Brothers Estranged: Heresy, Christianity and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity

Brothers Estranged

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Brothers Estranged Heresy, Christianity, and Jewish Identity in Late Antiquity

adiel schremer

1 2010

1 Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further Oxford University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education. Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam

Copyright © 2010 by Oxford University Press, Inc. Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schremer, Adiel. Brothers estranged : heresy, Christianity, and Jewish identity in late antiquity / Adiel Schremer. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-0-19-538377-5 1. Heresy in rabbinical literature. 2. Rabbinical literature—History and criticism. 3. Heretics, Jewish. 4. Providence and government of God—Judaism. 5. Judaism— Relations—Christianity. 6. Christianity and other religions—Judaism. 7. Judaism— History—Talmudic period B.C.–210 A.D. 8. Solidarity—Religious aspects—Judaism. 9. Faith (Judaism) I. Title. BM496.9.H45S37 2009 296.09’015—dc22 2009013844

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

For Ilay, Yotam, and Yahalli

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Rabbi Joshua said: I received from Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai, who received from his master, and his master from his master, a law revealed to Moses at Sinai, that Elijah will not come to declare unclean or to declare clean, to distance or to draw near, but only to distance those who have been drawn near by force, and to draw near those who have been distanced by force . . . Rabbi Judah says: To draw near but not to distance. Rabbi Shimon says: To reconcile rival parties. And the Sages say: Neither to distance, nor to draw near, but to make peace in the world. As it is said: “Behold I will send you Elijah the prophet . . . and he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children, and the hearts of children to their fathers” (Mal. 3:23–24). —Mishnah, Eduyot 8:7

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Preface

This book is about the birth of Christianity. Its perspective, however, is a Jewish one. It suggests that Christianity, as a discrete religious entity, distinct from Judaism, was born, among many other things, out of a complicated and dynamic social and discursive process of both seclusion and exclusion, in which various Jewish groups, among which were also the followers of Jesus, were introduced under the rabbinic category of minim, and were thus produced by rabbinic discourse as “others,” as “non-Jews.” In early rabbinic parlance, minim is a broad term for different Jewish groups who were considered by the rabbis as having secluded themselves from the community, and social separatism (or any indication of a tendency toward separatism) is termed minut. This book’s argument is that the emergence of the rabbinic discourse of minut was a response to an identity crisis of a posttraumatic society shattered by the powerful Roman Empire. In order to reaffirm its values and distinct Jewish identity, Palestinian rabbinic society developed a discourse of “separatism,” in which its boundaries were reestablished by the labeling of some Jews as minim and the placement of these Jews beyond the pale. Initially, it is argued, Christianity played only a very modest role in that process, and the early Christians were introduced into the category of minim and came to be considered as such only gradually. Throughout late antiquity, the “significant other” for Palestinian rabbis remained the Roman Empire, and one of the religious issues with which they

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were most occupied was the Empire’s power and the religious challenge that it posed to God’s sovereignty. As in many other cases in the study of ancient Judaism, this argument rests on a reinterpretation and a recontextualization of known texts rather than on hitherto unnoticed literary sources or on newly discovered archaeological remains. It is therefore only in the nature of things that such a study will be in disagreement with previous attempts to address similar questions. In recent years, one can witness a growing attempt to read classical rabbinic texts in the matrix of Christianity. These scholarly endeavors, I maintain, suppress rabbinic Judaism and “Christianize” it. Rather than allowing rabbinic Judaism to stand on its own—and thus offer a different perspective that, potentially, can enrich the dominant culture’s perceptions and views—they paint rabbinic Judaism with Christian colors and thus “colonize” it. As against this trend, the present study suggests a different approach to the rabbinic material and its interpretation by addressing this very elementary question: In what circumstances are discourses of social boundaries and identity produced? Following a theory current in sociological literature, I suggest viewing rabbinic discourse of identity as a response to an identity crisis that Palestinian Jewry underwent as a result of military and political defeats in its wars against Rome. The heart of that discourse, I suggest, should be located in a sense of social and communal solidarity and belonging, much more than in a strictly defined notion of “correct belief.” Such a portrayal rests, first and foremost, on a thorough examination of the complex web of rabbinic texts pertaining to minut. However, this cannot be detached from the fundamental approach to rabbinic texts that facilitates it, namely, the insistence on reading them in relation to, and as a response to, the historical reality in which they were produced. For those who embrace other hermeneutical approaches to rabbinic literature, a historicizing approach to the interpretation of rabbinic texts might seem to require justification. Various rabbinic texts pertaining to minut, these scholars might argue, appear to be addressing theological themes of generic character, not necessarily related to concrete social-historical circumstances. This book aims to contest that line of thought. Seeing rabbinic thought as responsive in its nature, I suggest to locate it in its historical context and to view it as a reaction to this context, rather than a product of theoretical thinking and speculation or of mere biblical exegesis. As will be demonstrated, a careful reading of the rabbinic texts reveals that the connection between the theological and the historical and the view of the former as rooted in the latter are suggested by the rabbinic texts themselves.

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This book was initiated as a series of lectures that I gave at Yale University while I was there as a Jacob and Hilda Blaustein Visiting Professor in the Department of Religious Studies, during the academic year 2001/2002. I would like to express my gratitude to the audience of my lectures at Yale, and especially to Professors Steven Fraade, Christine Hayes, and Dale Martin for their comments on my ideas and for interpretive suggestions. Professor Fraade kindly read and commented on early drafts of various chapters of the manuscript. His comments were priceless. The majority of the composition of this book, however, took place at home, in Israel. I wish to thank the Shalom Hartman Institute and its directors, Professor David Hartman and Dr. Donniel Hartman, for their hospitality and personal support, as well as for creating and sustaining the intellectual environment that enabled me to pursue my research and bring it to completion. Among the many colleagues at the Shalom Hartman Institute with whom I discussed different aspects of the book, I would like to mention especially Menahem Hirshman, Moshe Idel, Shlomo Naeh, Ishay Rosen-Zvi, and Noam Zion, as well as my close friends Shmuel Herr, Yair Lorberbaum, and above all Dror Yinon, whose constant intellectual criticism and support helped me to clarify and sharpen various aspects of my arguments, and thus to improve the final product. “Opposition,” as William Blake has written, “is true friendship.” I would like also to express my deep gratitude to my colleague Professor Albert Baumgarten of Bar-Ilan University, who drew my attention to the possible ramifications that Walter Bauer’s Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity may have for our approach to the history of rabbinic Judaism and its place within ancient Judaism more broadly. The insight that the perspective gleaned from rabbinic sources necessarily reflects a single viewpoint, characteristically rabbinic, and therefore cannot be taken as a representation of the historical picture as a whole has profoundly influenced my approach to rabbinic texts and their value as historical evidence. The present study is an outcome of my grappling with the implications of this understanding. It is also an intellectual wrestling with Daniel Boyarin’s treatments of similar topics, which were published in the last decade and were a major stimulating force in the composition of this book. I would like to thank Professor Boyarin for his generous response to my criticism of his ideas, which is a unique example, if I may humbly give expression to my personal feelings, of a truly open-minded mode of scholarly conversation. My former teacher Professor Daniel Schwartz of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem generously read parts of the manuscript in different phases of

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its writing and assisted me in shaping my thinking and writing. My thanks to him, for his assistance and support in the present project as well as in many others in the past far exceed what I can express in a few words of acknowledgment in a book’s preface. Nor would such thanks pay my debt to my wife, Ayelet, who enables me to realize my devotion to the study of Torah. “To love another person is to see the face of God.” Jerusalem Sivan 5769 June 2009

Contents

Abbreviations, xv Editions of Rabbinic Texts, xvii A Note on the Translation of Rabbinic Texts, xxi Introduction, 3 1. “Where Is Their God?”: Destruction, Defeat, and Identity Crisis, 25 2. Conceptualizing Minut: The Denial of God and the Renunciation of His People, 49 3. Laws of Minim, 69 4. Producing Minut: Labeling the Early Christians as Minim, 87 5. Christian Belief and Rabbinic Faith, 101 6. Significant Brothers, 121 7. Conclusion: A Different Perspective, 143 Notes, 147 Bibliography, 233 Source Index, 261 Subject Index, 267

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Abbreviations

AJS Review ANRW b. BASOR CSCO DJD DOP DSD HTR HUCA JAOS JBL JECS JJS JQR JRS JSJ JSNT JSOT JThS m. MGWJ NTS

Association of Jewish Studies Review Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt Bavli (Babylonian Talmud) Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Dumbarton Oaks Papers Dead Sea Discoveries Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Jewish Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of Judaism Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal of Theological Studies Mishnah Monatschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judenthum New Testament Studies

xvi

abbreviations OTS PAAJR RQ RSV SBLSP t. VC y. ZNTW

Old Testament Studies Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research Revue de Qumran Revised Standard Version Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Tosefta Vigiliae Christianae Yerushalmi (Palestinian Talmud) Zeitschrift für die neutestamentlische Wissenschaft

Editions of Rabbinic Texts

Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, ed. Schechter Deuteronomy Rabbah, ed. Lieberman

Genesis Rabbah, ed. Theodor-Albeck

Lamentations Rabbah, ed. Buber Leviticus Rabbah, ed. Margulies

Aboth De Rabbi Nathan, ed. Salomon Schechter. Wien: Knöpflmacher, 1887. Midrash Debarim Rabbah Edited for the First Time from the Oxford Ms. No. 147 with an Introduction and Notes, 3rd ed., ed. Saul Lieberman. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1974. Midrash Bereshit Rabba: Critical Edition with Notes and Commentary, 2nd ed., ed. J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1965. Lamentations Rabbah, ed. Shlomo Buber. Vilna: Rom, 1899. Midrash Wayyikra Rabbah: A Critical Edition Based on Manuscripts and Genizah Fragments with Variants and Notes, ed. Mordecai Margulies, 5 volumes. Jerusalem: The Ministry of Education and

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editions of r abbinic tex ts

Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ed. Horovitz-Rabin

Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ed. Lauterbach

Mekhilta de-Rashbi ed. Epstein-Melamed

Midrash Psalms, ed. Buber Midrash Tannaim, ed. Hoffman Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, ed. Mandelbaum

Psiqta Rabbati, ed. Friedman

Sifra, ed. Finkelstein

Culture of Israel and the American Academy for Jewish Research, 1953. Mechilta D’Rabbi Ismael cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus, 2nd ed., ed. Haym S. Horovitz and Israel A. Rabin. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1970. Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: A Critical Edition on the Basis of the Manuscripts and Early Editions with an English Translation, Introduction and Notes, ed. Jacob Z. Lauterbach, 3 volumes. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1933. Mekhilta D’Rabbi Sˇim‘on b. Jochai: Fragmenta in Geniza Cairensi reperta digessit apparatu critico, notis, praefatione instruxit, 2nd ed., ed. Jacob N. Epstein and Ezra Z. Melamed. Jerusalem: Hillel Press, 1979. Midrash Tehilim Ha-Mechune Shoh.er Tov, ed. Shlomo Buber. Vilna: Rom, 1891. Midrasch Tannaim zum Deuteronomium, ed. David Z. Hoffman, Berlin: Yitzkovski, 1909. Psikta de Rav Kahana According to an Oxford Manuscript, ed. Bernard Mandelbaum, 2 volumes. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1962. Pesikta Rabbati, Midrach für Fest-Cyclus und die ausgezeichneten Sabbathe, ed. Meir Friedman. Wien: Selbstverlag, 1880. Sifra on Leviticus According to Vatican Manuscript Assemani 66 with Variants from the Other Manuscripts, Genizah Fragments, Early Editions and

editions of r abbinic tex ts

Sifre Deuteronomy, ed. Finkelstein

Sifre Numbers, ed. Horovitz

Sifre Zutta Numbers, ed. Horovitz

Songs Rabbah, ed. Donski

Tanhuma, ed. Buber

Tosefta, ed. Lieberman

Tosefta, ed. Zuckermandel

Tractate Derekh Eretz, ed. Higger

xix

Quotations by Medieval Authorities, ed. Louis Finkelstein. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1983. Siphre ad Deuteronimum H. S. Horovitzii schedis usus cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus, ed. Louis Finkelstein. Berlin: 1939. Siphre D’be Rab Fasciculis primus: Siphre ad Numeros adjecto Siphre zutta Cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus, 2nd ed., ed. Haym S. Horovitz. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1966. Siphre D’be Rab Fasciculis primus: Siphre ad Numeros adjecto Siphre zutta Cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus, 2nd ed., ed. Haym S. Horovitz. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1966. Midrash Rabbah Shir Ha-Shirim Midrash H . azit, ed. Shimshon Donski. Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1980 Midrash Tanhuma Ha-Qadum Ve-Hayashan, ed. Shlomo Buber. Vilna: Romm, 1885. The Tosefta According to Codex Vienna, with Variants from Codex Erfurt, Genizah Mss. and Editio Princeps (Venice 1521), ed. Saul Lieberman, 6 volumes. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988. Tosephta Based on the Erfurt and Vienna Codices with Parallels and Variants, 2nd ed., ed. Moshe S. Zuckermandel. Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1970. The Treatises Derek Erez, Masseket Derek Erez, Pirke Ben Azzai, Tosefta Derek Erez, Edited from Manuscripts with an Introduction, Notes, Variants and Translation, ed. Michael Higger. New York: Moinester Publishing, 1935.

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editions of r abbinic tex ts Tractate Semahot, ed. Higger

Treatise Semah. ot and Treatise Sehmah. ot of R. Hiyya and Sefer H.ibbut% ha-K. eber, ed. Michael Higger. New York: Bloch Publishing Company, 1931.

A Note on the Translation of Rabbinic Texts

The presentation of classical rabbinic texts in general, and midrashic texts in particular, in a language different than their original is a difficult task. Midrash is a hyperdeductive, literal mode of reading of the Hebrew Bible, the understanding of which necessitates familiarity with the Hebrew language in its different ancient layers, biblical through mishnaic. Very often, the understanding of a midrashic argument depends on the reader’s ability to grasp the peculiar manner—frequently odd in the eyes of the modern reader—by which the midrash reads each single word in the biblical verses, on which it comments. Translating the midrash, therefore, presents a difficulty. One cannot simply reproduce the text of the biblical verses, to which the midrash refers, as they are translated by modern translations of the Hebrew Bible. The translator is required to present the biblical verses in a manner that would enable the reader to understand how and why the midrash reads them the way it does. For this reason, I decided to translate all citations of classical rabbinic texts in this book by myself. Although I did consult existing translations of these texts, wherever possible, I frequently deviated from them, either because of an alternative understanding of the texts under discussion or because of my reliance on different textual testimony, such as medieval manuscripts, which was unavailable, unnoticed, or simply not used by those translations. Cases in which I did rely on these translations are indicated in the notes.

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Brothers Estranged

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Introduction

On exiting the great Jewish synagogue of Rome and turning left toward the Theater of Marcello, just across via Portico d’Ottavia, one finds oneself at the front of a little church, Santa Maria della Pietà. On the exterior front wall of that church, above the entrance, facing the Jewish synagogue, there is a bilingual (Hebrew and Latin) inscription, containing the words of Isaiah 65:2–3: “I spread out my hands all the day to a rebellious people, who walk in a way that is not good, following their own devices; a people who provoke me to my face continually.” This inscription throws us at once into the core of the Christian polemic against Judaism throughout the ages. The use of that same verse by a Jew of the mid-first century, Paul of Tarsus, in his letter to the Romans, 10:21, uncovers its roots: by introducing that verse with the notice, “Of Israel it is written,” Paul appears to have placed himself out of the confines of the Jewish people, and thus planted the first seeds of a process that eventually gave rise to a separate socioreligious entity, Christianity.1 This book is devoted to the early rabbinic contribution to this process.2

A New Outlook The question of the relations between Judaism and Christianity has been a perennial subject of interest among students of Jewish history. In the last two decades or so, however, it has undergone a

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dramatic shift. “According to conventional wisdom,” writes Alan F. Segal at the opening passage of his book Rebecca’s Children, “the first century witnessed the beginning of only one religion, Christianity. Judaism is generally thought to have begun in the more distant past, at the time of Abraham, Moses, or even Ezra.”3 In contrast to this traditional view, a whole new outlook has emerged in the writings of various scholars in the last twenty years. As Segal puts it: “The time of Jesus marks the beginning of not one but two great religions of the West, Judaism and Christianity.”4 As a result, instead of looking at Judaism and Christianity as “mother” and “daughter,” as the relations between the two great religions are traditionally looked at, scholars have come more and more to agree that, in fact, “Judaism and Christianity can essentially claim a twin birth.”5 The abandonment of the “older” view has resulted in greater willingness, on the part of these scholars, to discuss the relationships between rabbinic Judaism and early Christianity, that is, between the classical rabbinic literature and early Christian literature, in a more open manner than previous generations of scholars would allow themselves. Possible similarities and mutual connections between these two late ancient religions are now more willingly acknowledged. Furthermore, the apologetic tendency shared by both Jewish and Christian scholars to presuppose the priority—both chronologically and (at least for Jews) theologically—of Jewish sources over similar Christian materials, which rests on, and is justified by, an unconscious (but at times even conscious) employment of the “mother-daughter” model, is now giving way to other explanations for the similarities and connections existing between rabbinic and early Christian texts. Some scholars argue for the opposite altogether, that is, for the chronological priority, in some cases, of the Christian materials, which were then borrowed and internalized by rabbinic sources mostly for the sake of rejection and polemic. The works of the Israeli historian Israel J. Yuval are perhaps the most representative of this approach. In several provocative papers published in the last two decades, Yuval argued that not only was Christianity influenced by Judaism but also Judaism was influenced by Christianity. Indeed, according to Yuval, the entire rabbinic project should be seen as a response to Christianity. The rabbis, according to this view, were responding to Christian ideas and shaped Judaism in such a manner as to reject them.6 For this reason, Yuval argues, one can detect in rabbinic literature numerous themes that parallel early Christian sources. Other scholars attempted to explain this state of affairs by suggesting a model that sees early Christianity and rabbinic Judaism as two parallel transmission lines of one and the same reservoir of Jewish tradition that goes back

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to the Second Temple era. These scholars emphasize the folkloristic quality of much of the material at our disposal—both Jewish and Christian—and suggest that many of the common ideas found in these writings reflect a common heritage. Instead of explaining similarities as a result of borrowing for the sake of polemic, as Yuval does, one should think of Jewish and Christian texts as two lines of transmission that reflect, separately, the same ancient “tradition of the masses” from which they both have sprung.7 Despite the differences between these two approaches, they have much in common. First, they share a tacit historiographic outlook, which sees both rabbinic Judaism and Christianity as “having arisen more or less together historically out of the old biblical religion of ancient Israel.”8 This outlook views Second Temple Judaism as “pluralistic” and lacking “organs of control,”9 and it assumes that “so great is the contrast between previous Jewish religious systems and rabbinism”10 that one can legitimately view rabbinic Judaism as having been “born” in a similar sense to that of Christianity’s “birth.”11 Such a historical outlook depends on a view of the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C .E . as a crucial turning point in Jewish history, and it assumes a deep rupture and almost a total discontinuity between the type of religiosity of the Pharisees of pre-70 and that of the rabbis of post-70 generations. For, if rabbinic Judaism is not a social-religious novum of the post-70 era but, rather, in important ways goes back to, say, the time of Hillel and Shammai, that is, the late first century B.C .E . and the early first century C .E ., then surely one would not be able to speak of that specific form of ancient Judaism and the nascent Jesus movement as “siblings,” neither chronologically nor phenomenologically. The assumption that the destruction of the Second Temple marks a rupture in Jewish history subscribes, in a deep sense, to a Christian theological claim, and it is not as simple as it sometimes appears. To be sure, the change may have been significant; however, as David Goodblatt has emphasized, the measure of continuity must not be disregarded and underestimated.12 To speak of a change, even a profound one, is one thing; to speak of rabbinism as a newly “born” type of Judaism is entirely different. Yet, both approaches appear to embrace (even if unconsciously) precisely such a view. Furthermore, the phenomenon both approaches seek to explain and the question they pose to the sources under discussion are similar: how to account for the existence of comparable materials in both Jewish (mostly rabbinic, but not exclusively) and Christian sources of approximately the same time—the first few centuries of the Christian era. The fact that the former approach explains this situation by applying a model of influence and mutual borrowing, whereas the latter sees it as a natural result of the common tradition from

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which they both sprung, and from the actual proximity of Jews and Christians in Palestine in late antiquity, cannot obscure their basically similar interest.13 This scholarly trend has a long history.14 It can be seen very clearly in Ephraim E. Urbach’s series of papers on the Jewish-Christian dialogue, published during the 1950s.15 According to Urbach, “Many homilies and difficult sayings of the Sages are given sense and understood properly if read as a response to the opinions and homilies of the Church Fathers, and if seen as a polemic against them.”16 The rationale underlying this approach was the assumption that Christianity’s spread was accompanied by an ongoing struggle and debate with Judaism, and in the course of that struggle the rabbis, too, were articulated various homilies for the sake of refuting the views of the Christians.17 This line of thought has been followed by many other scholars since then.18 It has been recently emphatically stated by Yuval, who, in several papers published in the last decade, applied it in a much more vigorous manner.19 According to Yuval, “Rabbinic literature should be read not only as a source for Christian ideas and rituals, but also as a reaction to them.”20 Furthermore, Yuval argues that “in its deepest meaning, the Oral Law should be seen as the Jewish response to the Christian New Testament.”21 Consequently, he maintains that “The confrontation with Christianity lies at the very heart of Midrashic and Talmudic Judaism.”22 Unlike Urbach and others, who apparently assumed that Christianity’s impact on rabbinic Judaism was insignificant before its spread throughout the Roman world—that is, before the third century C.E.23—Yuval maintains that the beginnings of rabbinic occupation with, indeed polemic against, Christianity should be dated much earlier, that is, right after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C.E.: Following the destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E., two competing interpretations were formed for Passover, one Jewish and one Christian. . . . Both stories offered a liturgical alternative to the old sacrificial rite, addressing simultaneously the difficult question of how to celebrate a festival of redemption in an age of foreign domination and oppression. . . . The parallel development of two different narratives of a similar nature, meant for the same festival and introduced by two rival groups who lived alongside one another, ought to be discussed in a comparative manner.24 These statements, which are placed right at the beginning of Yuval’s study of “Passover and Easter,” form the foundation on which his methodology rests. First, a binary opposition between Judaism and Christianity, dated to

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the generation immediately following the destruction of the Second Temple, is introduced.25 This calls for a comparative reading of the documents of the two religions: “[They] ought to be discussed in a comparative manner.” Why? Because what we have are “parallel” narratives, which were “introduced by two rival groups who lived alongside one another.” Underlying Yuval’s argument is an assumption regarding the weight of Christian presence in Palestine already in those early days, which, in itself, consists of another two implicit assumptions: (1) that Christians were identified, and conceived of, by rabbinic Jews as a separate, non-Jewish, rival religious group; and (2) that quantitatively, Christianity was a significant social phenomenon in first-century Palestine. Conjointly, these assumptions function as a scaffolding that enables Yuval to read many rabbinic sayings and homilies as responses (of this-or-that kind) to Christianity and to Christian teachings. These readings, it must be emphasized, do not reflect the sources’ own formulations: in none of the sources Yuval discusses do we find an explicit, clearly made reference to Christianity. Nor does their explicit rhetoric bear any sign of responsiveness, let alone of religious polemic. Yet, Yuval argues that the mere fact of similarity—be it in function, in structure, or in some of the details—is, in itself, the indication for the existence of such polemic. For otherwise—so he assumes—there is no way to explain that similarity. In other words, the parallelism believed to be established between a rabbinic text and an early Christian one is, according to Yuval, the result of one side having borrowed from the other, either as a result of acceptance and internalization, or for the sake of polemic and denial. The assumption underlying such a line of thought is that Christianity was a significant religious phenomenon in Palestine already in those early days, and that it is inconceivable that the rabbis were unaware of its theological innovations and teachings. For this reason, a reading of rabbinic sources on the backdrop of Christian materials is called for. It is so necessary, in fact, that even where there is no explicit allusion to Christianity in the rabbinic source under discussion, we, however, must posit such a background. This results in a polemical reading of the rabbinic text, which in turn is taken to be an ample proof for the presumption regarding the pivotal place that Christianity occupies in rabbinic sources. Even if we were to ignore the circularity of the argument, the question of why we should accept these assumptions remains. In spite of the considerable circulation they have gained in scholarly discussions of recent years, the question “How much Christianity in Talmudic literature?” must be carefully examined, and the extent to which the rabbis were troubled by Christian teachings should be cautiously reevaluated.

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As noted by Shaye Cohen, “Whether in general the rabbis concerned themselves with Christianity and Christian polemics against Judaism is a much debated question.”26 Jacob Neusner noted that, “If we were to propose a thesis on ‘Rome’ and ‘Christianity’ in the Talmud and midrash based on the evidence [of the early Tannaitic works], it would not produce many propositions.”27 Neusner himself made an even stronger claim; he maintained that “Christianity plays no role of consequence; no one takes the matter very seriously. . . . Israel’s sages did not find they had to take seriously the presence or claims of Christianity.”28 Similarly, Urbach stressed that, “We find no signs of struggle against Paulinian ideas, and certainly not of the influence of his views, before the end of the Tannaitic era and the beginning of the Amoraic period, that is to say, until the ideological crystallization of Christianity in the spirit of Paul’s teaching, and its popular expansion and diffusion.”29 As noted by Robin Lane Fox, Keith Hopkins, and others,30 the actual number of Christians in the first 100 years after Jesus’ death was extremely meager.31 This factor, which thus far has received very little and unsatisfactory attention in the scholarly discussions mentioned earlier, is a significant one, for Stephen Wilson was surely correct when he wrote that: “All the while Christianity was numerically inferior and politically less respectable—which it was throughout the period we are concerned with—there would have been much less reason for Jews to concern themselves with Christians than the reverse.”32 And, as Wilson goes on to note, “This is precisely what the evidence indicates.”33 Hopkins, too, noted the “absence of explicit mention of Christians in the mass of rabbinical writings”34 and concluded therefore that “most Jews before 300 did not obviously care about Christianity.”35 The striking contrast of the opposite situation in Patristic literature indicates, as Judith Lieu noted, that “Judaism was more of a problem to Christianity than Christianity for Judaism.”36 Indeed, Urbach himself called for a high degree of caution in implementing his own “anti-Christian polemic” hermeneutical approach and demanded self-restraint in proposing an anti-Christian interpretation to this or that rabbinic source: In discovering traces of debate and polemic in the sayings of the Sages we are commanded a high degree of caution and a proper philological foundation, in order not to be entrapped by far-fetched speculations or by mechanical interpretation. Neglecting the polemical aspect of rabbinic homilies deprives us, admittedly,

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from seeing some important details, but in uncovering polemical tendencies we must be highly cautious to refrain from exaggeration and from the wish to discover more than is said.37 What should be considered a “proper philological foundation” Urbach, unfortunately, does not explicitly detail. It is therefore difficult to use his warning as a practical guideline, for what one considers a “proper philological foundation” may be considered a “far-fetched speculation” by another. This is indeed one of the disturbing aspects of the subject under discussion: the notion that it is difficult to establish clear criteria to evaluate any suggestion to view a specific Talmudic dictum as a reaction to Christianity. The reason for this is related to the very nature of rabbinic exegetical and homiletical literature, which makes it extremely difficult to be treated historically. Usually we lack any knowledge regarding the concrete historical circumstances in which rabbinic sayings were formulated. As a result, our ability to appreciate the sociopolitical functions of any specific dictum is very limited. The contrast supplied by the following “midrash” will make this point apparent: “I have forsaken my house, I have cast off my inheritance” (Jer. 12:7)—When God leaves, no hope for salvation remains. When God forsakes a place it becomes a dwelling place for demons. And so Scripture says: “Your house has become for me a hyena’s den” (Jer. 7:11).38 Had we not known anything about this “midrash,” we could have read it as quite a standard rabbinic exhortation, the subject of which is the status of the Temple Mount after the destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E. Indeed, Jer. 12:7 is understood by various rabbinic sources as speaking of the Jerusalem Temple.39 But we do know something about its author, about the date of its composition, and about the circumstances in which it was composed: it was written by the fourth-century Antiochene Church Father John Chrysostom and was part of his first homily Against the Jews, delivered just a few days before the Jewish holidays in autumn 386.40 In that homily, Chrysostom attacked those Christians who participated in synagogal services and who had been attending the Jewish synagogue of Antioch specifically on the first day of the Jewish year because of their attraction to the Jewish custom of blowing the Shofar on that day.41 Knowing all this enables us not only to understand Chrysostom’s “midrashic” assertion in a concrete manner—his use of Jer. 7:11 refers to the Jewish house of prayer, not to the Temple42—but also to appreciate his

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motivation and concerns. Rabbinic homiletical and exegetical material, on the contrary, does not contain such contextual information. For this reason, scholars allow themselves to conjecture about the “target” of various rabbinic sayings. It is this very same fact, however, that makes it so difficult to prove such conjectures. Various considerations should be borne in mind in thinking about these matters. First, not every text that can be related to external influence should be interpreted that way. A text expressing an unsurprising idea (in light of wellknown ancient Jewish sources) need not be related to Christianity. Indeed, in many cases themes that scholars tend to relate to Christian influence are to be found already in Jewish sources that predate Christianity.43 Second, not every text in rabbinic literature that does appear to be polemical is necessarily directed against Christianity. The early Christians were not the only nonrabbinic group in Palestine in the first few centuries: there were pagans, Samaritans, and Gnostics, as well as non-rabbinic Jews of various sorts, such as priests, and others. The possibility of interpreting a given rabbinic text on the backdrop of one of these non-Christian groups, rather than in the context of Christianity, should therefore always be considered. For example, a midrash in the Sifre to Numbers emphasizes the idea that the Jews (“Israel”) are “beloved” (‫)חביבין ישראל‬.44 This emphasis, one might wish to speculate, needs to be interpreted as related to the issue of the election of Israel, which is a central theme in the Jewish-Christian polemic. Marc Hirshman, who discusses this midrash at length, indeed hints at the possibility of viewing at least some of its components in light of the “inter-religious controversy.”45 However, this midrash compares Israel to priests and emphasizes the significance of knowledge of Torah as the decisive factor in achieving a status of leadership: “ ‘For the lips of a priest should guard knowledge, and men should seek instruction from his mouth, for he is the messenger of the Lord of Host’ ” (Mal. 2:7)—when the Torah comes fourth from his mouth he is considered as a serving angel, but if not he is deemed as an animal and as a beast, which does not recognize its owner.” According to the midrash, it is not one’s priestly descent, as such, but rather one’s mastery of Torah, which confers authority on one’s teaching. Hence, the text may equally be interpreted as an antipriestly polemic, which strives to place those who study Torah on a higher religious level than the priests, not as an anti-Christian one.46 The latter possibility should not be entirely excluded, of course, but it should not be privileged, either. Finally, there is the obvious question of dating. Indeed, when one reads Urbach carefully, one immediately realizes that the process of Christianity’s rapid spread, to which Urbach refers as the major cause for rabbinic

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anti- Christian supposed polemic, began only in the third century, not earlier. Hence, while a reading of a late-fourth-century rabbinic source as an antiChristian polemic may be acceptable, the same suggestion with respect to a second- century text is, by its nature, much less likely. This, then, is one of the main arguments of the present study. Instead of assuming that Christianity had a central role in the formation of rabbinic Judaism, I wish to address this very fundamental question: What was the role that Christianity occupied in the formation of early rabbinic Judaism? This question is rarely even raised, however, because most scholars apparently take it for granted that Christianity was indeed a significant factor against which the rabbis struggled. In contrast to this taken-for-granted axiom, I argue that the assumption concerning the significance of Christianity for the development of rabbinic Judaism is far too exaggerated and lacks a firm textual, as well as historical, basis. I shall follow, therefore, a different path.

Minut and the Making of Christianity As surprising as it may sound, as much as those scholars who embrace the “new outlook” seek to dismantle the widely held dichotomy between Judaism and Christianity, in fact they implicitly reinforce the view of Judaism and Christianity as two distinct religious entities. In Yuval’s approach, this is given quite an explicit exposition: he speaks of “two rival groups who lived alongside one another” right after the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 C.E.47 The other approach, too, although emphasizing the actual close relationships between Jews and Christians, shares that same fundamental view. For, speaking of Judaism and Christianity as two parallel lines of transmission for one and the same reservoir of Second Temple traditions implies that, at least on a conceptual and nominal level, they are seen as two distinct entities. To be sure, both models allow for intimate relationships between the members of these two entities on a daily basis. Nonetheless, both approaches presuppose (and thus reaffirm) the most fundamental and taken-for-granted view of Judaism and Christianity as two discrete religious and social entities. That eventually things developed in this direction one cannot deny. Because, however, virtually all scholars agree that Christianity was, at its infancy, a Jewish phenomenon,48 one is surely allowed to ask how and when it became something of which people think as not-Jewish. What were the sociohistorical (and other) processes through which the “Jesus movement” became “Christianity”?

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Lawrence Schiffman has shown that “the tannaim did not see the earliest Christians as constituting a separate religious community.”49 As he goes on to note: Even if we were to accept many of the polemical statements in our sources at face value and assume the violations of halakha in the early Christian community to be more extensive, the early Christians would still be considered Jews. Nor should we assume that the claims that Jesus was a miracle worker or magician . . . would have in any way reflected on the Jewish status of his followers. Even the belief in the divinity or Messiahship of Jesus . . . would not, in the view of the Tannaim, have read the early Christians out of the Jewish community.50 How, then, are we to account for the emergence of Christianity as an “other,” non-Jewish socioreligious entity?51 Or, as Judith Lieu sharply formulated the question: “When did ‘Christianity’ first appear?”52 Surprisingly, this question is seldom addressed by students of rabbinic Judaism who endorse the New Outlook. Either they subscribe (even if unconsciously) to an essentialist view of Judaism and Christianity as two distinct religions right from Christianity’s very birth (i.e., either from the time of Jesus, or from Paul’s ministry to the gentiles), or they anachronistically project a late state of affairs on an earlier stage. Daniel Lasker and Sarah Stroumsa’s opening sentence to their co-study, The Polemic of Nestor the Priest, may serve as a useful example: “The Jewish-Christian debate is as old as Christianity,” they write. “Soon after Jesus’ death, Christian missionaries became active among Jews and Pagans, and Christian authors composed a number of polemical works aimed at convincing both groups of the truth of the new religion.”53 In order to speak of “Christian missionaries [who] became active among Jews and Pagans,” with respect to the period “soon after Jesus’ death,” one needs to entirely ignore the Jewishness of Jesus’ followers and to view Christianity as a distinct socioreligious entity already from the days of Jesus. The separate existence of Judaism and Christianity as two distinct religions is simply taken here for granted. Quite the opposite cried out Tertullian: “Fiunt, non nascuntur Christiani,” “Christians are made, not born!”54 Indeed, being a “social other” is not an inherent character; one is not “born” as a “social other,” one becomes such! And becoming a “social other” is the result of social and discursive manipulations that introduce one into such a category. This, moreover, is not done of its own accord; someone needs to have the interest and the capability to introduce some members of society under such a title. We need, therefore, to search

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after those who were interested in transforming some Jews into “others” and to uncover the mechanisms that made the Jesus movement what it eventually came to be: a different socioreligious entity that lives outside the confines of Judaism, that is, “Christianity.” It is precisely against this “taken-for-granted” assumption that Daniel Boyarin’s recent contributions to the subject should be viewed. In his book Dying for God, Boyarin first accepts the main innovation of the “new trend,” that instead of the much used metaphor of mother and daughter to describe the relations between Christianity and Judaism, these two religions should be viewed as “having arisen more or less together historically out of the old biblical religion of ancient Israel after the crises that attended the people of Israel in the first century.”55 Then, however, he goes a step farther and suggests that the kinship metaphors be abandoned altogether, “for they imply, ipso facto, the kinds of organic entities and absolute separations” that he wishes to displace.56 Against this implicit understanding, he suggests, “All Judaisms and all Christianities share features that make them a single semantic family.”57 This leads him to conclude: “Rather than parallel, but essentially separate histories, I propose a model of shared and crisscrossing lines of history and religious development.”58 This line of thought is further developed by Boyarin in his book Border Lines: The Partition of Judeo-Christianity. Here he emphasizes that he is “no longer prepared to think in terms of preexistent different entities—religions, if you will—that came (gradually or suddenly) to enact their difference in a ‘parting of the ways.’ ”59 For, in his view, “the borders between Christianity and Judaism are as constructed and imposed, as artificial and political as any of the borders on earth . . . just as the border between Mexico and the United States is a border that was imposed by strong people on weaker people, so too is the border between Christianity and Judaism.”60 The questions that need to be asked, then, according to Boyarin’s view, are “How and why that border was written and who wrote it . . . who it was in antiquity who desired to make such a difference, how did they accomplish (or seek to accomplish) that making, and what was it that drove them?”61 He suggests that “the discourse we know of as orthodoxy and heresy provides at least one crucial site for the excavation of a genealogy of Judaism and Christianity.”62 This discourse has produced, in his view, both Christianity and Judaism, as avowed “other” of each other. In this way, one can look at his project as “an inquiry into . . . how ‘Christianity’ and ‘Judaism’ as the names for a difference that we call ‘religions,’ came into being.”63 In Boyarin’s view, this was a product of a “discourse of heresy,” in which certain religious stances are considered illegitimate and consequently

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denounced. Accordingly, he asks, when and why did such a discourse arise in Judaism?64 This question will stand at the focus of the present study, too. However, Boyarin assumes that the rabbinic “discourse of heresy” related to Christianity and developed in interaction with a similar Christian one.65 This assumption creates the framework that eventually enables him to suggest that, “Just as for Christian orthodoxy the arch-heresy for the Rabbis also involved, not surprisingly, a ‘flaw’ in the doctrine of God.”66 According to this approach, the rabbinic notion of minut is a mirror of the Christian notion of false teaching concerning the divine. Indeed, according to Boyarin, not only is the meaning of minut in classical rabbinic texts equivalent to the meaning of “heresy” in early Christian literature, but far beyond: the rabbinic discourse of minut is a structural response to a contemporaneous Christian challenge: “the talk of minim and minut comes to do some work that was ‘necessitated’—in the eyes of the Rabbis, of course—by the challenge, or identity question, raised by Justin Martyr and company.”67 Boyarin thus shifts our focus from the relations between Judaism and Christianity to the discourse that made them into different entities. Yet, as much as his approach to the rabbinic material contributes to a more nuanced treatment of the questions at hand, in the end he does not depart from the theoretical framework guiding Yuval’s work, according to which innovation in one religious tradition is a result of a confrontation with the alternative of a different religious tradition. From this unstated theoretical premise springs the historical suggestion to view a discursive development within rabbinic Judaism as a product of an encounter with the competing religious claims of Christianity. And it is precisely this theoretical model that I wish to challenge in the present volume.

Reconstructing Minut One will surely not deny that any attempt to understand the rabbinic discourse of minut needs first to reconstruct it carefully. Most recent contributions to the topic, however, do not take this upon themselves.68 Rather, it is commonly taken for granted that minim are “heretics,” that is, people who hold false doctrines (in the rabbis’ view, of course) concerning God,69 and they are frequently identified as Christians.70 As a result, the rabbinic polemic against the minim is usually interpreted as motivated by a doctrinal concern. Such an approach emphasizes the distinctive theological content of the doctrines the minim are said to have embraced, and it portrays them as if they were representing a “philosophical school,” as it were, different from that of the rabbis. Their views

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are seen as emanating from theological thinking, which is frequently said to have been related to their interpretation of Scripture. It is precisely because of this reason, so this line of thought runs, that the rabbis felt a need to wage war against these views. This approach portrays the rabbis as if they were engaged in theological debate, and their polemic against the minim is assumed to be motivated by a concern for doctrinal truth. According to this approach, minut, as the target of a social and discursive combat, is the rabbinic equivalent of the Christian term “heresy.” A major cause for this perception is the partial manner by which the rabbinic material is frequently treated, which addresses almost exclusively those texts in which minut is depicted in terms of its theological views. Underlying this flaw are the “Christianizing expectations”71 with which scholars frequently approach the rabbinic material, which led them to seek those texts in which doctrine appears to be at stake. As David Frankfurter noted, “Scholarship on ancient Mediterranean religions continues to be inhibited by its dependence on theological categories,”72 which is tied up with “postReformation notions that religiosity in antiquity was a matter of belief and doctrine.”73 The view of minim primarily as heretics who hold false beliefs is a good example for the consequences of such a “Christianizing” reading of rabbinic material, that is, the interpretation of rabbinic sources through the prism of Christian notions and ways of thought.74 Thus, for example, Martin Goodman, in his paper on “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” states very explicitly that his paradigm for his discussion of heresy in rabbinic sources is “the use of the term by Christians from early patristic times to refer to a theological opinion held in opposition to what those Christians considered to be the mainstream Church.”75 Boyarin shares the same approach: in a passage on “The Invention of Minut” he maintains that “the rhetorical entity minut was . . . a product of the encounter with ‘orthodox’ Christianity, prompted a similar response from the Rabbis.”76 Furthermore, he suggests that: “This response is the production of a category of people who seem very much like Jews, but are defined as other via defects in their beliefs.”77 As Boyarin himself made clear, however, “The questionable appropriateness of projecting a Christian worldview or a Christian model upon people and practices who don’t quite fit, or even don’t wish to fit that model and worldview should be evident.”78 In contrast, therefore, to his own “Christianizing” approach to the rabbinic discourse of minut I maintain that our inquiry should begin by posing this very rudimentary question, namely, what is the content of the rabbinic discourse of minut? And instead of assuming that minut is the rabbinic equivalent to “heresy,” and therefore centers on doctrine, we need

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to ask what the issues were that troubled the rabbis in their struggle against minut. In other words, in contrast to current scholarship, I will not assume that I know the nature of the rabbinic discourse of minut; rather, I shall try, first of all, to reconstruct it.79 A thorough examination of the relevant material reveals that, save a single text, minut is virtually never associated explicitly with Christianity. Furthermore, its fault is presented by various early rabbinic texts as social separatism, and it is frequently associated with the “Nations of the world.” Minim, accordingly, are constructed as Jews who separated themselves from the community. As such, they are treated as traitors who joined the enemy’s camp. This suggests that, for Palestinian rabbis of the second and early third century, minut was no less a social-communal issue than a doctrinal one. Admittedly, various sources have contributed to the perception of the minim in classical rabbinic literature from a doctrinal perspective—which seems to so many to be self-evident and of no need for any justification— which indeed gives the impression that the apostasy of the minim lies in the fact that they held wrong and unaccepted views, and that these heretical doctrines were the issue that troubled the sages. A thorough examination of all references to minim and minut in earliest rabbinic (Tannaitic) literature, however, reveals that the picture is much more complex. Minut is frequently spoken of as social segregation, and minim are depicted by various sources not only as expressing dissenting views but also as having different customs and ways of practicing their Judaism.80 In contrast to the conventional depiction of minut, then, I shall draw attention to the centrality of nondoctrinal, but rather communal-social, concerns in many of the rabbinic texts pertaining to minut. Furthermore, I shall suggest that even in cases where minut is presented as the holding of a theological view, many of these views can be related to an existential stance of denial of God, which was seen by Palestinian rabbis as leading to a renunciation of the Jewish community. Accordingly, I shall suggest that the core of the polemic was not purely theological, one that has to do with various speculations about the nature of God. Rather, it was a polemic over the unity and social existence of the Jewish community.

Creating Boundaries Functionally, the early rabbinic discourse of minut is a discourse of social boundaries. As Karen King has written: “ ‘Orthodoxy’ and ‘heresy’ are terms of evaluation that aim to articulate the meaning of self while simultaneously silencing and excluding others within the group.”81 And the rabbinic discourse

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of minut is no exception. The question that needs to be asked, however, is under what circumstances such is a discourse born. The sociologist Kai T. Erikson theorized that a society’s need to establish its ideological boundaries is a result of an identity crisis it undergoes.82 According to this theory, a discourse of maintenance of identity boundaries is a society’s reaction to social situation of identity crisis. When a society’s identity is questioned and consequently becomes unstable, that society may need to reestablish its identity. This is frequently done by creating boundaries—social, religious, cultural, or ideological—to clearly demarcate the lines of belonging. Deciding “Who we are” also answers “Who we are.” Rather than engaging in a proclamation of its distinctive “self,” it excludes some of its members and constructs them as “others,” thereby answering the identity question, “Who are we?” by negatively declaring “who we are not.” As noted by the cognitive sociologist Eviatar Zerubavel, this happens “especially during periods of great instability”: As they go through a major identity crisis, for example, groups, just like individuals, become much more protective of their boundaries. Particularly anxious about their identity, they tend to become obsessed with treason, heresy, and other transgressions and often resort to various “rites of exclusion,” including persecution, as a way of reaffirming them.83 The period immediately following the destruction of the Second Temple can be seen as such a period of instability in the history of Palestinian Jewish society in antiquity. As will be shown, various sources indeed testify to the existence of an identity crisis in precisely that era. Accordingly, I suggest interpreting the rabbinic discourse of minut as a response to inner existential crisis, which was brought about by Roman victory and Jewish defeat. In order to restate to itself its distinctive identity, Palestinian Jewish society had to answer the question, “Who are we?” and this was achieved by a discourse of minut, in which some members of that society were labeled as minim and thereby constructed as “others” and placed beyond the pale. Intuitively, one tends to assume that the exclusion of some of society’s members must be related to a certain major issue, in respect to which those excluded were seen as deviants, and because of which they were expelled. That there are instances of this kind cannot be denied. However, as has been noted by sociologists of deviance, very often this is not the case: the “reason” for the persecution of religious deviants is frequently unknown and not understood, neither by the persecutors nor by the persecuted!84 This led sociologists of deviance to suggest that it is rather a society’s need to accentuate differences,

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because of an identity crisis that it undergoes, which attracts its attention to certain distinctive features of some of its members’ social existence. These features are then bestowed vital significance so as to highlight the “difference” between “them” and “us” and to make the construction of these members as “others” seem judicious. In the course of this process, it frequently happens that minor and insignificant issues become important identity markers. This is a result of the need to “find” some feature of “our” way of life that would distinguish between “us” and “others.” Without that need, it is entirely possible that these issues would have passed unnoticed. Hence, what bestow significance on any given characteristic of a society’s way of life are the social-historical circumstances of need for highlighting differences, which attract people’s attention to their unique and distinctive identity markers, and consequently accentuate any given difference between them and others.85 This is precisely what happens when a society undergoes an identity crisis, hence Georg Simmel’s remark that: “The persecution of heretics and dissenters springs from the instinct for the necessity of group unity.86 Such an approach, when applied to the early rabbinic discourse of minut, may clarify the diversity of the references to minim and minut in early rabbinic texts. It may offer an explanation for why some of these texts present minut as a threat to a central tenet of Judaism, whereas other early rabbinic texts relating to minim or minut refer to what may appear as a minor issues of custom that, of itself, cannot be considered as representing a recognizably non-Jewish way of life. In times of instability, even such minor deviations from what is considered the “standard” are given much significance, as they are treated as signs of detachment from the community. This, I suggest, provides a framework for a better understanding of the social-historical process of the emergence of Christianity as a distinct, nonJewish religious entity in late ancient rabbinic discourse. My argument is that the distinct religious stances of the followers of Jesus were not, in and of themselves, profoundly “non-Jewish” in their nature, to the degree that their holding automatically deemed them as “non-Jews.” Quite to the contrary: as will be shown, many of these religious stances are found in other Jewish circles of the late Second Temple era, and later even in rabbinic sources.87 This indicates that it was not these stances, as such, that caused those who expressed them to be ousted from the Jewish community but, rather, the specific historical circumstances, which gave rise to a frantic sensitivity to identity and differences, that motivated that social reaction of exclusion. This was not a mere “discursive act”; it was a very real social one, for the mental world that a discourse of heresy, minut, creates has, ultimately, some

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real social consequence: it creates boundaries within society, places some of its members beyond the pale, and thus creates and sustains social identity. Furthermore, as we shall see, the rabbis established actual rules that govern social relations with minim in a manner that, if followed, indeed excluded them from the community. From the rabbinic point of view, then, it is the labeling of the followers of Jesus as minim that transformed them, in the end, into social “others,” that is, as “Christians.”

Midrash, Literature, and History This book is a historical project. Its sources, however, are mostly literary, not “historical” in the strict sense of the word. My use of these sources for historical purposes necessitates, therefore, some elaboration. As noted by Averil Cameron, one of the reasons why traditionally “histories of the development of Christianity in the Roman Empire written by historians and from the historical point of view have focused more on its social and institutional dimensions” is the “wider indifference among historians to the use of literature (as distinct from ‘literary sources’) as evidence.”88 Apparently, these historians maintain a relatively sharp dichotomy between “historical” sources and literary ones. A historian, they appear to believe, utilizes the former and should therefore leave the latter to literary critics and students of literature. This may be said of historians of ancient Judaism as well. Many of them expect a historical reconstruction pertaining to the classical rabbinic period to base itself first and foremost on those rabbinic sources that appear to be “historical,” that is, on sources that appear to be “describing” events, not on sources that are normative, or homiletical, in nature. This expectation is quite surprising, given the prevalent recognition of the literary nature of rabbinic narratives, which these historians do not deny.89 Nonetheless, using thisor-that rabbinic story, or “evidential testimony,” is still considered a valid procedure—even if problematic—while making “history” out of a homiletical text seems to many positivist historians to be imaginative at best. Although the dichotomy between the literary and the documentary may arguably be maintained with respect to modern history, it can hardly be sustained when it comes to rabbinic literature. The documentary here is as much literary as the literary itself. Moreover, as Daniel Boyarin correctly noted, “The notion that rabbinic literature of any genre is autonomous (in the New Critical sense) seems counter-intuitive in the extreme. If ever there was a literature whose very form declares its embeddedment in social practice and historical

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reality, it is these texts.”90 This assumption enables us to rehistoricize these texts, and consequently to use them for historical purposes. The assumption on which my reading and use of midrash rests is that the rabbinic homiletical enterprise is responsive in its nature. That is, it is a response to existential and cultural challenges current in that society with which the rabbis were concerned.91 Approaching midrashic materials with this assumption, I am interested in the challenges to which the rabbinic texts try to offer a solution, and not so much in the solutions themselves. The latter may have been effective, or not, depending on the presumed role that the rabbis played in Palestinian Jewish society in their time, which is a much debated question that I do not address here.92 The former, however, are not at all affected by this question, and it is precisely these challenges to which my attention is paid. By treating midrash as a response to challenges posed by the social, political, existential, and cultural reality, in which Palestinian Jews lived during the second through fifth centuries C .E., I by no means wish to deny its hermeneutic character. Nor am I trying to belittle its theological content and messages. I am not a reductionist. As was emphasized by Wayne Meeks, however, “To assert that only theological interpretation of the canonical texts is legitimate is surely only another kind of reductionism.”93 Along similar lines, to maintain that the motivation behind a particular midrashic interpretation of Scripture is only to solve a hermeneutic difficulty in the biblical text “is surely only another kind of reductionism.”94 What makes midrash so special, in my opinion, is precisely its ability to address burning actual social, political, religious, and moral issues in a manner that would genuinely appear to its audience to stem from the text of the Holy Scriptures. Acknowledging the interpretive dimension in the midrashic move, however, should not lead us to assume that dimension to be also its motivating force and consequently to characterize it as an interpretive enterprise in its essence. Because of the significance of this issue for the interpretation of rabbinic texts exercised in this study, a concrete argument in its favor would not be superfluous. In a 1999 article, Moshe Halbertal discusses various midrashic passages in which the midrash presents its interpretation of Scripture as if it were compulsory on the homilist by the biblical text itself, and the homilist claims that if it were not so he would not have dared to offer his interpretation.95 What is so surprising with these midrashic texts, Halbertal points out, is that a simple reading of the biblical text reveals that its language does not require at all that specific reading suggested by the homilist! Quite to the contrary: his interpretation is not Scripture’s plain meaning, and one could have easily avoided the embarrassing conclusion the homilist claims to have drawn from

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the biblical text, if one had simply followed its plain meaning. The homilist’s claim that he is forced, against his will, as it were, to offer his interpretation of the biblical text because this interpretation is required by Scripture is simply not true. This state of affairs clearly indicates that the midrashic interpretation was not a product of the homilist’s reading of the biblical text. Rather, it was a presupposed concept with which the homilist approached the biblical text, and which he wanted to endow with privilege, by presenting it as if it were rooted in the holy words of Scripture. Because the rabbis of the Midrash were so ingenious, it is usually difficult to uncover this character of their homiletical interpretations of Scripture, which in many cases may be presented as if they were motivated by the need to solve interpretive difficulties in the biblical text. This, however, must not mask the responsive character, to things external to the text, of the midrashic enterprise and should not prevent us from trying to uncover the social, political, and cultural reality to which the midrash addressed itself. By so doing, the present project attempts to historicize midrash and, in turn, to rehabilitate it for historical purposes.

The Plan of the Book Applying the responsive approach to classical rabbinic homiletical and literary sources, I attempt, then, to reconstruct and historically contextualize the early rabbinic discourse of minut in general, and in relation to Christianity in particular. I suggest, as noted earlier, that the early followers of Jesus were marginalized by means of labeling them as minim and applying to them various rules that aimed at excluding minim from the community. The book is divided, accordingly, into two parts. The first addresses minut in general, and the second proceeds to show how this category is related to Christianity. As I wish to root the rabbinic discourse of minut in an identity crisis, which Palestinian Jewish society had undergone as a result of the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C .E . and the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt in 135 C .E., I devote chapter 1 to establishing the historicity of such a crisis among Palestinian Jews of late first and second centuries C .E. In chapter 2, I suggest that the early rabbinic discourse of minut indeed reflects a conceptualization of heresy as an outcome of such an identity crisis. I then offer a reconstruction of that discourse and highlight its social-national character by pointing at various early rabbinic sources that depict minut as social aloofness and collaboration with the enemy, and associate it with the “Nations of the World.”

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Chapter 3 is devoted to the rabbinic “Laws of Minim,” that is, to the rabbinic regulations that attempt to exclude the minim from the community by prohibiting any social and economical relations with them. This raises the question of the identity of the minim. This question is addressed in the second part of chapter 3, and the possibility of identifying them specifically as Christians is discussed and rejected. Based on this conclusion, I approach in chapter 4 the only Tannaitic source in which minim are unambiguously identified as Christians. Following a literary analysis of that source, I suggest viewing it as the locus where the labeling of the followers of Jesus as minim is first introduced. This enables me to argue that the labeling of the early followers of Jesus as minim and their ensuing exclusion from the Jewish community was a process that had been first initiated by Palestinian rabbis during the first third of the second century C.E. By its very nature this was a very slow process, which required much time to be completed. Because, however, it was supported by a structurally similar move from the other side by church leaders, and because it went hand in hand with Roman discourse, the recognition in the distinct character of Christianity vis-à-vis Judaism was accepted by many already during the second century C.E. In Chapter 5, I turn to the question of why the early Christians were identified as minim. Here I examine two major religious issues that are said by modern scholars to have stood at the focus of rabbinic treatment of Christianity: the Christian notion of Jesus as God’s Son, and Paul’s concept of faith. I suggest an alternative reading according to which the rabbis were virtually not troubled by Christianity but, rather, by the theological implication of the Roman imperial power. This leads to chapter 6, which discusses the Christianization of the Roman Empire. The main argument of chapter 6 is that, contrary to prevalent scholarly opinion, Constantine’s conversion and the resulting Christianization of the Roman Empire were, from the rabbinic point of view, of relatively little significance. Palestinian rabbis of late antiquity continued to view Rome as a powerful oppressor, without paying too much attention to its new religious character. It had one major difference, however; the Christianization of the Empire gave a final and formal confirmation to the long process of Christianity’s break from Judaism. From here on, Christians would have been no longer regarded as Jewish sectarians but, rather, were unequivocally recognized as gentile Romans. Thus, the Christianization of the Roman Empire gave the process of the estrangement of the Jesus movement from the Jewish People its ultimate closing.

introduction

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Appendix: A Note on the Use of Rabbinic Texts A historical perspective, as the one embraced here, is characterized by its interest in uncovering and locating historical change. For a historical project such as the present one it is necessary, therefore, to distinguish between early and later developments, hence between early and late materials. Talmudic scholarship has shown that classical rabbinic works of later periods—such as the Babylonian Talmud, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, or the postAmoraic midrashic compilations—reworked their sources in quite aggressive ways.96 This should warn us against using materials found in these works without great caution, and certainly against mixing these materials with the testimony of early rabbinic compilations97—the Mishnah, the Tosefta, and the Tannaitic midrashim—which, according to the opinion of nearly all students of rabbinic literature, were compiled and redacted in Palestine during the third century C.E.98 As I am interested in a historical process, which, in my view, took place during the second century, I shall confine myself, as much as possible, to rabbinic traditions found in the Tannaitic compilations, which, it may reasonably be argued, preserve early rabbinic traditions in a much closer manner to their original form than much later rabbinic works do.99 The attempt to relate ideological developments in rabbinic literature to specific historical circumstances rests on the methodological assumption that it is indeed possible to assign, even if roughly, rabbinic dicta to the relevant period. In light of the fact that none of the rabbinic documents predates the third century C.E., one might find this assumption quite problematic if applied to the world of Palestinian rabbis of the second century. As I have argued elsewhere, however, a distinction should be made between Amoraic (and postAmoraic) sources (i.e., rabbinic works that took their form during the fifth through the seventh century C.E.) and Tannaitic sources (i.e., rabbinic works that, according to the now prevalent scholarly opinion, were compiled and redacted during the first half of the third century C.E.). Although the assumption that the former preserve second-century rabbinic traditions in a manner fairly close to their original form may be questioned, employing this assumption with respect to Tannaitic literature is much more tenable. Many of the traditions relating to minut in the Tannaitic sources are attributed to sages who flourished during the first third of the second century. Can these traditions teach us anything about the views current in rabbinic circles of that period? Following the lead of Jacob Neusner, who doubts the historical value of the attributions of sayings to named rabbis in classical rabbinic literature, no matter of what period, a widespread scholarly opinion maintains

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that the most one can do with these traditions is to use them as evidence for the world of the editors of the documents in which they are presently found.100 However, as Seth Schwartz has recently written: To insist on questioning the accuracy of “attributions” in rabbinic literature . . . on the grounds that later rabbis and/or the editors of the documents had some motivation to falsify them, and may in any case simply have misremembered, is salutary. But to conclude that we must assume the falsity of attributions, that therefore(?) the documents are essentially pseudepigraphic and can be assumed to provide evidence only for the interests of their redactors, is in fact no longer a skeptical but a positivist position and is less plausible than the one it replaced.101 This warning should be borne in mind before one passes a sweeping judgment on the date of any given rabbinic dictum, especially those found in Tannaitic documents. In my opinion, there is no specific reason to suspect the authenticity of the attributions in these works and to reject the ensuing conclusion that these traditions indeed go back to the late first and early second century C .E. (what is frequently referred to as the “Yavneh generation”).102 It is not only a general trust in these attributions, however, that leads me to this conclusion. The attributions of statements pertaining to minim and minut to rabbis of late first and early second centuries are found in many independent traditions, in different Tannaitic documents. The very fact that divergent documents, in so many sources, attribute to rabbis of that generation discussions of minut and minim stands, in my opinion, against a wholesale discrediting of their value as evidence, however problematic, for the thoughts and activity of Palestinian rabbis during the second century.

1 “Where Is Their God?” Destruction, Defeat, and Identity Crisis

The thirteenth-century Spanish Talmud commentator Rabbi Shlomo ben Abraham ben Aderet, known to students of the Talmud as “Rashba,” in his commentary on the legends of the Babylonian Talmud, articulates what we may call “a theory of heresy”: “When the community of God’s worshippers [i.e., Israel] is downtrodden,” Rashba writes, “belief decreases and the denial of truth spreads. As it is said: ‘When he sees that their power is gone and there is none remaining bond or free, he will say: Where is their God, the rock in whom they took refuge’ (Deut. 32:39).”1 In Rashba’s view, heresy is an outcome of the political status of the Jewish people. When the Jews are oppressed by their enemies, a doubt concerning the competence of their God is raised, and this is the cause of heresy. “Heresy,” according to this “theory,” is not merely an intellectual holding of a false opinion concerning God. It is a false opinion of a very particular nature: it is the questioning of God’s providence and efficacy, which might lead even to a denial of His very existence. Such qualms, moreover, are not a product of intellectual speculation, or of one’s reading of Scripture. Rather, they are the “conclusion” one is drawn to by the difficult social-political reality. We may say, then, that “heresy,” according to this “theory,” is much more than a “false view”; it is a mood. In order to distinguish this meaning of “heresy” from the intellectual one, I shall refer to it as “emotional heresy.” To be sure, “emotional heresy” has an “intellectual” aspect: after all, it too leads to a certain “thought” about God. However,

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there may be an important difference between an “opinion” about God that is rooted in “theological thinking” and an “opinion” about Him that is the result of emotional state of despair. The former need not necessarily lead one to desert God;2 the latter, in contrast, might lead one not only to question God’s providence, as a theoretical issue, but also to desert Him and the community of His believers. Consequently, the challenge that “emotional heresy” poses may be much more severe than the one posed by “intellectual heresy.” It involves social aspects as well, as it threatens the social cohesion of the community. Accordingly, the reaction to this type of heresy may need to follow a different path than the one taken in the case of “intellectual heresy.” The latter needs to be answered; the former calls for a strengthening of the sense of solidarity among the community’s members. For this reason, a discourse of heresy that has “emotional heresy” as its center may be characterized as “social discourse,” for its main objective is to defend the cohesion of the community, rather than to engage in debate about “theological truth.” The argument presented in the following chapters is that such a “theory of heresy” characterizes much (although, perhaps, not all) of the early rabbinic discourse of minut. My aim, therefore, in this chapter and the one to follow, is to show that such a “theory” can indeed be traced back to the complex web of texts pertaining to minut in the earliest strata of classical rabbinic literature.3 To this end, in this chapter I explore the traumatic impact of the destruction of the Second Temple and the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt on Palestinian Jewry of the second and early third centuries C.E., as it is reflected in earliest rabbinic literature. This will enable me to suggest, in chapter 2, that in the view of Palestinian rabbis the effects of this trauma are the causes of minut.4 My point of departure is the simple assumption that a political and military defeat of the magnitude of the destruction of the Second Temple must be religiously and existentially troublesome for the community of believers. While still standing, the Temple of Jerusalem was the center of Jewish religious life,5 and many even considered it “the Lord’s dwelling” in a very literal sense. As Ed P. Sanders puts it: “The Temple was holy not only because the holy God was worshipped there, but also because he was there.”6 How, then, did Palestinian Jews explain to themselves its fall in 70 C.E.? How did they account for their military defeats and their enduring political subjugation by the powerful Roman Empire? Surprisingly, these questions are seldom discussed. Instead, it is commonly assumed that traditionally Jews tended to blame themselves for their failures and to see them as heavenly punishments for their sins and misconducts. As Shaye J. D. Cohen once wrote: “The standard Jewish response to such questions [was] ‘It was because of our sins.’ ”7 Hans Joachim Schoeps

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went even a step further and claimed that: “This is the Jewish historical consciousness.”8 Indeed, in studies of Palestinian Judaism in the wake of the Destruction, it is most often taken for granted that Palestinian Jews of the late first and second century C.E. “followed the old prophetic line of selfaccusation and ascribed the downfall to the people’s own transgressions.”9 As a result, the question concerning the explanations given by Palestinian Jews to their defeats is usually not even addressed, and only slight attention is given in scholarly literature to other, much less “pious” reactions to the catastrophic events. Therefore, the weight of the trauma is obscured.10 Yet, Jewish literature of late first century C.E., as well as rabbinic literature of the third century C.E., preserves evidence of a deep crisis of faith among Palestinian Jews of that period, who refused to follow the “standard” theology of “sin and punishment.” The question raised by many at that time was: Where was, and where is, God?11 For, within the framework of both biblical tradition and that of GrecoRoman paganism, “a divinity may be defined as a supernatural power which is capable of rendering benefits to the community of worshippers and which manifests its divinity by specific actions producing a characteristic result. Man’s knowledge of divine power can be drawn from no better source than the certain evidence of benefits received from the gods.”12 As stated most plainly in a second century C.E. catechetical text: “What is a god? That which is strong” (τί -εός; τò κρατουν).13 This consideration implies, however, also the opposite: if God’s power cannot be observed, His very divinity is questioned.14 And because many Jews as well as many gentiles in antiquity “recognized that the God of the Jews was a powerful God,”15 a lack of display of His power could lead to the conclusion that He was defeated by the enemy.16 Echoes of such voices can indeed be heard in the earliest strata of rabbinic literature, as we shall shortly see. As noted by Seth Schwartz, “The standard discussions of ‘responses to the destruction’ . . . tend to concentrate on explicit post-70 discussions of the destruction—mainly 4 Ezra and similar works, and the heavily homiletic discussions in rabbinic literature, composed centuries after the event.”17 The following discussion follows a different path: rather than concentrating on explicit rabbinic discussions of the Destruction (which are, indeed, found mostly in texts “composed centuries after the event”), I direct my attention to voices of doubt concerning God’s power and providence, which I then consider as implicit and indirect existential reactions to the military and political defeat of the Jews and to their continuous repression by the oppressive Roman empire. Such reactions are found in the earliest strata of rabbinic tradition and should be dated to the second century C.E.18

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A Crisis of Faith The Tannaitic midrash on Deuteronomy, the Sifre, views God’s declaration of His divinity in Deut. 32:39 (“See now that I, even I, am He”), as a reply to a doubt concerning His power and very being, which is raised by Israel’s enemy, the Roman Empire, as a result of the destruction of the Temple. This reading of God’s declaration is related by the midrash to a reading of the previous verses, Deut. 32:37–38: “Then he will say: Where are their gods, the rock in which they took refuge, who ate the fat of their sacrifices and drank the wine of their drink offering? Let them rise up and help you! Let them be your protection!” According to the Sifre, the subject of these verses (“then he will say”) is Israel’s foe, who taunts Israel, saying “Where is your God”: “Then he will say: Where are their gods” (Deut. 32:37)— . . . Rabbi Nehemiah says: This refers to the wicked Titus, the son of the wife of Vespasian, who entered the Holy of Holies and tore the two veils with a sword and said: If He is really a god, let Him come and protest!19 Rabbi Nehemiah was a disciple of Rabbi Aqiva and flourished in the second third of the second century C.E., that is, in the generation following the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt.20 In contrast to his colleague Rabbi Judah, who read these verses as addressed to the nations of the world,21 Rabbi Nehemiah read these verses as the enemy’s address, whom he identified specifically with the commander of the Roman military force, Titus. He is the one to whom Scripture refers as the one who “will say.” What will he say? “Where is your God,” that is, in Rabbi Nehemiah’s words, Titus’ provocative declaration: “If He is really a god, let Him come and protest.” The theological claim implicit in the affront the midrash puts in Titus’ mouth is that God’s abstention from displaying His might casts doubt on His divinity. If He does not “protest” it is because He is unable to do so, and this implies that He is not really a god. In other early rabbinic texts Titus’ taunt is understood as an expression of a stronger claim, namely, that the reason for God’s “silence” is simply His death: They destroyed all of Jerusalem, until they reached the Temple. When they reached the Temple, they said to one another: Who will be first to enter the Temple? There was present there a wicked man, Titus, the son of Vespasian’s wife, who defiantly entered, confirming the verse “A wicked man puts on a bold face” (Prov. 21:29). What is

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more, he drew his sword and slashed the curtains, and blood began to spurt forth from them [the curtains], and the evil one (Titus) thought that he killed “himself” (God), confirming what Scripture says: “He runs stubbornly against God with a thick-bossed shield” (Job 15:26). What is more, he dragged a prostitute into the Holy of Hollies, and he began to blaspheme, curse, vilify and spit toward Him on high, saying; So this is the one who you say slaughtered Sisera and Sennacherib?! Here I am in his house and in his domain, if he has any power let him come out and face me! This was to fulfill what Scripture says: “Then he will say, where are their gods, the rock in which they took refuge, who ate the fat of their sacrifices . . .” (Deut. 32:37–38).22 According to this story, Titus (“the evil one”) thought that “he killed ‘himself,’ ” which is a euphemism for God. The story gives voice, in the most explicit manner, to the thought that Titus actually killed God. We may allow ourselves the assumption that Rabbi Nehemiah himself did not share this view; in fact the story, as a whole, is aimed at rejecting this thought, for it argues that Titus’ eventual death was God’s demonstration of His great power, thus overturning Titus’ thought that he killed God in His house. Nonetheless, the fact that the story allowed such a speculation to be heard is in itself a strong indication as of that view’s circulation and attractiveness. To the spirit of what period does this story give evidence? The text quoted above is the one found in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, which in its present form is admittedly a late work that should be dated somewhere between the sixth and the eighth centuries C .E.23 This could lead one to maintain that the story should be dated to this late period. However, the roots of that work are undoubtedly Tannaitic, and there are clear traces of an early redaction, somewhere in the third century C .E.24 Furthermore, the story’s end (i.e., Titus’ punishment) is hinted at by the concluding remark in the Sifre itself: “Anything the Holy One, blessed be He, forgives; but the desecration of His Name he requites immediately.”25 Implicit in this remark is the reader’s acquaintance with a tradition regarding Titus’ fate, which, in turn, substantiates the Tannaitic origin of the story. Indeed, in some of its versions the story is augmented by a comment of Rabbi Elazar ben Yossi, and this shows that at least some form of it was known already in his time, that is, in the second half of the second century, in close proximity to Rabbi Nehemiah’s days.26 But even if one would hesitate in accepting this conclusion concerning the dating of the story, the theological assertion ascribed to Titus by Rabbi Nehemiah, namely, that God’s “silence” indicates His inability to respond (hence a doubt

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concerning His divinity), is in itself certainly an idea that was circulating in Tannaitic times.27 This tradition struggles with an existential stance that considered Rome’s military and political victory as casting doubt on God’s divinity.28 That there was a need to struggle with such existential distress is proven by another story, found in the Tannaitic midrash on Leviticus, the Sifra: When Trugyanus killed Papos and his brother Lullianus in Ladocea, he said to them: Are you not of the people of Hannaniah, Mishael and Azzariah? Let your God come and save you from my hand! They said to him: Hannaniah, Mishael and Azzariah were worthy men, and Nebuchadnezzar was suitable that a miracle would be done on his account. But you are a wicked king, and you are not suitable that a miracle would be done on your account. [Moreover], we are liable to death penalty before Heaven; if it is not you who kills us, there are many agents to the Omnipresent: many bears, many lions, many panthers, many snakes, many scorpions, to injure us. However, at the end the Omnipresent will claim our blood from you.29 This piece of rabbinic martyrology is aimed at subverting the imperial discourse of power, and offers an answer to internal existential anxiety. The Roman official30 challenges the Jewish belief in the divinity of God by suggesting that if God does not protect His people this indicates that He cannot intervene in the world. And if so, the Jews’ fate rests in the hand of imperial power and will. The Roman ruler is answered by the two brothers, who offer him a different way of looking at the political reality, which leads to a different possible conclusion. They maintain that their upcoming death is nothing but God’s own action, and that the Roman official functions in this scene merely as an instrument in God’s hands. They belittle him by equating him to any other of God’s servants, such as the wild beasts, and his assumption concerning the religious meaning of his might is thus rejected. The story’s argument is that God’s apparent refraining from displaying His power should not lead one to conclude that He is powerless, or that He does not exist.31 A Jew suffering death from the hand of a Roman, the story maintains, is not an indication of God’s inability to protect His people; rather, it is merely God’s punishment for the Jew’s sins.32 Whether or not such an explanation was convincing for the story’s audience will not trouble us here. It is not the text’s theological response to the challenge that attracts my attention; rather, it is the challenge itself that needs to be emphasized. That challenge was borne out by the political condition of Palestinian Jews in the second century. Admittedly, it is put, just like in the

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Titus story, in the mouth of a Roman, who provocatively mocks the Jews by pointing at their God’s refrain from helping them: “Let your God come and save you from my hand!” Indeed, that some Romans expressed such claims concerning Israel’s God’s divinity is shown by Minucius Felix, who puts in the mouth of Caecilius the claim that: “The hapless Jewish people served One God . . . but the One is so lacking in strength and power that He as well as His people are captive in the hands of the Romans.”33 However, as was noted long ago by Arthur Marmorstein, “It would be a mistake to assume that only pagans held such views about God’s power as ascribed to Titus. There must have been many Jews after 68 C.E., and after the catastrophe in the year 135, who doubted God’s might.”34 God’s silence in face of His people’s fate surely appeared to some as His inability to act because of lack of power, and this led to doubt concerning His very divinity. One Tannaitic tradition, in which this problem is raised, is found in the Tannaitic midrash on Exodus, the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael. Among its various interpretations to Ex. 15:11, “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods,” the Mekhilta offers the following one: “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods” (Ex. 15:11)—Who is like You in silence, O Lord, who is like You among the silent ones, O Lord, who is like You, who though seeing the insult heaped upon Your children, yet You keep silence. As it is said: “I have long time held My peace, I have been still, and refrained Myself; now will I cry like a travailing woman, gasping and panting at once” (Is. 42:14).35 The Mekhilta interprets the biblical phrase, “Who is like You among the gods,” as if it means: “Who is like You among the silent ones.” This interpretation 36 plays on the resemblance of the word ‫“( אלים‬gods”) to the word ‫א לם‬, . mute. The Mekhilta thus interprets the biblical verse as expressing the idea that God restrains Himself and does not react against Israel’s enemies, although He sees “the insult heaped upon His children.”37 In its context, this interpretation is clearly presented as God’s praise: God’s greatness is expressed in His ability to restrain Himself and remain “mute,” despite what He sees that happens to His children.38 Such an idea cannot be understood, however, but as reaction to a counterclaim, namely, that God’s abstaining from reacting against Israel’s enemies is an indication of His powerlessness.39 What makes the rabbinic response so cunning is the fact that it uses a major Roman value, that of “self-restraint,” in order to subvert the supremacy of Rome itself. One may justifiably doubt whether the rabbinic ideological idea was successful in convincing and comforting desperate Palestinian Jews of the Tannaitic era, but this question is immaterial

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for our discussion. What is important for the present discussion is not that ideology’s effectiveness; rather, it is its pointing at the crisis itself that makes it valuable historical evidence.40 The root of that crisis was, as we have seen, the problem of God’s refraining from displaying His power. This is given the clearest expression in a rendering of Job 37:23, which is attributed to the early-third-century sage Rav: “Said Rav Huna in the name of Rav: ‘The Almighty we cannot find Him great in power’ (Job 37:23)—we do not observe the power and might of the Holy.”41 The plain meaning of the biblical verse is that God is “great in power,” as it is indeed rendered by modern translations. Rav’s reading should therefore be seen as a bold statement that does not hesitate to express in the most unequivocal manner the claims regarding God’s lack of power.42 Such a bold and honest declaration indicates that the crisis was deep indeed.

