĝĐ ,249 ĪĚĞ ,ěĕĤďĐĜĝĐ ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĤģēĚ ,ĘĔĜĚ ĦĞď ĘĞ ģĘđē ĕĜČ Ėėč .29 ĐĥĞĚĘ ĐĦĕĐ ĦĤĎČč ĐĘđĘėĐ ĦđėĚĝĐĥ . . . ēĕĜĐĘ đĜĕĘĞī ,ĐĎĢđĐĥ ĐĘČĥĐ ĘĞ ĦđĜĞĘ ĕďė ĐĒ ĐĤģĚ ČĕčĐ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐĥ .īĐėĕĚĝĐ ęĕďđĐĕĐ Ęĥ ęĕČĕĥĜĐ đĕĥėĞ ďĞĥ ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐ čĦđė (PL 26, col. 311) 1 ,Č ,Č ęĕĔČĘĎĐ ĘČ ĦĤĎĕČĘ đĥđĤĕĠč .30 .ęĕģđēĐ ĘĞ ĤđĚĥĘ ďĢĕė ĦđČĤđĐ ęĞ ęĕēĕĘĥ ęĕĤĎĥĚ ĦĤėĒĜ ĐĕĘĔĕČčĥ ĐĝđĜđđĚ ĦčđĦėč .ĤėĜč ęĕēĕĘĥĐ Ęĥ ęĘĞĠĘ ĦēČ ĦĕĠĤĎĕĠČ ĦđďĞ Á ĕĘđČ Á ęĎ ĦĚĕĕģ .31 ĐĤĔĠĜĥ ,ĐĜĕĔĝđČĠ ĐĚĥđ ĐĤĞĜ đďĕĠĝĐĥ ,(duo apostuli et duo rebbites) īęĕĜčĤ ĕĜĥđ ęĕēĕĘĥ ĕĜĥī Ęĥ ęĦđēėđĜ .D. Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, I (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 114–119 đČĤ ;ĐĤĥĞ ĞčĤČ Ħč ČĕĐđ đĞĕĢĐ ěė ĘĞđ ,ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĘđĔĕč ĕĤēČ ĤĚđĘė ,ĦĕĞĕčĥĐ ğČ ĕĘđČđ ĦĕĥĕĥĐ ĐČĚĘ ĐĦđČ ĖĤČĦĘ ęĕĔđĜ ĦčđĦėĐ ĕĤģđē ęĘđČđ ,ġĤđđĥ ĘĢČ ęđėĕĝĐ ěėđ ,ęĥ ĕđĜ ĦđĤĞĐ đČĤ .ĘččĚ ęČđ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĚ ęČ ,ęĕĤēČ ęĕĕďđĐĕ ĦđďĝđĚ Ęĥ ęĕēĕĘĥĘ ĐĜđđėĐĥ .Imperialism and Jewish Society, p. 125 n. 70 ĦĕĚđĤĐ ĦđĤĝĕģĐ ĕģđēč ĦđďĐĕĐđ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ,ĤďĜĕĘ ĪČ đČĤ ;(399 ĘĕĤĠČč 11 ęđĕĚ) 14 ,8 ,ĒĔ ĝđĕĝđďđČĦ ĝģďđģ .32 ĤĠđĝĚĐ Ęĥ ĤĥģĐĐ ĘĘĎč ĐČĤĜė ,īęĕėĚĝđĚ ęĕĚėēī ęĕēđĘĥĘ ČĤđģ ĤďĜĕĘ ,3 ĐĤĞĐč ,ęĥđ ,157 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ěĕč ĐĒ Ĥđčĕēĥ ĕĠąĘĞąğČ ,ēđĘĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĦđĞďđĐĐ ĦČ ęĎ īēđĘĥīĐ ĕďĕģĠĦ ĘĞ ğĕĝđĚ ČđĐ ěė ĘĞđ ,ĐĎĕĎē ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĤĝĚĜ ĦđĥĤđĠĚ ĦđČĤđĐ đĘĕČ ĦĞďĘ ěĕČ ĕė ęČ) ĥĤđĠĚč ęđģĚ ęđĥč ěĕđĢ ČĘ ęĕďĞđĚĐ ĕĜĚĒ ĘĞ ĦđĞďđĐĐ ěĕčĘ apostoliąĐ ČĕĥĜĐ ĤđčĞč ęĕĠĝė ğđĝČĘ ĕĤĝĕģĐ ĤđĝĕČĐ .([30 ĐĤĞĐ ,ĘĕĞĘ] ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐ ĤĝđĚ ęĐĕĘĞĥ ęĕČĕĥĜĐ ĦČĚ ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĕďĕč .163 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤďĜĕĘ đČĤ .ĤēČ ģđēč ĘĔđč .116–112 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤďĜĕĘ đČĤ .33 .160 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ĤďĜĕĘ ;(404 ĤČđĤčĠč 3 ęđĕĚ) 15 ,8 ,ĒĔ ĝđĕĝđďđČĦ ĝģďđģ .34 .Stern, GLAJJ, 2, pp. 588–589 đČĤ .35 ęĎ ĕĘđČđ ,ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĕčĤ Ęĥ ęĕĠĝđĜ ĦđĞĝĚ ĘĞ .91 ĪĚĞ ,ď ,Čĕ ĐčĤ ĦĕĥČĤč ;ČīĞ ďĞ ,ĎīĠ ĐĘĕĎĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .36 .ČīĞ Čė ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ;ČīĞ đĚ ĦđĚčĕ ,ĕĘčč đČĤ ,ĐĕĤđĝ ĕčēĤč .ďīĞ ďĝ ,ĎīĠ ěĕĥđďĕģ ;ČīĞ đ ,ĎīĠ ĦđėĤč ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .37 .ďīĞ ďĜ ,ďīĠ ĕĜĥ ĤĥĞĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .38

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ęĕČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ

