National Scholar Updates

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Toledot

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“Now all the wells which his father’s servants had dug in the days of Abraham his father, the Philistines had stopped them and filled them with earth. And Abimelech said unto Isaac: Go from us; for you are much mightier than we.” (Bereishith 26:15-16)

In an arid land, Abraham had his servants dig wells to provide water for people, animals and fields. Rabbinic tradition refers to this as work on behalf of human settlement, yishuvo shel olam. Everyone in the area benefitted from the wells, not just Abraham and his entourage.

Yet, the Philistines’ hatred of Abraham and family was so great, they filled the wells with earth so that no one—not even themselves—would benefit from the water. Why would they do such a malicious and self-destructive thing? What are the sources for such visceral hatred?

The Torah informs us that Abimelech, head of the Philistines, told Isaac to go away from his territory ki atsamta mimenu me’od. This phrase is generally translated: “for you are mightier than we.” Yet, the Philistines were well in the majority and Isaac posed no physical threat to them. On the contrary, Isaac followed his father’s example of being a constructive member of society.

Hatred is not necessarily based on objective reality. To the Philistines, Isaac’s very existence was perceived as a threat. They had their own “conspiracy theory” that Isaac was really more powerful than they, and that he would seek to control and rule them. They were jealous of Isaac’s success and fearful that he would continue to succeed.

Nechama Leibowitz cites various commentators who provide another dimension to this episode. They translate ki atsamta mimenu me’od: for you have become very strong through us. You have plundered us, you have taken away from us in order to enrich yourself.  In this interpretation, the hatred of the Philistines was based not merely on fear or jealousy: it was based on a vicious claim that Isaac was successful because he was exploiting the Philistines. They couldn’t imagine that he was an honest man doing honest work; rather, they imagined him to be a parasite who robbed them of their property.

How was Isaac to deal with such irrational hatred? The Torah tells us that Isaac left Abimelech’s territory, but he also re-dug the wells that Abraham’s servants had dug and that the Philistines had plugged up. As he continued to move away, Isaac’s men dug new wells but were challenged by the other shepherds in the vicinity. He finally found an area where he was left alone.

But no sooner had he re-established himself, Abimelech came after him with the captain of his army. Isaac said: “Why have you come to me seeing that you hate me and have sent me away from you?” Abimelech replies: “We saw plainly that the Lord was with you…Let us make a covenant with you, that you will do us no hurt, as we have not touched you and as we have done unto you nothing but good and have sent you away in peace; you are now the blessed of the Lord.”

Abimelech’s words are remarkable. On the plus side, he realized that Isaac was blessed by the Lord, that Isaac had not deprived the Philistines of anything. He somehow was able to dismiss the “conspiracy theories” that had turned him and his people so cruelly against Isaac.

On the minus side, Abimelech presented himself in a false light. Instead of the hateful leader who drove Isaac away, Abimelech describes himself as one who never did any harm to Isaac but actually only acted nicely to him. He rewrote events to make himself look good and to exonerate himself for his misdeeds.

Isaac did not reject Abimelech’s request for a mutual covenant. They ate a festive meal together, after which Isaac sent off Abimelech on peaceful terms.

This episode points to the roots of hatred and conspiracy theories. It indicates that it is possible for haters to overcome their animosity and actually to see the virtues of those they once feared and despised. And it shows the importance of forgiving those who want covenants of peace, even if their presentation of facts falsely presents them in a positive light.

The story of Isaac and Abimelech repeats itself in various forms throughout history. It is a reminder of human conflict and reconciliation, enmity and peaceful relations. It is a story that speaks to us today.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Vayishlah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“And Deborah, Rebecca’s nurse, died and she was buried below Beth-El under the oak; and the name of it was called Allon-bakhuth (the oak of weeping).” (Bereishith 35:8)

The Torah goes out of its way to report the death of Deborah, whose only claim to fame was having been the life-long nurse of Rebecca. The Torah not only tells us where she was buried, but also that her death evoked weeping.

It seems ironic that the Torah would highlight the death and burial of Rebecca’s nurse…but never records the time of death and burial of Rebecca herself. The Torah does report on Jacob’s words shortly before he died, when he requested to be buried in the cave that Abraham had purchased from Efron: “There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebecca his wife, and there I buried Leah.” (Bereishith 49:31)

The Torah reports on another woman besides Deborah who died and was buried while in the midst of travels: Rachel, Jacob’s wife. While Rachel was buried and mourned, her sister Leah’s time of death and burial are not mentioned in the Torah. Two women—Deborah and Rachel-- die, are buried and mourned; while the two women closest to them—Rebecca and Leah-- fade from the Torah without mention of burial or weeping.

The Torah teaches by its words…and also by its silence. If Rebecca and Leah are not suitably mourned in the text, a message is being conveyed.

A funeral and burial represent “closure.” Mourners confront the death of loved ones, eulogize them, weep for them…and themselves. When the Torah describes the deaths and burials of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rachel and Jacob, it marks generational transitions. When it describes the death and burial of Deborah, it notes the passing of a long-time family attendant, the end of an era for the family.

But what about Rebecca and Leah? Why did the Torah omit description of their deaths and burials? Perhaps this was a way of indicating that their deaths did not entail “closure” for the mourners.

Leah was the less loved/unloved wife of Jacob whose clear favorite was Rachel. Leah’s first born, Reuven, was passed over by Jacob who gave double portion to Rachel’s son, Joseph. Leah always seemed unfulfilled, treated as second best. She died sad and unappreciated.

Rebecca, like Leah, suffered much. After years of being barren, she had a very difficult pregnancy that resulted in twin boys. But family life was not ideal. Her husband Isaac favored Esau, while Rebecca favored Jacob. In seeking to have Isaac’s blessing bestowed on Jacob, she arranged for Jacob to trick the blind Isaac by pretending to be Esau. The result was that Jacob had to flee Esau’s wrath, so that Rebecca’s favorite lived far away. Esau must have resented Rebecca for her plot against him. And Isaac was a blind old man who probably wasn’t much of a soul mate for her. Her only companion was her nurse, Deborah.

When Leah and Rebecca died, their families hardly needed “closure.” They just buried the women without fanfare. The Torah doesn’t mention their funerals because their funerals were pro-forma.

Leah and Rebecca were like so many human beings who pass through life without feeling fulfillment. No one seems to understand them or care about them or tend to their emotional needs. Such people grow old and simply fade away without the recognition and love they had craved throughout their lives.

Perhaps the Torah is teaching us to be attentive to the Leahs and Rebeccas among us. We should be sensitive to their emotional needs, care for them, value them. And perhaps the Torah is teaching the Leahs and Rebeccas among us to be more assertive of their own needs. No one should have to die feeling that their lives had been unfulfilled, second best, unimportant to those among whom they lived.

If the Torah highlights the funeral of Deborah, the nurse of Rebecca, perhaps it is pointing to her virtues, her loyalty to Rebecca, her serving as a model to us. Deborah was a genuine friend to Rebecca, maybe the only real friend that Rebecca had. Deborah seems to have understood what no one else did: Rebecca was a human being craving love, respect, companionship.

Leah and Rebecca: the Torah’s silence about your deaths and burials provides a loud message. Through that silence, we learn to empathize with you…and with others like you whose needs and feelings are often overlooked.

            The United States of America is a constitutional republic, with a system of governance designed to prevent tyranny of government or the majority. This includes a division of power and checks and balances, as well as the rule of law, which is imbued with a spirit of liberalism that recognizes that each individual has rights too.

            These principles of good governance are rooted in the oral and written laws and traditions of the Torah, embodied in the Bible, Mishna, and Talmud, as elucidated and interpreted by rabbinic commentaries thereon. The Founding Fathers had access to this treasure trove of wisdom, in the body of Hebraic literature and thought, extant at the time, when they originally formulated our constitutional republic.[1]

However, it is important to appreciate that the Bible itself is not a political treatise. It does not literally prescribe the intricate details of how to organize a society into a polity and the mechanisms for providing for the best form of government, in absolute terms. There are some principles outlined; but, as more fully discussed below, this is not the fundamental purpose of the Bible and, therefore, not a primary focus of the biblical text. Even the discussions in the Book of Samuel[2] about the deficiencies of monarchy do not expressly address the matter of alternatives or what is the most desirable form of government, beyond just implicitly preserving the status quo. That subject is taken up by some of the medieval rabbinic commentators, but more on this below.[3]

            The Torah does provide the most enduring comprehensive statement of individual rights and duties in recorded history. It also reflects one of the most majestic aspects of humanity; that we all share a common genetic ancestry, as the progeny of Adam and Eve, and yet, each of us is unique. As the Talmud[4] notes, no two faces, minds, or personalities are exactly alike. Nevertheless, we all bear the same spiritual essence, known as the image of God or soul. It commends each of us to afford everyone the utmost of respect and dignity; no human being is more equal than others. Thus, the Mishna[5] records, sustaining the life of one soul is tantamount to sustaining the entire world. Fulfilling the ultimate purpose of creation requires all people, with their manifold varieties of features, forms, tones, character traits, intellects, languages, skills, and aspirations to have the opportunity to fulfill their own individual life missions.

