Hebrew Union College Annual Volume 88 0878201912, 9780878201914

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hebrew union college annual volume 88

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

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

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE ANNUAL Volume 88

Hebrew Union College Press 2017

©2018 by Hebrew Union College Press ISSN 360-9049 ISBN 978-0-­87820-161-7 Typesetting by Raphaël Freeman, Renana Typesetting Printed in the United States of America

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

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Supplements Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi. The Lisbon Massacre of 1506 and the Royal Image in the Shebet Yehudah. 1976. Mark E. Cohen. Sumerian Hymnology: The Ershemma. 1981. William C. Gwaltney, Jr. The Pennsylvania Old Assyrian Texts. 1982. Kenneth R. Stow. “The 1007 Anonymous” and Papal Sovereignty: Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages. 1984. Martin A. Cohen. The Canonization of a Myth: Portugal’s “Jewish Problem” and the Assembly of Tomar 1629. 2002. Stephen M. Passamaneck. Modalities in Medieval Jewish Law for Public Order and Safety. 2009.

Contents

1 The Battle of Beth Zechariah in Light of a Literary Study of 1 Maccabees 6:32–47 Amram Tropper, Ben-­Gurion University of the Negev



29 Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot? Evidence from Rishonim and from Fragments of the Cairo and “European” Genizas Binyamin Katzoff, Bar-­Ilan University



55 The Art of the Chain Novel in B. Yoma 35b: Reconsidering the Social Values of the Babylonian Yeshivot Shraga Bar-­On, Shalom Hartman Institute and Shalem College, Jerusalem



89 You Must Rebuke Your Fellow!: Midrash Tanhuma’s Subversion of Bavli ˙ Arakhin 16b Matthew Goldstone, The Jewish Theological Seminary



113 Abraham ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11: The Time and Place of Job and His Friends and the Composition of the Book of Job Eran Viezel, Ben-­Gurion University of the Negev



159 Maimonidean Controversies after Maimonides: The Egyptian Context Elisha Russ-­Fishbane, New York University



203 Discourses of Doubt: The Place of Atheism, Skepticism, and Infidelity in Nineteenth-­Century North American Reform Jewish Thought Daniel R. Langton, University of Manchester



255 The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz Asaf Yedidya, Efrata College



297 Rhythm in Yemenite Cantillation: Masoretic Accents and Syllabic Time Boris Kleiner, Tel Aviv University

The Battle of Beth Zechariah in Light of a Literary Study of 1 Maccabees 6:32–47 Amram Tropper

Ben-­Gurion University of the Negev The famous depiction of Eleazar’s heroic death under an elephant – the story of the battle of Beth Zechariah – is found in only one near-­ contemporary source, 1 Maccabees. 2 Maccabees relates a similar story and some later sources, Josephus, Megillat Antiochus and Josippon, retell the renowned battle narrative. On the basis of one or more of these sources, scholars have recently proposed bold claims regarding the topography of the battle site, the historicity of a similar battle at Modein and the credibility of a late source’s account of Eleazar drowning in feces. With the help of a close reading of the sources I critique these claims, arguing that the sources teach much about the literary constructions of the battle but little about the battle itself.

The story of the battle of Beth Zechariah, famous for its graphic depiction of Eleazar the Hasmonean’s heroic death under an elephant, appears in only one near-­contemporary source, 1 Maccabees.1 2 Maccabees, another near-­ contemporary source,2 does not mention the battle but relates a similar story.3



1 See 1 Macc 6:32–47. 2 Most scholars date 1 Maccabees to the late second (or early first) century BCE. See Felix Marie Abel, Les Livres des Maccabées (Paris: Gabalda, 1949), xxvii–xxix; Jonathan A. Goldstein, I Maccabees (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976), 62–64; Bezalel Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus: The Jewish Struggle against the Seleucids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 151–70; Joseph Sievers, The Hasmoneans and Their Supporters: From Mattathias to the Death of John Hyrcanus I (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 3; Uriel Rappaport, ‫ תרגום ופירוש‬,‫ מבוא‬:‫( ספר מקבים א‬Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 2004), 60–61; George W. E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah: A Historical and Literary Introduction, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 105–6; Sylvie Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion against Antiochus IV (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2014), 6, and date 2 Maccabees anywhere from the mid-­second century BCE up to the mid-­first century BCE. See Abel, Les Livres, xlii–xliii; Christian Habicht, 2 Makkabäerbuch (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1976), 174–75; Jonathan A. Goldstein, II Maccabees (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 71–83; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 170–85; Sievers, The Hasmoneans, 4–7; Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature, 110; Daniel R. Schwartz, 2 Maccabees (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 3–15; Robert Doran, 2 Maccabees: A Critical Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 14–17. 3 See 2 Macc 13:9–17.

1

2

Amram Tropper

Over two hundred years after the battle, Josephus penned two Beth Zechariah battle narratives,4 and, many centuries later, in the early medieval period, elements of the Beth Zechariah story appeared in both Megillat Antiochus5 and Josippon.6 No other ancient or early medieval narrative tells the story of the battle of Beth Zechariah, so all modern accounts of the battle rest on one or more of these sources. On the basis of these sources scholars in recent decades have proposed various historical claims about the battle of Beth Zechariah, three of which are particularly striking. Bezalel Bar-­Kochva has argued that the Beth Zechariah battle narrative in 1 Maccabees accurately reflects the topography of a specific location; Daniel R. Schwartz has suggested that the similar story in 2 Maccabees is not related to the battle of Beth Zechariah but records an entirely different event; and Meir Bar-­Ilan has contended that a medieval work, Megillat Antiochus, actually preserves the most credible account of Eleazar’s death.7 Through a close reading of our sources, I will evaluate these bold historical claims. Moreover, since the battle of Beth Zechariah is one of the best-­documented and most detailed Hasmonean battle narratives, it serves as an excellent test-­case for the credibility of such narratives. I hope to show that our sources disclose more about the battle’s literary evolution than about the battle itself.

A Close Reading of 1 Maccabees 6:32–47 The principal source for the battle of Beth Zechariah and the earliest extant version of the battle narrative is 1 Maccabees 6:32–47.8 In order to set the stage for the battle, let us survey the historical backdrop as laid out in 1 Maccabees. According to 1 Maccabees, the wicked Seleucid ruler of the region, Antiochus





4 Josephus, J.W. 1.41–45; Ant. 12.369–374. 5 Megillat Antiochus 57–58. On the dating of Megillat Antiochus, see Aryeh Kasher, “The Historical Background of Megillat Antiochus,” PAAJR 48 (1981): 229; Günther Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 331. 6 See Josippon 23.7–18 (The Josippon [Josephus Gorionides], ed. David Flusser [Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 1978], 100–101). 7 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 126–29, 159–60, 307, 323–32; Bezalel Bar-­Kochva, “‫גזרות הדת‬ ‫”של אנטיוכוס אפיפנס כמציאות היסטורית‬, Tarbiz 84 (2016): 296 n. 4; Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 454–55; Meir Bar-­Ilan, “‫”מותו של אלעזר בקרב בית־זכריה‬, Judea and Samaria Research Studies: Proceedings of the 3rd Annual Meeting – 1993 (1994): 117–25. 8 See Werner Kappler, Maccabaeorum liber I (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1936) 86–88; Alfred Rahlfs, Septuaginta, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1935), 1061–62. The translation below is my own though I consulted the translations by Sidney Tedesche (The First Book of Maccabees, introduction and commentary by Solomon Zeitlin [New York: Harper & Brothers, 1950], 128–33), Goldstein (I Maccabees, 312–23), and Bar-­Kochva (Judas Maccabaeus, 297–98).

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

3

Epiphanes, robbed the Jerusalem Temple in 143 of the Seleucid Era9 (=169/8 BCE10), and then, two years later, he had the capital city plundered, the temple desecrated, and Torah observance outlawed.11 In response to Antiochus Epiphanes’ persecution, Matityahu the Hasmonean and his sons spearheaded an insurrection against Seleucid rule.12 Matityahu, however, died early on, so his son, Judah the Maccabee, led the insurrection in his father’s stead. After victorious battles against Seleucid forces led by Apollonius, Seron, Nicanor, Gorgias, and Lysias,13 Judah purified the temple and consecrated it anew in 148 SE.14 With no immediate threats on the Seleucid front, the Hasmonean brothers then directed their military efforts elsewhere, waging successful battles against various neighboring peoples.15 Meanwhile, in the east, Antiochus Epiphanes died in 149 SE, after repenting for his wicked treatment of the Jews.16 In 150 SE17 9 See 1 Macc 1:20–28. 10 On the calendar or calendars employed in 1 Maccabees, see E. J. Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History: A New Edition in English including The God of the Maccabees, vol. 2, ed. Amram Tropper (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 1136–38; Klaus Bringmann, Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa: Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-­hellenistischen Geschichte (175–163 v. Chr.) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 15–40; Goldstein, I Maccabees, 21–25; Bar-­ Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 543–51; Sievers, The Hasmoneans, 2; Lester L. Grabbe, “Maccabean Chronology: 167–164 or 168–165 BCE,” Journal of Biblical Literature 110 (1991): 59–74; Dov Gera and Wayne Horowitz, “Antiochus IV in Life and Death: Evidence from the Babylonian Astronomical Diaries,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 117 (1997): 240–52. For the purposes of this article, precise absolute dates are not significant. (See also n. 17 below.) 11 See 1 Macc 1:29–63. 12 See 1 Macc 2:1–28, 39–69. 13 See 1 Macc 3:1–25, 3:38–4:35. 14 See 1 Macc 4:36–61. 15 See 1 Macc 5:1–68. 16 See 1 Macc 6:1–17. 17 Compare 2 Macc 13:1 which dates Lysias’s second expedition to 149 of the Seleucid Era. According to most scholars (see n. 10 above), 1 Maccabees dates Lysias’s second expedition to 162 BCE via the Babylonian reckoning of the Seleucid Era and 2 Maccabees dates it to 163 BCE via the Macedonian reckoning. Since the bulk of the evidence now lies in favor of 2 Maccabees’ date (see Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 29–30; Doran, 2 Maccabees, 252–53), 1 Maccabees apparently erred when determining the date of Lysias’s second expedition and, by extension, the battle of Beth Zechariah. Unlike its date for the battle of Beth Zechariah, however, some of the dates cited in 1 Maccabees are independently corroborated by external sources and most are internally consistent. Barring any local reasons for doubt, both the traditional historical method and the new (outlined below) regard the dates in 1 Maccabees as largely reliable, the traditional because of its general presumptions of genuineness and credibility (see n. 49 below) and the new because dates belong to the literary kernel of the account, the hard core which most likely stems from 1 Maccabees’ sources; see Amram Tropper, Rewriting Ancient Jewish History: The History of Jews in Roman Times and the New Historical Method (London: Routledge, 2016), 86. While the traditional historical method often views the accurate citation of dates as indicative of an account’s overarching reliability, the new historical method maintains that an ancient account’s

4

Amram Tropper

the Hasmoneans besieged the Akra – the Seleucid fortress in Jerusalem – and, in response, the new child-­king, Antiochus Eupator, along with his guardian Lysias,18 renewed hostilities against the Jews and besieged Beth Zur.19 The plight of Beth Zur prompted Judah to abandon the siege of the Akra and transfer his troops to Beth Zechariah, which was opposite the Seleucid camp at Beth Zur. With the opposing forces in place, the battle of Beth Zechariah broke out the very next morning. (32) And Judah marched from the Akra and encamped at Beth Zechariah, opposite the camp of the king. (33) And the king arose early in the morning and ferociously marched his camp along the Beth Zechariah road, and his armies armed themselves for battle and sounded the trumpets. (34) And they displayed20 to the elephants blood of grapes and berries to prepare them for battle. (35) And they distributed the beasts among the phalanxes and placed with each elephant a thousand men, armed with breastplates of chain mail and bronze helmets on their heads and five hundred select cavalry were assigned to each beast. (36) These had been stationed beforehand where the beast was, and, wherever it went, they went together, without leaving it. (37) And wooden towers, strong and covering, were upon them, fastened to each beast with straps, and upon each one were thirty-­two21 men of valor, who fought on them, and its Indian (driver). (38) And the rest of the cavalry he placed on either side of the two flanks of the camp, to harass the enemy and protect themselves22 amongst the accurate citation of dates alone does not warrant us granting the presumptions of genuineness and credibility to other details in the account since dates belong to the literary kernel which historians usually drew from their historical sources. (See also n. 70 below.) 18 See 1 Macc 6:17, 55–59. 19 See 1 Macc 6:18–31. 20 See Tedesche and Zeitlin, The First Book of Maccabees, 129; Goldstein, I Maccabees, 313, 320. Alternatively, perhaps, as Rudolf Smend suggested to Julius Wellhausen (J. Wellhausen, “Über den geschichtlichen Wert des zweiten Makkabäerbuchs, im Verhältnis zum ersten,” Nachrichten von der Königl. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen 2 [1905]: 162), the original Hebrew word “‫”הרוו‬, “saturated,” was mistaken by the translator for “‫”הראו‬, “displayed.” See P. G. Maxwell-­ Stuart, “1 Maccabees VI 34 Again,” Vetus Testamentum 25 (1975): 230–33; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 297, 312; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 195 (n. 11); Michael Tilly, 1 Makkabäer (Freiburg: Verder, 2015), 162. 21 Although manuscripts cite the number “thirty” or “thirty-­two,” most scholars consider these numbers too large and opt for either four or two. See, for example, Abel, Les Livres, 118–19; John R. Bartlett, The First and Second Books of the Maccabees (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 88; Goldstein, I Maccabees, 321; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 321–23. 22 This passage may well have been corrupted; the original passage likely stated that the remaining cavalry was stationed to protect the phalanxes and not vice versa. See Abel, Les Livres, 119–20; Goldstein, I Maccabees, 321; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 323–24.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

5

phalanxes. (39) When the sun shone on the golden and bronze shields, the mountains shone from them and flashed back like fiery torches. (40) And part of the king’s camp was spread upon the high mountains and part upon the low ground, and they proceeded steadily and in good order. (41) And all trembled who heard the sound of the multitude and the din of their march and the clash of their arms, for the camp was very large and strong. (42) And Judah and his camp drew near for battle, and six hundred men of the king’s camp fell. (43) Eleazar Auaran saw one of the beasts armored with royal breastplates which was taller than all the other beasts and he thought that the king was on it. (44) And he gave his life to save his people and to acquire an eternal name. (45) And he courageously ran up to it in the middle of the phalanx and he killed right and left and they parted before him on either side. (46) And he slipped in under the elephant and stabbed it and killed it, and it fell upon the ground on top of him, and he died there. (47) And they (Judah and his camp) saw the strength of the kingdom and the ferocity of its armies and they retreated before them. Before investigating the historical credibility of 1 Maccabees’ detailed battle narrative, I offer a close reading of the narrative, paying particular attention to its structure and language. A literary analysis of this sort is now widely recognized as an indispensable stage in the study of ancient history because, amongst other benefits, it helps us avoid mistaking literary and rhetorical conventions and techniques for historical facts. The literary and rhetorical dimensions of ancient histories like 1 Maccabees are far deeper and more pervasive than was often imagined in the past, and, therefore, the traditional presumption that ancient histories are largely transparent windows onto the ancient past is no longer tenable.23 Today, ancient sources are treated as meticulously wrought literary artifacts shaped by the interests and biases of their authors and embedded within specific social realities and cultural settings.24 From a bird’s-­eye view, 1 Maccabees’ story of the battle of Beth Zechariah can be neatly divided into two parts: the battle preparations in 6:32–41 and the battle itself in 6:42–47. Both parts open with Judah and his camp approaching the enemy forces (in 6:32 and 6:42) and both end with the daunting impression that the massive Seleucid army made upon the Jewish (or Judean) insurgents (in 6:41 and 6:47). In respect to the unfolding of the story, the two parts play complementary literary roles: Part One sets the stage and Part Two rolls out the main act. In other words, Part One supplies the background information 23 See Honigman, Tales of High Priests, 4. See also the discussion below on the traditional and new historical methods in the section entitled: “Questioning the Credibility of 1 Maccabees 6:32–47.” 24 See Tropper, Rewriting, 59.

6

Amram Tropper

needed for understanding Part Two’s events. Moreover, not only does Part One disclose the requisite backdrop for Part Two, it also steers the reader’s response to Part Two. Part One’s intricate portrait of the enemy forces, along with the emphasis it places on their might, ennoble Part Two’s daring assaults while also excusing Judah’s eventual retreat at the tail end of Part Two. Against the massive and formidable army depicted in Part One, a courageous leader might make temporary inroads (6:42) or perform a heroic act of self-­sacrifice (6:43–46) but, ultimately, retreat was the most judicious course of action for Judah and his forces (6:47).25 Part One opens in 6:32–33 with a brief introduction that outlines the immediate pretext for the battle of Beth Zechariah. Hearing of the Seleucid incursion,26 Judah abandoned his siege of the Akra and “marched,” “ἀπῆρεν,” to Beth Zechariah, encamping opposite the Seleucid camp. In response, Antiochus Eupator arose early the following morning and ferociously marched, “ἀπῆρε,” his camp to Beth Zechariah as well. By employing the very same verb, “ἀπαίρω,” for both marches to Beth Zechariah,27 1 Maccabees highlights the impending clash between the opposing forces. Part One’s introduction then concludes with the arming of the Seleucid troops for battle and their sounding the trumpets of war. In the wake of these introductory remarks, 6:34 relates how the Seleucid war-­elephants were prepped for battle. In order to stimulate the large animals and rouse them “for battle,” “εἰς τὸν πόλεμον,” the elephants were shown (or given to drink) wine and (fermented) berry juice. The term, “for battle,” “εἰς τὸν πόλεμον,” already appeared in the previous verse, 6:33, where the Seleucid army armed itself “for battle,” “εἰς τὸν πόλεμον.” By repeating the term “for battle,” 1 Maccabees subsumes the prepping of the war-­elephants under the army’s aforementioned battle preparations. From a literary perspective, the recurrence of the term “for battle” links the war-­elephants’ preparations to those of the army, thereby easing the transition from Part One’s introduction in 6:32–33 to its presentation of the war-­elephant battle formations in 6:35–38. As a transitional verse, 6:34 introduces the war-­elephants to the story and thereby paves the way for the detailed description of the Seleucid army’s battle formations in 6:35–38, a description which highlights the role of the elephants. 25 Compare Goldstein, I Maccabees, 322; Dov Gera, “‫”קרב בית זכריה בראי ספרות יון‬, in ‫היהודים בעולם‬ ‫ההלניסטי והרומי‬, ed. Isaiah M. Gafni, Aharon Oppenheimer, and Daniel R. Schwartz (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar and The Historical Society of Israel, 1996), 26–27; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 198–99; Johannes C. Bernhardt, “Judas und seine Brüder: Zum Bild der Hasmonäerfamilie in den Makkabäerbüchern,” in Die Makkabäer, ed. Friedrich Avemarie, Predrag Bukovec, Stefan Krauter, and Michael Tilly (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 233. 26 See 1 Macc 6:28–31. 27 On word-­repetition in 1 Maccabees, see David S. Williams, The Structure of 1 Maccabees (Washington, DC: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1999), 6.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

7

In spelling out the Seleucid army’s battle formations, 6:35–38 presumes the reader’s familiarity with the size and make-­up of the enemy army since these issues were already disclosed earlier in the chapter. The size of the Seleucid army was mentioned before our story, in 6:30, where 1 Maccabees professed that the enemy army was comprised of one hundred thousand infantry, twenty thousand cavalry, and thirty-­two war-­elephants. In the same vein, the identity of the army’s officers and soldiers was also outlined prior to our story, in 6:29–30, where 1 Maccabees noted that the king mobilized friends and officers as well as foreign mercenaries. In light of the purported size and make-­up of the Seleucid forces, 6:35–38 offers a detailed description of the Seleucid battle formations. In its depiction of the enemy battle formations, 6:35–38 portrays the war-­ elephants as the focal point of each formation. The thirty-­two elephants were positioned among the phalanxes, “εἰς τὰς ϕάλαγγας,” or infantry units, and each elephant was assigned a thousand infantry, armed with chain mail breastplates and bronze helmets, and five hundred cavalry. The infantry and cavalry designated to an elephant were stationed by the animal prior to the battle and were charged to remain by its side throughout the engagement. The elephants themselves carried towers with (thirty-­two) armed combatants as well as an Indian driver. The remaining cavalry were positioned on either side of the army’s two flanks so that they might harass the Seleucids’ foes while finding protection “amongst the phalanxes,” “ἐν ταῖς ϕάλαγξιν,” (or while protecting the phalanxes28). Enveloped by the word “phalanx,” which opens 6:35 – “εἰς τὰς ϕάλαγγας,” – and closes 6:38 – “ἐν ταῖς ϕάλαγξιν” – 6:35–38 presents an unusually detailed description of the Seleucid army’s battle formations or phalanxes. In theory, the Seleucid battle formations could have been presented in a variety of ways. For example, the formations could have been depicted from right to left, left to right, back to front or front to back. 1 Maccabees, however, did not opt for any of these descriptive modes. According to 1 Maccabees 6:35–38, the enemy army’s formations revolved around the Indian war-­elephants; and the decision to focus on the elephants was by no means obvious. Why spotlight the central place of the war-­elephants in a sketch of the Seleucid army’s configuration? Moreover, since 1 Maccabees tends not to offer detailed descriptions of the enemy army’s formations, why provide such an extensive description in the first place? One might suggest that the presence of the arresting and exotic war-­elephants prompted the description of the Seleucid army’s battle formations,29 but the elephants were apparently deployed already at Beth Zur

28 See n. 22 above. 29 See M. Avi-­Yonah, “The Hasmonean Revolt and Judah Maccabee’s War against the Syrians,” in The World History of the Jewish People: The Hellenistic Age: Political History of Jewish Palestine from 332 B.C.E. to 67 B.C.E., ed. Abraham Schalit (London: W. H. Allen, 1972), 172; Uriel Rappaport,

8

Amram Tropper

and 1 Maccabees did not describe the enemy’s formations for that encounter.30 Rather, the ultimate reason for describing the Seleucid army’s formations here (and elsewhere in 1 Maccabees31) is literary and structural. 6:35–38 depicts the war-­elephants as central nodes in the Seleucid army’s formations in order to amplify the audacity and skill involved in Eleazar’s assault in Part Two. In other words, Eleazar had to overcome the list of Seleucid defenses spelled out in 6:35–38 of Part One in order to strike down an elephant in 6:43–46 of Part Two.32 While 1 Maccabees brings home the daunting challenges posed by the Seleucid forces via its detailed account of the formidable Seleucid battle formations, it intensifies our sense of this challenge with the help of a striking biblical allusion to the battle of David and Goliath.33 In describing the Seleucid infantry’s “breastplates of chain mail and bronze helmets,” 6:35 enlists the portrait of Goliath’s equipment found in 1 Samuel 17:5. Like the Seleucid troops, Goliath also “had a bronze helmet on his head” and “wore a breastplate of chain mail.”34 Evoking Goliath here likens the massive Seleucid forces and their colossal beasts to the biblical giant and his imposing Philistine army; the Hasmoneans, by implication, are aligned with David and the faithful Israelites. Just as David dared confront the massive Goliath, Judah audaciously attacked the overwhelming Seleucid army;35 just as David brought down the giant Goliath, Eleazar felled a gigantic elephant.36 “1 Maccabees,” in The Oxford Bible Commentary: The Apocrypha, ed. Martin Goodman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 141. 30 See 1 Macc 6:31. On the use of elephants by Hellenistic armies, see Israel Shatzman, The Armies of the Hasmonaeans and Herod: From Hellenistic to Roman Frameworks (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 204. 31 See, for example, 1 Macc 9:11–21 where the division of the enemy forces explains why Judah directed his forces as he did and why he eventually fell in battle and his soldiers fled. 32 See Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected Texts from Graeco-­Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 63 n. 77. 33 See Abel, Les Livres, 118; Goldstein, 1 Maccabees, 321; Tilly, 1 Makkabäer, 165. Beyond our story, 1 Maccabees seems to compare Judah to David and to allude to the battle of David and Goliath on other occasions as well. See, for example, 1 Macc 3:11–12 and 1 Sam 17:48–54; 1 Macc 3:39 and 1 Chr 19:18; 1 Macc 3:60 and 2 Sam 10:12 as well as 1 Chr 19:13. See also Goldstein, 1 Maccabees, 258–66; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 139, 204–6, 434. 34 On the latter phrase, see Rahlfs, Septuaginta, vol.1, 533. 35 Scholars have also suggested that elephants served as a symbol of the Seleucid kingdom or as a sign of its hubris. See Oliver D. Hoover, “Eleazar Auaran and the Elephant: Killing Symbols in Hellenistic Judaea,” Scripta Classica Israelica 24 (2005): 40–44; Marie-­Françoise Baslez, “The Origin of the Martyrdom Images: From the Book of Maccabees to the First Christians,” in The Books of the Maccabees: History, Theology, Ideology, ed. G. G. Xeravits and J. Zsengellér (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 123. 36 For another possible biblical allusion in our story, see Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 336, 434.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

9

Following the description of the Seleucid battle formations, Part One concludes in 6:39–41 with a vivid depiction of the imposing Seleucid army. The first two verses of this concluding section, 6:39–40, offer a visual description or snapshot of the enemy army which highlights the army’s harmonious synergy with the mountainous topography. 6:39 states that the Seleucids’ gold and bronze shields reflected the sun, creating the impression that the mountains, “τὰ ὄρη,” were shining,37 and 6:40 adds that the king’s forces marched unwaveringly over both high mountains, “τὰ ὑψηλὰ ὄρη,” and low valleys. Together, 6:39–40 paint a picture of a blazing horde steadily progressing towards the Jewish insurgents, a horde spread over the land, covering both mountains and valleys. Stressing the role of the elephants in 6:34–37 and the mountains in 6:39–40, Part One intimates that the insurgents faced a huge and towering enemy. Complementing the visual depiction of the terrifying Seleucid forces, 6:41 returns an auditory dimension to the narrative in describing the fearsome clamor made by the enemy army. Having opened with the sounding of the Seleucid war trumpets (in 6:33), Part One ends here with a dramatic description of the Seleucid army’s intimidating din. The blaring noise the Seleucid army projected over the mountains ominously signaled its size and might. Concluding on this disheartening note, Part One asserts that the Seleucid forces not only formed a frightful sight but also made a demoralizing din. As the final verse of Part One, 6:41 comes full circle by returning to Judah and his forces, who were last mentioned in Part One’s first verse. Having opened in 6:32 with Judah and his forces courageously approaching the king’s camp, Part One closes with Judah and his forces trembling before the approaching enemy army. In this manner, Judah and his forces frame Part One’s survey of the menacing Seleucid army. Following the battle preparations surveyed in Part One, Part Two turns to the battle of Beth Zechariah itself. Like Part One, it opens with Judah and his forces seizing the initiative and engaging the enemy. Then it states that Judah’s men slew six hundred Seleucid soldiers. Judah’s successful assault is startling because the massive Seleucid army portrayed in Part One easily outstripped the rebel forces in both size and power. By intimating that Judah stood little chance against such superior forces, 1 Maccabees amplifies the significance of the modest victory it accredits him.38 After reporting Judah’s remarkable attack in 6:42, Part Two turns to the story Bar-­Kochva argues that Eleazar’s assault on the elephant in 6:45 alludes to the biblical description of David’s offensive against Goliath in 1 Samuel 17:48. Though suggestive, this purported allusion is far less clear and straightforward than the allusion in 6.35. 37 Compare Goldstein, I Maccabees, 322. 38 See Robert Doran, “The First Book of Maccabees: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 4 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 89; Tilly, 1 Makkabäer, 165.

10

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of Eleazar’s self-­sacrifice in 6:43–46. This memorable story begins in 6:43 with Eleazar noticing that the tallest war-­elephant was armored with royal breastplates. The language employed to describe the elephant’s royal breastplates, “τεθωρακισμένον θώραξι βασιλικοῖς,” echoes the language found in 6:35 describing the Seleucid infantry’s breastplates, “τεθωρακισμένους ἐν ἁλυσιδωτοῖς.” This linguistic echo magnifies the contrast between a single war-­elephant’s unique breastplates and the standard armor worn by the rest of the Seleucid army, thereby setting the stage for Eleazar’s conclusion. Seeing one elephant’s unusual size and royal breastplates, Eleazar concluded that King Antiochus was on that elephant. Believing he had identified the king’s war-­elephant, Eleazar “gave his life to save his people and to acquire an eternal name” (1 Macc 6:44). More specifically, Eleazar courageously charged through a phalanx, “τῆς ϕάλαγγος,” killing all the enemy soldiers who prevented him from reaching the tall elephant in royal armor. The presence of the word “phalanx” here in 6:45 reminds us how the elephants, according to 6:35, were embedded “among the phalanxes,” “εἰς τὰς ϕάλαγγας.”39 By the same token, 6:45 also describes how the enemy parted before the storming Hasmonean “on either side,” “ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα,” repeating the phrase from 6:38 used to describe the placement of the cavalry “on either side,” “ἔνθεν καὶ ἔνθεν,” of the camp. These linguistic echoes of Part One serve to underscore the difficulties involved in attacking a war-­ elephant. As explained in Part One, because the war-­elephants were surrounded by infantry and cavalry with additional cavalry posted along the army’s flanks, Eleazar faced a formidable challenge just in making his way to the elephant. Eleazar’s bold assault resonates with two themes developed elsewhere in 1 Maccabees. First, his attempt to kill the king is in line with other stories about Hasmonean attempts to strike down the commander of the enemy forces.40 According to 1 Maccabees, the Hasmoneans killed Apollonius and Nicanor, just like Eleazar tried to kill Antiochus Eupator. In all three cases, the rebels presumably hoped that the enemy commander’s death would break the spirit of his army.41 Second, Eleazar’s self-­sacrifice for the sake of his people and his everlasting fame is not only in keeping with his father’s exhortations to sacrifice one’s life on behalf of the ancestral covenant, glory, and an eternal name,42 but is also in line with heroic ideals in the Greek world. For example, the Spartans’ hopeless stand against the Persians at Thermopylae is the classic expression of the Greek notion of self-­sacrifice for the sake of everlasting glory.43 In sum, the 39 See also 1 Macc 6:38 and the discussion above. 40 See 1 Macc 3:11–12; 7:43. 41 See J. L. Wallach, “The Wars of the Maccabees,” Revue Internationale d’Histoire Militaire 42 (1979): 69; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 142. 42 See 1 Macc 2:50–51. See also 1 Macc 9:10 and 14:29. 43 See Herodotus, Hist. 7.220. See also Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 336; Arthur J. Droge and

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

11

military tactic and heroic ideal expressed here is in tune with the military thinking and ideological stance expressed throughout 1 Maccabees (and beyond). According to 6:46, Eleazar managed to slip under the war-­elephant and stab it to death, but he died in the process and failed to kill the king, who was not actually on the elephant. In describing Eleazar’s death, 1 Maccabees states that the elephant crushed Eleazar when it “fell,” “ἔπεσεν,” on him, echoing the language used just a few verses before, in 6:42, when six hundred Seleucid soldiers “fell,” “ἔπεσον,” to their deaths fighting Judah’s forces. Although neither Eleazar nor Judah were victorious in the battle of Beth Zechariah, both inflicted heavy damage upon their enemies, felling together six hundred soldiers and a war-­elephant. Part Two of the battle of Beth Zechariah concludes in 6:47 with Judah’s retreat. Judah opted to retreat because he and his camp “saw,” “εἶδον,” the overwhelming power of the king’s army. The literary template employed here – an act of seeing which prompts a reaction – was also employed just a few verses before, where Eleazar assaulted a royal elephant after he “saw,” “εἶδεν,” its royal armor.44 The appearance of the same literary template twice in such close proximity naturally begs for a comparison between the two contexts. Moreover, the very juxtaposition of Judah’s retreat with Eleazar’s assault also calls for a comparison between the two. 1 Maccabees, however, does not make the comparison explicit, never spelling out whether it prefers Eleazar’s self-­sacrificing attack or Judah’s prudent retreat. In light of the glowing manner in which 1 Maccabees portrays both Judah and Eleazar, I suspect that it actually embraces both brothers’ actions but in different ways. Whereas Eleazar’s heroic self-­sacrifice serves as an admirable Hasmonean ideal, Judah’s judicious retreat supplies a more pragmatic model for tactical decisions.45 The trigger for Judah’s decision to retreat in 6:47 is “the strength,” “τῆν ἰσχύν,” of the Seleucid kingdom and “the ferocity,” “τὸ ὅρμημα,” “of its armies,” “τῶν δυνάμεων.” Three central terms used here – strength, ferocity and armies – already appeared in Part One. In 6:33, the king marched his camp “ferociously,” James D. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Christians and Jews in Antiquity (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1992), 1–16, 73; Doran, “The First Book of Maccabees,” 89 (n. 78); Henten and Avemarie, Martyrdom, 62–63; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 136. 44 See 1 Macc 6:43. 45 See 1 Macc 2:39–41. In addition, just as Judah and his forces retreated before superior forces following Eleazar’s courageous assault and consequent death, Judah’s forces retreat before superior forces following Judah’s own courageous assault and consequent death in 1 Maccabees 9:18. These parallel juxtapositions seem to indicate that while 1 Maccabees values courageous attacks against superior forces (see Doran, “The First Book of Maccabees,” 110), it also acknowledges that at times (and in the wake of a leader’s tragic death), the prudent (or natural) course of action is a timely retreat. (See also n. 41 above.)

12

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“ἐν ὁρμήματι αὐτῆς,” while his armies, “αἱ δυνάμεις,” armed for battle, and, in 6:41, all trembled because the Seleucid camp was large and “strong,” “ἰσχυρά.” By echoing these resounding terms from Part One, 6:47 intimates that the Jewish forces retreated because of the overpowering might of the army, and not due to any failings on Judah’s part. From a structural perspective, episodes involving Judah frame Part Two just as they frame Part One. Both parts open with Judah’s audacious approach46 and both close with his men’s reaction to the size and might of the Seleucid army.47 Within these parallel bookends, each part characterizes the strengths of one side in the battle of Beth Zechariah. Whereas Part One sketches the size and might of the Seleucid army, Part Two spotlights the rebels’ ideal of self-­sacrifice. Whereas Part One focuses on the central place of the powerful war-­elephants in the Seleucid battle formations, Part Two indicates that even war-­elephants can be felled by deep commitment to the rebel cause. Our close reading of 1 Maccabees’ account of the battle of Beth Zechariah illuminates the story’s underlying literary formation, revealing the author’s careful choice of language and deliberate construction of literary structures. Most prominently, our reading suggests that all the story’s elements were woven into a seamless literary whole. Details are not introduced because they are brute historical facts, but rather because of their contribution to the story.48 For example, the war-­elephants are mentioned because Eleazar fells one; the phalanxes are described because Eleazar charges his way through one; the might of the Seleucid forces is depicted at length in order to glorify the Hasmonean brothers and justify Judah’s eventual retreat; and the allusion to Goliath is designed to underscore the gross mismatch between the Jewish and Seleucid forces. In short, the story’s thick and pervasive literary qualities demonstrate that it is not a transparent and straightforward report of the battle of Beth Zechariah. Furthermore, although the story of the battle of Beth Zechariah is unusually long and detailed, its literary qualities and themes are typical of 1 Maccabees as a whole, and, as characteristic features of the work, they reveal the thoroughgoing literary program underlying 1 Maccabees.

Questioning the Credibility of 1 Maccabees 6:32–47 The traditional historical method long applied in the study of ancient Jewish (and general) history presumes (amongst other presumptions) that most ancient historians ultimately relied on genuine and credible eyewitness testimonies. 46 See 1 Macc 6:32, 42. 47 See 1 Macc 6:41, 47. 48 Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 292–93.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

13

Barring any local or immediate reasons for doubt, the details of ancient histories are presumed to stem from these reports. Local or immediate grounds for doubt, of course, do not necessarily mean that a specific detail is faulty or inaccurate, but reveal that the historicity of the detail remains unfounded – that the traditional presumptions of genuineness and credibility alone cannot establish the detail as a fact.49 The traditional historical method ruled supreme just a generation ago and continues to influence contemporary scholarship,50 though more and more scholars are coming to grips with the realization that the traditional presumptions of genuineness and credibility are not warranted.51 In any event, in line with the traditional historical method, 1 Maccabees has usually been viewed as a largely reliable historical source, and the details of its account have been accepted as facts just so long as there were no local or immediate reasons to doubt them.52 In the case of the battle of Beth Zechariah, however, there are good reasons to suspect the credibility of many details in both parts of 1 Maccabees’ narrative. In response to Judah’s encamping at Beth Zechariah, “the king arose early in the morning” according to 6:33, but this description enlists a conventional biblical 49 On the traditional presumptions of genuineness and credibility, see Tropper, Rewriting, 53–59. 50 See n. 52 below. 51 See n. 70 below. 52 See, for example, Abel, Les Livres, xxiv–xxv; Goldstein, I Maccabees, 26; Emil Schürer, Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Martin Goodman, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135), vol. 3 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), 181; Joshua Efron, Studies on the Hasmonean Period (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 14 n. 50; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 151–70; Sievers, The Hasmoneans, 1–4; John R. Bartlett, 1 Maccabees (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 33; Jack Pastor, “The Famine in 1 Maccabees: History or Apology?” in The Books of the Maccabees: History, Theology, Ideology, ed. G. G. Xeravits and J. Zsengellér (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 34; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 32–33; Uriel Rappaport, ‫ עם ישראל בארץ־ישראל בימי‬:‫בית חשמונאי‬ ‫( החשמונאים‬Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2013), 23; compare Honigman, Tales of High Priests, 11. Bar-­ Kokhba (Judas Maccabaeus, 158–62, 332, 335) maintains that the author of 1 Maccabees must have been an eyewitness to the battle of Beth Zechariah since, in his opinion, a “detailed and accurate report of so complicated a battle” could not have been written second-­hand, on the basis of an oral or written eyewitness account (p. 158). According to Bar-­Kochva, 1 Maccabees’ author wrote his notes “shortly after the events” and then “decades later, when he came to incorporate them into his book, he had no difficulty in reliving the battle, and thus succeeded in preserving the details which enabled him to depict a consistent and coordinated picture of the developments” (p. 162). Bar-­Kochva’s argument, however, is doubly flawed. First, a secondary source can easily reproduce a detailed and accurate account of a battle on the basis of eyewitness accounts, hence a history’s depiction of complicated military maneuvers need not imply that the history was written by an eyewitness who relived the battle as he reviewed his notes. (See Rappaport, ‫ספר‬ ‫מקבים א‬, 33.) Second, the complicated maneuver Bar-­Kochva purportedly finds in 1 Maccabees’ story of the battle of Beth Zechariah is, as I shall argue below, not actually there. Hence, there is no conclusive evidence that the author of 1 Maccabees actually witnessed the battle of Beth Zechariah.

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phrase, a phrase even found in the biblical story of David and Goliath.53 The use of conventional biblical (or classical) language undercuts the presumed credibility of a passage because the conventional terminology may well embody a literary commonplace rather than reflect a historical fact. While it is possible that the phrase “the king arose early in the morning” is merely a stylistic flourish used when presenting a historical fact, it is also quite possible that it is a full-­blown biblically inspired literary invention. Since the conventional biblical phrase may well be a fictitious invention, we cannot simply presume its credibility. Furthermore, since literary inventions are often plausible and realistic, the passage’s plausibility and realistic nature cannot establish its historicity. In principle, an independent account of the king’s early morning awakening could corroborate the historicity of our passage, but no such account exists. In Part One, 6:34 recounts how the elephants were prepped for battle, but it is unlikely that the author of 1 Maccabees (or his Jewish source) would have been privy to such information “and he may have simply assumed the usual.”54 More broadly, Jonathan Goldstein has speculated that the detailed description of the Seleucid war-­elephants in 6:34–37 may have been taken from a Hellenistic book on tactics since “the hard-­pressed Jewish eyewitnesses could hardly have preserved such minute information, and a Greek historian in giving the details of elephant tactics probably would have chosen a broader context than the mere suppression of a local rebellion.”55 In addition to the overarching considerations just noted, there are reasons to question the credibility of specific elements in 1 Maccabees’ account of the Seleucid army’s battle-­formations. The implausibly large number of Seleucid infantry echoes a typical biblical army size,56 the number of war-­elephants,

53 See, for example, Gen 19:27, 20:8, 21:14; Exod 34:4; Josh 3:1, 6:12, 7:16, 8:10; 1 Sam 17:20. See also Abel, Les Livres, 117. In respect to Judah’s struggle against Apollonius, Bar-­Kochva notes that the author of 1 Maccabees “contented himself with a collection of biblical phrases drawn from the contest between David and Goliath” (Judas Maccabaeus, 154) because he lacked information about the battle. This sort of biblically inspired literary invention may well undergird our phrase here as well. For his part, Bar-­Kochva does not relate to the biblical echo in 6:33 but he does make the general claim that save for Judah’s battle against Apollonius, “the numerous biblical associations in the other accounts of the battles do not detract in any way from the credibility of information, since they have in every instance considerable factual support” (Judas Maccabaeus, 154). See also 153 n. 4; Bezalel Bar-­Kochva, “?‫ המצאה ספרותית או מציאות היסטורית‬:‫”תיאור קרב בית זכריה‬, Cathedra 86 (1998): 21–22. The king’s early rising, however, lacks considerable factual support and is not corroborated by any independent source. 54 Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 312. 55 Goldstein, I Maccabees, 320. See also Nils Martola, Capture and Liberation: A Study in the Composition of the First Book of Maccabees (Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 1984), 84, 114, 118. 56 See Judg 8:10; 1 Kgs 12:21; 1 Chr 12:38; 1 Macc 6:30. See also Abel, Les Livres, 116; Shatzman, The Armies, 26.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

15

thirty-­two, seems far too high,57 and the number of combatants in each elephant tower, thirty-­two, also seems too high (and uncanny in its identity to the number of elephants).58 The biblical allusion in 6:35 to Goliath’s bronze helmet and chain mail breastplates undermines the traditional presumption that these details are credible and, in truth, there is scant evidence that the Seleucid infantry donned chain mail armor in the third and second centuries BCE.59 Just as 1 Maccabees’ presentation of the Seleucid battle formations falters because of local reasons for doubt, its colorful depiction of the Seleucid army in 6:39–41 fares no better. The shining armor in 6:39 as well as the cries, crashing weapons, and clamor of the approaching forces in 6:41 are all typical literary motifs in biblical60 and classical literature.61 Since gold was an expensive and relatively soft metal,62 it is unlikely that Seleucid soldiers carried gold shields, and the juxtaposition of gold and bronze shields in 6:39 is reminiscent of similar biblical juxtapositions.63 Finally, the fearful response of the Jewish forces to the din of the Seleucid army in 6:41, “and all trembled,” is a literary convention, more evocative and poetic than historical.64 Turning to Part Two, the battle of Beth Zechariah opens in 6:42 with Judah’s 57 Bar-­Kochva contends that the correct number of elephants is eight, arguing that Josephus (J.W. 1.41) mistakenly transformed the originally correct “eight” (or the Greek letter “Η”) into “eighty” (or “Π”). See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 307. 58 See n. 21 above. 59 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 314–15. See also Shatzman, The Armies, 203. Although the Seleucid army as a rule did not don chain mail armor, Polybius (Hist. 30.25.3) mentions five thousand Seleucid soldiers with chain mail in the Roman manner and Bar-­Kochva reasons that the chain-­mailed soldiers of 6:35 must have belonged to this “Roman” unit. If the presence of chain mail armor in 1 Maccabees were highly surprising, the uncanny nature of the parallel between 1 Maccabees and Polybius might have indicated that some Seleucid soldiers at the battle of Beth Zechariah were trained in the Roman manner. However, since the chain mail armor in 6:35 may well be a biblical allusion or conventional literary flourish and since nothing in 1 Maccabees intimates that the soldiers of 6:35 had been trained in the Roman manner, Bar-­Kochva’s suggestion, though possible, is not compelling. In other words, Polybius does not supply “considerable factual support” (see n. 53 above) for the use of chain mail armor at Beth Zechariah. 60 See Gera, “‫”קרב בית זכריה‬, 48 n. 65. 61 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 327, 332; “‫”תיאור קרב בית זכריה‬, 9–19; Gera, “‫”קרב בית זכריה‬, 27–31, 37–44; Doran, “The First Book of Maccabees,” 89 n. 76. 62 Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 325–26. 63 See 1 Kgs 14:26–27; 2 Chr 12:9–10. See also Tedesche and Zeitlin, The First Book of Maccabees, 131 n. 39; Ralph Marcus, Josephus: Jewish Antiquities, Books XII–XIV (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University and William Heinemann, 1976), 193 n. g; Rappaport, “1 Maccabees,” 141. In highlighting the gold shields carried by ten thousand Macedonian soldiers in the Seleucid army (Hist. 30.25.5), Polybius indicates that gold shields were potential though uncommon defensive covers. Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 325–26. 64 See Gera, “‫”קרב בית זכריה‬, 42–44.

16

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forces slaying six hundred enemy soldiers. Considering the vastly superior Seleucid forces, Judah’s eventual retreat, and 1 Maccabees’ overarching mission to glorify the Hasmoneans, this initial victory seems unlikely or, at the very least, represents a very partial take on the battle. Eleazar’s heroic self-­sacrifice in 6:43–47, which glorifies the Hasmoneans, is already reason enough to question the story of his noble death, but, in any case, most of the story’s details are also implausible. Eleazar assaults an elephant because of his mistaken belief that the king fought from the elephant’s tower; but Eleazar should have known that Seleucid kings did not go into battle on elephants, but on horseback. Moreover, even if Eleazar mistakenly believed that Seleucid kings did go into battle on elephants, he should have realized that a child-­king like Antiochus Eupator certainly would not have entered the fray.65 Bar-­Kochva claims that elephant physiology makes a death blow from below highly unlikely,66 and Hoover notes that there is little evidence that Seleucid war-­elephants ever wore body armor as claimed in 6:43.67 Hoover also argues that even if Eleazar’s target elephant had been covered in body armor, it is very difficult to imagine how Eleazar could have reached an unprotected body part and killed the elephant “single-­handedly, or even to have wounded it so severely that the animal lost its balance and fell on him.”68 From a literary perspective, it is likely that the notion that the king would have been fighting on the tallest elephant was inspired by earlier sources such as the ancient source which described how the Indian king Porus fought against Alexander from the top of the tallest elephant in his army.69 Part Two’s only detail which is not implausible, tendentious, or both, is Judah’s final retreat in 6:47. In short, the story of the battle of Beth Zechariah is so riddled with local and immediate grounds for doubt that, even according to the traditional historical method, most of its details do not warrant the traditional presumptions of 65 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 335; Hoover, “Eleazar Auaran,” 39. See also Tilly, 1 Makkabäer, 166. 66 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 336. Since Bar-­Kochva embraces the traditional presumption that 1 Maccabees is largely credible and even maintains that its author was an eyewitness to the battle of Beth Zechariah (see pp. 158–59, 332, 335), he does not doubt that Eleazar was crushed to death by an elephant. Moreover, since Bar-­Kochva also acknowledges that 1 Maccabees’ story of Eleazar’s death is implausible, he postulates that the description of Eleazar’s death was obscured by errors made in the “fog of battle” (pp. 159, 336). However, once we acknowledge that ancient histories, like 1 Maccabees, were written with far greater literary freedom than traditionally has been acknowledged, there is no need to invoke unfounded and arbitrary notions like the “fog of battle” in order to excuse the implausible and historically inaccurate elements in the narrative. See also Meir Bar-­Ilan, “‫”מותו של אלעזר‬, 118. 67 See Hoover, “Eleazar Auaran,” 36–37. 68 Hoover, “Eleazar Auaran,” 37. 69 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 335, and his references there.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

17

genuineness and credibility. With good reasons to question the early morning hour, the depiction of the enemy’s battle formations, the Seleucid army’s glaring glow and jarring din, the trembling of the Jewish camp, Judah’s successful assault and Eleazar’s glorious death, little of the story remains for historical reconstruction. All a judicious traditional reconstruction can say is that Judah’s forces and the king’s army clashed in the Judean hills near Beth Zechariah and that Judah eventually retreated. Interestingly, the modest historical kernel reconstructed by a prudent application of the traditional historical model is roughly the same as the battle’s reconstruction according to a careful application of the new historical method. The new historical method maintains that the sweeping presumptions of genuineness and credibility traditionally granted ancient histories are unwarranted since ancient historians did not try to represent the past faithfully and accurately, as we understand these terms. Sensitive to the literary and rhetorical dimensions of ancient historical writings, the new historical method recognizes that ancient historians took great liberties with their sources – omitting, harmonizing, rearranging, condensing, exaggerating, embellishing, inventing, and much more. Since even the most plausible and realistic details of an account might have been distorted, refashioned, or invented, the new historical method concludes that the traditional presumptions of genuineness and credibility are unfounded. In lieu of these blanket presumptions, the new historical method charts an entirely different way, a backdoor route, to capture the hard core of uncorroborated ancient histories without attempting to distinguish fact from fiction. Although ancient historians ornamented and revamped their source materials, they usually did not invent the very hearts of their account. Consequently, if we have good reason to believe that an ancient historian preserved, at the very least, the skeletal outline of his sources, we can identify the hard core of his account on literary grounds alone. By distilling the minimal literary core of an ancient history, we can discern elements of the account which most probably stem from its sources, whether oral or written.70 Comparisons of 1 Maccabees to independent sources (when possible) suggest that the author and his sources did not tend to invent battles out of whole cloth, while our literary analysis of 1 Maccabees’ story of the battle of Beth Zechariah reveals the meticulous process of literary editing it underwent. In light of these factors, a judicious application of the new historical method should conclude that the minimal literary kernel of our story, the battle between Judah’s forces and the king’s army at Beth Zechariah followed by the retreat of the Jewish forces, most 70 For an analysis of the transition from the traditional historical method to the new, see Tropper, Rewriting, 53–105. (See also Steve Mason, A History of the Jewish War A.D. 66–74 [New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016] 60–88.)

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probably stems from an essentially credible source. Although working with very different methodological premises, both historical methods, cautiously applied, elicit from 1 Maccabees roughly the same account of the battle of Beth Zechariah. In addition to this hard core, the actual topography of the region corroborates the presence of the mountains and valleys of 6:39–40. Beyond these bare facts, however, there is little more we can securely say about the battle of Beth Zechariah.71

Was the Battle of Beth Zechariah fought in Wadi Shukheit? 1 Maccabees 6:39–41, in my reading, paints a vivid but largely generic portrait of the Seleucid army and its gradual advance. 6:39 depicts the mountains flashing as the Seleucids’ gold and bronze shields reflected the bright sun; 6:40 describes the king’s forces steadily progressing over high mountains and low valleys; and 6:41 relates how Judah’s forces trembled when they heard the frightening clamor of the approaching enemy army. The glaring shields, steady progression, fearsome din, and terrified response are all conventional battle motifs and the only non-­generic feature of the battle narrative is the mountainous terrain which, as noted above, is corroborated by the topography of the region. Besides enhancing the dramatic depiction of the Seleucid army, however, the local topography does not shed light on the battle itself. In contrast to my reading, Bezalel Bar-­Kochva identifies the battlefield’s precise location on the basis of an unusual military maneuver supposedly implemented by the Seleucid army. According to Bar-­Kochva, eight phalanxes of the Seleucid army marched northwards towards Beth Zechariah and, so long as the valley was 1.7 kilometers wide, the eight phalanxes, each standing 120 to 150 meters wide, were spread across the valley in an extended line. This menacing line was designed to instill fear in the enemy, and the frightening spectacle described in 1 Maccabees 6:39 was purportedly viewed by the Judean forces at this early stage in the enemy’s progress, as the extended line gradually approached the Jewish rebels. The enemy forces, however, eventually encoun 71 If 1 and 2 Maccabees ultimately relied on independent eyewitnesses for their parallel accounts of a Hasmonean assault on the most prominent Seleucid war-­elephant (see 2 Macc 13:14–17, cited below), then the parallel sources would corroborate one another and we could add their shared historical kernel to the facts of the battle. However, since it is likely that the 1 and 2 Maccabees parallels stem from the same tradition and not from independent eyewitnesses (see n. 85 below), their parallel accounts cannot corroborate one another. Instead of corroborating the historicity of their shared details, the parallel accounts merely confirm that an earlier source already related their common details (or that 2 Maccabees depended on 1 Maccabees) and we still lack any means to gauge whether these details are reliable.

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tered a narrow pass, only 100 to 150 meters wide, where they were forced to enter in file, and only at this point did the Judean forces supposedly hear the fearsome din of the enemy army described in 6:41. In other words, the Seleucid army rearranged itself from a broad line into a slender column just when the wide valley tapered to a narrow passage. The extended line of the Seleucid army made a harrowing impression on the Judean forces from a distance, as it approached the narrow pass, but the menacing noise created by the enemy army only reached the Jews once the army had entered the narrow pass in column formation. Assuming that the battle took place in a narrow passage between Beth Zur and Beth Zechariah, Bar-­Kochva identifies the narrow pass of Wadi Shukheit as the site of the battle.72 In theory, the perfect fit between an unusual military maneuver tailor-­made for a particular topography and a specific site in the appropriate geographical region is a convincing way to establish an ancient battlefield’s location. Our literary analysis, however, revealed no such military maneuver; hence it is worth considering how Bar-­Kochva reconstructs the uncommon maneuver. Bar-­Kochva claims that his reconstruction of the Seleucid army’s unusual maneuver stems from both 1 Maccabees and Josephus. In respect to 1 Maccabees, Bar-­Kochva surmises that the Seleucid forces initially marched in a broad line on the basis of 6:35–38: And they distributed the beasts among the phalanxes and placed with each elephant a thousand men, armed with breastplates of chain mail and bronze helmets on their heads and five hundred select cavalry were assigned to each beast. These had been stationed beforehand where the beast was, and wherever it went they went together, without leaving it. And wooden towers, strong and covering, were upon them, fastened to each beast with straps, and upon each one were thirty-­two men of valor, who fought on them, and its Indian (driver). And the rest of the cavalry he placed on either side of the two flanks of the camp, to harass the enemy and protect themselves amongst the phalanxes. These passages, however, do not depict an extended line. In fact, other than placing some cavalry on the flanks, they do not describe how the phalanxes were arranged across the battlefield. Furthermore, Bar-­Kochva speculates that the Seleucid forces deployed only eight elephants within eight phalanxes73 – just the right number of phalanxes to fit across the wide valley approaching Beth Zechariah – but 1 Maccabees states that there were actually thirty-­two elephants and far too many soldiers for an extended “line” in this hilly region. Insofar 72 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 126–29, 159–60, 307, 323–32. 73 See Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 307.

20

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as the transition to a narrow column is concerned, Bar-­Kochva argues that the language of 6:40 – “And part of the king’s camp was spread upon the high mountains and part upon the low ground, and they proceeded steadily and in good order” – “implies a change of formation.”74 6:40 merely states, however, that the enemy horde gradually progressed over mountains and valleys, steadily approaching as a frightening mass. 6:40 does not indicate that the Seleucid army entered a narrow pass nor does it imply any change in formation. Since 6:40 does not mention the Seleucid army’s entry into a narrow pass, 6:39’s dazzling spectacle does not impress the Jews before the enemy entered the pass, and 6:41’s fearsome din does not occur within the pass.75 In sum, 1 Maccabees supplies no evidence at all for the Seleucid army’s supposed transition from an extended line to a slender column in order to enter a narrow pass. Moreover, none of the ancient sources describes a transition from an extended line to a slender column; the only description which comes close is Josephus’s portrait in Antiquities of the Seleucid elephants in column formation: Thereupon the king set out from Beth Zur and led his army to the passes and Judah’s camp; and at daybreak he drew up his army for battle. And he made his elephants follow one another, since they could not be placed side by side in an extended line, because of the narrow space.76 According to Antiquities, the Seleucid elephants were organized in column formation because of the narrow passes. As noted by scholars long ago, 77 however, Josephus apparently had a faulty text of 1 Maccabees (still extant today), 74 Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 329. See also 127, 295. 75 The soldiers’ shining armor and shields and the army’s ferocious noise are conventional literary motifs which may well be fictional. However, even if they capture aspects of the actual battle of Beth Zechariah, they need not rely on a specific topography. Armor and shields will dazzle in the bright morning sunlight throughout the Judean hills, and armies do not need a narrow pass to make a frightening clamor. Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 327–28, 331–32; Daniel R. Schwartz, “‫”מלחמות המקבים‬, [Book Review of Bar-­Kochva’s Judas Maccabaeus],” Tarbiz 60 (1991): 444. 76 Josephus, Ant. 12.370–371 (with translation by Ralph Marcus, Josephus: Jewish Antiquities, Books XII–XIV, 193, slightly revised). 77 See, for example, Carl Ludwig Wilibald Grimm, Das Erste Buch der Maccabäer, in Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zu den Apokryphen des Alten Testamentes, vol. 3 (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1853), 99. See also Kappler, Maccabaeorum liber I, 87 and the references cited in Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 325 (n. 56); compare Étienne Nodet, “Josèphe et 1 Maccabées,” Revue Biblique 122 (2015): 527–28. Josephus, in Ant. 12.370–371, attempts to make sense of his text of 1 Maccabees and there is no reason to think he did so on the basis of his familiarity with the topography of the region or an alternative source. Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 313, 325, 330; Louis H. Feldman, “Josephus’s Portrayal of the Hasmoneans Compared with 1 Maccabees,” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-­Roman Period, ed. Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 42 n. 4.

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21

which read “defiles” – “ϕάραγγας,” in 6:35 and “ϕάραγξιν” in 6:38 rather than “phalanxes” – “ϕάλαγγας” in 6:35 and “ϕάλαγξιν” in 6:38. On the basis of his erroneous text, Josephus mistakenly thought that the battle occurred in a defile – a narrow pass – and he invented the elephant column in order to explain how the massive Seleucid army traversed the tight passage. Since Josephus’s description of both the narrow pass and the elephant column stem from an error in his text of 1 Maccabees, they cannot shed light on any Seleucid military maneuvers at the battle of Beth Zechariah. Well aware of the error in Josephus’s text of 1 Maccabees, Bar-­Kochva nonetheless maintains that Josephus located the battle in a narrow pass on the basis of an independent and reliable source, a source Josephus purportedly used when he wrote The Jewish War. In The Jewish War, Josephus does not mention the elephant column but he does note in 1:41 that the battle of Beth Zechariah occurred “where there is a narrow defile.”78 Bar-­Kochva claims that The Jewish War’s description of the beginning of the battle of Beth Zechariah, that is The Jewish War 1:41, was dependent on Nicolaus of Damascus who, in turn, relied upon 1 Maccabees as well as credible Seleucid sources. Bar-­Kochva also claims that Nicolaus, “who was well-­versed in Hellenistic warfare, would, in this context in any case, certainly have realized the mistake in the word ϕάραγξιν.”79 In other words, Bar-­Kochva argues that The Jewish War’s assertion that the battle took place in a narrow pass ultimately stems from a reliable source echoed by Nicolaus and independent of 1 Maccabees. However, Bar-­Kochva himself acknowledges that most of The Jewish War’s account of the battle of Beth Zechariah, that is 1:42–44, was ultimately dependent on 1 Maccabees and there is no good reason to view 1:41 any differently. It is true that 1:41 does not cite the size of the Seleucid army reported in 1 Maccabees, but Josephus’s numbers here are not always more realistic or less inflated than the numbers in 1 Maccabees. 1 Maccabees notes the presence of only thirty-­two elephants while Josephus almost triples this number. The fact that Josephus changed the number of infantry and cavalry and grossly exaggerated the number of elephants does not suggest that he had an independent and reliable source for The Jewish War 1.41.80 Furthermore, a newfound sensitivity to Josephus’s creative reworking of his sources has led scholars to recognize that Josephus “did not hesitate to invent facts, or even precise figures, all based solely on his own imagination or intuition.”81 Consequently, nothing in The 78 Translation by H. St. A. Thackeray, Josephus: The Jewish War, Books I–III (London and Cambridge, MA: Harvard University and William Heinemann, 1927), 23. 79 Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 325. See also 296. 80 Compare Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 42, 189–90, 295–96. 81 Isaiah M. Gafni, “Josephus and I Maccabees,” in Josephus, the Bible and History, ed. Louis H.

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Jewish War 1:41 suggests that it preserves any information stemming from a reliable source independent of 1 Maccabees, and here, too, the reference to a narrow pass most likely stems from Josephus’s erroneous text of 1 Maccabees. In short, there is no evidence in 1 Maccabees for the Seleucid army entering a narrow pass or transitioning from an extended line to a narrow column. In The Jewish War, Josephus mentions a narrow pass because of an error in his text of 1 Maccabees; in Antiquities, Josephus invents an elephant column in order to make sense of his erroneous text and explain how the Seleucid army entered the narrow pass. In Bar-­Kochva’s reconstruction of the Seleucid army’s purportedly unusual maneuver and his consequent identification of the site of the battle, Bar-­Kochva unwittingly interpreted 1 Maccabees in light of Josephus’s erroneous text of 1 Maccabees. In truth, the most we can say about the location of the battlefield is that it was somewhere near Beth Zechariah.82

Did Judah also Fell an Elephant? In light of the ancient accounts of the battle of Beth Zechariah discussed above, consider the following story of a battle near Modein related in 2 Maccabees 13:14–17: Handing over the decision to the Master of the World, he (i.e., Judah) encouraged his forces to fight nobly to the death for the sake of laws, temple, city, fatherland, and constitution, and encamped near Modein. He gave out to his forces the watchword “God’s Victory.” With excellent, selected young men, he attacked by night the royal residence and killed about two thousand soldiers and put out of action the best of the elephants with its controller. In the end they filled the camp with fear and confusion, and successfully got away free as day was already beginning to break. This had taken place through the protection of the Lord aiding him.83 In this story, Judah orchestrates a night raid on the Seleucid army led by Antiochus Eupator and Lysias.84 With select men and God’s help, Judah attacks Antiochus’s royal residence encamped near Modein, killing some two thousand Feldman and Gohei Hata (Detroit: Wayne State University, 1989), 117. See also Gera, “‫קרב בית‬ ‫”זכריה‬, 27 n. 4; Tropper, Rewriting, 63–83; Erich S. Gruen, “The Hasmoneans in Josephus,” in A Companion to Josephus, ed. Honora Howell Chapman and Zuleika Rodgers (Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell, 2016), 224. 82 See, for example, Avi-­Yonah, “The Hasmonean Revolt,” 172. More generally, Richard Taylor has noted that “the course of the battles . . . is perhaps too poorly documented to support the level of interpretation attempted” by Bar-­Kochva. See Taylor, “Bar Kochva (B.) Judas Maccabaeus: The Jewish Struggle Against the Seleucids,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 112 (1992): 209. 83 Translation by Doran, 2 Maccabees, 251. 84 See 2 Macc 13:1–13.

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23

soldiers, the lead elephant, and its driver. Then, after sowing fear and confusion in the enemy camp, Judah and his men successfully escape. 2 Maccabees’ story of Judah’s night raid near Modein is highly reminiscent of 1 Maccabees’ story of the battle of Beth Zechariah. In both stories, a Hasmonean brother hopes to kill the enemy king at the start of the Seleucid invasion led by King Antiochus Eupator and Lysias. In both stories, the Hasmonean brother attacks and kills the most prominent elephant, and in both stories reference is made to the elephant’s driver. This group of parallels is so uncanny that it strongly suggests that the two stories were either inspired by the same event or, more likely, are variations on one and the same tradition.85 Moreover, since 1 Maccabees surprisingly neglects to mention Judah’s heroic night raid near Modein;86 since the Hasmoneans were associated with Modein;87 since Judah was known for night raids;88 and since Modein was not in the vicinity of Beth Zur or Beth Zechariah, it seems most likely that 2 Maccabees’ story of Judah’s night raid at Modein is a literary invention inspired, amongst other factors, by the story of Eleazar’s heroic attack on the Seleucid army’s largest elephant.89 In the early Middle Ages, however, Josippon (or, perhaps, some intermediary author) transformed Judah’s successful night raid into the backdrop for Eleazar’s heroic death.90 After relocating both the Modein night raid and the Beth Zechariah battle to Betar, Josippon embedded both encounters within a single flowing historical narrative. According to Josippon, Judah implemented a surprise night raid against the king’s camp at Betar, where his forces killed the largest Seleucid elephant, and, in response to the successful raid, the king’s army attacked the following morning. During the course of the daytime battle at Betar, Eleazar heroically died under the largest elephant after Judah (and not Eleazar as in 1 Maccabees) identified it as the king’s mount. By the battle’s end, over eight hundred enemy soldiers had fallen, as opposed to only six hundred 85 Due to the measure of agreement, verbal echoes, and peculiarities of the parallel accounts in 1 and 2 Maccabees, it seems more likely that the two works drew their shared materials from a common tradition than from independent eyewitnesses of the same events. Goldstein (II Maccabees, 37–41) presents an overview of arguments for a common written source; Bar-­Kochva (Judas Maccabaeus, 182–84) maintains that 2 Maccabees relied, directly or indirectly, on 1 Maccabees; and Honigman (Tales of High Priests, 6) contends that the two works “betray a common tradition.” 86 See Goldstein, II Maccabees, 455. 87 See 1 Macc 2:1, 15–18, 70; 16:4–10. See Goldstein, II Maccabees, 457; Bar-­Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 197–98. 88 See 2 Macc 8:7. 89 See Abel, Les Livres, 453; John R. Bartlett, The First and Second Books of the Maccabees (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 88–89, 323; Goldstein, II Maccabees, 455, 457; Bar-­ Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus, 172, 197–98, 293–94; Sievers, The Hasmoneans, 59; Gera, “‫קרב בית‬ ‫”זכריה‬, 25 n. 1; compare Schwartz, “The Battles,” 445; 2 Maccabees, 454. 90 See Josippon 23.7–18 (Flusser, ed., 100–101).

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according to 1 Maccabees. In short, Josippon’s account not only alters details found in 1 and 2 Maccabees, it also reflects the tendency of earlier historians “to juxtapose their sources, rather than to reject one in favor of the other.”91 In other words, Josippon viewed the similar stories in 1 and 2 Maccabees as evidence of two discrete events. Reviving Josippon’s stance, Daniel R. Schwartz has recently rejected the notion that the story of the battle of Beth Zechariah and the story of Judah’s night raid near Modein belong to a single literary trajectory. Unlike Josippon, Schwartz does not creatively date the Modein raid to the night preceding the battle of Beth Zechariah, but he does argue that 2 Maccabees preserves the reliable account of an entirely different battle. Despite the two stories’ uncanny similarities, Schwartz argues that their differences suggest that they are independent of one another. More specifically, Schwartz claims that “key elements of the Eleazar story are lacking” in 2 Maccabees, “such as Eleazar’s belief that the king was on the elephant, and Eleazar’s death beneath it.”92 Since Judah in 2 Maccabees, unlike Eleazar in 1 Maccabees, neither believes that the king was on the elephant nor dies beneath it, Schwartz concludes that the two stories are independent and unrelated to each other. However, the “key elements” in 2 Maccabees Schwartz deems indicative of an independent historical account are easily understood as the products of literary refashioning, prompted by a change in the hero’s identity.93 Judah naturally became the hero of the story in 2 Maccabees, in lieu of Eleazar, because Judah is 2 Maccabees’ central hero: Judah’s brothers are barely mentioned in 2 Maccabees and their father, Matityahu, not at all.94 In fact, the original leader of the Jewish resistance, who is identified as Matityahu in 1 Maccabees 2:42–48, is identified as Judah in 2 Maccabees 8:1, 5–7.95 In keeping with 2 Maccabees’ focus on Judah, Judah replaced Eleazar in the elephant tradition, and, once Judah had become the courageous hero who attacked the enemy’s leading elephant, he could not die under the elephant since he had yet more battles to lead.96 In a similar vein, once Judah had replaced Eleazar, the daytime battle 91 Daniel R. Schwartz, “Josephus and Philo on Pontius Pilate,” The Jerusalem Cathedra 3 (1983): 29. 92 See Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 455. 93 For a clear illustration of this sort of repackaging, see Schwartz, “Josephus and Philo,” 26–45. 94 In a later development of 2 Maccabees’ focus on Judah, Josippon has Judah, not Eleazar, mistakenly identify the royal elephant under which Eleazar is killed. See Josippon 23.10–12 (Flusser, ed., 100). 95 See Joseph Geiger, “‫ על פן אחד של היסטוריוגראפיה הלניסטית‬: ‫”ספר מעשי יהודה המקבי‬, Zion 49 (1984): 4–7; Joshua Efron, Studies on the Hasmonean Period, 19; George W. E. Nickelsburg, “1 and 2 Maccabees – Same Story, Different Meaning,” in George W. E. Nickelsburg in Perspective: An Ongoing Dialogue of Learning, vol. 2, ed. Jacob Neusner and Alan J. Avery-­Peck (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), 671–72; Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 63–64; Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 324–26. 96 Since 1 Maccabees also views Judah as a more important leader than Eleazar, it seems highly

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25

was transformed into a nocturnal sortie in line with Judah’s propensity for night raids.97 At night, one naturally expects to find the unsuspecting king in his residence rather than battle-­ready on an elephant, and therefore Judah directs his attack against the royal residence, killing many soldiers and the lead elephant in the process. In short, since the striking similarities between the parallel stories are so strong and the marked differences can be easily explained as the products of 2 Maccabees’ literary reworking, 2 Maccabees most likely reflects a later stage in the literary evolution of the elephant tradition and not an independent, authentic, and reliable tradition.

Did Eleazar Drown in Elephant Dung? Eleazar’s heroic death under the belly of an elephant was initially reported in 1 Maccabees and was echoed later on in The Jewish War, Antiquities, and Josippon. As noted above, however, this early account of Eleazar’s death is neither plausible nor credible. Not only does the account glorify Eleazar and, by association, his Hasmonean family, but many of its details are also implausible. For example, Eleazar would not have expected a (child-­)king to ride into battle on an elephant, and it is highly unlikely that a war-­elephant could have been killed in the manner described. Recognizing that Eleazar most probably did not find his death under an elephant’s belly, Meir Bar-­Ilan claims to have identified a reliable account of Eleazar’s death in the following passages from Megillat Antiochus: And Eleazar was occupied in killing the elephants and he sank in the dung of an elephant. And his brothers searched for him among the living and the dead and did not find him. Afterwards they found him sunk in the dung of an elephant.98

unlikely that 1 Maccabees would have replaced Judah with Eleazar in an original tradition which glorified Judah’s attack on an elephant. Hence, it seems most likely that the original tradition referred to Eleazar, not Judah. 97 See n. 88 above. 98 Megillat Antiochus, 63–64 (Moses Gaster, Studies and Texts in Folklore, Magic, Mediaeval Romance, Hebrew Apocrypha and Samaritan Archaeology, vol. 3 (London: Maggs Bros., 1925– 1928), 42. For this standard translation, see, for example, Aug. Wünsche, Aus Israels Lehrhallen, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Eduard Pfeiffer, 1908), 191; Shlomoh Aharon Wertheimer, Batei Midrashot, vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1950), 328 (verses 56–57); I. Joel, “‫ דפוס‬,‫”מגילת אנטיוכוס‬, Kirjath Sepher 37 (1961–1962): 136 (verse 62); Menahem Zvi Kadari, “‫ חלק ראשון‬,‫”מגילת אנטיוכס הארמית‬, Bar-­Ilan 1 (1963): 104 (verse 57); N. Fried, “)‫”נוסח עברי חדש של מגילת אנטיוכוס (לפי כ״י המוזיאון הבריטי‬, Sinai 64 (1969): 123 (verses 56–57). My translation is a slight variation on Gaster’s secondary translation in Moses Gaster, Studies and Texts in Folklore, Magic, Mediaeval Romance, Hebrew Apocrypha and Samaritan Archaeology, vol. 1 (London: Maggs Bros., 1925–1928), 183.

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Megillat Antiochus (as commonly read) states that Eleazar drowned to death in elephant dung, and, even though Megillat Antiochus was composed centuries after the Hasmonean revolt, Bar-­Ilan maintains that it faithfully preserves an accurate account of Eleazar’s death. Eleazar’s death in Megillat Antiochus, according to Bar-­Ilan, is a tragic accident – realistic and unfortunate but not shameful in any way. Drowning in elephant excrement is highly unusual and, Bar-­Ilan claims, not the type of death anyone would have concocted. In a similar vein, Bar-­Ilan maintains that we need not suspect that Megillat Antiochus’s story was modeled on earlier literary precursors since accidents of this sort were not standard literary motifs in ancient times. Lastly, Bar-­Ilan contends that the brevity of Megillat Antiochus’s story is typical of factual reports and not of ornamented literary creations. In sum, Bar-­Ilan boldly argues that since Megillat Antiochus’s account of Eleazar’s death is plausible, unbiased, unusual, and brief, it should be considered factual even though it was composed centuries after the Hasmonean revolt.99 There are three fundamental problems, however, with Bar-­Ilan’s argument. First, an uncorroborated late source like Megillat Antiochus, a source composed many centuries after the event it relates, is untrustworthy.100 Since traditions are easily invented and embellished over time, an uncorroborated late tradition should not be considered reliable even if it seems plausible, neutral, unusual, and brief. Any and all of the tradition’s unique features could have emerged as the products or by-­products of an author or tradent’s creative literary efforts.101 Indeed, Megillat Antiochus replaced Eleazar’s misguided attempt to assault the king with a generic attempt to kill elephants, and the search for Eleazar as well as the discovery of his body were invented, perhaps, to attest to his glorious death.102 Second, Megillat Antiochus’s story of Eleazar drowning in excrement stretches the imagination, since there would have had to have been a tremendous amount of excrement for Eleazar to have disappeared into it. Furthermore, 99 See Bar-­Ilan, “‫”מותו של אלעזר‬, 117–25. 100 Although Bar-­Ilan assumes that Megillat Antiochus was composed sometime between the second and fifth century CE in line with Kadari’s conclusions, it seems more likely that the work was only composed centuries later, sometime in the early Muslim period. See Menahem Zvi Kadari, “‫ חלק שני‬,‫מגילת אנטיוכס הארמית‬,” Bar-­Ilan 2 (1964): 211–13; compare Emil Schürer, Geza Vermes, and Fergus Millar, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135), vol. 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1973), 116; Aryeh Kasher, “The Historical Background,” PAAJR 48 (1981), 229; Günther Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud, 331. 101 See Tropper, Rewriting, 53–62. See also “Scroll of Antiochus,” in Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 18, ed. Michael Berenbaum and Fred Skolnik (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007), 214. 102 The search for Eleazar amongst both “the living and the dead” suggests that, according to Megillat Antiochus, Eleazar’s brothers were uncertain of his fate.

The Battle of Beth Zechariah

27

drowning in excrement, even through no fault of one’s own, is a terribly humiliating way to die. Hence, rather than being both plausible and unbiased as Bar-­Ilan contends, Megillat Antiochus’s account of Eleazar’s end (in its standard reading) appears to be both implausible and tendentious.103 Third, Bar-­Ilan’s argument rests on the standard reading of Megillat Antiochus, which states that Eleazar drowned in elephant dung; but this reading is most likely incorrect. The standard reading translates the word “‫”פ ֽר ָּתא‬ ַ ּ (or “‫ ”פורתא‬in some witnesses) as “dung,” but the very same constellation of consonants, with different vowels, spells the word “‫”פ ָר ָתא‬ ֽ ּ which means “navel.”104 If we replace “dung” with “navel,” as some scholars have, the otherwise bizarre tradition about Eleazar returns us to familiar ground:105 And Eleazar was occupied in killing the elephants and he sank in the navel of an elephant. And his brothers searched for him among the living and the dead and did not find him. Afterwards they found him sunk in the navel of an elephant.106 “Navel” is far preferable to “dung” because the notion that Eleazar drowned107 in the belly of an elephant is perfectly aligned with the well-­known tradition about his death under an elephant, a tradition found in 1 Maccabees, The Jewish War, Antiquities, and Josippon. The author of Megillat Antiochus apparently inherited this early tradition, which he (or some intermediary author) developed further by adding that Eleazar could not be found because the felled elephant encompassed him completely. Accordingly, the original Aramaic text of Megillat Antiochus most probably never mentioned elephant dung, and only when some readers mistakenly took “‫”פ ָר ָתא‬, ֽ ּ “navel,” for “‫”פ ֽר ָּתא‬, ַ ּ “dung,” was an entirely new tradition about Eleazar’s death accidentally created. If “navel” is the original reading, there is no reason to even suspect that Eleazar drowned in elephant excrement. In short, Bar-­Ilan’s daring claim falters both because

103 Compare Rappaport, ‫ספר מקבים א‬, 198. 104 See Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (London and New York: Luzac and G. P. Putnam, 1903), 1244. 105 See L. Grünhut, Das Buch Antiochus (Jerusalem: A. M. Luucz, 1894), 44; Gaster, Studies and Texts, vol. 1, 183. 106 This translation is a slight variation on the primary translation offered by Gaster, Studies and Texts, vol. 1, 183. 107 The root “‫”טבע‬, employed here to describe Eleazar’s sinking, need not refer to sinking (or drowning) in a liquid and could easily refer to sinking into a solid (see Eliezer Ben-­Yehuda, ‫מלון הלשון‬ ‫העברית הישנה והחדשה‬, vol. 4 (Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Ben-­Yehuda Hozaa-­La’or and La’am, 1949), 1840. See, for example, 1 Sam 17:49. See also n. 36 above. (Interestingly, Josippon also uses the root “‫ ”טבע‬in its story of Eleazar’s death. See Josippon 23.14 [Flusser, ed., 101]).

28

Amram Tropper

Megillat Antiochus is so late, and because its excrement tradition is neither plausible nor objective and most likely stems from an error in translation.

From Military History to Cultural History In the Judean hills near Beth Zechariah, Judah’s forces battled the Seleucids led by Antiochus Eupator and Lysias and, eventually, the Seleucid army forced Judah and his forces to retreat. Beyond this minimal account of the battle of Beth Zechariah, which includes the credible literary kernel of 1 Maccabees and an independently corroborated fact, there is little we can reliably say. For example, the story of an attack on the lead elephant described in 2 Maccabees cannot corroborate the kernel of the similar story in 1 Maccabees, since both stories may well be variations on a legendary (and largely fictional) tradition.108 In short, we know very little about the battle of Beth Zechariah, and most of what we know stems from the literary kernel of 1 Maccabees. Moreover, if the relatively well-­documented and detailed episode of the battle of Beth Zechariah reveals little about the actual battle, it stands to reason that there is little we can securely say about any Hasmonean battle. Nonetheless, the stories about the battle of Beth Zechariah have much to teach us about the literary evolution of the Beth Zechariah battle narrative. 1 Maccabees molded the Beth Zechariah battle narrative in order to glorify the Hasmonean dynasty by lionizing Eleazar and justifying Judah’s retreat. 2 Maccabees remade the tradition about Eleazar’s death in line with its focus on Judah and, later on, Josippon not only continued to expand Judah’s role but also presented 2 Maccabees’ variation on the Beth Zechariah battle narrative as the backdrop to its own account of Eleazar’s noble death.109 In line with the historical thinking of its age, Josippon modified details from 1 and 2 Maccabees in order to coordinate their similar yet contradictory accounts. For his part, Josephus invented a Seleucid column formation at Beth Zechariah in order to make sense of his faulty text of 1 Maccabees, and Megillat Antiochus, as well as its flawed translation, developed the story of Beth Zechariah in yet other directions. Megillat Antiochus transformed Eleazar’s misguided attempt to kill the king into a courageous assault on the enemy’s elephants, invented the search and discovery episode perhaps to serve as evidence for Eleazar’s remarkable death, and gave rise to a bizarre story when translated incorrectly. Although our sources did not preserve reliable accounts of a sophisticated military maneuver, a night battle near Modein, or Eleazar’s drowning in elephant dung, they do reveal how a typical Hasmonean battle narrative evolved and changed over time. 108 See nn. 71 and 85 above. 109 See n. 94 above.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot? Evidence from Rishonim and from Fragments of the Cairo Geniza and “European Geniza” Binyamin Katzoff Bar-­Ilan University

For the first four orders of the Tosefta we have three full text-­witnesses, representing two transmission branches: MS Erfurt, whose readings are often close to quotations of Tosefta in Rishonim of Ashkenaz; and MS Vienna and the editio princeps, whose readings are often close to those of Sepharad. MS Erfurt ends in the middle of Tractate Zevaḥim, so for the last two orders we have representatives of only one transmission branch. Saul Lieberman argued that indirect evidence can be found in quotations of Tosefta Tohorot passages in the Rishonim, for a second transmission branch for Tohorot, which, he supposed, must have existed. Important, then, are quotations of Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim of France and Ashkenaz, which may provide such indirect evidence. The present study addresses the problems in Lieberman’s argument by examining these passages in the Rishonim in the light of Tosefta fragments retrieved from the Cairo Geniza and from bookbindings known as the “European Geniza,” almost all fragments not known to Lieberman. The results do not confirm Lieberman’s thesis. In fact, there does not appear to be any evidence in any of the Rishonim of a consistent reliance on a textual transmission different from that of MS Vienna and the editio princeps.

A. Textual Traditions of the Tosefta in the Main Textual Witnesses The Tosefta, one of the major halakhic works of the classical rabbinic period, composed apparently in the third century CE, has received considerable scholarly attention during the last half century. From the 1950s through the 1980s, Saul Lieberman published a critical edition, with commentary, of over half of the Tosefta.1 Since then other scholars have published studies containing

1 Saul Lieberman, Tosefta, 4 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1955); idem, Tosefta Ki-­fshuta, 10 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1955). The symbols for the textual witnesses to the Tosefta that will be used henceforth are E = MS Erfurt (formerly; today: MS Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Or. 1220); P = first printed edition, Venice 1521; V = MS Wein, Österreichische

29

30

Binyamin Katzoff

source-­criticism of the Tosefta, exploring such questions as the relationship between the Tosefta and the Mishnah and the question of its relationship to the parallels found in the two Talmuds.2 However, as noted by a few scholars, foundational questions relating to the textual tradition of the Tosefta have only been partially discussed and still require closer examination.3 For the first four orders of the Tosefta we have three textual witnesses of broad scope representing two transmission branches: MS Erfurt (an Ashkenazi manuscript from the eleventh or twelfth century) on the one hand, and MS Vienna (a Sephardic manuscript from the fourteenth century) and the editio princeps (Venice, 1521), on the other.4 In his introduction to the fourth part of Tosefeth Rishonim, Lieberman claimed that the differences between the versions of the Tosefta do not derive only from the ordinary sorts of errors and emendations that are found in textual witnesses of nearly every composition, but also preserve in some instances “vestiges of different traditions that were prevalent in different yeshivot.”5 In support of his claim, Lieberman presented several examples which show a correlation between the readings in the two manuscript traditions and the traditions that are brought in the two Talmuds and the writings of the Geonim and Rishonim. Throughout his two great works on the Tosefta, Tosefeth Rishonim and Tosefta Ki-­fshuta, Lieberman noted additional instances of this correlation.6 The claim has great import. Had manu-









Nationalbibliothek, Heb. 20 (Schwartz 46). The symbols for Geniza and bookbinding fragments of Tosefta Tohorot will be presented in section 3. The references to Tosefta are according to the M.S. Zuckermandel edition (Jerusalem: Bamberger & Wahrmann, 1937). 2 See for example Shamma Friedman, ‫( תוספתא עתיקתא – מסכת פסח ראשון‬Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2002); Judith Hauptman, Rereading the Mishnah: A New Approach to Ancient Jewish Texts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005); Yaakov Elman, Authority and Tradition: Toseftan Baraitot in Talmudic Babylonia (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1994); Abraham Goldberg, ‫( פירוש מבני ואנליטי לתוספתא – מסכת בבא קמא‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2001); Binyamin Katzoff, “‫”היחס בין התוספתא והירושלמי למסכת ברכות‬. PhD diss., Bar-­Ilan University, 2004. 3 Adiel Schremer, “‫ עיון ראשוני בעקבות שאול ליברמן‬:‫”למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬. JSIJ 1 (2002) 11–12; Robert Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2014), 31. On the importance of this focus of research and its implications for many other areas of research in the study of classical rabbinic lilterature, see Friedman, ‫תוספתא עתיקתא‬, 79. Among the most recent studies are Schremer, ibid., 11–43; Brody, ibid., 31–107; idem, ,‫ נוסח‬:‫משנה ותוספתא כתובות‬ ‫( פרשנות ועריכה‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2015) 14–41; Friedman, ibid., 79–86; Yoav Rosenthal, “‫”על נספחים ומקומם בתוספתא‬, Tarbiz 79 (2010) 187–228; Binyamin Katzoff, “‫קטעי‬ ‫”כריכה של תוספתא נדרים מנורצ׳יה ומקומם במסורת הנוסח‬, JSIJ 13 (2014) (forthcoming). 4 MS Erfurt includes the Tosefta for the four orders Zera‘im to Neziqin, as well as the first four chapters and part of the fifth chapter of Masechet Zevaḥim. On the provenance of the manuscripts, see Lieberman, Tosefta, I: Zeraim: Introduction 8–12. On the division into two textual traditions see Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 45; idem, ‫משנה ותוספתא כתובות‬, 20. 5 Saul Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim, 4 vols. (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1939), IV, 11–13; see also idem, Tosefta Ki-­fshuta, I, 20. 6 In the introduction, Lieberman presents nine examples and refers to four others. On other

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

31

script variants of the Tosefta been ascribable to “ordinary” errors, then, where scholars could show that one of the variants was original, they could stop there and ignore the other reading as being an error. However, if Lieberman’s claim is taken seriously, then, even though from a historical point of view only one of the readings is original, the other reading may reflect a tradition according to which it was formed. That tradition is also worthy of study: How early is it? How did it enter the Tosefta? What is its relation to other traditions within and outside of the Tosefta?7 Lieberman’s study of quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim yielded one of the important findings related to the history of the text of the Tosefta – that the readings in the quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim of Ashkenaz and France are close to version E, while the readings in the quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim of Spain are close to version VP.8 Even though there are quite a few contrary instances, as noted by Robert Brody and Adiel Schremer,9 the correlation between the readings indicated by Lieberman is found in the majority of the instances and indeed prevails.10 The claim that the different readings reflect (in some cases) traditions according to which they were formed, and that the main text traditions are located in different geographical contexts, emphasizes the importance of the question: locations where Lieberman indicates a correlation between the readings, see Schremer, “‫למסורת‬ ‫”נוסח התוספתא‬, 39–43. 7 Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 15; see also idem, “‫”בקורת על ספרי דברים מהדורת פינקלשטין‬, ed. Finkelstein, Kiryat Sefer 14 (1938): 324; Chaim Milikowsky, “Seder Olam: A Rabbinic Chronography” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1981), 128–32. 8 Lieberman brought isolated examples of this in some of his discussions of textual variants in Tosefeth Rishonim. He hinted at the phenomenon in general in his introduction to Tosefeth Rishonim I, 1: “And in the general introduction I will endeavor, if it be God’s will, to touch on the general relationship between the various manuscripts that we have and the sections that are found in the Rishonim,” and referred to only a few examples relating to the text found only in the Rambam and the Ravad. Lieberman noted the proximity between the readings of the Rishonim of France and Ashkenaz and version E in Tosefeth Rishonim II, 55, to line 10. Unfortunately, the general introduction, as is well known, was never completed, and only a short (and possibly incomplete) description of the phenomenon was presented by Lieberman in his introduction to Tosefta Ki-­fshuta I, 19, and in his introduction to Tosefta Ki-­fshuta III, 13. See also Eliezer Shimshon Rosenthal, “‫”המורה‬, PAAJR 31 (1963) 67–69. 9 Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 34; Schremer, “‫”למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬, 19, note 40; Katzoff, “‫”קטעי כריכה של תוספתא מנורצ׳יה‬, 17–18. 10 The correspondence between the manuscripts and the quotations in the Rishonim was apparently one of the considerations that led Lieberman to base his edition of the Tosefta on MS Vienna. The assumption may have been that the Rishonim of Sepharad had more accurate texts of the Tosefta than did the Rishonim of Ashkenaz, an assumption challenged by Brody. Lieberman, Tosefta, I, Introduction, 12; Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 38–42.

32

Binyamin Katzoff

What is the source of the different text traditions of the Tosefta and how were they created? In relation to version E, Lieberman briefly noted, on the one hand, that “it is indeed an excellent manuscript, but its emendations have spoiled it; it is a ‘corrected’ text upon which we find scholars’ corrections according to the Babylonian Talmud and sometimes according to the Jerusalem Talmud.”11 On the other hand, in many instances he decided that a particular text preserves an original reading, in contrast to all the other textual witnesses to the Tosefta.12 Several scholars who theorized that in many cases E may contain a secondary reading suggested that at least some of the textual variants derive from the aggressive reworking of rabbinic compositions by the Rishonim of Ashkenaz around the twelfth century, mainly in the school of the Ra’avyah (Rabbi Eliezer ben Yoel HaLevi of Bonn) and his disciples, in many cases according to the Bavli, as described in detail by Israel Ta-­Shma.13 Yaakov Sussman provided support for this suggestion by pointing to external and internal characteristics of E that connect it with this environment – E was copied in Ashkenaz about the time of the Ra’avyah, and the version of the Tosefta that is quoted in the writings of the Ra’avyah and other Rishonim in his circle is close to text version E.14 Other scholars expressed reservations about this view. Brody examined the nature of the textual witnesses for tractate Ketubbot – for which, in addition to the large-­scale textual witnesses, there is also a Geniza fragment comprising about one-­quarter of the tractate – and concluded that at least quantitatively, the E tradition is significantly superior to the VP tradition.15 Schremer presented





11 Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-­fshuta III, 14. In discussing textual variants in the Tosefta, Lieberman frequently commented on the “emendation” of MS Erfurt. For examples see Yaakov Sussman, “‫”׳ירושלמי כתב־יד אשכנזי׳ ו׳ספר ירושלמי׳‬, Tarbiz 65 (1996): 61, note 166; Friedman, ‫תוספתא עתיקתא‬, 81; Schremer, “‫“למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬, 14, note 10. 12 See for example that noted by Schremer, “‫”למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬, 25, note 132. 13 Israel Ta-­Shma, “‫”ספרייתם של חכמי אשכנז בני המאה הי״א–הי״ב‬, Kiryat Sefer 60 (1984–85): 298–309. 14 Sussman, “‫”ירושלמי כ״י אשכנזי‬, 61–63, note 166; idem, “‫”שרידי תלמוד ב׳גניזה האירופית‬, in Avraham David and Joseph Tabory, ‫( הגניזה האיטלקית‬Jerusalem: Orhot, 1998), 59–60. In his treatment of the “Ashkenazi Yerushalmi MS” and MS E, Sussman focused his discussion on literary and cultural phenomena that were prevalent in the circles of the Ashkenaz Rishonim in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but added that the source of the phenomena was in events that occurred in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in the Mediterranean basin (see “‫ ”אשכנזי ירושלמי כי״י‬60, note 163). See also Friedman, ‫תוספתא עתיקתא‬, 70–86, and especially p. 80, note 274; C. Milikowsky, “The Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature,” JJS 39 (1998): 208, n. 27; P. Schäfer, “Once again the Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature: An Answer to Chaim Milikowsky,” JJS 40 (1989): 92; P. Mandel, “The Tosefta,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, ed. S. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), IV: The Late Roman-­Rabbinic Period, 332. 15 According to Brody’s findings, all three textual witnesses, E, V and P, have a common source on which the Geniza fragment is not based, and the E variant is closer to the Geniza fragment than is VP. Hence, according to the rules of stemmatic method, the conclusion must be that

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

33

many textual variances between E and V, for many of which there exists no parallel in the Bavli, and others where the reading in V is close to the Bavli text, while the reading in E is close to the Yerushalmi. In these cases it is certainly not possible to view the E text as deriving from the influence of the Bavli, and in Schremer’s opinion most of the variations between the textual traditions are early variants that were available to the redactors of both of the Talmuds.16 I, too, have recently demonstrated that the reading in a Tosefta fragment, copied in the East around 1000 CE and found in a bookbinding in the municipal archive of Norcia, belongs to the E tradition. Clearly, then, not all the variants between the E and VP traditions can be ascribed to late Ashkenazic interventions.17

B. Lieberman’s Theory Regarding the Textual Tradition of Tosefta Tohorot Scholarly discussion regarding the nature of the textual traditions of the Tosefta focuses mainly on the textual witnesses to the Tosefta for the first four orders because, as we noted, E ends in the middle of tractate Zevaḥim, and for most of the order of Qodashim and all of the order of Tohorot of the Tosefta we have only one direct textual tradition, the one in the two textual witnesses relatively close to each other, VP. The absence is especially striking in the order of Tohorot for which there is no Talmud at all, neither Bavli nor Yerushalmi. Considering this absence, Lieberman made two assumptions that, taken together, made possible in certain cases indirect documentation for an additional textual witness to Tosefta Tohorot. First, Lieberman asserted that just as we observe differences between different textual traditions in the other orders, so “certainly such variants must have existed in Tosefta Tohorot as well,” that is to say, a





in many places E preserves the original text, whereas VP presents a secondary reading. Even without the comparison to the Geniza fragment, Brody claims that in VP there are more errors and brief glosses than in E. See Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 45–54; idem, ‫משנה ותוספתא‬ ‫כתובות‬, 14–22. 16 Schremer, “‫”למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬, 14–15. Haya Nathan, who examined the language of E, also came to a similar conclusion, that the language found in E and in the Bavli is original Tannaitic language that was preserved. See “‫( ”מסורתו הלשונית של כ״י ארפורט של התוספתא‬PhD diss., Hebrew University, 1984), 343–46. 17 Katzoff, “‫”קטעי כריכה של תוספתא מנורצ׳יה‬. Study of halakhot from the Tosefta that are brought in Halakhot Pesukot, the first book of halakhah composed after the redaction of the Babylonian Talmud, reveals that their text is significantly closer to the text of E than to VP. See Binyamin Katzoff, “‫”המקורות התנאיים ונוסחם בספר הלכות פסוקות‬, Shenaton Ha-­Mishpat Ha-­Ivri 25 (2008): 199–216. These findings do not prove that the E tradition is more original, but they do prove that the splitting of the transmission branches occurred in the East at the latest at the end of the first millennium.

34

Binyamin Katzoff

textual tradition different from the one found in VP also existed for Tosefta Tohorot. Second, Lieberman asserted that in the quotations from the Tosefta in the Rishonim, there was likely to be found indirect testimony to the other textual tradition of the Tosefta, for which he presented a number of examples.18 From what he says here, it is not clear, though, what, in his opinion, the scope of the phenomenon was – whether he meant a number of instances that did not have great significance, or whether he was speaking of documentation on a large scale of a substantial alternative tradition. On the other hand, toward the end of his remarks, he returns to this matter and writes that “we have before us in Tosefta Tohorot three main types of passages embedded in the writings of our masters the Rishonim: the French version in the commentary of the Rash (Rabbi Samson ben Abraham of Sens), a version that is close to it . . . ​that of the Ravad (Rabbi Avraham ben David of Posquieres), and the Sefphardic version, that of the Rambam.” We may infer that in his opinion there is a widespread phenomenon of indirect documentation of textual traditions in the writings of the Rishonim.19 If this is indeed the case, it seems that the most interesting of these is the indirect witness to a French version, for the indirect witness to a version in the writings of the Rishonim of Spain would be close to the directly transmitted version in VP that we already have before us for the order of Tohorot. In contrast, E, a close version of which is brought in the writings of the Rishonim of France (and Ashkenaz) in the rest of the orders, is completely lacking for Tohorot. Thus it is possible that in their writings we can find indirect evidence for a continuous text tradition different from that found in VP and not found in any directly transmitted version. However, Lieberman’s two assumptions must be carefully examined. First of all, regarding his assumption of the existence of an additional version of Tosefta Toharot: Does the fact that in the rest of the orders we have a textual tradition which is different from that in VP necessarily lead to the conclusion that there was a variant textual tradition from VP for Tohorot as well? Not necessarily. A different textual tradition may develop in an environment in which a composition is studied and transmitted intensively and, incidental to this activity, it may become influenced, intentionally or unintentionally, by the studies of those who are working with it and may absorb changes of different kinds. Lieberman’s claim is thus based on an assumption that Tosefta Tohorot was studied 18 Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 14. 19 Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 23. See also Rosenthal, “‫”המורה‬, 68, who notes an additional type that is found in the quotations embedded in the writings of the Geonim, which is the eastern text version. From study of the quotations of the Tosefta from the order of Tohorot in the writings of the Geonim, no correlation was found between the version quoted by the Geonim and the unique versions from the Geniza fragments that differ from the VP version.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

35

and transmitted intensively, similar to the Tosefta of the rest of the orders, and that, due to this intensive study, significant processes connected with the text of the Tosefta also occurred in this order. However, can we be sure that this was indeed the case? Sussman pointed out the great affinity, down to the smallest details, between the readings of a number of fragments of bookbindings from one copy of the Yerushalmi and the readings of the Yerushalmi quoted in the writings of the Rishonim of Ashkenaz from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. He noticed that the phenomenon of unique textual variants reflecting the reworking of the Yerushalmi in light of other traditions found there and in the Rishonim of Ashkenaz exists only in tractate Berakhot and the order of Mo‘ed, apparently the most studied parts of the Talmud, but not in sections of the order of Nashim.20 In addition, in his description of the character of the emendations in the Leiden manuscript of the Yerushalmi, Sussman argued that Berakhot, and a close second, Sheqalim, are the tractates that were most studied and the most “treated.”21 In other words, what Sussman showed is that, as regards the Yerusahlmi at least, for those parts of the work that were studied more intensively there coalesced an additional, late, textual tradition influenced by other works that were central to efforts of scholars and copyists, whereas for those parts of the work which were less studied no such additional textual tradition was formed. The question arises, then, whether the extent to which Tosefta Tohorot was studied was at all close to the extent to which the other sections of the Tosefta were studied. Even if it was, should we expect the Tosefta for the order of Tohorot, on which there is neither Talmud Bavli nor Yerushalmi, to have been influenced by traditions from other compositions, as was the case with other orders on which there is at least one Talmud, and for part of them even two Talmuds? Therefore, I would argue, Lieberman’s assertion regarding the existence of a textual tradition of Tosefta Tohorot different from the one found in VP is possible, but is certainly not necessary. In addition, a methodological question arises regarding Lieberman’s second assumption. Where a medieval sage brings what seems to be a quotation from the Tosefta, is it clear that he intends to quote a text of the Tosefta that he has before him? And if so, is he quoting precisely? Or is it possible that he intends to transmit the contents by paraphrasing, perhaps in clearer language, or in light of other sources or the local context of his words? That is to say, the presence of quotations from the Tosefta differing from the VP reading in the teachings

20 Yaakov Sussman, “‫ לקראת פתרון חידת ׳ספר ירושלמי׳‬:‫”שרידי ירושלמי – כת״י אשכנזי‬, Kobez Al Yad 12 (1984): 16–18, and note 71; idem, “‫”ירושלמי כ״י אשכנזי‬, 58, and note 150. 21 Yaakov Sussman, “‫ לפניו ולאחריו‬:‫”כתב־יד ליידן של הירושלמי‬, Bar-Ilan 26–27 (1995): 211, note 30; idem, ‫ שבספריית האוניברסיטה של ליידן‬3 ‫( מבוא לתלמוד ירושלמי על פי כתב יד סקליגר‬Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language: 2001), 25–26, notes 161–62.

36

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of the various Rishonim indeed raises the possibility that there is a variant text tradition of the Tosefta, but it does not prove it. It is possible that what we find is not a variant text tradition, but rather that the practice of the sage is not to quote his sources exactly as they are before him. Here it is very important to examine carefully the examples that Lieberman brings to support his view. His claim is that there are variant textual traditions for Tosefta Tohorot and that the quotations of the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim preserve (in some cases) a different text tradition from that found in VP. The claim is certainly based on Lieberman’s great familiarity with, and vast expertise on, all parts of the Tosefta, its textual witnesses and its quotations in the Rishonim, and their interpretations. However, in the two examples that Lieberman brings, while he indeed presents different traditions, these are actually found in the direct textual transmissions of the Tosefta, one in V and the other in P. That is to say, Lieberman brings examples for his first claim of the existence of different traditions, but he does not bring even one example of documentation of a tradition found only in the writings of Rishonim that contrasts with the tradition of the two direct textual witnesses V and P.22 This puzzling fact may suggest that perhaps even Lieberman doubted whether a quotation from the Tosefta in the writings of one of the Rishonim is necessarily a witness to another text version of the Tosefta that the writer had before him, and that for that reason he preferred to present instances in which the documentation of the Tosefta traditions is also found in the direct textual witnesses. In sum, both Lieberman’s assumption of the existence of a textual tradition of Tosefta Tohorot that differs from that in VP, and his assumption regarding documentation of the different tradition in the quotations from the Tosefta found in the writings of the Rishonim, require rethinking. Clear proof of a unique version documented in the writings of a medieval sage, such as a French-­ Ashkenazi version of Tosefta Tohorot that differs from that of VP, will thus arise only out of correspondence between quoted sections in the sage’s writings and a unique reading found in some direct textual witness to the Tosefta.23 22 Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 14. Lieberman brings two additional examples. One is to show that “sometimes they tried to emend the Tosefta in accordance with the Bavli tradition in the Mishnah,” in which the Rash first quotes Tosefta similarly to what is found in VP, and then suggests an emendation according to the Bavli. The second is to show that “sometimes it is difficult to clarify the source of the different versions in the Tosefta,” in which, in a quotation of Tosefta in the book Halakhot Gedolot, the reading “‫ ”בכהנים‬is different from that found in VP. He suggests that this is connected to an exceptional textual reading in the Bavli that is documented only in HaRokeach and not in the direct textual witnesses nor in the writings of other Rishonim, which read “‫”בעבודה‬. In any event, in these two examples too, there is no indication of a version of Tosefta that is different from VP that is found in the writings of the Geonim or the Rishonim only, and which fits with the tradition found in the direct textual witness to another composition. 23 On the importance of comparing the readings of the quotations of Tosefta in the writings of the

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

37

Indeed, today we have access to Geniza fragments of Tosefta Tohorot – the great majority of which were not available to Lieberman – that provide direct testimony to the reading of the Tosefta in the place and at the time they were copied, and an examination of these is likely to teach us a great deal regarding the character of the readings in the writings of the Rishonim and the history of the text of the Tosefta.24 In this article I wish to examine one issue that arises from the text of the Geniza fragments: to what degree are the texts of the quotations from Tosefta Tohorot in the writings of the Rishonim close to the readings found in the Geniza fragments of the Tosefta in contrast to in the readings of the full textual witnesses to the Tosefta VP, and do these confirm the claim regarding another text tradition of the Tosefta that arises in the writings of the Rishonim.25 As I will show below, the number of relevant quotations in the writings of the medieval Rishonim from before the twelfth century is small, and nearly all the quotations in the writings of the Rishonim after the twelfth century are already found in the writings of the Rishonim of the twelfth century, and it is possible that they were taken from their books. Rishonim and the direct textual witnesses, and on the methodological issues involved in this, see Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 33–34 and n. 45. 24 To date, relatively few studies have been devoted to the place of Geniza and bookbinding fragments in the textual traditions of the Tosefta. See, for now, Lieberman, Tosefta, III, Introduction, 6; M. Perani, “Il più antico frammento della ‘Genizah italiana’: la Tosefta di Norcia (ca.1000 e.v.) – rilievi codicologici e paleografici,” in La “Genizah italiana,” ed. M. Perani (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1999), 261–65; G. Stemberger, “I frammenti della Tosefta di Norcia, e il loro contributo alla studio della tradizione testuale,” in La “Genizah Italiana,” 267–73; M. Perani and G. Stemberger, “Nuova luce sulla tradizione manoscritta della Tosefta. I frammenti rinvenuti a Bologna,” Henoch 16 (1994): 227–52; Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 51–57; idem, ‫משנה ותוספתא כתובות‬, 14–22; Rosenthal, “‫”על נספחים ומקומם בתוספתא‬, 210, note 118; Katzoff, “‫;”קטעי כריכה של תוספתא מנורצ׳יה‬ idem, “‫ לאופיה של מסורת מן הגניזה‬:‫”׳ארבע צווחות צווחה העזרה׳‬, Ginzei Qedem 11 (2015): 99–118. 25 Here I should emphasize that a comprehensive, thorough and well-­grounded description of the textual traditions of Tosefta Tohorot requires examination of each and every fragment in its own right, as well as its text, its links with other textual witnesses, and its place in the textual tradition, along with a determination of the character of the indirect textual traditions that are brought in the writings of each one of the Rishonim to Tosefta Tohorot and their place in the text tradition. First and foremost are those that are brought in the commentary of the Rash of Sens, who quotes extensive parts of Tosefta Tohorot in his commentary. The present article, as mentioned, deals only with one aspect of research into the text tradition of Tosefta Tohorot – the correspondence between the versions found in the Geniza fragments and the texts that are quoted in the writings of the Rishonim. I hope elsewhere to devote a focused study to additional questions that are connected to the tradition of the Tosefta text. Nonetheless, in order that it be possible to evaluate the significance of the findings, I will present below, as part of the description of the Tosefta fragments, a short and preliminary description of the relationship of the texts in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments to the texts of the two complete witnesses to Tohorot, and of the degree of independence of the text of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, and I will discuss the entirety of the preliminary findings below in note 33.

38

Binyamin Katzoff

Therefore, the main part of the findings has to do with the texts of the Geniza fragments that are quoted by the Rishonim whose main body of work was in the twelfth century, and who died close to the end of that century or at the beginning of the thirteenth.26 I begin with a survey of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments of Tosefta Tohorot and indicate the time and place in which they were copied. Following this, I will present the findings that relate to the relationship of the text of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments of the Tosefta to the quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim. In the concluding section I will discuss the significance of these findings and what can be learned from them about the nature of the quotations from the Tosefta of the order of Tohorot in the writings of the Rishonim.

C. The Geniza and Bookbinding Fragments of Tosefta Tohorot Fragments have been found from six or seven copies of Tosefta Tohorot (on the question of whether there are six or seven, see below, pp. 42–43), some of which were found in the Cairo Geniza and others in bookbindings throughout Europe. Following is a list of these fragments. I will note the scope of the fragments and the time and place they were copied, based on the assessment of Dr. Edna Engel, in order to make clear the number of documents and quantity of text that are included in the discussion, as well as their origins, as part of an examination of the significance of the phenomenon.27 I will begin with the fragments from the pages that, by all appearances, were copied in the Middle East, and proceed afterwards to those that were copied in other areas.28 G1: Three fragments of a single manuscript copied in the eleventh century, apparently in the land of Israel, Egypt, or Syria. [a] MS Cambridge, University Library, T-­S E 2.132.

26 In the framework of this article, I will not discuss the texts of the quotations of the Tosefta to the order of Qodashim in the writings of the Rishonim, which require study from an additional perspective that arises from the question of the possible influence of the Babylonian Talmud traditions on the texts of the Tosefta, a perspective that apparently is not very instructive with respect to the quotations from Tosefta Tohorot discussed here (see note 70). In any case, I do note briefly that the number of places in which the Rishonim quote Tosefta according to a unique reading in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments in contrast to the reading in VP in the order of Qodashim is significantly smaller than in the order of Tohorot. 27 I want to thank Dr. Edna Engel for providing her assessments regarding the time and place in which the fragments were copied. 28 As much as possible, the fragments will also be presented in this order in the rest of the discussion in this article.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

39

One damaged page, with text on both sides, of Tosefta, Kelim, Bava Qamma 7:17 – Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:19. About 28 lines are legible.29 (Numbers of lines here and in the following refer to lines in the Zuckermandel edition of the Tosefta.) [b] MS Cambridge, University Library, T-­S E 2.134. One page, with text on both sides, of Tosefta, Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 8:3 – 9:4. Legible: about 33 lines.30 [c] MS Oxford, Bodleian Library, Heb. B. 13/4–5. Two pages with text on both sides of Tosefta, Tevul Yom 2:4 – Oktzim 2:10. Legible: about 80 lines.31 In all, about 141 lines (in the Zuckermandel edition) of G1 are legible. B1: MS Paris, National Library, Suppl. Turc 983/85, Suppl. Turc. 983/104. Copied around the eleventh century, apparently in the land of Israel, Egypt, or Syria. Two pages with text on both sides of Tosefta, Parah 5:5 – 6:8. Legible: about 30 lines.32 G2: MS Cambridge, University Library, T-­S E 2.135, copied either before the tenth century in the land of Israel, Egypt, or Syria, or in the eleventh century in southern Italy. One damaged page, with text on both sides, of Tosefta, Parah 1:1 – 4:3. Legible: in aggregate about 47 lines.33







29 Yaakov Sussman, ‫אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים בהשתתפות יואב רוזנטל ואהרן שויקה‬, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi Press, 2012), I, 205, number 1876. Beginning with: “‫( ”שברי כלי חרש‬page 578, line 11), ending with: “‫( ”ומיכן טמא‬page 579, line 11). 30 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 205, number 1878. Beginning with: “‫( ”בא[רבע זו]יות הבית‬page 587, line 9), ending with: “‫( ”מסרג את המיטה‬page 588, line 5). 31 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 112, number 940. Beginning with: “‫( ”ומאה בעבוע‬page 685, line 16), ending with: “‫( ”תמרים ששלקן אין‬page 687, line 33). In G1 there are a relatively large number of independent texts, most, but not all, of them showing small changes in style. There is no clearly recognizable proximity to one of the major textual witnesses over another. 32 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬II, 777, number 8228 (the second page only), and number 8229 (the description there needs to be corrected). These are two parts of a single page on which the text was copied in two columns and which was cut between the columns. The top of the page is missing. The order of the pages: 85a (the right hand column), beginning with: “‫( ”מערה וצריך‬page 634, line 28), ending with: “‫( ”שולי כלי‬page 634, line 36); 104b (the left column), beginning with: “‫”פסולה שתי‬ (page 635, line 9), ending with: “‫( ”אם יש‬page 635, line 18); 104a (the right column), beginning with: “‫( ”וקדש הרי‬page 635, line 27), ending with: “ . . . ‫( ”לאחר בש‬page 635, line 35); 85b (the left column), beginning with: “‫( ”פסול מילא‬page 636, line 7), ending with: “‫( ”והאמצעי כשר‬page 636, line 15). In B1 there are a relatively large number of independent readings, mostly slight changes in style, but there are some that are more significant. Its text is recognizably closer to V than to P. 33 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 206, number 1879. Beginning with: “‫( ”יום אחר‬page 630, line 15), ending

40

Binyamin Katzoff

G3: MS St. Petersburg, National Library, Yevr. II A 293.12, copied between the middle of the thirteenth century and the middle of the fourteenth century, apparently in Provence or the Iberian Peninsula. One damaged page with text on both sides of Tosefta, Zavim 5:5 – Yadayim 1:17. Legible: in aggregate about 51 lines.34 B2: MS Vienna, Austrian National Library, Hebr. N.5 Han, copied around the fourteenth century, apparently in Italy. Two non-­consecutive strips, with text on both sides, on which are portions of Tosefta, Parah 5:2 – 6:7. Legible: about 16 lines.35 B3: MS Graetz, Franciscan Library, Ink. A 57.10 [‫]ב‬, copied around the thirteenth century, apparently in northern France or Germany. One page with text of Tosefta, Ohalot 5:11 – 7:1, on one side very fragmentary because of pieces of parchment that are stuck to it (see B4 below). Legible: in aggregate about 21 lines.36 B4: MS Graetz, Franciscan Library, Ink. A 57.10 [‫]ג‬, copied around the thirteenth century, apparently in northern France or Germany. B4 was apparently copied in the same place and at the same time as B3, and it is difficult to determine whether these are two pages from the same manuscript (implying that we have only six manuscripts of Tosefta), or that these are pages from two different manuscripts (implying that we have pages from seven manuscripts). Four strips from one page with text from Tosefta, Miqva’ot 6:4–14 on one side. Legible: in aggregate about 14 lines.37









with: “. . . ‫( ” הוא ה‬page 633, line 12). In G2 there are relatively many independent texts; most of them show small changes in style but there are also quite a few that are more significant, and its text is closer to the V text than the P text. 34 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬II, 808, number 8539. Beginning with: “‫( ”מרכב ובמי‬page 680, line 5), ending with: “‫( ”שאבדו עד‬page 682, line 6). In G3 there are a few independent readings, and its text is recognizably closer to P than to V. 35 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 6–7, number 47. 1r: Tosefta Parah 5:2 – 5:3, beginning with: “‫”[מ]שקעין את‬ (page 634, line 22), ending with: “‫( ”שהוא בחזקת‬page 634, line 24); 1v: Tosefta Parah 6:4, beginning with: “‫( ”[והר]תית או עף‬page 635, line 26), ending with: “‫( ”פסולין מילא‬page 635, line 29); 2r: Tosefta Parah 6:6 – 6:7, beginning with: “‫( ”דבר שבידו‬page 636, line 2), ending with: “‫( ”ידיו שניהן‬page 636, line 8); 2v: Tosefta Parah 5:8 – 5:9, beginning with: “‫( ”בהן מגופה‬page 634, line 37), ending with: “ . . . ‫( ”לקדש מפסיק‬page 635, line 5). In B2 there are a relatively large number of independent readings, mostly small changes in style. There is no clearly recognizable proximity to any one of the major textual witnesses against another. 36 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 3, number 25. Beginning with: “]‫( ”שבית שמא[י‬page 603, line 5), ending with: “‫( ”כלים שעל גביו‬page 604, line 1). In B3 there are relatively many independent readings and its text is a bit closer to P than to V. 37 ‫ אוצר כתבי יד תלמודיים‬I, 3–4, number 26. Beginning with: “‫( ”[לרש]ות היחיד‬page 658, line 10), ending

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

41

Examination of the fragments reveals that we have fragments of different lengths from eight out of twelve tractates in the order of Tohorot: Kelim (Qamma and Metz‘ia), Ohalot, Parah, Miqva’ot, Zavim, Tevul Yom, Yadayim, and Oktzim. G1 is relatively long, about 141 lines in the Zuckermandel edition, G2 and G3 are of medium length, close to fifty lines, and the rest of the fragments are relatively short, about thirty lines or less.38 The fragments are from manuscripts copied in places that are distant from one another – in the Levant (land of Israel, Egypt or Syria), Italy, northern France or Germany, Provence or the Iberian Peninsula; and at different times, from the eleventh century (or even prior to that) through the fourteenth century. This relatively great diversity presents us with versions of Tosefta to the order of Tohorot from a range of tractates, places, and times, and, in my estimation, this is sufficient to indicate at least the main trends of the text versions of the Tosefta that were available to the medieval Rishonim.