đčĦė ,ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČĘ ēĤč ĐĘĐĥ ČĘČ ,ČĕĥĜ ĕČčĔ ěč ĐďđĐĕ ĦČ ĦđĜĚĘ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĕĜč đĥģĕč ĤĥČė 23.ČĕĥĜĘ 24.īđĕĘĞ ĐĚđĎĞ Ħčĥđĕ ĕĜČđ ęėĘĢČ čĥđĕ ĕĝđĤČ ĕĦĚ ďĞ ;ĐĜĔģĐ ĐČĕĤďĜĝėĘČĘ ĐĘđďĎĐ ęĕĘĥđĤĕĚī :đĘ ,ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĐĕĢģđĤĔĝĜđģ ČđĐ ĔĔđĢĚĐ čĦėĚĐ đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ęĕĤģĚĐ ěĚ ďēČ Ęėč ęČ ĞĕĤėĐĘ đĜĕďĕč ěĕČ Ėė đČ Ėė ĘčČ ,ěĘĐĘ ĒđĚĤĜ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĦđĤĥĠČĘ ĐčđĤģĐ ĦēČ ĐĚĎđďĘ .ęĕĕĔĜĦđČ ęĕčĦėĚ đďĤĥ ČĚĥ đČ đĞĚĥđĐĥ ĦđĜĞĔ ēėđĜĘ Čģđđď ĦČĒđ ,ĦĕĤčĞč ęĕčĦėĚĐ ĦČ ĎĕĢĐĘ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ĕĘĞč Ęĥ ěđĢĤĘ čĘ ęĕĥĘ ĥĕ ĐĒ ĘĘėčđ) čĤĞĚč ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđĤčđď ĘČĤĥĕ ĦđĘĕĐģ čĤģč ĐĔĘģĜ ČĘ ĘīĒē Ęĥ ĦĤđĝĚĐ ěĐĕĠĘđ ĐĜđĤēČč ,ĤĘĕĚ ĪĠ ĐČĤĐĥ ĕĠė ,ĤĤčĦĚ 25.ĐĘČ ĦđĢđčģ čĤģč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĠĥĐ ĦĞĕďĕąĕČ Ęĥč (ęĕĤĢĚčĥ ĐĕĤďĜĝėĘČ ĦđĤĥĠČĐ ĦČ ğĝĐ ĘĞ ĦđēďĘ ěĕČ ěė ĘĞđ ,ĐēĕĜĒ Đė ĐĦĕĕĐ ČĘ ĐĕĤđĝ ĕďđĐĕ čĤģč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĦĞĕďĕ ĕė 26.ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĠĥč ęĎ ĦČĒė ĐĘĕĐģĘ ęĕĕĚĥĤ ęĕčĦėĚ đĤĎĥĕ ęĕČĕĥĜĐĥ Ęĥ ĐĘČ ĦđĤĎĕČ ĕēĝĜĚ đĝĝčĦĐ ĦđĞĕďĕ đĘĕČ ĘĞ đČ ,đčČĥĜ ěĕĜĚ :ĐĕĕĜĥĐ đĜĦĘČĥĘ ĦĞė ĤđĒēĜ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕĐ ďđĚĘĦĐ ěĚ ĐĕĎđĝč ČđĢĚĘ ĤĥĠČ ĖėĘ ĒĚĤĥ ĐĚđď ?ĦĔĘđč Đė ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěĜđĥĘĥ ,ęĕČĕĥĜĐ īęĦėĕĚĝī) ę ĀĕđĜĕĚ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĐĜď ęĥ ĐĕĎđĝĐ .ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĜĕĕĜĞč ,ĘĕĞĘ đĜĕĕĢĥ ĐĎĕĎē ĦėĝĚč ęđēĦč ĦđĕđėĚĝ ěĦĚčđ īĕčĤī ĤČđĦĐ ĦģĜĞĐč ĐđđĘ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČčĥ ĕđĜĕĚ ,ęĕĜģĒ Ęĥ 27(ĕĘččĐ ěđĥĘč ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĚďģĥ ĦđĤđĥč 28.ęĕĚĦė ĦđČĤĘ đČ ęĕĤďĜ ĤĕĦĐĘ ěėđ ,ĦđĝĜģ ĕĜĕď ěđďĘ ĦđĥĤĐ đĚė ,ĔĠĥĚĐ ĤĥĠČ ęđĘė :đĜĕĕĐ Á ī?ęĕďĕēĕ ęĕĤčďĘ ęĕĜĕģĒ ĦđĜĚĘ đĐĚī Á ĦĤēČ ĐĘČĥ ĐČčđĐ đĜĘĥ ěđĕďĘ ĐĎĕĎē Ęĥ ĐĘČĥč ĦēĦđĠ đĜĦĕĕĎđĝ ęĎ Ėėđ .ĕđĜĕĚĐ ęĞ ĘĘė ĖĤďč ĦđČčĐ ĦđĕđėĚĝĐ ěĚ ģĘē ģĤ ĐĜđĚĚĘ ģĕĜĞĐĘ .ĘčĎđĚ ěĚĒĘ ĐėĕĚĝąĕđĜĕĚ ģĕĜĞĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ęČĐ ,ĤĚđĘė Á ī?ęĕĚĕĘ ęĕĜĕģĒ ĦđĜĚĘ đĐĚī :ĘčđģĚĐ ěĚ ĐĎĕĤē .ĐĘČĥĐ ěĕĕĜĞĚ ĘĘė ĐĜĕČ ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĐĤģĚĚ ĐČčđĐĥ ĐĕČĤĐ .ěĕĕĜĞĚ Ĥčď ĐĤđģ ěČėĥ ČĘČ ČĘČ īěģĒī Ęĥ ĘĘė đĜĕČ đĕĘČ ĐĜĚĦĜĥ ďĕģĠĦĐđ ,ĕđĜĕĚĘ ĐėĒĥ ĕĚ Ęĥ ĤČđĦ ĥĕ Ĥčė Đĕĕē ĕčĤĘĥ ĐĚđď ęđĕģąęďģ ĐĘ ĐĕĐ .ĤēČ ĤĥģĐč ĐďĘđĜ ĐĘČĥĐ ĘĞ ĦđĜĞĘ ĕďė ĐČčđĐĥ ĐĕČĤĐ ,ĤĚđĘė .apostolos Ęĥ

ĕĜĦ ĕĕĜĦ ĦĕČ .ěĕď Ħĕč čČ ēĔĥ ěč ěđĞĚĥđ ČĕĥĜ ĕČčĔ ěč ĐďđĐĕ :ěĜĕĜĦ ěĜČī :ďīĞ ďĞ ,čīĠ ĐĎĕĎē ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .23 .ī. . . ğĘēĚđ P. Schäfer, đČĤđ ,ĘĠĤĞč ęĕĔđĘ ,ĐĒė ĥĕ ęČ ,ĕĤđĔĝĕĐĐ ĐĞģĤ ěĐđ đĒ ĐďĎČ Ęĥ ĕĦđĤĠĝĐ ĐĜčĚĐ ěĐ ;ęĥ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .24 “‘From Jerusalem the Great to Alexandria the Small’ — The Relationship between Palestine and Egypt in the Graeco-Roman Period”, in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture (ed. P. Schäfer; Tübingen, .ĦĕĚĤČč ĤđĠĕĝĐ ĕģĘē ĤČĥ Ęė đĘĕČđ ,ĦĕĤčĞč ĤĝĚĜ čĦėĚĐ ģĤĥ ,130 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ěĕĕĢ ĤĠĥ .1998), I, pp. 129–140 A. Edrei and D. Mendels, “A Split Jewish Diaspora: Its Dramatic Consequences”, Journal for đČĤ .25 .the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 16 (2007), pp. 91–137; ibid. 17 (2008), pp. 163–187 ĦĜĥč ĐĕėđĕĔĜČč ďĘđĜ) ĜīĐĝĘ 423 ĦĜĥĚ ĝđĤĕģ Ęĥ ğđĥĕčĐ ,ĔĤđďđČĦ Ęĥ đĦđďĞ ĘĞ ęĕĝĝđčĚ ĤĘĕĚ ĕĤčď .26 F. Millar, “Christian Emperors, Christian Church, and the Jews of the Diaspora in the đČĤ .(ĜīĐĝĘ 393 Greek East, A.D. 379–450”, JJS 55 (2004), pp. 1–24, esp. pp. 18–19 (= F. Millar, Rome, the Greek World and the East, III: The Greek World, the Jews and the East [eds. H. M. Cotton and G. M. Rogers]; Chapel Hill, ĦđĕđĤĥĠČĐđ ,ĦĕĤčĞč ĥďđģĐ ĕčĦėč ,ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐđ ĝĜĎĕĤđČ đĚė ,ĐĕĝĜė ĦđčČ Ęĥ ęĦđĜĕĕĜĞĦĐ ęĎ ;2006, pp. 479–480) ,ĐĕĤđĝčĥ ĝĕģĘė ĤđĒČč ĝđĚĕĜđĤĕĕĐ Ęĥ ĐĤģĚč ĦđēĠĘđ ,ęĦď ĦČ đĤĕĚĐĥ ĕĚĚ đČ ęĕďđĐĕĚ ĦĕĤčĞ ďđĚĘĘ ęĦđĥĤĘ đďĚĞĥ A. Salvesen, “A Convergence of the Ways? đČĤđ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČĘ ġđēĚ ęĎ ęĕďđĐĕ čĤģč ĦĕĤčĞ ĦĞĕďĕ ĘĞ ĦďĚĘĚ The Judaizing of Christian Scripture by Origen and Jerome”, in The Ways that Never Parted — Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (eds. A. H. Becker and A. Y. Reed; Tübingen, 2003), .pp. 233–257 .īČĦđėĕĚĝ ĐĕĕđĜĚĘ ĕĕĤģ ěĚĦī :ČīĞ Ĕĕ ,ČīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ đČĤ .27 .ĎīĞ đĞ ,ČīĠ ĐĎĕĎē ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;ČīĞ Đ ,ęĥ ;čīĞ Ďĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĘčč .28

ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ

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ġĤČčī :ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ Ęĥ ĐĔđčĐ đĦĒĤėĐ ĦČ đĤėĒ ęĕēĝĜĚĐ ČĚĥ .ěđčĥēč ĦđČč ĦđďēČ ĦđčđĥĦ ĦđĤĥĠČ Ęė ĐĤĕĦđĐ ČĘ ĐĤđČėĘĥ ĐĤĐĢĐ 18,īĦĕĜđđĕ ěđĥĘ đČ ĥďđģĐ ěđĥĘ đČ ?ĐĚĘ ĕĝĤđĝ ěđĥĘ ĘČĤĥĕ ğČđ .ęĘđėĚ ĘđďĎĐ ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĕĤĥĠĦĚąĕĦĘčĐ đĕĤčď ĤđČĘ ,ĦĕĚĤČč ĕĘĚĤđĠ ĥđĚĕĥ ČĕĥĜĐ ĦĕčĘ ĝēĕĕĘ Ęĥ ĐĘđďĎĐ đĦĤĕĢĕĥ ,ĐĔđĥĠĐ ĐďčđĞĐ ěĚ ęĘĞĦĐĘ ěĕČ ĦČĒ Ęėč ,ĕďĚĘ ĦĕčĕĔĘđģĠĝ ĦĕČĤĜ đĒ ĐēĜĐĥ .ĦĕĤčĞč ČĕĐ ğČ ĐėĤĞĜ ,ĐĜĥĚĐ ,ĕčĤ ĕĠąĘĞąğČĥ ,ęĕĤđčĝĐ ęĕĤģđē ĥĕ .ĕĚđČĘąĕďđĐĕ ĕđĔĕč ,ĕĘđčĚĕĝ đĐĥĚ ČĔčĘ ĦĥģčĚ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ČĚĥđ Ęėč ČĕĐ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕďđĐĕ ĦĕčĤĚ Ęĥ ĦĕĚđĕąęđĕĐ ęĦĠĥė ĐĔĘĥ ČĘ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč Ĥčėĥ ęĕĚēđĘ ěĐđ ,ęĕČĜđĚĥēĐ đĚė ,ĦĕďđĐĕĐ ĐĜĕďĚĐ ĕĚĕģĚ ěĐ ĐĘ đģģĒĜ ĕďėč ČĘđ ,“nationhood” ĐĘĚĝ ĦČĒ ĘĚĝė ČĕĥĜĐ ĝĠĦĜĥ Ęėė 19.Ččėđė Ĥč ďĤĚđ ěčĤđēĐ ĦĚēĘĚ ĕĚĕč ęĕďĤđĚĐ đĚė ,ĥďēĚ ĐĚĕģĐĘ đĥģĕčĥ 20.ĦĕĤčĞč đēĝđĜĕ đĕďĕ ĦēĦĚ đČĢĕĥ ęĕĕĘĚĤđĠ ęĕčĦėĚĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ĐĕĐ ĕĞčĔ ĖČ ,ĦĕďđĐĕ īĦđĕĚđČĘīĘ čĤĞĚĘ ěĐ ,ĦđĤēČ ĦđĢĤČĘ ĦđČĢđĕĐ ĦđĤĎĕČč Čģđđď ĦĥģčĦĚ ĦĕĤčĞĐĥ ęĕēĝĜĚĐ đēĕĜĐ ĕĘđČđ ČĚĥ ĖČ ,Ĥđčĕď ĦĠĥ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĥĚĕĥ ěČė ČĘđ ěČė ČĘ ęĜĚČ .ĕĝĤĠĐ ēĤĒĚĘ ěĐđ ĕĚđĤĐąĕĔĝĕĜĘĐĐ ęĕďđĐĕ ęĕĎĕĐĜĚ ĦđēĠĘ ĐĦđČ đĜĕčĕĥ ,ĦĕĚđČĘąěĕč ĦĕďđĐĕ ĐĠĥė ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĦČ ĎĕĢĐĘ ěđĢĤ ĐĕĐ ĦČĒ Ęėč đČčđĐ ,ĦĤēČĘ ĦēČ ġĤČĚ ęĕďđĐĕ đēĘĥĥ ęĕĤēČ ęĕčĦėĚ ęĎ ĞđďĚ ěĕčĜ ,ĐčĕĝĐ đĒ ěėČ ęČ 21.ęĐ ĤĥČč ęĕģēĤĚĚĥ ,ěĕčĕĢĜĚ ĐĤĕĦč ěč ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĤđĠĕĝč ĘĥĚĘ Ėė .ĕĚĤČ ĕĦđĤĠĝ ĤĥģĐč ęĎ ĦĕĤčĞč ęĕďđĚĘĦč ęĕĞĕĎĚĥ ďĞ ĦĕĚĤČč đĘđė ĤđĠĕĝĐ Á ēĝĠĐ ěčĤđģĚ ĘđėČĘ ĥģĕčĥ ĕĤėđĜĐ ĦČ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ēĠč ĘĕĠĐ 22.īęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĐĝđĤĠ ĖĦďđĢĚđ ěĕčĕĢĜč ĦČď ,ĐĤĕĦč ěč ĐďđĐĕ ĪĤ ĖĘ ęĘĥī :ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ĕĜč đĘ đēĘĥĥ ęĕĤčďĘ ĐĕĐĥ ĐĒ ČđĐ Ęīđēč čĦđėĚĐ Čģđđď ęĕĤĠĝĚĐ ĦĞďĘĥ ĤĥĠČ ęĞĠĐĥ ČĘČ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč đĜĕĢĚ ĐĚđď ĐĤģĚ

.(ČīĞ ĎĠÀčīĞ čĠ ČĚģ Ččč =) čīĞ ĔĚ ĐĔđĝ ,ĕĘčč .18 S. Schwartz, “Language, Power and Identity in Ancient Palestine”, Past ĤČĥĐ ěĕč ,đČĤ ĐĒ ěĕĕĜĞĘ .19 and Present 148 (1995), pp. 3–47; D. Goodblatt, Elements of Ancient Jewish Nationalism (Cambridge, 2006), ĦĕĤčĞč ęĕďđĐĕ Ęĥ ĥđĚĕĥĐ ĦďĕĚ :ČĕĐđ ĦđčĤ ĐĜđďĕĜĥ ĐĘČĥ Ęĥ ĦĥďđēĚ Đģĕďč ģďđč ĔČĘčďđĎ .esp. pp. 49–70 “the mere presence of the language in spoken Á đĦĜģĝĚĥ ĐĚđď .ěčĤđēĐ ĤēČĘ ěėđ ,ĐĦēĜĒĐ đČ ĕĜĥ Ħĕč ĕĚĕč ęĜđĢĤ ĦĜčĐĘ ĦđčĤ ęđĤĦĘ ĐĕđĥĞ Á or written form could invoke the concept of a Jewish national entity”