The Bible is in the nature of a handbook, which primarily provides for how an individual can perfect his or her self, so as to achieve and maintain a connection to the Divine. As Rabbeinu Nissim[6] explains,[7] the workings of government are not the main object of the Bible. He analyzes the hukkim[8] and notes they are not relevant, per se, to the functioning of society. Rather, they are exclusively the province of perfecting the individual’s ability to acquire and sustain a connection to the divine. Similarly, the mishpatim[9] are designed to unify the material and spiritual, in pursuit of a higher purpose and, thereby, also establish a connection to the divine. While the mishpatim also have the effect of ordering of society, the Ran offers that they are still markedly more oriented toward the sublime.

Interestingly, the Bible[10] does provide some level of detail regarding the judicial function. The Mishna and Talmud[11] set forth more extensive provisions on the appointment of judges and how courts are to be organized and function.[12] This includes the Sanhedrin, which also acts as a legislative body. Nevertheless, as the Ran notes, the purpose of judges and courts is primarily orientated toward the individual. Their job is to render judgments, which are true and righteous, objectively determining what is flawed behavior for the betterment of the affected individual, irrespective of any societal advantage or detriment. In essence, by following the dictates of the court and correcting his or her misbehavior, a person is ennobled and, in effect, cleaves to the divine.[13] Thus, like the vast majority of the Commandments, these too are similarly devoted to regulating the behavior of an individual for his or her gain and any benefit conferred on society is peripheral.

Astonishingly, the Ran declares that some of the laws of the nations will be found to be more effective in furthering societal order than some of the laws of the Torah. This may seem paradoxical, because we have come to accept that the Torah prescribes a total solution to how human beings should best function in this world. However, the Ran offers, the Bible is not intended as a guide for how to organize society and govern its affairs. Instead, it is primarily devoted to instructing the individual in the process and means of achieving perfection and, thus, an enduring connection to the divine. The structure and practical affairs of government, according to the Ran, are left to a monarch to fill in the gaps. Others, though, do not accept monarchy as the Bible’s implicit solution and are even more flexible in how government can and should be organized.

            The Bible[14] devotes just two verses to the concept of appointing a king. It records that if,[15] after entering the Land of Israel, which God gave to the people of Israel and inheriting and settling in it, the people determine to establish a king as their governing authority, as do all the surrounding nations, then they may do so by selecting the one chosen by God to be the king from among their people and not a foreigner.       

            The Talmud[16] takes up the question of whether this is an obligatory commandment or just a permitted one. It reports that Rabbi Nehorai says the biblical passage noted above is optional and it is not required that there be a king. It is only in response to a request by the people to appoint a king that it takes effect. Rabbi Yehuda disagrees and asserts that it is a part of a series of three mitzvoth[17] that were commanded to the Jewish people upon entering the Land of Israel, as follows:

1. to appoint a king, based on the verses noted above;
2.  to wipe out Amalek;[18] and
3.  to build the Temple.[19]

This disagreement is further taken up among the Rishonim, who have a range of opinions on the subject. Thus, for example, Ibn Ezra[20] viewed the entire matter of appointing a king as optional, not obligatory. Nahmanides[21] views it as an obligatory commandment and cites the Sifrei[22] in support thereof. Maimonides[23] also holds that the commandment to appoint a king is obligatory. However, Abarbanel[24] analyzes the entire matter in two lengthy essays[25] on the subject and concludes otherwise. His deep and thorough analysis of the views noted above, cogent reasoning, and compelling conclusions are bracing and every bit as fresh and thoughtful, as if expressed today. It’s no wonder that his thoughts and views, expressed in the fifteenth century, were embraced by our Founding Fathers in the eighteenth century.

Abarbanel’s thesis reflects his own breadth of knowledge of the classics, including political philosophy, familiarity with a variety of other systems of government, besides monarchy, and life experience with the fickleness of kings and capriciousness of affairs of state in monarchies. Thus, he served as the Treasurer to King Afonso V of Portugal. When the King died, his son John II took over and wanted to clean house of what he perceived to be his political opponents. In furtherance of this objective, Abarbanel was falsely accused of conspiring against the king; but he managed to make a hasty escape to Spain. Nevertheless, his extremely large fortune was confiscated by royal decree. In Spain, he became a financier to Queen Isabella. However, with the expulsion of the Jews in 1492, which he was unable to stop, despite heroic efforts and offers of vast sums to the Spanish King to revoke the decree, he too left with his fellow Jews. He then settled in Naples; but was forced to flee yet again, when it was conquered by the French. He ultimately resided in Venice, where he passed away and was reportedly buried in Padua.

  Abarbanel presents and questions the views of his predecessors, noted above, who favored the position that the appointment of a king is an obligatory commandment. Among other things, he asks, if this was indeed a biblical requirement, then why did the Prophet Samuel[26] react so negatively? Although God did instruct Samuel to heed the demand of the people, God also consoled Samuel and noted that the people’s demand for a king was not a rejection of Samuel, but was a rejection of God as king. Indeed, Abarbanel explains this means the people’s misconduct was despicable and comparable to the sin of idolatry.[27] However, Abarbanel notes this was not a matter of how the demand was phrased. Indeed, even had the people invoked the precise formula set forth in Deuteronomy,[28] it still would have been inappropriate. Therefore, he goes on to argue that appointing a king could not possibly be a Torah mandate, because if the people were only following the Torah’s dictates, then how could this possibly be so egregious an error in judgment?

This position appears to be supported by the Midrash on Deuteronomy,[29] which also takes a dim view of the seeming need by the people for a monarch. It records that God said to the people of Israel that God wanted them to be free of monarchy and the dread of kings. What was the point of asking for a king; only to be enslaved again and subject to the vagaries of monarchy, as well as, enveloped by the misfortunes likely to ensue, because of the inevitable misdeeds of the king? Moreover, as Psalms[30] cautions, we should not trust in the great, who are after all mere mortal human beings, who cannot be counted on to save us. In that sense, reliance on a mortal king is not only misplaced, it is also akin to idol worship and fated to fail. We can only truly trust in God as the genuine king.

Abarbanel[31] describes the endemic malady of kings in detail. Although the Bible[32] requires a king not to have a soaring ego or to think he is better than his people, this is usually not the case. A king is also enjoined to follow the halakha and not veer left or right.[33] However, this is not what occurs in practice. Instead kings typically enslave the people and take their children, fields, vineyards, servants, work animals, and flocks. Kings steal and oppress and are often no more than tyrants.

Abarbanel finds the efforts made to reconcile the seemingly contradictory texts of Deuteronomy and Samuel, noted above, so as to support a conclusion that there is still nevertheless a biblical requirement to appoint a king, personally unsatisfying.  Indeed, he goes on to ask, if having a king was a biblical imperative, then why didn’t Joshua immediately appoint one upon entering the Land of Israel?

Before tackling the seeming biblical inconsistencies summarized above, Abarbanel first introduces the topic of monarchy, generally, as a philosophical matter, in the world at large. He poses the threshold and fundamental question of whether monarchy is an intrinsically necessary form of government, or is it possible to have an organized nation without a king? 

Abarbanel begins his analysis by citing reasons typically asserted by political philosophers in support of the absolute necessity for a monarchial form of government of a nation. He notes, they reason that a king is required: (i) to assure unity of the polity and to stamp out any divisions; (ii) as the source of continuity, mitigating against instability; and (iii) to wield the absolute power needed to hold people in check and society together. However, Abarbanel concludes that these assumptions are actually false.

Abarbanel notes that it is undeniable that Florence and Venice organized very successful societies, which function extremely well and are most prosperous, all without the need of a king. Their form of government is composed of councils of many leaders of the people, elected for set terms. They gather and unite and agree upon one policy. They also adopt laws and provide mechanisms for their administration and enforcement under their leadership. Thus, the proposition that there is a need for one leader with absolute power has proven in practice to be untrue.