D. On What Is and Is Not Found in the Quotations of the Rishonim At the outset it must be stated, as Lieberman noted, that there are a number of testimonies to the presence of more than one manuscript of Tosefta – and sometimes even many more – that the Rishonim had before them in the medieval period. The most famous testimony is in a letter found in the Geniza that, in Dr. Edna Engel’s estimation, was written between the years 1250 and 1350 in Egypt or Iraq: And when I came to Egypt the sages who were in Egypt sought the Tosefta that I had and found it to be like the Toseftot that they had, and I was doubtful about this matter until I returned to Damascus and I found there about six Toseftot that were brought from Iraq and I examined all of them . . . (MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary, Schechter 27).39 with: “‫( ”ר׳ ישמע ברכין‬page 659, line 3). In B4 there are only a few independent texts, and its text is a bit closer to P than to V. 38 When the number of lines of the different fragments are added together they reach about 320 lines in the Zuckermandel edition, which would make between nine and ten pages in that volume. As stated, the text is not consecutive, and comes from manuscripts that differ greatly from one another in many characteristics, but this still constitutes a not insignificant body of text. From an initial study of the characteristics of the fragments it appears that the fragments whose readings are relatively close to V are the earlier fragments (B1 and G2), while the fragments whose readings are relatively close to P are later (G3, B3 and B4). There are also an early fragment and a late fragment that do not show a significant proximity to either one of the major textual witnesses over the other (G1 and B2). However, as stated, these findings arise from an initial study only and require a close examination of each and every fragment in its own right. See above note 25. 39 On this letter, see S. Schechter, Saadyana: Geniza Fragments of Writings of R. Saadya Gaon

42

Binyamin Katzoff

Additional testimonies regarding multiple copies of Tosefta manuscripts are found, incidental to discussions of various issues in the writings of a number of Rishonim, including the Rash of Sens,40 the Ravad (Rabbi Abraham ben David of Posquieres, author of the glosses to Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah),41 and Rabbi Yehuda bar Kalonymous, author of Yichusei Tannaim veAmoraim. These Rishonim occasionally noted textual variations among the manuscripts and even indicated the merits of the various versions, as in the following example from Rabbi Yehuda bar Kalonymous: “And in a carefully written Tosefta, I found [support for] as I have written, but I [did not find support] in another Tosefta . . . ​and that one is not as carefully written.”42 Even though the Rishonim had access to a number of manuscripts, as seen above, in the first four orders of the Tosefta the Rishonim of Ashkenaz and France regularly quote from the Tosefta in a version that is close to that found in E, while the Rishonim of Spain regularly quote from the Tosefta in a version that is close to that found in VP. What lay behind this phenomenon could be either that the Rishonim of France/ Ashkenaz and of Spain all had before them Tosefta manuscripts of both types E and VP, and that the former Rishonim preferred type E and the latter type VP, each for their own reasons, or that the Rishonim of France/Ashkenaz had only (or mainly) Tosefta manuscripts of type E, and the Rishonim of Spain had only (or mainly) Tosefta manuscripts of type VP. The question arises, then: on the basis of this background is it possible to point to any particular proximity between the various text versions of the Tosefta in the writings of any of the Rishonim and any of the Tosefta texts that exist in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, similar to the proximity found between the quotations from the







and Others (Cambridge: Deighton and Bell, 1903), 141, n. 1; Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 12; Neil Danzig, A Catalogue of Fragments of Halakhah and Midrash from the Cairo Genizah in the Elkan Nathan Adler Collection of the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1997), 278; Elazar Hurvitz, Catalogue of the Cairo Geniza Fragments in the Westminster College Library, Cambridge, 2 vols. (New York: Cairo Geniza Institute – Yeshiva University, 2006), I, 7. 40 See examples in his Commentary on the Mishnah, Parah 7:4 on the text of Tosefta Parah 6:4 (page 635, line 29): “‫ ​ברוב ספרים לא כתיב לא‬. . . ‫ ​מילא לאחר באחת ידו ועשה מלאכה באחת ידו פסול‬. . . ‫תניא בתוספתא‬ ‫”פסול ולא כשר‬, and examples in Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 17; Ephraim Elimelech Urbach, ‫ חיבוריהם ושיטתם‬,‫ תולדותיהם‬:‫( בעלי התוספות‬Jerusalem: Bialik Institute Press, 1954), 300–301, and note 18; Israel Ta-­Shma, ‫ אישים ושיטות‬,‫ קורות‬:‫הספרות הפרשנית לתלמוד באירופה ובצפון אפריקה‬, 2 vols. (Jerusalem, Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), II, 107. 41 See, for example, in his gloss on Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, Laws of the Red Heifer, 7:11 on the text of Tosefta Parah 5:4 (page 634, line 25): “‫”א״א זו התוספתא מצאנו אותה בשני ספרים בהיפך‬, and the examples in Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 21. 42 ‫יחוסי תנאים ואמוראים‬, ed. Judah Leib Maimon (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1963), 34. On the number of manuscripts of the Tosefta that were available to him and on his method for clarifying the text see ibid., 17; Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 371.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

43

Tosefta in the writings of certain Rishonim and the text traditions for the orders of Zera‘im to Neziqin? And especially, is there broadly-­based documentation of a text tradition other than that of VP, perhaps precisely in the writings of the Rishonim of Ashkenaz and France? An examination of the proximity between the manuscript versions and the Geniza fragments, and the text quoted in the writings of the Rishonim presents, as expected, complex findings. However, analysis of the findings makes clear both the significance of what can be clearly documented and the significance of what is not found at all. First of all, regarding what is not found: there is no Rishon in whose writings the quotations from the Tosefta are clearly close to one of the versions found in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments in contrast to the version of VP. That is, even though there are places in which the Rishonim quote from the Tosefta according to a reading found in one of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments in contrast to the reading in VP (and I will discuss the extent of this phenomenon and its significance in the next section), there are other places where, to a sometimes similar extent, and sometimes to a much greater extent, the same Rishonim quote the Tosefta according to the reading in VP, in contrast to the text version found in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments. Thus, for Tosefta Tohorot, to date we have not found anything like the great proximity between text E and the quotations from Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim of Ashkenaz for the orders of Zera‘im – Neziqin, or like the great proximity between the texts of a number of bookbinding fragments of the Yerushalmi and the readings of the Yerushalmi quoted by the Rishonim of Ashkenaz from the twelfth to thirteenth centuries. Instances of text version VP quoted in the writings of the Rishonim as against the versions in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments are many. To illustrate I cite here a few representative examples from two fragments from the Levant, G1 and B1, and from G2, which also may have been copied in the Levant, and mainly from the writings of the Rash of Sens, chosen because these fragments and this sage are at the center of the discussion in the next section. In one place, there is a variation of the name of a Tanna between VP and G1: in the Rash the name of the Tanna is “R. Yosi,” as in VP, in contrast to “R. Yehudah” in G1 (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia, 1:1 [page 578, line 23]).43 The Rash quotes, like P, in expanded language “‫”של יין ושל שמן ראשית‬, in contrast to the relatively shorter

43 Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:3. In an additional variant, the Rash and Rabbi Yehuda bar Kalonymous quote as in P, “R. Yehoshua” in contrast to “R. Yehudah” in V and another name, apparently “R. Akiva,” in G1 (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:6 [page 579, line 2]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:4; ‫יחוסי‬ ‫תנאים ואמוראים‬, ed. Raphelo Rabinnowicz (Lyck: Mikitze Nirdamim, 1874), 11a. On this reversal see Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim III, 35. On variations in names of Tannaim among manuscripts of the Tosefta see Schremer, “‫”למסורת נוסח התוספתא‬, 34–35.

44

Binyamin Katzoff

text in V, “‫”ראשית יין ושמן‬, and simply “‫ ”שמן ויין‬found in G1 (Tevul Yom, 2:16 [page 686, line 15]).44 In the Rash, in a number of instances of preparation of waters of purification, the ruling is “‫ ”אם לו כשר ואם לאחר פסול‬as in VP, in contrast to “‫ ”הקידוש כשר והמילוי פסול‬in B1 (Parah 6:4 [page 635, line 31]).45 In the Rash the text is “‫ ”שהמים שבסדק אינן אגודין‬as in VP, in contrast to “‫מפני שהמים שבסדק‬ ‫ ”אינן עגולים‬in B1 (Parah 5:10 [page 635, line 11]).46 The Rash quotes “‫שלש מאות‬ ‫ ”וששים וחמשה כנגד ימות החמה‬as in VP, in contrast to “‫סתם שלש מאות וששים וחמשה‬ ‫ ”יום כמנין ימות החמה‬in G2 (Parah 1:6 [page 630, lines 39–40]).47 In the Rash and in Rambam the text is “‫ ”שניתן‬as in VP, in contrast to “‫ ”שהיה נתון‬in G2 (Parah 3:14 [page 633, line 4]).48 One could add many more examples related to the other texts of Geniza and bookbinding fragments and to quotations in other Rishonim, from which it emerges, as stated, that no Rishon quotes the Tosefta in a way that is clearly close to any one version from the Geniza or bookbinding fragments in contrast to the VP version. Since the Geniza and bookbinding fragments are from a wide range of tractates, places, and times, it is reasonable to conclude that these findings reflect generally on the proximity of the text of quotations in the writings of the Rishonim to the text versions of the direct textual witnesses to the Tosefta. This finding casts doubt on Lieberman’s claim regarding the existence of a coherent text tradition distinct from that in VP in the writings of any of the Rishonim, and specifically in the quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rash of Sens. The merely minimal proximity between the text versions of the Rishonim and the versions in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments suggests the possibility that the quotations in the writings of the Rishonim are not based on consistent and accurate transmission of another tradition, but rather on a more complex phenomenon that I will examine in the next section.49 44 Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 4:7. See also “‫ ”ומכלי גדול שעשוי‬in the Rash similar to VP, in contrast to “‫ ”ומכלי גדול שהוא עשוי‬in G1 (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:1 [page 578, line 22]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:3. “‫ ”שידוע שנעשה‬in the Rash and Rambam similar to VP, in contrast to simply “‫”שנעשה‬ in G1 (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia, 1:2 [page 578, line 25]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:3; Rambam’s Commentary on the Mishnah, ibid. “‫ ”חוט של ביצה שקרם‬in the Rash similar to VP, in contrast to “‫ ”ביצה שקרמה‬in G1 (Tevul Yom 2:10 [page 685, line 32]), Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 3:3; “‫שהיא‬ ‫ ​וקורא לה שם‬. . . ‫ ”טבולת יום‬in the Rash similar to VP, in contrast to “‫ ​וקורא להם שם‬. . . ‫”שהיא טובלת יום‬ in G1 (Tevul Yom, 2:14 [page 686, lines 6–8]), Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 4:6; and more. 45 Rash on Mishnah Parah 7:4. 46 Rash on Mishnah Parah 3:11. See also “‫ ”קידש ומילא‬in the Rash similar to VP, in contrast to “‫קידש‬ ‫ ”ומילא לעצמו‬in B1 (Parah 6:5 [page 635, line 34]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 7:4, and more. 47 Rash on Mishnah Parah 1:3. 48 Rash on Mishnah Parah 5:9; Rambam, Hilkhot Parah Aduma, 3:4. See also “‫ ”לטבולי יום‬in the Rash similar to VP, in contrast to “‫ ”במערבי השמש‬in G2 (Parah 3:6 [page 632, line 9]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 3:5, and more. 49 If more Tosefta fragments of Tohorot are ever found, it may be possible to find in them what is not

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

45

E. Remnants of Traditions in Quotations of the Rishonim I now wish to examine the second aspect of the findings, and to focus on those places where there is a partial proximity between the readings of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments and the readings of the Tosefta quoted in the writings of the Rishonim, as against the VP text version. This partial proximity may attest to a phenomenon which is important for understanding the way the Tosefta was transmitted. In the absence of clear documentation in the writings of the Rishonim of a continuous text tradition that differs from that of VP for Tosefta Tohorot, the question arises as to what were the sources of the changes between the readings of the direct text-­witnesses to the Tosefta and the texts quoted in the writings of the Rishonim. Do these changes derive from a tendency of the Rishonim to be imprecise in quoting their sources, or were these partial but exact quotations from other Tosefta versions that were known to the Rishonim, of the kind Lieberman described as “remnants of traditions”? Proximity, even if partial, between a reading in the writings of the Rishonim and the reading in fragments of bookbindings and Geniza points first and foremost in the direction of a variant version of the Tosefta and not to a paraphrase or imprecise quotation. Furthermore, it constitutes important additional testimony for the existence of the reading in a particular time and place, testimony that may assist in describing the history of the text version and its dissemination. For example, proximity between the readings of quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim and the readings found in early Middle Eastern Geniza and bookbinding fragments is an indication that the source of the readings is not a late European reworking of a text. Therefore, in addition to noting the fact of the proximity between the readings, we must also look at who the Rishonim are who quote the Tosefta in partial similarity to the version found in the fragments of Geniza and bookbindings, and where and when these fragments were copied. I will present below the findings that relate to the proximity between the readings in the Geniza fragments and bookbindings and the quotations from the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim, and afterwards I will assess their significance.50 found in the known fragments today. In any event, there is value in presenting the conclusions that arise from the known fragments, which contain a not insignificant amount of text from the different copies. Yaakov Sussmann wrote pithily in another context, “‫”פרק ירושלמי‬, Mehqerei Talmud 2 (1993): 232 [Hebrew]: “Even though usually ‘absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,’ this applies to the situation in which we have not found evidence by chance, but if one ‘entered and searched’ [b. Pesaḥim 10a] in the place where it should be found, and searched and did not find, the presumption is that it was not found because it was not there, at least in that same place and at that same time.” 50 In the framework of this article it is not possible to discuss the considerations that indicate

46

Binyamin Katzoff

As stated, the number of relevant quotations in the writings of the medieval Rishonim prior to the twelfth century is small, and I doubt whether there are enough to be of significance. However, for the purpose of presenting a complete picture, I will discuss the few findings from this period. In one place, Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel quotes the Tosefta according to the reading of G1 “‫שומטה מפתח‬ ‫”זה‬, with a small stylistic change from the rough text in VP “‫”שומטה מן הפתח זה‬ (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia, 1:6 [page 579, line 1]).51 R. Nathan ben Yehiel of Rome in his Arukh quotes Tosefta in two places according to the reading in G1, in contrast to the VP reading. In one of the places, he quotes the same Tosefta passage mentioned above, quoted by Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel, and it is possible that he took the text from Ben Ḥushiel’s writing. Thus the quotation is not necessarily testimony to his having a copy of Tosefta with this text.52 In the second instance in the Arukh, Tosefta is quoted in the reading of G1 “‫שנפל‬ ‫”משקה‬, which is a small change from the VP reading “‫ו משקין‬/‫( ”שנפלה‬Tevul Yom, 2:12 [page 686, line 2]).53 The small number of quotations and their relatively minor changes do not, in my opinion, indicate a meaningful link between the version quoted by these early Rishonim and the particular versions of Geniza and bookbinding fragments of the Tosefta. Many more quotations from Tosefta Tohorot in versions different from that of VP, and similar to text versions of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, are found in the writings of the Rishonim of the twelfth century. At the outset it is worth noting that most of the instances involve minor stylistic changes, and only a minority involve significant stylistic changes or changes in content. The sage in whose writing the greatest number of such quotations are found is, as expected, the Rash of Sens, who in his commentary to Mishnah Tohorot brings almost the entire Tosefta of Tohorot.54 In seven places, the Rash quotes whether the changed texts presented are original or secondary, which may in some cases prove a clear connection between different text-­witnesses. See Brody, Mishnah and Tosefta Studies, 32–33; Milikowsky, “Seder Olam: A Rabbinic Chronography,” 123–27. However, in order to make it possible to make a preliminary estimation of the character of the phenomena and their scope, I will indicate texts in which there is a significant error, and for places where they exist, I will note parallels in rabbinic literature that may have influenced the textual formulation of the halakhah in the Tosefta. See notes 19 and 65. 51 Commentary of Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel to the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 124a. 52 See Aruch Completum, 8 vols., ed. Alexander Kohut (Vienna: Georg Brog Press, 1878), VII, 107, under the entry ‫קלסטרא‬. On the author of the Arukh’s wide use of Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel’s commentary see Alexander Kohut, Aruch Completum, I, XII–XIII [Hebrew]; idem, Index ad Citata Biblica, Targumica, Talmudica atque Midrashica quae in Aruch (Vienna: Georg Brog Press, 1878), Supplement to Aruch Completum (C), XXVIII [Hebrew]; Ta-­Shma, ‫ הספרות הפרשנית לתלמוד‬II, 137, 218–19. 53 Aruch Completum, VII, 176−77, s.v. ‫קצע‬. 54 See Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 17; Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 300; Ta-­Shma, ‫הספרות הפרשנית‬

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

47

the Tosefta in the unique formulation found in G1. Of special interest is the passage in which he quotes at the outset “‫ ”התחיל לטרפן הרי זה חיבור‬as in G1, and afterwards presents a contradictory reading and writes “‫יש ספרים שברייתא‬ ‫ ​התחיל לטרף אינו חיבור‬. . . ‫“( ”זו כתובה בלשון אחרת והכי תניא‬There are books in which the baraita is written differently as follows”) as in P (Tevul Yom 2:11 [page 685, line 35]), implying that in this halakhah the primary reading he quotes is the version of G1.55 In three places, the Rash quotes the Tosefta in the reading of B1. In one of them, he first quotes “‫ ”יטמא ואין צריך להטביל‬as in VP, and afterwards presents a contradictory reading, that in B1 (Parah 5:6 [page 634, line 29]), and even comments on the reliability of the readings, “‫ אלא הכי‬,‫גירסא משובשת היא זו‬ ‫“( ”תניא יטביל ואין צריך לטמא‬This is a corrupt version, instead this is how the text should read . . . ”), implying that in this halakhah the primary reading he brings is the reading of VP even though he gives preference to the reading of



‫ לתלמוד‬II, 106. Some of the halakhot from the Tosefta quoted in the writings of the Rash are also cited in the writings of other Rishonim, among them R. Yehuda bar Kalonymous, whose writings were apparently not known to the Rash, see note 60; the Rambam, whose writings were known to the Rash, see Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 272; Isadore Twersky, ‫( מבוא למשנה תורה לרמב״ם‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1991), 386; and for the Ravad, about whom there is doubt whether the Rash knew his works, see Isadore Twersky, Rabad of Posquieres: A Twelfth-­Century Talmudist (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962), 53–54; Yaakov Sussman, “‫פירוש הראב״ד‬ ‫ ”למס׳ שקלים? חידה ביבליוגרפית – בעיה היסטורית‬in ‫ עיונים בעולמם הרוחני של ישראל בימי הביניים‬,‫מאה שערים‬, ed. Ezra Fleischer and Gerald Blidstein (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2001), 164. However, even if in some of these instances the Rash quotes the Tosefta from the writings of other Rishonim, there are in his writings a large number of additional quotations according to the unique text of Geniza and bookbinding fragments that are not cited in the writings of other Rishonim and that show direct quotation from manuscripts that he had before him. 55 Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 3:3. In V this sentence is lacking, apparently a case of parablepsis. Other places in which the Rash quotes the Tosefta according to the version in G1 include: “‫מחצה‬ ‫ ”על מחצה טמא‬as in G1 in contrast to VP in which the word ‫ טמא‬is lacking (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:5 [page 578, line 37]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:4 (and compare the language of the Mishnah); “‫ ”מסורג בחבלים‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”מסירוג בחבלים‬in VP (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 8:4 [page 587, line 15]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 18:4; “‫ ”כרע שפירש מן הארוכה‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫כרע שפירש‬ ‫ ”עם הארוכה‬in VP (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 8:8 [page 587, line 30]), Rash on Mishnah Kelim 18:9 (see Lieberman’s comments in Tosefeth Rishonim III, 61); “‫ ”ואחד כל הטומאות‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”ואחד שאר כל הטומאות‬in VP (Tevul Yom 2:6 [page 685, line 23], Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 3:1; “‫ ”ר׳ יוסי‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”ור׳ יוסי‬in VP (Tevul Yom 2:7 [page 685, line 25]), Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 3:4 (compare to the Mishnah mentioned above and to the parallel baraita in Bavli Niddah 46b); “‫ ”חדשו סופרים‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”חידשו הסופרין‬in V, and “‫שחידשו‬ ‫ ”סופרים‬in P (Tevul Yom 2:14 [page 686, line 10]), Rash on Mishnah Tevul Yom 4:6. In addition to these texts, the Rash also quotes the Tosefta in the reading of G1 “‫ ”שומטה מפתח זה‬in contrast to the VP reading, Rash on Mishnah Kelim 11:4. This reading is quoted by Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel and the Arukh (see notes 51–52), and it is possible that the Rash took it from there. See Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 305; Ta-­Shma, ‫ הספרות הפרשנית לתלמוד‬II, 107.

48

Binyamin Katzoff

B1.56 In eight places the Rash quotes the Tosefta according to the version in G2,57 in one place according to the version in G3,58 and in one place according to the version in B3.59 Another Northern European Rishon who quotes Tosefta in his writings according to the version in Geniza fragments in contrast to the VP version is R. Yehudah bar Kalonymous in Yichusei Tannaim veAmoraim. However, R. Yehudah bar Kalonymous cites the Tosefta to Tohorot much less than does the Rash, and he quotes the Tosefta according to the unique reading of a Geniza fragment in only a few places. In three places R. Yehudah bar Kalonymous quotes the Tosefta according to the reading of G2. Even though these three Tosefta texts are also found in the writings of the Rash, it is reasonable to conclude that this is an independent testimony that does not depend for its quotations from the Tosefta on the writings of the Rash.60







56 Rash on Mishnah Parah 5:4, and compare the mishnah, ibid. Other places where the Rash quotes the Tosefta in the reading of B1 include: “‫ ”קפצתי‬as in B1 in contrast to “‫ ”חפצתי‬in VP (Parah 5:10 [page 635, line 10]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 5:9; “‫ ”מלא לי ומלא לך קדשם לי ואקדשם לך‬as in B1 in contrast to “‫ ”מלא לי ומלא לך קדש לי וקדש לך‬in VP (Parah 6:8 [page 636, line 13]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 7:4 (on this change see Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim III, 240). 57 “‫ ”לאמורי חטאת‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫ ”את האמורי חטאת‬in V (Parah 1:2 [page 630, line 25] lacking in P), Rash on Mishnah Parah 1:2; “‫ ”שנאמר‬as in G2, lacking in V (Parah 1:5 [page 630, line 33]; lacking in P), Rash, ibid.; “‫ ”מן הגוים‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫ ”מבין הגוים‬in VP (Parah 2:1 [page 631, line 7]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 2:1; “)‫ ”חומר (בפרה‬as in G2, lacking in VP (Parah 2:6 [page 631, line 21]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 1:1; “‫( ”שרף‬after ‫ )בן פיאבי‬as in G2 lacking in VP (Parah 3:6 [page 632, line 6]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 3:5; “‫ ”הראשונות‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫”הראשונים‬ in VP (Parah, ibid. [page 632, line 13]), Rash on Mishnah Parah, ibid.; “‫ ”טבול אחת‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫ר‬/‫ ”טבול אחד‬in VP (Parah 3:8 [page 632, line 20]), Rash on Mishnah Parah 3:8; “‫שכל‬ ‫ ”דבר‬as in G2 in contrast to the corrupt text “‫ ”שאין דבר‬in P (Parah 3:12 [page 632, line 33]; lacking in V), Rash on Mishnah Parah 3:9. 58 “‫ ”בראש או בכותל טהורה‬as in G3 in contrast to the apparently corrupt reading “‫”בראש או בכותל טמאה‬ in V and only “‫ ”בראש ובכותל‬in P (Yadayim 1:3 [page 681, line 7]), Rash on Mishnah Yadayim 2:2 (see Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 143; and compare to Mishnah Yadayim 2:3). 59 “‫ ”בצד המשמש לגינה‬as in B3 in contrast to the corrupt reading “‫ ”בית המשמש לגינה‬in VP (Ohalot 6:5 [page 603, line 23]), Rash on Mishnah Ohalot 5:7. 60 “‫( ”שרף‬after ‫ )בן פיאבי‬as in G2, lacking in VP, ‫ערכי תנאים ואמוראים‬, ed. Moshe Blau (New York: Gross Bros. Press, 1994), 187; “‫ ”הראשונות‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫ ”הראשונים‬in VP, ‫ערכי תנאים‬ ‫ואמוראים‬, ibid.; “‫ ”טבול אחת‬as in G2 in contrast to “‫ר‬/‫ ”טבול אחד‬in VP, ‫ערכי תנאים ואמוראים‬, 186. Although there was a partial overlap in the dates of activity of the two scholars (the Rash died a short time after R. Yehudah Bar Kalonymous), they apparently did not know each other’s writings, see Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 275, 372; Yaakov Sussman, “‫מפעלו המדעי של פרופסור אפרים‬ ‫”אלימלך אורבך‬, Supplement to Jewish Studies 1 (1993): 39, note 63; Simcha Emanuel, “‫׳ואיש על מקומו‬ ‫ לתולדותיו של ר׳ ברוך בר יצחק‬:‫”מבואר שמו׳‬, Tarbiz 69 (2000): 437–39; idem, “‫חכמי גרמניה במאה השלוש‬ ‫”?עשרה – רצף או משבר‬, Tarbiz 82 (2014): 556–57. Similarly to the Rash, R. Yehudah Bar Kalonymous also quotes the Tosefta according to the version in G1 “‫ ”שומטה מפתח זה‬in contrast to VP, ‫יחוסי‬ ‫תנאים ואמוראים‬, ed. Rabinnowicz, 11a, as quoted by Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel and the Arukh, and it

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

49

Outside of Europe, quotations from Tosefta Tohorot similar to the Geniza and bookbinding fragments in contrast to the VP reading are found only in the writings of the Rambam in the Mishneh Torah and in his Commentary on the Mishnah. In two places, the Rambam quotes Tosefta as in the reading in G1 in contrast to the VP reading,61 in two places as in B1,62 in one place as in G3,63 and in one place as in B3.64 In the writings of later Rishonim there are a few quotations of Tosefta according to the version of one of the Geniza or bookbinding fragments in contrast to the VP version, and the large majority of them are found already in the writings of Rishonim from the twelfth century. Thus, there are not enough quotations of the Tosefta to Tohorot in the writings of the Rishonim after the twelfth century to add to what we learn from the quotations in the writings of the previous Rishonim.65 The quotations from Tosefta Tohorot in the writings of Rishonim outside of Spain, and mainly in the Rash’s Commentary on Mishnah Tohorot, according to unique readings found in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, derive first and foremost from the spheres of interest of the Rishonim of Northern Europe, which were more varied than those of the Rishonim of Spain, and included other works in addition to the Babylonian Talmud as well as subjects outside those found in the three orders that were studied in Spain – Mo‘ed, Nashim and Neziqin.66 From this perspective, Rambam is not part of the Spanish study is possible that he took it from there, see notes 51−52 ; Ta-­Shma, ‫ הספרות הפרשנית לתלמוד‬II, 218; Moshe Hayim Katzenellenbogen, ‫מבוא ליחוסי תנאים ואמוראים‬, ed. Maimon, 19–20. 61 “‫ ”ממעך בהם את הפתילה‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”ממעיך בו הפתילה‬in P and only “‫ ”ממעיך‬in V (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:8 [page 579, line 7]), Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Kelim 10:1; “‫ ”מסורג בחבלים‬as in G1 in contrast to “‫ ”מסירוג בחבלים‬in VP, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Kelim 4:2. This reading also appears in the Rash, see note 55, with whose writings the Rambam apparently was not familiar, see Urbach, ‫בעלי התוספות‬, 277. The Ravad also quotes this version of the Tosefta as in G1, see the Ravad Commentary on Tractate Eduyyot 1:11, but it is possible that he quoted from the Rambam and not necessarily from the Tosefta. 62 “‫ ​ואינו צריך לנגב‬. . . ‫ ”עודהו בתוך המים‬as in B1 in contrast to “‫ ​ואין צריך לנגב‬. . . ‫ ”עודהו במים‬in V (Parah 5:5 [page 634, line 28]; P lacks), Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Parah Adumah 7:11; “​ . . . ‫ ​לעצמו‬. . . ‫מלא וקדש‬ ‫ ”פסולין‬as in B1 in contrast to VP in which the word “‫ ”לעצמו‬is lacking (Parah 6:5 [page 635, line 34]), Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Parah Adumah, 8:5. 63 “‫ ”בראש או בכותל טהורה‬as in G3 in contrast to the apparently corrupt text “‫”בראש או בכותל טמאה‬ in V and only “‫ ”בראש ובכותל‬in P, Rambam’s Commentary on the Mishnah, Introduction to Tractate Yadayim. This reading is also quoted in the Rash, see notes 58, 61. 64 “‫ ”בכלי שיש בו טפח‬as in B3 in contrast to “‫ ”בכלי שיש בו טפח על טפח‬in VP (Ohalot 6:1 [page 603, line 12]), Rambam’s Commentary on the Mishnah, Ohalot 5:6. 65 On quotations of Tosefta to Tohorot according to the unique version in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments in the writings of Rishonim after the twelfth century, see the appendix below. 66

50

Binyamin Katzoff

tradition; his sources were varied and he dealt with subjects beyond the three orders studied in Spain, both in his Commentary on the Mishnah and in the Mishneh Torah.67 In addition, we should bear in mind that for the four orders for which we have two text traditions, E and VP, the Rishonim of Spain quoted the Tosefta according to the VP version, and it is therefore no wonder that even in those places in which they quote Tosefta from the order of Tohorot, their version is close to the VP version.68 Examining which fragments provide unique readings quoted in the writings of the Rishonim reveals an important finding. There is widespread documentation of readings found in G1, the longest fragment that we have, already found in small amounts in the writings of Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel and the Arukh, widely in the writings of the Rash, and less so in the writings of the Rambam. Significant witnesses, though not as much as for G1, are found in the writings of the Rash and the Rambam for texts from B1, which is considerably shorter than G1. These two fragments were copied in the Middle East (in the land of Israel, Egypt, or Syria) around the eleventh century, and thus it is clear that these are early versions of the Tosefta that the Rash and the Rambam had before them. G2 deserves special attention, because even though it is not long, relatively many of its readings are found in the writings of the two Northern European Rishonim, the Rash and R. Yehudah Bar Kalonymous, but not in the writings of the Rambam. The G2 fragment was copied, as stated, either before the tenth century in the Middle East, or in the eleventh century in southern Italy – in either case before the time of these two Rishonim. The readings of G2, which are witnessed relatively widely in the writings of the Northern European Rishonim, are text versions that the Rishonim had access to, and they are not a result of a later redaction in the Ashkenazi study environment in their period. In contrast to the readings in these fragments, for the readings in the rest of the fragments, G3, B2, B3, and B4, which were all copied in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries around Europe, the witnesses are very few and insufficient for consideration as a significant phenomenon, and this is even though one

67 See Twersky, ‫מבוא למשנה תורה‬, 39–49, 144–59; Kanarfogel, “What Do They Study,” 51. 68 See note 4. However, in many instances the Rambam also quotes the Tosefta according to the VP version. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-­fshuta III, 13, but, according to the findings here, he also had other versions of the Tosefta in addition to the VP version, and he cited them at least in some of the instances, though less often than the Rash quoted these versions. See Lieberman’s doubts regarding the link between the halakhah of the Rambam and the Tosefta version not according to V, Tosefta Ki-­fshuta III, 171–72; idem, Tosefeth Rishonim I, 137–38.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

51

might have expected a proximity precisely between the readings of the quotations in the writings of Northern European Rishonim and the readings of Tosefta in late Northern European copies.69 Furthermore, although most of the European fragments are relatively short, and the lack of witnesses derives in part from the small quantity of text that survived from these copies, in most of the places where the reading in these fragments differs from the VP reading, the reading in the Rishonim is closer to the VP reading. Thus, by and large, in those same places where the Rishonim quote the Tosefta to Tohorot in a reading that is partially close to the reading of Geniza and bookbinding fragments in contrast to the VP reading, it is versions of the Tosefta that they had copies of, at least some of them from Levant sources, and not new versions that were created in the study environment of the Rishonim.70 It is now possible to state more clearly what our study of the level of proximity between the readings of the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim and the readings in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments reveals. In contrast to the great proximity that we find between the quotations in the writings of the European Rishonim and text E for the sections for which it exists, there is no consistent documentation in the writings of the Rishonim of a proven text tradition of Tosefta Tohorot that is different from that of VP. However, we are able to determine that the Rishonim had before them early versions of the Tosefta that differ from those in VP, the source of at least some of which was in the Levant. These texts are quoted only partially in their writings, and they should be seen as remnants of early traditions.71 In contrast to this, the readings of the 69 Note that the limited proximity between the readings quoted in the Rishonim and the readings in the late European fragments is in small, stylistic changes and does not include scribal errors that apparently occurred in the VP tradition which indicate the known proximity of these two text-­witnesses. The textual corruptions of VP were not absorbed, at least not completely, in the quotations of the Rishonim; see notes 58, 59, and 64. 70 A preliminary examination of the text readings in which there are clearly indicated corruptions does not indicate a clear link between any particular reading of the Rishonim and one of the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, and it is possible to indicate at this time only common text readings that do not necessarily indicate dependence and may derive from preservation of the original text. See note 45. Regarding the clearly indicated textual corruptions that are found in the VP tradition, see the previous note. For the portions of the Tosefta that were examined here there are very few parallels in rabbinic literature that could influence the wording of the halakhot in the Tosefta, and thus it seems that they would not have had significant weight in creating the differences between the versions. 71 I wish to emphasize here that also in the writings of the Rash of Sens in which there are the largest number of quotations from the Tosefta that are similar to texts found in Geniza and bookbinding fragments, especially to G1 in contrast to VP (see above notes 55–59), there are many more places in which the Rash brings Tosefta as in the VP reading in contrast to the fragments of the Geniza and bookbindings (see above notes 38–43). Thus, for the reading of Tosefta quoted in his writings there is not a clear proximity to the reading in one of the Geniza

52

Binyamin Katzoff

later European fragments, a portion of which may derive from late reworking, are hardly documented at all in the writings of the Rishonim, and we cannot indicate a European text tradition common to the late Northern European copies and the Northern European Rishonim. Thus, at the present time it is not possible to accept Lieberman’s assertion that the texts of the quotations of the Tosefta in the writings of the Rishonim, among them the Rishonim of Ashkenaz, represent a consolidated Ashkenazi text tradition different from that found in VP.72 That is to say, in the places where the reading of the Tosefta quotations in the writings of the Rishonim, from Ashkenaz or elsewhere, differs from that found in VP, we apparently have before us a mixture of readings, a portion of which preserve early alternative text versions that the Rishonim were familiar with, and others deriving, at least until proven otherwise, from the practice of the Rishonim to quote their sources imprecisely. An additional question to be examined is the character of the manuscripts that the Rishonim had and the manner in which they quoted from the manuscripts. Lieberman claimed that the Rash and the Rambam, who each had more than one manuscript of the Tosefta, quoted from the manuscripts in different ways. The Rash, who frequently comments on the variants in the several Tosefta manuscripts he had, usually quotes from one copy and notes the variant texts of the others.73 In contrast, the Rambam, who does not note different readings, decided in each place among the readings that he knew and quoted readings chosen from the different manuscripts.74 If the case is as Lieberman suggests, the possibility arises that the Rishonim, and in particular the Rash, had before them manuscripts of the Tosefta whose reading was sometimes close to the tradition of VP and sometimes close to another text tradition that we find in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments, and that the Rash may have quoted that manuscript without many changes.

and bookbinding fragments, and he does not consistently transmit another text tradition for which we have documentation. The text of the Tosefta quoted in his writings is thus a mixture of the VP version with remnants of other early traditions that he had before him. 72 Here we must also take into account that the later European fragments are relatively short, and perhaps if we had wider fragments from the later European copies we might find in them what we do not find in those we have. In any event, the study of the versions of the Rishonim in light of the fragments we do have does not indicate proximity between the versions, and therefore, the version of the Ashkenazi Rishonim apparently does not reflect a consolidated Northern European version. 73 Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 17–18. In two instances that were cited above, the Rash notes the difference between the text version found in VP and the version found in Geniza and bookbinding fragments, but in most of the cases presented, the Rash brings one reading without noting the existence of another reading. 74 See Tosefeth Rishonim IV, 22.

Was There a Separate Transmission of Tosefta Tohorot?

53

Appendix: Unique Readings from the Geniza and Bookbinding Fragments Quoted by Rishonim from After the Twelfth Century In the writings of the Rishonim after the twelfth century we find, as stated, only a few quotations from Tosefta Tohorot according to the unique text variants in the Geniza and bookbinding fragments. Most of them are quoted already in the writings of previous Rishonim, and thus do not necessarily testify to a copy of the Tosefta that was in the possession of these late Rishonim. Therefore, there is not sufficient evidence in the quotations from Tosefta in the writings of these Rishonim to teach us any more about the phenomenon that I have examined in this article. However, to complete the picture, I will present below the findings related to unique readings from Geniza and bookbinding fragments quoted in the writings of Rishonim after the twelfth century. In one place, the Rid (Rabbi Isaiah di Trani) quotes the Tosefta in the reading found in G1 in contrast to the VP version; however, this reading is also quoted in the Rash of Sens.75 In two places Rabbi Shimshon of Chinon quotes the Tosefta in the reading in G1 in contrast to VP. One of these is quoted by several Rishonim who preceded him.76 The Rosh (Rabbi Asher ben Jehiel) quotes Tosefta in the G1 version in two places and in one place in the G3 version in contrast to the VP version, however in all these citations the texts have been quoted in the writings of the Rash.77 In these quotations of Tosefta from the writings of Rishonim after the twelfth century that do not follow the text of VP, the fragment whose readings are quoted most often is G1, similar to what we find in the writings of the Rishonim from the twelfth century. However, as stated, the number of quotations is small, and most of the text variants are quoted in the writings of earlier Rishonim. It is possible they were taken from there, and therefore these quotations are insufficient to affect the findings presented in this paper.





75 “‫ ”מחצה על מחצה טמא‬as in G1, Tosafot Rid to Nazir 56b, and the language of the Rash above, in note 55. 76 “‫ ”ר׳ עקיבא‬as in G1 in contrast to VP, which have “‫ ”עקיבא‬only (Kelim, Bava Metz‘ia 1:5 [page 578, line 40]), Sefer Kritut, Lashon Limudim 2.93; “‫ ”שומטה מפתח זה‬as in G1, Sefer Kritut, ibid., quoted earlier by Ḥananel ben Ḥushiel, the Arukh, the Rash and R. Yehudah bar Kalonymous. See above notes 51–52, 55, and 60. 77 See “‫ ”שומטה מפתח זה‬as in G1 (see previous note), Commentary of the Rosh to Mishnah Kelim 11:4. “‫ ”כרע שפירש מן הארוכה‬as in G1, Tosafot Rosh to Sukkah 16a, s.v. ‫מטה‬, and the reading of the Rash, note 55 above; “‫ ”בראש או בכותל טהורה‬as in G3, Commentary of the Rosh to Mishnah Yadayim 2:3, and the readings of the Rash, note 53 above, and the Rambam, note 58 above.

54

Binyamin Katzoff

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Dr. Yoav Rosenthal and the anonymous reader who reviewed the manuscript on behalf of this publication for their illuminating comments on some of the issues discussed in the article. This research was supported by the Israel Science Foundation (Grant number 49/14) and by the Beit Shalom Fund, Kyoto, Japan.

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b: Reconsidering the Social Values of the Babylonian Yeshivot Shraga Bar-­o n

Shalom Hartman Institute and Shalem College, Jerusalem This article investigates the tension regarding values that arises from the redaction of an aggadic passage in the Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 35b. The conceptual framework for the analysis presented here draws from Ronald Dworkin’s theory concerning the hermeneutic character of legal activity, which he describes as akin to a “chain novel.” This type of analysis of aggadic stories emphasizes multi-­generational and multi-­staged activity by the sages, whose purpose was to create identity-­forming narratives. Three fundamental claims emerge from this article, relating to structure, methodology, and historical content, respectively. (1) The supposedly uniform aggadic story is in fact an arena of competing tensions and conflicts of values. These tensions were preserved intentionally by the Stammaitic editors of the Talmud, who thus produced the multi-­layered structure of the aggadah – a dialectical parallel to the genre of halakhic negotiation. (2) In order to expose these tensions, one must employ methodological pluralism. The scholar of aggadah must utilize both literary and philological-­historical tools, while also taking into consideration the subject matter and the values reflected therein. (3) One must offer a more sophisticated description of the Babylonian yeshivah’s universe of values during the late stages of the Talmud’s redaction. This should be more complex than what has been accepted in the last generation of scholarship (particularly in North America).

1. The Talmud as a Chain Novel “‫“( ”באילין מילי א[ית]וסיף תלמודא דארא בתר דארא‬These words were collected in the Talmud generation after generation”), taught Rabbi Sherira Gaon in his Epistle.1

1 Sherira ben Ḥanina Gaon, Iggeret Rav Sherira Ga’on, ed. Benjamin Lewin (Haifa: Goldah Ittskovski, 1921), 66 (from the French manuscript). This principle is repeated in different language on pages 62, 68, and 69. Regarding the most accurate way to describe the consolidation and redaction of the Talmud, the opinions of the Rishonim and Aḥaronim were divided. Rashi (R. Solomon b. Isaac) presents a position different than that of Sherira Gaon: “Until their day there was no organized tradition (Gemara), rather, when a question was asked because of the reciting ‫( משנה‬hamishnah) in the study hall, or a question regarding an

55

56

Shraga Bar-­on

The Talmud is a masterpiece constituted by continuous redaction of statements of the sages, one after another. This characteristic is not unique to the Talmud. The understanding that Jewish canonical texts are products of a laborious, multi-­staged redaction of ancient sources is, by now, common knowledge that does not need to be demonstrated to those familiar with academic study of the Bible and the Mishnah. To a large extent, this understanding constitutes the greater part of scholarship in these fields. This is also the case with respect to later sacred literary compositions from the Middle Ages, such as the Zohar.2



act occurring within monetary laws or [the laws of] forbidden and permitted – each one would state his reasoning, and Rav Ashi and Ravina would organize the Amoraic statements presented, and set the tractate order of each one with the mishnah appropriate and learned with it, and they raised difficulties that should be answered and disjointments that should be explained and the Amoraic statements with them, and established it all as Gemara.” Also, see Rashi’s gloss on b. Bava Metzi‘a 86a, s.v., “‫סוף המעשה‬.” This dispute can be seen, to some extent, as parallel to the dispute among contemporary scholars, particularly between the school of Neusner, which claims that the Talmud is the product of intensive and painstaking redaction which altered the ancient sources beyond recognition such that we are only able to testify to the belief system and opinions of the later redactors, and the philological-­historical school which attempts to uncover the stratification of the Talmud. For an up-­to-­date articulation of Neusner’s position, see Jacob Neusner, The Reader’s Guide to the Talmud (Leiden: Brill, 2001). For the opposing view, and summaries of these and other disputes, see Richard Kalmin, “The Formation and Character of the Babylonian Talmud,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, ed. Steven Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 840–76; Isaiah M. Gafni, “‫ארץ־‬ ‫ חקר שנות דור – הישגים ותהיות‬:‫”ישראל בתקופת המשנה והתלמוד‬, Cathedra: For the History of Eretz Israel and Its Yishuv 100 (2001): 199–226; Moulie Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014). Though the present article does not deal directly with the historical issue of the redaction of the Talmud, it seems to me that it provides some evidence in favor of the balanced approach of these scholars. 2 Daniel Abrams, Kabbalistic Manuscripts and Textual Theory: Methodologies of Textual Scholarship and Editorial Practice in the Study of Jewish Mysticism (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2010). Abrams presents the Zohar as an open composition, such that one cannot speak of it as a “book” in the modern sense. Abrams’ analysis no doubt holds true for a wide range of ancient works of literature as well. Peter Schäfer has also attempted to characterize rabbinic literature as an open composition, to the point that one cannot speak of an original text (Urtext). On this, see the exchange between Schäfer and Chaim Milikowsky: Peter Schäfer, “Research into Rabbinic Literature: An Attempt to Define the Status Quaestionis,” JJS 37 (1986): 139–52; Chaim Milikowsky, “The Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature,” JJS 39 (1988): 201–11; Peter Schäfer, “Once Again the Status Quaestionis of Research in Rabbinic Literature: An Answer to Chaim Milikowsky,” JJS 40 (1989): 89–94. With respect to the Talmud, even Milikowsky acknowledges that although Schäfer may date the finalization of the Talmud as a consolidated book too late, it is clear that the Talmud was open for multi-­generational, active redaction during all of the stages of its creation. Boyarin ascribes such a position to Abraham Weiss: “[T]he Talmud, against its will, as it were, bespeaks its own unfinished character. The Talmud was in reality never redacted, but only caught at an almost arbitrary moment in its becoming.” See Daniel Boyarin, “The Yavneh-­Cycle of the Stammaim and the Invention of the

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

57

It seems to me, however, that talmudic creativity comes closest to Ronald Dworkin’s description of the development of the legal corpus. Dworkin offers an account of law which he terms “law as integrity.” The word “integrity,” of course, carries a double meaning: integrity in the sense of wholeness and integrity in the sense of honesty. The first kind of integrity – integrity as wholeness – suggests that the answer to a given legal dilemma lies in the coherence of that ruling within the broader framework of the law – its terms, its rules, and its principles. This coherence is attained through interpretation, which incorporates the second sense of integrity – integrity as honesty. A discretionary interpretative judgment ought to perceive itself, sincerely, as providing a solution to a new problem in the way that best fits the tradition in which it operates. Dworkin emphasizes the creative dimension of judicial discretion, and sees in it a form of artistic creation. He notes the affinity and similarity between literary creativity and juridical activity – and sees the judge as an author and critic. In this framework, he describes the development of law as akin to the writing of a chain novel written by many authors, each adding to what his or her colleagues have written – sometimes agreeing, sometimes disagreeing, but always interpreting. In this manner, legal creativity continuously forms a literary-­legal corpus, in addition to producing legal norms and societal behaviors.3 As noted, Dworkin’s approach to legal interpretation is articulated through his theory of “law as integrity.” According to his description, “Law as integrity . . . insists that legal claims are interpretive judgments and therefore combine backward-­and forward-­looking elements . . . ” This understanding “rejects as unhelpful the ancient question whether judges find or invent law; we understand legal reasoning, it suggests, only by seeing the sense in which they do both and neither.”4 According to Dworkin, “Judges, however, are authors as well as critics.”5





Rabbis,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey Rubenstein (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 239. Boyarin himself is of the opinion that the Talmud is redacted in a style intended to create the impression of an open composition. For our purposes it does not matter who is more correct from a purely historical perspective. The unit examined here testifies to a creative openness whose final consolidation is difficult to date. 3 Ronald Dworkin, Law’s Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 229: “In this enterprise a group of novelists writes a novel seriatim; each novelist in the chain interprets the chapters he has been given in order to write a new chapter, which is then added to what the next novelist receives, and so on. Each has the job of writing his chapter so as to make the novel being constructed the best it can be, and the complexity of this task models the complexity of deciding a hard case under law as integrity. The imaginary literary enterprise is fantastic but not unrecognizable.” 4 Ibid., 225. 5 Ibid., 229.

58

Shraga Bar-­on

The chain novel is a work of literature and of criticism. The writer, who depends upon the words of his predecessors, serves both as a critic and as an author. He adopts or opposes the words of his predecessors, and on the basis of their words he creates the next chapter of the book. Moreover, he structures the next stage of engagement with that which he wishes to promote or instill. His integrity is not expressed by repeating the words of his predecessors. Rather, it is manifest in the responsibility that he bears toward the past and toward the future: toward the literary and human tradition upon which he bases himself and which he carries on, and toward the community for whom he provides the next identity-­forming story in the chain. “The novelists are expected to take their responsibilities of continuity more seriously; they aim jointly to create, so far as they can, a single unified novel that is the best it can be.”6 The test of the integrity exhibited by the current judge or writer in a chain of writing is to be found in the end product, namely, the quality of the novel, or of the interpretation. It is necessary here to distinguish between two requirements that are in tension with one another: on one hand, the novel needs to be “single” and “unified”; on the other, it needs to be “the best [novel] it can be.” The unity of a chain novel reflects the continuity that emerges from a project of this sort. However, the multiplicity of writers over a long period of time not only results in the production of a multi-­layered, multi-­leveled text; it also leads to the appearance of turning points in the text’s plot, ideas, and values. The more the different writers vary in their character and opinions, the more these turning points stand out. In the case of a moral framework – be it legal or literary – the condition of “integrity” in the sense of striving to produce the best possible novel demands that each writer crafts his or her chapter of the chain novel in a manner that reflects what they regard to be the best values. This definition of integrity – expressed as the aspiration to produce an interpretative-­literary output resulting in the best possible novel – is derived from an expansion of the concept of the “principle of charity” in interpretation. The principle of charity calls upon a reader to interpret statements in a manner that ascribes a meaning to them that makes rational sense.7 Expanding the principle of charity from ascription of rational sense to ascription of greater meaning leads to an interpretation of statements that grants them the loftiest conceivable meaning. When it comes to ethical meaning, the principle of charity requires that the next chapter of a chain novel be written in such a way that it teaches what is right.8 In any event, when a later writer holds values different than those of the

6 Ibid. 7 Neil Wilson, “Substances without Substrata,” Review of Metaphysics 12 (1959): 521–39. 8 Moshe Halbertal, People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority (Cambridge, MA: Harvard

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

59

preceding writer, the contents of the new chapter in the chain novel will alter radically the meaning of the previous chapters. Dworkin’s description of legal writing as a chain novel is intended as a retrospective, fiction-­based characterization of the legal corpus.9 It seems, however, that canonical Jewish legal literature – the Talmud – constitutes an excellent example of an actual chain novel. Where Dworkin attempted to clarify the legal field through literary tools, I will attempt here to tread a path in the opposite direction: I will utilize Dworkin’s discussion from the field of philosophy of law in order to better understand talmudic literature. I will not attempt to deal here with the “novel” itself, but rather with one “miniature” or “minimalist” chain story from which one can learn about many others as well.10 Needless to say, this tool almost begs to be utilized for analyzing talmudic stories, given the intertwined nature of halakhah and aggadah in the Talmud.11 This kind of description of the talmudic story has hermeneutic implications which I will address as I describe the changes that have taken place in the academic study of aggadic stories.

2. Scholarship on Aggadic Stories in the Talmud Study of aggadic stories in the Talmud has proceeded along two parallel – and sometimes conflicting – tracks. The first track is the philological-­historical. This approach employs the accepted tools of analysis for examining aggadic stories, and attempts to determine the stories’ textual sources. The purpose of this philological-­historical method is usually to distill the original kernel of the story, as well as any reliable historical knowledge, from the aggadic text. The second track is that of New Criticism. This approach sees aggadic stories as closed units which are to be analyzed using literary tools. In recent years, University Press, 1997), 27–32. 9 Dworkin, Law’s Empire, 229: “We can find an even more fruitful comparison between literature and law, therefore, by constructing an artificial genre of literature that we might call the chain novel.” 10 On the definition of the rabbinic art of the story as entailing minimalist or miniature stories, and the characteristic features of those stories, see Yair Barkai, ‫ ספרות לבתי הספר‬:‫הסיפור המיניאטורי‬ ‫( העל־יסודיים – מדריך למורה‬Jerusalem: Ministry of Education and Culture, 1986); Inbar Raveh, ‫ מבנים ספרותיים ותפיסת עולם‬:‫( מעט מהרבה מעשי חכמים‬Or Yehuda/Be’er Sheva: Dvir, 2008), 25–26; Galit Hasan-­Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood: Jewish Narrative Dialogues in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 11 See Robert Cover, “The Supreme Court, 1982 Term – Foreword: Nomos and Narrative,” Harvard Law Review 97 (1983): 4–68. Since Cover’s influential article, highly developed theoretical discussions have appeared regarding the relationship between halakhah and aggadah in the rabbinic tradition. Most of these emphasize that the variety and quality of the relationship between these fields is such that there is no absolute theoretical distinction between them.

60

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a third approach has emerged which utilizes a broad set of tools in order to provide literary and historical analysis of the aggadic material in the Talmud.12 Some have compared the aggadic stories of the Talmud to a mosaic.13 This metaphor, however, demands a level of elaboration and precision which I have not yet found among those scholars of aggadah who employ it. On first consideration, the mosaic metaphor seems more suited to the assumption that a later editor made use of small units as raw material for a new work reflecting only his own positions. If this is indeed the intention, then this metaphor should be rejected with respect to the Talmud.14 However, it seems that aggadah scholars of the present generation employ this metaphor in order to emphasize the colorfulness and multi-­faceted nature of the layers of aggadah. Taken in this sense, I accept this metaphoric characterization and identify it with the words of Rabbi Sherira Gaon cited above, and with Dworkin’s modern description of the development of law as akin to a chain novel. I wish to argue, however, that if what we have before us is a mosaic, then discussion of the mosaic’s individual stones in their own right – popular as it may be among contemporary historians – is a barren endeavor, one that loses sight of the forest for the trees. The recognition that we have before us a unique genre of multi-­generational creative activity which is constantly altering the very aggadic unit under examination necessitates a shift in the object and focus of scholarship. The focus should shift from identification of the units that constitute stories and discussion of their relative earliness or lateness, to a discussion of the moral, educational, and identity-­related meanings that are reflected in the multi-­generational rabbinic production of stories of the sages.15

12 Amram Tropper has attempted to present the development of these varying approaches in a somewhat different fashion, along a dialectical continuum of development. See Amram Tropper, ‫ מעשי חכמים בספרות חז״ל‬:‫( כחומר ביד היוצר‬Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2011), 9–26, and the references cited there. 13 See Tropper, ‫כחומר ביד היוצר‬, 11: “Every story is a sophisticated mosaic, made up of many stones of different sizes and various colors.” Apart from Tropper (see also note 12 above) and the sources that he cites, see also Moshe Lavee, “‫ בין הוראת התורה לגדולה וגאולה סיפורי רבי ורבי‬:‫הפסיפסיפור התלמודי‬ ‫התנאי בתלמוד הבבלי‬ ַּ ‫”חייא כדוגמה לשחזור פרק בדימוי העבר‬, JSIJ 8 (2009): 51–98. 14 Apart from the example brought here, see also Rosenthal’s more general, theoretical discussion: David Rosenthal, “‫”עריכות קדומות המשוקעות בתלמוד הבבלי‬, in Talmudic Studies I, ed. Yaakov Sussman and David Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1990), 155–204. A more refined and convincing position is presented by Moulie Vidas, who argues that the multi-­layered structure of the Babylonian Talmud presents a conflict between faithful transmission of ancient sources and the use of those sources in the creation of far-­reaching innovations that reflect the world of the redactors. According to Vidas, it is precisely by preserving this tension that the redactors highlight the gap between the legacy of the past and the values of the Amoraim and Stammaim who interpret it. See Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud. 15 Daniel Boyarin comes closest to this method. However, he tends to focus on tensions between

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

61

Having recognized that this is the character of rabbinic literature, it is necessary to emphasize the interpretative process that is carried out during chain writing, including the ascription of new meanings to a given precedent which sometimes turn the original meaning on its head. It is easy to discern this activity in the legal field. A judge approaches a new case with a set of tools which includes the language of the law, precedents and custom, the arguments of the litigators, accepted norms in his surroundings, legal literature in all its diversity, and his own moral positions. When he writes a new ruling, he adds a link to the chain. He chooses the sources from which to cite, the arguments with which to engage, and the manner in which to weave his new wording so that it becomes an inseparable part of the legal tradition out of which he grew. It is more difficult to discern the similar activity which characterizes aggadic writing, but, in my opinion, it is very important to do so. Rabbinic aggadot are also based on ancient materials, and they also utilize a set of interpretative tools to rewrite and create these materials anew, such that they are given the “best possible” interpretation. Indeed, as Frankel and his followers have claimed, what we have before us is an indubitably literary creation. However, contrary to the approach put forward by proponents of the “New (Literary) Criticism,” aggadic stories are not the creation of one single artist, nor even of a final redactor. Rather, they are multi-­layered works with many creators in which the differences of taste and of values among various rabbis are apparent. Through discussion of a particular, well-­known aggadic unit in the Babylonian Talmud, this article attempts to show that tracing the changes which took place in the chain story presented here leads to the unfurling of a moral discourse containing areas of agreement and disagreement. I will propose that precisely the methods of the philological-­historical approach, which dismantle the text into more basic components, might provide a literary analysis with the requisite tools for a deeper and more accurate understanding of talmudic aggadah, the manner of its creation, and – most importantly – its moral and social orientations. As noted, the analysis that follows constitutes one representative example of the utilization of the refined set of tools available to contemporary students. In terms of its scope, this is a small textual unit. However, even this unit is more than just a single miniature story, as it discusses three stories. I suggest that this unit should be seen as an example of the fractal structure of the consolidation process the talmudic text underwent over the generations. the values of different sources, and deals less with the harmonistic reorganization of these tensions into a single literary unit. Moreover, he tends to link these tensions to broader historical processes that, to my mind, are not evidenced in the sources themselves. On this methodology, see in particular his remarks in his Border Lines: The Partition of Judeo-­Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 47–49.

62

Shraga Bar-­on

3. Torah Study Is Equivalent to the Sum of All: Ethos and Mythos Without doubt, Torah study is one of the most central values in the world of the rabbis – perhaps even the most important value. The Mishnaic tractate Pe’ah opens with the following declaration: These are things that are not [subject to a specific] measure: (1) The [quantity of produce set aside as] pe’ah, (2) the [quantity of produce designated as] first fruits [and brought to the Temple on Pentecost], (3) the [value of the] appearance [offering, brought to Jerusalem on each of the three pilgrimage festivals], (4) the [quantity of] righteous deeds [performed], and (5) [time spent in] study of Torah. These are things the benefits of which a person enjoys in this world, while the principal remains for him in the world-­to-­come: (1) [deeds done in] honor of father and mother, (2) [performance of] righteous deeds, and (3) acts that bring about peace between one person and another. But (4) study of Torah is equal to all of them together. (Mishnah Pe’ah 1:1) ‫אלו דברים שאין להם שיעור הפאה והבכורים והראיון וגמילות חסדים ותלמוד תורה‬ ‫אלו דברים שאדם אוכל פירותיהן בעולם הזה והקרן קיימת לו לעולם הבא כיבוד אב ואם‬ 16.‫וגמילות חסדים והבאת שלום שבין אדם לחבירו ותלמוד תורה כנגד כולם‬ The ethos of Torah study has roots in the Deuteronomistic layer of the Bible and was already held in high esteem among the soferim of the Second Temple period, among priestly groups in the Second Temple period – including the priests of the Temple in Jerusalem and the Yaḥad community at Qumran – and also, of course, among the Pharisees. However, it seems that only among the rabbis was this value expressed and made central to religious life in such a way that it became – to borrow the language of Ephraim E. Urbach – an “absolute value” which, for many of the rabbis, took priority over engagement with other religious pursuits.17 Ze’ev and Chana Safrai noted the sociological 16 m. Pe’ah 1:1, as per MS Parma. I have cited this manuscript as it is similar to the printed version. MS Kaufmann contains small differences which do not affect the meaning. Translation from The Talmud of the Land of Israel: A Preliminary Translation and Explanation. Volume 2: Peah, ed. Jacob Neusner, trans. Roger Brooks (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1990), 28. 17 The rabbis disagreed about the extent of the obligation to study Torah, but it seems that they never disagreed about its centrality. See Ephraim Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. Israel Abrahams (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1979), 631: “The Torah is exalted to an absolute value, irrespective of the amount of time that a man devotes to such study, without any demand, as a result of this conception, for one’s complete withdrawal from all other interests of the world.” One can find testimony to the centrality of Torah study among the sages of the Second Temple period relative to other groups in Josephus, J.W. 2.8.14§§385 (Thackeray,

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63

significance of the value of Torah study with respect to the hegemony of the leadership of the people: In the First Temple period and the beginning of the Second Temple period – and apparently until its end – the sages were not the traditional elite. In order for the conditions to be created in which the class of sages could be consolidated as an elite, an ideological change needed to take place. The sages needed to “develop” and “convince” the people of a series of ideas which “produced” “new needs” which only the sages could fulfill, which in turn developed into new “power resources” over which they had a monopoly and to which they alone had access.18 Indeed, the exaltation of the value of Torah study is expressed in rabbinic literature in the form of halakhah, moral homilies, and also aggadah. Ze’ev and Chana Safrai count rabbinic stories among the means employed for the promotion of the value of Torah study: Rabbinic stories [commencing with the introductory phrase,] “thus did our sages,” deal with all aspects of the sages’ lifestyles, but the vast majority are devoted to the place of the Torah and its study in the life of the sage. Rabbinic stories constitute an entertaining, riveting manner of folk instruction.19 I wish to dwell briefly upon the possible tension between the descriptors “rabbinic stories,” and “tales of [about] the rabbis.” When a story describes an act carried out by a rabbi, we have before us a story which might be categorized under the heading, “thus did our sages.”20 In such a case, there is a tendency to select a particular deed, isolate it, and remove it from the broader context LCL): “Of the two first-­named schools, the Pharisees are considered the most accurate interpreters of the laws.” David Weiss Halivni has described four stages in the development of the ethos of Torah study. See David Weiss Halivni, Midrash, Mishnah, and Gemara: The Jewish Predilection for Justified Law (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 107–13. I will address the extent to which this is an innovation of the Stammaim later in this article and in the footnotes. On this, see Jeffrey Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 105–38. 18 Ze’ev Safrai and Chana Safrai, “‫ הורתו ולידתו של המשאב החיוני למעמדם של חכמים‬:‫”תלמוד תורה וערכיה‬, in ‫ על עולמו והגותו של דוד הרטמן‬:‫( מחויבות יהודית מתחדשת‬Tel Aviv: Shalom Hartman Institute and Hakibbutz Hameuchad Publishing House, 2001), 880. 19 Ibid., 905. 20 Thus Did Our Sages (‫ )כה עשו חכמינו‬is the name of the best-­selling book series by Yocheved Segal (titled Our Sages Showed the Way in English), in which she collected, translated, and adapted rabbinic stories from the Talmud and Midrash. See Frankel’s comments regarding the problematic nature of the notion of “tales of the rabbis” in his ‫עיונים בעולמו הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬ (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1981), 7–8.

64

Shraga Bar-­on

in which it took place. Critical scholarship often raises doubts about the historicity of these kinds of testimonies, and it is not surprising to discover that the messages conveyed by these “tales of the rabbis” are often rejected in rabbinic literature through various means. These include the use of an “uqimta,” the drawing of a distinction between law and deed – the claim that a particular rabbi’s deeds are evidence of an individual stringency rather than a normative instruction, and so on, such that halakhists held to the rule that “one does not teach or learn halakhah from aggadah.” Well-­developed biographical stories about rabbinic sages are different. Many of these stories describe events which never took place.21 In these cases, it seems that real rabbinic sages became the heroes of fictional stories whose purpose is to influence the laws, values, and identity formation of the story’s intended audience. These stories shift the “deeds of the rabbis” into the domain of exemplary stories – or perhaps even into the domain of myth, as defined by Paul Ricoeur: “A traditional narration which relates to events that happened at the beginning of time and which has the purpose of providing grounds for the ritual actions of men today and, in a general manner, establishing all the forms of action and thought by which man understands himself in the world.”22 A more suitable heading for these stories, redacted as they were in the beit midrash, might be “thus told our sages,” rather than “thus did our sages.” This categorization points more to the moral orientations of the stories’ narrators than to their heroes, to literature more than history. The writers of formative stories – from the Bible and onwards – took great liberties in shaping these myths.23

4. “The Poor Man, Rich Man, and Wicked Man Come to Judgment”: The Creation of an Aggadah One of the most central and famous aggadot, appearing on b. Yoma 35b, seems to support the ethos of Torah study, narrating exemplary stories about learned heroes. But this aggadah is not as simple as it might seem at first glance; rather, it exemplifies the fractal character of the Talmud. Like the Talmud as a whole, 21 For examples of current critical scholarship demonstrating this, see Alon Goshen-­Gottstein, The Sinner and the Amnesiac: The Rabbinic Invention of Elisha Ben Abuya and Eleazar Ben Arach (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000); Azzan Yadin-­Israel, Scripture and Tradition: Rabbi Akiva and the Triumph of Midrash (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), chap. 7. 22 Paul Ricoeur, The Symbolism of Evil (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), 5. 23 It seems to me that one can even claim that, in this respect, the difference between pseudo-­ historical epics in the Bible and “miniature” stories of the rabbis in the Talmud is one of genre and choice of heroes, and not necessarily a difference in orientation. Cf. Frankel, ‫עיונים בעולמו‬ ‫הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬, 33.

65

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

the unit before us was consolidated in stages, by different rabbis, exercising varying moral considerations. I wish to argue that what we find here is not merely an “entertaining, riveting manner of folk instruction,” but a meticulous and sophisticated literary creation reflecting a struggle to shape the universe of values and moral-­religious identity of both the elites and the broader population. Textual analysis will allow us to reveal the different values which guide this aggadic creation. I will first present the unit from the Babylonian Talmud, divided into indented segments; then I will return to a detailed discussion of the considerations behind these divisions:24 Our rabbis have taught:

:‫תנו רבנן‬ ,‫] עני ועשיר ורשע באין לדין‬1.‫[א‬ ?‫ מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה‬:‫לעני אומרים לו‬

?‫ כלום עני היית יותר מהלל‬:‫ עני הייתי וטרוד במזונותי אומרים לו‬:‫אם אומר‬ [A.1] The poor man, rich man, and wicked man come to judgment, To the poor man they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?” If he says, “I was poor and preoccupied with earning my living,” they say to him, “Were you ever poorer than Hillel?” ‫ חציו היה נותן‬,‫[ב] אמרו עליו על הלל הזקן שבכל יום ויום היה עושה ומשתכר בטרפעיק‬ ,‫ פעם אחת לא מצא להשתכר‬.‫ וחציו לפרנסתו ולפרנסת אנשי ביתו‬,‫לשומר בית המדרש‬ ‫ עלה ונתלה וישב על פי ארובה כדי שישמע דברי‬.‫ולא הניחו שומר בית המדרש להכנס‬ .‫אלהים חיים מפי שמעיה ואבטליון‬



24 The indentation is intended to enable the reader to read the original segments of the aggadah smoothly, without the later material that was added to them. The division is marked with the letters A to D (‫­ד‬-‫ )א‬moving from the core of the story to later additions. A study by Yachin Epstein has shown that the extant manuscripts of this chapter fall into two main traditions. The first is a Yemenite tradition which includes the following manuscripts held at the Jewish Theological Seminary: RAB. 218 (ENA 270); RAB. 1623 (ENA 271). The second is a European tradition which includes the following manuscripts: Munich 6; St. Petersburg-­Firkovich (A 0293/1); Munich 95; London 400; Oxford 366, and the first edition printed in Venice, 1521. See Yachin Epstein, “‫מסורת‬ ‫( ”הנוסח של בבלי יומא פרק ג‬master’s thesis, Hebrew University, 1999). A detailed synopsis of the unit with which we are dealing can be found on pages 38–41; a synopsis of the story of Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom in volume 1, page 128. I have based myself on Epstein’s valuable work. In what follows, I will quote the printed version and will refer to textual variants only when these affect the analysis presented here.

66

Shraga Bar-­on

[B] They said concerning Hillel the Elder that every day he would work as a day-­laborer and earn a tropaik. Half he paid [for tuition] to the bursar at the house of study, the other half he spent for food for himself and his family. One time he did not find day labor and the bursar did not let him enter. He climbed up and suspended himself and took up his seat at the mouth of the skylight to hear the words of the living God from the very mouth of Shemaya and Avtalyon. ,‫ [ערב שבת היה‬25)‫ אותו היום‬:‫[ד] (אמרו‬ [D] (They say: that day) [was the eve of the Sabbath 26.]‫ וירד עליו שלג מן השמים‬,‫[ג] ותקופת טבת היתה‬ [C] in the winter solstice, and it snowed on him from heaven.] ,‫ אבטליון אחי! בכל יום הבית מאיר‬:‫[ג] כשעלה עמוד השחר אמר לו שמעיה לאבטליון‬ ‫ עלו ומצאו‬,‫ הציצו עיניהן וראו דמות אדם בארובה‬27]?‫ [שמא יום המעונן הוא‬,‫והיום אפל‬ .‫ והושיבוהו כנגד המדורה‬,‫ וסיכוהו‬,‫ והרחיצוהו‬,‫ פרקוהו‬.‫עליו רום שלש אמות שלג‬ [C] At dawn said Shemaya to Avtalyon, “My brother, Avtalyon, every day the house is illuminated [by dawn’s early light], but today it’s gloomy. Is it possibly a cloudy day?” They looked intently and recognized the shape of a man over the skylight. They went up and found him covered with three cubits of snow. They took him down, bathed him and anointed him and set him by the fire .‫ ראוי זה לחלל עליו את השבת‬:‫] אמרו‬1.‫[ד‬ [D.1] and said, “A man such as this is worthy that the Sabbath should be profaned on his account.” ?‫ מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה‬:‫] עשיר אומרים לו‬2.‫[א‬ ‫ כלום עשיר היית יותר מרבי‬:‫ אומרים לו‬,‫ עשיר הייתי וטרוד הייתי בנכסי‬:‫אם אומר‬ ?‫אלעזר‬ [A.2] To the rich man they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?”

25 This appears only in the Venice printed edition. 26 This sentence appears with minor variations only in MS London 400, MS Oxford 366, and the Venice printed edition. 27 This sentence also appears with minor variations only in MS London 400, MS Oxford 366, and the Venice printed edition. See Epstein’s explanation for this addition: Epstein, “‫מסורת הנוסח של‬ ‫”בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 126–27.

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67

If he says, “I was rich and preoccupied with managing my funds,” they say to him, “Were you ever richer than R. Eleazar?” ‫ וכנגדן אלף‬,‫] אמרו עליו על רבי אלעזר בן חרסום שהניח לו אביו אלף עיירות ביבשה‬1.‫[ב‬ ,‫ספינות בים‬ [B.1] They said concerning R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom that his father left him as his estate a thousand towns on shore and, correspondingly, a thousand ships at sea, ‫[ג] ובכל יום ויום נוטל נאד של קמח על כתיפו ומהלך מעיר לעיר וממדינה למדינה‬ ‫ הניחוני‬,‫ בבקשה מכם‬:‫ אמר להן‬.‫ פעם אחת מצאוהו עבדיו ועשו בו אנגריא‬.‫ללמוד תורה‬ 28!‫ חיי רבי אלעזר בן חרסום שאין מניחין אותך‬:‫ואלך ללמוד תורה! אמרו לו‬ [C] And every day he would take a sack of flour on his shoulder [for his sustenance] and wander from town to town and city to city to learn Torah. One time his workers found him [but did not know who he was] and seized him for the corvée. He said to them, “Please let me be, so that I may go and study Torah.” They said to him, “By the life of R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom we shall not let you go!” .‫ אלא יושב ועוסק בתורה כל היום וכל הלילה‬,‫] ומימיו לא הלך וראה אותן‬2.‫[ב‬ [B.2] [That was because] in his entire life he had never seen them, because he remained in session all day and all night, engaged with the Torah. ?‫ מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה‬:‫] רשע אומרים לו‬3.‫[א‬ ?‫ כלום נאה היית מיוסף‬:‫ נאה הייתי וטרוד ביצרי הייתי אומרים לו‬:‫אם אמר‬ [A.3] To the wicked person they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?” If he says, “I was good-­looking and preoccupied with fulfilling my sexual desires,” they say to him, “Were you better-­looking than Joseph?” ‫ בגדים‬,‫ בכל יום ויום היתה אשת פוטיפר משדלתו בדברים‬:‫[ב] אמרו עליו על יוסף הצדיק‬ .‫ בגדים שלבשה לו ערבית לא לבשה לו שחרית‬,‫שלבשה לו שחרית לא לבשה לו ערבית‬

28 The order of the segments varies in three ways in the manuscripts. MS Oxford 366, MS London 400, and the Venice printed edition are similar to our printed text (with negligible variations). MS Munich 95, MS Munich 6, and MS St. Petersburg (Firkovich) move segment A2 to B. MS New York (JTS) 218 (Enelow 270) also presents the alternative variation. MS New York (JTS) 1623 (Enelow 271) does not include the story of R. Eleazar’s wanderings and his encounter with his slaves at all. For a summary of the textual variations, see Epstein, “‫מסורת הנוסח של בבלי יומא‬ ‫”פרק ג‬, 122, and his analysis on 127–28.

68

Shraga Bar-­on .‫ לאו‬:‫אמר לה‬

!‫ השמע לי‬:‫אמרה לו‬

‫ ה׳ מתיר אסורים‬:‫ אמר לה‬.‫ הריני חובשתך בבית האסורין‬:‫אמרה לו‬ ‫ ה' זקף כפופים‬-

‫הריני כופפת קומתך‬

.‫ ה' פקח עורים‬-

‫ הריני מסמא את עיניך‬-­

.‫נתנה לו אלף ככרי כסף לשמוע אליה לשכב אצלה להיות עמה ולא רצה לשמוע אליה‬ 29.‫ להיות עמה – לעולם הבא‬,‫לשכב אצלה – בעולם הזה‬ [B] They said concerning Joseph, that righteous man, that every day the wife of Potiphar would try to seduce him with words. [Not only so, but] the garment that she put on for him in the morning she did not wear by night, and the garments that she put on for him by night she did not put on for him in the morning. She said to him, “Submit to me.”  He said to her, “No.” She said to him, “Then I’ll put you in prison.”  He said to her, “‘The Lord frees the bound.’” (Ps 146:7) She said to him, “Then I’ll cut you down to size.”  He said to her, “‘The Lord raises up those who are bowed down.’” (Ps 146:8) She said to him, “Then I’ll blind your eyes.”  He said to her, ‘“The Lord opens the eyes of the blind.’” (Ps 146:8) She gave him a thousand talents of silver to submit to her, to lie with her, to be with her, but he did not want to submit to her, “to lie with her – in this world,” “to be with her, in the world to come.” ‫ יוסף‬,‫ רבי אלעזר בן חרסום מחייב את העשירים‬,‫ הלל מחייב את העניים‬,‫] נמצא‬4.‫[א‬ .‫מחייב את הרשעים‬ [A.4] It turns out that Hillel serves to convict the poor, R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom the rich, and Joseph the wicked (b. Yoma 35b).30 In his discussion of this aggadah, Yonatan Feintuch makes the following observation: “In this aggadah there are three stories, each of which is a closed, independent unit in itself. The three stories were merged into a single framing which begins with the heading, “The poor man, rich man, and wicked man come to judgment,” and ends with the sentence, “It turns out that Hillel serves to convict the poor [ . . . ].”31 The Talmud presents this aggadic composition as a

29 On the consolidation of the text in this segment and the problems entailed in it, see Epstein, “‫”מסורת הנוסח של בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 31. 30 Translation from Jacob Neusner, The Talmud of Babylonia: An Academic Commentary. Volume 5: Yoma (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 122–23. 31 Yonatan Feintuch, “‫”בין כהנים לחכמים – על אגדה אחת בהקשרה הרחב בבבלי‬, Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

69

baraita, by introducing it with the phrase, “Our rabbis have taught” (‫)תנו רבנן‬.32 It is true that any reader can identify the unusual nature of this “baraita” even on a superficial reading of the text – it is long, varied in style, and contains a variety of literary components. Indeed, scholars of Talmud have taught us to treat baraitot cited in the Bavli with suspicion.33 It seems to me, however, that one cannot ignore the fact that, in this case, the aggadah is presented as a baraita in all of the manuscripts. This being the case, I propose to extract the short baraita constituting the foundation of the composition before us, which I identify with the segments marked above by the letter A. This text would read as follows: :‫ מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה? אם אומר‬:‫ לעני אומרים לו‬,‫עני ועשיר [ורשע] באין לדין‬ :‫ כלום עני היית יותר מהלל? עשיר אומרים לו‬:‫ אומרים לו‬,‫עני הייתי וטרוד במזונותי‬ ‫ כלום‬:‫ אומרים לו‬,‫ עשיר הייתי וטרוד הייתי בנכסי‬:‫מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה? אם אומר‬ :‫ מפני מה לא עסקת בתורה? אם אמר‬:‫עשיר היית יותר מרבי אלעזר? [רשע אומרים לו‬ ‫ הלל מחייב את‬,‫ כלום נאה היית מיוסף? נמצא‬:‫נאה הייתי וטרוד ביצרי הייתי אומרים לו‬ 34.]‫ יוסף מחייב את הרשעים‬,‫ רבי אלעזר בן חרסום מחייב את העשירים‬,‫העניים‬ The poor man, rich man, [and wicked man] come to judgment. To the poor man they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?” If he says, “I was poor and preoccupied with earning my living,” they say





Literature 23 (2009): 3. 32 See Frankel, ‫עיונים בעולמו הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬, 66. Frankel begins discussing the story while ignoring its placement in the framework of a baraita. See more on this in what follows. 33 As is well known, not all of the material presented in the Bavli as baraitot is in fact Tannaitic. See Hanoch Albeck, ‫( מחקרים בברייתא ובתוספתא‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1944); Ezra Zion Melamed, ‫( מדרשי ההלכה של התנאים בתלמוד הירושלמי‬Ramat Gan: Hebrew University Magnes Press & Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2004); Shamma Friedman, “‫ ׳בין תימא׳‬:‫לאופיין של הברייתות בתלמוד הבבלי‬ ‫”ו׳בן דורתיי׳‬, in Neti’ot Ledavid: Jubilee Volume for David Weiss Halivni, ed. Yaakov Elman, Ephraim Halivni, and Zvi Steinfeld (Jerusalem: Orhot, 2004), 195–274. It is now possible to go in one of two directions. There are those, myself included, who are of the opinion that one should regard the transmission of baraitot as reliable unless there is a good reason to doubt the antiquity of a specific baraita. Others are of the view that the default position, at least with respect to aggadic baraitot, ought to be suspicion and doubt regarding their source. On this matter, see Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture, 261–62; Jeffrey Rubenstein, Stories of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), 214–15: “In general, narrative baraitot cannot be accepted as Tannaitic without compelling evidence and should always be suspected of being Stammaitic constructions.” 34 Epstein, “‫”מסורת הנוסח של בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 98, n. 69, is rightly skeptical regarding the sources of the Joseph story in this baraita, and notes the inconsistency between the manuscripts also in the story’s opening. See also Feintuch, “‫”בין כהנים לחכמים – על אגדה אחת בהקשרה הרחב‬, 4–5. In Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer, ed. H. G. Enelow (New York: Bloch, 1933), 322, one finds the word “‫“( ”בחור‬young man”) instead of “‫“( ”רשע‬evil person”). This wording is more elegant as far as the structure of the homily is concerned.

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to him, “Were you ever poorer than Hillel?” To the rich man they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?” If he says, “I was rich and preoccupied with managing my funds,” they say to him, “Were you ever richer than R. Eleazar?” [To the wicked person they say, “How come you did not engage in Torah study?” If he says, “I was good-­looking and preoccupied with fulfilling my sexual desires,” they say to him, “Were you better-­looking than Joseph?” It turns out that Hillel serves to convict the poor, R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom the rich, and Joseph the wicked.] This is a closed baraita which, without describing the stories of the cultural heroes mentioned, conveys a clear and pointed message: on the day of judgement, nothing can excuse a person for not having studied Torah. I wish to suggest that the second set of writers had this baraita before them. In the first stage, they sought to elaborate the stories hinted at by the baraita, in order to support its conclusion.35 The segments marked by the letter B were appended to the text for this purpose. One can discern here – as Yachin Epstein and Yonatan Feintuch have noted – that the story of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife does not fit the context at all. In this case, it seems that an expedient aggadah was inserted here which is not pertinent to the baraita’s conclusion. This aggadah is not only different stylistically from the corresponding segments but also does not discuss Joseph studying Torah – instead it discusses how he overcame the challenge of seduction. The placement of this aggadah here suggests a level of independence in the baraita regarding the narrative segments. Were this not the case, there would be no reason to present the story of Joseph in this context. Regardless, since the Joseph story does not at all fit the orientation of the baraita, I will not discuss it here.36 The stories about Hillel and about Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom are different. Before turning to a thorough discussion of these stories, I wish to return to the second element in Feintuch’s abovementioned assertion that each of these three stories is a “closed, independent unit.” This is an appropriate place to comment on the “closed” nature of these stories, which Frankel discusses in depth: “The 35 A parallel in Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer, 322, may testify to this basic literary form, as may a different parallel, in Avot de-­Rabbi Natan, Nusaḥ A, chap. 6, in which Rabbi Akiva renders the poor culpable. For an English translation see The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, trans. Judah Goldin (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1955), 42. 36 This does not mean that the addition of the Joseph story does not fit the chain novel model. Feintuch has attempted to argue, on the basis of literary allusions, that this story is part of a battle that the rabbis were waging for the priority of Torah study against priests who were concerned with their beauty. This subject is found in the adjacent discussions in the text. I am not convinced that these particular editorial considerations are what led to the placement of the story here, but there is no doubt, in my opinion, that this story constitutes another stage in the multigenerational consolidation of the sugya.

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71

art of storytelling – like all forms of art – produces creations that are wholly complete in themselves, “after” which – that is, outside of which – nothing happened, nothing has to happen, and nothing has to change in the future.”37 Frankel describes two types of closure which are actually three: two senses of outward closure, and inward closure. Outward closure means that a story is not located on a historical continuum and is not part of a historical process, and also that it is not connected to other stories about its hero. Inward closure means that the story has a well thought-­out, uniform structure, and that “every part is as planned in terms of the whole story.”38 It seems to me that Frankel’s working assumption that talmudic stories are “closed” is what led him to disconnect the story of Hillel from the baraita which called for it, and to refine the wording of the original story even if this meant disqualifying the testimony of all of the manuscripts.39 Moreover, this assumption is also what led him to claim that the story of Hillel contains only one moral position – criticism of the beit midrash. I will return to this point further on. Against this, I wish to argue that the stories before us were assembled from a number of layers. The stories of Hillel the Elder and Eleazar ben Ḥarsom (marked by the letter B) are intended to reinforce the baraita’s assertion (in what I believe is its original form), and to praise the rabbis who placed Torah study at the center of their universe. Without a shadow of doubt, segment B1 plays this role: ‫ חציו היה נותן‬,‫אמרו עליו על הלל הזקן שבכל יום ויום היה עושה ומשתכר בטרפעיק‬ ,‫ פעם אחת לא מצא להשתכר‬.‫ וחציו לפרנסתו ולפרנסת אנשי ביתו‬,‫לשומר בית המדרש‬ ‫ עלה ונתלה וישב על פי ארובה כדי שישמע דברי‬.‫ולא הניחו שומר בית המדרש להיכנס‬ .‫אלהים חיים מפי שמעיה ואבטליון‬ They said concerning Hillel the Elder that every day he would work as a day-­laborer and earn a tropaik. Half he paid [for tuition] to the bursar at the house of study, the other half he spent for food for himself and his family. One time he did not find day labor and the bursar did not let him enter. He climbed up and suspended himself and took up his seat at the mouth of the skylight to hear the words of the living God from the very mouth of Shemaya and Avtalyon.



37 See Yonah Frankel, ‫ קובץ מחקרים‬:‫( סיפור האגדה – אחדות של תוכן וצורה‬Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2001), 33. 38 Ibid., 34. 39 I do not dispute that, hypothetically, this might be the right thing to do – the above example of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife demonstrates this. However, it seems to me that here, the Babylonian tradition stems organically from the baraita, and perhaps was even developed through it.

72

Shraga Bar-­on

This segment does indeed praise the devotion to Torah study exhibited by Hillel the Elder, who gave half of his daily wage to pursue it, and, even having failed to make a living, did not supplement his income for the sake of his household at the expense of his study.40 Moreover, Hillel never despaired of hearing the “words of the living God,” even if this meant climbing up to a skylight.41 Without doubt, this story is sufficient grounds for indicting the poor person who fails to engage in Torah study. Similarly, segment B in the story of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom (which is divided into two parts in some of the Ashkenazi manuscripts and the printed editions) can be reconstructed as follows:42 ‫ וכנגדן אלף‬,‫אמרו עליו על רבי אלעזר בן חרסום שהניח לו אביו אלף עיירות ביבשה‬ .‫ אלא יושב ועוסק בתורה כל היום וכל הלילה‬,‫ספינות בים ומימיו לא הלך וראה אותן‬ They said concerning R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom that his father left him as his estate a thousand towns on shore and, correspondingly, a thousand ships at sea, [But] in his entire life he had never seen them, because he remained in session all day and all night, engaged with the Torah. According to this passage, although Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom was extremely rich, he abandoned his assets to devote all his time and energy to Torah study.43 In short, the stories of the Babylonian tradition thus far support the ethos of Torah study through the model examples of Hillel and Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom.

5. From Exemplary Stories to Critical Stories Assuming that what I have written up to this point is accepted, it is easy to discern how later in the story of Hillel the Elder (marked C in the text above) the orientation is inverted. In a minority of the manuscripts, a small addition between segment B and segment C places the story in the winter, on the eve

40 On the gate appropriated by the gatekeeper of the beit midrash who charged a tropaik, see Frankel, ‫עיונים בעולמו הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬, 67, n. 3. On the use of the Roman tropaik coin in this aggadah, see the debate between Frankel, who argues that this is an intentional anachronism, and Feintuch, who argues that it is no less reasonable to assume this unit relied upon an earlier tradition. See Feintuch, “‫”בין כהנים לחכמים – על אגדה אחת בהקשרה הרחב בבבלי‬, 3, n. 1. I tend toward the position of Feintuch. 41 See n. 46. 42 MS London 440, MS Oxford 366. Of course, the mobility of this unit in the manuscripts proves my claim regarding the relationship between the primary and secondary layers of the story. 43 For more on Eleazar ben Ḥarsom as archetype of an extremely wealthy scholar, see elsewhere in our sugya (b. Yoma 35b), and also y. Yoma 3:6; Tosefta Kippurim 1:22; b. Qiddushin 49b; y. Ta‘anit 4:5.

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of the Sabbath.44 Textual traditions indicate that this addition is not part of the original story, though it is easy to understand why some redactors saw fit to intervene and insert this statement into the text.45 Between the first part of the story and the two parts that follow there is a noticeable gap: there are jumps in the description of the passage of time, changes in the story’s heroes, and shifts in the story’s literary orientation. In the first part, there is no indication that the “one time” on which Hillel was unable to earn money occurred on a snowy day; the reader learns of this detail only later when an attempt is made to retrieve Hillel from the roof.46 From a literary perspective, it would have been appropriate for this information to appear beforehand, as this would intensify both Hillel’s devotion to Torah and the cruelty of the gatekeeper of the beit midrash who did not allow him to enter. Moreover, it is not clear how the story transitions from the end of Hillel’s workday to dawn of the following day.47 Furthermore, in the first part of the aggadah, the hero of the story is Hillel the Elder, while in the second part, the heroes of the story are Shemaya and Avtalyon (indeed, Hillel is not mentioned by name after this point). Corresponding with this change of heroes, we also see a change in the orientation of the story in this part: whereas part B is an “exemplary story,” segment C of the story is a “critical story.” Yonah Frankel was attentive to the pointedly critical nature of this segment. He writes: “The self-­criticism revealed in such stories as these is evidence – sometimes shocking evidence – of the veracity of aggadic literature and of the spiritual freedom in which it was created.”48 Elsewhere, he adds: “We don’t fulfill our obligation if we do not understand it as a rebuke and a warning to those who spend all of their days dealing with ‘the words of the living God’ in the house of study: It is very easy to be warmed 44 Once again this deviation is in the European branch of the manuscript history – MS London, MS Oxford, and the printed editions. 45 Minimalists prefer to call those who insert these additions “copyists” rather than “redactors.” Doing so makes it possible to distinguish between the “original story” and the additions, which these scholars often see as superfluous. I prefer to see every act of rewriting as a part of the ongoing creative process. From this perspective, even the label “redactors” does not quite do justice to the later generations which added additional layers to the story. 46 In this context, too, it is clear that the addition which ascribes to Shemaya the statement, “perhaps it was a cloudy day,” found in MS Oxford and the printed additions, does not fit. I will attempt to explain this addition in what follows. 47 In order to get to the bottom of this gap, it is worth considering the “skylight” (‫ )ארובה‬that appears in the story. As the Sefer ha‘Arukh notes, the “‫ ”ארובה‬is a window upon the roof. See Sefer ‘Arukh haShalem, ed. Alexander Kohut (New York: Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation, 1937), 267–68. The first part of our story assumes that Hillel opened this skylight, at least a little, in order to hear Shemaya and Avtalyon. However, on a rainy or snowy winter day, it is not likely that the skylight would have been left open for Hillel to hear the rabbis’ homilies through it. 48 Frankel, ‫עיונים בעולמו הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬, 66.

74

Shraga Bar-­on

by the light of Torah to the point that the outside world is completely forgotten in the house of study.”49 As an aside, I also wish to offer another literary explanation for the secondary addition which places in Shemaya’s mouth the statement that “perhaps it was a cloudy day.”50 The criticism of the beit midrash for being closed to poor people is expressed by paraphrasing the description of the cloud that was seen at Mount Sinai during the giving of the Torah. In the beit midrash, the “words of the living God” are heard. But as opposed to Mount Sinai – where the Torah was given to all of the Israelites, from hewers of wood to drawers of water – here the gatekeeper refuses entry to those who cannot afford to pay. The rabbis’ words of Torah cease – and they discover that it is not a cloud hanging over the beit midrash, but rather a dying man. The Torah – the words of the living God, the elixir of life – almost becomes an elixir of death, and almost kills the gadol ha-­dor, the greatest scholar of his generation. A Torah which costs a fortune is liable to turn into an elixir of death. Shemaya and Avtalyon rush to make amends: they tend to Hillel and, as Frankel has noted, they certainly give the gatekeeper new instructions. As noted, these words fit the second part of the story, but they do not fit either the beginning or the end of the “baraita.” If our story was characterized by closure, it would refrain from accumulating a variety of differing elements which do not serve its aim in a singular fashion. Furthermore, it seems to me that if we give up on the presumption of closure, we can also explain the decision to attach the criticism of the gatekeeper to the character of Hillel, despite the historical mismatch this entails. Indeed, in later sources we find the following disagreement between the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel: ‫בית שמאי אומרים אל ישנה אדם אלא למי שהוא חכם ועניו ובן אבות ועשיר ובית הלל‬ 51.‫אומרים לכל אדם ישנה‬ For the School of Shammai says: One ought to teach only him who is talented and meek and of distinguished ancestry and rich. But the School of Hillel says: One ought to teach every man. Saul Lieberman noted the manner in which the rewriting of aggadot in the Bavli emphasizes the wealth of the Tannaim.52 Yisrael Ben-­Shalom presented 49 Ibid., 69. For more on self-­criticism, see Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture, 279–82. 50 This addition appears in MS Oxford 366 and the printed editions. See Epstein’s explanation, which pins it on an expansion based on a “borrowing” within the chapter: Epstein, “‫מסורת הנוסח של‬ ‫”בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 126–27. 51 Avot de-­Rabbi Natan, A: 2:9 52 Saul Lieberman, ed., Tosefta Kifshuta (Newark, NJ: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1973), 761–62.

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a thorough analysis of the traditions ascribing a pseudo-­aristocratic approach to various Tannaim, and in particular to the House of Shammai, according to which the Torah is to be taught only to the wealthy.53 However, he concludes: “the disagreement between the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel . . . ​ is a post-­Talmudic creation with no basis in reality and lacking any historical value.”54 Nevertheless, he posited that it may be a Babylonian tradition which is expressed in this aggadah, and he also suggested a Babylonian context for the dismissal of the gatekeeper.55 Following these scholars, I wish to posit that these Babylonian aggadot about ancient Tannaim reflect a contemporary debate between an aristocratic orientation which sought to constitute an elite group of scholars, on one hand, and a popular orientation which sought to open up Torah study to all interested in learning, on the other. As I see it, the aggadah about Hillel the Elder should not be seen in isolation from this debate, which was taking place inside and outside the beit midrash, as well as inside the stories and beyond them. Those who subscribed to the popular orientation sought to ascribe their position to Hillel the Elder, whose opinion the halakhah traditionally follows. To this end, they depicted Hillel as a poor person, knocking on the doors of the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon – contrary to historical truth. The work of a student or scholar is not just to reveal the fictional element of the story, but rather, as Moses ibn Ezra put it in his famous epigram, to realize that “the best of the poem is its lie.” This truth holds also with respect to rabbinic stories: the best of the story is its fiction. The figures of ancient sages served as material for stories which later rabbis used to shape the identities and practices of their own generations.

53 Yisrael Ben-­Shalom, “)‫תלמוד תורה לכל או לעלית בלבד? (בבתי המדרש בימי בית שני ועד לסוף ימי רבי‬,” in Synagogues in Antiquity, ed. A. Kasher, U. Rappaport, and A. Oppenheimer (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-­Zvi, 1987), 97–118. Though he denies the historical value of these sources, Ben-­Shalom accepts Gedaliah Alon’s general claim regarding the established status of the rabbis from the second century until the fourth century, including with respect to classification of suitable students. See Alon, Gedalia, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World: Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1977), 436–57. 54 Ibid., 105. 55 Ibid., 114–15. See also Haim Shapira, “‫”הדחת רבן גמליאל – בין היסטוריה לאגדה‬, Zion 64 (1999): 36, n. 104; Boyarin, “The Yavneh-­Cycle of the Stammaim and the Invention of the Rabbis,” 259. In the whole of the Babylonian Talmud, the role of a gatekeeper of the house of study appears in only two aggadot: the aggadah discussed here, and the aggadah about the deposition of Rabban Gamaliel on b. Berakhot 28a. In both of these aggadot it seems to be evident that the gatekeeper was removed in ancient times. This bolsters the supposition that we have before us etiological stories describing the altering of a temporary situation; that the function of a gate-­keeper did exist, but later did not. We cannot, however, prove this from the sources we have in Babylonia.

76

Shraga Bar-­on

In sum, the story of Hillel the Elder in the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon should be read as a miniature chain story. A number of literary traditions have been redacted here into one: one tradition speaks in praise of Hillel’s devotion, while another criticizes the placement of a gatekeeper at the entrance to the beit midrash. I do not think that one can determine when these traditions were created, or even ascertain with certainty which of them came first. However, it is easy to see in this sugya (pericope) how they are interwoven: the baraita mentions that Hillel condemns the poor, and the story praising Hillel is brought to demonstrate this. However, by adding the beit midrash scene of Shemaya and Avtalyon, the story acquires a decisive turning point: a story which described Hillel’s desire to learn Torah – so strong that he gave up half of his meager income in order to enter the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon – turns into a story of criticism against the rabbis themselves, for teaching Torah only to wealthy people. There may be some who disagree with the analysis of the first story presented here so far.56 However, an examination of segment C of the story of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom will help to clarify matters. In this case, we are assisted in our task by clear manuscript evidence. The Yemenite manuscripts (MS New York – JTS 270–271) do not contain segment C at all. In the European manuscripts we also find different traditions: while the Munich manuscripts convey the story in a single sequence, MS Oxford and MS London (and the printed editions which follow them) insert it in the middle of segment B. Yachin Epstein noted correctly that segment C is an expansion added to the story. He speculates that “[t]his expansion is apparently an addition to the story, following similar stories about Torah scholars whose slaves did not recognize them, and the events that took place as a result.”57 However, this does not provide a sufficient explanation for the “invention” and insertion of this addition here. The addition of narrative can be constructed according to many and varied models, but this in itself does not constitute an explanation for the creation of an independent story. I wish to propose that here, too, is a chain story. In this story, as well, we can discern an adaptation similar to what we found in the previous discussion. At the beginning Eleazar ben Ḥarsom is presented as a model example of the pursuit of 56 I must admit that, with respect to this story, the two independent units are not found in parallel sources or manuscripts in a manner that enables a clean separation between them. Moreover, the story before us is structured in a relatively coherent fashion, successfully combining the two traditions within it that I identified. Indeed, the gatekeeper who appears in the first part is the subject of the criticism in the second part. An opponent of the reading I have proposed could argue that the introductory words about Hillel are intended to intensify the criticism of the behavior of the anti-­hero. That being said, for the reasons I have outlined above, I think that what we have before us is an excellent work of compilation and not an original, closed story. 57 Epstein, “‫”מסורת הנוסח של בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 78.

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Torah study. Like Hillel the Elder, he sacrifices his resources out of a desire to learn. Eleazar ben Ḥarsom, by contrast, had many resources at his disposal. In an artistic move, a redactor adds to the first story and turns praise for Torah study into an expression of protest – switching the story’s heroes, and criticizing the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon. I wish to suggest that a similar move can be found in the story of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom, intensifying the self-­criticism of the rabbis for making Torah dependent upon wealth. While the first story criticizes the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon, it directs its criticism toward the gatekeeper. In the second story, criticism is directed against the exemplary hero himself, through the use of irony. Eleazar ben Ḥarsom sheds his identity as a person of means and wanders the streets studying Torah, all the while making do with little. At this point, the story takes advantage of readers’ identification with the hero of the story. Eleazar ben Ḥarsom’s modesty seems to play out in his giving up an esteemed status in order to realize less grandiose personal ambitions. To borrow anachronistic psychological terminology, the hero can be seen as shedding the “false self ” bequeathed to him by his father, in order to realize his “true self.” However, it seems that Eleazar ben Ḥarsom’s economic empire does not rest while he is devoting all of his time to Torah. When he meets his slaves, it turns out that they are imposing forced labor upon poor nomadic people – in his name. The degree of the irony is expressed in the oath taken in Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom’s own name, suggesting that he himself will not be released in order to study Torah. “By the life of R. Eleazar b. Ḥarsom ‘we shall not let you go!’” “!‫”חיי רבי אלעזר בן חרסום שאין מניחין אותך‬. Disguise and the shedding of a character’s identity are classic literary tools, employed in order to “place a mirror” before the hero, forcing him to confront his own image, as perceived by others and by himself. Such is the case in the story before us. Through the use of irony, the narrator brings us to a place of confusion: what is the disguise, and who is Rabbi Eleazar ben Ḥarsom? Which is the “real” identity? Is he a wealthy tyrant or a humble Torah scholar? Without a doubt, the name of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom is used to oppress poor people in general, and poor Torah scholars in particular. This story, like the one before it, thus teaches that one cannot withdraw into the beit midrash – or even exile oneself, roam, and wander in order to study Torah – without also acting morally in the real world. This exemplary story, which sought to situate Torah study as an absolute value, is turned into an ironic critical story, placing a moral limitation on devotion to Torah study – even for members of the elite. Our two stories share a common orientation. Another mutual feature is also worth noting: in both stories, the criticism is not articulated explicitly. Also, both stories end with an overtone of criticism, but without the injustice being rectified – the gatekeeper is not removed in the story of Hillel, and Torah scholars are not exempted from forced labor in the story of Eleazar ben

78

Shraga Bar-­on

Ḥarsom. Like Frankel, who claimed that the gatekeeper was removed, I assume that critical stories such as these do indeed hint at their outcomes. However, I wonder whether this fact may challenge the outward closure of the stories. It seems that these stories point to an entire world outside of themselves. While these are not historical accounts, nevertheless, in both of these cases, the stories apparently perform an etiological function: the story of Hillel validates the removal of the gatekeeper from the beit midrash and its opening up to all, and the story of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom validates the exemption of Torah scholars from forced labor.58 Furthermore, it’s quite clear that the creator of the story describing Eleazar ben Ḥarsom as “wandering from town to town and city to city to learn Torah” was aware of the debate about the collection of taxes from Torah scholars on b. Bava Batra 8a (or, at least, the homily of Rabbi Joseph which appears there): ‫רב נחמן בר רב חסדא רמא כרגא ארבנן א״ל רב נחמן בר יצחק עברת אדאורייתא‬ ‫ואדנביאי ואדכתובי אדאורייתא דכתיב אף חובב עמים כל קדושיו בידך אמר משה לפני‬ ‫הקב״ה רבונו של עולם אפילו בשעה שאתה מחבב עמים כל קדושיו יהיו בידך והם תכו‬ ‫לרגלך תני רב יוסף אלו תלמידי חכמים שמכתתים רגליהם מעיר לעיר וממדינה למדינה‬ ​ . . . ‫ללמוד תורה‬ R. Naḥman bar R. Ḥisda collected the head tax [karga] from rabbis. R. Naḥman bar Isaac said to him, “You have violated the rules of the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings. The Torah – “Although he loves the peoples all his saints are in your hand” (Deut 33:3). Said Moses before the Holy One blessed be He, “Lord of the World, even when you love the (other) peoples, may all his (Israel’s) holy ones be in your hand.” “And they are

58 It is difficult to ascertain the precise historical background for these institutional changes, and, for this reason, historians of the mishnaic and talmudic period have doubted their historicity, sometimes seeing them as a fictional literary element influenced by parallel institutions in the broader cultural environment. Regarding the gatekeeper, see Geoffrey Herman, “‫הפיכה בבית‬ ‫ בין הבבלי לכתובת פאיקולי‬:‫”המדרש‬, Zion 79 (2014): 382. Regarding the exemption for Torah scholars, see Moshe Beer, “‫”לשאלת שחרורם של אמוראי בבל מתשלום מסים ומכס‬, Tarbiz 33, 1964: 247–58. However, I am of the opinion that when a realistic motif appears a number of times, and when that motif stands at the center of a story as an object of attack, then one ought not doubt its historicity or the aim of such stories in their historical context – particularly when circumstantial evidence indicates their plausibility. This is especially true with respect to the story of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom. The multiplicity of sugyot about the exemption of Torah scholars from different taxes (b. Yoma 77a; b. Nedarim 62a–62b; b. Bava Batra 8a; b. Bava Metzi‘a 86a) indicates that this issue was the subject of controversy between community leaders and rabbis – and, as is the way with such controversies, the practicalities of this controversy played out differently in different times. The lack of decisive positive evidence could suggest that these institutions lasted a short time, or that they were in place in just a small number of places and were not standard practice, but it is difficult to believe that they have no basis in any reality whatsoever.

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cut at your feet (Deut 33:3).” R. Joseph repeated [as a Tannaite statement], “This refers to the disciples of sages who cut their feet as they wander from town to town and province to province to study Torah . . . ​ In this way, the narrator interweaves a turn of phrase taken from a well-­ known homily to add to the intensity of his social criticism.59 While Frankel emphasizes the gap between biblical and talmudic stories with respect to the historical function that they fill, it is still important to remember that many biblical stories also have an etiological, rather than historiographical, character. In sum, unlike the explicit emphasis placed on the ethos of Torah study, these critical stories leave their mark without articulating a clear moral assertion about the limits of devotion to Torah study. The similarity in the way the stories develop suggests that the turning points in the two original stories were redacted by a common narrator who wrote the next chapter in the chain story.

6. “It Was the Eve of the Sabbath”: Another Turning Point in the Story of Hillel the Elder In the course of his analysis of the story of Hillel the Elder, Yonah Frankel insisted that the placement of the story on the eve of the Sabbath was of a secondary nature.60 That said, I think Yachin Epstein is correct in his claim that “the testimony of all of the manuscripts regarding this last section which concludes the story does not allow one to see this development in the domain of textual transmission, but rather in the domain of the early inventiveness of rabbinic stories.”61 If, once again, we do not accept the working assumption that talmudic stories are internally closed, but rather see them as multigenerational productions consolidated over time, we will see the placement of the Hillel story on the eve of the Sabbath as an example of yet another adaptation of the story conveyed by the baraita, and its utilization for moral-­didactic purposes – and, in this case, also halakhic purposes.62 In this case, the third chapter of the chain





59 It seems clear that the creator of segment C also had segment B before him. He uses the same turn of phrase, “‫”ובכל יום ויום‬, which appears in the oldest part of the Hillel story. Taken in its plain sense, this phrase doesn’t fit this story as well as it does the Hillel story. What we see here is intentional allusion to precedent, and meticulously stylized chain editing. 60 See Frankel, ‫עיונים בעולמו הרוחני של סיפור האגדה‬, 168, and his note on p. 66. 61 Epstein, “‫”מסורת הנוסח של בבלי יומא פרק ג‬, 126, n. 18. One should, however, be precise in conveying the position of Frankel, who claimed that this addition stemmed from misunderstanding and not from an error in the transmission of the text. 62 On the addition of the term “‫ ”אמרו‬as a characteristically Tannaitic feature, see Jacob Epstein, ‫מבוא‬ ‫( לנוסח המשנה‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1948), 752. It seems this language is anachronistic here.

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story is written with just a few words – but it gives the story a new context and new meaning, which emphasize the rabbinic dictum that “saving life overrides the Sabbath” (“‫)”פיקוח נפש דוחה שבת‬. As we know, the halakhah declaring that the saving of a life (piquaḥ nefesh) overrides the Sabbath does not go without saying, and great efforts were therefore made in order to justify it.63 A comparative analysis of the rule of piquaḥ nefesh in the Qumran literature, the New Testament, and rabbinic literature, shows a three-­way dispute. The most stringent position, identified with the halakhah of the Sadducees and expressed in the Book of Jubilees and texts from Qumran, prohibits the desecration of the Sabbath even in order to save a life. The halakhah as taught by Jesus in the stories of the Gospels broadens the permission to violate the Sabbath, so that it also applies to cases of distress that are not matters of life and death. In rabbinic halakhah, violation of the Sabbath is permitted, but only for the sake of saving a life.64 However, even though it had been decided, in principle, that the Sabbath can be violated, the scope of this license was not fully determined.65 One way to establish limitations was to find scriptural proof texts. Another way was to ascribe the permission to early rabbis. In our story, Shemaya and Avtalyon clearly transgress biblical Sabbath prohibitions by doing all that they can in order to revive Hillel the

63 See Moshe Tor-­Paz, “‫ בספרות הבית השני ובחז״ל‬,‫( ”עקרון פקוח נפש דוחה שבת בכתבי כת קומראן‬master’s thesis, Hebrew University, 2002); Menahem Kister, “‫”תלישה בשבת והפולמוס הנוצרי יהודי‬, Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 3 (1984): 349–66; Aharon Shemesh, “‫פיקוח נפש ודברים אחרים שדוחים את‬ ‫”השבת‬, Tarbiz 80 (2012): 481–505, including the comprehensive bibliography. 64 Kister claims that the stories of Jesus and his apostles in the New Testament base themselves on Pharisaic arguments justifying the violation of the Sabbath to save a life, and then expand them. See Kister, “‫”תלישה בשבת והפולמוס הנוצרי יהודי‬, 62. Shemesh, on the other hand, argues that the basis for granting permission to violate the Sabbath is an ancient tradition, a norm not anchored in scriptural texts, which does not see any problem in violating the Sabbath for the purpose of saving a life. During the Second Temple period, a more stringent sectarian halakhah was developed, prohibiting the violation of the Sabbath even for the sake of saving a life: “In the framework of the tendency of sectarian halakhah to seek a ‘return to the Torah of Moses,’ any act of saving a life on the Sabbath was forbidden, on the grounds that doing so transgresses the direct prohibition in the Torah, ‘you shall not do any work’ (Exod 20:10) . . . ​Therefore, it is they who changed [the halakhah] and prohibited what had, until then, not been discussed as ‘halakhah’ at all, and had not been ruled out by the prevailing religious norm.” See Shemesh, “‫”פיקוח נפש ודברים אחרים שדוחים את השבת‬, 505. This stringency influenced some circles of rabbis, leading them to anchor the principle of piquaḥ nefesh in Scripture. 65 Shemesh (ibid.) notes that “The rabbis only found a way to anchor the saving of a human life on the Sabbath,” but, in contrast to the ancient norm that he believes is reflected in Jesus’s response to the Pharisees, they did not find a way to anchor the violation of the Sabbath in order to save the life of an animal. Rishonim and Aḥaronim were divided on the question of the scope of Sabbath violation permitted in order to save lives, and this disagreement has continued from the rabbinic period until today.

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Elder, without deliberating at all about the scope of permission granted by the principle of piquaḥ nefesh. The saying ascribed in the Mekhilta to Rabbi Nathan (and in the Bavli to Rabbi Shimon ben Mansia),66 “Desecrate one Sabbath so that Israel may keep many Sabbaths” (“‫(ישמור) שבתות הרבה‬/‫(חלל) עליו שבת אחת על מנת שיעשה‬/‫”פקיח‬,)67 takes very practical shape here. Hillel the Elder, the greatest of the sages in the Temple period, is saved by this revolutionary halakhic ruling, which places the value of saving a life above the observance of the Sabbath. The link between the expression, “A man such as this is worthy that the Sabbath should be profaned on his account” (“‫)”ראוי זה לחלל עליו את השבת‬, and the homily mentioned above, stands out clearly. It seems that here, too, we have an etiological story which makes clear the formulation of an ancient halakhah with the locution, “profaned on his account” (“‫)”חלל עליו‬. If this analysis is correct, then we see here an attempt to plant roots for the halakhic ruling of piquaḥ nefesh, as articulated by Rabbi Nathan (or Rabbi Shimon ben Mansia), in the form of a story about the actions of Hillel the Elder. In this link in the chain story one might see an admirable attempt to provide closure for the story as a whole: Hillel placed the Torah before his own life, and it is therefore fitting to place the value of his life before that of observing the precepts of the Sabbath. This interpretation would see the declaration that “a man such as this is worthy” as an expression of Hillel’s uniqueness. However, the end of the story ought to be seen as an articulation of the principle instructing the treatment of any person, even if this means violating the Sabbath. The meaning of the narrator’s words here does not arise from the story itself, but rather from knowledge about Hillel’s future rise to prominence. Only 66 b. Yoma 85a–85b. The fluidity of this unit’s transmission may indicate its independence. (See the following note.) 67 The wording of the Mekhilta is in accordance with MS St. Petersburg, Russian National Library, Antonin 239 (340–41 in the Horowitz-­Rabin edition). The transcription is from Menahem Kahana, ‫( קטעי מדרשי הלכה מן הגניזה‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2005), 151. Rabbi Nathan’s homily is brought later in the Mekhilta to Exod 31:16 (Horowitz-­Rabin, 341), but not in the parallel found in t. Shabbat 15, where “‫ ”זה הוא שהיה רבי נתן אומר‬precedes the homily. According to Shemesh, this remark refers to the appearance of the first discussion about piquaḥ nefesh in the Mekhilta. To my mind, we can conclude from these factors that the saying of Rabbi Nathan (or Shimon ben Mansia) was independent, and perhaps was not originally reliant upon a textual source. It seems that this homiletic interpretation is based on the doubling of language in the biblical verse: “The Israelite people shall keep the Sabbath,” and is to be limited by what follows: “observing the Sabbath over their generations.” It follows that the Sabbath ought to be violated for any Israelite in order that he can continue to observe the Sabbath “over his generations.” See Shemesh, “‫”פיקוח נפש ודברים אחרים שדוחים את השבת‬, 483, n. 10; Chana Safrai, “Sayings and Legends in the Hillel Tradition,” in Hillel and Jesus: Comparative Studies of Two Major Religious Leaders, ed. James Charlesworth and Loren Johns (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997), 306, 313–14.

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retroactively did it become clear that, had Shemaya and Avtalyon not violated the Sabbath in order to save the stranger in the skylight, the important beit midrash of Hillel and his students would never have come into existence. It was only apparent retroactively that it was fitting to violate the Sabbath for this person – and that this is therefore how one ought to act with any person, and in any case involving the saving of a life.

7. The Stammaim and the Values of the Babylonian Yeshivah Some of the most important scholars of Talmud in our generation, most notably Shamma Friedman and David Weiss Halivni, have sought to bring about a “Copernican Revolution” in our understanding of how the Talmud was produced, and of the freedom it exercises in adapting its sources. They have emphasized the active involvement of anonymous sages – called Stammaim – in the adaptation, redaction, and transmission of ancient sources, and in the consolidation of the Talmud in the form that we have it. Others, including Jeffrey Rubenstein, have applied these conclusions to the study of talmudic aggadah and drawn conclusions regarding the emergence of values in the Jewish center in Babylon, and the formation of the yeshivah. Daniel Boyarin has gone furthest of all, ascribing to the Stammaim the “invention of the rabbis,” that is, the founding of rabbinic culture as it is known to us: “Institution (Yeshivah), founding and instituting text (Talmud), theological innovation (indeterminacy of meaning and halakhic argument), and practice (endless study as worship in and of itself) all come together at this time to produce the rabbinic Judaism familiar to us until this day.”68

68 Boyarin, “The Yavneh-­Cycle of the Stammaim and the Invention of the Rabbis,” 238. This is not the place for a detailed discussion of the achievements of this branch of scholarship and the controversies to which it has given rise, nor even to provide an exhaustive bibliography. That said, I will note that it is possible to discern a process of radicalization of scholarly conclusions from the work of Friedman and Halivni to the positions of contemporary scholars. Halivni’s own view developed and changed over time. See David Weiss Halivni, ‫ ביאורים‬:‫מקורות ומסורות‬ ‫ מועד ג׳‬,‫( מיומא עד חגיגה – בתלמוד‬Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1975), 1–12; Halivni, Midrash, Mishnah, and Gemara; Halivni, “‫”עיונים בהתהוות התלמוד‬, Sidra: A Journal for the Study of Rabbinic Literature 20 (2005): 69–117; Shamma Friedman, “‫פרק האשה בבבלי בצירוף מבוא כללי על‬ ‫”דרך חקר הסוגיא‬, in ‫ ספר א‬,‫ מאסף למדעי היהדות‬:‫מחקרים ומקורות‬, ed. Haim Zalman Dimitrovsky (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1977), 277–321; Shamma Friedman, ‫ פרק השוכר‬:‫תלמוד ערוך‬ ‫( את האומנין‬New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1996), 7–23; Shamma Friedman, “‫הברייתות‬ ‫”בתלמוד הבבלי ויחסן למקבילותיהן שבתוספתא‬, in Atara L’Haim: Studies in the Talmud and Medieval Rabbinic Literature in Honor of Professor H. Z. Dimitrovsky, ed. Daniel Boyarin et al. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1999), 163–201. Halivni represents a relatively moderate approach which emphasizes the Stammaitic redaction of the Talmud and the values which arise from this layer. See also Jeffrey Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore:

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Among the values of the Babylonian yeshivah, these scholars place special emphasis on two features of particular importance to our discussion: One of these features is an increase in the status of Torah scholars, rabbis, and rashei yeshivah (academy heads) – and concomitant glorification of their honor and condemnation of those who detract from it. Rubenstein describes this position as an ideology of the Babylonian yeshivah in a chapter devoted to the tension between Torah scholars and the general population: “The sources, in my opinion, express the self-­promoting snobbery of the private discussions of the rabbis, intended solely for an audience of other rabbis, not unlike ethnic jokes today . . . In the rarefied walls of the academy, where sages esteemed dialectical Torah study to an unprecedented degree, they simultaneously minimized the significance of all other religious practices.”69 The second feature is a rise in the value of talmudic dialectic: debate can continue over generations without aiming at a decisive conclusion. Rather, it raises opposing positions with respect to both law and practice, thus creating a culture of disagreement. These two central values can fit well together; it is possible, of course, to create a respectful culture of disagreement among an elite of Torah scholars. Oftentimes, however, there is a tension between these two values. A truly pluralistic beit midrash ought not fortify a monolithic position on any matter, and in the Jewish tradition this would make it difficult to ascribe exclusivity to the elitist-­monolithic position which formed with respect to the value of Torah study.70 It is surprising to see that almost no attention has been Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 143–62. This final chapter in Rubenstein’s book carries the name of the final chapter of Halivni’s study – “The Legacy of the Stammaim.” The chapter opens with the assertion, “[t]he legacy of the Stammaim was the Bavli.” In his book, Rubenstein highlights the values which came to the fore in the Babylonian yeshivah, while ascribing very broad parts of the Talmud to the Stammaitic layer – including some that are presented in the names of Tannaim and Amoraim. As I have noted, Boyarin argued that the Stammaim carried out a revolution in rabbinic values, especially with respect to the conception of sacred text, and to methods of interpretation and dialectic. If there is reason to question the earlier scholars, this is all the more true with respect to the latter. 69 Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, 141–42. For a more nuanced, if generalizing position, from a comparative perspective taking into account the different cultures from which they stemmed, see Richard Kalmin, “Relationships Between Rabbis and Non-­Rabbis in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” Jewish Studies Quarterly, 5 (1998): 156–70. 70 As noted, this is not the place to enter into a thorough discussion about these perspectives and the questions they raise. However, it should be noted that the lateness of such a wide range of material, its ascription to the Stammaim, and the assumption that the Stammaim took great freedoms and were able to exclude or completely change the ancient materials before them for ideological reasons, strengthens the possibility of pointing to different and varied voices arising within the Stammaitic layer. For an example of development and social diversity (also worthy of further discussion), see Alyssa Gray, “The Formerly Wealthy Poor: From Empathy to Ambivalence in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” AJS Review 33 (2009): 101–33.

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paid to this tension until now, and that even when it is noted, it is only mentioned in passing.71 Even more interestingly, despite the emphasis placed upon dialectic as a foundational value of the Babylonian yeshivah, it has not been discussed as a characteristic of aggadic stories.72 Aggadic stories have therefore generally been interpreted as one-­dimensional in their focus (or at least as containing a singular moral perspective), and many rabbinic tales have been understood as merely validating the new values of the Babylonian yeshivah. However, if correct, our analysis of the stories may be able to shed light on these questions. First, I have suggested that the basis for the developed aggadic story is a baraita. It is true that, in the absence of any parallels in texts from the land of Israel, it is difficult to prove the credibility of the sources presented in the Bavli as baraitot. Nevertheless, it seems to me that, in the absence of explicit counter-­evidence from manuscripts, linguistic evidence, or stylistic analysis, we need not abandon the presumption that these sources are Tannaitic in origin.73 Of course, this does not mean that later redactors’ hands were not applied to the language or content of the text. On the contrary, this aggadic unit we have examined demonstrates the freedoms that later generations exercised in developing and revising the baraita.74 However, I wish to emphasize that, in general, these redactors did not err in their understanding of the sources before them, nor did they add embellishment to a historical core, as some scholars have put it. Rather, they adapted the sources intentionally and thoughtfully, to make them fit their interpretation. Even in the process of active transmission (to use Friedman’s term), the post-­Amoraic sages themselves preserved the 71 See also Rubenstein’s brief discussion of the aggadah of Hillel the Elder which we are discussing, and his reference to Frankel’s analysis: Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, 67. 72 Though the distinction between aggadic traditions in the Yerushalmi and the Bavli has become a cornerstone of academic scholarship, it has hardly been noted that opposing voices can be found within a single aggadic unit in the Bavli. Thus, for example, Boyarin celebrates the process of democratization which arises in the story of the deposition of Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel, and sees the dream of Rabban Gamaliel just as a methodical break, while it is clear that there are in fact two opposing positions being expressed with equal power in the same aggadah. See Boyarin, “The Yavneh-­Cycle of the Stammaim and the Invention of the Rabbis,” 260. Rubenstein pays more detailed attention to these tensions. See Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture, 89–90. This aggadah calls for its own discussion using the same method demonstrated in the present article. 73 On this matter, the balanced criteria put forward by Friedman and Rubenstein are appropriate and ought to be followed, while making cautious use of the reviser’s blade. See Friedman, “‫פרק‬ ‫”האשה בבבלי בצירוף מבוא כללי על דרך חקר הסוגיא‬, 301–8; Jeffrey Rubenstein, “Criteria of Stammaitic Intervention in Aggada,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey Rubenstein (Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). 429–33. 74 The phenomenon of redaction of Tannaitic sources has been proven beyond any doubt. For a recent example, see David Rosenthal, “‫”על שלב נוסף בתולדות נוסח המשנה‬, Tarbiz 81 (2012): 47–60.

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distinctions between the different textual layers. However, if we indeed have a baraita before us (and not merely a Stammaitic ascription to Tannaim), this is evidence for multi-­generational continuity in the ascription of great importance to the value of Torah study. (Were it not for the claims that have been made about the “invention of the rabbis” at such a late stage, it would not be necessary to repeat this trivial statement.) The next two stages in the creation of this aggadic unit both belong to later layers. The second stage develops the baraita, and includes elements that were not written in the land of Israel.75 This layer accords very well with the Babylonian yeshivah’s emphasis on the institution of learning and absolute devotion to Torah study, as described in the scholarship. As we saw above, the monolithic baraita is accepted up until this point without any dialectic or moral tension. Conversely, the third stage, which does not appear in some of the manuscripts and moves around in others, was certainly produced later. This stage stands in complete opposition to those before it, and it transforms what had been exemplary stories into critical stories. It indicates that, among the later creators of the Talmud – the Stammaitic layer – there was a group which had doubts about the elitistic values of the closed yeshivah. It was apparently this group which added the final layer of the aggadic story, which appears in some of the manuscripts and the printed editions. Criticism of the fortification of the yeshivot as centers of Torah thus found expression in the very same aggadic unit that praised their original establishment.