đČ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĦĠďĞĐĘ ęĕĜđĥĐ ęĕĚĤđĎĐ ĘĞ ĥďē ěđĕďĘ .ĦĕĤčĞč ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĦČ đčĦė ęĕČĕĥĜĐĥ ēĕĜĐĘ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĕĤĠĝčđ ěČĤĚđģ ĦđĘĕĎĚč ĦĕĚĤČč đČ ĦĕĤčĞč ĐčĕĦėĐī ,čďąěč ěĦĜđĕ đČĤ ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ęĕďđĐĕ ęĕĤčēĚ ĕďĕč ĦĕĚĤČĐ ĦđĚđď ĐĘĞĚ ČđĐĥ ĦđĘČĥĐ ěĚ ģĘē ;(ĦčēĤĜ ĐĕĠĤĎđĕĘčĕč ,4 ĐĤĞĐ ,ęĥđ) 60–27 ĪĚĞ ,(ĔīĝĥĦ) ēĞ ġĕčĤĦ ,īęĕĜđĢĕēĐ ěđĥĘĐ ĦĤĕēčč ěď đĤģēĚ ĤģĕĞ ęĘđČđ .ĦđėĚĝ ĞĕčĐĘ ĕďė ĦĚĕđĝĚ ěđĥĘĘ ĦđģģĒĕĐĐ ďđēĕĕčđ ,ěČė đĜĎĢĐĥ ĐĘČĘ ĐĤđČėĘ .ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĐĤĕĢĕĘ ĘĘė ĝēĕĕĦĚ đĜĕČđ ,ĕĜĥĐ ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕč ĦđĚĘĥ ĦđĤĕĢĕ ĕĤčēĚ ĕďĕč ĦĞĠđĐĘ ěė ęĎ ęĤĦ ęĕĚėē Ęĥ ęĚĘđĞč ĦđĕđčĦėĦĐč ČĤģĚĐ ěĚ ęĕģđĝĠ ĕģĘēč ĥđĚĕĥĐ ĕđčĕĤĥ ĤĥĠČ .20 čđĦėĘ ĤđĝĕČĐ đČ ĤĦĕĐĐ ĘĞ) ČīĞ ďĞ ,ĎīĠ ĐĘĕĎĚ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ěđĕďĐ đČĤđ ,ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ęĕĔĔđĢĚĐ ęĕčĦėĚč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĤėĒĜ ,ęĥ đČčđĐĥ ĦđČĚĎđďĐ ěĕčĥ ěĕĕĜĞĚđ ,(ĦđĕĔĤĠ ĦđĕđčĦėĦĐč ,ĔđĔĤĥ ČĘčđ ,ěĤďĝė ęĕčđĦėĐ ěĚ ĦđčĕĦ ĞčĤČ đČ ĥđĘĥ .ČĕĥĜĘ ĤēČđ ,ĐĘđĎĐ ĥČĤĘ ďēČ čĦėĚ ,ĕĘčč Ęĥ ĐĤģĚčĥ ğČ ,ĕĐĥĘė ĦđĕČĥē ĘĞ ĒđĚĤĘ Đĥģĕč ĦĕĤčĞĘ ĦđģģĒĕĐĐĥ ĤĚđĘđ ĎĕĘĠĐĘ ĐĢđĤ ĕĜĜĕČ .21 ęĕčĦđėĚĐ ģĤĥ đĐĥĘė ěĠđĢĘ ĦđģģĒĕĐĐ ĦČ ĔĕĘčĐĘ đĥģĕč ęĕēĝĜĚĐĥ ĤėĕĜ (ī. . . ĦģĤĚ Čč ĎđĒī) ČīĞ čĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ Palestine in the Third and ,[15 ĐĤĞĐ] ĘĕĞĘ ěĚĤčĕĘ ĕĤčď đČĤ) ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĘ ĘėĜĦĐĘ ęĕĥģčĚĐ ĐĘČ ČĘđ ,đĦđČ đĜĕčĕ .(Fourth Centuries .čīĞ Ď ęĕēĝĠ ,ĕĘčč .22

