National Scholar Updates

 

Even a father and his son, a teacher and his student, who are studying Torah together in one gate, become enemies to each other but do not leave there until they love each other. (BT Kiddushin 30b)

 

This aphorism, the end of which is more properly translated as “do not leave there until their love for each other increases,” seems counterintuitive to someone whose academic experience lies exclusively in the world of secular academia. The Torah, however, is studied in a Beit Midrash that inheres an intense environment of passionate study, often in the dyad format of havruta study. Two people, young or old, engage in reading and understanding a text together. Since they are different people, each with a unique perspective and experience, their interpretative perception is almost assuredly going to differ with that of the partner. One might think that, given the emphasis that our tradition places on manners, on respect for a fellow—especially for a parent and teacher—that intellectual fire would be stilled by reverent acquiescence. Yet, as any member of a serious Beit Midrash can attest, the opposite is the case. Indeed, the more revered the sage, the more likely the students are to challenge him in a nearly uninhibited, vociferous manner. This has the potential—at least to the outside observer—to create enmity between these study partners, with the intense frustration of the partner (or student—or teacher) to see what is obvious to the other. A casual observer would be surprised by this intensity. This can be cured by spending a few days in a Beit Midrash, engaging in study. If nothing else is gained (and much can be gained from every Beit Midrash session), this experience will make it clear that to a serious student of Torah, study is lifeblood and the intellectual battle over its truth, its meaning and its application to our lives is a fight “to the death,” as it were—“take no survivors.” What true study partners, even be they of inequal status, background and knowledge, find when they conclude their study session is that the intensity of this battle over the truth has, miraculously, brought them closer together. 

In this article, I hope to explore this unusual phenomenon which has been a blessed reality of traditional Jewish scholarly life[1] for at least 1,500 years. It is my contention that in these contentious times, where political alliances are exclusive, where friendships and even families are threatened by party alliances and by demagogic positioning, the Western world has much to gain from learning about how mahloket—dispute—can be not only healthy but may be the source of a great blessing of healing these rifts. 

Before doing so, I’d like to explore several modes of “unity” as proposed, sometimes urgently, both in the national political arena as well as in the religious world—where we call it ahdut. 

            Calls for unity usually come in three variations. I will term them “Unity of Compromise,” “Unity of Emptiness,” and “Unity of Resignation.” No leader would propose a healing process using any of these monikers, but we will see that at the essence of each mode these descriptions are accurate. 

Some call for unity by identifying the testiest areas of disagreement and trying to convince the two sides to remove that particular position from their platform. This is a valuable and laudable method in the political arena and is at the heart of most bipartisan attempts to pass legislation. It has proven to work—with two willing sides—but for legislative purposes only. In other words, it does nothing to bring the two sides together on the national (or local) scene in any meaningful way. In other words, this is a successful model for promoting the common good. However, on the social plane, it avoids the most critical issues which sit at the heart of the national divide. 

The second type of unity is not of a legislative or political context and is usually found in social or religious settings. The idea proposed is that all sides agree to disabuse themselves of those positions and beliefs which are unique and opposed to by any of the other groups. This can be found in some of the large social movements of the last few decades, where anyone who wishes to participate must relinquish—at least publicly—any position or belief that is not acceptable to the rest of the group (or, more accurately, the leadership). An example of this is a group of Jews committed to the welfare of the State of Israel who agree to not bring religious sentiments into the discussion—thus allowing Orthodox and non-Orthodox to work together. These approaches are temporarily successful in meeting the needs of the organization but do nothing to bring people together in anything but a fragile and inherently temporary manner. 

The third type of call for unity is what I term “Unity of Resignation.” One position has become dominant in the given social or political group and its leaders try to prevail upon their ideological opponents to admit defeat, so to speak, and join the majority (to become a “supermajority”). This type of call is usually met with derisive opposition from the minority group, who is convinced that its relatively unpopular stance represents a non-negotiable truth. In those cases where the embattled few agree to join the broader group, if their iconoclastic positions have any merit, this abandonment can be viewed as a shame—or it may fester and cause further dissension within the newly broadened ranks of the majority. We have seen this happen with several political splinter groups which were corralled into one of the two major parties in the United States. The resentment felt among those who acquiesced inevitably finds its expression in internal strife and, in some cases, leads to a repeat of the original divide. 

Note that in the observant Jewish world, each of these has been proposed in a call for the much needed “ahdut” (unity). Examples of each abound—usually a call for ahdut means that everyone should agree to follow the direction laid out by the one calling for such unity—in other words, a Unity of Resignation. 

What all three of these methods have in common is not what they are but what they are not. In every case, the differences between the groups are ignored, avoided, or (theoretically) discarded. Practically, this may be the only way to get groups to work together, to march together or to vote together. But it sidesteps the real issue that, I suggest, sits at the heart of our current social crisis—both in the United States and in Israel. Put simply, people are unable to tolerate, much less debate, those who hold opinions with which they disagree. Stereotyping, vilification, and shaming become the knee-jerk reaction to dissent. 

But the Beit Midrash may hold a golden key to the current crisis of polarization. Entering the Beit Midrash is a glorious way to luxuriate in the passionate combativeness over the meaning of a common text, a common concept or common practice. I would like to take you into the Beit Midrash and see how the method of dispute can shine a salvific light on our current moment of dissent and division. But to do so would mean that the various players would have to agree that there is, indeed, a common text, a common concept or a common practice which is to be examined and to set some basic ground rules for how that analytic inquiry is to take place. This is, I believe, well within our reach once we admit that we are all interested in the same outcome—for instance, a society governed by norms of fairness, common human rights for all—but informed by an overall sense of morality. Numerous descriptions of the beauty of hard-fought disputes in the Academies of Yavne, Sura, Mainz, and Volozhin—to name just a few—have the potential to launch an era of passionate dispute and debate that can pit side against side as “enemies” but that ultimately will bring them together in a majestic “real” unity which embraces the whole person, dissent and all. 

I would like to suggest that in spite of the vociferous and well-documented disputes between the schools of Shamai and Hillel in the first half of the first century, the type of healthy and nurturing disputatious academy environment was launched in the shadow of destruction, at Yavne. 

One prefatory note. There is a well-known story, reported in B. Berakhot (27b–28a) as well as in Y. Berakhot (4:1) and Taanit (4:1) about the ouster of Rabban Gamliel and the installation of R. Elazar b. Azariah as head of the Sanhedrin. According to the report in the Bavli, the accommodation made with Rabban Gamliel after he was returned to a position of leadership, was that he and R. Elazar b. Azariah would split the leadership—one week a month for R. Elazar and three weeks to Rabban Gamliel. This background is vital for understanding not only an odd phrase at the beginning of the story, but also the entire thrust of the series of homilies presented by our protagonist, R. Elazar b. Azariah. The Yerushalmi’s conclusion, that each of them held leadership roles simultaneously, is an equally compelling backdrop to the story and its ultimate message. 

The Tosefta (Sotah 7:8–11) shares the following rather long anecdote about that first generation of post-Hurban teaching: 

 

It so happened with Rabbi Yohanan ben Berokah and Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma, that they were traveling from Yavneh to Lod, [and they stopped] to pay a visit to Rabbi Yehoshua in Peki'in. Rabbi Yehoshua said to them, "What news do you have from the house of study today?" They said to him, "Rabbi, we are your students, and from your waters we drink." He said to them, "It is impossible that there nothing new was discussed in the house of study. Whose week was it?[2]" They said to him, "Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah." He said to them, "What did he discuss?" 

1. They said to him, "[He discussed the commandment of Hakhel, to] 'Gather the people, the men, the women, and the little children'" (Deuteronomy 31:10–12). He said to them, "What did he expound about it?" They said to him, "He expounded thus: If men came to learn [and] women came to listen, why did the little children come? In order to bestow a reward upon those who brought them. 

2. And another thing that he expounded (Deuteronomy 26:17–18), 'You have declared today for Hashem [to be your God] ... [and] God has declared today for you [to be his treasured people].' The Holy One Blessed be He said to Israel, just as you have made me your only object of love in this world, so too I will make you my only object of love in the World to Come." 

3. And he (i.e., Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah) also expounded (Ecclesiastes 12:11), "The sayings of the wise are like goads, like nails fixed in prodding sticks. They were given by one Shepherd." Just as the goad directs the cow so as to bring life to the world, so too words of Torah are only life for the world, as it is said, “It is a tree of life . . .” [Proverbs 3:18]. Or, just as the goad is movable, might it be so for words of Torah? Scripture says, “And like nails firmly planted.” [Or, might (words of Torah like nails) neither diminish nor increase? Scripture says, “firmly planted.”] Just as a plant flourishes and grows, so too words of Torah flourish and grow. 'Masters of Assemblies' these are students of the wise that enter into multiple assemblies and declare what is impure [to be] impure, and what is pure [to be] pure; what is impure [to be] in its place and what is pure [to be] in its place. Perhaps it will arise in one's mind that since Beit Shammai [declares] impure and Beit Hillel [declares] pure, so-and-so prohibits and so-and-so permits, [Why] should I henceforth study Torah? Scripture teaches "words" "the words" "these are the words" [see Exodus 19:6–7] all of these words were given by "one Shepherd" [Ecclesiastes 12:11]. One God created them, one Benefactor gave them, the Master of all deeds, blessed be He, said them. Now make for your heart chambers within chambers and bring into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare impure and the words of those who declare pure. [After hearing what had been expounded in the house of study, Rabbi Yehoshua] said, "There is no generation that [can be considered] orphaned, if Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah dwells in its midst."

    

According to this report, Rabbi Elazar b. Azariah presented three homilies (marked “a,” “b” and “c” above), concluding with his charge to his audience to learn how to hear both sides of a dispute. This Tosefta is quoted in the Talmud Yerushalmi (Sotah 3:4; Hagigah 1:1) but only the first homily is brought; in Avot d’Rabbi Natan (version A, chapter 18), the middle homily is elided, but the adjuration to his audience is included. The Bavli (Hagigah 3a–b) has all three homilies in this sequence, with added supporting verses. 

I would like to suggest that the entire story as recorded in the Tosefta, which is evidently the original report with all three homilies in sequence, provides a pedagogic and anthropo-theological weltanschauung that not only allows for dispute, but elevates it to a desired and potentially sanctified state of study. 

It is prudent to note, before examining this text, that R. Elazar b. Azariah’s approach to dispute is not the only voice heard. R. Yossi is famous for his nostalgic and wistful recall of the day when there were no disputes—and lays the blame for the amplification and proliferation of Halakhic disputes at the feet of the students of Shamai and Hillel, “who did not serve their masters diligently” (i.e., did not apply themselves to their study with the requisite commitment and focus).[3] But that is as it should be—what would a position glorifying dispute mean if someone didn’t challenge it?