Abarbanel goes on to analyze how it is better to have term limits of one to three years and a system of checks and balances. This might help deter many of the corrupt and dissolute practices of leaders, because they will soon have to account to the new leaders elected to serve after the offending leaders’ term of office ends. The new leaders and judges can then investigate and enforce claims against the prior leadership for malfeasance. No one should be above the law. He also notes that one person with sole power is more likely to err than a group of leaders, since if one purports to do wrong, others will usually protest. Moreover, since their term in office is limited, there will ultimately be an accounting for misdeeds. As the popular saying goes, power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Abarbanel then artfully disposes of the halakhic[34] arguments mustered, based on biblical exegesis, which are cited in support of the position that appointing a king is an obligatory commandment. He first asserts that the biblical verse[35] does not unqualifiedly state appoint a king; rather, it provides for a situation if and when the people ask for one. This suggests that it is optional and not a requirement; otherwise, why the need for this threshold condition? Secondly, if this were an absolute requirement, then why the superfluous phrase, like all the other nations, in the text of the invocation? This qualification makes no sense if it was indeed intended as an obligatory requirement. After all, what difference does it make if anyone else does or doesn’t have a king, if we are commanded to have one? Moreover, we are separately commanded not to emulate the ways of the idol worshippers, which makes this apparent qualification even more paradoxical. Indeed, as Abarbanel goes on to note, in his third point on the subject, the text can more readily be interpreted as a prophetic statement as to what would occur in the future, rather than a definitive commandment. This then puts the report in the Book of Samuel in the context of a realization of that prophecy, as opposed to a contradictory text.

Abarbanel’s fourth point is a marvel of statutory construction and technical legal artistry. He posits that if the verses in Deuteronomy were actually intended to be a commandment, then perforce there would be two positive mitzvoth. The first would be to appoint a king and the second, in the next verse,[36] would be the requirement to appoint one chosen by God, from among his people. Furthermore, there would also be a third negative commandment not to appoint a stranger as a king, who is not kin.

Abarbanel then states, in his fifth point on the subject, the irony of the people asking the Prophet Samuel to appoint a king, albeit for the wrong reason of judging them, and the harsh reaction of Samuel and God.[37] However, he goes on to quip, if this was an obligatory commandment, then why didn’t Joshua perform it, immediately upon entering the Land of Israel?

For all the foregoing reasons, Abarbanel concludes, appointment of a king is not an obligatory commandment; rather, it is a permitted one. This he notes is consistent with another commandment relating to a war bride.[38] He observes that there is no obligation to seek one out; but if do so, then there are a number of applicable requirements that apply.

He posits, similarly, if the people elect to have a king, then there are a series of requirements that follow, including as to the process of selection and certain rules that are intended to restrain the behavior of the king. As noted above, the king must be one selected by God, from among the Jewish people, as communicated by a Prophet of God and with the approval of the Sanhedrin.[39] The king may not have too many horses or wives nor accumulate an excessive amount of gold and silver.[40] He is also required to write a Sefer Torah and keep it with him, read it all his days, be guided by it, and observe all its precepts.[41] However, notwithstanding these requirements, in general, the history of kings is a sordid one, with limited exceptions.

The Netziv[42] also considers the appointment of a king a permitted, not obligatory matter. He offers that it is for the people to decide what form of government best serves their needs.

 In contradistinction to the subject of monarchy, the Talmud[43] also deals with the appointment of leaders, generally. It records Rabbi Yehuda says that leaders are not to be appointed without consulting with the members of the community. He bases this principle on the appointment of Bezalel as the leader of the project of building the Tabernacle.[44] He explains that God told Moses to go ask the Children of Israel whether the choice of Bezalel was a suitable appointment in their eyes. Their answer was if suitable to God and Moses, then of course it’s suitable to them. While the Talmud does not set forth the details of the elective process, it does posit that the consent of the governed is required.[45]

The tradition of democracy is an essential and fundamental part of the halakhic court (including legislative function of the Sanhedrin) and decision-making process. The guiding principle is majority rule governs.[46] The concept is also applied in determining whether legislation so enacted remains effective. Thus, if a majority of the people don’t accept a new enactment, then it is vitiated.[47]

It is noteworthy that there is also a healthy respect among the sages for dissenting points of view. As the Mishna[48] reports, dissenting opinions are recorded so that if a court prefers the opinion of a single sage, it may rely thereon.

The Talmud[49] records that both the views of Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel, who argued matters of halakha with each other, asserting conflicting positions, were authoritative expressions of divine will. The views of Bet Hillel were generally accorded preference in determining the final ruling adopted as the halakha, because in making their presentation, they first stated the position of Bet Shammai, before arguing their own. Interestingly, The Talmud[50] also provides that, while the halakha is generally in accordance with Bet Hillel, one who wishes to act in accordance with the opinion of Bet Shammai may do so, so long as follows all of Bet Shamai’s rulings consistently and not just the leniencies of each of them. Most importantly, the Talmud[51] records that despite their pronounced differences when it came to matters of halakha, neither refrained from marrying within one another’s families. They epitomized the healthy respect, friendship, and camaraderie, as well as love of truth and peace[52] that are the paradigm for interpersonal relations.

The consent of the governed and civil rights accorded each and every individual are a fundamental and essential part of our tradition. Government would appear to be a matter of expediency, and we have come a very long way from demanding and needing an actual king to be appointed. Yet, leadership at some level and the executive function are recognized as a necessary complement to the organization and proper functioning of society. As the Mishna[53] pithily declares, pray for the welfare of government, for otherwise one person might swallow another alive.

It is most gratifying to know that democratic principles of majority rule, as well as respect for the views and rights of individuals who may differ are an intrinsic part of our tradition.

May divine providence guide our choices of leadership so that they are good ones, suitable to God and humankind alike.

Notes

[1]Faith, Science, and Orthodoxy

How can an Orthodox Jew in today's world maintain faith in Torah in the face of the apparent challenges of natural science to that faith? I will here examine Maimonides' approach to the issue and then propose my own approach, one which relies upon reverting to what I understand as classic Jewish definitions of faith.

Before beginning I should like to note that I think that my task is relatively simple. Real challenges to Orthodoxy today do not come from the natural sciences but from literary criticism and history, which cast doubt upon the textual integrity of the Written Torah and upon Orthodox understandings of the nature of the Oral Torah;[2] from ethics, which challenges traditional Jewish understandings of the relationship of the sexes and of Jews and non-Jews, among other problems;[3] and from Enlightenment thought generally, which emphasizes the value of autonomy over faithful submission to God.[4]

How did Maimonides approach the reconciliation of Torah and science? He starts off by taking the text of the Torah as literally true in every case: "I believe every possible happening that is supported by a prophetic statement and do not strip it of its plain meaning."[5] But, there is an exception to this general rule: "I fall back on interpreting a statement [allegorically] only when its plain meaning is impossible, like the corporeality of God; the possible however remains as stated." What makes prophetic references to God as corporeal impossible to accept? Maimonides tells us in the Guide of the Perplexed (II.25, p. 328): "That the deity is not a body has been demonstrated; from this it follows necessarily that everything that in its plain meaning disagrees with this demonstration must be interpreted figuratively, for it is known that such texts are of necessity fit for figurative interpretation."

Maimonides' point is relatively straightforward: the Torah must be accepted as literally true in every case where its teachings do not contradict that which has been demonstrated to be true. By demonstration, Maimonides means "a syllogism both of whose premises are apodictic."[6]

Maimonides' position clearly makes demonstrated truth to be the criterion we use for determining which passages in the Torah we read literally, and which passages we read allegorically. If a scientific claim is demonstrably true, and the plain sense of Scripture contradicts it, we may not ignore or reinterpret the scientific claim; we must, rather, reinterpret Scripture. To all intents and purposes, science becomes our measure for understanding the Torah.[7]

Maimonides could be confident that this approach would cause him no problems since, at their deepest levels, Torah and science taught the same thing. Maimonides clearly states that ma^'aseh bereshit is the rabbinic name for that area of study called by the philosophers, “physics,” and ma^'aseh merkavah is the rabbinic name for that area of study called by the philosophers, “metaphysics”.