No Power in Heaven How can God’s lack of display of His power be explained? There appear to be three theoretical options: one could maintain that God was “killed,” and He does not exist. Alternatively, one could hold that God may still be living, but His power has diminished, and it is for this reason that He was unable to defend Himself. Still there is another possibility, that God may exist, but he was defeated because there are other divine powers, other gods, who might, at times, be stronger than Him. These possibilities are presented together by various rabbinic sources, all of which are relatively early. Thus, in the immediately following passage to the one in which Titus’ taunt against God’s power is cited in the Sifre to Deuteronomy, we read: “See now that I, even I, am He [who is]” (Deut. 32:39)—this is a refutation of those who maintain that there is no Power in heaven. He who says: There are two Powers in heaven, is answered: “And there is no God with me” (ibid.). Perhaps [there is Power in Heaven, and only one, but] He has no ability to revive or to kill, to do evil or to make good? Scripture teaches: “I kill and give life” (ibid.).43 This is a midrash on an enigmatic phrase in the Song of Moses: ‫ראו עתה כי‬ ‫אני אני הוא‬, which is usually translated: “See now that I, even I, am He.” With all likelihood, the midrash understood the Hebrew differently; that is, it most probably read the demonstrative pronoun ‫ הוא‬as ‫הוה‬, that is, “present,” existing.44 Consequently, the midrash could claim that this verse may serve a

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refutation of the assertion that “there is no Power in heaven,” for God declares: “See now that I exist.” At the same time, the following words of the verse serve a refutation of the assertion that “there are two Powers in heaven,” for God is saying here: “and there is no god besides me.” Yet, the final words of the verse serve a refutation of the assertion that God has no power to kill or to give life, because Scripture says explicitly, “I kill and I revive.” It is important to note that this is not the only place in Tannaitic literature in which these theological claims are presented together. A joint exposition of these assertions is found in other Tannaitic sources as well, such as the following passage in the Sifre Zutta Numbers: “The person” (Num. 15:30)—this refers to one who maintains that there is no Power in heaven. “Person” and “the person”—this refers to one who maintains that there are two Powers in heaven.45 This is a midrashic comment on Num. 15:30: “But the person who does anything with a high hand . . . reviles the Lord.” The midrash attempts to identify the nature of the crime referred to by the biblical phrase, “reviles the Lord,” and it suggests that this crime includes both he who maintains that “there is no Power in heaven,” and he who says that “there are two Powers in heaven.” The hermeneutic assumptions operating in this midrash are not entirely clear, yet they need not concern us at the present.46 It is important only to observe that here again “one who maintains that there is no Power in heaven” is grouped together with he who maintains that “there are two Powers in heaven.” Both assertions are presented as equal expressions of one and the same basic stance toward God, which is understood by the midrash as a basic stance of denial of God, equal to idolatry.47 In the following passage, from the Tannaitic midrash to Exodus, the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, we see the grouping together of the claim that there are “two Powers in heaven” with the claim regarding God’s lack of power: I. “The Lord is a man of war” (Ex. 15:3)—why is this said? . . . Scripture would not let the nations of the world to have an excuse for saying that there are two Powers, but declares: “The Lord is a man of war, the Lord is His name.” He, it is, who was in Egypt, and He who was at the sea. It is He who was in the past and He who will be in the future. It is He who is in this world, and He who will be in the world to come. As it is said: “See now that I, even I, am He [who is]” (Deut. 32:39). And it also says, “Who hath wrought and done it? He that called the generations from the beginning, I, the Lord, who am the first, and with the last am the same” (Isa. 41:4).

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brothers estr anged II. There may be a hero in a country who is fully equipped with all the implements of warfare, but possesses neither strength nor courage, nor the knowledge of the tactics and the order of warfare. He by whose word the world came into being, however, is not so, but He has strength, courage and knowledge of the tactics and the order of warfare, as it is said: “For the battle is the Lord’s and He will give you into our hand” (1Sam. 17:47). And it is written: “A Psalm of David, blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle” (Ps. 144:1). There may be a hero in the country, but the strength which he has at the age of forty is not like that which he has at sixty; nor is the strength which he has at sixty the same as at seventy, but as he goes on his strength becomes diminished. He, by whose word the world came into being, however, is not so, but “I the Lord change not” (Mal. 3:6).48

Here, too, we see an association of two of the three theological assertions refuted by the Sifre. In the first part, the midrash stresses that even though God may manifest Himself in various manners, and has different appearances, this should not cause one to question the monotheistic principle, as the nations of the world do by maintaining that there are “two Powers.”49 The second part of the midrash focuses on God’s power. The midrash claims that not only does God himself not change but also that His potency had not diminished. Therefore, as Judah Goldin has noted: “By citing the verse from Malachi [the Mekhilta] passage is driving at expressing the idea that ‘I, the Lord, am not unfaithful, but can always be depended on.’ ”50 To be sure, any one of these assertions may be treated separately as a mere theological stance, and consequently be viewed from a pure doctrinal perspective. That is, one could treat each of these assertions as if it were a pure theological contention, and view the rabbinic motivation to refute it as emanating from a theological concern for doctrinal truth, which regards that contention as theologically false. The rabbis, according to such an approach, were concerned with various theological propositions, with which they disagreed, such as the possible existence of divine powers other than God. The Tannaitic sources, however, treat these assertions in tandem, a fact that undermines this possibility and indicates that the rabbis understood all three as emanating from one and the same problem, and reflecting one and the same issue. What was it? Common to these three assertions is the doubt they express regarding God’s sovereignty: either the historical reality is a result of God’s death (“there is no Power in heaven”), or a result of His defeat by another power (“there are two

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Powers in heaven”), that at times might be stronger than Him, or a simple result of His weakness due to His “old age.” In all of the quoted midrashic texts in this chapter, the rabbis emphasize that God’s strength is still “with Him”: He exists and is still full of His power. The rabbis felt a need to express loudly God’s efficacy because it had been questioned as a consequence of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, and as a result of Jews’ defeat in the Bar Kokhba rebellion. These events were taken by many to imply not only Israel’s failure but God’s, too.51 It is in light of this crisis, then, that the three theological positions, which are presented and refuted in sequence by the Sifre, should be understood. They are not mere expressions of pure theological thinking;52 rather, they are expressions of a deep doubt regarding the aptitude of the God of Israel, indeed regarding His divinity, perhaps even His very existence.53 Indeed, the abovequoted passage from the Sifre, which emphasizes God’s existence and potency, comes right after—therefore, as a response to—the assertion ascribed to Titus, “If He is really a god let Him come and protest.” These doubts could have led Jews to renounce their Judaism—both as religion and as a social community. This was a dreadful possibility, for it could have threatened the very existence of Palestinian Jewish society as a living community. These seemingly theological speculations regarding the number of “powers in heaven” should therefore be seen as a reflection of a concrete socialexistential—not mere theological—challenge posed to the rabbis by their folk.

“God Is with You” In his paper on “Rabbinic Prayer in Late Antiquity,” Reuven Kimelman has written emphatically that “The single most important innovation of rabbinic liturgy is the focus on divine sovereignty.”54 My contention is that this stress should be seen as a response to a state of inner religious adversity, which stemmed from doubt concerning God’s power and His relations with His people. Expressions of such qualms are to be found throughout rabbinic literature. Of special importance for the present discussion is the concluding passage of Tractate Berakhot in the Mishnah, which is, in a sense, the Mishnah’s own reflection on the entire rabbinic institution of blessings and benedictions.55 It reads as follows: All the conclusions of blessings, which were in the Temple, were: “From everlasting.” When the minim corrupted [the matters] they [the Sages] said: “Is there but one world?!” They [the Sages] ordained

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brothers estr anged that people should say: “From everlasting to everlasting.” And they [also] ordained that one should greet his fellow with [God’s] Name. As it is said: “And behold Boaz came from Bethlehem and he said to the reapers, ‘The Lord be with you,’ and they answered: ‘The Lord bless you’ ” (Ruth 2:4). And it says: “The Lord is with you, you mighty man of valor” (Jud. 6:12). And it says: “Do not despise your mother when she is old” (Prov. 23:22). And it says: “It is time to act for the Lord, they have violated your law” (Ps. 119:126).56

Two changes in the liturgy, which were introduced by the sages after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C.E.,57 are mentioned in this text. The first change was the sages’ decree that a benediction should be concluded by reciting the formula “from everlasting to everlasting,” in contrast to the custom prevalent in the Temple, which was to say only “from everlasting.” According to the text, the reason underlying this enactment was the sages’ determination to refute the minim.58 The latter maintained that “there is but one world,” and in order to disprove this assertion, the sages enacted that one should affirm the concept of “two worlds” by using a liturgical formula that explicitly implies this concept.59 The second change was that “one should greet his fellow with the Name,” that is, “with God’s Name.”60 What was the motivation behind this enactment? The text’s language indicates that this enactment, too, was motivated by a desire to refute the minim,61 but unlike the first issue here their position is not stated and therefore difficult to understand. In order to answer this question, we must decipher the midrash in this passage, that is, the manner by which the biblical prooftexts are used here. First, the Mishnah quotes Ruth 2:4, in order to establish the legitimacy of greeting one’s fellow with God’s name, just as Boaz greeted the reapers with God’s name. Then, however, the Mishnah goes on to quote another three verses: Judges 6:12, Proverbs 23:22, and finally Psalms 119:126. In order to understand these references, we must read them in their original biblical context. The verses in the sixth chapter of Judges describe Gideon’s conversation with the angel of the Lord on their meeting as a response to the latter’s greeting of the former with God’s name: And the angel of the Lord appeared to him [to Gideon] and said to him: The Lord is with you, you mighty man of valor! And Gideon said to him: Oh, my Lord! Is indeed the Lord with us?! Why then has all this befallen us?! And where are all His miracles which our fathers told us of saying, Did not the Lord bring us up from Egypt? But now the Lord has forsaken us, and delivered us into the hand of Midian!62

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There can be no doubt that the Mishnah, when making its reference to the angel’s greeting formula, had these verses, too, in mind. The angel’s greeting is understood here as a theological claim: God is with you! And this very claim is understood as a negation, perhaps even a refutation, of the thought expressed by Gideon, that is, that God is not with His people. After the destruction of the Second Temple and the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt, Palestinian Jews were in a very similar position. They constantly asked: Is God with us? Does He still exist? For if He is with us, why does he tolerate our suffering by the hands of the Romans? If He does exist, how is it possible that He allowed all this to happen? In response to this existential challenge, the rabbis enacted that one should acknowledge God’s existence by greeting his fellow with the Divine name in a formula that evocatively expresses this belief, and therefore should be translated: “God is with you,” the same way we render the formula used by the angel when meeting Gideon: “The Lord is with you, you mighty man of valor.” The Mishnah’s reference to Prov. 23:22, “Do not despise your mother when she is old,” can now be properly understood. As much as this may be surprising, “your mother,” who became old, is interpreted by our mishnah as a reference to God! The Mishnah quotes Prov. 23:22 as a warning not to despise of God when He seems to be “old” and powerless.63 As we have seen, various early rabbinic sources indeed refer to God as an old man, who—according to a theological stance, against which the rabbis struggled—because of His old age became weak.64 The Mishnah concludes with a quotation of Ps. 119:126, which is understood to indicate that there are circumstances in which one should break the law, if it is done for the sake of Heaven. This, I suggest, is a self-reflection on the sages’ enactment to greet a fellow Jew with the Divine name, perhaps even a reflection on the entire rabbinic institution of blessings and benedictions. For, when one reads through Tractate Berakhot (“Benedictions”) in the Mishnah and the Tosefta, one realizes that one is required to recite blessings very frequently during one’s daily activity. The day is simply full of benedictions! This is an amazing religious institution indeed, unparalleled in any other religious tradition. It is not a simple one, however, for when one recites a blessing, one mentions God’s name, whereas Scripture warns very explicitly against doing so: “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vein” (Ex. 20:7). The Mishnah’s concluding remark—“there are times to do for the Lord”—is meant precisely to justify the rabbinic enactment, which, in a sense, breaks the biblical law. On this reading, our Mishnah reveals how deep was the existential crisis among Palestinian Jews as a result of their failure in their wars against Rome

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and the destruction of the Temple. This crisis was accompanied by a profound theological one, for the defeat of the Jews was understood as a defeat of God, too. Against those who concluded from these defeats that the God of Israel was defeated, the Rabbis decreed that one must profess God’s existence and His dwelling among His people by reciting many benedictions throughout the day, and by greeting one’s fellow with a declarative formula: “God is with you.”65

“The Lord Has Forsaken the Land” Declaring that “God is with you” is viewed by the concluding passage of Tractate Berakhot, as we have seen, as a negation of the assertion that “the Lord has forsaken us.” The stress on God’s presence was a vital religious issue for the rabbis, which was raised to the degree of rabbinic creed, as can be inferred from m. Sanhedrin 10:1, in which one who holds a view of God as divorced from this world, the Epicurean, is denied a share in the world to come. It is therefore no surprise that this is indeed a frequent theme in Tannaitic literature. The hazard that people might express—either by their proclaimed assertions or by means of their deeds and actions—doubts regarding this belief was well known to the rabbis, and it affected their thought in many ways. We see this most clearly in the way this challenge motivated their interpretation of various commandments. One of the earliest examples, perhaps the earliest example indeed, in which this consideration can be seen in operation is Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai’s reply to his disciple’s question, concerning the difference between the law of a robber and that of a thief, as recorded by the Tosefta: The disciples of Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai asked him: Why did the Torah treat the burglar more severely than the robber? He said to them: The robber equated the servant to his owner, and the thief paid honor to the servant more than to his owner. It is as if the thief regarded the Supreme Eye as though it does not see, and the [Supreme] Ear as though it does not hear. As it is said: “Woe unto them that seek deep to hide their counsel from the Lord [and their works are in the dark, and they say: Who sees us? And who knows us?]” (Isa. 29:15). “And they say: The Lord will not see etc.” (Ps. 94:7). “For they say: The Lord sees us not, the Lord has forsaken the land” (Ezek. 9:12).66 According to biblical law (Lev. 5:2), a robber, if caught, is required to return whatever he has stolen, but a thief is fined and pays double (Ex. 22:6).

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What is the difference between the two crimes that results in two different punishments? Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai explains that the thief is treated more severely because he “paid honor to the servant more than to his owner.” That is, he displays fear of human beings—by burgling in the dark, usually at night, when people cannot see—while God he does not fear, as he actually does thieve. It appears that he regards “the Supreme Eye as though it does not see, and the [Supreme] Ear as though it does not hear.” For, had he been thinking that God does see, he would not have thought that burgling during nighttime is any better than simply doing it publicly. The thief’s crime is therefore more severe than that of the robber, because it expresses a disregard of God. Three biblical verses are adduced in support of this explanation. The first, Isa. 29:15, is understood as applying to the thief because it refers to those whose “works are in the dark.” By employing this verse in respect to the thief, his sin is given a new interpretation: it is not understood primarily as neglect of a legal prohibition, but rather as conveying irreverence for God, which is expressed by the words in the second part of that verse: “They say: Who sees us, and who knows us.” The meaning of the sin is thus transformed and given theological significance. What is the function of the other two verses, Ps. 94:7 and Ezek. 9:9, cited by the midrash? At first glance, one might tend to assume that these other verses were cited only because of their mention of a similar irreverence, as expressed in the verse from Isaiah: “And they say: The Lord will not see” (Ps. 94:7); “For they say: The Lord sees us not” (Ezek. 9:9). According to such an interpretive assumption, the midrash simply piles up as many biblical verses as it could that mention the assertion that God does not see, which, it may be admitted, is indeed quite a widespread midrashic practice. Reading these verses in their biblical context, however, may deepen our understanding of their use by the midrash. The previous verses in Ezek. 9 mention the killing of the people of Jerusalem and the defilement of the Temple (9:5–7). As a result the prophet cries out to God: “Ah Lord God! Are you going to destroy all that remains of Israel in the outpouring of Your wrath upon Jerusalem?” (Ezek. 9:8). In Ps. 94, too, there is an explicit reference to Israel’s enemies, of whom it is said that: “They crush Your people, O Lord, and afflict Your heritage, they slay the widow and the sojourner, and murder the fatherless” (Ps. 94:5–7). Furthermore, the Hebrew word for “heritage,” ‫נחלה‬, may be understood, inter alia, as a reference to the land of Israel, and the quoted verse from Ezek. 9:9 expresses the taunt in the claim that: “The Lord has forsaken the land.” It is difficult to deny the possibility that the audience of this midrash, in its

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author’s days, would have related it to the fate of Palestinian Jews in their own time. Thus, by means of its biblical allusions the undeniable theological thrust of the text is related by its author to historical reality, which was part of the collective experience of Palestinian Jews in the generations following the destruction of the Second Temple. In its uniquely astute method, the midrash points at what it views as the origins of the theological doubt concerning God’s involvement in the world, namely, the defeat of the Jews and the destruction of Jerusalem. If the text is to be believed, this midrash originated in a discussion between Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai, who flourished in the first century and who is said to have been the founder of the rabbinic academy at Yavne in the wake of the destruction of the Second Temple, and his students, that is, most probably sometime during the last third of the first century C.E. Admittedly, the parallel Tannaitic version in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael takes the form of a mere statement.67 Nevertheless, this version, too, attributes the explanation to the same Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai, thus strengthening the assumption that the tradition should indeed be attributed to that sage and consequently be dated to the first century C.E.68

“Come and Mingle with Us” The doubts concerning God’s power, in fact concerning His very existence, were a natural reaction to the destruction of His temple and the Jews’ defeat— in both the First Revolt and the Second Revolt, that is, the Bar Kokhba rebellion. In turn, these doubts are expressions of an identity crisis, the heart of which was the existential question, “Who are we?” What should be the relations between “us” and “them,” the Romans? If our God was defeated and cannot be followed any longer, in what sense should we remain His people? Why continue being a separate nation? These existential questions are given voice in the following Tannaitic midrash in the Sifre to Deuteronomy: The Nations of the world asked Israel and said to them: “What is your beloved more than another beloved” (Songs 5:9), that you so die for him, as it is said: “Therefore unto death do they love You” (Songs 1:3)? And it also says: “For Your sake we are killed all day” (Ps. 44:23)! All of you are beautiful, all of you are heroes, come and mingle with us! And Israel responds: We shall tell you a bit of His praise so that you shall know Him: “My beloved is white and ruddy . . . ” (Songs 5:10–16). Immediately when the Nations of the

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world heard of the beauty and praise of the Holy One, blessed be He, they said to them: Let us come with you! As it is said: “Whither has your beloved gone, O fairest among women? Whither has your beloved turned, that we may seek him with you?” (Song. 6:1). What do Israel say to them? You have no portion in Him, [for] “I am to my beloved, and my beloved is to me” (Songs 6:3).69 Although the question “What is your beloved more than another beloved, that you so die for him?” is projected unto the nations of the world, it is a widespread phenomenon in early rabbinic literature to repudiate ideas or stances existing within the rabbinic world itself by presenting them as expressed by “others”: gentiles, women, children, or “the evil inclination.” These attributions should not, therefore, be taken at face value; quite to the contrary, they may be used as important indications for religious doubts and discomforts among the rabbis themselves. The midrash, accordingly, struggles with an existential question that second-century Palestinian Jews continually asked themselves: What is the justification for our separate identity, which is the ultimate cause for our political inferiority and suffering? An intuitive supposition is that the sociopolitical reality indicates the Jews’ weakness and inferiority. Were Jews to give up their identity and join the nations of the world, they would not suffer death anymore. The homilist struggles against this supposition and maintains that the opposite is the truth: the nations of the world, from whom Jews suffer death, view the Jews’ willingness to die as an outstanding sign of their great might and beauty! The midrash suggests therefore that, were one to understand properly the “beauty” of the Beloved, that is, the true reason for the Jews’ adherence to their tradition, one would immediately realize that not only is it not inadequate to give one’s life for God, but even the gentiles would then wish to join the Jews. The nations’ invitation to Israel, “come and mingle with us,” as well as their suggestion in the next stage, after hearing God’s praise and beauty—“Let us come with you”—are, in fact, two sides of the same coin. As was noted by Steven Fraade, “For the nations to join Israel in pursuit of her lover would spell Israel’s loss of identity no less than for Israel to join the nations in abandonment of her lover.”70 I would go, however, a step further than Fraade’s correct observation and suggest not only that the midrash reflects “some ambivalence regarding Israel’s relation to the nations,”71 but much more: it draws a connection between the separate Jewish identity and the political inferiority of the Jewish People. Consequently, it expresses a desire, on the part of some (rabbinic) Jews, that the differences between Jews and “the rest of the world” would be diminished,72 thus giving voice to the Jewish fantasy of reversing the power relations between Jews and their surrounding pagan neighbors.73 This

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midrash mirrors, then, an identity crisis to which the rabbis are giving here a homiletic expression.74 When was this midrash composed? In a parallel passage in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael it is presented immediately following a saying of Rabbi Aqiva that explains the meaning of the expression “and I shall praise Him” (‫ )ואנוהו‬in Ex. 15:3.75 This has led some scholars to attribute also our midrash to Rabbi Aqiva. If we were to accept this attribution, it would seem reasonable to date the midrash to the first third of the second century C.E. As was correctly observed by Daniel Boyarin, however, only the interpretation of the expression “and I shall praise Him” can safely be attributed to Rabbi Aqiva, whereas the rest is an anonymous addendum to his saying.76 Detaching our midrash from Rabbi Aqiva leaves us with an anonymous text, and this, obviously, renders the attempt to determine its date quite difficult. There is, however, an important detail in the text that may assist us in answering the question. The text mentions Jews suffering death because of their adherence to their God. The most plausible historical setting for such a description is obviously the time of the Roman anti-Jewish decrees of the post–Bar Kokhba revolt, and this may indicate that the text should be dated to the mid-second century C.E.77 If so, we gain here an important piece of evidence concerning the identity crisis that Palestinian Jewry underwent as a result of its failure in its military and political struggles against the Roman Empire. Indeed, as Moshe D. Herr has written: “The failure of the [Bar Kokhba] rebellion was interpreted as the failure of Judaism and its God.”78 This is all the more true with regard to the Jews’ defeat in their Great War against Rome and the destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E. These political and military failures were the major cause for an existential, identity crisis, the echoes of which are heard, as we have seen, in many corners of Tannaitic literature. When a society’s identity is unstable there is a tendency among its members to be sensitive to issues of self-definition. In order to reassure their self-understanding, they may be alert to define the boundaries of their community. This may be achieved in various ways, one of which is the employment of a discourse that defines some members of that society as “outsiders.” This is, as we shall see in the following chapters, the heart of the early rabbinic discourse of minut.

Appendix 1 In his paper “Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days,” Moshe D. Herr relates to the Titus story and maintains that “Undoubtedly, this legend

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is the invention of the generation following the Hadrianic persecutions.”79 In his view, the crisis Judaism faced as a result of the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt was “graver than at the time of the Temple destruction,”80 and it was out of that crisis from which the Titus story was born. According to Herr, “the words he [Titus] is reputed to have uttered have no meaning regarding himself and his times; they do have deep significance for the period of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius,”81 and therefore it is not a coincidence that “Nowhere in Tannaitic literature or the Apocrypha or in Jewish Hellenistic or for that matter even in gentile literature, is anything of the kind to be found concerning Titus before [the generation following the Hadrianic decrees].”82 The undeniable fact that the story is first attributed to Rabbi Nehemiah, who flourished precisely in that period, undoubtedly supports Herr’s contention. However, Herr is pushing the limits, in my opinion, when he bases himself on various late midrashic traditions in order to corroborate his suggestion. The midrashic traditions cited by Herr are four: (1) Tanhuma, Genesis, 7: “After Hadrian king of Edom had conquered the whole world he went to Rome . . . He went away and was made to succeed, destroyed the Temple, exiled Israel and returned to Rome”; (2) Tanhuma, Pequdey, 4 (=Exdous Rabbah 51:5): “Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai said: When Hadrian entered the Temple he taunted and blasphemed” etc.; (3) Deuteronomy Rabbah 3:13: “It is the time for Hadrian, may his bones rot, to go up and shatter the stones of the Temple”; and (4) Tanhuma, Devarim, Buber’s recension, addition 7: “When the wicked Hadrian captured Jerusalem he proudly proclaimed: I have conquered Jerusalem by force. Rabbi Johannan ben Zakkai said to him: Do not pride yourself. Had it not been the will of Heaven, you would not have conquered.” Herr emphasizes that, in all these cases, “ ‘Hadrian’ is clearly the lectio difficilior both from the philological and historical aspect,”83 and therefore concludes that “there is no justification for any emendation to ‘Titus.’ ”84 The precise date of redaction of the midrashic compilations in which these traditions are found cannot be known with any certainty, but it is agreed by virtually all scholars that they are all very late midrashic works, which were edited not prior to the eighth century C.E.85 Already this fact deems any simple reliance on these traditions quite problematic for historical purposes. The fact that they refer to Hadrian as the one who destroyed the Temple casts serious doubts on their historical value. In fact, in some of them, the reference to Hadrian is clearly nothing but a lapsus calami, as in the case of latter text, in which a chronologically impossible scene of Hadrian having a discussion with Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai is narrated. Herr’s reliance on these late midrashic texts is therefore unconvincing, in my opinion.

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One does not need to resort to these late texts, however, in order to accept Herr’s claim that the Titus story should be seen as a literary reaction to the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt. For, it is certainly conceivable that a post–Bar Kokhba crisis would be formulated and expressed in terms of the destruction of the Temple, as Herr suggests. The fact that these late traditions ascribe the destruction of the Temple to Hadrian can be easily explained by the psychological principle given expression by the sages themselves that the “most recent calamities cause the earlier ones to be forgotten.”86 Because the consequences of the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt were immense indeed, many Jews became accustomed to ascribe any horrible condition that befell the Jewish people to that event and to the Roman emperor who carried it out, that is, to Hadrian. For Jews who were far removed from the historical events, and whose knowledge of Palestinian Jewish history of the first two centuries was based first and foremost on rabbinic texts (which, by their very nature, are not historical), to confuse Hadrian with Titus was psychologically an expected error, precisely like their confusion of the Hadrianic religious persecutions with those of the Seleucid king Antiochus Epiphanes.

Appendix 2 Many Tannaitic texts display a concern with the possible religious meaning of different human actions, as an implicit denial of God’s involvement in the world, or even of His very existence. However, not always do the texts hint at the possibility that historical context was a significant factor in their formation. It is worth considering some of these traditions. The Tannaitic midrash on Leviticus, the Sifra, attributes to Rabbi Aqiva the following comment on Leviticus 5:21: Rabbi Aqiva says: What does Scripture mean to teach by saying: “and commit a trespass against the Lord” (Lev. 5:21)? Since anyone who loans, or takes a loan, or negotiates [in business], does not loan, neither takes a loan, nor negotiates, without witnesses and a document, therefore in case he denies [the transaction] he denies the witnesses and the document. But one who deposits [his money, or goods] with his fellow, does not wish anybody to know, except for the third party, who is between them. Therefore, if he denies, he denies the Third One who is between them.87 Rabbi Aqiva’s midrash offers an answer to the interpretive question of why Scripture designates one’s deceiving one’s fellow “in a matter of deposit or

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security” as a “trespass against the Lord.” Rabbi Aqiva suggests that since the only “witness” to a deposit is “the Third One who is between them,” that is, God, a denial of one’s fellow’s deposit is, in fact, a denial of the “witness.” That is, one would not deny one’s fellow’s deposit had one truly accepted upon oneself the idea that God “knows” the truth of the matter. This principle is stated by one of Rabbi Aqiva’s disciples, Hannaniah ben Hachinai, in a generic formulation: “A person does not deceive his fellow unless he denies the Essence.”88 And according to Rabbi Reuven, this is so not only with regard to transgressions in matters of monetary transactions, but it is the underlying principle of all sins: “A person does not deny a matter of detail unless he has denied the Essence, and a person does not turn to a matter of transgression unless he has denied the One who gave a commandment concerning it.”89 In a different formulation, this idea is expressed by the Tannaitic midrash to Numbers, the Sifre: “[When a man or woman] commits any of the sins that men commit” (Num. 5:6)—why is this said? Since [elsewhere] he says: “If any one sins and commits a breach of faith against the Lord etc., or has found what was lost etc.” (Lev. 5:21–22), I would know only that he who lies in these matters it is as if he denies the Omnipresent. In all other matter how would I know? Scripture teaches: “[When a man or woman] commits any of the sins that men commit” (Num. 5:6).90 In all matters, says the Sifre, one who lies “it is as if he denies the Omnipresent.” And it is this deep aspect of sin that stands at the heart of the rabbinic concern. Along similar lines Tannaitic sources tend to explain the sin of a suspected adulterous woman. Although the plain meaning of Scripture is that her crime is primarily against her husband, rabbinic sources view it as a sin against God. According to the rabbis, the nature of the sin is not to be sought in the act of illicit sexual intercourse itself but, first and foremost, in the fact that the act is done in concealment. As has been shown by Ishay Rosen-Zvi, the rabbis viewed this aspect as the major religious issue involved.91 In a similar vein, the Sifra interprets the commandment, “You shall rise up before the hoary head [and honor the face of an elder],” in Lev. 19: 32: “You shall rise up before the hoary head [and honor the face of an elder]” (Lev. 19: 32). . . . Might one suppose that if one saw him one may close his eyes as though he had not seen him? Lo, the matter is handed over to the heart, as it is said: “And you shall fear your God, I am the Lord” (Ibid.). From here you learn that any thing which is

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The question with which this midrash is concerned is, what is the relation between the beginning of that verse, the imperative, and its concluding declarative phrase “I am the Lord”? The midrash views that declarative statement as a reminder and suggests that Scripture’s need to remind one of God’s lordship emanates from the very nature of the commandment as “a matter which is handed over to the heart.” Matters that are “handed over to the heart” are private matters; only the individual can actually know his, or her, inner intentions, his or her sincerity. In a religious setting, however, there is someone else who “knows,” that is, God, from whom one cannot conceal anything. Hiding one’s iniquities, therefore, makes no sense, unless one does not really believe that God sees and knows. For that reason, it was necessary for Scripture, in matters that are handed over to one’s heart, to remind us of God’s existence. Without any doubt, these statements may be viewed as the product of the midrashic enterprise, that is, a product of the rabbis’ preoccupation with the peculiarities of the biblical text. In my opinion, however, such a view reduces the richness of rabbinic midrash, as it ignores the possible social-political functions of rabbinic lore and its complex relations with the actual realities of those Jews to whom it was addressed. Reading these pieces of rabbinic theology in the context of concrete sociohistorical situation in which they were produced may enable us to better appreciate the existential concern, which gave rise to these statements. Such an approach does not seek to discredit the hermeneutical aspect of rabbinic midrash; rather, it suggests that viewing midrash as responsive to existential challenges, current in Jewish society of its days, makes its reading a richer enterprise.

Appendix 3 The idea that God’s power and capability to act is an expression of His divinity and His very existence is given a profound expression in b. Berakhot 32a: “Because the Lord was not able” (Num. 14:16)— . . . Said Rabbi Elazar: Said Moses before the Holy One blessed be He: “Master of the Universe! Now the Nations of the world will say that his strength has become as weak as that of a female and he is unable to save!” Said the Holy One, blessed be He, to Moses: “But did they not already see the miracles and mighty deeds which I did for them at the sea?!”

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He said to Him: “Master of the Universe! They still can say: Against a single king he can stand, but against thirty-one kings he cannot stand!” . . . In the school of Rabbi Ishmael it is taught: “In accord with your word” (Ex. 32:30)—the Nations of the world are indeed destined to say so! Happy is the disciple whose master concurs with him. “But, [indeed] I live” (Ex. 32:31)—said Rava said Rabbi Isaac: this teaches that the Holy one, blessed be He, said to Moses: “Moses, you have revived me with your words.” The first part of this text echoes the notion that we have already seen evident in other early rabbinic sources, namely the question regarding God’s potency. Moses is said here to have drawn God’s attention to the possible consequences of His inability to restrain Himself in punishing too harshly the people of Israel after they sinned. According to Numbers 14:11, God wanted to “smite” Israel “with the pestilence, and disinherit them.” To this Moses replied: Then the Egyptians will hear of it . . . and they will tell the inhabitants of this land! . . . Now, if you kill this people as one man, then the nations who have heard your fame will say: “Because the Lord was not able to bring this people into the land which he swore to give to them. Therefore he has slain them in the wilderness” (Num. 14:13–16). Moses’ claim is that the nations of the world will not view God’s act as a punishment for Israel’s sin but, rather, as a reflection of God’s withdrawal from his plan to bring Israel into the land he promised them, because of his lack of power and inability to implement that plan.93 Our midrash expands the biblical narrative by constructing a dialogue between Moses and God on this matter, in which God tries to reject Moses’ claim by referring to the unequivocal display of His great power at the Red Sea. This was indeed the ultimate proof one could adduce for the claim that Israel’s God was powerful. However, for the author of our midrash that past event did not suffice anymore. This is precisely what he implies by ascribing to Moses the claim: “But they still can say, against a single king he can stand, but against thirty-one kings [of the land of Canaan] he cannot stand.” To this argument God has no answer; instead, He admits that Moses was correct, and praises him for reviving Him: “Moses, you have revived me (‫ )החייתני‬with your words.” This remarkable statement seemed theologically problematic for students of the Babylonian Talmud in the Middle Ages, who were attacked by some

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nonrabbinic Jews because of its audacious character. As the eleventh-century commentator Rabbi Nisim ben Yaaqov of Qairawan writes in his commentary on that passage in Tractate Berakhot: “This passage was difficult for the students, and those [= the Karaites] who do not accept the words of the Sages, of blessed memory, were mocking us concerning it.” He admits that: “Indeed, the simple meaning of this saying seems inconceivable,” apparently because it is difficult to comprehend the notion of a human being reviving God. Nevertheless, he makes effort to explain the Talmudic argument and offers the following interpretation: Know that “ability” and “existence” are two aspects of the Holy One, blessed be He, which are aspects of His very essence and greatness, and which are inseparable from Himself. For, might and ability do not exist apart from he who exists. And He, who exists for eternity, whose years will not terminate, it is impossible that He will not be capable. And this thing, although it is well established by common sense, it is also corroborated by Scripture. . . . And when the accident of the twelve spies happened, and He wanted to exterminate His nation, the prophet, may peace rest upon him [= Moses], approached [Him] in supplication on their behalf, and said, inter alia: “Because the Lord was not able” (Num. 14:16). And since the Holy One, blessed by He, knew that this was true, and that if He abolishes the people in the desert and does not conquer the land of Canaan before them, the Nations would say of Him that He has no ability and His strength had diminished, so He cannot stand against thirty one kings and cannot drive them away for the sake of His children, for that reason He accepted his [= Moses’] prayer on their behalf and accepted it. And He said to him: “I have pardoned according to your word” (Num. 14:20). And then He said to him: “Behold, I live” (Num. 14:21). He thereby indicated to His prophet that indeed had He abolished the people, the Nations would have said that He has no ability, and they would not recognize His strength. And since it would not have become clear to them that He is able, it would therefore not become as clear to them that He exists.”94 In the rabbis’ view, there was an inherent relation between God’s power and His very existence. Questioning the former was understood as a denial of the latter.

2 Conceptualizing Minut The Denial of God and the Renunciation of His People

In chapter 1, I attempted to uncover in early rabbinic sources echoes of an existential crisis experienced by Palestinian Jews following the destruction of the Second Temple and the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt. The core of that crisis was doubt concerning God’s power and providence—indeed, doubt concerning His very divinity. That doubt was not understood by Palestinian rabbis as a mere “intellectual view” but, rather, as reflecting an emotional state of despair, which could have led one to desert God and leave the Jewish community to join the Roman side. For this reason, early rabbinic literature ascribes similar stances to the Nations of the world, and it views the Roman Empire as their emblem. This chapter suggests that early rabbinic literature constructs doubts concerning God’s power and providence, and separation from the community, as two sides of the same coin, which is the heart of minut. For second-century Palestinian rabbis, faithfulness to God was inseparable from social-national loyalty, and separatism was therefore treated by rabbinic discourse as heresy. It is frequently assumed that, just like early Christian discourse of heresy, the early rabbinic discourse of minut is motivated by a concern for doctrinal truth.1 Indeed, minut is very often understood by modern scholars as the rabbinic equivalent of the Christian term “heresy,” and the minim are understood accordingly to be Jews who express false beliefs and doctrines, that is, heretics.2 According to this widespread view, the problem the rabbis had with minut was

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the erroneousness of its theological teachings, and their combat against minim was driven by a desire to eliminate theological error, as such. However, as the sociologist Georg Simmel once noted, in many cases, “That which arrays great masses of people in hatred and moral condemnation of heretics is certainly not the difference in the dogmatic content of teaching; [for], in most instances, this content really is not understood at all.”3 This observation hints at the possibility that, although the early rabbinic discourse of minut is frequently clothed with theological language, this may stand for other nondoctrinal concerns that may be its motivating force. Simmel suggests that “It is the fact of the opposition of the one against the many” that stands at the heart of the “moral condemnation of heretics,” and that “The persecution of heretics and dissenters springs from the instinct for the necessity of group unity.”4 Following this insight, I suggest that a proper interpretation of the rabbinic discourse of minut should not concentrate exclusively on its manifest doctrinal content. However, the interpretation of that discourse should not reduce it to its tacit social concerns. Rather, it needs to uncover the possible connection between these two dimensions. To this end, let us begin exploring the web of early rabbinic texts pertaining to minim and minut.

Denial of God Justin Martyr, in his Dialogue with Trypho the Jew, 80:3, relates to “Some who are called Christians, but are godless, impious heretics, [who] teach doctrines that are in every way blasphemous, atheistical, and foolish.” For Justin, it appears, be the precise nature of heresy as it may, in the bottom line it is not much different from atheism. From the same perspective he describes the argument of the Jews against Christianity: “You have sent chosen and ordained men throughout all the world to proclaim that a godless and lawless sect had sprung from one Jesus.”5 Whether or not one accepts the imaginative suggestion identifying Justin’s Trypho with the early-second-century sage Rabbi Tarfon, it is noteworthy that the latter expresses his religious abhorrence toward the minim by raising the similar claim “they who deny Him.”6 What is the meaning of “denial of God” in early rabbinic usage? Ephraim Elimelech Urbach emphasized that in classical rabbinic sources to deny God does not necessarily imply a denial of His very existence; rather, it may mean a denial of His providence.7 The minim, however, are spoken of by various early rabbinic texts as denying God’ very being. Thus, for example, the biblical expression “a vile nation” (‫)גוי נבל‬, in Deut. 32:21, is interpreted by the Tannaitic

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midrash on Deuteronomy, the Sifre, as a reference to the minim, using as a prooftext Ps. 14:2, in which the same noun appears: “ ‘With a vile nation’— this refers to the minim, and so does Scripture state: ‘The vile person says in his heart, there is no God.’ ”8 According to this midrashic interpretation, the minim maintain that “there is no God”; that is, they are atheists. Similarly, Scripture’s warning in Numbers 15:39, “And you shall not follow after your own heart” (‫)ולא תתורו אחרי לבבכם‬, is interpreted by a Tannaitic tradition preserved in the Babylonian Talmud as a warning against minut, using the same prooftext: “ ‘After your heart’—this refers to minut, and so does Scripture state: ‘The vile person says in his heart there is no God.’ ”9 To be sure, there is an important difference between these two texts: whereas in the former the focus of the midrashic interpretation is the phrase “a vile nation,” in the latter the verses are related one to the other by means of their shared use of the word “heart.” The focus on one’s heart as the locus of minut, is corroborated by other post-Tannaitic texts, in which minut is related to one’s inner self. Thus, for example, we read in b. Sanhedrin 38b: “Said Rav Judah in the name of Rav: Adam was a min, as it is said, ‘The Lord God called to the man and said to him, Where are you?’ (Gen. 3:9)—[that is,] where has your heart turned.” Similarly, we read in Leviticus Rabbah: Said Rabbi Shmuel bar Rav Yitzhak: The Sages wanted to dispose of the book of Ecclesiastes because they found therein things that incline toward minut. They said: Is this Solomon’s wisdom?! For he said, “Rejoice, O young man, in your youth, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth, and walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes” (Eccl. 11:9). Moses said: “Do not follow your own heart and your own eyes” (Num. 15:39), and he says: “and walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes?!”10 In these sources, minut is clearly a matter of one’s inner thoughts. This change may indicate that the concept of minut underwent a shift in later rabbinic tradition and was understood as a matter relating to the inner self of the individual. Nevertheless, minut is characterized by both Tannaitic interpretations cited earlier as the denial of God’s very existence.11 As we have seen in chapter 1, Tannaitic sources group the denial of God’s existence (expressed in the form of the assertion, “there is no Power in heaven”) together with the assertion that there are “two Powers,” or with the claim that God is powerless. In fact, these sources view the latter two assertions as variations on the former (which, as we have seen, is historically contextualized by the Tannaitic tradition itself by relating it to the Roman destruction of the Second Temple). It is therefore no surprise that just as early rabbinic sources

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construct minim as denying God’s existence, they also attribute to minim the “two Powers” theologomenon and associate them with the doubts regarding God’s potency and providence.12 The former is given explicit expression in a passage in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, where Rabbi Nathan suggests that God’s declaration in Ex. 20:2, “I am the Lord your God,” may serve a “refutation of the minim who say: ‘There are two Powers.’ ”13 The latter can be seen in m. Berakhot 9:5, where minim are those who, because of their mistrust, proclaim “Is the Lord with us?!” and assert that “God has forsaken the land.”14

The Nations of the World The passage in the Mekhilta, in which Rabbi Nathan’s saying is found, ascribes the “two Powers” theologomenon also to the Nations of the world: “ ‘I am the Lord your God’ (Ex. 20:2)—why is this said? . . . Scripture would not let the Nations of the world have an excuse for saying that there are two Powers, but declares: ‘I am the Lord your God.’ ”15 The minim, accordingly, share with the Nations of the world the same theological stance. This notion emerges also from the fact that although Deut. 32:41, “I will take vengeance on my adversaries,” is interpreted by the Mekhilta as referring to the Nations of the world, in the Sifre Deuteronomy and in the Tosefta the same verse is interpreted as referring to minim.16 As Alan Segal correctly observed, this association of the minim with the Nations of the world indicates that in the minds of the Tannaim the minim were seen as gentiles.17 This can be seen very clearly in a midrashic passage in which the denial of God is presented as the characteristic of minut: “Said Rabbi Jonathan: every [occurrence of] hannupah (‫ )חנופה‬in Scripture refers to minim, and the paradigmatic prooftext of all is: ‘The sinners in Zion are afraid, trembling has seized the hannefim’ (Isa. 33:14).”18 At first sight, Rabbi Jonathan’s contention is odd: he suggests a universal meaning for the noun hannupah in the Hebrew Bible, based on a verse that he claims to be exemplifying that meaning in the clearest manner, whereas in truth nothing in that verse lends itself to this particular meaning.19 That hannefim (‫ )חנפים‬are paralleled to “sinners” (‫ )חטאים‬surely helps us understand the meaning of the word here, but how precisely did Rabbi Jonathan arrive at the conclusion that Scripture refers specifically to minim? Apparently, this midrash is based on the reading of the following words of the verse as well: “Who among us is afraid of devouring fire.”20 As the same expression—“devouring fire” (‫—)אש אוכלה‬is presented

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elsewhere in Scripture as an attribute of God (Deut. 4:24),21 it emerges that “the hannefim” and “the sinners” in Zion express fearlessness of God; that is, they deny Him. For this reason, Rabbi Jonathan could identify them as minim. A few lines below, however, the same verse in Isaiah is surprisingly applied to the Nations of the world: “In the future, Israel will be afraid, [as it is said]: ‘[Afterward the children of Israel . . . ] shall come in fear to the Lord and to His goodness’ (Hos. 3:5), and the Nations of the world will become afraid, [as it is said]: ‘The sinners in Zion are afraid.’ ”22 The fact that a verse speaking of the dwellers of Zion, which was previously interpreted as referring to minim, can be read also as if it relates to gentiles is the strongest possible indication of how rabbinic discourse constructs minim as non-Jews.

The Roman Empire Fundamentally, Minut was understood by the rabbis as a denial of God. Such a denial could take different forms, yet all of these forms express one and the same doubt regarding God’s potency and therefore His very divinity. The root of this doubt, as early rabbinic literature understood it, was the sociopolitical reality of late-first- and early-second-century-C.E. Palestinian Jews, in which God’s power was not observed, as it was not militarily demonstrated. It would be erroneous, therefore, to treat this denial of God, which is seen by early rabbinic sources as characteristic of minut, as an expression of pure theological “thought,” as it were. Such a denial of God cannot be detached from its sociopolitical cause. The direct cause was, obviously, the triumphant Roman Empire. Rome’s power was conceived by the rabbis theologically; that is, it was considered a threat to the fundamental belief in God’s omnipotency and His very divinity. It is not a coincidence, therefore, that various midrashic sources attribute to Rome some of the stances that are ascribed to the minim and to minut, thus constructing Rome as the emblem of these theological assertions. To begin with, the boldest expression of challenge to God’s divinity is put, as we have seen in chapter 1, in the mouth of no other than the Roman Emperor Titus: “If he is really a god, let Him come and protest.”23 And because this taunt, as we have seen, was considered by Tannaitic tradition as theologically not different than the claim “there is no Power in heaven,” it is evident that Rome is presented by that tradition as expressing a denial of God. However, as we have seen earlier, Rabbi Nathan views the assertion that there are “two Powers” as characteristic of the minim: “Rabbi Nathan Says: from here one

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can cite a refutation of the minim, who maintain that there are two Powers, for when the Holy One, blessed be He, stood and proclaimed ‘I am the Lord your God’ (Ex. 20.2), was there anybody who stood and protested against him?!”24 The connection between these sources is more than thematic, however. Rabbi Nathan uses the same terminology of power that the Sifre puts in Titus’ mouth. The construction of the relations between the presumed “Powers,” God and the other “power,” in the same term of enmity and competition—“protest”—in both Tannaitic traditions indicates that one discourse is in operation here. Acknowledging the existence of a rival power, which can “protest” against God, that is, asserting that there are “two Powers,” implies a recognition of the divinity of that other power. And just as maintaining that there are “two Powers” is fundamentally a denial of God’s divinity, so, too, the recognition in the divinity of any being other than Him implies a denial of His divinity. Indeed, in various Tannaitic sources, Rome’s denial of God’s divinity is expressed in the form of its claim to be divine itself. During the second century, such a claim was expressed in the imperial cult of emperor worship, which maintained that the Roman emperor was a god. Rabbinic sources of Tannaitic times echo this imperial stance and strongly attack it, as can be seen most clearly in the following passage in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: “For He is Highly Exalted” (Ex. 15:1)—He is exalted above all those who exalt themselves. For with the very thing with which the Nations of the world pride themselves before Him, He punishes them. For thus it is said concerning the generation of the flood. . . . And so too you find with the people of the Tower. . . . And so too you find with the people of Sodom. . . . And so too you find with the Egyptians. . . . And so too you find with Sisera [ . . . ].25 And so too you find with Sancherib. . . . And so too you find with Nebuchadnezzar. . . . And so too you find with Tyre. . . . And so too you find with the Prince of Tyre, as it is said: “Son of man, say unto the prince of Tyre: Thus says the Lord God: Because your heart is proud, and you have said ‘I am a god’ ” (Ezek. 28:2). What is it written after that? “You shall die the death of the uncircumcised by the hand of foreigners” (ibid. 28:10).26 As noted long ago by Moshe David Herr, “Tyre” is an appellation to Rome, and the “Prince of Tyre” is a soubriquet for the Roman emperor.27 Accordingly, Rome is criticized by this midrash because of its pride on its outstanding cultural, economical, military, and political success, and its emperor is attacked because of the theological assault inherent in his claim, “I am a god.”

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In the Mekhilta’s view, such a self-exaltation is an expression of a denial of God. This understanding is articulated in a very similar, although slightly later, midrashic text, which is attributed to the third-century Palestinian sage Rabbi Levi: Said Rabbi Levi: It is a law and a rule, that anyone who prides himself before the Omnipresent is punished by fire. The [people of the] generation of the flood . . . the Sodomites . . . Pharaoh . . . Sisera . . . Sancherib . . . Nebuchadnezzar. . . . This evil Kingdom [too], since it prides itself and arrogantly declares: “Whom am I have in heaven, and with You I desire on earth not” (Ps. 73:25), it is destined to be punished by fire.28 The structural similarity between the Tannaitic text and Rabbi Levi’s midrash is transparent. In both texts, we have a similar list of primordial sinners of biblical times who shall be punished by God (in the Tannaitic text: in a similar manner to the way they have sinned; in the Amoraic midrash: all by fire). The list consists of the same biblical figures who are presented in the same sequence, and it culminates with Rome. This similarity indicates that the Amoraic midrash is based on a Tannaitic tradition and emanates from the Tannaitic period. It also indicates that the Amoraic condemnation of Rome for arrogantly declaring “Whom have I in heaven,” is essentially not different from the condemnation of its Emperor’s claim to be a god. Ps. 73:25 is usually rendered by modern translations of the Hebrew Bible as a supreme demonstration of faith: “Whom I have in heaven but thee? And there is nothing that I desire on earth besides thee.” The midrash, clearly, did not read the biblical verse in that way; according to the midrashic reading of the biblical verse, Rome (“The evil Kingdom”) expresses a declarative denial of God, by declaring “Whom have I in heaven? [No one]!” Such a declarative denial of God is attributed by many other midrashic texts to Rome. Admittedly, some of them are post-Tannaitic and fall, therefore, beyond the scope of present study. However, not only do they enrich our discussion, but the views they express can be traced back to the Tannaitic period. Thus, for example, an Amoraic midrash relating to the pig as a symbol of the Roman Empire,29 reads as follows: “The pig” (Lev. 11:7)—this refers to Edom. “For he does not chew the cud” (ibid.)—she (Edom) does not praise the Holy One blessed be He. Not only does she not praise, but she taunts and blasphemes and says: “Whom have I in heaven! And with You I desire on earth not!” (Ps. 73:25).30

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According to this text, Edom—which is the standard rabbinic appellation to the Roman Empire—blasphemes by arrogantly declaring: “Whom have I in heaven”; that is, it denies the existence of God. The same arrogant declaration is ascribed to Rome in another, very similar, Amoraic midrash: “A heifer . . . upon which a yoke has never come” (Num. 19:2)—this refers to the wicked Edom, who did not accept upon herself the yoke of the Holy One, blessed be He. Not only did she not accept upon herself the yoke of the Holy One, blessed be He, but she also taunts and blasphemes and says: ‘Whom have I in heaven’ (Ps. 73:25).”31 In a similar manner, Ps. 73:25 is elsewhere interpreted as speaking of Esau, which in early rabbinic literature is used, like Edom, as a soubriquet for Rome: “ ‘Whom have I in heaven’—what is implied by ‘Whom have I in heaven?’ This refers to Esau, who denied God and said: I do not wish to worship the God in heaven.”32 All these midrashic texts refer to Rome as denying God’s divinity. In another midrash, Esau is said to have “taunted and blasphemed.”33 The origin of this phrase is in Psalms chapter 44, which was undoubtedly read by first- and second-century-C.E. Palestinian Jews in relation to Rome.34 Indeed, this expression, it will be recalled, is the one used by the Tannaitic tradition in the Sifre and the Mekhilta on Deuteronomy to describe Titus’ challenge to God’s divinity, where it is said that Titus “began to taunt and blaspheme: If He is really a god, let Him come and protest!” As Esau in rabbinic literature symbolizes Rome, it can be concluded that by claiming that Esau “taunted and blasphemed,” the midrash expresses its view that Rome is the manifestation and emblem of the theological denial of God. This midrash establishes its accusation against Esau on the latter’s words in Gen. 25:32, “Of what use is a birthright to me” (‫)ולמה לי זה בכורה‬. The mid-third-century Palestinian sage Resh Laqish, to whom this midrash is attributed, did not read the Hebrew phrase in that manner, however. Rather, he identified the Hebrew word ‫ זה‬as a reference to God (probably on the basis of Ex. 15:3, ‫)זה אלי‬35 and consequently was able to suggest that Esau denied God Himself. This is said explicitly in Midrash Ha-Gadol on Gen. 24:34: “And since he (Esau) denied the Essence (‫ )כפר בעיקר‬and the concept of the resurrection of the dead his seed was uprooted from the world. And concerning him David said: ‘The fool says in his heart there is no God’ (Ps. 14:2).”36 Although Midrash Ha-Gadol is a late work, the same accusation in relation to Esau is found in other, much earlier midrashic sources.37 Furthermore, as we have seen, Tannaitic texts that attribute to the minim the assertion that “there is no God” use the same verse in Psalms 14:2 to support the contention that the minim deny the very existence of God. This consideration reveals that

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the roots of these midrashic accusations against Rome are Tannaitic.38 The fact that various charges against the minim are attributed also to the Roman empire shows how, in their discourse, the rabbis indeed “turned the Kingdom (Rome) to minut.”

Separatism Not only do early rabbinic sources attribute to minim and to the Nations of the world similar theological stances, and not only do these sources view Rome as the religious-political expression of these stances, as we have seen, but in various places early rabbinic tradition refers to minim as separatists and associates minim and minut with various terms that denote a social stance of detachment from the Jewish community. Thus, in the very first occurrence of the term minim in the Tosefta, they are associated with people who separated themselves from the community: The Eighteen Benedictions which the Sages ordained correspond to the eighteen invocations of the Tetragrammaton in [the psalm] “Ascribe to the Lord” (Ps. 29). One incorporates [the benediction] concerning the minim into [the benediction] concerning the paroshin (‫)פרושין‬, and [the benediction] concerning the proselytes into [the benediction] concerning the elders, and [the benediction] concerning David into [the benediction] “Builder of Jerusalem.” If he recited each of them separately he has fulfilled his obligation.39 The issue with which the Tosefta deals is the appropriate number of benedictions in the Jewish daily prayer, the Amidah. The Tosefta knows that the Amidah contains eighteen benedictions, and it maintains that this number is not coincidental but, rather, corresponds to the eighteen invocations of God’s name in Ps. 29; therefore, it cannot be reduced or expanded. The author was familiar, however, with other benedictions, and the practical question with which he was confronted, therefore, was how to deal with these “extra” benedictions. Rather than ignoring them, he suggests that they be inserted in, and amalgamated with, already existing benedictions, and the only issue remained to be solved was the precise point at which to introduce each of these “extra” benedictions. The Tosefta rules that the benediction concerning the proselytes should be inserted into the one concerning the elders, and the one concerning David into the benediction “Builder of Jerusalem.” The benediction concerning the minim, says the Tosefta, should be inserted into the already existing benediction concerning the paroshim.40

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As has been noted by various scholars, the unstated assumption underlying this ruling is that these pairs of benedictions have much in common, as they address related topics, and therefore their combination does not severely distort the message of the Amidah.41 The case of the benediction concerning David and the one concerning Jerusalem is a good example: these two benedictions have much in common, as they both relate to the hoped redemption and the restoration of Jewish sovereignty. For this reason, the Tosefta rules, they may be merged into one benediction. What, then, can be inferred from the Tosefta’s ruling that the benediction concerning the minim should be combined with the benediction concerning the paroshim? As Saul Lieberman noted, ‫ פרושים‬is plural nomen agentis of the root prs, and its meaning, therefore, is “separatists.” The paroshim, according to Lieberman, are those who separated themselves from the community.42 Although the precise formulation of the benediction (in fact, curse) against them can only be guessed, the Tosefta’s ruling that the benediction concerning the minim should be included with that of the separatists implies that the two are closely related. This led David Flusser to suggest that the benediction concerning the minim was first directed against the Qumran sectarians,43 who are known to have established a whole ideology of separatism as the core of their sectarian existence. Thus, the author of 4QMMT prides himself and his group on having “separated from the multitude of the people,”44 thereby expressing the sect’s own perception as a group of people who had withdrawn from the rest of Jewish society of their time.45 Similarly, twice in the Damascus Document the sect is described as “the penitent of Israel, who departed from the way of the people.”46 The author of the Rule of the Congregation, too, speaks of the members of the sect as those of Israel who gather “to walk continuously according to the judgment of the Sons of Zadok, the priests, and the men of their covenant who have turned away from walking in the way of the people.”47 So, too, describes the sect the author of 11Q Melchizedek: they are “The establishers of the covenant, who avoid walking in the way of the people.”48 And the same phrase is used by the author of 4Q Florilegium when he interprets the phrase “The man who did not walk in the council of wicked,” of Psalms 1:1, as referring to the sect itself: “This refers to those who departed from the way of the people.”49 This self-perception of separatism (in an approbative sense) furnished the conceptual basis for the sect’s rulings, which strives to set boundaries between its members and outsiders.50 The sect’s opponents most probably did not share with it the same view; rather, they viewed the members of the sect as separatists in a derogatory sense.51 Hence, according to Flusser, it is possible that the benediction concerning the paroshim and minim was directed, originally,

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precisely against those who prided themselves for withdrawing from the rest of the Jewish community of their time, the Qumran sectarians. As brilliant as this suggestion is, I find it difficult to accept. First, as was noted long ago by Chanoch Albeck, all of the traditions concerning this benediction locate it in a post-70 setting,52 which makes Flusser’s suggestion somewhat incompatible.53 Second, as has been convincingly argued by Ezra Fleischer, the very existence of the Amidah—of which the benediction against the minim is supposed to be part—before the destruction of the Second Temple is unattested by any source, and therefore questionable.54 Hence, the assumption that the benediction against the minim ever existed in prerabbinic times is problematic. Third, the formulation of the benediction against the minim, as it is known to us from its earliest extant sources, has a clear anti-Roman mark, as it relates not only to “the apostates” (‫ )משומדים‬and to minim but also to “the insolent kingdom” (‫)מלכות זדון‬, which is a reference to Rome.55 Its conclusion, moreover, is: “Blessed art thou, O Lord, who humblest the arrogant,” and, as we have seen above, in rabbinic discourse Rome was indeed accused for its arrogant self-exaltation.56 This too suggests that Birkat Ha-Minim was composed in a post-70 setting. Because the Tosefta views the benediction against the separatists as the most fitting context into which to insert the benediction against the minim, and because the latter contains, to the best of our knowledge, an anti-Roman component, it appears that the Tosefta understood the probem with minut as related to the minim’s separation from the Jewish community. An even stronger association of minim with various groups of separatists and Jews who joined the enemy’s camp emerges from t. Sanhedrin 13:5 and its parallel in Seder ‘Olam. In that Tannaitic text, we find a list of sinners who are considered to have conducted the most severe crimes: The minim, the apostates, the traitors, the Epicureans, those who deny the Torah, those who separate from the ways of the community, those who deny the resurrection of the dead, and whoever both sinned and caused the public to sin—such as Jeroboam and Ahab—and those who cast terror in the land of living, and stretched their hands against the zvul, Gehenna is locked behind them, and they are judged therein for all generations. . . . What made this happen to them? Because they stretched out their hand against the zvul, as it is said “mi-zvul lo” (Ps. 49:15), and zvul refers only to the Temple, as it is said: “I have built you an exalted house (‫)בית זבול‬, a place for you to dwell in for ever” (1 Kings 8:13).57

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This list mentions ten types of sinners: (1) minim; (2) apostates; (3) informers; (4) Epicureans; (5) those who deny the Torah; (6) those who separate from the ways of the community; (7) those who deny the resurrection of the dead; (8) whoever both sinned and caused the public to sin; (9) those who cast terror in the land of living;58 and (10) those who stretched their hands against the Temple.59 The parallel list in Seder ‘Olam contains only seven types of sinners, who are presented under the heading “Those who separated from the way of the community”: (1) minim; (2) apostates; (3) informers; (4) haneffim; (5) Epicureans; (6) those who deny the resurrection; (7) those who maintain that the Torah is not from heaven. Chaim Milikowsky has noted that the list in Seder ‘Olam appears to be comprised of two different units: social separatists (minim, informers, and apostates), on the one hand, and theological deviants (deniers of the resurrection, deniers of the heavenly roots of the Torah, and Epicureans), on the other.60 It is clear, though, that the list in the Tosefta, too, is a product of a long process of adding and editing. Its style in introducing the eighth group (“and whosoever” [‫ )]וכל מי‬hints at the possibility that the last three groups mentioned therein were added to an earlier source, which contained only seven types of sinners. Clearly, §6 (“those who separate from the ways of the community”) is misplaced, and should be placed after §7 (“those who deny the resurrection of the dead”), so that the latter be read in sequence with §5 (“those who deny the Torah”), as they appear in the list in Seder ‘Olam, and as they appear together with the Epicurean in m. Sanhedrin 10:1. Following this analysis, the phrase “those who separate from the ways of the community” can be read as a summary of the list that precedes it. Its current mislocation can be easily explained as a result of a scribal error that introduced into the text a marginal gloss, meant originally to be inserted at the end of the list and as its conclusion. Such a hypothetical surgery would bring the Tosefta’s list very close to the one in Seder ‘Olam, the only difference being that the latter has “Those who separated from the way of the community” as a heading, whereas the one in the Tosefta has it as a summarizing remark at its end. Whether or not one accepts such a hypothesis, the fact remains that both sources present us with a list of sinners, which associates religious sinners with social-national offenders.61 The list in Seder ‘Olam, moreover, introduces all of these groups under a single heading that bears a very strong mark of social concern: they are Jews who “separated from the ways of the community.” The list in the Tosefta, too, contains the same clause, and in its present form it adds another two types of sinners (“those who cast terror in the land of living,” and “those who stretched their hands against the Temple”), the political character of which is self-evident.

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As correctly observed by Daniel Boyarin, “these grave sinners are anathematized in that text as schismatics, ‘who have separated from the ways of the public,’ which matches the earlier form of the liturgy as presumed by the Tosefta, ‘the curse of the Separatists.’ ”62 Moreover, they are associated with those who “stretched out their hand against the Temple,” and that very accusation associates them with those who were known to have actually “stretched out their hand against the Temple,” that is, the Romans, who destroyed the Temple in 70 C.E. Minim are associated with collaborators with the enemy in yet another Tannaitic text, that is, in t. Bava Metzia 2:33: The gentiles and shepherds of small cattle and those who raise them are neither brought up nor thrown in [a hole]. The minim and the apostates and the informers are thrown in and not helped out.63 As the precise meaning of the phrase “neither brought up nor thrown in” (‫ )לא מעלין ולא מורידין‬is not entirely clear,64 it is difficult to ascertain the legal implication of the Tosefta’s ruling. Regardless of that implication, however, the discursive association it makes is transparent: the minim are presented not only side by side with the apostates but also alongside the informers. This indicates that they are constructed as Jews who separated themselves from the community and collaborate with the enemy, that is, with the Romans. Finally, t. Megillah 3:37, too, echoes the notion of minim as Jews who separated themselves from the Jewish people: Said Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar: one is not allowed to give an excuse for a misdeed, for because of the answer that Aharon gave to Moses the minim separated.65 Of what “answer” that “Aaron gave to Moses” does Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar speak? The context in which his saying presently appears in the Tosefta indicates that he refers to the episode of the Golden Calf, as narrated in Ex. 32.66 However, the precise part of that narrative, at which Rabbi Shimon hints, is not indicated, and therefore is open to speculation. Following the parallel baraita in b. Megillah 27b, in which an explicit reference to Aaron’s words, “And this calf came out” (Ex. 32:24), is included, medieval commentators as well as modern scholars have suggested that Rabbi Shimon referred to the view that the golden calf was alive when it came out.67 Saul Lieberman, who admits that the precise identity of the minim of whom this baraita speaks is difficult to ascertain, suggested that this view was considered by the rabbis heretical because they associated it with Gnostic concepts.68

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Recently, however, David Henshke pointed out at various difficulties inherent in this interpretation.69 In particular, he called attention to the fact that although it may fit well the Babylonian version of the baraita, it is much less so when it comes to its wording as it appears in the earlier, Palestinian source, the Tosefta. For, although in the Bavli one finds an allusion to the words “and this calf came forth,” nothing in the Tosefta indicates that these words of Aaron were the ones to which Rabbi Shimon referred. Moreover, in the Babylonian version it is said that the minim corrupted (‫)פקרו המינים‬, that is, derived their heretical view, but the Tosefta uses a whole different term: “separated” (‫)פרשו‬70. For these reasons, Henshke suggests that it was Aaron’s designation of the Israelites as an evil nation (“You know well this people, that they are corrupt” [Ex. 32:22]) that was used by the minim to justify their separation from the rest of the community71. What emerges, then, from the Tosefta is that the minim separated themselves from the rest of the Jewish people,72 whom they viewed as evil and deceitful.73 All of these sources relate to minut from a social perspective, and some of them even seem to associate it with collaboration with the enemy, with the Romans. This means that for the rabbis of the late first and early second centuries, the problem with minut was understood not only in terms of unfaithfulness and disloyalty to God, but it necessarily meant also disaffection from the rest of the community.74 These two dimensions of the concept of minut in rabbinic discourse are inseparable.75 Since minut, as it emerges from the complex web of early rabbinic traditions, is a category that has a strong social and communal connotation, exceeding the realm of pure theology, it seems that the early rabbinic polemic against minut was motivated by a number of considerations, and it was not confined exclusively to an endeavor of establishing doctrinal truth.76 For the rabbis, those who maintained that “there is no Power in heaven,” or that “there are two Powers in heaven,” or even that there is Power in heaven yet He became old and weak, all were expressing one and the same doubt regarding God’s power and potency. And this doubt was understood by early rabbinic tradition in terms of unfaithfulness and disloyalty—first to God and then also to the Jewish people. Moreover, Rome’s victory was perceived as a manifestation of the victory of its god.77 And in that period, the personification of Rome’s god was the emperor.78 Necessarily, then, doubting God’s power and divinity entailed the affirmation of the divinity of the Roman emperor, and this contributed also a religious dimension to the social phenomenon of minut.79 Would it be, then, reasonable to argue that the rabbinic discourse, which we have hitherto reconstructed, discloses a social phenomenon of Jews who

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actually separated themselves from the rest of the Jewish community and joined the enemy’s camp? Did the doubts regarding God’s potency and very existence lead many of those who embraced them to desert their Jewish identity, and finally also the Jewish people? Seth Schwartz is correct, in my opinion, in suggesting that “The failure of the [great] revolt had led to disaffection with and attrition from Judaism.”80 Based on his reading of 4 Ezra, Schwartz argues that This apocalyptic book, composed in the late first century, gives an idea of the gloom prevailing among some of the literate elites and subelites of Jewish Palestine after 70. What point is there, the author argues, in trying to observe an unobservable covenant when God rewards our efforts by destroying us? His response . . . is likely to have consoled some people. . . . But it cannot have satisfied everyone, and those whom it failed to satisfy will have reacted with panic, despair, and finally abandonment of Judaism.81 Along similar lines, Gedalyahu Alon suggested long ago that the conditions of Palestinian Jews in the wake of the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt and the subsequent anti-Jewish decrees imposed on them by the Romans “created a mood of despair among many of the survivors, [and] there must have been large numbers who abandoned their Jewish identity and cast off their Jewish faith.”82 Although neither Schwartz nor Alon cite any source to support their contention, it is possible that a reality such as they imagine stands behind the Sifre Deuteronomy’s interpretation of Jacob’s address to Reuben, in Gen. 49:3: “Reuben, you are my first born son.” The Sifre points at the seemingly awkwardness of this address: “But do we not know that Reuben was the firstborn son?!” It suggests, therefore, that it be understood not simply as a factual account, but as the content of Jacob’s address to his son: “This teaches that he [Jacob] said to him: Reuben, my son, shall I tell you why did I not reprove you all these years? Lest you abandon me and stick with Esau, my brother.”83 All this is entirely absent from the biblical text! It is not impossible, therefore, that the midrash reads into the biblical narrative a fear that concerned Palestinian rabbis of the first, second, and early third centuries, that is, that Palestinian Jews might abandon the Jewish community and “stick with Esau,” with the Roman world. A slightly later midrash appears to be expressing such a notion explicitly. In a midrash on Num. 19:2 that interprets the words “Red heifer which did not accept on herself a yoke” as a reference to the Roman empire, and highlights

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Rome’s future fate to be slaughtered and burned (as Num. 19:3–5 requires, and as Isa. 34:6 promises), we find Rabbi Shmuel ben Rav Isaac’s comment, who interprets the words “her skin, and her flesh, and her blood” as referring to “those who had been of my community, and went and attached themselves to your company.”84 In his view, it appears, there were Jews who crossed the lines and joined the Roman camp. The reason for that line crossing is not stated, but a baraita found in the Tosefta, at the end of Tractate Sukkah reveals the connection the rabbis drew between separation from the Jewish people to join the enemy’s camp and a spirit of disappointment from what many Jews considered as God’s failure to protect His people: Bilgah shall always divide in the south, and its ring is fixed, and its niche shall remain blocked. Because of Miriam of the family of Bilgah, who apostasized and went and married an official of the Greek royal house. And when the gentiles entered the sanctuary she came and stamped on the top of the altar. She said to it: Wolf, wolf! You have destroyed Israel’s property, but did not stand up for them in the time of their calamity.85 True, this etiological story refers to events that allegedly took place in the Hellenistic era. Nonetheless, it is told by a Tannaitic source and can therefore be used as evidence for the manner by which rabbinic tradition addressed such an issue. Indeed, in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, a similar complaint to that of Miriam is put in the mouth of no other than Titus: “ ‘Let not the foot of pride overtake me’ (Ps. 36:12)—this refers to the wicked Titus, blast his bones, who with stick in hand kept striking the altar, crying: ‘Lucus, Lucus, you are a king and I am a king, come and wage war with me! How many oxen have been slaughtered upon you, how many birds have been put to death upon you, how many wines have been poured out over you, how much incense has been burned upon you! You are he that lays waste the whole universe!’ ”86 Clearly, from the point of view of rabbinic tradition, just as this complaint could apply to events that took place in the remote past, it could be applied to nearer historical events, which took place in the rabbis’ own generation. Regardless, therefore, of whether or not we shall consider the story in the Tosefta a reliable historical evidence pertaining to that remote era to which it appears to refer, it reflects the prism through which rabbinic discourse understood the roots of the social phenomenon of Jews who left the confines of the Jewish people to join the enemy’s camp: God’s failure to protect His people in a time of political and military disaster.

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Perhaps Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish’s comment on the concluding passage of the Mishnah, Tractate Berakhot, discloses that same phenomenon: Said Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish: they found in a scroll of pious men [the following]: “If you forsake me for one day, I will forsake you for many days.” [This is the explanation:] It is like . . . a woman who was sitting waiting for a man. So long as he intended to marry her she continued to sit and wait for him. Once, however, he distanced his mind from her, she went and married someone else.87 The concluding passage of Tractate Berakhot, on which Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish makes his comment, confronts, as we have seen in chapter 1, the problem of sensing God’s presence in the world. That mishnah, it will be recalled, discloses the theological-existential problem, felt by many Jews, of giving a satisfactory answer to the question “Where is God?” as a result of the destruction of the Second Temple and the military failure of the Jews. The mishnah, as we have seen, views that existential problem as characteristic of the thoughts embraced by the minim. In this context, Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish’s parable should be read as a remonstration against Heaven. He maintains that because God had forsaken Israel, they abandoned Him, too. According to the parable, however, the disappointed woman “went and married another,” and this seems to imply that there were Jews who not only forsook God but further joined another nation. Would it be correct, therefore, to assume that at least from the point of view of the rabbis the minim indeed associated themselves with the Romans? Although this possibility should not be ruled out, I shall not push my argument that far. I am not arguing that the minim, in that early rabbinic period, actually left the confines of the Jewish people to join the Roman side—even though, to be sure, there were certainly Jews who did so.88 I am only suggesting that rabbinic sources construct them as such. This construction, however, may tell us quite a bit about the rabbinic conception of minut and its function.