Conclusion: History, Literature, and Identity I will now summarize our analysis. The aggadic composition presented here effectively preserves a multi-­staged creation. Over the course of its creation, later scholars “thickened” the baraita standing at the center of the discussion, while also changing the orientation of the stories and the meaning derived from them. These additions are not at all naïve; rather, they are motivated by 75 For example, the snow and the gatekeeper (and perhaps even the beit midrash of Shemaya and Avtalyon itself) in the story of Hillel, and the wandering of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom in order to study. (Eleazar ben Ḥarsom was among the high priests of the Temple according to a tradition which appears on b. Yoma 9a, but he is not mentioned by Josephus.) Daniel Sperber has argued that the “baraita” lacks historicity and is of relatively late composition, in the context of his discussion of the development of the concept of the angaria. Sperber is of the opinion that it was composed in the middle of the third century – or, at the earliest, the end of the second century. This conclusion seems to be based on the assumption that the whole unit constitutes the baraita. See Daniel Sperber, “Angaria in Rabbinic Literature,” L’Antiquité Classique 38 (1969): 166. On the description of Eleazar ben Ḥarsom’s wealth (and that of other priest-­sages) as a feature of the Bavli, see Saul Lieberman’s remark in his comments on tractate Sotah: Lieberman, ed., Tosefta Kifshuta, 761–62.

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Shraga Bar-­on

moral considerations. The additions do not take away from the other layers of the story, but instead cause a moral transformation while continuing the story. In this way, a “chain story” is produced, in which a single aggadic composition contains inner tensions: on the one hand, it preserves the great importance ascribed to the value of Torah study, while, on the other hand, it teaches that there are limitations to this value, by presenting a critical “mirror” which reveals the disconnect between Torah and life. Exemplary stories thus become stories of protest, instructing the reader as to when one ought to refrain from Torah study in order to deal with the challenges of real life outside of the beit midrash. Our story is just one of many examples of a tension which has not been fully discerned in the scholarship to date. The use of Dworkin’s concept of a chain novel as an analytical tool for studying aggadic stories can help demonstrate that talmudic aggadah, like halakhic debate, is characterized by tension and dialectic. Just like halakhic sugyot throughout both Talmuds, aggadot are also constructed with a multi-­layered structure.76 One element of the dialectic language of aggadic stories is the addition of layers – the expansion of talmudic aggadot in the manner of a chain story. This interpretation assumes that, despite corrections and changes made to earlier materials by the Stammaim in the process of redaction, their modus operandi was to preserve the ancient traditions they inherited to the best of their understanding, while providing a new interpretation. As in Ronald Dworkin’s description of legal activity, the creation of chain stories in this manner manifests two aspects of their interpretative “integrity”: their unity (“integrity” as wholeness); and their expression of values (“integrity” as honesty). The people who produced the Talmud were transmitters of tradition, as well as critics and creators. These changes reflect the writers’ awareness of the didactic power of biographical stories. Plutarch, in his introduction to “The Life of Timoleon,” describes the motivation behind his own engagement in biographical writing as follows: I began the writing of my “Lives” for the sake of others, but I find that I am continuing the work and delighting in it now for my own sake also, using history as a mirror and endeavoring in a manner to fashion and adorn my life in conformity with the virtues therein depicted. For the result is like nothing else than daily living and associating together, when I receive 76 It may be that this spirit was intensified by the Stammaitic layer whose role in the redaction of the Talmud has been especially emphasized in the last generation. Alternatively, it could be that this spirit was developing already in earlier periods. I tend toward the latter position, on the basis of a number of examples in earlier collections and midrashim. However, only a comprehensive and thorough study will be able to point to qualitative and quantitative differences, as opposed to differences in principle, which it seems to me cannot truly be proven in such cases.

The Art of the Chain Novel in b. Yoma 35b

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and welcome each subject of my history in turn as my guest, so to speak, and observe carefully “how large he was and of what mien,” and select from his career what is most important and most beautiful to know.77 Plutarch describes himself as a writer of practical history. The problem of the relationship between history and literature, and the distinction between them, is not unique to biographical literature.78 Menachem Brinker locates this distinction in the different function that each performs, which is derived to a great extent from a hidden “contract” between writers and readers. Classification of a story as “history” or as “literature” is thus a matter of placement on a functional continuum which ranges from acquisition of knowledge about the world to aesthetic experience.79 It seems that rabbinic stories with moral content reflect a hidden contract that differs from this, to a greater or lesser degree. Rabbinic stories are clearly ahistorical in character, which demonstrates and intensifies the creative freedom of the rabbis to add to them as chain novels. Sages relate even to the biographies of their predecessors as texts that can be subject to adaptation, on the basis of judgement, criticism, and inventiveness. Their “integrity” (in Dworkin’s terms) finds expression in the fact that they grant to such biographies the best possible meaning from a moral perspective. In order to fully understand this process, one must understand the multi-­layered style of the aggadah as a parallel to the dialectic back-­and-­forth of the Talmud’s halakhic negotiation. The dialectic of aggadah comes to the fore when one analyzes rabbinic stories as chain novels and distinguishes between the different elements that constitute them. Just as halakhic sugyot became consolidated generation after generation, through the accumulation of interpretation and creativity, such is the case also with aggadot, though a greater effort is required in order to reveal the different layers. To this end, a broad set of tools should be employed: philology, literary analysis, and moral consideration of the subject 77 Plutarch, “The Life of Timoleon,” in Lives: Dion and Brutus. Timoleon and Aemilius Paulus, vol. 7, trans. Bernadotte Perrin (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1918), 1.1 78 The positions on this issue range from those that see history as literature to those that see literature as history. The variety of positions is too great for them all to be enumerated here. For our purposes, it is sufficient to cite a few studies which raise the problems of genre, motivation for writing, and the relationship between fiction and history in novels of a clearly historical nature. These problems intensify the more that fiction outweighs the facts. For the tip of the iceberg, see Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-­Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014); Herbert Butterfield, The Historical Novel (Folcroft: Folcroft Library Editions, 1971); Harold Orel, The Historical Novel from Scott to Sabatini: Changing Attitudes toward a Literary Genre, 1814–1920 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995). See also the many sources cited in these works. 79 Menachem Brinker, “‫”ספרות והיסטוריה – הערות קטנות לנושא גדול‬, in Literature and History, ed. Raya Cohen and Joseph Mali (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1997), 33–43.

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matter. Active transmission and redaction of talmudic aggadot characterized the contribution of the Stammaim over the many years that they were active, adding different layers to aggadot, and setting out moral disagreements which were characteristic of the Babylonian yeshivah. Thus, while Plutarch felt as if he had hosted “each subject of [his] history in turn as [his] guest,” it seems that the rabbis preferred to host the same people in their stories time and again, each time revealing something new.

Acknowledgments This paper was written during my time as a scholar in residence at the Tikvah Center at the New York University School of Law and as a Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture E. E. Urbach Fellow. I wish to thank all the participants in the seminar led by Prof. Moshe Halbertal and Prof. Job Jindo. Special thanks to Prof. Jeffrey L. Rubenstein for generously agreeing to discuss this paper with me and for his insightful comments. I would also like to thank Dr. Adrian Sackson, of Academic Language Experts, and Gene Matanky for the translation.

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow!: Midrash Tanḥ uma’s Subversion of Bavli Arakhin 16b Matthew Goldstone Jewish Theological Seminary

The past few decades have witnessed a revival of academic interest in early medieval midrashim such as Midrash Tanḥuma.1 For scholars of rabbinic literature, one of the most important questions concerning these works is their relationship to earlier rabbinic texts. It is well known that Tanḥuma adopted and reworked earlier rabbinic material and, particularly in the case of earlier Palestinian midrashim, there are numerous examples to show how Tanḥuma drew from its forerunners. When it comes to the Babylonian Talmud, however, there are fewer obvious parallels. Jacob Elbaum, in describing the nature of Tanḥuma, and late midrashim more generally, thus suggests that while it is clear that these works used Amoraic midrashim, it is less certain as to whether or not they used the Bavli.2 In the present study, I demonstrate how the editor(s) of a homily in the printed edition of Midrash Tanḥuma (Mishpatim 7) actively built upon and reworked a sugya from the Babylonian Talmud (b. Arakhin 16b) in order to challenge the Bavli’s presentation of the topic. The sugya and homily revolve around the biblical obligation of rebuke found in Leviticus 19:17 (“You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart. Reprove your kinsman but incur no guilt because of him”).3 In contrast to reactions to this verse in the Tannaitic midrashim and the Bavli, which call into question the applicability or value of rebuke, the Tanḥuma homily argues vociferously for the crucial importance of correcting others. I contend that Tanḥuma reworked this talmudic sugya by excluding some material and introducing other talmudic passages in order to challenge the Talmud’s disparaging attitude by creating a sustained endorsement of rebuke.

Tanḥuma, or, more properly Tanḥuma-­Yelammedenu, literature refers to “a genre or group of rabbinic texts that share the same general form and character





1 See, for example, Marc Bregman’s ‫ תיאור נוסחיה ועיונים בדרכי התהוותם‬:‫( ספרות תנחומא־­ילמדנו‬Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press), 2003, and Dov Weiss’s Pious Irreverence: Confronting God in Rabbinic Judaism (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017). 2 Jacob Elbaum, “‫ לאופיה של הספרות המדרשית המאוחרת‬:‫”בין עריכה לשיכתוב‬, in Proceedings of the Ninth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. C: Jewish Thought and Literature (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1986), 57. 3 Unless otherwise noted, translations of the Hebrew Bible follow the NJPS translation.

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istics,” appearing both as discrete works (Midrash Tanḥuma) as well as in various sections of larger works (e.g., in Exod. Rab., Num. Rab., and Deut. Rab.).4 The present study focuses upon Midrash Tanḥuma, which exists in two major versions – the standard printed edition and the so-­called Buber edition, named for its editor, Salomon Buber. Contemporary work on Tanḥuma-­Yelammedenu suggests that this genre “began to crystallize toward the end of the Byzantine period in Palestine (fifth-­seventh century CE), but continued to evolve and spread throughout the Diaspora well into the Middle Ages, sometimes developing different recensions of a common text.”5 The major versions of Midrash Tanḥuma as we know them stem from the medieval period with the printed edition likely redacted in gaonic Babylonia (according to Samuel Mirsky), and the Buber edition redacted in Italy-­Ashkenaz (or perhaps Palestine).6 Thanks to the efforts of Marc Bregman, we now can identify three major redactional strata within the printed and Buber Tanḥuma collections.7 First there is an early layer from around the fifth century that regularly uses Galilean Aramaic as well as Greek and Latin terms. This is followed by the middle stratum (sixth-­seventh century), which often replaces Aramaic with Hebrew and which is the most prominent layer, underlying a majority of Tanḥuma-­Yelammedenu passages. Finally, the late stratum dates from after the Islamic conquest and is roughly contemporaneous with the emergence of the two editions of Tanḥuma. As I shall argue, the Tanḥuma homily under discussion, which is preserved only in the standard edition, derives from this latest stratum, from a time when the Bavli likely already existed in a redacted form.



4 Dov Weiss, Pious Irreverence, 11; Marc Bregman, ‫ספרות תנחומא־­ילמדנו‬, chap. 1. 5 Marc Bregman, “Tanḥuma Yelammedenu,” EncJud (USA: Thomson Gale, 2007), 503. 6 Ibid., 503. Based upon somewhat limited evidence, Samuel K. Mirsky, in “‫”למהותו של מדרש תנחומא‬, Sura 8 (1957/1958): 99, 114–19, suggested that the printed edition derived from Babylonia while the Buber edition came from Israel (i.e., Palestine). With regard to the Buber edition, Marc Bregman argues for a final redaction in Italy, while Israel Ta-­Shma favors Ashkenaz as a more likely candidate (Marc Bregman, “‫”עדי נוסח של מדרשי תנחומא־­ילמדו‬, in Proceedings of the Ninth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. C: Jewish Thought and Literature [Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1986], 51; Israel M. Ta-­Shma, “‫”ספרייתם של חכמי אשכנז בני המאה הי״א–­הי״ב‬, Kiryat Sefer 60 [1984]: 302). Allen Kensky returned to the view of Mirsky, disagreeing with Bregman and Ta-­Shma’s view of an Ashkenazi/Italian provenance, and suggesting instead that the Buber version was indeed written in Israel (i.e., Palestine), between the late eighth and the end of the tenth century (Allen David Kensky, “‫ הוצאה‬:‫ שמות עד בשלח‬:‫מדרש תנחומא (הנדפס) שמות‬ ‫[ ”מדעית‬PhD diss., Jewish Theological Seminary, 1991], Abstract; 77–78.) 7 Bregman originally presented these findings in “‫”רבדי יצירה ועריכה במדרשי תנחומא־­ילמדנו‬, in Proceedings of the Tenth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. 1: Jewish Thought and Literature, Division C (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1990), 117–24. His full analysis and description of these layers later appeared in Bregman, ‫ספרות תנחומא־ילמדנו‬, chap. 4. For a brief English summary of his conclusions, see Weiss, Pious Irreverence, 12.

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91

Demonstrating that the Tanḥuma homily stems from the latest stratum of the work is a key point for proving that it directly used the Bavli sugya. Some scholars who engage with Tanḥuma’s use of Bavli material gloss over the relative dating of passages. While a significant portion of Tanḥuma postdates the Bavli, there are some cases where Tanḥuma preserves material from before the Talmud was likely redacted, especially in its early stratum.8 The present article thus asserts the importance of attempting to date Tanḥuma material when establishing its relationship to the Bavli. Moreover, in contrast to most discussions of Tanḥuma’s use of the Bavli, which focus upon how Tanḥuma developed and expanded prior talmudic discussions, the present case provides a clear example of how Tanḥuma not only appropriated, but subverted the Bavli’s message.9 This study thus contributes a clear example of Tanḥuma redirecting an earlier rabbinic discussion, as well as demonstrates a number of important methodological points for establishing that a given Tanḥuma homily directly used a particular Bavli sugya.

Use of the Bavli in Tanḥuma Literature Several scholars have undertaken to demonstrate that traditions from the Babylonian Talmud influenced Midrash Tanḥuma.10 Allen Kensky, for example, in his dissertation on Midrash Tanḥuma Shemot, indicates that there are many instances in which it is clear that the Bavli influenced Tanḥuma Shemot, and several places where it is clear that the Bavli is the source of the Tanḥuma text.11 More recently, Ronit Nikolsky has treated two examples wherein she

8 Dov Weiss notes that “when contemporary Midrash scholars notice differences between TY [Tanḥuma-­Yelammdenu] and pre-­TY texts, they typically assume that TY authors are reworking pre-­TY texts rather than the other way around” (Weiss, Pious Irreverence, 14). However, by “pre-­TY texts” Weiss apparently intends Palestinian rabbinic material, as he does not include the Bavli in his list. He also notes that “it is possible that in rare and isolated cases TY midrashim preserve, in full, teachings that predate or are contemporaneous with its amoraic parallels,” highlighting the importance of trying to establish the correct dating of Tanḥuma material when comparing it to the Bavli (Weiss, 14). 9 See below, in the section titled “Use of the Bavli in Tanḥuma Literature.” Dov Weiss may be the exception to this general trend insofar as he discusses an example that “radically revises” the content of a tradition which appears in the Bavli (see Weiss, Pious Irreverence, 171–72). However, most of Weiss’s examples show how the Bavli and Tanḥuma traditions follow a similar trajectory (and the aforementioned instance refers to a Tannaitic baraita in the Bavli rather than to an Amoraic or Stammaitic source). 10 In addition to Midrash Tanḥuma, the Bavli also seems to have influenced other Yelammedenu traditions. See A. Neubauer, “Le Midrasch Tanhuma et Extraits du Yelamdenu et des petits Midraschim,” Revue des études juives 13 (1886): 226. 11 Kensky, “‫”מדרש תנחומא (הנדפס) שמות‬, 69–71.

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believes Tanḥuma reworks earlier Palestinian midrashim and is influenced by the Bavli. She demonstrates this reliance on the Bavli by showing how Tanḥuma addresses a linguistic problem as does the Bavli, rather than a social issue like the one we find in the Genesis Rabbah parallel. Additionally, Nikolsky points to both an interpretation of Ezekiel 38:17 found only in the Bavli and Tanḥuma versions of a particular midrash, and to the fact that the presentation of certain material in Tanḥuma mirrors the Bavli’s dialogic structure (rather than that of earlier midrashim) to bolster this claim. While Nikolsky is likely correct in her assessment of these passages, she neglects to explicitly address the key question of whether the particular passages she analyzes in Tanḥuma postdate the Bavli’s version. She opens by asserting that she intends “to show how the later stratum of the midrash from the Land of Israel, the Tanhuma, incorporates material from the Palestinian Amoraim as well as from Babylonian.”12 Yet, Nikolsky does not actively demonstrate how we know that the specific passages in Tanḥuma she addresses postdate the Bavli. While it is quite likely that these passages belong to the later strata of this midrash, particularly as her examples come from the Buber edition rather than both Tanḥuma traditions, Nikolsky does not devote significant attention to proving this point. The most recent work to treat the issue of Tanḥuma’s use of the Bavli, Dov Weiss’s Pious Irreverence: Confronting God in Rabbinic Judaism, presents a more sophisticated approach that primarily discusses Tanḥuma-­Yelammedenu traditions that seem to postdate the material they rework.13 Weiss offers several examples to show how these later midrashim employ material from the Bavli. However, like Nikolsky, Weiss also does not spend enough time demonstrating the late provenance of his Tanḥuma examples.14 The works of the aforementioned authors constitute significant academic precedent for finding examples of Tanḥuma reworking material in the Bavli. However, one cannot simply assume that all homilies within Tanḥuma postdate the Bavli or were aware of material found in the Bavli. One of the challenges in describing the relationship between Tanḥuma and the Bavli is that these works were compiled over an extended period of time. Some sections of Tanḥuma may originally predate traditions in the Bavli and vice versa. The earliest stratum of Tanḥuma dates to the fifth century, and certain recent theories regarding 12 Ronit Nikolsky, “From Palestine to Babylonia and Back: The Place of the Bavli and the Tanhuma on the Rabbinic Cultural Continuum,” in Rabbinic Traditions between Palestine and Babylonia, ed. Ronit Nikolsky and Tal Ilan (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2014), 285. 13 For Weiss’s discussion of the relationship between the Bavli and Tanḥuma-­Yelammedenu literature, see Weiss, Pious Irreverence, 84–86. 14 Matthew Goldstone, “Review: Dov Weiss. Pious Irreverence: Confronting God in Rabbinic Judaism. Divinations: Rereading Late Ancient Religion Series. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017. 304 pp.,” AJS Review 41, no. 1 (2017): 245–47.

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93

the editing of the Talmud date its redaction to the seventh or eighth century.15 Assuming that a particular passage in Tanḥuma is later than one in the Bavli because Tanḥuma as a whole was likely compiled at a later date ignores the nature of these works. In order to demonstrate that a homily in Tanḥuma reworked a talmudic sugya, one must start by assessing the relative dating of the relevant passages. A majority of the talmudic sugya from b. Arakhin 16b that serves as a basis for our Tanḥuma homily is composed of material attributed to Tannaim and Amoraim, particularly from the first few generations. While some Amoraim from the third and fourth generations do appear, they are concentrated primarily in a section on suffering that does not treat rebuke. Of course, the sugya is facilitated by the anonymous language of various guiding questions, such as “What is an example of proper rebuke and improper humility?” and “Until what point is rebuke?,” which should likely be attributed to the Stammaitic layer. Additionally, a few extensions of statements attributed to named figures could also reasonably be dated to later redactional layers. When compared to many other sugyot in the Bavli, however, this particular sugya has relatively less unambiguously Stammaitic material. Nevertheless, the problem of dating the stam remains. Some scholars, including David Weiss Halivni, proffer an extremely late date for the final redaction of this layer, pushing it as far back as the seventh or eighth century.16 By contrast, others, such as Robert Brody, have contended that a significant amount of the anonymous material should be attributed to an earlier date. Citing instances of late Amoraim responding to anonymous material, Stammaitic material that glosses earlier Stammaitic material, and analogous instances from the Palestinian Talmud, Brody cautions against too late a dating for most Stammaitic material.17 Although challenged by Shamma Friedman, who argues that Brody’s few examples prove the general rule that a significant amount of anonymous material is late, there is certainly something to be said for recognizing diversity within the anonymous layer of the Talmud, which suggests an extended chronological development.18 15 David Weiss Halivni, The Formation of the Babylonian Talmud, trans. Jeffrey L. Rubenstein (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), xxvii–xxviii. 16 Halivni, xxvii–xxviii. 17 Robert Brody, “‫”סתם התלמוד ודברי האמוראים‬, Iggud 1 (2008): 212–32; Robert Brody, “‫תרומת הירושלמי‬ ‫”לתיארוך ׳סתם התלמוד׳‬, in Melekhet Mahshevet: Studies in the Redaction and Development of Talmudic Literature, ed. Aaron Amit and Aharon Shemesh (Jerusalem: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2011), 27–38; Robert Brody, “‫”לתיארוך החלקים הסתמיים של התלמוד הבבלי‬, Sidra: A Journal for the Study of Rabbinic Literature 24–25 (2010): 71–81. 18 Shamma Friedman, “‫ שוב למימרות האמוראים וסתם התלמוד בסוגיות‬:‫׳אל תתמה על הוספה שנזכר בה שם אמורא׳‬ ‫”הבבלי‬, in Melekhet Mahshevet: Studies in the Redaction and Development of Talmudic Literature, ed. Aaron Amit and Aharon Shemesh (Jerusalem: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2011), 101–44.

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Ultimately it is difficult if not almost impossible to accurately date the redaction of our talmudic sugya even if one takes a strong stand in the debate over the dating of the stam. However, if we can establish the homily from Tanḥuma to be of late provenance, this would provide strong evidence that it postdates the Talmud and would be a first step toward claiming that it probably had access to some version of our particular sugya.

The Late Provenance of Tanḥuma Mishpatim 7 As previously mentioned, the passage from Tanḥuma that treats rebuke (Mishpatim 7) appears in only one of the two Tanḥuma works, the printed edition. This is not entirely surprising, as Marc Bregman notes that while the two versions of Midrash Tanḥuma generally correspond in their homilies on Leviticus through Deuteronomy, the printed and Buber editions “to Genesis and Exodus are clearly two distinct works,” and our homily appears in the section on Exodus.19 For our purposes, the fact that this text is lacking in the Buber edition is of particular importance. According to Bregman, despite the divergence between the two editions in Genesis and Exodus, they “share a large amount of closely parallel material,” which suggests that “the two recensions of the Tanhuma are both descended from one hypothetical, common ancestor.”20 The absence of this material in the Buber edition indicates that it was not part of the “common ancestor,” but is rather a later addition from the period when the two versions were redacted.21 Accordingly, our passage belongs to the later stratum of Tanḥuma, which Bregman locates after the Islamic conquest. Moreover, if the printed edition was redacted in “gaonic Babylonia” (as Samuel Mirsky has suggested) then it emerged from the same geographic region that produced the Babylonian Talmud, increasing the likelihood that the editor or editors of this edition of Tanḥuma would have had access to the Babylonian Talmud.22 The absence of our passage from all manuscripts of the Buber edition is thus strong evidence that it was introduced into the printed edition of Tanḥuma at a late date when some form of the Bavli was already compiled. Aside from its late provenance, another factor suggests that our passage from Tanḥuma post-­dates the Bavli and was working with some version of the



19 Bregman, ‫ספרות תנחומא־ילמדנו‬, 3*. 20 Ibid., 3*. Also see Kensky’s comparison specifically with regard to these two versions on the beginning of the Book of Exodus (Kensky, “‫”מדרש תנחומא (הנדפס) שמות‬, 60–65). 21 As Bregman notes, similarities between the printed and Buber editions are typically indicative of the middle layer while substantive differences reflect the later stratum (Bregman, “‫רבדי יצירה‬ ‫”ועריכה במדרשי תנחומא־ילמדנו‬, 121). 22 Mirsky, “‫”למהותו של מדרש תנחומא‬, 99, 114–19.

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95

Talmud. The homily from Tanḥuma augments the b. Arakhin passage that we will be investigating below by incorporating material from several other talmudic sugyot spread across the corpus.23 It employs passages from an extended discussion on b. Shabbat 54b–55a, a shorter selection from b. Tamid 28a, and a pericope that is likely from b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a. The Bavli and Tanḥuma versions of the first two of these parallels are highly similar. The passage from b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a is cited by Tanḥuma as a baraita (‫)ותניא‬, rather than as part of an Amoraic dictum; however, the statement itself is identical and is not attested in any earlier rabbinic sources, suggesting that it stems from the Bavli’s tradition.24 Beyond these three cases, our homily also appears to draw on an interpretation preserved on b. Avodah Zarah 4a. Tanḥuma’s lengthy passage derived from b. Shabbat 54b–55a concludes with a tradition attributed to Rav Yosef that the words “Begin here at My Sanctuary” (‫ )וממקדשי תחלו‬from Ezekiel 9:6 should be read as “Begin here from My holy ones” (‫)ממקודשי‬, indicating those who fulfilled the entire Torah. This same tradition appears on b. Avodah Zarah 4a where, in conjunction with a gloss on Ezekiel 21:8 (“I will wipe out from you both the righteous and the wicked”; ‫)והכרתי ממך צדיק ורשע‬, it is interpreted as referring to the righteous who had the ability to protest but refrained from so doing. This idea of the righteous failing to protest already appears as a theme on b. Shabbat 54b–55a, but without a reference to Ezekiel 21:8. Tanḥuma draws on the intertextual relationship between these two sugyot by citing Ezekiel 21:8 as a proof text for the idea that the righteous are punished for not protesting.25 The fact that our homily only appears in the printed edition of Tanḥuma and that it incorporates material found in several sugyot from across the Bavli suggests that it belongs to the latest stratum of this work, which Marc Bregman dates to the period after the Islamic conquest. This late provenance ensures that material common to the Bavli sugya and the Tanḥuma homily would have been appropriated by the latter from the former (or other earlier texts). Having demonstrated 23 I believe that the b. Arakhin sugya (rather than any of the other talmudic passages) constitutes the core of Tanḥuma’s homily, as the homily opens with material from b. Arakhin and returns to the b. Arakhin sugya after inserting material from elsewhere. 24 The material from b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a is transmitted as a baraita (‫ )ותניא‬despite appearing in the Bavli as a statement attributed to Rava. It is possible that this material in Bava Metz‘ia reflects a later attribution in order to align this tradition to the two preceding it which are also transmitted in the name of Rava. Yet, we do not find an earlier attestation for this source. This suggests that either it is derived from a no longer extant written work, an oral tradition not preserved in writing other than the Bavli, or, most likely, that it is taken from our Bavli source. 25 However, Tanḥuma’s interpretation of Ezekiel 21:8 somewhat diverges from its interpretation on b. Avodah Zarah 4a. On b. Avodah Zarah 4a it is Ezekiel 9:6 which teaches that the righteous failed to protest, while Ezekiel 21:8 refers to those who are not completely righteous. Tanḥuma appears to conflate these interpretations as it imports this material as an appendix to the sugya drawn from b. Shabbat 54b–55a.

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the direction of influence, we can now explore a Tannaitic parallel to the Bavli sugya and Tanḥuma homily in order to demonstrate that the homily derives its material directly from the Bavli rather than from an earlier Tannaitic source.

The Rabbinic Sources Underlying Tanḥuma Mishpatim 7 As I shall demonstrate, the Tanḥuma homily on rebuke and Leviticus 19:17 in Mishpatim 7 is built upon part of a talmudic sugya from b. Arakhin 16b. However, this sugya itself builds upon and reworks a previous Tannaitic midrash. In order to demonstrate that Tanḥuma employed the Bavli rather than the earlier midrashic version as the basis for its homily we must compare the various versions of the midrashic tradition on Leviticus 19:17. The earliest version of the tradition, in Sifra (Qedoshim 4), records the following set of anonymous and attributed glosses to the Levitical command “You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart. Reprove your kinsman but incur no guilt because of him” (Lev 19:17):26 Sifra Qedoshim 4

4 ‫ספרא קדושים‬

Do not hate your brother in your heart (Lev 19:17a). One might think you should not hit him, curse him, or slap him. The Torah therefore says: in your heart. I only said hatred which is in the heart. And from where do we know that even if he rebukes him four or five times that he should rebuke again? The Torah therefore says you shall surely rebuke (Lev 19:17b). One might think even if he rebukes him and his countenance changes. The Torah therefore says, but do not bear sin because of him (Lev 19:17c). Rabbi Tarfon said, “By the Temple, if there is anyone in this generation who is able to rebuke!” Rabbi Lazar ben Azariyah said, “By the Temple, if there is anyone in this generation who is able to receive rebuke!” Rabbi Akiva said, “By the Temple, if there is anyone in this generation who knows how to rebuke!” Rabbi Yohanan ben Nuri said, “May heaven and earth ˙ regarding me that more than four or five bear witness times Akiva was lashed because of me before Rabban Gamliel because I would complain to [Rabban Gamliel] concerning [Rabbi Akiva], and how much would I know that his love for me increased.”

‫לא תשנא את אחיך יכול לא תכנו‬ ‫ולא תקללנו ולא תסטרנו תל׳ לו׳‬ ‫בלבבך לא אמרתי אילא שנאה‬ ‫שהיא בלב (ו)מנין אם הוכחתו‬ ‫אפילו ארבעה (ו)חמשה פעמים‬ ‫חזור והוכח תל׳ לו׳ הוכח תוכיח‬ ‫יכול אפילו אתה מוכיחו ופניו‬ ‫משתנות תל׳ לו׳ ולא תשא עליו‬ ‫ אמר ר׳ טרפון העבדה אם‬.‫חטא‬ ‫יש בדור הזה יכול להוכיח אמר‬ ‫ר׳ לעזר בן עזריה העבדה אם‬ ‫יש בדור הזה יכול לקבל תוכחת‬ ‫אמר ר׳ עקיבה העבדה אם יש‬ ‫בדור הזה יודע היאך מוכיחים‬ ‫אמר ר׳ יוחנן בן נורי מעיד אני עלי‬ ‫את השמים ואת הארץ שיתר‬ ‫מארבעה חמשה פעמים לקה‬ ‫עקיבה על ידי לפני רבן גמליאל‬ ‫שהייתי קובל לו עליו וכל כך הייתי‬ .‫יודע שהוא מוסיף לי אהבה‬

26 The text of Sifra employed here is based upon MS Vatican 66. A version of the attributed portion of the Sifra tradition is also preserved in Sifre Devarim Pisqa 1. However, as this section is excluded by the Tanḥuma homily, I will not discuss it here. For my analysis of the parallel material in Sifre Devarim, see Goldstone, “‘Remove the Beam from Your Own Eye’: The Dynamics of Rebuke in Ancient Jewish and Christian Traditions” (PhD diss., New York University, 2017), 246–50.

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You Must Rebuke Your Fellow!

Sifra’s comments on Leviticus 19:17 can be divided into two parts: a series of three anonymous glosses on the three clauses of the biblical verse, and the reactions of several named Tannaitic figures. The opening glosses establish a high bar for the performance of rebuke. Restricting the prohibition against hatred to that which is “in your heart,” the midrash allows one to engage in the violent acts of hitting and slapping as well as to curse another person.27 The juxtaposition between this interpretation and the question of the requirement for continual rebuke suggests that such extreme measures could be a form of rebuke. In addition to these types of activities, the anonymous portion of the midrash also assumes that one has a continual duty to rebuke, even if previous attempts were unsuccessful. The only explicit restriction comes at the point when one prompts a change in the countenance of the other party (i.e., embarrasses them). The extreme activities and continual obligation established in this first part of the midrash are challenged by the second half. Several major Tannaitic figures assert that their generation is unable to properly administer or accept reproof. Only Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Nuri feels comfortable asserting his ability to rebuke and thereby fulfill the biblical injunction. A version of the tradition found in Sifra serves as the basis for a talmudic sugya (b. Arakhin 16b) devoted to the topic of rebuke, which in turn forms the core of our Tanḥuma homily. However, while Sifra and the Bavli include both the anonymous and the attributed portions of the original tradition, Tanḥuma only incorporates the former. Examining the parallel material found in manuscripts of Sifra, the Bavli, and Tanḥuma, we shall see how Tanḥuma regularly aligns with the Bavli when the latter diverges from Sifra, suggesting that the editor of our Tanḥuma homily was working with a version of the talmudic sugya rather than the earlier midrashic version. The chart below compares the versions of the midrash on Leviticus 19:17 as it appears in Sifra, the Bavli, and Tanḥuma, with significant points of difference indicated in bold:28 ‫ספרא‬

‫בבלי‬

‫תנחומא‬

‫לא תשנא את אחיך יכול לא‬ ‫תכנו ולא תקללנו ולא תסטרנו‬ ‫תל' לו' בלבבך לא אמרתי‬ ‫אילא שנאה שהיא בלב‬

‫תנו רבנן לא תשנא את‬ ‫אחיך בלבבך יכול לא יכנו‬ ‫ולא יסרטנו ולא יקללנו ת"ל‬ ‫בלבבך בשנאה שבלב הכתוב‬ ‫מדבר‬

‫ת"ר לא תשנא את אחיך‬ ‫בלבבך יכול לא תסטרנו לא‬ ‫ ת"ל בלבבך בשנאה‬,‫תקללנו‬ ‫שבלב הכתוב מדבר‬

‫ומניין לרואה דבר מגונה‬ ‫בחבירו שחייב להוכיחו ת"ל‬ ‫הוכח תוכיח את עמיתך‬

‫מנין לרואה דבר מגונה בחברו‬ ‫שחייב להוכיחו ת"ל הוכח‬ ‫תוכיח‬

27 Contrast this gloss with the parallel formulation in the Bavli and Tanḥuma discussed below. 28 The Tanḥuma homily in its entirety will be included below.

98

Matthew Goldstone ‫ספרא‬



‫בבלי‬

‫תנחומא‬

‫(ו)מנין אם הוכחתו אפילו‬ ‫ארבעה (ו)חמשה פעמים‬ ‫חזור והוכח תל' לו' הוכח‬ ‫תוכיח‬

‫ואם הוכיחו ולא קבל מניין‬ ‫שיחזור ויוכיח׳ ת״ל הוכח מכל‬ ‫מקום‬

‫הוכיחו ולא קבל מנין שיחזור‬ ,‫ויוכיחו ת"ל תוכיח‬

‫יכול אפילו אתה מוכיחו ופניו‬ ‫משתנות תל' לו' ולא תשא‬ .‫עליו חטא‬

‫יכול אפי׳ פניו משתנים ת״ל‬ ‫ולא תשא עליו חטא‬

‫יכול אפילו פניו משתנות ת"ל‬ ‫לא תשא עליו חטא‬

Sifra

Bavli

Tanḥuma

Do not hate your brother in your heart. One might think you should not hit him, curse him, or slap him. The Torah therefore says: in your heart. I only said hatred which is in the heart.

Our Rabbis taught: Do not hate your brother in your heart. One might think you should not hit him, slap him, or curse him. The Torah therefore says: in your heart. The verse speaks of hatred which is in the heart.

Our Rabbis taught: Do not hate your brother in your heart. One might think you should not slap him or curse him. The Torah therefore says: in your heart. The verse speaks of hatred which is in the heart.

From where do we know that one who sees something indecent about his fellow is obligated to rebuke him? As it says, you shall surely rebuke.

From where do we know that one who sees something indecent about his fellow is obligated to rebuke him? As it says, you shall surely rebuke.

And from where do we know that if he rebukes him even four or five times that he should rebuke again? The Torah therefore says you shall surely rebuke.

If he rebuked him and he did not accept it, from where do we know that he should go back and rebuke him? The Torah says, rebuke – in all cases.

If he rebuked him and he did not accept it, from where do we know that he should go back and rebuke him? The Torah says, rebuke.

One might think even if he rebukes him and his countenance changes. The Torah therefore says, but do not bear sin because of him.

One might even think if his countenance changes. The Torah therefore says, but do not bear sin because of him.

One might even think if his countenance changes. The Torah therefore says, but do not bear sin because of him.

There are a number of differences in the shared tradition as it appears in Sifra, the Bavli, and Tanḥuma. Within the first gloss on Leviticus 19:17 there are two important variations. First, while almost all the textual witnesses of Sifra list the permitted actions as hitting, cursing, and slapping, manuscripts of the Bavli consistently record the order as hitting, slapping, and cursing –

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99

reversing the last two activities.29 None of the Tanḥuma manuscripts of the printed edition include mention of hitting (a point to which I shall return briefly below); however, all of the manuscripts maintain the order found in the Bavli of slapping prior to cursing. Second, Sifra states: “I only said hatred which is in the heart” (‫)לא אמרתי אילא שנאה שהיא בלב‬.30 By contrast, both the Bavli and Tanḥuma read: “Scripture says ‘hatred which is in the heart’” (‫שנאה שבלב הכתוב‬ ‫)מדבר‬.31 While this slight difference in phrasing may appear inconsequential, Aharon Shemesh has suggested that it is actually quite significant.32 Sifra’s version (“I only said hatred which is in the heart”) implies that the only activity forbidden is internalized hatred, but that externalized expressions of this emotion, such as hitting, cursing, and slapping, are permitted. The alternative language adopted by the Bavli and Tanḥuma (“Scripture says ‘hatred which is in the heart’”), however, opens up the possibility that not only is internalized hatred forbidden, but any externalization of this emotion is prohibited as well. Given this significant change in meaning, it is quite possible that the editor of the Bavli sugya intentionally phrased this line differently from Sifra, offering a revised wording that Tanḥuma also employs. Sandwiched between the gloss that hatred in one’s heart permits various activities, and the interpretation of the doubled Hebrew root (‫ )הוכח תוכיח‬as requiring continual attempts, all extant manuscripts of the Bavli introduce another interpretative step: “From where do we know that one who sees something indecent about his fellow is obligated to rebuke him? As it says, you shall surely rebuke.”33 This additional interpretative step is also found in all manuscripts of the printed edition of Tanḥuma, but does not appear in any textual witness of Sifra.34 Returning to material that is common to all three versions, in the second gloss on Leviticus 19:17 Sifra states: “And from where do we know that if 29 The only exception to the versions of Sifra that present the order as hitting, cursing, and slapping is the Venice printed edition, which reads cursing, hitting, and slapping. 30 The printed editions read ‫ כי אם בשנאה‬rather than ‫( אלא שנאה‬as is found in all of the manuscripts). 31 MS Munich 95 lacks the words ‫ הכתוב מדבר‬but also does not include the phrase ‫ לא אמרתי‬that we find in Sifra. 32 See Aharon Shemesh, “‫ עיון משווה בהלכת כת מדבר יהודה והלכת חז׳׳ל‬:‫ תוכחה והתראה‬,‫”עדות‬, Tarbiz 96 (1997) 159. 33 The phrasing of this line varies among the manuscripts, but each preserves essentially the same material. Note, however, that MSS London 402 and Vatican 119 lack the subsequent interpretation of the infinitive absolute (‫ )הוכח תוכיח‬as implying continual rebuke. Within the newly added gloss, MS Vat. 119 as well as the Venice and Vilna printed editions move the element of “about his fellow” (‫ )ל\בחבירו‬to before the phrase “something indecent” (the former also lacks the verb “sees” [‫)]לרואה‬. Additionally, there is a discrepancy between whether the verse is cited as “as it says” (‫ )שנאמר‬or “the Torah says” (‫)ת׳׳ל‬. 34 The only significant variation within the Tanḥuma manuscripts is that while most read: ‫שחייב‬ ‫להוכיחו‬, MSS Oxford 187 and Parma 3254 instead read: ‫שצריך‬.

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he rebukes him even four or five times that he should rebuke again?” The Bavli and Tanḥuma leave out any indication of a number of attempts and simply state that, “If he rebuked him and he did not accept it, from where do we know that he should go back and rebuke him?”35 Finally, in the third gloss, Sifra reads, “One might think that even if you rebuke him and his countenance changes.” The Bavli and Tanḥuma consistently leave out the phrase “you rebuke him.”36 In all of these different cases of variation, Tanḥuma follows the Bavli rather than Sifra. This suggests that Tanḥuma’s version of this midrashic tradition derived from the Bavli rather than directly from the Tannaitic midrash. One might challenge this conclusion by suggesting that perhaps later scribes and copyists changed the Tanḥuma homily to conform to the version in the Bavli. Although this may be a common phenomenon, in this case it seems somewhat unlikely as we find a significant difference within the first gloss on Leviticus 19:17 as it appears in Talmud and Tanḥuma manuscripts. In all of the manuscripts of the Bavli there are three different acts associated with Leviticus 19:17a – hitting, slapping, and cursing. By contrast, all manuscripts of the printed edition of Tanḥuma only contain two acts (slapping and cursing), omitting the act of hitting. If later copyists or scribes had reworked the Tanḥuma homily to conform to the Bavli, then we might expect that they would have included all three actions. However, it is of course possible that later readers understood hitting and slapping to be synonymous and therefore felt no compunction to retain the former. Nevertheless, even if the extant versions of the printed edition of Tanḥuma align more closely with the Bavli because they were corrected by later scribes, the fact that the Tanḥuma passage is of late provenance and used versions of several sugyot from across the Bavli supports my claim that the Tanḥuma homily is likely based directly upon a version of our sugya rather than on the Tannaitic midrash.

The Bavli’s Message Having argued that the Tanḥuma homily postdates the Bavli and relied upon the Bavli’s sugya rather than the parallel version in Sifra, I can now move to my second major claim that the Tanḥuma homily actively reworks the Bavli tradition in order to present an opposing message. The Bavli sugya on rebuke evinces a somewhat ambivalent or even disparaging attitude toward rebuke. The full midrashic tradition inherited from Sifra already contains elements of this 35 MS Oxford Bodleian 187 actually preserves this line twice, but still does not have the language that we find in Sifra. 36 Some of the Bavli manuscripts invert the words ‫ פניו משתנות‬but the Tanḥuma manuscripts all read: ‫פניו משתנות‬.

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow!

101

ambiguity. As noted above, the anonymous glosses on Leviticus 19:17 establish a high bar for the performance of rebuke. Yet, several major Tannaim wonder whether or not rebuke can actually be properly performed in their generation. This hesitancy toward the possibility of rebuke is developed by the Bavli sugya, which asks whether proper rebuke or improper humility is preferable. The Bavli ultimately concludes that humility is preferable to rebuke:37 b. Arakhin 16b

:‫בבלי ערכין טז‬

Rabbi Yehuda son of Rabbi Shimon asked of him,38 “Proper rebuke and improper humility, which of these two is preferable?” He said to him, “Do you not admit that proper humility is preferable, as the master said, ‘Humility is the greatest of all;’39 Improper [humility] is also preferable, as Rav Yehuda said in the name of Rav: ‘A person should always occupy himself with the Torah and commandments even if improperly, for from improper [motivations] one will come to [occupy himself with them for] proper [motivations].’”

‫בעא מיניה רבי יהודה בריה דר׳ שמעון‬ ‫תוכחה לשמה וענוה שלא לשמה הי‬ ‫מינייהו עדיפא אמר ליה ולא מודית דענוה‬ ‫לשמה עדיפא דאמר מר ענוה גדולה‬ ‫מכולם שלא לשמה נמי עדיפא דאמר רב‬ ‫יהודה אמר רב לעולם יעסוק אדם בתורה‬ ‫ובמצות אע״פ שלא לשמה שמתוך שלא‬ ‫לשמה בא לשמה‬

Rabbi Yehuda’s question and the ensuing response suggest that rebuke is not a highly desirable practice. Particularly considering the tradition derived from Sifra (which immediately precedes Rabbi Yehudah’s question in the Bavli), it is apparent that the sugya as a whole calls into question the value of rebuke and, consequently, the force of the Levitical command.40 In contrast to this somewhat disparaging attitude toward the practice of rebuke in the Bavli, the homily in Tanḥuma thoroughly endorses this practice and holds those who fail to reprove others accountable. Using the Bavli sugya as a base, the Tanḥuma homily systematically excludes passages that detract from the value of rebuke and introduces a variety of new sources that augment the importance of correcting others. In an analysis of a different homily from Tanḥuma, Ira Chernus demon 37 Unless otherwise indicated, passages from the Bavli follow the Vilna printed edition with significant manuscript variations included in the notes. 38 Most of the manuscripts do not include Rabbi Yehuda’s interlocutor. Only MS Vatican 120 and the Cambridge genizah fragment supply the name of his father, Rabbi Shimon ben Pazi, as the addressee. 39 Based upon the parallel to this line found on b. Avodah Zarah 20b, MS Munich includes reference to a biblical verse, which is not included in any other manuscripts. 40 For an extended discussion of the other ways in which the Bavli sugya problematizes the practice of rebuke and biblical commandment, see Goldstone, “Remove the Beam from Your Own Eye,” chapter 8.

102

Matthew Goldstone

strates that this late midrashic work combines earlier sources to create a new message, drawing authority from its predecessors. Summarizing the work of Tanḥuma’s editor he writes, [The editor] has taken a group of disparate traditions . . . and molded them into an apparently simple and straightforward unity. His ability is seen both in his choice of traditions and the way he combines them and gives them new contexts in order to communicate his own message with the apparent support of earlier authorities.41 The same can be said of our homily. Tanḥuma incorporates material from across the Bavli in order to construct a thoroughly pro-­rebuke homily. While not all of the appropriated talmudic pericopae explicitly treat rebuke, our homily frames and organizes all of this material into a sustained argument for the extreme importance of rebuke and concomitantly of Leviticus 19:17. In the next section I review the deleted and added material in order to demonstrate how the Tanḥuma homily expunges the Bavli’s ambivalence toward rebuke and formulates a new message fully endorsing its practice.

Fashioning a Pro-­rebuke Homily Tanḥuma Mishpatim 7 fashions an extended discourse on rebuke with the rhetorical agenda of advocating for its supreme importance. This focus on the importance of interpersonal responsibility (particularly in contrast to the Bavli’s focus on humility, presumably a more self-­oriented activity) is augmented by the larger literary context in which this homily appears. The core verse that opens and drives Tanḥuma’s discussion of rebuke is of course Leviticus 19:17. Yet, Tanḥuma does not place this extended treatment of rebuke and of Leviticus 19:17 among its homilies on Leviticus.42 Instead, it appears in an ostensibly random position between a series of homilies on Exodus 21:1 and 22:24. Given the abrupt interruption of this somewhat sequential material from Exodus, we might ask whether there is a thematic connection between rebuke and the topics discussed in the surrounding homilies on Exodus. The homilies prior to our discussion of rebuke treat issues of judging and judgement. Introducing the homily that appears immediately before our section, Tanḥuma asks about the obligation for Jews to keep arbitration within the Jewish community rather than turning to non-­Jewish judges. In the latter portion 41 Ira Chernus, “On the History of a Pericope in the Midrash Tanhuma,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 11, no. 1 (1980): 63. 42 Both the printed and Buber editions of Tanḥuma skip from homilies on Lev 19:1–2 to Lev 19:23. This break is particularly surprising given the abundance of fodder for sermons that spans this gap.

103

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow!

of this homily, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Qorḥa scripturally derives the obligation of a disciple to speak up if he knows how to acquit a poor person and convict a rich person. Rabbi Yehoshua teaches that Deuteronomy 1:17’s demand for impartiality in judgement states “Fear no man” (‫ )לא תגורו מפני איש‬in order to ensure that everyone will contribute their testimony without fear of the power of the rich. Conceptually, this is perhaps similar to the case of rebuke in which one should act despite concerns over negative ramifications. Moreover, the overall theme of proper judgement aligns with the emphasis on interpersonal responsibility established in the rebuke homily. Those involved in judgement have an underlying obligation toward all litigants and the community at large. The interpersonal focus of the sections prior to our passage on rebuke is mirrored by the material that follows our homily. Exodus 22:24 demands that a lender should not act as a creditor or collect interest. The Pentateuch’s institution of lending is grounded in a concern for aiding the poor without locking them into an inescapable spiral of debt.43 Those with financial means are instructed to freely loan money to those in need. Like the homilies prior to Tanḥuma’s discussion of rebuke, here, too, we find attention to interpersonal responsibility. The first homily after our section on rebuke begins by depicting the responsibility of the rich for the poor by asserting that God assesses whether the rich are generous with their money (‫)אם ידיהם פתוחה לעניים‬. Broadly speaking then, the sections immediately prior to and following our homily on rebuke also discuss the importance of interpersonal responsibility – foregrounding this aspect of our passage, particularly in contrast to the Bavli sugya. Turning now to the specific content of our homily, we shall see how Tanḥuma actively reworks the Bavli sugya in order to present a thoroughly pro-­rebuke message. I shall quote the homily in its entirety below and then proceed to comment on materials that are excluded from, and added to, the b. Arakhin sugya:

1

Tanhuma ˙ Our Rabbis taught: Do not hate your brother in your heart. One might think you should not slap him or curse him. The Torah therefore says: in your heart. The verse speaks of hatred which is in the heart. From where do we know that one who sees something indecent about his fellow is obligated to rebuke him? As it says, you shall surely rebuke. If he rebuked him and he did not accept it, from where do we know that he should go back and rebuke him? The Torah says, rebuke. One might even think if his countenance changes. The Torah therefore says, but do not bear sin because of him.

‫תנחומא‬ ‫ת״ר לא תשנא את אחיך‬ ‫בלבבך יכול לא תסטרנו לא‬ ‫ ת״ל בלבבך בשנאה‬,‫תקללנו‬ ‫ מנין‬,‫שבלב הכתוב מדבר‬ ‫לרואה דבר מגונה בחברו‬ ‫שחייב להוכיחו ת״ל הוכח‬ ‫ הוכיחו ולא קבל מנין‬,‫תוכיח‬ ,‫שיחזור ויוכיחו ת״ל תוכיח‬ ‫יכול אפילו פניו משתנות ת״ל‬ ‫לא תשא עליו חטא‬

43 Lenders are thus prohibited from taking interest (e.g., Lev 25:35–38).

104

2

Matthew Goldstone Tanhuma ˙ And it was taught, you will rebuke, [Based on the word rebuke] I know only that the teacher [should rebuke] a student. From where [do we learn that] a student [should rebuke] the teacher? The Torah says rebuke, you will rebuke – in all cases.

‫תנחומא‬ ‫ותניא הוכח תוכיח אין לי אלא‬ ‫הרב לתלמיד תלמיד לרב‬ ‫מנין ת״ל הוכח תוכיח מ״מ‬

3

And one who does not rebuke is caught in that very sin, ‫ומאן דלא מוכח מתפיס‬ as the master said, “Whoever is able to protest against ‫בההוא עון דאמר מר כל מי‬ the people of his household and does not protest is ‫שאפשר לו למחות באנשי‬ caught [in the sin] of the people of his household. ‫ביתו ואינו מוחה נתפס על‬ [Whoever is able to protest against] the people of his ‫ באנשי עירו נתפס‬,‫אנשי ביתו‬ city [and does not protest] is caught [in the sin] of the ‫ בכל העולם‬,‫על אנשי עירו‬ people of his city. [Whoever is able to protest against] ,‫כלו נתפס על כל העולם כלו‬ the entire world [and does not protest] is caught [in the sin] of the entire world;”

4

As Rabbi Ĥanina said, “What is the meaning of that which is written, The Lord will bring this charge against the elders and officers of His people (Isa 3:14)? If the officers sinned, how did the elders sin? Rather the elders [sinned] by not protesting against the officers.” Rabbi Yehudah said in the name of Rav, “What is the meaning of that which is written, And the Lord said to me, ‘Pass through the city, through Jerusalem, and put a mark on the foreheads of the men who moan and groan because of all the abominations that are committed in it’? (Ezek 9:4). The Holy One Blessed Be He said to Gabriel, ‘Go mark a tav in ink on the foreheads of the righteous so that the angels of destruction will not have power over them, and [mark] a tav in blood on the foreheads of the wicked so that the angels of destruction will have power over them.’ Strict Justice said before the Holy One Blessed Be He, ‘Master of the Universe, what is the difference between these [people] and these [people]?’ [God] said, ‘These are completely righteous and these are completely wicked.’ [Strict Justice] said before [God], ‘Master of the Universe, it was possible for [the righteous] to protest [against the actions of the wicked] but they did not protest!’ [God] said, ‘It is revealed and known before Me that if they had protested against [the wicked, the wicked] would not have accepted it.’ [Strict Justice] said before [God], ‘Master of the Universe, if it was revealed to You, who revealed it to them?’ God retracted and said, Kill off old, youth and maiden, women and children; but do not touch any person who bears the mark. Begin here at My Sanctuary” (Ezek 9:6). What does

‫דא״ר חנינא מאי דכתיב ה׳‬ ‫במשפט יבא עם זקני עמו‬ ‫ושריו אם שרים חטאו זקנים‬ ‫ אלא זקנים שלא‬,‫מה חטאו‬ ‫ ואמר רב יהודה‬,‫מיחו בשרים‬ ‫אמר רב מאי דכתיב ויאמר‬ ‫ה׳ אלי עבור בתוך העיר‬ ‫בתוך ירושלים והתוית תו על‬ ‫מצחות האנשים הנאנחים‬ ‫והנאנקים על כל התועבות‬ ‫ א״ל הקב״ה‬.‫הנעשות בתוכה‬ ‫לגבריאל לך רשום על מצחן‬ ‫של צדיקים תי״ו של דיו כדי‬ ‫שלא ישלטו בהן מלאכי‬ ‫חבלה ועל מצחן של רשעים‬ ‫תי״ו של דם כדי שישלטו בהן‬ ‫ אמרה מדת‬,‫מלאכי חבלה‬ ‫הדין לפני הקב״ה רבש״ע‬ ‫ אמר‬,‫מה נשתנו אלו מאלו‬ ‫לה הללו צדיקים גמורים הם‬ ‫ אמרה‬,‫והללו רשעים גמורים‬ ‫לפניו רבש״ע היה בידם‬ ‫ אמר לה‬,‫למחות ולא מיחו‬ ‫גלוי וידוע לפני שאם מיחו‬ ‫ אמרה‬,‫בהם לא קבלו מהן‬ ‫לפניו רבש״ע אם לפניך‬ ‫ חזר ואמר‬,‫גלוי להם מי גלוי‬ ‫זקן בחור ובתולה טף ונשים‬ ‫תהרגו למשחית ועל כל איש‬ ‫אשר עליו התו אל תגשו‬

105

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow! Tanhuma ˙ at My Sanctuary mean? Rav Yosef taught, “Do not read [the word] as ‘at My Sanctuary’ but rather as ‘from My holy ones’ – these are the people who accepted and upheld the entire Torah from aleph to tav”; You learn that even the completely righteous are caught [in the sins] of the generation. And similarly it says, And I will wipe out from you both the righteous and the wicked (Ezek 21:8) – the righteous because they did not protest against the wicked. And similarly you find with regard to Josiah the king who was caught [in the sins] of his generation, as it is written, There was no king like him etc. (2 Kings 23:25).



‫תנחומא‬ ‫ ומאי‬,‫וממקדשי תחלו‬ ‫ תני רב יוסף‬,‫ממקדשי תחלו‬ ‫אל תקרא ממקדשי אלא‬ ‫ממקודשי אלו בני אדם‬ ‫שקבלו ושקיימו את התורה‬ ‫ הא‬,‫כלה מאל״ף ועד תי״ו‬ ‫למדת שאפילו צדיקים‬ ,‫גמורים נתפסים על הדור‬ ‫וכן הוא אומר והכרתי ממך‬ ‫ צדיק על שלא‬,‫צדיק ורשע‬ ‫ וכן אתה מוצא‬,‫מיחה ברשע‬ ‫ביאשיה המלך שנתפס על‬ ‫ וכתיב בו וכמוהו לא היה‬,‫דורו‬ ‫לפניו מלך וגו׳‬

5

Until what point is rebuke? Rav said, “until a blow,” Shmuel said, “until a curse,” and Rabbi Yoĥanan said, “until indignation.” And the three of them derive their positions from a single scriptural source, as it says: Saul flew into a rage against Jonathan his son and said to him: ‘You son of a perverse, rebellious woman!’ (1 Sam 20:30), and it is written, Saul threw his spear at him to strike him down (1 Sam 20:33).

‫ועד היכן תוכחה רב אמר‬ ‫ ושמואל אמר עד‬,‫עד הכאה‬ ‫ ורבי יוחנן אמר עד‬,‫קללה‬ ‫ ושלשתן מקרא אחד‬,‫נזיפה‬ ‫ שנאמר ויחר אף שאול‬,‫דרשו‬ ‫ביהונתן ויאמר לו בן נעות‬ ‫המרדות וכתיב ויטל שאול‬ ‫את החנית עליו להכותו‬

6

It was taught: Rebbi says, “What is the proper path that a person should choose? Love rebukes, for as long as rebukes are in the world comfort comes to the world, goodness comes to the world, blessing comes to the world, and evil departs from the world; as it says, But it shall go well with the rebukers;44 Blessings of good things will light upon them (Prov 24:25) – for the rebuker and for the one rebuked.” And there are those who say, “He will strengthen [them] with extra faith as it says, My eyes are on the trusty men of the land, to have them at my side (Ps 101:6).” Rabbi Shmuel bar Naĥmani said that Rabbi Yonatan said, “Whoever rebukes his fellow for the sake of heaven merits a portion of the Holy One Blessed Be He, as it says, He who reproves a man will in the end find more favor [than he who flatters him] (Prov 28:23); and not only this, but they draw out for him a thread of lovingkindness, as it says, Find more favor [than he who flatters him].”

‫תני רבי אומר איזה הוא‬ ,‫דרך ישרה שיבור לו האדם‬ ‫אהב את התוכחות שכל‬ ‫זמן שהתוכחות בעולם נחת‬ ‫רוח באה לעולם טובה באה‬ ‫לעולם ברכה באה לעולם‬ ‫רעה מסתלקת מן העולם‬ ‫שנאמר ולמוכיחים ינעם‬ ‫ על‬,‫ועליהם תבא ברכת טוב‬ ‫ וי״א‬,‫המוכיח ועל המתוכח‬ ‫יחזיק באמונה יתירה שנאמר‬ ‫עיני בנאמני ארץ לשבת‬ ‫ א״ר שמואל בר נחמני‬,‫עמדי‬ ‫א״ר יונתן כל המוכיח את‬ ‫חברו לשם שמים זוכה לפלג‬ ‫של הקב״ה שנאמר מוכיח‬ ‫ ולא עוד‬,‫אדם אחרי חן ימצא‬ ‫אלא שמושכין עליו חוט של‬ ‫חסד שנאמר חן ימצא‬

44 I have deviated here from the NJPS translation in order to capture the meaning of the Hebrew word ‫ולמוכיחים‬.

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Matthew Goldstone

One of the ways in which the Tanḥuma homily reworks the message concerning rebuke portrayed in the Bavli is through the introduction of several other talmudic passages (mentioned above), which I shall describe in detail below. However, before introducing new material, Tanḥuma must first deal with the fact that the b. Arakhin sugya contains material that problematizes the practice of rebuke. Tanḥuma actively reworks our b. Arakhin sugya by systematically removing those parts of the sugya that call into question Leviticus 19:17 and the practice of reproof. Tanḥuma preserves the Bavli’s version of the three anonymous glosses on Leviticus 19:17 (Section 1). However, the homily does not include the voices of the Tannaim who eschew rebuke. This half of the midrashic tradition portrayed rebuke as an impossible task that the rabbis declared themselves incapable of fulfilling. In making a strong case for the desirability of rebuke, this was excluded. Likewise, the Bavli’s debate over the relative priority of rebuke versus humility introduced by Rabbi Yehuda’s question undercuts the value of the reproof. The Tanḥuma homily thus excludes this entire section as well. While Tanḥuma avoids passages that could be construed as disparaging to the practice of rebuke, it retains part of the continuation of the Bavli sugya that qualifies the extent of rebuke. The Bavli asks the following anonymous question, providing three different answers:



b. Arakhin 16b

:‫בבלי ערכין טז‬

Until what point is rebuke? Rav45 said, “until a blow,” Shmuel said, “until a curse,” and Rabbi Yoĥanan said, “until indignation.” [These views are] like a Tannaitic debate: Rabbi Eliezer says, “until a blow,” Rabbi Yehoshua says, “until a curse,” Ben Azzai says, “until indignation.”46 Rav Naĥman said, “And the three of them derive their positions from a single scriptural source: Saul flew into a rage against Jonathan his son and said to him: ‘You son of a perverse, rebellious woman!’ (1 Sam 20:30), and it is written, Saul threw his spear at him to strike him down” (1 Sam 20:33). According to the one who said, “until a blow,” it is written, “to strike him down.” And according to the one who said, “until a curse,” it is written, to your shame, and to the shame of your mother’s nakedness!47 And according to

‫עד היכן תוכחה רב אמר עד‬ ‫הכאה ושמואל אמר עד קללה‬ ‫ורבי יוחנן אמר עד נזיפה כתנאי‬ ‫רבי אליעזר אומר עד הכאה‬ ‫רבי יהושע אומר עד קללה‬ ‫בן עזאי אומר עד נזיפה אמר‬ ‫רב נחמן בר יצחק ושלשתן‬ ‫מקרא אחד דרשו ויחר אף‬ ‫שאול ביהונתן ויאמר לו בן נעות‬ ‫המרדות וכתיב ויטל שאול‬ ‫את החנית עליו להכותו למאן‬ ‫דאמר עד הכאה דכתיב להכותו‬ ‫ולמאן דאמר עד קללה דכתיב‬ ‫לבשתך ולבושת ערות אמך‬

45 MS Vatican 119 reads ‫ רבא‬instead of ‫רב‬. Given the dating of the other two Amoraim in this dialogue, however, Rav is the preferred reading. 46 The correlation with the views of three Tannaim is missing in MS Munich but appears in all of the other extant manuscripts. 47 MS Munich provides the first part of 1 Sam 20:30 (“and said to him: ‘You son of a perverse, rebellious woman!’”) rather than the subsequent phrase “to your shame, and to the shame of your mother’s nakedness,” found in the other manuscripts.

107

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow! b. Arakhin 16b the one who said, “until indignation,” it is written, Saul flew into a rage. And according to the one who said “indignation,” is it not written “a blow” and “a curse,” [therefore why is indignation also necessary]?! That case is different: because of the great love which Jonathan had for David, he exerted himself more [than was necessary].

:‫בבלי ערכין טז‬ ‫ולמאן דאמר עד נזיפה דכתיב‬ ‫ויחר אף שאול ולמ״ד נזיפה‬ ‫הכתיב הכאה וקללה שאני‬ ‫התם דאגב חביבותא יתירא‬ ‫דהוה ביה ליהונתן בדוד מסר‬ ‫נפשיה טפי‬

The Tanḥuma homily includes part of this portion of the sugya from b. Arakhin 16b (Section 5), preserving the question, the three Amoraic responses (Rav, Shmuel, and Rabbi Yoḥanan), the statement that the three positions are derived from biblical verses, and the initial quotation of the verses. However, it leaves out the aligning of the Amoraic positions with their Tannaitic predecessors, in addition to the actual linkage between the portions of the verse and the three views. It is difficult to determine why these two aspects were neglected. The Tannaitic figures are also missing in MS Munich 95 – one of the most important manuscripts of the Talmud – so perhaps the editor of Tanḥuma was working with a version of the Talmud that did not include this material.48 However, even MS Munich 95 includes the explicit link between the biblical verses and the positions. One might hypothesize that this material was superfluous to making the broader argument for the importance of rebuke, and was thus excised to allow for a more succinct homily, or that it was missing in the editor’s Vorlage. Whatever the reason for this omission, the inclusion of most of this material from the Bavli sugya bolsters my earlier argument about the Tanḥuma homily directly reworking the Bavli sugya.49 Beyond removing material that devalues the practice of rebuke, the Tanḥuma homily nevertheless also incorporates passages from several other talmudic sugyot that encourage correcting others. Above I highlighted the three major sugyot from which Tanḥuma draws as a means to demonstrating that it was working with some version of the Talmud. A more detailed exploration of these three sections illustrates how each of them augments the importance of rebuke and the Levitical obligation. The first and shortest Bavli pericope Tanḥuma adopts is based upon a statement of Rava from b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a:

48 Hermann Leberecht Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, trans. Markus Bockmuehl (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1992), 209. 49 Tanḥuma also omits the continuation of the Bavli sugya, which discusses the endpoint for other activities such as remaining in one’s place of dwelling, and suffering. These discussions are not directly relevant to the topic of rebuke and are included in the Bavli because of the parallel language of “until what point,” which links them to the question of “until what point” must one rebuke.

108

Matthew Goldstone b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a

.‫בבלי בבא מציעא לא‬

One of the rabbis said to Rava, “Shall I say that [the word] rebuke [in Lev 19:17 implies] one time, [but the addition of the words] you will rebuke [teaches] two times?” [Rava] said to him, “[The word] rebuke [on its own] implies even a hundred times; [what do the words] you will rebuke [teach then]? [Based on the word rebuke] I know only that the teacher [should rebuke] a student. From where [do we learn that] a student [should rebuke] the teacher? The Torah says rebuke, you will rebuke – in all cases.”

‫אמר ליה ההוא מדרבנן‬ ‫לרבא ואימא הוכח חדא‬ .‫ תוכיח תרי זמני‬,‫זימנא‬ ‫אמר ליה הוכח אפילו מאה‬ ‫ תוכיח‬,‫פעמים משמע‬ ‫אין לי אלא הרב לתלמיד‬ ‫תלמיד לרב מנין תלמוד‬ ‫לומר הוכח תוכיח מכל‬ ‫מקום‬

The first half of the Bavli’s version, which derives the number of times one should rebuke, is reminiscent of the requirement for continual attempts that appears in the midrashic tradition on Leviticus 19:17. Tanḥuma already included a version of this gloss in the form of repeating a rebuke when the other party does not heed it (Section 1). Consequently, this opening interpretation is unnecessary, and only the second half of this tradition is imported into Tanḥuma (Section 2): “It was taught [in a baraita (‫])ותניא‬: You will rebuke, [from this] I know only that the teacher [should rebuke] a student. From where [do we learn that] a student [should rebuke] the teacher? The Torah says rebuke, you will rebuke – in all cases.” Although the content of this gloss is taken verbatim from b. Bava Metz‘ia 31a, it is no longer attributed to Rava. Instead the passage is now marked as a Tannaitic source (‫)תניא‬. Altering the introductory marker not only upgrades the authority of this tradition from an Amoraic to a Tannaitic dictum, but also locates it as an organic continuation of the preceding midrashic glosses on Leviticus 19:17, which are also Tannaitic (in Section 1). On a substantive level, this tradition also augments the force of rebuke by expanding the scope of the obligation. The biblical law used the language of “brother” (‫ )אחיך‬and b. Arakhin added another gloss with the word “fellow” (‫)חבירו‬. Both of these terms denote someone of similar social status. By expanding the obligation to include rebuking a teacher, this additional gloss now mandates confronting a superior, a more demanding requirement. Bavli Shabbat 54b is the next major source Tanḥuma employs. The first part of this material is basically copied verbatim (Section 3): b. Shabbat 54b Whoever is able to protest against the people of his household and does not protest is caught [in the sin] of the people of his household. [Whoever is able to protest against] the people of his city [and does not protest] is caught [in the sin] of the people of his city. [Whoever is able to protest against] the entire

:‫בבלי שבת נד‬ ‫כל מי שאפשר למחות‬ ‫לאנשי ביתו ולא מיחה‬ ,‫נתפס על אנשי ביתו‬ ‫באנשי עירו נתפס על‬ ‫ בכל העולם‬,‫אנשי עירו‬

109

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow! b. Shabbat 54b

:‫בבלי שבת נד‬

world [and does not protest] is caught [in the sin] of the entire world.50

‫כולו נתפס על כל העולם‬ ‫כולו‬

Protesting (‫ה‬.‫ח‬.‫)מ‬, rather than rebuking (‫ח‬.‫כ‬.‫)י‬, is the primary topic of this section. However, Tanḥuma (Section 3) introduces this material with a line that connects it to the previous glosses on Leviticus 19:17 and frames it as a discussion of rebuke: “And one who does not rebuke (‫ )מוכח‬is caught in that very sin (‫)בההוא עון‬, as the master said, ‘Whoever is able to protest against the people of his household and does not protest is caught [in the sin] of the people of his household.’” By adding the simple connecting line, “And one who does not rebuke is caught in that very sin,” Tanḥuma is able to maintain the original language of the b. Shabbat 54b passage, simultaneously transforming it into a directly relevant comment on rebuke that links to the biblical obligation. While the Levitical injunction provided a positive impetus to practice rebuke, this new Amoraic passage highlights the detriments of failing to perform. Not only does a bystander who refrains from rebuking fail to perform a commandment, but he or she also incurs sin as a result. In the midrash on Leviticus 19:17, the sin (‫ )חטא‬was understood as embarrassing the offending party (or causing their countenance to change). By contrast, in Tanḥuma the sin (‫ )עון‬now becomes that of the original offender, which is the responsibility of anyone who fails to rebuke them. Tanḥuma thus shifts the nature of the sin from an inappropriate rebuke to the act of refraining from reproof. Moreover, according to this homily, one is liable not only for one’s fellow or one’s teacher, but for everyone in the entire world as well. Tanḥuma thus crescendos from the localized confrontations of friend and teacher in the glosses on Leviticus 19:17 (Sections 1 and 2) to an open-­ended responsibility for one’s entire city and the entire world (Section 3). The threefold progression from household to city to world is followed in the Bavli by a statement attributed to Rav Papa that the exilarch’s household is caught [in the sins] of the whole world. Tanḥuma skips this statement, possibly because it could be taken as limiting the scope of the responsibility for rebuking the world to those in a position of power (such as the exilarch).51 The passage in Tanḥuma resumes (Section 4) with a remark attributed to Rabbi Ḥanina concerning Isaiah 3:14 (“The Lord will bring this charge against the elders 50 There are a number of minor manuscript variants for this sugya, however, most of them do not change the sense of the passage and are not directly relevant. 51 Alternatively, perhaps the editor(s) compiled this homily in a geographic location that was not under the control of the Babylonian exilarch, or which had a negative relationship with the exilarch.

110

Matthew Goldstone

and officers of His people”), which interprets the word “elders” in this verse to mean that even the elders are guilty of not protesting against the people. Using Ezekiel 9 as a springboard, the continuation of the homily declares that even the most righteous individuals often fail at rebuke. Introducing a parable in which Strict Justice (‫ )דין‬asks God why the righteous are different from the wicked, Justice suggests that even the completely righteous have failed to rebuke the wicked. God retorts that it is known that protesting against the wicked would have been ineffective, and therefore the righteous cannot be held accountable. Justice counters that just because God has access to this information does not mean that the righteous do – and therefore they cannot be exempt from the necessity of trying to protest. God concedes the point and allows everyone, including the righteous, to be punished. While b. Shabbat moves on to discuss other verses in Ezekiel 9, Tanḥuma summarizes the main point that “you learn that even the completely righteous are caught [in the sins] of the generation.” Citing Ezekiel 21:8, Tanḥuma specifies that the righteous sin because they refrain from protesting against the wicked. The overall message of this excerpt from b. Shabbat (in Sections 3 and 4) is that everyone (including the elders and the righteous) is responsible for everyone else (including the wicked). The final sugya that our Tanḥuma homily draws from the Bavli appears on b. Tamid 28a. According to the Talmud (b. Tamid 27b–28a), a certain man appointed for overseeing the Temple Mount would make rounds of the different watches to ensure that everyone was awake. If he found someone asleep, he was permitted to hit them or burn their clothing. After describing this situation, the Talmud quotes a baraita in the name of Rebbi: b. Tamid 28a

.‫בבלי תמיד כח‬

It was taught, Rebbi says, “What is the proper path that ‫ איזו היא דרך‬:‫ רבי אומר‬,‫תניא‬ a person should choose? Love rebukes, for as long as ‫ישרה שיבור לו האדם יאהב את‬ rebukes are in the world comfort comes to the world, ‫ שכל זמן שתוכחות‬,‫התוכחות‬ goodness and blessing come to the world, and evil ,‫בעולם נחת רוח באה לעולם‬ departs from the world; as it says, But it shall go well with ‫ ורעה‬,‫טובה וברכה באין לעולם‬ the rebukers;52 Blessings of good things will light upon them” ‫ שנאמר‬,‫מסתלקת מן העולם‬ (Prov 24:25). And there are those who say, “He will‫ולמוכיחים ינעם ועליהם תבא‬ strengthen [them] with extra faith as it says, My eyes are ‫ יחזיק‬:‫ ויש אומרים‬.‫ברכת טוב‬ on the trusty men of the land, to have them at my side etc.” ‫ שנאמר עיני‬,‫באמונה יתירה‬ (Ps 101:6). Rabbi Shmuel bar Naĥmani said that Rabbi .‫בנאמני ארץ לשבת עמדי וגו׳‬ Yonatan said, “Whoever rebukes his fellow for the sake of ‫אמר רבי שמואל בר נחמני אמר‬ heaven merits a portion of the Holy One Blessed Be He, ‫ כל המוכיח את חבירו‬:‫ר׳ יונתן‬ as it says, He who reproves a man will in the end [find more ‫לשם שמים זוכה לחלקו של‬



52 I have deviated here from the NJPS translation in order to capture the meaning of the Hebrew word ‫ולמוכיחים‬.

111

You Must Rebuke Your Fellow! b. Tamid 28a

.‫בבלי תמיד כח‬

favor than he who flatters him] (Prov 28:23); and not only this, but they draw out for him a thread of lovingkindness, as it says, Find more favor than he who flatters him.”

‫ שנאמר‬,‫הקדוש ברוך הוא‬ ‫ ולא עוד אלא‬,‫מוכיח אדם אחרי‬ ,‫שמושכין עליו חוט של חסד‬ .‫שנאמר חן ימצא ממחליק לשון‬

Appearing toward the end of Tanḥuma’s extended discussion of rebuke (Section 6), this passage drives home the point that rebuke is a highly positive and desirable practice. Loving rebuke is the “proper path” (‫ )דרך ישרה‬that a person should choose in life, as rebuke brings all sorts of benefits to the world and removes evil from the world. Following the citation of Prov 24:25, Tanḥuma introduces an additional gloss on this verse not found in the b. Tamid parallel: “for the rebuker and for the one rebuked” (‫)על המוכיח ועל המתוכח‬. Observing that the plural form of the word “rebukers” (‫ )מוכיחים‬is used in Proverbs, the homily specifies that both parties benefit from the act of rebuke.53 The end of this section brings the words of Rabbi Yonatan, that proper rebuke (i.e., for the sake of heaven) provides the rebuker with a portion of the Divine – perhaps gesturing toward the eschatological or the world to come. Overall, while previous sections of Tanḥuma’s discussion of rebuke focused upon the nature of the obligation, here we find an emphasis on the value of the practice and the rewards in store for the one who chooses to pursue it.

Conclusion By excluding the major passages of the b. Arakhin sugya that call the practice of rebuke into question and by introducing several additional pro-­rebuke passages from elsewhere in the Talmud, Tanḥuma redirects the message of the tradition that originally appeared in Sifra and that was preserved in the Bavli. Tanḥuma constructs a homily from the building blocks of earlier material, fashioning a new message that cuts against previous rabbinic anxiety toward the biblical obligation to rebuke one’s fellow. This example thus provides a clear case in which Tanḥuma not only used material from the Bavli, but actively subverted the Bavli’s message. Methodologically, my argument also establishes a set of criteria for demonstrating that a given homily in Tanḥuma reworked material from the Bavli. First, 53 While there do not appear to be parallels to this gloss in the Bavli, we do find a more extended version of this tradition in Devarim Rabbah, another work that includes Tanḥuma Yelammedenu material. The Vilna printed edition and Lieberman’s edition of Devarim Rabbah differ in the first couple of sections in which this material appears (see Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 307–8).

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it is important to ascertain the stratum (or strata) of Tanḥuma to which the homily belongs. Since the homily in Mishpatim 7 only appears in the printed edition of Tanḥuma it belongs to the latest stratum and thus likely post-­dates the redaction of the Talmud. Second, if there are several examples of passages from the Bavli that appear in the midrash, this indicates that the homily was not only compiled after the main editing of the Talmud, but had a version of the Bavli available.54 As our homily draws upon several sugyot from various tractates (Shabbat, Tamid, Bava Metz‘ia, and possibly Avodah Zarah) it likely had access to most of the Talmud. Third, if there are other rabbinic parallels, it is crucial to show that the version in Tanḥuma aligns with that of the Bavli rather than with the other sources. In our example, the Tanḥuma homily regularly aligned with the Bavli sugya when it diverged from the parallel in Sifra. Finally, if the Tanḥuma source excludes material found in the sugya, which might indicate that the sugya was only available in an embryonic stage, it is important to proffer a rationale for why this material might have intentionally been excised from the full sugya. As I have argued, Tanḥuma intentionally subverted the Bavli’s disparaging presentation of rebuke and thus actively excluded those passages which contributed to this message. There is much work to be done in investigating the relationship between Midrash Tanḥuma (as well as other early medieval midrashic collections) and the Babylonian Talmud. The present article has offered one extended example to highlight the sophisticated literary construction of a Tanḥuma homily from earlier Bavli sources. The several stages of argumentation provide a map for future research into the relationship between the Babylonian Talmud and Midrash Tanḥuma.

Acknowledgements The preparation and publication of this article was made possible by a grant from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture.

54 While the Bavli continued to acquire accretions throughout the gaonic and early medieval periods, the main editorial activity that produced the Babylonian Talmud most likely occurred prior to the rise of Islam. Even if during the time of the Geonim the Talmud continued to circulate and be studied primarily as an oral, rather than written, work, it likely existed in a relatively stable form – to the extent that the Geonim were already generating derivate works such as She’iltot, Halakhot Pesuqot, and Halakhot Gedolot.

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11: The Time and Place of Job and His Friends and the Composition of the Book of Job* Eran Viezel

Ben-­Gurion University of the Negev In the early 1140s, while living in Rome, Abraham ibn Ezra wrote a commentary on the Book of Job.1 In his remarks on Job 2:11, Ibn Ezra situates Eliphaz the Temanite chronologically, notes that the rabbis ascribed authorship of the Book of Job to Moses, and suggests that the book was translated into Hebrew from another language. These assertions are well known to scholars and interpreters of Ibn Ezra, and his suggestion that Job is a translated book has been widely cited.2 Nevertheless, Ibn Ezra’s position has not been elucidated in depth. In what follows, I hope to fill this lacuna. In the first section, I will analyze Ibn Ezra’s commentary on this verse in detail. As I will explain, Ibn Ezra’s position, that Job is a translated work, is unique. In the second section, I will point out the considerations that led him to this conclusion. In the final section, I will discuss the place of this assertion in the history of the book’s interpretation.

* This research was supported by the Israel Science Foundation (grant No. 1055/17). I am grateful to Prof. Sara Japhet for her important comments on earlier drafts of this article. 1 Shlomo Sela and Gad Freudenthal, “Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Scholarly Writings: A Chronological Listing,” Aleph 6 (2006): 25. 2 See, inter alia, Nachman Krochmal, ‫( מורה נבוכי הזמן‬Lemberg: Wolf, 1863), 36; Michael Friedlaender, Essays on the Writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra (London: Society of Hebrew Literature, 1877), 59; David Rosin, “Die Religionsphilosphie Abraham Ibn Esra’s,” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 43 (1899): 25; Judah Leib Fleischer, “‫רבינו אברהם אבן עזרא‬ ‫”ועבודתו הספרותית בעיר רומא‬, Otsar ha-­Ḥayim 9 (1932): 19; Jacob Reifmann, ‫עיונים במשנת הראב״ע‬ (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1962), 74; Avi Hurvitz, ‫ לשון המקרא בימי בית שני‬:‫בין לשון ללשון‬ (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1972), 30, n. 52; David Biale, “Exegesis and Philosophy in the Writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra,” Comitatus 5 (1974): 44, n. 5; Ezra Zion Melamed, ‫ דרכיהם‬:‫מפרשי המקרא‬ ‫( ושיטותיהם‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1978), 528; Uriel Simon, ‫ארבע גישות לספר‬ ‫ מר׳ סעדיה גאון עד ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא‬:‫( תהלים‬Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University, 1982), 166; idem, ‫אזן‬ ‫ מחקרים בדרכו הפרשנית של ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא‬:‫( מלין תבחן‬Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University, 2013), 284; Tony Maalouf, Arabs in the Shadow of Israel: The Unfolding of God’s Prophetic Plan for Ishmael’s Line (Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2003), 274, n. 4. The commentary is also mentioned in encyclopedia entries dealing with Ibn Ezra and Job, in several monographs and studies on Job, and in several modern commentaries on the book.

113

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Eran Viezel

Ibn Ezra’s Commentary to Job 2:11 In his commentary to Job 2:11, Ibn Ezra writes as follows: Eliphaz the Temanite – from the family of Teman, the son of Eliphaz, the son of Esau. And I think, he was close to the days of Moses, so he was not named after Teman, but after generations. Our sages said that Moses wrote the Book of Job, but it seems to me that it is a translated book, because it is difficult to interpret, as all translated books are.3 Ibn Ezra deals here with two distinct issues – the period of Eliphaz the Temanite, and the question of the composition of the Book of Job. Ibn Ezra’s determination of the period of Eliphaz is connected to his determination of the period of Job and his friends, and it necessitates a comparison to his other commentaries. His position on the question of the composition of the Book of Job also becomes clearer through comparison with additional statements in his commentaries and books. I will discuss these two issues in two separate sections. As will become clear, Ibn Ezra’s opinion that the Book of Job is a translated work is connected to the question of the period and location of Job and his friends.

“Eliphaz the Temanite [ . . . ] he was close to the days of Moses”: The Period of Job and His Friends Ibn Ezra identifies Eliphaz the Temanite with the family of Teman, the grandson of Esau, mentioned in the Book of Genesis.4 In his view, the descriptor ‫התימני‬ (“the Temanite”) – “Teman” + “possessive yud” (‫)יו״ד היחס‬5 – is plausible only “after generations [have passed].” In Ibn Ezra’s terminology, the word “genera



3 I have cited the commentary as it appears in the electronic edition of ‫מקראות גדולות ״הכתר״‬. See also the following critical editions: Mariano Gómez Aranda, El comentario de Abraham ibn Ezra al libro de Job: Edición crítica, traducción y estudio introductorio (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2004), 10*; Mordechai Saul Goodman, ] . . . [ ‫ספר איוב עם פירושי אבן עזרא‬ ‫ חילופי גירסאות וליקוטים‬,‫ הערות וביאורים‬,‫( יוצא לאור על פי כתבי־יד עם מבוא‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 2010), 49–50, 386. 4 “These are the names of Esau’s sons: Eliphaz the son of Adah,” etc., “And the sons of Eliphaz were Teman” etc., Gen 36:10–11. 5 Ibn Ezra, long commentary to Gen 1:27; cf. “[A ‫ ]יו״ד‬at the end of the word signals [ . . . ] attribution of an ancestor or city, like ‫‘( ראובני‬Reubenite’) or ‫‘( שומרוני‬Samarian’);” ‫ספר מאזנים‬, ed. Lorenzo Jiménez Patón and Ángel Sáenz-­Badillos (Córdoba: El Almendro, 2002), 23*; Mordechai Saul Goodman, ed. (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 2016), 34. “There is also a possessive ‫יו״ד‬, like ‫‘( ישראלי‬Israelite’), ‫‘( שומרני‬Samarian’), ascribing an ancestor or city;” ‫שפה ברורה‬, ed. Gabriel Hirsch Lippmann (Fürth: D. J. Zürndorffer, 1839), 29b; Enrique Ruiz González, ed. (Córdoba: El Almendro, 2004); and see his comments on Exod 1:16; 3:18 (the long commentary).

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115

tion” does not refer to a fixed number of years (in his commentary to Joel 1:3 he writes that “a generation is not a known number”); rather, an individual’s death is what constitutes the passing of a generation.6 It seems that according to Ibn Ezra this kind of ascription of relation to Teman is possible only after Teman has come to be perceived as the progenitor of a known dynasty, which would be more than a single generation (“generations”, ‫ )דורות‬after his death.7 Several commentators who preceded Ibn Ezra placed Eliphaz the Temanite earlier in time.8 It is possible that Ibn Ezra’s assertion that Eliphaz lived more than a single generation later than the generation of Teman is intended to refute the suggestions made by his predecessors. Ibn Ezra asserts that the historical period of Eliphaz the Temanite was “close





6 See, inter alia: “‫ דור‬from the root ‘Than to dwell [‫ ]מדור‬in the tents of wickedness’ [Ps 84:11] – which is the time he dwells in this world”; Ibn Ezra’s long commentary on Gen 6:9 (and in his commentary on Ps 84:11: “‫ – מדור‬like ‫[ לגור‬to reside] in the Aramaic language”); “‫ דור‬is like dwell, as in ‘Than to dwell [‫ ]מדור‬in the tents of wickedness’ [ . . . ] the extent of time that man dwells in his lifetime, and it can be long or short”; Ibn Ezra on Gen 15:16. 7 Jonah Filwarg suggested that Ibn Ezra sought to emphasize that Eliphaz the Temanite did not live many generations after Teman; idem, ‫( ספר בני רשף‬Piotrkow: Belchatowski, 1900), 119. It does not seem to me that there is substance to this claim. 8 Rashi identified Eliphaz the Temanite with Eliphaz the son of Esau, father of Teman; see Rashi’s commentary to Job 4:1, and he also alludes to this in his commentary to Gen 29:11. In addition, cf., inter alia, Tanḥuma, ed. Shlomo Buber, ‫וירא‬, 38, p. 108. Conversely, Sa‘adia Gaon and Yefet ben ‘Ali suggested that Eliphaz the Temanite was the son of Teman and the grandson of Eliphaz the son of Esau; see Rasag on Job 1:1, ed.Yosef Kapach (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1973), 23, for English translation see Lenn Evan Goodman, The Book of Theodicy: Translation and Commentary on the Book of Job by Saadiah Ben Joseph Al-­Fayyūmī (New Haven: Yale, 1988), 151, and Yefet on Job 2:11; Haggai Ben Shammai, “‫( ”פירושו הערבי של יפת בן עלי לאיוב א–ה‬master’s thesis; Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1969), 61–62. On Ibn Ezra’s familiarity with the commentaries on Job by Rashi, Sa‘adia Gaon, and Yefet ben ‘Ali, see: Ben Shammai, ibid., 149–50; Julius Galliner, Abraham Ibn Esra’s Hiobkommentar auf seine Quellen untersucht (Berlin: H. Itzkowski, 1901), 11; Mariano Gómez Aranda, “La influencia de Saadiá Gaón en el Comentario de Abraham ibn Ezrá al libro de Job,” Sefarad 67 (2007): 51–69. A series of suggestions regarding the identity of Job, his historical period, and his location is presented on b. Bava Batra 15a–b. Some of these suggestions place him very early, and of course this implies an early placement of Eliphaz the Temanite as well: “Job was contemporary with Moses [ . . . ] Job was in the time of Isaac [ . . . ] in the time of Jacob [ . . . ] in the time of Joseph [ . . . ] in the time of the spies.” Alongside this, one also finds the suggestion that “Job did not exist and was not created, but rather was a parable.” A detailed list of suggestions is also found in Genesis Rabbah, 57:4 (ed. Theodor and Albeck 614–17): “When was Job? [ . . . ] in the time of Abraham [ . . . ] in the time of Jacob [ . . . ] when [the Children of Israel] left Egypt [ . . . ] in the time of the Judges [ . . . ] in the time of the Chaldeans [ . . . ] in the time of the Queen of Sheba [ . . . ] in the time of Ahasuerus,” and here, too, the sequence ends with the statement that “Job did not exist and was not created” (ibid.). For greater detail on the traditional stance regarding the identities and historical period of the characters who take part in the story of Job see Hananel Mack, ‫ איוב בספרות הבית השני ובעיני חז״ל‬:‫( ״אלא משל היה״‬Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan, 2004) especially 48–62, 69–86, 96–103.

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to the days of Moses.”9 The Hebrew expression he employs, ‫“( קרוב מ־‬close from”) is equivalent to the modern Hebrew ‫“(­קרוב ל־‬close to”); that is, Ibn Ezra is asserting that Eliphaz the Temanite lived close to the days of Moses – either before him or after him.10 Indeed, this usage appears frequently in Ibn Ezra’s writings, for example in his long commentary to Exodus 2:2, which is quite similar to his commentary to Job 2:11: “close to the time of Moses’s birth [‫והנה‬ ‫]קרוב מילידת (=להולדת) משה‬.”11 For a proper understanding of Ibn Ezra’s statements and his determination of the historical period of Eliphaz, Ibn Ezra’s short commentary on Exodus 9:20 is of some importance: “He that feared the word of the Lord – According to the homiletic interpretation [‫]בדרש‬, this refers to Job, but, in my opinion, he lived prior to this time.” Ibn Ezra refers here to a midrash which identifies Job as one of Pharaoh’s slaves,12 and, in his view, Job was active “prior to this time,” that is, before Moses’s activities in Egypt. This chronological description is consistent with Ibn Ezra’s discussion in the Book of the Name (‫)ספר השם‬: And this name [Jehova] was not known in the world except to a few pious men, until Moses, our teacher appeared. You see that we do not find it in the words of Job or his friends.13



9 “‫”קרוב מימי משה‬. Another manuscript has “‫“( ”קרוב אליו בימי משה‬close to him in the days of Moses”), however this seems to be an error in transcription. This version could be connected to another manuscript, which reads: “‫“( ”והקרוב אלי שהיה קרוב מימי משה‬it seems most likely to me that he was close to the days of Moses”). Alternatively, perhaps these words were repeated because of what follows in the text: “‫“( ”והקרוב אלי כי הוא ספר מתורגם‬it seems most likely to me that it is a translated book.”) 10 Thus Rosin, “Religionsphilosphie,” 25; Fleischer, “‫רבינו‬,” 19; Goodman, ‫איוב‬, 50, n. 18; and also Gómez Aranda, Job, 21, and in his translation he implies that, in Ibn Ezra’s view, Eliphaz lived precisely at the time of Moses: “Lo más probable es que viviera en la época de Moisés.” Conversely, Isaac Sarim suggests that the phrase “‫“( ”שהיה קרוב מימי משה‬that he was close to the days of Moses”) is a defective phrase which ought to be understood as implying a pronoun – “‫קרוב‬ ‫“( ”[לנו] מימי משה‬close[r] to [us than] the days of Moses”); that is, that Ibn Ezra’s view was that Eliphaz the Temanite lived after the time of Moses; idem, ‫( ספר הדר עזר‬Izmir: A. Di Shigura, 1865), 120a. 11 Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 619, sees the expression “‫“( ”­קרוב מ־‬close from”) in the sense of “‫“( ”­קרוב ל־‬close to”) as an example of the influence of the Arabic language on Ibn Ezra’s Hebrew. Indeed, the preposition used in Arabic is always “min” (“from”) – as in “qarīb min,” or as the imperfect verb – “yaqrab min.” 12 “Those among Pharaoh’s courtiers who feared the Lord’s word [brought their slaves and livestock indoors to safety (Exod 9:20)] – that was Job, ‘But those who paid no regard [to the word of the Lord’ (Exod 9:21)] – that was Pharaoh and his people;” Exodus Rabbah, 12:2, ed. Avigdor Shinan (Jerusalem: Devir, 1984), 246, and cf. y. Sotah 5:5 (20: d). 13 ‫ספר השם‬, ed. Israel Levin (New York: Keren Israel Katz, 1985), 427. Concerning the appearance of the Tetragrammaton in the verse “Then the Lord replied to Job” (Job 38:1, and see also Job

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117

On this account, the events of the Book of Job transpired before Moses’s activities in Egypt and the disclosure of the Tetragrammaton.14 This being the case, Ibn Ezra’s assertion, in his commentary to Job 2:11, that Eliphaz the Temanite “was close to the days of Moses” should be taken to mean near the time of Moses, but not later than the time of Moses. Also important for determining the precise period of the events in the Book of Job is a remark in Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Genesis 36:32–33, in which he rejects the identification of Job with Jobab: “Jobab the son of Zerach is not Job, as Yitzchaki, the prater, said.”15 Ibn Ezra rejects this identification once again in his commentary to Job 1:1: “One who says that he [=Job] is Jobab, son of Zerah from Bozrah, might have seen this in a dream. It has no support either in the words of the prophets or in the words of our sages, of blessed memory.” Nevertheless, he asserts there that Job, like Jobab, was a descendant of Esau: “It seems most likely to me that he was among the descendants of Esau.”16 From Genesis 36:17, one can conclude that Jobab the son of Zerah was Esau’s great-­grandson, and that he lived only one generation after Teman. This piece of genealogical information is not consistent with Ibn Ezra’s assertion, in his commentary to Job 2:11, that Eliphaz the Temanite would only be described as part of the line of Teman “after generations.” In this context, it is worth noting that the possibility that an individual might be known by two different names – typically similar names like Job/Jobab – is well attested in rabbinic midrash and in medieval commentaries.17 Ibn Ezra himself also posited instances in which an individual might be known by two, or even three, different names,18 and in 40:1, 6) see ibid., and below. Ibn Ezra does not say anything about the appearance of the Tetragrammaton in Job 12:9. 14 Interestingly, precisely the same evidence with regard to the place of the Tetragrammaton in the Book of Job led the editor of Rabbenu Baḥya’s commentary on Job to the opposite conclusion: “You will not find Job mentioning the Tetragrammaton but rather such divine names as ‫אל‬, ‫אלהים‬, or ‫אדוני‬, or ‫שדי‬, and in light of this it would be appropriate for them to attribute the Book of Job to Moses our Master, peace be upon him.” “Rabbenu Baḥya on Job” in ‫צרור חיבורי קדמונים על ספר‬ ‫( איוב‬Jerusalem: Ketav Yad vaSefer, 2003), 4. For the formulation of Rabbenu Baḥya, see ‫ספר כד‬ ‫הקמח‬, 5§ (Levov: Margashish, 1880), 70: a-­b. 15 See Simon, ‫אזן‬, 283–84, and for all of Ibn Ezra’s comments condemning Yitzhaki, ibid., 275–98. 16 For greater detail on the connections between Job and Esau, see the next section. 17 The tradition which identifies Job with Jobab apparently also identifies Zophar with Zepho (Gen 36:11), and Bildad with Bedad (Gen 36:35). This interpretative tradition is known from the colophon at the end of the version of Job that appears in the Septuagint (see below), and from the opening of the Testament of Job: “Book of Job, called Jobab,” ibid., 2:1: “I, Job, before the Lord called me Jobab.” 18 See Ibn Ezra on Gen 13:7: “Conceivably this Perizzite was one of the sons of Canaan mentioned [Gen 10:15–17], and he had two names, just as we found two names for Samuel’s son [1 Sam 8:2; 1 Chr 6:13], and three names for his father’s father [1 Sam 1:1; 1 Chr 6:12, 19],” and cf. his comment on Dan 1:1.

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principle he did not categorically deny the phenomenon of various kinds of “letter variations,”19 though he seldom made use of this interpretative avenue.20 It thus seems that Ibn Ezra rejected the identification of Job with Jobab based on his view of the chronological order of events. Together, these statements by Ibn Ezra enable us to determine his precise view on the historical period of Job and his friends. There are five generations from Jacob to Moses: Jacob – Levi – Kohath – Amram – Moses. Esau lived at the same time as Jacob. Eliphaz the son of Esau is of the same generation as Levi. Teman the son of Eliphaz, and Zerah the father of Jobab, are both of the generation of Kohath. Jobab and the sons of Teman are of the generation of Amram. As noted, Ibn Ezra thought it possible for Eliphaz to be called “the Temanite” only “after generations.” The generation of Jobab the son of Teman is not sufficiently far from Teman – this is the lower limit in determining the historical period of Eliphaz the Temanite. The upper limit is the time of the activities of Moses in Egypt and the disclosure of the Tetragrammaton. It follows from all of this that Eliphaz the Temanite should be identified as Teman’s grandson, a contemporary of Moses who probably flourished slightly before Moses’s actions and the four-­letter name of God were made known to the people. Eliphaz the Temanite is thus named after his great-­grandfather, Eliphaz the son of Esau, and called “the Temanite” after his grandfather, Teman the son of Eliphaz. This assertion regarding the chronological placement of the events described in Job receives additional confirmation from another angle. In his commentary to Job 32:2, Ibn Ezra discusses the origins of “Elihu son of Barachel the Buzite, of the family of Ram”: The Buzite – among the children of Nahor, brother of Abraham: “and Buz his brother” [Gen 22:21]. It is possible he was a son through his mother’s family, like Jair son of Manasseh [Num 32:41] who was among the sons of



19 That is, letter variants due to phonetical or graphical similarity, metathesis, repetition of letters or omission of repeated letters; Ilan Eldar, ‫ טקסטים ומחקרים‬:‫( הבלשנות העברית בימי הביניים‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2016), 57–81. For examples and discussion of the different approaches of commentators and grammarians to these phenomena, see especially Maaravi Perez, “,‫ עיונים מיתודיים וטיפולוגיים ובדיקת קווי התפתחות בהשוואה לרס״ג‬:‫פרשנותו הפילולוגית של ר׳ יהודה אבן בלעם‬ ‫( ”בעיקר על פי פירושיהם – תרגומיהם לספר ישעיה‬PhD diss., Bar-­Ilan University, 1978), 327–406; idem, “‫”יישום האמצעי 'חילוף אותיות' בפירושי רב סעדיה גאון‬, Tarbiz 52 (1983): 515–22. On the close connection between the variation of names in the Bible and the phenomenon of letter variations, see Eran Viezel, “‫ המתודולוגיה הפרשנית של מחבר הפירוש המיוחס לתלמיד של רס״ג לספר דברי‬:‫שיטת ׳הקשרים הדקים׳‬ ‫”הימים‬, Hebrew Union College Annual 81 (2010): 65*–83*. 20 For Ibn Ezra’s position on name changes in the Bible, see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 165–68. For his position on letter variations, see ibid., 164, n. 60; Luba R. Charlap, ‫ מסורת‬:‫תורת הלשון של רבי אברהם אבן־­עזרא‬ ‫( וחידוש‬Jerusalem: Ben-­Gurion, 1999), 48–53; Maaravi Perez, “‫׳חילוף אותיות׳ בפרשנותו של ר׳ אברהם‬ ‫”אבן עזרא‬, Studies in Bible and Exegesis V (2000): 249–69.

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

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Judah, as explained in Chronicles [1 Chr 2:21–22]. Of the family of Ram – it is likely that this is the father of Amminadab, among the children of Israel. As I will explain in the next section, Ibn Ezra also identified Job as being a descendant of Nahor. As noted, however, he saw Job as belonging to the descendants of Esau, while he identified Elihu as an Israelite.21 Ibn Ezra identifies the “family of Ram” with the figure of Ram the father of Amminadab, among the ancestors of King David (Ruth 4:19–22).22 The daughter of Amminadab, Elisheba, “mother of the priesthood,”23 is Aaron’s wife and the sister of Nahshon, leader of the tribe of Judah.24 It follows that Ibn Ezra located Elihu in the generation of Aaron and Elisheba, as well as of Moses, and in the same period as Job and Eliphaz the Temanite.25

“It seems to me that [Job] is a translated book” Ibn Ezra saw fit to locate the historical period of Eliphaz the Temanite in relation to Moses, rather than to any other biblical character, on account of a tradition appearing on b. Bava Batra 14b which ascribes the writing of Job to Moses: “Moses wrote his book, and the portion of Balaam and Job.” Having alluded to this tradition, Ibn Ezra saw fit to say something regarding the composition of the book. The expression, “‫( ”והקרוב אלי‬lit. “and what is closest to me”) means “it seems to me,” or “in my opinion.”26 This expression is taken by many to suggest extra 21 The identification of Elihu as an Israelite is found in a number of midrashim and medieval commentaries. It is emphasized in Rashi’s commentary to b. Avodah Zarah 3a. The Talmud mentions Elihu along with a series of non-­Jews, and Rashi notes that this must be a defective edition of the text, since it is not consistent with b. Bava Batra 15b, which states that Elihu was an Israelite: “Our version does not state that he was an Israelite, as is explained in Bava Batra.” 22 This identification is well known; see, inter alia, Rashbam on Job 32:2, and Sara Japhet, ‫פירוש ר׳‬ ‫( שמואל בן מאיר (רשב״ם) לספר איוב‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), 63, 121–22. 23 Genesis Rabbah, 97:8, ed. Theodor and Albeck, 1209. 24 Cf. Ibn Ezra’s long commentary on Exod 6:23. 25 Ibn Ezra’s suggestion that Elihu was named after his “mother’s family” might be intended to explain why we do not have more information about Barachel, and on this point the genealogical tree of Jair son of Manasseh is highly relevant. Jair was the grandson of Hezron father of Ram, and in fact he branches off from the same line as Elihu. However, Jair is referred to as a son of Manasseh, who was the grandfather of his grandmother (daughter of Machir), and not as a descendant of Judah, who was the grandfather of his grandfather. Ibn Ezra provides detail on this lineage in his commentary on Num 32:41: “Jair son of Manasseh – Is from the family of Judah, as is written, namely, Hezron took the daughter of Machir the son of Manasseh, and begot Segub by her, and Segub begot Jair, who had cities in the land of Gilead [1 Chr 2:21–22]; and he is referred to by his mother’s family’s name.” 26 Eliezer Ben-­Yehuda, ‫( מלון הלשון העברית הישנה והחדשה‬Jerusalem: Makor, 1980), 6166–67.

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cautiousness, and even a degree of hesitation – perhaps due to the influence of the expression, “‫קרוב בעיני‬,” known from modern Hebrew. However, this expression appears frequently in Ibn Ezra’s writings (dozens of times), and it is quite often accompanied by a decisive textual proof, indicating Ibn Ezra’s confidence in his position.27 Ibn Ezra’s statement, “it seems to me (‫)והקרוב אלי‬ that [the Book of Job] is a translated book,” should thus be taken as expressing a firmly-­held position, and his words should not be understood as conveying deliberation.28 According to Ibn Ezra, Job was translated into Hebrew from another language, and this process left its mark: Job is “a translated book, because it is difficult to interpret, as all translated books are.” The expression, “difficult to interpret” (“‫ )”קשה בפירוש‬is also used by Ibn Ezra in his long commentary to Exodus 6:3: “the word ‫ שדי‬is difficult to interpret.” Ibn Ezra notes there that Sa‘adia Gaon derived the Divine Name ‫ שדי‬from the word “‫“( ”די‬sufficient”) and the letter “‫ שי״ן‬was added,”29 and he rejects this suggestion on logical-­theological grounds: “I cannot ascertain what it means from this, for how can God be called ‘He who is sufficient’ (‫ ”!?)אשר די‬Further on, Ibn Ezra explains that the root of the word “‫ ”שדי‬is sh-­d-­d (‫)שד״ד‬: “the ‫ יו״ד‬is in place of the double letter,” and he provides two examples of this grammatical phenomenon.30 He mentions the suggestion by Samuel the Nagid that “‫ ”שדי‬be equated with the Arabic term “‫“( ”אלקאהר‬al-­ qāhir”), that is, “victorious and resolute,”31 and asserts that he “explained well.”32





27 Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 619, suggests that Ibn Ezra’s use of this expression is also a result of the influence of the Arabic language. 28 In this context, it is worth noting MS Parma 2/728, 2395, which has “‫“( ”והנכון בעיני‬what is right in my eyes”) instead of “‫ ;”והקרוב אלי‬Goodman, ‫איוב‬, 386. 29 Sa‘adia Gaon translated the word “‫ ”שדי‬into Arabic as “‫“( ”אלכאפי‬al-­kāfiy”), the “Sufficient One,” that is, the one who provides for the world’s needs sufficiently; see Yosef Kapach, ‫פירושי רבינו‬ ‫( סעדיה גאון על התורה‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1984), 37, n. 2. This understanding has a long interpretative history; cf. “What is the meaning of the verse, ‘I am God Almighty (‫’?)שדי‬ [Gen 17:1]. [It means], I am He that said to the world: enough! (‫ ;”)די‬b. Ḥagigah 12: a, and see, inter alia, Genesis Rabbah 5:8, 46:3, Theodor, and Albeck, ed., p. 37, 460; Rashi on Gen 17:1, 28:3, 35:11; and see also Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed, 1:63, ed. Michael Schwartz (Jerusalem: Keter, 2002), 164. 30 “‫( ”דליו‬Prov 26:7) and the root is d-­l–l (‫( ”בזאו“ ;)דל״ל‬Isa 18:2) and the root is b-­z-­z (‫)בז״ז‬, and see, inter alia, Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Deut 33:25, Job 7:5, 40:21, and his book ‫ספר צחות‬, ed. Mordechai Saul Goodman (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 2016), 42. 31 “‫”אל־­קאהר באללה‬, lit. “victorious by God.” 32 The full explanation reads as follows: “the word ‘‫ ’שדי‬is difficult to interpret. The Gaon said that the ‫ שי״ן‬is appended like the ‫ שי״ן‬of ‘that it is You (‫ )שאתה‬who are speaking to me’ [Judg 6:17]’; and it means: the one who said about the world that it is sufficient. I cannot ascertain what it means from this, for how can God be called ‘He who is sufficient?!’ Rather it should be an adjective, like ‘[You, Lord, are] good and forgiving’ [Ps 86:5], ‘My heart is sick within me’ [Jer 8:18]. And the Nagid Rav Shmuel interprets it as Arabic term ‘‫’אלקאהר‬, that is, victorious and

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

121

It thus seems that, in Ibn Ezra’s writings, the expression “difficult to interpret” means that a text is not clear and simple, and that there is an unusual difficulty involved in explaining it from an etymological and grammatical perspective. However, this does not imply that a reasonable and convincing interpretation of the text is impossible, nor that it is a “sealed book” that cannot be understood at all. In other places, Ibn Ezra uses similar expressions: “difficult to explain grammatically” (“‫)”קשה בדקדוק‬, and “difficult in context” (“‫)”קשה במקום‬.33 These instances also show that the descriptor “difficult” serves, in Ibn Ezra’s language, to indicate the presence of phenomena that are distinct and unusual from a grammatical or literary perspective, and which thus necessitate special interpretative efforts. However, this does not negate the possibility of overcoming the difficulties and proffering a convincing resolution.34 Ibn Ezra was not the first to characterize the Book of Job as “difficult to interpret.” Such a characterization is found in the introduction to Sa‘adia Gaon’s commentary on Job: “I have found that many of our nation look upon this Book of Job as an enigma, difficult to interpret and construe.”35 Sa‘adia enumerates five points of difficulty in the Book of Job, four of which (points 1–3 and 5) are related to the content of the book and the theological and religious questions that it raises.36 An additional point of difficulty (point 4) relates to resolute; and the ‫ יו״ד‬is in place of the double letter, like the ‫ יו״ד‬of ‘As legs hang limp on a cripple (‫[ ’)דליו‬Prov 26:7], and the ‫ אל״ף‬of ‘In papyrus vessels upon the water (‫[ ’)בזאו‬Isa 18:2]; like it is ‘like the sound of ‫[ ’שדי‬Ezek 1:24], ‘And ‫ שדי‬be your treasure’ [Job 22:25]. He thus explained well.” The examples from Ezek 1:24 and Job 22:25 are brought to suggest, on the basis of context, an understanding of “‫ ”שדי‬as strength and resoluteness. It is thus possible that Ibn Ezra read the word “‫“( ”בצריך‬your treasure”) as “‫“( ”מבצריך‬your fortress”). Such a reading is reflected in the Septuagint, the Vulgate, and the Aramaic translation. The commentary of Rashbam on this verse also seems to reflect a text containing “‫”מבצריך‬. In this and a few other cases, it seems that Rashbam had before him a slightly different version of the text of Job. See Sara Japhet, ‫דור דור‬ ‫ אסופת מחקרים בפרשנות המקרא‬:‫( ופרשניו‬Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2008), 189–206. 33 “The word shabbat is difficult to explain grammatically,” Ibn Ezra short commentary on Exod 31:15; “‫( ואסערם‬I dispersed them) – A word that is difficult to explain grammatically,” Ibn Ezra commentary on Zech 7:14; “And the word ‫ יביע‬difficult in context,” Ibn Ezra commentary on Eccl 10:1. 34 This is also true with respect to content-­related difficulties, “‫“( ”שאלות קשות‬difficult questions”) in Ibn Ezra’s terminology (see his long commentary on Exod 28:6), that require special interpretative efforts in order to achieve satisfactory resolution. Leo Prijs has suggested that the word “‫“( ”קשה‬difficult”), when used by Ibn Ezra in a grammatical context, is synonymous with the adjective “‫“( ”זר‬irregular”) – for example, in the phrase, “‫“( ”מילה זרה‬irregular word”). This seems to suggest that the difficulty, notwithstanding its strangeness or rarity, can be resolved convincingly; idem, Die grammatikalische Terminologie des Abraham ibn Esra (Basel: Sepher Verlag, 1950), 50, 124. On the phrase “‫ ”מילה זרה‬in Ibn Ezra’s writing, see Charlap, ‫תורת‬, 152–57. 35 Kapach, ‫איוב‬, 19; for English translation see Goodman, Book of Theodicy, 130–31. 36 These points relate to the character of the “Adversary” (ha-­satan), the sufferings of Job, the

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the style and language of the book. According to Sa‘adia, the linguistic form and poetic style of the Book of Job render the contents of the speeches less clear, and thus make it more difficult for the reader to ascertain the essence of the claims being made.37 It is possible (although not necessarily possible!) that Ibn Ezra’s characterization of the Book of Job as “difficult to interpret” was influenced directly by this comment of Sa‘adia’s. Unlike Sa‘adia, however, Ibn Ezra does not explain or specify what features of the book make it “difficult.” Since he connects the “difficulty” of the book with the act of translation, it seems that he did not have in mind the book’s “difficult” contents – such as the theological-­philosophical questions entailed by the speeches, in particular the problem of evil (in rabbinic terminology, “‫”צדיק ורע לו‬, “a good person to whom bad things occur”: b. Berakhot 7a). Rather, he seems to have had in mind some kind of linguistic consideration, as in the fourth point of difficulty raised by Sa‘adia.38 We see that Ibn Ezra repeatedly points out rare and unique words (hapax legomena) that appear in the book. In a number of these places he employs the expressions, “this has no ‘brother’ in the Bible”; “this has no ‘friend’ [in the Bible]”; “this has no companion or fellow in the Bible”; “it has no companion”; or “there is none similar.”39 These expressions are not unique to Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the Book of Job, but in comparison with his other writings, they appear frequently in this commentary.40 Rare or unique words are not necessarily difficult to understand or interpret. Nevertheless, it is clear that the more frequently a word appears, the easier it is to determine its precise debate between Job and his friends, and the statements made by God. 37 “Fourth is finding the gist of the verses, i.e., identifying the sentences which contain the point of each speech. This is obscured for many people by the plethora of arguments and profusion of discourse. The counterpoint of statement and rejoinder, rhapsodic embellishment, padding and flourishes, often smothers the argument which is the point intended;” Goodman, Book of Theodicy, 130; Kapach, ‫איוב‬, 20. 38 It should be noted that Ibn Ezra deals with the theological questions in the Book of Job collectively, at the end of the running commentary. At the point of transition, he writes: “The explanations of terms in the Book of Job are completed; now I will explain the meanings.” This structure suggests that Ibn Ezra’s comments on the difficulty of the book, which appear in the running commentary, are not intended to refer to theological challenges. 39 For these expressions see his comments on Job 2:8, 5:26, 15:12, 17:1, 21:32, 26:9, 29:4, 30:25, 33:20, 24, 40:12, 17, 31, 41:14, 21, and see Goodman, ‫איוב‬, 47, n. 7; and see also Frederick E. Greenspahn, “The Meaning of ein lo domeh and Similar Phrases in Medieval Biblical Exegesis,” AJS Review 4 (1979): 59–70. 40 Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 623, n. 273, divided up Ibn Ezra’s comments on unique terms according to biblical books. At the top of the list was his commentary to Isaiah, which contains comments on forty-­ seven unique terms. The commentary to Job comes in second, with comments on twenty-­eight unique terms. In his commentary to Deuteronomy, Ibn Ezra comments on eighteen unique words, and in his commentary to Psalms, he comments on twelve. In the remaining books of the Bible, he comments only on isolated cases of unique terms, or on none at all.

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

123

meaning. In addition to the assortment of rare and unique words in the Book of Job, it might also be worth noting Ibn Ezra’s use of Aramaic and Arabic to interpret difficult words. In his commentary on Job, there are twenty-­eight explicit comparisons made to these sister languages. This, too, is not a unique phenomenon, as Ibn Ezra uses Aramaic and Arabic in his commentaries to other books as well.41 Nevertheless, it seems that this phenomenon is especially prominent in his commentary on Job.42 It is thus possible that Ibn Ezra’s characterization of Job as a book that is “difficult to interpret” is connected, at least primarily, to the book’s unique vocabulary. According to Ibn Ezra, the fact that the Book of Job is “difficult to interpret” is a natural by-­product of the act of translation – “as all translated books are.” This assertion is articulated as a rule, implying that every translated book can be identified by its difficult language. It is worth noting here, however, that the medieval commentators often expressed themselves in an exaggerated fashion, employing generalizations and sweeping language even in cases in which they were aware of diversity and complexity within the relevant material.43 Ibn Ezra’s comment may be understood in this light: on one hand, his assertion expresses a recognition of the fundamental challenges facing translators, and the concomitant tendency for translated works to be difficult to be interpret. On the other hand, he did not presume that every translated work is necessarily difficult.





41 Among others see Benjamin Ze’ev (Wilhelm) Bacher, ‫ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא המדקדק‬, trans. A. A. Rabinovitz (Tel Aviv: Aḥdut, 1931), 29–30, and for relevant reference see in the German title: idem, Abraham Ibn Esra als Grammatiker (Strassburg: K.J. Trübner, 1882), 164–72; Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 617–23; Charlap, ‫תורת‬, 260–61. Ibn Ezra discusses the interpretative logic of these comparisons in his second commentary to Song of Songs 8:11: “One who grasps this composition might wonder why we say, ‘it is thus in the language of Ishmael.’ It is because of our insufficient knowledge. For what we know of the Holy Language is only from what is written in Scripture, from that which the prophets needed to say. We do not know the term for whatever they did not need to say. And it is because the language of Ishmael is very close to the Holy Language [ . . . ] therefore, in the case of any word that no other word in Scripture resembles, but that a word in the language of Ishmael resembles, we say, ‘perhaps its meaning is thus,’ even though the matter is in doubt.” On the closeness of Hebrew to Arabic and Aramaic, see below, note 47. 42 In Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Isaiah, in which he commented upon more unique terms than in the Book of Job (see n. 40), he only turns to comparisons with Aramaic or Arabic twelve times; Charlap, ‫תורת‬, 261, n. 13; Gómez Aranda, Job, xliv, li. 43 This tendency comes to the fore in polemical contexts and around weighty and important comments, but also with respect to subjects about which there is broad agreement; see Eran Viezel, “‫”שאלת חלקו של משה בכתיבת התורה בספרות חז״ל ובמעבר לימי הביניים‬, Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 24 (2015): 36–38. This phenomenon is found in Ibn Ezra’s commentaries, and even in his commentary to Job. See, for example, the introduction to the commentary: “When I resolved to interpret Job, I first needed to interpret all of the words.” He clearly does not intend to claim that he interpreted every single word, and cf. Ibn Ezra’s comment to the word ‫( כל‬all, every) in his commentary on Gen 41:48.