5

ęĕČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ

.ī ĪđĜĕĘĢČ ĞĕĎĚ ČđĐĥ ďĞ 12,đĜč ČĢđĕėđ đĜĕēđĘĥ ,ĘđďĎ ęďČ ęėĕĘČ đĜēĘĕĥ ĕĤĐĪ :ĐĕĘ čĦėđ ĐĕĝĕĕĠ .ČĦĕĕĤč ĤčĞĚđ ĦĕĚĤČč ĤđĠĕĝĘ ĐĚĎđď đĜĕĜĠĘ čđĥĥ ,ěČė Ĥčė ĤĕĞĜ ĖČ ,ěĘĐĘ ĤđĒēĜ đĒ ĦĤĎĕČ Ęĥ ĐĦđĞĚĥĚĘ 13.ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ đĦĤĎĕČ ěđĥĘ ĦČ ęĕĔĔĢĚĥ ĐĞĥč ĦĕĤčĞĘ ĕďĕĚ ĐČĢĕ ČĕĐ ğČĥ ,ĐĕĜĜē Ęĥ đĐĤģĚ đĚė ,ĐĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĦĠĝđĜ ĦĤĎĕČ đĜĕďĕčĥ ĤĥĠČ ĐĤđĥģ ĐĦĕĕĐ đĜĕď Ħĕčđ ČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ĦđĕĤģĕĞĐ đĕĦđĕđėĚĝĚ ĦēČ ĕė đĜĞďĕ ĕĤĐĥ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČčĥ ČĕĥĜĐ ęďĕčđ ĤĥĜ đĥĠĦđ ĦģĤĚ Čč ĎđĒ :ČčĤĘ ĐĕĘ đēĘĥī :đĜĕĢĚ (ČīĞ čĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ) ĕĘččč 14.ĕĤčĞĐ ēđĘĐ ĘđĐĕĜĘ čĕĢĜ ĞđčģĘ đĥģč ěđĥēĜ ĕėĕĤĕ ĕĝđĚĞđ .ęđĘĥč đČĢĕ ęĦđėĒčđ ęĕĚēĤĐ ĦđėĒč [. . .] ĒđĘč ęĕĥĞĜĐ ęĕĤčď ěėČđ .īěĐėĐ ěĤĐČ đč ĦĚĥ ēĤĕč ďēČ čĕĢĜ đĘ đĞčģđ đĠĝČĜ ĦđĠđĝČ ĕĘĞč ĘčČ ,ĒĘĐ ĕĚđďČ ěēĕĜĐ ČĘđ ďēČ čđĥē đĜĜĕĕĜĞĘ ĖČ 15,īēđĘĐ ĕĜĕĕĜĞč ĘččĘ ĞďĕĚ ĦĤčĞĐč ęĕĕĥģĐ ĘĞ ČĕĥĜĐĚ čĦėĚī đĜĕĜĠĘĥ ēĕĜĐ ěĕđĘ 16.ĦĕĤčĞč ĦēĝđĜĚ đĒ ĐĞďđĐ ęĎĥ ęĐĘĥ ĕĚĤČĐ ĕĦđĤĠĝĐ ĤĥģĐĐ ěĚ đČĢđĐ ĐĘČ ęĕčĦėĚ ĞđďĚ ĐĘĕēĦ ĘČĥĜđ ĐĘČ ĦđČĚĎđďč ģĠĦĝĜ ďĚĞĥ ĤđģĚ ĕĠąĘĞ ĐĔĔđĢ ĦđĤĎĕČĐ ěđĥĘ ęđĘė :ĘđČĥĘ ęĎ đĜČ ęĕČĥĤĥ ěčđĚ ?Čģđđď ĦĕĤčĞč đĔĔđĢđ čĘĥč ęĕĤĠĝĚĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕďĕ ĕĥĞĚ ČĕĐ ĦĕĤčĞĐ ěđĥĘĐ ČĚĥ đČ ,ĐĕĤĝđĚđ ĦĕĜčĤĐ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ĕėĤđĞ ĦđĥĤĘ ĦđĕĔĜĦđČč ģĠĝ ĘĕĔĜđ ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐĞďĐ ĦČ ĘčģĜ ęČ ęĎ ĘčČ ?ĐďĎČĐ đČ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ĦđđĐĦĐ Ęĥ đĐĥĘė ĐĘČ ęĕčĦėĚ ĎĕĢĐĘ ęĕēĝĜĚĐ đČĤ ĐĚ :ğģđĦ ĤĦĕč ĕĘđČđ ,ĐĚđģĚč ĐĘČĥĐ ĐĤĦđĜ ěĕĕďĞ ,ęĕčĦėĚĐ Ęĥ 17?Čģđđď ĦĕĤčĞč ęĕčĤč ĐĕđĢĚ ,đĚĢĞ čĦđėĐ ĐĕĐ đĘĕČė čĦėĚĐ ČĥđĜ ĘČ đĝēĕĕĦĕ čĦėĚĐ ĕČĤđģ đČ ęĕčĦđėĚĐĥ ,đĒ Đĥģč .12 ĐĕĕĜĥĐ ĐČĚĐĚ ęĥ ĐĚĎđďĐđ ,Trapp, Greek and Latin Letters, p. 23 đČĤđ ,ęĕĕĜĕĔĘĐđ ęĕĕĜđđĕĐ ĐĢĘĚĐĐ ĕčĦėĚĚ .87–86 ĪĚĞ ,(26 ĪĝĚ čĦėĚ) ĜīĐĝĘ ĕĠĘė ĕĘĕĘĥĐ đĝēĕč ĞďđĜĥ ,ĐĘĐ .ĐĚē Ĥč ĐĜĕĜē ĕčĤ ĦČĚ ĐĚđď ĦĤĎĕČĘ ČčČ Ĥč ěđĞĚĥ ĕčĤ Ęĥ đĦĥģč đđĥĐ .13 ĦĤĎĕČ Ęė ČĕĢđĚ đĜĕČ ,(ęĥ ĐĎĕĎē ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ęďđģĐ ĤđĠĕĝĐ đČĤ) ĐĘđďĎ ĐđđĢĚ ęĥĘđ ĐĞĥĘ đĘĕĠČđ ,ĘīđēĘ ĐČĕĢĕ Ęė ąġĤČ ĦđĘđčĎĚ ĐČĕĢĕĘ ĕĐĥĘė ĐĕĢĚĕĔĕĎĘ ěĦĚĚ ĞĜĚĕĐĘ čĕĕē Á ĐĜĕĜē ĕčĤ Á ČđĐ ĞđďĚ ĥģčĚĘ ĤĕčĝĚ ČĘČ ,đďĕ ĦēĦĚ đĘĞĠ ěĕčĥ ĕĜđĤģĞĐ ĘďčĐĐ ĦČ ĔĕĘčĐĘ ĥģčĚĥ ČĘČ ,đĜĕČĤĥ ČĕĥĜĐ ĘĞ ĤđĠĕĝĐ ďđĝĕč ĥĚĦĥĚ ĐĒ ĤđĠĕĝ ČĚĥ .ĘČĤĥĕ .ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ Ħčĕĥĕ ĘĞ ęėēĐ Ęĥ đĦďĠģĐ ěĕčĘ ,ĘīđēĘ ĐČĕĢĕ ĤĥĕČĥ ,ĐČĕĥĜ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ Ęĥ M. Jacobs, Die ;113–112 ĪĚĞ ,īČĕĥĜĐ ďĚĞĚī ,ěĕđĘ ;ĖĘĕČđ 203 ĪĚĞ ,ěĕĤďĐĜĝĐ ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĤģēĚ ĘĔĜĚ đČĤ .14 ĦĕĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĦđėĚĝĐ ĕė ,ĝčđģĪĎ ĕĤčď ĘĞ .Institution des jüdischen Patriarchen (Tübingen, 1995), pp. 195–205 D. Goodblatt, “From History to Story to History — The ĦĤĞĐ đČĤ ,ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĕĚĕč ģĤ ĐĘēĐ ēđĘĐ ĦĞĕčģĘ Rimmon Valley Seven”, in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture, 1 (ed. P. Schäfer; Tübingen, ĦďđģĠč đĥĞĜ ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĐĜĥĐ ĤđčĕĞ ĕĥĞĚĚ ĐĚėđ ĐĚėĥ ,ĔČĘčďđĎ ĞĕĢĚ đĤĚČĚ ĖĥĚĐč .1998), p. 183, n. 26 .ĐĜčĕď ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤč ĘēĐ ,ęĕČĕĥĜĐ S. Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries”, JQR đđĥĐ ;113 ĪĚĞ ,īČĕĥĜĐ ďĚĞĚī .15 ĖČ ,“a cryptic message by the Palestinian rabbis to Babylonia” čĦėĚĐ ĦČ ĤČĦĚĐ ,36 (1945–1946), p. 331 .ČĕĥĜĘ ĥĤđĠĚč ĦČĒ ĤĥģĚ đĜĕČ Čģđđď ęĞĠĐđ ,ĦđĢđĠĦĐ ĘČ ČĕĥĜĐĚ ČđĐ ğČ ēĘĥĜĥ ,ēđĘĐ ěĕĕĜĞč ĦĕĤčĞč ĤēČ čĦėĚĘ ĒĚĤ đĜĕďĕčĥ ĤĥĠČ .16 ěĕČ .īĤĝē ęĘđĞĘ ěĝĕĜĘ ĖđĚĝĐ ĤďČ :ČčģđĞ ĤĚĘ ĐĕĘ đēĘĥī :đĜĕĢĚ čīĞ Ĕĕ ĐĜĥĐ ĥČĤ ,ĕĘččč .ĦĕĘččĐ ĐĘĕĐģĐ ĕĥČĤĘ ,[ĘīĥĦ ,čĕčČąĘĦđ ęĕĘĥđĤĕ] ďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĕĚĕč Ęččč ĐĘđĎĐ ĦđĥČĤ) Ĥč ĐĥĚ ĦĞďĘ ĘčČ ,ĥĤđĠĚč ěČė ĤėĒĜ ČĕĥĜĐ ĞĎđĜĐ Ęėč ĦĞčđģĐđ ĦĕďĞĘčĐ ĦđėĚĝĐ ČĕĐ ĐĦĕĐ ,ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĐĦĕĐ ĦĚĕĕģ ďđĞ Ęėĥ ,đĜČ ęĕĞďđĕī :(16 ĪĚĞ .īĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ěĚ ČčģđĞ ĤĚ ĘČ ĐēĘĥĜ ĦĤėĒĜĐ ĐĞďđĐĐ ęĎĥ ģĠĝ ěĕČ ĖėĕĠĘ .ēđĘĐ ĦĞĕčģĘ ěĜēđĕĘ ĦĕčĐ ĤĐ ĦđĘĞĚ čĎ ĘĞ ĘČĕĘĚĎ ěčĤ čĕĦėĐĥ ĤđčĕĞĐ ěĕĕĜĞč ĦđĤĎĕČĐ đĚė ,ĘĘėĐ ěĚ ęĕČĢđĕ ĥĕĥ ěčđĚ .17 ĦđĤĎĕČĥ ĕĜĚđď ęĘđČđ .čīĞ Čĕ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĘčč ;ďīĞ ēĕ ,ČīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ ;đīĐ čīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ČĦĠĝđĦ Á ĒĘĐ ĤĠđĝ ęĕčĕĜĚ ĦčėĤđĚĐ ĦĕĚĤČ ěĐĕĘĞ đĥĕčĘĐ ęĕēĝĜĚĐĥ ČĢĚĕ ęĐč ěĕĕĞĚĐđ ,ĦĕčĐ ĕĚĕĘ ĦđĝēđĕĚ ěĐ ěėĥ ,đĜĜĕĕĜĞĚ ěĜĕČ ĐĘČ ĦđđĥĘ ęĕēĝĜĚĐ đĥģĕč ĦđĕĦđėČĘĚđ ęĒĕČėĤČ Ęĥ ĐĒ ďēđĕĚ ğđĤĕĢ ĕďĕąĘĞĥ ĐČĤĜ .ęČĢđĚčđ ęĜĚĒč ĐĒĚ ĐĒ ęĕĜđĥĐ Ęĥ ďđčĕĞ ČĘđ) ĦĕČĤđĚČĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĤđėĒČ ĦĕĥČĤĥ ęĕČĕĥĜ Ęĥ ĦđĤĎĕČč ĐĒ ĤĚČĚč đĜĜĕĕĜĞ .Ħđĕďđēĕĕđ ĦđĚďģ ĦđĤĎĕČĘ .ĦĕĤčĞč ěēđĝĕĜđ ,(ČĦĠĝđĦč ĤĚđē

ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ

4

ęĕĤĝĚ ęĎ đĘĕėĐ ĐĘČ ĦđĤĎĕČĥ ĤĥĠČđ 6,ęĕČĕĥĜĐ ĦČĚ ĕđĜĕĚ đČ ĐĢĘĚĐ ĕčĦėĚ ěĕĞĚč đďĕđĢ ęĕēĕĘĥĐ 7.ęĤĒēĥĘ ďĕĚĦ đĜĕďĕč ěĕČĥ ,ęĕĤēČ ĦđĤĎĕČ đĤėĒđĐ ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĦđĚđģĚ ĐĚėđ ĐĚėčđ ,ĦĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĦđďĞĐ ěĚ ęĎ ĦĤĥČĦĚ đĒ ĦđČĕĢĚ ěėđĦĘ đĜĕėĒĥ ęĕďďđčĐ ęĕĤģĚč ĘčČ ,ĦđĤĎĕČĐ Ęĥ ěĜėđĦ ĘĞ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ đĤĚĥ ďĕĚĦ ČĘ 8.ęĕČĕĥĜĐ đĤĎĕĥĥ ĦĤĎĝĚč čđĤąĕĠąĘĞ đĔĔđĢĥ ęĎĐ Á ĐĘČ ęĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ęĜđĥĘ :ĦĜĕĕĜĞĚ ĐĞĠđĦ ĐĚĢĞ ĘĞ ĦĤĒđē ,đĐĥĘė ĞĥđĐĕ ĕčĤ ĕēČ ěč ĐĕĜĜē ĦđďđČ ĘĞ ĤđĠĕĝč ,ĘĥĚĘ .ĦĕĤčĞ ďĕĚĦ ĔĞĚė ČĕĐ Á ĦĕĚĤČ ęĜđĥĘĥ ęĕĤđĠĕĝ ēĘĥ ČĕĥĜĐĥ Á ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč Čģđđď Á ĤĝĚĜ 9,ęĕďđĚĘĦĐ ĕĜĥč ĐĤĚĦĥĜĥ ĦĤđĝĚ ,Ęīđēč ęĕĜĥ ĤčĕĞĥ ęĕĕďĎī :ĐĕĕĜĥč ;īĐĕĜĜē ĦĥđďģĘī čđĦė ĐĕĐ ĐĜđĥČĤč 10.ěĦĜ ĕčĤđ ģēĢĕ ĕčĤ ĕďĕč ĦđĤĎĕČ ĥđĘĥ ĐĕĜĜēĘ ěđĕĜđēĜđ Ĕēđĥ ĕĐĦđ ďĔČĐ ĤčďĚĘ ĖĘ ČĢ ĖĕĘĞ ĘčģĚ ĦČ ěĕČ ęČī :ĦĕĥĕĘĥčđ ;īęĕĥĕĕĦ đĥĞĜ ĦēĜĕĐĥ ČĕĐĥ ĤĥĠČĥ Á ĦĕĘččĐ ĐĘĕčģĚčĥ ěĕĕĜĞĚđ ,ęĕčĦėĚĐ ĦČ īČĤģī ĐĕĜĜēĥ ĥĎďđĚ ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč .īģĤđĒ īęĕĕĜĤģ ĕĘĞč ęĕĥĕĕĦ đĥĞĜ ĦēĜĐĥ ęĕĕďĎī ęĕĤčďĐđ ,ęĕčĦėĚĘ ĤėĒ ěĕČ Á ĦĕĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ďđčĕĞ .ęĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ęĜėđĦė đĔĔđĢ ČĘđ ,ĐĕĜĜē ęĞ đĦĚĞĦĐĥ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕēĕĘĥ Ęĥ ęĐĕĠč đĚĥđĐ 11.(ďīĞ đĞ ,ČīĠ ĐĎĕĎē) ĕĚĘĥđĤĕč ĦĔĔđĢĚ ,đĜēĦĠ Đčĥ īĦđēĕĘĥīĐ ĦĞĠđĦĘ ĐĤđĥģĐ ,ĦĤēČ ĦĤĎĕČ ĕđĜĕĚ ģĕĜĞĐĘ ĤĥĠČ ęČĐ ,ČĕĐ ,īĐėĕĚĝī ĕĘččĐ ďđĚĘĦč ĕđĤģĐ đĜĕĕĐ ,ęĕĚėē ĕđĜĕĚ ĐĜĕĕĜĞĥ ,ęĥ ĐĕĎđĝĐ ČĦČ ČčČ Ĥč Đĕĕē ĪĤ .ČďĐ ěĚ ĐĜĕĞĚĥĕĜī :ČĢĚĜ ęĥ ĖĥĚĐčđ (?īęĕĚĕĘ ęĕĜĕģĒ ĦđĜĚĘ đĐĚī) čđĢģ ěĚĒĘ ČĞĤČĘ ĕĦĝĜĤĠĘ ģđĠĕĜ ,ĤģĕČď ČĤĎĕČ Čďē ĕĘ čđĦėĕď ČĕĕĥĜ ěďđĕ ĪĤĘ ĕĘ ĝĕĕĠ :ĐĕĘ ĪĚČ ,ĤĒĞĘ ĪĤ ĕčĎĘ