Heresy and Schism, Minut and Separatism: A Roman Discourse Is there any theoretical basis for such an equation between a charge of atheism (“there is no Power in heaven”), which is a religious accusation, and the accusation of rejection of one’s people, which, in its very nature, is a social-political one? The following comparison may assist us in answering this question. In his analysis of the Quaker crisis in Massachusetts Bay during the midseventeenth century, Kai T. Erikson notes that “Literature from the period

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fairly crackles with angry denunciations of the Quakers, but for all the heat generated by this verbal attack it seems that the authorities neither knew very much nor cared what theories lay behind the Quaker crusade.”89 This, obviously, raises the question: What were, then, the reasons behind these denunciations? Erikson attempts to answer this question through a description of a case, where one of the Quaker suspects “was told that he was really accused of blasphemy, whereupon he made the sensible suggestion that the magistrates should visit a Quaker meeting so that they ‘might hear, and give an account of what was done and spoken, and not conclude about a thing they knew not.’ ”90 To this he was answered that “If ye meet together and say anything, we may conclude ye speak blasphemy.”91 This reply, Erikson remarks, “had stated the real point. It did not matter very much whether a Quaker was actually overheard muttering some spiritual indignity or other, for in the very process of remaining aloof from the ideological consensus of the community he had proved himself to be a blasphemous creature.”92 An almost identical claim was made by Cyprian of Carthage in the middle of the third century C.E. In his letter to Antonianus, bishop of Rome, Cyprian discusses the meaning of haeresis in relation to Novatian and writes: “It is not right for us even to want to know what he [Novatian] is teaching, since he is teaching outside.”93 As Geoffrey Dunn has noted, Cyprian’s notion of heresy is closely related to, in fact seen as almost identical with, schism.94 And apparently not only Cyprian’s: as Boyarin has noticed, in “the Ignatian stage of heresiology . . . it is primarily schism that is excoriated.”95 In the Didascalia Apostolorum, too, the chapter devoted to heresy and heretics is titled “On Heresies and Schisms.”96 In several text-witnesses of the Didascalia, the title is longer and even more explicit on the centrality of the concept of schism in the book’s heresiological discourse: “Concerning heresies and schisms, and that those who split the churches are condemned to the gehenna of fire, like Korah and Dathan and Abiram, who wished to split Israel, teaching that the church of God is one, and that these of heresies are not churches of God.”97 Indeed, as Dunn has noted, “the meaning and distinctiveness of the two terms only emerged gradually.”98 This, I submit, is the perspective from which we need to approach the early rabbinic discourse of minut. In contrast to Justin, for example, for whom “heresy” was a matter of false belief, minut was constructed by second-century Palestinian rabbis in terms of social-national loyalty no less than through the perspective of doctrine and theological thought. Only on this basis could the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael support Rabbi Nathan’s interpretation of the phrase “false matter” (‫)דבר שקר‬, in Ex. 23:7, as a reference to minut, by quoting Ps. 63:12:

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Rabbi Nathan says: “Keep yourself far from false matter” (Ex. 23:7)— Behold, here is a warning to keep away from minut. And thus it says: “And I find more bitter than death” etc. (Eccl. 7:26). And it also says: “But the king shall rejoice in God; all who swear by Him shall glory; for the mouth of them that speak lies (‫ )דובר שקר‬shall be stopped” (Ps. 63:12).99 The formal basis on which the citation of the latter verse rests is its use of a similar expression to “false matter” (‫ )דבר שקר‬of Ex. 23:7: “the mouth of them that speak lies” (‫)דובר שקר‬. This in itself, however, is insufficient to account for the midrash’s reference to that verse, for according to the “rules” of midrashic hermeneutics, there needs to be something in that verse that justifies its reading as relating to minut. What was it? The answer to this question lays in the previous verses, where the Psalmist relates to “Those who seek to destroy my life” (ibid. 10–11)—that is, to his political enemies—and prays to God: “They shall go into the depths of the earth; they shall be given over to the power of the sword” (ibid.). It emerges, then, that the Mekhilta is interpreting “false matter” as a political issue. This is of great significance precisely because of a possible midrashic understanding of the Hebrew expression ‫ דבר שקר‬in the sense of “false words,” which would have logically implied that minut is a matter of doctrine. The fact that the Mekhilta does not follow this path but, rather, looks on minut through a verse relating to political enemies indicates that for second-century rabbis minut was a matter of social-political meaning and that they considered “the doctrinal” inseparable from the social-political sphere. Precisely as the famous “baraita of the four sons,” preserved in the Passover haggadah, says of the wicked child: ‫“—לפי שהוציא את עצמו מן הכלל כפר בעיקר‬Since he excluded himself from the community100 he thereby rejected the Essence.”101 What is so surprising about this conceptualization of the “religious” in sociopolitical terms is the similarity between the rabbinic discourse of minut and the discourse of “becoming Jewish” used by contemporary Roman writers. Cassios Dio’s report of Domitian, who condemned his cousin Flavius Clemens on a charge of atheism because he was “drifting into Jewish ways,” is of special interest. What is of importance to our present discussion is not Domitian’s remarkable enmity toward the Jews, which has long been noted in scholarly literature, and need therefore not bother us here.102 It is the conceptualization of the adoption of Jewish customs as atheism to which I wish to draw attention. In his paper on Nerva and the Fiscus Judaicus, Martin Goodman noted that “Domitian was exceptional in condemning to death or confiscation of property on grounds of D´THR´WK9 those who ‘drifted into Jewish ways’ (Cassios Dio, 67.14.1–2).”103 He argues that “complaints that such atheism was the natural

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corollary of gentiles becoming Jewish, are not to be found before A.D. 96.”104 As Goodman himself observes, however, under Trajan and Hadrian the view of gentiles who become Jews as abandoning pagan cults and despising the laws of Rome and its gods gained wide circulation.105 It seems, therefore, that by the time of Trajan, or at least by the time of Hadrian, “the charge of Judaizing [was] used as a general term of opprobrium for enemies of the state.”106 Tacitus’ view of those gentiles who “learn first of all to despise the gods” is especially important, as he specifically treats them as people who “disown their country and treat their parents, children, and brothers as of little account”107—that is, in sociopolitical terms similar to those used by rabbinic sources.108 As was noted by Robert Wilken, social perspective emerges from early Roman writings pertaining to the early Christians as well. Already Tacitus claimed that “Christians were punished by Nero because of their ‘hatred of the human race,’ the aloofness and disdain for the ways of others,” and Celsus followed a similar path.109 Celsus, however, goes a step further: not only does he view the Christians as people who “wall themselves off and break away from the rest of mankind,”110 but he goes on to maintain that “A revolt against the [Jewish] community led to the introduction of new ideas,”111 thereby drawing a link between the “social” and the “doctrinal.” The structural similarity between the attitude of Roman writers, as described by Goodman and Wilken, and the rabbinic stance is striking. It appears that the rabbinic discourse of minut is, in a sense, an internalization of the hegemonic Roman discourse and its application in a reverse direction. The Jews adopted the imperial discourse and turned it the other way around against their enemies.112 Therefore, for the rabbis, minut was constructed in terms of becoming Roman and was conceived as a theological denial of God.113

3 Laws of Minim

“Deviance,” as the sociologist Kai T. Erikson once wrote, “is not a property inherent in any particular kind of behavior; it is a property conferred upon that behavior by the people who come into direct or indirect contact with it.”1 It is clear, therefore, that “the critical variable in the study of deviance is the social audience rather than the individual actor, since it is the audience which eventually determines whether or not any episode of behavior or any class of episodes is labeled deviant.”2 This shift of focus, which has been followed by many other sociologists of deviance, paves the way for various questions to be asked. First, who has the social power to label others as deviants? That is, what is the social position from which a group can label others as “deviants”? Second, why—that is, for what reasons and for what ends—do certain groups label others as deviants? What function does that labeling serve for those who exercise it? Third, what are the criteria for placing some members of society in that category? Finally, if, as has been articulated by sociologist Howard Becker, “Deviance is . . . a consequence of the application by others of rules and sanctions to an ‘offender,’ ”3 how does the labeling of deviance actually operate, and what are the mechanisms by which it works? Or, to quote the sociologist Nachman Ben-Yehuda: “If society creates the rules whose infraction constitutes deviance, and if it is not a property inherent in any particular behavioral pattern, but is a conferred property, then one must ask how and why rules are made and who holds the power to invoke the label ‘deviance.’ ”4

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As Ben-Yehuda noted, “Once this conclusion is made, the road to politics and deviance is almost open.”5 One does not need, therefore, to be a “neo-Marxist” in order to realize that by treating deviance from this perspective, and by placing such questions in the forefront of our inquiry, we confront ourselves with concepts of hegemony, dominance, and power. This is an important prism through which a discourse of heresy, too, can be looked at. Such a discourse is not only a field of intellectual debate about religious “truth”; it also does a certain social job. As noted by Karen King, “calling people heretics is an effort to place outside those who claim to be on the inside.”6 By establishing what the “correct belief” is while labeling those members of society who do not share that belief as “heretics,” such a discourse constructs internal boundaries and establishes a notion of social center and fringe. To be sure, boundaries within may be created in a number of ways. Self-withdrawal of a group from the rest of society, for example, creates a boundary within that society. A different process, which leads to the construction of boundaries within, is that of “subgroups [that] mutually deny each other’s salience or centrality as member of the group.”7 Still, in many other cases, “a border [is] imposed by strong people on weaker people.”8 The imposition of a boundary is a political act of exercising power, which presupposes the social and political centrality of the “strong” and the relative marginality of the “weaker.” Following Walter Bauer’s famous thesis about the emergence of orthodoxy as a triumphant party out of a variety of competing representations of the religious tradition (in contrast to orthodoxy’s own claim to be simply the “original,” “true” representation of that tradition),9 one might be tempted to speculate that the labeling of some members of society as “heretics” serves certain groups within that society in the struggle to establish themselves as the “center,” as the dominating party.10 A comparative perspective, however, reveals that such a speculation is not as simple as it may appear. As sociologists of deviance teach us, time and again, an act of labeling of some members of society as deviants is virtually always done by the group that is, or at least considers itself to be, the dominant group in that society.11 A group that is not socially in domination, or at least thinks of itself as such, does not do so, because of the simple reason that it cannot do so. Such a group may claim that those whom it condemns have gone astray; it may assert that they have ceased to follow the correct path. But it never employs a discourse of deviance in relation to the main body of society, and it never accuses the rest of society of having separated from the community. Such a group never uses rhetoric of exercising power or of excommunicating the “establishment” with whom it disagrees, because it simply does not have the power to do so. The very

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act of labeling some members of society as “deviants” is usually seen as an act taken by the dominant establishment toward dissenting individuals and groups.12 The ousting of some members of society by labeling them as “deviants,” “separatists,” or “heretics” is a means for generating group cohesion. How is this achieved? Becker notes that “social groups create deviance by making rules whose infractions constitute deviance, and by applying those rules to particular people and labeling them as outsiders.”13 Whereas Becker puts emphasis on the “application of rules,” Frank Tennenbaum highlighted the aspect of “tagging, defining, identifying” as the core of the process of creating deviance.14 These are indeed two interrelated aspects of the social phenomenon under discussion: the creation of deviance involves both labeling and employment of specific rules, which are particularly pertinent to those who are labeled. This can be seen very clearly in early rabbinic literature. To be sure, there is no work devoted to minim (Tractate Minim, as it were) in classical rabbinic literature.15 And no rabbinic parallel to any of the patristic Adversus Haereses works is known to have ever existed. However, minim are treated in Tannaitic literature in a number of contexts, from which we can see how the exclusion of minim actually worked. Rabbinic literature of the second- and third- century C .E. labels certain individuals and groups by applying to them the tag minim, which was associated with “the Nations of the world” and with the enemy, the Roman Empire. The minim are thus constructed as Jews who left the confines of the community and became as non-Jews. At the same time, this literature sets halakhic rules that regulate social contacts with the minim, thus creating actual boundaries between “us” and “them.” These rules, in other words, sustain the “otherness” of those toward whom they are directed.

Content and Rhetoric In t. Hullin 2:19–20, there is a block of halakhic rulings that aim at regulating social contacts with minim: I. The [act of] slaughter done by a min is considered [as if it were done for the sake of] idolatry. Their bread is [considered as] the bread of a Samaritan, and their wine is deemed wine used for idolatrous purposes, and their produce is [considered] untithed, and their books16 are considered as magical books, and their children are mamzerim.”

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brothers estr anged II. One does not sell anything to them, nor buy anything from them. And one does not take wives from them nor give children in marriage to them.17 And they do not teach their sons a craft. And one does not seek medical assistance from them, either healing for property or healing for a person.18

These rulings appear in the second chapter of the Tosefta, Tractate Hullin, in the context of legal rulings relating to the slaughtering of an animal, which was done with an inappropriate intent on the part of the slaughterer. According to t. Hullin 2:13, “He who slaughters a beast with the intention to toss its blood for the sake of idolatry, or to burn its fat for the sake of idolatry- lo this is a meat of sacrifices of corpses.”19 According to a following ruling, “He who slaughters for the purpose of healing, or for the provision of gentiles, or for the provision of dogs, it is prohibited for use.”20 The Tosefta further rules that “He who slaughters for the sake of the sun, for the sake of the moon, for the sake of the stars, for the sake of the planets, for the sake of Michael, prince of the great host, or for the sake of a small earth-worm, lo this is deemed to be flesh of the sacrifices of corpses.”21 In connection with this ruling, the Tosefta goes on to proscribe various methods of slaughtering that, so it seems, were considered by the rabbis as the manner of slaughtering done for the purposes of idolatry: “One may not slaughter [an animal in a manner that the blood would run] either into seas or into rivers, or into muddy water, but one may slaughter into a bowl of water. And on a ship one should slaughter into a dish of water, but if he does not have a place on the ship he may slaughter into the sea. And if one does not want to make his house dirty, he may slaughter into a utensil or into a hole. But in the market he must not do so, because he thus follows the practices (literally: laws) of minim. Therefore, if he has done so, he should be examined.”22 The mention of minim at the concluding sentence of this passage enables the editor of the Tosefta to introduce other halakhic rulings relating to minim. The first of these rulings still relates to slaughtering and consumption of nonsacral meat: “Meat which is found in the possession of a gentile is permitted for gain; in the possession of a min it is prohibited for gain.”23 The rest of the rulings, however, have nothing to do with issues of preparation of nonsacral meat for eating. The reason for their inclusion here is that they all pertain to minim. The literal meaning of the technical term used by the editor to introduce these rulings, “For they have said,” might leave the impression that the following sentence is adduced in support of the previous ruling. In many cases, however, this is a mere technical term of citation of earlier material,24 commonly used by Tannaitic sources to link up rulings that originally had no

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necessary literary connection between them. It emerges, then, that the “Laws of Minim” represent an earlier source, which was attached here by the redactor solely because of the mentioning of minim in the previous text. This source, the “Laws of Minim,” consists of two parts. Part I declares the legal status of various products belonging to minim, including their children who are considered as totally illegitimate. It does not explicitly prohibit the use of these products by other Jews but, rather, seems to presuppose that deeming these products as halakhically illegitimate would lead any Jew who wishes to follow rabbinic halakha to abstain from consuming them. Part II, by contrast, is articulated in a prescriptive manner; it explicitly prohibits social connections with minim. This stylistic difference hints at the possibility that the two parts emanate from different sources. Indeed, the statement in part I that the children of minim are mamzerim necessarily implies a prohibition on marrying them, so there is no need to repeat this prohibition again, in part II. This seemingly redundant repetition strengthens, then, the assumption that the two parts reflect two different sources. In part I, the Tosefta declares the wine, bread, and fruit of minim as halakhically prohibited for use: “Their bread is [considered as] the bread of a Samaritan,25 and their wine is [considered] wine used for idolatrous purposes, and their produce is [considered wholly] untithed.” The effect of this prohibition goes far beyond making the possibility of common eating impractical; a Jew who wishes to follow rabbinic halakha would never purchase these products from a person who is considered by the community to be a min, even for personal use. As a result, the ability of a min to remain within the confines of the community becomes very limited. This is formulated as a general prohibition in part II: “One does not sell to them and does not buy from them.” The Tosefta further rules that one may neither marry a daughter of minim nor give them a child in marriage, and it prohibits teaching their children a craft. At the same time, it prohibits accepting from the minim any assistance, even medical one: “And one does not seek medical assistance from them, either healing for property or healing for a person.” Thus, the practical dealing with minim on a daily basis is sharply reduced, and the possibility of the minim to remain members of the Jewish community is practically excluded. A comparison of these rulings and similar laws found in the writings of the Dead Sea sect may shed light on an important aspect of the rabbinic “Laws of Minim.” According to the “Instructions of the Maskil concerning those who freely volunteer to revert from all evil and to keep themselves steadfast in all he commanded,”26 the newcomer to the Qumran Sect is taught that as a rule a

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member of the sect “must not be united with” an outsider “lest he burden him (with) guilty iniquity.”27 Therefore, not only is it prohibited for the member of the sect to engage with outsiders “with respect to any law or judgment,”28 but it is also prohibited “either to eat or drink anything of their property, or accept anything whatever from their hand without payment.”29 According to these instructions, “The man of holiness must not lean on any worthless works, for worthless are all who do not know His covenant.”30 In the Rule of the Community we read that “the property of the men of holiness who walk perfectly—it must not be merged with the property of the men of deceit.”31 A few lines later the author rules that no member of the sect should “reproach anyone, or argue with the men of [the pit], but instead hide his counsel in the midst of the men of injustice.”32 Furthermore, according to this text, the member of the sect must “leave to [the men of the pit] property and labor of hands as a slave does to the one who rules over him, and one oppressed before the one who dominates over him.”33 The rhetoric of these rule, is evidently defensives and it is clear, therefore, that they function as “laws of seclusion.” That is, they are rules of self-withdrawal that function as means for creating boundaries between the sect and its members, on the one hand, and the rest of Jewish society, on the other. Indeed, as the author of the Rule of the Community writes, these are “The rules for the men of the Community who devote themselves to turn away from all evil.”34 Their guiding principle, as stated by this text itself, is that “They shall separate themselves from the congregation of the men of deceit.”35 Indeed, the member of the sect is called to withdraw from the rest of the people and to “take upon his soul by covenant to separate himself from all the men of deceit who walk in the way of wickedness.”36 The obligation to “separate from each man who has not turned his way from all deceit” is repeated in the Rule of the Community time and again and is even presented as a founding principal of the sect as a distinct community: “When these become the Community in Israel, they shall separate themselves from the session of the men of deceit in order to depart into the wilderness to prepare there the Way of the Lord, as it is written: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make level in the desert a highway for our God’ (Isa. 40:3).”37 It is not a mere coincidence, therefore, that various Qumran texts place much weight on the sect’s separation from the rest of Jewish society. Thus, as we have already seen in chapter 2, the author of 4QMMT prides himself and his group on having “separated from the multitude of the people.”38 Similarly, the author of the Damascus Document describes the sect as “the penitent of Israel, who departed from the way of the people.”39 The author of the Rule of the Community, too, refers to the members of the sect as those of Israel

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who have “turned away from walking in the way of the people.”40 So, too, the author of 11Q Melchizedek describes the sect: they are “the establishers of the covenant, who avoid walking in the way of the people.”41 And the same phrase is used by the author of 4Q Florilegium when he interprets the phrase “the man who did not walk in the council of wicked’ of Psalms 1:1 as referring to the sect itself: “This refers to those who departed from the way of the people.”42 As the author himself indicates, his interpretation was based on the words of Isaiah 8:11, which he read in accordance with the reading of the Isaiah Scroll, and other ancient text-witnesses, as saying: “With a strong hand He averted me (‫ )ויסירני‬from walking in the way of the people.”43 The implementation of this ideology was achieved by the above-quoted legal rulings, which were set up by the leadership of the sect. As noted by Aharon Shemesh, these rulings are rooted in ancient “laws of separation” from gentiles,44 as can be seen, for example, in Jub. 22:16–22: [16] And you also, my son Jacob, remember my words, and keep the commandments of Abraham, your father. Separate yourself from the gentiles, and do not eat with them, and do not perform deeds like theirs. And do not become associates of theirs. Because their deeds are defiled, and their ways are contaminated, and despicable, and abominable. [17] They slaughter their sacrifices to the dead, and to the demons they bow down. And they eat in tombs. And all their deeds are worthless and vain. . . . [19] But (as for) you, my son, Jacob, may God Most High help you, and the God of heaven bless you. And may he turn you away from their defilement, and from their errors. [20] Be careful, my son, Jacob, that you not take a wife from the seed of the daughters of Canaan, because all of his seed is (destined) for uprooting from the earth. [21] . . . and all of his seed will be blotted out from the earth, and all his remnant, and there is none of his who will be saved. . . . [22] And for all of those who worship idols and for the hated ones, there is no hope in the land of the living; because they will go down in Sheol. And in the place of judgment they will walk, and they will have no memory upon the earth. Just as the sons of Sodom were taken from the earth, so (too) all of those who worship idols shall be taken away.45 Shemesh has already noted the affinities between the prohibitions mentioned by this passage in Jubilees and the Qumran material.46 The difference between Jubilees and the Qumran material lays in the fact that, whereas the former refers to separation from gentiles, the latter employs the basic concept of separation to other Jews.47

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The Tannaitic “Laws of Minim,” too, resemble the prohibitions mentioned in Jubilees. After a general directive to “separate from the gentiles,” we find in the latter a prohibition on common eating, a prohibition on “performing deeds like theirs,” a prohibition on becoming “associates of theirs,” and finally a prohibition on intermarriage—as in the Tosefta. Furthermore, some aspects of their stylistic formulation reveal their connection to halakhic rulings pertaining to relations between Jews and gentiles (see later), and this, too, supports the assumption that they were rooted, like the Qumran “laws of separation,” in ancient “laws of separation” from gentiles, which were then employed with respect to other Jews. The parallel between the Tannaitic and the Qumran material—both with respect to their shared content and with respect to their similar structural move in employing ancient “laws of separation” from gentiles toward other Jews—is very clear. The evident difference between their rhetoric and tone, therefore, is of great significance. In spite of the declarative spirit governing the Qumran rulings, their rhetoric and tone are defensive in nature. They are not merely “laws of separation”; they are “laws of seclusion.” That is, they reflect a self-perception of social retraction from the rest of society. The situation in the Tosefta is entirely different: first, the Tosefta creates a sense of comparison between the status of the minim and that of gentiles and treats the former much more severely. It does so by alluding to an earlier ruling—“as they have ruled”—which states explicitly that “All are permitted to perform an act of slaughtering [of an animal], even a Samaritan, even an uncircumcised, and even an Israelite apostate, but the slaughter of a min is deemed as idolatry, and that of a Gentile is invalid.”48 Thus, not only is the min worse than a Samaritan,49 worse than one who is not circumcised and worse even than an apostate, but far beyond: he is treated more severely even than a non-Jew. Moreover, the Tosefta does not simply tell us how to deal with minim; it first categorizes them and applies to them halakhic categories that already exist: “Their bread [is deemed] the bread of a Samaritan, and their wine is deemed wine used for idolatrous purposes. And their produce is deemed wholly untithed, and their books are deemed magical books, and their children are mamzerim.” In a sense, the Tosefta labels the minim through the labeling of their property. Only after this labeling, and as its logical outcome, does the Tosefta proceed to specific instructions how to engage—or, better, to disengage—with the minim. These are, therefore, “laws of exclusion.” The difference between these two discourses is a difference between the discourse of a minor, separatist group, and that of a dominating one.50 The comparison of the rabbinic “Laws of Minim” to the Qumran material suggests

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that the stance from which the “Laws of Minim” in the Tosefta were formulated is that of the center, which is labeling, marginalizing, and excluding the minim.51

Date When were the rabbinic “Laws of Minim” in t. Hullin 2:19–20 composed? Because the text is presented anonymously, it is obviously difficult to answer this question with certainty and precision. A terminus ad quem is the time of the final redaction of the Tosefta, which is, presumably, the second half of the third century C.E.52 There are a few indications, however, that the text may be earlier than that. To begin with, various expressions found in this text are attributed elsewhere to rabbis who flourished in the second century C .E. Thus, for example, in the context of its ruling that “Meat which is found in the possession of a gentile is permitted for gain; in the possession of a min it is prohibited for gain,” t. Hullin 2:20 also says that meat “which goes forth from a pagan temple, lo, it is deemed to be meat from the sacrifices of corpses.” This statement is repeated verbatim in m. Avoda Zara 2:3, where it is attributed specifically to Rabbi Aqiva, who died around the year 135 C .E. Similarly, t. Hullin 2:21’s ruling that one may not seek medical assistance from the minim, “either healing for property or healing for a person,” uses a phrase that is attributed in m. Avoda Zara 2:2, and t. Avoda Zara 3:4 specifically to Rabbi Meir, who flourished in Palestine in the second half of the second century C .E.53 These verbatim parallels hint at a possible literary connection between the “Laws of Minim” in t. Hullin 2:19–20 and the laws of idolatry in t. Avoda Zara chap. 3. This, moreover, may account for the enigmatic attachment of the halakha permitting the purchase of a Scroll of Torah from a non-Jew to the rulings relating to a Jew who wishes to have a haircut by a non-Jew, in t. Avoda Zara 3:5–6. Chanoch Albeck already rejected the possibility that at the basis of this association stands the graphical resemblance between the Hebrew word for barber (‫ )ספר‬and the Hebrew word for Scroll of Torah (‫)ספר‬.54 It is possible, though, that the legal rulings relating to relations between Jews and non-Jews in t. Avoda Zara chap. 3 are based on an earlier source, in which the status of scrolls of Torah written by a non-Jew was mentioned. This is indeed what we find in the “Laws of Minim” in t. Hullin 2:19: among the products of minim that are prohibited for use, one finds their “Scrolls,” which are considered to be magical books. If this suggestion is accepted, it

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may further support the assumption of the relatively early date of the “Laws of Minim” in t. Hullin 2:19–20. Support for this conclusion may be gained from yet another consideration. Subsequent to the “Laws of Minim,” appears a story in which Rabbi Ishmael expresses his view that it is better to die rather than to receive healing from a min.55 In light of Rabbi Ishmael’s elsewhere-expressed view that one should do everything to avoid death, even to worship idols,56 his stance in this case is surprising and calls for justification. It must be based on a legal ruling that viewed the receiving of healing from minim as even worse than idolatry. This is indeed expressed by the “Laws of Minim,” to which the story is attached: “One does not seek medical assistance from them, neither healing for property nor healing for a person.” Hence, it appears that these or similar “laws” were known already to Rabbi Ishmael,57 that is, no later than the end of the first third of the second century C.E.

Target Against whom were the “Laws of Minim” directed? Who were the minim? Because the editor of the Tosefta attached to the “Laws of Minim” two stories in which followers of Jesus are identified as minim, a widespread scholarly view assumes that minim, in general, are Christians, and reads this identification into many other sources in which the term appears, including into the “Laws of Minim.” I suggest going in the opposite direction: rather than following the editor’s move and extending it to other places as well, I suggest that the question of whether minim is a soubriquet for Christians be examined first for each text where the term is found, without assuming the answer is known in advance. Then, and only then, will we be able to fully appreciate the identification of minim as Christians, emerging from the editorial attachment of those two stories to the “Laws of Minim.” As Reuven Kimelman correctly emphasized, however, asking this question with respect to the classical rabbinic corpus as a whole is methodologically problematic. For, such an endeavor assumes “terminological consistency for over half a millennium over different bodies of literature.”58 Yet, many of the discussions of minim and minut in rabbinic literature do not make the necessary distinction between Tannaitic and later rabbinic sources but, rather, compile sources that are considerably removed one from the other, both chronologically and at times also geographically.59 As a result, scholars read into the early material meanings what may be found primarily in later sources—the most important of which is the identification of minim as

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Christians. In order to avoid this very common methodological mistake, we must follow Kimelman’s suggestion that “The question should be sub-divided as follows: what does min denote (a) in Tannaitic literature? (b) in the Amoraic literature of Palestine? And (c) in the Amoraic literature of Babylonia?”60 Because I am interested in the earliest rabbinic discourse of minut, I shall confine myself to the first category and will discuss only the references to minim in Tannaitic literature. In Tannaitic works, the term minim (or min in the singular) occurs in about thirty-two places: five times in the Mishnah,61 fourteen times in the Tosefta,62 and thirteen times in the Halakhic Midrashim.63 It also appears once in Seder Olam,64 and a few times in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan,65 which is a problematic work and therefore will not be included in our present discussion. Of these, some are merely parallel versions of the same tradition,66 and some are different traditions that are so closely related one to the other that they should be read synoptically.67 All in all, we have about twenty-two traditions mentioning minim in the Tannaitic literature. Minut, by contrast, is mentioned much less frequently in Tannaitic sources. It occurs only in m. Megillah 4:8–9; in t. Hullin 2:24; in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20; and in Sifre Numbers 115.68 A thorough examination of these references reveals that minim and minut are broad terms that may refer to Jewish sectarians and deviants of various types. These terms also denote Samaritans and may be used as a reference to Jewish Gnostics, but except for a single passage in the Tosefta, in none of its occurrences throughout Tannaitic literature does the term minim need to be understood as denoting Christians. That passage, which contains the two stories mentioned earlier, appears in t. Hullin 2:22–24, subsequent to the “Laws of Minim,” and will occupy us in chapter 4. In all other places where minim are mentioned in Tannaitic literature, the term does not denote specifically Christians. Let us look at the evidence. In m. Berakhot 9:5 the minim are depicted as Jews who deny the concept of “two worlds.” Whether or not one identifies these minim as Sadducees, as many interpreters do,69 nothing in the mishnah hints at a possibility of identifying them as Christians.70 In m. Rosh HaShanah 2:1, we are told that the minim attempted to interfere with the communication of the news concerning the new moon to communities outside Jerusalem. Not only is there no reason to assume that these minim are Christians, but much further: from the parallel in t. Rosh HaShanah 1:15 it is clear that Baethesians are meant. In m. Megillah 4:8 the minim are depicted by their peculiar way of placing their phylacteries exactly between one’s eyes, in accordance with what seems to be the plain meaning of the biblical phrase “between your eyes”

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(Deut. 6:8), but in contrast to the rabbinic halakha, which requires to place them above one’s forehead. Here, too, there is no reason to suppose that the minim are specifically Christians. Moreover, as the adherence to the plain meaning of the phraseology of biblical commandments is one of the major characteristics of Second Temple sectarian halakha, and so it was considered by rabbinic tradition itself,71 it is much more reasonable to assume that one of the sects of Second Temple period, such as the Baethesians or the Dead Sea sect, is meant here.72 In t. Kippurim 2:10 we are told of a discussion between Rabbi Aqiva and his disciples, in which he warns his students not to raise up halakhic questions that might give the minim an opportunity to mock them: “They asked Rabbi Aqiva: What about changing it [the Scapegoat] from left to right? He said to them: don’t let the minim dominate (‫ )לרדות‬over you.”73 A similar response, in a different halakhic context, is attributed to Rabbi Aqiva in t. Para 3:3, and to Rabbi Yossi in m. Para 3:3.74 Although the identity of the minim, which these traditions have in their mind, is not explicated, nothing in them forces us to assume that they refer specifically to Christians.75 The same holds true regarding m. Hullin 2:9 and its parallel in t. Hullin 2:18, where one is warned not to slaughter an animal in the marketplace in a manner resembling the practice (literally: the laws) of the minim. Here, too, nothing hints at the possibility that the minim referred to are specifically Christians, nor do we know of any special custom held by the early Christians with respect to the slaughtering of animals. Albeck’s suggestion that “the minim here are sects of idol worshippers” seems therefore most plausible.76 In some sources the term minim seems to refer to Kuttim (Samaritans). Thus, for example, t. Berakhot 3:26 rules that one should not respond amen to a Samaritan reciting a benediction before hearing him concluding the benediction. As noted by Saul Lieberman, the fact that this ruling is placed right after the ruling that deals with the benediction of the minim (t. Berakhot 3:25) indicates that at least from the point of view of the editor the Samaritans and minim were closely related.77 Apparently not only from the point of view of the Tosefta’s editor, however; Sifre Deuteronomy 331 identifies God’s adversaries mentioned in Deut. 32:41 as Samaritans, and “those who hate me,” which are the following words of that verse, as minim.78 Similarly, Deut. 32:21 was interpreted in the Sifre Deuteronomy as referring to minim, while another midrashic tradition, which presumably derives from the [lost] Mekhilta to Deuteronomy, applies that verse to the Samaritans.79 Only on this association can one understand the ruling of the baraita in y. Berakhot 5:3, 9c, according to which a cantor who did not recite (properly) one of the following three benedictions should be replaced: the second

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benediction, in which God is described as the reviver of the dead; the benediction of the minim; and the benediction in which God is described as “builder of Jerusalem.” The explanation given by the Tannaitic text itself for its ruling is that one who fails to recite one of these benedictions is suspect of being a min. Although the first and the second cases are easily understood (because, as we have seen in the previous chapters, a denial of the concept of the resurrection was indeed seen by many sources as equal to minut), the third one is difficult. Why would one who erred in the benediction “builder of Jerusalem” be considered a min? The answer is that the baraita understood min to be a Samaritan, who, because of Samaritan belief that Mt. Gerizim is the true Mount of the Lord, not Jerusalem, refuses to recite a benediction for the reestablishment of Jerusalem.80 Indeed, according to the concluding passage of Tractate Kuttim, the Samaritans are accepted to the Jewish community once they “deny [the holiness of] Mt. Gerizim, and acknowledge [the sanctity of] Jerusalem and the concept of the resurrection of the dead.”81 As the tradition in Sifre Numbers 112 and in b. Sanhedrin 90b indicates, a denial of the concept of the resurrection of the dead, too, was considered a Samaritan stance,82 thus corroborating the interpretation of the baraita in y. Berakhot 5:3 as using the term min to denote a Samaritan. Because, as I have suggested in chapter 2, minut was understood by second-century rabbis as a rejection of the Jewish people and collaboration with the enemy, the reason behind the application of the term minim to denote the Samaritans may be related to their image as collaborators with the Romans, as we are told by various ancient sources. Already in the fourth chapter of Ezra we are told that the Samaritans opposed the rebuilding of the Jerusalem Temple and collaborated with the Persian rulers to prevent its building. A similar view of the Samaritans as Israel’s enemies is expressed by Josephus (Ant. 10:19–20, 12:29–30, 20:118–148), who adds that their political position was against the Jews also during the Great Revolt against Rome (66–70 C.E.). And the same image emerges from various rabbinic sources, depicting the Samaritans as enemies of the Jews and collaborators with the Romans during the Bar Kokhba revolt.83 According to Justin, most of the Samaritans followed Simon Magus, the alleged founder of Gnosticism, and believed him to be the Most High God.84 This image of the Samaritans may also have contributed, at least partly, to the association of minim in various rabbinic sources with the Samaritans.85 For, as has been suggested long ago by Heinrich Graetz, Moritz Fridländer, and many others, minut in various early rabbinic traditions undoubtedly refers to some sort of Gnosticism.86 Thus, for example, in Sifre Numbers, 143, the secondcentury Palestinian sage Shimon ben Azzai argues that Scripture intentionally

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avoided the use of different divine names (e.g., Elohim, Shaddai, Tzvaot) in all of the descriptions of sacrifices in the Torah, in order not to let the minim have an opportunity to conclude, on the basis of Scripture’s use of different names for God, that there are many divinities.87 A passage in Irenaeus’ Adversus haereses reveals the identity of those who maintained that the different divine names used by Scripture indicate the existence of different deities: If anyone should oppose us because of the various Hebrew names placed in the scriptures, such as Sabaoth and Eloe and Adonai, etc., trying to prove from them that there are various powers and gods, they must learn that all such terms are designations and terms for one and the same being.88 Like the rabbinic source, Irenaeus, too, was acquainted with people who relied on the manifold names for God in the Hebrew Bible to support their contention that there are “many Powers and many gods.” Because Irenaeus’ polemic is directed, as is very well known, against Gnostics, a similar target to Shimon ben Azzai’s polemic may be assumed, too.89 A related concern to that expressed by Shimon ben Azzai is found in the following passage from the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: “I am the Lord your God” (Ex. 20:2)—why is this said? For at the sea He appeared to them as a mighty hero doing battle, as it is said: “The Lord is a man of war” (Ex. 15:3). And at Sinai He appeared to them as an old man full of mercy, as it is said: “And they saw the God of Israel” etc. (Ex. 24:10). . . . 90 And it also says: “I beheld until thrones were placed” (Dan. 7:9), and it also says: “A fiery stream issued and came forth from before him” etc. (Dan. 7:10). Scripture would not let the Nations of the world have an excuse for saying that there are two Powers, but declares: “I am the Lord your God.” I am He who was in Egypt, and He who was at the sea, I am He who was at Sinai.91 Here, too, we are confronted with a rabbinic polemic against a potential assertion, based on Scripture, that there is more than one God. Although this error is attributed to the “Nations of the world,” in the immediate following lines we are told that the same view was held by the minim: Rabbi Nathan Says: from here one can cite a refutation of the minim, who maintain that there are two Powers, for when the Holy One, blessed be He, stood and proclaimed: “I am the Lord your God” (Ex. 20:2), was there anybody who stood and protested against him?!92

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Of whom does the midrash speak? Daniel Boyarin has recently argued that while “the identity of those who taught that there were two rswywt [powers] in heaven is uncertain,” and that they could well have been Gnostics,93 “for this particular text there really is little doubt to whom the reference is. The text tells us who its opponents are: ‘The Nations of the World,’ which in this midrash (and other works of this period, the late third century) refers to Christians and in particular Gentile Christians.”94 This assertion, however, has never been demonstrated. It was raised, as an interpretive possibility, by Boyarin himself in a discussion of another passage in the Mekhilta95 but has never been truly established.96 Quite to the contrary: a simple examination of the occurrences of the expression “the Nations of the world” in the Mekhilta and other Tannaitic works easily reveals that it does not refer to Christians. Thus, for example, just a few lines below our passage, we read in the Mekhilta: Another interpretation: “I am the Lord your God” (Ex. 20:2)—When the Holy One, blessed be He, stood up and said: “I am the Lord your God,” the earth trembled . . . at that time all the Nations of the World assembled and came to Balaam the son of Beor. They said to him: Perhaps God is about to destroy His world by a flood? He said to them. . . . They then said to him. . . . But he said to them. . . . As soon as they heard this from him, they all turned back and went each to his place. And it was for this reason that the Nations of the World were asked to accept the Torah, in order that they should not have an excuse for saying, “had we been asked we would have accepted it.” For, behold, they were asked and they refused to accept is. As it is said: “And he said, the Lord came from Sinai” etc. (Deut. 33:2). He appeared to the children of Esau the wicked and said to them. . . . He then appeared to the children of Amon and Moab and said to them. . . . Then He appeared to the children of Ishmael, and said to them . . . 97 Clearly, the term “the Nations of the world” in this passage cannot refer specifically to Christians, for not only does it refer, indeed, to various “nations,” but also the midrash relates it to the nations of biblical days. In some places, the Mekhilta uses this title in reference to the Romans, as in its ascription of the destruction of the Temple to the nations of the world: “Woe unto the Nations of the world! What do they hear with their own ears? Behold, the Temple was regarded as a work by Him—as it is said: ‘The sanctuary, O Lord, which Your hands have established’ (Ex. 15:17)—and they arose and destroyed it.”98 Hence, it is difficult to accept the claim that the term “the Nations of the world” in the Mekhilta is a reference to Christians.99

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Boyarin’s assumption that the midrash polemicizes against Christianity (and hence that both “the Nations of the world” and “minim” are appellations to Christians) rests on his understanding of the concept of “two Powers” as a reference to Binitarianism, which, according to Boyarin, is characteristic of Christian theology.100 However, as was noted long ago by Shaye Cohen, in that specific passage in the Mekhilta a Binitarian interpretation of “two Powers” is clearly excluded by the formulation of Rabbi Nathan’s rhetorical question: “When the Holy One, blessed be He stood and proclaimed ‘I am the Lord your God’ who stood and protested against Him?!” This formulation implies that the other “Power” was understood by the midrash as a rivalry “Power,” not as an intermediary one.101 Not only is this aspect of the midrash a hint at its antiGnostic polemic, but the very problem with which the midrash deals—that is, God’s manifold manifestations102—reveals an anti-Gnostic impetus. Similarly, m. Sanhedrin 4:5, which claims that “man was created alone . . . so that the minim would not maintain that there are many Powers in heaven,” cannot be interpreted as speaking of minim who hold a Binitarian concept. Rather, it has to be understood, as has been noted long ago by Arthur Marmorstein, as referring to some sort of Gnostics.103 The reference to minim in t. Sanhedrin 8:7 can be interpreted in a similar manner. According to the Tosefta: “Man was created at the end so that the minim would not be able to maintain that he joined Him in the creation.” As the speculations concerning the divine nature of Adam were widespread among the Gnostics of the first centuries,104 nothing forces us to abandon the possibility of identifying the minim here as Gnostics, and to view them as Christians.105 The Tannaitic text, which is most frequently seen in scholarly literature as relating specifically to Christians, is t. Shabbat 13:5: I. The gilyonim (‫ )הגיליונים‬and books of minim (‫ )וספרי מינים‬are not saved from a fire. Rather, they are [left to be] burnt where they are, they and the Divine Names which are in them. Rabbi Yossi the Galilean says: On weekdays one cuts the Divine Names which are in them, and stores them away, and burns the rest. II. Said Rabbi Tarfon: May I bury (literally: hit; break) my sons,106 that if they [books of minim] come into my hand I shall burn them and the Divine Names which are in them. For even had a potential murderer run after me [to kill me] I would have entered into a house of idolatry [to escape] but not into their houses. For, idol worshippers do not recognize Him and [as a result they] deny Him; but they [the minim] recognize Him yet they [still] deny Him! And concerning

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them Scripture said: “Behind the door and the doorpost you have set up your symbol” etc. (Is. 57:8).107 III. Said Rabbi Ishmael: If, in order to bring peace between a man and his wife the Omnipresent said that a book that was written in a state of sanctity should be blotted out by water, books of minim, which bring enmity between Israel and their Father in heaven all the more so should be blotted out, they and the Divine Names which are in them. And concerning them Scripture said: “Do I not hate them who hate You, O Lord. . . . I hate them with perfect hatred [I count them my enemies]” (Ps. 139:21–22).108 What are “the books of the minim”? The construct form (‫ )ספרי מינים‬allows for two understandings of this expression. As “books” is a general term in Talmudic literature for scrolls of Torah, “books of minim” may refer to scrolls of Torah, which were produced by, or belong to, minim. However, “books of minim” may also refer to “books composed by minim.” On this understanding the Tosefta doesn’t refer to scrolls of Torah, but rather to heretical books. Which of these two interpretations should be followed? Deciding this matter may be related to our understanding of the meaning of “the gilyonim.” In accordance with other occurrences of this word in Talmudic literature, “the gilyonim” were traditionally identified as fragments of parchment used as the material on which scrolls of Torah are written. As the late-tenth- century head of the rabbinic academy of Pumbeditha in Baghdad Rav Hai Gaon wrote: “These ‘books of minim’ are scrolls of Torah, which were copied by minim, not their books which they have composed. And the meaning of gilyonim mentioned here is the scrolls of the books of minim, on which nothing is written.”109 Various modern scholars, however, have suggested that gilyonim are, in fact, [euan] gelyonim, that is, Gospels.110 If this suggestion is accepted, it may affect our understanding of the other term, “books of the minim,” as well. For, if the gilyonim are Gospels, “books of the minim,” too, may be understood as specifically Christian books, and hence the minim here would be identified as Christians. As tempting as this suggestion may be, it is very difficult to accept. First, it should be noted that it is based primarily on the interpretation of the text that was suggested by the Amoraic sugya in the Babylonian Talmud (b. Shabbat 116a). Furthermore, in none of the Tosefta’s text witnesses does the form “euangelyonim” appear. Such a version is attested only by the Babylonian Talmud, and this may indicate only how the Bavli understood that tradition, not what its original meaning was.111 Second, the term “books of minim” appears in

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other places in the Tosefta, from which it is quite clear that scrolls of Torah are meant.112 Most important, in a parallel tradition in the Sifre Numbers Rabbi Aqiva maintains that “books of minim” should be entirely burnt (as opposed to Rabbi Ishmael’s view, that “one should cut off the Divine Names which are in them and burn the rest”), and his rationale is “Because it was not copied in a state of sanctity” (‫)מפני שלא נכתב בקדושה‬.113 The category of having been “copied in a state of sanctity,” however, is applicable only to sacra, and this implies that the expression “books of minim” can refer only to scrolls of Torah (that belong to, or were copied by, minim). Who, then, are the minim, about whom the Tosefta speaks? That minim have scrolls of Torah we knew already from the “Laws of minim” in t. Hullin 2:20. And just as there was nothing to force us to assume that Christians are referred to in that text, there is no reason to identify them specifically as Christians here. They could well be identified as Samaritans, or as Gnostics, for example. The use of Ps. 139:21–22 with reference to the minim may lead in the former direction, because in Sifre Deuteronomy 381 we find a juxtaposition of minim and Samaritans based on this very verse itself. However, the Tosefta’s argument that the minim cause abhorrence between Israel and their Father in heaven may indicate that the latter are meant.114 Be that as it may, nothing—except for the unproven interpretation of gilyonim as Gospels—in this text requires us to identify the minim specifically as Christians. Thus, we are left not even with a single Tannaitic source, in which the identification of minim with Christians is needed or called for. If we were, then, to read the “Laws of Minim” in t. Hullin 2:19–20 on their own, nothing would have led us to presuppose that they are directed specifically against Christians. Yet, as we shall see in chapter 4, the editor of the Tosefta attached to these “Laws” two stories, in which the identification of minim and Christians is very explicit. Having seen the evidence, however, this identification appears to be a novum. Its significance is discussed in chapter 4.

4 Producing Minut Labeling the Early Christians as Minim

In chapter 3, we saw that the widespread scholarly assumption that minim in the earliest rabbinic literature are Christians is ill-founded. In fact, save for one place in the entire Tannaitic corpus, in none of its occurrences does this term need to be understood as referring specifically to Christians. Realizing this may dramatically affect our reading of that single Tannaitic source, in which the term minim does refer to followers of Jesus, that is, t. Hullin 2:20–24. Because of its great importance, I devote this chapter to a close reading of that text and will consider its possible historical significance. I. There was a case with Rabbi Elazar ben Dama, who was bitten by a snake, and Jacob of Kefar Sama came to heal him in the name of Jesus son of Pantera (‫)ישוע בן פנטרא‬, and Rabbi Ishmael did not allow him. They [sic; read: he] said to him: “You are not permitted, Ben Dama!” He said to him: “I shall bring you proof that he may heal me,” but he did not manage to bring the proof before he died. Said Rabbi Ishmael: Happy are you, Ben Dama, for you have expired in peace, and you did not break down the hedge of the Sages. For whoever breaks down the hedge of the Sages calamity befalls him, as it is said: “He who breaks down a hedge is bitten by a snake” (Eccl. 10:8).

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brothers estr anged II. There was a case with Rabbi Eliezer, who was arrested (literally: caught) on account of minut, and they brought him up to the bema (tribunal) for judgment. That hegemon (governor) said to him: Should an elder of your standing occupy himself in these matters?! He said to him: I consider the Judge [sic] as trustworthy. That hegemon supposed that he referred to him, but he referred only to his Father in heaven. He said to him: Since you have deemed me reliable for yourself, I too have said [to myself]: Is it possible that these gray hairs should err in such matters?! [Surely not!] Dimissus, lo you are released.1 And when he left the court he was distressed to have been arrested on account of matters of minut. His disciples came in to comfort him but he was not convinced (literally: he did not accept [their words of comfort]). Rabbi Aqiva entered and said to him: Rabbi, May I say something to you so that you will not be distressed? He said to him: Speak! He said to him: Perhaps some one of the minim told you a teaching of minut that pleased you? He said to him: By Heaven! You reminded me! Once I was strolling in the street of Sepphoris. I bumped into (literally: I found) Jacob of Kefar Sikhnin, and he said a teaching of minut in the name of Jesus son of Pantiri (‫)ישוע בן פנטירי‬, and it pleased me. And I was arrested on account of matters of minut, for I transgressed the teachings of Torah: “Keep your way far from her and do not go near the door of her house” (Prov. 5:8–7:26). For Rabbi Eliezer did teach: “One should always flee from what is ugly and from whatever appears to be ugly.”2

These two stories have been dealt with in numerous studies devoted to Christianity in Talmudic literature.3 In many of these studies, these stories serve as a point of departure for a further discussion of minim and minut, the obvious reason for which is the explicit identification of minim with followers of Jesus in these stories. The explication of this identification is usually seen as an example for an otherwise presupposed understanding that the term minim refers to Christians. As a result, it seems natural to assume that the term minim designates Christians in general, even in places where this identification is unnecessary and is not called for. Having seen, however, that in none of its occurrences throughout Tannaitic literature does the term minim need to be understood as denoting specifically Christians, I propose going in an opposite direction. Instead of taking it for granted that minim are Christians, I shall suggest that this is precisely the issue with which this text deals. That is, it addresses the question of whether the followers of Jesus should be considered, too, as minim.

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The text consists of two distinct parts, and I shall treat them separately, beginning with the first story. The narrative seems quite simple: Rabbi Elazar ben Dama was bitten by a snake and needed healing. When one Jacob, of a village called Kfar Samma,4 proposed to heal him in the name of Yeshu ben Pantera, that is, with Jesus’ name, Rabbi Ishmael—who, according to other rabbinic traditions, was Ben Dama’s uncle5—did not allow Ben Dama to receive that healing. The latter argued that he can supply a proof (presumably from Scripture) that the receiving of the healing is permitted, but he did not manage to furnish it before he died. On his death, Rabbi Ishmael eulogized him, saying that it is better for him to have died not having transgressed the hedge set up by the sages, for “whoever breaks down a hedge is bitten by a snake.” In spite of the story’s apparent simplicity, various interpretive questions immediately arise. First, what is the relation between the story’s ending and its beginning? Or, put differently, what is the function of the apparent literary play of Rabbi Ishmael’s use of a verse saying that whoever breaks down a hedge is bitten by a snake, and the story’s beginning, in which we are told that Rabbi Elazar ben Dama was bitten by a snake? Daniel Boyarin has recently suggested that by means of this literary play, the author hints at the possibility that Ben Dama did break down a hedge, that is, that he was, in fact, “a close intimate of Christians.”6 This might well be “historically” true, but I think it would be too slim an interpretation to suppose that the story’s main thrust was to supply us with a “biographical” detail about an otherwise virtually unknown rabbi.7 Underlying this suggestion is an assumed correlation between the “snake” to which the Scriptural verse, as read by Rabbi Ishmael, refers, and the kind of snake by which Ben Dama was bitten. Only such an assumption allows one to suppose that, as Ben Dama was bitten by a snake, it implies that he actually did break down a hedge. However, not only the explicit statement of Rabbi Ishmael, who eulogized Ben Dama for not having done so, renders this supposition very difficult; it cannot stand simple logical scrutiny. For, had the “snake” in Eccl. 10:8 been understood by Rabbi Ishmael as an actual snake, like the one that bit Ben Dama, his eulogy for the latter’s “departure in peace,” and thereby avoidance of being bitten again by a snake, makes no sense. What is the great advantage of avoiding the danger of death by a snakebite for one who has just died?! Necessarily, therefore, Rabbi Ishmael had a metaphorical “snake” in mind, a bite of which he considered much more severe than the bite of an actual one. This consideration was raised already by the Palestinian Talmud, which asks: “But wasn’t he bitten by a snake?!” and answers through a reinterpretation of the quoted verse: “Instead, [you should understand the verse as

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saying] ‘lest he shall be bitten by a snake in the future to come.’ ”8 On this reading, Rabbi Ishmael had the “future world” in mind, in which punishment was avoided thanks to Ben Dama’s death before breaking down of a hedge. The Talmud’s interpretation of Rabbi Ishmael’s use of the biblical verse achieves two important goals: first, it ingeniously avoids the possible conclusion that Ben Dama was an intimate of followers of Jesus—a conclusion that, as we shall see later in this chapter, was indeed troublesome for the rabbis; second, it elevates the importance of one’s destiny in the “world to come” over one’s fate in “this world,” thus constructing the issue at hand in relation with the rabbinic concept of “the world to come,” which is indeed related by other rabbinic sources to the problem of minut.9 It is possible, though, that the calamity to which Rabbi Ishmael was referring, the snakebite of which he (through Eccl. 10:8) was speaking, is the very attachment to minut. Ben Dama’s error was his very readiness to “bring a proof” that accepting medical assistance from minim is permissible.10 His sudden death saved him from breaking this hedge, and hence from being associated with minut, namely, from being bitten by a “snake.” Whether one follows the former reading or prefers the latter interpretation, the “snake” against which Rabbi Ishmael warns (through his quotation of Eccl. 10:8) is not an actual snake like the one that bit Ben Dama. And it is precisely against such a misunderstanding that the author of the story wishes us to be vigilant. That is, the author intentionally created an opposition between the “fact” that Ben Dama was bitten by a snake, and Rabbi Ishmael’s claim that fortunately Ben Dama was not bitten by a snake, in order to draw the reader’s attention to the “nature of snakes,” so to be able to distinguish between a snake that is merely a [this-worldly] snake, and a snake that is a “real” one.11 The author wishes the reader to be mindful and not to erroneously confuse essentially different things, even if they appear to be similar.12 As we shall shortly see, this is indeed an important aspect of the entire passage in the Tosefta and in the rabbinic discourse of heresy. The other major interpretive question is, what was the proof that Rabbi Elazar ben Dama wanted, but ultimately was unable, to bring in support of the legitimacy of his desire to be healed by that Jacob, Jesus’ follower. This question, too, was raised by the Talmudic tradition itself. The Babylonian Talmud asks: ?‫—ומה הוה ליה למימר‬that is, “what could have he said?” The Talmud’s answer is that Ben Dama’s supposed proof was from the words ‫( וחי בהם‬literally, “he shall live in them”) of Lev. 18:5. According to the rabbinic tradition, these words furnished the basis for the halakhic stance that permits (or requires) one to violate the law in order to save one’s life.13 And although this stance was restricted by the majority of the rabbis, by the exclusion of three major

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religious issues—idolatry, sexual immorality, and bloodshed—according to Rabbi Ishmael himself this restriction does not apply: “Rabbi Ishmael said: Whence do you say, that if one is told in private, ‘Engage in idol worship so that you will not be killed,’ that one should worship and not be killed? Scripture says: ‘He shall live in them,’ not that he will die in them.”14 According to Rabbi Ishmael’s view, one should do everything to avoid death, even to worship idols if ordered by others to do so, lest he, or she, is killed! This principle, therefore, could have been Ben Dama’s proof. Whether or not the Talmud’s reconstruction of Ben Dama’s supposed proof is correct, we will apparently never know. The point, however, is that the very putting forward of the question is misguided! The author “killed” Ben Dama before he actually adduced his proof because he did not want to allow for such a proof to be heard. And the question is: Why? Although apparently it seems to many readers of the story an obvious issue, and therefore, to the best of my knowledge, it is usually not addressed, the question has to be asked: Why did Rabbi Ishmael prohibit Ben Dama from receiving the healing by the name of Jesus? The answer to this question has to do with the very reason for the placement of this story by the editor of the Tosefta here, at Tractate Hullin. For, after all, one should ask how this story is related to rulings regulating the preparation of nonsacral meat for eating, which are the subjects dealt with by this tractate. The simple answer is that our story was placed here because it tallies with the end of the preceding passage, the “Laws of Minim,” the concluding sentence of which is the prohibition to seek medical assistance from the minim! Rabbi Ishmael was familiar with this—or a similar—ruling, and therefore did not allow Ben Dama to receive the healing from Jacob, Jesus’ follower.15 The “Laws of Minim,” however, do not specify the identity of the minim about which they speak, and they certainly do not identify them as Christians! Quite to the contrary, nothing in these laws, or in any other Tannaitic text, could have led the reader to suppose that they refer specifically to Christians. What, then, was the basis for Rabbi Ishmael’s application of these laws to Jacob, Jesus’ follower? The answer, I think, is that this is precisely the point our story wishes to make: that followers of Jesus are minim.16 Apparently, this is what the second part of the Tosefta, the story about Rabbi Eliezer’s charge of minut, does. The story’s main problem is that neither Rabbi Eliezer, nor we, know why he was arrested for this charge. Furthermore, his reply to the Roman judge’s question—“I accept the Judge as trustworthy” (‫נאמן הדיין‬ ‫—)עלי‬seems, as Daniel Boyarin noted, awkward: “Why did R. Eliezer not simply deny his Christianity? . . . Why did not Rabbi Eliezer simply say: ‘Christianus non sum. Iudaeus sum?’ ”17 Boyarin views this interpretive question as a key

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to the understanding the story, and suggests that the reason for Rabbi Eliezer’s refraining from denying the accusation was his fear that this would result in a demand that he prove his denial by cursing Jesus, an act he wished to avoid. Rabbi Eliezer, accordingly, “had more than some sympathy for Jesus and his followers and their Torah”;18 he actually believed in Jesus, that is, he was a rabbinic Christian. Although theoretically this could be historically true, here, too, I think it would be too “thin” a reading to assume as the story’s main idea,19 and the answer to Boyarin’s question, I believe, should be sought for in another direction. Rabbi Eliezer did not deny the accusation because he truly accepted the Judge’s [sic] judgment (as he declared)! That is, he was truly convinced that because he was accused for minut there must have been something in that accusation. Otherwise, the Divine Providence would not have turned things in such a way that he would be arrested for minut. For that reason he could not reply to the Roman judge’s inquiry by a simple denial “I am not a min.” Such a reply would have been a lie, in Rabbi Eliezer’s view, since the very fact that he was arrested for minut indicates that God sees him as a min, and therefore he cannot claim he is not. He doesn’t know why he is considered by God a min, but he realizes that he is considered so, and it is precisely this gap that caused him sorrow. The turning point of the story is Rabbi Eliezer’s conversation with his student, Rabbi Aqiva, in which the disciple offers his master a “solution” for the anxiety that troubles him so much. Rabbi Aqiva’s solution consists of three components: “Perhaps [1] some one of the minim [2] told you something of minut [3] that pleased you.” Rabbi Eliezer’s reply confirms his disciple’s hypothesis, which provides a rationale for the enigmatic fate that befell him: he was arrested for minut because, in a sense, he is a min! That is, Rabbi Eliezer’s intellectual engagement with a min, and being pleased by “a word of minut,” renders him a min. The riddle is thus solved and Rabbi Eliezer is thereby consoled. One can easily observe that Rabbi Eliezer’s reply fully corresponds to Rabbi Aqiva’s threefold hypothesis: “[1] Once I was strolling in a street of Sepphoris and bumped into Jacob of Kefar Sikhnin,20 and [2] he told me a teaching of minut in the name of Jesus son of Pantiri, and [3] it pleased me.” The significant contribution of Rabbi Eliezer’s formulation is his identification of the “one of the minim,” and the precise nature of the minut, to which Rabbi Aqiva’s suggestion related. That is, although the disciple used only a general, vague term, Rabbi Eliezer furnishes the identity of the minim: the followers of Jesus.21 Both this story and the preceding one, then, proclaim that followers of Jesus are minim. They achieve this goal, however, in a cunning manner: they

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do not say that Christians should be considered minim; they portray a situation in which it is presupposed that they are such. By so doing, these two stories introduce the notion that Christians are minim very effectively. Both stories, moreover, emphasize the need to distance oneself from the minim in general, and from Christians in particular, and not to be entrapped by the seeming similarity between “them” and “us.” The need to distinguish between a “legitimate” teaching and an “illegitimate” one is intensified in the parallel version of this story, as found in the Babylonian Talmud. For, there we are fully informed concerning the “teaching” which Rabbi Eliezer heard from that Jacob in the name of Jesus, and that “word of Torah” bears no mark of heresy whatsoever: He said to me: It is written in your Torah: “You shall not bring the hire of a harlot, or the pay of a dog [into the house of the Lord your God]” (Deut. 23:19). Is it permissible to build from it a toilet for a high priest? And I did not answer him. He said to me: Thus taught me Yeshu ha-Notzri (Jesus): [It is written] “From the hire of a harlot she gathered them and to the hire of a harlot they shall return” (Mich. 1:7)—from the place of dirt they came [so] to a place of dirt they shall go. And it pleased me.22 Without any doubt, this is a perfectly normal “rabbinic” midrash. In fact, it is so “normal”23 that one wonders what is so “wrong” about such a teaching. The answer is that it is not necessarily the content of a teaching that renders it “a word of minut,” but rather the fact that it was suggested by a person who is a min that renders it illegitimate.24 And that specific follower of Jesus, by formulating his question as referring to “your Torah”—that is, not “his”—thereby placing himself out of the Jewish community, has shown himself to be a min. This implies that it is precisely because it is difficult to characterize the essence of minut that one must abstain from any relations with minim. In different ways, then, both stories carry the same message: any association with minim is contaminating and venomous, and in the bottom line, deadly. Precisely as the verse quoted at the conclusion of the second story claims: “Keep your way far from her and do not go near the door of her house . . . for many are those she has struck dead” (Prov. 5:8–7:26).

From Literature to History What can be historically inferred from the literary analysis of these stories? First, they express the notion that distancing oneself from minim is imperative,

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precisely because it is difficult to distinguish between “them” and “us.” Hence, these stories indicate how difficult it was for the rabbis of second and early third century C.E. to discern the precise nature of the minim, specifically because the difference between them and otherwise “kosher” rabbinic Jews was difficult to distinguish. Indeed, the repeated rabbinic warning that minut is seductive and that one must distance oneself from any contact with minim indicates that many of the ideas associated with minut were not easily recognized by Palestinian rabbis of the first and early second century as fundamentally contradicting Jewish tradition. The very fact that minut could have been equated in rabbinic discourse to a “beautiful woman”25 implies an unstated acknowledgment that the claims of minut appear, at least on their face, to be convincing. Indeed, many of these claims were rooted in the Hebrew Bible, and although rabbinic literature strives to present them ludicrously as faint and unsophisticated interpretations of Scripture, the truth of the matter was, in many cases, far otherwise. These interpretations disturbed the rabbis very much, and even if they were able to reject them they knew very well that other Jews might accept these readings and the subsequent assertions derived from them, surely because some of these ideas were not easily recognized as flatly contradicting Jewish tradition. Second, these stories demonstrate the process by which the followers of Jesus were stigmatized as minim, and thereby were marginalized and became “others.”26 Here is the moment in which the construction of Christians as minim is made. Before that moment they were not considered so; they were not considered “outsiders.” The logical connection between this point and the previous one is transparent: because they were so “similar to us,” there was needed an act of labeling for the sake of exclusion. Third, the force of the “ban” against the followers of Jesus, as revealed by these stories, is relatively small. This must be stressed. In the story of Rabbi Elazar ben Dama, having social contacts with followers of Jesus is considered a breaking down of a “hedge erected by the sages”; in Rabbi Eliezer’s story the avoidance of such contacts is justified by the vague principal held specifically by Rabbi Eliezer—therefore, not necessarily shared by others—that one should “always flee from what is disreputable and from whatever appears to be disreputable.” In context, this remark says only that Christianity is “a thing which is ugly,” a category that, from a rabbinic perspective, has relatively little normative force.27 Taken together, these observations allow us to conclude that here is the moment in which a historical change begins to take place, here the boundary begins to be constructed. If so, one must conclude that “the separation of Jews and Christians probably did not happen as quickly or neatly as most theories

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envision. Something there is that loves a high, sharp boundary, but seldom do the boundaries hold, except in the minds of their creators.”28 To what period should this historical change be assigned? As noted by James D. G. Dunn, “At the beginning of [the twentieth] century the dominant view was that 70 C.E. was the crucial date in the parting of the ways between Christianity and Judaism.”29 Apparently, this view continued to dominate scholarly literature up to the end of that century. Lawrence Schiffman, who correctly notes that, “Even if we were to accept many of the polemical statements in our sources at face value and assume the violations of halakha in the early Christian community to be more extensive, the early Christians would still be considered Jews,”30 and that “Even the belief in the divinity or Messiahship of Jesus . . . would not, in the view of the tannaim, have read the early Christians out of the Jewish community,”31 argues, however, that “This situation changed with the destruction of the Temple.”32 Similarly, Lee Levine maintained that “The destruction of the Temple ended any desire or possibility for this group [the early Jewish Christian community] to see itself as an integral part of the Jewish people.”33 According to this widespread view, the destruction of the Second Temple marks the major turning point in the relations between Jews and the followers of Jesus. Daniel Boyarin, by contrast, has suggested a different approach: “Rather than attempting to reconstruct an obscure period out of the centuries-later legends that attest to it, I attempt to historicize the texts of a very well attested period, namely the period(s) in which those legends . . . were produced.”34 As a result, he assigns the historical change to a much later period. Indeed, the story of Rabbi Eliezer’s arrest, in his view, is “a representation of the complexities of the relationship between rabbinic Judaism and Christianity in the era leading up to the fourth century.”35 Boyarin is to be credited for emphasizing, among many other things, that the separation of Christianity and Judaism must be viewed as a long process, not as an event.36 His dating of the story, however, is difficult to accept. First, contrary to a very common error, it must be emphasized that our general hesitation regarding the dating of rabbinic material, and the justified refusal to naively assign them to the days of the dramatis personae themselves (as traditional readers of these stories tend to do), do not make their assignment to the days of the editors any more plausible. For, the story could have been composed in any moment in the interval between the time of the historical Rabbi Eliezer and that of the editor of the Tosefta. Just as one would require concrete and reliable evidence for a dating in the time of Rabbi Eliezer itself, so, too, it would be required for a dating to the days of the editor(s). And just as we don’t have the former, so, too, we do not have the latter. To see, therefore, these stories

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as “a representation of the complexities of the relationship between rabbinic Judaism and Christianity” in the “period(s) in which those legends . . . were produced” is salutary, but to argue that that period was specifically the early fourth century, without any specific evidence, is much less convincing. Saul Lieberman, whom Boyarin cites as his authority for his methodological approach,37 noted that: “The date of the compilation of the text is not later than the beginning of the third century,” and believed that “The original source was most probably contemporary with the event.”38 One may doubt the latter assumption, but certainly “In the beginning of the fourth century,” as Lieberman emphasized, “Christianity was no longer the creed of Jewish heretics, for it had long become the faith of the Gentiles.”39 Boyarin, too, has written: “Christianity takes on a different role in the self-understanding of rabbinic Judaism in this period . . . Christians are no longer seen as a threatening other within but as an entity fully other, as separate as the Gentiles.”40 It is therefore difficult to accept a dating in the fourth century for these stories, for as we have seen, a central notion they express is the need to distance from followers of Jesus precisely because the difference between Judaism and Christianity is not clear. Needless to say, such a notion can hardly be imagined as the stance of rabbinic Jews in the early fourth century. Indeed, sayings pertaining to minim and minut appear throughout Tannaitic literature, many of which are attributed to named rabbis who flourished in the first third of the second century C.E., and others to sages who flourished in the second half of that century: Rabbi Tarfon (t. Shabbat 13:5), Rabbi Aqiva (t. Kippurim 2:10), Rabbi Ishmael (t. Shabbat 13:5), Rabbi Yossi the Galilean (t. Shabbat 13:5), Shimon Ben Azzai (Sifre Numbers 143), Rabbi Nathan (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5, Kaspa, 20), Rabbi Yossi (Sifra, Nedava, 2:5), and Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar (t. Megillah 3[4]:37). And to this list one may add, if a tradition in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan is to be believed, another mid-second-century sage, Rabbi Joshua ben Korh · a, who referred to minut in one of his sayings.41 The variety of these sources renders a sweeping mistrust concerning the reliability of the attributions in all these cases extremely feeble. Were we even to embrace a hypercritical stance and question the accuracy of any one of the attributions in this long list, still it would be very difficult to disregard the overall fact that all these sayings appear in the names of second-century rabbis. And this, obviously, undermines the possibility that we are dealing with a latethird-century—let alone early-fourth-century—development.42 Already by the early second century C.E., Christianity was recognized by Roman officials as a distinct religion, distinguished from Judaism, as one can infer both from Pliny the Younger and from Tacitus.43 It is difficult to imagine

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that an imperial discourse that distinguished Christians from Jews had no effect on Jews and Christians themselves. To be sure, this does not necessarily imply that all Christians were considered by all Jews in the same manner. However, Jews could not have avoided wondering about an identity question, which was produced by Roman discourse that did recognize such a difference, already by the beginning of the second century C.E.44 The chronological assignment of the rabbinic discourse of minut to the second century, which is implied by the attribution of many of the Tannaitic sayings pertaining to minim and minut to early-second-century rabbis, goes, therefore, hand in hand with a contemporary, broader discourse of the Empire. This is probably not a mere coincidence, for as we have seen, a discourse of boundaries, deviance, and exclusion is closely related to, and evolves in times of, identity crisis. And the period following the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 C.E. was indeed marked by such a crisis, as we have seen in the previous chapters. This was the crisis that gave rise to the process that was discussed earlier in this chapter.45 A major aspect of that crisis was the production of a new discourse of heresy. This discourse was based, as I suggested in chapter 3, on the construction of heresy as social separatism, and it resulted in the labeling and expulsion of the minim from Jewish society. The reason for this reaction is that separatists and sectarians pose the most severe challenge to a group’s identity. They seem to be exiting from the community, but at the same time they assert that their way is the true representation of that community’s values, thereby challenging the group’s statements of “who we are.” It is therefore necessary for the community to exclude them entirely and create as sharp as possible a boundary between “them” and “us,” in order to prevent any existence on the borderline. The categorical ousting of separatists and their production as an absolute “other” eliminate the threat they pose to the group’s identity through their claim to have an alternative to that identity.46 And it is precisely because the differences between “them” and “us” are not always transparent that the dividing line must be drawn in the most unequivocal manner. The ultimate way of achieving this goal is through exclusion. Understanding this enables us to comprehend the social process, whereby groups that seclude themselves from the rest of society are at the same time excluded by that society.47 The response to the wicked child in the famous “baraita of the four sons”—“Since he excluded himself from the community you too exclude him from the community”48—is illuminating in this context, as it demonstrates the deep reciprocal relations existing between the separatist’s withdrawal from the community and his/her ousting by the rest of society.49

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From this perspective, then, it would become clear why, when discussing the subject of Jewish relations with nascent Christianity from the point of view of early rabbinic sources, the concept of the “parting of the ways” is misguided and inapplicable: it presupposes two equal parties, and this is a deeply Christianizing notion.50 Contrary to this implied view, which is nurtured by the very use of expressions such as “the parting of the ways,” the discourse that emerges from the early rabbinic material is that of exclusion.51 This picture, it must be noted, is not merely a reader’s construction; it is the perspective from which the rabbinic tradition itself viewed the issue. For, thus the Talmudic tradition interpreted the Tannaitic maxim, “Ever let the left hand repel and the right hand invite”: Our Rabbis taught: Ever let the left hand repel and the right hand invite. Not like Elisha, who repulsed Gehazi with both hands, and not like Rabbi Yehoshua ben Perahiya, who repulsed Jesus the Nazarene (‫ )ישו הנוצרי‬with both hands. . . . 52 After citing this tradition, the Talmud goes on to explain to what the Tannaitic source referred when it asserted that “Rabbi Yehoshua ben Perahiya repulsed Jesus the Nazarene with both hands.” It does so by introducing a story, telling of the incident in which the master, Rabbi Yehoshua, excommunicated his disciple, Jesus: What of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Perahiya? When Yannai the king killed our Rabbis, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Perahiya [and Jesus] fled to Alexandria of Egypt. When there was peace Shimon ben Shatach sent to him, saying: “From me, Jerusalem, the city of holiness, to you, Alexandria of Egypt, my sister. My husband stays in your midst and I sit forsaken.” He came, and found himself at a certain inn. They showed him great honor. He said, “How beautiful is this achsania.” He (Jesus) said to him: “Rabbi, she has narrow eyes!” He said: “Wretch, dost, you employ yourself thus?!” He sent out four hundred trumpets and excommunicated him. He (Jesus) came before him many times and said to him: “Receive me.” But he would not notice him. One day he was reciting the Shema, he (Jesus) came before him. He was minded to receive him, and made a sign to him. He (Jesus) thought that he repelled him. He went and hung up a tile and worshipped it. He said to him: “Return!” He replied: “Thus I have received from you, that every one who sins and causes the multitude to sin they give him not the chance to repent.” And a

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teacher has said: “Jesus the Nazarene practiced magic and led astray and deceived Israel.”53 Ernst Bammel was correct to observe that the story is an expression of rabbinic self-criticism. That is, the Talmudic tradition suggests here that Christianity’s break with Judaism was caused by the severity of the rabbis themselves. The rabbis, according to this story, are responsible for the separation of Christianity from Judaism, because they expelled the early Christians instead of drawing them near.54 Were we even to doubt this explanation, the story demonstrates, nevertheless, the perspective from which early rabbinic tradition viewed the emergence of its denounced [br]other. The ways of Judaism and Christianity did not “part”; the followers of Jesus were labeled as minim, viewed as separatists who joined the nations of the world, marginalized, placed behind the pale, and excluded from the Jewish community.55

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5 Christian Belief and Rabbinic Faith

Difference is never absolute, even if it is represented as such; rather, the invention of “the other” involves the selection of some—the boundary markers—while ignoring similarities. —Judith Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World Why did the rabbis consider the followers of Jesus as minim? What was the problem with the nascent Christ movement in the eyes of second-century rabbis? No explicit answer to these questions is provided by the two stories in t. Hullin 2:22–24, discussed in chapter 4—the stories say nothing of the specific reasons for the rabbinic stance toward the followers of Jesus. Whereas in the story of Rabbi Elazar ben Dama, who was bitten by a snake, one could legitimately speculate that it was the appeal to Jesus as a divine power that provoked the rabbinic reaction,1 in the second story, that of Rabbi Eliezer, who was “arrested on account of minut,” there is not even a slightest clue as to the reasons why the rabbis viewed the followers of Jesus as minim. Despite this silence, a widespread assumption among scholars is that the Jesus movement became to be considered minut by the rabbis because of its dogmas and beliefs (i.e., Christology), and because of its renunciation of Jewish law. To these factors, some scholars add Christianity’s criticism of the Temple and its increasing openness toward non-Jews.2

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These assumptions reflect the picture emerging primarily from Christian sources. As is very well known, in the synoptic gospels Jesus is criticized in many instances by Jewish authorities for having transgressed the Law.3 In the trial scene (Mark 14:53–65), we are given the clear impression that Jesus’ fault was his view of himself as a divine figure.4 In John 5:18 we find a conjunction of these two accusations, and the hatred of the Jews toward Jesus is explained on the basis that “he not only broke the Sabbath but also called God his Father.” This pattern is followed by Christian writers of the second century as well. For example, Justin Martyr says, in one place, that the Jews accuse Christians for not living according to the Torah,5 and in another place he relates the Jewish treatment of Christians to the Christians’ belief in the Messiahship and divinity of Jesus.6 As was noted (with some surprise) long ago by Gustav Hoennicke, however, Talmudic texts devoted to anti-Christian polemic virtually never discuss issues of Christology.7 Indeed, the assumption that it was the Christian belief in the divinity of Jesus that stood at the heart of early rabbinic anti-Christian polemic finds no support in the two Tannaitic stories in the Tosefta, discussed in chapter 4. Quite to the contrary: Rabbi Eliezer was arrested “on account of minut” by the Romans, not by “rabbinic authorities” (real or imagined), and the former would certainly not have been troubled by this-or-that Christian dogma merely because it might have been considered “heretical” from a rabbinic point of view. Similarly, the widespread view that the rabbis attacked Christianity because they viewed Jesus as a magician who deceived the people of Israel and led them astray is based, first and foremost, on Christian, not on Palestinian rabbinic, sources. As was observed by Louis Martyn, the main charge against the followers of Jesus, as it is seen from the perspective of the author of the Gospel of John, was that they were magicians who led the people of Israel astray.8 In classical rabbinic texts, these notions are found almost exclusively in the Babylonian Talmud,9 and one can hardly find traces of such accusations against Christianity in early Palestinian rabbinic sources.10 The same holds true with respect to the Christian supersessionist assertion to be “true Israel.” Reference to this claim is indeed found in rabbinic literature, but only in very late midrashic works, such as Psiqta Rabbati and Midrash Tanhuma.11 Arguably, it may be hinted at by some earlier midrashic sources,12 but no Tannaitic source echoes this Christian dogma,13 just as Tannaitic sources reveal no sign of awareness of the Christian claim that God had forsaken Israel because of their infidelity as revealed in the episode of the golden calf.14

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If Tannaitic sources say virtually nothing explicit about Christianity, how can one know that second-century rabbis were troubled by it at first place? Many scholars simply take it as a given and assume that it is inconceivable that Palestinian rabbis were unaware of Paul and his teachings, or of Christian views of Jesus, and that they were not troubled by them and did not feel the need to refute these dogmas. The rabbis rarely announce explicitly the target of their polemic, so it is only a matter of sensitive and careful reading, so these scholars would have it, to find the rabbinic response to Christianity. The problem with such an approach is that these “sensitive” readings are necessarily governed by one’s presumptions concerning the “essence” of Christianity, at least as seen by rabbinic Jews. And because the texts do not mention in any explicit manner the implied target of their polemic, one will never find anything that lies beyond the scope of what one is looking for. Put differently, one will always need to come with certain presumptions concerning that which should be expected from the text in order to be able to find it there in the first place. Only if one approaches the rabbinic material with the presumption that the rabbis were troubled by Christianity’s belief in the divinity of Jesus, for example, will one be able to interpret a text that appears to be relating to issues of divinity of human beings as a text relating to Christianity. If, however, we don’t approach the text with such an a priori assumption, how will we be able to judge that text as relating to Christianity?!15 What would attract our attention to such a text?! In the bottom line, such “Christianizing” readings are nothing but “reading in” of Christianity into rabbinic literature, not its discovery therein. All too often scholars approach the early rabbinic material with the assumption that Christianity is the most appropriate context in which that material should be read. In what follows I would like to problematize this approach and suggest another, equally possible, context for interpreting rabbinic religious polemic: the imperial cult and the imperial power.

Has God a Son? The fourth-century Syriac Church Father Aphrahat devotes his seventeenth homily to refute the Jews’ criticism of Christianity’s belief in the divinity of Jesus and his designation, by those who believe in him, as God’s son. Right at the beginning of that homily, Aphrahat quotes the Jews’ rebuke of the Christians: “Although God has no son, you say concerning this crucified Jesus that he is the son of God.”16

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Are there any echoes of these criticisms in classical rabbinic literature? In a midrashic passage found in the Palestinian Talmud, Rabbi Reuven (first half of the third century C.E.) relates to the discrepancy between Nebuchadnezzar’s reference to a person whom he saw in the fire as “a son of God” (Dan. 3:25) and his later reference to that figure (in Dan. 3:28) as God’s angel. Rabbi Reuven explains this change as Nebuchadnezzar’s response to an angelic rebuke: At that moment an angel came down and struck him on his mouth. He said to him: You evil one! Take back your words! Has God a son? He thereupon retracted and said: “Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego” (Dan. 3:28), “who sent His son” it does not say; but “who has sent His angel, and delivered His servants who trusted in Him” (ibid.).17 This tradition, which appears in other places in midrashic literature as well,18 was interpreted by Robert Travers Herford as a rabbinic response to the Christian belief that Jesus was God’s son: “There can be no question,” he writes, “that the polemic here is anti-Christian.”19 The midrash, on this reading, is aimed at refuting the Christian notion of sonship. The same interpretation is suggested by Herford to yet another midrash, found in the post-Amoraic compilation, Exodus Rabbah, and attributed to Rabbi Abbahu, who flourished in Caesarea in the second half of the third century: “I am the Lord your God” (Ex. 20:2)—Rabbi Abbahu illustrated thus: a human king may rule, but he has a father and a brother; but God said: I am not thus; I am the first, for I have no father, and I am the last, for I have no brother, and besides Me there is no God, for I have no son.20 Citing this midrashic text, Herford claims that “There can be no question that the Christian doctrine is here attacked.”21 Why precisely? He does not explain, but it appears that the reference to the notion of God having a son was the point in the midrash that led Herford to decide that it should be viewed as an anti-Christian polemic. That this interpretation is possible is beyond any doubt. Is it also definite, however? The answer to this question depends on our ability to conceive of a different, non-Christian context in which to read these midrashic statements. As long as one is familiar with the concept of God having a son only from one’s familiarity with Christianity, one’s tendency to view these rabbinic sayings as refutations of Christian dogmas is only natural. In the late Roman period, however, not only Christians were embracing this idea.