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Ibn Ezra’s remarks regarding translation and translated works strengthen this assessment. His commentaries on the books of the Bible include more than a hundred direct or indirect references to the Aramaic translations of the Bible, in particular Targum Onqelos, and he also made extensive use of Sa‘adia Gaon’s Arabic translation of the Bible.44 Several of these instances are instructive of Ibn Ezra’s position that translators often choose not to translate literally,45 and it is clear that he was aware of this longstanding tradition.46 He evidently also thought that various grammatical features of a given language may not be present in another. In such cases, it is not possible to “transfer” what is written in the source language into the target language in a “technical” manner. Rather, it becomes necessary to depart from literal translation.47 On the other hand, I did not find any hint in these dozens of comments suggesting that Ibn Ezra presumed translated literature must necessarily always be difficult to understand.48 On the contrary: with respect to Targum Onqelos, Ibn Ezra clearly assumed that the translator could have adhered to a literal translation,

44 See Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 616–17, 654. On Ibn Ezra’s extensive use of translations in his commentary to Job, see Galliner, Abraham, 18–26. 45 For example: “The translator knew this better than we do, but added a homiletical explanation [derash],” ‫יסוד דקדוק הוא שפת יתר‬, ed. Nehemia Aloni (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1985), 88; also, “the translation, even though it is not entirely in accordance with the simple [literal, peshat] meaning, is good,” ‫יסוד מורא וסוד תורה‬, ed. Uriel Simon and Josef Cohen (Jerusalem: Bar-­Ilan University, 2007), 77. 46 B. Qiddushin 49a: “One who translates a verse in its form – he is a fabulator; but the one who adds to it – he is a denier and blasphemer”; and Rashi: “When Onkelos added [words that are not in the Hebrew verse], he did not do so from his own mind, for [the Targum] was given at Sinai,” and he clarifies that whoever adds his own words of translation to “our Targum,” “curses, mocks God, and changes God’s words.” 47 For a theoretical articulation of the fundamental challenges involved in relaying a text from one language to another, see Moses ibn Ezra, ‫כתאב אלמחאצרה ואלמדאכרה‬, ed. Abraham Shlomo Halkin (Jerusalem: Mekitze Nirdamim, 1975), 42–43, and, inter alia, Rashbam on Job 15:4: “Each language behaves in its own way.” Such can also be found in several commentators who came after Abraham ibn Ezra. For example: “The truth is that the language of the commentary on the Mishna [by Maimonides] is sometimes faltering or defective [‫]מגומגם ומשובש‬, because it was translated from the Arabic language into Hebrew,” Hatam Sofer’s Responsa 10§, 198. Abraham ibn Ezra himself addresses the great similarity between Hebrew, Aramaic, and Arabic in several places. For example, he writes: “The Holy Language, the Aramaic language, and the language of Kedar were the same language with the same words,” ‫שפה ברורה‬, ed. Lippman, 2b (“the language of Kedar” is one of the phrases that Ibn Ezra employs to refer to the Arabic language; Prijs, grammatikalische, 68); “The language of Ishmael, most of whose features are in the manner of the Holy Language,” Ibn Ezra on Gen 1:1; Esther 8:10; and above n. 41. However, he was also well aware of the grammatical and syntactical distance between the languages. For example, in his commentary to Eccl 10:9, he writes: “This phenomenon is not found in the Arabic language in the qal form but rather as an intransitive verb”; and see his commentary on Deut 1:11. 48 One should also distinguish between an ambiguous translation lacking meaning, and one that is

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yet sometimes chose not to do so.49 This being the case, Ibn Ezra did not assume that every translated book raises interpretative difficulties. However, he was very aware of the fundamental challenges facing translators, and the possibility that these books might be more difficult to interpret.50 According to Ibn Ezra, the Book of Job is an example of this phenomenon. At this point in our discussion, we can say that the placement of Job in the period of Moses, before the disclosure of the Divine Name – that is, in the early part of Moses’s life – does not completely contradict the view that Moses wrote the book. Ibn Ezra’s remark in the Book of the Name, cited above, is relevant to this point. As noted, Ibn Ezra claims that the Tetragrammaton does not appear in the speeches included in the Book of Job (“We do not find it in the words of Job or his friends”), and he goes on to explain more precisely: “The verse ‘Then the Lord replied to Job’ [Job 38:1; 40:1, 6] is the translator’s addition [‫מעתיק‬ ‫]הספר‬.”51 This suggests that it was the translator of the book into Hebrew who added these headings.52 Ibn Ezra was apparently of the opinion that this same translator added the framework story to the Book of Job (Job 1–2, 42:7–17), since the Tetragrammaton appears in these verses seventeen times. The translator was aware of the Divine Name, and the possibility that this was Moses himself is not necessarily ruled out.53 erroneous, see, inter alia, Ibn Ezra comment on Gen 37:35: “‫ [ שאולה‬. . . ] here the translator for those who are mistaken [i.e., the Christians] erred, since he translated ‫ – שאול‬hell.” 49 “The Aramaic translator of the Targum [ . . . ] if, in places, he drew on midrashim, we know that he knew the roots [i.e., the meanings] better than we. He simply wished to add further interpretations, because even the uneducated could understand its ‫פשוטו‬,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to Genesis, the “fifth way.” What Ibn Ezra says here can be understood in two ways: that Onqelos deviated from a literal translation in cases where the meaning of the verse was clear even to the uneducated (“‫ ”פשוטו‬referring to the biblical verse); or, alternatively, that Onqelos deviated from a literal interpretation because he sought to explain the text to the uneducated (“‫”פשוטו‬ referring to the verse in the Aramaic translation). 50 It is certainly relevant here that Ibn Ezra was himself involved in the translation of books into Hebrew. See ‫ ] אשר העתיקם החכם ר׳ אברהם בן עזרא ז״ל‬. . . [ ‫ספרי דקדוק מראש המדקדקים ר׳ יהודה חיוג‬ ‫מערבי לעברי‬, ed. Leopold Dukes (Frankfurt am Main: [s.n.], 1844). Ibn Ezra also translated an astronomical work by Ibn al-­Muthanna; see Ibn Al-­Muthanna’s Commentary on the Astronomical Tables of Al-­Khwarizmi: Two Hebrew Versions, ed. Bernard R. Goldstein (New Haven-­London: Yale University Press, 1967). 51 ‫ספר השם‬, above n. 13. 52 The drawing of a distinction between the individual who wrote the core of the book and another who added headings and framing verses appears in other medieval commentaries, also with respect to other books. This approach is associated in particular with Rashbam and his school. See Rashbam on Eccl 1:2, 12:8; Eliezer of Beaugency on Ezek 1:2; Anonymous commentary, Ms. Prague (‫ )חומש איגר‬on Songs 1:1; edition to Rashi on Prov 1:7; the commentary attributed to Rashi on Neh 1:1, and see Eran Viezel, “‫ היבטים‬:‫דעתם של פרשני המקרא בימי הביניים בשאלת חיבור ספרי המקרא‬ ‫”מחקריים ומתודולוגיים‬, Tarbiz 84 (2016): 153–56. 53 However, below we will see that it cannot be Moses after all.

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It seems to me that the structure of Ibn Ezra’s comments indicates he did not accept the tradition in b. Bava Batra which ascribes authorship of the Book of Job to Moses. However, the question remains whether he rejected it altogether, or only partially. The letter vav which begins the phrase, “‫והקרוב‬ ‫“( ”אלי‬it seems to me”) is an oppositional vav, so the sentence should be understood: “Our sages, peace be upon them, said that Moses wrote the Book of Job. However, it seems to me that it is a translated book.” This sentence can be understood in two ways. The first possibility is that Ibn Ezra is rejecting the ascription of authorship in b. Bava Batra completely. At this point, it should be noted that Ibn Ezra, unlike other medieval rabbis and commentators, saw no problem in denying the traditional attribution of a text to a known author and instead assuming that it was written by another, anonymous figure, or at least by a figure whom he did not identify explicitly.54 Another possibility is that Ibn Ezra did not reject the attribution in b. Bava Batra completely, but rather sought to offer a more precise account of Moses’s literary activity. According to his account, Moses wrote the frame narrative and some of the headings, but translated the remainder of the book, rather than writing it himself. Of relevance to this hypothesis is the fact that Ibn Ezra did not reject the possibility that Moses might have written books other than the Torah, such that it is at least conceivable that he might also attribute Job to him.55 In this context it is worth noting that the anonymous designation, “‫“( ”המעתיק‬the translator”), which Ibn Ezra employs in the Book of the Name, does not necessarily preclude Mosaic authorship. Medieval commentators tended to refer to authors of bib



54 I am referring here to Ibn Ezra’s well-­known statements that certain passages in the Torah were added to it after Moses’s death. He ascribes some of these additions to Joshua: “And Moses went up – In my opinion, Joshua wrote starting from this verse onward,” Ibn Ezra on Deut 34:1. However, it is clear that he does not intend to ascribe all of them to Joshua, since the considerations which led him to deny that some of these passages were written by Moses apply to Joshua as well (see below, the next section). See also Ibn Ezra’s remarks in his commentary to Isa 40:1 regarding the genealogical list of the children of Zerubbabel added to 1 Chr 3:19–24; also see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 241. See also his commentary to Lam 3:1, and for an analysis of this passage, see Simon, ‫ארבע‬, 165–66. For further considerations in favor of the thesis that Ibn Ezra rejected the ascription of the Book of Job to Moses, see the next section. 55 Ibn Ezra’s long commentary on Exod 17:14: “Write this as a reminder ‫ – ַ ּבספר‬This portion was ַּ related in the fortieth year [from the Exodus]. The proof is that it states, “in the book” [‫]בספר‬, which refers to the Torah, as the ‫ בי״ת‬has a pataḥ, denoting the well-­known book. Or, they had another book, called, ‘the Book of the Wars of the Lord’ [Num 21:14], but it is not extant.” In his commentary on Num 21:14 Ibn Ezra dates the “Book of the Wars of the Lord” very early: “In the Book of the Wars of the Lord – This was a separate book in which the wars of the Lord are written down for those who fear Him. Possibly, it was from the time of Abraham, since many books were lost and we do not have them.” If Ibn Ezra assumed that the “Book of the Wars of the Lord” was a single book, then it seems this book must have been the work of many different authors who lived over several generations – including Moses.

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

127

lical books using anonymous designations (“‫סופר‬,” “‫כותב‬,” “‫סדרן‬,” “‫מודוין‬,” etc.) without citing their names explicitly, even though they identified these authors with the figures to whom the books were traditionally attributed in rabbinic tradition.56 It is therefore possible that the anonymous designation “‫”המעתיק‬ is an instance of this phenomenon. * Analysis of Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11 and a comparison of his remarks there with other of his statements elsewhere lead to the following conclusions: in his view, the events described in Job transpired close to the time of Moses; moreover, it appears that Job and his friends lived in as the same generation as Moses. According to Ibn Ezra, Job is “difficult to interpret,” and it seems that this difficulty is connected, at least primarily, to the book’s unique vocabulary. The difficulties which characterize the book are common in translated works, and, in light of this, Ibn Ezra concluded that the book was translated into Hebrew from another language. It is difficult to determine with any certainty whether Ibn Ezra rejected the talmudic attribution of Job to Moses entirely. It is, however, clear that he presumed his own view to be different from the traditional view as presented in b. Bava Batra. Ibn Ezra identified a number of headings throughout the book, and he ascribed them to the translator himself. It seems that he also attributed the narrative framework of the book to the translator, although he does not say this explicitly.

Why Did Ibn Ezra Believe Job Was Translated into Hebrew from Another Language? As has been explained above, Ibn Ezra justifies his dating of the events described in Job to the period of Moses on the basis of philological considerations and rational suppositions. Ibn Ezra considers a complex of passages in the Torah and in Job, and examines genealogical lists closely. These considerations and suppositions fit in well with the spirit of the medieval peshat commentaries in general, and the interpretative and analytical methodology of Ibn Ezra in particular: interpretation of Scripture through Scripture itself – a method based on the assumption that biblical texts cohere with each other harmoniously.57 On the other hand, Ibn Ezra’s conclusion that Job is difficult and unique because it was translated into Hebrew from another language is neither a necessary philological conclusion nor a straightforward logical supposition. For our 56 See Viezel, “‫דעתם‬,” 103–58 (especially 109–25), and below n. 127. 57 Ibn Ezra’s reliance on rabbinic interpretation of some of the laws in the Torah is not relevant to the present discussion.

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current purposes, it is sufficient to note that other medieval commentators and rabbis also observed linguistic or literary uniqueness in various biblical books, though not always as methodically or with as much subtlety as Ibn Ezra. Some of them even proposed comprehensive explanations for the unique linguistic or literary qualities they identified in these books, including some highly original explanations.58 However, none of these commentators reached conclusions akin to Ibn Ezra’s claim that the book is a product of translation. As such, it is reasonable to presume that Ibn Ezra’s conclusion was based on several additional considerations.

Ibn Ezra’s Views on Language Ibn Ezra did not present his views regarding language in a devoted work. However, one can assemble a picture of his views by carefully gathering statements scattered throughout his writings.59 Ibn Ezra assumed that every linguistic act is fundamentally communicative: “Knowing of language [‫ ]דעת הלשון‬is not necessarily knowledge, but just a medium for another to understand.”60 Even the language of the Torah is no different in this respect: “Torah expresses itself in the language of humans, because the speaker is human, as is the listener, and a person cannot speak about things above or beneath him.”61 This is a funda 58 I will make do here with two representative examples: (1) The commentary on Chronicles attributed to Rashi explains the language and composition of the genealogical chapters in the book through the condition of the sources employed by Ezra the Scribe: “That which he [Ezra] found he wrote, and that which he did not find he did not write [ . . . ] For this reason, this entire genealogy is traced with omissions, because he skipped from one scroll to another and combined them,” idem on 1 Chr 7:13. (2) Abarbanel explains the unique language of the prophet Jeremiah on the basis of the prophet’s young age: “I am of the opinion that Jeremiah was not very expert either at composition or rhetoric, as was Isaiah or other prophets [ . . . ] [He] was of the priests of Anathoth, while still young, being called to prophesy [ . . . ] he was constrained to proclaim what the Lord commanded in language he was accustomed to,” Abarbanel’s introduction to his commentary on Jeremiah (Jerusalem: Benei Arba’el, 1979), 298. 59 I cannot deal at all here with the question of which sources influenced Ibn Ezra as he consolidated his positions on language in general, and biblical language in particular. It seems that Ibn Ezra relied upon a range of sources and statements from different periods, Jewish and non-­Jewish. His uniqueness seems to lie primarily in his creation of a comprehensive and consolidated synthesis, and his systematic application of this synthesis in his biblical commentaries. For discussion of some of these sources, see Eran Viezel, “‫ השקפתו של‬:‫הטעמים אלוהיים והמלות של משה‬ ‫ מקורותיה ומסקנותיה‬,‫”ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא בשאלת חלקו של משה בכתיבת התורה‬, Tarbiz 80 (2012): 401–06, and the bibliography cited there. 60 Ibn Ezra’s short commentary on Exod 23:20, such as the following example, from his commentary to Ps 4:5, among others: “Language is only an intermediary [‫ ]מליץ‬between the heart [i.e., mind] and the listeners.” 61 Ibn Ezra on Gen 1:26, and see his long commentary on Gen 6:6, and his commentary on Dan 10:21, and see Charlap, ‫תורת‬, 259–60. The expression, “the Torah spoke in the language of

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129

mental principle in Ibn Ezra’s thinking, and it is evident in his interpretative methodology. It follows from this principle that the language of the Torah obeys the same rules seen in ordinary language – and, in fact, in all language. The role of language is the transmission of content from a “sender” to a “recipient,” and the role of the language of the Torah is no different. This being the case, it would not stand to reason for the Torah to include words with multiple, contradictory meanings, as this would encumber readers.62 Accordingly, the Torah also does not contain meanings based on gematria, notariqon, complete and deficient Hebrew spellings, or other creative forms of expression which do not provide clear, unambiguous meaning as is customary in communication between people.63





human beings,” which is repeated (verbatim and with minor variations) in these commentaries, underwent significant changes of meaning over the generations: in early rabbinic literature, this expression was employed by those arguing against deducing laws from the Torah on the basis of linguistic and stylistic phenomena. In the Middle Ages, it began to also be used as a phrase for resolving the problems of corporeal and anthropomorphic depictions of God. Slowly, the expression began to denote a broad methodological position on scriptural texts, according to which they correspond with human beings’ capabilities for attainment; see, among others: Haggai Ben Shammay, “‫ עד כמה ׳לשון בני אדם׳? עיון משווה בגישותיהם של רס״ג‬:‫׳דיברה תורה כלשון בני אדם׳‬ ‫”וקראים בני זמנו‬, in ‫ אסופת מחקרים בפרשנות המקרא‬:‫׳ליישב פשוטו של מקרא׳‬, ed. Eran Viezel, and Sara Japhet (Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 2011), 59–69. It seems that Ibn Ezra was not yet fully familiar with this expansion of the expression’s meaning, as in most instances of its appearance in his writings the meaning is limited to the problem of anthropomorphism; also see Viezel, “‫הטעמים‬,” 402, n. 76. 62 “Due to poor knowledge of grammar, many people have not taken the correct path, like Menahem ben Saruq, who said that there are dedicated words which designate a meaning and its opposite. This cannot be the case in any language [emphasis mine], for words are allusions to what is in the heart [i.e., mind] of the speaker, and if a word is as he said, the hearer will not understand,” ‫יסוד דקדוק‬, ed. Nehemia Aloni, 88, and see Menachem Ben Saruq, ‫מחברת מנחם‬, ed. Tzvi Herschell Filipowski (London: Societatis Antiquitatum Hebraicarum, 1854), 9; Angel Sáenz-­Badillos, ed. (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1986), 12*–13*; and see also: “This cannot be so, as deduced from the science of speech [‫הד ֻ ּבר‬ ִ ‫]חכמת‬, that a noun should have two definitions, one the opposite of the other,” Ibn Ezra long commentary on Exod 16:25, and on the implications of this semantic rule in Ibn Ezra’s commentaries see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 82–99 (ibid., 83, n. 34 on the Arabic sources for this rule). On his opposition to the presumption that the Torah incorporates statements with double meanings, see also: “It makes no sense that ‘remember’ [Exod 20:8] and ‘observe’ [Deut 5:12] could be said at the very same time [ . . . ] the mind cannot accept all of this,” Ibn Ezra long commentary on Exod 20:1, on the polemical foundation for these claims see Aharon Mondschein, “‫ לדרך ההתייחסות של ראב״ע לפירוש רש״י לתורה‬:‫”׳ואין בספריו פשט רק אחד מני אלף׳‬, Studies in Bible and Exegesis V (2000): 245. 63 See, inter alia: “Scripture does not speak in gematria, for whomever wants can sum up every name for good or bad,” Ibn Ezra on Gen 14:14; “Heaven forbid that the prophet should speak in gimatria or hints,” Ibn Ezra on Exod 1:7 (short commentary); “I shall not discuss massoretic reasons for why one [word] is sometimes [written] in full, and another defectively, for all their explanations follow the path of derash,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Genesis;

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It should be emphasized that Ibn Ezra accepted as self-­evident the divine nature of the Torah, as well as the divine revelation upon which the Torah and the books of the Bible are based. Moreover, in his view, the prophets – and Moses in particular – are distinguished by their unique intellectual capability and their spiritual virtue.64 Nevertheless, this does not mean that the Torah or the books of the prophets are “sealed” – incomprehensible to anyone who is not a prophet and did not merit divine revelation. The Torah and all of the books of the Bible reflect a process of adaptation and adjustment which enable even a simple person to understand what is written in them.65 This obviously does not mean that all people are capable of understanding Scripture to the same degree of depth. On the contrary, Ibn Ezra assumed that some parts of the Torah contain an additional layer of meaning which is revealed only to the educated reader. The typical reader, meanwhile, is likely not to realize that he is missing secrets and is only exposed to the “open” dimension of the text.66 Nevertheless, Ibn Ezra’s starting presumption is that there is no fundamental obstacle preventing a person – any person! – from training him or herself intellectually and spiritually in order to reach a deep understanding of Scripture: “Know that Moses our master gave the Torah not only to the wise-hearted, but to everyone” (Ibn Ezra’s long commentary on Gen 1:1). The divine nature of Scripture, on the one hand, and its communicative nature, on the other, are products of a fascinating division of labor between God and man. According to Ibn Ezra, God transmitted certain “contents” (‫)טעמים‬ to the prophets.67 These contents, in Ibn Ezra’s terminology, are not made up







“Sages of the tradition fabricated meanings in their minds for complete and deficient spellings, and these are good – for completing those of deficient mind,” ‫שפה ברורה‬, ed. Lippman, 7a; Enrique Ruiz González and Ángel Sáenz-­Badillos, eds. (Córdoba: El Almendro, 2004) 5*–6*, and many others such as these, and see, among others: Aharon Mondschein, “‫ליחסו של ראב״ע אל השימוש‬ ‫”הפרשני במידת הגימטריה‬, Te‘uda VIII (1992): 137–6; idem, “‫׳חכמי המסורת בדאו מלבם טעמים למלאים‬ ‫ על מאבקו של ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא בניצול הכתיב המקראי ככלי פרשני‬:‫”ולחסרים׳‬, SHNATON: An Annual for Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies 19 (2009): 245–321; Simon, ‫אזן‬, s.v. “‫”דרך דרש‬, 552–53. 64 On the supremacy of Moses over all other created beings, see the collection of references in Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 551. 65 “The Angel between man and his God is his intelligence,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Genesis, and see Amos Funkenstein, “‫”המשכיות וחידוש במחשבת המאה הי״ז ובמדעיה‬, Israel National Academy of Science Publications 6 (1984): 119–30; idem, ‫תדמית ותודעה היסטורית ביהדות‬ ‫( ובסביבתה התרבותית‬Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1991), 72–81. 66 Thus in his long commentary on Exod 16:28 Ibn Ezra clarifies that “all commandments and laws [ . . . ] have secrets connected with the soul, which only intelligent people can comprehend, therefore each commandment has two facets.” The “secrets” which turn each precept into two are revealed only to the educated reader – one like Ibn Ezra himself, who possesses expertise not only in sacred subjects, but also in external wisdom, as suggested many times in Ibn Ezra’s writings, and summarized in detail in his book, ‫יסוד מורא וסוד תורה‬, especially the first chapter. 67 It is not possible to present a full picture of Ibn Ezra’s conception of prophecy due to the small

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of words. It is the prophets themselves who turn these contents into words in accordance with their intellectual and spiritual capabilities, as well as their respective individual styles and approaches: The contents of the words are like the spirit and imagination that God innovates in the soul of the prophet,68 and he expands [or maybe: constitutes, ‫ ]ירכיב‬on the contents,69 in accordance with the power he received from God [i.e., the power of his vitality that he received at birth], and his nature and style.70 The conversion of “contents” into “words” – that is, the verbal representation of a divine vision – is an independent literary act performed by the prophet.71







number of relevant statements he made on the topic. It seems that he saw prophecy as a conscious intellectual act, and presumed that the prophet plays an active role in receiving it; see Joseph Cohen, ‫( הגותו הפילוסופית של ר׳ אברהם אבן־­עזרא‬Rishon le-­Zion: Shai Publishing House 1996), 300–307; Simon, ‫אזן‬, s.v. “‫”נבואה‬, 553–54. It also seems that Ibn Ezra presumed the existence of various ranks of prophecy, though he rejected the idea of a set number of ranks: “There are many ranks [‫ ]מעלות‬of prophecy, but there is no way to enumerate them, for the power to prophesy of those suitable souls which receive the power of the Holy Spirit is not of one kind,” Ibn Ezra, the introduction of his commentary on Zechariah. These ranks are tied to the intellectual and spiritual qualities of the individual receiving prophecy: “God is one and his speech is one, but the words [sic] change according to the power of each prophet, for they are not equal in rank [i.e., the qualities of the prophets, their virtues]; there are those whose prophecy occurs in a night vision, like Abraham and Gad the Seer, and also Isaiah,” Ibn Ezra, the introduction of his commentary on Isaiah. 68 “)‫“( ”יחדש(ם‬innovate”) in the language of Ibn Ezra, means the invention of something new and not the reappearance of something old, cf., inter alia, his commentaries on Exod 23:29 (short commentary); Lev 18:22; Isa 55:13, etc. 69 Some versions have “‫”לטעמים‬, so that it would read: “he expand [+them] into contents.” 70 Ibn Ezra, ‫ספר ההגנה על רס״ג‬, ed. Yigal Oshri (master’s thesis, Bar-­Ilan University, 1988), 89§, p. 88 (84§ in previous editions: Meir Letteris, ed. [Pressburg: Anton Schmid, [1838], 31; D. Tursch, ed. [Warsaw: Tursch, 1895], 32; Gabriel Hirsch Lippmann, ed. [Frankfurt am Main: Auf Kosten des Verfassers, 1843], 23a). In the manuscript and in the printed editions that follow it we find a variation which seems to contain a series of scribal errors: “‫המלות הם נכוחות ודמיונות יחד שם השם‬ ‫בשמות הנביא‬.” In this version “‫“( ”נכוחות‬correct things”) are true prophecies (Angel Sáenz-­Badillos, “La obra de Abraham ibn Ezra las críticas contra Sĕ’adyah,” in Abraham Ibn Ezra and His Age, ed. Fernando Díaz Estaban [Madrid: Asociación Española de Orientalistas, 1990], 291). This implies that “‫“( ”הדמיונות‬imaginings”) are the opposite (Oshri, ibid., 178). It is not at all clear why God would give false “imaginings” to his prophets. 71 Prophecies penetrate the “soul of the prophet” as “imaginings” and are not given to him in a verbal manner as others suggested: “Rabbi Saadia Gaon said that the language of Isaiah was clear and pleasant, and Rabbi Adonim [=Dunash ben Labrat] said that this is an error because all the words of Scripture are the words of the Lord,” Ibn Ezra, ‫ספר ההגנה‬, ed. Oshri, 88. These words are directed against the following remarks by Dunash: “[God] commanded his prophets to write it in the books named after them, which are the books of God, may His name be blessed and recollection of Him exalted. I am astounded by those who say that the language of Isaiah is clear, and Amos as well, for

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As noted, the prophets were endowed with unique intellectual and spiritual qualities, but this additional inspiration and wisdom do not guide them regarding how to turn the divine vision into words. In the end, the prophet must rely upon his human creative capabilities – the vitality with which he was endowed at birth (“‫”כֹחו‬72), his nature (“‫”תולדתו‬73), and his personal style and approach (“‫”משפטו‬74). This division of labor between God and man explains why, on one hand, the books of the Bible are divine in nature – or divine in content – and, on the other hand, their language is the language of human beings.75 The aim of the







this is what is right in his eyes. This is an error, because all of the words of Scripture are the words of the Holy One, blessed be He,” ‫ספר תשובות דונש בן לברט על רבי סעדיה גאון‬, ed. Robert Schröter (Breslau: Schletter, 1866), 102§, p. 28–29, cf., inter alia: “The speech of a prophet at the time when he is enwrapped by the Holy Spirit is in every part directed by the Divine Influence, the prophet himself being powerless to alter one word,” R. Judah ha-Levi, ‫ספר הכוזרי‬, 5:20, ed. David Cassel (Leipzig: F. Voigt, 1869), 421. The quote from Sa‘adia Gaon, “‫“( ”צח ועמוס‬clear and dense”) should therefore be corrected to “‫“( ”וכן עמוס‬and Amos as well”), or alternatively, as Geiger suggested: “‫”ולא כן עמוס‬ (“but not Amos”); Abraham Geiger, Moses ben Maimon: Studien (Breslau: A. Gosohorsky, 1850), 41. 72 Some understand the sentence “the power he received from God” (and also: “The words [sic] change according to the power of each prophet,” Ibn Ezra, the introduction of his commentary on Isaiah) as relating to the sanctification of the prophet (see Oshri, ‫ספר ההגנה‬, 178). However, it seems to me that it is more appropriate to compare it to Ibn Ezra long commentary on Exod 23 (“Abraham the author said”): “When the soul makes an effort, then the power that guards the body, which man receives from heaven, is strengthened, and it is called nature [‫ ”;]תולדת‬and see his short commentary on Exod 23:26: “God apportions power to each body for the time it would live.” This “power” is thus the living, physical constitution of an individual from the moment of his birth. Also see Raphael Jospe, ‫ מרב סעדיה גאון עד הרמב״ם‬:‫( פילוסופיה יהודית בימי הביניים‬Ra’anana: Open University, 2006), 2:138. 73 The word “‫ ”תולֶ ֶדת‬has two meanings in Ibn Ezra’s writings: it often denotes the physical constitution of a created being – the “power” given by God to the creature at its birth (see Ibn Ezra long commentary on Exod 23 in the previous note). However, the word sometimes denotes the nature and character of a created being. For example: “the nature [‫ ]תולדת‬of a man is likely to do evil, as in ‘the inclination of man’s heart is evil’ [Gen 8:21],” Ibn Ezra on Job 5:6–7, and cf. his commentary on Gen 1:11, and see Rosin, “Religionsphilosphie,” 161. In the statement under discussion, Ibn Ezra notes that the prophet “‫ ירכיב‬the contents” into “words”: 1) “with the power he received from God,” 2) “his nature,” and 3) “[his] style.” It thus seems that, in this case, Ibn Ezra distinguishes between the terms “‫“( ”כֹחו‬power”) and “‫“( ”תולדת‬nature”), and that “‫”תולדתו‬ (“his ‫ )”תולדת‬should be understood as meaning the nature and character of the prophet. 74 The word “‫ ”משפט‬appears many times in Ibn Ezra’s writings as part of the phrase, “‫”משפט הלשון‬ (lit. “law of language”). The meaning of this expression is “manner,” “pattern,” or “style.” 75 According to Ibn Ezra, the Torah contains only one passage that reflects divine speech in a word-­ for-­word manner – the Ten Commandments in the Book of Exodus: “The Ten Commandments written in this portion are the words of God without any additions or deletions,” Ibn Ezra long commentary on Exod 20:1. Another exceptional passage is the Ten Commandments as they appear in the Book of Deuteronomy, in which the words of God in Exodus are integrated with interpretations by Moses: “God word’s are included among the interpretations of Moses,” ibid.

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reader is to reach as deep an understanding as possible of these divine “contents” which are, in Ibn Ezra’s words, the “souls,” “essences,” and “spirits.” Conversely, the words themselves do not have any inherent importance – their purpose is to lead the reader toward the divine contents, and as such, Ibn Ezra refers to them as “bodies,” “corpses,” and “vessels.”76 Ibn Ezra thought that at least some of the books of the Bible were written by sages: “Every author of a book was a prophet or a sage.”77 In a number of places, Ibn Ezra implies that the books written by sages are also based on a division of labor between man and God. For example, Ibn Ezra notes repeatedly that the hymns in the Book of Psalms were “said” by means of the Holy Spirit; similarly, he claims that Solomon “said” or “spoke” Song of Songs by means of the Holy Spirit.78 It seems that Ibn Ezra included other books from the Writings – perhaps even all of the Writings – in the category of books written by means of the Holy Spirit: If we knew every secret of the Book of Psalms, which is all hymns and prayers, even though it was said by means of the Holy Spirit, it contains no prophecy about the future. Such is also the case with Job, the books of

All of the remaining verses in the Torah are the words of Moses himself: “God did not write the Torah, rather, Moses wrote it by God’s command,” Ibn Ezra short and long commentaries on Exod 24:12, and see his note in his commentary on Num 33:2 that the words ‫ על פי ה׳‬are connected with “their various marches” and not with “Moses recorded” (and see Naḥmanides here). In addition, there are some verses added at a stage later than Moses (see below). 76 Cf. ‫ יסוד מורא וסוד תורה‬1:8, ed. Simon and Cohen, 67, 84–85; ‫שפה ברורה‬, ed. Lippmann, 4b; Ruiz Gonzales, and Sáenz-­Badillos ed., 3*; ‫יסוד דקדוק‬, ed. Aloni, 85, and Ibn Ezra’s commentaries on Gen 5:29; Exod 11:5 (long commentary); 32:9 (ibid.); Deut 5:5; Isa 36. 77 ‫יסוד דקדוק‬, Aloni ed., 86. What Ibn Ezra says here fits with the widely held traditional Jewish opinion, according to which the books of the Bible were written by prophets like Moses, Samuel, and Jeremiah, but also by sages – the Book of Psalms is attributed to David and other poets, while Proverbs, Song of Songs, and Ecclesiastes are attributed to Solomon. In the baraita in b. Bava Batra, the books of Solomon and the Book of Isaiah are ascribed to Hezekiah and his colleagues, and several books are ascribed to the “Men of the Great Assembly,” among whom there were several prophets, but also some well-­known sages, for example: “The Men of the Great Assembly – Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi, Zerubbabel and Mordechai,” Rashi on b. Bava Batra 15a. It is generally recalled that Ezra was the leader of the “Men of the Great Assembly”: “the court of Ezra, known as the ‘Men of the Great Assembly,’” Maimonides, introduction to Mishneh Torah. 78 “This whole book was said by means of the Holy Spirit,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Psalms; “The Book of Psalms was said by means of the Holy Spirit,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his second commentary on Psalms, and close to twenty times throughout Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Psalms; “He spoke this book by means of the Holy Spirit,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his second commentary on Songs, and see also, inter alia: “This scroll was written by means of the Holy Spirit,” Ibn Ezra on Esth 6:6.

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Solomon, the Five Scrolls, and Ezra. And such is also the case with [ . . . ] the Book of Daniel.79 Ibn Ezra certainly may have differentiated between books that were written by sages inspired by the Holy Spirit, and the Torah and books of the Prophets, whose authors received divine messages in a vision or dream. However, even if he differentiated in principle between these two types of books, this distinction is not manifested methodologically in his commentaries. The methods that Ibn Ezra uses in his commentaries on the books of the Writings are no different from those employed in his commentaries on the Torah and the books of the Prophets; and his assumptions regarding the fundamentally communicative nature of language, and the concomitant possibility of deciphering its meaning, remain intact consistently.80 Perhaps, then, it is not a coincidence that the descriptor “prophet” and the verb “prophesy” are employed by Ibn Ezra to describe any divine revelation to man,81 and the terms “prophecy” and “Holy Spirit” are not as sharply distinguished from one another as they are in the writings of other commentators.82





79 ‫ יסוד מורא וסוד תורה‬1:3, ed. Simon and Cohen, 76. The context in which this passage appears is not concerned with the question of whether the books of the Writings were written by means of the Holy Spirit, but rather with drawing a fundamental distinction between the Torah, which is the “foundation of all the precepts” and the “source of life” (ibid., 70); the books of the Prophets, which contain prophecies about the future and also prophecies that were realized in the past; and the books of the Writings, which do not contain prophecies about the future and are ascribed a lower level of importance. See also the introduction to Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Psalms: “Others say that this book [Psalms] does not contain prophecy regarding the future. It is for this reason that the ancient ones wrote it with Job and the Scrolls [i.e., the rabbis on b. Bava Batra 14b included Psalms among the section of the Hebrew Bible known as the Writings].” For a detailed analysis, see the notes of Simon and Cohen, ibid., and in the introduction, 29–30. Nevertheless, it seems that all the books in this category have in common that they were written by means of the Holy Spirit. This is certainly not unique to the Book of Psalms, since, as noted above, Ibn Ezra claims that the Song of Songs and Esther were also “said” by means of the Holy Spirit. 80 In this respect, Ibn Ezra is different from other commentators whose commentaries on the Torah, when compared with their commentaries on the books of the Prophets and the Writings, show flexibility with respect to methodologies. Thus, for example, Radak, see Yitzhak Berger, “‫”עמדתו של רד״ק בשאלת המשמעותיות של רכיבי טקסט התורה על פי פירושו לספר בראשית‬, in ‫ליישב‬, ed. Viezel and Japhet, 180–92, and see also Mordechai Cohen, “‫”השפעות מדרשיות על פרשנות הפשט של רד״ק‬, Proceedings of the Eleventh Conference of the World Congress of Jewish Studies 11 (1984): 143–50, and similar flexibility may be found in the commentaries of Isaiah di-­Trani, R. Joseph Caspi, Abarbanel, and others. One can find flexibility of methodologies in the corpus of Ibn Ezra’s writings as well, but in his case the distinction is only between his commentaries on the Bible and the monographs that he wrote, on the one hand, and his liturgical poems on the other. On this last point, see Aharon Mondschein, “‫ לחידת מסכת‬:‫׳לך ה׳ הגדולה׳ וכו׳ – מהודיה נסיבתית להמנון קוסמי‬ ‫”הפירוש של ראב״ע לספר דברי הימים‬, JSIJ 5 (2006): 88–89. 81 Melamed, ‫מפרשי‬, 550–51. 82 Cf., inter alia: “That the prophet will speak with the holy spirit with his soul [ . . . ] he will speak

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135

Ibn Ezra’s views on language – especially biblical language – come to the fore in his commentaries. It is sometimes necessary to take these views into account in order to fully grasp the interpretative considerations motivating Ibn Ezra. His well-­known and widely cited remarks concerning verses in the Torah written after Moses’s time are an example of this. At the beginning of his commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy, Ibn Ezra enumerates several of these verses: If you would want to understand the secret of twelve, also, “And Moses wrote” [Deut 31:22], “And the Canaanite was then in the land” [Gen 12:6], “In the mount where the Lord is seen” [Gen 22:14], also, “In fact his bed, an iron bed” [Deut 3:11] – you will recognize the truth.83 Over the centuries, commentators and scholars linked this remark and other similar comments by Ibn Ezra to what is popularly called “anachronism,” that is, Ibn Ezra was understood as denying Mosaic authorship of these verses because they contain information from after Moses’s time.84 This way of understanding Ibn Ezra is problematic from two perspectives: first, it is clear that Ibn Ezra did not doubt Moses’s prophecy or the divine revelation that he received. This being the case, why would he deny the possibility that Moses might have known, by prophetic means, what would happen after his death? Indeed, there are verses in the Torah which describe events that would take place many generations after Moses’s death, and Ibn Ezra saw them simply as prophetic verses.85 Second, if with the holy spirit to his heart,” Ibn Ezra on Isa 51:12–13; “Those proper souls who receive the power of the holy spirit [allowing them] to prophesize,” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Zechariah; “This entire book was said with the holy spirit [ . . . ] why were the interpreters baffled – surely it cannot be because the book has no mention of David’s prophecy in its opening!?” Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Psalms, and concerning the Book of Job, cf. the statement from ‫ יסוד מורא וסוד תורה‬1:3 which was mentioned above: “The Book of Psalms [ . . . ] was said by means of the Holy Spirit [ . . . ] Such is also the case with Job,” with Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 42:5: “From this verse, we learn that Job did not prophesize prior to this; he only heard that there were prophets in the world, such as Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,” and perhaps this verse reflects an Islamic influence – i.e., Islamic perception of the patriarchs as prophets. See also in Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Genesis, “first path.” For a discussion of medieval interpreters who clearly distinguished between prophetic revelation and revelation from the holy spirit see recently: Eran Viezel, “‫ר׳ דוד קמחי על ההתגלות האלוהית למחברי ספרי‬ ‫”המקרא‬, SHNATON: An Annual for Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies 24 (2016): 267–84. 83 For a summary, see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 407–64. 84 This is already implied by Solomon Ben R. Shmuel ha-­Tzarfati (North France, ca. 1160–1240), and see Israel Moshe Ta-­Shma, ‫ עיונים בספרות הרבנית בימי הביניים‬:‫( כנסת מחקרים‬Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2004), 1:276–277. Of course, these verses are only perceived as anachronistic if one accepts the traditional assumption that Moses wrote the Torah. On this point, see Baruch J. Schwartz, “‫ חמשת חומשיה וארבע תעודותיה‬:‫”התורה‬, in ‫ מבואות ומחקרים‬:‫ספרות המקרא‬, ed. Zipora Talshir (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 2011), 177. 85 One example suffices to demonstrate this point: Jacob’s speech to the tribes in Gen 49, “The

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Ibn Ezra did struggle with the fact that the Torah contains information from after Moses’s time, why did he not do so consistently? Why, for example, did he vociferously reject the suggestion that the verse, “These are the kings who reigned in the land of Edom before any king reigned over the Israelites” (Gen 36:31) was not written by Moses? And why did he reject the suggestion that it was Joshua who mentioned the establishment of the city of Hormah (Num 21:3)?86 It seems that Ibn Ezra does not deny that verses in the Torah were written by Moses because they contain information from after Moses’s time, but rather because of the way in which the wording of these verses is formulated. It is perfectly plausible that Moses knew through prophecy that, in the future, the Canaanites would disappear from the promised land (“The Canaanites were then in the land,” Gen 12:6), the Temple would be built on Mount Moriah (“As it is said to this day, ‘On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided,’ ” Gen 22:14) and he would die on the mountain (“Then Moses, the servant of the Lord, died there,” Deut 34:5), and so on. However, if Moses himself was to articulate these messages in words, the natural way for him to do so would be to articulate future events in the future tense, not in the past or present tense. Similarly, it does not make sense to assume that Moses would stand on the eastern side of the Jordan and simply call it “the other side of the Jordan” (Ibn Ezra on Deut 1:1). And if the word “‫ ”עזאזל‬in Leviticus 16:8 is indeed an Aramaic word – “‫”עז‬ (“goat”) and the Aramaic verb ‫“( אז״ל‬to go”) – it does not make sense to assume that Moses wrote this, since he certainly did not know Aramaic.87 It is thus





prophet foretelling the future” in the words of Ibn Ezra in his comment on Gen 49:1. 86 Most scholars have ignored these questions, and those who have considered them have generally been forced into convoluted explanations. Thus, in addressing the issue of why Ibn Ezra rejected the possibility that Moses might have acquired knowledge about later events through prophecy, it has been proposed that the Holy Spirit does not come to prophets for the sake of unimportant details: “And if you say, even though Moses had never been in Rabba of the children of Ammon, he could have prophesied through his Divine spirit and said, ‘It is still [in Rabbah of the Ammonites],’ so why say that Moses did not write it? To this one must answer that he could have prophesied and said something through the Divine spirit, if there was some need for it, but concerning something that need not necessarily be said, such as this verse, ‘It is still [in Rabbah of the Ammonites],’ he would not have received the Divine spirit,” Solomon Ben R. Shmuel ha-­Tzarfati, in Ta-­Shma, ‫כנסת‬, 277. Regarding the issue of why Ibn Ezra does not deny Mosaic authorship of other verses which seem anachronistic, it has been proposed that he distinguished between two types of additions: additions of a word or a few words in the Torah “to explain what Moses wrote,” which Ibn Ezra accepted, and longer additions, which he rejected; thus Joseph Ben Eliezer on Gen 36:31, ‫ספר צפנת פענח‬, ed. David Herzig (Krakow: Fischer, 1912), 149, and see most recently: Amnon Bazak, ‫ שאלות יסוד בלימוד תנ״ך‬:‫( עד היום הזה‬Tel Aviv: Miskal, 2013), 67. This proposal clearly does not hold water, since according to Ibn Ezra, the whole of Deuteronomy 34 was added by Joshua. 87 “If you are able to understand the secret which is alluded to by the word following, ‘[for] ‫עזאזל‬ [into the wilderness],’ then you will know its secret and the secret of its name, as there are many

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Ibn Ezra’s presumption that Moses wrote the Torah “in the language of human beings,” and that the standard rules and laws of language apply to the Torah as well – which led him to the conclusion that certain verses were added to the Torah after the death of Moses.88 A similar approach can help us explain Ibn Ezra’s claim that chapters 40 and onward of the Book of Isaiah contain the prophecies of an anonymous prophet from the Second Temple period, and not the prophecies of Isaiah the son of Amoz.89 Ibn Ezra explains that at least some of the prophecies of consolation contained in these chapters describe a future return to the land of Israel (as Ibn Ezra puts it in his commentary on Isa 40:1: “our exile”), and not the ancient return to Zion and construction of the Second Temple. His conclusion that the prophet is an anonymous one is based on several verses in which, according to Ibn Ezra, a biographical picture of the prophet emerges which does not match what is known about the life story of Isaiah the son of Amoz. It seems that the decisive verse relating to this matter is Isaiah 49:7: “Thus said the Lord, the Redeemer of Israel, his Holy One, to the despised one, to the abhorred nations, to the slave of rulers: Kings shall see and stand up, nobles and they shall prostrate themselves, to the honor of the Lord, who is faithful, to the Holy One of Israel who chose you,” as well as the following verse: “Thus said the Lord: In an hour of favor I answer you, and on a day of salvation I help you.” Ibn Ezra cites Isaiah 49:7 in his commentary to Isaiah 40:1 as evidence for the fact that, from this point on, the prophet in the book is an anonymous one: “The evidence [for applying this approach to the authorship of Isaiah] consists in the words ‘Kings shall see and stand up; nobles, and they shall prostrate themselves’.” In his commentary to Isaiah 49:7 he emphasizes this as follows:





examples like it in the Bible,” Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:8, and Solomon Ben R. Shmuel ha-­Tzarfati: “‫עזאזל‬: it is wilderness [ . . . ] and in Aramaic wilderness is ‫ [ עזאזל‬. . . ] and do not be surprised at the fact that he writes this Aramaic word in the Torah, for it was not he who wrote this verse. And this is the secret that is referred to here – that it was not Moses who wrote this verse, but rather someone else. And do not be surprised at what I say – that someone else wrote it, for there are other such instances in the Torah. In other words, there are many verses which were not said by Moses,” Ta-­Shma, ‫כנסת‬, 276. The suggestion that “‫ ”עזאזל‬is composed of two words – “‫ ”עז‬and ‫ – אז״ל‬is adopted by other commentators and grammarians; see, inter alia: Radak, ‫ספר השרשים‬ (Berlin: G. Bethge, 1847), s.v. “‫”עז‬, 517. This is also reflected in the Septuagint and the Vulgate, and there are even some modern supporters of this interpretation: Bernd Janowski, “‘Azazel,” in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, ed. Karel van der Toorn, et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 128 (“combination of the term ‘ēz + ’ozēl”). 88 Having said that, it should be noted that Ibn Ezra did not rush to employ this interpretative option. When he could find an explanation for an unusual linguistic expression, even a somewhat forced one, he did so. Thus, concerning Gen 36:31 see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 297, and concerning Num 21:3 see Jospe, ‫פילוסופיה‬, 2:47–49. 89 See Simon, ‫אזן‬, 224–48.

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Thus – these are also words of the prophet [i.e., this verse describes the fate of the prophet himself, and not the fate of the people as commonly understood in traditional commentaries], and they are thus: “Thus said the Lord” to me [my emphasis], that I am “a despised one among evil people” [ . . . ] Kings shall see and stand up – I have already alluded to this secret halfway through the book [i.e., that this part of the Book of Isaiah does not contain prophecies by Isaiah the son of Amoz].90 [ . . . ] The letter ‫כ״ף‬ ָ of ‫ויבחרך‬ [i.e., the fact that the object of “he chose you” is articulated in the singular] is testimony to the integrity of this interpretation. It seems that, in Ibn Ezra’s opinion, this verse presents a brief summary of the turnaround in fortune expected for the prophet who had been in exile in Babylonia, the “despised one among evil people,” and who would be honored by kings and nobles who would arise and prostrate themselves before him.91 Acָ cording to Ibn Ezra, the letter ‫ כ״ף‬in the verb “‫”ויבחרך‬ (“he chose you [sing.]”), as ָ well as the letter ‫ כ״ף‬in the verb “‫“( ”עניתיך‬I answer you [sing.]”) in the following verse,92 are “evidence” that the prophecy is concerned with the prophet himself. It follows necessarily from this that Isaiah the son of Amoz is not the prophet under discussion, since he was not exiled to Babylonia, nor was he honored in this way. Rather, these verses relate to a different, anonymous prophet. In other words, it is a supposedly tangential consideration – the articulation of the direct ָ ָ object in second-­person-­singular (“‫”ויבחרך‬ and “‫)”עניתיך‬ – which led Ibn Ezra to the far-­reaching conclusion that the “Isaiah” of chapters 40 and onward should be distinguished from the prophecies of Isaiah the son of Amoz – anticipating the conclusions of modern scholarship by many centuries.93 It would seem that the prophecies regarding “our exile” – that is, the late Second Temple period – played some role in leading Ibn Ezra to this conclusion. Even so, it seems that this was, in the end, just an additional piece of supportive evidence. In other 90 See also Ibn Ezra on Isa 53:12: “And the secret is as I hinted halfway through the book. Now all the sections fit together well.” 91 See Simon, ‫אזן‬, 242, and see also Michael Friedländer, The Commentary of Ibn Ezra on Isaiah [ . . . ] (London: N. Trübner, 1873), 223–24. In this context it should be noted that Ibn Ezra understood even the prophecies of the “servant of the Lord” (Isa 52:13–53:12) to be speaking about the prophet himself (see especially his commentary on Isa 53:12). In this respect, too, his approach differs from what was traditionally accepted, and see Simon, ‫אזן‬, 243–45. 92 Ibn Ezra on Isa 49:8: “In an hour of favor I answer you – This [wording] is also evidence for what I have been hinting at. The majority [of commentators, however] say that the ‫[ כ״ף‬at the end of] ָ “‫”עניתיך‬ refers back to Koresh, but then the section does not fit [into the larger context].” 93 In modern scholarship, the identification of a second Isaiah is associated with Eichhorn more than anyone else. Though he was not the first to divide the book into parts associated with two different prophets, he was the first to discuss this issue in depth; Johann Gottfried Eichhorn, Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Leipzig: Bey Weidmanns Erben und Reich, 1783), 76–97.

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words, if the prophecy in Isaiah 49:7–8 had not contained verbs with a direct object articulated in second-­person-­singular – that is, verbs directed at the prophet himself – Ibn Ezra would not have attributed the second half of the book to an anonymous prophet.94 Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11, the text of primary concern to us here, should be understood in a similar fashion. If language is fundamentally communicative in nature, and if the language of the Bible is not different in this respect from human language, then biblical language should be expected to obey the same rules and norms that are typical of everyday language. Just as human beings communicate with one another in a clear fashion, avoid irregular and ambiguous expressions, do not describe future events in the past or present tense, and do not employ words from languages they do not know, so too it is hard to accept the possibility that they would employ language of exceptional lexical strangeness like that which one finds in the Book of Job. It is true that a reasonable linguistic and grammatical interpretation of Job is possible, since it is, after all, “difficult to interpret” – not impossible. Nevertheless, the book’s unique linguistic character, its many difficulties, and its abundance of challenging words are not consistent with the communicative nature of human language. It was thus Ibn Ezra’s presumption that the books of the Bible speak the language of human beings, leading him to conclude that he needed to explain the irregular linguistic character of Job, just as he saw fit to explain irregular language in a number of verses in the Torah and the Book of Isaiah. As we have seen, Ibn Ezra dealt with linguistic irregularity in several verses of the Torah in a localized fashion, suggesting that they were written at a later stage, after the death of Moses. Likewise, he dealt with the linguistic irregularity of several verses in the Book of Isaiah by suggesting a division of the book into two distinct parts, attributing each to a different prophet living in a different historical period. Unlike these cases, the linguistic irregularity of Job is not reducible to specific verses or defined sections. The unique language of the book is evident throughout the speeches that constitute its better part. In this case, Ibn Ezra had to find a much more general explanation – one which could be applied to the entire book. His suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language provides such a comprehensive explanation. This solution shows, more than anything else, how committed Ibn Ezra was to the 94 It should be noted that Ibn Ezra raises the possibility that the turnaround in the prophet’s fortunes took place after his death: “Of course, one may argue that this verse means that they will ‘stand up’ and ‘prostrate themselves’ when they hear the name of the prophet, even after his death,” Ibn Ezra on Isa 40:1; “But according to the majority opinion, that when the kings, e.g., Koresh, hear the words of the prophet, they will rise and bow [even after his death],” Ibn Ezra on Isa 49:7. Nevertheless, he does not accept this suggestion, and it seems that the manner in which the prophet is addressed in Isa 49:7–8 is the decisive consideration here.

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assumption that the language of the Bible is no different from the language of human beings – for if the difficult language of the speeches in Job is a result of translation, then what seemed like a deviation from the characteristic features of human language is, in fact, the product of a very familiar, human literary practice.

The Origins of Job and His Friends Along with Ibn Ezra’s presumptions regarding the language of the Bible and language in general, another consideration should be noted which also informs Ibn Ezra’s conclusion that Job is a translated book: the non-­Jewish origins of Job and some of his friends. In his commentary on Job 1:1, part of which I cited above, Ibn Ezra addresses Job’s own identity: Job was among the children of the children of Nahor, the brother of Abraham. It seems most likely to me that he was among the descendants of Esau. This proves it: “in the land of Uz” – like in, “rejoice and exalt, daughter of Edom, who dwells in the land of Uz” [Lam 4:21]. It is impossible to say that he never existed. Ibn Ezra learned of the connection between Job and Nahor the brother of Abraham from the enumeration of Nahor’s children, including “Uz his first born,” in Genesis 22:20–21.95 However, in his view, Job’s ancestors blended back in with the line of Abraham, as Job was among the descendants of Esau. It seems that the link in the chain connecting Nahor with Esau is Rebecca, granddaughter of Nahor (Gen 22:23) and mother of Esau (Gen 25:25). Ibn Ezra’s interpretation of Job 1:1 is based on two complementary assumptions: that in many instances, identical names in the Bible indicate a family connection; and that when a person and a place share an identical name, this indicates that the descendants of that person settled in that place, which was named after him. Accordingly, Ibn Ezra presumed that Uz, the name of the place in which Job lived, was connected with Uz the first-­born son of Nahor, and that Job was thus a descendant of this family. The identification of the land of Uz with Edom in Lamentations (“daughter of Edom, who dwells in the land of Uz”) led Ibn Ezra to the conclusion that the inhabitants of this land are con

95 The connection between Job and Uz the son of Nahor is also mentioned in a midrash, and one of the possibilities raised regarding the identity of Job is that he was in fact Uz the son of Nahor: “[Abraham] was afraid of tribulations. The Holy One Blessed is He said to him: there is no need [to fear]; the one who will bear them has already been born: ‘and his first born Uz’ [Gen 22:21],” Genesis Rabbah, 57:4, ed. Theodor and Albeck, p. 614, and Numbers Rabbah 17:2: “And Uz was Job” (Jerusalem: Machon haMidrash haMevo’ar, 1996), 136. Other commentators also discussed the connection between Job and Uz the son of Nahor; see Rasag and Yefet Ben ’Ali on Job 1:1 (Kapach, ‫איוב‬, 23; Ben Shammai, “‫”פירושו‬, 20).

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nected to the line of Esau.96 From Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Lamentations 4:21 it becomes clear that these inhabitants were Arameans – “they are Arameans.” Informing this ethnic identification are several verses which connect the line of Esau with Aram and with characters by the name of Uz.97 In Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Job 1:3 (“That man was greater than all the people of the East [‫)”]בני קדם‬, we see that he locates Uz in proximity to Haran: “The location of Job is next to Haran, on the basis of [the verse,] ‘he [Jacob] came to the land of the people of the East [‫[ ’]בני קדם‬Gen 29:1].” In other places, Ibn Ezra identifies the “people of the East” (‫ )בני קדם‬with the Arameans;98 he identifies Haran with Aram-­Naharaim,99 and he claims that Haram and Edom bordered one another.100 These claims, as well as the geographical location of Haran, fit with the land of Uz’s connection with Edom and the line of Esau, Job’s connection with the line of Nahor in Haran, and the identification of the descendants of Nahor with the Arameans.101 96 The connection between Esau and Edom is taken for granted, for example Gen 36:8: “So Esau settled in the hill country Seir – Esau being Edom.” One should distinguish between the land of Uz and Edom: “All the mixed peoples; all the kings of the land of Uz; all the kings of the land of the Philistines – Ashkelon, Gaza, Ekron, and what is left of Ashdod; Edom, Moab, and Ammon” (Jer 25:20–21). However, we do not possess any text in which Ibn Ezra addresses this verse. For an explicit rejection of Ibn Ezra’s position that Job was among the descendants of Esau, and his reliance upon Lam 4:21, see the anonymous commentary on Job 1:1: William Aldis Wright, A Commentary on the Book of Job from a Hebrew Manuscript in the University Library, Cambridge (London: Williams & Norgate, 1905), 1–2. 97 Gen 22:21–22 discusses the birth of Uz, first-­born of Nahor, and also mentions his brothers, Kemuel “the father of Aram,” and Bethuel, the father of Rebecca, who is called elsewhere “Bethuel the Aramean of Padan-­Aram” (Gen 25:20). In Gen 10:23 we see that one of the sons of Aram himself was Uz: “The sons of Aram: Uz,” etc. In Gen 36:28, the genealogical tree of Seir mentions that “the sons of Dishan were these: Uz and Aran.” It is possible that “Aran” was taken to refer to Aram. This tree, like all the genealogical trees in Gen 36, was understood as descending from the line of Esau, whose connection with Seir is taken for granted; see, for example, Gen 36:8, Deut 2:4, and Ibn Ezra on Gen 36:20. (Some suggested in the past that Ibn Ezra presumed the phenomenon of substitution between the letters ‫ מ״ם‬and ‫[ נו״ן‬as in Aram/Aran] only occurred in cases of “servant letters” and nouns in the pattern ‫ ;פעלון‬Perez, “‫”חילוף‬, 260.) 98 In Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Isa 2:6 he writes: “What is right in my view is that they were filled with the wisdom of the people of the East [‫]בני קדם‬, as he wrote: ‘Aram from the East, and Philistia from the West’ [Isa 9:11].” 99 Ibn Ezra on Gen 24:4 (“But will go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac [ . . . ] and he made his way to Aram-­Naharim, to the city of Nahor,” Gen 24:4, 10): “To the land of my birth – Haran, where he dwelt.” 100 Ibn Ezra on Gen 32:4: “Hence we know that the land of Edom is between Haran and the Land of Israel.” Uriel Simon cites this commentary of Ibn Ezra in a series of examples indicating “Ibn Ezra’s low level of knowledge of the geography of the land of Israel and its neighbors,” idem, ‫שני‬ ‫( פירושי ר׳ אברהם אבן עזרא לתרי־עשר‬Jerusalem: Bar-­Ilan, 1989), 111, n. 34. 101 As noted, Kemuel “the father of Aram” and Bethuel “the Aramean” were among the descendants of Nahor, and of course the son of Bethuel was Laban the Aramean.

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In light of all of these statements, it is clear that Ibn Ezra presumed Job to be a historical figure, and not just a parable (one of the opinions presented in rabbinic literature). As he writes in his commentary to Job 1:1: “It is impossible to say that he never existed.” Job was among the descendants of Nahor and the descendants of Esau, and he lived in the land of Uz, which was associated with the Arameans and located on the border of Edom and Haran. Both Job’s origins and the location of Uz are subjects of differing opinions in the Jewish tradition. It seems that the view that Job was not Jewish was far more common than the view that he was, while the suggestion that Arameans inhabited Uz is known from sources earlier than Ibn Ezra.102 If these sources influenced Ibn Ezra as he formulated his own conclusions, he makes no mention of this. The origins and locations of Job’s friends were also subjects of discussion in rabbinic tradition.103 As noted above, Ibn Ezra identifies Elihu, the son of Barachel the Buzite, with “the children of Nahor, brother of Abraham” in his commentary to Job 32:2. This identification is based on Genesis 22:21, which mentions Buz, the son of Nahor and brother of Uz. As I noted above, Ibn Ezra assumed that the family tree of Job, who was also among the “children of the children of Nahor, the brother of Abraham” (Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 1:1) eventually blended in with the descendants of Abraham, as Job was also among the descendants of Esau. It seems that he also assumed that Elihu’s ancestors blended in with Abraham’s line of descendants. However, unlike Job, this family line remained part of Israel, as Ibn Ezra notes that Elihu was named after Ram, “the father of Amminadab, among the children of Israel,” who was an ancestor of King David. As I noted above, in his commentary to Job 2:11, Ibn Ezra places Eliphaz the Temanite in the generation of Teman’s grandchildren. Thus Eliphaz, like Job but unlike Elihu, is among the descendants of Esau but not counted as an Israelite. In his commentary to Job 2:11, Ibn Ezra identifies Bildad the Shuhite with Shuah, the son of Abraham and Keturah: “The Shuhite – among the sons of Keturah, wife of Abraham: ‘Ishbak and Shuah’ [Gen 25:2].” Ibn Ezra does not say anything about the descendants of Shuah or their location, but it is reasonable to assume that he saw them as non-­Jews. This is implied indirectly by remarks in his long commentary on Exodus 21:2: “If Israel are called Eberim [‫]עברים‬ because of their lineage from Eber, then the children of Ishmael, the children 102 See especially: Mack, ‫אלא‬, 75–94. On the connections between Uz and the Arameans, see Rashi on Job 1:1: “That man was wealthier than anyone in the East – The children of the land of the east, for Aram is in the east of the world, as it is stated: ‘From Aram has Balak brought me [ . . . ] from the hills of the east’ [Num 23:7].” Cf. Yefet Ben ‘Ali (Ben Shammai, “‫”פירושו‬, 120–22) and Rashbam on Job 1:3. 103 For a summary, see Mack, ‫אלא‬, 98–103.

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143

of Keturah, and the children of Esau will be associated with us!” Further on, he emphasizes the uniqueness of the Edomites: “However, we never find any of them called, ‘your brother,’ except for Edom [cf. Deut 23:8, etc.], who was in the same womb as Jacob.” From all of this it seems clear that Ibn Ezra assumed that the descendants of Abraham and Keturah were not Israelites.104 The descendants of Shuah are presumably not exceptions to this rule, even though the Bible contains no information about them. Regarding Zophar the Naamathite, Ibn Ezra writes the following in his commentary to Job 2:11: “The Naamathite – we do not know what city or family he belongs to.” Ibn Ezra presumably tried to find clues as to Zophar’s origins, just as he did for Job, Elihu, Eliphaz, and Bildad. One can assume that he examined the two biblical figures with whom the descriptor “the Naamathite” might be connected. The first is Naamah the daughter of Lamech (Gen 4:22), whom the midrash identifies as the wife of Noah.105 The second is Naamah the Amonite, who was one of the wives of Solomon, and the mother of Rehoboam (1 Kgs 14:21, 31). Neither of these possibilities could have served as a chronological anchor for placing Zophar the Naamathite near the time of Moses, which is the period during which the events in Job took place on Ibn Ezra’s account. Another possibility is the city of Naamah, which appears in the list of cites of the lowland in the inheritance of Judah (Josh 15:41). However, it is not possible to say anything about the inhabitants of that city before the conquering of the land.106 According to Ibn Ezra, then, Elihu was an Israelite, Zophar’s origins are unknown, and Job, Eliphaz, and Bildad were not Israelites. If we connect this view of Ibn Ezra’s with his opinion, discussed above, that Uz is located in Edom, on the border of Haran, and its name associated with Arameans, then we can draw the conclusion that the encounter between Job and his friends did not take place in Hebrew. Moreover, it is reasonable to suppose that Ibn Ezra assumed that they spoke with each other in Aramaic, like the other inhabitants of the land of Uz.107 This is an important point. As noted above, it is difficult to 104 It seems that the commentators identified the “children of Keturah” primarily with the Midianites, because of their significant place in biblical literature; cf. for example Ibn Ezra on Gen 16:12. 105 Genesis Rabbah, 23:3, Theodor and Albeck, ed., p. 224. 106 On the association of the descriptor “the Naamathite” with the family or city of Naamah, see Yaacov Edelstein, ‫ ספר איוב‬:‫( ספר בעקבי הכתובים‬Jerusalem: La’or Tzuf, 2005), 14. 107 The possibility that Ibn Ezra thought the speeches in Job were originally spoken in Aramaic has been expressed before, though without a supporting argument. See Friedlaender, Essays, 59; Biale, “Exegesis,” 44, n. 5. Gómez Aranda bases the same assumption on Ibn Ezra’s extensive use of Aramaic in his explanations of Hebrew words. See idem, Job, XLIV. Conversely, Abraham Kahana presumed that Ibn Ezra thought Job was translated from Arabic; idem, ‫ספר איוב מפורש‬ (Tel Aviv: Mekorot, 1968), 7, n. 1; 23, n. 3.

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determine with any certainty whether Ibn Ezra rejected the attribution of Job to Moses – one could argue that he thought Moses translated the speeches of the book into Hebrew. However, if Ibn Ezra presumed that the speeches of Job and his friends were given in Aramaic, this would be a decisive consideration in favor of the view that Moses was not the one who translated the book, since, as can be learned from Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Leviticus 16:8 regarding the word “‫עזאזל‬,” Moses did not know the Aramaic language.108 The mere fact of an encounter between non-­Israelite figures on territory outside of the land of Israel is not itself a rarity in the Bible. In such cases, the commentators did not tend to discuss what language the characters spoke, how they understood each other, or how their words eventually found their way into the Hebrew language and the books of the Bible.109 These linguistic dimensions received attention only if the particular language spoken by the characters played some role in the story itself,110 or if the story mentions an act of translation.111 Ibn Ezra is no different from other medieval commentators on this point. As such, it seems that the fact that the encounter between Job and his friends took place in the land of Uz is not what led him to wonder about the language in which the speeches were made. However, once he had already found himself considering the possibility that Job was translated into Hebrew, it was only natural for him to ask himself why it was not written in Hebrew in the first place. The non-­Israelite origins of Job and some of his friends, as well as the location of Uz in Edom, among the Arameans, may provide a likely answer to this question. In fact, these details about ethnicity and geography fill in necessary details pertaining to Ibn Ezra’s opinion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language.

Supporting Traditions: The Septuagint and the Testament of Job An ancient tradition has survived which may provide support for the view that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language. At the end of the version of Job found in the Septuagint, we find the following colophon: 108 See above, n. 87. 109 A very interesting discussion about these questions can be found in Jacob Qirqisani’s introduction to the Torah (Way 17). It seems that Qirqisani connected the transition from the language in which the characters spoke “in reality” into the Hebrew language of the Bible with the principle that “the Torah speaks the language of human beings” (see Ways 14–21); Leon Nemoy, Karaite Anthology: Excerpts from the Early Literature (New Haven: Yale, 1963), 63–68. 110 See especially 2 Kgs 18:26: “Eliakim son of Hilkiah, Shebna, and Joah replied to the Rabshakeh: ‘Please, speak to your servants in Aramaic, for we understand it; do not speak to us in Judean in the hearing of the people on the wall’.” 111 Gen 42:23: “They did not know that Joseph understood, for there was an interpreter between him and them.”

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This man is described in a Syriac book [Συριακῆς βίβλου]; [as] living in the land of Ausis, on the borders of Idumea and Arabia; and his name before was Jobab; and having taken an Arabian wife, he begot a son, his name was [changed to] Ennon. And he himself was the son of his father Zare, one of the sons of Esau, and of his mother Bosorrha, so that he was the fifth from Abraham.112 The identification of Job with Jobab son of Zerah is also known from the verse that opens the Testament of Job: “Book of Job, called Jobab.”113 Further on, as in the colophon, it is emphasized that Job was a descendant of Esau: “For I am of the sons of Esau. My brother is Nahor, and your mother is Dinah” (Testament of Job 1:5).114 The identification of Job with Jobab son of Zerah also appears in Jewish sources later than Ibn Ezra, and it seems this view was well known.115 As noted above, Ibn Ezra places Job a generation later than Jobab, and on this point he differs from the colophon and the opening of the Testament of Job. In his commentaries to Genesis 36:32–33 and Job 1:1, Ibn Ezra rejects the identification of Job with Jobab explicitly. Nevertheless, like the colophon, Ibn Ezra emphasizes that Job was a descendant of Esau. Another point of similarity can be found in the geographical placement of the land of Uz. The colophon states that Uz was located on the border of Edom and Arabia. This is similar, though not identical, to Ibn Ezra’s assertion that the land of Uz is located on the border of Edom and Haran. The colophon does not state that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language. However, the claim that the book came from Syria, or that the story of Job was written in a book located in Syria, fits quite well with the idea that the book was not written in Hebrew originally.116

112 According to this, the name Job (‫ )איוב‬is derived from the Hebrew word for enemy (‫)אויב‬, cf. b. Bava Batra 16a; Niddah 52b; and at the end of the book, his name was changed in light of his good fate. Further on in the colophon, Gen 36:31 is cited: “These are the kings who reigned in the land of Edom,” and mentions “Balac [sic!] the son of Beor” (Gen 36:32: “Bela son of Beor”), “Jobab, who is called Job,” “Asom” (Gen 36:35: “Husham”), and “Adad, the son of Barad” (Gen 36:35: “Hadad son of Bedad”). See Annette Yoshiko Reed, “Job as Jobab: The Interpretation of Job in LXX Job 42:17b–e,” Journal of Biblical Literature 120 (2001): 31–55. 113 The Testament of Job was apparently written around the second century BCE, and it may have preceded the version of Job in the Septuagint. Nevertheless, it is impossible to determine whether one of these sources relied upon the other regarding the question of Job’s identity, or whether they share another common source. 114 On the identification of Job’s wife with Dina, see Mack, ‫אלא‬, 58–62. 115 See, in particular: “It is similarly written in the books of chronicles of the Christians and the Greeks that Moses wrote it, and that Job is Jobab son of Zerah from Bozrah, among the kings of Edom,” Abraham Zakhut, ‫( ספר יוחסין השלם‬Warsaw: Levin-­Epstein, 1901), 1§, p. 9; and see Mack, ‫אלא‬, 49. 116 Reed, Job, 35–37; and see also Naftali Herz Tur-­Sinai, ‫״ אנציקלופדיה מקראית‬,‫( ״איוב‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1955), 1:256.

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As is well known, traditions and their reverberations unfold orally and in writing, and tend to develop and evolve over time. When points of similarity or affinity between different sources are found, one must ask how pronounced these are, and whether the texts are products of a single tradition, or if they might rather have developed independently of one another. It seems to me that the points of similarity between Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job and the colophon at the end of the Septuagint version of Job are, in the final analysis, quite pronounced. Nevertheless, as we have made clear, Ibn Ezra’s conclusion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language is based on philological considerations, and on his approach to language. It is thus not necessary to claim that Ibn Ezra formulated his opinion (also) under the influence of sources which developed out of the tradition in the colophon. One certainly cannot argue that his position relies on unknown sources such as these. Nevertheless, one should not reject the possibility that a tradition regarding the foreignness of Job and of his book might have somehow made its way to Ibn Ezra and influenced him, even slightly, as he formulated his conclusions.

Reception of Ibn Ezra’s Position Ibn Ezra’s opinion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language did not have a significant impact on the history of Jewish commentary on the book. It was presumably the fact that his approach does not fit comfortably with the traditional view that Moses wrote the Book of Job, as well as the suggestion that the Hebrew Bible might contain a book whose origins are non-­Jewish, which made it difficult for commentators to accept his position. To this, we can add that Ibn Ezra’s position, as I have tried to show, is based on a combination of philological considerations and presuppositions relating to the nature of language. In order to see the suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language as a reasonable one, it is necessary to accept all of Ibn Ezra’s presuppositions and guiding considerations. This, too, may have made it difficult for commentators to agree with his claims. As far as I know, Rabbi Simeon ben Ṣemaḥ Duran (1361–1444; also known as Rashbaṣ) was the only medieval biblical commentator to engage explicitly with Ibn Ezra’s opinion that Job is a translated book: The sage, Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra may his memory be a blessing, wrote that it seems to him that [the Book of Job] was transcribed from another language, and that this is the reason that it is deeply poetic in style, as is typical of books transcribed from language to language. However, this need not be the case. Rather, since these people did not speak the Holy Language, when Moses transcribed their words, letter for letter, into the

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Holy Language by divine force, the language became “deep” as is typical of transcribed books.117 Duran accepts the view of Ibn Ezra that the discussion between Job and his friends did not take place in Hebrew. Moreover, he accepts Ibn Ezra’s claim that the book is distinguished by its unique language, like translated books are. Duran even articulated his own claims in language influenced directly by Ibn Ezra – “as is typical of transcribed books” (Duran); “as [the manner of] all translated books are” (Ibn Ezra).118 However, Duran emphasizes that it was Moses himself who translated (‫ )העתיק‬the words of the book’s characters into Hebrew. As mentioned, Ibn Ezra thought that the act of translation left an imprint on the book, and this view implies that Job is the product of human literary activity of a finite quality. This might be the reason that Duran emphasized that Moses translated, by divine word, what the characters said word for word (“letter for letter”). Duran thus combines Ibn Ezra’s position with the opinion in b. Bava Batra, according to which Moses wrote the Book of Job. On this point, Joseph ben David ibn Yaḥya (1494–1534, Portugal and Italy) is similar to Duran, although unlike him, Ibn Yaḥya does not state explicitly that Ibn Ezra’s position informs his own approach.119 In the introduction to his commentary on the Book of Job, Ibn Yaḥya writes as follows: Moses, who wrote his own book, also wrote the Book of Job. That is, he found the questions and answers of Job and his friends written down, mixed with other books from among the nations. He searched within them, and by means of the Holy Spirit he began to separate wheat from chaff [)‫]אוכל מתוך פסול׳(ת‬, and wrote the Book of Job sequentially, in accordance with the truth itself, as it happened, without adding or detracting.120 Ibn Yaḥya’s words here suggest that Moses’s literary activity was complex in nature. Moses wrote the book on the basis of different sources which he “found.” These sources included the speeches of Job and his friends, as well as “other books from among the nations” – that is, other compositions written by non-­Jews. Ibn Yaḥya does not explicitly specify the language in which these compositions were written, but since he identified them as non-­Jewish sources, it seems that he was hinting that they were not written in Hebrew. This being

117 The Commentary of Rashbaṣ on Job 1:1; see ‫ ביאורים על איוב‬:‫( ספר אוהב משפט וספר משפט צדק‬Venice: Juan De Gara, 1589), 45b. 118 ‫״כמנהג הספרים המועתקים״ – ״כדרך כל ספר מתורגם״‬. 119 He completed his commentary on the books of ‫( כתובים‬Psalms-­Chronicles) in 1529, and it was printed in )‫מקראות גדולות (ספר קהלות משה‬, 1724 (printed edition: New York, 1987). 120 Ibid., 89b.

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the case, Ibn Yaḥya, like Duran, offered a position consistent with the claim in b. Bava Batra that Moses wrote the Book of Job, while simultaneously not rejecting Ibn Ezra’s opinion that Job “is a translated book.” However, he emphasizes that the literary activity of Moses was not merely trivial, human literary activity, but rather, Moses wrote “by means of the Holy Spirit.”121 Other medieval commentators ignored Ibn Ezra’s position completely.122 This is especially noticeable among commentators who were influenced deeply by Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job, and who often quoted him – explicitly or implicitly – but who nevertheless chose not even to mention the suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language.123 Having said that, in a number of places it seems possible that Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11 indirectly informed some statements by these commentators. One example of this possibility is the following assertion by Rabbi Moses Kimḥi (ca. 1127–1190) in the introduction to his commentary on Job: “Moses wrote his book and the Book of Job; we received this from our ancestors, the sages, for they and their words are truth.” Moses Kimḥi did not begin his commentaries on Proverbs or Ezra-­Nehemiah with this kind of dogmatic statement. It thus might be the case that these words have a polemical dimension to them: they might have been directed primarily against Ibn Ezra’s suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language. Indeed, it is of interest to note that this is the only place in Moses Kimḥi’s commentaries in which the expression, “their words are truth,” appears – and in this context it refers to the rabbinic tradition. Variations on this expression (d-­b-­r [‫ ]דב״ר‬+ ‫ )אמת‬are highly characteristic of Ibn Ezra’s writings. In dozens of places, he uses this expression to emphasize the supreme status of the sages and the correctness of a position accepted by the tradition: “Our esteemed forefathers were true, all their words are true.”124 We 121 Further on, Ibn Yaḥya reiterates emphatically that Moses wrote the Book of Job. He distinguishes between different levels of divine revelation experienced by Moses: when he wrote the Book of Job – this was “writing by means of the Holy Spirit.” When he wrote the Torah – “a spirit of prophecy came over him through a glass that shines, above which there is no higher level,” ibid. 122 One exception is Judah Moscato (Italy, d. 1589). In the introduction to his commentary on the Kuzari, Moscato deals with the fundamental challenges involved in translating books (“the nature of transcription,” in his words, “‫)”טבע ההעתקה‬, and in this context he mentions Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11. This does not imply necessarily that Moscato accepted Ibn Ezra’s position; rather, it seems he was interested in the general message contained in Ibn Ezra’s statement – namely, that translated books are difficult to interpret; idem, ‫( ספר הכוזרי‬Venice: Juan De Gara, 1594), 4a. 123 This is the case in two anonymous commentaries on Job whose authors knew Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the book well; Abraham Sulzbach, ed. (Frankfurt am Main, 1911), and Wright, Commentary. This is also the case of Samuel Ben Nisim Masnuth in his commentary on Job, ‫מעין גנים כולל פירוש על ספר איוב‬, ed. Shlomo Buber (Berlin: Itzkowski, 1889), and see ibid., x–xi. 124 The end of Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on Genesis, and, inter alia: “Our Rabbis

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are aware of other cases in which a commentator employs the terminology of an earlier commentator in order to contest his interpretation; it is possible that Moses Kimḥi’s words here are an example of this interesting phenomenon.125 The introduction to Rabbi Joseph Caspi’s (1280–1345) commentary to Job is another, somewhat more complicated, example of the possibility that a commentator might be disputing Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11 without mentioning it.126 Joseph Caspi writes: Although Job and his friends were not Jews, it was appropriate for one of the scribes among the ancient sages of our religion to write this story as it happened in his time, or slightly before him, since it is an eminent story, equally right for all nations and religions [ . . . ] Who knows if, perhaps, some or all of Job and his friends were Jews who were exiled for some reason to the land of Uz? [ . . . ] In the end, what value is there for us in these empty [‫ ]הבל‬inquiries? The truth is equally right for all of the nations. If Job was an Aramean, one should not argue: How could God have spoken with him? For is this not the case with the evil Balaam? One also should not ask: If Job and his friends were not Jews, how was this book included among the Holy Books? For here is your proclamation that it is equally right for all of the nations: The Book of Jonah, which is entirely the story of another nation, is included. So, too, the story of the generation of the flood, and the story of Sodom and Gomorrah are written in the Torah. The general rule is: The ancient scribes of our nation and of the other nations wrote down all of the stories and the events, in order to bequeath true opinions and beliefs to those to come, such as they were [‫]היו על שהיו‬. This is enough. Joseph Caspi’s remarks center around the ethnic origins of Job and his friends, as well as some related questions: Is the background of non-­Jews of any importance? Is God revealed to non-­Jews? How did books dealing with said [ . . . ] and their words are true” (Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:21); “What our Rabbis of blessed memory received from tradition [ . . . ] all their words are true” (Ibn Ezra on Num 20:21); “Our Rabbis of blessed memory copied [ . . . ] and all their words are true” (Ibn Ezra on Deut 16:1), etc., and see Reifman, ‫עיונים‬, 104–11. 125 This is manifestly apparent in Rashbam’s commentary and his attitude toward Rashi; see Meir Isaac (Martin) Lockshin, ‫ הערות‬,‫ ציוני מקורות‬,‫פירוש התורה לרבינו שמואל בן מאיר עם שינויי נוסחאות‬ ‫( ומפתחות‬Jerusalem: Horeb, 2009), 30, and passim. 126 It should be noted that Caspi wrote a super-­commentary on Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the Torah, and he methodically ignored Ibn Ezra’s comments regarding verses that were added to the Torah after Moses’s time; see Eran Viezel, “Isaac Abravanel’s Question and Joseph Hayyun’s Answer: A New Stage in the Issue of Moses’ Role in the Composition of the Torah,” Religious Studies and Theology 35 (2016): 60, n. 26. In light of this, it is not surprising that Caspi’s commentary to Job did not explicitly mention Ibn Ezra’s suggestion that the book was translated into Hebrew.

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non-­Jews come to be included in the Hebrew Bible? According to Caspi, the Book of Job is of great importance – in fact, it is of universal importance (“an eminent story, equally right for all nations and religions”) – and this is why it was included in the Hebrew Bible. In his view, this is also the case with respect to other books and stories in the Hebrew Bible which are not about Jews, and even ancient books not included in the Hebrew Bible. All of these books were written by “the ancient scribes of our nation and of the other nations,” and their educational purpose is to “bequeath true opinions and beliefs to those to come.” Joseph Caspi does not state the identity of “one of the scribes among the ancient sages of our religion” who wrote the Book of Job. It should be noted that Caspi tends to refer to the authors of biblical books using anonymous designations, even when he accepts the traditional rabbinic identification of the author.127 In these cases, however, he uses terms that were commonly employed in the commentaries of that period – “‫“( ”הסופר‬the scribe”), “‫“( ”המחבר‬the author”), or “‫“( ”הכותב‬the writer”). The expression, “one of the scribes among the ancient sages of our religion,” is unique. The possibility should thus be considered that Caspi chose not to identify the book’s author by name in this case because he did not accept, or at least had doubts about, the traditional view that Moses wrote the Book of Job.128 As has been mentioned, the question of the origins of Job and his friends – specifically, whether they were Jews or non-­Jews – was the subject of disagreement in the rabbinic tradition.129 Joseph Caspi’s remarks should thus be understood against the backdrop of this long-­standing and well-­known discussion. 127 For example, Joseph Caspi often refers to the author of the Book of Samuel by the anonymous designation, “the book’s writer” (his commentaries on 1 Sam 4:21, 7:2, 17:18, 20:16, 25:37, 39, 27:3; 1 Chr 10:1, 13:6, 10, 18:17), even though it is clear that he identified the writer as Samuel himself, as can be seen in his commentary to 2 Sam 11:6: “The sage Samuel, this book’s writer, wrote it.” See also his commentary on 1 Sam 8:9: “The book’s writer summarized here, for there is no doubt that God set before him at this point all that is written afterwards, and that Samuel did not add of his own volition.” 128 Joseph Caspi noted that the story of the events described in Job took place “in his [the author’s] time, or slightly before him.” He does not comment at all regarding the period of Job and his friends, and it is possible that he accepted the common view among medieval commentators, according to which the events took place in the period of Moses or slightly earlier. If this is the case, then even if Caspi did not accept the view that Moses was the author, he still presumed that the book was written approximately during Moses’s period. Having said that, it should be noted that Caspi’s polemical engagement with the view of Maimonides suggests that the events in the book took place after the giving of the Torah: “Why did God not say to Job: ‘Why did you denigrate me, by being drawn to the distorted view of Aristotle, or by denying the resurrection of the dead? You should have been drawn to the view of Eliphaz, which is the view of the Torah that I gave to Israel, the chosen people, on Mount Sinai!’” (the introduction to Caspi’s second commentary on Job, “the ninth argument”). 129 Above, n. 103.

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However, the question of the characters’ origins is not tied inherently to the question of how the book was written or the identity of its author. It is certainly possible that Caspi made this connection under the direct influence of Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Job 2:11. His assertions that the origins of the characters and the attendant related questions are not important, and that “the truth is equally right for all of the nations,”130 present the rabbinic discussions on these matters as unimportant and pointless – “empty inquiries,” in his words. However, perhaps Caspi also intended to emphasize that there is nothing of fundamental importance at stake in the suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language. Rabbi Zeraḥiah ben Isaac ben Shealtiel Ḥen of Barcelona (thirteenth century) also does not explicitly mention Ibn Ezra’s view that Job was translated into Hebrew. Nevertheless, like Moses Kimḥi and Joseph Caspi, it seems that he sought to refute it.131 According to Zeraḥiah, Moses wrote the Book of Job, and the events described in it are a moral-­theological parable: “The Book of Job was written and composed through Moses’s understanding and by his abundant wisdom, and in it he aims to make known beliefs relating to divine providence; and it is possible that he composed it by means of the divine will emanating to him.” He goes on to write: If you say that Moses our Master found their [i.e., Job’s and his friends’] remarks written, scattered, and dispersed, and then he connected them and wrote them down – then where did he find the words of God? Who composed them from God and wrote them down? If you say: Job and his friends wrote down the words of God, the questioner will further respond: It is an exceptional thing that there should be six speakers, and no difference in their poetical style [‫ !]במליצתם‬Each one speaks just like the other in the poetical style of his remarks.132 Zeraḥiah rejected the view that Moses wrote the book on the basis of sources that he found. Since Zeraḥiah knew Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job well, it is certainly reasonable to presume that Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Job 2:11 was the backdrop against which these remarks were made.133 Zeraḥiah presents a somewhat naïve, dogmatic-­theological justification for his rejection of this 130 This emphasis is characteristically Maimonidean, as in: “Hear the truth from whomever says it;” Introduction to Shemonah peraqim, ed. Mordechai Leib Katzenellenbogen, ‫ מסכת‬:‫משנת ראובן‬ ‫( אבות‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 2005), 1. 131 On R. Zeraḥiah see Aviezer Ravitzki, “‫משנתו של ר׳ זרחיה בן יצחק בן שאלתיאל חן וההגות המימונית – תיבונית‬ ‫”במאה ה־י״ג‬, PhD diss., Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1977. 132 ‫תקוות אנוש‬, ed. Israel Schwartz (Berlin: Gerschell, 1868), 170, 173. Zeraḥiah apparently wrote his commentary on Job in Rome, in the years 1290/1; Schwartz, ibid., xix; Ravitzki, ‫משנתו‬, 82. 133 For some of Zeraḥiah’s polemical statements against Ibn Ezra on Job, see Ravitzki, ‫משנתו‬, 103–4.

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view: It is not possible that the words of God could be found “scattered and dispersed.” Divine words are written “from God” – that is, by his prophets, in this case Moses. In his view, it is also not possible that Job and his friends could have been the ones who wrote down God’s words. Zeraḥiah bases this claim on an aesthetic consideration – the characters who speak in the Book of Job have a recognizably identical style. This, he says, should lead one to conclude that the book was written in a single turn, and that it does not contain sources that were written in different places and by different authors.134 It can thus be asserted that, with one exception (R. Simeon ben Ṣemaḥ Duran), the medieval rabbis and commentators either ignored Ibn Ezra’s position, or rejected it indirectly.135 Conversely, modern scholars and thinkers, seeing themselves as liberated from rabbinic tradition, have had a far more positive attitude toward his position.136 Baruch Spinoza writes that: “There is also some 134 Zeraḥiah’s dogmatic position did not lead him to deny the fact that Job contains unique language. In his commentary on Job 16:15, in language quite similar to that of Ibn Ezra, he writes: “This book contains many irregular words [‫ ]מלות זרות‬which have no parallel [‫ ]אין להן חבר‬in the Bible, but rather only in the Arabic language,” ‫תקוות אנוש‬, 233. In light of this remark, Abraham Kahana wrote that R. Zeraḥiah thought the Book of Job was translated from Arabic; idem, ‫ספר‬ ‫איוב‬, 7, n. 1; 23, n. 3. 135 Naḥmanides and Gersonides also ignored Ibn Ezra’s opinion. In the introduction to his commentary on Job, Naḥmanides does not take a decisive position regarding the attribution of the book to Moses: “Some of our rabbis said that Moses our Master wrote it, and that the matter of this man and those friends of his was relayed to him by divine force [‫]מפי הגבורה‬, like the Book of Genesis was relayed to him by divine force.” However, elsewhere, he is more decisive on this matter: “Our rabbis said that Moses our Master wrote it, and this is certainly appropriate for him. The book was relayed to him by divine force, like the Book of Genesis and the portion of Balaam”; see “Naḥmanides’ Sermon on Ecclesiastes,” in ‫כתבי רבינו משה בן נחמן יוצאים לאור על־פי כתבי‬ ‫ הערות ומבואות‬,‫יד ודפוסים ראשונים עם מראי מקומות‬, ed. Charles Ber Chavel (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1963), 1:196. Baḥya, following Naḥmanides: ‫כד הקמח‬, 5§, 68a. It seems that Gersonides also attributed the Book of Job to Moses. In the introduction to his commentary on Job, he writes: “Moses our Master, peace be upon him, invented this wonderful story for us, in which all of the doubts raised are solved [the question of free will and divine providence is clarified] by way of speculative inquiry.” It should be noted that Gersonides places Job earlier in time, and might have presumed him to have lived at the time of the forefathers. See his commentary to Job 5:12 (“‫)”באור המלות‬: “The Torah had not been given in Job’s time.” 136 On this point there is a difference between scholars with a critical orientation, on one hand, and modern rabbinic scholars who remain attached to the rabbinic tradition, on the other. The latter group, like the medieval commentators before them, tend to ignore Ibn Ezra’s position. Even some rabbinic scholars who did not accept the traditional view ascribing the Book of Job to Moses nevertheless chose to ignore Ibn Ezra’s position, which they found to be too far-­reaching. Shmuel Zanvil Sternberg, for example, devotes many pages to discussion of the author of Job, its contents, and its language, and his conclusion is that the book was written by Ezra, whom he identifies with Malachi (cf. b. Megillah 15a) – yet he does not say a word about Ibn Ezra’s position; idem, ‫( ספר איוב עם באור חקר שדי‬Zhitomir: Isaac Moses Bakasht, 1872), x–ix. Similarly,

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

153

doubt in what language the Book of Job was written. Ibn Ezra asserts in his commentary that it was translated into Hebrew from another language and that this is the cause of its obscurity.”137 Spinoza identifies the suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew with Ibn Ezra, though the way he articulates his remarks suggests the possibility that he might have been aware of additional discussion regarding the original language of the book (“There is also some doubt,” etc.). Further on he writes: Ibn Ezra [ . . . ] affirms in his commentary on the book that it had been rendered into Hebrew from another language. I wish he had demonstrated this for us more conclusively, since we could deduce from it that the gentiles too possessed sacred books. I leave the question therefore in some doubt, surmising only that Job was a gentile and a man of the highest constancy.138 Spinoza does not hide his positive view of Ibn Ezra’s position. However, in his view this position has not been proven at all. Unlike him, Judah Leib Ben Ze’ev (1764–1811)139 accepted Ibn Ezra’s position fully: What seems correct is that the main part of the book was written in Arabic, or in the Aramaic language which is similar to it, and Moses was the translator of this book into the Hebrew language – a work of art! [ . . . ] Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra also tended toward the opinion that this book is a translation.140 Ben-­Ze’ev’s remarks here match the spirit of other critical scholars, especially in the second half of the twentieth century, who also held the view that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language.141 These scholars were David Solomon Sassoon devotes a long discussion to the authorship of Job, and his conclusion is that the book was written in the time of Jeremiah. He also does not mention Ibn Ezra’s position; idem, ‫( ספר נתן חכמה לשלמה‬Jerusalem: D. S. Sassoon, 1989), 161–72. Moses Cremieu (1776–1837), in his super-­commentary on Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job (‫הואיל משה באר‬, vol. 12, 1836), says nothing about who the translator was, and simply notes that the book translated “word by word.” 137 Baruch Spinoza, Tractatus Theologico-­Politicus, 7:16, ed. Jonathan Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 110. 138 Spinoza, Tractatus, 10:8, ed. Israel, 147; and see, inter alia: Edwin M. Curley, “Maimonides, Spinoza, and the Book of Job,” in Jewish Themes in Spinoza’s Philosophy, ed. Heidi M. Ravven and Lenn E. Goodman (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 173. 139 For more on Ben-­Ze’ev and his importance, see Edward Breuer, “(Re)creating Traditions of Language and Texts: The Haskalah and Cultural Continuity,” Modern Judaism 16 (1996): 161–83, and for earlier scholarship on him, see ibid., 164, n. 8. 140 Judah Leib Ben-­Ze’ev, ‫( מבוא אל מקראי קדש‬Vienna: Anton von Schmid, 1810), 65b; reprinted in Aaron Wolfsohn-­Halle, ‫( ספר איוב עם תרגום אשכנזי ובאור‬Vienna: M. L. Loewy’s Sohn, 1818), n.p. 141 In fact, this was proposed much earlier. See Blaise Pascal, Pensées, 12:741: “The two oldest books in

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divided between those who posited that the book had an Arabic source, those who posited an Aramaic or Idumean source, and those who suggested that the book reflects a combination of languages and dialects.142 The considerations motivating these scholars are similar in various ways to those that motivated Ibn Ezra. Like Ibn Ezra, these scholars observed the unique difficulties in the Book of Job, and saw them as products of the translation process.143 Their conclusion was based on the seemingly trivial presupposition, characteristic of critical scholarship, that the language of the books of the Bible is human language – the books of the Bible, including Job, were written by and for human beings capable of understanding what is written in them. This presupposition accords with Ibn Ezra’s assumptions regarding language in general, and the language of the Bible in particular. The non-­Jewish origins of Job and some of his friends are also emphasized by some of these scholars, and in this, too, they the world are those of Moses and Job, the one a Jew and the other a Gentile;” trans. W. F. Trotter (Mineola: Dover, 2003), 223, and see Voltaire, in the entry on “Job” (Dictionnaire philosophique, 1764), who presumes that “the Hebrews translated it from Arabic;” idem, Philosophical Dictionary, trans. Theodore Besterman (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971), 257, and cf. Johann Gottfried Herder, Vom Geist der Ebräischen Poesie [ . . . ] (Gotha: F. Andreas Berthes, 1890), 125. See also Ilgan, who suggested cautiously that there may be an Arabic source for certain expressions in the Book of Job: “Arabiam commigrarit, oriundae;” Karl (Carolus) David Ilgen, Iobi: Antiquissimi carminis Hebraici natura atque virtutes (Lipsiae: Sumtibus Ioh. Beni. Georg. Fleischeri, 1789), 28. 142 Proponents of an Arabic source include: Frank Hugh Foster, “Is the Book of Job a Translation from an Arabic Original?” American Journal of Semitic Languages 49 (1932–1933): 21–45; Alfred Guillaume, “The Arabic Background of the Book of Job,” in Promise and Fulfilment: Essays Presented to Professor S. H. Hooke, ed. Frederick Fyvie Bruce (Edinburgh T. & T. Clark, 1963), 106–27. Proponents of an Aramaic source include: Naftali Herz Tur-­Sinai, ‫ מהדורה חדשה‬,‫פירוש לספר איוב‬ (Jerusalem: R. Mass, 1972), 367–72. For the suggestion of an Idumean source, see Robert Henry Pfeiffer, “Edomite Wisdom,” Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, 44 (1926): 13–25. For proponents of the suggestion that the book combines languages and dialects, see Kahana, ‫ספר איוב‬, 22–24. While the view that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language was accepted only by some scholars, a larger group of scholars posited that the book reflects a different (southern or northern) dialect of Hebrew; for bibliographical details, see Yair Hoffman, ‫ ספר איוב ורקעו‬:‫( שלמות פגומה‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1995), 194–95. 143 Modern scholars and commentators on Job are unanimous in their view that the book’s language is uniquely difficult. Nevertheless, the vast majority of them do not doubt the book’s Hebrew origins. It should be noted that scholars typically make do with a general remark about the difficulty of the book’s language, without trying to specify the nature of these difficulties. In this respect, Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11 is part of a general trend in the history of the book’s interpretation. Cf.: “‘Difficult text’ is not a scientific term, but rather a subjective-­empirical one. What is difficult for one reader might be lucid to another. [ . . . ] Nevertheless, the definition of the Book of Job as a ‘difficult book’ is not subjective, since everyone agrees with this assertion, even if they might disagree regarding the theoretical definition of the term, ‘difficult book.’” Hoffman, ‫שלמות‬, 183. See also Edward L. Greenstein, “The Language of Job and Its Poetic Function,” Journal of Biblical Literature 122 (2003): 651–66.

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

155

bear similarity to Ibn Ezra.144 In any event, Ibn Ezra’s remark in his commentary on Job 2:11 is mentioned primarily by Jewish scholars.145 * In his commentary on Job 2:11, Abraham ibn Ezra discusses the historical period of Eliphaz the Temanite, and he suggests that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language. These two issues could each stand alone – it seems that it was the tradition attributing the authorship of Job to Moses which led Ibn Ezra to discuss them together. As I have tried to show, Ibn Ezra’s positions are based on various philological considerations, but also on presuppositions about the nature of language. Ibn Ezra’s position with respect to the historical period of Eliphaz is unique – no one else discussed the timing of his activity with such precision. However, his views on the historical period and location of Job and the rest of his friends are similar to the opinions of other commentators. His suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language is different. This suggestion was not accepted by other medieval commentators; only in the modern period did it find supporters. The uniqueness of this suggestion, as well as its points of commonality with modern-­critical interpretations of the book, caused it to leave a significant impression among scholars. I do not think I would be mistaken in asserting that we see this suggestion by Ibn Ezra as far-­reaching – perhaps even shocking. Considering this, it is interesting to note that Ibn Ezra articulated his position in an offhanded fashion – there is no hint that he thought he was proposing a view carrying any unusual baggage. Moreover, Ibn Ezra presents his suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew as an incidental remark, in the context of a localized discussion about the identity of Eliphaz the Temanite – and not, as we might have expected, in a more prominent place in the commentary, such as the introduction or his remarks on the first verse of the book. It seems to me that the appropriate conclusion to draw from this is that Ibn Ezra himself did not think the identification of the author of Job was an especially crucial question for readers of his commentary. He was consistent in this respect. Ibn Ezra is well-­known for his comments regarding the identification of specific verses in the Torah which were added to it after Moses’s 144 There are some scholars who noted the absence of the Tetragrammaton from the speeches in Job and, like Ibn Ezra in his Book of the Name, saw this as an indication of the book’s origins. See especially Robert Henry Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament (New York: Harper, 1948), 678–79. Scholars also mentioned the colophon at the end of the Septuagint version of Job, and apparently saw it as additional supportive evidence for the view that the book was translated into Hebrew from another language. As noted, there is no clue suggesting that Ibn Ezra was familiar with a tradition of this kind. 145 See especially: Kahana, ‫ספר איוב‬, 7, n.1; 23, n. 7; Tur-­Sinai, ‫פירוש‬, 367.

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time. However, even those comments appear incidentally, as digressions from discussion of the verses themselves – and not in the introduction to the commentary or at its beginning. Similar observations can be made regarding Ibn Ezra’s assertion that Isaiah 40:1 and onward are not prophecies by Isaiah son of Amoz, and about his remarks in his commentary on Lamentations 3:1 regarding the attribution of that book to Jeremiah the prophet.146 This evidence leads to a complicated conclusion. On one hand, Ibn Ezra devoted considerable attention to identifying writers of the books of the Bible – or, at the very least, he devoted more attention to this subject than did most other medieval commentators. One might even say that his well-­developed, refined remarks on this subject are among the most far-­reaching expressions of independent thought on the question of biblical authorship in the Middle Ages. On the other hand, it seems that he did not regard this issue either as an especially fundamental one, or as one with significant implications for our understanding of the books themselves or his commentaries on them. Having said that, there is one feature of Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Job 2:11 which differentiates it from his other remarks about authorship of biblical books. In his comments regarding later additions to the Torah, and regarding the second half of the Book of Isaiah, Ibn Ezra made intentional use of allusion and esoteric language.147 It is almost certain that this stylistic pattern is related to the Muslim polemical assertion that the Jews’ holy books were forged. Acknowledgement that there are verses which were added to the books of the Bible would likely serve as supporting evidence for Muslim adversaries.148 On 146 See above n. 54. 147 “It contains a secret; the intelligent person will remain silent”; “If you are able to understand the secret [ . . . ] then you will know its secret and the secret of its name”; “The secret of twelve”; “The wise shall understand”; “I have already hinted at this secret”; “And the secret is as I hinted”; Ibn Ezra on Gen 12:6, Lev 16:8, Deut 1:1, Isa 40:1, 49:7, 53:12. Even his comments regarding the attribution of the Book of Lamentations to Jeremiah are notably ambiguous (this is deserving of research in its own right.) For discussion of Ibn Ezra’s enigmatic style and his extensive use of secrets and allusions, see Aharon Mondschein, “‫ מסגנונו האניגמטי של‬:‫׳יש לו סוד והמשכיל ידום׳‬ ‫ראב״ע עד הערכת אישיותו״‬, SHNATON: An Annual for Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies 14 (2004): 257–88. 148 On Ibn Ezra’s familiarity with Muslim polemics against the Bible, see his short commentary on Exod 13:18: “We have enough trouble with the Arab scholars.” It also comes through indirectly in his rejection of the tradition of ‫( תיקוני הסופרים‬scribal corrections), which would be liable to assist the Muslim claim of taḥrīf (“distortion” of the holy books by Jews); see especially: Aharon Mondschein, “‫ רשב״ם וראב״ע שונים משנתם בסוגיית ׳תיקון סופרים׳‬,‫”רש״י‬, Studies in Bible and Exegesis VIII (2008): 421–34, 443–50. On the substance of Muslim polemics against the Bible, see Hava Lazarus-­Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Bible Criticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992); Camilla Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible: From Ibn Rabban to Ibn Hazem (Leiden: Brill, 1996), especially 192–248. For examples of its reflection in Jewish biblical commentary, see Richard C. Steiner, “A Jewish Theory of Biblical Redaction

Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Job 2:11

157

the other hand, Ibn Ezra’s suggestion that Job was translated into Hebrew from another language, though it appears only very briefly, is articulated in a clear and direct manner. The conclusion to be drawn is that Ibn Ezra did not think this remark would have that kind of negative influence. As such, he saw no reason not to articulate the point in a clear fashion.

from Byzantium: Its Rabbinic Roots, Its Diffusion and Its Encounter with the Muslim Doctrine of Falsification,” JSIJ 2 (2003): 153–67.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides: The Egyptian Context Elisha Russ-­f ishbane New York University

The controversies sparked by Maimonides’ writings occupy a key phase in the history of medieval Jewish thought and have accordingly attracted much scholarly attention since the dawn of modern Jewish historiography. Despite the many advances of recent scholarship, much of this attention has been devoted to the European arena to the relative neglect of the Near East. In addition, the Maimonidean controversies have been of interest to intellectual historians with little to no consideration of their broader social significance. This study addresses controversies over Maimonides’ legacy in the Near East, with a focus on social and cultural developments in Egypt, the master’s home for roughly four decades yet long overlooked by scholars. Maimonides’ son and successor, Abraham, became a lightning rod for criticism of his father’s writings and assumed the mantle of championing the Maimonidean legacy. Abraham was at the center of three prominent controversies in Egypt, including one that is well preserved in a thirteenth-­ century Egyptian treatise that remains unpublished and whose contents are little known to scholars. Each one of these controversies had ramifications in broader Jewish society, particularly in Egypt, well beyond the confines of intellectual debates over the fine points of Maimonidean doctrine. The third and final case, related to the Montpellier controversy of 1232–1233, reexamines both the evidence for the purported burnings of Maimonides’ writings and the broader socio-­economic context at stake in Abraham’s carefully calibrated public response.

Situating the Maimonidean Controversies: Introductory Remarks The ideological confrontation over philosophical rationalism that erupted in the wake of the translation and dissemination of Maimonides’ writings reverberated for decades throughout the Jewish world. Maimonides himself had anticipated a harsh critique of his work before its publication, and had more than one opportunity to respond to growing criticism before his death.1

1 Theological criticism of Maimonides first surfaced over his minimal treatment of bodily

159

160

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

The years immediately following the master’s demise and the resolution of the resurrection controversy were relatively quiet though by no means uneventful. During this time Jewish philosophical currents grew steadily both in Europe and the Near East, and gradually consolidated into distinct philosophical traditions, each promoting itself as a perpetuation of the Maimonidean legacy.2 Each likewise became a magnet for anti-­rationalist opposition, expressed both



resurrection in his writings. The resurrection controversy developed in multiple spheres (Iraq, Yemen, Castile, Egypt, and Syria) and was carried out in two languages (Arabic and Hebrew). Whereas Maimonides was aware of his Iraqi detractors and composed his “Treatise on Resurrection” as a formal rebuttal in 1191, he was apparently unaware of the parallel controversy in Europe spearheaded by R. Meir Abulafia of Toledo (d. 1244), finally quelled after Samuel ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew translation of Maimonides’ epistle reached Iberian shores. Gaon Samuel b. Eli’s role in the resurrection controversy has come to light of late with the publication of a lengthy epistle by him on the topic by Y. Tzvi Langermann, “‫”איגרת ר׳ שמואל בן עלי בעניין תחיית המתים‬, Qovetz ‘Al Yad 15 (2001): 39–94, esp. 64–83. We also possess the testimony of Maimonides in his “Treatise on Resurrection” and indirectly in his letter to Joseph ibn Jābir. For the former, see Joshua Finkel, ed., “Maimonides’ Treatise on Resurrection (Maqala fi Teḥiyyat ha-­Metim): The Original Arabic and Samuel ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew Translation and Glossary,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 9 (1938–1939): 12–14 (Arabic text). For the latter, see Isaac Shailat, ed., ‫אגרות‬ ‫( הרמב״ם‬Hotza’at Shailat: Jerusalem, 1995), vol. 1, 404. For background on the eastern resurrection controversy during Maimonides’ lifetime, see Sarah Stroumsa, “Twelfth-­Century Concepts of Soul and Body: The Maimonidean Controversy in Baghdad,” in Self, Soul, and Body in Religious Experience, ed. Albert Baumgarten, et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 313–34, and idem, ‫ראשיתו של פולמוס‬ ‫ איגרת ההשתקה על אודות תחיית המתים ליוסף אבן שמעון‬:‫הרמב״ם במזרח‬, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1999), 11–17. On the European controversy, and for the dating of Ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew translation that brought the western controversy to a close, see Bernard Septimus, Hispano-­Jewish Culture in Transition: The Career and Controversies of Ramah (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 39–60, esp. 52–53. For an earlier synopsis of the eastern and western controversies, see Daniel Silver, Maimonidean Criticism and the Maimonidean Controversy, 1180–1240 (Leiden: Brill, 1965), 57–65, 109–35. 2 Research on the Maimonidean philosophical legacy in the Near East remains a scholarly desideratum. Apart from a handful of anonymous Judaeo-­Arabic commentaries on the Guide, Judaeo-­Arabic philosophical writing both contemporaneous with, and immediately subsequent to, Maimonides developed in contact with, though also quite independent of him. An example of the latter would be the philosophical writings of Joseph ibn Shim‘on and Joseph ibn ‘Aqnīn, and may be discerned in thirteenth-­and fourteenth-­century extrapolations of Maimonidean doctrines in Egypt, some of which are by Maimonides’ own descendants, and the last of which was composed by David b. Joshua (d. 1410). Maimonidean philosophical currents reappear in Neoplatonic guise in fifteenth-­century Yemen, as was discussed by David Blumenthal, “Was There an Eastern Tradition of Maimonidean Scholarship?,” Revue des études juives 138 (1979): 57–68. On the Maimonidean philosophical tradition in Provence, see James Robinson, “Maimonides, Samuel ibn Tibbon, and the Construction of a Jewish Tradition of Philosophy,” in Maimonides after 800 Years: Essays on Maimonides and his Influence, ed. Jay Harris (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 291–306, and Carlos Fraenkel, ‫ דרכו של דלאלה׳‬:‫מן הרמב״ם לשמואל אבן תבון‬ ‫( אלחאירין למורה נבוכים‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2007).

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

161

in polemical tracts and in public confrontations that occasionally spilled over into regional disputes. The Maimonidean controversies that erupted both in the east and the west converged, not surprisingly, in Maimonides’ Egypt, where the master’s only heir proved a fierce champion of his father’s legacy and a lightning rod of controversy in his own right. Despite its obvious importance as Maimonides’ home for close to forty years, Egypt has often been peripheral in historical accounts of the Maimonidean controversies in comparison with centers in Europe. Early classic studies on the controversies reflect this European focus, portraying the Montpellier affair as “the actual” or “the first” controversy.3 The recent scholarship of Y. Tzvi Langermann and Sarah Stroumsa, however, has filled in critical gaps in the history of the Maimonidean controversies within the Islamic sphere.4 In light of the global reach of the controversies, including those centered in the Near East, the Montpellier phase must now be reconfigured not as the first but as the fourth such conflict over Maimonides’ works – following: 1) the resurrection controversies in the east (Iraq and Yemen) and the west (Castile);5 2) sustained halakhic criticism mainly from eastern antagonists (Iraq and Syria),6 and 3) anti-­rationalist backlash in Maimonides’ own backyard (Egypt).7









3 “The actual controversy” was Daniel Silver’s phrase of choice in the final chapter of his Maimonidean Criticism and the Maimonidean Controversy, published in 1965. “The first controversy” was incorporated into the title of the classic study by Joseph Shatzmiller, “‫לתמונת המחלוקת הראשונה‬ ‫”על כתבי הרמב״ם‬, Zion 34 (1969): 126–44, and that by Azriel Shoḥat, “‫בירורים בפרשת הפולמוס הראשון‬ ‫”על ספרי הרמב״ם‬, Zion 36 (1971): 27–60. Shatzmiller reiterated this portrayal of the Montpellier controversy in his “Les tossafistes et la première controverse maïmonidienne: le témoignage du rabbin Asher ben Gershom,” in Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge, ed. Gilbert Dahan, et al. (Paris: E. Peeters, 1997), 55–82. This Eurocentric focus need not be interpreted as biased or flawed, as much of the relevant material on the Near Eastern context was previously undiscovered (Genizah documents) or difficult to access (manuscripts in the Russian National Library). 4 For Langermann’s edition and analysis of Samuel b. Eli’s epistle on resurrection, see n. 1, above. For his account of the resurrection controversy in Yemen, see his Yemenite Midrash: Philosophical Commentaries on the Torah (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), 297–302. For Stroumsa’s edition of Joseph ibn Shim‘on’s epistle in defense of Maimonides, see n. 1. 5 Maimonides composed his Treatise on Resurrection in 1191 as a formal rebuttal in response to his Iraqi detractors, yet he was apparently not aware of the parallel controversy in Europe spearheaded by R. Meir Abulafia of Toledo (d. 1244), which, as noted, was only quelled after Samuel ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew translation of the Treatise on Resurrection reached Iberian shores. 6 On the scope of the halakhic criticism from Samuel b. Eli Gaon of Baghdad and his disciple, Daniel haBavli, then in Syria, see below, under the heading “Maimonidean Criticism in the Near East.” 7 On the anti-­rationalist treatise of the Egyptian pietist, Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah, active during the 1220s, see below, under the heading “Anti-­Rationalism and Egyptian Pietism.”

162

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This essay takes the Near Eastern context as its primary lens, with an emphasis on disputes within or associated with Egypt. It begins by tracing the shift from halakhic criticism to philosophical controversy in the early decades of the thirteenth century. It then turns toward a detailed analysis of a local Egyptian dispute over Maimonidean rationalism that unfolded in the 1220s between Daniel ibn al-­Māshitah, an anti-­rationalist adherent of Egyptian pietism, and ˙ Abraham b. Moses Maimonides, sole heir of his illustrious father and head of Egyptian Jewry following his father’s death in 1204.8 The opposition of Ibn al-­Māshitah, upon closer inspection, proved to be no less a reaction to the scientific˙and naturalist thrust of Maimonidean rationalism as it was a rejection of his son, Abraham’s, intellectualist vision for Egyptian pietism. The final section of the essay turns to the reports of Jewish collaboration with the Papal Inquisition in Montpellier in the burning of Maimonides’ philosophical writings in the winter of 1232–1233. While this phase of the controversy was primarily a European affair, stretching from Provence to northern France and Castile, its reverberations were distinctly felt in Egypt after waves of French Jewish migrants made shore in Alexandria and proved a considerable socio-­economic challenge to their local coreligionists. Abraham’s polemical epistle condemning the Montpellier affair can be read both as an example of the increasingly dubious (and occasionally grotesque) reports of the burning and its aftermath and, more importantly, as a witness to his effort to limit the public damage of the controversy on the French community residing in Egypt. Once again, events unfolding in Egypt reflect the increasing engagement of the Egyptian community with the Jews of Europe and, conversely, the uneasy reality of European Jews living in Egypt. The working assumption of this study is that any attempt to reconstruct intellectual history in the absence of its social and communal context is a perilous path. In the case of the Maimonidean controversy, reconstructing this social context would require the choice of one of two approaches. The first would be to delineate the main actors and parties to the controversies, an objective of great importance yet often encumbered by the dearth of reliable sources. The second, and the road less travelled, is to examine the situation in the Near East, where the European controversy both penetrated and found its communal dénouement. Due to a combination of available source material and the importance of the controversy’s Egyptian context, I have opted for the second path. In doing so, I intend to confirm not only the central position of the Near East in the events that unfolded, but the extent to which the European

8 For background on Abraham Maimonides and the Egyptian pietist movement he championed, see my Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt: A Study of Abraham Maimonides and His Times (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015).

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

163

and Near Eastern spheres were increasingly intertwined over the course of the thirteenth century.

Maimonidean Criticism in the Near East: FROM THE MISHNEH TORAH TO THE GUIDE FOR THE PERPLEXED The heated controversies over the Guide for the Perplexed, whether in the west or the east, did not reach a boiling point for at least three to four decades after the initial composition of the work. The earliest and most sustained debate over Maimonides’ writings was less concerned with his philosophical legacy as with controversial aspects of his legal works.9 To be sure, ideological battles were not unknown in the Near East. As already noted, the resurrection controversy erupted in Yemen and Iraq already during Maimonides’ lifetime. Yet even the traditionalist critique of Samuel b. Eli of Baghdad was a reaction to Maimonides’ commentary and code rather than to the Guide, which was most likely completed after the resurrection controversy first broke out in the east, yet before its full report reached Egypt.10 It is not surprising to discover that other concerns over Maimonidean metaphysics in this period likewise took the master’s legal rather than philosophical work as their point of departure.11





9 An interesting exception to this rule are the skeptical philosophical questions, composed not in Judaeo-­Arabic but in Hebrew, purportedly posed to Maimonides during his lifetime by Hisdai haLevi, apparently an Iberian émigré living in Alexandria. See ‫אגרות הרמב״ם‬, ed. Yitzhak Shailat (Jerusalem: Shailat Publishing, 1995), vol. 2, 677–84, and Shailat’s reasons for questioning the letter’s authenticity, ibid., 673–75. Even if the letter is not authentic, it is interesting testimony to questions concerning ideas in the Guide towards the end of, or soon after, the master’s lifetime. 10 The Guide was composed sometime between 1185 or 1187, after the departure of Joseph b. Judah from Fustat, and 1191, the date of the composition of the “Treatise on Resurrection,” in which the Guide is mentioned as already completed. On the start date of the Guide’s composition, see ‫ מכתבי רבנו משה בן מיימון ומכתבי בני דורו אליו‬:‫אגרות הרמב״ם‬, ed. D. H. Baneth (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1985), 2, and Shailat, ed., ‫אגרות‬, vol. 1, 247. For Maimonides’ reference to the Guide in his “Treatise on Resurrection,” see Finkel, ed., 10 (Arabic). Here, Maimonides noted that the first stirrings of controversy in Damascus and Yemen regarding his views on resurrection occurred “when this compilation of ours, namely “the composition” (al-­ḥibbur), became well known abroad and spread to distant countries . . . ​,” while saying nothing of the Guide in this context. See Finkel, ed., 10–11 (Arabic). As Sarah Stroumsa has noted, only a dim echo of the resurrection theme can be found in the Guide and it is not included in Hebrew translations of the work. See Stroumsa, ‫ראשיתו של פולמוס‬, 12. 11 See TS 18 J 4.20, published by Jacob Mann, The Jews in Egypt and in Palestine under the Fatimid Caliphs (New York: KTAV Publishing House, 1972), vol. 2, 321–22, esp. 321, ll. 24–25 (‫ואשר שאל‬ ‫ על אודות הסודות [היק]רות שהנהיר רבינו על ההלכות‬. . . ​). Silver (Maimonidean Criticism, 53) interpreted this as halakhic criticism, but the language alludes to an anonymous critique of Maimonidean metaphysics, albeit in the Mishneh Torah. A spurious account of Maimonides’ life refers to the

164

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

As important as metaphysical matters were to Maimonides (and are to modern scholars), they were by no means the chief subject of criticism directed at the master in his lifetime. The vast majority of early Maimonidean criticism was halakhic in nature.12 Even the contest between Baghdad and Cairo initially emerged as a sustained halakhic dispute between Samuel b. Eli and Maimonides, reflecting the former’s struggle for primacy as preeminent rabbinic authority.13 In a concerted effort to reassert legal and communal authority over an increasingly independent diaspora, a Syrian representative of the ailing Gaonate directly challenged Maimonides’ halakhic authority, and, by extension, rabbinic institutions beyond the reach of, and ultimately indifferent to, Baghdad.14 Maimonides’ disdain toward the old establishment of titular rabbinic authority in the Near East, even while displaying an attitude of respectful restraint, is by now well known.15 While opposition from the Baghdad academy began to subside even before Maimonides’ death, concerns over the Mishneh Torah continued to surface in the first half of the thirteenth century. As long as his son and successor, Abraham, presided over Egyptian Jewry, all questions on his writings were addressed to Abraham in Fustat. Abraham’s collected responsa include a number based on questions posed by contemporary scholars concerning the Mishneh Torah and some of the finer points of the Guide.16 Soon after his father’s death, perhaps harsh reception given to “the books he composed,” alluding no doubt to the twin criticism of Mishneh Torah and the Guide. See Adolph Neubauer, “Documents inédits,” Revue des études juives 4 (1882): 179, and note the incorrect reference in Silver, Maimonidean Criticism, 53, n. 2. 12 See Isadore Twersky, “The Beginnings of Mishneh Torah Criticism,” in Biblical and Other Studies, ed. Alexander Altmann (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), 161–83. 13 On the clash between the two sages on the permissibility of traveling on large rivers, see ‫תשובות‬ ‫הרמב״ם‬, ed. Joshua Blau (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1986), vol. 2, 572–78, no. 310, and see the discussions of Israel Ta-­Shma, “‫”תשובת הרמב״ם בענין ההפלגה בנהרות בשבת‬, Maimonidean Studies 1 (1990): 23–42, and Herbert Davidson, “Maimonides and Samuel ben Ali,” in Studies in the History of Culture and Science: A Tribute to Gad Freudenthal, ed. Resianne Fontaine, et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 171–88. 14 See the letters published by Simcha Assaf, “‫”קובץ של אגרות ר׳ שמואל בן עלי ובני דורו‬, Tarbiz 1.1 (1929): 102–30 (part 1), 1.2 (1930): 43–84 (part 2), 1.3 (1930): 15–83 (part 3), and cf. Silver, Maimonidean Criticism, 57−62. On the political dimension of the contest between the institution of the Gaonate and Maimonides, see Langermann, Yemenite Midrash, 297, and Stroumsa, ‫ראשיתו של הפולמוס‬, 12. 15 See Maimonides’ introduction to Mishneh Torah in Sefer Mishneh Torah le-­ha-­Rambam, ed. Shabse Frankel (Jerusalem: Shebse Frankel Publications, 2001), vol. 1, 3b–4a, his commentary on M Bekhorot 4:4, and his polemical (yet relatively restrained) position in his letter to Joseph ibn Shim‘on in ‫אגרות‬, ed. Shailat, vol. 1, 390–91, 420–422. 16 Many queries include requests for clarification of Maimonides’ legal writings, while only one pertains to the Guide. See Abraham Maimuni Responsa, ed. A. H. Freimann and S. D. Goitein (Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1937), e.g., 58–61 (nos. 59–61), 65–70 (nos. 63–64), 105–7 (no. 81), 131–32 (no. 86).