ęĘđĞč ďđČĚ ĦĤėđĚ ĐĎđĝ đĕĐ (συσταλικὴ ἐπιστολή: litterae commendaticiae) ĐĎĢĐ đČ ĐĢĘĚĐ ĕčĦėĚ .6 .ĦđčđĦėč đČ ęĕĝđĤĕĠĠč đďĤĥĥ ,ęĚĢĞ ęĕčĦėĚč ęĎđ ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦđĤĠĝč ęĎ ĦđĕđĢĚ ęĜėđĦĘ ĦđčĤĐ ĦđĕđďĞĐđ ,ĕĚđĤĐąĕĜđđĕĐ C. W. Keyes, ĘĢČ ęĕĝđĤĕĠĠč đďĤĥĥ ĦĕĜđđĕč ĐĘČė ęĕčĦėĚĘ ĦđČĚĎđď ęĕĥđĘĥ ĘĥĚĘ đČĤđ ,ĐčđĤĚ ęĐĕĘĞ ĦđĤĠĝĐ ĤĦđĕč ĞďđĜĐ ğĝđČĐ ;“The Greek Letter of Introduction”, American Journal of Philology 56 (1935), pp. 32–36 Ďĕ ĤĠĝč .Epistulae ad Familiares đĤģĕģ Ęĥ đĤđčĕēč ĕđĢĚ ,ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦĤĎĝĚč Čģđđď đďĤĥĥ ,ĦĕĜĕĔĘč ĐĢĘĚĐ ĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ęĕčĤ ęĕčĦėĚĥ ěčđĚ .ĜīĐĝĠĘ 45/46 ĐĜĥč đčĦėĜ ęčđĤĥ ,ĐĢĘĚĐ ĕčĦėĚ ĐĜđĚĥđ ęĕĞčĥĚ ĦđēĠ ČĘ đČčđĐ ĐĒ Ĥđčĕē Ęĥ R. Hercher, Epistolographi Ęĥ ČđĐ ĦĕĜđđĕč ĐĘČ Ęĥ ĞďđĜĐ ğĝđČĐđ ,ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐąđďđČĝĠ ęĐ ĦĕĦđĤĠĝ ĦĤĎĝĚč đďĤĥĥ P. A. Rosenmeyer, đČĤ ĦĕĜđđĕĐ ĦđĤĠĝč đĔĔđĢĥ ęĕĕĔĜĦđČąČĘ ęĕčĦėĚ ĘĞ Đĥďē ĐĕĠĤĎđĕĘčĕčĘ .Graeci (Paris 1873) ĦĕĜđđĕč ęĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ĐčđĔ ĐĕĎđĘđĦĜČ ;Ancient Greek Literary Letters (London and New York, 2006), pp. 9–10 ęĥđ ,M. Trapp, Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation (Cambridge, 2003) Ęĥ ČĕĐ ĦĕĜĕĔĘđ H. Cotton, Documentary ęĎ đČĤ .ęĐĕĜĕĚĘ ĐĢĘĚĐ ĕčĦėĚ Ęĥ ĦđČĚĎđď ęĕĎĢĕĕĚ (95–86 ĪĚĞ) 31–26 ĪĝĚ ęĕčĦėĚ Á (3 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ) ěĦđė Ęĥ ĐĦĤĞĐ .Letters of Recommendation in Latin from the Roman Empire (Königstein, 1981) .đĜĜđĕďĘ ďēđĕĚč ĐĚĕČĦĚ — “Diasporas encourage the practice of using letters of recommendation”

ĪĚĞ ,(1969 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) ěĕĤďĐĜĝĐ ĦđďĘđĦč ęĕĤģēĚ ,ĘĔĜĚ ďīē ęĎ đČĤ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČđ ęĕēĕĘĥĐ ĘĞ .7 .249–248 ĪĚĞ ěėđ ,ĦđēĕĘĥĐ ďĝđĚ ĘĞ ĦđĤĠĝĘ ĦđĕĜĠĐ 113–111 ĦđĤĞĐčđ 222–217 C. Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen, đČĤ ĘīĒē ĦđĤĠĝč ĕĘĘė ěĠđČč ĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ .8 .2001), pp. 267–275

ĕĦĥ ěĕč ĦđČđđĥĐĘ .čīĞÀČīĞ Ďĝ ĦđėĤč ,ĕĘčč ;(ČīĞ Ě ,đīĠ ęĕĤďĜ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ =) ČīĞ Ĕĕ ,ČīĠ ěĕĤďĐĜĝ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ .9 I. Gafni, Land, Center and Diaspora (Sheffield, 1997), pp. 107–111; A. Oppenheimer, “The đČĤ ĦđĤđĝĚĐ Attempt of Hananiah to Intercalate the Year in Babylonia”, in: The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman .Culture, II (eds. P. Schäfer and C. Hezser; Tübingen, 2000), pp. 255–264

,ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕ ĕčĤĘ Čģđđď ěđđėĚ đĜĕČ ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ěđĥĘč īĕčĤī ,ęĕĤģđē đĤĕĞĐĥ ĕĠė .īěĤĎĕČ ĪĎ ĪĤ ĐĕĘ ēĘĥī .10 ,čĕčČąĘĦ) č ,ďđĚĘĦĐđ ĐĜĥĚĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĦđďĘđĦ ,ěđĘČ ĪĎ đČĤ .ęĕČĕĥĜ ěĕĕĢĘ ĕĘĘė ěĠđČč ĥĚĥĚ ČĘČ .145 ĐĤĞĐ 76 ĪĚĞ ,(ĒīĔĥĦ .čīĞ čĚ ,ĕīĠ ęĕĤďĜ ,ĕĚĘĥđĤĕ :đĦĘĕčģĚđ .11

ęĕČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ ęĕĘĥđĤĕč ĦĕĤčĞĐ ĐĔĕĝĤčĕĜđČĐ

ĐĘČ ĦČ ĪęĕēĕĘĥĪ ĦđĜėĘ ęĕďđĐĕĐ ĕďĕč ĎĐĜĚ ęđĕĐ ęĎī :ĝđĕčĝđČ čĦđė čÀČ ēĕ đĐĕĞĥĕĘ đĥđĤĕĠč đĤĚČĚč 1.(ἐγκύκλια γράμματα παρὰ τῶν ἀρχόντων αὐτῶν) īęĐĕĎĕĐĜĚ ĦČĚ ęĕĤĒđē ęĕčĦėĚ ęĕČĕčĚĐ Ęėėĥ ěĕđĘ ĘČĤĥĕ ĤĕĞĐ ,ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĐČĚč ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČ ĕČĕĥĜ Ęĥ ęďĚĞĚ ĘĞ ęėĝĚĐđ čđĥēĐ ďčĘč đĒ ČĘ 3.ģďđĢ ěĕđĘĥ ģĠĝ ĔĞĚė ěĕČ 2.ęĕČĕĥĜĘ ČĕĐ ĝđĕčĝđČ ĕĤčďčĥ ἀρχόνωνąč ĐĜđđėĐ ĐČĤĜĐ đĤđĠĕĝčĥ ČĘČ 4,(τὸν τῶν ἀρχό ντων . . . ἄρχοντα) īęĕĜđėĤČĐ Ęĥ ěđėĤČī ČĕĥĜĐ ĦČ ĐĜėĚ ĝđĕĜČčĕĘĥ ,(ἀπόστολος) īēĕĘĥīĘ ğĝđĕ ĦČ ĐĜĕĚ ČĕĥĜĐ ĐďđĐĕĥ ĤĠđĝĚ 5,ĝĚđģĐ ğĝđĕ ĘĞ ĝđĕĜČĠĕĠČ Ęĥ ĞďđĜĐ ĘčēĘ ēĘĥĜĥ ĐĞĥč ČĕĥĜĐ ĦČĚ ĦđĤĎĕČ đďģĠđĐ ğČ đĕďĕč .ĦČĒĐ ĐĤĥĚĐ ĦČ ĦđđĘĚĐ ĦđĝĜėĐč ĐėĒ ĐĒđ ,ĤĚđĘė .(đďĕģĠĦĚ ģĘēė ĐčĎĥ ęĕĠĝėĘ ĐĜđđėĐ ĕČďđ) ĦđĚđĤĦĐ ĦČđ ĦđĤĥĞĚĐ ĦČ ęĥ ĦđčĎĘ ĐĕģĕĘĕģ