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Adela Yarbro Collins has suggested that the Christian concept of Jesus being God’s son had been nurtured by the imperial discourse, since the days of Augustus, that honored the Roman emperor with the title filius dei (God’s son), and treated him as a divine person.22 Israel Knohl has made a similar suggestion with respect to several texts found in Qumran, in which the author relates to himself as a divine man.23 Thus, for example, in 4Q471b, written in the first person, the speaker exalts himself and rhetorically asks: “Who is like me among the gods? Who could cut off my words? And who could measure the flow of my speech? Who will be my equal with his tongue? And be like my judgment?”24 In his view, he is “the friend of the King, a companion of the holy ones.”25 Without any doubt this is an extraordinary text, for the phrase “Who is like me among the gods?” is a clear paraphrase of Exodus 15:11: “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods.” And this implies that the speaker equates himself to no other than God himself! A similar atmosphere can be sensed in 4Q491, which may be emanating from the same author. Although no selfdesignation as god is explicitly mentioned it that text, the author claims to have ascended to heaven and to have been “reckoned with the gods.”26 As John Collins emphasized, the significance of these fragments “does not lie in the specific identification of the speaker, which can never be certain, but in the notion of a human figure enthroned in heaven, in a Jewish context.”27 One of these texts, 4Q246, relates explicitly to a human being that “shall be called ‘Son of God,’ and they will name him ‘Son of the Most High.’ ”28 As is well known, these are the same words used by Luke 1:32–35 in reference to Jesus. These Qumranic texts indicate, then, as noted by Morton Smith, that “fifty or sixty years before Jesus’ crucifixion, men in Palestine were actually making claims of the sort that John was to attribute to Jesus.”29 And apparently, not only then. “The notion that a particular historical human being was actually the appearance or incarnation of a particular supernatural power,” writes Smith, “seems also to have been common in Palestine during the first century.”30 As Smith goes on to note, “In the second century the pagan philosopher, Celsus, said that the wandering prophets of the Palestinian coast regularly made such claims, and his Christian opponent, Origen, did not deny this.”31 Whether or not one accepts Yarbro Collins’s suggestion concerning the imperial roots of this notion, and Knohl’s similar suggestion concerning the material found at Qumran, the prominence of the view of the Roman emperor as filius dei in Roman religion and politics during the first centuries of the Christian Era stands beyond any doubt. This Roman ideology was well known to Palestinian rabbis of the first centuries, and they strove to reject it.32 Moreover, as Urbach noted, despite their general tendency to leniency with

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respect to laws of idolatry, the rabbis did not tolerate any form of emperor worship and its expressions.33 This was because the imperial cult implied acknowledgment of the emperor’s power, which for the rabbis meant (as we have seen in the previous chapters) an expression of doubt concerning God’s sovereignty. Hence, the rabbinic motivation to deny any claim of humans for divinity. In light of this background, it is worth considering the possibility that the reference to the concept of God’s son in Rabbi Reuven’s midrash, quoted earlier, as well as in that of Rabbi Abbahu, does not reflect an anti-Christian interest but, rather, an anti-Roman polemic. Indeed, the midrash’s reference specifically to Nebuchadnezzar, the almighty ruler, may suggest the imperial discourse as a more suited context for its interpretation. Looking at some earlier, Tannaitic sources relating to Nebuchadnezzar’s theological fault may support this line of interpretation. Thus, we read in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: “For He is highly exalted” (Ex. 15:2)—He is exalted above all those who exalt themselves. For with the very thing with which the Nations of the world pride themselves before Him, He punishes them. . . . And you also find it so in the case of Nebuchadnezzar: by means of the very thing with which he acted proudly before Him, God punished him. For it says: “And you said in your heart: I will ascend to heaven. . . . I will ascend above the heights of the clouds” etc. (Isa. 14:13–14). What is written following it? “Yet you will be brought down to Sheol” etc. (ibid. 15).34 In this Tannaitic text, the figure of Nebuchadnezzar functions as an emblem of a powerful ruler who because of his great power thinks of himself as a god. It is Nebuchadnezzar’s self-exaltation, not his implied assertion that God may have a son, which evokes the divine wrath. This understanding is corroborated by the fact that in its interpretation of Ex. 15:11, “Who is like You among the gods,” the Mekhilta suggests that it refers to “those who call themselves gods,” and mentions Pharaoh, Sennacherib, “the prince of Tyre,” and Nebuchadnezzar, as examples of rulers who called themselves “god.”35 In the time in which the Tannaitic text was composed, this could have been easily understood as a hint at the Roman emperor. Indeed, the preceding passage in the Mekhilta reveals that in the minds of Palestinian rabbis of the first centuries such self-exaltation was understood as characteristic of Rome and its emperor: And you find it also in the case of Tyre, that by means of the very thing with which she prided herself, etc.36 For it is said: “You, O Tyre,

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has said: I am of perfect beauty,” etc. (Ezek. 27:3). And it is written: “Behold, I am against you, O Tyre, and will cause many nations to come up against you” etc. (ibid. 26:3). And you find it also in the case of the prince of Tyre, that by means of the very thing with which he prided himself, etc. For it is said: “Son of man, say unto the prince of Tyre: thus said the Lord God: Because your heart is lifted up and you have said, I am a god,” etc. (ibid. 28:2). What does it say further on? “You shall die the death of the uncircumcised by the hand of strangers” (ibid. 10).37 As Moshe D. Herr observed, “Tyre” refers to Rome, and “the prince of Tyre” is a soubriquet for its emperor.38 This indicates that for the author of these midrashic texts both figures (just as Pharaoh and Sannacherib) symbolize Rome and the Roman emperor.39 In light of these Tannaitic sources, it seems to me plausible to assume that Rabbi Reuven’s reference to Nebuchadnezzar’s implied assertion concerning a person who might be God’s son is a refutation of the imperial claim that the Roman emperor is filius dei.40 Its understanding as an anti-Christian text turns to be no more than a possible, but nonprovable, interpretation, which is brought to the fore of the rabbinic enterprise by Christianizing scholarly reading.

Faithfulness A widespread view holds that Paul drew a sharp distinction between two avenues to salvation: that of observance of the Law (which is practically futile and therefore leads to sin and death), and that of faith. In this reconstruction of Paul’s thought, “Faith stands over against the Torah and in antithesis to it.”41 It is true that recently “a shift has taken place in the understanding of the word pistis (faith, faithfulness) in Paul’s letters,”42 which results in an understanding of “pistis Iesou as the ‘faith’ or ‘faithfulness of Jesus’ rather than as ‘faith in Jesus.’ ”43 Furthermore, it is now widely agreed that there was no single Christianity in the first and second centuries, that is, that not all Christians followed Paul’s rejection of the Law, and that different Christian communities embraced different attitudes to Jewish practice and tradition in that era.44 Nonetheless, the fact remains that the traditional picture, according to which Paul contrasts between observance of the commandments, on the one hand, and faith in Jesus, on the other hand, has given rise to the reading of various rabbinic sayings praising the commandments as anti-Pauline polemic on the part of the rabbis.45

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Thus, for example, Sifre Deuteronomy 97 interprets Deut. 14:2, “For you are a people holy to the Lord your God, and the Lord has chosen you to be a people for His own possession, out of all the peoples that are on the face of the earth,” and concludes: This teaches that any one [of Israel] is beloved before the Holy One, blessed be He, more than all the Nations of the world. Can you say, more than the early forefathers? Scripture teaches: “Out of all the peoples that are on the face of the earth.” Say now: more than those ahead of him and those before him, but not more than the early forefathers.46 Meir Friedman (Ish Shalom), in his edition of the Sifre, published in 1885, commented on this difficult passage and suggested that it be read “as an introduction to the portion concerning prohibited food, as against the disciple of Rabban Gamliel, who became the disciple of the disciple of Rabbi Joshua ben Perahiyah.”47 The latter’s disciple, according to a Talmudic tradition that we have already encountered, was none other than Jesus,48 and Rabban Gamliel’s disciple who later became a follower of Jesus is, obviously, Paul.49 According to Friedman, then, the Sifre’s impetus in that specific passage is to reject Paul’s denunciation of the commandments. Along similar lines, Arthur Marmorstein suggested viewing Rabbi Hananiah ben Aqashia’s famous saying at the end of Tractate Makkot: “The Omnipresent, blessed is he, was minded to grant merit to Israel, therefore he has multiplied for them the Law and commandments, as it is written, ‘It pleased the Lord for his righteousness’ sake to magnify the Law and make it honorable’ (Is. 42:21).”50 In Marmorstein’s view, Rabbi Hannaniah raises a counterargument to that of Paul, namely, that God wanted “to grant merit to Israel, therefore He has multiplied for them the Law and commandments.”51 Rabbi Hannaniah’s argument is that keeping any of God’s commandments grants one with God’s promise, so the more commandments, the more avenues and more chances one has to acquire God’s blessing and to be justified before Him.52 A saying of the early-third-century Babylonian Amora, Rav, is interpreted by Marmorstein in a similar manner. Rav said that “The commandments were not given but for the sake of cleansing humankind,”53 and Marmorstein maintains that this idea counters Paul’s negative view of the Law. That is, while Paul answers his own question, “Why then the law?” (Gal. 3:19), by suggesting that “It was added because of transgressions . . . scripture consigned all things to sin, that what was promised to faith in Jesus Christ might be given to those who believe” (Gal. 3:19–22), according to Rav the commandments have a positive value: “to cleanse humankind.”54

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And so, too, Marmorstein suggests understanding a saying of Assi ben Akabia—a late-second- and early-third-century Palestinian sage—in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: “ ‘And you shall be holy men unto me’ (Ex. 22:30)— Assi ben Akabia says: With every new commandment which God issues to Israel He adds holiness to them.”55 The main thrust of all these homiletic sayings, according to Marmorstein, was to reject Paul’s stance concerning the commandments. All of these saying are attributed to Palestinian rabbis who flourished around the turn of the second century, and even later. This seems to support Urbach’s contention that “we do not find signs of polemic against Pauline ideas [concerning the commandments—A.S.], and certainly not an influence of his ideas, before the end of the Tannaitic era and the beginning of Amoraic times.”56 However, the same spirit can be sensed in a passage in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, which is attributed to Rabbi Matia ben Harash, who flourished in Palestine during the generation following the Bar Kokhba revolt, in the second third of the second century: Rabbi Matia ben Harash used to say: Behold it says: “Now when I passed by you, and looked upon you, and behold your time was the time of love” (Ezek. 16:8)—this means, the time has arrived for the fulfillment of the oath which the Holy One, blessed be He, had sworn unto Abraham, to deliver his children. But as yet, they had no religious duties to perform by which to merit redemption. . . . Therefore, the Holy One, blessed be he assigned them two commandment, the commandment of the paschal sacrifice and the commandment of circumcision, which they should perform so as to be worthy of redemption.57 It is the fulfillment of commandments, maintains Rabbi Matia, that leads to redemption. In fact, redemption is presented as contingent upon the fulfillment of the commandments.58 One may wish, therefore, to speculate that the emphasis of this midrash on the redemptive power of the commandments is motivated by an anti-Pauline concern.59 And accepting this suggestion may lead to the conclusion that the presumed anti-Pauline polemic began a generation, or two, before the end of the Tannaitic era, as Urbach maintained. Indeed, Urbach himself suggested viewing another midrashic passage in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, which is attributed to the mid-second-century sage Rabbi Nehemiah, in the same manner: Rabbi Nehemiah says: whence can you prove that whosoever accepts even one single commandment with true faith (‫)באמנה‬, is deserving

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brothers estr anged of having the holy spirit rest upon him? For thus we find regarding our forefathers, that as a reward of the faith (‫ )האמנה‬which they believed, they were considered worthy of having the holy spirit rest upon them, and they uttered a song. As it is said: “And they believed (‫ )ויאמינו‬in God” (Ex. 14:31) . . . [and the immediate verse that follows is] “Then sang Moses and the children of Israel” (Ex. 15:1).60

Commenting on this text, Urbach writs: “[For Paul] faith stands over against the Torah, and in antithesis to it. The saying of the Tanna R. Nehemiah, which belongs to the middle of the second century, appears to be directed against these views.”61 Needless to say, not all of these readings are equally convincing. The major problem is that they assume the outcome of a saying to be also its initial motivation. The fact that an antithesis to this-or-that stance emerges from a rabbinic saying does not necessarily indicate that it was motivated by a desire to negate that stance. A specific detail would be required in order to impose a polemical interest on any given text, and in many of the cases no such detail is offered. In the case of Rabbi Nehemiah’s midrash, the difficulty is even more apparent, as the biblical prooftext adduced in support of his claim (“And they believed in God”) does not hint at the issue of observance of the commandments, and this raises the question: How could Rabbi Nehemiah see that verse as supportive of his claim that “whosoever accepts even one single commandment with true faith, is deserving of having the holy spirit rest upon him”? Urbach did not attempt to solve this difficulty. Norman Cohen, who followed Urbach in this respect, went an important step further by suggesting that the rabbinic concept of faith itself should be understood as implying the fulfillment of the commandments, and thus as negating Paul’s construction of this religious concept. He is well aware of the fact that “there is a lack of evidence for the impact of Pauline Christianity and its theological views upon rabbinic Judaism in the tannaitic and early amoraic periods.”62 However, he claims that “by the time of the Bar Kochba revolt, with the final separation between Jews and Christians and the growing Gentile nature of the church in Palestine, the rabbis were forced to react with ever increasing vigor to Christian theological views and biblical interpretations.”63 The concept of faith is indeed the main focus of that homily in which Rabbi Nehemiah’s saying appears. This is a lengthy text that deserves a close reading: I. “And they believed in God” (Ex. 14:31)—great is the belief (‫)אמנה‬ that the people of Israel believed in Him who said and the world came into being, for as a reward for the belief that Israel believed

christian belief and r abbinic faith in God the holy spirit rested upon them and they uttered a song. As it is said: “And they believed in God” (Ex. 14:31), and [immediately afterward] it says: “Then sang Moses and the people of Israel” (Ex. 15:1).64 II. Rabbi Nehemiah says: whence can you prove that whosoever accepts even one single commandment with true faith (‫)באמנה‬, is deserving of having the holy spirit rest upon him? For thus we find regarding our forefathers, that as a reward of the faith (‫ )האמנה‬which they believed, they were considered worthy of having the holy spirit rest upon them, and they uttered a song. As it is said: “And they believed (‫ )ויאמינו‬in God” (Ex. 14:31) . . . [and the immediate verse that follows is] “Then sang Moses and the children of Israel” (Ex. 15:1). III. And so also you find that our father Abraham inherited both this world and the world to come only as a reward for the faith (‫ )אמנה‬with which he believed, as it is said: “And he believed in the Lord” etc. (Gen. 15:6). IV. And so also you find that Israel was redeemed from Egypt only as a reward for the faith with which they believed, as it is said: “And the people believed” (Ex. 4:31). V. And thus it says: “The Lord preserveth the faithful” (Ps. 31:24). . . . And it also says: “And Aaron and Hur held up his hands . . . [so his hands were steady (‫( ”])ויהי ידיו אמונה‬Ex. 17:12). VI. “This is the gate of the Lord righteous shall enter into it” (Ps. 118:20)—what does it say about people of faith (‫?)בעלי אמנה‬ “Open the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth faithfulness may enter in” (Isaiah 26:2). In this gate, then, all people of faith (‫ )כל בעלי אמנה‬shall enter. VII. And thus it says: “It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praises unto Your name, O Most High; to declare Your loving-kindness in the morning, and Your faithfulness in the night seasons” (Ps. 92:2–3). “For You, Lord, has made me glad through Your work” (ibid. 5)—what was the cause of our attaining this joy? It was but a reward for the faith with which our fathers, in this world

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brothers estr anged which is altogether night, believed. It is in this sense that it is said: “To declare Your loving-kindness in the morning, because of the faith in You (‫ )ואמונתך‬in the night seasons” (ibid. 3). VIII. And so also Jehoshaphat says to the people: “Believe (‫ )האמינו‬in the Lord your God, so shall you be established; believe His prophets, so shall you prosper” (2Chr. 20:20). IX. And it is written: “O Lord, are not Your eyes upon faith” (Jer. 5:3). X. And it is written: “But the righteous shall live by his faith” (Hab. 2:4). XI. And it is written: “They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lam. 3:23). XII. And so also you find that the people of the diaspora will be assembled again in the future only as a reward of faith. For it says: “Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, with me from Lebanon; look from the top of ‘Amana” (Song 4:8). XIII. And it is also written: “And I will betroth you unto Me forever . . . and I will betroth you unto Me because of faithfulness” (Hos. 2:21–22). XIV. Verily, great indeed is faith (‫ )גדולה אמנה‬before Him who spoke and the world came into being. For as a reward for the faith with which they believed, the Holy Spirit rested upon them and they uttered the song, as it is said: “And they believed in the Lord, and in His servant Moses” (Ex. 14:31), “Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the Lord” (Ex. 15:1). XV. And so also it says: “Then believed they His words, they sang His praises” (Ps. 106:12).

This is a circular homily, which ends the same way it begins. As an interpretation of the immediate verses on which it comments (Ex. 14:31 and Ex. 15:1), its argument is that there is a causal relation between the former verse and the latter one. That is, the fact expressed in Ex. 14:31 (“They believed in God”) is

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the immediate and ultimate cause of the following verse, Ex. 15:1 (“Then sang Moses and the people of Israel”). Because Israel’s utterance of the song is seen by the author of this homily as an expression of the Holy Spirit that rested upon them, it is possible for him to conclude that it is because they “believed” that they received the Holy Spirit.65 It must be noted, however, that although the homily’s first section views the Holy Spirit as the reward Israel was given due to their amana, being blessed with the Holy Spirit is not the homily’s sole focus. As one can easily see, there are various rewards for amana: “Abraham inherited this world and the world beyond as a reward for the amana”; “Israel was redeemed from Egypt as a reward for the amana”; and “the people of the diaspora will be assembled again in the future only as a reward of amana.” This is, then, a homily about the significance of amana and its reward, not specifically about the Holy Spirit. The text, as it presently stands, appears to include several editorial additions. Its core consists (in addition to its opening and concluding sections [I + XIV]) of three sections that begin with the same opening string: “And so also you find” (‫)וכן את מוצא‬, that is, sections III, IV, and XII. Each of these sections is structured in a similar manner: a simple argument is followed by a straightforward biblical prooftext. The rest of the material is merely a piling up of biblical verses,66 in which the root ‫ אמן‬appears, and that are, in all likelihood, secondary in the text.67 In light of this formal analysis, it is likely as was suggested already by Haym Horovitz, that section II also is not part of the original homily.68 Several considerations support this contention. First, it should be noted that this section is completely absent from MS Munich of the Mekhilta. Also, it is only partially attested by the quotation of our passage in the thirteenth-century halakhic works, Or Zarua and Sefer Ha-Manhig,69 both of which are known to be meticulous in quoting earlier rabbinic material.70 Furthermore, the verse cited in support of Rabbi Nehemiah’s argument in that section does not fit well, as it does not easily fulfill its function: nowhere in that verse can one find a hint at the observance of God’s commandments on the part of the Israelites. This, it must be noted, stands in sharp contrast to all of the other cases in the homily, in which a straightforward and easy-to-understand proof is brought in support of the homilist’s argument. We should also note that just a few pages below one finds a related saying of Rabbi Nehemiah, which may be an earlier and more genuine version of his saying, in fact, the source of the saying attributed to him in our midrash: “ ‘And they said thus’ (Ex. 14:31)—Rabbi Nehemiah says: the holy spirit rested upon the Israelites and they uttered a song.”71 All these facts may be taken, cumulatively, as indication of that section’s secondary character in the homily as a whole.

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Needless to say, this conclusion has a direct impact on our understanding of the midrash’s main thrust. Cohen suggests that it be read “against the backdrop of Christianity’s rejection of the law as the means of attaining salvation.” In his view, this is a rabbinic polemic against Paul’s doctrine that gives priority to faith, not to a keeping of the Law: “When Gentile Christians and Gnostics were claiming that salvation would come as a result of either faith or mystical knowledge, the rabbis of the second and third century had to go out of their way to emphasize that for the Jew redemption would be the reward for observance of the commandments.”72 If, however, Rabbi Nehemiah’s saying is removed from the text, Cohen’s main source disappears. Furthermore, because the common feature of all of the Scriptural prooftexts adduced throughout the homily is their use of the word “faith,” whereas the observance of the commandments is nowhere referred to,73 one may justifiably question Cohen’s construction of a rabbinic stance that emphasizes the commandments over faith. Cohen, who was apparently aware of this difficulty, suggested that the biblical and rabbinic concept of faith (Hebrew ‫ )אמונה‬carries, in fact, the meaning of observance of God’s commandments: “Having faith in God almost invariably meant being obedient to His laws and instructions.”74 He admits that “the concept of ‘emunah in rabbinic literature also represents a sense of comprehensive trust in God,”75 and that “trusting in God and obeying His mitzvot are not necessarily synonymous.”76 Nevertheless, in his opinion it is clear that “for the rabbis observance was a major expression of Israel’s faith in and reliance upon God.”77 “The rabbis,” Cohen maintains, “could never merely have understood ‘emunah as trust in a general, abstract sense, but rather emphasized that it ultimately had to be expressed in faithfulness to God’s commandments.”78 Cohen thus transforms the midrash from a text centered on faith to a homily about the centrality of Israel’s obedience to God’s commandments. And once this has been done, an anti-Pauline polemic on the concept of faith can be imposed on the rabbis.79 The assumption that faith for the rabbis was a concept closely related to the keeping of the commandments is based, first and foremost, on the treatment of this topic by Rudolph Bultman.80 Bultman had an interest in maintaining the notion that an important religious innovation was brought about by Christianity, and for that purpose he was in need of suggesting that Paul’s concept of belief was an entire novum with respect to the concept of belief current in the Judaism of his days. The “Jewish” concept of belief, so Bultman maintained, was related to and expressed by the idea of obedience to God’s commandments—one can hear the echoes of a long-established Christian view of Judaism as a legalistic religion in this description—so that Paul’s concept of belief could be seen as a dramatic shift.

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Notwithstanding scholarly acceptance of this picture (the reasons for which cannot be explored here), a close examination of the rabbinic material reveals (as Cohen himself surprisingly notes), that “only a smattering of aggadot directly associate ‫ אמן‬with the performance of the mitzvot.”81 As Urbach writes: “In the Rabbinic idiom, the word emuna retained its original sense of ‘trust,’ ”82 and it bears no specific connotation of observance of the commandments. Indeed, as noted earlier, none of the biblical prooftexts adduced throughout the homily hints at obedience to God’s commandments as the content of belief. Were the assumption correct that our homily emphasizes the value of the commandments and views their observance as the core of emunah, would it not be expected that it would quote Ps. 119:66, “for I believe in Your commandments,” for example?! In final analysis, the view that the Mekhilta expresses a rabbinic stress on observance of the Law, hence reflecting an anti-Pauline concern, is a reinscribing of precisely that scholarly construction itself, that is, the view that wishes to draw a dichotomy and contrast between Judaism and Christianity. The key to a proper understanding of the meaning of amana in our passage in the Mekhilta may be found in another passage in that same midrashic work, to which, to the best of my knowledge, neither Urbach nor Cohen paid any attention in this context: Ah.erim say: The faith with which they believed in Me is deserving that I should divide the sea for them. For they did not say to Moses: How can we go out into the desert without having provisions for the journey? But they believed in Moses and followed him. Of them it is stated in the traditional sacred writings: “Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem [saying: Thus says the Lord, I remember the devotion of your youth, your love as a bride, how you followed Me in the wilderness, in a land not sown]” (Jer. 2:2). What reward did they receive for this? “Israel is holy to the Lord, the first fruits of His harvest. All who ate of it will be held guilty, evil shall befall upon them, says the Lord” (ibid. 2:3).83 This is the concluding passage of a long list of midrashic interpretations of Ex. 14:14 (“The Lord said to Moses: Why do you cry to me? Tell the people of Israel to go forward”), in which the Mekhilta cites various sages that view the Lord’s reply to Moses as an expression of divine affirmation that the Israelites have no reason to worry, since it is obvious that they deserve to be saved. The explanation offered by Ah.erim (“Others”) concludes the list, hence its importance. Menahem Kahana has recently suggested that Ah.erim in the Mekhilta is a reference to a specific Rabbi, whose name was censored by the tradition.84

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Whether or not it is a soubriquet for Rabbi Meir, who, according to a tradition preserved in the Babylonian Talmud (b. Horayot 13b), was named Ah.erim as a punishment for his participation in the conspiracy against the Patriarch Shimon ben Gamliel, we cannot know with certainty.85 If, however, this is indeed the case, this passage is assigned to a mid-second-century rabbi, who flourished at precisely the same time as Rabbi Nehemiah. According to Ah.erim, it was by virtue of Israel’s faithfulness to God that they merited to be saved at the Red Sea. Their faithfulness was expressed by their acquiescence to follow Him, with full trust, although this trust clearly seemed to be contradicted by reality. This is the meaning of amana, in light of which the “Great Is Amana” homily in the Mekhilta should be understood. It is not a homily in praise of observance of the commandments; rather, it is a homily calling for steadfast loyalty to God, even in such circumstances where this seems to be contradicted by simple intuition and evident reality. The issue is not how concretely should this loyalty be expressed; rather, the point is that one should not forsake God because of the evident signs of a political situation. It is in relation to this meaning of ‘amana that the “Great Is Amana” homily should be understood. It maintains that the Israelites, because of their complete trust in God, were rewarded with the Holy Spirit. This certainly may be understood as a religious gift, so it would be legitimate to argue that the homilist is concerned with religious achievement. The homily does not stop here, however; it relates also to Israel’s redemption from Egypt and to the future gathering of the exiled Jews and their redemption: “Israel was redeemed from Egypt only as a reward for the faithfulness with which they trusted. . . . And so also you find that the people of the diaspora will be assembled again in the future only as a reward of faithfulness.” This indicates that the national and political situation of the Jewish people is in focus, too. In light of the political and national situation of Palestinian Jews during the first and second centuries C.E., and in light of the existential crisis encompassing the lives of these Jews, which was described earlier in this book, it is reasonable to suggest that the “Great Is Amana” homily in the Mekhilta is aimed at offering a religious stance that enables one to confront despair. Steadfastness, so argues the Mekhilta, is the true religious response to difficult reality, and ultimately it will ensure Israel’s redemption. On this reading, the background against which the “Great Is Amana” homily has to be interpreted is the subordinate existence and subjugation of the Jews under to powerful Roman Empire, and the implicit challenge presented by this reality to the divinity of Israel’s God. This understanding is corroborated by the verse from Jeremiah cited by Ah.erim in the passage quoted above: “What reward did they receive for this?

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‘Israel is holy to the Lord, the first fruits of His harvest. All who ate it will be held guilty, evil shall befall upon them, says the Lord’ (Jer. 2:3).” Those who “ate it,” in the scope of our rabbinic midrash, were obviously the Romans, who destroyed the Temple and defeated the Jews. As a reward for Israel’s steadfastness and faithfulness to God, promises the midrash, the Roman Empire will be punished.

Conclusion Contextualization is perhaps the most difficult problem a historian faces in the interpretation of rabbinic texts. In most cases, we know virtually nothing about the time and place in which ideas, homilies, and texts were produced, let alone the tacit targets against which they were articulated. Assuming any specific context as the proper background for the interpretation of any rabbinic text is thus always speculative, to some extent. I do not wish, therefore, to be understood as claiming that reading early rabbinic texts on the backdrop of Roman imperial discourse is necessarily more valid than reading them in the context of early Christian writings. Neither is the opposite, however! The issue, then, is a matter of plausibility. My argument is that, with respect to Tannaitic literature, which represents the sayings of Palestinian rabbis of the second century, the Roman Empire and its power is a more plausible context for a proper interpretation of midrash than is early Christianity. Indeed, references to Rome fill the pages of Tannaitic literature, whereas Christianity is hardly ever mentioned explicitly in early rabbinic texts. If Christianity is not the main focus of early rabbinic polemic on religious matters, what, then, did trouble Palestinian rabbis of the second century with Christianity? Having seen that minut, for Palestinian rabbis of that era, was a matter of social and communal sense of loyalty and belonging, it is possible to suggest that the followers of Jesus were introduced into the category of minim because they were known to have established their own congregations, separated from the rest of Jewish society, much more than a result of their specific beliefs.86 In a time of crisis and identity sensitivity, separatism is seen as a severe threat, regardless of the specific “reasons,” religious or other, behind it.87 For this reason, when the crisis is over, it is not uncommon that those “reasons,” which were formerly given much weight and seen as markers of crucial religious difference, lose their import and may be more tolerated. The case of the imperial, as well as Christian, claims for the divinity of different human beings may be a useful example. On the one hand, as we have seen, early

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rabbinic texts strove to reject and denounce such ideas. On the other hand, later midrashic texts seem to have embraced such notions! Thus, for example, in Genesis Rabbah we read: “And hearken unto Israel, your father (‫”)שמעו אל ישראל אביכם‬ (Gen. 49:2)—Rabbi Yudan and Rabbi Pinchas [differed]. Rabbi Yudan said: Hearken to the God of Israel your father. Rabbi Pinchas said: [Hearken:] he is a god, Israel, your father! As the Holy one blessed be He creates worlds, so does your father create worlds. As the Holy one blessed be He distribute worlds, so does your father distribute worlds.88 While any reader of Gen. 49:2 understands the Hebrew word el in that verse as a preposition, “unto,” both Rabbi Yudan and Rabbi Pinchas read it as if it were a noun, that is: a god.89 According to Rabbi Yudan, Jacob addresses his sons with the warning to obey the God of their father. According to Rabbi Pinchas, however, Scripture is making a claim: your father, that is, Jacob, whose name is also Israel, is a god! In another place in that midrashic work the claim for divinity is attributed to Jacob himself: “ ‘There he [Jacob] erected an altar and called him El-Elohe-Israel’ (Gen. 33:20)—he [Jacob] said to Him: You are a God among those above, and I am a god among those below.”90 Although the midrash’s comment on this claim indicates that there were some rabbis who held such a self-exalting stance as arrogant and therefore viewed it negatively, it must be noted that other rabbis continued to express the idea that Jacob was a god. Thus, in Leviticus Rabbah, which is another Palestinian midrashic compilation of presumably the fifth century C.E., we read: “But now thus says the Lord, He who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel” (Is. 43:1)—Rabbi Pinchas in the name of Rabbi Reuven [said]: Said the Holy One, blessed be He, to His world: My world, My world! Shall I tell you who created you? Shall I tell you who formed you? Jacob has created you! Israel has formed you! As it is written: “He who created you [is] Jacob, and he who formed you [is] Israel.”91 According to the common rendering of the verse in Isaiah, as it is reflected by modern translations, the subject of that verse is the Lord. He is addressing Jacob/Israel. This translation relates the verbs, ‫“( בוראך‬he who created you”) and ‫“( ויוצרך‬he who formed you”), to the subject, to God—thus expressing the idea that God created Jacob and formed him. The reading reflected by our midrash is evidently different. The midrash puts a colon after “the Lord,” as if the words ‫ בוראך יעקב ויוצרך ישראל‬are the content of what the Lord said. For that reason, we

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must assume a different addressee to God’s saying—that is, “the world.” But then, these words are being understood as God’s claim; in other words, God is claiming that Jacob is “your” creator, he is the one who created “you”—that is, the one to whom God is speaking, the world. The result is that God is telling somebody else—according to the midrash: the world—who created him: “Jacob is he who created you; Israel is he who formed you.” At face value, such a midrashic reading of Is. 43:1 implies that Jacob is the god who created the world! Furthermore, as has been shown by Shamma Friedman, a midrashic passage in Genesis Rabbah implies the view that Jacob’s figure was identical to God’s!92 These midrashic texts show, then, that the notion of divinity of certain human figures was widespread enough in late antiquity that it could find a place even among the rabbis. The need to denounce religious ideas is determined, to a large degree, by the circumstances and the historical context in which they are expressed. For this reason, marginalization and exclusion are never truly irrevocable, absolute, and final. That which is ousted at one moment may become again part of the “self” in later times, as the circumstances change. That which is silenced, marginalized, and excluded today may be reintroduced tomorrow.

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6 Significant Brothers

Christianizing Rabbinic Literature A famous Talmudic tradition, attributed to Rabbi Nehemiah, who flourished in Palestine in the generation following the Bar Kokhba revolt, predicts that among many other changes that would take place in the messianic age, “the Kingdom shall turn into minut.”1 The Babylonian Talmud presents this tradition as a support for the opinion of another second-century—or perhaps third-century— Palestinian sage, Rabbi Yitzhak,2 who claimed that “the son of David will not come until the Kingdom turns entirely into minut.”3 Despite the apparent early date of these traditions, a widespread scholarly opinion views these statements as prophecies ex eventu and assumes that the change alluded to by this tradition refers to the Christianization of the Roman Empire by Constantine in 324 C.E.4 Along this line, scholars frequently assume that fourth-century, let alone fifth- and sixth-century, references to Rome in rabbinic texts are, in fact, references to Christianity, and consequently read many late antiquity rabbinic texts as pieces of rabbinic anti-Christian polemic. One recent example will suffice to demonstrate this scholarly move. In his thought-provoking Dying for God, Daniel Boyarin notes that “After 312, Esau, or Edom, his descendant, are most often read as the Christian Church.”5 He bases his claim on this tradition. Although it is written in the future tense,6 he renders it in the

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past tense—“The Principate turned to sectarianism”—and takes for granted that minut alludes to Christianity.7 This, in turn, leads him to interpret a midrashic passage that speaks of “Esau the wicked, [who] will wrap himself in his tallit and sit with the righteous in the next world” (y. Nedarim 3:8, 38a) as referring to Christianity. “An Esau,” Boyarin writes, “who wishes to sit with a prayer shawl and study Torah with the righteous in heaven is almost obviously a Christian, not, I think, a Roman ‘pagan.’ ”8 I am not currently concerned with this specific interpretation.9 Rather, it is the unstated presumptions underlying it to which I would like to draw attention. My contention is that, in spite of its popularity, the scholarly assumption that references to Rome made by rabbis who flourished from the fourth century onward are in fact references to Christianity is rooted in a stance that privileges “the religious” and is therefore, in itself, Christianizing, and must be qualified. This widespread scholarly outlook—although never given explicit expression—rests on an implicit view that the Christianization of the Roman Empire was a rapid, clear-cut, historical event. As a result, “Rome” can be seen as “Christendom,” and post-324 rabbinic texts relating to the Roman Empire can be understood as referring to Christianity. This was indeed the dominant view among historians of the Roman Empire throughout most of the twentieth century,10 and it still appears to be the predominant historical outlook embraced by students of ancient Jewish history to this very day. Recent scholarship, however, has questioned this conventional view and has shown it to be difficult to accept. Ramsey MacMullen has already made the point that “The Christians, not only in their triumphant exaggerations but in their sheer bulk, today, seriously misrepresent the true proportions of religious history.”11 He reminds us that, “Saint Augustine did not live in a Christian world,” and that “Christianity claims only the very modest place” in the “inscriptions illuminating urban life in Africa of the Late Empire.”12 For many years after Constantine’s conversion, paganism was still a dominant phenomenon throughout the Roman Empire,13 and as Averil Cameron emphasizes: “Christianity was extremely slow to achieve a dominant position.”14 Although, she writes, “some modern books give the impression that the conversion of Constantine brought an immediate transformation of society—the truth was far otherwise.”15 In a similar fashion, Robert Wilken remarks: “It is commonly thought that by the end of the fourth century, especially after the conversion of Constantine and the accession of an orthodox Christian emperor, Theodosius I, to the imperial throne in 379, the Christian religion had come to dominate the society. From the perspective of later history such an interpretation is understandable, but to those living through this period, things did not appear that way.”16

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As Peter Brown notes, “A glance at the art and secular culture of the later empire makes one fact abundantly clear: when the ‘governing elite’ of the officially Christian empire presented themselves to themselves and to the world at large, as being ‘in truth governing,’ the ‘set of symbolic forms’ by which they expressed this fact owed little or nothing to Christianity.”17 Writing of Antioch in John Chrysostom’s days, Robert Wilken, too, emphasizes that “Paganism and Christianity were not on equal footing in Antioch. Hellenism set the tone, undergirded institutions, and inspired art and literature. In the schools, the ‘air one breathed’ was Greek, not Christian.”18 The situation in Palestine was not very much different. As Yaron Dan has written: “The spread of Christianity in Eretz Israel was slow. . . . One could say that only during the late fifth century or early in the sixth century did the Christians become the chief population element in Palestine. Even so, this was true only from the perspective of the country as a whole, as this was not the case in the Galilee or in the hills of Samaria.”19 In a posthumously published paper, Dan reiterated: “In spite of their efforts and their considerable success, the Christians remained a minority in Palestine at the end of the fourth century.”20 For example, when Porphyrius, bishop of Gaza, arrived in the city toward the end of the fourth century, in 395, there were fewer than three hundred Christians there out of a population of approximately twentyfive thousand!21 In the fifth century, as Nicole Belayche remarks, “Palestine still counted numerous pagans. Some places of worship attracted the same crowds as before and their Christianization did not signify an eradication of former practices.”22 Although it is commonly assumed that “the Christian monumentalisation of the landscape of Palestine did indeed begin,” as Fergus Millar has recently written, “immediately after Constantine’s conversion,”23 when we look at the evidence more closely, a more complex picture emerges. Leah Di-Segni has shown that out of the fifty-seven churches of Byzantine Palestine that can be precisely dated by epigraphic documentation, only ten were built by the sixth century!24 To be sure, it is reasonable to assume that some of the numerous undated Byzantine churches excavated throughout Israel were erected in the fourth century. However, Asher Ovadiah’s statistics, which are based on a much larger number of churches, strongly confirm Di-Segni’s findings and analysis. Of his entire sample, which consists of about two hundred buildings, only nine churches are dated to the fourth century.25 It is clear, therefore, that these statistical findings correctly delineate the main line of historical development, although the number of churches revealed in Israel since Ovadiah’s publication has significantly increased.26 Moreover, although the intensive activity of

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the Roman emperors surely contributed to the Christianization of Palestine,27 it is clear that this manifested primarily in places associated with Jesus’ activity, such as Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and the like, but much less in the rest of the country.28 Furthermore, as was noted by Millar, “the establishment in a city of a Christian community and a bishop did not necessarily mean that Christians were dominant, or that the public practice of paganism had been repressed.”29 In his opinion, “The decisive victory of the Christian side came only in the first couple of years of the fifth century.”30 However, one must keep in mind, as Seth Schwartz has recently written, that: “Christianization was a process, not a moment, which cannot be regarded as in any sense complete before the reign of Justinian (527–565), if then.”31 If the Christianization of Palestine was a very slow process, would it be correct to assume that already by the fourth century Palestinian rabbis had abandoned the long-standing view, common to many Palestinian Jews, of the Roman Empire as Israel’s political and military foe and oppressor of the Jews32 merely because of the very slowly growing Christian character of the Empire? Seth Schwartz has recently maintained that “later midrashim and the early piyyut, mainly products of the sixth century, are suffused with defensiveness and aggressive opposition to Christianity.”33 However, I was unable to find much evidence in the early piyyut to substantiate this assertion, let alone in rabbinic literature, presumably edited in the fifth century, that is, the Palestinian Talmud and the early Amoraic midrashim (Genesis Rabbah and Leviticus Rabbah).34 Quite to the contrary, a liturgical poem composed by the presumably sixth-century Palestinian poet Yannai for the Sabbath on which Numbers 20:14 was read in the ancient synagogue in Palestine (“And Moses sent messengers from Qadesh to the king of Edom”) indicates that the answer must be negative. In that poem, Yannai characterizes Edom (i.e., the Roman Empire) by relating to what he perceived as its power and violent actions, but there is not a single word in that qerovah concerning the Empire’s religious character, that is, its being a Christian empire!35 Moreover, as was noted by Johann Maier, even in Yannai’s single unquestionably anti-Christian liturgical poem (“Ha’omrim le-khilay shoa”), “the polemic against Roman rule, the ‘evil Kingdom,’ runs in the traditional ways, as if the surrounding religion had not changed from paganism to monotheism. The polemic against idols continues for many hundreds of years even after Yannai, as according to this historical and typological outlook the nature of the surrounding religion does not matter at all, for the heart of the difference, and therefore also the focal point of the religious difference, is the competition over governing, over supremacy.”36 Yannai, as Maier correctly emphasizes, frequently uses the typological contrast Jacob/Esau, but the latter

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“virtually always symbolizes the Roman Empire as a rival superpower, and only rarely is it possible to sense that this power is Byzantium, the Christian kingdom.”37 Ever since the destruction of the Second Temple (and perhaps even earlier, i.e., from the days of the Roman occupation in 63 B.C.E.), the Roman Empire, for Palestinian rabbis (I dare, at this specific context, to suggest, for Palestinian Jews), was, first and foremost, Israel’s oppressor—literally, “the wicked Kingdom,” much of its rule over them had been achieved by means of enduring violent actions. The bitterness of this notion is fervently expressed throughout Tannaitic and early Amoraic literature. The Romans are frequently accused of killing Jews and of confiscating the property of the inhabitants of the province, and they are contrasted to Israel in that they pride themselves on living on their sword, as we read in one Tannaitic midrash: “They [the Edomites] said to Israel: You pride yourselves upon what your father bequeathed you, ‘The voice is the voice of Jacob,’ ‘And the Lord heard our voice,’ and we pride ourselves upon what our father bequeathed us, ‘The hands are the hands of Esau,’ ‘And by your sword you shall live.’ ”38 Is there any explicit indication that this perspective, through which Palestinian rabbis used to think about Rome, changed in later (i.e., Amoraic) sources? To the best of my knowledge, the answer to this question is no,39 and as Gerson Cohen wrote: “I am not aware that the official establishment of Christianity caused any basic reorientation on the part of the Rabbis either to Rome or to Christianity.”40 The frequently heard allegation that fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-century Palestinian rabbis must have sensed and, consequently, must have responded to the new religious character of the Empire privileges “the religious” as the most important aspect of public life and wishes us to look on the Empire from a religious point of view. This stance in itself, however, is characteristically Christian, and in the absence of concrete evidence that the attitude of Palestinian rabbis to Rome underwent a dramatic shift as a result of the Roman Empire’s new religious orientation, I see no reason to impose upon rabbinic sources a specifically Christian context for their interpretation. Imposing a specifically Christian context on rabbinic texts results, ultimately, in their interpretation as responding in one way or another to Christianity. This, in turn, is taken as proof that Christianity and the need to combat it were central aspects of the rabbinic enterprise. Only when the circularity of this hermeneutic procedure is recognized and acknowledged will it be possible to readdress the question of the extent of anti-Christian polemic in classical rabbinic literature. I do not wish, of course, to be understood as denying any awareness on the part of the rabbis of the Christian component of the Roman Empire throughout the Byzantine period. Nor do I deny the existence of anti-Christian polemic in rabbinic literature of that era. However,

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to the extent that the Christian character of the Empire is taken in a virtually mechanical manner as the point of departure for interpreting rabbinic dicta relating to Rome in an “anti-Christian” fashion, I find this procedure unconvincing.41 The widespread scholarly hermeneutical procedure that takes references to Rome in post-324 rabbinic dicta as references to Christianity is, ultimately, nothing but petitio principii. Rather than assuming that which needs to be shown, an argument concerning the anti-Christian character of any given rabbinic text should be based on concrete internal considerations, and not on general (and unproven) assumptions about the place Christianity occupied in the minds of the rabbis.42

“The Winter Is Passed” A messianic homily on Song 2:10–13, found in Psiqta de-Rav Kahana and in Song Rabbah, two Palestinian midrashic compilations that were redacted some time in the Byzantine period, may serve as a revealing example for my hermeneutical claim. That homily relates to the seasonal change from winter to spring mentioned by the biblical verses and views it as a metaphor for political change, suggesting that Scripture is referring to the messianic age: “My Beloved answered and said to me” (Song 2:10)—Rabbi Azzariah asked: But is not “answer” identical with “said”? No, He answered me by Elijah, and he [will] say to me through the King Messiah. What will he say to me? “Arise my love, my fair one, and come away, for lo the winter is past” (Song 2:10). Said R. Azzariah: that is the wicked Kingdom, which deceives mortals. As Scripture says: “If your brother, the son of your mother . . . entices you” (Deut. 13:7). “The rain is over and gone” (Song 2:11)—that is the enslavement. “The flowers appear on the earth” (Song 2:12)—[that is as] Rabbi Isaac said: “And the Lord showed me four craftsman” (Zech. 2:3), who are they? Elijah, the king Messiah, Melchizedek, and the Anointed [for the time] of war.43 The midrash’s formal point of departure is the question of why Scripture repeated itself, using two seemingly synonymous verbs, “answered” (‫ )ענה‬and “said” (‫)אמר‬. It proposes that this supposedly redundant style of speech actually refers to the two stages of the messianic redemption of Israel, in which

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God will reveal Himself and “speak” to His people. The first, alluded to by the verb “answered” (‫)ענה‬, refers to the coming of Elijah as a herald proclaiming the coming of the Messiah;44 the second, to the coming of the King Messiah himself. God’s call will then be revealed through his deeds, which will be evident to any observer. According to our midrash, Scripture refers to these deeds when saying: “The winter is past, the rain is over and gone.” Rabbi Azzariah suggests that this is an allusion to “The wicked Kingdom.” When the “wicked Kingdom” will vanish and pass away, one will know that God is “speaking” to His people. About whom does the midrash speak? For the vanishing of whom does it yearn? William Braude, in his comments to his English translation of Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, noted that “the ‘enticing [into a wintry way]’ may refer to the missionary activity of Rome after its conversion to Christianity.”45 Ephraim E. Urbach, too, cites our midrash as proof that after the Christianization of the Roman Empire the sages identified Rome with Christianity, thereby expressing his understanding that our midrash had Christianity in mind.46 As Shimshon Donski puts it, “Certainly the homilist refers to the Christian Kingdom.”47 This interpretation, if accepted, may have a very interesting outcome. For, if “the wicked Kingdom,” who is “your brother the son of your mother,” is indeed a reference to Christianity, it emerges from this midrash that while the author expresses his hope for the vanishing of Christianity, at the same time he admits that Christians are the Jews’ “brothers”! And this, in turn, will necessarily complicate our presumptions concerning the relations of rabbinic Judaism to Christianity. “Brotherhood,” after all, is an emotionally loaded concept, and its use with respect to an “other” is certainly not an act that should go unnoticed. Although neither Donski nor Braude nor Urbach explicated, justified, or corroborated their interpretation with any other source, one could make a seemingly good case for their interpretation. To begin with, Rabbi Azzariah’s assertion that the “wicked Kingdom deceives mortals,” with his reference to the law of the enticer in Deut. 13:7 (“Let us go and worship other gods”), gives the impression that a religious issue is at stake, and this makes the supposition that he is referring to Christianity seem natural. But this suggestion appears to be even more appealing once the midrashic move is deciphered. Rabbi Azzariah maintains that “the winter is past (‫)הסתיו עבר‬,” in Song 2:11, refers to “the wicked Kingdom,” because the latter “deceives mortals” (‫)מתעה את הבריות‬.48 What is the connection between this accusation and “the winter,” which is “passed?” Moreover, how and why is this accusation related to the words “If your brother, the son of your mother, entices you

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(‫)כי יסיתך אחיך בן אמך‬,” in Deut. 13:7? The answer is to be found in the Tannaitic midrash on that verse, the Sifre, in which we find the following comment: “ ‘If your brother . . . entices you” (Deut. 13:7)—to entice means to deceive (‫)אין הסתה אלא טעות‬.”49 Thus, by referring to Deut. 13:7, our midrash accuses “the wicked Kingdom” not merely of deceiving people, but also of enticing them.50 If “the wicked Kingdom entices mortals,” then it is possible to understand the basis of our midrash’s claim that “the winter” in Song 2:11 refers to “the wicked Kingdom”: clearly, it rests on the graphical resemblance of the Hebrew word ‫“( הסתיו‬the winter”) and ‫“( מסיתה‬entices”), which led the homilist to understand the word ‫ הסתיו‬as “the one who entices.” According to Rabbi Azzariah, then, when Song 2:11 says that “the winter (‫ )הסתיו‬is passed,” it actually means that “the enticing one is passed.”51 Hence, “the wicked Kingdom, which deceives mortals—as Scripture says: ‘If your brother, the son of your mother . . . entices you’—is passed.” The midrash here assumes that “the wicked Kingdom” is notorious for “deceiving mortals,” on the one hand, and known to be “your brother the son of your mother,” on the other. Why? According to a tradition relating to Jesus, found in the Babylonian Talmud, the fault of Jesus was precisely that he enticed the people of Israel and led them astray.52 And Jesus, needless to say, was a Jew; therefore, he could easily be considered “your brother.” A passage in the late midrashic compilation, Ottiyot de-Rabbi Aqiva, may corroborate this interpretation: S.ade (‫—)צד“י‬why is it graphically written with [lit. why does it have] two thorns? For this refers to Jesus the Nazorean (‫)ישו הנוצרי‬, who captured two “heads”: that of Israel and that of Edom, and he went and deceived the people (‫)והטעה את הבריות‬. And once the people of Israel saw that this is so they laid in wait for him and caught him and crucified him on the cross. What did they expound? “If your brother, the son of your mother” (Deut. 13:7), but not the son of your father.53 Here, too, Jesus is accused of having deceived others; what is more, the verse quoted in the concluding remark of this midrash is the very same verse alluded to by Rabbi Azzariah. This indicates that Deut. 13:7 was indeed applied to Christianity in Jewish sources of late antiquity. Moreover, this text, which specifically mentions the name Jesus, tells us explicitly that Jesus was considered “your brother the son of your mother.”54 To assume, therefore, that when Rabbi Azzariah expresses the hope that “the wicked Kingdom”—homiletically identified as “your brother the son of your mother,” who “deceives mortals”—will

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pass away, he is actually referring to Christianity, may justifiably be considered a plausible reading.55 Finally, Rabbi Azzariah is known to have flourished in the second half of the fourth century,56 after Constantine’s adoption of Christianity in 312 C .E., and after the establishment of Christianity as the official religion of the empire in 324. Consequently, it could be a justifiable assumption that his midrash refers to the religious component of the empire—that is, to Christianity. However, is this interpretation as firm as it appears? Is it a well-founded reading of the midrashic text that allows us to use it for our historical reconstructions? For instance, can it be used as evidence for a claim that at least some rabbis thought of the Christians as “brothers”? Tempted by such a possibility a noncritical reader of classical rabbinic texts might tend to view hermeneutical considerations such as those suggested earlier as perfectly legitimate, and as a result to consider the anti-Christian reading of this midrash as very convincing. However, a closer examination of these considerations reveals that they do not stand up to methodological scrutiny, and therefore the impression that the anti-Christian interpretation of the midrash is truly established turns out to be at least dubious, if not entirely wrong. Let us begin with a closer examination of the midrashic argument. As we have seen, the point in the text on which its interpretation suggested above as referring to Christianity rests is its claim that the “wicked Kingdom” deceives mortals, together with the allusion to Deut. 13:7. However, our midrash is part of a series of four structurally identical homilies on Song 2:10–13, which are all attributed to Rabbi Azzariah. Comparing our midrash, which is the last homily in that series, to the previous three structurally identical passages reveals that in none of them are the homilist’s specific identifications corroborated by any prooftext. The “winter” is interpreted as a reference to the enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt, to the forty years the Israelites wandered in the desert, or to the seventy years of the Babylonian regime, but none of these interpretations is followed by any prooftext that supports the midrashic identification. Neither is any other of the identifications suggested in these midrashic sections followed by a prooftext. In our homily, too, the next interpretive identification (“ ‘The rain is over and gone’—this refers to the enslavement”) is not followed by a prooftext, in accordance with the style of the entire series. This indicates that the reference in our homily to Deut. 13:7 is a secondary gloss. In its original form, the midrash did not contain any support for its identification of the “winter” as the “wicked Kingdom,” just as the previous three midrashic passages offered no such prooftexts for their

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identifications. Rather, the midrash mentions only that “the winter” refers to “the wicked Kingdom.” If, however, Deut. 13:7 was not originally mentioned by this midrash, then one of the major reasons to suppose that Christianity is hinted at by the text simply disappears. Indeed, even had the reference to Deut. 13:7 been an original part of the midrash, the suggestion that it should be related to the depiction of Jesus (in other sources!) as an enticer would still be problematic. For, in order to read that idea into our midrash, we would need to assume that this image was available to Rabbi Azzariah and comprehensible to his audience. That is, one needs to show that this image appears in Palestinian sources before Rabbi Azzariah’s time. Yet, a thorough examination reveals that this representation of Jesus is not documented by any Palestinian source and is found only in the Babylonian Talmud.57 To read this view into a Palestinian midrashic text is, therefore, methodologically unsound. Similarly, using Ottiyot de-Rabbi Aqiva, which is a midrashic work that was composed some three hundred or four hundred years after Psiqta de-Rav Kahana and Song Rabbah (and about six hundred years after Rabbi Azzariah), to substantiate an interpretation of a passage found in the latter is methodologically hard to defend. Perhaps the use of late sources to interpret earlier ones should not always be ruled out, but the burden of proof undoubtedly rests on one who wishes to pursue that course. The same holds true with respect to the suggestion that the midrash’s reference to “the wicked Kingdom” as “your brother the son of your mother” is in fact a reference to Christianity, based on Jesus’ Jewish origins. Because the Romans, from early rabbinic times, were perceived of as the descendents of Esau, Jacob’s biblical brother,58 nothing prevents us from assuming that here, too, as elsewhere, the midrash has the Roman Empire in mind. Now, that we have seen that the reference to Deut. 13:7 cannot be considered an original part of the text—or at least that its authenticity is highly questionable—all this is unnecessary. The text does not by any means hint at a religious issue. Rather, it explicitly reveals its concern by interpreting the words “The rain is over and gone” (Song, 2:11) as a reference to “the enslavement.” This explicit concern, we are now in a position to note, is also the explicit concern of much of the material in the previous three midrashic sections, in which the Jews’ enslavement to other superpowers stands at the forefront of the text. Accordingly, this midrash should not be understood as expressing messianic hopes for the vanishing of Christianity, which, at the same time, admits that Christians and Jews are as “brothers.” Rather, it is a midrash expressing Jewish hopes for political deliverance.

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“A Brotherhood of Man” Hopes for the destruction of the Roman Empire are a widespread theme in classical rabbinic literature.59 From this perspective Rabbi Azzariah’s midrash attracts no special attention. Yet, at the same time, the midrash designates Rome (through the [secondary] citation of Deut. 13:7, “your brother the son of your mother”) as the brother of the Jewish people. In light of Rabbi Azzariah’s explicitly expressed hopes for the vanishing of the Roman Empire, this hermeneutic move must not be seen as banal and should not be taken for granted. In fact, a close examination of early rabbinic material pertaining to Romans reveals that the rabbis strove to highlight and promote the notion that Jews and Romans are as brothers. Already Lev. 19:17 commands: “You shall not hate your brother in your heart,” and Deut. 23:8 extends this to Edomites as well: “You shall not abhor an Edomite for he is your brother.” In its context, this prohibition stands in contrast to the treatment of the Moabites and the Amonites, of whom the previous verse says: “You shall not seek their peace or their prosperity all your days for ever.” For that reason the Sifre to Deuteronomy finds it necessary to explain: “ ‘You shall not abhor an Edomite’ (Deut. 23:8)— For what reason? ‘For he is your brother’ (ibid.), and great is brotherhood.”60 As “Edom” was used by Palestinian rabbis as an appellation for Rome,61 it is to be assumed that the Sifre understood the biblical commandment as referring, in fact, to the Romans of the author’s days. This assumption is corroborated by the following midrash, which is preserved in one of the manuscripts of Psiqta de-Rav Kahana: Said Rabbi Levi . . . You find [with regard to Egypt and Edom] that after all the evils they have done to Israel He commanded Israel concerning them: “You shall not abhor an Edomite, for he is your brother; you shall not abhor an Egyptian” etc (Deut. 23:8). Yet, they arose and demolished His house, as it is said: “Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites [the day of Jerusalem, how they said, ‘Rase it, rase it! Down to its foundations!]’ (Ps. 137:7).” And it is also written: “Egypt gave a hand [against us]” (Lam. 5:7).62 Clearly, according to this midrash, the same Edomites who demolished God’s house are the Edomites whom Deut. 23:8 commands not to abhor. And since the reference to the act of demolishing God’s house is undoubtedly a reference to the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem, it is evident that the midrash understood Deut. 23:8 as speaking of the Romans.

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A story found in Ecclesiastes Rabbah supports this conclusion and indicates that this was not at all a banal statement but an important rabbinic novum that required much efforts of persuasion: Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua was walking on the rocks by the sea, when he saw a ship which was tossed about in the water suddenly sink with all on board. He noticed a man sitting on a plank of the ship [carried] from wave to wave until he stepped ashore. Being naked he hid himself among the rocks by the sea. It happened to be the time for the Jews to go up to Jerusalem for the festival. He said to them: I belong to the descendants of Esau, your brother; give me a little clothing wherewith to cover my nakedness63 because the sea stripped me bare and nothing was saved with me. They retorted: So may all your people be stripped bare! He raised his eyes and saw Rabbi Elazar who was walking among them. He exclaimed: I observe that you are an old and respected man of your fellow-creatures. So help me, and give me a garment wherewith to cover my nakedness because the sea stripped me bare. Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua was wearing seven robes; he took one off and gave it to him. He also led him to his house, provided him with food and drink, gave him two hundred dinars, drove him fourteen Persian miles, and striated him with great honor until he brought him to his home. Some time late the wicked emperor died, and they elected this man king in his stead, and he decreed concerning that province that all the men were to be killed and all the women taken as spoil. They said to Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua: Go and intercede for us! He said to them: You know that this government does nothing without being paid. They said to him: Here are four thousand dinars; take them and go and intercede for us. He took them and went and stood by the gate of the royal palace. He said to [the guards]: Go, tell the king that a Jew is standing at the gate, and wishes to greet the king. The king ordered him to be brought in. On beholding him the king descended from his throne and prostrated himself before him. He asked him: What is my master’s business here, and why has my master troubled to come here? He replied: That you should have mercy upon this province and annul this decree. The king asked him: Is there any falsehood written in the Torah? No, he replied. So he said to him: Is it not written in your Torah: “An Ammonite or a Moabite shall not enter into the assembly of the Lord” (Deut. 23:4)? For what reason— “Because they met you not with bread and with water in the way”

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(ibid., 5)! And it is also written: “You shall not abhor an Edomite, for he is your brother” (ibid., 8). And I, am I not a descendant of Esau, your brother? But they did not treat me with kindness! And whoever transgresses the Torah incurs the penalty of death! Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua replied to him: Although they are guilty toward you, forgive them and have mercy upon them.64 This beautifully crafted story deserves a close reading, which regrettably cannot be fully done here. For the purposes of the present discussion, I wish to emphasize the author’s reference to Deut. 23:8 and his use of the idea that Jews and Romans are as brothers. The Roman man calls to the Jews passing by for help and maintains that because he, as a Roman, “belongs to the descendants of Esau,”65 they should not neglect him because he is their “brother.” They refuse and instead of assisting him they reply: “So may all your people be stripped bare”; that is, they do not treat him as a brother. This is emphasized later by the Roman himself, in his conversation with Rabbi Elazar. In a subtle and sophisticated manner, the author of our story puts in the mouth of that Roman governor a brilliant “rabbinical” argument, which is based on a contrast between the biblical command regarding the Moabites and Ammonites and that regarding the Edomites. The former are treated by Scripture severely (“You shall not seek their peace and prosperity for ever” [Deut. 23:7]), precisely because “they met you not with bread and with water in the way” (Deut. 23:5)—exactly as the Jews in our story treated the Roman man. Yet, Scripture contrasts the case of the Edomite with that of the Moabites and Ammonites and states that one must not treat an Edomite in a similar manner, “for he is your brother” (Deut. 23:8). Hence, the Jews “transgressed the Torah,” and therefore they deserve the death penalty. Clearly, Deut. 23:8 is applied here to Romans. The story, moreover, emphasizes the reasoning stated by the biblical verse (“for he is your brother”), thereby intensifying the claim that Jews and Romans (of the author’s days) are as “brothers.” It is equally clear, however, that there was needed much effort to advance this notion precisely because it was not accepted by many Jews of the author’s time. The Jewish passersby refuse to acknowledge the Roman’s claim that he is their “brother,” and instead they express their hopes that “So may all your people be stripped bare!” Our story is aimed at negating such a stance toward Romans on the part of its audience; therefore, it constructs a well-crafted argument, imitating the rabbinic style of treatment of the biblical text so as to confer legitimacy and authority on its moral claim.

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In a surprising passage in Deuteronomy Rabbah, this argument is presented without any hesitation: “You are about to pass through the border of your brethren the sons of Esau” (Deut. 2:4)—even though they are the sons of Esau they are still your brothers! Similarly: “Said your brethren, your enemies” (Is. 66:5)—even though they are your enemies they are your brothers! Similarly: “For the violence you have done to your brother Jacob” (Obad. 10)—even though he [Esau] kills you, even though he robs66 you, he is still your brother.67 The reference to Esau’s violence against Jacob, the fact that Esau “kills you . . . [and] robs you,” is a clear reference to the way Roman policy was perceived by Palestinian rabbinic (and many other) Jews throughout the Roman period. Yet, the midrash asserts that regardless of all the horrible deeds of the Romans, they still should be considered “your brother.”68 The same argument is found in a piyyut of the sixth-century poet Yannai: “For even if they are your enemies / they are the descendents of Esau, the brother of your father / and sons of sons are as sons in matters of inheritance.”69 Universal brotherhood was a concept promoted by the Romans themselves throughout most of the second century C.E. and even later.70 Under such a zeitgeist one can fully understand the rabbis’ disappointment with what was perceived by many Palestinian Jews as a Roman double standard and failure to adhere to Rome’s own ideology. Thus, commenting on Deut. 32:27 (“Lest their adversaries should misjudge”) the Sifre to Deuteronomy claims that “when Israel is in distress the Nations of the world distance themselves from them and act as if they never knew them . . . but when Israel prospers, the Nations of the world flatter them and act as if they are brothers.”71 The Sifre supports its assertion by referring to a verse relating specifically to Esau (“Thus Esau said to Jacob: I have enough my brother, let what you have remain yours” [Gen. 33:9]),72 thus transforming the broad idiom, “the Nations of the world,” into a more concrete reference: Romans. This midrash expresses a clear frustration with the fact that the Romans do not truly treat the Jews as brothers, as they should have,73 yet it does not give up the idea that Jews and Romans are indeed brothers.

“Your Brother” Who indeed should be considered a “brother” was a question constantly dealt with by early rabbinic texts, because of the central place this kinship

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term occupied in social discourse in antiquity, Jewish and non-Jewish alike,74 and, moreover, because various biblical precepts refer specifically to “your brother,” and this called for a more precise definition. In cases such as Deut. 15:3, “Of a foreigner you may exact it; but whatever of yours is with your brother your hand shall release,” there is little doubt about the meaning of the term, as Scripture contrasts it to “the foreigner,” thus making clear that “your brother” is a national-ethnic category, relating to the Jewish people. The same contrast appears in Deut. 17:15: “One from among your brethren you shall set as a king over you; you may not put a foreigner over you, who is not your brother.” And so, too, in Deut. 23:20–21: “You shall not lend upon interest to your brother. . . . To a foreigner you may lend upon interest, but to your brother you shall not lend upon interest.” In these cases, the meaning of the term “your brother” required no special elaboration. Other cases, however, were less clear, and therefore attracted rabbinic interpretation. The commandment of return of lost property, for example, refers to “your brother’s ox” (Deut. 22:1–3) but does not attach any precise meaning to this term. Tannaitic tradition interpreted it in an ethnicnational fashion, and consequently reached the conclusion that its function is to exclude the non-Jew.75 So much so that, although elsewhere Scripture addresses the same issue and refers to “your enemy” (Ex. 23:4)—a term that, following biblical usage, could have been easily understood as a reference to the non-Jew76—most of the Tannaim refused to accept the possibility of applying the commandment of return of lost property to the gentile as well. Rather, they imposed on the words “your enemy” a meaning that fits in with their understanding of the term “your brother” as a category designating the Israelite, thus suppressing Ex. 23:4 in favor of a national-ethnic meaning that they attached to Deut. 22:1–3. Thus, we read in a midrashic comment on Ex. 23:4 embedded in the newly discovered midrash on Deuteronomy, the Sifre Zutta: “ ‘If you meet your enemy’s ox” (Ex. 23:4)—is it possible that Scripture speaks of a non-Jew? He said below: “You shall not see your brother’s ox or his sheep go astray [and withhold your help]” (Deut. 22:1), Scripture speaks of a brother, not of a non-Jew!”77 The idiom “your brother” is understood here as a reference to the Israelite, and the commandment of return of lost property is assumed to be relating only to Jews. For this reason, the Sifre Zutta maintains, it is impossible to accept an understanding of the phrase “your enemy” in Ex. 23:4 as a reference to the non-Jew, and a different interpretation to this phrase needs to be offered: “How, then, shall I interpret ‘your enemy?’ This refers to a wicked [Jew], who does not observe the Torah.”

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In a different manner, but still following the same assumptions, this line of thought is expressed by the midrashic comment on Deut. 22:1 embedded in the Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Exodus 23:4: “You shall not see your brother’s ox” (Deut. 22:1)—I know only that this refers to your brother; whence do I know that this includes your enemy? Scripture teaches: “Your enemy” (Ex. 23:4), in any case. Is it to be concluded that this includes also that of gentiles? Scripture teaches: “Your brother.” What characterizes “your brother” is that he is in close proximity to you, so too only one who is in close proximity to you.78 Clearly, this midrash makes an effort to emphasize that “your enemy” does not imply the non-Jew: “Is it to be concluded that this includes also that of gentiles?!” Surely not, says the midrash, for Deut. 22:1 teaches: “Your brother,” and this term refers only to Jews, not to gentiles. The midrash views Deut. 22:1 as the primary source, and twists Ex. 23:4 so as not to contradict it. Implicitly, this is the assumption behind the following controversy in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, concerning the meaning of the phrase “your enemy” in Ex. 23:4: “Your enemy’s [ox]” (Ex. 23:4)—Rabbi Joshiah says: “Your enemy” is the gentile. For thus we find that the gentiles are called enemies of Israel everywhere, as it is said: “When your go forth in camp against your enemies” (Deut. 23:10); “When you go forth to battle against your enemies” (Deut. 21:10). Rabbi Eliezer says: Scripture speaks of a proselyte who has relapsed into his former evil predilection. Rabbi Isaac says: Scripture speaks of an apostate Israelite. Rabbi Jonathan says: Scripture speaks of an Israelite as such. How, then, can Scripture say “your enemy?” Rather, if one has beaten his son or has a quarrel with him he becomes his enemy for the time being.79 Four interpretations are presented by this passage to the phrase “your enemy” in the biblical verse. The first one, that of Rabbi Joshiah, suggests applying the commandment to return a lost property to non-Jews as well, but the other three refuse to accept this stance and claim that it applies only to a person who can be considered, one way or another, a Jew. The Mekhilta’s rhetorical question following Rabbi Jonathan’s interpretation—“How, then, can Scripture say ‘your enemy’?”—reveals that identifying the enemy not as a gentile, but as any sort of Jew, is, in the Mekhilta’s own view, a forced interpretation. Indeed, even the formulation of the answer—“if one has beaten his son or has a quarrel with him he becomes his enemy

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for the time being”—indicates that in the Mekhilta’s view the construct of a Jew who is considered another Jew’s enemy is fundamentally impossible to comprehend. Yet, Rabbi Jonathan, Rabbi Isaac, and even Rabbi Eliezer refuse to follow Rabbi Joshiah’s simple interpretation, that “your enemy” refers to the non-Jew. Why? Undoubtedly because they refuse to accept the possibility that the commandment of return of lost property should include the gentile. The reason for such a refusal cannot be known with absolute certainty, as the midrash does not address this question explicitly. However, having seen the other Tannaitic traditions cited earlier, it stands to reason that an assumption concerning the primacy of Deut. 22:1 for determining the limits of the commandment of return of lost property, along with an understanding of the term “your brother” in that verse as a reference to Jews, excluding gentiles, stands behind this refusal. All these sources indicate that the biblical category “your brother” was understood by Tannaitic tradition as a reference to Jews.80 How, then, would have Rabbi Joshiah responded to a claim, based on that tradition, that Deut. 22:1 excludes the gentile? Unfortunately, the Mekhilta itself did not raise this challenge; therefore, it is impossible to answer it with certainty. However, a passage in the Sifre to Deuteronomy may provide us with a possible answer: “Your brother’s ox” (Deut. 22:1)—I know only [that this commandment refers to] your brother’s ox; whence do I know [that it includes] the ox of your enemy? Scripture teaches: “Your enemy” (Ex. 23:4). If so, why is it said “Your brother’s?” This teaches that the Torah did not speak [as usual] but against the human inclination.”81 What motivates the Sifre’s hermeneutic move is the need to reconcile Deut. 22:1 with Ex. 23:4. As we have seen, other Tannaitic texts deal with the same question and maintain that “your enemy” in Ex. 23:4 should be read in light of “your brother” of Deut. 22:1. Therefore, “your enemy” in Ex. 23:4 is given a unique interpretation so as to include only “your [Jewish] enemy” and thus to exclude the non-Jew. The Sifre, in contrast, does not follow this path. It begins by allowing the assumption that “your brother” and “your enemy” are terms that function as group designations, and this leads to the difficult conclusion that the entire passage in Deuteronomy is redundant, for if one is commanded to return the lost property of one’s enemy, it goes without saying that one would return the lost property of one’s “brother.” Then, however, the Sifre turns to a subversive move and maintains that the term “your brother” in Deut. 22:1 should not be read as designating a specific group, but, rather, as a rhetorical device used by the Torah for teaching a moral lesson: “against the human inclination.”82

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It is not impossible that Rabbi Joshiah followed such a line of reasoning and claimed, like the Sifre, that Scripture’s deliberate use of the term “Your brother” is aimed at teaching a moral lesson, directed “against the human inclination.” That is, although the Torah had in mind not only the Jew, but the non-Jew as well (as it is clear, in his opinion, from Ex. 23:4), it deliberately used the term “your brother” in order to include the latter in the same category and thus to express its view that the gentile should be regarded just as “your brother.” And because the Torah knew very well that a Jew’s inclination is to view the gentile as an alien, it intentionally referred to him as “your brother” in order to combat that inclination. Such an endeavor can be observed operating in later midrashic text.83

Who Is a Jew? Saying of the non-Jew that he, or she, should be regarded as “your brother” need not be understood as implying a deconstruction of the conceptual difference Jew/Gentile. It is, rather, a moral stance calling for a nondiscriminating treatment of the non-Jew. Yet, to ask “Who is considered ‘your brother’?” is to ask an identity question. And although the main concern of the Tannaitic discussions was to define the limits of the biblical commandment, these discussions do imply a deeper stance regarding the limits of the Jewish community. This can be seen most clearly in the interpretations of Rabbi Isaac and Rabbi Eliezer of the category “your enemy,” recorded by the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael. The former, it may be recalled, maintains that “your enemy” refers to an apostate Israelite, whereas the latter suggests that it refers to a “proselyte who has relapsed into his former evil predilection.” As noted earlier, it is impossible to understand these interpretations unless we assume that these two sages took it for granted that the commandment of return of lost property relates only to the property of an Israelite, and their interpretations reflect, in fact, an answer to the question of who an Israelite is and what are the limits of the category “Israel.” According to Rabbi Isaac (as well as the Sifre Zutta to Deuteronomy), even the Jewish apostate is still considered a Jew, but a passage in the Tannaitic midrash on Leviticus, the Sifra, indicates that the status of the apostate was in dispute: “[When] any man” (Lev. 1:2)—including the proselytes. “Of you” (ibid.)—excluding the apostates. What brings you to say so, “Any man” including the proselytes; “Of you” excluding the apostates? . . . Scripture teaches: “The sons of Israel.” What

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characterizes “Israel” is that they accept the yoke of the covenant, this includes the proselytes, who accept the yoke of the covenant, and excludes the apostates, for they do not accept the yoke of the covenant. Perhaps [you should say]: What characterizes “Israel” is that they are the descendents of those who accepted the yoke of the covenant, and this includes the apostates, for they are descendents of those who accepted the yoke of the covenant, but excludes the proselytes, for they are not descendents of those who accepted the yoke of the covenant? Scripture teaches: “Of you.” Therefore do not conclude so, but [as we said first]: What characterizes “Israel” is that they accept the yoke of the covenant, this includes the proselytes, for they accept the yoke of the covenant, and excludes the apostates, for they do not accept the yoke of the covenant. And so does Scripture say: “The sacrifice of the wicked is an abomination, how much more when he brings it with evil intent” (Prov. 21:27).84 The problem with which this passage deals is what the relation is between the different group designations in Lev. 1:2: “The children of Israel,” “a man,” and “of you.” The midrash maintains that “of you” excludes the apostate, but it does not stop with stating its understanding of the biblical term. Rather, it feels a need to justify this interpretation and suggests that the category “children of Israel” indicates that Scripture does not include the apostate. This very argument is immediately questioned, however; the midrash raises the possibility that the term “The children of Israel” points at descent as the crucial prerequisite for belonging in the group, and therefore the apostate is still a member of the community. But the Sifra rejects this possibility. Regardless of the Sifra’s precise argument in favor of the former interpretation and against the latter,85 it is clear that two competing views concerning the status of the Jewish apostate, indeed, concerning the crucial determining factor of belonging within the Jewish community, are juxtaposed and contrasted by this midrash.86 According to the first interpretation, what defines the Jewish people is the adherence to the covenant; therefore, the proselyte is considered a member of the community, whereas the apostate is not. According to the alternate interpretation offered by the Sifra, Jewishness is defined by descent; therefore, the apostate is still considered within the confines of the community, whereas the proselyte is denied a status of “Israel.” The Sifra follows the first view and unequivocally rejects the latter. Certainly, with respect to the status of the proselyte, at least, this is in agreement with the central line of rabbinic thought.87 Yet, the opposite view, which is rejected by the Sifra, appears to be the one governing Rabbi Isaac’s stance, that the commandment of return of lost property applies also to the Jewish

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apostate because the apostate is considered “your brother”; that is, he is still considered a Jew. This surprising stance is expressed by another Tannaitic tradition, cited by the third-century Palestinian sage Rabbi Johannan, in response to a Tannaitic tradition presented to him by his disciple and colleague, Rabbi Abbahu: Rabbi Abbahu recited [the following Tannaitic source] before Rabbi Johannan: “The gentiles and the shepherds of small cattle are neither brought out [of a pit] nor thrown in; the apostates, the minim and the informers are thrown in and not brought out.” He [Rabbi Johannan] said to him: I recite [a Tannaitic sources, saying], “To any of your brother’s lost property, this includes the apostate,” and you say “the apostates are thrown in and not brought out?!” Omit from here “the apostate!”88 Rabbi Johannan rejects the Tannaitic tradition cited by Rabbi Abbahu because he was familiar with a different Tannaitic tradition that emphatically treats the apostate as “your brother,” and therefore demands that Rabbi Abbahu amend the text of his tradition by deleting the apostates from its list of those who are “thrown in and not brought out.” That list comprised the minim, the apostates, and the informers, but Rabbi Johannan maintained that another, authoritative tradition considered the apostate as “your brother,” so he should not be included in such a list. Such a tradition did not exist, however, concerning the minim; therefore, it was agreed that they deserve the most severe treatment, and no question concerning the accuracy of the tradition with respect to them was raised. What about Christians? As we have seen in the previous chapters, the rabbis labeled the followers of Jesus as minim. The implication of this discursive act was that a Christian would have been considered much worse than a gentile. Rabbi Tarfon expressed this stance when he said: “If someone was running after me I should go into a temple of idolatry, but I should not go into their [the minim’s] houses, for idol worshippers do not recognize Him therefore they deny Him, but these [the minim] do recognize Him and [still] deny Him.”89 Some Christians were apparently aware of this rabbinic attitude. Writing in Caesarea Martima in Palestine in the third century C.E., Origen complains that although the Christians had disposed of idolatry, the Jews hated them more than they hated pagans: The Jews are not antagonistic to the gentiles . . . but against the Christians they are filled with an insatiable hatred, although we

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have abandoned idolatry and given ourselves over to God. They are irritated with us; they hate us as though we were a foolish people, and they come saying that they are wise because the first divine oracles were given to them.90 As a result of the Christianization of the Roman Empire, this attitude must have changed. From that point onward, the Christians could no longer have been regarded as minim, for, as was noted by Saul Lieberman, Christianity ceased to be a Jewish, heretical movement; it became the religion of the gentiles!91 Hence, a “Christian” was nothing but a Roman gentile, and a Jew who converted to Christianity would have been considered an apostate, not a min. As paradoxical as it may sound, then, in the long term the change brought about by the Christianization of the Roman Empire had the potential of reducing the hostility toward Christianity among the rabbis of late antiquity. This change is expressed by the twelfth-century Ashkenazic Rabbi Eliezer ben Yoel (known to students of the Talmud as Ra’vya). In his halakhic commentary on Tractate Avoda Zara of the Babylonian Talmud, he allowed for accepting gifts from Christian clergy on Christian holidays (although this seemed to be prohibited by Talmudic halakha), claiming that “Christian clergy are not like the disciples of Jesus who recognize but deny.”92 At first sight, this is an amazing assertion, which is extremely difficult to defend: is it possible that Ra’vya actually denies the relation between Christianity and its founder?! Off course not. What Ra’vya says is that of the immediate disciples of Jesus one may claim that they “recognize but deny”; that is, they were heretical Jews who were therefore treated by early rabbinic tradition as minim, with whom social and economic connection were strictly prohibited. The Christians of his days, in contrast, are not in the same status, for they had never been Jews who left the confines of the Jewish religion and community; they are mere gentiles.93 Toward gentiles, the rabbis could allow themselves the “generosity” of practical tolerance, at times even a sense of brotherhood. Toward separatists, who had challenged the identity of the community, they were uncompromisingly hostile. For this reason, once the boundary between Judaism and Christianity was clearly demarcated, the necessity to construct it must have lost much of its impetus.