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

165

in response to disputes regarding the authority (and sources) of his father’s rulings, Abraham composed what amounted to the first targeted commentary on his father’s code, known as the Book of Elucidation to Principles of the Composition, nothing of which survives.17 The immediate context for this work need not have been polemical. Much as his father intended, Abraham utilized his father’s code as a book of instruction in his house of study where he was faced with questions as to the justification and precise sources of Maimonides’ rulings.18 But the polemical function of such a work could not have been far from the surface. Abraham, like his father, was accused of issuing rulings without citing the ancient sources, and even invoked his father’s precedent in doing so.19 The impetus for his elucidation of the Mishneh Torah was as much to establish his father’s authority as to protect the Maimonidean legacy from illegitimate interpretation and calumny.20 The first public challenge to survive, roughly seven years after Maimonides’

17 The name of the work is recorded in a Hebrew letter penned by Abraham to an unknown addressee in 1543 of the “era of documents” (‫)לשטרות‬, or 1232 CE, under the title, ‫ספר הבאור לעיקרי‬ ‫החבור‬. For the entire letter, see Neubauer, “Mittheilungen aus MSS,” Israelitische Letterbode 3 (1877–1878), 53. The term ḥibbur (composition) was commonly used by Maimonides himself for various writings, frequently designating his code as the composition, al-­ḥibbur. See Isadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), 18, n. 25. At one point, Maimonides had also considered writing his own book of elucidation to the code, in which the scattered sources culled for each ruling would be duly noted in a separate volume. See ‫אגרות‬, ed. Shailat, vol. 2, 444–45. This may have been the inspiration for his son’s treatise, although Abraham’s only allusion to the content of the book leaves it ambiguous as to whether the book was conceived as a sourcebook or as an elucidation of guiding principles of the work. See ‫ספר ברכת אברהם‬, ed. Ber Goldberg (Lyck/Ełk: n.p.), 8a (no. 8), and ‫אגרות‬, ed. Baneth, 51. The seventeenth-­century Egyptian Jewish chronicler, Yosef Sambari, mentioned a book composed by Naḥmanides for Abraham Maimonides, called ‫ספר‬ ‫הבאור לעיקרי החבור‬, which, in light of Sambari’s description, resembles the Iggeret ha-­Qodesh (attributed by rabbinic authors to Naḥmanides from the fourteenth century), which the author termed a ḥibbur. The link to Abraham Maimonides may have been prompted by Abraham’s own treatise on his father’s legal treatise, or ḥibbur. See Sambari, ‫ספר דברי יוסף‬, ed. Shim‘on Shtober (Jerusalem: Ben-­Zvi Institute, 1993), 185, and the note by Shtober, ibid., n. 23. 18 See ENA laminated, uncatalogued, no. 41, 3v–4r, published by A. S. Halkin, “‫סניגוריה על ספר משנה‬ ‫”תורה‬, Tarbiz 25 (1956): 424–25, and M. A. Friedman, “‫רשימות תלמיד בבית מדרש הרמב״ם באמונות ודעות‬ ‫”ובהלכה‬, Tarbiz 62 (1993): 527–28. 19 See Goitein, ‫ מבחר מחקרים‬:‫ חיי הרוח‬,‫ סדרי חברה‬,‫התימנים – הסטוריה‬, ed. Menachem Ben-­Sasson (Jerusalem: Ben-­Zvi Institute, 1983), 126–27. On Abraham’s invocation of his father’s precedent in this matter, see the previous note. On Maimonides’ attitude to the study of Talmud, see Shamma Friedman, “‫”הרמב״ם והתלמוד‬, Diné Yisrael 26–27 (2009–2010): 221–39, esp. 222–30. For a study of Abraham’s reliance on the authority of talmudic sources vis-­à-­vis his father’s code, see Carmiel Cohen, “‫”סמכותו של ׳משנה תורה׳ לעומת המקורות התלמודיים בעיני רבי אברהם בן הרמב״ם‬, in Mi-­Birkat Moshe, ed. Z. Haber and C. Cohen (Ma‘ale Adumim: Me‘aliyot Publishing, 2012), 895–907. 20 For Abraham’s efforts to define and defend what he took to be his father’s legacy at the communal

166

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

death, came from an Iraqi scholar named Daniel b. Se‘adiah, a former disciple of Samuel b. Eli in Baghdad and subsequently known as “the Babylonian” (haBavli) after he took up residence in Damascus.21 Daniel became a popular preacher upon resettling in Damascus, but he was also known for sharp-­witted and polemical critiques of his fellow scholars.22 Daniel sent Abraham one series of critical questions on Maimonides’ Book of Commandments and another set of strictures on the Mishneh Torah. His critiques and Abraham’s retorts were composed in the original language of the book to which they were devoted, Arabic in the first instance and Hebrew in the second. The exchange in both cases was scholarly and with a fair share of polemic on both sides.23 What is more, the symbolism of a direct disciple of the Iraqi Gaon – who first called into question Maimonides’ creedal credentials and legal competence – continuing the debate into the next generation was not lost on the latter’s son. In his reply to Daniel’s critique of the code, Abraham hinted that the scholar’s extended queries were both unnecessary and, more to the point, injurious to Maimonides’ memory. He confessed that his initial reluctance to take up the polemical mantle was overcome upon reflection on his filial obligation to restore his father’s tarnished legacy. In Abraham’s retort he notes that Daniel’s accusations against Maimonides were only the latest in a series of irreverent attacks against great scholars. “I have heard reports of your wisdom. Your audiences gloat of your erudition, declaring that ‘he has come to redeem the Torah and expound it before all Israel; he exposes and reveals all that is hidden and recondite and finds fault with the sages both east and west . . . He has level, see my essay, “The Maimonidean Legacy in the East: A Study of Father and Son,” JQR 102 (2012): 190–223. 21 It is important to note that another disciple of Samuel b. Eli, Zekhariah b. Berakhel, who doubled as b. Eli’s son-­in-­law and successor as Gaon, wrote critiques of Maimonides’ commentary on the Mishnah that have not survived. See Samuel Poznański, Babylonische geonim im nachgaonäischen zeitalter nach handschriftlichen und gedruckten quellen (Berlin: Mayer & Müller, 1914), 32. I wish to thank Marc Herman for drawing my attention to Zekhariah’s critique, who mentioned it in his dissertation, “Systematizing God’s Law: Rabbanite Jurisprudence in the Islamic World from the Tenth to the Thirteenth Centuries” (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2016), 30. 22 Abraham noted Daniel’s reputation as a pious preacher in Rabbenu Avraham b. ha-­Rambam: ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Reuven Margaliot (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1953), 54–55. For Daniel’s reputation as a polemicist, note Judah al-­Ḥarizi’s description of him as “smashing cedars and overpowering the mighty with his intellect,” in his ‫תחכמוני או מחברות הימן האזרחי‬, ed. Yosef Yahalom and Naoya Katsumata (Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2010), no. 39, 438, ll. 124–25, a creative reuse of Ps 29:5 and Eccl 10:10. See also ‫כתאב אלדרר והוא ספר פניני המוסרים ושבחי הקהלים‬ (Kitāb al-­Durar: A Book in Praise of God and the Israelite Communities), ed. Joshua Blau, et al. (Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2009), no. 17, ll. 222–32 [Hebrew and Judeo-­Arabic]. 23 For a detailed analysis of the positions and methodologies of Daniel haBavli and Abraham Maimonides in this exchange, see Herman, “Systematizing God’s Law,” 196–232, 274–95.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

167

introduced new ideas and abolished the words of the sages of old.’” Turning his attention to the code, Abraham chided: As for the composition, upon which every scholar relies and which no adversary can oppose, he has dug up every hidden thing with his arguments and overwhelmed the great scholars who preceded him.24 He built a rampart against it, raging at it with all his might, and laid a fierce siege, leaving no room for refuge.25 He set it as a target until he breached its fortified wall. Behold how the foxes scurry through the streets where once lions dared not approach . . . ​!26 In a dream and a vision, the master appeared trembling . . . ​: “My son, why are you remiss, for it is now up to you to act as [my] redeemer? Many have slandered me and strangers have sought to deprive me of our inheritance. Each one speaks as if there were no one to answer! How, my son, can you permit this? Why, tell me why, are you silent and dumbstruck? Why do you not arise and roar like a lion and fight on behalf of your fathers and rescue your inheritance from the hands of strangers?!”27 Circumstances both in Egypt and abroad left Abraham with no real option but to engage Daniel’s critique. Though numerous scholars revered Maimonides and broadly accepted his legal authority, his death left his legacy perilously exposed to detractors. Abraham’s polemic pitted Daniel, who championed the cause of the gaonic authorities, in the position of an impish newcomer. His indiscriminate attacks took aim not only at Maimonides but at the entire tradition he represented.28 With no one willing or able to protect the Maimonidean legacy from criticism, Abraham rose to the occasion, but with considerable reservations. He reported a dream in which his father beseeched him to arise and defend his legacy from recent detractors. In his dream, Abraham expressed reservations against such a task, concerned with what would become of his own undertakings should he

24 Abraham’s language was a deliberate barb against the waning gaonic tradition, referring to his father – rather than the self-­styled geonim of Bagdad – as one of “the eminences of old” (‫גאוני‬ ‫)עולם‬, loosely translated here as “the great scholars who preceded him.” 25 See Jer 52:4–5, Dan 8:7 and 11:11, Deut 28:53, and Jer 34:7, respectively. 26 See Job 16:12, Neh 3:35, and Lam 5:18, respectively. 27 Birkat Avraham, ed. Goldberg, 1b–2a. 28 This may be a veiled reference to the ascendency of the western-­Andalusian tradition over its eastern-­gaonic predecessor, on which see Bernard Septimus, “Open Rebuke and Concealed Love: Nahmanides and the Andalusian Tradition,” in Rabbi Moses Nahmanides (Ramban): Explorations in His Religious and Literary Virtuosity, ed. Isadore Twersky (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 11–34. But it is more likely that his critique was directed at the reliance on gaonic authority over talmudic authority, represented by his father’s approach, on which see my “The Maimonidean Legacy in the East,” esp. 211–16.

168

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

respond to every critic and challenger.29 To this, he related, his father replied: “First protect what I have bequeathed to you and then expand what is your own, for this and still more besides remains for you to undertake. Open your mouth and let your words shine forth to defend the words of your father and teacher. Then they will know that we are redeemed and Israel will not be left a widow!”30 As it happened, criticism of Maimonides’ code continued to stir in the Near East even after his son’s demise, and there was at least one other redeemer who arose to repair the breach by writing a polemical response, fragments of which survive in the Genizah.31 As was the case during his lifetime, controversy over Maimonides’ writings in thirteenth-­century Egypt was concerned both with his legal and his theological legacy, often with little connection between the one and the other. In one case, however, we find the same individual behind a halakhic and an ideological polemic against Maimonides – none other than Daniel haBavli. HaBavli must have been a witness to the resurrection dispute fueled, with only limited success, by his teacher, Samuel b. Eli, in the 1180s and 1190s. While in Syria in the 1220s, Daniel reemerged as an ideological critic of Maimonides with a commentary on Ecclesiastes, a somewhat veiled polemic that brought him into conflict with the master’s renowned pupil, Joseph b. Judah ibn Simeon.32 This same Ibn Simeon, it will be recalled, had composed an extensive 29 Abraham’s rhetorical address to his father in his dream is quite revealing of the son’s state of mind under the burden of his many duties (ibid., p. 2a): “I replied: ‘O, my lord, are you seeking to consume what is left of my time? A good part of it is taken up with my service to the nations of the world and, as for the other part, I am indentured to lead the vineyard of the Lord of hosts. Only a small amount of time is left to write the treatises and commentaries which I have undertaken. If I am to take this up, too, ‘when shall I tend to my own household?’” 30 See ibid. 31 See ENA laminated, uncatalogued, no. 41, 1r–8v, published by Halkin, “Defense,” 422–28, and ENA 2709, 56r–57v, published by Paul Fenton, “Le Taqwīm al-­adyān de Daniel ibn al-­Māšita, ˙ nouvelle pièce de la controverse maïmonidienne en Orient,” Revue des études juives 145 (1987): esp. 292–93. Assuming that Fenton is correct in supposing the two works, each in defense of Maimonides’ code, to be fragments of the same work, then it constitutes the only known example of such polemical writing on Maimonides in the Judaeo-­Arab world after Abraham’s death. If, however, they are two separate works, a possibility that cannot be properly determined without further revelations of Genizah material, it would suggest more activity on this front than we were previously aware of. 32 The identity of this disciple, for whom Maimonides nominally composed the Guide for the Perplexed, is not to be confused with Joseph b. Judah ibn ‘Aqnīn, author of the Therapy for the Soul (Tibb al-­nufūs) and a philosophical-­mystical commentary on Song of Songs, The Revelation of ˙ Mysteries and the Manifestation of Lights (Inkishāf al-­asrār wa-­zuhūr al-­anwār), published by A. S. ˙ Halkin, Divulgatio mysteriorum luminumque apparentia (Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1964). The separate identity of the two was established over 175 years ago by Solomon Munk in his “Notice sur Joseph b. Jehouda,” Journal Asiatique (third series) 14 (1842): 22–33, and confirmed

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

169

defense of Maimonides’ position on resurrection during the initial phase of the controversy.33 The second challenge to Maimonidean doctrine did not result in a full-­throttled rebuttal on the part of Ibn Simeon, however, as was the case thirty years earlier. Yet, Ibn Simeon’s public reaction to Daniel haBavli and his associates turned out to be far more acrimonious than during the first crisis, and with more far-­reaching consequences. On this later occasion, Daniel haBavli did not act alone but was supported by a number of colleagues presumably centered in Damascus, where he had settled after retiring from the academy in Baghdad. From Abraham’s account of the controversy some years later, Ibn Simeon vigorously pursued the public castigation of all who supported Daniel in opposing Maimonides. The identity of Daniel’s colleagues and the precise nature of the ideological critique remain murky, but the result was anything but ambiguous. Reacting immediately to the perceived threat from his academy in nearby Aleppo, Joseph (and his own group of supporters) appealed directly to Maimonides’ son in Fustat to defend his father’s honor by placing all of the known detractors under immediate excommunication. The episode bears a certain resemblance to the communal acrimony over Maimonidean rationalism in western Europe only one decade later, with one important exception. Unlike the European controversy, the pro-­Maimonidean ban initiated by Ibn Simeon did not prompt a counter ban. This was in large part because the Aleppo bid – after being roundly rebuffed by Abraham – turned for support to the titular authority in Baghdad, a recourse unavailable (or perhaps undesirable) to their French and Iberian counterparts. Abraham’s account of the episode is the sole historical witness to the brief crisis, and while it leaves many details unresolved, it offers a glimpse of the scale and scope of the controversy that once again, and not for the last time, had become an international affair: Some years after I sent my rebuttals to [Daniel haBavli], I received a letter delivered by a messenger from the eminent disciple of my father and teacher, of blessed memory, the great sage, R. Joseph b. Judah b. R. Simeon, who set up his academy in Aleppo after departing from my father and teacher . . . ​The messenger brought writings showing that this same



by D. Z. Baneth in “‫ התלמיד החשוב של הרמב״ם ויוסף ן׳ עקנין‬,‫”יוסף בן שמעון‬, Osar Yehude Sefarad 7 ˙ (1964): 11–20, although confusion persists. See, e.g., Silver, Maimonidean Criticism, 53, n. 1. For nineteenth-­century scholarship that conflated the two figures, see Stroumsa, ‫ראשיתו של הפולמוס‬, 13–14, n. 27. 33 Ibn Simeon’s epistle, entitled The Silencing Epistle on the Resurrection of the Dead (Risālat al-­ iskāt fī ḥashr al-­amwāt), has survived in a number of incomplete manuscripts and fragments from the Genizah and was published by Stroumsa, ‫ראשיתו של הפולמוס‬, pp. 23–51; also see her commentary, 125–63.

170

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Daniel wrote a commentary on Ecclesiastes, in which he clearly criticized my father and teacher, of blessed memory, and other early eminences, but in a back-­handed way, without mentioning anyone by name. R. Joseph and others pleaded with me to excommunicate him and others with him for my father’s honor, but I refused, seeing that I was not a neutral party . . . ​What is more, his monotheism and other principles of faith were pure, only opposing [my father] on the question of demons and similar matters. I also heard that he served as a public preacher and drew people toward fear and worship of God and turned many back from sinfulness. Furthermore, [it is related]: “In the west, a counsel may be established to chastise a fellow scholar but not to excommunicate.”34 When they received my response, they beseeched the Exilarch, David, of blessed memory.35 He excommunicated [Daniel] until he repented and begged forgiveness . . . ​36 The confrontation between critics and loyalists in the Levant says as much about the legacy and stature of Maimonides one generation after his death as it does about the ideological battle itself. For one thing, it reflects the degree to which attitudes toward the Fustat sage had begun to shift in Baghdad since the days of Samuel b. Eli. Due to the authority and spirit of veneration Maimonides’ works commanded in the Near East, the sustained criticism emanating from Baghdad one generation prior had by then become almost inconceivable.37 Even among the opponents of philosophy centered in Damascus, doctrinal differences were discussed with great caution. Daniel haBavli, to say nothing of his anonymous supporters, all but neutralized his polemical critique by the oblique form in which it was written, not even mentioning Maimonides by name. In the case of the Exilarch, the decision to excommunicate Maimonides’ chief critic may have been further calculated to revive the diminished authority of Baghdad by throwing its weight behind what it perceived as a cause célèbre in the Jewish world. This would help explain the bizarre spectacle of Daniel, a prominent graduate of the Baghdad academy under Samuel b. Eli, being condemned to excommunication by the titular head of Iraqi Jewry.38 Beyond the political and communal ramifications of this episode, the events 34 See b. Mo‘ed Qatan 17a and MT, “Laws of the Study of Torah,” 7:1. The “west” here designates the land of Israel. 35 On the identity of this David the Exilarch, identified by Jacob Mann as David b. Samuel of Mosul, penultimate Exilarch in Baghdad prior to the Mongol invasion, see Mann, Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature (New York: KTAV Publishing House, 1972), vol. 1, 223–24, 228–29. 36 ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 54–55. 37 On the heroic image of Maimonides, see Septimus, Hispano-­Jewish Culture in Transition, 45–48, 63. 38 A poem by Eleazar depicted a scholar named Daniel as vice-­head of the Babylonian academy (‫)סגן הישיבה‬, in Diwan, ed. Brody, 13, no. 10, l. 47, although it is not certain that the two Daniels

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

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of the 1220s mark an important shift in the literary battleground of the Maimonidean controversy. They signal the first point at which Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, rather than his various legal writings, took center stage as the subject of dispute. The precise details of the dispute remain obscure, even when we possess a direct allusion to Daniel’s polemic; nevertheless, we may surmise as to its overall contours from the oblique reference in Abraham Maimonides’ epistle to the Jews of Mostpellier. According to this epistle, Daniel’s critique consisted, in part, of a rejection of Maimonides’ view of demons, a topic the latter did not touch upon either in his commentary to the Mishnah or in his code, although his antipathy to this belief is evident in these works by its very omission.39 Only in the Guide, Maimonides mentions an erroneous belief in demons (jinn) that he maintained was the reason behind certain commandments associated with the sacrificial rite.40 Might Daniel’s criticisms rather have touched upon Maimonides’ reasons for the commandments, particularly in connection with those pertaining to the sacrificial system and its rejection of all countervailing supernatural forces? What is clear is that it was Maimonidean doctrine, rather than jurisprudence, that was the new target of controversy and that would continue to be so during the first half of the thirteenth century. As we shall see in what follows, the opposition to Maimonidean rationalism in the Near East shifted at this time from a focused critique of the code toward a sustained rejection of the master’s philosophical orientation and the rationalist legacy it spawned.

Anti-­rationalism and Egyptian Pietism: DANIEL IBN AL-­M ĀSHItAH’S RECTIFICATION OF RELIGION ˙

Were it not for the steady stream of historical and literary treasures that continue to come to light from the Genizah of the Ben Ezra Synagogue and other Genizah collections, the later developments of Maimonidean criticism in the Near East would have remained entirely shrouded in obscurity.41 As it were identical. On Eleazar haBavli and his poetry, see Jacob Mann, Texts and Studies, vol. 1, 263–305. 39 For Maimonides’ antipathy to demonology and other beliefs associated with supernatural forces in the commentary on the Mishnah and the Mishneh Torah, see Marc Shapiro, “Maimonidean Halakhah and Superstition,” Maimonidean Studies 4 (2000): 61–108, republished in idem, Studies in Maimonides and His Interpreters (Scranton, PA: University of Scranton Press, 2008), 95–150. 40 See Guide, III.46, in ‫ מקור ותרגום‬:‫ דלאלה׳ אלחאירין‬,‫רבינו משה בן מימון – מורה הנבוכים‬, ed. Yosef Qafiḥ (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1972), vol. 3, 634 and esp. 438–39. 41 On the labors of generations of Genizah scholars, the concluding words of Adina Hoffman and Peter Cole in Sacred Trash: The Lost and Found World of the Cairo Geniza (New York: Schocken,

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is, however, we do have fragmentary remnants of polemical works that bear witness to a vigorous debate over the legacy of the Fustat sage. The animated defense of the master’s oeuvre by at least one and perhaps other Maimonidean followers during the mid-­thirteenth century reflects the ongoing controversy sparked by the code – arguably his most ambitious and authoritative work in the eyes of the greater Jewish community. Some twenty-­five years ago, Paul Fenton drew attention to a key manuscript on the nascent controversy over the master’s philosophical legacy in his home country of Egypt. The work in question, housed in the Firkovitch collection in St. Petersburg, was rediscovered by Fenton during a scholarly expedition to the National Library of St. Petersburg, then Leningrad, the fruits of which he began to bring to light over the course of the next decade.42 The polemical treatise and its relatively obscure author have been known to scholars, if only by name, since the end of the nineteenth century. The absence of the actual tract inevitably led to a certain amount of speculation and uncertainty, including concerning the precise morphology of the author’s name.43 The only explicit reference to the author and the work appears, of all places, 2001), 222–23, may serve as a fitting tribute: “From Schechter and Taylor to Davidson and Mann; from Zulay to Schirmann, Fleischer, and Goitein; and from them to the delta of their successors – the scholars who have devoted their lives to the exalted and often exhausting work of recovering the Geniza have been guided, each in his hour, by a similar fascination with a ‘hidden light.’ For some it has been a matter of life and death for Jewish culture. Others have been driven by philological passions and the challenge of bringing order to historical detritus. For others still, an almost mystical sense of resurrection has been involved. For most it was, and is, much of the above – and then some. As it happens, very little in the Geniza glittered; but almost all, in its way, was gold.” Although it has not yet benefitted from the same scholarly attention as the so-­called Cairo Genizah, the manuscripts that make up the Firkovitch collections have yielded material of great historical value. Paul Fenton was one of the first to systematize the Firkovitch material, on which see the following note. On the origins of the Firkovitch collections, including the rich material Abraham Firkovitch discovered in the main Rabbi Simḥah Karaite synagogue of Cairo, see Menahem Ben-­Sasson, “‫ הערות על מקורות היסטוריים‬:‫לשאלת מקור האוסף השני של פירקוביץ׳‬ ‫”והלכתיים‬, Jewish Studies 31 (1991): 47–68, esp. 53, 60, and Zeev Elkin and Menahem Ben-­Sasson, “Abraham Firkovich and the Cairo Genizas in the Light of His Personal Archive,” Peʿamim 90 (2002): 51–95, esp. 66–68, 71–80. I am indebted to Paul Fenton for generously permitting me to read his transcription of the Firkovitch manuscripts of the Taqwīm al-­adyān, to which I shall turn below, before I was able to examine the microfilms at the Institute for Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts in the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem. I bear sole responsibility for my readings of this work as for all translations from the Judaeo-­Arabic. 42 Fenton visited the State Public Saltykov-­Shchedrin Library in Leningrad in 1984 and published a tentative inventory of the New Series of the Second Firkovitch Collection in his ‫רשימת כתבי יד‬ ‫ רשימה ארעית של כתבי יד בערבית־­יהודית באוספי פירקוביץ‬:‫( בערבית־­יהודית בלנינגרד‬Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1991). 43 See Samuel Poznanski, “Daniel ibn al-­Amschata – un adversaire littéraire de Maïmonide,” Revue des études juives 33 (1896): 308–11.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

173

in a marginal note inserted by a scribe into the text of Abraham Maimonides’ commentary on Genesis. Commenting on Jacob’s angelic vision recorded in Genesis (32:2–3), Abraham alluded to his father’s interpretation of the vision in the Guide (II.42), which the latter identified with the episode of Jacob wrestling with the angel later in the same chapter (Gen 32:25–31). At this location, Abraham expressed reservations regarding his father’s interpretation, noting two inconsistencies between the two angelic visitations: “His explanation raises difficulties, especially because the text here makes it clear that there was more than one [angel] . . . Moreover, the place of the second visitation was called penu’el,44 whereas the first was called maḥanayim.” The text then alludes to a comment by a little-­known critic of Maimonides, one Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah: “This is similar to the comment made by Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah, author of The Rectification (al-­Taqwīm), in his polemic against our master Moses, of blessed memory, on this issue and others besides.”45 The allusion to Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s work was recognized as a scribal insertion already by the copyist of the sole surviving manuscript of Abraham’s commentary, and the words were marked off in the text with a marginal note to this effect.46 Both from the absence of a benediction attached to Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s name and the abbreviated reference to his work, the initial copyist was most likely a contemporary of the author and could presume that readers would be familiar with the reference.47 It is only with the recent discovery of the 44 This version of the name is based on the spelling in Gen 32:32 rather than that in 32:31. 45 ‫ פירוש רבינו אברהם בן הרמב״ם ז״ל על בראשית ושמות‬, ed. and trans. E. Y. Wiesenberg (London: Rabbi S. D. Sassoon, 1959), 105 (on Gen 32:3). 46 See the facsimile of this folio of the manuscript (MS Bodl. Hunt. 166, 24v) in Perush Rabbenu Avraham, 6. As Wiesenberg noted, the sentence referring to Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s critique rightly belongs after (not before, as in the manuscript) the sentence in which Maimonides’ interpretation is noted as difficult to reconcile with the biblical texts. Wiesenberg also sought to correct the emendation to include the initial criticism of Maimonides’ interpretation. In other words, Wiesenberg, followed by Fenton, could not accept that Abraham would openly disagree with his father’s view. See Wiesenberg, ibid., 105–6, n. 11, and Fenton, “Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān: New Light on the Original Phase of the Maimonidean Controversy,” in Genizah Research after Ninety Years: The Case of Judaeo-­Arabic, ed. Joshua Blau and Stefan Reiff (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 79, n. 31, and 80, n. 33. I am more inclined to accept the manuscript notes as the original interpolation. Abraham was known to openly depart from his father’s views on far more consequential matters than a minor exegetical question. See, e.g., ֵ ‫ כתאב כפאיה אלעאבדין‬,‫ ספר המספיק לעובדי השם‬:‫( רבי אברהם בן הרמב״ם‬Part Two, Volume Two), ed. and trans. Nissim Dana (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 1989), 70–71 and 176–78, and see my comments in “The Maimonidean Legacy in the East,” 216–20. 47 The manuscript was commissioned by the author’s great-­great-­grandson, David b. Joshua (d. ca. 1415). As Fenton observed in “Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān,” 80, n. 33, the marginal note (ḥāshiyah) claiming that the sentence was an interpolation was in David’s own hand. On the marginalia (ḥawāshī) in the manuscript, see ‫פירוש רבינו אברהם‬, 504–7.

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work that the full title of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic has been recovered as The Rectification of Religion (Taqwīm al-­adyān). But, as it so happens, the remaining fragments of the original manuscript from the Genizah, which includes the better part of seventy-­seven folios, do not include the name of the author, presumably mentioned in the missing opening page of the tract.48 The missing link is thus supplied by the scribal gloss in Abraham’s commentary, allowing us to identify the author as the same Ibn al-­Māshiṭah known for his criticism of Maimonides. But given the identical first names of the two anti-­Maimonidean polemicists – Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah and Daniel haBavli – it is quite tempting to suggest that they were rather, as Poznanski long ago speculated, the same individual.49 Adding to the allure of this conjecture, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah referred in his treatise to an earlier commentary of his on the Book of Ecclesiastes, recalling the controversial commentary written by Daniel haBavli on the same biblical book in the Ibn Simeon affair.50 Is it not possible, even quite plausible, that these two trenchant Maimonidean critics of the early thirteenth century were not two individuals but in fact one and the same person? Though the connection between the two polemicists would appear a natural one, there are compelling reasons to reject the identification. To begin with, the Rectification was an open and unabashed rejection of Maimonidean philosophy. If the author’s earlier commentary on Ecclesiastes had a similar thrust, he would no doubt have referred to it as an earlier critique. Yet, on the contrary, it is cited only once for its discussion of a theological question (human knowledge of God), with no indication of a polemical motif. What is more, Daniel haBavli ran into considerable trouble for his rather muted critique of Maimonides in his Ecclesiastes commentary, without so much as mentioning the sage of Fustat by name. If Daniel haBavli and Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭah were the same person, we would be forced to conclude that he undertook an even more brazen polemic some years after having been taken to task – to the point of excommunication by the Babylonian Exilarch – for his more limited and highly guarded critique in the earlier commentary. We are, moreover, told of Daniel haBavli’s repentance toward the end of his life for his untoward comments in the Ecclesiastes commentary, without any mention of a second controversial episode. It is difficult to imagine that 48 The three extant fragments of the Taqwīm are shelf-­marked II. Firk. Heb.-­Ar. I.3132, II Firk. Heb.-­Ar. NS 288, and II Firk. Heb.-­Ar. NS 976.40, listed in Fenton, List of Judaeo-­Arabic Manuscripts in Leningrad, 124–25, 27, and 54, respectively. In his earlier essay, Fenton accidentally listed the last folio as NS 846.40 instead of 976.40 (most likely a slip of the keyboard – Psalm 19:13). 49 See above, n. 41. 50 See II Firk. I.3132, 11b, l. 3 (tafsīr qohelet) and ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 54 (‫)פירוש מקהלת‬, respectively.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

175

an even more trenchant polemic, after a public disavowal of the earlier work, would have escaped the attention of zealous Maimonidean loyalists from Egypt to Iraq. Abraham, for his own part, recorded the affair of Daniel haBavli’s excommunication and subsequent repentence in his Montpellier epistle in the spring of 1235, roughly twelve years following Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s composition of the Rectification.51 As is clear from the reference to Ibn al-­Māshiṭah in his Genesis commentary, Abraham had read Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s work and was quite familiar with his critique of Maimonides. If the authors were identical, it is unimaginable that Abraham would have mentioned the first work without a single allusion to its more conspicuous counterpart. We can only conclude that these were not one but two individuals, each of whom played a separate role in the history of Maimonidean criticism in the Near East. Before turning to some of the finer points of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemical treatise, we must first consider the somewhat elusive question of the provenance of the work. Unlike Daniel haBavli, who lived out his later years in Damascus after leaving Baghdad,52 Ibn al-­Māshiṭah seems to have had a direct connection to Egypt, not merely because of the discovery of his work in the Genizah of the main Karaite synagogue in Cairo (intriguing but, in itself, inconclusive), but on account of his strong affinity to Egyptian Jewish pietism with its unique blend of rabbinic and Sufi spiritual archetypes. The opening chapters of the treatise make substantial use of the rabbinic motif of a ladder of ethical and spiritual ascent famously recorded in the Mishnah, according to which (in most versions) the attainment of piety culminates in prophetic inspiration.53 As Paul Fenton noticed some twenty years ago in an initial survey of the manuscript, the author made extensive use of the technical vocabulary and mystical tropes of contemporary Sufism, while also adopting the ideal of prophetic attainment as the culmination of the spiritual quest – one of the most distinctive features of Egyptian Jewish pietism in the thirteenth century, with clear roots in Maimonides’ own intellectualist mysticism.54 While there is no definitive 51 Ibn al-­Māshiṭah referred in passing to the year in which he composed the work, 1534 SE (= 1223 CE), in II Firk. I.3132, 76a, ll. 10–11. Fenton’s reference to folio 67r in “Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān,” 75, was a mere lapsus calami. 52 In his epistle, Abraham mentioned having heard of Daniel haBavli’s reputation and of having read (and responded to) some of his writings, but never having seen him in Egypt. See ‫מלחמות‬ ‫השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 54–55. 53 See M. Sotah 9:16 and parallels, and see Fenton, “Daniel ibn al-­Māšiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān, p. 78. This motif was adopted by Abraham’s descendant (and last of the Egyptian negidim in the Maimonidean line), David b. Joshua (d. 1410), in his Doctor ad Solitudinem et Ductor ad Simplicitatem, on whom see Fenton, “The Literary Legacy of David ben Joshua,” 1–56. 54 See my discussion of the prophetic aspirations of Egyptian Jewish pietism in my Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 187–243. For Fenton’s observations, see “Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān,” 77–79. For the notion of Maimonidean mysticism, see David Blumenthal,

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statement placing Ibn al-­Māshiṭah on Egyptian soil, his Sufi-­inspired lexicon and unique brand of asceticism, solitary retreat, and prophetic aspirations all point to the influence of contemporary trends of Egyptian pietism.55 Even if the author himself did not hail from Egypt, his barbed challenge to rationalists and pietists alike was no doubt keenly felt in Egyptian Jewish circles. For Abraham, the challenge was doubly charged as a rejection of Maimonidean rationalism coming from within the confines of Jewish pietism. The impudence of assailing Maimonides so directly from within the very movement championed by his son did not go unrequited. As we shall see, this intellectual challenge was the target of a sharp rebuttal in the pietist chapters of Abraham’s own code, the Compendium for the Servants of God (Kifāyat al-­‘Ābidīn in Judaeo-­Arabic), completed within a decade of his rival’s work. Although the manuscript containing Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s treatise is fragmentary in many places, with several chapters missing altogether, the work is of unparalleled importance in illuminating what we may call the third phase of the Maimonidean controversy in the Near East.56 It is a vital witness to the heated debates occasioned by Maimonides’ philosophical legacy within the Near East during this period.57 The author introduced his polemic against Maimonidean rationalism with a general account of the rise of Jewish philosophy. After reviewing its modest beginnings during the Gaonic period (though he was careful not to implicate any of the Geonim directly58) and among subsequent Rabbanite and Karaite thinkers eager to apply the new tools of logic to the tradition,59 Ibn al-­Māshiṭah considered the flurry of Jewish philosophical “Maimonides’ Intellectualist Mysticism and the Superiority of the Prophecy of Moses,” in Approaches to Judaism in Medieval Times, vol. 1, ed. D. Blumenthal (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), 27–51, and idem, Philosophic Mysticism: Studies in Rational Religion (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2007). 55 Fenton was the first to suggest a connection with Egyptian pietism in his “Daniel ibn al-­Māšiṭa’s Taqwīm al-­Adyān,” 78. 56 The first, as discussed above, dates to the Yemenite-­Babylonian challenge to Maimonides in the late 1180s and the second to the haBavli excommunication in the 1220s. The fourth reverberation in Egypt, resulting from the Montpellier crisis in the early 1230s, will be discussed in the final section below. 57 For a summary of the contents of the Taqwīm, see Fenton, ibid., 76–77. 58 Ibn al-­Māshiṭah neglected to mention Sa‘adia Gaon in this context, a most conspicuous omission, although the latter’s Book of Beliefs and Opinions is alluded to elsewhere in the treatise in an effort to rebut the rationalists of his day with logical demonstrations of the truth of Scripture and tradition. See II Firk. I.3132, 74b, l. 15–75a, l. 15. What is more, the author also considered Samuel b. Ḥofni to be unlike other rationalists who are otherwise ignorant of Jewish law and tradition. See ibid., 76a, ll. 11–15. 59 The inclusion of Karaite speculative theologians is intriguing and, as Fenton has suggested, may have been part of a larger agenda on Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s part to interest the Egyptian Karaite community in his brand of conservative pietism. See Fenton, “Daniel ibn al-­Māshiṭa’s Taqwīm

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

177

activity in al-­Andalus a decisive turning point in the development of speculative and heretical theology in Jewish circles. “In more recent times, a group of our coreligionists in al-­Andalus became preoccupied with the study of the philosophical sciences, preferring these doctrines to those of the Kalām. As a result, they sank into a sea of perplexity (fī baḥr al-­ḥairah) in their efforts to make their own doctrines conform with the doctrine of the divine law. But this is an altogether impossible task.”60 The danger of these developments, in the eyes of the author, was not the heretical deviation of a few marginal individuals but the widespread corruption of the Jewish faithful. The independent theology of “modern Jewish philosophers” had the effect of undermining traditional faith with “far-­fetched allegorical interpretations,” fracturing the doctrinal harmony of the people.61 Even those who adhere to philosophical speculation, he argued, cannot agree among themselves: “I have watched those who adhere [to philosophy] splinter into multiple groups, each camp claiming certain principles of faith directly opposed to each of the others . . . This state of division leads each one of them into even greater ignorance and heresy. So it is that anyone who hopes to discover the truth in these books finds himself in a state of perplexity (ḥā’ir) as to what to believe . . . ”62 The castigation of Jewish philosophers as having contributed toward a state of “perplexity” among the people (a notion which reappears in various forms throughout the work) is an unmistakable barb aimed at the author of the Guide for the Perplexed, the primary target of the polemic. In this situation of widespread religious confusion, the author set himself the task of reestablishing traditional faith, or – echoing the title of al-­Ghazālī’s famous synthesis of Islamic law and lore – “the revival of religious sciences” (iḥyā’ ‘ulūm dīnihi) to their traditional forms.63 The attack on philosophy was aimed at its valorization of reason both as a means of explaining the natural order and, by extension, of interpreting Scripture. As for the law itself, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah included an entire chapter (no al-­Adyān,” 77, and see my discussion below. It should be noted, however, that, while the author clearly considered the Karaites merely another Jewish sect and arguably less dangerous than philosophically inclined Rabbanites, there is no overt respect or sympathy paid to the Karaite sect in the treatise, which is as interested in rehabilitating traditional rabbinic theology as in promoting a conservative or literalist reading of Scripture. 60 See II Firk. I.3132, 76b. 61 For the phrase “modern Jewish philosophers” (al-­qaum al-­muḥdithūn min al-­falāsifah al-­yahūd), see ibid., 47b, l. 7. For his condemnation of “far-­fetched allegorical interpretations” (ta’wīlāt ba‘īdah), see ibid., 76b, l. 5. For a critique of the way in which Jewish philosophers and would-­be theologians have led the faithful to affirm heretical doctrines, see esp. his discussion, ibid., 75a–b. 62 Ibid., 2b, ll. 1–5 63 See ibid., 3a, ll. 13–14. This is later reformulated in reference to the title of his own work, the “rectification” or “reestablishment” of religious faith (taqwīm al-­adyān). See ibid., 3b, ll. 5–6.

178

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longer extant) affirming that the commandments as a whole are “traditional” (or “revelatory”) rather than “rational” (sam‘īyah lā ‘aqlīyah), a polemic directed primarily at the Maimonidean doctrine of the rationality of all commandments.64 He similarly strove to uphold the literal meaning of Scripture as opposed to the allegorical tendency of Jewish philosophers.65 The primary target of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s critique and his most formidable adversary – some twenty years after this adversary’s death – was none other than the sage of Fustat.66 Whether the anti-­rationalist challenge was taken up in writing by any other Maimonidean loyalists in the Levant and Near East is unknown. No polemical rebuttal of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s work has surfaced in the Genizah, although this in itself is not conclusive. As for Abraham Maimonides, there can be no doubt that he was aware of the scope of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s challenge, not only because it was the most brazen (and comprehensive) anti-­Maimonidean tract written to date, but particularly because it was composed by a scholar close to the ideology of the pietist movement. Abraham, as we have seen, was reluctant to engage directly in scholarly polemic, even (or especially) when it had a direct bearing on the family legacy, unless left with no alternative.67 This may explain the absence of any mention of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s name in the extant chapters of Abraham’s Compendium for the Servants of God. But, as we know from his polemical rebuttal of anti-­pietist criticism in Egypt, Abraham did not address any of his ideological opponents directly but alluded to each anonymously as “one of the so-­called scholars of our generation,” or “one of the adjudicators and illustrious scholars from Byzantium.”68 Precisely because the identities of the unnamed scholars were familiar to his contemporaries, Abraham could rebut his opponents without ever addressing them by name.69 Abraham’s refutation of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s anti-­rationalist pietism was no different in this regard. What was different in this case is the fact that both the identity of the author and the original work (however fragmentary) have been rescued from centuries of obscurity, permitting us to reconstruct the broad outlines of the debate. Of the criticisms leveled against Maimonides and other Jewish philoso

64 See ibid., 4a, ll. 16–18 (a précis of chapter fourteen). Maimonides consistently stressed the principle that all commandments have a rational basis. See, e.g., the end of his ‫ספר המצוות לרבינו משה‬ ‫בן מימון‬, ed. Yosef Qafiḥ (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1971), 347 (negative commandment, no. 365), Mishneh Torah, Me‘ilah 8.8 and Temurah 4.13, and Guide, III.26. 65 See, e.g., II Firk. I.3132, 19a, ll. 16–20, on Ezekiel’s vision. 66 See ibid., 76b. 67 See ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 55. 68 See ‫ספר המספיק‬, ed. Dana, pp. 148 and 149, and cf. 150 and 167. The term for “adjudicator” here and elsewhere is muftī, a legal scholar who writes formal rulings in the form of a responsum (futyā), but not necessarily in the capacity of judge (qāḍī/dayyan). 69 See ibid., 168, on the influence of opposing scholars on the community.

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phers on theological grounds, one in particular was singled out for rebuttal by Abraham. The point of contention was the nature of divine agency and natural causation. According to Ibn al-­Māshiṭah, philosophers and naturalists deny God unfettered freedom of action beyond the confines of the physical universe. By positing a fixed natural order, he contended, these self-­styled “naturalists” (ṭabī‘iyūn) disavow divine agency direct and unmediated control of natural (and supernatural) phenomena, including basic human motion. More than any other dispute, the question of divine agency and natural causation epitomized the clash between the fideistic and rationalist interpretations of religion. The argument that philosophical theology is fundamentally at odds with traditional piety was a question of special urgency for Egyptian pietistm, one that the pietists could ignore only at their peril. The challenge to the rationalist pietism of Abraham’s circle was not lost on Ibn al-­Māshiṭah. His polemic was as much an effort to redefine the aims of Jewish pietism as it was to debunk the foundations of Jewish philosophy. The rejection of the rationalist view was therefore framed as an affirmation of traditionalist faith. After a lengthy section in the second chapter dealing with obedience and disobedience to the law, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah concluded by reminding his readers of the absolute dependence of the natural order – from the greatest to the smallest – on the will and favor of God. As for earthquakes, let no one entertain the thought – as the naturalists do – that they are caused by the accumulation of vapor inside the earth after it penetrates the surface.70 Know rather that earthquakes are a result of the divine will. The earth is restrained when He restrains it and it trembles when He, may He be exalted, sees fit to punish a group of people with such a convulsion, in accordance with Scripture: “He looks upon the earth and it trembles” (Ps 104:32). Know, too, that what holds the sea back from overflowing onto the earth is not a natural cause – as they speculate – resulting from the deviation of the sun from the earth’s center toward its sides. It is rather the divine power that holds it back from overflowing, whenever necessary. Were it not for this, it would no doubt overflow, in accordance with Scripture: “‘Have you no fear of me?’ says the Lord. ‘Do you not tremble in my presence, who placed sand as a boundary for the sea, a fixed boundary that it cannot pass over?’” (Jer 5:22)71 In spite of being a young and relatively obscure scholar, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah brazenly overturned the scientific doctrines advanced by “the philosophers 70 The source for this theory of earth tremors ultimately derives from the view of Aristotle in Meteorology, II.7–8, 365a–369a, in The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), vol. 1, 591–96. 71 II Firk. I.3132, 56a, ll. 1–6

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of the day” (falāsifat al-­waqt) no less than he rejected the natural theories of the ancients.72 Earthquakes, tsunamis, and other disasters aside, the author championed what he considered a traditionalist faith in divine agency by taking biblical and even rabbinic theologoumena in their most literal sense.73 The God described by Maimonides and his fellow Aristotelians as the “first cause” (al-­‘illah al-­ūlā wa’l-­sabab al-­awwal) was for Ibn al-­Māshiṭah at once the first, intermediate, and ultimate cause of every existent in nature. Maimonides, too, considered God the cause of all, but only in a remote and indirect sense, mediated through proximate causes in the natural order: “In this sense, every action in existence is attributed to God, even if its action is a result of one of the proximate causes, as we shall explain. [God] is therefore, as the efficient cause, [also] the remotest cause.”74 As the cause setting all being in motion, from a state of potentiality to actuality, God is spoken of loosely (and piously) as the cause of every separate existent and natural occurrence, even though they can and should be attributed to more immediate, or proximate, forces. It is true, Maimonides acknowledged, that “all of these intermediary causes are omitted in prophetic utterances, such that an individual occurrence produced in time is ascribed to God,” including (not incidentally) the very motion of the sea: “He spoke and the stormy wind stood still, lifting up the waves of [the deep]” (Ps 107:25).75 But these are to be understood as mere figures of speech, in light of the remote effects of the first and original cause. In the fideistic doctrine espoused by Ibn al-­Māshiṭah, no meaningful distinction between the natural and the miraculous was permissible. Both were dictated by the will of God and only appear otherwise to the untrained observer or, for that matter, the trained skeptic.76 But the divine theophany of the natural world extended well beyond the earth’s tremors and other manifest phenomena to include the minute workings of the human body. Barring the self-­confined realm of piety and transgression, the most basic choices of human life were conceived as governed by direct divine command. “A principle doctrine of 72 See ibid., 3a, ll. 2–7, in which Ibn al-­Māshiṭah compares his predicament with that of Elihu the Buzite (see Job 32:6–9) in his lack of years and experience. 73 See, e.g., his appeal to a midrashic tradition in which rain was transformed by God into fire and sulfur, remarking: “This is a clear contradiction of his view and a rejection of his school of thought” (wa’l-­munāqaḍah li-­madhhabihi). See ibid., 26b, ll. 19–22, citing from an unknown midrash from the Tanḥuma, but see a similar homily in Tanḥuma, Va-­eira, no. 22. 74 See Guide I.69, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 1, 180. 75 See Guide, II.48, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 2, 444. 76 In Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s view, the naturalist position (ārā al-­ṭabī‘iyīn) goes even further by attempting to provide scientific explanations for miraculous occurrences, as in II Firk. I.3132, 47a, ll. 6–8. For his part, he proposed precisely the inverse position, asserting that what appear to be natural occurrences are in fact orchestrated directly by God.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

181

our faith is the affirmation that all human [activity] and functions, whether in motion or at rest, are facilitated, assisted, and willed only by [God], except for movements connected with obedience and disobedience . . . This is as R. Ḥanina, of blessed memory, said: ‘All is in the hands of heaven except for the fear of heaven.’”77 By asserting near-­total divine control over human affairs, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah offered a powerful rebuttal to the Maimonidean doctrine, which suggested a far more open-­ended interpretation of R. Ḥanina’s remark, according to which all is indirectly in the hands of heaven through the medium of nature, with the exception of the entire sphere of human activity, broadly defined so as to permit the total freedom of the will.78 For the pietists of the Maimonidean camp, the challenge of the new fideism lay not only in its anti-­rationalism but in its adherence to a radical pietism that framed the rejection of science as an affirmation of faith in God. As bearer of the Maimonidean legacy and chief architect of the pietist movement, Abraham was faced with an unusual challenge: how to retain the sincerity and simplicity of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s faith while holding firm the fundamental truth of science? In Abraham’s view, the prospect of reactionary scholars redefining pietism in stridently anti-­intellectual terms was as troubling for the integrity of the movement as it was damaging to its broader image in Muslim society. Much like his father before him, Abraham was sensitive to Muslim society’s negative impression of the Jewish community. While this typically concerned attitudes toward synagogue decorum and ritual, Abraham was equally anxious to dispel the adverse image of Jewish pietism as an uncultivated and unscientific movement.79 It is rather extraordinary that no other reference to Muslim perceptions of Jewish pietists (as individuals or as a movement) has surfaced in Jewish or Islamic writings from the period, making Abraham’s remarks all the more intriguing and elusive. Were it not for the discovery of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemical work, Abraham’s allusions to ignorant and reactionary pietists, as in the following passage, would themselves have remained shrouded in obscurity.

77 Ibid., 30b, ll. 3–5 and 9–10, citing b. Berakhot 33b. A parallel saying is also ascribed to R. Ḥanina (and subsequently cited by Ibn al-­Māshiṭah), according to which “all is in the hands of heaven except the thorns and thistles [in the way of the crooked]” (see b. Bava Metzi‘a 107b, alluding to Prov 22:5). 78 For the Maimonidean view, see the eighth chapter of his introduction to his commentary on m. Avot, in Haqdamot ha-­Rambam la-­Mishnah, ed. Shailat, 393 (Arabic): “By saying ‘everything [is in the hands of heaven],’ they intend thereby the natural order (al-­umūr al-­ṭabī‘īyah), concerning which a person has no choice.” 79 On Abraham’s (and his father’s) attitude to synagogue decorum in view of its impression in Muslim society, see my Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 153–57.

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As for those who fancy themselves among the [spiritual] elite80 yet who reject the science of [natural] causation to the point of being ignorant of all or most of it, they either intuit or accept on the authority of tradition the existence of the First Cause, namely God, magnified and exalted be His name.81 They believe that any speculation on, or mere inquiry into, intermediate causes leads to heresy regarding divine agency and the doctrines of His law, like the heresy of the philosophers and their followers.82 [They believe] that faith requires a denial of [natural] causation or a mediation of divine agency, may He be exalted. This has led them to ignore the workings of nature and to deny that which the intellect attests by means of sound reason and which is obvious even to the senses. They think that this is the faith required by the law and that this is the only way a devout person shows trust in Him, may He be exalted. They have become a laughingstock and an object of ridicule to men of knowledge. The notion that this [belief] could be associated with any of the [spiritual] elite in the Jewish community or any [Jewish] scholar is in my mind and in that of any discriminating person a desecration of the Divine Name. “Such that people said of them, ‘These here are the Lord’s people and they have gone forth from His land.’” (Ezek 36:20)83 Abraham’s incisive critique of this pietist faction cuts in several directions. The first is his charge that their anti-­intellectualism stems primarily from a basic ignorance of natural science and the fundamental principles of causation. This ignorance then led to the baseless fear that “mere inquiry” into science is to be avoided at all costs as a perilous path to philosophical heresy. This reactionary zeal, Abraham chided, led to the unfortunate result that the faith of such sincere believers is grounded solely on the faith of others, acquired by tradition, with perhaps an inkling of the truth but with no secure foundation. Like Se‘adiah and Baḥya before him, Abraham accused his opponents of blind faith (taqlīd), the mark (in Judaism as in Islam) of the simpleton rather than 80 The expressions “elite” (al-­khawāṣṣ) and “the elite path” (al-­sulūk al-­khāṣṣ) in Abraham’s writings designate those who adopt the rigors of the pietist path. See his discussion in The High Ways to Perfection of Abraham Maimonides, ed. and trans. Samuel Rosenblatt, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1927), 132–48. 81 Significantly, Abraham here adopted the philosophical name of God as “cause of causes.” See Guide, I.69, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 1, 178, and cf. Mishneh Torah, Yesodei haTorah 1.1. 82 Abraham drew a distinction between the ancient philosophers and their modern disciples, a distinction Ibn al-­Māshiṭah was unwilling to make when describing the “modern Jewish philosophers” of his day. See above, n. 59. 83 The High Ways to Perfection of Abraham Maimonides, ed. Samuel Rosenblatt, vol. 2 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1938), 130, l. 18; 132, l. 10

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

183

the scholar,84 although unlike his predecessors he was waging an ideological battle not with the Jewish community as a whole, who in his view legitimately follow the “common path” (sulūk al-­‘āmm), but within the pietist camp itself, which must hold itself to more elevated standards, intellectual as well as spiritual.85 Those who willfully remain ignorant of scientific causation so as to keep their faith intact are in fact depriving themselves of any meaningful and independent connection, apart from that of tradition, with the God that is designated (philosophically speaking) the Cause of causes. Such a derivative faith on the part of Jewish pietists and scholars, he feared, can only lead to the disparagement of Israel in the eyes of its neighbors – the Lord’s people who have “gone forth from His land.”86 If the opponents and the setting of Egyptian pietism provide a novel backdrop to the debate over divine agency and natural causation, the debate itself is quite familiar within the Near Eastern context. The denial of causality was a familiar position within Ash‘arite Kalām, which stipulated a continuous renewal of creation at the hand of God rather than a naturalistic mechanism of causation.87 No less an authority than al-­Ghazālī defended the Ash‘arite position, whose

84 When describing the belief in God on the authority of tradition, Abraham utilized a verbal form of the term for obedience (qalladū for taqlīd), a term with wide currency both in Arabic and Judaeo-­Arabic literature. On the use of taqlīd in Maimonides’ Guide and its background in Arabic theology and philosophy, see ‘Omer Michaelis, “‘‫ עיון בתפקוד המונח‬,‫׳אפילו על הפילוסופים׳‬ ‫”׳תקליד׳ במורה הנבוכים ובמקורותיו ההגותיים‬, Da‘at 83 (2017): 7–46. In Islamic legal terminology, taqlīd was the non-­scholarly counterpart to the ijtihād of the scholars, namely the obedience required by the faithful to juridical rulings. See Wael Hallaq, A History of Islamic Legal Theories: An Introduction to Sunnī uṣūl al-­fiqh (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 121–23. In the theological and philosophical domain, the use of the term was quite different and assumed a polemical valence. See Lenn Goodman, Ibn Tufayl’s Hayy ibn Yaqzān: A Philosophical Tale (Los Angeles: Gee Tee Bee, 1983), 183–84, n. 53. Richard Frank has studied the critique of taqlīd within the Ash‘arite school and in the thought of Ghazālī. See his “Knowledge and Taqlîd: The Foundations of Religious Belief in Classical Ashʿarism,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 109 (1989): 37–62, and “Al-­Ghazālī on taqlīd: Scholars, Theologians, and Philosophers,” Zeitschrift für Geschichte der Arabisch-­Islamischen Wissenschaften 7 (1991–1992), 207–52, respectively. 85 See Sa‘adia Gaon, Kitāb al-­Mukhtār fi’l-­Imānāt wa’l-­I‘itiqādāt, ed. Yosef Qafiḥ (Jerusalem: HaAmanim Press, 1999), 7, and Baḥya ibn Paqūdah, Kitāb al-­Hidāyah ilā Farā’iḍ al-­Qulūb, ed. Yosef Qafiḥ (Jerusalem: Yad Mahari Qafih, 1991), 26–28. 86 See above, n. 81. It is also significant that, by branding the pseudo-­pietist denial of causality a desecration of God’s name, Abraham issued a sharp rebuttal of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s barb that the heresy of Jewish philosophy and scientific naturalism constituted a desecration of the Divine Name. 87 On the theological critique of causation by all but a minority of mutakallimūn, see the synopsis by Harry Wolfson, The Philosophy of the Kalam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976), 518–78, and by Majid Fakhry, Islamic Occasionalism and Its Critique by Averroës and Aquinas (London: Allen & Unwin, 1958), 56–57, and idem, A History of Islamic Philosophy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 229–33. According to the latter, all Ash‘arite and most

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view was in turn eviscerated by Averroes in The Incoherence of the Incoherence, although in his non-­polemical writings Ghazālī struck an intermediary position between the Ash‘arite and the naturalists.88 Maimonides, too, had devoted a section of the Guide to rebutting the denial of causality, which he, like Averroes and Abraham after him, equated with a denial of nature itself.89 It is striking that what Maimonides mocked as a position of the mutakallimūn, his son derided (in strikingly similar terms) as an anti-­rationalist deviation emanating from within the pietist movement.90 But Abraham’s insistence on integrating pietism and rationalism, it turns out, cut both ways. His polemic extended, on occasion, to the very naturalists (al-­ṭabī‘īyūn) castigated by Ibn al-­Māshiṭah, for their assertion of the mortality of the soul in conjunction with the body.91 Elsewhere, Abraham accepted the possibility of reaching the culmination of the path (wuṣūl) by means of philosophical reason alone (al-­ṭarīq al-­falsafīyah), but cautioned his devotees against the pursuit of such a path, in that it is replete with hidden perils to the wayfarer, most notably the threat of heresy – often the fruit of philosophical speculation.92 In one key respect, the premise of anti-­rationalist fideism was not at all remote from Abraham’s spiritual (if not theological) agenda.93 The anti-­rationalist position was grounded on the premise that trust in God, known Mu‘tazilite theologians rejected the (chiefly Aristotelian) philosophical principle of secondary causation in favor of the direct and constant intervention of God. 88 For Ghazālī’s defense of the traditional Ash‘arite position and Averroes’ critique, see Averroes’ Tahafut Al-­Tahafut (The Incoherence of the Incoherence), tr. S. Van Den Bergh (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1954), 316–33. Richard Frank has observed, however, that Ghazālī allows for secondary causes predetermined by God’s eternal wisdom. See the latter’s “Al-­Ghazālī’s Use of Avicenna’s Philosophy,” Revue des études Islamiques 55–57 (1987–89), pp. 277–80, and “Currents and Countercurrents,” in Islam: Essays on Scripture, Thought and Society, ed. P. G. Riddell and T. Street (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 126–34. Jon McGinnis similarly argued that Ghazālī adhered to the Ash‘arite model of divine volition while accepting a modified form of natural science, according to which one can study natural causality as it is manifest in the world even while acknowledging divine control over every secondary cause. 89 See Guide I.73 (sixth proposition), in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 1, 217–21. 90 Abraham’s classification of some as the spiritual elite (al-­khawāṣṣ) is an oblique reference to the pietists of his day. See, e.g., High Ways to Perfection, vol. 1, p. 146, l. 15. 91 See II Firk. I.2926, 1a–b, ll. 8–14, and cf. the Hebrew translation by Paul Fenton, “‫תורת הדבקות‬ ‫ קטעים מתוך החלק האבוד של המספיק לעובדי השם‬:‫”במשנתו של ר׳ אברהם בן הרמב״ם‬, Da‘at 50 (2003): 118. 92 See II Firk. I.2924, 1a, ll. 2–15, and see his critique of the errors of philosophy, ibid., 1b, ll. 9–10 and 12–14. See the Hebrew translation of these passages in Fenton, “‫תורת הדבקות‬,” 16, and see my remarks on philosophical dimensions in Abraham’s pietist doctrine of prophetic illumination in Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 189–201. 93 I distinguish here between Abraham’s adoption of an inner spiritual attitude similar to the anti-­ rationalists (as well as the Sufis) without the theological doctrine of the denial of causation on which it is grounded.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

185

to pietists and Sufis alike as tawakkul or ittikāl, required an affirmation of unfettered and unmediated divine agency, in short an absolute faith in divine providence. Abraham’s polemical remarks against the anti-­rationalists appear in a chapter of his Compendium devoted to ittikāl and its numerous applications within the spiritual path. Abraham’s own program for the cultivation of trust in God seemed to require, albeit in modified form, an integration of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s doctrine of complete reliance on divine providence. On occasion, Abraham did adopt a modified version of this doctrine. As already noted, a lengthy chapter of the Compendium was devoted exclusively to the virtue of trust in God.94 For the select few, he wrote in this context, whether prophets or “their followers among the devout saints,” there may be “a removal of ordinary natural causation and reliance (ittikāl) on miracles that violate the order of nature and wonders that border upon it.”95 Abraham likewise declared that sincere ittikāl can be rewarded with divine intervention on one’s behalf, “or else He makes the order of nature subservient to him, as in his providential concern for the pious and devout.”96 The “humble and pious,” who occupy a position of proximity (qurb) to the divine presence, are “surrounded by providence” and “are not affected or harmed by the power of





94 See High Ways to Perfection, ed. Rosenblatt, vol. 2, 88–214. Avivah Shussman has argued that Abraham’s language of ittikāl bears important resemblances to al-­Ghazālī’s treatment of this virtue in his Iḥyā’ ‘ulūm al-­dīn, both in content and rhetorical expression. See idem, “‫שאלת‬ ‫”המקורות המוסלמיים לחיבורו של ר׳ אברהם בן הרמב״ם ׳כתאב כפאייה אל־עאבדין‬, Tarbiz 55 (1986): 229–51. 95 See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, p. 92, ll. 11–13. See also ibid., 160, l. 21-­162, l. 3, and 166, ll. 3–4. This rare type of ittikāl, Abraham wrote, may come to the prophets in the form of inspiration (ilhām), an assurance in a revelation (waḥy), or a divine command (amr ilāhī) as we find in ibid., 94, ll. 3–4, and 96, ll. 14–15. It is therefore not always attainable even for a prophet or for one who achieves prophetic inspiration on occasion (see ibid., ll. 9–10). A popular Sufi belief attributed to saints the ability to perform divinely worked miracles (karamāt and mu‘jazāt). The same idea is expressed ibid., vol. 1, p. 166, ll. 20–21, and ‫ספר המספיק‬, ed. Dana, 99. See also Fenton, “Some Judaeo-­Arabic Fragments by Rabbi Abraham he-­Ḥasīd, the Jewish Sufi,” Journal of Semitic Studies 26 (1981): 59, n. 41. On Abraham Maimonides’ treatment of spiritual mendicants who rely on extreme ittikāl and who view poverty as a virtuous condition, see High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, p. 122, ll. 4–13, and see below. 96 See ibid., 138, ll. 16–19. Compare this with Maimonides’ understanding of the worldly success of the biblical patriarchs as a result of “the union of their intellects in the perception of Him” (ittiḥād ‘uqūlihim bi-­idrākihi), in Guide, III.51, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 3, 680. Abraham understood the special providence for the patriarchs as a reward “for their steadfastness in their faith in the Truth and trust in Him, may He be exalted.” See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 136, ll. 4–5. Compare also Maimonides’ interpretation of the “song of pestilence” (Ps 91, on which see b. Shevu‘ot 15b) in providential terms in Guide, III.51, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, 683, with High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 158, ll. 9–10. For Abraham’s use of “Truth” (al-­ḥaqq) as a name for God, see ibid., vol. 1, 164, l. 9; vol. 2, 18, ll. 5, 18; 22, l. 18; 84, l. 16; 92, l. 15; 250, l. 14; ‫ספר המספיק‬, ed. Dana, p. 146. Compare Maimonides’ use of the term, e.g., in ‫תשובות הרמב"ם‬, ed. Blau, vol. 2, 437, no. 242, and in his commentary to m. Avot 4.27.

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the wicked.”97 Taking a cue from his father, for whom proximity and distance were contingent upon intellectual apprehension,98 Abraham drew a conceptual link between proximity to God and providence.99 Here, however, one notices the additional influence of Sufi doctrine, according to which the term qurb, like uns, stood for spiritual intimacy.100 Abraham likewise invoked the special 97 See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 84, ll. 10–21; cf. also ibid., 86, ll. 13–17; 118, ll. 1–19, esp. ll. 11–16; 124, ll. 16–21; Responsa Abraham Maimuni, ed. Freimann and Goitein, 32, no. 18. In relation to the last reference, compare ‫ספר המספיק‬, p. 309. For a similar pietist approach to providence, compare the anonymous work from the same period published by Fenton, “A Mystical Treatise on Prayer and the Spiritual Quest from the Pietist Circle,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 16 (1993): 147. The link between providence as a reward for special piety and proximity (qurb) in this passage was taken up more fully elsewhere in the Compendium, where the truly devout is said to be rewarded with an “infusion of the divine lights upon him, so that he becomes aware of His proximity to him and His great providence for him,” resulting in special protection from the harmful occurrences in the world. See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 158, ll. 2–10. 98 For Maimonides, insofar as divine incorporeality permits of no movement or relativity in space, proximity and distance in relation to the divine have a purely intellectual meaning. “Indeed proximity to [God], may He be exalted, is according to one’s perception of Him. Distance from Him belongs to one who is ignorant of Him.” See Guide, I.18, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 1, 48. It is perhaps in reference to this chapter in the Guide that Abraham wrote, on the authority of his father, that the prohibition against approaching too close to the site of revelation (Exod 19:24) was alluding to a “conceptual proximity” (qurb ma‘nawī) rather than a “spat[ial] proximity” (qurb mauḍi[‘ī]). See ‫פירוש רבינו אברהם‬, ed. Wiesenberg, 313 (Exod 19:24), and cf. ibid., 281–83 (Exod 16:9–10). 99 For Maimonides’ view of providence as a function of the attachment of the intellect, see Guide, III.17–18, 51. 100 For a description of qurb (and its opposite, bu‘d) in classical Sufi thought, see ‘Abd al-­Karīm al-­ Qushairī, Al-­Risālah al-­Qushairīyah fī ‘Ilm al-­Taṣawwuf, ed. Muḥammad al-­Mar‘ashlī (Beirut: Dār Iḥyāʾ al-­Turāth al-­ʿArabī & Muʾassasat al-­Tārīkh al-­ʿArabī, 1998), 145–48. The term qurb was used by Abraham ibn Abī’l-­Rabī‘ (“the Pious”) as consisting of many levels (marātib) among spiritual aspirants. See Fenton, “Some Judaeo-­Arabic Fragments by Rabbi Abraham he-­Ḥasīd,” 61, 1b, ll. 4 ff. For qurb and its opposite, al-­bain, an apparent neologism, in a contemporaneous pietist poem (and attributed to al-­Ḥarizi), see S. M. Stern, “Some Unpublished Poems by al-­Harizi,” JQR 50 (1960): 357, no. 6, l. 1. See also II Firk. NS 1223.70, cited in Fenton, “A Mystical Treatise on Perfection, Providence and Prophecy from the Jewish Sufi Circle,” in The Jews of Medieval Islam: Community, Society, and Identity, ed. Daniel Frank (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 315, in which eternal damnation is described as the “fire of separation,” and see Fenton’s note, ibid., n. 33. For a more traditional understanding but with pietist terminology, see the contemporaneous pietist work published by Fenton, “A Mystical Treatise on Prayer,” 155. On intimacy in the presence of God in a fragment of Abraham ibn Abī’l-­Rabī‘, see Mosseri VIII.19, verso, l. 11, attributed erroneously to Abraham Maimonides by the editors of Catalogue de la Collection Jack Mosseri (Hebrew; Jerusalem: National University Library, 1990), 212. See Fenton, “‫עוד על ר׳ חננאל בן שמואל‬ ‫ גדול החסידים‬,‫”הדיין‬, Tarbiz 55 (1985): 104. See also TS Arabic Box 1a.25, recto, l. 3, published: ibid., 105, said by Fenton to be an extension of Mosseri: VIII.19. The phrase, ista’anasa fī bait qudsihi, and its opposite, al-­wulūj fī bēt dimsihi, were used in an anonymous pietist letter to describe spiritual intimacy with God. See ENA NS 10 (laminated 46), recto, ll. 7–8 published by Fenton,

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providence of one whose prayer is sincere, further adapting an aspect of his father’s philosophical doctrine in a pietist vein.101 As a general rule, Abraham may be said to have carved out a middle ground in the debate with the anti-­ rationalists, embracing the doctrine of direct providence while limiting it to exceptional cases of piety.102 For all other cases, to which these exceptions do not apply, Abraham sought instead to bridge the gap between piety and philosophy, citing the example of “the true religious elect, servants of God, who keep His law and walk in His path, followers of the prophets who unite intellectual perfection with religious perfection.”103 In order to achieve such a fusion, the pietist was required not to eliminate scientific inquiry but to infuse it with a religious dimension. Insofar as all causes derive from the First Cause, the affirmation of science may itself become an affirmation of the divine root of all being. “Every person of intelligence, who of necessity relies upon certain proximate or remote causes themselves dependent upon [God], may He be exalted, thereby relies on Him who is their cause.”104 The aim of rationalist pietism, in Abraham’s view, was to train the practitioner to trace everything in the world back to its divine source, without negating the reality and mechanism of the natural order in the process. For Ibn al-­Māshiṭah and his cohort, on the other hand, the spiritual discipline of trust in God was far from a theoretical test of piety, but was implicated in the most mundane questions, including the very efficacy (and permissibility) “A Pietist Letter from the Genizah,” 161, hypothesized by Fenton to be authored by Abraham ibn Abī’l-­Rabī‘. See also High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 418, l. 14 (uns with God), and ibid., 386, l. 11 (with the angels). Note also Abraham’s assertion that individual providence is fundamentally a matter of mystery, ibid., 306, ll. 3–4. 101 See ‫ספר המספיק‬, ed. Dana, 128 (wa-­ṣuḥbatuhu ‘ināyah ’ilāhīyah). Maimonides had spoken of concentration in prayer in Guide, III.51, as preparation for “intellectual worship” (al-­‘ibādah al-­‘aqlīyah). See Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 3, 679. Abraham, in turn, wrote of a form of worship (ta‘abbud) that is “wholly inward” (bāṭinan faqaṭ), “purely in concentration and thought” (mujarrad niyyah wa-­fikrah), to which only “the remnant called by the Lord” may attain, “even if only at the time of sleep,” citing from Ps 4:5 as did his father in the same context in III.51. Abraham did not, however, use his father’s language of “intellectual worship,” preferring to speak of inwardness, concentration, and thought. See ‫ספר המספיק‬, 126. Note that Dana’s Arabic in that text has mujaddar instead of mujarrad, as Fenton already observed in his review, “Dana’s Edition of Abraham Maimuni’s Kifāyat al-­‘Ābidīn,” JQR 82 (1991): 204. 102 One must exhibit considerable caution on points of possible deviation from his father’s philosophical doctrine. Consider Abraham’s account of the views of “the philosophers and their followers,” who reject individual providence, as “open heresy,” in High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 108, ll. 2–4; cf. also ibid., 128, l. 14−130, l. 4, in light of his father’s critique of philosophers such as Aristotle and “those who have renounced the law.” See Guide, III.17, in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 3, 508. 103 See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 136, ll. 16–19. 104 See ibid., 178, ll. 10–13.

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of medicine, a profession typically represented by the scientific and philosophical elite.105 The practical regimen of the physicians, no less than the scientific doctrine of the naturalists, was seen as a direct assault on the purity of traditional faith. Given their prominence as court physicians and champions of the scientific tradition in Egypt, both Maimonides and Abraham became public targets of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic. Their commitment to the practice of medicine, almost as much as their affirmation of naturalist doctrine, made the Maimonidean family the very symbols of the corruption of the ancestral faith. Whereas Scripture and the sages demanded absolute reliance on divine providence, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah contended, Maimonides and his followers put their faith in the vain promises of scientists and medical practitioners, all to no avail in the face of the divine will. [God] has promised to maintain the bodily health of the pious even when the [body’s] source of sustenance is lacking, as it says: “You shall serve the Lord your God and He will bless your bread and water [and I shall remove disease from your midst]” (Exod 23:25), and “[If you diligently heed the voice of the Lord your God and do what is upright in His sight, obey His commandments, and keep his statutes,] all the sickness which I placed upon Egypt I will not place upon you, for I, the Lord, am your healer” (Exod 15:26). [Scripture] attributes both the onset of illness and its cure to the divine will, guaranteeing that anyone who keeps the commandments will not become ill . . . The master,106 by contrast, guaranteed health and long life to anyone who follows the regimen he laid out for good health . . . ​107 This is the opposite of what Scripture says: “I smite and I heal and there is nothing to deliver from My hand” (Deut 32:39), which is to say that no physician can deliver [someone] from My hand by means of a medical regimen and there is no guarantee strong enough to deliver someone who has been overtaken by a [divine] plague . . . ​108 Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic against the futility of medicine, and by implication the impiety of the physicians, directed primarily against the preeminent philosopher-­physician Maimonides, appears at the beginning of a lengthy chapter on divine providence (‘ināyah). Much of the chapter consists of rigorous rebuttals of Maimonides’ doctrine of providence in the code and especially the 105 See S. D. Goitein, “The Medical Profession in the Light of the Cairo Geniza Documents,” HUCA 34 (1963): 177–78, 186. 106 The reference to the “master” (literally, “head,” a translation of the Arabic term, rayyis or ra’īs), is the title of feigned respect designated in Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s work for Maimonides. 107 The author went on to cite Maimonides’ remarks guaranteeing good health and long life in the Mishneh Torah, De‘ot 4.20. 108 II Firk. I.3132, 20a, ll. 1–12.

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Guide, by countering the rationalist interpretation of Scripture (what he calls ta’wīl) with literal readings of biblical and talmudic sources suggesting that piety and obedience, not sound hygiene or diet, is the sole guarantor of bodily health. Later in the same chapter he went a step further in declaring medicine heretical by suggesting that, not only is it contrary to the providential theology of Scripture, but it even puts itself on par with the divine commandments as obligatory for attaining human well-­being. Once again, the chief target of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic was the celebrated physician of Fustat. [Maimonides] maintains that the onset of illness is caused by people themselves, either through an insufficient diet or a poor regimen of harmful excess or a destructive regimen of food, drink, or sex . . . But Scripture directly contradicts this theory, declaring that illness comes about through disobedience to the [divine] command, even if one practices a healthful regimen. “If you do not listen to Me [and do not perform all of these commandments] . . . ​, I will bring terror upon you” (Lev 26:14,16).109 Yet of all the commandments, there is not a single one concerning the regulation of [bodily] health.110 Among the more intriguing and highly effective elements of Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic, on full display in each of the previous citations, is its near-­complete lack of argument. Rather than rebut Maimonides’ philosophical positions on logical grounds, as al-­Ghazālī attempted to do regarding Islamic philosophy in his Incoherence of the Philosophers, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s strategy was to let the words of Scripture speak for themselves, in their original power and transparency. In one sense, his polemic was directed at independent scriptural interpretation (ta’wīl) as such, considered an exercise of flawed reason over against tradition. All that was necessary was to juxtapose the heretical exegesis of the philosophers with the bare words of revelation, exposing the manifest absurdity of all rationalist interpretation by holding it up to the light of Scripture itself. The polemical technique reaches its climax with the denial of any legitimacy, let alone utility, to human initiatives for health and well-­being on the authority of Scripture and Scripture alone.111 109 The fragmentary citation comes from the covenantal curses (tokheḥah) in Lev 26:14–43. 110 See II Firk. I.3132, 27b, ll. 3–11, esp. 3–5 and 11. 111 For all of his insistence on Scripture, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s approach should not be confused with the unalloyed scripturalism of the Karaites. Unlike the latter, he is just as eager to show the agreement of talmudic and midrashic tradition with his brand of pietism. His scripturalism was less what Luther would later call sola scriptura than a rejection of rationalist exegesis that undermines (and is thus roundly contradicted by) the literal meaning of revelation. On the relationship between Karaism and Egyptian pietism, see my discussion in Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 56–58. On Karaite interest in Sufism more generally, see Fenton,

190

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Ironically, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah may have drawn inspiration for his appeal to fideism and unyielding literalism from the contemporary Islamic controversy over the legitimate interpretation of the Qur’ān. While al-­Ghazālī was the most celebrated Sufi critic of philosophy (falsafah) in the early twelfth century, Ibn al-­ Māshiṭah’s contemporary, the Ḥanbalī jurist Muwaffaq al-­Dīn ibn Qudāmah (d. 1223) of neighboring Damascus, was the preeminent critic of rationalist theology (kalām) in the early thirteenth.112 Like his Jewish counterpart, Ibn Qudāmah argued vigorously against all his contemporaries’ efforts to apply rationalist, that is non-­literal, interpretation to the Qur’ān. Also like Ibn al-­Māshiṭah, he was concerned to limit scriptural exegesis to matters of practical import, namely to strict legal application. But for the Jewish traditionalist, the naturalist doctrine of the physicians was not only frivolous, but was a dangerous fallacy. Far more than an effort to refute faulty exegesis on the part of Maimonides, Ibn al-­Māshiṭah’s polemic strove vehemently, and somewhat quixotically, to preserve the purity of biblical-­talmudic faith for his generation and to reclaim the pietist mantle from Maimonides’ son and rationalist successor. For his part, Abraham was not silent in response to the pietist polemic against the medical profession and its philosophical foundations. His prominent position as court physician – not to mention his demanding schedule in the royal hospital in Cairo and additional medical services which he, like his father before him, provided to local residents of Fustat – brought the fideistic polemic even more perilously close to home. Abraham’s reputation as a physician was highly regarded among his contemporaries, both within the Jewish community and without.113 Numerous allusions within his own writings reflect the medical wisdom of his age and the influence of medical science on his views. He could in no way afford to ignore the fideistic challenge, but preferred, as was his custom, to respond in general terms rather than engage in overt polemic. His strategy was to respond to the scripturalist rebuke in kind, by referencing Scripture over against itself. In so doing, Abraham was able to emphasize the complexity, “Karaism and Sufism,” in Karaite Judaism: A Guide to Its History and Literary Sources, ed. Meira Polliack (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 199–212. 112 Ibn Qudāmah, famous for his celebrated code of Ḥanbalī law, Kitāb al-­mughnī (Book of Sufficiency), composed an important anti-­rationalist tract, which is at heart a polemic against the rationalist misreading of Scripture (ta’wīl), known as Taḥrīm al-­Naẓar fī Kutūb Ahl al-­Kalām, translated by George Makdisi as Censure of Speculative Theology (London: Luzac, 1962). For a discussion of ta’wīl in the rationalist tradition of medieval Islam, see Henri Corbin, Histoire de la philosophie islamique (Sarthe: Gallimard, 1986), 34–38. 113 See Ibn Abī ‘Usaibi‘ah’s remarks on Abraham Maimonides in his ‘Uyūn al-­anbā fī ṭabaqāt al-­aṭibbā’, ed. August Müller (Königsberg i. Pr.: Selbstverlag, 1884), 118, cited in High Ways to Perfection, vol. 1, 123–24. On Abraham qua physician, see my Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 17–20.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

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rather than the monolithic message, of divine revelation, and the interplay of divine and human initiatives that are as manifest in the human community as they are in abstract theological pronouncements of divine providence. While we have discussed the way in which one must exercise trust in Him, may He be exalted, both internally and externally, through prayer and invocation of divine mercy in matters of vital religious importance, it is no less necessary to protect oneself by safeguarding against forms of suffering by those very means which God has provided for this protection. You must be aware that, while it is a doctrine of the Torah that “I take and give life” (Deut 32:39), it [also] says: “When you build a new house, make a railing for your roof so as not to be responsible for [inadvertent] death in your house” (Deut 22:8). And while it is a doctrine of the [Torah] that “I smite and I heal” (Deut 32:39), it [also] says: “He shall pay for the loss of time and for the cost of becoming thoroughly healed.” (Exod 21:19)114 Abraham’s use of opposing scriptural citations is a clever inversion of his rival’s dogmatic appeal to divine revelation, given what appear to be conflicting messages within Scripture itself. The task of the true pietist, according to Abraham, is to keep both truths in mind simultaneously: the transcendent source of divine power and the necessity of human initiative. As in the controversy over natural causation, the pietist is bidden to acknowledge the theological principle without rejecting the mundane realm of human practice. Given the source of the debate over the limits of absolute faith within his own pietist circles, Abraham could not take up the cause of science without also advocating an abiding faith in divine power and providence. Working within the framework of his own spiritual mission, Abraham played both sides of the debate while remaining steadfast in each: “Drink theriac and treat yourself with medicinal cures, while at the same time have faith in Him, may He be exalted, for the successful outcome of that medicine.”115 The complex nature of an intra-­pietist controversy no doubt convinced Abraham of the importance of responding unequivocally to the challenge, yet to do so quietly and without overt polemic. As a result, what was without a doubt a lively debate among adherents of Egyptian pietism – between the rationalist and anti-­rationalist branches of the movement – may now resume its rightful place in the history of the Maimonidean controversies of the medieval Near East. 114 High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 148, ll. 8–16. The emphatic biblical injunction to provide for medical costs in a case of bodily damages (‫)ורפא ירפא‬, was cited in the Talmud as proof of the legitimacy of the human initiative to provide medical care rather than relying exclusively on divine protection. See b. Berakhot 60a. 115 See High Ways to Perfection, vol. 2, 150, ll. 9–17.

192

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

Between Fustat and Montpellier As the third controversy over Maimonidean rationalism in the Near East reached its critical juncture in Egypt in the late second or early third decade of the thirteenth century, a separate tempest over the master’s philosophical legacy threatened to engulf a number of communities on the other side of the Mediterranean. This episode began in Montpellier, but quickly drew in the sages of northern France as well as those of Aragon and Castile. The Montpellier controversy is notable as the only ideological confrontation to surface between European and Near Eastern Jewries during the medieval period. While the story of this so-­called first Maimonidean controversy has been told on more than one occasion, the sources at our disposal raise more questions than answers. What, if anything, can be said with certainty as to the fate of Maimonides’ writings in Montpellier? And what interaction, if any, existed between Fustat and Montpellier in the midst of this crisis?116 The Montpellier controversy, although ancillary to the history of Egyptian Jewry, bears directly upon Abraham’s polemical efforts in defense of Maimonidean rationalism, both in Egypt and abroad. What is more, the controversy had a broader impact on inter-­communal relations between Egyptian and French Jews living in Egypt, which, as I have described elsewhere, were already strained by the socio-­economic turmoil of the period.117 Both the official reaction to events in Montpellier by the head of Egyptian Jewry and the ripple effect within Egypt represent a new engagement with Europe and its sages, as the boundaries between the two regions were increasingly opened in the early thirteenth century. As we have seen, the works of northern French and Provençal scholars were first cited in Egypt during this period by Abraham and his circle, both in their talmudic commentaries and their legal responsa. In an effort to illustrate his acquaintance with European scholarship, Abraham differentiated – in the midst of the controversy – between different factions of French Jewry, familiar to him from personal contact and correspondence with French scholars from Acre to Alexandria. The Montpellier affair and its aftershocks served as the unexpected climax to a growing engagement between two cultural spheres, the fruits of which are only now beginning to be understood. The Maimonidean controversy of the early 1230s was marked by a flurry of 116 A working bibliography on Abraham Maimonides and the Maimonidean controversy was provided by Jacob Dienstag, “Abraham Maimuni’s Role in the Maimonidean Controversy,” in Abraham Maimonides’ Wars of the Lord and the Maimonidean Controversy, trans. Fred Rosner (Haifa: The Maimonides Research Institute, 2000), 140–200. 117 See my “Response to Catastrophe: Natural Devastation and Human Desperation at the Turn of the Thirteenth Century in Light of Muslim and Jewish Sources,” in Muslim-­Jewish Relations in the Middle Ages: Jews in the Ayyubid and Mamluk Periods (1171–1517), ed. Amir Mazor (Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2017).

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

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polemical letters and semi-­public outcries, a number of which remain shrouded in obscurity. The first phase was marked by bans and counter-­bans among the communities of northern France, Provence, and Iberia, regarding the legitimacy of rationalist (primarily allegorical) interpretation of scriptural and rabbinic texts. The second phase is depicted as the culmination of the first, namely the effort of the anti-­rationalist (or anti-­allegorical) faction in Montpellier, championed by Solomon b. Abraham, to condemn Maimonides’ philosophical writings before the city’s inquisitorial authorities and consign them to the flames, an event which reportedly occurred in the winter of 1232–1233.118 It is the report of the burning of his father’s books that prompted Abraham, after some initial hesitation, to once again take up the pen in defense of his father. As it turns out, the accounts of the burning raise far more questions than they resolve. Of the five contemporaneous sources that refer to the event, not a single one was an eyewitness to the burning or reported in the name of an eyewitness. The first to mention the episode was the aged David Qimḥi (d. 1235) of Narbonne, in his third letter to Judah al-­Fakhar of Toledo.119 Qimḥi contended that, after losing the support of his northern French colleagues, the chief anti-­Maimonidean instigator, Solomon b. Abraham of Montpellier, convinced the Christian authorities to consign the Maimonidean heretical books to the flames. Without revealing the source of his allegations, Qimḥi painted Solomon of Montpellier as a cold and calculating informer. When he saw that the French rabbis abandoned him . . . ​, he turned to the unbelievers and idol worshipers. He pleaded with them and they agreed to help him in his plan against the Jews. He first called upon the young mendicants,120 saying: “Most of our people are heretics and unbelievers, deluded by Rabbi Moses of Egypt, the author of heretical books. Since you are already burning your own heretics, burn ours, too!” They thus ordered these books – the Book of Knowledge and the Guide – to be burnt. His uncircumcised heart did not rest until he made the very same appeal to the preachers, known as the praedicatores,121 and the priests and monks, until [his request] reached the Cardinal himself.122



118 Speculation as to the date of the burning of Maimonides’ books is based on Abraham’s epistle (see below) and the counter-­ban of the pro-­Maimunist Saragossan elders, dated to the Hebrew month of Av (4)592 anno mundi (= summer, 1232 CE), which does not mention the episode of the burning. For the latter, see ‫קובץ תשובות הרמב״ם ואגרותיו‬, ed. A. E. Lichtenberg (Leipzig: n.p., 1859), vol. 3, 5b. Daniel Silver took the two dated documents as the terminus ad quem and a quo respectively. See idem, “Who Denounced the Moreh?” JQR 57 (1967): 498, n. 1. 119 See Qoveṣ, ed. Lichtenberg, 4b–c. 120 I.e., the Franciscans. 121 I.e., the Dominicans. 122 Ibid., 4c.

194

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

As transparently polemical and tendentious as it is, this account has been the underlying source for all subsequent reports of the burning, with additional details superimposed with each retelling. The grotesque culmination of this sequence of retellings is the well-­known letter of Hillel of Verona, who included the macabre detail of the excision of the Jewish informers’ tongues and who changed the site of the burning from Montpellier to Paris, describing it as a public spectacle for all to see. According to Hillel’s version, the public burning of the Talmud in Paris occurred less than ten years after the public burning of Maimonides’ books and could be interpreted as a sign of divine retribution to avenge the honor of the sage. While Hillel lived about two generations after the height of the controversy, elements of his report can be gleaned from earlier sources closer to the events in question.123 It is noteworthy that none of those reporting on the burning (including Qimḥi himself) hailed from Montpellier. In fact, the only source to emerge from Montpellier during this period is a letter from the alleged informer, Solomon b. Abraham, who complained to an old friend of the false allegations leveled by “the elder gentleman” (David Qimḥi) and pro-­Maimunist zealots from Béziers. Not surprisingly, the letter says nothing of a burning, public or otherwise, nor does it suggest any interest in such action. Its author recoils in dismay at Qimḥi’s accusations that he actively encouraged the rabbis of northern France to issue a ban against Maimonides’ supporters. “They falsified my words and made unfounded claims that I urged [the northern French sages to issue] a ban against anyone loyal to the doctrine of Ibn Maimun, and other horrible things which I never said nor even thought to say.”124 To the contrary, Solomon insisted, he wrote to his French colleagues for guidance in his public dispute with the allegorists of Montpellier, without ever advocating that they take up the ban against the pro-­Maimunists. He protested that he had never uttered a word of slander against Maimonides, “whose words are exceedingly dear and cherished by me . . . ​, such that I praise his name and teachings on every occasion, as is known to all the elders of our country.”125 Solomon protested Qimḥi’s slander when the latter merely accused him of inciting others to issue an anti-­Maimunist ban. One can only imagine his reaction (as it alas does not survive) to the more damning accusation that he informed against his Jewish opponents to the Papal Inquisition and urged it to burn the heretical books of Maimonides. 123 For Hillel’s report on the burning, including his assertion that the Paris burnings were divine retribution for the burning of Maimonides’ books and the subsequent public repentance of R. Yona of Gerona, see ibid., 14b–c. 124 See Solomon Halberstam, “‫ קבוצת מכתבים בעניני המחלוקת על ספר המורה והמדע יוצאים לאור‬:‫מלחמת הדת‬ ‫”בפעם ראשונה‬, Jeshurun 8 (1875), p. 101, no. 7. 125 See ibid.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

195

Nearly three years after the turmoil in Provence and Iberia had subsided, the first explicit report of book burning made its way to Fustat. During that time, only vague rumors of the Montpellier affair had reached Egyptian shores.126 Within two weeks of receiving word of the event in the spring of 1235 from a certain Isaac b. Shem Tob, a Frenchman living in Acre, Abraham penned a polemical epistle, known today by the title Wars of the Lord,127 as a decisive rebuttal of the anti-­rationalist position. Much of the epistle was devoted to theological questions of interest to partisans in the debate, from divine anthropomorphism to the reward of the righteous in the world to come. Abraham directed most of his polemical ire at the heretical views of Solomon b. Abraham’s main disciple, David b. Saul (far more than at those of Solomon himself), referring at length to his doctrine of the divine glory and the celestial throne.128 Yet even as the epistle is of considerable interest for its polemical content, it is unfortunately of no genuine value as a historical witness to the Montpellier affair. As Abraham indicated in the epistle, his purpose in writing was not to report on the details of the event but “to save Israel from the perverted belief of these [men].”129 Of the episode in question, Abraham transmitted only two details: that his father’s books were burnt at the behest of anti-­Maimunists in Montpellier “on the authority of the [Christian] officials who assisted them . . . ​, for their faiths are not dissimilar,” and that “the informers responsible for the burning were punished by the Almighty Judge with the excision of their tongues . . . ”130 The accusation that the heretics of Montpellier joined forces with the inquisitorial office in that city is clearly based on Qimḥi’s allegation and has been accepted by most, though not all, historians of the period.131 While the office of the 126 See ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 55. 127 The original manuscript (MS Neof. 11.10, ff. 83r–99v) contains no such title. It is introduced as “The Epistle of R. Abraham, son of the Noble R. Moses b. Maimon, of blessed memory, against the Detractors of his Holy Writings,” and ends “Thus is concluded the Epistle of Response of the Eminent R. Abraham . . . ” See Hebrew Manuscripts in the Vatican Library, ed. Benjamin Richler (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 2008), 538–39. See ibid., p. 75, where the epistle was dated 17 Adar I, (4)595 anno mundi and 1546 Selucid Era (= 1235 CE). In the epistle (ibid., 55), Abraham observed that he received word of events in Montpellier at the end of Shevat of the same year, implying that he composed his lengthy reply over the course of no more than two weeks. In the same section of the epistle (ibid., 54), Abraham wrote that he received word of the burning three years after the event. See below for a discussion of this lag in time. 128 See ibid., 69–73. 129 See ibid., 73. 130 See ibid., 55. 131 See Yitzhak Baer’s doubts in A History of the Jews in Christian Spain, tr. Louis Schoffman (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1992), vol. 1, 402. Daniel Silver accepted the report of the burning, even as he questioned the identity of the chief protagonists. See idem, Maimonidean Criticism, 153–64. Ephraim Urbach voiced skepticism as to the authenticity of reports on the involvement of the northern French scholars in the dispute in his essay, “‫חלקם של חכמי אשכנז‬

196

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Inquisition, administered by the Dominicans, had been active in Montpellier at least since the Fourth Lateran Council, there is no evidence that the Inquisition took any interest in non-­Christian heresy before the Paris Talmud trial of 1240.132 More importantly, Maimonides’ writings were viewed favorably during the reaction to Aristotelian philosophy in the later thirteenth century and there is no known indication in any Christian source testifying that the Church had burnt them.133 Needless to say, the other detail Abraham included in his epistle – the grotesque account of the excision of the informers’ tongues – is clearly based on Hillel of Verona’s telling and has even less of a claim to historical veracity than the burning itself. Abraham clearly attributed the excision of tongues to divine retribution (citing from Psalms rather than direct reports),134 but the suggestion that Provençal Jewish leaders themselves administered the ghastly penalty in defiance of the Inquisition is no less inconceivable. Apart from the fact that no evidence exists for corporal punishment among the Jewish communities of medieval Europe outside of Iberia, the stated role of the Church in this affair renders such a brutal penalty under the eyes of the Inquisition all but impossible. The historical value of this report lies, paradoxically, not in its authenticity but in the degree of its fabrication. Abraham’s epistle confirms that palpably distorted versions of the Montpellier affair were not merely due to the lapse of two or more generations, as in the case of Hillel of Verona, but that they began to circulate shortly after the first reports of Jewish informers and inquisitorial pyres. Less than three years after the episode in question purportedly occurred, anecdotes and rumors took on a colorful life of their own with little to anchor them in historical reality.135 ‫”וצרפת בפולמוס על הרמב״ם ועל ספריו‬, Zion 12 (1947), 154–59, and cf. idem, ,‫ תולדותיהם‬:‫בעלי התוספות‬ ‫ שיטתם‬,‫( חיבוריבם‬Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1986), 468. 132 On the Paris Talmud trial, see the historical essay by Robert Chazan in The Trial of the Talmud: Paris, 1240, John Friedman, et al. (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2012), 1–92. 133 Of particular interest is the favorable view of Maimonides’ Guide in the theological writings of thirteenth-­century Catholic luminaries with close ties to the Dominican and Franciscan orders, such as Alexander of Hales (Franciscan), Robert Grosseteste (lecturer to Franciscans in Oxford), Thomas of York (Franciscan), Thomas Aquinas (Dominican), William of Ware (Franciscan), Duns Scotus (Franciscan), and Nicholas Trivet (Dominican). The list of Catholic theologians who cited Maimonides favorably only multiplied in subsequent centuries. For one such list of English theologians, see Jacob Dienstag, “Maimonides in English Christian Thought and Scholarship: An Alphabetical Survey,” Hebrew Studies 26 (1985): 249–99. The very fact that Maimonides’ Guide was translated into Latin in the thirteenth century, and read diligently by these and many more distinguished Catholic theologians, is itself sufficient to put to rest the legend that the Papal Inquisition in Montpellier, largely overseen by the Dominican order, condemned Maimonides’ philosophical writings to the flames. 134 The relevant verses from Psalms cited in Abraham’s epistle were 12:4, 31:19, and 73:9. 135 The fabricated report of the excision can only mean that Isaac b. Shem Tob was not a first-­hand

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

197

But if Abraham’s epistle perpetuates the most fallacious allegations against the anti-­rationalists of Provence and northern France, its author was exceedingly careful not to paint all of French Jewry with a single brush. Of the anti-­ rationalists and their supporters in Montpellier, Abraham minced no words, directly linking their distorted faith to that of their Christian supporters.136 In a revealing aside, he observed that “not a single Jew living in the lands of Ishmael, from the remote east to the remote west, has any doubt regarding this [doctrine of divine incorporeality].”137 Any Jew living “in Iraq and the lands to the east, in Syria, the land of Israel, Egypt, and the Maghreb,” who so much as utters a belief in divine corporeality in the presence of even the ignorant and unlettered, “would be subject to ridicule, scorn, and laughter.”138 As I have suggested elsewhere, Abraham (even more so than his father) paid genuine homage to Islam and the purity of its faith, using it as a foil against his corrupted coreligionists in Christian Europe.139 But despite Abraham’s rebuke of Jewish heretics in Christendom, his polemical broadside is only half of the story told in his epistle. He was no less eager to repudiate rumors circulating among Egyptian Jewry concerning their French brethren and to clear the latter of guilt by association with the anti-­rationalist party, if only because the controversy was playing itself out not merely across the Mediterranean but among competing constituents within Egypt. The waves of French Jewish émigrés intended for Palestine, many if not most of whom ended up either temporarily or permanently on Egyptian shores, brought cultural tensions between Arabic and European Jewish communities to the fore. The backdrop of natural catastrophe and economic contraction contributed to a growing xenophobia in Egyptian Jewish society. In the midst of an effort by prominent Alexandrian elders to unseat French-­ born scholars from positions of communal prominence, one conflict stands out: that between the French-­born Joseph b. Gershom and the Alexandrian Hodayah b. Jesse. Joseph’s appointment by Abraham Maimonides to the office of communal judge in the port city became the occasion for Hodayah’s invective against French Jewry. Hodayah’s assault against the immigrants included a personal writ of excommunication issued “against anyone who offers finanwitness of the events, but was likely reporting from another (unknown and equally suspect) source. 136 See above, n. 128. 137 See ‫מלחמות השם‬, 51. 138 Ibid. 54. 139 See my “Respectful Rival: Abraham Maimonides on Islam,” A History of Jewish-­Muslim Relations: From the Origins to the Present Day, ed. Abdelwahab Meddeb and Benjamin Stora (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 856–64, and my comments in Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt, 1–4.

198

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

cial assistance either to a Byzantine or a Frenchman.”140 In the course of his invective against Joseph b. Gershom, Hodayah accused all of French Jewry of adhering to anthropomorphic heresy and urged his Jewish countrymen to condemn them as sectarians. Joseph, an appointee of Abraham in his role as Nagid, wrote to the latter in a plea for public support against his brazen accuser. [Hodayah] has slandered me on a number of occasions and I have not reciprocated . . . He has called me a bastard and cursed my forebears – [all] scholars – from beyond the grave, calling me cursed son of accursed. And he [went on to] call all Frenchmen sectarians and heretics (‫)מינים וכופרים‬,141 all of whom [he asserts] ascribe a body, form, and [physical] appearance to the Creator.142 Abraham’s response to Hodayah’s offensive on French Jewry was two-­pronged. After Hodayah’s ban on financial assistance to non-­native Jews, Abraham issued a public edict barring all writs of excommunication in Egypt not authorized by the recognized leaders of a given city.143 The branding of all French Jews (kol bene ṣarfat) as sectarian heretics, on the other hand, called for a more delicate approach, coming as it did in the wake of rumors of the burning of Maimonides’ books in Provence. Abraham’s support of French Jewry came, paradoxically, in the very public epistle in which he chastened the anti-­rationalists of Provence and northern France for their heretical beliefs. The reason for the mixed message of the epistle was quite simple, reflecting a deep ambivalence toward the French community. At heart, Abraham agreed with Hodayah’s assertion that French Jews had long ago succumbed in their belief to the corrupting influence of Christianity.144 What he believed had changed in recent years, undoing generations of heresy, was the direct impact of his father’s writings on French scholars. The proof, he maintained, was to be found among the Jews of Montpellier, who were no longer unanimous in their heretical belief but found themselves divided into two opposing factions. “One side [consists 140 See Responsa Abraham Maimuni, ed. Freimann and Goitein, 15, no. 4. 141 On these terms as used by Maimonides, see Mishneh Torah, Teshuvah 3.7. 142 See Responsa Abraham Maimuni, 15, no. 4. 143 See ibid., 25, addendum. Not long after the dispute with Hodayah, Joseph resigned his post as judge in Alexandria and moved to Acre, where he joined his former countrymen as one of the leading scholars in the city. As a gesture of support to Abraham in Fustat, the community of Acre adopted the same ban on private writs of excommunication. 144 See ‫מלחמות השם‬, 55. On a separate occasion in his Compendium, Abraham issued a trenchant critique of the excessive legalism of the Jewish scholars of Christendom, lampooning one who is learned in the laws of prayer, “yet when he prays, moves his lips though his heart is empty, preoccupied with the laws [of prayer].” See II Firk. I.2924, 2a, ll. 6–13 and 16–18, and see the Hebrew translation in Fenton, “‫תורת הדבקות‬,” 116.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

199

of] the intelligent and discerning who understand the essential truth of their religion, their faith having been corrected by the Book of Knowledge and the Guide for the Perplexed, the other side fortifying themselves in the corrupt faith inherited from their fathers.”145 Abraham’s argument in defense of French Jewry was something of a double-­ edged sword. The French and Provençal communities were saved from the depths of heretical depravity, he argued, by the very books that ignited the controversy in Montpellier and which were reportedly condemned to the flames by a small group of zealots. The result, however, is clear. Notwithstanding the indignation of Hodayah and his supporters, the vast majority of French and Provençal Jewry could no longer be branded heretical sectarians. The proof, Abraham insisted, was to be found not in hearsay but in his first-­hand acquaintance with the many French émigrés who had made Egypt their home since the beginning of the century, some temporarily and others permanently. “The great sages who have arrived here from across the sea,” he wrote, “both from France and from elsewhere, have made no allusion to this corrupt belief nor has it ever crossed their lips.”146 In Abraham’s view, the purified doctrine of French scholars was directly linked to the warm reception given his father’s writings in recent years. When the scholars of France first arrived in this country . . . ​, I saw that they were great scholars, wise and intelligent, God-­fearing and discerning. I rejoiced in them and they rejoiced in me and I honored them according to their due. I heard that, when R. Judah Ḥarizi translated the Guide for the Perplexed for [the French-­born] R. Joseph and his brother, R. Meir, of blessed memories,147 into the holy tongue in Jerusalem, they grasped its meaning and rejoiced in its contents. But they ordered that [the Guide] not be revealed to those members of their academy who in their eyes were not capable of understanding it . . . ​148 145 See ibid., 54. Note Bernard Septimus’ apt remark in his Hispano-­Jewish Culture in Transition, 149, n. 18: “Abraham’s tradition-­conscious Provençal correspondents must have winced at his praise of them for having abandoned their fathers’ ways while he condemns the anti-­rationalists for ‘remaining firm in the corrupt belief which they inherited from their fathers.’” 146 See ibid. 147 According to a text published by Israel Ta-­Shma, Joseph of Clisson died in 1223, and his brother, Meir, three years earlier in 1220. See idem, “‫”כרוניקה חדשה לתקופת בעלי התוספות מחוגו של ר״י הזקן‬, Shalem 3 (1981): 323–24. 148 ‫מלחמות השם‬, ed. Margaliot, 53. Judah al-­Ḥarizi, who praised French scholars in an Arabic maqāmah as “possessed of general virtue, vast and broad knowledge, strong devotion, and correct and unshakable faith,” reported that one of these, Samson of Sens, maintained that “no one compares with [Maimonides’] devotion, virtue, knowledge, and intellect,” and that “no one will grasp the excellence of his writings save one who is expert in the sciences.” See Kitāb

200

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

Through his public epistle, Abraham sought to rehabilitate French Jewry – including those currently living in Egypt and Palestine – in the eyes of their Egyptian brethren by affirming their broad acceptance of Maimonidean rationalism. More importantly, he drew on his personal acquaintance with French scholars to affirm their fundamental adherence to the Maimonidean creed, even if they occasionally tempered their public support in fear of a backlash from certain members of their community.149 In spite of the recent antagonism of anti-­Maimunists in Montpellier and reports of their militant machinations with the Catholic Church, Abraham insisted to the heresy mongers within Egypt that the number of French Jews still professing the “corrupt faith” of their fathers had diminished to the point of insignificance: “Solomon [of Montpellier] wrote in his epistle that only two individuals have supported him in his belief . . . This is an indication that the abomination, which they call belief, has diminished among them to the point of only being believed by a few individuals.”150 With a stroke of his pen, Abraham removed the stain of heresy from the entire French community, noting that the few individuals who still clung to the old faith should be considered “nullified to the point of insignificance.”151 The irony of this phase of the Maimonidean controversy in Egypt is that it was both exacerbated and ultimately resolved by the presence of hundreds of French émigrés newly settled in the country. The resentment of Hodayah and those of his ilk had as much to do with the economic burden of what seemed like an endless stream of impoverished French immigrants supported on communal welfare (with the wealthiest, of Hodayah’s class, bearing the greatest burden) as it did with their purportedly anthropomorphic doctrine. By the al-­Durar, ed. Blau, et al. 94–97, ll. 50–52, 56–59, and cf. S. M. Stern, “An Unpublished Maqama by Al-­Harizi,” Papers of the Institute of Jewish Studies 1 (1964): 188. It is interesting to note that the same passage describes a certain anti-­Maimonidean scholar who set out to “the lands of the Byzantines and the French” (bilād al-­rūm wa’l-­ifranj) in order to assemble written condemnations of Maimonides’ works, but who drowned at sea before arriving at his destination. See Kitāb al-­ Durar, ed. Blau, et al., 98–101, ll. 105–19. Although most of the accounts of the anti-­Maimonidean activity in France do not emanate from the French themselves, we do possess a letter written by “the rabbis of France,” excoriating all who read the Guide for the Perplexed and the Book of Knowledge, as well as those who study “Greek wisdom,” as heretics (‫ ואפיקורסין‬. . . ‫)מינים וכופרים‬. See BM MS Add. 27131.60, verso, and 61, recto, published by Shatzmiller, “Toward a Picture of the First Maimonidean Controversy,” 139. In addition to Shatzmiller’s analysis of this letter (ibid., 127–30), see Avraham Grossman’s philological notes, “‫הערות לאיגרתם של רבני צרפת נגד מורה נבוכים‬ ‫”וספר המדע‬, Meḥkarim be-­Toledot ‘Am Yisrael ve-­Ereṣ Yisrael 2 (1972): 107–9. 149 It is noteworthy that Maimonides likewise expected that the Guide would fall into unworthy hands, referring not to readers of the (as yet unforeseen) Hebrew translation but of the Judaeo-­ Arabic original. See Guide, intro., in Dalālat al-­Ḥā’irīn, ed. Qafiḥ, vol. 1, 16–17. 150 See ‫מלחמות השם‬, 69. 151 See ibid.

Maimonidean Controversies After Maimonides

201

same token, Abraham’s efforts to quiet the local dispute over French heresy were motivated by his personal acquaintance with French Jewish scholars and his insistence that the vast majority had renounced their former doctrine in favor of Maimonidean rationalism. A pseudo-­Maimonidean treatise full of marked vitriol toward French Jewry, apparently composed by a Jew of Andalusian or Maghrabi origin in the thirteenth century, bears eloquent testimony to the combination of social and doctrinal differences brought out by the new reality of European and Near Eastern Jews living in close proximity.152 In the end, however, the presence of respectable French scholars and the gradual integration and acculturation of the sizeable French cohort in Egypt changed the equation of the controversy decisively. Under the double cloud of ideological heresy and social discord, the Maimonidean drama in Egypt – like its counterpart in Europe – appears to have come to an abrupt end within a few years from the inception of the controversy. No testimony or exchange has yet been discovered to indicate that any of the disputes persisted past the 1230s. Abraham Maimonides’ role in the local and regional controversy was likely the decisive factor in its resolution. One recalls the words of Naḥmanides in his letter to the French rabbis in the summer of 1232: “Arise and take counsel with him who is first in rank, the master, Rabbi Abraham, son of our rabbi [Maimonides], of blessed memory.”153 Whoever the ultimate victor in the war of words, it is clear that French Jewish scholars had earned a place of honor among their Egyptian rabbinic counterparts, if not in the hearts of Egyptian Jewry as a whole. From this point forward, the



152 The treatise can be found in Qoveṣ, ed. Lichtenberg, vol. 2, 38a–40b. The origin of the author can be surmised from the fact that he declared that the only writings worth reading are his own (i.e., those of Maimonides) and those of Abraham ibn Ezra, on which see ibid., 40a. A good example of the anti-­French vitriol of the author can be gleaned from the following selection (ibid., 40a–b): “Be very wary of what is written in most of the books composed by the people of Ṣarefat, namely France. The only time they appear to acknowledge the Creator, blessed be He, is when they eat [their] boiled oxen seasoned with vinegar and garlic, a sauce they call “salsa.” The vapor rising from the vinegar and the odor emitted from the garlic goes straight to their brain and they fancy that they have a vision through them of the Creator, blessed be He . . . They also [imagine] that He listens to their prayers and to their shouting when they study Talmud and other books by the heads of [their] academies. They always describe the Creator, blessed be He, with words that make [Him] into a body (‫ )המגשימים‬. . . ​, even worse than those who deny God’s existence (‫)הכופרים‬, heaven forbid . . . ​! Keep far away from these people and do not befriend them!” 153 See ‫כתבי הרמב"ן‬, ed. H. D. Chavel (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1963), vol. 1, 350. On Naḥmanides’ role in attempting to resolve the Maimonidean controversy between the anti-­rationalists of northern France and the Maimunists of Provence and Iberia, see David Berger, “How Did Nahmanides Propose to Resolve the Maimonidean Controversy?” in Me’ah She‘arim: Studies in Medieval Jewish Spiritual Life in Memory of Isadore Twersky, Gerald Blidstein, et al. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2001), 135–46.

202

Elisha Russ-­fishbane

biblical and talmudic glosses of “Rabbi Solomon the Frenchman,” or simply, “the Frenchman, of blessed memory,” began to be cited alongside the authorities of the Gaonic-­Andalusian tradition.154 As the human and scholarly landscape underwent a transformation in Egypt, the polemical exchange was personalized and ultimately diffused by the presence of French Jews in Egypt, who not only brought with them the fruits of French rabbinic scholarship but constituted the first major encounter with European Jewish culture in the heart of the Near East. If an ideological debate did persist within Egypt, it would have played itself out not in abstract polemic, but in the confrontation of two proud cultures ineluctably joined in a shared communal destiny.

Acknowledgments I wish to thank David Berger, Robert Chazan, and Marc Herman for offering valuable insights at different stages of this essay as well as the anonymous readers and editors of the Hebrew Union College Annual.



154 For reference to Rashi’s biblical commentary, see ‫פירוש רבינו אברהם‬, ed. Wiesenberg, 41 and 435. For his talmudic glosses, see Responsa Abraham Maimuni, ed. Freimann and Goitein, 9, no. 3, in a legal exchange between Abraham and Meir b. Barukh. For Freimann’s identification of the latter, see ibid., 1, n. 2. Maimonides likewise mentioned Meir, “the precious scholar” (‫החכם‬ ‫)היקר‬, in his famous epistle to Samuel b. Judah ibn Tibbon on the translation of the Guide. See ‫אגרות הרמב"ם‬, ed. Shailat, vol. 2, 530, and cf. n. 8, for the hypothetical link to Jacob (‘Rabbenu’) Tam. Ḥananel b. Samuel likewise made use of the commentary of the Provençal sage, Abraham b. David, on b. Bava Qamma, on which see ‫ מסכת קידושין‬,‫פירוש רבינו חננאל הדיין בן שמואל על הרי״ף‬, ed. I. Suna (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1970), 10, n. 34. It is interesting to note that the pseudo-­Maimonidean treatise mentioned above warns its readers repeatedly not to read the works of French scholars, on account of the latter’s purported heresy, on which see n. 151, above. In addition to these overt references to Rashi, there has been some speculation that Maimonides himself may have encountered Rashi’s commentaries later in life and that he may even have changed a number of his rulings as a result. See Shamma Friedman, “?‫כלום לא נצנץ פירוש רש״י‬ ‫”בבית מדרשו של הרמב״ם‬, in ‫רש״י – דמותו ויצירתו‬, ed. Avraham Grossman and Sarah Yefet (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 2009), vol. 2, 403–64.

Discourses of Doubt: The Place of Atheism, Skepticism, and Infidelity in Nineteenth-­century North American Reform Jewish Thought Daniel R. Langton University of Manchester

The absence of scholarship that takes seriously the progressive Jewish response to atheism and skepticism is not easy to explain. Historical accounts tend to follow the view that Reform Judaism was a “response to modernity” in the sense that it was an attempt to integrate secular learning into Jewish life in general and/or to emulate the newly encountered Christian response, both in thought and practice, which was viewed as a model in this regard. Much of the scholarship on this period has focused on the political ambitions of assimilationist lay Jews and, with respect to secular learning, has tended to concentrate on biblical criticism, which certainly had a defining impact in Germany, and also in the United States and United Kingdom even if not initially. There has also been considerable interest in the theological concerns of the religious leaders and intellectual pioneers of Reform, but these concerns have tended to focus on inward-­orientated debates about the status of the Law or on the weight of traditional rabbinic authority. Insofar as historians have noted engagement with atheism or skepticism, the Reformers’ interest in disbelief has been conflated with a more general concern with the dangers of assimilation. That is, the significance of engagement with atheistic or skeptical philosophies has been understood to lie in this engagement’s strategic utility in countering the threat to religious Jewish continuity. This article will consider the case of US Reform Judaism and its engagement with the prominent infidels and unbelievers Robert Ingersoll and Felix Adler. In doing so, it will also offer an overview of changing attitudes toward scientific naturalism and philosophical materialism within the US Reform movement more broadly, drawn from sermons and writings of such prominent nineteenth-­century and early twentieth-­century religious leaders as Isaac Mayer Wise, Kaufmann Kohler, Emil G. Hirsch, Joseph Krauskopf, Aaron Hahn, and J. Leonard Levy. Together, these individuals’ discussions represent a rich discourse of doubt important for understanding the history of Reform Judaism. Among other things, this discourse helps explain a unique cluster of US Reform interests, including a tendency toward panentheism and a pronounced interest in modernist justifications of immortality.