Maimonides had further reason for calm: the sciences he was concerned with, physics and metaphysics, proved that which he wanted them to prove, that God exists, is one, and is incorporeal. It is acceptance of these three beliefs, as taught by science, that Maimonides construes as the first commandment, “the great principle upon which all depends” ("Laws of the Foundations of the Torah," I.6), the “foundation of all foundations and pillar of the sciences” ( I.1). Monotheism is the central axis around which the entire Torah revolves, denial of which is tantamount to denial of the Torah in its entirety.

In short, as long as science does not refute the existence, unity, and incorporeality of God –and it appears that there is no way it could – progress in the sciences in no way threatens acceptance of the Torah and obedience to the commandments.

Maimonides opened his magisterial law code, Mishneh Torah with the following statement (here translated loosely):

The most important principle of all the principles of the Torah, and the fundamental axiom of all the sciences is the same, to wit, to know that there exists a First Existent, that It gives existence to all that exists, and that all existent beings, from the heaven to the earth and what is between them, exist only due to the truth of Its existence.

Knowing this, Maimonides goes on to say, is a positive commandment – indeed the first positive commandment in his Book of Commandments, not to mention the first of the 'Thirteen Principles'.

In making these claims Maimonides imports science (in the guise of ma'aseh bereshit, Greek physics, and ma'aseh merkavah, Greek metaphysics) into the very heart of Torah. Indeed the Twentieth Century's leading Maimonidean, Rabbi Josef Kafih, went so far as to deny the possibility of secular studies (limmudei hol) for Maimonides: if a discipline yields truth, it is not secular.

Moreover, to know something, for Maimonides (following Aristotle), is to know it through or with its causes. The first commandment of the Torah is to know that God exists; and, as Maimonides makes clear in the Introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed, the only way to fulfill that commandment is through the study of physics and metaphysics.

The implications of this are vast:

• The study of science becomes incumbent upon all Jews who want to fulfill even the first commandment of the Torah.
• Psychoanalysis may be a Jewish science, as its opponents claimed, and Lysenko's biology was certainly socialist 'science', but surely no reader of this book would claim that there can be a Jewish physics or Jewish metaphysics. Thus, the science which Jews are commanded to study is precisely that science which is taught (for Maimonides) by uncircumcised Greeks and oppressive Muslims.
• One who has mastered what Maimonides calls (in the Introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed) the legal science of the Torah (i.e., the Talmudist) is thus inferior to one who has mastered the secrets of the Torah, i.e., the person who understands physics and metaphysics. (It is no wonder that many who read Maimonides expostulate: "This is Greek to me!" and that medieval rabbis wanted to burn or at least excise the 51^st chapter of the third part of the Guide.)

Truth is absolute and objective; there can thus be no such things as intellectual (or spiritual) authority per se. Statements are true irrespective of the standing of the person making them. Maimonides could thus have no patience for the sorts of claims to rabbinic authority which underlie the contemporary doctrine of da'at Torah (charismatic rabbinic authority) in its various permutations.[8]

Thus far Maimonides, for whom natural science meant physics, who operated in a theistic universe, and for whom the greatest question posed by science was whether or not the world was created. What of contemporary thinkers, whose natural universe gets along quite well, thank you, without a final cause, confronted by the claims of geology, paleontology, and evolution, all of which demand far greater liberties with the "plain meaning" of Scripture than did Maimonides' naturalistic explanation of various miracles (but no greater liberty, I should note, than that demanded by his radically non-anthropomorphic reading of verses attributing corporeality to God)?[9]

Maimonides' position, challenging as it is to many contemporary conceptions of Orthodoxy, relies for its cogency upon conceptions of demonstrative truth foreign to the present-day scientific enterprise. Since little that science teaches today is demonstrably true in Maimonides' sense, his position offers us no guidance on how to relate Torah and science in the contemporary world.

Much of contemporary Orthodoxy has, it appears, backed itself into something of a corner with respect to the question of science and Torah. It has rather unreflectively adopted a kind of quasi-Maimonideanism according to which Judaism teaches truth in much the same way that science teaches truth. What brings Orthodoxy to adopt this stance? It makes two crucial assumptions, or, I should say, accepts two Maimonidean teachings which lock it into this position. The first concerns the "centrality of faith-commitments in Judaism" and the second the idea that Judaism recognizes a category of "commandments addressed to the intellect."[10]

Much of Orthodoxy today holds, in the words of Rabbi J. David Bleich, that "basic philosophical beliefs are not simply matters of intellectual curiosity but constitute a branch of Halakhah" and that matters of dogma are decided like other areas of halakhah. Bleich has recently reiterated the same position: "matters of belief," he maintains, "are inherently matters of halakha. It is not at all surprising that disagreements exist with regard to substantive matters of belief, just as is the case with regard to other areas of Jewish law. Such matters are subject to the canons of halakhic decision-making no less than other questions of Jewish law."[11] This position invites conflicts between science and Torah since matters of belief include issues under the purview of the sciences. That is what Maimonides did; but how many of today's Orthodox Jews who agree with this position today would be willing to follow Maimonides in making "demonstration" (i.e., science) the arbiter of what the Torah means?[12]

There are a number of things which have to be said in response to this sort of position. First, I think that it misrepresents Maimonides: basic philosophical beliefs are neither simply matters of intellectual curiosity nor a branch of halakhah. They are attempts to understand the true nature of the universe to the greatest extent possible. Ma'aseh bereshit is the rabbinic term for what the Greeks called physics; ma'aseh merkavah is the rabbinic expression for what the Greeks called metaphysics – and these two are called the "roots" of the specific halakhot (gufei Torah). Considering that these roots are either true or false absolutely, it is literally inconceivable that Maimonides could have held that their truth status depends upon rabbinic psak (decision), as would be the case were they matters of halakhah. This leads to my second point: can we seriously credit the idea that Maimonides would have held that before he "paskened" (decided halakhically) that Moses was superior to all the other prophets before and after him, for example, that the question was undecided in Judaism? Similarly, of course, with respect to the other twelve of the Thirteen Principles. Of course not. Third, even were this understanding of Maimonides correct, the latter's position is quite clearly an innovation in Judaism and it is simply incorrect to read it back into rabbinic texts.[13]

None of this is meant to minimize the contribution of Maimonides to Judaism. Maimonides' position that truth is objective and must be accepted whatever its source[14] and his willingness to understand the Torah such that it cannot conflict with the teachings of reason are two aspects of his thought that make it possible for many people today to remain faithful to Torah and Judaism without feeling that they must turn off their brains. These teachings concerning Judaism only make sense if we insist that the Torah addresses the intellect and not just the limbs.[15]

But if the Torah contains the truth, why not command its acceptance, or at the very least, teach it in a very clear and unambiguous fashion? The reason is that for Bible and Talmud the translation of ultimate truth into clearly defined and manageable statements was less a pressing need than it was for Maimonides. Let me put this as follows: Maimonides and the Talmud agree that God's truth is embodied in the Torah. The Talmud finds pressing the need to determine the practical, this-worldly consequences of that truth, while Maimonides, in addition, finds its necessary to determine the specific, cognitive content of that truth. On one level, Maimonides is clearly right: Judaism does teach truth; but, on the other hand, his insistence on expressing that truth in specific teachings is an innovation in Judaism.

The point I am trying to make here comes out in the well-known talmudic story concerning the oven of Akhnai (Bava Mezia 59b). The Sages debated whether a particular kind of oven could become ritually impure. The text says:

On that day R. Eliezer brought all the answers in the world [to support his position] but they were not accepted. He said to them: "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let this carob tree prove it!" The carob tree uprooted itself and moved 100 amot [c. 50 yards] – some say, it was 400 amot. The [other] rabbis said to him: "One does not bring a proof from a carob tree." He continued, saying "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let this pool of water prove it!" The water thereupon flowed backwards. They said to him: "One does not bring a proof from a pool of water." He continued, saying "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let the walls of this house of study prove it!" The walls of the house of study thereupon began to fall inward. Rabbi Joshua reproved them [the walls]: "By what right do you interfere when Sages battle each other over halakhah?" The walls did not fall [all the way] out of respect for R. Joshua and did not stand upright [again] out of respect for R. Eliezer. To this day, they stand at an angle. He then said to them, "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let it be proved by Heaven!" A voice from Heaven [immediately] spoke forth: "How do you disagree with R. Eliezer, when the halakhah accords with his opinion in every place?"[16] R. Joshua then stood upon his legs and said, It is not in Heaven! [Deut 30: 12]. [The Talmud then asks,] "What is the significance of It is not in Heaven?" R. Jeremiah said, "Since the Torah was given at Mt. Sinai we pay no attention to voices from Heaven [in determining halakhah] since You [i.e., God, the source of heavenly voices] have already written in the Torah at Mt. Sinai, turn aside after a multitude [Exodus 23:2]. R. Nathan met Elijah and said to him, "What did the Holy One, blessed be He, do when this happened?" Elijah replied: "He smiled and said, 'My children have defeated me! My children have defeated me!'."