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7 Conclusion: A Different Perspective

In a Talmudic legend found in b. Gittin 56b, we are told of Onkelos son of Qaloniqos, Titus’s sister’s son,1 who was seeking to convert to Judaism. He asked the advice of various deceased figures through the use of necromancy. The first was his uncle, Titus; the second was Balaam; and the third person was Jesus. To his question, “Who is honored in this world?” Jesus replied: “Israel.” This, naturally, invited his next question: “What about joining them?” to which Jesus replied: “Seek their favor, seek not their harm, for any one who harms them it is as if he touches the apple of His eye.”2 As with the previous figures, Onkelos apparently was not entirely satisfied with the answer, and therefore continued to ask: “What is the punishment of that man [Jesus]?” And Jesus replied: “In a boiling filth.” Unlike in the previous two cases, however, here the Talmud felt a need to justify Jesus’ punishment and added the following explanatory remark: “For a teacher has said: Every one who mocks at the words of the Sages is punished by boiling filth.”3 This is an astonishing remark. Where have we ever been told, in Scripture or in any ancient rabbinic tradition, that mocking rabbis is considered a capital crime for which one should be punished to death and eternal torture in “boiling filth”? True, in various early rabbinic stories we see that death for people who mock rabbis is an “attractive” punishment in the eyes of storytellers.4 Yet, nowhere is this “practice” justified by any biblical or other authoritative source.

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Protecting the honor and authority of rabbis is obviously a major rabbinic interest. This indicates that the stories told of Jesus and Christianity in classical rabbinic literature (indeed, the entire rabbinic discourse of minut) reflect a characteristically rabbinic perspective,5 which is, by its very nature, one-sided and necessarily partial. It is not without value, however. Not only can it inform us about the way that some Palestinian Jews saw the emergence of Christianity as a discrete socioreligious entity, and thus enrich our understanding of that process, but it also may provide us with a different perspective on questions pertaining to heresy, and thus may enrich our thinking about the issue of “orthodoxy and heresy” more broadly. For, as we have seen, the rabbinic discourse of minut does not concentrate exclusively on issues of doctrine and belief. Quite to the contrary, minut, in Tannaitic sources, is treated no less as social and communal deviance than as doctrinal challenge. And this indicates that the problem with heretics, although frequently presented in relation to their religious beliefs, may be located, in fact, in the realm of social and communal concerns. To put it in a different way, as a result of the prominence it gives to issues of doctrine and belief, a discourse of “orthodoxy and heresy” might conceal the centrality of communal concerns that motivate its users. Very frequently, behind the high theological language and the denunciation of “heretics” stands a concern for social and communal cohesion. What early rabbinic texts teach us is that a sense of social belonging and alliance may be as important to the formation of group identity as the embracing of similar ideas and beliefs.6 Differences in the latter are much easier to reconcile once a notion of “communal oneness” is acknowledged by all parties. “Who were the minim?” was not the question that the present book attempted to answer. True, we have gained some insight with respect to this question as well, as we have seen that the term minim in Tannaitic literature may refer to a variety of nonrabbinic groups, including Sadducees, Baethesians, Samaritans, and Gnostics. This conclusion in itself, however, is by no means novel. The question for the present study was rather different: “What troubled the rabbis about the minim?” Approaching this question from the prevalent perspective in scholarly literature devoted to “orthodoxy and heresy” in early Christianity, and applying the widespread scholarly assumption that minut is the rabbinic equivalent of the Christian “heresy,” led to a Christianizing interpretation of the rabbinic discourse and distorted its unique point of view on matters of religious and social cohesion. Such an approach presupposes that the rabbis’ combat against minim derived from their concern for establishing a notion of “orthodoxy.” If, however, we allow

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the “other”—the rabbis, in this case—to stand on its own and to express itself freely, we may gain a better view of the range of possible explanations for this phenomenon. In some religious communities, theological truth is not as important as we frequently assume. Rather, it is the sense of communal solidarity that matters.

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Notes

introduction 1. See Gerd Lüdemann, Heretics: The Other Side of Early Christianity, trans. John Bowden (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 95–103; Judith Lieu, “Self-Definition vis-à-vis the Jewish Matrix,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, Volume 1: Origins to Constantine, ed. Margaret M. Mitchell and Frances M. Young (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 216. 2. This perspective is given a very modest place in scholarly discussions of the relations between Judaism and Christianity in the first few centuries of the Christian era. Thus, for example, Claudia Setzer, in her book Jewish Responses to Early Christians: History and Polemics, 30–150 C.E . (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), discusses primarily Christian sources and devotes only a few pages to the rabbinic evidence. Likewise, Jack T. Sanders, in Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred Years of Jewish-Christian Relations (London: SCM Press, 1993), discusses the evidence of “rabbinic (Tannaitic) literature” in no more than seven pages (61–67). Stephen Wilson is not very much different: in his book Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), he discusses primarily the early Christian material, and rabbinic sources occupy fewer than twenty pages (176–194) in his entire work. Because my main concern in this book is the rabbinic perspective, the studies on which the following discussion focuses are those concerned with rabbinic literature. 3. Alan F. Segal, Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), 1. 4. Ibid.

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5. Ibid. 6. See Israel J. Yuval, “Easter and Passover as Early Jewish-Christian Dialogue,” Passover and Easter: Origin and History to Modern Times, ed. Paul F. Bradshaw and Lawrence A. Hoffman (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999), 98–124 (originally published in a fuller Hebrew version as “The Haggadah of Passover and Easter,” Tarbiz 65 [1995]: 5–28); idem, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. Barbara Harshav and Jonathan Chipman (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 2006). The original Hebrew version of the latter was published in 2000. 7. This line of thought can best be seen in Elchanan Reiner, “From Joshua to Jesus: The Transformation of a Biblical Story to a Local Myth,” in Sharing the Sacred: Religious Contacts and Conflicts in the Holy Land, First-Fifteenth Centuries CE, ed. Arieh Kofsky and Guy G. Stroumsa (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 223–271. See also Galit Hasan-Rokem, “Narratives in Dialogue: A Folk Literary Perspective on Interreligious Contacts in the Holy Land in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” ibid., 109–129. In a sense, this model can be associated with the model of the “parting of the ways,” as formulated by James D. G. Dunn. See Judith Lieu, “ ‘The Parting of the Ways’: Theological Construct or Historical Reality?” JSNT 56 (1994): 101–119; idem, Neither Jew nor Greek? Constructing Early Christianity (London: T. and T. Clark, 2005), 11–29. 8. Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 3. 9. See Philip S. Alexander, “ ‘The Parting of the Ways’ from the Perspective of Rabbinic Judaism,” in Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways A .D. 70 to 135, ed. James D. G. Dunn (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1999), 1–25; Lieu, “Self-Definition,” 215. 10. Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 1. 11. See Boyarin, Dying for God, 1–2, for an excellent exposition of the connection between these assumptions and the view of rabbinic Judaism and early Christianity as “siblings.” 12. See David Goodblatt, “Yehudei Eretz-Israel Ba-shanim 70–132,” in Yehuda ve-Romma—Meridot ha-Yehudim, ed. Uriel Rappaport (Tel-Aviv: Masada, 1983), 155–184, 365–377 (Hebrew); Yaakov Sussman, “The History of Halakha and the Dead Sea Scrolls—Preliminary Observations on Miqs.at Ma‘ase Ha-Torah (4QMMT),” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 73, n. 238 (Hebrew). 13. See the concluding section in Reiner’s “From Joshua to Jesus,” 267–269, in which this question is explicitly addressed: “May we indeed conclude from the foregoing material that the people of Tiberias, its environs and the Plain of Arbel preserved some sort of common historical memory. . . . Or is the evidence adduced here nothing more than scraps of a Christian-Jewish tradition that left traces in medieval literature? Alternatively, are these scraps mere echoes of a Jewish polemical response to the crucifixion narrative?” The latter possibility, Reiner reminds the reader, “has recently been broadly developed by Israel J. Yuval” (ibid., n. 112), thus providing the intellectual context for his own study.

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14. Cf. Judith Baskin, “Rabbinic-Patristic Exegetical Contacts in Late Antiquity: A Bibliographical Reappraisal,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, Vol. 5, ed. William S. Green (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 53–79; Adam Kamesar, “The Church Fathers and Rabbinic Midrash: A Supplementary Bibliography, 1985– 2005,” Review of Rabbinic Judaism 9 (2006): 190–196. 15. Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Repentance of the People of Ninveh,” Tarbiz 20 (1950): 118–122 (Hebrew); idem, “Political and Social Tendencies in Talmudic Concepts of Charity,” Zion 16 (1951): 1–27 (Hebrew); idem, “Homilies of the Rabbis on the Prophets of the Nations and the Balaam Stories,” Tarbiz 25 (1956): 272–289 (Hebrew); idem, “The Homiletical Interpretations of the Sages and the Expositions of Origen on Canticles,” Tarbiz 30 (1961): 148–170 (Hebrew; English version was published in Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 [1971]: 247–275). Compare Oded Irshai, “Ephraim E. Urbach and the Study of Judeo-Christian Dialogue in Late Antiquity— Some Preliminary Observations,” in How Should Rabbinic Literature Be Read in the Modern World? ed. Matthew A. Kraus (Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2006), 167–197. 16. See Urbach, “Homilies of the Rabbis,” 272. 17. Urbach, ibid. 18. See Eugene Mihaly, “A Rabbinic Defense of the Election of Israel,” HUCA 35 (1964): 103–135; Samuel T. Lachs, “A Polemical Element in Mishnah Berakot,” JQR 56 (1965): 81–84; Michael Chernick, “Some Talmudic Responses to Christianity, Third and Fourth Centuries,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies, 17 (1980): 393–406; Reuven Kimelman, “Rabbi Yohanan and Origen on the Song of Songs: A Third Century Jewish-Christian Disputation,” HTR 73 (1980): 567–595; Norman J. Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetical Tradition in the Mekilta de Rabbi Ishmael: The Meaning of ‘Amanah in the Second and Third Centuries,” AJS Review 9 (1984): 1–25; Lou H. Silberman, “Challenge and Response: Pesiqta Derab Kahana, Chapter 26 as an Oblique Reply to Christian Claims,” HTR 79 (1986): 247–253; Joshua Schwartz, “The Encaenia of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Temple of Solomon and the Jews,” Theologische Zeitschrift 43 (1987): 265–281; idem, “Gallus, Julian and Anti-Christian Polemic in Pesikta Rabbati,” Theologische Zeitschrift 46 (1990): 1–19; Robert Hayward, “Shem, Melchizedek, and Concern with Christianity in the Pentateuchal Targumim,” in Targumic and Cognate Studies: Essays in Honour of Martin McNamara, ed. Kevin J. Cathcart and Michael Maher (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996): 67–80 (but compare Joseph Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development [Jerusalem: Keter, 1974], 98–102, which views the polemic as anti-Samaritan); Marc Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1996); Herbert W. Basser, Studies in Exegesis: Christian Critiques of Jewish Law and Rabbinic Responses 70–300 C.E. (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 2000); William H. Shea, “Three Notes on Relations Between Early Rabbinic and Early Christian Sources,” Journal of the Adventist Theological Society, 12 (2001): 78–82; Hayim Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents: Rabbis as a Late Antique Provincial Population,” Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire, ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 319–347. See also the studies referred to by Baskin, “Rabbinic-Patristic Exegetical Contacts,” 53–79.

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19. See Yuval, “Easter and Passover”; idem, Two Nations, 31–91. 20. Yuval, “Easter and Passover,” 115. 21. Ibid. 22. Yuval, Two Nations, 23. Tessa Rajak writes along similar lines: “It is probably right to see the development of rabbinic Judaism, and perhaps also its beginnings, as in some way a response to the Christian challenge.” See Tessa Rajak, “The Jewish Community and Its Boundaries,” in The Jews Among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, ed. Judith Lieu, John North and Tessa Rajak (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 12. See also Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 179. 23. See Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. Israel Abrahams (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1987), 303. See also Wilson, Related Strangers, 170. 24. Yuval, “Passover and Easter,” 98. 25. Yuval, “Passover and Easter,” 117–118, n. 9, persuasively argues against a widespread scholarly view that dates the haggadah to the Second Temple period. See also Judith Hauptman, “How Old Is the Haggadah?” Judaism 51 (2002): 5–18. 26. Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised?” in Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Maria Wyke (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 148. 27. Jacob Neusner, Judaism in the Matrix of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 77. I would qualify Neusner’s inference to “Christianity,” for I think that there is a great deal of early rabbinic material pertaining to Rome. See Adiel Schremer, “Eschatology, Violence, and Suicide: An Early Rabbinic Theme and Its Influence in the Middle Ages,” in Apocalypse and Violence, ed. Abbas Amanat and John J. Collins (New Haven: Yale Center for International and Area Studies, 2002), 19–43; idem, “Midrash and History: God’s Power, the Roman Empire, and Hopes for Redemption in Tannaitic Literature,” Zion 72 (2007): 5–36 (Hebrew). 28. Neusner, ibid. See, for example, Steven Fraade’s statement that in considering the possibility of reading a specific passage in the Sifre Deuteronomy, with which he was dealing, as a piece of rabbinic anti-Christian polemic, he found nothing by which he could “identify the Sifre’s commentary as a response to Christians interpretations of the same verses.” See Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1991), 228, n. 228 [sic]. 29. Urbach, The Sages, 303. To be sure, in other places in that book Urbach does suggest viewing various early rabbinic dicta as anti-Pauline polemic, thereby implying that Pauline teachings were indeed known to the rabbis, who, on their part, were indeed troubled by these teachings. See, for example, The Sages, 35; 258, 295. 30. See Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986), 268–273; Keith Hopkins, “Christian Number and Its Implications,” Journal of Early Christian Studies, 6 (1998): 185–226. See also Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton: Princeton University

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Press, 1996), 5–7; Einar Thomassen, “Orthodoxy and Heresy in Second-Century Rome,” HTR 97 (2004): 246–247; David C. Sim, “How Many Jews Became Christians in the First Century? The Failure of the Christian Mission to the Jews,” Hervormde Teologiese Studies 61 (2005): 417–440. 31. The relative minor significance of Christianity in pre-Byzantine Palestine is most clearly proven by the rarity of Christian remains in archaeological findings, as noted by Eric M. Meyers and James F. Strange, Archaeology, the Rabbis and Early Christianity (London: SCM, 1981), 125; Joan E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places, 298; Doron Bar, “The Christianization of Rural Palestine During Late Antiquity,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 54 (2003): 401–421. See also Nicole Belayche’s comment that Christian communities “were still not numerous in the third century . . . and there is little evidence about them, which is a clue as to their numeric weakness.” Nicole Belayche, Iudaea Palaestina: The Pagan Cults in Roman Palestine (Second to Fourth Century) (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 278. Along similar lines writes Yaron Dan, The City in Eretz-Israel During the Late Roman and Byzantine Periods (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 1984), 14 (Hebrew). Compare, however: Benjamin Isaac, “Jews, Christians and Others in Palestine: The Evidence from Eusebius,” in Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, ed. Martin Goodman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 65–74. 32. See Wilson, Related Strangers, 170. It is precisely because I am inclined to agree with Yuval, that “It is the minority’s culture that tends to adopt to itself the agenda of the majority’s culture” (Yuval, Two Nations, 36), and not the other way around, that I view the question of the number of Christians in Palestine during the first few centuries to be of prime importance. For, if indeed Christianity was not a significant social factor in Palestine during the first 200 years after Jesus (as suggested by the studies noted in n. 31), it would become extremely difficult to apply to the formative period of rabbinic Judaism Yuval’s contention that, “In any case where we find a similarity between Judaism and Christianity, an influence of the Christian environment on the Jews is to be assumed, not the opposite” (ibid.). This might be the case in the Middle Ages, but certainly not with regard to the immediate period following the destruction of the Second Temple, through all of the second, third, and even the fourth century C.E. 33. Ibid. 34. Hopkins, “Christian Number,” 216. 35. Ibid. 36. See Judith Lieu, “History and Theology in Christian Views of Judaism,” in The Jews Among Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire, ed. Judith Lieu, John North, and Tessa Rajak (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 88. 37. Urbach, “Homilies of the Rabbis,” 272. For a specific example of exercise of caution, and ultimately a refusal to impose an anti-Christian polemical interpretation on rabbinic material, despite common interest in the same biblical verses, see Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 204, n. 79. 38. See Wayne A. Meeks and Robert L. Wilken, Jews and Christians in Antioch in the First Four Centuries of the Common Era (Missoula. Mont.: Scholars Press, 1978), 90.

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39. See Sifre Deuteronomy 318 (ed. Finkelstein, 363); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:15 (ed. Hoffman, 194); Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, appendix 5 (ed. Mandelbaum, 2.466). 40. On this homily, see Meeks and Wilken, Jews and Christians in Antioch, 83–84. 41. Cf. Robert Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late 4th Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 67. 42. Compare Mark 11:17, Matt. 21:13, and Luke 19:46. 43. A similar argument is raised by Reiner, “From Joshua to Jesus”; and by Hasan-Rokem, “Narratives in Dialogue”; idem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 154–157. An instructive example would be Yuval’s suggestion that the appearance in classical rabbinic texts of the term Eretz Israel, as a Hebrew name for Palestine, reflects an anti-Christian polemic. See Israel J. Yuval, “Christliche Zeit und jüdische Zeit: Das Paradox einer Übereinstimmung,” in Jüdische Gemeinden und ihr christlicher Kontext in kulturräumlich vergleichender Betrachtung, ed. Christoph Cluse, Alfred Haverkamp, and Israel J. Yuval (Hannover: Verlag Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2003), 33–48. However, the term Eretz Israel appears already in pre-Christian sources, such as 4QMMT, B. 63, for example, and this obviously undermines Yuval’s suggestion. 44. Sifre Numbers 119 (ed. Horovitz, 143–144). 45. See Marc Hirshman, Torah for the Entire World (Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1999), 39 (Hebrew). 46. On the tension and competition between rabbis and priests in second- and third-century Palestine, see Reuven Kimelman, “The Conflict Between the Priestly Oligarchy and the Sages in the Talmudic Period,” Zion 48 (1983): 135–148 (Hebrew); Haim Shapera, “The Disposition of Rabban Gamliel—Between History and Legend,” Zion 64 (1999): 5–38, especially 15–17 (Hebrew), and the references therein. 47. Yuval, “Easter and Passover,” 98. 48. “We have now become accustomed to say that earliest Christianity was a sect of Judaism. This is useful language.” Wayne A. Meeks, “Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity’s Separation from the Jewish Communities,” in “To See Ourselves as Others See Us”: Christians, Jews, “Others” in Late Antiquity, ed. Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1985), 93. 49. See Lawrence H. Schiffman, Who Was a Jew?: Rabbinic and Halakhic Perspectives on the Jewish-Christian Schism (Hoboken: Ktav, 1985), 51–52. 50. Ibid. 51. Schiffman surprises me, therefore, when he further writes of Christianity as a discrete religion already before the destruction of the Temple: “As the destruction of the Temple was nearing, the differences between Judaism and Christianity were widening” (ibid., 53). I find it difficult to understand how can one speak of Christianity as an already existing discrete religion from Judaism just a few passages after writing that Christians were Jews and that “Christianity in the

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Holy Land was still strongly Jewish” (ibid., 53). As “the early Christians would still be considered Jews,” as Schiffman correctly observes, and “Even the belief in the divinity or Messianship of Jesus . . . would not, in the view of the tannaim, have read the early Christians out of the Jewish community,” as he wrote, why speak of “Christianity” as a separate religious entity at all? 52. Cf. Lieu, Neither Jew nor Greek? 1. 53. Daniel J. Lasker and Sara Stroumsa, The Polemic of Nestor the Priest (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 1996), 1.13. 54. Tertullian, Apol. 18.4. Cf. Judith M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 298–316. 55. Boyarin, Dying for God, 3. 56. Ibid., 8. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 2. 60. Ibid., 1. 61. Ibid., 2. 62. Ibid. 63. Daniel Boyarin, “Semantic Differences; or, ‘Judaism’/‘Christianity,’ ” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 66. 64. Boyarin, Border Lines, 37. 65. Ibid., 74. 66. Ibid., 131; Daniel Boyarin, “Two Powers in Heaven; Or, The Making of a Heresy,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 335 (emphasis added). See also Chaim Milikowsky, “Gehenna and ‘Sinners of Israel’ in the Light of Seder ‘Olam,” Tarbiz 55 (1986): 337 (Hebrew). 67. Boyarin, Border Lines, 55. Along the same lines, Boyarin elsewhere maintains that “the rhetorical entity minut was . . . a product of the encounter with ‘orthodox’ Christianity, prompted a similar response from the Rabbis” (ibid., 57). 68. As noted by Judith Lieu: “Discussion of the minim usually leads to or is focused in discussion of the birkat-ha-minim.” See Lieu, Neither Jew nor Greek? 25. Some older discussions do attempt to collect and study all (or at least most) of the relevant rabbinic texts, but in many respects they are outdated. See, for example, A. H. Goldfahn, “Über den Ursprung und die Bedeutung des Ausdruckes ‘min’ im babyl. und jerus. Talmud,” MGWJ 19 (1870): 163–177. 69. As Maureen Tilley has recently noted, we are accustomed to think that “heresy has to do with creedal matters, with believing wrongly.” See Maureen A. Tilley, “When Schism Becomes Heresy in Late Antiquity: Developing Doctrinal Deviance in the Wounded Body of Christ,” JECS 15 (2007): 3 (emphasis added).

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It should therefore be kept in mind that in pre-Christian texts the Greek word D´ίUHVL9 bears the natural meaning of “choice” and may be used of any kind of “sect,” and only in patristic literature did it receive its specific pejorative meaning with which we are accustomed today. See Marcel Simon, Jewish Sects at the Time of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967), 9; idem, “From Greek Hairesis to Christian Heresy,” in Early Christian Literature and the Classical Intellectual Tradition: In Honorem R.M. Grant, ed. W.R. Schoedel and R.L. Wilken (Paris: Éditions Beauchesne, 1979), 101–116; Alain Le Boulluec, La notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque IIe-IIIe siècles (Paris: Études Augustiniennes) 1985; idem, “Heterodoxy und Orthodoxie: Einige Bemerkungen zun den Begriffen Häresie und Orthodoxie,” in Die Geschichte des Christentums: Religion—Politik—Kultur, Band 1: Die Zeit des Anfangs, ed. Luci Pietri (Freiburg-Basel-Wien: Herder, 2005), 457–554; Michael Desjardins, “Bauer and Beyond: On Recent Scholarly Discussions of $ίUHVL9 in the Early Christian Era,” The Second Century 8 (1991): 65–82; Eduard Iricinschi and Holger M. Zellentin, “Making Selves and Marking Others: Identity and Late Antique Heresiologies,” in Heresy and Identity in Late Antiquity, ed. Eduard Iricinschi and Holger M. Zellentin (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 3–4. 70. See Sussman’s lengthy and important note in his “History of Halakha,” 53–55, n. 176. 71. My use of the term “Christianizing” owes much to Simon R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 11–15. See also Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), 4–8. 72. David Frankfurter, “Beyond ‘Jewish Christianity’: Continuing Religious Sub-cultures of the Second and Third Centuries and Their Documents,” in The Ways That Never Parted, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 131. 73. Ibid. 74. The most basic of these notions is, of course, the very view of religion as a set of dogmas and beliefs, which is a characteristically Christian outlook. Cf. Price, Rituals and Power, 11–15; Frankfurter, “Beyond ‘Jewish Christianity,’ ” 131; Boyarin, Border Lines, 8. Robert Carroll is correct, in my opinion, in writing that: “The highly theoretical, philosophical constructions, that constitute theology are very much at home in Christian thinking, whereas Jewish movement have tended to eschew such speculative constructions in favor of halakhic and textualist procedures. There are, of course, exceptions to these generalizations ( . . . ) but generally the nature of the theological in Judaism is different from that in Christianity.” See Robert P. Carroll, “Toward a Grammar of Creation: On Steiner the Theologian,” in Reading George Steiner, ed. Nathan A. Scott, Jr., and Ronald A. Sharp (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 1994), 267. As Moshe Idel, who follows Carroll’s observation, noted: “The emphasis on the importance of theology in the overall structure of Jewish [religion]” has affected “the manner in which studies were structured, which means that theological topics were highlighted.” Moshe Idel, “On the Theologization of Kabbalah in Modern Scholarship,” in Religious

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Apologetics—Philosophical Argumentation, ed. Yossef Schwartz and Volkhard Krech (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 160. The most obvious example, pertaining to Talmudic Judaism, is Urbach’s The Sages, which bears the subtitle Their Concepts and Beliefs. Adolf Harnack would be a parallel (if somewhat earlier) example on the Christian side. As David Olster has written, Harnack, “who founded the modern historical study of Christianity, saw theology as the source of Christians dynamism, and the historical study of Christianity as the study of theology, or ‘history of dogma.’ ” See David M. Olster, Roman Defeat, Christian Response, and the Literary Construction of the Jew (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994), 14. As Olster noted, “Harnack’s assumptions about the nature of Christianity have defined its study up to today” (ibid.). 75. Cf. Martin Goodman, “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in Geschichte–Tradition–Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Canick, Herman Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1996), 503. Note, in this context, Ze’ev Gries’s comment that “the word heresy itself, which comes from the Greek hairesis, made its way into Hebrew literature in the Middle Ages, through conflation with the Hebrew word harisah which has a similar sound.” See Ze’ev Gries, “Heresy,” in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought, ed. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr (New York: Free Press, 1987), 339. This is a fine example of the influence that Christian discourse has had on the Jewish one with respect to sectarianism and heresy. 76. Boyarin, Border Lines, 57. 77. Ibid. To support his view, Boyarin cites t. Shabbat 13:5, in which the minim are spoken of as Jews who “deny” God. According to Boyarin, “We learn from this passage that there are Jews who have the same books as ‘we’ do and even the same practices, such as placing the mezuzah on the doorpost,” who are treated as minim “because they have a different doctrine of God” (Boyarin, Border Lines, 57–58). However, the Tosefta (if read in its entirety to its conclusion without being interrupted in the middle) denounces the minim because they “cause enmity between Israel and their Father in heaven. . . . And concerning them Scripture said: ‘I hate them who cause You to be hated, O Lord . . . a perfect hatred I hate them, [as my enemies I count them]’ (Ps. 139:21–22).” It is because the minim cause people to hate God that they are treated so severely, not because of their erroneous doctrine of Him. See chapter 3, n. 108, for further discussion of this important text. 78. See Boyarin, Border Lines, 8. As Boyarin correctly noticed, there exists a profound difference between Christianity and Jewish tradition with respect to precisely such matters of group identity: “When the term Ioudaismos appears in non-Christian Jewish writing . . . it does not mean Judaism the religion, but the entire complex of loyalties and practices that mark off the people of Israel” (ibid.; emphasis added). As will become clear in the course of this book, this entirely correct characterization of Jewish self-perception is crucial for a proper understanding of the rabbinic discourse of minut. 79. Moshe Idel makes a structurally similar argument when he criticizes previous scholarly discussions of the concept of messianism in Jewish

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sources: “Presuppositions as to what is genuine messianism should not guide us, otherwise we are in the danger of determining the results of our analysis from the very beginning, regardless of the finding in the field. We must be much more attuned to what the sources claim in explicit terms to be messianic and not decide in advance what is authentic and what not.” Moshe Idel, Messianic Mystic (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000), 16–17. 80. To be sure, some of these practices are frequently treated as expressions, in the realm of ritual, of views held by the minim. Thus, for example, the liturgical formula “The good ones shall bless you,” or the repetitive liturgical formula “We bless we bless,” which were used, according to m. Megillah 4:9, by the minim, are frequently explained as different expressions of belief in “two Powers in heaven.” Such an interpretation, however, is in itself Christianizing, for it imposes on the sources the post-Reformation notion that religion is an issue of doctrines and beliefs, such that the latter is what is sought when rituals and actual behaviors are discussed. In contrast to this widespread approach, I maintain that it is unnecessary to assume that the sources deem those sectarian norms illegitimate because of the implicit theological views they carry. The reason may (and should) be looked for in the social realm. 81. See Karen King, What Is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Belknap and Harvard University Press, 2003), 24. See also J. Rebecca Lyman, “Heresiology: The Invention of ‘Heresy’ and ‘Schism,’ ” in Cambridge History of Christianity, Volume 2: Constantine to c.600, ed. Augustine Caside and Frederick W. Norris (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 296. 82. See Kai T. Erikson, Wayward Puritans: A Study in the Sociology of Deviance (New York–London–Sydney: John Wiley and Sons, 1966). 83. Eviatar Zerubavel, The Fine Line: Making Distinctions in Everyday Life (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 55. 84. See Erikson, Wayward Puritans, 127; Georg Simmel, Essays on Religion, ed. and trans. Horst J. Helle and Ludwig Nieder (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 114. See also David D. Hall, “Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy on Trial: A Review Essay,” HTR 95 (2002): 437. 85. By this formulation I hope to have answered, at least to some extent, Paul Rock’s critique of Erikson’s theory. See Paul Rock, “Rules, Boundaries, and the Courts: Some Problems in the Neo-Durkheimian Sociology of Deviance,” British Journal of Sociology 49 (1998): 586–601. 86. Cf. Simmel, Essays on Religion, 114. 87. Thus, for example, the idea that God may have a son, which is frequently seen as a characteristically Christian concept, entirely alien to Jewish thought, is found in numerous “kosher” Jewish texts throughout the ages. See Moshe Idel, Ben: Sonship and Jewish Mysticism (London: Continuum, 2007). 88. Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1991), 2. 89. Jonah Fraenkel, more than any other scholar, has contributed to the view of rabbinic narratives as entirely fictional. Their interpretation, according

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to his stance, is a sole literary task, which must not be determined by contextual considerations. See Jeffrey L. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University, 1999), 8–10; Hillel I. Newman, “Closing the Circle: Yonah Fraenkel, the Talmudic Story, and Rabbinic History,” in How Should Rabbinic Literature Be Read in the Modern World? ed. Matthew A. Kraus (Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2006), 105–135. 90. Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley, Los Angels, and Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), 11. See also Joshua Levinson, “The Athlete of Piety: Fatal Fictions in Rabbinic Literature,” Tarbiz 68 (1999): 61–86 (Hebrew); Galit Hasan-Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood: Jewish Narrative Dialogues in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 2003), 117–118. 91. Boyarin (Carnal Israel, 15) suggests that we “look at texts as (necessarily failed) attempts to propose utopian solutions to cultural tensions.” Whether or not these solutions must always be considered “utopian,” I agree with him that, “By observing the effects of the energy expended by the culture in attempting to suppress or (put more positively) deal with the tensions, the underlying strains and pressures can be brought to light” (ibid.). 92. From among recent discussions of this issue, see Hillel I. Newman, “The Normativity of Rabbinic Judaism: Obstacles on the Path to a New Consensus” (forthcoming in Menahem Stern Memorial Volume); Adiel Schremer, “The Religious Orientation of Non-Rabbis in Second Century Palestine: A Rabbinic Perspective,” forthcoming in “Follow the Wise” (B Sanhedrin 32b): Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine, ed. Oded Irshai, Jodi Magness, Seth Schwartz, and Zeev Weiss (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America). 93. Cf. Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1983), 3. 94. I would not go so far as to attribute such a stance to James L. Kugel, In Potiphar’s House: The Interpretative Life of Biblical Texts (San Francisco: Harper, 1990), 6, or to Daniel Boyarin, “Midrash and History: On the Historical Study of Rabbinic Literature,” in Saul Lieberman Memorial Volume, ed. Shamma Friedman (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1993), 105–118 (Hebrew). Their approach, however, does lead the reader in this direction. 95. Cf. Moshe Halbertal, “If It Were Not a Written Verse It Could Not Be Said,” Tarbiz 68 (1999): 39–59 (Hebrew). 96. See Menahem Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan: Text, Redaction and Interpretation (Jerusalem: Hebrew University and Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998 [Hebrew]); Jonah Fraenkel, “Remarkable Phenomena in the Text-History of the Aggadic Stories,” Proceedings of the Seventh World Congress of Jewish Studies: Studies in the Talmud, Halacha and Midrash (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1981), 45–69 (Hebrew); Yaakov Sussman, “Ve-shuv Le-Yerushalmi Nezikin,” Meh.qerey Talmud 1 (1990): 108–111 (Hebrew); Adiel Schremer, “Stammaitic Historiography,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey L. Rubenstein (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 219–222.

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97. Despite the unquestionable advance in scholarship on rabbinic literature and culture in recent decades, many of the recent contributions to the subject of minut in rabbinic literature still suffer from this methodological flaw. See, for example, Stuart S. Miller, “The Minim of Sepphoris Reconsidered,” HTR 86 (1993): 377–402; Naomi Janowitz, “Rabbis and Their Opponents: The Construction of the ‘Min’ in Rabbinic Anecdotes,” JECS 6 (1998): 449–462; Christine E. Hayes, “Displaced Self-Perceptions: The Deployment of Minim and Romans in B. Sanhedrin 90b–91a,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine, ed. Hayim Lapin (Bethesda: University Press of Maryland, 1998), 249–289. This is, unfortunately, the case also with Boyarin, who, in his most recent work, places much weight on issues of methodology with respect to the dating of rabbinic traditions and texts, yet still mixes late and early texts in a nondiscriminating manner. See Daniel Boyarin, “Archives in the Fiction: Rabbinic Historiography and Church History,” in The Cultural Turn in Late Ancient Studies: Gender, Asceticism, and Historiography, ed. Dale B. Martin and Patricia Cox Miller (Durham, N.C., and London: Duke University Press, 2005), 175–192. 98. See Daniel Boyarin, “On the Status of the Tannaitic Midrashim,” JAOS 112 (1992): 455–465; Menahem I. Kahana, “The Halakhic Midrashim,” in The Literature of the Sages Second Part: Midrash and Targum, Liturgy, Poetry, Mysticism, Contracts, Inscriptions, Ancient Science, and the Languages of Rabbinic Literature, ed. Shmuel Safrai, Zeev Safrai, Joshua Schwartz, and Peter J. Tomson (Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum, Section Two: The Literature of the Jewish People in the Period of the Second Temple and the Talmud; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum and Fortress Press, 2006), 60–64. 99. I made this point in Schremer, “Stammaitic Historiography,” 226, n. 27. 100. See, most recently, Daniel Boyarin, “The Diadoche of the Rabbis; Or, Judah the Patriarch at Yavneh,” in Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Empire, ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 286; idem, “Archives in the Fiction,” 181–182. 101. See Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 8 (the question mark in parentheses is in the original). For a different criticism of Nuesner’s methodological assertions, see Christine Hayes, “Halakhah le-Moshe mi-Sinai in Rabbinic Sources: A Methodological Case Study,” in The Synoptic Problem in Rabbinic Literature, ed. Shaye J. D. Cohen (Providence, R.I.: Brown University Press, 2000), 61–66. 102. In this I find myself in a very good company: as noted by Boyarin, “Martin Goodman, like Shaye Cohen . . . reads the rabbinic sources that treat of Yavneh as being, indeed, about the first century.” See Boyarin, “Diadoche of the Rabbis,” 291; idem, Border Lines, 76.

chapter 1 1. Cf. Solomon ben Abraham ben Aderet, Commentary on the Legends in the Talmud, ed. Leon A. Feldman (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1991), 21 (ad b. Berakhot 7b). See also his commentary ad b. Berakhot 8a (ibid., 22).

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2. The Sadducees may serve a good example: their denial of divine providence (see Josephus, War, 2.164–165; Antiquities, 13.173) never led them to desert Judaism and to leave the confines of the Jewish people. 3. I am well aware that it is virtually impossible to speak of a “theory” of any major issue when it comes to classical rabbinic literature. I am not claiming, therefore, that one can find in any single source in early rabbinic literature a “theory of heresy.” However, it is possible, I believe, to reconstruct a “discourse of minut” from the web of early rabbinic sayings pertaining to minim and minut, in one way or another. This web stands at the focus of chapter 2. 4. Note that although I indeed believe that the early rabbinic texts relating to the problem of God’s power, which are discussed in this chapter, do reflect the challenges of the second century C .E., my argument concerning the connection between this existential problem and the earliest rabbinic discourse of minut does not rest on the acceptance of this dating. Even if we were to assign these early rabbinic texts to the time of the redaction of the documents in which they are presently found, the suggestion to relate the rabbinic discourse of minut to the spirit expressed by them would still be valid. 5. See Moshe D. Herr, “Jerusalem, The Temple and Its Cult—Reality and Concepts in Second Temple Times,” in Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period: Abraham Schalit Memorial Volume, ed. Aharon Oppenheimer, Uriel Rappaport, and Menahem Stern (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and Ministry of Defense, 1980), 166–177 (Hebrew); Ed P. Sanders, Judaism Practice and Belief 63 BCE—66 CE (London: SCM Press, and Philadelphia: Trinity Press, 1992), 51–72. 6. Sanders, ibid., 70–71 (emphasis original). 7. See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Destruction: From Scripture to Midrash,” Prooftexts 2 (1982): 25 (emphasis added). 8. See Hans J. Schoeps, The Jewish-Christian Argument: A History of Theologies in Conflict, trans. David E. Green (London: Faber and Faber, 1963), 34–35 (emphasis original). 9. See Salo W. Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews, 16 Vol. (New York and London: Columbia University Press, and Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1952), 2.113. Many other scholars have written along the same line. See, for example, Eugene Mihaly, “A Rabbinic Defense of the Election of Israel: An Analysis of Sifre Deuteronomy 32:9, Pisqa 312,” HUCA 35 (1964): 129; Jacob Neusner, First Century Judaism in Crisis (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon Press, 1975), 161; Lee I. A. Levine, “Judaism from the Destruction of Jerusalem to the End of the Second Jewish Revolt: 70–135 C.E.,” in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: A Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development, ed. Herschel Shanks (Washington, D.C.: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1992), 125; Martin Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem: The Clash of Ancient Civilizations (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 424. 10. See the treatment of the theme of the Jewish responses to the destruction of the Second Temple by Jacob Neusner, “Judaism in a Time of Crisis: Four Responses to the Destruction of the Second Temple,” Judaism 21 (1972): 313–327; Michael Stone, “Reactions to Destructions[!] of the Second Temple,” JSJ 12 (1981): 195–204; Anthony J. Saldarini, “Varieties of Rabbinic Response to the

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Destruction of the Temple,” SBLSP 21 (1982): 437–458; Cohen, “The Destruction: From Scripture to Midrash,” 18–39; Robert Goldenberg, “Early Rabbinic Explanations of the Destruction of Jerusalem,” JJS 33 (1982): 517–525; Norman J. Cohen, “ ‘Shekhinta ba-Galuta’: A Midrashic Response to Destruction and Persecution,” JSJ 13 (1982): 147–159 (and compare, for that particular theme, Shalom Spiegel, The Fathers of Piyyut: Texts and Studies Toward a History of the Piyyut in Eretz Israel [New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1996], 308–368 [Hebrew]); Baruch Bokser, “Rabbinic Responses to Catastrophe: From Continuity to Discontinuity,” PAAJR 50 (1983): 37–61; Robert Kirschner, “Apocalyptic and Rabbinic Responses to the Destruction of 70,” HTR 78 (1985): 27–46; Avrahm Aderet, From Destruction to Restoration: The Mode of Yavneh in Re-establishment of the Jewish People (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1990), 7–33 (Hebrew); David W. Nelson, “Responses to the Destruction of the Second Temple in the Tannaitic Midrashim,” Ph.D. diss., New York University, 1991; Moshe Beer, “The Destruction of the Second Temple in Early Jewish Thought,” in The Jews in the Hellenistic-Roman World: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern, ed. Isaiah M. Gafni, Aharon Oppenheimer, and Daniel R. Schwartz (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1996), 437–451 (Hebrew). On rabbinic responses to the failure of the Bar Kokhba rebellion, see Reuven Hammer, “A Rabbinic Response to the Post Bar Kochba Era: The Sifre to Ha-Azinu,” PAAJR 52 (1985): 37–53. 11. For biblical texts raising similar concerns, see (among many others) Jonathan Goldstein, Peoples of an Almighty God: Competing Religions in the Ancient World (New York: Doubleday, 2002); James L. Crenshaw, Defending God: Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). Both authors discuss various “intellectual structures” that attempt to overcome the existential difficulty of the bitter situation in the present, and the lack of display of God’s presumed power. Some of these strategies were used by early rabbinic sources as well, as demonstrated later in this book. These “solutions” are not the main focus of the present discussion, however. Rather, it is the crisis to which they testify that is highlighted throughout this chapter. 12. John R. Fears, “The Theology of Victory at Rome: Approaches and Problems,” ANRW 2.17/2 (1981): 740. See also Jerome H. Neyrey, “God, Benefactor and Patron: The Major Cultural Model for Interpreting the Deity in Greco-Roman Antiquity,” JSNT 27 (2005): 465–492. 13. See Friedrich Bilabel, “Fragmente aus der Heidelberger Papyrussammlung,” Philologus 80 (1925) 339; Alfred Körte, “Literarische Texte mit Ausschluss der Christlichen,” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 8 (1927): 266 (no. 693). 14. Cf. Alexander Rofé, Introduction to Deuteronomy (Jerusalem: Akademon, 1988), 219 (Hebrew). 15. Cf. Shaye J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1999), 142. 16. As Robert Wilken has written, with respect to biblical times: “Defeat was a sign of divine impotence, at least to Israel’s foes. . . . To the victors defeat

notes to pages 27–29

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might expose the shortcomings of Israel’s God.” See Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992), 216–217. However, as Sarah Japhet has shown, the idea that Israel’s defeat exposes “the shortcomings of Israel’s God” was shared by many Israelites as well! See Sarah Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1989), 49–50. 17. See Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 B.C.E. To 640 C.E . (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 108, n. 12. 18. As I have argued elsewhere, although the assumption that Amoraic (and post-Amoraic) sources preserve second-century rabbinic traditions in their original form may be considered problematic, employing this assumption with respect to Tannaitic literature is much more tenable. See Adiel Schremer, “Stammaitic Historiography,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey L. Rubenstein (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 226, n. 27. Hence, despite the presumed date of composition of Tannaitic compilations in the third century, they may be relied upon for the reconstruction of theological and other concerns current in rabbinic circles in Palestine during the second century C .E. 19. Sifre Deuteronomy 328 (ed. Finkelstein, 378–379). A similar tradition appears in the [lost] Mekhilta on Deut. 32:37. See Menahem Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta on Ha’azinu and Wezot ha-Berakha,” Tarbiz 57 (1988): 190 (Hebrew); idem, The Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2005), 354. It is attested in later sources as well: Genesis Rabbah 10:7 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 82–83); Leviticus Rabbah 20:5 (ed. Margulies, 458); Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Aharei Mot, 5 (ed. Mandelbaum, 392); Ecclesiastes Rabbah 8:5; Midrash Psalms 121:3 (ed. Buber, 506); Deuteronomy Rabbah, Devarim 21 (ed. Lieberman, 21); Tanhuma, Aharei Mot, 4; Tanhuma (ed. Buber), Aharei Mot, 5; ibid., Huqat, 1. On the designation of Titus as “the son of Vespasian’s wife,” see Saul Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1941), 164–165. 20. See Aaron Hyman, Toldoth Tannaim Ve’Amoraim (London: Express Press, 1910), 924–926. 21. Sifre Deuteronomy 328 (ed. Finkelstein, 378): “Then he will say ‘Where are their gods’ (Deut. 32:37)—Rabbi Judah expounds it as directed to the Nations of the world . . . in the future Israel will say to the Nations of the world: Where are your counsels and generals . . . ” The understanding that the addressee is the enemy is followed by Rabbah bar Abuhah in b. Avoda Zara 29b, and by many modern commentators and it may be supported by the reading of the LXX and of 4Q44 (“then God will say”). Cf. Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, “The Use of Deuteronomy 32:39 in Monotheistic Controversies in Rabbinic Literature,” in Studies in Deuteronomy in Honour of C.J. Labuschlagne on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. Florentino García Martínez et al. (Leiden, New York, and Köln: Brill, 1994), 224–225. 22. Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version B, chapter 7 (ed. Schechter, 20). Cf. Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 67. The story is found also in Leviticus Rabbah 22:3 (ed. Margulies, 499–502),

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notes to pages 29–30

and in b. Gittin 56b, and a reference to it is found in Genesis Rabbah and in Psiqta de-Rav Kahana. See earlier, n. 19. 23. See Menahem Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan: Text, Redaction and Interpretation (Jerusalem: Hebrew University and Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 217–222 (Hebrew). 24. Kister, ibid. 25. Sifre Deuteronomy 328 (ed. Finkelstein, 379). 26. Leviticus Rabbah 22:3 (ed. Margulies, 499–502). In the version in b. Gittin 56b, it is Rabbi Pinchas ben (= of?) Aruba who comments on the story. Nothing in known of this sage, but in b. Bekhorot 38b a tradition of his is cited by Rabbi Johannan, who flourished in Palestine in the third century. Cf. also Herr, “Persecution and Martyrdom,” 119, n. 123. 27. The Sifre was edited, presumably, in the third century (see the Introduction, n. 98). However, the portion of the Sifre in which Rabbi Nehemiah’s interpretation and reference to Titus’ taunt appears is part of a common source, used both by the Sifre and the [lost] Mekhilta Deuteronomy in their commentary on the last chapters of the book of Deuteronomy (as is the case with the two Tannaitic works on Exodus, the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael and the Mekhilta de-Rashbi, in the nonlegal sections of their commentary on the book of Exodus; see Menahem I. Kahana, The Two Mekhiltot on the Amalek Portion [Jerusalem: Magnes, 1999], 19–32 [Hebrew]). And that common source, necessarily, is earlier than the final redaction of the Sifre itself. However, I see no specific reason to be suspicious of the attribution to Rabbi Nehemiah and not to date the story to the mid-second century C .E. 28. This aspect of the story is somewhat neglected in other recent discussions of the text. See, for example, Galit Hasan-Rokem, “Within Limits and Beyond: History and Body in Midrashic Texts,” International Folklore Review 9 (1993): 5–12; idem, “Narratives in Dialogue: A Folk Literary Perspective on Interreligious Contacts in the Holy Land in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” in Sharing the Sacred: Religious Contacts and Conflicts in the Holy Land First-Fifteenth Centuries ce, ed. Arieh Kofsky and Guy G. Stroumsa (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 109–129; Joshua Levinson, “ ‘Tragedies Naturally Performed’: Fatal Charades, Parodia Sacra, and the Death of Titus,” in Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire, ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 349–382. 29. Sifra, Emor, Parasha 9:5 (MS Vatican 66, ed. Finkelstein, 442). Compare Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Ex. 21:13 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 169–170); Tractate Semachot, 8:15 (ed. Higger, 164–165); b. Ta‘anit 18b; Ecclesiastes Rabbah 3:17; Ecclesiastes Zutta 3:17 (ed. shlomo Buber [Vilna: Rom, 1925] 62a); Megilat Ta‘anit, twelfth of Adar (ed. Vered No‘am, Megilat Ta‘anit: Versions, Interpretation, History [Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2003], 117–118 [and see No‘am’s discussion at 295–297]). See also the poem published by Michael Sokoloff and Joseph Yahalom, Jewish Palestinian Aramaic Poetry from Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1999 [Hebrew]), 120, and the source in Mah. zor Vitri, cited by Urbach, The Sages, 91. 30. Whether Trugyianus refers to Trajan (as some scholars assumed), or not, will not bother us here. See No‘am, ibid., 296. Nor am I concerned with the

notes to pages 30 –31

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question of whether an event such as described in the story ever actually took place. I am not treating the story as a historical account of any concrete event (although I see no reason to rule out such a possibility), but as an evidence for the spirit of its time. 31. In fact, the story concludes with a comment that immediately after the two brothers were put to death an embassy came from Rome and killed Trugyanus himself. This comment is understood as the display of God’s power, thus making the story structurally identical to the Titus story, which ends in a similar manner (the death of Titus). 32. For other Tannaitic statements echoing this conception, see Sifre Deuteronomy 322 (ed. Finkelstein, 372); ibid., 323 (ed. Finkelstein, 373). For later materials, see Moshe D. Herr, “Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature (Its Image and Conception),” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1970, 146. 33. See Minucius Felix, Octavius, 10:3–4. See also ibid., 12:2 (“He will not or He cannot assist His own followers. This proves how weak He is”); 12:4 (“Where is that God of yours, who can help those who come to life again, but cannot help those who are alive”); Tertullian, Apol. 26. Cf. Johanan H. Levy, Studies in Jewish Hellenism (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1969), 86–87 (Hebrew); Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 vols. (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984), 1.201, 2.303. 34. Cf. Arthur Marmorstein, The Old Rabbinic Doctrine of God: I. The Names and Attributes of God (reprint New York: Ktav, 1968), 171. So, too, writes Urbach, The Sages, 92: “Titus’s argument was not invented by the Sages. It was adduced by many.” 35. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 8 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 142; ed. Lauterbach, 2.60). 36. Note that in the Masoretic text the word “gods” in this verse is spelled without the letter yod (‫)באלם‬, and only by tradition does one know that it should be pronounced as “gods.” 37. It is worth noting that the Mekhilta refers to the “insult” of the Jews, which seems to be a term relating to their national dignity, not so much to their actual suffering. However, these two concepts should not be sharply separated, as they can be the two sides of one and the same coin. 38. This reconceptualization of “power” is stated unequivocally in m. Avot 4:1: “Who is considered a [true] hero? He who subdues his desire. As it is said: ‘He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city’ (Prov. 16:32).” Should one wish to suggest that the rabbis saw in the latter expression a reference to the Roman Empire, who captured the city (i.e., Jerusalem), reading this mishnah together with the midrashic material with which we are here dealing could be enlightening. I owe this brilliant suggestion to my friend Dror Yinon. 39. This can be seen very clearly in the slightly later rabbinic texts in y. Berakhot 7:3, 11c (= y. Megillah 3:7, 74c), and its parallel in b. Yoma 69b, in which the liturgical formula “the great, mighty, and terrible God” (‫ )האל הגדול הגיבור והנורא‬is

164

notes to pages 31–32

discussed. That Amoraic sugya seeks to offer an explanation for the variants, found in the Hebrew Bible, with respect to this formula. It notes that: “Moses established the formula of prayer: ‘O great, mighty and terrible God’ (Deut. 10:17),” but later prophets omitted some of its components: “Jeremiah said: ‘O great and mighty God’ (Jer. 32:18), but he did not say ‘terrible.’ . . . Daniel said: ‘O great and terrible God’ (Dan. 9:4), but he did not say ‘mighty.’ ” The sugya views these omissions as the result of deliberate decision on part of the prophets: “Why did he [Jeremiah] say ‘mighty?’ To such One it is appropriate to call ‘mighty,’ for He sees the destruction of His house and yet remains silent. And why didn’t he say ‘terrible?’ For there is no terribleness except from the Temple, as it is written: ‘Terrible is God from your sanctuary’ (Ps. 68:36) . . . [Why didn’t Daniel say ‘mighty?’] If His children are bound by neck-iron, where then is His might?!” In the version of the Babylonian Talmud the issue is presented in a sharper manner, as the prophets’ refusal to pronounce some of the formula’s components because these components seemed to them to be contradicted by the social and political reality in which they lived, and therefore appeared to be expressing, in their opinion, a false attribute of God: “Jeremiah came and said: Gentiles dance in His sanctuary! Where, then, are His terrible deeds?! He, therefore, did not say ‘terrible.’ Then came Daniel and said: Gentiles enslave His children! Where, then, are is powerful deeds?! He, therefore, did not say ‘mighty.’ ” The sugya in the Palestinian Talmud is troubled by this explanation: “But, has a human being the capability to determine such things?!” And it answers that the prophets were so confident in their faith in God that they did not need “to flatter” Him (‫)להחניף לו‬, by ascribing to Him fake attributes: “Said Rabbi Isaac ben Elazar: The prophets know that their God is true, so they do not flatter Him.” For this meaning of “flattering,” see Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 1 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 119; ed. Lauterbach, 2.8–9): “When a king of flesh and blood enters a province all praise him to his face, saying that he is mighty when he really is weak; that he is rich when he really is poor; that he is wise when he rally is foolish; that he is just; that he is faithful, although he has none of these qualities, but they all merely flatter him.” The fact that a rabbinic text allows itself to attribute to Jeremiah and Daniel a stance that explicitly claims that God is neither mighty nor terrible indicates that such a stance was circulating among the rabbis themselves. 40. Along similar lines, it may be suggested that those rabbinic sources that emphasize God’s future punishment of Israel’s enemies (especially Esau, which in rabbinic parlance is a soubriquet for the Roman Empire) should be seen as a response to the actual situation of the Jews in the present (i.e., in the time of the rabbis). See, for example, Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Va-yehi, 1 (ed. HorovitzRabin, 85; ed. Lauterbach, 1.193): “Scripture here teaches that when God punishes the Nations His name becomes renowned in the world, as it is said: ‘And I will work a sign among them . . . ’ (Is. 66.19). . . . And what is said after this? ‘Verily You are a God that hide Yourself, O God of Israel, the Saviour.’ ” Cf. Urbach, The Sages, 95; Adiel Schremer, “Midrash and History: God’s Power, the Roman Empire, and Hopes for Redemption in Tannaitic Literature,” Zion 72 (2007): 5–36 (Hebrew). 41. Y. Berakhot 9:1, 12d; Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ki Tisa, 10 (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.34); ibid., Et Qorbani Lah.mi, 4 (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.121 [according to

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the reading of MS Cambridge 1479 and Yalqut Shimoni]); Midrash Psalms 19:2 (ed. Buber, 164); Psiqta Rabbati 16 (ed. Friedman, 84b). 42. This was sensed very clearly by the author of the passage in Exodus Rabbah 34:1: “Anyone who hears this verse says: perhaps it is blasphemy!”. 43. Sifre Deuteronomy 329 (ed. Finkelstein, 379). Several text witnesses read: ‫“( האומר אין רשות בשמים משיבים אותו ואומרים לו והלא כבר כתוב ואין אלהים עמדי‬He who says there is no Power in heaven is answered: But it is already written ‘There is no God besides Me’ ”). This reading is an obvious corruption, however, because the words ‫“( ואין אלהים עמדי‬and there is no God besides me”) do not indicate that there is a Divinity in heaven! It can only be used as a proof for the claim that there are no “two Powers in heaven.” Finkelstein’s emendation appears, therefore, entirely justified. Indeed, in the parallel midrash in the [lost] Mekhilta Deuteronomy, as found in a Genizah fragment, we find the following reading: ‫ הרי זו‬,‫ואין אלהים עמדי‬ ‫ משיבין אותו ואמרין לו ואין אלהים עמדי‬,‫‘ “( תשובה לאומר שתי רשויות בשמים‬And there is no God besides Me’—this is a refutation of he who says that there are two Powers in heaven; he is answered: ‘And there is no God besides Me’ ”). See Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta,” 190; idem, The Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim, 355. This version is a strong support (if there was needed any) for Finkelstein’s emendation. 44. Cf. LXX to Ex. 3:14; Jer. 1:6; 14:13; 39:17, and see John Whittaker, “Moses Atticizing,” Phoenix 21 (1967): 196–201. 45. Sifre Zutta Numbers 15:30 (ed. Horovitz, 286). 46. Cf. Alan Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports About Christianity and Gnosticism (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 90. 47. As the midrash goes on to say: “ ‘Reviles the Lord’—to what are the worshipers of idolatry similar? To one who shook intensely a bowl and left nothing of its content” (Sifre Zutta Numbers 15:30 [ed. Horovitz, 286]; Segal’s translation, “Why do idolators,” etc. [Two Powers in Heaven, 90], reflects a misunderstanding, which stems from a mispunctuation of the Hebrew word: ‫)למה‬. Clearly, it is taken here for granted (just as in the parallel in Sifre Numbers 112 [ed. Horovitz, 120]) that Num. 15:30 relates to idolatry. This is despite the fact that the verb used by Scripture is “reviles” (Hebrew ‫)מגדף‬, which, in Tannaitic Hebrew retains the meaning of blasphemy. I hope to return to this issue (and to the relation between the rabbinic and the New Testament materials relating to blasphemy) elsewhere. As to the unique expression, “shook intensely,” see Saul Lieberman, Sifre Zutta (The Midrash of Lydda) (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1968), 5 n. 12. 48. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 4 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 129–130; ed. Lauterbach, 2.31–32), and the parallel in Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Ex. 15:3 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 81–82). See also Lamentations Rabbah Proem 15 (ed. Buber, 13); Esther Rabbah 7:13; Ecclesiastes Zutta 3:17 (ed. Buber, 62a). 49. For this interpretation, see Adiel Schremer, “Midrash, Theology, and History: Two Powers in Heaven Revisited,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 39 (2008): 240–244. 50. Judah Goldin, The Song at the Sea: Being a Commentary on a Commentary in Two Parts (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1971), 130.

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notes to pages 35–36

51. The Romans, too, viewed their victories in theological terms, that is, as the victory of their gods over the gods of their enemies. See Fears, “The Theology of Victory at Rome,” 736–826 (esp. at 745). See also Moshe D. Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 23 (1972): 115–116. 52. They are usually treated thus. See, for example, Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, 84–89; Herbert Basser, Midrashic Interpretations of the Song of Moses (New York: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1981), 241–244; Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta,” 178, n. 74; and recently Daniel Boyarin, “Two Powers in Heaven; Or, the Making of a Heresy,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 331–370. 53. Cf. Schremer, “Midrash, Theology, and History,” 230–254. 54. See Reuven Kimelman, “Rabbinic Prayer in Late Antiquity,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. IV: The Late Roman—Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 600. 55. Cf. Moshe Halbertal, “David Hartman and the Philosophy of Halakha,” in Renewing Jewish Tradition, ed. Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar (Jerusalem: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Meuchad and Shalom Hartman Institute, 2001), 25–35 (Hebrew). 56. M. Berakhot 9:5. My translation is based on a punctuation of the text that follows the reading of the most reliable manuscripts of the Mishnah: MS Kaufman, Budapest A50, MS Parma 138, and of MS Cambridge 470,1 (= W. H. Lowe [ed.], The Mishnah upon Which the Palestinian Talmud Rests [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1888]), as well as that of some Genizah fragments. See The Mishnah with Variant Readings, ed. Nissan Sacks (Jerusalem: Institute for the Complete Israeli Talmud, 1975), 1.90–91. These text-witnesses read: “They said” (‫)אמרו‬, instead of: “And they said” (‫)ואמרו‬, of the vulgar printed editions. According to the latter, the sentence goes on to detail the corruption of the minim; that is, they maintained that there is but one world. According to the reading found in the above mentioned manuscripts, on the other hand, “They said” cannot refer to the minim, but rather to someone else, that is, to the sages. This is indeed a frequent formula of citation of anonymous statements of “the sages” in Tannaitic literature. See Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Magnes and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1964), 726. Because, however, the sages obviously did not hold the view that there is but one world, this clause should be punctuated with a question mark, and accordingly be translated: “They said: Is there but one world?! [Surely not!] They ordained, [therefore], that one should say ‘from everlasting to everlasting.’ ” Admittedly, on this reading the mishnah does not state what actually the minim corrupted. It is therefore worth raising the possibility that in the mishnah’s view the formula used by the Temple authorities (i.e., to say only “from everlasting,” although the biblical origin is fuller: “from everlasting to everlasting”) is itself the result of a conscious act, the aim of which was to evade the possible theological conclusion that there are two worlds. This was done intentionally by deleting the words “to everlasting” from the original formula, thus leaving only its first half. For

notes to page 36

167

a structurally similar suggestion regarding the motivation behind some changes in the reading of some biblical verses, see Alexander Rofé, “The Onset of Sects in Postexilic Judaism: Neglected Evidence from the Septuagint, Trito-Isaiah, Ben Sira, and Malachi,” in The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute to Howard Clark Kee, ed. Jacob Neusner, Peder Borgen, Ernest S. Frerichs, and Richard Horsley (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 39–49. 57. Dating the changes mentioned by this mishnah is admittedly a difficult matter. Rashi (ad m. Berakhot 9:5, s.v. ‫)התקינו‬, maintains that the first change referred to by the mishnah was introduced by Ezra and his assembly, that is very early in Second Temple era. Epstein went a step further and suggested that the mishnah itself is relatively old and should be dated prior to the destruction of the Temple. See Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to Tannaitic Literature (Jerusalem: Magnes, and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1957), 58. Rashi’s implicit assumption that there were Sadducees and others who opposed them (Pharisees?) already during Ezra’s time is obviously difficult to accept. Epstein’s assertion, too, is far from convincing, as the mishnah’s language and style clearly appears to be indicating that it was formulated from the perspective of post-Destruction times (note, e.g., the past tense: “that there were in the Temple”; see also the previous halakhic ruling, forbidding one to use the Temple Mount for a shortcut, which seems to be resting on the assumption that the Temple Mount lays in ruins). Surprisingly, Epstein himself attributes the opening passage of this mishnah to Rabbi Meir (ibid., 99), who flourished in the second half of the second century. This latter dating is corroborated by the fact that in t. Berakhot 6[7]:19 a reference to part of this mishnah is quoted in the name of Rabbi Yossi ben Yehuda, who flourished a generation later than Rabbi Meir. The gloss added to the mishnah in various text witnesses (see The Mishnah with Variant Readings, 92) also supports this dating, as it is attributed to Rabbi Nathan (or to Rabbi Meir himself, in other sources, see Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 975), who, like Rabbi Meir, flourished in the second half of the second century. See also Heinrich Graetz, Geschichte der Juden (Leipzig: Leiner, 1888–1909), 4.458. 58. As noted by Saul Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim (reprint; New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1999), 1.31, the identity of the minim in our mishnah is unclear. Many interpreters and scholars identify them with the Sadducees. See, for example, Rashi, ad loc.; Abraham Geiger, Urschrift und Uebersetzungen der Bibel in ihrer Abhangigkeit von der innern Entwickelung des Judentums (Breslau: J. Hainauer, 1857), 263–265; Robert Trevers Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (London: Williams and Norgate, 1903), 313; Jacob Mann, Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1931), 1.580–583; Urbach, The Sages, 129; Johan Maier, Jüdische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Christentum in der Antike (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982), 146–147; Jarl E. Fossum, The Name of God and the Angel of the Lord (Tübingen: Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1985), 51, n. 78. Albeck, in his commentary to this mishnah, refrains from explicitly identifying them specifically as Sadducees. See Chanoch Albeck, Shisha Sidre Mishnah (Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1957), 1.53. However, he does note that the Sadducees denied the concept of two worlds (ibid.), and from his

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notes to page 36

additional notes (ibid., 339), it is quite clear that he, too, accepted this identification. Even Gedalyahu Alon, who suggested that the aim of the second enactment was not to reject a “Sadducean” view, but rather “to demonstrate against the schools of the ‘Hasidim’ (Pietists), who made it standard practice . . . to refrain from ‘secularizing’ the use of the Name for the purpose of greetings in their contact with individuals,” did not disagree with the assumption concerning the identity of the minim, against which the first enactments was directed. See Gedalyahu Alon, “By the (Expressed) Name,” in idem, Jews, Judaism, and the Classical World: Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud, trans. Israel Abrahams (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1977), 248. However, Saul Lieberman interpreted the enactment as aiming to negate minim who deny the idea of a preexistent world, not minim who deny the existence of the world to come, thus indicating that in his view the minim in our mishnah are not Sadducees. See Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988), 1.122–123. 59. I deliberately refrained from stating the precise nature of the enactment, because this is a difficult matter, into which we need not enter here. It relates, inter alia, to the question whether to follow the text of the Mishnah, or that of the Tosefta. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1.122–123. Urbach, The Sages, 129, and n. 34 at 737, accepts (but thus truly rejects!) both versions, and suggests that the enactment was the very addition of the clause “from everlasting to everlasting,” in contrast to the earlier custom of not using it at all. In itself this suggestion makes much sense, but it does not fit well with the explicit “testimony” of the tradition (in either version). 60. The question whether the Tetragrammaton is meant, or any other form of the Divine name, need not bother us here. Cf. Urbach, ibid.; Albeck, Mishnah, 1.339. 61. As was noted by Albeck in his commentary ad loc., and as was recognized by many other readers of the mishnah. See Alon, “By the (Expressed) Name,” 248. 62. Judges 6:11–13. Compare the very similar voice in Ps. 44: “We have heard with our ears, O God, our fathers have told us, what deeds You performed in their days, in days of old. You, with Your own hand, drove out the nations, but them You planted; You afflicted the peoples, but them You set free. . . . Yet You have cast us off and abased us, and have not gone out with our armies. You have made us turn back from the foe; and our enemies have gotten spoil. You have made us like sheep for slaughter, and have scattered us among the nations. You have sold Your people for a trifle, demanding no high price for them. You have made us the taunt of our neighbors, the derision and scorn of those about us. You have made us a byword among the nations, a shaking of the head among the peoples. All day long my disgrace is before me, and shame has covered my face at the voice of him that taunts and blasphemes; by reason of the enemy and the avenger.” The force of the complaint derives from the fact that: “All this has come upon us, though we have not forgotten You, or been false to Your covenant! Our Heart has not turned back, nor have our steps departed from Your way!” (ibid., 18–19). See Adiel Schremer, “ ‘The Lord Has

notes to pages 36–41

169

Forsaken the Land’: Radical Reactions to the Political and Military Defeat of the Jews in Tannaitic Literature,’ JJS 59 (2008): 185. Note that these verses are the root of the expression “taunts and blasphemes,” which is frequently applied to Rome in classical rabbinic literature. 63. It is possible that the reference to Prov. 23:22 in our mishnah was understood in this manner by Rabbi Nathan of Rome (late eleventh century), in his Talmudic dictionary, Sefer Ha-Aruch, s.v. ‫( עת‬ed. Alexander Kohut, Aruch Completum [reprint Tel-Aviv: Shilo 1970], 6.281–282). This interpretation is further corroborated by the use of the verb ‫ זקן‬in relation to God in other midrashic sources that raise the problem of God’s lack of display of His power. See, for example, Lamentations Rabbah, Proem, 15 (ed. Buber, 7a): “Is He a youth forever?! It seems that the Things have become old.” For other places in midrashic literature where this argument is found, see Herr, “Persecution and Martyrdom,” 116, n. 111. 64. See the midrashic sources cited by Herr, ibid. 65. The plain meaning of the mishnah’s ruling is that one must greet one’s fellow with the Divine name. Cf. pseudo-Rashi ad b. Makkot 23b, s.v. ‫ושאילת שלום בשם‬, and see Albeck’s comment in his Mishnah, 1.340. 66. T. Bava Qamma 7:2 (ed. Lieberman, 28); Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Nezikin, 15 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 299; ed. Lauterbach, 3.115); b. Bava Qamma 79b. 67. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ibid. 68. Note also that the next few passages, both in the Tosefta and in its parallels, are all attributed to the same sage. Cf. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 9.66–67. 69. Sifre Deuteronomy 343 (ed. Finkelstein, 399), according to the reading of the majority of the witnesses, among which is a Genizah fragment, T-S C 2.211. See Finkelstein’s critical apparatus, ad loc.; Kahana, Genizah Fragments of Halakhic Midrashim, 322. 70. Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1991), 43. 71. Ibid., 44. 72. An anxiety concerning this issue is seen in other rabbinic sources as well. See, for a powerful example, the story about Rabbi Aqiva in Rome, where, as a result of his refusal to have sex with two beautiful Roman women he was given for a night, he is condemned by a Roman official: “Why did you not act with these women in the regular manner in which human beings act with women? Are they not beautiful?! Are they not human beings like yourself?! Did not He who created you, create them?!” See Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 16 (ed. Schechter, 32a). This rabbinic self-criticism seems to have anticipated by more than a thousand years Shylock’s famous statement in William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, act 3, scene 1: “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you

170

notes to pages 41–42

tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” 73. Cf. Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 109–114; idem, “A Contribution to the History of Martyrdom in Israel,” in Atara L’Haim: Studies in the Talmud and Medieval Rabbinic Literature in Honor of Professor Haim Zalman Dimitrovsky, ed. Daniel Boyarin et al. (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2000), 22–26 (Hebrew). Boyarin’s suggestion to identify the “Nations of the world” here as Christians is unconvincing, in my opinion, because of the simple consideration that any rabbinic author knew very well that Christians were very much willing to die for their beloved, and therefore would not have said to Israel, “What is your beloved more than any other beloved that you die for His sake?” See also Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 205, n. 81. 74. The midrash, needless to say, is trying to offer a solution to this crisis, by suggesting that if one would only understand the “glory” of God one would not wish to renounce Him. Here again, however, I am not interested in uncovering the rabbinic stance; rather, I utilize the rabbinic source as an evidence for the existential problems among Palestinian Jews (including the rabbis themselves, of course), with which the rabbis were confronted. 75. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 3 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 127; ed. Lauterbach, 2.26–27): “ ‘This is my God and I shall glorify Him’ (Ex. 15:2)— . . . Rabbi Aqiva says: I shall speak of the beauty of Him who spoke and the world came to be before the Nations of the world. For, the Nations of the world say to Israel: ‘What is your beloved more than another beloved, O the most beautiful amongst women’ (Song 5:9)? . . . You are beautiful, you are heroes, come and join us!’ ” 76. Cf. Boyarin, “A Contribution to the History of Martyrdom,” 24; idem, Dying for God, 111. See also the parallel in Song Rabbah 7:2 (ed. Donski, 152). 77. Gedalyahu Alon argued against this assumption: “I do not think this homily can be assigned to the time of the Hadrianic persecution following the Bar Kokhba War. This was scarcely a time to arouse ‘envy’ of the Jews among the pagans.” See Gedalyahu Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age, trans. and ed. Gershon Levi (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980), 523–524, n. 16. Alon struggles between two other options: either the midrash “echoes memories of the days following the Destruction of the Temple,” or it reflects the reality after “War of Quietus.” He prefers the latter possibility, but offers no specific reason why. Herr follows Alon in rejecting the possibility that the midrash was composed after the Bar Kokhba revolt: “After the rebellion,” he writes, “it would no longer have been possible for gentiles to observe: ‘You are pleasing, you are mighty . . . ’ ” See Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 92. Even if we were to accept the interpretive hidden assumption that reads this midrash as if it were a “report” of an actual conversation between pagans and Jews, Alon’s and Herr’s consideration would not have been persuasive, in my opinion. The severe casualties the Roman army suffered during the revolt could have been easily ascribed by any observer to the Jews’ power. See Werner Eck, “The Bar Kokhba Revolt: The Roman Point of View,” JRS 89 (1999): 76–89. The midrash’s reference to

notes to pages 42–46

171

Jews who are being constantly killed because of their love to God is best understood as a reference to the historical reality during the Hadrianic persecutions, and Herr’s suggestion that “The mention of dying and killing does not refer to suffering the penalty of death for Kiddush Hashem . . . but to all persons who accept the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven” (ibid.) is extremely unlikely, as was noted by Boyarin, “A Contribution to the History of Martyrdom,” 24. Yet, Boyarin’s own suggestion that “The context is not the early second century . . . but the mid-third century, when the text probably was produced” (ibid.) is not convincing either, in my opinion. For, in that period of Jewish relative prosperity, it is rather quite difficult to assume that a Palestinian rabbi would relate to the Jews’ political situation and describe it as if they are being “killed all day.” Be that as it may, interpretive considerations such as these lose much of their relevance once we cease to view the midrash as a simple representation of an actual pagan-Jewish dialogue, which is historically “recorded,” as it were, by the midrash, but rather read it as an internal rabbinic discourse on Jewish suffering and identity, which expresses an ideological reply to existential crisis. As noted earlier, the attribution of any given stance to non-Jews in classical rabbinic sources must not be taken at face value (and consequently to be used as evidence for a “dialogue” between Jews and non-Jews), for in many cases it is merely a literary device used to present stances prevalent among Jews, against which the rabbis were struggling. 78. Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 92. 79. Ibid., 119. 80. Ibid., 116. 81. Ibid., 118–119. 82. Ibid., 118. 83. Ibid., 116, n. 113. 84. Ibid., 117, n. 113. 85. Cf. Moshe D. Herr, “Midrash,” Encyclopedia Judaica, 11.1516. 86. T. Berakhot 1:11 (ed. Lieberman, 4–5). 87. Sifra, Hova, 22:4 (ed. Finkelstein, 212–213). 88. T. Shevu’ot 3:6 (ed. Zuckermandel, 449–450). Cf. Jacob N. Epstein, Studies in Talmudic Literature and Semitic Languages (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), 2.115. For Iqqar (which I rendered here as “The Essence”) as an appellation for God, see Alexander Kohut (ed.), Aruch Completum, 6.252. 89. Ibid. It should be noted that the text of the entire passage in the Tosefta is difficult to understand, and the reading of MS Vienna appears to be corrupt. I don’t have a satisfactory solution to the entire passage, but its main argument is clear. 90. Sifre Numbers 2 (ed. Horovitz, 5). 91. Cf. Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “The Sin of Concealment of the Suspected Adulteress,” Tarbiz 70 (2001): 367–401 (Hebrew). 92. Sifra, Qedoshim, 7:14, according to MS Vatican Assemani 66 (ed. Finkelstein, 407); b. Qiddushin 32b. For a similar tradition, but in a different context, see Sifra, BeHar, 4:2; b. Bava Metzia 58b.