203

204

Daniel R. Langton

Introduction As a response to modernity, Reform Judaism in late nineteenth-­century North America found itself in a difficult position. On the one hand, there was enormous appetite for the kind of critical thought and rationalism that Reformers believed would free Judaism from the chains of irrelevant, irrational tradition. This was a tendency that was optimistic in nature and characterized by a profound faith in Progress. On the other hand, skeptical and materialistic currents in popular culture threatened to undermine religion in general and Judaism in particular. This was a tendency that generated some concern about the destructiveness and negativity of critical and skeptical approaches. Some of the leading intellectual lights of the Reform movement in the United States from the 1870s until the early 1920s addressed this concern in large part through their writings on the anti-­religious claims of popular polemists and freethinkers such as Robert Ingersoll and Felix Adler, who were writing and orating from the late 1870s until around the turn of the century. Generally speaking, scholarship on the history of US Reform Judaism tends to brush over the subject of doubt, which is puzzling, since engagement with atheism and skepticism actually features quite frequently in the writings and sermons of Reform rabbis, both before and after the classical reforms of the Pittsburgh Platform of 1885.1 This article will survey the views of rabbis including Isaac Mayer Wise,2 the founder of the Reform training college Hebrew Union Col



1 The standard work on the history of Reform Judaism, Michael A. Meyer’s Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, Studies in Jewish History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), is typical of the literature in that its index includes only three references to “atheism” and one to “philosophical materialism,” despite the fact that such terms were used frequently within the contemporary debates. Two articles that touch on the issues, at least in relation to evolutionary science, include Naomi W. Cohen, “The Challenges of Darwinism and Biblical Criticism to American Judaism,” Modern Judaism 4, no. 2 (1984): 121–57, and Marc Swetlitz, “Responses of American Reform Rabbis to Evolutionary Theory, 1864–1888,” in The Interaction of Scientific and Jewish Cultures in Modern Times, ed. Yakov M. Rabkin and Ira Robinson (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1995), 103–25. 2 Wise (1819–1900) was born in Bohemia and received a traditional education in Prague. He immigrated to the United States in 1846, where he became a congregational rabbi, eventually settling down in Cincinnati. Wise has been described as the father of Reform Judaism in the United States, and it is certainly the case that he was in the vanguard of synagogue reform, introducing, among other things, mixed seating, choral singing, and confirmation. In 1854 he founded and became editor of The Israelite, which became the leading organ for Reform Judaism; in 1857 he compiled the standard Reform prayer book, Minhag America; and, in 1875, he succeeded in his efforts to establish the Reform Jewish rabbinical training college, Hebrew Union College, in Cincinnati. Despite his enormous influence, Wise was very much a moderate Reformer, refusing to countenance the findings of biblical criticism and seeking always to reconcile the more radical and conservative wings of the emerging movement. Probably his most original

Discourses of Doubt

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lege and of The American Israelite, Kaufmann Kohler,3 the second president of HUC and the denomination’s leading intellectual, Emil G. Hirsch, a professor of rabbinics at The University of Chicago and editor of The Reform Advocate,4





work was The Cosmic God: A Fundamental Philosophy in Popular Lectures (Cincinnati: Office American Israelite and Deborah, 1876), a theological approach to the alleged conflict between religion and science. 3 Kohler (1843–1926) was born in Bavaria and brought up in an Orthodox home, becoming a protégé of the champion of neo-­Orthodoxy, Samson Raphael Hirsch. University studies at Munich and Berlin under the Jewish philologist and philosopher Hermann Steinthal and the Protestant biblical scholars and orientalists Hermann Strack and Franz Delitzsch, among others, ignited in Kohler an interest in historical approaches to Judaism, which he came to see as lacking in orthodoxy, until, despite himself, he was drawn to the leading light in German Reform Judaism, Abraham Geiger, who, like Hirsch, was based in Frankfurt. Because Kohler’s biblical-­critical doctoral thesis at Erlangen – which espoused an evolutionary conception of Judaism – was too liberal to allow him to lead a congregation in Germany, Geiger encouraged him to pursue an academic career (he went on to Leipzig to study Arabic and Persian), before assisting him in finding, in 1869, a position as a Reform rabbi in Detroit. In 1871 Kohler moved to Chicago, and then, in 1879, finally settled in New York. A frequent contributor to the Jewish press, he is credited with being the first US rabbi to publicly accept evolutionary theory. He married Johanna, daughter of the radical reformer David Einhorn. In 1903 he followed Isaac Mayer Wise as president of Hebrew Union College. Kohler’s lifelong academic focus was Hellenistic Judaism and the history of the harmonization of ostensibly non-­Jewish thought with Judaism. As the leading progressive Jewish theologian of his day, albeit one who preferred to stress historical continuity rather than rupture vis-­à-­vis Orthodoxy, Kohler believed that Judaism’s survival depended upon full acceptance of modern historical and scientific knowledge, including evolutionary theory. His most significant publication was undoubtedly Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1918 (German edition 1910), which included discussions of the relevance of science to religion; he also contributed many entries to the Jewish Encyclopedia (1901–1906). 4 Hirsch (1851–1923) was one of the most influential proponents of radical Reform Judaism in the States from the 1880s until the 1920s; in fact, he preferred the term “Reformed Judaism” as a way of signaling a complete break with the past. Born in Luxemburg, he was the son of a prominent Reform rabbi, and married the radical reformer David Einhorn’s daughter Mathilda, becoming brother-in-law to Kohler in the process. Hirsch received a broad education at the University of Pennsylvania, at Leipzig, and at the Hochschule in Berlin, where he came into contact with Geiger, Lazarus, and Steinthal, and was a classmate of Felix Adler. In addition to his role as a congregational rabbi in Chicago, where he eventually settled, he established The Reform Advocate in 1891, which he edited until his death, and was Professor of Rabbinic Literature and Philosophy at the University of Chicago from 1892. Hirsch’s liberal religious perspective was characterized by an optimism concerning social progress and the perfectibility of humankind, and by a lifelong interest in comparative religion. In Kantian fashion he regarded ethics rather than theology as primary to religion and was highly sympathetic to the contemporary Social Gospel movement that regarded religion as a tool to combat societal inequality. His theology was eclectic to the extent that it might be described as inconsistent; as one commentator observed, at different times Hirsch espoused radical humanism, personalistic theism, and pantheism. One of his most original publications was Darwin and Darwinism (Chicago: Occident, 1883), but he also wrote

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Joseph Krauskopf, who led the largest Jewish congregation in the United States and who co-­founded the Jewish Publication Society,5 Aaron Hahn, who was closely aligned with the moderate views of his teacher Wise until he left the rabbinate and became more radical,6 and the peace activist Joseph Leonard Levy, who was allegedly the highest paid “clergyman” of his day.7 It represents







works such as Some Modern Problems and Their Bearing on Judaism, Reform Advocate Library (Chicago: Bloch & Newman, 1903), and contributed many entries to the Jewish Encyclopedia (1901–1906). 5 Krauskopf (1858–1923), who was born in Ostrowo, Prussian Posen, and immigrated to the United States in 1872, was a graduate of the first class of candidates for the rabbinate at Hebrew Union College in 1883, and was ordained by Isaac Mayer Wise. He received a doctoral degree, also from Hebrew Union College, in 1885. He became one of the most influential congregational rabbis of his day, co-­founding in 1888 the inter-­denominational Jewish Publication Society, serving two terms as president of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, and eventually being offered the presidency of HUC, which he declined due to his commitments to labor and environmental issues and related work for the United States Department of Agriculture. Krauskopf was very much a radical; even among Reform Jews at that time he was, for example, unusually explicit about his hope for a reconciliation of Jews and Christians in a shared religion of the future. He was vice-­president and chairman of the committee behind the radical Pittsburgh Platform of 1885 and, as rabbi of Temple Keneseth Israel in Philadelphia (from 1887), he almost immediately initiated the Platform’s reforms, including Sunday services. Throughout his life, Krauskopf was interested in the implications of modern science for religious thought. His key publication was Evolution and Judaism, The Layman’s Series (Kansas City, MO: Berkowitz, 1887). 6 Hahn (1846–1932) received a yeshivah education in his native Bohemia and studied Hebraic and Oriental studies in Germany before establishing himself as a rabbi in the United States. He took up his first position in 1869 at the Orthodox Rodef Sholom synagogue in New York and moved to the Reform Tifereth Israel in Cleveland in 1874, where he gained a reputation as a radical and as an exciting speaker on both religious and secular/scientific matters. He completed a doctorate under Isaac Mayer Wise’s supervision at HUC, and attended the reforming Pittsburgh conference in 1885. Later he went on to introduce a number of innovations: the reading of prayers in English and German as well as Hebrew, organ music, and, in 1888, Sunday morning lectures to supplement Saturday services. Hahn resigned, in 1892, in the face of his congregation’s hostility to his uncompromising, heavy-­handed style. Some local admirers set up the Sunday Lecture Society of Cleveland that year as an alternative public forum, which espoused an ethical culture ethos, but it was a short-­lived affair and Hahn went on to have a successful career as a lawyer. His main publications included Die Gottesbegriffe des Talmud und Sühar sowie der vorzüglichsten theosophischen Systeme (The conception of God in the Talmud and Zohar and in the principles of theosophical systems) (Leipzig: W. F. Draper, 1869), The Rational Judaism in Queries and Answers (Cleveland, Ohio: Kultchar and Hartley, 1876), and History of the Arguments for the Existence of God: Primary Source Edition (Cincinnati: Bloch, 1885). 7 Levy (1865–1917), ordained in 1885, was a London-­born graduate of the Orthodox Jews’ College and of the universities of London and Bristol. After leading several congregations in Britain, he moved to the United States in 1889 to lead Keneseth Israel in Philadelphia (1883–1901) and Rodeph Shalom in Pittsburgh (1901–1917), and became a trustee of Hebrew Union College. He was a high-­profile and dynamic congregational leader; for example, he arranged for President Taft to speak at Rodeph Shalom, where membership trebled under his rabbinate and where

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an attempt to examine the tension surrounding skepticism that lies at the heart of the Reform Jewish project in the States, and to map out the different ways that its proponents sought to justify Jewish religion against popular voices of doubt and derision. There were at least four distinct causes of doubt that the Reformers identified and with which they engaged in their sermons, pamphlets, newspaper articles, and books. These included (1) the hypocrisy and moral failings of religious authorities and institutions, (2) the impact of biblical criticism, (3) the challenge of the scientific worldview, and (4) the problem of suffering.8 Each of these featured in the very public anti-­religious diatribes of Ingersoll and Adler, and the suggestion made here is that together they facilitated or led to the development of ideas and emphases that are uniquely characteristic of US Reform Judaism in this period and for which there is little or no evidence of Reform Jewish interest elsewhere or before; these ideas included a panentheistic theology that viewed nature as one aspect of the divine reality, and a modernist justification of the hope of immortality. The leading unbeliever of the day was the lawyer and politician Col. Robert G. Ingersoll (1833–1899), whose anti-­religious rhetoric packed town halls across the country and earned him the nickname “The Great Agnostic.”9 Collections of his popular speeches, closely followed and reported in the national press, show him to be eloquent, witty, irreverent, and fiercely condemnatory of religion and the damage it had caused humanity. Most of the Reform rabbis included in this survey dealt directly with this firebrand orator. Ingersoll’s critiques of religion focused most heavily upon Christianity and dogmatic teachings of the Church,





much was made of the fact that he was one of the highest paid clergymen in the world. He was well-­regarded as an orator, and his sermons, often preached on Sundays, were widely published. Levy had an internationalist, interfaith outlook (for example, he was prominent in the international peace movement) and an interest in science and eugenics. For example, he was a Fellow of the Royal Meteorological Society and his sermons included titles such as “Reliance on Science” (1893), “Nature as Teacher” (1899), “Science in the Nineteenth Century” (1901), and “Race Improvement” (1914). He obtained a doctorate from Western University in 1902. His published books include The Children’s Service for Use in Religious Schools (Pittsburg, PA: Dick Press, 1904), and Nineteenth-­Century Prophets (Allegheny, PA: Callomon, 1905), as well as sixteen volumes of sermons. 8 Another cause, identified by Hahn but not discussed at any length by the other Reformers, is a personal inclination to wickedness. Aaron Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism.” Progress: Sunday Lectures before the Sunday Lecture Society 4:4 (1894), 6. 9 For an overview of Ingersoll’s career and his place within the secular tradition of American cultural life, see Susan Jacoby, The Great Agnostic: Robert Ingersoll and American Freethought (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013). For some discussion of his controversial role in North American (Christian) religious culture, especially with regard to biblical criticism and anti-­supernaturalism, see David Burns, The Life and Death of the Radical Historical Jesus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 10, 28–31.

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as well as upon inconsistencies in the Bible. For example, he tried to show, in “Heretics and Heresies” (1874), how inconsistent Christian dogma was, and how much it had changed over time as cultural attitudes shifted.10 His paean of praise to one of the great infidels, the “Oration on Thomas Paine” (1876), was an attempt to demonstrate how indebted the country was for the progress brought about by this secular saint.11 Also, his bestselling book, entitled Some Mistakes of Moses (1879), was a mercilessly sarcastic commentary on the pre-­scientific claims of many Bible stories, as well as on clerical authority.12 In addition to “The Great Agnostic,” Reform Jews also had to confront Felix Adler (1851–1933), a German Reform Jewish rabbi who, as professor of Hebrew at Cornell University and then professor of political and social ethics at Columbia, had repudiated his religious past and had, in 1876, instigated the Jewish Ethical Culture movement.13 This new movement championed local societies, beginning in New York but spreading across the country, that sought to foster both practical and philosophical development of non-­denominational, post-­ religious, ethical worldviews. It attracted young, disaffected Jews and “some of the worthiest members” of New York citizenry. Because of this influence Adler emerged as a highly public affront to the American rabbinate,14 which led to a very public spat in the late 1870s with Kohler (among others), who worked hard to restrict Adler’s influence upon his own congregation, and who publicly accused him of atheism and infidelity.15 For present purposes, Adler’s most relevant publications include “Atheism: A Lecture” (1879),16 in which he formally broke with Judaism and sought to demonstrate the intellectual 10 Robert G. Ingersoll, “Heretics and Heresies” (New York: C.P. Farrell, 1874). 11 Ingersoll, “Oration on Thomas Paine” (New York: C.P. Farrell, 1876). 12 Ingersoll, Some Mistakes of Moses (Washington, DC: C.P. Farrell, 1879). 13 For a general overview of Adler’s career and intellectual development, see Benny Kraut, From Reform Judaism to Ethical Culture: The Religious Evolution of Felix Adler (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1979). Kraut notes that, by and large, Adler was “divorced” from American Jewish communal affairs from the 1890s onwards, although he was outspoken about antisemitism and Zionism – which did not end his longer-­term influence (ibid., 185–86). For more recent assessments of his impact on North American Jewish religious life, see Tobias Brinkman, Sundays at Sinai: A Jewish Congregation in Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 100–19, and Zev Eleff, Who Rules the Synagogue? Religious Authority and the Formation of American Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 94, 98, 172–74. 14 Eleff, Who Rules the Synagogue? Religious Authority and the Formation of American Judaism, 174. 15 In various public letters Kohler took strong exception to the Sinai Literary Society’s invitation to Adler to give a lecture at the Sinai temple in Chicago in March 1878, calling him an “infidel” and recommending the lecture to those “who have pledged allegiance to the banner of atheism.” Brinkman, Sundays at Sinai: A Jewish Congregation in Chicago, 107, 110. 16 Felix Adler, “Atheism: A Lecture” (New York: Cooperative Printers, 1879).

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superiority of atheism over theism and pantheism, and “Creed and Deed” (1880),17 in which he argued that religion too often focused upon dogma to the detriment of social action. In “The Need of a New Moral Movement in Religion” (1883),18 he developed this idea with the suggestion that the biblical foundation for society’s ethics had been fatally undermined by the findings of biblical criticism, so that new ethical societies, such as his own Ethical Culture Society, represented the only viable alternative. For Jews, Adler was even more of a threat than Ingersoll, since his critique of religion was, as often as not, a stinging critique specifically of Judaism, both Orthodox and Reform. Undoubtedly, there was a very real concern among Reform Jewish thinkers about the corrosive effect of such popular, widespread attacks upon religion in general (Ingersoll) and Judaism in particular (Adler) in the United States.19 An agnostic or atheistic worldview, in which science appeared as an alternative source of authority, was provoking considerable public interest and debate, illustrated by the enormous popularity of the lectures and writings of scientists and philosophers such as Thomas Huxley, Herbert Spencer, and Jonathan Fiske. Of course, the situation was complicated by the fact that the Reformers themselves shared many of the views of these critics of religion, at least when it came to Orthodox practices and ways of reading traditional texts. So it is that we see them engaging fiercely in this discourse, attempting to make the case that the enemies of religion should not be allowed to lay claim to and monopolize modern critical thought or science, and to counter the impression that all religious denominations should be regarded as objects of derision or pity. Let us take the different causes of doubt and skepticism as they identified them, and the responses they offered, one by one.

1: Moral Failings of Religious Institutions First, we will investigate the idea that the hypocrisy and moral failings of religious authorities and institutions increased skepticism. This was Ingersoll’s 17 Adler, Creed and Deed: A Series of Lectures (New York: Putnam, 1880). 18 Adler, “The Need of a New Moral Movement in Religion” (New York: Society of Ethical Culture for New York, 1883). 19 Eleff argues that such fear was entirely justified. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, “the contest for American Judaism” reached a resolution with separate religious and lay realms of authority. The “strong tides of anti-­clericalism that had already washed over the Jewish communities in the United States” meant that Kohler and other rabbis no longer trusted laypeople who appeared too easily influenced by skeptical lay authorities like Adler. In no small part due to “Adler’s anticlerical efforts,” the Jewish community had ceased to believe that the rabbinate should be the sole proprietor of the Jewish legacy. Eleff, Who Rules the Synagogue? Religious Authority and the Formation of American Judaism, 198.

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main charge against the Christian Church. In his Some Mistakes of Moses (1879) he presented a striking vision of the clash between freethought and religion – a Manichean struggle between the forces of good and the forces of evil. Contemporary clergy did not emerge unscathed from this analysis. As Ingersoll saw it, the official representatives of religion were all too often irrationally hostile to science and committed to biblical literalism, and the teaching of their ignorant, authoritarian ways to the young could only be viewed as a form of abuse. According to Ingersoll, It is part of [the clergy’s] business to malign and vilify the Voltaires, Humes, Paines . . . Darwins, [and] Spencers. . . . They are, for the most part, engaged in poisoning the minds of the young, prejudicing children against science, teaching the astronomy and geology of the Bible, and inducing all to desert the sublime standard of reason.20 More pointedly, Adler was critical of Reform Judaism’s historical failure to offer a viable alternative to tradition and thereby address the failings of Jewish institutional religion. In assessments of the Reform movement, which he published in 1877 and again in 1885, he admitted that the Reformers had correctly recognized the evolutionary nature of Jewish religion down through history and had been right to discard the Law and its institutions,21 but he was dismissive of what he regarded as its failure to replace doctrine with moral law, to shift from rabbinic learning to moral philosophy, to abandon unimportant theological differences with other liberal religious groups, and to repudiate the racially arrogant claim of Chosenness.22 In essence, Adler’s critique of Reform Judaism was that it was unable to cast off the final chains of its history and abandon the remaining institutional vestiges of the tribal religion of Judaism. Only if it did so could it then seek to establish a moral and institutional alternative, focused exclusively on a modern vision of social justice in the here and now. As he observed of the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform which defined for a generation the characteristics of Reform Judaism in the United States: I do not question the good work performed by the Reformed Jews. But I emphasise the fact that their work has been in a negative direction . . . If we contemplate the history of Reformed Judaism during the last 50 years, we perceive the process of disintegration like that in the Liberal Christian churches . . . Reformed Judaism has retained the idea, the abstract idea, the spirit, as they say of the Bible, the ghost, as one might be tempted to say, 20 Ingersoll, Some Mistakes of Moses, 22–23. 21 Felix Adler, “Reformed Judaism, Part 2,” The North American Review 125 (1877): 345–46. 22 Adler, Reformed Judaism (New York: Lehmaier & Brother, 1885), 13.

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of the old religion, but it has not been able to give a new embodiment to the Jewish idea, to clothe it anew in flesh and blood . . . There are heard in the pulpits large phrases concerning progress and humanity, but they fail to bear visible fruit . . . ​23 As we shall see, while the Reformers initially expressed their annoyance at such charges with ad hominem attacks on their critics, there was a shift in response over time such that the failures of institutional religion as alleged by Ingersoll and Adler came to be regarded as the most serious of all the causes of unbelief. Kaufmann Kohler, writing in 1874, was acutely aware of the widespread contemporary skepticism toward religion in general and, while he rejected the idea that liberal Judaism could be so criticized, he freely admitted that there was indeed a real danger facing “the darker, formal and dogmatic religion, the blind faith in the letter and authority,”24 which had built “barricades against the progress of free investigation and which has declared war on science and culture.”25 Kohler denounced the tendency of conservative Christian authorities to assert: “You must take the Bible and all which the Church teaches, and has declared as the infallible word of God, or you are unbelievers.” Thus all thinkers are driven out of the Church; out of the religious community. Thus it is that either faith or science becomes the shibboleth of mental life.26 He was similarly condemnatory of Orthodox Jewish authoritarianism.27 But, while he was prepared to admit this criticism of traditional Judaism as a religious Jew himself, the same criticism made by a non-­believer such as Adler was very hard to bear. Kohler gave a sermon explicitly directed at Adler entitled “The Fallacies of Agnosticism” (1888). As reported in the press, he acknowledged Adler’s well-­known social ethic programmes, but he was keen to demonstrate that such a practical moral worldview was actually derived from a Jewish worldview rather than an agnostic one, pointing out that Adler “attacks Judaism, calling it a religion of the pot and kettle” despite the fact that he came to his intellectual position as a Jew.28 He went on, 23 Ibid., 10,12. 24 Kaufmann Kohler, “Science and Religion,” The Jewish Times, February 20, 1874, 820–21. 25 Ibid., 821. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid. 28 Kohler readily accepted that “He [Adler] gained admiration from Jew and Gentile for his philanthropic work. He has indisputable claim upon us for having solved some of the social problems.” “The Fallacies of Agnosticism,” The New York Times, January 30, 1888, 5.

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[N]ot only was he [Adler] raised in it [Judaism], not only did he draw his best teaching from it, not only did his venerable father preach it for a lifetime, but he himself, in his first lecture, delivered as a Jew, held out as a principle of Judaism the words which became the cornerstone of his society, “Deed, not Creed.”29 According to Kohler, Adler called for his fellow human beings to help one another no longer for the sake of God, but for the sake of an ideal. But he failed to present an enduring ideal on which to base his call, for as every Reform Jew knew, “The agnostic ideals change, so do ours, and so does mankind change its ideals in every age.”30 Likewise, for Isaac Mayer Wise, the Church’s unreasonable dogmatic teachings had certainly played an important role in inculcating widespread disbelief. As he explained in 1885, Infidelity is a reaction consequent upon imposing too much upon the people by teachers of religion. They want us to believe too much, and this leads many to believe nothing . . . The theology which demands us to believe too much, fails improving anything in its favor, and lands either in the credo quia absurdum or in agnosticism, or downright atheism, because it has eo ipso broken with reason and sound commonsense.31 But Wise was also irked by Adler’s claim to the moral high ground, quipping that he promised no better solution than any other religious leader when he preached: “There is no God, and Felix Adler is His prophet.”32 29 Ibid. 30 According to Kohler, Adler’s agnosticism was not as modest and reasonable as it appeared (“If agnosticism were simply a humble admission of our limited knowledge we all should be agnostics”). Rather than admit the reality of “a Supreme Power behind all phenomena of life from which matter and mind proceed,” Kohler wrote, it hid behind language such as “the unknowable” so as “to give every atheist and materialist, nay, every fool, standing room in its Academy” (ibid.). 31 Isaac Mayer Wise, “Lectures for Infidels No. 1,” The American Israelite, October 30, 1885, 4–5, and “Lectures for Infidels No. 5: The God of Intelligent People (Part 2),” The American Israelite, December 4, 1885, 6–7. As far back as 1861 Wise had argued that “The doctrine of the trinity and incarnation of the Deity is the veritable mother of Atheism. The history of Israel shows no atheists, and the few we have now, if any we have, are merely fashionable atheists who learned it in Christian society, especially of priests. As long as philosophy was in its infancy and limited to but a few apostles, and the Church was almighty, people believed the immaculate conception of Jesus from the Holy Ghost, and submitted to the rest of inexplicable mysteries. But when the multitude began to think for itself – and to think means to solve mysteries – this doctrine begat atheism, not knowing another than the Trinitarian God in whom they could not believe, they naturally turned atheists.” “Mark the Consequences,” The Israelite, March 8, 1861, americanjewisharchives.org/wise/attachment/5443/sinaiToCincinnati_wilansky.pdf 32 Wise, “Some Mistakes about Moses. Final lecture ‘Sources of Atheism,’” (1878), cited in Dena Wilansky, Sinai to Cincinnati: Lay Views on the Writings of Isaac M. Wise (New York: Renaissance Book Company, 1937), 139.

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More generally, however, there was widespread acknowledgement that the charge of moral hypocrisy against religious institutions was all too often justified. For several of our thinkers, there was no embarrassment in aligning themselves explicitly with Adler and Ingersoll in this regard. Joseph Krauskopf suggested in 1887 that if religion was properly defined to mean “the seeking after the highest happiness by means of right living and right doing and right-­ thinking” then the term “infidel” would be “more sparingly applied” to those like Ingersoll and Adler who labelled themselves, or were labelled by others, as unbelievers.33 In other words, Krauskopf argued that Ingersoll and Adler’s criticisms of the abuses of religious authority and institutions demonstrated that they were not atheists, but rather, in a very real sense, that they were religious, since they were engaged in the proper business of authentic religion, that is, the propagation and maintenance of moral thought and practice of the highest standard. After all, while the evils and abuses of religious institutions were very real, the same could be said of many other institutions – legal, governmental, and educational, for example – and the sane response, he suggested, was not to advocate their abolition but rather to recognise abuses and reform them.34 Writing in 1894, Hahn certainly recognized that one cause of skepticism had been the hypocrisy of the Church. As he saw it, The great skeptics [including Voltaire and Thomas Paine] that antagonised the churches did not do it with the intention to undermine real religion, morality and virtue, but they did it because they hated fanaticism, intolerance, superstition and hypocrisy.35 In his view, Ingersoll was simply the latest in a long line of such critics of institutional religious abuse. While Hahn could not agree with all his teachings (“in his lectures one could find material enough for a lecture on the mistakes of Ingersoll, the same way as he found material in the Bible for a lecture on Some Mistakes of Moses”), nevertheless he offered effusive praise of Ingersoll’s important role in speaking on behalf of all those who silently questioned the traditional authority and teachings of the Church.36 At the same time, Hahn was likely thinking of Orthodox Judaism when he wrote: I gladly admit that there are very few men in this country, if any, who have done as much as he did for the progress of the intellectual liberty 33 Joseph Krauskopf, “Who Is the Infidel?” (Sunday Lecture, October 30, 1887), newspaper clipping (n.d., no source), MS 181.73, The Jacob Rader Marcus Center of the American Jewish Archives, Cincinnati, Ohio. 34 Ibid. 35 Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism,” 5. 36 Ibid., 6.

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of the American people. Robert G. Ingersoll has a mission. The orthodox churches had never been open to arguments; and to argue with them is useless. Against such orthodox believers Ingersoll uses the most efficacious weapons: obloquy, wit, irony, and ridicule; and he disarms them so that they cannot help to laugh at their own follies. No man in America has cleared more successfully the backwoods of orthodoxy and narrow-­mindedness and superstition than Ingersoll did; and, in order to accomplish that, he had, like a pioneer, to use the hatchet of radicalism. There are millions of people in the country who do not believe in the dogmas [of institutional religions] but they do not have the courage to express their doubts publicly; but Ingersoll had the courage, and he did it for them. Robert Ingersoll preaches the gospel of cheerfulness, of liberty, intelligence, of justice and of good living. Where is the sensible man who can find anything wrong in these five aims?37 Leonard Levy likewise held “The Great Agnostic” in high regard. As he commented in 1898, The inconsistency between life and belief has often been lamented in the pulpit. He [Ingersoll] has been bold enough to lay bare the hollowness [and hypocrisy] of God-­worshippers . . . With wit and humor, with rare eloquence and brilliant rhetoric and biting satire, he has ridiculed the incongruity of the creeds and dogmas of the religions and the acts and deeds and lives of their followers . . . Because he has laid open the absurdities of the[se] practical atheist[s], he has been vilified as an atheist, denounced as an infidel, abused as an unbeliever, branded as a bad man . . . It is my opinion that skepticism or agnosticism or Ingersollism has not waged war on pure religion, but on its counterfeit. I, therefore, cheerfully admit that Ingersollism has done thus much good, and also that those who have been prescribed as heretics, agnostics, skeptics, have often been better men and women than those believers in religion . . . ​38 Although in 1897 Emil Hirsch had been entirely unimpressed by Ingersoll for inculcating anti-­clericalism39 and for propagating the old-­fashioned idea 37 Ibid. 38 J. Leonard Levy, “What Good Has Ingersollism Done?” Sunday Lectures: Eleventh Series, ed. Joseph Krauskopf and J. Leonard Levy (Philadelphia: Oscar Klonower, 1898), 3–5. 39 For example, Hirsch wrote: “Kill, therefore the priests! Expose the craftiness of the preachers and humanity will be saved from a yoke more galling than which no despot ever superimposed. That was the cry of the malevolent, malicious rationalists 30 years ago. It is the cry of Mr. Ingersoll today. As for making money, I think Mr. Ingersoll succeeds much better in that art than even the pontiff situated on the throne of St Peter, and if one of the preachers should ever lose his job

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that religion and science could not be reconciled,40 he had also been prepared to identify with the kind of condemnation of religious obscurantism and abuse levied by both Adler and Ingersoll, which he presented as a kind of pious skepticism. In part this reflects his own well-­documented programme of practical social justice, under which influence he approached atheism and agnosticism in ethical terms: No one is an agnostic and no one is an atheist, except he have neither pity for the weak nor charity for the erring; except you have no mercy for those who need its soothing balm.41 Hirsch came to agree with Adler about the need for sensitivity toward the doubt of those who suffer in the real world, in the face of insensitive assertions made by some proponents of religion. It has been suggested that Adler may even have influenced Hirsch’s social justice concerns as expressed in the Pittsburgh Platform in 1885.42 Certainly, preaching in 1901, he explicitly agreed with Adler’s suspicion of the arrogance and the insensitive assertions of many religious people, commenting “They do not doubt whose religion is childish, they do not doubt whose religious is preliminary, they do not doubt who know not enough to understand what the social economy and the ethical import of religion be.”43 And, a few years later, he readily admitted the negative role played by the arrogant presumptions of the religious establishment, which encouraged agnosticism as a reaction, although he argued that a similar kind of dogmatism could also be found among atheistic materialists.44 and have to work for his bread and butter, if at all gifted with tongue and mind, he could double the largest salary that any Jewish or Christian congregation pays by imitating Mr. Ingersoll and repeating the stalest and the most untrue attacks against religion. . . . It is today not the priest or the preacher that may be charged justly with mercenary motives. It is the malevolent, malicious rationalist who knows how to make his nonsense fill his pocketbook.” Emil G. Hirsch, “The Science of Comparative Religion, Part Two (1897),” in The Jewish Preacher, ed. Emil Hirsch (Naples, FL: Collage Books Inc, 2003), 172. 40 For example, Hirsch wrote: “Perhaps you are a little curious to know what that science is doing, for it seems that science and religion cannot be yoked together. You heard it, and perhaps 30 years ago, most of you, and if there be a few younger men here who were not able to hear 30 years ago of it, they have learned it yesterday from Mr. Ingersoll, and such men as he, that science excludes religion – that where knowledge appears, faith takes its flight. That there is absolutely no possibility of reconciling one with the other; that where they have been yoked together, science suffered and religion did not profit.” “The Science of Comparative Religion, Part One (1897),” in The Jewish Preacher, ed. Emil Hirsch (Naples, FL: Collage Books Inc, 2003), 155. 41 “Old Age,” The Reform Advocate (1893), 244. 42 Kraut, From Reform Judaism to Ethical Culture: The Religious Evolution of Felix Adler, 181. 43 Hirsch, “He Who Knows Most Doubts Most (1901),” in The Jewish Preacher, ed. Emil Hirsch (Naples, FL: Collage Books Inc, 2003), 52. 44 “[T]he agnostic position makes a reaction against the dogmatism of both the Church and of

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It is not much of a surprise that these Reformers were quick to agree with Ingersoll and Adler’s assessment of religion when they condemned the dogmatic or irrational teachings of Christianity and Orthodox Judaism, or literalist readings of Bible. It is interesting, however, that, over time, in these debates about the nature of unbelief, the responses of Reformers increasingly sought to present their own movement as the legitimate institutional expression of Jewish doubt. The basis for this was a belief, shared with Ingersoll and Adler, that skepticism was the engine of intellectual and moral progress. Throughout his long career, Ingersoll had argued passionately about the positive role that freethought had played in the history of progress within wider society. His writings were peppered with comments like “Without heresy there could have been no progress,” and “The doubter, the investigator, the Infidel, have been the saviours of liberty.”45 This only made it all the more annoying for Ingersoll that we [unbelievers] are told by the Church that we have accomplished nothing; that we are simply destroyers; that we tear down without building again. Is it nothing to free the mind? Is it nothing to civilize mankind?46 Likewise, Adler was convinced that humankind should move beyond religion in order to progress and improve the world. Assuming a shared skepticism of religious dogma, he observed in 1883: “I am sure it is not too much to say that the fundamental doctrines of the old religion no longer receive the cordial assent of a very large number of the intellectual class.”47 His Ethical Culture movement was in principle agnostic and encouraged dogma-­free ethics and children’s education. In contrast to those who viewed atheism and agnosticism as requiring a radically pessimistic worldview, Adler argued that his non-­ religious movement promised genuine ethical progress and thus a hopeful, purposeful future.48 Some Reformers, despite reservations they had about many of Ingersoll and Adler’s charges, were perfectly aligned with this idea atheistic materialism. Each presumed to possess ultimate knowledge. A protest against the arrogant gnosis of these, Agnosticism represents a wholesome phase of modern thought. It is expressive of the recognized need of modesty and a higher degree of reverence. The dogmatism of the Church was neither modest nor reverent; and these, its failings, marred also the attitude of its antipode, insistent materialism.” Jewish Encyclopedia, ed. Isadore Singer (New York: Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1901–1906), s.v. “Agnosticism.” 45 Ingersoll, “Oration on Thomas Paine,” 4, 26. 46 Ibid., 28. 47 Adler, “The Need of a New Moral Movement in Religion,” 4. These fundamental doctrines were identified as: the infallible authority of the Scriptures; the personal immortality of the soul; the personal existence of Deity. 48 Adler wrote: “[T]he purpose of an ethical movement is that out of it may spring an ethical belief with regard to the world, a moral optimism. I believe that the universe is making for righteousness, that there is a good tendency in things. Such a belief we need” (ibid., 19).

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of the non-­believer driving forward important intellectual and social change. The claim that anti-­religious thought, heresy, infidelity, and atheism were the direct causes of moral progress must, however, have startled many a member of their congregations. Not long after he had stepped down from the rabbinate, Aaron Hahn published a number of pamphlets, such as “The Philosophy of Skepticism” and “The Mission of Skeptics,” which discussed the benefits and pitfalls of the phenomenon.49 In these, Hahn suggested that skepticism was necessary to challenge religious tradition more generally. Skepticism, despite misunderstandings to the contrary, was pragmatic. As he saw it, In every age there lived men who were denounced as skeptics, and who were treated as if they had been the enemies of everything that is good, noble, true and right; often they were treated as if they had been criminals. . . . The cause of their skepticism was their progressive tendency – the tendency to reform evils, to correct mistakes and to elevate the human race.50 Hahn argued that the modern world was defined by skepticism and that, despite the concerns of some religious observers, this was actually a very good thing. It arose whenever a society became corrupted or atrophied in its beliefs. He noted that It seems really as if skepticism were in the air. A great many people rejoice at it, and consider it a very good sign of the progress of the intellectual liberty of the human race; but others denounce it as an evil that leads [some] to uproot religion and to undermine society. Some people look upon skepticism as upon a sin, and whenever something like a skeptical thought occurs to their minds, they try by means of prayer to suppress it. Skepticism may be sometimes erroneous, but it can be no sin. Wherever it arises there is something wrong in the conditions of the creeds and society that requires a removal, a reform and the purification of the atmosphere . . . Let us not be afraid of skepticism, rather let us make wise use of it.51 49 For Hahn, skepticism arose in consequence of (1) the progress of philosophy and science. But it was also the result of (2) terrible episodes in society and shocking accidents in nature, and (3) of the hypocrisy and abuses of the churches. Nor should one forget that some forms of skepticism were the simply the accompaniment of the failure of morality, i.e., (4) wickedness, wrongs, and criminality. Hahn’s analysis led him to suggest the need for tailored responses to address each of these factors and to defend Jewish religion. Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism.” 50 Aaron Hahn, “The Mission of Skeptics.” Progress: Sunday Lectures before the Sunday Lecture Society 4:10 (1894), 1. 51 Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism,” 1, 7.

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Furthermore, just as he would later seek to show that scientists did not teach atheism, so now Hahn sought to show that many so-­called skeptics were not without faith and that they lived according to a profound optimism and belief in progress and reform. People were often told that skeptics have no faith. Let me say that skeptics usually have great and the strongest faith. They have faith in themselves that they are able to suffer and to fight for their convictions; they have faith in human nature that it is capable of great progress; they have faith in their ideas and principles that they will triumph over all hindrances and opposition; they have faith in the future that it will be more propitious to their work and undertaking than the present. Without faith of that kind skeptics would never have been able to accomplish what they did.52 Hahn, who had shifted from a moderate Reform stance to a much more radical position by this stage, went on to say that the future religion, inspired by the Bible and focused on humanity, would be dependent upon religion’s ability to reform itself in relation to its beliefs and its impact on society – and that skepticism and heresy were vital to this process. He concluded: “Far from condemning these men, let us read and study their works; they prepare for that great day when the only religion will be that of humanity . . . and the only redeemers will be Justice, Love and Truth.”53 This positive appreciation of the contribution of skeptics to religious progress was shared by others, including Hirsch, who viewed the label “atheist” as one of honor.54 Levy was also prepared to say publicly that skepticism was a most effective engine of positive change, explaining that “doubters” featured as “the parents of most progressive movements” in science, in political history, in American history, and in religious history.55 It is with Levy, in pamphlets 52 “The Mission of Skeptics,” 1. 53 Ibid., 7. 54 By 1906, Hirsch was suggesting that “The word atheism has had a wonderfully instructive history. The term has always found lips ready to syllable it when the world was about to move onward . . . The best of the race has been branded as atheists, for an atheist is always deemed he who refuses to bend his knee before the fetish, be it made of stone or thought, at the altar at which thoughtless or selfish men prostrate and prostitute themselves. Hirsch, “A Message from Plato’s Apology (May 1906),” in The Jewish Preacher, 71. 55 “Name a reformer and you will name a doubter! Name a progressive teacher and you will name a doubter! Name the leaders of men whose busts adorn the niches of the Temple of Genius and you will name doubters . . . We misunderstand the whole story of human progress if we imagine that doubt means a denial of facts. Doubters though we may be, it is not the facts of the universe that we question. We doubt their interpretation. All such doubt is full of faith. . . . ” J. Leonard Levy, “The First Doubt” Sunday Lectures: Twelfth Series, ed. Joseph Krauskopf and J. Leonard Levy (Philadelphia: Oscar Klonower, 1898), 2–4.

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such as “The First Doubt” (1898), “What Good Has Ingersoll Done?” (1898), and “Atheism and Anarchism” (1901), that we hear articulated most clearly and for the first time what was implicit in much of what had been said before: that doubt was the underlying principle of the Reform Jewish movement itself. As he put it, In this same spirit of intelligent and reverent doubt . . . did the Reform movement begin among the Jews of Germany. The same cause was its parent in America . . . It is customary to attribute the Reform movement to immature thought, the inexperience of youth, the want of well-­considered information . . . Yet [the founding fathers of Reform] were reverent doubters . . . [and] were deniers of much that millions cherish as an integral part of our religion. The progressive spirit . . . is due, to a considerable extent, to reverent and intelligent doubt . . . ​56 The chief representatives of Reform thus not only tended to acknowledge Ingersoll’s and Adler’s criticisms of hypocritical, abusive, and irrelevant religious authority, but some, like Hahn, Hirsch, and Levy went so far as to suggest that it was precisely the hostile criticism of unbelievers that had historically brought about social and religious reform, and even that the establishment of Reform Judaism could be attributed to the same spirit of productive doubt, which continued to drive it forward. The skepticism toward religious authority in general was in this way transformed by the Reformers into an optimistic and progressive vision of the future. While there is no reason to doubt the sincerity of such claims, there was also a certain strategic value in aligning Reform Judaism with a powerful and popular critical discourse about religion more generally, so as to repel charges of particular institutional failings of the Reform synagogue.

2: Biblical Criticism and Unreasonable Tradition Second, biblical criticism also played a role in encouraging atheism. While Adler tended to be slightly more tactful in his observations about the shortcomings of Scripture and the Law, Ingersoll’s condemnation of many ideas and stories in the Bible was damning. Illustrative of his tone is the following passage from Some Mistakes of Moses (1879), which sets out various implications of a biblical-­ critical approach to the Bible that assumes human authorship. 56 Levy went on to ask the rhetorical question as to whether Reformers doubted the existence of God, or the hereafter, or the Bible, or the value of worship, or the sense of justice in the world, in each instance maintaining that the answer was that Reformers did indeed believe in such conceptions, but they doubted traditional or primitive interpretations of such conceptions. (ibid., 4–6).

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If the Pentateuch is inspired, the civilisation of our day is a mistake and crime. Let us admit what we know to be true: that Moses was mistaken about a thousand things . . . That the story of creation is not true; that the Garden of Eden is a mess . . . That Lot’s wife was not changed into chloride of sodium . . . That God did not go into partnership with Hornets . . . That if he objected to the dwarfs, people with flat noses and too many fingers, he ought not to have created such folks . . . That he never met Moses in a hotel and tried to kill him . . . That killing a dove over running water will not make its blood medicine; that God’s demand of love knows nothing of the human heart . . . That one who destroys children on account of the sins of their fathers is a monster . . . That all the ignorant, infamous, heartless, hideous things recorded in the “inspired” Pentateuch are not the words of God, but simply “Some Mistakes of Moses.”57 Ingersoll’s influence here should not be underestimated. As the preeminent freethinker in America during the late 1870s and early 1880s he was, as one historian has put it, the individual “most responsible for popularizing the findings of biblical criticism in the United States,” providing “support and encouragement to secular-­minded religionists and unconventional Christians” alike.58 Historically speaking, there had long been an interest in critical approaches to the Bible among Reformers. The movement as it emerged in Germany and spread throughout Europe and the United States had embraced the prioritization of human reason and autonomy that had emerged with the eighteenth-­ century Haskalah, together with the historicist view of the Jewish past that characterized the nineteenth-­century Wissenschaft des Judentums – including its discovery that the traditions and sacred texts of the Jewish religion were developments brought about by mundane historical-­cultural forces. The Bible itself had come to be seen as encapsulating a variety of distinct, often contradictory, stages in Jewish history, thought, and ethics, rather than as the integrated, unified body of religious revelation that was the foundation of Orthodox thought. Even if inspired by God, the Reformers accepted that the Law had been mediated by flawed human agents. This was true even of the earlier generation of Reform leaders in the United States, such as Wise, Isador Kalisch (1816–1886),59 and the younger Kohler, who regarded higher biblical 57 Ingersoll, Some Mistakes of Moses, 264–70. 58 Burns, The Life and Death of the Radical Historical Jesus, 14, 30. Burns emphasizes that Ingersoll was “an autodidact” who was especially dependent upon the biblical-­critical works of Ernst Renan, which were regarded as a landmark in the history of rational thought for helping to “destroy the fictions of faith” and “rescue man from the prison of superstition” wherein the human race had been confined since biblical times. 59 The Prussian-­born Kalisch was educated in Berlin, Breslau, and Prague, and arrived in the

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criticism as potentially dangerous to faith. For proponents of Classic Reform Judaism, following the Pittsburgh Platform of 1885, biblical criticism was central to the justification of its institutional existence. Modern biblical scholarship with its concerns for the identification of multiple authors, contextual history, and linguistic mastery of the sources, was viewed as a tool through which one might uncover the ethical principles that represented the authentic understanding or essence of Judaism. One might have expected these early Reformers, therefore, when responding to contemporary skeptics’ attacks upon the pre-­scientific stories and assumptions of the Bible, to have focused upon its ethical teachings. And, to an extent, they did. But much more central to their responses was an attempt to move Reform Judaism out of the line of fire by distancing it from the sort of naïve readings of the Scriptures that the skeptics so delighted in ridiculing. And critical to all the thinkers considered here, whether committed to higher biblical criticism or not, was a programme of de-­anthropomorphism.60 As we shall see, this concern helps explain and prepare the ground for North American Reform Judaism’s particular interest in and its tendency toward panentheism – the conception of the Divine as interpenetrating all of nature but also extending beyond it. In 1879 Isaac Mayer Wise gave a series of lectures in response to Ingersoll’s published lecture series on Some Mistakes of Moses, entitled “Some Mistakes about Moses,” which was explicitly designed to counter “materialism, atheism, and other isms.”61 Later that year, in a published collection of responses from learned churchmen and scholars, he went on to accuse Ingersoll of philosophical ineptitude in complaining, for example, that he could not imagine the existence of God as described in the Bible: “The God of Moses is too great for Mr Ingersoll; he only deals in gods which can be imagined.”62 Wise claimed that he did not fear a detrimental effect upon synagogue or church pews as a result of Ingersoll’s antics; rather, he dismissed him as an “eloquent humorist,” saying that “there is no moral force in his burlesque” since “he lacks the United States in 1849. He became a congregational rabbi in Cleveland, among other places, and joined the Reform movement, working closely with Wise on Minhag America (1855). 60 Kraut has suggested that, with the exception of Kohler and Hirsch, who alone could match his knowledge of modern scholarship, Reform rabbis refrained from repudiating Adler over intellectual challenges to Judaism, especially those grounded in biblical criticism. But a concern to defend against charges of anthropomorphism in the Bible, which Adler and Ingersoll derived from biblical-­critical scholarship and which represented their primary charge against the scriptural tradition, is actually quite common among Reformers. Kraut, From Reform Judaism to Ethical Culture: The Religious Evolution of Felix Adler, 152. 61 As reported in Wilansky, Sinai to Cincinnati: Lay Views on the Writings of Isaac M. Wise, 139. 62 Isaac Mayer Wise, “The Jewish Rabbi’s Reply,” in Mistakes of Ingersoll, ed. J.B. McClure (Chicago: Rhodes & McClure, 1879), 55.

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research, the erudition, the systematical learning, and the moral backbone” of previous critics of the Scriptures such as Jefferson, Voltaire, or Feuerbach.63 Furthermore, he argued that Ingersoll “ridicules Bible stories, but that concerns [biblical] literalists only, not us,” and that the lawyer’s unoriginal criticism of the Bible left the Mosaic Law and theology untouched, so that it was of little concern to liberal religion.64 Some years later, in a series of sermons entitled “Lectures for Infidels,” given in 1885–1886, Wise returned to the subject with a more thoughtful response, and suggested that a failure to recognize the dangers of childish or primitive conceptions of Deity could lead to atheism, precisely because such ideas were unacceptable to an enlightened mind. One problem was the multiplicity of, and discrepancies between, revelations, whether from the Bible or elsewhere. As he explained, The uncertainty in the different nations’ various religions is evident, especially if we consider that the witnesses on which they depend, the documents which they possess, are open to criticism, and the lessons which they contain, although agreeing in many instances, are contradictory on many salient points. This is the main ground for infidelity, especially with persons who have been taught and trained to believe in this or that system of supposed revelation without any reason whatever except that the witnesses have said so-­and-­so. When those persons begin to doubt the reality or veracity of those witnesses, their religious faith is shaken to its foundation . . . and [they] roll down the inclined plane, down, down, to rank atheism and gross materialism. The reasoner has the power to stop where reason commands a pause; the believer on account of the witnesses, once on the downgrade, rolls to the very bottom with nothing to stop him. This appears to be the cause of the prevailing agnosticism, atheism, materialism . . . ​egotism and moral perversion.65 Another problem to confront was the historical multiplicity of gods, usually anthropomorphized and embodied, against which any sensible person would rebel. Over time, the Jewish God fared better than other gods, but arguments against the other gods’ existence, however warranted, had had a corrosive effect on belief: This [Jewish] idea of God is infinite, and hence indefinable; imagination cannot embody it; hence it cannot be represented to or through the senses 63 Ibid., 56. 64 Ibid., 56–57. 65 “Lectures for Infidels No.8: Revelation and the Right of Reason Controlling It,” The American Israelite, December, 25, 1885, 4. This was from a series that ran from October 16, 1885 until April 16, 1886.

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by any image or similitude. Still, man attempted sensual representation of super sensual being [in the form of idols representing aspects of nature] . . . ​ And so the one God was divided in many, and each of the latter became a God, [and] was easily overcome and demonstrated out of existence. This is the main cause of atheism.66 The solution, Wise insisted, was a liberal Jewish religion wherein reason held sway over revelational accounts of the Divine, which were so often presented in an anthropomorphic way.67 In fact, he went further still to suggest that the authentic Jewish position led to a pantheistic position with regard to God’s nature, an idea to which we will return.68 Among the US Reformers, probably the most radical proponent of biblical criticism was Joseph Krauskopf. His book-­length collection of sermons entitled Evolution and Judaism (1887) had been written to counter “some of that skepticism which is engendered by poorly understood science,” but he had been just as concerned to correct problematic religious convictions that were the result of overly-­simplistic readings of the Bible.69 In chapters on “The Bible and Evolution” and “Creation and the Bible” he discussed the views of such agnostics as Huxley and Spencer, and set out the need to recognize that “The Bible is not an inspired volume, nor a revealed book, nay, it is not even an original book; its opening narratives are the narratives of other and older Bibles . . . ”70 For him, any conflict between the Bible and modern science was to be resolved in favor of science, partly because his reverence for the Bible’s moral instruction meant that he was not prepared for it to become the subject of ridicule. It was therefore essential to acknowledge that “We [moderns] differ from [the views of the Bible] in some of its scientific theories, because morals, not science, is its legitimate sphere . . . ​The latter can not stand the test of the modern scientific criterion of truth.”71 This view had important implications for Jewish theology. Against the criticisms of the skeptics, Krauskopf argued that 66 “Lectures for Infidels No.4: The God of Intelligent People (Part 1),” The American Israelite, November 20, 1885, 4. 67 “Lectures for Infidels No.8: Revelation and the Right of Reason Controlling It,” 4–5. 68 Wise claimed that “Jewish theology is identical with pantheism. Jewish theology excludes from the Deity every idea of body and corporeality, and yet maintains that he is PAN, the “all,” which certainly includes the bodies. Jewish theology maintains that God, who is the “All,” or “all in all,” is all-­conscious, omniscient, the life, wisdom and goodness of the universe . . . Jewish theology maintains not that spirit is nothing, hence it maintains that spirit, and so also God, is substantially something, and yet it is not the bodily or corporeal matter.” “Lectures for Infidels No. 20: Closing Lecture,” The American Israelite, April 16, 1886, 5. 69 Joseph Krauskopf, Evolution and Judaism, preface. 70 Ibid., 7. 71 Ibid., 16–17.

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a scientifically-­informed Jew must be “opposed to the anthropomorphic God” and admit “deficiencies and inaccuracies in the Bible.”72 In response to those traditionalists who labelled him an enemy of Judaism and a pronounced atheist for “poisoning the minds of youth” by acknowledging scientific inaccuracies in the Bible, he argued that in fact they were the true atheists. After all, they were the ones who denied God by imposing “so degrading a caricature of God upon religion” with their “deeply unsound mass of traditions and imaginations.”73 Aaron Hahn, in his Arguments for the Existence of God (1885), had pointed out that few Jews had ever read the Bible literally and that most had understood it “poetically” and “prophetically.” In their reading of biblical anthropomorphisms, Jewish philosophers had offered metaphysical interpretations and Jewish mystics had allowed for many possible meanings, including allegories.74 The tendency toward anthropomorphizing remained, however, and he seemed pleased that in modern times “the natural sciences have co-­operated in ridding mankind of narrow anthropomorphistic [sic] notions of God” that came from misreading the Bible.75 Later, he expanded upon this observation to note that one unfortunate consequence of the development of modern knowledge had been the contemporary growth of skepticism built upon modern science’s refutations of much alleged biblical teaching. But, like Wise, he insisted that a loss of belief was inevitable only if one were a biblical literalist and failed to acknowledge the obvious limitations of the pre-­scientific biblical worldview. To his mind, such discoveries as heliocentricism, gravity’s effect upon the heavenly bodies, geological refutations of the biblical theory of six days of creation, and the priority of universal law over miracles, had provoked a welcome revolution in human thought, even as they had fuelled skepticism.76 It has been suggested that the public controversy between Kaufmann Kohler and Adler in 1878, during which Kohler sought to minimize the growing influence of Adler in Chicago, was in part premised on the atheistic implications that Adler drew from biblical criticism.77 Regardless, well before he himself became a proponent of biblical criticism, Kohler was concerned to address such challenges to modern Jewish faith as biblical anthropomorphism. As early as 1874, Kohler had asked “What is it that has brought religion into decay and disrepute in our day?,”78 pointing to some ideas of the Bible that were so cred 72 Ibid., 323–24. 73 Ibid., 321–22, 24. 74 Aaron Hahn, History of the Arguments for the Existence of God, 161–64. 75 Ibid., 6. 76 Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism,” 5. 77 Kraut, From Reform Judaism to Ethical Culture: The Religious Evolution of Felix Adler, 153–61. See also Brinkman, Sundays at Sinai: A Jewish Congregation in Chicago, 108. 78 Kohler, “Science and Religion,” 821.

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ulous and unsophisticated that “some laugh at us, and some pity us.”79 He had argued, however, that Reform Jews “do not deify the Bible” and that, historically speaking, most Jewish thinkers had not read the Bible in a literalistic or naïve way, noting that “the Jewish philosophers of Alexandria, Arabia and Spain, did not believe that the snake or an ass could talk” and “[t]hey believed in no supernatural wonders.”80 Following that logic, it seemed perfectly reasonable for contemporary Jews to acknowledge the difficulties in reconciling simplistic readings of the texts with modern scientific knowledge. He concluded, So the fossil animals and plants found in the bosom of the earth, the petrified relics of olden and perished worlds, can hardly be brought into accord with the Biblical system of creation, or with the assumption of a complete covering of the earth by a deluge.81 In developing his systematic Jewish Theology (German 1910, English 1918), Kohler showed that Judaism had gone through many stages of development, including polytheism and idolatry, before reaching the concept of “a transcendent and spiritual God,” that is, the recognition of God as “a purely spiritual Being, lacking all qualities perceptible to the senses.”82 The process was “rendered still more difficult by the Scriptural references to God,” which necessitated centuries of effort by ancient translators (to paraphrase) and philosophers (to allegorize) so as to “remove all anthropomorphic and anthropopathic notions of God.”83 For Kohler, whose scholarly expertise lay in Judeo-­Greco history and thought, the Jewish tendency toward doubt and de-­anthropomorphism appeared to have been first brought about as a result of the influence of Greek skepticism and atheism during the Hellenistic period.84 79 Ibid. 80 Ibid. 81 Ibid. 82 Kohler, Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered, 74. 83 Ibid. 84 Ibid., 66. In his entry on “Skeptics” in the Jewish Encyclopedia in the early 1900s Kohler observed that Jewish tradition and the Bible itself actually valued doubt, so that “skeptics, in the sense of men wrestling with doubt, have found a certain recognition and a place of honor in Biblical literature.” In this context, the doubt related to questions of moral ambiguity as much as contested facts. Those who had difficulty reconciling the unfairness of the world with the Scripture’s assurances of justice included Jeremiah, Moses, Job, Qohelet, and the Psalmist. Among the examples Kohler adduced from Jewish history were the ninth-­century Abu Zayd al-­Balkhi, whose criticism of Scripture undermined belief in revelation, the sixteenth-­century Uriel Acosta, who denied both revelation and the immortality of the soul, and Acosta’s contemporary, Leon of Modena, whom Kohler described as offering a liberal interpretation of traditional Judaism, and who complained that “the thinker is tortured by doubt” when studying the texts while “the blind believer enjoys peace of mind and bliss in the world to come.” Jewish Encyclopedia, s.v.

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In discussing agnosticism at around the same time, Emil Hirsch agreed that the most serious problem that the Bible held for Judaism was the attribution of human characteristics to God. He readily acknowledged that “The early Biblical writings are naively anthropomorphic and anthropopathic,” but argued that Jewish thinkers down through the centuries had resisted this tendency and had emphasized instead the unknowableness of God, citing Philo, Joseph Albo, Sa‘adia Gaon, and Maimonides.85 These had argued, in effect, that to attribute qualities to God would amount to limiting him, and thus would degrade his Being. Modern Judaism, too, Hirsch insisted, similarly regarded “all attempts at descriptive connotations of the Godhead as anthropomorphic makeshifts to find words for a thought which in reality is beyond the power of human tongue adequately to convey.”86 Anthropomorphism was “the fear . . . and the obsession of Agnosticism” and, in this regard, Hirsch was quick to show that progressive Judaism shared this concern with agnostics and were similarly alert to its dangers.87 As he saw it, the modern Jew and the so-­called atheist who denied human representations of God shared a common cause. [T]he so-­called atheist dared voice the conviction that the gods, worshipped by the masses and the mob, are but counterfeit deities. He who destroys the idols will always be stigmatized atheist by them who have an interest – egotistical, narrow – in maintaining in splendor the sanctuaries of old, but wretchedly inadequate, representations of what is beyond all form.88 The Reform Jewish leaders discussed here were aware of the potential and actual damage to the authority of religion that could be generated by unbelievers’ ridicule of the Scriptures and their pre-­modern ideas. They realized that they needed to engage with individuals, such as Ingersoll and Adler, who expressed their contempt for religion most eloquently and persuasively. To deal with skepticism, then, a half-­hearted attempt was made to suggest that the Bible’s authority lay in its teachings on morality rather than on scientific accuracy. But the fact that, with the exception of Wise, the Reformers agreed with the findings of biblical criticism put them in an awkward position. They readily admitted that the multitude of revelations down through the millennia, the many anthropomorphic, primitive conceptions of God, and the credulous “skeptic.” See also chapter 11, “The Existence of God,” in Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered. 85 Hirsch, “Agnosticism,” 238. 86 Ibid. 87 Ibid. 88 Hirsch, “A Message from Plato’s Apology (May 1906),” 71.

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belief in miracles, had left traditional religion looking very foolish to modern eyes. In defence, they stressed that, historically, Jewish thinkers had not fallen into the trap of biblical literalism, and also that most modern Reform Jews accepted the idea of human authorship and recognized the influence of other ancient peoples’ myths upon their own, and therefore did not deify the Scriptures as did the Orthodox. Central to this defence was a concern to present the Jewish God as a being without or beyond human characteristics. In itself, this tendency to de-­anthropomorphize and disembody God was entirely unremarkable among liberal religious thinkers. But in the specific context of engaging with skepticism, it prepared the ground for the panentheistic notions of God and nature that would find expression in the Reform rabbis’ engagement with scientific materialism.

3: Scientific Materialism Third, there was a need to confront Reform’s failure to respond to the challenge of the scientific worldview, which led to the growth of unbelief. From its early nineteenth-­century origins, a defining characteristic of the Reform project had always been the aim to reconcile Judaism with the best scientific and philosophic knowledge of the day. Proponents saw themselves as the rightful heirs of the Haskalah and embraced the positivist scientific worldview of the Enlightenment. Progressive Jews stressed the rationality of Judaism in contrast to the allegedly irrational teachings of Christianity, such as the incarnation and the trinity, and denigrated what they saw as outmoded legalism that had ghettoized Jews, socially and intellectually. German Reformers such as Geiger, it is true, had expressed some concerns about certain scientific claims, especially regarding evolutionary theory,89 and Anglo-­Jewish Reform had had little to say on the issue, preoccupied as it was with other matters, but by and large, the North Americans had no such reservations.90 The Pittsburgh Platform, issued in 1885 to set out the beliefs of the Reform collective in the United States, declared: 89 Geiger rejected not only Darwin’s theory of natural selection but even the phenomenon of the transmutation of species itself. Abraham Geiger, Judaism and Its History, trans. Maurice Mayer (London: Trübner & Co, 1866), 8–9. (German original: Das Judenthum und seine Geschichte [Breslau: Schletter, 1864].) 90 Established in 1840, Anglo-­Reform was dominated by its founder, David Woolf-­Marks (1811– 1909), whose concern to defend Judaism against the Evangelical Protestant charge of abandoning Scripture extended to a kind of neo-­Karaitism and who had next to nothing to say about science. While later Reform rabbis such as Morris Joseph (1848–1930) did discuss religion and science on occasion, a clear commitment to scientific knowledge wherever it led was left to Anglo-­Liberal Judaism, and in particular to its spiritual and intellectual leader, Claude Montefiore (1858–1938). Cantor’s survey of Anglo-­Jewish responses includes only a few references to progressives such

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We hold that the modern discoveries of scientific researches in the domain of nature and history are not antagonistic to the doctrines of Judaism, the Bible reflecting the primitive ideas of its own age, and at times clothing its conception of divine Providence and Justice dealing with men in miraculous narratives.91 Thus, the story in the United States was very much one of a positive “response to modernity,” as the title of Michael Meyer’s seminal history of the Reform movement has it.92 Along with the adoption of biblical-­and historical-­critical sciences, with all the implications that this had for a demythologized presentation of the history and nature of Judaism, North American Reform Jews were at pains to stress their acceptance of the findings of contemporary scientific thought, and especially evolutionary theory, to an extent not seen outside the States. Was there anything about the environment in the United States that helps explains this particular enthusiasm for science? The claim of the critics of religion was that knowledge based on materialistic science profoundly undermined religious authority, rendering religious teachings largely irrelevant. Ingersoll frequently condemned the Church for questioning the priceless discoveries of science and thereby standing in the way of “the onward march of the human race.”93 Adler observed that “the fundamental doctrines of the old religion no longer receive the cordial assent of a very large number of the intellectual class” as a result of the inroads of modern science, and could therefore no longer function as a foundation for modern life and morality.94 The unscientific dogma of the Church, for Ingersoll, and the ignorance and tyranny of the Law, for Adler, left religion looking redundant. One might have expected the Reformers to have pointed to the possibly unappealing consequences of such a position. For example, if divine moral authority was to be dispensed with, the likely outcome would be the loss of the familiar ethical foundations of social life – with nothing to take their place. Likewise, the rejection of the Bible as grounds for an ultimate purpose or meaning to life could lead to a profoundly pessimistic worldview. But, again, while we do find Reformers making such arguments, they were more concerned in this context to find a way to reconcile the findings of science with the authentic teachings as Montefiore. Geoffrey N. Cantor, “Anglo-­Jewish Responses to Evolution,” in Jewish Tradition and the Challenge of Darwinism, ed. Geoffrey N. Cantor and Marc Swetlitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 38. 91 For the text of the Platform, see The Changing World of Reform Judaism: The Pittsburgh Platform in Retrospect, ed. Walter Jacob (Pittsburgh: Rodef Shalom Congregation, 1985). 92 Meyer, Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism. 93 Ingersoll, “Heretics and Heresies,” 13. 94 Adler, “The Need of a New Moral Movement in Religion,” 4.

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of religion so that the choice between one or the other, as presented by the materialists, could be shown to be an unnecessary one. Arguably, it was these particular circumstances that led to the Reformers’ intense engagement with science, and especially biological science, to the point that this engagement became a particular characteristic of US Reform at this time. As we shall see, this embracing of science also helps explain one of nineteenth-­century Reform’s most distinctive traits, namely, the tendency toward panentheism – the idea that all is in God even if God is greater than all.95 Many Reformers recognized that the advances of science appeared to undermine religious authority, at least in the eyes of the public. In a sermon entitled “Science and Religion,” delivered in German and translated for The Jewish Times in 1874, Kaufmann Kohler lamented that the philosophical materialism premised on the ascendency of the scientific worldview was essentially a negative, pessimistic, defeatist position, whether one was speaking about cultured elites or the poorer, uneducated classes. He asked, Is it not strange and significant that since this development of natural science a gloomy melancholy trait of resignation, of “world-­sorrow,” has passed through the cultivated circles of society? Pessimism . . . [and] gloomy contemplation of the world . . . find a deep accord and response in the mind of man. [And t]he opposite of this philosophic nihilism is

95 “Panentheism” can also be defined as the idea that God’s immanent presence in nature does not delimit the reality of God. It can be contrasted with “pantheism,” which is the idea that all is God and God is all, that is, that God is to be identified with the totality of nature. Accounts of the nineteenth-­century emergence of panentheism in Christian thought have tended to emphasize the influence of philosophical currents such as German idealism, leading to a via media between supernaturalism (epitomized by Leibniz) and pantheism (as formulated by Spinoza). According to Gregersen, this was the goal of the German idealist philosopher Karl Krause (1781–1832), who is usually credited with having originated the term “panentheism.” Niels Henrik Gregersen, “Three Varieties of Pantheism,” in In Whom We Live and Move and Have Our Being: Panentheistic Reflections on God’s Presence in a Scientific World, ed. Philip Clayton and Arthur Peacocke (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans, 2004), 28. Others have viewed panentheism as the logical theological response to science and the Enlightenment, that is, to the necessity of finding a non-­interventionist conception of God’s activity in the world vis-­à-­vis natural scientists’ refusal to invoke non-­natural causes. Michael W. Brierley, “Naming a Quiet Revolution: The Pantheistic Turn in Modern Theology,” in In Whom We Live and Move and Have Our Being, 1–19. For some examples of Jewish thinkers who demonstrated a panentheistic tendency as they engaged with evolutionary theory, see Daniel R. Langton, “Jewish Religious Thought, the Holocaust, and Darwinism: A Comparison of Hans Jonas and Mordecai Kaplan,” Aleph: Historical Studies in Science and Judaism 13, no. 2 (2013): 311–48, and “Elijah Benamozegh and Evolutionary Theory: A Nineteenth-­Century Italian Kabbalist’s Panentheistic Response to Darwin,” European Journal of Jewish Studies 10, no. 2 (2016): 223–45.

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found in the lower grades of society – in the lower materialism which says, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die” . . . Atheism has no hope.96 The moral implications of a widespread loss of faith were as clear as the reasons for the loss of faith in the first place. As Kohler observed in 1887, People have broken away from the old landmarks of belief, because they found them to be in conflict with reason and science, and the old hell-­ fire to have lost its terror. The dread prevails today among believers that the decay of religion may lead to a decline, if not collapse, of morals.97 There were various ways to address these related problems, and Kohler discussed most of them during his long career. First, he argued that such atheistic worldviews and the kind of skepticism that denied the possibility of knowing anything with certainty were not characteristic of Judaism; this was the central premise of his 1906 entry on skepticism in the Jewish Encyclopedia (“This kind of skeptic can scarcely be found in Judaism”).98 As such, the Jewish worldview offered a viable and optimistic alternative to the profoundly pessimistic worldview of the skeptics, atheists, agnostics, and unbelievers. Second, he pointed out the continuing need for religion, especially in relation to moral development. A progressive Jew such as Kohler could readily agree with the materialist that God had not literally dictated the moral laws to Moses from a mountain several millennia before. But that did not mean that the religious conception of the origins of morality could be dispensed with. Crucially for Kohler, the Reform Jewish view acknowledged the possibility that moral progress had evolved and could continue to evolve. As he saw it, [M]orality and religion are the expressions of a higher harmony of life. And if they have not come down from heaven perfect and complete, but have developed themselves from crude forms, yet they are revelations of divine powers which slumbered in man, and which point him to a power which hovers before him as the highest type of life, eternally near and eternally distant.99 Kohler stressed that this mysterious foundation of an evolving morality could not be accounted for by atheistic theory. As he explained a few years later, only a religious framework for morality made sense.

96 Kohler, “Science and Religion,” 820–21. 97 Kohler, “Evolution and Morality,” Temple Beth-­El Lectures, December 4, 1887 (New York: Press of Stettiner, Lambert & Co, 1887/88), 3. 98 Kohler, Jewish Encyclopedia, s.v. “skeptic.” 99 Kohler, “Science and Religion,” 821.

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In vain has the atheist tried to divest morality of religion. The child’s natural appreciation of the good and noble, and the criminal’s abhorrence of his own distorted image of manhood, disprove the idea that morality is merely a social life insurance, and arbitrary creation of our own.100 Third, one could attempt to demonstrate that science was not an exclusively materialist endeavor and that the teachings of Reform Judaism were perfectly compatible with its findings. For Kohler, as for others, it was evolutionary science that offered the greatest challenge, but one that a liberal religion could readily meet. In “Science and Religion” he maintained that liberal religion’s progressive worldview eschewed the supernatural claims of much of the Bible and readily admitted the natural laws of causation that science had discovered – that atheism was thus by no means the only viable modern mode of thought. He asked, And does this [Darwinism], accepted and constantly confirmed by almost all investigators of nature – astronomers, geologists, botanists, and zoologists – lead to atheism and a denial of God? All which Darwinism declares is, that creation is not to be explained through a miracle, but through the natural law of progressive development of life under favorable circumstances. . . . Do I deny God when I deny every immediate interference of God with the eternal order of the world, and question every miracle? Quite the opposite.101 Kohler was concerned to convince the reader that the apparent threat to religion posed by science was much exaggerated and that, in fact, science, and especially evolutionary theory, could be regarded as complementary to Judaism. As he saw it, “Religion and science must illumine one another, and must harmonize with one another.”102 He asserted that “Science and religion need not antagonize one another” since they are two complementary sides of the same coin of revelation, one working through the emotions “which feel The One in All,” and one through reason “which, investigating, recognizes the unit in the

100 “Israel’s New Departure,” The New York Times, Sept. 7, 1879, 8. This was a report on Kohler’s first sermon at Beth-­El in New York, and included the tagline “Atheism Condemned.” 101 Kohler, “Science and Religion,” 821. 102 Ibid., 820. Later, Kohler would suggest that “[t]he whole conflict between science and religion, portrayed so vividly by two Americans, John W. Draper and Andrew D. White, has no place within Judaism, where reason and faith are called twin-­sisters, both daughters of the Divine Wisdom.” Furthermore, he cited with approval the German philosopher F. A. Lange’s claim that Jewish monotheism “gave the world its scientific basis, the idea of the Empire of Law.” “What Is Judaism?,” Temple Beth-­El Lectures, October 23, 1887 (New York: Press of Stettiner, Lambert & Co, 1887), 6.

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whole.” 103 Yet, Kohler went on, science could not do without religion since there was still much that it could not explain. In particular, he questioned whether the nineteenth-­century scientist could “unriddle” how inanimate matter became living matter.104 But, just as the “Judaism of old united and harmonized its new knowledge with its old faith,”105 so Kohler could not see any danger to Judaism from modern science, the findings of which amounted to the declaration that the world was not made in one moment, but has developed itself, and that man was not created complete, but has developed himself: for this is essentially the new Darwinian doctrine, the foundation and capstone of the modern science of nature . . . ​106 And just as one did not deny God when one no longer claimed that He sent rain directly down through the gates of heaven, or that He daily led the sun out from its tabernacle, so one did not deny God when one was obliged, as instructed by science, to “deny every immediate interference of God with the eternal order of the world and question every miracle.”107 Kohler’s conception of God was of a profoundly immanent divinity. In language that hinted at an equivalence between natural laws and divine will, he confessed that My idea of the wisdom of the Eternal is too great to allow me to believe that He is from time to time patching up and improving His own works. The eternal laws of nature are His eternal wisdom, His unchangeable will. Were He ever to change His will, He would not to me be the Eternal.108 The common refrain, in which others would follow Kohler, was that the harmonious order of the world testified to its divine foundations. As he wrote in 1879, “Natural science, by the unshaken faith in [natural] law, testifies to a divine law-­giver.”109 In time, he would go even further by suggesting that the divine life was made manifest in matter and mind through evolutionary processes. In so doing, Kohler came as near as he ever would to articulating a panentheistic conception of God. Instead of alienating us from God, it [evolutionary science] brings us right face to face with God; for we see Him steadily at work fashioning worlds and lives without number here and ever carving out new destinies 103 Kohler, “Science and Religion,” 820. 104 Ibid. 105 Ibid., 821. 106 Ibid. 107 Ibid. 108 Ibid. 109 Kohler, “Israel’s New Departure,” 8.

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for all beings there. In fact, evolution, as I conceive it, is the unfolding of the divine life, the unbroken revelation of God first in endless varieties of matter, then in marvellous productions of conscious mind. And since both matter and mind emanate from the same God, why should the lines not merge? . . . The entire creation, from crystal and protoplasm to ape and horse, in their gradual rise towards beauty and emotion, foreshadows the coming of upward-­striving man.110 The evolution of the universe and of life was, it seemed, the unfolding or evolution of God in His material and psychical emanations. While Isaac Mayer Wise claimed not to take either Ingersoll or Adler seriously as individuals, he presented the kind of popular atheism-­cum-­agnosticism that claimed to be premised upon modern scientific thought as nothing less than an existential threat to Jewish religion. In his memoir, he recalled his own lifelong efforts to undermine what he described as the “violent attacks” and “the poisonous arrows of atheism” and to challenge the alleged link between science and atheism, which he regarded as the main foundation for modern doubt.111 He explained that ignorance about scientific details did not prevent people from gaping and babbling, each repeating the other’s words, dipping into atheism until they had convinced themselves that all intelligent men were atheists . . . This spirit of the times had to be opposed, but in our circles not a single voice was raised which seemed to accept the challenge . . . Without saying a word, as if dumb and blind, they walked past this dangerous, threatening cliff.112 Wise reported in his biography how, despite the ironical allegations of atheism that he suffered,113 he had solved the problem with a series of evening lectures on evolutionary science and Judaism, presented in 1876 “before a large public, at least half of which consisted of persons with some atheistic leanings,” which he published the same year as The Cosmic God.114 The published collection of lectures “achieved its goal; from that time on we were no longer plagued by atheism. To the men of science it proved that the theistic world-­

110 Kohler, “Evolution and Morality,” 4. 111 As he saw it, in addition to missionary Christianity, “Judaism had to face another enemy, one which attacked it even more violently: that was atheism, which later rebaptized itself as agnosticism.” Isaac Mayer Wise, The World of My Books, trans. Albert H. Friedlander (Cincinnati: American Jewish Archives, 1954), 32. 112 Ibid., 32–33. 113 Ibid., 33. 114 Ibid., 35.

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view is justified.”115 An important theme in The Cosmic God’s discussion of creation was the materialist’s unproven assumption that accident best accounted for the existence of the world. In a series of sermons from 1885–1886 entitled “Lectures for Infidels,” Wise returned to the topic of materialistic assumptions about science, arguing that The scientific atheist is a one-­sided man who stopped short with his reasoning within nature’s mechanical working, and takes for granted, without any proof, of course, whatever cannot be reached by those laws and categories, that it is not.116 The classic example of such blindness was apparent in the debate concerning materialism and idealism (or spirit, as Wise preferred to call it). He recalled that One of the skeptics in this city, some years ago, asked, in a debate with a theist, What is spirit? The theist could give negative definitions only, and the skeptics smiled triumphantly. Had I been there I would have, Yankee-­ like, answered the question with another question, What is matter? And the audience would have felt not a little surprised, if my opponent would have been bound to confess that we do not know. The nature of matter, like that of spirit, is unknown to man.117 This discussion of spirit and matter had lain at the heart of Wise’s systematic attempt to confront materialism in science in The Cosmic God. There, he had offered a Jewish form of the vital force theory of evolution. According to his particular interpretation of idealism, Wise believed that the universal or fundamental substance was non-­material.118 Ultimately, matter could only be held together by “vital force,”119 which he understood to be a function of an intelligent divine will.120 Thus, the act of creation was, in effect, the divine assertion of this force so as to counteract matter’s tendency to dissolve or separate,121 and the story of life was the story of the emergence of a hierarchical 115 Ibid. 116 Wise, “Lectures for Infidels No. 8: Revelation and the Right of Reason Controlling It,” 4. 117 Wise, “Lectures for Infidels No. 20: Closing Lecture,” 4. 118 Wise was profoundly influenced by German idealism, although he preferred to call himself an adherent of “spiritualism.” He explained, “In materialism, matter is the substance, and the forces inherent in matter create, preserve and govern all which is in this universe mechanically and automatically. In spiritualism, spirit or mind is the substance, and the forces which create, preserve and govern all things in this universe, are manifestations of the will of that spirit, mind or intelligence.” The Cosmic God: A Fundamental Philosophy in Popular Lectures, 71. 119 Ibid., 94–95. 120 Ibid., 126. 121 Ibid., 114.

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order of stable forms of life from dead matter, achieved by the work of vital force, which eventually culminated in humanity.122 The God whom Wise conceived was, to a degree, to be identified with both vital force and with nature itself. As Wise expressed it, He is omnipresent, revealed everywhere by the ever-­active force of all forces in nature, and every motion of the human intellect. He is omnipresent, for He fills all space and penetrates all atomic matter . . . He is not in heaven above nor on earth below, for He is everywhere, in all space, in all objects of nature, in every attribute of matter, and in every thought of the mind.123 This made sense of the problem of suffering in nature. To anthropomorphize God, and especially to conceptualize Him as wise and as having organized His realm with care according to human standards, was, in Wise’s opinion, a serious category error. After all, science showed that “There is, in the realm of nature, pain, suffering, misery, destruction, and death, as well as joy, pleasure, happiness, and goodness, and pessimism is entitled to the philosopher’s most earnest reflection.”124 However, Wise went on to assert that the lesson to be learned was that our conceptions of God had to change; anthropomorphous conceptions of God and nature had to be dropped, for “God is no man and nature no dame, and the household of nature must be measured objectively, by the facts which it presents, and not by our feelings, wishes, hopes, desires, or prejudices.”125 As such, Wise’s Cosmic God entailed a panentheistic conception of the world and of the divine vital force animating it, which, he argued, explained the problem of suffering and presented a better interpretation of scientific evidence than the argument offered by the scientific materialists. Aaron Hahn was as defiant as Wise in refusing to allow that natural science justified an atheistic viewpoint. In his Arguments for the Existence of God (1885) he insisted that the mysteriously orderly nature of the world was suggestive of theistic explanations,126 that the scientists’ focus on secondary causes did not rule out the requirement of a Primary Cause or the original cause of the natural laws they studied,127 and that, until science could account for these, 122 Ibid., 116. 123 Ibid., 163. 124 Ibid., 121. 125 Ibid. 126 “The assertion that natural sciences have dethroned God in nature is false, and will remain an error while there will be the least vestige of mysteries in nature, and while there will be traces of mathematical calculations in geometrical relations and arrangements in the universe.” Hahn, History of the Arguments for the Existence of God, 8–9. 127 “No sensible man will hold that, because La Place and Humboldt excluded from their descriptions

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“the argument for the existence of God from the design in nature will remain valid, all that is said by materialists and atheists to the contrary notwithstanding.”128 Hahn also took any opportunity to demonstrate how unscientific some atheists were. For example, in response to the suggestion made by Ingersoll in “The Gods” (1872),129 that the world was full of imperfections and unnecessary suffering, such that God could be criticized for having made health, rather than disease, catching, Hahn in 1885 painstakingly set out a comprehensive demonstration of the chemical and philosophical reasons why this was not possible, concluding that [t]o desire that the contagious diseases shall not be catching, means to desire that the laws of nature underlying those chemical processes shall cease to work. Mr Ingersoll’s words imply the idea that, had he the power to make improvements, he would put an end to the natural causes and effects in nature, and would rather perform miracles.130 At the same time, Hahn was concerned to show that scientists, including Darwin, themselves did not espouse atheism.131 Furthermore, as far as he was concerned, scientists were free of blame for the rise of skepticism: “They teach facts. It is not their fault that the views of the Bible are not more in accord with the facts of natural science.”132 For Hahn, the truths of science and religion did not conflict, even if popular atheists and naïve readers of the Bible argued differently. Furthermore, in his defence against materialism he hinted at a kind of panentheism. In response to the question: “Is it proper to speak of Nature as the author of all things?” he replied in slightly awkward English that It is not objectionable in the eyes of Judaism to speak in the name of Nature when we designate thereby an intelligence which manifests itself in the nature as its soul. Thus used, the word Nature becomes an attribute of God, as many other words, which express any of his qualities. But it is a real atheism, a denouncement and abdication of Judaism, to deny a of the universe the reference to a First Cause, and because of their treating exclusively only of second causes, there is no such thing as a primary Cause and that such a thing as a causality of the law of nature is not conceivable” (ibid., 14–15). 128 Ibid., 68. 129 This essay was published in Robert G. Ingersoll, The Gods, and Other Lectures (Washington, DC: C.P. Farrell, 1879). 130 Hahn, History of the Arguments for the Existence of God, 37–38. 131 Hahn’s argument was that the similarities between Darwin’s “evolution idea,” Kant’s “internal finality” and Hegel’s “imminent finality” meant that “all these theories mean essentially the same” and, since Kant and Hegel could hardly be described as materialistic, so Darwinism “cannot be pronounced an atheistic view” (ibid., 59). 132 Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism,” 5.

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universal wisdom in the nature, and to ascribe all effects to the coincidence and concurrence of the atoms or elements, bodies, or to the chance.133 In his earliest work, published in German in 1869, Hahn had sought to reconcile rabbinic and mystical thought with theosophy; the book presented the idea of God as the world-­soul – both as Jewish and in harmony with the classic Western thought of Spinoza and other philosophers.134 It is therefore not entirely surprising to see him now raising a similar idea, this time in relation to a materialistic conception of evolutionary science. Joseph Krauskopf shared with these others a belief that the great threat of materialism lay in its implications for social morality – “Ethics without a God must in the long run mean humanity without morality” – and was as concerned to counter the triumphant claims made by some materialists.135 He complained in his book-­length study Evolution and Judaism (1887) that “the great mass of believers insisted upon bringing certain primitive speculations of a purely scientific nature within the horizons of religion,” necessitating a defence against “that skepticism which is engendered by poorly understood science” so as to ensure a modern “rational faith.”136 He readily admitted that religious knowledge could not ignore “the icy breath of skepticism which touches it” and which undermined tradition, and he fully accepted that its observed flaws had brought about the inevitable result that its authority was regularly questioned, so that its claims and doctrines were subjected to ever increasing scrutiny.137 But Krauskopf was primarily concerned to reject the assertion of many materialists that science, and especially Darwinism, led to atheism, as if science should by necessity “drive God out of nature, and lead to infidelity.”138 A liberal religion could give proper weight to the findings of science without abandoning the key theological truths that generated an ethical foundation for modern social life. The solution, for Krauskopf, lay, in large part, 133 Hahn, The Rational Judaism in Queries and Answers, 11. Hahn cited as his sources: Judah HaLevi, Cosri (Kuzari) I, 76, 77, and Chacham Tsvi, Response 18. The impersonal impression of the Divine was reinforced in Hahn’s discussion of providence, and, in particular, in his description of the role of society “as God’s agent,” as well as in response to the question “Does God take care of the world and its contents?” As he put it in his answer, “The established inflexibility of natural laws, and the plan of the universe, are God’s provision for the world at large” (ibid.). 134 Hahn, Die Gottesbegriffe des Talmud und Sühar sowie der vorzüglichsten theosophischen Systeme [The conception of God in the Talmud and Zohar and in the principles of theosophical systems]. 135 Joseph Krauskopf, “Ethics or Religion?” (Sunday Lecture, 13 October, 1895), cited in William W. Blood, Apostle of Reason: A Biography of Joseph Krauskopf (Philadelphia: Dorrance & Co., 1973), 157–58. 136 Krauskopf, Evolution and Judaism, preface. 137 Ibid., 6. 138 Ibid., 13.

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in his de-­anthropomorphized conception of God. Just as Kohler had done, he identified natural law with God. [N]ature is under the power of government under the control of supreme order and uninterrupted harmony, under the reign of ever-­present, ever active, never-­changing law which shapes all matter, organic and inorganic, according to design, and directs all force, physical and vital, according to purpose, and compels both to be eternally the same in their manifestations. This universally acknowledged supreme governing power, this universally acknowledged eternally invariable law . . . ​this universally admitted ever present design and purpose and order and harmony . . . is named by evolutionists “Natural Law”; by theologians it is called “God.” . . . With this conception of the nature of God every difference between science and religion disappears.139 Insofar as nature was to be understood as the product or expression of natural law, and insofar as another name for natural law was God, then Krauskopf might have been regarded as pantheistic.140 But more often for Krauskopf, nature or natural law was only part of the divine reality, not its entirety, which was the classic articulation of panentheism. For example, he wrote, According to our definition, God is the finitely, conceivable Ultimate, the Cause of all and the Cause in all, the Universal Life, the All-­Pervading, All-­Controlling, All-­Directing Power Supreme, the Creator of the universe and the Governor of the same according to eternal and immutable laws by Him created. All existence is part of His existence, all life is part of His life, all intelligence is part of His intelligence, all evolution, all progress is part of His plan.141 Much later, Emil Hirsch took a swipe at Adler when he wrote in a discussion of atheism that “In modern Judaism, as is evinced by printed sermons and other publications, Atheism of every kind has found voice and adherents.” He went on to complain that “The influence of the natural sciences, and the unwarranted conclusions now recognized as such by none more readily than 139 Ibid., 102–4. And again: “[W]e see greater evidence of the marvels of God’s handiwork [via evolution] then ever we could glean from a belief in special creation . . . [W]e see God constantly creating . . . we see all nature reveal the ever present and constantly active final cause . . . This sum of Supreme Will, Supreme Power, Supreme Intelligence, evolutionists name “The Reign of Natural Law”; the theologians call it “God” (ibid., 116–17). 140 In support of such an interpretation were such incautious comments as when, reflecting upon the monism of Haeckel, Krauskopf suggested that “By it we arrive at the sublime idea of the Unity of God and Nature” (ibid., 239). 141 Ibid., 279–80.

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by the thinkers devoted to the exploration of nature’s domain, have also left their mark on Jewry.”142 The “unwarranted conclusions” included the views of those who, like Ingersoll, maintained that there was a conflict between religion and science. As he had sought to show in Evolution and Judaism, such views were old fashioned and out of date.143 And, as he insisted in his sermon “The Doctrine of Evolution” (1903), “Atheism may extract no comfort from the recent expositions of the theory of evolution,”144 not only because so many theists could reconcile their theology with modern science, but because the common view of materialists that religion was “a benevolent or malevolent invention of crafty priests or well-­meaning lovers of their kind” had been discredited by the modern appreciation of religion itself as an evolved phenomenon, which could continue to adapt to the changing environment.145 Like Kohler, Hirsch also did not believe that science could be regarded as a support for atheism. He condemned philosophical materialists (or “beer and cheese materialists” as he called them) for, among other things, their failure to explain the beginnings of existence or the nature of matter and energy, or to account for the transformations of the inorganic to the organic and of the unconscious to the conscious.146 It seemed self-­evident to him that “mystery still calls for faith” and that “there is a need and room for the introduction of an energy which religious faith and reasoning philosophy have always posited.”147 In attempting to articulate a theory that would adequately address such challenges, Hirsch offered a panentheistic conception of God’s immanent relation to the world, as had others before him. He enthused: In notes clearer than were ever intoned by human tongue does the philosophy of evolution confirm the essential verity of Judaism’s insistent protest and proclamation that God is one. This theory reads unity in all that is and has being. Stars and stones, planets and pebbles, sun and sod, rock and river, leaf and lichen, are spun of the same thread. Thus the universe is one soul, One spelled large. If throughout all visible forms one energy is manifest and in all material shapes one substance is apparent, the conclusion is all the better assured which holds this essentially one world of life to be the thought of one all-­embracing and all-­underlying creative directive mind . . . I, for my part, believe to be justified in my assurance that 142 Emil G. Hirsch and Kaufmann Kohler, Jewish Encyclopedia, s.v. “atheism.” 143 Hirsch, “The Science of Comparative Religion, Part One (1897),” 155. 144 Hirsch, “The Doctrine of Evolution and Judaism,” in Some Modern Problems and Their Bearing on Judaism, 14. 145 Ibid., 18. 146 Ibid., 5–6. 147 Ibid., 7.

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Judaism rightly apprehended posits God not, as often it is said to do, as an absolutely transcendental One. Our God is the soul of the Universe . . . Spinozism and Judaism are by no means at opposite poles.148 Such ideas went beyond philosophical Idealism, or, at least, were justified in a very different manner – by reference to biological science. And Hirsch’s position was panentheistic, rather than pantheistic, in that God was explicitly identified with the universe while, at the same time, the natural world, in which energy and matter were unified, was regarded as the product of the divine mind and distinct from it. In championing religion against the doubt associated with the continual expansion of scientific knowledge, the Reformers surveyed here presented several lines of defence and counter-­attack. It was, after all, axiomatic to Reform that it was entirely compatible with science. Perhaps the most remarkable defence against the materialists’ presentation of science was the emergence of a panentheistic tendency, expressing the image of a divine element woven into the fabric of the cosmos, while maintaining the distinctiveness of the Deity. This complemented the de-­anthropomorphizing and depersonalizing tendency that had dominated the discourse about biblical inaccuracies and failings. A depersonalized Deity was explicitly identified with, among other things, the natural law that bestowed order to the world, the vital force that animated it, the soul of the universe, and the universe itself. While it is not possible to claim that such conceptions were argued for consistently, they were certainly a feature of the discussions. The suggestion made here is that the context, that is, the engagement with natural science to counter the skeptics’ contempt for religion, accounts in large part for the Reform rabbis’ most panentheistic moments. With regard to counter-­attacks, it was the materialism of the unbelievers, rather than science, that was the chief target of the Reformers’ ire. Some atheists, it was argued, made silly, unscientific pronouncements, while the findings of science, including that of evolutionary science, were perfectly compatible with a liberal religious worldview. The very order of the universe, described and measured by science, pointed to a designer, they argued, insisting that religion remained significant and relevant in a scientific age, where mysteries such as the origins of organic life remained, and where mechanistic ideas of change and contingency were unconvincing. The Reformers also maintained that morality – even an evolving morality – was required as a foundation for society, which, they believed, only religion, and certainly not materialism, could provide. Several of the rabbis contrasted the pessimism and nihilism that resulted naturally 148 Ibid., 10–11. Interestingly, Hirsch singled out Spinoza as a system-­building precursor to Darwin. Ibid., 2.

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enough from the materialistic worldview with the optimism and hope that Judaism offered. One area where this last approach developed in a particularly interesting direction was in discussions of the afterlife.

4: Suffering and the Afterlife Finally, there was the matter of suffering as a prime cause of doubt and disbelief. The problem of evil in one form or another, illustrated by countless references to suffering in the world, whether caused by religion or other factors such as social injustice, lay behind much of what Ingersoll and Adler had written and spoken against religion. For these anti-­religious agitators, belief in a good God who nonetheless allowed such suffering in His creation was a particularly rich vein to tap. Arguably, this issue helps explain why the subject of life after death came up frequently in the writings of a number of US Reformers in the context of discussions about skepticism, atheism, and infidelity, since the idea of a better and more just future life is one potential solution to the problem of suffering in the present one. Because it is only religion that can offer this hope, and not atheism or agnosticism, the Reformers emphasized the afterlife in their discussions of suffering and skepticism. Interestingly, these discussions distinguished sharply between immortality in general and resurrection of the dead in particular, something that also calls for explanation. In any case, the prominence given to the afterlife by US Reform Jews is best accounted for by their sense that this topic gave them an advantage of sorts in discussions about suffering, in that they could offer a more optimistic solution – or at least the possibility of hope – than could their skeptical antagonists. The idea that the resurrection of the body was problematic and should be replaced by the more rational hope of a “spiritual” immortality had first been seriously mooted in debates during the Haskalah, following Moses Mendelssohn’s treatise on the subject.149 Early German Reformers from the 1840s had begun to think about how the liturgy, for example, might be modified to reflect more modern and acceptable beliefs. The father of German Reform, Abraham Geiger, made the argument that Judaism’s theology had been historically influenced by “ideas and sentiments which have become entirely foreign to our time, which in fact have been strongly rejected by it,” suggesting that the solution was to replace literal readings with a spiritual interpretation: “From now on,” he argued, “the hope for an after-­life should not be expressed in terms which suggest a future revival, a resurrection of the body; rather they must stress the immortality of the soul.”150 This approach was reflected in his translation of the 149 Moses Mendelssohn, Phaedon (Berlin: Bey F. Nicolai, 1767). 150 Abraham Geiger, Nachgelassene Schriften, 3 vols., vol. 1 (Berlin: Louis Gerschel, 1885), 203–4,

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conclusion of the Gevurot benediction of the Amidah in the prayer book he prepared for the Breslau congregation in 1854, where he rendered the original Hebrew “revives the dead” (“m’chayeh ha-­metim”) as “who bestows life in this world and the other” (“der Leben spendet hier und dort”). It is worth noting, however, that Geiger’s prayer book did not actually revise the Hebrew text, and it was left to Reformers in the United States to implement the change. The radical German-­born Reformer David Einhorn made the necessary change in his prayerbook, offering praise to God – in Hebrew as well as German – “for implanting within us eternal life.” This language was followed in the English Union Prayer Book (1895), which would be the standard Reform prayer book in the United States for the next eighty years. As far back as 1850 Isaac Mayer Wise had declared in a public debate his disbelief in the doctrine of bodily resurrection.151 As he later explained, his rationale was pragmatic, that is, that the logistics of feeding and housing all those who had ever lived were simply impossible to imagine and made the whole idea entirely implausible.152 Furthermore, as a liberal, Wise rejected the literal reality of a heaven or a hell. Discussing the views of those who believed that unbelievers would be condemned to hell, he insisted that modern sensibilities made the pre-­modern conception of the afterlife utterly unacceptable.153 It would be better, he suggested, to speak of making a heaven or hell upon earth, in the here-­and-­now. Heaven or hell were to be regarded as states of being, dependent upon the world an individual created in and around him or herself by their moral behavior.154 And yet, Wise certainly promoted the idea of cited in W. Gunther Plaut, The Rise of Reform Judaism (New York: World Union for Progressive Judaism, 1963), 157–58. 151 For an overview of the subject of the tension between bodily resurrection and personal immortality in modern Jewish thought, see Jakob J. Petuchowski, “‘Immortality: Yes; Resurrection: No!’ Nineteenth-­Century Judaism Struggles with a Traditional Belief,” PAAJR 50 (1983): 133. 152 Ibid., 142. 153 “They have no means whatever to prove that one word of what they say about heaven or hell is positively true . . . Our conception of Deity flatly contradicts all those ideas of heaven and hell, of salvation and damnation.” Isaac Mayer Wise, “Lectures for Infidels No.10: Can Infidels Go to Heaven?,” The American Israelite, January 8, 1886, 4. 154 As he explained, “The lower instincts, passions and appetites which it has in common with the animal, rising from the main instincts of self-­preservation and the propagation of the race, draw him forcibly down to the region of the unconscious. The more he yields to them the more he loses his individuality, his higher and nobler feelings, aspirations and ideals, and the more his intelligence deteriorates . . . So men go to hell all the time, on and on, perhaps to torments and destruction . . . If rebellion against the moral law leads to the loss of individuality and independence or emancipation, obedience to that law must be a perpetual striving, longing, seeking and volition for individuality and emancipation, and so it is . . . So men go to “Heaven,” or rather struggle and strive to become constant and immortal spiritual personalities.” “Lectures for Infidels No.11: Infidels May Go to Heaven,” The American Israelite, January 22, 1886, 4.

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immortality. On numerous occasions he argued that Jewish tradition supported the idea that human beings were dual creatures composed of a material body and an immaterial, eternal soul.155 In his 1876 study of evolution, written in large measure to confound the champions of materialism, he included immortality as one of the theological convictions which he admitted that the present limitations of human knowledge and thought would likely prevent him from persuading a skeptic.156 I know that there is . . . an immortality, and I know it as sure as I know anything; yet I am not superstitious, ignorant, or credulous; I know all the methods of cognition and evidence in philosophy and science. Still I may fail in convincing others of the correctness of my convictions, simply because the methods of cognition and evidence are not exhausted.157 This recognition did not prevent Wise from arguing in the same work that the study of evolution, which he understood to be the study of life’s progress from inanimate matter to animate life and the emergence of self-­consciousness, could not be accounted for by materialistic explanations, and was suggestive of an immaterial element to life. As he put it, the triumph of consciousness over “mechanical nature,” and of mind over matter, justified belief in “the doctrine of the soul’s immortality,” when “man and mankind are elevated to immortality, i.e., to an attribute and self-­conscious idea in the Deity.”158 Such a conception of immortality was not of a personal immortality as much as it was a more 155 For example: “With the birth of an organic being, it begins not its existence, it merely opens its mundane existence; so with death it does not close its existence, it simply closes this cycle of its sub lunar career,” and “What we call the human body, is transient matter kept momentarily in this form. The soul is the man, efficient and ever active cause of the body’s existence and motion.” “Aphorisms,” The American Israelite, April 28, 1876, 4. 156 As he put it in his preface, “This is an age of sober reflection, deep and irresistible. Either you are capable of defending your dogmas before the judgment seat of reason, or you must see them antiquated and impotent. The conflict of science and religion is before your doors, however sentimentally and devotionally you may whitewash the crumbling walls, or galvanize defunct forms, or close your eyes in fervent prayer, to see not how the platform shakes under your feet. You must defend yourselves or surrender.” Wise, The Cosmic God: A Fundamental Philosophy in Popular Lectures, 5. 157 Ibid., 150. 158 Wise’s argument is somewhat convoluted: “The highest law for man is to advance himself and others in self-­consciousness, morality, and dominion over mechanical nature, the triumph and mastery of the conscious over the unconscious, of mind over matter. So man fulfills his destiny in society, and elevates himself to an immortal personality. Here is the fundamental idea in philosophy for the doctrine of the soul’s immortality . . . [Man] is capacitated and prompted by natural impulses to co-­operate with the Deity in bringing about the triumphs of mind over matter, of the conscious over the unconscious, in the steady progressions of mankind’s self-­ consciousness, morality and freedom, and its reaction on the individual personalities, by which

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Platonic idea of the return of an impersonal life force to its source. Regardless, Wise was highly conscious of its power to comfort and, ultimately, to make religion satisfying, later observing that “[a] convincing argument on immortality rouses every man’s religious feelings and inspires zeal and enthusiasm.”159 In the German original of his Jewish Theology (1910), Kaufmann Kohler made a clear distinction between the idea of the resurrection of the body and the idea of the immortality of the soul in relation to the teachings of one of Judaism’s greatest philosophers: “Even Maimonides,” he wrote, “whose purely spiritual conception of the soul and of eternal bliss is absolutely irreconcilable with a belief in bodily Resurrection, . . . lacked the courage to break openly with this traditional belief.”160 He justified his own belief in the immortality of the soul, a subject which lay beyond the realm of science, on the claim that this belief itself reflected in the human being something of the divine essence, which made possible man’s apprehension of God. As he observed of the contemporary crisis of faith, It is just in periods like ours, when the belief in God is weakening, that the human spirit is especially solicitous to guard itself against the thought of the complete annihilation of its God-­like self-­conscious personality. This gives rise to the superstitious effort [doomed to fail] to spy out the soul by sensory [i.e., scientific] means . . . It is therefore all the more important to base the belief in immortality solely on the God-­likeness of the human soul, which is the mirror of Divinity. Just as one postulate of faith holds that God, the Creator of the world, rules in accordance with the moral order, so another is the immortality of the human soul, which, amidst yearning and groping, beholds God. The question where, and how, this self-­same ego is to continue, will be left for the power of the imagination to answer ever anew.161 Kohler’s views on the teaching of the resurrection of the dead were entirely different from those supporting immortality, however. He believed that, however comforting this belief in resurrection might be, it was a primitive, superstitious one that had no place in modern Jewish thought or Reform liturgy. Certainly it is both comforting and convenient to imagine the dead who are laid to rest in the earth as being asleep and to await their reawakenman and mankind are elevated to immortality, i.e., to an attribute and self-­conscious idea in the Deity” (ibid., 178–79). 159 “The Immortality Doctrine,” The American Israelite, October 14, 1887, 4. 160 Kaufmann Kohler, Grundriss einer systematischen Theologie des Judentums auf geschichtlicher Grundlage (Leipzig: Fock, 1910), 230. This statement was not included in the English translation of 1918. 161 Kohler, Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered, 296.

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ing. . . . Whoever, therefore, still sees God’s greatness . . . revealed through miracles, that is, through interruptions of the natural order of life, may cling to the traditional belief in resurrection, so comforting in ancient times. On the other hand, he who recognizes the unchangeable will of an all-­wise, all-­ruling God in the immutable laws of nature must find it impossible to praise God according to the traditional formula as the “Reviver of the dead,” but will avail himself instead of the expression used in the Union Prayer Book . . . “He who has implanted in us immortal life.”162 Aaron Hahn was equally dismissive of such an “irrational belief.” His starting point was that mankind was not skeptical by nature, but quite the reverse: most people, and especially the religious, were only too credulous. As he saw it, Man is not born a skeptic. Man is from nature a believer. A child is inclined to believe most anything; and how great the inclination of the average class of grown-­up people to believe is can be found best illustrated in the history of every creed. There are people in every creed for whom there is no story too hard to believe, and to feel only sorry that there are not still harder stories in the Bible to try and prove their faith.163 For many, however, “terrible episodes in society and shocking incidents in nature” provoked profound doubt. As such, suffering could be regarded as the primary cause of skepticism: When people see violence and injustice rain upon earth, and no God interferes to punish the evil doer, or when accidents happen, of which positively no good can come, or when vice and meanness triumph, and virtue and nobleness succumb, they are aroused and inclined to be skeptical . . . Every era of violence and oppression, when it seems as if the genius of justice and humanity has left the Earth, is productive of skepticism; and so are productive of skepticism shocking accidents.164 Hahn suggested that most religious people quickly overcame those doubts because “rather than to be unsettled in their minds, they persuade and deceive themselves to believe in all kinds of orthodox [religious] theories such as that of a future resurrection.”165 But for others, doubts remained as long as the experience of suffering could not be explained or justified. Hahn not only refused to criticize this position, but defended it, suggesting that “shocking accidents should set us thinking.” Indeed, he criticized those 162 Ibid., 296–97. 163 Hahn, “The Philosophy of Skepticism,” 1. 164 Ibid., 1–2. 165 Ibid., 2.

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who are afraid to ponder on such a topic. They think it would make God angry to say anything else but “everything is for the best”; and they believe that the least comment on the ways of Providence amounts to atheism. They are mistaken. Shocking accidents should set us thinking; and though we cannot explain everything, we can at least by reflection find out something about the laws and phenomena of nature and society.166 Two years previously, Hahn had given some lectures on one of the most important of these laws of nature, namely, the law of evolution, in which he had speculated that life after death was a plausible and rational belief.167 Now, in the context of his discussions on skepticism, he returned to the subject, citing the philosopher of evolution, Herbert Spencer, as an agnostic who would not deny the possibility of the immortality of the soul, even if he could not confirm it.168 Of the various Reformers considered here, Joseph Krauskopf was the one who drew the connections between skepticism, suffering, and immortality most forcefully. In Evolution and Judaism (1887), Krauskopf set out the case for immortality as a kind of evolutionary phenomenon. Non-­bodily immortality was, he suggested, a reasonable hope, in contrast to the irrational beliefs of most pre-­modern cultures, including that of Orthodox Judaism, which, like Orthodox Christianity, expected the righteous to arise bodily from sheol, or the grave, on judgment day.169 His suggestion that life continued beyond the grave was calculated to confound the pessimism of the materialists, since it was premised on a continuation of biological evolutionary logic, even if expressed in language colored by Jewish mysticism.170 Each individual, he claimed, contained something of a greater whole, a life force that transformed over time, with death only one more stage in its continual transformative progression: The same life-­principle that throbs in us to-­day throbbed in us when we were yet a protoplasm and will throb in us when we shall become even as 166 Ibid., 3. 167 Hahn had suggested that “Even the belief in the immortality of the soul must not suffer from evolution; on the contrary, if everything tends to higher evolution and higher life, why not the human soul, too?” Aaron Hahn, “The Great Science of Evolution,” in Progress: A Course of Lectures under the Auspices of the Sunday Lecture Society, 1:6 (1892), 10. 168 Spencer was cited as a prominent example of an agnostic who taught important lessons about humility in relation to “the limits of human knowledge,” asserting that we needed to acknowledge that, strictly speaking, “we can know nothing about the existence of God and the immortality of the soul.” Hahn, “The Mission of Skeptics,” 6. 169 Krauskopf, Evolution and Judaism, 254–55. 170 The image conjured by Hirsch is that of Lurianic kabbalism, wherein a fragmented and broken godhead is dispersed throughout creation, and the resultant divine sparks animate the creaturely vessels or kelipot in which they find themselves, remaining there until a mystical reunion takes place and the godhead is restored to itself.

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our God. If matter is indestructible, if force is persistent, who dare claim that life alone is perishable? Life is a spark of “the universal Life,” and “the universal life” is God . . . At the dawn of time into each of us a spark of “the universal life” was breathed, with the divine necessity to carry it forward, to develop and unfold it until the ultimate goal is reached. That spark has been clothed in many a garb, and has assumed many a shape. It has advanced through every stage of the lower species, and will advance through every higher state to come, until the God-­like will be reached. When developing time comes, the unfolding life-­principle forces the petals outward, they break and wither, but the seed lives. When developing time comes, the caterpillar-­crysalis [sic] shuffles off its old and uncouth coil and becomes the golden winged butterfly. So, too, when developing time comes in the slow unfolding of or sparkle of life, the mortal coil is returned to its primal earthly elements, is wept for and mourned over, while the spark of live lives and passes on to a higher and better state.171 In a sermon entitled “After Death – What?” (1890) Krauskopf returned to the subject, insisting that the belief in immortality was perfectly rational. The materialists who decried it had not understood the proper relationship between science and religion. They reject it [immortality] because science cannot prove it, forgetting that the proving it does not lie at all in the province of science. Science deals with matter and physical forces, and into these realms mind and soul do not enter.172 Furthermore, he went on, there were scientific justifications for the belief, such as the law of conservation of energy and mass.173 For Krauskopf, who identified a total of six scientific and theological arguments for the belief in immortality, the best argument was that immortality was a necessary consequence of the existence of a just God whose created world included much innocent suffering:174

171 Krauskopf, Evolution and Judaism, 264–65. 172 “After Death – What?,” in Miscellaneous Sunday Lectures (Philadelphia: Oscar Klonower, 1890), 7–8. 173 Krauskopf argued, “The scientific teaching of the indestructibility of existing things almost necessitates the belief in another and higher form of life than the present, and which is the outgrowth of it” (ibid., 8–9). 174 Krauskopf organized the lecture around these arguments, which included: 1) consensus of belief shared by the whole human race; 2) the scientific truth that whatever is, is forever; 3) the superiority/distinctiveness of the soul over matter; 4) the theory of evolution teaching the gradual unfolding of light from the lowest and simplest to the highest and most complex; 5) the

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The argument derived from the belief in a God of Justice is the crowning argument of them all. If God is, justice is; if justice is, there must be a Hereafter. If we believe in a just God we must believe in a Hereafter.175 Belief in the immortality of the soul was the only effective response to the despair that a materialistic worldview inculcated. “Without it,” Krauskopf wrote in 1898, “creation would have no purpose, the universe no meaning, God no existence, [and] mankind no reason for not quickly ending its stay in this vale of tears by a speedy exit through the gateway of suicide.”176 And he went on to exclaim: “What madness, what cruelty” for God to have created humans and to make their existence full of want and hardship; moreover, to design and endow . . . the human species with capacities and yearnings and aspirations for the highest and noblest ends – and all for no other purpose than that they might live and struggle and suffer their brief day, and then rot and be forgot, and add so much dust to this earthy crust.177 For Krauskopf, the materialist’s nihilism was unthinkable. In fact, he insisted, if one’s existence did indeed end with death, as was claimed, it would still be preferable to live one’s life as though this were not the case. Remarkably, he believed that [E]ven though we err, even though it be but a dream, a mere delusion, then, far better so sweet a dream, so comforting a delusion than the agonising thought: that death means total annihilation . . . Better to look upon the coffin of the material as the cradle of the spiritual . . . ​than to see naught else there than darkness and corruption and the hungry worm.178 Such an open admission suggested that Krauskopf was confident that others, too, would recognize the wisdom of such an attitude of hope – and the impotency and insensitivity of materialism’s response to suffering. As we have seen, the subject of the afterlife features prominently in Reform discussions of skepticism and of the conflict between religion and science in a number of different ways. For several thinkers, the question of immortality lay in a realm beyond science’s grasp, but for others, it was science itself, and especially evolutionary science, that suggested the very possibility. This interest soul’s gradual emancipation from the tyranny of matter in old age; 6) the justice of God and the problem of suffering. 175 Krauskopf, “After Death – What?,” 11. 176 “Laid to Rest” (Sunday Lecture, January 2, 1898), cited in Blood, Apostle of Reason: A Biography of Joseph Krauskopf, 158. 177 Krauskopf, “Laid to Rest,” 158–59. 178 Krauskopf, “After Death – What?,” 12.

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in the topic makes it a distinctive feature of North American classic Reform Jewish thought, and it is no coincidence that the Pittsburgh Platform gives such prominence to the claim, with Section Seven stating: We reassert the doctrine of Judaism that the soul is immortal, grounding the belief on the divine nature of human spirit, which forever finds bliss in righteousness and misery in wickedness. We reject as ideas not rooted in Judaism, the beliefs both in bodily resurrection and in Gehenna and Eden (Hell and Paradise) as abodes for everlasting punishment and reward.179 Once again, the prominence of this subject can be explained in large part by reference to the context of wider debates about skepticism and materialism in the late nineteenth century, in this case in relation to the problem of suffering. It is worth noting that it was by no means inevitable that a discussion of immortality would have featured in such debates – there are very many aspects of religion that critics attacked, but the teaching of a future life was not a particularly important one. In fact, while “The Great Agnostic,” Ingersoll, did dismiss the possibility of life beyond the grave, portraying it as a dangerous teaching of the Church that distracted from making the world a better place,180 Adler, the founder of the Ethical Culture movement, actually allowed for the possibility.181 But several things came together which help account for this interest in the afterlife and the considerable amount of time and effort that was invested in attempting to dismiss traditional Jewish teachings of the resurrection of the dead. In part the interest was due to the link between the hope of a future resurrection and the Zionist hope for the restoration of the Land, concerning which many Reform Jews were critical, and in part it was due to the likely non-­Jewish origins of the belief.182 But the key issue was that human 179 Section Seven reads: “We reassert the doctrine of Judaism that the soul is immortal, grounding the belief on the divine nature of human spirit, which forever finds bliss in righteousness and misery in wickedness. We reject as ideas not rooted in Judaism, the beliefs both in bodily resurrection and in Gehenna and Eden (Hell and Paradise) as abodes for everlasting punishment and reward.” For the text of the Platform, see Jacob, The Changing World of Reform Judaism: The Pittsburgh Platform in Retrospect. 180 Robert G. Ingersoll, “Hereafter” (Manchester: Abel Heywood, 1882). 181 Felix Adler, “Immortality” (New York: Society of Ethical Culture for New York, 1904), 8–9. 182 Petuchowski argues that Kohler associated the promises of resurrection with the promises of the restoration of the Land, which, as an anti-­Zionist, made the idea of resurrection particularly unpalatable to him. Petuchowski, “‘Immortality: Yes; Resurrection: No!’ Nineteenth-­Century Judaism Struggles with a Traditional Belief,” 145–47. In support, Hirsch and Kohler suggested that the fact that Sadducees believed in the resurrection, while Pharisees did not, was best explained by their “national and anti-­national attitudes rather than [ . . . ] their philosophical or religious dogmas.” Kaufmann Kohler and Emil G. Hirsch, Jewish Encyclopedia, s.v. “articles of faith.” Kohler wrote more about this, saying, “The Jewish belief in resurrection is intimately

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reason rejected the miraculous, and that the miraculous resurrection of the body, that is, a belief based upon a pre-­scientific worldview, left Judaism open to ridicule.183 At the same time, there was also a concern to show that belief in the immortality of the soul was entirely reasonable. Presumably, as a correlate of human nature, immortality did not fall into the category of the miraculous. Considering the context of the wider debate about disbelief, a distinction between bodily resurrection and spiritual immortality makes good sense. On the one hand, the rabbis demonstrated their modernist skeptical credentials in rejecting the pre-­modern, alien beliefs that had shaped the traditional Jewish teaching of the resurrection of the dead, thus avoiding the ridicule of the critics of religion. On the other hand, the Reformers addressed the problem of suffering with the promise of future justice in an afterlife, which went a long way toward countering the nihilism and pessimism that they believed an atheistic worldview offered. Belief in immortality was reasonable – after all, even the agnostic Adler agreed it might be possible – and several went so far as to argue that science, that is, evolutionary science, actually justified belief in immortality. The Reformers could thus offer a very a powerful hope which unbelievers like Ingersoll could not, and which Adler could allow only grudgingly.

Conclusion This essay has attempted to demonstrate the role of Reform Jews’ engagement with unbelievers in explaining certain characteristics of nineteenth-­century Reform Jewish thought in the United States. One might object to this view, however, and assert that indeed the opposite is true – that it was instead a growing interest in skepticism and doubt among Reform Jewish leaders that ultimately caused a change of heart towards unbelievers such as Adler and bound up with the hope for the restoration of the Israelitish nation on its own soil, and consequently rather national; indeed, originally purely local and territorial.” Kohler, Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered, 392. Kohler was also suspicious of the non-­Jewish origins of the idea, although he changed his mind several times in the course of his career as to whether the origins were Persian or not. In Philadelphia, the father of radical Reform Judaism, David Einhorn (1809–1879), had suggested that the idea of the resurrection of the body was of Persian origin. At the time, Kohler, his son-­in-­law, had disagreed, stating that the supposition that the doctrine of Resurrection was of Persian origin was by no means established and that the time would come when the influence of a Persian arch-­civilization that had colored so much of the Bible would be found erroneous. Kohler had changed his position by the time of German publication in 1910 of his Jewish Theology where he stated “The whole conceptual framework of Resurrection originated without question in the Persian system of beliefs.” Grundriss einer systematischen Theologie des Judentums auf geschichtlicher Grundlage, 226. However, he appeared to change his mind again when he removed this statement from the English translation in 1918. 183 Kohler, Jewish Theology: Systematically and Historically Considered, 297, 395.

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Ingersoll. From this perspective, the new interest in doubt is better accounted for in terms of a generational change associated with the classical reforms of the Pittsburgh Platform in 1885, rather than as the result of engagement with such infidels. After all, it is striking that Wise (and mid-­nineteenth-­century contemporaries such as Isador Kalisch) had been aggressively opposed to biblical criticism, while the following generation of Reformers had had no such reservations. Was this not an example of the younger generation feeling less threatened than its elders by cultural change? It could certainly be argued that this shift in the movement’s attitude towards the embracing of skepticism and doubt at the time of the Pittsburgh Platform would naturally enough lead to a greater appreciation of the value of these infidels and an interest in their shared concerns by the next generation of Reform leaders. However, there are problems with this explanation. First, the “changing of the guard” argument for Reform’s embrace of doubt really only works in one of the four areas we have been discussing, namely, biblical criticism. While one might want to distinguish between the first and second generation of Reform thinkers’ attitudes toward modern critical biblical scholarship, the other challenges levied by the skeptics – namely, religious hypocrisy and moral failings, scientific materialism, and the problem of suffering – interested Wise just as much as they interested his successors. Second, one would still have to account for why the second generation chose to embrace doubt to the extent they did. Whatever other factors might be identified, whether internal or external, the influence and effect of engaging with high-­profile infidels remains one of the most plausible. After all, the context of Reform writings on these subjects was frequently that of engagement with anti-­religious skeptics; and, in making this argument, there are scholarly precedents.184 Third, the argument for generational change does not do justice to some of the ideas that distinguished US Reform’s discourse of doubt, in particular the approaches to immortality and panentheism, which, once again, were as much of interest to Wise as to his successors. Thus, it seems reasonable to view the theological approaches espoused by Reformers of the pre-­and post-­Pittsburgh period as, at least in part, a consequence of their engagement with unbelievers. Michael Meyer has argued that representatives of the “classical” Reform Judaism of this period, such as Kohler and Hirsch, were not original Jewish thinkers and had effectively translated the ideas of Abraham Geiger and other Germans into the popular thought of American Reform. But this over-­states 184 As noted earlier, Kraut suggests that Hirsch’s social justice concerns, as featured in the Pittsburgh Platform, were likely influenced by Adler. Kraut, From Reform Judaism to Ethical Culture: The Religious Evolution of Felix Adler, 181.

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the case: Meyer himself admits that there were “new foci” as a result of greater exposure to Christian theology and secular philosophies, which led to interest in higher biblical criticism, comparative religion, Darwinism, and social relevance.185 As we have seen, to these one might add a panentheistic tendency and a pronounced interest in modernist justifications for immortality; issues in which there is very little solid evidence of interest among Reform Jews before this time, in the United States or elsewhere. When one considers that many of these “foci” arose in juxtaposition in debates about atheism, skepticism, and materialistic philosophy, and often explicitly in response to Ingersoll’s or Adler’s attacks on institutional religion, it seems sensible to suggest that one of the most significant factors shaping US Reform at this formative period was the wider discourse of doubt. After all, as proponents of unbelief, both Ingersoll and Adler were high profile and prolific; Ingersoll’s popularity and notoriety made him nothing less than a cultural phenomenon, and Adler’s reputation as a social reformer and his insider knowledge of Judaism made him impossible to ignore within Jewish circles. Together they were instrumental in creating an environment that was unique to the United States and which generated highly distinctive responses to the highly distinctive challenges facing Jewish Reformers at that time. For the leaders of North American Reform Judaism in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, then, the challenge presented by systematic doubt cast something of a pall over their work. An examination of these leaders’ engagement with Ingersoll, Adler, and unbelief more generally brings the key issues into high relief. Unsurprisingly, they felt obliged to argue against the skepticism of agnostic or atheistic critics of religion; in their view, these had thrown the baby out with the bath water, had falsely claimed a monopoly upon science, ethics, and social justice, and could offer only a pessimistic, nihilistic vision of the future. But Reformers of both the first and second generation could hardly avoid the reality that their progressive movement was itself frequently skeptical in its approaches to religious texts, traditions, and rituals. Thus they argued for the healthy skepticism of a rational faith wherein challenges to naïve biblical beliefs rightly took center stage, where there was an imperative to demonstrate that Judaism could be reconciled with science, and where criticism of religious hypocrisy and abuse was to be welcomed even when coming from opponents of religion. A shared conviction that the intellectual and moral progress of humankind had often been brought about by unbelievers meant that some Reformers came to appreciate and value the contributions of critics of religion like Ingersoll and Adler. All this helps explain some of the most distinctive aspects of US Reform Jewish thought, including how a panentheistic tendency is apparent 185 Meyer, Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, 272.

Discourses of Doubt

253

alongside a de-­anthropomorphizing programme in relation to biblical studies and/or in relation to the conflict between religion and science. Likewise, these factors help explain another particularly interesting part of this discourse, and one which reflects the inherent tension within Reform theology, namely, the idea of life after death. Here, a solid rejection of the pre-­modern biblical belief in the resurrection of the dead accompanied a firm adherence to the idea of immortality as a reasonable belief that solved the problem of suffering and thus acted as a bulwark against the damaging effects of skepticism and unbelief.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz Asaf Yedidya Efrata College

Zeev Jawitz’s (1847–1924) literary and communal activities were highly varied. They encompassed virtually all areas of culture, history, language, literature, and pedagogy, and he left his stamp on everything he engaged. He realized that he was living in an age of transition from life in the diaspora to in the national homeland – an age that presented complex problems together with occasional opportunities. Jawitz strove to harmonize Orthodoxy with life as it was developing in the land of Israel, in part by blending it together with nascent Jewish nationalism. He understood that a people returning to its homeland needed a national culture, one that was both broad and deep, and that the narrow world of halakhah would no longer suffice. Writing in a positive rather than a subversive spirit, he strove to construct a picture of the past that was traditional, but with a view to creating a new programme for religious education that would meet the needs of the time without causing a rift with the past. He also attempted to advance these ideas in the political sphere through the Zionist Organization’s “Mizrachi” party, of which he was one of the founders as well as editor of its journal, HaMizrach. This article will analyze Jawitz’s cultural-­Zionist project and the until now unknown and complicated relationship between him and Ahad Ha’am.

A Harmony of Judaism and Zionism: Modern Jewish Culture Through the Lens of Zeev Jawitz One of the final days of the First World War found Zionist author and historian Zeev Jawitz,1 who was then residing in England, pen in hand, responding to a youthful associate who sought his advice before migrating to Palestine. Jawitz was pleased by the material development of the Jewish community in the land of Israel. However, he felt burdened by the cultural reality which prevailed in the New Yishuv and among many members of the Zionist movement who, influenced by the cultural Zionism of Achad Ha‘am and his circle, had distanced themselves from the traditional vision of Judaism as Jawitz understood it:

1 Concerning Jawitz, see Abraham Samuel Herschberg, “‫תולדות רבי זאב יעבץ ז״ל – למלאת עשר שנים‬ ‫”ליום פטירתו‬, in Toledot Yisra’el 14 (Tel Aviv, 1954/1955–1962/1963): 123–61; Geulah Bat-­Yehudah, ‫( יודע העתים‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 2006); Reuven Michael, ‫הכתיבה ההיסטורית היהודית‬ (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1993), 424–65.