Much can be (and has been!) said about this fascinating passage. Here it will suffice to quote an insightful comment of David Kraemer's: "Of course, we must assume that if the heavenly voice supported R. Eliezer's view, his view must have been closer to the 'truth.' Nevertheless, his truth is rejected, and the view of the sages, though objectively in error, is affirmed."[17] Judaism teaches truth, and that fact must never be forgotten. But the ultimate truth taught by the Torah need not necessarily be understood in its detailed specificity for us to live in the world in a decent fashion; while there is one objective "truth," the Talmud is interested in arriving at a halakhic determination, rather than at a determinate understanding of the final truth. We can safely put off determining the exact truth until the earth be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Isaiah 11:9);[18] but in the meantime we must know how to live.[19]

This talmudic position, I think, makes it possible for Jews to reach ever-greater understandings of the truth taught by the Torah and allows them to express that truth in language appropriate to each age. Had Judaism adopted a Maimonidean, as opposed to talmudic, understanding of the nature of our relation to the truth taught by the Torah, we would be forced to express our vision of the Universe in terms of the Neoplatonized Aristotelianism adopted by Maimonides. Our situation would be similar to that of Habad hasidim, who feel constrained to accept Maimonides' Ptolemaic description of the physical universe as "Torah from heaven," or to that of those Catholics who accept Thomism as normative and authoritative. But "the Torah is not in heaven" – it must be lived in this world, while the absolute truth which it embodies remains "from heaven," a constant challenge to our understanding, a constant critique of our tendency to intellectual complacency. The talmudic position, as hinted at in the story of the oven of Akhnai, allows Judaism to live and breathe in today's world as much as in yesterday's.

Maimonides, I have argued in a number of places, understood religious faith primarily in terms of propositions affirmed or denied. Bible and Talmud understood religious faith primarily in terms of trust and loyalty. This being so, "orthodoxy" is actually a misnomer, since Judaism, before Maimonides, knew no doctrines (=doxos) concerning which one absolutely had to be clearly and self-consciously "straight" (=ortho).

It is further important to realize that even though classical Judaism does not understand the nature of emunah as Maimonides does, and therefore places little value and emphasis on precise theological formulations, there are limits to what one can affirm or deny and still remain within the Jewish community. Note my terminology here: there are limits to what one can affirm or deny and still remain with the Jewish community. Denying the unity of God, for example, or that the Torah is of divine origin in some significant sense, or affirming that the Messiah has already come, are claims which place one outside of the historical community of Israel.

Returning to the issue of "faith, science, and Orthodoxy," I am here proposing that we understand Jewish faith in terms of loyalty to God, Torah, and Israel, loyalty which finds expression in the fulfillment of the commandments and less as "commandments addressed to the intellect." It follows from this that the criterion for what we now call "Orthodoxy" should be construed less in terms of adherence to specific dogmas and more in terms of behavior which evinces trust in God. I further propose that we follow Maimonides in taking demonstrated truth to be the arbiter of how we understand Torah. But since we are not yet in the age of the Messiah, and the knowledge of the Lord does not yet cover the earth as the waters cover the sea, that means that we understand neither science nor Torah fully. One does not have to be a fan of Star Trek to know that we live in age in which we expect our scientific paradigms to change. One can be a fully "Orthodox" Jew and maintain that, yes, the Torah teaches truth, but that we do not yet really understand that truth.

In concrete terms, I am calling for modesty, both as scientists and as believers. Modesty yes, a total suspension of belief/disbelief, no. To reject the claim that the earth is vastly old, for example, is not only to reject the science of geology, but the entire edifice of contemporary physics and chemistry. The cosmos simply cannot be 5769 years old. This, of course, is only a problem for the most stubborn of Biblical literalists. But how about Noah's flood? There is no geological or archeological evidence that the entire earth was once covered by water; nor is it possible for humanity, in its rich diversity, to have developed and spread over the globe in the roughly four and one half millennia which have passed since the time of Noah. In these and other matters, the Written Torah cannot be taken literally without rejecting the crushingly overwhelming weight of scientific evidence.

But in many other, and more important areas, we may not fully understand the Torah, but science has not yet had its last word either: on God's existence, the creation of the cosmos, Sinaitic revelation, providence, prophecy, miracles, efficacy of prayer, the special relationship of God to the Jewish people, divine retribution, etc., science seems to have little definite to say to us, and it appears to me, is not likely to have much to say in the foreseeable future.

In the final analysis, if we are really to use the eyes God gave us,[20] we can do no other but revert to a qualified Maimonideanism: the Torah cannot contradict that which has been proven scientifically but science often proves less than what some scientists think they have proven. We must live in a world of fewer absolutes than many thinkers (rabbis and scientists alike) would like: the Torah cannot teach what science rejects as false, but the evidence of science is not yet fully in, so we do not yet know what the Torah really teaches^.[21]

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Bereishith

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

            The Torah makes a startling statement about God’s creation of Adam/Humankind:“So God created Humankind in His own image [tselem Elo-him], in the image of God He created him; male and female he created them” (Bereishith 1:27). Sages have devoted much thought to this verse. What exactly does the Torah mean by the phrase tselem Elo-him, image of God? We are too sophisticated to take the phrase literally i.e. that human beings are created in the physical form of God—a Being who has no physical features. Among the most widely held views, “image” refers to intellect, free will or creativity.

            I suggest that the phrase refers to the human potential for spirituality. From the very inception of humanity, God instilled within us a desire to transcend ourselves, to aspire to an infinite reality beyond our immediate reach.

            Evolutionary biologist Edward O. Wilson, in his book On Human Nature, presents evidence that a religious sensibility existed in human beings from the earliest times. All human societies-- from hunter gatherers to moderns and post-moderns—display a predilection to spiritual belief. This spiritual sense is intrinsic to humanity.

            Every human being has this capacity, but each of us develops and nurtures it differently. The seed of Godliness within us provides the potential for optimal human spiritual growth . Some are able to rise to great heights…to prophecy itself. Others negate and profane their tselem Elo-him by clinging to false ideologies or immoral behaviors.

            Dean Hamer, in his book The God Gene, argues that our spiritual sense is actually implanted in us genetically. “It is our genetic makeup that helps to determine how spiritual we are. We do not know God; we feel him.” This would fit in well with our notion of tselem Elo-him. We all have an innate spiritual disposition, albeit of different levels, and can choose to develop this disposition or suppress it.

            Religiosity and spirituality are not the same thing. Religions attempt to create frameworks that foster spirituality. Religions provide rites and ceremonials that are intended to stimulate our spiritual sense. But it is possible to observe the various rites and ceremonials and be oblivious to the spirituality these things are meant to inspire. Ideally, our religious lives should be in sync with our spiritual aspirations.

            In 1931, Benjamin Nathan Cardozo gave the commencement address at the Jewish Institute of Religion. He referred to the astronomer Tycho Brahe who devoted long years to mark and register the stars, when people mocked him for this seemingly useless endeavor. Cardozo remarked:  “The submergence of self in the pursuit of an ideal, the readiness to spend oneself without measure, prodigally, almost ecstatically, for something intuitively apprehended as great and noble, spend oneself one knows not why—some of us like to believe that is what religion means.”

            If we add “God” to Justice Cardozo’s statement, we will have a beautiful understanding of spirituality…and religion at its best. Something within us yearns for transcendence, truth, wholeness, unity. When we feel the presence of God, we not only transcend ourselves…we plumb the depths within ourselves.

            The quality of spirituality—the tselem Elo-him within us-- is God’s gift to us; how we use or abuse this gift defines who we are as human beings.

                                                                                                             *     *     *

Rabbi M. Angel has a 5 minute youtube program, "Are Terrorists Created in the Image of God."   Please see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MF8-fwpcte4&t=15s

Book Review

Dennis Prager, The Rational Bible: Deuteronomy (Regnery Faith, 2022)

          This review is a sequel to my reviews of Dennis Prager’s volumes on Genesis and Exodus, found at https://www.jewishideas.org/article/review-dennis-prager-genesis and https://www.jewishideas.org/article/review-dennis-prager-exodus.