 To put this series of d’rashot into their proper context, we must keep in mind that, per the report of the Bavli,[4] the newly inaugurated Beit Midrash at Yavneh was an exclusive academy. R. Gamliel, the Patriarch and undisputed (for a while) head of the yeshiva, maintained a policy of only allowing the finest and purest students to participate in the discussions and deliberations in the Beit Midrash. R. Elazar b. Azariah, according to the report in the Bavli, opened the doors and “popularized” the study of Torah. He engineered a revolution in which the value—not just the toleration—of dissent would play a central role. 

Before examining the homilies, we ought to note that the setting for this conversation is already one of dispute. R. Yehoshua wants his students to share the new teachings that they undoubtedly heard in the Beit Midrash—but they protest that they have come to learn from him, their master. His insistence is rewarded, per the expanded report in B. Hagigah 3, with a “jewel” of a homily, that they had conspired to keep from him. In other words, the dispute itself led to greater intellectual wealth on his part. At the conclusion of the students’ retelling, their master exclaims that this generation, which had every reason to feel abandoned and forlorn (having just experienced the destruction of Jerusalem, the loss of any semblance of sovereignty and the burning of the Mikdash), could not be considered an “orphaned generation” due to the personality of R. Elazar b. Azariah. Although this consoling coda may be read as expressing the extent of R. Yehoshua’s regard for his younger colleague’s rhetorical brilliance, I believe that this approbation reflects a more profound message which emerges from this series of homilies. And it is to those homilies that we now turn our attention. 

The first homily is anchored in the commandment of Hakhel (Deuteronomy 31:10–13), wherein the entire nation is commanded to gather once every seven years on Sukkot, as they all come to be seen before God. While gathered, they are to hear the reading of (select sections from) the Torah. Note that the Torah identifies three distinct groups among the assembled—“men, women and children” and provides two related purposes—“in order that they may hear and they may learn” but the text continues with what they are to learn and what those lessons ought to lead to: “and will fear Hashem your God and will observe to fulfill all of this Torah.” R. Elazar seems to pick up on the specificative wording of the text—“the men, the women, and the children” and matches that with the doubled goal “in order that they may hear and that they will learn” and understands that the text is directing us to what we, in our modern era, refer to as “differentiated learning.” In other words, a single educational experience can operate simultaneously in various modes and on various levels in order to meet the pedagogic needs of all of the target audience. 

The use of Hakhel as the inspiration for his homily speaks to his programmatic upheaval in the tenor of the Beit Midrash. For anyone who has come into the newly opened study hall, who was not welcome before this due to their lack of experience (or other limitations), must be struck by the theme of the great rabbi’s talk. Everyone must gather, and there will be a modality for each that will allow young and old, experienced and neophyte, to participate in the exciting life of this newly revamped Beit Midrash. 

Note that his explanation of the value of bringing little children—“to give reward to those who bring them” suffers from reification. If the only reason that the Torah commanded parents to bring their children was to give those parents a reward for following this command, this all begs the question, and we are still left wondering what the reason behind the command is. (After all, if the reason for the command is merely to give them a reward for fulfilling it, any random act could have been commanded with the same outcome). I’d like to suggest that latet sakhar le-mevi’eihem should not be seen as a purely technical explanation. Rather, the parents indeed are rewarded by exposing their children—from their earliest days—to the environment of the Beit Midrash. Knowing that they always can find a home there and gaining a nearly inborn familiarity with the air of learning and inquiry is itself a great guarantor to their richer future as denizens of the Academy.[5] This observation also increases the types of value that the Beit Midrash can confer on its participants. The men come to study—i.e., to engage in the exchange of information. The women come to hear, to gain from the experiential and spiritual benefits that the Beit Midrash offers.[6] The children come and at whatever age they are not yet ready for either of these, are enriched by “just being there.” 

Thus, R. Elazar b. Azariah’s first homily serves as a welcome to all those assembled to join in the exhilarating experience of this newly fully opened academy. 

A priori, it is difficult to see the connection between the Hakhel lesson and the one that follows. R. Elazar expounded on a difficult word which appears twice in sequential verses: he’emarta/he’eimirkha. The simplest reading of this word is “to raise up”[7]—to wit, “you have raised up Hashem today, to be your God…and Hashem has raised you up today to be His treasured nation….” For homiletic purposes, however, the master reads that hapax legomenon (it only appears in this form in these two related verses) as a form of amar—say. He interprets the verse as “You have declared regarding Hashem…and Hashem has declared regarding you.” He then goes on to read a symbiotic pair of declarations—that just as we declare God’s unity in this world, so does God affirm our unity. The expanded version of the Baraita in BT Hagigah adds markers for each. We declare God to be one when we vocalize the “Shema Yisrael…” and He affirms our unity (or uniqueness) when He states “Mi ke-amkha Yisrael, goy ehad ba-aretz”—“who is like Your people, Yisrael, a singular nation in the land.”[8]

I’d like to suggest that this second homily is part of a larger argument that R. Elazar is formulating. We affirm that God, despite the multitudinous and differentiated manifestations of His power and grace that we experience, is One. The thunder, the gentle rain, the sunset and the sunrise are distinct phenomena. Yet we see in those distinct miracles One God, understood as all the more glorious for His multi-faceted modes of interaction with His world. In the same way, the master teaches us, the unity of the Jewish people, not in spite of but on account of the many differences that distinguish us from each other, is worthy of God’s affirmation. 

At this point, the essential message which the new “Rosh Yeshiva” is formulating is not yet apparent. The final homily will bring that home. 

This odd verse towards the end of Kohelet (12:11) reads: “The words of the wise are like goads, and like nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings; they are given by one shepherd” (ESV).

This reading, like any of the other versions, is cryptic. However, we might work with the peshat, R. Elazar b. Azariah uses these disparate descriptors of the Law to put the final prong in his argument. 

The words of the wise are compared to a painful instrument, used to goad the cattle in their work, to plow the field, which enables planting, reaping, and…eating. As such, the counsel of the sages, while painful (?) are the necessary vehicle for sustaining life. 

But these words are not, like a cattle prod, something light that can be used or disposed of—they are “like nails”—firmly planted. In other words, the teaching of the sages have a fixed property and are reliable and, essentially, eternal. 

Yet, the comparison to “nails” implies not only a fixedness, but also a rigidity and an inherent limitation of growth. To that end, he reads the word netu’im—which is contextually translated as “fixed,” as the opposite—“planted,” implying something that grows, develops and, again, nurtures. The metaphor is not only wildly mixed, it also presents seemingly contradictory messages about the words of the Sages—they are fixed and firm, yet they have the organic ability to grow and develop. At this point in his derashah, R. Elazar shifts his interpretative scheme from the words of Torah to those self-same sages whose words are the focus of the verse—and the homily. In peshat, we may read ba’alei asuppot as a synonym for divrei hakhamim—the words of the wise. But in his derashah, he reads it as a unique descriptor of the wise men themselves—the sages of this newly (re-)opened communal Beit Midrash. They are the rabbis and their students who gather there and discuss and debate the law, coming to diametrically opposed conclusions—“pure” vs. “impure,” “owing” vs. “exempt,” “permitted” vs. “prohibited.” This is where the larger program of his derashah becomes evident. He turns directly to his audience, those who until Rabban Gamliel was ousted, were not privy to these exciting and confusing debates:

 

Perhaps it will arise in one's mind that since Beit Shammai [declares] impure and Beit Hillel[9] [declares] pure, so-and-so prohibits and so-and-so permits, [Why] should I henceforth study Torah?[10]

 

He is addressing the understandable confusion that anyone who is uninitiated in the ways of the Beit Midrash would feel when first encountering the spirited, passionate and intellectually dizzying arguments pro and con on an infinitely broad range of issues. This new audience is adjured to: 

 

Now make for your heart chambers within chambers and bring into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare impure and the words of those who declare pure.

 

Or, in the words of the Bavli tradition of this homily: 

 

So too, you (the student), make your ears like a funnel and acquire for yourself an understanding heart to hear both the statements of those who render objects ritually impure and the statements of those who render them pure; the statements of those who prohibit actions and the statements of those who permit them; the statements of those who deem items invalid and the statements of those who deem them valid. (B. Hagigah 3b)

 

And he anchors his argument in the end of the verse: nittenu me-ro’eh ehad—given by one shepherd. One God gave us the Torah, one shepherd (Moshe) taught it to us. In other words, the Law, in its essence, is a pure light, radiating Divine knowledge which, by definition, must be unitary and of a single truth. Yet, as happens when pure light is refracted through a prism, it becomes differentiated and takes on the appearance of various colors and shades, at odds with each other. Behind the opinion of Beit Shammai is the same essential light as informs Beit Hillel. It is the student’s job to hear the opposing opinions and applications - the refractions of that light—and to learn how to recognize the validity of each side and, ultimately, to discover the unified light which informs it all. 

We can now revisit the entire homily and detect a deeper message, one which not only empowers the new students and provides some initiative guidance for them in the ways of the Beit Midrash but makes a larger point about the inherent value of dispute and of the opening of those hallowed doors. 

R. Elazar b. Azariah, presenting his new public policy platform, begins by invoking the great gathering of all—men, women and children—to the central place of worship as a valuable addendum to the pilgrimage festival of Sukkot. At that gathering, when all of the people have come to appear before God and to be seen by Him, part of that monumental event is the public reading of the Torah—the source of that great light—at which a deliberately differentiated audience participates, each in his or her own way. He underscores even the value of “just being there,” for the infants and the great reward that that brings to the parents. 

He continues by highlighting the reciprocal and—if it can be said—symbiotic relationship between the Jewish people and God, each with infinite expressions yet all anchored in a singularity and Oneness. His derashah may be understood on a deeper plane. Not only is there a parallel between these “Ones”—but it is the task of Yisrael to reflect, through their ultimate unity, the Unity of God. 

R. Elazar’s denouement is the hard-hitting description of the disputatious nature of the study of the Law and the opportunity and obligation that all must enter into the Beit Midrash, to accept the nature of the Law as arguable and to discover the intellectual ability to wrestle with both sides of an issue. This is not only an invitation, but also an exhortation. Now that the Beit Midrash doors have been flung wide open, no one has an excuse to avoid engagement. And that engagement takes place at the transformed “place where Hashem chooses to place His Name”—and it is here, right here, that we hear the historic calling to create a society that will reflect, in its unity of purpose arising from the passionate disagreements about how to achieve that unity, the Unity of God. 