172

notes to pages 47–51

93. See also Mekhilta on Deut. 12:8, published from a Genizah fragment (Oxford Heb. C 18.5–6) by Solomon Schechter, “Genizah Fragments,” JQR o.s. 16 (1904): 446–452; Kahana, Genizah Fragments of Halakhic Midrashim, 352. 94. See Sefer ha-Mafteach le-Manuley ha-Talmud, ed. Jacob Goldenthal (Wien: K.K. Hof und Staats, 1847), 19b–20a (Hebrew).

chapter 2 1. See, for example, Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 131; idem, “Two Powers in Heaven; Or, The Making of a Heresy,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 335; Chaim Milikowsky, “Gehenna and ‘Sinners of Israel’ in the Light of Seder ‘Olam,” Tarbiz 55 (1986): 337 (Hebrew). 2. See, for example, Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee, a.d. 132–212, 2nd ed. (London and Portland, Ore.: Vallentine Mitchell, 2000), 104; idem, “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in Geschichte—Tradition— Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Canick, Herman Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1996), 503; Yaakov Sussman, “The History of Halakha and the Dead Sea Scrolls— Preliminary Observations of Miqsat Ma’ase Ha-Torah (4QMMT),” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 53–55, n. 176 (Hebrew); Boyarin, Border Lines, 74. 3. Georg Simmel, Essays on Religion, ed. and trans. Horst J. Helle and Ludwig Liender (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 114. 4. Simmel, Essays on Religion, ibid. 5. Ibid., 108:2. See also Justin, First Apology, 6: “We are called atheists”. Athenagoras, too, in his Plea Regarding the Christians, 3, knows that Christians are charged for atheism. And Christians are referred to as “godless” in an inscription of 311 c.e. from Arycanda in Lycia, in which the Emperor is asked to stop “those atheists,” the Christians, from violating the rules of piety. See Tituli Asiae Minoris, ed. Ernst Kalinka (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1920–1944), 2.785. As noted by Walsh, such charges are rare before the middle of the second century. See Joseph J. Walsh, “On Christian Atheism,” VC 45 (1991): 255–277. 6. T. Shabbat 13:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58). 7. See Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1987), 26–30. As noted by Boyarin, with respect to the above-quoted passage from the Tosefta: “These people with holy books with God’s Name in them are obviously not atheists, so ‘denying Him’ must be equivalent to holding false doctrine with respect to God.” See Boyarin, Border Lines, 248, n. 106. 8. Sifre Deuteronomy 320 (ed. Finkelstein, 367). In b. Yevamot 63b, this baraita is attributed to Rabbi Eliezer, who flourished during the second half of the first century c.e. and the first third of the second century c.e. According to various textwitnesses, however, it is Rabbi Elazar (second half of the second century c.e.) who

notes to pages 51–52

173

made the statement. Cf. The Babylonian Talmud with Variant Readings . . . Tractate Yebamoth (II), ed. Abraham Liss (Jerusalem: Yad Harav Herzog, Institute for the Complete Israeli Talmud, 1986), 421. In the printed vulgar editions of the Babylonian Talmud, the baraita relates to “Sadducees,” but in all other text-witnesses the reading is “minim,” and the former is the result of Christian censorship. 9. B. Berakhot 12b. In the vulgar printed editions of the Talmud, the tradition is introduced with the technical term tanya, which is usually taken to imply that the Talmud considered it a Tannaitic source. Although the reading in various manuscripts of Tractate Berakhot (MSS Munich 95, Paris 695, Florenz II.1,7) is ‫תני רב‬ ‫“( יוסף‬Rav Yossef taught”), and Rav Yossef is known to have flourished in Babylonia during the second half of the third century; nevertheless, the tradition is still presented as Tannaitic. Indeed, Rav Yossef was famous for his superior knowledge of Tannaitic traditions and his extraordinary ability to memorize them accurately. See b. Horayot 13b–14a; Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Magnes and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1964), 424. 10. Leviticus Rabbah 28:1 (ed. Margulies, 648–649), and parallels. 11. This transformation of minut can be added, then, to other examples recently pointed out in scholarly literature for a growing emphasis on the inner self in rabbinic and other texts of late antiquity. Cf. Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, The Savage in Judaism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), 195–234; Joshua Levenson, The Twice Told Tale: A Poetics of the Exegetical Narrative in Rabbinic Midrash (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2005), 128 (Hebrew). 12. It is of interest that in y. Haggigah 2:1, 77b, we are told of Elisha ben Abuya, the chief heretic of Talmudic culture, that “He recognized My power, yet still rebelled against Me.” This point was overlooked by Alon Goshen-Gottstein in his analysis of the Elisha traditions in his The Sinner and the Amnesiac: The Rabbinic Invention of Elisha Ben Abuya and Eleazar Ben Arach (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 163–198. 13. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 220; ed. Lauterbach, 2.231–232). I shall return to this midrash, at some length, in chapter 3. 14. See chap 1, pp. 35–40. 15. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, op. cit. 16. It is true that the Mekhilta is usually seen as representing the school of Rabbi Ishmael, while the Tosefta and the Sifre Deuteronomy in general are thought to belong to the school of Rabbi Aqiva. This rule, however, does not apply to the nonlegal portions in the Sifre, of which § 331 is part. Cf. Menahem Kahana, The Two Mekhiltot on the Amalek Portion (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1999), 19–24 (Hebrew). 17. See Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, 41. 18. Genesis Rabbah 48:6 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 480). The precise identity (and date) of Rabbi Jonathan cannot be determined, as there were several rabbis bearing this name. The earliest is a prominent figure in the Tannaitic midrashim of the school of Rabbi Ishmael (the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael and the Sifre Numbers). There were, however, later rabbis bearing the same name. See

174

notes to pages 52–55

Ch. Albeck, Introduction to the Talmud, Babli and Yerushalmi (Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1969), 167, 246 (Hebrew). 19. The root .‫פ‬.‫נ‬.‫ ח‬has various meanings in Semitic languages in general and in the Hebrew Bible in particular, and its meaning is difficult to clearly define. Cf. K. Seybold’s article in the Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1986), 5.37–44. Various modern translations render hannefim in Is. 33:14 as “godless,” which is a likely translation. 20. I rendered the Hebrew verb ‫ יגור‬in accordance with the way it was read by the midrash (to the best of my understanding of it). Needless to say, it is still possible that the Hebrew ‫ מי יגור לנו אש אוכלה‬should be rendered as: “Who among us desires to dwell with devouring fire” (as the verb is translated by modern translations of the Hebrew bible). This will not affect my interpretation, however, although the former rendering makes it stronger. That the midrash did not read that verse the same way it is read by modern translations is proven by Rabbi Judah’s following comment: “Said Rabbi Judah: Why does Scripture call them ‫ ?מוקדי עולם‬Because had they been given authority, they would have burnt the world” (Genesis Rabbah, ibid. [481]). Clearly, Rabbi Judah did not read the verse as modern translations of the Hebrew bible do, for while the latter usually render the Hebrew ‫ מוקדי עולם‬as “everlasting burnings,” according to Rabbi Judah ‫ מוקדי‬is a participle (third person plural of the root ‫ד‬.‫ק‬.‫ )י‬and the phrase means: “those who burn the world.” 21. See Howard Jacobson, “God as Consuming Fire,” HTR 98 (2005): 219–222. For Torah as “consuming fire” in various early rabbinic texts, see Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1991), 46–49. 22. Genesis Rabbah, ibid. (481). 23. Sifre Deuteronomy 328 (ed. Finkelstein, 378–379). 24. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 220; ed. Lauterbach, 2.231–232). 25. Here the Mekhilta has two examples of people whom we cannot consider as belonging to the category “the Nations of the world”: Samson and Absalom. I think these two examples are a later addition to the original text. In the parallel in t. Sotah 3:9–19, too, the cases of Samson and Absalom are stylistically distinguished by means of the verb used to describe their sin (‫ מרד‬instead of ‫ גאה‬as it is throughout the list). 26. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 2 (ed. Horovitz, 121–124; ed. Lauterbach, 2.13–19). 27. See Moshe D. Herr, “Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature (Its Image and Conception),” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1970, 130–131; idem, “Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 23 (1972): 120, n. 125*. 28. Leviticus Rabbah 7:6 (ed. Margulies, 163). Cf. Margulies’ note at 163, for parallels in other Amoraic (and post-Amoraic) midrashic compilations. 29. As was noted by Herr, “Roman Rule,” 128, n. 99, this identification is very rare in Tannaitic sources. Possibly it is implicit in the deployment of Ps. 80:14 in Sifre Deuteronomy 317 (ed. Finkelstein, 359): “Another

notes to pages 55–57

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teaching: ‘He set him atop the highlands’ (Deut. 32:13)—this refers to the World, as it is said: ‘The boar out of the woods ravages it’ (Ps. 80:4).” Although the midrashic identification of the subject of the verse as “the World” is not a common reference to the Roman Empire, the midrash’s subsequent interpretation does seem to indicate that the author had the Roman Empire in mind: “ ‘He made him suck honey from the rock and oil from the flinty rock’ (Deut. 32:13)—this refers to the oppressors who have taken possession of the Land of Israel . . . ‘Curd of kine’ (Deut. 32:14)—this refers to their consuls and generals. ‘And milk of flocks’ (ibid.)—this refers to their colonels. ‘And Rams’ (ibid.)—this refers to their centurions. ‘Bulls of Bashan’ (ibid.)—this refers to the privileged soldiers . . . ‘And he-goats’ (ibid.)—this refers to their senators. ‘With the very finest wheat’ (ibid.)—this refers to their noble women’ (Sifre Deuteronomy, ibid., 360). This midrash, which appears to be relating to the political and military system of Roman Empire (see Finkelstein’s notes ad loc.), considers the latter as a “boar.” See also Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 34 (ed. Schechter, 100). 30. Leviticus Rabbah 13:5 (ed. Margulies, 293), and the many parallels listed by Margulies in his edition, ad loc. 31. Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Para Aduma, 9 (ed. Mandelbaum, 75). 32. Deuteronomy Rabbah, Va-etchanan (ed. Lieberman, 66). 33. Genesis Rabbah 63:13 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 697). 34. As I noted in chapter 1, Psalms 44 resembles very much Gideon’s complaint in Judg. 6:12, referred to by m. Berakhot 9:5. It is clear, therefore, that for Palestinian rabbis of the second century the “enemy” referred to is no other than the enemies of the Jews of their own time, that is, the Roman Empire, as the quoted sources indeed explicitly say. 35. This is made explicit in the reading of some text witnesses of Genesis Rabbah. See the variae lectiones in Theodor-Albeck’s edition, ad loc. See also b. Bava Batra 16b. 36. Midrash Ha-Gadol on Genesis 25:34 (ed. Mordecai Margulies [Jeruslaem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1997], 446). For Iqqar (which I rendered here as “The Essence”) as an appellation for God, see chapter 1, n. 88. 37. Genesis Rabbah 63:14 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 699). See also Genesis Rabbah 63:11 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 694); b. Bava Batra, 16b; Psiqta Rabbati 12 (ed. Friedman, 48a). 38. In fact, the nature of the sin of blasphemy itself (which the midrash ascribes to Esau) is seen by Tannaitic sources in a similar manner, that is, as an expression of denial of God. See Sifre Numbers 112 (ed. Horovitz, 121), with its parallel in Sifre Zutta on Num. 15:30 (ed. Horovitz, 286). A similar understanding of blasphemy is suggested with respect to Mark 6:6 by Erich Grässer, “Jesus in Nazareth (Mark VI. 1–6a): Notes on the Redaction and Theology of St. Mark,” NTS 16 (1969–70): 1–22. 39. T. Berakhot, 3:25 (ed. Lieberman, 17–18). An important variant reading is found in the citation fo this passage in the novellae of the thirteenthcentury Italian tosafist Rabbi Yeshayahu di-Tranni: the word minim is lacking and the text instead refers to “Boethesians.” See Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-Fshutah: A

176

notes to pages 57–58

Comprehensive Commentary on the Tosefta, 11 volumes (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1982), 1.53 (Hebrew). As noted by Lieberman, however, “there is no doubt that our text is the correct one since it is attested by all of the Tosefta’s manuscripts” (ibid.). It may be added to this consideration that the text also is corrororated by the two parallels in the Palestinian Talmud (y. Berakhot 2:3, 5a: y. Berakhot 4:3, 8a), in which “minim” appears both in MS Leiden (Scaliger, 3) and in MS Vatican heb. 133. 40. Compare Ezra Fleischer, “On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer,” Tarbiz, 59 (1990): 436–437, n. 101. 41. See, for example, Ellias Rivkin, “Defining the Pharisees: The Tannaitic Sources,” HUCA 40–41 (1970): 237; Fleischer, “On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer,” 436. 42. See Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1.54. 43. See David Flusser, “Pharisees, Sadducees and Essenes in Pesher Nahum,” in Essays in Jewish History and Philology in Memory of Gedalyahu Alon, ed. Moshe Dorman, Shmuel Safrai, and Menahem Stern (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibutz Ha-Meucahd, 1970), 151 (Hebrew); idem, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah from Qumran 4QMMT and the Benediction Against the Heretics,” Tarbiz 61 (1992): 363–366 (Hebrew). 44. See Qumran Cave 4, V: Miqsat Ma‘ase Ha-Torah, ed. Elisha Qimron and John Strugnell (DJD, 10; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 58. As to the meaning of the phrase ‫ רוב העם‬here, see Daniel R. Schwartz, “MMT, Josephus and the Pharisees,” in Reading 4QMMT: New Perspectives on Qumran Law and History, ed. John Kampen and Moshe Bernstein (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 67–80; and compare Menahem Kister, “Studies in 4QMiqsat Macase Ha-Torah and Related Texts: Law, Theology, Language and Calendar,” Tarbiz, 68 (1999): 320, n. 9 (Hebrew). 45. See Qimron and Strugnell, ibid., 58, 111; Kister, ibid.; Yaakov Sussman, “The History of Halakha and the Dead Sea Scrolls—Preliminary Observations of Miqsat Ma’ase Ha-Torah (4QMMT),” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 38–39 (Hebrew). 46. Damascus Document 8:16 and 19:29. See Elisha Qimron, “The Text of CDC,” in The Damascus Document Reconsidered, ed. Magen Broshi (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and Shrine of the Book, Israel Museum, 1992), 25, 45. 47. 1Q Sa 1:1–3. See Loren T. Stuckenbruck and James H. Charlesworth, “Rule of the Congregation (1QSa),” in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, 1: The Rule of the Community and Related Documents, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], and Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 110. 48. 11Q Melchizedek, 2.24. See Qumran Cave 11,II: 11Q2–18, 11Q20–31 (DJD 23), ed. Florentino García Martínez, Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, and Adam S. Van der Woude (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 226. 49. 4Q 174 (Florilegium) 2.14. See Qumran Cave 4,I (4Q158–4Q186) (DJD 5), ed. John M. Allegro (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 53. George J. Brooke, in Exegesis at Qumran: 4QFlorilegium in Its Jewish Context (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 29; Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1985),

notes to pages 58–59

177

87; 115, suggested restoring: ‫חטאים‬/ ‫דרך הרשעים‬. This restoration was followed by Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar (ed.), The Dead Sea Scrolls: Study Edition, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1997–1998), 1:352, and by Annette Steudel, Der Midrasch zur Eschatologie aus der Qumrangemeinde (4Q MidrEschata.b): Materielle Rekonstruktion, Textbestand, Gattung und traditionsgeschichtliche Einordnung des durch 4Q174 (“Florilegium”) und 4Q177 (“Catena A”) repräsentierten Werkes aus den Qumranfunden (Studies and Texts of the Desert of Judiah, 13; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 25. However, in light of the other occurrences of this phrase, and in light of the verse from Isaiah, to which the author of the Florilegium alludes, ‫ דרך העם‬should be preferred. 50. See Adiel Schremer, “Seclusion and Exclusion: The Rhetoric of Separation in Qumran and Tannaitic Literature,” in Rabbinic Perspectives: Rabbinic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Steven D. Fraade, Aharon Shemesh, and Ruth A. Clements (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 2006), 127–145. 51. On these two opposing meanings of the Hebrew noun ‫פרוש‬, see A. I. Baumgarten, “The Name of the Pharisees,” JBL 102/3 (1983): 411, and the vast bibliography cited therein. 52. See Albeck’s note in Leopold Zunz, Die gottesdiesntlichen Vorträge der Juden historisch entwickelt, edited and augmented by Chanoch Albeck (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1974), 480–481, n. 35 (Hebrew). The earliest Talmudic tradition that relates Birkat Ha-Minim to Yavne is found in y. Berakhot, 4:3, 8a (= y. Ta’anit, 2:2, 65c), where it is attributed to Rabbi Hiyya, who flourished in Palestine in the late second and early third centuries c.e. (I am following the reading of the Genizah fragment published by Louis Ginzberg, Yerushalmi Fragments from the Genizah [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1909], 173; according to the reading of MS Leiden, Scaliger 3, of the Palestinian Talmud, the author of the saying is Rabbi Huna, who flourished in late-third-century-c.e. in Palestine). Another Talmudic tradition ascribes the formulation of Birkat Ha-Minim specifically to Shmuel ha-Qatan, who composed (‫ )תקן‬it in the court of Rabban Gamliel of Yavne, that is, around the turn of the first century c.e.. See b. Berakhot, 28b–29a. Lieberman understood the term ‫תקן‬, used by the Bavli to describe Shmuel haQatan’s activity regarding this benediction, as “edited,” “reworked,” and therefore assumed that it had been in existence before the Yavne generation. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1.54. The simple meaning of the root ‫ תקן‬in the present context, however, is “composed,” which implies that the benediction was unknown before late first century c.e. Fleischer, too, understood it that way. See Fleischer, “Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer,” 435–437. 53. For this same reason, it is also difficult to accept the recent suggestion of David Instone-Brewer, “The Eighteen Benedictions and the Minim Before 70 ce,” JThS 54 (2003): 25–44, that the benediction was directed against the Sadducees. 54. See Fleischer, “Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer,” 397–441. Flusser was aware of the difficulty inherent in his suggestion in light of Fleischer’s thesis. See his “Birkat Ha-Minim,” 333–334, n. 2; 349, n. 62. 55. A reference to “the insolent kingdom” appears in all the witnesses of the “Babylonian” branch of the text of the “benediction,” as well as in some of the

178

notes to pages 59–60

“Palestinian” branch. See, most recently, Ruth Langer and Uri Ehrlich, “The Earliest Texts of the Birkat Haminim,” HUCA, 76 (2005): 72. There exists, however, another Palestinian version, from which the reference to the “insolent kingdom” is absent. See Jacob Mann, “Genizah Fragments of the Palestinian Order of Service,” HUCA 2 (1925): 306; Langer and Ehrlich, ibid. Much has been written on Birkat Ha-Minim, but too often the discussion suffers, as noted long ago by Reuven Kimelman, from a lack of methodological awareness of the need to distinguish between the early, Tannaitic evidence, and later materials. See Reuven Kimelman, “Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Prayer,” Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Allen Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 228. For other discussions see Peter W. Van der Horst, “The Birkat ha-minim in Recent Research,” The Expository Times 105 (1994): 363–368, and add David Flusser, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah from Qumran (4QMMT) and the Benediction Against the Heretics,” Tarbiz 61 (1992): 333–374 (Hebrew); Instone-Brewer, “The Eighteen Benedictions and the Minim.” As to the Patristic material pertinent to this subject, see T. C. G. Thornton, “Christian Understandings of the Birkat Ha-Minim in the Eastern Roman Empire,” JThS 38 (1987): 419–431; Hillel I. Newman, “Jerome and the Jews,” Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University, 1997, 138–145 (Hebrew). 56. Some scholars have noticed that the benediction against the minim contains an anti-Roman element but were unable to explain the bringing together of these two components. See, for example, William Horbury, “The Benediction of the Minim and Early Jewish-Christian Controversy,” Journal of Theological Studies 33 (1982): 44; Philip Alexander, “ ‘The Parting of the Ways’ from the Perspective of Rabbinic Judaism,” in Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways a.d. 70 to 135, ed. James D. G. Dunn (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1999), 7; Flusser, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah,” 351–352. 57. T. Sanhedrin, 13:5 (ed. Zuckermandel, 434). Compare: Seder Olam, end of chap. 3 (ed. Milikowsky, 228); b. Rosh HaShanah 17a. 58. Hebrew: ‫ושנתנו חיתיתם בארץ החיים‬, a phrase taken from Ezek. 32:23–27. It is difficult to know who is the exact reference of this phrase in the Tosefta (in its biblical context it refers to various powerful empires, including Assyria; Elam; Meshekh; Tuval; Edom; Sidon; and finally Egypt), but it seems to bear a political association (Zealots?!). 59. Flusser, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah,” 338, suggests that zvul was understood as an appellation for God. See also: Milikowsky, “Gehenna,” 339, n. 115. The Tosefta’s language, however, does not leave much room for this interpretation, as it says very explicitly that the meaning of zvul is “nothing but the Temple.” For this reason, Flusser posits that the concluding sentence of the passage is an interpolation. However, there is no textual foundation to support this contention, and moreover, it is methodologically problematic to maintain that a sentence appearing in two separate traditions (the Tosefta, on the one hand, and the parallel version in Seder Olam [see next note], on the other hand) is a later addition to the text. Note, however, that the expression “stretched his hand” is used, elsewhere,

notes to pages 60 –62

179

to describe the crime of he who blasphemes God: “He stretched his hand against the Essence” (Sifre Deuteronomy 221 [ed. Finkelstein, 253–254]). See also 2Macc. 15:32. 60. Cf. Milikowsky, “Gehenna and “the Sinners of Israel,’ ” 331. See also Flusser, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah,” 339. 61. Milikowsky’s claim, that “what is common to all the types of sinners included in the list, except one, perhaps, is their deviance from the rabbinic belief system” (“Gehenna and the Sinners of Israel,” 331) is difficult to accept. Indeed, Milikowsky himself was troubled by the fact that the informers are included in the list (ibid., 333), because this sin does not seem to bear any theological character, which, in his opinion, is the list’s core interest (ibid., 336–337). He also found it difficult to explain the relation between the list of sinners and the charge of stretching the hand against the Temple (ibid., 338). Once, however, we understand the deep relation between doctrinal sin and social-national separatism and collaboration with the enemy, the inclusion of both categories in one list is better understood. 62. Boyarin, Border Lines, 250, n. 121. In light of this correct observation, Boyarin’s insistence on “theological reasons” (ibid., 251), and his claim that the masorot (informers) are “Jews who slander for religious reasons” (ibid.; emphasis added), are surprising. 63. T. Bava Metzia 2:33 (ed. Lieberman, 72); b. Sanhedrin 57a; b. Avoda Zara 13b; idem, 26a-b. 64. From its other occurrences in Tannaitic literature (cf. t. Demai 5:2 [ed. Lieberman, 86]; t. Ma’aser Sheni 5:9 [ed. Lieberman, 270]) it is quite clear that the meaning of the phrase is: “do not make any difference,” or: “are not taken in account.” Thus, indeed, it is rendered here by Jacob Neusner (ed.), The Tosefta (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2002), 2.1035. In the present context, however, such a translation is difficult and can hardly be accepted, as its antithesis, ‫מעלין ולא מורידין‬, at the end of the passage, clearly disables it. Hence, the traditional understanding, which takes it literally: “neither brought up nor thrown in [a hole].” See, for example, Rashi ad b. Sanhedrin, 57a, s.v. ‫ ;לא מעלין ולא מורידין‬Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 9.169. If one is to adhere to the meaning emerging from the other occurrences (as I believe we should), it would be necessary to assume that the list in t. Bava Metzia 2:33 relates to some issue, in relation to which it rules that those mentioned in it “do not make any difference.” This would require the assumption that the baraita is currently located not in its proper place, and should be transferred to another location in the chapter. Such a hypothetical suggestion is beyond the scope of our present discussion. 65. T. Megillah 3:37 (ed. Lieberman, 363). 66. The Tosefta rules: “The second episode of the [golden] calf is read [in public] but not translated” (‫)מעשה עגל השני נקרא ולא מתרגם‬. Then, immediately, follows Rabbi Shimon’s saying. 67. See Rashi ad b. Megillah, 27b, s.v., and many others. 68. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 5.1219. 69. David Henshke, “What Should be Omitted in the Reading of the Bible? Forbidden Verses and Translations,” in Kenishta: Studies of the Synagogue World, 1, ed. Joseph Tabory (Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2001), 13–42 (Hebrew).

180

notes to page 62

70. Ibid., 28. 71. Ibid. 72. This was correctly noted already by Flusser, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah,” 333–374. See also David Henshke, “Parashat ha-Ibbur and the Blessing of the Apostates,” in From Qumran to Cairo: Studies in the History of Prayer, ed. Joseph Tabory (Jerusalem: Orh. ot Press, 1999): 75–102. 73. The picture of anti-Jewish Jews is obviously difficult to comprehend. As was noted by Karen King, this difficulty has troubled various scholars who sought to locate the origins of Gnosticism in Judaism. For, “How could Jews have produced a religion in which the creator God of Genesis was portrayed as weak, arrogant, malicious, and inferior deity? Such a position appears so anti-Jewish as to be impossible to attribute to devout Jewish imagination.” See Karen L. King, What Is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2003), 181. King cites Robert Grant’s suggestion that “Gnosticism arose out of ‘the failure of Jewish apocalyptic hopes’ ” and writes that “In Grant’s opinion, only a crisis of significant proportions could have produced such a radical turn, a crisis like that triggered by the series of defeats at the hands of the Romans, culminating in the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the tragic losses of the Bar Kochba revolt” (King, ibid.; cf. Robert Grant, Gnosticism and Early Christianity [New York: Columbia University Press, 1959], 27–38). Along similar lines, she points at Bearger Pearson’s view, who, like Grant, finds the roots of Gnosticism in the “ ‘existential despair’ provoked by ‘historical crisis’ ” (King, 183; cf. Bearger Pearson, Gnosticism, Judaism and Egyptian Christianity [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990], 10–28), that is, obviously, the military and political defeats of the Jews in their wars against Rome. Regardless of the plausibility of these suggestions, as such, I find them highly important as a frame of thought concerning the social phenomenon with which we are dealing. 74. It should be noted that this basic meaning of the term minut is still retained by later rabbinic sources. See, for example, Tanhuma (Buber’s recension), addition to Qorah, 1 (ed. Buber, 48a): “What caused Qorah to vanish from the world? It in only that he separated to minut and challenged Moses and Aaron.” See also Tosefta Derekh Eretz, Perek Ha-Shalom, 1:8 (ed. Higger, 255): “Said Bar Kappara: Great is peace, as we can see from the angels, that there is no hatred and no enmity and no jealousy and no minut and no competition and no separation among them.” It is true that, in the parallel in Leviticus Rabbah 9:9 (ed. Margulies, 189), there appears another word instead of minut, that is, ‫מצות‬, and this reading is reflected also in one of Yannai’s liturgical poems. See Zvi M. Rabinovitz, The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Yannai According to the Triennial Cycle of the Pentateuch and the Holidays (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, and Tel-Aviv: University of Tel-Aviv Press, 1985), 2.64. In the parallel in Song Rabbah 8:13 (ed. Donski, 179), the vulgar printed editions read ‫מינות‬, while MS Vatican Ebr. 76 has ‫מצות‬. Saul Lieberman, Siphre Zutta (The Midrash of Lydda) (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1968), 122, n. 159, maintained that the latter is the original reading. However, the change between these two words may be the result of a very simple scribal error (in Hebrew script yod and nun when

notes to pages 62–63

181

written conjointly may appear as sade), so it is difficult to decide which reading is the correct one. In Ecclesiastes Rabbah 2:13 (Lieberman, ibid.), minut seems to be preferable. See also Psiqta Rabbati 13 (ed. Friedman, 55a); Sifre Numbers 115 (ed. Horovitz, 125, line 19, with Menahem Kahana, “Prolegomena to a New Edition of the Sifre on Numbers,” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1982, 44, n. 15). 75. See also Kimelman, “Birkat Ha-Minim,” 227. 76. Cf. Shaye J. D. Cohen’s critique of Alan Segal’s treatment of the problem of heresy in early rabbinic literature, in his review of the latter’s book Two Powers in Heaven, published in AJS Review 10 (1978): 117: “What made the belief in two powers heretical was not the belief itself but the consequences of the belief” (emphasis added). These consequences, according to Cohen, were “the worship of a power other than God” (ibid.). From the perspective of the rabbinic sources discussed in this (and the previous) chapter, the problem appears to be more in the social and national realm. Nonetheless, Cohen’s correct criticism must be emphasized especially in light of Boyarin’s view that “Just as for Christian orthodoxy, the arch-heresy for the Rabbis also involved, not surprisingly, a ‘flaw’ in the doctrine of God.” Boyarin, “Two Powers in Heaven,” 335 (emphasis added). See also Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version B, chap. 3 (ed. Schechter, 7a): “ ‘Keep your way far from her. . . . Do not desire her beauty in your heart’ (Prov. 5:8; 6:25 [sic!])—Rabbi Joshua ben Qorh. a says: ‘This refers to the way of minut. People tell a person: Do not go to the minim, do not listen to their teachings, lest you stumble in their practices.’ ” The threat is clearly the minim’s practices, not merely their beliefs, as such. 77. See Herr, “Persecutions and Martyrdom,” 115–116; John R. Fearce, “The Theology of Victory at Rome: Approaches and Problems,” ANRW 2.17/2 (1981): 736–826; Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, Volume I: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 73–74. 78. See, among many others, Simon R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire (Leiden: Brill, 1987); Karl Galinsky, Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 312–331; Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002). 79. Indeed, the issue of the exaltation of the Roman emperors occupies an important role in rabbinic midrash. See Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts,” in Collected Writings in Jewish Studies, ed. Robert Brody and Moshe D. Herr (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999), 177–180; Shalom Spiegel, The Fathers of Piyyut: Texts and Studies Toward a History of the Piyyut in Eretz Israel, ed. Menahem H. Schmelzer (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1996), 294–302 (Hebrew). 80. Cf. Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 b.c.e. To 640 c.e. (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 108. 81. Schwartz, ibid., 108–109.

182

notes to pages 63–67

82. Gedalyahu Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age, trans. and ed. Gershon Levi (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980), 2.648. 83. Sifre Deuteronomy 2 (ed. Finkelstein, 10). I am indebted to Ishay Rosen-Zvi for this suggestion. 84. Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Para Aduma, 4:9 (ed. Mandelbaum, 75–76); Psiqta Rabbati, Para, 15 (ed. Friedman, 65a). Compare Tanhuma, Huqat (Buber’s recension), 27 (ed. Buber, 60a). 85. T. Sukkah, 4:28 (ed. Lieberman, 277–278). My translation of the phrase ‫ סרדיוט אחד ממלכי יון‬as “an official of the Greek royal house” is based on the reading found in the parallel text in y. Sukkah 5:8, 55d, and on a well-documented meaning of the Greek loan word. See Eliezer S. Rosenthal, “Sheney Devarim,” in Isac Leo Seeligmann Volume, ed. Yair Zakovitch and Alexander Rofé (Jerusalem: Elchanan Rubinstein, 1983), Hebrew section, 468, n. 7 (Hebrew). 86. See Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 1 (ed. Schechter, 4). Titus’ taunt appears to be a midrash on Deut. 32:38: “Who ate the fat of their sacrifices and drank the wine of their drink offering.” The attribution of the taunt to Titus is therefore not coincidental. 87. Y. Berakhot 9:9, 14d; Midrash Samuel 1:1 (ed. shlomo Buber [krakow: Fischer, 1893] 42). Compare Sifre Deuteronomy 48 (ed. Finkelstein, 112); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 11:22 (ed. Hoffman, 42). The questions regarding the precise nature of the “scroll of pious men,” and its “finding” need not bother us here. 88. Cf. Martin Goodman, “The Roman Identity of Roman Jews,” in The Jews in the Hellenistic-Roman World: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern, ed. Isaiah M. Gafni, Aharon Oppenheimer, and Daniel R. Schwartz (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for the Jewish History, 1996), *85–*99. See also Saul Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” Annuaire de l’institut de philoligie et d’hisoire orientales et slaves, 7 (1939–1944): 426–427. 89. Kai T. Erikson, Wayward Puritans: A Study in the Sociology of Deviance (New York, London, and Sydney: John Wiley and Sons, 1966), 127. 90. Ibid., 130. 91. Ibid., 131. 92. Ibid., 131–132 (emphasis added). 93. Cyprian, Ep. 55.24.1. Cf. Geoffrey D. Dunn, “Heresy and Schism According to Cyprian of Carthage,” JThS 55 (2004): 564. 94. Ibid. 95. Boyarin, Border Lines, 250, n. 121. 96. See Arthur Vööbus (ed.), The Didascalia Apostolorum in Syriac, II (CSCO 404, Scriptores Syri, 178; Louvain: Peeters, 1979–1980), 220. 97. See the variae lectiones, ibid. 98. Dunn, “Heresy and Schism,” 552. See also Einar Thomassen, “Orthodoxy and Heresy in Second-Century Rome,” HTR 97 (2004): 241–256; Maureen A. Tilley, “When Schism Becomes Heresy in Late Antiquity: Developing Doctrinal Deviance in the Wounded Body of Christ,” JECS 15 (2007): 1–21. 99. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20 (ed. Horovitz, 327; ed. Lauterbach, 3.168–169). While the reference to Ps. 63:12 is transparent, the reference

notes to pages 67–68

183

to Eccl. 7:26 is enigmatic. In a parallel midrash in Sifre Numbers 115 (ed. Horovitz, 126), however, the reference to the latter is easy to understand: “ ‘Not to follow after your own heart’ (Num. 15:39)—this refers to minut. As it is said: ‘And I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart (‫ )לבה‬is snares and nets, and whose hands are fetters’ (Eccl. 7:26).” Apparently in each of these parallel texts, only one verse was adduced (in the Mekhilta, Ps. 63:12; in the Sifre, Eccl. 7.26); in a later stage these two traditions were conflated, and the verse used by each tradition was inserted into the other due to their shared reference to minut. The Sifre’s reference to Eccl. 7:26 does not emanate, however, only from the shared use of the noun “heart” in that verse and in Num. 15:39. It rests on an already existing discursive image of minut as a beautiful, seductive woman, which was available for use by the midrash. Indeed, various early rabbinic sources read the verses in Ecclesiastes and the chapters in Proverbs that speak of the beautiful woman as relating to minut. See t. Hullin, 2:24; Sifre Deuteronomy 48 (ed. Finkelstein, 110); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 11:22 (ed. Hoffman, 42); Avot de-Rabbi Nathan version B, chap. 3 (ed. Schechter, 7a); Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 2 (ed. Schechter, 7b). 100. Compare Adiel Kadari, “The Father and the Rabbi on the First Night of Passover—The Study House Character of Haggada in Tannaitic Sources,” Sidra 18 (1993): 62–63. But see y. Berakhot, 7:3, 11c. 101. See also Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pish. a, 19 (ed. Horovitz, 73; ed. Lauterbach, 1.167). Admittedly, in some text witnesses of the Mekhilta the word ‫ כפר‬appears with a conjunctive vav: ‫וכפר‬. This, however, should not be taken as an indication that two distinct faults are spoken of, that is, that he (1) “excluded himself from the community” and (2) “rejected the Essence”. Rather, the vav here is vav explicativum, on which see Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 1076– 1090. In several text-witnesses here, as well as in the parallel in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pish. a, 17 (ed. Horovitz, 66; ed. Lauterbach, 1.149), the words ‫ כפר בעיקר‬are missing. See the variae lectiones in Horovitz’s edition, ad loc., and add the Genizah fragments published by Kahana, Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim, 22, 25. In Sifre Numbers 84 (ed. Horovitz, 81), the midrash claims that “Whoever hates Israel is as if he hates Him who spoke and the world came into being,” and one of the verses quoted in support of this claim is Ps. 139.29 (‫)הלא משנאיך ה‘ אשנא‬, which was applied to minim in t. Shabbat 13:5 and in Sifre Deuteronomy 331. See also Tractate Semah. ot 1:8 (ed. Higger, 106), in which that same verse is applied to “Those who separated themselves from the way of the community.” Thus, the minim hate Israel, which, according to the Sifre, means a hatred for God. 102. See, for example, E. Mary Smallwood, “Domitian’s Attitude towards the Jews and Judaism,” Classical Philology 51 (1956): 1–13; idem, The Jews Under Roman Rule from Pompey to Diocletian: A Study in Political Relations (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 376–385; L.A. Thompson, “Domitian and the Jewish Tax,” Historia 31 (1982): 329–342. 103. Martin Goodman, “Nerva, the Fiscus Judaicus and Jewish Identity,” JRS 79 (1989): 43. 104. Ibid. 105. Ibid.

184

notes to pages 68–69

106. Martin Goodman, “Trajan and the Origins of Roman Hostility to the Jews,” Past and Present, 182 (2004): 18 (emphasis added). Goodman examines the possibility that “Judaizing” was a general charge already under Domitian in his paper “The Fiscus Judaicus and Gentile Attitudes to Judaism in fluvial Rome,” in Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome, ed. Jonathan Edmondson, Steven Mason, and John B. Rives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 166–177. 107. Tacitus, Histories, 5.5.2. (See Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1983], 2.26). See also Paula Fredriksen, “What ‘Parting of the Ways’? Jews, Gentiles, and the Ancient Mediterranean City,” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Y. Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 35–63 (esp. at 41–42). 108. A comparison to the Patristic practice of calling heretics “Jews” is illuminating in this context, because it may reveal each group’s own perception of who was the enemy it was combating. Cf. Averil Cameron, “Jews and Heretics—A Category Error?” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Y. Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 345–360. 109. Robert L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984), 118. 110. Ibid. 111. Ibid. 112. For various reasons, I prefer not to use the term “mimicry,” which in postcolonial theory “signals the ways in which a colonial subject both appropriates and subverts dominant modes of cultural authority: the cunning (and fearsome) ability to become almost-but-not-quite, to approach the limits of sameness in order to exploit the possibilities of cultural difference.” Cf. Andrew S. Jacobs, “The Lion and the Lamb: Reconsidering Jewish-Christian Relations in Antiquity,” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Y. Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 111. 113. If the suggested parallel between the rabbinic discourse and the Roman one is accepted, it may support the assumption that the rabbinic discourse I have reconstructed throughout this chapter indeed should be dated to the first third of the second century c.e., that is, to the Yavne generation, as indeed many of the attributions of these rabbinic sayings imply (see further in chapter 3). In light of recent discussions of the dating of rabbinic heresiological material, the importance of this possible conclusion should not be underestimated.

chapter 3 1. Kai T. Erikson, Wayward Puritans: A Study in the Sociology of Deviance (New York, London, and Sydney: John Wiley and Sons, 1966), 6. 2. Walter R. Gove, “The Labeling Perspective: An Overview,” in The Labeling of Deviance, ed. Walter R. Gove (New York–London–Sydney–Toronto: Sage, 1975), 4.

notes to pages 69–70

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3. Howard S. Becker, Outsiders: Studies in the Sociology of Deviance (New York: Free Press, 1963), 9. For general discussions of the labeling theory, see Gove, “The Labeling Perspective,” 3–20; Stephen J. Pfohl, Images of Deviance and Social Control: A Sociological History (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1985); Erdwin H. Pfuhl, The Deviance Process (Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1986); Colin Sumner, The Sociology of Deviance: An Obituary (New York: Continuum, 1994), 197–248. 4. See Nachman Ben-Yehuda, The Politics and Morality of Deviance: Moral Panics, Drug Abuse, Deviant Science, Reversed Stigmatization (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1989), 40. 5. Ibid. 6. Karen L. King, What Is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2003), 24. 7. See Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 237, n. 101. For a fascinating example, see Brent D. Shaw, “African Christianity: Disputes, Definitions, and ‘Donatists,’ ” in Orthodoxy and Heresy in Religious Movements: Discipline and Dissent, ed. Malcolm R. Greenshields and Thomas A. Robinson (Lewiston, Queenston, and Lampeter: Edwin Mellen, 1992), 5–34. Shaw suggests that the North African Christians’ refusal to be called “Donatists,” and their insistence on being designated merely as “Christians,” was precisely because they realized that the use of such a name was meant to imply that they were not “Christians.” The name given them by their opponents, the Catholics, thus functioned as an instrument for presenting Catholicism as the only legitimate form of Christianity, all others being “something else.” 8. See Boyarin, Border Lines, 1. Along the same line of thought, Boyarin speaks of “the ‘legislative’ bodies, the metaphorical parliaments of religious power,” that produce a discourse of heresy in order to marginalize some members of society (ibid., 21). 9. Walter Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity, ed. Robert A. Kraft and Gerhard Krodel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971). It is important for the purposes of the following discussion to bear in mind that in spite of the great influence of Bauer’s fundamental assertion (with which I, personally, highly sympathize), his thesis was severely attacked, both on empirical and on theoretical grounds. See Georg Strecker’s appendix 2 to the English edition of Bauer’s book (“The Reception of the Book,” 286–316); Daniel Harrington, “The Reception of W. Bauer’s Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity During the Last Decade,” HTR 73 (1980): 289–298; James McCue, “Bauer’s Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei,” in Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy, ed. Johannes-Baptist Metz and Edward Schillebeeckx (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, 1987), 28–35; Thomas A. Robinson, The Bauer Thesis Examined: The Geography of Heresy in the Early Christian Church (Lewiston, Maine: Mellen Press, 1988); Michael Desjardins, “Bauer and Beyond: On Recent Scholarly Discussions of $LUHVL9 in the Early Christian Era,” The Second Century: A Journal of Early Christian Studies, 8 (1991): 65–82; Rowan Williams, “Does It Make Sense

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notes to pages 70 –72

to Speak of Pre-Nicene Orthodoxy?” in The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 1–23; Jacque Berlinerblau, “Toward a Sociology of Heresy, Orthodoxy, and Doxa,” History of Religion 40 (2000–1): 327–351. Walther Völker’s review of Bauer’s book, which was originally published in German in Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 54 (1935): 628–631, and has recently appeared in English translation (see Walther Völker, “Walter Bauer’s Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum,” trans. Thomas P. Scheck, JECS 14 [2006]: 399–405), is, as noted by the translator in his introductory comment, “devastating.” Nonetheless, Bauer’s line of thought is fruitful, and indeed was productively applied in the study of early rabbinic Judaism. See, for example, Shaye J. D. Cohen, “A Virgin Defiled: Some Rabbinic and Christian Views on the Origins of Heresy,” United Seminar Quarterly Review 36 (1980): 1–11. 10. See, for example, King, Gnosticism, 25. 11. Cf. Edwin M. Schur, Labeling Deviant Behavior: Its Sociological Implications (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), 109. 12. This assumption is implicit in virtually all sociological discussions of deviance. See, among many others, Erikson, Wayward Puritans; Schur, Labeling Deviant Behavior; Gove, “The Labeling Perspective”; Pfuhl, The Deviance Process; Pfohl, Images of Deviance; and Edward Sagarin, Deviants and Deviance: An Introduction to the Study of Disvalued People and Behavior (New York: Praeger, 1975). A similar approach is evident in many of the discussions of “orthodoxy and heresy” as well. See, for a general discussion, John B. Henderson, The Construction of Orthodoxy and Heresy: Neo-Confucian, Islamic, Jewish, and Early Christian Patterns (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1998). As Berlinerblau has written: “In order for heresy to ‘arise’ there must exist an authoritative political apparatus (i.e., an orthodoxy), one capable of identifying and effectively ‘managing’ them.” See Berlinerblau, “Toward a Sociology,” 334–335. 13. Becker, Outsiders, 9. Jack T. Sanders, in Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred Years of Jewish-Christian Relations (London: SCM Press, 1993), 132, correctly noted that “Becker, so it seemed, set out to explain deviance from the side of the enforcers.” This is precisely the perspective that the rabbinic material offers. 14. Frank Tannenbaum, Crime and Community (Boston and New York: Ginn and Company, 1938), 19. 15. One of the chapters of Tractate Derekh Eretz is titled “Perek Ha-Minim” (ed. Higger, 278), that is, “a chapter concerning the minim.” However, as noted by Sussman, the title refers only to the first passage of that chapter, not to the rest of the material therein. See Yaakov Sussman, “The History of Halakha and the Dead Sea Scrolls—Preliminary Observations of Miqsat Ma‘ase Ha-Torah (4QMMT),” Tarbiz 59 (1990): 54, n. 176 (Hebrew). And certainly nothing in that chapter resembles, in any way, an adversus haereses treatise. 16. “Books” here refer to scrolls of Torah. Otherwise, there would be no need to deem books possessed by minim as illegitimate for use. 17. I take the Hebrew ‫ אין נושאין מהן ואין נותנין להן‬to refer to marriage, as is the meaning of these verbs throughout Tannaitic literature. Compare the

notes to pages 72–73

187

medieval paraphrase cited by Saul Lieberman, Tosefeth Rishonim, 4 vols. (reprint, New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1999), 2.227, which appears to have understood the text as speaking of negotiation in business. 18. T. Hullin 2:20–21 (ed. Zuckermandel, 502). Compare b. Hullin 13a–b. 19. T. Hullin 2:13 (ed. Zuckermandel, 502). 20. T. Hullin 2:15 (ed. Zuckermandel, 502). 21. T. Hullin 2:18 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503). 22. T. Hullin 2:19 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503). The reference to “laws” (‫ )חוקי‬of slaughtering that the minim are said to have had seems odd. For this reason, I preferred to render the text as speaking of the “practices” of minim. See, for this usage, Sifra, Ahare Mot, 9:13. Note, however, the formulation of the parallel ruling in m. Hullin 2:9: “And in the market he must not do so, in order that he does not imitate (‫ )יחקה‬the minim.” This allows for the possibility (but not more than that) that ‫חוקי‬ (“laws of”) in the Tosefta is, in fact, only a slight corruption of ‫“( חיקוי‬imitation of”). See also Sifra, Qeddoshim, 1:1. 23. T. Hullin 2:20 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503). The halakhic concept “permitted/prohibited for gain” appears throughout Talmudic literature, but usually anonymously. It appears in the name of an early-second-century sage in t. Orla 1:6 (ed. Lieberman, 284), according to the reading of MS Erfurt: “Rabbi Aqiva says: meat in milk is permitted for gain.” According to MS Vienna and the editio princeps, the saying is attributed to Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar, who flourished during the second half of the second century C.E., but the former reading is corroborated by a parallel baraita in t. Hullin 8:11 (ed. Zuckermandel, 510) and in the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20 (ed. Horovitz, 337; ed. Lauterbach, 3.191). Cf. Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 11 vols. (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988), 2.820. The immediately following sentence—“That which goes forth from a pagan temple, lo, it is deemed meat from the sacrifices of corpses” appears to be a gloss. As we have seen, the same expression appears above (t. Hullin 2:13) with respect to an act of slaughtering done for the sake of idolatry. 24. Hebrew: ‫מפני שאמרו‬. This is a technical term of citation of earlier sources in Tannaitic literature. See Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Magnes and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1964), 726. The following, then, is an earlier source, which is quoted by t. Hullin 2:20. 25. See m. Shvi‘it 8:10: “They further said before him [Rabbi Aqiva]: Rabbi Eliezer used to say: ‘One who eats the bread of a Samaritan is as if he eats pork.’ He said to them: Shut up! I will not tell you what Rabbi Eliezer said concerning this matter.” Compare: y. Shvi‘it 8:10, 38b. 26. 4Q SD 1.1.1. See Elisha Qimron and James H. Charlesworth, “Cave IV Fragments (4Q255–264 = 4QS MSS A-J),” in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, Vol. 1: The Rule of the Community and Related Documents, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], and Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 72.

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notes to pages 74–75

27. 1Q S 5.14–15. See Elisha Qimron and James H. Charlesworth, “Rule of the Community (1QS),” in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, 22. 28. 1Q S 5.15–16 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, ibid.). 29. 1Q S 5.16–17 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, ibid.). 30. 1Q S 5.18–19 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, ibid.). Cf. Albert I. Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Era: An Interpretation (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 1997), 106–107. 31. 1Q S 9.8 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 38). Cf. Baumgarten, ibid., 107. 32. 1QS 9.16–17 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 40). Cf. 4QSD 3.2.1 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 78). 33. 1QS 9.22–23 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 40–42). Cf. 4QSD 3.2.6–7 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 80). 34. 1QS 5.1 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 18). 35. 1QS 5.1–2 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, ibid.). Cf. 4Q SD 1.1.2 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 72). 36. 1QS 5.10–11 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 22). 37. 1QS 9.20–21 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 40); 1QS 8:12–14 (ed. Qimron and Charlesworth, 34–36). 38. See Qumran Cave 4, V: Miqs. at Ma’as´ e Ha-Torah, ed. Elisha Qimron and John Strugnell (DJD 10; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 58. Cf. chapter 2, n. 45. 39. Damascus Document 8:16 and 19:29. See Elisha Qimron, “The Text of CDC,” in The Damascus Document Reconsidered, ed. Magen Broshi (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and Shrine of the Book, Israel Museum, 1992), 25, 45. Cf. chapter 2, n. 46. 40. 1QSa 1:1–3. See Loren T. Stuckenbruck and James H. Charlesworth, “Rule of the Congregation (1QSa),” in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, 110. 41. 11Q Melchizedek, 2:24. See Qumran Cave 11.II: 11Q2–18, 11Q20–31, ed. Florentino García Martínez, Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, and Adam S. van der Woude (DJD 23; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 226. 42. 4Q174 (Florilegium) 2:14. See Qumran Cave 4.I (4Q158–4Q186), ed. John M. Allegro (DJD 5; Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 53. Cf. chapter 2, n. 49. 43. See David Flusser, “Pharisees, Sadducees and Essenes in Pesher Nahum,” in Essays in Jewish History and Philology in Memory of Gedalyahu Alon, ed. Moshe Dorman, Shmuel Safrai, and Menahem Stern (Tel-Aviv: Ha-Kibutz Ha-Meuchad, 1970), 140 (Hebrew); idem, “Jerusalem in the Literature of the Second Temple,” in Ve’im Bigvuroth—Fourscore Years: A Tribute to Rubin and Hannah Mass on Their Eightieth Birthdays, ed. Abraham Even-Shushan et al. (Jerusalem: Yedidim, 1974), 271 (Hebrew); idem, “Some of the Precepts of the Torah from Qumran: 4QMMT and the Benediction Against the Heretics,” Tarbiz 61 (1992): 364–365 (Hebrew). See also Jacob Licht, The Rule Scroll (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1965), 252 (Hebrew).

notes to pages 75–76

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44. See Aharon Shemesh, “The Origins of the Laws of Separatism: Qumran Literature and Rabbinic Halacha,” RQ 18 (1997): 223–241. 45. See James C. VanDerkam, The Book of Jubilees: A Critical Text (CSCO, Scriptores Aethiopici, 88; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 131–132. Here I followed the more literal translation (as it is clear from VanDerkam’s own notes, ad loc.) of Orval S. Wintermute, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. James H. Charlesworth (New York: Doubleday, 1985), 2.98–99. Cf. Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects, 84; Shemesh, “Origins of Laws of Separation,” 234–235. 46. Ibid. 47. Albert Baumgarten, following Mary Douglas, has drawn attention to the social implication of such a move, namely the creation of a sense of a “new other” within Jewish society, rather than the gentile. See Baumgarten, Flourishing of Jewish Sects, 6–8; idem, Second Temple Sectarianism: A Social and Religious Historical Essay (Jerusalem: Ministry of Defense, 2001), 40–56 (Hebrew). This, obviously, does not imply that we should always view an act of creating boundaries in such a way. Sometimes boundaries are created as means of exclusion, as is the case with the rabbinic material pertaining to minim, as I shall argue below. For Qumranic laws of exclusion, see Aharon Shemesh, “Expulsion and Exclusion in the Community Rule and the Damascus Document,” DSD 9 (2002): 44–74. For the perspective of the Qumranites on the issue of “otherness,” see Stephen Goranson, “Others and Intra-Jewish Polemic as Reflected in Qumran Texts,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls After Fifty Years, ed. Peter W. Flint and James C. VanDerkam (Leiden–Boston– Köln: Brill, 1999), 2.534–551. 48. T. Hullin 1:1 (ed. Zuckermandel, 500). In the parallel baraita in b. Hullin 4b (and 5a) the min is not mentioned, but this may be explained by the fact that according to the Babylonian Talmud itself minim were almost unknown in Babylonia. See b. Pesah. im 56a; b. Avoda Zara 4a; b. Hullin 13b. 49. On the halakhic status of the Samaritans in early rabbinic sources, see Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Samaritans in Tannaitic Halakha,” JQR 75 (1985): 323–350. See also Anderas Lehnardt, “The Samaritans (Kutim) in the Talmud Yerushalmi: Constructs of ‘Rabbinic Mind’ or Reflections of Social Reality?” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture, ed. Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 2002), 139–160. 50. As Boyarin, Border Lines, 50, puts it: “A sect describes itself as having left the larger group, owing to the corruption of that larger group, while a church, as it were, describes the others as having left (or been pushed out of) the larger group.” Boyarin is aware of the difficulty this correct observation poses to his basic view of the relations between what he calls “non-Christian Jews” and the early Christians. For that reason, he is at pains to argue that “This does not necessarily represent, of course, a difference in ‘reality,’ ” only “an important difference in representation and self fashioning” (ibid.). This argument rests on the theoretical premise that “The claim to the position of ‘winner’ . . . does not mean that in reality all competing groups have been vanquished but involves the self-fashioning of particular groups under particular circumstances (which may or may not comprise a certain measure of popular acceptance). It is not so much that one group has won,

190

notes to pages 76–77

as that something in their own discourse and perhaps in the circumstances allows them to shift from representing themselves as the embattled group that has the truth (sect) to the always/already there possessors of the truth that others are attempting to suborn (orthodoxy/‘church’)” (ibid. 50–51). Although I entirely agree that generally “we must . . . not take at face value the claim to the position of ‘winner,’ ” here the case is quite different. First, the rabbis do not claim to be the “winners.” Second, Boyarin fails to tell us what was “that something in their own discourse and perhaps in the circumstances” that allowed the “shift” in representation of which he speaks, as if discursive changes are self-generated, borne out of themselves, and have no connection to social reality (see Boyarin’s own statement in his Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Literature [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993], 10–16). Third, and most important, as I have emphasized earlier, from a comparative perspective it is quite evident that a “sect” never accuses the main body of society of having separated from the rest of the community, so that very accusation may tell us quite a bit about the place in society of those who do employ such a discourse. Finally, it should be noted that Boyarin’s use of the terms “sect” and “church” in this context seems to be alluding to what is usually called “church/sect theory” in sociology (see his reference at 247, n. 81). However, in church/sect theory, a “church” is usually contrasted to a “sect” primarily with respect to organization and charisma, not with respect to their respective place in society at large. Cf. Lorne L. Dawson, “Creating ‘Cult’ Typologies: Some Strategic Considerations,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 12 (1997): 363–381; idem, Comprehending Cults: The Sociology of New Religious Movements (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1998), 29–40. 51. My reading of the rabbinic “Laws of Minim” leads, then, to a somewhat different view than that of Martin Goodman, who asserts that “The method proposed by Tannaitic rabbis to deal with minuth was essentially avoidance of contact” and that there is “no evidence that in the Tannaitic period (i.e. before c. 200 C.E.) the rabbinic reaction to heresy went beyond such attempts by rabbis to protect themselves from quasi-infection.” See Martin Goodman, “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,” in Geschichte–Tradition–Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Canick, Herman Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1996), 505–506. 52. See Herman L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, ed. and trans. Marcus Bockmuehl (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 156–157. 53. Note, however, that the logic of the phrase is opposite in these sources. That is, in the “Laws of Minim” not only is the receiving of medical assistance for property prohibited, but even receiving medical care that may save a person’s life is prohibited. In m. Avoda Zara 2:2 and in t. Avoda Zara 3:4, however, one is permitted to receive medical assistance for one’s property, but not for one’s body, the reason being that the gentile is suspect of having a desire to murder the Jew. It is therefore specifically the healing for person that is prohibited, in contrast to the logic of the phrase in the “Laws of Minim.” 54. Cf. Chanoch Albeck, Studies in Baraita and Tosefta and Their Relation to the Talmud (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1944), 142, n. 3 (Hebrew).

notes to pages 78–79

191

55. Because this story stand at the focus of my discussion in chapter 4, I do not discuss it at length here. 56. See Sifra, Ah.are Mot, Mekhilta de-Arayot, 14 (MS Vatican Hebr. 66, ed. Finkelstein, 374): “ ‘He shall live in them’ (Lev. 18:5)—Rabbi Ishmael said: Whence do you say, that if one was told in private, ‘Engage in idol worship so that you will not be killed,’ that one should worship and not be killed? Scripture says: ‘He shall live in them,’ not that he will die in them.” In the parallels in b. Sanhedrin 74a and b. Avoda Zara 27b, the words “in private” do not appear. Instead, Rabbi Ishmael’s statement is augmented by the following note: “Is it so even in public? Scripture says: ‘Neither shall you profane my holy name’ (Lev. 22:32).” The existence of two different versions of a comment limiting Rabbi Ishmael’s stance indicates, in my opinion, that these comments are not original part of his saying but later additions, which were meant to moderate his extreme stance. 57. This assumption is surely presupposed by the editor of the Tosefta, who placed our story immediately after the “Laws of Minim,” but it seems to me necessary also due to an intrinsic consideration. For if we wish to reconcile Rabbi Ishmael’s halakhic stance mentioned earlier with his position in our story, we need to assume that he considered the healing of Rabbi Elazar ben Damma by the name of Jesus as severer than idolatry. Such a halakhic stance had to be rooted in a ruling that explicitly treats minim in a harsher manner than it treats idol-worshipers, and this is precisely what we find in the “Laws of Minim” that precede our story. Cf. also t. Shabbat 13:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58). 58. See Reuven Kimelman, “Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alen Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 228. 59. This flaw characterizes, surprisingly, even the important contribution to the subject of Yaakov Sussman, “History of Halakha,” 53–55, n. 176 (Hebrew). 60. Ibid. 61. M. Berakhot 9:5, m. Rosh HaShannah 2:1, m. Sanhedrin 4:5, m. Hullin 2:9, and m. Para 3:3 (according to the reading of the MSS Kaufman, Parma 138, Parma 497, and Cambridge 470.1). 62. T. Berakhot 3:25 (ed. Lieberman, 18); t. Berakhot 6[7]:21 (ed. Lieberman, 39); t. Shabbat 13[14]:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58); t. Kippurim 2:10 (ed. Lieberman, 235); t. Megillah 3[4]:37 (ed. Lieberman, 363); t. Bava Metzia 2:33 (ed. Lieberman, 72); t. Sanhedrin 8:7 (ed. Zuckermandel, 428); t. Sanhedrin 13:5 (ed. Zuckermandel, 434); t. Hullin 1:1 (ed. Zuckermandel, 500); t. Hullin 2:19 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503); t. Hullin 2:21 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503); t. Para 3:3 (ed. Zuckermandel, 631); t. Yadayim 2:13 (ed. Zuckermandel, 683). In t. Ta‘anit 1:10 (ed. Lieberman, 326) the term is found in a phrase attested only by MS Vienna and is therefore suspected of being a later gloss that found its way into the text, and not a genuine part of the Tosefta. 63. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 220); Sifra, Nedava, 2 (ed. Finkelstein, 22); Sifre Numbers 16 (ed. Horovitz, 21); Sifre Numbers 143

192

notes to page 79

(ed. Horovitz, 161); Sifre Deuteronomy 48 (ed. Finkelstein, 110); Sifre Deuteronomy 126 (ed. Finkelstein, 185 [but see Finkelstein’s note ad loc.]); Sifre Deuteronomy 320 (ed. Finkelstein, 367); Sifre Deuteronomy 331 (ed. Finkelstein, 381); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 11:22 (ed. Hoffman, 42); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 15:23 (ed. Hoffman, 89); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:21 (ed. Hoffman, 196); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:41 (ed. Hoffman, 203). In Sifre Numbers 112 (ed. Horovitz, 122), the term appears in the reading of some of the text-witnesses, but other witnesses read there “Kuttim” (‫)כותים‬, and the former is suspect as a mere scribal error. Cf. Menahem Kahana, “Prolegomena to a New Edition of the Sifre on Numbers,” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1982, 196–197 (Hebrew). As to Sifre Deuteronomy 218 (ed. Finkelstein, 251)—“min is he who rules for himself a different way (‫—”)מין שמורה לעצמו דרך אחרת‬it must be noted that such a reading is unattested by any text-witness, and in fact it is nothing but Finkelstein’s invention, based on a former suggestion made by Nehemiah Brill (and even so, Finkelstein did not produce the text precisely as Brill had suggested restoring it). See Jacob N. Epstein, Studies in Talmudic Literature and Semitic Languages, ed. Ezra Z. Melamed (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1988), 2.897 (Hebrew). Saul Lieberman’s interpretation of the Hebrew phrase “a different way,” as it appears in t. Berakhot 6[7]:6 (and in t. Teruma 7:11), which is based on Finkelstein’s edition of the Sifre, should be corrected accordingly, and so too is Sussman’s comment in his “History of Halakha,” 51 n. 170, who seems to have simply followed Lieberman at this point. 64. See Chaim J. Milikowsky, “Seder Olam: A Rabbinic Chronography,” Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1981, 228–231. Cf. ibid., “Gehenna and ‘Sinners of Israel’ in the Light of Seder ‘Olam,’ ” Tarbiz 55 (1986): 311–343 (Hebrew). 65. See Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 2 (ed. Schechter, 14), along with Menahem Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan: Text, Redaction and Interpretation (Jerusalem: Hebrew University and Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 244–245 (Hebrew). 66. Thus, for example, Sifra, Nedava, 2 and Sifre Numbers 143 are different versions of the same tradition. The same applies to Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 11:22 and Sifre Deuteronomy 48, as well as to Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 15:23 and Sifre Deuteronomy 126; to Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:21 and Sifre Deuteronomy 320; and to Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:41 and Sifre Deuteronomy 331. 67. Such is the case with m. Berakhot 9:5 and t. Berakhot 6[7]:21, and with m. Sanhedrin 4:5 and t. Sanhedrin 8:7. Clearly, m. Hullin 2:9, t. Hullin 2:18–19, and Sifre Deuteronomy 126 are closely related and should be treated together, as is the case with m. Para 3:3 and t. Para 3:3 and with t. Sanhedrin 13:5 and Seder Olam, 3:22. 68. Minut is mentioned also in m. Sotah 9:15, but that passage is not a genuine part of the Mishnah. See Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Magnes, Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1948), 976. See also Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version B, chap. 3 (ed. Schechter, 13). 69. See chapter 1, n. 52. 70. In fact, in light of Luke 20:34–35, one may argue that the minim, to which our mishnah refers, cannot be Christians. The precise translation of these

notes to pages 79–80

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verses, however, is not certain. Cf. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke X-XXIV (New York: Doubleday, 1985), 1305. 71. See Adiel Schremer, “ ‘[T]he[y] Did Not Read in the Sealed Book’: The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Emergence of Torah Study in Second Temple Judaism,” in Historical Perspectives: From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, ed. David Goodblatt, Avital Pinnick, and Daniel R. Schwartz (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 2001), 123, n. 56. 72. Cf. Chanoch Albeck, Shisha Sidre Mishnah (Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1957), 2.367; 2.504. 73. T. Kippurim 2:10 (ed. Lieberman, 235). Cf. Saul Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (reprint, New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1994), 167, n. 21; idem. Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 4.766. I followed Lieberman in rendering the Hebrew verb ‫ לרדות‬as “to dominate.” This translation reflects a reading of the verb in qal. It is not without significance, therefore, to note that in m. Para 3:3 and in Sifra, Nedava, 2:5 (ed. Finkelstein, 22), in which the same expression appears, the verb is punctuated in early manuscripts (MS Kaufman, Budapest A50, MS Parma 138, and MS Parma 497, of the Mishnah; and MS Vatican Ebr. 66 of the Sifra) in the pi‘el, not in qal. 74. The same expression is found also in Sifre Numbers 143 (ed. Horovitz, 191), and in Sifra, Nedava, 2:5 (ed. Finkelstein, 22). However, in these texts it is claimed that Scripture avoided a certain usage in order not to give the minim an opportunity to dominate. The claim of these texts is structurally similar to the claim of those Tannaitic traditions, in which a certain biblical phrase is explained as a deliberate attempt to prevent “the Nations of the world,” or “the evil inclination,” or indeed the minim, from reaching a false conclusion. See below. 75. See David Rokeah, Justin Martyr: Dialogue with Trypho the Jew (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2004), 128–129, n. 605 (Hebrew). See also Gedalyahu Alon, Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple, the Mishna and the Talmud (Tel Aviv: Hakibutz Hameuchad, 1983), 2.200, n. 44 (Hebrew). In fact, it is not at all clear whether the minim in these texts are actual people, who mock the Rabbis because of the halakhic stances they embrace, or only a projection of interrabbinic doubts, which troubled the rabbis themselves. 76. See Albeck, Shisha Sidre Mishnah, 5.122. 77. Cf. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 1:55. 78. Sifre Deuteronomy 331 (ed. Finkelstein, 381); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:41 (ed. Hoffman, 203). 79. See Sifre Deuteronomy 320 (ed. Finkelstein, 367); b. Yevamot 63b (on which see chapter 2, n. 8); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 32:21 (ed. Hoffman, 196). The application of Deut. 32:21 to the Samaritans is an old tradition, which goes back already to Ben Sira 50:27–28 and is reflected in other ancient sources of the Second Temple period. Cf. Menahem Kister, “A Common Heritage: Biblical Interpretation at Qumran and Its Implications,” in Biblical Perspectives: Early Use and Interpretation of the Bible in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Michael E. Stone and Esther G. Chazon (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 1998), 104–105.

194

notes to page 81

80. Cf. B. Ratner, Ahawath Zion We-Jeruscholaim: Varianten und Ergänzungen des Textes des Jerusalemitischen Talmuds nach alten Quellen und handschriftlichen Fragmenten ediert, mit kritischen Noten und Erläuterungen vershen, Traktat Berachot (Vilna: Romm, 1901), 129. See also Eliezer S. Rosenthal, “The Giv‘at Ha-Mivtar Inscription,” Peraqim 2 (1974): 358–359 (Hebrew). 81. Tractate Kuttim, end (ed. Higger [New York 1930], 67). 82. Sifre Numbers 112 (ed. Horovitz, 122), on which see above, n. 63. In b. Sanhedrin 90b the reading kuttim (not minim) is attested by all text-witnesses. Cf. Kahana, “Prolegomena,” 196–197; Christine E. Hayes, “Displaced Self-Perceptions: The Deployment of Minim and Romans in B. Sanhedrin 90b-91a,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine, ed. Hayim Lapin (Bethesda: University Press of Maryland, 1998), 267–268, n. 45. 83. See Genesis Rabbah 64:9 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 710–712); y. Ta’anit 4:8, 68d; Lamentations Rabbah 2:4 (ed. Buber, 51a). Cf. Saul Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” Annuaire de l’institut de philoligie et d’hisoire orientales et slaves 7 (1939–1944): 408–409; Gedalyahu Alon, Jews, Judaism, and the Classical World (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1977), 354–373; Ferdinand Dexinger, “Limits of Tolerance in Judaism: The Samaritan Example,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alen Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 88–114; Menahem Mor, The Bar Kochba Revolt Its Extent and Effect (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and Israel Exploration Society, 1991), 171–182 (Hebrew); Joan E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of JewishChristian Origins (Oxford and New York: Clarendon, 1993), 64–69. 84. Cf. J. Duncan M. Derret, “Simon Magus (Acts 8:9–24),” ZNTW 73 (1982): 52–68; Kurt Rudolph, Gnosis: The Nature and History of Gnosticism (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1983), 294–298. 85. This connection has been suggested already by Gershom Scholem in a lecture delivered at Dartmouth College in 1965, which appeared in his posthumously published book Explications and Implications: Writings on Jewish Heritage and Renaissance, Vol. 2 (Tel-Aviv: Am Oved, 1989), 176–177 (Hebrew). 86. Cf. Heinrich Graetz, Gnosticismus und Judenthum (Krotoschin: B.L. Mosasch and Sohn, 1864); Moritz Fridländer, Der vorchristlische jüdische Gnosticismus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1898). Although the latter’s work was much disproved by later scholars, Bearger Pearson has recently emphasized the need to reconsider it seriously. See Bearger A. Pearson, Gnosticism, Judaism, and Egyptian Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 10–28. Arthur Marmorstein is worth quoting in this context: “One cannot, in the Minim of the early times (up to the third century) and especially in places where Christians were not to be found at all, see Christians, whether Jewish or Gentile. Jews who were imbued with Gnostic doctrines are known by the name of Minim.” See Arthur Marmorstein, “The Background of the Haggadah,” in idem, Studies in Jewish Theology, ed. Joseph Rabbinowitz and Myer S. Lew (London–New York–Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1950), 47. This is obviously not the place to enter into the entire issue of anti-Gnostic polemic in Rabbinic literature, on which see Rosalie Gershenzon and

notes to pages 81–83

195

Elieser Slomovic, “A Second Century Jewish-Gnostic Debate: Rabbi Jose ben Halafta and the Matrona,” JSJ 16 (1985): 1–41; Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 5.1218; Ithamar Gruenwald “The Problem of the Anti-Gnostics Polemic in Rabbinic Literature,” in Studies in Gnosticism and Hellenistic Religions Presented to G. Quispel, ed. R. van den Broek (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 171–189; Herbert W. Basser, “Allusions to Christian and Gnostic Practices in Talmudic Tradition,” Journal of Semitic Studies 12 (1981): 87–105; Alen F. Segal, “Judaism, Christianity, and Gnosticism,” in Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity Volume 2: Separation and Polemic, ed. Stephen G. Wilson (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1986), 133–161; Menahem Kahana, “The Critical Edition of Mekilta De-Rabbi Ishmael in the Light of the Genizah Fragments,” Tarbiz 55 (1986): 513–515, nn. 122–123; 520–523 (Hebrew); Clemens Thoma, “Rabbinische Reaktionen gegen die Gnosis,” Judaica 44 (1988): 2–14. 87. Sifre Numbers 143 (ed. Horovitz, 191). Compare Sifra, Nedava, 2:5 (ed. Finkelstein, 22); b. Menahot 110b. 88. Irenaeus, Against Heretics, 2.35.3. Cf. Robert M. Grant, Irenaeus of Lyons (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), 122. For other church fathers who express similar views, see Alen F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports About Christianity and Gnosticism (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 220–233. 89. This interpretation is hinted at by Lieberman in his commentary to t. Haggigah 2:6, where he cites a text attributed specifically to Ben Azzai and refers the reader to our Sifre passage. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 5.1292. 90. The reference to Ex. 24:10b, which appears at this point, is apparently a mere gloss, taken from Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pish.a, 14 (ed. Horovitz, 51; ed. Lauterbach, 1.113–114), where it fits very well. See Horovitz’s comment ad loc. (220, note to line 1). 91. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 219–220; ed. Lauterbach, 2.231). 92. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ibid. 93. As was suggested by various scholars. See, for example, Arthur Marmorstein, The Old Rabbinic Doctrine of God, II: Essays in Anthropomorphism (reprint, New York: Ktav, 1968), 18; Adolph Büchler, “The Minim of Sepphoris and Tiberias in the Second and Third Centuries,” in idem, Studies in Jewish History, ed. Israel Brodie and Joseph Rabbinowitz (London, New York, and Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1956), 267–269; Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, passim. Indeed, there exists a Gnostic parallel to our midrash in the Apocryphon of John and other Gnostic sources. See Guy G. Stroumsa, “Polymorphie divine et transformations d’un mythologème: l’‘Aporcryphon de Jean’ et ses sources,” VC 35 (1981): 412–434. See also Andrew Hofer, “The Old Man as Christ in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho,” VC 57 (2003): 1–21. 94. Daniel Boyarin, “Two Powers in Heaven; Or, the Making of a Heresy,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 347; idem, Border Lines, 137.