          Throughout the contemporary West, we find increasingly aggressive elements in our government, universities, schools, media, and many other influential venues that viciously attack God, the Bible, family values, the very notion of an objective morality, and many other core ideals we cherish. Many of the biblical principles America is built upon are brutalized or at best ignored.

          Dennis Prager is far better known as a political commentator than a Bible Scholar. Nonetheless, he is animated by his belief in the Torah and its enduring moral messages for humanity. Whether or not one agrees with all of his politics or individual interpretations of the verses, Prager’s commentary is strikingly relevant when he emphasizes the moral revolution of the Torah and the vitality of its moral teachings to today’s increasingly secularized Western world. Prager pinpoints several of the major differences between the Torah’s morality and the dangerous shortcomings of today’s secular West. In this review, we will focus on several of his central points.

In Deuteronomy 1:13, Moses selected judges who were “wise, discerning, and experienced.” All three traits pertain to wisdom, not goodness. Of course, judges also must be good people, but that trait alone is insufficient for leadership. A good society is unattainable without wisdom. Prager observes that “there have always been people who were personally good—individuals who have good intentions and even a kindly disposition—who enabled evil to prevail.”

On a personal level, parents who spoil their children without teaching them right from wrong may be good people, but they lack wisdom. On a global level, communism is the best example of good intentions without wisdom. Communism has killed approximately 100 million people, and enslaved a billion more. Their tyrannical leaders, and some of their supporters, are truly evil people. But many millions of their supporters sincerely believed that communism would build a better world for the future. However, they lacked moral and economic wisdom, thereby supporting and enabling the evil tyrants to obtain and retain power (6-10).

          The world’s freest society, the United States of America, is both a democracy and theocracy. Theocracy without democracy leads to an unfree society. Democracy without God leads to moral and intellectual chaos. George Washington stated, “Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports…reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle.” In a similar vein, John Adams remarked that “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious People. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” Prager observes that it is no accident that the two mottoes of the United States are “Liberty” and “In God We Trust” (283-285).

The Book of Deuteronomy repeatedly warns against following false gods. Prager enumerates several of today’s “false gods” (71-84). One of the most corrosive elements to the fabric of our increasingly secular society is the elimination of God and the Bible, and replacing its wisdom with an overvaluation of education and intelligence.

Prager quotes Professor Steven Pinker of Harvard University, who observes that “universities are becoming laughingstocks of intolerance.” Well-educated people disproportionately supported the Nazi party, as well as communism. The same is true for those today who hold anti-American and Israeli sentiments.

          In 2015 Prager participated in a debate at the prestigious Oxford Union at Oxford University on the subject of whether Israel or Hamas is a greater obstacle for peace in the Middle East. That this debate could even occur is truly terrifying, given the terrorist organization Hamas’ genocidal charter. Yet, the debate went on, and the majority of the over 400 elite students in attendance voted that Israel is the greater obstacle to peace, as this is what they are taught.

          Education uncoupled from God and morality becomes a false, and a very dangerous, god. Among those naïve enough to think otherwise was Sigmund Freud, who confidently stated in 1927 that secular education could replace religion as the basis for a moral society: “Civilization has little to fear from educated people and brain-workers. In them the replacement of religious motives for civilized behaviors by other, secular motives would proceed unobtrusively.” Within ten years of making that statement, Freud witnessed many of his fellow Austrian and German intellectuals support Nazism and even participate in the atrocities.

          Of course, people who claim to be religious can be evil, and people who do not believe in God can be exceptionally moral. The issue is society and its institutions. Without religious core values, secular society almost inevitably loses its wisdom, and then risks becoming evil.

          The Book of Deuteronomy promises national reward for righteous behavior, and national calamity for wicked behavior and unfaithfulness to God. To the modern mind, such promises often appear to reflect a low-level religious system. Prager defends the Torah’s discourse on several grounds (142-143).

          First, the Torah could have omitted all reference to reward and punishment. This idealistic system is simply untrue to human reality. When people are rewarded for competent work, they work harder and more competently. This is why the capitalistic free market economy was the only system that enabled people to lift themselves out of poverty. Some are seduced by the Marxist socialist ideal of people being rewarded “according to their needs,” rather than for the excellence of their work. This ideology, however, eliminates the incentive to work hand. Further, who determines the “needs” of individuals? Generally not the individual, but the state. This is the road to tyranny and totalitarianism. Prager concludes, “And who doesn’t want to live in a just world? Only the unjust.”

          The Torah could have shifted focus to reward in the afterlife, but its entire agenda is to build a great society in this world.

          Finally, the Torah could have demanded faithfulness based on love of God. However, that argument would work only for the religiously elite few.

          Therefore, the Torah’s stress on this-worldly reward and punishment is the most effective means of promoting a universally righteous society.

          A central theme in Deuteronomy is gratitude. God blesses Israel with a beautiful, bountiful land. The religious hazard of that blessing is that Israel may in turn become spoiled and arrogant, considering their prosperity as their own achievement. Prager comments that “gratitude is the mother of both happiness and goodness.” The easiest way to undermine gratitude is to take something or someone for granted. Most people appreciate what they had only once they have lost it. Parents spoil their children when they give them everything, as children come to expect everything. Saying “thank you” is not merely polite etiquette; these words inculcate gratitude and appreciation. Jewish law has blessings for everything, including eating and even relieving oneself in the bathroom. These blessings, when taken seriously, infuse gratitude and happiness into the most mundane moments (154-156).

          In Deuteronomy 12:20, the Torah permits “secular slaughter” away from the Temple, enabling Israelites to eat meat outside of a sacrificial context. Prager uses this commandment to launch into a discussion regarding animal rights activism gone awry in the secular world. There is an increasingly prevalent value of people and animals being of equal worth. Prager quotes a 2003 PETA ad campaign, which appallingly equated barbequing chickens with the cremation of Jews in the Nazi death camps. They entitled their ad campaign, “Holocaust on your Plate.” It was a Jew at PETA who created that ad campaign, and he doubled down on his assertion that chickens and humans are of equal value when he was challenged.

          In Deuteronomy 19:13, the Torah insists that we show no pity for murderers. The Torah understands that if we see the condemned, we naturally will have pity, and consider withholding the capital punishment. However, such pity overrides the true victims, namely, the person who was murdered and his or her family. In a debate on American television with the leader of an anti-capital punishment vigil being held in front of the prison where a murderer was about to be executed, Prager “asked the activist if he and his supporters had ever held a vigil in support of a murder victim’s family. I received no response” (303-304).

We should lead the world in morality, but not promote a morality so far beyond realism that we subject ourselves to mortal danger. Prager quotes Rabbi Irving (“Yitz”) Greenberg reflecting on the modern State of Israel, surrounded by vicious enemies committed to Israel’s destruction: “If we Jews are five percent better than the rest of the world, we can be a ‘light unto the nations.’ If we are twenty-five percent better than the rest of the world, we can bring the Messiah. If we are fifty percent better than the rest of the world, we’ll all be dead” (316).

          Through these and so many other religious-moral teachings, the Torah was a revolution in world history, and continues to bring relevant, and sorely needed, teaching to the modern world.

              My recently published book, Jewish Literary Eros: Between Poetry and Prose in the Medieval Mediterranean (Indiana University Press, June 2022), presents a comparison of fictional writings across literary traditions of the medieval Mediterranean. It places secular texts by Jewish authors side by side with works by their Muslim and Jewish predecessors and Christian contemporaries to see how attitudes toward fiction, metaphor, pseudo-autobiography, allegory, and courting rituals vary or parallel each other in unexpected ways. The texts in question were written primarily between the twelfth through fourteenth centuries by Jewish authors in Christian Spain and Italy and comprise a mixture of poetry and prose, known as prosimetra. The writing of this period has traditionally been considered decadent, less brilliant and innovative than compositions by Jewish Andalusian predecessors whose writings, still in regular circulation today, have had an incalculable impact on Jewish intellectual, literary, scientific, and exegetical histories. I hope that I dispel this misconception in some small way: the next generations of texts form a continuum, one that both looks to past innovations while also considering new ways to create meaning for readers attempting to survive ever more precarious realities.

Thus, on the one hand, this study has less to do with the Jewishness of these authors than the astonishing literary hybridity of writers from across the medieval Mediterranean—writers from different faiths who spoke the same languages, shared the same secular cultural contexts, and studied the same philosophical commentaries, mathematical treatises, and scientific texts. Indeed, the literary forms and the varieties of love I highlight are far more evocative of social conditions and cultural values than the entertaining qualities of the works seem to indicate.