We live in highly disputatious times. We have seen friendship, work relationships and even families broken apart over severe differences in opinion. If society around us can take a clue from this great homily—one which gave the aged R. Yehoshua comfort that the generation after the destruction was, indeed, not orphaned—we may be able to go back to basics. We can start with what we agree on and then, vociferously and passionately, disagree about how to get there. If we keep the bigger picture not only in mind, but also as part of the conversation, we can end up as greater friends and co-seekers:

 

Even a father and his son, a teacher and his student, who are studying Torah together in one gate, become enemies to each other but do not leave there until they love each other.

 

Notes

 

Biography of author 

Dr Daniel Davies PhD is from Manchester, UK. After studying at Yeshivat ha-Kibbutz ha-Dati in Israel, he read Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Birmingham and pursued postgraduate work at Cambridge University. He has written extensively on the history of philosophy and theology.

His first book on Maimonides, Method and Metaphysics in Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (OUP, 2011), received an honorary mention from the Jordan Schnitzer Book Awards. 

Together with Charles Manekin, he edited Interpreting Maimonides (CUP, 2020). He has worked as a Research Associate in the Taylor-Schechter Genizah Research Unity at Cambridge University Library, at the University of Hamburg, and at Bar-Ilan University. 

At present, he is a visiting researcher with the Averroes Edition project housed at the Thomas Institute of the University of Cologne. He is currently translating Abraham Ibn Daud’s Exalted Faith and preparing an edition and translation of New Heavens by Isaac Abarbanel. 

 

Review of book

Daniel Davies, Maimonides. Cambridge: Polity, 2024. Hardback £55, Paperback £17.99, ebook £16.99.

Polity’s Classic Thinkers series aims to provide serious introductions to “the greatest thinkers of history.” Daniel Davies’s contribution on Maimonides is a high-level presentation of the Rambam’s treatment of major philosophical themes. 

It focusses mostly on doctrines that are common to the Abrahamic faiths and continue to be discussed today by theologians and by scholars of medieval thought. It is not merely an introduction, however, but a serious contribution to scholarly debates about how to interpret Maimonides, in particular his Guide. 

Davies addresses highly contested questions in ways that are both original and sensibly grounded in Rambam’s text. Studies often divide between layers of the Guide and, inspired by the many works of Leo Strauss, including Persecution and the Art of Writing (The Free Press, 1952; reissued Chicago, 1988), claim that Maimonides’ true beliefs are ‘esoteric’, meaning that they are hidden behind simplistic, ‘exoteric’ religious doctrines. 

Such studies often justify their approaches by noting that Maimonides says he intentionally contradicts himself. They argue that philosophical understandings of things like the creation of the world differ from religious ones. Maimonides’ ‘exoteric’ opinion that the world is created is therefore contradicted by his ‘esoteric’, real opinion that it is eternal. 

Rather than following this well-trodden path seeking out hidden heresies, Davies instead focusses on explaining the arguments that Maimonides sets out. In the final chapter, after an excellent thumbnail sketch of the reception of Maimonides’ work in subsequent centuries, Davies offers a methodological defense. He claims that the contradictions do not hide real philosophical beliefs but are part of the Rambam’s strategy of hiding his interpretation of Ezekiel’s famous chariot vision. Furthermore, Davies’s interpretations of the issues themselves show that Maimonides’s supposedly ‘exoteric’ arguments are not simplistic and dogmatic but are philosophically serious. 

Generally, the book stands out for its philosophical approach. It focusses on explaining the arguments and the assumptions behind them, trying to clarify why Maimonides and others of the period found them compelling. 

For example, why did they speak about parts and faculties of the soul? What questions were they trying to answer when they said that everything in the world is composed of matter and form? 

It also addresses the issues arising from some of Maimonides’ arguments in ways that make them accessible and relevant to philosophers today. For example, Davies is able to explain why talk about ‘possible worlds’, (which is currently a common way of framing the difference between ‘necessary’ and ‘possible’) fails to capture what Maimonides means when he writes that God is a necessary being. 

Furthermore, after explaining how Maimonides presents his negative theology and arguments about religious language, Davies addresses problems that have been raised by philosophical theologians in recent decades to the idea of God’s necessity. In doing so, he is able to clarify and defend it. 

This book is philosophically sophisticated, but its amenable style is attractive for the serious reader, whether specialist or non specialist. It is open and inclusive, and it fully deserves Yitzhak Melamed’s blurb, which states that it is “one of the best works of Jewish philosophy of recent times.”

 https://www.politybooks.com/bookdetail?book_slug=maimonides--9781509522903

 

 

 

 

The Human Complexity of Biblical Heroes

Yitzchak Blau

Rabbi Yitzchak Blau is a Rosh Yeshiva at Yeshivat Orayta and also teaches at Midreshet Lindenbaum. He is the Associate Editor of the journal Tradition.

 

 

In several areas of Jewish thought, more conservative positions only achieved dominance in modernity. For example, most rishonim (medieval authorities) believed in the natural order before Ramhal (R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzatto), R. Eliyahu Dessler, and others declared that nature was an illusion and that our human efforts produce no direct causal result. The same applies to attitude towards our biblical heroes. R. Dessler and R. Aaron Kotler avoid attributing basic human emotions to our patriarchs and matriarchs, forbid criticizing them, and depict their sins as the minutest of transgressions. However, Radak and Ramban did not interpret in this fashion nor did R. Samson Raphael Hirsch and Neziv. Arguably, R. Dessler type thinking on this topic only became widespread in the twentieth century. 

Before addressing twentieth century rabbinic luminaries, I shall use a lesser-known recent volume as a foil to help convey the issues at hand. R. Beinish Ginsburg, teacher for many years at Netiv Aryeh and Michlala, published a volume on Genesis entitled Ohr le-Netivati which includes several concluding chapters about the correct approach to the avot (patriarchs). After extended analysis of this work, we shall briefly confront the work of R. Avigdor Nebenzahl as well as other famous rabbinic predecessors. Analysis of Ohr le-Netivati reveals a one-sided presentation of traditional sources and shows how this ideology hinders our biblical study. Ginsburg very much belongs in the R. Dessler camp and let us explore the results.

The significant question here is not only can we fault our luminaries but can we attribute basic human emotion to them. In one example, avoiding this makes a patriarch look worse. According to Ginsburg: 

But at the same time, the fact that he woke up early reflects that he slept the night before. Avraham Avinu was so secure in his avodas Hashem (service of God), so confident that he was doing the right thing, that he managed to fall asleep despite the nisayon (test) that awaited him the next morning (the akedah).[i]

I would think more highly of Abraham had he experienced trouble sleeping the night before embarking on a journey to slaughter his son, divine command notwithstanding. R. Aharon Lichtenstein criticizes those who think Abraham went to the akedah as if he was attending a wedding.[ii] 

Ginsburg states that the faithful never worry once they know the correct course of action.[iii] This does not match the storyline in Genesis where Abraham is afraid (15:1), Isaac is frightened (26:24) and Jacob appears nervous on multiple occasions (32:8, 48:3). The traditional commentaries on those verses often work against Ginsburg's thesis. If Abraham was afraid that the four kings would vengefully attack or that he has used up his heavenly reward, these are fears about practical results and not about the correct course of action.[iv] It seems quite normal and human to be nervous about either an upcoming war or the aftermath of a military conflict. 

The same applies to the very natural fear of death. Ginsburg quotes R. Avigdor Miller on Rachel's attitude to mortality. "She did not fear death because of death itself. Death was a grief because she would no longer bear any sons to build the house of Israel."[v] I would not think less of Rachel if she was upset on a personal level and not only because of an inability to further contribute to Jewish destiny. If Rachel feared not surviving long enough to spend more time with her two sons, including one who was just born, I would actually think more of her. R. Joseph Soloveitchik, for one, was not embarrassed to write about his illustrious grandfather's fear of death.[vi]

One midrash emphasizes that Jacob and Moses were frightened despite their receiving divine promises and holds them up as a model for emulation. Hazal (our Talmudic sages) apparently did not view apprehension as religiously derelict.   

 

“Jacob was very frightened and distressed” – R. Pinḥas in the name of R. Reuben: The Holy One blessed be He made a promise to two people, but they were afraid; the chosen of the patriarchs, and the chosen of the prophets. The chosen of the patriarchs – this is Jacob, as it is stated: “For the Lord has chosen Jacob for Himself” (Psalms 135:4). The Holy One blessed be He said to him: “Behold, emphasizes I am with you” (Genesis 28:15), but ultimately he was afraid, as it is stated: “Jacob was…frightened.” The chosen of the prophets – this is Moses, as it is stated; “Were it not for Moses, His chosen” (Psalms 106:23). The Holy One blessed be He said to him: “For I will be with you” (Exodus 3:12), but ultimately, he was afraid: “The Lord said to Moses: Do not fear him” (Numbers 21:34). He says: ‘Do not fear’ only to one who is afraid. 

 

R. Berekhya and R. Ḥelbo in the name of R. Shmuel bar Naḥman in the name of R. Natan: Israel would have been worthy of elimination in the days of Haman, had they not based their mindset on the mindset of their ancestor. They said: ‘If our patriarch Jacob, to whom the Holy One blessed be He promised and said: “Behold, I am with you,” (Genesis 28:15) was afraid, we, all the more so.’ (Bereishit Rabba 76:1).

 

    In another portrayal of a biblical character as transcending basic humanity, Ginsburg cites R. Meir Twersky who denies that Rachel was jealous of her sister's children; she only envied Leah's good deeds which enabled the older sibling to merit offspring.[vii] Hazal do indeed suggest this (Bereishit Rabba 71:6) but Radak has no problem saying Rachel was jealous of Leah for having children.[viii] Imagine the situation. If not for a deceit in which Leah participated, Rachel would be the sole wife of Jacob but now she has to share her husband with her sister. To add to her frustration, Rachel remains barren as her sister quickly produces four children. Surely, it would be understandable and not a moral failure to experience some resentment and jealousy. 

None of the above examples involve transgression; they merely reflect simple humanity. If we deny these feelings to the avot and imahot (matriarchs), we render them irrelevant to us, who experience the full range of human emotions, as models. As noted, in some instances, we may actually be lowering their stature. 

Hazal already present a multitude of perspectives on biblical heroes. The same Talmudic passage stating it is mistaken to say that King David sinned in the Bat Sheva episode also includes Rav saying that R. Yehuda Hanasi  went out of his way to exonerate this monarch only because he descended from the Davidic line (Shabbat 56a). Furthermore, another gemara suggests that David was guilty of both adultery and rape (Ketuvot 9a). One midrash faults Jacob for not responding with enough sympathy to his frustrated wife (Bereishit Rabba 71:7). On occasion, the sages even introduce problematic behavior not explicitly in the biblical narrative. A gemara says that Joseph stayed behind that fateful day fully intending to sleep with Potiphar’s wife but was able to restrain himself at the last minute (Sotah 10b). Our sages were not singularly dedicated to whitewashing our heroes.   