196

notes to pages 83–84

95. Daniel Boyarin, “A Contribution to the History of Martyrdom in Israel,” in Atara L’Haim: Studies in the Talmud and Medieval Rabbinic Literature in Honor of Professor Haim Zalman Dimitrovsky, ed. Menahem Hirschman et al. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2000), 25 (Hebrew). 96. Boyarin relies, for this matter, on Israel J. Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2000), 91, n. 111 (Hebrew), who discusses two passages from Genesis Rabbah, in which the term “the Nations of the world” occurs, and that he suggests interpreting in an anti-Christian fashion. Even if we were to accept Yuval’s interpretation, that midrashic compilation is much later than the Mekhilta (see Herman L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992], 279) and therefore should not be used as a proof regarding the meaning of the term in the early, Tannaitic, text. 97. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 220–221; ed. Lauterbach, 2.233–234). 98. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 10 (ed. Horovitz, 150; ed. Lauterbach, 2.79). 99. There are, of course, many other places in the Mekhilta where the term “the Nations of the world” cannot be understood as a reference to Christians. See Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Vayehi Beshalach, 1 (ed. Horovitz, 87; ed. Lauterbach, 1.196); Shirta, 2 (ed. Horovitz, 121; ed. Lauterbach, 2.13); Shirta, 9 (ed. Horovitz, 146; ed. Lauterbach, 2.71); ibid. (ed. Horovitz, 148; ed. Lauterbach, 2.74); Amalek, 1 (ed. Horovitz, 176; ed. Lauterbach, 2.136); and the passage immediately following the one just cited: Ba-Hodesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz, 221; ed. Lauterbach, 2.234). The same holds true with respect to the meaning of the term in other Tannaitic works. Thus, for example, if the Sifre Zutta on Num. 27:17 (ed. Horovitz, 320) can refer to “the kings of the Nations of the world,” it surely does not have Christianity in mind. Similarly, when the Sifre Deuteronomy 16 (ed. Finkelstein, 27) refers to the “laws of the Nations of the world,” clearly it is not the Christians to whom it refers. In Sifre Deuteronomy 327–328 (ed. Finkelstein, 378) the expression clearly refers to the Romans, and so, too, is the case with Sifre Deuteronomy 333 (ed. Finkelstein, 382), and with Mekhilta on Deuteronomy 32:37. See Menahem Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta on Ha’azinu and Wezot Ha-Berakha,” Tarbiz 57 (1988): 188 (Hebrew). See Kahana’s discussion at 171–172. 100. Boyarin arrives at this conclusion as a result of his attempt to resolve the question of how to understand the function of the cited biblical verses, Ex. 24:10 and Dan. 7:9, in the midrash. In his view, “It is the passage from Daniel that is alluded to, but not cited, in the anti-‘heretical’ discourse, the ‘Son of Man’ passage so pivotal for the development of early Christology, that is the real point of contention here.” Accordingly, he claims: “The problem is the doubling of descriptions of God as senex (judge) and puer (man of war) and the correlation of those two descriptions with the divine figures of Ancient of Days and Son of Man from Daniel, which together might easily lead one to think that there are Two Powers in Heaven, indeed that God has two persons, a Father-person and a Son-person.” See Boyarin, “Two

notes to pages 84–85

197

Powers in Heaven,” 343–344; idem, Border Lines, 135–136. As much as it is tempting to follow this fascinating suggestion, I think it cannot be accepted. First, it requires us to assume that the midrash refers to a verse it does not actually cite (Dan. 7:13). To be sure, Boyarin is aware of this problem and therefore maintains that “The text portentously avoids citing the Daniel verses most difficult for rabbinic Judaism, 7:13–14” (ibid.). However, not only is such a conjecture not provable, but it is also not falsifiable, and it is therefore difficult to accept it. Note, also, that Boyarin’s interpretation does not answer the question of how, precisely, according to the midrash, Ex. 24:10 indicates that God appeared to the Israelites as an old man. 101. Cf. Shaye J. D. Cohen’s review of Segal’s Two Powers in Heaven, in AJS Review 10 (1978): 116. 102. See Adiel Schremer, “Midrash, Theology, and History: Two Powers in Heaven Revisited,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 39 (2008): 244. For another interpretation, according to which the issue is God’s different names, see ibid., 243. 103. See Marmorstein, Old Rabbinic Doctrine of God, 17–19. Compare Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, 109–115; R. Trevers Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (London: Williams and Norgate, 1903), 292. That the Gnostics were assumed to hold the view that there are many gods can be seen very clearly from Irenaeus’ polemic against them on precisely that issue. See n. 83. 104. See Marmorstein, ibid.; Alexander Altman, “The Gnostic Background of the Rabbinic Adam Legends,” JQR 25 (1945): 371–391. 105. See also Arthur Marmorstein, “The Unity of God in Rabbinic Literature,” in idem, Studies in Jewish Theology, 93–94; Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1987), 217–218. 106. This expression, used by Rabbi Tarfon in other places as well (m. Ohalot 16:1; t. Hagigah 3:36; Sifra, Nedava, 4:5 [ed. Finkelstein, 37]), is an oath formula. Its meaning is: I will do so-and-so (here: hit my sons) if I don’t fulfill an undertaking which I took upon myself (here: to burn books of minim). 107. The reference to, and use of, Is. 57:8 by Rabbi Tarfon is difficult to understand. My friend Shmuel Herr suggested to me (in oral communication) that the Biblical word “doorpost” (Heb. ‫ )מזוזה‬was taken by Rabbi Tarfon in accordance with its meaning in Mishnaic Hebrew, that is, mezuza. Consequently, the verse was understood to imply that these people do place a mezuza on their doorposts, and therefore they appear as kosher Jews, although inside their houses they worship idols. This interpretation of Rabbi Tarfon’s use of Is. 57:8 fits very well my argument concerning the problem the rabbis had with minim, as discussed in chapter 4. 108. T. Shabbat 13:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58–59). Compare the parallels in y. Shabbat 16:1, 15c, and in b. Shabbat 115b. An early Christian parallel to this Tosefta is found in the Syriac Didascalia Apostolarum: “Concerning the heretics . . . not only do they not praise the Lord, but they even blaspheme against Him. For this reason, heathen are judged for not knowing [Him]; but heretics [are charged] because they stand against God.” See The Didascalia Apostolorum in Syriac, I: Chapters I-X, ed.

198

notes to pages 85–86

and trans. Arthur Vööbus (CSCO 402, Scriptores Syri 176; Louvain: Peeters, 1979), 1.225–226 (Syriac text); 3.208 (English translation). 109. ‫ דהני ספרי מינין ספרי תורות דכתבינון מינין אינון‬,‫פסק רבינו האיי גאון ז“ל‬, ‫ שאין כתוב בהן כלום‬,‫ ופירוש הגליונין השנויים כן הגוילין שלספרי מינין‬.‫ולא ספריהון שחיברו אותן הן‬. See Benjamin M. Lewin, Otzar ha-Gaonim: Thesaurus of the Gaonic Responsa and Commentaries Following the Order of the Talmudic Tractates, 12 vols. (Haifa: Warhaftig Press, 1928), 2.102. Similarly, Rabbi Hannanel, in his commentary ad b. Shabbat 116a, writes: “And these ‘books of minim’ are scrolls of Torah which were copied by a min.” This interpretation was followed and further supported (without, however, mentioning these authorities), by Gedalyahu Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age, trans. and ed. Gershon Levi (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980), 276. 110. See George Foot Moore, “The Definition of the Jewish Canon and the Repudiation of Christian Scriptures,” in The Canon and Masorah of the Hebrew Bible, ed. Sid Z. Leiman (New York: Ktav, 1974), 115–141; Louis Ginzberg, “Some Observations on the Attitude of the Synagogue Toward Apocalyptic Writings,” JBL 41 (1922): 115–126; Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 3.206–207. Many scholars followed this interpretation, primarily because of Lieberman’s reputation. See, for example, Sid Leiman, The Canonization of Hebrew Scripture (Hamden: Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1976), 190, n. 511; Lawrence H. Schiffman, Who Was a Jew? Rabbinic and Halakhic Perspectives on the Jewish-Christian Schism (Hoboken, N.J.: Ktav, 1985), 62; Sanders, Schismatics, 64–65; Philip S. Alexander, “ ‘The Parting of the Ways’ from the Perspective of Rabbinic Judaism,” in Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways a.d. 70 to 135, ed. James D. G. Dunn (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1999), 11–15; Steven T. Katz, “The Rabbinic Response to Christianity,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. IV: The Late Roman— Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 278–279. Sanders’s assertion that “This text is so straightforward as to require little discussion” (ibid., 64) can hardly by defended, as it is clear from the lengthy discussion of Steven T. Katz, “Issues in the Separation of Judaism and Christianity After 70 C.E.: A Reconsideration,” JBL 103 (1984): 53–63, and the references therein. See also Shlomo Pines, “Notes on the Parallelism Existing Between Syriac Terminology and Terminology of Mishnaic Hebrew,” in Yaakov Friedman Memorial Volume, ed. Shlomo Pines (Jerusalem: Institute of Jewish Studies, Hebrew University, 1974), 206–209 (Hebrew). 111. For other difficulties in Lieberman’s interpretation, see Karl G. Kuhn, “Giljonim und Sifre Minim,” in Judentum Urchristentum Kirche: Festschrift für Joachim Jeremias, ed. Walter Eltester (Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1964), 34–35; Ephraim E. Urbach, “Self-Isolation or Self-Affirmation in Judaism in the First Three Centuries: Theory and Practice,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alen Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 290–291. 112. T. Hullin 2:20 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503); t. Yadayim 2:13 (ed. Zuckermandel, 683). As the context in t. Hullin 2:20 demands, “books of minim” cannot be understood as books composed by minim. Had this been the case, it would

notes to pages 86–88

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have been superfluous to deem them illegitimate (“magical books”). Only because these were scrolls of Torah was it necessary for the Tosefta to deem these scrolls as “magical books,” which are illegitimate for use. As to t. Yadayim 2:13 see Urbach, “Self-Isolation or Self-Affirmation,” 290–291. 113. Sifre Numbers 16 (ed. Horovitz, 21). 114. Cf. Marmorstein, Studies in Jewish Theology, 47. This point is entirely missed by Boyarin, Border Lines, 57, who claims that “whomever we might think the text refers to, it certainly deals with the question of Jews who ‘know’ Him but have been led astray into strange doctrines that now define them as so far beyond the pale that even their books of the Torah can, nay must, be burnt.” Even if we leave aside for the moment Boyarin’s presentation of Isa. 57:8, as cited by the Tosefta, in capital letters (“Thou hast placed Thy Name”), which reflects a very odd understanding of the verse, unsupported by any translation of the Hebrew bible known to me, his entire description of the text ignores the text’s reference to the minim as the cause for abhorrence between Israel and God, which is the text’s central point! Although the text’s concept of “enmity between Israel and their Father in heaven” and the manner by which it is precisely caused are not explicated, it is clear nonetheless that the minim are depicted by the Tosefta as people who hate God and cause hatred between Israel and their Father in heaven. This makes the assumption that the text has some sort of Gnostics in mind plausible. Furthermore, a passage in Origen’s Homilies on Luke, 16.4, may shed light on the nature of the notions concerning God, which the minim introduced, that could have raised the hatred to God, of which the Tosefta speaks. Speaking of the Gnostics he writes: “They say: Look, the God of the Torah and the prophets this is His nature: ‘I kill and I revive,’ He says, ‘I wound and I heal, and there is none that can deliver out of my hand.’ They hear ‘I kill,’ but they don’t hear ‘I revive.’ They hear ‘I wound,’ but they don’t hear ‘I heal.’ They use such places in order to attack the Creator.” See Maximilian Rauer, Origenes Werke: Die Homilien zu Lukas (Griechische Christlischen Sohriftsteller, 9; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1959), 97. See also Simon Magus’s arguments as cited in the Pseudo-Clementines Recognitions, 2:54, that the God who gave the Torah is powerless and evil. The fact that the Tosefta refers to the minim as Jews who posses scrolls of Torah should not stand against the suggestion to identify them (in this case) as Gnostics, as the use of scrolls of Torah among the early Gnostics is well documented. See Bearger A. Pearson, “Use, Authority and Exegesis of Mikra in Gnostic Literature,” in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Martin J. Mulder and Harry Sysling (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1988), 635–652.

chapter 4 1. The Hebrew (‫ )פטור‬allows also for a slightly different rendering, namely, “free of liability.” As we shall shortly see, it is not impossible that these two possibilities are simultaneously correct. 2. T. Hullin 2:22–24 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503).

200

notes to pages 88–90

3. See, among many others, Saul Lieberman, “Roman Legal Institutions in Early Rabbinics and in the Acta Martyrium,” JQR 35 (1944): 20–24; Adolph Büchler, “The Minim of Sepphoris and Tiberias in the Second and Third Centuries,” in idem, Studies in Jewish History, ed. Israel Brodie and Joseph Rabbinowitz (London, New York, and Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1956), 246; David Rokeach, “Ben Stara and Ben Pantira,” Tarbiz 39 (1969): 9–18 (Hebrew); Mark J. Geller, “Joshua B. Perahia and Jesus of Nazareth: Two Rabbinic Magicians,” Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1974, 144–145; Morton Smith, Jesus the Magician (New York: Harper and Row, 1978), 48–49; Johann Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung (Darmstadt: Buchengeselschaft, 1978), 130–192; Ray A. Fritz, Nazarene Jewish Christianity: From the End of the New Testament Period Until Its Disappearance in the Fourth Century (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988), 96–97; Daniel R. Schwartz, “Ma Hava Ley Memar . . . Ve-Chai Ba-Hem,” in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom: Studies in Memory of Amir Yekutiel, ed. Isaiah M. Gafni and Aviezer Ravitzky (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1992), 69–83 (Hebrew); Joan E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford and New York: Clarendon, 1993), 28–29; Jack T. Sanders, Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred Years of Jewish-Christian Relations (London: SCM Press, 1993), 61–63; Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 26–41; Jonah Fraenkel, The Aggadic Narrative: Harmony of Form and Content (Tel-Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Meuchad, 2001), 102–104 (Hebrew); Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 41–62. 4. I leave aside the question whether such a village ever existed in the land of Israel of the first centuries (cf. Shmuel Klein, Sefer Ha-Yeshuv, Vol. 1 [Jerusalem: Bialik Institute and Dvir, 1939], 95, along with Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1955–1988], 8.783–784), as the author’s use of this name may be a literary wordplay, because the Aramaic word “samma” means “medicine.” See also Boyarin, Dying for God, 159, n. 59. 5. B. Avoda Zara 17b. Cf. Adiel Schremer, “My Sister’s Son: Kinship Terminology and Endogamous Marriage in the Mishnaic and Talmudic Period,” Zion 60 (1995): 10 (Hebrew). 6. See Boyarin, Dying For God, 35. 7. Aside from the parallels to our story in y. Avoda Zara 2:2, 40d-41a (= y. Shabbat 14:4, 14d-15a) and in b. Avoda Zara 27b, Rabbi Elazar Ben Damma is mentioned only in a few other places throughout rabbinic literature. See Aharon Hyman, Toldot Tannaim Ve-Amoraim (London: Express, 1910), 161. 8. Y. Shabbat 14:4, 14d (= y. Avoda Zara 2:2, 41a). Compare the similar question in b. Avoda Zara 27b : “But he too was bitten by a snake!’ (‫)איהו נמי חויא טרקיה‬. From the Palestinian Talmud’s “answer” it is clear that the Talmud’s explanatory remark is aimed at reinterpreting the quoted verse from Ecclesiastes, and therefore should not be taken as a question but, rather, only as a rhetorical comment, meant to enable the introduction of the Talmud’s new reading of that verse. Compare the similar rhetorical move in y. Pea 1:1, 15a: “As Scripture says: ‘But righteousness

notes to page 90

201

delivers from death’ (Prov. 10:2)—but doesn’t he [eventually] die?! Rather [it means] that he shall not die in the future to come” (‫וצדקה תציל ממות—ולא מית? אלא שלא ימות מיתה‬ ‫)לעתיד לבוא‬. See also Sifra, Ah.are Mot, 9:9 (MS Vatican 66, ed. Finkelstein, 370) “ ‘He shall live in them’ (Lev. 18:5)—in the world to come. If you say in this world, does not he die at the end?! How, then, do I interpret ‘He shall live in them?’ In the world to come” (‫ והלוא סופו מת הוא! הא מה אני מקיים ”וחי‬,‫ אם תאמר בעולם הזה‬.‫וחי בהם—לעולם הבא‬ ‫)בהם“? לעולם הבא‬. Similarly, we read in Sifre Deuteronomy 337 (ed. Finkelstein, 404): “ ‘Let Reuben live and not die’ (Deut. 33:6)—but he is dead! What, then, does it mean ‘and not die?’ In the world to come” (‫ מה תלמוד לומר‬,‫יחי ראובן ואל ימות—והלא מת הוא! אלא‬ ‫)”ואל ימות“? לעולם הבא‬. These parallels indicate that the question, “but wasn’t he bitten by a snake,” is used as a rhetorical device to enable the introduction of the Talmud’s rereading of the biblical verse. 9. See chapter 1, n. 54. 10. Cf. Fraenkel, The Aggadic Narrative, 104. 11. This point in entirely missed by Peter Shäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, 55–56, who, regrettably, passes judgment on Rabbi Ishmael’s stance and calls it (twice) “hypocritical”! However, there are many other stories in Talmudic literature in which this literary device is used. See, for example, t. Bava Qamma 2:13 (ed. Lieberman, 9): “Once, someone was removing stones from his own field and putting them into the public way. There was a certain pious man reproaching him and saying to him: ‘Why are you removing stones from that which is not yours and putting them into that which is yours?’ [He] ridiculed him. After some time, that man fell into need and sold his field, and was walking in that same place, and he stumbled [on the stones]. He said: It was not for nothing that that man said to me, You are removing stones from that which is not yours into that which is yours.” See also the story in y. Hagigah 1:7, 76c, in which two rabbis, upon their arrival at a certain village, asked for “the guardians of the village,” but when brought the village’s policemen they responded: “Are these the village’s guardians?! They are but the village’s destroyers!” To the question of the people of the village, “Who are, then, the village’s guardians?” they answered: “Those who teach Scripture and Mishnah.” 12. In this way, our story uncovers the principle at the basis of the “Laws of Minim” and serves as a rationale for them. This implies that the minim appear very similar to “us” in almost every respect, and it is very difficult to distinguish between them and “kosher” Jews. The meaning of this point cannot be underestimated, as will become clear later. 13. In b. Sanhedrin 74a, this halakhic stance is attributed to Rabbi Johannan, who cites it in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Jehozadak, a latesecond- and early-third-century sage: “Rabbi Johannan said in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Jehozadak: By a majority vote it was resolved . . . that in every law of the Torah, if one is commanded: ‘Transgress and suffer not death,’ one should transgress and not suffer death, excepting idolatry, incest and murder.” A slightly corrupt version of this tradition, which nevertheless is attributed to the same Rabbi Johannan in the name of the same Rabbi Shimon ben Jehozadak, appears in

202

notes to pages 90 –92

y. Shevi‘it 4:2, 35a (= y. Sanhedrin 3:6, 21b). These sources record the halakhic position without citing its scriptural basis, but a subsequent Tannaitic source cited in the same Babylonian sugya attributes to Rabbi Ishmael the opinion that one should even worship idols rather than risk one’s life, and this is presented as being rooted in a reading of Lev. 18:5. The Tannaitic origin of that baraita is beyond doubt, as it appears in Sifra, Ah.are Mot, Mekhilta de-Arayot, 14 (MS. Vatican 66, ed. Finkelstein, 374). Moreover, the use of Lev. 18:5 for a similar purpose is found also in t. Shabbat 15:17 (ed. Lieberman, 75): “Hence the commandments were not given to Israel but to live by them, as it is said: ‘If a man does them he shall live in them’ (Lev. 18:5)—live in them; not that he shall die in them. There is nothing that stands against a danger to life except for idolatry, sexual immorality, and murder.” See also Adiel Schremer, “Seclusion and Exclusion: The Rhetoric of Separatism in Qumran and Rabbinic Literature,” in Rabbinic Perspectives: Rabbinic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Steven D. Fraade, Aharon Shemesh, and Ruth A. Clements (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 2006), 142–143, n. 45. 14. See Sifra, Ah.are Mot, Mekhilta de-Arayot, 14 (MS. Vatican 66, ed. Finkelstein, 374). As noted earlier (chapter 3, n. 52), the words “in private” are probably not an original part of Rabbi Ishmael’s saying but, rather, a later gloss, softening his extreme halakhic stance. 15. This assumption is surely presupposed by the editor of the Tosefta, who placed our story immediately after the “Laws of Minim.” But it seems to me necessary also because of an intrinsic consideration, for if we wish to reconcile Rabbi Ishmael’s halakhic stance mentioned above with his position in the story, we need to assume that he considered the healing of Rabbi Elazar ben Damma by the name of Jesus as severer than idolatry. Such a halakhic stance had to be rooted in a ruling that explicitly treats minim in a harsher manner than it treats idol worshippers, and this is precisely what we find in the “Laws of Minim” that precede our story. See also t. Shabbat 13:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58). 16. A much less preferable interpretation is that followers of Jesus were known to be minim, and that the only novel point the story wishes to make is that it is forbidden to receive medical assistance from them. Were this the case, the story would not have needed to identify the min who came to heal Ben Damma; it would have been sufficient simply to say “and one min came to heal him.” The story does tell us the exact identity of the min: he was a follower of Jesus. This indicates that it is precisely this point the story wishes to make, that is, to tell us something about followers of Jesus, and to relate them to the laws of minim. 17. Boyarin, Dying for God, 28. 18. Ibid. 19. Even though, to be sure, in this case this detail is of a much greater interest, as the question of Rabbi Eliezer’s excommunication (y. Mo’ed Qatan 3:5; b. Bava Metzia 59b) is an unsettled issue, and our story could have been taken to hint at a possible answer. Cf. Boyarin Dying for God, 156, n. 35. 20. Note the active form of the verb “bumped” (‫)מצאתי‬. Had the verb been in the passive (‫)מצאני‬, one could have suggested that the story’s novelty is that

notes to pages 92–93

203

not only social connections with Christians are prohibited but also intellectual ones. The implication of such a reading would have been that the story’s main thrust was not to identify the minim but, rather, to prohibit intellectual connections with them. The active form of the verb, however, leaves the reader with an impression that Rabbi Eliezer was almost looking after Jacob, and this weakens the possibility to view the story’s point as a prohibition on [passive] receiving of “words of minut.” I owe this insight to my friend Shmuel Herr. 21. Unlike Ben Damma, Rabbi Eliezer did come in contact with a min and did “break down a hedge,” and this implies that he is destined to “die.” The only way for him to be saved, therefore, is if the sin is entirely acknowledged. This is done by (1) his absolute confession of his sin (the engagement with a follower of Jesus, which is considered by the story an acceptance of a “word of minut”) and (2) his reaffirmation of his acceptance upon himself of the yoke of Heaven (this is the meaning of “I consider the Judge [sic] as trustworthy”). These two components are the two requisite elements in the rabbinic concept of repentance. See Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1981), 462–471. See also t. Berakhot 3:7 (ed. Lieberman, 13), where it is Rabbi Eliezer who says that the formulation of “a short prayer” is “May Your will be done in heavens above, and grant satisfaction to those who fear you, and the good in your eyes do.” The latter phrase is only a different formulation of the same religious stance expressed in the words “The Judge is trustworthy in my view.” Hence, it is possible that the author’s statement (put in the mouth of the Roman governor) that Rabbi Eliezer is “released,” which is presented as the result of the latter’s acceptance upon himself the yoke of Heaven (“The Judge [sic] is trustworthy in my view”), should indeed be translated: “you are free of liability.” See n. 1. 22. B. Avoda Zara, 17a, according to the reading of medieval manuscripts and early printed editions of the Talmud. See R. Rabbinovicz, Variae Lectiones in Mischnam et in Talmud Babylonicum . . . Tract. Abodah Sarah (reprint, Jerusalem: Ma‘ayan Ha-Hohma, 1960), 20a. In MS JTS 44380, the reference to Jesus is slightly different: rather than ‫“( כך למדני ישו הנוצרי‬thus taught me Jesus the Nazarene”), the reading is: ‫כך למדו ישו רבו‬, that is: “thus taught me (literally: him) Jesus my (literally: his) rabbi.” See Tractate ‘Abodah Zarah of the Babylonian Talmud Ms. Jewish Theological Seminary of America, ed. Shraga Abramson (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1957), 28. 23. It is not merely a “normal” midrash, but a typically shrewd one, as it can be read as putting in Jesus’ own mouth a mockery of Christianity itself, by calling it “a harlot.” I owe this brilliant observation to my friend Shmuel Herr. 24. This point, which was correctly observed by Shamma Boyarin (in an unpublished paper, referred to in Boyarin, Dying for God, 195, n. 39), undermines Daniel Boyarin’s insistence on seeing the phenomenon of minut (from the rabbis’ perspective, of course) as the holding of “wrong” and “false” theological views. Had this been the case, the author of the story would not have failed to somehow indicate the content of that stance that he constructs as minut and the “wrong belief” against which he warns.

204

notes to pages 94–95

25. See chapter 2, n. 99. 26. For a similar perspective on the very use of the label “Christian,” see David G. Horrell, “The label &ULVWLDQó9: 1 Peter 4:16 and the Formation of Christian Identity,” JBL 126 (2007): 361–381. 27. See t. Yevamot 4:7 (ed. Lieberman, 12); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 22:5 (ed. Hoffman, 134); Midrash Tannaim on Deut. 24:17 (ed. Hoffman, 160); Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 2 (ed. Schechter, 5a). Cf. Gedalyahu Alon, “Halacha in the Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (The Didache),” Tarbiz 11 (1940): 135–136 (Hebrew). For other places in Talmudic literature in which this principle appears, see Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 6.34. 28. Anthony J. Saldarini, “The Social World of Christian Jews and Jewish Christians,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine, ed. Hayim Lapin (Bethesda: University of Maryland Press, 1998), 119. Indeed, in Genesis Rabbah 14:7 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 131) there is a story about Rabbi Yossi (mid-second century C.E.), who visited a min to console him on the death of his son. That story exemplifies the correctness of Saldarini’s claim. Cf. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 8.850. Note that although the precise identity of the min in that story is not stated, an argument put in his mouth resembles a passage in the Gospel of Philip, 63. See The Nag Hammadi Library in English, rev. ed., ed. James M. Robinson (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1988), 147. I am indebted to Marc Hirshman for this reference. 29. See James D. G. Dunn, The Parting of the Ways Between Christianity and Judaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM Press, and Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1991), 231. 30. See Lawrence H. Schiffman, Who Was a Jew? Rabbinic and Halakhic Perspectives on the Jewish-Christian Schism (Hoboken, N.J.: Ktav, 1985), 51. 31. Ibid., 52. 32. Ibid. 33. See Lee I. Levine, “Judaism from the Destruction of Jerusalem to the End of the Second Jewish Revolt: 70–135 C.E.,” in Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism: A Parallel History of Their Origins and Early Development, ed. Herschel Shanks (Washington, D.C.: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1992), 128–129. 34. See Daniel Boyarin, “The Diadoche of the Rabbis; Or, Judah the Patriarch at Yavneh,” in Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Empire, ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 292. As Boyarin elsewhere noted, his methodology follows that advocated by Jacob Neusner. See Boyarin, Border Lines, 49. This is not the place to enter into a detailed and reasoned discussion of Neusner’s claims, of course. It is important to note, however, that many of his principal assertions concerning the redacted character of the rabbinic documents (on which Boyarin’s dating of the rabbinic discourse of heresy rests) have been refuted in recent years. See Christine E. Hayes, Between the Babylonian and the Palestinian Talmuds: Accounting for Halakhic Difference in Selected Sugyot from Tractate Avodah Zarah (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 9–17. See also Seth Schwartz’s very important statement quoted the introduction to this volume, n. 101. 35. Boyarin, Dying for God, 32.

notes to pages 95–97

205

36. Ibid., 1–21. 37. See Boyarin, Border Lines, 223: “Following the principle set out by Saul Lieberman—that talmudic legend may be read as useful information for the history of the time and place of its production and not the time and place of which it speaks. . . . ” 38. Lieberman, “Roman Legal Institutions,” 20, n. 126. 39. See Saul Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” Annuaire de l’institut de philoligie et d’histoire orientales et slaves, 7 (1939–1944): 409. 40. Boyarin, Border Lines, 220. “This period,” for Boyarin, must refer to the late third or early fourth century, as his evidence is the fact that “As I have noted above in Chapter 6, already in later Palestinian texts—the midrashim—we frequently find the expression ‘nations of the world’ as a reference to Christianity” (ibid.), and the texts in chapter 6 of his book, to which he refers, are from the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, which Boyarin himself dates to the end of the third century (ibid., 137), or to the fourth (ibid., 135). 41. See Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version A, chap. 2 (ed. Schechter, 14), along with Menahem Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan: Text, Redaction and Interpretation (Jerusalem: Hebrew University and Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 244–245 (Hebrew). 42. Such a late dating, needless to say, is repudiated by the simple fact that there are references to minim and minut in the Mishnah, which was edited presumably at the beginning of the third century C.E. However, the attributions to early-second-century sages indicates that the rabbinic discourse of minut is earlier than that. See also chapter 2, n. 99. 43. Cf. E. Marry Smallwood, “Domitian’s Attitude Toward the Jews and Judaism,” Classical Philology 51 (1956), 1; Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1976–1984), 2.91; Robert L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984), 31–47. Whether such a distinction was recognized earlier is a difficult question. See Daniel R. Schwartz, Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1990), 96, n. 25; Martin Hengel, “Early Christianity as a Jewish-Messianic, Universalistic Movement,” in Conflict and Challenges in Early Christianity, ed. Donald A. Hagner (Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press International, 1999), 6–7. 44. In suggesting that a change in Jewish self-definition was generated by Roman discourse (and policy), my perspective is closer, then, to that of Martin Goodman, for example, than to that of Boyarin. The latter maintains that “the talk of minim and minut comes to do some work that was ‘necessitated’—in the eyes of the Rabbis, of course—by the challenge, or identity question, raised by Justin Martyr and company” (Border Lines, 55). According to the former, on the other hand, it was Nerva’s removal of certain people “from the list of those liable to the Jewish tax” that was the most “significant step towards the treatment of Jews in late antiquity more as a religion than as a nation.” See Martin Goodman, “Nerva, the Fiscus Judaicus and Jewish Identity,” JRS 79 (1989): 40.

206

notes to page 97

45. This is the reason for the absence of a discourse of minut in pre-70 Jewish texts. That discourse was produced by a crisis that was a direct result of the destruction of the Temple and the defeat of the Jews, and therefore it could not have come to the world before that event. Contrast Boyarin, Border Lines, 49–54. 46. My explanation thus does not stop with the mere observation that, “Unlike the apostate, the heretic claims to uphold the group’s values and interests, only proposing different means to this end” (Lewis A. Coser, The Functions of Social Conflict [New York: Free Press, 1956], 70). Neither does it simply replicate the important sociological insights that “the degeneration of difference in convictions into hatred and fight ordinarily occurs only when there were essential, original similarities between the parties” (Georg Simmel, Conflict and the Web of Group-Affiliations [New York: Free Press, 1955], 48), or that, “rather than the remote ‘other’ being perceived as problematic and/or dangerous, it is the proximate ‘other,’ the near neighbor, who is most troublesome” (Jonathan Z. Smith, “Differential Equations: On Constructing the ‘Other,’ ” Thirteenth Annual University Lecture in Religion, Arizona State University, Department of Religious Studies, March 5, 1992, 14), and that heretics “create confusion about larger group boundaries” (Coser, ibid.; see also David Frankfurter, “Jews or Not? Reconstructing the ‘Other’ in Rev 2:9 and 3:9,” HTR 94 [2001]: 414). It goes a step further by explaining why this is so, that is, why the most proximate is also the most threatening. 47. This point was missed, to the best of my judgment, by Boyarin, Border Lines, 52, who correctly observes that, “Rabbis might regard Jews who are Christians as heretics, while, they themselves, these ‘Jewish Christians,’ will regard themselves as a sect,” but fails to see the mutual relations between these two stances. The case of the exclusion of the Essenes from the Temple, as depicted by Josephus, is instructive in this context. In a famous passage Josephus says that they were excluded from the Temple (Ant. 18.1.5), but scholars disagree about the precise manner in which his Greek should be rendered. Most scholars understand Josephus as saying that the Essenes “were excluded”; “barred.” Others, however, maintain that he should be understood as claiming that they “seclude themselves.” See Albert I. Baumgarten, “Josephus on Essene Sacrifice,” JJS 45 (1994): 171. Perhaps these two understandings are not mutually exclusive after all, for the latter results in the former, and vice versa. 48. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pish.a, 18 (ed. Horovitz, 73; ed. Lauterbach, 167). 49. In light of this, we may fully appreciate the importance of William Frend’s observation that, from the beginning of the second century C.E., “there was less of a tendency for Christians to claim to be Israel, and more of a tendency to contrast Christianity and Judaism.” See William H. C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 124. Similarly, William Horbury noted that “The author of the Epistle of Barnabas saw Christians and Jews as ‘us’ and ‘them.’ ” See William Horbury, “Jewish-Christian Relations in Barnabas and Justin Martyr,” in Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways a.d. 70 to 135, ed. James D. G. Dunn (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans, 1999), 315, See also

notes to pages 97–98

207

Karen L. King, What Is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2003), 40–47. These tendencies, I submit, provoked a similar stance on the part of other Jewish groups toward the followers of Jesus, among which were Palestinian rabbis of the second century, whose sayings are recorded in Tannaitic literature. 50. My criticism of the concept is thus fundamentally different from that of Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed, “Introduction: Traditional Models and New Directions,” in The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 16–22. Becker and Reed’s criticism focuses primarily on the assumption of a nearly complete isolation between Jews and Christians throughout the ages (and see also Paula Fredricksen’s similar criticism in her paper “What ‘Parting of the Ways?’: Jews, Gentiles, and the Ancient Mediterranean City,” in the same volume, at 35–63). My criticism calls attention to what I see as a flaw in the assumption upon which that concept rests. My argument is that speaking of Christianity as a religious entity capable of parting ways with Judaism rests on a view of Christianity as standing on a par with Judaism. And that view, although “softer” than the traditional Christian view of superssesion, is nevertheless theologically biased. For a close (even if not identical) perspective, see Judith Lieu, “ ‘The Parting of the Ways’: Theological Construct or Historical Reality?” JSNT 56 (1994): 101–119. For other criticisms of the concept of “the parting of the ways,” see Martha Himmelfarb, “The Parting of the Ways Reconsidered: Diversity in Judaism and Jewish-Christian Relations in the Roman Empire: ‘A Jewish Perspective,’ ” in Interwoven Destinies: Jews and Christians Through the Ages, ed. Eugene J. Fisher (New York: Paulist Press, 1993), 47–61; Daniel Boyarin, “Semantic Differences; or ‘Judaism’/‘Christianity,’ ” in The Ways That Never Parted, op. cit., 65–85. 51. Here I find myself close to Jack T. Sanders’ perspective (without signing on to his precise formulation), who writes: “If we say, however, that the rabbinic leadership in Galilee persecuted Christians for their theology and their behavior, we have presented the Christian viewpoint. The viewpoint of the authorities will have been that they were punishing criminals—that is, deviants.” See Jack T. Sanders, “Establishing Social Distance Between Christians and Both Jews and Pagans,” in Handbook of Early Christianity: Social Science Approaches, ed. Anthony J. Blasi, Jean Duhaime, and Paul-André Turcotte (Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira Press, 2002), 372 (emphasis added). See also his former formulation in Schismatics, 125: “Palestinian Christianity everywhere remained Jewish, even when it sought to include gentiles, until other Jews resorted to punishment” (emphasis added). Although I have confined myself chiefly to the rabbinic perspective, I find it striking that an essentially similar picture emerges from nonrabbinic sources as well, such as the Gospel of Matthew, or that of John. See Wayne A. Meeks, “Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity’s Separation from the Jewish Communities,” in “To See Ourselves as Others See Us”: Christians, Jews, “Others” in Late Antiquity, ed. Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (Chico, CA: Scholars Press,

208

notes to pages 98–101

1985), 93–115; Anthony J. Saldarini, “The Gospel of Matthew and Jewish-Christian Conflict in the Galilee,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity, ed. Lee I. Levine (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1992), 23–38. Note, that in spite of Saldarini’s conviction that, “after the destruction of the Temple, there was no ‘normative’ Jewish teaching, practice or authority” (ibid., 30, n. 22), he nevertheless speaks of “Matthew’s disagreements with the dominant forces in the Jewish community” (ibid., 33). These forces, as is well known, are designated by Matthew as “Pharisees” and “Scribes.” One wonders who could these have been in the late 80s or early 90s of the first century C.E. in Palestine, where, according to Saldarini, that Gospel was composed. 52. B. Sotah 47a (= b. Sanhedrin 106b), according to the reading of the manuscripts and early printed editions of the Talmud. See The Babylonia Talmud with Variant Readings . . . Tractate Sotah (II), ed. Abraham Liss (Jerusalem: Institute for the Complete Israeli Talmud, 1979), 301–303. The opening formula, “Our Rabbis taught,” implies that the Talmud views this source as Tannaitic in its origin. Indeed, a similar dictum is attributed to Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar in Tractate Semah.ot, 2:5 (ed. Higger, 104). On a parallel Christian story, see Stephen Gero, “The Stern Master and His Wayward Disciple: A ‘Jesus’ Story in the Talmud and in Christian Hagiography,” JSJ 25 (1994): 287–311. 53. B. Sotah, ibid. 54. Cf. Ernest Bammel, “Christian Origins in Jewish Tradition,” NTS 13 (1966–1967): 317–335. Richard Kalmin writes along similar lines: “Christians and Heretics in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” HTR 87 (1994): 156–157. From this perspective, the story resembles the story about Elisha ben Abuya, the chief apostate in rabbinic literature, in which it is said that Elisha cut himself off from the rest of the Jewish people after he had heard a heavenly voice saying, “Return backsliding children, except for Elisha” (b. Hagigah 15a). The blame for Elisha’s final break with rabbinic Judaism is placed on God himself; had He not made such a declaration, Elisha might have repented, and so, too, Jesus, says the author of our story. Cf. Alon Goshen-Gotstein, The Sinner and the Amnesiac: The Rabbinic Invention of Elisha ben Abuya and Eleazar ben Arach (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 202–205. 55. Compare: Clemens Thoma, “Die Christen in rabbinischer Optik; Heiden, Häretiker, oder Fromme?” in Christlischer Antijudaismus und jüdischer Antipaganismus, ed. Herbert Frohnhofen (Hamburg: Steinmann and Steinmann, 1990), 23–49.

chapter 5 1. Although, to be sure, this is far from certain, because we don’t actually know what the “healing in the name of Jesus” precisely involved. The enigma is clearly presented in the somewhat later story about Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, whose grandson “had a choking fit, and one man came and healed him by the name of Jesus [son of] Pantera, and he was healed. As he went out, he [Rabbi Joshua ben Levi] said to him: What did you whisper to him? He said to him: A certain word. He said to

notes to pages 101–102

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him: It would have been better for him had he died and not so” (y. Shabbat 14:4, 14d; y. Avoda Zara 2:2, 40d). What was that “certain word?” No one can tell for sure. Because Christians referred to Jesus as “Lord” in their prayers and magic formulas (see Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christian: The Social World of the Apostle Paul [New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1983], 148; Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity [Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2003], 108–117), it is possible that the “word” was a reference to Jesus. Such a speculation, however, is far from certain because in the parallel versions of the story in Ecclesiastes Rabbah 10:5, and in Lamentations Rabbah 5:16 (ed. Buber, 79b), the Christian says that he muttered a verse! That verse could well have been Ex. 15:26, for as we are told by m. Sanhedrin 10:1 and t. Sanhedrin 12:10 (ed. Zuckermandel, 433), “He who whispers [in order to heal] over a wound and says: ‘I will put none of the diseases upon you which I have put on the Egyptians, for I am the Lord who heals you’ (Ex. 15:26), has no share in the world to come.” It is therefore equally possible that the man merely recited this verse, without making any specific reference to Jesus. Compare Saul Lieberman, HaYerushalmi Kiphshuto: A Commentary Based on Manuskripts[!] of the Yerushalmi and Works of the Rishonim and Midrashim in Mss. and Rare Editions (Jerusalem: Darom, 1934), 187. See also Mark J. Geller, “Joshua B. Perahia and Jesus of Nazareth: Two Rabbinic Magicians,” Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1974, 150–151. 2. Cf. Jack T. Sanders, Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred Years of Jewish-Christian Relations (London: SCM Press, 1993), 84–99. As to the supposed nonobservance of the law among the early Christian, see Kelli S. O’Brien, “The Curse of the Law (Galatians 3.13): Crucifixion, Persecution, and Deuteronomy 21.22–23,” JSNT 29 (2006): 55–76. 3. On these stories, see Arland J. Hultgern, Jesus and His Adversaries: The Form and Function of the Conflict Stories in Synoptic Tradition (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1979). 4. Cf. Wayne A. Meeks, “Equal to God,” in idem, In Search of the Early Christians (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), 91–105. As is well known, Jesus’ self-exaltation is considered by his opponents as “blasphemy” (Mark 14:64). The meaning of blasphemy in early rabbinic literature is profoundly different, however, and this is of some significance, since it reveals how wide the gap is between early Christian and early rabbinic perspectives on these matters. Cf. Darrell L. Bock, Blasphemy and Exaltation in Judaism: The Charge Against Jesus in Mark 14:53–65 (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Books, 2000); Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Charge of Blasphemy in Mark 14.64,” JSNT 26 (2004): 379–401. 5. Cf. Justin, Dialogue with Trypho, 10:1. 6. Justin, Dialogue, 108:2. 7. See Gustav Hoennicke, Das Judenchristentum im ersten und zweiten Jahrhundert (Berlin: Trowitzsch and Sohn, 1908), 398. Even Marcel Simon, who viewed Hoennicke’s assertion as entirely wrong, admitted that “It is true that there are some questions one might expect the rabbis to discuss in detail and on which they are almost completely silent.” See Marcel Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the

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Relations Between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire (AD 135–425), trans. Henry McKeating (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 192. 8. Cf. J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1979), 64–81. 9. See especially b. Sotah 49b (= b. Sanhedrin 106b; cf. above, chap. 4, n. 52); b. Sanhedrin 43a. In Ecclesiastes Rabbah 1:8 there is a story concerning Hannaniah, Rabbi Joshua’s nephew, who was made by minim to ride a horse on the Sabbath by means of a magic spell. When his uncle, Rabbi Joshua, released him from the power of the spell, he said to him: “Since the wine of that wicked entered you, you cannot dwell in the land of Israel,” and he commended him to emigrate to Babylonia. Because the story takes place in Kefar Nahum (= Capernaum), and “that wicked” is a soubriquet for Jesus, it is clear that the minim to which the story refers are Christians. However, Ecclesiastes Rabbah is a late midrashic compilation, which was redacted, presumably, in the seventh, or eighth century C.E. and was influenced by the Babylonian Talmud. See Shamma Friedman, “La-Aggada Ha-Historit Ba-Talmud Ha-Bavli,” in Saul Lieberman Memorial Volume, ed. Shamma Friedman (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1993) 154, n. 226 (Hebrew). 10. The crime of the deceiver (Deut. 13:6) is understood in Tannaitic literature, following the biblical depiction (“Let us go and serve other gods”), as a call to worship idols. See m. Sanhedrin 7:10; Sifre Deuteronomy 87 (ed. Finkelstein, 151–152). Cf. Aharon Shemesh, Punishments and Sins: From Scripture to the Rabbis (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2003), 150–158 (Hebrew). 11. See Psiqta Rabbati 5 (ed. Friedman, 14b); Tanhuma, Va-yerra, 5 (= Tanhuma, Va-yerra, Buber’s edition, 6): “Said Rabbi Judah son of Rabbi Shalom: When the Holy One told Moses: ‘Write down’ (Ex. 34:27), Moses asked that the Mishnah too be in writing. Since, however, the Holy One, blessed be He, foresaw that a time would come when the Nations of the world would translate the Torah and read it and then say: ‘We are Israel.’ ” Cf. Marc Bregman, “Mishnah as Mysterium,” in Meh. qerei Talmud III: Talmudic Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Professor Ephraim E. Urbach, ed. Yaakov Sussman and David Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2005), 1.101–109 (Hebrew). 12. See Marc Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish and Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity (Albany: S.U.N.Y. Press, 1996), 15–16. 13. Hirshman (ibid., 16) goes on to suggest that traces of the Christian claim may be found in still earlier sources, such as Genesis Rabba and even the Palestinian Talmud. Even if we were to accept his suggestion, this would still bring us to the fourth century, not to Tannaitic times. 14. This was noted long ago by Arthur Marmorstein: “On this subject, too, there is little to be gleaned from the Tannaitic literature; either the arguments were not known to the Tannaim, or, if known, were considered of no importance whatsoever. . . . In the time of the Mishnah this outcry against Israel on account of the Golden Calf was still so mild and insignificant that no objection was raised to the reading and Targum of Exod. 32.1 f. Exod. 32.21 f. was read, but not translated.” See Arthur Marmorstein, “Judaism and Christianity in the Middle of the Third Century,”

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in idem, Studies in Jewish Theology, ed. Joseph Rabbinowitz and Myer S. Lew (London, New York, and Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1950), 199–200. I was not convinced by Eugene Mihaly’s attempt to interpret Sifre Deuteronomy 312 as a midrashic response to the Christian claim “we are Israel.” See Eugene Mihaly, “A Rabbinic Defense of the Election of Israel: An Analysis of Sifre Deuteronomy 32:9, Pisqa 312,” HUCA 35 (1964): 103–143. 15. Occasionally, such readings are justified on the basis of later rabbinic sources, but a close examination of the early tradition reveals that the basis for its interpretation in reference to Christianity is ill-founded. Admittedly, in rabbinic sources of later periods one may indeed find, sporadically, explicit engagement with notions that may be reasonably assumed to reflect Christian dogmas. Even in these cases, though, very frequently the Christian doctrinal nuances were not properly understood by the rabbis. Cf. Menahem Kister, “ ‘Let Us Make a Man’: Observations on the Dynamics of Monotheism,” in Issues in Talmudic Research (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, 2001), 56 (Hebrew). See also Johann Maier, Jüdische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Christentum in der Antike (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982), 193; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised?” in Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Maria Wyke (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 136–154. 16. Cf. William Wright, The Homilies of Aphraates, the Persian Sage . . . Vol. 1: The Syriac Text (London: Williams and Norgate, 1869), 332. 17. Y. Shabbat 6:10, 8d. For the precise reading, cf. Lieberman, HaYerushalmi Kiphshuto, 117. 18. Song Rabbah 7:9 (ed. Donski, 163); Midrash Shmuel 5:7 (ed. Buber, 30b). 19. Cf. Robert Trevers Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (London: Williams and Norgate, 1903), 302–303. 20. Exodus Rabbah 29:5. The midrash is difficult, because it clearly alludes to Is. 44:6 (“I am the first and I am the last, and besides me there is no god”), but the relation of that verse to Ex. 20:2, which it expounds, is not explained. We need to assume that Rabbi Abbahu’s midrash is based on an earlier midrashic text on Ex. 20:2, in which that verse was mentioned. Such a text indeed exists in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Ba-h. odesh, 5 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 220; ed. Lauterbach, 2.231–232), and the lack of reference to the notion of God having a son in that Tannaitic source indicates that this is indeed only a later development of the tradition. For other late midrashic texts, in which the idea of God having a son is refuted, see Chanoch Albeck, Einleitung und Register zum Bereschit Rabba, Teil II: Register und Zusätze (Jerusalem: Wahrmann Book, 1965), 139 (Hebrew). 21. Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash, 303. 22. See Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Worship of Jesus and the Imperial Cult,” in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism, ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 1999), 234–257; idem, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God Among Jews,” HTR 92 (1999): 393–408; idem, “Mark and His Readers: The Son of God Among Greeks

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and Romans,” HTR 93 (2000): 85–100. For a basic discussion of this concept, see Lily R. Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (Middletown, Conn.: American Philological Association, 1931). See also Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002). 23. See Israel Knohl, The Messiah Before Jesus: The Suffering Servant of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Berkeley, Los Angels, and London: University of California Press, 2000), 27–29; 91–99. 24. See Esther Eshel, “4Q471B: A Self-Glorification Hymn,” Revue de Qumran 17 (1996): 178; idem, “The Identification of the ‘Speaker’ of the Self-Glorification Hymn,” in The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Donald W. Parry and Eugene Ulrich (Leiden, Boston, and Köln: Brill, 1999), 619–635. 25. Eshel, “A Self-Glorification Hymn,” ibid. 26. Eshel, ibid., 184–185. 27. See John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 136–172, at 149. See also idem, “Powers in Heaven: God, Gods, and Angels in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Religion in the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. John J. Collins and Robert A. Kugler (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000), 9–28; Martin G. Abegg, “Who Ascended to Heaven? 4Q491, 4Q427, and the Teacher of Righteousness,” in Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Craig E. Evans and Peter R. Flint (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1997), 61–73; Eshel, “Identification of the Speaker,” ibid.; Knohl, Messiah Before Jesus; Larry W. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 51–69. As for the broader issue of “divine man” in Antiquity, see Morton Smith, “Prolegomena to a Discussion of Aretalogies, Divine Men, the Gospels and Jesus,” in Studies in The Cult of Yahweh, ed. S. J. D. Cohen (Leiden, New York, and Köln: Brill, 1996), 2.3–27; idem, “On the History of the ‘Divine Man,’ ” ibid., 2.28–38.; idem, “Ascent to the Heavens and the Beginning of Christianity,” ibid., 2.47–67. For a social-historical perspective, see Peter R. L. Brown, “A Social Context to the Religious Crisis of the Third Century A.D.,” in The Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture, Protocol of the Fourteenth Colloquy: 9 February 1975, ed. W. Wellner (Berkeley: Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture, 1975), 1–13. 28. See Collins, The Scepter and the Star, 154–172; Knohl, The Messiah Before Jesus, 87–95 (and the bibliography cited therein at 137–138, n. 3); Johannes Zimmermann, “Observations on 4Q246—The ‘Son of God,’ ” in Qumran-Messianism: Studies on the Messianic Expectations in the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. James H. Charlesworth, Herman Lichtenberger, and Gerbern S. Oegema (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 175–190; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “The Aramaic ‘Son of God’ Text from Qumran Cave 4 (4Q246),” in idem, The Dead Sea Scrolls and Christian Origins (Grand Rapids, Mich., and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000), 41–61; idem, “The Background of ‘Son of God’ as a Title for Jesus,” ibid., 63–72. 29. Morton Smith, “Two Ascended to Heaven—Jesus and the Author of 4Q491,” in Cult of Yahweh, 2.77–78.

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30. Morton Smith, “The Account of Simon Magus in Acts 8,” in Cult of Yahweh, 2.146. Smith mentions the names of Dositheus, John the Baptist, Jesus, Simon Magus, and the latter’s disciple, Menander. As to Simon Magus, Hans Conzelmann noted that he appears in Acts 8:4–19 as a “divine man.” Cf. Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 63. This understanding is supported by Justin’s testimony that “Almost all Samaritans, and a few even among other peoples, confess him to be the first God” (1 Apol., 26). Whether or not Smith’s conjecture that “Simon [may well have] made the claim for himself” (ibid., 151) is accepted, there is sufficient evidence to show that many people considered him so up to the third and fourth centuries. See F. Nau (ed.), La premiere partie de l’Histoire de Barhadbesabba ‘Arbaïa (Patrologia Orientalis 23; Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1932), 188; Arthur Vööbus (ed.), The Canons Ascribed to Ma¯ ru ¯ ta¯ of Maipherqat. and Related Sources (CSCO 439–440, Scriptores Syri, 191–192; Louvain: Peeters, 1982), 23 (Syriac Text); 18 (English translation). In these Syriac texts, the members of the “House of Simon” are explicitly said to have believed that the founder of their sect was the “Son of God.” 31. Smith, ibid. 32. See Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts,” in idem, Collected Writings in Jewish Studies, ed. Robert Brody and Moshe D. Herr (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1999), 177–183. 33. Urbach, ibid. 34. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 2 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 121–124; ed. Lauterbach, 2.13–18). 35. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 8 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 142–143; ed. Lauterbach, 2.61). 36. The reference (“etc.”), here as well as later, is to the repeated sentence: “By means of the very thing with which he acted proudly before Him, God punished him.” 37. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, ibid. 38. See Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1987), 90–91; idem, “Fragments of Midrash Tanhuma-Yelamdenu,” in idem, Studies in Judaica (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1998), 2.596–600 (Hebrew); Moshe D. Herr, “Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature (Its Image and Conception),” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1970, 130–131 (Hebrew); idem, “Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 23 (1972): 120, n. 125*. 39. See Menahem Kister, “Legends of the Destruction of the Second Temple in Avot De-Rabbi Nathan,” Tarbiz 67 (1998): 513–514 (Hebrew). 40. A similar line of interpretation was suggested by Johann Meier regarding Rabbi Abbahu’s midrash in y. Ta‘anint 2:1, 65b: “Rabbi Abbahu said: If a man says to you, ‘I am a god’—he is a liar. [If he says]: ‘I am a son of man’—in the end he will regret it. [If he says]: ‘I will go up to heaven’—he said, but shall not perform it.” This is a midrashic reading of Num. 23:19: “God is not man, that he

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should repent. Has he said and will he not do it? Or has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it?” (RSV). Rabbi Abbahu “rearranged” the order of the words as if they were written “a man is not a god,” and thus reached the conclusion that a man who claims to be a God—which he is not—is called by Scripture “a liar.” Similarly, if a man claims to have ascended to heaven—of him Scripture says: “he has spoken, but he will not fulfill it.” According to Maier, Rabbi Abbahu’s midrash should be read as an anti-Roman polemic. See Johann Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftlisch Buchgesellschaft, 1978), 76–81. Usually, however, this midrash is seen as an anti-Christian text. See, for example, Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash, 62; Urbach, “Homilies of the Rabbis on the Prophets of the Nation and the Balaam Stories,” Tarbiz 25 (1956): 287 (Hebrew); Jacob Lauterbach, “Jesus in the Talmud,” in idem, Rabbinic Essays (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1951), 545–551; Samuel T. Lachs, “R. Abbahu and the Minim,” JQR 60 (1969): 199–200; Geller, Joshua B. Perahia and Jesus, 128–130; Oded Irshai, “If a Man Should Say to You ‘I am God’ He Is a Liar,” Zion 47 (1982): 173–177, and Maier’s references in his Jesus von Nazareth, 287, n. 169. Because of David Goldenberg’s ferocious rejection of Maier’s hypothesis (see David Goldenberg, “Once More: Jesus in the Talmud,” JQR 73 [1982]: 83), it is important to notice Shaye Cohen’s reliance on Maier’s book in his comment that “Whether in general the rabbis concerned themselves with Christianity and Christian polemics against Judaism is a much debated question.” See Cohen, “Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised?” 148. 41. Urbach, The Sages, 35. 42. See Stanley K. Stowers, A Re-reading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1994), 194. 43. Stowers, ibid. The issue is dealt with extensively by Ian G. Wallis, The Faith of Jesus Christ in Early Christian Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), and a powerful argument against the traditional understanding is presented by Douglas A. Campbell, “False Presuppositions in the 3,67,6 &5,6728 Debate: A Response to Brian Dodd,” JBL 116 (1997): 713–719. For more recent contributions, see Paul Foster, “The First Contribution to the 3,67,6 &5,6728 Debate: A Study of Ephesians 3.12,” JSNT, 24 (2002): 75–96; Hung-Sik Choi, “3,67,6 in Galatians 5:5–6: Neglected Evidence for the Faithfulness of Christ,” JBL 124 (2005): 467–490, and the vast bibliography cited therein. 44. See Gerd Luedemann, Opposition to Paul in Jewish Christianity, trans. M. Eugene Boring (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989); Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “The Didascalia Apostolorum: A Mishnah for the Disciples of Jesus,” JECS 9 (2001): 483–509. 45. It should be noted, in this context, that this scholarly view rests primarily on Paul’s argument in Gal. 3:10–15, from which it seems quite clear that Paul’s view of the Law is negative, no matter how his midrash is precisely interpreted, and regardless of the question of his intended audience. See, among many others, Christopher D. Stanley, “ ‘Under a Curse’: A Fresh Reading of Galatians 3.10–14,” NTS 36 (1990): 481–511; Michael Cranford, “The Possibility of Perfect Obedience: Paul and an Implied Premise in Galatians 3:10 and 5:3,” Novum Testamentum 36

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(1994): 242–258; Daniel Boyarin, A Radical Jew: Paul and Politics of Identity (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1994), 136–157; Robert K. Rapa, The Meaning of “Works of the Law” in Galatians and Romans (New York: Lang, 2001). As to the issue of Paul’s intended audience, see John Gager, Reinventing Paul (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), and the references therein. Even if we were to suggest a reading of these verses that would save Paul from the accusation of advocating a view against the observance of the commandments by Jews (I hope to be able to do so elsewhere), still it is possible that Palestinian rabbis of the first and second century C.E. understood him so, just as James 2:14–26 most probably did. See Luedemann, Opposition to Paul in Jewish Christianity, 143–146; Raymond E. Brown, An Introduction to the New Testament (New York: Doubleday, 1997), 734–743. 46. Sifre Deuteronomy 97 (ed. Finkelstein, 159). 47. M. Friedman, Sifré debé Rab: Der älteste halachische und hagadische Midrasch zu Numeri und Deutronomium (Wien: Holtsvorth, 1864), 94a, n. 5. 48. B. Sotah 47b (= b. Sanhedrin 107b). See chapter 4, n. 52. 49. Cf. Acts. 22:3. 50. M. Makkot 3:14, quoted here according to the reading of the most reliable manuscripts of the Mishnah (i.e., MS Kaufman, Budapest A50; MS Parma 138; and MS Cambridge 470.1 [ed. Lowe]). Although the entire concluding passage of Tractate Makkot (i.e., m. Makkot 3:15–16) is probably an editorial gloss (see Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah [Jerusalem: Magnes and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1964], 975), the text is nonetheless Tannaitic. 51. Cf. Arthur Marmorstein, “Judaism and Christianity in the Middle of the Third Century,” in idem, Studies in Jewish Theology, 209. Although Marmorstein does not make any effort to support his contention, it should be noted that the mishnah’s reference to Lev. 18:5, which is indeed an important verse for Paul’s argument (see Gal. 3:10–19), as well as its quotation of a verse in which the word “righteousness” appears (Is. 42:21), which is so central to Paul’s argument (ibid.), may support Marmorstein’s hypothesis. See, most recently, Devora Steinmetz, “Justification by Deed: The Conclusion of Sanhedrin-Makkot and Paul’s Rejection of Law,” HUCA 76 (2005): 133–187. 52. See Maimonides’ commentary to m. Makkot 3:23 (ed. and trans. Joseph Qafih [Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1965], 165 [Hebrew]). See also Rabbi Aqiva’s midrash in y. Qiddushin 1:10, 61d, which may be understood as reflecting the same view. As Ed Sanders correctly noted, “Judaism does not regard the obligations which God imposed upon his people as onerous. They are instead regarded as a blessing.” See Ed P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1977), 110 (citing our very passage). He is entirely correct in saying that “there is no complaint anywhere in rabbinic literature about the burden of the commandments, despite the fact that they appear burdensome to New Testament scholars” (ibid., 110–111). 53. Genesis Rabbah 41:1 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 424). As was noted by Urbach (The Sages, 846, n. 90) and Sanders (Paul, 113 n. 42), in later midrashic sources the saying is attributed to Rabbi Aqiva.

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54. Marmorstein, “Judaism and Christianity,” 210. 55. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 320; ed. Lauterbach, 3.157). Compare the anonymous parallel in Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Exodus, 19:6 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 139): “And you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Ex. 19:6)— . . . this refers to the holiness of the commandments. For the more commandments the Holy One, blessed is He, adds to Israel He adds holiness to them.” However, the passage is attested to only by the very late Midrash Ha-Gadol. For other sources expressing this concept, see Urbach, The Sages, 366–368. 56. Urbach, ibid., 303. 57. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pish.a, 5 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 14; ed. Lauterbach, 1.33–34). 58. Compare the various answers offered to the question, On what grounds did Israel merit to be saved from Egypt? in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Vayehi be-Shalah. , 3 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 97–99; ed. Lauterbach, 216–222). 59. Note that it is specifically the blood of circumcision that is referred to by Rabbi Matia. And see Max Kadushin’s comment in his A Conceptual Approach to the Mekilta (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1969), 73–74. 60. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Vayehi be-Shalah. , 6 (ed. HorovitzRabin, 114–115; ed. Lauterbach, 1.252–255). Compare Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Ex. 14:31 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 70). 61. Urbach, The Sages, 35. 62. See Norman J. Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition in the ‘Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael’: The Meaning of ‘Amanah in the Second and Third Centuries,” AJS Review 9 (1984): 19. 63. Ibid., 20. 64. An additional clause appears at this point in the printed editions, which is unattested in the good manuscripts of the Mekhilta (see vareae lectiones in the Horovitz-Rabin edition, ad loc.). For this reason, I skipped it in my quotation. 65. According to various Tannaitic sources, the Holy Spirit enables one to know things that by nature one cannot know. See, for example, Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 7 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 139; ed. Lauterbach, 2.55): “But how did the Israelites know what Pharaoh had planned against them when he was still in Egypt? Rather, the Holy Spirit rested upon them and they knew what Pharaoh planned against them when he was still in Egypt.” See also Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Ex. 12:36 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 31); t. Pish.a 2:15 (ed. Lieberman, 147); t. Sotah 6:2–3 (ed. Lieberman, 183–184), along with Ezra Fleischer, “Towards a Clarification of the Expression ‘Pores ‘Al Shema’ ” Tarbiz 41 (1972): 142, n. 31 (Hebrew). 66. Most clearly, this can be sensed in the unwieldy flow of the material at the passing from section V to section VI, where Ps. 118:20 is cited without any introductory formula to indicate its function or its relation to the previous section, which ended with the quotation of Ex. 17:12. Note also the absence of this material from the Mekhilta quotation in Rabbi Isaac of Vienna’s, Or Zarua, Laws of Passover, 234 (Zitomeer: n.p., 1862), 2.110, and in Rabbi Abraham ben Nathan of

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Lunel’s, Sefer Ha-Manhig, ed. I. Rafael (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1978), 424, both noted by Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition,” 13. 67. So, too, Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition,” 13. 68. See his comment at 114, n. 15. 69. See n. 66. 70. As to Rabbi Isaac of Vienna, the author of Or Zarua, see Lieberman, Hayerushalmi Kiphshuto, introduction, 24. On Rabbi Abraham ben Nathan, the author of Sefer Ha-Manhig, see Raphael’s comment in his introduction, 22–24. 71. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 1 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 118; ed. Lauterbach, 2.7). Compare m. Sotah 5:4; t. Sotah 6:2–3 (ed. Lieberman, 183–184). 72. Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition,” 24. 73. Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition,” 15, writes: “The Israelites’ redemption from Egypt must be seen as being due to their observance of the mitzvoth, since this is the second case illustration of R. Nehemiah’s principle regarding ‘amanah. The derash here is most creative and forceful. Attached to the statement that Israel were redeemed from Egypt as a reward for their faith . . . is a proof text from Exodus 4:31: ‫‘—ויאמן העם וישמעו כי פקד ה‘ את בני ישראל‬And the people had faith; and when they heard that God had remembered the children of Israel . . .’ Though on a peshat level the verb ‫ פקד‬is understood as ‘remember,’ it can also mean ‘command.’ Therefore, the verse is interpreted as saying that Israel showed their faith in God when they had internalized (‫)וישמעו‬, i.e., accepted, His commandment(s).” Notwithstanding its ingenuity, this reading reflects a misunderstanding of the midrashic argument: for the homilist, the words “And they heard that God had remembered the children of Israel” (‫ )וישמעו כי פקד ה‘ את בני ישראל‬reflect the reward the Israelites merited to receive, not its cause. 74. Cohen, “Analysis of an Exegetic Tradition,” 7. See also Richard N. Longnecker, Galatians (Word Biblical Commentary, 41; Dallas: Word Books, 1990), 111: “For Judaism, then, trust in God and obedience to the law were inseparable.” 75. Cohen, ibid. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. Ibid. 79. Cohen, ibid., 19–25. 80. Cohen, ibid., 7, n. 27. See also Urbach, The Sages, 699, n. 46. 81. Cohen, ibid., 8, n. 29, citing the unpublished rabbinic thesis of Dan Dorfman (“Some Aspects of Faith in Rabbinic Literature,” Hebrew Union College Institute of Religion, New York, 1976) which, unfortunately, I did not see. 82. Urbach, The Sages, 35. 83. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Vayehi, 4 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 99–100; ed. Lauterbach, 1.222). 84. See Menahem I. Kahana, The Two Mekhiltot on the Amalek Portion (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1999), 334 (Hebrew).

218

notes to pages 116–121

85. See David Goodblatt, “The Story of the Plot Against R. Simeon B. Gamaliel II,” Zion 49 (1984): 349–374 (Hebrew). One should not rule out, of course, the possibility that the tradition concerning the use of “Ah.erim” as a soubriquet for Rabbi Meir was known to the author from an earlier, reliable source. 86. This, as Robert Wilken has shown, was the perspective from which the Romans, too, viewed the early Christians. See Robert Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984). 87. It is possible, though, that as time passed the early Christian communities were seen as different not merely because of their separate gatherings, but also because of their specific dogmas and beliefs, which were understood (by others) to be characteristic of their separate social and religious identity. Accordingly, the belief in Jesus as the Messiah (let alone as Lord), the comingling of Jews and gentiles (in meals and in other social activities), and the general negative tendency to the observance of the commandments could have been significant markers that set the early Christians apart. As a result, an attack on precisely these aspects of Christian identity (on the part of those who would think such an attack is needed) is almost naturally expected. This, in turn, gave rise to the commonly scholarly move to read various rabbinic sources that seem to raise these issues as a response to the Christian claims. 88. Genesis Rabbah 98:3 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 1252). 89. See also Genesis Rabbah 98:2 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 1250). 90. Genesis Rabbah 79:8 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 949–950). In Genesis Rabbah 80:4 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 955), this reading of Gen. 33:20 is attributed to Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish, who flourished in Palestine during the third century C.E. and was a contemporary of Rabbi Abbahu. 91. Leviticus Rabbah 36:4 (ed. Margulies, 846). 92. See Shamma Friedman, “Graven Images,” Graven Images 1 (1994): 233–238.

chapter 6 1. Song Rabbah 2:13 (ed. Donski, 71); b. Sanhedrin 97a; Tosefta Derekh Eretz, chap. “Rabbi Shimon,” 1 (ed. Michael Higger [New York: Moinester, 1935], 245). A similar tradition appears also in m. Sotah 9:15, but as noted by Jacob N. Epstein, the entire passage there is a late addition. See Jacob N. Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah (Jerusalem: Magnes and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1964), 976 (Hebrew). See also The Babylonian Talmud with Variant Readings . . . Tractate Sotah (II), ed. Abraham Liss (Jerusalem: Yad Harav Herzog, Institute for the Complete Israeli Talmud, 1979), 352, n. 157 (Hebrew). 2. The precise identity of this sage in not entirely clear, because there were many sages bearing this name, one of whom was a Tanna living in the second half of the second century C.E. See Chanoch Albeck, Introduction to the Talmud, Babli and Yerushalmi (Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1969), 676 (Hebrew). Albeck (ibid., 252) claims that

notes to pages 121–122

219

“Rabbi Yitzhak” (without a patronymic) in the Babylonian Talmud refers to Rabbi Yitzhak b. Naf ha, Rabbi Johanan’s disciple, who flourished in the second half of the third century C.E. As has been shown by Epstein, however, there are good reasons to think that it is, rather, Rabbi Yitzhak b. Yosef. The latter, too, was Rabbi Johanan’s disciple but slightly older than the former and flourished in the first half of that century. See Epstein, Introduction to the Text of the Mishnah, 148–149. 3. B. Sanhedrin 97a, in all manuscripts. The text of b. Sanhedrin 97a is quoted in Midrash Ha-Gadol on Genesis 41:1 (ed. Mordechai Margulies [Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1997], 685), but with a slight (and not insignificant) change: “until the entire world turns to minut.” Interestingly, such a reading is found in many early printed editions of the Talmud. See Raphaelo Rabbinovicz, Variae Lectiones in Mischnam et in Talmud Babylonicum, tract. Sanhedrin (reprint, Jerusalem: Ma’ayan Ha-Hohma, 1960), 286, n. a (Hebrew). 4. This view rests, obviously, also on the very common (but unstated) identification of minut as Christianity. It would not be out of place, therefore, to recall Marcel Simon’s comment: “The texts in which the minim are explicitly connected with Christianity are in fact very few.” See Marcel Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations Between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire (AD 135–425), trans. Hanry McKeating (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 183. 5. See Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 3. 6. See The Babylonian Talmud with Variant Readings, 355. 7. See also Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 220. 8. Boyarin, Dying for God, 3. For a similar interpretation, see Simon, Verus Israel, 187–188; Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. Israel Abrahams (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1987), 648. 9. This interpretation is not obvious at all, as various early rabbinic sources indicate that the rabbis were fantasizing about Romans wishing to join the Jewish people and to study Torah. See, for example, Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Shirta, 3 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 127; ed. Lauterbach, 2.26 [and parallels]), alongside Boyarin, Dying for God, 109–114 (and compare his earlier treatment of the same source in his Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash [Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990], 118–128); Sifre Deuteronomy 344 (ed. Finkelstein, 401), and its parallel in the [lost] Mekhilta to Deuteronomy (see Menahem Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta on Ha’azinu and Wezot ha-Berakha,” Tarbiz 57 [1988]: 196–198 [text] 183–185 [discussion in Hebrew]), and in y. Bava Qamma 4:3, 4b. One wonders whether these fantasies are not, in fact, overcompensations for feelings of inferiority, such as those echoed, for example, in Sifra, Aharei Mot, 13:9: “Still there is hope for the evil inclination to reflect on it and say: ‘theirs are nicer than ours.’ ” Maintaining here the meaning of “Esau” as a “pagan” Roman perfectly fits the text, then, and, moreover, it is in full agreement with the usual usage of this term throughout rabbinic literature, and is therefore preferable. See Arthur Marmorstein, “An Essay on the Historical Value of the Haggadah,” in Studies in Jewish Theology,

220

notes to pages 122–123

ed. Joseph Rabbinowitz and Myer S. Lew (London, New York, Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1950), Hebrew Section, 78–82. See also Johan Maier, Jüdische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Christentum in der Antike (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982), 263 n. 643. 10. See Ramsey MacMullen, Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eighth Centuries (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 2. 11. Ibid., 3. 12. Ibid., 5. 13. Ramsey MacMullen, “What Difference Did Christianity Make?” Historia 35 (1986): 322–343. 14. Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1991), 4. See also: Judith Evans-Grubbs, “ ‘Pagan’ and ‘Christian’ Marriage: The State of the Question,” JECS 2 (1994): 361–412; idem, Law and Family in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 317–321. For Palestine, see Joan E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 298–306. 15. Cameron, ibid. 16. See Robert L. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late 4th Century (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1983), 31. 17. See Peter R. L. Brown, Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of the Christianisation of the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 7. 18. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews, 30. On the slow Christianization of Syria, see J. H. G. W. Liebeschuetz, “Epigraphic Evidence on the Christianisation of Syria,” in Limes: Akten des 11. Internationalen Limeskongresses, ed. J. Fitz (Budapest: Akademiai Kiado, 1981), 485–508. As noted by John Haldon, paganism was still very strong in Syria even in the sixth and seventh centuries. See John F. Haldon, Byzantium in the Seventh Century: The Transformation of a Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 327–337. 19. See Yaron Dan, The City in Eretz-Israel During the Late Roman and Byzantine Periods (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 1984), 14 (Hebrew). See also Zeev Rubin, “Christianity in Byzantine Palestine: Missionary Activity and Religious Coercion,” Jerusalem Cathedra 3 (1983), 97–113; David Goodblatt, “The Political and Social History of the Jewish Community in the Land of Israel, c. 235–638,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. 4: The Late Roman—Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 405–410. Compare Uzi Leibner, “Settlement and Demography in Late Roman and Byzantine Eastern Galilee,” in Settlements and Demography in the Near East in Late Antiquity, ed. Ariel S. Lewin and Pietrina Pellegrini (Pisa and Rome: Instituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali, 2006), 105–129. 20. See Yaron Dan, Studies in the History of Palestine in the RomanByzantine Period (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi: 2006), 22–31 (Hebrew). See also Glen W. Bowersock, “Polytheism and Monotheism in Arabia and the Three

notes to pages 123–124

221

Palestines,” DOP 51 (1997): 1–10. Yoram Tsafrir’s claim that, “By around the year 400 C.E., the Christians constituted the majority in Palestine,” appears to ignore recent developments in the study of the population of Palestine in late antiquity. See Yoram Tsafrir, “The Fate of Pagan Cult Places in Palestine: The Archaeological Evidence with Emphasis on Beth Shean,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine, ed. Hayim Lapin (Bethesda: University of Maryland Press, 1998), 179. 21. See Magen Broshi, “The Population of Western Palestine in the Roman-Byzantine Period,” BASOR 236 (1979): 5; Joseph Geiger, “Aspects of Palestinian Paganism in Late Antiquity,” in Sharing the Sacred: Religious Contacts and Conflicts in the Holy Land First-Fifteenth Centuries ce, ed. Arie Kofsky and Guy G. Stroumsa (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998), 9–10; Nicole Belayche, Iudaea Palaestina: The Pagan Cults in Roman Palestine (Second to Fourth Century) (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 304. For a detailed discussion of the Vita Porphyrii, from which this testimony is taken, see Zeev Rubin, “Porphyrius of Gaza and the Conflict between Christianity and Paganism in the Holy Land during the Byzantine Period,” in Sharing the Sacred, 31–66. 22. Belayche, Judaea-Palaestina, 298. See also: Doron Bar, “The Christianization of Rural Palestine During Late Antiquity,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 54 (2003): 406–409. 23. See Fergus Millar, “Transformations of Judaism under GraecoRoman Rule: Responses to Seth Schwartz’s ‘Imperialism and Jewish Society,’ ” JJS 57 (2006): 154. See also: Asher Ovadiah, Corpus of the Byzantine Churches in the Holy Land (Bonn: Hanstein, 1970), 186: “The large-scale systematic erection of churches began in the days of the emperor Constantine after the Edict of Milan in 313.” 24. See Leah Di Segni, “Epigraphic Documentation on Buildings in the Provinces of Palestina and Arabia, 4th–7th c.,” in The Roman and Byzantine Near East, II, ed. John H. Humphrey (Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement, 31; Portsmouth, 1999), 149–178. 25. See Ovadiah, Corpus, 193. 26. See, for example, Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient Churches Revealed (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993). 27. See Bar, “Christianization,” 402. See also Martin Goodman, “Palestinian Rabbis and the Conversion of Constantine to Christianity,” in The Talmud Yerushalmi and Graeco-Roman Culture, II, ed. Peter Schäfer and Catherine Hezser (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 3. 28. Bar, ibid. 29. Millar, “Transformations of Judaism,” 154. In a very similar formulation, Günter Stemberger emphasized that “a bishop’s seat does not necessarily imply the existence of a large Christian congregation.” See Günter Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land: Palestine in the Fourth Century (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, 2000), 50. 30. Millar, ibid. 31. See Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 179.