On the other hand, there is something particularly Jewish about the texts by these Jewish authors, despite their unmistakable borrowings from and adaptations of Arabic and Romance literary forms and motifs. This something is at once both obvious and elusive; obvious, since secular texts written in Hebrew by Jews of al-Andalus, Christian Spain, or Italy are all in essence clever and brilliant pastiches of the Hebrew Bible, every word or phrase necessarily carrying with it a complex array of connotations that educated Jewish readers of the medieval Mediterranean would have noticed immediately and admired greatly. (There were a few detractors to secular poetry, of course, most famously Maimonides and his disciple ibn Falaquera, though Maimonides objected not to poetry itself but rather to its desecration of the Holy Tongue and its potential to lead men to engage in unseemly behavior.[1]) This something Jewish, though, is as elusive as it is obvious, since these authors broke new ground, experimenting with new literary forms and techniques: the resulting texts grapple with human love and poetics as intertwined and crucial steps toward ethical living, and regardless of intercalated biblical allusions the stories are removed from a Jewish context. At the same time, however, these authors openly declare their goal of creating texts that show the potency of the Hebrew language with the expressed hope of buoying their Jewish readers who were living in ever more precarious circumstances, facing persecution, forced conversion, forced migration. I must add that not all of the texts by Jewish authors featured in my book are in Hebrew; they also include works in Italian, Judeo-Spanish, and Castilian in the centuries following. In this way, the question of what makes a text particularly Jewish is even more challenging and amorphous.

To be clear, these authors were pious men who penned biblical commentaries and liturgical poems—Jacob ben Elʿazar the author of liturgical poems and Immanuel of Rome the author of extensive biblical commentary. But they were also secular polymaths, descendants of those who were trained in the Arabic tradition of adab, a word that in modern Arabic simply means literature but in the medieval period referred to a broad, humanistic education that any young man of means would have pursued. Like their Muslim counterparts, wealthy Jewish men in al-Andalus in the golden age of Hebrew letters (ca. 950–1150) studied these same subjects, one of which was poetry, poetic composition, and, what today we would call literary criticism. One of the most profound results of this flourishing humanism was the tenth-century adaptation of Arabic quantitative meter and thematics for use in Hebrew poetry, both secular and devotional; the same poets, such as Judah Halevi and Solomon Ibn Gabirol, composed both varieties.[2]

The later authors whose works are the focus of my book lived in Christian Spain and Italy, in periods of increasing unease and turmoil, their predecessors already having been driven from their beloved Andalucia by increasingly stringent Muslim rulers. Ben Elʿazar and Immanuel, for instance, composed masterpieces in Toledo and Italy (exact location unknown), respectively, amid fraught historical realities: ben Elʿazar had to contend with increasingly stringent papal and monarchical controls on Jewish businesses and religious practice, and while Immanuel’s Christian counterparts deigned to exchange Italian sonnets with him, they made sure to refer to him as “Immanuel the Jew” (a moniker that has remained even today when some modern-day scholars of medieval Italian literature refer to him) and to position him in excrement-laden visions of hell in their own sonnets—forceful reminders that he and his fellow Jews were purportedly expelled from Rome by the Avignon papacy in 1321, though documentation of the edict is not extant.

In the past two decades, scholars have delved into the multiplicity of literary traditions of medieval Iberia, devoting studies to Hebrew and Sephardic literature within the Mediterranean setting, including, among others, wonderful books by Ross Brann (Iberian Moorings: Al-Andalus, Sefarad, and the Tropes of Exceptionalism); Jonathan Decter (Iberian Jewish Literature); Michelle Hamilton (Representing Others in Medieval Iberian Literature); S. J. Pearce (Andalusi Literary & Intellectual Tradition); and David Wacks (Framing Iberia and Double Diaspora in Sephardic Literature). These studies complement research collections that confront the multiplicities of medieval Iberia from a comparative perspective, such as The Literature of Al-Andalus (edited by María Rosa Menocal, Michael Sells, and Raymond P. Scheindlin); A Sea of Languages: Rethinking the Arabic Role in Medieval Literary History (edited by Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Karla Mallette); and Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile (edited by Cynthia Robinson and Leyla Rouhi).

My contribution is a pause amid these broader studies; in slowing down to look at the intricacies of literary form and genre across traditions, I find particular moments of innovation among Jewish authors. Freeing themselves from the steady restraints of both meter and rhyme built into the fixed poetic forms employed by Hebrew poets of al-Andalus, some Jewish authors of prosimetric or polymetric texts explored new literary forms to address secular love. Although my most conspicuous examples come from certain Hebrew maqamas, I also consider other works, including Immanuel’s Italian lyrics and polymetric Judeo-Spanish oral poems, and I broaden my discussion into experimental poetic and prose compositions from the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries. I situate these examples with respect to relevant sources in ancient Greek, classical Arabic, Latin, Castilian, French, Galician-Portuguese, Italian, and Occitan. When viewed in the comparative context of the medieval Mediterranean, the evolving relationship between the authors’ combinations of literary forms and the theme of love adds nuance to our understanding of how Jewish literature of the period negotiates its position within Islamicate and Christian literary traditions.

The question remains: why love? Profane love is the only theme shared across prosimetra by authors of the three religions. While all Arabic treatises, no matter the subject matter, featured interspersed rhymed and metered poems, Romance-language texts—which evolved much later than classical Arabic works, mirroring the centuries’ later development of distinct Romance languages—favored poetry and most often featured love stories; of the few extant Romance prosimetra, love is the choice topic. Yes, this is the realm of courtly love—a highly problematic term that I address thoroughly—a world of knights, princesses, and unrequited love; indeed, a world in which some Jewish authors were eager to take part. At the crossroads of these literary cultures, Jews of the medieval Mediterranean pushed poetry toward something new, combining dominant cultures’ literary stylings, at times imbued with biblical Hebrew and Jewish thematics, and with an undeniably perceptive awareness of self and other.

Works Cited

Brann, Ross. Iberian Moorings: Al-Andalus, Sefarad, and the Tropes of Exceptionalism. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2021.

Hamilton, Michelle. Representing Others in Medieval Iberian Literature. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.

Maimonides, Moses. The Guide of the Perplexed. Translated by Shlomo Pines. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1963.

———. Maimonides’ Treatise on Logic (Maqāla fī sināʿat al-mantiq). Edited and translated by Israel Efros. New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1938.

———. Mishna ʿim perush Rabenu Moshe ben Maimon. Edited and translated by Yosef Qaʿfiḥ. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Quq, 1964.

Menocal, María Rosa, Michael Sells, and Raymond P. Scheindlin. The Literature of Al-Andalus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Monroe, James T. “Maimonides on the Mozarabic Lyric (A Note on the Muwassaḥa).” La corónica 17, no. 2 (1989): 18–32.

Pearce, S. J. The Andalusi Literary and Intellectual Tradition: The Role of Arabic in Judah Ibn Tibbon’s Ethical Will. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017.

Robinson, Cynthia, and Leyla Rouhi, eds. Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile. Leiden: Brill, 2005.

Scheindlin, Raymond P. “Hebrew Poetry in Medieval Iberia.” In Convivencia: Jews, Muslims, and Christians in Medieval Spain. Ed. Vivian B. Mann, Thomas F. Glick, and Jerrilynn D. Dodds, 38-59. New York: G. Braziller in association with the Jewish Museum, 1992.

Wacks, David. Double Diaspora in Sephardic Literature: Jewish Cultural Production before and after 1492. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015.

———. Framing Iberia: Maqāmāt and Frametale Narratives in Medieval Spain. Leiden: Brill, 2007.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Lekh Lekha

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

In Chapter 2 of his “Laws of Foundations of Torah,” Maimonides discusses the commandments to love and fear God. “What is the way to love and fear Him? When one contemplates His wondrous and great works and creations and sees in them His infinite wisdom, immediately he loves and praises and exalts and yearns with an overwhelming yearning to know His great Name….On meditating these very things, one immediately recoils, fears and trembles, realizing that he is a tiny, low and obscure being of small intelligence standing before the One with perfect wisdom…”

Significantly, Maimonides locates love and fear of God in a universal context. Every human being can contemplate the wonders of nature and detect the greatness of the Creator. Maimonides might have written that one learns love and fear of God by studying the Torah…God’s word. But by specifically including this passage in his section on Foundations of Torah, he was teaching us that we are not only Jews with a Torah…but we are human beings who share in the universal human spiritual adventure.