Many classic commentaries assume a normal psychological makeup for our forefathers in Genesis. Why is Joseph the favored ben zekunim (child of his advanced years) if Benjamin was actually younger? Hizkuni explains that Jacob was never able to love Benjamin as he loved Joseph because he always associated Benjamin with the death of Rachel.[ix] This reaction does not reflect negatively on Jacob but it does show the complexities and difficulties of human experience. Hizkuni also suggests that the brothers sold Joseph into slavery in an attempt to save themselves from the prophecy of brit bein habetarim (the covenant between the pieces); they hoped to restrict the foreseen servitude to Joseph and his family.[x] This is quite different from asserting that the brothers convened a beit din (court) and ruled that Joseph was a rodef (a dangerous pursuer). Denying normal human apprehensions and frustrations to our biblical heroes robs biblical narrative of sensitivity and insight. 

R. David Kimhi (Radak) consistently relates to the avot and imahot as great but flawed humans. He faults Sarai for her treatment of Hagar, calling it "not the way of ethics or of the pious". In fact, the Torah includes the Hagar story to instruct us regarding this very ethical message.[xi]  For Radak, a reader who defends Sarai misses the entire point. Radak also says Jacob was punished for his method of acquiring the bekhora (privileges of the first born) from Esau. His penalty was that he ultimately had to honor his brother (precisely what he tried to avoid by purchasing the bekhora) when they met after a twenty year hiatus.[xii] Where one opinion in Hazal states that Reuben merely moved his father's bed (Shabbat 55b), Radak follows the simple meaning of the verse that Reuven slept with Bilhah.[xiii] Radak even goes so far as to explain that Joseph told his brothers his dreams in order to pain them in response to their hatred.[xiv] Nor do our biblical greats' errors only relate to the sinful variety. Radak suggests that Rivkah misunderstood her husband's plan to bless Esau. The birkat Abraham (blessing of Abraham) was going to pass on to Jacob with or without a blessing from his father; therefore, there was no need to fool Isaac in order to receive the blessing.[xv]  

Ramban walks along the same path. Ginsburg alludes to Ramban attributing sin to Abraham but does not quote the relevant passages which contradict his position.[xvi] 

Know that Abraham our father unintentionally committed a great sin by bringing his wife to a stumbling block of sin on account of his fear for his life. He should have trusted that God would save him and his wife and all his belongings for God surely has the power to help and to save. His leaving the Land, concerning which he had been commanded from the beginning, on account of the famine, was also a sin he committed, for in famine God would redeem him from death. It was because of this deed that the exile in the land of Egypt at the hands of Pharaoh was decreed for his children.[xvii]   (Charles Chavel translation)

Ramban faults Abraham for endangering his wife, lack of faith, and leaving the Land of Israel. While he does mitigate blame by saying that the transgression was not intentional, he also refers to it as a "great sin." He does not emphasize that this was only a sin for someone on Abraham's level.[xviii] Parenthetically, I note that Radak defends Abraham in this episode; willingness to criticize does not entail always doing so.[xix] 

The driving out of Hagar inspires a parallel reaction. 

Our mother did transgress by this affliction and Abraham also by permitting her to do so. And so, God heard her [Hagar's] affliction and gave her a son who would be a wild-ass of a man, to afflict the seed of Abraham and Sarah with all kinds of affliction.[xx]  

Note that Ramban thinks both transgressions were serious enough to cause long-term punishment. Regarding the category of making mistakes not necessarily sinful, Ramban explains that Abraham misjudged the character of Abimelech and Gerar and, unlike when in Egypt, Sarah was not truly in danger.[xxi]

Ginsburg argues that Ramban frequently refers to the avot as zaddikim (righteous) so he cannot be attributing serious transgressions to them.[xxii] This line of reasoning highlights the problem with the entire approach. Righteous people are not infallible and they can stumble religiously and ethically. Given the pressures of a famine and a dangerous foreign country, even an Abraham can fall into a "great sin." 

His presentation of Rambam also leaves what to be desired. Ginsburg cites a passage in Guide to the Perplexed where Rambam says that Moses and the three patriarchs were all able to cling to God even as they engaged in mundane activities.[xxiii] For Ginsburg, this shows how different they were from normal humans. However, the seventh chapter of Shmoneh Perakim (Rambam's introduction to Avot) strikes a very different note. Rambam says that a prophet must excel in the intellectual and moral spheres but that he need not be perfect regarding every character trait. Thus, the following group all prophesied even though Solomon had an excessive libido, David had a streak of cruelty, Elijah was too angry, and Samuel was overly fearful. In the fourth chapter of that same work, Rambam says that Moses became inappropriately angry in the episode of the waters of Meribah. Apparently, heroic figures can still struggle with serious character flaws

Abravanel works with analogous assumptions. He notes how Esau asks Jacob about his wife and children but Jacob only answers about the children (33:5) and he explains that Jacob was embarrassed to tell his brother that he had four wives.[xxiv] There is no claim that the righteous are above such embarrassment. Abravanel also thinks that the Egyptian exile was punishment for the sale of Joseph. They sold him into Egyptian slavery and they ended up in Egyptian servitude. The brothers "sinned a great sin in their groundless hatred for their brother Joseph and in their plotting to murder him." Reuben was not part of the plot but he did participate in the hatred. Joseph sinned inadvertently in his prideful reaction to his dreams, and Jacob sinned to some degree in favoring one child and giving Joseph the ketonet passim (ornamented tunic).[xxv] Abravanel does not try to minimize the brothers' transgression.       

He also relates to Noah as an individual with standard fears and concerns. After the deluge, Noah was saddened and scared because of the loss of friends and acquaintances, the lack of food, the possibility that the animal kingdom will overwhelm a small number of humans, and the potential repeat of the first fratricide. According to Abravanel, in the first verses of the ninth chapter, God reassures Noah regarding all four fears. For example, the allowance of meat consumption helps compensate for the reduced amount of vegetation available for eating.[xxvi] Despite being a zaddik, Noah struggled with the trauma of a world destroyed.  

     Relying on R. Yehuda Copperman's critique of R. Shlomo Riskin, Ginsburg says that the latter takes a quote from R. Hirsch about Moses' humanity out of context.[xxvii] Yet he fails to consider some far more telling Hirschian passages. 

The Torah never hides from us the faults, errors and weaknesses of our great men. Just by that it gives the stamp of veracity to what it relates. But in truth, by the knowledge which is given us of their faults and weaknesses, our great men are in no wise made lesser but actually greater and more instructive. If they stood before us as the purest models of perfection we should attribute them as having a different nature, which has been denied to us. Were they without passion without internal struggles, their outcome would seem to us the outcome of some higher nature, hardly a merit and surely no model we could hope to emulate (Isaac Levy translation).[xxviii]

            R. Hirsch offers three arguments for a more human portrayal of our great men. One, it gives our stories the stamp of truth since it reflects the reality of humanity. Second, it actually enhances their greatness because it means that their achievements depended upon overcoming various character shortcomings and were not innate from birth. Finally, it makes them relevant role models for all of us who struggle with difficult personality traits. 

            His famous commentary on the education of Jacob and Esau echoes this theme.  

Our sages, who never objected to draw attention to the small and great weaknesses in the history of our great forefathers and thereby make them just the more instructive for us.[xxix] 

            He goes on to say that Isaac and Rebecca erred in giving Jacob and Esau the identical education when their needs were so diverse. The active and energetic Esau needed a different approach than the more contemplative, reserved Jacob. Additionally, Isaac and Rebecca mistakenly failed to exhibit equal love to each of their children. It seems that Copperman and Ginsburg are truly the ones distorting the views of R. Hirsch.

            R. Hirsch's approach to Simeon and Levi in Shechem also proves instructive. While, Ginsburg tries to downplay any wrongdoing, R. Hirsch is quite adamant about their transgressions.

Now the blameworthy part begins, which we need in no way excuse. Had they killed Shechem and Hamor there would scarcely be anything to say against it. But they did not spare the unarmed men who were at their mercy, yea, and went further, and looted, altogether made the inhabitants pay for the crime of the landowner. For that, there was no justification.[xxx]

            The juxtaposition of the chapter in which Jacob confronts Esau with the Shechem episode inspires a profound comment from R. Hirsch. In chapter 33, Esau overcomes his violent nature and embraces his brother. This contrasts sharply with the following story in which Simeon and Levi pick up the sword of Esau and engage in unjustified violence.[xxxi]

            Strikingly, Ginsburg enlists Neziv (R. Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) as a champion of his conservative approach even though Neziv very much humanized the patriarchs and matriarchs. R. Berlin explains that Rebecca was intimidated at her first sight of her husband, that this influenced their life-long relationship, and that she was unable to confront him directly as Rachel and Sarah did with their husbands. Therefore, she employed a deceptive strategy to get Jacob the blessing rather than just challenging Isaac's decision in an open conversation.[xxxii] 

            Furthermore, Neziv explicitly contradicts Ginsburg's reading of a midrash which states that the great and bitter cry of Mordecai in Shushan was payment for the great and bitter cry that Jacob caused in Esau (Bereishit Rabba 67:4). Ginsburg asserts that this midrash does not deem Jacob's actions blameworthy.[xxxiii] In contrast, Neziv explains that one need not have pure motivations for mizva acts but one does need such purity for performing an avera lishmah (sin with a noble impetus); using a bad trait for a good cause must come without any personal pleasure. According to Neziv, this explains why Jacob was punished for his brother's cry but not for his father's tremble. He was pained by his father's reaction but took some problematic joy in his brother's distress. R. Berlin explicitly writes that such joy is forbidden and a sin.[xxxiv] 

            In one story, R. Berlin prefers a more human explanation over the alternative. How could Judah not have recognized the look or voice of Tamar, his daughter-in- law? Our sages suggest that this reflects Tamar's great modesty (Megilla 10b). The idea that Judah and Tamar lived as part of the same family for years without his knowing what she looks like certainly portrays their lives as radically distinct from ours. R. Berlin offers an explanation more rooted in basic human psychology. Judah first saw Tamar from afar and judged her a prostitute and, when he got closer, could not imagine that the decent Tamar was acting as a prostitute.[xxxv] Indeed, we often get stuck in our preliminary judgment and cannot identify a person in an unexpected context.  

            Another midrash has Leah retort sharply to Jacob when he accuses her of deceit; she notes his own trickery in taking Esau's blessing (Bereishit Rabba 70:19). Ginsburg suggests a creative interpretation. 