255

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Asaf Yedidya

And lo, there comes from Russia a congregation of persons, in their mouths the law of Nihilismus, the god of nothingness, on whose altar they offered up in entirety the law of Moses in the fire ignited by Wellhausen and his band of German despoilers, enemies of Israel. They have forever removed the splendor from the little children of my people. Other than the Hebrew prattle in which they glory, they aspire to nothing. Of our holy Scriptures, as written and transmitted, there is not a trace, let alone of the Talmud, on which the entire House of Israel is constructed. Even our beautiful, delicate language, they have torn asunder, leaving naught of it whole. In this spirit they nourish the children and adolescents in their schools. Their motto regarding matters of religion is “a new God instead of an old God now aged.” This is their platform. Meanwhile our platform is clearly inscribed in Isaiah 2:2–4.2 On the eve of Purim 1889, Achad Ha‘am (pseudonym of Asher Ginsberg, 1856–1927) published an article in the newspaper HaMelitz, titled “‫”לא זה הדרך‬ (“This is Not the Way”). This article called for national-­cultural activity to be prioritized over practical settlement activity, and for the Zionist cause to be advanced “neither with treasure nor with might, but with the spirit.”3 With the publication of this piece, Achad Ha’am effectively birthed cultural Zionism, a movement that the author would lead for many years. Achad Ha‘am doubted that there was any possibility of success for the efforts of the Chovevei Tziyon, and his skepticism extended later to the political and diplomatic activity of the Zionist movement headed by Herzl. Achad Ha‘am believed that what he described as the problem of Judaism, namely, assimilation and loss of Jewish identity, was both a weightier and a more urgent matter than the problem of the Jews, or antisemitism. In his view, so long as Jewish minds had not yet been readied, and so long as there was no national culture to nourish the national identity of the Jewish masses, popular support for a Jewish national movement was an impossibility. He therefore championed the creation of a cultural center in the land of Israel, which would take the lead in creating a new and comprehensive national culture.4 The basic elements of this culture, according to Achad Ha‘am, would be “the land of Israel and its settlement, the language of our ancestors and its literature, the memory and history of our ancestors, the foundational customs of our ancestors, and their national culture



2 Jawitz to Haim Judah Rate, Kislev 2, 5679 [November 6, 1918], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Schwadron Collection, Jawitz file. 3 Asher Ginsberg, “‫”לא זה הדרך‬, HaMelitz 29 (II Adar 12, 5649 /March 15, 1889): 4. Concerning Ginsberg, see Joseph Goldstein, ‫( אחד העם‬Jerusalem: Keter, 1992); Steven Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet: Ahad Ha’am and the Origins of Zionism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). 4 Gideon Shimoni, The Zionist Ideology (Hanover, NH: Brandeis, 1995), 108–12.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

257

across the generations.”5 In keeping with his vision, Achad Ha‘am conceived of Jewish schools as playing a key role in inculcating the new culture. He was the unofficial leader of the Sons of Moses, a society founded for the purpose of realizing this vision. After the demise of that group, he remained an intellectual authority and counselor to many young people who had adopted his orientation and devoted themselves to the renewed Hebrew culture that he advocated. At the same time, Achad Ha‘am did not cease his own involvement in various cultural projects.6 The ideas of a “cultural Zionism,” a “cultural center” in the land of Israel, and a Jewish “national culture” came to be associated indelibly with Achad Ha‘am’s name. These concepts stood in opposition to the ideas and ideals of rival groups within the Zionist movement, especially political Zionism and religious Zionism. Religious Jews had bitterly opposed Achad Ha‘am as early as the 1894 dispute over the Hebrew school in Jaffa, and this hostility intensified after the cultural debate that erupted in the Zionist movement in 1901.7 The religious-­Zionist Mizrachi party, which was established in the dispute’s aftermath, sought to limit the Zionist movement to the religiously neutral pursuits of diplomacy and settlement, while curbing the efforts of the Democratic Faction to give the kind of cultural activities advocated by Achad Ha‘am a place on the agenda of the movement.8 There is a certain irony in the fact that the Modern Hebrew term for culture (‫ )תרבות‬was proposed in its current sense by Zeev Jawitz, a detractor of Achad Ha‘am and one of the founders of the Mizrachi movement. Even as Achad Ha‘am rose to prominence in the Jewish national movement, Jawitz, through efforts both highly similar to and profoundly different from those of his opponent, sought to give new life to the culture of the Jewish nation by fostering love of the land of Israel, developing the Hebrew language, expanding Hebrew literary production, and investigating Jewish history. As noted, Jawitz understood that his time was one of transition from a diasporic mode of living to a different form of life in the national homeland, and that this transition would present both complex problems and rare opportunities. He aspired to adapt Orthodoxy to the new world unfolding in Palestine, in part by fusing it with reawakened Jewish nationalism. He was active in all areas of culture, from history to language, literature, and pedagogy, tailoring each to the teachings of Orthodoxy.



5 Asher Ginsberg, ‫( כל כתבי אחד העם‬Jerusalem, Dvir, 1946/1947), 440. 6 Joseph Goldstein, “‫ סיפורו של מסדר חשאי‬:‫”בני משה‬, Zion 57 (1992): 175–205; Yosef Salmon, Do Not Provoke Providence: Orthodoxy in the Grip of Nationalism (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2014), 213–26. 7 See here, pp. 287–88. 8 Yosef Salmon, Religion and Zionism: First Encounters (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2002), 200–234; Ehud Luz, Parallels Meet: Religion and Nationalism in the Early Zionist Movement 1882–1904 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1988), 227–41.

258

Asaf Yedidya

Because he understood that a nation returning to its homeland would need a culture whose breadth and depth greatly exceeded the confines of halakhah, Jawitz attempted to produce a new but also traditional account of the past, promoting literature that was positive rather than subversive, as well as a new program of religious education, intended both to satisfy current cultural needs while leaving tradition intact. Jawitz was a pioneer in the mission to create a new Hebrew culture based on tradition, education, and nationalism, but the meteoric rise and powerful cultural leadership of Achad Ha‘am has largely eclipsed his accomplishments. In this article, I will retrace the cultural activities of Zeev Jawitz and examine his fascinating, hidden relationship with Achad Ha‘am.

Early Literary Activity Zeev Jawitz was born in 1847 in Kolno, a town in northeastern Poland. His father, a wealthy merchant, was known as a strident mitnaged and a fervently Orthodox Jew. In 1860, the family moved to Łomża, and then, five years later, to Warsaw. The elder Jawitz provided his son with an education in the Tanakh and Hebrew language, and hired private tutors to teach him European languages, including French, Polish, and German. When not occupied with formal studies, Zeev avidly consumed works of geography, history, and the Haskalah, and was particularly influenced by the writings of Josephus and the stories of Abraham Mapu. He married at eighteen. Widowed while still young, he subsequently married Yechiel Mikhel Pines’ sister Golda.9 Love letters sent to Golda in 1870, while the couple was engaged, offer us a window into Jawitz’s worldview and the values on which he intended to build their mutual home. In these letters, Jawitz emphasizes the value of bringing together Torah and secular learning while giving pride of place to the former, and makes clear that he sees himself as a Jewish nationalist powerfully attached to the national trappings of Judaism. He stresses the superiority of Hebrew over European languages, establishing it as the language of their correspondence. Jawitz sees himself as a boulder unmoved from his faith and values by beleaguering gale winds, as “that Hebrew true to his God and his nation, to his holy religion, to the ancient land of his forefathers, and to his sacred tongue; [ . . . ] that young one whom the plagues of this generation have not yet done (and will not do) any harm, whom cold materialism and indifferentism do not allure, for the sun melts them, and like crusts of ice they shatter.”10 Jawitz’s self-­esteem was considerable. He sensed that he was different from many of his contemporaries who had dabbled in secular knowledge only to find themselves forsaking 9 Bat-­Yehudah, ‫יודע העתים‬, 11–14. 10 Jawitz to Pines, n.d., Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection, 1602 Arc. 4.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

259

tradition, or at least saddled with feelings of inferiority when confronted by European culture. However, Jawitz did not spend his early professional life as an author. Immediately after marrying Golda he began work in publishing. When earnings from that profession proved unsatisfactory, he moved to the rug trade. After failing to succeed in that field, he became a producer of pen barrels, but in this area, too, he was unsuccessful. On the advice of his brother-­in-­law Yechiel Michael Pines, and with the encouragement of his wife, Jawitz ended his business career and gave free rein to his literary inclinations. Despite his religious fervor and the influence of Pines, once Jawitz had joined the world of writers he sought out the companionship of eastern European maskilim. Early on, he pursued a relationship with the famed Hebrew poet Yehudah Leib Gordon (1830–1892), despite the dogged campaign waged by the latter against the rabbinic establishment. Nonetheless, the rampant secularization in the Pale of Settlement greatly worried Jawitz, who saw himself as taking the middle way between conservatives and defectors.11 As attested in one of Jawitz’s letters, he sent his articles to Gordon seeking his opinion as an influential and well-­known literary luminary. In the letter, Gordon expresses great interest in the work and background of his younger colleague: I do perceive things to come in your future, and I perceive in you a much-­ blessed portent for Israel, and I would therefore hold dear your love and seek your intimacy, and if you should again address me, tell me, please, how old you are, where you were born, where you came of age among the wise, and how it is that a wholesome spirit of the Lord found and rested upon you in its very perfection as it is today.12 Jawitz also developed ties with Peretz Smolenskin (1842–1885), the secular nationalist editor of HaShachar, and it was in that periodical that Jawitz published his earliest articles.13 Ultimately, though, he came to be closest to moderate, traditional maskilim of the Russian Empire, such as Albert Harkavy (1835–1919), Avraham S. Friedberg (1838–1902), Samuel Joseph Fünn (1818–1891), and especially Shaul Pinchas Rabinowitz (1845–1910), who then resided in Warsaw and mentored Jawitz during the earliest stages of his literary career. By the time Jawitz had joined the maskilim, Jewish nationalism had supplanted enlightenment and modernity as the focus of eastern European maskilic discourse,

11 Concerning Gordon, see Shmuel Feiner, 19‫ תנועת ההשכלה היהודית במאה ה־‬:‫( מלחמת תרבות‬Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar, 2010), 265–78; Michael Stanislawski, “For Whom Do I Toil?”: Judah Leib Gordon and the Crisis of Russian Jewry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). 12 Gordon to Jawitz, n.d., NYPL, Jawitz Collection, item 199. 13 Concerning Smolenskin, see Shmuel Feiner, Haskalah and History: The Emergence of a Modern Jewish Historical Consciousness (Liverpool: Littman Library, Liverpool University Press, 2002), 317–40.

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and the writings of the new entrant were very much in keeping with this new trend.14 The city of Warsaw, which had not previously been a center of maskilic literature on a par with Vilnius and Odessa, had begun rising in importance in the world of Hebrew journalism and literature in Czarist Russia. 15 It was in the 1880s that HaTzefira, published in that city, became the preeminent Jewish newspaper in Czarist Russia, and editor Selig Slonimski was joined in Warsaw by distinguished Hebrew journalists and writers such as Nahum Sokolow, Rabinowitz, and Avraham S. Friedberg. The importance of the city as a literary hub crystalized in the ensuing decade, with the arrival of David Frischmann, Isaac Loeb Perez, and Ben Avigdor. Jawitz thus commenced his literary career just as Warsaw began its rapid rise in the world of Hebrew literature, a rise which would soon result in the city becoming home to prominent Hebrew publishing houses and printing facilities. In his first articles published in Smolenskin’s HaShachar, the earliest of which appeared in 5642 [1881/1882], Jawitz argued that the Jewish people fundamentally differed from other nations and for this reason could not integrate among them, “because just as iron and clay cannot become a single solid mass, so we and they cannot become a single nation, for which reason they always have been unready to absorb us and quick to eject.”16 Emancipation, he averred, was no solution, and the new antisemitism only proved the fundamental differentness of the Jews. The only solution to this situation was for the Jews to return to the land of Israel. In another article published that year, this time in HaMaggid under the pseudonym Jacob (‫)יעק״ב‬, Jawitz described renewed settlement of the land of Israel as a solution for the contemporary spiritual ills of Jewry. He argued that the Haskalah had begun as a positive development, but now was ushering the Jews of Europe toward secularism, and that the combination of emancipation and its resultant socio-­economic realities were placing pressure on Jews to change their way of life, as clearly demonstrated by increased violations of the dietary laws and the Sabbath. A viable synthesis of enlightenment and tradition, according to Jawitz, could be created only in the land of Israel. Only there could the Jews live according to their authentic spirit and original culture, without external coercion. Jawitz would refine and develop this argument in the years that followed: There shall they establish their schools and their halls of study according to the spirit of the people of Israel. We shall maintain the conventions 14 See ibid., 341–48. 15 Mordechai Zalkin, “‫”ההשכלה היהודית בפולין – קווים לדיון‬, in ‫ יהודי פולין לדורותיהם‬:‫קיום ושבר‬, ed. Israel Bartal and Israel Gutman (Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar, 2001), 2:404–9. 16 Jawitz, “‫ מכתב אל‬. . . ”, HaShachar 10 (1881/1882): 467.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

261

practiced in Europe, not due to their reputation, but because they are truly good. However, our wholesome Torah no longer will be set aside on account of their empty palaver, for we possess an abundant inheritance from our father’s home and have no need to go knocking upon the doors of those ancient Greeks and Romans who consume the choicest time of the pupils at school. [ . . . ] Not for us are the laws of the Romans, for aside from the sanctity of the laws of our Torah and Talmud, are not our laws superior in their rectitude and righteousness to the statutes of the Romans? Why then ought we hover at the threshing floors of aliens to beg for chaff when our silos are full of grain and bread? Thus is it clear that just as in Europe it is the Greek and the Roman flavor that is the spirit ruling all, thus shall the Torah of the Lord be enthroned when God grants us safe settlement in the land of our forefathers. Instead of the lyre of Orpheus, we shall have the lyre of David, and instead of the Corpus Juris, Choshen Mishpat and Even Ha‘ezer shall judge among us: between husband and wife and between a person and his friend – and with this the Torah and Talmud shall come to be esteemed sevenfold, by the entire nation, as complete.17 This article appears to be the first in which Jawitz focused on the intellectual and cultural aspects of national rebirth and the return to Zion, antedating Achad Ha‘am by several years. Here Jawitz first discusses, if briefly, his view of the religious character of the Jewish commonwealth to rise in the land of Israel. In an 1884 article entitled “‫לברית עם לאור גויים‬,” Jawitz discussed the Jewish experience of emancipation and the ideology developed by Jews seeking to assimilate. Liberal Judaism in Germany had identified the destiny of Judaism with the dissemination of the universal values of reason and ethics throughout the world, rather than with practical religious ritual. It accordingly replaced the vision of a messianic redemption, consisting chiefly of a return to Zion and reconstitution there of the Jewish monarchy, with a vision of the End of Days in which the Jews enjoyed equal rights, and enlightenment and the brotherhood of nations reigned in Europe.18 Jawitz, however, took issue with the idea of destiny posited by the German Reformers. He argued that it was nothing but a fraud, and a fig leaf to conceal their abandonment of the vision of a return to Zion in favor of national and cultural assimilation. As far as he was concerned, Jewish destiny could be fulfilled only in the land of Israel: When Israel dwells on its land, unaccompanied by aliens, then it truly can be an exemplar to the nations. Then, when it arranges the pronouncements of its government in accordance 17 Jawitz, “‫”עט סופרים – עצת שלום מאת יעק״ב‬, HaMaggid, July 26, 1882, 3. 18 See Michael A. Meyer, Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, 70–72.

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Asaf Yedidya

with the Torah, according law and justice to the stranger sojourning in its midst, all the nations of the earth shall see that the Torah of kindness that the Lord gave His people is lofty and exalted, and Israel a single people in truth and righteousness. Yet if a man of Israel carries on his lips the sublime verse “a single statute and a single law [shall there be for you and for the stranger who sojourns with you]” at a time when we ask, like a pauper at the door, to be accorded a part of the rights of the nations in whose midst we reside, who will take notice of us, inasmuch as we have a vested interest in the matter?19 Whenever Jews in exile seek justice, according to Jawitz, they will be suspected of having an ulterior motive. Only once reinstalled in their sovereign land would they be in a position to create a model society. Similar criticism of universal messianism appeared six years later in “‫עבדות בתוך חירות‬,” an article in which Achad Ha‘am contended that the self-­denial of Western Jews and their subjugation to emancipation were responsible for the rise of this belief.20 Over the years, articles by Jawitz in Hebrew newspapers would extend to the fields of philosophy, Jewish history, and literature.

Reworked Rabbinic Legend The first book by Jawitz, ‫שיחות מני קדם‬, appeared in 5647 [1886/1887]. Distributed as a gift to readers of Keneset Yisra’el, a periodical edited by Shaul Pinchas Rabinowitz, the work contained nineteen talmudic legends in a reworked Hebrew translation. Jawitz was the first individual to publish an anthology of reworked rabbinic lore, preceding Bialik and Rawnitzki (‫)ספר האגדה‬, Berdyczewski (‫)ממקור ישראל‬, and others. Until his time, maskilim had been wary of the irrational dimension of talmudic legend and generally avoided the genre; when they acknowledged it, they did so with the maskilic mission of separating out the rational and ethical elements of the text from its mystical components. Meanwhile, the Orthodox, especially the scholars among them, downplayed the importance of legend relative to halakhic sections of the Talmud. Jawitz, however, was only too happy to work with aggadah, and in doing so legitimated it both as worthwhile religious literature and also as self-­sufficient, fantastically inclined aesthetic literature independent of its original, talmudic context.21 In the foreword to his book, Jawitz discusses the similar essence of Jewish and gentile legend, as well as the differences in how each are regarded. According to him, Jewish legend is an ongoing intellectual literary project of the Jewish

19 Jawitz, “‫”לברית עם לאור גוים‬, HaMelitz 20 (Tevet 4, 5645/December 22, 1884), 1598. 20 Ginsberg, ‫כל כתבי אחד העם‬, 64–69. 21 Yaffah Berlovitz, “‫”׳שיחות ושמועות מני קדם׳ פואטיקה ומתודה בתורת העיבוד של זאב יעבץ‬, in Encyclopedia of the Jewish Story (Ramat Gan: Bar-­Ilan University Press, 2004), 1:203–6.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

263

people composed in the unifying spirit of Scripture, and its influence has been felt in the philosophical, mystical, and liturgical works of Jewish scholars since time immemorial. Aggadah, he explains, has educational, ethical, and psychological functions: Like a compassionate mother who can both delight the fruit of her womb as he naps and chastise him with the rod of her mouth, so can legend, the faithful sustainer, arrange her words and poise her ways with young Israel, whom she rears in her bosom. When he is dispirited, she gladdens him with the joy of her delights, expressing to him traditions from long ago. To find a moment’s retreat for his soul, depressed and subjugated in the exile, she raises him aloft atop the wings of the wind, causes him to ride lofty heights, conceals him in utmost depths, hastens him to refuge in the expanses of the kingdoms of dream and fancy, delivers him to the far reaches of the inception of peoples and the beginnings of the earth, and when her pupil Israel turns off the path, she turns his ear to hear rebuke, reminds him of the deeds of the forefathers, fervently arrays before his eyes the evil things that came upon him when he strayed from the good and straight path.22 Jawitz identifies three subgenres within aggadah. The first, which he designates katvut (“writing”), consists of brief aphorisms, while the second and third, dubbed shemu’ot (“traditions”) and sichot (“discourses”), are defined as types of “haggadot.” The category “traditions” comprises historical stories told not just to document past events, but to imprint them in the national consciousness: “We are to seek in the shemu’ot not the reality of the event, but the impression that the event made on the soul of the nation, whose feelings are more powerful than its knowledge.”23 Sichot, “discourses,” are folk tales that give expression to the authentic values and aspirations of the people. Despite his three categories, only the second and the third subgenres are represented in Jawitz’s book. He establishes a parallel between the collection of folklore assembled by the brothers Grimm and the legends contained in the Talmud, both of which he views as national possessions of the highest order. He laments the fact that Jews scorn those legends and their redactors, as opposed to the Germans, who hold an endless debt of gratitude to the Grimm brothers for their work. One of Jawitz’s goals in ‫ שיחות מני קדם‬was to strengthen the national consciousness of the Jewish people and concomitantly their love for the land of Israel. Thus, most of the legends included in the anthology are set in the land of Israel. Even in those that transpire elsewhere, such as the story of Nachum 22 Jawitz, ‫( שיחות מני קדם‬Warsaw, 1886/1887), 9. 23 Ibid., 10.

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Asaf Yedidya

of Gimzo, the protagonist hails from the land of Israel and has been sent on a mission to the seat of power in Greece or Rome. The periods during which the stories take place range from the time of the Patriarchs to the reigns of David and Solomon and the era of the Second Temple and the Mishnah. This long period is what Yaffah Berlovitz has defined as “The Time of the Land of Israel”: the period stretching from the Patriarchal Age to the completion of the Mishnah, during which, excepting periods of exile to Egypt and later, Babylonia, the people of Israel lived in the land of Israel.24 A second goal of the work was to emphasize the spiritual and ethical superiority of the Torah and of Jewish scholars. Many of the legends implicitly portray clashes of ideology between Judaism and the beliefs and views of the Greeks or Romans, and several include explicit debates between Jewish and gentile scholars.25 In a September 1886 letter to Michel Erlanger that preceded the publication of the book by some months, Jawitz revealed yet another aim of the anthology: “to enrich and entertain schoolchildren during those times when they are not occupied in the schoolhouse, and also my brothers the simple farmers on Sabbaths and festival days, and to impart to them fear of the Lord, affection for things sacred, love for their people and their land, and love of work and industriousness.”26 A novelty at the time, this cultural and national commentary on rabbinic legend exercised considerable influence on the way in which Bialik conceived of that corpus and on ‫ספר האגדה‬, the opus he and Rawnitzki produced that stemmed from that conception. Bialik and Rawnitzki belonged to the school of Zionism founded by Achad Ha‘am, and their work was deeply influenced by his thinking. They strove to recanonize the mainly literary-­historical sources of Hebrew culture, and ‫ספר האגדה‬, which reflects the myths and national values of the authors of aggadic literature, was a critical part of their labor.27 Unlike them, Jawitz never presumed to create a new national literary canon, but instead worked to demonstrate the hidden potential of the existing genre.

Educational Pursuits in the Land of Israel In 5646 [1885/1886], Jawitz decided to immigrate to the land of Israel and began the necessary preparations. His expectations were high, and his plans indicated

24 Berlovitz, “‫שיחות ושמועות‬,” 206–9. 25 Tsafi Sebba-­Elran, “‫׳שלמה ואשמדאי׳ או ׳מלך בלהות׳ – גלגולו המודרני של סיפור חז״ל באסופה ׳שיחות מני קדם׳‬ ‫”מאת זאב יעבץ‬, Iggud 3 (2007): 172–76. 26 Jawitz to Erlanger, Elul 14, 5646 [September 14, 1885], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection, Arc. 4 1602. 27 Eliezer Schweid, “‫”ביאליק ומדע היהדות‬, Jewish Studies 35 (1995): 60–68; Israel Bartal, “:‫מפעל הכינוס‬ ‫”מדעי היהדות ועיצוב ׳תרבות לאומית׳ בארץ ישראל‬, in ‫וזאת ליהודה – מחקרים בתולדות ארץ ישראל ויישובה מוגשים‬ ‫ליהודה בן פורת‬, ed. Yehoshua Ben-­Arieh and Elchanan Reiner (Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben Tzvi, 2003), 520–29.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

265

a horizon of quite a few years. He saw himself restoring authentic Hebrew culture to the land after many long years of exile. As he wrote in a friendly letter to scholar Albert Harkavy, This creed, that of the greatness of our homeland and the glory of our Torah, is the absolute treasure that is hidden away for the Yishuv, and no man yet has discovered it. All my days I have thirsted for this time, wondering when I would reach this point, when I, insufficient as I am, would be able to make my meager contribution to cultivate Hebrew culture – pure and unadulterated by all the dross of Europe but arranged in the European manner – among those settling the estates of the Chovevei Tziyon, settlers I see as a foundation stone from which the nation will be established when the Lord returns the captivity of His people.28 Explicit in these lines is the prominent role that Jawitz planned for himself as the rejuvenator of authentic Hebrew culture in a renewed Jewish country, an end that he intended to accomplish, inter alia, by carefully winnowing the cultural influence of Europe, discarding the chaff but keeping what would be useful to his project. He identifies the Chovevei Tziyon, who had realized the Zionist idea by settling in the land of Israel, as a vehicle for this cultural renaissance. From this point onward, Jawitz never lost this sense of his destiny. In the spring of 1887, Jawitz moved with his family to the land of Israel, where they settled in Yehud, near Petach Tikvah. His first pursuit after arriving was in the field of education. At the time, educational institutions in the new agricultural settlements were only slightly more sophisticated than the traditional cheder; studies were augmented by Hebrew and French, but lacked a formal curriculum.29 Jawitz, in search of a livelihood, wrote to Baron Edmond de Rothschild asking to be installed as an educator or as superintendent of schools in one of the moshavot, detailing his educational doctrine and describing a comprehensive new curriculum that would suit the novel reality of observant Jews engaged in the agricultural development of the land. Jawitz later published his plan in German in an 1888 issue of Jüdische Presse, and subsequently, in 1891, bearing the title “‫ ”על דבר החינוך לילדי האיכרים בארץ ישראל‬in Ha’aretz, a journal published in Jerusalem under his editorship. In offering his highly innovative plan – which demonstrated a deep understanding of the psyche of the rural Jews of the Yishuv and of the many needs of the settlements of the First Aliyah30 –

28 Jawitz to Harkavy, Tammuz 24, 5646 [July 27, 1886], Central Zionist Archives (CZA) A9\139. 29 Zeev Walk, “‫”צמיחת החינוך הלאומי במושבות‬, in ‫ספר העלייה הראשונה‬, ed. Mordechai Eliav (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-­Zvi, 1981), 414–17. 30 Mordechai Bar-­Lev, “‫”ר׳ זאב יעבץ כמבשר החינוך הדתי לאומי בארץ ישראל‬, in ‫( בשבילי התחייה‬1986/1987), 2:98.

266

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Jawitz pioneered the construction of a national-­religious curriculum for the children of the New Yishuv. Jawitz was opposed to transplanting the exilic model of Jewish education to the land of Israel, arguing that it was “limited to the spheres of information and ethics, and didn’t include practical training.31 In other words, due to the professions of Jews in Europe, which did not include agriculture and manufacturing, Jewish education there had been strictly academic, with no vocational component. But in the land of Israel, Jawitz argued, at a time of national renaissance, there was a need for vocational education, and especially for agronomy, “that favorable gift that is the possession of every nation and language.” Jawitz accepted the theory, current in maskilic circles, that over-­concentration in commerce posed an ethical threat to Jews,32 but he believed that the proposed solution to this, a return to productive labor, particularly agriculture, could only occur in the land of Israel: “Our nation can be cured of this malignant leprosy, the plague of chaos, only in that place where God will redeem Israel from all its troubles, in the holy land that the Lord swore to our forefathers to give to them.”33 Vocational education, according to Jawitz, had to include agriculture, crafts, and physical education. Jawitz also advocated adjusting the academic curriculum to include maskilic and nationalistic values alongside those of traditional Judaism. Foremost would be study of the Torah: “The Torah of God and performance of the commandments must be the mainstay and purpose of the education of the children of our nation.”34 Another area of academic study recommended by Jawitz, listed under the rubric “Love of the Nation and the Land,” included Hebrew, Jewish and general history, and geography of the land of Israel, all of which Jawitz believed would enhance students’ national consciousness, which he described as “the genesis of the settlement of Israel in its land.”35 Fifteen years later, Jawitz wrote that the function of the educator would be “slowly to cultivate the heart of the pupil, to pour of his spirit into him, and to make the spirit of the nation a spirit of life in his nostrils to bestir him all the days of his life.”36 He thus proposed reinstituting holidays celebrated by Jews in the past to mark historical occurrences of national import, such as “Peace Day,” (Tu B’Av); Lag Ba’omer, commemorating “a victory won by the armies of Rabbi Akiva and Bar Kokhba against the legions of Rome”; Hanukkah, “in memory of the Hasmoneans who 31 Jawitz, “‫”על דבר החינוך לילדי האיכרים בארץ ישראל‬, Ha’aretz, sec. 2 (1890/1891), 58. 32 Mordechai (Marcus) Levin, ‫( ערכי חברה וכלכלה באידיאולוגיה של תקופת ההשכלה‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1975). 33 Jawitz, “‫”על דבר החינוך‬, 58. 34 Ibid., 61. 35 Ibid., 60. 36 Jawitz, “‫”החינוך והיישוב‬, HaMizrach 1 (1902/1903–3/4).

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

267

ventured forth: Mattathias, Judah, and the warriors”; and Tu B’Shvat, the new year of trees. Jawitz had celebrated Tu B’Av even in his youth in Warsaw. One of the letters that he sent to Golda during their engagement begins, “Indeed, tomorrow is a festival: a festival for the Lord to rebuild Shiloh as our people dwells in its holy land,” then proceeds to urge her to enumerate her virtues as did the young Israelite women of old as they addressed their suitors: “Young man, raise now your eyes and see what you will select [ . . . ].”37 The reinstitution of these holidays was to be not only a pedagogical device, but also a key element in the rejuvenation of authentic Hebrew culture. Jawitz’s proposed curriculum also included character development, specifying such virtues as “the glory of labor” and “contempt of superfluity (luxury)”; he also stressed the need to give attention to student discipline. The proposal by Jawitz was in general agreement with nationalistically inclined Jewish thinkers and educators of the time, such as Eliezer Ben Yehuda, Yehudah Grasowsky, and David Idelovitch (these last two were followers of Achad Ha‘am), although for Jawitz religious education was of greater importance.38 Jawitz ultimately was hired as the rabbi and principal of the school in Zikhron Ya‘akov. While there, he decided to add Jewish history to the curriculum and consequently found it necessary to write a book for the purpose, thus becoming the first individual to author a nationalistic Jewish history textbook in Hebrew. He published the work, which he titled ‫דברי הימים לעם בני ישראל מיום היותו עד‬ ‫יסוד הישוב החדש בארץ ישראל‬, in Jerusalem in 1889/1890. Its eighty pages give a concise summary of Jewish history, referring to the history of other nations only when necessary to provide context for the Jewish experience. Jawitz later explained that he had limited the length of the book for pedagogical reasons, “so the child would get a complete picture of the entire history, from beginning to end, as quickly as possible.”39 For Jawitz, an appreciation of the big picture was critical for developing a basic understanding of Jewish history. For the studious pupil, though, the book would be a vital portal to continued study. The writing is consummately Orthodox, describing Jewish scholars in every era as righteous and brilliant while sparing them from any criticism. Though ‫תולדות ישראל‬, a later work by Jawitz, would include critiques of certain rabbinic works, such as negative comments regarding Maimonides’ Moreh Nevukhim, such critiques are absent in the earlier work because they are not in keeping with its educational goal. They were not, though, relevant to the later, scholarly 37 Jawitz to Golda Pines, Av 14, 5630 [August 4, 1876], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection, Arc. 4 1602. 38 Walk, “‫”צמיחת החינוך הלאומי‬, 408–14. 39 Jawitz, “‫”וידוי הגדול‬, Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection.

268

Asaf Yedidya

work: “I will say plainly that I created it not only for its own sake, but also to be a dependable device to inspire Israel to love all its treasures and sanctities.”40 In a letter sent in early 1890 to author Avraham S. Friedberg, Jawitz adds of the book that “its heart is quite wholesome and nothing evil found on its lips, and it reveres God and king, and it does not curse God, or even gods unsacred.”41 The textbook earned a withering critique from Eliezer Ben Yehuda. Taking issue with its Orthodoxy and uncritical stance toward Scripture, Ben Yehuda asserted that the volume “arouses loathing in the heart of the enlightened individual” and dismissed it as nothing more than “a philosophical condensation of the history of the Holy Scriptures.”42 His criticism was not without basis: the work stands out for its conspicuous Orthodoxy when compared to later nationalistic Hebrew textbooks. In 1891, employing the service of a different printing house in Jerusalem, Ben Yehuda published his own textbook of Jewish history, which he named ‫קיצור דברי הימים לבני ישראל בשבתם על אדמתם‬.43 Whereas Jawitz viewed the Torah as the source of love for the Hebrew language, Jewish history, and the land of Israel, Ben Yehuda did not seek to make religion dear to his readers. Instead, he sought to extirpate from children’s minds the notion “that never was Israel youthful, never did it live as a political nation, never did it cherish sovereignty, never did it fight for its sovereignty, and that from the day it came into being until today its world contained naught but the four walls of halakhah.”44 Ben Yehuda accordingly limited his text to the period up until the Bar Kokhba Revolt. Although the political independence of the Biblical Era merited it 120 pages of discussion by Ben Yehuda, Jawitz covered the entire period in no more than fourteen pages, because he relied on his readers to apprise themselves of that time by studying Scripture and saw no need to teach his young students anything about that age that was not contained in the Tanakh. By the same token, while Jawitz included religious scholars and their works in his narrative, Ben Yehuda limits himself to the endeavors of political and military leaders.45 Ben Yehuda ends his book with a coda to the

40 Jawitz, ‫( דברי הימים לעם בני ישראל מיום היותו עד יסוד הישוב החדש בארץ ישראל‬Jerusalem: Shuldberg, 1889/1890), introduction. 41 Jawitz to Friedberg, Tishri 8, 5651 [October 10, 1891], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Friedberg Collection, V.898/48. 42 Yoseph Lang, ‫( דבר עברית! – חיי אליעזר בן יהודה‬Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2008), 1:192. 43 For a lengthier contrast of the two books, see Dan Porat, “The Nation Revised: Teaching the Jewish Past in the Zionist Present (1890–1913),” Jewish Social Studies 13, no. 1 (2006): 59–86. 44 Eliezer Ben Yehuda, ‫( דברי הימים לבני ישראל בשבתם על אדמתם‬Jerusalem: n.p., 1896/1897), introduction to the second edition. 45 In describing the giving of the Torah, Ben Yehuda (‫דברי הימים‬, 24) writes that God gave Moses “righteous laws, upright statutes, and virtues by which the Israelites were to conduct themselves with each other and in matters of national governance,” but makes no mention of mitzvot regulating human conduct toward God.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

269

failure of the Bar Kokhba Revolt: “From this time, the Jews ceased to live as a political nation . . . and from then until the present, over the course of 1,824 years, the Jews wander in exile from one people to another, one kingdom to another” – discounting the period of diasporic existence as one of ignominy.46 Jawitz, conversely, describes the years after the destruction of the Temple as an important era of religious productivity that fortified “the soul of the nation.” 47

Hebrew Literature In the summer of 1890, Jawitz was dismissed from his positions by Rothschild’s representative in the land of Israel and compelled to move from Zikhron Ya‘akov to Jerusalem, where he dedicated the next seven years to cultural and literary production. The literary journals that he prepared and published during this time include Ha’aretz (4 vols., Jerusalem, 1889/1890–90/91), Miyerushalayim (2 vols., Warsaw, 1891–1892), Peri Ha’aretz (2 vols., Warsaw, 1892–93, Ge’on Ha’aretz (2 vols., Warsaw, 1892/1893–1894), and Mitziyon (Warsaw, 1894/1895). (Jawetz published these journals under multiple names because the lacked a license to publish a periodical, which he would have been able to publish more frequently, under one name.) Chavatzelet and HaTzevi, newspapers that served Jerusalem at the time, were mainly concerned with newsworthy developments in the world, particularly in the Jewish diaspora. Their coverage of the Yishuv was sparse, and Jawitz often was displeased by both the extensive criticism of the New Yishuv printed in Chavatzelet and the excessive favor shown by HaTzevi to the Baron’s bureaucrats. Jawitz wanted to create a different publication: not a newspaper to instantly gratify curious readers eager to learn about current events, but a periodical with an educational and cultural flavor, as well as an unannounced propagandistic agenda. The goal of these journals, as described by Jawitz in his introduction to the first volume of Ha’aretz, was to tell the Jews of the Diaspora the story of the burgeoning Yishuv and to introduce the Jews of the Yishuv to work by Jews in the Diaspora and non-­Jewish scholars. Jawitz saw his journals as an alternative to those of the Haskalah and the Reform movement, which he felt were ultimately influenced by non-­Jewish culture, “a spirit that did not emerge from among us.” He considered his own journals, on the other hand, to represent an authentic Jewish culture that could develop legitimately only in the land of





46 Ben Yehuda, ‫דברי הימים‬, 175. In the introduction to his 1904 sequel, ‫דברי הימים לבני ישראל בגלותם‬, he remarks that the history of the exilic period is “not apt to enliven the spirit of our sons and daughters and rear up for us that generation for which we hope.” 47 Jawitz, ‫דברי הימים‬, 25.

270

Asaf Yedidya

Israel, “the place that enables Israel to turn its eyes away from the outside and draw its heart deeply inward.”48 It was in these journals that Jawitz first published his stories about the land of Israel which earned him recognition as the greatest writer of the First Aliyah. His literary creations from this period contain rich descriptions of the Holy Land’s natural landscapes as well as of the individuals who inhabit them. Though inwardly conflicted, Jawitz’s characters are not plagued by the universal dilemmas that are the stock-­in-­trade of nineteenth-­century European novels, such as the question of sinful enrichment and ethical poverty, or passion and faithfulness. Instead, they are troubled mainly by the need to choose between actualizing their love for the land of Israel and continuing their previous lives in the Diaspora49 – a challenge that permits Jawitz to explore such subjects as the relationships between agriculture and commerce, and nature and artifice. The trials his characters experience are in most cases set at special times in the Jewish calendar, such as Passover, Shavu’ot, Sukkot, Tu B’Av, Tu B’Shvat, and Purim. According to Yaffah Berlovitz, this timing serves to underscore the inherent sanctity of life in the land of Israel, where the festive air and holiness of the holidays suffuses the entire year.50 Like other thinkers among the Chovevei Tziyon, Jawitz aspired to shape a Palestinian Jewish identity distinct from that of the Jews in exile. According to Jawitz, the figure of the “New Jew” combined three elements of Jewish identity: the Hebrew nation, the land of Israel, and the Torah. In his stories, he depicts this figure as possessing physical and spiritual strength, ethical perfection, and national consciousness (in addition to maintaining a religious consciousness, which Jawitz believed ought to be preserved). Jewish youths in the land of Israel, according to Jawitz, must be acquainted with their national language, history, and homeland. They must find employment in a productive pursuit, preferably agriculture, and bear themselves virtuously, with love of labor and abstemiousness. They must be courageous and physically powerful, but exploit their strength only when necessary. They are also obliged to fear God and to be well-­versed in Scripture, rabbinic lore, and halakhah, though they need not be scholars after the Lithuanian model.51 As Berlovitz has noted, the literary writing of Zeev Jawitz functioned as “a

48 Jawitz, Introduction, in Ha’aretz (Jerusalem, 1890/1891), 1:3. 49 Jawitz, ‫( פסח של ארץ ישראל‬Warsaw: Schuldberg 1892/1893). 50 Yaffah Berlovitz, “‫ לזיהויה של עמימות פואטית‬:‫”מאפו ויעבץ בארץ ישראל‬, Criticism and Interpretation 43 (2010): 48–53. 51 For a more extensive discussion, see Yaffah Berlovitz, “‫”מודל ׳היהודי החדש׳ בספרות העליה הראשונה‬, Alei Siach 17–18 (1982/1983): 54–59; Berlovitz, ‫( להמציא ארץ להמציא עם‬Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1996), 18–26.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

271

laboratory for the creation of historiographically potent material.”52 She argues that he chose literature as the genre for his historical documentation because of his appreciation of the value of ancient aggadic literature, as expressed in ‫שיחות‬ ‫מני קדם‬. His descriptions of life in the Yishuv are so glowing that they leave the impression that not only is practical life there better than in the Diaspora, but human relationships in the land of Israel, between parents and children, neighbors, employers and workers, and so on, are healthy, loving, and graced by mutual understanding.53 In one story, Jawitz even draws a distinction between the cats of Palestine and of Europe, stating that “in the lands of the north there is everlasting hatred between the members of this species; but here they engage in neither injurious nor destructive behavior toward one another”54 – suggesting the realization of the Isaian prophecy that dangerous creatures would undergo a fundamental transformation in the End of Days. In his stories, Jawitz focuses on the positive aspects of life in the moshavot, adhering to the set, stable structure of Jewish history described by his historiographic theories, and deemphasizing minor events in the gentile world. For him, it was the spiritually and emotionally charged reunion of a nation and a people long separated – God’s dreamlike return of the captivity of Zion as foretold by the psalmist – that was the main event to be documented for posterity.55 Jawitz also rendered a valuable service to the Chibbat Tziyon movement, as recorded in HaMaggid: “The books of Mr. Jawitz are highly effective in drawing in the hearts of readers, because his language is rich in novel and pleasant turns of phrase yet does not lose its Hebrew flavor, and all his images are alive and animated, and stir the hearts of their readers to the love of Zion and the idea of settlement.”56 Literary critics complained, though, that notwithstanding his elegant writing style and the precise descriptions of landscapes and everyday life, his plots and characters were flat, and the deep sense of conflict quintessential to the modern novel was nowhere to be found in his narratives. One critic blamed these defects on the alleged naiveté of the author: His stories could have come out quite well, yet what stands in the way? Iniquity stands in the way – not its presence, but quite the contrary, its absence: the lack of some leavening agent, a thing to produce some effervescence, the lack of struggle, of conflict between aspirations coming from

52 Yaffah Berlovitz, “‫”׳הסדר השלישי – תור ישראל בארצו׳ יצירתו הספרותית של יעבץ בראי השקפתו ההיסטורית‬, Cathedra 20 (July 1981): 174. 53 Berlovitz, “‫”הסדר השלישי‬, 179–80. 54 Jawitz, “‫”שוט בארץ‬, in ‫ מסעות בארץ־ישראל של אנשי העלייה הראשונה‬:‫אעברה־נא בארץ‬, ed. Rechavam Zeevy (Tel Aviv: Misrad HaBitachon, 1992), 130. 55 Berlovitz, “‫”הסדר השלישי‬, 181. 56 “‫”באו חשבון‬, HaMaggid, September 27, 1894, 1.

272

Asaf Yedidya

the nature of the protagonists themselves or some external coincidence to cast jealousy and contest, bad blood and letchery, inside the dramatis personae. In his stories there is no antagonism, no positive character set against negative, as we find in virtually all the stories of the other nations, which earns them such great interest, but the character of all heroes is equal. It is evident that, since he himself is an individual of good character, he has difficulty escaping from his own personality and “being wicked” in his own eyes, even for one hour, so that he will have something to draw from in his creative labor, in whose image and character to create. In truth, is this ability to escape from one’s own personality not the totality of art, its foremost condition?57 A general critique of works produced by writers of the First Aliyah, including Jawitz, was offered some ten years later by author and critic Yosef Haim Brenner, who charged that although their stories were able “to gladden the hearts of habitués in the diaspora of Israel, they never will appeal to the heart and soul of the true reader.”58 According to Brenner, the stories of Jawitz and his colleagues fail to engage, and to disrupt, the reader. In another critique of the stories of the First Aliyah, which includes an analysis of Jawitz’s “‫בדרך‬ ‫( ”צאתי‬in ‫כנסת ישראל‬, 1886), Brenner goes further, condemning these stories as pathetic, naive, comically ridiculous, and smacking of cheap idealism.59 Brenner’s criticism was one factor behind the decline of interest in the writers of the First Aliyah, including Jawitz. Years later, S. Y. Agnon similarly argued that “all of the storytellers of the land of Israel, from the days of Rabbi Zeev Jawitz until Moshe Smilansky, saw what they wanted the land to show them more than they saw the land itself.”60

Spreading and Expanding the Hebrew Language Beginning in the 1880s, nationalistic Jews began to mull over the idea of revitalizing Hebrew as a spoken language. If that goal were to be accomplished, it would require the development of new vocabulary for missing terms, standardized pronunciation, and the establishment of conventions befitting a modern language. The most renowned of the figures who pursued this task was Eliezer Ben Yehuda, who pioneered the Hebrew-­in-­Hebrew (Ivrit be’Ivrit) method of education in the land of Israel while at the Alliance School in Jerusalem, where

57 David Tzemach, “‫”אוצר הספרה‬, HaMaggid, July 9, 1903, 9. 58 Brenner, ‫( כל כתבי י״ח ברנר‬Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1937/1938), 8:318. 59 Brenner, ‫כל כתבי‬, 9:436–37. 60 Agnon, ‫( מעצמי אל עצמי‬Tel Aviv: Schocken, 2000), 135.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

273

he began to teach in 1882. Ben Yehuda’s work, however, was preceded by the efforts of others to restore Hebrew as a spoken language with a sufficient lexicon. One of these individuals was Jawitz’s brother-­in-­law Yechiel Michael Pines, who had a significant influence on Jawitz in this area.61 As early as 1879, Pines conceived a school curriculum that had conversational Hebrew at its core.62 Even before he and Golda were married, Jawitz made clear that the Hebrew language would be a fixture of their home. In one of his love letters before their wedding, he reprimands her “for intermixing in our joy an alien thing, for allowing the language of Germany to intervene between us,” and establishes that they will correspond not in German, but in Hebrew. “True, I can esteem the value of it [i.e., German], for it is rich and what is spoken in it is comprehensible to many people. Yet rich and great though it may be, can it rival Hebrew in its penury? Or blossom, with all its delicate youth, as the daughter of Judah in her age? But what is this I say? She is not yet aged, her splendor is not yet departed, for continually does she renew her youth, and any who touches her becomes hallowed as is she.”63 From that time, Jawitz kept up a correspondence with his brother-­in-­law regarding the Hebrew language. In his letters, he proposed neologisms based on his knowledge of rabbinic literature, as well as on the translations of the Ibn Tibbon family. Thus, in a letter sent in the spring of 1880, Jawitz proposed the word ‫ פרידה‬as a Hebrew term for atom, invoking the use of the word in Tractate Niddah in the sense of a tiny grain. Grammatically, he justified his choice with the similar nominal pattern of ‫פרוטה‬, a coin that cannot be exchanged for coins of smaller denomination (‫­ט‬-‫­ר‬-‫)פ‬: “thus an atom is the separated part and cannot separate further.”64 As early as his 1888 curriculum ‫על דבר החינוך לילדי האיכרים בארץ ישראל‬, Jawitz prescribed the study of Hebrew as a living language – in part because of the need for a language that would unify Jews of different origins. “The tongue of the Israelites, which to those in exile is nothing more than the holy tongue, is unambiguously necessary in the land of Israel, to which the seed of Jacob shall stream from the farthest reaches of the west, the corners of the east, the fringe of the south, and the extremity of the north. It alone shall connect them, the single crossbar that braces the entire tent of the daughter of my nation from end to end.”65 Aside from the practical necessity to unify the new arrivals, Jawitz

61 Yosef Salmon and Keren Dubnov, “‫ חידושי מילים‬:‫”תרומתו של יחיאל מיכל פינס לתחיית הלשון העברית‬, in ‫ עיון בין תקופות‬:‫לשוחח תרבות עם העלייה הראשונה‬, ed. Yaffah Berlovitz and Yoseph Lang (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2010), 47–69. 62 Pines to Moses Montefiore Memorial Committee, in ‫בנין הארץ‬, vol. 2, book 1 (Tel Aviv: Dvir 1938/1939), 58. 63 Jawitz to Golda Pines, Elul 19, 5630 [September 15, 1870], NYPL, Jawitz Collection, item 144. 64 Jawitz to Yechiel Michael Pines, Iyyar 29, 5640 [May 10, 1880], Central Zionist Archives, A9\139. 65 Jawitz, Introduction, 4.

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considered the Hebrew language a key aspect of Jewish nationhood. He wrote: “this is the reason we are taught to place linguistic unity first among those things that have the power to turn a great mass of people into a single nation: because from a unified language all else follows: unity of thought and unity of action, unity of feeling and unity of custom.”66 For Jawitz, speaking Hebrew was the leading tool for inspiring love of the Jewish nation and its land, “for the language of the people was begotten by its spirit, and without speaking the language of his people, a person cannot think the thought of his people in all its power and purity.”67 There is a powerful connection, Jawitz believed, between the Hebrew language and the Jewish culture of the ages, and, though language serves as a means of expressing cultural content, it also leaves its mark on that content. His comments are reminiscent of the opinion of Achad Ha‘am, that “language possesses great importance due to its psychological function, and there are even those who say that it is language that created thought, and not the opposite.”68 Like Ben Yehuda, Jawitz advocated use of a Sephardic Hebrew accent, “which is advantageous for its precision and the beauty with which it rings,” and because Sephardic Jews were more proficient in Hebrew than were their Ashkenazic brethren.69 Though Jawitz conceded that Hebrew “had not been adequately refined” as a conversational language, he wrote that this was “no matter, for it is the way of languages to become refined of their own accord when they have the benefit of proper writers.”70 Jawitz counted himself among these “proper writers,” charged with refining and developing the Jewish national language, to which he contributed many new Hebrew words. He proposed that the rejuvenation of the Hebrew language be treated like Torah study or serious scientific research, and called for “making a bulwark for the Torah and educating students to produce translations, resourcefully and perspicaciously, in accordance with writers and experts, not chatterers and not laymen – for our holy language shall be its own language, independent of the views of the writer, his land and his language of origin.”71 In 1889, Jawitz joined Safah Berurah, a group whose stated goal was to revive Hebrew as a conversational language. About one year later, the group established the Language Council under the leadership of Eliezer Ben Yehuda to expand the language by finding usable Hebrew equivalents for commonplace



66 Jawitz, “‫”העם ושפתו‬, in ‫( גאון הארץ‬Warsaw: Schuldberg 1894), 2:30. 67 Jawitz, “‫”על דבר החינוך‬, 60. 68 Ginsberg, ‫כל כתבי אחד העם‬, 413. 69 Jawitz, “‫”על דבר החינוך‬, 60. 70 Ibid. 71 Ibid. For a review of the method preferred by Jawitz for developing new Hebrew words, see Joseph Klausner, “‫”מלים מחודשות וכתיבה תמה‬, HaMelitz, March 1, 1893, 6.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

275

expressions where these were lacking. However, the Council lacked staying power, and its efforts came to an end in 1891.72

History Jawitz began writing history during the 1880s. He initially achieved recognition in this field mainly for “‫מגדל המאה‬,” a lengthy article published in Knesset Yisra’el in 1886/1887 that surveyed the one hundred years between the passing of Moses Mendelssohn (1786) and that of Moses Montefiore (1886).73 Some years later, while in Jerusalem, he began work on his comprehensive work of Jewish history, ‫תולדות ישראל‬. Jawetz’s history is structured similarly to that of Heinrich Graetz (1817–1891), the famed historian of the Breslau School, and similarly extends from the time of the Patriarchs to the end of the nineteenth century. 74 Jawitz’s work might be described as an alternative to that of the older historian, as Jawitz himself wrote in his 1898 article “‫”להשיב דבר‬: “Indeed, every reader of this book knows that our method of investigating Jewish history is as distant from that of Graetz as east is distant from west. As for the manner in which the spirit of our history is arranged, we can say that nearly the entire book, from beginning to end, is as a single continuous protest against Graetz.”75 First, Jawitz argues that Graetz and his fellow practitioners of Wissenschaft des Judentums were influenced by their gentile teachers and thus fell prey to these teachers’ errors and distortions. “Most studies of Jewish history conducted by gentile scholars to this day,” charges Jawitz, “are faulty, or are incorrect in their approach, to a greater or lesser extent: they either entirely lack information, or they give evidence of preconceptions which distort authentic historical information.”76 In effect, this is a continuation of the criticism of German Jewish historian Isaak Markus Jost by Solomon Löb Rappoport, who accused Jost of being overly dependent upon non-­Jewish sources.77 Jewish history, according to Jawitz, is fundamentally different from that of the other nations in that the cultures of those peoples incorporated influences exerted by neighboring cultures, whereas Jewish culture is essentially intrinsic, rooted in divine revelation. It follows from this crucial difference that different methods of inquiry be brought to bear in exploring the history of the Jews, and that the historicist method,

72 Lang, ‫דבר עברית‬, 169–81; Eisenstadt, ‫שפתנו העברית החיה‬, 27–32. 73 See Michael, ‫הכתיבה ההיסטורית היהודית‬, 425–28. 74 Concerning Graetz, see Michael, ‫ ההיסטוריון של העם היהודי‬:‫( היינריך גרץ‬Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2003). 75 Jawitz, ‫( תולדות ישראל‬Tel Aviv: Am Olam, 1954/1955–62/63), 14: 220. 76 Ibid., 1: IV. 77 Feiner, Haskalah and History, 136–37.

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which seeks to identify foreign influences and is a fitting tool for the study of other nations, is inappropriate for the study of Jewish history.78 Despite this, charged Jawitz, even moderate Wissenschaft scholars were unwilling to forgo the approach that dominated the study of gentile history.79 He also felt that only an individual who is intimately tied to the Jewish nation and its ancient culture could develop a true understanding of Jewish history, because “this history, through which Judaism developed to its current complete state, progressed in secret and never was exposed to the eyes of aliens except from without . . . ”80 Jawitz’s nationalistic and religious historiosophic approach was informed by the particular influence of Judah HaLevi, Nachmann Krochmal, and Samuel David Luzzatto.81 According to this approach, the national character and cultural underpinnings of the Jewish people are fundamentally different from those of other peoples – a concept described by HaLevi as “the excellence of Israel,”82 and by Krochmal, borrowing a Hegelian concept, as the Volksgeist (national spirit) of the Jews,83 while Luzzatto depicted it in terms of his Judaism–Atticism dichotomy.84 As early as November 1893, in a letter to Moses Leib Lilienblum, Jawitz noted his identification with Luzzatto, who “in his great discernment had taught him to identify the great distance between the creed of Israel and that of Greece and its disciples, and how each is the absolute antithesis of the other.”85 To sustain this position, Jawitz looked to the young 78 Jawitz, ‫תולדות ישראל‬, 1:III. 79 Ibid., IV. 80 Ibid., VI. 81 Concerning the historical philosophy of Jawitz and its inspirations, see Ester Segal Etan, “‫החשיבה‬ ‫( ”ההיסטורית של זאב יעבץ‬master’s thesis, Bar-­Ilan University, 1989), 33–62. 82 HaLevi, HaKuzari, 1:37–43. For further discussion of this concept, see Shalom Rosenberg, “‫לב‬ ‫”וסגולה – רעיון הבחירה במשנתו של ריה״ל ובפילוסופיה היהודית החדשה‬, in ‫משנתו ההגותית של רבי יהודה הלוי‬, ed. Jonah Ben-­Sasson (Jerusalem: Misrad HaChinuch VeHaTarbut, 1977/1978), 109–18. 83 Nachmann Krochmal, ‫ ערוכים ומוגהים בצרוף מבוא הערות השואת גרסאות לוח מונחים‬:‫כתבי רבי נחמן קרוכמאל‬ ‫( ומפתחות על ידי שמעון ראבידוביץ‬Berlin: Ayanot 1923/1924), 34–40. Krochmal distinguishes between the “national spirit” of the Jewish people and that of the other nations: “Thus is it among all other nations, that the spiritual within them is private, and therefore bounded and destined for destruction. In our nation, however, though in relation to the physical and the externality of the senses we too have capitulated to the aforementioned natural phenomena, nevertheless, it is as those of blessed memory said: ‘They were exiled to Babylonia – the divine presence was with them. They were exiled to Elam – the divine presence was with them,’ etc., meaning that the general spirituality inside us will protect us and save us from the fate of all mortals.” See further Feiner, Haskalah and History, 119–25. On the similarities and differences between the views of Krochmal and Hegel, see Shlomo Avineri, “The Fossil and the Phoenix: Hegel and Krochmal on the Jewish Volksgeist,” in History and System: Hegel’s Philosophy of History (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1984), 47–72. 84 Samuel David Luzzatto, “‫”דרך ארץ או אטיציזמוס – שירת שד״ל לדורו‬, in Tziyon 1 (1840/1841): 81–93. 85 Segal, “‫”החשיבה ההיסטורית‬, 49. Jawitz, following Luzzatto, draws his own distinction between “the

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

277

field of Völkerpsychologie, which arose in the late nineteenth century.86 The pioneers of the field were Moritz Lazarus (1824–1903) and Heymann Steinthal (1823–1999), German Jewish brothers-­in-­law who argued for the existence of a national analog to the psychology of the individual. Just as individual psychology is concerned with the analysis of human personality as reflected by the manifestations of the emotional life, imagination, and intellect of a person, national psychology, it was argued, was a means of understanding the national character of a people as reflected by its various literary, legal, ethical, artistic, and institutional manifestations. According to Lazarus and Steinthal, nations are the collective units on which individual cultures are built, and an investigation of the national character of a given people requires that the observer consider the various aspects of its culture as expressions of inherent national characteristics. Because these characteristics are internal to the nation, the scholarly emphasis must be placed on internal sources.87 The Jews, Jawitz argues, possess a closed, self-­sufficient culture, while other cultures are open and require external assistance to develop. Thus, as has been noted, an examination of Jewish culture requires a different methodology from that prevalent in the study of other cultures. Jawitz therefore saw fit to rewrite Jewish history from an “authentically” Jewish perspective informed by a living connection to the sources of Jewish culture. Unlike previous works, his would not contaminate its subject by mixing it with others. Jawitz’s interest in writing Jewish history, though, was not solely a result of this ambition. In a friendly letter written in 1910 to Benjamin M. Lewin, Jawitz revealed an additional motivation: I thought in my youth to write about the intellectual and ethical approach of Judaism, which is different in kind from all other religions and philosophies. [ . . . ] I thought better, however, and reached the conclusion that this benefit, the benefit of providing a truthful depiction of the wisdom and ethics of Judaism and cultivating minds to recognize it, would be better





system of beliefs and virtues that derive from the creed of Moses as opposed to those beliefs and virtues that derive from the creed of Greece”; Jawitz, “‫”עולמות עוברים‬, 43–54. 86 In his article “‫”האחדות‬, HaMizrach 1 (5663–64/1903), 10, Jawitz writes: “In recent generations the scholars of Europe have conceived a great advance in the arrangement of history by examining and finding that just as the individual possesses a good quality that distinguishes him from other persons – ‘for their minds are unalike and their visages are unalike’ – thus does each nation have a unique good quality that distinguishes it from other nations, and this truthful persuasion has become a great, polychotomous discipline fully formulated, known as the theory of the national soul [i.e., Völkerpsychologie].” 87 See Eliezer Schweid, ‫( תולדות פילוסופית הדת היהודית בזמן החדש‬Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2003), vol. 3a, 105–13; Moritz Lazarus und Heymann Steinthal – die Begründer der Völkerpsychologie in ihren Briefen, ed. Ingrid Belke (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1971).

278

Asaf Yedidya

accomplished by arranging Jewish history properly and investigating it truly, and thus I then set my sights on the work in which I have engaged from my youth until this day.88 Jewish history, as understood by Jawitz, is the realization of the philosophical principles and ethical values of Judaism across time, and is thus the most appropriate means whereby they may be clarified and taught.89 The first reviews of the volumes of ‫ תולדות ישראל‬were written in Hebrew by eastern European maskilim of the late nineteenth and the early twentieth century. Jawitz’s work also earned the consideration of Simon Dubnow, writing under the pseudonym Criticus in the Jewish Russian journal Voskhod, who criticized it for its alleged religious fanaticism.90 About one year after the publication of the first volume, on the Biblical Era, the recently established journal HaShiloach printed a review by Moses Leib Lilienblum. Though he commended Jawitz’s literary style and applauded the book for being “full of a spirit of grace, passionate love of Israel and the light that is in its Torah,” Lilienblum argued that the book was insufficiently critical of the traditional sources, especially rabbinic legends.91 Achad Ha‘am, in one of his contributions to HaShiloach, lamented what he viewed as a decline in published matter to a point where books of history were being written in a Jewish spirit.92 More severe criticism came some years later from historian Joseph Klausner, a disciple of Achad Ha‘am, who charged that Jawitz’s Orthodoxy made him incapable of being a critical historian.93

Jawitz and Achad Ha‘Am Zeev Jawitz’s books and stories gained popularity among the nationalistic Jews of eastern Europe, and sales earned him a respectable livelihood. Favorable reviews appeared in the Hebrew press, which included warm recommendations that readers purchase his works.94 Jawitz became especially influential



88 Jawitz, “‫”נפש חיה‬, Takhkemoni 1 (1909/1910), 42. 89 Jawitz here takes a similar approach to Krochmal, who argues that “all is in order for us to arrive through investigative ability [i.e., historical study] at clear convictions and finally at a clarification in which we perceive ourselves and our identity, this being the common soul of Israel, and how it manifests in the world through our history and affairs in the form of the revolutions and reversals of time until this day, and from this we may draw inferences regarding the future”; Krochmal, ‫כתבי נחמן קרוכמל‬, 167. 90 Herschberg, “‫”תולדות רבי זאב יעבץ‬, 147. 91 Lilienblum, “‫”ראשית תולדות ישראל – ביקורת‬, HaShiloach 1 (1896/1897), 167–77, 364–71. 92 Herschberg, “‫”תולדות רבי זאב יעבץ‬, 147. 93 Klausner, “‫”זאב יעבץ‬, HaShiloach 21 (1909), 382. 94 Chaim Mikhel Michlin, “‫”מכתבים מאה״ק‬, HaMaggid, January 1, 1891, 3; idem, “‫”אה״ק‬, HaMaggid,

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

279

among young adults, who proved an avid audience for his stories about the land of Israel, and had a large impact on such luminaries as Joseph Klausner, Ben Zion Dinur, and Rabbi Isaac Nissenbaum, as attested in their memoirs.95 In the summer of 1922, Judah Loeb Jawitz informed his father of a meeting he had had in Antwerp with the leading poet Chaim Nachman Bialik. Among his comments, the younger Jawitz wrote: “And further, how happy we were to hear from him, in his great innocence and sincerity, that you, my father, you are his teacher and master and that you were almost the only one to influence his spirit and the future of our literature. [ . . . ] He told us about all your literary work in detail, and I observed that he never stopped studying it, for there is no article you published that he has not read, and all has been inscribed in his mighty mind.”96 In a letter, Bialik describes Jawitz’s influence on the Chovevei Tziyon chapter at the yeshivah of Volozhin and states that his first article, “‫רעיון הישוב‬,” published in HaMelitz in the spring of 1892, was an attempt at synthesizing the views of Jawitz and Achad Ha‘am. (“Two opposites such as these,” he writes, “only a young man from Volozhin can fuse!”)97 In his article, clearly referring to works such as those of Jawitz, Bialik calls “to disseminate among our brethren who are settling in the Holy Land books and stories written according to the spirit of the time that appeal to the heart – that are dedicated to this aim: the aim of improving the state of ethics – so that their readers will pleasurably absorb a good, pure lesson that enters their bones like oil, to inspire them to love their nation and their Judaism, their land and their people, their Torah and their language, and their labor indoors and in the field.”98 Women, whose Hebrew education was not traditionally on a par with men’s, also numbered among Jawitz’s audience, taking advantage of an accessible religious literature written in simple Hebrew. One of these readers, Devorah Gintzburg, authored an 1894 article defending Jawitz:

July 16, 1891, 6; Israel Teller, “‫”למוד התורה‬, HaMaggid, October 24, 1895, 2; Michlin, “‫”מכתבי סופרים‬, HaTzefirah, July 15, 1891, 2; Ish Yehudi Sifra, “‫”שיחה בעולם הספרות‬, HaTzefirah, March 23, 1892, 3; idem, “‫”שיחה בעולם הספרות‬, HaTzefirah, May 4, 1892, 2; Selig Slonimski, “‫”קרית ספר‬, HaTzefirah, June 30, 1892, 3; Hame’ir, “‫”קרית ספר‬, HaTzefirah, September 11, 1892, 3; idem, “‫”קרית ספר‬, HaTzefirah, September 12, 1892, 3; idem, “‫”קרית ספר‬, HaTzefirah, September 14, 1892, 3; idem, “‫”קרית ספר‬, HaTzefirah, November 7, 1892, 3. 95 Nissenbaum, ‫( עלי חלדי‬Jerusalem: Rubin Mass 1968/1969), 96; Dinur, ‫( בעולם ששקע‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1958), 96; Klausner, ‫( דרכי לקראת התחיה והגאולה‬Tel Aviv: Massada, 1945/1946), 38. Books by Jawitz also were popular in the childhood home of Berl Katznelson in the late nineteenth century. See Anita Shapira, ‫( ברל‬Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1980), 17, 21. 96 Judah Loeb Jawitz to Zeev Jawitz, Elul 22, 5682 [September 15, 1922], NYPL, Jawitz Collection, item 88. 97 Bialik, ‫( אגרות חיים נחמן ביאליק‬Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1937/1938), 1:168. 98 Idem, “‫”רעיון הישוב‬, HaMelitz 32 (April 5, 1892), 3.

280

Asaf Yedidya

Does the unnamed scholar know what Jawitz is to us? For he is a creator of our new spoken Hebrew, and gives us a generation that knows the language of Eber [i.e., Hebrew] and the history of its nation. With his dear books he stokes within us fiery sparks of the holy tongue, as well as love and respect for all the holy ones of our people, and wherever his books arrive, the young women of the House of Israel also have begun to rouse themselves and begun to learn our holy tongue.99 This happy state of affairs, however, was transitory. Reviews disparaging Jawitz as a clerical threat who sought to undermine Enlightenment values began to appear in 1893/1894, and these dealt a critical blow to the erstwhile favorable attention enjoyed by his writings.100 Jawitz took the criticism as a declaration of cultural war, and attempted to counter his critics aggressively. In a series of letters published in HaMelitz during the spring of 1894, he complained of Jewish authors attempting “to eradicate the spirit of Israel from our new literature.” These authors, he claimed, were persecuting him and attacking his books on account of his Orthodox religious beliefs.101 Achad Ha‘am, who, along with his followers, was targeted by these accusations, denied them vociferously,102 while his associates saw them as nothing more than a marketing ploy to compensate for decreased book sales.103 About half-­a-­year later, in a letter to his brother-­in-­law Davidson, Jawitz wrote that “the prayers of the men of the Great Assembly during their twenty-­four fasts toward the goal that authors of books not become wealthy have been fulfilled with me. And a certain sect only lately arisen among Israel [viz., the Sons of Moses], whose head is in Odessa, whose body is in Warsaw, and whose tail is in Jaffa, has toiled to uphold my faith in those prayers by exploiting its power to the utmost in order to make the fruit of my spirit anathema to their allies and comrades.”104 Jawitz now began to perceive Achad Ha‘am as a key enemy, and saw his own literary path as the opposite of that of his nemesis. Nevertheless, Jawitz was willing in 1896 to have his brother-­in-­law Fischel Pines convey an article to HaShiloach, a journal edited by Achad Ha‘am, though it must be said that the essay consisted mainly of an attack on Achad Ha‘am and appears to have been intended chiefly to 99 Gintzburg, “‫”עזרת סופרים‬, HaMelitz 34 (II Adar 25, 5654 /April 2, 1894), 1. 100 “‫”בקורת לספרי יעבץ‬, Der Hausfreund 3 (Warsaw, 1893/1894); Edward Natan Frenk, “‫”אגרת בקרת‬, HaTzefira, March 1, 1894, 2. 101 Jawitz, “‫”עזרת סופרים – שני מכתבים‬, HaMelitz 34 (Iyyar 28, 5654 /June 3, 1894), 1–2. 102 Ginsberg, ‫ מכתבים בענייני ארץ־ישראל‬1891–1926 (Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben Tzvi, 2000), 90; Goldstein, ‫אחד העם‬, 231. 103 Yode’a Va’ed, “‫”עזרת סופרים – יעבץ ומחנה ׳אויביו׳‬, HaMelitz 34 (Tammuz 7, 5654 /July 11, 1894), 1–2. 104 Jawitz to Davidson, Marcheshvan 15, 5655 [November 14, 1894], NYPL, Jawitz Collection, item 150.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

281

gauge his tolerance. Jawitz ultimately withdrew the piece because of editorial intervention in its style.105 During the early 1890s, Jawitz and Achad Ha‘am had conducted a friendly correspondence about intellectual matters, agreeing that “we have in our possession at this time no weapon or shield for the settlement of our land, and for our homeland outright, other than literature alone.”106 Jawitz sent Achad Ha‘am the journals he published and stories that he wrote, and Achad Ha‘am retained him to translate “‫פסח של גלויות‬,” a story by Heinrich Heine.107 Yet the relationship was brief and soon broke apart. Criticism of Jawitz by followers of Achad Ha‘am and Jawitz’s response, as well as a conflict between Achad Ha‘am and Jawitz’s brother-­in-­law, Yechiel Michael Pines, also contributed to the breach. In 1892, Yechiel Michael Pines and Isaac Ben Tovim were removed from the Jaffa executive committee of the Chovevei Tziyon by the central committee of the movement, based in Odessa, on the grounds that they had used executive committee funds to support Jewish immigrants in danger of expulsion by the Ottoman authorities, instead of using the money for the purpose of settlement. Pines was concurrently also removed from the Jaffa branch of the Sons of Moses by Achad Ha‘am, an affront that hurt him deeply. Both dismissals were attributed to Achad Ha‘am, who wielded extensive influence over the central committee of the Chovevei Tziyon in Odessa. These tensions brought about a fierce controversy between Jawitz and his followers and Achad Ha‘am and his own, centered on the establishment of the Jaffa school. In 1892 and 1893, the members of the Sons of Moses in Jaffa had established two schools, one for boys and one for girls, in cooperation with B’nei B’rith and the Alliance. Neither the official curriculum, which combined religious and secular studies, nor the use of Hebrew as the language of instruction, created any controversy. However, the new schools aroused strong opposition from the Orthodox, led by Pines and Jawitz, for the irreligious lifestyle of its teachers, which they felt was also reflected in the instruction provided to their students. These teachers made no secret of their aspiration to cultivate a generation of non-­observant nationalistic Jews. In the view of Jawitz, the educators taught the Tanakh, which was not sacred to them in the least, only as a means to teach Hebrew, and they preferred the secular nationalism of Ben Yehuda’s history text to that written by Jawitz, among other grievances. Already in 1893, the Sons of Moses in Jaffa decided to ban all books by Jawitz from their school due to the obvious religiosity of their content. Pines, Jawitz, and their allies took this as a casus belli in 105 Ginsberg, ‫( אגרות אחד העם‬Jerusalem and Berlin: Yavne and Moriah, 1923/1924), 1:34–35. 106 Jawitz to Achad Ha‘am, Tevet 10, 5652 [January 10, 1892], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Achad Ha‘am Collection, 791 Arc 4. 107 Jawitz to Achad Ha‘am, Tishri 4, 5652 [October 6, 1891], ibid.

282

Asaf Yedidya

an all-­out culture war, and demanded an immediate end to the status quo, but Pines’ entreaties to Achad Ha‘am to find replacements for the teachers came to nothing. They understood that if the school were to remain as it was, there would be no return: the rupture between denominations in the Yishuv and within the Chovevei Tziyon would become irreparable.108 The tempo of the mudslinging between the two camps meanwhile quickened, and Jawitz tried to convince the residents of Gederah, who had been patronized by Pines in the past and were among his admirers, “to protest against those reviling our friend, the sage Mr. Pines, may he live long.”109 Ultimately, beyond the heat of the loaded debate over the Jaffa school, Jawitz and Achad Ha‘am were locked in a battle for the same role. They had begun their literary careers at almost the same time. Each wished to be the leader who would determine the nature of a renewed Jewish culture as the people of Israel returned to the land of Israel. And each viewed his success in this mission as a critical condition for the success of the Jewish national movement. Jawitz had preceded Achad Ha‘am in several areas of activity that they had in common: rejuvenation of Hebrew as a spoken language, adaptation of rabbinic legend, and production of textbooks and literary anthologies. He saw a need for immediate settlement of the land, and was unwilling to wait for the masses to be convinced of that need. Still, the paths taken by the two men toward these common goals were antithetical to each other, and a head-­on collision was inevitable from the moment Achad Ha‘am ceased to obfuscate his attitude toward religion in 1893/1894, when he published the article, later named “Torah of the Heart,” in which he first unambiguously criticized halakhah as a decrepit and oppressive institution and identified the Chovevei Tziyon movement as the core of contemporary Judaism.110 In the view of Achad Ha‘am, that movement was the natural continuation of the heritage of the Jewish people, because it alone had the potential to preserve and strengthen Jewish identity – unlike liberal movements, which were eager to inject external influences into Judaism, thus obscuring its uniqueness, and unlike Orthodoxy, which resolutely opposed any and all foreign influence upon Judaism and thus, he argued, was the cause of its atrophy. The heart of Judaism, Achad Ha‘am believed, was not religion, but nationalism, as evidenced by the fact that the desire to exist as a nation was the source of the culture and national possessions of the Jewish people. Religion itself, he argued, was a cultural creation of the Jewish nation that had 108 Salmon, Religion and Zionism, 220–34; Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 83–87; Lang, ‫דבר עברית‬, 301–8. 109 Dov Lebowitz of Gederah to Jawitz, Elul 17, 5655 [September 6, 1895], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection, 1791 Arc 4. 110 Ginsberg, ‫כל כתבי אחד העם‬, 51–54. See also Goldstein, ‫אחד העם‬, 178–80.

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played a role in the life of the nation as it began to emerge from the trials of exile. Now, he claimed, Judaism had an opportunity to return to its original national cultural matrix in the land of Israel. The central role played by religion during the exile was nearing its end, barring only the uniquely Jewish ethical values based principally on the words of the prophets, which he felt had force beyond their religious context. Achad Ha‘am believed that religious feeling ought to be respected, above all because it had contributed to the survival of Judaism. Ultimately, however, the religious traditions of the nation would be sifted and reinterpreted with the aid of current, modern methods, despite these methods’ divergence from traditional scholarly ways.111 In effect, Achad Ha‘am was a proponent of the secularization of Jewish culture, a process that he aided by emphasizing the non-­religious national possessions of Jewish culture and legitimizing religious non-­observance. Meanwhile, Jawitz, as described above, believed in a revealed Torah that was the wellspring of Jewish culture and the source from which it would be renewed, as well as the source of all of the national possessions of the nation of Israel: land, language, literature, and history. He therefore refused to compromise on the religious aspects of Judaism, insisting on combining them with the national elements, which he also considered inseparable from the Jewish religion. He subscribed to the view of his brother-­in-­law Pines that Jewish religion and Jewish nationalism cannot be separated, and any attempt to thus separate the Jewish body and soul was doomed to disaster. 112 Jawitz came to view Achad Ha‘am’s project as a reprise of the Reform movement that threatened to undermine and destroy Judaism, “like rot to the house of Israel.” In approaching Achad Ha‘am and his followers, Jawitz did not display the tolerance and magnanimity that he showed other individuals, movements, and denominations that were also far from his path, but did not march under what he saw as the banner of an ideology that sought to destroy Jewish tradition and desecrate Scripture. Yet while Achad Ha‘am worked at the hub of the clamorous Jewish intellectual life of the Russian Empire and was already the leader of an army of young, energetic followers organized through the Sons of Moses, Jawitz, who went about his endeavors far from the centers of the Jewish intelligentsia, was a general without an army. 113

111 Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 77–81; Schweid, ‫תולדות פילוסופית הדת היהודית‬, 190–204. 112 In the words of Pines in an 1895 letter to Achad Ha‘am: “But the nationalism that I desire is the nationalism of Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi and Naḥmanides, of blessed memory: a nationalism infused with religion, while that religion is infused with it, a nationalism whose soul is the Torah and whose vitality is the commandments.” Pines, “‫”מכתב גלוי לאחד העם‬, HaChavatzelet 26, Tevet 22, 5655/January 18, 1895, 1. 113 Gideon Shimoni, The Zionist Ideology, 111–12.



284

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Politics In March 1897, Jawitz departed the land of Israel. During the months that followed, he wandered from one Jewish community to another in the Pale of Settlement. Eventually he established himself in Vilnius, where he continued writing his historiographic opus and briefly worked as an assistant to Nahum Sokolow, editor of HaTzefirah. During this period, as another means of bringing his dreams to fruition, he first ventured into politics. Even before leaving Jerusalem, Jawitz had kept abreast of the rise of Herzl and his earliest efforts for the Jewish nation. In the summer of 1896, Jawitz and several of his associates, among them his brother-­in-­law Yechiel Mikhel Pines and David Yellin, had together sent a letter of support with Rosh HaShanah greetings to Herzl, written by Ephraim Cohn Reiss, principal of the Lämel School in Jerusalem. In the letter, they declared that the Hebrew year 5656 was the year of “the spiritual rebirth” of the Jewish state.114 Jawitz spent the summer of 1897 wandering through the communities of eastern Europe in search of a new home; despite his interest in doing so, he would have had difficulty securing a place as a delegate to the First Zionist Congress at this time, because he was not then a member of a Jewish community. Nevertheless, he kept himself apprised of events at the congress, expressing optimism for Herzl’s project, as well as for his own personal yearning: to see the downfall of Achad Ha‘am. He described his feelings at the time in a letter to his wife: For the nation (ha’am) is disgusted by the taste of the “one” (achad) of it who would gorge it on alien books. The congress in Basel has caused the nation to act, and it shall cast out those desecrating the sanctities of old and will establish them as once they were. The nation long has been disgusted by the cobwebs spun for them by “the one.” But their eyes have been opened and they now can see that these cobwebs cannot clothe them, and the public now demands only stories seasoned with the spirit of their nation, taken from the treasury of its literature, its nature, and its history – and such stories I am beginning to write.115 Jawitz joined the Zionist movement after settling in Vilnius in the fall of 1897; the next year he joined the Zionist Committee, established in that city following the Second Zionist Congress. In 1899, Jawitz published in HaTzefirah

114 Herzl, ‫ ספרי יומן‬:‫( עניין היהודים‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1997), 1:399, 623. 115 Zeev Jawitz to Golda Jawitz, Elul 5657 [August/September 1897], NYPL, Jawitz Collection, item 93. Concerning the conflict between Herzl and Achad Ha‘am, see Yossi Goldstein, :‫אחד העם והרצל‬ ‫( המאבק על אופייה הפוליטי והתרבותי של הציונות בצל פרשת אלטנוילנד‬Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar, 2011), 11–27.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

285

a defense of Herzl’s plans against accusations that they were unrealistic,116 and described Zionism as “a vision lofty and exalted, holy and pure.”117 When Herzl visited Vilnius in the summer of 1903, Jawitz was selected by the local Jewish community to compose greetings for the esteemed guest, to whom they were presented on parchment in a dramatic ceremony. In his composition, Jawitz compared Herzl to Mattathias (the Hebrew equivalent of Greek Theodor, “gift of God”) and expressed hope “that through your agency, the Lord will hasten the salvation of Israel from Zion.”118 In 1898, Jawitz participated in the establishment of Sha’arei Tziyon, an organization intended to encourage public study of the Talmud. In the event, it became a platform for Zionist propaganda and produced several of the individuals who would go on to found the Mizrachi. In 1900, Jawitz participated in a discussion held in Vilnius concerning establishing a religious faction within the Zionist Organization. Among the other participants was Rabbi Isaac Jacob Reines. The idea became reality two years later.119 In 1902, the Mizrachi was founded as a religious Zionist faction in response, inter alia, to the establishment of the Democratic Faction, whose cultural platform the Mizrachi utterly repudiated. A group of young students influenced by Achad Ha‘am had founded the Democratic Faction within the Zionist Organization the previous year. Their goal was to harness the Zionist movement to promote cultural and educational activities of a secular and modern character, and in doing so they unleashed the “cultural question.” That debate, which rocked the Zionist Organization, centered on the question of the rightful character of a Jewish national culture, and itself was introduced in reaction to the pragmatic and culturally neutral approach espoused by Herzl. The Democratic Faction, taking a position more extreme than Achad Ha‘am’s, viewed religion as the stuff of exilic existence, a phenomenon at odds with modernity, and saw progress, science, and related values as true to the new Jewish national identity. For this group, a new national culture was required on intellectual grounds, for the purpose of self-­definition and especially to prod the development of Jewish identity in a direction that conformed to changes heralded by Zionism. They perceived their radical politics as an effective means to deny Orthodox hegemony and to encourage secularized Jewish youth to join the Zionist movement. Their self-­perception as a vanguard instructing the masses in the work of Hebrew culture gained expression in the new Hebrew literature of Bialik, Brenner, and Berdyczewski, which in turn greatly influenced 116 Jawitz, “‫”לא בחפזון תצאו‬, HaTzefirah 26 (Shevat 27, 5659/February 7, 1899), 1. 117 Jawitz, “‫”המעלות והמגרעות‬, HaTzefirah 26 (Nisan 11, 5659/March 22, 1899), 1. 118 Bat-­Yehudah, ‫יודע העתים‬, 55–56. 119 Ibid., 44.

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nationalistically inclined young Jews in eastern Europe during the opening years of the twentieth century.120 At the founding convention of the Mizrachi, held in Vilnius on March 4–5, 1902, Jawitz was elected to the leadership of the organization. According to the official position dictated by its leader, Rabbi Isaac Jacob Reines (1839–1915),121 Zionism was a purely practical movement with no relevance to cultural matters; but Jawitz personally opposed this view, and instead believed that Zionism could and should promote a culture in keeping with Jewish tradition. 122 So it was that when assigned to put his authorial skills to work writing the Mizrachi’s first official “mission statement,” Jawitz formulated a compromise position aimed predominantly at the Orthodox community, which until that point had declined to participate in the Zionist movement.123 At the beginning of the manifesto, Jawitz announces that the Zionist idea “in its very essence never has departed Israel since the days of the earliest prophets” and that anti-­semitism alone cannot explain the central importance of Zion. On the contrary, he argued, Zion’s centrality was owed to the fact that many intellectuals had come to recognize “that in the lands of exile it no longer is possible for the soul of the nation, our holy Torah, to endure at its full strength, or for its commandments, which alone are the entirety of its spiritual life, to be observed in perfect purity.” Jawitz thus inserted in the document his view that the ills of exile were warping the authentic nature of Judaism. Further on, Jawitz states that the Mizrachi was founded against the background of the secular cultural activity of some members of the Zionist movement, and describes the main complaints against it – the mingling of men and women at Zionist gatherings, freethinking literature, and reformed education – as intolerable to the observant. He assigns the new movement two functions. First, it is to engage in practical political Zionist activity in full cooperation with all other members of the Zionist movement. Second, separately from the secular Zionists, the Mizrachi is to apply itself to educational and cultural enterprises of a traditional character: “We find there to be no stronghold permitting our nation to endure and no haven permitting Zion to be reestablished other than observance of true Judaism in all its power and purity.”124 120 Luz, Parallels Meet, 149–76; Goldstein, ‫אחד העם‬, 282–96; Zipperstein, Elusive Prophet, 105–69. 121 Concerning Reines, see Geulah Bat-­Yehudah, ‫ רבי יצחק יעקב ריינס‬:‫( איש המאורות‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1985). 122 Concerning the Mizrachi, see Judah Leib Maimon, ‫( ספר המזרחי‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1946); Shlomo Zalman Shragai and Yitzhak Raphael, ‫ספר הציונות הדתית‬, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1977); Luz, Parallels Meet, 235–41; Geulah Bat-­Yehudah, “‫”שאלת ׳הקולטורה׳ והמזרחי‬, Shragai (1981/1982), 1:66–86. 123 Luz, Parallels Meet, 232. 124 Ehud Luz sees in this declaration a retreat from the position espoused by the Orthodox in the

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

287

Finally, Jawitz affirms that “Zion and Torah are two sanctities that supplement each other and require each other, and the love of Zion is the one thing that will prevent the feet of your children from walking paths alien to the spirit of our people and from which, once they have grown accustomed to them, they never again will depart.” Thus, according to Jawitz, it is the preservation of Jewish identity, not flight from antisemitism, that lies at the core of religious Zionism. Jawitz had high hopes for the new faction as a means of making his vision a reality. He had reached the conclusion that the principal battleground of the culture war over the soul of the national renaissance was not the land of Israel, but Europe. This sentiment was expressed in a letter sent to Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook in 1903, when both still were in Lithuania, discouraging Kook from migrating to the land of Israel in order to accept an appointment as the rabbi of Jaffa: Yet if his [i.e., Kook’s] main intention at this time is to exalt the glory of Judaism in the land of Israel, let him forgive me if I say that the changing times have moved the battleground from the midst of the land elsewhere, to this place in which we dwell. Indeed, his glorious eminence knows that a great enemy [viz., Achad Ha‘am] has risen against Judaism, against its people, against Zion, the likes of which has almost never arisen before. The host of his disciples have stolen into the congregation of the wholesome lovers of Zion, splitting it asunder and imprinting their calumnious heresy seasoned with the trappings of strange and callous philosophy bearing a Zionist stamp. Against this Zionist fakery being furtively produced in burrows and basements, we, the reverent, ought to establish a center to make the character of pure, perfect, true Zionism clear to the entire nation. In it, we shall extol the glory of our unadulterated and ancient faith, upright and aloud, and we shall not countenance blasphemy. We can do this only here, in the heart of Europe, in the market where the masses go about their lives, in the place where all sights are seen and all sounds heard.125 At the first international congress of the Mizrachi, held in Pressburg in 1904, Jawitz called on members to assemble an alternative to the modern Hebrew literature “that preaches heresy and malfeasance, brazen criticism and violation of the honor of the prophets.” He berated the Hebrew authors led by Achad Ha‘am, “a leading heretic,” for confusing the younger generation and driving it to irreligion, and went on to advocate separating “from this literature



1880s that they were the guardians of the spiritual affairs of the Zionist movement. He attributes the change to recognition that the Zionist public had undergone a transition with the turn of the century. Luz, Parallels Meet, 233. 125 Jawitz, “‫”אגרות ר׳ זאב יעבץ ז״ל אל הראי״ה קוק זצ״ל‬, Sinai 29 (5711 [1950/1951]), 109–10.

288

Asaf Yedidya

completely and utterly, as Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch separated from the Reformers in Germany,” and creating newspapers and textbooks informed by Jewish tradition. Jawitz’s address, which lasted some one-­and-­a-­half hours, was well received, but the intensity of its attacks provoked opposition from some, such as Rabbi Reines, who hoped to avoid exacerbating tensions with the Democratic Faction. Despite these misgivings, the congress passed a number of resolutions in line with Jawitz’s demands, mainly concerning the supervision of schools and textbooks. Outside of the Mizrachi, followers of Achad Ha‘am took advantage of the opportunity the speech presented to skewer Jawitz for his religious posture.126 Ultimately, frustrated by the rejection of the majority of his plans, Jawitz resigned from the Mizrachi leadership. Jawitz left Vilnius in 1905 for Germany, where he continued working on his historiography. Despite his retirement from the Mizrachi leadership, he remained intermittently involved in religious Zionist politics. He served as a delegate representing Russian Mizrachi members at the 1908 congress of the movement, held in Frankfurt. That year, the congress deliberated on whether to extend the patronage of the Mizrachi to the Tachkemoni school, founded three years prior in Jaffa as a modernized cheder.127 Among the advocates of the idea was Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the rabbi of Jaffa and the moshavot, who sought to turn Tachkemoni into a nationalistic religious alternative to the secular Hebrew high school established in Jaffa in 1905. Jawitz was elected to the board of the school, a role which afforded him a hand in setting its curriculum, choosing a principal and teachers, and turning it into a high school.128 The institution, where instruction in both religious and secular subjects was provided in Hebrew, thus became the first Mizrachi school. After the death of his wife in 1912, Jawitz joined the household of his daughter in Antwerp and effectively withdrew from politics. With the outbreak of the First World War, the family made its way to England. Only after the Balfour Declaration, in November 1917, did Jawitz return to political life. This time, his activities were devoted to a new venture founded by Rabbi Kook, who also was in England at the time of the historic proclamation. Rabbi Kook had begun preparing a comprehensive plan of action for ramping up the cultural and intellectual struggle over the soul of the Zionist movement and the Yishuv.129 The plan, which fleshed out various ideas he had formulated during his tenure as the rabbi of Jaffa, called for founding a counterpart to the 126 M. Ch., [sic] “‫”אסיפת המזרחי בפרשבורג‬, HaTzefirah 31 (Elul 15, 5664 /August 26, 1904), 4; Luz, Parallels Meet, 251–52; Maimon, “‫”יעבץ המזרחי‬, Hator 4, no. 20–21 (Adar 5684 /February/March 1924): 19–20; Bat-­Yehudah, ‫יודע העתים‬, 60–62. 127 Maimon, ‫ספר המזרחי‬, 162. 128 Jawitz, ‫אגרות ר׳ זאב יעבץ‬, 110–11. 129 Concerning the plan, see Avneri, “‫”דגל ירושלים‬, in In the Paths of Renewal: Studies in Religious Zionism 3 (1989): 39–58.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

289

Zionist Organization that would include all Orthodox Jews, most of whom had been unwilling to embrace the Zionist movement. The new organization would take action in the three main areas in which the Zionist factions were already active: politics, practical initiatives, and culture – while remaining strictly devoted to tradition. In clear contrast to the mainstream emphasis on Zion, the new movement would be called Degel Yerushalayim (the Flag of Jerusalem).130 Rabbi Kook requested that Jawitz join him in this effort, and personally asked him to compose a manifesto clarifying these ideas and assuring Mizrachi members that Degel Yerushalayim was not a competing faction, but rather that it “only fortifies its [Mizrachi’s] position further, and paves it a path to broader aspirations.”131 Jawitz agreed, writing to Rabbi Kook that he had always argued, contrary to the Mizrachi leadership, for the necessity of cultural activity that hewed true to tradition. Jawitz proceeded to formulate a platform that put forward the ideas behind Degel Yerushalayim and explained to Mizrachi members that the new organization sought not conflict, but collaboration. He noted that with the issuance of the Balfour Declaration and the British conquest of Palestine, the Zionist movement no longer was as central as it had been in the establishment of the Jewish national home, so that even those who had opposed the movement on religious grounds now could join in the development of the land of Israel without misgiving. He wrote that Degel Yerushalayim sought above all “to establish in our holy land a temple for the Torah of the Lord, a throne for the kingship of the Almighty, a keep for our ancient culture in all its grandeur and splendor, in all its purity and sanctity.”132 Rabbi Kook, who had intended to make much of the fact that one of the founders of the Mizrachi and its foremost intellectual had written the manifesto, was disappointed when Jawitz asked to remain anonymous.133 In the summer of the same year (1918), Jawitz paid ten pounds to gain membership in Degel Yerushalayim.134 Although no longer in a leadership position, Jawitz remained active in the Mizrachi. He pressed the leaders of the organization in England to renew its political activities with full force and a focus on strengthening religious education in Palestine. In early 1919, he received an invitation from the Interim Mizrachi Centre of the United Kingdom, signed by Rabbi Dr. Victor (Avigdor) Schonfeld (1880–1930),135 to participate in the general meeting of the Mizrachi associations of that country in Manchester: “and let his honor be to us as eyes 130 Kook, ‫( אגרות ראי״ה‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 5725 [1964/1965]), 3:148. 131 Kook to Jawitz, Nisan 6, 5678 [March 19, 1918], in Kook, ‫אגרות ראי״ה‬, 171. 132 The manifesto appears in Sinai 29 (5711 [1950/1951]): 118. 133 Kook to Jawitz, Nisan 11, 5678 [March 24, 1918], in Kook, ‫אגרות ראי״ה‬, 176. 134 Receipt dated Tammuz 3, 5678 [June 13, 1918], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection. 135 Concerning Schonfeld, see Yitzhak Raphael, ‫( אנציקלופדיה של הציונות הדתית‬Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 5743 [1982/1983]), 5:771–72.

290

Asaf Yedidya

with his vast knowledge of these matters [i.e., of education] . . . and let his eminence come and enliven our soul.”136 Schonfeld himself delivered periodic updates to Jawitz and consulted with him on various questions that arose. Jawitz also corresponded with Orthodox painter Hermann Struck, one of the leaders of the Mizrachi in Germany, who invited him to take part in the activities of the cultural committee of the organization.137 Jawitz reached the conclusion that his efforts at that time would be best spent promoting the adoption of religious education and Judaic law in the growing community of Jews in Palestine. In a March 1920 letter to Rabbi Kook, he describes a plan based on the first mishnah in Avot: “Indeed, the foremost of the national institutions of Israel are three, those enumerated by the men of the Great Assembly in their first mishnah, namely, law, students, and bulwarks for the Torah, which we call the court, the school and study hall, and observance of the commandments with appropriate adjustment to matters forbidden and permitted.”138 Jawitz believed that there would be no particular difficulty in securing satisfactory arrangements in the areas of kashrut, and in the construction of eruvim, synagogues, and ritual baths. Even in education, despite his protest that “our opponents have turned the schools into a debacle for all coming generations by teaching our soft, innocent children to deny the Torah of Moses and to hold our prophets who prophesied our redemption to be a cabal of liars and deceivers,” he was pleased by the agreement that the Orthodox would operate their own schools. In fact, he viewed such an arrangement as preferable to a joint education committee of observant and secular members, because even if there were an observant majority, it would be forced to compromise and traditional Judaism would not always be reflected in its decisions. It was in the spirit of these plans that Jawitz wrote “‫המזרחי‬ ‫ושאיפותיו‬,” his final political article, in Hator. In this piece, published in 1922, he calls for redoubling cultural efforts in the land of Israel, particularly in the area of education, working to bring Judaic law into the courts, and cultivating the general public to recognize the intellectual supremacy of Judaism and the superiority of Jewish ethics.139

Jawitz and Bialik As noted above, eminent poet Chaim Nachman Bialik was influenced at the very start of his literary career by Jawitz’s writings. The very fact that Bialik 136 Schonfeld to Jawitz, Tevet 10, 5679 [December 13, 1918], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection. 137 Struck to Jawitz, June 26, 1920, Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection. 138 Jawitz to Kook, Adar 26, 5680 [March 16, 1920], in Jawitz, op. cit. (n. 125), 120. 139 Jawitz, “‫”המזרחי ושאיפותיו‬, Hator 2, no. 21–22 (Adar 5682 /March 1922): 31–32.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

291

chose to invest himself in producing Hebrew literature was in part a result of the cultural activity of the elder writer, and Sefer HaAggadah, the magnum opus created by Bialik and Joshua Chana Rawnitzki, was influenced by ‫שיחות‬ ‫מני קדם‬, Jawitz’s pioneering work of adapted rabbinic legend. Ultimately, however, Bialik chose the path of Achad Ha‘am and dedicated considerable effort to cultural Zionism. Despite the aforementioned similarity in Bialik and Jawitz’s understandings of talmudic lore, Bialik sought to anthologize the aggadic corpus as a means of recanonizing traditional Jewish cultural sources in the service of his perception of Judaism as a national culture, as taught by Achad Ha‘am. This canonization was of a primarily historical and literary character, and it sought to adapt literature produced by the generations of old for a new generation of readers unable to digest the traditional literature in its original language.140 The first step toward canonization was to assemble this lore within Sefer HaAggadah, which Bialik saw as expressing national myths and values as shaped by the aggadic masters over the ages. In collecting this matter, Bialik chose not to include halakhic talmudic literature. Despite his plan to organize the material chronologically, allowance was made for an earlier halakhic work – namely, the Mishnah. The next stage incorporated aggadic but not legal elements of the Talmud.141 Jawitz, true to his view of Jewish history and Jewish creativity as a single continuum, was opposed to efforts at recanonization, and even more so to the exclusion of talmudic halakhah from such a collection. He saw his own adaptations of Jewish legend as no more than another contribution to a grand edifice of Jewish creativity under constant construction since scriptural times, a contribution whose purpose was not to negate or to select specific parts of that structure, but to participate in its continued organic growth. Yet despite his disdain for Achad Ha‘am and his followers, Jawitz felt no such antipathy toward Bialik. During his time in Germany, Jawitz was close to the editorial board of Ha’ivri, a newspaper based in Berlin whose editor was Rabbi Meyer Berlin, a leader of the Mizrachi. Berlin consulted with Jawitz on matters relating to the newspaper, though he did not always follow the advice he was given. As Berlin records in his memoirs, Jawitz felt that only God-­fearing Jews ought to be permitted to publish articles in Ha’ivri, but, when asked specifically about Bialik, responded that he was an exception.142 Why did Jawitz feel that Bialik merited special treatment? Was he unwilling, despite the views that Bialik espoused, to forgo an opportunity to benefit from his unique talent? Alternately, did Jawitz have a special place in his heart for the man who had 140 Eliezer Schweid, “‫”ביאליק ומדע היהדות‬, Jewish Studies 35 (1995): 60–68; Israel Bartal, “:‫מפעל הכינוס‬ ‫”מדעי היהדות ועיצוב ׳תרבות לאומית׳ בארץ ישראל‬, 520–29. 141 Bialik, “‫”הספר העברי‬, in ‫( כל כתבי ח״נ ביאליק‬Tel Aviv: Dvir, 5720 [1959/1960]), 216. 142 Bar-­Ilan (Berlin), ‫( מוולוז׳ין עד ירושלים‬Tel Aviv: Bar-­Ilan University 1971), 395.

292

Asaf Yedidya

continued his literary work of adapting the rabbinic legends so dear to him for contemporary consumption, despite the conflicting goals that informed their respective approaches? Similarly, even after Bialik decided to follow the lead of Achad Ha‘am, he continued to appreciate Jawitz’s abilities and style of writing. After the First World War, Moriah, the publishing house headed by Bialik and Rawnitzki, entreated Jawitz to produce an expanded edition of ‫שיחות מני קדם‬, which eventually led to the posthumous publication of ‫( שיחות ושמועות מני קדם‬London, 1927). Bialik and Rawnitzki also asked Jawitz to produce an annotated edition of Ben Sira, incorporating sections recently discovered in the Cairo Genizah and a new translation of the other passages, to be published by Moriah. According to the publishers, Jawitz was “the only person capable of producing such a thing refined to utmost perfection.”143 In the summer of 1922, after a meeting with Bialik in Antwerp, Judah Loeb Jawitz informed his father that Bialik had expressed great appreciation of the elder Jawitz’s literary work,144 a sentiment that Bialik repeated in a letter to Judah Loeb after the passing of the younger Jawitz’s father: “It is true and correct that I loved your father, may his memory be blessed, and held his life’s work dear.”145 Nevertheless, Bialik demurred when Judah Loeb asked him to compose an epitaph for his father, because “what you are asking me to do is beyond me, for I never have attempted this.”146 Bialik’s appreciation also did not inspire an offer to publish selected writings by Jawitz in a Moriah edition, when such a proposal was put forth, in 1922, by Moses Joseph Gluecksohn, the editor of Ha’aretz, who was interested in publishing such a volume to be edited by Rabbi Binyamin (pseudonym of Joshua Radler-­ Feldman).147 Bialik did have a place in his heart for Jawitz and recognized a number of his aptitudes, but did not consider him to be of the same caliber as Achad Ha‘am and by no means viewed him as a model to follow. In the spring of 1921, Jawitz received a letter from the founders of the newspaper Do’ar HaYom, a group collectively known as Hasolel, asking for permission to publish his positions on current issues relevant to the Zionist movement and the Yishuv, such as whether the physical development of the land of Israel ought to take precedence over education, and whether the headquarters of the Zionist Organization should be moved to Palestine. “Broad circles of Jewry,” they wrote, “will be interested in reading his [i.e., your] views regarding these 143 Rawnitzki to Jawitz, Tevet 14, 5683 [January 2, 1923], Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection. 144 See n. 96 above. 145 Bialik, ‫( אגרות חיים נחמן ביאליק‬Tel Aviv, 5698 [1937/1938]), 5:162. 146 Ibid. 147 Gedalia Elkoshi, ‫( אגרות צבי וויסלבסקי‬Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1973), 100.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

293

important questions.”148 Jawitz responded with a letter to the editor printed under the title “‫על התרבות הישראלית‬,” wherein he boldly proclaimed the idea that links all the creations of his literary career: Indeed, my wish in all my books and articles has been to forward the observance of Judaism, whose foundations are our Torah, our homeland, the memories of our history, and our language, in all its ancient purity, and to give it hands, strength, a time, and a place to engender novel things each new day and to branch outward, not by extrinsic force, but of its own accord, according to its robust and ancient nature preserved in the depths of its being. To bring this aspiration to such a point is possible only with the return of the nation to its land. With the unification of Israel and the land, an Israelite culture pure and vigorous, native and not foreign-­born, shall rise.149 Jawitz saw himself as facilitating the birth of a renewed Hebrew culture, and aiding the process by providing direction and cultivating optimal environmental conditions under which that culture would emerge into the world healthy, whole, and true to its innate essence, and then continue to grow and develop organically. This put him at odds with others who, Jawitz believed, were attempting to compel Hebrew culture to adopt aspects of foreign cultures. It is not surprising that Jawitz identified with Samuel David Luzzatto more than any other Jewish cultural leader of modern times. In the final analysis, Luzzatto was a Jewish Neo-­romantic, an author whose works evince love of the people of Israel, of the land of Israel, and of the Hebrew language, cleave closely to tradition and Jewish historical experience, and reject all speculative philosophy. Luzzatto’s criticism has been described by historian Shmuel Feiner as that of a “Counter-­Haskalah,”150 a concept borrowed from a commentary in which Isaiah Berlin describes a Counter-­Enlightenment, beginning in the eighteenth century, in which such European intellectuals as Vico, Rousseau, and Herder rejected the main principles of the Enlightenment, such as universalism, objectivity, and rationality.151 Luzzattos’ criticism describes a struggle between Judaism (Judaismus), representing faith, ethics, and love of the good, and European culture (Atticismus), representing philosophy, science, rationalism, 148 Mauricio Meyers to Jawitz, May 26, 1921, Archive of the National Library of Israel, Jawitz Collection. 149 Jawitz, “‫”על תרבותנו הישראלית‬, Do’ar HaYom 3, Sivan 17, 5681/June 23, 1921, 4. 150 Feiner, “‫ שמואל דוד לוצאטו וההשכלה שכנגד‬:‫”ביקורת המודרניות‬, in ‫ מאתיים שנה להולדתו‬:‫שמואל דוד לוצאטו‬, ed. Robert Bonfil, Isaac Gotlieb, and Hannah Kasher (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2004), 134–42. 151 Isaiah Berlin, Against the Current: Essays in the History of Ideas (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 1–24.

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the arts, and aesthetics.152 Jawitz perceived himself as continuing the work of Luzzatto as a critic of the non-­Jewish and inauthentic trends that had made their way into the new Jewish culture. However, while Luzzatto worked within the bounds of the Enlightenment, of which he was a product if ultimately also a strong critic, Jawitz flourished in the novel, post-­Haskalah setting of a newly emerging national Hebrew culture. His was an opposition not so much to the Haskalah as to cultural Zionism. Jawitz claimed to be neither a revolutionary nor an innovator. He portrayed himself as a man whose work was to facilitate the organic development of a Jewish culture rooted in divine revelation, at the critical juncture of its return to the land of Israel, where it first had been cast. This Jewish culture encompassed love of the land of Israel, Hebrew language and literature, and Jewish history, all rudiments of Jewish national existence inseverably tied to the Jewish faith. At first, as he made his way to the land of Israel in 1887, Jawitz believed that a renewal of Jewish culture was possible only in the cradle of Jewish civilization, but he later decided that the time was not ripe. Following his break with Achad Ha‘am, and that between their respective followers, Jawitz became convinced that the hostilities in that culture war had to be waged most of all in Europe, then home to the Jewish masses and intelligentsia. Subsequently, after the Balfour Declaration and the beginning of British mandatory rule in Palestine, he determined that the critical time for cultural renewal centered in the land of Israel finally had come. Yet when all was said and done, few understood his message and answered the call, and his influence remained confined to a few loyal readers and associates, and to a narrow window within history.153 Despite his intentions and historical consciousness, and unlike Achad Ha‘am, Jawitz failed to establish a cultural following that would continue forward on the trail he had first forged. Jawitz was not endowed with the charisma of an irresistible intellectual leader, and he did not leave dedicated students to propagate his teachings. The fact that he did not strike roots anywhere and needed to move every few years also took a toll on his ability to influence the masses. What is more, although Jawitz was active in a wide range of fields, he did not delve very deeply into any one as did Bialik in poetry, Agnon in literature, Ben Yehuda in the Hebrew language, 152 Luzzatto, op. cit. (n. 84). 153 Arielle Rein argues that historian Ben Zion Dinur was far more influenced by Jawitz than he was prepared to admit, especially in his conception of the inner unity of Jewish history and its bifurcation between periods when the nation lived in the land of Israel and all other times; see Rein, “Historian,” 58, 246. The influence of Jawitz’s ideas is felt in the first article published by Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook, as well as in the classes that Rabbi Kook taught through the years, as expressed in “‫ ”האחדות‬and other articles he authored; see Kook, “‫”התרבות הישראלית‬, in ‫לנתיבות‬ ‫( ישראל‬Jerusalem: Choshen Lev, 5257[1966/1967]), 5–11.

The Cultural Zionism of Zeev Jawitz

295

or Rabbi Kook in theology. The absence of such a contribution prevented him from leaving an enduring mark on later intellectuals. The non-­religious ultimately rejected Jawitz both due to his Orthodoxy and because his writing deviated so far from the literary and historiographical conventions of European culture and academia. In this respect, he suffered a fate shared with the other authors of the First Aliyah, whose popularity waned after the First World War. The Orthodox did not know how to deal with Jawitz’s novel creations, which challenged their inflexible conservative sensibilities, and thus redoubled their efforts to preserve the old. Calls from Jawitz for an aggressive reform of traditional Jewish education touched a nerve, and his historiography was open – too open, for their taste – to styles and conceptions advanced by the Wissenschaft des Judentums movement. Religious Zionists, meanwhile, were busy developing the Yishuv physically, creating a religious school system, establishing a rabbinate for the country, and protecting Orthodox laborers and functionaries. Intellectual affairs merited less of their attention. Though the religious Zionist public was Jawitz’s natural audience, and although it held him in high regard, he merited no office amid that population from which he could exercise authority, unlike writers and opinion leaders of the secular Zionist movements. Among Orthodox Jewry in Palestine, rabbis retained exclusive authority in all things intellectual. Thus, Jawitz’s work, irrespective of its pioneering synthesis of religion, Haskalah, and nationalism, was not – unlike the work of contemporaneous secular intellectuals which were recognized by their ideological and intellectual movements – given the recognition it warranted. Zeev Jawitz was a pioneer in the synthesis of tradition, modernity, and Zionism. His philosophy began to coalesce even before the Zionist movement appeared, and continued to develop after that movement split along ideological fault lines. It was his hope that his synthesis would serve as a foundation for the cultural development of the evolving Yishuv. However, Jawitz and his broad ambitions fell prey to the polarization and ever-­deepening rifts that plagued Jewish society in general and the Zionist movement in particular. History remembers him as a solitary intellectual belonging to one movement among many, and to whom even that movement failed to give due recognition.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank David Greenberg, of Academic Language Experts, for the translation.

Rhythm in Yemenite Cantillation: Masoretic Accents and Syllabic Time Boris Kleiner Tel Aviv University

This study, based on years of research in Yemenite synagogues, presents a new view of Yemenite biblical cantillation. It shows that the masoretic accents are realized in this tradition through syllabic rhythm, to which the melody serves mostly as a secondary ornament. This insight may lead to new directions in research on masoretic accentuation. The study also demonstrates that rhythmic pattern is often the sole determinant of vowel length in Yemenite Biblical Hebrew. This fact calls attention to rhythm as a linguistic factor.

1. Purpose and Scope of the Study The present study seeks to clarify the operation of rhythm in Yemenite cantillation of the Bible. I aim to demonstrate that Yemenite reading tradition realizes the Tiberian accentuation primarily through syllabic time, and that the melodic line has a secondary role. Yemenite Biblical Hebrew possesses strictly organized prosodic rhythm that controls all durations in Bible recitation – a unique phenomenon among reading traditions of Biblical Hebrew. This rhythm also largely controls the distribution of long and short vowels in Yemenite Biblical Hebrew, the previous linguistic explanation of which has not proven satisfactory. Analysis of the rhythmic patterns of Yemenite cantillation has the potential to introduce new ideas concerning masoretic accentuation and the phonology of Biblical Hebrew. However, developing these ideas will be left to future studies. The material on which this study is based includes: 1. The author’s own long experience with central Yemenite pronunciation and cantillation; 2. A systematic observation of cantillation in Yemenite synagogues over the last ten years; 3. Recordings of Yemenite cantillation (old recordings from the sound archive of the National Library in Jerusalem and hundreds of recordings available commercially and online); 4. Transcriptions of Yemenite cantillation in ethnomusicological studies and collections.

297

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Boris Kleiner

The study has been greatly facilitated by the fact that various regional cantillation traditions from different parts of Yemen share the same rhythmical structure as a common feature, defining them as clearly Yemenite. Although the examples in this study will present central Yemenite (Sana‘a) cantillation, the uniform rhythmic structure of all Yemenite reading traditions makes it possible to use the generalizing term “Yemenite cantillation.” Because the Jews of Yemen disregard the masoretic accentuation in reading the psalms, this study will not discuss Yemenite psalmody.

2. Yemenite Cantillation in Research The biblical cantillation of Yemenite Jews was first surveyed by A. Z. Idelsohn. As noted by U. Sharvit, Idelsohn had recorded a number of verses, recited by informants, but did not perform a study of Yemenite cantillation in its natural environment of the Yemenite synagogue and educational practice.1 Idelsohn described Yemenite cantillation as similar to other Jewish cantillation systems, in which the masoretic accents (ta‘ame hamiqra) are interpreted as representing motivic units combined into a melodic chain.2 It was, however, clear to Idelsohn that Yemenite cantillation chant did not provide every accent with a motif and often associated the same motif with several accents. For this reason he did not include the system in his comparative table of the various Jewish cantillation traditions.3 Nevertheless, Idelsohn never expressed doubts about the validity of the motivic chain concept for Yemenite cantillation. The Jews of Yemen refer to the accents as ‫ احلان‬or ‫נגינות‬, using the terminology of the early masoretic treatises. The original meaning of these terms has not been established.4 However, their later understanding as “melodies” in the modern sense might be responsible for the interpretation of accents as “motivic units.” Half a century after Idelsohn, Yemenite cantillation chant was characterized by H. Avenary as belonging to the “melodic punctuation style,” in which the motifs mark the structural units of the text, rather than representing individ



1 Uri Sharvit, “The Musical Realization of Biblical Cantillation Symbols (te‘amim) in the Jewish Yemenite Tradition,” Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Center 4 (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1982), 180. 2 Abraham Z. Idelsohn, Hebräisch-­Orientalischer Melodieschatz, 1. Band: Gesänge der Jemenischen Juden (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1914), 20–23. 3 Abraham Z. Idelsohn, Jewish Music in its Historical Development (New York: Henry Holt, 1929), 44–46. 4 Contrary to the statement in Rachel Mashiah and Uri Sharvit, “Synagogal Chanting of the Bible: A Linking of Linguistics and Ethnomusicology,” Musica Judaica 16 (5762/2001–2002), 82, n. 2, that masoretic treatises classified accents “according to their motifs,” the data found in the medieval sources has not yet been convincingly interpreted. It has never been proven that the Arabic terms “high,” “low,” etc., used to describe the accents, refer to the melodic pitch.

Rhythm in Yemenite Cantillation

299

ual accents.5 Later on, the careful study of Yemenite cantillation melody by U. Sharvit provided the most detailed survey of the subject available so far.6 According to Sharvit, the chant melody in Yemenite cantillation punctuates the syntactic units of the verse. It disregards conjunctive accents and reacts only to disjunctive accents in accordance with their alleged “syntactic function” of marking the end of major or minor “clauses.” A “syntactic function” is expressed by a particular motif. Since various disjunctive accents have the same “syntactic function,” many accents are realized through the same melodic formula. For example, in Torah chant the same motif equally serves revia, zaqef, segol, tevir, pazer, telisha gedola, and geresh.7 In haftarah chant this list is extended further by etnachta and sof pasuq. The motifs, which express the “syntactic functions” of accents in the chant, divide the verse melodically into “clauses” and “sub-­clauses.”8 However, associating accents with “syntax” and “clauses” seems to be misleading. Besides syntax, there are numerous other factors influencing masoretic accentuation. Some of these factors, e.g., length of a word (the number of syllables preceding the accented one), have nothing to do with syntax. Modern linguistic research of Tiberian accentuation analyzes accents as representing prosodic rather than syntactic units.9 Prosodic parsing does not always mirror syntactic constituents. For example, two syntactically closely connected words might be separated by a disjunctive accent because of the proximity of the end of the verse. In many cases, an isolated tiny particle (e.g., ‫“ כי‬because”, ‫“ עד‬until”, or ‫“ את‬accusative marker”, etc.) is provided with a strong disjunctive accent, the motif of which would mark, according to Sharvit, the end of a “clause.” Replacing “syntactic” with “prosodic” is not just a matter of terminology. Freeing disjunctive accents from a narrow linkage to syntax and describing their effect





5 Hanoch Avenary, Studies in the Hebrew, Syrian and Greek Liturgical Recitative (Tel Aviv: Israel Music Institute, 1963). 6 Sharvit, Musical Realization. See also his preface to Yehiel Adaqi and Uri Sharvit, A Treasury of Yemenite Jewish Chants (Jerusalem: The Israeli Institute for Sacred Music, 1981). Subsequent publications relied on Sharvit’s studies. 7 For the sake of simplicity, non-­Yemenite terminology, commonly adopted in research, is used throughout this study. For Yemenite names of accents see Sharvit, Musical Realization, 184, and Shelomo Morag, ‫( העברית שבפי יהודי תימן‬Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language, 1963), 214–15. Phonetic transcriptions of Yemenite reading, however, reflect central Yemenite pronunciation. In examples from previous publications the original transcription is retained. In phonetic transcriptions, the current IPA symbol for open mid-­central rounded vowel [ɞ] replaces the previously used [ɔ̈ ]. 8 Sharvit, Musical Realization, 183. 9 Bezalel E. Dresher, “The Prosodic Basis of the Tiberian Hebrew System of Accents,” Language 70:1 (1994): 1–52. See also Tobie Strauss, “‫השפעת גורמים פרוזודיים וגורמים אחרים על חלוקת טעמי כ״א‬ ‫“( ”ספרים‬The Effects of Prosodic and Other Factors on the Parsing of the Biblical Text by the Accents of the 21 Books”). PhD diss., Hebrew University, 2009.

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as declamatory “halts” which may be prompted by multiple – and not only syntactical – reasons, helps one to understand the Yemenite way of interpreting accentuation. With this correction, Sharvit’s survey can be a good starting point for studying Yemenite cantillation before moving on to re-­examine the premise of the motivic performance of accentuation that has been shared by all researchers of Yemenite cantillation so far.

3. Rhythm Anyone entering a Yemenite synagogue can immediately hear that Yemenite chant has a very strong rhythmic profile. There is no underlying meter; the rhythm lacks any periodicity. However, it is not free, as in the recitative chant of other congregations, but exact, with clear distinctions drawn between long and short rhythmic values. The entire congregation is able to perform seemingly unpredictable rhythm jointly in astonishing unity, often in organum-­style plurivocality.10 Rhythmic unity was mentioned already by Idelsohn: “All are well versed in the synagogal chant and really sing in unison, i.e., in strict rhythm (not time!). It never happens that one runs ahead or is left behind.”11 In the original German text of his 1914 edition Idelsohn used the word “Takt” for “time.” In stressing the absence of “Takt,” Idelsohn highlighted the fact that the rhythmic energy and exactness of Yemenite chant is equivalent to what is normally found in vocal performance only in cases of an underlying regular meter – yet there is no meter. Either the entire congregation knows the chant with its bewildering rhythm by heart, or rhythm is generated by some hidden algorithm, escaping immediate Western comprehension. Considering the notorious memorizing ability of Yemenite Jews, it is probably the first explanation that was adopted by Idelsohn (“all are well versed in the synagogal chant”), for the nature of this rhythm was not the subject of his scientific scrutiny. Not only the communal chant, but also the solo recitation of the Bible, e.g., during the public reading of the Torah and the Prophets, has a very distinct rhythmic profile. It is quite different from the free-­recitative style of cantillation in other Jewish communities, where durations are approximate and timing is non-­fixed.12 Yemenite cantillation demonstrates exact rhythm, which is 10 For the term see Simha Arom and Uri Sharvit, “Plurivocality in the Liturgical Music of the Jews of San‘a (Yemen),” Yuval: Studies of the Jewish Music Research Center 6 (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1994): 34–67. 11 Abraham Z. Idelsohn, Thesaurus of Oriental Hebrew Melodies. Vol. 1: Songs of the Yemenite Jews (Berlin: Benjamin Harz, 1925), 16. 12 On the free rhythm of Jewish Oriental cantillation see Robert Lachmann, Gesänge der Juden auf der Insel Djerba, Yuval Monograph Series 7 (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1978), 67.

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301

repeated in the recitation of readers separated by time and distance. Even errors which occur during the public reading of the Torah or the Prophets, and are rigorously corrected by the congregation, are often rhythmic, i.e., what is reprimanded is not pitch, but duration! Nothing comparable exists in other Jewish traditions. In a study published in 1968, A. Herzog linked the rhythmic profile of a particular type of Yemenite psalmody to syllabic structure.13 His further findings, linking the rhythm of scriptural fragments in Yemenite communal prayer to stress patterns and accentuation of the text, are reported in a study by M. Spiegel.14 Up to the present, however, the rhythm of Yemenite soloist cantillation has not been systematically studied. It has been commonly perceived as different from joint communal chant and essentially free.15 For this reason it has not been acknowledged that the communal chant rhythm is merely a simplified form of the cantillation rhythm, which is not free at all.