This week’s Torah portion begins with God’s command to Abram to leave his land, his birthplace, the house of his parents. Abram was to go to a land that God would show him and start a new chapter in the history of humanity.

The Torah does not indicate why God chose Abram for this awesome challenge. Rabbinic tradition filled the void with various Midrashic stories that highlight Abram’s spiritual greatness. Although his father Terah was an idolater, Abram repudiated idolatry and shattered his father’s idols. Abram did not inherit faith in One God, but discovered God through philosophical questioning. In viewing the wondrous and great works and creations, he concluded that these things could not have just happened on their own. There must be a Creator who set things in order.

Abram discovered God centuries before the Torah was revealed to the Israelites at Mount Sinai. The Midrashim underscore that God is accessible to us through our universal human capacities.

The opening chapters of the Torah, from the creation story, through Noah and Abram/Abraham, are directed at humanity at large…not just at the Jewish People. The message is: through philosophy and science, human beings can attain love and fear of God.

Jews have an additional route to God: the Torah. Each morning in our prayers, we thank the Almighty for having granted Torah to the People of Israel. The teachings and commandments of Torah put us in contact with God’s word and God’s will…and the more we study and internalize Torah, the more we are able to deepen our connection with God.

Jewish tradition, thus, has two roads to God: the natural world, which reveals God as Creator; and the Torah, which records the words of God to the people of Israel. But the Torah itself leads us back to the first road, the road of experiencing God as Creator. The Torah and nature are bound together.

 The relationship of Torah and nature is evident in Psalm 19. The psalm has two distinct parts which at first glance seem to be unconnected. It begins: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament tells His handiwork. Day unto day utters the tale, night unto night unfolds knowledge. There is no word, no speech, their voice is not heard, yet their course extends through all the world, and their theme to the end of the world.” It goes on to describe the sun which rejoices as a strong man prepared to run his course. “Its setting forth is from one end of the skies, its circuit unto the other extreme, and nothing is hidden from its heat.” Then the psalm makes an abrupt shift. It continues: “The law of the Lord is perfect, comforting the soul…the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart. The commandment of the Lord is clear, enlightening the eyes.” From a description of the glory of God as manifested in the natural world, the psalm jumps to a praise of the Torah, God’s special revelation to the people of Israel.

 The psalm is teaching that one may come to an understanding of God both through the natural world and through the Torah.

For the Jewish People, Abraham is our father (Avraham Avinu) and Moses is our teacher (Moshe Rabbeinu)…and both lead us to God.

Our National Scholar, Rabbi Hayyim Angel, reviews two recent books on the interface between traditional and academic Bible study, with consideration of the religious ramifications of various approaches.

The article appears in the current issue of Tradition, the journal of the Rabbinical Council of America.

You may access the article online here: https://traditiononline.org/when-blurring-peshat-and-derash-creates-a-new-theology-a-critique-of-participatory-revelation/

Book Review

Sukkot: Insights from the Past, Present, and Future (The Habura, 2022)

          We once again have the privilege to review a book by The Habura, a recently-founded England-based organization that has been promoting thoughtful Torah learning since 2020. It is headed by Rabbi Joseph Dweck, Senior Rabbi of the Spanish and Portuguese Community of the United Kingdom (see www.TheHabura.com).

          The Habura promotes the inclusion of Sephardic voices and ideas in Jewish discourse, coupled with an openness to the broad wisdom of the Jewish people and the world. In this regard, their ideology strongly dovetails ours at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

          In addition to their Zoom classes and other programs, they have been publishing holiday companion volumes (as well as other material). I reviewed their Pesah volume last April (https://www.jewishideas.org/article/book-review-haburas-passover-volume).

Their recently published Sukkot volume contains an array of eighteen essays. The first two are by Sephardic rabbis of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, Rabbis Abraham Pereira Mendes (1825-1893, Jamaica, England, and the United States) and Hayim David Halevi (1923-1998, Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv). The rest of the book is divided between contemporary rabbis and scholars, and younger upcoming scholars who participate in the learning of The Habura.

          The essays span a variety of topics pertaining to Sukkot in the areas of Jewish thought, faith, halakha, and custom. They generally are well-written and well-researched, and often present enlightening ideas. In this brief review, I will summarize three essays that I found most edifying.

          Rabbi Joseph Dweck explores the unusual commandment to rejoice on Sukkot (Deuteronomy 16:14). It is curious that other faith traditions viewed the changing of the seasons to autumn (in the northern hemisphere) as cause for bleaker holiday reactions. Roman Catholics observe All Soul’s Day, which appears in Mexico as the Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). This holiday translates to the more widespread Halloween. The Angel of Death is even nicknamed “The Grim Reaper,” reflecting the incoming gloom of winter that follows the harvest season. How does Sukkot become such a profoundly joyous time?

          A central theme of Sukkot is the fleetingness of the physical world. This realistic perspective enables us to experience joy while recognizing that it is temporary. Sigmund Freud wrote an essay entitled “On Transience,” in which he asserted that life’s transience helps us appreciate the preciousness and beauty of each experience.

          Rabbi Dweck believes that Freud has identified the root of our joy on Sukkot and concludes, “When we can come to this understanding about the world, we can truly come to embrace and accept life on its own terms—and in doing that, we can truly know happiness.”

          Pursuing a different angle into the theme of joy on Sukkot, Gershon Engel explains that nowadays, we indeed emphasize our dependence on God rather than relying on the permanence of our homes (e.g., Rabbi Yitzhak Aboab, Menorat HaMa’or III, 4:6). Of course, the biblical Sukkot revolved around the harvest. This holiday was uniquely joyous in ancient Israel, as the harvests were in and farmers did not need to rush home as they would after Pesah and Shavuot.

          By transferring the meaning of Sukkot from agriculture to more universal religious themes, Jews were able to preserve a sense of joy on Sukkot even after the termination of the agrarian life that had characterized our people for much of our existence.

Engel quotes Benjamin Disraeli in his classic work Tancred, who expressed awe in the Jews for retaining their sense of joy on Sukkot while in the exile:

The vineyards of Israel have ceased to exist, but the eternal law enjoins the children of Israel still to celebrate the vintage. A race that persists in celebrating their vintage, although they have no fruits to gather, will regain their vineyards. What sublime inexorability in the law! But what indomitable spirit in the people!

          Addressing the halakhic question of wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed the intermediate weekdays) of Pesah and Sukkot, Yehuda J.W. Leikin observes that the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds both appear to suggest that wearing tefillin on the middle days of Pesah and Sukkot is normative.

The three halakhic pillars behind Rabbi Yosef Karo’s Shulhan Arukh—Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi (Rif), Rambam, and Rabbenu Asher (Rosh), all agree that wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed is the proper observance. While several other leading medieval rabbinic authorities, including Rabbi Shelomo ibn Aderet (Rashba) and Rabbi Avraham ben David (Ra’avad), maintain that tefillin should not be worn, Rabbi Karo generally follows his three pillars of rabbinic ruling.

          In this case, however, Rabbi Karo forbids the wearing of tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed, and rules prohibitively because the Zohar strongly opposes the wearing of tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed (Bet Yosef, Orah Hayyim 31:2). Rabbi Karo reports that in Spain, the original practice was to wear tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed until they discovered the Zohar’s prohibition. In contrast, Rabbi Moshe Isserles (Rama) maintains that Ashkenazim should wear tefillin, following the ruling of Rabbenu Asher (Rosh).

          Thus, the Sephardic practice to refrain from wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed reflects an unusual move from classical halakhic sources to kabbalah. Leikin concludes that Rabbi Yosef Karo may have been inclined to accept the kabbalistic ruling in this instance, since there also were great halakhists who also opposed wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed.

          There are many other fine essays in this Sukkot companion, and we look forward to future volumes from The Habura.

*

          I had the privilege of giving a three-part series for the Habura in February-March, 2022. You may view these lectures on our YouTube channel:

Tanakh and Superstition: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PD68xZ4J4M8&t=5s

Torah and Archaeology:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dN1XAtia_x0&t=24s

Torah and Literalism: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K__jp8V9sXY&t=4s

          I also am scheduled to give two talks to the Habura on April 17 and 19, 2023.

The Institute looks forward to further partnering with The Habura in the future and building our shared vision together.