This sounds like a rather strong criticism of Yaakov. But the meforshim on the midrash explain that the intention is entirely different. Leah was saying, "Everyone knows that Lavan's two daughters were destined to marry Rivka's two sons, and the oldest should go to the oldest. I'm supposed to marry the bechor – and you made yourself the bechor when you got the brachos.[xxxvi]   

Leah was arguing that even though she was originally destined for Esau since the older daughter should wed the eldest son, Jacob's usurping the bekhora now meant that Leah should marry Jacob, the newly established first-born. However, this is certainly not the simple reading of the midrash in which Leah asks Jacob: "is there a master without disciples;" in other words, I learned subterfuge from you.  This line relates to the morality of deceit and not to a question of correctly lined up marriage arrangements.   

Ginsburg misreads several other relevant sources as well. He quotes Ohr ha-Hayyim as explaining that Joseph knew his brothers acted with good intentions in selling him but Ohr ha-Hayyim does not say this. He does say that even at the time of the sale, Joseph continued to feel brotherhood with his siblings but this could be explained in many ways. A person can continue to love relatives even when they have intensely wronged him or her (45:4).[xxxvii]

I reiterate that the point is not only about wrongdoing; it is about having the aspirations and frustration of human beings. God states that He will not destroy Sodom without relating this news to Abraham first (18:17). R. Meir Simha ha-Cohen from Dvinsk offers a profound explanation as to why our first patriarch needed to know. A compassionate person wants the effects of his compassion to last. Indeed, we all want to leave a legacy and this is especially a concern for the childless. Abraham had heroically saved Sodom in the battle with the four kings, and thus would understandably not be happy about its impending destruction.[xxxviii] R. Meir Simha assumes that Abraham shared the same kind of hopes and dreams as other human beings.    

One of Ginsburg's important influences is the writings of R. Avigdor Nebenzahl, Rosh Yeshiva at Netiv Aryeh and former chief rabbi of Jerusalem's Old City. In the two concluding chapters to his volume on Genesis, R. Nebenzahl defends both Reuben and David as being nobly motivated and not driven by physical desire. Reuben only slept with BIlhah to break her connection with Jacob and restore his father's proper place with Leah. David's mistake was relying on the Holy Spirit informing him that Bat Sheva and he were destined for each other.[xxxix] Let us leave aside the fact that these interpretations have no basis in the biblical narrative. In fact, the prophet informs us that Bat Sheva (Samuel II 11:2) was good-looking, presumably explaining David's interest. One gemara cites the following line in the context of the David and Bat Sheva episode. "There is a small limb in man. If he starves it, it is satisfied. If he satiates it, it is starving" (Sanhedrin 107a), clearly relating the monarch's sin to sexual temptation. Furthermore, do the motivations suggested by R. Nebenzahl truly mitigate the sins? What would we think of someone who slept with his step-mother in order to restore his own mother's place? 

R. Nebenzahl brings support for the minimization of David's sin from the fact that David does not lose the kingship, unlike Saul who forfeits the monarchy for what seems like a relatively, lesser transgression.[xl] Earlier authorities give different answers to that question. R. Yosef Albo mentions several explanations, none of which reduce David's sin. Perhaps David sinned in a personal matter whereas Saul erred in a matter of kingship. Alternatively, David repented immediately when Natan confronted him while Saul initially denied any wrongdoing to Samuel. R. Albo outlines a series of areas in which David had superior character to Saul but he never denies the adultery with Bat Sheva or the murder of Uriah.[xli]   

Minimizing David's wrongdoing neutralizes some of the story's power. The opening verse relates that David resides in his Jerusalem palace while his men fight on the battlefield (Samuel II 11:1).This morally dubious practice starts the moral deterioration leading to the affair with Bat Sheva. David tries to send Uriah home to cover up his having impregnated Bat Sheva but Uriah refuses (Samuel II 11:8-13). Instead of viewing this as Uriah' rebelling against David's authority, we could see it as Uriah showing sensitivity to his comrades at the front in a way that the monarch does not. Alternatively, Uriah refuses because he suspects what David has done.[xlii] 

   

Admittedly, Ginsburg's methodology has roots in recent rabbinic authorities. However, these rabbinic personalities differ from the many rabbinic voices we have surveyed and we have sufficient motivation to prefer the more human view of biblical heroes. A comparison of the two schools reading the sale of Joseph reveals good reason for our preference. Beit ha-Levi asserts that Yaakov’s extensive sadness was due to the loss of a tribe for Am Yisrael, and not so much because of grief over a deceased son.[xliii] I am unsure why extensive grief over a son's death is a problematic emotion, especially given the added guilt and responsibility Jacob felt for sending his son off on a mission from which he never returned (as Radak explains[xliv]). This approach neutralizes the very powerful human emotion of sadness for the loss of a beloved son.

 

R. Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the Alter from Slobodka, insists that no one did anything seriously wrong in the entire story. Jacob had good intentions in favoring Joseph, Joseph had good intentions in tale-bearing, and the brothers sincerely judged Yosef as a rodef. The brothers were punished for the minor flaw of having some jealousy in their hearts, even though that jealousy did not warp their judgment. Based on a midrash (Bereishit Rabba 84:17), he even finds a positive element in their sitting down to a meal.[xlv] Similarly, R. Hayyim Yaakov Goldvicht, former Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Kerem be-Yavneh, understands their meal within the approach that justifies the brothers by saying they formed a rabbinic court, trying Joseph and finding him guilty. During legal deliberation, he says, they were forbidden to eat, so they naturally sat down for a meal following the verdict.[xlvi] His interpretation misses out on the narrative's subtle use of the meal to indicate indifference to pain.

 

These readings do not cohere with the simplest reading of Humash, and thwart appreciation of the psychological and moral insights conveyed in the brothers’ sitting down to eat, as well as the potential motivation of the brothers according to Hizkuni. As noted, Hizkuni explains that the brothers wanted the prophesied servitude to take effect on their brother Joseph. Moreover, the overall approach deviates from the standard language of the major Rishonim. Note, for instance, Abravanel’s comfort in attributing significant blame all around.

 

R. Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler follows the path of the Alter. Jacob had a metaphysical right to grant Joseph more honor, but he sinned slightly in allowing personal affection into the picture as well.[xlvii] As with Beit Ha-Levi, his approach seems to not value the most authentic human emotions. R. Dessler also attempts to justify Joseph’s relating his irritating dreams to his brothers. The truly righteous are so involved in otherworldly thoughts that they only get by in this world due to divine assistance. Since God wanted the Egyptian exile to begin, He removed His protection from Joseph, who then innocently told his brothers about the dreams.[xlviii] In contrast, I suggest that a zaddik very much needs to understand human interaction even without God’s help.[xlix]

          

In a footnote, Ginsburg says that attaching oneself to a gadol promotes the correct attitude to biblical interpretation. "If one sees and appreciates the greatness of the gedolim and witnesses how they have such complete self-control, by extrapolation one will assume that the Avos certainly had such perfect control."[l] In contrast, I posit that time around gedolim may actually lead in another direction. I have known several prominent rabbis in my time, some truly great and some not so great, but all of them knew of apprehension, frustration, and anger. Ironically enough, some of the contemporary gedolim Ginsburg cites are deeply flawed individuals, especially R. Avigdor Miller, by far the most cited rabbinic figure in the book.[li] Perusal of R. Miller's explanations for the Holocaust may be enough to show that well-known rabbis can have serious limitations. 

What is at stake here may be more serious than we initially think. The more conservative approach significantly infringes on our study of Tanakh since it prevents us from noticing many of the insights of our sacred scripture. Furthermore, it hinders our identifying with biblical heroes and their human tribulations, robbing us of potential role models. Finally, introducing encounter with contemporary gedolim into the conversation is quite telling. In response to secularization and the weakening of religion in the modern era, religious communities responded with increased emphasis on clergy authority and clergy greatness. Both papal infallibility and daas Torah are modern innovations.[lii] One contemporary manifestation of this is a strong reluctance to ever criticize prominent rabbis even if they utter insulting statements or defend abusers. Large parts of the Orthodox world (certainly not all) need a more critical attitude towards the rabbinate. There may be serious overlap between how we read Tanakh and how we relate to the shortcomings of today's rabbis. 

Of course, this does not entail going to the opposite extreme and claiming that the biblical luminaries were bad people.[liii] Recall that we are discussing the gamut of human emotions and not just sinful behavior. Remember as well Radak's defense of Abraham's behavior in Egypt. Concluding that the avot do sin does not mean they always or invariably do so. Due to the complexity of human nature, great individuals also struggle with character weaknesses. Denial of that basic fact strays from the example of Radak, Ramban and R. Hirsch, robs Tanakh of some of its most powerful messages and leaves readers without authentic role models.[liv]

  

Notes
 

 

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Tsav

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Although the Torah devotes much space to the sacrificial system, a fascinating statement is recorded in the Midrash (Vayikra Rabba 9:7). “Rabbi Pinhas and Rabbi Levi and Rabbi Yohanan said in the name of Rabbi Menahem of Galiya: In the future, all the sacrifices will be canceled, but the thanksgiving sacrifice will not be canceled. All the prayers will be canceled, but the thanksgiving prayer will not be canceled.”

This statement is generally understood as a striking way of expressing the importance of thanksgiving. There will never be a time when thanksgiving is out of date.  Thoughtful people will always be grateful for the blessings they enjoy and will want to praise the Almighty’s benevolence.

While this is a fine message, it leads to a question: what about sin offerings?  Even in Messianic times people will inevitably sin, so why will sin offerings be canceled? Apparently, these offerings and prayers will be unnecessary because the root motivation for them will have fallen away.

Generally, sin offerings and prayers stem from feelings of guilt. We have sinned and feel that we need atonement in the eyes of God. Even if the trespass was unintended, we feel that it has blemished our soul in some way. Sacrifices and prayers are not needed by the Almighty—but are needed by those who feel contrition for their sins.

Guilt is “healthy” when it is a result of our self-awareness that we’ve done something wrong. It is an impetus for us to mend our ways, to improve ourselves in the future. But guilt can also be—and often is—“unhealthy.” It can sap self-respect. It can make us feel as though we deserve punishment. A guilt-ridden person suffers from feelings of alienation from God; this can lead to attempts to “pacify” God through sacrifices or prayers. 

In Messianic times, though, humanity will have matured to the level where the sense of guilt is “healthy,” motivating self-improvement. People will realize that sins are not God’s problem—but their own problem. They will understand that religion that stresses guilt and fear is negative. Religion should be—and ultimately will be—a life adventure based on self-respect and love of God.

According to the Midrash, only thanksgiving offerings will apply in the future. Thanksgiving is a positive virtue that never becomes obsolete. But sin offerings will be canceled. People will still sin—but will have the inner wisdom and strength to improve themselves without need of sin offerings or prayers. It is Messianic to imagine that humanity can live up to this ideal.