4. An Example of Rhythm The exact rhythmic values of Yemenite chant allow their easy representation in Western rhythmic notation. Below are two Pentateuch verses, vocalized but not accentuated. The musical notes on the initial letters of rhythmic syllables (running in the direction of the Hebrew text) indicate syllabic durations in an average Yemenite performance. The melodic pitches have been deliberately omitted, in order to focus on syllabic rhythm. The melodic contour would be very variable anyway, in some cases even non-­existent; the rhythm, however, would always remain the same. In the phonetic transcription of the text, rhythmic values are indicated as vowel length: short vowel (no sign) and medium vowel (marked by [ˑ] sign) are equivalent to an eighth note, long vowel ([ː]) corresponds to a quarter note, double-­long vowel ([ːː]) is a half note. The indicated rhythm should be understood as a continuous exact rhythmic chain; there are no free time spaces between words. Breathing has to take place within the indicated durations. Eighth notes and quarter notes are exact; these values are strictly observed. The value of half notes might be somewhat approximate, resembling quarters with fermata signs. Duration patterns could be exemplified by any verse of the Scripture; these particular verses were chosen simply because these verses were recited when I first sensed the existence of a rigid system in what had previously seemed bewildering.

13 Avigdor Herzog, “‫ נוסח צנעה‬,‫”קריאת תהלים מזמור צ״ב‬, in The Oriental and Western Foundations of Music in Israel (Tel Aviv: Israel Music Institute, 1968), 27–36. 14 Mira Spiegel, “‫”אפיונים ייחודיים לאמירה הזמרתית של טקסטים ליטורגיים במסורת תימן‬, Tema: Journal for Research of Yemenite Jewry and Their Culture 7 (2001): 127–36. 15 Spiegel, “‫”אפיונים‬, 132.

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Genesis 5:15–16:

[wajħi maːhalalʔeːːl ħɔmeʃ ʃɔˑniːm waʃiʃʃim ʃɔˑnɔːː wajjɞːlaːð aθ jɔːraːːð] [wajħi maːhalalʔeːːl aːħareː hɞːliðɞ aθ jaːraːːð . . . wajjɞːlað bɔˑniːm uvɔˑnɞːːθ] The peculiar Yemenite rhythm is best exemplified here in the words ‫אחרי הולידו‬ ‫[ את־ירד‬aːħareː hɞːliðɞ aθ jaːraːːð] (Gen 5:16). There seems to be no correspondence between stress and the indicated durations in these three words (‫את־ירד‬ is considered one word, since it is connected by a maqqef ). Only the first word, ‫[ אחרי‬aːħareː], seems to be accented according to the usual perception of Hebrew stress, although instead of secondary stress and main stress we hear two main stresses. The second word, ‫[ הולידו‬hɞːliðɞ], seems to be wrongly accented on its first syllable, ignoring stress on the last syllable. The third word, ‫[ את־ירד‬aθ jaːraːːð], demonstrates a rather strange distribution of vowel durations, placing the longest rhythmic value on the last non-­stressed syllable. From the purely linguistic perspective, it is also enigmatic why the last syllable of ‫[ אחרי‬aːħareː] is long (quarter note), but the last syllable of ‫[ הולידו‬hɞːliðɞ] is short (eighth note). Both are stressed, both are open, both contain a vowel that the current view of Tiberian Hebrew phonology defines as always long, and the traditional Jewish grammars classify as “large,” and nevertheless one is long and one is short. But most striking is the fact that the very same word, ‫ויולד‬, appears twice with different vowel lengths in its non-­stressed closed final syllable [wajjɞːlað, wajjɞːlaːð]. The vowel is short (eighth note) in one case, but long (quarter note) in another case. We are not dealing with an individual case of freedom of variation. The length of the last vowel in ‫ ויולד‬is far from being incidental. This word appears multiple times in the surrounding verses, each time in a precise duration pattern, either with a long or a short vowel in the final syllable. The length will be the same in all performances by all reciters; any deviation would be immediately reprimanded by the congregation. It is obvious that vowel quantity here is not a regular linguistic phenomenon. Linguistically, segol in the final non-­stressed syllable of ‫ ויולד‬is short.16 Yemenite Hebrew differentiates 16 Tiberian vocalization does not mark vowel quantity, but it is believed that vowel length in Tiberian Hebrew was positionally differentiated. Usual linguistic factors (stress pattern and syllable structure) have been considered so far to explain vowel length; see Geoffrey Khan, “Vowel Length and Syllable Structure in the Tiberian Tradition of Biblical Hebrew,” Journal of Semitic Studies 32:1 (1987): 23–82.

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303

between long and short vowels.17 Yet in this case this phonological feature is apparently operating off the normal linguistic context. Some other force overrides syllable structure and stress pattern – the usual linguistic determinants of the positional vowel length – and causes segol (pronounced as patach in Yemenite Hebrew) in the equivalent syllable to be selectively short or long. In the case of a chanted text, such an external factor is usually identified with the autonomy of “music.”18 In other words, a melody, with its rhythmic values that follow an inherent musical logic, is responsible for timing, overriding normal syllabic duration. However, although different Yemenite reciters would render these verses with rather different melodies, the vowel quantity remained the same. There obviously exist rhythmic patterns which are not of “musical” provenance. These are not unpredictably superimposed on the biblical text, subjugating its rhythm to melodic dictates, but are inherent to the text. As will be shown in this study, the rhythmic patterns correspond to the Tiberian prosodic marks. They are generated by the masoretic accentuation, which has been deliberately omitted in the previous example. At this point we need to focus our attention on another rhythmical peculiarity of Yemenite cantillation, the comprehension of which is necessary for understanding the timing structure.

5. Final Syllables It is a basic rule of most cantillation practices that a melisma (a chain of few or multiple melodic pitches on a single syllable) is performed on an accented (stressed) syllable. For example, in the word ‫והארץ‬, accentuated by revia (Gen 1:2), which is realized with melisma in most traditions, the accented letter is alef, and it is the syllable on which the melisma is performed, e.g., in Ashkenazi chant: [vɛhɔˈoːːrəʦ]. The non-­stressed final syllable [-­rəʦ] is attached to the melisma as a light appendix with no melodic prominence. Melisma on a stressed syllable reflects coordination of length and pitch prominence with stress, habitual in many languages (among them Modern Hebrew). This coordination is so self-­evident, that it has been assumed also to apply to Yemenite chant. According to U. Sharvit, a melisma in Yemenite cantillation is performed “on the last stressed syllable” (meaning the last stressed syllable of a “clause”).19 Z. Goren, who only incidentally referred to cantillation

17 According to S. Morag, there are four grades of vowel length in Yemenite Hebrew: ultra-­short, short, medium, and long (Morag, ‫העברית‬, 192). 18 Morag refers to “the musical factor” on multiple occasions (e.g., Morag, ‫העברית‬, 228), apparently regarding it as linguistically non-­accountable. References to a non-­specified “musical factor” are also habitual in biblical accentuation research, when facing any irregularity. 19 Sharvit, Musical Realization, 186, 190.

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chant in his book on the hermeneutics of Tiberian accentuation, mentioned that “Yemenites, like most Sefardim, perform melismas (‫ )מסלסלים‬. . . on the accented syllable only.”20 These statements do not correspond to the reality of Yemenite reading. Any prominent melodic figure of Yemenite cantillation, any melisma, or “trill” (‫)סלסול‬, is dissociated from stress. It falls invariably on the final syllable, regardless of whether it is accented or not. In the word ‫והארץ‬ from Genesis 1:2, a Yemenite Jew performs the melisma, contrary to the common habit, not on the accented syllable, but on the non-­stressed final syllable, making this syllable the longest and melodically the most prominent in the word: [wɔhɔˑʔɔːraːːsˤ]. The peculiar ultima-­bound character of any long melisma in Yemenite cantillation is observable only when the word is mil‘el, i.e., accented on the penultimate syllable. If the word is milra, i.e., ultimately-­stressed, the melisma seemingly coincides with stress. In the above example from Genesis 5:15–16, there are six cases of long melismatic motifs, indicated by half-­note durations in the notation of rhythm (or double long vowels in the phonetic transcription). All six half notes are located at word’s end. Four of them pertain to milra words (accented on the final syllable), where the melisma on the final syllable happens to coincide with stress. But in two appearances of the name ‫ירד‬, stressed on the first syllable, the half-­note melisma is nevertheless put on the last syllable: [jɔːraːːð, jaːraːːð]. Melodic weight on a non-­stressed syllable might be erroneously interpreted by a non-­Yemenite as an incorrect accentuation of the word. The awareness of a special rhythmic and melodic status of final syllables, independent of stress, is, however, the condition for understanding rhythm in Yemenite cantillation.

6. Accents All Jewish communities regard the so-­called “prosaic” Tiberian accents as the basis for their cantillation practice.21 Yet no practice is believed to be a direct heir of the Tiberian reading tradition. All traditions discern, at least in theory, between conjunctive and disjunctive accents. The well-­known subdivision of the disjunctive accents into four grades of disjunctive force (“emperors,” “kings,” “dukes,” and “counts”) is of late provenance, having originated in the research of German Protestant scholars of the seventeenth century, and later adopted by Jewish scholars.22 It has no 20 Zecharia Goren, ‫( טעמי המקרא כפרשנות‬Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1995), 20. 21 Prosaic accents are used in all books of the Bible except Psalms, Proverbs, and most of Job, where another set of accents is used. 22 Respective Hebrew terms (‫ שלישים‬,‫ משנים‬,‫ מלכים‬,‫ )קיסרים‬are translations from the original Latin (imperatores, reges, duces, comites).

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bearing on the traditional cantillation. Only Yemenite tradition possesses a further-­going theoretical classification of accents. Yet it discerns just two classes of disjunctive accents – strong (major) disjunctives and weak (minor) disjunctives.23 The distribution of the accents among these groups is somewhat unusual. Yemenite assessment of the disjunctive force of some accents differs from the respective view of the four-­grade theory. Yemenite classification of the prosaic accents has been presented many times in research. To summarize: the conjunctive accents, collectively described as ‫“( מוליכים‬leading, walking”), have no “pausal force” (‫)כח הפסק‬. Of the two classes of disjunctives, the stronger major ones (with greater “pausal force”) are called “‫“( ”מעמידים‬stopping”), comprising sof pasuq, etnachta, segol, zaqef (little and great), revia, pazer (regular and great), telisha gedola, tevir, and geresh/ gershayim, if the first disjunctive accent after geresh is not revia. The weaker minor disjunctives (with lesser “pausal force”) are called “‫“( ”מפסיקים‬pausing”); this group includes tifcha, pashta/yetiv, zarqa, shalshelet, paseq, and geresh/ gershayim, if the first disjunctive accent following geresh is revia. Paseq is a “pausing” accent, whether in combination with munach (legarmeh) or following a word with another conjunctive accent. Shalshelet, which is a substitute for the “stopping” accent segol, is nevertheless considered a “pausing” accent. Two other attributions differ from the usual assessment of the disjunctive grade: tifcha, a “king” of the four-­grade theory, is merely a minor “pausing” accent in Yemenite classification, while the weaker “duke,” tevir, is listed among major “stopping” disjunctives. The double status of geresh (and its substitute gershayim), which is dependent on the presence or absence of revia after it, is very unusual. If followed by revia (not counting the conjunctive accents that may come in between), it is “pausing”; otherwise, it is “stopping.” A prosodic analysis of this classification and the reciting system based on it will be presented in a separate study.

7. Accents and the Melodic Line U. Sharvit, who associated the three Yemenite accent classes with “syntactic functions,” postulated that a “syntactic function” is realized in cantillation through the associated melodic motif (called “movement” by Sharvit). There is no differentiation of the individual accents; all accents of the same class (expressing the same “syntactic function”) are performed with the same motif. Conjunctive accents are disregarded by the chant. Accordingly, there is a “pausing” motif, shared by all “pausing” accents, and a “stopping” motif, shared by all “stopping” accents, except the second-­to-­last “stopping” accent of the verse. 23 This distinction is not found in Tiberian or Babylonian masorah; its source is not yet known.

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The penultimate “stop,” i.e., the last “stop” before the verse end (it may be either tevir, zaqef, or etnachta) is performed with a slightly different melody, called “breaking,” whose function is to “herald” the approaching end of the verse.24 “Breaking” is a phenomenon common to all reciting chants. This general picture has some exceptions. In Torah chant, sof pasuq has a special motif, which serves also etnachta, if etnachta is separated from sof pasuq by at least one “stopping” accent. If etnachta itself happens to become the last “stopping” accent before the verse end (i.e., if it occurs in the “breaking” position), it is performed with the “breaking” motif. In cantillation chants other than the Torah chant (e.g., Shirah chant,25 haftarah chant) sof pasuq and etnachta do not have a separate motif and are performed with the same melody as other “stopping” accents.26 Yemenite Jews have preserved the ancient custom of reciting the Aramaic translation (Targum) after every verse from the Torah and haftarah reading. Targum chants are organized similarly to the corresponding Hebrew chants, except for the fact that Targum chant often disregards “pauses” and observes only the “stops” of the corresponding Hebrew verse. The Torah Targum chant has a separate motif for sof pasuq, but not for etnachta. Sharvit postulated that among the “pausing” accents, tifcha before sof pasuq is performed differently than tifcha before etnachta. Special treatment of tifcha before sof pasuq allegedly serves the function of secondary melodic “heralding” of the verse end in addition to the preceding “breaking.”27 There is also a special melody for zarqa. According to Sharvit, a long verse in Torah chant is melodically structured as a chain of “pausing” and “stopping” motifs. In the first half of such a verse, this chain is concluded by the first tifcha motif and etnachta motif. In the second half, a similar chain of “pausing” and “stopping” motifs is concluded by the “breaking” motif, the second tifcha motif, and the motif of sof pasuq. Practical experience with Yemenite cantillation leads me to a somewhat different assessment of its melodic contents. Since this study focuses on rhythm, this assessment will be presented only in general. First, Yemenite cantillation can be executed with no melody whatsoever, on the declamatory pitch with nearly no motivic formation, or even with speaking voice (very rarely). A Yemenite Jew, called to the Torah, recites his reading portion himself (there is no ba‘al qore, appointed reader, as in other Jewish communities), and does so according to his abilities and talent. The melody of the chant is not considered 24 Sharvit, Musical Realization, 186–87. 25 Shirah chant is used in four sections of the Pentateuch: The Song at the Sea, the Decalogue (both times), and the account of Moses’s death. 26 Sharvit stated (Musical Realization, 187) that sof pasuq is acoustically discernible also in these chants, which is not correct. The end of the verse is audibly indicated only indirectly, by “breaking” preceding it. 27 Sharvit, Musical Realization, 187.

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essential; the technical term for liturgical reading is “reciting,” not “chanting.” The validity of liturgical reciting is determined by the correct pronunciation and the correct phrasing of the text. Melodic expression is merely a highly appreciated embellishment. Secondly, in the regular reciting with chant, the same chant may be presented as the slightest inflection of pitch, only minimally marking the melody, or as a richly decorated and very impressive melody. One has to differentiate between mandatory and optional melodic expression. Contrary to Sharvit, there is no mandatory representation of “pausing” accents in the melodic line, except zarqa. In other words, there are no obligatory “pausing” motifs. A “pause” is a precursor to a “stop” (“stopping” may occur without any preceding “pause,” or may have one or several “pauses” before it). It is a rhythmic halt, made either on the reciting tone or on one of various optional motifs, at the reciter’s discretion. In all cases, a “pause” is expressed by rhythm and not by a mandatory melodic contour. As for the alleged special treatment of tifcha before sof pasuq, also, there, no melodic obligation exists. Some reciters consistently perform tifcha before sof pasuq in Torah chant with a particular descending motif. Others, however, may use a simple reciting tone instead or perform tifcha before sof pasuq with an ascending melodic line.28 The only “pause” that requires a specific motif is zarqa.29 “Stopping,” on the contrary, has mandatory motivic representation in two or three variants: regular “stop,” “breaking,” and, in Torah chant only, sof pasuq and etnachta, if etnachta is not “breaking.” The obligatory melodic requirements of the few mandatory motifs are so minimal that they may be met by merely suggesting the slightest change in voice direction. Both zarqa and sof pasuq in Torah chant are associated with a downward movement, which means that they might be (and often are) performed with the same descending melisma. Accordingly, there are only three melodic flexions (for all “stop” varieties and zarqa), that are obligatory for the cantillation in Torah chant, each one requiring just a slight bending of voice pitch. The same may also be performed in highly developed versions as a richly ornamented and impressive melody, requiring great vocal skill. Since the conjunctive accents have no influence on the chant whatsoever, and 28 Rabbi Y. Qafah, describing the tradition of Sana‘a, singles out tifcha before etnachta as performed differently from other accents. Tifcha before sof pasuq is listed among other “pausing” accents, all, according to him, having the same performance. See Yosef Qafah, ‫ חיי היהודים‬:‫הליכות תימן‬ ‫( בצנעא ובנותיה‬Jerusalem: Ben-­Zvi Institute, 1969), 51. 29 The exceptional status of zarqa is probably related to the ternary division of the verse by segol. In compliance with the peculiar logic of Yemenite cantillation, this special function of segol is not melodically expressed at segol itself, but is heralded by the preceding zarqa. Similarly, sof pasuq (verse end) is not expressed as such in most chants (except Torah chant), but is indicated by the preceding “breaking” instead.



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the “pausing” accents receive only optional melodic treatment, most of the chant is formed by melodic expressions not related to the accentuation. The melody is improvised in the individual style of each reciter, using the existing repertory of melodic formulas and details. These include optional initial formulas (for the very beginning or for the new onset after a “stop”), optional higher and lower reciting tones, optional melodic flexions for halts, and optional motifs preparing one of the mandatory final motifs. All may be replaced by a simple reciting tone, interrupted by a few mandatory motifs. Below are three variants in the recitation of the same verse by the same informant (Sana‘a cantillation), using the same chant. One may discern the common melodic type based on the same tetrachord. The actual melody is freely improvised with varying substantial details: different onsets, different reciting tones (high or low), different directions of the melodic contour, etc. Even the obligatory “stopping” motif of the Torah chant at the end (expressing the “stop” of zaqef qaton) appears in three different variants. The rest is merely an improvised adaptation to a constant rhythmic framework. The unchanging rhythm clearly expresses the “pause” of pashta, whereas in the melodic performance no common trait identifying pashta may be discerned. In the perception of the reciter, however, all three recitations were just the same. Genesis 25:20:

‫ן־א ְר ָּב ִ ֣עים ׁ ָש ֔ ָנה‬ ַ ‫וַ יְ ִה֤י יִ צְ ָח ֙ק ֶּב‬ [wajhi jisˤħɔːg ban ʔarbɔˑʕim ʃɔˑnɔːː]

Contrary to the accepted view, not only conjunctive accents, but also most disjunctive accents are not interpreted in the melodic contour of Yemenite cantillation.30 Strictly speaking, almost no accent is realized as a motif except

30 This fact undermines the validity of the conclusion (previously shared also by the present author) that Yemenite cantillation might be linked to early Babylonian accentuation, based on the fact that it lacked conjunctive accents (Morag, ‫העברית‬, 219–20; Spiegel, “‫אפיונים‬,” 129). The

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the single “pausing” accent zarqa, and the general class of “stopping” accents with their three (Torah chant) or two (Shirah and haftarah chant) melodic variations.31 Some traditions have a special way of treating tevir, by which it becomes audibly discernible from a regular “stop.”32 Tevir before sof pasuq (i.e., a “breaking” tevir) may receive a motif that differs from regular “breaking.” This special treatment of tevir is not obligatory, and a regular “stopping” motif (or a regular “breaking” motif, whatever appropriate) may be performed instead. Also etnachta, when “breaking,” may be performed in a special way, combining the melodic elements of etnachta melisma and of the “breaking” motif.33 This is also not obligatory, and a regular “breaking” motif may be performed instead.34 Since most melodic motifs in Yemenite chant are optional, a wrong melodic direction can only be the result of neglecting zarqa and of either failing to perform the correct “stopping” motif at the proper word or by performing it at the wrong word.

8. Accents and Rhythm The above presentation of the relationship between the melody and the accents in Yemenite cantillation concentrated on the melodic contour. However, what makes Yemenite cantillation very different from other Jewish traditions is not melodic contour of Yemenite cantillation may disregard disjunctive accents no less than conjunctive ones. In terms of rhythm, however, the conjunctive accents are collectively as visible in the cantillation as are the disjunctive ones (see “Rhythm rules,” below). In addition, even in case of those disjunctive accents which are represented through the melodic contour, only the disjunctive rank is apparent. The individual accents are not differentiated, which fact can hardly be linked specifically to Babylonian accentuation. Finally, it has never been shown or assumed that Babylonian accentuation reflected a way of reciting essentially different from the Tiberian manner. The lack of conjunctive accents in Babylonian accentuation may be understood as merely a difference in graphic representation. 31 Torah chant discerns between a regular “stop,” a breaking “stop,” and the “stop” of sof pasuq/ etnachta. Haftarah chant and Shirah chant have no special motif for sof pasuq/etnachta. 32 This “special way” usually consists of elision of the final halt of the “stopping” motif, creating a transition into the etnachta phrase. Sometimes the shortened “stopping” motif (for tevir before etnachta) or a regular “breaking” movement (for tevir before sof pasuq) receive an adjunct descending melisma, marking them as tevir. 33 In Torah chant, it is usually through the combination of the initial stage of the etnachta motif and the final stage of the “breaking” motif, not allowing the etnachta motif to descend its full span. Very rarely is “breaking” at etnachta expressed by a full etnachta motif with the addition of yet another descending tone. 34 If “breaking” by tevir and “breaking” by etnachta receive special melodic treatment, it is audibly discernible which accent is “breaking”: zaqef, tevir, or etnachta. In this case a general “breaking” motif is associated only with zaqef, while tevir and etnachta have somewhat different variants. Most people, however, perform “breaking” by any accent in an indiscriminately identical way.

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only its unusual interference between the accents and the melodic motifs, but also the fact that accents are expressed primarily through duration, not through pitch. In the domain of rhythm none of the accents are ignored, although it is not the individual accents, but rather the accent ranks which are determinative, in accordance with their three-­grade classification as “leading,” “pausing,” or “stopping.” While in the melodic contour only zarqa and the group rank of major disjunctive (“stopping”) accents are apparent, in the rhythmic profile all three groups of accents are equally represented, including the conjunctive ones. The essential feature of Yemenite cantillation is its ability to strictly control the duration of the recited text syllables, reflecting conjunction or disjunction (expressed by all accents), and word stress (marked by most of them), by rhythmically manipulating the declamation flow. Intentional prolongations of syllable duration, most commonly by doubling, are inserted at certain points. These prolongations result in the differentiated timing of recitation, through which both the particular types of stress in individual words and the notion of conjunction and disjunction between words is expressed. Other prosodic means, e.g., dynamics or intonation, are not formalized in the Yemenite reading tradition. The only prosodic feature which is semantically structured is timing, i.e., grading the syllable durations within words and at word borders. Whatever the original prosody, allegedly conveyed by the Tiberian accentuation, might have been, in the Yemenite reading tradition the accents are expressed primarily by means of measured durations. The melodic direction is but subsidiary. Beyond the audible distinction between conjunction and disjunction, which is expressed solely by rhythm, the Yemenite reading tradition also audibly discerns two grades of disjunction: weaker “pauses” and stronger “stops.” This further distinction is expressed by both rhythmic and melodic means. The relative weight of each may vary. In a regular recitation, “stopping” is different from “pausing” both in its rhythmic profile and in its mandatory melodic contour. In cases of a simplified, or “reduced time” recitation (e.g., in a hurry, or in the communal chant tunes, described later in “Examples and Elaborations,” examples V–VI), the difference between “stopping” and “pausing” may be expressed by pitch only. Both in their primary role pertaining to verse prosody (as indicators of phrasing), and in their secondary role pertaining to word prosody (as indicators of stress pattern), the accents are realized by Yemenite Jews mostly through profiled timing, i.e., through rhythm. Naturally, rhythm is executed in vocal uttering, which amounts to a certain level of melodic expression. However, the melodies of Yemenite cantillation are but vehicles of projecting the text: they serve the purpose of establishing control over the syllable duration within words and at the transitions between words. The melody supports longer durations at halting moments, by producing prolonged sounds or sound sequences,

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311

and enhances the halts with melismas, elaborating the recitation aesthetically. Nevertheless, the melodic line is secondary, which may be demonstrated by two facts: First, its movement is almost never independent, but subjugated to the rhythmic framework.35 Second, it is almost entirely dispensable. As mentioned above, Yemenite reciting can do without pitch contour. Various levels of melodic prolificacy are equally possible for reciting the same verse, the motivic profile varying from barely existing to being highly developed and impressive.36 The common base of all performances will be the similar timing of syllabic declamation. Besides proper pronunciation, the correct rhythm alone is the criterion for an acceptable rendition of the text; the melodic direction may simply add beauty. Strictly speaking, one cannot separate melodic line and rhythm entirely; in concentrating on syllabic rhythm we are only highlighting the essential aspect of Yemenite cantillation, neglected in the research so far. Yemenite interpretation of the Tiberian accentuation is melo-­rhythmic, not motivic, and the rhythmic aspect is primary.37 The accents do not shape the melodic line, and even if they rarely seem to influence it, when they do it is an indirect influence, mostly triggered by the rhythmic “weight.” The melodic direction per se is autonomous and only linked to a few accents through association.38 As indicators of syllabic timing, however, the accents govern the recitation directly. This central issue of Yemenite interpretation of accentuation may be elaborated by analyzing the phenomenon of “breaking.” “Breaking” is not conveyed by the accentuation, since it mainly concerns the melodic contour. As already mentioned, even in non-­Yemenite cantillation practices melodic shaping is in reality only associated with accents, though it is often believed to be expressed or even generated by them. In Yemenite tradition the accents are not even meant to express motifs. They are interpreted (by a three-­grade ranking of their disjunctive force) as timing marks, only supporting the melodic structure by 35 In non-­Yemenite cantillation the timing of any melisma is dictated by its motivic shape, which is primary. In Yemenite cantillation the opposite is true, and the influence of the melodic contour on timing is very rare (it happens only in zarqa motif in Torah and haftarah chant; see Rule 8 in Rhythm rules below). 36 The melodic prolificacy of Yemenite cantillation depends on individual skill and talent, on place and time (home versus synagogue, learning session versus liturgical reading; weekday versus Shabbat etc.), and even, as has been shown by Sharvit, on social status (minor or adult). 37 Yemenite informants do not distinguish between melodic contour and melodic rhythm. For example, they would describe a rhythmic halt on a reciting tone (with no pitch change) as the “melody” (‫)נעימה‬, through which one of the accents (‫ )נגינות‬is realized. 38 This is true also for non-­Yemenite cantillation traditions. Also in case of the motivic interpretation of the accentuation, a melodic value (the motif) is merely associated with a particular accent, and is relative even in the same tradition, changing in different chants (e.g., the same accent in Torah chant and in haftarah chant, etc.).

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providing the timing framework. “Breaking” of the melody is indeed correlated with the accentuation, since it happens at the last “stop” before the verse end. However, the special melodic treatment of this second-­to-­last “stop” is not governed by the accents; it is an autonomous phenomenon of the chant. The original Tiberian reading tradition possibly also knew a phenomenon similar to Yemenite “breaking.”39 Its remnants are perhaps still discernible in the name “tevir” (“broken”).40 However, it is not known if Tiberian chant (if it ever existed) influenced Yemenite cantillation.41 In any case, “breaking” in Yemenite chant is not the result of the motivic interpretation of accents. Only its location in the verse is correlated with the accentuation. The accents in words, treated with the “breaking” melody, still function to represent the prosodic breakdown (expressed by duration in Yemenite reading) and are not understood as motif symbols. The only case where there is association between an individual accent and the melodic direction in Yemenite cantillation remains zarqa (probably also shalshelet). In other cases, the accent itself is not interpreted as expressing a melodic value, but is solely understood as marking the status of a word in verse rhythm. The melodic behavior is a consequence, corroborating the rhythm by the autonomous melodic line. Yemenite reading tradition is probably the only one among the Jewish communities both of East and West which enables all accents to directly shape the recitation through timing. It is true that other Jewish communities are also aware of the masoretic distinction between conjunctive and disjunctive accents, and of the differing separating force of disjunctive accents. However, in none of the other cantillation traditions have these notions found mandatory and systematic acoustic expression. On the contrary: the melodic melismas of Ashkenazi cantillation, for example, are dissociated from the accent rank, and

39 Prof. Eliyahu Schleifer drew my attention to the fact that also the Samaritan chant knows a phenomenon similar to “breaking” which might have been part of an ancient tradition. Samaritan cantillation shares with Yemenite cantillation also the notion of a syllabic time-­unit, which enables joint recitation in a group. See Avigdor Herzog, “Metrical Aspects of Samaritan Music,” Proceedings of the World Congress on Jewish Music 1978, Jerusalem (Tel Aviv: The Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature, 1982), 85–88. Herzog points to the fact that for the sake of joint recitation rhythmic coherence is more important than melodic direction. Joint recitation of Bible verses by Jews, made possible by the accentuation and unknown among the Arabs, is attested for the first time in Hidāyat al-­Qāri, where this practice is regarded as one of the purposes of accentuation. See Ilan Eldar, ‫ ספר הוריית הקורא ומשנתו הלשונית‬:‫תורת הקריאה במקרא‬, (Jerusalem: The Academy of the Hebrew Language, 1994), 162. Yemenite cantillation is apparently the only Jewish reading tradition optimized for this practice. 40 It is worth noticing that if there is tevir at the end of the verse, it will always coincide with “breaking”; but if there is no tevir, “breaking” will still occur on zaqef or on etnachta, whichever happens to become the last “stop” before the verse end. 41 It is not known if Tiberian recitation was chanted.

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melismas on conjunctive accents often stop the recitation flow precisely where conjunction is theoretically required. The distinction between conjunction and disjunction is considered important, but there are no mandatory means of ensuring its audible presentation, let alone of expressing the difference between various grades of disjunction. Most Ashkenazi reciters today are concerned only with the melodic motifs associated with accents; the cantillation is considered valid even if it grossly disregards the conjunctive and disjunctive meaning of the accents, as long as the accents themselves are represented through the melodic contour. The rhythm has no regulating structure, and duration of melismatic syllables is determined simply by how much time is needed to perform a particular motif. Quite differently, Yemenite cantillation only minimally represents accents through melodic line, but possesses the formal means of consistently and obligatorily expressing their conjunctive and disjunctive function, to the extent that in normative cantillation even the difference between the grades of disjunction is audibly expressed. Its primary means is the duration profile, i.e., rhythm. Besides expressing the grade of connection between words, accents simultaneously indicate milra and mil‘el stress, and secondary stress marked by the ga‘ya sign, which is part of the accentuation. 42 This function of accents is also acoustically carried out in Yemenite cantillation through gradation of syllable durations. Rhythmic profile is used for establishing the distinction between milra and mil‘el stress, and for expressing the secondary stress of the ga‘ya sign. The Yemenites are probably the only Jewish group that systematically reflects ga‘ya signs in their Bible reading, following their text editions, which often differ from the common Bible editions in the placement of ga‘ya signs. These two rhythmic mechanisms, operating in different prosodic domains – one within a word, concerned with stress patterns (word prosody), and the other at word borders, concerned with phrasing (verse prosody) – will be presented in this study separately. After having been treated individually, they will be combined together. Due to the lack of accepted terminology, the rhythmic processes operating on the word level, i.e., within a word, will be called “word rhythm,” and the rhythmic processes operating on the verse level, i.e., at word borders, “verse rhythm.” “Word rhythm” corresponds to what A. Spanier called “Wortakzent,” while his “Satzakzent” roughly corresponds to “verse rhythm.”43 Both manipulate the duration of syllables: word rhythm regulates the duration 42 The ga‘ya sign is called meteg by Ashkenazi Jews. The Yemenite term is ji‘yo [ʤıʕjɔ]. 43 Arthur Spanier, Die massoretischen Akzente: eine Darlegung ihres Systems nebst Beiträgen zum Verständnis ihrer Entwicklung (Berlin: Akademie, 1927). Spanier defended his views in a short book, Der Satzakzent im Hebräischen: eine Erwiderung auf eine Rezension meines Buches “Die massoretischen Akzente” (Berlin: Soncino-­Gesellschaft der Freunde des Jüdischen Buches, 1928).

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of all syllables except the final ones, and verse rhythm governs the duration of all final syllables.

9. Basics of Rhythm Rhythmic profiling of syllable durations in Yemenite cantillation is based on the syllable-­timed character of Yemenite Biblical Hebrew, wherein syllable flow is isochronic; the utterance of an average syllable constitutes a basic time-­unit. Slight deviations in vowel duration do not disturb the general isochronic picture, and deliberate changes can be made by multiplying (usually doubling) syllable duration. Isochronic rhythm may have its roots in ancient reading traditions (among them also the Tiberian), since it is essential for group recitation.44 It is also propagated by Yemenite traditional education which is based on group teaching by rote. The children chant the verses, which they perceive not semantically, but rather as a sound chain, very loud and in rhythmic unity, resembling the adult group recitation with its syllabic isochrony. In joint energetic recitation, rhythmic energy is high and equally distributed between both stressed and non-­stressed syllables. One of the manifestations of rhythmic isochrony, and a striking feature of Yemenite recitation for a novice in the Yemenite synagogue, is the unusually full and energetic pronunciation of vocal shewa. The full “syllabic” status of the Yemenite vocal shewa is equal to its allophones, chatef vowels, which are routinely pronounced as full syllables by all Jews, their non-­syllabic status in grammar notwithstanding. Since our study is concerned with rhythm and not with grammar, we will treat vocal shewa and chatef vowels as rhythmic “syllables” constituting a separate vocal utterance and requiring a separate note in the notation. It is true that a careful Yemenite recitation of the Bible differentiates between the shorter duration of a chatef sound or a vocal shewa compared with the length of a regular vowel, but quite often no difference is discernible. The “full” pronunciation of vocal shewa is probably rooted in the Tiberian reading tradition. It has been demonstrated by G. Khan that vocal shewa was a short vowel that was not represented by a full vowel sign because of its position in an open syllable.45 An open syllable with a short vowel was not considered a full syllable, and was vocalised with shewa. It should be noted that the quality

44 See n. 39 above. 45 Geoffrey Khan, “The Pronunciation of Šǝwa with Ga‘ya in the Tiberian Tradition of Biblical Hebrew,” in ‫משאת אהרן‬: Linguistic Studies Presented to Aron Dotan (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2009), 15*–17*.

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(timbre) of vocal shewa in Yemenite pronunciation corresponds exactly to the Tiberian sources.46 Since vocal shewa and its allophones, chatef vowels, may have exactly the same duration and energy as regular vowels, we will treat them as regular rhythmic “syllables,” ignoring for the time being their ideally somewhat shorter pronunciation. We may also ignore the difference between a short vowel and a slightly prolonged “medium” vowel. The latter regularly occurs in open (mostly pre-­ tonic) syllables and is the result of lengthening, compensating for the lack of the final consonantal mora in the syllable. It only constitutes a micro-­rhythmic variation within the steady pace of declamation. There is a sharp difference between slight irregularities in vowel length, which may be negligible, and an intentional practice of doubling the vowel duration in order to produce a long syllable for the sake of rhythmic profiling. For this reason, extra-­short, short, and medium vowels are all perceived as forming rhythmically regular syllables of one-­unit duration, in sharp contrast to the long ones. For the time being, we may neglect the slight irregularities and consider all such syllables as recited at the same pace, notwithstanding the slight duration differences. The marked difference in duration between all variants of short vowels, on the one hand, and long vowels, on the other, cannot be sufficiently explained as caused by the usual linguistic factors of positional vowel length, such as stress and syllable structure. The fact that long vowels are generated by rhythmic patterns has apparently escaped the due appreciation of linguists. Some of these rhythmic patterns, presented in this study, are constant, and may be understood as an acoustical expression of a grammatical feature, e.g., secondary stress. Others are variable and responsible for the non-­grammatical mapping of long and short vowels. The variable rhythmic patterns are generated by the Yemenite method of interpreting Tiberian accentuation, which is translated into rhythm. The constant “grammatical” rhythmic patterns and the variable “rhetorical” rhythmic patterns are responsible for all rhythm in Yemenite cantillation.

10. Rhythm Rules (1): Word Rhythm The following description of rhythm operation pertains to the solo cantillation of the Bible. Special features of communal joint cantillation will be presented later in Section 16. “Examples and Elaborations” (Ex. V–VI).

46 It is [a] in a regular case, the timbre of any following vowel before gutturals (e.g., ‫[ והוא‬wuhuː], ‫[ והיא‬wihiː], ‫[ והם‬weheːm], ‫[ והיה‬wɔhɔˑjɔː], etc.) and [i] before yod. Shewa after a ga‘ya sign in the middle of a word is vocal in Yemenite Biblical Hebrew, as in other Jewish reading traditions. ‫ ָ ֽא ְֿכלָ ה‬is pronounced [ʔɔːχalɔː] rather than [ʔɔːɔχlɔː] assumed by Khan for Tiberian pronunciation.

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Rule 1 (word rhythm): all regular syllables are recited isochronally at approximately the same rate of the basic time-­unit. The actual duration of the time-­ unit (in other words: the declamation speed) may vary. In Torah cantillation of an average pace the basic time-­unit would be represented in notation by an eighth note. But if the recitation is at a considerably slower tempo (the tempo is chosen by the reciter, but some portions are nearly always recited in a slow tempo, e.g., the Decalogue), the more appropriate notational symbol for the basic time-­unit might be, for example, a quarter note. Rule 2 (word rhythm): any syllable bearing main or secondary stress, except the final one, (on final syllables see Rules 5–10) is doubled in its duration and lasts two time-­units. Non-­final syllables which may be rhythmically doubled are: 1. Stressed second-­to-­last (or, very seldom, third-­to-­last) syllables in mil‘el words; 2. A syllable marked with a ga‘ya sign (except in a monosyllabic word, attached by maqqef ); 3. A syllable marked with a secondary conjunctive accent replacing the ga‘ya sign (for example, munach in a munach-­zaqef word, or qadma in a qadma-­geresh or qadma-­merkha word, etc.). Every additional accent in a word belongs to this category, including dorban, or metiga.47 Double duration is not conditioned by any further linguistic feature. The syllable may be open or closed; its vowel may be of any kind. It is a purely rhythmical phenomenon that operates equally in all kinds of syllables with all kinds of vowels. The ga‘ya sign even doubles the duration of vocal shewa. All such syllables become rhythmically long, i.e., their duration will be a quarter note, if the basic time-­unit is an eighth; or a half note, if the basic unit is a quarter. In order to ensure the prolongation of the syllable (i.e., the prolongation of its vowel), more vocal energy is put on it. Double duration is the threshold which distinguishes between a prolongation with no rhythmic relevance, e.g., the prolongation of a medium vowel (which is still rhythmically

47 Metiga-­zaqef (sometimes erroneously identified as pashta in the same word with zaqef katon) is a replacement for zaqef gadol in certain circumstances. The manuscripts differ with regard to the placement of metiga in the word, and its interpretation is different in various Jewish reading traditions. The usual Yemenite practice is to treat it like the ga‘ya sign and prolong the corresponding syllable. Modern Taj prints generally put it on the second letter of the word. This is where it is rhythmically expressed by the reading tradition, which prolongs the closed syllable after the initial vowel, disregarding the fact that metiga may be also placed on the first letter in the manuscripts.

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short), and the prolongation that establishes a long rhythmic entity, opposed to regular duration.48 As a consequence of expressing stress through a rhythmic pattern, there is no difference between main and secondary stress in non-­final syllables. Both mil‘el stress and ga‘ya are expressed in the normative cantillation by the same double length of the syllable (on milra stress see Rule 3). Only when the recitation is executed in a simplified way (see “Examples and Elaborations,” example V), the difference between them may become visible. In such a case, ga‘ya (secondary stress) usually disappears, but mil‘el stress will still be rhythmically expressed. Some recitation chants have a simplified rhythmic structure by default, not reflecting, or only partially reflecting, secondary stress. Rule 3 (word rhythm): all final syllables are exempt from the operation of word rhythm. The duration of final syllables is controlled by verse rhythm, which expresses conjunction or disjunction and operates at word borders. For this reason, a stressed syllable in milra words is not doubled automatically, as in mil‘el words. Its duration is subject to the rules of verse rhythm, which ignores word stress. The final syllable of a milra word may be doubled, but only if necessary because of the requirement of verse rhythm, not because of stress. Stress cannot be expressed in the final syllables by duration. The consequence is that while mil‘el stress is always audibly expressed by double duration, milra stress is not directly represented at all. The only way of expressing or recognizing milra stress is the lack of the mil‘el stress pattern.49 Rule 4 (word rhythm): the difference between milra and mil‘el stress in Yemenite cantillation is discernible solely by length of the penultimate syllable. In a mil‘el word the penultimate syllable lasts two time-­units, while in a milra word it lasts one time-­unit.50 A peculiar side effect of the fact that milra stress is not expressed by duration is the rhythmic pattern emerging in every milra word with the ga‘ya sign when the word is marked with a conjunctive accent. Since the last syllable of such a word may not be prolonged (see Rule 7), but the syllable with the ga‘ya sign receives double length, the word sounds to a non-­Yemenite as if wrongly stressed on the ga‘ya syllable (see ‫[ הולידו‬hɞːliðɞ] in Genesis 5:16 in the example above). Stress is phonological in Tiberian Hebrew (capable of differentiating mean 48 In the phonological opposition short–long, the medium vowel is short, although it may appear long phonetically. 49 See Morag, ‫העברית‬, 228. 50 The penultimate syllable in a milra word may be phonetically slightly longer than one time-unit, if it is open, due to pre-­tonic lengthening (medium vowel). This lengthening never reaches the determined grade of doubling the duration, which would amount to mil‘el stress. In other words, even if somewhat lengthened, it still remains one time-­unit.

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ing), while vowel length is believed to be only positional. Since the difference between milra and mil‘el stress is expressed in the Yemenite reading tradition by vowel length in the penultimate syllable, vowel length opposition there is phonological in Yemenite Hebrew. This is why this opposition is retained in the penultimate syllable even in the case of simplified rhythm in which the ga‘ya sign is not expressed (see Rule 2).

11. Rhythm Rules (2): Verse Rhythm In opposition to word rhythm, verse rhythm (marking relations between words) operates at word borders and affects final syllables only. Its principle is very simple. Disjunction is expressed by prolonging the final syllable, which amounts to inserting a time gap after a word. Adding time means halting (i.e., “pausing” or “stopping”) the declamation. The stronger the required disjunction after a word, the greater is the inserted gap and the longer the duration of the final syllable. Rule 5 (verse rhythm): The three-­grade classification of the accents in the Yemenite reading tradition is reflected in declamation timing. A conjunctive (“leading”) accent means that the next word must follow with no time added; a disjunctive accent means that a time gap is inserted, smaller at a minor disjunctive (“pausing”) accent and bigger at a major disjunctive (“stopping”) accent. Since Tiberian accentuation affects every word in Scripture (maqqef is a conjunctive accent in Yemenite classification), the duration of each word’s final syllable is never free. It is subject to strict control by verse rhythm. There are no undefined free rhythmic spaces between words; the reciter has no freedom to shape the time at the transition from word to word to his taste, as in non-­ Yemenite cantillation. Although words are separated in writing, they build one rhythmic continuum. Only the final syllable of “stopping” may be prolonged indefinitely, after having lasted the minimal required amount of time. In contrast to word rhythm, where syllabic duration is the same as vowel quantity, in case of verse rhythm the double syllable duration is not always equivalent to vowel length. There are no breaks within a word; any prolongation of an internal syllable automatically amounts to prolonging its vowel. Not so, however, in the final syllables: prolonging the duration of a final syllable does not automatically mean that the vowel has to be prolonged, since the time span between words may include a break. Rule 6 (verse rhythm): The prolonged duration of the final syllable may be indiscriminately filled up by a long sound or by various combinations of sound and silence. Break time is counted as part of the syllable time; what matters is

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the amount of time elapsing from the onset of the final syllable until the onset of the next word. Therefore, a prolonged final syllable can be either sustained to its full duration (with a long vowel) or stay short (with a short vowel), if there is a break after it. In both cases, the disjunction is expressed by the same timing framework. This is a crucial point not taken into consideration by linguists so far. The choice to either prolong the vowel without stopping the voice or to make a break within the same time span may be influenced by the tempo and the breathing needs of the reciter, but it may also occur randomly. Those who systematically treat tevir differently from other “stopping” accents would break in major (“stopping”) disjunctions, but not break at tevir. A break (within the allotted time) may occur also in minor (“pausing”) disjunctions. Some reciters insert silence at each disjunction, whether major or minor. Others would not stop the voice even in a particularly strong disjunction of etnachta in Torah chant, if their breath allows it. Both ways are considered the same; they are just variations in performing the same timing framework. In both cases, the syllabic rhythm is identical. The linguistic significance of this and of the previous rule is that vowel quantity in final syllables is not positional in Yemenite Biblical Hebrew. It is affected by neither stress nor syllable structure. The sole determinant of vowel length in a final syllable is the syllabic duration, required by the accentuation. In addition, a long vowel may be substituted by a vowel of any (lesser) quantity, i.e., also by a short vowel, if the rest of duration is filled up by a break. In opposition to the rhythmic patterns in non-­final syllables, vowel length in a final syllable is essentially variable and is determined by (a) the rhythm of the declamatory relation to the next word and (b) the variability in the performance of long duration at word borders due to the possible insertion of a break, which is counted as part of syllabic time. Recognizing syllabic rhythm and its variable articulation is the only way to explain the puzzling variability of vowel quantity at word’s end. Varying vowel length may result from different accentuation, translated into a different rhythm in the final syllable, but even in case of the same rhythmic pattern there is still the free option to break or to hold, which also results in otherwise unexplainable variation of vowel length. This fact, attested in a very old and conservative reading tradition of Biblical Hebrew, sensitive to both consonantal and vocal length, is not acknowledged in the linguistic reconstruction of Tiberian pronunciation, where the sole factor of vowel length is syllable structure and stress. As in word rhythm, the operation of verse rhythm is not conditioned by any other linguistic feature. It affects all final syllables, of any structure, with any kind of vowel, indiscriminately of stress – both stressed and non-­stressed syllables. The only determinant of final syllable duration is the accent rank. Moreover, verse rhythm overrides all usual linguistic factors influencing vowel length.

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For example, it blocks milra stress from being expressed through lengthening the vowel if the final syllable has to be short because of the conjunctive accent. Rule 7 (verse rhythm): the final syllable of a word marked with a conjunctive accent lasts just one unit of reciting time, regardless of stress. This rule is strictly observed, at the expense of making the stressed final syllable shorter than the open penultimate syllable affected by a pre-­tone lengthening. It is also strictly observed at the expense of making the syllable with secondary stress, marked by the ga‘ya sign, twice as long as the final syllable, carrying main stress. This paradox happens in every milra word with a ga‘ya sign (or its substitute, a secondary munach or other accent) in conjunction. The resulting seemingly incorrect accentuation of the word is the most peculiar consequence of this rule. Maqqef is considered a conjunctive accent. So far, I have not been able to discern in today’s Yemenite cantillation any difference between a word with maqqef, which in theory should be devoid of any stress, and the same word with a conjunctive accent. The difference could have been expressed by dynamics or pitch, but the accentuation in all its functions, including the indication of stress, seems to operate in Yemenite interpretation through duration only, which limits the possibility of distinguishing between a conjunctive accent and maqqef. Further research is necessary. Tiberian accentuation seems to distinguish between maqqef and conjunctive accents, as it distinguishes between various conjunctive accents, and may replace maqqef by a conjunctive accent. The exact meaning of all this is not clear, as the acoustical parameters of Tiberian accentuation are not known. In the Yemenite reading tradition both maqqef and conjunctive accents are classified as “leading” signs (‫)מוליכים‬. From this perspective, replacing maqqef by a conjunctive accent is equivalent to a substitution of one conjunctive accent with another, such as the replacement of darga by merkha, etc. Since the identity of the individual accents has no audible expression in Yemenite cantillation, there is no need to discern between maqqef and conjunctive accents. Rule 8 (verse rhythm): the final syllable of a word marked with a “pausing” accent lasts two time-­units, regardless of stress. This is the sole expression of all “pausing” accents, except zarqa (and except the extremely rare case of shalshelet, the “pausing” status of which is odd, since it is a substitute for the “stopping” accent segol).51 Any specific pitch behavior correlated to a “pausing” accent has to be explained as a secondary melodic response assisting the required length. 51 Shalshelet may be performed as a regular “stopping” accent, but is often treated with various special melodies (they all are rather modest compared to the big event of a non-­Yemenite, especially Ashkenazi shalshelet). Both in its use (as a substitute for segol) and performance (in all variations), it is clearly a “stopping” accent. It should be noted that in Yemenite tables of accents, where shalshelet is listed among minor “pausing” accents, it appears without paseq,

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The purely rhythmical nature of minor (“pausing”) disjunctives, which do not require a particular motivic expression, may be demonstrated by the fact that paseq is listed among “pausing” accents in Yemenite sources. This attribution is possible because pausing accents are all meant merely as duration gaps. Only a tradition that views te‘amim primarily as signs of prosodic punctuation, reflected in the melodic rhythm rather than in the melodic line, may count paseq in the same category as, e.g., pashta, or tifcha.52 The conceptual difference of this type of tradition from a non-­Yemenite cantillation may be demonstrated by legarmeh. When a paseq stroke follows a word with munach, the combination of munach and paseq is interpreted by non-­Yemenite Jews as a separate disjunctive accent, legarmeh, which is assigned its own distinctive motif. In other cases, however, paseq is just a separating stroke between words, with no motivic expression.53 From the Yemenite perspective, there is no difference between various cases. Paseq stroke simply belongs to disjunctive accents, and it does not matter in which circumstances it appears. Its meaning is a “pause,” which is expressed rhythmically, by doubling the duration of the final syllable, as in the case of all minor disjunctives except zarqa. Zarqa is expressed by a descending melisma on the final syllable. In Torah chant and haftarah chant it utilizes more time than a regular “pausing” accent.54 With regard to duration, zarqa may appear as one of the major (“stopping”) disjunctives, but it is differentiated by its melody. This is one of the rare cases where the melodic contour is not an assisting accompaniment of the rhythmic profile, but has an independent value overriding rhythm. The correct performance of zarqa is diligently guarded by the congregation.55 The peculiar interest in zarqa may be explained by its particular melodic status (more than just rhythmic), similar to “breaking” and similar to sof pasuq and the non-­“breaking” etnachta of Torah chant, the incorrect performance of which is also never pardoned. Since the final syllable of a word marked with zarqa lasts longer than the final syllable of a word with a regular “pausing” accent in Torah chant, a zarqa word might share some rhythmic features with words that are marked with “stopping” accents (see Rule 9). which always accompanies it. The definition as a “pausing” accent per se (without paseq) might stem from the omission of paseq, which adds yet another “pause.” In the Targum, shalshelet is marked as a special kind of a “pause,” different from other “pauses.” 52 This echoes the fact that the term ‫טעמים‬, properly speaking, refers only to disjunctive accents; the conjunctives are “‫“( ”משרתים‬servants”). 53 Even when following munach, paseq sometimes does not turn munach into legarmeh. In such cases, which must be memorized, munach remains a conjunctive accent with its regular motif. 54 This is apparently the reason why zarqa is attested a “stopping” ability in some Taj prefaces, describing the accents, e.g., in ‫( תאג כתר ישראל‬Jerusalem, 1999). 55 “Correct performance” means that the reciter has only to signal his awareness of zarqa by turning the melodic direction downwards; the actual motif may vary.

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Rule 9 (verse rhythm): the final syllable of a word marked with a major disjunctive (“stopping”) accent is prolonged to double duration at least, regardless of stress; in normal circumstances it is much longer. In a schematic approximation, its duration is four time-­units. If the basic time-­unit is an eighth note, the final syllable of a word with a “stopping” accent lasts a half note. This rhythmic relation is very common. In such a regular case, a “stop” is twice as long as a “pause” (which in turn is twice as long as “leading”). In a slow ornamented recitation, the prolongation grade of major disjunctives may be even greater. In some notated transcriptions, “stopping” duration varies between the fourfold and eightfold length of the basic time-­unit. As in final syllables doubled by “pausing” accents, the fourfold prolongation of a final syllable by a “stopping” accent is not conditioned by the syllable structure, vowel nature, or the position of stress. In a mil‘el word, the length of “stopping” prolongation in the non-­stressed final syllable could sound disturbing to a non-­Yemenite Hebrew speaker whose prosody usually treats such syllables as weak appendices. This peculiar rhythmic pattern was observed in the word “‫ ”ירד‬in the example from Genesis 5:15–16 above. Unlike “pausing” halts, a “stopping” halt is accompanied by an obligatory melisma (discerning between a regular “stop,” “breaking,” and, in Torah chant only, sof pasuq or etnachta). It is difficult to determine whether the extra length of syllabic duration or the melodic line associated with “stopping” is primary. However, once the motif is obligatory, rhythm will no longer claim a full representative role. Duration turns out to be at least partially a function of the melisma, i.e., the exact length of “stopping” depends on the variation of the “stopping” motif habitual to a particular reciter. For this reason, in a simplified recitation (e.g., at a fast tempo) the “stopping” prolongation may be reduced to the same doubling as a “pausing” halt, and the difference between “pausing” and “stopping” is then expressed merely by a particular motif associated with “stopping.” In a big hurry, both “pausing” and “stopping” are performed as minimal prolongations of the final syllables, while “stopping” receives in addition a distinguishing pitch bending. In extreme cases, “pausing” may disappear entirely, as in Torah Targum chant. In a regular non-­simplified recitation, where “stopping” is longer than “pausing,” “stopping” duration may be reduced also in the following few cases: Those who treat tevir in a special way and connect it to the following tifcha phrase usually do so by dropping the final halt of a “stopping” melisma, in which case the “stop” of tevir lasts somewhat less long than a regular “stop.” The “heralding” function of “breaking” may override its rhythmic “stopping” status. In Torah chant, “breaking” routinely takes less time than a regular “stop,” lasting two to three time-units instead of the regular four. Unlike other “stopping” motifs, “breaking” is often performed without

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melisma, in which case its length is the minimal amount of two time-­ units necessary in any disjunction. In other chants, “breaking” is as long as regular “stopping,” and, in one particular case, the Esther chant, where there is no halt and no breathing between verses, “breaking” may become the major “stop” of the verse. A “stopping” prolongation may include a break (silence) more often than does a “pausing” one. However, everything said of breaks in Rule 6 is equally valid for both “pausing” and “stopping.”

12. Rhythm Rules (3): Verse Rhythm Effects The final syllable of every word lasts either one, two, or (approximately) four time-­units, according to whether the word is marked with a “leading,” a “pausing,” or a “stopping” accent. Verse rhythm will always affect the final syllable regardless of stress. This is the reason why in Genesis 5:16 (see the example above) the final syllable of ‫[ הולידו‬hɞːliðɞ] is short, while the final syllable of ‫[ אחרי‬aːħareː] is long. The first word bears a “leading” accent (‫) ֽה ִֹול ֣ידֹו‬, and its final syllable lasts one unit (eighth note); the second word is marked with a “pausing” accent ( ֙‫) ַ ֽא ֲח ֵרי‬, and its final syllable lasts two time-­units (quarter note). The final syllable of the word ‫[ ירד‬jaːraːːð] in the same verse is extra-­long: it is non-­stressed and closed, but lasts four time-­units (half note), since the word is marked with a “stopping” accent (‫) ֶ ֔י ֶרד‬. The precise gradation of final syllable duration by verse rhythm into three different quantities is among the most remarkable phenomena of the Yemenite reading tradition. The strict control of durations and the consistent use of them in order to audibly express conjunction or different grades of disjunction has no parallel in other Jewish cantillation practices with their rather free duration policy. Now we can solve the puzzle of the word ‫ ויולד‬in Genesis 5:15–16 (from the example above) and in the adjacent verses. Whenever this word is accentuated with merkha, its final syllable lasts one time-­unit (short – [wajjɞːlað]), but if it is marked with tifcha, the final syllable receives two time-­units (long – [wajjɞːlaːð]). Since the word is mil‘el, precise control over its final syllable duration and its melodic manipulation are strikingly different from the usual custom of non-­Yemenites to weaken the non-­stressed final syllables of mil‘el words and to treat them melodically as appendices. The final syllable of the very same word always has three duration alternatives (short, long, extra-­long). Examples are particularly striking in mil‘el words:

::‫ֶ ֥א ֶרץ ֶ ֖א ֶרץ ָ ֑א ֶרץ ׁ ִש ְמ ִע֖י דְּ ַבר־יְ הֹוָ ֽה‬

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[ʔaːrasˤ ʔaːraːsˤ ʔɔːraːːsˤ ʃimʕiːʲ davar ʔaðɞˑnɔːːj] The threefold repetition of ‫ ארץ‬brings forth three different rhythmic patterns. The word is mil‘el; through the effect of word rhythm its first (stressed) syllable always lasts two time-­units (quarter note). Its second non-­stressed syllable is subject to verse rhythm, like any final syllable, the epenthetic vowel notwithstanding.56 All three alternatives appear in this verse from Jeremiah one after another. The first time the word is marked with a “leading” accent, and its rhythmic pattern is long–short [ʔaːrasˤ] (quarter–eighth), approximating its prosody in Modern Hebrew. The second time it is marked with a “pausing” accent, its rhythm changing to long–long [ʔaːraːsˤ] (quarter–quarter). There is no drop of dynamics in the second syllable, and its energetic tension, maintaining the proper rhythm, is sometimes interpreted in linguistic research as secondary stress, or even as a second primary stress.57 The third time it is marked with a “stopping” accent, and its rhythm turns to long–extra-­long [ʔaːraːːsˤ] (quarter–half), which might sound “wrong” to a non-­Yemenite. Each time, the final syllable doubles its duration, starting with one time-­unit and ending with four time-­units. It is clear that the usual linguistic definition of vowel length in the final syllable cannot be applied here. The epenthetic vowel of ‫ ארץ‬may be of any length, depending on verse rhythm and nothing else.58 Since there are no free time spaces between words and the unstressed final syllables are not dropped, but performed very energetically in their exact duration, we hear a rhythmic phrase, built up by a progression of three different metric measures: three-­eighth measure (first word) immediately followed by a two-­quarter measure (second word), followed by a three-­quarter measure (third word):

[ʔaːrasˤ ʔaːraːsˤ ʔɔːraːːsˤ] The rhythm of this text is impressive even when recited on a single pitch, with 56 The final segol in ‫ ארץ‬is an auxiliary vowel separating the two last consonants. 57 Cf. Abraham Z. Idelsohn, “Die gegenwärtige Aussprache des Hebräischen bei Juden und Samaritanern,” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 57:5 (1913): 541. 58 G. Khan, citing the Medieval Arabic spelling ‫( ﺑﺒﻮﻗﺎر‬i.e., ‫)בבוקאר‬, for ֙‌‫ ַּב ּ֙ ֹב ֶקר‬in Eccl 11:6, pointed to the long pronunciation of the epenthetic vowel in the last syllable, as the Arabic transcription with alif suggests, and explained it as “lengthening caused by secondary stress.” See Geoffrey Khan, “Epenthesis: Biblical Hebrew,” Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 831–33. Since the spelling ‫ ﺑﺒﻮﻗﺎر‬mirrors exactly Yemenite reading [babbɞːgaːr], it is possible that the second vowel has been lengthened by the same rhythmical mechanism by which it is lengthened in the Yemenite reading tradition – because of the accentuation by pashta.

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out the magnificent melodic movement of the Yemenite Prophetic chant. This rhythm is exactly WHAT THE ACCENTS MEAN in Yemenite interpretation – the melodic line is merely an associated ornament, however richly it may be organized. Other accent sequences would result in exactly the same rhythmic performance, if they belong to the same “leading”-­“pausing”-­”stopping” chain (e.g., qadma-­geresh-­revia, mahpakh-­pashta-­zaqef, merkha-­tifcha-­sof pasuq, etc.).59 In the Prophetic chant even the melodic line of all these accent sequences would be the same, unless the “stopping” accent is “breaking” (which is the case with etnachta in Jer 22:29). There are many other examples of one word appearing in three rhythmic patterns in the same verse.

[wajhi ʔaðɞˑnɔːj aθ jɞˑseːːf waːjhiː ʔiʃ masˤliːjaːːħ waːjhiːːʲ băveθ ʔaðɞˑnɔːu̯ hammısˤriːːʲ] This verse (Gen 39:2) is quoted here from the Yemenite Taj, which differs in its placement of ga‘ya signs. In today’s Yemenite editions the word ‫ ויהי‬has a ga‘ya sign if it is marked with a disjunctive accent.60 Accordingly, the first syllable of this word may last one time-­unit (without a ga‘ya sign), which happens at the beginning of the verse, or two time-­units (with a ga‘ya sign), which happens as the verse continues. The last syllable has, as always, three duration alternatives, all three of them appearing here: short (S) at mahpakh, long ([) at tifcha, extra-­long (]) at zaqef. The constant “enlargement” of the heading word ‫ ויהי‬at each repetition [wajhi – waːjhiː – waːjhiːːʲ] produces an impressive effect of rhetorical crescendo. Another example (Lev 19:36):

59 But not darga-­tevir-­tifcha, although structurally identical to mahpakh-­pashta-­zaqef from the hierarchical perspective of the accentuation. In Yemenite classification the sequence tevir-­tifcha is a “stop” followed by a “pause,” not a “pause” followed by a “stop.” The same is true for qadma-­ geresh-­pashta, etc. 60 This placement of the ga‘ya sign probably results from harmonization of the printed Taj with the orally transmitted Yemenite reading tradition. Old Yemenite manuscripts do not mark the ga‘ya sign in any appearance of ‫ ויהי‬in this verse, in accordance with the model manuscripts of the Tiberian masorah.

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[mɞːzane sˤaːðag ʔaˑvne sˤaːðaːːg ʔeːfaθ sˤaːðaːːg wĭhin sˤaːðaːg jiːhja lɔˑχaːːm] The word ‫ צדק‬behaves like the word ‫ ;ארץ‬in this verse too, we find all three possible rhythmic patterns, with a short final syllable at munach [sˤaːðag], long at tifcha [sˤaːðaːg], and extra-­long at revia and tevir [sˤaːðaːːg]. Quite often, the final syllable at tevir is performed shorter than at revia, as has been mentioned in Rule 9. Once again, the arching rhythmic progression in the fourfold repetition of the key word is part of an impressive rhetorical layout. The beginning is running, with the word ‫ צדק‬in its shortest contextual form. The rhetorical climax is reached in the largest “stopping” duration of ‫צדק‬, after which the tension is gradually reduced through the continuous reduction of halting, gliding to the end. All of this is produced by timing, coupled with intonation or melodic expression.

13. Rhythm Rules (4): Combining Word and Verse Rhythm Both word rhythm and verse rhythm operate in the same way, prolonging the syllables deliberately, i.e., beyond the slight deviation of a medium vowel. The deliberate prolongation amounts to doubling the length of the syllable, which is the simplest rhythmic gradation. The actual duration of a long syllable differs somewhat from its schematic double value; usually it is slightly shorter than exact doubling. Measurements conducted by D. Ya‘akov showed that mil‘el syllables and ga‘ya syllables (long syllables of word rhythm) are prolonged at ratios between 1.8 and 1.95.61 Word rhythm, affecting non-­final syllables, can prolong the duration only up to the double value, turning syllables from short to long. Verse rhythm, affecting only final syllables, can change syllable duration from short to both long and extra-­long. Audibly one cannot distinguish between doubling caused by word rhythm and doubling caused by verse rhythm. The difference is only in the reason for doubling and in the syllables affected. Doubling is the most common rhythmic change in Yemenite recitation, resulting from operation of both word and verse rhythm. Accordingly, cantillation rhythm can be described as an irregular alternation of simple and double syllables (eighth notes

61 Doron Ya‘akov, ‫ מערכת ההגה ולשון המשנה‬:‫( מסורת העברית שבפי יהודי דרום תימן‬Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2015), 44.

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and quarter notes), periodically interrupted by an extra-­long final syllable of “stopping.” As already mentioned, an extra-­long final syllable has no certain duration value. Its approximate quadruple duration will be represented in the schematic notation by a half note. Since word rhythm prolongs accented syllables only in mil‘el words, and verse rhythm prolongs only in disjunction, it follows that a disjunctive accent indicating mil‘el stress has a double-­action effect that may be formulated as the last rhythm rule: Rule 10: a disjunctive accent marking a mil‘el word always affects the prolongation of two syllables: both penultimate and ultimate. The penultimate syllable will be made long by the mil‘el rhythmic pattern, and the final non-­stressed syllable will be made long or even extra-­long by the disjunctive rhythmic pattern (“pause” or “stop”). This rule clearly demonstrates that both word prosody and verse prosody associated with accentuation are expressed in the Yemenite reading tradition through duration.

14. Reading Tradition and Rhythm A small percentage of Yemenite cantillation rhythm does not correspond to the graphic signs of the Masoretic Text, but rather depends on the orally transmitted divergent reading tradition, resulting in a sort of rhythmic ketiv and qeri.62 Here are some examples of common deviations of the reciting rhythm from the above rules: 1. The ga‘ya sign in a monosyllabic word, attached by maqqef, is disregarded in reading. 2. A multisyllabic word attached by maqqef to a word with stress at its beginning receives secondary stress (i.e., vowel prolongation) on its penultimate syllable, as if there were a ga‘ya sign in mil‘el position.63 In the example above from Leviticus 19:36, ‫ אבני־צדק‬is read as if with ga‘ya in ‫א‬, prolonging the first syllable of ‫[ אבני־‬aːvne], with no regard to whether there is a ga‘ya sign in the text or not.64 3. The word ‫לֹו‬, marked with a “leading” (conjunctive) accent, is nevertheless read as if in a “pause” (with long vowel [lɞː]). The purpose of this is to make ‫ לו‬distinct from the homonymous ‫לא‬. 62 Ketiv (“what is written”) and qeri (“what is read”) refer to the cases where the masoretic reading tradition differs from the text. 63 Cf. Morag, ‫העברית‬, 204–5. This rule is not universally shared, with different traditions having divergent opinions. 64 The prolongation in this case is supposed to be shorter than in the case of a ga‘ya sign ([aˑvne] rather than [aːvne]), but in practice there might be no difference.

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4. Some word pairs, like ‫ איש איש‬etc., connected by a conjunctive accent, are nevertheless separated rhythmically. 5. In Song of Songs, recited on the eve of Shabbat, ‫ ירושלים‬is read without ga‘ya (but on the Shabbat of Passover, it is read with ga‘ya), etc.65 This list is not comprehensive. There are also individual cases where the reading tradition deviates in its rhythm from what may be inferred from the text and its accentuation. Individual rhythmic irregularities of the central Yemen reading tradition have been codified and accompany the Bible text in good Taj editions as footnotes. Other regions in Yemen, and even different schools in the same region, may have their own reading traditions, affecting both pronunciation and rhythm.

15. Rhythm Summary: The following is a concise summary of what has been presented in detail in Rules 1–10 above. It can be reduced to just six principles: 1. All syllables, including vocal shewa, are performed at approximately the same rate of the basic time-­unit. 2. Any accented syllable, except the final one, is doubled in its duration and lasts two time-­units, whether the stress is main or secondary. 3. The final syllable of a word marked with a conjunctive accent lasts just one time-­unit, regardless of stress. 4. The final syllable of a word marked with a disjunctive accent of “pausing” status lasts two time-­units, regardless of stress. 5. The final syllable of a word marked with a major disjunctive (“stopping”) accent is prolonged to double duration at least, regardless of stress. Usually it lasts four time-­units. 6. The required length of a prolonged final syllable may include or not include a break. Break time is counted as part of syllabic time.

16. Examples and Elaborations The following demonstrations are based on transcriptions of Yemenite cantillation. Available recordings of Yemenite Bible recitation are numerous; besides the collection in the National Library Sound Archive in Jerusalem, multiple recordings are easily accessible online.66 I have, however, chosen to present 65 Adam Bin-­Nun, “‫”על מסורת הקריאה במקרא בקריאת הרב צוברי ובקריאת הרב קאפח‬, Masora Leyosef 7 (2012): 41, n. 33. 66 On YouTube.com and various Yemenite Jewish sites. The entire Torah recited by hundreds of informants is freely available online.

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here not my own transcriptions, but rather transcriptions that are not biased by my view of rhythm structure. These transcriptions, made by scholars who concentrated on studying Yemenite cantillation solely from the point of view of the melodic direction and never discussed its rhythm, demonstrate how the rhythm of Yemenite cantillation appeared to the ears of Western-­trained musicians who simply notated what they heard. They are valuable in their impartial treatment of the “grey” area comprising the insignificant rhythmic changes typical of all human performances, where only the knowledge of underlying rhythmic phonology may help to determine which deviations are intentional and semantically relevant and which may be neglected. Yemenite cantillation may have many forms, from very careful and most solemn to negligent. In a fast recitation the rhythmic profile will still be discernible, but flat, with slight duration changes replacing the sharp difference between regular and doubled syllables, etc. The following examples represent careful recitation, suitable for studying the operation of rhythm. Each transcription will be accompanied by its text, taken from Yemenite Bible editions, with schematic rhythm notation running above the letters in the direction of the Hebrew text. The schematic rhythm has been derived by strictly applying the rules presented above. It should be understood as the assumed rhythmic “phonology” of the text, to be compared to the “phonetics” of the actual syllabic rhythm in the transcription. In order to facilitate the analysis, the “phonologic” rhythmic scheme will also appear as an addition above some transcriptions, enabling a direct comparison between the “theoretical” and the actually performed rhythm. First examples use eighth notes as basic time-­units. Double durations are indicated as quarter notes, and the extra-­long “stopping” prolongations are schematically represented by half notes. In phonetic transcriptions an extra-­short [ ]̆ , short [no sign] and medium [ˑ] vowel represent a regular syllable (an eighth), a long vowel [ː] means double duration (a quarter), and a double-­long vowel [ːː] produces an extra-­long syllable of “stopping.” “Breaking” in Torah chant is typically shorter than an ordinary “stop” and may be rhythmically identical to “pausing.” “Breaking” is indicated in the examples by an exclamation sign (!).

I We begin with Numbers 1:51, transcribed by Sharvit three times.67 The transcription documents a learning session with the mari teaching this verse to a group of children. 68 First comes the recitation of the mari, followed by the recitation of all the children together, which in turn is followed by the recitation of a single 67 Sharvit, Musical Realization, 198–99. 68 ‫מארי‬, Yemenite honorific title (of talmudic provenance), corresponding to eastern European “rebbe.” The Yemenite pronunciation is “mori.”

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boy. Different from the usual Pentateuch editions, the Yemenite version does not have a ga‘ya sign in ‫ ה‬of ‫הלוים‬, which is rhythmically relevant.69 The “theoretic” rhythm of this verse, according to the rules above, is the following:

[ʔuvinsɞːwaʕ hammiʃkɔːːn jɞˑriːðu ʔɞˑθɞː halwijjiːːm ʔuvaːħanɞːθ hammiʃkɔːːn jɔˑgiːmu ʔɞˑθɞː halwijjiːm (!) wahazzɔr haggɔˑreːv juˑmɔːːθ] Following below are explanations of all rhythmic values that exceed the basic time-­unit of an eighth note: ‫[ ובנסע‬ʔuvinsɞːwaʕ], ‫[ יורידו‬jɞˑriːðu], ‫[ יקימו‬jɔˑgiːmu]: penultimate syllables receive double duration (a quarter note) because of mil‘el stress. ‫[ המשכן‬hammiʃkɔːːn] (twice), ‫[ הלוים‬halwijjiːːm] (twice), ‫[ יומת‬juˑmɔːːθ]: last syllables are quadrupled because of the “stopping” accents revia, zaqef, etnachta, sof pasuq. Etnachta is the “breaking” accent in this verse, which means that the second ‫ הלוים‬is performed with a special melodic “twist” which shortens the duration of its final syllable from the usual extra-­long “stopping” duration. ‫[ אתו‬ʔɞˑθɞː] (twice), ‫[ הקרב‬haggɔˑreːv]: last syllables are doubled because of the “pausing” accents pashta and tifcha; penultimate syllables have medium vowels due to pre-­tone lengthening. ‫[ ובחנת‬ʔuvaːħanɞːθ]: the syllable of ‫ ב‬is doubled because of the ga‘ya sign; the last syllable is doubled because of pashta. Contrary to the assumed vowel length in the linguistically reconstructed Tiberian pronunciation, the final vowels in ‫[ יורידו‬jɞˑriːðu], ‫[ יקימו‬jɔˑgiːmu], and ‫[ והזר‬wahazzɔr] are short due to the conjunctive accent. This verse contains no mil‘el words with a disjunctive accent. Below are the transcriptions by Sharvit. The mari:



69 In the original publication of Sharvit, this verse is quoted from a non-­Yemenite Pentateuch, with a ga‘ya sign in ‫הלוים‬, ֽ ַ incompatible with the transcription.

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The group of children after the mari:

In the third and last transcription of a performance by a single boy, we collate the notation of Sharvit with the above “theoretical” rhythm of this verse:

Since this is Torah chant, there are three “stopping” motifs: regular (on revia and zaqef ), “breaking” (on etnachta), and sof pasuq. Each of them may be performed in different ways; the melodic style and the mode of the mari is somewhat different from the style and the mode of the children. The transcriptions demonstrate further that elsewhere in the verse (i.e., not in a “stop”), there is free choice from the repertory of various initiating, transitional, and “double duration” melodic motifs. In cases of musical ineptness all of them may

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be replaced by a simple reciting tone. Besides “stopping” melismas, the sole obligatory aspect of the recitation is rhythm. Rhythm is indeed the common base of all three versions. It is syllabic, not musical, rhythm – it governs the duration of text utterances, rather than melodic steps. Double duration of a syllable, whether internal or final, may be performed as a single note (a quarter) or as a melisma of either two eighths or a combination of two sixteenths and an eighth. In final syllables it is also possible to perform double duration as a single eighth with the addition of an eighth break. The choice is free. In this particular case the mari performed all internal syllables doubled by word rhythm (i.e., by the ga‘ya sign and mil‘el stress) as quarters. Out of five cases of double duration in final syllables caused by verse rhythm (at all “pausing” accents and in the “breaking” word ‫)הלוים‬, three were shaped as two-­eighth melismas and two were performed as a single eighth with an eighth break. Breaks generally appear in “stops” rather than in “pauses,” but are neither obligatory nor prohibited in any disjunction. As mentioned earlier, their duration is counted as part of syllabic time. The group of children performed two of four syllables prolonged by word rhythm as quarters (in ‫ ירידו‬and ‫ )יקימו‬and two as melismas of two eighths (in ‫ ובנסע‬and ‫)ובחנת‬. Four “pausing” double durations of final syllables were all performed as quarters, except the last one (‫)הקרב‬, which some of the children made a quarter, and others a melisma. The tendency of the mari was to shape a prolongation within a word as a single pitch and a prolongation at a word’s end as a melisma, but the tendency of the children was the opposite. The single boy treated all double durations like the mari, although never making a break at any “pause.” Also, the group of children never made a break at a “pause.” The mari recited the last “pausing” syllable of ‫ אתו‬once as a quarter with no break and once as an eighth with an eighth break. Somewhat less rigorous treatment of rhythm could be expected in final syllables of words marked with a “stopping” accent, i.e., in places where there is a mandatory melodic profile. In the schematic rhythm notation these syllables were marked as half notes. The actual performance was not much different. The single boy treated all regular “stops” (including sof pasuq) as exact quadruple prolongations of final syllables (half-­note duration), freely shaping them either as two eighths and a quarter with no break (once replacing one of the eighths with two sixteenths) or as three eighths and an eighth break. The group of children quadrupled all final syllables of regular “stops” and sof pasuq, performing them either as two eighths and a quarter or as three eighths and an eighth break. Even the mari, who performed all “stops” with a “trill,” made “trills” of approximately half-­note duration, as far as one can judge from the notation of Sharvit.70 Each 70 Capturing Yemenite “trill” in the notation can be excruciating. Sharvit did his best and obviously

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time, the mari incorporated into this duration a short break at the end. The final break after the somewhat shorter “trill” of sof pasuq does not appear in the notation, but theoretically belongs there: all children rigorously held the sound up to the full half-­note duration of the final syllable even at sof pasuq. Rhythm is never exactly predictable at the “breaking” point of the last “stop” before verse end (‫ הלוים‬second time). Since it occurs in disjunction, the minimal amount of double duration in the final syllable has to be maintained, but it only seldom reaches the full extra-­long duration of a “stop.” In this particular case, the mari and the single boy held the final syllable of “breaking” at the minimal rate of double duration: the mari as a single eighth with an eighth break (a very common way to rhythmically treat “breaking”), and the boy as a full quarter. The group of children performed it as a dotted quarter (an eighth and a quarter), putting the duration of “breaking” somewhere in the middle between the twofold “pausing” and the fourfold “stopping” prolongation. Vocal shewa (‫ ו‬of ‫ )והזר‬and a chatef vowel (‫ ח‬of ‫ )ובחנת‬are notated as full eighths in all three recitations. In the recitation by the group of children, the eighth note of the chatef vowel was even replaced by two sixteenths, rendering it a sort of pitching accent, typical of Yemenite treatment of “pick-­up” (pre-­ tone) syllables. The same treatment may be observed in ‫( אתו‬first time) in the performance of the children: the rhythmic “pick-­up” syllable received a pitching accent.71 In the solo recitation of the mari, vocal shewa and the chatef vowel were perhaps performed slightly shorter than a regular vowel, but they still appeared as full eighth notes to the transcriber. It goes without saying that the transcription renders only an approximate picture of the actual performance. As noted above, the actual rate of double prolongation in a solo recitation is usually somewhat less than 2:1. In the group performance of children, however, it is well possible that the double duration was exact.

II The next example is Exodus 13:17:

[waːjhiːːʲ baʃallaħ parʕɞː(*) aθ hɔˑʕɔːːm walɞ nɔˑħɔm ʔalɞˑhiːːm daːraːχ ʔaːrasˤ păliʃtiːːm ki gɔˑrɞːv huːːʷ kiː ʔɔˑmar ʔalɞˑhiːːm pan jinnɔˑħem hɔˑʕɔːːm(!) birʔɞˑθɔm milħɔˑmɔː waʃɔːvu mısˤrɔːjmɔːː] spared no effort notating as precisely as possible. He even marked different durations of breaks. 71 It is curiously similar to the habit of accenting light swing notes in jazz.

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This lengthy verse contains zarqa, the mandatory melodic expression of which overrides the usual rhythm. Although zarqa is listed among “pausing” accents, its melisma in Torah chant often takes up to quadruple duration (half note), as if it were a “stopping” accent. In the schematic rhythm notation the possible exceptional duration of zarqa is marked by an asterisk (*) next to the quarter. As in the previous example, an exclamation mark (!) is put at the “breaking” point (here at tevir), where the situation is the opposite – instead of lasting a full half note, this “stop” is made shorter by the “breaking” melody of Torah chant. Here are some individual remarks on rhythm: ‫[ ויהי‬waːjhiːːʲ]: as already mentioned, this word is read without ga‘ya, if it is accentuated by a conjunctive accent, and with ga‘ya, if the accent is disjunctive, which is the case here. The first syllable is made long (a quarter note) by ga‘ya, and the final syllable becomes extra long (a half note) because of the “stopping” accent revia. ‫[ בשלח‬baʃallaħ], ‫[ ולא־נחם‬walɞ nɔˑħɔm], ‫[ אמר‬ʔɔˑmar], ‫[ פן־ינחם‬pan jinnɔˑħem], ‫[ בראתם‬birʔɞˑθɔm]: all these words are stressed on their final syllable (milra), but have a conjunctive accent. Accordingly, the final syllable remains short, in spite of stress. Even the slightest prolongation is avoided. The intentional avoidance of any prolongation, i.e., of any time gap between words, is the active expression of conjunctive accentuation. The notion that conjunctive accents are ignored in Yemenite cantillation is correct only regarding the effect of the accents on the melodic line.72 The picture changes if we consider the rhythmic structure. Conjunctive accents are expressed in reading by keeping the final syllable short. Prolonging the final syllable would violate the conjunctive accentuation.73 That is why milra stress has no audible expression in conjunction other than the absence of a mil‘el rhythmic pattern.74 The penultimate pre-­ tone syllable of a milra word, if it is open, may, on the contrary, be affected by a slight lengthening,75 sometimes coupled with high pitching, due to its “pick-­up”

72 As mentioned earlier, conjunctive accents should not be singled out in this regard. “Pausing” accents also have no specific motifs. Even the “stopping” accents are represented in the melody not individually, but as a class. See n. 30 above. 73 This is the reason why Yemenite Jews perceive both Ashkenazi and various oriental cantillation traditions as not following the accentuation. Besides the frequent failure to halt at disjunctive accents, the melismatic treatment of some conjunctive accents in non-­Yemenite cantillation is also seen as a problem. In Yemenite perception, sensitive to syllabic rhythm, even a two-­eighth melisma on the final syllable constitutes a clear violation of the conjunctive accent, let alone the prolonged Ashkenazi melismas on darga, telisha qetana, etc. 74 The notion of milra stress is occasionally associated with a rise or a drop in the pitch of the final syllable, but this is not mandatory. 75 Whether it is a real “lengthening” of a basically short vowel, or a remnant of the Tiberian pronunciation, where full vowels in open syllables were allegedly long (see Geoffrey Khan, “Vowel Length and Syllable Structure in the Tiberian Tradition of Biblical Hebrew,” 23–32), cannot be

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nature.76 In such a case (occurring, e.g., in the word ‫[ בראתם‬birʔɞˑθɔm]), a non-­stressed penultimate syllable may become acoustically more prominent than a stressed final one. This is apparently the reason for an assumption by some linguists that Yemenite Jews read milra words in conjunction with mil‘el stress, contrary to the accentuation.77 ‫[ דרך‬daːraːχ]: a disjunctive accent in a mil‘el word leads to the prolongation of both the penultimate and the final syllable. Here the accent is “pausing” (yetiv, a substitute for pashta), hence both syllables of this word are doubled. Another similar case is the last word of the verse, ‫[ מצרימה‬mısˤrɔːjmɔːː]. The accent is “stopping” (sof pasuq); therefore, while the mil‘el stress syllable is long (a quarter note), the final non-­stressed syllable is extra-­long (a half note), accommodating the sof pasuq melisma. The rest of the rhythm needs no explanation. A quarter note in an internal syllable occurs because of mil‘el stress or the ga‘ya sign. A quarter note in a final syllable is the result of a “pausing” accent. A half note can occur only in the final syllable, if the accent is “stopping.” The duration of all final syllables is not influenced by stress. Now we will turn to U. Sharvit’s transcription of this verse as recited by Y. Adaqi.78 The melody is described in the publication as used by those who are not experts in “trilling,” and therefore recite with a rather simple, non-­ornamented melody. As I have observed, some people always recite with this melody. Other reciters use it for a less solemn “concise” reading, on other occasions shifting to a more complex melodic expression at a slower tempo. The choice of the level of solemnity is highly individual and may vary even during the same

decided here. It should be noted, however, that in a final open syllable even the stressed vowel will be short, if the accent is conjunctive. 76 An open “pick-­up” syllable is often highlighted dynamically, probably to ensure the “medium” vowel. It is often marked by a high pitch in the intonation with the pitch abruptly dropping in the following accented syllable. It sounds as if the pre-­tone syllable were the melodically accented one. See n. 71 above. 77 Morag, ‫העברית‬, 224. See also Shelomo Morag, “Pronunciation of Hebrew,” Encyclopedia Judaica, vol. 13 (Jerusalem: Keter, 1971), 1143. This statement of Morag was criticized by D. Ya‘akov. Ya‘akov observed that penultimate vowel prolongation in a milra word is not as long as it is in a mil‘el word. He supported the observation by acoustical measurements and correctly concluded that the difference of durations puts milra words with a prolonged penultimate vowel and mil‘el words at the different sides of a “borderline drawn in the mind” (Ya‘akov, ‫מסורת העברית‬, 43–44). The matter can be explained in terms of the underlying rhythmic pattern. The “borderline” is the semantic threshold between the double time of mil‘el stress and the prolonged but still single time of the pre-­tone lengthening. This is similar to the difference between a quarter note and a dotted eighth note. The vowels are phonetically long in both cases, but the rhythmical opposition double/single is phonemic. 78 Adaqi and Sharvit, Treasury, 42.

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liturgical event.79 Above the transcription, we are adding the “theoretic” durations, derived by applying rhythm rules. Comparing these assumed schematic values with the actually performed syllabic rhythm is especially instructive in view of the fact that the transcriber, who meticulously notated whatever his ear could discern, was apparently unaware of the strict rhythmic structure of the recitation, and analyzed only its melodic line.

79 In a Yemenite synagogue, a single member of the congregation may obtain more than one portion of the scriptural reading, and recite, for example, a lengthy section in a faster simple style, but a shorter section in a more time-­consuming solemn style.

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The actually performed syllabic rhythm corresponds almost exactly to the envisioned “theoretical” rhythm. Still, there are some particular details of interest: In two cases, the transcriber fixed in the notation the extra-­short pronunciation of vocal shewa (‫ )וְ לא‬and its allophone, the chatef vowel (‫ ֱאלהים‬in the second half of the verse). In the first half of the verse, the chatef vowel of ‫ֱאלהים‬ is transcribed with a full eighth note, and it is difficult to tell whether the pronunciation was roughly the same in both cases but appeared different to the transcriber, or if Y. Adaqi recited it differently. All other cases of vocal shewa (in ‫בשלח‬,ְ ‫פלשתים‬,ְ ‫ )וְ שבו‬are transcribed as full eighths. The first syllable of ‫[ בראתם‬birʔɞˑθɔm] (in the example it is spelled ‫ )בראותם‬is notated as a sixteenth note. It was apparently influenced by the accented pre-­ tone (“pick-­up”) second syllable. The high pitch of the second syllable can be clearly seen in the notation. Most probably, this high-­pitched open pre-­tone syllable was also slightly prolonged, with the effect that the first low-­pitched closed syllable appeared shorter in duration, which prompted its notation as a sixteenth. It also contains a close (“high”) vowel, which tends to be shorter in the pronunciation than an open vowel.80 Such cases were probably what Morag referred to in his problematic statement that a milra word in conjunction is read with mil‘el stress in Yemenite Hebrew.81 Zarqa (marked by an asterisk), the performance of which in Torah chant is nearly always longer than the schematic quarter note of a “pausing” accent, lasts a dotted quarter in this example. “Breaking” (marked by an exclamation sign), the duration of which, on the contrary, is nearly always shorter than postulated by its “stopping” status, is one sixteenth shorter than the schematic half-­note duration of a “stop.” All other “stops” are of half-­note duration, with or without a break (silence). In two cases the “pausing” prolongation is notated as somewhat shorter than the usual double duration of a quarter note (in ‫קרוב‬ and ‫ ;מלחמה‬both last three sixteenths). This may reflect the fact that the actual double length in a solo recitation is somewhat shorter than exactly 2:1. “Pausing” prolongations are performed either without a break (‫ כי‬,‫ )פרעה‬or with a break (‫ מלחמה‬,‫ קרוב‬,‫)דרך‬. Break duration is always counted as part of the prolongation. Two words with a disjunctive accent and mil‘el stress (‫ מצרימה‬,‫ )דרך‬demonstrate how a single accent, according to Rule 10, affects the prolongation of both the penultimate and the ultimate syllable. The performance of ‫ דרך‬seemingly sounds long–short, although in reality it is long–long. The last syllable happened to be performed short, with the rest of its double length being substituted for by a break. Without the break, it would have sounded with a long final syllable, as may be seen in the sof pasuq melisma on the non-­stressed final syllable of ‫ מצרימה‬in all its quadruple length. 80 See Khan, Pronunciation of Šǝwa with Ga‘ya, 13* and references there. 81 See n. 77 above.

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III The next example is from the Prophets (Josh 1:14):

[naʃeχam tˤappaχaːm umigneˑχaːːm jeːʃăvuːːʷ bɔˑʔɔːraːːsˤ ʔaʃar nɔθan lɔˑχaːːm mɞˑʃaː beʕeːvar hajjardeːːn waʔattam taːʕavru ħamuˑʃiːm lifne ʔaħeˑχaːːm kɞːl ʤibbɞre haˑħaːjiːːl waːʕazartaːm ʔɞˑθɔːːm] Unlike in Torah chant, “breaking” of haftarah chant does not demonstrate any particular rhythmic behavior. It is not marked here by a special sign. “Breaking” occurs on the half note of zaqef in ‫[ החיל‬haˑħaːjiːːl]. Zarqa of ‫[ טפכם‬tˤappaχaːm] is indicated by a quarter note, as a “pausing” accent, but its special descending motif (quite often it is the same motif as in “breaking”) lasts longer, as in Torah chant. Geresh of ‫[ חמשים‬ħamuˑʃiːm] is followed by revia and is treated as a “pausing” accent. Two mil‘el words with major disjunctive accents, ‫[ בארץ‬bɔˑʔɔːraːːsˤ] and ‫[ החיל‬haˑħaːjiːːl], share the same rhythmic pattern short–long–extra-­long, with two last syllables prolonged; the final non-­stressed syllable is the longest because of the “stopping” accent. ‫[ טפכם‬tˤappaχaːm ] and ‫[ ישבו‬jeːʃăvuːːʷ] have three notes each, since shewa in the middle of both words is vocal. This verse demonstrates how rich the rhythmic depository of Biblical Hebrew is in the Yemenite reading tradition. Twelve words, of three rhythmic syllables each, display not less than seven rhythmic patterns: 1. short/short/short (three eighths) – ‫[ נשיכם‬naʃeχam], ‫[ ואתם‬waʔattam], ‫[ גבורי‬ʤibbɞre]; 2. short/short/long (two eighths and a quarter) – ‫[ טפכם‬tˤappaχaːm], ‫חמשים‬ [ħamuˑʃiːm]; 3. long/short/short (a quarter and two eighths) – ‫[ תעברו‬taːʕavru]; 4. short/long/short (two eighths and a quarter in between) – ‫[ בעבר‬beʕeːvar]; 5. short/short/extra-­long (two eighths and a half) – ‫[ הירדן‬hajjardeːːn], ‫אחיכם‬ [ʔaħeˑχaːːm]; 6. short/long/extra-­long (an eighth, a quarter and a half) – ‫[ בארץ‬bɔˑʔɔːraːːsˤ], ‫[ החיל‬haˑħaːjiːːl]; 7. long/short/extra-­long (a quarter, an eighth and a half) – ‫[ ישבו‬jeːʃăvuːːʷ]. Strict proportional timing causes rhythm to be perceived as variously accented binary and ternary metric units, identical to well-­known poetic feet.

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All rhythm is automatically generated by the text with its “grammatical” and “rhetorical” rhythmic patterns fixed by the accentuation. The richness of rhythm is further enhanced by slightly deviating extra-­short and medium vowels, as well as through general dynamic and intonational complexity. It can not be accounted for simply as arising from a combination of rhythm and a melodic line. Dynamic direction is also an important aspect that needs further research. Now we will turn to the transcription of this verse published a century ago by Idelsohn in the first volume of his monumental collection.82 Idelsohn’s transcription is collated with the syllabic durations theoretically assumed for this verse.

The main pitch of the notated tetrachord c–f is d.83 This is the recitation tone and the final pitch of the “stopping” melisma. In “breaking,” the melisma ends one second lower, in c. The transcription documented a mistake of the informant, who miscalculated the length of the verse and missed its “breaking” point. Having performed ‫ החיל‬as a regular “stop” instead of as “breaking,” he immediately realized it and corrected himself, repeating the whole “stopping” phrase with the proper “breaking” motif.84 It is comforting that such a typical mishap of many haftarah recitations was captured in notation already one hundred years ago. 82 Idelsohn, Hebräisch-­Orientalischer Melodieschatz, 157. 83 In today’s synagogal practice, the minor third d–f is divided by e in between in two neutral seconds; e is close to e flat. 84 This is why ‫ כל גבורי החיל‬is repeated. Idelsohn was probably aware of the mistake. There is no comment on his part, but after the first (wrong) ‫ כל גבורי החיל‬there is a bar line, which is normally drawn in the transcription between verses. Did the informant simply want to demonstrate the

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Syllabic rhythm in the transcription does not deviate from the schematic values except in one notable aspect. Many “stopping” melismas are longer than the assumed duration of a half note, some of them even considerably longer, lasting up to two halves. The shortest “stop” (a dotted quarter) is performed on tevir of ‫[ לכם‬lɔˑχaːːm]. It corresponds to the widespread habit of shortening the duration of tevir and linking it to the following etnachta or sof pasuq phrase. In its first half, the verse is punctuated by four major disjunctive accents: segol, zaqef gadol, another zaqef gadol and tevir. Their disjunctive force progressively decreases.85 The transcription shows that the broad range of duration in “stopping” melismas enabled the reciter to mirror the terracing gradation of the “pausal strength” by the ever-­decreasing amount of “stopping” duration. The “stop” of segol lasts seven eighths (the break included), the first zaqef gadol lasts six eighths, and the second zaqef gadol lasts five eighths. The final major disjunctive accent, tevir, is the weakest, and lasts three eighths, still different from the ensuing tifcha, a minor disjunctive in Yemenite classification, which receives its regular two eighths of “pausing” duration. As the disjunction diminishes, so does the time of the melisma! This subtlety, far beyond normal requirements, shows the great reciting skill of Idelsohn’s informant and his deep understanding of the accentuation.86 The terracing “pausal strength” of the accents was probably expressed acoustically, in the almost perfect rendition of the verse, by both timing and tension, of which only timing could be approximately captured in the notation. Two points of interest are still to be mentioned. As may be inferred from the position of breaks, breathing is not correlated with the “pausal strength” of the accents. It is rather an independent feature of the vocal performance. Although breathing happens only at disjunction borders, the breathing phrases are of a relatively constant length; they do not coincide with the logical grouping of textual phrases. It seems that the constant length (of approximately twenty eighths) of a breathing phrase tends always to comprise two consecutive disjunctive units with no regard to their “pausal strength” and relation to each other. The breathing divisions in this verse are indicated in the following scheme by ⎾ ⏋ brackets, while the grouping of “pauses” and “stops,” belonging together in one

difference between regular “stop” and “breaking” by performing the “breaking” phrase first wrong and then correctly? 85 The first three are “kings” in Western accent classification. It is a well-­known rule that when “kings” follow each other, their disjunctive force diminishes. 86 The cantillation would have been correct also if every “stop” (including tevir) would have lasted the same amount of time, with exactly the same melisma, as our schematic rhythm notation suggests, where all “stops” are marked with a half note.

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phrase, is shown by { } brackets.87 Etnachta is marked by a period point (.) in the middle of the verse. ⎾{pause stop}⏋⎾{stop}⏋⎾{tevir pause⏋⎾stop} . {pause⏋⎾stop} {pause stop}⏋⎾{pause stop}⏋

Only in the beginning and in the end of the verse does the division by breath match the phrasal grouping. In the middle of the verse, the breathing units of relatively constant length start running contrary to the phrasing borders, since the etnachta group happens to have three members (because of tevir) instead of the regular two, while the breathing interval remains the same. It occurs twice that a breathing unit ends on a “pause” and not on a “stop,” and remarkably, the most important “stop,” etnachta, oddly occurs within a breathing unit. The “pause” before “breaking” comprises just one monosyllabic word (‫)כל‬, which enables the breathing group to cover three phrasing members instead of two, after which the breathing division is again congruent to the phrasing borders. The autonomous mapping of breathing adds still another dimension to the chant, contributing to the general complexity of cantillation. The second point of interest is the rhythmic pattern of the word ‫תעברו‬ [taːʕavru], which is an example of the peculiarity mentioned in Rule 7. The first syllable, marked with a ga‘ya sign, is doubled in its duration due to secondary stress, but main milra stress on the final syllable cannot be expressed through prolongation because of the conjunctive accent. For a non-­Yemenite, the word is wrongly stressed on the first syllable. The last detail that still may be noticed is the extra-­short pronunciation of vocal shewa in ‫[ ישבו‬jeːʃăvuːːʷ], fixed in the notation by a sixteenth note, which apparently caused Idelsohn to notate the previous syllable, made long by a ga‘ya sign, not as a quarter, but as a dotted eighth.

IV The tendency to furnish melismas of the Prophetic chant with elaborate ornamentation, letting them last longer than the values of the schematic rhythm notation, can be demonstrated also by the following example (Isa 52:7), where not only “stops” but also “pauses” are longer than they are in the theory.

87 A “stop” usually concludes a prosodic unit, with one notable exception: tevir (which, although a “stop,” is closely connected to the following phrase). In the scheme tevir is listed by its name.

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[ma nnɔwu ʕal haːhɔˑriːm raɣle mavasseːːr maʃmiːjaʕ ʃɔˑlɞːːm mavasser tˤɞːv maʃmiːjaʕ jaʃuˑʕɔːː ʔɞmer lasˤijjɞːn mɔlaχ ʔalɞˑhɔːjiːːχ] Geresh in ‫[ ההרים‬haːhɔˑriːm] is followed by revia as the next disjunctive and is therefore treated as a “pausing” accent, making the final syllable long, but not extra-­long. Now follows the transcription of the recitation by Y. Adaqi, collated with the “theoretical” rhythm of the verse:88

This transcription shows only one “pause” that is not melismatic (‫ )טוב‬and lasts just a quarter note (an eighth note and an eighth break). Two other “pauses” (‫ ההרים‬and ‫ )לציון‬are longer – of approximately half-­note duration. “Stops” are still longer; their melismas last about a whole note. The basic relation between a “pause” and a “stop” in a solo recitation is maintained: a “stop” is much longer (usually twice longer) than a “pause.” Y. Adaqi treats tevir in the special way described earlier: the “stop” of ‫שלום‬, on tevir, is shorter and linked to the following phrase by refraining from finishing the tevir melisma with a long note. There is no break, of course. Many people do not follow suit, and treat tevir just like any other regular “stop” (the regular “stopping” motif appears in ‫)רגלי מבשר‬. The quarter note in the second syllable of ‫[ ההרים‬haːhɔˑriːm] stands out, coming instead of an eighth. This is most probably a case of the pre-­tone vowel 88 Adaqi and Sharvit, Treasury, 46. As in the previous example, a often sounds slightly flatter than notated here, dividing the minor third g–b flat into two neutral seconds.

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lengthening in an open syllable (medium vowel). In reality it was perhaps not as long as the first syllable, doubled by the ga‘ya sign, but it seemed the same to the transcriber. Later on, a slight rhythmic irregularity is sensitively marked by a dotted eighth note in the middle of the word ‫[ לציון‬lasˤijjɞːn]. In this case, the irregularity is caused not by a pre-­tone lengthening, but rather by the strong dagesh in ‫י‬. Usually, strong dagesh causes shortening of the preceding vowel and does not affect rhythm on syllable borders. The length of the prolonged consonant is performed on the last mora of the previous syllable, and the release phase coincides with the rhythmic onset of the next syllable. Sometimes, however, it sounds as if there were an extra mora between the syllables to accommodate the duration of the consonant doubled by a strong dagesh, in which case the previous syllable appears slightly prolonged. Word rhythm and verse rhythm operate in this example with different durations. While word rhythm prolongs as usual, doubling the duration of its long ga‘ya and mil‘el syllables, verse rhythm, assisted by a slower tempo and melismatic ornamentations, uses much longer values for its prolongations of the final syllables. Because of this variety, we encounter a rich palette of multiple rhythmic values: eighth notes as basic time-­units alternate with their double, quadruple, and eightfold prolongations. Some of the values are slightly modified by the additional subtle variation. Still, the general rhythmic mechanism works exactly as envisioned with no exceptions.

V The next example, from Song of Songs 1:1–3, presents some novelties. First is a slow tempo, and as a result, the basic time-­unit is notated as a quarter note instead of an eighth. Second, this example is a specimen not of an individual solo recitation, but of communal chant. Song of Songs is recited by the whole congregation on the eve of Shabbat. Generally, when the biblical text is chanted together, rhythm is simplified. It still follows the accentuation, but loses its reaction to subtleties like the gradation of disjunctives or secondary stress. All disjunctive accents, whether “pausing” or “stopping,” are expressed by double duration of the final syllable, and the internal distinction between them is left to be reflected by the melody, or not reflected at all. The simplified communal chant operates only with basic rhythmic values that can be easily performed jointly by a large group. In other words, verse rhythm is reduced to the mere distinction between conjunction (short last syllable) and disjunction (doubled last syllable). Word rhythm may still be operating in full (at least with regard to mil‘el stress rhythm, on the ga‘ya sign see the next example), since it never extends its prolongation over the double value. As a result, there are just two rhythmic values – regular (here a quarter note) and doubled (here a half note).

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The double duration is used for mil‘el stress, ga‘ya (if it is expressed), and for the final syllables of all words marked with any of the disjunctive accents regardless of the disjunctive rank.

Rhythm in Yemenite Cantillation

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[ʃir haʃʃiˑriːm ʔaʃar liʃlɞˑmɞː jiʃʃɔˑgeːniːʲ minnaʃigɞθ piːhuːʷ ki tˤɞvim dɞˑðaːχɔː mijjɔːjiːn lareːjaːħ ʃamɔˑnaːχɔ tˤɞˑviːm ʃaːman turag ʃamaːχɔː ʕal keːn ʕalɔmɞθ ʔaheˑvuːχɔː] This example is rich in mil‘el words with disjunctive accents (,‫ דדיך‬,‫ פיהו‬,‫ישקני‬ ‫ אהבוך‬,‫ שמך‬,‫ שמן‬,‫ לריח‬,‫)מיין‬. They all show the same long–long pattern in the last two syllables, with word rhythm and verse rhythm equally prolonging the stressed penultimate syllable and the non-­stressed final one. There is only one mil‘el word with a conjunctive accent (‫)שמניך‬, and accordingly, the rhythmic pattern at its end is long–short. With just two rhythmic values there is more chance that rhythmic feet happen to reiterate, creating fragments of regular “meter” and the semblance of metered poetry. One can easily detect the twofold repetition of the rhythmic progression of four quarters and two halves in ‫‌מנשיקות פיהו‬89 [minnaʃigɞθ piːhuːʷ] and ‫[ כי טובים דדיך‬ki tˤɞvim dɞˑðaːχɔː] in binary rhythm, or even the threefold repetition of a quarter and two halves in ‫ לריח‬:‫[ דדיך מיין‬dɞˑðaːχɔː mijjɔːjiːn lareːjaːħ], each word repeating the same pattern of alternating binary and ternary rhythm. Even if not reiterated as in regular meters, the binary and ternary rhythmic groups, connected in various combinations, are felt as organic and natural. This poetic, or “musical,” quality, making the text easy to memorize, can be shown in the following rhythm notation of all three opening verses in metrical bars (reducing the values to eighth notes and quarter notes; the ’ sign marks verse ends): 3/8 SSS|[S|SSS|2/4 [’SS|[[|SSSS|[[|SSSS|2/8[|3/8[S|2/8[|3/8[’S|3/4[[S S|[SS[|2/4[[| 3/8SSS|2/8[|3/8[S|2/4[SS|3/8SSS|2/4[[|| The semblance of metered rhythm is stunning. The title verse is kept entirely in the strict triple time (four bars!). In the second verse the “meter” changes into binary. The new time remains stable for a while (five bars!), before changing again into a new pattern of alternating binary and ternary bars, etc. Since rhythm is generated by the text and its accentuation, the amazing difference between the individual rhythmic styles of various biblical books and passages is one of the precious discoveries about the Bible that has come to light through the Yemenite reading tradition. Following below is the transcription of Y. Adaqi’s recitation, collated with the theoretical rhythm running above the transcription.90

89 Vocal shewa in ‫[ מנְ שיקות‬minnaʃigɞθ] is a full rhythmic syllable. 90 Adaqi and Sharvit, Treasury, 16.

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The recited syllabic rhythm is exactly the same as theoretically envisioned. Y. Adaqi only slowed down at the final syllable, since he apparently recited just for the demonstration and stopped after three verses.

VI The example from Song of Songs did not contain any word with the ga‘ya sign;91 the following example shows how the communal chant may react to ga‘ya. This example is from the communal recitation of the Song at the Sea (Exod 15:1–19) in the zemirot section of the morning prayer. This text is chanted by the entire congregation every day; on Shabbat and other festive days its recitation might be particularly impressive. Communal chant tends to neglect ga‘ya signs, which means that not only verse rhythm is simplified (not discerning between major and minor disjunctives), but word rhythm is simplified as well, losing its reaction to secondary stress (mil‘el stress is still expressed rhythmically). This may be demonstrated

91 Ga‘ya is expressed by doubling in the recitation of Song of Songs (except in the word ‫)ירושלים‬, apparently because, being separated from the prayer, it is considered a communal liturgical reading. When the text is a part of prayer (like the communal recitation of Shema‘ Israel), ga‘ya is usually omitted. See n. 99 below.

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by verse 7. In the following rhythm scheme ga‘ya signs are not respected and the corresponding syllables are marked as regular time-­units (eighth notes; in the phonetic transcription: short vowels). Once again, the difference between major and minor disjunctives is rhythmically not respected (left to the melodic expression) and the final syllables in all disjunctions are marked as simply doubled (quarter notes/long vowels).

[ʔuvrɞv ʤɞʔɞnaχɔː taharɞs gɔmaːχɔː taʃallaːħ ħarɞnaχɔː jɞχaleːmɞː kaggaːʃ] There are four words with a ga‘ya sign (‫ יאכלמו‬,‫ חרנך‬,‫ תהרס‬,‫)גאונך‬, in which ga‘ya has been disregarded. 92 In mil‘el words (‫ יאכלמו‬,‫)קמיך‬, mil‘el rhythm has been maintained. Incidentally, both mil‘el words are marked with a disjunctive accent, which causes the characteristic long–long pattern at word’s end. We are citing the transcription (by U. Sharvit) of several verses published in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians and are taking the opportunity to correct some statements made there about the rhythm of this chant.93 One does not need to collate the transcription with the schematic syllabic rhythm in order to see that both are identical.

In The New Grove Dictionary this chant is presented not at the discussion of Bible cantillation, but as an example of the prayer chant. In reality it is a specimen of Shirah chant in a simplified version for joint communal chanting.94 The chant can be comprehended only if we are aware of the way Yemenite Bible reading operates. The chant follows the accentuation. Melodically, there are just two motifs for “stopping” accents, as in haftarah chant: one for a regular “stop” (etnachta and sof pasuq are not different from other “stops”), and another one for “breaking.” Regular “stopping” motif appears at ‫[ קמיך‬gɔmaːχɔː] and ‫[ כקש‬kaggaːʃ], while “breaking” (ending a second lower, as in haftarah chant) 92 In ‫[ חרנך‬ħarɞnaχɔː] the ga‘ya sign is replaced by munach, which is disregarded as well. 93 “Jewish Music, §III: Liturgical and Paraliturgical,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd Edition, vol. 9, ed. S. Sadie and J. Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 62. 94 See n. 25 above.

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is performed at ‫[ חרנך‬ħarɞnaχɔː]. As for rhythm, The New Grove Dictionary comments that there are “two rhythmic values, the short being used for the non-­stressed syllables and the long for the stressed.”95 Contrary to this statement, even in this single verse one can see that the stressed final syllables of ‫[ וברב‬ʔuvrɞv] and ‫[ תהרס‬taharɞs] are short, rather than long, while the non-­ stressed final syllables of ‫[ קמיך‬gɔmaːχɔː] and ‫[ יאכלמו‬jɞχaleːmɞː] are long, rather than short. In reality the distribution of short and long rhythmic values strictly follows the patterns of word and verse rhythm. The only differences are that in the simplified form there are no extra-­long final syllables at “stops,” the distinction between a “stop” and a “pause” being expressed in the melody only, and that ga‘ya signs and their equivalents are disregarded. As a result, a long syllabic value can occur within a word only in case of mil‘el stress. The final syllable is long if the word is marked with any of the disjunctive accents, even if the final syllable is non-­stressed. With a conjunctive accent the final syllable is short even if it is stressed. These simple rules explain every single value of the syllabic rhythm in the example. For whatever reason, not every ga‘ya sign is disregarded in the communal Shirah chant. Verse 5 might illustrate this:96

[tɞhɞˑmɞːθ jaχasjuːmuːʷ jɔraðu vimsˤɞˑlɞːθ kamɞˑ ɔːvaːn]

The notated transcription shows that the ga‘ya sign in ‫[ ירדו‬jɔraðu] was actively performed: [jɔːraðu]. It is not clear why some ga‘ya signs are respected in the simplified version of Shirah chant, while others are omitted. Various congregations seem to have different policies in this respect.97 A guest, whose home congregation traditionally performs a particular ga‘ya sign that is not 95 The New Grove Dictionary, s.v. “Jewish Music,” 62. 96 The text transcription in the example is full of misprints. For the correct pronunciation (of central Yemen, with vowel length as in the communal chant) see the IPA transcription above the music example. 97 The notation of Idelsohn, for example (Hebräisch-­Orientalischer Melodiescshilo, 58), shows the

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performed in the host congregation, might “stumble” over ga‘ya. There are even people who try to perform every ga‘ya sign, disturbing the rhythm accepted in a particular congregation. Ga‘ya and its performance belong to the controversial issues of the Tiberian masorah. As did other Jews, Yemenite Jewry also made a transition from rather sparsely marking ga‘ya signs in medieval Bible manuscripts to the automatic placement of ga‘ya signs at any appropriate place in modern editions.98 If the reading tradition also developed this way, it is possible that the Song at the Sea chant “froze,” due to its daily recitation, at a particular stage of this transition, and the “freezing” point was different in various communities. A more plausible explanation, however, is that since the Song at the Sea chant exists in both communal and solo versions, they could intermingle, and some ga‘ya prolongations from the solo chant could enter the communal chant.99 This could explain why the ga‘ya sign is respected or ignored seemingly at random. However, this alone does not explain why a particular congregation would always perform it in exactly the same way. Further research is necessary.100 opposite of the notation of Sharvit: the ga‘ya sign in ‫( ירדו‬verse 5) is disregarded, while munach in ‫ חרנך‬and the ga‘ya sign in ‫( יאכלמו‬verse 7) are respected! 98 The sixteenth-­century Taj manuscripts are still very close to the model Tiberian codices (Aleppo codex, etc.). The reading tradition today is mostly identical with modern Bible editions, where the ga‘ya sign is placed indiscriminately. It is unclear whether the reading tradition has been stable over centuries and has always performed ga‘ya at any appropriate place, ignoring the fact of its being or not being marked in the manuscripts, or if the modern reading tradition has been influenced by modern prints. The communal chant of the Song at the Sea, with its selective pronunciation of ga‘ya signs, does not correspond to ga‘ya sign placement in any Taj version known to me. 99 I have observed how an elderly person, born in Sana‘a, who would normally ignore most ga‘ya signs in the Song at the Sea of the daily morning prayer, started respecting all of them when he realized that there was not yet the required quorum of ten males necessary for the continuation of the communal prayer – which, because of the shortened manner of its recitation, doesn’t draw the ga‘yas – and there was therefore no need to maintain the strict tempo. Shortly after the Song at the Sea the prayer had to be interrupted until the late-­comers arrived. This was a clear case of adapting ga‘ya pronunciation to the subjectively perceived liturgical time space. A similar mechanism of rhythm adaptation, suppressing ga‘ya or bringing it out according to quantity or restraints of the available time, might be responsible for the different treatment of ga‘ya in communal and solo chant in general. The instability of ga‘ya in the particular case of the communal Song at the Sea chant might be linked to the ambiguity of the section’s tempo. Usually, the tempo is slower than in the preceding psalms (where ga‘ya is disregarded), indicating more solemnity, but the chant is still a communal chant with narrow time limits, different from the solemn solo recitation that respects all ga‘ya signs. The graphic ga‘ya sign itself plays no role in any case: it does not appear in the non-­vocalized scroll used for solo recitation, and it is not printed even in the vocalized text of the prayer book used for communal recitation. 100 At the Tif ’eret Israel Virushalayim synagogue in Jerusalem one can observe the distribution of performed or non-­performed ga‘ya signs in the communal Song at the Sea chant along linguistic

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VII In the individual recitation of the Song at the Sea as part of the Torah reading, Shirah chant appears in all its glory. Every ga‘ya sign is expressed, and it goes without saying that the distinction between minor and major disjunctives is diligently reflected by the different grades of prolongation at word borders. As in haftarah chant, the highly melismatic style in a slow tempo causes the final syllables of “pauses” and “stops” to be much longer than their schematic double and quadruple value. In the following transcription, published by Idelsohn in his 1925 English edition of Thesaurus, the syllables prolonged by word rhythm (i.e., by the ga‘ya sign and mil‘el stress) have their usual double duration. The final syllables that are prolonged by verse rhythm fluctuate between double and eightfold duration: double to quadruple at “pausing” accents, quadruple to eightfold at “stopping” accents. The basic unit is a quarter note. The theoretical rhythm runs above, as in previous examples.101 Exodus 15:1–2:

lines. Ga‘ya is expressed only in ‫[ ליהוה‬laːðɞnɔːj] (both times), ‫[ ויהי־­לי‬waːjhi liːʲ] (ga‘ya in a closed syllable), ‫[ שלשיו‬ʃɔːliʃɔːu̯ ], ‫[ תורישמו‬tɞːriʃeːmɞː], ‫[ באלם‬bɔːʔeliːm], ‫[ ובפרשיו‬ʔuvfɔːrɔʃɔːu̯ ], i.e., it is rhythmically relevant only before a syllable with a full vowel, in a word with a disjunctive accent. Ga‘ya is never expressed before vocal shewa or chatef vowel (twenty-­seven cases in the Song at the Sea), and not with shewa (in ‫)וֽאנוהו‬. ְ Out of two exceptions – ‫ לישועה‬and ‫כעופרת‬, where the ga‘ya sign is not performed, although there is a full vowel after it – the first may be explained by the tendency to shorten close (“high”) vowels and the second by the influence of ‫ע‬. On short pronunciation of a close vowel (specifically in the context of a ga‘ya sign) see Khan, Pronunciation of Šǝwa with Ga‘ya, 13* and references there. Shortening before ‫ ע‬is mentioned in Lachmann, Gesänge, 68. This practice corresponds exactly to multiple recordings documenting the communal recitation of the Song at the Sea in the tradition of Sana‘a (e.g., the recording of 1951 at https://youtu.be/kzidAu8fc9A; see further links there). Unfortunately, these findings are not wholly corroborated by the transcriptions of the Song at the Sea published by Idelsohn and Sharvit. 101 Idelsohn, Thesaurus, 103.

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‫ָא ׁ ִש ָ֤ירה ַלֽיהֹוָ ֙ה ִּכֽי־גָ ֣אֹה ָ ּג ָ ֔אה ֥סוּס וְ ֽר ְֹכ ֖בֹו ָר ָמ֥ה ַבּיָ ֽם׃‬ ‫י־ל֖י ִ ֽל ׁישו ָּע֑ה זֶ ֤ה ֵא ִלי֙ ְו ַֽאנְ ֵ ֔וה ּו ֱאל ֵֹה֥י ָא ִ ֖בי וַ ֲֽא ֽר ְֹמ ֶמֽנְ הוּ׃‬ ִ ‫ָעּזִ ֤י וְ זִ ְמ ָרת֙ ָ֔י ּה וַ ֽיְ ִה‬ [ʔɔˑʃiːrɔ laːðɞˑnɔːj ki ɣɔˑʔɞ ʤɔˑʔɔːː sus warɞːχavɞː rɔˑmɔ vajjɔːːm ʕɔzzi wazimrɔːθ jɔːːh waːjhi liːʲ liːʃuˑʕɔːː za ʔeˑliːʲ waːʔanweːhuːːʷ ʔalɞˑhe ʔɔˑviːʲ waːʔarɞːmamaːnhuːːʷ] The only place where the actually performed rhythm seems to deviate from the theoretical rhythm is the beginning of the last word, where the notation does not show the performance of the ga‘ya sign on the first letter. It is improbable that Idelsohn’s informant, who took pains to perform ga‘ya with shewa in ‫ְוֽאנוהו‬ [waːʔanweːhuːʷ], could be careless about the ga‘ya sign in the first syllable of ‫[ וארממנהו‬waːʔarɞːmamaːnhuːʷ]. One may assume that in reality the reciter prolonged this syllable (just a slight prolongation is enough for ga‘ya), probably shortening the following chatef-­vowel. Since both vowels are identical, and ‫א‬ between them may be barely audible, Idelsohn probably did not discern where exactly the syllable border was and notated both syllables as quarters. Splitting a syllable and uttering the closing “n” sound as a separate rhythmic entity (in ‫ ואנוהו‬and ‫)וארממנהו‬, as if shewa were vocal, only testifies to how energetic the performance was. Such rhythm-­intensifying practice of accenting a syllable-­closing “n” may also occur in energetic songs from the Yemenite Diwan.

17. Conclusion In the interpretation of Yemenite Jews, Masoretic accentuation of the Bible serves as an indicator of syllabic rhythm that shapes both the individual word’s prosody and the prosody of word junctions in verse phrasing. The melodic line of the cantillation seems to be mostly secondary to syllabic rhythm. Yemenite Biblical Hebrew is a reading tradition in which vowel length may result from rhythm operation, which is controlled by the accents. Recognition of rhythmic patterns in Yemenite cantillation has implications for Hebrew linguistics, and for research on masoretic accentuation, its purposes, and reading traditions. The timing dimension of Yemenite cantillation is unparalleled among Biblical Hebrew reading traditions; it is a gem of Jewish culture. Coupled with the extraordinary richness of Yemenite Hebrew phonology, and enhanced by melodic expression, it elevates the recitation of the Hebrew Bible to the level of complexity and beauty found in cultures in which the art of recitation was (or still is) a highly developed and treasured discipline. Masoretic studies cannot afford to ignore this tradition.