.ĞďĚĘ ĦĕĚđČĘĐ ěĤģĐ Ęĥ Ğđĕĝč ĐĥĞĜ ĐĒ ĤģēĚ ĘČ ęĕĘģ ęĕėČĘĚ đėĘ . . . ęĕĤĕĢ ęĕč ēĘĥĐī :ęĥ ČĕčĜĐ ĕĤčď Ęĥ ĐĕĢĒĕĘČđĔģČ ęĐ ĝđĕčĝđČ ĕĤčď ;PG 24, 213 .1 .Īđėđ īĔĤđĚđ ĖĥĚĚ ĕđĎ ĕĚĢĞĐ ěđĔĘĥĐ Á ĘČĤĥĕ ĘĐģ :ĖđĦč ,īĐĕĎđĘđďđĦĚđ ĦđĤđģĚ :ĦĕĞĕčĤĐđ ĦĕĥĕĘĥĐ ĦđČĚč ČĕĥĜĐ ďĚĞĚī ,ěĕđĘ Īĕ .2 čđĥē ČĥđĜ ČđĐ ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ďĚĞĚ .127 ĪĚĞ ,(ČīĝĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ ;ĕĜĠĎ Īĕ ĦėĕĤĞč) ĐģĕĦĞĐ ĦĞĐ :Č ĖĤė ,đĕĦđĤđďĘ ĕďđĐĕĐ ĤģđēĘ ĐčĤĐ đĜĦėĤĞĐ ĦČ ČĔčĘ ĥģčĚĐ ġčđģĘ ĐĒ ČĥđĜč ĤĚČĚ ęđĤĦĘ ĕĦĤēč ěė ĘĞđ ,ěĕđĘ Ęĥ ěđđĎĚĐ ĕĤģēĚĐ đĘĞĠĚč L. Levine, “The Jewish Patriarch (Nasi) in Third :ĦđČĕĥĜĐ ĘĞ ěĕđĘ Ęĥ ęĕĤēČĐ đĕĤģēĚ .ęĕĎĥĕĐĐ čĤđ ĘđĎďĐ Century Palestine,” ANRW, II, 19:2 (Berlin and New York, 1979), pp. 649–688; L. I. Levine, “The Status ;of the Patriarch in the Third and Fourth Centuries: Sources and Methodology”, JJS 47 (1996), pp. 1–32 .129–90 ĪĚĞ ,ĕĞĕčĤĐ ģĤĠĐ ďđēĕĕč ,(đīĚĥĦ ,ęĕĘĥđĤĕ) ďđĚĘĦĐ ĦĠđģĦč ĘČĤĥĕąġĤČč ęĕĚėēĐ ďĚĞĚ ,ěĕđĘ Īĕ S. Schwartz, “The Patriarchs and the Diaspora”, Journal of Jewish Studies 50 (1999) ęĎ Ĥđčĝ đĐđĚėđ .3 S. Cohen, “Pagan and Christian Evidence on the Ancient Synagogue”, The Synagogue in đđĥĐ ;pp. 216–217 .Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine; Philadelphia, 1987), p. 171 M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, II ĘĢČ ČčđĐ ,1251 ĪĝĚ čĦėĚ ,ĝđĕĜČčĕĘ .4 ąġĤČčĥ ČĕĥĜĘ ĐČĤĜĐ Ęėė ĐĜđđėĐ ĞđďĚ ĦģĚĜĚĐ ,599 ĪĚĞ ,ęĥ ,ěĤĔĥ ĦĤĞĐ đČĤđ ;(Jerusalem, 1980), pp. 598–599 .ĐĕėđĕĔĜČ ĕďđĐĕ čĤģč ĕĐĥĘė ĦĤĎĝĚĘ ČĘđ ,ĘČĤĥĕ 26 ĐĤďĦģ ,īĐĤĕĠĝĘ ĦĕĞĕčĤĐ ĐČĚč ĘĕĘĎĐ ĤđĢĕĜĘ ĦđĜđĕĝĜĐđ ğĝđĕ ĝĚđģĐ ĦĥĤĠī ,ěĕčđĤ ĪĒ đČĤ ;Panarion, 30 .5 .116–105 ĪĚĞ ,(ĎīĚĥĦ)

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ęĕĜĕĕĜĞĐ ěėđĦ ĕĤčĞĐ ģĘēĐ Č ęĕČĕĥĜđ ęĕĚėē *3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ęĕČĕĥĜĐ Ęĥ ęĐĕĦđĤĎĕČ ĘĞ ĕĜĠĎ đĐĕĞĥĕ *11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ęĦđďĤĥĕĐđ ęĦėĕĤĞ ,ęĦđđĐĦĐ :ĐďĎČ ĕĥĤďĚ ĘĞ ĤĐ ďđď ĐĥĚ

č ĦĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ĐĕĠĤĎđČĎđ ĦđĜĚČ ,ĐĕĎđĘđČėĤČ :ĤďĎ ĦĚēđ ĤďĎ ĘďĎĚ ,ĤďĎ *41. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ěĕčđĤĕĞč ĐĕĎđĝ ďđĚĕĘč ęĕĕĠĤĎđČĕĎđ ęĕĕĤđĔĝĕĐ ęĕĘđģĕĥ ďĤČ ĕĔđĚ *63 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ĦđĤĢĜĘ ĦđĕĜČĎĠ ěĕč Á ĦĝĜėĐ Ħĕčč ĝđĕĘĐđ ĦđĘĒĚĐ ĘĎĘĎ ęĎĘĔ ĐĜĕĤ ?ĐĕĜĚđĘĎĚč ĞđĎĜ ĝđďĤđĐ ĐĕĐ ěėČ ęČĐ *81 . . . . . . (2007) ÂğđďĤđ ğďđĤ ĖĘĚ ,ĝđďĤđĐà ,ęđĔĢĕ üđăđ Ĥĥė Ęĥ ĥďēĐ ęĤĠĝ ĤđČĘ ĤĢĜ ďđĐČ ?ĔĘģĚĐ ĕĤĞĚ īĤčďĚč ĤĢčà ČĕĐ (ěĤđēčĥ Bostra) ĐĤĢđč ęČĐ *93 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ęĕĚėē ĦĤđĝĚ Ęĥ ĐĕĦđĤđģĚĘ ĕĥąĤĕĞ ďďđĞ 468–3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . English Articles