 

       

Rabbi Akiva said, “…No one in Israel ever disputed that the Song of Songs renders the

hands impure, since nothing in the entire world is worthy but for that day on which the

Song of Songs was given to Israel. For all the Scriptures are holy, but the Song of Songs

is the Holy of Holies! (Mishnah Yadayim 3:5)

 

Introduction

 

One of the ways we seek holiness is through communion with God through the

study of Holy Writ, but that that idea is easier to toss around glibly than actually to define.

The Song of Songs is the context in which our greatest commentators and thinkers expressed

themselves the most directly in that regard. The question at the heart of our discussion is:

Can a biblical text be physical and spiritual, openly erotic and about the love of God, all at

the same time? In this essay, we explore the wide range of opinions found in classical

rabbinic commentary, modern Jewish Thought, and contemporary academic scholarship.

These scholars provide critical means of building bridges between the realms of the loving

relationships between God and humankind, and the loving relationships between people.

 

The Song of Songs contains some of the most tender expressions of love and

intimacy in the Bible. On its literal level, the Song expresses the mutual love of a man and a

woman. From ancient times, traditional interpreters have almost universally agreed that there

is an allegorical or symbolic layer of meaning as well. In both traditional rabbinic circles and

contemporary academic circles, some scholars attempt to deny one level of meaning or the

other by insisting that the author cannot possibly have meant both. However, others allow for

the possibility of attributing both layers of meaning to the author. In this essay, we argue that

the dismissal of either layer of meaning does a disservice to the Song and its interpretation.

The blurring in interpretation unlocks the full sacred potential of the Song, which bridges the

love of people and the love of God into its exalted poetry.

 

From Literal to Allegorical

 

The allegorical mode of interpretation can be traced as least as far back as the

second and third centuries C.E., and possibly even to the first century C.E. 1 It also is plausible

that the written evidence is long preceded by an oral tradition, possibly going back all the

way to the original composition of the Song. The most prevalent allegorical interpretation in

Jewish tradition (as exemplified by the Targum, and the commentaries by Rabbi Saadiah

Gaon [882–942], Rashi [1040–1105], Rashbam [Rabbi Samuel ben Meir, 1080–1160], and

 

Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra [1089–1164]) understands the Song as symbolizing the historical

relationship between God and Israel. 2 The ancient Aramaic translation called the Targum was

the first to present a coherent historical narrative based on earlier midrashim. 3 Following

Rabbeinu Baḥya Ibn Pakuda (first half of the eleventh century), Maimonides (1138–1204)

maintained that the Song is an allegory representing the love between God and the righteous

individual. 4 Many allegorical, poetic, philosophical, mystical, and other interpretations of the

Song also have been part of the Jewish landscape over the past two millennia. 5

 

How did this allegorical interpretation come to be? Many contemporary scholars

maintain that it is superimposed onto what was originally a secular love poem. Representing

this widespread position, James Kugel imagines that the first generation of allegorical

interpreters knew full well that the Song is nothing more than a secular love poem between a

man and a woman. These original Sages fancifully interpreted the Song to reflect the love

between God and Israel, all the time winking at one another. Subsequent generations lost

those winks in translation, and erroneously concluded that this interpretation reflected the

true meaning of the Song. In Kugel’s view, Sages such as Rabbi Akiva simply were “misled”

by the allegorical interpretation. However, contemporary scholars “know” that the Song is

part of a “great ancient Near Eastern tradition of love poetry, with its conventional

descriptions of the lovers’ physical beauty and its frank exaltation of eroticism.” 6 The

religious allegorical interpretation made the book Bible-worthy. However, the original

meaning of the Song is indeed irrelevant for inclusion in the Bible. 7

 

Gabriel Cohn flatly rejects this explanation: Why would the Sages take a secular

love poem and completely reinterpret it to refer to the love between God and Israel? They did

not need to include the Song in the Bible at all! Evidently, they believed the Song was sacred

from its inception. 8 Gerson Cohen expresses the matter more bluntly:

The rabbis of the first and second century, like the intelligent ancients generally, were as

sensitive to words and the meaning of poetry as we are. How, then, could they have been

duped—or better yet, have deluded themselves and others—into regarding a piece of

erotica as genuine religious literature, as the holy of holies! Should not the requirements

of elementary common sense give us reason for pause and doubt? 9

The assumption that the Song was a secular love poem that early Sages reworked into a

religious allegory to make it Bible-worthy does a disservice both to the Song and to the

Sages. Once we can accept that the Sages always understood the Song as sacred, we can find

layers of sanctification of divine and human love within the Song.

The Allegorical Meaning Inheres in the Text

 

Some scholars maintain that an allegorical meaning of divine love can be

demonstrated from a careful text analysis. In his introduction to the Song, Ibn Ezra observes

that the prophets frequently apply the metaphor of a marriage to the relationship between

God and Israel. Therefore, the allegorical interpretation of the Song as a metaphor of the love

between God and Israel is reasonable within its biblical setting. 10

 

Gabriel Cohn adds that the emphasis on the Land of Israel seems to have greater

meaning than simply the natural setting of the relationship. Israel seems to be a vehicle for

promoting the relationship. The Song mentions several cities in Israel (1:14; 2:1; 4:1; 6:4;

 

7:5–6). The lovers also liken one another to places in Israel (4:1 [6:4]; 4:4; 7:6. 4:11). In 5:1,

milk and honey appear together. Cohn lists additional features of the Song that also have no

parallels in other Near Eastern love poetry. 11

 

Of course, these points hardly create a compelling case for an intended allegorical

reading. After all, the book never reveals an allegorical meaning. This is unlike the prophetic

metaphors of a God-Israel marriage, where the meaning always is made explicit. However,

the above evidence makes allegory a comfortable possibility as part of the author’s original

intent.

The Literal Meaning Is the Intended Meaning and Is Sacred, and the Allegorical

Meaning Is Ascribed to It by Tradition

Another approach is to understand the literal reading of human love as the

primary intent of the book. The symbolic interpretive approach that takes the Song as

being about God and Israel or about God and the religious individual would then belong

to the category of “tradition,” or “midrash” rather than the peshat.

Alon Goshen-Gottstein summarizes the view of those contemporary scholars who

accept the literal reading as the primary intent of the Song. In their reading, the Song

speaks of the sanctity of human love:

The Song celebrates human love for what it is. Scripture would be incomplete if it

did not have in it an expression of an aspect of life so germane to humanity, its

pursuits and its happiness. What could be more natural, beautiful, and even

spiritual, than the inclusion of human conjugal love as a value to be admired,

praised and celebrated? 12

Within this reading, the inclusion of this remarkable book into the Bible is the

strongest vote for the supreme religious value of interpersonal love—especially the love

between a man and a woman—in Jewish tradition. Scholars who would distinguish

between a “secular” human love interpretation and a “religious” God-Israel interpretation

fail to recognize that love and human relationships themselves are essential aspects of

biblical religion. Precisely because both are sacred, tradition could express itself

regarding the nature of the relationship between God and Israel, or between God and the

religious individual, within the descriptions of human love and intimacy.

From this vantage point, the rabbinic concern with the literal reading of the Song

does not stem primarily from its biblically unparalled expressions of physical human love

and sexuality, but rather from the potential to treat those physical expressions as secular

or vulgar:

Our Rabbis taught: One who recites a verse of the Song of Songs and treats it as a

mere ditty and one who recites a verse at the banqueting table unseasonably [that

is, in an inappropriate or secular manner, HA], brings evil upon the world.

Because the Torah girds itself in sackcloth, and stands before the blessed Holy

One and laments in God’s presence, “Sovereign of the Universe! Your children

have made me as a harp upon which they frivolously play.” (Sanhedrin 101a)

 

Rabbi Akiva says: One who sings the Song of Songs with a tremulous voice at

banquets and treats it as a mere song has no share in the World to Come. (Tosefta

Sanhedrin 12:10)

Of course, there is no way to disprove that there also is an allegorical dimension intended

by the author of the Song.

Human Love Is a Symbol of the Love between God and Israel

A middle approach based on the above evidence is to view the literal element of

human love as essential to the author’s intent, and that the author also intended that

human love serve as a symbol of divine love. Gabriel Cohn maintains that for an

allegory, an interpreter must set each detail into a larger allegorical framework. In

contrast, if the Song is a symbol, then one must interpret every detail of the literal love

poem, and then more generally understand this human love as a symbol of divine love. 13

In this approach, the literal human love is part of the original intent of the Song, as is the

symbolic meaning of the God-Israel relationship.

To summarize: Either the Song is sacred because it was always intended as an

allegory describing divine love; or it is sacred because it celebrates the sanctity of human

love and tradition sees in that human love a symbol of the love of the divine. Or perhaps

it is a human love poem with built-in symbolism intended by the author to point to the

mutual love between God and Israel or between God and the religious individual.

The Literal Reading as an Essential Aspect of Tradition

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asserts that unlike the case with respect to any other

biblical book, the midrashic-allegorical reading has come totally to supplant the literal

meaning of the Song. Not only does the Song contain a layer of divine love, but it is

exclusively about divine love. He maintains that one who adopts the literal reading of the

Song denies the sanctity of the Oral Law, since there is rabbinic consensus that the

symbolic meaning is the sole acceptable one. To bolster his point, he notes that the

halakha codifies that the name Shelomo (the Hebrew version of Solomon) that appears

seven times in the Song is mostly to be taken as a sacred name of God, reading Shelomo

to mean, “The Song to Him whose is the peace (le-Mi sheha-Shalom shelo).” That word

must not be erased in the Song, since it does not refer to the earthly King Solomon, but

rather to God. Thus, halakha itself shows that the literal meaning (King Solomon) is

supplanted by the symbolic meaning (God): 14

Every “Solomon” mentioned in the Song of Songs is sacred… except for this one

verse: My vineyard, which is mine, is before me; you, O Solomon, shalt have the

thousand (Song 8:12)—Solomon for himself [shall have a thousand]…And there

are some who say this also is secular: Behold it is the bed of Solomon (Song 3:7).

(B. Shevuot 35b)

Although Rabbi Soloveitchik is correct that there is near-universal acceptance of an

allegorical meaning within tradition, there is a range of opinion pertaining to the value of

 

the literal reading of human love. In the introduction to his commentary, Malbim (Meir

Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809–1879) criticizes rabbinic commentaries on the Song

who altogether ignore its literal meaning. While he maintains that there is a symbolic

meaning as well, one first must understand the literal meaning to attain other layers of

meaning:

Most interpretations [of Song of Songs]… are in the realm of allusion and

homiletical interpretation distant from the establishment of the peshat.… Of

course we affirm that divine words have seventy facets and one thousand

dimensions. Nonetheless, the peshat interpretation is the beginning of knowledge;

it is the key to open the gates, before we can enter the sacred inner chambers of

the King.