222

notes to pages 124–125

32. See Moshe D. Herr, “Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature (Its Images and Conception),” Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1970, 95–114 (Hebrew); N. R. M. de Lange, “Jewish Attitudes to the Roman Empire,” in Imperialism in the Ancient World, ed. P. D. A. Garnsey and C. R. Whittaker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 255–281; Philip S. Alexander, “The Evil Empire: The Qumran Eschatological War Cycle and the Origins of Jewish Opposition to Rome,” in Emanuel: Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emanuel Tov, ed. Shalom Paul et al. (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), 17–31; Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land, 283–285; Philip F. Esler, “Rome in Apocalyptic and Rabbinic Literature,” The Gospel of Matthew in Its Roman Imperial Context, ed. John Riches and David C. Sim (Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series, 276; London and New York: Continuum, 2005), 9–28. 33. See Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 181. 34. Compare Burton Visotzky, “Anti-Christian Polemic in Leviticus Rabbah,” PAAJR 56 (1990): 83–100. 35. See Zvi M. Rabbinovitz (ed.), The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Yannai According to the Triennial Cycle of the Pentateuch and the Holidays (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, and Tel-Aviv: University of Tel-Aviv Press, 1985), 2.87–88 (Hebrew). Schwartz (Imperialism, 268–270) discusses another piyyut by Yannai where Edom is mentioned, and reads Christianity into the text without even taking the effort to justify his interpretation. The text itself, however, says nothing of Christianity, only of Edom, that is the Roman Empire. The assumption that the latter necessarily implies the Christian empire is the heart of the question! 36. See Johan Maier, “The Piyyut ‘Ha’omrim le-khilay shoa and Anti-Christian Polemics,” in Studies in Aggadah, Targum and Jewish Liturgy in Memory of Joseph Heinemann, ed. Jacob J. Petuchowski and Ezra Fleischer (Jerusalem: Magnes and Hebrew Union College, 1981), 102. Following Fleischer, Maier indeed questions the anti-Christian character of the entire poem and suggests, instead, that it was composed with paganism in mind. This is in line with his general tendency to minimize the extent of anti-Christian polemic in rabbinic literature of late antiquity. See his Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung (Darmstadt: Buchengeselschaft, 1978). Compare Rabbinovitz, The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Yannai, 2.220–222; Joseph Yahalom, Poetry and Society in Galilee of Late Antiquity (Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1999), 73–75 (Hebrew). 37. Maier, “The Piyyut ‘Ha‘omrim le-khilay shoa,” ibid. 38. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Vayehi Beshalach, 2 (ed. HorovitzRabin, 93). For some examples (without any pretense to exhaust the material), see Sifre Deuteronomy 323 (ed. Finkelstein, 373); ibid., 332 (ed. Finkelstein, 381); ibid., 333 (ed. Finkelstein, 382); Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, the end of the Proem to Tractate Vayehi Beshalach (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 82; ed. Lauterbach, 1.186); Sifre Deuteronomy 327–8 (ed. Finkelstein, 378); and Mekhilta on Deut. 32:37. See Menahem I. Kahana, The Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim, Part I (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2005), 354 (Hebrew). See also Saul Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries,” JQR 36 (1946): 344–364; Herr, “Roman Rule,”

notes to pages 125–127

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95–114; Seth Schwartz, “Political, Social, and Economic Life in the Land of Israel 66–c. 235,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. 4: The Late Roman—Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 28. It is true that during the Severan age things may have changed for the better, but the Talmudic and midrashic literature does not reveal any sign that the rabbis changed their opinion of Rome dramatically. The famous Talmudic sugya in b. Shabbat 33b, in which a positive view of Rome is given expression by its attribution to Rabbi Judah (i.e., Rabbi Judah ben Ilai, Rabbi Aqiva’s disciple), is typically Babylonian in its spirit, and to the best of my knowledge has no confirmation in any Palestinian source, either of the Tannaitic or of the Amoraic era. 39. As noted by Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries,” 344: “the reign of Constantius (337–361) was a dark period for the Jews in Palestine. Oppression and robbery by the officials and tax-collectors prevailed throughout the Roman empire.” 40. Gerson D. Cohen, “Esau as Symbol in Early Medieval Thought,” in idem, Studies in the Variety of Rabbinic Cultures (Philadelphia and New York: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 263, n. 34. 41. Stemberger may be exaggerating in claiming that “No single rabbinic statement, taken by itself, can be understood as an indisputably proven reaction to Christianity as the new power” (Jews and Christians in the Holy Land, 287). He is certainly correct, however, in my opinion, in problematizing the widespread assumption concerning the anti-Christian character of much of classical rabbinic literature. 42. The most extreme form of this flaw is the recently heard suggestion that the virtually complete silence of rabbinic literature concerning Christianity should itself be considered a polemical response against Christianity. See, for example, Jacob Neusner, Judaism and Christianity in the Age of Constantine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 14. Because of the growing popularity of such a line of thought, it would not be out of place to recall Karl Popper’s demand that a scientific hypothesis include the conditions for its falsification and to ask, what would constitute a valid argument against such a suggestion? For a different criticism of Neusner’s suggestion, see Goodman, “Palestinian Rabbis and the Conversion of Constantine,” 4–9. 43. Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Hodesh ha-Ze, 9 (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.96–97); Song Rabbah, 2:13 (ed. Donski, 70–71). The vulgar printed text of the latter reads: “That is the Samaritan Kingdom.” However, this reading is probably the result of the Christian censorship, and in medieval manuscripts (e.g., Vatican Ebr. 76) the reading is ‫מלכות הרשעה‬, as in Psiqta de-Rav Kahana. On the date of these two midrashic compilations, see Herman L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 295 (Psiqta de-Rav Kahana), 315 (Song Rabbah). 44. The allusion to Elijah derives, first and foremost, from the view that saw him as a messianic figure, on which see John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature

224

notes to pages 127–128

(New York: Doubleday, 1995), 113–122. This is not the only reason for the reference to Elijah, however; it is also a result of his use of the same verb in his call to God on Mount Carmel (1 Kings, 18:37: ‫)ענני ה‘ ענני‬. That story, it should be recalled, is a story about the defeat of idolatry; therefore, the midrash’s reference to it may be not only for technical reasons (i.e., as a result of a mere occurrence of the same phrase in both verses), but an expression of the view that Elijah’s defeat of Baal worship is, in a sense, paradigmatic for the future messianic age. 45. See Pesikta de-Rab Kahana: R. Kahana’s Compilation of Discourses for Sabbaths and Festal Days, ed. and trans. William G. Braude (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1978), 108–109, n. 75. 46. Cf. Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Homiletical Interpretations of the Sages and the Expositions of Origen on Canticles,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971): 247–275; idem, The Sages, 545. 47. See Midrash Rabbah Shir Ha-Shirim, ed. Shimshon Donski (Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1980), 70, n. 2. 48. On the variant reading, “entices mortals” (‫)מסיתה את הבריות‬, see n. 50. 49. Sifre Deuteronomy 87 (ed. Finkelstein, 151). See also: Genesis Rabbah 99:11 (ed. Theodor-Albeck, 1280): “ ‘And his clothes (‫ )סותה‬in the blood of grapes’ (Gen. 49:11)—‘his clothes’ (‫ )סותה‬means nothing but an error (‫אין סותה אלא‬ ‫)טעות‬. As it is written: ‘If your brother [ . . . entices you]’ (‫( )כי יסיתך‬Deut. 13:7). If they err in a matter of halakha, it will be cleared in his territory.” Compare Ahron Shemesh, Punishments and Sins: From Scripture to the Rabbis (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2003), 153–154 (Hebrew). 50. Indeed, according to the reading found in MS. Oxford 2334/11, the “wicked Kingdom” is accused explicitly of enticing mortals (‫)מסיתה את הבריות‬. This reading is found also in the parallel in Song Rabbah, both in the editio princeps and in MS Vatican ebr. 76 (which is probably the best text-witness of this midrashic work; see H. E. Steller, “Preliminary Remarks to a New Edition of Shir Hashirim Rabbah,” in Rashi 1040–1990, Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna [Paris: Cerf, 1993], 302–303). However, in all likelihood this reading is secondary, for it is difficult to assume that such an unambiguous reading would have been altered to a reading that is more difficult to understand: ‫מתעה‬, whereas the reverse is easy to conceive. Indeed, even the much later parallels to our midrash in Psiqta Rabbati 15 (ed. Friedman, 74b), and in the long recension of Midrash Tanhuma, as preserved in a Genizah fragment (see Jacob Mann, The Bible as Read and Preached in the Old Synagogue [Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1940], Hebrew section, 113), still retain the reading ‫מתעה‬, as found in Psiqta de-Rav Kahana. 51. Because, however, the Roman Empire had not yet disappeared when the midrash was composed, it read these verses in Song 2:10–13 as a messianic prophecy. Hence, “He [will] say to me through the King Messiah.” 52. B. Sotah 47a (= b. Sanhedrin 106b), according to the reading of the medieval manuscripts and early printed editions of the Talmud. See The Babylonia Talmud with Variant Readings, 301–303. 53. Ottiot de-Rabbi Aqiva, version B, in Batei Midrashot, ed. Shlomo Wertheimer, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Mosad Ha-Rav Kook, 1955), 2.408–409. The

notes to pages 128–129

225

concluding remark—“but not the son of your father”—should be understood in light of the widespread accusation of Jesus in Jewish sources of late antiquity as being a son of a Jewish woman who committed adultery with a Roman soldier, thereby being a Jew only from his mother’s side. Compare Yehuda Liebes, “Christian Influences in the Zohar,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 2,1 (1982–1983): 67–69 (Hebrew). It must be noted that this midrashic work is probably not earlier than the ninth century C .E. See Moshe D. Herr, “Midrash,” Encyclopedia Judaica, XI (1971), col. 1516. 54. See also Psiqta Rabbati 28 (ed. Friedman, 134), in which the words “my mother’s sons” (‫ )בני אמי‬in Song 1:6 are interpreted as referring to false prophets. Admittedly, this is a relatively late midrashic compilation. See Herr, ibid. 55. In support of this suggestion, one could draw attention to yet another element in our midrash, which at first glance might, too, seem to be associating it with Christianity. That is, the reference to Melchizedek as one of the four messianic figures hinted at (according to our midrash) by Zech. 2:3: “ ‘The flowers appear on the earth—[that is as] Rabbi Isaac said: ‘And the Lord showed me four craftsman’ (Zech. 2:3). Who are they? Elijah, the king Messiah, Melchizedek, and the ‘Anointed [for the time] of war’ ” (Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ha-Hodesh ha-Ze, 9 [ed. Mandelbaum, 1.97); Song Rabbah, 2:13 (ed. Donski, 71). How, and on what basis, was Melchizedek introduced into a list of messianic figures? How did he become a “rabbinic” messianic figure? After all, there is no hint at such a function of Malkizedek in the two places in the Hebrew Bible where he is mentioned (Gen. 14:18, and Ps. 110:4), and other rabbinic traditions seem to be unfavorable of him. See Leviticus Rabbah 25:6 (ed. Margulies, 3.580); b. Nedarim 32b; Jacob J. Petuchowski, “The Controversial Figure of Melchizedek,” HUCA 28 (1957): 127–136; Joseph Heinemann, Aggadah and Its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), 98–102 (Hebrew). It is certainly not a mere coincidence that in one parallel to our midrash the name was altered to Kohen Zedek (b. Sukkah 52b, in all extant text-witnesses save MS Munich 95; see Rabbinovicz, Variae Lectiones in Mischnam et in Talmud Babylonicum, tract. Sukka, 170, n. 8), and in another parallel the name of Melchizedek is omitted from the list altogether. See Mann, The Bible as Read and Preached, Hebrew section, 113. One could therefore raise the possibility that we hear here an echo of the Christian identification of Malkizedek with the (Christian) Messiah, Jesus, as it appears in the Epistle to the Hebrews. See Paul J. Kobelski, Melchizedek and Melchiresˇ ac (Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series, 10; Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1981), 115–129. Notwithstanding the temptation to accept this possibility, we must bear in mind that this aspect of our midrash need not necessarily be explained as a Christian influence on rabbinic messianic expectations, certainly not a direct borrowing from the Epistle to the Hebrews. For, Malkizedek appears as a messianic figure already in Qumran literature, and there is no reason to assume that speculations regarding his messianic character were not circulating in Jewish society of the late Second Temple period. See Adam S. van der Woude, “Melchisedek als himmlische Erlösergestalt in den neugefundenen eschatologischen Midraschim aus Qumran Höhle XI,” OTS 14 (1965): 354–373; Kobelski, Melchizedek and Melchiresˇ ac; Collins, Scepter and Star, 118–119.

226

notes to pages 129–131

56. See Aharon Hyman, Toldot Tannaim Ve-Amoraim (London: Express, 1910), 3.980. In the parallel to our midrash, found in the longer recension of Midrash Tanhuma (see n. 50), the saying is attributed to “Rabbi Tanhuma.” I take this reading as secondary, as it contradicts all others sources, in which the midrash is attributed to Rabbi Azzariah. 57. See b. Sotah 47a; b. Sanhedrin 43a; b. Sanhedrin 107b, according to the reading of medieval manuscripts and early printed editions of the Talmud. See The Babylonia Talmud with Variant Readings, 301–303. Indeed, as has been recently noted by Peter Schäfer, in contrast to conventional assumptions, most of the explicit references to Christianity in classical rabbinic literature are to be found, as surprising as it may sound, specifically in the Babylonian Talmud, not in Palestinian sources! See Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 113–115. The famous story in b. Avoda Zara 4b, in which Rabbi Abbahu tells the minim that “we,” Palestinian rabbis, “are in close proximity to you and take care to study Scripture” so as to be able to engage in polemic with you, while “they,” the Babylonians, “are not familiar with you” and therefore they do not pay attention to such matters—is a Babylonian story, which has no parallel in any Palestinian source to support a Palestinian origin. As I have suggested elsewhere, it should not be read naively as a simple reflection of historical reality but, rather, should be taken as a warning directed to Babylonian students to be vigilant to study Scripture, precisely because they might be called to reply to a “word of minut” in their own place, in Babylonia. See Adiel Schremer, “Stammaitic Historiography,” in Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey L. Rubbenstein (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2005), 223–224. That there were indeed such lively polemics between Jews and Christians in Sassanian Babylonia is proven by Aphrahat’s homilies against the Jews and by other sources as well. See Naomi Koltun, “Jewish-Christian Polemics in Fourth-Century Persian Mesopotamia: A Reconstructed Conversation,” Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 1994; idem, “A Jewish-Christian Conversation in Fourth-Century Persian Mesopotamia,” JJS 47 (1996): 45–63; idem, “Aphrahat and Rabbis on Noah’s Righteousness in Light of the Jewish-Christian Polemic,” in The Book of Genesis in Jewish and Oriental Christian Interpretation, ed. Judith Frishman and Lucas Van Rompay (Traditio Exegetica Graeca, 5; Louvain: Peeters, 1997), 57–71. 58. See Adiel Schremer, “Midrash and History: God’s Power, the Roman Empire, and Hopes for Redemption in Tannaitic Literature,” Zion 72 (2007): 29 (Hebrew). 59. See Schremer, “Midrash and History,” 5–34; idem, “Eschatology, Violence, and Suicide: An Early Rabbinic Theme and Its Influence in the Middle Ages,” in Apocalypse and Violence, ed. Abbas Amanat and John J. Collins (New Haven: Yale Center for International and Area Studies, 2002), 19–27. 60. Sifre Deuteronomy 252 (ed. Finkelstein, 278). The principle that “great is brotherhood” is ascribed by Midrash Tannaim on Deuteronomy 23:8 (ed. Hoffman, 146) to Rabbi Joshua ben Qorh. ah, who flourished in Palestine in the second half of the second century C .E. However, his argument there is not entirely

notes to page 131

227

clear. It should be noted, nonetheless, that whereas the Sifre reads Deut. 23:8 as a general prohibition against abhorrence of the Edomites and the Egyptians (probably as a result of a negation to the previous verse, which says of the Moabites and the Amonites: “You shall not seek their peace nor their prosperity all your days for ever”), the tradition in Midrash Tannaim interprets Deut. 23:8 as dealing specifically with marriage with Edomites and Egyptians. The reason for this is probably the reading of that verse in light of the following one: “Children that are begotten of them shall enter into the congregation of the Lord in their third generation.” Whether this tradition is indeed Tannaitic (as assumed by Hoffman) is difficult to prove. 61. On “Edom” as appellation for Rome in rabbinic literature, see Gerson D. Cohen, “Esau as Symbol,” 19–48. Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 7 vols. (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1968), 5.272, n. 19, argued that “The appellation of Edom for Rome is rarely found in tannaitic sources.” Similarly, Neusner has shown that “ ‘Edom’ in the sense of Rome does not occur [in the Mishnah and in the Tosefta].” See idem, Judaism in the Matrix of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress 1986), 76. According to Neusner, a shift from Tannaitic to Amoraic sources (and therefore times) can be noticed; “Esau” and “Edom” begin to function as appellations for Rome only in the later rabbinic works, not in the early, Tannaitic sources. As Ginzberg himself noted, however, “the use of the names Edom, Seir, Esau, and similar ones, to describe Rome is very old, and was probably coined at the time of Herod” (ibid.). Neusner’s argument, too, is misleading because he arbitrarily excluded other Tannaitic sources from the discussion, that is, the Tannaitic Midrashim, which were compiled and edited at approximately the same time as the Mishnah and the Tosefta (see introduction, n. 98), and that are much closer in their literary genre (i.e., midrash) to that of Genesis Rabbah than the Mishnah is. 62. Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Zakhor, proem (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.36). Admittedly, this midrash is preserved only in one manuscript (see Mandelbaum’s note at 35, n. 1), and is probably a late insertion into the text. Nevertheless, it is attributed to Rabbi Levi, who was a third-century Palestinian sage, so the possibility that the passage itself is early (contrary to the question of the date of its incorporation into the midrashic compilation at our disposal) should not be ruled out. Note that the same manuscript, at the end of the previous section, Ki Tisa, has an additional passage that is unattested by other text-witnesses (see the critical apparatus in Mandelbaum’s edition, at 34). However, that passage begins with the words ‫בספר רומי‬ ´‫כת‬, that is, “In a manuscript [brought from] Rome it is written. . . . ” It is possible that the passage with which we are dealing, and that stands at the beginning of parahshat Zakhor, is, in fact, a continuation of the text copied from that ancient Italian manuscript brought from Rome. A few pages earlier, in that same parasha, the same manuscript has another such passage, the beginning of which is ‫זה היה נעתק מספר‬ [!] ‫הבא מלו מרדיא‬, that is, “The following was copied from a manuscript brought from Lombardia.” I rendered Lam. 5:7, quoted at the end of the passage, in accordance with the midrash’s understanding of that verse. The RSV has it as “We have given the hand

228

notes to pages 131–134

to Egypt,” which may reflect more accurately the plain meaning of the verse but certainly not the way our midrash read it. 63. Literally, “my shame,” which is a euphemism for one’s private area. However, there is a hidden wordplay here, as the Roman’s request “so that I may cover my shame” appears to be alluding to Obad. 1:10: “For the violence you have done to your brother Jacob shame shall cover you.” I hope to return to this point elsewhere. 64. See Ecclesiastes Rabbah, 11:1 (trans. A. Cohen [London: Soncino Press, 1983], 285–287). 65. On Esau as an appellation for Rome in classical rabbinic literature, see Cohen, “Esau as Symbol.” 66. Hebrew: ‫חומסך‬, that is, “robs you.” The midrash is rendering here the biblical ‫ מחמס‬of Obad. 1:10 (which in Biblical Hebrew carries the general sense of violence) in accordance with the meaning of the root in Mishnaic Hebrew, in which ‫ חמס‬means “theft,” “robbery.” 67. Deuteronomy Rabbah, Deuteronomy, 22 (ed. Lieberman, 22–23). 68. Along similar lines, we find in Psiqta Rabbati the following comment: “ ‘Do not abhor an Edomite’ (Deut. 23:8)—for what reason? ‘For he is your brother’ (ibid.). Whether he is good, or bad, he is your brother.” See Psiqta Rabbati, 12 (ed. Friedmann, 48). This homily is based on Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Zakhor, 3 (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.42), but the citation of Deut. 23:8 there is for its second part, which speaks of the Egyptian. See Mandelbaum’s correct note, ad loc. 69. See Rabinovitz, The Liturgical Poems of Rabbi Yannai, 2.124. 70. See Moseh D. Herr, “Martyrdom and Persecution in Hadrians Days,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971), 85. Indeed, various rabbinic sources emphasize the equality of all human beings, Jews and non-Jews alike. Cf. Morton Smith, “On the Shape of God and the Humanity of Gentiles,” in Religion in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, ed. Jacob Neusner (Leiden: Brill, 1968), 315–326; Ephraim E. Urbach, “ ‘Kol ha-Meqayyem Nefesh Ahat . . . ’: Development of the Version, Vicissitudes of Censorship, and Business Manipulations of Printers,” Tarbiz 40 (1971): 268–284 (Hebrew); idem, Studies in Judaica (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1998), 2.521–522 (Hebrew). I do not claim that this is the most prevalent voice in rabbinic literature. Its existence, however, must not be suppressed in favor of other voices that express a clear particularistic stance. See also Rabbi Johannan’s reference to the non-Jew as “your brother” in Deuteronomy Rabbah, Ki Tetze, 9 (ed. Lieberman, 105), and Rabbi Joshua ben Levi’s explicit statement that “Esau is your brother,” in Tanhuma, Pequdey, 7. 71. Sifre Deuteronomy 322 (ed. Finkelstein, 371). See also the similar claim in Sifre Deuteronomy 356 (ed. Finkelstein, 424), which is a midrash on the words “Your enemies shall come fawning to you” (Deut. 33:29). Cf. Gideon Bohak, “Kittim and Dodanim and Rodanim and Samaritans,” Tarbiz 70 (2001): 301–303 (Hebrew). A very common view maintains that according to “the Rabbis” there is an essential hatred toward Jews among the Gentiles. Those who hold this view cite, as a prooftext, a famous saying attributed to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai: “By law it is

notes to pages 134–135

229

established that Esau hates Jacob” (‫ הלכה בידוע שעשו שונא ליעקב‬:‫)רבי שמעון בן יוחי אומר‬. See Sifre Numbers 69 (ed. Horovitz, 65). The reliance on this saying is entirely mistaken, however, for two major reasons: (1) the word ‫“( הלכה‬by law”) is unattested by any manuscript, save for the printed editions, so the saying cannot be regarded as a “normative halakha” as it is very often treated (as if such a saying could be regarded a halakha at all); and (2) the saying is Rabbi Shimon’s answer to the question, “Why is the word ‫“( ”וישקהו‬and he kissed him”) in Gen. 33:4 dotted in a scroll of Torah? In contrast to an anonymous opinion, that these dots are meant to hint that Esau did not actually kiss his brother Jacob (“It is dotted to tell that he did not kiss him wholeheartedly”), Rabbi Shimon maintains that Esau did kiss Jacob wholeheartedly. His argument is that precisely because it is obvious in the biblical narrative that Esau hated Jacob, it was necessary for the scribes to dot the word ‫וישקהו‬, so that one will not doubt the accuracy of the text (i.e., these dots function in a manner similar to our use of the Latin word sic when copying an erroneously spelled word). The argument, therefore, refers specifically to the two biblical heroes, without expressing any judgment regarding the relationships between Gentiles (“Esau”) and Jews (“Jacob”) in general. 72. Ibid. 73. A similar disappointment is expressed in a story about the sages of Israel, who, on the advice of a noble Roman woman, protested in Rome against the religious decrees inflicted by the Romans on the Jews of the land of Israel. In that story, the author puts in the mouth of the protesting rabbis the call: “Aren’t we brothers? Aren’t we the children of the same father? Aren’t we the children of the same mother?” See b. Rosh HaShanah 19a (= b. Ta’anit 18a); Scholion to Megilat Ta’anit, 28th of Adar, according to MS Parma. See Vered Noam, Megillat Ta’anit: Versions, Interpretation, History, with a Critical Edition (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2003), 128–129. See also b. Pesahim 118b, and cf. Herr, “Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature,” 107. 74. See Daniel R. Schwartz, The Second Book of Maccabees: Introduction, Hebrew Translation, and Commentary (Jerusalem: Yad Bed Zvi, 2004), 73; Reidar Aasgaard, “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul (JSNT Supplement Series, 265; London: T. and T. Clark, 2004); Philip A. Harland, “Familial Dimensions of Group Identity: ‘Brothers’ ($'(/)2,) in Associations of the Greek East,” JBL 124 (2005): 491–513. 75. Thus, we read in Midrah Tannaim on Deut. 22:5 (ed. Hoffman, 134), which is probably based on the lost Mekhilta to Deuteronomy (cf. Kahana, “Pages of the Deuteronomy Mekhilta,” 184, n. 97): “ ‘To any of your brother’s lost property’ (Deut. 22:5)—not that of a non-Jew.” The opinion that the commandment to return lost property does not apply to the lost property of a non-Jew is presented as a famous and undisputed halakhic opinion in the story about the two Roman officials who went to study Torah with Rabban Gamliel, as it appears in the Mekhilta on Deut. 33:3 (see Kahana, ibid., 196; idem, The Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim, 356), and in a presumably Tannaitic source quoted in y. Bava Metzia 2:5, 8c (cf. Yerushalmi Neziqin Edited from the Escorial Manuscript, ed. Eliezer S. Rosenthal

230

notes to pages 135–139

and Saul Lieberman [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1983], 48): “All agree that his [= the gentile’s] lost property is permitted [for use].” See also Rav’s midrash in b. Bava Qama 113b: “ ‘To all of your brother’s lost property’ (Deut. 22:3)—to your brother you are required to return; you are not required to return to a non-Jew.” 76. See, for example, Deut. 21:1; 23:10. This is indeed the argument of Rabbi Jonathan in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 324; ed. Lauterbach, 3.163), but as we shall shortly see, most rabbis did not follow this path. 77. See Menahem I. Kahana, Sifre Zuta on Deuteronomy: Citations from a new Tannaitic Midrash (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2002), 327–328. 78. See Mekhilta de-Rashbi on Ex. 23:4 (ed. Epstein-Melamed, 215). 79. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Kaspa, 20 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 324; ed. Lauterbach, 3.163–164). 80. See also Sifre Deuteronomy 16 (ed. Finkelstein, 26): “ ‘Hear the cases between your brethren’ (Deut. 1:16)—this was Rabbi Ishmael’s custom: When a Jew and a non-Jew would come before him for judgment, whether it was according to Jewish law, or according to non-Jewish law, he would decide the matter in favor of the Jew. He said: I do not care; has not the Torah said, ‘Hear the cases between your brethren’?” Clearly, for Rabbi Ishmael the term “your brethren” includes only Jews. This is stated plainly in Sifre Deuteronomy 278 (ed. Finkelstein, 296): “ ‘Of your brethren’ (Deut. 24:14)—not of non-Jews.” 81. Sifre Deuteronomy 222 (ed. Finkelstein, 255). 82. As to the precise meaning of this phrase, see Adiel Schremer, “Ah.im Ah.erim,” Reshit 1 (2009): 178–181 (Hebrew). 83. It should be noted, therefore, that in later, Amoraic halakhic discussions we indeed hear a different voice, according to which the commandment of return of lost property includes also the property of a non-Jew. See, for example, the stories in y. Bava Metzia 2:5, 8c (= Yerushalmi Neziqin, ed. Rosenthal and Lieberman, 48), in which we are told that “The Torah commanded us to return [to a non-Jew his lost property],” and that Rabbi Shmuel bar Sosarti returned to the Roman queen something she had lost only because of his fear of God (i.e., because he believed God commanded to do so). See also Rabbi Pinhas ben Yair’s opinion is b. Bava Qamma 113b. 84. Sifra, Nedava, 2 (ed. Finkelstein, 20–21). Compare b. Hullin 5a, along with Donniel Hartman, The Boundaries of Judaism (London and New York: Continuum, 2007), 40–41. 85. The issue is complex, because the midrash’s understanding of the meaning of the phrase “of you” must be discussed in light of other places where this phrase appears. Cf. Louis Finkelstein, Mabo le-Massektot Abot ve-Abot d’Rabbi Natan (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950), 226–227, n. 4 (Hebrew). I hope to discuss this issue in more detail in the future. 86. On these two views more broadly, see Daniel R. Schwartz, Studies in the Jewish Background of Christianity (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1991),

notes to pages 139–141

231

5–15; idem, “On Two Aspects of a Priestly View of Descent at Qumran,” in Archaeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman (JSOT Monographs, 2; Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1990), 157–179. 87. As we are told in many Tannaitic texts, “the proselyte is equal to the born Jew with respect to all the commandments of the Torah.” See Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Pisha, 15 (ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 57; ed. Lauterbach, 1.128); Sifre Numbers 71 (ed. Horovitz, 67); Sifre Numbers 109 (ed. Horovitz, 113). Cf. Daniel R. Schwartz, Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1990), 127. See also t. Nedarim 2:4 (ed. Lieberman, 104). 88. B. Avoda Zara 26a. Compare t. Bava Metzia 2:33 (ed. Lieberman, 72), and see chapter 2, n. 63. 89. T. Shabbat 13:5 (ed. Lieberman, 58). 90. Cf. John A. McGuckin, “Origen on the Jews,” Studies in Church History, 29 (1992): 1–13 (= Christianity in Relation to Jews, Greeks, and Romans, ed. Evert Ferguson [New York and London: Garland, 1999], 23–35). See also Paul M. Blowers, “Origen, the Rabbis, and the Bible: Toward a Picture of Judaism and Christianity in Third-Century Caesarea,” in Origen of Alexandria: His World and His Legacy, ed. Charles Kannengiesser and William L. Petersen (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame University Press, 1988), 96–116. 91. See Saul Lieberman, “The Martyrs of Caesarea,” Annuaire de l’institut de philologie et d’hisoire orientales et slaves, 7 (1939–1944): 409. Compare Boyarin, Border Lines, 220. 92. Cf. Sefer Ravya on Tractate Avoda Zara, ad b. Avoda Zara 13a (ed. David Develitzki [Benei Beraq: no publisher, 1976], 27). Ra‘vya attributes this halakhic opinion to his “teachers.” 93. Rabbi Menahem ha-Meiri (Provence, second half of the thirteenth century) writes along a similar line of thought but in a more generalized fashion, in his commentary on b. Horayot 11a: “Whoever bears the name Israel and acts wantonly and desecrates the religion his punishment is very severe, since he became a min and as one who has no law. Hence, whoever has entirely removed himself from the community and become a member of another religion, he is considered by us a member of that religion that he had joined.” In ha-Meiri’s view, it must be noted, a member of another religion is not considered an idol worshipper; quite to the contrary. “The nations who are bound by the manners of religions” are treated by him as “your fellow,” that is, as nations who “Share with you Torah and commandments”! See his commentary on b. Bava Metzia 59a, in Beth Habehira: Commentarius in Tractatum Talmudicum Baba Mezia Auctore R. Salomo Qui Appelatur Hameiri (ed. Kalman Schlesinger [Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1974]), 219. Cf. Michael Waltzer, Menachem Lorberbaum, Noam J. Zohar, and Ari Ackerman (eds.), The Jewish Political Tradition, Vol. 2: Membership (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2003), 337; Moshe Halbertal, Between Torah and Wisdom: Rabbi Menachem ha-Meiri and the Maimonidean Halakhists in Provance (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2000), 80–108 (Hebrew).

232

notes to pages 143–144

chapter 7 1. For other, nonrabbinic sources mentioning the kinship relationship between Onkelos and Titus, see Adiel Schremer, “Kinship Terminology and Endogamous Marriage in Tannaitic and Talmudic Period,” Zion 60 (1995): 9 (Hebrew). 2. Mark Geller attempted to relate this phrase to magic formulas found inscribed on some magic bowls. See Mark J. Geller, “Joshua b. Perahia and Jesus of Nazareth: Two Rabbinic Magicians,” Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1974, 121. However, this phrase is, in fact, nothing but a quotation of Zech. 2:12, which is a verse frequently cited in classical rabbinic literature. See Adiel Schremer, “Midrash and History: God’s Powers, the Roman Empire, and Hopes of Redemption in Early Rabbinic Literature,” Zion 71 (2006): 15–17 (Hebrew). 3. Compare Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 84–94. 4. See, for example, the story of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai and the purification of Tiberias in y. Shevit 9:1, 38d, and parallels. Cf. Lee I. Levine, “Rabi(!) Simeon bar Yohai, Bones of the Dead and the Purification of Tiberias—History and Tradition,” Cathedra 22 (1982): 9–42 (Hebrew). The same motif is found in the story of Rabbi Johannan, who killed a min who ridiculed him concerning an idea he had expressed in one of his public sermons. See Psiqta de-Rav Kahana, Aniya So’ara, 5 (ed. Mandelbaum, 1.297–298); b. Bava Batra 75a; b. Sanhedrin 100a; Midrash Psalsm 87:2. See also the story about Rav Sheshet and a min in b. Berakhot 58a. 5. See also the midrash on Ps. 91:10 in b. Sanhedrin 103a, according to which Scripture’s words, “No evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent,” are interpreted to mean “That you shall not have a son or a pupil who burns his food in public like Jesus the Nazarene.” The last four words are absent from the vulgar printed editions of the Talmud (both here and in the parallel in b. Berakhot 17b), but they are still found in early editions and in medieval manuscripts. See Raphelo Rabbinovicz, Variae Lectiones in Mischnam et in Talmud Babylonicum (reprint, Jerusalem: Ma‘ayan Ha-Hohma, 1960), ad loc. 6. See also the important comments of David G. Horrell, “The Label &ULVWLDQό9: 1 Peter 4:16 and the Formation of Christian Identity.” JBL 126 (2007): 377. Group identity, needless to say, consists of many other features. In a paraphrase on David Kennedy, I would say that “The identity of any community or society must depend on more than [its religious orientation] . . . there are other features of behaviour and outlook that may be equally important in defining identity. . . . Family structure, diet, everyday costume, death rituals, concepts of justice, honesty, love, patriotism and taste in art—these and many more.” See David Kennedy “Greek, Roman and Native Cultures in the Roman Near East,” in The Roman and Byzantine Near East, II, ed. John H. Humphrey (Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999), 103–104.

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Source Index

Hebrew Bible Genesis 14:18, 225 n. 55 25:32, 56 33:4, 229 n. 71 33:20, 218 n. 90 49:2, 118 49:3, 63 Exodus 4:31, 217 n. 73 14:14, 115 14:31, 112 15:1, 112–3 15:11, 31, 105, 106 15:26, 209 n. 1 15:3, 42, 56 20:2, 52, 211 n. 20 22:6, 38 23:4, 135–8 23:7, 66–67 24:10, 195 n. 90, 196 n. 100 32:22, 62 32:24, 61 Leviticus 1:2, 139 5:2, 38 5:21, 44 18:5, 90, 191 n. 56, 202 n. 13, 215 n. 51

19:17, 131 19:32, 45 Numbers 15:30, 33, 165 n. 47 15:39, 51, 183 n. 99 19:2, 63 19:3–5, 64 Deuteronomy 4:24, 53 13:6, 210 n. 10 13:7, 127–31 14:2, 108 15:3, 135 17:5, 135 21:1, 230 n. 76 22:1–3, 135–7 23:10, 230 n. 76 23:20–21, 135 23:5, 133 23:7, 133 23:8, 131, 133, 227 n. 60, 228 n. 68 32:21, 50, 80, 193 n. 79 32:27, 134 32:37–38, 28 32:38, 182 n. 86 32:39, 25, 28, 32 32:41, 52, 80 33:29, 228 n. 71 Judges 6:12, 36; 175 n. 34 1Kings 18:37, 224 n. 44

262

source index

Isaiah 8:11, 75 29:15, 39 33:14, 174 n. 19–20 33:14, 52–3 34:6, 64 42:21, 215 n. 51 43:1, 118–9 44:6, 211 n. 20 57:8, 197 n. 107 57:8, 199 n. 114 65:2–3, 3 Jeremiah 7:11, 9 12:7, 9 Ezekiel 9:9, 39 32:23–27, 178 n. 58 Obad. 1:10, 228 n. 63; 228 n. 66 Zech. 2:3, 225 n. 55 Daniel 3:25, 104 3:28, 104 7:9, 196 n. 100 7:13, 197 n. 100 Job 37:23, 32 Proverbs 5:8, 93 7:26, 93 23:22, 36–37; 169 n. 63 Psalms 14:2, 51; 56 44, 168 n. 62; 175 n. 34 63:12, 67; 182 n. 99 73:25, 55–6 80:14, 174 n. 29 91:10, 232 n. 5 94:7, 39 110:4, 225 n. 55 119:126, 36–37 139:29, 183 n. 101 Ecclesiastes 7:26, 183 n. 99; 10:8, 89 Lamentations 5:7, 227 n. 62 Ruth 2:4, 36 Song of Songs 1:6, 225 n. 54 2:10–13, 126; 129; 224 n. 51 2:11, 130

Dead Sea Scrolls 1Q S 5.1, 188 n. 34 5.1–2, 188 n. 35 5.10–11, 188 n. 36 5.14–15, 73–74 5.15–16, 188 n. 28 5.16–17, 188 n. 29 5.18–19, 188 n. 30 9.16–17, 188 n. 32 9.8, 188 n. 31 9.20–21, 188 n. 37 9.22–23, 188 n. 33 1Q Sa 1:1–3, 188 n. 40 4Q S 1.1.1., 187 n. 26 4Q MMT, 58; 74; 152 n. 43 4Q 44, 160 n. 21 4Q 174 (Florilegium), 58; 75; 188 n. 42 4Q 246, 105 4Q 471, 105 4Q 491, 105 11Q Melchizedek, 58; 75; 188 n. 41 Damascus Document 8:16, 58; 74 19:29, 58; 74 Flavius Josephus War 2.164–165, 159 n. 2 Ant. 10:19–20, 81 Ant. 12:29–30, 81 Ant. 13.173, 159 n. 2 Ant. 18.1.5, 206 n. 47 Ant. 20:118–148, 81 New Testament Matt. 21:13, 152 n. 42 Mark 6:6, 175 n. 38 11:17, 152 n. 42 14:53–65, 102 14:64, 209 n. 4 Luke 1:32–35 19:46, 152 n. 42 20:34–35, 192 n. 69 Acts 8:4–19, 213 n. 30 22:3, 215 n. 49 John 5:18 Romans 10:21, 3 Gal. 3:10–15, 214 n. 45

source index 3:10–19, 215 n. 51 3:19–22, 108 James 2:14–26, 215 n. 45

Rabbinic Literature Mishanh Avoda Zara, 2:2, 77; 190 n. 53; 2:3, 77 Avot, 4:1, 163 n. 38 Berakhot, 9:5, 35–7; 52; 79; 166 n. 56; 175 n. 34; 191 n. 61; 192 n. 67 Hullin, 2:9, 191 n. 61; 2:9, 192 n. 67 Makkot, 3:14, 108; 215 n. 50; 3:23, 215 n. 52 Megillah 4:8, 79; 4:9, 156 n. 80 Ohalot 16:1, 197 n. 106 Para 3:3, 80; 191 n. 61; 192 n. 67; 193 n. 73 Rosh Ha-Shanah, 2:1, 79; 191 n. 61 Sanhedrin, 4:5, 84; 191 n. 61; 192 n. 67; 7:10, 210 n. 10; 10:1, 38; 60; 209 n. 1 Shevi‘it 8:10, 187 n. 25 Sotah 5:4, 217 n. 71; 9:15, 192 n. 68; 218 n. 1 Tosefta Avoda Zara 3:4–6, 77; 190 n. 53 Bava Metzia 2:33, 61; 179 nn. 63–4; 191 n. 62; 231 n. 88 Bava Qamma, 2:13, 201 n. 11; 7:2, 38; 169 n. 66 Berakhot 1:11, 171 n. 86; 3:7, 203 n. 21; 3:25, 57; 59; 80; 175 n. 39; 191 n. 62; 3:26, 80; 6[7]:19, 167 n. 57; 6[7]:21, 191 n. 62; 192 n. 67 Demai 5:2, 179 n. 64 Haggigah 2:6, 195 n. 89; 3:36, 197 n. 106 Hullin, 1:1, 189 n. 48; 191 n. 62; 2:13, 72; 187 n. 19; 187 n. 23; 2:15, 187 n. 20; 2:18, 187 n. 21; 2:18–19, 192 n. 67; 2:19, 187 n. 22; 191 n. 62; 2:19–20, 71–72; 76; 86; 2:20, 77; 187 nn. 23–4;

263

198 n. 112; 2:20–21, 187 n. 18; 2:20–24, 87–88; 101; 2:21, 77; 191 n. 62; 2:22–24, 79; 199 n. 2; 2:24, 183 n. 99; 8:11, 187 n. 23 Kippurim 2:10, 80; 191 n. 62; 193 n. 73 Ma‘aser Sheni 5:9, 179 n. 64 Megillah 3[4]:37, 191 n. 62; 3:37, 61; 179 nn. 65–66 Nedarim 2:4, 231 n. 87 Orla 1:6, 187 n. 23 Para 3:3, 80; 191 n. 62; 192 n. 67 Pisha 2:15, 216 n. 65 Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:15, 79 Sanhedrin, 8:7, 191 n. 62; 192 n. 67; 8:9, 84; 12:10, 209 n. 1; 13:5, 59–60; 178 n. 57; 191 n. 62; 192 n. 67 Shabbat 13:5, 84; 140; 155 n. 77; 172 n. 6; 183 n. 101; 191 n. 57; 191 n. 62; 197 n. 108; 202 n. 15; 231 n. 89; 15:17, 202 n. 13 Shevu‘ot 3:6, 171 nn. 88–9 Sotah 3:9–19, 174 n. 25; 6:2–3, 216 n. 65; 217 n. 71 Sukkah 4:28, 64; 182 n. 85 Ta‘anit 1:10, 191 n. 62 Yadayim 2:13, 191 n. 62; 198–9 n. 112 Yevamot 4:7, 204 n. 27 Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael Amalek 1, 196 n. 99 Ba-Hodesh 5, 52; 54; 82–3; 174 n. 24; 191 n. 63; 196 n. 99; 211 n. 20 Kaspa 20, 66–7; 109; 136; 182 n. 99; 187 n. 23; 216 n. 55; 230 n. 76; 230 n. 79 Nezikin 15, 169 nn. 66–7 Pisha 5, 109; 216 n. 57; 14, 195 n. 90; 15, 231 n. 87; 18, 206 n. 48; 19, 183 n. 101 Shirta 1, 113; 164 n. 39; 217 n. 71; 2, 54; 106–7; 196 n. 99; 213 n. 34; 3, 42; 170 n. 75; 219 n. 9; 4, 33–4; 165 n. 48; 7, 216 n. 65; 8, 31; 213 n. 35; 9, 196 n. 99; 10, 83 Va-yehi Proem, 222 n. 38; 1, 164 n. 40; 196 n. 99; 2, 125; 222 n. 38; 3, 216 n. 58; 4, 115; 217 n. 83; 6, 109–112; 216 n. 60

264

source index

Mekhilta de-Rashbi 12:36, 216 n. 65 14:31, 216 n. 60 15:3, 165 n. 48 19:6, 216 n. 55 21:13, 162 n. 29 23:4, 136; 230 n. 78 Sifra Ahare Mot 9:13, 187 n. 22; 9:9, 201 n. 8; 13:9, 219 n. 9; 14, 191 n. 56; 202 nn. 13–4 BeHar 4:2, 171 n. 92 Emor 9:5, 30; 162 n. 29 Hova 22:4, 44 Nedava 2, 138–139; 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66; 230 n. 84; 2:5, 193 nn. 73–4; 195 n. 87; 4:5, 197 n. 106 Qeddoshim 1:1, 187 n. 22; 7:14, 45–6; 171 n. 92 Sifre Numbers 2, 45 16, 86; 192 n. 63; 69, 229 n. 71 71, 231 n. 87 84, 183 n. 101 112, 81; 165 n. 47; 175 n. 38; 192 n. 63; 194 n. 82 115, 181 n. 74; 183 n. 99 119, 10; 231 n. 87 143, 81; 191 n. 63; 192 n. 66; 193 n. 74; 195 n. 87 Sifre Zutta Numbers 15:30, 33; 165 n. 47; 15:30, 175 n. 38 17:27, 196 n. 99 Sifre Deuteronomy 2, 63 16, 196 n. 99; 230 n. 80 48, 182 n. 87; 183 n. 99; 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66 87, 128; 210 n. 10; 224 n. 49 97, 108; 215 n. 46 126, 192 n. 63; 192 nn. 66–7 218, 192 n. 63 221, 179 n. 59 222, 137; 230 n. 81 252, 131; 226 n. 60 278, 230 n. 80 312, 211 n. 14 317, 174–5 n. 29

318, 152 n. 39 320, 51; 172 n. 8; 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66; 193 n. 79 322, 134; 163 n. 32; 228 n. 71 323, 163 n. 32; 222 n. 38 327–328, 196 n. 99; 222 n. 38 328, 28–9; 160 n. 19; 160 n. 21; 162 n. 25; 174 n. 23 329, 165 n. 43 331, 80; 183 n. 101; 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66; 193 n. 78 332, 222 n. 38 333, 196 n. 99; 222 n. 38 337, 201 n. 8 343, 40–41; 169 n. 69 344, 219 n. 9 356, 228 n. 71 381, 86 Sifre Zutta Deuteronomy 22:3, 135 Mekhilta on Deuteronomy (Genizah fragments) 12:8, 172 n. 93 32:37, 160 n. 19; 196 n. 99; 222 n. 38 32:39, 165 n. 43 32:41, 80 33:3, 229 n. 75 Midrash Tannaim on Deuteronomy 11:22, 182 n. 87; 183 n. 99; 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66 22:5, 204 n. 27; 229 n. 75 23:8, 226 n. 60 24:17, 204 n. 27 32:15, 152 n. 39 32:21, 193 n. 79 32:41, 193 n. 78 15:23, 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66 32:21, 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66 32:41, 192 n. 63; 192 n. 66 Seder Olam, 59–60; 178 n. 57; 192 n. 67 Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, Version A 1, 64; 182 n. 86 2, 183 n. 99; 192 n. 65; 204 n. 27; 205 n. 41 16, 169 n. 72 34, 175 n. 29 Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, Version B 3, 181 n. 76; 183 n. 99; 192 n. 68 7, 28–9; 161 n. 22

source index Palestinian Talmud Avoda Zara 2:2, 89–90; 200 nn. 7–8; 208–9 n. 1 Bava Metzia 2:5, 229 n. 75; 230 n. 83 Bava Qamma 4:3, 219 n. 9 Berakhot 2:3, 176 n. 39; 4:3, 176 n. 39; 177 n. 52; 5:3, 80–81; 7:3, 163–4 n. 39; 183 n. 100; 9:1, 164 n. 41; 9:9, 65; 182 n. 87 Haggigah 1:7, 201 n. 11; 2:1, 173 n. 12 Megillah 3:7, 163–4 n. 39 Nedarim 3:8, 122 Pea 1:1, 200–1 n. 8 Qiddushin, 1:10, 215 n. 52 Sanhedrin 3:6, 202 n. 13 Shabbat, 6:10, 104; 211 n. 17; 14:4, 200 nn. 7–8; 208–9 n. 1; 16:1, 197 n. 108 Shevi‘it 4:2, 202 n. 13; 8:10, 187 n. 25; 9:1, 232 n. 4 Sukkah 5:8, 182 n. 85 Ta‘anit 2:1, 213–4 n. 40; 2:2, 177 n. 52; 4:8, 194 n. 83 Babylonian Talmud Avoda Zara 4a, 189 n. 48; 4b, 226 n. 57; 13b, 179 n. 63; 17a, 203 n. 22; 17b, 200 n. 5; 26a, 140; 231 n. 88; 26a-b, 179 n. 63; 27b, 191 n. 56; 200 nn. 7–8; 29b, 160 n. 21 Bava Batra 16b, 175 n. 35; 175 n. 37; 75a, 232 n. 4 Bava Metzia 58b, 171 n. 92 Bava Qamma 79b, 169 n. 66; 113b, 230 n. 75; 230 n. 83 Berakhot 12b, 51; 173 n. 9; 17b, 232 n. 5; 28b-29a, 177 n. 52; 38b, 162 n. 26; 58a, 232 n. 4 Gittin 56b, 143; 162 n. 22 Horayot 13b, 116 Hullin 4b–5a, 189 n. 48; 5a, 230 n. 84; 13a-b, 187 n. 18; 13b, 189 n. 48 Megillah 27b, 61 Menahot 110b, 195 n. 87 Nedarim 32b, 225 n. 55 Pesahim 56a, 189 n. 48; 118b, 229 n. 73 Qiddushin 32b, 171 n. 92 Rosh HaShanah 17a, 178 n. 57; 19a, 229 n. 73

265

Sanhedrin 38b, 51; 43a, 210 n. 9; 226 n. 57; 59a, 179 n. 63; 74a, 191 n. 56; 201 n. 13; 90b, 81; 194 n. 82; 97a, 121; 218 n. 1; 219 n. 3; 100a, 232 n. 4; 103a, 232 n. 5; 106b, 208 n. 52; 210 n. 9; 224 n. 52; 107b, 215 n. 48; 226 n. 57 Shabbat 33b, 223 n. 38; 115b, 197 n. 108; 116a, 85 Sotah 47a, 208 n. 52; 224 n. 52; 226 n. 57; 47b, 215 n. 48; 49b, 210 n. 9 Sukkah 52b, 225 n. 55 Ta‘anit 18a, 229 n. 73; 18b, 162 n. 29 Yevamot 63b, 172 n. 8; 193 n. 79 Yoma 69b, 163–4 n. 39 Deuteronomy Rabbah Devarim 21, 160 n. 19; 22, 134; 228 n. 67 Ki-Tetze 9, 228 n. 70 Va-etchanan, 175 n. 32 Ecclesiastes Rabbah 1:8, 210 n. 9 1:11, 228 n. 64 2:13, 181 n. 74 8:5, 160 n. 19 10:5, 209 n. 1 11:1, 132–3 Ecclesiastes Zutta, 3:17, 165 n. 48 Esther Rabbah, 7:13, 165 n. 48 Exodus Rabbah 29:5, 104; 211 n. 20 34:1, 165 n. 42 Genesis Rabbah 10:17, 160 n. 19 14:7, 204 n. 28 41:1, 215 n. 53 48:6, 173 n. 18; 174 n. 20; 174 n. 22 63:11, 175 n. 37 63:13, 175 n. 33 63:14, 175 n. 37 64:9, 194 n. 83 79:8, 218 n. 90 80:4, 218 n. 90 98:2, 218 n. 89 98:3, 218 n. 88

266

source index

Genesis Rabbah (continued) 98:3, 118 99:11, 224 n. 49 Leviticus Rabbah 7:6, 174 n. 28 9:9, 180 n. 74 13:5, 55; 175 n. 30 20:5, 160 n. 19 22:3, 161 n. 22; 162 n. 26 25:6, 225 n. 55 28:1, 51 36:4, 118; 218 n. 91 Lamentations Rabbah Proem 15, 165 n. 48; 169 n. 63 2:4, 194 n. 83 5:16, 209 n. 1 Psiqta de-Rav Kahana Additions to, 227 n. 62 Appendix 5, 152 n. 39 Aharei Mot 5, 160 n. 19 Aniya So’ara 5, 232 n. 4 Et Qorbani Lahmi 4, 164 n. 41 Ha-Hodesh ha-Ze 9, 126; 223 n. 43; 225 n. 55 Ki Tisa 10, 164 n. 41 Para Aduma 4:9, 182 n. 84; 9, 56; 175 n. 31 Zakhor, proem, 131; 227 n. 62; 3, 228 n. 68 Song Rabbah 2:13, 218 n. 1; 223 n. 43; 225 n. 55 7:2, 170 n. 76 7:9, 211 n. 18 8:13, 180 n. 74 Psiqta Rabbati 5, 210 n. 11 12, 175 n. 37; 228 n. 68

13, 181 n. 74 15, 182 n. 84; 224 n. 50 16, 165 n. 41 28, 225 n. 54 Midrash Psalms 19:2, 165 n. 41 87:2, 232 n. 4 121:3, 160 n. 19 Midrash Shmuel 1:1, 182 n. 87 5:7, 211 n. 18 Midrash Tanhuma Aharei Mot 4, 160 n. 19 Pequdey 7, 228 n. 70 Va-yerra 5, 210 n. 11 Midrash Tanhuma (ed. Buber) Aharei Mot 5, 160 n. 19 Huqat 1, 160 n. 19; 27, 182 n. 84 Qorah, addition 1, 180 n. 74 Va-yerra 6, 210 n. 11 Tosefta Derekh Eretz Chapter Rabbi Shimon, 1, 218 n. 1 Perek Ha-Shalom 1, 180 n. 74 Tractate Kuttim, 81; 194 n. 81 Tractate Semachot 1:8, 183 n. 101 2:5, 208 n. 52 8:15, 162 n. 29 Ottiyot de-Rabbi Aqiva, 128; 130; 224 n. 53 Midrash Ha-Gadol Genesis, 25:34, 175 n. 36 Genesis, 41:1, 219 n. 3

Subject Index

Absalom, 174 n. 25 Adam, 51 Ah·erim, name of a rabbi, 115–6, 218 n. 85 Ah·erim, non-Jews, 230 n. 82 Albeck, Chanoch, 59, 77, 167 n. 58 Alon, Gedalyahu, 63, 168 n. 58, 170 n. 77 Amana, 113, 115, 116 Amidah (Jewish daily prayer), 35–6, 57–59 Anti-Christian polemic, 8, 10–11, 84, 102, 104, 107–110, 114, 121, 125–6, 129, 151 n. 37, 211 n. 15, 214 n. 40, 222 n. 36, 223 n. 41, 223 n. 42, 226 n. 57 Anti-Gnostic polemic, 84, 194–5 n. 86 Anti-Jewish Jews, 180 n. 73 Anti-priestly polemic, 10 Anti-Roman polemic, 103, 105, 107, 214 n. 40 Aphrahat, 103 Apostate, 59–61, 138–141, 206 n. 46 Assi ben Akabia, 109 Atheism 50–1, 65, 67 Athenagoras, 172 n. 5 Augustus, 105 Baethesians, 79–80, 144, 175 n. 39 Balaam, 143 Bammel, Ernst, 99

Bar Kokhba revolt, 21, 26, 28, 170 n. 77; failure of, 37, 40, 42–44, 49; Roman decrees after, 42 Barude, William, 127 Bauer, Walter, 70, 185–6 n. 9 Baumgarten, Albert I., 189 n. 47 Becker, Adam H., 207 n. 50 Becker, Howard, 69, 71 Belayche, Nicole, 123, 151 n. 31 Belief, concept of, 114 Benediction of the minim, 57–59, 80–1 (see also Birkat Ha-Minim) Ben Sira, book of, 193 n. 79 Ben-Yehuda, Nachman, 69–70 Binitarianism, 84 Birkat Ha-Minim, 177–8 nn. 52–56 Blasphemy, 56, 165 n. 47, 175 n. 38, 179 n. 59, 209 n. 4 Books of minim, 85–86, 155 n. 77, 186 n. 16, 197 n. 106, 198 nn. 109–112 Boundaries, construction of, 70–1, 74 Boyarin, Daniel, 13–5, 19, 42, 61, 66, 83–4, 89, 91, 95–6, 121–2, 153 n. 67, 155 nn. 77–8, 157 n. 91, 158 n. 97, 170 n. 73, 171 n. 77, 172 n. 7, 179 n. 62, 181 n. 76, 189–190 n. 50, 196–7 n. 100, 199 n. 14, 203 n. 24, 204 n. 34, 205 n. 40, 205 n. 44, 206 n. 47 Boyarin, Shamma, 203 n. 24

268

subject index

Brill, Nehemiah, 192 n. 63 Brotherhood, 127, 131, 134–8, 226 n. 60 Brown, Peter R.L., 123 Bultman, Rudolph, 114 Cameron, Averil, 19, 122 Capernaum, 210 n. 9 Caroll, Robert P., 154 n. 74 Cassios Dio, 67 Celsus, 68 Christian, label, 204 n. 26 Christianity, criticism of the Temple, 101; distinct religious entity, 12–3, 18, 22, 97; openness to non-Jews, 101; renunciation of Jewish Law, 101–2, 107, 114; significance for the formation of rabbinic Judaism, 11; in Talmud and Midrash, 7–8, 103, 122, 144, 223 n. 42, 226 n. 57; weight in Palestine, 7, 123–4, 151 n. 31–2, 221 n. 20 Christianization, 220 n. 18 Christianizing, 15, 103, 107, 121–2, 144, 154 n. 71, 156 n. 80 Christians, claim to be “True Israel,” 210 n. 12–14; do not observe the law, 209 n. 2; “godless,” 172 n. 5; have distinct congregations, 218 n. 87; identified as minim, 141; number of, 8; their beliefs, 218 n. 87 Christology, 102 Church/Sect, theory of, 189–190 n. 50 Circumcision, 216 n. 59 Cohen, Gerson, 125 Cohen, Norman, 110, 114–5, 217 n. 73 Cohen, Shaye J.D., 8, 26, 84, 181 n. 76, 214 n. 40 Collaboration with the enemy, 179 n. 60 Collins Yarbro, Adela, 105 Collins, John J., 105 Commandments, observance of, 108–9, 110, 114, 116 Constantine, 121–2, 129 Crisis of faith, 27–8, 30, 32 Crisis, existential, 49, 116, 171 n. 77 Cyprian of Cathage, 66, 182 n. 93 Dan, Yaron, 123 Dead Sea Sect, 80 (see also Qumran) Deceiver, 210 n. 10 Despair, 26 Destruction of the Second Temple, 5–6, 17, 21, 26, 36, 42, 44, 49, 51,

95, 125, 131, 180 n. 73, 206 n. 45; explanations of, 26–7; reactions to 26–8, 35, 37, 40; as turning point, 5 Deviance, 17–18, 69–70 17 Didascalia Apostolarum, 66, 182 n. 96, 197–8 n. 108 Different Way (‫)דרך אחרת‬, 192 n. 63 Di-Segni, Leah, 123 Divine man, 212 n. 27, 213 n. 30 Divine name, 168 n. 60, 169 n. 65 Domitian, 67, 184 n. 106 Donatists, 185 n. 7 Donski, Shimshon, 127 Dunn, Geoffrey, 66 Dunn, Jamed D.G., 95 Edom, appelation for the Roman Empire, 56, 124, 131, 222 n. 35, 227 n. 61 Elijah, 127, 223–4 n. 44 Elisha ben Abuya, 173 n. 12, 208 n. 54 Emperor worship, 54, 62, 106 Emunah (faithfulness) 114–5 Epicurean, 38, 60 Eretz Israel, Hebrew name of Palestine, 152 n. 43 Erikson, Kai T., 17, 65–6, 69 Esau, 63, 134, 175 n. 38, 229 n. 71; appelation to Rome, 56, 124, 130, 164 n. 40, 219 n. 9, 228 n. 65 Essence, appelation to God, 56, 67 Essenes, 206 n. 47 Evil inclination, 193 n. 74 Evil Kingdom, appellation to Rome, 55 Exclusion, 17 Faith, 107, 110, 114 Faithfulness, 107, 116 First Man, 84 Flattering, 52, 164 n. 39 Flavius Clemens, 67 Fleischer, Ezra, 59, 177 n. 52, 177 n. 54 Flusser, David, 58–9, 177 n. 54, 178 n. 59, 180 n. 72 Fraade, Steven, 41, 150 n. 28 Fraenkel, Jonah, 156–7 n. 89 Frankfurter, David, 15 Frend, William H.C., 206 n. 49 Friedländer, Moritz, 81, 194 n. 86 Friedman (Ish Shalom), Meir, 108 Friedman, Shamma, 119

subject index Geller, Mark, 232 n. 2 Gilyonim, 85–86 Ginzberg, Louis, 227 n. 61 Gnosticism, 61, 180 n. 73 Gnostics, 82–4, 144, 194 n. 86, 195 n. 93, 197 n. 103, 199 n. 114 God, defeated by the Romans, 38; definition of, 27; denial of, 45, 48, 50, 52, 55; devouring fire, 52–53; disregard of, 39; divorced from the world, 38, 40, 44; does not exist, 32; does not protect His people, 30–1; doubt concerning His divinity, 25, 28, 30–1, 34–5, 49, 53, 63, 106; doubt concerning His power, 25, 27, 35, 40, 49, 53, 62; has many names, 197 n. 102; has no son, 103–4, 106–7, 156 n. 87, 211 n. 20; His power, 27, 49, 159 n. 4, 163 n. 31; killed, 29, 32, 34; lack of display of His power, 27–8, 30–2, 37, 46–8, 159 n. 11, 159–160 n. 16, 164 n. 39, 169 n. 63; name, 36–37; old man, 169 n. 63, 197 n. 100; opinions about, 25–27; Powerless, 32–35, 37, 51, 199 n. 114; providence, 25, 65 Golden calf, 61, 102 Goldenberg, David, 214 n. 40 Goodblatt, David, 5 Goodman, Martin, 15, 67–8, 184 n. 106, 190 n. 51, 205 n. 44 Gospels, 85 Graetz, Heinrich, 81 Grant, Robert, 180 n. 73 Gries, Ze’ev, 155 n. 75 Hadrian, 43–4, 68 Hadrianic Persecutions, 170–1 n. 77 Halbertal, Moshe, 20 Hannaniah ben Hachinai, 45 Healing, 208–9 n. 1 Henshke, David, 62 Heresy, 15 as atheism, 50; definition of, 25; discourse of, 13–4, 26, 49, 70, 90; in early rabbinic literature, 181 n. 76; emotional, 25–6; as false belief, 66; as false view, 25; Hebrew word for, 155 n. 75; meaning of, 14–5, 25–6, 153–4 n. 69; as schism, 66; as separatism, 97 Heretics, 50, 70, 184 n. 108 Herford, Robert Travers, 104

269

Herr, Moshe D., 42–4, 54, 107, 170 n. 77 Herr, Shmuel, 197 n. 107, 203 n. 20, 203 n. 23 Hirshman, Marc, 10, 210 n. 13 Hoenicke, Gustav, 102 Holy Spirit, 113, 116, 216 n. 65 Horovitz, Haym, 113 Idel, Moshe, 154 n. 74, 155–6 n. 79 Identity, 14, 17–8, 41, 138, 232 n. 6; crisis, 17–8, 21, 42, 97, 117; markers, 18 Informers, 60–1, 140, 179 n. 60, 179 n. 62 Insolant Kingdom, appellation for Rome, 59, 177–8 n. 55 Iqqar, 171 n. 88, 175 n. 36, 183 n. 101 Irenaeus, Against Heretics, 82, 195 n. 88 Jacob of Kefar Samma, 89 Jacob of Kefar Sikhnin, 92–93 Jacob, 63, 118, 119, 229 n. 71 Japhet, Sarah, 160 n. 16 Jesus, 98, 103, 108, 128, 130, 143, 203 n. 22, 208 n. 1, 210 n. 9, 225 n. 53, 225 n. 55, 232 n. 5; divine figure, 102; God’s son, 22, 103–5; Lord, 209 n. 1, 218 n. 87; magician, 102; selfexaltation, 209 n. 4; transgressed the law, 102 Jewish defeat, 17, 180 n. 73 Jewish inferiority, 219 n. 9 Jews and gentiles, their relations, 40–1, 228–9 n. 71 John Chrysostom, 9, 123 Jubilees, book of, 75, 189 n. 45 Judaism and Christianity, distinct religious entities, 11–2; their relations, 3–4, 11, 14, 95, 98, 127, 129–30; twins, 4–5, 11, 13 Judaizing, 184 n. 106 Judge, appellation for God, 92, 203 n. 21 Justin Martyr, 14, 50, 66, 108:2, 172 n. 5, 172 n. 5, 213 n. 30 Kahana, Menahem, 115 Kimelman, Reuven, 35, 78 King, Karen, 16, 70, 180 n. 73 Knohl, Israel, 105 Kuttim (Samaritans), 80, 192 n. 63, 194 n. 82

270

subject index

Labeling, 17, 19, 22, 69–71, 94, 97, 185 n. 7 Lasker, Dnaiel, 12 Laws of minim, 77–8, 91, 187 n. 22, 190 n. 51, 190 n. 53, 191 n. 57, 201 n. 12, 202 n. 15 Levine, Lee I., 95 Lieberman, Saul, 58, 61, 80, 96, 141, 167–8 n. 58, 177 n. 52, 180 n. 74, 192 n. 63, 195 n. 89 Lieu, Judith, 8, 12, 153 n. 68, 207 n. 50 Loyalty, 116–7 MacMullen, Ramsey, 122 Maier, Johann, 124, 213–4 n. 40, 222 n. 36 Marmorstein, Arthur, 31, 84, 108, 210 n. 14, 194 n. 86 Martyn, Louis, 102 Martyrology, 30 Meeks, Wayne A., 20, 152 n. 48 Megilat Ta‘anit, 162 n. 29, 229 n. 73 Melchizedek, 225 n. 55 Messiah, 127 Mezuza, 197 n. 107 Midrash, contextual reading of, 157 n. 89; interpertation of Scripture, 20–1, 46; responsive to challenges, 20–1, 30, 40–1, 46, 170 n. 74, 159 n. 4, 164 n. 40 Mihaly, Eugene, 211 n. 14 Milikowsky, Chaim, 60, 179 n. 60 Millar, Fergus, 123–4 Mimicry, 184 n. 112 Minim, 14, 36, 53, 60, 62, 71, 140; appear as kosher Jews, 197 n. 107, 210 n. 12; cause abhorence between Israel and God, 199 n. 114, 155 n. 77; Christians, 14, 22, 78–80, 84, 86–8, 91–4, 99, 101, 117, 192 n. 69, 210 n. 9, collaborators with the enemy, 61, 65; deny God, 50–2, 56, 65, 155 n. 77; gentiles, 52–3, 57; Gnostics, 79, 86; healing by, 190 n. 53; heretics, 15; Kuttim (Samaritans), 80–1, 86; laws of, 22, 69–86; mock rabbis, 193 nn. 74–5; Nations of the world, 52, 57; not in Babylonia, 189 n. 48, 226 n. 57; rabbinic combat against, 19, 50, 71; in rabbinic literature, 24, 79, 153 n. 68, 191 n. 62; rabbinic polemic against, 14–5,

144; sectarians, 79; separatists, 16, 57, 61–2; social connections with, 73, 204 n. 28, 226 n. 57; their doctrines, 14, 16, 49, 155 n. 77, 156 n. 80, 181 n. 76; their identity, 78–86, 91, 144, 167–8 n. 58; Two Powers, 52, 54, 82; worse than gentiles, 76, 202 n. 15 Minucius Felix, 163 n. 33 Minut, 14–5, 49; beautiful woman, 183 n. 99; causes of, 25–6; Christianity, 16, 122, 219 n. 4; collaboration with the enemy, 68, 81; denial of God, 51–3, 62, 68; denial of the concept of the world to come, 90; deviance, 79; discourse of, 14–8, 21, 26, 42, 49, 50, 62, 65–7, 97, 144, 155 n. 78, 159 nn. 3–4, 206 n. 45; false teaching, 67; Gnosticism, 81; heresy, 15, 49; located in the heart, 51; meaning of, 180 n. 74; rabbinic polemic against, 16, 62; in rabbinic literature, 23–4, 26, 79, 158 n. 97, 192 n. 68, 205 n. 43; rejection of the Jewish people, 81; separatism, 16, 57, 62, 93, 144; social disloyalty, 66–7; theological teachings of, 15, 50; wrong belief, 203 n. 24 Miriam daughter of Bilgah, 64 Moses, 46–7, 61 Mother-daughter model, 4, 13 Nations of the world, 16, 21, 28, 34, 41, 47, 49, 53, 71, 82, 134, 170 n. 73, 174 n. 25, 193 n. 74; Christians, 83–4, 196 n. 96, 196 n. 99; minim, 57; Romans, 196 n. 99; Two Powers, 52 Nebuchadnezzar, 104, 106 Nerva, 67 Neusner, Jacob, 8, 23, 150 n. 27, 179 n. 64, 204 n. 34, 223 n. 42, 227 n. 61 No Power in Heaven, 32–3, 51, 53, 62, 65 Novatian, 66 Olster, David, 155 n. 74 Onkelos, 143, 232 n. 1 Origen, 140, 199 n. 114 Orthodoxy, 70 Orthodoxy and heresey, discourse of, 13, 16, 144 Other within, 189 n. 47 Other, 206 n. 46 Ovadiah, Asher, 123

subject index Paroshim (separatists), 58, 177 n. 51 Parting of the ways, 13, 95, 98, 148, 207 n. 50 Passover haggadah, 67 Paul, 3, 22, 103, 107, 108, 114, 214–5 n. 45, 215 n. 51 Pearson, Bearger, 180 n. 73, 194 n. 86 Perek Ha-Minim, 186 n. 15 Pharaoh, 106 Pharisees, 5, 208 n. 51 Phylacteries, 79–80 Pig, 55, 174–5 n. 29 Pistis Iesou, 107, 214 n. 43 Pliny the Younger, 96 Polemic, 3–5, 7 Porphyrius, 123 Post-70 Judaism, 5 Priests, 10, 152 n. 46 Prince of Tyre, 54, 106–7 Prohibited for gain, rabbinic concept, 187 n. 23 Proselyte, equal to the Jew, 231 n. 87 Pseudo-Clementines, 199 n. 114 Quakers, 66 Qumran Sect, 58–9, 73, 189 n. 47, 225 n. 55 Raban Gamliel, 108, 177 n. 52, 229 n. 75 Rabban Johannan ben Zakkai, 38–40, 43 Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, 116 Rabbi Abbahu, 104, 106, 140, 211 n. 20, 213–4 n. 40, 218 n. 90, 226 n. 57 Rabbi Aqiva, 28, 42, 44–5, 77, 80, 86, 92, 96, 169 n. 72, 187 n. 23, 215 nn. 52–3 Rabbi Azzariah, 127–131, 226 n. 56 Rabbi Elazar (ben Shamua), 172 n. 8 Rabbi Elazar ben Dama, 89–91, 94, 101, 200 n. 7, 202 n. 15, 203 n. 21 Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat, 133 Rabbi Elazar ben Yossi, 29 Rabbi Eliezer ben Yoel (Ra’vya), 141 Rabbi Eliezer, 91–5, 101–2, 137–8, 172 n. 8, 202 n. 19, 203 n. 21 Rabbi Hananiah ben Aqashia, 108 Rabbi Hiyya, 177 n. 52 Rabbi Huna, 177 n. 52 Rabbi Isaac, 137–9 Rabbi Ishmael, 78, 89–91, 96, 191 n. 56, 201 n. 11, 202 n. 13, 202 n. 15, 230 n. 80 Rabbi Johannan, 140, 162 n. 26, 201 n. 13, 219 n. 2, 228 n. 70, 232 n. 4

271

Rabbi Jonathan, 52–3, 136–7, 173 n. 18, 230 n. 76 Rabbi Joshiah, 136–8 Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, 208 n. 1, 228 n. 70 Rabbi Joshua ben Perahiya, 98, 108 Rabbi Joshua ben Qorha, 96, 226 n. 60 Rabbi Judah (ben Ilai), 28, 174 n. 20 Rabbi Levi, 55, 227 n. 62 Rabbi Matia ben Harash, 109 Rabbi Matia, 216 n. 59 Rabbi Meir, 77, 116, 167 n. 57, 218 n. 85 Rabbi Menahem ha-Meiri, 231 n. 93 Rabbi Nathan, 52–53, 84, 96, 167 n. 57 Rabbi Nathan of Rome, 169 n. 63 Rabbi Nehemiah, 28–9, 43, 110, 113, 114, 116, 121, 162 n. 27 Rabbi Nisim of Qairawan, 48 Rabbi Pinchas, 118 Rabbi Pinchas ben Aruba, 162 n. 26 Rabbi Pinhas ben Yair, 230 n. 83 Rabbi Reuven, 45, 104, 106–7 Rabbi Shimon (bar Yocahi), 61–2, 228–9 n. 71, 232 n. 4 Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar, 96, 187 n. 23, 208 n. 52 Rabbi Shimon ben Jehozadak, 201 n. 13 Rabbi Shimon ben Laqish, 65, 218 n. 90 Rabbi Shmuel bar Sosarti, 230 n. 83 Rabbi Shmuel ben Rav Issac, 64 Rabbi Tanhuma, 226 n. 56 Rabbi Tarfon, 50, 96, 140, 197 nn. 106–7 Rabbi Yitzhak, 121, 218–9 n. 2 Rabbi Yossi ben Yehuda, 167 n. 57 Rabbi Yossi the Galilean, 96 Rabbi Yossi (ben Halafta), 80, 96 Rabbi Yudan, 118 Rabbinic literature, dating, 9–10, 23–4, 27, 29, 40, 42–3, 95, 158 n. 97, 160 n. 18, 162 n. 27, 167 n. 57, 205 n. 40, 205 n. 42, 210 n. 9, 223 n. 43; redaction, 204 n. 34, relation to Christians literature, 5–6, 10; response to Christianity in, 4, 103, 125; target of its polemic, 10 Rabbis, their place in society, 20 Rabbis, their relations to the Pharisees, 5 Rav Hai, 85 Rav Sheshet, 232 n. 4 Rav Yossef, 173 n. 9 Rav, 32, 51, 108 Reed Yoshiko, Anette, 207 n. 50

272

subject index

Reiner, Elchanan, 148 n. 13 Religion, 154 n. 74, 156 n. 80 Repentence, 203 n. 21 Resh Laqish, 56 Ressurection of the dead, 56, 60, 81 Return of lost property, commandment of, 135–6, 229 n. 75, 230 n. 83 Righteousness, 215 n. 51 Roman emperor, God’s son, 105, 107 Roman Empire, 8, 19, 26–8, 31, 42, 49, 63, 122, 163 n. 38; accused of blasphemy, 169 n. 62; arrogant, 54–6, 59; Christianization of, 22, 121–2, 127, 141; deny God, 53–6; destroyer of the Temple, 116–7; emblem of minut, 53, 56–7; oppressor of the Jews, 124–5, 134, 175 n. 34, 223 n. 39; powerful, 30, 117, 124; rabbinic views of, 222 n. 32, 222–3 n. 38; reference to in rabbinic texts, 175 n. 29; theological meaning of its power, 53; victory of, 17, 62, 166 n. 51 Romans, brothers of the Jews, 131, 133–4, 228 n. 70; wishing to join Israel, 219 n. 9 Rosen-Zvi, Ishay, 45 Sacrafices of corpses, 187 n. 23 Sadducees, 159 n. 2, 167–8 n. 58, 173 n. 8, 177 n. 53 Saldarini, Anthony J., 204 n. 28, 208 n. 51 Samaritans, 81, 144, 189 n. 49 (see also Kuttim) Samson, 174 n. 25 Sanders, Ed P., 26, 215 n. 52 Sanders, Jack T., 198 n. 110, 207 n. 51 Schäfer, Peter, 201 n. 11, 226 n. 57 Schiffman, Lawrence H., 12, 95, 152–3 n. 51 Schoeps, Hans J., 26 Scholem, Gershom G., 194 n. 85 Schwartz, Seth, 24, 27, 63, 124, 222 n. 35 Scroll of Torah, 77 Second Maccabees, book of, 179 n. 59 Sect, 189–190 n. 50 Segal, Alan F., 4, 52, 165 n. 47 Self-restraint, 31 Sennacherib, 106 Separatism, 18, 49, 57–8, 74, 117, 179 n. 60 Separatists, 58, 60, 64

Shakespeare, William, 169 n. 72 Shame, 228 n. 63 Shaw, Brent D., 185 n. 7 Shemesh, Aharon, 75 Shimon ben Azzai, 81, 96, 195 n. 89 Shmuel ha-Qatan, 177 n. 52 Simmel, Georg, 18, 50 Simon Magus, 81, 199 n. 114, 213 n. 30 Smith, Morton, 105 Social cohesion, 26 Stemberger, Günter, 223 n. 41 Stroumsa, Sarah, 12 Suppersession, 207 n. 50 Sussman, Yaakov, 192 n. 63 Tacitus, 68, 96, 184 n. 107 Tennenbaum, Frank, 71 Tertullian, 12, 153 n. 54, 163 n. 33 That Wicked, appellation for Jesus, 210 n. 9 The World, appellation for Rome, 175 n. 29 Tilley, Maureen, 153 n. 69 Titus, 28–9, 35, 43–4, 53–4, 56, 64, 143, 160 n. 19, 163 n. 31, 182 n. 86, 232 n. 1 Trajan, 68, 162 n. 30 Trust in God, 116 Two Powers in Heaven, 32–4, 51, 53–4, 62, 83–4, 156 n. 80, 165 n. 43, 196 n. 100 Urbach, Ephraim E., 6, 8, 50, 105, 109–10, 115, 127, 150 n. 29 Wicked child, 67 Wicked Kingdom, 125, 127–130, 224 n. 50 Wilken, Robert, 68, 122–3, 159 n. 16 Wilson, Stephen, 8 World to come, 90, 168 n. 58 Yannai, 124, 134, 180 n. 74, 222 n. 35 Yavne, 40 Yinon Dror, 163 n. 38 Yoke of Heaven, 203 n. 21 Your brother, 134–138, 140, 228 n. 70, 230 n. 80 Yuval, Israel J., 4–7, 11, 14, 150 n. 25, 151 n. 32, 152 n. 43, 196 n. 96 Zerubavel, Eviatar, 17 Zvul (the Temple), 178 n. 59