Most earlier rabbinic commentators find value in the literal reading, while they

simultaneously insist that the Song contains an allegorical level of meaning as well. Elie

Assis surveys classical commentators and determines that their opinions fall into several

larger categories.

1. The Song was initially composed as a human love poem and it was elevated to

the sacred when being edited into a biblical book (Rabbi Joseph Kara

[1050–1125], Rabbi Isaac Arama [1420–1494]).

2. The Song is an allegory in a general sense, but the interpreter must focus on

the details of the human love song (Rashbam, Rabbi Joseph Kara, Rabbi

Isaiah of Trani [c. 1180–c. 1250]).

3. The literal reading is necessary to understand the allegory, and the allegory is

primary (Rashi, Ibn Ezra).

4. Despite what we suppose the simple meaning to be, we must interpret only the

allegory (Rabbi Obadiah Sforno [1470–1550]). 15

 

Tzvi Yehudah further observes that only in the nineteenth century do we begin to find

rabbis who deny the value of the literal reading of the Song. Prior to that, the Sages and

commentators generally embraced the literal and symbolic meanings of the Song. 16

It should be noted further that although the halakha rules that most references to

the name Shelomo in the Song are sacred because they refer to God, the classical sages

and the later commentators never allowed that ruling to supplant the literal meaning in

their minds. Shelomo also could refer to King Solomon. They still maintained, for

example, that when the opening verse states, “The Song of Songs of Solomon,” this

means that King Solomon authored or played a significant role in the composition of the

book. Despite the halakhic ruling of the Talmud that this reference to “Shelomo” is a

sacred name of God, the word continues to refer to the human king as well. It is difficult

to conclude that the halakhic-symbolic-allegorical meanings of the Song altogether

supplant the literal meaning within tradition.

In the final analysis, it is impossible to ascertain where original authorial intent

ends and where added meaning begins. As Rabbi Saadiah Gaon says in the introduction

to his commentary, “Know, my brother, that you will find great differences in

interpretation of the Song of Songs. The Song of Songs is likened to locks whose keys

 

have been lost.” However, it is precisely this uncertainty that unlocks the potential of

connecting human love and divine love.

Building Bridges

The blurring of the boundaries in the layers of interpretation of the Song is

singularly valuable. Without knowing the precise primary intent of the author of the

Song, several contemporary religious thinkers exploit the potential literal and allegorical

layers of interpretation to speak about the Song’s contribution to religious experience.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik and his student Rabbi Shalom Carmy bridge the two

allegorical readings of God-Israel and God-religious individual. Rabbi Yuval Cherlow

bridges the literal and allegorical readings.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik

As discussed above, Rashi champions the position that the Song should be read

allegorically as a continuous narrative of the historical relationship between God and Israel.

Maimonides espouses a different reading, that the Song should be read allegorically as reflecting

the intimate relationship between God and the religious individual. Rashi’s reading pertains to

the collective, particularistic relationship between God and Israel. Maimonides’ reading, in

contrast, pertains to every religious individual, a universalistic perspective.

Despite these significant differences, Rabbi Soloveitchik considers the approaches of

Rashi and Maimonides to be compatible. The lovers’ quest for one another in the Song

symbolizes the human quest for God and for God’s revelation to humans. All people long to

transcend their natural state and find God and meaning. Additionally, Israel uniquely receives

divine revelation through the Torah. God longs for a relationship with each individual, and also

for a relationship with a unique nation. At the same time, the lovers in the Song constantly

pursue and long for one another, but never consummate the sexual relationship in the Song itself.

Similarly, God never is revealed fully to people, and people retreat from God at the moment of a

potential encounter. The two readings of Rashi and Maimonides thus are two aspects of this

relationship. The Song speaks to the entire world, and simultaneously in a unique manner also to

Israel. 17

Rabbi Shalom Carmy 18

Many Jews customarily recite the Song on Friday night prior to the evening prayers. The

ordinary Jew’s reading of the Song has little to do with the elitist reading of Rashi. Most people

reciting the Song are not likely to attempt a systematic allegorical reading of the historical

relationship between God and Israel.

Rabbi Carmy notes that an adequate reading of the Song cannot ignore ordinary readers

even as it also addresses erudite theologians. The ordinary worshipper can relate more to

Maimonides’ concept of the man in the Song as God, and the woman as the religious individual

who senses God’s closeness. The Song gives far more expression to the woman than to the man,

so that one can find therein one’s religious voice seeking God. 19

Rabbi Carmy explains that people never can fully connect to God, just as the desired

rendezvous of the lovers in the Song never explicitly occurs. The God we seek is the God who

corresponds to our needs and desires, our loves and our fears. Yet God also is wholly other,

expressed most poignantly through revelation to humanity, and makes demands that do not

 

correspond to our perceived needs. In the context of revelation, people must obey; but obedience

necessarily leads to estrangement, since it is not a freedom-seeking person’s natural way. God

therefore is both approachable and completely apart. Rabbi Soloveitchik’s reading that combines

the approaches of Rashi and Maimonides thereby bridges the gap between the ordinary Friday

evening worshipper, engaged in an intimate personal spiritual encounter with God, and the elite

theologian and philosopher, who encounters God through revelation.

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow 20

 

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow builds important bridges between the literal and allegorical

layers of meaning in the Song. In Rabbi Cherlow’s interpretation of the Song’s literal

layer, the man—whom he identifies as a king—and the woman—whom who he identifies

as a peasant who tends vineyards—must learn each other’s language and overcome the

staggering gulf between them. Similarly, there is an infinite gulf between God and

people, leading to inherent religious challenges.

Over the course of the Song, the woman must learn the world of the king and its

language rather than attempting to impose her world onto her lover. So too Israel must

learn God’s language in the Torah to develop a proper religious relationship with God.

The king also must learn the language and concerns of his beloved, and by addressing

them he gives her the opportunity to develop the relationship further.

Rabbi Cherlow maintains that the Song teaches that the key to developing one’s

love of God is through an understanding of human love. As cited in the Mishnah, Rabbi

Akiva declares that the Song is the most sacred of all biblical works, calling it the Holy

of Holies, which was in its day the most sacred inner sanctum of the Temple in Jerusalem

(M. Yadayim 3:5). He considers “love your neighbor as yourself” to be the central axiom

of the Torah (Sifra Kedoshim 4:12). Rabbi Akiva teaches that the love of God is not what

leads to the love of people; rather, the love of people ultimately leads to the love of God.

The planes of interpersonal love and the love that may exist between God and Israel or

the religious individual intersect in the most sacred of dialogic spaces, the relational

equivalent of the ancient Holy of Holies. 21

Conclusion

Our inability to define the boundaries between the author’s intended meaning and later

layers of interpretation is one of the Song’s most exciting features. The dynamic possibilities,

coupled with the efforts of ancient and contemporary thinkers, offer fertile ground to explore the

love of people and the love of God. There are three commandments to love in the Torah: One’s

neighbor (Lev. 19:18), the stranger (Lev. 19:34), and God (Deut. 6:5). The Song and its

interpretations develop and invigorate these three loves. Both forms of love require a leap of

faith from the uncertain, and that leap and endless pursuit creates the dynamic and ever-burning

love depicted by the Song.

In his essay on the Song of Songs, “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik

discusses a central pillar of the Torah, which elevates the physical aspects of humanity to a life

of holiness. In the summary words of Rabbi Reuven Ziegler:

Judaism does not view the natural, biological aspect of the human being with disdain or

despair. Therefore, the revelatory commands do not come to deny and repress man’s

 

physical existence. Judaism instead declares that the body’s instinctual biological drives

must be refined, redeemed, and sanctified, but not extirpated. Through the imposition of

the mitzvot that make demands of the body, those drives are stamped with “direction and

purposefulness.” The Torah thus allows man to experience pleasure, even as it prevents

him from being enslaved to desire and from indulging in pleasure to excess. 22

This approach appears apt to explain the dynamism in the literal-metaphorical relationship of the

Song. The Song speaks to the sanctity of human love, and intimates the love of the divine. Like

the Torah, what sanctifies the Song is not “only” its divine aspect, but also the elevation of

human love to the realm of the sacred.

The strands of rabbinic analysis warn that the literal reading of the Song is susceptible to

secularization and vulgarization, just like human love and intimacy today. And also just like

today the connection between love and religion can be viewed with excessive cynicism. Some

would separate between human love which is “secular,” and a relationship with God which is

“religious”; but biblical tradition repudiates this view and considers human love and

interpersonal relationships to be essential and sacred aspects of the service of God.

The language of love in the Song of Songs has a unique potential to speak to the heart of

many contemporary Jews. One midrash suggests that King Solomon made the Torah accessible in a

manner that nobody had done since the Torah was revealed:

He listened and tested the soundness (izzein v’ḥikkeir) of many maxims (Kohelet

12:9)—[this means that] he made handles (oznayim, a word similar to izzein) to the

Torah…. Rabbi Yosei said: Imagine a big basket full of produce without any handle, so

that it could not be lifted, until one clever man came and made handles to it, and then it

began to be carried by the handles. So until Solomon arose, no one could properly

understand the words of the Torah, but when Solomon arose, all began to comprehend the

Torah. (Shir Ha-shirim Rabbah 1:8)

Precisely through the language of human love that most people can understand, the Song enables

people to approach God and revelation.

The Song sanctifies and exalts human love, and it infuses with intense passion the love

between God and Israel and the love between God and every religious individual. Jewish

tradition understood the potential religious pitfalls that could result from the inclusion of the

Song into the Bible, but concluded that it was well worth those risks to promote a singular level

of sanctification through the fusion of human and divine love. It remains to the readers of the

Song to take that leap of faith.

At the outset of this essay, we asked: Can a biblical text be physical and spiritual, openly

erotic and about the love of God, all at the same time? By blurring the boundaries between

human and divine love, the Song and its interpretations provide a strikingly positive, and sacred,

answer.

Notes

1 Based on intertextual references between the Song of Songs, 4 Ezra, and Revelation, Jonathan

Kaplan argues that the first allegorical interpretations of the Song of Songs can be traced to the

 

close of the first century CE. See his “The Song of Songs from the Bible to the Mishnah,”

Hebrew Union College Annual 81 (2010), pp. 43–66.

2 This was not the only midrashic understanding, however. In the summary words of David M.

Carr (with minor transliteration changes): “While we see the male fairly consistently linked to

God, we find the female of the Song of Songs related to the house of study (B. Eruvin 21b, Bava

Batra 7b), an individual sage (T. Ḥagigah 2:3), Moses (Mekhilta, Beshallaḥ, Shirah §9), Joshua

the son of Nun (Sifrei D’varim §305 and parallels), local court (B. Sanhedrin 36b, Yevamot

101a, Kiddushin 49b and Sanhedrin 24a; cf. also B. Pesaḥim 87a), or the community of Israel as

a whole (M Taanit 4:8; T. Sotah 9:8; B. Shabbat 88, Yoma 75a, Sukkot 49b, Eruvin 21b, Taanit

4a; Mekhilta Beshallaḥ Shirah §3).” See his “The Song of Songs as a Microcosm of the

Canonization and Decanonization Process,” in Canonization and Decanonization, eds. A. van

der Kooij and K. van der Toorn (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 175–176.

3 See Philip S. Alexander, “Tradition and Originality in the Targum of the Song of Songs,” in

The Aramaic Bible: Targums in Their Historical Context, ed. D. R. G. Beattie and M. J.

McNamara (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), pp. 318–339; Isaac B. Gottlieb, “The Jewish Allegory

of Love: Change and Constancy,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 2 (1992), pp. 1–17.

For a more detailed analysis of Targum’s reading, see Esther M. Menn, “Targum of the Song of

Songs and the Dynamics of Historical Allegory,” in The Interpretation of Scripture in Early

Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Language and Tradition, ed. Craig A. Evans (Sheffield:

Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), pp. 423–445.

4 See M.T. Hilkhot Teshuvah 10:3; Guide of the Perplexed 3:51. And see also Yosef Murciano,

“Maimonides and the Interpretation of the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), in Teshurah L’Amos: A

Collection of Studies in Biblical Interpretation Presented in Honor of Amos Hakham, eds. Moshe

BarAsher et al. (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2007), pp. 85–108; James A. Diamond, Maimonides and

the Shaping of the Jewish Canon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 26–68).

For an analysis of medieval philosophical readings of the Song of Songs, and how Malbim (Meir

Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809–1879) and Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (in U-vikkashtem Mi-

sham) adopted variations of that approach, see Shalom Rosenberg, “Philosophical Interpretations

of the Song of Songs: Preliminary Observations” (Hebrew), Tarbiz 59 (1990), pp. 133–151.

5 For a survey, see Michael Fishbane, Song of Songs (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,

2015), pp. 245–310.

6 For critique of this widely-held scholarly position, see Hector Patmore, “‘The Plain and Literal

Sense’: On Contemporary Assumptions about the Song of Songs,” Vetus Testamentum 56

(2006), pp. 239–250.

7 James L. Kugel, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free

Press, 2007), pp. 514–518. For criticism of the cynical excesses of Kugel’s book, see Yitzchak

Blau, “Reading Morality Out of the Bible,” Bekhol Derakhakha Daehu 29 (2014), pp. 7–13.

8 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries: Explorations of the Five Megillot (Jerusalem: Maggid,

2016), p. 7.

9 Gerson D. Cohen, “The Song of Songs and the Jewish Religious Mentality,” in The Canon and

Masorah of the Hebrew Bible: An Introductory Reader, ed. Sid Z. Leiman (New York: Ktav,

1974), p. 263. See also Mark Giszczak, “The Canonical Status of Song of Songs in m. Yadayim

3:5,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 41:2 (2016), pp. 205–220.

10 These include: Isaiah 50:1; 54:4–7; 62:4–5; Jeremiah 2:1–2; 3:1; Ezekiel 16:7–8; Hosea 1–3.

11 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, pp. 11–12.

 

12 Alon Goshen-Gottstein, “Thinking of/With Scripture: Struggling for the Religious Significance

of the Song of Songs,” Journal of Scriptural Reasoning 3:2 (2003), at

http://jsr.shanti.virginia.edu/back-issues/vol-3-no-2-august-2003-healing-words-the-song-of-

songs-and-the-path-of-love/thinking-ofwith-scripture-struggling-for-the-religious-significance-

of-the-song-of-songs/. Accessed July 11, 2017.

13 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, pp. 22–23.

14 Joseph Soloveitchik, “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” in Ish Ha-halakhah: Galui V’nistar,

(Jerusalem: Histadrut, 1992), pp. 119–120.

15 Elie Assis, Ahavat Olam Ahavtikh: Keriah Hadashah BeShir HaShirim (Hebrew) (Tel-Aviv:

Yediot Aharonot-Hemed, 2009), pp. 211–231.

16 Tzvi Yehudah, “The Song of Songs: The Sanctity of the Megillah and Its Exegesis”

(Hebrew), in Sinai: Jubilee Volume, ed. Yitzhak Rafael (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav

Kook, 1987), pp. 471–486.

17 “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” pp. 119–120. For discussions of this essay by Rabbi Soloveitchik,

see especially Shalom Carmy, “On Cleaving as Identification: Rabbi Soloveitchik’s Account of

Devekut in U-Vikkashtem Mi-Sham,” Tradition 41:2 (Summer 2008), pp. 100–112; and see also

Reuven Ziegler, Majesty and Humility: The Thought of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Jerusalem-

New York: Urim-OU Press, 2012), pp. 344–389.

18 The section on Rabbi Carmy is adapted from my article, “The Literary-Theological Study of

Tanakh,” published as an afterword to Moshe Sokolow’s Tanakh: An Owner’s Manual:

Authorship, Canonization, Masoretic Text, Exegesis, Modern Scholarship and Pedagogy

(Brooklyn, NY: Ktav, 2015), pp. 192–207. My essay draws from Rabbi Carmy’s article, “Perfect

Harmony,” First Things (December, 2010), at

https://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/12/perfect-harmony. Accessed July 11, 2017.

19 Of the 117 verses in the Song of Songs, some 61 are spoken by the woman, and only 33 by the

man. She initiates their encounters more frequently than he, and she gets the last word in all but

two dialogues. The woman takes to the streets alone at night to search for her beloved (3:1–4;

5:6–7), and even the secondary characters marvel at her unusual behavior (cf. Yair Zakovitch,

Mikra LeYisrael: Song of Songs [Hebrew] [Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1992], pp. 11–14).

20 Yuval Cherlow, Aharekha Narutzah: Peirush al Shir Ha-Shirim Be-Tosefet Mavo U-Perek

Siyyum al Mashmaut Shir Ha-Shirim Le-Yameinu (Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Miskal-Yediot Aharonot

and Hemed Books, 2003).

21 For further discussion of his work, see my review essay, “Rabbi Yuval Cherlow’s

Interpretation of the Song of Songs: Its Critical Role in Contemporary Religious Experience,” in

my Vision from the Prophet and Counsel from the Elders: A Survey of Nevi’im and Ketuvim

(New York: OU Press, 2013), pp. 258–271.

22 Reuven Ziegler, Majesty and Humility, p. 377. See further discussion of this theme in Rabbi

Soloveitchik’s thought in Ziegler, pp. 72-78.

On the Shabbat of April 4-5, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will serve as a Scholar-in-Residence at Sephardic Bikur Holim in Seattle, Washington. He will give the Shabbat morning derashah, speak at a luncheon in memory of their longtime rabbi, Rabbi Solomon Maimon, and give an afternoon class. 

For scheduling, please see the Sephardic Bikur Holim website,

https://www.sbhseattle.org/

 

Rabbi Stanley Davids: In Memoriam

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Rabbi Stanley Davids, a prominent Reform rabbi, passed away on Sunday night March 23, 2025. Although we differed significantly on religious matters, we were good friends for many years.

Stanley served as rabbi of Central Synagogue in Manhattan from 1986-1991, after which he became rabbi of Temple Emanu-El in Atlanta. He was active in many communal endeavors, including years as head of ARZA.

When we were both serving congregations in Manhattan, we found ourselves working together in various communal endeavors. Stanley was always affable, sensible and deeply committed to the wellbeing and unity of the Jewish People. That he was Reform and I was Orthodox did not get in the way of our mutual respect and fellowship. As human beings—and as Jews—we had many shared ideas, ideals and aspirations. 

Stanley regularly made his way from Central Synagogue to Shearith Israel where we studied Rambam together. We kept in touch after he moved from Manhattan, and we even had lunch together in Jerusalem after he and his wife made Aliyah. We published an article by him in our Institute’s journal, Conversations, https://www.jewishideas.org/article/everything-there-time, and he published an article of mine in a book he co-edited, https://www.jewishideas.org/node/3239. We shared significant occasions, professionally and personally.

Yes, it was (and hopefully still is) possible for an Orthodox rabbi and a Reform rabbi to study Torah together, to work together on behalf of the Jewish community and Israel, to enjoy a genuine friendship.  In an increasingly divisive world, we gain from friendships that overcome differences and focus on shared values. 

We extend condolences to Stanley’s wife, Resa, and to the entire Davids family. Min Hashamayim Tenuhamu.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Pekudei

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

The Israelites contributed generously toward the construction of the Mishkan sanctuary. Upon completion of the project, Moses gave an accounting as to how the donations were applied. Although no one could have questioned Moses’s integrity, he wanted to make it absolutely clear that leaders are accountable for how contributions are spent.

The late Senator Everett Dirksen once quipped about the American budget: “A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you're talking real money.” And that was in the 1960’s. These days, we’re talking about trillions of dollars…not merely billions.

We are so accustomed to hearing of projects that entail millions, billions and trillions of dollars, we sometimes forget that these dollars are “real money.” Funds are allocated as though no human component is involved.

Moses set an example: public funds are not “anonymous.” They are generated by actual people who have a right to a proper accounting of their outlays.

The Torah refers to money as “damim”—blood!  Money represents human labor, time, and investment. It is not neutral. Each dollar represents a bit of our lives, the time and energy it took us to generate that dollar.

We learn of the government’s allocation of several hundred million dollars to this project, billions to another project, and more than a trillion for yet another massive endeavor.  While vast public expenditures are inevitable—and often necessary—we are presented with huge dollar amounts as if the money simply comes from the air. The numbers become disconnected from the actual human beings who are providing the dollars for the budgets.

 As governments and organizations deal with the public’s money, they are responsible for spending the money as wisely and fairly as possible. They are duty-bound to prevent wasteful use of funds. They need to realize that each dollar has a human component, that public funds represent the “damim” of all who pay into the system.

When allocating public funds, decisions must be made as to what is best and most needed by constituents. There will obviously be different budgetary opinions and calculations. Not every constituent will agree with every decision. Nevertheless, the process of allocating funds must be conducted with a keen sense of responsibility to the stake-holders. Dispensers of public funds need the wisdom to know how to apply resources properly. Cutting corners on important matters may well lead to increased wastefulness and damage in the future. The public is best served when long range planning is conducted calmly and carefully, taking into consideration positive and negative consequences of each decision.

Budgets are not simply a matter of neutral mathematical calculations. They represent the needs, concerns and aspirations of the human beings who have contributed their resources. Moses demonstrated the responsibility of giving proper accounting of public funds. He set a model for future generations…including our own.